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13
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VERY COLD
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When Dennis entered Mr. Ludolph's store Christine was absent on a visit to New York. On her return she resumed her old routine. At this time she and her father were occupying a suite of rooms at a fashionable hotel. Her school-days were over, Mr. Ludolph preferring to complete her education himself in accordance with his peculiar views and tastes. She was just passing into her twentieth year, and looked upon the world from the vantage points of health, beauty, wealth, accomplishments of the highest order, and the best social standing. Assurance of a long and brilliant career possessed her mind, while pride and beauty were like a coronet upon her brow. She was the world's ideal of a queen.
And yet she was not truly happy. There was ever a vague sense of unrest and dissatisfaction at heart. She saw that her father was proud and ambitious in regard to her, but she instinctively felt that he neither loved nor trusted her to any great extent. She seemed to be living in a palace of ice, and at times felt that she was turning into ice herself; but her very humanity and womanhood, deadened and warped though they were, cried out against the _cold_ of a life without God or love. In the depths of her soul she felt that something was wrong, but what, she could not understand. It seemed that she had everything that heart could wish, and that she ought to be satisfied.
She had at last concluded that her restlessness was the prompting of a lofty ambition, and that if she chose she could win world-wide celebrity as an artist. This, with the whole force of her strong nature, she had determined to do, and for over two years had worked with an energy akin to enthusiasm. She had resolved that painting should be the solid structure of her success, and music its ornament.
Nor were her dreams altogether chimerical, for she had remarkable talent in her chosen field of effort, and had been taught to use the brush and pencil from childhood. She could imitate with skill and taste, and express with great accuracy the musical thought of the composer; but she could not create new effects, and this had already begun to trouble her. She worked hard and patiently, determined to succeed. So great had been her application that her father saw the need of rest and change, and therefore her visit to New York. She had now returned strengthened, and eager for her former studies, and resumed them with tenfold zest.
The plan of rearranging the store on artistic principles daily grew in favor with her. It was just the exercise of taste she delighted in, and she hoped some day to indulge it on palace walls that would be her own. Her father's pride caused him to hesitate for some time, but she said: "Why, Chicago is not our home; we shall soon be thousands of miles away. You know how little we really care for the opinions of the people here: it is only our own pride and opinion that we need consult. I see nothing lowering or unfeminine in the work. I shall scarcely touch a thing myself, merely direct; for surely among all in your employ there must be one or two pairs of hands not so utterly awkward but that they can follow plain instructions. My taste shall do it all. We are both early risers, and the whole change can be made before the store is opened. Moreover," she added (with an expression indicating that she would have little difficulty in ruling her future German castle, and its lord also), "this is an affair of our own. Those you employ ought to understand by this time that it is neither wise nor safe to talk of our business outside."
After a moment's thought she concluded: "I really think that the proper arrangement of everything in the store as to light, display, and effect, so that people of taste will be pleased when they enter, would add thousands of dollars to your sales; and this rigid system of old Schwartz's, which annoys us both beyond endurance, will be broken up."
Won over by arguments that accorded with his inclinations, Mr. Ludolph gave his daughter permission to carry out the plan in her own way.
She usually accompanied her father to the store in the morning. He, after a brief glance around, would go to his private office and attend to correspondence. She would do whatever her mood prompted. Sometimes she would sit down for a half-hour before one picture; again she would examine most critically a statue or a statuette. Whenever new music was received, she looked it over and carried off such pieces as pleased her fancy.
She evidently was a privileged character, and no one save her father exercised the slightest control over her movements. She treated all the clerks, save old Schwartz, as if they were animated machines; and by a quiet order, as if she had touched a spring, would set them in motion to do her bidding. The young men in the store were of German descent, and rather heavy and undemonstrative. Mr. Schwartz's system of order and repression had pretty thoroughly quenched them. They were educated to the niches they filled, and seemed to have no thought beyond; therefore they were all unruffled at Miss Ludolph's air of absolute sovereignty. Mr. Schwartz was as obsequious as the rest, but, as second to her father in power, was permitted some slight familiarity. In fact this heavy, stolid prime-minister both amused and annoyed her, and she treated him with the caprice of a child toward an elephant--at times giving him the sugar-plum of a compliment, and oftener pricking him with the pin of some caustic remark. To him she was the perfection of womankind--her reserved, dispassionate manner, her steady, unwearied prosecution of a purpose, being just the qualities that he most honored; and he worshipped her reverently at a distance, like an old astrologer adoring some particularly bright fixed star. No whisking comets or changing satellites for old Schwartz.
As for Dennis, she treated him as she probably had treated Pat Murphy, and for several days had no occasion to notice him at all. In fact he kept out of her way, choosing at first to observe rather than be observed. She became an artistic study to him, for her every movement was grace itself, except that there was no softness or gentleness in her manner. Her face fascinated him by its beauty, though its expression troubled him--it was so unlike his mother's, so unlike what he felt a woman's ought to be. But her eager interest in that which was becoming so dear to him--art--would have covered a multitude of sins in his eyes, and with a heart abounding in faith and hope, not yet diminished by hard experience, he believed that the undeveloped angel existed within her. But he remembered her frown when she had first noticed his observation of her. The shrewd Yankee youth saw that her pride would not brook even a curious glance. But while he kept at a most respectful distance he felt that there was no such wide gulf between them as she imagined. By birth and education he was as truly entitled to her acquaintance as the young men who sometimes came into the store with her and whom she met in society. Position and wealth were alone wanting, and in spite of his hard experience and lowly work he felt that there must be some way for him, as for others, to win these.
He longed for the society of ladies, as every right-feeling young man does, and to one of his nature the grace and beauty of woman were peculiarly attractive. If, before she came, the lovely faces of the pictures had filled the place with a sort of witchery, and created about him an atmosphere in which his artist-soul was awakening into life and growth, how much more would it be true of this living vision of beauty that glided in and out every day!
"She does not notice me," he at first said to himself, "any more than do these lovely shadows upon the canvas. But why need I care? I can study both them and her, and thus educate my eye, and I hope my hand, to imitate and perhaps surpass their perfections in time."
But this cool, philosophic mood did not last long. It might answer very well in regard to the pictures on the walls, but there was a magnetism about this living, breathing woman that soon caused him to long for the privilege of being near her and speaking to her of that subject that interested them both so deeply. Though he had never seen any of her paintings to know them, he soon saw that she was no novice in such matters and that she looked at works of art with the eye of a connoisseur. In revery he had many a spirited conversation with her, and he trusted that some day his dreams would become real. He had the romantic hope that if she should discover his taste and strong love of art she might at first bestow upon him a patronizing interest which would gradually grow into respect and acknowledged equality.
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{
"id": "6627"
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14
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SHE SPEAKS TO HIM
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After the plan for the re-arrangement of the store had been determined upon, Miss Ludolph began to study its topography. She went regularly through the building, examining closely every part and space, sometimes sketching a few outlines in a little gilt book. Apparently she was seeking by her taste to make the show-rooms pictures in themselves, wherein all the parts should blend harmoniously, and create one beautiful effect. Dennis saw what was coming. The carrying-out of the plan he had heard discussed, and he wished with intense longing that he might be her assistant. But she would as soon have thought of sending for Pat Murphy. She intended to select one of the older clerks to aid her. Still Dennis hoped that by some strange and happy turn of fortune part of this work might fall to him.
Every spare moment of early morning and evening he spent in sketching and studying, but he sadly felt the need of instruction, and of money to buy materials. He was merely groping his way as best he might; and he felt that Miss Ludolph could teach him so much, if she would only condescend to the task! He was willing to be a very humble learner at first. If in some way he could only make known his readiness to pick up the crumbs of knowledge that she might be willing out of kindness to scatter in his path, he might expect something from ordinary good nature.
But a week or two passed without his receiving so much as a glance from those cold blue eyes that rested so critically on all before them; and on an unlucky day in March all hope of help from her vanished. Under the influence of spring the streets were again becoming muddy, and his duties as bootblack increased daily. He had arranged to perform this menial task in a remote corner of the store, as much out of sight as possible. The duty had become still more disagreeable since the young lady haunted the place, for he feared she would learn to associate him only with the dust-brush and blacking-brush.
Just behind where he usually stood, a good picture had been hung, under Mr. Schwartz's system, simply because it accurately fitted the space. It was in a wretched light, and could never be seen or appreciated there. Miss Ludolph in her investigations and plannings discovered this at a time most unfortunate for poor Dennis. While polishing away one morning, he suddenly became conscious that she was approaching. It seemed that she was looking directly at him, and was about to speak. His heart thumped like a trip-hammer, his cheeks burned, and a blur came over his eyes, for he was diffident in ladies' presence. Therefore he stood before her the picture of confusion, with a big boot poised in one hand, and the polishing-brush in the other. With the instincts of a gentleman, however, he made an awkward bow, feeling, though, that under the circumstances his politeness could only appear ridiculous. And he was right. It was evident from the young lady's face that her keen perception of the ridiculous was thoroughly aroused. But for the sake of her own dignity (she cared not a jot for him), she bit her lip to control her desire to laugh in his face, and said, rather sharply, "Will you stand out of my way?"
_She had spoken to him. _ He was so mortified and confused that in his effort to obey he partially fell over a bronze sheep, designed to ornament some pastoral scene, and the heel of Mr. Schwartz's heavy boot came down with a thump that made everything ring. There was a titter from some of the clerks. Mr. Ludolph, who was following his daughter, exclaimed, "What's the matter, Fleet? You seem rather unsteady, this morning, for a church member."
For a moment he had the general appearance usually ascribed to the sheep, his unlucky stumbling-block. But by a strong effort he recovered himself. Deigning no reply, he set his teeth, compressed his lips, picked up the boot, and polished away as before, trying to look and feel regardless of all the world. In fact there was as much pride in his face as there had ever been in hers. But, not noticing him, she said to her father: "Here is a specimen. Look where this picture is hung. In bootblack corner I should term it. It would not sell here in a thousand years, for what little light there is would be obscured much of the time by somebody's big boots and the artist in charge. It has evidently been placed here in view of one principle alone--dimensions; its length and breadth according with the space in the corner. You will see what a change I will bring about in a month or two, after my plans are matured;" and then she strolled to another part of the store. But, before leaving, Miss Ludolph happened to glance at Dennis's face, and was much struck by its expression. Surely Pat Murphy never would or could look like that. For the first time the thought entered her mind that Dennis might be of a different clay and character from Pat. But the next moment his expression of pride and offended dignity, in such close juxtaposition to the big boot he was twirling almost savagely around, again appealed to her sense of the ludicrous, and she turned away with a broad smile. Dennis, looking up, saw the smile and guessed the cause; and when, a moment after, Mr. Schwartz appeared, asking in his loud, blunt way, "My boots ready?" he felt like flinging both at his head, and leaving the store forever. Handing them to him without a word, he hastened upstairs, for he felt that he must be alone.
At first his impulse was strong to rebel--to assert that by birth and education he was a gentleman, and must be treated as such, or he would go elsewhere. But, as the tumult in his mind calmed, the case became as clear to him as a sum in addition. He had voluntarily taken Pat Murphy's place, and why should he complain at Pat's treatment? He had pledged his word that there should be no trouble from his being above his business, and he resolved to keep his word till Providence gave him better work to do. He bathed his hot face in cool water, breathed a brief prayer for strength and patience, and went back to his tasks strong and calm.
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{
"id": "6627"
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15
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PROMOTED
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Late in the afternoon of the same day (which was Saturday), as Mr. Ludolph was passing out of the store on his way home, he noticed the table that he had arranged artistically some little time before as a lesson to his clerks. Gradually it had fallen back into its old straight lines and rigid appearance. He seemed greatly annoyed.
"What is the use of re-arranging the store?" he muttered. "They will have it all back again on the general principle of a ramrod in a little while. But we have put our hands to this work, and it shall be carried through, even if I discharge half of these wooden-heads."
Then calling the clerk in charge, he said, "Look here, Mr. Berder, I grouped the articles on this counter for you once, did I not?" "Yes, sir."
"Let me find them Monday morning just as I arranged them on that occasion."
The young man looked as blank and dismayed as if he had been ordered to swallow them all before Monday morning.
He went to work and jumbled them up as if that were grouping them, and then asked one or two of the other clerks what they thought of it. They shook their heads, and said it looked worse than before.
"I vill study over him all day to-morrow, and den vill come early Monday and fix him;" and the perplexed youth took himself off.
Dennis felt almost sure that he could arrange it as Mr. Ludolph had done, or with something of the same effect, but did not like to offer his services, not knowing how they would be received, for Mr. Berder had taken special delight in snubbing him.
After the duties of the store were over, Dennis wrote to his mother a warm, bright, filial letter, portraying the scene of the day in its comic light, making all manner of fun of himself, that he might hide the fact that he had suffered. But he did not hide it, as a return letter proved, for it was full of sympathy and indignation that _her_ son should be so treated, but also full of praise for his Christian manliness and patience.
"And now, my son," she wrote, "let me tell you of at least two results of your steady, faithful performance of your present humble duties. The money you send so regularly is more than sufficient for our simple wants. We have every comfort, and I am laying something by for sickness and trouble, for both are pretty sure to come before long in this world. In the second place, you have given me that which is far better than money--comfort and strength. I feel more and more that we can lean upon you as our earthly support, and not find you a 'broken reed.' While so many sons are breaking their mothers' hearts, you are filling mine with hope and joy. I am no prophetess, my son, but from the sure word of God I predict for you much happiness and prosperity for thus cheering and providing for your widowed mother. Mark my words. God has tried you and not found you wanting. He will soon give you better work to do--work more in keeping With your character and ability."
This prediction was fulfilled before Dennis received the letter containing it, and it happened on this wise.
Early on Monday morning Mr. Berder appeared and attempted the hopeless task of grouping the articles on his table in accordance with Mr. Ludolph's orders. After an hour's work he exclaimed in despair, "I cannot do him to save my life."
Dennis at a distance, with a half-amused, half-pitying face, had watched Mr. Berder's wonderful combinations, and when Rip Van Winkle was placed between two togated Roman senators, and Ichabod Crane arranged as if making love to a Greek goddess, he came near laughing outright. But when Mr. Berder spoke he approached and said, kindly and respectfully, "Will you let me try to help you?"
"Yes," said Mr. Berder; "you cannot make dings vorse." Acting upon this ungracious permission, Dennis folded his arms and studied the table for five minutes.
"Come," said Mr. Berder, "standing dere and looking so vise as an owl von't help matters. Mr. Ludolph vill be here soon."
"I am not losing time," said Dennis; and a moment proved he was not, for, having formed a general plan of arrangement, he went rapidly to work, and in a quarter of an hour could challenge Mr. Ludolph or any other critic to find serious fault.
"There! I could do better if I had more time, but I must go to my sweeping and dusting, or Mr. Schwartz will be down on me, and he is pretty heavy, you know. I never saw such a man--he can see a grain of dust half across the store."
Mr. Berder had looked at Dennis's quick, skilful motions in blank amazement, and then broke out into an unwonted panegyric for him: "I say, Vleet, dot's capital! Where you learn him?" Then in a paroxysm of generosity he added, "Dere's a quarter for you."
"No, I thank you," said Dennis, "I did not do it for money."
"Vat did der fool do it for, den, I'd like to know?" muttered Mr. Berder, the philosophy of bid life resuming its former control. "Saved a quarter, anyhow, and, vat's more, know vere to go next dime der old man comes down on me."
A little after nine Mr. and Miss Ludolph came in, and paused at the table. Dennis, unnoticed, stood behind Benjamin Franklin and Joan of Arc, placed lovingly together on another counter, face to face, as if in mutual admiration, and from his hiding-place watched the scene before him with intense anxiety. One thought only filled his mind--Would they approve or condemn his taste? for he had arranged the table on a plan of his own. His heart gave a glad bound when Mr. Ludolph said: "Why, Berder, this is excellent. To be sure you have taken your own method, and followed your own taste, but I find no fault with that, when you produce an effect like this."
"I declare, father," chimed in Miss Ludolph, "this table pleases me greatly. It is a little oasis in this great desert of a store. Mr. Berder, I compliment you on your taste. You shall help me rearrange, artistically, everything in the building."
Dennis, in his agitation, came near precipitating Benjamin Franklin into the arms of Joan of Arc, a position scarcely in keeping with either character.
"Yes, Christine, that is true," continued Mr. Ludolph, "Mr. Berder will be just the one to help you, and I am glad you have found one competent. By all the furies! just compare this table with the one next to it, where the Past, Present, and Future have not the slightest regard for each other, and satyrs and angels, philosophers and bandits, are mixed up about as closely as in real life. Here, Berder, try you hand at this counter also; and you, young men, gather round and see the difference when _art_, instead of mathematics, rules the world of art. If this thing goes on, we shall have the golden age back again in the store."
Mr. Berder, though somewhat confused, had received all his compliments with bows and smiles. But Dennis, after his thrill of joy at having pleased Mr. and Miss Ludolph's fastidious taste, felt himself reddening with honest indignation that Mr. Berder should carry off all his laurels before his face. But he resolved to say nothing, knowing that time would right him. When Mr. Ludolph asked the young men to step forward, he came with the others.
"That's right, Fleet," said Mr. Ludolph, again, "you can get a useful hint, too, like enough."
"Nonsense, father," said Miss Ludolph, in a tone not so low but that Dennis heard it; "why spoil a good sweeper and duster by putting uppish notions in his head? He keeps the store cleaner than any man you ever had, and I don't soil my dresses as I used to."
Dennis's color heightened a little, and his lips closed more firmly, but he gave no other sign that he heard this limitation of his hope and ambition. But it cut him rather deep. The best he could ever do, then, in her view, was to keep her dresses from being soiled.
In the meantime Mr. Berder had shown great embarrassment at Mr. Ludolph's unexpected request. After a few moments of awkward hesitation he stammered out that he could do it better alone. The suspicion of keen Mr. Ludolph was at once aroused and he persisted: "Oh, come, Mr. Berder, we don't expect you to do your best in a moment, but a person of your taste can certainly make a great change for the better in the table before you."
In sheer desperation the entrapped youth attempted the task, but he had not bungled five minutes before Mr. Ludolph said, sharply, "Mr. Berder, you did not arrange this table."
"Vell," whined Mr. Berder, "I didn't say dot I did."
"You caused me to believe that you did," said Mr. Ludolph, his brow growing dark. "Now, one question, and I wish the truth: Who did arrange this table?"
"Vleet, dere, helped me," gasped Mr. Berder. " _Helped_ you? Mr. Fleet, step forward, if you please, for I intend to have the truth of this matter. How much help did Mr. Berder give you in arranging this table?"
"None, sir," said Dennis, looking straight into Mr. Ludolph's eyes.
All looked with great surprise at Dennis, especially Miss Ludolph, who regarded him most curiously. "How different he appears from Pat Murphy!" she again thought.
"Some one has told a lie, now," said Mr. Ludolph, sternly. "Mr. Fleet, I shall put you to the same test that Berder failed in. Arrange that counter sufficiently well to prove that it was your hands that arranged this."
Dennis stepped forward promptly, but with a pale face and compressed lips. Feeling that both honor and success were at stake, he grouped and combined everything as before, as far as the articles would permit, having no time to originate a new plan. As he worked, the clerks gazed in open astonishment, Mr. Ludolph looked significantly at his daughter, while she watched him with something of the same wonder which we have when one of the lower animals shows human sagacity and skill.
Mr. Ludolph was Napoleonic in other respects than his ambition and selfishness. He was shrewd enough to "promote on the field for meritorious services." Therefore, as Dennis's task approached completion, he said: "That will do, Mr. Fleet, you can finish the work at your leisure. Mr. Berder, you are discharged from this day for deception. I would have borne with your incompetency if you had been truthful. But I never trust any one who has deceived me once," he said, so sternly that even Christine's cheek paled. "Mr. Schwartz will settle with you, and let me never see or hear from you again. Mr. Fleet, I promote you to Mr. Berder's counter and pay."
Thus this man of the world, without a thought of pity, mercy, or kindly feeling in either case, gave one of his clerks a new impetus toward the devil, and another an important lift toward better things, and then went his way, congratulating himself that all things had worked together for his good, that morning, though where he would find another Dennis Fleet to fill Pat's place, again vacant, he did not know.
But Miss Ludolph looked at Dennis somewhat kindly, and with a little honest admiration in her face. He was very different from what she had as a matter of course supposed him to be, and had just done in a quiet, manly way a thing most pleasing to her, so she said with a smile that seemed perfectly heavenly to him, "_You_ are above blacking boots, sir."
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{
"id": "6627"
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16
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JUST IN TIME
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At the close of the day on which Dennis received his promotion, and his horizon was widened so unexpectedly, Mr. Ludolph, in passing out, noticed him engaged as usual on one of Pat Murphy's old tasks. He stopped and spoke kindly, "Well, Fleet, where am I going to find a man to fill your place made vacant to-day?"
"Would you be willing to listen to a suggestion from me?"
"Certainly."
"If a young boy was employed to black boots, run errands, and attend to minor matters, I think that by industry I might for a while fill both positions. In a short time the furnace will require no further attention. I am a very early riser, and think that by a little good management I can keep the store in order and still be on hand to attend to my counter when customers are about."
Mr. Ludolph was much pleased with the proposition, and said, promptly, "You may try it, Fleet, and I will pay you accordingly. Do you know of a boy who will answer?"
"I think I do, sir. There is a German lad in my mission class who has interested me very much. His father is really a superior artist, but is throwing himself away with drink, and his mother is engaged in an almost hopeless effort to support the family. They have seen much better days, and their life seems very hard in contrast with the past."
"Can we trust such a boy? Their very necessities may lead to theft."
"They are not of the thieving sort, sir. I am satisfied that they would all starve rather than touch a penny that did not belong to them."
"Very well, then, let him come and see me; but I will hold you responsible for him."
Mr. Ludolph, being in a good humor, was disposed to banter Dennis, so he added: "Do you find time to be a missionary, also? Are you not in danger of becoming a 'Jack at all trades'?"
"I am not entitled to the first character, and hope to shun the latter. I merely teach a dozen boys in a mission school on Sundays."
"When you ought to be taking a good long nap, or a row on the lake for fresh air and recreation."
"I should be dishonest if I spent my Sabbaths in that way."
"How so?"
"I should give the lie to my profession and belief. I must drop the name of Christian when I live for myself."
"And if you should drop it, do you think you would be much the loser?"
"Yes, sir," said Dennis, with quiet emphasis.
"You are expecting great reward, in some sort of Paradise, for your mission work, etc.?"
"Nothing done for God is forgotten or unrewarded."
"Believing that, it seems to me that you are looking after self-interest as much as the rest of us," said his employer, with a shrewd smile.
Looking straight into Mr. Ludolph's eyes, Dennis said, earnestly: "Without boasting, I think that I can say that I try to serve you faithfully. If you could see my heart, I am sure you would find that gratitude for your kindness is a part of my motive, as well as my wages. In the same manner, while I do not lose sight of the rich rewards God promises and daily gives for the little I can do for Him, I am certain that I can do much out of simple gratitude and love, and ask no reward."
"Ignorance is certainly bliss in your case, young man. Stick to your harmless superstition as long as you can."
And he walked away, muttering: "Delusion, delusion! I have not said a word or done a thing for him in which I had not in view my interests only, and yet the poor young fool sees in the main disinterested kindness. Little trouble have the wily priests in imposing on such victims, and so they get their hard-earned wages and set them propagating the delusion in mission schools, when mind and body need change and rest. Suppose there is a Supreme Being in the universe, what a monstrous absurdity to imagine that He would trouble Himself to reward this Yankee youth for teaching a dozen ragamuffins in a tenement-house mission school!"
Thus Mr. Ludolph's soliloquy proved that his own pride and selfishness had destroyed the faculty by which he could see God. The blind are not more oblivious to color than he was to those divine qualities which are designed to win and enchain the heart. A man may sadly mutilate his own soul.
At a dainty dinner-table Mr. Ludolph and his daughter discussed the events of the day.
"I am glad," said the latter, "that he is willing to fill Pat's place, for he keeps everything so clean. A dusty, slovenly store is my abomination. Then it shows that he has no silly, uppish notions so common to these Americans." (Though born here, Miss Ludolph never thought herself other than a German lady of rank.) "But I do not wish to see him blacking boots again. Yet he is an odd genius. How comical he looked bowing to me with one of Mr. Schwartz's big boots describing a graceful curve on a level with his head. Let old Schwartz black his own boots. He ought to as a punishment for carrying around so much leather. This Fleet must have seen better days. He is like all Yankees, however, sharp after the dollar, though he seems more willing to work for it than most of them."
"I'll wager you a pair of gloves," said her father, "that they get a good percentage of it down at the mission school. He is just the subject for a cunning priest, because he sincerely believes in their foolery. He belongs to a tribe now nearly extinct, I imagine--the martyrs, who in old-fashioned times died for all sorts of delusions."
"How time mellows and changes everything! There is something heroic and worthy of art in the ancient martyrdoms, while nothing is more repulsive than modern fanaticism. It is a shame, though, that this young man, with mother and sisters to support, should be robbed of his hard earnings as was Pat Murphy by his priest, and I will try to open his eyes some day."
"I predict for you no success."
"Why so? --he seems intelligent."
"I have not studied character all my life in vain. He would regard you, my fair daughter, as the devil in the form of an angel of light tempting him."
"He had better not be so plain-spoken as yourself."
"Oh, no need of Fleet's speaking; his face is like the page of an open book."
"Indeed! a face like a sign-board is a most unfortunate one, I should think."
"Most fortunate for us. I wish I could read every one as I can Fleet."
"You trust no one, I believe, father."
"I believe what I see and know."
"I wish I had your power of seeing and knowing. But how did he get his artistic knowledge and taste?"
"That I have not inquired into fully, as yet. I think he has an unusual native aptness for these things, and gains hints and instruction where others would see nothing. And, as you say, in the better days past he may have had some advantages."
"Well," said she, caressing the greyhound beside her, "if Wolf here should go to the piano and execute an opera, I should not be more astonished than I was this morning."
And then their conversation glided off on other topics.
After dessert, Mr. Ludolph lighted a cigar and sat down to the evening paper, while his daughter evoked from the piano true after-dinner music--light, brilliant, mirth-inspiring. Then both adjourned to their private billiard-room.
The scene of our story now changes from Mr. Ludolph's luxurious apartments in one of the most fashionable hotels in the city to a forlorn attic in De Koven Street. It is the scene of a struggle as desperate, as heroic, against as tremendous odds, as was ever carried on in the days of the Crusades. But as the foremost figure in this long, weary conflict was not an armed and panoplied knight, but merely a poor German woman, only God and the angels took much interest in it. Still upon this evening she was almost vanquished. She seemed to have but one vantage-point left on earth. For a wonder, her husband was comparatively sober, and sat brooding with his head in his hands over the stove where a fire was slowly dying out. The last coal they had was fast turning to ashes. From a cradle came a low, wailing cry. It was that of hunger. On an old chest in a dusky corner sat a boy about thirteen. Though all else was in shadow, his large eyes shone with unnatural brightness, and followed his mother's feeble efforts at the washtub with that expression of premature sadness so pathetic in childhood. Under a rickety deal table three other and smaller children were devouring some crusts of bread in a ravenous way, like half-famished young animals. In a few moments they came out and clamored for more, addressing--not their father; no intuitive turning to him for support--but the poor, over-tasked mother. The boy came out of his corner and tried to draw them off and interest them in something else, but they were like a pack of hungry little wolves. The boy's face was almost as sharp and famine-pinched as his mother's, but he seemed to have lost all thought of himself in his sorrowful regard for her. As the younger children clamored and dragged upon her, the point of endurance was passed, and the poor woman gave way. With a despairing cry she sank upon a chair and covered her face with her apron.
"Oh, mine Gott, Oh, mine Gott," she cried, "I can do not von more stroke if ve all die."
In a moment her son had his arms around her neck, and said: "Oh, moder, don't cry, don't cry. Mr. Fleet said God would surely help us in time of trouble if we would only ask Him."
"I've ask Him, and ask Him, but der help don't come. I can do no more;" and a tempest of despairing sobs shook her gaunt frame.
The boy seemed to have got past tears, and just fixed his large eyes, full of reproach and sorrow, on his father.
The man rose and turned his bloodshot eyes slowly around the room. The whole scene, with its meaning, seemed to dawn upon him. His mind was not so clouded by the fumes of liquor but that he could comprehend the supreme misery of the situation. He heard his children crying--fairly howling for bread. He saw the wife he had sworn to love and honor, where she had fallen in her unequal conflict, brave, but overpowered. He remembered the wealthy burgher's blooming, courted daughter, whom he had lured away to marry him, a poor artist. He remembered how, in spite of her father's commands and her mother's tears, she had left home and luxury to follow him throughout the world because of her faith in him and love for him--how under her inspiration he had risen to great promise as an artist, till fame and fortune became almost a certainty, and then, under the debasing influence of his terrible appetite, he had dragged her down and down, till now he saw her--prematurely old, broken in health, broken in heart--fall helplessly before the hard drudgery that she no longer had strength to perform. With a sickening horror he remembered that he had taken even the pittance she had wrung from that washtub, to feed, not his children, but his accursed appetite for drink. Even his purple, bloated face grew livid as all the past rushed upon him, and despair laid an icy hand upon his heart.
A desperate purpose formed itself within his mind.
Turning to the wall where hung a noble picture, a lovely landscape, whose rich coloring, warm sunlight, and rural peace formed a sharp, strange contrast with the meagre, famine-stricken apartment, he was about to take it down from its fastening when his hand was arrested by a word--"Father!"
He turned, and saw his son looking at him with his great eyes full of horror and alarm, as if he were committing a murder.
"I tell you I must, and I vill," said he, savagely.
His wife looked up, sprang to his side, and with her hands upon his arm, said, "No, Berthold, you must not, you shall not sell dot picture."
He silently pointed to his children crying for bread.
"Take der dress off my back to sell, but not dot picture. Ve may as vell die before him goes, for we certainly vill after. Dot is de only ding left of der happy past. Dot, in Gott's hands, is my only hope for der future. Dot picture dells you vat you vas, vat you might be still if you vould only let drink alone. Many's der veary day, many's der long night, I've prayed dot dot picture vould vin you back to your former self, ven tears and sufferings vere in vain. Leave him, and some day he vill tell you so plain vat you are, and vot you can be, dot you break der horrid spell dot chains you, and your artist-soul come again. Leave him, our only hope, and sole bar against despair and death. I vill go and beg a dousand times before dot picture's sold; for if he goes, your artist-soul no more come back, and you're lost, and ve all are lost."
The man hesitated. His good angel was pleading with him, but in vain.
Stamping his foot with rage and despair, he shouted, hoarsely, "It is too late I am lost now."
And he tore the picture from its fastening. His wife sank back against the wall with a groan as if her very soul were departing.
But before his rash steps could leave the desolation he had made, he was confronted by the tall form of Dennis Fleet.
The man stared at him for a moment as if he had been an apparition, and then said, in a hard tone, "Let me pass!"
Dennis had knocked for some time, but such was the excitement within no one had regarded the sound. He had, therefore, heard the wife's appeal and its answer, and from what he knew of the family from his mission scholar, the boy Ernst, comprehended the situation in the main. When, therefore, matters reached the crisis, he opened the door and met the infatuated man as he was about to throw away the last relic of his former self and happier life. With great tact he appeared as if he knew nothing, and quietly taking a chair he sat down with his back against the door, thus barring egress. In a pleasant, affable tone, he said: "Mr. Bruder, I came to see you on a little business to-night. As I was in something of a hurry, and no one appeared to hear my knock, I took the liberty of coming in."
The hungry little ones looked at him with their round eyes of childish curiosity, and for a time ceased their clamors. The wife sank into a chair and bowed her head in her hands with the indifference of despair. Hope had gone. A gleam of joy lighted up Ernst's pale face at the sight of his beloved teacher, and he stepped over to his mother and commenced whispering in her ear, but she heeded him not. The man's face wore a sullen, dangerous, yet irresolute expression. It was evident that he half believed that Dennis was knowingly trying to thwart him, and such was his mad frenzy that he was ready for any desperate deed.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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17
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RESCUED
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In a tone of suppressed excitement, which he tried in vain to render steady, Mr. Bruder said: "You haf der advantage of me, sir. I know not your name. Vat is more, I am not fit for bissiness dis night. Indeed, I haf important bissiness elsewhere. You must excuse me," he added, sternly, advancing toward the door with the picture.
"Pardon me, Mr. Bruder," said Dennis, politely. "I throw myself entirely on your courtesy, and must ask as a very great favor that you will not take away that picture till I see it, for that, in part, is what I came for. I am in the picture trade myself, and think I am a tolerably fair judge of paintings. I heard accidentally you had a fine one, and from the glimpse I catch of it, I think I have not been misinformed. If it is for sale, perhaps I can do as well by you as any one else. I am employed in Mr. Ludolph's great store, the 'Art Building.' You probably know all about the place."
"Yes, I know him," said the man, calming down somewhat.
"And now, sir," said Dennis, with a gentle, winning courtesy impossible to resist, "will you do me the favor of showing me your picture?"
He treated poor Bruder as a gentleman, and he, having really been one, was naturally inclined to return like courtesy. Therefore he said, "Oh, certainly, since you vish to see him. I suppose I might as vell sell him to you as any von else."
Mr. Bruder was a man of violent impulses, and his mad excitement was fast leaving him under Dennis's cool, business-like manner. To gain time was now the great desideratum.
The picture having been replaced upon the wall, Mr. Bruder held the lamp so as to throw upon it as good a light as possible.
Dennis folded his arms calmly and commenced its study. He had meant to act a part---to pretend deep interest and desire for long critical study---that he might secure more time, but in a few moments he became honestly absorbed in the beautiful and exquisitely finished landscape.
The poor man watched him keenly. Old associations and feelings, seemingly long dead, awoke. As he saw Dennis manifest every mark of true and growing appreciation, he perceived that his picture was being studied by a discriminating person. Then his artist-nature began to quicken into life again. His eyes glowed, and glanced rapidly from Dennis to the painting, back and forth, following up the judgment on each and every part which he saw written in the young man's face. As he watched, something like hope and exultation began to light up his sullen, heavy features; thought and feeling began to spiritualize and ennoble what but a little before had been so coarse and repulsive.
Ernst was looking at Dennis in rapt awe, as at a messenger from heaven.
The poor wife, who had listened in a dull apathy to the conversation, raised her head in sudden and intelligent interest when the picture was replaced upon the wall. It seemed that her every hope was bound up in that. As she saw Dennis and her husband standing before it---as she saw the face of the latter begin to assume something of its former look---her whole soul came into her great blue eyes, and she watched as if more than life were at stake.
If that meagre apartment, with its inmates, their contrasts of character, their expressive faces, could have then been portrayed, it would have made a picture with power to move the coldest heart.
At last Dennis drew a long breath, turned and gave his hand to the man, saying with hearty emphasis, "Mr. Bruder, you are an artist."
The poor man lifted his face to heaven with the same expression of joy and gratitude that had rested on it long, long years ago, when his first real work of merit had received similar praise.
His wife saw and remembered it, and, with an ecstatic cry that thrilled Dennis's soul, exclaimed, "Ah! mine Gott be praised! mine Gott be praised! his artist-soul come back!" and she threw herself on her husband's neck, and clung to him with hysteric energy. The man melted completely, and bowed his head upon his wife's shoulder, while his whole frame shook with sobs.
"I will be back in half an hour," said Dennis, hastily, brushing tears from his own eyes. "Come with me, Ernst."
At the foot of the stairs Dennis said: "Take this money, Ernst, and buy bread, butter, tea, milk, and coal, also a nice large steak, for I am going to take supper with you to-night. I will stay here and watch, for your father must not be permitted to go out."
"Oh, Gott bless you! Gott bless you!" said the boy, and he hurried away to do his errand.
Dennis walked up and down before the door on guard. Ernst soon returned, and carried the welcome food upstairs. After a little time he stole down again and said: "Father's quiet and queer like. Mother has given the children a good supper and put them to bed. Better come now."
"In a few moments more; you go back and sit down quietly and say nothing."
After a little Dennis went up and knocked at the door. Mrs. Bruder opened it, and held out her hand. Her quivering lips refused to speak, but her eyes filled with grateful tears. The children were tucked away in bed. Ernst crouched by the fire, eating some bread and butter, for he was cold and half-famished. Mr. Bruder sat in the dusky corner with his head in his hands, the picture of dejection. But, as Dennis entered, he rose and came forward. He tried to speak, but for a moment could not. At last he said, hoarsely: "Mr. Vleet, you haf done me and mine a great kindness. No matter vat the result is, I dank you as I never danked any living being. I believe Gott sent you, but I fear too late. You see before you a miserable wreck. For months and years I haf been a brute, a devil. Dot picture dere show you vat I vas, vat I might haf been. You see vat I am," he added, with an expression of intense loathing. "I see him all to-night as if written in letters of fire, and if dere is a vorse hell dan der von I feel vithin my soul, Gott only knows how I am to endure him."
"Mr. Bruder, you say I have done you a favor."
"Gott knows you haf."
"I want you to do me one in return. I want you to let me be your friend," said Dennis, holding out his hand.
The man trembled, hesitated; at last he said, brokenly, "I am not fit--to touch--your hand."
"Mr. Bruder," said Dennis, gently, "I hope that I am a Christian."
"Still more, den, I am unfit efer to be in your presence."
"What! am I greater than my Master? Did not Christ take the hand of every poor, struggling man on earth that would let Him? Come, Mr. Bruder, if you have any real gratitude for the little I have done to show my interest in you and yours, grant me my request."
"Do you really mean him?" he gasped. "Do you really vant to be drunken old Berthold Bruder's friend?"
"God is my witness, I do," said Dennis, still holding out his hand.
The poor fellow drew a few short, heavy breaths, and then grasped Dennis's hand, and clung to it with the force of a drowning man. "Oh!" said he, after a few moments of deep emotion, "I feel dot I haf a plank under me now."
"God grant that yon may soon feel that you are on the Rock Christ Jesus," said Dennis, solemnly.
Fearing the reaction of too great and prolonged emotion, Dennis now did everything in his power to calm and quiet his new-found friends. He told them that he boarded at a restaurant, and he asked if he might take supper with them.
"Him is yours already," said Mr. Bruder.
"No, it isn't," said Dennis--"not after I have given it to you. But I want to talk to you about several matters, for I think you can be of great service to me;" and he told them of his experience during the day; that he had been promoted, and that he wanted Ernst to come and aid him in his duties. Then he touched on the matter nearest his heart--his own wish to be an artist, his need of instruction--and told how by his increase of pay he had now the means of taking lessons, while still able to support his mother and sisters.
"And now, Mr. Bruder, I feel that I have been very fortunate in making your acquaintance. You have the touch and tone that I should be overjoyed to acquire. Will you give me lessons?"
"Yes, morning, noon, and night, vithout von shent of pay."
"That will not do. I'll not take one on those terms."
"I vill do vatever you want me to," said the man, simply, "I vish I could be led and vatched over as a little child."
Dennis saw his pathetic self-distrust, and it touched him deeply.
"As your friend," he said, with emphasis, "I will not advise you to do anything that I would not do myself."
So they arranged that Ernst should go to the store in the morning, and that Dennis should come three nights in the week for lessons.
All made a hearty supper save Mr. Bruder. He had reached that desperate stage when his diseased stomach craved drink only. But a strong cup of tea, and some bread that he washed down with it, heartened him a little, and it was evident that he felt better. The light of a faint hope was dawning in his face.
Dennis knew something of the physical as well as moral Struggle before the poor man, and knew that after all it was exceedingly problematical whether he could be saved. Before he went away he told Mrs. Bruder to make her husband some very strong coffee in the morning, and to let him drink it through the day. As for Bruder, he had resolved to die rather than touch another drop of liquor.
But how many poor victims of appetite have been haunted to the grave by such resolves--shattered and gone almost as soon as made!
After a long, earnest talk, in which much of the past was revealed on both sides, Dennis drew a small Testament from is pocket and said: "Mr. Bruder, I wish to direct your thoughts to a better Friend than I am or can be. Will you let me read you something about Him?"
"Yes, and dank you. But choose someding strong--suited to me."
Dennis read something strong--the story of the Demoniac of Gadara, and left him "sitting at the feet of Jesus, clothed and in his right mind."
"Mr. Bruder, permit me as your _friend_ to say that I think that is the only safe place for you. Your better self, your true manhood, has been overpowered by the demon of intemperance. I do not undervalue human will and purpose, but I think you need a divine, all-powerful Deliverer."
"I know you are right," said Mr. Bruder. "I haf resolved ofer and ofer again, only to do vorse, and sink deeper at der next temptation, till at last I gave up trying. Unless I am sustained by some strength greater dan mine, I haf no hope. I feel dot your human sympathy and kindness vill be a great help to me, and somehow I dake him as an earnest dot Gott vil be kind to me too."
"Oh, Mr. Fleet!" he continued, as Dennis rose to go, "how much I owe to you! I vas in hell on earth ven you came. I vould haf been in hell beneath before morning. I proposed, from the proceeds of dot picture, to indulge in von more delirium, and den seek to quench all in der vaters of der lake."
Dennis shuddered, but said: "And I believe that God purposes that you should have a good life here, and a happy life in heaven. Co-work with Him."
"If He vill help me, I'll try," said the man, humbly. "Good-night, and Gott bless you;" and he almost crushed Dennis's hand.
As the young man turned to Mrs. Bruder, he was much struck by her appearance: she was very pale, and a wonderful light shone from her eyes. She took his hand in both of hers, and looked at him for a moment with an expression he could never forget, and then slowly pointed heavenward without a word.
Dennis hastened away, much overcome by his own feelings. But the silent, deserted streets seemed luminous, such was the joy of his heart.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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18
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MISS LUDOLPH MAKES A DISCOVERY
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Several hours were measured off by the clock of a neighboring steeple before Dennis's excited mind was sufficiently calm to permit sleep, and even then he often started up from some fantastic dream in which the Bruders and Mr. and Miss Ludolph acted strange parts. At last he seemed to hear exquisite music. As the song rose and fell, it thrilled him with delight. Suddenly it appeared to break into a thousand pieces, and fall scattering on the ground, like a broken string of pearls, and this musical trash, as it were, awoke him. The sun was shining brightly into the room, and all the air seemed vibrating with sweet sounds. He started up and realized that he had greatly overslept. Much vexed, he began to dress in haste, when he was startled by a brilliant prelude on the piano, and a voice of wonderful power and sweetness struck into an air that he had never heard before. Soon the whole building was resonant with music, and Dennis stood spellbound till the strange, rich sounds died away, as before, in a few instrumental notes that had seemed in his dream like the song breaking into glittering fragments.
"It must be Miss Ludolph," thought Dennis. "And can she sing like that? What an angel true faith would make of her! Oh, how could I oversleep so!" And he dressed in breathless haste. In going down to the second floor, he found a piano open and new music upon it, which Miss Ludolph had evidently been trying; but she was not there. Yet a peculiar delicate perfume which the young lady always used pervaded the place, even as her song had seemed to pulsate through the air after it had ceased. She could not be far off. Stepping to a picture show-room over the front door, Dennis found her sitting quietly before a large painting, sketching one of the figures in it.
"I learned from my father that you were a very early riser," she said, looking up for a moment, and then resuming her work. "I fear there is some mistake about it. If we are ever to get through rearranging the store you will have to curtail your morning naps."
"I most sincerely beg your pardon. I never overslept so before. But I was out late last night, and passed through a most painful scene, that so disturbed me that I could not sleep till nearly morning, and I find to my great vexation that I have overslept. I promise you it shall not happen again."
"I am not sure of that, if you are out late in Chicago, and passing through painful scenes. I should say that this city was a peculiarly bad place for a young man to be out late in."
"It was an experience wholly unexpected to me, and I hope it may never occur again. It was a scene of trouble that I had no hand in making, but which even humanity would not permit me to leave at once."
"Not a scene of measles or smallpox, I hope. I am told that your mission people are indulging in these things most of the time. You have not been exposed to any contagious disease?"
"I assure you I have not."
"Very well; be ready to assist me to-morrow morning, for we have no slight task before us, and I wish to complete it as soon as possible. I shall be here at half-past six, and do not promise to sing you awake every morning. Were you not a little startled to hear such unwonted sounds echoing through the prosaic old store?"
"I was indeed. At first I could not believe that it was a human voice."
"That is rather an equivocal compliment."
"I did not mean to speak in compliment at all, but to say in all sincerity that I have seldom heard such heavenly music."
"Perhaps you have never heard very much of any kind, or else your imagination overshadows your other faculties. In fact I think it does, for did you not at first regard me as a painted lady who had stepped from the canvas to the floor?"
"I confess that I was greatly confused and startled."
"In what respect did you see such a close resemblance?"
Dennis hesitated.
"Are you not able to tell?" asked she.
"Yes," said Dennis, with heightened color, "but I do not like to say."
"But I wish you to say," said she, with a slightly imperious tone.
"Well, then, since you wish me to speak frankly, it was your expression. As you stood by the picture you unconsciously assumed the look and manner of the painted girl. And all the evening and morning I had been troubling over the picture and wondering how an artist could paint so lovely a face, and make it express only scorn and pride. It seemed to me that such a face ought to have been put to nobler uses."
Miss Ludolph bit her lip and looked a little annoyed, but turning to Dennis she said, with some curiosity: "You are not a bit like the man who preceded you. How did you come to take his place?"
"I am poor, and will gratefully do any honest work rather than beg or starve."
"I wish all the poor were of the same mind, but, from the way they drag on us who have something to give, I think the rule is usually the other way. Very well, that will answer; since you have asked papa to let you continue to do Pat's duties, you had better be about them, though it is not so late as you think;" and she turned to her sketching in such a way as to quietly dismiss him.
She evidently regarded him with some interest and curiosity, as a unique specimen of the genus homo, and, looking upon him as a humble dependant, was inclined to speak to him freely and draw him out for her amusement.
On going downstairs he saw that Mr. Ludolph was writing in his office. He was an early riser, and sometimes, entering the side door by a pass key before the store was opened, would secure an extra hour for business. He shook his head at Dennis, but said nothing.
By movements wonderfully quick and dexterous Dennis went through his wonted tasks, and at eight o'clock, the usual hour, the store was ready for opening.
Mr. Ludolph often caught glimpses of him as he darted to and fro, his cheeks glowing, and every act suggesting superabundant life.
He sighed and said: "After all, that young fellow is to be envied. He is getting more out of existence than most of us. He enjoys everything, and does even hard work with a zest that makes it play. There will be no keeping him down, for he seems possessed by the concentrated vim of this driving Yankee nation. Then he has a world of delusions besides that seem grand realities. Well, it is a sad thing to grow old and wise."
Indeed it is, in Mr. Ludolph's style.
When Dennis opened the front door, there was Ernst cowering in the March winds, and fairly trembling in the flutter of his hopes and fears. Dennis gave him a hearty grasp of the hand and drew him in, saying, "Don't be afraid; I'll take care of you."
The boy's heart clung to him as the vine tendril clasps the oak, and, upheld by Dennis's strength, he entered what was to him wonderland indeed.
Mr. Ludolph looked him over as he and his daughter passed out on their return to breakfast, and said, "He will answer if he is strong enough."
He saw nothing in that child's face to fear.
Dennis assured him with a significant glance, which Mr. Ludolph understood as referring to better fare, that "he would grow strong fast now."
Miss Ludolph was at once interested in the boy's pale face and large, spiritual eyes; and she resolved to sketch them before good living had destroyed the artistic effect.
Under kindly instruction, the boy took readily to his duties, and promised soon to become very helpful. At noon Dennis took him out to lunch, and the poor, half-starved lad feasted as he had not for many a long day.
The afternoon mail brought Dennis his mother's letter, and he wondered that her prediction should be fulfilled even before it reached him, and thus again his faith was strengthened. He smiled and said to himself, "Mother lives so near the heavenly land that she seems to get the news thence before any one else."
During the day a lady who was talking to Mr. Ludolph turned and said to Dennis: "How prettily you have arranged this table! Let me see; I think I will take that little group of bronzes. They make a very nice effect together."
Dennis, with his heart swelling that he had arrived at the dignity of salesman, with much politeness, which evidently pleased the lady, assured her that they would be sent promptly to her address.
Mr. Ludolph looked on as if all was a matter of course while she was present, but afterward said: "You are on the right track, Fleet. You now see the practical result of a little thought and grace in arrangement. In matters of art, people will pay almost as much for these as for the things themselves. The lady would not have bought those bronzes under Berder's system. When things are grouped rightly, people see just what they want, and buy the _effect_ as well as the articles;" and with this judicious praise Mr. Ludolph passed on, better pleased with himself even than with Dennis.
But, as old Bill Cronk had intimated, such a peck of oats was almost too much for Dennis, and he felt that he was in danger of becoming too highly elated.
After closing the store, he wrote a brief but graphic letter to his mother, describing his promotion, and expressing much sympathy for poor Berder. Regarding himself as on the crest of prosperity's wave, he felt a strong commiseration for every degree and condition of troubled humanity, and even could sigh over unlucky Berder's deserved tribulations.
About eight o'clock he started to see his new friends in De Koven Street, and take his lesson in drawing. They welcomed him warmly, for they evidently looked upon him as the one who might save them from the engulfing waves of misfortune and evil.
The children were very different from the clamorous little wolves of the night before. No longer hungry, they were happy in the corner, with some rude playthings, talking and cooing together like a flock of young birds. Ernst was washing the tea-things, while his mother cared for the baby, recalling to Dennis, with a rush of tender memories, his mother and his boyhood tasks. Mr. Bruder still sat in the dusky corner. The day had been a hard one for him. Having nothing to do in the present, he had lived the miserable past over and over again. At times his strength almost gave way, but his wife would say, "Be patient! your friend Mr. Fleet will be in soon."
From a few hints of what had passed, Dennis saw the trouble at once. Mr. Bruder must have occupation. After a few kindly generalities, they two got together, as congenial spirits, before the rescued picture; and soon both were absorbed in the mysteries of the divine art.
As the wife looked at the kindling, interested face of her husband, she murmured to herself over and over again, like the sweet refrain of a song, "His artist-soul haf come back; it truly haf."
The lesson that night could be no more than a talk on general principles and rules. But Mr. Bruder soon found that he had an apt scholar, and Dennis's enthusiasm kindled his own flagging zeal, and the artist-soul awakening within him, as his wife believed, longed to express itself as of old in glowing colors.
Moreover, his ambition was renewed in this promising pupil. Naturally generous, and understanding his noble profession, he felt his poor benumbed heart stir and glow at the thought of aiding this eager aspirant to become what he had hoped to be. He might live again in the richer and better-guided genius of his scholar.
"I will send you by Ernst in the morning some sketching paper, materials, and canvas, and you can prepare some studies for me. I will let him bring some drawings and colorings that I have made of late in odd moments, and you can see about how advanced I am, and what faults I have fallen into while groping my own way. And I am going to send you some canvas, also, for I am quite sure that if you paint a picture Mr. Ludolph will buy it."
The man's face brightened visibly at this.
"Will you let your friend make a suggestion?" continued Dennis.
"You can command me," said Mr. Bruder, with emphasis.
"No; friends never do that; but I would like to suggest that at first you take some simple subject, that you can soon finish, and leave efforts that require more time for the future. That picture there shows what you can do, and you need to work now more from the commercial standpoint than the artist's."
After a moment's thought, the man said, "You are right. As I look around dis room, and see our needs, I see dat you are right. Do' I meant to attempt someding difficult, to show Mr. Ludolph vat I could do."
"That will all come in good time; and now, my friend, good-night."
The next day was far more tolerable for poor Bruder, because he was occupied, and he found it much easier to resist the clamors of appetite.
Dennis's sketches interested him greatly, for, though they showed the natural defects of one who had received little instruction, both power and originality were manifest in their execution.
"He, too, can be an artist, if he vill," was his emphatic comment, after looking them over.
He prepared one study, to be continued under his own eye, and another for Dennis to work at alone. Afterward he sat down to something for himself. He thought a few moments, and then outlined rapidly as his subject the figure of a man dashing a wineglass to the ground.
As he worked, his wife smiled encouragement to him as of old, and often looked upward in thankfulness to Heaven.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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19
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WHAT IS THE MATTER WITH HIM?
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The sun was just tingeing the eastern horizon with light when Dennis sprang from his bed on the following morning. He vowed that Miss Ludolph should never have cause to complain of him again; for, great as was the luxury of being awakened by such exquisite music, it was one that he could not afford.
It must be confessed that he gave a little more care than usual that morning to his toilet; but his resources were very limited. Still, as nature had done so much for him, he could not complain. By half-past six his duties in the store were accomplished, and brushed and furbished up as far as possible, he stood outside the door awaiting his fair task-mistress. Sometimes he wondered at the strange fascination she exercised over him, but generally ended by ascribing it to her beauty and love of art.
A little after the time appointed she appeared with her father, and seemed pleased at Dennis's readiness for work.
"I shall not have to sing you awake this morning," she said, "and I am glad, for I am in a mood for business."
She was attired in a close-fitting walking-dress that set off her graceful person finely. It was evident that her energetic nature would permit no statuesque repose while Dennis worked, but that she had come prepared for active measures.
She had inherited a good constitution, which, under her father's direction, had been strengthened and confirmed by due regard to hygienic rules. Therefore she had reached the stage of early womanhood abounding in vitality and capable of great endurance. Active, graceful motion was as natural to her as it is for a swallow to be on the wing. The moment she dropped her book, palette, or pencil, she was on her feet, her healthful nature seeming like a mountain brook, that, checked for a time in its flow, soon overleaps its bounds and speeds on more swiftly than ever. But the strange part of this superabundant activity was, that she never seemed to do anything in an abrupt way, as from mere impulse. Every act glided into another smoothly and gracefully. Her lithe, willowy figure, neither slight nor stout, was peculiarly adapted to her style of movement. She delighted in the game of billiards, for the quick movements and varied attitudes permitted, and the precision required, were all suited to her taste; and she had gained such marvellous skill that even her father, with his practiced hand, was scarcely her match.
As she tripped lightly up the long winding stairs to the show-room over the front door where their labors were to begin, she appeared to Dennis the very embodiment of grace and beauty. And yet she seemed so cold and self-centred, so devoid of warm human interest in the great world of love, joy, and suffering, that she repelled while she fascinated.
"If the blood should come into the cheeks of one of her father's statues, and the white marble eyes turn to violet blue, and the snowy hair to wavy gold, and it should spring from its pedestal into just such life, it would be more like her than any woman I ever saw," thought Dennis, as he stood for a moment or two waiting to do her bidding.
Her plans had been thoroughly matured, and she acted with decision. Pointing to the side opposite the door--the side which would naturally strike the eye of the visitor first--she said, "I wish all the pictures taken down from that wall and placed around the room so that I can see them."
She began as an absolute dictator, intending to give no hint of her plans and purposes except as conveyed by clear, terse orders. But these had so intelligent and appreciative an interpreter in Dennis, that gradually her attention was drawn to him as well as to his work.
He had his step-ladder ready, and with a celerity decidedly pleasing, soon placed the pictures safely on the floor, so that she could still see them and judge of their character. Though his dexterous manner and careful handling of the pictures were gratifying, it must be confessed that his supple form, the graceful and varied attitudes he unconsciously assumed in his work, pleased her more, and she secretly began to study him as an artistic subject, as he had studied her.
In her complacency she said: "So far, very well, Mr. Fleet. I congratulate myself that I have you to assist me, instead of that awkward fraud, Mr. Berder."
"And I assure you, Miss Ludolph, that I have longed intensely for this privilege ever since I knew your purpose."
"You may have cause to repent, like many another whose wishes have been gratified; for your privilege will involve a great deal of hard work."
"The more the better," said Dennis, warmly.
"How so? I should think you had more to do now than you would care about."
"Work is no burden to one of my years and strength, provided it is suited to one's tastes. Moreover, I confess that I hope to derive great advantages from this labor."
"In what way?" she asked, with a slight frown, imagining that he thought of extra pay.
"Because unconsciously you will give me instruction, and I hope that you are not unwilling that I should gain such hints and suggestions as I can from the display of your taste that I must witness."
"Not at all," said she, laughing. "I see that you are ambitious to learn your business and rise in the store."
"I am ambitious to gain a knowledge of one of the noblest callings."
"What is that?"
"Art."
"What!" said she, with a half-scornful smile; "are you a disciple of art?"
"Yes; why not?"
"Well, I do not wish to hurt your feelings, but, to tell you the honest truth, it seems but the other day that you were Pat Murphy."
"But am I a Pat Murphy?" he asked, with gentle dignity.
"No, Mr. Fleet; I will do you the justice to say that I think you very much above your station."
"I am sufficiently a democrat, Miss Ludolph, to believe that a man can be a man in any honest work."
"And I, Mr. Fleet, am not in the least degree a democrat."
Which fact she proceeded to prove by ordering him about for the next hour like the most absolute little despot that ever queened it over a servile province in the dark ages. Bat it was rather difficult to keep up this style of dictatorship with Dennis. He seemed so intelligent and polite that she often had it to her tongue to ask his opinion on certain points. Toward the last she did so, and the opinion he gave, she admitted to herself, was judicious; but for a purpose of her own she disregarded it, and took a different way.
Dennis at once saw through her plan of arrangement. In the centre of that side of the room which he had cleared, she caused him to hang one of the largest and finest pictures, which, under Mr. Schwartz's management, had been placed in a corner. Around the central painting all the others were to be grouped, according to color, subject, and merit. At the same time each wall was to have a character of its own. Such a task as this would require no little thought, study, and comparison; and Miss Ludolph was one to see delicate points of difference which most observers would not notice. It was her purpose to make the room bloom out naturally like a great flower. This careful selection of pictures was necessarily slow, and Dennis rejoiced that their united work would not soon be over.
To her surprise she often saw his eyes instinctively turning to the same picture that she was about to select, and perceived that he had divined her plan without a word of explanation, and that his taste was constantly according with hers in producing the desired effects. Though all this filled her with astonishment, she revealed no sign of it to him. At eight she said: "That will do for to-day. We have made a good beginning--better indeed than I had hoped. But how is it, Mr. Fleet, since you are such an uncompromising democrat, that you permit a young lady to order you about in this style?"
Dennis smiled and said: "It seems perfectly natural for you to speak in this way, and it does not appear offensive as it might in another. Moreover, I have voluntarily taken this position and am in honor bound to accept all it involves."
"But which was the controlling motive of your mind?"
"Well, a few seem born to command, and it is a pleasure to obey," said Dennis, paying a strong but honest compliment to the natural little autocrat.
"Indeed, Mr. Fleet, do church members flatter?" said she, secretly much pleased.
"I did not mean to flatter," said he, flushing. "They who have power should use it like the All-powerful--gently, considerately."
It was her turn to flush now, and she said, "Oh, I perceive, the compliment was the sugar-coating of the little homily to follow."
"I have no such diplomacy as you credit me with," said Dennis, looking straight into her eyes with honest frankness. "I merely spoke my passing thought."
"But he has fine eyes," said she to herself, and then she said to him: "Very well, I certainly will give you credit for being superior to your position. Be ready again to-morrow at the same hour;" and with a smile somewhat kindly she vanished.
Somehow she seemed to take the light out of the room with her. The pictures suddenly looked tame and ordinary, and everything commonplace. Here was an effect not exactly artistic, which he could not understand. He sighed, he scarcely knew why.
But the day's duties came with a rush, and soon he was utterly absorbed in them.
That evening Dennis was much cheered by Mr. Bruder's comments on his sketches.
"Considering de advantages you haf had, an de little time you can give, dey are very goot. You haf fallen into de natural faults of dose who work alone, but we can soon cure dese. Now here is some vork dat I vant you to do under my eye, and dat study on outlining you can take home. Moreover, I can give you some lessons in outlining from my own picture;" and Mr. Bruder showed him what he had done.
Dennis saw in the clear, vigorous profile the artist's thought, and congratulated himself that his teacher was a master in his profession.
For two hours they worked and talked, and Dennis felt that every such lesson would be a long step forward.
Poor Bruder looked more and more like himself every day, but God only knew how he had to struggle.
"I don't know how him vill end," he said. "I pray nearly every minute, but sometimes I feel dat I must drink even do' I die dat moment."
It was disease as well as appetite that he was fighting, for appetite indulged beyond a certain point becomes disease.
His wife's face was different also--the sharp look of misery fading out of it. Dennis noticed the changes, and thought to himself, while walking home: "After all, the highest art is to bring out on the living face all we can of God's lost image. How beautiful the changes in these two poor people's faces! and the best part of it is, that they are the reflex of changes going on in the soul, the imperishable part."
Then, in quick and natural transition, his mind reverted to Christine Ludolph; and the thought of her face, which God had fashioned so fair, but which was already sadly marred by sin, becoming fixed and rigid in pride and selfishness, was as painful as if, according to an old legend, her lithe, active form should gradually turn to stone. But if the reverse could ever be true--if the beautifying Christian graces could dwell within her soul and light up her face--as lamps illumining some rare and quaint transparency, the resulting loveliness would realize the artist's fondest ideal.
Musing thus, what wonder that he vowed then and there, under the starlight, to pray and work for her till the new life should illumine her heart. Little dreamed Christine, as she slept that night, that the first link of a chain which might bind her to heaven had been forged.
The dawn was late and lowering on the following morning. Great masses of clouds swept across the sky, and soon the rain was falling in gusty torrents. Dennis rose and hastened through his duties as before, and was ready at the hour appointed, but had little hope of seeing Miss Ludolph. Still he opened the door and looked up the street. To his surprise he saw her coming, attended by her father's valet. Only part of her glowing face was visible, for she was incased from head to foot in a light and delicate suit of rubber.
Dennis opened the door, and she stepped quickly in, scattering spray on every side like a sea-nymph. The young man looked at her with open-eyed admiration and surprise, which both amused and pleased her.
"True enough," she thought, "his face is like a signboard."
She seemed to him, as she threw off her wet coverings, like an exquisite flower, that, lifted by the breeze after a storm, scatters the burdensome rain-drops on every side and stands up more beautiful and blooming than ever.
"You were not expecting me, I imagine," she said.
"Well, I must admit I scarcely did, and yet I could not help looking for you."
"Isn't that a distinction without a difference?" she asked, with a pleasant smile, for she was gratified at not finding the store closed and dark.
"I am very glad you have come," he replied, flushing slightly with pleasure, "for it would have been a long, dreary morning if you had not."
Dennis thought he referred to the lack of occupation. He did not know, nor did she notice, that he meant the lack of herself.
"Well," said she, "I am glad you like the work, for you destined to have enough of it."
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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20
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IS HE A GENTLEMAN?
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The days and weeks that followed were to Dennis such as only come once in a lifetime, and not in every lifetime either. A true, pure love was growing up within his heart--growing as the little child develops in strength and pleasurable life, and yet unconsciously to itself. It seemed as if some strong magician's wand had touched the world or him. Everything was transfigured, and no wonderland was more full of interest than that in which he existed. His life was a waking dream, in which nothing was distinct or definite, but all things abounded in hope and happy suggestion. He compared it afterward to a tropical island of the Pacific, a blissful fragment of life by itself, utterly distinct from the hard, struggling years that preceded, and the painful awakening that followed.
Even the place of his daily toil was pervaded by a beautiful presence. For many days he and Christine worked together, and at last her eyes had rested on, or her fingers had touched, nearly everything in the store, and therefore all was associated with her. Throughout their labors his quick sympathy and appreciation made him almost hands and feet to her, and she regarded him as a miracle of helpfulness--one of those humble, useful creatures who are born to wait upon and interpret the wishes of the rich and great. His admiring glances disturbed her not and raised no suspicion in her mind. She had been accustomed to such for years, and took them as a matter of course.
She treated the young men whom she met in society with a courtly ease and freedom, but her smiles and repartee ever seemed like brilliant moonlight that had no warmth; and, while no restraint appeared, she still kept all at a distance. There was a marked difference in her intercourse with Dennis. Regarding him as too humble ever to presume upon her frankness, she daily spoke more freely, and more truly acted out herself before him. She was happy and in her element among the beautiful works of art they were arranging, and in this atmosphere her womanly nature, chilled and dwarfed though it was, would often manifest itself in ways sweet and unexpected. Under no other circumstances could she have appeared so well. She as often spoke to herself in racy comment on what was before her as to Dennis, and ever and anon would make some pleasant remark to him, as she might throw a dainty morsel to her greyhound Wolf, looking wistfully at her while she dined. At the same time it must be confessed that she had a growing respect for him, as she daily saw some new proof of his intelligence and taste; but both education and disposition inclined her instinctively to the old feudal idea that even genius, if poor, must wait a humble servitor on wealth and rank, and where a New England girl would have been saying to herself, "This gifted, educated man is my equal, and, whether I want to or not, I ought to treat him as such," she was not troubled at all. To her, he was her father's clerk and man-of-all-work, a most useful, trusted, and agreeable servant, and she was kind to him as such. Indeed the little autocrat was kind to every one that pleased her. She was a benign queen to obedient subjects, but woe to those who were otherwise.
To Dennis, however, though he realized it not, she was becoming as the very apple of his eye. He was learning to regard her with a deeper interest because of the very defects that he plainly recognized. While on the one hand he had the enthusiastic love caused by his admiration for her, on the other he felt the tenderer and greater love which was the result of pity. He tried to account for his feelings toward her by the usual sophistries of unconscious lovers. It was friendship; it was artistic interest in her beauty; it was the absorbing, unselfish regard of a Christian for one providentially commended to him to be led out of darkness into light. How could he help thinking of one for whom he prayed night and morning and every hour in the day? It was all this, but he was soon to learn that it was a great deal more. And so the days of occupation and companionship passed; the spell worked on with increasing and bewildering power, and the crisis could not be delayed much longer.
One morning in the latter part of April she seemed more gracious than usual. Their labors were drawing to a close, and, as he had proved so tasteful and efficient in the store, she concluded that he might be equally useful in other ways and places. She could command him at the store, but not in respect to a task that she had in view; so she adopted a little feminine artifice as old as the time when Eve handed Adam the apple, and she looked at him in such a way that he could not refuse.
Blind, honest Dennis, it is needless to say, saw nothing of this little strategy of which he was destined to be the happy, willing victim, and his love expanded and bloomed under the genial light of her presence and kindness, like the flowers of the convolvulus in a bright dawn of June. She brought her general graciousness to a definite and blissful climax by saying, when about to go home, "Well, Mr. Fleet, you have done better than usual to-day, and I certainly must give you credit for possessing more taste than any young man of my acquaintance."
Dennis's heart gave as great a bound as if the laurel crown of all the Olympic games had been placed upon his brow.
"I am now going to ask a favor," she continued.
"You may command me, Miss Ludolph," interrupted Dennis.
"No, not in this case," she replied. "Whatever you do will be regarded as a personal favor to me. At the same time it will afford you scope for such display of your taste as will secure many compliments."
"If I am able to satisfy _you_ I shall be more than compensated," said Dennis with a bow.
She smiled and thought to herself, "That isn't bad for a porter and man-of-all-work," and explained as follows: "Some young ladies and gentlemen have decided upon giving an entertainment, consisting of music, tableaux, and statuary. Now, in regard to the two latter parts, we need above all things some person of taste like yourself, whose critical eye and dexterous hand will insure everything to be just right. You will be a sort of general stage manager and superintendent, you know. I feel sure you will be all the more willing to enter upon this work when you know that the proceeds are to go toward the Church of the Holy Virgin. This is going to be a very select affair, and the tickets are five dollars each."
"Is it a Protestant church?" asked Dennis, in some trepidation.
"Oh, certainly," she answered, with a peculiar smile, "an Episcopal church."
"It seems a strange name for a Protestant church," said Dennis. "It is enough for me that you wish it; at the same time it certainly is a pleasure to contribute what little I can to aid any Christian organization."
"Come, Mr. Fleet, you are narrow," she said, with a controversial twinkle in her eye. "Why not toward a Catholic church?"
"I fear that all people with decided religious opinions are sometimes regarded as narrow," he answered, with a smile.
"That is an inadequate answer to my question," she said; "but I will not find fault since you have so good-naturedly acceded to my request. Come to No. -- Wabash Avenue at three this afternoon. Papa gives you leave of absence."
She vanished, and figuratively the sun went down to Dennis, and he was in twilight till he should see her again. He looked forward to the afternoon with almost feverish eagerness, for several reasons. It would be his first introduction to "good society," for as such the unsophisticated youth regarded the prospect. He had the natural longing of a young, healthful nature for the companionship of those of his own age and culture, and his life in the great city had often been very lonely. He expected, as a matter of course, to be treated as an equal at the artistic entertainment in which he was to participate. In his business relations at the store he had taken a subordinate position and made up his mind to the logical consequences. But now that he was invited to a private house, and would appear there possessing all the qualities of a gentleman, he surely would be treated as one. "Is not this Chicago, whose citizens were nearly all poor a few years ago?" he thought; "and surely, if what Miss Ludolph says is true, I have advantages in my taste over most poor young men." Moreover, it was his ideal of an entertainment, where art and music should take the place of the coarser pleasures of eating, drinking, and dancing. Chief of all, Christine would be there, and even he in his blindness became a little uneasy and self-conscious as he realized how this thought towered above the others.
She had given him a list of the things he was to bring with him in the afternoon, and he occupied every spare moment in getting them ready. At a quarter past two he summoned the carman of the store, and they loaded up the miscellaneous cargo needed for the coming mysteries, and by three all were before the large elegant mansion to which he had been directed. Dennis rang the bell and was shown by a servant into the front parlor, where he found Miss Ludolph, Miss Brown, a tall, haughty brunette, and the young lady of the house, Miss Winthrop, a bright, sunny-faced blonde, and two or three other young ladies of no special coloring or character, being indebted mainly to their toilets for their attractions. Dennis bowed to Miss Ludolph, and then turned toward the other ladies, expecting as a matter of course to be introduced. No introduction came, but his expectant manner was so obvious that Miss Ludolph colored and looked annoyed, and the other young ladies tittered outright.
Advancing a step or two she said, coldly, "Mr. Fleet, you may help Mapes carry the things into the back parlor, and then we will direct you as to the arrangement."
Dennis crimsoned painfully. At first he was too confused to think, and merely obeyed mechanically. Then came the impulse to say boldly that this kind of thing might answer at the store, but not here, and he nearly carried it out; but soon followed the sober second thought, that such action would bring a blight over all his prospects, and involve the loss of his position at the store. Such giving way to passion would injure only himself. They would laugh, and merely suffer a momentary annoyance; to him and his the result would be most disastrous. Why should he let those who cared not a jot for him cause such sad injury?
By the time he had carried his first armful into the back parlor, he had resolved for his mother and sisters' sakes that he would go through the following scenes as well as he could, and then turn his back on society till he could enter it a recognized gentleman; and with compressed lips and flashing eye he mentally vowed that that day should soon come.
As he was unpacking his materials he could not help hearing the conversation in the front parlor.
"Did you ever see such presumption?" exclaimed Miss Brown. "He evidently expected to be introduced, and that we should rise and courtesy all around."
"He must have seen better days, for he certainly appeared like a gentleman," said Miss Winthrop.
"I should hardly give that title to a man who swept a store out every morning" replied Miss Brown.
"No, indeed!" chorused the three colorless young ladies.
"I know nothing about this young man," said Miss Winthrop, ruffling her plumage somewhat for an argument, of which she was fond; "but, as a case in hand, suppose a highly educated and refined man for some reason swept a store out every morning, what would you call him?" and she looked around as if she had given a poser.
The colorless young ladies looked blank--their natural expression.
"Nonsense!" said the positive Miss Brown; "such men don't sweep stores. He may have passed current in some country village, but that is not our set."
"But the case is certainly supposable," retorted Miss Winthrop, more intent upon her argument than upon Dennis. "Come, what does the Countess say?" she asked, turning to Christine; for that was the familiar name by which she went among her young companions.
"The case is not supposable, but actual," she answered, so distinctly that it seemed that she meant Dennis to hear. "As far as I have any means of judging, he is a refined, educated man, and I have learned from papa that his motive in sweeping the store is the support of his mother and sisters--certainly a very worthy one. To your question, Susie, I answer unhesitatingly that in accordance with your American principles and professions he is a gentleman, and you ought to treat him as such. But you Americans are sometimes wonderfully inconsistent, and there is often a marvellously wide margin between your boasted equality and the reality. Now in Europe these questions have been settled for ages, and birth and rank define a person's position accurately."
"I do not believe in equality," said Miss Brown, with a toss of her head. (Her father was a mighty brewer, but he and hers were in character and antecedents something like the froth on their own beer.)
Miss Winthrop was a little embarrassed at finding her supposed case a real one, for it might involve some practical action on her part. Many an ardent advocate of the people in theory gives them practically the cold shoulder, and is content to stay on the summit of Mt. Olympus. She was a girl of good impulses and strong convictions of abstract right, but rarely had either the courage or the opportunity to carry them out. She was of the old Boston family of Winthrops, and therefore could meet Miss Ludolph on her own ground in the way of pedigree.
But, however Dennis fared, she felt that she must look after her argument, and, having conquered theoretically as far as America was concerned, determined to carry war into Europe, so she said: "Are you not mistaken in saying that birth and rank only settle position abroad? Some of the most honored names there are or were untitled."
"Oh, certainly, but they were persons of great genius, and _genius_ is the highest patent of nobility. But I leave you republicans to settle this question to suit yourselves. I am going to look after the preparations for this evening, as I have set my heart on a success that shall ring through the city."
But they all flocked after her into the back parlor, now doubly interesting as it contained an object of curiosity in Dennis Fleet--a veritable gentleman who swept a store.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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21
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CHRISTINE'S IDEA OF CHRISTIANS
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The large apartment where the amateur performers expected to win their laurels was now filled with all the paraphernalia needed to produce musical, artistic, and scenic effects. Much had been gathered before Dennis's arrival, and his cart-load added all that was necessary. Everything seemed in inextricable confusion.
"The idea of having anything here to-night!" exclaimed Miss Winthrop. "It will take us a week to get things arranged."
"The thing is hopeless," said the blank young ladies.
Even Christine looked somewhat dismayed, but she said, "Remember we have till half-past eight."
"I will call two or three of the servants," said Miss Brown.
"I beg of you do not, at least not yet," exclaimed Christine. "What will their clumsy hands do in work like this, but mar everything. I have great faith in Mr. Fleet's abilities," she continued, turning toward Dennis, with an enchanting smile, and resuming the tactics of the morning. Though the smile went to Dennis's heart like a fiery arrow, his pride, thoroughly aroused, made him cold and self-possessed. He naturally assumed the manner possible only to the true gentleman who, though wronged, chooses not to show his feelings save by a grave, quiet dignity. In view of their action and manner, he consciously felt himself their superior; and this impression, like an atmosphere, was felt by them also. As they looked upon his tall, erect form, manly bearing, and large dark eyes, in which still lurked the fire of an honest indignation, they felt the impossibility of ordering him about like Mapes the carman. They regarded him for a moment in awkward silence, not knowing what to do or say. Even haughty Christine was embarrassed, for the stronger spirit was present and thoroughly aroused, and it overpowered the weaker natures. Christine had never seen Dennis look like that, and did not know that he could. He was so different from the eager, humble servitor that heretofore had interpreted her very wishes, even before they were spoken! Moreover, the success of their entertainment now depended upon him, and she felt that he was in a mood requiring delicate treatment, and that she could not order him around in the role to which she had assigned him. And yet if she had known him, she might, for he had made up his mind to go through even the most menial service with proud humility, and then be careful not to be so caught again; and, when Dennis had resolved upon a thing, that settled the question so far as he was concerned. Seeing Christine's hesitation and embarrassment, he stepped forward and said: "Miss Ludolph, if you will indicate _your_ wishes I will carry them out as rapidly as possible. I can soon bring order out of this confusion; and you must have some plan of arrangement."
She gave him a quick, grateful glance, that thawed more of his ice than he cared to have melt so quickly.
"Of course we have," said she. "This is but the nervous hesitation before the shock of a battle that has all been planned on paper. Here is our programme."
"All battles do not go forward in the field as planned on paper, if my feeble memory serves me," said Miss Winthrop, maliciously.
"I grant you that," said Christine, quietly, "and you need not tax your memory so greatly to prove it."
She was now very kind and gracious to Dennis, believing that to be the best policy. It usually is, but she received no special proof of it from him: he listened alike to request, suggestion, and compliment. There was nothing sullen or morose in his appearance, nothing resentful or rude. With the utmost respect he heard all she said, and carried out her wishes with that deft, graceful promptness in which he had few equals. At the same time his manner was that of one who thoroughly respected himself--that of a refined and cultivated person, who, having become committed to a disagreeable part, performed it with only the protest of dignified silence.
As his first step, he cleared a space for action, and arranged everything to be in view when needed. The rapidity with which order emerged from confusion was marvellous to the young ladies.
Then he took their programme, studied it a few moments, and compared it with the pictures of the scenes they wished to imitate. He then arranged for these one after another, placing everything needed within reach, and where it could readily be seen, making the combinations beforehand as far as possible. As he worked so intelligently and skilfully, requiring so few explanations, the young ladies exchanged significant glances, and strolled into the front parlor. They must express an opinion.
"I declare, Christine," said Miss Winthrop, "it is a shame that you did not introduce him, for he is a gentleman. He works like a captive prince."
"How romantic!" gushed the colorless young ladies.
"Nonsense!" said Miss Brown; "I hate to see any one in his position putting on such airs."
As soon as she had seen Dennis fairly at work just like her mother's servants, or her father's men, she felt that he ought to be treated as such--riches being Miss Brown's patent of nobility; and she resolved if possible to lower his ridiculous pride, as she regarded it. Miss Brown was a very handsome, stylish girl of a certain type, but she no more understood Dennis's feelings than she did Sanscrit.
Christine said nothing, but admitted to herself, with a secret wonder, that Dennis awakened in her a respect, a sort of fear, that no other man had inspired, save her father. There was something in his manner, though altogether respectful, that made her feel that he was not to be trifled with. This impression was decidedly heightened when, a few moments later, Miss Brown, pursuant of her resolution to lower Dennis's pride, ordered him in an offensive manner to do something for her that had no connection with the entertainment. At first he acted as if he had not heard her, but his rising color showed that he had. In spite of warning glances from Christine and Miss Winthrop, she repeated her request in a loud, imperious tone.
Dennis drew himself up to his full height, and, turning his dark eyes full upon her, said, firmly, "I am ever ready to _offer_ any service that a gentleman can to a lady, but surely I am not your footman."
"Your pride is ridiculous, sir. You are here to help, and will be paid for it. This is my house, and I expect persons of your position, while in it, to do as they are bidden."
"Since such are the rules and principles of your house, permit me at once to leave you in full possession;" and he was about to retire with a manner as cold as Mr. Ludolph himself could have assumed, and as haughty, when a light hand fell upon his arm. Looking down he met the deep blue eyes of Christine Ludolph lifted pleadingly to his.
"Mr. Fleet, you need not do what is asked. It is not right to require it. In fact we all owe you an apology." Then, in a low, quick tone, she added, "Will you not stay as a favor to me?"
She felt his arm tremble under her hand, there was a moment's hesitation, then he replied, in the same manner, "Miss Ludolph, _you_ can command me on _this_ occasion" (there was no promise for the future); and then he turned to his work as if resolved to see and know nothing else till the ordeal ended.
In spite of herself Christine blushed, but taking Miss Brown by the arm she led her aside and gave her a vigorous lecture.
"Are you sane?" she said. "Do you not remember that nearly a thousand dollars' worth of tickets are sold, and that the people will be here by half-past eight, and at nine we must appear? Even after what he has done, if you should drive him away the thing would be a failure, and we should be the ridiculous town-talk for a year."
"But I hate--" "No matter what you hate. Treat him as you please tomorrow. We need him now;" and so the petted, wilful girl, spoiled by money and flattery, was kept under restraint.
A great deal of preparation was required for the last two pieces on the programme, and the young ladies grouped themselves not far off while Dennis worked. Christine explained from time to time as the natural leader of the party. Still an awkward silence followed the scene above described. This restraint could not long endure, and one of the colorless young ladies asked a question that led to more than she intended, and indeed, more than she understood.
"Christine, what do you do with yourself Sundays? Your pew is not occupied once in an age."
"I usually paint most of the day, and ride out with papa in the afternoon when it is pleasant."
"Why, you are a perfect little heathen!" they all exclaimed in chorus.
"Yes, I suppose I am worse than a pagan," she said, "for I not only do not believe in your superstitions, but have none of my own."
"What do you believe in, then?" asked Miss Winthrop.
"Art, music, fame, power."
She announced her creed so coolly and decidedly that Dennis lifted a startled face to hers. She saw his grieved, astonished expression, and it amused her very much. Henceforth she spoke as much for his benefit as for theirs.
"If you would be equally honest," she continued, "you would find that your creeds also are very different from the one in the prayer-book."
"And what would mine be, pray," asked one of the colorless young ladies.
"I will sum it up in one sentence, Miss Jones--'Keep in the fashion.'"
"I think that you are very unjust. I'm sure I go to church regularly, and attend a great many services in Lent and on Saints' days. I've been confirmed, and all that."
"Yes, it is the thing to do in your set. Now, here is Miss Winthrop, a Presbyterian, who manifests quite another religious phase."
"Pray what is mine?" asked that lady, laughing.
"Oh, you want hair-splitting in regard to the high doctrines--clear, brilliant arguments, cutting like sharp, merciless steel into the beliefs of other denominations. Then, after your ism has been glorified for an hour on Sunday morning, and all other isms pierced and lashed, you descend from your intellectual heights, eat a good dinner, take a nap, and live like the rest of us till the next Sabbath, when (if it is a fine day) you climb some other theological peak, far beyond the limits of perpetual snow, and there take another bird's-eye view of something that might be found very different if you were nearer to it."
"And what is my phase?" asked Miss Brown.
"Oh, you are an out-and-out sinner, and do just what you please, in spite of priest or prayer-book," said Christine, with a laugh in which all the ladies joined.
"Well," said Miss Brown, "I do not think that I am worse than the rest of you."
"Not in the least," replied Christine. "We all have some form of religion, or none at all, as it accords with our peculiar tastes."
"And you mean to say that having a religion or not is a mere matter of taste?" asked Miss Winthrop.
"Yes, I should say it was, and practically that it _is_. You ladies, and nearly all that I have met, seem to choose a style of religion suited to your tastes; and the tastes of many incline them to have no religion at all."
"Why, Miss Ludolph!" exclaimed Miss Winthrop, her cheeks glowing with honest dissent and zeal for the truth; "our religion is taken from the Bible. Do you not believe in the Bible?"
"No! not in the sense in which you ask the question; nor you either, my charming Miss Winthrop."
"Indeed I do, every word of it," said the orthodox young lady, hotly.
"Let me test you. Miss Brown, have you such a book in the house? Oh, yes, here is an elegantly bound copy, but looking as if never opened. And now, Miss Winthrop, this city is full of all sorts of horrid people, living in alleys and tenement houses. They are poor, half-naked, hungry, and sometimes starving. Many are in prison, and more ought to be; many are strangers, more utterly alone and lonely in our crowded streets than on a desert island. They are suffering from varieties of disgusting disease, and having a hard time generally. How many hungry people have you fed? How many strangers (I do not mean distinguished ones from abroad) have you taken in and comforted? How many of the naked have you clothed? And how long is your list of the sick and imprisoned that you have visited, my luxurious little lady?"
A real pallor overspread Miss Winthrop's sunny face, for she saw what was coming, but she answered, honestly, "I have done practically nothing of all this." Then she added: "Papa and mamma are not willing that I should visit such places and people. I have asked that I might, but they always discourage me, and tell of the awful experiences of those who do."
"Then they don't believe the Bible, either," said Christine; "for if they did they would insist on your doing it; and if you believed you would do all this in spite of them; for see what is written here; the very Being that you worship and dedicate your churches to will say, because of your not doing this, 'Depart from me, ye cursed, into everlasting fire, prepared for the devil and his angels.' And this is but one of many similar passages. Now all this is a monstrous fable to me. The idea of any such experiences awaiting my light-hearted little Sybarite here!"
Miss Winthrop had buried her face in her hands, and was trembling from head to foot. The words of God never seemed so real and true before as now when uttered by an unbeliever.
"I don't believe there is any such place or things," said Miss Brown, bluntly.
"There spake my mature and thoughtful friend who is not to be imposed upon," said Christine, with a touch of irony in her tone.
Dennis had listened in sad wonder. Such words of cynical unbelief were in dark, terrible contrast with the fair young face. He saw the mind and training of her father in all she said, but he bitterly condemned the worldly, inconsistent life of multitudes in the church who do more to confirm unbelievers than all their sophistries. But as she went on, seemingly having the argument all her own way, his whole soul burned to meet and refute her fatal views. For her own sake and the others' as well as for the dishonored name of his Lord, he must in some way turn the tide. Though regarded as a humble servitor, having no right to take part in the conversation, he determined that his hands must lift up the standard of truth if no others would or could. To his joy he found that the programme would soon give him the coveted opportunity.
Christine went on with a voice as smooth and musical as the flow of a stream over a glacier.
"I have read the Bible several times, and that is more than all of you can say, I think. It is a wonderful book, and has been the inspiration of some of our best art. There are parts that I enjoy reading very much for their sublimity and peculiarity. But who pretends to live as this old and partially obsolete book teaches? Take my father, for instance. All the gentlemen in the church that I know of can do, and are accustomed to do, just what he does, and some I think do much worse; and yet he is an infidel, as you would term him. And as to the ladies, not the Bible, but fashion rules them with a rod of iron. I have cut free from it all, and art shall be my religion and the inspiration of my life."
As Christine talked on, the twilight deepened, and Dennis worked with increasing eagerness.
"After all," she continued, "it is only history repeating itself. The educated mind to-day stands in the same attitude toward Christianity as that of the cultured mind of Greece and Rome toward the older mythology in the second century. Then as now the form of religion was kept up, but belief in its truth was fast dying out. The cities abounded in gorgeous temples, and were thronged with worshippers, but they sacrificed at the dictates of fashion, custom, and law, not of faith. So our cities are adorned with splendid churches, and fashion and the tastes of the congregation decide as to the form of service. The sects differ widely with each other, and all differ with the Bible. The ancients gave no more respect to what was regarded as the will of their imaginary deities than do modern Christians to the precepts of the Bible. People went to the ceremonies, got through with them, and then did what they pleased; and so they do now.
"Take for instance one of your commonest doctrines, that of prayer; the majority have no practical belief in it. My father has taken me, and out of curiosity I have attended several prayer meetings. The merest fraction of the congregation are present at the best of times, and if the night is stormy the number out is ridiculously small. Yet all profess to believe that the Lord of heaven and earth will be present, and that it is His will that they should be. Your Bible teaches that the Being who controls completely the destiny of every person will be in the midst of those gathered in His name, to hear and answer their petitions. If this is true, then no earthly ruler was every so neglected and insulted, so generally ignored, as this very Deity to whom you ascribe unlimited power, and from whom you say you receive life and everything. An eastern despot would take off the heads of those who treated him in such a style; and a republican politician would scoff at the idea of giving office to such lukewarm followers. Why, here in Christian Chicago the will of God is no more heeded by the majority than that of the Emperor of China, and the Bible might as well be the Koran. Looking at these facts from my impartial standpoint, I am driven to one of two alternatives: either you regard your God as so kind and good, so merciful, that you can trespass on His forbearance to any extent, and treat Him with a neglect and an indifference that none would manifest toward the pettiest earthly potentate, and still all will be well; or else you have no real practical belief in your religion. Though not very charitably inclined, I cannot think quite so meanly of human nature as to take the former view, so I am driven to the latter. For surely no man who wished to live and prosper, no woman who loved her husband and children, could so coolly and continually disregard the Deity in whom they profess to believe, with the old Greek poet, that they 'live, move, and have their being.'"
The twilight deepened, and Christine continued, her words, portraying the decline of faith, according ominously with the increasing gloom.
"Why, in order to see the truth of what I am saying, look at the emblem of your faith--the Cross. All its historical associations are those of self-denial, and suffering for others. The Founder of your faith endured death upon it. He was a great, good man like Socrates, though no doubt a mistaken enthusiast. But what He meant He said plainly and clearly, as, for instance, 'Whosoever doth not bear his cross and come after Me cannot be My disciple.' I admit that in the past He had a wonderful following. In the ages of martyrdom multitudes left all, and endured all that He did, for His sake. But so there have been other great leaders with equally devoted followers. But in this practical age religious enthusiasm has but little chance. What crosses do the members of the Church of the Holy Virgin take up? and what are borne by your great rich church, Miss Winthrop? The shrewd people of this day manage better, and put their crosses on the top of the church. I suppose they reason that the stone tower can carry it for the whole congregation, on the principle of a labor-saving machine. But, honestly, your modern disciples are no more like their Master than one of the pale, slim, white-kidded gentlemen who will be here to-night is like Richard Coeur de Lion as he led a charge against the Moslems. Your cross is dwindling to a mere pretty ornament--an emblem of a past that is fast fading from men's memories. It will never have the power to inspire the heart again, as when the Crusaders--" At that moment their eyes were blinded by a sudden, dazzling light. There was a general and startled exclamation, and then, awe-struck and silent, they gazed as if spellbound upon a luminous cross blazing before them.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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22
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EQUAL TO AN EMERGENCY
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The fiery cross that so awed Christine and her little group of auditors was to be the closing scene of the evening entertainment. It was of metal, and by a skilful adjustment of jets was made to appear as if all aflame. While the others were intent on Christine's words, and she in the interest of her theme had quite forgotten him, Dennis made all his arrangements, and at the critical point narrated in the preceding chapter he turned on the gas with the most startling effect. It seemed a living, vivid refutation of Christine's words, and even she turned pale. After a moment, for the emblem to make its full impression, Dennis stepped out before them all, his face lighted up by the luminous cross. They admitted that no crusader could look more earnest and brave than he.
"Miss Ludolph," he said, in a firm, yet respectful tone, "I should evermore be unworthy of your respect and confidence--what is more, I should be false to myself, false to my faith--should I remain silent in view of what I have been compelled to hear. That sacred emblem has not spent its meaning, or its power. Millions to-day would die for the sake of Him who suffered on it. Many even of those weak, inconsistent ones that you have so justly condemned would part with life rather than with the faint hope that centres there," pointing to the radiant symbol.
"You are rude, sir," said Christine, her face pale, but her eyes flashing in turn.
"No, he is right! he is right!" exclaimed Miss Winthrop, springing up with tears in her eyes. "Undeserving as I am of the name of Christian, I would die, I know I would die, before I would give up my poor little hope--though I confess you make me fear that it is a false one. But it's the best I have, and I mean it shall be better. I think a good touch of persecution, that would bring people out, would do the church more good than anything else.
"Pardon me, Miss Ludolph," continued Dennis; "but I appeal to your sense of justice. Could I be a true man and be silent, believing what I do? Could I hear the name of my Best Friend thus spoken of, and say not one word in His behalf?"
"But I spoke most highly of the Christ of the Bible."
"You spoke of Him as a great, good, but mistaken _man_, an enthusiast. To me He is the mighty God, my Divine Saviour, to whom I owe infinitely more than life. You know that I mean no disrespect to you," he added, with gentle but manly courtesy. "I regret more deeply than words can express that you honestly think as you do. But if I as honestly believe the Bible, am I not acting as you said a true follower ought? For I assure you it is a heavier cross than you can ever know to speak thus unbidden where I am regarded only as a serving-man. But should I not be false and cowardly if I held my peace? And if you afterward should know that I claimed the name of Christian, would you not despise me as you remembered this scene?"
Christine bit her lip and hesitated, but her sense of justice prevailed, and she said, "I not only pardon you, but commend your course in view of your evident sincerity."
Dennis replied by a low bow.
At this moment there was a loud ring at the door.
"There come the gentlemen," exclaimed Miss Brown. "I am so glad! Oh, dear! what a long, uncomfortable preachment we have had! Now for some fun!"
The colorless young ladies had stared first at Christine, and then at the cross, in blank amazement.
At the word "gentlemen" they were all on the alert and ready for _real_ life; but Miss Winthrop left the room for a short time.
A handsome, lively youth entered, scattering bows and compliments on every side with the off-hand ease of an accomplished society man. He paid no heed to Dennis, evidently regarding him as the showman.
"Well, ladies, you have done your part," he said; "your arrangements seem complete."
"Yes, Mr. Mellen; but where is our tenor?" asked Christine. "We have only three-quarters of an hour for music rehearsal, before we must retire to dress for our parts."
"Bad news for you, Miss Ludolph," said Mr. Mellen, coming to her side; "Archer is sick and can't come."
"Can't come?" they all exclaimed in dismayed chorus.
"What is the matter?" asked Miss Winthrop, anxiously, coming in at that moment.
"Matter enough," said Miss Brown, poutingly; "that horrid Archer has gone and got sick, I do believe he did it on purpose. He did not know his parts near as well as he ought, and he has taken this way to get out of it."
"But he promised me he would study them all the morning," said Christine. "Oh, I am so sorry! What shall we do? Our entertainment seems fated to be a failure;" and she spoke in a tone of deep disappointment.
"I assure you I feel the deepest sympathy for you," said Mr. Mellen, looking tenderly at Christine, "but I did my best. I tried to drag Archer here out of his sick-bed, and then I ran around among some other good singers that I know, but none would venture. They said the music was difficult, and would require much practice, and that now is impossible."
"Oh, isn't it too bad?" mourned Miss Winthrop. "The programme is all printed, and the people will be so disappointed! We can't have that splendid duet that you and Mr. Archer were to sing, Christine. I have a score of friends who were coming to hear that alone."
"Oh, as for that matter, half our music is spoiled," said Christine, dejectedly. "Well, this is the last time I attempt anything of the kind. How in the world we are going to get out of this scrape I do not know. The tickets are so high, and so much has been said, that the people are expecting a great deal, and there is every prospect of a most lame and impotent conclusion."
A general gloom settled upon the faces of all. At this moment Dennis stepped forward hesitatingly and said to Christine, "Have you the music that Mr. Archer was to sing?"
"Certainly! do you suppose it was of the kind that he could extemporize?" said Miss Brown, pertly.
"Will you let me see it? If you are willing, perhaps I can assist you in this matter."
All turned toward him with a look of great surprise.
"What do you think of that from the man who sweeps Mr. Ludolph's store?" asked Miss Brown, in a loud whisper.
"I think the fellow is as presuming as he is ignorant," said Mr. Mellen, so plainly that all heard him.
"It is not presuming, sir, to offer a kindness where it is needed," said Dennis, with dignity, "and my ignorance is not yet proved. The presumption is all on your part."
Mr. Mellen flushed and was about to answer angrily when Miss Winthrop said hastily, but in a kindly tone, "But really, Mr. Fleet, much of our music is new and very difficult."
"But it is written, is it not?" asked Dennis, with a smile.
Christine looked at him in silent wonder. What would he not do next? But she was sorry that he had spoken, for she foresaw only mortification for him.
"Oh, give him the music by all means," said Miss Brown, expecting to enjoy his blundering attempts to sing what was far beyond him. "There, I will play the accompaniment. It's not the tune of Old Hundred that you are to sing now, young man, remember."
Dennis glanced over the music, and she began to play a loud, difficult piece.
He turned to Miss Ludolph, and said: "I fear you have given me the wrong music. Miss Brown is playing something not written here."
They exchanged significant glances, and Miss Winthrop said, "Play the right music, Miss Brown."
She struck into the music that Dennis held, but played it so out of time that no one could sing it. Dennis laid down his sheets on the piano and said quietly, though with flushed face: "I did not mean to be obtrusive. You all seemed greatly disappointed at Mr. Archer's absence and the results, and I thought that in view of the emergency it would not be presumption to offer my services. But it seems that I am mistaken."
"No, it is not presumption," said Miss Winthrop. "It was true kindness and courtesy, which has been ill requited. But you see, to be frank, Mr. Fleet, we all fear that you do not realize what you are undertaking."
"Must I of necessity be an ignoramus because, as Miss Brown says, I sweep a store?"
"Let me play the accompaniment," said Christine, with the decided manner that few resisted, and she went correctly through the difficult and brilliant passage. Dennis followed his part with both eye and ear, and then said, "Perhaps I had better sing my part alone first, and then you can correct any mistakes."
There was a flutter of expectation, a wink from Mr. Mellen, and an audible titter from Miss Brown.
"Certainly" said Miss Ludolph, who thought to herself, "If he will make a fool of himself, he may"; and she played the brief prelude.
Then prompt at the proper moment, true to time and note, Dennis's rich, powerful tenor voice startled and then entranced them all. He sung the entire passage through with only such mistakes as resulted from his nervousness and embarrassment.
At the close, all exclaimed in admiration save Miss Brown, who bit her lip in ill-concealed vexation, and said, with a half-sneer, "Really, Mr. What-is-your-name, you are almost equal to Blind Tom."
"You do Blind Tom great injustice," said Dennis. "I read my music."
"But how did you learn to read music in that style?" asked Christine.
"Of course it took me years to do so. But no one could join our musical club at college who could not read anything placed before him."
"It must have been small and select, then."
"It was."
"How often had you sung that piece before?" asked Miss Brown.
"I never saw it before," answered Dennis.
"Why, it is just out," said Christine.
"Well, ladies and gentlemen, our troubles are over at last," said Miss Winthrop. "Mr. Fleet seems a good genius--equal to any emergency. If he can sing that difficult passage, he can sing anything else we have. We had better run over our parts, and then to our toilets."
One of the colorless young ladies played the accompaniments, her music making a sort of neutral tint, against which their rich and varied voices came out with better effect. They sung rapidly through the programme, Dennis sustaining his parts correctly and with taste. He could read like the page of an open book any music placed before him, and years of practice enabled him to sing true and with confidence. As he sung one thing after another with perfect ease, their wonder grew; and when, in the final duet with Christine, they both came out strongly, their splendid, thoroughly-trained voices blending in perfect harmony, they were rewarded with a spontaneous burst of applause, in which even Miss Brown was compelled to join.
Christine said nothing, but gave Dennis a quick, grateful glance, which amply repaid him for the martyrdom she had led him into that afternoon.
He acknowledged the plaudits of the others with a slight, cool bow, but her thanks with a warm flush of pleasure, and then turned to complete his arrangements as if nothing had happened. There was not the slightest show of exultation or of a purpose to demand equality, in view of what had taken place. His old manner returned, and he acted as if they were all strangers to him. They exchanged significant, wondering glances, and after a brief consultation retired to the dining-room, where coffee and sandwiches were waiting. Miss Winthrop and Christine sincerely hoped that Miss Brown would invite Dennis out, but she did not, and since it was her house, as she had said, they could not interfere. Dennis heard the clatter of knives and forks, and saw that he was again slighted; but he did not care now. Indeed, in the light of the sacred emblem before which he had stood, he had learned patience. He remembered how the rich and great of the world had treated his Master. Then, too, Christine's kind, grateful glance seemed to fall upon him like a warm ray of sunlight.
When they had finished and were about to dress for their parts, Miss Brown put her head within the door and said, "You will find some lunch in the dining-room."
Dennis paid no heed to her, but he heard Miss Winthrop say: "Really, Miss Brown, that is too bad after what he has done and shown himself to be. I wonder that he does not leave the house."
"He will not do that until he is no longer needed," said Christine.
"Then he may as soon as he chooses," said Miss Brown. She was a girl of violent prejudices, and from her very nature would instinctively dislike such a person as Dennis Fleet.
"Well," said Miss Winthrop, "he is a gentleman, and he gave the strongest proof of it when he quietly and modestly withdrew after achieving a success that would have turned any one's head, and that ought to have secured him full recognition."
"I told you he was a gentleman," said Christine, briefly, "and I consider myself a judge;" and then their voices passed out of hearing.
Dennis, having arranged everything so that he could place his hands readily upon it, found that he had half an hour to spare. He said to himself: "Miss Ludolph is wrong. I shall leave the house for a short time. I am a most unromantic individual; for, no matter what or how I feel, I do get hungry. But I am sure Miss Brown's coffee and sandwiches would choke me. I have already swallowed too much from her to care for any more, so here's for a restaurant."
Miss Winthrop hastened through her toilet in order that she might come down and speak to Dennis while he was alone. She wished to thank him for his course and his vindication of the truth, and to assure him that she both respected him and would treat him as a true gentleman. She went into the back parlor, but he was not there; then she passed to the dining-room, but found only servants clearing away and preparing for the grand supper of the evening.
In quick alarm she asked, "Where is Mr. Fleet?"
"Is it the man in the back parlor, mum? He's just after goin' out."
"Oh, girls!" exclaimed Miss Winthrop, rushing upstairs, "Mr. Fleet has gone."
And there was general consternation.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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23
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THE REVELATION
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The toilets of the young ladies were nearly completed, but, without waiting to add another touch, all hastened to the place where they had left Dennis. One of the colorless young ladies appeared upon the scene with a shawl around her bare shoulders, and a great deal of color on one cheek, and none on the other as yet; but this slight discrepancy was unnoted in the dire calamity they feared.
Many were the exclamations and lamentations.
"Why, the people will be here in fifteen minutes," said Miss Winthrop, in a nervous tremor.
"Did he leave no word?" asked Miss Brown of the servants.
"No word, mum," was the dismal echo.
"What shall we do?" they said, looking at one another with blank faces; but none could answer.
"I do hate such proud, freakish people. There is no managing or depending on them," said Miss Brown, spitefully.
Miss Winthrop bit her lips to keep from saying to her hostess what would be more true than polite. There was a flash of anger in Christine's dark blue eyes, and she said, coldly: "I imagine that you have finished the business this time, Miss Brown. But I confess that I am greatly surprised, for he said I could depend upon him for to-night."
"So you can," said Dennis, coming in behind them. "I am sorry you have had this needless alarm. But the fact is, I am a plain, ordinary mortal, and live in a very material way."
"There was plenty of lunch in the dining-room," said Miss Brown, tartly. "You need not have gone out and made all this trouble."
"Pardon me for slighting your hospitality," said Dennis, with slight emphasis on the word.
Again significant glances were exchanged. Miss Brown darted a black look at Dennis, and left the room.
"I can assure you, ladies," added he, "that all is ready. I can lay my hand in a moment on whatever is needed. Therefore you need give yourselves no further anxiety."
There was a general stampede for the dressing-rooms, but Miss Winthrop lingered. When Dennis was alone she went up to him and frankly gave her hand, saying: "Mr. Fleet, I wish to thank you for your course to-day. Between Miss Ludolph's unwitting sermon and your brave and unexpected vindication of our faith, I hope to become more deserving of the name of Christian. You are a gentleman, sir, in the truest and best sense of the word, and as such it will ever be a pleasure to welcome you at my father's house;" and she gave him her card.
A flush of grateful surprise and pleasure mantled Dennis's face, but before he could speak she was gone.
The audience were soon thronging in. By half-past eight the performers were all in the back parlor, and there was a brilliant army of actors and actresses in varied and fanciful costume, many coming to the house dressed for their parts. There were gods and goddesses, shepherds and shepherdesses, angels, crusaders, who would take leave of languishing ladies, living statuary, and tableaux of all sorts. Dennis was much shocked at the manner in which ladies exposed themselves in the name of art and for the sake of effect. Christine seemed perfectly Greek and pagan in this respect, yet there was that in her manner that forbade a wanton glance. But, as he observed the carriage of the men around him, he was more than satisfied that no plea of art could justify the "style," and felt assured that every pure-minded woman would take the same view if she realized the truth. Under the name of fashion and art much is done in society that would be simply monstrous on ordinary occasions.
The music, as far as possible, was in character with the scenes. The entertainment went forward with great applause. Every one was radiant; and the subtile, exhilarating spirit of assured success glowed in every eye, and gave a richer tone and coloring to everything.
Christine appeared in several and varied characters, and Dennis had eyes only for her. The others he glanced over critically as the artist in charge, and then dismissed them from his thoughts; but on Christine his eyes rested in a spell-bound admiration that both amused and pleased her. She loved power of every kind, and when she read approval in the trained and critical eye of Dennis Fleet she knew that all the audience were applauding.
But Dennis had little time for musing, so great was the strain upon him to prevent confusion. His voice excited great surprise and applause, many inquiring vainly who he was. When he and Christine sung together the audience were perfectly carried away, and stormed and applauded without stint. Indeed, it seemed that they could not be satisfied. The call was so urgent that several asked Christine to sing again, and she did so alone. For ten minutes she held the audience perfectly entranced, and no one more so than Dennis. Usually she was too cold in all that she did, but now in her excitement she far surpassed herself, and he acknowledged that he had never heard such music before.
The very soul of song seemed breathed into her, and every nook and corner of the house appeared to vibrate with melody. Even the servants in distant rooms said that it seemed that an angel was singing. After she ceased, the audience sat spellbound for a moment, and then followed prolonged thunders of applause, the portly brewer, Mr. Brown himself, leading off again and again.
"Now let the tenor sing alone," he said, for, though a coarse man, he was hearty and good-natured.
The audience emphatically echoed his wish, but Dennis as decidedly shook his head.
Then came a cry, "Miss Ludolph and the tenor again"; and the audience took it up with a clamor that would not be denied.
Christine looked inquiringly at Dennis, and he replied in a low tone, "You command me this evening."
Again she thanked him with her eyes, and from a music stand near chose a magnificent duet from Mendelssohn, in which he must sing several difficult solos.
"Act your pleasure. I am familiar with it," he said, smiling at the way she had circumvented him in his refusal to sing alone.
Christine sat down and played her own accompaniment, while Dennis stood at her side. He determined to do his best and prove that though he swept a store he could also do something else. Many of the strains were plaintive, and his deep and unconscious feeling for his fair companion in song gave to his voice a depth, and at times a pathos, that both thrilled and _touched_ the heart, and there were not a few wet eyes in the audience. Unconsciously to himself and all around, he was singing his love; and even Christine, though much preoccupied with her part, wondered at the effect upon herself, and recognized the deep impression made upon the audience.
As the last notes died away the sliding-doors were closed.
Dennis had achieved a greater success than Christine, because, singing from the heart, he had touched the heart. His applause could be read in moist eyes and expressive faces rather than in noisy hands. She saw and understood the result. A sad, disappointed look came into her face, and she said in a low, plaintive tone, as if it were wrung from her: "There must be something wrong about me. I fear I shall never reach true art. I can only win admiration, never touch the heart."
Dennis was about to speak eagerly, when they were overwhelmed by the rush and confusion attendant on the breaking up of the entertainment. Part of the older guests at once left for their homes, and the rest stayed for supper. The parlors were to be cleared as soon as possible for dancing. Christine was joined by her father, who had sat in the audience, scarcely believing his eyes, much less his ears. Was that the young man who was blacking old Schwartz's boots the other day?
His daughter was overwhelmed with compliments, but she took them very coolly and quietly, for her heart was full of bitterness. That which her ambitious spirit most desired she could not reach, and to the degree that she loved art was her disappointment keen. She almost envied poor Dennis, but she knew not the secret of his success; nor did he, either, in truth. His old manner returned, and he busied himself in rapidly packing up everything that he had brought. Mr. Ludolph, who had received a brief explanation from Christine, came and said, kindly, "Why, Fleet, you have blossomed out strongly to-day."
"Indeed, sir, I think I have never had a more rigorous pruning," was the reply.
When the story had been told Mr. Ludolph in full, he understood the remark. Christine was waiting for the crowd to disperse somewhat, in order to speak to Dennis also, for her sense of justice and her genuine admiration impelled her to warm and sincere acknowledgment. But at that moment Mr. Mellen came in, exclaiming, "Miss Ludolph, they are all waiting for you to lead the dance, for to you is given this honor by acclamation, and I plead your promise to be my partner"; and he carried her off, she meaning to return as soon as possible, and supposing Dennis would remain.
A moment after, light, airy music was heard in the front parlor, followed by the rhythmical cadence of light feet and the rustle of silks like a breeze through a forest.
For some reason as she went away Dennis's heart sank within him. Reaction followed the strong excitements of the day, and a strange sense of weariness and despondency crept over him. The gay music in the other room seemed plaintive and far away, and the tripping feet sounded like the patter of rain on autumn leaves. The very lights appeared to burn dimmer, and the color to fade out of his life. Mechanically he packed up the few remaining articles, to be called for in the morning, and then leaned heavily against a pillar, intending to rest a moment before going out into the night alone.
Some one pushed back the sliding-door a little and passed into the room. Through the opening he caught a glimpse of the gay scene within. Suddenly Christine appeared floating lightly through the waltz in her gauzy drapery, as if in a white, misty cloud. Through the narrow opening she seemed a radiant, living portrait. But her partner whirled her out of the line of vision. Thus in the mazes of the dance she kept appearing and disappearing, flashing in sight one moment, leaving a blank in the crowded room the next.
"So it will ever be, I suppose," he said to himself, bitterly; "chance and stolen glimpses my only privilege."
Again she appeared, smiling archly on the man whose arm clasped her waist.
A frown black as night gathered on Dennis's brow; then a sudden pallor overspread his face to his very lips. The revelation had come! Then for the first time he knew--knew it as if written in letters of fire before him--that he loved Christine Ludolph.
At first the knowledge stunned and bewildered him, and his mind was a confused blur; then as she appeared again, smiling upon and in the embrace of another man, a sharp sword seemed to pierce his heart.
Dennis was no faint shadow of a man who had frittered away in numberless flirtations what little heart he originally had. He belonged to the male species, with something of the pristine vigor of the first man, who said of the one woman of all the world, "This is now bone of my bones, and flesh of my flesh"; and one whom he had first seen but a few short months since now seemed to belong to him by the highest and divinest right. But could he ever claim his own?
In his morbid, wearied state, there seemed a "great gulf fixed" between them. For a moment he fairly felt faint and sick, as if he had received a wound. He was startled by hearing Miss Winthrop say at his side: "Mr. Fleet, you will not leave yet. I have many friends wishing an introduction to you. What is the matter? You look as if you were ill."
At her voice he flushed painfully. He was so vividly conscious of his love himself that he felt that every one else must be able to see it, and darkness and solitude now seemed a refuge. Recovering himself by a great effort he said, "Pardon me, I do--I am not well--nothing is the matter--a little rest and I shall be myself again."
"No wonder. You have been taxed every way beyond mortal endurance, and I think that it is a shame the way you have been treated. Pray do not judge Chicago society altogether by what you have seen here. Let me get you some refreshment, and then I will acquaint you with some people who can recognize a gentleman when they meet him."
"No, Miss Winthrop," said Dennis, courteously but firmly; "you are not in your own home, and by staying I should not be accepting your hospitality. I appreciate your kindness deeply, and thank your friends who have expressed a willingness to make my acquaintance. It would not be right to stay longer in this house than is necessary. I do not feel resentful. I have no room in my memory for Miss Brown and her actions, but at the same time self-respect requires that I go at once;" and he took his hat.
"I am not surprised that you feel as you do. But give me the pleasure of welcoming you at my own home as soon as possible," she said, and gave her hand to him in parting.
Dennis took it respectfully and bowed low, saying, "I shall not willingly deny myself so great a pleasure." and was gone.
Christine came in a few moments later, and found only servants clearing the room for dancing.
"Where is Mr. Fleet?" she asked.
"Gone, mum."
"Yes," said Miss Winthrop, coming in at the same time; "he has gone now in very truth; and I don't think the power exists that could lead him to darken these doors again. I doubt if I ever come myself. I never saw a clearer instance of--of--well--_shoddy_."
"It seems to me that you Christians are as proud as any of us."
"Isn't there a difference between pride and self-respect? I am satisfied that if Miss Brown were in trouble, or poor, Mr. Fleet would be the first to help her. Oh, Christine, we have treated him shamefully!"
"You seem to take a wonderful interest in this unknown knight in rusty armor." (Dennis's dress was decidedly threadbare.)
"I do," said the impulsive girl, frankly, "because he is wonderfully interesting. What man of all the large audience present to-night could have acted the part he did? I am satisfied that that man is by birth and education a gentleman. Are you ready, with your aristocratic notions, to recognize chiefly Miss Brown's title to position? What could her coat-of-arms be but the dollar symbol and the beer-barrel?"
"Come, remember she is our hostess."
"You are right; I should not speak so here; but my indignation gets the better of me."
"Would you invite him to your house?"
"Certainly. I have asked him; and what is more, he has promised to come. Supposing that he is poor, are not many of your noblemen as poor as poverty? My parlors shall be haunted only by men of ability and character."
"You are not going to shut out this little heathen," said Christine, putting her arm about her friend.
"Never!" said Miss Winthrop, returning the embrace with double warmth. Then she added, sadly: "You are not an unbeliever from conviction and knowledge, Christine, but from training and association. While I admire and honor your father as a splendid and gifted man, I regret his and your scepticism more deeply than you can ever know."
"Well, Susie," said Christine, with a smile, "if they shut out such as you from your Paradise, I do not wish to go there."
"If, with my clear knowledge of the conditions of entrance, I _shut myself out_, I shall have no right to complain," said Miss Winthrop, sadly.
But the absence of two such belles could not long remain unnoted; and, having been discovered, they were pounced upon by half a dozen young gentlemen, clamorous for the honor of their hands in the "German."
In spite of herself, Christine was vexed and annoyed. Dennis had seemed, in his obscurity, a nice little bit of personal property, that she could use and order about as she pleased. He had been so subservient and eager to do her will, that she had never thought of him otherwise than as her "humble servant." But now her own hand had suddenly given him the role of a fine gentleman. Christine was too logical to think of continuing to order about a man who could sing Mendelssohn's music as Dennis had done.
She congratulated herself that the arrangement of the store was nearly completed, and that only one show-room was unfinished.
"I suppose he will be very dignified when we meet again," she thought to herself. "I should not be at all surprised if my impulsive little friend Susie loses her heart to him. Well, I suppose she can to any one she chooses. As for me, rich or poor, stupid or gifted, the men of this land are all alike;" and with a half-sigh she plunged resolutely into the gayeties of the evening, as if to escape from herself.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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24
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NIGHT THOUGHTS
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Dennis passed out of the heavy, massive entrance to the wealthy brewer's mansion with a sense of relief as if escaping from prison. The duskiness and solitude of the street seemed a grateful refuge, and the night wind was to his flushed face like a cool hand laid on a feverish brow. He was indeed glad to be alone, for his was one of those deep, earnest natures that cannot rush to the world in garrulous confidence when disturbed and perplexed. There are many sincere but shallow people who must tell of and talk away every passing emotion. Not of the abundance of their hearts, for abundance there is not, but of the uppermost thing in their hearts their mouths must speak, even though the subjects be of the delicate nature that would naturally be hidden. Such mental constitutions are at least healthful. Concealed trouble never preys upon them like the canker in the bud. Everything comes to the surface and is thrown off.
But at first Dennis scarcely dared to recognize the truth himself, and the thought of telling even his mother was repugnant. For half an hour he walked the streets in a sort of stupor. He was conscious only of a heavy, aching heart and a wearied, confused brain. All the time, however, he knew an event had occurred that must for good or evil affect his entire existence; but he shrank with nervous dread from grappling with the problem. As the cold air refreshed and revived him, his strong, practical mind took up the question almost without volition, and by reason of his morbid, wearied state, only the dark and discouraging side was presented. The awakening to his love was a very different thing to Dennis, and to the majority in this troubled world, from the blissful consciousness of Adam when for the first time he saw the fair being whom he might woo at his leisure, amid embowering roses, without fear or thought of a rival.
To Dennis the fact of his love, so far from promising to be the source of delightful romance and enchantment, clearly showed itself to be the hardest and most practical question of a life full of such questions. In his strong and growing excitement he spoke to himself as to a second person: "Oh, I see it all now. Poor, blind fool that I was, to think that by coveting and securing every possible moment in her presence I was only learning to love art! As I saw her to-night, so radiant and beautiful, and yet in the embrace of another man, and that man evidently an ardent admirer, what was art to me? As well might a starving man seek to satisfy himself by wandering through an old Greek temple as for me to turn to art alone. One crumb of warm, manifested love from her would be worth more than all the cold, abstract beauty in the universe. And yet what chance have I? What can I hope for more than a passing thought and a little kindly, condescending interest? Clerk and man-of-all-work in a store, poor and heavily burdened, the idea of my loving one of the most wealthy, admired, and aristocratic ladies in Chicago! It is all very well in story-books for peasants to fall in love with princesses, but in practical Chicago the fact of my attachment to Miss Ludolph would be regarded as one of the richest jokes of the season, and by Mr. Ludolph as such a proof of rusticity and folly as would at once secure my return to pastoral life."
Then hope whispered, "But you can achieve position and wealth as others have done, and then can speak your mind from the standpoint of equality."
But Dennis was in a mood to see only the hopeless side that night, and exclaimed almost aloud: "Nonsense! Can it be even imagined that she, besieged by the most gifted and rich of the city, will wait for a poor unknown admirer? Mr. Mellen, I understand, approaches her from every vantage-ground save that of a noble character; but in the fashionable world how little thought is given to this draw back!" and in his perturbation he strode rapidly and aimlessly on, finding some relief in mere physical activity.
Suddenly his hasty steps ceased, and even in the dusk of the street his face gleamed out distinctly, so great was its pallor. Like a ray of light, a passage from the Word of God revealed to him his situation in a new aspect. It seemed to him almost that some one had whispered the words in his ear, so distinctly did they present themselves--"Be ye not unequally yoked together with unbelievers."
Slowly and painfully he said to himself, as if recognizing the most hopeless barrier that had yet been dwelt upon, "Christine Ludolph is an infidel."
Not only the voice of reason, and of the practical world, but also the voice of God seemed to forbid his love; and the conviction that he must give it all up became a clear as it was painful. The poor fellow leaned his head against the shaggy bark of an elm in a shadowy square which the street-lamps could but faintly penetrate. The night wind swayed the budding branches of the great tree, and they sighed over him as if in sympathy.
The struggle within his soul was indeed bitter, for, though thus far he had spoken hopelessly, he had not been altogether hopeless; but now that conscience raised its impassable wall high as heaven, which he must not break through, his pain was so great as to almost unman him, and such tears as only men can weep fell from his eyes. In anguish he exclaimed, "That which might have been the chief blessing of life has become my greatest misfortune."
Above him the gale caused two fraying limbs to appear to moan in echo of the suffering beneath.
"This then must be the end of my prayers in her behalf--my ardent hope and purpose to lead her to the truth--she to walk through honored, sunny paths to everlasting shame and night, and I through dark and painful ways to light and peace, if in this bitter test I remain faithful. Surely there _is_ much to try one's faith. And yet it must be so as far as human foresight can judge."
Then a great pity for her swelled his heart, for he felt that her case was the saddest after all, and his tears flowed faster than ever.
Human voices now startled him--some late revellers passing homeward. The tears and emotion, of which we never think of being ashamed when alone with Nature and its Author, he dreaded to have seen by his fellows, and hastily wiping his eyes, he slunk into the deeper shadow of the tree, and they passed on. Then, an old trait asserting itself, he condemned his own weakness. Stepping from the sheltering trunk against which he was leaning, he stood strong and erect.
The winds were hushed as if expectant in the branches above.
"Dennis Fleet," he said, "you must put your foot on this folly here and now."
He bared his head and looked upward.
"O God," he said, solemnly, "if this is contrary to Thy will--Thy will be done."
He paused a moment reverently, and then turned on his heel and strode resolutely homeward.
A gust of wind crashed the branches overhead together like the clash of cymbals in victory.
The early spring dawn was tingeing the eastern horizon before the gay revel ceased and the mansion of the rich brewer was darkened. All the long night, light, airy music had caused late passers-by to pause a moment to listen, and to pity or envy the throng within, as disposition dictated. Mr. Brown was a man who prided himself on lavish and rather coarse hospitality. A table groaning under costly dishes and every variety of liquor was the crowning feature, the blissful climax of all his entertainments; and society from its highest circles furnished an abundance of anxious candidates for his suppers, who ate and criticised, drank to and disparaged, their plebeian host.
Mrs. Brown was heavy in every sense of the word, and with her huge person draped with acres of silk, and festooned with miles of point-lace, she waddled about and smiled and nodded good-naturedly at everybody and everything.
It was just the place for a fashionable revel, where the gross, repulsive features of coarse excess are veiled and masked somewhat by the glamour of outward courtesy and good-breeding.
At first Christine entered into the dance with great zest and a decided sense of relief. She was disappointed and out of sorts with herself. Again she had failed in the object of her intense ambition, and though conscious that, through the excitement of the occasion, she had sung better than ever before, yet she plainly saw in the different results of her singing and that of Dennis Fleet that there was a depth in the human heart which she could not reach. She could secure only admiration, superficial applause. The sphere of the true artist who can touch and sway the popular heart seemed beyond her ability. By voice or pencil she had never yet attained it. She had too much mind to mistake the character of the admiration she excited, and was far too ambitious to be satisfied with the mere praise bestowed on a highly accomplished girl. She aspired, determined, to be among the first, and to be a second-rate imitator in the world of art was to her the agony of a disappointed life. And yet to imitate with accuracy and skill, not with sympathy, was the only power she had as yet developed. She saw the limitations of her success more clearly than did any one else, and chafed bitterly at the invisible bounds she could not pass.
The excitement of the dance enabled her to banish thoughts that were both painful and humiliating. Moreover, to a nature so active and full of physical vigor, the swift, grace motion was a source of keen enjoyment.
But when after supper many of the ladies were silly, and the gentlemen were either stupid or excited, according to the action of the "invisible spirit of wine" upon their several constitutions--when after many glasses of champagne Mr. Mellen began to effervesce in frothy sentimentality and a style of love-making simply nauseating to one of Christine's nature--she looked around for her father in order to escape from the scenes that were becoming revolting.
Though of earth only in all the sources of her life and hopes, she was not earthy. If her spirit could not soar and sing in the sky, it also could not grovel in the mire of gross materiality. Some little time, therefore, before the company broke up, on the plea of not feeling well she lured her father away from his wine and cigars and a knot of gentlemen who were beginning to talk a little incoherently. Making their adieux amid many protestations against their early departure, they drove homeward.
"How did you enjoy yourself?" asked her father.
"Very much in the early part of the evening, not at all in the latter part. To sum up, I am disgusted with Mr. Mellen and these Browns in general, and myself in particular."
"What is the matter with Mr. Mellen? I understand that the intriguing mammas consider him the largest game in the city."
"When hunting degenerates into the chase and capture of insects, you may style him game. Between his champagne and silly love-making, he was as bad as a dose of ipecac."
Christine spoke freely to her father of her admirers, usually making them the themes of satire and jest.
"And what is the trouble with our entertainers?"
"I am sorry to speak so of any one whose hospitality I have accepted, but unless it is your wish I hope never to accept it again. They all smell of their beer. Everything is so coarse, lavish, and ostentatious. They tell you as through a brazen trumpet on every side, 'We are rich.'" "They give magnificent suppers," said Mr. Ludolph, in apology.
"More correctly, the French cook they employ gives them. I do not object to the nicest of suppers, but prefer that the Browns be not on the _carte de menu_. From the moment our artistic programme ended, and the entertainment fell into their hands, it began to degenerate into an orgy. Nothing but the instinctive restraints of good-breeding prevents such occasions from ending in a drunken revel."
"You are severe. Mr. Brown's social effort is not a bad type of the entertainments that prevail in fashionable life."
"Well, it may be true, but they never seemed to me so lacking in good taste and refinement before. Wait till we dispense choice viands and wines to choicer spirits in our own land, and I will guarantee a marvellously wide difference. Then the eye, the ear, the mind, shall be feasted, as well as the lower sense."
"Well, I do not see why you should be disgusted with yourself. I am sure that you covered yourself with glory, and were the belle of the occasion."
"That is no great honor, considering the occasion. Father, strange as it may seem to you, I envied your man-of-all-work to-night. Did you not mark the effect of his singing?"
"Yes, and felt it in a way that I cannot explain to myself. His tones seemed to thrill, and stir my very heart. I have not been so affected by music for years. At first I thought it was surprise at hearing him sing at all, but I soon found that it was something in the music itself."
"And that something I fear I can never grasp--never attain."
"Why, my dear, they applauded you to the echo."
"I would rather see one moist eye as the tribute to my singing than to be deafened by noisy applause. I fear I shall never reach high art. Men's hearts sleep when I do my best."
"I think you are slightly mistaken there, judging from your train of admirers," said Mr. Ludolph, turning off a disagreeable subject with a jest. The shrewd man of the world guessed the secret of her failure. She herself must feel, before she could touch feeling. But he had systematically sought to chill and benumb her nature, meaning it to awake at just the time, and under just the circumstances, that should accord with his controlling ambition. Then reverting to Dennis, he continued: "It won't answer for Fleet to sweep the store any longer after the part he played to-night. Indeed, I doubt if he would be willing to. Not only he, but the world will know that he is capable of better things. What has occurred will awaken inquiry, and may soon secure him good business offers. I do not intend to part readily with so capable a young fellow. He does well whatever is required, and therefore I shall promote him as fast as is prudent. I think I can make him of great use to me."
"That is another thing that provokes me," said Christine. "Only yesterday morning he seemed such a useful, humble creature, and last evening through my own folly he developed into a fine gentleman; and I shall have to say, 'By your leave, sir'; 'Will you please do this'? --If I dare ask anything at all."
"I am not so sure of that," said her father. "My impression is that Fleet has too much good sense to put on airs in the store. But I will give him more congenial work; and as one of the young gentleman clerks, we can ask him up now and then to sing with us. I should much enjoy trying some of our German music with him."
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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25
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DARKNESS
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The next morning Christine did not appear at the late breakfast at which her father with contracted brow and capricious appetite sat alone. Among the other unexpected results of the preceding day she had taken a very severe cold, and this, with the reaction from fatigue and excitement, caused her to feel so seriously ill that she found it impossible to rise. Her father looked at her, and was alarmed; for her cheeks were flushed with fever, her head was aching sadly, and she appeared as if threatened with one of those dangerous diseases whose earlier symptoms are so obscure and yet so much alike. She tried to smile, but her lip quivered, and she turned her face to the wall.
The philosophy of Mr. Ludolph and his daughter was evidently adapted to fair weather and smooth sailing. Sickness, disease, and the possible results, were things that both dreaded more than they ever confessed to each other. It was most natural that they should, for only in health or life could they enjoy or hope for anything. By their own belief their horizon was narrowed down to time and earth, and they could look for nothing beyond. In Mr. Ludolph's imperious, resolute nature, sickness always awakened anger as well as anxiety. It seemed like an enemy threatening his dearest hopes and most cherished ambition, therefore the heavy frown upon his brow as he pushed away the scarcely tasted breakfast.
To Christine the thought of death was simply horrible, and with the whole strength of her will she ever sought to banish it. To her it meant corruption, dust, nothingness. With a few drawbacks she had enjoyed life abundantly, and she clung to it with the tenacity of one who believed it was all. With the exception of some slight passing indisposition, both she and her father had been seldom ill; and for a number of years now they had voyaged on over smooth, sunny seas of prosperity.
Christine's sudden prostration on the morning following the entertainment was a painful surprise to both.
"I will have Dr. Arten call at once," he said, at parting, "and will come up from the store early in the day to see you;" and Christine was left alone with her French maid.
Her mind was too clouded and disturbed by fever to think coherently, and yet a vague sense of danger--trouble--oppressed her, and while she lay in a half-unconscious state between sleeping and waking, a thousand fantastic visions presented themselves. But in them all the fiery Cross and Dennis Fleet took some part. At times the Cross seemed to blaze and threaten to burn her to a cinder, while he stood by with stern, accusing face. The light from the Cross made him luminous also, and the glare was so terrible that she would start up with a cry of fear. Again, they would both recede till in the far distance they shone like a faint star, and then the black darkness that gathered round her was more dreadful than the light, and with her eyes closed she would reach out her hot hands for the light to return. Once or twice it shone upon her with soft, mellow light, and Dennis stood pointing to it, pleading so earnestly and tenderly that tears gathered in her eyes. Then all was again blurred and distorted.
Within an hour after her father left, she found Dr. Arten feeling her pulse and examining her symptoms. With a great effort she roused herself, and, looking at the doctor with an eager inquiring face, said; "Doctor, tell me the truth. What is the matter?"
He tried to smile and evade her question, but she would not let him.
"Well, really, Miss Ludolph," he said, "we can hardly tell yet what is the matter. You have evidently caught a very severe cold, and I hope that is all. When I come this evening I may be able to speak more definitely. In the meantime I will give you something to soothe and reduce your fever!"
The French maid followed the doctor out, leaving the door ajar in her haste, and in an audible whisper said: "I say, docteur, is it not ze smallpox? Zere is so much around. Tell me true, for I must leave zis very minute."
"Hush, you fool!" said the doctor, and they passed out of hearing. A sickening dread made Christine's heart almost stand still. When the woman returned her mistress watched her most narrowly and asked, "What did the doctor say to you?"
The maid replied in French that he had said she must be still and not talk.
"But you asked him if I had the smallpox. What did he say?"
"Ah, mademoiselle, you make one grand meestake. I ask for a small box to keep your medicine in, zat it make no smell."
From the woman's lie, and from the fact that she was redolent with camphor, and that she kept as far away as possible, near the windows, Christine gathered a most painful confirmation of her fears. For a time she lay almost paralyzed by dread.
Then as the medicine relieved her of fever and unclouded her mind, thought and conscience awoke with terrible and resistless power. As never before she realized what cold, dark depths were just beneath her gay, pleasure-loving life, and how suddenly skies radiant with the richer promise of the future could become black and threatening. Never had earthly life seemed so attractive, never had her own prospects seemed so brilliant, and her hopes of fame, wealth, and happiness in her future German villa more dazzling, than now when they stood out against the dark background of her fears.
"If, instead of going forward to all this delight, I become an object of terror and loathing even before I die, and something that must be hidden out of sight as soon as possible after, what conceivable fate could be worse? That such a thing is possible proves this to be a dreadful and defective world, with all its sources of pleasure. Surely if there were a God he would banish such horrible evils.
"There is no God--there can't be any--at least none such as the Bible reveals. How often I have said this to myself! how often my father has said it to me! and yet the thought of Him torments me often even when well.
"Why does this thought come so persistently now? I settled it long ago, under father's proof, that I did not believe in Him or the superstitions connected with His name. Why doesn't the question stay settled? Other superstitions do not trouble me. Why should that Cross continually haunt me? Why should the _man_ who died thereon have the power to be continually speaking to me through His words that I have read? I believe in Socrates as much as I do in Him, and yet I recall the Greek sage's words with an effort, and cannot escape from the Nazarene's. All is mystery and chaos and danger. We human creatures are like frothy bubbles that glisten and dance for a moment on a swift black tide that seems flowing forever, and yet nowhere."
Then her thoughts recurred to Dennis.
"That young Fleet seemed to believe implicitly in what he said yesterday, and he lives up to what he believes. I would give the world for his delusion, were it only for its comforting and sustaining power for this life. If he were very ill, he would be imagining himself on the threshold of some sort of heaven or paradise, and would be calm and perhaps even happy, while I am so supremely wretched I find that I have nothing--absolutely nothing to sustain me--not even the memory of good deeds. I have not even lived the unselfish life that Socrates recommends, much less the holy life of the Bible. I have pleased myself. Well, believing as I have been taught, that seemed the most sensible course. Why doesn't it seem so now?"
Thus tossed on a sea of uncertainty and fear, Christine, in darkness and weakness, grappled with those mighty questions which only He can put to rest who said, "Let not your heart be troubled: ye believe in God, believe also in Me."
Dennis walked resolutely home. He felt himself adamant in his stern resolution. He at least had the deathlike peace that follows decision. The agony of conflict was over for a time, and, as he thought, forever.
From mere exhaustion he slept heavily, and on the following day with white face and compressed lips entered on his work. And work it now became indeed; for the old glamour was all gone, and life looked as practical and hard as the stones of the street. Even the pictures on the walls seemed to him but things for sale, representing money values; and money appeared the beginning, middle, and ending of the world's creed. Like the unsubstantial mirage had vanished the beautiful, happy life of the past few weeks. Around him were the rocks and sands of the desert, through which he must toil with weary, bleeding feet till he reached the land watered by the river of life. Reason and duty, as he believed, forbade the existence of this foolish passion, and he must and would destroy it; but in his anguish he felt as if he had resolved to torture himself to death.
"And she will never know what I suffer--never know the wealth of heart I have lavished upon her. I am glad she will not, for the knowledge of my love would make no more impression on her cold, proud nature than a drop of warm summer rain falling on the brow of yonder marble statue of Diana. She would only be amazed at my presumption. She feels that she shines down on me like the sun, and that I am a poor little satellite that she could blot out altogether by causing her father to turn me into the street again, which undoubtedly would be done should I reveal my feelings."
And he was right.
"Come!" said he to himself, breaking from his painful revery, "no weakness! You have your way to make in the world, and your work to do. God will help you, and no creature shall hinder you;" and he plunged resolutely into his duties.
Mr. Ludolph was late in reaching the store that morning, and Dennis found himself secretly hoping, in spite of himself, that Christine would accompany him. His will and heart were now in distinct opposition, and the latter would not obey orders.
When Mr. Ludolph appeared, it was with a frowning, clouded brow. Without a word he passed into his private office, but seemed so restless and troubled in his manner that Dennis felt something was wrong. Why should he take such an interest in this man? Why should he care? The other clerks did not: not one save himself had noticed anything different. Poor Dennis was to learn that he had a disease of many and varied symptoms.
After something over an hour had passed, Mr. Ludolph started from his desk, took his hat and cane as with the purpose of going out--a very unusual thing at that time. But, as he was passing down the store, he met Dr. Arten opposite Dennis's counter.
"Well?" said Mr. Ludolph, impatiently.
"I will call again this evening," said the doctor, prudently non-committal. "Your daughter has caught a very severe cold. I hope it is nothing more than a cold, but so many troublesome diseases commence with these obscure symptoms that we have to wait till further developments reveal the true nature of the case."
"You doctors make no headway in banishing disease from the world," snarled Mr. Ludolph. "There is smallpox around, is there not?"
"Yes, I am sorry to say there is a great deal of it, but if you remember the history of that one disease, I think you will admit your remark to be unfair."
"I beg your pardon, doctor, but I am anxious, and all out of sorts, as I ever am in sickness" (when affecting himself--he might justly have added). "It seems such a senseless, useless evil in the world. The idea of you Christians believing a benevolent Being rules the world, and that He permits smallpox. Can it be possible that my daughter has contracted this loathsome horror?" "Well, it is possible, but I hope not at all probable. We doctors are compelled to look at the practical rather than the theological side of the question. It is possible for any one to have this disease. Has your daughter been vaccinated?"
"No!" growled Mr. Ludolph. "I don't believe in vaccination. It is as apt to vitiate the system as to protect it."
"I am sorry for that," said the doctor, looking grave.
Keen Mr. Ludolph saw and read his physician's expression accurately. Seizing his hand he said, eagerly: "Pardon me, doctor; you can understand a father's feelings. Watch this case night and day. Spare no pains, and be assured I will regret no expense"; and he hastened away to his daughter's bedside.
No prisoner at the bar ever listened with more interest than Dennis. If it had been his own case they were discussing it would not have touched him half so nearly.
But a moment before, Christine in her pride, wealth, and beauty seemed destined to go through life as in a triumphant march. Now he saw her to be a weak human creature, threatened as sorely as the poorest and humblest. Her glorious beauty, even her life, might pass away in Le Grand Hotel as surely as in a tenement house. The very thought thrilled him with fear. Then a great pity rushed into his soul like a tide, sweeping everything before it. His stern resolution to stifle and trample upon his love melted like a snow-wreath, and every interest of life centred in the darkened room where Christine tossed and moaned in the deeper darkness of uncertainty and doubt. The longing to go to her with comfort and help was so intense that it required the utmost effort of reason and will to prevent such rash action. He trembled at himself--at the strength of his feelings--and saw that though he might control outward action his heart had gone from him beyond remedy, and that his love, so long unrecognized, was now like the principal source of the Jordan, that springs from the earth a full-grown river, and that he could not help it.
Mr. Ludolph found little comfort at his daughter's bedside. Sending her maid away, who was glad to go, Christine told what she had overheard. Smallpox seemed in the mind of every one, but this was not strange since it was so prevalent in the city.
"Oh, father, what shall I do--what shall I do, if this should be the case? Janette will leave me, and there will be no one to take care of me. I know I shall die, and I might as well as to be made hideous by this horrible disease. No, I would rather live, on any terms; for to die is to be nothing. Oh, father, are you sure the Bible is all false? There is so much in it to comfort the sick. If I could only believe in such a life hereafter as Susie Winthrop does, I would as soon die as not."
"No," said Mr. Ludolph, firmly, "your only chance is to get well. There is no use in deceiving ourselves. I have secured the services of the most skilful of physicians, and will see that you have every attention. So try to be as calm as possible, and co-operate with every effort to baffle and banish disease. After all it may be nothing more than a severe cold."
So then in very truth this world was all. In bitterness and dread she realized how slight was her hold upon it. To her healthful body pain was a rare experience, but now her head and every bone ached, and the slightest movement caused increased suffering. But her mental trouble was by far the greatest. Often she murmured to herself, "Oh, that I had been trained to the grossest superstitions, so that I might not look down into this black bottomless gulf that unbelief opens at my feet!" and she tossed and moaned most piteously.
Mr. Ludolph returned to the store in an exceedingly worried and anxious state. As he entered he caught Dennis's eager, questioning gaze, and a thought struck him: "Perhaps this young fellow, through his mission school, may know of some good, trustworthy woman who would act as nurse"; and coming to Dennis he explained the situation, and then asked if he knew of any one, or could find a suitable person.
Dennis listened eagerly, thought a moment, and then said, with a flushed face and in a low tone: "I think my mother would be willing to come. She has had the smallpox and would not be afraid."
"But would she be willing?"
"I think I could persuade her," said Dennis.
Mr. Ludolph thought a moment, then said: "I think she would be the one of all others, for she must be very much of a lady, and I would not like to put my daughter in charge of a common, coarse woman. You may rest assured that I would reward her liberally."
"She would not come for money, sir."
"What then?"
Dennis flushed how more deeply than before. He had been speaking for his mother from his own point of view, and now he hardly knew what to say, for he was not good at evasion. But he told the truth, if not all the truth. "We feel very grateful to you for the means of support, and a chance in life when the world was very dark. You have since promoted me--" "Nonsense!" said Mr. Ludolph, somewhat touched, though; "you have earned every dollar you have received, and your coming has been of advantage to me also. But if your mother will meet this need, should it occur, neither of you will have cause to regret it"; and he passed on to his office, but soon after went away again and did not return that day.
To Dennis the hours dragged on like years, full of suspense and mental tumult. At times he would bow his head behind his counter, and pray in tearful fervor for the object of his constant thought. The day was rainy, and the store empty of customers, for which he was most thankful, as he would have made the poorest of salesmen. At last the hour for closing arrived, and he was left to himself. In the solitude of his own room he once more looked the situation fairly in the face. With his head bowed in his hands he reflected: "Last night I _thought_ to tear this love from my heart, but to-night I find that this would be to tear out my heart itself. I cannot do it. It is my strongest conviction that I can no more stop loving her than I can stop living. Unconsciously this love has grown until now it is my master, and it is folly to make any more resolves, only to be as weak as water when I least expect it. What shall I do?"
Motionless, unconscious of the lapse of time, he remained hour after hour absorbed in painful thought. Circumstances, reason, the Bible, all seemed to frown upon his love; but, though it appeared to be hopeless, his whole nature revolted against the idea of its being wrong.
"It cannot be wrong to love, purely and unselfishly," he muttered. "Such love as mine seems to carry its own conviction of right with it--an inner consciousness that seems so strong and certain as to be beyond argument--beyond everything; and yet if God's Word is against it I must be wrong, and my heart is misleading me."
Again in unbroken silence an hour passed away. Then the thought struck him: "It is not contrary to God's action! He so loved the world--unbelievers and all--as to give His best and dearest! Can it be wrong to be God-like?"
"It is not wise, it is not safe," prudence whispered, "to give a worldly, unbelieving spirit the power to influence you that she will have who is first in your heart. What true congeniality can there be? What fellowship hath righteousness with unrighteousness? or what part hath he that believeth with an infidel? As the most intimate friend and companion in life, you should seek one who truly can be _one_ with you in all things, and most assuredly so in this vital respect."
"Ah," thought Dennis, "that would have been very good advice to give awhile ago. If from the first I could have understood my feelings and danger, I might have steeled my heart against the influences that have brought me to this. But the mischief is done. The words that now, in spite of myself, continually run in my mind, are, 'What God hath joined together let not man put asunder.' It seems as if some resistless power had joined my soul to hers, and I find no strength within myself to break the bond. I am not usually irresolute; I think I have principle; and yet I feel that I should not dare make the most solemn vow against this love. I should be all the more weak because conscience does not condemn me. It seems to have a light that reason and knowledge know not of. And yet I wish I could be more sure. I wish I could say to myself, I may be loving hopelessly, but not sinfully. I would take the risk. Indeed I cannot help taking it. Oh, that I could find light, clear and unmistakable!"
He rose, turned up his light, and opened the Pauline precepts. These words struck his eyes, "Art thou bound unto a wife? Seek not to be loosed." Then, above, the words, "How knowest thou, O man, whether thou shalt save thy wife, even though she be an unbeliever?"
"Am I not bound--bound by that which is God's link in the chain? It does not seem as if the legal contract could change or strengthen my feelings materially, and while honoring the inviolable rite of marriage, which is God's law and society's safety, I know that nothing can more surely bind me to her, so that the spirit, the vital part of the passage, applies to me. Then if through this love I could save her--if by prayer and effort I could bring her feet into the paths of life--I should feel repaid for all that I could possibly suffer. She may slight my human love with its human consummation, but God will not let a life of prayer and true love be wasted, and she may learn here, or know hereafter, that though the world laid many rich gifts at her feet I brought the best of all."
He looked out, and saw that the early spring dawn was tingeing the horizon.
"A good omen," he said aloud. "Perhaps the night of this trouble is past, and the dawn is coming. I am convinced that it is not wrong; and I am resolved to make the almost desperate attempt. A mysterious hope, coming from I know not where or what, seems to beckon and encourage me forward."
Dennis was young.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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26
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MISS LUDOLPH COMMITS A THEFT
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Mr. Ludolph on his return found Christine suffering from a nervous horror of the smallpox. From the indiscreet and callous maid, intent on her own safety, and preparing to palliate the cowardice of her flight should her fears prove true, Christine learned that the city was full of this loathsome disease, and her feelings were harrowed by exaggerated instances of its virulent and contagious character.
"But you will surely stay with me," pleaded Christine.
"Mademoiselle could not expect zat."
"Heartless!" muttered Christine. Then she said: "Won't you go for Susie Winthrop? Oh, how I would like to see her now!"
"She vould not come; no von vould come who knew."
Christine wrung her hands and cried, "Oh, I shall die alone and deserted of all!"
"No, you shall not," said her father, entering at that moment; "so do not give way, my dear. --Leave the room, stupid!" (to the maid, who again gladly escaped, resolving not to re-enter till the case was decided). "I have secured the best of physicians, and the best of nurses, and by to-night or to-morrow morning we shall know about what to expect. I cannot help hoping still that it is only a severe cold." And he told her of Dennis's offer of his mother's services.
"I am sure I should like her, for somehow I picture to myself a kind, motherly person. What useful creatures those Fleets are! They are on hand in emergencies when one so needs help. It seemed very nice to have young Fleet my humble servant; but really, father, he deserves promotion."
"He shall have it, and I doubt not will be just as ready to do your bidding as ever. It is only commonplace people whose heads are turned by a little prosperity. Fleet knew he was a gentleman before he came to the store."
"Father, if I should have the smallpox and live, would my beaut--would I become a fright?"
"Not necessarily. Let us hope for the best. Make the most of the world, and never endure evils till they come, are my maxims. Half of suffering is anticipation of possible or probable evil."
"Father," said Christine, abruptly, "I believe you are right, you _must_ be right, and have given me the best comfort and hope that truthfully can be given. But this is a strange, cruel world. We seem the sport of circumstances, the victims of hard, remorseless laws. One bad person can frightfully injure another person" (a spasm distorted her father's face). "What accidents may occur! Worst of all are those horrible, subtle, contagious diseases which, none can see or guard against! Then to suffer, die, corrupt--faugh! To what a disgusting end, to what a lame and impotent conclusion, does the noble creature, man, come! My whole nature revolts at it. For instance, here am I a young girl, capable of the highest enjoyment, with everything to live for, and lured forward by the highest hopes and expectations; and yet, in spite of all the safeguards you can place around me, my path is in the midst of dangers, and now perhaps I am to be rendered hideous, if not killed outright, by a disease the very thought of which fills me with loathing. What I fear _has_ happened, and may happen again. And what compensation is there for it all? --what can enable one to bear it all? Oh, that I could believe in a God and a future happier life!"
"And what kind of a God would He be who, having the power to prevent, permits, or orders, as the Bible teaches, all these evils? I am a man of the world, and pretend to nothing saint-like or chivalric, but do you think I am capable of going to Mr. Winthrop and striking down his daughter Susie with a loathsome disease? And yet if a minister or priest should come here he would begin to talk about the mysterious providence, and submission to God's will. If I am to have a God, I want one at least better than myself."
"You _must_ be right," said Christine, with a weary moan. "There is no God, and if there were, in view of what you say, I could only hate and fear Him. How chaotic the world is! But it is hard." After a moment she added, shudderingly: "_It is horrible_. I did not think of these things when well."
"Get well and forget them again, my dear. It is the best you can do."
"If I get well," said Christine, almost fiercely, "I shall get the most I can out of life, cost what it may;" and she turned her face to the wall.
A logical result of his teaching, but for some reason it awakened in Mr. Ludolph a vague foreboding.
The hours dragged on, and late in the afternoon the hard-driven physician appeared, examined his patient, and seemed relieved.
"If there is no change for the worse," he said, cheerily, "if no new symptoms develop by to-morrow, I can pronounce this merely a severe cold, caused by the state of the system and too sudden check of perspiration;" and the doctor gave and opiate and bowed himself out.
Long and heavily Christine slept. The night that Dennis filled with agonizing prayer and thought was to her a blank. While he in his strong Christian love brought heaven nearer to her, while he resolved on that which would give her a chance for life, happy life, here and hereafter, she was utterly unconscious. No vision or presentiment of good, like a struggling ray of light, found access to her darkened spirit. So heavy was the stupor induced by the opiate, that her sleep seemed like the blank she so feared, when her brilliant, ambitious life should end in nothingness.
So I suppose God's love meditates good, and resolves on life and joy for us, while our hearts are sleeping, dead to Him, benumbed and paralyzed so that only His love can awaken them. Like a vague yet hope-inspiring dream, this truth often enters the minds of those who are wrapped in the spiritual lethargy that may end in death. God wakes, watches, loves, and purposes good for them. When we are most unconscious, perhaps another effect for our salvation has been resolved upon in the councils of heaven.
But ambition more than love, earthly hopes rather than heavenly, kept Mr. Ludolph an anxious watcher at Christine's side that night. A smile of satisfaction illumined his somewhat haggard face as he saw the fever pass away and the dew of natural moisture come out on Christine's brow, but there was no thankful glance upward. Immunity from loathsome disease was due only to chance and the physician's skill, by his creed.
The sun was shining brightly when Christine awoke and by a faint call startled her father from a doze in the great armchair.
"How do you feel, my dear?" he asked.
She languidly rubbed her heavy eyes, and said she thought she was better--she felt no pain. The opiate had not yet lost its effect. But soon she greatly revived, and when the doctor came he found her decidedly better, and concluded that she was merely suffering from a severe cold, and would soon regain her usual health.
Father and daughter were greatly relieved, and their spirits rose.
"I really feel as if I ought to thank somebody," said Christine. "I am not going to thank the doctor, for I know what a bill is coming, so I will thank you. It was very kind of you to sit up the long night with me."
Even Mr. Ludolph had to remember that he had in his anxiety thought as much of himself as of her.
"Another lease of life," said Christine, dreamily looking into the future; "and, as I said last night, I mean to make the most of it."
"I can best guide you in doing that," said her father, looking into his daughter's face with keen scrutiny.
"I believe you, and intend to give you the chance. When can we leave this detested land, this city of shops and speculators? To think that I, Christine Ludolph, am sick, idle, and perhaps have endangered all by reason of foolish exposure in a brewer's tawdry, money-splashed house! Come, father when is the next scene in the brief drama to open? I am impatient to go _home_ to our beloved Germany and enter on real life."
"Well, my dear, if all goes well, we can enter on our true career a year from next fall--a short year and a half. Do not blame the delay, for it will enable us to live in Germany in almost royal style. I never was making money so rapidly as now. I have invested in that which cannot depreciate, and thus far has advanced beyond belief--buildings in the business part of the city. Rents are paying me from twenty to a hundred per cent. At the same time I could sell out in a month. So you see you have only to co-operate with me--to preserve health and strength--to enjoy all that money can insure; and money can buy almost everything."
Christine's eyes sparkled as the future opened before her, and she said, with emphasis, "If _I_ could preserve health and strength, I would live a thousand years."
"You can do much toward it. Every chance is in favor of prudence and wise action;" and, much relieved, her father went to the store.
Business had accumulated, and in complete absorption he gave himself to it. With an anxiety beyond expression, Dennis, flushed and trembling, ventured to approach. Merely glancing to see who it was, Mr. Ludolph, with his head bent over his writing, said, "Miss Ludolph is better--no fear of smallpox, I think--you need not write to your mother--greatly obliged."
It was well for Dennis that his employer did not look up. The open face of Mr. Ludolph's clerk expressed more than friendly interest in his daughter's health. The young man went to his tasks with a mountain of fear lifted from his heart.
But the thought of the beloved one lying alone and sick at the hotel seemed very pathetic to him. Love filled his heart with more sympathy for Christine upon her luxurious couch, in rapid convalescence, than for all the hopeless suffering of Chicago. What could he do for her? She seemed so far off, so high and distant, that he could not reach her. If he ventured to send anything, prudence whispered that she would regard it as an impertinence. But love can climb every steep place, and prudence is not its grand-vizier.
Going by a fruit-store in the afternoon he saw some fine strawberries, the first in from the South. He bought a basket, decorated it with German ivy obtained at a flower-stand, and spirited it upstairs to his room as if it were the most dangerous of contraband. In a disguised hand he wrote on a card, "For Miss Ludolph." Calling Ernst, who had little to do at that hour of the day, he said: "Ernst, my boy, take this parcel to Le Grand Hotel, and say it is for Miss Christine Ludolph. Tell them to send it right up, but on no account--remember, on no account--tell any one who sent it. Carry it carefully in just this manner."
Ernst was soon at his destination, eager to do anything for his friend.
After all, the day had proved a long one for Christine. Unaccustomed to the restraints of sickness, she found the enforced inaction very wearisome. Mind and body both seemed weak. The sources of chief enjoyment when well seemed powerless to contribute much now. In silken robe she reclined in an arm-chair, or languidly sauntered about the room. She took up a book only to throw it down again. Her pencil fared no better. Ennui gave to her fair young face the expression of one who had tried the world for a century and found it wanting. She was leaning her elbow on the window-sill, gazing vacantly into the street, when Ernst appeared.
"Janette," she said, suddenly, "do you see that boy? He is employed at the store. Go bring him up here; I want him;" and with more animation than she had shown that day she got out materials for a sketch.
"I must get that boy's face," she said, "before good living destroys all his artistic merit."
Ernst was unwilling to come, but the maid almost dragged him up.
"What have you got there?" asked Miss Ludolph, with a reassuring smile.
"Something for Miss Ludolph," stammered the boy, looking very much embarrassed.
Christine carefully opened the parcel and then exclaimed with delight: "Strawberries, as I live! the very ambrosia of the gods. Papa sent them, did he not?"
"No," said the boy, hanging his head.
"Who did, then?" said Christine, looking at him keenly.
He shuffled uneasily, but made no answer.
"Come, I insist on knowing," she cried, her wilful spirit and curiosity both aroused.
The boy was pale and frightened, and she was mentally taking notes of his face. But he said, doggedly, "I can't tell."
"But I say you must. Don't you know that I am Miss Ludolph?"
"I don't care what you do to me," said the little fellow, beginning to cry, "I won't tell."
"Why won't you tell, my boy?" said Christine, cunningly, in a wheedling tone of voice.
Before he knew it, the frightened, bewildered boy fell into the trap, and he sobbed, "Because Mr. Fleet told me not to, and I wouldn't disobey him to save my life."
A look of surprise, and then a broad smile, stole over the young girl's face--at the gift, the messenger, and at him who sent it. It was indeed a fresh and unexpected little episode, breaking the monotony of the day--as fresh and pleasing to her as one of the luscious berries so grateful to her parched mouth.
"You need not tell me," she said, soothingly, "if Mr. Fleet told you not to."
The boy saw the smile, and in a moment realized that he had been tricked out of the forbidden knowledge.
His little face glowed with honest indignation, and looking straight at Miss Ludolph, with his great eyes flashing through the tears, he said, "You stole that from me."
Even she colored a little and bit her lip under the merited charge. But all this made him all the more interesting as an art study, and she was now sketching away rapidly. She coolly replied, however, "You don't know the world very well yet, my little man."
The boy said nothing, but stood regarding her with his unnaturally large eyes filled with anger, reproach, and wonder.
"Oh," thought Christine, "if I could only paint that expression!"
"You seem a great friend of Mr. Fleet," she said, studying and sketching him as if he had been an inanimate object.
The boy made no answer.
"Perhaps you do not know that I am a friend--friendly," she added, correcting herself, "to Mr. Fleet also."
"Mr. Fleet never likes to have his friends do wrong," said the boy, doubtingly.
Again she colored a little, for Ernst's pure and reproachful face made her feel that she had done a mean thing, but she laughed said: "You see I am not in his mission class, and have never had the instruction that you have. But, after all, why do you think Mr. Fleet better than other people?"
"By what he does."
"That is a fair test; what has he done?"
"He saved us all from starving, and worse than starving."
Then with feminine tact she drew from him his story, and it was told with deep feeling and the natural pathos of childhood, and his gratitude caused him to dwell with a simple eloquence on the part Dennis had taken, while his rich and loved German accent made it all the more interesting to Christine. She dropped her pencil, and, when he finished, her eyes, that were seldom moistened by the dew of sympathy, were wet.
"Good-by, my child," she said, in a voice so kind and sweet that it seemed as if another person had spoken. "You shall come again, and then I shall finish my sketch. When I get well I shall go to see your father's picture. Do not be afraid; neither you nor Mr. Fleet will fare the worse for the strawberries, and you may tell him that they have done me much good."
When Dennis, wondering at Ernst's long absence, heard from him his story, his mind was in a strange tumult, and yet the result of his effort seemed favorable. But he learned more fully than ever that Christine was not perfect, and that her faultless beauty and taste were but the fair mask of a deformed spirit. But he dwelt in hope on the feeling she had shown at Ernst's story.
"She seemed to have two hearts," said the boy--"a good, kind one way inside the cold, hard outside one."
"That is about the truth," thought Dennis. "Good-night, Ernst. I don't blame you, my boy, for you did the best you could."
He had done better than Dennis knew.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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27
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A MISERABLE TRIUMPH
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After Ernst's departure Christine reclined wearily in her chair, quite exhausted by even the slight effort she had made, but her thoughts were busy.
"What a unique character that Dennis Fleet is! And yet, in view of what he believes and professes, he is both natural and consistent. He seems humble only in station, and that is not his fault. Everything he does seems marked by unusual good taste and intelligence. His earlier position and treatment in the store must have been very galling. I can hardly believe that the gentleman I sang Mendelssohn's music with the other evening was the same that I laughed at as he blacked old Schwartz's boots. And yet he saw me laugh, and blacked the boots, conscious that he was a gentleman. It must have been very hard. And yet I would rather do such work myself than live on charity, and so undoubtedly he felt. It is very fortunate that we nearly finished the rearrangement of the pictures before all this occurred, for I could not order him about now as I have done. The fact is, I like servants, not dignified helpers; and knowing what I do, even if he would permit it, I could not speak to him as formerly. But he did show wonderful taste and skill in his help. See now that little ivy-twined basket of luscious fruit: it looks just like him. If he were only rich and titled, what a genuine nobleman he would make! He is among the few men who do not weary or disgust me; so many are coarse and commonplace. I cannot understand it, but I, who fear and care for no one except my father, almost feared him when under Miss Brown's insolence he looked as few men can. What a jumble the world is! He sweeps the store, while insignificant atoms of men are conspicuous in their littleness by reason of high position.
"It was very kind of him to send me this tasteful gift after the miserable experience I caused him the other day. I suppose he does it on the principle of returning good for evil, as his creed teaches. Moreover, he seems grateful that father gave him employment, and a chance to earn twice what he receives. He certainly must be promoted at once.
"Perhaps," thought she, smiling to herself, while a faint tinge of color came into her cheeks--"perhaps, like so many others, he may be inclined to be a little sentimental also, though he will never be as silly as some of them.
"What a noble part he acted toward those Bruders! The heart of a pagan could not fail to be touched by that poor little fellow's story, and it has made me believe that I have more heart than I supposed. Sometimes, especially when I hear or read of some such noble deed, I catch glimpses of a life infinitely better than the one I know, like the sun shining through a rift in the clouds; then they shut down again, and father's practical wisdom seems the best there is.
"At any rate," she said aloud, getting up and walking the floor with something of the old restless energy, "I intend to live while I live, and crowd into life's brief day all that I can. I thank Mr. Fleet for a few sensations in what would otherwise have been a monotonous, dreary afternoon."
"What, strawberries!" said Mr. Ludolph, coming in. "Where did you get these? They are the first I have seen."
"Your man-of-all-work sent them to me," said Christine, daintily dipping one after another in sugar.
"Well, that is a good joke."
"A most excellent one, which I am enjoying, and in which you may share. Help yourself."
"And what has led him to this extravagant favor?"
"Consistency, I suppose. As a good Christian he would return good for evil; and I certainly caused him many and varied tortures the other day."
"No, he is grateful; from first to last the callow youth has been overwhelmed with gratitude that I have permitted him to be worth to me double what I paid him."
"Well, you have decided to promote him, have you not?"
"Yes, he shall have charge of the hanging of new pictures, and the general arrangement of the store, so as to keep up your tasteful and artistic methods. Moreover, he shall meet customers at the door, and direct them just where to find what they want. He is fine-looking, polite, speaks English perfectly, and thus takes well. I can gradually work him in as general salesman, without creating troublesome jealousies."
"What will old Schwartz say?"
"Schwartz is good at finance and figures. I can trust him, and he must relieve me more in this respect. He of course knows that this is the more important work, and will feel honored. As to the others, if they do not like it I can find plenty who will. Fleet's good fortune will take him quite by surprise. He was performing his old humble duties as briskly and contentedly as usual to-day."
"I am surprised at that, for I should have supposed that he would have been on his dignity somewhat, indicating by manner at least that the time for a change had come. He can indicate a great deal by manner, as you might have learned had you seen him under Miss Brown's insults and my lack of courtesy. Well, it does me good to find one American whose head is not turned by a little success. You are right though, I think, father; that young fellow can be very useful to you, and a decided help in hastening the time when we can leave this shop life, and enter our true sphere. I am more impatient to go than words can express, for life seems so brief and uncertain that we must grasp things as soon as possible or we lose them forever. Heavens! what a scare I have had! Everything seemed slipping from under my feet yesterday, and I sinking I know not where. Surely by concentrating every energy we can be ready to go by a year from next fall."
"Yes, that is my plan now."
On the following day Dennis was again promoted and his pay increased. A man more of the Pat Murphy type was found to perform the coarse work of the store. As Mr. Ludolph had said, Dennis could hardly realize his good fortune. He felt like one lifted out of a narrow valley to a breezy hillside. He was now given a vantage-point from which it seemed that he could climb rapidly, and his heart was light as he thought of what he would be able to do for his mother and sisters. Hope grew sanguine as he saw how he would now have the means to pursue his beloved art-studies to far greater advantage. But, above all, his promotion brought him nearer the object of his all-absorbing passion. What he feared would take him one or two years to accomplish he had gained in a day. Hope whispered that perhaps it was through her influence in some degree that he had obtained this advance. Could she have seen and read his ardent glances? Lovers' hopes will grow like Jonah's gourd, and die down as quickly. Words could not express his longing to see her again, but for several days she did not come to the store. She merely sent him word to complete the unfinished show-room in accordance with the plan on which they had been working, leaving space on the sides of the room opposite each other for two large pictures. Though much disappointed, Dennis had carefully carried out her bidding.
Every evening the moment his duties permitted he sought his instructor, Mr. Bruder, and, with an eagerness that his friends could not understand, sought to educate hand and eye. Dennis judged rightly that mere business success would never open to him a way to the heart of such a girl as Christine. His only hope of winning even her attention was to excel in the world of art, where she hoped to shine as a queen. Then to his untiring industry and eager attention he added real genius for his tasks, and it was astonishing what progress he made. When at the close of his daily lesson Dennis had taken his departure, Mr. Bruder would shake his head, and cast up his eyes in wonder, and exclaim: "Dot youth vill astonish de vorld yet. Never in all Germany haf I seen such a scholar."
Often till after midnight he would study in the solitude of his own little room. And now, relieved of duties in the early morning, he arranged an old easel in the attic of the store, a sort of general lumber-room, yet with a good light for his purpose. Here he secured two good hours daily, and often more, for painting; and his hand grew skilful, and his eye true, under his earnest efforts. But his intense application caused his body to grow thin and his face pale.
Christine had rapidly recovered from her illness, her vital and elastic constitution rebounding back into health and vigor like a bow rarely bent. She, too, was working scarcely less eagerly than Dennis, and preparing for a triumph which she hoped would be the earnest of the fame she meant to achieve. She no longer came to the store with her father in the morning, but spent the best and early hours of the day in painting, riding out along the lake and in the park in the afternoon. Occasionally she came to the store in the after part of the day, glanced sharply round to see that her tasteful arrangement was kept up, and ever seemed satisfied.
Dennis was usually busy with customers at that time, and, though conscious of her presence the moment she entered, found no excuse or encouragement to approach. The best he ever received from her was a slight smile and a cold bow of recognition, and in her haste and self-absorption she did not always give these. She evidently had something on her mind by which it was completely occupied.
"She does not even think of me," sighed Dennis; "she evidently imagines that there is an immeasurable distance between us yet."
He was right; she did not think of him, and scarcely thought of any one else, so absorbed was she in the hope of a great success that now was almost sure. She had sent her thanks for the berries by her father, which so frightened Dennis that he had ventured on no more such favors. She had interceded for his promotion. Surely she had paid her debt, and was at quits. So she would have been if he had only given her a basket of strawberries, but having given his heart, and lifelong love, he could scarcely be expected to be satisfied. But he vowed after each blank day all the more resolutely that he would win her attention, secure recognition of his equality, and so be in position for laying siege to her heart.
But a deadly blight suddenly came over all his hopes.
One bright morning late in May two large flat boxes were brought to the store. Dennis was busy with customers, and Mr. Schwartz said, in his blunt, decided way, that he would see to the hanging of those pictures. They were carried to the show-room in the rear of the store, and Dennis at once concluded that they were something very fine, designed to fill the spaces he had left, and was most anxious to see them. Before he was disengaged they were lifted from their casing and were standing side by side on the floor, opposite the entrance, the warm rich morning light falling upon them with fine effect. Mr. Schwartz seemed unusually excited and perplexed for him, and stared first at one picture, then at the other, in a manner indicating that not their beauty, but some other cause disturbed him.
Dennis had scarcely had time to exclaim at the exquisite loveliness and finish of the two paintings before Mr. Ludolph entered, accompanied by Mr. Cornell, a well-known artist, Mr. French, proprietor of another large picture-store, and several gentlemen of taste, but of lesser note, whom Dennis had learned to know by sight as habitues of the "Temple of Art." He also saw that Christine was advancing up the store with a lady and gentleman. Feeling that his presence might be regarded as obtrusive, he passed out, and was about to go away, when he heard his name called.
Looking up he saw Miss Winthrop holding out her hand, and in a moment more she presented him to her father, who greeted him cordially. Christine also gave him a brief smile, and said: "You need not go away. Come and see the pictures."
Quick-eyed Dennis observed that she was filled with suppressed excitement. Her cheeks, usually but slightly tinged with pink, now by turns glowed and were pale. Miss Winthrop seemed to share her nervousness, though what so excited them he could not divine. The paintings, beautiful as they were, could scarcely be the adequate cause; and yet every eye was fastened on them.
One seemed the exact counterpart of the other in frame and finish as well as subject. A little in the background, upon a crag overhanging the Rhine, was a castle, massive, frowning, and built more for security and defence than comfort. The surrounding landscape was bold, wild, and even gloomy. But in contrast with these rugged and sterner features, was a scene of exquisite softness and tenderness. Beneath the shadow of some great trees not far from the castle gate, a young crusader was taking leave of his fair-haired bride. Her pale, tearful face, wherein love and grief blent indescribably, would move the most callous heart, while the struggle between emotion and the manly pride that would not permit him to give way, in the young chieftain's features, was scarcely less touching. Beautiful as were the accessories of the pictures, their main point was to portray the natural, tender feeling induced by a parting that might be forever. At first they all gazed quietly and almost reverently at the vivid scene of human love and sorrow, save old Schwartz, who fidgeted about as Dennis had never seen him before. Clearly something was wrong.
"Mr. Schwartz," said Mr. Ludolph, "you may hang the original picture on the side as we enter, and the copy opposite. We would like to see them up, and in a better light."
"Dat's it," snorted Mr. Schwartz; "I'd like to know vich is vich."
"You do not mean to say that you cannot tell them apart? The original hung here some time, and you saw it every day."
"I do mean to say him," said Mr. Schwartz, evidently much vexed with himself. "I couldn't have believed dat any von in de vorld could so impose on me. But de two pictures are just de same to a pin scratch in frame, subject, and treatment, and to save my life I cannot tell dem apart."
Christine's face fairly glowed with triumph, and her eyes were all aflame as she glanced at her friend. Miss Winthrop came and took her cold, quivering hands into her own warm palms, but was scarcely less excited. Dennis saw not this side scene, so intent was he on the pictures.
"Do you mean to say," said Mr. Cornell, stepping forward, "that one of these paintings is a copy made here in Chicago, and that Mr. Schwartz cannot tell it from the original?"
"He says he cannot," said Mr. Ludolph.
"And I'd like to see the von who can," said old Schwartz, gruffly.
"Will you please point out the original," said one of the gentlemen, "that we may learn to distinguish them? For my part they seem like the twins whose mother knew them apart by pink and white ribbons, and when the ribbons got mixed she could not tell which was which."
Again Christine's eyes glowed with triumph.
"Well, really, gentlemen," said Mr. Ludolph, "I would rather you would discover the copy yourselves. Mr. Cornell, Mr. French, and some others, I think, saw the original several times."
"Look at Mr. Fleet," whispered Miss Winthrop to Christine.
She looked, and her attention was riveted to him. Step by step, he had drawn nearer, and his eyes were eagerly glancing from one picture to the other as if following up a clew. Instinctively she felt that he would solve the question, and her little hands clenched, and her brow grew dark.
"Really," said Mr. Cornell, "I did not know that we had an artist in Chicago who could copy the work of one of the best European painters so that there need be a moment's hesitancy in detecting differences, but it seems I am mistaken. I am almost as puzzled as Mr. Schwartz."
"The frames are exactly alike," said Mr. French.
"There is a difference between the two pictures," said Mr. Cornell, slowly. "I can feel it rather than see it. They seem alike, line for line and feature for feature, in every part; and just where the difference lies and in what it consists I cannot tell for the life of me."
With the manner of one who had settled a difficult problem, Dennis gave a sigh of relief so audible that several glanced at him.
"Perhaps Mr. Fleet from his superior knowledge and long experience can settle this question," said Christine, sarcastically.
All eyes were turned toward him. He flushed painfully, but said nothing.
"Speak up," said Mr. Ludolph, good-naturedly, "if you have any opinion to give."
"I would not presume to give my opinion among so many more competent judges."
"Come, Mr. Fleet," said Christine, with a covert taunt in her tone, "that is a cheap way of making a reputation. I fear the impression will be given that you have no opinion."
Dennis was now very pale, as he ever was under great excitement. The old look came again that the young ladies remembered seeing at Miss Brown's entertainment.
"Come, speak up if you can," said Mr. Ludolph shortly.
"Your porter, Mr. Ludolph?" said Mr. Cornell, remembering Dennis only in that capacity. "Perhaps he has some private marks by which he can enlighten us."
Dennis now acted no longer as porter or clerk, but as a man among men.
Stepping forward and looking Mr. Cornell full in the face he said: "I can prove to you, sir, that your insinuation is false by simply stating that I never saw those pictures before. The original had been removed from the store before I came. I have had therefore no opportunity of knowing the copy from the original. But the pictures are different, and I can tell precisely wherein I think the difference lies."
"Tell it then," said several voices. Christine stood a little back and on one side, so that he could not see her face, or he would have hesitated long before he spoke. In the firm, decided tones of one thoroughly aroused and sure of his ground, he proceeded.
"Suppose this the copy," said he, stepping to one of the pictures. (Christine breathed hard and leaned heavily against her friend.) "I know of but one in Chicago capable of such exquisite work, and he did not do it; indeed he could not, though a master in art."
"You refer to Mr. Bruder?" said Mr. Cornell.
Dennis bowed and continued: "It is the work of one in whom the imitative power is wonderfully developed; but one having never felt--or unable to feel--the emotions here presented cannot portray them. This picture is but the beautiful corpse of that one. While line for line, and feature for feature, and even leaf for leaf on the trees is faithfully exact, yet the soul, the deep, sorrowful tenderness that you feel in that picture rather than see, is wanting in this. In that picture you forget to blame or praise, to criticise at all, so deeply are your sympathies touched. It seems as if in reality two human hearts were being torn asunder before you. This you know to be an exquisite picture only, and can coolly criticise and dwell on every part, and say how admirably it is done."
And Dennis bowed and retired.
"By Jove, he is right," exclaimed Mr. Cornell; and approving faces and nodding heads confirmed his judgment. But Dennis enjoyed not his triumph, for as he turned he met Christine's look of agony and hate, and like lightning it flashed through his mind, "She painted the picture."
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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28
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LIFE WITHOUT LOVE
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As Dennis realized the truth, and remembered what he had said, his face was scarcely less full of pain than Christine's. He saw that her whole soul was bent on an imitation that none could detect, and that he had foiled her purpose. But Christine's wound was deeper than that. She had been told again, clearly and correctly, that the sphere of high, true art was beyond her reach. She felt that the verdict was true, and her own judgment confirmed every word Dennis uttered. But she had done her best; therefore her suffering was truly agony--the pain and despair at failure in the most cherished hope of life. There seemed a barrier which, from the very limitations of her being, she could not pass. She did not fail from the lack of taste, culture, or skill, but in that which was like a sixth sense--something she did not possess. Lacking the power to touch and move the heart, she knew she could never be a great artist.
Abruptly and without a word she left the room and store, accompanied by the Winthrops. Dennis felt as if he could bite his tongue out, and Christine's face haunted him like a dreadful apparition. Wherever he turned he saw it so distorted by pain, and almost hate, that it scarcely seemed the same that had smiled on him as he entered at her invitation.
"Truly God is against all this," groaned he, to himself; "and what I in my weakness could not do He has accomplished by this unlooked-for scene. She will now ever regard me with aversion."
Dennis, like many another, thought he saw God's plan clearly from a mere glimpse of a part of it. He at once reached this miserable conclusion, and suffered as greatly as if it had been God's will, instead of his own imagination. To wait and trust is often the latest lesson we learn in life.
Mr. Ludolph's guests, absorbed in the pictures, at first scarcely noticed the departure of the others.
Christine, with consummate skill and care, kept her relationship to the picture unknown to all save the Winthrops, meaning not to acknowledge it unless she succeeded. But in Dennis's startled and pained face she saw that he had read her secret, and this fact also annoyed her much.
"I should like to know the artist who copied this painting," said Mr. Cornell.
"The artist is an amateur, and not willing to come before the public at present," said Mr. Ludolph, so decidedly that no further questions were asked.
"I am much interested in that young clerk of yours," said Mr. French. "He seems to understand himself. It is so hard to find a good discriminating judge of pictures. Do you expect to keep him?"
"Yes, I do," said Mr. Ludolph, with such emphasis that his rival in trade pressed that point also no further.
"Well, really, Mr. Ludolph," said one of the gentlemen, "you deal in wonders, mysteries, and all sorts of astonishing things yere. We have an unknown artist in Chicago deserving an ovation; you have in your employ a prince of critics, and if I mistake not he is the same who sang at Brown's some little time ago. Miss Brown told me that he was your porter."
"Yes, I took him as a stranger out of work and knew nothing of him. But he proved to be an educated and accomplished man, who will doubtless be of great use to me in time. Of course I promoted him when I found him out." These last remarks were made for Mr. French's benefit rather than for any one's else. He intended that his rival should knowingly violate all courtesy if he sought to lure Dennis away. After admiring the paintings and other things recently received, the gentlemen bowed themselves out.
On leaving the store Mr. Winthrop--feeling awkward in the presence of the disappointed girl--had pleaded business, and bidden her adieu with a warm grasp of the hand and many assurances that she had succeeded beyond his belief.
"I know you mean kindly in what you say," said Christine, while not the slightest gleam lighted up her pale, sad face. "Good-by."
She, too, was relieved, and wished to be alone. Miss Winthrop sought to comfort her friend as they walked homeward.
"Christine, you look really ill. I don't see why you take this matter so to heart. You have achieved a success that would turn any head but yours. I could not believe it possible had I not seen it. Your ambition and ideal are so lofty that you will always make yourself miserable by aiming at the impossible. As Mr. Fleet said, I do not believe there is another in the city who could have done so well, and if you can do that now, what may you not accomplish by a few years more of work?"
"That's the terrible part of it," said Christine, with a long sigh. "Susie, I have attained my growth. I can never be a real artist and no one living can ever know the bitterness of my disappointment. I do not believe in the immortality that you do, and this was my only chance to live beyond the brief hour of my life. If I could only have won for myself a place among the great names that the world will ever honor, I might with more content let the candle of my existence flicker out when it must. But I have learned to-day what I have often feared--that Christine Ludolph must soon end in a forgotten handful of dust."
"Oh, Christine, if you could only believe!"
"I cannot. I tried in my last sickness, but vainly. I am more convinced than ever of the correctness of my father's views."
Miss Winthrop sighed deeply. "Why are you so despondent?" she at last asked.
As if half speaking to herself, Christine repeated the words, "'Painted by one having never felt, or unable to feel, the emotions presented, and therefore one who cannot portray them.' That is just the trouble. I tried to speak in a language I do not know. Susie, I believe I am about half ice. Sometimes I think I am like Undine, and have no soul. I know I have no heart, in the sense that you have." "I live a very cold sort of life," she continued, with a slight shudder. "I seem surrounded by invisible barriers that I cannot pass. I can see, beyond, what I want, but cannot reach it. Oh, Susie, if you knew what I suffered when so ill! Everything seemed slipping from me. And yet why I should so wish to live I hardly know, when my life is so narrowed down."
"You see the disease, but not the remedy," sighed Susie.
"What is the remedy?" " _Love_. Love to God, and I may add love for some good man."
Christine stopped a moment and almost stamped her foot impatiently.
"You discourage me more than any one else," she cried. "As to loving God, how can I love merely a name? and, even if He existed, how could I love a Being who left His world so full of vile evils? As to human love, faugh! I have had enough of romantic attachments."
"Do you never intend to marry?"
"Susie, you are the friend of my soul, and I trust you and you only with our secret. Yes, I expect to marry, but not in this land. You know that in Germany my father will eventually be a noble, the representative of one of the most ancient and honorable families. We shall soon have sufficient wealth to resume our true position there. A husband will then be found for me. I only stipulate that he shall be able to give me position among the first, and gratify my bent for art to the utmost."
"Well, Christine, you are a strange girl, and your dream of the future is stranger still."
"Sometimes I think that all is a dream, and may end like one. Nothing seems certain or real, or turns out as one expects. Think of it. A nobody who swept my father's store the other day has this morning made such havoc in my dream that I am sick at heart."
"But you cannot blame Mr. Fleet. He did it unconsciously; he was goaded on to do it. No _man_ could have done otherwise. You surely do not feel hardly toward him?"
"We do not naturally love the lips and bless the voice that tell us of an incurable disease. Oh, no," she added, "why should I think of him at all? He merely happened to point out what I half suspected myself. And yet the peculiar way this stranger crosses my path from time to time almost makes me superstitious."
"And you seem to have peculiar power over him. He would have assuredly left us in the lurch at our tableau party had it not been for you, and I should not have blamed him. And to-day he seemed troubled and pained beyond expression when he read from your face, as I imagine, that you were the author of the picture."
"Yes, I saw that he discovered the fact, and this provokes me also. If he should speak his thoughts--" "I do not think he will. I am sure he will not if you caution him."
"That I will not do; and I think on the whole he has too much sense to speak carelessly of what he imagined he saw in a lady's face. And now, Susie, good-by. I shall not inflict my miserable self longer upon you to-day, and I am one who can best cure my wounds in solitude."
"Do you cure them, Christine? or do you only cover them up? If I had your creed nothing could cure my wounds. Time might deaden the pain, and I forget them in other things, but I do not see where any cure could come from. Oh, Christine! you did me good service when in the deepening twilight of Miss Brown's parlor you showed me my useless, unbelieving life. But I do believe now. The cross is radiant to me now--more radiant than the one that so startled us then. Mr. Fleet's words were true, I know, as I know my own existence. I could die for my faith."
Christine frowned and said, almost harshly: "I don't believe in a religion so full of crosses and death. Why could not the all-powerful Being you believe in take away the evil from the world?"
"That is just what He came to do. In that very character he was pointed out by His authorized forerunner: 'Behold the Lamb of God, that taketh away the sin of the world.'"
"Why does he not do it then?" asked Christine, petulantly. "Centuries have passed. Patience itself is wearied out. He has had time enough, if He ever meant or had the power to fulfil the promise. But the world is as full of evil and suffering as ever. Susie, I would not disturb your credulous faith, for it seems to do you good; but to me Christ was a noble but mistaken man, dead and buried centuries ago. He can do for me no more than Socrates. They vigorously attacked evil in their day, but evil was too much for them, as it is for us. We must just get the most we can out of life, and endure what we cannot prevent or escape. An angel could not convert me to-day--no, not even Susie Winthrop, and that is saying more still;" and with a hasty kiss she vanished.
Susie looked wistfully after her, and then bent her steps homeward with a pitying face.
Christine at once went to her own private room. Putting on a loose wrapper she threw herself on a lounge, and buried her face in the cushions. Her life seemed growing narrow and meagre. Hour after hour passed, and the late afternoon sun was shining into her room when she arose from her bitter revery, and summed up all in a few words spoken aloud, as was her custom when alone.
"Must I, after all, come down to the Epicurean philosophy, 'Let us eat, drink, and be merry, for to-morrow we die'? I seem on a narrow island, the ocean is all around me, and the tide is rising, _rising_. It will cover _soon_ my standing-place, and then what becomes of Christine Ludolph?"
A look of anguish came into the fair young face, and a slight shudder passed over her. She glanced around a room furnished in costly elegance. She saw her lovely person in the mirror opposite, and exclaimed: "What a mystery it all is! I have so much, and yet so utterly fail of having that which contents. I have all that wealth can purchase; and multitudes act as if that were enough. I know I am beautiful. I can see that yonder for myself, as well as read it in admiring eyes. And yet my maid is better contented than I, and the boy who blacks the boots better satisfied with his lot than either of us. I am raised so high that I can see how much more there is or might be beyond. I feel like one led into a splendid vestibule, only to find that the palace is wanting, or that it is a mean hovel. All that I have only mocks me, and becomes a means of torture. All that I am and have ought to be, might be, a mere prelude, an earnest and a preparation for something better beyond. But I am told, and must believe, that this is all, and I may lose this in a moment and forever. It is as if a noble strain of music commenced sweetly, and then suddenly broken down into a few discordant notes and ceased. It is like my picture--all very well; but that which would speak to and move the heart, year after year, when the mere beauty ceased to please--that life or something is wanting. What were his words? --'This picture is but the beautiful corpse of the other'; and my life is but a cold marble effigy of a true life. And yet is there any true and better life? If there is nothing better beyond, I have been carried forward too far. Miss Brown thoroughly enjoys champagne and flirtations. Susie Winthrop is happy in her superstition, as any one might be who could believe what she does. But I have gone past the power of taking up these things, as I have gone past my childhood's sports. And now what is there for me? My most dear and cherished hope--a hope that shone above my life like a sun--has been blown away by the breath of my father's clerk (it required no greater power to bring me down to my true level), and I hoped to be a queen among men, high-born, but crowned with the richer coronet of genius. I, who hoped to win so high a place that men would speak of me with honest praise, now and in all future time, must be contented as a mere accomplished woman, deemed worthy perhaps in time to grace some nobleman's halls who in the nice social scale abroad may stand a little higher than myself. I meant to shine and dazzle, to stoop to give in every case; but now I must take what I can get, with a humble 'Thank you';" and she clenched her little powerless hands in impotent revolt at what seemed very cruel destiny.
She appeared at the dinner-table outwardly calm and quiet. Her father did not share in her bitter disappointment, and she saw that he did not, and so felt more alone. He regarded her success as remarkable (as it truly was), having never believed that she could copy a picture so exactly as to deceive an ordinarily good observer. When, therefore, old Schwartz and others were unable to distinguish between the pictures, he was more than satisfied. He was sorry that Dennis had spoiled the triumph, but could not blame him. At the same time he recognized in Fleet another and most decided proof of intelligence on questions of art, for he knew that his criticism was just. He believed that when the true knight that his ambition would choose appeared, with golden spurs and jewelled crest, then her deeper nature would awaken, and she far surpass all previous effort. Moreover, he did not fully understand or enter into her lofty ambition. To see her settled in life, titled, rich, and a recognized leader in the aristocracy of his own land, was his highest aspiration so far as she was concerned.
He began, therefore, in a strain of compliment to cheer his daughter and rally her courage; but she shook her head sadly, and said so decidedly, "Father, let us change the subject," that with some surprise at her feelings he yielded to her wish, thinking that a little time and experience would moderate her ideas and banish the pain of disappointment. It was a quiet meal, both being occupied by their own thoughts. Soon after he was absorbed for the evening by his cigar and some business papers.
It was a mild, summer-like night, and a warm, gentle rain was falling. Even in the midst of a great city the sweet odors of spring found their way to the private parlor where Christine sat by the window, still lost in painful thoughts.
"Nature is full of hope, and the promise of coming life. So ought I to be in this my spring-time. Why am I not? If I am sad and disappointed in my spring, how dreary will be my autumn, when leaf after leaf of beauty, health, and strength drops away!"
A muffled figure, seemingly regardless of the rain, passed slowly down the opposite side of the street. Though the person cast but a single quick glance toward her window, and though the twilight was deepening, something in the passer-by suggested Dennis Fleet. For a moment she wished she could speak to him. She felt very lonely. Solitude had done her no good. Her troubles only grew darker and more real as she brooded over them. She instinctively felt that her father could not understand her, and she had never been able to go to him for sympathy. He was not the kind of person that any one would seek for such a purpose. Christine was not inclined to confidence, and there was really no one who knew her deeper feelings, and who could enter into her real hopes for life. She was so proud and cold that few ever thought of giving her confidence, much less of asking hers.
Up to the time of her recent illness she had been strong, self-confident, almost assured of success. At times she recognized dimly that something was wrong; but she shut her eyes to the unwelcome truth, and determined to succeed. But her sickness and fears at that time, and now a failure that seemed to destroy the ambition of her life, all united in greatly shaking her self-confidence.
This evening, as never before, she was conscious of weakness and dependence. With the instinct of one sinking, her spirit longed for help and support. Then the thought suddenly occurred to her, "Perhaps this young stranger, who so clearly pointed out the disease, may also show the way to some remedy."
But the figure had passed on. In a moment mere pride and conventionality resumed sway, and she smiled bitterly, saying to herself, "What a weak fool I am to-night! Of all things let me not become a romantic miss again."
She went to her piano and struck into a brilliant strain. For a few moments the music was of a forced and defiant character, loud, gay, but with no real or rollicking mirth in it, and it soon ceased. Then in a sharp contrast came a sad, weird German ballad, and this was real. In its pathos her burdened heart found expression, and whoever listened then would not merely have admired, but would have felt. One song followed another. All the pent-up feeling of the day seemed to find natural flow in the plaintive minstrelsy of her own land.
Suddenly she ceased and went to her window. The muffled figure stood in the shadow of an angle in the attitude of a listener. A moment later it vanished in the dusk toward the business part of the city. The quick footsteps died away, and only the patter of the falling rain broke the silence. Christine felt sure that it was Dennis. At first her feeling was one of pleasure. His coming and evident interest took somewhat, she scarcely knew why, from her sense of loneliness. Soon her pride awoke, however, and she said: "He has no business here to watch and listen. I will show him that, with all his taste and intelligence, we have no ground in common on which he can presume."
Her father had also listened to the music, and said to himself: "Christine is growing a little sentimental. She takes this disappointment too much to heart. I must touch her pride with the spur a little, and that will make her ice and steel in a moment. It is no slight task to keep a girl's heart safe till you want to use it. I will wait till the practical daylight of to-morrow, and then she shall look at the world through my eyes again."
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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29
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DENNIS'S LOVE PUT TO PRACTICAL USE
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The day following his unlucky criticism of the pictures was one of great despondency to Dennis. He had read in Christine's face that he had wounded her sorely; and, though she knew it to be unintentional, would it not prejudice her mind against him, and snap the slender thread by which he hoped to draw across the gulf between them the cord, and then the cable, that might in time unite their lives?
In the evening his restless, troubled spirit drove him, in spite of the rain, to seek to be at least nearer to her. He felt sure that in the dusk and wrapped in his greatcoat he would not be noticed, but was mistaken, as we have seen. He was rewarded, for he heard her sing as never before, as he did not believe she could sing. For the first time her rich, thoroughly trained voice had the sweetness and power of feeling. To Dennis her song seemed like an appeal, a cry for help, and his heart responded in the deepest sympathy. As he walked homeward he said to himself: "She could be a true artist, perhaps a great one, for she can feel. She has a heart. She has a taste and skill in touch that few can surpass. I can scarcely believe the beautiful coloring and faultless lines of that picture are her work." He long for a chance to speak with her and explain. He felt that he had so much to say, and in a thousand imaginary ways introduced the subject of her painting. He hoped he might find her sketching in some of the rooms again. He thought that he knew her better for having heard her sing, and that he could speak to her quite frankly.
The next day she came to the store, but passed him without the slightest notice. He hoped she had not seen him, and, as she passed out, so placed himself that she must see him, and secured for his pains only a slight, cold inclination of the head.
"It is as I feared," he said, bitterly. "She detests me for having spoiled her triumph. She is not just," he added, angrily. "She has no sense of justice, or she would not blame me. What a mean-spirited craven I should have been had I shrunk away under her taunts yesterday. Well, I can be proud too."
When she came in again he did not raise his eyes, and when she passed out he was in a distant part of the store. Christine saw no tall muffled figure under her window again, though she had the curiosity to look. That even this humble admirer, for whom she cared not a jot, should show such independence rather nettled and annoyed her for a moment. But she paid no more heed to him than to the other clerks.
But what was the merest jar to Christine's vanity cost Dennis a desperate struggle. It required no effort on her part to pass him by without a glance. To him it was torture. In a few days she ceased to think about him at all, and only remembered him in connection with her disappointment. But she was restless, could settle down to no work, and had lost her zest in her old pleasures. She tried to act as usual, for she saw her father's eye was on her. He had not much indulgence for any one's weaknesses save his own, and often by a little cold satire would sting her to the very quick. On the other hand, his admiration, openly expressed in a certain courtly gallantry, nourished her pride but not her heart. Though she tried to keep up her usual routine, her manner was forced before him and languid when alone. But he said, "All this will pass away like a cold snap in spring, and the old zest will come again in a few days."
It did, but from a cause which he could not understand, and which his daughter with consummate skill and care concealed. He thought it was only the old enthusiasm rallying after a sharp frost of disappointment.
Dennis's pride gave way before her cool and unstudied indifference. It was clearly evident to him that he had no hold upon her life whatever, and how to gain any he did not see. He became more and more dejected.
"She must have a heart, or I could not love her so; but it is so incased in ice I fear I can never reach it."
That something was wrong with Dennis any friend who cared for him at all might see. The Bruders did, and, with the quick intuitions of woman, Mrs. Bruder half guessed the cause. Mr. Bruder, seeing preoccupation and sometimes weary apathy in Dennis's face, would say, "Mr. Fleet is not well."
Then, as even this slight notice of his different appearance seemed to give pain, Mr. Bruder was patiently and kindly blind to his pupil's inattention.
Dennis faithfully kept up all his duties on Sunday as during the week; but all was now hard work. Some little time after the unlucky morning which he could never think of without an expression of pain, he went to his mission class as usual. He heard his boys recite their lessons, said a few poor lame words in explanation, and then leaned his head listlessly and wearily on his hand. He was startled by hearing a sweet voice say, "Well, Mr. Fleet, are you not going to welcome a new laborer into your corner of the vineyard?"
With a deep flush he saw that Miss Winthrop was in charge of the class next to him, and that he had been oblivious to her presence nearly an hour. He tried to apologize. But she interrupted him, saying: "Mr. Fleet, you are not well. Any one can see that."
Then Dennis blushed as if he had a raging fever, and she was perplexed.
The closing exercises of the school now occupied them and then they walked out together.
"Mr. Fleet," she said, "you never accepted my invitation. We have not seen you at our house. But perhaps your circle of friends is so large that you do not wish to add to it."
Dennis could not forbear a smile at the suggestion, but he said, in apology, "I do not visit any one, save a gentleman from whom I am taking lessons."
"Do you mean to say that you have no friends at all in this great city?"
"Well, I suppose that is nearly the truth; that is, in the sense you use the term. My teacher and his wife--" "Nonsense! I mean friends of one's own age, people of the same culture and status as yourself. I think we require such society, as truly as we need food and air. I did not mean those whom business or duty brought you in contact with, or who are friendly or grateful as a matter of course."
"I have made no progress since my introduction to society at Miss Brown's," said Dennis.
"But you had the sincere and cordial offer of introduction," said Miss Winthrop, looking a little hurt.
"I feel hardly fit for society," said Dennis, all out of sorts with himself. "It seems that I can only blunder and give pain. But I am indeed grateful for your kindness."
Miss Winthrop looked into his worn, pale face, and instinctively knew that something was wrong, and she felt real sympathy for the lonely young man, isolated among thousands. She said, gently but decidedly: "I did mean my invitation kindly, and I truly wished you to come. The only proof you can give that you appreciate my courtesy is to accept an invitation for to-morrow evening. I intend having a little musical entertainment."
Quick as light flashed the thought, "Christine will be there." He said, promptly: "I will come, and thank you for the invitation. If I am awkward, you must remember that I have never mingled in Chicago society, and for a long time not in any."
She smiled merrily at him, and said, "Don't do anything dreadful, Mr. Fleet."
He caught her mood, and asked what had brought her down from her theological peak to such a valley of humiliation as a mission school.
"You and Miss Ludolph" she answered, seriously. "Between you, you gave me such a lesson that afternoon at Miss Brown's that I have led a different life ever since. Christine made all as dark as despair, and against that darkness you placed the fiery Cross. I have tried to cling to the true cross ever since. Now He could not say to me, 'Inasmuch as ye did it not.' And oh!" said she, turning to Dennis with a smile full of the light of Heaven, "His service is so very sweet! I heard last week that teachers were wanted at this mission school, so I came, and am glad to find you a neighbor."
Dennis's face also kindled at her enthusiasm, but after a moment grew sad again.
"I do not always give so lifeless a lesson as to-day," he said, in a low voice.
"Mr. Fleet, you are not well. I can see that you look worn and greatly wearied. Are you not in some way overtaxing yourself?"
Again that sensitive flush, but he only said: "I assure you I am well. Perhaps I have worked a little hard. That is all."
"Well, then, come to our house and play a little tomorrow evening," she answered from the platform of a street car, and was borne away.
Dennis went to his lonely room, full of self-reproach.
"Does she find Christ's service so sweet, and do I find it so dull and hard? Does human love alone constrain me, and not the love of Christ? Truly I am growing weak. Every one says I look ill. I think I am, in body and soul, and am ceasing to be a man; but with God's help I will be one--and what is more, a Christian. I thank you, Miss Winthrop; you have helped me more than I have helped you. I will accept your invitation to go out into the world. I will no longer mope, brood, and perish in the damp and shade of my own sick fancies. If I cannot win her, I can at least be a man without her;" and he felt better and stronger than he had done for a long time. The day was breaking again.
In accordance with a custom that was growing with him ever since the memorable evening when Bill Cronk befriended him, he laid the whole matter before his Heavenly Father, as a child tells an earthly parent all his heart. Then he added one simple prayer, "Guide me in all things."
The next day was brighter and better than its forerunners. "For some reason I feel more like myself," he thought. After the excitement and activity of a busy day, he said, "I can conquer this, if I must."
But when he had made his simple toilet, and was on his way to Miss Winthrop's residence, his heart began to flutter strangely, and he knew the reason. Miss Winthrop welcomed him most cordially, and put him at his ease in a moment, as only a true lady can. Then she turned to receive other guests. He looked around. Christine was not there; and his heart sank like lead. "She will not be here," he sighed. But the guests had not ceased coming, and every new arrival caused a flutter of hopes and fears. He both longed and dreaded to meet her. At last, when he had almost given up seeing her, suddenly she appeared, advancing up the parlor on her father's arm. Never had she seemed so dazzlingly beautiful. He was just then talking to Mr. Winthrop, and for a few moments that gentleman was perplexed at his incoherent answers and the changes in his face. Having paid their respects to the daughter, Mr. and Miss Ludolph came toward Mr. Winthrop, and of course Dennis had to meet them. Having greeted them warmly, Mr. Winthrop said, "Of course you do not need an introduction to Mr. Fleet."
Dennis had shrunk a little into the background, and at first they had not noticed him. Mr. Ludolph said, good-naturedly, "Glad to see you, Mr. Fleet, and will be still more glad to hear your fine voice."
But Christine merely bowed as to one with whom her acquaintance was slight, and turned away. At first Dennis had blushed, and his heart had fluttered like a young girl's; but, as she turned so coolly away, his native pride and obstinacy were aroused.
"She shall speak to me and do me justice," he muttered. "She must understand that I spoke unconsciously on that miserable morning, and am not to be blamed. As I am a man, I will speak boldly and secure recognition." But as the little company mingled and conversed before the music commenced, no opportunity offered. He determined to show her, however, that he was no country boor, and with skill and taste made himself agreeable.
Christine furtively watched him. She was surprised to see him, as the idea of meeting him in society as an equal had scarcely been suggested before. But when she saw that he greeted one after another with grace and ease, and that all seemed to enjoy his conversation, so that a little knot of Miss Winthrop's most intelligent guests were about him at last, she felt that it would be no great condescension on her part to be a little more affable. In her heart, though, she had not forgiven the unconscious words that had smitten to the ground her ambitious hopes.
Then again, his appearance deeply interested her. A suppressed excitement and power, seen in the glow and fire of his dark eyes, and felt in his tones, stirred her languid pulses.
"He is no vapid society-man," she said to herself; and her artist eye was gratified by the changes in his noble face.
"Look at Fleet," whispered her father; "could you believe he was sweeping the store the other day? Well, if we don't find out his worth and get what we can from him, the world will. We ought to have had him up to sing before this, but I have been so busy since your illness that it slipped my mind."
Miss Winthrop now led Christine to the piano, and she played a classical piece of music in faultless taste. Then followed duets, solos, quartets, choruses, and instrumental pieces, for nearly all present were musical amateurs. Under the inspiration of this soul-stirring art, coldness and formality melted away, and with jest and brilliant repartee, alternating with song, there gathered around Miss Winthrop's piano such a group as could never grace the parlors of Miss Brown. Sometimes they would carry a new and difficult piece triumphantly through; again they would break down, with much laughter and good-natured rallying.
Dennis, as a stranger, held back at first; but those who remembered his singing at the tableau party were clamorous to hear him again, and they tested and tried his voice during the evening in many and varied ways. But he held his own, and won greener laurels than ever. He did his very best, for he was before one whom he would rather please than all the world; moreover, her presence seemed to inspire him to do better than when alone. Christine, like the others, could not help listening with delight to his rich, clear tenor, and Mr. Ludolph was undisguised in his admiration.
"I declare, Mr. Fleet, I have been depriving myself of a good deal of pleasure. I meant to have you up to sing with us before, but we have been under such a press of business of late! But the first evening I am disengaged you must surely come."
Christine had noticed how quietly and almost indifferently Dennis had taken the many compliments showered on him before, but now, when her father spoke, his face flushed, and a sudden light came into his eyes. Dennis had thought, "I can then see and speak to her." Every now and then she caught his eager, questioning, and almost appealing glance, but he made no advances. "He thinks I am angry because of his keen criticism of my picture. For the sake of my own pride, I must not let him think that I care so much about his opinion;" and Christine resolved to let some of the ice thaw that had formed between them. Moreover, in spite of herself, when she was thrown into his society, he greatly interested her. He seemed to have just what she had not. He could meet her on her own ground in matters of taste, and then, in contrast with her cold, negative life, he was so earnest and positive. "Perhaps papa spoke for us both," she thought, "and I have been depriving myself of a pleasure also, for he certainly interests while most men only weary me."
Between ten and eleven supper was announced; not the prodigal abundance under which the brewer's table had groaned, but a dainty, elegant little affair, which inspired and promoted social feeling, though the "spirit of wine" was absent. The eye was feasted as truly as the palate. Christine had stood near Dennis as the last piece was sung, and he turned and said in a low, eager tone, "May I have the pleasure of waiting on you at supper?"
She hesitated, but his look was so wistful that she could not well refuse, so with a slight smile she bowed assent, and placed the tips of her little gloved hand on his arm, which so trembled that she looked inquiringly and curiously into his face. It was very pale, as was ever the case when he felt deeply. He waited on her politely but silently at first. She sat in an angle, somewhat apart from the others. As he stood by her side, thinking how to refer to the morning in the show-room, she said: "Mr. Fleet, you are not eating anything, and you look as if you had been living on air of late--very unlike your appearance when you so efficiently aided me in the rearrangement of the store. I am delighted that you keep up the better order of things." Dennis's answer was quite irrelevant.
"Miss Ludolph," he said, abruptly, "I saw that I gave you pain that morning in the show-room. If you only knew how the thought has pained me!"
Christine flushed almost angrily, but said, coldly, "Mr. Fleet, that is a matter you can never understand, therefore we had better dismiss the subject."
But Dennis had determined to break the ice between them at any risk, so he said, firmly but respectfully: "Miss Ludolph, I did understand all, the moment I saw your face that day. I do understand how you have felt since, better than you imagine."
His manner and words were so assured that she raised a startled face to his, but asked coldly and in an indifferent manner, "What can you know of my feelings?"
"I know," said Dennis, in a low tone, looking searchingly into her face, from which cool composure was fast fading--"I know your dearest hope was to be among the first in art. You staked that hope on your success in a painting that required a power which you do not possess." Christine became very pale, but from her eyes shone a light before which most men would have quailed. But Dennis's love was so true and strong that he could wound her for the sake of the healing and life he hoped to bring, and he continued--"On that morning this cherished hope for the future failed you, not because of my words, but because your artist eye saw that my words were true. You have since been unhappy--" "What right have _you_--you who were but a few days since--who are a stranger--what right have you to speak thus to me?"
"I know what you would say, Miss Ludolph," he answered, a slight flush coming into his pale face. "Friends may be humble and yet true. But am I not right?"
"I have no claim on your friendship," said Christine, coldly. "But, for the sake of argument, grant that you are right, what follows?" and she looked at him more eagerly than she knew. She felt that he had read her very soul and was deeply moved, and again the superstitious feeling crept over her, "That young man is in some way connected with my destiny."
Dennis saw his power and proceeded rapidly, for he knew they might be interrupted at any moment; and so they would have been had anything less interesting than eating occupied the attention of others.
"I saw in the picture what in your eyes and mine would be a fatal defect--the lack of life and true feeling--the lack of power to live. I did not know who painted it, but felt that any one who could paint as well as that, and yet leave out the soul, as it were, had not the power to put it in. No artist of such ability could willingly or ignorantly have permitted such a defect."
Christine's eyes sank, their fire faded out, and her face had the pallor of one listening to her doom. This deeper feeling mastered the momentary resentment against the hand that was wounding her, and she forgot him, and all, in her pain and despair.
In a low, earnest tone Dennis continued: "But since I have come to know who the artist is, since I have studied the picture more fully, and have taken the liberty of some observation"--Christine hung on his lips breathlessly, and Dennis spoke slowly, marking the effect of every word--"I have come to the decided belief that the lady who painted that picture can reach the sphere of true and highest art."
The light that stole into Christine's face under his slow, emphatic words was like a rosy dawn in June; and the thought flashed through Dennis's mind, "If an earthly hope can so light up her face, what will be the effect of a heavenly one?"
For a moment she sat as one entranced, looking at a picture far off in the future. His words had been so earnest and assured that they seemed reality. Suddenly she turned on him a look as grateful and happy as the former one had been full of pain and anger, and said: "Ah, do not deceive me, do not flatter. You cannot know the sweetness and power of the hope you are inspiring. To be disappointed again would be death. If you are trifling with me I will never forgive you," she added, in sudden harshness, her brow darkening.
"Nor should I deserve to be forgiven if I deceived you in a matter that to you is so sacred."
"But how--how am I to gain this magic power to make faces feel and live on canvas?"
"You must believe. You yourself must feel."
She looked at him with darkening face, and then in a sudden burst of passion said: "I don't believe; I can't feel. All this is mockery, after all."
"No!" said Dennis, in the deep, assured tone that ever calms and secures attention. "This is not mockery. I speak the words of truth and soberness. You do not believe, but that is not the same as cannot. And permit me to contradict you when I say you _do_ feel. On this subject so near your heart you feel most deeply--feel as I never knew any one feel before. This proves you capable of feeling on other and higher subjects, and what you feel your trained and skilful hand can portray. You felt on the evening of that miserable day, and sang as I never heard you sing before. Your tones then would move any heart, and my tears fell with the rain in sympathy: I could not help it."
Her bosom rose and fell tumultuously, and her breath came hard and quick.
"Oh, if I could believe you were right!"
"I know I am right," he said, so decidedly that again hope grew rosy and beautiful in her face.
"Then again," he continued, eagerly, "see what an advantage you have over the most of us. Your power of imitation is wonderful. _You can copy anything you see. _" "Good-evening, Miss Ludolph. Where have you been hiding? I have twice made the tour of the supper-room in my search," broke in the voluble Mr. Mellen. Then he gave Dennis a cool stare, who acted as if unconscious of his presence. An expression of disgust flitted across Christine's face at the interruption, or the person--perhaps both--and she was about to shake him off that Dennis might speak further, when Miss Winthrop and others came up, and there was a general movement back to the parlors.
"Why, Christine, what is the matter?" asked her friend. "You look as if you had a fever. What has Mr. Fleet been saying?"
"Oh, we have had an argument on my hobby, art, and of course don't agree, and so got excited in debate."
Miss Winthrop glanced keenly at them and said, "I would like to have heard it, for it was Greek meeting Greek."
"To what art or _trade_ did Mr. Fleet refer?" asked Mr. Mellen, with an insinuation that all understood.
"One that you do not understand," said Christine, keenly.
The petted and spoiled millionaire flushed angrily a moment, and then said with a bow: "You are right, Miss Ludolph. Mr. Fleet is acquainted with one or two arts that I have never had the pleasure of learning."
"He has at least learned the art of being a gentleman," was the sharp retort.
The young man's face grew darker, and he said, "From the _sweeping_ nature of your remarks, I perceive that Mr. Fleet is high in your favor."
"A poor pun made in poorer taste," was all the comfort he got from Christine.
Dennis was naturally of a very jealous disposition where his affections were concerned. His own love took such entire possession of him that he could not brook the interference of others, or sensibly consider that they had the same privilege to woo, and win if possible, that he had. Especially distasteful to him was this rich and favored youth, whose presence awakened all his combativeness, which was by no means small.
Mr. Mellen's most inopportune interruption and covert taunts provoked him beyond endurance. His face was fairly white with rage, and for a moment he felt that he could stamp his rival out of existence. In the low, concentrated voice of passion he said, "If Mr. Mellen should lose his property, as many do, I gather from his remarks that he would still keep up his idea of a gentleman on charity."
Mr. Mellen flushed to the roots of his hair, his hands clenched. In the flashing eyes and threatening faces of the young men those witnessing the scene foresaw trouble. A light hand fell on Dennis's arm, and Miss Winthrop said, "Mr. Fleet, I wish to show you a picture, and ask your judgment in regard to it."
Dennis understood the act, and in a moment more his face was crimson with shame.
"Miss Winthrop, you ought to send me home at once. I told you I was unfit for society. Somehow I am not myself. I humbly ask your pardon."
"So sincere a penitent shall receive absolution at once. You were greatly provoked. I trust you for the future."
"You may," was the emphatic answer. After that pledge Mr. Mellen might have struck him and received no more response than from a marble statue.
Mr. Mellen also took a sober second thought, remembering that he was in a lady's parlor. He walked away with his ears tingling, for the flattered youth had never had such an experience before. The few who witnessed the scene smiled significantly, as did Christine half contemptuously; but Miss Winthrop soon restored serenity, and the remaining hours passed away in music and dancing. Christine did not speak to Dennis again--that is, by word of mouth--but she thought of him constantly, and their eyes often met;--on his part that same eager, questioning look. She ever turned hers at once away. But his words kept repeating themselves continually, especially his last sentence, when the unlucky Mr. Mellen had broken in upon them--"You can copy anything you see."
"How noble and expressive of varied feeling his face is!" she thought, watching it change under the playful badinage of Miss Winthrop.
"How I would like to copy it! Well, you can--'You can copy anything you see.'" Then like a flash came a suggestion--"You can make him love you, and copy feeling, passion, life--from the _living_ face. Whether I can believe or feel, myself, is very doubtful. This I can do: he himself said so. I cannot love, myself--I must not; I do not wish to now, but perhaps I can inspire love in him, and then make his face a study. As to my believing, he can never know how utterly impossible his faith is to me."
Then conscience entered a mild protest against the cruelty of the project. "Nonsense!" she said to herself; "most girls flirt for sport, and it is a pity if I cannot with such a purpose in view. He will soon get over a little puncture in his heart after I have sailed away to my bright future beyond the sea, and perhaps Susie will comfort him;" and she smiled at the thought. Dennis saw the smile and was entranced by its loveliness. How little he guessed the cause!
Having resolved, Christine acted promptly. When their eyes again met, she gave him a slight smile. He caught it instantly and looked bewildered, as if he could not believe his eyes. Again, when a little later, at the urgent request of many, he sang alone for the first time, and again moved his hearers deeply by the real feeling in his tones, he turned from the applause of all, with that same questioning look, to her. She smiled an encouragement that she had never given him before. The warm blood flooded his face instantly. All thought that it was the general chorus of praise. Christine knew that she had caused it, and surprise and almost exultation came into her face. "I half believe he loves me now," she said. She threw him a few more kindly smiles from time to time, as one might throw some glittering things to an eager child, and every moment assured her of her power.
"I will try one more test," she said, and by a little effort she lured to her side the offended Mr. Mellen, and appeared much pleased by his attention. Then unmistakably the pain of jealousy was stamped on Dennis's face, and she was satisfied. Shaking off the perplexed Mr. Mellen again, she went to the recess of a window to hide her look of exultation.
"The poor victim loves me already," she said. "The mischief is done. I have only to avail myself of what exists from no fault of mine, and surely I ought to; otherwise the passion of the infatuated youth will be utterly wasted, and do no one any good."
Thus in a somewhat novel way Christine obtained a new master in painting, and poor Dennis and his love were put to use somewhat as a human subject might be if dissected alive.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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30
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THE TWO HEIGHTS
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Dennis went home in a strange tumult of hopes and fears, but hope predominated, for evidently she cared little for Mr. Mellen. "The ice is broken at last," he said. It was, but he was like to fall through into a very cold bath, though he knew it not. He was far too excited to sleep, and sat by his open window till the warm June night grew pale with the light of coming day.
Suddenly a bright thought struck him; a moment more and it became an earnest purpose. "I think I can paint something that may express to her what I dare not put in words."
He immediately went up into the loft and prepared a large frame, so proportioned that two pictures could be painted side by side, one explanatory and an advance upon the other. He stretched his canvas over this, and sketched and outlined rapidly under the inspiration of his happy thought.
Christine came with her father to the store, as had been her former custom, and her face had its old expression. The listless, disappointed look was gone. She passed on, not appearing to see him while with her father, and Dennis's heart sank again. "She surely knew where to look for me if she cared to look," he said to himself. Soon after he went to the upper show-room to see to the hanging of a new picture.
"I am so glad your taste, instead of old Schwartz's mathematics, has charge of this department now," said a honeyed voice at his side. He was startled greatly.
"What is the matter? Are you nervous, Mr. Fleet? I had no idea that a lady could so frighten you."
He was blushing like a girl, but said, "I have read that something within, rather than anything without, makes us cowards."
"Ah, then you confess to a guilty conscience?" she replied, with a twinkle in her eye.
"I do not think I shall confess at all till I have a merciful confessor," said Dennis, conscious of a deeper meaning than his light words might convey. " 'The quality of mercy is not strained,' therefore it is unfit for my use. I'll none of it, but for each offence impose unlimited penance."
"But suppose one must sin?"
"He must take the consequences then. Even your humane religion teaches that;" and with this parting arrow she vanished, leaving him too excited to hang his picture straight.
It all seemed a bewildering dream. Being so thoroughly taken by surprise and off his guard, he had said far more than he meant. But had she understood him? Yes, better than he had himself, and laughed at his answers with their covert meanings.
She spent the next two days in sketching and outlining his various expressions as far as possible from memory. She would learn to catch those evanescent lines--that something which makes the human face eloquent, though the lips are silent.
Dennis was in a maze, but he repeated to himself jubilantly again, "The ice is broken." That evening at Mr. Bruder's he asked for studies in ice.
"Vy, dat is out of season," said Mr. Bruder, with a laugh.
"No, now is just the time. It is a nice cool subject for this hot weather. Please oblige me; for certain reasons I wish to be able to paint ice perfectly."
Arctic scenery was Mr. Bruder's forte, on which he specially prided himself. He was too much of a gentleman to ask questions, and was delighted to find the old zest returning in his pupil. They were soon constructing bergs, caves, and grottoes of cold blue ice. Evening after evening, while sufficient light lasted, they worked at this study. Dennis's whole soul seemed bent on the formation of ice. After a month of labor Mr. Bruder said, "I hope you vill get over dis by fall, or ve all freeze to death."
"One of these days I shall explain," said Dennis, smiling.
The evening of the second day after the little rencounter in the show-room, Mr. Ludolph sat enjoying his cigar, and Christine was at the piano playing a difficult piece of music.
"Come, father," she said, "here is a fine thing just from Germany. There is a splendid tenor solo in it, and I want you to sing it for me."
"Pshaw!" said her father, "why did I not think of it before?" and he rang the bell. "Here, Brandt, go down to the store, and if Mr. Fleet is there ask him if he will come up to my rooms for a little while."
Brandt met Dennis just starting for his painting lesson, but led him a willing captive, to give Christine instruction unconsciously.
She, whose strategy had brought it all about, smiled at her success. It was not her father's tenor she wanted, but Dennis's face; and her father should unknowingly work her will. The girl had learned so much from the wily man of the world that she was becoming his master.
Dennis came and entered with a thrill of delight what was to him enchanted ground. Mr. Ludolph was affable, Christine kind, but she looked more than she said.
Dennis sang the solo, after one or two efforts, correctly. Then Mr. Ludolph brought out a piece of music that he wished to try; Christine found others; and before they knew it the evening had passed. Quite a knot of delighted listeners gathered in the street opposite. This Christine pointed out to her father with evident annoyance.
"Well, my dear," he said, "hotel life in a crowded city renders escape from such things impossible."
But a purpose was growing in her mind of which she spoke soon after. Throughout the evening she had studied Dennis's face as much as she could without attracting notice, and the thought grew upon her that at last she had found a path to the success she so craved.
"You seem to have gone to work with your old interest," said her father, as he came out of his room the next morning and found Christine at her easel.
"I shall try it again," she said, briefly.
"That is right," said he. "The idea of being daunted by one partial failure! I predict for you such success as will satisfy even your fastidious taste."
"We shall see," she said. "I hope, too." But she would not have her father know on what grounds. He might regard the experiment as a dangerous one for herself as well as for Dennis, and she decided to keep her plan entirely secret.
She now came to the store daily, and rarely went away without giving Dennis a smile or word of recognition. But he noticed that she ever did this in a casual manner, and in a way that would not attract attention. He also took the hint, and never was obtrusive or demonstrative, but it was harder work for his frank nature. When unobserved, his glances grew more ardent day by day. So far from checking these, she encouraged them, but, when in any way he sought to put his feelings into words, she changed the subject instantly and decidedly. This puzzled him, for he did not understand that looks could be painted, but not words. The latter were of no use to her. But she led him on skilfully, and, from the unbounded power his love gave her, played upon his feelings as adroitly as she touched her grand piano.
Soon after the company at Miss Winthrop's, she said to him, "You received several invitations the other evening, did you not?"
"Yes."
"Accept them. Go into society. It will do you good." Thus he soon found himself involved in a round of sociables, musicales, and now and then a large party. Christine was usually present, radiant, brilliant, the cynosure of all eyes, but ever coolly self-possessed. At first she would greet him with distant politeness, or pretend not to see him at all, but before the evening was over would manage to give him a half-hour in which she would be kind and even gentle at times, but very observant. Then for the rest of the evening he would find no chance to approach. It appeared that she was deeply interested in him, enjoyed his society, and was even becoming attached to him, but that for some reason she determined that no one should notice this, and that matters should only go so far. Poor Dennis could not know that he was only her unconscious instructor in painting, paid solely in the coin of false smiles and delusive hopes. At times, though, she would torture him dreadfully. Selecting one of her many admirers, she would seem to smile upon his suit, and poor Dennis would writhe in all the agonies of jealousy, for he was very human, and had all the normal feeling of a strong man. She would then watch his face grow pale and his manner restless, as quietly and critically as an entomologist regards the struggles of an insect beneath his microscope. Again, she would come to him all grace and sweetness, and his fine face would light up with hope and pleasure. She would say honeyed nothings, but study him just as coolly in another aspect.
Thus she kept him hot and cold by turns--now lifting him to the pinnacle of hope, again casting him down into the valley of fear and doubt. What she wanted of him was just what she had not--feeling, intense, varied feeling, so that, while she remained ice, she could paint as if she felt; and with a gifted woman's tact, and with the power of one loved almost to idolatry, she caused every chord of his soul, now in happy harmony, now in painful discord, to vibrate under her skilful touch. But such a life was very wearing, and he was failing under it. Moreover, he was robbing himself of sleep in the early morning, that he might work on his picture in the loft of the store, for which he asked of poor Mr. Bruder nothing but ice.
Mrs. Bruder worried over him continually.
"You vork too hart. Vat shall we do for you? Oh, my fren, if you love us do not vork so hart," she would often say. But Dennis would only smile and turn to her husband in his insatiable demand for painted ice. At last Mr. Bruder said, "Mr. Fleet, you can paint ice, as far as I see, as veil as myself."
Then Dennis turned around short and said, "Now I want warm rosy light and foliage; give me studies in these."
"By de hammer of Thor, but you go to extremes."
"You shall know all some day," said Dennis, entering on his new tasks with increasing eagerness.
But day by day he grew thinner and paler. Even Christine's heart sometimes relented; for, absorbed as she was in her own work and interests, she could not help noticing how sadly he differed from the vigorous youth who had lifted the heavy pictures for her but a few short weeks ago. But she quieted herself by the thought that he was a better artistic subject, and that he would mend again when the cool weather came.
"Where shall we go for the two hot months?" asked her father the morning after the Fourth.
"I have a plan to propose," replied Christine. "Suppose we go to housekeeping."
"What!" said her father, dropping his knife and fork, and looking at her in astonishment. "Go to all the expense of furnishing a house, when we do not expect to stay here much more than a year? We should hardly be settled before we left it."
"Listen to me patiently till I finish, and then I will abide by your decision. But I think you will give me credit for having a slight turn for business as well as art. You remember Mr. Jones's beautiful house on the north side, do you not? It stands on ---- Street, well back, surrounded by a lawn and flowers. There is only one other house on the block. Well, Mr. Jones is embarrassed, and his house is for sale. From inquiry I am satisfied that a cash offer would obtain the property cheaply. The furniture is good, and much of it elegant. What we do not want--what will not accord with a tasteful refurnishing--can be sent to an auction-room. At comparatively slight expense, if you can spare Mr. Fleet to help me during the time when business is dull, I can make the house such a gem of artistic elegance that it will be noted throughout the city, and next fall some rich snob, seeking to vault suddenly into social position, will give just what you are pleased to ask. In the meantime we have a retired and delightful home.
"Moreover, father," she continued, touching him on his weak side, "it will be a good preparation for the more difficult and important work of the same kind awaiting me in my own land."
"Humph!" said Mr. Ludolph, meditatively, "there is more method in your madness than I imagined. I will think of it, for it is too important a step to be taken hastily."
Mr. Ludolph did think of it, and, after attending to pressing matters in the store, went over to see the property. A few days afterward he came up to dinner and threw the deed for it into his daughter's lap. She glanced it over, and her eyes grew luminous with delight and triumph.
"See how comfortable and happy I will make you in return for this kindness," she said.
"Oh, come," replied her father, laughing, "that is not the point. This is a speculation, and your business reputation is at stake."
"I will abide the test," she answered, with a significant nod.
Christine desired the change for several reasons. There was a room in the house that would just suit her as a studio. She detested the publicity of a hotel. The furnishing of an elegant house was a form of activity most pleasing to her energetic nature, and she felt a very strong wish to try her skill in varied effect before her grand effort in the Ludolph Hall of the future.
But in addition to these motives was another, of which she did not speak to her father. In the privacy of her own home she could pursue that peculiar phase of art study in which she was absorbed. Her life had now become a most exciting one. She ever seemed on the point of obtaining the power to portray the eloquence of passion, feeling, but there was a subtile something that still eluded her. She saw it daily, and yet could not reproduce it. She seemed to get the features right, and yet they were dead, or else the emotion was so exaggerated as to suggest weak sentimentality, and this of all things disgusted her. Every day she studied the expressive face of Dennis Fleet, the mysterious power seemed nearer her grasp. Her effort was now gaining all the excitement of a chase. She saw before her just what she wanted, and it seemed that she had only to grasp her pencil or brush, and place the fleeting expressions where they might always appeal to the sympathy of the beholder. Nearly all her studies now were the human face and form, mainly those of ladies, to disarm suspicion. Of course she took no distinct likeness of Dennis. She sought only to paint what his face expressed. At times she seemed about to succeed, and excitement brought color to her cheek and fire to her eye that made her dazzlingly beautiful to poor Dennis. Then she would smile upon him in such a bewitching, encouraging way that it was little wonder his face lighted up with all the glory of hope.
If once more she could have him about her as when rearranging the store, and, without the restraint of curious eyes, could play upon his heart, then pass at once to her easel with the vivid impression of what she saw, she might catch the coveted power, and become able to portray, as if she felt, that which is the inspiration of all the highest forms of art--feeling.
That evening, Dennis, at Mr. Ludolph's request, came to the hotel to try some new music. During the evening Mr. Ludolph was called out for a little time. Availing himself of the opportunity, Dennis said, "You seem to be working with all your old zest and hope."
"Yes," she said, "with greater hope than ever before."
"Won't you show me something that you are doing?"
"No, not yet. I am determined that when you see work of mine again the fatal defect which you pointed out shall be absent."
His eyes and face became eloquent with the hope she inspired. Was her heart, awakening from its long winter of doubt and indifference, teaching her to paint? Had she recognized the truth of his assurance that she must feel, and then she could portray feeling? and had she read in his face and manner that which had created a kindred impulse in her heart? He was about to speak, the ice of his reserve and prudence fast melting under what seemed good evidence that her smiles and kindness might be interpreted in accordance with his longings. She saw and anticipated.
"With all your cleverness, Mr. Fleet, I may prove you at fault, and become able to portray what I do not feel or believe."
"You mean to say that you work from your old standpoint merely?" asked Dennis, feeling as if a sunny sky had suddenly darkened.
"I do not say that at all, but that I do not work from yours."
"And yet you hope to succeed?" "I think I am succeeding."
Perplexity and disappointment were plainly written on his face. She, with a merry and half-malicious laugh, turned to the piano, and sung: From Mount Olympus' snowy height The gods look down on human life: Beneath contending armies fight; All undisturbed they watch the strife.
Dennis looked at her earnestly, and after a moment said, "Will you please play that accompaniment again?"
She complied, and he sang: Your Mount Olympus' icy peak Is barren waste, by cold winds swept: Another height I gladly see, Where God o'er human sorrow wept.
She turned a startled and almost wistful face to him, for he had given a very unexpected answer to her cold, selfish philosophy, which was so apt and sudden as to seem almost inspired.
"Do you refer to Christ's weeping over Jerusalem?" she asked.
"Yes."
She sat for a little time silent and thoughtful, and Dennis watched her keenly. Suddenly her brow darkened, and she said, bitterly: "Delusion! If He had been a God He would not have idly wept over sorrow. He would have banished it."
Dennis was about to reply eagerly, when Mr. Ludolph entered, and music was resumed. But it was evident that Dennis's lines had disturbed the fair sceptic's equanimity.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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31
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BEGUILED
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Dennis returned to his room greatly perplexed. There was something in Christine's actions which he could not understand. From the time of their first conversation at Miss Winthrop's, she had evidently felt and acted differently. If her heart remained cold and untouched, if as yet neither faith nor love had any existence therein, what was the inspiring motive? Why should deep discouragement change suddenly to assured hope?
Then again her manner was equally inexplicable. From that same evening she gave him more encouragement than he had even hoped to receive for months, but yet he made no progress. She seemed to enjoy meeting him, and constantly found opportunity to do so. Her eyes were continually seeking his face, but there was something in her manner in this respect that puzzled him more than anything else. She often seemed looking at his face, rather than at _him_. At first Christine had been furtive and careful in her observations, but as the habit grew upon her, and her interest increased, she would sometimes gaze so steadily that poor Dennis was deeply embarrassed. Becoming conscious of this, she would herself color slightly, and be more careful for a time.
In her eagerness for success, Christine did not realize how dangerous an experiment she was trying. She could not look upon such a face as Dennis Fleet's, eloquent with that which should never fail to touch a woman's heart with sympathy, and then forget it when she chose. Moreover, though she knew it not, in addition to her interest in him as an art study, his strong, positive nature affected her cool, negative one most pleasantly. His earnest manifested feeling fell like sunlight on a heart benumbed with cold.
Thus, under the stimulus of his presence, she found that she could paint or sketch to much better purpose than when alone. This knowledge made her rejoice in secret over the opportunity she could now have, as Dennis again assisted her in hanging pictures, and affixing to the walls ornaments of various kinds.
Coming to him one morning in the store, she said, "I am going to ask a favor of you again."
Dennis looked as if she were conferring the greatest of favors. His face always lighted up when she spoke to him.
"It is very kind of you to ask so pleasantly for what you can command," he said.
"To something of the same effect you answered before, and the result was the disagreeable experience at Miss Brown's."
Dennis's brow contracted a little, but he said, heroically, "I will go to Miss Brown's again if you wish it."
"How self-sacrificing you are!" she replied, with a half-mischievous smile.
"Not as much so as you imagine," he answered, flushing slightly.
"Well, set your mind at rest on that score. Though not very merciful, as you know, I would put no poor soul through that ordeal again. In this case you will only have to encounter one of the tormentors you met on that occasion, and I will try to vouch for her better behavior." Then she added, seriously: "I hope you will not think the task beneath you. You do not seem to have much of the foolish pride that stands in the way of so many Americans, and then"--looking at him with a pleading face--"I have so set my heart upon it, and it would be such a disappointment if you were unwilling!"
"You need waste no more ammunition on one ready to surrender at discretion," he said.
"Very well; then I shall treat you with all the rigors of a prisoner of war. I shall carry you away captive to my new castle on the north side and put you at your old menial task of hanging pictures and decorating in various ways. As eastern sovereigns built their palaces and adorned their cities by the labors of those whom the fortunes of war threw into their hands, so your skill and taste shall be useful to me; and I, your head task-mistress," she added, with her insinuating smile, "will be ever present to see that there is no idling, nothing but monotonous toil. Had you not better have stood longer in the defensive?"
Dennis held out his hands in mock humility and said: "I am ready for my chains. You shall see with what fortitude I endure my captivity."
"It is well that you should show it somewhere, for you have not done so in your resistance. But I parole you on your honor, to report at such times as I shall indicate and papa can spare you;" and with a smile and a lingering look that seemed, as before, directed to his face rather than himself, she passed out.
That peculiar look often puzzled him, and at times he would go to a glass and see if there was anything wrong or unusual in his appearance. But now his hopes rose higher than ever. She had been very gracious, certainly, and invited intimate companionship. Dennis felt that she must have read his feelings in his face and manner, and, to his ingenuous nature, any encouragement seemed to promise all he hoped.
For a week after this he scarcely saw her, for she was very busy making preliminary arrangements for the occupation of her new home. But one afternoon she suddenly appeared, and said, with affected severity, "Report to-mor-row at nine A.M." Dennis bowed humbly. She gave him a pleasant smile over her shoulder, and passed away as quickly as she had come. It seemed like a vision to him, and only a trace of her favorite perfume (which indeed ever seemed more an atmosphere than a perfume) remained as evidence that she had been there.
At five minutes before the time on the following day he appeared at the new Ludolph mansion. From an open window Christine beckoned him to enter, and welcomed him with characteristic words--"In view of your foolish surrender to my power, remember that you have no rights that I am bound to respect."
"I throw myself on your mercy."
"I have already told you that I do not possess that trait; so prepare for the worst."
She was dressed in some light summer fabric, and her rounded arms and neck were partially bare. She looked so white and cool, so self-possessed, and, with all her smiles, so devoid of warm human feeling, that Dennis felt a sudden chill at heart. The ancient fable of the sirens occurred to him. Might she not be luring him on to his own destruction? At times he almost hoped that she loved him; again, something in her manner caused him to doubt everything. But there were not, as in the case of Ulysses and his crew, friendly hands to bind and restrain, or to put wax in his ears, and soon the music of her voice, the strong enchantment of the love she had inspired, banished all thought of prudence. His passion was now becoming a species of intoxication, a continued and feverish excitement, and its influence was unhappy on mind and body. There was no rest, peace, or assurance in it, and the uncertainty, the tantalizing inability to obtain a definite satisfying word, and yet the apparent nearness of the prize, wore upon him. Sometimes, when late at night he sat brooding over his last interview, weighing with the nice scale of a lover's anxiety her every look and even accent, his own haggard face would startle him.
Then again her influence was not morally good, and his interest declined in everything save what was connected with her.
Conscience at times told him that he was more bent on gaining her love for himself than in winning it for God. He satisfied himself by trying to reason that when he had won her affection his power for good would be greater, and thus, while he ever sought to look and suggest his own love in nameless little ways, he made less and less effort to remind her of a better love than even his. Moreover, she never encouraged any approach to sacred themes, sometimes repelling it decidedly, and so, though he would scarcely acknowledge it, the traitorous fear sprung up, that in speaking of God's love he might mar his chances of speaking of his own.
In the retirement of his own room, his reveries grew longer, and his prayers shorter and less inspired by faith and earnestness. At the mission school, Susie Winthrop noticed with regret that the lesson was often given in a listless, preoccupied manner; and even the little boys themselves missed something in the teacher once so interesting and animated. From witnessing his manner when with Christine, Miss Winthrop had more than suspected his secret for some time, and she felt at first a genuine sympathy for him, believing his love to be hopeless. From the first she had found Dennis very fascinating, but when she read his secret in his ardent glances toward Christine, she became conscious that her interest was rather greater than passing acquaintance warranted, and, like the good, sensible girl that she was, fought to the death the incipient fancy. At first she felt that he ought to know that Christine was pledged to a future that would render his love vain. But her own feelings made her so exceedingly sensitive that it was impossible to attempt so difficult and delicate a task. Then, as Christine seemed to smile upon him, she said to herself: "After all, what is their plan, but a plan, and to me a very chimerical one? Perhaps Mr. Fleet can give Christine a far better chance of happiness than her father's ambition. And, after all, these are matters in which no third person can interfere." So, while remaining as cordial as ever, she prudently managed to see very little of Dennis.
As we have seen, under Christine's merry and half-bantering words (a style of conversation often assumed with him), even the thought of caution vanished. She led him over the moderately large and partially furnished house. There were women cleaning, and mechanics at work on some of the rooms. As they passed along she explained the nature of the decorations she wished. They consisted largely of rich carvings in wood, and unique frames.
"I wish you to help me design these, and see that they are properly put up, and to superintend the fresco-painters and mechanics in general. Indeed, I think you are more truly my prime-minister than my captive."
"Not less your captive," said Dennis, with a flush.
She gave him a bewildering smile, and then studied its effect upon him. He was in Elysium, and his eyes glowed with delight at her presence and the prospect before him. At last she led him into two large apartments on the second floor that opened into each other, and said, "These are my rooms; that yonder is my studio," as was evident from the large easel with canvas prepared upon it.
They at once had to Dennis all the sacredness of a shrine.
"I intend to make these rooms like two beautiful pictures," said Christine, "and here shall be the chief display of your taste."
Dennis could scarcely believe his ears, or realize that the cold, beautiful girl who a few short months ago did not notice him now voluntarily gave him such opportunities to urge his suit. The success that a man most covets seemed assured, and his soul was intoxicated with delight. He said, "You intimated that my tasks might be menial, but I feel as I imagine a Greek artist must have done, when asked to decorate the temple of a goddess."
"I think I told you once before that your imagination overshadowed your other faculties."
Her words recalled the painted girl whom she by a strange coincidence so strongly resembled. To his astonishment he saw the same striking likeness again. Christine was looking at him with the laughing, scornful expression that the German lady bent upon the awkward lover who kneeled at her feet. His face darkened in an instant.
"Have I offended you?" she asked, gently; "I remember now you did not admire that picture."
"I liked everything about it save the expression of the girl's face. I think you will also remember that I said that such a face should be put to nobler uses."
Christine flushed slightly, and for a moment was positively afraid of him. She saw that she must be more careful, for she was dealing with one of quick eye and mind. At the same time her conscience reproached her again. The more she saw of him the more she realized how sincere and earnest he was; how different from ordinary society-men, to whom an unsuccessful suit to a fair lady is a mere annoyance. But she was not one to give up a purpose readily for the sake of conscience or anything else, and certainly not now, when seemingly on the point of success. So she said, with a slight laugh, "Do not compare me to any of those old pagan myths again;" and having thus given a slight reason, or excuse, for her unfortunate expression, she proceeded to beguile him more thoroughly than ever by the subtile witchery of smiles, glances, and words, that might mean everything or nothing.
"You seem to have a study on your easel there," said Dennis, as they stood together in the studio. "May I see it?"
"No," said she; "you are to see nothing till you see a triumph in the portrayal of feeling and lifelike earnestness that even your critical eye cannot condemn."
She justly feared that, should he see her work, he might discover her plan; for, however she might disguise it, something suggesting himself entered into all her studies.
"I hope you will succeed, but doubt it."
"Why?" she asked, quickly.
"Because we cannot portray what we cannot feel. The stream cannot rise higher than its fountain." Then he added, with heightened color and some hesitation, "I fear--your heart is still sleeping"; and he watched with deep anxiety how she would take the questioning remark.
At first she flushed almost angrily; but, recovering self-possession in a moment, she threw upon him an arch smile, suggesting all that a lover could wish, and said: "Be careful, Mr. Fleet; you are seeking to penetrate mysteries that we most jealously guard. You know that in the ancient temple there was an inner sanctuary which none might enter."
"Yes, _one_ might," said Dennis, significantly.
With her long lashes she veiled the dark blue eyes that expressed anything but tender feeling, and yet, so shaded, they appeared as a lover would wish, and in a low tone she answered, "Well, he could not enter when he would, only when permitted."
She raised her eyes quickly to see the effect; and she did see an effect that she would have given thousands to be able to transfer to canvas.
His face, above all she had ever seen, seemed designed to express feeling, passion; and his wearing life had made it so thin, and his eyes were so large and lustrous, that the spiritual greatly predominated, and she felt as if she could almost see the throbs of the strong, passionate heart.
Apart from her artistic purposes, contact with such warm, intense life had for Christine a growing fascination. She had not realized that in kindling and fanning this flame of honest love to sevenfold power and heat, she might be kindled herself. When, therefore, she saw the face of Dennis Fleet eloquent with the deepest, strongest feeling that human features can portray, another chord than the artistic one was touched, and there was a low, faint thrill of that music which often becomes the sweetest harmony of life.
"And at some time in the future may I hope to enter?" he asked, tremulously.
She threw him another smile over her shoulder as she turned to her easel--a smile that from a true woman would mean, You may, but which from many would mean nothing, and said, vaguely, "What is life without hope?" and then, as matters were going too fast and far, decisively changed the subject.
Seated at her easel she painted eagerly and rapidly, while he measured the space over and around the fireplace with a view to its ornamentation. She kept the conversation on the general subject of art, and, though Dennis knew it not, every glance at his face was that of a portrait-painter.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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32
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BITTER DISAPPOINTMENT
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Dennis went back to the store in a maze of hopes and fears, but hope predominated. Christine could not be indifferent and treat him as she did, if she had a particle of sincerity, and with a lover's faith he would not believe her false, though he knew her to be so faulty.
"At any rate," he said to himself, "in this new arrangement I have all the opportunity a man could ask, and if I cannot develop her plainly manifested interest into something more decisive by such companionship, I may as well despair;" and he determined to avail himself of every advantage within his reach in making the most of what he deemed a rare stroke of fortune. His greatly increased salary enabled him to dress with that taste and even elegance so pleasing to a lady's eye, and he had withal acquired that ease and grace of manner which familiarity with the best society bestows.
It is also well to tell the reader that after some hesitation Dennis had confided his feelings to his mother, and received from her the warmest sympathy. To Ethel Fleet's unworldly nature, that he should fall in love with and marry his employer's daughter seemed eminently fitting, with just a spice of beautiful romance. And it was her son's happiness and Christine's beauty that she thought of, not Mr. Ludolph's money. In truth, such was her admiration for her son, she felt that with all her wealth the young lady would receive a greater honor than she conferred. Though Dennis wrote with the partiality of a lover, he could not so portray Christine's character but that his mother felt the deepest anxiety, and often sighed in sad foreboding of serious trouble in the future.
From Mrs. Fleet's knowledge of her son's passion, Christine, though she knew it not, received another advantage of incalculable value. Dennis had painted an excellent little cabinet likeness of her, and sent it to his mother. In the quiet of the night she would sit down before that picture, and by her strong imagination summon her ideal of Christine, and then lead her directly to Christ, as parents brought their children of old. Could such prayers and faith be in vain? Faith is often sorely tried in this world, but never tried in vain.
Day after day Dennis went to Mr. Ludolph's new home during the morning hours, and Christine's spell worked with bewildering and increasing power. While she tortured him with many doubts and fears, his hope grew to be almost a certainty that he had at last made a place for himself in her heart. Sometimes the whole story of his love trembled on his lips, but she never permitted its utterance. That she determined should be reserved for the climax. He usually met her alone, but noticed that in the presence of others she was cool and undemonstrative. Mr. Ludolph rarely saw them together, and, when he did, there was nothing in his daughter's manner to awaken suspicion. This perfectly acted indifference in the presence of others, and equally well acted regard when alone, often puzzled Dennis sorely. But at last he concluded: "She is wiser than I. She knows that I am in no condition now to make proposals for her hand; therefore it is better that there should be no recognized understanding between us;" and he resolved to be as prudent as she. Then again she would so awaken his jealousy and fears that he would feel that he must know his fate--that anything was better than such torturing uncertainty.
As for Christine, two processes were going on in her mind--one that she recognized, and one that she did not.
Her artistic aims were clear and definite. In the first place she meant perfectly to master the human face as it expressed emotions, especially such as were of a tender nature; and in the second place she intended to paint a picture that in itself would make her famous. She chose a most difficult and delicate subject--of the character she had ever failed in--a declaration of love.
When Dennis began to work again in her presence, the picture was well advanced.
In a grand old hall, whose sides were decorated with armor and weapons, a young man stood pleading his cause with a lady whose hand he held. The young girl's face was so averted that only a beautiful profile was visible, but her form and attitude were grace itself. The lovers stood in an angle of the hall near an open window, through which was seen a fine landscape, a picture within a picture. But Christine meant to concentrate all her power and skill on the young knight's face. This should be eloquent with all the feeling and passion that the human face could express, and she would insure its truthfulness to life by copying life itself--the reality. Dennis Fleet was the human victim that she was offering on the altar of her ambition.
Much of the picture was merely in outline, but she finished the form and features of the suppliant in all save the expression, and this she meant to paint from his face whenever she was in the right mood and could bring matters to a crisis.
After he had been coming to the house two or three times a week for nearly a month she felt that she was ready for the final scene, and yet she dreaded it, she had staked so much hope upon it. It also provoked her to find that she was really afraid of him. His was such a strong, sincere nature, that she felt increasingly the wrong of trifling with it. In vain she tried to quiet herself by saying, "I do not care a straw for him, and he will soon get over his infatuation on discovering the truth."
But she had a lesson to learn as well as he, for as we have intimated, unrecognized as yet, there was a process going on in her mind that in time would make strange havoc in her cold philosophy. Her heart's long winter was slowly breaking up; her girlish passion, intense as it was foolish, proved that she had a heart. Everything had been against her. Everything in her experience and education, and especially in her father's strong character and prejudices, had combined to deaden and to chill her; and had these influences continued, she would undoubtedly have become as cold and hard as some whom we find in advanced life with natures like the poles, where the ice gathers year after year, but never melts.
But in Dennis Fleet she met a nature as positive as she was becoming negative. He was so warm and earnest that when she commenced to fan his love into a stronger flame for purely artistic purposes, as she vowed to herself, some sparks of the sacred fire fell on the cold altar of her own heart and slowly began to kindle.
But this awakening would not now be that of a child, but of a _woman_. Therefore, Mr. Ludolph, beware!
But she had yet much to learn in the hard, strange school of experience before she would truly know herself or her own needs.
Success in art, however, was still her ruling passion. And though strange misgivings annoyed and perplexed her, though her respect for Dennis daily increased, and at times a sudden pity and softness made her little hands hesitate before giving an additional wrench to the rack of uncertainty upon which she kept him; still, she would not for the world have abandoned her purpose, and such compunctions were as yet but the little back eddies of the strong current.
One day, in the latter part of August, Christine felt herself in the mood to give the finishing touch to the principal figure in her picture. The day was somewhat hazy, the light subdued and favorable for artistic work. Though she had prolonged Dennis's labors, to his secret delight and great encouragement, she could not keep him employed much longer.
She sent for him to come over in the afternoon. "Some brackets, carvings, and pictures had come for her studio, and she wished him to put them up," she said, coolly, as he entered.
He had come glowing with hope and almost assurance, for, the last time they had parted, she had dismissed him with unusual kindness. But here was one of those capricious changes again that he could not understand.
She took her seat at her easel, saying, with a nod and a smile, "I can direct you here, for I am in a mood for work this afternoon."
He bowed quietly and went on with his task. Her rather cool reception oppressed him, and the tormenting question presented itself, for the hundredth time, "Can she in any degree feel as I do?" He longed to settle the matter by plain, straightforward action.
Her maid knocked at the door, saying, "The mail, mademoiselle."
A dainty note was handed her, which seemed decidedly pleasing, and Dennis noticed as she read it that she wore on her finger a solitaire diamond that he had not seen before. His latent jealousy was aroused. She saw that her spell was working, and smiled. Soon she said: "Mr. Fleet, you seem very grave. What is the matter?"
He answered, curtly, "Nothing."
She looked at him with a pretty, pained surprise. At the same time her heart smote her. His face was so pale and thin, and indicated such real suffering, that she pitied him more than ever. But she would have suffered much herself for the sake of success, and she was not one to hesitate long over the suffering of another. She compressed her lips as she said, mentally: "Art is first, and these transient feelings are secondary. There is little in the world but that has cost some one deeply." She did not know how profound a truth this was.
After a few moments Dennis said, in a tone that had a jealous tinge, "Miss Ludolph, your correspondent seems to interest you deeply."
"And you also, I think," she replied, with an arch smile; "and you will be interested still more when you have read this;" and she offered him the note.
"I have no right--do not think me prying," said he, flushing.
"I give the right. You know a lady can give many rights--if she chooses," she added, significantly.
He looked at her eagerly.
Her eyes fell consciously, and her cheeks glowed with excitement, for she felt that the critical moment had come. But instantly her proud, resolute nature aroused as never before, and she determined to make the most of the occasion, let the consequences be what they might. Therefore she worked eagerly and watched him closely. Never had she been so conscious of power. She felt inspired, capable of placing on the canvas anything she chose. If in this mood she could succeed in bringing into his face just the expression she desired, she could catch it and fix it forever, and with it make a laurel (not a hymeneal) wreath for her own brow. But what could Dennis know of all this? To him the glowing cheek and eyes so lustrous told a different tale; and hope--sweet, exquisite, almost assured--sprang up in his heart.
And he meant that it should be assured. He would speak that day if it were possible, and _know_ his happiness, instead of fondly believing and hoping that all was sure. Then he would be as prudent and patient as she desired. Thus Christine was destined to have her wish fulfilled.
She continued: "The note is from a special friend of yours; indeed I think you form a little mutual-admiration society, and you are spoken of, so I think you had better read it."
"I shall not read the note," said Dennis; "but you may tell me, if you choose, what you think the writer will have no objection to my knowing."
"And do you mean to suggest that you do not know who wrote the note? I can inform you that you are to be invited to a moonlight sail and musicale on the water. Is not that a chance for romance?"
"And will _you_ go?" asked Dennis, eagerly.
"Yes, if _you_ will," she said, in a low tone, giving him a sidelong glance.
This was too much for Dennis, the manner more than the words, and taken together they would have led any earnest man to committal. He was about to speak eagerly, but she was not quite ready.
"Moreover," she continued, quickly, while Dennis stood before her with cheeks alternately hot and pale, "this special friend who invites you will be there. Now don't pretend ignorance of her name."
"I suppose you mean Miss Winthrop," said Dennis, flushing.
"Ah, you blush, do you? Well, it is my turn to ask pardon for seeming curiosity."
He drew a few steps nearer to her, and the expression she had so longed to see came into his face. She looked at him earnestly with her whole soul in her eyes. She would photograph him on memory, if possible. For a moment or two he hesitated, embarrassed by her steady gaze, and seemingly at a loss for words. Then, in a low, deep tone he said, "You, better than any one, know that I have no cause to blush at the mention of Miss Winthrop's name."
She did not answer, but was painting rapidly. He thought this was due to natural excitement expressing itself in nervous action. But she did not discourage him, and this he felt was everything. With his heart in his eyes and tones, he said: "Oh, Christine, what is the use of wearing this transparent mask any longer? Your quick woman's eye has seen for weeks the devoted love I cherish for you. I have heard much of woman's intuitions. Perhaps you saw my love before I recognized it myself, since your grace and beauty caused it to grow unconsciously while I was your humble attendant. But, Christine, believe me, if you will but utter in words what I fondly believe I have read in your kindly glances and manner, though so delicately veiled--if you will give me the strength and rest which come of assured hope--I know that not far in the future I shall be able to place at your feet more than mere wealth. I, too, hope to be an artist, and you have been my chief inspiration. I could show you a picture now that would tell more of what I mean than can my poor words. There is a richer and happier world than you have yet known, and oh, how I have prayed that I might lead you into it!" and in words of burning eloquence he proceeded to tell the story of his love.
She heard him as in a dream. She understood his words, remembered them afterward, but so intent was she on her darling purpose that she heeded them not. His voice sounded far away, and every power of mind and body was concentrated to transfer his expression to the canvas before her. Even he, blinded as he was by his emotions, occupied by the long pent-up torrent of feeling that he was pouring into her unheeding ear, wondered at her strange, dazzling beauty and peculiar manner.
After speaking a moment or two, the blur over his eyes and the confusion of his mind began to pass away, and he was perplexed beyond measure at the way she was receiving the open declaration of his love. She was painting through it all, not with the nervous, random stroke of one who sought to hide excitement and embarrassment in occupation. She was working earnestly, consciously, with precision, and, what was strangest of all, she seemed so intent upon his face that his words, which would have been such music to any woman that loved, were apparently unheard. He stopped, but the break in his passionate flow of language was unnoted.
"Christine, listen to me!" he cried, in an agony of fear and perplexity. The tone of his appeal might have stirred a marble bosom to pity, but she only raised her left hand deprecatingly as if warding off an interruption, while she worked with intense eagerness with her right.
"Christine!" a frown contracted her brow for a second, but she worked on.
He looked at her as if fearing she had lost her reason, but there was no madness in her swift, intelligent strokes. Then like a flash the thought came to him: "It is my face, not myself, that she wants! This, then, has been the secret of her new hope as an artist. She would not feel, as I told her she must, but she would call out and copy my emotion; and this scene, which means life or death to me, is to her but a lesson in art, and I am no more than the human subject under the surgeon's knife. But surely no anatomist is so cruel as to put in his lancet before the man is dead."
Every particle of color receded from his face, and he watched her manner for the confirmation of his thought.
Her face was indeed a study. A beautiful smile parted her lips, her eyes glowed with the exultation of assured and almost accomplished success, and she looked like an inspired priestess at a Greek oracle.
But a bitterness beyond words was filling his heart.
A few more skilful strokes, and she threw down her brush, crying in ecstatic tones, "Eureka! Eureka!" as she stood before the painting in rapt admiration. In an instant he stood by her side. With all the pride of triumph she pointed to the picture, and said: "Criticise that, if you can! Deny that there is soul, life, feeling there, if you dare! Is that painting but a 'beautiful corpse'?"
Dennis saw a figure and features suggesting his own, pleading with all the eloquence of true love before the averted face of the maiden in the picture. It was indeed a triumph, having all the power of the reality.
He passed his hand quickly across his forehead, as if to repel some terrible delusion, while yet he whispered its reality to himself, in silent, despairing confession: "Ah, my God! How cold she must be when she can see any one look like that, and yet copy the expression as from a painted face upon the wall!"
Then, his own pride and indignation rising, he determined at once to know the truth; whether he held any place in her heart, or whether the picture was all, and he nothing.
Drawing a step nearer, as if to examine more closely, he seized a brush of paint and drew it over the face that had cost both him and Christine so much, and then turned and looked at her.
For a moment she stood paralyzed, so great seemed the disaster. Then she turned on him in fury. "How dare you!" she exclaimed.
Only equal anger, and the consciousness of right, could have sustained any man under the lightning of her eyes.
"Rather, let me ask, how dare you?" he replied, in the deep, concentrated voice of passion; and lover and lady stood before the ruined picture with blazing eyes. In the same low, stern voice he continued, "I see the secret of your artistic hope now, Miss Ludolph, but permit me to say that you have made your first and last success, and there in that black stain, most appropriately black, is the result."
She looked as if she could have torn him to atoms.
"You have been false," he continued. "You have acted a lie before me for weeks. You have deceived in that which is most sacred, and with sacrilegious hands have trifled with that which every true man regards as holy."
She trembled beneath his stern, accusing words. Conscience echoed them, anger and courage were fast deserting her in the presence of the aroused and more powerful spirit of her wronged lover. But she said, petulantly, "Nonsense! You know well that half the ladies of the city would have flirted with you from mere vanity and love of power; my motive was infinitely beyond this."
Until now this had almost seemed sufficient reason to excuse her action, but she distrusted it even to loathing as she saw the look of scorn come out on his noble face.
"And is that your best plea for falsehood? A moment since I loved you with a devotion that you will never receive again. But now I despise you."
"Sir!" she cried, her face scarlet with shame and anger, "leave this room!"
"Yes, in a moment, and never again to enter it while Christine Ludolph is as false in character as she is beautiful in person. But before I go, you, in your pride and luxury, shall hear the truth for once. Not only have you been false, but you have been what no true woman ever can be--cruel as death. Your pencil has been a stiletto with which you have slowly felt for my heart. You have dipped your brush in human suffering as if it were common paint. Giotto stabbed a man and mercifully took him off by a few quick pangs, that he might paint his dying look. You, more cruel, accomplish your purpose by slow, remorseless torture. Merciful Heaven only knows what I have suffered since you smiled and frowned on me by turns, but I felt that if I could only win your love I would gladly endure all. You falsely made me believe that I had won it, and yet all the while you were dissecting my heart, as a surgeon might a living subject. And now what have you to offer to solace the bitterness of coming years? Do you not know that such deeds make men bad, faithless, devilish? Never dream of success till you are changed utterly. Only the noble in deed and in truth can reach high and noble art."
She sat before the disfigured picture with her face bowed in her hands.
She thought he was gone, but still remained motionless like one doomed. A few moments passed and she was startled by hearing his voice again. It was no longer harsh and stern, but sad, grave, and pitiful. "Miss Ludolph, may God forgive you."
She trembled. Pride and better feeling were contending for the mastery. After a few moments she sprang up and reached out her hands; but he was gone now in very truth.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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33
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THE TWO PICTURES
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When Christine saw that Dennis was not in the room, she rushed to a window only in time to see his retreating form passing down the street. For a moment she felt like one left alone to perish on a sinking wreck. His words, so assured in their tones, seemed like those of a prophet. Conscience echoed them, and a chill of fear came over her heart. What if he were right? What if she had let the one golden opportunity of her life pass? Even though she had stolen her inspiration from him through guile and cruelty, had he not enabled her to accomplish more than in all her life before? To what might he not have led her, if she had put her hand frankly and truthfully in his? There are times when to those most bewildered in mazes of error light breaks, clear and unmistakable, defining right and wrong with terrible distinctness. Such an hour was this to Christine. The law of God written on her heart asserted itself, and she trembled at the guilty thing she saw herself to be. But there seemed no remedy save in the one she had driven away, never to return, as she believed. After a brief but painful revery she exclaimed: "But what am I thinking of? What can he or any man of this land be to me?"
Then pride, her dominant trait, awoke as she recalled his words.
"He despises me, does he? I will teach him that I belong to a sphere he cannot touch--the poor infatuated youth! And did he dream that I, Christine Ludolph, could give him my hand? He shall learn some day that none in this land could receive that honor, and none save the proudest in my own may hope for it. The idea of my giving up my ancient and honorable name for the sake of this unknown Yankee youth."
Bold, proud words that her heart did not echo.
But pride and anger were now her controlling impulses, and with the strong grasp of her resolute will she crushed back her gentler and better feelings, and became more icy and hard than ever.
By such choice and action, men and women commit moral suicide.
With a cold, white face, and a burnished gleam in her eyes, she went to the easel and commenced painting out the ominous black stain.
"I'll prove him a false prophet also. I will be an artist without passing through all his sentimental and superstitious phases that have so amused me during the past weeks. I have seen his lovelorn face too often not to be able to reproduce it and its various expressions."
Her strokes were quick and almost fierce.
"Mrs. Dennis Fleet, ha! ha! ha!" and her laugh was as harsh and discordant as the feeling that prompted it.
Again, a little later: "He despises me! Well, he is the first man that ever dared to say that;" and her face was flushed and dark with anger.
Dennis at first walked rapidly from the scene of his bitter disappointment, but his steps soon grew slow and feeble. The point of endurance was passed. Body and mind acting and reacting on each other had been taxed beyond their powers, and both were giving way. He felt that they were, and struggled to reach the store before the crisis should come. Weak and trembling, he mounted the steps, but fell fainting across the threshold. One of the clerks saw him fall and gave the alarm. Mr. Ludolph, Mr. Schwartz, and others hastened to the spot. Dennis was carried to his room, and a messenger was despatched for Dr. Arten. Ernst, with flying feet, and wild, frightened face, soon reached his home in De Koven Street, and startled his father and mother with the tidings.
The child feared that Dennis was dead, his face was so thin and white. Leaving the children in Ernst's care, both Mr. and Mrs. Bruder, prompted by their strong gratitude to Dennis, rushed through the streets as if distracted. Their intense anxiety and warm German feeling caused them to heed no more the curious glances cast after them than would a man swimming for life note the ripple he made.
When Dennis regained consciousness, they, and Mr. Ludolph and Dr. Arten, were around him. At first his mind was confused, and he could not understand it all.
"Where am I?" he asked, feebly, "and what has happened?"
"Do not be alarmed; you have only had a faint turn," said the doctor.
"Oh, Mr. Fleet, you vork too hart, you vork too hart; I knew dis vould come," sobbed Mrs. Bruder.
"Why, his duties in the store have not been so onerous of late," said Mr. Ludolph, in some surprise.
"It is not der vork in der store, but he vork nearly all night too. Den he haf had trouble, I know he haf. Do he say no vort about him?"
Dennis gave Mrs. Bruder a sudden warning look, and then, through the strong instinct to guard his secret, roused himself.
"Is it anything serious, doctor?" he asked.
The physician looked grave, and said, "Your pulse and whole appearance indicate great exhaustion and physical depression, and I also fear that fever may set in."
"I think you are right," said Dennis. "I feel as if I were going to be ill. My mind has a tendency to wander. Mr. Ludolph, will you permit me to go home? If I am to be sick, I want to be with my mother."
Mr. Ludolph looked inquiringly at the doctor, who said significantly, in a low tone, "I think it would be as well."
"Certainly, Fleet," said his employer; "though I hope it is only a temporary indisposition, and that you will be back in a few days. You must try and get a good night's rest, and so be prepared for the journey in the morning."
"With your permission I will go at once. A train leaves now in an hour, and by morning I can be at home."
"I scarcely think it prudent," began the doctor.
"Oh, certainly not to-night," said Mr. Ludolph, also.
"Pardon me, I must go at once," interrupted Dennis, briefly and so decidedly that the gentlemen looked at each other and said no more.
"Mr. Bruder," he continued, "I must be indebted to you for a real proof of your friendship. In that drawer you will find my money. The key is in my pocketbook. Will you get a carriage and take me to the depot at once? and can you be so kind as to go on home with me? I cannot trust myself alone. Mrs. Bruder, will you pack up what you think I need?" His faithful friends hastened to do his bidding.
"Mr. Ludolph, you have been very kind to me. I am sorry this has occurred, but cannot help it. I thank you gratefully, and will now trespass on your valuable time no longer."
Mr. Ludolph, feeling that he could be of no further use, said: "You will be back in a week, Fleet. Courage. Good-by."
Dennis turned eagerly to the doctor and said: "Can you not give me something that will reduce the fever and keep me sane a little longer? I know that I am going to be delirious, but would reach the refuge of home first."
A prescription was given and immediately procured, and the doctor went away shaking his head.
"This is the way people commit suicide. They know no more about, or pay no more heed to, the laws of health than the laws of China. Here is the result: This young fellow has worked in a way that would break down a cast-iron machine, and now may never see Chicago again."
But Dennis might have worked even in his intense way for months and years without serious harm, had not a fair white hand kept him on the rack of uncertainty and fear.
Not work, but worry, makes havoc of health.
In the gray dawn Ethel Fleet, summoned from her rest, received her son, weak, unconscious, muttering in delirium, and not recognizing even her familiar face. He was indeed a sad, painful contrast to the ruddy, buoyant youth who had left her a few short months before, abounding in hope and life. But she comforted herself with the thought that neither sin nor shame had brought him home.
We need not dwell on the weary weeks that followed. Dennis had every advantage that could result from good medical skill and the most faithful nursing. But we believe that his life lay rather in his mother's prayers of faith. In her strong realization of the spiritual world she would go continually into the very presence of Jesus, and say, "Lord, he whom Thou lovest is sick"; or, like parents of old, she would seem by her importunity to bring the Divine Physician to his very bedside.
Mr. Bruder, too, insisted on remaining, and watched with the unwearied faithfulness of one who felt that he owed to Dennis far more than life. It was indeed touching to see this man, once so desperate and depraved, now almost as patient and gentle as the mother herself, sitting by his unconscious friend, often turning his eyes heavenward and muttering in deep guttural German as sincere a prayer as ever passed human lips, that Dennis might be spared.
The hand of God seemed about to take him from them, but their strong, loving faith laid hold of that hand, and put upon it the restraint that only reverent, believing prayer can. Dennis lived. After many days delirium ceased, and the confused mind became clear. But during his delirium Ethel and Mr. Bruder learned from the oft-repeated words, "Cruel, cruel Christine!" the nature of the wound that had nearly destroyed his life.
Mr. Ludolph was late in reaching his home on the evening after Dennis was taken sick. Christine sat in the dusk on the ivy-shaded piazza, awaiting him. He said, abruptly, "What have you been doing to Fleet, over here?"
For a second her heart stood still, and she was glad the increasing gloom disguised her face. By a great effort she replied, in a cool, matter-of-fact tone: "I do not understand your question. Mr. Fleet was here this afternoon, and gave some finishing touches to my studio. I do not think I shall need him any more."
Her quiet, indifferent voice would have disarmed suspicion itself.
"It is well you do not, for he seems to have received some 'finishing touches' himself. He fell across the threshold of the store in a dead faint, and has gone home, threatened with a serious illness."
Even her resolute will could not prevent a sharp, startled exclamation.
"What is the matter?" said her father, hastily; "you are not going to faint also, are you?"
"No," said Christine, quietly again; "but I am tired and nervous, and you told your news so abruptly! Why, it seemed but a moment ago he was here at work, and now he is dangerously ill. What an uncertain stumbling forward in the dark life is!"
This was a style of moralizing peculiarly distasteful to Mr. Ludolph--all the more repugnant because it seemed true, and brought home in Dennis's experience. Anything that interfered with his plans and interests, even though it might be God's providence, always angered him. And now he was irritated at the loss of one of his best clerks, just as he was becoming of great value; so he said, sharply: "I hope you are not leaning toward the silly cant of mysterious providence. Life is uncertain stumbling only to fools who can't see the chances that fortune throws in their way, or recognize the plain laws of health and success. This young Fleet has been putting two days' work in one for the past four months, and now perhaps his work is done forever, for the doctor looked very grave over him."
Again the shadow of night proved most friendly to Christine. Her face had a frightened, guilty look that it was well her father did not see, or he would have wrung from her the whole story. She felt the chill of a terrible dread at heart. If he should die, her conscience would give a fearful verdict against her. She stood trembling, feeling almost powerless to move.
"Come," said her father, sharply, "I am hungry and tired."
"I will ring for lights and supper," said Christine hastily, and then fled to her own room.
When she appeared, her father was sitting at the table impatiently awaiting her. But her face was so white, and there was such an expression in her eyes, that he started and said, "What is the matter?"
His question irritated her, and she replied as sharply as he had spoken.
"I told you I was tired, and I don't feel well. I have been a month in constant effort to get this house in order, and I am worn out, I suppose."
He looked at her keenly, but said more kindly, "Here, my dear, take this wine"; and he poured out a glass of old port.
She drank it eagerly, for she felt she must have something that would give her life, warmth, and courage. In a way she could not understand, her heart sank within her.
But she saw her father was watching her, and knew she must act skillfully to deceive him. Rallied and strengthened by the generous wine, her resolute will was soon on its throne again, and Mr. Ludolph with all his keen insight was no match for her. In a matter-of-fact tone she said: "I do not see how we have worked Mr. Fleet to death. Does he charge anything of the kind? 7' "Oh, no! but he too seems possessed with the idea of becoming an artist. That drunken old Bruder, whom he appears to have reformed, was giving him lessons, and after working all day he would study much of the night and paint as soon as the light permitted in the morning. He might have made something if he had had a judicious friend to guide him" ("And such you might have been," whispered her conscience), "but now he drops away like untimely fruit."
"It is a pity," said she, coolly, and changed the subject, as if she had dismissed it from her mind.
Mr. Ludolph believed that Dennis was no more to his daughter than a useful clerk.
The next morning Christine rose pale and listless.
Her father said, "I will arrange my business so that we can go off on a trip in a few days."
When left alone she sat down at her easel and tried to restore the expression that had so delighted her on the preceding day. But she could not. Indeed she was greatly vexed to find that her tendency was to paint his stern and scornful look, which had made a deeper impression on her mind than any she had even seen on his face, because so unexpected and novel. She became irritated with herself, and cried, fiercely: "Shame on your weakness! You are unworthy of your blood and ancestry. I will reproduce that face as it was before he so insolently destroyed it;" and she bent over her easel with an expression not at all in harmony with her work. Unconsciously she made a strange contrast, with her severe, hard face and compressed lips, to the look of love and pleading she sought to paint. For several days she wrought with resolute purpose, but found that her inspiration was gone.
At last she threw down her brush in despair, and cried: "I cannot catch it again. The wretch either smiles or frowns upon me. I fear he was right: I have made my first and last success;" and she leaned her head sullenly and despairingly on her hand. Again the whole scene passed before her, and she dwelt upon every word, as she was beginning often to do now, in painful revery. When she came to the words, "I too mean to be an artist. I could show you a picture that would tell you far more of what I mean than can my poor words" she started up, and, hastily arraying herself for the street, was soon on her way to the Art Building.
No one heeded her movements there, and she went directly upstairs to his room. Though simple and plain, it had unmistakably been the abode of a gentleman and a person of taste. It was partially dismantled, and in disorder from his hasty departure, and she found nothing which satisfied her quest there. She hastened away, glad to escape from a place where everything seemed full of mute reproach, and next bent her steps to the top floor of the building. In a part half-filled with antiquated lumber, and seldom entered, she saw near a window facing the east an easel with canvas upon it. She was startled at the throbbing of her heart.
"It is only climbing these long stairs," she said; but her words were belied by the hesitating manner and eager face with which she approached and removed the covering from the canvas.
She gazed a moment and then put out her hand for something by which to steady herself. His chair was near, and she sank into it, exclaiming: "He has indeed painted more than he--more than any one--could put into words. He has the genius that I have not. All here is striking and original;" and she sat with her eyes riveted to a painting that had revealed to her--herself.
Here was the secret of Dennis's toil and early work. Here were the results of his insatiable demand for the incongruous elements of ice and sunlight.
Side by side were two emblematic pictures. In the first there opened before Christine a grotto of ice. The light was thin and cold but very clear. Stalactites hung glittering from the vaulted roof. Stalagmites in strange fantastic forms rose to meet them. Vivid brightness and beauty were on every side, but of that kind that threw a chill on the beholder. All was of cold blue ice, and so natural was it that the eye seemed to penetrate its clear crystal. To the right was an opening in the grotto, through which was caught a glimpse of a summer landscape, a vivid contrast to the icy cave.
But the main features of the picture were two figures. Sleeping on a couch of ice was the form of a young girl. The flow of the drapery, the contour of the form, was grace itself, and yet all was ice. But the face was the most wonderful achievement. Christine saw her own features, as beautiful as in her vainest moments she had ever dared to hope. So perfect was the portrait that the delicate blue veins branched across the temple in veiled distinctness. It was a face that lacked but two things, life and love; and yet in spite of all its beauty the want of these was painfully felt--all the more painfully, even as a lovely face in death awakens a deeper sadness and regret.
One little icy hand grasped a laurel wreath, also of ice. The other hand hung listless, half open, and from it had dropped a brush that formed a small stalagmite at her side.
Bending over her in most striking contrast was the figure of a young man, all instinct with life, power, and feeling. Though the face was turned away, Dennis had suggested his own form and manner. His left hand was extended toward the sleeping maiden, as if to awaken her, while with the right he pointed toward the opening through which was seen the summer landscape, and his whole attitude indicated an eager wish to rescue her. This was the first picture.
The second one was still more suggestive. At the entrance of the grotto, which looked more cold than ever, in its partial shadow, Christine saw herself again, but how changed! She now had a beauty which she could not believe in--could not understand.
The icy hue and rigidity were all gone. She stood in the warm sunlight, and seemed all warmth and life. Her face glowed with feeling, yet was full of peace.
Instead of the barren ice, flowers were at her feet, and fruitful trees bent over her. Birds were seen flitting through their branches. The bended boughs, her flowing costume, and the tress of golden hair lifted from her temple, all showed that the summer wind was blowing.
Everything, in contrast with the frozen, death-like cave, indicated life, activity. Near her, a plane-tree, which in nature's language is the emblem of genius, towered into the sky; around its trunk twined the passion-flower, meaning, in Flora's tongue, "Holy love"; while just above her head, sipping the nectar from an open blossom, was a bright-hued butterfly, the symbol of immortality. By her side stood the same tall, manly form, with face still averted. He was pointing, and her eyes, softened, and yet lustrous and happy, were following where a path wound through a long vista, in alternate light and shadow, to a gate, that in the distance looked like a pearl. Above and beyond it, in airy outline, rose the walls and towers of the Holy City, the New Jerusalem.
For a long time she sat in rapt attention. Moment by moment the paintings in their meaning grew upon her. At last her eyes filled with tears, her bosom rose and fell with an emotion most unwonted, and in low tones she murmured: "Heavenly delusion! and taught with the logic I most dearly love. Oh, that I could believe it! I would give ten thousand years of the life I am leading to know that it is true. Is there, can there be a path that leads through light or shade to a final and heavenly home? If this is true, in spite of all my father's keen and seemingly convincing arguments, what a terrible mistake our life is!"
Then her thoughts reverted to the artist.
"What have I done in driving him away with contempt in his heart for me? I can no more affect haughty superiority to the man who painted those pictures. Though he could not be my lover, what a friend he might have been! I fear I shall never find his equal. Oh, this world of chaos and confusion! What is right? What is best? _What is truth? _ He might have taught me. But the skilful hand that portrayed those wonderful scenes may soon turn to dust, and I shall go to my grave burdened with the thought that I have quenched the brightest genius that will ever shine upon me;" and she clasped her hands in an agony of regret.
Then came the thought of securing the pictures. Dropping a veil over her red eyes, she went down and got some large sheets of paper, and by fastening them together made a secure covering. Then she carried the light frame with the canvas to the second floor, and, summoning Ernst, started homeward with her treasure. The boy obeyed with reluctance. Since the time she had surprised him out of his secret in regard to the strawberries, he had never liked her, and now he felt that in some way she was the cause of the sickness of his dearest friend. Christine could not bear the reproach of his large, truthful eyes, and their walk was a silent one. At parting she handed him a banknote, but he shook his head.
"Have you heard from Mr. Fleet?" she asked, with a flush.
The boy's lip quivered at the mention of that name, and he answered, hastily: "Fader wrote moder Mr. Fleet was no better. I fear he die;" and in an agony of grief he turned and ran sobbing away.
From under her veil Christine's tears were falling fast also, and she entered her elegant home as if it had been a prison.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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34
|
REGRET
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The next day was the Sabbath, and a long, dreary one it was to Christine. But late in the afternoon Susie Winthrop came with a pale, troubled face.
"Oh, Christine, have you heard the news?" she exclaimed.
Christine's heart stood still with fear, but by a great effort she said, composedly, "What news?"
"Mr. Fleet has gone home very ill; indeed, he is not expected to live."
For a moment she did not answer, and when she did it was with a voice unnaturally hard and cold: "Have you heard what is the matter?"
Miss Winthrop wondered at her manner, but replied, "Brain fever, I am told."
"Is he delirious?" asked Christine, in a low tone.
"Yes, all the time. Ernst, the little office-boy, told me he did not know his own mother. It seems that the boy's father is with Mrs. Fleet, helping take care of him."
Christine's face was averted and so colorless that it seemed like marble.
"Oh, Christine, don't you care?" said Susie, springing up and coming toward her.
"Why should I care?" was the quick answer.
Susie could not know that it was in reality but an incoherent cry of pain--the blind, desperate effort of pride to shield itself. But the tone checked her steps and filled her face with reproach.
"Perhaps you have more reason to care than you choose to admit," she said, pointedly.
Christine flushed, but said, coldly: "Of course I feel an interest in the fate of Mr. Fleet, as I do in that of every passing acquaintance. I feel very sorry for him and his friends"; but never was sympathy expressed in a voice more unnaturally frigid.
Susie looked at her keenly, and again saw the tell-tale flush rising to her cheek. She was puzzled, but saw that her friend had no confidence to give, and she said, with a voice growing somewhat cold also: "Well, really, Christine, I thought you capable of seeing as much as the rest of us in such matters, but I must be mistaken, if you only recognized in Dennis Fleet a passing acquaintance. Well, if he dies I doubt if either you or I look upon his equal again. Under right influences he might have been one of the first and most useful men of his day. But they need not tell me it was overwork that killed him. I know it was trouble of some kind."
Christine was very pale, but said nothing; and Susie, pained and mystified that the confidence of other days was refused, bade her friend a rather cold and abrupt adieu.
Left alone, Christine bowed her white face in her hands and sat so still that it seemed as if life had deserted her. In her morbid state she began to fancy herself the victim of some terrible fatality. Her heart had bounded when Susie Winthrop was announced, believing that from her she would gain sympathy; but in strange perversity she had hidden her trouble from her friend, and permitted her to go away in coldness. Christine could see as quickly and as far as any, and from the first had noted that Dennis was very interesting to her friend. Until of late she had not cared, but now for some reason the fact was not pleasing, and she felt a sudden reluctance to speak to Susie of him.
Now that she was alone a deeper sense of isolation came over her than she had ever felt before. Her one confidential friend had departed, chilled and hurt. She made friends but slowly, and, having once become estranged, from her very nature she found it almost impossible to make the first advances toward reconciliation.
Soon she heard her father's steps, and fled to her room to nerve herself for the part she must act before him. But she was far from successful; her pale face and abstracted manner awakened his attention and his surmises as to the cause. Having an engagement out, he soon left her to welcome solitude; for when she was in trouble he was no source of help or comfort.
Monday dragged wearily to a close. She tried to work, but could not. She took up the most exciting book she could find, only to throw it down in despair. Forever before the canvas or the page would rise a pale thin face, at times stern and scornful, again full of reproach, and then of pleading.
Even at night her rest was disturbed, and in dreams she heard the mutterings of his delirium, in which he continually charged her with his death. At times she would take his picture from its place of concealment, and look at it with such feelings as would be awakened by a promise of some priceless thing now beyond reach forever. Then she would become irritated with herself, and say, angrily: "What is this man to me? Why am I worrying about one who never could be much more to me living than dead? I will forget the whole miserable affair."
But she could not forget. Tuesday morning came, but no relief. "Whether he lives or dies he will follow me to my grave!" she cried. "From the time I first spoke to him there has seemed no escape, and in strange, unexpected ways he constantly crosses my path!"
She felt that she must have some relief from the oppression on her spirit. Suddenly she thought of Ernst, and at once went to the store and asked if he had heard anything later. He had not, but thought that his mother would receive a letter that day.
"I want to see your father's picture, and will go home that way, if you will give me the number."
The boy hesitated, but at last complied with her wish.
A little later Christine knocked at Mr. Bruder's door. There was no response, though she heard a stifled sound within. After a little she knocked more loudly. Then the door slowly opened, and Mrs. Bruder stood before her. Her eyes were very red, and she held in her hand an open letter. Christine expected to find more of a lady than was apparent at first glance in the hard-working woman before her, so she said, "My good woman, will you tell Mrs. Bruder I would like to see her?"
"Dis is Mrs. Bruder," was the answer.
Then Christine noticed the letter, and the half-effaced traces of emotion, and her heart misgave her; but she nerved herself to say, "I came to see your husband's picture."
"It is dere," was the brief reply.
Christine began to expatiate on its beauty, though perhaps for the first time she looked at a fine picture without really seeing it. She was at a loss how to introduce the object of her visit, but at last said, "Your husband is away?"
"Yes."
"He is taking care of one of my father's--of Mr. Fleet, I am told. Have you heard from him as to Mr. Fleet's health?"
"Dis is Miss Ludolph?"
"Yes."
"You can no read Sherman?"
"Oh, yes, I can. German is my native tongue."
"Strange dot him should be so."
"Why?"
"Der Shermans haf hearts."
Christine flushed deeply, but Mrs. Bruder without a word put her husband's letter into her hand, and Christine read eagerly what, translated, is as follows: "MY DEAR WIFE--Perhaps before this reaches you our best friend, our human savior, will be in heaven. There is a heaven, I believe as I never did before; and when Mrs. Fleet prays the gate seems to open, and the glory to stream right down upon us. But I fear now that not even her prayers can keep him. Only once he knew her; then he smiled and said, 'Mother, it is all right,' and dropped asleep. Soon fever came on again, and he is sinking fast. The doctor shakes his head and gives no hope. My heart is breaking. Marguerite, Mr. Fleet is not dying a natural death; he has been slain. I understand all his manner now, all his desperate hard work. He loved one above him in wealth--none could be above him in other respects--and that one was Miss Ludolph. I suspected it, though till delirious, he scarcely ever mentioned her name. But now I believe she played with his heart--the noblest that ever beat--and then threw it away, as if it were a toy instead of the richest offering ever made to a woman. Proud fool that she was; she has done more mischief than a thousand such frivolous lives as hers can atone for. I can write no more; my heart is breaking with grief and indignation."
As Christine read she suffered her veil to drop over her face. When she looked up she saw that Mrs. Bruder's gaze was fixed upon her as upon the murderer of her best friend. She drew her veil closer about her face, laid the letter down, and left the room without a word. She felt so guilty and miserable on her way home that it would scarcely have surprised her had a policeman arrested her for the crime with which her own conscience, as well as Mr. Bruder's letter, charged her; and yet her pride revolted at it all.
"Why should this affair take so miserable a form with me?" she said. "To most it ends with a few sentimental sighs on one side, and as a good joke on the other. All seems to go wrong of late, and I am destined to have everything save happiness and the success upon which I set my heart. There is no more cruel mockery than to give one all save the very thing one wants; and, in seeking to grasp that, I have brought down upon myself this wretched, blighting experience. On this chaotic world! The idea of there being a God! Why, I could make a better world myself!" and she reached her home in such a morbid, unhappy state, that none in the great city need have envied the rich and flattered girl. Mechanically she dressed and came down to dinner.
During the afternoon Ernst, while out on an errand, had slipped home and heard the sad news. He returned to Mr. Ludolph's office crying. To the question, "What is the matter?" he had answered, "Oh, Mr. Fleet is dying; he is dead by dis time!"
Mr. Ludolph was sadly shocked and pained, for as far as he could like anybody besides himself and daughter, he had been prepossessed in favor of his useful and intelligent clerk, and he was greatly annoyed at the thought of losing him. He returned full of the subject, and the first words with which he greeted Christine were, "Well, Fleet will hang no more pictures for you, and sing no more songs."
She staggered into a chair and sat before him pale and panting, for she thought he meant that death had taken place.
"Why, what is the matter?" cried he.
She stared at him gaspingly, but said nothing.
"Here, drink this," he said, hastily pouring out a glass of wine.
She took it eagerly. After a moment he said: "Christine, I do not understand all this. I was merely saying that my clerk, Mr. Fleet, was not expected--" The point of endurance and guarded self-control was past, and she cried, half-hysterically: "Am I never to escape that man? Must every one I meet speak to me as if I had murdered him?"
Then she added, almost fiercely: "Living or dead, never speak to me of him again! I am no longer a child, but a woman, and as such I insist that his name be dropped between us forever!"
Her father gave a low exclamation of surprise, and said, "What! was he one of the victims?" (this being his term for Christine's rejected suitors).
"No," said she; "I am the victim. He will soon be at rest, while I shall be tormented to the grave by--" She hardly knew what to say, so mingled and chaotic were her feelings. Her hands clenched, and with a stamp of her foot she hastily left the room.
Mr. Ludolph could hardly believe his eyes. Could this passionate, thoroughly aroused woman be his cold, self-contained daughter? He could not understand, as so many cannot, that such natures when aroused are tenfold more intense than those whom little things excite. A long and peculiar train of circumstances, a morbid and overwrought physical condition, led to this outburst from Christine, which was as much a cause of surprise to herself afterward as to her father. He judged correctly that a great deal had occurred between Dennis and herself of which he had no knowledge, and again his confidence in her was thoroughly shaken.
At first he determined to question her and extort the truth. But when, an hour later, she quietly entered the parlor, he saw at a glance that the cold, proud, self-possessed woman before him would not submit to the treatment accepted by the little Christine of former days. The wily man read from her manner and the expression of her eye that he might with her consent lead, but could not command without awakening a nature as imperious as his own.
He was angry, but he had time to think. Prudence had given a decided voice in favor of caution.
He saw what she did not recognize herself, that her heart had been greatly touched, and in his secret soul he was not sorry now to believe that Dennis was dying.
"Father," said Christine, abruptly, "how soon can we start on our eastern trip?"
"Well, if you particularly wish it," he replied, "I can leave by the evening train to-morrow."
"I do wish it very much," said Christine, earnestly, "and will be ready."
After an evening of silence and constraint they separated for the night.
Mr. Ludolph sat for a long time sipping his wine after she had gone.
"After all it will turn out for the best," he said. "Fleet will probably die, and then will be out of the way. Or, if he lives, I can easily guard against him, and it will go no further. If she had been bewitched by a man like Mr. Mellen, the matter would have been more difficult.
"In truth," he continued, after a little, "now that her weak woman's heart is occupied by an impossible lover, there is no danger from possible ones;" and the man of the world went complacently to his rest, believing that what he regarded as the game of life was entirely in his own hands.
The next evening the night express bore Christine from the scene of the events she sought to escape; but she was to learn, in common with the great host of the sinning and suffering, how little change of place has to do with change of feeling. We take memory and character with us from land to land, from youth to age, from this world to the other, from time through eternity. Sad, then, is the lot of those who ever carry the elements of their own torture with them.
It was Christine's purpose, and she had her father's consent, to make a long visit in New York, and, in the gayety and excitement of the metropolis, to forget her late wretched experience.
As it was still early in September, they resolved to stop at West Point and participate in the gayest season of that fashionable watering-place. At this time the hotels are thronged with summer tourists returning homeward from the more northern resorts. Though the broad piazzas of Cozzens's great hotel were crowded by the _elite_ of the city, there was a hum of admiration as Christine first made her round on her father's arm; and in the evening, when the spacious parlor was cleared for dancing, officers from the post and civilians alike eagerly sought her hand, and hundreds of admiring eyes followed as she swept through the mazes of the dance, the embodiment of grace and beauty. She was very gay, and her repartee was often brilliant, but a close observer would have seen something forced and unnatural in all. Such an observer was her father. He saw that the sparkle of her eyes had no more heart and happiness in it than that of the diamonds on her bosom, and that with the whole strength of her resolute nature she was laboring to repel thought and memory. But, as he witnessed the admiration she excited on every side, he became more determined than ever that his fair daughter should shine a star of the first magnitude in the _salons_ of Europe. At a late hour, and wearied past the power of thought, she gladly sought refuge in the blank of sleep.
The next morning they drove out early, before the sun was high and warm. It was a glorious autumn day. Recent rains had purified the atmosphere, so that the unrivalled scenery of the Hudson stood out in clear and grand outline.
As Christine looked about her she felt a thrill of almost delight--the first sensation of the kind since that moment of exultation which Dennis had inspired, but which he had also turned to the bitterness of disaster and humiliation. She was keenly alive to beauty, and she saw it on every side. The Ludolph family had ever lived among the mountains on the Rhine, and the heart of this latest child of the race yearned over the rugged scenery before her with hereditary affection, which had grown stronger with each successive generation.
The dew, like innumerable pearls, gemmed the grass in the park-like lawn of the hotel, and the slanting rays of the sun flecked the luxuriant foliage. Never before had this passion for the beautiful in nature been so gratified, and all the artist feeling within her awoke.
On reaching the street the carriage turned southward, and, after passing the village of Highland Falls, entered on one of the most beautiful drives in America. At times the road led under overarching forest-trees, shaded and dim with that delicious twilight which only myriads of fluttering leaves can make. Again it would wind around some bold headland, and the broad expanse of the Hudson would shine out dotted with white sails. Then through a vista its waters would sparkle, suggesting an exquisite cabinet picture. On the right the thickly-wooded mountains rose like emerald walls, with here and there along their base a quiet farmhouse. With kindling eye and glowing cheeks she drank in view after view, and at last exclaimed, "If there were only a few old castles scattered among these Highlands, this would be the very perfection of scenery."
Her father watched her closely, and with much satisfaction.
"After all, her wound is slight," he thought, "and new scenes and circumstances will soon cause her to forget."
Furtively, but continually, he bent his eyes upon her, as if to read her very soul. A dreamy, happy expression rested on her face, as if a scene were present to her fancy even more to her taste than the one her eyes dwelt upon. In fact she was living over that evening at Miss Winthrop's, when Dennis had told her that she could reach truest and highest art--that she could feel--could copy anything she saw; and exhilarated by the fresh morning air, inspired by the scenery, she felt for the moment, as never before, that it might all be true.
Was he who gave those blissful assurances also exerting a subtile, unrecognized power over her? Certainly within the last few weeks she had been subject to strange moods and reveries. But the first dawning of a woman's love is like the aurora, with its strange, fitful flashes. The phenomena have never been satisfactorily explained.
But, as Mr. Ludolph watched complacently and admiringly, her expression suddenly changed, and a frightened, guilty look came into her face. The glow upon her cheeks gave place to extreme pallor, and she glanced nervously around as if fearing something, then caught her father's eye, and was conscious of his scrutiny. She at once became cold and self-possessed, and sat at his side pale and quiet till the ride ended. But he saw from the troubled gleam of her eyes that beneath that calm exterior were tumult and suffering. Few in this life are so guilty and wretched as not to have moments of forgetfulness, when the happier past comes back and they are oblivious of the painful present. Such a brief respite Christine enjoyed during part of her morning ride. The grand and swiftly varying scenery crowded her mind with pleasant images, which had been followed by a delicious revery. She felt herself to be a true priestess of Nature, capable of understanding and interpreting her voices and hidden meanings--of catching her evanescent beauty and fixing it on the glowing canvas. The strong consciousness of such power was indeed sweet and intoxicating. Her mind naturally reverted to him who had most clearly asserted her possession of it.
"He, too, would have equal appreciation of this scenery," she said to herself.
Then came the sudden remembrance, shrivelling her pretty dreams as the lightning scorches and withers. " _He--he is dead! --he must be by this time! _" And dread and guilt and something else which she did not define, but which seemed more like a sense of great loss, lay heavy at her heart. No wonder her father was perplexed and provoked by the sad change in her face. At first he was inclined to remonstrate and put spurs to her pride. But there was a dignity about the lady at his side, even though she was his daughter, that embarrassed and restrained him. Moreover, though he understood much and suspected far more--more indeed than the truth--there was nothing acknowledged or tangible that he could lay hold of, and she meant that it should be so. For reasons she did not understand she felt a disinclination to tell her troubles to Susie Winthrop, and she was most resolute in her purpose never to permit her father to speak on the subject.
If Mr. Ludolph had been as coarse and ignorant as he was hard and selfish, he would have gone to work at the case with sledge-hammer dexterity, as many parents have done, making sad, brutal havoc in delicate womanly natures with which they were no more fit to deal than a blacksmith with hair-springs. But though he longed to speak, and bring his remorseless logic to bear, Christine's manner raised a barrier which a man of his fine culture could not readily pass.
She joined her father at a late breakfast, smiling and brilliant, but her gayety was clearly forced. The morning was spent in sketching, she seeming to crave constant occupation or excitement.
In the afternoon father and daughter drove up the river to the military grounds to witness a drill. Mr. Ludolph did his best to rally Christine, pointing out everything of interest. First, the grand old ruin of Fort Putnam frowned down upon them. This had been the one feature wanting, and Christine felt that she could ask nothing more. Her wonder and admiration grew as the road wound along the immediate bluff and around the plain by the river fortifications. But when she stood on the piazza of the West Point Hotel, and looked up through the Highlands toward Newburgh, tears came to her eyes, and she trembled with excitement. From her recent experiences her nerves were morbidly sensitive. But her father could only look and wonder, she seemed so changed to him.
"And is the Rhine like this?" she asked.
"Well, the best I can say is, that to a German and a Ludolph it seems just as beautiful," he replied.
"Surely," said she, slowly and in half-soliloquy, "if one could live always amid such scenes as these, the Elysium of the gods or the heaven of the Christians would offer few temptations."
"And among just such scenes you shall live after a short year passes," he answered, warmly and confidently. But with anger he missed the wonted sparkle of her eyes when these cherished plans were broached.
In bitterness Christine said to herself: "A few weeks since this thought would have filled me with delight. Why does it not now?"
Silently they drove to the parade-ground. At the sally-port of the distant barracks bayonets were gleaming. There was a burst of martial music, then each class at the Academy--four companies--came out upon the grassy plain upon the double-quick. Their motions were light and swift, and yet so accurately timed that each company seemed one perfect piece of mechanism. A cadet stood at a certain point with a small color flying. Abreast of this their advance was checked as suddenly as if they had been turned to stone, and the entire corps was in line. Then followed a series of skilful manoeuvres, in which Christine was much interested, and her old eager manner returned.
"I like the army," she exclaimed; "the precision and inflexible routine would just suit me. I wish there was war, and I a man, that I might enter into the glorious excitements."
Luxurious Mr. Ludolph had no tastes in that direction, and, shrugging his shoulders, said: "How about the hardships, wounds, and chances of an obscure death? These are the rule in a campaign; the glorious excitements the exceptions."
"I did not think of those," she said, shrinking against the cushions. "Everything seems to have so many miserable drawbacks!"
The pageantry over, the driver turned and drove northward through the most superb scenery.
"Where are we going?" asked Christine.
"To the cemetery," was the reply.
"No, no! not there!" she exclaimed, nervously.
"Nonsense! Why not?" remonstrated her father.
"I don't wish to go there!" she cried, excitedly. "Please turn around."
Her father reluctantly gave the order, but added, "Christine, you certainly indulge in strange moods and whims of late."
She was silent a moment, and then she began a running fire of questions about the Academy, that left no space for explanations.
That evening she danced as resolutely as ever, and by her beauty and brilliant repartee threw around her many bewildering spells that even the veterans of the Point could scarcely resist.
But when alone in her own room she looked at her white face in the mirror, and murmured in tones full of unutterable dread and remorse, "He is dead--he must be dead by this time!"
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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35
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REMORSE
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Christine had a peculiar experience while at West Point. She saw on every side what would have brought her the choicest enjoyment, had her mind been at rest. To her artist nature, and with her passion and power for sketching, the Highlands on the Hudson were paradise. But though she saw in profusion what once would have delighted her, and what she now felt ought to be the source of almost unmingled happiness, she was still thoroughly wretched. It was the old fable of Tantalus repeating itself. Her sin and its results had destroyed her receptive power. The world offered her pleasures on every side; she longed to enjoy them, but could not, for her heart was preoccupied--filled and overflowing with fear, remorse, and a sorrow she could not define.
A vain, shallow girl might soon have forgotten such an experience as Christine had passed through. Such a creature would have been sentimental or hysterical for a little time, according to temperament, and then with the old zest have gone to flirting with some new victim. There are belles so weak and wicked that they would rather plume themselves on the fact that one had died from love of them. But in justice to all such it should be said that they rarely have mind enough to realize the evil they do. Their vanity overshadows every other faculty, and almost destroys those sweet, pitiful, unselfish qualities which make a true woman what a true man most reverences next to God.
Christine was proud and ambitious to the last degree, but she had not this small vanity. She did not appreciate the situation fully, but she was unsparing in her self-condemnation.
If Dennis had been an ordinary man, and interested her no more than had other admirers, and had she given him no more encouragement, she would have shrugged her shoulders over the result and said she was very sorry he had made such a fool of himself.
But as she went over the past (and this now she often did), she saw that he was unusually gifted; nay, more, the picture she discovered in the loft of the store proved him possessed of genius of a high order. And such a man she had deceived, tortured, and even killed! This was the verdict of her own conscience, the assertion of his own lips. She remembered the wearing life of alternate hope and fear she had caused him. She remembered how eagerly he hung on her smiles and sugared nothings, and how her equally causeless frowns would darken all the world to him. She saw day after day how she had developed in a strong, true heart, with its native power to love unimpaired, the most intense passion, and all that her own lesser light might burn a little more brightly. Then, with her burning face buried in her hands, she would recall the bitter, shameful consummation. Worse than all, waking or sleeping, she continually saw a pale, thin face, that even in death looked upon her with unutterable reproach. In addition to the misery caused by her remorse, there was a deeper bitterness still. Within the depths of her soul a voice told her that the picture was true; that he might have awakened her, and led her out into the warmth and light of a happy life--a life which she felt ought to be possible, but which as yet had been but a vague and tantalizing dream. Now the world seemed to her utter chaos--a place of innumerable paths leading nowhere; and her own hands had broken the clew that might have brought her to something assured and satisfactory. She was very wretched, for her life seemed but a little point between disappointment on one side and the blackness of death and nothingness on the other. The very beauty of the landscapes about her often increased her pain. She felt that a few weeks ago she would have enjoyed them keenly, and found in their transference to canvas a source of unfailing pleasure. With a conscious blush she thought that if he were present to encourage, to stimulate her, by the very vitality of his earnest, loving nature, she would be in the enjoyment of paradise itself. In a word, she saw the heaven she could not enter.
To the degree that she had mind, heart, conscience, and an intense desire for true happiness, she was unhappy. Dress, dancing, the passing admiration of society, the pleasures of a merely fashionable life, seemed less and less satisfactory. She was beyond them, as children outgrow their toys, because she had a native superiority to them, and yet they seemed her best resource. She had all her old longing to pursue her art studies, and everything about her stimulated her to this, but her heart and hand appeared paralyzed. She was in just that condition, mental and moral, in which she could do nothing well.
And so the days passed in futile efforts to forget--to drown in almost reckless gayety--the voices of conscience and memory. But she only remembered all the more vividly; she only saw the miserable truth all the more clearly. She suffered more in her torturing consciousness than Dennis in his wild delirium.
After they had been at the hotel about a week, Mr. Ludolph received letters that made his speedy return necessary. On the same day the family of his old New York partner arrived at the house on their return from the Catskills. Mrs. Von Brakhiem gladly received Christine under her care, feeling that the addition of such a bright star would make her little constellation one of the most brilliant in the fashionable world.
The ladies of the house were now immersed in the excitement of an amateur concert. Mrs. Von Brakhiem, bent upon shining among the foremost, though with a borrowed lustre, assigned Christine a most prominent part. She half shrank from it, for it recalled unpleasant memories; but she could not decline without explanations, and so entered into the affair with a sort of recklessness.
The large parlors were filled with chairs, which were soon occupied, and it was evident that in point of attraction elegant toilets would vie with the music. Christine came down on her father's arm, dressed like a princess, and, though her diamonds were few, such were their size and brilliancy that they seemed on fire. Every eye followed Mrs. Von Brakhiem's party, and that good lady took half the admiration to herself.
A superior tenor, with an unpronounceable foreign name, had come up from New York to grace the occasion. But personally he lacked every grace himself, his fine voice being the one thing that redeemed him from utter insignificance in mind and appearance. Nevertheless he was vain beyond measure, and made the most of himself on all occasions.
The music was fine, for the amateurs, feeling that they had a critical audience, did their best. Christine chose three brilliant, difficult, but heartless pieces as her contribution to the entertainment (she would not trust herself with anything else); and with something approaching reckless gayety she sought to hide the bitterness at her heart. Her splendid voice and exquisite touch doubled the admiration her beauty and diamonds had excited, and Mrs. Von Brakhiem basked in still stronger reflected light. She took every opportunity to make it known that she was Miss Ludolph's chaperon.
After her first effort, the "distinguished" tenor from New York opened his eyes widely at her; at her second, he put up his eyeglass in something like astonishment; and the close of her last song found him nervously rummaging a music portfolio in the corner.
But for Christine the law of association had become too strong, and the prolonged applause recalled the evening at Miss Brown's when the same sounds had deafened her, but when turning from it all she had seen Dennis Fleet standing in rapt attention, his lips parted, his eyes glowing with such an honest admiration that even then it was worth more to her than all the clamor. Then, by the same law of association, she again saw that eager, earnest face, changed pale, dead--dead! --and she the cause. Regardless of the compliments lavished upon her, she buried her face in her hands and trembled from head to foot.
But the irrepressible tenor had found what he wanted, and now came forward asking that Miss Ludolph would sing a duet with him.
She lifted a wan and startled face. Must the torturing similarity and still more torturing contrast of the two occasions be continued? But she saw her father regarding her sternly--saw that she was becoming the subject of curious glances and whispered surmises. Her pride was aroused at once, and, goaded on by it, she said, "Oh, certainly; I am not feeling well, but it does not signify."
"And den," put in the tenor, "dis is von grand occazeon to _you_, for it is so unfrequent dat I find any von vorthy to sing dis style of music vith _me_."
"What is the music?" asked Christine, coldly.
To her horror she found it the same selection from Mendelssohn that she had sung with Dennis.
"No," she said, sharply, "I cannot sing that."
"Pardon me, my daughter, you can sing it admirably if you choose," interposed her father.
She turned to him imploringly, but his face was inflexible, and his eyes had an incensed look. For a moment she, too, was angry. Had he no mercy? She was about to decline coldly, but her friends were very urgent and clamorous--"Please do," "Don't disappoint us," echoing on every side. The tenor was so surprised and puzzled at her insensibility to the honor he had conferred, that, to prevent a scene she could not explain, she went to the piano as if led to the stake.
But the strain was too great upon her in her suffering state. The familiar notes recalled so vividly the one who once before had sung them at her side that she turned almost expecting to see him--but saw only the vain little animated music-machine, who with many contortions was producing the harmony. "Just this mockery my life will ever be," she thought; "all that I am, the best I can do, will always be connected with something insignificant and commonplace. The rich, impassioned voice of the _man_ who sang these words, and who might have taught me to sing the song of a new and happier life, I have silenced forever."
The thought overpowered her. Just then her part recurred, but her voice died away in a miserable quaver, and again she buried her face in her hands. Suddenly she sprang from the piano, darted through the low-cut open window near, and a moment later ordered her startled maid from the room, turned the key, and was alone.
Her father explained coldly to the astonished audience and the half-paralyzed tenor (who still stood with his mouth open) that his daughter was not at all well that evening, and ought not to have appeared at all. This Mrs. Von Brakhiem took up and repeated with endless variations. But the evidences of sheer mental distress on the part of Christine had been too clear, and countless were the whispered surmises of the fashionable gossips in explanation.
Mrs. Von Brakhiem herself, burning with curiosity, soon retired, that she might receive from her lovely charge some gushing confidences, which she expected, as a matter of course, would be poured into what she chose to regard as her sympathizing ear. But she knocked in vain at Christine's door.
Later Mr. Ludolph knocked. There was no answer.
"Christine!" he called.
After some delay a broken voice answered, "You cannot enter--I am not well--I have retired."
He turned on his heel and strode away, and that night drank more brandy and water than was good for him.
As for Christine, warped and chilled though her nature had been, she was still a woman, she was still young, and, though she knew it not, she had heard the voice which had spoken her heart into life. Through a chain of circumstances for which she was partly to blame, she had been made to suffer as she had not believed was possible. The terrible words of Mr. Bruder's letter rang continually in her ears--"Mrs. Fleet is not dying a natural death; he has been, slain."
For many long, weary days the conviction had been growing upon her that she had indeed slain him and mortally wounded herself. Until to-night she had kept herself outwardly under restraint, but now the long pent-up feeling gave way, and she sobbed as if her heart would break--sobbed till the power to weep was gone. If now some kind, judicious friend had shown her that she was not so guilty as she deemed herself; that, however, frightful the consequences of such acts, she was really not to blame for what she did not intend and could not foresee; more than all, if she could only have known that her worst fears about Dennis were not to be realized, and that he was now recovering, she might at once have entered on a new and happier life. But there was no such friend, no such knowledge, and her wounded spirit was thrown back upon itself.
At last, robed as she had been for the evening, she fell asleep from sheer exhaustion and grief--for grief induces sleep.
The gems that shone in her dishevelled hair; that rose and fell as at long intervals her bosom heaved with convulsive sobs, like the fitful gusts of a storm that is dying away; the costly fabrics she wore--made sad mockery in their contrast with the pale, tear-stained, suffering face. The hardest heart might have pitied her--yes, even the wholly ambitious heart of her father, incensed as he was that a plebeian stranger of this land should have caused such distress.
When Christine awoke, her pride awoke also. With bitterness of spirit she recalled the events of the past evening. But a new phase of feeling now began to manifest itself.
After her passionate outburst she was much calmer. In this respect the unimpeded flow of feeling had done her good, and, as intimated, if kindness and sympathy could now have added their gentle ministrations, she might have been the better for it all her life. But, left to herself, she again yielded to the sway of her old and worst traits. Chief among these was pride; and under the influence of this passion and the acute suffering of her unsoothed, unguided spirit, she began to rebel in impotent anger. She grew hard, cynical, and reckless. Her father's lack of sympathy and consideration alienated her heart even from him. Left literally alone in the world, her naturally reserved nature shut itself up more closely than ever. Even her only friend, Susie Winthrop, drifted away. One other, who might have been--But she could think of him only with a shudder now. All the rest seemed indifferent, or censorious, or, worse still, to be using her, like Mrs. Von Brakhiem and even her own father, as a stepping-stone to their personal ambition. Christine could not see that she was to blame for this isolation. She did not understand that cold, selfish natures, like her own and her father's, could not surround themselves with warm, generous friends. She saw only the fact. But with flashing eyes she resolved that her heart's secrets should not be pried into a hair-breadth further; that she would be used only so far as she chose. She would, in short, "face out" the events of the past evening simply and solely on the ground that she had not been well, and permit no questions to be asked.
Cold and self-possessed, she came down to a late breakfast. Mrs. Von Brakhiem, and others who had been introduced, joined her, but nothing could penetrate through the nice polished armor of her courteous reserve. Her father looked at her keenly, but she coolly returned his gaze.
When alone with her soon afterward, he turned and said, sharply, "What does all this mean?"
She looked around as if some one else were near.
"Were you addressing me?" she asked, coldly.
"Yes, of course I am," said her father, impatiently.
"From your tone and manner, I supposed you must be speaking to some one else."
"Nonsense! I was speaking to you. What does all this mean?"
She turned on him an indescribable look, and after a moment said in a slow, meaning tone, "Have you not heard my explanation, sir?"
Such was her manner, he felt he could as easily strike her as say another word.
Muttering an oath, he turned on his heel and left her to herself.
The next morning her father bade her "Good-by." In parting he said, meaningly, "Christine, beware!"
Again she turned upon him that peculiar look, and replied in a low, firm tone: "That recommendation applies to you, also. Let us both beware, lest we repent at leisure."
The wily man, skilled in character, was now thoroughly convinced that in his daughter he was dealing with a nature very different from his wife's--that he was now confronted by a spirit as proud and imperious as his own. He clearly saw that force, threatening, sternness would not answer in this case, and that if he carried his points it must be through skill and cunning. By some means he must ever gain her consent and co-operation.
His manner changed. Instinctively she divined the cause; and hers did not. Therefore father and daughter parted as father and daughter ought never to part.
After his departure she was to remain at West Point till the season closed, and then accompany Mrs. Von Brakhiem to New York, where she was to make as long a visit as she chose;--and she chose to make a long one. In the scenery, and the society of the officers at West Point, and the excitements of the metropolis, she found more to occupy her thoughts than she could have done at Chicago. She went deliberately to work to kill time and snatch from it such fleeting pleasures as she might.
They stayed in the country till the pomp and glory of October began to illumine the mountains, and then (to Christine's regret) went to the city. There she entered into every amusement and dissipation that her tastes permitted, and found much pleasure in frequent visits to the Central Park, although it seemed tame and artificial after the wild grandeur of the mountains. It was well that her nature was so high-toned that she found enjoyment in only what was refined or intellectual. Had it been otherwise she might soon have taken, in her morbid, reckless state, a path to swift and remediless ruin, as many a poor creature all at war with happiness and truth has done. And thus in a giddy whirl of excitement (Mrs. Von Brakhiem's normal condition) the days and weeks passed, till at last, thoroughly satiated and jaded, she concluded to return home, for the sake of change and quiet, if nothing else. Mrs. Von Brakhiem parted with her regretfully. Where would she find such another ally in her determined struggle to be talked about and envied a little more than some other pushing, jostling votaries of fashion?
In languor or sleep Christine made the journey, and in the dusk of a winter's day her father drove her to their beautiful home, which from association was now almost hateful to her. Still she was too weary to think or suffer much. They met each other very politely, and their intercourse assumed at once its wonted character of high-bred courtesy, though perhaps it was a little more void of manifested sympathy and affection than before.
Several days elapsed in languid apathy, the natural reaction of past excitement; then an event occurred which most thoroughly aroused her.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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36
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AN APPARITION
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Mr. Ludolph had hoped to hear on his return that Dennis was dead. That would end all difficulties. Mr. Schwartz did not know;--he was not at last accounts. Ernst was summoned. With a bright, hopeful face he stated that his mother had just received a letter saying Dennis was a little better. He was much surprised at his employer's heavy frown.
"He will live," mused Mr. Ludolph; "and now shall I permit him to return to my employ, or discharge him?"
His brow contracted in lines of thought that suggested shrewdness, cunning, nothing manly, and warily he judged.
"If I do not take him, he will go to Mr. French with certainty. He had better return, for then both he and Christine will be more thoroughly under my surveillance.
"Curses on Christine's waywardness! There may be no resisting her, and my best chance will be in managing him. This I could not do if he were in the store of my rival;" and so for unconscious Dennis this important question was decided.
At last, as we have said, his delirium ceased, and the quiet light of reason came into his eyes. He looked at his mother and smiled, but was too weak even to reach out his hand.
The doctor, coming in soon after, declared danger past, and that all depended now on good nursing. Little fear of his wanting that!
"Ah, mine Gott be praised! mine Gott be praised!" exclaimed Mr. Bruder, who had to leave the room to prevent an explosion of his grateful, happy feelings that might have proved too rude a tempest for Dennis in his weak state. He was next seen striding across the fields to a neighboring grove, ejaculating as he went. When he returned his eyes shone with a great peace and joy, and he had evidently been with Him who had cast out the demon from his heart.
Day after day Dennis rallied. Unlike poor Christine, he had beneath him the two strongest levers, love and prayer, and steadily they lifted him up to health and strength and comparative peace. At last he was able to sit up and walk about feebly, and Mr. Bruder returned rejoicing to his family. As he wrung Dennis's hand at parting, he said, in rather a hoarse voice: "If any von tell me Gott is not goot and heareth not prayer, den I tell him he von grand heathen. Oh! but we vill velcome you soon. Ve vill haf de grandest supper, de grandest songs, de grandest--" but just here Mr. Bruder thought it prudent to pull his big fur cap over his eyes, and make a rush for the stage.
As if by tacit understanding, Christine's name had not been mentioned during Dennis's recovery. But one evening, after the little girls had been put to bed, and the lamp shaded, he sat in the dimly lighted room, looking fixedly for a long time at the glowing embers. His mother was moving quietly about, putting away the tea-things, clearing up after the children's play; but as she worked she furtively watched him. At last coming to his side she pushed back the hair that seemed so dark in contrast with the thin, white face and said, gently, "You are thinking of Miss Ludolph, Dennis."
He had some blood yet, for that was not the glow of the fire that suffused his cheek; but he only answered, quietly, "Yes, mother."
"Do you think you can forget her?"
"I don't know."
"Prayer is a mighty thing, my son."
"But perhaps it is not God's will that I should ever win her," said Dennis, despondently.
"Then surely it is not yours, my child."
"No, mother," said Dennis, with bowed head and low tone, "but yet I am human and weak."
"You would still wish that it were His will?"
"Yes; I could not help it."
"But you would submit?"
"Yes, with His help I would," firmly.
"That is sufficient, my boy; I have such confidence in God that I know this matter will result in a way to secure you the greatest happiness in the end."
But after a little time he sighed, wearily, "Yet how hard it is to wait till the great plan is worked out!"
Solemnly she quoted-"God will render to every man according to his deeds. To them who by patient continuance in well-doing seek for glory and honor and immortality, eternal life."
Braced by the stirring words of inspiration, strengthened by his mother's faith, he looked up after a moment and said, earnestly, "At any rate I will try to be a _man in your sense of the word_, and that is saying a great deal."
She beamed at him through her spectacles over her knitting-needles; and he thought, as he gazed fondly at her, that in spite of her quaint, old-fashioned garb, and homely occupation, she appeared more truly a saint than any painted on cathedral windows.
He soon noticed that his mother had grown feeble, and he determined to take her with him on his return, believing that, by his care, and the wise use of tonics, he could restore her to her wonted strength. His increased salary now justified the step.
Early in November his physician said he might return to business if he would be prudent. He gladly availed himself of the permission, for he longed to be employed again.
The clerks all welcomed him warmly, for his good-nature had disarmed jealousy at his rapid rise. But in the greeting of Mr. Ludolph he missed something of the cordiality he expected.
"Perhaps she has told him," thought he; and at once his own manner became tinged with a certain coldness and dignity. He determined that both father and daughter should think of him only with respect.
At the Bruders' the millennium came with Dennis. Metaphorically the fatted calf was killed; their plain little room was trimmed with evergreens, and when he entered he was greeted by such a jubilant, triumphant chorus of welcomes as almost took away his breath. What little he had left was suddenly squeezed out of him; for Mrs. Bruden, dropping her frying-pan and dish-cloth, rushed upon him, exclaiming, "Ah! mine fren! mine fren! De goot Gott be praised;" and she gave him an embrace that made his bones ache.
Mr. Bruder stalked about the room repeating with explosive energy, like minute-guns, "Praise Gott! Praise Gott!" Ernst, his great eyes dimmed with happy tears, clung to Dennis's hand, as if he would make sure, by sense of touch as well as sight, that he had regained his beloved teacher. The little Bruders were equally jubilant, though from rather mixed motives. Dennis's arrival was very well, but they could not keep their round eyes long off the preparations for such a supper as never before had blessed their brief career.
"Truly," thought Dennis, as he looked around upon the happy family, and contrasted its appearance with that which it had presented when he first saw it, "my small investment of kindness and effort in this case has returned large interest. I think it pays to do good."
The evening was one of almost unmingled happiness, even to his sore, disappointed heart, and passed into memory as among the sunniest places of his life.
He found a pleasant little cottage over on the West side, part of which he rented for his mother and sisters.
With Mr. Ludolph's permission he went after them, and installed them in it. Thus he had what he had needed all along--a home, a resting-place for body and soul, under the watchful eye of love.
About this time Dr. Arten met him, stared a moment, then clapped him on the back in his hearty way, saying, "Well, well, young man! you have cause to be thankful, and not to the doctors, either."
"I think I am," said Dennis, smiling.
Suddenly the doctor looked grave, and asked in a stern voice, "Are you a heathen, or a good Christian?"
"I hope not the former," replied Dennis, a little startled.
"Then don't go and commit suicide again. Don't you know flesh and blood can only stand so much? When an intelligent young fellow like you goes beyond that, he is committing suicide. Bless your soul, my ambitious friend, the ten commandments ain't all the law of God. His laws are also written all over this long body of yours, and you came near paying a pretty penalty for breaking them. You won't get off the second time."
"You are right, doctor; I now see that I acted very wrongly." " 'Bring forth fruits meet for repentance.' I am rich enough to give sound advice," said the brusque old physician, passing on.
"Stop a moment, doctor," cried Dennis, "I want you to see my mother."
"What is the matter with her? She been breaking the commandments, too?"
"Oh, no!" exclaimed Dennis. "She is not a bit of a heathen."
"I am not so sure about that. I know many eminent saints in the church who will eat lobster salad for supper, and then send for the doctor and minister before morning. There is a precious twaddle about 'mysterious Providence.' Providence isn't half so mysterious as people make out. The doctor is expected to look serious and sympathetic, and call their law-breaking and its penalty by some outlandish Latin name that no one can understand. I give 'em the square truth, and tell 'em they've been breaking the commandments."
Dennis could not forbear smiling at the doctor's rough handling of humbug, even in one of its most respectable guises. Then, remembering his mother, he added, gravely: "I am truly anxious about my mother, she has grown so feeble. I want, and yet dread, the truth."
The bantering manner of the good old doctor changed at once, and he said, kindly, "I'll come, my boy, within a few days, though I am nearly run off my feet."
He went off, muttering, "Why don't the people send for some of the youngsters that sit kicking up their heels in their offices all day?"
Dennis soon fell into the routine of work and rapidly grew stronger. But his face had acquired a gravity, a something in expression that only experience gives, which made him appear older by ten years. All trace of the boy had gone, and his countenance was now that of the man, and of one who had suffered.
As soon as he recovered sufficient strength to act with decision, he indignantly tried to banish Christine's image from his memory. But he found this impossible. Though at times his eyes would flash, in view of her treatment, they would soon grow gentle and tender, and he found himself excusing and extenuating, by the most special pleadings, that which he had justly condemned.
One evening his mother startled him out of a long revery, in which he had almost vindicated Christine, by saying, "A very pleasant smile has been gradually dawning on your face, my son."
"Mother," replied he, hesitatingly, "perhaps I have judged Miss Ludolph harshly."
"Your love, not your reason, has evidently been pleading for her."
"Well, mother, I suppose you are right."
"So I suppose the Divine love pleads for the weak and sinful," said Mrs. Fleet, dreamily.
"That is a very pleasant thought, mother, for sometimes it seems that my love could make black white."
"That the Divine love has done, but at infinite cost to itself."
"Oh that my love at any cost to itself could lead her into the new life of the believer!" said Dennis, in a low, earnest tone.
"Your love is like the Divine in being unselfish, but remember the vital differences and take heed. God _can_ change the nature of the imperfect creature that He loves. You cannot. His love is infinite in its strength and patience. You are human. The proud, selfish, unbelieving Miss Ludolph (pardon mother's plain words) could not make you happy. To the degree that you were loyal to God, you would be unhappy, and I should surely dread such a union. The whole tone of your moral character would have to be greatly lowered to permit even peace."
"But, mother," said Dennis, almost impatiently, "in view of my unconquerable love, it is nearly the same as if I were married to her now."
"No, my son, I think not. I know your pretty theory on this subject, but it seems more pretty than true. Marriage makes a vital difference. It is the closest union that we can voluntarily form on earth, and is the emblem of the spiritual oneness of the believer's soul with Christ. We may be led through circumstances, as you have been, to love one with whom we should not form such a union. Indeed, in the true and mystic meaning of the rite, you could not marry Christine Ludolph. The Bible declares that man and wife shall be one. Unless she changes, unless you change (and that God forbid), this could not be. You would be divided, separated in the deepest essentials of your life here, and in every respect hereafter. Again, while God loves every sinful man and woman, He does not take them to His heart till they cry out to Him for strength to abandon the destroying evil He hates. There are no unchanged, unrenewed hearts in heaven."
"Oh, mother, how inexorable is your logic!" said Dennis, breathing heavily.
"Truth in the end is ever more merciful than falsehood," she answered, gently.
After a little, he said, with a heavy sigh, "Mother, you are right, and I am very weak and foolish."
She looked at him with unutterable tenderness. She could not crush out all hope, and so whispered, as before: "Prayer is mighty, my child. It is not wrong for you to love. It is your duty, as well as privilege, to pray for her. Trust your Heavenly Father, do His will, and He will solve this question in the very best way."
Dennis turned to his mother in sudden and passionate earnestness, and said: "Your prayers are mighty, mother, I truly believe. Oh, pray for her--for my sake as well as hers. Looking from the human side, I am hopeless. It is only God's almighty power that can make us, as you say, truly one. I fear that now she is only a heartless, fashionable girl. Yet, if she is only this, I do not see how I came to love her as I do. But my trust now is in your prayers to God."
"And in your own also: the great Father loves you, too, my son. If He chooses that the dross in her character should be burned away, and your two lives fused, there are in His providence just the fiery trials, just the circumstances that will bring it about." (Was she unconsciously uttering a prophecy?) "The crucible of affliction, the test of some great emergency, will often develop a seemingly weak and frivolous girl into noble life, where there is real gold of latent worth to be acted on."
"Christine Ludolph is anything but weak and frivolous," said he. "Her character is strong, and I think most decided in its present bent. But as you say, if the Divine Alchemist wills it, He can change even the dross to gold, and turn unbelief to faith."
Hope, Christine! There is light coming, though as yet you cannot see it. There are angels of mercy flying toward you, though you cannot hear the rustle of their wings. The dark curtain of death and despair can never shut down upon a life linked to heaven by such true, strong prayer. And yet the logical results of wrong-doing will work themselves out, sin must be punished and faith sorely tried.
Dennis heard incidentally that Christine was absent on a visit to New York, but he knew nothing of the time of her return.
He now bent himself steadily and resolutely to the mastering of his business, and under Mr. Bruder's direction resumed his art studies, though now in such moderation as Dr. Arten would commend.
He also entered on an artistic effort that would tax his powers and genius to the very utmost, of which more anon.
By the time Christine returned, he was quite himself again, though much paler and thinner than when he first entered the store.
After Christine had been at home nearly a week, her father, to rouse her out of her listlessness, said one morning: "We have recently received quite a remarkable painting from Europe. You will find it in the upper show-room, and had better come down to-day to see it, for it may be sold soon. I think you would like to copy one or two figures in it."
The lassitude from her New York dissipation was passing away, and her active nature beginning to assert itself again. She started up and said, "Wait five minutes and I will get sketching materials and go down with you."
By reason of her interdict, made at West Point, so earnestly, and indeed fiercely, and confirmed by her manner, her father had never mentioned the name of Dennis Fleet. The very fact that no one had spoken of him since that dreadful day when tidings came in on every side that he could not live was confirmation in her mind that he was dead.
She dreaded going to the store, especially for the first time, for everything would irresistibly remind her of him whom she could not think of now without a pang. But as the ordeal must come, why, the sooner it was over the better. So a few moments later her hand was on her father's arm, and they were on their way to the Art Building as in happier days.
Mr. Ludolph went to his office, and Christine, looking neither to the right nor to the left, ascended to the upper show-room, and at once sought to engage every faculty in making the sketch her father had suggested. Since Dennis was not, as she believed, either on the earth or elsewhere, she tried to take up life again as it had been before he came, and to act as if he had never been.
Hopeless task! In that familiar place, where they had begun the rearrangement of the store, everything spoke of him. She saw his glowing cheeks; again his dark, eager eyes followed her every movement and interpreted her wishes even before she could speak. Some of the pictures on the walls his hands had handled, and in her strong fancy his lithe form seemed moving the ladder to take them down again, while she, with heart and mind at rest, looked with growing curiosity and interest on her humble helper.
What changes had occurred within a short half-year! She shuddered at the thought that one who was then so instinct with life and happiness could now be dust and nothingness, and she the cause.
Association and conscience were again too powerful. She was becoming nervous and full of a strange unrest, so she concluded to finish her sketch at another time. As she was gathering up her materials she heard some one enter the room.
She was in such a morbid, unstrung state that the least thing startled her. But imagine if you can her wonder and terror as she saw Dennis Fleet--the dead and buried, as she fully believed--enter, carrying a picture as of old, and looking as of old, save that he was paler and thinner. Was it an apparition? or, as she had read, had she dwelt so long on this trouble that her mind and imagination were becoming disordered and able to place their wild creations before her as realities?
Her sketching materials fell clattering to the floor, and after one sharp exclamation of alarm she stood as if transfixed, with parted lips and dilated eyes, panting like a frightened bird.
If a sculptor had wished to portray the form and attitude of one startled by the supernatural, never could he have found a more fitting model than Christine at this moment.
As she had been seated a little on one side Dennis had not seen her at first; but, on recognizing her so unexpectedly, he was scarcely less startled than she, and the valuable picture he was carrying nearly met sudden destruction. But he had no such reason as Christine for the continuance of his surprise, and, at once recovering himself, he set the picture against the wall.
This made the illusion still more strange and terrible to Christine. There was the dead before her, doing just as she had been imagining--just what he had done at her bidding months before.
Dennis was greatly puzzled by her look of alarm and distress. Then he thought that perhaps she feared he would break out in bitter and angry invectives again, and he advanced toward her to assure her of the contrary.
Slowly and instinctively she retreated and put up her hands with a deprecatory gesture.
"She cannot endure the sight of me," thought he, but at once he said, with dignified courtesy: "Miss Ludolph, you have nothing to fear from me, that you should regard me in that manner. You need not shrink as if from contagion. We can treat each other as courteous strangers, at least."
"I--I--I--thought you were dead!" she gasped, in a loud whisper.
Dennis's cheek grew paler than it had been in all his sickness, and then as suddenly became dark with anger. His eyes were terrible in their indignation as he advanced a few paces almost fiercely. She trembled violently and shrunk further away.
"You thought I was dead?" he asked, sternly.
"Ye-e-s," in the same unnatural whisper.
"What!" he exclaimed, in short and bitter emphasis, "do you mean to say that you never cared even to ask whether I lived or died in my long, weary illness? --that you were so supremely indifferent to my fate that you could not articulate one sentence of inquiry? Surely this is the very sublimity of heartlessness; this is to be callous beyond one's power of imagination. It seems to me that I would feel as much interest as that in any human being I had once known. If even a dog had licked my hand in good-will, and afterward I had seen it, wounded or sick, creep off into covert, the next time I passed that way I would step aside to see whether the poor creature had lived or died. But after all the wealth of affection that I lavished upon you, after toiling and almost dying in my vain effort to touch your marble heart, you have not even the humanity to ask if I am above ground!"
The illusion had now passed from Christine's mind, and with it her alarm. The true state of the case was rapidly dawning upon her, and she was about to speak eagerly; but in his strong indignation he continued, impetuously: "You thought I was dead! The wish probably was father to the thought. My presumption deserved no better fate. But permit me to tell you, though all unbidden, I did not die. With God's blessing I expect to live to a good old age, and intend that but few years shall pass before my name is as well known and honored as the ancient one of Ludolph;" and he turned on his heel and strode from the room.
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{
"id": "6627"
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37
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IF HE KNEW!
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For a little time after Dennis's angry tread died away, Christine sat almost paralyzed by surprise and deeper emotion. Her mind, though usually clear and rapid in its action, was too confused to realize the truth. Suddenly she sprang up, gathered together her sketching materials, and drawing a thick veil over her face sped through the store, through the streets, to the refuge of her own room. She must be alone.
Hastily throwing aside her wrappings, she began to walk up and down in her excitement. Her listlessness was gone now in very truth, and her eye and cheek glowed as never before. As if it had become the great vivifying principle of her own life, she kept repeating continually in a low, ecstatic tone, "He lives! he lives! he is not dead; his blood is not upon my conscience!"
At last she sat down in her luxurious chair before the window to think it all over--to commune with herself--often the habit of the reserved and solitary. From the disjointed sentences she let fall, from the reflection of her excited face in yonder glass, we gather quite correctly the workings of her mind. Her first words were, "Thank heaven! thank something or other, I have not blotted out that true, strong genius."
Again--"What untold wretchedness I might have saved myself if I had only asked the question, in a casual way, 'How is Mr. Fleet?' Christine Ludolph, with all your pride and imagined superiority, you can be very foolish.
"How he hates and despises me now! little wonder!"
"But if he knew!"
"Knew what? Why could you not ask after him, as after any other sick man? You have had a score or so of offers, and did not trouble yourself as to the fate of the lovelorn swains. Seems to me your conscience has been very tender in this case. And the fact that he misjudges you, thinks you callous, heartless, and is angry, troubles you beyond measure."
"When before were you so sensitive to the opinion of clerks and trades-people, or even the proudest suitors for your hand? But in this case you must cry out, in a tone of sentimental agony, 'Oh, if he only knew it!"
"Knew what?"
Her face in yonder mirror has a strange, introverted expression, as if she were scanning her own soul. Her brow contracts with thought and perplexity.
Gradually a warm, beautiful light steals into her face, transforming it as from the scowl of a winter morning into a dawn of June; her eyes become gentle and tender. A rich color comes out upon her cheeks, spreads up her temples, mantles her brow, and pours a crimson torrent down her snowy neck. Suddenly she drops her burning face into her hands, and hides a vision one would gladly look longer upon. But see, even her little ears have become as red as coral.
The bleakest landscape in the world brightens into something like beauty when the sun shines upon it. So love, the richer, sweeter light of the soul, make the plainest face almost beautiful; but when it changed Christine Ludolph's faultless, yet too cold and classical, features into those of a loving woman's, it suggested a beauty scarcely human.
A moment later there came a faint whisper: "I fear--I almost fear I love him." Then she lifted a startled, frightened face and looked timidly around as if, in truth, walls had ears.
Reassured by the consciousness of solitude, her head dropped on her wrist and her revery went forward. Her eyes became dreamy, and a half-smile played upon her lips as she recalled proof after proof of his affection, for she knew the cruel words of the last interview were the result of misunderstanding.
But suddenly she darted from her seat and began pacing the room in the strongest perturbation.
"Mocked again!" she cried; "the same cruel fate! my old miserable experience in a new aspect! With everything within my reach, save the one thing I want, I possess the means of all kinds of happiness except that which makes me happy. In every possible way I am pledged to a career and future in which he can take no part. Though my heart is full of the strangest, sweetest chaos, and I do not truly understand myself, yet I am satisfied that this is not a school-girl's fancy. But my father would regard it as the old farce repeated. Already he suspects and frowns upon the matter. I should have to break with him utterly and forever. I should have to give up all my ambitious plans and towering hopes of life abroad. A plain Mrs. in this city of shops is a poor substitute for a countess's coronet and a villa on the Rhine."
Her cheek flushed, and her lip curled.
"That indeed would be the very extravagance of romance, and how could I, least of all, who so long have scoffed at such things, explain my action? These mushroom shopkeepers, who were all nobodies the other day, elevate their eyebrows when a merchant's daughter marries her father's clerk. But when would the wonder cease if a German lady of rank followed suit?
"Then again my word, my honor, every sacred pledge I could give, forbids such folly.
"Would to heaven I had never seen him, for this unfortunate fancy of mine must be crushed in its inception; strangled before it comes to master me as it has mastered him."
After a long and weary sigh she continued: "Well, everything is favorable for a complete and final break between us. He believes me heartless and wicked to the last degree. I cannot undeceive him without showing more than he should know. I have only to avoid him, to say nothing, and we drift apart.
"If we could only have been friends he might have helped me so much! but that now is clearly impossible--yes, for both of us.
"Truly one of these American poets was right: "'For of all sad words of tongue or pen, The saddest are these--It might have been.'
"But thanks to the immortal gods, as the pious heathen used to say, his blood is not on my hands, and this has taken a mountain off my heart. Thus relieved I can perhaps forget all the miserable business. Fate forbids that I, as it has forbidden that many another high-born woman, should marry where she might have loved."
If Christine's heart was wronged, her pride was highly gratified by this conclusion. Here was a new and strong resemblance between herself and the great. In mind she recalled the titled unfortunates who had "loved where they could not marry," and with the air and feeling of a martyr to ancestral grandeur she pensively added her name to the list.
With her conscience freed from its burden of remorse, with the knowledge, so sweet to every woman, that she might accept this happiness if she would, in spite of her airs of martyrdom, the world had changed greatly for the better, and with the natural buoyancy of youth she reacted into quite a cheerful and hopeful state.
Her father noticed this on his return to dinner in the evening, and sought to learn its cause. He asked, "How did you make out with your sketch?"
"I made a beginning," she answered, with some little color rising to her cheek.
"Perhaps you were interrupted?"
"Why did you not tell me that Mr. Fleet had recovered?" she asked, abruptly.
"Why, did you think he was dead?"
"Yes."
Mr. Ludolph indulged in a hearty laugh (he knew the power of ridicule).
"Well, that is excellent!" he said. "You thought the callow youth had died on account of your hardness of heart; and this explains your rather peculiar moods and tenses of late. Let me assure you that a Yankee never dies from such a cause."
Mr. Ludolph determined if possible to break down her reserve and let in the garish light, which he knew to be most fatal to all romantic fancies, that ever thrive best in the twilight of secrecy. But she was on the alert now, and in relief of mind had regained her poise and the power to mask her feeling. So she said in a tone tinged with cold indifference, "You may be right, but I had good reason to believe to the contrary, and, as I am not altogether without a conscience, you might have saved much pain by merely mentioning the fact of his recovery."
"But you had adjured me with frightful solemnity never to mention his name again," said her father, still laughing.
Christine colored and bit her lip. She had forgotten for the moment this awkward fact.
"I was nervous, sick, and not myself that day, and every one I met could speak of nothing but Mr. Fleet."
"Well, really," he said, "in the long list of the victims that you have wounded if not slain, I never supposed my clerk and quondam man-of-all-work would prove so serious a case."
"A truce to your bantering, father! Mr. Fleet is humble only in station, not in character, not in ability. You know I have never been very tender with the 'victims,' as you designate them, of the Mellen stamp; but Mr. Fleet is a man, in the best sense of the word, and one that I have wronged. Now that the folly is past I may as well explain to you some things that have appeared strange. I think I can truly say that I have given those gentlemen who have honored, or rather annoyed me, by their unwished-for regard, very little encouragement. Therefore, I was not responsible for any follies they might commit. But for artistic reasons I did encourage Mr. Fleet's infatuation. You remember how I failed in making a copy of that picture. In my determination to succeed, I hit upon the rather novel expedient of inspiring and copying the genuine thing. You know my imitative power is better than my imagination, and I thought that by often witnessing the expression of feeling and passion, I might learn to portray it without the disagreeable necessity of passing through any such experiences myself. But the experiment, as you know, did not work well. These living subjects are hard to manage, and, as I have said, I am troubled by a conscience."
Mr. Ludolph's eyes sparkled, and a look of genuine admiration lighted up his features.
"Brava!" he cried; "your plan was worthy of you and of your ancestry. It was a real stroke of genius. You were too tender-hearted, otherwise it would have been perfect. What are the lives of a dozen such young fellows compared with the development and perfection of such a woman as you bid fair to be?"
Christine had displayed in this transaction just the qualities that her father most admired. But even she was shocked at his callousness, and lifted a somewhat startled face to his.
"Your estimate of human life is rather low," she said.
"Not at all. Is not one perfect plant better than a dozen imperfect ones? The gardener often pulls up the crowding and inferior ones to throw them about the roots of the strongest, that in their death and decay they may nourish it to the highest development. The application of this principle is evident. They secure most in this world who have the skill and power to grasp most."
"But how about the rights of others? Conscious men and women are not plants."
"Let them be on their guard then. Every one is for himself in this world. That can be plainly seen through the thin disguises that some try to assume. After all, half the people we meet are little better than summer weeds."
Christine almost shuddered to think that the one bound to her by closest ties cherished such sentiments toward the world, and probably, to a certain extent, toward herself, but she only said, quietly: "I can hardly subscribe to your philosophy as yet, though I fear I act upon it too often. Still it does not apply to Mr. Fleet. He is gifted in no ordinary degree, and doubtless will stand high here in his own land in time. And now, as explanation has been made, with your permission we will drop this subject out of our conversation as before."
"Well," said Mr. Ludolph to himself, between sips of his favorite Rhine wine, "I have gained much light on the subject to-night, and I must confess that, even with my rather wide experience, the whole thing is a decided novelty. If Christine were only less troubled with conscience, over-fastidiousness, or whatever it is--if she were more moderate in her ambition as an artist, and could be satisfied with power and admiration, as other women are--what a star she might become in the fashionable world of Europe! But, for some reason, I never feel sure of her. Her spirit is so wilful and obstinate, and she seems so full of vague longing after an ideal, impossible world, that I live in constant dread that she may be led into some folly fatal to my ambition. This Fleet is a most dangerous fellow. I wish I were well rid of him; still, matters are not so bad as I feared--that is, if she told me the whole truth, which I am inclined to doubt. But I had better keep him in my employ during the few months we still remain in this land, as I can watch over him, and guard against his influence better than if he were beyond my control. But no more promotion or encouragement does he get from me."
Janette, Christine's French maid, passed the open door. The thought struck Mr. Ludolph that he might secure an ally in her.
The unscrupulous creature was summoned, and agreed for no very large sum to become a spy upon Christine, and report anything looking toward friendly relations with Dennis Fleet.
"The game is still in my hands," said the wary man. "I will yet steer my richly-freighted argosy up the Rhine. Here's to Christine, the belle of the German court!" and he filled a slender Venetian glass to the brim, drained it, and then retired.
Christine, on reaching her room, muttered to herself: "He now knows all that I mean he ever shall. We are one in our ambition, if nothing else, and therefore our relations must be to a certain degree confidential and amicable. And now forget you have a conscience, forget you have a heart, and, above all things, forget that you have ever seen or known Dennis Fleet."
Thus the influence of a false education, a proud, selfish, ambitious life, decided her choice. She plunged as resolutely into the whirl of fashionable gayety about her as she had in the dissipations of New York, determined to forget the past, and kill the time that must intervene before she could sail away to her brilliant future in Germany.
But she gradually learned that, if conscience had robbed her of peace before, something else disturbed her now, and rendered her efforts futile. She found that there was a principle at work in her heart stronger even than her resolute will. In spite of her purpose to the contrary, she caught herself continually thinking of Dennis, and indulging in strange, delicious reveries in regard to him.
At last she ceased to shun the store as she had done at first, but with increasing frequency found some necessity for going there.
After the interview in the show-room, Dennis was driven to the bitter conclusion that Christine was utterly heartless, and cared not a jot for him. His impression was confirmed by the fact that she shunned the store, and that he soon heard of her as a belle and leader in the ultra-fashionable world. He, too, bitterly lamented that he had ever seen her, and was struggling with all the power of his will to forget her. He fiercely resolved that, since she wished him dead, she should become dead to him.
Almost immediately after his return he had discovered that the two emblematical pictures had been removed from the loft over the store. He remembered that he had spoken of them to Christine, and from Ernst he gathered that she herself had taken them away. It was possible, he believed, that she had made them the subject of ridicule. At best she must have destroyed them in order to blot out all trace of a disagreeable episode. Whatever may have been their fate, they had, as he thought, failed in their purpose, and were worthless to him, and he was far too proud to make inquiries.
As the weeks passed on, he apparently succeeded better than she. There was nothing in her character, as she then appeared, that appealed to anything gentle or generous. She seemed so proud, so strong and resolute in her choice of evil, so devoid of the true womanly nature, as he had learned to reverence it in his mother, that he could not pity, much less respect her, and even his love could scarcely survive under such circumstances.
When she began coming to the store again, though his heart beat thick and fast at her presence, he turned his back and seemed not to see her, or made some errand to a remote part of the building. At first she thought this might be accident, but she soon found it a resolute purpose to ignore her very existence. By reason of a trait peculiar to Christine, this was only the more stimulating. She craved all the more that which was seemingly denied.
Accustomed to every gratification, to see all yield to her wishes, and especially to find gentlemen almost powerless to resist her beauty, she came to regard this one stern, averted face as infinitely more attractive than all the rest in the world.
"That he so steadily avoids me proves that he is anything but indifferent," she said to herself one day.
She condemned her visits to the store, and often reproached herself with folly in going; but a secret powerful magnetism drew her thither in spite of herself.
Dennis, too, soon noticed that she came often, and the fact awakened a faint hope within him. He learned that his love was not dead, but only chilled and chained by circumstances and his own strong will. True, apart from the fact of her coming, she gave him no encouragement. She was as distant and seemingly oblivious of his existence as he of hers, but love can gather hope from a marvellously little thing.
But one day Christine detected her father watching her movements with the keenest scrutiny, and after that she came more and more rarely. The hope that for a moment had tinged the darkness surrounding Dennis died away like the meteor's transient light.
He went into society very little after his illness, and shunned large companies. He preferred to spend his evenings with his mother and in study. The Winthrops were gone, having removed to their old home in Boston, and he had not formed very intimate acquaintances elsewhere. Moreover, his limited circle, though of the best and most refined, was not one in which Christine often appeared.
But one evening his cheek paled and his heart fluttered as he saw her entering the parlors of a lady by whom he had been invited to meet a few friends. For some little time he studiously avoided her, but at last his hostess, with well-meant zeal, formally presented him.
They bowed very politely and very coldly. The lady surmised that Christine did not care about the acquaintance of her father's clerk, and so brought them no more together. But Christine was pained by Dennis's icy manner, and saw that she was thoroughly misunderstood. When asked to sing, she chose a rather significant ditty: "Ripple, sparkle, rapid stream, Let your dancing wavelets gleam Quiveringly and bright; Children think the surface glow Reaches to the depth below, Hidden from the light.
"Human faces often seem Like the sparkle of the stream, In the social glare; Some assert, in wisdom's guise, (Look they not with children's eyes?) All is surface there."
As she rose from the piano her glance met his with something like meaning in it, he imagined. He started, flushed, and his face became full of eager questioning. But her father was on the watch also, and, placing his daughter's hand within his arm, he led her into the front parlor, and soon after they pleaded another engagement and vanished altogether.
No chance for explanation came, and soon a new and all-absorbing anxiety filled Dennis's heart, and the shadow of the greatest sorrow that he had yet experienced daily drew nearer.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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38
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THE GATES OPEN
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At Dennis's request, Dr. Arten called and carefully inquired into Mrs. Fleet's symptoms. Her son stood anxiously by awaiting the result of the examination. At last the physician said, cheerily: "There is no immediate occasion for alarm here. I am sorry to say that your mother's lungs are far from strong, but they may carry her through many comfortable years yet. I will prescribe tonics, and you may hope for the best. But mark this well, she must avoid exposure. A severe cold might be most serious in its consequences."
How easy to say, "Do not take cold!" How many whose lives were at stake have sought to obey the warning, but all in vain! Under Dr. Arten's tonics, Mrs. Fleet grew stronger, and Dennis rejoiced over the improvement. But, in one of the sudden changes attendant on the breaking up of winter, the dreaded cold was taken, and it soon developed into acute pneumonia.
For a few days she was very ill, and Dennis never left her side. In the intervals of pain and fever she would smile at him and whisper: "The harbor is near. This rough weather cannot last much longer."
"Mother, do not leave us; we cannot spare you," ever pleaded her son.
Contrary to her expectations, however, she rallied, but continued in a very feeble state. Dennis was able to resume his duties in the store, and he hoped and tried to believe that the warm spring and summer days soon to come would renew his mother's strength. But every day she grew feebler, and Dr. Arten shook his head.
The Bruders were very kind, and it was astonishing how much Mrs. Bruder, though burdened with her large family, found time to do. If Mrs. Fleet had been her own mother she could not have bestowed upon her more loving solicitude. Mr. Bruder was devotion itself. He removed his easel to an attic-room in Mrs. Fleet's house; and every hour of Dennis's absence heard him say: "Vat I do for you now? I feel no goot unless I do someding."
Some little time after Mrs. Fleet was taken sick a mystery arose. The most exquisite flowers and fruits were left at the house from time to time, marked in a bold, manly hand, "For Mrs. Fleet." But all efforts to discover their source failed.
The reader will guess that Christine was the donor, and Dennis hoped it--though, he admitted to himself, with little reason.
Mrs. Fleet had not much pain. She seemed gently wafted as by an ebbing tide away from time and earth, Kindly but firmly she sought to prepare Dennis's mind for the change soon to take place. At first he could not endure its mention, but she said, earnestly: "My son, I am not dying. I am just entering on the true, real, eternal life--a life which is as much beyond this poor feeble existence as the sun is brighter than a glow-worm. I shall soon clasp my dear husband to my heart again, and, oh, ecstasy! I shall soon in reality see the Saviour whom I now see almost continually in vision."
Then again she would turn toward her earthly treasures with unutterable yearning and tenderness.
"Oh, that I could gather you up in my arms and take you all with me!" she would often exclaim. Many times during the day she would call the little girls from their play and kiss their wondering faces.
One evening Dennis came home and found a vase of flowers with a green background of mint at his mother's bedside. Their delicate fragrance greeted him as soon as he entered. As he sat by her side holding her hand, he said, softly: "Mother, are not these sprays of mint rather unusual in a bouquet? Has the plant any special meaning? I have noticed it before mingled with these mysterious flowers."
She smiled and answered, "When I was a girl its language was, 'Let us be friends again.'"
"Do you think--can it be possible that _she_ sends them?" said he, in a low, hesitating tone.
"Prayer is mighty, my son."
"And have you been praying for her all this time, mother?"
"Yes, and will continue to do so to the last."
"Oh, mother! I have lost hope. My heart has been full of bitterness toward her, and I have felt that God was against it all."
"God is not against her learning to know Him, which is life. Jesus has loved her all the time, and she has wronged Him more than she has you."
Dennis bowed his head on his mother's hand, and she felt hot tears fall upon it. At last he murmured: "You are indeed going to heaven soon, dear mother, for your language is not of earth. When will such a spirit dwell within me?"
"Again remember your mother's words," she answered, gently; "prayer is mighty."
"Mother," said he, with a sudden earnestness, "do you think you can pray for us in heaven?"
"I know of no reason to the contrary."
"Then I know you will, and the belief will ever be a source of hope and strength."
Mrs. Fleet was now passing through the land of Beulah. To her strong spiritual vision, the glories of the other shore seemed present, and at times she thought that she really heard music; again it would seem as if her Saviour had entered the plain little room, as He did the humble home at Bethany.
Her thoughts ran much on Christine. One day she wrote, feebly: "Would Miss Ludolph be willing to come and see a dying woman? ETHEL FLEET."
Mr. Bruder carried it, but most unfortunately Christine was out, so that her maid, ever on the alert to earn the price of her treachery, received it. It was slightly sealed. She opened it, and saw from its contents that it must be given to Mr. Ludolph. He with a frown committed it to the flames.
"I have written to her," she whispered to her son in the evening, "and think she will come to see me."
Dennis was sleepless that night, through his hope and eager expectation. The following day, and the next passed, and she came not.
"I was right," exclaimed he, bitterly. "She is utterly heartless. It was not she who sent the flowers. Who that is human would have refused such a request! Waste no more thought upon her, for she is unworthy, and it is all in vain." "No!" said Mrs. Fleet in sudden energy. "It is not in vain. Have I not prayed again and again? and shall I doubt God?"
"Your faith is stronger than mine," he answered, in deep despondency.
"God's time is not always ours," she answered, gently.
But an angry fire lurked in Dennis's eyes, and he muttered to himself as he went to his room: "She has snapped the last slender cord that bound me to her. I could endure almost anything myself, but that she should refuse to visit my dying mother proves her a monster, with all her beauty."
As he was leaving the house in the morning, his mother whispered, gently, "Who was it that said, 'Father, forgive them, they know not what they do?'"
"Ah, but she does know," said he, bitterly. "I can forgive nearly everything against myself, but not slights to you."
"The time will come when you will forgive everything, my son."
"Not till there is acknowledgment and sorrow for the wrong," answered he, sternly. Then with a sudden burst of tenderness he added: "Good-by, darling mother. I will try to do anything you wish, even though it is impossible;" but his love, through Janette's treachery, suffered the deepest wound it had yet received.
Christine of her own accord had almost decided to call upon Mrs. Fleet, but before she could carry out her purpose while hastily coming downstairs one day, she sprained her ankle, and was confined to her room some little time.
She sent Janette with orders for the flowers, who, at once surmising their destination, said to the florist that she was Miss Ludolph's confidential maid, and would carry them to those for whom they were designed. He, thinking it "all right," gave them to her, and she took them to a Frenchman in the same trade whom she knew, and sold them at half-price, giving him a significant sign to ask no questions. To the same market she brought the fruit; so from that time they ceased as mysteriously as they had appeared at Mrs. Fleet's bedside.
But Dennis was so anxious, and his mother was now failing so rapidly, that he scarcely noted this fact. The warm spring days seemed rather to enervate than to strengthen her. He longed to stay with her constantly, but his daily labor was necessary to secure the comforts needful to an invalid. Every morning he bade her a most tender adieu, and during the day often sent Ernst to inquire how she was.
One evening Christine ventured to send Janette on the same errand and impatiently awaited her return. At last she came, appearing as if flushed and angry.
"Whom did you see?" asked Christine, eagerly.
"I saw Mr. Fleet himself."
"Well, what did he say?"
"He bite his lip, frown, and say, 'Zere is no answer,' and turn on his heel into ze house."
It was now Christine's turn to be angry. "What!" she exclaimed, "does his Bible teach him to forget and forgive nothing? Can it be that he, like the rest of them, believes and acts on only such parts as are to his mood?"
"I don't know nothing about him," said the maid, "only I don't want to go zere again."
"You need not," was the brief reply.
After a long, bitter revery, she sighed: "Ah, well, thus we drift apart. But it is just as well, for apart we must ever be."
One morning early in May Mrs. Fleet was very weak, and Dennis left her with painful misgivings. During the morning he sent Ernst to see how she was, and he soon returned, with wild face, crying, "Come home quick!"
Breaking abruptly from his startled customer, Dennis soon reached his mother's side. Mr. and Mrs. Bruder were sobbing at the foot of the bed, and the girls were pleading piteously on either side--"Oh, mother! please don't go away!"
"Hush!" said Dennis, solemnly. Awed by his manner, all became comparatively silent. He bent over the bed, and said, "Mother, you are leaving us."
The voice of her beloved son rallied the dying woman's wandering mind. After a moment she recognized him, smiled faintly, and whispered: "Yes, I think I am--kiss me--good-by. Bring--the children. Jesus--take care--my little--lambs. Good-by--true--honest friends--meet me--heaven. Dennis--these children--your charge--bring them home--to me. Pray for _her_. I don't know--why--she seems very--near to me. Farewell--my good--true--son--mother's blessing--God's blessing--ever rest--on you."
Her eyes closed, and she fell into a gentle sleep.
"She vake no more in dis vorld," said Mrs. Bruder, in an awed tone.
Mr. Bruder, unable to control his feelings any longer, hurried from the room. His wife, with streaming eyes, silently dressed the little girls, and took them home with her, crying piteously all the way for mamma.
Pale, tearless, motionless, Dennis sat, hour after hour holding his mother's hand. He noted that her pulse grew more and more feeble. At last the sun in setting broke through the clouds that had obscured it all day, and filled the room with a sudden glory.
To Dennis's great surprise, his mother's eyes opened wide, with the strange, far-off look they ever had when she was picturing to herself the unknown world.
Her lips moved. He bent over her and caught the words: "Hark! hear! --It never was so sweet before. See the angels--thronging toward me--they never came so near before."
Then a smile of joy and welcome lighted up her wan features, and she whispered, "Oh, Dennis, husband--are we once more united?"
Suddenly there was a look of ecstasy such as her son had never seen on any human face, and she cried almost aloud, "Jesus--my Saviour!" and received, as it were, directly into His arms, she passed from earth.
We touch briefly on the scenes that followed. Dennis took the body of his mother to her old home, and buried it under the wide-spreading elm in the village churchyard, where as a happy child and blooming maiden she had often sat between the services. It was his purpose to remove the remains of his father and place them by her side as soon as he could afford it.
His little sisters accompanied him east, and he found a home for them with a sister of his mother, who was a good, kind, Christian lady. Dennis's salary was not large, but sufficient to insure that his sisters would be no burden to his aunt, who was in rather straitened circumstances. He also arranged that the small annuity should be paid for their benefit.
It was hard parting from his sisters, whose little hearts seemed breaking at what appeared to them to be a new bereavement.
"How can I leave them!" he exclaimed, with tears falling fast from his eyes.
"They are children," said his aunt, soothingly, "and will forget their troubles in a few days."
And so it proved; but Dennis, with a sore heart, and feeling very lonely, returned to Chicago.
When at last Christine got out again, she learned from Ernst at the store that Dennis's mother had died, and that he had taken the remains and his sisters east. In his sorrow he seemed doubly interesting to her.
"How I wish it were in my power to cheer and comfort him!" she sighed, "and yet I fear my ability to do this is less than that of any one else. In very truth he seems to despise and hate me now. The barriers between us grow stronger and higher every day. How different it all might have been if--. But what is the use of these wretched 'ifs'? What is the use of resisting this blind, remorseless fate that brings happiness to one and crushes another?"
Wearily and despondingly she rode back to the elegant home in which she found so little enjoyment.
Whom should she met there but Mrs. Von Brakhiem from New York, bound westward with a gay party on a trip to the Rocky Mountains and California? They had stopped to spend a few days in Chicago, and were determined to take Christine on with them. Her father strongly seconded the plan. Though Christine surmised his motive, she did not care to resist. Since she would soon be separated from Dennis forever, the less she saw of him the less would be the pain. Moreover, her sore and heavy heart welcomed any change that would cause forgetfulness; and so it was speedily arranged.
Mrs. Von Brakhiem and her party quite took possession of the Ludolph mansion, and often made it echo with gayety.
On the evening of the day that Dennis buried his mother, Ernst went over at Mr. Ludolph's request to carry a message. He found the house the scene of a fashionable revel. There were music and dancing in the parlors, and from the dining-room the clink of glasses and loud peals of laughter proved that this was not Christine's ideal of an entertainment as she had portrayed it to her father on a former occasion. In truth, she had little to do with the affair; it was quite impromptu, and Mr. Ludolph and Mrs. Von Brakhiem were responsible for it.
But Ernst could not know this, and to him it seemed shocking. The simple funeral service taking place on that day in the distant New England village had never been absent from his thoughts a moment. Since early morning he had gone about with his little face composed to funereal gravity.
His simple, warm-hearted parents felt that they could only show proper respect for the occasion by the deepest gloom. Their rooms were arranged in stiff and formal manner, with crape here and there. All unnecessary work ceased, and the children, forbidden to play, were dressed in mourning as far as possible, and made to sit in solemn and dreadful state all day. It would not have surprised Ernst if the whole city had gone into mourning. Therefore the revelry at the Ludolph mansion seemed to him heartless and awful beyond measure, and nearly the first things he told Dennis on the latter's return was that they had had "a great dancing and drinking party, the night of the funeral, at Mr. Ludolph's." Then, trying to find some explanation for what seemed to him such a strange and wicked thing, he suggested, "Perhaps they meant it for a wake."
Poor little Ernst's ideas of the world, outside of his home, had been gathered from a very low neighborhood.
He also handed Dennis a letter that Mr. Ludolph requested should be given him on his return. It read as follows: "CHICAGO, May 6, 1871.
"I have been compelled to supply your place in your absence: therefore your services will be no longer needed at this store. Inclosed you will find a check for the small balance still due you, AUGUST LUDOLPH."
Dennis's brow grew very dark, and in bitter soliloquy he said, half aloud, as he strode up and down his little room in great agitation: "And so it all ends! The girl at whose side my mother would have watched in the most dangerous and loathsome of diseases; the woman of ice whom I sought to melt and render human by as warm, true love as ever man lavished on one who rewarded his affection--this beautiful monster will not even visit my mother when dying; she holds a revel on the day of the funeral; and now, through her influence no doubt, I am robbed of the chance of winning honest bread. She cannot even endure the sight of the man who once told her the unvarnished truth. Poor as you deem me, Christine Ludolph, with God's help not many years shall pass before it will be condescension on my part to recognize you."
He would not even go to the store again. The Bruders, having heard what had occurred, took Ernst away also; but Dennis soon found him a better situation elsewhere.
The day on which Dennis returned, Christine was speeding in a palace-car toward the Rocky Mountains, outwardly gay, determined to enjoy herself and carry out her reckless purpose to get the most possible out of life, cost what it might.
If she had been a shallow girl, thoughtless and vain, with only mind enough to take in the events of the passing moment, she might have bought many fleeting pleasures with her abundant wealth. But this she was not, with all her faults, and wherever she went, in the midst of gayest scenes, and in the presence of the grandest and most inspiring scenery, thought and memory, like two spectres that no spell could lay, haunted her and robbed her of peace and any approach to happiness. Though possessing the means of gratifying every whim, though restrained by no scruples from doing what she chose, she felt that all around were getting more from life than she.
During her absence she experienced a sudden and severe attack of illness. Her friends were much alarmed about her, and she far more about herself. All her old terror returned. In one respect she was like her mother; she had no physical courage, but shrank with inexpressible dread from danger, pain, and death. Again the blackness of darkness gathered round her, and not one in the gay pleasure party could say a word to comfort her.
She recovered, and soon regained her usual health, but her self-confidence was more thoroughly shaken. She felt like one in a little cockle-shell boat out upon a shoreless ocean. While the treacherous sea remained calm, all might be well, but she knew that a storm would soon arise, and that she must go down, beyond remedy. Again she had been taught how suddenly, how unexpectedly, that storm might rise.
Dennis resolved at once to enter on the career of an artist. He sold to Mr. French, at a moderate price, some paintings and sketches he had made. He rented a small room that became his studio, sleeping-apartment--in brief, his home, and then went to work with all the ordinary incentives to success intensified by his purpose to reach a social height that would compel Christine to look upward if their acquaintance were renewed.
Disappointment in love is one of the severest tests of character in man or woman. Some sink into weak sentimentality, and mope and languish; some become listless, apathetic, and float down the current of existence like driftwood. Men are often harsh and cynical, and rail at the sex to which their mothers and sisters belong. Sometimes a man inflicts a wellnigh fatal wound and leaves his victim to cure it as best she may. From that time forth she may be like the wronged Indian, who slays as many white men as he can. Not a few, on finding they cannot enter the beautiful paradise of happy love, plunge into imbruting vice, and drown not only their disappointment but themselves in dissipation. Their course is like that of some who deem that the best way to cure a wound or end a disease is to kill the patient as soon as possible. If women have true metal in them (and they usually have) they become unselfishly devoted to others, and by gentle, self-denying ways seek to impart to those about them the happiness denied to themselves.
But with all manly young men the instinct of Dennis is perhaps the most common. They will rise, shine, and dazzle the eyes that once looked scornfully or indifferently at them.
As he worked patiently at his noble calling this smaller ambition was gradually lost in the nobler, broader one, to be a true artist and a good man.
During his illness some gentlemen of large wealth and liberality, who wished to stimulate and develop the native artistic talent of their city, offered a prize of two thousand dollars for the finest picture painted during the year, the artist also having the privilege of selling his work.
On his return after his illness Dennis heard of this, and determined to be one of the competitors. He applied to Mr. Cornell, who had the matter in charge, for permission to enter the lists, which that gentleman granted rather doubtfully. He had known Dennis only as a critic, not as an artist. But having gained his point, Dennis went earnestly to work on the emblematic painting he had resolved upon, and with what success the following chapters will show.
His mother's sickness and death, of course, put a complete shop to his artistic labors for a time, but when entering on his new career, he gave himself wholly to this effort.
The time for exhibition and decision was fixed--Saturday morning October 7, 1871.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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39
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SUSIE WINTHROP APPEARS AGAIN
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Our story passes rapidly over the scenes and events of the summer and fall of '71. Another heavy blow fell upon Dennis in the loss of his old friend and instructor, Mr. Bruder.
By prayer and effort, his own and others, he was saved morally and spiritually, but he had been greatly shattered by past excess. He was attacked by typhoid fever, and after a few days' illness died. Recovery from this disease depends largely upon strength and purity of constitution. But every one of the innumerable glasses of liquor that poor Bruder had swallowed had helped to rob him of these, and so there was no power to resist.
Under her husband's improved finances, Mrs. Bruder had removed to comfortable lodgings in Harrison Street, and these she determined to keep if possible, dreading for the sake of her children the influences of a crowded tenement house. Dennis stood by her, a stanch and helpful friend; Ernst was earning a good little sum weekly, and by her needle and washtub the patient woman continued the hard battle of life with fair prospects of success.
Dennis's studio was on the south side, at the top of a tall building overlooking the lake. Even before the early summer sun rose above the shining waves he was at his easel, and so accomplished what is a fair day's work before many of his profession had left their beds. Though he worked hard and long, he still worked judiciously. Bent upon accomplishing what was almost impossible within the limited time remaining, he determined that, with all his labor, Dr. Arten should never charge him with suicidal tendencies again. Therefore he trained himself mentally and morally for his struggle as the athlete trains himself physically.
He believed in the truth, too little recognized among brain-workers, that men can develop themselves into splendid mental conditions, wherein they can accomplish almost double their ordinary amount of labor.
The year allotted to the competitors for the prize to be given in October was all too short for such a work as he had attempted, and through his own, his mother's, and Mr. Bruder's illness, he had lost a third of the time, but in the careful and skilful manner indicated he was trying to make it up. He had a long conversation with shrewd old Dr. Arten, who began to take a decided interest in him. He also read several books on hygiene. Thus he worked under the guidance of reason, science, Christian principle, instead of mere impulse, as is too often the case with genius.
In the absorption of his task he withdrew utterly from society, and, with the exception of his mission class, Christian worship on the Sabbath, and attendance on a little prayer-meeting in a neglected quarter during the week, he permitted no other demands upon his time and thoughts.
His pictures had sold for sufficient to provide for his sisters and enable him to live, with close economy, till after the prize was given, and then, if he did not gain it (of which he was not at all sure), his painting would sell for enough to meet future needs.
And so we leave him for a time earnestly at work. He was like a ship that had been driven hither and thither, tempest-tossed and in danger. At last, under a clear sky and in smooth water, it finds its true bearings, and steadily pursues its homeward voyage.
The Christine whom he had first learned to love in happy unconsciousness, while they arranged the store together, became a glorified, artistic ideal. The Christine whom he had learned to know as false and heartless was now to him a strange, fascinating, unwomanly creature, beautiful only as the Sirens were beautiful, that he might wreck himself body and soul before her unpitying eyes. He sought to banish all thought of her.
Christine returned about midsummer. She was compelled to note, as she neared her native city, that of all the objects it contained Dennis Fleet was uppermost in her thoughts. She longed to go to the store and see him once more, even though it should be only at a distance, with not even the shadow of recognition between them. She condemned it all as folly, and worse than vain, but that made no difference to her heart, which would have its way.
Almost trembling with excitement she entered the Art Building the next day, and glanced around with a timidity that was in marked contrast to her usual cold and critical regard. But, as the reader knows, Dennis Fleet was not to be seen. From time to time she went again, but neither he nor Ernst appeared. She feared that for some reason he had gone, and determined to learn the truth. Throwing off the strange timidity and restraint that ever embarrassed her where he was concerned, she said to Mr. Schwartz one day: "I don't like the way that picture is hung. Where is Mr. Fleet? I believe he has charge of that department."
"Why, bless you! Miss Ludolph," replied Mr. Schwartz, with a look of surprise, "Mr. Ludolph discharged him over two months ago."
"Discharged him! what for?"
"For being away too much, I heard," said old Schwartz, with a shrug indicating that that might be the reason and might not.
Christine came to the store but rarely thereafter, for it had lost its chief element of interest. That evening she said to her father, "You have discharged Mr. Fleet?"
"Yes," was the brief answer.
"May I ask the reason?"
"He was away too much."
"That is not the real reason," she said, turning suddenly upon him. "Father, what is the use of treating me as a child? What is the use of trying to lock things up and keep them from me? I intend to go to Germany with you this fall, and that is sufficient."
With a courtly smile Mr. Ludolph replied, "And I have lived long enough, my daughter, to know that what people _intend_, and what they _do_ are two very different things."
She flushed angrily and said: "It was most unjust to discharge him as you did. Do you not remember that he offered his mother's services as nurse when I was dreading the smallpox?"
"You are astonishingly grateful in this case," said her father, with a meaning that Christine understood too well; "but, if you will read the records of the Ludolph race, you will find that its representatives have often been compelled to do things somewhat arbitrarily. Since you have been gone, I have received letters announcing the death of my brother and his wife. I am now Baron Ludolph!"
But Christine was too angry and too deeply wounded to note this information, which at one time would have elated her beyond measure. She coldly said, "It is a pity that noblemen are compelled to aught but noble deeds"; and, with this parting arrow, she left him.
Even her father winced, and then with a heavy frown said, "It is well that this Yankee youth has vanished; still, the utmost vigilance is required."
Again he saw the treacherous maid and promised increased reward if she would be watchful, and inform him of every movement of Christine.
In the unobtrusive ways that her sensitive pride permitted, Christine tried to find out what had become of Dennis, but vainly. She offered her maid a large reward if she would discover him, but she had been promised a larger sum not to find him, and so did not. The impression was given that he had left the city, and Christine feared, with a sickening dread, that she would never see him again. But one evening Mr. Cornell stated a fact in a casual way that startled both Mr. and Miss Ludolph.
He was calling at their house, and they were discussing the coming exhibition of the pictures which would compete for the prize.
"By the way, your former clerk and porter is among the competitors; at least he entered the lists last spring, but I have lost sight of him since. I imagine he has given it up, and betaken himself to tasks more within the range of his ability."
The eyes of father and daughter met, but she turned to Mr. Cornell, and said, coolly, though with a face somewhat flushed, "And has Chicago so much artistic talent that a real genius has no chance here?"
"I was not aware that Mr. Fleet was a genius," answered Mr. Cornell.
"I think that he will satisfy you on that point, and that you will hear from him before the exhibition takes place."
Mr. Ludolph hastily changed the subject, but he had forebodings as to the future.
Christine went to her room, and thought for a long time; suddenly she arose, exclaiming, "He told me his story once on canvas; I will now tell him mine."
She at once stretched the canvas on a frame for a small picture, and placed it on an easel, that she might commence with dawn of day.
During the following weeks she worked scarcely less earnestly and patiently than Dennis. The door was locked when she painted, and before she left the studio the picture was hidden.
She meant to send it anonymously, so that not even her father should know its authorship. She hoped that Dennis would recognize it.
When she was in the street her eyes began to have an eager, wistful look, as if she was seeking some one. She often went to galleries, and other resorts of artists, but in vain, for she never met him, though at times the distance between them was less than between Evangeline and her lover, when she heard the dip of his oar in her dream. Though she knew that if she met him she would probably give not one encouraging glance, yet the instinct of her heart was just as strong.
Mr. Ludolph told the maid that she must find out what Christine was painting, and she tried to that degree that she wakened suspicion.
On one occasion Christine turned suddenly on her, and said: "What do you mean? If I find you false--if I have even good reason to suspect you--I will turn you into the street, though it be at midnight!"
And the maid learned, as did Mr. Ludolph, that she was not dealing with a child.
During Monday, October 2, Dennis was employed all the long day in giving the finishing touches to his picture. It was not worked up as finely as he could have wished; time did not permit this. But he had brought out his thought vividly, and his drawings were full of power. On the following Saturday the prize would be given.
In the evening he walked out for air and exercise. As he was passing one of the large hotels, he heard his name called. Turning, he saw on the steps, radiant with welcome, his old friend, Susie Winthrop. Her hand was on the arm of a tall gentleman, who seemed to have eyes for her only. But in her old impulsive way she ran down the steps, and gave Dennis a grasp of the hand that did his lonely heart good. Then, leading him to the scholarly-looking gentleman, who was gazing through his glasses in mild surprise, she said: "Professor Leonard, my husband, Mr. Fleet. This is the Dennis Fleet I have told you about so often."
"Oh-h," said the professor, in prolonged accents, while a genial light shone through his gold spectacles. "Mr. Fleet, we are old acquaintances, though we have never met before. If I were a jealous man, you are the only one I should fear."
"And we mean to make you wofully jealous to-night, for I intend to have Mr. Fleet dine with us and spend the evening. Wo, I will take no excuse, no denial. This infatuated man will do whatever I bid him, and he is a sort of Greek athlete. If you do not come right along I shall command him to lay violent hands on you and drag you ignominiously in."
Dennis was only too glad to accept, but merely wished to make a better toilet.
"I have just come from my studio," he said.
"And you wish to go and divest yourself of all artistic flavor and become commonplace. Do you imagine I will permit it? No! so march in as my captive. Who ever heard of disputing the will of a bride? This man" (pointing up to the tall professor) "never dreams of it."
Dennis learned that she was on her wedding trip, and saw that she was happily married, and proud of her professor, as he of her.
With feminine tact she drew his story from him, and yet it was but a meagre, partial story, like the play of Hamlet with Hamlet left out, for he tried to be wholly silent on his love and disappointment. But in no respect did he deceive Mrs. Leonard. Her husband went away for a little time. In his absence she asked, abruptly, "Have you seen Miss Ludolph lately?"
"No!" said Dennis, with a tell-tale flush. Seeing her look of sympathy, and knowing her to be such a true friend, the impulsive young man gave his confidence almost before he knew it. She was just the one to inspire trust, and he was very lonely, having had no one to whom he could speak his deeper feelings since his mother died.
"Miss Ludolph wronged me in a way that a man finds it hard to forget or forgive," he said, in a low, bitter tone; "but I should have tried to do both had she not treated my mother most inhumanly;" and he told his story over again with Hamlet in.
Mrs. Leonard listened with breathless interest, and then said: "She is a strange girl, and that plan of making you her unconscious model is just like her, though it was both cruel and wicked. And yet Mr. Fleet, with shame for my sex I admit it, how many would have flirted with you to the same degree from mere vanity and love of excitement! I have seen Miss Ludolph, and I cannot understand her. We are no longer the friends we once were, but I cannot think her utterly heartless. She is bent upon becoming a great artist at any cost, and I sometimes think she would sacrifice herself as readily as any one else for this purpose. She looks to me as if she had suffered, and she has lost much of her old haughty, cold manner, save when something calls it out. Even in the drawing-room she was abstracted, as if her thoughts were far away. You are a man of honor, and it is due that you should know the following facts. Indeed I do not think that they are a secret any longer, and at any rate they will soon be known. If Mr. Ludolph were in Germany he would be a noble. It is his intention to go there this fall, and take his wealth and Christine with him, and assert his ancestral titles and position. Christine could not marry in this land without incurring her father's curse, and I think she has no disposition to do that--her ambition is fully in accord with his."
"Yes," said Dennis, bitterly, "and where other women have hearts, she has ambition only."
The professor returned and the subject was dropped.
Dennis said, on taking his leave: "I did not expect to show any one my picture till it was placed on exhibition with the others, but, if you care to see it, you may to-morrow. Perhaps you can make some suggestions that will help me."
They eagerly accepted the invitation, and came the following morning. Dennis watched them with much solicitude. When once they understood his thought, their delight and admiration knew no bounds. The professor turned and stared at him as if he were an entirely different person from the unpretending youth who had been introduced on the preceding evening.
"If you do not get the prize," he said, sententiously, "you have a great deal of artistic talent in Chicago." " 'A Daniel come to judgment!'" cried his wife.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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40
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SUGGESTIVE PICTURES AND A PRIZE
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At last the day of the exhibition dawned. Dennis had sent his picture, directed to Mr. Cornell, with his own name in an envelope nailed to its back. No one was to know who the artists were till after the decision was given. Christine had sent hers also, but no name whatever was in the envelope attached to it.
At an early hour, the doors were thrown open for all who chose to come. The committee of critics had ample time given them for their decision, and at one o'clock this was to be announced.
Although Dennis went rather early, he found that Christine was there before him. She stood with Professor and Mrs. Leonard, Mr. Cornell, and her father, before his picture, fie could only see her side face, and she was glancing from the printed explanation in the catalogue to the painting. Mrs. Leonard was also at her side, seeing to it that no point was unnoted. Christine's manner betrayed intense interest and excitement, and with cause, for again Dennis had spoken to her deepest soul in the language she best loved and understood.
As before, she saw two emblematic pictures within one frame merely separated by a plain band of gold.
The first presented a chateau of almost palatial proportions, heavy, ornate, but stiff and quite devoid of beauty. It appeared to be the abode of wealth and ancestral greatness.
Everything about the place indicated lavish expenditure. The walks and trees were straight and formal, the flowers that bloomed here and there, large and gaudy. A parrot hung in a gilded cage against a column of the piazza. No wild songsters fluttered in the trees, or were on the wing. Hills shut the place in and gave it a narrow, restricted appearance, and the sky overhead was hard and brazen. On the lawn stood a graceful mountain ash, and beneath it were two figures. The first was that of a man, and evidently the master of the place. His appearance and manner chiefly indicated pride, haughtiness, and also sensuality. He had broken a spray from the ash-tree, and with a condescending air was in the act of handing it to a lady, in the portraiture of whom Dennis had truly displayed great skill. She was very beautiful, and yet there was nothing good or noble in her face. Her proud features showed mingled shame and reluctance to receive the gift in the manner it was bestowed, and yet she was receiving it. The significance of the mountain ash is "Grandeur." The whole scene was the portrayal, in the beautiful language of art, of a worldly, ambitious marriage, where the man seeks mere beauty, and the woman wealth and position, love having no existence.
It possessed an eloquence that Christine could not resist, and she fairly loathed the alliance she knew her father would expect her to make after their arrival in Germany, though once she had looked forward to it with eagerness as the stepping-stone to her highest ambition.
The second picture was a beautiful contrast. Instead of the brazen glare of the first, the air was full of glimmering lights and shades, and the sky of a deep transparent blue. Far up a mountain side, on an overhanging cliff, grew the same graceful ash-tree, but its branches were entwined with vines of the passion-flower that hung around in slender streamers. On a jutting rock, with precarious footing, stood a young man reaching up to grasp a branch, his glance bold and hopeful, and his whole manner full of daring and power. He had evidently had a hard climb to reach his present position; his hat was gone; his dress was light and simple and adapted to the severest effort.
But the chief figure in this picture also was that of a young girl who stood near, her right hand clasping his left, and steadying and sustaining him in his perilous footing. The wind was in her golden hair, and swept to one side her light, airy costume. Her pure, noble face was lilted up toward _him_, rather than toward the spray he sought to grasp, and an eager, happy light shone from her eyes. She had evidently climbed _with_ him to their present vantage-point, and now her little hand secured and strengthened him as he sought to grasp, for her, success and prosperity joined with unselfish love. The graceful wind-flowers tossed their delicate blossoms around their feet, and above them an eagle wheeled in its majestic flight.
Below and opposite them on a breezy hillside stood a modern villa, as tasteful in its architecture as the former had been stiff and heavy. A fountain played upon the lawn, and behind it a cascade broke into silver spray and mist. High above this beautiful earthly home, in the clear, pure air rose a palace-like structure in shadowy, golden outline, indicating that after the dwelling-place of time came the grander, the perfect mansion above.
Christine looked till her eyes were blinded with tears, and then dropped her veil. In the features of the lady in each case she had not failed to trace a faint likeness, sufficient to make it clear to herself. She said in a low, plaintive tone, with quivering lips, "Mr. Fleet painted that picture."
"Yes," said Mrs. Leonard, looking at her with no little wonder and perplexity.
By a great effort Christine recovered herself and said, "You know how deeply fine paintings always affect me."
Dennis of course knew nothing of Christine's feelings. He could only see that his picture had produced a profound effect on her, and that she had eyes for nothing else. But he overheard Mr. Cornell say, "It is indeed a remarkable painting."
"Do you know its author?" asked Mr. Ludolph, with a heavy frown.
"No, I do not. It is still a mystery."
"Will it take the prize, do you think?"
"I am not at liberty to give an opinion as yet," replied Mr. Cornell, with a smile. "There is another picture here, almost if not quite as fine, though much smaller and simpler;" and he took Mr. Ludolph off to show him that.
Dennis was now recognized by Mrs. Leonard and her husband, who came forward and greeted him cordially, and they started on a tour of the gallery together. Though his heart beat fast, he completely ignored Christine's presence, and responded coldly to Mr. Ludolph's slight bow.
Christine, on being aware of his presence, furtively devoured him with her eyes. The refining influences of his life were evident in his face and bearing, and she realized her ideal of what a man ought to be. Eagerly she watched till he should discover her painting where it hung opposite his own, and at last she was amply rewarded for all her toil. He stopped suddenly and stood as if spellbound.
The picture was very simple, and few accessories entered into it. Upon a barren rock of an island stood a woman gazing far out at sea, where in the distance a ship was sailing _away_. Though every part had been worked up with exquisite finish, the whole force and power of the painting lay in the expression of the woman's face, which was an indescribable mingling of longing and despair. Here also Christine had traced a faint resemblance to herself, though the woman was middle-aged and haggard, with famine in her cheeks.
As Dennis looked and wondered, the thought flashed into his mind, "Could _she_ have painted that?" He turned suddenly toward her and was convinced that she had done so; for she was looking at him with something of the same expression, or at least he fancied so. She blushed deeply and turned hastily away. He was greatly agitated, but in view of the eyes that were upon him controlled himself and remained outwardly calm.
Mr. Ludolph also was convinced that his daughter had painted the picture, and he frowned more heavily than before. He turned a dark look on her, and found her regarding Dennis in a manner that caused him to grind his teeth with rage. But he could only sit down and watch the course of events.
The people were now thronging in. The gentlemen who made up the prize, with their committee of award, of which Mr. Cornell was chairman, were also present. Most critically they examined each picture till at last their choice narrowed down to the two paintings above described. But it soon became evident that their choice would fall upon the larger one, and Dennis saw that he was to be the victor. To his surprise Christine seemed utterly indifferent as to the result of their decision. He could not know that the prize had no place in her thoughts when she painted her picture. She had found her reward in its effect on him.
At one o'clock Mr. Cornell came forward and said: "Ladies and gentlemen, and especially do I address that group of liberal citizens who are so generously seeking to encourage art in our great and prosperous city, it gives me pleasure to inform you that your munificence has brought forth rich fruit, for here are many paintings that would do credit to any gallery. We hesitated a little time between two very superior pictures, but at last we have decided that the larger one is worthy of the prize. The smaller picture is one of great merit; its treatment is unusually fine, though the subject is not new.
"The two emblematic pictures in some parts show crude and hasty work; indeed some minor parts are quite unfinished. The artist evidently has not had sufficient time. But the leading features are well wrought out, and the power and originality of the entire effort so impress us that, as I have said, we render our decision in its favor. That all may know our verdict to be fair, we state on our honor that we do not know by whom a single painting present was executed. Dr. Arten, as the largest contributor toward the prize, you are appointed to bestow it. On the back of the picture you will find an envelope containing the name of the artist, whom we all shall delight to honor."
Amid breathless expectation, Dr. Arten stepped forward, took down the envelope, and read in a loud, trumpet-voice-- "DENNIS FLEET."
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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41
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FIRE! FIRE!
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"Will Dennis Fleet come forward?" cried Dr. Arten. Very pale, and trembling with excitement, Dennis stepped out before them all.
"Take heart, my young friend; I am not about to read your death-warrant," said the doctor, cheerily. "Permit me to present you with this check for two thousand dollars, and express to you what is of more value to the true artist, our esteem and appreciation of your merit. May your brush ever continue to be employed in the presentation of such noble, elevating thoughts."
And the good doctor, quite overcome by this unusual flight of eloquence, blew his nose vigorously and wiped from his spectacles the moisture with which his own eyes had bedewed them.
Dennis responded with a low bow, and was about to retire; but his few friends, and indeed all who knew him, pressed forward with their congratulations.
Foremost among these were the professor and his wife. Tears of delight fairly shone in Mrs. Leonard's eyes as she shook his hand again and again. Many others also trooped up for an introduction, till he was quite bewildered by strange names, and compliments that seemed stranger still.
Suddenly a low, well-known voice at his side sent a thrill to his heart and a rush of crimson to his face.
"Will Mr. Fleet deign to receive my congratulations also?"
He turned and met the deep blue eyes of Christine Ludolph lifted timidly to his. But at once the association that had long been uppermost in regard to her--the memory of her supposed treatment of his mother--flashed across him, and he replied, with cold and almost stately courtesy, "The least praise or notice from Miss Ludolph would be a most unexpected favor."
She thought from his manner that he might as well have said "unwelcome favor," and with a sad, disappointed look she turned away.
Even in the excitement and triumph of the moment, Dennis was oppressed by the thought that he had not spoken as wisely as he might. Almost abruptly he broke away and escaped to the solitude of his own room.
He did not think about his success. The prize lay forgotten in his pocketbook. He sat in his arm-chair and stared apparently at vacancy, but in reality at the picture that he was sure Christine had painted. He went over and over again with the nicest scrutiny all her actions in the gallery, and now reproached himself bitterly for the repelling answer he had given when she spoke to him. He tried to regain his old anger and hardness in view of her wrongs to him and his, but could not. The tell-tale picture, and traces of sorrow and suffering in her face in accord with it, had disarmed him. He said to himself, and half believed, that he was letting his imagination run away with his reason, but could not help it. At last he seized his hat and hastened to the hotel where Mrs. Leonard was staying. She at once launched out into a eulogistic strain descriptive of her enjoyment of the affair.
"I never was so proud of Chicago," she exclaimed. "It is the greatest city in the world. Only the other day her streets were prairies. I believe my husband expected to find buffalo and Indians just outside the town. But see! already, by its liberality and attention to art, it begins to vie with some of our oldest cities. But what is the matter? You look so worried."
"Oh, nothing," said Dennis, coming out of his troubled, abstracted manner.
With her quick intuition, Mrs. Leonard at once divined his thoughts, and said soon after, when her husband's back was turned: "All I can say is, that she was deeply, most deeply affected by your picture, but she said nothing to me, more than to express her admiration. My friend, you had better forget her. They sail for Europe very soon; and, besides, she is not worthy of you."
"I only wish I could forget her, and am angry with myself but I cannot," he replied, and soon after said "good-night."
Wandering aimlessly through the streets, he almost unconsciously made his way to the north side, where the Ludolph mansion was situated. Then a strong impulse to Go to it came over him, and for the first time since the far-off day when, stunned and wounded by his bitter disappointment, he had gone away apparently to die, he found himself at the familiar place. The gas was burning in Mr. Ludolph's library. He went around on the side street (for the house was on a corner), and a light shone from what he knew to be Christine's studio. She undoubtedly was there. Even such proximity excited him strangely, and in his morbid state he felt that he could almost kiss the feeble rays that shimmered out into the darkened street. In his secret soul he utterly condemned his folly, but promised himself that he would be weak no longer after that one night. The excitements of the day had thrown him off his balance.
Suddenly he heard, sweet and clear, though softened by distance and intervening obstacles, the same weird, pathetic ballad that had so moved him when Christine sang it at Le Grand Hotel, on the evening after he had pointed out the fatal defect in her picture. At short intervals, kindred and plaintive songs followed.
"There is nothing exultant or hopeful about those strains," he said to himself. "For some reason she is not happy. Oh, that I might have one frank conversation with her and find out the whole truth! But it seems that I might just as well ask for a near look at yonder star that glimmers so distantly. For some reason I cannot believe her so utterly heartless as she has seemed; and then mother has prayed. Can it all end as a miserable dream?"
Late at night the music ceased, and the room was darkened.
Little dreamed Christine that her plaintive minstrelsy had fallen on so sympathetic an ear, and that the man who seemingly had repelled her slightest acquaintance had shivered long hours in the cold, dark street.
So the divine Friend waits and watches, while we, in ignorance and unbelief, pay no heed. Stranger far, He waits and watches when we know, but yet, unrelenting, ignore His presence.
With heavy steps, Dennis wearily plodded homeward. He was oppressed by that deep despondency which follows great fatigue and excitement.
In the southwest he saw a brilliant light. He heard the alarm-bells, and knew there was a fire, but to have aroused him that night it must have come scorchingly close. He reached his dark little room, threw himself dressed on the couch, and slept till nearly noon of the next day.
When he awoke, and realized how the first hours of the Sabbath had passed, he started up much vexed with himself, and after a brief retrospect said: "Such excitements as those of yesterday are little better than a debauch, and I must shun them hereafter. God has blessed and succeeded me, and it is but a poor return I am making. However my unfortunate attachment may end, nothing is gained by moping around in the hours of night. Henceforth let there be an end of such folly."
He made a careful toilet and sat down to his Sabbath-school lesson.
To his delight he again met Mrs. Leonard, who came to visit her old mission class. She smiled most approvingly, and quoted, "He that is faithful in that which is least is faithful also in much."
He went home with her, and in the evening they all went to church together.
He cried unto the Lord for strength and help, and almost lost consciousness of the service in his earnest prayer for true manhood and courage to go forward to what he feared would be a sad and lonely life. And the answer came; for a sense of power and readiness to do God's will, and withal a strange hopefulness, inspired him. Trusting in the Divine strength, he felt that he could meet his future now, whatever it might be.
Again the alarm-bells were ringing, and there was a light on the southwest.
"There seems to be a fire over there in the direction of my poor German friend's house. You remember Mrs. Bruder. I will go and call on them, I think. At any rate I should call, for it is owing to her husband that I won the prize;" and they parted at the church-door.
Christine had left the picture-gallery soon after Dennis's abrupt departure. Her gay friends had tried in vain to rally her, and rather wondered at her manner, but said, "She is so full of moods of late, you can never know what to expect."
Her father, with a few indifferent words, left her for his place of business. His hope still was to prevent her meeting Dennis, and to keep up the estrangement that existed.
Christine went home and spent the long hours in bitter revery, which at last she summed up by saying, "I have stamped out his love by my folly, and now his words, 'I despise you,' express the whole wretched truth." Then clenching her little hands she added, with livid lips and a look of scorn: "Since I can never help him (and therefore no one) win earthly greatness, I will never be the humble recipient of it from another. Since his second picture cannot be true of my experience, neither shall the first."
And she was one to keep such a resolve. The evening was spent, as we know, in singing alone in her studio, this being her favorite, indeed her only way, of giving expression to her feelings. Very late she sought her bed to find but little sleep.
The day of rest brought no rest to her, suggested no hope, no sacred privilege of seeking Divine help to bear up under life's burdens. To her it was a relic of superstition, at which she chafed as interfering with the usual routine of affairs. She awoke with a headache, and a long miserable day she found it. Sabbath night she determined to have sleep, and therefore took an opiate and retired early.
Mr. Ludolph sat in his library trying to construct some plan by which Christine could be sent to Germany at once.
When Dennis reached the neighborhood of the fire he found it much larger than he supposed, and when he entered Harrison Street, near Mrs. Bruder's home, he discovered that only prompt action could save the family. The streets were fast becoming choked with fugitives and teams, and the confusion threatened to develop into panic and wide spread danger. The fire was but a block away when he rushed upstairs to the floor which the Bruders occupied. From the way in which blazing brands were flying he knew that there were was not a moment to spare.
He found Mrs. Bruder startled, anxious, but in no way comprehending the situation.
"Quick!" cried Dennis. "Wake and dress the children--pack up what you can lay your hands on and carry--you have no time to do anything more."
"Ah! mine Gott! vat you mean?"
"Do as I say--there's no time to explain. Here, Ernst, help me;" and Dennis snatched up one child and commenced dressing it before it could fairly wake. Ernst took up another and followed his example. Mrs. Bruder, recovering from her bewilderment, hastily gathered a few things together, saying in the meantime, "Surely you don't dink our home burn up?"
"Yes, my poor friend, in five minutes more we must all be out of this building."
"Oh, den come dis minute! Let me save de schilder;" and, throwing a blanket around the youngest, the frightened woman rushed downstairs, followed by Ernst and his little brother, while Dennis hastened with the last child and the bundle.
Their escape was none too prompt, for the blazing embers were falling to such a degree in the direct line of the fire as to render that position very perilous. But though their progress was necessarily slow, from the condition of the streets, the breadth of the fire was not great at this spot, and they soon reached a point to the west and windward that was safe. Putting the family in charge of Ernst, and telling them to continue westward, Dennis rushed back, feeling that many lives depend upon stout hands and brave hearts that night. Moreover he was in that state of mind which made him court rather than shun danger.
He had hardly left his humble friends before Mrs. Bruder stopped, put her hand on her heart and cried: "Oh, Ernst! Oh, Gott forgive me! dot I should forget him--your fader's picture. I must go back."
"Oh, moder, no! you are more to us than the picture" The woman's eyes were wild and excited, and she cried, vehemently: "Dot picture saved mine Berthold life--yes, more, more, him brought back his artist soul. Vithout him ve vould all be vorse dan dead. I can no live vidout him. Stay here"; and with the speed of the wind the devoted wife rushed back to the burning street, up the stairs, already crackling and blazing, to where the lovely landscape smiled peacefully in the dreadful glare, with its last rich glow of beauty. She tore it from its fastenings, pressed her lips fervently against it, regained the street, but with dress on fire. She staggered forward a few steps in the hot stifling air and smoke, and then fell upon her burden. Spreading her arms over it, to protect it even in death, the mother's heart went out in agony toward her children.
"Ah, merciful Gott! take care of dem," she sighed, and the prayer and the spirit that breathed it went up to heaven together.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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42
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BARON LUDOLPH LEARNS THE TRUTH
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With eyes ablaze with excitement, Dennis plunged into the region just before the main line of fire, knowing that there the danger would be greatest. None realized the rapidity of its advance. At the door of a tenement-house he found a pale, thin, half-clad woman tugging at a sewing-machine.
"Madam," cried Dennis, "you have no time to waste over that burden if you wish to escape."
"What is the use of escaping without it?" she answered, sullenly. "It is the only way I have of making a living."
"Give it to me then, and follow as fast as you can." Shouldering what meant to the poor creature shelter, clothing, and bread, he led the way to the southeast, out of the line of fire. It was a long, hard struggle, but they got through safely.
"How can I ever pay you?" cried the grateful woman.
But he did not stay to answer, and now determined to make his way to the west and windward of the fire, as he could then judge better of the chances of its spreading. He thought it safer to go around and back of the flames, as they now seemed much wider, and nearer the south branch of the Chicago River.
He found that he could cross the burned district a little to the southwest, for the small wooden houses were swept so utterly away that there were no heated, blazing ruins to contend with. He also saw that he could do better by making quite a wide circuit, as he thus avoided streets choked by fugitives. Beaching a point near the river on the west side of the fire, he climbed a high pile of lumber, and then discovered to his horror that the fire had caught in several places on the south side, and that the nearest bridges were burning.
To those not familiar with the topography of the city, it should be stated that it is separated by the Chicago River, a slow, narrow stream, into three main divisions, known as the south, the north, and the west side.
By a triumph of engineering, the former mouth of this river at the lake is now its source, the main stream being turned back upon itself, and dividing into two branches at a point a little over half a mile from the lake, one flowing to the southwest into the Illinois, and the other from the northwest into the main stream.
The south division includes all the territory bounded on the east by the lake, on the north by the main river and on the west by the south branch. The north division includes the area bounded on the east by the lake, on the south by the main river, and on the west by the north branch, while the west division embraces all that part of the city west of the two branches. The fire originated in De Koven Street, the southeastern part of the west side, and it was carried steadily to the north and east by an increasing gale. The south side, with all its magnificent buildings, was soon directly in the line of the fire.
When Dennis saw that the flames had crossed the south branch, and were burning furiously beyond, he knew that the best part of the city was threatened with destruction. He hastened to the Washington Street tunnel, where he found a vast throng, carrying all sorts of burdens, rushing either way. He plunged in with the rest, and soon found himself hustled hither and thither by a surging mass of humanity. A little piping voice that seemed under his feet cried: "O mamma! mamma! Where are you? I'm gettin' lost."
"Here I am, my child," answered a voice some steps in advance and Dennis saw a lady carrying another child; but the rushing tide would not let her wait--all, in the place where they were wedged, being carried right along. Stooping down, he put the little girl on his shoulder where she could see her mother, and so they pressed on. Suddenly, in the very midst of the tunnel, the gas ceased, by reason of the destruction of the works, and utter darkness filled the place.
There was a loud cry of consternation, and then a momentary and dreadful silence, which would have been the preface of a fatal panic, had not Dennis cried out, in a ringing voice, "All keep to the right!"
This cry was taken up and repeated on every hand, and side by side, to right and left, the two living streams of humanity, with steady tramp! tramp! rushed past each other.
When they emerged into the glare of the south side Dennis gave the child to its mother and said, "Madam, your only chance is to escape in that direction," pointing northwest.
He then tried to make his way to the hotel where Professor and Mrs. Leonard were staying, but it was in the midst of an unapproachable sea of fire. If they had not escaped some little time before, they had already perished. He then tried to make his way to the windward toward his own room. His two thousand dollars and all his possessions were there, and the instinct of self-preservation caused him to think it was time to look after his own. But progress was now very difficult. The streets were choked by drays, carriages, furniture, trunks, and every degree and condition of humanity. Besides, his steps were often stayed by thrilling scenes and the need of a helping hand. In order to make his way faster he took a street nearer the fire, from which the people had mostly been driven. As he was hurrying along with his hat drawn over his eyes to avoid the sparks that were driven about like fiery hail, he suddenly heard a piercing shriek. Looking up he saw the figure of a woman at the third story window of a fine mansion that was already burning, though not so rapidly as those in the direct line of the fire. He with a number of others stopped at the sound.
"Who will volunteer with me to save that woman?" cried he.
"Wal, stranger, you can reckon on this old stager for one," answered a familiar voice.
Dennis turned and recognized his old friend, the Good Samaritan.
"Why, Cronk," he cried, "don't you know me? Don't you remember the young man you saved from starving by suggesting the snow-shovel business?"
"Hello! my young colt. How are you? give us yer hand. But come, don't let's stop to talk about snow in this hell of a place with that young filly whinnying up there."
"Right!" cried Dennis. "Let us find a ladder and rope; quick--" At a paint-shop around the corner a ladder was found that reached to the second story, and some one procured a rope.
"A thousand dollars," cried another familiar voice, "to the man who saves that woman!"
Looking round, Dennis saw the burly form of Mr. Brown, the brewer, his features distorted by agony and fear; then glancing up he discovered in the red glare upon her face that the woman was no other than his daughter. She had come to spend the night with a friend, and, being a sound sleeper, had not escaped with the family.
"Who wants yer thousand dollars?" replied Bill Cronk's gruff voice. "D'ye s'pose we'd hang out here over the bottomless pit for any such trifle as that? We want to save the gal."
Before Cronk had ended his characteristic speech, Dennis was half-way up the ladder. He entered the second story, only to be driven back by fire and smoke.
"A pole of some kind!" he cried.
The thills of a broken-down buggy supplied this, but the flames had already reached Miss Brown. Being a girl of a good deal of nerve and physical courage, however, she tore off her outer clothing with her own hands. Dennis now passed her the rope on the end of the buggy-thill and told her to fasten it to something in the room that would support her weight, and lower herself to the second story. She fastened it, but did not seem to know how to lower herself. Dennis tried the rope, found it would sustain his weight; then, bringing into use an art learned in his college gymnasium, he over-handed rapidly till he stood at Miss Brown's side. Drawing up the rope he fastened her to it and lowered her to the ladder, where Bill Cronk caught her, and in a moment more she was in her father's arms, who at once shielded her from exposure with his overcoat. Dennis followed the rope down, and had hardly got away before the building fell in.
"Is not this Mr. Fleet?" asked Miss Brown.
"Yes."
"How can we ever repay you?"
"By learning to respect honest men, even though they are not rich, Miss Brown."
"Did you know who it was when you saved me?"
"Yes."
"Mr. Fleet, I sincerely ask your pardon."
But before Dennis could reply they were compelled to fly for their lives.
Mr. Brown shouted as he ran, "Call at the house or place of business of Thomas Brown, and the money will be ready."
But Thomas Brown would have found it hard work to rake a thousand dollars out of the ashes of either place the following day. The riches in which he trusted had taken wings.
Cronk and Dennis kept together for a short distance, and the latter saw that his friend had been drinking. Their steps led them near a large liquor-store which a party of men and boys were sacking. One of these, half intoxicated, handed Bill a bottle of whiskey, but as the drover was lifting it to his lips Dennis struck it to the ground. Cronk was in a rage instantly.
"What the ---- did you do that for?" he growled.
"I would do that and more too to save your life. If you get drunk to-night you are a lost man," answered Dennis, earnestly.
"Who's a-goin' ter get drunk, I'd like ter know? You feel yer oats too much to-night. No man or horse can kick over the traces with me;" and he went off in the unreasoning anger of a half-drunken man. But he carried all his generous impulses with him, for a few minutes after, seeing a man lying in a most dangerous position, he ran up and shook him, crying, "I say, stranger, get up, or yer ribs will soon be roasted."
"Lemme 'lone," was the maudlin answer. "I've had drink 'nuff. 'Tain't mornin' yet."
"Hi, there!" cried a warning voice, and Cronk started back just in time to escape a blazing wall that fell across the street. The stupefied man he had sought to arouse was hopelessly buried. Cronk, having got out of danger, stood and scratched his head, his favorite way of assisting reflection.
"That's just what that young critter Fleet meant. What a cussed ole mule I was to kick up so! Ten chances to one but it will happen to me afore mornin'. Look here, Bill Cronk, you jist p'int out of this fiery furnace. You know yer failin', and there's too long and black a score agin you in t'other world for you to go to-night;" and Bill made a bee line for the west side.
Struggling off to windward through the choked streets for a little distance, Dennis ascended the side stairs of a tall building, in order to get more accurately the bearings of the fire. He now for the first time realized its magnitude, and was appalled. It appeared as if the whole south side must go. At certain points the very heavens seemed on fire. The sparks filled the air like flakes of fiery snow, and great blazing fragments of roofs, and boards from lumber yards, sailed over his head, with the ill-omened glare of meteors. The rush and roar of the wind and flames were like the thunder of Niagara, and to this awful monotone accompaniment was added a Babel of sounds--shrieks, and shouts of human voices, the sharp crash of falling buildings, and ever and anon heavy detonations, as the fire reached explosive material. As he looked down into the white upturned faces in the thronged streets, it seemed to him as if the people might be gathering for the last great day. Above all the uproar, the court-house bell could be heard, with its heavy, solemn clangor, no longer ringing alarm, but the city's knell.
But he saw that if he reached his own little room in time to save anything he must hasten. His course lay near the Art Building, the place so thronged with associations to him. An irresistible impulse drew him to it. It was evident that it must soon go, for an immense building to the southwest, on the same block, was burning, and the walls were already swaying.
Suddenly a man rushed past him, and Mr. Ludolph put his pass key in the side door.
"Mr. Ludolph, it is not safe to enter," said Dennis.
"What are you doing here with your ill-omened face?" retorted his old employer, turning toward him a countenance terrible in its expression. As we have seen, anything that threatened Mr. Ludolph's interests, even that which most men bow before, as sickness and disaster, only awakened his anger; and his face was black with passion and distorted with rage.
The door yielded, and he passed in.
"Come back, quick, Mr. Ludolph, or you are lost!" cried Dennis at the door.
"I will get certain papers, though the heavens fall!" yelled back the infuriated man, with an oath.
Dennis heard an awful rushing sound in the air. He drew his hat over his face as he ran, crouching. Hot bricks rained around him, but fortunately he escaped.
When he turned to look, the Art Building was a crushed and blazing ruin. Sweet girlish faces that had smiled upon him from the walls, beautiful classical faces that had inspired his artist soul, stern Roman faces, that had made the past seem real, the human faces of gods and goddesses that made mythology seem not wholly a myth, and the white marble faces of the statuary, that ever reminded him of Christine, were now all blackened and defaced forever. But not of these he thought, as he shudderingly covered his eyes with his hands to shut out the vision; but of that terrible face that in the darkness had yelled defiance to Heaven.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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43
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"CHRISTINE, AWAKE! FOR YOUR LIFE!"
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Dennis was too much stunned and bewildered to do more than instinctively work his way to the windward as the only point of safety, but the fire was now becoming so broad in its sweep that to do this was difficult. The awful event he had witnessed seemed partially to paralyze him; for he knew that the oath, hot as the scorching flames, was scarcely uttered before Mr. Ludolph's lips were closed forever. He and his ambitious dream perished in a moment, and he was summoned to the other world to learn what his proud reason scoffed at in this.
For a block or more Dennis was passively borne alone by the rushing mob. Suddenly a voice seemed to shout almost in his ear, "The north side is burning!" and he started as from a dream. The thought of Christine flashed upon him, perishing perhaps in the flames. He remembered that now she had no protector, and that he for the moment had forgotten her; though in truth he had never imagined that she could be imperilled by the burning of the north side.
In an agony of fear and anxiety he put forth every effort of which he was capable, and tore through the crowd as if mad. There was no way of getting across the river now save by the La Salle Street tunnel. Into this dark passage he plunged with multitudes of others. It was indeed as near Pandemonium as any earthly condition could be. Driven forward by the swiftly pursuing flames, hemmed in on every side, a shrieking, frenzied, terror-stricken throng rushed into the black cavern. Every moral grade was represented there. Those who led abandoned lives were plainly recognizable, their guilty consciences finding expression in their livid faces. These jostled the refined and delicate lady, who, in the awful democracy of the hour, brushed against thief and harlot. Little children wailed for their lost parents, and many were trampled underfoot. Parents cried for their children, women shrieked for their husbands, some praying, many cursing with oaths as hot as the flames that crackled near. Multitudes were in no other costumes than those in which they had sprung from their beds. Altogether it was a strange, incongruous, writhing mass of humanity, such as the world had never looked upon, pouring into what might seem, in its horrors, the mouth of hell.
As Dennis entered the utter darkness, a confused roar smote his ear that might have appalled the stoutest heart, but he was now oblivious to everything save Christine's danger. With set teeth he put his shoulder against the living mass and pushed with the strongest till he emerged into the glare of the north side. Here, escaping somewhat from the throng, he made his way rapidly to the Ludolph mansion, which to his joy he found was still considerably to the windward of the fire. But he saw that from the southwest another line of flame was bearing down upon it.
The front door was locked, and the house utterly dark. He rang the bell furiously, but there was no response. He walked around under the window and shouted, but the place remained as dark and silent as a tomb. He pounded on the door, but its massive thickness scarcely admitted of a reverberation.
"They must have escaped," he said; "but, merciful heaven! there must be no uncertainty in this case. What shall I do?"
The windows of the lower story were all strongly guarded and hopeless, but one opening on the balcony of Christine's studio seemed practicable if it could be reached. A half-grown elm swayed its graceful branches over the balcony, and Dennis knew the tough and fibrous nature of this tree. In the New England woods of his early home he had learned to climb for nuts like a squirrel, and so with no great difficulty he mounted the trunk and dropped from an overhanging branch to the point he sought. The window was down at the top, but the lower sash was fastened. He could see the catch by the light of the fire. He broke the pane of glass nearest it, hoping that the crash might awaken Christine, if she were still there. But after the clatter died away there was no sound. He then noisily raised the sash and stepped in.
What a rush of memories came over him as he looked around the familiar place! There was the spot on which he had stood and asked for the love that he had valued more than life. There stood the easel on which, through Christine's gifted touch, his painted face had pleaded with scarcely less eloquence, till he blotted it out with his own hand. In memory of it all his heart again failed him, and he sighed, "She will never love me."
But there was no time for sentiment. He called loudly: "Miss Ludolph, awake! awake! for your life!"
There was no answer. "She must be gone," he said. The front room, facing toward the west, he knew to be her sleeping-apartment. Going through the passage, he knocked loudly, and called again; but in the silence that followed he heard his own watch tick, and his heart beat. He pushed the door open with the feeling of one profaning a shrine, and looked timidly in. Even in that thrilling hour of peril and anxiety, his eye was enraptured by the beauty of the room. Not only was it furnished with the utmost luxuriance, but everything spoke of a quaint and cultured taste, from the curious marble clock and bronze on the mantel, even to the pattern of the Turkey carpet on which the glare of the fire, as it glinted through the shutters, played faintly. One of the most marked features, however, was an exquisite life-size statue of Diana at the foot of the bed, grasping her bow with one hand, and in the act of seizing an arrow with the other, as if aroused to self-defence. When Dennis first saw it, he was so startled by its lifelike attitude that he stepped back into the passage. But, with all the beauty of the room, it was utterly pagan; not a single thing suggested Christian faith or a knowledge of the true God. With the exception of its modern air, it might just as well have been the resting-place of a Greek or Roman maiden of rank.
Reassured, he timidly advanced again, and then for the first time, between the two marble statuettes holding back the curtains of the bed, saw Christine, but looking more white and deathlike than the marble itself.
She lay with her face toward him. Her hair of gold, unconfined, streamed over the pillow; one fair round arm, from which her night-robe had slipped back, was clasped around her head, and a flickering ray of light, finding access at the window, played upon her face and neck with the strangest and most weird effect.
So deep was her slumber that she seemed dead, and Dennis, in his overwrought state, thought that she was. For a moment his heart stood still, and his tongue was paralyzed. A distant explosion aroused him. Approaching softly he said, in an awed whisper (he seemed powerless to speak louder), "Miss Ludolph! --Christine!"
But the light of the coming fire played and flickered over the still, white face, that never before had seemed so strangely beautiful.
"Miss Ludolph! --Oh, Christine, awake!" cried Dennis, louder.
To his wonder and unbounded perplexity, he saw the hitherto motionless lips wreathe themselves into a lovely smile, but otherwise there was no response, and the ghostly light played and flickered on, dancing on temple, brow, and snowy throat, and clasping the white arm in wavy circlets of gold. It was all so weird and strange that he was growing superstitious, and losing faith in his own senses. He could not know that she was under the influence of an opiate, and that his voice of all others could, like a faint echo, find access to her mind so deeply sunk in lethargy.
But a louder and nearer explosion, like a warning voice, made him wholly desperate; and he roughly seized her hand, determining to dispel the illusion, and learn the truth at once.
Christine's blue eyes opened wide with a bewildered stare; a look of the wildest terror came into them, and she started up and shrieked, "Father! father!"
Then turning toward the as yet unknown invader, she cried, piteously: "Oh, spare my life! Take everything; I will give you anything you ask, only spare my life."
She evidently thought herself addressing a ruthless robber.
Dennis retreated toward the door the moment she awakened; and this somewhat reassured her.
In the firm, quiet tone that always calms excitement he replied, "I only ask you to give me your confidence, Miss Ludolph, and to join with me, Dennis Fleet, in my effort to save your life."
"Dennis Fleet! Dennis Fleet! save my life! Oh, ye gods, what does it all mean?" and she passed her hand in bewilderment across her brow, as if to brush away the wild fancies of a dream.
"Miss Ludolph, as you love your life arouse yourself and escape! The city is burning!"
"I don't believe it!" she cried, in an agony of terror and anger. "Leave the room! How dare you! You are not Dennis Fleet; he is a white man, and you are black! You are an impostor! Leave quick, or my father will come and take your life! Father! father!"
Dennis without a word stepped to the window, tore aside the curtain, threw open the shutters, and the fire filled the room with the glare of noonday. At that moment an explosion occurred which shook the very earth. Everything rattled, and a beautiful porcelain vase fell crashing to the floor.
Christine shrieked and covered her face with her hands.
Dennis approached the bedside, and said in a gentle, firm tone that she knew to be his: "Miss Ludolph, I _am_ Mr. Fleet. My face is blackened through smoke and dust, as is every one's out in the streets to-night. You know something of me, and I think you know nothing dishonorable. Can you not trust me? Indeed you must; your life depends upon it!"
"Oh, pardon me, Mr. Fleet!" she cried, eagerly. "I am not worthy of this, but now that I know you, I do trust you from the depth of my soul!"
"Prove it then by doing just as I bid you," he replied, in a voice so firm and prompt that it seemed almost stern. Retreating to the door, he continued: "I give you just five minutes in which to make your toilet and gather a light bundle of your choicest valuables. Dress in woollen throughout, and dress warmly. I will see that the servants are aroused. Your father is on the south side, and cannot reach you. You must trust in God and what I can do for you."
"I must trust to you _alone_," she said. "Please send my maid to me."
Mr. Ludolph had sipped his wine during the evening, and his servants had sipped, in no dainty way, something stronger, and therefore had not awakened readily. But the uproar in the streets had aroused them, and Dennis found them scuttling down the upper stairs in a half-clad state, each bearing a large bundle, which had been made up without regard to _meum_ and _tuum_.
"Och, murther! is the world burning up?" cried the cook.
"Be still, ye howlin' fool," said the cool and travelled maid. "It's only von big fire!"
"Go to your mistress and help her, quick!" cried Dennis.
"Go to my meestress! I go to de street and save my life."
"Oh, Janette!" cried Christine. "Come and help me!"
"I am meeserable zat I cannot. I must bid mademoiselle quick adieu," said the heartless creature, still keeping up the veneer of French politeness.
Dennis looked through the upper rooms and was satisfied that they were empty. Suddenly a piercing shriek from Christine sent him flying to her room. As he ran he heard her cry, "Oh, Mr. Fleet! come! help!"
To go back a little (for on that awful night events marched as rapidly as the flames, and the experience of years was crowded into hours, and that of hours into moments), Christine had sought as best she could to obey Dennis's directions, but she was sadly helpless, having been trained to a foolish dependence on her maid. She had accomplished but little when she heard a heavy step in the room. Looking up, she saw a strange man regarding her with an evil eye.
"What do you want?" she faltered.
"You, for one thing, and all you have got, for another," was the brutal reply.
"Leave this room!" she cried, in a voice she vainly tried to render firm.
"Not just yet," he answered, with a satanic grin. She sought to escape by him with the loud cry that Dennis heard, but the ruffian planted his big grimy hand in the delicate frill of her night-robe where it clasped her throat, and with a coarse laugh said: "Not so fast, my dainty!"
Trembling and half fainting (for she had no physical courage), she cried for Dennis, and never did knightly heart respond with more brave and loving throb to the cry of helpless woman than his. He came with almost the impetus of a thunderbolt, and the man, startled, looked around, and catching a glimpse of Dennis's blazing eyes, dropped his hold on Christine, and shrank and cowered from the blow he could not avert. Before his hand could instinctively reach the pistol it sought, there was a thud, and he fell like a log to the floor. Then, springing upon him, Dennis took away his weapons, and, seizing him by the collar of his coat, dragged him backward downstairs and thrust him into the street. Pointing his own pistol at him, he said, "If you trouble us again, I will shoot you like a dog!"
The villain slunk off, and finding some kindred spirits sacking a liquor-store not far off, he joined the orgy, seeking to drown his rage in rum, and he succeeded so effectually that he lay in the gutter soon after. The escaping multitude trampled over him, and soon the fire blotted out his miserable existence, as it did that of so many who rendered themselves powerless by drink.
When Dennis returned he found Christine panting helplessly on a chair.
"Oh, dress! dress!" he cried. "We have not a moment to spare."
The sparks and cinders were falling about the house, a perfect storm of fire. The roof was already blazing, and smoke was pouring down the stairs.
At his suggestion she had at first laid out a heavy woollen dress and Scotch plaid shawl. She nervously sought to put on the dress, but her trembling fingers could not fasten it over her wildly throbbing bosom. Dennis saw that in the terrible emergency he must act the part of a brother or husband, and springing forward he assisted her with the dexterity he had learned in childhood.
Just then a blazing piece of roof, borne on the wings of the gale, crashed through the window, and in a moment the apartment, that had seemed like a beautiful casket for a still more exquisite jewel, was in flames.
Hastily wrapping Christine in the blanket shawl, he snatched her, crying and wringing her hands, into the street.
Holding his hand she ran two or three blocks with all the speed her wild terror prompted; then her strength began to fail, and she pantingly cried that she could run no longer. But this rapid rush carried them out of immediate peril, and brought them into the flying throng pressing their way northward and westward. Wedged into the multitude they could only move on with it in the desperate struggle forward. But fire was falling about them like a meteoric shower.
Suddenly Christine uttered a sharp cry of pain. She had stepped on a burning cinder, and then realized for the first time, in her excitement, that her feet were bare.
"Oh, what shall I do?" she cried piteously, limping and leaning heavily on Dennis's arm.
"Indeed, Miss Ludolph, from my heart I pity you."
"Can you save me? Oh, do you think you can save me?" she moaned, in an agony of fear.
"Yes, I feel sure I can. At any rate I shall not leave you;" and taking her a little out of the jostling crowd he kneeled and bound up the burned foot with his handkerchief. A little further on they came to a shoe-store with doors open and owners gone. Almost carrying Christine into it, for her other foot was cut and bleeding, he snatched down a pair of boy's stout gaiters, and wiping with another handkerchief the blood and dust from her tender little feet, he made the handkerchiefs answer for stockings, and drew the shoes on over them.
In the brief moment so occupied, Christine said, with tears in her eyes: "Mr. Fleet, how kind you are! How little I deserve all this!"
He looked up with a happy smile, and she little knew that her few words amply repaid him.
There was a crash in the direction of the fire. With a cry of fear, Christine put out her hands and clung to him.
"Oh, we shall perish! Are you not afraid?"
"I tremble for you, Miss Ludolph."
"Not for yourself?"
"No! why should I? I am safe. Heaven and mother are just beyond this tempest."
"I would give worlds for your belief." "Come, quick!" cried he, and they joined the fugitives, and for a half-hour pressed forward as fast as was possible through the choked streets, Dennis merely saying an encouraging word now and then. Suddenly she felt herself carried to one side, and falling to the ground with him. In a moment he lifted her up, and she saw with sickening terror an infuriated dray-horse plunging through the crowd, striking down men, women, and children.
"Are you hurt?" he asked, gently, passing his arm around her and helping her forward, that they might not lose a single step.
"Awful! Awful!" she said, in a low, shuddering tone.
The dreadful scenes and the danger were beginning to overpower her.
A little further on they reached an avenue to the northwest through which Dennis hoped to escape. But they could make but little headway through the dense masses of drays, carriages, and human beings, and at last everything came to a deadlock. Their only hope was to stand in their place till the living mass moved on again.
Strange, grotesque, and sad beyond measure were the scenes by which they were surrounded. By the side of the aristocratic Christine, now Baroness Ludolph, stood a stout Irishwoman, hugging a grunting, squealing pig to her breast. A little in advance a hook-nosed spinster carried in a cage a hook nosed parrot that kept discordantly crying, "Polly want a cracker." At Dennis's left a delicate lady of the highest social standing clasped to her bare bosom a babe that slept as peacefully as in the luxurious nursery at home. At her side was a little girl carrying as tenderly a large wax doll. A diamond necklace sparkled like a circlet of fire around the lady's neck. Her husband had gone to the south side, and she had had but time to snatch this and her children. A crowd of obscene and profane rowdies stood just behind them, and with brutal jest and coarse laughter they passed around a whiskey-bottle. One of these roughs caught a glimpse of the diamond necklace, and was putting forth his blackened hand to grasp it, when Dennis pointed the captured pistol at him and said, "This is law now!"
The fellow slunk back.
Just before them was a dray with a corpse half covered with a blanket. The family sat around crying and wringing their hands, and the driver stood in his seat, cursing and gesticulating for those in advance to move on. Some moments passed, but there was no progress. Dennis became very anxious, for the fire was rapidly approaching, and the sparks were falling like hail. Every few moments some woman's dress was ablaze, or some one was struck by the flying brands, and shrieks for help were heard on every side. Christine, being clad in woollen, escaped this peril in part. She stood at Dennis's side trembling like a leaf, with her hands over her face to shut out the terrible sights.
At last the driver, fearing for his life, jumped off his dray and left all to their fate. But a figure took his place that thrilled Dennis's heart with horror.
There on the high seat stood Susie Winthrop--rather Mrs. Leonard. The light of insanity glowed in her eyes; her long hair swept away to the north, and turning toward the fiery tempest she bent forward as if looking for some one. But after a moment she sadly shook her head, as if she had sought in vain. Suddenly she reached out her white arms toward the fire, and sang, clear and sweet above the horrid din: "O burning flakes of fiery snow, Bury me too, bury me deep; My lover sleeps thy banks below; Fall on me, that I may sleep!"
At this moment a blazing brand fell upon the horses' heads; they startled forward, and the crazed lady fell over on the corpse below. The animals being thoroughly terrified turned sharp around on the sidewalk, and tore their way right toward the fire, trampling down those in their track, and so vanished with their strangely assorted load.
Dennis, fearing to stay any longer where he was, determined to follow in their wake and find a street leading to the north less choked, even though it might be nearer the fire, and so with his trembling companion he pressed forward again.
Two blocks below he found one comparatively clear, but in terrible proximity to the conflagration. Indeed, the houses were burning on each side, but the street seemed clear of flame. He thought that by swiftly running they could get through. But Christine's strength was fast failing her, and just as they reached the middle of the block a tall brick building fell across the street before them! Thus their only path of escape was blocked by a blazing mass of ruins that it would have been death to cross.
They seemed hemmed in on every side, and Dennis groaned in agony.
Christine looked for a moment at the impassable fiery barrier, then at Dennis, in whose face and manner she read unutterable sympathy for herself, and the truth flashed upon her.
With a piercing shriek she fainted dead away in his arms.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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44
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ON THE BEACH
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In the situation of supreme peril described in the last chapter, Dennis stood a second helpless and hopeless. Christine rested a heavy burden in his arms, happily unconscious. Breathing an agonized prayer to heaven, he looked around for any possibility of escape. Just then an express-wagon was driven furiously toward them, its driver seeking his way out by the same path that Dennis had chosen. As he reached them the man saw the hopeless obstruction, and wheeled his horses. As he did so, quick as thought, Dennis threw Christine into the bottom of the wagon, and, clinging to it, climbed into it himself. He turned her face downward from the fire, and, covering his own, he crouched beside her, trusting all now to God.
The driver urged his horses toward the lake, believing that his only chance. They tore away through the blazing streets. The poor man was soon swept from his seat and perished, but his horses rushed madly on till they plunged into the lake.
At the sound of water Dennis lifted his head and gave a cry of joy. It seemed that the hand of God had snatched them from death. Gently he lifted Christine out upon the sands and commenced bathing her face from the water that broke in spray at his feet. She soon revived and looked around. In a voice full of awe and wonder she whispered, "Ah! there is another world and another life, after all."
"Indeed there is, Miss Ludolph," said Dennis, supporting her on his arm and bending over her, "but, thanks to a merciful Providence, you are still in this one."
"How is it?" she said, with a bewildered air. "I do not understand. The last I remember, we were surrounded by fire, you were despairing, and it seemed that I died."
"You fainted, Miss Ludolph. But God as by a miracle brought us out of the furnace, and for the present we are safe." After she had sufficiently rallied from her excessive exhaustion and terror, he told her how they escaped.
"I see no God in it all," she said; "only a most fortunate opportunity, of which you, with great nerve and presence of mind, availed yourself. To you alone, again and again this dreadful night, I owe my life."
"God uses us as His instruments to do His will. The light will come to you by and by, and you will learn a better wisdom."
"In this awful conflagration the light has come. On every side I see as in letters of fire, 'There is no God.' If it were otherwise these scenes would be impossible. And any being permitting or causing the evils and crimes this dreadful night has witnessed, I shall fear and hate beyond the power of language to express."
She uttered these words sitting on the sands with multitudes of others, her face (from which Dennis had washed the dust and smoke) looking in the glare so wan and white that he feared, with a sickening dread, that through exposure, terror, or some of the many dangers by which they were surrounded, she might pass into the future world with all her unbelief and spiritual darkness. He yearned over her with a solicitude and pity that he could not express. She seemed so near--indeed he could feel her form tremble, as she kneeled beside her, and supported her by his arm--and yet, in view of her faithless state, how widely were they separated! Should any one of the many perils about them quench the little candle of her life, which even now flickered faintly, where in the wide universe could he hope to meet her again? God can no doubt console His children and make up to them every loss, but the passionate heart, with its intense human love, clings to its idol none the less. Dennis saw that the fire would probably hem them in on the beach for the remainder of the night and the following day. He determined therefore in every way possible to beguile the weary, perilous hours, and, if she would permit it, to lead her thoughts heavenward. Hence arose from time to time conversations, to which, with joy, he found Christine no longer averse. Indeed, she often introduced them.
Chafing her hands, he said in accents of the deepest sympathy, "How I pity you, Miss Ludolph! It must indeed be terrible to possess your thoughtful mind, to realize these scenes so keenly, and yet have no faith in a Divine Friend. I cannot explain to you the mystery of evil--why it came, or why it exists. Who can? I am but one of God's little children, and only know with certainty that my Heavenly Father loves and will take care of me."
"How do you know it?" she asked, eagerly.
"In several ways. Mainly because I feel it."
"It all seems so vague and unreal," she sighed, dreamily. "There is nothing certain, assured. There is no test by which I can at once know the truth."
"That does not prevent the truth from existing. That some are blind is no proof that color does not exist."
"But how can you be sure there is a God? You never saw Him."
"I do not see the heat that scorches us, but I feel it, and know it exists."
"But I feel the heat the same as yourself, and I have no consciousness of a Divine Being."
"That does not take away my consciousness that He is my Saviour and Friend. As yet you are spiritually dead. If you were physically dead, you would not feel the heat of this fire."
"Oh, it is all mystery--darkness," she cried, piteously.
The sun had now risen quite above the waters of the lake, but seen through the lurid smoke which swept over its face, it seemed like one of the great red cinders that were continually sailing over their heads. In the frightful glare, the transition from night to day had scarcely been noted. The long, narrow beach was occupied by thousands of fugitives, who were hemmed in on every side. On the south was the river, skirted with fire, while opposite, on the west, the heat was almost intolerable; on the east were the cold waves of the lake, and on the north a burning pier that they could not cross. Their only hope was to cling to that narrow line where fire and water mingled, and with one element to fight the other. Here again was seen the mingling of all classes which the streets and every place of refuge witnessed. Judges, physicians, statesmen, clergymen, bankers, were jostled by roughs and thieves. The laborer sat on the sand with his family, side by side with the millionaire and his household. The poor debauched woman of the town moaned and shivered in her scant clothing, at a slight remove from the most refined Christian lady. In the unparalleled disaster, all social distinctions were lost, levelled like the beach on which the fugitives cowered. From some groups was heard the voice of prayer; from others, bitter wailings and passionate cries for lost members of the family; others had saved quantities of vile whiskey, if nothing else, and made the scene more ghastly by orgies that seemed not of earth. Added to the liquor were the mad excitement and recklessness which often seize the depraved classes on such occasions. They committed excesses that cannot be mentioned-these drunken, howling, fighting wretches. Obscene epithets and words fell around like blows. And yet all were so occupied with their own misfortunes, sufferings, and danger, as scarcely to heed their neighbors, unless these became very violent.
Upon this heterogeneous mass of humanity the fire rained down almost as we imagine it to have fallen upon the doomed cities of the plain, and the hot breath of the flames scorched the exposed cheek and crisped even eyebrows and hair. Sparks, flakes, cinders, pieces of roof, and fiery pebbles seemed to fill the air, and often cries and shrieks announced that furniture and bedding which had been dragged thither, and even the clothing of women and children, were burning. Added to all the other terrors of the scene was the presence of large numbers of horses and cattle, snorting and plunging in their fright and pain.
But the sound that smote Dennis's heart with the deepest commiseration was the continuous wail of helpless little children, many of them utterly separated from parents and friends, and in the very agony of fear.
He greatly dreaded the effect of these upon Christine, knowing how, in the luxurious past, she had been shielded from every rough experience. But she at length rallied into something like composure. Her constitution was elastic and full of vitality, and after escaping from immediate danger she again began to hope. Moreover, to a degree that even she could not understand, his presence was a source of strength and courage, and her heart clung to him with desperate earnestness, believing him the sole barrier against immediate death, and (what she dreaded scarcely less) a lonely, wretched existence, should her life be spared.
Though he never lost sight of her for a moment, and kept continually wetting her hair and person, he found time to render assistance to others, and, by carrying his hat full of water here and there, extinguished many a dangerous spark. He also, again and again, snatched up little children from under the trampling hoofs of frightened horses.
As she watched him, so self-forgetful and fearless, she realized more and more vividly that he was sustained and animated by some mighty principle that she knew nothing of, and could not understand. The impression grew upon her that he was right and she wrong. Though it all remained in mystery and doubt, she could not resist the logic of true Christian action.
But as the day advanced the flames grew hotter, and their breath more withering. About noon Dennis noticed that some shanties on the sand near them were in danger of catching fire and perilling all in that vicinity. Therefore he said, "Miss Ludolph, stay here where I leave you for a little time, so that I may know just where to find you."
"Oh, do not leave me!" she pleaded: "I have no one in the wide world to help me except you."
"I shall not be beyond call. You see those shanties there; if possible we must keep them from burning, or the fire will come too near for safety." Then, starting forward, he cried, "Who will volunteer to keep the fire back? All must see that if those buildings burn we shall be in danger."
Several men stepped forward, and with hats and anything that would hold water they began to wet the old rookeries. But the fiery storm swooped steadily down on them, and their efforts were as futile as if they had tried to beat back the wind. Suddenly a mass of flame leaped upon the buildings, and in a moment they were all ablaze.
"Into the lake, quick!" cried Dennis, and all rushed for the cool waters.
Lifting Christine from the sand, and passing his arm around her trembling, shivering form, he plunged through the breakers, and the crowd pressed after him. Indeed they pushed him so far out in the cold waves that he nearly lost his footing, and for a few moments Christine lost hers altogether, and added her cries to those of the terror-stricken multitude. But pushing in a little nearer the shore, he held her firmly and said with the confidence that again inspired hope: "Courage, Miss Ludolph. With God's help I will save you yet."
Even as she clung to him in the water, she looked into his face. He was regarding her so kindly, so pitifully, that a great and generous impulse, the richest, ripest fruit of her human love, throbbed at her heart, and faltered from her lips--"Mr. Fleet, I am not worthy of this risk on your part. If you will leave me you can save your own life, and your life is worth so much more than mine!"
True and deep must have been the affection that could lead Christine Ludolph to say such words to any human being. There was a time when, in her creed, all the world existed but to minister to her. But she was not sorry to see the look of pained surprise which came into Dennis's face and to hear him say, very sadly: "Miss Ludolph, I did not imagine that you could think me capable of that. I had the good fortune to rescue Miss Brown last night, at greater peril than this, and do you think I would leave you?"
"You are a true knight, Mr. Fleet," she said, humbly, "and the need or danger of every defenceless woman is alike a sacred claim upon you."
Dennis was about to intimate that, though this was true in knightly creed, still among all the women in the world there might be a preference, when a score of horses, driven before the fire, and goaded by the burning cinders, rushed down the beach, into the water, right among the human fugitives.
Again went up the cry of agony and terror. Some were no doubt stricken down not to rise again. In the melee Dennis pushed out into deeper water, where the frantic animals could not plunge upon him. A child floated near, and he snatched it up. As soon as the poor brutes became quiet, clasping Christine with his right arm and holding up the child with the other, he waded into shallow water.
The peril was now perhaps at its height, and all were obliged to wet their heads, to keep even their hair from singeing. Those on the beach threw water on each other without cessation. Many a choice bit of property--it might be a piano, or an express-wagon loaded with the richest furs and driven to the beach as a place of fancied security--now caught fire, and added to the heat and consternation.
When this hour of extreme danger had passed, standing with the cold billows of the lake breaking round him, and the billows of fire still rolling overhead, Dennis began to sing in his loud, clear voice: "Jesus, lover of my soul, Let me to thy bosom fly, While the billows near me roll, While the tempest still is high."
Voice after voice joined in, some loud and strong, but others weak and trembling--the pitiful cry of poor terror-stricken women to the only One who it seemed could help them in their bitter extremity. Never before were those beautiful words sung in such accents of clinging, touching faith. Its sweet cadence was heard above the roar of the flames and the breakers.
Christine could only cling weeping to Dennis.
When the hymn ceased, in harshest discord the voice of a half-drunken man grated on their ears.
"An' what in bloody blazes does yer Jasus burn us all up for, I'd like to know. Sure an' he's no right to send us to hell before our time."
"Oh, hush! hush!" cried a dozen voices, shocked and pained.
"Divil a bit will I hush, sure; an' haven't I as good a right to have me say as that singin' parson!"
"You are an Irishman, are you not?" said Dennis, now venturing out of the water.
"Yis! what have ye got to say agin it?" asked the man, belligerent at once.
"Did you ever know an Irishman refuse to do what a lady asked of him?"
"Faith no, and I niver will."
"Then this lady, who is sick and suffering, asks you to please keep still, and I will be still also; so that's fair."
The Irishman scratched his head a moment, and said in a quieter tone, "Since ye spake so civil and dacent, I'll do as ye sez; and here's to the leddy's health;" and he finished a bottle of whiskey, which he soon laid him out on the beach.
"Thank you! Thank you!" said grateful voices on every side.
Dennis found the mother of the child and gave it to her; and then causing Christine to sit down near the water, where he could easily throw it on her, he stood at her side, vigilant and almost tender in his solicitude. Her tears were falling very fast, and he presently stooped down and said, gently, "Miss Ludolph, I think the worst of the danger is over."
"Oh, Mr. Fleet!" she whispered, "dreadful as it may seem to you, the words of that drunken brute there are nearer the language of my heart than those of your sweet hymn. How can a good God permit such creatures and evils to exist?"
"Again I must say to you," said Dennis, "that I cannot explain the mystery of evil. But I know this, God is superior to it; He will at last triumph over it. The Bible reveals Him to us as able and as seeking to deliver all who will trust Him and work with Him, and those who venture out upon His promises find them true. Miss Ludolph, this is not merely a matter of theory, argument, and belief. It is more truly a matter of experience. The Bible invites, 'Oh, taste and see that the Lord is good.' I have tasted and know He is. I have trusted Him for years, and He never failed me."
"You certainly have been sustained throughout this dreadful scene by a principle that I cannot understand, but I would give all the world to possess it."
"You may possess it, Miss Ludolph."
"How? how?" she asked, eagerly.
"Do you wish to believe as I do?"
"Yes, indeed; and yet my heart rebels against a God who permits, even if He does not cause, all this evil."
"Does it rebel against a Being who from first to last tries to save men from evil?"
"Tries! tries! what an expression to apply to a God! Why does He not do it in every case?"
"Because multitudes will not let Him."
"Oh, that is worse still! Surely, Mr. Fleet, you let your reason have nothing to do with your faith. How can a poor and weak being like myself prevent an Almighty one from doing what He pleases?"
"I am stronger than you, Miss Ludolph, and yet I could not have saved you to-night unless you had first trusted me, and then done everything in your power to further my efforts."
"But your power is human and limited, and you say God is all-powerful."
"Yes, but it is His plan and purpose never to save us against our will. He has made us in His own image and endowed us with reason, conscience, and a will to choose between good and evil. He appeals to these noble faculties from first to last. He has given us hearts, and seeks to win them by revealing His love to us. More than all, His Spirit, present in the world, uses every form of truth in persuading and making us willing to become His true children. So you see that neither on the one hand does God gather us up like drift-wood nor does He on the other drag us at His chariot wheels, unwilling captives, as did those who, at various times, have sought to overrun the world by force. God seeks to conquer the world by the might of the truth, by the might of love."
Christine was hanging with the most eager interest on his words. Suddenly his eyes, which had expressed such a kindly and almost tender interest in her, blazed with indignation, and he darted up the beach. Turning around she saw, at some little distance, a young woman most scantily clad, clinging desperately to a bundle which a large, coarse man was trying to wrench from her. The wretch, finding that he could not loosen her hold, struck her in the face with such force that she fell stunned upon the ground, and the bundle flew out of her hand. He eagerly snatched it up, believing it to contain jewelry. Before he could escape he was confronted by an unexpected enemy. But Dennis was in a passion, and withal weak and exhausted, while his adversary was cool, and an adept in the pugilistic art. The two men fought savagely, and Christine, forgetting herself in her instinctive desire to help Dennis, was rushing to his side, crying, "If there is a man here worthy of the name, let him strike for the right!" but before she and others could reach the combatants the thief had planted his fist on Dennis's temple. Though the latter partially parried the blow, it fell with such force as to extend him senseless on the earth. The villain, with a shout of derision, snatched up the bundle and dashed off apparently toward the fire. There was but a feeble attempt made to follow him. Few understood the case, and indeed scenes of violence and terror had become so common that the majority had grown apathetic, save in respect to their personal well-being.
Christine lifted the pale face, down which the blood was trickling, into her lap, and cried, in a tone of indescribable anguish, "Oh, he is dead! he is dead!"
"Oh, no, miss; he is not dead, I guess," said a good-natured voice near. "Let me bring a hatful of water from the lake, and that'll bring him to."
And so it did. Dennis opened his eyes, put his hand to his head, and then looked around. But when he saw Christine bending over him with tearful eyes, and realized how tenderly she had pillowed his aching head, he started up with a deep flush of pleasure, and said: "Do not be alarmed, Miss Ludolph; I was only stunned for a moment. Where is the thief?"
"Oh, they let him escape," said Christine, indignantly.
"Shame!" cried Dennis, regaining his feet rather unsteadily.
"Wal, stranger, a good many wrongs to-night must go unrighted."
The poor girl who had been robbed sat on the sands swaying backing and forth, wringing her hands, and crying that she had lost everything.
"Well, my poor friend, that is about the case with the most of us. We may be thankful that we have our lives. Here is my coat," for her shoulders and neck were bare; "and if you will come down to the lake this lady," pointing to Christine, "will bathe the place where the brute struck you."
"Shall I not give up my shawl to some of these poor creatures?" asked Christine.
"No, Miss Ludolph, I do not know how long we may be kept here; but I fear we shall suffer as much from cold as from heat, and your life might depend upon keeping warm."
"I will do whatever you bid me," she said, looking gratefully at him.
"That is the way to feel and act toward God," he said, gently.
But with sudden impetuosity she answered: "I cannot see what He has just permitted to happen before my eyes. Right has not triumphed, but the foulest wrong."
"You do not see the end, Miss Ludolph."
"But I must judge from what I see."
After she had bathed the poor girl's face, comforted and reassured her, Dennis took up the conversation again and found Christine eager to listen. Pausing every few moments to throw water over his companion, he said: "Faith is beyond reason, beyond knowledge, though not contrary to them. You are judging as we do not judge about the commonest affairs--from a few isolated, mysterious facts, instead of carefully looking the subject all over. You pass by what is plain and well understood to what is obscure, and from that point seek to understand Christianity. Every science has its obscure points and mysteries, but who begins with those to learn the science? Can you ignore the fact that millions of highly intelligent people, with every motive to know the truth, have satisfied themselves as to the reality of our faith? Our Bible system of truth may contain much that is obscure, even as the starry vault has distances that no eye or telescope can penetrate, and as this little earth has mysteries that science cannot solve, but there is enough known and understood to satisfy us perfectly. Let me assure you, Miss Ludolph, that Christianity rests on broad truths, and is sustained by arguments that no candid mind can resist after patiently considering them."
She shook her head, silenced perhaps, but not satisfied.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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45
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"PRAYER IS MIGHTY"--CHRISTINE A CHRISTIAN
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The day was now declining, and the fire in that part of the city opposite them had so spent itself that they were beginning to have a little respite from immediate danger. The fiery storm of sparks and cinders was falling mostly to the northward.
Dennis now ventured to sit down almost for the first time, for he was wearied beyond endurance. The tremendous danger and excitements, and the consciousness of peril to the one most dear to him, had kept him alert long after he ought to have had rest, but overtaxed nature now asserted its rights, and the moment the sharp spur of danger was removed he was overpowered by sleep.
Christine spoke to him as he sat near, but even to her (a thing he could not have imagined possible) he returned an incoherent reply.
"My poor friend, you do indeed need rest," said she, in kindest accents.
He heard her voice like a sweet and distant harmony in a dream, swayed a moment, and would have fallen over in utter unconsciousness on the sands, had she not glided to his side and caught his head upon her lap.
In the heavy stupor that follows the utmost exhaustion, Dennis slept hour after hour. The rest of the day was a perfect blank to him. But Christine, partially covering and shading his face with the edge of her shawl, bent over him as patient in watching as he had been brave in her deliverance. It was beautiful to see the features once so cold and haughty, now sweet with more than womanly tenderness. There upon that desolate beach, cold, hungry, homeless, shelterless, she was happier than she had been for months. But she trembled as she thought of the future; everything was so uncertain. She seemed involved in a labyrinth of dangers and difficulties from which she could see no escape. She knew that both store and home had gone, and probably most, if not all, of her father's fortune. She felt that these losses might greatly modify his plans, and really hoped that they would lead him to remain in this country. She felt almost sure that he would not go back to Germany a poor man, and to remain in America was to give her a chance of happiness, and happiness now meant life with him over whom she bent. For a long time she had felt that she could give up all the world for him, but now existence would scarcely be endurable without him. In proportion to the slowness with which her love had been kindled was its intensity--the steady, concentrated passion of a strong, resolute nature, for the first time fully aroused. All indecision passed from her mind, and she was ready to respond whenever he should speak; but woman's silence sealed her lips, and more than maiden delicacy masked her heart. While she bent over him with an expression that, had he opened his eyes, might have caused him to imagine for a moment that his sleep had been death, and he had wakened in heaven, yet he must needs awake to find that the look and manner of earth had returned. Her sensitive pride made her guarded even in expressing her gratitude, and she purposed to slip his head off upon her shawl whenever he showed signs of awakening, so that he might believe that the earth only had been his resting-place.
But now in his unconsciousness, and unnoted by all around, indeed more completely isolated by the universal misery and apathy about her than she could have been in her own home, with a delicious sense of security, she bent her eyes upon him, and toyed daintily with the curling locks on his brow. Whatever the future might be, nothing should rob her of the strange, unexpected happiness of this opportunity to be near him, purchased at such cost.
As she sat there and saw the fire rush and roar away to the northward, and the sun decline over the ruins of her earthly fortune, she thought more deeply and earnestly of life than ever before. The long, heavy sleep induced by the opiate had now taken away all sense of drowsiness, and never had her mind been clearer. In the light of the terrible conflagration many things stood out with a distinctness that impressed her as nothing had ever done before. Wealth and rank had shrivelled to their true proportions, and she said, half aloud:-- "That which can vanish in a night in flame and smoke cannot belong to us, is not a part of us. All that has come out of the crucible of this fire is my character, myself. It is the same with Mr. Fleet; but comparing his character with mine, how much richer he is! What if there is a future life, and we enter into it with no other possession than our character? and that which is called soul or spirit is driven forth from earth and the body as we have just been from our wealth and homes? I can no longer coolly and contemptuously ignore as superstition what he believes. He is not superstitious, but calm, fearless, and seemingly assured of something that as yet I cannot understand. One would think that there must be reality in his belief, for it sustains him and others in the greatest of trials. The hymn he sang was like a magnet introduced among steel filings mingled with this sand. The mere earth cannot move, but the steel is instinct with life. So, while many of us could not respond, others seemed inspired at the name of Jesus with new hope and courage, and cried to the Nazarene as if He could hear them. Why don't people cry for help to other good men who lived in the dim past, and whose lives and deeds are half myth and half truth? why to this one man only? for educated Catholics no longer pray to the saints."
Then her thoughts reverted to Mr. Ludolph.
"Poor father!" said she; "how will he endure these changes? We have not felt and acted toward each other as we ought. He is now probably anxious beyond measure, fearing that I perished in my sleep, and so I should have done, had it not been for this more than friend that I have so wronged. Oh, that I could make amends! I wonder--oh, I wonder if he has any spark of love left for me? He seems kind, even tender, but he is so to every one--he saved Miss Brown--" But here a most violent interruption took place. Christine, in the complete absorption of her thoughts, had not noticed that a group of rough men and women near by, who had been drinking all day, had now become intoxicated and violent. They were pushing and staggering, howling and fighting, in reckless disregard of the comfort of others, and before she knew it she was in the midst of a drunken brawl. One rough fellow struck against her, and another trod on Dennis, who started up with a cry of pain. In a moment he comprehended the situation, and, snatching up Christine and the shawl, he pushed his way out of the melee with his right arm, the wretches striking at him and one another aimlessly in their fury; while both men and women used language that was worse than their blows. After a brief struggle, Dennis and Christine extricated themselves, and made their way northward up the beach till they found a place where the people seemed quiet.
Dennis's sudden awakening had revealed to him that his head had been pillowed, and it seemed such a kind and thoughtful act on Christine's part that he could scarcely believe it; at the same time he was full of shame and self-reproach that by his sleep he had left her unguarded, and he said: "Miss Ludolph, I hope you will pardon you recreant knight, who slept while you were in danger; but really I could not help it."
"It is I who must ask pardon," replied Christine, warmly. "After your superhuman exertions, your very life depended on rest. But I made a wretched watcher--indeed I have lost confidence in myself every way. To tell the truth, Mr. Fleet, I was lost in thought, and with your permission I would like to ask you further about two things you said this morning. You asserted that you knew God loved you, and that Christianity was sustained by arguments that no candid mind could resist. What are those arguments? and how can you know such a comforting thing as the love of God?"
His eyes lighted up in his intense delight that she should again voluntarily recur to this subject, and he hoped that God was leading her to a knowledge of Him, and that he, in answer to his own and his mother's prayers, might be partially instrumental in bringing the light. Therefore he said, earnestly: "Miss Ludolph, this is scarcely the time and place to go over the evidences of Christianity. When in happy security I hope you may do this at your leisure, and am sure you will be convinced, for I believe that you honestly wish the truth. But there is no need that you should wait and look forward into the uncertain future for this priceless knowledge. The father will not keep his child waiting who tries to find him. God is not far from any one of us. When our Lord was on earth, He never repulsed those who sought Him in sincerity, and He is the true manifestation of God.
"Moreover," he continued, reverently, "God is now on earth as truly as when Christ walked the waves of Galilee, or stood with the life-giving word upon His lips at the grave of His friend Lazarus. The mighty Spirit of God now dwells among men to persuade, help, and lead them into all truth, and I believe He is guiding you. This Divine Spirit can act as directly on your mind as did Christ's healing hand when He touched blind eyes and they saw, and palsied bodies and they sprung into joyous activity."
Under his eager, earnest words, Christine's eyes also lighted up with hope, but after a moment her face became very sad, and she said, wearily, "Mystery! mystery! you are speaking a language that I do not understand."
"Can you not understand this: 'For God so loved the world, that He gave His only begotten Son, that whosoever believeth in Him should not perish, but have everlasting life'? and that the Bible tells us that His Son did, in very truth, die that we might live?"
"Yes, yes, I know that the Bible seems to teach all that, but there must be some mistake about it. Why should an all-powerful God take such a costly, indirect way of accomplishing His purpose when a word would suffice?"
"We will not discuss God's reasons; I think they are beyond us. But imagining the Bible story to be true, even though you do not believe it, is not the love of God revealed to us through His son, Jesus Christ?"
"Yes, it is the very extravagance of disinterested love, So much so that my reason revolts at it. It is contrary to all my ideas of Deity and power."
"Pardon me, Miss Ludolph, for saying it, but I think your ideas of Deity are borrowed more from mythology and human greatness than from the Bible. Let your reason stand aside a moment; this is not contrary to it, but beyond it. Imagining the Bible story true, can you not wish it true? If the man who died on Calvary out of love for you I and for us all is also God, would you fear to trust yourself to Him? Could you distrust One who loved you well enough to die for you?"
"No! no, indeed! if I only could believe it, no! But how can I ever be sure it is true? I am sure of nothing. I am not sure there is a God. I am not sure the Bible is more than human in its character. I feel as if my feet stood out upon those shifting waves, and as if there were nothing certain or stable."
"But in part you know the truth, Miss Ludolph, though you do not believe it, and I believe that the God of whom we have spoken _can directly reveal Himself to you_ and make His truth as real to you as it is to me."
"Mr. Fleet," cried Christine, "if I could believe as you do, I should be the happiest of the happy, for I should feel that, however much I suffered in this brief life, in the existence beyond I should be more than compensated;" and covering her tearful face with her hands she moaned, as if it were wrung from her, "I have suffered so much, and there seemed no remedy!"
Dennis's feelings were also deeply touched, and the dew of sympathy gathered in his own eyes. In the gentlest accents be said, "Oh, that you could trust that merciful, mighty One who invites all the heavy laden to come to Him for rest!"
She looked up and saw his sympathy, and was greatly moved. In faltering tones she said: "You feel for me, Mr. Fleet. You do not condemn me in my blindness and unbelief. I cannot trust Him, because I am not sure He exists. If there was such a God I would gladly devote my whole being to Him; but I trust _you_, and will do anything you say."
"Will you kneel on these sands with me in prayer to Him?" he asked, earnestly.
She hesitated, trembled, but at last said, "Yes."
He took her hand as if they were brother and sister, and they kneeled together on the desolate beach. The glow of sunset was lost in the redder glow of the fire that smouldered all over the ruins, and still raged in the northwest, and the smoke and gathering gloom involved them in obscurity.
Though the weary, apathetic fugitives regarded them not, we believe that angelic forms gathered round, and that the heart of the Divine Father yearned toward His children.
When they rose, after a simple prayer from Dennis, in which he pleaded almost as a child might with an earthly father, Christine trembled like a leaf, and was very pale, but her face grew tearless, quiet, and very sad. Dennis still held her hand in the warm, strong grasp of sympathy. Gently she withdrew it, and said, in a low, despairing tone: "It is all in vain. There is no answer. Your voice has been lost in the winds and waves."
"Wait the King's time," said he, reverently.
"You addressed him as Father. Would a good father keep his child waiting?"
"Yes, sometimes He does; He is also King."
After a moment she turned to him the saddest face he ever looked upon, and said, gently, again giving him her hand, "Mr. Fleet, you have done your best for me, and I thank you all the same."
He was obliged to turn away to hide his feelings. Silently they again sat down on the beach together. Weariness and something like despair began to tell on Christine, and Dennis trembled when he thought of the long night of exposure before her. He bent his face into his hands and prayed as he had never prayed before. She looked at him wistfully, and knew he was pleading for her; but she now believed it was all in vain. The feeling grew upon her that belief or unbelief was a matter of education and temperament, and that the feelings of which Dennis spoke were but the deceptive emotions of our agitated hearts. To that degree that the Divine love seemed visionary and hopeless, she longed for him to speak of his own, if in truth it still existed, that she could understand and believe in. If during what remained of life she could only drink the sweetness of that, she felt it was the best she could hope for--and then the blank of nothingness.
But he prayed on, and with something of his mother's faith seemed at last, as it were, in the personal presence of Christ. With an importunity that would not be denied, he entreated for her who despaired at his side.
At last, putting her hand lightly on his arm, she said: "Mr. Fleet, waste no more time on me. From the groans I hear, some poor woman is sick or hurt. Perhaps you can do some real good by seeing to her needs."
He rose quietly, feeling that in some way God would answer, and that he must patiently wait.
Going up the beach a short distance he found a German woman lying just on the edge of the water. In answer to his questions, he learned from her broken English that she was sick and in pain. A sudden thought struck him. In seeking to help another, might not Christine find help herself, and in the performance of a good deed, might not the Author of all good reveal Himself? Returning to her, he said: "Miss Ludolph, the poor woman you have heard is sick and alone. She is German, and you can speak to her and comfort her as only a woman can."
Christine went at once, though with little confidence in her powers. Indeed it was, perhaps, the first visit of charity and mercy she had ever made. But she would have done anything he asked, and determined to do her best. She helped the poor creature further up from the water, and then, taking her hands, spoke to her soothingly and gently in her native tongue.
"Heaven and all the angels bless your sweet face for taking pity on a poor lone body, and so they will too," is the free rendering of her grateful German.
"Would you please say a little prayer for a lone, sick body?" she asked, after a little while.
Christine hesitated a moment, and then thought: "Why not? if it will be of any comfort to the poor thing. It can do neither of us harm."
Dennis saw her kneel at the woman's side, lift her white face to heaven, and her lips move. Her attitude was unmistakably that of prayer. He could scarcely believe his eyes.
Her petition was brief and characteristic: "O God--if there is a God--help this poor creature!"
Then Dennis saw her start up and glance around in a strange, bewildered manner. Suddenly she clasped her hands and looked up with an ecstatic, thrilling cry: "There is! there is! God lives and loves me, I feel, I know, and therefore I may hope and live." Turning to the still raging flames, she exclaimed: "Burn on with your fiery billows, I do not fear you now! I am safe, safe forever! Oh, how can I ever love and praise Thee enough!"
Then, springing to Dennis's side, she took both his hands in hers, and said: "Mr. Fleet, you have saved my life again and again, and I am, oh, how grateful! but in leading me to this knowledge you have made me your debtor for evermore. God does live, and I believe now He loves even me."
As the glare of the fire fell on her face, he was awed and speechless at its expression. From its ecstatic joy and purity it seemed that the light of heaven, instead of her burning home, was illumining it.
At last he said, brokenly, "Thank God! thank God! my many, many prayers are answered!"
The look of love and gratitude she gave him will only find its counterpart in heaven, when the saved beam upon those who led them to the Saviour. The whole of her strong womanly soul, thoroughly aroused, was in her face, and it shone like that of an angel.
To Dennis, with the force of fulfilled prophecy, recurred his mother's words, and unconsciously he spoke them aloud: "PRAYER is MIGHTY."
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{
"id": "6627"
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46
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CHRISTINE'S GRAVE
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After a moment Christine returned to her charge and said, gently, "I think I can take better care of you now."
The poor woman looked at her in a bewildered way, half fearing she had lost her senses. But there was that in Christine's tone and manner now that went like sunlight and warmth to the heart, and in broadest German the grateful creature was soon blessing her again and again, and Christine felt that she was blessed beyond even her wildest dreams.
Dennis now felt that she must have food and rest. She appeared, in the ghostly light of the distant flames, so pale and spirit-like, that he almost feared she would slip away to heaven at once, and he began looking for some one stronger, older, and more suitable, to take her place. At a little distance further north he at last found a stout German woman sitting with her two children on a large feather bed, the sole relic of her household goods. Dennis acquainted her with the case, and she soon took the matter out of his and Christine's hands in a very satisfactory way.
To the south and west opportunity of escape was utterly cut off; eastward were the waters of the lake, so that their only chance was to push northward. After making their way slowly for a short distance among the thickly scattered groups and the varied articles that had been dragged to the shore for safety, Dennis thought he heard a familiar voice.
"Dr. Arten!" he cried.
"Hallo! who wants me?" answered the good old physician, bustling up in rather incongruous costume, consisting of a dress coat, white vest, red flannel drawers, and a very soiled pair of slippers.
"Oh, doctor! the very sight of you inspires hope and courage."
"Surely a young fellow like you can be in no want of those articles?"
"If he is lacking," cried Christine, "it must be for the reason that he has given hope and courage to every one he has met, and so has robbed himself."
"Heigho!" exclaimed the doctor, "you here?"
"Yes, thanks to the heroism of Mr. Fleet."
"Fleet, is that all you have saved from the fire?" asked the doctor, with a humorous twinkle, pointing to Christine.
"I am well satisfied," said Dennis, quietly, but with rising color.
"I should have perished, had not Mr. Fleet come to my rescue," continued Christine, warmly, glad of an opportunity to express a little of her gratitude.
The doctor turned his genial, humorous eye on her and said: "Don't be too grateful, Miss Ludolph; he is a young man, and only did his duty. Now if I had been so fortunate you might have been as grateful as you pleased."
It was Christine's turn to grow rather rosier than even the red fire warranted, but she said, "You would have your joke, doctor, if the world were burning up."
"Yes, and after it burned up," he replied. "What do you think of that, Miss Ludolph, with your German scepticism?"
Tears came in Christine's eyes, and she said, in a low tone, "I am glad to say that I have lost my German scepticism in the fire also."
"What!" cried the doctor, seizing both her hands in his hearty way. "Will you accept of our Christian superstition?"
"I think I have accepted your glorious Christian truth, and the thought makes me very happy."
"Well, now I can almost say, Praise God for the fire, though old Dr. Arten must commence again where the youngsters are who kick up their heels in their office all day."
With professional instinct he slipped his finger on Christine's pulse, then rummaged in his pocket and soon drew out some powders, and in his brusque way made her take one.
"Oh, how bitter!" she exclaimed.
"That is the way the ladies treat me," began the merry bachelor: "not an ounce of gratitude when I save their lives. But let a young fellow like Fleet come along and get them out of danger by mere brute strength, instead of my delicate, skilful way, and language breaks down with their thanks. Very well, I shall have compensation--I shall present my bill before long. And now, young man, since you have set out to rescue my little friend here, you had better carry the matter through, for several reasons which I need not urge. Your best chance is to make your way northward, and then continue around the west, where you can find food and shelter;" and with a hearty grasp of the hand, the brave, genial old man wished them "God speed!"
Dennis told him of the poor German woman, and then pushed on in the direction indicated. But Christine was growing weak and exhausted. At last they reached the Catholic cemetery. It was crowded with fugitives and the fire to the northwest still cut off all escape, even if Christine's strength had permitted further exertion. It was now approaching midnight, and she said, wearily: "Mr. Fleet, I am very sorry, but I fear I cannot take another step. The powder Dr. Arten gave me strengthened me for a time, but its effect is passing away, and I feel almost paralyzed with fatigue. I am not afraid to stay here, or indeed anywhere now."
"It seems a very hard necessity that you should have to remain in such a place, Miss Ludolph, but I see no help for it. We are certainly as well off as thousands of others, and so I suppose ought not to complain."
"I feel as if I could never complain again, Mr. Fleet. I only hope my father is as safe and as well as we are. I cannot tell you how my heart goes out toward him now that I see everything in a different light. I have not been a true daughter, and I do long to make amends. He surely has escaped, don't you think?"
"Mr. Ludolph was possessed of unusual sagacity and prudence," said Dennis, evasively. "What any man could do, he could. And now, Miss Ludolph, I will try to find you a resting-place. There are such crowds here that I think we had better go nearer that side, where early in the evening the fire drove people away."
The cemetery had not been used of late years, and many of the bodies had been removed. This caused excavations here and there, and one of these from which the gathered leaves and grass had been burned, Dennis thought might answer for Christine's couch, as in the hollow of this vacant and nearly filled grave she would be quite sheltered from the wind, and the sand was still warm from the effects of the fire. To his surprise she made no objection.
"I am so weary that I can rest anywhere," she said, "and a grave is not to me what it was once."
He arranged her shawl so that it might be mattress, pillow, and covering, and wrapped her up.
"And how will you endure the long, cold hours, my friend?" she asked, looking up most sympathetically.
"Thanks to your kindness, I had such a good sleep this afternoon that I feel strong and rested," he replied, with a smile.
"I fear you say so to put my mind at rest;" but even as she spoke her eyes closed and she went to sleep like a tired and trusting child. As with Dennis a few hours before, the limit of nature's endurance had been reached, and the wealthy, high-born Miss Ludolph, who on Sabbath night had slept in the midst of artistic elegance and luxury, now, on Monday night, rested in a vacant grave under the open and storm-gathering sky. Soon--to be accurate, at two o'clock on the morning of Tuesday--rain began to fall. But, with all the discomfort it brought, never had rain been more welcome.
Christine shivered in her sleep, and Dennis looked around vainly for some additional covering. The thronging fugitives were all in a similar plight, and their only course was simply to endure till some path of escape opened.
The night was indeed a long one to him. At first excitement and happiness kept him awake and unconscious of time and discomfort. But he soon felt how weary and hungry he was, for he had eaten nothing since his slight supper on Sabbath evening. The heat of the fire perceptibly lessened as the rain began falling, and without his coat Dennis was soon chilled to the bone. On every side he heard moans of discomfort, and he knew that he had far more reason to endure patiently than many near him. He tried to keep himself warm by walking around, but at last he grew too weary for that, and sat, a patient, cowering watcher, at the head of Christine's weird couch, listening sadly at times to the pitiful crying of little children and the sighs and groans of older sufferers.
At last the light of welcome day streaked the eastern horizon, and Christine opened her eyes in a bewildered way, but, on seeing him swaying backward and forward with half-closed eyes, sprang up and said, "And have you sat and watched there all the long night?"
"I hope you feel rested and better, Miss Ludolph," he replied, startled from drowsiness by her voice.
"It has been raining, too. I fear you are wet through. Oh, how much you must have suffered on my account!"
"I imagine you are as wet as I am, Miss Ludolph. This has been a very democratic experience for you. We are all about alike in this strange camping-ground."
"No; your kindness made me quite comfortable. Indeed, I never slept better. And you, without any coat or shelter, have watched patiently hour after hour."
"Well, you did as much for me yesterday afternoon, so we are quits."
"I think there is a great difference," she said. "And remember what a watcher I made; I let those drunken creatures run over you."
"I don't see how you could have helped it," said he, laughing. "That you should have cared for me as you did was a favor that I never expected," he added, blushing.
She blushed too, but made no reply; at the same time she was vexed with herself that she did not. Dennis, with a lover's blindness, misunderstood her silence, and thought that, as a friend, she was more grateful than he could wish, but he must speak in no other character.
Then he remembered that it would be dishonorable to urge his suit under the circumstances; it would be a source of inexpressible pain to her, with her strong sense of obligation, to put aside expressions of his deeper regard, and he resolved to avoid if possible any manifestations of his feelings. While she was dependent upon him he would act the part of a brother toward her, and if his human love could never find its consummation, he would bear his loss as patiently as possible. But in spite of himself a tinge of sadness and restraint came into his manner, and Christine sighed to herself, "If _he_ only knew, and _I_ only knew, just the truth, how much happier we might be!" There was a general movement now in the strangely assorted multitude. The fire had swept everything away so completely on the north side that there were not hot blazing ruins to prevent crossing. Accordingly men came pouring over, looking for their families. On every side were cries of joy on recognition of those whom fear and terrible forebodings had buried under the blackened remains of once happy homes. But mingled with exclamations of joy were sobs and wails of anguish, as some now realized in the lapsing hours that absent members of the household were lost.
Christine looked in vain for her father; at last Dennis said: "Miss Ludolph, do you feel equal to the effort of crossing to the west side? You must be faint with hunger, and there only can we hope for help."
"Oh, yes! let us go at once, for your sake as well as mine;" for she saw that his long fasting and great fatigue had made him very haggard.
They urged their way across the burned district as fast as their exhausted state would permit, carefully avoiding burning brands that still lay in the street.
"I hope you will have patience with me in my slow progress," said Christine, "for I feel as I imagine Rip Van Winkle must have done, after his twenty years' nap."
"I think you have borne up heroically, Miss Ludolph," said Dennis, warmly.
"Oh, no! I am not in the least heroic, but I confess that I am very hungry. I never knew what hunger was before. Well, I can now appreciate what must often be the condition of the poor, and hope not to be so forgetful of them hereafter."
"I am glad to hear you say that you are hungry, Miss Ludolph, for it proves that with care you will rally after this dreadful exposure, and be your former self."
"Ah! Mr. Fleet, I hope I shall never be my old self again. I shudder when I think what I was when you awakened me that dreadful night."
"But I have feared," said he, ever avoiding any reference to his own services, "that, though you might escape the fire, the exposure would be greater than you could endure. I trembled for you last night when it began to rain, but could find no additional covering."
"No brother could be kinder or more thoughtful of me," she said, turning upon him a glad, grateful face.
"That is it," thought Dennis. "She hints to me what must be our relationship. She is the Baroness Ludolph, and is pledged to a future that I cannot share."
But as he saw her gratitude, he resolved all the more resolutely not to put it to the hard test of refusing his love. A little later he unconsciously sighed wearily, and she looked at him wistfully.
"Oh, that I _knew_ if he felt toward me as he once did!" she said to herself.
They now reached the unscathed streets of the west side, which were already thronged with fugitives as hungry and gaunt as themselves. Mingling with this great strange tide of weak, begrimed, hollow-eyed humanity, they at last reached Dr. Goodwin's beautiful church. Here already had begun the noble charity dispensed from that place during the days of want and suffering that followed.
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{
"id": "6627"
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47
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SUSIE WINTHROP
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Waiting with multitudes of others, Christine and Dennis at last received an army biscuit (hardtack in the soldier's vernacular) and a tin-cup of what resembled coffee. To him it was very touching to see how eagerly she received this coarse fare, proving that she was indeed almost famished. Too weak to stand, they sat down near the door on the sidewalk. A kind lady presently came and said, "If you have no place to go you will find it more comfortable in the church."
They gladly availed themselves of her permission, as the thronged street was anything but pleasant.
"Mr. Fleet," said Christine, "I am now going to take care of you in return for your care last night," and she led him up to a secluded part of the church by the organ, arranged some cushions on a seat, and then continued: "As I have obeyed you, so you must now be equally docile. Don't you dare move from that place till I call you;" and she left him.
He was indeed wearied beyond expression, and most grateful for a chance to rest. This refuge and the way it was secured seemed almost a heavenly experience, and he thought with deepest longing, "If we could always take care of each other, I should be perhaps too well satisfied with this earthly life."
When after a little time Christine returned he was sleeping as heavily as he had done before upon the beach, but the smile his last thought occasioned still rested on his face.
For some little time she also sat near and rested, and her eyes sought his face as if a story were written there that she never could finish. Then she went to make inquiries after her father. But no one to whom she spoke knew anything about him.
Bread and other provisions were constantly arriving, but not fast enough to meet the needs of famishing thousands. Though not feeling very strong she offered her services, and was soon busily engaged. All present were strangers to her, but, when they learned from the inquiries for her father that she was Miss Ludolph, she was treated with deference and sympathy. But she assumed nothing, and as her strength permitted, during the day, she was ready for any task, even the humblest. She handed food around among the hungry, eager applicants, with such a sweet and pitying face that she heard many a murmured blessing. Her efforts were all the more appreciated as all saw that she too had passed through the fire and had suffered deeply. At last a kind, motherly lady said: "My dear, you look ready to drop. Here, take this," and she poured out a glass of wine and gave her a sandwich; "now, go and find some quiet nook and rest. It's your duty."
"I have a friend who has suffered almost everything in saving me. He is asleep now, but he has had scarcely anything to eat for nearly three days, and I know he will be very hungry when he wakes."
"Nothing to eat for three days! Why, you must take him a whole loaf, and this, and this," cried the good lady, about to provision Dennis for a month.
"Oh, no," said Christine, with a smile, "so much would not be good for him. If you will give me three or four sandwiches, and let me come for some coffee when he wakes, it will be sufficient;" and she carried what now seemed treasures to where Dennis was sleeping, and sat down with a happy look in her face.
The day had been full of sweet, trustful thoughts. She was conscious of a presence within her heart and all around that she knew was Divine, and in spite of her anxiety about her father and the uncertainty of the future, she had a rest and contentment of mind that she had never experienced before. Then she felt such a genuine sympathy for the sufferers about her, and found them so grateful when she spoke to them gently and kindly, that she wondered she had never before discovered the joy of ministering to others. She was entering a new world, and, though there might be suffering in it, the antidote was ever near, and the pleasures promised to grow richer, fuller, more satisfying, till they developed into the perfect happiness of heaven. But every Christian joy that was like a sweet surprise--every thrilling hope that pointed to endless progress in all that is best and noblest in life, instead of the sudden blank and nothingness that threatened but yesterday--and, above all, the animating consciousness of the Divine love which kept her murmuring, "My Saviour, my good, kind Heavenly Father," all reminded her of him who had been instrumental in bringing about the wondrous change. Often during the day she would go and look at him, and could Dennis only have opened his eyes at such a moment, and caught her expression, no words would have been needed to assure him of his happiness.
The low afternoon sun shone in gold and crimson on his brow and face through the stained windows before he gave signs of waking, and then she hurried away to get the coffee hot from the urn.
She had hardly gone before he arose greatly refreshed and strengthened, but so famished that a roast ox would have seemed but a comfortable meal. His eye at once caught the sandwiches placed temptingly near.
"That is Miss Ludolph's work," he said; "I wonder if she has saved any for herself." He was about to go and geek her when she met him with the coffee.
"Go back," she said; "how dare you disobey orders?"
"I was coming to find you."
"Well, that is the best excuse you could have made, but I am here; so sit down and drink this coffee and devour these sandwiches."
"Not unless you share them with me."
"Insubordinate! See here," and she took out her more dainty provision from behind a seat and sat down opposite, in such a pretty, companionable way that he in his admiration and pleasure forgot his sandwiches.
"What is the matter?" she asked. "You are to eat the sandwiches, not me."
"A very proper hint, Miss Ludolph; one might well be inclined to make the mistake."
"Now that is a compliment worthy of the king of the Cannibal Islands."
"Miss Ludolph," said Dennis, looking at her earnestly, "you do indeed seem happy."
A ray of light slanting through a yellow diamond of glass fell with a sudden glory upon her face, and in a tone of almost ecstasy she said: "Oh, I am so glad and grateful, when I realize what might have been, and what is! It seems that I have lost so little in this fire in comparison with what I have gained. And but for you I might have lost everything. How rich this first day of life, real, true life, has been! My Heavenly Father has been so kind to me that I cannot express it. And then to think how I have wronged Him all these years!"
"You have indeed learned the secret of true eternal happiness, Miss Ludolph."
"I believe it--I feel sure of it. All trouble, all pain will one day pass away forever; and sometimes I feel as if I must sing for joy. I do so long to see my father and tell him. I fear he won't believe it at first, but I can pray as you did, and it seems as if my Saviour would not deny me anything. And now, Mr. Fleet, when you have finished your lunch, I am going to ask one more favor, and then will dub you truest knight that ever served defenceless woman. You will find my father for me, for I believe you can do anything."
Even in the shadow where he sat she caught the pained expression of his face.
She started up and grasped his arm.
"You know something," she said; then added: "Do not be afraid to find my father now. When he knows what services you have rendered me, all estrangement, if any existed, will pass away."
But he averted his face, and she saw tears gathering in his eyes.
"Mr. Fleet," she gasped, "do you know anything I do not?"
He could hide the truth no longer. Indeed it was time she should learn it. Turning and taking her trembling hand, he looked at her so sadly and kindly that she at once knew her father was dead.
"Oh, my father!" she cried, in a tone of anguish that he could never forget, "you will never, never know. All day I have been longing to prove to you the truth of Christianity by my loving, patient tenderness, but you have died, and will never know," she moaned, shudderingly.
He still held her hand--indeed she clung to his as to something that might help sustain her in the dark, bitter hour.
"Poor, poor father!" she cried; "I never treated him as I ought, and now he will never know the wealth of love I was hoping to lavish on him." Then, looking at Dennis almost reproachfully, she said: "Could you not save him? You saved so many others."
"Indeed I could not, Miss Ludolph; I tried, and nearly lost my life in the effort. The great hotel behind the store fell and crushed all in a moment."
She shuddered, but at last whispered, "Why have you kept this so long from me?"
"How could I tell you when the blow would have been death? Even now you can scarcely bear it."
"My little beginning of faith is sorely tried. Heavenly Spirit," she cried, "guide me through this darkness, and let not doubt and unbelief cloud my mind again."
"Such prayer will be answered," said Dennis, in a deep, low tone.
They sat in the twilight in silence. He still held her hand, and she was sobbing more gently and quietly. Suddenly she asked, "Is it wrong thus to grieve over the breaking of an earthly tie?"
"No, not if you will say as did your Lord in His agony, 'Oh, my Father, Thy will be done.'"
"I will try," she said, softly, "but it is hard."
"He is a merciful and faithful High Priest. For in that He Himself hath suffered, being tempted, He is able to succor them that are tempted."
"Do you know that I think my change in feeling makes me grieve all the more deeply? Until to-day I never loved my father as I ought. It is the curse of unbelief to deaden everything good in the heart. Oh, I do feel such a great, unspeakable pity for him!"
"Like as a father pitieth his children, so the Lord pitieth them that fear Him."
"Is that in the Bible?" she asked.
"Yes."
"It is very sweet. He indeed must be my refuge now, for I am alone in the world."
"He has said, 'I will never leave thee nor forsake thee.' I have passed through this sorrow so recently myself that I can sympathize with you as a fellow-sufferer."
"True, true, you have," she answered. "Is that the reason that Christ suffered with us--that we might know He sympathized with us?"
"Yes."
"How unspeakably comforting is such sympathy, both human and divine! Tell me about your mother."
"I fear I cannot without being unmanned. She was one of Heaven's favorites, and I owe everything to her. I can tell you one thing, though, she prayed for you continually--even with her dying lips, when my faith had broken down."
This touched Christine very deeply. At last she said, "I shall see her some day."
"I wish you had seen her," he continued very sadly, looking as if at a scene far away.
"You cannot wish it more than I. Indeed I would have called on her, had it not been for an unfortunate accident."
He looked at her with some surprise, as if not understanding her remark, but said, "She greatly wished to see you before she died."
"Oh, I wish I had known it!"
"Did you not know it?" he asked, in a startled manner.
"No, but I felt grateful to her, for I understood that she offered to take care of me in case I had the smallpox. I wanted to visit her very much, and at last thought I would venture to do so, but just then I sprained my ankle. I sent my maid to inquire, but fear she didn't do my errand very well," added Christine, looking down.
"She never came, Miss Ludolph." Then he continued, eagerly: "I fear I have done you a great wrong. A little time before my mother died, she wrote you a line saying that she was dying and would like to see you. I did not know you could not come--I thought you would not."
Crimson with shame and humiliation, Christine buried her burning cheeks in her hands and murmured, "I never received it."
"And did you send the exquisite flowers and fruit?" he asked. "Ah, I see that you did. I am so glad--so very glad that I was mistaken! I sincerely ask your pardon for my unjust thoughts."
"It is I who should ask pardon, and for a long time I have earnestly wished that I might find opportunity to do so. My conduct has been simply monstrous, but of late it has seemed worse than the reality. Everything has been against me. If you only knew--but--" (and her head bowed lower). Then she added, hastily, "My maid has been false, and I must have appeared more heartless than ever." But, with biter shame and sorrow, she remembered who must have been the inspirer of the treachery, and, though she never spoke of it again, she feared that Dennis suspected it also. It was one of those painful things that must be buried, even as the grave closes over the frail, perishing body.
Let those who are tempted to a wicked, dishonorable deed remember that, even after they are gone, the knowledge of it may come to those who loved them, like an incurable wound.
Dennis's resolution not to speak till Christine should be no longer dependent on him was fast melting away, as he learned that she had not been so callous and forgetful as she had seemed. But before he could add another word, a wild, sweet, mournful voice was heard singing: "O fiery storm, wilt never cease? Thy burning hail falls on my heart; Bury me deep, that I in peace May rest where death no more can part."
In awed, startled tones they both exclaimed, "SUSIE WINTHROP!"
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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48
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DOCTOR ARTEN STRUCK BY LIGHTNING
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Hastening down into the body of the church, Dennis and Christine found Mrs. Leonard lying on some cushions in a pew. She was scantily clad, her sweet face scorched and blackened, and her beautiful hair almost crisped away.
Her husband was bending over her in an agony of mingled grief and joy. She had just been brought in from wandering aimlessly and alone quite out upon the prairie, singing in a low, plaintive way to herself words suggested by the sudden disaster that had temporarily robbed her of husband, of reason, and almost of life.
Dennis afterward learned from Professor Leonard that when first aroused they had escaped from the hotel, but, not realizing the danger, he had stepped back a moment at her request to get something she valued very much, and they had become separated.
"And thus at last I find the poor child," he cried, with a look of agony.
Mrs. Leonard did not know any of them, but continued her low, plaintive singing.
Dr. Arten, who had found his way to the church as one of the centres, was soon in attendance, his benevolent face becoming the very embodiment of pity. The crowd were pushed back, and with other kind ladies Christine took charge of her poor unconscious friend, and all was done that skill and tender love could suggest. At last, under the doctor's opiates, her low, weird singing ceased, and she slept, her husband holding her hand. The thronging fugitives were kept a little away, and Dr. Arten slept near, to be within call.
A lady asked Christine to go home with her, but she thanked her and said, "No, I would rather remain in the church near my friends."
Dennis saw that she was greatly wearied. Taking her hand, he said: "Miss Ludolph, it is my turn to take care of you again. See, our friends are preparing a place there for the ladies to sleep. Please go to rest at once, for you do indeed need it."
"I am very tired, but I know I could not sleep. How strange this life is! All day, the world, in spite of what has happened, seemed growing brighter. Now with the night has come the deeper darkness of sorrow. On every side pain and suffering seem to predominate, and to me there will ever be so much mystery in events like my father's death and my friend Susie's experience, that I know it will be hard to maintain a childlike faith."
"God will help you to trust; you will not be left to struggle alone. Then remember you are His child, and earthly parents do much that little children cannot understand."
With a faint smile she answered: "I fear I shall be one of those troublesome children that are ever asking why. All day it has seemed so easy to be a Christian, but already I learn that there will be times when I shall have to cling to my Saviour, instead of being carried forward in His arms. Indeed, I almost fear that I shall lose Him in the darkness."
"But He will not lose you," replied Dennis. "Since you are not sleepy, let me tell you a short Bible story."
"Oh, do, please do, just as if I were a little child."
"It is in the New Testament. Jesus had sent His disciples in a boat across the sea of Galilee, while He should go up alone on a mountain to pray. The night came, and with it a storm swept down against the disciples. The smooth sea was lashed into great foam-crested waves which broke over their little ship. They tugged hour after hour at the oars, but in vain. The night grew darker, the wind more contrary, the waves higher and more threatening, their arms wearied, and they may have feared that they would perish alone and without remedy in the black midnight. But we read that 'He saw them toiling in rowing,' though they knew it not. From the distant mountain side 'He saw them'--marked every weary stroke of the oar, and every throb of fear. But at last, when they were most ready to welcome Him, when none could say, 'We should have rowed through the storm alone,' He came to them walking safely on the dark waves that threatened them with death, and said, 'Be of good cheer, it is I; be not afraid.' Then they gladly received Him into the ship, and immediately the rough waves were hushed, and the keel of the boat grated on the beach toward which they had vainly rowed. Then they that were in the ship came and worshipped Him, saying, 'Of a truth thou art the Son of God.'
"Now it was on the evening of that very night that these same disciples had engaged in a scene of festivity. They had stood in the sunset on the mountain slope, and seen their Lord feed many thousand. Then all was peace, safety, and good cheer. Life changed as quickly for them as for you, but did not their Divine Master see them as truly in the stormy night as in the sunlight? Did He leave them to perish?
"He is watching you, Miss Ludolph, for He is ever the same; and before this stormy night of your sorrow passes away you will hear His voice, saying, 'Be of good cheer, it is I; be not afraid.'"
"Already I hear it," she said, in a low, glad voice, smiling through her tears. "I can, I do trust Him, and the conflicting winds of doubt and fear are becoming still. Among all these homeless people there must be many sad, discouraged hearts. You have helped me so much; can you not say a word or sing something that will help them?"
Dennis thought a moment, and then, in a sweet, clear voice that penetrated every part of the large building, sang: "Father in Heaven, the night is around us, Terror and danger our portion have been; We cry unto Thee, oh, save and defend us, Comfort the trembling, and pardon our sin.
"Hearts that are heavy, look onward and upward; Though wild was the storm that wrecked your loved homes, Faith lifts your sad glances hopefully heavenward, To mansions prepared with glory-crowned domes.
"Hearts that are breaking, whose lov'd ones have vanished, Swept down in the seething ocean of fire, E'en now they may rest where pain is all banished, And join their glad songs with the heavenly choir.
"Hearts that are groaning with life's weary burden, Who fear to go forward, to sorrow a prey; Jesus invites you--'Oh, come, heavy laden'; Leave sin at His feet, bear mercy away."
After the first line there was a breathless hush; but, when he closed, low sobbings might be heard from many of the women, and in the dim light not a few tears shone in the eyes of manhood. Dennis's voice was sympathetic in its character, and he had the power of throwing into it much feeling.
Christine was weeping quietly, but her tears now were like the warm spring rain as it falls on the precious seed. At last she said, "You have done these people much good."
"To you belongs all the credit, for it was at your suggestion I sang."
She shook her head, and then said, "Good-night, my friend, I shall never forget this day with its mingled experience; but I think, I hope, I shall never doubt God again;" and she went to her rest.
The light of the next day brought to view many hard realities, and chief among these was the bread question. Dennis was up with the dawn, and by eager inquiries sought to comprehend the situation. Some were gloomy and discouraged, some apathetic, and some determined, courageous, and hopeful; and to this last class he belonged.
Most thankful that he had come out of the fiery ordeal unscathed, he resolved to contribute his quota toward a new and better Chicago. Young, and sanguine in temperament, he already saw the city rise from its ashes in statelier proportions and richer prosperity. With a thrill of exultation he heard the report that some Napoleonic business men had already telegraphed for building material, and were even now excavating the hot ruins.
Christine had hardly joined him as he stood at the door when a gentleman entered and asked, "Who here are willing and able to work for fair wages?"
"I am at your service," said Dennis, stepping forward promptly.
"You are a gentleman, sir," said the speaker, impressed with the fact by Dennis's bearing, though his hat and coat were gone; "I need laborers who can handle the pick and shovel."
"I will work for less, then, till I can handle these tools as well as a laborer. There is no reason why I should eat the bread of charity a day longer, especially when so many need it more than I." "I said you were a gentleman; I now say you are a man, and that to me means a great deal more," said the energetic stranger. "You shall have two dollars a day with the rest."
He turned to Christine and said, almost proudly, "The supper you have to-night shall be yours also."
"That is," she replied, with a smile, "I shall live on your charity instead of that of some one else."
His face grew sad at once, but he answered, as he went away, "I could not give you charity, Miss Ludolph."
Christine saw that she had pained him, and was much vexed with herself. But his remark added to the hope and almost belief that she still held her old place in his heart, and she resolved to make amends in the evening for her unlucky speech.
With a smile she said to herself: "If he only knew that I would prefer the coarsest, scantiest fare provided by him to the most costly banquet, he would not have gone away with that long face. How rich life would be if I could commence it with him, and we struggle up together! Oh, Heaven, grant," she sighed, looking earnestly upward, "that through these wonderful, terrible changes, I may climb the mountain at his side, as he so graphically portrayed it in his picture!"
Mrs. Leonard still slept, and her husband in an agony of anxiety watched at her side. At last, a little before midday, she opened her eyes and said, in her natural tone: "Why, John, I must have greatly overslept. Where am I?" and then, as her husband fairly sobbed for joy, she started up and said, hurriedly: "What is the matter? What has happened?"
"Oh, be calm!" whispered Christine to the professor. "Everything depends on keeping her quiet." Then she bent over her friend, and said: "Do not be alarmed, Susie; you are now safe and well, and so is your husband. But you have been ill, and for his sake and your own you must keep quiet."
She turned inquiringly to her husband, who said, more calmly, "It is all true, and if you can only be careful we can go back to Boston as well as ever."
"I will do anything you say, John; but why am I in a church?"
"You were taken sick in the street, and this was the nearest place to bring you."
"Oh, dear! I have had such strange, dreadful dreams. I am so glad they were only dreams, and you are here with me;" and she lay quietly holding her husband's hands and looking contentedly in his face. It was evident she was herself again, and much better.
Dr. Arten soon after came and said, cheerily, "All right! all right! will have you out in a day or two as good as new, and then, Miss Ludolph, you will see how much more grateful she is to the old doctor than you were."
"You must present your bill," replied Christine, with a smile.
"May I?" retorted the doctor, wiping his lips.
"Oh, I don't know about that," cried Christine; adding, quickly, "when I welcome you to my own home you may."
"An old maid's hall, I suppose."
"It will be an orphan's home, at least," said Christine, softly and sadly.
Tears filled the old man's eyes, and putting his arm around her he drew her to him, saying, as he stroked her drooping head: "Poor child! poor child! I did not know. But you shall never want a protector while the old doctor is above ground. As far as possible I will be a father to you;" and Christine knew she had found a friend as true and strong as steel, and she buried her face on his shoulder and cried as trustingly as his own child might have done.
"Oh, Christine!" cried Mrs. Leonard, "I am so sorry for you!"
At the voice of her old friend she at once rallied, and, trying to smile through her tears, said, "God has been so much better to me than I deserved that I have only gratitude when I think of myself; but my poor father--" and again she covered her face and wept.
"Christine, come here," said Mrs. Leonard, softly, and she put her arms around the weeping girl. "You spoke of God's being good to you. Have you in truth found and learned to trust Him?"
"Yes," she replied, eagerly, joy and peace coming out in her face like the sun shining through clouds and rain. Then with bowed head she whispered low: "The one I wronged on earth led me to the One I wronged in heaven, and both have forgiven me. Oh, I am so glad, so happy!"
"Then you have seen Mr. Fleet."
"Yes, he saved my life again and again, but in teaching me how to find my Saviour, he has done far more for me."
"And you will not wrong him any more, will you, Christine? He has loved you so long and faithfully."
In reply she lifted an eager face to her friend and said, "Do you think he can love me still after my treatment of him?"
"Give him a chance to tell you," said Mrs. Leonard, with a half-mischievous smile. "Has he not shown his feelings?"
"He has treated me more as a brother might have done, and yet he is so very respectful and deferential--I hope--but I am not perfectly sure--and then he seems under some restraint."
Mrs. Leonard said, musingly: "He knows that you are Baroness Ludolph. I told him last week, for I thought he ought to know, and the fact of your approaching departure for Europe has been no secret of late. He thinks you are pledged to a future in which he cannot share; and in your grateful, dependent condition he would not cause you the pain of refusing him. I think that is just where he stands," she concluded, with a woman's mastery of the science of love, and taking almost as much interest in her friend's affair as she had felt in her own. To most ladies this subject has a peculiar fascination, and, having settled their own matters, they enter with scarcely less zest on the task of helping others arrange theirs. Mrs. Leonard rallied faster under the excitement of this new interest than from the doctor's remedies.
After a few moments' thought Christine said, decidedly: "All that nonsense about the Baroness Ludolph is past forever--burned up in the fire with many things of more value. I have been fed too long on the husks of human greatness and ambition to want any more of them. They never did satisfy me, and in the light and heat of the terrific ordeal through which I have just passed they shrivelled into utter nothingness. I want something that I cannot lose in a whiff of smoke and flame, and I think I have found it. Henceforth I claim no other character than that of a simple Christian girl." Then bowing her head on her friend's shoulder she added, in a whisper, "If I could climb to true greatness by Mr. Fleet's side, as he portrayed it in his picture, it seems to me heaven would begin at once."
The doctor, who had taken the professor aside, now joined them, and said: "Mrs. Leonard, you have only to take reasonable care of yourself, and you will soon recover from this shock and exposure. I wish all my patients were doing as well."
She replied with a smile, taking her husband's hand: "Since I have found my old Greek here, with his learned spectacles, I am quite myself, and I feel as if I were only playing invalid."
"You may have slept in a church before," said the doctor, with a twinkle in his eye, "and you must do so again. But no one will thunder at you from the pulpit this time, so I leave you in peace and security, and to-night will be within call."
Christine followed him to the lobby of the church, when the irrepressible joker could not forbear saying: "Now let me give you a little paternal advice. Don't be too grateful to that young Fleet. He only did his duty, and of course doesn't deserve any special--" Christine, with flushing cheeks, interrupted him as if she had not heard: "Doctor, how good and kind you are! Here you are off without any rest to look after the sick and suffering, and you seem to bring health and hope wherever you go."
"Yes, yes; but I send my bill in too--mind that." (Some of his poorer patients never received any, and he, when twitted of the fact, would mutter, roughly, "Business oversight--can't attend to everything.")
Christine looked for a moment at the face so inspiring in its hearty benevolence, and with an impulse, so unlike the cold, haughty girl of old, sprang forward, threw her arms around his neck, and gave him a kiss which he declared afterward was like a mild stroke of lightning, and said, "And there is the first instalment of what I owe you."
The old gentleman looked as if he decidedly liked the currency, and with moistened eyes that he vainly tried to render humorous, he raised his finger impressively in parting, and said, "Don't you ever get out of debt to me."
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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49
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BILL CRONK'S TOAST
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After all, it was a long day to Christine. Tears would start from her eyes at the thought of her father, but she realized that the only thing for her to do was to shroud his memory in a great, forgiving pity, and put it away forever. She could only turn from the mystery of his life and death--the mystery of evil--to Him who taketh away the sin of the world. There was no darkness in that direction. She busied herself with Mrs. Leonard, and the distribution of food to others, till six o'clock, and then she stood near the door to watch till her true knight should appear in his shirt-sleeves, with a shovel on his shoulder, and an old burned, tattered felt hat on his head, instead of jewelled crest and heron plume.
Dennis had gone to his work not very hopeful. He knew Christine would be his grateful friend while she lived, and would perhaps even regard him as a brother, but all this might be and still she be unable to respond to his deeper feelings. Moreover, he knew she was Baroness Ludolph, and might be heiress of such titles and estates in Germany as would require that she should go at once to secure them; and so she seemed clearly to pass beyond his sphere.
As he shovelled the hot bricks and cinders hour after hour among other laborers, the distance between himself and the Baroness Ludolph seemed to increase; and when, begrimed and weary, he sat down to eat his dinner of a single sandwich saved from breakfast (for as yet he had no money), the ruins around him were quite in keeping with his feelings. He thought most regretfully of his two thousand dollars and burned picture. The brave, resolute spirit of the morning had deserted him. He did not realize that few men have lived who could be brave and hopeful when weary and hungry, and fewer still, when, in addition, they doubted the favor of the lady of their love.
The work of the afternoon seemed desperately hard and long, but with dogged persistency Dennis held his own with the others till six, and in common with them received his two dollars. Whether Christine would accept the supper he brought or not, he determined to fulfil his promise and bring one. Wearily he trudged off to the west side, in order to find a store. No one who met him would have imagined that this plodding laborer was the artist who the week before had won the prize and title of genius.
If he had been purchasing a supper for himself, he would doubtless have been sensible about it; but one that the Baroness Ludolph might share was a different matter. He bought some very rich cake, a can of peaches, a box of sardines, some fruit, and then his money gave out! But, with these incongruous and indigestible articles made up into one large bundle, he started for the church. He had gone but a little way when some one rushed upon him, and little Ernst clasped him round the neck and fairly cried for joy. Sitting on the sidewalk near were the other little Bruders, looking as forlorn and dirty as three motherless children could. Dennis stopped and sat down beside them (for he was too tired to stand), while Ernst told his story--how their mother had left them, and how she had been found so burned that she was recognized only by a ring (which he had) and a bit of the picture preserved under her body. They had been looking ever since to find him, and had slept where they could.
As Ernst sobbingly told his story the other children cried in doleful chorus, and Dennis's tears fell fast too, as he realized how his humble friend had perished. He remembered her kindness to his mother and little sisters, and his heart acknowledged the claim of these poor little orphans. Prudence whispered, "You cannot afford to burden yourself with all these children," and pride added, "What a figure you will make in presenting yourself before the Baroness Ludolph with all these children at your heels!" But he put such thoughts resolutely aside, and spoke like a brother; and when one of the children sobbed, "We so hungry!" out came the Baroness Ludolph's fruit and cake, and nothing remained for Christine but the sardines and peaches, since these could not well be opened in the street. The little Bruders having devoured what seemed to them the ambrosia of the gods, he took the youngest in his arms, Ernst following with the others; and so they slowly made their way to the church where Christine was now anxiously waiting, with many surmises and forebodings at Dennis's delay.
At last, in the dusk, the little group appeared at the church-door, and she exclaimed, "What has kept you so, Mr. Fleet?"
He determined to put the best face on the situation, and indulge in no heroics, so he said, "You could not expect such a body of infantry as this to march rapidly."
"What!" she exclaimed, "have you brought all the lost children in the city back with you?"
"No, only those that fell properly to my care;" and in a few words he told their story.
"And do you, without a cent in the world, mean to assume the burden of these four children?" she asked, in accents of surprise.
He could not see her face, but his heart sank within him, for he thought that to her it would seem quixotic and become another barrier between them; but he answered, firmly: "Yes, till God, who has imposed the burden, removes it, and enables me to place them among friends in a good home. Mrs. Bruder, before she died, wrote to her family in Germany, telling her whole story. Relatives may take the children; if not, some way will be provided."
"Mr. Fleet, I wonder at you," was her answer. "Give me that child, and you bring the others."
He wondered at her as he saw her take the child and imprint a kiss on the sleepy, dirty face; and Ernst, who had been eying her askance, crept timidly nearer when he saw the kiss, and whispered, "Perhaps her old outside heart has been burned away."
They followed to a lobby of the lecture-room, and here she procured a damp towel and proceeded to remove the tear and dust stains from the round and wondering faces of the children. Having restored them to something of their original color, she took them away to supper, saying to Dennis, with a decided nod, "You stay here till I come for you."
Something in her manner reminded him of the same little autocrat who had ordered him about when they arranged the store together. She soon returned with a basin of water and a towel, saying: "See what a luxury you secure by obeying orders. Now give an account of yourself, as every lady's knight should on his return. How have you spent the day?"
He could not forbear laughing as he said: "My employment has been almost ludicrously incongruous with the title by which you honor me. I have been shovelling brick and mortar with other laborers."
"All day?"
"All day."
Her glance became so tender and wistful that he forgot to wash his hands in looking at her, and felt for the moment as if he could shovel rubbish forever, if such could be his reward.
Seemingly by an effort, she regained her brusque manner, which he did not know was but the mask she was trying to wear, and said, quickly: "What is the matter? Why don't you wash your face?"
"You told me to give an account of myself," he retorted, at the same time showing rising color in his dust-begrimed face.
"Well, one of your ability can do two things at once. What have you got in that bundle?"
"You may have forgotten, but I promised to bring you home something that you chose to regard as charity."
"If I was so ungracious, you ought to have rewarded me by bringing me a broken brick. Will you let me see what you brought?" but without waiting for permission she pounced upon the bundle and dragged out the peaches and sardines.
He, having washed and partially wiped his face, was now able to display more of his embarrassment, and added, apologetically: "That is not all I had. I also bought some cake and fruit, and then my money gave out."
"And do you mean to say that you have no money left?"
"Not a penny," he answered, desperately.
"But where are the cake and fruit?"
"Well," he said, laughingly, "I found the little Bruders famishing on the sidewalk, and they got the best part of your supper."
"What an escape I have had!" she exclaimed. "Do you think I should have survived the night if I had eaten those strangely assorted dainties, as in honor bound I would have done, since you brought them?" Then with a face of comical severity she turned upon him and said: "Mr. Fleet, you need some one to take care of you. What kind of economy do you call this, sir, especially on the part of one who has burdened himself with four helpless children?"
There was a mingling of sense and seriousness in her raillery, which he recognized, and he said, with a half-vexed laugh at himself: "Well, really, Miss Ludolph, I suppose that I have not wholly regained my wits since the fire. I throw myself on your mercy." (The same expression he had used once before. She remembered it, and her face changed instantly.) Turning hastily away to hide her feelings, she said, in a rather husky voice, "When I was a wicked fool, I told you I had none; but I think I am a little changed now." Then she added, sharply, "Please don't stand there keeping our friends waiting"; and she led the way into the lecture-room, now filled with tables and hungry people.
Dennis was in a maze, and could scarcely understand her, she was so different from the pensive lady, shrinking from rude contact with the world, that he had expected to meet. He did not realize that there was not a particle of weak sentimentality about her, and that, since now pride was gone, her energetic spirit would make her as truly a leader in scenes like these as in those with which she had been familiar. Much less could he understand that she was hiding a heart brimming over with love to him.
He followed her, however, with much assumed humility. When in the middle of the room, who should meet him squarely but Bill Cronk?
"Hello!" he roared, giving Dennis a slap on his back that startled even the hungry, apathetic people at the tables.
Dennis was now almost desperate. Glad as he was to see Cronk, he felt that he was gathering around him a company as incongruous as was the supper he had brought home. If Yahcob Bunk or even the red-nosed bartender had appeared, to claim him as brother, he would scarcely have been surprised. He naturally thought that the Baroness Ludolph might hesitate before entering such a circle of intimates. But he was not guilty of the meanness of cutting a humble friend, even though he saw the eyes of Christine resting on him. In his embarrassment, however, he held out the washbasin in his confused effort to shake hands, and said, heartily, "Why, Cronk, I am glad you came safely out of it."
"Is this gentleman a friend of yours?" asked Christine, with inimitable grace.
"Yes!" said Dennis, firmly, though coloring somewhat. "He once rendered me a great kindness--" "Well, miss, you bet your money on the right hoss that time," interrupted Bill. "If I hain't a friend of his'n, I'd like to know where you'll find one; though I did kick up like a cussed ole mule when he knocked the bottle out of my hand. Like enough if he hadn't I wouldn't be here."
"Won't you present me, Mr. Fleet?" said Christine, with an amused twinkle in her eye.
"Mr. Cronk," said Dennis (who had now reached that state of mind when one becomes reckless), "this lady is Miss Ludolph, and, I hope I may venture to add, another friend of mine."
She at once put out her hand, that seemed like a snowflake in the great horny paw of the drover, and said, "Indeed, Mr. Cronk, I will permit no one to claim stronger friendship to Mr. Fleet than mine."
"I can take any friend of Mr. Fleet's to my buzzom at once," said Bill, speaking figuratively, but Christine instinctively shrank nearer Dennis. In talking with men, Bill used the off-hand vernacular of his calling, but when addressing ladies, he evidently thought that a certain style of metaphor bordering on sentiment was the proper thing. But Christine said, "As a friend of Mr. Fleet's you shall join our party at once"; and she led them to the further end of the room, where at a table sat Dr. Arten, Professor and Mrs. Leonard, Ernst, and the little Bruders, who at the prospect of more eating were wide awake again. After the most hearty greetings they were seated, and she took her place by the side of the little children in order to wait on them. Few more remarkable groups sat down together, even in that time of chaos and deprivation. Professor Leonard was without vest or collar, and sat with coat buttoned tight up to his chin to hide the defect. He had lost his scholarly gold-rimmed spectacles; and a wonderful pair of goggles bestrode his nose in their place. Mrs. Leonard was lost in the folds of an old delaine dress that was a mile too large, and her face looked as if she had assisted actively in an Irish wake. Dr. Arten did the honors at the head of the table in his dress coat and vest that had once been white, though he no longer figured around in red flannel drawers as he had done on the beach. The little round faces of the Bruders seemed as if protruding from animated rag babies, while nothing could dim the glory of Ernst's great spiritual eyes, as they gratefully and wistfully followed Dennis's every movement. Cronk was in a very dilapidated and famished state, and endured many and varied tortures in his efforts to be polite while he bolted sandwiches at a rate that threatened famine. Christine still wore the woollen dress she had so hastily donned with Dennis's assistance on Sunday night, and the marks of the fire were all over it. Around her neck the sparks had burned a hole here and there, through which her white shoulders gleamed. While she was self-possessed and assiduous in her attention to the little children, there was a glow of excitement in her eyes which perhaps Mrs. Leonard understood better than any one else, though the shrewd old doctor was anything but blind.
Dennis sat next to Christine in shirt-sleeves once white, but now, through dust and smoke, of as many colors as Joseph's coat. He was too weary to eat much, and there was a weight upon his spirits that he could not throw off--the inevitable despondency that follows great fatigue when the mind is not at rest.
Christine darted away and brought him a huge mug of hot coffee.
"Really, Miss Ludolph," he remonstrated, "you should not wait on me in this style."
"You may well feel honored, sir," said Mrs. Leonard. "It is not every man that is waited on by a baroness."
"The trouble with Christine is that she is too grateful," put in the old doctor.
"Now I should say that was scarcely possible in view of--" commenced the professor, innocently.
"I really hope Miss Ludolph will do nothing more from gratitude," interrupted Dennis, in a low tone that showed decided annoyance.
The doctor and Mrs. Leonard were ready to burst with suppressed amusement, and Cronk, seeing something going on that he did not understand, looked curiously around with a sandwich half-way to his open mouth, while Ernst, believing from Dennis's tone that he was wronged, turned his great eyes reproachfully from one to another. But Christine was equal to the occasion. Lifting her head and looking round with a free, clear glance she said, "And I say that men who meet this great disaster with courage and fortitude, and hopefully set about retrieving it, possess an inherent nobility such as no king or kaiser could bestow, and, were I twenty times a baroness, I should esteem it an honor to wait upon them."
A round of applause followed this speech, in which Cronk joined vociferously, and Mrs. Leonard whispered: "Oh, Christine, how beautifully I learn from your face the difference between dignity and pride! That was your same old proud look, changed and glorified into something so much better."
Dennis also saw her expression, and could not disguise his admiration, but every moment he increasingly felt how desperately hard it would be to give her up, now that she seemed to realize his very ideal of womanhood.
And Cronk, having satisfied the clamors of his appetite, began to be fascinated in his rough way with her grace and beauty. Nudging Dennis he asked in a loud whisper heard by all, which nearly caused Dr. Arten to choke, "The young filly is a German lady, ain't she?"
Dennis, much embarrassed, nodded assent.
A happy thought struck Bill. Though impeded by the weight of an indefinite number of sandwiches, he slowly rose and looked solemnly round on the little group. Dennis trembled, for he feared some dreadful bull on the part of his rough, though well-meaning friend, but Dr. Arten, in a state of intense enjoyment, cried, "Mr. Cronk has the floor."
Lifting a can of coffee containing about a quart, the drover said impressively, and with an attempt at great stateliness: "Beautiful ladies and honorable gentlemen here assembled, I would respectfully ask you to drink to a toast in this harmless beverage: _The United States of Ameriky! _ When the two great elemental races--the sanguinary Yankee and the phlegmatic German--become one, and, as represented in the blooded team before me" (waving his hand majestically over the heads of Dennis and Christine), "pull in the traces together, how will the ship of state go forward!" and his face disappeared behind his huge flagon of coffee in the deepest pledge. Bill thought he had uttered a very profound and elegant sentiment, but his speech fell like a bombshell in the little company.
"The very spirit of mischief is abroad to-day," Dennis groaned. And Christine, with a face like a peony, snatched up the youngest little Bruder, saying, "It is time these sleepy children were in bed"; but the doctor and the Leonards went off again and again in uncontrollable fits of laughter, in which Dennis could not refrain from joining, though he wished the unlucky Cronk a thousand miles away. Bill put down his mug, stared around in a surprised and nonplussed manner, and then said, in a loud whisper, "I say, Fleet, was there any hitch in what I said?"
This set them off again, but Dennis answered good-naturedly, slapping his friend on the shoulder, "Cronk, you would make a man laugh in the face of fate."
Bill took this as a compliment, and the strange party, thrown together by an event that mingled all classes in the community, broke up and went their several ways.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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50
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EVERY BARRIER BURNED AWAY
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Dennis was glad to escape, and went to a side door where he could cool his hot cheeks in the night air. He fairly dreaded to meet Christine again, and, even where the wind blew cold upon him, his cheeks grew hotter and hotter, as he remembered what had occurred. He had been there but a little time when a light hand fell on his arm, and he was startled by her voice--"Mr. Fleet, are you very tired?"
"Not in the least," he answered, eagerly.
"You must be: it is wrong for me to think of it."
"Miss Ludolph, please tell me what I can do for you?"
She looked at him wistfully and said: "This is a time when loss and disaster burden every heart, and I know it is a duty to try to maintain a cheerful courage, and forget personal troubles. I have tried to-day, and, with God's help, hope in time to succeed. While endeavoring to wear in public a cheerful face, I may perhaps now, and to so true a friend as yourself, show more of my real feelings. Is it too far--would it take too long, to go to where my father died? His remains could not have been removed."
"Alas, Miss Ludolph," said Dennis, very gently, "there can be no visible remains. The words of the Prayer Book are literally true in this case--'Ashes to ashes.' But I can take you to the spot, and it is natural that you should wish to go. Are you equal to the fatigue?"
"I shall not feel it if you go with me, and then we can ride part of the way, for I have a little money." (Dr. Arten had insisted on her taking some.) "Wait for me a moment."
She soon reappeared with her shawl cut in two equal parts. One she insisted on folding and putting around him as a Scotsman wears his plaid. "You will need it in the cool night wind," she said, and then she took his arm in perfect trust, and they started.
In the cars she gave him her money, and he said, "I will return my fare to-morrow night."
"What!" she replied, looking a little hurt. "After spending two dollars on me, will you not take five cents in return?"
"But I spent it foolishly."
"You spent it like a generous man. Surely, Mr. Fleet, you did not understand my badinage this evening. If I had not spoken to you in that strain, I could not have spoken at all. You have been a brother to me, and we should not stand on these little things."
"That is it," thought he again. "She looks upon and trusts me as a brother, and such I must try to be till she departs for her own land; yet if she knew the agony of the effort she would scarcely ask it."
But as they left the car, he said, "All that you would ask from a brother, please ask from me."
She put her hand in his, and said, "I now ask your support, sympathy, and prayer, for I feel that I shall need all here."
Still retaining her hand, he placed it on his arm and guided her most carefully around the hot ruins and heaps of rubbish till they came to where the Art Building had stood. The moon shone brightly down, lighting up with weird and ghostly effect the few walls remaining. They were utterly alone in the midst of a desolation sevenfold more impressing than that of the desert. Pointing to the spot where, in the midst of his treasures of art and idolized worldly possessions, Mr. Ludolph had perished, she said, in a thrilling whisper, "My father's ashes are there."
"Yes."
Her breath came quick and short, and her face was so pale and agonized that he trembled for her, but he tightened his grasp on her hand, and his tears fell with hers.
"Oh, my father!" she cried, in a tone of unspeakable pathos, "can I never, never see you again? Can I never tell you of the love of Jesus, and the better and happier life beyond? Oh, how my heart yearns after you! God forgive me if this is wrong, but I cannot help it!"
"It is not wrong," said Dennis, brokenly. "Our Lord himself wept over those He could not save."
"It is all that I can do," she murmured, and, leaning her head on his shoulder, a tempest of sobs shook her person.
He supported her tenderly, and said, in accents of the deepest sympathy, "Let every tear fall that will: they will do you good." At last, as she became calmer, he added, "Remember that your great Elder Brother has called the heavy laden to Him for rest."
At last she raised her head, turned, and gave one long parting look, and, as Dennis saw her face in the white moonlight, it was the face of a pitying angel. A low "Farewell!" trembled from her lips, she leaned heavily on his arm, they turned away, and seemingly the curtain fell between father and child to rise no more.
"Mr. Fleet," she said, pleadingly, "are you too tired to take me to my old home on the north side?"
"Miss Ludolph, I could go to the ends of the earth for you, but you are not equal to this strain upon your feelings. Have mercy on yourself."
But she said, in a low, dreamy tone: "I wish to take leave to-night of my old life--the strange, sad past with its mystery of evil; and then I shall set my face resolutely toward a better life--a better country. So bear with me, my true, kind friend, a little longer."
"Believe me, my thought was all for you. All sense of fatigue has passed away."
Silently they made their way, till they stood where, a few short days before, had been the elegant home that was full of sad and painful memories to both.
"There was my studio," she said in the same dreamy tone, "where I indulged in my wild, ambitious dreams, and sought to grasp a little fading circlet of laurel, while ignoring a heavenly and an immortal crown. There," she continued, her pale face becoming crimson, even in the white moonlight, "I most painfully wronged you, my most generous, forgiving friend, and a noble revenge you took when you saved my life and led me to a Saviour. May God reward you; but I humbly ask your pardon--" "Please, Miss Ludolph, do not speak of that. I have buried it all. Do not pain yourself by recalling that which I have forgiven and almost forgotten. You are now my ideal of all that is noble and good, and in my solitary artist life of the future you shall be my gentle yet potent inspiration."
"Why must your life be solitary in the future?" she asked, in a low tone.
He was very pale, and his arm trembled under her hand; at last he said, in a hoarse voice, "Do not ask me. Why should I pain you by telling you the truth?"
"Is it the part of a true friend to refuse confidence?" she asked, reproachfully.
He turned his face away, that she might not see the evidences of the bitter struggle within--the severest he had ever known; but at last he spoke in the firm and quiet voice of victory. She had called him brother, and trusted him as such. She had ventured out alone on a sacred mission with him, as she might with a brother. She was dependent on him, and burdened by a feeling of obligation. His high sense of honor forbade that he should urge his suit under such circumstances. If she could not accept, how painful beyond words would be the necessity of refusal, and the impression had become almost fixed in his mind that her regard for him was only sisterly and grateful in its character.
"Yes, Miss Ludolph," he said, "my silence is the part of true friendship--truer than you can ever know. May Heaven's richest blessings go with you to your own land, and follow you through a long, happy life."
"My own land? This is my own land."
"Do you not intend to go abroad at once, and enter upon your ancestral estates as the Baroness Ludolph?"
"Not if I can earn a livelihood in Chicago," she answered, most firmly. "Mr. Fleet, all that nonsense has perished as utterly as this my former home. It belongs to my old life, of which I have forever taken leave to-night. My ancestral estate in Germany is but a petty affair, and mortgaged beyond its real worth by my deceased uncle. All I possess, all I value, is in this city. It was my father's ambition, and at one time my own, to restore the ancient grandeur of the family with the wealth acquired in this land. The plan lost its charms for me long ago--I would not have gone if I could have helped it--and now it is impossible. It has perished in flame and smoke. Mr. Fleet, you see before you a simple American girl. I claim and wish to be known in no other character. If nothing remains of my father's fortune I shall teach either music or painting--" "Oh, Christine!" he interrupted, "forgive me for speaking to you under the circumstances, but indeed I cannot help it. Is there hope for me?"
She looked at him so earnestly as to remind him of her strange, steady gaze when before he pleaded for her love near that same spot, but her hand trembled in his like a fluttering, frightened bird. In a low, eager tone she said, "And can you still truly love me after all the shameful past?"
"When have I ceased to love you?"
With a little cry of ecstasy, like the note of joy that a weary bird might utter as it flew to its mate, she put her arm around his neck, buried her face on his shoulder, and said, "No _hope_ for you, Dennis, but perfect _certainty,_ for now EVERY BARRIER IS BURNED AWAY!"
What though the home before them is a deserted ruin? Love is joining hands that shall build a fairer and better one, because filled with that which only makes a home--love.
What though all around are only dreary ruins, where the night wind is sighing mournfully? Love has transformed that desert place into the paradise of God; and, if such is its power in the wastes of earthly desolation, what will be its might amid the perfect scenes of heaven?
Our story is finished.
It only remains to say that Christine stands high at court, but it is a grander one than any of earth. She is allied to a noble, but to one who has received his patent from no petty sovereign of this world. She has lost sight of the transient laurel wreath which she sought to grasp at such cost to herself and others, in view of the "crown of glory that fadeth not away," and to this already, as an earnest Christian, she has added starry jewels.
Below is the Ludolph Hall in which sturdy independence led her to begin her married life. But she is climbing the mountain at her husband's side, and often her hands steady and help him. The ash-tree, twined with the passion-flower, is not very far above them, and the villa, beautiful within and without, is no vain dream of the future. But even in happy youth their eyes of faith see in airy, golden outline their heavenly home awaiting them.
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{
"id": "6627"
}
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1
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THE FIVE COUSINS.
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Aunt Faith sat alone on the piazza, and sad thoughts crowded into her heart. It was her birthday,--the first day of June,--and she could look back over more than half a century, with that mournful retrospect which birthdays are apt to bring. Aunt Faith had seen trouble, and had met affliction face to face. When she was still a bride, her husband died suddenly and left her lonely forever; then, one by one, her brothers and sisters had been taken, and she was made sole guardian of their orphan children,--a flock of tender little lambs,--to be nourished and protected from the cold and the rain, the snare and the pitfalls, the tempter and the ravening wolf ever prowling around the fold. Hugh and Sibyl, Tom and Grace, and, last of all, wild little Bessie from the southern hill-country,--this was her charge. Hugh and Sibyl Warrington were the children of an elder brother; Tom and Grace Morris the children of a sister, and Bessie Darrell the only child of Aunt Faith's youngest sister, who had been the pet of all her family. For ten long years Aunt Faith had watched over this little band of orphans, and her heart and hands had been full of care. Children will be children, and the best mother has her hours of trouble over her wayward darlings; how much more an aunt, who, without the delicate maternal instinct as a guide, feels the responsibility to be doubly heavy!
And now, after years of schooling and training, Aunt Faith and her children were all together at home in the old stone house by the lake-shore, to spend a summer of freedom away from books and rules. Hugh was to leave her in the autumn to enter upon business life with a cousin in New York city, and Sibyl had been invited to spend the winter in Washington with a distant relative; Grace was to enter boarding-school in December, and Tom,--well, no one knew exactly what was to be done with Tom, but that something must be done, and that speedily, every one was persuaded. There remained only Bessie, "and she is more wilful than all the rest," thought Aunt Faith; "she seems to be without a guiding principle; she is like a mariner at sea without a compass, sailing wherever the wind carries her. She is good-hearted and unselfish; but when I have said that I have said all. Careless and almost reckless, gay and almost wild, thoughtless and almost frivolous, she seems to grow out of my control day by day and hour by hour. I have tried hard to influence her. I believe she loves me; but there must be something wrong in my system, for now, at the end of ten years, I begin to fear that she is no better, if indeed, she is as good as she was when she first came to me, a child of six years. I must be greatly to blame; I must have erred in my duty. And yet, I have labored so earnestly!" Another tear stole down Aunt Faith's cheek as she thought of the heavy responsibility resting upon her life. "Shall I be able to answer to my brothers and sisters for all these little souls?" she mused. "There is Hugh also. Can I dare to think he is a true Christian? He is not an acknowledged soldier of the Cross; and, in spite of all the care and instruction that have been lavished upon him, what more can I truthfully say than that he is generous and brave? Can I disguise from myself his faults, his tendencies towards free-thinking, his gay idea of life,--ideas, which, in a great city, will surely lead him astray? No; I cannot! And yet he is the child of many prayers. How well I remember his mother! how earnestly she prayed for the little boy! Have I faithfully filled her place? If she had lived, would not her son have grown into a better man, a better Christian?" Here Aunt Faith again broke down, and buried her face in her hands. Hugh was her darling; and, although he was now twenty years of age, and so tall and strong that he could easily carry his aunt in his arms, to her he was still the curly-haired boy, Fitzhugh Warrington, whom the dying mother gave to Aunt Faith for her own. "There is Sibyl, also," she thought, as she glanced towards the garden, where her niece sat reading under the arbor; "she is at the other extreme, as unlike her brother as snow is unlike fire. Sibyl never does wrong. I believe I have never had cause to punish her, even in childhood. But she is so cold, so impassive; I can never get down as far as her heart; I am never sure that she loves me." Aunt Faith sighed heavily. Sibyl's coldness was harder for her to bear than Hugh's waywardness.
Then her thoughts turned towards the younger children. "Grace is too young to cause me much anxiety; but still I seem to have made no more impression upon her religious nature than I could have done upon a running brook; and as for Tom,--" Here Aunt Faith's musings were rudely interrupted by a shout and a howl. Through the hall behind her came a galloping procession. First, "Turk," the great Newfoundland dog, harnessed to a rattling wagon, in which sat "Grip," the mongrel, muffled in a shawl, his melancholy countenance encircled with a white ruffled cap; then came Tom, as driver, and behind him "Pete" the terrier, fastened by a long string, and dragging Miss Estella Camilla Wales, in her little go-cart, very much against his will. "Miss Estella Camilla Wales" was Grace's favorite doll, and no sooner did she behold the danger of her pet, than she sprang from the sitting-room sofa and gave chase. But Tom flourished his whip, old Turk galloped down the garden-walk with the whole train at his heels, and Miss Wales was whirled across the street before Grace could reach the gate.
"Tom, Tom Morris! stop this minute, you wicked boy! You'll break Estella's nose!" she cried, as they pursued the cavalcade toward the grove opposite the house. Here Pete, excited by the uproar, began barking furiously, and running around in a circle with a speed which soon brought Estella to the ground, besides tying up Tom's legs in a complicated manner with the cord which served as a connecting link between the team in front and the team behind. Old Turk, after taking a survey of the scene, gently laid himself down, harness and all, and wagged his ponderous tail; while poor Grip, in his efforts to free himself from the shawl, managed to pull his cap over his eyes, and howled in blind dismay. In the midst of the confusion, Grace rescued Miss Wales from her perilous position, and, finding her classic nose still unbroken, laid her carefully in the crotch of a tree, and prepared for revenge. In his desire to secure the obedience of his dog-team, Tom had fastened them securely, by long cords, to his belt; Pete had already managed to wind his tether tightly around Tom's legs, and Grace incited Turk to rebellion, so that he, too, began to gambol about in his elephantine way, and Tom was soon tangled in another net. "I say, Grace, let the dogs alone, will you!" he said angrily, as he vainly tried to disentangle himself. "Here, Turk! lie down sir! Where in the world is my knife? Pete Trone, you are in for a switching, young man, as soon as these cords are cut!" During this time Grip had been pulling at his night-cap with all the strength of his paws; but as he only succeeded in drawing it farther over his nose, he finally gave up in despair, and, hearing Grace's voice, patiently sat up on his hind legs, with fore-paws in the air, begging to be released. He looked so ridiculous that both Tom and his sister burst into a fit of laughter. Good humor was restored, the tangles cut, and the procession returned homeward, Grip released from his cap, but still wearing his trailing shawl.
When they reached the gate Tom stopped, and calling the dogs in a line, he began an address: "Turk, Grip, and Pete Trone, Esquires, you have all behaved very badly, and deserve condign punishment!" At these words, uttered in a harsh voice, Pete Trone gave a short bark, and Grip instantly sat up on his hind legs, as if to beg for mercy. "None of that, gentlemen, if you please!" continued Tom; "special pleading is not allowed before this jury. Turk, Grip, and Pete Trone, Esquires, you are hereby sentenced to walk around the--garden on the top of the fence. Up, all of you! jump!" said Tom, picking up a switch. Now, indeed, all the culprits knew what was before them. That fence was a well-known penance,--for when they did anything wrong this was their punishment. Old Turk felt the touch of the switch first, and mounted heavily to his perch, his great legs curved inward to keep a footing on the narrow top; then came Pete, and, last of all, Grip, who, being a heavy-bodied cur, crouched himself down as low as he could, and crawled along with extreme caution. The fence was high, with a flat, horizontal top about four inches wide. It ran around three sides of the garden, and often, as Aunt Faith sat at her work in the sitting-room, the melancholy procession of dogs passed the window on this fence-top, followed by Tom with his switch. But Aunt Faith never interfered. She knew that Tom was a kind master, who never ill-treated or tormented any creature. Tom was a large-hearted boy, and, although full of mischief, was never cruel or heartless; he found no pleasure in ill-treating a dog or a cat, nor would he suffer other boys to do so in his presence. Many a battle had he fought with boys of mean and cruel natures, to rescue a bird, or some other helpless creature. "It is only cowards," he would say, "who like to torment birds, cats, and dogs. They know the poor things can't fight them back again."
Old Turk,--a giant in size among dogs,--had been in the family for many years; Grip was rescued from the canal, where some cruel boys had thrown him, by Tom himself; and Pete Trone, Esquire, was bought with Tom's first five-dollar bill, and soon proved himself a terrier of manifold accomplishments,--the brightest and most mischievous member of the trio. All the dogs had been carefully trained by Tom. They could fetch and carry, lie down when they were bid, sit up on their hind legs, and do many other tricks. Aunt Faith used to say, that if Tom would only learn his lessons half as well as he made his dogs learn theirs, there would be no more imperfect marks in his weekly reports.
In the meantime, the dogs had turned the corner of the fence, and were slowly advancing towards the house; while Grace, carrying Estella, came up the garden-walk. "Halt!" said Tom, and the three dogs stopped instantly; Turk, not daring to turn his head to see what was the matter, for fear of losing his balance, blinked out of the corner of his eye, as much as to say, "I wouldn't turn round if I could." "Pete Trone," said Tom gravely, "it is evident that this punishment is not severe enough for you; a dog that has time to wag his tail and yawn, cannot be in much anxiety to keep his position on the fence. Pete Trone, Esquire, for the rest of the way you shall wear Grip's cap." So the terrier's black face was encircled with the white frill, and, this accomplished, the march was resumed, and the three dogs disappeared behind the house.
"Aunt Faith," said Grace, as she reached the piazza, "that wicked Tom put Estella Camilla Wales in her wagon, and made Pete draw her all over. It's a wonder her nose wasn't broken and her eyes knocked out. If they had been, that would have been the end of her, like the last ten dolls I have had."
"Not ten, surely, my dear?"
"Yes, Aunt Faith, ten whole dolls! Polly he painted black to make her like the Queen of Sheba; he made Babes in the Woods of Beauty and Jane, and it rained on them all night; Isabella and Arabella I found on the clothes-line all broken to pieces, and he said they were only dancing on a tight rope; he sent Rose and Lily,--the paper-dolls, you know,--up in the air tied to the tail of his kite; the rag-baby he took for a scarecrow over his garden; and surely, Aunt Faith, you have not forgotten how he made Jeff Davis on the apple-tree, out of my dear china Josephine, or how he blew up Julia Rubber with his cannon last Fourth of July, when I lent her to him for the Goddess of Liberty?"
"Well, Gem, I did not realize that you had suffered so much. Take good care of Estella, and perhaps Santa Claus will make up your losses."
Grace, or Gem, as she was called from the three initials of her names, Grace Evans Morris,--G. E. M.,--ran off into the house to look up Estella, leaving Aunt Faith once more alone.
On a rustic seat in the arbor sat Sibyl Warrington reading. Her golden hair was coiled in close braids around her well-shaped head, her firm erect figure was arrayed in a simple dress of silver gray, and everything about her, from the neat little collar to the trim boot, pleased the eye unconsciously without attracting the attention. Sibyl Warrington knew what was becoming to her peculiar style of beauty, and nothing could induce her to depart from her inflexible rules. Fashion might decree a tower of frizzed curls, and Sibyl would calmly watch the elaborate structure raised on the heads of all her friends, but her own locks, in the meanwhile, remained plainly folded back from her white forehead with quaker-like smoothness. Fashion might turn her attention to the back of the head, and forthwith waterfalls and chignons would appear at her behest, but Sibyl, while congratulating her friends upon the wonders they achieved, would still wind her thick golden braids in a classical coil, so that her head in profile brought up to the beholder's mind a vision of an antique statue. Rare was her taste; no clashing colors or absurd puffs and furbelows were ever allowed to disfigure her graceful form, and thus her appearance always charmed the artistic eye, although many of her schoolmates called her "odd" and "quakerish." Sibyl had already obtained her little triumphs. An artist of world-wide fame had asked permission to paint her head in profile, as a study, and whenever she appeared at a party the strangers present were sure to inquire who she was, and follow her movements with admiring glances, although there were many eyes equally bright, and many forms equally graceful in the gay circle of Westerton society. But in spite of her beauty, Sibyl was not a general favorite; she had no intimate friends among her girl companions, and she never tried to draw around her a circle of admirers. She had no ambition to be "popular," as it is called, and she did not accept all the invitations that came to her as most young girls do; for, as she said, "occasionally it is better to be missed." Thus, in a small way, Miss Warrington was something of a diplomatist, and it was evident to Aunt Faith that her niece looked beyond her present sphere, and cherished a hidden ambition to shine in the highest circles of the queen cities of America,--Boston, New York, and Washington. With this inward aim, Sibyl Warrington held herself somewhat aloof from the young gentlemen of Westerton; there were, however, two whom she seemed to favor in her gentle way, and Aunt Faith watched with some anxiety the progress of events. Graham Marr was a young collegian, the only child of a widowed mother who lived in Westerton during the summer months. He had a certain kind of fragile beauty, but his listless manner and drawling voice rendered him disagreeable to Aunt Faith, who preferred manly strength and vivacity even though accompanied by a shade of bluntness. But Sibyl always received Graham Marr with one of her bright smiles, and she would listen to his poetry hour after hour; for Graham wrote verses, and liked nothing better than reclining in an easy chair and reading them aloud.
"What Sibyl can see in Gra-a-m'ma, I cannot imagine," Bessie would sometimes say; "he is a lazy white-headed egotist; a good judge of lace and ribbons, but mortally afraid of a dog, and as to powder, the very sight of a gun makes him faint."
But Aunt Faith had heard of the fortune which would come to Graham Marr at the death of an uncle, and she could not but fear that Sibyl had heard of it also. The grandfather, displeased with his sons, had left a mill tying up his estate for the grandchildren, who were not to receive it until all of the first generation were dead. Only one son now remained, an infirm old man of seventy, and at his death the hoarded treasure would be divided among the heirs, two girls living in North Carolina, and Graham Marr, who was just twenty-one. Sibyl was eighteen, and self-possessed beyond her years; could it be that she really found anything to like in Graham Marr? Aunt Faith could not tell. As she sat on the piazza, looking down into the garden, the gate opened and a young man entered,--the Rev. John Leslie, a clergyman who had recently come to Westerton to take charge of a new church in the suburbs, a struggling little missionary chapel, where it required a large faith to see light ahead in the daily toil and slow results. Mr. Leslie caught the shimmer of Sibyl's gray dress under the arbor, and turning off to the right through a box-bordered path, he made his way to her side and seated himself on the bench. Aunt Faith could not hear their conversation, for the old-fashioned garden was large and wide, but now and then she caught the tones of the young man's earnest voice, although Sibyl's replies were inaudible, for she possessed that excellent thing in woman, a clear, low voice.
John Leslie was poor. He had only his salary, and that was but scanty. Energetic and enthusiastic, he loved his work, and his whole soul was in it. He was no plodding laborer, who had taken the field because it happened to be nearest to him; he was no loiterer, who had entered the field because he thought it would give him a larger chance for idleness than the close-drawn ranks of business life. He had felt the inward call which is given to but few, and he obeyed it instantly. To him the world was literally a harvest field, and he, one of the hard working laborers; he had no worldly ambition; he looked upon life with the eyes or a true Christian; his little chapel was as much to him as a large city church, influential and wealthy, could have been, as he loved his small and somewhat uninteresting congregation with his whole heart. Older men called him an enthusiast. Would that the world held more enthusiasts like him; men who have forsaken all to follow Him, men to whom the whole world and its riches are as nothing compared to the souls waiting to hear the tidings of salvation. For even in Christian America, there are in all our streets souls who have not heard the tidings. It is their own fault, do you say? They can come to our churches at any time. Nay, my friend; we must go out into the highways and hedges and force them to come in with kindly sympathy and brotherly aid.
John Leslie was the other friend whom Sibyl Warrington had selected from the large circle of Westerton society. Did she really like him? Aunt Faith could not decide this either, but she noticed the increasing interest in the young clergyman's manner, as he came and went to and from the old stone house. Free from guile as Nathanael of old, John Leslie felt an increasing attachment to the beautiful Miss Warrington, who came occasionally to his little church, and seemed, whenever he spoke on the subject, so truly interested in the work of his life; he talked with her about his Sunday School, and her suggestions had been of service to him; for Sibyl possessed a talent for organization, and a ready tact quite unusual for one so young. And in this work she was no hypocrite; she enjoyed her conversations with Mr. Leslie, and looked forward to his visits with real pleasure. What wonder that he thought her a true child of God, an earnest Christian, a fellow-laborer in the vineyard? Sometimes, when Aunt Faith was present and heard Mr. Leslie's conversation, her old heart glowed within her breast, and she felt herself carried back to the ancient days when the young converts went about the world with ardent enthusiasm, preaching the new gospel to every creature in spite of perils by land and sea, perils of torture, and perils of death itself. Then she would look at Sibyl. Sometimes the girl's cheek glowed with an answering enthusiasm, and for the time being, Aunt Faith would think that her heart was touched, and her soul uplifted by the earnest love of God which shone out from John Leslie's words. But the next day, perhaps, a letter from her cousin in Washington would come, and Sibyl's face would light up over the descriptions of some great ball, and her thoughts turn towards the approaching winter with double interest.
A mist came with the twilight, and a slight chill in the air soon brought Sibyl to the shelter of the piazza; she never trifled with her health, her good looks were of serious importance to her, and she never hazarded them for the sake of such sentiment as sitting in an arbor when the dew was falling, or loitering in the moonlight when the air was chilly.
"Good-evening, Mrs. Sheldon," said Mr. Leslie as they approached, holding out his hand in cordial greeting; "we have come up to the shelter of your pleasant piazza to finish our conversation in safety."
"I hope there was no danger," replied Aunt Faith with a smile; "a hot argument, for instance."
"Oh, no; on the contrary the danger, if there was any, came from the opposite direction. I was afraid the dew might dampen Miss Warrington's dress."
"And her enthusiasm also," said Aunt Faith, with a shade of merriment in her pleasant voice.
"Certainly not her enthusiasm," replied the young clergyman gravely; "I think it would take more than dew-drops to dampen such enthusiasm as hers." As he spoke, his eyes were turned full towards Sibyl's face, but he met no answering glance; Sibyl was occupied in spreading out the folds of her skirt to counteract any possible injury from the dampness. "He does not doubt her sincerity in the least," thought Aunt Faith; "perhaps, after all, his influence will be strong enough to cure her one fault, the one blemish of her character, the tendency towards worldliness which I have noticed in her since early childhood."
"We were speaking of Margaret Brown, Mrs. Sheldon," said Mr. Leslie when they were all seated on the piazza; "that girl has made a brave battle with fate, and I have been trying to help her. Miss Warrington has also been much interested in her; no doubt she has told you Margaret's history?"
"No," replied Aunt Faith, "I have heard nothing of her." Sibyl colored, and Mr. Leslie looked surprised; a slight shade rested on his frank face a moment, but soon vanished in the interest of the story. "Margaret Brown is a poor working girl about twenty years of age, Mrs. Sheldon; an orphan with a younger sister and two younger brothers to support, and nothing but her two busy hands to depend upon. She is a sewing-girl and a skilful workwoman, so that by incessant labor over her machine, day after day, she is able to keep her little family together, and, more than all, to send them to school. She realizes the disadvantages of her own ignorance, and she feels a noble ambition to educate those orphan children. Her faith is great; it is like the faith of the primitive Christians who lived so near the times of the Lord Jesus, that, in their prayers, they asked for what they needed with childish confidence. It was her great faith which first drew me towards her; she was a regular attendant at the chapel service, and in the course of my visits, I went to see her in the little home she has made in the third story of a lodging house at South End. It was Saturday, and I saw the three children, already showing evidences of improved education in their words and looks, while, busily sewing on her machine, sat the sister-mother, pale and careworn, but happy in the success of her plan. It seemed to me a great load for one pair of shoulders, and I said so. The children had gone into another room, and as I spoke, rashly perhaps, the overworked girl burst into tears. 'Oh, sir,' she said, 'it is the wish of my life to give them a good schooling, and I don't mind the work. But sometimes it is _so_ hard! If it was not for the prayers, I could not get through another day.' " 'Your prayers are a comfort to you,' I asked. " 'They are more than that, sir,' she replied earnestly; 'they are life itself. Every morning I kneel down and just put the whole day into the Lord's hands, asking Him to give us bread, and help us all,--me in my work and the children in their lessons. And while I'm asking, some way a kind of peace comes over me, and although I may know there is not a crumb in the closet, or a cent in my purse, I always get up with a light heart. The Bible is true, indeed, sir; I can't read it myself, but my little sister, she reads to me evenings. It says, 'the Lord will provide.' He does; He has. So far, me and mine have not suffered, although I can never see my way a week ahead.'"
"Mr. Leslie," said Aunt Faith, "I must try and help Margaret; please give me her address."
"Miss Warrington has it; I think she has already been there," replied Mr. Leslie. At this moment a form approached the house through the dusk of evening, a step sounded up the walk, and Graham Marr appeared. "Ah, good evening, ladies!" he said, in his languid voice. "Mr. Leslie, I believe! Your servant, sir. Miss Warrington, I have brought that new poem from the French; I am sure you will like it."
"Thank you," said Sibyl, smiling. "Pray be seated, Mr. Marr."
But the enthusiasm died away, the conversation languished, and Mr. Leslie soon rose to take leave. Then Sibyl stepped forward, and accompanied him part way down the garden-walk, pausing for a few moments earnest conversation before he said "good night."
"Now what made her do that?" thought Aunt Faith, as she tried to keep up a conversation with the languid Mr. Marr; "does she like Mr. Leslie better than she is willing to acknowledge?"
But Sibyl returned to her place on the piazza, and soon entered into an animated discussion of the last volume of poems, in which Aunt Faith's old-fashioned ideas found little to interest them.
"Well, young people," she said pleasantly, after half an hour of patient listening, "I _am_ afraid I do not appreciate modern poetry. I am behind the times, I suppose; but I really like to understand what a poet means, and, now-a-days, that is almost impossible."
"The mystery of poetry is its highest charm," said Graham Marr; "true poetry is always unintelligible."
"Then I fear I am not poetical, Mr. Marr. But I am, as you see, frank enough to acknowledge my deficiencies, and, if you will excuse me, I will go into the sitting-room and finish some work that lies in my basket."
Want of courtesy was not one of Graham's faults; indeed, he prided himself upon his polished manners; so he accompanied Aunt Faith within doors, placed an arm-chair by the table, drew up a footstool for her comfort, and even lingered a moment to admire the shaded worsteds in her basket, before he returned to the piazza and Sibyl. Once back in the moonlight, however, the poetical conversation soon began again, and the murmur of the two voices came faintly to Aunt Faith's ear as she sat by the table, while the light breeze brought up from the garden the fragrance of the flowers, always strongest after nightfall.
Back of the old stone house on the north side, the ground sloped down towards the lake; first grassy terrace and bank, then a large vegetable and fruit garden, terminating in a pasture and grove. The stable and carriage-house stood off to the left, and the place was somewhat carelessly kept, more like a farm than a residence; but an air of cosy comfort pervaded the whole, and the grounds seemed to be as full of chickens and ducks, cats and dogs, doves and sparrows, horses and cows, as the house was full of canary and mocking-birds, gold-fish, kittens, and plants, besides a large aquarium. Up from the back pasture, at this moment, two shadowy forms were stealing. As they drew nearer, sharp eyes might have discovered that they were two persons on horseback coming up from the road which ran east and west across the foot of the pasture. At the garden-fence they stopped, the gentleman dismounted and lifted the lady to the ground. It was Bessie Darrell and her cousin Hugh Warrington.
"Hush, Hugh; don't make me laugh so! we shall be discovered," she said, as she gathered up her long skirt.
"But it is such a good joke!" said Hugh, mounting his horse again. "Think of the fun we've had! And you ride like a little witch."
"We can go again to-morrow night, can't we, Hugh?"
"I suppose so; if you can get away unobserved."
"Of course I can. Oh, it is such fun! I like it better than anything I ever did, Hugh; and you are a dear good fellow to teach me."
"Teach you!" exclaimed Hugh, with a laugh; "that's good! Why, you took to it as a duck takes to water. What a glorious gallop we have had! By the way, Bessie, Gideon Fish would look well on horseback!"
"Or Graham Marr," said Bessie laughing. "I do believe he is on the piazza with Sibyl this very moment."
"If he is, I propose we extinguish him. Out, little candle," said Hugh, striking a dramatic attitude.
"You won't be gone long, Hugh?"
"No; the man will be waiting at the road."
"Then I will run upstairs, lock up my riding skirt, and come down and wait for you."
Bessie went through the garden and up to her room, while Hugh, riding one horse and leading the other, crossed the pasture and the grove, and gave them to a man who was waiting near the fence: he led them down the narrow road towards the west, for the old stone house was in the east suburb of Westerton, more than two miles from the business portion of the town.
Bessie Darrell was sixteen,--a tall, slender maiden, with irregular features, brown complexion, dark eyes, and a quantity of dark, curling hair which defied all restraint, whether of comb, net, or ribbon. Her eyes were bright and her expression merry, but beyond this there was little beauty in her face. A quick student, Bessie always stood at the head of her classes for scholarship, and at the foot as regards demeanor. Twice had she been expelled for daring escapades in defiance of rule, and Aunt Faith's heart had ached with anxiety, when the truant returned home in disgrace. But her merry vivacity had made home so pleasant, that the seasons of penance were, as Tom said, "the jolliest of the year," and Gem openly hoped that Bessie would soon be expelled again. Poor Aunt Faith sometimes thought there must be a tinge of gypsy blood in Bessie's ancestors on the Darrell side of the house, for in no other way could she account for her niece's taste for wild rambles and adventure. "Bessie, my child," she said one evening during the previous year, when she had happened to discover her wayward niece returning from a solitary drive with Sultan, one of the carriage horses, in Hugh's high buggy, "if you are fond of driving, you shall go when you please. I will hire a low basket phaeton for your especial use, and I shall be glad to go with you when you wish."
"Oh, Auntie! if I can go when I please, there is no fun in it," said Bessie, laughing.
"Then I am to conclude, my dear, that the fun, as you call it, consists in deceiving me," said Aunt Faith, gravely.
"Oh no, Auntie; not you especially, but all the world, you know. 'It's against the rule!' That sentence has always been my greatest temptation. I do so long to try all those forbidden things; if I had been Eve, and if the forbidden fruit had been a delicious peach instead of a commonplace apple, I should certainly have taken it. Now there was Miss Sykes at Corry Institute; she was always saying, 'Young ladies, it is against the rule to go into the garret. Three bad marks to any one who even opens the door.' That was enough for me; I slipped off my shoes and climbed up the stairs, while a crowd of girls stood in the hall to see what happened. I opened the door and went in, and after a moment I stepped right through the lath and plastering and hurt myself severely. Of course I got the bad marks, and a big bill for lath and plastering in addition to my lame leg, and the whole thing was Miss Sykes' fault."
"You deliberately disobeyed her rule, Bessie."
"Why have such a goose of a rule, then? Why didn't she say right out that we must not go into the garret because there was no flooring there? Then we would have understood the whole thing. For my part, I don't believe in piling temptation in people's way like that."
"My dear child, we cannot always know. We must all sometimes be content to give up our wills to the guidance of a Wiser Hand,--be content simply to _trust_."
"I don't think that time will ever come to me, Aunt Faith; Hugh says the human mind is sufficient for itself."
Aunt Faith sighed, and laid her hand gently on the young girl's dark curls. "My child," she said in a low voice, "I cannot bring myself to pray that you may learn the lesson of trust, for it is a very hard one. But I fear it will come to you, as, sooner or later, it comes to almost all of us."
"Dear Aunt Faith," said the impulsive Bessie, throwing her arms around her aunt's neck, "of all your children, not one loves you more truly than I do!"
"I believe you do, my child," said Aunt Faith, returning the caress.
Arrayed in her ordinary dress, Bessie Darrell went down the back stairs and seated herself on the porch steps. In a few moments Hugh joined her. "Do you feel tired?" he asked.
"Tired! No, indeed. Horseback riding never tired me. You will take me again to-morrow night?"
"I think it is you that takes me, Brownie. Is Marr there?"
"Yes; quoting poetry like everything. I heard him out of the front-hall window; something about 'a rosy cloud,' I believe."
"Are they sitting directly under the hall window?" asked Hugh.
"Yes; in two arm-chairs, side by side."
"Let us go up and have a look at them," said Hugh. So up they stole, and took their places at the upper window.
The old stone house was two stories high, with wings on each side, which projected out beyond the main building; the space enclosed by stone walls on three sides was floored with stone, and lofty stone pillars ran up to the overhanging room. There was no intersection at the second story, so that the view of the piazza from the upper windows was uninterrupted. It was a pleasant piazza, fronting towards the south, overlooking the old-fashioned garden with its little box-bordered paths, and entirely cut off from the lake winds, which are apt to have an easterly sharpness in them. On this piazza sat Sibyl and Graham Marr, and the two listeners above caught fragments of their poetical conversation. "I say, Bessie, do you know what a 'lambent waif' is?" whispered Hugh. "What a calf that Marr is! How can Sibyl listen to him? He has not common sense."
"I believe he is to have uncommon cents, sometime," said Bessie, punning atrociously. "However, if my knowledge of Sibyl is worth anything, I should say she really prefers Mr. Leslie."
"What, the minister!" exclaimed Hugh; "I am surprised. Not that I object at all, but ministers' wives sometimes have a hard life."
"Gideon Fish says, that ministers' wives ought to be the happiest women on earth, because their husbands are always at home, brightening the domestic shrine with their presence," quoted Bessie, with a dramatic tone.
"That is a fish-story; I know it by the sound. I say, Bessie, wouldn't it be fine fun to throw the great red blanket down on their heads in the middle of the next verse?"
As Bessie highly approved of this suggestion, the two conspirators crept away softly to find their blanket. But it was safely packed away in the bottom of a chest, and some search was necessary to bring it to the surface; in the midst of which, Tom and Gem appeared on the scene, curious to know what was going on.
"Run away, children, and shut the door after you!" said Hugh, coming up from the chest with a red face.
"No, Mr. Fitz!" replied Tom, deliberately seating himself on a box; "not one step do I go until I know what you're up to--some fun, I know. Come, Bessie; tell us, that's a good fellow."
"We shall have to tell them, Hugh," said Bessie, "or they might spoil the whole thing." So the plan was hastily explained.
"Come along, Gem," said Tom, in great glee.
"All right, Bessie, we won't spoil your fun."
The two children ran off down the back stairs and out upon the terrace behind the house. "Don't you say one word, Gem Morris," said Tom in an excited whisper, "but I'm going to be in this game, if I know myself. The blanket's very well, but the dogs are better, and Graham Marr is terribly afraid of 'em. I never liked him since he called me 'my lad,' and this will be a good chance to pay him off." So saying, Tom started towards the carriage-house, closely followed by Gem; for, as Hugh said, they always hunted in couples, and whether they played or quarrelled, they were always together.
Opening a side door of the carriage-house, Tom called out Pete and Grip; Turk had a kennel of his own, and sleepily obeyed his master's summons.
"Now Gem," said Tom, "I shall go round to the big barberry-bush, and when the blanket comes down I shall send the dogs at it. They won't hurt anybody,--they never do,--but they'll make believe to be awful savage, and Grip will bark like mad. You'd better slip round into the parlor and look through the blinds; it's dark there." Gem obeyed softly, and Tom disappeared around the corner of the house, followed by the dogs, who understood from their master's low order, that a secret reconnaissance was to be made, and moved stealthily behind him single file, big Turk first, then Pete Trone, Esq., and last of all plebeian Grip, his tail fairly sweeping the ground in the excess of his caution.
On the piazza all was peaceful and romantic. No thought of coming danger clouded the poet's fancies, as he repeated a stanza composed the previous evening by the light of the moon. "I never write by gas-light, Miss Warrington," he said, "but I keep pencil and paper at hand to transcribe the poetical thoughts that come to me in the moonlight. Here is a verse that floated into my mind when the moon was at its highest splendor last night:-- 'Shine out, Oh moon! in the wide sky,-- The creamy cloud,--the dreamy light-- My heart is seething in the night. Shine out, Oh moon! and let me die.'"
"I think we'd better let him, don't you?" whispered Hugh to Bessie at the upper window. She assented, and down went the great blanket on the heads of the two below, enveloping them in sudden darkness. At the same instant the three dogs plunged forward and pawed at the dark mass; Grip barking furiously, and Pete nosing underneath as if he was in search of a rat-hole. The noise brought Aunt Faith to the door.
"What is it?" she said in alarm, gazing at the struggling blanket with her near-sighted eyes.
"Nothing, Aunt Faith, but some of the children's nonsense," answered Sibyl, extricating herself, and stepping out from the stifling covering. "Mr. Marr, I hope you are not alarmed or hurt."
"Not in the least,--oh! --oh! --" gasped poor Graham, crawling out of the blanket. "Those dogs! --oh! --get out! --get down, sir!"
"They will not hurt you," said Sibyl, coming to the rescue. "Grip, be quiet! Pete get down, sir! You are not going, Mr. Marr?"
"I think,--yes,--I think I will," said the discomfited poet; "it is getting late. I was on the point of making my adieu when,--when the children played their little joke. Ha! --ha! --really, a very good joke. Quite amusing! Good-evening, ladies! Really,--quite amusing!"
When Graham had gone, Aunt Faith stepped out on the piazza. "Tom," she said, in a severe tone, "I am ashamed of you! Such pranks are only fit for a child!" But no answer came from the silent garden.
"Grace, you are there somewhere! come out and show yourself," said Aunt Faith. But still no reply. Then she called the dogs, but they, too, had mysteriously disappeared.
"Sibyl," she said, going back into the sitting room, "I am very sorry the children were so rude. I am afraid Mr. Marr will feel seriously offended."
"Oh, as to that, Aunt Faith, it is a matter of small consequence what he feels. But I see Pete has torn off part of the trimming of my skirt; I will mend it before I go to bed. Good-night,--" and Sibyl kissed her aunt in her gentle way, and went off to her room in the wing.
"I don't believe she cares for the calf after all," whispered Hugh to Bessie, as, after watching this scene from the top of the stairs, they separated for the night.
A few minutes later, when Aunt Faith went up to her room, all her children seemed to be unusually sound asleep; the lights were all out, and Tom's snores came through his half-opened door with astonishing regularity.
"It's of no use, my dears," called out Aunt Faith, standing at the door of her room; "I know you are all wide awake, and know you were all in that blanket-and-dog affair." A burst of stifled laughter greeted this announcement, and, when Aunt Faith got safely in her own room and closed the door, she laughed too.
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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2
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LIFE AT THE OLD STONE HOUSE.
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"Come, come, children," said Aunt Faith, as she went down the stairs, "do not waste so much time in talking or you will be late for prayers."
The talking consisted of a dialogue between Tom and Gem, carried on through the half-closed door of their respective rooms during the morning toilet, and the subject, as usual, was Pete Trone, Esq. "Who did Pete vote for?" began Gem.
"Pete voted the Republican ticket, like a sensible dog!" replied Tom, in a high key.
"He did not! I watched him at the polls. He is an out-and-out Democrat!" returned Gem, at the top of her voice.
"No such thing!" shouted back her brother; "he attended a rat-ification meeting last night in the cellar, and made a speech from the text, '_aut rates aut bones_.'"
"Oh, if you're going to quote Latin, I give up," said Gem, "and besides, there's the bell."
In a few moments the family assembled in the sitting-room,--Tom, Gem, Sibyl, and after some delay, Bessie; Hugh did not appear, and Aunt Faith, with an inward sigh, opened her Bible and read a chapter from the New Testament. Then they all met in prayer, and the mother-aunt's heart went up in earnest petition for help during the day, and a thanksgiving for the peaceful rest of the previous night; as she rose from her knee--, she kissed each one of her children with a fervent blessing, and the day was begun.
The sitting-room was large and sunny and the old-fashioned windows were set low down in the thick stone walls, so that a recess was formed in which a cushioned seat was fitted; Gem's favorite resort, with Estella Camilla Wales. A cabinet organ, a harp, and a violin, betrayed the musical tastes of the family, and an easel, with a picture in water-colors, as well as the books and papers on the table showed their varied occupations. Aunt Faith believed that music was a safeguard against danger. The love of harmony kept young people together around a piano, and filled their evenings with enjoyment; it was always a resource, and opened a field of interest and employment which increased the store of life's innocent pleasures. In addition to this negative virtue, Aunt Faith believed in the duty of taking part in the worship of the sanctuary; she believed that every voice, unless absolutely disqualified, should join in the praises of the great Creator, and some of her happiest moments, were those when her children gathered around the cabinet organ to sing the hymns she had taught them, or took their part in the congregational worship of song.
Sibyl played correctly both upon the piano and organ; Grace was already an apt scholar; Hugh sang, when in the mood, with a wonderful expression in his rich baritone; and Bessie, although negligent in practising, sometimes brought a world of melody out of her harp, charming all ears with her wild improvisations.
Tom owned the violin. The cousins united in the declaration that he had no musical ability, but Aunt Faith stood by him, and even encouraged his spasmodic attempts to find the tune. His favorite air was "Nelly Bly." On this he would progress satisfactorily until he came to "Hi," when he was sure to waver. "Hi," E flat; "Hi," E natural; "Hi," F natural; and finally, when all within hearing were driven nearly to frenzy, out would come the missing F sharp, and the tune go on triumphantly to its close.
The breakfast table at the old stone house was always a pleasant scene; Aunt Faith presided behind the coffee urn, and before the meal was over, the postman came with letters and papers, which caused another half hour of pleasant loitering. This morning Sibyl had her usual heap,--letters from various schoolmates, and one from Mrs. Leighton, her relative in Washington, which seemed to be full of interest. Aunt Faith also had several letters, and Bridget handed one to Bessie,--a large, yellow envelope, whose ill-formed address attracted general curiosity. "I say, Bess, who's your friend?" said Tom.
"Never mind," answered his cousin, with flushing cheeks, as she put the unopened letter into her pocket and went on hastily with her breakfast. Hugh, who had entered a moment before, glanced at Bessie, and then diverted the attention by a word-assault upon his sister. "What a mass of writing, Sibyl," he began, stretching out his hand; "I'll help you to read it. That rose-colored sheet will do; the one crossed over four times." But Sibyl quietly secured her correspondence, and went on with her reading. "Does she tell you what she wore at the last ball, dear? Was it blue, with rose ruffles, or pink with green puffles," continued Hugh. Sibyl smiled; her temper was never disturbed by her brother's banter. "If you could see Louisa May, you would be sure to admire her, Hugh, ruffles and all," she said, calmly.
"Undoubtedly; but as I cannot see her, ruffles and all, give me the nearest thing to it, a sight of that page,-- 'Tis but a little criss-cross sheet, But oh,--how fondly dear! 'Twill cheer my breakfast while I eat, And keep the coffee clear," chanted Hugh, in a melo-dramatic tone.
"Aunt Faith," said Sibyl, as she rose to leave the table, "Mrs. Leighton has invited me to go to Saratoga next month, to stay four weeks."
"Saratoga!" exclaimed Bessie. "Well, you are always lucky, Sibyl. But why don't you do something instead of standing there so quietly?"
"What would you have me do?" said Sibyl, smiling.
"Why, dance,--sing,--hurrah,--anything to give vent to your excitement."
"But I am not excited, Bessie," answered Sibyl, quietly.
"I don't believe you'd be excited if the house was on fire," said Tom, looking up from his plate.
"No, probably not," said Aunt Faith; "and for that reason, Sibyl would be of more use in such an emergency than all the rest of you put together. Does Mrs. Leighton fix any time for the journey, dear?"
"Yes, aunt; about the fifteenth of July."
"Would you like to go?" continued Aunt Faith, somewhat anxiously.
"Of course she would!" exclaimed Bessie. "Four weeks at Saratoga. Think of it!"
"Of course she would!" said Hugh. "Four weeks of puffs and ruffles!"
"Of course she would!" said Gem. "Four weeks of dancing!"
"Of course she would!" said Tom. "Ice cream every day!"
"I believe I will not decide immediately," said Sibyl, slowly; "I will think over the matter before I write." As her niece left the room, Aunt Faith's eyes followed her with a perplexed expression, but recalling her thoughts, she rang the bell, and then set about her daily task of washing the delicate breakfast-cups, and polishing the old-fashioned silver until it reflected her own face back again.
In the garret over the old stone house, a small room had been finished off as a "studio" for Bessie. It was but a rough little den with board walls and ceiling, but two south windows let in a flood of light, and the boards were covered with pictures in all stages of completion,--fragments of landscape, and portraits of all the members of the family circle, more or less caricatured according to Bessie's mood when she executed them. A strong patent-lock secured the door of this treasure-house, and seldom was any one admitted save Hugh. In vain had Tom bored holes in the walls, in vain had Gem pleaded pathetically through the key-hole, Bessie was inexorable and the door was closed. Chalked upon the outside of this fortress were some of Tom's sarcastic comments intended as a revenge for his exclusion,-- "Turn, stranger, turn, and from this sanctum rush,-- The fires of genius burn when Bessie wields the brush."
And this: "She won't let me in! _Hinc illae lachrymae_!" This legend was accompanied by a chalk picture of himself shedding large tear-drops into a tub.
This morning, however, the studio was not in a state of siege, as Tom and Gem were both engaged in a work of great importance in the garden. Seated near one of the windows was Bessie, her eyes full of tears, and her face the image of despair. A low knock at the door interrupted her reverie. "Is it you, Hugh?" she said, rising.
"Yes," replied her cousin, and in a minute he was admitted. "What is the matter, Bessie?" he said kindly. "I saw at breakfast that something was wrong. You will tell me, won't you?"
Bessie hesitated, and a flush rose in her dark face. "I suppose I must!" she answered, after a pause; "I always tell you everything Hugh, and I want your advice; but I don't know what you will think of me after you have read this letter."
"Never mind; give it to me, Brownie. You have always been my dear, little cousin, and it will take more than a letter to separate us," said Hugh, opening the envelope. The letter was as follows; "Miss B. Daril: I don't want to trouble you, but I must have that money. Bills is coming in every day. It belongs to me, as you know yourself, Miss, very well, and I've a right to every cent. If it don't come soon I shall have to send a lawyer for it, which I hate to do, Miss; and am yours respectful, J. Evins."
"What can this mean, Bessie?" asked Hugh, in astonishment.
"It means, last winter, at Featherton Hall, Hugh, I got into a wild set of girls there, and one of our amusements was sending out for suppers late in the evening; the servants would do anything for money, and they were always willing to go over to Evins, and get what we wanted for a small bribe. The bill was allowed to run on in my name, for, although it was understood that all the dormitory girls should share in the expense, it was more convenient to order in one name. Then the end of the term came, and there was so much confusion and hurry, that most of the girls forgot all about the bill, and went home without paying anything towards the suppers. I fully intended to give my share to Evins before I left, but the amount was so large I could not come near it," concluded Bessie, with two tears rolling down her cheeks.
"You have not told Aunt Faith, then," asked Hugh.
"No; I do not want to tell her, for it would make her feel badly, and besides, she would pay it herself, and I don't want her to do that, for she has already taken ever so much of her own little income to buy me new summer dresses in place of those I have torn and stained."
"How much do you owe this man?" said Hugh gravely.
"Two hundred and fifty dollars," said Bessie desperately.
"How could you contrive to run up such a bill in one winter?" exclaimed Hugh in astonishment.
"Why, you see there were a good many girls in the dormitory, and we always had plum-cake, eclairs, and French candy; and then I have no doubt but that the servants took their share," said Bessie, with a half sob.
"And why was your name selected for the bills?"
"I don't know, unless because I was,--the,--the,--" "The ringleader?" suggested Hugh.
"I am afraid so," murmured Bessie, hiding her face.
"Have you got this man's bill?" said Hugh, after a pause.
"Ah! yes. He sent it to me weeks ago."
"Let me have it, please."
"Oh, Hugh! what are you going to do with it?"
"Pay it, of course."
"Pay it! How can you?"
"So long as it is paid, what do you care about it, Brownie?"
"But I do care, Hugh; and I shall not give it to you unless you tell me."
"Well then, listen, Miss Obstinate. You may not know that Sibyl and I have some money coming to us this month. We shall be quite rich. I shouldn't wonder if there were five hundred dollars in all. Quite a fortune, you see! And I shall take mine to pay the debts of my foolish little cousin, who must be a real sugar-dolly to have eaten so much candy," said Hugh, laughing.
"Oh, Hugh! you splendid, generous fellow," said Bessie, with the tears still shining in her eyes; "but I shall not let you do it."
"Yes you will, Bessie; you would do the same for me."
"That is true enough; but I hate to take your money, Hugh."
"You don't take it; 'J. Evins' takes it," said Hugh merrily. "Come, give me the bill, and say no more about it, or we shall quarrel." So it was settled, and there were two light hearts in the studio that bright June morning.
While Aunt Faith was busy with her house-keeping duties, she heard Sibyl's touch on the piano,--giving full value to every note, and exact time to every measure. Sibyl was an accurate musician, and several hours of each day were invariably devoted to piano practice. She never turned over a pile of sheet-music, trying now a little of this, and now a little of that; but, having made her selections, she played the piece entirely through, note for note, exactly as it was written. Most people liked to hear Miss Warrington play, for the performance was very complete. She sat gracefully at the piano, showed no nervous anxiety, interpreted the notes conscientiously, and finished the music to the very last octave. But Aunt Faith detected a want of expression in this studied mechanism; it seemed to her that Sibyl did not, in her heart, feel the spirit of the music which her fingers played. Coming in from the kitchen, this morning, after setting in motion the household wheels for the day, she again noticed this automatic execution in the strains of Mendelssohn's "Spring-Song," and it grated on her ear as she tended the hanging baskets on the piazza. Continuing her round from her plants to her birds and gold-fish, Aunt Faith kept listening to the monotonous sound of the piano. "I wonder if Sibyl has a heart?" she thought; "sometimes I am tempted to think she has none. How can she practise so steadily when she has so much to decide? This visit to Saratoga will mean more than it looks. The decision will be between religion and the world. If she deliberately makes up her mind to go, it will show me that Mr. Leslie's influence has not been strong enough to subdue her worldliness and secret ambition. Poor child! she is like her mother. And yet, Mabel Fitzhugh became an earnest Christian before she died. God grant that her daughter may grow in grace also. Hugh, now, is all Warrington; he is like his father, with all his father's faults and all his father's generosity. Dear James! my favorite brother!" and Aunt Faith wiped away a tear, as she crossed the hall and entered the parlor where Sibyl was practising.
The parlor in the old stone house was the counterpart of the sitting-room, large and square, with two north and two south windows,--for the main body of the house contained only the length of the apartments finished by a north and south piazza, while the other rooms ran off on either side in wings and projections, as though the designer had tried to cover as much ground as possible. The parlor was plainly furnished as regards cost, for there was no superb set of furniture, no tall mirror, no velvet carpet or lace curtains. Easy-chairs of various patterns were numerous, the carpet was small figured, in neutral tints, and the plain, gray walls brought out the beauties of the two fine pictures which lighted up the whole room with their vivid idealism; the piano was a perfect instrument, filling a corner of its own, and opposite to it was an open book-case filled with pleasant-looking, well-used books, well worn too, like old friends, so much better than new ones. The crimson lounge seemed to invite the visitor with its generous breadth and softness, and the white muslin curtains were in perfect keeping with the old-fashioned windows, through which came the perfume of the old-fashioned flowers in the garden.
"Sibyl," said Aunt Faith, as her niece paused in her practising; "shall we talk over your plans for the summer now?"
"Yes, if you please, aunt; I can finish my practising another time," said Sibyl, carefully replacing the sheet-music in its portfolio.
"Mrs. Leighton is very kind to invite you, Sibyl; such a summer excursion will be expensive."
"Yes, Aunt, I suppose so; but cousin Jane knows that the addition of a young lady will add to the attractions of her party."
"Do you really wish to go, dear?"
"I have been thinking it over, Aunt Faith. While I was practising I looked at the subject in all lights, and I have almost decided to go; there is nothing to keep me here, and no doubt the society at Saratoga and Newport would be of great advantage to me."
"In what way, Sibyl?"
"In giving me the acquaintance of persons and families who will be desirable friends for a lifetime. I am not rich, as you know, Aunt Faith, and I do not wish to be a burden upon Hugh. I consider it prudent to look to the future, and see life as it really is; I do not believe in fancies,--I must have something sure."
Aunt Faith looked at the speaker in silence for a moment. Then she said, "There is nothing sure in this life, Sibyl, but our trust in God."
"I know that, Aunt; I hope you do not think I have been remiss in my religious duties?"
"No, child no," replied Aunt Faith with a half-sigh; "but are you sure there is nothing in Westerton that interests you more than the fashionable life at Saratoga!"
"Nothing, Aunt; except affection for all of you, of course." Sibyl's voice did not waver, neither did the shade of color in her oval cheek deepen; Aunt Faith, who was watching her closely, said no more on that subject, but turned the discussion towards the arrangements for the journey. "You will need some additions to your wardrobe, I suppose, my dear?"
"Yes, Aunt; I think I shall take that money that is coming to me this month for the purpose. I do not care for many dresses, but they must be perfect of their kind, and I think I shall purchase that antique set of pearls at Carton's," "But they are very costly, Sibyl."
"Of course they are. I should not wish them if they were not rare. Pearls become me, and the antique setting will set me off far better than anything modern; a white organdie, long and flowing, with the pearls, would be just my style," said Sibyl in a musing voice, as though she saw herself so arrayed. As she spoke, a vision rose before Aunt Faith's eyes: Sibyl at Saratoga, her classical head and hair adorned with the antique circlet, rising in simple beauty from the soft, white draperies. "She will look like a Greek statue," thought the elder lady; "after all, how beautiful she is!"
The discussion went on, arranging the details of the various toilets, a committee of ways and means highly important in Sibyl's eyes.
"At any rate, you need not begin immediately, Sibyl," said Aunt Faith; "if you only wish two or three dresses; and those are to be so simple, a week will be time enough to devote to them. You can have a full month of quiet here with all of us, dear; and, after all, something may happen to change your plans."
"I think not, Aunt Faith. Are you going? Then I may as well finish my practising;" and for the next hour the Spring-song filled the parlor with its oft-repeated harmony.
Down in the back garden, Tom and Gem were deeply engaged in the construction of an underground shanty. The grassy terrace behind the north piazza sloped down in a gentle declivity towards the vegetable garden, and at the base of this small hill the two sappers and miners were at work, their operations being marked by a convenient growth of currant-bushes at the top. The three dogs watched the proceedings with great interest. Turk, always thoughtful of his own comfort, had stretched himself out near by under the shadow of the bushes, and Pete Trone, in the excess of his zeal, had burrowed so far into the hill that nothing was to be seen but his tail and hind legs; Grip, however, persisted in tearing around the garden in wild circles, barking furiously every time he passed his master as if to encourage him in his labors. "This will never do!" said Tom, pausing and wiping his forehead; "Grip will spoil everything with his ridiculous barking, and the whole neighborhood will come to see what is the matter. Here, Grip! Here, this minute! Very well, sir! _ver-y_ well! _ex-treme-ly_ well! You'd better come, sir! You'd _bet-ter_,--oh! you're coming, are you? There! get into that tub, sir, and don't let me see you so much as wag your tail without permission!"
So Grip sat mournfully _in his_ tub, and watched the work in silence, resting his nose on the side, and blinking his eyes at every fresh shovel-full of earth. The sun shone out warmly, and the laborers felt the perspiration on their heated faces. Gem was the first to drop her shovel. "Oh, Tom!" she said, wiping her forehead, "my hands are all blistered!"
"What of that?" said Tom, shovelling steadily; "the honest hand of toil, you know." But Gem didn't know, and betook herself to the shade of the bushes for a rest. "There's Dick Nelson coming up through the pasture, Tom," she said, after a few moments.
"Is it? oh, how jolly! Now we'll have a shanty that will beat the town. I'll get Dick to bring all the B. B.'s to help."
So saying, Tom ran down to meet his friend, and the two, after some conversation, darted away to the right and the left, returning in about fifteen minutes with the "Band of Brothers," as they called themselves, a number of boys who lived in the vicinity, and hunted in a herd, as the neighbors said, for they were seldom seen apart.
"The B. B.'s have come, Gem! the B. B's have come!" cried Tom, as they approached; "now you'll see a shanty fit for a king! Just run in and get all the shovels you can find, will you?"
Gem obeyed, and having confiscated those in use in the kitchen, she went up to the garret to find the fire utensils belonging to the other rooms, stored away there for the summer. Collecting a number, she started to return, but, loaded as she was, this was no easy matter. First one shovel fell, then another, and finally to save the whole load from going, she sat down on the stairs and considered the situation.
Hugh and Bessie were still in the studio; for, her troubles over, Bessie's good spirits had returned, and she had persuaded Hugh to give her a sitting in order that she might satisfy a long-cherished desire to paint his portrait. "But what can you make out of my stupid phiz?" Hugh had said, laughing.
"I can make Fitz Hugh Warrington out of it; fair and golden, Saxon and strong; ruddy and stalwart; lithe and long. Now sit still, Hugh, and I will do my best. If you had black eyes I would not paint you; black eyes are _snaky_; that's the reason I don't like Gideon Fish."
"But he likes you, Queen Bess."
"No, he only likes Aunt Faith's cake. If he had to choose between me and pie, I am afraid I should not have a chance. As for jelly, he fairly gloats over it. Do you know, Hugh, I shall feel _so_ sorry for his wife when he marries; how tired she will be of him!"
"Oh, no, she won't," said Hugh; "she will think he is perfect, and cook for him all her life without ever once finding out what a humbug he is."
"Well, perhaps it is better so. Deception is sometimes a blessing," said Bessie. At this point a singular noise was heard outside the door; then another, and still another.
"What can that be?" said Hugh, opening the door; "Gem, what are you doing?"
"Oh, Hugh, don't make any noise," said Gem, in a whisper. " _I_ am not making any noise. It is you with your shovels. What are you doing with them?" asked Hugh, laughing.
"Oh, Hugh, please don't tell! but Tom and the B. B.'s are making an underground shanty, and they sent me for all the shovels, and I got all I could find, and now I can't carry them," said Gem dolefully.
"An underground shanty! What in the world are you going to do with it, and who are the B. B.'s?" asked Hugh, relieving his little cousin from her load, and carrying it down the stairs for her.
"Live in it, like Robinson Crusoe, you know, and roast potatoes and everything."
"It will be rather hot, won't it, Pussy?"
"Oh, no!" said Gem decisively; "Tom says it will be delightfully cool. We're going to have a stove, and chairs, and a table, and candles, and things to eat; and then the dogs can stay there too. Grip has never had a regular house, you know, and Tom says it isn't respectable for him to be loose round the garden at night any more, and so he's going to let him live in the shanty."
"Happy Grip!" said Hugh, as he delivered the shovels at the foot of the stairs; "but who are the B. B.'s, Gem?"
"Oh! the Band of Brothers,--a secret society. Don't let them see you, please, Hugh, for I promised not to tell, and I'm almost afraid of them, they've got such a dreadful motto."
"What is it, Pussy?"
"Ruin, Riot, and Revenge," said Gem in a solemn whisper.
"Well done, B. B.'s!" said Hugh laughing; "truly, a terrific motto! There, take your shovels and run, little one. I won't betray you."
So the shovels disappeared, and Hugh, returning to the studio, related the adventure to Bessie with a hearty laugh. "Do you know anything about the B. B.'s?" he asked, as Bessie resumed her work.
"Oh, yes!" she replied; "I know them to my cost. They are ruin to water-melons, riot on peaches, and revenge to anyone who interferes with them. A few weeks ago, they frightened Mrs. Lane and her sister almost into a fainting-fit. You know that high board fence below here? Well! one evening the B. B.'s happened to find out that they were over at Mrs. Reed's, so they waited until the ladies came along, and then they laid themselves down on the ground close behind the fence, and putting their mouths against the boards, groaned out, one by one, 'seven years ago I was murdered and buried under this fence, oh! --oh! --oh!' --each boy keeping up the groan until the next one took it up as the ladies hurried by."
Hugh laughed; "What did they do it for?" he asked.
"Oh, I believe Mrs. Lane had ordered them out of her garden, one day, when they were playing there with her Johnny."
"I am afraid if Aunt Faith knew they were undermining her terrace, she would order them out of her's, too."
"I think not, Hugh. Aunt Faith likes boys, and she never seems to see their pranks."
"Dear Aunt Faith! she is certainly the kindest aunt a graceless nephew ever had," said Hugh warmly.
"That she is; I love her dearly, and I do mean to try not to vex her any more," said Bessie earnestly.
"But, the horseback-riding, Bessie!" "But, the horseback-riding, Hugh!"
The two offenders looked at each other a moment in silence, and then burst into a peal of laughter.
"It's of no use," said Bessie; "we can't be good."
"Do you think Aunt Faith would be very much shocked if we should tell her?" asked Hugh.
"Of course she would. She does not like to see a lady on horseback, because her cousin was killed by a fall from a horse, you know. Still, she might not forbid my going, provided I would ride quietly on a country road; but that is just what I do not want to do. The whole excitement is in the racing, you know."
"Well, I suppose it would be better not to tell her, then," said Hugh slowly.
Dinner-time came, and the family assembled in the dining-room, Sibyl attired in a fresh muslin, and Bessie and Hugh somewhat dusty after their morning in the studio. Tom and Gem came in with flushed faces;--the B. B.'s were to return after dinner and finish the excavation, and the afternoon was to be full of glory.
"Sibyl," said Aunt Faith, when the others had left the dining-room, "would you like to go with me to see Margaret Brown, about four o'clock? You have been there before, I believe?"
"No, Aunt Faith, I have never been there."
"I thought Mr. Leslie said so."
"He did, but he was mistaken," replied Sibyl calmly. "I will go with you, however, this afternoon, aunt, if you wish."
"Do not go merely to oblige me, my dear. I thought you seemed to be interested in Mr. Leslie's description. For my part, I have thought of it ever since."
A slight flush rose in Sibyl's fair face. "I was much interested, aunt," she said quickly, "and I shall be glad to go with you, if you will allow it."
So Aunt Faith went upstairs for her afternoon siesta, and soon fell asleep on the cool chintz lounge, in her shaded room, where the old-fashioned furniture, high bedstead, spindle-legged chairs, and antique toilet-table, had remained unchanged from her youth, when the oval mirror reflected back a merry, rosy girl-face, instead of the pale, silver-haired woman.
But Sibyl did not sleep. She went into the still parlor, and seated herself by the window with a book; but her thoughts were busy, and only her eyes were fixed upon the page, as her mind wandered far away from the author's subject. "Shall I or shall I not go to Saratoga?" she mused. "This is more than the mere question of a summer journey; I know that very well. It is, I feel it, a turning-point in my life. Can I deliberately give up my ambition, my hopes, all my prospects for a bright and prosperous future? Is it, after all, wrong to like wealth and ease? Is it wrong to like elegance and refinement, the society of cultivated people, and the charming surroundings which only money can bring? I have an innate horror of misery,--an inability to endure the want of all that is beautiful in life. I think I could be a very good woman in an elegant city home, with all my little wishes gratified, and nothing to offend my taste. But I fear, yes, I know, I should be a miserable, if not a wicked woman, in a poor home, with nothing but rasping, wearing poverty, day after day. Why, the very smell and steam of the wet flannels coming from the kitchens of small houses where I have happened to be on washing-days, has made me uncomfortable for hours. I know I am not heroic, but I am afraid I was not intended for a heroine. I know myself and all my faults thoroughly. I am sure I should be generous with my money if I was rich,--kind to the poor, and regular in the discharge of all my religious duties. People would love me; I should make them happy, and be happy myself. Now the question is, am I right in thinking such a life far better for me, constituted as I am, than any other?
"Let me look at the opposite side, now. It is not likely I should ever be obliged to work at severe manual labor; but the annoyances and privations of a limited income seem to me almost worse than that. I think I would rather be a washerwoman, provided I could acquire the strength, than the wife of a struggling man who has all the refined tastes and sensitive nerves of a gentleman, without a gentleman's income. I should see him growing more and more careless, more and more haggard, day after day; I should see myself growing old, ugly, ill-tempered, and sick, hour after hour. I have not the moral force of mind, or the physical force of body, to make a cold, half-furnished house seem a haven of rest, a piece of corned-beef and potatoes continued indefinitely through the week seem a delicious repast, or an old-fashioned cloak and dowdy bonnet seem like my present pretty fresh attire. Well! this being the case, I am afraid I am but a worldly woman, and, as such, would I not wrong a poor man if I consented to be his wife? Would he not be sure to repent when it was too late,--when he had discovered the selfishness and love of luxury which are in me? I know he would. I will not put myself in such a position. I will do the best I can; but, as I cannot make myself over, I will select the life which is best suited to me."
Here Sibyl sighed, and tried to bring her mind back upon her book. In vain; her thoughts would wander. "There is poor Aunt Faith. I can easily see how anxious she is about me, and how her heart aches over my worldliness. I do love her dearly; all the good in me I owe to her, and if I ever do anything right, it will be the result of her loving guidance. Sometimes I am tempted to tell her all that is in my heart,--all I have been thinking this afternoon, for instance. I believe I will write it down now, and give it to her. She will understand me better, then; and, if I request it, she will never allude to the paper in words. Yes, I think I will do it." So Sibyl took a sheet of paper from the drawer, and, in her clear handwriting, wrote out her thoughts of the afternoon, adding a request that the subject might not be brought into discussion, and also, that the paper should be destroyed. "I will not take any false steps," she thought; "I will be true to my determination, and therefore I will not go to see Margaret Brown this afternoon; there would be a double motive in the visit, I fear." Rising, she went slowly up the stairs to Aunt Faith's room; the door was partly open, and she could hear the rustle of book-leaves. "Aunt Faith!" she said, standing outside in the hall, "I have decided not to go with you this afternoon, if you will excuse me. I shall go over to the cottage to see Rose Saxon. And I have written down some ideas of mine on this paper; perhaps you may be interested in reading them."
She did not wait for a reply, but laying down the folded paper on a chair by the door, she went down the stairs, took her little straw round hat, and walked over to the cottage, the residence of Mrs. Marr, whose niece, Rose Saxon, had been one of her schoolmates. Aunt Faith laid aside her book and read Sibyl's paper several times over; then she arranged her dress, and went alone to see Margaret Brown, leaving an order for some work, and inviting the children to come and play in the large garden at the old stone house. Her voice was gentle, her words cordial, and Margaret felt cheered by the visit; but the visitor's heart was sad, and when, on her way home, she met Mr. Leslie, she merely bowed, without stopping as usual to exchange a pleasant greeting. But the young clergyman joined his old friend in spite of her constrained manner, and began talking: "You have been to see Margaret Brown, I presume, Mrs. Sheldon. I am very glad. I am sure she will interest you, and she has so few friends to help her, that I feel anxious to gain for her your good will. Miss Warrington has also visited her, I believe?"
"No, Mr. Leslie," replied Aunt Faith; "Sibyl has never been to see Margaret, and she did not care to accompany me this afternoon."
A shade came over the young clergyman's face, but he made no comment.
"Westerton is very dull for Sibyl; she is better fitted for the gay society of the busy city," pursued Aunt Faith, determined at any cost to prevent Mr. Leslie from looking at her niece with blinded eyes.
"Miss Warrington is fitted for any life," replied the young clergyman gravely; "if you please, Mrs. Sheldon, I will accompany you home. I would like to see Miss Warrington."
Poor Aunt Faith! what could she do but murmur an invitation. As they reached the old stone house and Sibyl greeted them with a bright smile, poor Aunt Faith felt very much like the spider in the old song of the spider and the fly.
The tea-table was inviting, and the circle around it as pleasant as six handsome young faces and one handsome old face could make it,--faces handsome with vivacity and good nature as well as artistic beauty. Mr. Leslie was there, and being a general favorite, the conversation was full of life and interest.
"He's just splendid!" said Gem to Tom after the meal was over, "and I wish we dared to show him the shanty. He'd like it ever so much; I've heard him tell such funny stories about what he did when he was a boy."
"But he would not like our keeping it all from Aunt Faith."
"That's true. Well, I suppose, then, we'd better not tell him now. But, oh! Tom, how I wish I could stay up with the B. B.'s to-night."
"No; girls must always stay in nights. I've always thought it a great pity you could not be a boy, Gem. But it can't be helped now. Remember, if I fling a stone up, it will mean that we want something, and you must be sure to get it."
Aunt Faith spent the evening in the sitting-room busily engaged in her fancy work. On the piazza, Sibyl and Mr. Leslie talked in low tones, and now and then she caught a word or two which seemed to indicate the serious character of the conversation. "I fear I am doing wrong to allow it," she thought; "there is no doubt in my mind as to John Leslie's liking for Sibyl, and the child is so worldly! Still, what can I do? The way in which he put aside my little endeavors this afternoon and walked boldly into the very danger! It certainly looks as though he was not afraid of anything, and, to tell the truth, I do not think he is. I shall have to let him take care of himself; he looks fully able to do it," and Aunt Faith smiled at her own discomfiture, as a vision of the clergyman's resolute face and broad shoulders rose before her eyes.
Later in the evening Bessie came in and slipped into the sofa corner by her aunt's side.
"How flushed you are," said Aunt Faith, stroking the young girl's cheek; "do you feel quite well, dear?"
"Oh yes, auntie," said Bessie with downcast eyes; "the evening is warm, you know."
"Do you find it warm also?" asked Aunt Faith, as Hugh entered, fanning himself with his straw hat. Hugh, who had just taken the horses down through the pasture, murmured some inarticulate reply and crossed the hall into the parlor. "Let us have some music, Bessie," he called out as he opened the piano. Then as his cousin joined him, he said in a low tone, "I cannot bear this deception, Bessie. It makes me feel like a puppy."
"Oh Hugh, you are not going to tell, and spoil all my fun?"
"You are a second Eve with her apple, Brownie."
"I am not Eve, and I don't like apples," said Bessie indignantly. "Don't spoil my fun, now, Hugh. The summer will soon be over, and you will be gone. Then I shall be oh! --_so_ good."
"When you have no longer a chance to be naughty," said Hugh, laughing.
At eleven o'clock the lights were all extinguished in the old stone house, and every one was soon asleep. After awhile a sharp rap on the closed blinds awoke Gem; at first she was startled, but instantly remembering the night-watch in the underground shanty, she stole to the window and peeped out. There stood Tom! "We want something to eat," he said in a loud whisper; "the B. B.'s are awful hungry. Come down and open the back door."
"Oh, Tom, I don't dare to do it!" said Gem, trembling.
"Don't be a baby, Gem! Come down, or I'll tell, the B. B.'s you're afraid of the dark."
This taunt aroused Gem's failing courage, she stole down the stairs and slipped back the bolt, regaining her room with the speed of a little pussy cat. She heard nothing more for some time, and was almost asleep when another tap on the blinds aroused her.
"We want more candles," whispered Tom; "I can't find 'em. Of course you know where they are. Hurry up!"
"Oh, Tom! must I come down again?" pleaded Gem.
"Of course you must! hurry up!"
So Gem got the candles and crept back to her bed with a lessening respect for the delights of the underground shanty. In a few moments another tap was heard. "Oh, Tom! what is it now?"
"I want my fiddle; the B. B.'s are awful sleepy, and they say they'll all go home if I don't play for them."
"Oh, Tom, somebody will hear you!"
"Not under the ground, you silly! Come down and get the fiddle; I can't go in the sitting-room with my boots on."
So the violin was handed out, and poor Gem at last fell asleep, with a vague intention of being a good girl, and giving up the society of Tom and the B. B.'s forever.
About half past twelve Aunt Faith awoke; "I certainly hear music!" she thought. Opening the blinds she heard the faint strains of "Nelly Bly," with the well known "Hi," E flat; "Hi," E natural; "Hi," F natural, and at the same time saw a light proceeding mysteriously from the ground. Hastily dressing herself, she ran over to Tom's room; it was empty. Much disturbed, she knocked at Hugh's door; "Hugh! Hugh!" she called; "something is wrong. Please get up."
"What is it, Aunt Faith?" said a sleepy voice.
"Get up at once! Tom is gone; there is music somewhere, and the strangest light coming out of the ground in the back garden."
"The B. B.'s, I'll be bound," said Hugh with a laugh, as he threw on his clothes. "Don't be frightened, Aunt Faith; it's Ruin, Riot and Revenge."
"Dreadful!" murmured Aunt Faith outside the door.
By this time the whole household was awake, and a group of persons stole out of the back door and went down the garden walk. Finding a barricade of boards at the base of the hill, they opened it, and discovered a little den in the earth containing one chair, a table, the three dogs, and Tom; a candle stuck in a bottle gave light to the scene, and the table was covered with the remains of a feast, cake and pies having evidently once filled the empty dishes. Tom was playing dismally upon his violin, and the three dogs sat mournfully at his feet.
"Thomas, what does this mean?" said Aunt Faith severely.
Tom looked up and saw the extent of his audience. "It's just my underground shanty, Aunt Faith," he said dejectedly; "I've worked like a slave over it all day, and the B. B.'s agreed to sit up here all night and have lots of fun, so I climbed out of the back window and came down. But first they wanted things to eat, and I had to get 'em; and then, when they'd eaten up everything, they said if I didn't play they'd go home, so I had to get my fiddle. And I only knew one tune, and they got tired of it after a while, and a few minutes ago they all skedaddled and left me here alone with the dogs. However, I wasn't going to give it up, so I was just playing to amuse myself a little before daylight."
"Before daylight?" said Aunt Faith; "what time do you think it is now?"
"I suppose about four or five," said Tom.
"It isn't one yet," said Hugh laughing. "Come in and go to bed, you young brigand."
At first Tom objected, but the dogs had already taken advantage of the open door to depart, the candle burned dimly, and the air was damp. He yielded, and the underground shanty was left to its earthy seclusion.
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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3
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THE EDITOR'S SANCTUM.
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"Justice has never been done to the month of months," said Hugh, coming in to the breakfast-table one morning, bringing a spray of roses with the dew shining on their fragrant petals. "I propose we celebrate the day, the fifteenth of June; the most perfect day of the most perfect month of this most perfect year of our lives. Who knows where we shall be before another June comes round? 'We have lived and loved together through many a changing year; we have shared each other's pleasures and wept each other's tears.' But _tempus fugit_, oh, how fast! and before we know it we shall all be old! Friends, fill your coffee-cups to the brim, and let us resolve to celebrate."
"A picnic!" said Gem.
"A torch-light procession and fireworks!" said Tom.
"A croquet-party!" said Sibyl.
"A dance!" said Bessie.
"An editor's sanctum," said Hugh.
The novelty of this suggestion made a favorable impression. "Explain yourself, Hugh," said Aunt Faith; "I am afraid your project is too large for the field."
"Oh, no, Aunt Faith, it is not so large as you fancy. There is a store of hidden genius in this family, and I propose, to bring it out and let it scintillate in the light of day! We will invite a few friends to spend the evening, give them notice that they must bring to the 'Sanctum' an original contribution, in prose or verse as they please, and at nine o'clock we, will all assemble in the parlor to hear them read aloud. I will act as editor, receive manuscripts, throw them into a basket, and when the appointed time comes, take them out and read them aloud, as they happen to come."
"Splendid!" said Tom; "I'll go right away and begin mine."
"Oh, I can never think of anything to say!" said Gem in a despairing voice.
"I have never noticed any difficulty of that kind in you, Pussy," said Hugh, laughing.
"Oh, I mean to _write_, of course," said Gem; "I don't know what I shall do unless you'll take my last composition?"
"Anything you like as long as it's original," said Hugh.
So Gem went upstairs with a lightened heart and the others discussed the list of invitations.
"We will have old Mr. Gay," began Bessie; "he is always an addition. I wish he would stay here permanently instead of going back to Boston."
"A Boston man will never forsake the 'Rub,'" said Hugh; "that is too much to expect. We will have Mr. Leslie, of course."
"Rose Saxon and Graham Marr," said Sibyl.
"Now, Sibyl, how can you?" said Hugh. "Graham is not a congenial spirit."
"He is congenial to me," replied Sibyl calmly.
"Of course we will have the Marrs," said Aunt Faith; "and Gideon Fish also."
"Oh, Aunt Faith! Not Gideon?" said Bessie.
"Poor Gid! If he could hear you say so," said Hugh, laughing.
"I wish he could," answered Bessie hotly; "he does not understand a hint."
"How should he, doubly enrolled as he is in his own self-importance?" said Hugh.
"I am inclined to think there are good points in Gideon Fish," said gentle Aunt Faith.
"Have you ever seen him eat?" asked Bessie with marked emphasis.
"No, my dear; but we all eat, do we not?" said Aunt Faith, smiling.
"Not like Gideon Fish, I hope, auntie. He never has enough; he is always eyeing the baskets at picnics, and the supper-table at parties. And then he never openly takes what he wants,--as Hugh does for instance,--but he always pretends he does not care for anything, that he is too much absorbed in intellectual conversation to attend to anything so sublunary as eating, while all the time he is gloating over the nice things, and sure to outstay everybody at the table. The very way he gets a piece of cake is a study. He never takes it boldly, like any one else, but eyes it awhile; then he turns the plate to the right or the left, edging it a little nearer; then he looks furtively at the slices, and gradually he gets hold of a piece, his little finger carefully extended all the time, and his face wearing an expression of pure self-sacrifice to an arduous duty."
Everybody laughed at this description, but Aunt Faith said, "Gently, Bessie, gently. If that is all you have against Gideon, he has fewer faults than most young persons of his age."
Somewhat conscience-stricken, Bessie did not reply, and the discussion went on until the list was fully made out, and Hugh departed to deliver the invitations and explain the conditions connected with the editor's sanctum. He returned in an hour with acceptances from most of the invited guests, and then silence reigned in the old stone house for the remainder of the day, while all the contributors wooed the Muses, ransacked their brains, or paced their floors in desperation, according to their various temperaments. Aunt Faith having been exempted from duty, moved about the house, arranging flowers and decorating the pretty supper-table which stood in the sitting-room. Gem had nothing to do but copy her composition, and yet she consumed the whole day in a battle with the ink, and came out with a blotted page at the last. Tom had disappeared; no one knew where he was. Sibyl came down to dinner in her usual unruffled state, but Bessie's curly hair stood on end, and there was a deep wrinkle between her eyes. "Well, Sibyl, have you made a commencement?" she asked, as her cousin took her seat at the dinner-table.
"I have finished my contribution entirely," said Sibyl.
"Did it take you all the morning? I have not heard a sound from your room."
"Oh no! I finished it some time ago, and since then I have been making a new underskirt for my Swiss muslin; the old one was not quite fresh."
"There it is," said Bessie, half laughing, half vexed; "you are always ahead of me, Sibyl. Your contribution will be perfect, and your dress will be perfect,--and I am always just--" "Bessie Darrell!" interrupted Hugh; "and I would not have you different if I could."
"Thank you, Hugh; but the rest of the world may not agree with you."
"If you mean Gideon Fish," began Hugh, merrily, but something in his cousin's face stopped him. It was seldom that the keenest observer could detect anything like wounded feelings in Bessie Darrell's bright eyes, but when it did come, they were like the eyes of a wounded fawn.
"How has your contribution advanced, Hugh?" asked Aunt Faith.
"Done! madam, at your service," said Hugh with a low bow. "The muses visited me in a body, and I had hard work to choose between the numerous gifts they offered."
"Very well," said Bessie, "I see I am entirely behind you all. I shall shut myself into the studio this afternoon, and my ghost will come out at tea-time, deliver a manuscript written in blood, and vanish into thin air. Farewell, my friends, farewell!"
Evening came, and found Sibyl seated on the piazza looking like a lily in her white draperies. Tom and Gem were in the parlor, in their best attire, trying to look grown-up and dignified; Tom's collar was especially imposing. The guests assembled slowly; Hugh received their folded papers as they entered, and placed them in a covered basket. Nine o'clock struck, and the merry party seated themselves in the parlor, Sibyl by the side of Graham Marr, and Rose Saxon on the opposite side of the room with Mr. Leslie. When they were all in place, the door opened and Hugh appeared, carrying the basket. His entrance was greeted with applause; an arm-chair by the table, and a shaded light were ready, and, with much solemnity, the reader took his seat. Placing the basket on the floor before him, he coughed, unfolded a pocket-handkerchief, and laid it on the table at his elbow, brought out a box of troches and placed them in position by the handkerchief, gravely asked for a glass of water, which was also ranged in order, and then, putting on a pair of green spectacles, bowed to the company and began his preliminary speech:-- "Ladies and gentlemen; the humble individual who now addresses you asks in advance for your kind sympathy for his present embarrassing position. Of a gentle nature, timid as the wild rabbit, blushing as the rosy dawn, he yet finds himself called upon to address the public,--and such a public! (applause ). Ladies and gentlemen,--his feelings are too much for him, and, withdrawing to the basket, he hides his own personality in the following no doubt brilliant effusions taken at random from this intellectual vortex. Ladies and gentlemen,--I beg your attention to the story of:-- 'THE UNSEEN VISITOR "'While I was still a school-girl, I paid a visit to a young lady friend in the pleasant city of C------. We occupied a room together in the second story, and were the only persons on that floor, as the other members of the family slept down-stairs, the house being large, with irregular one-story wings on each side in the old-fashioned style. C------ is a city of a hundred-thousand inhabitants, the streets closely built up, lighted, paved, and guarded by a well-regulated police force. It is a new town also, with no old associations, old legends, or old people to cast a veil of mystery over its new houses and young history; thus, it, would seem to be the last place for anything mysterious, and yet it was there that a singular incident occurred which I have never been able to explain. One night I had been asleep perhaps two hours, when suddenly I awoke,--it was about half-past ten when Kate and I went to our room,--and soon after I awoke, I heard the clock strike one. The street lamps were not lighted, in accordance with the almanac which predicted a fine moon without any regard for the possibility, now a certainty, of heavy clouds; not a gleam, therefore, came in through the blinds to lighten the dark, still house. Our room was large, opening into the hall which was long and broad, extending from one end of the house to the other; the stairs from below came up into this hall, and there was no way of getting to the back part of the house, where the servants slept, without going entirely through it to the west end. " 'Waking suddenly in the night always gives me a strange sensation. I feel as though some one must have called me, and, involuntarily, I listen for a second summons. This night I listened as usual, and distinctly heard a step in the hall. Our door stood partly open, but the darkness was intense. At first I thought it might be a member of the family in search of something in the upper story, for there were several unoccupied rooms and a medicine-closet opening into the hall; but, after a moment, I noticed that the step did not pause or enter these chambers, but seemed to keep in the hall, going back and forth, from one end to the other, with perfect regularity and steadiness. Much perplexed, I gently awakened Kate, and, placing my hand over her lips, I whispered in her ear, 'listen!' She obeyed, and, with beating hearts, we heard the footstep pacing back and forth before our door, now at the west end, now at the east, in a measured gait to which we could almost beat time, so regularly came the sound. The hall was carpeted, and the footfalls soft, yet not as though the unseen visitor was trying to deaden the sound. It was a natural step. From the light tread we might have supposed it to be a woman's foot, but from the stride it was more like a man. I do not know how long we lay there motionless. I felt myself growing more and more nervous, and Kate's hand, as it pressed mine, was cold and trembling. I think we would have been relieved if the step had paused, or even entered our room; that, at least, would have been like an ordinary burglar. But this steady march, to and fro, seemed so unaccountable. If the steps, too, had been soft and muffled, if we could have supposed the person was creeping about after booty of some kind, we should have been frightened, no doubt, but not so appalled as we were now at this singular, easy, and apparently aimless promenade. We did not speak, but lay trembling, and scarcely daring to breathe. Our room was long, and the distance to the open door so great that we could not hope to reach it unnoticed in the darkness, before the step would be upon us again. Besides, the lock was out of order, so that even if we could have summoned courage to shut it, it could not be fastened. The stairway, too, was at such a distance beyond our door, that we did not dare to try that way of escape, bringing us, as it would, face to face with our unseen visitor. There was nothing left but silent endurance, and thus we lay counting the footsteps through the long hours. We could not hope, either, that the other members of the family would be aroused, as their sleeping-rooms were not directly below us, but beyond, in the wings. The clock struck two, and half-past, and steadily the step kept on its regular sound, passing and repassing our door. It grew insupportable. It seemed as though I should not be able to keep from shrieking aloud each time it drew near. If we could have spoken to each other we might have regained some courage, but we were paralyzed with nervous fear; our throats were parched, and our muscles rigid with long continued tension, for we dared not move. It was like a spell, and the fact that we did not know what it was we feared, made the fear all the more intense. At length, after what seemed a century of suffering, the strange footsteps paused. Our hearts gave a leap. Was it coming in? Who was it? Would it come and stand by the bedside, and look at us in the darkness? No! Slowly--and steadily it went down the stairs. We counted every step to the bottom. Then a pause. Would it go towards the dining-room, where the silver was, or towards the sleeping-rooms? We almost hoped it would, for that would prove a desire for plunder. Still silence! We dared not move for fear it might have crept softly up the stairs; it might even now be crawling towards us in the darkness. We shuddered; the silence seemed worse than the regular footfalls. Suddenly we heard a distinct snap in the hall below. We instantly recognized the bolt of the front door, and simultaneously we sprang from the bed. _It_--whatever _It_ was,--was going. We ran across the room, hearing, as we went, the sound of the footfalls on the stone walk outside, which led from the door to the street. We rushed down-stairs and alarmed the house. The front-door was found open, but no trace of our unseen visitor remained, although the neighborhood was carefully searched. Investigation showed that entrance had been effected through a dining-room window. But the silver was untouched; nothing had been disturbed, although the house contained many valuables, and it was evident that none of the sleeping-rooms had been visited. It, whatever it was, had entered, passed up the stairs, spent the night pacing to and fro in the upper hall, and then, just before dawn, had departed as strangely as it came. " 'Who or what it was, we never knew. The only possible solution was, that it might have been some somnambulist; and, in that case, it must have been some acquaintance who bad been in the house in his waking moments. But even this solution seemed unsatisfactory, and finally Kate and I gave up trying to solve the enigma, content to let it rest as the mystery of our Unseen Visitor.
SIBYL WARRINGTON.'"
"Oh, Sibyl! you never told us anything about it before!" exclaimed Gem, who had listened with breathless interest. "Is it all really true?"
"Entirely true," replied Sibyl; "it is an exact description of what happened during my visit to C------ last summer."
After a little general conversation upon somnambulism, and the stories connected with it, Hugh took up another paper.
"Ladies and gentlemen," he said, "the next manuscript, which I have taken at random from the basket, seems to be poetical. It is prefaced by the following note:-- "'To the Editor,--Sir: I am a Boston man; I do not deny it, but glory in the title! Some winters ago I was tempted to go west on business, and found myself snowed up in that great Metropolis of the Lakes,--the Pride of the West,--the Garden City,--in a word, Chicago! It was before the great fire; the hotels were crowded; I was in the fifth story, and, need I say it, I was miserable! In addition to my bodily sufferings, my ear was tortured by the various pronunciations given to the city's name. No sooner had I mastered one than I heard another! At last, driven to desperation, I tried to while away the time in composing the following 'Ode,' in which my feelings, and the three different pronunciations are expressed:-- 'ODE TO CHICAGO.
The wind is loud, and on the road The snow lays an embargo, While, in his room, a Boston man Sits snow-bound in Chi-CAR-go.
A monkey when he is so sick That he can't make his paw go, Feels better than a Boston man When storm-bound in Chi-CAW-go.
A spinster, when she cannot make Her thin and grayish hair grow, Feels happier than a Boston man When storm-bound in Chi-CARE-go.
A Boston man would sooner lose His credit, cash, and cargo, He'd sooner be a beggar than A dweller in Chi-CAR-go.
A Boston man would sooner far To wigwam with a squaw go, Than to enjoy domestic bliss In the best house in Chi-CAW-go.
All the extreme and dreadful lengths A Boston man would dare go, Could ne'er include the direful thought Of DWELLING in Chi-CARE-go.
ELIJAH GAY.'"
There was a general laugh over this effusion of the Boston bachelor. Mr. Gay was a genial, pleasant man, and although approaching his three-score years and ten, he enjoyed the companionship of young people, and, what is more unusual, the young people sought his company; he entered into their feelings and interests, and was not so devoted to memories of the past but that; he could see the advantages and improvements of the present.
"The next article to which I shall call your attention," said Hugh, taking another paper from the basket, "is a grave and scholarly essay upon that momentous subject, ambition. After the story and the poem, no doubt our minds will receive much enjoyment from the contemplation of this instructive theme:-- 'AMBITION Ambition is the curse of nations.
If it was not for ambition, America would be a better country.
Ambition is wrong.
Americans are very ambitious.
It is always better to be content with what we have got.
Especially when we have got so much.
It is not right to be too ambitious.
It is said we are going to have Cuba, Mexico and Canada.
Of course we can have them if we want to.
Or anything else.
But we must always remember that ambition is wrong.
THOMAS MORRIS.'"
"Very good, my boy," said Mr. Gay to Tom, whose scarlet face had betrayed the authorship of this profound essay long before his name was read; "adhere to that moral, and, mark my words, you will--never be President of the United States."
Tom's embarrassment checked the smiles of the audience, and Hugh took up another paper. "Ah!" he said with enthusiasm, "this seems to be a poem in earnest, breathing the real afflatus, written with the pen of Melpomene! With your permission, ladies and gentlemen, I will refresh myself with a glass of water before I begin:-- 'A JUNE LYRIC.
After all, not to labor only,-- But to breathe in the essence of vivified sheen, The fragrance of rarefied thoughts as they surge to and fro, Heaving the unknown depths up to mountains of night. Crystalline, luminous, rare, opalescently rare,-- This,--this is June!
GRAHAM MARR'" "Ah, blank verse," said Sibyl to her companion, with admiring interest. He bowed and stroked his moustache with a dreamy air. " _Very_ blank, I should say," murmured Bessie to Mr. Gay.
"It seems to me as though I had heard the beginning of it before, somewhere," answered the Boston bachelor in the same tone.
"The next contribution consists of a series of illustrations," said Hugh, unfastening some loose sheets of drawing paper; "the following introduction is appended:-- 'The hand is not only an index of character, but it has a character of its own. We may disguise or droll our features, cultivate our voices and expression, but our hands betray us; I propose to illustrate this principle by a series of sketches. To begin: when you see an irregular hand with large, broad palm, strong wrist, but shapely, tapering fingers, you may know that hand betokens a duplex temperament, where opposite characteristics are constantly struggling for the mastery. The palm may denote strength and industry, but the fingers may overbalance these qualities by their love of ease or generous prodigality. For instance, when you see a hand of this nature, you may know that its owner might give you half his fortune, might even give you his life, and yet would be very likely to keep the household in discomfort for months, for want of one new shingle on the roof. In short, my friends, you might know it was--'" Here the reader paused, and held up a large drawing of two hands, so lifelike and alive with character that the whole company cried out with one voice, "Hugh!"
"Rather embarrassing for the editor," said Hugh, hastening on with his task as the laughter subsided. "Here, my friends is another design. When you see a hand proportioned in careful outlines, beautiful, but also firm; white, but also strong to the playing of a sonata, you may know the owner will be prompt, even-tempered and calm; you may know the owner will be such a one as--" here Hugh held up another design; "Sibyl!" said the audience, as the two hands appeared.
Mr. Leslie rose, and crossed the room to examine the drawing; he did not lay it aside, but carried it back to his seat, as though it was the most natural thing in the world. Sibyl's color rose, but she turned with marked interest towards Graham Marr, and listened to his remarks with a bright smile.
"The next design," Hugh read, "requires no explanation. It is the strong, broad, long palm, and strong, long, shapely fingers of the well-balanced, resolute man, who will fight the battle of life with all his strength, and never give up until it is won. In short, it is--" "Mr. Leslie!" said the audience, as the illustration was held up for inspection. Sibyl's eyes brightened as she saw the life-like picture, but she sat silent as the others poured forth criticisms and comments.
"Go on, Hugh!" said Mr. Leslie laughing; "this is quite an ordeal, I find."
"The next design," read Hugh, "shows all the faults of nature's worst handiwork. (No pun intended.) A scraggy little paw, brown, knotted and shapeless; of course every one will know that it is--" "Bessie!" cried the laughing audience, as two ridiculous caricatures of Bessie's little brown hands came into view.
"Last of all, I present the fat-simile of a perfect hand. Our other designs have been youthful, but this one has borne the burden and heat of the day. Originally beautiful and shapely, it is now worn with labor for others; it has given to the poor, it has tended the sick, it has guarded the young, and soothed the afflicted. It is,--I am sure you will recognize it,--" "Aunt Faith!" --"Mrs. Sheldon!" cried the company, as the last drawing was displayed.
"Bravo, Bessie!" said Tom; "your contribution is the best so far."
When the buzz of conversation had subsided, Hugh took another paper from the basket.
"The next contribution is poetical," he said; "it is entitled:-- 'A JUNE RHAPSODY.
The lovely month of June has come, The sweetest of the year,-- (I've heard this somewhere;--never mind;) The meadows green and sear;-- Sear's not the word; there's something wrong,-- I fear my muse will drop The fire of genius' flowing song, And so I'd better stop!
ROSE SAXON.'"
A general laugh followed this effusion, and no one joined in it more heartily than the authoress, a bright little brunette with sparkling eyes, in whose expression merriment predominated.
"Our next manuscript seems to be of a serious nature," said Hugh; "it treats of a solemn subject, and I beg you to give it your attentive consideration:-- 'BOYS.
Boys are funny sometimes, but girls are more dignified for their age. Boys are rude, but girls are polite and lady-like. It is a pity boys are not lady-like too. Once I knew a boy, a very little boy, and he had a pair of boots. Real boots,--the first he ever had. One night when his father came home, he found Jimmy sitting on the stairs in the hall. The boots were outside the parlor door,--against the wall. "What are you doing here, Giant Grimm?" said his father. (His father called him "Giant Grimm," sometimes; for fun, I suppose.) "I'm seein' how my boots 'ud look if they was stood outside the door at a hotel to be cleaned," said Jimmy. He could not speak very plain, so I have not written it plain.
GRACE EVANS MORRIS.'"
"Very good, little girl," said Aunt Faith, drawing her youngest child to her side, and signing to Hugh to go on in order to divert attention from her; "I didn't know you could write so well."
"THE OHIO CAPTAIN," read Hugh.
"When the war for the Union broke out, I had just completed my studies and entered the ministry. My intention had been to enter upon my new duties in a little village not far from my home, but as the excitement spread through the country, and the young men left their fields, their workshops, and their homes, to join the army, I could not overcome my desire to go with them. I could not sleep, through many exciting weeks; in imagination I saw this one, and that one, friends that I knew, cold in death, or lying wounded alone in the night. I seemed to walk through crowded hospitals and to hear the 'ping' of the balls; I felt that if ever there was a place where the gospel words were needed, it was after the battle, when men were left with the awful shadow of death hanging over them. My youth and inexperience would be obstacles in the well-regulated quiet village, but in the army might they not be overlooked, if accompanied by willing hands and heart? In the great haste, in the great excitement, in the great agony, might not the great tidings be delivered acceptably even by an inexperienced messenger? Thus I thought, and soon after the battle of Bull Run, I obtained an appointment as chaplain, joined the army, and remained with it until the close of the war.
"Part of this time I was with an Ohio volunteer regiment; the colonel belonged to the regular army, but all the other officers were volunteers. I grew to know them all, and among them I found many noble hearts, and, had I the time, I could relate many incidents of generosity and true courage, part of that unwritten history of the war which will never come into print. Among these officers there was one young captain whom I especially liked. He was quiet and reserved, and although he never talked with me as his companions sometimes did, although he told me nothing of his life and history, I still felt that, he was a Christian at heart, probably one of those who have never been drawn out of themselves, or taught the pleasure of sympathetic fellowship. Captain Worthington often came to the Sunday service, when I was able to hold one, and his voice joined in the hymns, which gave the greatest charm to those military prayer-meetings; but beyond this I could not pass. He was reserved and silent; I could not force myself upon him. Sensitive natures abhor an intruder.
"One evening in September, while passing through the camp, I met Captain Worthington walking up and down under the trees; he spoke to me with unusual cordiality, and we continued the walk together, strolling through the forest at, random, and talking upon any subject which happened to suggest itself. The week had been hard and annoying. The brigade had been marching and counter-marching in an apparently purposeless way, although, no doubt, there was a concealed motive in every movement; the ground was stony, and broken by deep ravines, the forage wretched, and rain had been falling almost continuously, so that deep mud alternated with sharp stones, making every mile seem two. There had, also, been no enemy in sight to keep up the ardor of the soldiers, and make them forget their discomfort; it had been, as I said before, a wretched week, and Allan Worthington, always grave, seemed this evening almost sad. We sat down upon a fallen tree, and in the still gloom of that night he first spoke of his home. " 'I have been thinking about my mother,' he said; 'I cannot explain it, but home seems very near to me to-night. I can see the house as plainly as though it stood here before me, and I see mother sitting in her arm-chair by the table, knitting. Poor mother! how lonely she looks.' " 'Has she no other children?' I asked. " 'No; I am her only child. She let me go because I would not stay; I sometimes think perhaps I was wrong to leave her. We lived alone on the hill, and when I rode into the country town and heard the latest news, I seemed to be all on fire; I would ride back over the quiet road, my blood fairly tingling with excitement. At last, as the story of the battles began to come, I could stand it no longer, and I told mother I must go. The regiments from my part of the country were all full, but I got a lieutenant's place in another county, and marched away. That was more than two years ago, and I have never felt homesick until this evening. I don't know what has come over me.' " 'In what part of Ohio does your mother live, captain?' I asked. " 'At Benton Fails, South county. I hope to get a furlough before long. I want to go home, if only for a few days; there is one there besides mother whom I want to see; I never knew how much until now.'
"These last words were spoken in a low tone, almost as if the young soldier had forgotten my presence and was talking to himself. He was sitting on the log, with his back against a large oak-tree, resting as though he was in an arm-chair. He said no more, and I strolled away for a moment, thinking that if he resumed the subject when I returned, I would gladly pursue it, but unwilling to take advantage of what might have been an inadvertent utterance. I was absent several minutes, climbing down the bank to the spring to get a drink of water; then I returned and took my place upon the log again. " 'I suppose you often hear from your mother, captain?' I said.
"He did not answer. I repeated the question; no reply. I was perplexed. Could he have fallen into a brown study? His eyes were open, and he appeared to be looking off through the forest. At length I touched his shoulder, but he did not move. I took his hand; he was dead! Shot through the heart. The roaring of the brook, and the steep bank, had prevented my hearing the report; but, as I sat there holding the dead hand, suddenly the woods seemed to grow alive with noise and light. Our camp had evidently been surprised by the enemy, and a sharp conflict began. I took poor Allan's note-book and watch, and, remembering his mother, I managed to cut off a lock of his curly hair; but, before I had gone far, I myself was struck by a stray shot, and knew nothing more until I awoke in a border hospital two months afterwards, pale and weak, the very shadow of my former self. As memory came back, I thought of the captain. The relics had been preserved, and, as soon as I was able, I sent them to the poor mother, with a letter describing my last conversation with her boy,--his last words on earth. I supposed, of course, that she knew from other sources all the details of the attack, but I felt that I must also tell her what _I_ knew; possibly it would be some comfort to her. In about a week I received a letter written in a careful, old-fashioned handwriting. The poor mother had known nothing all that long time save this: 'Captain A. Worthington reported missing.' Our regiment had suffered severely. The camp had been abandoned, and the dead left on the field. The suspense had been dreadful, and she had prayed for relief. It had come in the inward conviction that her boy was dead; that he was not in the southern prisons or languishing in a hospital, but gone from earth forever. My letter brought her the first definite tidings, and my description of that last conversation, the first comfort. 'I shall go to him though he shall not return to me,' wrote the afflicted mother; and she gave me her blessing in such solemn, tender words, that I can never forget them. In the letter she enclosed a picture of Allan, sent home to her during the previous year; and with it another, a picture of the one of whom Allan said, 'I want to see her; I never knew how much until now.'"
As Hugh finished reading, he took the photographs from an envelope, and handed them to Aunt Faith. They were passed from hand to hand, with gentle comments, and some tear-dimmed eyes gazed on the pictured faces,--a resolute, grave young soldier, with earnest eyes, and a little, delicate, wistful maiden, as fair and simple as a wild-flower.
"The war made many partings," said Aunt Faith, as she replaced the pictures in their envelope, and returned them to Mr. Leslie; "but the lost ones are only gone before. There are no partings there."
The gayety had subsided into a quiet thoughtfulness, by common consent the reading was abandoned, and, as it was growing late, Aunt Faith led the way into the sitting-room, where the pretty supper-table soon aroused the vivacity of the young people. Youth is buoyant, and, as for Aunt Faith, she was never saddened by the thought of death. She had lost so many loved ones, that her home seemed more there than here. In a few moments all the company were talking and laughing as merrily as ever, and in the crowd around the table no one noticed that Rose Saxon had slipped away. If they noticed anything beside themselves, it was the amount of chocolate-ice which Gideon Fish consumed!
Rose was in the parlor. The basket was still in its place, and she was looking over the remaining manuscripts. " 'Gideon Fish,'" she murmured, "no one wants to hear that; 'Lida Powers,' 'William Mount,' 'Edith Chase,'--oh, here is something! I know the handwriting, although there is no name. Let me see,--yes; this is Hugh's. It is sure to be good, and I mean to have it read." So, just before the company broke up, Rose rapped on the table with her plump little fist.
"Ladies and gentlemen," she began, in her merry voice, "I presume you all know Mr. Pete Trone, the distinguished terrier, whose accomplishments and sagacity are in every mouth."
"Oh, we know him!" answered the company; "we know him well." "He is the celebrated dog of republican principles,"--"who climbs trees;"--"and walks the tight-rope;"--"and dances the hornpipe!"
"I perceive that you know him," said Rose, "and therefore you will be pleased to hear an epic poem in his honor. Indeed, it is supposed that he wrote it himself. He speaks with modesty of his achievements, alludes with feeling to his fancy for digging in the garden, and begs for sympathy. With your permission, I will read the:-- 'COMPLAINT OF PETE TRONE, ESQ.
I'm only a poor little terrier, Very small, black-and-tan, But a dog who is brighter or merrier Never breathed, never ran. I'm death on piratical cats, And, mangled and gory, The bodies of hundreds of rats Testify to my glory.
My duty I try to fulfil Whenever I know it; If I do not accomplish your will You've only to show it; Yet, though I'm thus honest and square In all my dealings, It is plain that you are not aware A dog has his feelings.
If master is kept in at school Why must I feel the stick? If sweetheart is distant and cool, Why should I get a kick? If Turk steals the mutton for dinner, And goes off to gulp it, Why screen HIM, the solemn old sinner, And call ME the culprit?
And if I am fond of the sand-banks, And fresh garden-soil, Why should you molest with your brickbats My hard, honest toil? And why should you call it a 'dusty muss,' And make me abandon My labor? Remember, 'DE GUSTIBUS NON EST DISPUTANDUM!'
The world should remember a canine Has a heart in his breast; If you knew all you never could say mine Was worse than the rest. Then help me to gain the position To which I aspire, And grant this poor dog-gerel petition Of Pete Trone, Esquire!'"
"Excellent! excellent!" cried the audience, as Rose finished reading the verses.
"I propose we have the hero in person," said Mr. Gay.
So Tom went out, and after some delay returned with Mr. P. Trone, who had been hastily attired in his red suit for the occasion, four red pantaloons, a red coat, and little cap with a red feather. He was received with applause, and, after being regaled with macaroons, went through all his tricks, concluding with a slow horn pipe to the tune of "Lochinvar."
About midnight the guests took their departure, and the cousins assembled in the parlor for a few moments before going to bed.
"I think the sanctum was real fun," said Gem; "but you did not read all the papers, Hugh?"
"No; it would have taken too much time," answered Hugh; "what a good thing you made of those hands, Bessie. We must keep the drawings. Why! --where is Sibyl's?"
"Mr. Leslie took it away;--he laid a paper over it and put it in his pocket, just as though it belonged to him," said Tom; "but of all the contributions, _I_ liked Mr. Gay's 'Chicago' the best."
"And I liked Mr. Leslie's story," said Aunt Faith; "it is singular he never before mentioned his army life."
"Oh! he isn't one of the talking kind like Gideon Fish," said Hugh. "Gid is always telling everybody about his 'emotional nature,' and his inner 'consciousness.' He seems to think his mental condition, a subject of public interest, and constantly sends out bulletins for the benefit of anxious friends. His manuscript was poetical, but I took good care to hide it in the bottom of the basket. By the way, Sibyl, how did you like Graham Marr's Lyric? Pretty deep, wasn't it?"
Sibyl was arranging the books and music in their proper places. "You know I am not myself poetical," she answered calmly; "but I like Mr. Marr, and therefore I like his verses, Hugh."
"Oh, Sibyl! surely not so well as Mr. Leslie's story?" said Bessie earnestly.
"Poetry and prose cannot be compared, neither can Mr. Marr and Mr. Leslie be compared," said Sibyl; "they are very different."
"I should think they were!" said Hugh.
"And tastes are different also," added Sibyl, as she finished her task. "Good-night all."
The cousins dispersed, while Aunt Faith turned out the lights. "I almost think she likes that Marr, after all," whispered Hugh to Bessie as they went up the stairs; "she was with him all the evening."
"Let me tell you, Hugh Warrington, that if Sibyl likes anybody, it is Mr. Leslie," returned Bessie emphatically.
"When did you discover that, Brownie?"
"I have always suspected it, but to-night I saw it plainly," replied Bessie.
"To-night! Why, she was with Marr all the time!"
"Men are as blind as bats," said Bessie scornfully; "good-night."
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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4
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HUGH.
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One bright morning towards the last of June, Bessie and Hugh were together in the studio; Bessie was working at her picture, and her cousin, seated in an old arm-chair, was gazing dreamily out through the open window over the pasture, and grove, and the blue lake beyond. "I think life is very beautiful," he said, after a long pause. "I have no patience with people who are always sighing and complaining, always talking of the cold world, the hard lot of man, and the sufferings of humanity. I always felt sure that they themselves have no taste for beauty, no affection for their friends, or enthusiasm for great deeds, and, judging others by themselves, of course they are always looking for double motives in the kindest actions, and hypocrisy in the most unselfish impulses."
"What has brought these thoughts to the surface, Hugh?"
"The beauty of the sky and the lake. How can any one look at them and not be happy?"
"If you were very poor, Hugh, you might not have time to look at them," said Bessie, taking up the other side.
"Why not? One can work and not be blind! I expect to work all my life, but I am going to be happy too."
"But suppose you should lose all those you love,--suppose they should all die," said Bessie, pursuing the argument.
"Even then I should be happy on such a day and with such a sky. I cannot understand how people who believe God's word can brood over their sorrows in such a gloomy way. Are not the dead with their great Creator? Can we not trust them to Him? Why, when I look up into this blue sky, I can almost see them there. My mother,--how often I think of her; not with sadness, always with pleasure, and a bright anticipation of meeting her again. Bessie, if I should die, you must not mourn for me. Think of me as gone into another world where sooner or later you will come too."
"Why do you say such things, Hugh?" said Bessie, laying down her brush with her eyes full of tears.
"Because they happened to come into my mind, I suppose. Why, you are not crying! Nonsense, Brownie! look at me. Do I look like dying? Am I not a young giant, with every prospect of outliving all my family? I fully expect to live to a hale old age, and you have no idea how full and busy my life is going to be. Go to work again, and I will tell you all my plans; I have never told them to any one before. In the first place, I shall go, of course, to New York, and enter Cousin John's establishment. I shall work with all my might, and, with the aid of my relationship, I shall no doubt be able to obtain a good position there in the course of a few years. Gradually I shall mount higher and higher, I shall make myself indispensable to the firm, and at the end of ten years you will see me a partner; at the end of twenty, a rich man. I shall then retire from active business, and spend part of my time in travelling, although I intend to be very domestic, also. I shall buy beautiful pictures, choice books, and fine statues; I shall give private concerts, and, if possible, have a small orchestra of my own; I shall entertain my friends in the easiest and most charming manner. In addition to my city home, I shall have a yacht for summer cruises, and a pretty cottage on the seashore, and I shall invite pleasant people to visit me; not the rich and the fashionable merely, but others who are shut out from all such luxuries, young authors, poor artists, musicians, and many others who are obliged to work night and day while their intellectual inferiors live in ease. Oh! I shall have a beautiful, happy life, Bessie. Do you not think so?"
"Yes, Hugh. But will it be so easy to get rich?"
"Twenty years of hard labor and earnest application will do it, with the opening I have. I suppose it sounds conceited, but I have unbounded confidence in myself. What man has done man can do, you know; and why am not I the man?"
"I think you can do anything, Hugh."
"Thank you, Miss Flattery. But, really Bessie, there is something stirring within me that makes me feel sure I can take my place in the world, and make my mark among men. I do not, mean that I am wiser or stronger than my fellows, but only, that my courage is indomitable, and that I am determined to succeed. I _will succeed_!"
"Of course you will," said Bessie, laying down her brush again, and looking at her cousin's kindling eyes and flushed cheeks with sympathetic excitement.
"And then," pursued Hugh, "when I have got my money, I shall not hoard it; I shall make others as well as myself happy with it. I shall use it worthily; I shall not be ashamed to render my account at last. Oh, Bessie, it is a glorious future! Life is so beautiful,--so full of happiness!" Hugh paused, and his eyes wandered over the blue horizon; Bessie went on with her painting, and there was silence in the studio for many minutes. At length Aunt Faith's voice was heard at the foot of the stairs; "Hugh! Hugh!" she called.
"Coming, aunt," said Hugh, opening the door and going down to the second story; "do you want me?"
"Yes, will you come into my room, dear."
The two went in and the door was closed. Aunt Faith's room was like herself, old-fashioned and pleasant; the sunshine streamed in through the broad windows across the floor, and the perfume of the garden filled the air. Hugh took a seat on the chintz lounge, and Aunt Faith having taken a letter from her desk, sat down in her arm-chair by the table. "I wish to consult you, my dear boy, on a matter of business," she said. "You know the condition of my property and the amount of my income, I am anxious to make some necessary repairs in that little house of mine in Albion, where poor Mrs. Crofts lives, a second cousin of mine, you remember, a widow with very limited means of support. The repairs ought to be made at once, and, just at present, I have not the money on hand; I could borrow it, of course, elsewhere, but I prefer to borrow it of you, the amount that came to you a week or two ago. Sibyl will need hers for her summer wardrobe, but you will have no use for yours at present, and on the first of August, I shall repay you; with interest," added Aunt Faith, smiling; "I am not sure but that I shall _pay_ twenty-five per cent."
A flush rose in Hugh's face; he did not raise his eyes, but trifled with a piece of string.
"Well, my dear?" said Aunt Faith in some surprise at his silence.
"I am very sorry, Aunt," said Hugh in a low tone; "I have not got the money, I have spent it all."
"Spent it?" echoed Aunt Faith in astonishment. "My dear boy, is it possible!"
"Yes, it is all gone," said Hugh, with downcast eyes.
A shade of trouble clouded Mrs. Sheldon's gentle face, and she sighed; the old heart-ache came back, the same pain which had assailed her on the first of June, her birthday, when doubts came thronging into her mind, doubts as to her own fitness for her position with its heavy responsibility of training five young souls in the path of duty and righteousness. "Hugh must have got into some trouble," she thought, "and something, too, which he has not confided to me. I fear it is a debt; perhaps a debt of which he is ashamed. Oh, my poor, poor boy!" Hugh did not speak, and at length his aunt said gently, "I fear you have had some debts, dear; if you had told me, I could have helped you before this."
"I know you are always ready to help me, Aunt Faith."
"Then it was a debt, Hugh?"
"Yes; it was a debt, Aunt Faith," said Hugh gravely.
"Is it all paid now?"
"Yes; every cent. I have the receipt."
"I am glad of that; but have you any other debts?"
"No, not one," said Hugh, raising his eyes at last with a brighter expression. "I cannot tell you about that debt, Aunt Faith, but I _can_ tell you that it was no disgrace to me."
The shadow melted away from Mrs. Sheldon's face, she laid her hand upon her nephew's golden hair, and looked lovingly into his dark blue eyes. "Hugh," she said earnestly, "you are like your father, and he was my favorite brother. I love you very much, more than you know, and I believe you would not willingly grieve me. You are still under twenty-one, and you are soon to leave me to enter the busy life of a great city. I am so anxious for you, Hugh! If I could only know that you had that firm faith which is man's only safeguard in temptation!"
Tears stood in her eyes as she spoke, and Hugh felt that she loved him indeed.
"What is faith?" he said thoughtfully.
"A firm belief in the mercy of God through His son, our Lord Jesus Christ, and a realization of the necessity of a Saviour to atone for our sins," said Aunt Faith reverently.
"I believe in God, Aunt Faith. I believe in Him implicitly. I cannot understand how a reasonable being can deny His personal and omnipotent majesty. The sky alone would be enough to convince me, without counting the wonders of the earth and our every-day life. How can any one look out of the window, at night, and see those myriad lights on high, without bowing in adoration before the incomprehensible greatness of the Creator? What do we know of the stars, after all? How much has the most profound science discovered? Next to nothing! Not but that I read all that has been written by the late astronomers, for the subject is very fascinating; it is the fairy tale of science. But still, the nursery rhyme expresses it best:-- 'Twinkle, twinkle, little star! How I wonder what you are!'"
"What we know not now, we shall know here-after," said Aunt Faith; "but in addition to your belief in the Creator, do you not also recognize the necessity for a Saviour?"
"There it is, Aunt Faith! Are we all really such miserable sinners? Is there none good? Must we always answer, 'no, not one?' Even in my short life, I have known so many who are good and generous! I never could endure whining, you know. I never could endure a gloomy, tearful religion. If we were put into the world, it surely was intended that we should enjoy its beautiful life, and be happy with our fellow mortals. I believe men should try to be good sons, good husbands, and good citizens, and should try to be happy themselves, as well as to make others happy. I can never believe in the virtue of morbid self-analysis, gloomy depression, and harsh judgment. 'Worms of the dust!' they say. Well, if the worms are created, and put into the dust, that is the state of life to which they are called, and they will be better worms if they fulfil the duties of a worm, no matter how humble, than they would be if they crawled up on a solitary stone, and wilfully starved themselves to death."
"Surely, Hugh, there is nothing in the idea of a merciful Saviour to forbid a reasonable enjoyment of life."
"There ought not to be, Aunt Faith; and if I was not so weary of hypocrisy, I think I could almost throw myself at His feet and give my life into His hands. I want to believe in Him; indeed, I may say I do believe in Him. But I have been kept from coming forward as an 'avowed disciple,' by the contempt I cannot help feeling for some whom I know as 'avowed disciples.' If there is a contemptible fault in the world it is hypocrisy. I will not believe that God loves the rich church-member, who makes long prayers, and puts five cents in the plate, better than the poor outcast who goes half-starved for days in order to help a sick companion."
"But, Hugh, no one asks you to believe anything of the kind. Do you not remember our Saviour's parable of the Good Samaritan who saved the wounded man, while the priest and the Levite, men supposed to be particularly religious, passed by on the other side! The world was the same in our Saviour's day that it is now, and there is no class against which He utters more severe reproaches than these very religious hypocrites."
"But, Aunt Faith, these hypocrites are so often prominent in the churches. That is what offends me."
"It was so then, Hugh. Our Saviour saw it, and repeatedly tore off the masks."
"But if the hypocrites are in the church, is it not better to stay out?"
"By no means, my dear boy. God has commanded us to make an open profession before men, and we must obey with reverent humility. It is not enough to believe; we must also openly avow our belief. Because there are tares in the field we must not, therefore, stay out in the desert. Because there are hypocrites in the church, we must not, therefore, give ourselves up to evil."
"Oh, I don't mean that, aunt! We could be just as good Christians all the time."
"No, Hugh. That is a fatal error. Men are weak, and God mercifully helps them to conquer themselves by sending them the safeguards of religious vows and duties. It is His appointed way, and we must not question His wisdom. The dangers are ten times greater outside the church than within it, and a blessing is given to obedience. God requires obedience. He distinctly says, 'he that is not with me, is against me, and he that gathereth not with me, scattereth abroad.' And as regards hypocrisy, Hugh, it is indeed a wretched fault; but, are there not other faults equally bad?"
"No, aunt; not to me. I can never go to church in the winter without a bitter feeling towards old Mr. Braine, who always leaves his poor horse tied outside through the long service, during the severest weather. Then there is Gideon Fish, too. How very, very good he is! When he was a little boy he always took the highest place in school for good conduct, and yet, there was not a meaner boy in town. He copied the other scholars' exercises, peeped into the books, and had a key to his Arithmetic. He never got into trouble at recess, and why? Because he was too cowardly to take his share of the sport. As he grew older, he grew to be more and more of a pattern. He was always talking about his feelings. He always 'felt it to be his duty' to do just what he most wished to do, and he always had some wonderfully self-sacrificing motive for the greatest self-indulgence. He 'felt it to be his duty' to stay at home from church to warn truant boys not to steal the peaches on the Sabbath-day, and how many do you suppose he himself ate that morning?"
"It seems to me, Hugh, that you and Bessie _are_ unreasonably severe upon Gideon's love of eating," said Aunt Faith smiling. "Perhaps some time there will come a revelation to Gideon Fish; perhaps some great affliction or disappointment will open his eyes and cause him to see his selfish propensities as they are. In the meantime, let us not forget the beam in our own eyes while we are talking of the mote in our brother's eye. To go back to our subject; you have acknowledged your belief in God and also, I hope, in His Son our Saviour Jesus Christ?"
"Yes, Aunt Faith; but I cannot acknowledge that the world is a miserable place and life a failure."
"I do not ask you to acknowledge that, Hugh; you are young and it may be that you have not yet been assailed by the terrible temptations which come, sooner or later, to most of us. Perhaps you have not yet learned from sad experience how hard is the struggle against evil inclinations, and how many are the relapses into which the best of men are apt to fall. It was only when worn with the contest and depressed by repeated failures that the good men of all ages have sent up those cries of abasement and gloom which you so much dislike. This time has not yet come to you; you know nothing of its power. I do not ask you to be wise beyond your years; I only wish you to become as a little child and reverently say, 'Lord I believe; help Thou mine unbelief.' The rest will come in due time. There is a blessing given to prompt obedience, and this blessing I want you to gain."
For several minutes there was silence in the pleasant room, and then Hugh rose. "Dear Aunt Faith," he said, "you and I will have many more talks on this subject. Who knows but I shall be a pillar of the church in my old age?"
"I hope so, Hugh. But do not put off till old age a plain duty of the present. Give the best of your life to your Maker; after all, the present is all you can call your own."
"Oh, no, Aunt Faith, the future is mine too. How glorious, how bright it looks! You will be proud of your nephew some day."
"I am proud of him now," said Aunt Faith, with an affectionate smile; "but I want to feel secure as to his safety. Oh, Hugh! if you could only say in perfect sincerity these two sentences: 'Lord I believe; help Thou mine unbelief,' and 'Lord be merciful to me a sinner,' I should rest content."
"Well, Aunt Faith, when I can say them with all my heart, I will tell you first of all."
"God grant that it may be soon," and then Hugh left her.
Bessie was still busy with her painting when she heard a tap at the door. "Is it you, Hugh?" she said; "I am so glad you have come back. I cannot get the exact color of your eyes. Sit down, please, and let me try again." Hugh sat down in the old arm-chair, and for some minutes he said nothing; at last, however, he burst forth, "Bessie, shall we not tell Aunt Faith about the horseback-riding."
"Oh, Hugh! and give up all our fun?"
"I do so hate hypocrisy, Bessie; and here I have been rating away against Gideon Fish without even a thought that all the time I myself was deceiving Aunt Faith."
"I don't call that hypocrisy, Hugh."
"What is hypocrisy, then?"
"A hypocrite is a person who pretends to be very good, and I am sure you never pretended to be good at all."
Hugh laughed; "That is true," he said "but I hate all underhand dealings."
"But you won't tell, Hugh? Please don't." " _Et tu Brute_?"
"And don't quote Latin either."
"I only meant that you should help my good intentions instead of thwarting them," said Hugh.
"I am not good myself, Hugh, and never was."
"Oh, yes, you are, Brownie."
"No, I am not. I have been expelled twice."
"I believe it is your nature to be naughty, Bessie."
"I don't know about that, Hugh; but, at any rate, I ought to have some allowances made because I am so homely. It is easy to be good if one happens to be good-looking too. Everybody loves beautiful children, everybody admires beautiful girls; people are predisposed to like them, and make the best of everything they do. Beauty is of little consequence to a boy, but it makes or mars many a girl. I presume, now, if my nose had been Grecian, and my complexion lily fair, I should have been far more amiable."
Hugh laughed merrily at this tirade. "But, Brownie," he said, "_I_ have always thought you pretty."
A shade of color rose in Bessie's dark cheek "Thank you, cousin," she said quickly, "you are kind to say so. But your real taste is for a very different style; a dove-eyed blonde, fair as a lily, and gentle as Griselda."
"Like Edith Chase, I suppose," said Hugh, with a merry twinkle in his eye. "Well, a man might do worse. I venture to say the fair Edith never took a horseback-ride after dark in her life."
"Certainly not; is she not a pattern?" said Bessie sharply. "And, by the way, Hugh, of course you will give me my ride to-night."
"Oh, Bessie, Bessie, you are incorrigible! Well, if I must, I must! The musicale is to-night, you know."
"I had forgotten it; but we can go afterwards."
"That is, if you will mend my gloves."
"Do get a new pair, Hugh."
"No; I have only ten dollars left; I shall not have any more until August, and my heart is set upon a little picture at Gurner's. You have no idea how much I want it; I stop to look at it every time I pass the window, and the liking has, grown into a positive longing. I really must have it."
"What is the subject?"
"It is, I suppose, an allegorical design, but what attracted me was the beauty of the coloring and its fidelity to nature. It represents a youth standing in a little shaded valley, looking forward and upward through a vista which gradually rises into a bold mountain peak. The atmosphere is all morning, early morning, with purple hues on the hill-side, mists rising from the river, and a vague remoteness even in the nearest forest; deep shadows lie over the valley, but the rising sun shines on the mountain-peak, lighting it up with a golden radiance, while behind it, there seemed to spread away into distance the atmosphere of another country, a beautiful unseen Paradise. Towards this mountain-peak the youth is looking with ardent eyes; one feels sure that his hopes are there, and that sooner or later he will reach the golden country beyond."
"I remember the picture. Is there not a crown shining in the sunlight over the mountain-top, and the outline of a great cross in the dark shadow over the steep path which leads up to the summit?"
"I believe so; but it was the figure of the youth that attracted me. His face expressed aspiration, that bright confidence in the future which Aunt Faith and I have been discussing this morning."
"So you were in her room all that time, were you?"
"Yes; and that reminds me that I must do a little reading. I am growing shamefully lazy. Good-bye, Queen Bessie. Be sure and make my picture as handsome as you can."
"I shall do my best;"--"but I cannot hope to make it as handsome as the original," she added, after the door closed.
Twilight came and the two cousins were riding in a country lane several miles from the old stone house; they had left the turnpike where they usually rode, and, instead of going at headlong speed, the horses were walking slowly over the grassy path as if the summer evening had influenced their riders with its peaceful quiet.
"I have never been here before," said Bessie; "where does that path lead?"
"To Rocky brook where we used to go a fishing."
"Let us go that way, please. I have not been to Rocky brook for years and years." So the horses were turned, and, after a pleasant ride through the woods, they reached the edge of the ravine; the path, an Indian trail, came to an end, and down below they could hear the rushing sound of the water.
"Oh I must get down, Hugh!" said Bessie eagerly; "I want to go down to the brook."
"It will be hard climbing in that long skirt, Bessie. I will bring you out some other time."
"No, Hugh; I want to go now, this very minute."
"I suppose you must have your way, then," said her cousin, as he lifted her to the ground; "wait until I fasten the horses so that I can help you."
But Bessie had already disappeared, swinging herself from rock to rock by aid of the bushes, as actively as a squirrel; she had reached the bottom of the ravine as Hugh appeared at the top. "Don't go too near the bridge," he shouted; "wait till I come down."
Bessie looked down the ravine, and seeing the plank which served for a bridge high in the air over the foaming water, she was seized with a sudden desire to cross it; Hugh's warning, as usual, only stimulated this desire. If there was any danger, she wanted to be in it immediately. So she clambered over the rocks towards the forbidden locality with a pleasant excitement, not really believing in the danger, but lured on by the spirit of adventure strong within her from childhood.
"Don't go near the bridge!" shouted Hugh again, by this time half way down the bank.
"Hugh is too despotic," thought his cousin, as she climbed up on the wet stones. "I shall certainly do as I please. If he wants implicit obedience, he must go to Edith Chase." In another instant she was on the plank, and balancing herself, walked forward over the torrent, holding her long skirt over her arm; her head was steady, she did not know what fear was; many a time she had crossed deeper chasms in safety, and she laughed to herself as she heard Hugh crashing through the bushes down the bank behind her. "He will like me all the better for my courage," she thought, somewhat surprised at his silence, for she had expected to hear further remonstrance. Suddenly, when she had reached the middle of the bridge, the plank cracked, gave way entirely, and in an instant she was in the foaming torrent below. She sank, and for one moment, one dreadful moment, she was under water, suffocating and terror-stricken, while all the events of her life seemed to rush before her like an instantaneous panorama. Then she felt the air again, and opening her eyes, found herself in Hugh's arms, as he strode out of the water and laid her down on the bank. "Oh, Hugh!" she gasped, "it was dreadful!"
"Are you hurt, dear? Did your head strike the rocks?" asked her cousin anxiously.
"No, I think not; but I feel rather dizzy," said Bessie, closing her eyes.
"Can you stay here for a moment alone, while I run back to the farm-house? Fortunately the weather is so warm there is not much danger of your taking cold."
"Oh, yes," said Bessie, smiling, as her cousin chafed her hands with anxiety that belied his words. He sprang up the bank, and after some delay reappeared carrying shawls and wrappings. "Do you feel better? Are you faint?" he asked, as he enveloped her in the shawls.
"I feel quite well now," said Bessie, trying to rise.
"Stop; I am going to carry you," said Hugh.
"You shall do nothing of the kind, Hugh. I am able to walk, and the bank is steep."
"I shall take you round by the path, so don't make any objection, for it will be useless. The farmer will have his carriage waiting for us, and we shall drive home as rapidly as possible."
"Oh, Hugh, I am so heavy! You will never be able to do it," said Bessie, as Hugh lifted her slight form muffled in shawls.
"Very heavy! Really, quite elephantine! A matter of ninety pounds, I should say!"
"Nonsense, sir! I weigh one hundred and ten."
"And what is that to a man of muscle? Don't you know that I pride myself upon my strength! The old proverb _says_ that cleanliness is next to godliness; if that is so, I give the third place to strength. What a pity we cannot say 'muscleness,' to keep up the rhythm! Do you know, Bessie, if ministers had more muscle, I should like them better."
"Mr. Leslie has muscle, Hugh."
"Yes; he has got a good strong fist of his own. I like him, too, in every way. He is so manly in his goodness, and so frank in his religion! He is one of those fine, large-hearted men who give their very best to the cause. He did not take to the ministry because he was not fitted for anything else; he has the capabilities and qualifications for a first-rate business man, civil engineer, or soldier. But it is evident that the whole world was as nothing to him compared to the great work of salvation. I honor him. He is a man to be envied, for he is living up to his ideal."
"Why, Hugh! I had no idea you admired him so much! Are you thinking of following his example?"
"Don't joke, Bessie. The subject is too serious."
"I am not joking," said Bessie, in a low voice.
"I am no hero," said Hugh, with a half sigh, as they reached the lane; "I could never do as Mr. Leslie has done. I can only hope to make others happy in my small way by--" "By helping ill-behaved cousins out of their troubles," interrupted Bessie, "paying their debts, saving their lives, and so forth and so forth."
The ride home was pleasant, in spite of wet clothes. Hugh drove the farmer's horse in an old carryall, and the farmer himself rode Hugh's horse, leading the other alongside. When they reached the back-pasture it was quite dark. Hugh lifted Bessie out, threw the shawls back into the carryall, and farmer Brown, after fastening the saddle-horses behind, drove away towards the town, where he was to leave them at the livery-stable according to agreement.
"Now, Bessie, take up that skirt, and let us have a run across the garden," said Hugh. "I am so afraid you will take cold."
But Bessie's long, wet skirt proved such an obstacle, that in spite of her objection, Hugh lifted her up again, and carried her across the pasture, through the garden, and up the terrace into the house.
"Shall you go to the musicale?" he whispered, as he put her down in the dark hall.
"No," said Bessie; "I wish you would make it all right with Aunt Faith. I have a headache; the fright, I suppose."
Hugh went off to his room, and in an incredibly short time he was down-stairs again, in evening dress. Aunt Faith came in a few moments afterwards, dressed in gray silk with delicate white lace around her throat and wrists; "Is it not time to go?" she said. "Where is Sibyl?"
"Here, Aunt," said Sibyl from the parlor; "I have been ready some time."
"Come in, child, and let us see you" Sibyl crossed the hall and stood in the door-way. Her dress of soft blue harmonized with her fair beauty, and brought out the tints of her hair and complexion; she wore no ornaments, and the flowing drapery floated around her devoid of any kind of trimming. "Her dress was nothing; just a plain, blue tarleton," said one of her companions the next day to a mutual friend. "But Sibyl herself looked lovely." This was Sibyl's art; her dress was always subordinate to herself.
"You look like the evening star, sister," said Hugh.
"Thank you, brother. A compliment from you is precious, because rare," said Sibyl, smiling; "and as for you, you look like the Apollo in Guido's _Aurora_."
"Bravo! That's a compliment worth having," said Hugh, tossing back his golden locks. "And now that we are both gorged with compliments, let us start for the halls of Euterpe."
"Where is Bessie?" said Aunt Faith, as Hugh rose.
"She is not going. She has a headache," answered Hugh.
"Poor child! I will run up and see her before I go."
"That is not necessary, Aunt. I think she would rather not be disturbed," said Hugh. "Let us start; it is late."
The musicale was held at the residence of Mrs. Arlington, on the opposite side of the avenue, but a short distance from the old stone house, and Bessie, after taking off her wet clothes, dressed herself in a wrapper, and took her seat at the open hall-window in the second story, where she could see the lights through the trees, and even hear an occasional strain of the music on the night breeze. She felt depressed; her head ached, and her conscience likewise. "I am always doing something wrong," she thought ruefully; "I let Hugh pay that debt; then I teased him out of his idea of telling Aunt Faith, and made him take me riding again, and when he was kind enough to give in to my wish, I deliberately went out on that plank when he told me not to go, and the result was I came near being drowned, and poor Hugh must have had a struggle to get me out in that current. I suppose he is over there now talking with Edith Chase! she is an affected, silly girl, but I suppose Hugh does not understand her as well as I do. However, perhaps she is better than I am! I am dreadful, I know; and so homely, too! I look just like an Indian. Edith is considered pretty. To be sure _I_ think she looks just like a white cat; but then, some people think white cats are pretty. Well, her looks are nothing to me. _I_ don't care anything about it!" And in truth of this assertion, Bessie crouched down among the cushions of the lounge, and had what girls call "a good cry."
About an hour afterwards she heard a step on the gravel walk in front of the house, and the sound of a latch-key in the front-door; in another minute Hugh came up the stairs on the way to his room. "Hugh! Hugh!" called out a voice in the darkness.
"Is that you, Bessie? What are you doing here?" said her cousin, lighting a burner in the chandelier. "Why, you have been crying! Does your head ache? Do you feel faint?"
"My head is better, Hugh; but I _am_ wicked," murmured Bessie from the heap of cushions.
"Wicked! What do you mean, Brownie?"
"Just what I say. I am always in trouble myself and drawing you in too. You would be a great deal better without me, Hugh. I shall be glad when you go to New York."
"Glad, Bessie!"
"I mean it will be better for you," murmured Bessie.
"And how about yourself?"
"Oh, I shall never be good at all; I shall stay at home and be wicked, I suppose," said Bessie, with the sound of tears in her voice. Hugh did not reply, but he put out his hand and stroked the dark curls gently. After a moment or two Bessie suddenly recovered her spirits. "How was Miss Chase?" she asked gayly.
"Lovely as a lily," said Hugh, laughing; "I told her so, too."
"Was Graham Marr there?"
"Yes; I left him with Sibyl."
"Did he quote poetry?"
"I presume so, in the intervals of the music, Gid was there, too."
"At the door of the supper-room, I suppose?"
"Yes, he was looking at the salad when I came away."
"That reminds me; why did you leave so early, Hugh?"
"I believe, after all, I am a little tired; I strained my wrist slightly in the brook."
"Let me get some arnica for you; do, Hugh."
"Oh, no! the strain is very slight. It will be all over in a day or two."
"Was there really any danger, Hugh?"
"Yes; I think it right that you should know it, because you may be tempted to do the same thing again. The water was deep there, and the brook swollen by the last rains; the current was very strong, and there is a fall just below. But your greatest danger was from the sharp jagged rocks; when I plunged after you I cannot express how alarmed I was!"
Bessie covered her face with her hands. "It was all owing to my obstinate wilfulness," she said in a low tone, "Oh, Hugh! can you forgive me?"
"Do not think of it any more." said her cousin, "but come down and give me some music."
"What! In this old wrapper, Hugh?"
"There speaks feminine vanity. As though I knew a wrapper from a dress?"
So Bessie went down to the sitting-room, and, taking the cover off her harp, sat down in her old wrapper to play for Hugh. When she was in the mood she brought very spirited music out of the silver strings, but to-night she played soft airs, and minor chords, weaving in among them Hugh's favorite plaintive melodies, with her now wild improvisations between. At last she rose and replaced the harp-cover. "It is late; I must go," she said. "They will be coming home before long, Of course _you_ won't say anything about our ride, Hugh. It would only frighten Aunt Faith. But I have decided not to go again; what happened to-night seems like a warning."
"Superstitious, Bessie?"
"No; I am only trying to stop before I drag you into any more danger. Think how much trouble I have given you, too! And, oh, Hugh! you had to pay that farmer," added Bessie, as the idea came to her for the first time.
"Run upstairs, Brownie; it is late."
"I shall not run, Hugh. I know very well you had to pay him that ten dollars, and I have robbed you of your last cent," said Bessie tragically.
"Oh, what a dismal face! Run, before Aunt Faith comes."
"And the picture you were going to buy," said Bessie, with tearful eyes.
"Foolish child! as if I cared for the picture; when I am rich I shall buy a whole gallery. Now run; I positively hear their voices at the gate."
As Bessie went away with a full heart, Aunt Faith, Sibyl, and Graham Marr came up the garden-walk and entered the house. "You came away early, Hugh," said Aunt Faith; "do you feel well?"
"I am tired, aunt; that is all."
"It was a pleasant party," continued Aunt Faith; "did you not think so, Sibyl?"
"I enjoyed it!" said Sibyl quietly.
"It was a rare feast," said Graham; "one seldom meets such a combination of aesthetic talent in Westerton."
"Mr. Leslie was not there, however," said Hugh.
"Ah,--no. But ministers are not generally cultivated musicians," said Graham, in his slow way. "They have not the time to,--ah,--to muse upon the mystery of harmony."
"Mr. Leslie is a fine musician," said Hugh bluntly; "I have seldom heard so fine a baritone,--so rich and manly."
Now Graham sang tenor,--a very delicate tenor, and naturally he could not sympathize with Hugh's fancy for a rich baritone. As he rose to take leave, Sibyl said, "I wish you would bring over your music, Mr. Marr, and sing for us. We were all charmed with that little German song you sung this evening; it was so full of pathos."
"Pathos!" whispered Hugh to Aunt Faith, as Sibyl accompanied the poet into the hall. "How can Sibyl endure that calf!"
"As Pete Trone said, '_de gustibus_' and so forth, Hugh," said Sibyl's voice from the hall as she closed the door behind Graham.
"Well, Sibyl; I did not intend you to hear the epithet, but I cannot with sincerity take it back," said Hugh.
"I like calves," said Sibyl, "they have beautiful eyes! Good-night!"
"I never can make Sibyl out!" said Hugh, as his sister disappeared. "She never loses her temper, and truth always comes out with the temper, you know. Well, Aunt Faith, I have been a very bad boy all day. Will you pardon all my misdeeds?"
"If you are penitent," said Aunt Faith, smiling. Then, more seriously, "You will not forget what I said to you this morning, Hugh?"
"No, aunt; I shall not forget. Your words sank deeper than you knew," said Hugh gravely.
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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5
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FOURTH OF JULY.
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The first of July came, and with it the summer heat. Hugh hung up a hammock in the second story hall, between the north and south windows, so as to catch every wandering zephyr; and, armed with a book, he betook himself to this airy retreat for the purpose of study. At least that was his announcement at the breakfast-table. "For the purpose of sleep?" suggested Sibyl. "Day-dreaming!" said Bessie. "Lazying!" said Tom, coining a word for the occasion with true American versatility.
"Very well, fellow-citizens, laugh on," said Hugh; "these are the last strawberries of the season, and I have no inclination to discuss anything at present but their sweetness. But I will venture to assert that at six o'clock this evening I shall have imbibed more knowledge in that very hammock then any of you in your prosy chairs."
"I shall go and see Miss Skede about my white dresses," said Sibyl, rising.
"Not this warm morning," exclaimed Bessie.
"The very time. I could not have chosen a better day. Miss Skede has no imagination; she can _never_ lift herself beyond the present. If I had gone to her in June, she would have made my dresses heavy, in spite of all my orders and descriptions. Even yesterday, for instance, she would have been unable to conceive anything more than half-way effects; but to-day it is so warm that the heat may inspire her, and I hope to get out of her something as flowing and delicate as a summer cloud."
"I see now, Sibyl, where all your poetry goes," said Hugh, laughing; "the puffs and ruffles get it all!"
"Fortunately Graham has enough for two," said Bessie, looking up with a malicious smile.
But Sibyl's temper was never ruffled: "I like Graham, as you know, Bessie. You, also, have your likes and dislikes, but _I_ do not tease you about them."
"That is true, Sibyl," said Bessie, warmly; "you certainly have the best disposition in the family. I wish I had half your amiability."
Soon after breakfast, Tom and Gem went out into the garden, and sat down under the shade of the great elm-tree. The three dogs were not long in discovering their place of retreat, and invited themselves to join the party with their usual assurance,--Turk stretching himself on the ground alongside, Grip under a currant-bush, and Pete Trone occupying himself in tilling the soil.
"What are you going to do to-day, Tom?" said Gem, as she adorned Turk's shaggy back with flowers.
"Well, I don't exactly know," replied Tom; "the B. B.'s are coming, and we've thought a little of building a house up a tree."
"What for?" said Gem rather languidly,--for when the thermometer stands in the eighties, the idea of building becomes oppressive.
"What for!" repeated Tom indignantly; "that's just like a girl! For fun, of course. What else, do you suppose? But you needn't have anything to do with it. You can go right into the house this very minute, if you like."
"I don't want to go into the house; you know that very well, Tom Morris. I always like to see the B. B.'s, and I think a house in a tree will be splendid!" said Gem quickly.
"Won't it, though! We're going to take the big cask over there, and hoist up all the boards, and nails, and things. There's a place in the main branches where we can build a real room, big enough for all of us, if we squeeze tight. We're going to have a floor, and roof, and sides, and a hole in the bottom to climb in,--a sort of sally-port, you know. It will be a regular fort, and I rather guess those south-end fellows will wink out of the wrong sides of their eyes when they see it."
"Won't it be rather warm up there?" suggested Gem.
"I never saw such a baby!" exclaimed Tom. "Warm? of course it will be, and what then? The monitors were warm, I reckon, but you never caught our soldiers whining about it. The B. B.'s will stand up to their work like men, and they'll stay in that house when it's built, even if they melt down to their very backbones!"
"I wonder what Pete is doing?" said Gem, after a pause, wisely making a diversion in the conversation.
"Oh! burying bones, I suppose," said Tom; "He's always at it. I believe he'd dig a hole in an iron floor if he was chained up on it. Hallo, Pete! stop that! You're making too much dust. Do you hear me, sir? Very well! you'd--a--bet--" When Tom got as far as "bet," pronounced in an awful voice, Pete knew that a stick was forthcoming. He accordingly paused in his digging, his little black nose covered with yellow earth, and his eyes fixed mournfully on the half-finished hole. "Let us go and dig up some of his bones and show them to him," said Tom; "it always makes him feel so ashamed! I know where they are; he has his favorite places, and I've often seen him toiling up and down from one to the other, as important as the man that goes round with the panorama and jaws at the people."
"What an expression!" said Gem, with an air of superiority; "you boys are so common!"
"And you girls are so soft!" said Tom. "I'd rather be a boy than a girl, any day. Come, now!"
But Gem was not inclined to argue this point, so they carried out their bone-hunting project, much to the discomfiture of Pete Trone, Esq., who followed behind as if fascinated, watched the disinterment of each relic with mortified interest, and, when the last was brought into view, drooped his head and tail, and sought refuge in the corn-field where he relieved his feelings by burrowing wildly in twenty different places.
"There come the B. B.'s!" exclaimed Gem, interrupting Tom in a search for artichokes; "eight of them, as sure as you live!"
"What an expression," said Tom, imitating his sister's voice; "you girls are so common!" But the approach of the visitors made a truce a matter of necessity, and soon the project of the tree-house engrossed the entire attention. Boards were brought from the little tool-house, saws were in demand, and Gem was deputed to confiscate all the hammers and nails in the house for the use of the builders; the work went bravely on, and by noon the walls of the fortification were up, and the roof well advanced towards completion. A ladder brought from the barn, took the workmen half-way up the trunk; but the old tree was lofty, and a long space intervened between the end of the ladder and the lowest branches, which must of necessity be ascended in that squirming manner peculiar to boys, wherein they delight to bark their shins, tear their trousers, and blister their hands in the pursuit of glory. Gem, of course, could not hope to emulate the B. B.'s in this mode of progression towards the fortification, but she brought nails and carried boards with great energy. When there was no call for her services, she watched with intense interest the B. B. who happened to be squirming up. If there was no B. B. squirming up, there was sure to be one squirming down, for a principal part of the time seemed to be devoted to journeys below and aloft, besides elaborate contrivances for slinging boards and tools to the climbers' backs; indeed, to a looker-on, this seemed to be the chief interest of the fortification.
At last it was done, all but the floor; Tom said it did not matter about that, as the boys could easily stand on the branches. Word was given to ascend, and, one by one, all the B. B.'s squirmed up the tree and took their places inside; nothing was to be seen but their feet, huddled together on the branches. It took ten minutes for all the band to assemble on high, but in less than two, down they squirmed again. "What is the matter?" said Gem in astonishment; she had not expected to see the B. B.'s for hours, absorbed as they would be in their leafy abode.
"We're going to take up the dogs," said Tom, who came first; "we're going to sling 'em up in a basket. It will be such fun, and they'll like it first-rate."
"Oh, don't, Tom!" exclaimed Gem; "Turk is too big, Grip will be sure to fall out, and it will make Pete Trone seasick."
But no attention was paid to her remonstrances, and the B. B.'s inspired to new exertions, made numerous journeys up and down, rigging a pulley and making various preparations for the aerial voyage. When all was ready there was a discussion as to which dog should go. Turk _was_ too big, no basket would hold him; and Grip, Tom said, had "no common sense," and would not appreciate the situation. Pete Trone was evidently the man for the place, and he jumped gayly into the basket at Tom's command, without any suspicion of danger; and when he found himself hanging in mid-air, he did not flinch, but settled down resolutely on his haunches, looking over the side with one eye as much as to say, "Who's afraid?"
"Didn't I tell you?" said Tom enthusiastically. "I knew Pete would come out strong. It will take a good while to get him up there. I say, boys, let's sing 'Up in a Balloon.' It will be appropriate to the occasion."
So all the B. B.'s joined in the chorus with so much power that Aunt Faith came to the back door to listen.
"Tom! Tom!" she called, when the song was finished; "what are you doing?"
"It's only the B. B.'s, Aunt Faith. We're hoisting Pete Trone up into the tree," shouted Tom.
"Dinner will be ready in a few moments; you had better come in and rest; you must be very warm," said Aunt Faith from the shaded piazza.
When the basket reached the air-shanty, the B. B.'s who were there to receive it, suddenly remembered that there was no floor, and Pete, although a dog of varied accomplishments, could hardly be expected to keep his footing on the branches. So there was nothing to be done but let him down again, which was accordingly effected with great care, Pete sitting composedly in the basket without moving a muscle, and jumping out when he reached the ground with conscious importance wagging in his tail. It was one o'clock, and the B. B.'s, after promising to return, adjourned for dinner; Tom and Gem bathed their burning faces, and joined the family circle in the cool dining-room.
"You are as bad as a fire-ball, Tom," said Hugh, looking at his red face; "what have you been doing?"
"Splendid fun! We've been building a house in a tree." And forthwith Tom launched into a full description of the fortification. " 'Oh for a lodge in some vast wilderness, some boundless contiguity of shade!' That was the motive which actuated the Band of Brothers, I suppose," said Hugh.
"The B. B.'s don't know anything about poetry," said Tom, with scorn; "they've got other things to attend to, I can tell you."
"They're coming again this afternoon," said Gem, "to talk over what we shall do on Fourth of July."
"To be sure; the Birthday of Freedom is close upon us," said Hugh; "whatever you do, my countrymen, let it be worthy of the occasion."
"We've got two or three plans," began Gem, but Tom interrupted her; "Don't breathe a word, it will spoil all, Gem."
"I hope it is not dangerous," said patient Aunt Faith, who associated the Birthday of Independence with visions of boys disfigured for life with gunpowder, and girls running madly towards the house with their muslin dresses blazing.
"None of the plans are dangerous, Aunt Faith," said Tom; "but we don't want anybody to know anything about them beforehand; especially Hugh."
"I smell a rat,--I see him floating in the air,--but I shall yet be able to nip him in the bud," quoted Hugh, with pointed emphasis.
"Now don't, Hugh! just promise that you won't cross the back terrace until after the Fourth," pleaded Gem. "It will be twice the fun for you, too, if you don't know anything about it beforehand." After some delay the two conspirators wrenched the required promise from their cousin, who pretended to be deeply curious about the plot, and heroically unselfish in abandoning his designs upon it.
At three o'clock the meeting was held under the elm-tree on the terrace; the B. B.'s reinforced to the number of twelve were there, and Tom and Gem did the honors with cordial hospitality. Many plans were brought forward for the consideration of the patriots, but objections were found to one and all; at length Gem disappeared and after a long delay, returned carrying some books under her arm. "I have thought of something," she said, taking a seat under the tree; "we will have the battle of Bunker Hill and the life of General Israel Putnam." The word "battle" stimulated the B. B.'s, who were lying about on the grass, worn out with their efforts to arrange a programme. "Bunker Hill forever!" said one, tossing up his hat. Tom said nothing; he was not going to be carried away by any of Gem's nonsense, not he! "My plan is this," began Gem, encouraged by the general attention; "we will have a real battle,--we've got torpedoes, fire-crackers, and Tom's cannon, you know,--and we'll make a big monument of boards for Bunker's Hill; I've been there and know just how it looks."
"It wasn't there when the battle was fought, Goosey," said Tom.
"How do you know?" retorted Gem; "_you_ were not there, I guess. And as to history, who got ten imperfect marks in one week?"
The B. B.'s not being strong in history, did not take sides in this contest, and Gem went on triumphantly. "Jim Morse can be General Putnam, because his uncle's name is Putnam; you see, I thought of that," said Gem, with conscious pride.
"Hurrah for Jim!" said the enthusiastic B. B. before mentioned.
"Then there will be the wolf-scene," continued Gem. "You remember how Putnam went down in a cave when everybody else was afraid, and shot a great wolf there. They had a rope around his legs, and when he pulled it they jerked it up, and out he came holding the wolf by the ears. Now that will do splendidly for us, for we can have the underground shanty for the cave, and Turk will just do for the wolf."
This last idea was received with applause, and the discussion became general, even Tom forgetting his scorn in the interest of the occasion, and actually taking some importance upon himself because his sister was the originator of so much brilliancy. Books were consulted, suggestions and changes made, and the whole plot of the drama altered again and again. Each B. B. felt himself called upon to be a general, and they had all selected the names of revolutionary heroes, when some one suggested that an army composed entirely of generals would be difficult to manage. Then, there was the question of time, also. Should they confine themselves to Bunker Hill, or give an abstract of the whole war? Tom was for the whole war; but that was because he had already announced himself as George Washington, and naturally wished for as many battles as possible. He intended, also, to throw in the episode of the hatchet; "It will be real easy," he said, advocating his plan, "I know it all, out of the reader, and besides, we've got a cherry-tree."
But another boy maintained that more than one battle would spoil the effect; a number of the forces must of course be left dead and wounded upon the field, and it would not look well for them to come to life over and over again, right before everybody.
It was finally decided to adopt a circuitous course, steering between the impossibilities, yet bringing in all the desired effects. The drama was to open with the wolf-hunt. Then the scene was to change; Putnam, peacefully engaged in ploughing, was to hear the glorious news and depart instantly for Bunker Hill. The battle was to rage fiercely on the terrace slope, and in the vegetable garden, while a masked battery did terrible execution in the asparagus bed, and whole ranks of the enemy were to be mowed down in the cornfield conveniently out of sight. As Tom said, "Something must be left to the imagination." The third scene was to bring in the hanging of the spy, Nathan Palmer, in order that Putnam might read his famous letter on the subject; but as Gem objected to the tragical end, it was decided to alter history a little, and let Nathan escape by night, which change would also give a fine chance for dark-lanterns, masks, and a muffled drum. The whole was to close with a tableau, and the singing of the "Star-Spangled Banner," in which the audience were to be especially requested to join.
The outline of the performance was now arranged and nothing remained but to fill in the details; the whole afternoon was consumed in this labor, and still the work was not completed. For several days the B. B.'s studied severely; United States histories were in great demand, and the pages of Shakespeare were turned over for inspiration. Each boy was to compile his own speeches, and many hurried consultations were held over back fences, and in haylofts; one boy, who represented General Stark, selected Hamlet's 'to be or not to be.' A companion objected to the lines as inappropriate, but General Stark replied, "Well, I know the piece because I've spoken it in school, and I ain't going to learn another, I can tell you! I don't see why it won't do as well as anything else."
Fourth of July came, and with it, great excitement in the vicinity of the old stone house. The B. B.'s belonged to the neighboring families, and their fathers, mothers and sisters were to compose the audience for whom benches had already been placed on the terrace under the trees. The day was warm, but enthusiasm was warmer, and although there was some foreboding of suffering among the audience as they looked out from their cool parlors into the vivid sunshine, there was no flinching among the actors.
There had, however, been great difficulty with the cows who were to represent General Putnam's oxen, for the horses' harness did not fit them very well, and they objected to dragging the plough as well-regulated oxen should have done; so at the last moment it was decided to give up the idea of a moving scene, and simply attempt a tableau; General Putnam at his plough in the field, reading the Declaration of Independence. A sheet could be held up until the cows were in position, then it was to be dropped and the tableau revealed to the audience. "The effect would be grand," Tom said.
At ten o'clock the actors were all in the vegetable garden, and the audience under cover of straw hats and parasols were slowly assembling on the benches above. The cannon was loaded at the top of an earthwork commanding the asparagus-bed, torpedo ammunition was stored in a box half way down the hill, and fire-crackers were everywhere, provided by the combatants who had clubbed their spending-money for the purpose. A hole had been made in the roof of the underground shanty through which Putnam was to be let down by a rope, and Turk, as the wolf, had been imprisoned there since early morning, with Grip to keep him company. At last all was ready, and the orchestra opened the entertainment with "Hail Columbia" on the violin, by Tom, accompanied by the jews-harp, tambourine and triangle, and a flute which could only play two notes, but made up in power what it lacked in variety. Tom had tried hard to learn "Hail Columbia" for this occasion. He thought he knew it, and the family thought so too, from the amount of practising they had heard. But the excitement confused the performer, and the violin, after careering around among "Independence be your boast," ended in the well-known "Nelly Bly," Tom's chef-d'oeuvre. Fortunately the change made no difference to the rest of the orchestra, their accompaniment was the same to all tunes, and "Nelly Bly" was finished in triumph, and received with applause by the good-natured audience and calls for "first-violin."
But the orchestra had already dispersed to aid in the grand opening scene, the wolf-hunt, an "historical incident in the life of General Israel Putnam of glorious memory," as the written programme designated it. First appeared one of the B. B.'s attired as the "Classic Muse," with a wreath of laurel around his brow. He recited the following lines taken from the "Putnam Memorial:--" "Hail! Hero of Bunker's Hill. Thy presence now my soul doth thrill! This is a sacred and heavenly spot Where thou, Putnam, didst thy body drop; May future generations be blest With the patriotic spirit thou possessed! Thy memory is like a sweet balm, That will bless and do no harm."
This remarkable ode concluded, the Muse retired, and Putnam himself appeared, dressed in full uniform with a sword by his side, and a majestic feather in his hat. The general made a bow to the audience and repeated the following verse, also extracted from the "Memorial."
"I am Israel Putnam the brave, Who in Pomfret shot the wolf in the cave; And by her ears did draw her out,-- I am no coward, but rash and stout!"
Having thus announced his character, General Putnam walked towards the shanty and brandished his sword. "Ha!" he said, snorting fiercely, "there is a wolf here! I shall descend and slay him!"
"Nay, nay!" shouted the B. B.'s in a chorus, as they rushed from the currant-bushes where they had remained hidden to give full effect to the scene. "Putnam, descend not; the wolf is wild!" cried one. "Putnam, descend not; remember thy child!" said another. (This was considered highly poetical by the B. B.'s). But Putnam was not to be persuaded, and the rope was therefore carefully secured to his belt. He took leave of all his friends, shaking them all by the hand, and then, feather and all, he was lowered into the cave, _i.e._ underground shanty. It was intended that there should be no delay in this part of the scene; Turk had been through his portion of the programme many times, and had allowed himself to be hauled up and down with his usual good-nature. As it was expected, therefore, that Putnam would vanquish the wolf in no time, no dialogue had been provided for the friends and neighbors waiting outside, and as time passed and no signal to "draw up," came, they grew somewhat embarrassed. Tom, urged by necessity, spoke impromptu: "He fighteth the wolf!" he cried; "he fighteth fiercely!" Then, in an undertone to his next neighbor, "say something, Will; anything will do." But Will could think of nothing but "He fighteth the wolf!" also; so he said it to Dick and kicked him on the shin as a signal to proceed. "Doth he?" said Dick after a long pause; then, at his wits' end as he received another and fiercer kick, he varied the phrase and stammered out, "Doth he?" in a despairing voice, at which all the audience laughed uproariously. Still there was no signal from below, and Tom grew desperate. Stooping down he called through the aperture, "I say, Putnam, why don't you jerk out that wolf?" But no answer came from the den. "Sing something," said Tom to the B. B.'s in an undertone, "'Battle Cry of Freedom' will do; while I run down and see what is the matter." So all the friends and neighbors joined in singing a song, probably to intimidate the wolf, while Tom hurried down to the door at the bottom of the hill.
"What _is_ the matter, Jim?" he cried, bursting in to the underground shanty; "you've almost spoilt the whole thing! Why don't you hurry up?"
"It's all very well to say 'hurry up,'" said General Putnam, indignantly, "but Turk won't let me come near him. He's worse than a wolf any day."
"I suppose he's tired; he's been shut up here since daylight," said Tom looking at the angry old dog. "Well, I suppose you'll have to take Grip, then. Hurry,--they're at the last verse."
So the signal was given, and the friends and neighbors, rejoiced that their embarrassment was over, began to pull with such a will that Tom had hardly time to run back and repeat his prepared speech. "He is safe! Our noble Putnam is safe!" cried Tom, with enthusiasm. "He bringeth out the wolf, the great, the dreadful wolf!" At this instant the General hove into view, his feathered hat knocked over his eyes, the rope girding his chest with alarming tightness, and wee little Grip suspended by the nape of his neck as the wolf, "the great, the dreadful wolf!" A burst of irrepressible laughter from the audience greeted this tableau, and Putnam's mother cried out in great anxiety, "Jimmy, Jimmy, take off that rope directly; it will hurt your chest!"
The first part over, the scene was supposed to be changed. Half of the B. B.'s were required to bring the two cows from the cow-house where they were standing already harnessed, and the others put the plough in position and hold up the sheet. But the cows were obstinate and would not walk together, so that gradually the whole force was summoned, and Gem was left to hold up the curtain with the assistance of a small boy, the brother of General Stark. At length, after severe labor, the cows were brought up behind the sheet and attached to the plough, but before Putnam could take his position, one of them, a frisky animal, put down her head and shook her horns so threateningly that Gem abandoned her corner of the sheet and fled in terror, leaving the mortified patriots to the full blaze of public ridicule. Tom was furious, but he reserved his rage for another time. "Bring those cows together by main force and hold 'em still, boys," he said in a concentrated tone as he picked up the corner of the sheet. "Take hold of the plough, Jim. Now, Dick, say your piece." The Classic Muse advancing before the curtain obeyed, in the following language: "Behold the peaceful Putnam tilling the soil. His gentle oxen feed among the clover. But the noble Declaration of Independence rouseth his manly heart. He leaveth his team in the furrow and goeth to Bunker Hill!" declaimed the Muse at the top of his voice as the sheet was dropped disclosing the spectacle of ten boys fiercely holding the two cows in position while Putnam, in full uniform as usual, peacefully read a huge paper document apparently all unmindful of the struggles of his team.
The effect of this tableau was, like the first, far greater than anticipated. The audience laughed till they cried; and not the least part of the amusement was the retreat of the "peaceful oxen," wildly careering back to the pasture, their harness fluttering behind their frightened heels.
After a short pause the Battle of Bunker Hill began in earnest, and was esteemed a great success. The cannon raked the asparagus-bed very effectively, and the musketry of torpedoes and fire-crackers, was really deafening; the British flag was ignominiously hauled down from the Bunker Hill Monument, and the Stars and Stripes raised in its place; every now and then, also, the shrieks and groans of the wounded, were heard from the corn-patch, which added, of course, the pathetic element to the scene. At last, when all the ammunition was exhausted, peace was declared, and the American forces assembling around the monument, listened to General Stark, as he vehemently burst forth into "To be, or not to be," pointing aloft, at intervals, to the Banner of Freedom, and closing with,-- "The Flag of our Union! At Lexington first Through clouds of oppression its radiance burst; But at brave Bunker Hill rolled back the last crest, And, a bright constellation, it blazed in the West. Division! No, never! The Union forever! And cursed be the hand that our country would sever!"
as a highly appropriate termination, giving a local and military coloring to Hamlet's celebrated soliloquy.
The battle well over, and generous applause bestowed upon the army, the episode of the spy was introduced, and Gem retrieved her character by patiently holding up her end of the sheet while the tent was constructed out of some poles and colored blankets,--a real camp-fire along side being relied upon to give a life-like resemblance to "Valley Forge." The sheet removed, General Putnam was discovered seated within his tent, writing a letter. Enter, from the potato-patch, an orderly, who reported in a deep voice, "General Tryon demands Nathan Palmer."
"Ha! Doth he so! British miscreant! thus will I fell him!" exclaimed Putnam, brandishing his sword with so much ferocity that the whole tent fell to the ground, covering him with blankets and confusion. Rescued from the wreck by the orderly, the general stammered out his next sentence: "Behold what I have written to Tryon! Take the letter and read it to the army!" he said sternly, and retired--to what was once his tent. The enemy filed in from the chicken-yard, presented arms, and stood motionless while the orderly read as follows:-- "MARCH 8th, 1777. " ------ TRYON,--Sir: "Nathan Palmer, a lieutenant in your king's service, was taken in my camp as a spy, He was tried as a spy; he was condemned as a spy; and he shall be hanged as a spy. PUTNAM.
"P. S.--Night. He is hanged."
This celebrated letter having been read, Putnam's part was over, and he retired backwards to the corn-patch to slow music from the orchestra hidden behind the currant-bushes, while the army marched away in the opposite direction,--the two effects having been contrived by Tom to imitate a dissolving view. This pantomime was received by the merry audience with great applause.
The next scene exhibited, after long preparation, the body of the unfortunate Palmer hanging from a tree, suspended by his hands, with a rope conspicuously coiled around his neck. The Classic Muse again appeared, and took his position near by, while the American army in masks, with dark-lanterns and muffled drums, filed in softly, and formed a circle around the tree. "Friends!" said one of the band stepping forward, "I am Ethan Allen, and I cannot leave this man, although a British subject, suspended to this tree. We will bury him, friends, 'darkly, at dead of night, by the struggling moonbeams' misty light, and our lanterns dimly burning.'"
The army agreed to these sentiments, and, deputing two of their number to act as bearers, marched away to the sound of the muffled drums. But the body, which had conveniently dropped to the ground in the meantime, proved too heavy for the bearers. John Chase, who had been thoughtlessly allowed to take the part of the Spy, was a particularly heavy boy, and the bearers pulled and tugged in vain. The army, absorbed in the muffled drums (each boy had one), was already at some distance, and the final tableau, in which the body took a part, was still to be enacted; the bearers made another effort, the perspiration rolled down their faces, but all in vain. There was nothing to be done but signal to the Classic Muse to come forward and help. He hastily tucked up his robes and took hold. With his aid the spy was hurried after the retreating army, reaching it just in time to spring to his feet under the flag-staff where floated the Star-Spangled Banner, Red, White, and Blue, and exclaim fervently, "Fellow-citizens, I am not dead! Behold me a changed man! From this moment I am a true and loyal patriot. Long live the Sword of Bunker Hill!" As the resuscitated spy uttered these words, the army formed an effective tableau around him, and the Classic Muse, still breathless from his late exertions, waved his laurel-wreath in the foreground, and struck up the "Star-Spangled Banner," in which the audience joined with enthusiasm.
The patriotic drama being over, great applause ensued, and then the army was invited in to lunch in Aunt Faith's cool dining-room; here ice-cream, cakes, and other camp-dishes were provided in great abundance, the soldiers stacked arms, and seemed to enjoy themselves as easily as private citizens. The numerous young sisters of the B. B.'s gradually forgot their shyness, and the afternoon was spent in games and merriment,--the Old Stone House being entirely given up to the young folks early in the evening, when the weary warriors departed.
"It's been a splendid Fourth!" said Tom, throwing himself into a chair when the last guests had taken their departure; "I wish we could have such fun every day!"
"If you had it every day you would soon be tired of it," said Aunt Faith smiling.
About midnight, when all was still, Aunt Faith, who had not been asleep, thought she heard a slight sound; she listened, and distinguished faint sobs coming from Gem's room, as though the child had her head buried in the pillows. Throwing on a wrapper, she hurried thither, and found her little niece with flushed cheeks and tearful eyes, tossing uneasily on her bed. "What is the matter, dear?" asked Aunt Faith, anxiously.
"Oh, is it you, Aunt Faith? I am so glad you have come!" said Gem. "There is nothing the matter, only I cannot sleep, and I feel so badly."
Do you feel ill? Are you in any pain?"
"No; only hot, and, and--a little frightened."
"Frightened? My dear child, what do you mean?"
"I don't know, auntie. I woke up, and kept thinking of dreadful things," sobbed Gem, burying her head in the pillows. Aunt Faith saw that the child was trembling violently, and, sitting down on the edge of the bed, she drew the little form into her motherly arms, and soothed her as she would have soothed a baby. "Come into my room, dear," she said; "you are tired and excited after this busy day. I have not slept, either, and I shall be glad to have you go with me."
So the two went, back across the hall, Gem clinging to her aunt, and glancing fearfully around, as though she expected to see some ghostly object in every well-known corner. When she had crept into her bed, however, she felt more safe, and nestled down with a deep sigh of relief. After some conversation on various subjects, Aunt Faith said: "And now, my little girl, you must tell me what frightened you. I have always thought you a brave child. What was it you fancied?"
"Oh, I don't know, auntie; all kinds of things. Ghosts, and everything."
"Gem, you know very well there are no such things as ghosts."
"Really and truly, Aunt Faith?" asked Gem, in a low tone.
"Certainly not. I am surprised that you have any such ideas. Where did you get them?"
"I have heard the girls talking about them, sometimes, in the kitchen. They believe in them, Aunt Faith."
"That is because they are ignorant, my dear. Ignorant people believe a great many things that are false. You know there _are_ no fairies, Gem? You know there is no such person as Santa Claus, don't you?"
"Of course, aunt. Only very little children believe in Santa Claus."
"Well, my dear, ignorant people are like little children; they will tell and believe stories about ghosts just as little children tell and believe stories about Santa Claus and his coming down the chimney. My dear little girl, never think of those silly ghost-stories again. People die, and the good Lord takes them into another life; where they go or what they are doing we do not know, but we need _never_ fear that they will trouble us. It is of far more consequence that we should think of ourselves, and whether we are prepared to enter into the presence of our Creator. Our summons will come and we know not how soon it may be. When I think of our family circle, six of us under the roof to-night, I know that it is possible, I may even say probable that among so many a parting will come before very long. And, my little Gem, if it should be you, the youngest, I pray that you may be ready. I do not want you to think of death as anything dreadful, dear. It is not dreadful, although those who are left behind feel lonely and sad. I look forward with a happy anticipation to meeting my brothers and sisters, my father and mother, and my husband; it will be like going home to me. But, although I am old, the summons does not always come to the oldest, first. Tell me, my child, are you trying to be good, to govern your temper, and to do what is right as far as you are able?"
"I try when I think of it, Aunt Faith," said Gem, "but half the time I don't think; I forget all about it."
"I do not expect you to think of it all the time, dear; but when you do think of it, will you promise me to try as hard as you can? Will you try to speak gently to Tom, to forgive him when he teases you, to give up your own way when your playmates desire something else, and, above all, to pray night and morning with your whole heart?"
"Yes, Aunt Faith," whispered Gem, "I will try as hard as I can."
"God bless you, my darling," said Aunt Faith, kissing her little niece affectionately. "And now, go to sleep; it is very late."
With the happy facility of youth, Gem was soon asleep, but Aunt Faith lay wakeful through several hours of the still summer night. Her heart, was disturbed by thoughts of Sibyl and her worldly ambition, of Hugh and his unsettled religious views, of Bessie and her lack of serious thoughts on any subject. Again the sore feeling of trouble came to her, the doubt as to her own fitness for the charge of educating and training the five little children left in her care. "I fear I am not strong enough," she thought; "I fear both my faith and my perseverance have been weak. Have I entirely failed? When I look at Sibyl, and Hugh, and Bessie, I fear I have. Even the younger children are by no means what I had hoped they would be."
A terrible despondency crept into Aunt Faith's heart, and the slow tears of age rolled down her cheeks; but with a strong effort of will she conquered the feeling, and kneeling down by the bedside, she poured out her sorrows in prayer. She laid all her troubles at the feet of her Saviour, and besought Him to strengthen her and give her wisdom for her appointed task. Again and again she asked for faith, earnest faith, which should never falter, although the future might look dark to her mortal eyes, and again and again she gave all her darlings into the Lord's hand. "Give me strength to do my best," she prayed, "and faith to leave the rest to Thee,"--and gradually there came to her a peace which passeth all understanding, a peace which cometh after earnest prayer, and which those who pray not earnestly, can never know.
Aunt Faith knelt a while longer, but no words formed themselves in her mind; she seemed to feel a benediction falling around her, and a sweet contentment came into her heart. When she lay down again, sleep came, and for the rest of the night all was quiet in the old stone house.
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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6
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SUNDAY.
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Breakfast at the old stone house was later on Sunday morning than on week days, by Aunt Faith's especial direction. She gave all the family a longer sleep than usual to mark the day of rest and give it a pleasant opening, but they all understood that when the first bell rang there must be no further delay, and at the sound of the second bell they all assembled in the sitting-room in their fresh Sunday attire for morning prayers. Aunt Faith's rule was gentle, but there were some regulations which the cousins had been brought up to obey implicitly; this way of beginning the Lord's day _was_ one of them, and unless prevented by illness they never failed to assemble promptly in the sitting-room, carefully dressed, and with pleasant, quiet demeanor at the sound of the second bell. This bright July Sunday, Aunt Faith received them with a smile, and when they were seated, she opened her Bible, and read in her clear voice the seventeenth chapter of the Gospel according to St. John, the beloved disciple of our Lord. Then Sibyl went to the cabinet organ, and all the young voices joined in singing a morning hymn, simple and cheerful like the praise of creation at the dawn of day, when from the forest ascends the song of thousands of God's creatures, praising their Maker in the only way they know. The hymn ended, Aunt Faith knelt down, and they all joined in the Lord's prayer. Then came the petition for the day, for a better realization of God's goodness, and a reverent spirit in the worship of this temple; for forgiveness of sins and aid in forgiving the faults of others; and above all, for a spirit of hearty thankfulness and praise to the Maker of the universe, and loving remembrance of His Son the Saviour of mankind. With a final petition for the aid of the Holy Spirit, Aunt Faith closed her prayer, and the morning worship was concluded by the ancient ascription of praise to Jehovah. The conversation at the breakfast-table was bright and happy; there was no gloomy or sullen look, no fault-finding. When the children were little, their tempers often showed themselves on Sunday as well as on other mornings, but patience overcomes many obstacles, and Aunt Faith's unvarying effort had been so far crowned with success, that as they grew older, they grew to remember and even love the brightness of the Sunday morning breakfast-table. Habit is a powerful agent, and perhaps also the fact that Aunt Faith did not severely rebuke every manifestation of ill temper on week days, but allowed them to come naturally to the surface, helped to produce the placid atmosphere of Sunday morning. Her children were not afraid of her; they never hurried out of her presence to vent their bad feelings; she saw the worst of it, whatever it was, and at some quiet hour she sought the offender alone, and reasoned or rebuked as the case required. The cousins loved her dearly, and as her rule was easy, it was generally obeyed; love is a great aid to authority where children are concerned.
Aunt Faith, on her part, also, never transgressed her own rules; no matter what her cares, feelings, or bodily ailments might be, she never allowed them to darken the opening of the Lord's day. They were thrown aside as far as possible, and, in after years when the old stone house was tenantless and its inmates dispersed, their thoughts often turned with affectionate regret towards the bright Sunday morning breakfast table.
An hour later, the faint sound of the church-bells brought the family together again in the front hall, and, as every one was dressed for the day before breakfast, there was no hurry, no confusion. Aunt Faith had in early life seen much of tardiness, haste, and consequent ill temper on Sunday morning; at the last moment somebody would be late, something lost, and everybody cross in consequence; little biting speeches would be spoken, unnecessary comments made, and the result was, that the family almost always arrived at the church-door in anything but a peaceful state. Indeed, "Sunday headaches," and "Sunday temper," were by-words in the house, and, as a child once expressed it, "everybody's cross on Sunday."
With this example, (and it is a very common one) before her, Aunt Faith had striven to bring about; a different order of things in the old stone house. She had not confined herself to theory, but, for years she had made it a rule to examine personally on Saturday all the clothes to be worn on Sunday, to inspect the strings and buttons which are apt to give way under impatient, childish fingers, and to see that all was in order from the hat to the shoe-strings. She superintended the Saturday-night bath, for she was rigid in her ideas of personal neatness, and the five little children always tumbled into their five little beds on Saturday night, as fresh and clean as it was possible to make them. Not that this was the only cleansing time in the week, for they were taught to jump into their bath-tubs daily, but on Saturday more time was given to the work, and it was made pleasant with nice soaps, soft towels, and all the little luxuries that children love; for children are made as happy by gentle purification as other little animals, and it is a mistake to suppose they dread the water. It is the rough hand they dread; to be caught up roughly, smeared with coarse soap, sent into a shivering fit with cold water, rubbed the wrong way with torturing towels, rasped against the grain with stiff hair-brushes, and left to stand on an icy oil-cloth, naturally excites their terror. I imagine there are few grown persons who could endure it with equanimity. But Aunt Faith had no such method. She made the bathing-hour a happy time, and showed the little children all the luxuries of personal neatness, so that as they grew older, they kept up themselves all the habits she had taught them, as matters of necessity for _their_ own comfort.
Thus, trained in these habits, the children grew into men and women with physical health to help them in their contest with evil. And it, is a great help. Aunt Faith knew that all the cleanliness in the world could not compensate for the lack of godliness, but she reasoned that while first attention should be paid to the inside of the platter, certainly second attention should be given to the outside that both may be clean together. A clean heart in a clean body, she thought, was better than a clean heart in a dirty body; health and steady nerves help a man to be orderly and even-tempered, while nervousness, dyspepsia and weakness are so many additional temptations besetting him on every side.
This July Sunday, the cousins started from the old stone house with time enough for a leisurely walk amid the music of the bells, arriving at the church-door before the service commenced, without hurry, quiet and composed, and ready to join in the worship without distracting thoughts. The church was full, Aunt Faith had two pews, one for herself with Gem and Tom, another immediately behind for Sibyl, Bessie, and Hugh. As the organ was pealing out the opening voluntary, a young girl came up the aisle and entered the first seat; Aunt Faith looked up and recognizing Margaret Brown, she smiled and pressed her hand cordially. When she visited Margaret, she asked her to accept a seat in her pew when ever she desired to come to that church, but the invitation had passed from her mind among the occupations of her busy life, so that she was surprised as well as pleased when the young girl appeared. Aunt Faith had no respect for persons; she thought of them only as so many souls sent into the world, all equally dear to the Creator, and precious to the Saviour of mankind. That there were great differences in their lot on earth, that some were more easily tempted than others, that, some had apparently small chance for improvement and religious privileges while others found all ready to their hand, that some suffered trouble, affliction, sickness and hard labor while others seemed to pass through life without a cloud, she well knew, but she did not attempt to explain it. She left it all in the hands of a Higher Wisdom and addressed herself to the evident duty that lay before her. Some of her friends said that she was narrow minded, that she had no interest in the progress of humanity; it is true that she cared more about having the children of the Irish laborer, down on the flats, washed and comfortably dressed, than about an essay on philanthropy, and took more pleasure in aiding Margaret Brown than in talking about the sufferings of human nature; but perhaps she was none the worse for that. Once when an enthusiastic lady called to ask her aid in establishing an International Society for Reform, Aunt Faith listened quietly, and then said, "I will join you, Mrs. B------, when I have the leisure time at my disposal." She never found the time, but in her answer, she was not insincere. If she had been left unemployed, she might have joined some organization for religious work, and esteemed it a pleasant privilege, but as it was, her daily home duties stood first, and as long as they surrounded her, she did not lift her eyes beyond.
The minister was an old man, who had officiated in the same church many years of his life, and hoped to die, as he expressed it, "in the harness." The people loved him, and respected his wishes with more unanimity than they might have given to a younger man; there was no discord, no restless desire for novelty among the congregation, and the various good works connected with the church moved forward at a steady pace, growing with the growth of the town, but not running into any violent extremes to the right hand or the left.
Mr. Hays, the venerable minister, was a gentle, kind-hearted man; the children in the Sunday school listened to him with attention, and their parents loved to hear his sermons. He had the rare faculty of interesting children, and when he addressed them, the teachers had no difficulty in keeping their classes in order, because the children really wished to hear what he said. In church, among older hearers, the effect was the same; his sermons were simple, but all liked to hear them. As he grew older, he seemed to think more and more of the beautiful words, "God so loved the world that He gave His only begotten son;" on this text all that he said and did was founded, and he never wearied of telling his hearers about this great love, and urging them to give their reverent affection in return.
"If we were all like Mr. Hays, the world would be a very different place, Aunt Faith," said Hugh, as they walked home together; "I suppose he has had nothing but love all his life."
"You are greatly mistaken, Hugh. He has endured severe suffering, and no doubt the want of earthly affection has taught him to appreciate the dearer worth of heavenly love."
"I thought he had lived here in Westerton for forty years without anything to disturb his quiet," said Hugh.
"Because his troubles came to him long ago, they were none the less heavy to bear, Hugh. Before he came here, a half-brother to whom he had trusted all his little fortune, disappeared, carrying the whole with him; and not only that, but upon hearing of his loss, the young girl to whom he was engaged, broke her promise and married another. Thus he was left doubly bereft; not only forsaken and injured, but also wounded by the discovery of treachery in those he trusted with all his heart."
"I could never recover from such a blow," said impulsive Hugh; "the thought of being deceived and betrayed by those we love and trust is fearful to me."
"It was fearful to Mr. Hays also, Hugh; after a short time he came to Westerton, and threw his whole strength into his work. It may have been a hard struggle at first, but you can yourself see how he has conquered at last; love is the groundwork of all he says and all he does, and his sufferings instead of turning his heart into bitterness, seem rather to have given it a new sweetness."
"Yes, that is why I like Mr. Hays. He is not censorious. He does not denounce sin so continually that he has no time to tell of forgiveness; he does not keep us so constantly trembling over the past that we have not the courage to hope for better things in the future; I like him for that."
Aunt Faith did not reply. She knew when to be silent, and she had long hoped that the gentle, fervent words of the good old man would yet bring her impulsive nephew into the right path. She knew that much harm was sometimes done by too much urging, and when she saw that Mr. Hays' words had made an impression upon Hugh, she left the impression to sink by its own weight.
The Sunday-noon meal at the old stone house was always a simple lunch, prepared the previous day in order to give the servants full liberty to attend church. It was, however, abundant and attractive. In the winter, Aunt Faith added a hot soup, prepared by her own hands, but at this season of the year, cold dishes were the most appetizing. Directly after lunch the family dispersed, Sibyl, Bessie, and Hugh going to their rooms, and Aunt Faith remaining in the sitting-room with Tom and Gem while they looked over their Sunday school lessons. At half-past two, the children started for the church, and then Aunt Faith rested quietly on the sofa until it was time to prepare for afternoon service at the chapel where Mr. Leslie officiated, a mission in whose welfare she was much interested. There was never any regularity about attending this afternoon service; sometimes Aunt Faith would go alone, sometimes Sibyl would accompany her, and sometimes the three cousins would all go. This afternoon they all came down, and Aunt Faith welcomed them pleasantly; she knew that Hugh might have been influenced by the beauty of the weather, Bessie by Hugh's companionship, and Sibyl by the opportunity of seeing Mr. Leslie; but she believed that all her children were truly reverent at heart, and she had large faith in the solemn influence of the house of God, so she always encouraged them to go to church whenever they would, and on this occasion she made the walk pleasant with her cheerful conversation.
The chapel stood in one of the suburbs of Westerton, where the houses of the railroad workmen were crowded together in long rows, with the smoke from the mills and shops hanging in a cloud over them all the week. Busy, grimy men lived there, careless, tired women, and a throng of children, some neglected, some apparently well-tended, but all poor. In the midst of this bustle and smoke Mr. Leslie lived and worked. When he first came to Westerton, this chapel was almost deserted, but now it was filled with a congregation of its own, a congregation drawn from the neighboring houses, the laborers and their families whose zeal and liberty according to their means, might have put to shame many a church record in the rich quarters of the town.
Aunt Faith and her party entered the door as the little bell rang out its last note, and took their seats upon the benches, for there were no pews, and the sittings were free to all. The organ was played by a young workman, a German, with the national taste for music, and when the hymn was given out, the congregation as with one voice took up the strain, and in a powerful burst of melody, carried the words, as it were, high towards heaven. The music was inspiring, as true congregational music always is. All sang the air, but the harmony was well supplied by the organ; all sang, men, women, and children, and if there were any discordant voices, they were lost in the powerful melody. Hugh liked to sing, and he liked the simple hymns which Mr. Leslie always selected for his congregation; so he found all the places and sang with real enjoyment, while Bessie, looking over the same book, joined in after awhile in her low alto, as if borne along by his example. Then came the sermon, and, as Mr. Leslie gave out his text, Aunt Faith recognized it as one of the verses which she had read in the morning,--St. John, the seventeenth chapter, and the fifteenth verse, "I pray not that thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from the evil." "My friends," said Mr. Leslie, speaking as usual without notes, "we often hear and read of the great desire felt by Christians of this and all ages to leave this world, this world of sickness and sorrow, of labor and poverty, and enter immediately into another life. Young persons who have lost dear friends wish to go and join them, for life looks dreary without love, and the days seem very long when they are not broken by the sound of that well-known footstep on the walk, and the words of love in that well-known voice which they can never hear on earth again. 'I cannot stay on earth alone,' they cry; 'I shall grow wicked in my wild grief. Let me go to them, since they cannot come back to me.' The middle-aged who have outlived the quick feelings of youth, sigh over the years still before them, years neither dark nor light, neither hard nor easy, the dull, monotonous path lengthening out before them, with neither great joy to lighten it, or great sorrow to darken it, the same commonplace cares and duties until the end. 'This is doing us no good,' they think; 'life is slowly withering, zeal is gone. A flower cannot bloom in the desert! Let me go to a better country.'
"The old, who are past all labor, sometimes grow weary of waiting. 'I am of no use,' they say; 'I am only a burden to myself and every one else. I have outlived my time, and it would be better for the world if I was taken out of it. My day is over. Let me go.' Thus they all lament, and thus they sometimes pray, forgetting that the Lord knoweth best.
"The feeling is natural, and is founded upon the innate aspiration of the soul towards immortality, the consciousness and certainty that better things are laid up in store for us in another world. This innate consciousness of immortality is found in all men, even the most ignorant heathen possessing a glimmering of the idea, and this fact is an eternal contradiction to the arguments of the atheist; he cannot destroy this soul hope, for even if he should succeed in blighting it in the father, it would be there to confront him in the child, and so on from generation to generation. That there are persons who have wilfully stifled this divinely-given hope, that there are persons who have brought themselves to contradict their very being is an idea so awful that we shudder to think of it. A man may murder his companion and yet repent and be forgiven; but a man who murders his soul, a man who turns his back upon his Creator cannot repent, for he does not believe in his sin, and he cannot ask for forgiveness because he cannot believe in the existence of a power to forgive. My friends, the idea of such a man is almost super-human; and some wise persons have said that no such men have ever existed. They may think they have stifled their consciences and souls, and even live a long life in this belief, but sooner or later the terrible certainty of their mistake will overwhelm them, and they will find themselves stripped of their poor sophistries, of all sinners the most miserable.
"I hope and believe that there are no such persons in this congregation to-day. Do you not, on the contrary, feel in your hearts, the certainty of another and better life? I feel sure that you do,--that there is not one of you who is not looking forward to that happiness which God has prepared for those who love Him; a happiness which eye has not seen, which ear has not heard, and which it has not entered into the heart of men to conceive.
"But this precious engrafted hope must not be abused. It must not be twisted into an excuse for neglecting our duties here on _earth_. We are put into the world to live in it, and the duties which lie nearest to us must be faithfully performed, no matter how humble or how commonplace they may be. We must not go sighing through life, deluding ourselves with the idea that we are too good for our lot, and that it is praiseworthy to hold ourselves above common labor and dull routine, and devote our time to so-called religious aspiration. If the labor and routine are placed before us, it is our duty to accept them, and, whatever we do, do it with our _might_. I tell you, my friends, our path is clear before us, and we are sinning if we turn out of it. Suppose we are afflicted, suppose our loved ones are taken from us; we may weep, for Jesus wept. But we must not throw down our appointed work, and sit with idle hands and gloomy regret, while the precious time slips by. The mourner who stays in her darkened room, and refuses to interest herself in anything but her sorrow, is far less a Christian mourner than she who goes forth to take up her tasks again, thinking of her lost ones as only 'gone before.'
"Those of us who have dull lives, with neither the sunshine nor the thunder-cloud to vary the monotonous gray of our horizon, must still strive to perform faithfully our uninteresting duties. We must not murmur over our lot, or think we are fitted for better things; we are not so fitted if the Lord keeps us there. There is, perhaps, some fatal weakness in our character which needs just that routine; we must learn patience and humility in the world, not _out_ of it. _Here_ is our school-house. _This_ is our appointed lesson.
"The old, also, who are full of eagerness to go,--they, too, are wrong. To them, life with its joys and sorrows, its labor and care, is over, and they look uneasily around them; their occupation is gone. Perhaps they were busy workers, and it is hard to be idle; perhaps they were self-reliant, and it is hard to become a care to others; perhaps they have had powerful intellects, and it is hard to endure the consciousness that their mental powers are failing, day by day. Still, there is one duty remaining, and that they must learn. It is this: to wait. To wait patiently for the Lord in the world in which He has placed them. And this is, sometimes, the hardest duty of a long life.
"My friends, I cannot too heartily condemn the spirit of scorn for this world which we sometimes meet among Christians. The world is full of beauty. God Himself pronounced it very good. The evil, and the sorrow in it, are owing to man. What can be more fair than this very summer afternoon? What more beautiful than that lake, with those white clouds heaped over the horizon? Let us enjoy it, and praise God for His goodness; it is ungrateful not to admire and love His tender care for us in every flower by the roadside, in every tree that shades the heated land. I say, then, love this fair world; notice its beauties; take pleasure in the gifts it offers to you, its fruits and its flowers, its spring-time and harvest. Learn to admire them; thank God for them, and teach your children to appreciate them. The same words apply here which the beloved disciple used in reference to our love for our fellow-men: 'For he that loveth not his brother whom he hath seen, how can he love God whom he hath not seen?' That is, if we have never tried to love on earth, if our hearts have never been softened by unselfish affection for those of our own household, how can we expect to love in heaven? And, in the same manner, it seems to me that if we scorn this world, if we neglect the innocent pleasures it offers us, and never pause to admire and love its beauties, it will be very hard for us to love the Celestial country. We must learn to love here on earth if we would love in heaven.
"My friends, the text is a part of our Saviour's last prayer before he entered the garden of Gethsemane. He was praying for his disciples, so soon to be left to temptation and danger. Notice the words: 'I pray not that thou shouldest take them out of the world, but that thou shouldest keep them from the evil.' He did not ask that they should be taken _away_ from the earth, but that strength should be given them to fulfil their duty _on_ the earth; they were men, the earth was their home, and on the earth were their duties.
"And so it is with us now. We have our work to do, and the time is none too long to accomplish it; every day brings its task and the man who stays among his fellows, doing his part with energy, actuated by firm religious principles, is a far better Christian than he who shuts himself up apart, scorning the fair world, unmindful of the suffering he might relieve, neglecting his own plain duties, and occupied only with his own brooding thoughts and gloomy self-analysis.
"No, my friends; we are not to be taken out of the world until our Lord so wills, we must not think of it, must not pray for it. He knows best. And, while He leaves us on the earth, let us work with all our might. Let us see to it that our faith is earnest, and that our gratitude and praise are expressed in our daily lives.
"I fear we do not think sufficiently of the great part which praise should hold in our worship; whereas if there is any lesson taught us by the whole created universe, and by the long testimony of holy men from the beginning of the world until now, it is this: 'Praise ye the Lord. Let everything that hath breath praise the Lord.'"
Such were some of the points in Mr. Leslie's sermon. He spoke in a direct manner, using all the powers of eloquence which nature and cultivation had given him, but his ideas were plain and his words simple, and the charm of the discourse lay in its earnestness. He spoke as though his heart was in his words; and so it was. Another great attraction was that his sermons were short; before the attention of the congregation flagged in the least, the sermon was done. There was no looking at watches, no stifled yawning, no uneasy change of position, no watching the clock; strangers visiting the chapel listened, at first, from real interest, with a feeling that by-and-by they would relapse into their usual listlessness, but before they had time to _relapse_, behold the sermon was done. This afternoon there was the accustomed attention, and then after the closing hymn, the congregation streamed out into the late afternoon again to enjoy the quiet of the Sabbath, the working-man's blessed day of rest.
The party from the old stone house walked homeward by a circuitous route, taking in the bank of the lake on their way. Here on the grassy slope they found a religious service going on, under the direction of the Young Men's Christian Association, and they lingered to hear the final hymn which sounded sweetly on the evening breeze with the pathos of open-air music. The lake looked very beautiful, the sinking sun lay behind a screen of white clouds, and in the distance vessels could be seen sailing gayly before the wind with all their canvas up, or beating up against it with the patience that belongs to inland navigation. Towards the west extended the headland of Stony Point, and still farther the faint outline of White River beach, looking like an enchanted island floating in the sky.
"The lake looks very beautiful this evening," said Aunt Faith; "it makes one think of the sea of glass mingled with fire."
"It is treacherous with all its beauty," said Bessie; "these fresh-water seas cannot be relied upon for two hours at a time. They are more dangerous than the ocean."
"You make too much of the little ponds," said Hugh.
"They may be ponds," returned Bessie, "but they are deep enough to drown men, and cruel enough to tear vessels to pieces. I should feel safer on the ocean in a storm than on our lake, for there you can run away from it, or scud before it, but here there is no place to run to, no offing, and always a lee shore."
"Where did you learn your nautical terms?" said Hugh, laughing, as they turned towards home.
"You may laugh, Hugh, but I am in earnest. You have not watched the storms as I have; you do not know how suddenly they come. Even in the summer, a speck of a cloud will grow into a thunder-storm in a few minutes, and in the autumn the gales are fearful. I remember last year in September, two vessels were lost in plain sight from the bank where we were standing a moment ago. One came driving down the lake at daylight and went ashore on the spiles of the old pier; the crew were all lost, we saw them go down before our eyes. The next, a fine three-master, came in about noon and anchored off the harbor, hoping that the wind might go down before night; but, as the gale increased, the captain made an attempt to enter the river. The vessel missed and ran ashore below; only two of the men were rescued, for the surf was tremendous."
"Well, Bessie, are there not wrecks at sea, also?"
"Yes; but one expects danger on the great ocean, whereas here on the Lakes, a stranger would not dream of it."
"As far as that goes," said Hugh, "a fall down-stairs might kill a man quite as effectually as a fall from Mount Blanc."
"But he would so much prefer the latter," said Bessie.
"Well,--for hair-splitting differences, give me a young lady of sixteen," said Hugh as they rejoined the others. "Aunt Faith, you have no idea how romantic Bessie is!"
"Oh yes, I have!" said Aunt Faith smiling. "A girl who plays the harp as Bessie plays, and who paints such pictures as Bessie paints, must necessarily be both romantic and poetical; and I use both adjectives in their best sense."
Bessie colored at Aunt Faith's praise. "I only play snatches, and paint fragments," she said quickly.
"I know it, my dear," replied her aunt; "that is your great fault, you do not finish your work. But I hope you will correct this defect, and give us the pleasure of--" "Of hearing you play one tune entirely through, and seeing one picture entirely finished: before old age deafens and blinds our senses," interrupted Hugh, laughing. "You don't know the studio as well as I do, Aunt Faith; there are heads without bodies, and bodies without heads, but no poor unfortunate is completely finished. Sometimes I think Bessie is studying the antique. Antiques, you know, are generally dismembered."
Bessie had now quite recovered her composure; praise disconcerted her, but she _was_ accustomed to raillery, and parried Hugh's attack with her usual spirit. They reached the old stone house before sunset, and soon assembled in the dining-room for the pleasant meal which might be called a tea-dinner, or a dinner-tea, although not exactly corresponding to either designation. Tom and Gem had returned from Sunday School some time before, and since then they had been absorbed in reading their library-books, their customary employment at that hour. After the meal was over, the family went into the sitting-room and seated themselves near the open windows. They rarely attended evening service, although they were at liberty to go if they pleased; the church was at some distance, and Aunt Faith always kept the children with her on Sunday evening, so that generally they were all at home, talking quietly, reading, or singing sacred music; this last occupation giving pleasure to all, as the five cousins were naturally fond of music, and Aunt Faith had taken care that their taste should be rightly directed and enlarged.
"I went into the brick church a few Sundays ago," said Hugh, "but I do not like the choir there at all. They sing nothing but variations."
"What do you mean?" asked Sibyl.
"Why, when I hear a lady playing a long uninteresting piece of music, it always turns out to be something with variations. That choir is just the same; everything they sing is long and unintelligible. I wonder at the patience of the congregation in listening to it. However they had a doxology after the sermon, sung--to the tune of 'Old Hundred;' everybody joined in and let off their feelings in that way. It acted as a sort of safety-valve."
"There is nothing in worship so inspiring as congregational singing," said Aunt Faith, "and I always wonder why it is not general in our churches."
"It is difficult to introduce it when the people are not accustomed to it," said Sibyl; "only a particular kind of music can be sung, broad, plain tunes with even notes like 'Old Hundred,' or the German Chorals. Then the organist must understand his duties thoroughly; he has to supply the harmony and lead the congregation at the same time."
"The music in a church depends greatly upon the pastor," said Bessie. "If his musical ideas are correct, and his taste good, his choir will be good also."
"Not always," said Hugh, laughing; "choirs are apt to be despotic. I remember when I was at Green Island, last summer, I used to go up to the little fort chapel to attend service on Sunday; I knew the chaplains quite well. One Sunday I was late; as I went in, the choir were busy with something in the way of music. I have no idea what it was, but it went on and on, seemingly a race between the soprano and tenor, with occasional bursts of hurried sentences from the alto and bass, until my patience and ears were weary. The next day I met the chaplain, and, in the course of conversation, I spoke of the music the previous day. 'Was it an anthem or a motet?' I asked."
"Oh, don't ask me," said the old gentleman, lifting his hands and shaking his head; "I have not the least idea myself. They had been at it a long time when you came in!"
"Poor chaplain!" said Bessie, laughing.
As sunset faded into twilight, Sibyl took her seat at the organ, the cousins gathered around her, and the evening singing began. They all had their favorites, and sang them in turn, beginning with Gem's, and ending with Aunt Faith's, which was Wesley's beautiful hymn, "Jesus, Saviour of my Soul." Hugh selected, "Brightest and Best of the Sons of the Morning;" Sibyl, "Luther's Judgment Hymn;" and Bessie, "Come ye Disconsolate," in order that Hugh should sing the solo. Aunt Faith sat by the window and listened, looking out into the night, and thinking of her circle of loved ones beyond the stars.
The young voices sang on from hymn to chant, from chant to anthem, and from anthem back to simple choral. At nine o'clock Tom and Gem went to bed, and at half-past nine, Sibyl closed the organ and said "good-night;" Aunt Faith was left with Bessie and Hugh, who joined her on the broad-cushioned window-seat and looked out with her into the night. "I like the darkness of a summer night," said Hugh; "how bright the stars are!"
"We do not know where heaven is," said Aunt Faith, "but it is a natural thought that our loved and lost are 'beyond the stars.' We too shall go there some day. How beautiful and happy our life will be, there! How precious the certainty of our hope!"
"That is what Mr. Leslie said to-day," said Bessie.
"I liked that sermon," said Hugh; "what he said about the beauty of this world, and the plain duty of taking our faithful, active share in the work of this world, struck me as sensible and true. Perhaps I am uncharitable, but I cannot understand the religion that sits apart and makes life miserable with its gloomy asceticism."
"I liked what he said about love," said Bessie; "that if we do not love here on earth, it will be very hard to love in heaven. I wonder if people could love each other better if they tried. That is, whether one could learn love as one learns patience, by steady trying."
"Oh, no," said Hugh; "love is not to be learned! It comes naturally."
"I think you are mistaken, Hugh," said Aunt Faith. "I think love may be acquired. At least it may grow from a little seed to a great tree, with proper care. If we earnestly try to see all the good traits in a friend, we shall end by loving him at last. And if we earnestly try to care for some helpless, dependent person, we shall end by loving that person very dearly. Don't you remember your flying-squirrel, Hugh? You did not care much for the little thing, when you found it on the ground, but, as you took care of it and held it in your warm hands, night after night, to keep it warm, you grew to love it very dearly, and when it died I remember very well how you cried, although you were quite a large boy."
"Poor little Frisky!" said Hugh; "when I brought in a branch and put him on it, how he capered about; and then he was so cunning! Do you remember, Aunt Faith, how one day I left him in your care, shut up in his basket, while I went down town. When I came back and asked about him, you said, 'Oh, he's safe in his basket. I think he must be asleep he is so quiet.' And all the while you were speaking, the little scamp was looking at me with his bright eyes out from under your arm as you sat sewing! I was very fond of Frisky; I have never had a pet since."
"You loved him because you had tended him so carefully," said Aunt Faith. "It is the same feeling, intensified, that influences and inspires many of the weary fathers and mothers we see around us. Mr. Leslie was right. It is better to patiently fulfil our earthly duties, no matter how dull or how hard, as long as we are on the earth, than to sit apart nourishing lofty ideas and sighing for release. That sentence which Mr. Leslie took for his text has always been a favorite of mine. Do you care to hear some verses I once made upon it?"
"Oh, yes, Aunt Faith!" said Hugh and Bessie eagerly.
Aunt Faith took a little blank-book from her desk and read as follows:-- "St. John; 17th Chapter, 15th Verse.
"I pray not that thou shouldest take them out of the world."
"Not out of the world, dear Father, With duties and vows unfulfilled, With life's earnest labors unfinished, Ambition and passion unstilled; Not out of the world, dear Father, Until we have faithfully tried To burnish the talent Thou gavest, And gain other talents beside, Not out of the world, kind Father, But rather our lowly life spare, While those Thou hast lent us from heaven Are needing our tenderest care; Not out of the world, kind Father, While dear ones are trusting our arm To work for them hourly, and save them From poverty, terror, and harm.
Not out of the world, good Father, Until we have suffered the loss Of self-loving ease and indulgence In willingly bearing the Cross; Not out of the world, good Father, Till bowed with humility down, The weight of the Cross is forgotten In the golden light of the Crown.
Not out of the world, our Father, Until we have fought a good fight,-- Until to the last we have guarded The lamp of Thy Faith burning bright; Until the long course is well finished, Until the hard race has been won, And we hear, as we rest from our labors, Well done, faithful servant, well done."
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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7
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THE PICNIC.
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"Monday morning, bright and early, what shall we do to-day?" chanted Gem, as she entered the dining-room.
"Yes; what shall we do?" repeated Tom; "something out of the common run, of course, for it's vacation, and besides, it will be so hot pretty soon that _we can't_ do anything,--and Hugh's going to New York in the fall,--and Sibyl's going to Saratoga before long, and when _I_ enter college, of course I shan't care about such things any more; so I've got to hurry up."
"Bravo, Tom! you've made out a strong case!" said Hugh, laughing, "Aunt Faith cannot resist such a mountain of arguments!"
"I do not intend to resist anything reasonable," said Aunt Faith, smiling; "what do you wish to do, Tom?"
"Tableaux!" said Gem, excitedly.
"No; I veto that instanter," said Tom, decidedly. "Girls always want to dress up in old feathers and things, and call themselves kings and queens! For my part, I'm tired of being 'Captain John Smith,' and the 'Sleeping Beauty in the Wood.'"
"May I ask when you took the last-named character?" said Hugh.
"He never took it at all," said Gem, indignantly; "Annie Chase was the Princess, and she looked perfectly beautiful with her sister's satin dress, and pearls, and--" "There you go!" interrupted Tom; "fuss and feathers, silks and satins! I was the 'Prince,' wasn't I? and that's the very same thing! Besides, I've been 'Cupid' over and over again, because I'm the only one who can hang head downward from the clothes-line as though I was flying. You can't deny that, Gem Morris!"
"You got up one tableau which was really astonishing," said Hugh; "I remember it very well; an inundation, where all the company in clothes-baskets, were paddling with rulers for their very lives. The effect was thrilling!"
"I remember a charade, too, which was really unique," said Sibyl. "The first part was simply little Carrie Fish standing in the middle of the room; the second and last was audible, but not visible, consisting merely of a volley of sneezes behind the scenes. The whole was supposed to be 'Carry-ca-choo,'--or 'Caricature.'"
"It may all be very funny for you people who only have to look on," said Tom; "but _I_ am tired of the whole thing, and I vote for a picnic."
"Oh, Tom!" said Sibyl in dismay, "if tableaux are old, picnics are worn threadbare!"
"I have not had _my_ share in wearing them, then!" said Tom; "I never went to but one picnic in my life, and then I fell in the river, and had to come home before dinner."
"I have attended a great many," said Sibyl, "and the amount of work I have done in washing dishes and drawing water, casts anything but a pleasant reflection. Last year, when we had that mammoth picnic at Long Point, the gentlemen ordered twelve dozen plates, cups, saucers, goblets, spoons, and forks, to be sent out from a crockery store, in order to save trouble; and when I reached the Point in my fresh, white dress, there they were in crates, covered with straw, just as they stood in the warehouse. The guests were expected in half an hour. I was one of the managers, and, after standing a few moments in dismay, we rolled up our sleeves and began. Two gentlemen and two ladies, in gala attire, washing seventy-two dozen dishes in a violent hurry, with a limited supply of water and towels, on an August afternoon with the thermometer at eighty-eight. That is _my_ idea of a picnic!"
The cousins laughed merrily at Sibyl's description, and Bessie said, "I have never been to a 'full-grown picnic,' as Gem calls it. My experience is confined to the days we used to spend out on the lake shore four or five years ago. We no sooner got there, than all the boys disappeared as if by magic, and we had to do all the work, make the fire, draw the water, and cook the dinner, Then the boys would appear on the scene with dripping hair, eat up everything on the table-cloth, like young bears, and off down the bank again until it was time to go home."
"As you are all giving your ideas of a picnic," said Hugh, "_I_ will give you mine. Ride five miles in a jolting wagon in the hot sun, walk five more through tangled underbrush, arrive at the scene; pick up sticks one hour, try to make the fire burn and the kettle boil another hour; and finally sit down very uncomfortably on the ground, with burnt fingers and limp collar, to eat buttered pickles and vinegared bread, and drink muddy coffee; clear everything up, and ruin your clothes with grease-spots, wristbands hopelessly gone; sit down again under a tree, to hear the young lady you _don't_ like read poetry, while the one you do like goes off before your very eyes with your rival; devoured by mosquitoes, gnats and spiders; ice melted and water tepid; another fire to make, more bad coffee, more _grease spots_, and a silver spoon _lost_; hunt for the spoon until dark, and then find it was a mistake; walk back five miles through the underbrush, get into the wagon, perfectly exhausted with heat and fatigue; force yourself to sing until you are as hoarse as a frog, and reach home worn out, wrinkled, haggard, parched with thirst, famished for food, and utterly ruined as to common clothes. That is _my_ idea of a picnic!"
Everybody laughed at this cynical picture, and Aunt Faith said, "I remember just after the war, when a number of our Westerton soldier-boys had returned, it was proposed to celebrate the home-coming by a grand picnic. The project, however, came to the ears of the returned volunteers, and I happened to be present when one of them, Lieutenant John Romer, expressed his opinion. 'See here, Katie,' said he to his sister, 'I understand that you young ladies are getting up a picnic to welcome us back from the war. I wish you would gently extinguish the plan. We have had picnic enough for all our lives; the very sight of a camp-fire and a kettle takes away any romance we may have possessed, and as for out-door coffee, it is fairly hateful to us.'"
"I remember old Deacon Brown used to say, that when, once in ten years, he went to New York to visit his relatives, the first thing they did was to get up a ride into the country for him," said Hugh laughing. "They did not understand that what he wanted was that very bustle and crowd that annoyed them."
"In the mean time," said Tom impatiently, "what has become of my picnic in all this talk?"
"Oh Tom! do you really insist upon it?" said Sibyl with a sigh.
"Of course I do! and the B. B.'s must all be invited, too."
"No, indeed?" said all the family in a chorus, "_that_ is too much."
"I would as soon go into the woods with a set of pirates," said Sibyl.
"They howl so," said Bessie.
"We could never carry enough for them to eat," said Gem.
"I could not take such a responsibility," said Aunt Faith; "something might happen, they might get into the lake."
"They would be sure to get in; they take to the water like young ducks," said Hugh.
Before this mass of testimony, Tom was obliged to give way. "Well," he said, after a pause, "never mind about the B. B.'s so long as you have the picnic."
"Of course we cannot go to-day," began Sibyl.
"Why not?" interposed Tom; "no time like the present. I'll agree to do all the running round; I can run like a tiger."
Sibyl sighed, and glanced out into the sun-shine with a foreboding of heat and freckles.
"Who shall we have?" said Bessie.
"Mr. Leslie will go, I presume," said Aunt Faith; "I know that clergymen often make a holiday of Monday."
Sibyl's face cleared, and she made no further objection to the plan.
"As I do not like to be hurried," continued Aunt Faith, "I propose that we do not start until after dinner; we will have a tea instead of a dinner in the woods, and come home at twilight."
At first Tom objected to this idea, but as the others liked it, he yielded, and the question of invitations was taken up.
"I propose we leave that to Aunt Faith," said Bessie; "if we once begin discussing it, we shall sit here all the morning, for we never can agree."
"Where shall we go?" said Hugh.
Aunt Faith suggested Oak Grove.
"Oh no!" said Tom, "that is too near town. Let us go somewhere ever so far away, so that we shall feel like Robinson Crusoe on a desert island."
Hugh, who had a secret plan for driving a four-in-hand, seconded Tom's idea, and finally it was decided that they should go to Mossy Pond, a beautiful glen ten miles from Westerton, in a rocky region on the lake shore apart from the farming country. Sibyl took the list, and went out to deliver the invitations which Aunt Faith had wisely confined to the immediate neighbor-hood. Mr. Leslie was the only one who lived at some distance, and immediately after the early dinner, Hugh drove over and brought back, as he said, "_vi et armis_." "Here is Mr. Leslie, Aunt Faith," he called, as he opened the dining-room door. "Walk in, sir, if you please." Having thus safely accomplished his charge, Hugh disappeared to arrange the means of transportation. Aunt Faith supposed they were to go in two wagons drawn by their own bays, and Mr. Marr's blacks. She little knew the truth!
Mr. Leslie thus unceremoniously introduced into the family circle, took a seat at the table, and watched the proceedings with amused interest. "Surely we do not need all that coffee, Mrs. Sheldon," he said, as Aunt Faith filled a tin box with the fragrant mixture,--ground coffee and egg all prepared for the boiling water.
"My only fear is that it will not be enough," replied Aunt Faith, with a smile.
"And those biscuits! Do you keep stores for an army on hand night and day?"
"Oh, no; I sent to a bakery for these. But, with all my efforts, I have not been able to get enough cold meat."
"You say that in the face of this mountain of cold tongue? Do we, then, turn into gormandizers by going a few miles into the country?"
"I fear we do, Mr. Leslie," said Bessie, as she packed the loaves of fresh cake in a long basket. "I, for one, am always ravenous; I do not remember that I ever had as much as I wanted at a picnic."
At this moment Sibyl entered the dining-room, and the color rose in her face as she saw the young clergyman at the table. He rose and offered his hand, as he said, "Good-morning, Miss Warrington, we are, I trust to be companions for the day; I shall take good care of you in the wilderness."
John Leslie's way of speaking was often a puzzle to Aunt Faith; he seemed so frank, and yet if he had planned each sentence, he could not have contrived words so well adapted to carry their point. He always seemed confident that Sibyl agreed with him, and that their views coincided on all points. He took the lead, and never seemed to have a doubt but that she would follow, and, when he was present, Sibyl generally did follow; it was only when he was absent that the wide difference in the motives which actuated their lives became clearly visible, and Aunt Faith saw worldliness on one side, and unworldliness on the other, with an apparently impassible gulf between. When Mr. Leslie spoke, therefore, Sibyl smiled, and took a seat by his side while she occupied herself in wrapping up the cups and saucers ready for the hamper which Nanny and Bridget were packing on the back piazza.
At two o'clock everything was ready, and the family assembled on the front piazza to wait for the expected guests. "Are they all coming, Sibyl?" asked Aunt Faith.
"Most of them, aunt. We shall have Edith Chase and Annie, Lida Powers, Walter Hart, Rose Saxon and Graham Marr, Mr. Gay, Gideon Fish, William Mount, and one of the B. B.'s,--Jim Morse."
"Oh, General Putnam!" said Bessie: "so much the better. He will give a military air to the scene."
"Seventeen in all," said Aunt Faith; "the two wagons will be well loaded."
Bessie turned away her head, but not before Mr. Leslie had seen the smile on her face. "Miss Bessie is laughing at the idea of a possible break down," he said: "but for my part I am quite well able to walk home, and even help draw the wagon if necessary."
"Aunt Faith, how could you put Gideon Fish on the list?" said Bessie, as Sibyl and Mr. Leslie strolled off into the garden.
"Because I think you are somewhat unjust to him, Bessie; he has excellent qualities."
"Well, aunt, if you like him, will you be so kind as to entertain him when he comes?" said Bessie impatiently.
"Hey," said Tom, looking up, "Bess is getting mad! What fun!"
"There's Rose Saxon!" said Bessie; "how do you do, Rose? You are the first and shall have the heartiest welcome."
"What has gone wrong, Bessie? There is a wrinkle between your eyes that betokens something vexatious, I know," said Rose, taking a seat on the step.
"It is Gideon Fish," answered Bessie, in a low tone as Aunt Faith went into the sitting-room for a shawl.
"Is _he_ coming?" exclaimed Rose.
"Yes; he was invited, and of course he will not decline when cake and coffee are in question."
"And when Miss Darrell is in question," said Rose, laughing.
"Do not tease, Rose. I am vexed in earnest this time."
"What do you say to having a little fun out of him, Bessie?"
"By all means, if you can extract it from such material."
"Well, then, I have thought of something. Come down in the arbor and I will tell you about it." The two girls walked away, and Aunt Faith was left alone to welcome the guests as they gradually assembled on the piazza. Mr. Gay, the Boston bachelor, was the last to arrive.
"Now we are all here," said Aunt Faith; "I will tell Hugh to have the wagons brought round."
"I will go, Aunt," said Bessie, and running through the house she went down to the stable-yard where Hugh sat expectant in his car of triumph. Slowly the equipage came round the house and drew up in front of the piazza, it was a circus band-wagon, gayly painted, and drawn by four horses, two bays and two blacks, while Hugh as charioteer sat on the high front-seat and held the reins with a practised hand.
"Hugh Warrington!" exclaimed Aunt Faith, "Four horses! I shall never dare to ride after them!"
"Do you suppose we are going to make spectacles of ourselves in that wagon, Hugh?" asked Sibyl scornfully.
"Yes, I suppose you are," replied Hugh, laughing. "Aunt Faith, I have driven a four-in-hand over and over again, so you need not feel alarmed. And, as to the circus-wagon, I consider it the crowning attraction of the picnic."
"Certainly," said Mr. Gay calmly. "The West is a country of new sensations. I vote for the circus-wagon, by all means."
The majority of the guests agreed with Hugh, and climbed into the decorated chariot with great hilarity. Even the fastidious Miss Chase was pleased to be amused with the idea, and quietly secured the seat nearest the driver, which gentle manoeuvre having been observed by Bessie, that wilful young lady took the very last seat at the extreme end of the wagon, and devoted her entire attention to Mr. Walter Hart. The provisions had been sent out in a cart some time previously, and the merry party laughed and talked all the way to Mossy Pond, amused with the sensation they created on the road, amused with themselves, amused with everything; the four-in-hand carried them safely in spite of Aunt Faith's fears, although one of the leaders showed some signs of restlessness, wishing, Hugh said, to have his share of the fun.
Mossy Pond was a small, deep pool, skirted with moss and shaded with evergreens; the brook which issued from it ran down the glen, jumping over the rocks in a series of waterfalls, reaching the lake a quarter of a mile distant where it disappeared under a sand-bar, after the manner of the streams that ran into the western lakes. On the shore the headland was bold, rugged and treeless, commanding a fine view of the water, but back in the glen the shade was dense, and there was a faint spicy odor in the air, coming from the cedars, a rare tree on the fresh-water seas. Altogether it was a wild, secluded spot, and but few of the company had ever visited it, so that the charm of novelty was added to the other attractions, and parties of explorers scaled the rock, penetrated up the glen or down towards the lake shore, coming back with wild-flowers, vines, cones, and mosses,--treasures of the forest by whose aid they transformed themselves into nymphs and woodmen, not even Aunt Faith escaping without a spray of grasses in her hat.
There were however some disadvantages in the wildness of the locality; as there was no shed for the horses. Hugh and Jonas the man-servant were obliged to unharness them and fasten them as well as they could to the trees, not without misgivings as to the result; but the blacks and bays stood quietly eating their dinner, and, at length, leaving them to the care of Jonas, Hugh went back to the glen to assist in making the fire.
"Mr. Warrington, you are not to do anything," said Rose Saxon as he approached; "it is understood that you regard picnics as devices for extracting severe labor from unwilling young men, and we have resolved to convince you of your error. This, sir, is a strong-minded picnic; we are standing upon our rights, and request you to take a back seat upon that log with the other despots, and see us throw off our chains."
On the log, in a row, sat all the gentlemen of the party,--Mr. Gay, Mr. Leslie, Graham Marr, Walter Hart, William Mount, Tom, and "General Putman," Hugh gravely joined the band. "When are you going to throw off the chains, Miss Saxon?" he asked.
"We are throwing them off now. Don't you hear them clank?"
"Not a clank!" said Hugh.
"That is because you do not choose to hear; you will find, sir, that we are _no_ longer down-trodden," said Rose, brandishing a carving-knife which she had just unpacked.
"If there is anything down-trodden here except the grass, I shall like to know it," said Hugh. "For my part I feel quite sorry for the tender little blades under the ruthless tread of fourteen French heels."
Here there was a general laugh, and all the pretty little boots peeping in and out, disappeared as if by magic, all save the sturdy Balmorals of Gem and her friend Annie Chase, darting hither and thither in search of sticks.
The ladies were very busy. They were going to make a fire, and such a fire! They were going to make coffee, and such coffee. The supper was to be altogether unparalleled in picnic annals, and it was to be prepared by feminine hands alone.
"See how glorious it burns!" exclaimed Rose, as the first flame shot up from the pile of sticks.
"See how gloriously it smokes!" said Hugh, as the fickle blaze vanished, and Rose inhaled a puff of the stinging smoke.
"I can make it burn!" said Bessie, coming to the rescue with fresh newspapers. A match,--another blaze,--another cry of exultation,--another failure, and a red burn on Bessie's hand to mark it.
"Let me try," said Edith Chase, kneeling gracefully beside the obstinate pile. More newspapers, more flames, more smoke, ending in another failure, and a grimy mark on Miss Chase's delicate dress.
"Oh ye strong-minded!" said Hugh, jumping up, and lifting the pile of sticks; "don't you know that you cannot start a fire in the sunshine? Down under this stump, now, it will burn like a _furnace_." So saying, Hugh rearranged the fuel, while Rose coughed, Edith furtively rubbed her dress, and Bessie bound up her burned hand in her handkerchief. At this moment Sibyl came into view, carrying a pail of water. Mr. Leslie got up and took the pail out of her hand in spite of her objections. "It is too heavy for you," he said decidedly; "don't attempt anything of the kind again, I beg."
"The kettle must be hung up," said Lida Powers, coming forward with a tea-kettle in her hand. Will Mount and Walter Hart understood this duty, while Gideon Fish and Mr. Gay laid the cloth, the former eyeing the cake with pleasant anticipation.
"It seems to me, young ladies, that the gentlemen are doing the work after all," said Aunt Faith.
"Of course, aunt," said Hugh, blowing his fire with a scarlet face: "did I not predict we should have to work like slaves."
"The meat! The meat! Turk has got the meat!" cried Gem from a neighboring rock, where she and Annie where making wreaths of wild flowers. There was a general exclamation of dismay as the curly back of the old depredator was seen through the trees making off with the booty. "How did Turk get here?" asked Aunt Faith; "Tom, I suspect you are the culprit!"
"Well, aunt, I just thought I'd let him come out with Jones and the cart; they might be of use, you know, in case of tramps or gipsies."
"They! You do not mean to say all the dogs are here?"
But doubt was soon dispelled by the appearance of Pete Trone in person, attracted by the provisions spread out upon the ground. Too well-bred to snatch,--for, as Tom said, "Pete was a truly gentlemanly dog,"--Pete sat upon his hind legs with fore paws drooping on his breast, eying the company gravely as if to call attention to his polite demeanor. "He certainly is a funny little fellow," said Rose Saxon, as Hugh gave the terrier a fragment of cake.
"He is the wisest dog I ever saw," said Hugh.
"There is no end to his knowledge. I was fishing one day last summer down over the dam at Broad River, and caught a large cat-fish. My line was too slender to haul him up, and I was considering what to do when, much to my astonishment, Pete jumped over, ran out on the stones, and caught the struggling fish in his mouth. That was the first time I ever heard of a dog going fishing."
"The rascal seems to reason, too. Once I belonged to the choir, you remember, and of course I could not allow Pete to go to rehearsals, although he was in the habit of following me almost everywhere else. So, after many futile attempts to send him back, and consequent annoyance at the church, one Saturday before starting, I shut him up in the carriage-house and fastened the door. I looked back several times but saw nothing of Pete, and was congratulating myself upon the success of my plan, when, just before I reached the church, at the corner of Huron and South Streets, there he was waiting for me. He had escaped, gone down town another way, and did not show himself until I was so far from home that he knew I would not take him back. Then, what did he do, as soon as he saw me coming, but up on his hind legs with the most deprecating air, sitting there, a ridiculous little black image on the pavement, so that everybody laughed to see him."
The meal was a merry one although the meat was gone and the cream sour; there was an abundance of cake, the coffee was strong, and the good spirits of the company supplied the rest.
"There is no more sugar for your coffee, Mr. Warrington," said Edith Chase, as she poured out Hugh's second cup.
"Smile on it, please," said Hugh, gayly.
"Now, Miss Chase, if you neglect my cup any longer," said Walter Hart, "I shall grow desperate; I shall be obliged to give you--" "Fitz," interrupted Hugh.
"Bad puns are excluded from this picnic," said Rose Saxon; "and, by the way, Mr. Warrington, why do you drop the first syllable of your name?"
"Because it is never pronounced rightly," said Hugh; "it is either called 'Fitz-He-yew,' or 'Fitchew.'"
"Pronunciation is a matter of taste," said Mr. Leslie, laughing. "A lady once asked me if I did not think Walter Scott's _Rock-a-by_ was a 'sweet thing.' At first I supposed she was alluding to some cradle-song with which I was not familiar, and it was sometime before I discovered that she meant _Rokeby_."
"I have often been puzzled myself with the names of books," said Aunt Faith. "Years ago there was a book published called _Ivar or the Skujts-boy_? I liked it but I never dared to venture on the name."
"And since then," said Mr. Gay, "the names of the heroes and heroines in magazine-stories are really astonishing. The favorite letter, now is 'Y.' They have 'y's' in the most unexpected places. Such names as 'Vivian' and 'Willis,' for instance. They spell them 'Vyvyan' and 'Wyllys'" The meal over, the company dispersed through the woods. Graham Marr took a book from his pocket. "Miss Warrington," he said, in his slow way, "I have brought out a new poem; if you care to hear it, there is a mossy rock which will make an admirable sofa."
Sibyl smiled and accepted this proposal, seating herself on a heap of shawls, and looking at languid Graham as he read, with much apparent interest.
Mr. Leslie was sitting by Aunt Faith's side under the trees at some distance. "Mrs. Sheldon, I have a plan for yourself and Miss Warrington," he said, after a pause. "You have been kind enough to take an interest in Margaret Brown, and I know you will like to help her through the summer. The warm weather is telling on her strength; she has not been able to sew as steadily as usual, and she needs an entire rest. Do you think you could, between you, advance her a small sum of money? She will repay you with her work in the fall."
"I shall be glad to help her," said Aunt Faith; "I consider it a precious opportunity to help a truly deserving woman."
"And Miss Warrington will aid her also," said Mr. Leslie. Aunt Faith looked towards the rock and caught the smile with which Sibyl received some remark of the reader's.
"I cannot answer for Sibyl," she said gravely; "she is going soon to Saratoga, and she is much occupied with her preparations."
"To Saratoga?" repeated Mr. Leslie; "I was not aware of that. Will she be long away?"
"It is uncertain how long; she may return home for a short visit before she goes to Washington for the winter," replied Aunt Faith. "I shall miss her, but I must make up my mind to losing her before long. Sibyl is very fond of fashionable life and gayety." Aunt Faith spoke with a purpose; she wished to open the young clergyman's eyes to her niece's faults.
Mr. Leslie did not reply immediately; after a while he rose and stood leaning against a tree. "Mrs. Sheldon," he said, looking down at her with a smile, "you will not lose Sibyl."
"What do you mean, Mr. Leslie?"
"Only this; she will not go to Saratoga," replied the clergyman, walking away towards the ravine.
"Well!" thought Aunt Faith, as she recovered from her astonishment, "if I did not know Sibyl so well, I should be inclined to think Mr. Leslie was right. If any one can break through her worldliness, he can; but I fear it is too strong even for him."
In the meanwhile the rest of the party were loitering in the glen by the brook. Gideon Fish after gorging himself with jelly-cake, was inclined to be sportive.
"Oh!" he cried, throwing himself back upon the moss, "I feel like a child let loose from school! Let us indulge our lighter natures; let us for once give up deep thought! Mr. Leslie, it will do _you_ good also. I remember once when some of my college-mates happened to meet at our house last summer, we were sitting on the piazza talking together, and all unwittingly we got so deep down among the ponderous mysteries of psychology; so wrought with the mighty thoughts evolved from our own brains; so uplifted in grappling with gigantic reasonings, that, fearful for our very sanity, we rushed out upon the lawn like children; we rolled upon the grass; we found a ball and tossed to each other; anything,--anything to keep ourselves down to earth."
"But, Gideon," said Mr. Leslie, smiling, "my reason is in no danger of any such overthrow. I never climbed to such heights as you describe."
"Probably not; very few, if any, mortal minds have ever ascended as high as ours did that afternoon," replied Gideon. "Miss Darrell, I see a delicate little tendril on the other side of the brook. Shall we go over and pluck it?"
"No," said Bessie, shortly; "I don't care for tendrils."
"I will go with you, Mr. Fish," said Rose Saxon rising, and of course Gideon was obliged to accompany her, although she was not the companion he preferred. As Rose turned away, she looked meaningly at Bessie, who started, and then smiled to herself. After five or ten minutes when the tendril-hunters had disappeared on the other side of the glen, Bessie suddenly proposed that they should all cross over, and, after some persuasion, she succeeded in getting the whole party across the brook. Then she lured them on slowly, turning here and there, until she caught the sound of voices. "Hush!" she said, "what is that?" They all stopped, and distinctly heard Rose Saxon's voice, somewhat louder than usual, coming from behind some high bushes. "No, Mr. Fish!" she said, emphatically, "it can never be. I must request you to say no more; this subject must be set at rest forever." Then they heard Gideon; "Excuse me Miss Saxon, but--" "Not another word, Mr. Fish!" interrupted Rose, cutting short his sentence. "I would not wound you needlessly, but we are not suited to each other. I have long known your secret,--I have tried to ward off this avowal,--I beg you to say no more."
"Miss Saxon, I assure you--" began Gideon, in an agitated voice, but Rose stopped him again; "Mr. Fish, if you _will_ persist in speaking, I must leave you," she said, pushing aside the bushes and disclosing the party on the other side to her companion's gaze. "What, Bessie! --all of you here? How very embarrassing!" Gideon Fish gave one look at the company and then turned and retreated down the glen; when he was out of hearing, the two girls ran away into the wood to indulge in a hearty laugh. They made no confessions to the others, but every one suspected the truth, and when poor Gideon returned to take them aside, one by one, and assure them that he had "no idea what Miss Saxon meant," that he "admired her exceedingly, but as for anything serious the thought had never occurred to him," that he was "speaking to her of the tendrils, when suddenly, without any connection, she began talking in the most singular way," his auditors would laugh merrily and turn away, leaving Gideon more miserable than ever.
"My good fellow," said Hugh gravely, when his turn came, "let me give you a piece of advice. Don't try to back out of it now. We all heard you; and we all feel for you. Miss Saxon is a charming young lady, but if she does not like you, you must bear it like a man."
"But I never intended,--I never thought of such a thing,--it is all a mistake!" stammered the unfortunate Gideon.
"Of course it was a mistake," replied Hugh. "You thought she liked you and she didn't. If I was you I wouldn't say any more about it."
So poor Gideon got but cold comfort in his trouble. He wandered about looking half-angry, half-perplexed; he almost began to think he had said something to Rose, after all!
"The mighty thoughts evolved from his brain are in some confusion, I fear," whispered Bessie to Rose; "he will have no trouble in keeping himself down to earth _this_ afternoon, I think."
After some hours, the party assembled in the glen to join in a round game. "It is very dark," said Aunt Faith, looking up through the thick foliage; "I fear we are going to have a storm."
"Let us run down to the lakeshore and look," said Bessie, and several of the young people started down the glen, followed by the rest of the party at a slower pace; all but Sibyl who still remained on the rock with Graham Marr.
When they reached the beach, a threatening expanse of sky and water met their gaze; the lake was unusually still, but its blue changed into a leaden gray, and out in the west a white streak followed by a black line told of the approaching squall. In the south, and east, the sky was clear and summer-like, but from the north-west great clouds came rolling up, looking black and menacing, and the air was oppressively close.
"A thunder-storm!" said Hugh, "and close upon us too!"
"Oh, I am so terribly afraid of thunder!" said Edith Chase, turning pale. "What shall we do?"
"Why did we not notice the storm before?" said Aunt Faith, in dismay; "it must have been some time coming up."
"No, Aunt," said Bessie; "probably not more than ten minutes. That is what I mean when I call the western lakes treacherous; the changes are so sudden."
"You are right, Miss Darrell," said Mr. Gay, looking over the dark water with an uneasy expression in his face; "I don't think much of these fresh water mill-ponds. On the ocean, now, we know what to expect."
"Isn't there some house near by, Hugh?" asked Aunt Faith.
"No, Aunt. I selected this place because it was so solitary, you remember; there is no house within two miles."
"Could we not get there, by driving rapidly, before the storm reaches us?" said Mr. Gay, mindful of his rheumatism.
"I am afraid not, sir," replied Hugh: "it would take some time to harness the horses, and besides, the house is not on the road, but across the fields towards the south."
"What _shall_ we do?" said Edith Chase, as the sullen water began to break with a low sound on the beach at her feet.
"The lake is beginning to growl already," said Hugh. "Come, Aunt Faith, let us go back to the woods; we will make the best shelter we can for you, all. A summer thunder-storm is not such a terrible disaster after all."
"We can't trim up the wagon with all the beautiful wreaths we made," lamented Gem. "It's too bad!"
"The shower will prevent the show," said Hugh, laughing.
"Why is Hugh like Tennyson's Brook," said Rose Saxon, as the party made their way back to the glen.
"Because he is _idyl_," said Bessie.
"Good, but not correct. Because he,-- 'Chatters, chatters, as he goes, Till all our nerves do quiver,-- For we may talk, or we may stop, But Hugh puns on forever, Ever, Hugh puns on forever.'"
sang Rose, taking up the well-known air as she sprang over the rocks in advance of the rest.
"We shall have to make an impromptu wigwam under the shelter of those rocks and beech-trees," said Mr. Leslie, collecting the shawls and water-proof cloaks; "the foliage of the beech is very thick, and the rock will protect you from the west, in which direction the storm is coming. Mr. Marr, please throw down those shawls."
"What is the matter, Mr. Leslie?" said Sibyl, descending from her perch.
"A thunder-storm!" said Hugh, "and close upon us, too!"
"Surely, then, you are not thinking of remaining here under the trees," said Graham Marr, hastily putting on his water-proof coat.
"The ladies will be in more danger from the drenching rain, than from the lightning," replied Mr. Leslie, breaking down branches for his wigwam. "Here, Jonas! Jonas! have you a hatchet there?"
But Jonas did not answer, and Hugh, upon going up to the platform, discovered that he had started homeward with his cart, having first harnessed the four-in-hand. The horses were standing tied to the trees, but they looked uneasy, and one of the leaders pawed the ground restlessly. "I shall have to stay here with them," thought Hugh, "or they may break away when the storm strikes them." He ran back and called over the edge of the cliff. "Jonas has gone home, Mr. Leslie, and I shall be obliged to stay with the horses; but here is the hatchet."
"Very well!" said the clergyman, catching the hatchet with the dexterity of an Indian as Hugh threw it down; "go back to the horses, Mr. Warrington. We can attend to the ladies."
Under his direction an impromptu wigwam was speedily built of long boughs, with the high rock as a background; this was thatched with bushes, and the shawls and cloaks spread over the whole as the first muttering of thunder was heard. "Oh!" said Edith Chase, "what shall I do? I cannot stand the lightning!"
"Come inside with me!" said Aunt Faith; "you can hide your head in my lap."
The ladies hurried inside the wigwam, Aunt Faith, Sibyl, Rose Saxon, Edith Chase, Lida Powers, Bessie, Annie Chase and Gem.
"I see there is room for the gentlemen, too," said Gideon Fish, creeping in.
"I really think we had better all be together," said Graham Marr, following his example.
"Tom!" called Aunt Faith, pulling aside a cloak that formed part of the wall, "come inside directly."
"Oh, Aunt Faith! we've found a splendid cave up here; it holds Jim and me first-rate," answered a voice from above.
"They've squeezed themselves into a little cranny in the rock, Mrs. Sheldon," said Mr. Leslie, looking up and laughing to see the 'splendid cave;' "I think they will keep dry by force of compression."
"Aren't you coming inside, Mr. Mount?" said Lida Powers.
"No. I shall go and help Hugh with the horses; you had better come too, Walter. We may have some trouble with them."
"Mr. Leslie, you will join us, I hope?" said Rose Saxon, peeping out from between the leaves.
"I think not, Miss Rose. I am hardened, you know; I have camped out in winter storms too many times to dread a July shower. But I insist upon Mr. Gay's going inside. The 'Boston man' will now have an opportunity; he can 'to a wigwam with a squaw go,'" quoted Mr. Leslie, helping the old bachelor under the overhanging branches.
In a few moments the storm was upon them; first a tornado of wind, then intense and almost continuous lightning, followed by heavy rolling thunder. Edith Chase trembled, and buried her face in her hands.
"This war of the elements affects my nerves," whispered Graham to Sibyl, by whose side he was crouching.
"Does it?" she replied coldly; "I was not aware you were so timid."
Then came the rain, falling in sheets, the drenching torrent of a summer thunder-shower. In spite of the foliage, the wet began to penetrate the wigwam; Sibyl, who sat on the outside of the huddled circle, felt the drops on her shoulder through her light dress.
"Take this coat, Miss Warrington," said Mr. Leslie, stooping down and parting the branches.
"Oh no!" replied Sibyl; "you need it more than I do."
But the coat was thrown around her, and Mr. Leslie was gone before she could remonstrate.
At last, after half an hour, the fury of the storm was over, but the rain still fell steadily.
"I am afraid it will not clear immediately," said Mr. Leslie, coming to the wigwam entrance; "I have been down to the lake, and the sky looks as though we should have a wet night."
"How dark it is!" said Aunt Faith; "What time is it?"
"Half-past seven," said Mr. Leslie, looking at his watch.
"Oh, how shall we ever get home?" sighed Edith Chase.
"We had better start immediately, I think," said Mr. Gay; "it will be very unpleasant to ride in the darkness as well as in the rain."
"And the horses!" said Lida Powers; "I hope they will be quiet. That black was inclined to dance a little when we came out."
"Now, ladies!" said Mr. Leslie, coming towards the wigwam again, "I have been up on the plateau; the horses are ready, and the sooner we start the better, as more black clouds are gathering in the west. Mrs. Sheldon, let me help you up the bank."
"Oh, Mr. Leslie, how wet you are!" exclaimed Aunt Faith, as she emerged from the wigwam. "Where is your coat?"
"Miss Warrington has it," he replied; "I made her take it."
"Here it is, Mr. Leslie," said Sibyl, stepping from under cover.
"Keep it, Sibyl," said the clergyman in a low tone. "It gives me pleasure to see you protected."
"It is still raining steadily, I perceive," said Graham Marr, peeping out from the sheltering branches; "don't you think we had better remain here awhile longer, ladies?"
"The rain won't wash us away, Graham," said his cousin Rose.
"It washes out dyes, however? and shows us all in our true colors," whispered Bessie to Lida Powers. "Look at Graham! He looks like a faded ray!"
"He always was a fair-weather piece of goods," answered Lida; "high color, you know, don't stand soaking."
Reaching the wagon, the company climbed inside, the cushions had been kept dry, but the floor was wet, and the rain still fell with the persistence that betokens what farmers call a "steady soaker." Edith Chase sat with Aunt Faith at the rear end of the wagon, but Bessie in Edith's old place, felt her spirits rising with every plunge of the restless leaders.
"Do you think you can manage them, Hugh?" she whispered, just before they started.
"I hope so," he replied confidently. But the blacks had had their nerves tried by the flies, the thunder, and the lightning; besides, they had never been driven four-in-hand before, and they had their doubts as to what the bays were doing behind them. For the first mile or two they kept the road, and then they whirled suddenly round to the left, and stood still.
"Oh!" cried Edith Chase, "we shall all be killed!"
However, after some persuasion, the blacks started on again as suddenly as they had stopped, for wonderful are the ways of balky horses. But the increasing darkness brought new terror; black clouds settled down over the earth and the narrow, winding road grew invisible before them. After several more miles a flash of lightning and a peal of thunder startled the party, the leaders veered round again, jumping violently, and carrying the wagon perilously near the gully. William Mount and Walter Hart sprang to the horses' heads, while the ladies screamed in concert. Aunt Faith was an arrant coward where riding was concerned. "I would rather get out and walk all the way home than sit in this wagon a moment longer," she said, earnestly.
"Take me with you, aunt," said Gem, who was crying aloud.
"I will go, too," said Edith Chase, climbing down with alacrity; "it cannot be very far, now."
"We are still four miles from Westerton," said Hugh. "There is no danger, Aunt Faith; do get in again. The horses are only a little balky; they will be quiet soon."
"Do you call that quiet?" said Rose Saxon, as a flash of lightning revealed the plunging leaders with William Mount and Walter Hart at their heads.
"By all means, let us walk," said Graham Marr, getting out quickly.
"Of course if the ladies insist upon walking, it is our duty to accompany them," said Gideon Fish, following his example.
"Mrs. Sheldon," said Mr. Gay, "if you will walk, pray take my arm."
"Miss Darrell, I shall be happy to help you down," said Gideon Fish.
"Thank you, but I shall stay where I am; I am not at all afraid," replied Bessie.
After a few moments, the horses started again; and the walking party plodded along behind; Hugh drove very slowly so as to keep near them, and, in the darkness, Bessie climbed up on the driver's seat beside him. "Bravo, little woman! I knew _you_ would not be afraid," said Hugh.
"Afraid, Hugh! With you!" exclaimed Bessie.
At the other end of the wagon sat Sibyl and Mr. Leslie, who also preferred the wagon to the road. The rain still fell, and the wind had grown cold, but although Sibyl still wore the coat, her companion did not seem to notice his uncovered shoulders. They talked earnestly together in low tones all the way, and when at last the lights of Westerton appeared in the darkness ahead, and the pedestrians, emboldened by these signs of civilization, took their seats in the wagon again, Sibyl's face was so bright that Aunt Faith noticed it. "You do not look at all cold, my dear," she said, as the light from the first street lamps fell across the wagon, "and yet the air is very chilly."
"I fear I shall have an attack of dumb-ague," said Graham Marr, shivering.
Edith Chase sat on the edge of the seat, ready to spring, watching the leaders with intent gaze; as they approached the old stone house she heaved a deep sigh of relief. "I am so glad it is over," she said, audibly.
"I hope you will all come in and have a cup of hot coffee after the exposure," said Aunt Faith, as, one by one, the tired guests climbed down from the circus-wagon.
"We _are_ all so wet, I think we had better go directly home," said Lida Powers.
"Thank you, Mrs. Sheldon," said Edith Chase, "but we really must go directly home; come, Annie."
"Excuse me, Mrs. Sheldon," said Mr. Gay, "but my seventy years require hot flannels. Good-night."
Mr. Leslie had accompanied Sibyl up the long walk to the piazza in order to take back his coat when she was under shelter. All the other guests made their excuses at the gate, all but Gideon Fish, and when Bessie saw him lingering, she pretended to be very obtuse. "Well, as you won't any of you come in, I will say 'good-night' to all of you," she said, closing the gate and turning away. "I couldn't help it, Aunt Faith," she whispered, as they went up the walk; "Gideon wanted some of your coffee, but we have had enough of him for one day, I think." Mr. Leslie, however, put on his coat and took his coffee with the cousins as though unconscious of his wet clothes; Hugh made up a bright wood fire on the hearth, and they all talked over the incidents of the day, and laughed over its disasters together. It is always amusing to look back on discomfort when it is well over.
"Where now is your beautiful 'Monday morning, bright and early,' Tom?" said Aunt Faith, remembering the conversation at the breakfast-table. " _Sic_ transit _gloria Monday_!" said Hugh.
"Incorrigible," said Mr. Leslie, laughing as he said good-night.
|
{
"id": "6679"
}
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8
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RIGHT AT LAST.
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"Sibyl," said Aunt Faith, the day after the picnic, "have you completed all your preparations for Saratoga?"
"You speak as though my going was a matter-of-course, Aunt," said Sibyl slowly.
"Is it not, dear? I supposed your decision was made several weeks ago," said Aunt Faith, thinking of the written paper which Sibyl had given her to read.
"I think I shall go," said Sibyl, after a pause. "Everything is ready but the pearls; I can buy them any time."
"I hope you will enjoy the summer, my dear," said Aunt Faith, taking her niece's hand affectionately.
"Then you approve of my going, Aunt?"
"You must make your own decision, Sibyl. No one can aid you in such a question as this," replied Aunt Faith gravely.
Sibyl sat awhile in silence; then she rose and left the room.
An hour or two afterwards, Bridget came upstairs to tell Aunt Faith that Mr. Leslie wished to see her; she went down, somewhat surprised at so early a call, and found the young clergyman waiting for her in the parlor.
"Mrs. Sheldon," he said, after the first words of greeting, "poor Margaret Brown is in great trouble. You remember our conversation about her yesterday? Calling in to tell her of it this morning, I found two of the children stricken down with fever, seriously ill, the doctor says; and I have come directly to you for aid; to you and Miss Warrington."
"Sibyl has gone out, Mr. Leslie, but I shall be glad to do anything I can. Shall I go there at once, or send a nurse?"
"I hardly know yet; I came to talk the matter over with you. I do not like to ask you to go there, for the fever may be dangerous, and yet Margaret needs sympathy as much as money. Perhaps if they could all be moved into a purer air,--into the country, for instance,--away from that crowded neighborhood, it would be the wisest course."
"But can the sick children bear a journey now?"
"I think they could go a few miles in an easy carriage, but, as they are growing worse every hour, it must be done at once if done at all. Do you know of any farm-house where they could be received for a time?"
"Mr. Green might take them," said Aunt Faith; "he would probably expect ample payment, however. Mr. Leslie, I am sorry I cannot give you _carte blanche_; but owing to outside circumstances, I have but a small sum at my disposal at present."
"We will put our means together, Mrs. Sheldon. I have something laid by, and perhaps Miss Warrington will assist us."
"Sibyl has other uses for her money, I fear."
"Surely none more worthy than this, Mrs. Sheldon."
Aunt Faith grew somewhat impatient. "Mr. Leslie," she said emphatically, "you do not understand my niece."
"I think I understand Miss Warrington's character, and I think she will help Margaret Brown," replied the young clergyman gravely.
At this moment a step on the gravel-walk was heard, and Sibyl herself crossed the piazza and entered the hall.
"Have you been down town, Sibyl?" asked Aunt Faith.
"Yes, aunt," replied Sibyl, coloring slightly, as she returned Mr. Leslie's greeting.
"Have you made any purchases?" continued Aunt Faith, glancing at an oblong box in her niece's hand.
Sibyl hesitated; then, as if impelled by a sudden impulse, she took off the wrapping-paper and opened the case. "I have bought my pearls at last, Aunt Faith. Are they not beautiful?" she said.
The fair jewels lay on a velvet bed, white and perfect, and looking from them to Sibyl's blonde beauty, one could not help noticing their adaptation to each other.
"They are very lovely, my dear," said Aunt Faith, passing the case to Mr. Leslie. He took the jewels, looked at them a moment, and retaining the case in his hand, said, "I came here this morning to ask your assistance in a case of distress, Miss Warrington. Margaret Brown is in need of instant aid; two of the children are ill, and I wish to have them removed into the country, if possible, before they grow worse. I rely upon you to help us."
Sibyl sat with downcast eyes a moment. Then she said in a low voice, "I am sorry, Mr. Leslie; but I have just spent all my spare money upon those pearls."
"The jeweller will take them back; I will arrange it for you, if you wish," said the clergyman, looking at her intently.
The color deepened painfully in Sibyl's cheeks, and the tears came into her eyes, but she did not speak. Aunt Faith saw the struggle, and came to her niece's assistance with her usual kindliness. "You must not expect young ladies to give up their pretty ornaments so easily," she said to Mr. Leslie, trying to shield Sibyl's embarrassment.
"I am not speaking to a young lady; I am speaking to a fellow Christian," said Mr. Leslie, gravely. "Miss Warrington and I have often spoken of the duty of giving. Only last evening we had a very serious conversation on that and kindred subjects. Mrs. Sheldon has said that I do not understand her niece. But I am unwilling to believe myself mistaken. I still think I understand her better even than her own aunt does,--better even than she understands herself."
Still Sibyl did not speak. Aunt Faith looked at her in surprise. Could it be that her worldliness was conquered after all? "Sibyl," she said, gently, "you must decide, dear. Shall Mr. Leslie take back the pearls?"
"No," replied Sibyl, rising and struggling to regain her composure, "I wish the pearls, and there is no justice in asking me to give them up. I shall keep them, and as I have to write to Mrs. Leighton that I will meet her next week as she desired, my time is more than occupied, and I will ask Mr. Leslie to excuse me."
She left the room, taking the pearls with her, and not a word more did Mr. Leslie say in allusion to her. He turned the conversation back to Margaret Brown, discussed the various arrangements for removing the family into the country, and then took his departure.
"I was very sorry about the money, Aunt Faith," said Sibyl, after he had gone, standing at the sitting-room window and watching the tall figure disappearing in the distance.
"Sincerity first of all, my dear," replied Aunt Faith.
"How will he get the money, aunt?"
"He is going to apply to Mrs. Chase, I believe. Although she has never attended the chapel-services, he knows her to be generous and kind-hearted."
"Rich, too, Aunt Faith. It is very easy to be generous when one is rich," said Sibyl, with a shade of bitterness in her tone.
"Riches are comparative, Sibyl. Mrs. Chase is rich, but she has very many depending upon her assistance."
"Mr. Leslie had no right to make such a demand of me," said Sibyl, after a pause.
"Perhaps he thought you had given him the right to guide you," said Aunt Faith.
"I have never given him any right," said Sibyl, hastily. "I presume he thinks I am a selfish, hard-hearted creature," she added in another tone.
"He thinks more highly of you than your own aunt did, Sibyl; he said so himself. He believes, or has believed, firmly in the purity of your religious faith and firm principle. I have several times been surprised to see how sure he was of you."
"He asked too much," said Sibyl; "he is too severe with me."
"Not more severe than he is with himself, my dear. He has taken all his little savings for Margaret Brown, and I presume those savings represent comforts, not luxuries like pearls."
"Mr. Leslie should not try me by the same test he uses for himself; I cannot stand it."
"That is where he made his mistake, my dear. He thought you could."
Sibyl colored angrily. "Mr. Leslie is an enthusiast," she said; "he expects people to throw down all their treasures at his feet."
"Not at his feet; at the foot of the cross, dear."
"Aunt Faith, do you really believe people can be happy in such a life?" said Sibyl vehemently.
"Mr. Leslie is happy, my child."
"He is a single man with few cares. I am alluding to married people, burdened with responsibility and anxiety."
"If they are so burdened, my dear, so much the more reason why they should seek help from Him who said 'come unto me all ye that are heavy laden, and I will give you rest.'"
"But in every-day life there are so many petty annoyances, aunt."
"Will they be any the less annoying without His aid, dear?"
"They will be less annoying if people are rich, Aunt Faith."
"Some of the most unhappy women I have ever known, have been rich, Sibyl."
"But I would not be one of those, aunt. I would be rich and happy at the same time."
"If you could, my dear. But wealth brings with it its own troubles; sometimes in the shape of the donor; I trust you would not marry for money?"
"Not for money alone, aunt. But I see no reason why a rich man might not be loved for himself as well as a poor man. It does not follow that because a man is rich he must therefore be selfish or ill-tempered."
"Certainly not, my dear; but we will not discuss it any longer, at present. You are young, and I wish you to understand yourself thoroughly. Take no rash steps, and remember that wealth is as nothing compared to a true heart, and that this world's best treasures are perishable, while religious faith abides with us through life and death into eternity."
In the afternoon Mr. Leslie came again to the old stone house, and inquired for Mrs. Sheldon. "I have come to ask for your horses," he said, as Aunt Faith entered the parlor; I have secured a large carriage that will take all the family, and now, if you will send Jonas down with the horses, we can hope to have Margaret safely established at Mr. Green's before night."
"Certainly, Mr. Leslie. Is there nothing more I can do?"
"Not to-day, thank you. I shall go out with them myself."
"How are the children?"
"Worse, I fear; but I have large faith in country air."
"I shall be anxious to know how they bear the ride."
"I will stop on my way home as I must come back with the carriage," said the young clergyman as he went away.
"Was not that Mr. Leslie?" asked Hugh, coming in from the dining-room a few moments afterward.
"Yes," replied Aunt Faith; "he came to see me on business."
"Didn't he ask for Sibyl?" said Hugh.
"No," replied Aunt Faith, with a warning look at her nephew, as Sibyl came in. But Hugh was not to be warned. "Sibyl," he said, "Mr. Leslie has been here and did not ask for you."
"Is that so very surprising?" said his sister coldly; she had regained all her composure and her face was calm and quiet.
"Of course it is surprising," said Hugh bluntly. "He has been in the habit of coming here to see you for months, and, let me tell you, Sibyl, he is one in a thousand; he is a hero, every inch, and I heartily respect and like him."
"I have said nothing to the contrary, Hugh."
"Don't be a hypocrite, Sibyl," said Hugh with brotherly frankness. "I am not good at splitting hairs, but there is no more comparison between Mr. Leslie and Graham Marr, than there is between an eagle and a sickly chicken."
"I have never thought of comparing them, Hugh. I do not like comparisons, and yours is entirely unjust. But even supposing it was correct, _I_ have no taste for standing on a mountain-peak, in the icy air of unknown heights, and gazing at the sun all day as an eagle does," said Sibyl, as she crossed the hall into the parlor. In a few moments the Spring-Song sounded forth from the piano, and under cover of the music, Hugh said to Aunt Faith, "There is nothing wrong between them I hope?"
"There is nothing between them either right or wrong," replied Aunt Faith with a sigh. "Sibyl is not suited to Mr. Leslie."
"Then it is her fault," said Hugh warmly. "There is no doubt in my mind that John Leslie is deeply interested in her, and I should be proud and glad to have him for a brother. He is the truest, most honest man I know."
"That is because he is such a sincere, earnest Christian."
"I know it, aunt. He works hard, and he thoroughly believes in his work. He really thinks there is nothing in the city so vitally important as that little chapel, and those workmen."
"He is right, Hugh. To _him_ there should be nothing so important as their welfare."
"Yes, I suppose so; that is, if I could look at it with his eyes. But it is rare to see practice so consistent with theory in every-day life."
"It is, as you say, rare indeed; but he is a rare man, Hugh."
"He is, truly. That is the reason why I feel Sibyl's manner. Can it be possible that she really prefers Graham Marr?"
"I do not know, Hugh. Graham will be rich some day."
"That is the worst of it, aunt. Who would have thought Sibyl could be so mercenary!"
"Do not judge her harshly, dear. She has none of that impulse which you admire, but her heart has always been true,--at least so far," said Aunt Faith gently. Then, after a pause, she continued in a lower tone, "Hugh, if you like and admire Mr. Leslie so much, why are you not willing to follow his example?"
"What! Become a clergyman, Aunt Faith?"
"Not that, unless you feel an inward call towards the blessed vocation," replied Aunt Faith reverently; "but why do you delay to come forward and make your open profession of faith? Is it honest, is it manly, to hang backward?"
"Oh, Aunt Faith, I am not good enough!" said Hugh quickly.
"Goodness is not required of any of us, Hugh; only repentance, and an earnest endeavor to improve. My dear boy, I never see you come and go, without an aching desire to have you enrolled under His banner, to have you a soldier of the Cross, openly, before all men. Have you thought over our last conversation on this subject?"
"Yes, aunt, many times; but I have such a high idea of a professing Christian. It seems to me that such an one ought to be like Mr. Leslie, working with all his might for the salvation of souls."
"It is not required that all professing Christians should be ministers of the word, Hugh. There are many other spheres of action, and many qualifications, varied according to our varied temperaments and positions. The Bible makes that point very clear. You read it, I hope?"
"Yes; but I always read the same part, the Gospel of St, John. I like it best of all. There are so many beautiful verses in it which are found nowhere else, so much love and warm faith! For instance; 'Let not your heart be troubled, neither let it be afraid.' And 'I will not leave you comfortless, I will come unto you.' And, 'woman, behold thy son; behold thy mother;' to me one of the most touching incidents in the Gospel. Then there is the story of Lazarus, and the verse 'Jesus wept.' _He_ sorrowed for the mourners, too! Oh, I cannot understand how true Christians can mourn so bitterly for their dead, when they believe that this loving Saviour cares for them."
"It is not always so much for their lost ones as for themselves, Hugh; their own loneliness, their crushed hopes, and perhaps their remorse that in the lifetime of those they mourn they did not do more for their happiness."
"You have lost many dear ones, Aunt Faith," said Hugh thoughtfully.
"Yes; my husband, my parents, and among my intimate friends, all my generation."
"Do you often think of them, aunt?"
"Yes, Hugh, very often. At first with tears and sadness, but gradually with hope, and a certain looking forward instead of backward. At first I kept all my anniversaries sacred, the many days hallowed by associations with my dear ones; but gradually I tried to break up the habit, and now I only think of their heavenly birthdays,--the days when they left the earth,--and even these have come to be pleasant. I have always been fond of autumn. There is something that charms me in the hazy air and colored foliage. It is not sadness,--it is not joy,--but a sweet peace. Then, my dead always seem near to me. If you like, I will give you something I once wrote on the subject, expressing this _feeling_."
"Do, aunt!" said Hugh, earnestly: for so seldom did Aunt Faith allude to her past life and its sorrows, that all the cousins held it in reverent respect, and although they often spoke of it among themselves, they never broke through the bounds of Aunt Faith's silence. In her own room hung the portrait of her husband, Lester Sheldon, a young man's face, with blue eyes, and thick golden hair, tossed carelessly back from the white forehead, while below, the firm mouth told of decision and self-control beyond his years. Once, when Bessie was a child, she sat looking at this portrait for some time in silence. Then she said, "Aunt Faith, if that is your husband, what makes him so young when you are so old?"
"He died when he was a young man, little Bessie."
"But he won't know you when you go to heaven, I'm afraid," continued the child, looking anxiously at her aunt's gray hair.
"Oh, I shall be young then, too, Bessie. Here is a picture of me when I was eighteen," said Aunt Faith, taking a box from her drawer, and drawing out a miniature. It was one of those lovely, old-fashioned ivory pictures, showing a fresh young face with dimples, and a sunny smile.
"Oh, auntie, _that_ isn't you!" Bessie had exclaimed, and the other children having come into the room, the picture was shown to them also. Since that day they had never seen it, but Hugh retained a vivid remembrance of the picture, and, as Aunt Faith looked through her desk to find the paper, something in her face recalled it to his mind, and there came across him, like a revelation, a vision of what she was at eighteen. Faith Warrington at eighteen! Faith Warrington, who had long been Mrs. Sheldon with her gray hair and pale face. Going up to his room, Hugh seated himself by the window, and opening the paper, read the following lines:-- "Far back within the cycles of the past, A train of centuries rolls, From out whose cloudy borders came the day Of memory for all souls. How long it seems, a thousand years ago! How dark and weary, if we did not know A thousand years are but as yesterday within His sight, Seeing that it is past like one brief watch within the night!
Could they have known, those men of childlike faith, Half ignorant, half sublime, The fitness of the souls' memorial day Falling within the time Of Nature's holy calm, her blest repose,-- When all the land with loving fervor glows, And from the naked woods, the empty fields, through the soft haze, Her work well done, her garners full, she offers up her praise.
A stillness fills the consecrated air,-- The blustering winds that swept The red and yellow leaves in giddy rounds, By mighty hands are kept In their four corners, while the liquid gold And purple tints over the earth unrolled, And full of mystery and heavenly peace, as though the skies Had opened, and let out the atmosphere of Paradise.
Departed souls! Their memory may _come_ With grief in Spring's soft hours,-- With weary, lonely sadness when our hands Are gathering summer flowers,-- With wild despair in winter: when the graves Are white with drifted snow, and wildly raves The wind among the stones and monuments, in accents dread, Calling in vain the sculptured names of our beloved dead.
But in this golden dream-time of the year, Our bitter murmurs cease;-- We seem to feel the presence of the dead, Their shadowy touch of peace; We seem to see their faces as we gaze Longingly forth into the purple haze, And hear the distant chorus of the happy souls at rest,-- And catch the well-known accents of the voice we loved the best."
All Souls' Day, November 2nd.
In the evening, as Aunt Faith was sitting on the piazza with Bessie, Mr. Leslie came up the walk; Sibyl was in the parlor playing soft chords on the piano, but she could hear his words as he spoke. Mr. Leslie's voice was deep, but clear, and his pronunciation perfectly distinct without any apparent effort. He did not obtrude the alphabet unpleasantly upon his hearers; he was not so anxious to show his correct pronunciation of "Been" as to force it to rhyme with "Seen;" he was not so much concerned with "Institute," as to te-u-ute the last syllable into undue importance; neither did he bombard his hearers with the arrogance of rolling _rr's_. Although his voice was not loud, any one occupying even the last seat in the chapel could not only hear him, but was absolutely invited to listen by the pleasant distinctness of the words.
"I am pleased to be able to tell you that Margaret and the children are safe in the farm-house, Mrs. Sheldon," he said, taking a seat on the piazza. "Poor girl, how glad she was to get there! She sent her grateful thanks to you."
"How did the children bear the ride?" asked Aunt Faith.
"Better than I expected. Indeed, the novelty, and perhaps the pleasant country air, seemed to revive them, and lessen the fever. They even walked about the garden when we arrived there, and began to make bouquets of flowers, but before I left, the reaction had come and they looked very tired."
"You look tired, also, Mr. Leslie," said Aunt Faith; the light from the hall-lamp shone on the young clergyman's face and showed its pale weariness.
"I am tired," he replied, "but a night's rest is all I need." Then he leaned back in his chair and sat talking pleasantly with Bessie and Aunt Faith. "This is a charming old house," he said, "it must have been built a long time ago."
"Yes," replied Aunt Faith; "for a western town it is quite venerable. The main portion was built in 1822, and the wings were added as the family increased, without much regard for architectural regularity. The stairs were originally out-doors on the back piazza, but father finally had them enclosed. You may have noticed that the west side has only two windows, and that those are singularly placed. It is amusing to think that so implicit was grandfather's belief in the growth of Westerton, then hardly more than a pioneer village, that he built up that side without any windows so as not to interfere with the blocks of dwellings which he was sure would press up against this house as the town grew into a city. It was only after many years that father was allowed to pierce the thick wall and with great difficulty insert those two windows."
"That is something like my old home, a little village in the interior of New York," said Mr. Leslie. "One old man was so impressed by the growth of the town, that meeting my father he shook him by the hand and exclaimed, 'how it do grow, Judge! Please heaven, we'll make a seaport of it yet!'"
They all laughed at this story. Then Aunt Faith said, "I should like to think that some of the children would occupy this old house after I am gone. But in America, and especially in the Western States that is hardly possible."
"I will live here, if I can, Aunt Faith," said Bessie warmly. "I love every stone in the old house, and every old flower in the old garden."
"Are flowers ever old, Miss Darrell?" said Mr. Leslie, smiling.
"Oh, yes. Flowers grow old-fashioned and out of date just like people. We have a genuine old-fashioned garden here, and all the neighbors laugh at it in comparison with their smooth lawns and choice plants. We have bachelor's-buttons, lady-slippers, tiger-lilies, flower-de-luce, hollyhocks, and pinks, besides bushes of lilac and matrimony; then we have old cedars clipped into shape, and ever so many little paths and garden-beds edged with box. Oh, we are entirely behind the times! But for all that, I love the old garden better than the smoothest trimmed lawn, and I can pick you a bunch of violets which you cannot match in Westerton; real violets, too, not flaring pansies."
"I too am fond of old-fashioned gardens, Miss Darrell," said Mr. Leslie. "My mother had one, not so large as this, but resembling it in general arrangement. I remember we had a little patch of trailing arbutus; it grew wild, and I can distinctly recall its perfume as the snow melted. I have never seen it in the West."
"No, it does not grow here," replied Aunt Faith; "our climate is too warm for it."
"There is a great difference between the climate of the lake country and that of New England," said Mr. Leslie; "there is so little snow here."
"Snow!" exclaimed Bessie. "I scarcely know what snow is; and as for stories of drifts over the fences, and tunnels cut through them, I can scarcely believe anything of the kind. They are as much like legends to me as the fairy tale of little Kay and the Robber Maiden. Once at Featherton Hall the eastern girls were talking about sleigh-riding, and I told them that snow was so scarce in Westerton that when a few snow-flakes actually fell, they were immediately fenced in and guarded by the police, and then the whole population assembled in sleighs, cutters, and pungs, to ride over them in alphabetical order. Of course, as aunt's name began with S, there was not much left of the snow-flakes when our turn came."
"You ridiculous child!" said Aunt Faith, laughing, "how can you invent such exaggerations?"
"Oh, Bessie can invent anything!" said Hugh, coming out from the sitting-room; "if she had charge of even the Patent-Office Reports, she would gild them into veritable romances."
Later in the evening, Graham Marr came up the garden walk. "Good-evening, Mrs. Sheldon!" he said; "is Miss Warrington at home?"
"Yes; she is in the parlor," said Aunt Faith. "Will you go in, Mr. Marr?"
"Thank you, yes. I came especially to see her," replied Graham, taking off his straw hat, and passing through the group on the piazza.
"Excuse me, Miss Darrell. Is that you, Hugh? Ah! --Mr. Leslie, I believe. I did not observe you in the darkness. I hope you experienced no ill feeling after your exposure yesterday?"
"None at all, Mr. Marr. And you?"
"I took cold, as I expected; but, so far, my head has given me no severe pain," said Graham, passing on into the parlor.
"Is Mr. Marr subject to pain in his head?" inquired Mr. Leslie, as Graham disappeared.
"Chronic inflammation of the brain, produced by intense study and seething, poetical thoughts," said Hugh, in a dramatic whisper.
Soon afterwards, Mr. Leslie rose to take leave. "I feel very tired, so I will say good-night," he said. "I will let you know the condition of the children some time to-morrow, Mrs. Sheldon."
"Thank you. If it is quite convenient I shall be glad to know," replied Aunt Faith.
Graham Marr stayed until a late hour, so late that Bessie and Hugh had gone upstairs when he took leave, and Sibyl, coming in to the sitting-room, found Aunt Faith alone.
"You look tired, my dear," said the elder lady kindly.
"I am tired, aunt. Graham talked a long time. He had something to tell me. His uncle is dead, and he has come into the fortune."
"Ah! --" said Aunt Faith. She made no other comment, but waited for her niece to speak.
"Graham is going to Saratoga next week," continued Sibyl slowly. "He thinks of removing to New York for a permanent home; he likes city life, you know."
"Yes," said Aunt Faith again; but she said no more.
Sibyl closed the windows, replaced the chairs, and fastened the front-door; then, as she carelessly turned the leaves of a book on the table, she said at last, "Mr. Leslie was here, I believe?"
"Yes: he came to tell me that Margaret Brown and the children were safely established in the farm-house."
"Did he ask for me?" said Sibyl, as she extinguished the hall lamps.
"No, my dear," answered Aunt Faith, and Sibyl went to her room without another word.
Two days came and went, and Mr. Leslie did not appear.
"I say, you people!" said Tom, bursting into the dining-room at tea-time. "Did you know that Mr. Leslie was sick? Dangerously sick, Jim Morse says; not expected to live, I believe."
"Thomas!" said Aunt Faith with unusual severity, "what do you mean? Tell the truth."
"Well, he's sick, any way; and Jim heard his mother say it was a dangerous fever. Hallo, Sibyl! what's the matter? How pale you are!"
"No more pale than the rest of us," interrupted Bessie, with a quick glance at Sibyl; "we all like Mr. Leslie, don't we?"
"Of course we do. He's the best man in the world," said Gem fervently.
"I shall go and see him immediately," said Hugh, rising.
"Oh, Hugh, it is probably the same fever the Brown children have!" said Aunt Faith anxiously. "You must not expose yourself needlessly."
"In this call I consider it necessary, Aunt Faith," said Hugh. "Mr. Leslie has no near relatives, and although he is loved by his congregation, dread of the fever will keep most of them away; besides, they cannot leave their work. He will be left to hired nurses and you know what Westerton nurses are!"
"Go, then, my boy, and may God be with you," said Aunt Faith, with tears in her eyes.
The tea-table was soon deserted. Sibyl went to her room, Tom and Gem took refuge in the back garden with the three dogs to bear them company, but Aunt Faith and Bessie sat on the piazza waiting for Hugh's return.
"After all," said Bessie, "we need not feel so anxious. The report has passed through several mouths; no doubt it is exaggerated."
"I hope so," replied Aunt Faith; "and still I have a strong presentiment that Mr. Leslie is very ill. His face looked strangely worn and pallid as he sat there that last evening, and when fever attacks a man as strong and full of life as he is, the contest is far more severe than with a more feeble patient."
Eight o'clock struck, but still Hugh did not return. A step sounded up the walk in the dusky twilight, but it was not his; Graham Marr appeared, and again asked for Miss Warrington.
"Go and tell Sibyl, my dear," said Aunt Faith to Bessie with an inward sigh. Then, as Bessie went into the house, she said, "Have you heard of Mr. Leslie's illness, Mr. Marr?"
"No," replied Graham, as he stood in the doorway carelessly twirling his hat in his hand; "is he very ill?"
"We do not know; we have heard only a rumor. Hugh has gone to find out the exact truth."
"Ah--yes. If it is fever, no doubt he caught it in that unpleasant locality where his chapel stands," said Graham. "I have often wondered how he could endure the life he leads, but I suppose he is not fastidious. His nature is not so finely wrought, or his nerves so delicately strung as those of some other organizations."
"His nature is strong and manly," replied Aunt Faith, with a shade of indignation in her voice.
"Ah, yes, exactly. A man in his position has need of strength," said Graham loftily. Then, after a pause, "You have heard of my good fortune, Mrs. Sheldon?"
"I have heard that your uncle was dead, Mr. Marr."
"Ah--yes. Poor old gentleman! I never knew him well; we were not at all sympathetic. My grandfather's singular will has now been fulfilled, and the estate, which has rolled up to double its original value, will now be divided between my two Southern cousins and myself."
"I congratulate you, Mr. Marr."
"Thank you. I think I shall not discredit my fortune; I have long endeavored to cultivate the tastes which belong to wealth," said Graham with languid pride.
At this moment Bessie returned. "Sibyl is in the parlor, Mr. Marr," she said; "will you walk in?"
"Thanks, kind messenger," said Graham, bowing gracefully as he passed her; "Hebe could not be fairer!"
"How ridiculous he is, Aunt Faith," she said, as the young man disappeared. "How can Sibyl like him? I do not really think she does like him, but I cannot make her out. When I went to her room she was as pale as a ghost, but while she was smoothing her hair, the color rose, and she began to laugh and talk as gayly as possible. Listen, now; hear her laugh. How can she be so heartless!"
"Do not be too severe, Bessie. I suspect Sibyl is putting a great strain on herself to-night. She has so many good traits," said Aunt Faith with a sigh. "She has so much energy! She only needs to have the right direction given to it and she will accomplish a wonderful amount of good work if her life is spared."
"But that right direction, Aunt Faith; is Graham Marr to give it?" asked Bessie with a tinge of scorn in her voice.
"I do not know, dear. But Sibyl has a true heart at bottom."
"I do believe you are made of charity, aunt. Your name ought to be Faith, Hope, and Charity, instead of Faith alone," said Bessie warmly.
"I have learned one lesson by the experience of a long life," replied Aunt Faith, smiling; "the lesson of patience."
"How else could you have brought up such a troublesome set of nephews and nieces?" exclaimed Bessie. "We must have tried your patience severely, Aunt Faith. But we do love you dearly, every one of us." And the impulsive girl threw her arms around her aunt and kissed her affectionately.
About half-past nine they heard the sound of the gate, and recognized Hugh's step on the gravel walk.
"How is he, Hugh?" said Bessie, before he came in sight.
"He is a very sick man," replied Hugh gravely, as he came up the steps. "The doctors are perplexed, for the case is not like ordinary fever. They think he will either be much better or much worse before morning."
"Oh, Hugh; you do not mean that he is in any danger?"
"Yes; so the doctors say. There is trouble with the brain, threatenings of congestion, I believe. As I said before, he will probably be out of danger before morning, or,--or, gone where he is fully prepared to go," said Hugh with emotion.
"Then I shall go to see him now,--directly," said a strange, muffled voice behind them.
"Sibyl!" exclaimed Aunt Faith.
"Yes, aunt," said Sibyl, stepping forward and speaking in the same muffled voice. "I heard what Hugh said, and I wish to go directly to see Mr. Leslie; you must go with me."
They all looked at her as she stood in the lighted hall; her face was deadly pale, and her eyes had a far-off look as though she saw something terrible in the distance. Behind her was Graham Marr looking perplexed and angry; he did not know what to do or say, and his usual graceful manner had given place to confused irritation. As Sibyl spoke he made an effort to regain his composure.
"Ah!" he said, with studied carelessness, "so Leslie is sick, is he? I must really send a nurse to take care of him. I will do what I can for him, poor fellow!"
"I shall be his nurse," said Sibyl, in the same strange, still voice.
"You are joking, Miss Warrington. Of course you would not expose yourself so foolishly," said Graham angrily. " _I_ shall be his nurse. I shall go to-night," repeated Sibyl, without changing her attitude.
Graham looked at her a moment as if about to continue the argument, but something in the set expression of her face convinced him of the hopelessness of the attempt. Curbing his annoyance under an appearance of amusement, he smiled and turned to Aunt Faith. "There is no use in combating a young lady, I suppose, Mrs. Sheldon. Really,--I had no idea it was so late. I must go. I will bid you good-night, ladies, and at the same time good-bye, as I shall soon leave Westerton for the summer." Then he turned again to Sibyl; "I shall meet you in Saratoga next week, I trust, Miss Warrington?"
"No," said Sibyl, with the same far-off look in her eyes. "Aunt Faith, are you ready to go with me?"
"Ah!" said Graham lightly; "you ladies change your minds so rapidly that it is difficult to follow you. But it is your privilege, I know, Farewell, then, Miss Warrington. Life is long,--we may meet again."
"Good-bye, Mr. Marr," said Sibyl, hardly noticing his departure.
As the young man disappeared, Aunt Faith spoke; "Are you in earnest, Sibyl? Do you really wish to visit Mr. Leslie to-night?"
"I am in earnest, and I _must_ go, Aunt Faith. Do not try to prevent it."
"But there may be danger for you, dear."
"Hugh has seen him, and am I to be kept back?" cried Sibyl passionately. "I must go! I will go! Aunt Faith, do not desert me now!"
"I am not deserting you, poor child," said Aunt Faith, rising and putting her arms around her niece with motherly affection. "If you wish to see Mr. Leslie to-night, I will go with you. You approve of your sister's wish, Hugh?"
"Yes," said Hugh decidedly. "Sibyl, you are right at last."
They found Mr. Leslie unconscious and breathing heavily; two physicians were in attendance, and a nurse sat by the bedside.
"He does not know me," whispered Sibyl, clinging convulsively to Aunt Faith, as the sufferer opened his eyes and looked blankly at them.
"No, dear, he is unconscious," replied Aunt Faith, herself much moved at the sight of one whom she had so lately seen full of young life, stricken down almost to death.
The doctors were watching their patient closely; they expected a crisis before morning.
"I shall stay," said Sibyl, quietly taking off her hat and sitting down on the sofa.
Aunt Faith spoke a few words of objection, but the mute appeal of Sibyl's eyes silenced her; she said no more, but sitting down by her niece, took her cold hand and held it in both her own. She had felt sorrow herself, and she could feel for others; she knew that in Sibyl's heart the depths were broken up.
Hugh went back to the old stone house and returned about midnight; from that time on, there was silence in the sick-chamber, and anxious eyes watched the unconscious face with painful interest. The night seemed endless; only those who have watched by a sick bed can know how minutes can lengthen themselves! As the gray twilight of dawn came into the room the sick man moved restlessly upon his pillow and moaned. Sibyl's heart throbbed; any change seemed for the better. But one of the physicians after bending over the patient, shook his head gravely.
"Let us pray," said Aunt Faith in a low tone, and, falling upon her knees, she bowed her head in silent prayer. Sibyl knelt beside her, and, after a moment, Hugh too joined them, and throwing his arm around his sister, drew her to his side.
"Oh, Hugh, I cannot bear it!" she murmured; "he will die,--he will never know,--and I--" here her voice was broken by stifled sobs and low moans of anguish, strangely touching in the proud, self-reliant Sibyl.
Hugh held his sister in his arms, and soothed her as one would soothe a child. From that hour Sibyl's coldness left her never to return.
As the first sunbeams brightened the sky, Mr. Leslie again opened his eyes, the doctors bent over him, and it seemed to Aunt Faith as if she could hear all the hearts in the room throbbing aloud in the intense anxiety of the moment.
"The worst is over," whispered Doctor Gregory, stepping back and shaking hands with Aunt Faith; "we shall bring him through, now, I think."
Sibyl sat with her head hidden on Hugh's shoulder; she heard the doctor's words, but a sudden timidity had come over her. "Let us go," she whispered, turning towards the door.
But Hugh had been watching the sick man.
"He is conscious; he knows us!" he said suddenly, and leading his sister forward, he left her at the bedside, pale and trembling with joyful emotion.
"Sibyl," said Mr. Leslie in a faint voice, "is it you? Have you come to me at last, dear?"
"Yes, John," said Sibyl, bending over him with tears in her eyes. "I have brought myself and my life to you,--if you care for them."
"If?" said Mr. Leslie, with the ghost of a smile on his pale face; "as if there was any doubt--" but here the doctors interfered, and the rest of the sentence was postponed.
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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9
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THE LAST DAY OF SUMMER
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Mr. Leslie improved slowly; when he was able to leave his room most of his days of enforced idleness were spent in the shaded parlor of the old stone house, or riding through the narrow country lanes, sometimes with all the cousins, sometimes with Sibyl alone. A friend had come from the interior of the State to take charge of the chapel during July and August, for the physicians had forbidden any active work during that time; but, although Mr. Vinton preached and attended to the duties of the position, Mr. Leslie retained all his interest in the congregation, and his people felt, that he was with them in spirit, hour by hour, and day by day. They came to him also,--came in greater numbers and with more open affection than ever before; they showed their interest in many different ways,--and the young pastor's heart was filled with joy at these evidences of love from the flock for which he had labored.
"It takes sickness or affliction to bring hidden love and sympathy to the surface," he said, one afternoon, as he sat in the parlor with Aunt Faith, Hugh, Bessie, and Sibyl. "We do not see the rainbow until the storm comes; and so people may live on for years in prosperity, and never know, save by intuition, the deep affection in each other's hearts. But when sorrow strikes them, then love comes to the surface, doubly precious and comforting in the hour of trial."
"But, Mr. Leslie," said Hugh, "would it not be far better for the world if people were taught to express their love and sympathy at other times as well as in the house of affliction and sickness? Is there any reason why we should all go on through life in cold silence, living in the same house with those we love the best, and taking everything 'for granted,' and leaving it 'for granted' also? Why! people may live and die without ever knowing the great joy of expressing how much they love, or of hearing in return how much they are loved, so hard is it to break down these barriers of reserve."
"We are tongue-tied, here, Hugh. We do not know how to speak the language of the heavenly country, and our best efforts are but stammering, half-expressed utterances. It is a great mercy, however, that the touch of sickness, or affliction, seems for the moment to loosen the bonds, and allow us a few sentences of the heavenly love."
"It is indeed," said Aunt Faith. "I remember in the darkest hours of my affliction, people with whom I had but slight acquaintance came to me with tender sympathy, and kind messages were sent from many whom I had always thought cold, and even disagreeable."
"Still," said Hugh, "I think it would be better if people tried to express their love more freely, without waiting until the household is clouded with grief."
"It would certainly be better, but it may not be possible," said Mr. Leslie; the world has gone on in the same old way for many centuries, and I am inclined to think, Hugh, that this free expression of love will only be given to us in another life. It will form one of the blessings of heaven."
"What is heaven?" said Hugh abruptly.
"It is perfect peace," said Aunt Faith.
"It is wonderful new life and hope," said Bessie.
"It is love," said Sibyl.
"It is all this and more," said Mr. Leslie reverently. "Speculations are useless, and our time should be too full of earnest labor to allow us to indulge in them. We should be content to leave it to our Maker, who has made even this world so beautiful, and this life, rightly used, so glorious."
July gave place to August, and the family of cousins, into whose circle Mr. Leslie had been received, lived a happy life in the old stone house. The heat of the dog-days was tempered by the lake breeze. At ten in the morning it came sweeping over the water from Canada, and men walking through the hot streets, felt its gentle coolness on their foreheads, and took off their straw hats with a sigh of relief. In the evening it came again, rustling through the trees with a refreshing sound as though the leaves were reviving from their parched stillness; people came out to meet it, the piazzas and door-steps were crowded, and all the closed blinds were thrown wide open to catch the blessed coolness which promised refreshing sleep.
"You dwellers by the lake-shore know nothing of the real August heat in the lowlands," said Mr. Vinton, one evening as he sat among a group of visitors on the piazza of the old stone house. "Here the lake breeze is invariable, but a hundred miles south, days and nights pass with alternate blazing heat and close, lifeless darkness, the latter even more trying than the former. The country where I live is the richest agricultural land in the State; it is a valley with a broad, slow river rolling through it, the very water dark and sluggish with the fertility of the soil. As long as the grain is growing, there is some vitality in the air in spite of the heat, but when the harvest comes, and field after field is shorn, it seems as though the superfluous richness rose from the earth into the air, and filled it with heavy rankness. The sun shines through a haze in the daytime, and the moon through a mist at night; everybody and everything is languid. One goes to bed oppressed with fatigue, sleeps heavily, and rises without refreshment; there is no fresh morning air, nothing but a weary looking forward to the next twelve hours of heat."
"What a forlorn description!" said Mr. Gay, laughing. "Is this all you can say for the great, rich state of Ohio?"
"It's very richness brings about what I am describing," said Mr. Vinton. "But perhaps some of your eastern farmers would endure the Ohio dog-days for the sake of the miles of level grain-fields without a stone, without a break of any kind, which extend through the midland counties. When I first came West, I was overpowered with homesickness for the hills of New England; the endless plains were hateful to me, and I fairly pined to see a rock, or a narrow, winding road. While in this mood, I happened to be riding in a stage-coach through one of the midland counties in company with two New England farmers. They had never been West before, and they were lost in astonishment and admiration at the sight of the level fields on either side of the broad, straight road, stretching away to the right and the left, unbroken by the slightest elevation. 'This country is worth farming in,' said number one; 'Ethan would admire to see it, but he'd hardly believe it, I guess, without seeing.' " 'Not a stone nor a rock nowhere; none of them plaguey hills neither,' said number two. 'Well, now! _this_ is what I call a be-a-utiful country! Western farmers must have an easy life of it.' You can imagine with what feelings I listened to these men. There I was, longing for the sight of a hill with the longing of a homesick child for its mother."
"I am afraid you are prejudiced, George," said Mr. Leslie, with a smile. "You dwell upon the heat of August in Ohio, but you say nothing about the other eleven months of the year."
"The other eleven months are beautiful, I must acknowledge," replied Mr. Vinton. "As soon as the frosts come, nothing can surpass the climate; colored October, hazy November, and bright, open December are all perfect. Any New Englander,--even you, Mr. Gay,--would be obliged to yield the palm to the West in respect of winter climate."
"No sir," replied the Boston bachelor emphatically; "I would yield no palm under any circumstances. I even prefer a Boston east wind to the mildest western zephyr."
"Oh, you are prejudiced!" said Bessie, laughing.
"Of course I am, Miss Darrell. It is a characteristic of Massachusetts Bay. We do not deny it,--on the contrary we are rather proud of it."
Thus, in many conversations, the dog-days passed along.
"It seems to me we do nothing but talk," said Bessie, after a long evening on the piazza with several visitors.
"The dog-days were intended for conversation," said Hugh. "Our hands and our brains are busily employed all the rest of the year, but when the thermometer gets up into the nineties, the tongue talks its share and gives the other members a rest."
"I hope you don't mean to insinuate that our brains are not employed in our conversation," said Bessie.
"Not much brain in dog-day conversation," said Hugh, laughing. "I know that I have been talking nonsense this evening, and from what I have overheard, I suspect the others have not done much better."
"Oh, you slanderer!" cried Bessie.
"But nonsense is appropriate to the season, Queen Bess. We don't eat much solid food now; then how can we hear much solid talk! Aunt Faith's 'trifle' is the chief of our diet, and the result is, naturally, trifling conversation."
August was a happy month to Aunt Faith. She rejoiced in Sibyl's happiness, and she rejoiced in the triumph of unselfish love and Christian humility over the worldliness and ambition which had sullied her niece's good qualities. Sibyl was not impulsive; it was not an impulse which had led her to renounce a life of fashionable gayety and wealth for Mr. Leslie. It was a sudden realization of the truth, a sudden conviction of the strength of her own feelings, a sudden horror of the wickedness of falsifying them, and a sudden appreciation of the hollowness of worldly ambition when brought face to face with death. There was no hesitating vacillation in Sibyl's character. She had been self-deceived, but, as soon as she felt the truth, she threw aside errors with all her might, and gave herself up boldly, wholly and heartily to her new life. Aunt Faith understood her niece thoroughly, and she knew there would be no danger of a relapse into the mistakes of the past; other faults, other temptations would assail her, but these were harmless. Having once seen and realized the falsity of worldliness when compared with religion, the worthlessness of mere money, when compared with true affection, Sibyl could never forget the lesson, for firm reason and resolve were parts of her nature.
Aunt Faith saw, also, that Sibyl was very happy. She was calm as usual, but there was a new light in her eyes, and a new glow on her cheeks. She found a new pleasure in instructing the children of the Chapel Sunday School, and her scholars loved her dearly; she went about among the poor, and devoted much of her time and means to their service. She assisted in the household work; not the light graceful labors which generally fall to the daughters, but the real burden of the day, lifting it from Aunt Faith's patient shoulders with cordial good will; and in all she did there was a new charm,--the charm of a rare humility, the most difficult of all Christian graces to a proud, self-reliant spirit.
One afternoon, towards the end of August, Aunt Faith found Sibyl resting on the lounge in the sitting-room. The house was still, the children were in the garden, and Bessie and Hugh had gone up to the studio; Sibyl had been out visiting the sick all the morning, and, wearied with the walk, she had thrown herself down on the lounge for a rest before tea-time.
"Do I disturb you, dear?" said Aunt Faith, as she entered.
"Oh, no, aunt. I am not sleeping, only resting."
"I fear you are doing too much, Sibyl."
"I think not, aunt. I know how much I can bear, and I would not be so foolish as to overwork myself. It would be a poor preparation for the life to which I look forward with so much hope."
"It will be a pleasant life, I hope, my dear child."
"Oh aunt! pleasant seems too cold a word to express it! I never knew what life was before; I was blind and deaf to real beauty and real happiness. I thought of nothing but money, ease and social fame. I shudder to think how near I came to bartering my life for what I supposed would give me the most happiness; whereas, now I know how great would have been my misery, and how surely and quickly I should have discovered it. I was entirely blinded, but now I see plainly; it is as though a great ray of light had come into my heart to show me life as it really is, and myself as I really am."
"God be thanked for this--mercy, my child."
"I thank Him daily and hourly, Aunt Faith. It was a narrow escape, and no one can appreciate how great was the danger but myself. If I had gone astray I might, indeed, have come back to Him at last, but through what trials, what bitter suffering! Now, I feel that my feet are upon a firm rock, and although trouble and temptation will of course come to me, I know that if I cry for help, it will not be refused." Sibyl's face glowed as she spoke, and Aunt Faith offered up a silent thanksgiving that one of her little band had found the safe abiding place, that one of the souls given into her charge had entered the only safe pathway in the many roads leading across this troubled earth.
"How is Margaret Brown to-day, Sibyl?" she asked, after a pause.
"Much better, aunt. I sat with her for an hour or two, and she asked me to read to her."
"The children are well now, I believe?"
"Yes; we are going to keep them in the country until cold weather; Margaret must not be allowed to work at present."
"Mr. Leslie has not asked for the remainder of the sum I promised to give him," said Aunt Faith; "I suppose Mrs. Chase must have given more than he expected."
Sibyl blushed deeply. "No, aunt," she said in a low tone, "I gave him my pearls as a thank-offering, perhaps I ought to say a sin-offering."
Aunt Faith bent over and kissed the suffused cheek; then the two had a long conversation about the future, and gradually and surely a more joyous tone crept into their words, as is apt to be the case when the talkers hear in the distance the sound of future wedding-bells. The marriage was to take place before December, and Mr. Leslie had already selected the little house which was to be their home; Aunt Faith, with true housewifely interest, was already making plans for the furniture and stores of fair linen, which her old-fashioned ideas deemed a necessary part of the household outfit, and even Bessie had set her unskilful fingers to the work of manufacturing various little ornaments to brighten the simple rooms. But her chief present was to be a picture representing the piazza of the old stone house with Aunt Faith, Hugh, Tom, and herself sitting or standing in their accustomed attitudes, while Sibyl going down the garden-walk with Mr. Leslie, turned her head for a farewell smile, and Gem threw a bunch of roses after her. Bessie prided herself upon this picture; the likenesses were all completed save Hugh's, for the first object was to finish his portrait before he went East, and from that she could fill in the other face at her leisure.
"You are all so kind to me, Aunt Faith," said Sibyl, as the long conversation came to a close; "I am so happy in your love, and so happy in the future opening before me; it is almost too much happiness."
Aunt Faith possessed a fund of native humor which neither age nor care had been able to subdue. As her niece rose to go to her room, she said with a merry glance, "By the way, Sibyl, how about the smell of the flannels from the kitchen on washing-days?"
"I will have them washed at the extreme end of the back garden," replied Sibyl, echoing Aunt Faith's laugh, as she escaped from the room.
The thirty-first of August came,--Hugh's last day at home. His departure was hastened by his wish to return to Sibyl's wedding; he hoped to get initiated into the duties of his new position, conquer the first difficulties, and gain a few days of leisure for a short visit home before the busy winter season commenced. Mr. Hastings, the second-cousin who had offered Hugh a place in his counting-room, was a New York merchant, a stern, practical man, who expected full measure of work from all his subordinates. Yet, with all his rigor, he had a kind heart in his breast, and was inclined to treat his young relative with favor: he had seen him but once, when, during school-life, Hugh had spent a vacation at his house; but the old man had been more pleased than he would acknowledge, with the boy's overflowing spirits and bright intellect. He had no sons; his daughters were married, and the next year he had written to Aunt Faith proposing to take Hugh into his business on the completion of his education, promising, if the young man stood the test well, that he would give him a small share of the profits after a certain period, and intimating that there would be no bar to his becoming a partner eventually, if he showed the proper qualifications. The business men among Aunt Faith's acquaintances told her that this was a fine opening for Hugh, that the house of J. B. Hastings & Co. stood well in New York, and that they would gladly accept such an opportunity for their sons. Hugh himself was pleased with the idea, and, when it was finally decided that he should go, he wrote a letter full of enthusiastic thanks and hopes to Mr. Hastings, and finished his remaining two years at college with many pleasant visions of his future life floating in his brain. " 'Tis the last day of summer, left blooming alone," chanted Tom, as he entered the dining-room where the rest of the family were at breakfast. "To-morrow Hugh will be gone,--to-morrow Estella Camilla Wales must pine in vain for her mistress, who will be engrossed in decimal fractions, and to-morrow I must take down from the dusty shelf that dismal old _Latin Prose_. I wonder who cares for _Romulus_ and _Remus_? I don't!"
"Don't talk about it beforehand," said Gem; "let's pretend it's the very first day of vacation."
"Oh, what dismal faces!" said Aunt Faith, laughing. "School is not such a trial after all. I should be sorry to hear you spell deficiency, 'd-e-f-i-s-h-u-n-s-y,' as Annie Chase did, Gem."
"Or to say, '_il est la plus mauvais garcon que je sais de_,' as Jennie Fish did," added Gem, laughing at the remembrance.
"Or like Ed. Willis in the Bible class, last term," said Tom. "Mr. Stone was talking about the Jews and Gentiles. 'I'm not a Gentile,' said Ed. getting real mad; 'I'm a Presbyterian.'"
Everybody laughed at this story, and Aunt Faith said "You are as liable to make mistakes as the rest, children, so do not complain about your lessons, but rather try to make them a pleasure. School-days will be soon over," and she looked at Hugh with a half sigh.
"Come along, Gem," said Tom, when he had finished his breakfast. "Let's have all the fun we can to-day; let's crowd it in, and pack it down tight. We'll get all the B. B.'s and have a regular training day in the back yard."
The children vanished, and their merry voices came back through the open windows where the others still sat at the table.
"The boat leaves at seven," said Hugh, pushing away his plate, and leaning back in his chair. "I am something like Tom; I feel like '_crowding_' my last day with pleasant things, and 'packing them in tight.' I hardly know where to begin."
"I will tell you; begin with the morning and give it to me in the studio," said Bessie.
"Oh no," said Sibyl; "Hugh is going to finish that bracket for me."
"Hugh will not go away without keeping his promise to me; there is some unfinished reading for him in my room," said Aunt Faith with a smile.
"My face, my hands, and my tongue are all in demand, it seems," said Hugh, laughing. "We never know how much we are valued until it is too late to fix our price, as the Irishman said, when he lost both arms and could no longer saw wood for his family. I cannot subdivide myself, so I had better subdivide the time."
"Well then, Hugh, I spoke first. Walk right upstairs," said Bessie, leading the way.
"Will you walk into my parlor, said the spider to the fly," sang Hugh, as he followed her. "I go, Bessie, from sheer compassion for my nose; you have made it Grecian, and I am sure it is Roman!"
"How gay they seem," said Sibyl, as they disappeared, "and yet Bessie will miss Hugh sadly. They have been devoted companions since childhood, and through our school-days Bessie was always looking forward to vacation, and spending her spare time in writing letters to Hugh. They have, of course, been parted for months together, but this parting is different. Hugh will be back again soon, and he may make us many visits, but still his home will now be in New York, and, absorbed in his new duties, and in the new interests and attractions of a great city, he will no longer be the same."
"Yes; I too feel this, Sibyl," said Aunt Faith; "I feel it very deeply. My child, my little boy, will go from me forever, when I say good-bye to Hugh to-night. The young man, the kind nephew, the successful merchant may all come back at different times, but the little boy, never! Hugh is very dear to me. It is hard to let him go. God grant that in the dangers of his new life, he may be preserved. We can only pray for him, Sibyl."
Two tears rolled down Aunt Faith's cheeks, but she hastily wiped them away as Sibyl kissed her affectionately. "Dear Aunt Faith," she said, "do not be down-hearted. Hugh has the seeds in his heart planted by your faithful hand, and although they have not blossomed yet, I feel sure they are growing."
"Yes, dear; I cannot help feeling as you do," replied Aunt Faith, trying to smile. But her heart was heavy.
Upstairs in the studio Bessie was painting rapidly, while Hugh in the old arm-chair sat gazing out through the open window, much as he had done on that bright June morning three months before, when Bessie had confessed the secret of the unpaid bill.
"How does the picture progress, Queen Bess?" he asked.
"Very well, excepting the eyes; I cannot get the right expression, I have tried over and over again. They are never the same two minutes at a time; I almost wish they were made of glass," said Bessie impatiently.
"Then I would be the bully boy with a glass eye," said Hugh, laughing.
"And a wax nose," said Bessie.
"And a tin ear," continued Hugh.
"And a cork leg," added Bessie.
"And a brass arm, finis," said Hugh; "the weather is too warm for further studies in anatomy."
"What does it all mean, anyway, Hugh? I have heard Tom and his friends say the whole string over and over again with the greatest apparent satisfaction; but to me they convey not a shadow of an idea."
"Nor to any one else, I imagine," said Hugh. "If the phrases ever had any meaning, it has long ago vanished into obscurity. I have seen explanations given of many popular terms but never of these. After I am gone, though, Bessie, you had better give up slang. It is all very well with me, and to tell the truth, _I_ have taught you all you know, but it would not do with any one else."
"Just as though I should ever speak a word of it to any one else," said Bessie indignantly. "With you, it is different; you are like another myself." " _Alter_ ego," said Hugh.
"I don't know anything about alter ego, but I know I shall miss you dreadfully," said Bessie, throwing down her brush as the thought of Hugh's departure came into her mind with vivid distinctness.
"I shall be back again in November, Bessie."
"Yes; but only for a day or two."
"Perhaps I shall come home in the spring, also."
"But it won't be the same. You will change,--I know you will," murmured Bessie, with a half sob.
"I shall not change towards any of you here at home, but of course I shall grow older, and I hope I shall improve. You remember all I told you about my plans for the future?"
"Yes, Hugh. But it is such a long way off."
"It does not seem long to me, Bessie; I have so much to accomplish that the time will be short. I love to look forward,--I love to think of all I shall do, of all the beautiful things I shall buy,--of all the unfortunate people I shall help. I shall succeed,--I know I shall succeed, because I shall work with all my might and main,--and also because I shall try to do so much good with my money."
"Yes; but all this time where shall we be? Where shall I be?" said Bessie, sadly.
"You shall come down to visit me with Aunt Faith: you have only one more year of school-life, and then you can spend a part of every winter in New York."
"That will be nice," said Bessie, slowly, taking up her brush again; but, child-like, the present seemed more to her than the future. Hugh was silent, gazing out through the window 'over the summer landscape,--the pasture, the grove, and the distant lake. "Aunt Faith will miss you," said Bessie, after a pause.
"Dear Aunt Faith," replied Hugh, "she does not know how much I love her! She will miss me, but I shall miss her still more. All my life she has been my guardian angel. And to think how I have deceived her!"
"Oh, Hugh, such little things!"
"The principle is the same. I think, before I go, I will tell her all,--all the numerous escapades we have been engaged in; then I shall have a clear conscience to start with. After I am gone, Bessie, you will not be tempted to transgress in that way, and who knows but that we shall turn out quite well-behaved people in our old age."
"I have tempted you, not you me, Hugh."
"Call it even, then. Why! what are you crying about, Brownie?"
"You are going away,--you are going away!" was all that Bessie could say.
Hugh's eyes softened as he saw his cousin's grief. "Don't cry, dear," he said gently. "We shall not be parted long. And while we are parted, I want to think that you are happy, that you, too, are trying to improve as I am trying. I want to think that my little Bessie is growing into a stately, beautiful Elizabeth. You are part of my future, dear, and you can help me to succeed."
"How, Hugh?" said Bessie, wiping away her tears.
"By being happy, trying to improve yourself, and writing me all you are doing. Such letters will be very pleasant to me when I am working hard in the great city. We have never, either of us, taken a serious view of life, but for once, to-day, I feel very serious, Bessie; I am going to try to be good,--I am going to try to be a good man. And I want you to try and be good too."
"I will try, Hugh," whispered Bessie, affected by his serious tone.
"That is right. And now let us have no more sadness to spoil my last day at home. Whatever the future may bring to me,--and I have full confidence in the future, you know,--all of you here at home will have the first place in my heart. I have a great many plans, and all of them are bright; I have a great many hopes, and all of them are certain; life seems very beautiful to me, and I thank my Creator for my health and strength. I ask nothing better than what lies before me, and I am willing to take the labor for the pleasures it will bring."
Hugh paused, and an expression of glowing hope lit up his face and shone in his blue eyes. Bessie seized her brush, and, filled with a sudden inspiration, worked intently at her portrait for some time in silence.
"There is the first dinner-bell, Queen Bess," said Hugh; "I have idled away the whole morning up here. Good-bye, little studio," he continued, rising as he spoke; "I hope one day to see you altered into a beautiful, luxurious abode of art, filled with striking pictures, the work of America's greatest artist, Elizabeth Darrell!"
"If I should paint the best pictures in the world, you would not allow my name to be connected with them in public, Hugh. You are so prejudiced."
"Prejudiced, is it? Well, perhaps it is. I own I do not think that types adorn a woman's name. A woman ought not to appear 'in the papers' but twice; when she marries, and when she dies."
"So if she don't marry, she never has a chance of being anybody until she is dead; I don't call that fair, Hugh."
"Surely, Elizabeth Darrell, you are not shrieking for suffrage!"
"Never!" said Bessie, "I'm only shrieking for my name."
"What's in a name!" replied Hugh, laughing. "Paint away, little artist; I will buy all your pictures, and pay you so well for them that you won't care for fame. By the way, am I not to ------ [Transcriber's Note: There is some dialogue missing here, although there are no pages missing in the images.]
"No," replied Bessie, moving the easel; "but I've got your eyes at last!"
"I'm glad of that; good-bye, Brownie," and Hugh ran off down the stairs to prepare for dinner.
"And my bracket!" said Sibyl, as he came into the dining-room.
"And my poems!" added Aunt Faith, with a smile.
"All in good time, ladies," replied Hugh. "The first hour after dinner is to be devoted to packing; the second, to Sibyl and her bracket; the third, to Aunt Faith and her book; the fourth I give to the family as a collective whole, and all the rest of the time I reserve for tea, general farewells, and embarkation."
"Highly systematic! You are practicing business habits already, I see," said Sibyl.
"The B. B.'s are all coming to see you off, Hugh," said Tom.
"What an honor! I am overwhelmed with the attention of the band! What time may I expect them?"
"A little after six. They are going to form on both sides of the front walk, and hurrah like troopers."
"Oh Hugh, I am real sorry you are going," said Gem suddenly, dropping her knife and fork as though the idea had only just become a reality to her. "I shall hate to see your empty chair in the morning when I come down to breakfast; I know I shall."
There was an ominous tremor in Gem's voice as she spoke.
"Come, little girl, no tears," said Hugh, bending to kiss his little cousin; "everybody must be cheerful or I shall not like it. And as for the chair, take it out of the room if you like, but be sure and bring it back in November when I come home again."
"I'll keep it in my room, and bring it down myself the day you come home," said Gem eagerly.
A little after three, Hugh tapped at Sibyl's door. "Is it you, brother? Come in," said Sibyl, and entering, Hugh sat down by the table and began to work on the half-finished bracket. They talked on many subjects, but principally on Hugh's New York life, and his plans for the future; then gradually they spoke of November, and the approaching wedding-day. "Before I go, Sibyl, I want to tell you in so many words how pleased I am to give you into Mr. Leslie's care. If I could have chosen from all the world, I know no one to whom I would more willingly have given my only sister; no one so welcome as a brother-in-law."
"How glad I am that you feel so, Hugh," said Sibyl warmly.
"And you yourself Sibyl; you have improved so much. It is not often that brothers and sisters express the affection they feel for each other, but you know I do not believe in such reserve, and I want you to know, dear, how thoroughly I appreciate the change in you. Leaving you, as I must, it is very pleasant to think that my one sister is growing into a noble good woman, such as our mother would have wished to have her."
Sibyl threw her arms around Hugh's neck; she was much moved. In her new life and new love, her brother had become doubly dear to her, and perhaps for the first time, she realized how much she loved him.
"No tears, I hope, sister," said Hugh, gently raising her head. "This is my 'good-bye' to you, dear. You know I do not like formal leave-taking. Here is your little bracket all done, but I shall bring you a better present from New York, a set of wedding pearls. You will have to wear them if I give them to you, although you are a clergyman's wife."
Aunt Faith was sitting by the window in her room when she heard her nephew's step outside. "Come in!" she said; and when he entered she pointed to a chair next her own. "My dear boy, I cannot realize that you are going to leave me."
"Only for a few weeks, Aunt Faith; I shall be back in November."
"Not to stay, dear. No, I feel that this is our first real separation, although for years you have been absent at school and college many months at a time. You are the first to leave the old stone house,--the first bird to fly away from the nest."
"I am the oldest, aunt, and therefore naturally the first to go."
"That is true, but the old bird feels none the less sad."
"You must not feel sad, Aunt Faith; the future looks very bright to me. Let me tell you all my plans." Sitting there in the quiet room, the young spirit full of hope, told to the old spirit full of resignation, all its bright dreams and plans.
"I hope they will all come true, dear," said Aunt Faith, after they had talked long on these subjects.
"I hope,--I think they will, if human energy can bring it about. But now, aunt, to look back on the past, I want to make a confession to you, I want you to hear and forgive me before I go."
Then Hugh told of all the secret horseback rides, and many other wild adventures of past years, in which he and Bessie had each borne a part. "It has been all my fault, Aunt Faith," he said, as he concluded. "I was the elder and the stronger, and I led Bessie on. Without me she would have done none of those things. Poor little Bessie! she is very dear to me. You will be kind to her when I am gone?"
"I will, Hugh. I, too, am very fond of Bessie. But do not take all the blame upon yourself; she is by nature rash and way ward."
"I know she is, aunt. But, at the same time, if it had not been for my influence, Bessie would have been a very different girl; if she had thought that I disapproved of any of her actions that would have been the last of them, whereas instead of this, I have encouraged her. Whatever the blame may be I take it all upon myself. But Bessie is changing, I think; you will have no trouble with her hereafter, she will grow into a noble woman yet. And now, aunt, I will leave no work undone, but finish that volume, if you wish it."
So saying, Hugh took up the book which Aunt Faith had placed ready for him, and began reading aloud; he read well, and it was one of her greatest pleasures to listen to him. She often kept volumes by her side for weeks with the pages uncut, waiting until he could find time to read them aloud. "And now I will say good-bye!" said Hugh, as he finished the little book; "you know I dislike formal leave-takings in the presence of all the family."
"Good-bye, my dear boy!" said Aunt Faith, with a motherly embrace. "May God bless you and keep you in all your ways, in danger, sickness, temptation and perplexity, for the sake of His dear Son, our Saviour Jesus Christ. Oh, Hugh, can you not gladden my heart by saying those two sentences before you go,--you know what I mean?"
"I will try to say them soon, aunt. I feel that I have changed lately, but I want to know that it is not the mere excitement of parting and anticipation of a new life which has affected me. I am going to try hard to be a good man,--indeed I am; and if I find that these new feelings outlast my present excitement, I will write you word. Sometimes I almost feel as though I could make my public profession of faith now; but the next two months will show me the exact truth, and perhaps, Aunt Faith, the time of Sibyl's wedding will also be the time when I shall come forward to join the church."
"God be thanked," said Aunt Faith, fervently; "the feelings will last, Hugh, for they are holy and true. Go, my boy; I give you up freely now, for you are virtually enrolled in the army of the Lord, and He will aid you in all times of trial if you call upon Him."
A little before six all the family, together with Mr. Leslie, assembled in the sitting-room; there was an undercurrent of sadness in their minds, but Hugh would allow no melancholy words or looks.
"First we will have tea, then Bessie shall play 'Bonnie Dundee' for us, then we will all make a triumphal arch of flowers through which I shall pass, in token of the grand success which awaits me in the mercantile world, and then I shall go. No one must accompany me to the boat; I want to see you all on the piazza as the carriage drives away, and if there is so much as one tear-drop, I shall know it and be ready to inflict condign punishment therefor," said Hugh, laying down the law with a magisterial air.
Tea was soon over, and then Bessie with trembling fingers managed, with severe self-control, to play 'Bonnie Dundee' to the end without a tear. Another note, however, she could not play, but replaced the cover of her harp in silence. Then Tom and Gem brought in from the garden all the flowers they could find, and a long wreath was made and twined around and over the two pillars of the front piazza.
"There comes the carriage!" said Tom, "and there come the B. B.'s, too. Here, boys, form on both sides of the walk; Hugh's going in a minute."
The trunk was carried out, and Hugh took up his coat and valise. "Now I want you all to come out on the piazza," he said. "Aunt Faith, here is your chair. Gem, you stand by Aunt Faith's side: Sibyl and John, please stand opposite to them; and Tom,--where is Tom?"
"Here I am!" answered Tom from the back of the house; "I'm getting the dogs together for the group."
"That's right, the dogs by all means, for they are an important part of the family," said Hugh, laughing. "Sit over that side, Tom, and keep them by you. Bessie, I want you to stand in the centre just under the arch; there, that is perfect. I shall turn round and look at you all when I reach the gate." So saying, Hugh bent down and kissed Bessie's pale cheek, and then passing under the arch, walked rapidly down the long garden-walk. The B. B.'s in martial array on either side, gave him three cheers as he passed, and when he reached the gate he turned and looked back with a smile, waving his hat in token of farewell. In another moment he was gone, then the carriage rolled down the street out of sight, and Aunt Faith, rising, said solemnly, "May God bless our dear Hugh, now and forever."
"Amen," said Mr. Leslie.
Bessie had disappeared.
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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10
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THE HOME-COMING.
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"A forlorn, gloomy day," said Bessie at the breakfast-table the next morning, "and I'm glad of it!"
"I don't know that I care," said Tom. "When a fellow has got to go to school, it don't make much difference."
"It must have rained very hard in the night," said Sibyl, looking out into the garden where the vine-leaves were strewed all over the ground.
"It rained, but there was not much wind," replied Aunt Faith; "I was awake part of the night and listened to the storm. There was not wind enough to make any sea, and Hugh is probably in B------ by this time."
"What a jolly ride he will have on the cars to-day, whirling through the country and getting nearer to New York every mile, while I am digging away at these old books," said Tom discontentedly.
"Hurry, children!" said Aunt Faith, looking at the clock; "you must not be late the very first day of school."
"Here comes Mr. Leslie!" called out Tom, slinging his books over his shoulder.
"John is very early this morning," said Sibyl, going out to meet him as he came up the walk.
"That is the way it will be all the time now, I suppose," said Bessie with some irritation; "Hugh gone, and Sibyl so absorbed that she is good for nothing as a companion. Aunt Faith, you and I are like the last roses of summer left blooming alone."
Aunt Faith smiled. She was very gentle with Bessie this morning; she remembered her promise to Hugh, and she saw also that the young girl was suffering under her share of the sorrow of parting, a sorrow always heavier for the one that stays than for the one who goes.
"I shall go upstairs and paint," said Bessie after a pause; "I succeeded at last in giving the right expression to Hugh's eyes. You may see the picture, now, Aunt Faith; it is so like him."
At this moment Mr. Leslie came into the sitting-room, but Sibyl was not with him; his face was pale, he went up to Aunt Faith and took her hand with tender solemnity.
"What is it?" she asked, sinking into a chair; her voice was quiet, she had too often endured affliction not to recognize its messenger at a glance. Mr. Leslie, in his ministration in times of trouble, had learned never to hide or alter the plain truth.
"The morning boat from B------ has just come in," he said. "The captain reports that the evening boat of the same line, the _America_, which left Westerton last night, collided with a schooner off Shoreton about midnight, and sank in ten minutes. The night was very dark, but many of the passengers were picked up by the 'Empire' as she came along two hours afterward, some clinging to fragments of the wreck, and some in one of the _America's_ small boats. The other boats are missing, but there is hope that they are safe, as the storm was not severe, and the lake is now quite calm. The rescued passengers think that some may have been picked up by a propeller whose lights they saw in the distance."
"You have come to tell us that Hugh is among the rescued," said Aunt Faith in a faint voice, hoping against hope.
"Hugh is drowned!" said Bessie with hard, cold distinctness; then she sat down by the table and buried her face in her hands.
"Hugh is not among those brought back by the 'Empire,'" said Mr. Leslie, "but I have strong hope that he is safe. Tugs have already started for the scene of the accident, the water is still at summer heat, and besides, among the many vessels and propellers constantly passing over that very spot, there is every probability that many have been picked up before this time. Hugh is very strong, and an excellent swimmer, also."
"Hugh is drowned!" said Bessie in the same hard voice; "He will never come back to us alive."
"Bessie, Bessie!" cried Sibyl, rushing into the room, "you shall not, you dare not say such cruel words!" Sibyl's face was discolored with violent weeping, and her whole frame shook with agitation; she and her cousin seemed to have changed places, for Bessie did not shed a tear.
"I say what is true," she answered; "Hugh is drowned! Hugh is dead!"
Mr. Leslie went over to her, and took her cold hand; "Bessie," he said gently, "why do you give up all hope? There are a great many chances for Hugh."
"Go away!" said Bessie in the same dull monotone; "Hugh is dead, I tell you! Go put crape on the door!"
"She is ill," said Mr. Leslie in a low tone to Aunt Faith; "you had better take her upstairs."
Aunt Faith roused herself from her own grief; "come, dear," she said, rising.
"I shall not go," said Bessie; "I shall wait here for Hugh."
At this moment Tom and Gem ran into the room.
"Oh, Aunt Faith! what is it?" began Tom. "We met some boys and they told us that the _America_ was run into last night."
Gem looked at Bessie and Sibyl, and then without a word, she sat down in her little chair and began to cry bitterly. Aunt Faith could not answer Tom, the sound of Gem's violent weeping, and Sibyl's sobs, seemed to choke the words on her lips.
"I don't believe a word of it!" cried Tom indignantly. "Hugh can swim better than any one in Westerton, and he's as strong as a lion! I'm going right down to the dock, and you'll see him coming back with me before night."
"Hugh is dead!" said Bessie again; "Hugh is dead!"
The hours passed slowly in those long minutes of weary waiting in which young hearts grow into old age in a single day. Friends and neighbors flocked into the old stone house, and their voices were hushed as they came and went with kindly but useless sympathy. Mr. Leslie had gone to the scene of the accident on a fast tug, accompanied by some of Hugh's young companions, and as, during the day, different vessels came into port, they were boarded by anxious friends and the latest reports eagerly sought. The bank of the lake was thronged, people stood there with glasses, in spite of the steady rain, scanning the eastern horizon in the hope of discovering the smoke of approaching propellers. Others had friends on board the _America_ besides the family at the old stone house. But Hugh was well known and well liked, and his was the only young life among those still missing from Westerton; the others were middled-aged or old, and with that universal sympathy which the death of a bright vigorous youth always awakens, the whole town mourned for Hugh, and stories of his generous, manly nature, flew from mouth to mouth, until even strangers felt that they knew him.
At five o'clock a tug returned bringing a man and wife exhausted with twelve hours in the water lashed to floating spars; but they soon revived, and the good news flew through the city, and friends told it to the family in the old stone house, clustered together around Bessie, who had not changed her attitude or tasted food since morning. "If they were saved, why not Hugh?" they said hopefully.
"Hugh is dead!" repeated Bessie; "they will bring him home, poor drowned Hugh!" Sibyl broke forth into violent weeping, and Aunt Faith shuddered at Bessie's words. "Can you not persuade Bessie to go upstairs and lie down?" said a lady friend, looking apprehensively at the young girl's fixed eyes.
Aunt Faith shook her head. "We must leave her to herself for the present," she answered sadly; "her grief is beyond expression now."
Later in the day, the tug Mr. Leslie had taken was sighted from the bank, and a crowd assembled on the dock, with the feeling that suspense would soon be over.
"They would not have come back so soon unless they had found him," said one; "they would have cruised around there for a day or two as long as there was any hope."
"But they don't hoist any signal," said another; "they must know we are waiting here."
The little tug came rapidly in, watched by hundreds of eyes, and when at last she approached the dock, the anxiety grew intense. There came no shout from those on board, the quiet was ominous, and, chilled by a sudden awe, the crowd stepped back, and awaited the result in silence. The boat was made fast, and then, after a short delay, the young men came forth bearing the shrouded form of their late companion, now still in death. Hugh was dead, then? Yes, Hugh was dead!
But he had not died in vain, and the story of his death was repeated from mouth to mouth throughout the city; women heard it and sobbed aloud, as they held their darlings closer; men heard it and spoke a few brief words of praise and regret to which their wet eyes gave emphasis.
About half-past eleven the previous night, the _America_ had been struck amidships by an unknown schooner driving down unseen in the intense darkness of the storm. Most of the passengers had gone to their state-rooms, but Hugh was still in the cabin; rushing out on deck he saw and heard that the boat would sink, and, accompanied by the captain, ran back through the cabin, arousing the passengers and telling them of the danger. In an instant all was confusion, agony, and despair; some of the men leaped overboard, but the women with their instinctive shrinking from the dark water, could not be persuaded to leave the deck. A few passengers and part of the crew got off in one of the small boats, but the other boats were swamped by the rush into them; a cry went up that the steamer was sinking, and Hugh was seen to jump overboard with a little child in his arms, a baby whose mother had held it imploringly towards him, as he tried to persuade her to take the dangerous leap. "Take the child," she said; "I will follow you," and then as they disappeared, with a wild cry the poor woman flung herself over after them. In the mean time the captain and some of the hands and passengers had ascended to the hurricane deck, and when the _America_ sank, the force of the waves separated the deck from the hull, and it floated off, a frail support for the little group it carried. The lake was strewn with fragments, spars and barrels, and to these many persons were clinging. Hugh had managed to secure a piece of broken mast with spars attached, and with its aid he supported the mother and child until an iron-bound cask, caught in the cordage, struck him heavily in the darkness. The mother heard him groan, and his grasp loosened, "Quick!" he said hoarsely; "I cannot hold you. I must fasten you with these floating ropes; I am badly hurt, but I think I can hold the child."
He bound the ropes and rigging about her, and told her how she could best support herself; then he was silent, but every now and then she heard him moaning as though in pain. How long they floated in this way the mother could not tell; it seemed to her many hours,--it was, in reality, less than four. They saw the lights of the _Empire_ in the distance, but they could not make themselves heard, although they shouted with all their strength. At the first glimmering of dawn they discovered the hurricane deck not far distant, and Hugh said, "shout with all your might. I cannot hold on much longer, my head is on fire!" So the mother exerted all her strength in a piercing scream, and to her joy, an answering cry came back through the rain. Hugh made an effort to steer the spars towards the floating deck, and those on board pushed their raft towards him as well as they could. Still it was slow work, and as the dawn grew brighter, the mother saw her preserver's haggard face, and the blood matted in his curly hair. He did not speak, as, holding the baby in one arm, with the other he tried to guide the broken mast, but his eyes were strangely glazed and the shadow of death was on his brow. They reached the deck at last, and kind hands lifted them on board; it was only a raft, but it seemed a support after the deep, dark water. The mother took her baby, and Hugh sank down at her feet. Some one had a flask of brandy, and they succeeded in pouring a little through his clenched teeth; after a moment or two he revived, sat up, looked about him, and murmured some incoherent words. Then he tried to take out his little note-book, but it was wet, and the pencil was gone; the captain gave him his own, and Hugh had scrawled a few words upon it, spoke to the mother and smiled when she held up the child. But gradually he relapsed into unconsciousness, grew more and more death-like, and, after breathing heavily for an hour, passed away without a struggle. The mother and her child were safe; all the others on the floating deck were rescued,--but Hugh, dear Hugh was dead!
Mr. Leslie had preceded the funeral cortege by a few moments; slowly he alighted from the carriage and passed up the garden-walk towards the old stone house. His heart was heavy, and words of comfort came not to his lips; in the presence of so great a sorrow he bowed his head in silence. The friends who were in the house, came out to meet him, but no one spoke; they knew by his face that the worst was true. They did not follow him into the presence of the mourners, but going down to the gate, they waited there.
Mr. Leslie entered the sitting-room. "The Lord gave and the Lord hath taken away," he said solemnly. "Blessed be the name of the Lord. Hugh, our dear Hugh is dead."
Sibyl screamed and fell back fainting, the children burst into tears, and Aunt Faith knelt down by her chair and hid her face in her hands. Bessie alone was calm. "Are they bringing him home?" she asked, lifting her tearless eyes to Mr. Leslie's face.
"Yes Bessie; they will soon be here, now."
Without reply she rose, smoothed her disordered curls and arranged her dress. "Sibyl," she said, "do not cry; Hugh never could bear to hear any one cry! Aunt Faith, Hugh is coming. Let us go to meet him."
Her strange composure awed the violent grief of the others into silence, and they followed her mechanically as she led the way to the piazza; involuntarily they all took the positions of the previous evening, and, with Bessie standing alone in the centre, they waited for their dead.
The young men bore their burden up the walk slowly and solemnly, and behind followed a train of sorrowing friends, two and two, thus rendering respect to the youth who had so suddenly been taken from them in all the flush and vigor of early manhood. On came the sad procession, and when the bearers reached the piazza, the friends fell back and stood with uncovered heads, as up the steps, and under the faded triumphal arch, Hugh Warrington came home for the last time to the old stone house.
At midnight Aunt Faith went softly into the parlor; a faint light shone from the chandelier upon the still figure beneath, and Bessie with her face hidden in her hands, sat by its side. She did not move as Aunt Faith came to her; she did not answer when Aunt Faith spoke to her; she seemed almost as cold and rigid as the dead.
"Bessie dear, I have something to show you," said Aunt Faith, in a low tone; "I have a letter to you from Hugh."
Bessie started and looked up; her face was pinched and colorless, and her dark eyes wild and despairing.
"I have a letter to you, dear, from Hugh," repeated Aunt Faith; "he wrote it on board the floating deck just before he died."
"Give it to me," said Bessie hoarsely, holding out her cold hands.
"In a moment, dear. Come upstairs with me and you shall see it," answered Aunt Faith, trying to lead her away. But Bessie resisted wildly. "I will not go!" she said. "I shall stay with Hugh until the last. Give me my letter! It is mine! You have no right to keep it. Give it to me, I say!"
Alarmed at the expression of her eyes, Aunt Faith took out the captain's note-book, opened it, and handed it to her niece. The words were scrawled across the page in irregular lines; there seemed to be two paragraphs. The first was this: "Bessie, try to be good, dear; I love you." The second: "I can say the two sentences, Aunt Faith,--I am saying them now. --Hugh."
The writing was trembling and indistinct, and the last words barely legible; the signature was but a blur.
As Bessie deciphered the two messages, a sudden tremor shook her frame; then she read them over again, speaking the words aloud as if to give them reality. "Oh Hugh! Hugh!" she cried, "how can I live without you!"
With a quick movement, Aunt Faith turned up the gas and threw back the pall; then she put her arms around the desolate girl and raised her to her feet. "Look at him, Bessie!" she said earnestly; "look at dear Hugh, and think how hard it must have been for him to write those words, how hard he must have tried, how much he must have loved you!"
Hugh's face was calm, the curling, golden hair concealed the cruel wound on his temple, and there was a beautiful expression about the mouth, that strange peace which sometimes comes after death, as if sent to comfort the mourners. His right hand, bruised by the hard night's work, was covered with vine-leaves, but the left, the hand that had held the little child, was folded across his breast; he was dressed as he had been in life, and some one had placed a cross on his heart,--a little cross of ivy simply twined. "My soldier, true soldier of the cross," murmured Aunt Faith, stooping to kiss the cold brow. "In those hours it all became clear to you. 'Lord, I believe, help Thou mine unbelief;'--'Lord be merciful to me a sinner.' With these two sentences on your lips, you passed into another country. Farewell, Hugh! You will not return to us, but we shall go to you."
Bessie had not raised her head from Aunt Faith's shoulder. She had not looked upon Hugh since they brought him home, and now she stood holding the note-book in her hands, and trembling convulsively.
"Look at him, Bessie," said Aunt Faith again; "look at dear Hugh. He is speaking to you now, in that dying message."
At last Bessie raised her head and looked upon the still face long and earnestly; then, throwing herself down upon her knees, she burst into a passion of wild grief, calling upon Hugh, beseeching him to speak to her, and listening for his answer in vain. Aunt Faith did not try to check her, for these were her first tears; she knew they would relieve that tension of the head and heart, which, if long continued, must have ended in physical and mental prostration. After a few moments, Sibyl came in, and the two watched over Bessie until she sank exhausted to the floor, when they lifted her slight form and bore her upstairs.
Then, from the sitting-room, two of Hugh's friends came in, turned down the light, covered the still face, and went back to keep their watch in the desolate hours of mourning.
The sun was sinking towards the west in unclouded brightness when a throng gathered in the old stone house to pay their last tribute of respect to the dead. "Fitz Hugh Warrington, aged twenty years and ten months," said the inscription on the coffin-lid, and many tears dropped upon it, as, one by one, the friends bent over to take a farewell look at the handsome face with its clustering golden hair. Then came the voice of the aged pastor, reading the words of the Gospel of St. John,--Hugh's favorite chapter, the fourteenth. A hymn followed,--Hugh's favorite hymn, "Brightest and best of the sons of the morning," and then they all knelt in prayer, the fervent prayer mingled with tears which ascends from the house where the dearest one of all is dead.
Mr. Leslie took no part in the services; he stood with Sibyl as one of the family. Aunt Faith leaned upon the arm of Mr. Hastings, who had come from New York immediately upon hearing of the accident. Tom and Gem stood together, but Bessie was alone; she wished no support, she said; she only wanted to stay by Hugh until the last. So they let her stand by the head of the coffin alone,--alone with her dead, and with her God.
Then came another hymn, and slowly the bearers lifted all that was left of their friend, and bore it forth under the same faded flower-arch, and down the garden-walk, where the throng made way for them on either side as they passed.
The sun was setting, and, standing on the piazza, the choir sang,-- Abide with me; fast falls the even tide, The darkness deepens; Lord, with me abide; When other helpers fail, and comforts Bee, Help of the helpless, Oh abide with me.
I fear no foe with Thee at hand to bless, Ills have no weight, and tears no bitterness; Where is death's sting, where, grave, thy victory? I triumph still, if Thou abide with me."
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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11
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CONCLUSION.
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A year had passed, and the colored leaves were dropping for the second time upon Hugh's grave. Aunt Faith and Bessie were in the sitting-room of the old stone house, and the voices of Tom and Gem sounded through the open hall-door from the back garden, where they were sitting under the oak-tree. Hugh's portrait stood upon an easel, with living ivy growing around it from the little bracket which he had made that last day of summer. The afternoon sun struck the picture, and gave it a vivid realistic expression; Bessie saw it, and laying down her work, looked lovingly into the bright face. "It is very like Hugh, is it not, Aunt Faith?" she said at last.
Aunt Faith put on her glasses, and drew nearer the easel. "It is indeed a wonderful likeness, especially the eyes," she replied. "How came you to succeed so well?"
"I had been working at it all summer, aunt, but the eyes I could not copy to my satisfaction, they varied so constantly. It was Hugh's last day at home; don't you remember how I begged for the morning? He was sitting in the old arm-chair by the window, looking out towards the lake, talking about the future; he was so full of life and hope that morning,--so sure of success,--so happy in the thought of the good he could accomplish, that his eyes fairly shone. Something came over me; I took the brush, and, by a sudden inspiration, I succeeded in copying the expression exactly."
"It is a comfort to have the picture," said Aunt Faith, "and a blessed thought that we shall see that dear face again, and know it when we see it."
"You believe so, aunt? So do I. I believe that we shall love each other there as here, only far, far better. To be with those we love, away from affliction, care, and temptation,--that is heaven."
"I often think of the meetings there, Bessie. Hugh found his father and his mother there. While we were mourning here, they were rejoicing there."
"I no longer mourn, Aunt Faith; I have found comfort."
"I know that, my dear, and am thankful for it; but you are sad at times."
"I feel sad over myself, aunt, over my loneliness, and my faults. I feel sorry for myself as one feels sorry for a child; I sympathize with myself as though I was another person. Sometimes it seems as if my soul sat apart peaceful and quiet, while all the rest of me gave way to deep despondency. But all the while I know that Hugh is safe; that I shall go to him, and that through the mercy of our Saviour we shall find eternal joy. And I always try to remember that Hugh disliked morbid grief; that he used to say the world was a beautiful place; that we had no right to despise it; that as long as we were in it, it was our duty to make others happy and be happy ourselves. Therefore I try to be cheerful, and when I think of Hugh, I am cheerful. It is only when I think of myself that despondency comes back to me."
"You have done well, dear," said Aunt Faith; "I have seen your struggles, and rejoiced over your victories. I have confidence in you, Bessie, and if I am called away, I can leave the children in your charge with an easy heart."
"They are no longer children, Aunt Faith."
"True! Gem is thirteen, but she will need watchful care for many years yet. And Tom, although tall and strong, is still a thorough boy at heart, and the next five or six years are full of danger for him."
"Tom is a fine fellow," said Bessie warmly; "he is full of generosity and courage."
"Yes, but there are corresponding dangers for his sanguine temperament. However, although still young, he has an earnest faith; Hugh's death was a lesson which he will never forget, and all though he may often go astray, I feel sure he will _come_ back again at the last. Gem, too, is one of the lambs of the flock; she has improved greatly the past year. I have had deep cause to be thankful, and I am thankful," said Aunt Faith, folding her hands reverently. "The children Thou gavest to me are all Thine; Thou hast cared for them and brought them to a knowledge of Thy goodness. One hast Thou taken, the dearest of all; taken him away from trouble to come. Lord, I thank Thee, for all Thy goodness." As Aunt Faith murmured these words, she leaned back in her chair and closed her own heart in silence.
After a few moments, Bessie went out on the piazza to welcome Mr. Leslie and Sibyl as they came up the walk.
"Aunt Faith is resting in her chair," she said, smiling; "we will sit out here, if you please. How well you look, Sibyl!"
Mrs. Leslie threw off her bonnet, and the light shone in her golden hair. She looked well, better than she had ever looked as Sibyl Warrington; for, although her skin had lost something of its extreme delicacy, her face had gained in animation, and her manners in cordiality, so that people who could not love her before, loved her now with sincere affection. Her beautiful hair was coiled gracefully around her head, and she was dressed with as much care as ever, for Sibyl was Sibyl still, and could no more change her love for harmony and taste than the leopard could change his spots. But everything _was_ simple, inexpensive, and fashioned by her own fingers, so that although all admired, not even the most censorious could find fault with the appearance of the pastor's wife.
Mr. Leslie, too, was somewhat altered; he looked well and vigorous, but his manner was more gentle. The poor said he was more compassionate, the sick said he was more gentle, his congregation said he was more eloquent; Hugh's death and Sibyl's sorrow had not been without their lessons for him, also.
The little chapel was still poor and struggling, but husband and wife worked together with heart and strength. Sibyl was invaluable; she threw her system, her energy, and her tact into the week-day work, and her husband found his Sunday labors doubly successful, because they were followed up and carried out during the six working days as well as on the day of rest.
"I have had a letter from Mrs. Stanly, to-day, Bessie," said Mr. Leslie; "she says little Hugh is beginning to talk, and already can say 'Aunt Bessie.' He associates you with the Noah's Ark you sent him. Here is his picture, enclosed in the letter." The photograph represented a chubby boy with large, wondering eyes and curly hair.
"Brave little man!" said Sibyl, looking over Bessie's shoulder. "What a wonder he lived through that night!"
"Oh, Hugh held him up out of the water most of the time," said Bessie quickly; "the mother told me that his little knitted shirt was scarcely wet at all. I must certainly go East to see the child next spring, now that his father is dead, I feel more at liberty to assist Mrs. Stanly, and, between us, we are going to give little Hugh the best education the country will allow."
"Is that you, Sibyl?" said Aunt Faith's voice within.
"Yes, aunt. Shall we come in?" said Mrs. Leslie, rising.
"No, dear, I will come out;" and Aunt Faith joined the group on the piazza, taking her seat in an arm-chair.
"What a beautiful afternoon!" she said, "and how brilliant those maple-leaves are! Have you seen the monument, John?"
"No," answered Mr. Leslie; "is it in place?"
"Yes, the work was all finished this morning, and Bessie and I went over to look at it. Why not walk over now? We can all go, and these lovely days cannot last long."
"I should like to go, John, if you have the time," said Sibyl.
"Yes; I can postpone the visit I intended to make. As Aunt Faith says, these warm, still days cannot last long."
The cemetery was about half a mile distant, a forest glade sloping to the lake, with a brook in a little ravine running through the centre. But few graves were there, for the land was but newly consecrated to its use, but the great forest-trees were old, and in the spring, wild flowers grew everywhere, and wild birds sang in the foliage. Now, the trees were dyed in scarlet and gold, and the colored leaves dropped slowly down upon the ground, for the air was still and hazy with the purple mists of Indian summer. Hugh's monument stood on a little eminence overlooking the lake. It was of marble, a slender shaft broken at the top, with a profusion of roses growing over the broken place, carved in the marble with life-like fidelity, so that the stone itself seemed to have blossomed. Below, on one side of the base was Hugh's name and age, and on the opposite face was the sentence, "I shall go to him, but he shall not return to me."
"I like it;" said Mr. Leslie, standing with uncovered head beside the grassy mound; "it expresses the idea of the broken young life, and the roses of hope, faith, and even joy which have grown up to cover the place."
"It is appropriate that it stands here overlooking the lake," said Sibyl. "Hugh was so fond of the water, and, on this very lake he lost his life,--gave it up for the sake of others."
"And _I_ like the monument on account of the sentence," said Bessie, who sat by the side of the grave arranging a bunch of autumn leaves.
"The monument is only raised to Hugh's earthly memory," said Aunt Faith. "Hugh is not here; I never feel that I am nearer to him here than at home. But I like to honor the place where his mortal body lies, and I like to think when I die, those who love me will likewise honor my grave."
Bessie completed her wreath and laid it on the mound, and then they all went back to the old stone house, quiet and thoughtful, but not sad; the faith within their hearts was too earnest, and the hope too bright for sadness.
After tea they sat together on the piazza; the night was warm, and the full-moon shone through the haze, giving the landscape a magical softness and beauty. Tom and Gem were there also, and at, Tom's feet were the three dogs, Turk, somewhat sobered, Grip, less hilarious than formerly, but Pete Trone, Esquire, as vivacious as ever, investigating every corner of the garden as though he never saw it before, and coming back after each foray with increased importance, the air of a philosopher who had discovered all the secrets of the moonlight. Friends came in and joined the family circle. Rose Saxon, Edith Chase, who had become one of Bessie's firm friends, and Walter Hart. An hour or two of pleasant conversation ensued, and Tom delivered some bright sayings, retiring within the shadow, overcome with boyish embarrassment when the company applauded him. Finally, when the visitors had all gone, Aunt Faith rose; "I hope you will stay to prayers, John," she said; "it is late, but the bright moonlight seems to postpone the hour of sleeping."
"Yes, Aunt Faith," replied Mr. Leslie; "we will stay, and Sibyl can play the hymn."
He read a chapter from the Bible, then they all sang a hymn and knelt a few moments in prayer. With affectionate farewells, they parted for the night, Sibyl and her husband going home through the moonlight, and the others separating to their respective rooms.
As Bessie stood before her dressing-table, brushing out her thick curls, she noticed the lines about her mouth, and the hollows in her temples. "I am growing old," she thought, with a half-smile, "and yet, I am only seventeen. How long this year has been; it is like a lifetime. But yet, it has been a precious year; it has taught me hope and peace, I shudder when I think how I felt a year ago."
Going across the room, she lifted a little curtain which hung before a picture; the frame contained only a fragment of paper, and through the glass the faint pencilled words of Hugh's last message could be seen. "Bessie, try to be good, dear. I love you." Bessie read the words over several times, and then, dropping the little curtain, she fell on her knees by the bedside, and prayed Hugh's prayer. "Lord I believe; help Thou mine unbelief. Lord, be merciful to me a sinner."
Seasons of despondency came to Bessie Darrell; often her pillow was wet with tears; often she was obliged to mourn over her shortcomings, often she prayed in deep contrition for forgiveness of sins,--sins belonging to her quick impulsive nature, besetting sins with which she must struggle to the last. But she never lost her faith, she never ceased to look forward to the other country. Through trouble, through care, through sickness, through affliction, through life, and through death she held fast to the hope that abideth forever. Busy and active, she gave her time first to her Aunt Faith, then to Tom and Gem, and afterwards to the poor and afflicted. She worked hard, and in the very labor she found peace at the last; she tried to make others happy, and, in the end, she found happiness for herself.
Aunt Faith sat by her table, thinking. She was thinking of her loved ones, her father and mother, her brothers and sisters, her husband, and last of all, of Hugh. "For the past month my strength has seemed to fail; it may be that I am nearer home than I know," she thought.
"But all my times are in Thy hand, dear Lord, and whether I go soon, or whether I must tarry many years longer, Thou knowest. Only grant me Thy constant aid, for without Thee I can do nothing." She knelt in prayer, prayed for her children as well as herself. Many tears had she shed over them, many times of trial and apparent failure had darkened her way since the five orphans were given into her charge. But the promise was sure, and although this life may not be long enough for the harvest, although the laborer may see only the bud here on earth, that bud will surely blossom and ripen into fruit in heaven.
"He that goeth on his way weeping, and beareth forth good seed, shall doubtless come again with joy, and bring his sheaves with him." Psalm CXXVI.
The faithful laborer toils on In spite of present sorrow,-- He heeds not toil, he heeds not storm, But labors for the morrow; To him the harvest comes in overflowing measure, To him the fields pour out their overflowing treasure.
He that goeth on his way Bearing seed, though weeping,-- Shall doubtless come again with joy Loaded from the reaping, Loaded with the precious sheaves of faith, and hope, and love, Bearing them, rejoicing, to his Father's house above.
There is quiet now in the old stone house. One of its inmates has gone from earth; one has gone to another home, and those who are left under the roof are all sleeping. The soft moonlight shines on the gray walls, caressing them as though it loved them. Dear old house! thy rooms are haunted with memories of happiness, and hallowed with memories of sorrow. We leave thee regretfully, and turn back again and again as we go, for a last FAREWELL!
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{
"id": "6679"
}
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1
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MARY WALLINGFORD
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At the beginning of the Civil War there was a fine old residence on Meeting Street in Charleston, South Carolina, inhabited by a family almost as old as the State. Its inheritor and owner, Orville Burgoyne, was a widower. He had been much saddened in temperament since the death of the wife, and had withdrawn as far as possible from public affairs. His library and the past had secured a stronger hold upon his interest and his thoughts than anything in the present, with one exception, his idolized and only child, Mary, named for her deceased mother. Any book would be laid aside when she entered; all gloom banished from his eyes when she coaxed and caressed him.
She was in truth one to be loved because so capable of love herself. She conquered and ruled every one not through wilfulness or imperiousness, but by a gentle charm, all her own, which disarmed opposition.
At first Mr. Burgoyne had paid little heed to the mutterings which preceded the Civil War, believing them to be but Chinese thunder, produced by ambitious politicians, North and South. He was preoccupied by the study of an old system of philosophy which he fancied possessed more truth than many a more plausible and modern one. Mary, with some fancy work in her hands, often watched his deep abstraction in wondering awe, and occasionally questioned him in regard to his thoughts and studies; but as his explanations were almost unintelligible, she settled down to the complacent belief that her father was one of the most learned men in the world.
At last swiftly culminating events aroused Mr. Burgoyne from his abstraction and drove him from his retirement. He accepted what he believed to be duty in profound sorrow and regret. His own early associations and those of his ancestors had been with the old flag and its fortunes; his relations to the political leaders of the South were too slight to produce any share in the alienation and misunderstandings which had been growing between the two great sections of his country, and he certainly had not the slightest sympathy with those who had fomented the ill-will for personal ends. Finally, however, he had found himself face to face with the momentous certainty of a separation of his State from the Union. For a time he was bewildered and disturbed beyond measure; for he was not a prompt man of affairs, living keenly in the present, but one who had been suddenly and rudely summoned from the academic groves of the old philosophers to meet the burning imperative questions of the day--questions put with the passionate earnestness of a people excited beyond measure.
It was this very element of popular feeling which finally turned the scale in his decision. Apparently the entire Southern people were unanimous in their determination "to be free" and to separate themselves from their old political relations. His pastor with all other friends of his own rank confirmed this impression, and, as it was known that he wavered, the best and strongest men of his acquaintance argued the question with him. His daughter was early carried away by the enthusiasm of her young companions, nevertheless she watched the conflict in her father's mind with the deepest interest. She often saw him walk the floor with unwonted tears in his eyes and almost agony on his brow; and when at last, he decided in accordance with the prevailing sentiment of his State, the Act of Secession and all that it involved became sacred in her thoughts.
She trembled and shrank when the phase of negotiation passed away, and war was seen to be the one alternative to submission. She never doubted or hesitated, however; neither did her father after his mind was once made up. Every day the torrent of bitter feeling deepened and broadened between them and the North, of which, practically, they knew very little. Even such knowledge as they possessed had come through distorted mediums, and now everything was colored by the blackest prejudice. They were led to believe and made to feel that not only their possessions but their life and honor were at stake. In early years Mr. Burgoyne had served with distinction in the war with Mexico, and he therefore promptly received a commission.
The effect of her father's decision and action had been deepened a hundred-fold by an event which occurred soon afterward. Among the thousands who thronged to Charleston when Fort Sumter was attacked, was the son of a wealthy planter residing in the interior of the State. This young soldier's enthusiasm and devotion were much bruited in the city, because, waiving wealth and rank, he had served as a private. His fearlessness at Fort Moultrie enhanced his reputation, and when the small garrison of heroes, commanded by Major Anderson, succumbed, Sidney Wallingford found that he had been voted a hero himself, especially by his fair compatriots with whom he had formerly danced when visiting the town.
The young fellow's head was not easily turned, however, for when, at an evening gathering, a group was lauding the great achievement he said disdainfully, "What! thousands against seventy? Despise the Yankees as we may, the odds were too great. The only thing we can plume ourselves upon is that we would have fought just the same had the seventy been seven thousand. I think the fellows did splendidly, if they were Yankees, yet what else could we expect since their commander was a Southern man? Oh no! we must wait till the conditions are more even before we can exult over our victories. I reckon we'll have them all the same though."
Murmurs of approbation followed these remarks, but he saw only the eloquent eyes of Mary Burgoyne, and, offering her his arm, led her away.
The spring night was as warm as a June evening at the North, and they joined the groups that were strolling under the moonlight in the garden.
Sidney felt the young girl's hand tremble on his arm, and he drew it closer to his side. She soon asked falteringly, "Mr. Wallingford, do you think--will the conditions become more even, as you suggested? Can it be that the North will be so carried away by this abolition fanaticism as to send armies and ships in the vain effort to subjugate us?"
"Thank you, Miss Mary, for saying that it will be a 'vain effort.'"
"Of course it will be, with such men as my father and"--she suddenly hesitated.
"And who else?" he gently asked, trying to look into her averted face.
"Oh--well," she stammered with a forced little laugh, "thousands of brave fellows like you. You do not answer my question. Are we to have anything like a general war? Surely, there ought to be enough good, wise men on both sides to settle the matter."
"The matter might be settled easily enough," he replied lightly. "We know our rights, and shall firmly assert them. If the Yankees yield, all well; if not, we'll make 'em."
"But making them may mean a great war?"
"Oh, yes, some serious scrimmages I reckon. We're prepared however, and will soon bring the North to its senses."
"If anything should happen to my father!" she sighed.
He had led her beneath the shadow of a palmetto, and now breathed into her ear, "Mary, dear Mary, how much I'd give to hear you say in the same tone, 'If anything should happen to Sidney'!" She did not withdraw her hand from his arm, and he again felt it tremble more than before. "Mary," he continued earnestly, "I have asked your father if I might speak to you, and he did not deny me the privilege. Oh, Mary, you must have seen my love in my eyes and heard it in my tones long since. Mary," he concluded impetuously, "let me but feel that I am defending you as well as my State, and I can and will be a soldier in very truth."
She suddenly turned and sobbed on his shoulder, "That's what I fear,--I can hide my secret from you no longer--that's what I fear. Those I love will be exposed to sudden and terrible death. I am not brave at all."
"Shall I go home and plant cotton?" he asked, half jestingly.
"No, no, a thousand times no," she cried passionately. "Have I not seen the deep solemnity with which my father accepted duty so foreign to his tastes and habits? Can you think I would wish you to shrink or fail--you who are so strong and brave? No, no, in very truth. Self must mean only self-sacrifice until our sacred cause is won. Yet think twice, Sidney, before you bind yourself to me. I fear I am not so brave as other women appear to be in these times. My heart shrinks unspeakably from war and bloodshed. Although I shall not falter, I shall suffer agonies of dread. I cannot let you go to danger with stern words and dry eyes. I fear you'll find me too weak to be a soldier's wife."
He led her into deeper and shadier seclusion as he asked, "Do you think I'll hesitate because you have a heart in your bosom instead of a stone? No, my darling. We must keep a brave aspect to the world, but my heart is as tender toward you as yours toward me. What else in God's universe could I dread more than harm to you? But there is little cause to fear. The whole South will soon be with us, foreign nations will recognize us as an independent people, and then we will dictate our own terms of peace; then you shall be my bride in this, our proud city by the sea."
He kissed away her tears, and they strolled through the shadowy walks until each had regained the composure essential in the bright drawing-rooms.
A commission with the rank of captain was speedily offered young Wallingford. He accepted it, but said he would return home and raise his own company. This action was also applauded by his friends and the authorities. Mary saw her father smile approvingly and proudly upon her choice, and he became her ideal hero as well as lover.
He fulfilled his promises, and before many weeks passed, re-entered Charleston with a hundred brave fellows, devoted to him. The company was incorporated into one of the many regiments forming, and Mr. Burgoyne assured his daughter that the young captain was sure of promotion, and would certainly make a thorough soldier.
Even in those early and lurid days a few things were growing clear, and among them was the fact that the North would not recognize the doctrine of State Rights, nor peaceably accept the Act of Secession. Soldiers would be needed,--how long no one knew, for the supreme question of the day had passed from the hands of statesmen to those of the soldier. The lack of mutual knowledge, the misapprehension and the gross prejudices existing between the two sections, would have been ludicrous had they not been fraught with such long-continued woes. Southern papers published such stuff as this: "The Northern soldiers are men who prefer enlisting to starvation; scurvy fellows from the back slums of cities, with whom Falstaff would not have marched through Coventry. Let them come South, and we will put our negroes at the dirty work of killing them. But they will not come South. Not a wretch of them will live on this side of the border longer than it will take us to reach the ground and drive them off." The Northern press responded in kind: "No man of sense," it was declared, "could for a moment doubt that this much-ado-about-nothing would end in a month. The Northern people are simply invincible. The rebels, a mere band of ragamuffins, will fly like chaff before the wind on our approach." Thus the wretched farces of bluster continued on either side until in blood, agony, and heartbreak, Americans learned to know Americans.
President Lincoln, however, had called out seventy-five thousand troops, and these men were not long in learning that they could not walk over the South in three months. The South also discovered that these same men could not be terrified into abandoning the attempt. There were thoughtful men on both sides who early began to recognize the magnitude of the struggle upon which they had entered. Among these was Major Burgoyne, and the presentiment grew upon him that he would not see the end of the conflict. When, therefore, impetuous young Wallingford urged that he might call Mary his wife before he marched to distant battlefields, the father yielded, feeling that it might be well for her to have another protector besides himself. The union was solemnized in old St. Michael's Church, where Mary's mother and grandmother had been married before her; a day or two of quiet and happiness was vouchsafed, and then came the tidings of the first great battle of the war. Charleston responded with acclamations of triumph; bells sent out their merriest peals; cannon thundered from every fort on the harbor, but Mary wept on her husband's breast. Among the telegrams of victory had come an order for his regiment to go North immediately. Not even a brief honeymoon was permitted to her.
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{
"id": "6719"
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2
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LOVE'S AGONY
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As the exaggerated reports of a magnificent Confederate victory at Bull Run continued to pour in, Major Burgoyne shared for a time in the general elation, believing that independence, recognition abroad, and peace had been virtually secured. All the rant about Northern cowardice appeared to be confirmed, and he eagerly waited for the announcement that Washington had been captured by Johnston's victorious army.
Instead, came the dismal tidings from his only sister that her husband, Captain Hunter, had been killed in the battle over which he had been rejoicing. Then for some mysterious reason the Southern army did not follow the Federals, who had left the field in such utter rout and panic. It soon appeared that the contending forces were occupying much the same positions as before. News of the second great uprising of the North followed closely, and presaged anything but a speedy termination of the conflict. Major Burgoyne was not a Hotspur, and he grew thoughtful and depressed in spirit, although he sedulously concealed the fact from his associates. The shadow of coming events began to fall upon him, and his daughter gradually divined his lack of hopefulness. The days were already sad and full of anxiety, for her husband was absent. He had scouted the idea of the Yankees standing up before the impetuous onset of the Southern soldiers, and his words had apparently proved true, yet even those Northern cowards had killed one closely allied to her before they fled. Remembering, therefore, her husband's headlong courage, what assurance of his safety could she have although victory followed victory?
Major Burgoyne urged his widowed sister to leave her plantation in the charge of an overseer and make her home with him. "You are too near the probable theatre of military operations to be safe," he wrote, "and my mind cannot rest till you are with us in this city which we are rapidly making impregnable." The result was that she eventually became a member of his family. Her stern, sad face added to the young wife's depression, for the stricken woman had been rendered intensely bitter by her loss. Mary was too gentle in nature to hate readily, yet wrathful gleams would be emitted at times even from her blue eyes, as her aunt inveighed in her hard monotone against the "monstrous wrong of the North." They saw their side with such downright sincerity and vividness that the offenders appeared to be beyond the pale of humanity. Few men, even though the frosts of many winters had cooled their blood and ripened their judgment, could reason dispassionately in those days, much less women, whose hearts were kept on the rack of torture by the loss of dear ones or the dread of such loss.
It is my purpose to dwell upon the war, its harrowing scenes and intense animosities, only so far as may be essential to account for my characters and to explain subsequent events. The roots of personality strike deep, and the taproot, heredity, runs back into the being of those who lived and suffered before we were born.
Gentle Mary Burgoyne should have been part of a happier day and generation. The bright hopes of a speedily conquered peace were dying away; the foolish bluster on both sides at the beginning of the war had ceased, and the truth so absurdly ignored at first, that Americans, North and South, would fight with equal courage, was made clearer by every battle. The heavy blows received by the South, however, did not change her views as to the wisdom and righteousness of her cause, and she continued to return blows at which the armies of the North reeled, stunned and bleeding. Mary was not permitted to exult very long, however, for the terrible pressure was quickly renewed with an unwavering pertinacity which created misgivings in the stoutest hearts. The Federals had made a strong lodgment on the coast of her own State, and were creeping nearer and nearer, often repulsed yet still advancing as if impelled by the remorseless principle of fate.
At last, in the afternoon of a day early in April, events occurred never to be forgotten by those who witnessed them. Admiral Dupont with his armored ships attempted to reduce Fort Sumter and capture the city. Thousands of spectators watched the awful conflict; Mary Wallingford and her aunt, Mrs. Hunter, among them. The combined roar of the guns exceeded all the thunder they had ever heard. About three hundred Confederate cannon were concentrated on the turreted monitors, and some of the commanders said that "shot struck the vessels as fast as the ticking of a watch." It would seem that the ships which appeared so diminutive in the distance must be annihilated, yet Mary with her powerful glass saw them creep nearer and nearer. It was their shots, not those of her friends, that she watched with agonized absorption, for every tremendous bolt was directed against the fort in which was her father.
The conflict was too unequal; the bottom of the harbor was known to be paved with torpedoes, and in less than an hour Dupont withdrew his squadron in order to save it from destruction.
In strong reaction from intense excitement, Mary's knees gave way, and she sank upon them in thankfulness to God. Her aunt supported her to her room, gave restoratives, and the daughter in deep anxiety waited for tidings from her father. He did not come to her; he was brought, and there settled down upon her young life a night of grief and horror which no words can describe. While he was sighting a gun, it had been struck by a shell from the fleet, and when the smoke of the explosion cleared away he was seen among the debris, a mangled and unconscious form. He was tenderly taken up, and after the conflict ended, conveyed to his home. On the way thither he partially revived, but reason was gone. His eyes were scorched and blinded, his hearing destroyed by the concussion, and but one lingering thought survived in the wreck of his mind. In a plaintive and almost childlike tone he continually uttered the words, "I was only trying to defend my city and my home."
Hour after hour he repeated this sentence, deaf to his child's entreaties for recognition and a farewell word. His voice grew more and more feeble until he could only whisper the sad refrain; at last his lips moved but there was no sound; then he was still.
For a time it seemed as if Mary would soon follow him, but her aunt, her white face tearless and stern, bade her live for her husband and her unborn child. These sacred motives eventually enabled her to rally, but her heart now centred its love on her husband with an intensity which made her friends tremble for her future. His visits had been few and brief, and she lived upon his letters. When they were delayed, her eyes had a hunted, agonized look which even her stoical aunt could not endure.
One day about midsummer she found the stricken wife, unconscious upon the floor with the daily paper in her clenched hand. When at last the physician had brought back feeble consciousness and again banished it by the essential opiate, Mrs. Hunter read the paragraph which, like a bolt, had struck down her niece. It was from an account of a battle in which the Confederates had been worsted and were being driven from a certain vantage point. "At this critical moment," ran the report, "Colonel Wallingford, with his thinned regiment, burst through the crowd of fugitives rushing down the road, and struck the pursuing enemy such a stinging blow as to check its advance. If the heroic colonel and his little band could only have been supported at this instant the position might have been regained. As it was, they were simply overwhelmed as a slight obstacle is swept away by a torrent. But few escaped; some were captured, while the colonel and the majority were struck down, trampled upon and fairly obliterated as the Northern horde of infantry and artillery swept forward all the more impetuously. The check was of very great advantage, however, for it gave our vastly outnumbered troops more time to rally in a stronger position."
This brief paragraph contained the substance of all that was ever learned of the young husband, and his mangled remains filled an unknown grave. His wife had received the blow direct, and she never rallied. Week after week she moaned and wept upon her bed when the physician permitted consciousness. Even in the deep sleep produced by opiates, she would shudder at the sound of Gilmore's guns as they thundered against Forts Sumter and Wagner. A faithful colored woman who had been a slave in the family from infancy watched unweariedly beside her, giving place only to the stern-visaged aunt, whose touch and words were gentle, but who had lost the power to disguise the bitterness of her heart. She tried to awaken maternal instincts in the wife, but in vain, for there are wounds of the spirit, like those of the body, which are fatal. All efforts to induce the widow to leave the city, already within reach of the Federal guns, were unavailing, and she was the more readily permitted to have her own way, because, in the physician's opinion, the attempt would prove fatal.
Meanwhile her time was drawing near. One August night she was dozing, and moaning in her sleep, when suddenly there was a strange, demoniac shriek through the air followed by an explosion which in the still night was terrifically loud. The invalid started up and looked wildly at her sable nurse, who was trembling like a leaf.
"O Lawd hab mercy, Missus," she exclaimed. "Dem Yankees shellin' de town."
Mrs. Hunter was instantly at the bedside. The faithful doctor came hurriedly of his own accord, and employed all his skill.
A few hours later Mrs. Hunter tried to say cheerily, "Come, Mary, here is a fine little girl for you to love and live for."
"Aunty," said the mother calmly, "I am dying. Let me see my child and kiss her. Then put her next my heart till it is cold."
Mrs. Hunter lifted her startled eyes to the physician, who sadly nodded his head in acquiescence. In a few moments more the broken heart found healing far beyond all human passion and strife.
With hot, yet tearless eyes, and a face that appeared to be chiselled from marble in its whiteness and rigidity, the aunt took up the child. Her tone revealed the indescribable intensity of her feelings as she said, "Thy name is Mara--bitterness."
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{
"id": "6719"
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3
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UNCLE SHEBA'S EXPERIENCE
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Many years have elapsed since the events narrated in the last chapter occurred, and the thread of story is taken up again in the winter of 1886. In a small dwelling, scarcely more than a cabin, and facing on an obscure alley in Charleston, a rotund colored woman of uncertain age is sitting by the fire with her husband. She is a well-known character in the city, for she earns her bread by selling cakes, fruits, and other light articles which may be vended in the street with chances of profit. Although "Aun' Sheba," as she was familiarly called, had received no training for mercantile pursuits, yet her native shrewdness had enabled her to hit upon the principles of success, as may be discovered by the reader as the story progresses. She had always been so emphatically the master of the house and the head of the family, that her husband went by the name of "Uncle Sheba." It must be admitted that the wife shared in the popular opinion of her husband.
When in an amiable mood, which, happily, was her usual condition of mind, she addressed him as "Unc.;" when some of his many short-comings exhausted her good-nature--for Aun' Sheba had more good-nature than patience--he was severely characterized as "Mr. Buggone." Since they had been brought up in Major Burgoyne's family, they felt entitled to his surname, and by evolution it had become "Buggone." Uncle Sheba's heart failed him when his wife addressed him by this title, for he knew he was beyond the dead line of safety. They dwelt alone in the cabin, their several children, with one exception, having been scattered they knew not where. Adjacent was another cabin, owned by a son-in-law, named Kern Watson, who had married their youngest daughter years before, and he was the pride of Aun' Sheba's heart. Uncle Sheba felt that he was not appreciated, or perhaps appreciated too well, by his son-in-law, and their intercourse was rather formal.
On the evening in question, supper was over, but the table had not yet been cleared. Uncle Sheba was a good deal of an epicure, and, having left not a scrap of what his wife had vouchsafed to him, was now enjoying his corn-cob pipe. Aun' Sheba also liked a good square meal as much as any one, and she had the additional satisfaction that she had earned it. At this hour of the day she was usually very tired, and was accustomed to take an hour's rest before putting her living-room in order for the night. Although the twilight often fell before she returned from her mercantile pursuits, she never intrusted Uncle Sheba with the task of getting supper, and no housekeeper in the city kept her provisions under lock and key more rigorously than did Aun' Sheba. After repeated trials, she had come to a decision. "Mr. Buggone," she had said in her sternest tones, "you's wuss dan poah white trash when you gets a chance at de cubbard. Sence I can't trus' you nohow, I'se gwine to gib you a 'lowance. You a high ole Crischun, askin' for you'se daily bread, an' den eatin' up 'nuff fer a week."
Uncle Sheba often complained that he was "skimped," but his appearance did not indicate any meagreness in his "'lowance," and he had accepted his lot in this instance, as in others, rather than lose the complacent consciousness that he was provided for without much effort on his part.
Supper was Aun' Sheba's principal meal, and she practically dined at the fashionable hour of six. What she termed her dinner was a very uncertain affair. Sometimes she swallowed it hastily at "Ole Tobe's rasteran," as she termed the eating-room kept by a white-woolled negro; again she would "happen in" on a church sister, when, in passing, the odor of some cookery was appetizing. She always left, however, some compensation from her basket, and so was not unwelcome. Not seldom, also, a lady or a citizen who knew her well and the family to which she had once belonged, would tell her to go to the kitchen. On such days Aun' Sheba's appetite flagged at supper, a fact over which her husband secretly rejoiced, since his allowance was almost double.
She was now resting after the fatigues of the day, and the effort to get and dispose of a very substantial supper, and was puffing at her pipe in a meditative aspect. Evidently something unusual was on her mind, and she at last ejaculated, "I know dey'se poah."
"Who's?" languidly queried Uncle Sheba.
"Oh, you'd neber fin' out. Dey'd starve long o' you."
"I dunno who dey is. What 'casion I got to pervide for dey?"
"Ha, ha, ha, Unc. ! You'se a great pervider. Somehow or oder I'se got de notion dat you'se a 'sumer."
"I bress de Lawd my appetite am' failin' in spite ob de rheumatiz."
"If you rheumatiz was only in you jints, dere'd be a comfort in keerin' fer you, Unc., but it's in you min'."
"You'll cotch it some day, an' den you know what 'tis. But who's dey dat you got on you min'?"
"Why, de young Missy and de ole Missus to be sho'."
"I don't see how dey can be poah. Dey mus' hab kep' someting out all dey had."
"So dey did, but it wan't much, an' I jus' b'lebe it's clar dun gone!"
"What! de plantation in Virginny all gone?"
"How often I tole you, Unc., dat I heard ole Missus say herself dat plantation was all trompl'd in de groun' an' what was lef' was took fer taxes."
"I forgits," remarked Uncle Sheba, his eyes growing heavy in his lack of interest; "but ole Marse Wallingford mus' hab lef' de widder ob his son someting."
"Now look heah, Unc., you'se haf asleep. You'se 'lowance too hebby dis ebenin'. How you forgit when I tell you ober an' ober? You doan keer. Dat's de foot de shoe's on. You know ole Marse Wallingford's plantation was trompl'd in de groun' too--not a stick or stone lef' by Sherman's sogers."
"Well, dey sole dere fine house on Meetin' Street, an' dat mus' a brought a heap," protested Uncle Sheba, rousing himself a little.
"Mighty little arter de mor'giges an' taxes was paid. Didn't I help dem pack up what dey tink dey could sabe, and see poah Missy Mara wrung her han's as she gib up dis ting an' dat ting till at las' she cry right out, 'Mought as well gib up eberyting. Why don't dey kill us too, like dey did all our folks?' You used to be so hot fer dat ole Guv'ner Moses and say he was like de Moses in de Bible--dat he was raised up fer ter lead de culled people to de promise' lan'. You vote fer him, an' hurrah fer him, an' whar's yer promise' lan'? Little you know 'bout Scripter when you say he secon' Moses. Don' want no more sich Moseses in dis town. Dey wouldn't lebe a brick heah ef dey could take dem off. He'n his tribe got away wid 'bout all ole Missus' and young Missus' prop'ty in my 'pinion. Anyhow I feels it in my bones dey's poah, an' I mus' try an' fin' out. Dey's so proud dey'd starbe fore dey'd let on." " 'Spose you does fin' out, what kin you do? You gwine ter buy back de big house fer dem?"
"I'se not de one ter talk big 'bout what I'se gwine ter do," replied Aun' Sheba, nodding her head portentously as she knocked the ashes from her pipe, and prepared for the remaining tasks of the evening.
Her husband's self-interest took alarm at once, and he began to hitch uneasily on his chair. At last he broke out: "Now look heah, Aun' Sheba, you'se got suffin on you' min' 'bout dem white folks--" "Dem white folks! Who you talkin' 'bout?"
"Well, dey ain't none o' our flesh an' blood, and de Bible say shuah dat dey dat don' pervide fer dere own flesh an' blood am wuss dan a inferdel."
"Den I reckon you'se an inferdel, Mister Buggone," retorted Aun' Sheba, severely.
"I'se not," retorted her husband, assuming much solemnity, "I'se a 'umble an' 'flicted sarbent ob de Lawd, an' it's my duty to 'monstrate wid you. I know what's on you' min'. You'se gwine ter do fer dem white folks when you got all you kin do now."
"Mister Buggone, don' you call Miss Mara white folks no mo'."
"Well, ain't she white folks? Didn't I slabe fer her granpar yeahs an' yeahs, an' wat I got ter show fer 't?"
"You got no stripes on you back, an' you'd had plenty ter show ef you'd wuked fer any oder man. I 'member all about you slabin' an' how de good major use' to let you off. You know, too, dat he war so took up wid his book dat you could do foolishness right under his nose. An' dar was my poah young Missy Mary, who hadn't de heart to hurt a skeeter. You s'pose I watch ober dat broken-hearted lam' an' her little chile an' den heah 'em called white folks, as if dey'se no 'count ter me? How ofen dat poah dyin' lam' turn to me in de middle ob de night an' say ter me, Sheba, you will took keer on my chile ef it libe, an' I say to her 'fore de Lawd dat I would. An' I did too. Dat po' little moderless and faderless chile lay on my bosom till I lubed it fer hersef, and Missy Mara neber gwine to hab trubble when I ain't dar."
Aun' Sheba's voice had been reaching a higher and higher key under the influence of reminiscence and indignation. Although her husband was in dire trepidation he felt that this point was too serious to be yielded without a desperate effort. He had been put on short allowance once before when his wife had gone to help take care of Mara in a severe illness, and now he had a presentiment that Aun' Sheba would try to help support the girl and her great-aunt as well as himself. Such an attempt threatened privations which were harrowing even to contemplate, and in a sort of desperation he resolved once more to assert his marital position. "Aun' Sheba," he began with much dignity, "I'se been bery easy an' bendin' like ter you. I'se gib you you'se own head dead agin de principles ob Scripter which say dat de husban' am de head ob de wife--" "Mister Buggone," interrupted Aun' Sheba in a passion which was bursting all restraint, "you'se wrestin' Scripter to you'se own 'struction. Ef you am de head ob dis fam'ly, I'se gwine ter sit down an fole my hans, an you can jes' git out an earn my libin' an' yours too. Git up dar now, an' bring in de wood an' de kinlin' fer de mawnin', an' when mawnin' come, you make de fiah. Arter breakfas' you start right off ter work, and I'se sit on de do' step and talk to de neighbos. You shall hab all de headin ob de house you wants, but you can't hab de 'sition widout de 'sponsibilities. I'se gwine now to take a res' an' be 'sported," and the irate wife filled her pipe, sat down and smoked furiously.
Uncle Sheba was appalled at the result of his Scriptural argument. He would like to be king by divine right without any responsibilities. His one thought now was to escape until the storm blew over and his wife's tolerant good-nature resumed its wonted sway. Shuffling cautiously around to the door he remarked meekly as he held it ajar, "I reckon I'll drap in at de prar-meetin', fer I tole brudder Simpkins I'd gib dem a lif' dis ebenin'."
His heart misgave him as he heard his wife bound up and bolt the door after him, but he was a philosopher who knew the value of time in remedying many of the ills of life. It must be admitted that he could not get into the spirit of the meeting, and Brother Simpkins remarked rather severely at its close, "Mister Buggone, I'se feared you'se zeal am languishin'."
Uncle Sheba's forebodings increased as he saw that his house was dark, and he fell into something like panic when he found that the door was still bolted. He knocked gently at first, then louder and louder, adding to the uproar by calls and expostulations. A light appeared in the adjacent cottage, and Kern Watson, his son-in-law, came out. "Wat de matter now, Uncle Sheba?" he asked. "Does yer wan' ter bring de perlice? You'se been takin' a drap too much again, I reckon."
"No, I'se only been to prar-meetin', and Aun' Sheba jes' dun gone and bolt me out."
"Well, you'se been cuttin' up some shine, an' dat's a fac'. Come in an' stop you noise. You can sleep on de lounge. We don' want to pay ten dollahs in de mawnin to get you out ob de caboose."
Uncle Sheba was glad to avail himself of this rather equivocal hospitality, and eagerly sought to win Kern's sympathy by relating his grievance. His son-in-law leaned against the chimney-side that he might, in his half-dressed condition, enjoy the warmth of the coals covered with ashes on the hearth, and listened. He was a tall, straight negro of powerful build, and although his features were African, they were not gross in character. The candle on the mantel near him brought out his profile in fine silhouette, while his quiet steady eyes indicated a nature not stirred by trifles.
"You'se a 'publican, Kern, an' you knows dat we culled people got ter take keer ob ourselves."
"Yes, I'se a Republican," said Kern, "but wat dat got ter do wid dis matter? Is Aun' Sheba gwine ter take any ob your money? Ef she set her heart on helpin' her ole Missus an' young Missy an' arn de money herself, whose business is it but hers? I'se a Republican because I belebe in people bein' free, wedder dey is white or black, but I ain't one ob dem kin' ob Republicans dat look on white folks as inemies. Wot we do widout dem, an' wat dey do widout us? All talk ob one side agin de toder is fool talk. Ef dere's any prosperity in dis lan' we got ter pull tergedder. You'se free, Uncle Sheba, an' dere ain't a man in Charleston dat kin hender you from goin' to work termorrow."
"I reckon I'se try ter git a wink ob slepe, Kern," responded Uncle Sheba plaintively. "My narbes been so shook up dat my rheumatiz will be po'ful bad for a spell."
Kern knew the futility of further words, and also betook himself to rest.
With Aun' Sheba, policy had taken the place of passion. Through a knot-hole in her cabin she had seen her husband admitted to her son-in-law's dwelling, and so her mind was at rest. "Unc," she muttered, "forgits his 'sper'ence at de prar-meetin's bery easy, but he mus' have a 'sper'ence to-night dat he won't forgit. I neber so riled in my bawn days. Ef he tinks I can sit heah and see him go'mandizin' when my honey lam' Mara hungry, he'll fin' out."
Before the dawn on the following day, Uncle Sheba had had time for many second thoughts, and when his wife opened the door he brought in plenty of kindlings and wood. Aun' Sheba accepted these marks of submission in grim silence, resolving that peace and serenity should come about gradually. She relented so far, however, as to give him an extra slice of bacon for breakfast, at which token of returning toleration Uncle Sheba took heart again. Having curtly told him to clear the table, Aun' Sheba proceeded to make from the finest of flour the delicate cakes which she always sold fresh and almost warm from her stove, and before starting out on her vending tour of the streets, the store-room was locked against the one burglar she feared.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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4
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MARA
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On the same evening which witnessed Uncle Sheba's false step and its temporarily disastrous results, Owen Clancy sat brooding over his fire in his bachelor apartment. If his sitting-room did not suggest wealth, it certainly indicated refined and intellectual tastes and a fair degree of prosperity. A few fine pictures were on the walls, an unusually well-selected library, although a small one, was in a bookcase, while upon the table lay several of the best magazines and reviews of the period. Above the mantel was suspended a cavalry sabre, its scabbard so dented as to suggest that it had seen much and severe service. Young Clancy's eyes were fixed upon it, and his revery was so deep that a book fell from his hand to the floor without his notice. His thoughts, however, were dwelling upon a young girl. Strange that a deadly weapon should be allied to her in association. Yet so it was. He never could look upon that sabre which his father had used effectively throughout the Civil War, without thinking of Mara Wallingford. Neither this object nor any other was required to produce thoughts of her, for he passed few waking hours in which she was not present to his fancy. He loved her sincerely, and felt that she knew it, and he also hoped that she concealed a deeper regard for him than she would admit even to herself. Indeed he almost believed that if he could share fully with her all the ideas and antipathies symbolized by the battered scabbard before him, his course of love would run smoothly. It was just at this point that the trouble between them arose. She was looking back; he, forward. He could not enter into her sad and bitter retrospection, feeling that this was morbid and worse than useless. Remembering how cruelly she and her kindred had suffered, he made great allowances for her, and had often tried to soften the bitterness in her heart by reminding her that he, too, had lost kindred and property. By delicate efforts he had sought to show the futility of clinging to a dead past, and a cause lost beyond hope, but Mara would only become grave and silent when such matters were touched upon.
Clancy had been North repeatedly on business, and had never discovered a particle of hostility toward him or his section in the men with whom he dealt and associated. They invited him to their homes; he met the women of their families, from whom he often received rather more than courtesy, for his fine appearance and a certain courtliness of manner, inherited from his aristocratic father, had won a thinly veiled admiration of which he had been agreeably conscious. Since these people had no controversy with him, how could he continue to cherish enmity and prejudice against them? His warm Southern nature revolted at receiving hearty good-will and not returning it in kind. There was nothing of a "we-forgive-you" in the bearing of his Northern acquaintances, nor was there any effusiveness in cordiality with an evident design of reassuring him. He was made to feel that he was guilty of an anachronism in brooding over the war, that it had been forgotten except as history, and that the present with its opportunities, and the future with its promise, were the themes of thought. The elements of life, energy, hopefulness with which he came in contact had appealed to him powerfully, for they were in harmony with his youth, ambition, yes, and his patriotism. "The South can never grow rich and strong by sulking," he had often assured himself, "and since the old dream is impossible, and we are to be one people, why shouldn't we accept the fact and unite in mutual helpfulness?"
Reason, ambition, and policy prompted him to the divergence of view and action which was alienating Mara. "Imitation of her example and spirit would be political and financial suicide on our part," he broke out. "I love her; and if she loved in the same degree, I would be more to her than bitter memories. She would help me achieve a happy future for us both. As it is, I am so pulled in different ways that I'm half insane," and with contracted brow he sprang up and paced the floor.
But he could not hold to this mood long, and soon his face softened into an expression of anxiety and commiseration. Resuming his chair his thoughts ran on, "She isn't happy either. For some cause I reckon she suffers more than I do. She looked pale to-day when I met her, and her face was full of anxiety until she saw me, and then it masked all feeling. She has worn that same cloak now for three winters. Great Heaven! if she should be in want, and I not know it! Yet what could I do if she were? Why will she be so proud and obdurate? I believe that gaunt, white-haired aunt has more to do with her course than her own heart. Well, I can't sit here and think about it any longer. If I see her something may become clearer, and I must see her before I go North again."
Mara Wallingford's troubles and anxieties had indeed been culminating of late. Almost her sole inheritance had been sadness, trouble and enmity. Not only had her unhappy mother's history been kept fresh in her memory by her great-aunt, Mrs. Hunter, but the very blood that coursed in her veins and the soul that looked out from her dark, melancholy eyes had received from that mother characteristics which it is of the province of this story to reveal. To poor Mary Wallingford, the death of her father and of her husband had been the unspeakable tragedy and wrong which had destroyed her life; and the long agony of the mother had deprived her offspring of the natural and joyous impulses of childhood and youth. If Mara had been left to the care of a judicious guardian--one who had sought by all wholesome means to counteract inherited tendencies, a most cheerful and hopeful life would have been developed, but in this respect the girl had been most unfortunate. The mind grows by what it feeds upon, and Mrs. Hunter's spirit had become so imbittered by dwelling upon her woes and losses that she was incapable of thinking or speaking of much else. She had never been a woman of warm, quick sympathies. She had seen little of the world, and, in a measure, was incapable of seeing it, whatever advantages she might have had. This would have been true of her, no matter where her lot had been cast, for she was a born conservative. What she had been brought up to believe would always be true; what she had been made familiar with by early custom would always be right, and anything different would be viewed with disapproval or intoleration. Too little allowance is often made for characters of this kind. We may regret rigidity and narrowness all we please, but there should be some respect for downright sincerity and the inability to see both sides of a question.
It often happens that if natures are narrow they are correspondingly intense; and this was true of Mrs. Hunter. She idolized her husband dead, more perhaps than if he had been living. Her brother and nephew were household martyrs, and little Mara had been taught to revere their memories as a devout Catholic pays homage to a patron saint. Between the widow and all that savored of the North, the author of her woes, there was a great gulf, and the changes wrought by the passing years had made no impression, for she would not change. She simply shut her eyes and closed her ears to whatever was not in accord with her own implacable spirit. She grew cold toward those who yielded to the kindly influences of peace and the healing balm of time; she had bitter scorn for such as were led by their interests to fraternize with the North and Northern people. In her indiscrimination and prejudice they were all typified by the unscrupulous adventurers who had made a farce of government and legally robbed the South when prostrate and bleeding after the War. She and her niece had been taxed out of their home to sustain a rule they loathed. Not a few women in Boston, in like circumstances, would be equally bitter and equally incapable of taking the broad views of an historian.
The influence of such a concentrated mind warped almost to the point of monomania, upon a child like Mara, predisposed from birth to share in a similar spirit, can be readily estimated. Peace and time, moreover, had not brought the ameliorating tendencies of prosperity, but rather a continuous and hopeless pressure of poverty.
Mrs. Hunter had been incapable of doing more than save what she could out of the wreck of their fortunes. There were no near relations, and those remaining, with most of their friends and acquaintances who had not been alienated, were struggling like themselves in straitened circumstances. Yet out of this poverty, many open, generous hands would have been stretched to the widow and her ward had they permitted their want to be known. But they felt that they would rather starve than do this, for they belonged to that class which suffers in proud silence. Although they had practiced an economy that was so severe as to be detrimental to both health and character, their principal had melted away, and their jewelry and plate, with the exception of heirlooms that could not be sold without a sense of sacrilege, had been quietly disposed of. The end of their resources was near, and they knew not what to do. Mara had tried to eke out their means by fancy-work, but she had no great aptitude for such tasks, and her education was too defective and old-fashioned for the equipment of a modern teacher. She was well read, especially in the classics, yet during the troubled years of her brief life she had not been given the opportunity to acquire the solid, practical knowledge which would enable her to instruct others. The exclusiveness and seclusion, so congenial to her aunt, had been against her, and now reticence and a disposition to shrink from the world had become a characteristic of her own.
She felt, however, that her heart, if not her will, was weak toward Owen Clancy. In him had once centred the hope of her life, and from him she now feared a wound that could never heal.
She underrated his affection as he did hers. He felt that she should throw off the incubus of the past for his sake; she believed that any depth of love on his part should render impossible all intercourse with the North beyond what was strictly necessary for the transaction of business. In order to soften her prejudices, he had told her of his social experiences in New York, and, as a result, had seen her face hardened against him.... She had no words of bitter scorn such as her aunt had indulged in when learning of the fact. She had only thought in sorrow that since he was "capable of accepting hospitality from the people who had murdered her kindred and blighted the South, there was an impassable gulf between them."
Now, however, the imperative questions of bread and shelter were uppermost. She believed that Clancy could and would solve these questions at once if permitted, and it was characteristic of her pride and what she regarded as her loyalty, that she never once allowed herself to think of this alternative. Yet what could she and her aunt do? They were in the pathetic position of gentlewomen compelled to face the world with unskilled hands. This is bad enough at best, but far worse when hands are half paralyzed by pride and timidity as well as ignorance. The desperate truth, however, stared them in the face. Do something they must, and that speedily.
They were contemplating the future in a hopeless sort of dread and perplexity on the evening when Aunt Sheba and young Clancy's thoughts were drawn toward them in such deep solicitude. This fact involves no mystery. The warm-hearted colored woman had seen and heard little things which suggested the truth, and the sympathetic lover had seen the face of the young girl when she was off her guard. Its expression had haunted him, and impelled him to see her at once, although she had chilled his hopes of late.
When compelled to leave the old home, Mrs. Hunter had taken the second floor of a small brick house located on a side street. In spite of herself Mara's heart fluttered wildly for a moment when the woman who occupied the first story brought up Clancy's card.
"You can't see him to-night," said her aunt, frowning.
Mara hesitated a moment, and then said firmly, "Yes, I will see him. Please ask him to come up." When they were alone, she added in a low voice, "I shall see him once more, probably for the last time socially. We cannot know what changes are in store for us."
"Well, I won't see him," said Mrs. Hunter, frigidly; and she left the room.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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5
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PAST AND FUTURE
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Under the impulses of his solicitude and affection Clancy entered quickly, and took Mara's hand in such a strong, warm grasp that the color would come into her pale face. In spite of her peculiarities and seeming coldness, she was a girl who could easily awaken a passionate love in a warm, generous-hearted man like the one who looked into her eyes with something like entreaty in his own. She had a beauty peculiar to herself, and now a strange loveliness which touched his very soul. The quick flush upon her cheeks inspired hope, and a deep emotion, which she could not wholly suppress, found momentary expression. Even in that brief instant she was transfigured, for the woman within her was revealed. As if conscious of a weakness which seemed to her almost criminal, her face became rigid, and she said formally, "Please be seated, Mr. Clancy."
"You must not speak to me in that way and in that tone," he began impetuously, and then paused, for he was chilled by her cold, questioning gaze. Her will was so strong, and found such powerful expression in her dark, sad eyes, that for a moment he was dumb and embarrassed. Then his own high spirit rallied, and a purpose grew strong that she should hear him, and hear the truth also. His gray eyes, that had wavered for a moment, grew steady in their encounter with hers.
Seating himself on the opposite side of the table, he said quietly, "You think I have no right to speak to you in such a way."
"I fear we think differently on many subjects, Mr. Clancy."
"Admitting that, would you like a man to be a weak echo of yourself?"
"A man should not be weak in any respect. I do not think it necessary, however, to raise the question of my likes or dislikes."
"I must differ with you, Mara," he replied gravely.
"I agree with you now, fully, Mr. Clancy. We differ. Had we not better change the subject?"
"No, not unless you would be unfair. I am at a disadvantage. I am in your home. You are a lady, and therefore can compel me to leave unsaid what I am bent on saying. We have been friends, have we not?"
She bowed her acquiescence.
"Well," he continued a little bitterly, "I have one Southern trait left--frankness. You know I would speak in a different character if permitted, if I received one particle of encouragement." Then, with a sudden flush, he said firmly, "I will speak as I feel. I only pay homage in telling you what you must already know. I love you, and would make you my wife."
Her face became very pale as she averted it, and replied briefly, "You are mistaken, Mr. Clancy."
"Mara, I am not mistaken. Will you be fair enough to listen to me? We agree that we differ. Can we not also agree that we differ conscientiously? You cannot think me false, even though you say I am mistaken. Hitherto you have opposed to me a dead wall of silence. Though you will not listen to me as a lover, you might both listen and speak to me as a friend. That word would be hollow indeed if estrangment could result from honest differences of opinion."
"It is far more than a difference of opinion."
"Let the difference be what it may, Mara," he answered gently, resolving not to be baffled, "if you are so sure you are right, you should at least be willing to accord to one whom you once regarded as a friend the privilege of pleading his cause. Truth and right do not intrench themselves in repelling silence. That is the refuge of prejudice. If you will hear my side of the question, I will listen with the deepest interest to yours, and believe me you have a powerful ally in my heart."
"Your head has gained such ascendency over your heart, Mr. Clancy, that you cannot understand me. In some women the strongest reasons for or against a thing proceed from the latter organ."
"Is yours, then, so cold toward me?" he asked sadly.
"It is not cold toward the memory of my murdered parents," she replied with an ominous flash in her eyes.
Clancy looked at her in momentary surprise, then said firmly, "My father eventually died from injuries received in the war, but he was not murdered. He was wounded in fair battle in which he struck as well as received blows."
Again there was a quick flush upon her pale face, but now it was one of indignation as she said bitterly, "Fair battle! So you call it fair battle when men are overpowered in defending their homes. If armed robbers broke into your house, and you gave blows as well as received them, would you not be murdered if it so happened that you were killed? Why should we speak of these subjects further?" And there was a trace of scorn in her tone.
His pride was touched, and he was all the more determined that he would be heard. "I can give you good reason why we should speak further," he answered resolutely yet quietly. "However strong your feeling may be, I have too much respect for your intelligence and too much confidence in your courage to believe that you will weakly shrink from hearing one who is as conscientious as yourself. I cannot accept your illustration, and do not think the instance you give is parallel. In the differences between the North and the South, an appeal was made to the sword. If I had been old enough I would have fought at my father's side. But the question is now settled. No matter how we feel about it, the North and the South must live together, and it is not my nature to live in hate. Suppose I could--suppose it were possible for all Southern men to feel as you do and act in accordance with such bitter enmity, what would be the result? It would be suicide. Our land would become a desert. Capital and commerce would leave our cities because there would be no security among a people implacably hostile. Such a course would be more destructive than invading armies. My business, the business of the city, is largely with the North. If native Southern men tried to transact it in a cold, relentless spirit, we should lose the chance to live, much less to do anything for our land. We have suffered too much from this course already, and have allowed strangers, who care nothing for us, to take much that might have been ours. I love the South too well to advocate a course which would prove so fatal. What is more, I cannot think it would be right. The North of your imagination does not exist. I cannot hate people who have no hate for me, but on the contrary abound in honest, kindly feeling."
She had listened quietly with her face turned from him, and now met his eyes with an inscrutable expression in hers. "Have I not listened?" she asked.
"But you have not answered," he urged, "you have not even tried to show me wherein I am wrong."
The eyes whose sombre blackness had been like a veil now flamed with the anger she had long repressed. "How little you understand me," she said passionately, "when you think I can argue questions like these. You are virtually asking what to me is sacrilege. I have listened to you patiently, at what cost to my feelings you are incapable of knowing. Do you think that I can forget that my grandfather was mangled to death, and that his last words were, 'I was only trying to defend my home'? Do you think I can forget that my father was trampled into the very earth by your Northern friends with whom you must fraternize as well as trade? I will not speak of my martyred mother. Her name and agony are too sacred to be named in a political argument," and she uttered these last words with intense bitterness. Then rising to end the interview, she continued coldly in biting sarcasm, "Mr. Clancy, I have no relations with the North. I do not deal in cotton, and none of its fibre has found its way into my nature."
At these words he flushed hotly, sprang up, but by an evident and powerful effort controlled himself, and sat down again.
"How could you even imagine," she added, "that words, arguments, political and financial considerations would tempt me to be disloyal to the memory of my dead kindred?"
"You _are_ disloyal to them," he said firmly.
"What!"
"Mara, I am indeed proving myself a friend because I am such and more, and because you so greatly need a friend. Your kindred had hearts in their breasts. Would they doom you to the life upon which you are entering? Can you not see that you are passing deeper and deeper into the shadow of the past? What good can it do them? Could they speak would they say, 'We wish our sorrows to blight your life'? You are not happy, you cannot be happy. It is contrary to the law of God, it is impossible to human nature, that happiness and bitter, unrelenting enmity should exist in the same heart. You are not only unhappy, but you are in deep trouble of some kind. I saw that from your face to-day before you saw me and could mask from a friend its expression of deep anxiety. You shall hear the truth from me which I fear you hear from no other, and your harsh words shall not deter me from my resolute purpose to be kind, to rescue you virtually from a condition of mind that is so morbid, so unhealthful, that it will blight your life. I cannot so wrong your father and mother as even to imagine that it could be their wish to see your beautiful young life grow more and more shadowed, to see you struggling under burdens which strong, loving hands would lift from you. Can you believe that they, happy in heaven, can wish you no happiness on earth?"
There was a grave, convincing earnestness in his tone, and a truth in his words hard to resist. What she considered loyalty to her kindred had been like her religion, and he had charged her with disloyalty, yes, and while he spoke the thought would assert itself that her course might be a wretched mistake. Although intrenched in prejudice, and fortified against his words by the thought and feeling of her life, she had been made to doubt her position and feel that she might be a self-elected martyr. The assertion that she was doing what would be contrary to the wishes of her dead kindred pierced the very citadel of her opposition, and tended to remove the one belief which had been the sustaining rock beneath her feet. She knew she had been severe with him, and she was touched by his forbearance, his resolute purpose to befriend her. She remembered her poverty, the almost desperate extremity in which she was, and her heart upbraided her for refusing the hand held out so loyally and persistently to her help. She became confused, torn, and overwhelmed by conflicting emotions; her lip quivered, and, bowing her head in her hands, she sobbed, "You are breaking my heart."
In an instant he was on one knee at her side. "Mara," he began gently, "if I wound it is only that I may heal. Truly no girl in this city needs a friend as you do. For some reason I feel this to be true in my very soul. Who in God's universe would forbid you a loyal friend?" and he tried to take her hand.
"I forbid you to be her friend," said a stern voice.
Springing up, Clancy encountered the gaze of a gaunt, white-haired woman, with implacable enmity stamped upon her thin visage. The young man's eyes darkened as they steadily met those of Mrs. Hunter, and it was evident that the forbearance he had manifested toward the girl he loved would not be extended to her guardian. Still he controlled himself, and waited till she should speak again.
"Mr. Clancy," she resumed after a moment, "Miss Wallingford is my ward; I received her from her dying mother, and so have rights which you must respect. I forbid you seeing her or speaking to her again."
"Mrs. Hunter," he replied, "permit me to tell you with the utmost courtesy that I shall not obey you. Only Mara herself can forbid me from seeing her or speaking to her."
"What right have you, sir--" "The best of rights, Mrs. Hunter, I love the girl; you do not. As remorselessly as a graven image you would sacrifice her on the altar of your hate."
"Mr. Clancy, you must not speak to my aunt in that way. She has been devoted to me from my infancy."
"On the contrary, she has devoted you from infancy to sadness, gloom, and bitter memories. She is developing within you the very qualities most foreign to a woman's heart. Instead of teaching you to enshrine the memory of your kindred in tender, loving remembrance, she is forging that memory into a chain to restrain you from all that is natural to your years. She is teaching you to wreck your life in fruitless opposition to the healing influences that have followed peace. Madam, answer me--the question is plain and fair--what can you hope to accomplish by your enmity to me and to the principles of hope and progress which, in this instance, I represent, but the blighting of this girl whom I love?"
"You are insolent, sir," cried Mrs. Hunter, trembling with rage.
"No, madam, I am honest, and be the result to me what it may, you shall both hear the truth to-night."
"This is our home," was the harsh response, "and you are not a gentleman if you do not leave it instantly."
"I shall certainly do so. Mara, am I to see you and speak to you no more?"
She had sunk into a chair, and again buried her face in her hands.
He waited a moment, but she gave no sign. Then with his eyes fixed on her he sadly and slowly left the apartment.
At last she sprang up with the faint cry, "Owen," but her aunt stood between her and the door, and he was gone.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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6
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"PAHNASHIP"
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When Mara realized that her lover had indeed gone, that in fact he had been driven forth, and that she had said not one word to pave the way for a future meeting, a sense of desolation she had never known before overwhelmed her. Hitherto she had been sustained by an unfaltering belief that no other course than the one which her aunt had inculcated was possible; that, cost what it might, and end as it might, it was her heritage. All now was confused and in doubt. She had heard her lofty, self-sacrificing purpose virtually characterized as vain and wrong. She had idolized the memory of her father and mother, and yet had been told that her course was the very one of which they would not approve. The worst of it all was that it now seemed true, for she could not believe that they would wish her to be so utterly unhappy. In spite of her unworldliness and lack of practical training, the strong common-sense of Clancy's question would recur, "What good will it do?" She was not sacrificing her heart to sustain or further any cause, and her heart now cried out against the wrong it was receiving. These miserable thoughts rushed through her mind and pressed so heavily upon all hope that she leaned her arms upon the table, and, burying her face, sobbed aloud.
"Mara," said her aunt, severely, "I did not think you could be so weak."
Until the storm of passionate grief passed, the young girl gave no heed to Mrs. Hunter's reproaches or expostulations. At last she became quiet, as much from exhaustion as from self-control, and said wearily, "You need worry no further about Mr. Clancy. He will not come again. If he has a spark of pride or manhood left, he will never look at me again," and a quick, heart-broken sob would rise at the thought.
"I should hope you would not look at him again after his insolence to me."
Mara did not reply. For the first time her confidence in her aunt had been shaken, for she could not but feel that Mrs. Hunter, in her judgment of Clancy, saw but one side of the question. She did not approve of his stern arraignment of her aunt, but she at least remembered his great provocation, and that he had been impelled to his harsh words by loyalty to her.
At last she said, "Aunty, I'm too worn out to think or speak any more tonight. There is a limit to endurance, and I've reached it."
"That's just where the trouble is," Mrs. Hunter tried to say reassuringly. "In the morning you will be your own true, brave self again."
"What's the use of being brave; what can I be brave for?" thought Mara in the solitude of her room.
Although her sleep was brief and troubled, she had time to grow calm and collect her thoughts. While she would not admit it to herself, Clancy's repeated assertions of his love had a subtle and sustaining power. She could see no light in the future, but her woman's heart would revert to this truth as to a secret treasure.
In the morning after sitting for a time almost in silence over their meagre breakfast, her aunt began: "Mara, I wish you to realize the truth in regard to Mr. Clancy. It is one of those things which must be nipped in the bud. There is only one ending to his path, and that is full acceptance of Northern rule and Northern people. What is more, after his words to me, I will never abide under the same roof with him again."
"Aunty," said Mara sadly, "we have much else to think about besides Mr. Clancy. How are we going to keep a roof over our own heads?"
Compelled to face their dire need, Mrs. Hunter broke out into bitter invective against those whom she regarded as the cause of their poverty.
"Aunty," protested Mara, almost irritably, for her nerves were sadly worn, "what good can such words do? We must live, I suppose, and you must advise me."
"Mara, I am almost tempted to believe that you regret--" "Aunty, you must fix your mind on the only question to be considered. What are we to do? You know our money is almost gone."
Mrs. Hunter's only response was to stare blankly at her niece. She could economize and be content with very little as long as her habitual trains of thought were not interrupted and she could maintain her proud seclusion. Accustomed to remote plantation life, she knew little of the ways of the modern world, and much less of the methods by which a woman could obtain a livelihood from it. To the very degree that she had lived in the memories and traditions of the past, she had unfitted herself to understand the conditions of present life or to cope with its requirements. Now she was practically helpless. "We can't go and reveal our situation to our friends," she began hesitatingly.
"Certainly not," said Mara, "for most of them have all they can do to sustain themselves, and I would rather starve than live on the charity of those on whom we have no claim."
"We might take less expensive rooms."
"What good would that do, Aunty? If we can't earn anything, five dollars will be as hard to raise as ten."
"Oh, to think that people of the very best blood in the State, who once had scores of slaves to work for them, should be so wronged, robbed and reduced!"
Mara heaved a long, weary sigh, and Clancy's words would repeat themselves again and again. She saw how utterly incapable her aunt was to render any assistance in their desperate straits. Even the stress of their present emergency could not prevent her mind from vainly reverting to a past that was gone forever. Again her confidence was more severely shaken as she was compelled to doubt the wisdom of their habits of seclusion and reticence, of living on from year to year engrossed by memories, instead of adapting themselves to a new order of things which they were powerless to prevent. "Truly," she thought, "my father and mother never could have wished me to be in this situation out of love for them. It is true I could never go to the length that he does without great hypocrisy, and I do not see the need of it. I can never forget the immense wrong done to me and mine, but Aunty should have taught me something more than indignation and hostility, however just the causes for them may be."
While such was the tenor of her thoughts, she only said a little bitterly: "Oh, that I knew how to do something! My old nurse, Aun' Sheba, is better off than we are."
"She belongs to us yet," said Mrs. Hunter, almost fiercely.
"You could never make her or any one else think so," was the weary reply. "Well, now that I have thought of her, I believe I could advise with her better than any one else."
"Advise with a slave? Oh, Mara! --" "Whom shall I advise with then?" And there was a sharp ring in the girl's tone.
"Oh, any one, so that it be not Mr. Clancy," replied her aunt irritably. "Were it not that you so needed a protector, I could wish that I were dead."
"Aunt," said Mara, gently yet firmly, "we must give up this hopeless, bitter kind of talk. I, at least, must do something to earn honest bread, and I am too depressed and sad at heart to carry any useless burdens. Mr. Clancy said much that was wrong last night, and there are matters about which he and I can never agree, but surely he was right in saying that my father and mother would not wish to see me crushed body and soul. If I am to live, I must find a way to live and yet keep my self-respect. I suppose the natural way would be to go to those who knew my father and grandfather; but they would ask me what I could do. What could I tell them? It would seem almost like asking charity."
"Of course it would," assented her aunt.
Then silence fell between them.
Before Mara could finish her morning duties and prepare for the street, a heavy step was heard on the stairs, then a knock at the door. Opening it, the young girl saw the very object of her thoughts, for Aun' Sheba's ample form and her great basket filled all the space.
"Oh, Aun' Sheba," cried the girl, a gleam of hope lighting up her eyes, "I'm so glad to see you. I was just starting for your cabin."
"Bress your heart, honey, Aun' Sheba'll allus be proud to hab you come. My spec's, Missus," and she dropped her basket and a courtesy before Mrs. Hunter.
"Aun' Sheba," said Mara, giving the kindly vender a chair, "you are so much better off than we are. I was saying just that to aunty this morning."
"Why, honey, I'se only a po' culled body, and you'se a beauty like you moder, bress her po' deah heart."
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, you were a blessing to her," said Mara with moist eyes. "How you watched over her and helped to take care of me! Perhaps you can help take care of me again. For some reason, I can speak to you and tell you our troubles easier than to any one else in the world."
"Dat's right, honey lam', dat's right. Who else you tell your troubles to but Aun' Sheba? Didn't I comfort you on dis bery bres time an' time agin when you was a little mite? Now you'se bigger and hab bigger troubles, I'se bigger too," and Aunt Sheba shook with laughter like a great form of jelly as she wiped her eyes with sympathy.
"Aun' Sheba," said Mara in a voice full of unconscious pathos, "I don't know what to do, yet I must do something. It seems to me that I could be almost happy if I were as sure of earning my bread as you are."
"Now, doggone dat ar lazy husban' o' mine. But he got his 'serts an'll git mo' ob dem eff he ain't keerful. I jes' felt it in my bones las' night how 'twas wid you, an I 'lowed how I'd see you dis mawnin', an' den he began to go on as ef you was nothin' but white folks stid ob my deah honey lam' dat I nussed till you was like my own chile. But he won' do so no mo'."
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, believe me, I don't wish to interfere with any of your duties to him," began Mara earnestly.
"Duty to him," exclaimed the colored woman with a snort of indignation. "He mout tink a little 'bout his duty to me. Doan you trubble 'bout him, for he's boun' to git mo' dan his shar anyhow. Now I know de good Lawd put it in my min' to come heah dis mawnin' case you was on my min' las' night. You needn't tink you kin go hungry while Aun' Sheba hab a crus'."
"I know what a big heart you've got, but that won't do, Aun' Sheba. Can you think I would live idly on your hard-earned money?"
"Well, 'tis my money, an' I make mo dan you tink, an' a heap mo' dan I let Unc. know about. He'd be fer settin' up his kerrige ef he knew," and she again laughed in hearty self-complacency. "Why, honey, I can 'sport you an' Missus widout pinchin', an' who gwine to know 'bout it?"
"I'd know about it," said Mara, rising and putting her hand caressingly on the woman's shoulder, "yet I feel your kindness in the very depths of my heart. Come, I have a thought. Let me see what's in your basket."
"Ony cakes dis mawnin', honey. Help you's sef."
"Oh, how delicious they are," said Mara eating one, and thoughtfully regarding her sable friend. "You beat me making cakes, Aun' Sheba, and I thought I was good at it."
"So you am, Missy, so you am, fer I taught you mysef."
"Aun' Sheba, suppose we go into partnership."
"Pahnaship!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba in bewilderment.
"Oh, Mara!" Mrs. Hunter expostulated indignantly.
"Well, I suppose it would be a very one-sided affair," admitted the girl, blushing in a sort of honest shame. "You are doing well without any help from me, and don't need any. I'm very much like a man who wants to share in a good business which has already been built up, but I don't know how to do anything else, and could at least learn better every day, and--and--I thought--I must do something--I thought, perhaps, if I made the cakes and some other things, and you sold them, Aun' Sheba, you wouldn't have to work so hard, and--well, there might be enough profit for us both."
"Now de Lawd bress you heart, honey, dar ain't no need ob you blisterin' you'se pretty face ober a fiah, bakin' cakes an' sich. I kin--" "No, no, Aun' Sheba, you can't, for I won't let you."
"Mara," protested Mrs. Hunter, severely, "do you realize what you are saying? Suppose it became known that you were in--in--" but the lady could not bring herself to complete the humiliating sentence.
"Yis, honey, Missus am right. De idee! Sech quality as you in pahnaship wid ole Aun' Sheba!" and she laughed at the preposterous relationship.
"Perhaps it needn't be known," said Mara, daunted for a moment. Then the necessities in the case drove her forward, and, remembering that her aunt was unable to suggest or even contemplate anything practicable, she said resolutely, "Let it be known. Others of our social rank are supporting themselves, and I'm too proud to be ashamed to do it myself even in this humble way. What troubles me most is that I'm making such a one-sided offer to Aun' Sheba. She don't need my help at all, and I need hers so much."
"Now see heah, honey, is your heart set on dis ting?"
"Yes, it is," replied Mara, earnestly. "My heart was like lead till you came, and it would be almost as light as one of these cakes if I knew I could surely earn my living. Oh, Aun' Sheba, you've had troubles, and you know what sore troubles my poor mother had, but neither you nor she ever knew the fear, the sickening dread which comes over one when you don't know where your bread is to come from or how you are to keep a roof over your head. Aunty, do listen to reason. Making cake and other things for Aun' Sheba to sell would not be half so humiliating as going to people of my own station and revealing my ignorance, or trying to do what I don't know how to do, knowing all the time that I was only tolerated. My plan leaves me in seclusion, and if any one thinks less of me they can leave me alone. I don't want to make my way among strangers; I don't feel that I can. This plan enables us to stay together, Aunty, and you must know now that we can't drift any longer."
While Mara was speaking Aun' Sheba's thrifty thoughts had been busy. Her native shrewdness gave her a keen insight into Mrs. Hunter's character, and she knew that the widow's mind was so warped that she was practically as helpless as a child. While, in her generous love for Mara and from a certain loyalty to her old master's family, she was willing temporarily to assume what would be a very heavy burden, she was inwardly glad, as she grew accustomed to the idea, that Mara was willing to do her share. Indeed it would be a great relief if her basket could be filled for her, and she said, heartily, "Takes some time, honey, you know, fer an idee to git into my tick head, but when it gits dar it stick. Now you'se sensible, an' Missus'll see it soon. You'se on de right track. Ob cose, I'd be proud ob pahnaship, an' it'll be a great eas'n up to me. Makes a mighty long day, Missy, to git up in de mawnin' an' do my bakin' an' den tromp, tromp, tromp. I could put in an hour or two extra sleep, an' dat counts in a woman ob my age an' heft. But, law sakes! look at dat clock dar. I mus' be gitten along. Set you deah little heart at res', honey. I'se comin' back dis ebenin', an' we'se start in kin' ob easy like so you hab a chance to larn and not get 'scouraged."
"I can't approve of this plan at all," said Mrs. Hunter, loftily, "I wash my hands of it."
"Now, now, Missus, you do jes' dat--wash you hans ob it, but don' you 'fere wid Missy, kase it'll set her heart at res' and keep a home fer you bof. We's gwine to make a pile, honey, an' den de roses come back in you cheeks," and nodding encouragingly, she departed, leaving more hope and cheer behind her than Mara had known for many a month.
To escape the complaining of her aunt, Mara shut herself in her room and thought long and deeply. The conclusion was, "The gulf between us has grown wider and deeper. When Mr. Clancy learns how I have sought independence without his aid--" but she only finished the sentence by a sad, bitter smile.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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7
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MARA'S PURPOSE
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"Neber had sech luck in all my bawn days," soliloquized Aun' Sheba as she saw the bottom of her basket early in the day. "All my cus'mers kin' o' smilin' like de sunshine. Only Marse Clancy grumpy. He go by me like a brack cloud. I'se got a big grudge against dat ar young man. He use to be bery sweet on Missy. He mus' be taken wid some Norvern gal, and dat's 'nuff fer me. Ef he lebe my honey lam' now she so po', dar's a bad streak in his blood and he don' 'long to us any mo'. I wouldn't be s'prised ef dey hadn't had a squar meal fer a fortnight. I can make blebe dat I wants to take my dinner 'long o' dem to sabe time, an' den dey'll hab a dinner wat'll make Missy real peart 'fore she gin to work," and full of her kindly intentions she bought a juicy steak, some vegetables, a quantity of the finest flour, sugar, coffee, and some spices.
Mara had slipped out and invested the greater part of her diminished hoard in the materials essential to her new undertaking. Not the least among them, as she regarded it, was an account book. When, therefore, Aun' Sheba bustled in between one and two o'clock, she found some bulky bundles on the kitchen table over which Mrs. Hunter had already groaned aloud.
"Law sakes, honey, what all dese?" the colored aunty asked.
"They are my start in trade," replied Mara, smiling.
"Den you's gwine to hab a mighty big start, fer I got lots o' tings in dis basket."
"Why, Aun' Sheba! Did you think I was going to let you furnish the materials?"
"Ef you furnish de makin' up ob de 'terials what mo' you oughter do, I'd like ter know?"
"Aun' Sheba, I could cheat you out af your two black eyes."
"Dey see mo' dan you tink, Missy," she replied, nodding sagaciously.
"Yes, I reckon they do, but my eyes must look after your interests as well as my own. I am going to be an honest partner. Do you see this book?"
"What dat ar got to do wid de pahnaship?"
"You will see. It will prevent you from ever losing a penny that belongs to you."
"Penny, indeed! As if I'se gwine to stand on a penny!"
"Well, I am. Little as I know about business, I am sure it will be more satisfactory if careful accounts are kept, and you must promise to tell me the whole truth about things. That's the way partners do, you know, and everything is put down in black and white."
"Oh, go 'long wid you, honey, an' hab you own way. All in my pahnaship go down in black, I s'pose, an' you'se in white. How funny it all am!" and the old woman sat back in her chair and laughed in her joyous content.
"It is all a very humiliating farce to me," said Mrs. Hunter, looking severely at the former property.
"Yas'm," said Aun' Sheba, suddenly becoming stolid as a graven image.
"Aunty," said Mara firmly but gently, "the time has come when I must act, for your sake as well as my own. Nothing will prevent me from carrying out this plan, except its failure to provide for Aun' Sheba as well as for ourselves."
"Well, I wash my hands of it, and, if your course becomes generally known, I shall have it understood that you acted without my approval." And she rose and left the kitchen with great dignity.
When the door closed upon her, Aun' Sheba again shook in vast and silent mirth.
"Doan you trubble long o' Missus, honey," she said, nodding encouragingly at Mara. "She jes' like one dat lib in de dark an' can't see notin' right." Then in sudden revulsion of feeling she added, "You po' honey lam', doan you see you'se got to take keer ob her jes' as ef she was a chile?"
"Yes," said Mara, sadly, "I've been compelled to see it at last."
"Now doan you be 'scouraged. 'Tween us we take keer ob her, an' she be a heap betteh off eben ef she doan know it. You hab no dinner yit?"
"We were just going to get it as you came."
"Well now, honey, I habn't had a bite nudder, an' I'se gwine to take dinneh heah ef you'se willin'."
"Why, surely, Aun' Sheba. It's little we have, you but know I'd share my last crust with you."
Again the guest was bubbling over with good-natured merriment. "We ain't got to de las' crus' yit, an' I couldn't make my dinneh on a crus' nohow. Dar's one ting I'se jes' got to 'sist on in de pahnaship. I don't keer notin' 'bout 'count books and sich, but ef we'se gwine to make a fort'n you got to hab a heap o' po'er in you'se arms. You got to hab a strong back and feel peart all ober. Dis de ony ting I 'sist on. Now how you gwine to be plump and strong?"
"Oh, I'm pretty strong, and I'll get stronger now that I have hope, and see my way a little."
"Hope am bery good fer 'sert, honey, but we want somep'n solider to start in on. You jes' set de table in de oder room, an' I'll be de brack raben dat'll pervide. Now you must min' kase I'se doing 'cording to Scripter, an' we neber hab no luck 'tall if we go agin Scripter."
"Very well," said Mara, laughing, "you shall have your own way. I see through all your talk, but I know you'll feel bad if you can't carry out your purpose. You'll have a better dinner, too."
"Yeh, yeh, she knows a heap moah'n me," thought Aun' Sheba when alone, "but I know some tings too, bress her heart. I kin see dat her cheeks am pale and thin an' dat her eyes am gettin' so big and brack dat her purty face am like a little house wid big winders. She got quality blood in her vein, shuah, but habn't got neah 'nuff. Heah's de 'terial wat gibs hope sometimes better'n preachin," and she whipped out the steak and prepared it for the broiler. Then she clapped some potatoes into the oven, threw together the constituents of light biscuit, and put the coffee over the fire. A natural born cook, she was deft and quick, and had a substantial repast ready in an amazingly short time. Soon it was smoking on the table, and then she said with a significant little nod at Mara, "Now I'se gwine to wait on Missus like ole times."
Mara understood her and did not protest, for she felt the necessity of humoring her aunt, who quite thawed out at the semblance of her former state. While the poor lady enlarged on the thought that such should be the normal condition of affairs, and would be if the world were not wholly out of joint, she nevertheless dined so heartily as to prove that she could still enjoy the good things of life if they were provided without personal compromise on her part. Mara made a silent note of this, and felt more strongly than ever that her aunt's needs and not her words must control her actions. After dinner she said, "Come, aunty, you have had much to try your nerves of late, and there must be much more not in harmony with your feelings. It can't be helped, but I absolve you of all responsibility, and I know very well if you had what was once your own, I would not have to raise my hand. You see I am not seeking relief in the way that is so utterly distasteful to you, and, when you come to think this plan all over, you will admit that it is the one that would attract the least attention, and involve the least change. Now lie down and take a good rest this afternoon."
"Well," said Mrs. Hunter, with the air of one yielding a great deal, "I will submit, even though I can not approve, on the one condition that you have nothing more to say to Mr. Clancy."
A painful flush overspread Mara's features, and she replied in a constrained voice, "You will have no occasion to worry about Mr. Clancy. After--" then remembering that Aunt Sheba was within ear-shot, she concluded, "Mr. Clancy will have nothing to say to me when he knows what is taking place. When you have thought it over you will see that my plan makes me independent of every one."
"That is, if you succeed," remarked Mrs. Hunter, "and it will be about the only thing to be said in its favor."
This degree of toleration obtained, Mara prepared to join Aunt Sheba in the kitchen, with the purpose of giving her whole thought and energy to the securing of an independence, now coveted more than ever. In spite of the influences and misapprehensions of her life which had tended to separate her from Clancy, when she fully learned that he was affiliating with those who dwelt as aliens in her thoughts, she had been overborne by his words and the promptings of her own heart. She was glad, indeed, that she had not revealed what she now regarded as her weakness, feeling that it would have complicated matters most seriously. While she had been compelled to see the folly of seclusion and inaction, the natural result of a morbid pride which blinds as well as paralyzes, she was by no means ready to accept his views or go to his lengths. She would have shared poverty with him gladly if he would continue to be "a true Southerner," in other words, one who submitted in cold and unrelenting protest to the new order of things. In accepting this new order, and in availing himself of it to advance his fortunes and those of his State as he also claimed, he alienated her in spite of all his arguments, and his avowed love. She felt that he should take the ground with her that they had suffered too deeply, and had been wronged too greatly, to ignore the past. They were a conquered people, but so were the Poles and Alsatians. Were those subject races ready to take the hands that had struck them and still held them in thraldom? Their indignant enmity was patriotism, not hate. Now that the habitual thoughts of her life had been given time to resume their control, she felt all the more bitterly what seemed a hopeless separation. The North had not only robbed her of kindred and property, but was now taking her lover. She knew she loved him, yet not for the sake of her love would she be false to her deep-rooted feelings and convictions. If he had seen how nearly she yielded to _him_, not to his views, the previous evening, it would have been doubly hard to show him in the end that she could never share in his life, unless he adopted her attitude of passive submission to what could not be helped.
Others might do as they pleased, but their dignity and personal memories required this position, and, as she had said to him, she could take no other course without hypocrisy, revolting alike to her feelings and sense of honor. His strong words, however, combining with the circumstances of her lot, had broken the spell of her aunt's influence, and had planted in her mind the thought that any useless suffering on her part was not loyalty to the memory of her father and mother. Her new impulse was to make the most and best of her life as far as she could conscientiously: and the hope would assert itself that if she were firm he would eventually be won over to her position. "If he loves as I do," she thought, "he will be. He, no doubt, is sincere, but he has been beguiled into seeing things in the light of his immediate interests. Love to me, if it is genuine, and loyalty to the cause for which his father gave his life, should lead him to the dignified submission of the conquered and away from all association with the conquerors that can be avoided. I'll prove to him," was her mental conclusion, accompanied with a flash of her dark eyes, "that a girl ignorant of the world and its ways, and with the help only of a former slave, can earn her bread, and thus show him how needless are his Northern allies."
Thoughts like these had been swiftly coursing through her mind while dining, and therefore, when she joined Aun' Sheba in the kitchen, she was ready to employ every faculty, sharpened to the utmost, in the tasks before her.
In that humble arena, and by the prosaic method contemplated, she would assert her unsubdued spirit, and maintain a consistency which should not be marred, even at the bidding of love, by an insincere acceptance of his views and associations.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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8
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NEVER FORGET; NEVER FORGIVE
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While Ann' Sheba finished her dinner Mara began to open and put in their places the slender materials which she had purchased as her first step toward self-support. The generous meal, and especially the coffee combining with the strong incentive of her purpose, gave elasticity to her step and flushed her face slightly with color. The old aunty watched her curiously and sympathetically as she thought, "Bress her heart how purty she am, bendin' heah an' dar like a willow an' lookin' de lady ebery inch while she doin' kitchen work! Quar pahner fer sech an ole woman as me ter hab, but I dun declar dat her han's, ef dey am little, seem po'ful smart. Dey takes hole on tings jes' as if dey'd coax 'em right along whar she wants dem!" Then she broke out, "Wot a fool dat Owen Clancy am!"
Mara started and was suddenly busy in a distant part of the room. "I reckon you are the only one that thinks so, Aun' Sheba," she remarked quietly.
"Ef he could see you now he'd tink so hisself."
"Very likely," and there was a little bitterness in Mara's accent.
"De mo' fool he be den," said Aun' Sheba with an indignant toss of her head. "Whar ud his eyes be ef he could see you and not go down on his marrow-bones, I'd like to know? Habn't I seen all de quality ob dis town? and dat fer de new quality," with a snap of her fingers, "an you take de shine off'n dem all eben in de kitchen. Law sakes, what kin' ob blood dat man Clancy hab to lebe you kase you po'? Pears ter me de ole cun'l, his fader, ud be orful figety in his coffin."
"Mr. Clancy has not left me because I am poor, Aun' Sheba," said Mara gravely. "You do him great injustice. We are not so good friends as we were simply because we cannot agree on certain subjects. But I would rather you would not talk about him to me or to any one else. Come now, you must give me some lessons in your mystery of making cakes that melt in one's mouth. Otherwise people will say you are growing old and losing your high art."
"Dey better not tell me no sech lies. Law, Missy, you is gwine ter beat me all holler wen onst you gits de hang ob de work. You little white han's gib fancy teches dat ain't in my big black han'. Arter all, tain't de han's; it's de min'. Dere's my darter Mis Watson. Neber could larn her much mo'n plain cookin'. Dere's a knack at dese tings dat's bawn in one. It's wot you granpa used ter call genus, an' you allus hab it, eben when you was a chile an' want ter muss in de kitchen."
Thus full of reminiscence and philosophy eminently satisfactory to her own mind, Aun' Sheba taught her apt and eager pupil the secrets of her craft. Mara was up with the dawn on the following day, and achieved fair success. Other lessons followed, and it was not very long before the girl passed beyond the imitative stage and began to reason upon the principles involved in her work and then to experiment.
One day an old customer said to Aun' Sheba: "There's a new hand at the bellows."
"Dunno not'n 'bout bellus. Ain't de cakes right?"
"Well, then, you've got some new receipts."
"Like a'nuff I hab," said the vender warily. "De pint am, howsumeber, isn't de cakes good?"
"Yes, they seem better every day, but they are not the same every day. I reckon some one's coaching you."
"Law sakes, Massa, wo't you mean by coachin' me?"
"Do you make the cakes?" was asked pointblank.
"Now, Massa, you's gittin' too cur'us. Wot de Scripter say? Ask no questions fer conscience' sake."
"Come, come, Aun' Sheba; if you begin to wrest Scripture, I'll take pains to find you out."
She shuffled away in some trepidation and shook her head over the problem of keeping her relations with Mara secret. "Missy puttin' her min' in de cakes an' I didn't hab much min' to put in an' folks know de dif'ence," she soliloquized. Later on she was down among the cotton warehouses, and finding herself weary and warm, stopped to rest in the shade of a building. Suddenly Owen Clancy turned the corner. His brow was contracted as if in deep and not agreeable thought.
Aun' Sheba's lowered at him, for he seemed about to pass her without noticing her. The moment he became aware of her presence, however, he stopped and fixed upon her his penetrating gray eyes. His gaze was so persistent and stern that she was disconcerted, but she spoke with her accustomed assurance: "You ain't gwine ter call de perlice, is you, Mars' Clancy?" and she placed her arms akimbo on her hips.
This reference was shrewd, for it reminded him that his grievance was purely personal and one that he could not resent in her case, yet his heart was so sore with the suspicion that Mara was looking to this negress for help instead of to himself, that for the time being he detested the woman. Love is not a judicial quality, and rarely has patience with those who interfere with its success. He had hoped that eventually the pressure of poverty would turn Mara's thoughts to him, especially as he had revealed so emphatically his wish to help her disinterestedly as a friend even; but if his present fears were well grounded, he would have to admit that her heart had grown utterly cold toward him.
"Why should you think of the police, Aun' Sheba, unless you have something on your mind?" he asked, coolly removing the cover of the basket and helping himself. "You didn't make these cakes. Did you steal them?"
"Marse Clancy, what you take me fer?"
"That depends on how honest your answers are."'
"I ain't 'bliged ter answer 'tall."
"Oh, you're afraid then."
"No, I ain't afeerd. Ef dey is stolen, you'se a 'ceivin ob stolen goods, fum de way dem cakes dis'pearin'."
"You're pert, Aun'Sheba."
"Oh co'se I'se peart. Hab to be spry to arn a libin' in dese yer times, but I can do it fum dem dat's fren'ly and not fum dem dat glower at me."
"Will you tell me if Miss Wallingford--" "Marse Clancy, hab Miss Wallingford sent you word dat she want you to know 'bout her 'fairs?"
"I understand," he said almost savagely, and throwing a quarter into the basket he passed on.
There had been a tacit understanding at first that Mara's part in Aun' Sheba's traffic should not be revealed. The girl had not wholly shaken off the influence of her aunt's opposition, and she shrank with almost morbid dread from being the subject of remark even among those of her own class. The chief and controlling motive for secrecy, however, had been distrust, the fear that the undertaking would not be successful. As the days had passed this fear had been removed. Aun' Sheba did not come to make her returns until after she had taken her supper in the evening, and at about ten in the morning she reached Mara's home by an unfrequented side street. There were those, however, who had begun to notice the regularity of her visits and among them was Owen Clancy. We have also seen that the daintiness of the viands had caused surmises.
Mara had become preoccupied with her success and with plans for increasing it. At first Aun' Sheba had supplemented her attempts, and her plan had been entered on so quietly and carried forward so smoothly that even Mrs. Hunter was becoming reconciled to the scheme although she tried to conceal the fact. It would be hard to find two women more ignorant of the world, or more averse to being known by it, yet from it the unsophisticated girl now hoped to divert a little sustaining rill of currency without a ripple of general comment until the hour should come when she could reveal the truth to Clancy as a rebuke to his course and as a suggestion that a man might do more and yet not compromise himself. Full of these thoughts and hopes, her life, if not happy, had at least ceased to stagnate and was growing in zest and interest.
The day on which occurred the events just narrated was destined to prove a fateful one. When Aun' Sheba came in the evening it was soon evident that she had something on her mind. She paid little heed to the accounts while Mara was writing them down and explaining the margin of profit, as the girl was always careful to do, for it satisfied her conscience that her over-loyal partner was prospering now as truly as before. After everything had been attended to and the programme arranged for the morning, Aun' Sheba still sat and fidgeted in her chair. Mara leaned back in hers and looking across the kitchen table said: "Be honest now. There's something you want to say."
"Don't want ter say it, but s'pose I ought."
"I reckon you had, Aun' Sheba."
The woman's native shrewdness had been sharpened by the varied experience of her calling, and she had become convinced that the policy of secrecy would be a failure. What would be Mara's course when compelled to face the truth, was the question that troubled her. The kind soul hoped that it would make no difference, and proposed to use all her tact to induce the girl to continue her enterprise openly, believing that this course would be best for several reasons. She had the wit to know that Mara would yield far more out of consideration for her than for any thought of self, so she said as a masterpiece of strategy, "Marse Clancy ax me to-day if I stole de cakes."
"What," cried Mara, flushing hotly.
"Jes dat--ef I stole de cakes; an' anoder man say I was gittin' new reseets or dat somebody was coachin' me, whateber dat is. Den he put it right straight, 'Did you make 'em?'"
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, I've thoughtlessly been causing trouble. I should have continued to make the cakes just as you did, and it was only to divert my mind that I tried other ways. I won't do so any more."
"Dunno 'bout dat, honey."
"Indeed I will not when I promise you."
"I doesn't want any sech a promise. De folks like de new-fangle' cakes betteh, an' gwine back to de ole way wouldn't do no good. It's all boun'ter come out dat I'se sellin' fer you as well as fer me. Marse Clancy axed ef you wasn't, leastways he 'gan to ax when I shut him up."
"How did you shut him up?" said Mara, breathing quickly.
"By axin' him anoder question. Yah, yah, I'se Yankee 'nuff fer dat. I say, 'Hab Miss Wallingford sen' you word dat she want you to know 'bout her 'fairs'?"
"Didn't he say anything after that?"
"Yes, he say 'I understand,' an' I'spect he do, fer he drap a quarter in my basket an' look as if he was po'ful mad as he walk away. He better min' his own business."
Mara understood Clancy and Aun' Sheba did not. The young girl was troubled and perplexed, for she could not but see in her lover's mind the effect of her step. She felt that it was natural he should be hurt and even angered to learn that, after all he had offered to do for her, she should avail herself of Aun' Sheba's services instead of his. What she feared most was that he would take it as final evidence that she was hostile to him personally and not merely estranged because he would not conform his views and life to her own. Her secret and dearest purpose, that of teaching him that he could live without compromise as she could, might be defeated. What if the very act should lead to the belief that she no longer wished to have any part in his life? A girl cannot feel that same toward a man who has told her openly of his love, for such words break down the barriers of maidenly reserve even in her own self-communings. Since he had spoken so plainly she could think more plainly. She knew well how mistaken Aun' Sheba was in her judgment, but could not explain that Clancy felt he was not only rejected as a lover but had been ignored even as a helpful friend; and her own love taught her to gauge the bitterness of this apparent truth.
She soon became conscious that Aun' Sheba was watching her troubled face, and to hide her deeper thoughts she said, "Yes, I suppose it is all bound to come out. Well, let it. You shall not be misjudged." "Law sake, Missy, wot does I keer! De ting dat trouble me is dat you'se gwine to keer too much. I doan want you to gib up and I doan want you to be flustered ef you fin' it's known. De pa'hnership, as you call 'im, been doin' you a heap o' good. You'se min' been gettin' int'usted an' you fo'gits you'se troubles. Dat's wot pleases me. Now to my po' sense, folks is a heap betteh off, takin' keer ob dem selves, dan wen dey worry 'bout wat dis one say an' dat one do. Dere is lots ob folks dat'll talk 'bout you a month dat won't lif' dere finger for you a minit. An' wat can dey say, honey, dat'll harm you? You prouder'n all ob dem, but you got dis kin' ob pride. Ef de rent fall due you fight again eben you'se ole nuss payin' it. Talk's only breff, but an empty pocket mean an orful lot ob trouble to folks who ain't willin' to take out ob dere pocket wat dey didn't put dere."
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, I think it would be the worst kind of trouble."
"I know it ud be fer you, but dar's Unc. He'd like his pocket filled ebery day an' he wouldn't keer who filled it ef he could spend. He'd say de Lawd pervided. Unc. 'd rather trust de Lawd dan work any day."
"I am afraid you are not very religious," said Mara, smiling.
"Well, I of'n wonder wedder I'se 'ligious or no," resumed Aun' Sheba, introspectively. "Some sarmons and prars seem like bread made out ob bran, de bigger de loaf de wuss it is. Unc. says I'se very cole an backsliden, but I'd be a heap colder ef I didn't keep up de wood-pile.
"And you help others keep up their wood-piles."
"Well, I reckon I does, but dere ain't much 'ligion in dat. Dat's kin' ob human natur which de preacher say am bad, bery bad stuff. De Lawd knows I say my prars sho't so as to be up an' doin'. Anyhow I doan belebe he likes ter be hollered at so, as dey do in our meetin' an' Unc. says dat sech talk am 'phemous. But dat ain't heah nor dar. We'se gwine right along, honey, ain't we? We'se gwine ter min' our own business jes' as if we'se the bigges' pahners in de town?"
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, you can say what you please hereafter, and I want you to come and go openly. I should have taken the stand before and saved you from coming out evenings. It has been far more on Aunty's account than on my own."
"Well, honey, now my min's at res' an' I belebe we do po'ful lot ob trade. Dat orful human natur gwine to come in now an' I belebe dat folks who know you an' all 'bout you'se family will help you, 'stid ob talkin' agin you. You see. You knows I doan' mean no disrespec' to ole Missus, but she'd jes sit down an' starbe, tinkin' ob de good dinners she orter hab, an' did hab in de ole times. All you'se folks in hebin is a smilin' on you, honey. Dey is, fer I feels it in my bones. You'se got de co'age ob you pa an' granpa an' dey know, jes' as we knows, dat ole Missus take a heap mo' comfort grumblin' dan in bein' hungry."
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, do you truly think they know about my present life?" the girl asked, with wet eyes.
"Dat's a bery deep question, honey, but it kin' a seem reason'ble ter me dat wen you gettin' on well an' wen you doin' good to some po' soul de Lawd'll sen' an angel to tell 'em. Wen dey ain't hearin' notin' I spects dey's got to tink as we does dat no news is good news."
The girl was deeply moved, for the vernacular of her old nurse had been familiar from childhood and did not detract from the sacred themes suggested. "Oh, that I could have seen my father," she sighed. "Portraits are so unsatisfying. Tell me again just how he looked."
"He'd be proud ob you, honey, an' you kin be proud ob him. You hab his eyes, only you'se is bigger and of'n look as if you'se sorrowin' way down in you soul. Sometimes, eben wen you was a baby, you'd look so long an' fixed wid you big sad eyes as if you seed it all an' know'd it all dat I used to boo-hoo right out. Nuder times I'd be skeered, fer you'd reach out you'se little arms as ef you seed you'se moder an' wanted to go to her. De Lawd know bes' why he let such folks die. She was like a passion vine creepin' up de oak--all tender and clingin' an' lubin', wid tears in her blue eyes ebin wen he pettin' her, an' he was tall an' straight an' strong wid eyes dat laffed or flashed jes as de 'casion was. I kin see him now come marchin' down Meetin' Street at de head ob his men, all raised hisself. He walk straight as an arrow wid his sword flashin' in de sunshine an' a hundred men step tromp, tromp, arter him as ef dey proud to follow. Missy Mary stood on de balc'ny lookin' wid all her vi'let eyes an' wabin' her hank'chief. Oh, how purty she look! de roses in her cheek, her bref comin' quick, bosom risin' an' fallin', an' she a-tremblin' an' alibe all ober wid excitement an' pride an' lub. Wen he right afore de balc'ny his voice rung out like a trumpet, 'Right 'bout, face. 'Sent arms.' I dun declar dat 'fore we could wink dey was all in line frontin' us wid dere guns held out. Den he s'lute her wid his sword an' she take a red rose fum her bosom an' trow it to him an' he pick it up an' put it to his lips; den it was 'Right 'bout! March!' an' away dey went tromp, tromp, towa'ds de Bat'ry. I kin see it all. I kin see it all. O Lawd, Lawd, dey's all dead," and she rocked back and forth, wiping her eyes with her apron.
Mara sprang up, her streaming tears dried by the hotness of her indignation as she cried, "And I too can see him, with his little band, dashing against almost an army and then trodden in the soil he died to defend. No, no, Owen Clancy, never!"
"Ah," said a low stern voice, "that's the true spirit. Now, Mara, you are your father's child. Never forget; never forgive," and they saw that Mrs. Hunter stood with them in the dim kitchen.
"Dunno 'bout dat, Missus. Reckon de wah am ober, an' what we gwine ter do wid de Lawd's prar? Dar, dar, honey, 'pose you'se nerves. 'Taint bes' to tink too much ob de ole times, an' I mustn't talk to you so no mo'."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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9
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A NEW SOLACE
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On her way home Aun' Sheba shook her head more than once in perplexity and disapprobation over what she had heard. She had the freedom of speech of an old family servant who had never been harshly repressed even when a slave, and now was added the fearlessness of a free woman. Her affection for Mara was so strong that in her ignorance she shared in some of the girl's prejudices against the North, but not in her antipathy. The thought that Clancy had waned in his regard or that he could even think of a Northern girl after having "kep' company" with Mara, had been exasperating, but now Aun' Sheba began to suspect that the estrangement was not wholly his fault. "She set agin him by his gwine Norf an' his habin' to do wid de folks dat she an' ole Missus hates. Doan see why he is mad at me 'bout it. Reckon he's mad anyhow an' can't speak peac'ble to nobody. Well, I likes him a heap betteh in dat view ob de case an' he kin glower at me all he please 'long as he ain't 'sertin' young Missy case she is po'. Couldn't stan' dat no how. He's willin' an' she ain't, an' dat wat she mean by sayin' 'No, Owen Clancy, nebbeh.' She won't lis'n to him kase he doan hate de Norf like pizen. Now dat is foolishness, an' she's sot up to it by de ole Missus. De Norf does as well as it know how. To be sure, it ain't quality like young Missy, but it buy de cotton an' it got de po'r. Wat's mo', it gib me a chance to wuck fer mysef. I would do as much fer young Missy as eber. I'd wuck my fingers off fer her, but I likes ter do it like white folks, kase I lub her. She orten' be so hard on young Clancy. He got his way ter make and dere'd be no good in his buttin' his head agin a wall. Tings am as dey is, an' I'm glad dey is as dey am. Dey's a long sight betteh fer cullud folks and white folks too, ef dey's a min' ter pull wid de curren' sted ob agin it. Massa Clancy's no fool. He know dis. He los' his pa an his prop'ty too, but he know betteh dan to go on hatin' fereber. Dey can't spec' me to uphole dem in dis fer it agin de Scripter an' my feelin's. Ole Missus bery 'ligious. She dun fergit wat de words mean she say ebry Sunday, But den, wot de use ob callin' ole Missus to 'count. She neber could see ony her side ob de question. It don make any dif'ence to her how many widers dere is in de Norf an' she hab jes dinged her 'pinions inter young Missy eber sence she was bawn. I'se glad ter do fer dem long as I lib, but I'se gwine ter speak my min' too."
With such surmises and self-communings she reached her home and found Uncle Sheba asleep in his chair and the fire out. She nodded at him ominously and muttered, "I gib him anuder lesson." Slipping quietly into the bedroom, she bolted the door, and, unrelenting to all remonstrances left him to get through the night as well as he could in his chair. The result justified the wisdom of the means employed, for thereafter Uncle Sheba always had a good fire when she returned.
Aun' Sheba had correctly interpreted the ellipsis suggested by Mara's passionate utterance. The scenes called up by her old nurse's words and rendered vivid by a strong imagination again presented themselves as an impassable barrier between herself and her lover unless he should feel their significance as she did. As a woman her heart was always pleading for him, but when strongly excited by the story of the past her anger flamed that he should even imagine that she would continue her regard for him. Indeed she wondered and was almost enraged at herself that she could not at once blot out his image and dismiss him from her thoughts when he was taking the course of all others most repugnant to her. At such moments she could easily believe that all was over between them, but with quiet persistence her heart knew better, and preferred love to enmities and sad memories.
Moreover, passionate as had been her mood there was a hard, homely common-sense in her old nurse's words, "Reckon de wah's ober an' wat you gwine ter do wid de Lawd's prar?" that quenched her fire like cold water. No one can be in a false position, out of harmony with normal laws and principles, without meeting spiritual jars. Mara was too young and too intelligent not to recognize the difficulties in maintaining her position, but she believed sincerely that the circumstances of her lot justified this position and made it the only honorable one for her. Northerners were to her what the Philistines were to the ancient Hebrews, the hereditary foes from which she had suffered the chief ills of her life. To compromise with them was to compromise with evil, and therefore she was always able to reason away the significance of all words like those of Aun' Sheba, although for the moment they troubled her.
Mrs. Hunter, however, had long since been incapable of doubts or compunctions. She tolerated Aun' Sheba's outspokenness as she would that of a child or a slave babbling of matters far above her comprehension.
The day marked a change in Mara's policy and action, and these led to some very important experiences. A false pride had at first prompted, or at least induced her to acquiesce in secrecy; now an honest pride led her to openness in all her efforts to obtain a livelihood. She would volunteer no information, but would simply go on in an unhesitating manner, let the consequences be what they might.
They soon began to take a surprisingly agreeable form, for the quick warm sympathies of the Southern people were touched. Here was a young girl, the representative of one of the oldest and best families, seeking quietly and unostentatiously to support herself and her aged aunt. There had been scores of people who would gladly have offered her assistance, but they had respected her reticence in regard to her affairs as jealously as they guarded the condition of their own. Frank in the extreme with each other in most respects, there was an impoverished class in the city who would suffer much rather than reveal pecuniary need or accept the slightest approach to charity. Poverty was no reproach among these families that had once enjoyed wealth in abundance. Indeed it was rather like a badge of honor, for it indicated sacrifice for the "lost cause" and an unreadiness for thrifty compacts and dealings with those hostile to that cause. In the class to which Mara belonged, therefore, she gained rather than lost in social consideration, and especial pains were taken to assure her of this fact.
Those in whose veins, even in Mrs. Hunter's estimation, flowed the oldest and bluest blood, called more frequently and spoke words of cheer and encouragement. That good lady, in a rich but antiquated gown, received the guests and was voluble in Mara's praises and in lamentation over the wrongs of the past. The majority were sympathetic listeners, but all were glad that the girl could do and was willing to do something more than complain. To their credit it should be said that they were ready to do more than sympathize, for even the most straitened found that they could spare something for Mara's cake, and Aun' Sheba's basket began to be emptied more than once every day. Orders were given also, and the young girl had all she could do to keep up with the growing demand.
It was well for her that each day brought its regular work, and its close found her too weary for the brooding so often the bane of idleness. Yet, in spite of all that was encouraging, the cheering words spoken to her, the elation of Aun' Sheba and the excitement resulting from her humble prosperity, she was ever conscious of a dull ache at heart. Clancy had gone North for an indefinite absence, and it looked as if their separation were final. In vain she assured herself that it was best that they should not meet again until both were satisfied that their paths led apart. She knew that she had hoped his path would come back to hers--that in secret she hoped this still, with a pathetic persistence which defied all effort. She believed, however, that such effort was her best resource, for he was again under the influences she most feared and detested. At times she reproached herself for having been too reserved, too proud and passionate in her resentment at his course. He had asked her to convince him of his error if she could, and she had not only failed to make such effort, but also had denied him the hope that would have been more than all argument. Thus, at variance with her heart, she alternated between the two extremes of anger at his course and regret and compunction at her own. As a rule, though, her resolute will enabled her to concentrate her thoughts on daily occupations and immediate interests, and it became her chief aim to so occupy herself with these interests that no time should be left for thoughts which now only tended to distress and discourage.
Mara was a girl who consciously would be controlled by a few simple motives rather than by impulses, circumstances or the influence of others. We have seen that loyalty, as she understood it, was her chief motive. Her love for parents she had never seen was profound, and all relating to them was sacred. To do what she believed would be pleasing to them, what would now reflect honor upon their memory, was her supreme duty. All other motives would be dominated by this pre-eminent one and all action guided by it. She felt that the effort to provide for her aunt, the one remaining member of her family, and to enable her to spend her remaining days in the congenial atmosphere of the past, would certainly be in accord with her parents' wishes. Then by natural sequence her sympathies went out to those whose fortunes, like her own, had been wrecked by the changes against which they could interpose only a helpless protest. In various ways she learned of those of her own class who had been disabled and impoverished, whose lives were stripped of the embroidery of pleasant little gratifications only permitted by a surplus of income. It gradually came to be a cherished solace after the labors of the morning, to carry to the sick and afflicted, dwelling in homes of faded gentility like her own, some delicacy made by her own hands. While these were received in the spirit in which they were brought, the girl's lovely, sympathetic face was far more welcome, and the orphan began to embody to those of the old regime the cause for which they all had suffered so much. Within this limited circle Mara was kindness and gentleness itself, beyond it cold and unapproachable. Occasionally some, with whom she had no sympathy, sought to patronize her. They intimated that they were willing to buy lavishily, but it was also evident that they wished their good-will appreciated and reciprocated in ways that excited the girl's scorn. In spite of her poverty and homely work, it was known that she was a favorite in the most aristocratic circle in the city, and there are always those ready to seek social recognition in many and devious ways. These pushing people represented to Mara the Northern element and leaven in the city, and she soon made it clear that there was an invisible line beyond which they could not pass. Their orders were either declined or scrupulously filled, if her time permitted, but with a quiet tact which was inflexible she warded off every approach which was not purely commercial.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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10
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MISS AINSLEY
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While in New York, Owen Clancy had been kept informed of the drift of those events in which he was especially interested. While Mara's effort had increased his admiration for her, its success had still further discouraged his hope. In his way he was as proud as she was. He had committed himself to a totally different line of action, for in his business relations he had been led into friendly relations with many Northern people in both cities. He had accepted and returned their hospitalities in kind as far as it was possible for a young bachelor of modest means. This courtesy had been expected and accepted as a matter of course, and to exchange it for cold, freezing politeness limited only to matters of trade, would not only subject him to ridicule but cut short his business career. Considerations supreme in Mara's circle were ignored by the great world, and, having once felt the impulses of the large currents of life, it would be impossible for Clancy to withdraw into the little side eddy wherein thought was ever turning back to no purpose. Having clasped hands and broken bread with the men and women of the North, he felt that he could not, and would not stultify himself, even for the sake of his love, by any change toward them. They would despise him not only as a miracle of narrowness but also as an insincere man, whose courtesy had been but business policy, easily dropped at the bidding of some more pressing interest.
His last interview with Mara had depressed him exceedingly, for while it had increased his love it had also revealed to him the radical divergence in their views and made it more clear that he could only hope to win her love by the sacrifice of self-respect. He must cease to be a thinking, independent man, a part of his own day and generation, and fix his thoughts upon the dead issues of the past. "The idea," he would mutter, "of sitting down and listening to Mrs. Hunter's inane and endless lament." He could not conform to Mara's views without being guilty of hypocrisy also, and she proved her narrowness by not recognizing this truth.
After all, the point of view was chiefly the cause of the trouble between them. She had ever dwelt in the shaded valley; he had been on the mountain-top, and so had secured a broad range of vision. He had come into contact with the great forces which were making the future and the men of the future, and he recognized that his own State and his own people must be vitalized by these forces or else be left far behind. And he represented a large and increasing class in his native city. In birth and breeding he was the peer of Mara or any of her aristocratic circle. He had admission to the best society in the State, and, if looked upon coldly by some, it was for the same reasons which actuated the girl for whom he would gladly yield everything except his principles and right of private judgment.
While he had many warm, sympathetic friends he felt that the old should give way to the new, he yet ran against the prejudices which Mara embodied so often that he began to feel ill at ease in Charleston.
He thought of removing permanently to cosmopolitan New York more than once during his absence North. If he should be fully convinced after his return that Mara was lost to him, unless he became a part of her implacable and reactionary coterie, it might be better for his peace of mind that he were far away.
One evening, before his departure home, he was invited to dine with a gentleman who had large railroad interests in the South. Mr. Ainsley was a widower, a man of wealth, and absorbed in the pleasure of its increase. He had made a business acquaintance with Clancy, and, finding him unusually intelligent and well informed in regard to Southern matters, naturally wished to converse more at length with him. The cordial invitation, the hearty welcome of the Northern capitalist could scarcely fail in gratifying the young Southerner, who keenly felt the importance of interesting just such men as his host in the enterprises under consideration. During the preliminary talk in the library of his palatial home, Mr. Ainsley soon discovered that his guest was not only well informed but frank and honest in statements, giving the cons as well as the pros, in spite of an evident desire to secure for the South all the advantages possible.
Before going to the dining-room, Miss Caroline, his host's only daughter, entered the library and was presented. Clancy was fairly dazzled by her remarkable beauty. She was a blonde of the unusual type characterized by dark eyes and golden hair. Naturally, therefore, the first impression of beauty was vivid, nor was it banished by closer observation. As she presided with ease and grace at her father's table, Clancy found himself fascinated as he had never been before by a stranger.
Although their table-talk lost its distinctively business and statistical character, Mr. Ainsley still pursued his inquiries in a broad, general way, and the daughter also asked questions in regard to life and society at the South which indicated a personal interest on her part.
At last she said, "Papa thinks it quite possible that we may spend some time in your region, and in that case we should probably make Charleston our headquarters. I have a friend, Mrs. Willoughby--do you know her?"
"Yes, indeed; a charming lady. She resides on the Battery."
"I'm glad you know her. I met her abroad, and we became very fond of each other. She has often asked me to visit her, but as I rarely leave Papa, the way has never opened."
"My daughter is very good in accompanying me in my various business expeditions," her father explained, "and you know they do not often lead to fashionable watering-places, nor can they always be adjusted to such seasons as I could desire. I wish I could go to Charleston at an early date, but in view of other interests, I cannot tell when I can get away."
"When I do come, I shall make the most of my name and insist on being regarded as a Carolinian," said Miss Ainsley, laughing.
Clancy was pleased with the conceit and the delicate compliment implied, but he was already impressed with the idea that his hostess was the most cosmopolitan girl that he had ever met. She piqued his curiosity, and he led her to talk of her experiences abroad. Apparently she had been as much at home in Europe as in America, and had been received in the highest social circles everywhere. When after dinner she played for him some brilliant, difficult classical music, he began to regard her a perfect flower of metropolitan culture. Yet she perplexed him. She revealed so much about herself without the slightest hesitation, yet at the same time seemed to veil herself completely. He and her father could broach no topic of conversation in which she could not take an intelligent part. Matters of European policy were touched upon, and she was at home in regard to them. She smiled broadly when he tried to explain to her father that patience would still be required with the South, but that in time the two parts of the country would be more firmly welded together than ever. "Such antipathies amuse me," she said. "It is one side keeping up a quarrel which the other has forgotten all about."
"The circumstances are different, Miss Ainsley," Clancy replied. "The war cost me my father, my property, and impoverished my State."
He could not tell whether her eyes expressed sympathy or not, for they had beamed on him with a soft alluring fire from the first, but her father spoke up warmly: "The North has not forgotten, especially the older generation. We have not suffered materially and have become absorbed in new interests, but the heart of the North was wounded as truly as that of the South. I wish to assure you, Mr. Clancy, how deeply I sympathize with and honor your spirit of conciliation. What is there for us all but to be Americans? Believe me, sir, such men as yourself are the strength and hope of your section."
"I believe with you, Mr. Ainsley, that it has been settled that we are to have but one destiny as a nation, but in justice to my people I must say that our wounds were so deep and the changes involved so vast that it is but reasonable we should recover slowly. You may say that we committed errors during the reconstruction period, yet they were errors natural to a conquered people. In the censure we have received from many quarters we have been almost denied the right to our common human nature. Possibly the North, in our position would not have acted very differently. But the past _is_ past, and the question is now, what is right and wise? I know that I represent a strong and growing sentiment which desires the unity and prosperity of the entire country. I in turn, sir, can say that men like yourself, in coming among us and investing their money do more than all politicians in increasing this sentiment. It proves that you trust us; and trust begets trust and good feeling. The North, however, will always be mistaken if it expects us to denounce our fathers or cease to honor the men who fought and prayed for what they believed was right."
"Suppose, Mr. Clancy," Miss Ainsley asked, with mirthful eyes, "that a party in the South had the power to array your section against the North again, would you go with your section?"
"Oh, come, Carrie, it is scarcely fair to ask tests on utterly improbable suppositions," said her father laughing, yet he awaited Clancy's answer with interest.
"No," he said quietly, "not with the light I now possess. I would have done so five years ago. Are Northern young men so intrinsically wise and good that they are not influenced by their traditions and immediate associations?"
"Mr. Clancy, where are your eyes? Go to the Delmonico cafe at noon to-morrow, and observe the flower of our patrician youth taking their breakfast. You will see beings who are intrinsically what they are."
"I fear we are rather even in this respect," said Clancy, laughing. "You have your metropolitan dudes and manikins, and we our rural ruffians, slaves of prejudice, who hate progress, schools and immigration, as they do soap and water. There is some consideration for our fellows, however, for they scarcely know any better, and many of their characteristics are bred in the bone. It would almost seem that the class you refer to are fools and nonentities from choice."
"I fear not," she said, lifting her eyebrows, "if I were a medical student I should be tempted to kill one of them--it wouldn't be murder--to see if he had a brain."
"You think brain, then, is absolutely essential?'
"Yes, indeed. I could endure a man without a heart, but not if he were a fool. If a man is not capable of thinking himself into what is sensible he is a poor creature."
Clancy shrugged his shoulders in slight protest and soon after took his leave, having first acquiesced in an appointment with Mr. Ainsley at his office in the morning.
On the way to his hotel and until late into the night, he thought over his experiences of the evening. Did Miss Ainsley intend to compliment him by suggesting that he was thinking himself into what was sensible? It was difficult to tell what she intended as far as he was concerned. "She could only have the most transient interest in such a stranger as I am," he reasoned, "yet her eyes were like magnets. They both fascinate and awaken misgivings. Perhaps they are the means by which she discovers whether a man is a fool or not; if he speedily loses his head under their spells, she mentally concludes, weighs and finds wanting. Probably, however, like hosts of pretty women, she simply enjoys using her powers and seeing men succumb; and men not forearmed and steeled as I am, might well hesitate to see her often, for my impression is right strong that she has more brain than heart. Yet she is a dazzling creature. Jove, what a contrast to Mara! Yet there is a nobility and womanly sincerity in Mara's expression than I cannot discover in Miss Ainsley's face. However wrong Mara may be, you are sure she is sincere and that she would be true to her conscience even if she put the whole North to the sword; but this brilliant girl--how much conscience and heart has she? Back of all her culture and accomplishments there is a woman; yet what kind of a woman? Well, the prospects are that I may have a chance to find out when she comes South. One thing is certain, she will not discover that I am a fool by speedily kindling a vain sentiment. Yet I would like to find her out, to discover the moral texture of her being. A girl like Miss Ainsley could more than fulfil a man's ideal or else make his life a terror."
He called again just before his departure, and saw her alone. As at first, she appeared to veil the woman in her nature completely, while, at the same time, the mild lightning of her eyes played about him.
Although consciously on his guard he found himself fascinated in spite of himself by her marvellous beauty, and his curiosity piqued more than ever. He discovered that her range of reading was wide, especially in modern European literature, and he was charmed by her broad, liberal views. Perhaps it was because he was singularly free from egotism that he was so conscious of her fine reticence which took the mask of apparent frankness. Most men would have been flattered by her seeming interest in them and willingness to listen to all they had to say about themselves. According to Clancy's opinion, conversation should be an equal interchange. He looked direct into Miss Ainsley's eyes. They bewildered and perplexed him, for they appeared to gather the rays of some light he did not understand and focus them upon himself. He wished he could see her in the society of other men and could learn more of her antecedents so that he might better account for her, but he went away feeling that she was more of an enigma than ever.
The glamour of her perplexing personality was upon him during much of his journey, but as he approached his native city thoughts of Mara predominated. Was she utterly estranged, and was the secret of her coldness due to the truth that he had never had any real hold upon her heart? If Mrs. Hunter had not so harshly interposed at the critical moment of their last interview, he believed that he would have discovered why it was she said he was "breaking her heart." Was it because he charged her with disloyalty to her kindred? Or had his own course which she felt was separating them some part in her distress? The fact that she had been silent to his last appeal, that she had proved his fears in regard to her poverty to be true, yet had sought aid from such an unexpected source, rather than permit him to endow her with his love and all that it involved, forced him to the miserable conclusion that she had at least decided against him.
But hope dies hard in a lover's breast. He longed to see her again, yet how could he see her except in the presence of others?
He knew they soon would meet; he was determined that they should; and possibly something in her involuntary manner or expression might suggest that she had thought of his words in his absence.
She had thought of his words as we know, but she had also been given other food for reflection which the following chapter will reveal.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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11
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TWO QUESTIONS
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In the division of labor between Mara and her aunt, the latter, with the assistance of their landlady's daughter, tried to leave the young girl few tasks beyond that of filling Aun' Sheba's basket.
Mrs. Hunter was also expected to be ready to receive callers, and excuse Mara during the morning hours. Under the new order of things, more people dropped in than in former times, for, as we have seen, it had become a kindly fashion to show good-will. The caller on a certain morning in April was not wholly actuated by sympathy, for she had news which she believed would be interesting if not altogether agreeable. Clancy's attentions had not been unknown, and he had at first suffered in the estimation of others as well as of Aun' Sheba, because of his apparent neglect. The impression, however, had been growing, that Mara had withdrawn her favor on account of his friendly relations with Northern people and his readiness to bury the past. The morning visitor had not only learned of a new proof of his objectionable tendencies, but also--so do stories grow as they travel--that he was paying attention to a New York belle and heiress. Mrs. Hunter was soon possessed of these momentous rumors, and when, at last, weary from her morning labors, Mara sat down to their simple dinner, she saw that her aunt was preternaturally solemn and dignified. The girl expressed no curiosity, for she knew that whatever burdened her aunt's mind would soon be revealed with endless detail and comment.
"Well," ejaculated Mrs. Hunter at last, "my impressions concerning people are usually correct, and it is well for you that they are. If it had not been for me you might have become entangled in association with a man false and disloyal in all respects. I say entangled in association, resulting from a moment of weakness, for assuredly the instant you gained self-possession and had time for thought, you would have repudiated everything. I saved you from the embarrassment of all this, and now you can realize how important was the service I rendered. I have heard of the performances of Mr. Clancy at the North."
The hot flush on Mara's cheeks followed by pallor proved that her indifference had been thoroughly banished, but she only looked at her aunt like one ready for a blow.
"Yes," resumed Mrs. Hunter, "the story has come very straight--straight from that young Mrs. Willoughby, who, with her husband, seems as ready to forget and condone all that the South has suffered as your devoted admirer himself. Devoted indeed! He is now paying his devotions at another shrine. A Northern girl with her Northern gold is the next and natural step in his career, and he said to her pointblank that if the South again sought to regain her liberty, he would not help. He wasn't a Samson, but he was not long in being shorn by a Northern Delilah of what little strength he had."
"How do you know that this is true?" asked Mara rigid, with suppressed feeling.
"Oh, Mrs. Willoughby must talk if the heavens fell. It seems that she met this Northern girl abroad, and that they have become great friends. She has received a letter, and it is quite probable that this girl will come here. It would be just like her to follow up her new admirer. Mrs. Willoughby is so hot in her advocacy of what she terms the 'New South,' that she must speak of everything which seems to favor her pestilential ideas. By birth she belongs to the Old South and the only true South, and she tries to keep in with it, but she is getting the cold shoulder from more than one."
Mara said nothing, but her brow contracted.
"You take it very quietly," remarked her aunt severely.
"Yes," said Mara.
"Well, if I were in your place I would be on fire with indignation."
"Perhaps I would be if I did not care very much," was the girl's constrained answer.
"I do not see how you can care except as I do."
"You are you, aunty, and I am myself. People are not all made exactly alike."
"But a girl should have some self-respect."
"Yes, aunty, and she should be respected. I am one to show my self-respect by deeds, not words. You must not lecture me any more now as if I were a child," and she rose and left her almost untasted dinner.
A little thought soon satisfied Mrs. Hunter that the iron had entered deep into the soul of her niece, and that her deeds would be satisfactory. She therefore finished her dinner complacently.
Mara felt that she had obtained a test which might justly compel the giving up of her dream of love forever. She was endowed with a simplicity and sincerity of mind which prompted to definite actions and conclusions, rather than to the tumultuous emotions of anger, jealousy and doubt. She would not doubt; she would know. Either Clancy had been misrepresented or he had not been, and he had seemed so true and frank in his words to her that she would not condemn him on the story of a gossip. From her point of view she concluded that if he had gone so far as to say to a Northern girl that he would not join the South in an effort to achieve independence, supposing such an attempt to be made, then he had passed beyond the pale of even her secret sympathy and regard, no matter what the girl might become to him. She scarcely even hoped that there would ever be a chance for him to make such a choice of sides as his reputed words indicated, but he could contemplate the possibility, and if he could even think, in such an imagined exigency, of remaining aloof from the cause for which his and her own father had died, then he would be dismissed from her thoughts as utterly unworthy.
So she believed during the unhappy hours of the afternoon which were robbed of all power to bring rest. She determined, if it were possible, to hear the truth from his own lips. She would subdue her heart by giving it proof positive that he had either drifted or had been lured far away. If this were true--and she would not be influenced by her aunt's bitter prejudice--then it was all over between them. If once so completely convinced that he did not love her sufficiently to give up his Northern affiliations for her sake, her very pride would cast out her own stubborn love.
The opportunity to accomplish all she desired soon occurred, for later she met him at a house where a few guests had been invited to spend the evening. Social life had ceased to divide sharply upon the opinions held by different persons, and the question as to what guests should be brought together had been decided by the hostess chiefly on the ground of birth and former associations. On this occasion when Clancy's eyes met those of Mara, he bowed, and was about to cross the room in the hope of receiving something like a welcome after his absence, but he was repelled at once and chilled by her cold, slight bow, and her prompt return of attention to the gentleman with whom she was conversing.
Clancy was so hurt and perturbed that he was capable of but indifferent success in his efforts to maintain conversation with others. When supper was served he strayed into the deserted library and made a pretence of looking at some engravings. A dear and familiar voice brought a sudden flush to his face, but the words, "Mr. Clancy, I wish to speak with you," were spoken so coldly that he only turned and bowed deferentially and then offered Mara a chair.
She paid no attention to this act, and hesitated a moment in visible embarrassment before proceeding.
"Miss Wallingford," he began eagerly, "I have longed and hoped--" She checked him by a gesture as she said, "Perhaps I would better speak first. I have a question to ask. You need not answer it of course if you do not wish to. I am not conventional in seeking this brief interview. Indeed," she added a little bitterly, "my life has ceased to be conventional in any sense, and I have chosen to conform to a few simple verities and necessities. As you once said to me, you and I have been friends, and, if I can trust your words, you have meant kindly by me--" "Miss Wallingford, can you doubt my words," he began in low, passionate utterance, "can you doubt what I mean and have meant? You know I--" Her brow had darkened with anger, and she interrupted him, saying, "You surely cannot think I have sought this interview in the expectation of listening to such words and tones. I have come because I wish to be just, because I will not think ill of you unless I must, because I wish you to know where I stand immovably. If my friendship is worth anything you will seek it by deeds, not words. I now only wish to ask if you said in effect, while North, that if the South should again engage in a struggle for freedom you would not help?"
Clancy was astounded, and exclaimed, "Miss Wallingford, can you even contemplate such a thing?"
Her face softened as she said, "I knew that you could never have said anything of the kind."
How tremendous was the temptation of that moment! He saw the whole truth instantaneously, that she was lost to him unless he came unreservedly to her position. In that brief moment her face had become an exquisite transparency illumined with an assurance of hope. He had an instinctive conviction that even if he admitted that he had spoken the words, yet would add, "Mara, I am won at last to accept your view of right and duty," all obstacles between them would speedily melt away.
The temptation grappled his heart with all the power of human love, and there was an instant of hesitation that was human also, and then conscience and manhood asserted themselves. With the dignity of conscious victory he said gravely, "Miss Wallingford, I have ever treated your convictions with respect even when I differed with you most. I have an equal right to my own convictions. I should be but the shadow of a man if I had no beliefs of my own. You misunderstand me. My first thought as you spoke was surprise that you could even contemplate such a thing as a renewed struggle between the North and the South."
"Certainly I could contemplate it, sir, though I can scarcely hope for it."
"I trust not; and even at the loss of what I value far more than you can ever know, I will not be false to myself nor to you. I did speak such words, and I must confirm them now." She bowed frigidly and was turning away when he said, "I, too, perhaps have the right to ask a question."
She paused with averted face. "Can you not at least respect a man who is as sincere as you are?"
Again the vigilant Mrs. Hunter, uneasy that Mara and Clancy were not within the range of her vision, appeared upon the scene. She glared a moment at the young man, and Mara left the room without answering him.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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12
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A "'FABULATION"
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It had been Mara's belief, indeed almost her hope, that if truth compelled Clancy to admit that he had spoken the obnoxious words he would become to her as a "heathen man and a publican." No matter how much she might suffer, she had felt that such proof of utter lack of sympathy with her and all the motives which should control him, would simplify her course and render it much easier, for she had thought that her whole nature would rise in arms against him. It would end all compunction, quench hope and even deal a fatal blow to love itself. She would not only see it her duty to banish him from her thoughts, but had scarcely thought it possible that he could continue to dwell in them.
The result had not justified her expectations, and she was baffled, exasperated and torn by conflicting feelings. Although he had admitted the words and confirmed them to her very face, he had not allowed himself to be put in a position which enabled her to turn coldly and contemptuously away. Brief as had been the interview, he had made it impossible for her to doubt two things; first, that the Northern girl was nothing to him and that he had not spoken the words to win her favor, for he had come back to herself with the same love in his eyes and the same readiness to give it expression despite her coldness and even harshness. No matter how bitterly she condemned herself, this truth thrilled and warmed her very soul. In the second place, however mistaken he might be, he had compelled her to believe him to be sincere, so loyal, indeed, to his own sense of right that not even for her sake would he yield. She could not doubt this as the eagerness of the lover passed into the grave dignity and firmness of a self-respecting man. Moreover, another truth had been thrust upon her consciousness--that she was more woman than partisan. As he had stood before her, revealing his love and constancy and at the same time asserting his right to think and act in accordance with his own convictions, he had appeared noble, handsome, manly; her heart acknowledged him master, and however vigilantly she might conceal the fact, she could not deny it to herself.
Nevertheless, his course had simplified her action; it had decided her that all was over between them. The case was hopeless now; for neither could yield without becoming untrue to themselves, and there could be no happy union in such radical diversity. The less often they met the better, as he only made her course the harder to maintain and the separation more painful than it had been before.
She might hide her unhappiness, but she could not banish the resulting despondency and flagging strength. Her aunt had half forced an explanation of the reason why she was alone with Clancy, and, in hasty self-defence, she admitted a resolve to know with certainty whether he had spoken the words charged against him. When Mrs. Hunter learned that he had acknowledged the truth of the story, she spoke of him with redoubled bitterness, making it hard indeed for Mara to listen, for her heart took his side almost passionately. Unintentionally Mrs. Hunter proved herself the young man's best ally, yet Mara outwardly was compelled to acquiesce, for she herself had proved the enormity which was to end everything. Consistency, however, was torn to tatters one day, and she said in sudden passion, "Aunty, never mention Mr. Clancy's name again. I demand this as my right."
When Mara spoke in this manner Mrs. Hunter yielded. Indeed she was not a little perplexed over the girl who had been so passive and subservient. She was not a profound reasoner upon any subject, nor could she understand how one step, even though Mara had been driven to it by hard necessity, led to many others. The girl had begun to assert her individual life, and her nature, once awakened, was proving a strong one. Deepening and widening experience perplexed and troubled her unguided mind, and prepared the way for doubtful experiments.
As before, Aun' Sheba was quick to discover that all was not well with Mara, but believed that she, like herself, was working beyond her strength. The old woman had a bad cold and was feeling "rudder po'ly" one evening when her minister came to pay a pastoral visit.
On so momentous an occasion as this, her son-in-law Kern Watson and his wife and children were summoned; a few neighbors also dropped in as they often did, for Aun' Sheba was better in their estimation than any newspaper in town. Since the necessity for much baking had been removed, she had hired out her stove in order to make more room and to enjoy the genial fire of the hearth. So far from being embarrassed because her head was tied up in red flannel, she had the complacent consciousness that she was the social centre of the group, an object of sympathy and the respected patron of all present.
The Reverend Mr. Birdsall, the minister, treated Aun' Sheba with much consideration; he justly regarded her as one of the "pillars of the church," knowing well from long experience that she abounded in liberality if not in long prayers and contentions. He was a plain, sincere, positive man who preached what he believed to be the truth. If he was sometimes beyond it, beneath it or away from it altogether, he was as serenely unconscious of the fact as were his hearers. There was no agnosticism in his congregation, for he laid down the law and the gospel in a way that discouraged theological speculation. Nevertheless, among his followers there were controversial spirits who never doubted that they were right, however much they might question his ecclesiastical methods and views. To many, freedom meant the right to have their say, and, as is often true, those having the least weighty matter on their minds were the most ready to volunteer opinions and advice. Aun' Sheba was a doer, not a talker, in her church relations. If she occasionally dozed a little in her pew during the sermon, she was always wide awake when the plate was passed around; and if a "brother" or a "sister" were sick she found time for a visit, nor did she go empty-handed. If it were a case of back-sliding she had a homely way of talking sense to the delinquent that savored a little of worldly wisdom. There were not a few who shared in her doubt whether she was "'ligious" or not, but the Reverend Mr. Birdsall was not of these. He would only have been too glad to have discovered more religion like hers.
"Mis' Buggone," he said, sympathetically, after Aun' Sheba had given her symptoms with much detail, "in you is a case whar de spirit is willin' but de flesh is weak. You'se been a-goin' beyon' you strengt."
"Yes, Elder, dat is de gist ob de whole business," affirmed Kern Watson. "Moder's tromped de streets wid her big basket till she is dun beat out. She's undertook mo'n her share an' is s'portin' too many people."
"Kern, you means well," said Aun' Sheba with dignity, "but you mus' not 'fleet on young Missy. She am de las' one in de worl' to let a body s'port her while she fol' her han's. She's po'ly too, jes' kase she's a workin' harde'n me."
Uncle Sheba hitched uneasily in his chair, feeling that the conversation rather reflected on him, and he was conscious that old Tobe, keeper of the "rasteran," was glaring at him. "I reckin," he said, "dat de min'ster might offer a word ob prar an' comfort fore he go."
"What pressin' business," asked his wife, severely, "hab you got, Unc., dat you in sech a hurry fer de min'ster ter go? We ain't into de shank ob de ebenin' yet, an' dar's no 'casion to talk 'bout folks goin'."
"I dun said nothin' 'bout folks goin'," complained Uncle Sheba in an aggrieved tone, "I was ony a suggestin' wot 'ud be 'propriate ter de 'casion _fore_ dey go."
"Mr. Buggone is right, and prar is always 'propriate," said Mr. Birdsall in order to preserve the serenity of the occasion. "Before this little company breaks up we will sing a hymn and hab a word ob prar. But we mus' use de right means in dis worl' an' conform ter de inexorable law ob de universe. Here's de law and dar's de gospel, and dey both have dar place. If a brick blow off a chimley it alus falls ter de groun'. Dat's one kin' ob law. Water runs down hill, dat's much de same kin' ob law. If a man hangs roun' a saloon an' wastes his time an' money, he's boun' to git seedy an' ragged an' a bad name, an' his fam'ly gets po' an' mis'ble; dat's another kin' ob law--no 'scapin' it. He's jest as sure ter run down hill as de water. Den if we git a cut or a burn or a bruise we hab pain; dat's anuder kin' ob law, an' we all know it's true. But dar's a heap ob good people, Mis' Buggone, who think dey can run dis po' machine ob a body in a way dat would wear out wrought-iron, and den pray de good Lawd ter keep it strong and iled and right up to the top-notch ob po'r. Now dat's against both law and gospel, for eben He who took de big contrac' ter save the worl' said ter his disciples, 'come ye yourselves apart and rest a while.' I reckon dat's de law and de gospel for you, Mis' Buggone, about dis time." Nods of approval were general, and Kern Watson gave the sense of the meeting in his hearty way. " 'Deed it am, Elder," he said. "You'se hit de nail squar on de head. Own up, now, moder, dat you'se neber been preached at mo' convincin'. Hi! wot a book dat Bible am! It's got a word in season fer ebry 'casion."
"Well," said Aun' Sheba, meditatively, "I wants ter be open ter de truf, an' I does own up, Kern, dat de Elder puts it monstis peart an' bery conwincin'. But," she continued argumentatively, laying the forefinger of her left hand on the broad palm of her right, "dars gen'ly two sides to a question. Dat's whar folks git trip up so of'n--dey sees ony one side. I've 'served dat it's po'ful easy fer folks ter tell oder folks wat ter do and wat not ter do. No 'fence, Elder. You been doin' you duty, but you'se been layin' down rudder 'stended princ'ples. I know you'se got ter preach broad an' ter lay down de truf fer de hull winyard, but I wants ter know wat ter do wid my own little patch ob ground. Now here's me and dar's my young Missy 'pendin' on me."
"Dat's whar I jes' doesn't 'gree wid Aun' Sheba," put in her husband as she paused a moment for breath. He felt that public opinion was veering over to his side and might be employed to enforce his views. "It is all bery well fer one ter do all dey can 'sistently fer oders, but--" "Mr. Buggone," remarked Aun' Sheba sternly.
Uncle Sheba subsided, and she went on, "Dere's my young Missy dat's pendin' on me, but she ain't pendin' in de sense ob hangin' on me," and she paused and looked impressively at Unc. "She's usin' her two little han's jest as hard as she know how, an' a heap too hard. Wat's mo' she's usin' dem to good puppus. I jes' declar' to you, Elder an' frens, dat since she took hole, de business am rollm' up an' it gettin' too big fer both ob us. Dat's whar de shoe pinches. I ain't loss notin'. I'se made a heap mo' by doin' fer young Missy. In dis 'fabulation, I doesn't want no 'flections on her, kase dey wouldn't be fair. Now, Kern, you'se right smart. You'se had my 'proval eber sence you took a shine ter Sissy. Ud you belebe it, Elder and frens, dat son-in-law ob mine offered ter s'port me an' me do nuffin but jes' help Sissy and look arter de chil'n. But dat ain't my way. I likes ter put my own money in my own pocket an' I likes ter take it out agin, an' it jes' warm my heart like a hick'y fiah ter help dat honey lam' ob mine dat I nussed. So you see, Elder, dat gen'l preachin' am like meal. Folks has got ter take it an' make out ob it a little hoe-cake fer dere selves. It's de same ole meal, but we's got ter hab it in a shape dat 'plies ter our own inards, sperital and bodily."
Again there were nods of assent and sounds of approval which old Tobe put into words. "Aun' Sheba," he said, "you puts you'se 'pinions monst'us peart, too. I'se an ole man an' has had my shar ob 'sperence, an' I'se alus 'served dat de hitch come in at de 'plyin' part. Dere's a sight ob preachin' dat soun' as true an' straight as dat de sun an' rain make de cotton grow, but when you git down to de berry indewidooel cotton plant dere's ofen de debil to pay in one shape or oder. Dere's a wum at de root or a wum in de leaves, or dey's too much rain or too much sun, or de sile's like a beef bone dat's been biled fer soup mo' dan's reasonable. Now Aun' Sheba's de indewidooel cotton-plant we's a-'siderin', an' I doan see how she's gwine to res' a while any mo'n I kin. Ef I shet up my rasteran de business gwine ter drap off ter some oder rasteran."
"But, bruder Tobe, isn't it better, even as you put it," protested the minister, "dat Mis Buggone's business should drop off an' yours too, dan dat you should drop off youselves? Howsumever, I see de force ob what you both say, and we mus' try ter hit upon a golden mean. I reckon dar's a way by which you can both keep your business and yet keep youselves from goin' beyon' your 'bility. You are both useful citizens and supporters ob de gospel, and I'm concerned fer your welfare, bodily as well as sperital."
"Aun' Sheba," said her daughter, "you'se my moder an' I ought ter be de fust one ter help ease you up. I just dun declar dat you'se got ter take Vilet ter help you up. I kin spar her, an' I will spar her. She's strong an' gwine on twelve, an' de babies is gitten so dat dey ain't aroun' under my feet all de time. Vilet's spry an' kin run here an' dar an' fill de orders. She'd ease you up right smart."
"Now, Sissy," said her husband, who always called her by the old household name, "dat's bery sens'ble and childlike in you to put yousef out fer you'se muder. I'd been tinkin' 'bout Vilet, but I didn't like de suggestin ob her leabin' you to do so much, ob de work. But go ahead, Sissy; go ahead, Vilet, an' you'll fin' me easy goin' at meal times."
"Come here, Vilet," said the minister.
The girl had been sitting on the floor at Aun' Sheba's feet, listening quietly and intelligently to all that had been said. She was tall for her age, and had the quiet steadfastness of gaze that was characteristic of her father. He was exceedingly fond and proud of her, for, with very little schooling, she had learned to read and write. Even as a child she had much of his patience and unselfishness, thus making herself very useful at home. She looked unshrinkingly at the minister, but trembled slightly, for she felt all eyes were upon her.
"Vilet," began Mr. Birdsall, "you are said to be a good chile, an' I like the sens'ble, quiet way in which you stan' up an' look me in de face. I reckon dar ain't much foolishness in you. Your fader and moder hab shown de right spirit, de self-denying spirit dat de Lawd will bless. Can you say the fifth commandment, chile?" Vilet repeated it promptly.
"Dat's right. Now your fader an' moder are honahing dar moder, an' you are goin' to hab a chance ter honah dem an' your granma, too. You will hab temptations in de streets ter be pert an' idle, ter stop an' talk to dis one and ter answer back to dat one in a way you shouldn't. But if you go along quiet an' steady, an' do what you're tole, an' be car'ful 'bout de money an' de messages an' de orders an' so forth, you will reflect honah on us all an' 'specially on all your folks. You understan', Vilet?"
"Yes, sir."
The minister put his hand on her head, and said solemnly, "You have my blessin', Vilet."
She ducked a little courtesy, and again squatted at the feet of Aun' Sheba, who, much affected, was wiping her eyes with her apron, while Sissy's emotion was audible.
"Now, frens," resumed Mr. Birdsall, "this 'mergency of Mis Buggone's health has been met in de right human and Scriptural spirit. Frens and fam'ly hab gathered 'roun' de 'flicted one, an' hab paid dar respect ter her usefulness an' value, an' hab shown her becomin' sympathy. Her own fam'ly, as is also becomin', hab been first ter ease her up accordin', first, to the law of primigeneshureship. I know dat dis is a long word, but long words of'en mean a heap, an' dat's why dey are so long. Dat good little girl, Vilet, is de oldes' granchile, an' she fulfils a great law in helpin' her granma. Den it's accordin' to the gospel, for a loving an' self-denyin' spirit has been shown. Mr. Watson has obeyed de great law of matrimony. He has married _into_ dis fam'ly, an' he pulls with it an' for it instead ob against it as we see too of'en. De Lawd's blessin' will rest on dis fam'ly."
"I feels greatly comforted," said Aun' Sheba. "Dis has been a bressed season an' a out-pourin'. I mos' feels 'ligious dis ebenin'. De chilen an' dis deah chile" (patting Vi'let's head) "warm me up betteh'n flannel an' de fiah. Elder, you'se a good shep'd ob de flock. You'se a lookin' arter body an' soul. You'se got de eddication to talk big words to us, an', now we'se free, we hab a right to big words, no mattah how much dey mean. It's po'ful comfortin' ter know we'se doin' 'cordin' to de law an' de gospel." " 'Pears ter me," said old Tobe, "dat Uncle Sheba might hab a little law an' gospel 'plied ter him. He am one ob de fam'ly. I'se a heap ol'er dan he be, an' I'se up wid de sun an' I ony wish I could set when de sun sets. 'Pears like he orter tote some ob de tings ez well ez his slip ob a grandaughter," and old Tobe's wool seemed fairly to bristle with indignation and antipathy.
"I've no doubt," began Mr. Birdsall, "but Mr. Buggone'll emulate--" "Elder," interrupted Aunt Sheba, with portentous solemnity, "dere's bobscure 'flictions in dis worl' dat can't be 'splained, an' de 'flictions ofen begin wen we say 'for bettah or wusser.' You'se say youself in de pulpit dat de gret an' bressed sinner, Paul, had a thorn in de flesh an' he couldn't git rid ob it nohow, dat he jes' bar wid it an' go 'bout his business. Ole Tobe _am_ old, but he wasn't bawn tired. Dere's men dat's po'ful weak in de jints ob de body, yit dat doesn't hender dem from gittin' 'round, but wen de weak feelin' gits inter de jints ob de min' den dey's shuah to be kinder limpsy-slimpsy an' dey ain't no help fer it. Ez I sez afore, de 'fliction am bobscure. You see de feet an' you see de han's, an' you tink dat dey kin go an' do like oder han's an' feet, but dey doesn't an' dey can't. Dere ain't no backbone runnin' up troo de min' an' wen dere ain't no backbone in de min' de pusson jest flop down yere an' flop down dar whareber dere's a com'fo'ble place to flop. Dere's 'flictions dat we kin pray agin an' pray out'n ob, an' dere's oders we jes got ter bar, an' we gits so kinder used to'm at las dat we'd be mo' mis'ble ef dey wuz tooken away. We'se got to take de bittah wid de sweet, but, tank de Lawd! de sweet 'domernate in dis yere fam'ly. Now let's hab some praise an' prar. Vilet, honey, sing de hymn you'se moder lern you."
And in a somewhat shrill, yet penetrating, musical voice, the girl sang: "I'se a-journeyin', I'se a-journeyin', An' de way am bery long; De road ain't known, de way ain't shown, Yit I journeys wid a song.
CHORUS "De journey, de journey, howeber rough de road, It's a-leadin', it's a-leadin', to a hebinly abode.
"I'se a-travelin', I'se a-travelin', From de cradle to de grave, De road am rough and sho' anuff, De heart, hit mus' be brave.
"I'se a-wondrin', I'se a-wondrin', Wen de journey will be true; But I goes along wid sigh an' song An' a cheery word fer you."
Kern Watson and his wife were gifted with those rich, mellow, African voices made so familiar in plantation songs and hymns. In the case of "Sissy" there was a pathetic, contralto, minor quality in her tones, and the first time young Watson heard her sing a spell was thrown round his fancy which led to all the rest. The same might be said of her, for when her husband, then a stranger, poured forth, in one of their evening meetings, the great rich volume of his voice, she ceased to sing that she might listen with avidity. It was not long after that before Kern mustered courage to ask "Miss Buggone, mout I hab de pleasure ob 'companyin' you home?" Not many months elapsed before he accompanied her home to stay, with Aun' Sheba's full consent.
Other hymns followed in which Uncle Sheba took part with much unction, for he wished to impress all present that in spite of the "bobscure affliction" he "injied 'ligion" as much as any of them. Mr. Birdsall offered a characteristic prayer, and then Aun' Sheba nodded to Sissy, who brought out a large supply of cakes and apples. Some gossip among the women and political discussion among the men occurred while these were being disposed of, and then the little company broke up, leaving Aun' Sheba much improved in health and spirits.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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13
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CAPTAIN BODINE
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The next day was warm and sunny, and Aun' Sheba, rising much refreshed, felt herself equal to her duties in spite of her fears to the contrary. She took Vilet with her to a shop, and there purchased a much smaller basket, the weight of which when filled would not be burdensome to the girl. Thus equipped she appeared before Mara at the usual hour with her grandchild, and began complacently: "Now, honey lam', you'se gwine to hab two strings to you'se bow. I sometimes feel ole an' stiff in my jints an' my heft is kinder agin me in trompin'. Here's my granddaughter, an' she's spry as a cricket. She kin run yere an' dar wid de orders'n less dan no time, so you won't be kept kin' ob scruged back an' down kase I'se slow an' hebby. You see?"
"Yes, Aun' Sheba, and I am very glad to see. I have been worrying about you, for it has seemed to me that you were going beyond your strength, and yet I did not know of any one to help you or whether you wanted any one."
"Now, honey, you jes' took de words out'n my mouth 'bout you. You'se lookin' po'ly, an' I'se dreffle 'feared you'se gwine ter get beat ont. You want help mo'n me, an' I'se had it on my min' ter talk wid you."
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, I'm very well," protested Mara, yet glad to think that her paleness and languor were ascribed to fatigue.
"Now see yere, honey, I'se got my blin' side, I know, but it ain't toward you. I watch ober you too many yeahs not to know wen you po'ly. You'se gwine beyon' you strengt, too. Why can't you get some one ter he'p you an' den we go along swimmin'?"
"Well, I'll see. I reckon I'll be better soon, and I don't care to do more than can be done in a quiet way."
The new arrangement on Aun' Sheba's side of the "pana'ship" soon began to work well. Vilet proved quick and trustworthy, saving her grandmother many a weary step, and Mara was compelled to see that the mutual income might be greatly increased if she also had efficient help. She recognized the truth that she was becoming worn, and she also knew the cause to be that she worked without the spring of hopefulness or even the quietness of a heart at rest. She had almost decided to intrust Aun' Sheba with the task of finding a suitable helper, when she made two acquaintances who were destined to become intimately associated with her experiences.
One afternoon she felt so lonely, desolate and hopeless that she felt she must go out of herself. The future was taking on an aspect hard to face. Disposed to self-sacrifice, she was wretchedly conscious that there was nothing on which she could bestow a devotion which could sustain or inspire. There was no future to look forward to, no cause to be furthered, no goal to be reached by brave, patient effort. If she had lived at the time of the war she would have loved scarcely less than her mother, but her heart would have been almost equally divided between the cause and those who fought and suffered for it. If her lot had been cast in the North it would have been much the same. The same patriotic motives would have kindled her imagination and produced the most intense loyalty in thought and action. She was endowed with a spirit which, had she lived in the past, might easily have led her into an effort to restore some overthrown dynasty, and she would have so idealized even a very questionable conspiracy as to render it worthy, in her belief, of unstinted self-sacrifice. A girl of her character would have faced the wild beasts of the Roman amphitheatre for the sake of her faith, or she would have intrigued against the Spanish Inquisition although hourly conscious that she was exposing herself to its horrors. It was this very tendency to give herself up wholly to some object which she felt had a supreme claim upon her, that had enabled her to live so long upon the memories of the past. The lost cause, for which her father had died, had been as sacred to her as the old dream of freedom to a Pole, but Clancy's question in regard to the old phase of her life, "What good will it do?" combining with other circumstances, had awakened her to the futility of her course. Denied the hope of any future achievement, lacking a powerful motive to sacrifice herself and her love, her strong nature chafed and tended to despondency at the thought of a simple existence. It was not enough merely to earn a living and live. She craved an inspiring object, an antidote for her heartache, a consciousness that in giving up much she also accomplished much. Yet the future stretched away like an arid plain and she was depressed by the foreboding that every step carried her further from all that could give zest to life. She was, therefore, in a mood to accept anything which would relieve the dreary monotony.
On the afternoon in question she decided to call upon an old lady who had lost nearly all her kindred and property. "Surely," thought the girl, "she has nothing to look forward to in this world but a few more straitened years, then death. I wish I were as old as she."
Taking a little delicacy she started out to pay the visit, hoping to gain an insight into the philosophy of patient endurance. She veiled herself heavily, for she was ever haunted by the fear of meeting Clancy on the street, and that her tell-tale face might lead him to guess the cost of her effort to avoid him.
An old colored woman showed the way into the parlor while she went up to prepare her mistress for the call. Reading by the window was a middle-aged gentleman who bowed gravely and resumed his book.
He riveted Mara's attention instantly, for her first glance revealed that he had lost his right leg and that crutches leaned against the arm of his chair. He could not be other than a veteran of the Confederate army, as it would be strange indeed to find an ex-soldier of the North in that abode. His strong, finely-cut side face, distinctly outlined against the light, was toward her. It was marked by deep lines as if the man had suffered and had passed through memorable experiences. He wore no beard or whiskers, but an iron-gray mustache gave a distinguished cast to a visage whose habitual expression was rather cold and haughty.
Mara had time to note these characteristics before she was summoned to Mrs. Bodine's apartment. Although the day was mild, the old lady, wrapped in shawls, sat by an open fire, and her wrinkled face lighted up with pleasure as the girl came toward her. Indeed, there was something like excitement in her manner as she kissed her guest and said: "Bring your chair close, my dear, so I can see you and hold your hand. I've something to tell you which I reckon will interest you almost as much as it does me."
When Mara was seated in a low chair she resumed: "How much you would look like your father, child, if your eyes were bright and laughing instead of being so large and sad! Well, well, there has been enough to make all our eyes sad, and you, poor child, have had more than enough. Yet you are good and brave, my dear. So far from sitting down in helpless grieving, you are taking care of yourself and have time to think of an old woman like me. Poor Mrs. Hunter! what would she do without you? She, like so many of us, has been blighted and stranded, and she would have been worse off than I if it had not been for you, for I have a little left, but oh, it is so little. Never did I wish it were more so much as I do now. You must be patient with me, child. I sit here so much alone that it is a godsend to have some one to talk to, and you are the very one I wanted to see. I was going to send for you, for I knew you would like to see my guests. My cousin and his daughter are visiting me, and I wish they could stay with me always. I knew you would like to meet Captain Bodine--" "Captain Bodine!" exclaimed Mara, "why, that is the name of an officer who used to be in my father's regiment."
"He is the very same, my dear."
"Was that he in the parlor?" Mara asked, trembling with excitement.
"Yes, he and his daughter arrived only yesterday."
"Oh!" said Mara, "I've received letters from him, and I've longed to see him for years. Can I not go down and speak to him at once? I surely do not need any introduction to the old friend of my father."
"No, my dear, no indeed. You need no formal introduction to any guest or relative of mine. Besides, he knows you well and all about you, although he has never seen you since you were a child. It would please him greatly to have you go down and speak to him at once, for he would know that I would tell you about his being here, and he might think you cold or formal if you delayed seeing him. I'm glad you feel so, my dear, but you must come back and sit with me awhile before you go home. I'll ring for Hannah and have a nice little feast while you are downstairs."
Mara scrupulously veiled her impatience until her kind, garrulous friend was through, and then stole with swift, noiseless tread to the parlor below. Standing in the doorway, she saw that the object of her quest was absorbed in his book. "He is my ideal of the soldier of that day," she thought. "How truly he represents us, with his sad, proud face and mutilated body!" In a sort of awe she hesitated a moment and then said timidly, "Captain Bodine."
He looked up quickly, and seeing Mara's lustrous eyes and flushed face, divined instantly who she was.
"Is not this Miss Wallingford?" he asked, his face expressing glad anticipation as he began to gather up his crutches.
"Do not rise," cried Mara, coming forward instantly with outstretched hands.
But he was on his crutches, and said feelingly, "Heaven forbid that I should receive the daughter of my old friend with so little respect." He took the girl's face into his hands, and looked earnestly into her eyes. "Yes," he resumed gently, "you are Sidney Wallingford's child. God bless you, my dear," and he kissed her lightly on the forehead. "You won't mind this from an old comrade of your father," he said as he made her take his chair and sat down near her. "We have been bereft of so much that what remains has become very precious. I know all about you, Mara."
Tears were in the girl's eyes as she replied falteringly, "And I know of you, sir, and have longed to meet you. You can scarcely know how much your words mean to me when you say you were my father's comrade and friend. I knew this, but it seems more real to me now, and I feel that seeing you is coming as near as I can to seeing him."
"My poor child! Would to God that he had lived, for you would have been his pride and solace, as my daughter is to me. When I saw you last you were a little black-eyed girl and happily did not understand your loss, although you looked as if you did. I never thought so many years would pass before I saw you again, but we have had to fight some of our hardest battles since the war," and he sighed deeply.
"How soon can I meet your daughter?" Mara asked, her eyes full of sympathy.
"Very soon. I urged her to take a walk on the Battery, for she has not been very well of late. I said I knew all about you, as I have been told of your loyalty and brave efforts and your kindness to my aged cousin, but now that I see you, I feel that I know very little. Your face is full of stories, my dear child. You are young, and yet you look as if the memories of the past had made you far older than your years warrant That is the trouble with us. We have much more to look back upon than to look forward to. Yet it should not be so with you."
"It can scarcely be otherwise," Mara answered sadly; "you have touched the very core of our trouble, and I suppose it is the trouble with us all who are so closely linked with the past--we have so little to look forward to. But now that you can tell me about my father the past seems so near and real that I do not wish to think about anything else."
Time sped rapidly as Captain Bodine recalled the scenes and incidents of his life which were associated with his old commander, and Mara listened with an absorbed, tearful interest which touched him deeply. The proud, reserved expression of his face had passed away utterly, and the girl appreciated the change. His sympathy, the gentleness of his tones and the profound respect which was blended with his paternal manner made her feel that her father's friend was already her friend in a very near and sacred sense. While he was reserved about his own affairs, and she also was conscious of a secret of which she could never speak, they had so much in common that she felt that they could talk for hours. But the old lady in the apartment above grew impatient, and at last Hannah stood courtesying in the door as she said, "Missus p'sent her compl'ments an' say would be glad to see you."
"There, I've been selfish and thoughtless," said Captain Bodine, "but I shall see you again, for it will give Ella and me great pleasure to call upon you."
"Yes, indeed, we must meet often," Mara added earnestly. "I hope you are going to make a long stay in Charleston."
"I scarcely know," he replied, and again there was an involuntary sigh; "but I must keep you no longer."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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14
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"ALL GIRLS TOGETHER"
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"I'm not going to lose my visit altogether," said Mrs. Bodine, when Mara returned with an apology. "If the captain has only one leg, he can get out and around better than I can. Indeed it is wonderful how he does get around. He is the spryest man on crutches I ever saw, and you know, my dear, I've seen a good many. In that dreadful war we were only too glad to get our men back, what was left of them, and if an arm or a leg were missing we welcomed them all the more, but we couldn't give much more than a welcome. It was wreck and ruin on every side. If we had our own the captain would be well off, as you and I would be, but he is poor; poorer than most of us. In fact, he hasn't anything. He wasn't one of those supple jointed men who could conform to the times, and he wasn't brought up to make his living by thrifty ways. But he did his best, poor boy, he did his best. Would you like to hear more about him?"
"Yes, indeed," Mara replied, "you can't know how deeply I am interested in him and his daughter. He was my father's comrade in arms, his friend and follower. You must pardon me for staying away so long, but when he began talking of my father I felt as if I could listen forever, you know. I honor him all the more because he is poor."
"Yes, my dear, I know. Most of us are learning the hard lessons of poverty. I call him a boy because it seems only the other day he was a boy and a handsome one, too. He used to visit us here, and was so full of fun and frolic! But he has had enough to sober him, poor fellow. He was scarcely more than a boy when the war began, but he was among the first to enlist, and, like your father, he was a private soldier at first. He soon received a commission in the same regiment of which your father became colonel, and no doubt would have reached a much higher rank if he had not lost his leg. He met with this loss before your brave father was killed, but I suppose he told you."
"Yes," faltered Mara, "he told me why he was not with my father at the last."
"Yes, if he could he would have been with him and died with him, and sometimes I almost think he wishes that such had been his fate, he has suffered so much. During the remainder of the war he had command of inland positions which did not require marching, and he always made the record of a brave, high-minded officer. After the war he married a lovely girl, and tried to keep the old plantation: but his capital was gone, taxes were high, the negroes wouldn't work, and I suppose he and his wife didn't know how to practice close economy, and so the place had to be sold. It didn't bring enough to pay the mortgages. It cut him to the quick to part with the old plantation on which the family had lived for generations, but far worse was soon to follow, for his wife died, and that nearly broke his heart. Since that time he has lived in Georgia with his only child, Ella, getting such occupation as he could--office work of various kinds, but I suppose his reserved, gloomy ways rendered him unpopular; and even our own people, when it comes to business, prefer an active man who has a ready word for every one. I conjecture much of this, for he is not inclined to talk about himself. Poor as I am, I'm glad they accepted my invitation, and I mean to do all in my power to get him employment here. I have a little influence yet with some people, and perhaps a place can be found or made for him. He and his daughter don't require very much, and God knows I'd share my last crust with them, and," she concluded with a little apologetic laugh, "it _is_ almost like sharing a crust."
"Oh, he will get employment," cried Mara, enthusiastically; "his disabled condition in itself will plead eloquently for him. How old is Ella?"
"She must be eighteen or thereabout."
"I wonder if she wouldn't like to help me?"
"Help you? She'd be delighted. But then, my dear, you must not be carried away by your generous feeling. We're all proud of you because you have struck out so bravely for yourself; but surely you have burdens enough already."
"Perhaps Ella can lighten my burden, and I hers; but it is very homely, humble work."
"You dear child!" exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, with her little chirruping laugh, "you are not a very homely, humble doer of the work. I reckon there's no prouder girl in town. But that's the way it is with the captain and all of us, in fact. The poorer we are, the prouder we are. Well, well, our pride is about all we can keep in these times. You need have no fear, however, that Ella will hesitate in helping you, except as she may very naturally think herself incompetent, or that you are wronging yourself in trying to help her."
"We'll see about it," Mara remarked thoughtfully; "I will invite her to spend a morning with me, and then she can obtain a practical idea of my work. She might not like it at all, or she might like to do something else much better, and so would be embarrassed if I asked her to help me, disliking to refuse, and yet wishing to do so."
"Ah, well," said Mrs. Bodine, smiling; "we have some right to think ourselves 'quality' still, as old Hannah calls us. We are just as considerate of one another's feelings as if we were all Royal Highnesses. Have it your own way, my dear, if you truly think Ella can be of service to you. I reckon you need help, for you don't look as well as when I saw you last."
"Yes," acquiesced Mara, "I think I do need help. Aun' Sheba's granddaughter is assisting her, and a good deal more could be sold if it were properly prepared. It would be a great happiness if my need opened the way for Ella, for I feel it would please my father as much as it would please me if I could be of service to his old friend and his daughter."
"I have heard, dear, that you are always trying to do what you thought your father and mother would like."
"God forbid I should do otherwise," said the girl solemnly.
"Well, perhaps they know all about it," said the old lady, wiping a tear from her eye. "How close our troubles bring us together. You are lonely for your parents, and I am lonely for my husband and children."
"And yet you are braver and more cheerful than I," responded Mara; "I was so sad and discouraged over the future this afternoon, that I came to you, thinking that you might unconsciously teach me patience and courage. Truly I was guided, for you face everything like a soldier. Then in meeting Captain Bodine, I seem to have been brought nearer my father than ever before. I can't hear about him without tears, yet I would turn from any pleasure in the world to hear about him. What happiness if he had lived and I could help him in some way!"
"Well, my dear, we all have our own way of bearing our burdens, and I often wonder whether I have done more laughing or crying in my life. It has been one or the other most of the time. I have always thanked the Lord that when the pain or the trouble was not too severe, I could laugh, and soon I know all tears will be wiped away. It's harder for you, my dear; it is harder for you than me. My voyage has been long and stormy; husband, sons, and the cause for which they died all lost; but I'm coming into the harbor. You've got your voyage before you. But take courage. Who knows but that your early days may be your darkest days? They can't always be dark when you are so ready to brighten the lives of others. There, I hear Ella's voice."
A moment later there was a knock at the door, and Ella Bodine entered. We have all seen bright-hued flowers growing in shaded places, and among cold, grim rocks. Such brightness had the young girl who now appears upon the scene of our story. One speedily felt that its cause was not in externals, but that it resulted from inherent qualities. As with Mara, there had been much in her young life sad and hard to endure. She had not surmounted her trouble by shallowness of soul or callousness, but rather by a spiritual buoyancy which kept her above the dark waves, and enabled her to enjoy all the sunshine vouchsafed. Yet, unlike her father and Mara, she lived keenly in the present. She sympathized truly and honestly with her father, and in a large measure intelligently recognized the nature of the deep shadows projected across his life from the past, but it was her disposition to keep as near to him as possible and yet remain just beyond the shadows. She possessed a wholesome common-sense which taught her that the shadows were not hers and that they were not good for her father; so she was ever making inroads upon them, beguiling him into a smile, surprising him into a laugh--in brief, preventing the shadows from deepening into that gloom which is dangerous to bodily and spiritual health. She made his small earnings go a great way, and banished from his life the sordidness of poverty. God outlines an angel in many a woman's heart, and often privations and sorrow, more surely than luxury, fill out the divine sketch. In the instance of Ella Bodine the angelic was so sweetly and inextricably interwoven with all that was human that to mortal comprehension she was better than a wilderness of conventional angels. She was depressed now under one of the few forms of adversity that could cast her down. Her father was out of employment, their slender income had ceased, and they were dependent. She felt this cruel position all the more because Mrs. Bodine out of her poverty gave her hospitality so unstintedly and ungrudgingly.
To the sensitive, fine-natured girl it was like feeding upon the life of another, and that other a generous friend.
During her walk a score of schemes to earn money had presented themselves to her inexperienced mind, but her hands had learned only how to eke out a small salary and to minister to her father. She had come home resolute to do something, but troubled because she knew not what to do.
She paused a moment on the threshold of Mrs. Bodine's apartment, and looked questioningly at Mara, at the same time half divining who she was.
"Come along, Ella," cried Mrs. Bodine, with a little joyous laugh of anticipation, "and kiss one of your best friends, although you never saw her before."
"Is it Mara?"
Mara's smile and swift approach answered her question. In an instant the two girls were in each other's arms, their warm Southern hearts touched by the electric fire of sympathy and mutual understanding. Mrs. Bodine clapped her little, thin hands and cried, "Oh, that's fine. Southern girls have not died out yet. Why, even my old withered heart had one of the most delicious thrills it ever experienced. Now, my dears, come and sit beside me and get acquainted."
"Oh, I know you already, Mara Wallingford," said Ella with sparkling eyes.
"And I am learning to know you, Ella. I know you already well enough to love you."
"Well," exclaimed Mrs. Bodine, raising her hands in a comic gesture, "I reckon the ice is broken between you."
They all laughed at this sally, and Mara was so cheered, her nerves all tingling with excitement, that she could scarcely believe herself to be the half-despairing girl of a few hours before. "Now come," resumed Mrs. Bodine, "let us all be girls together and have a good talk. At this rate I'll soon be younger than either of you. I haven't had my share yet. Do you believe it, Ella? Mara has been downstairs petting your father for an hour."
"I wonder where he is. He wasn't in the parlor when I came in."
"I reckon he followed your good example and went out for a walk. I heard the door shut. Well, you girls make a picture that it does my old eyes good to look at. Here's Mara with her creamy white skin and eyes as lustrous now as our Southern skies when full of stars, but sometimes, oh so sad and dark. Dear child, I wish I could take the gloom all out of them, for then I could think your heart was light. But I know how it is; I know. Your mother gave you her sad heart when she gave you life, but you have your father's strength and courage, my dear, and you will never give up. And here is Ella with complexion of roses and snow and eyes like violets with the morning dew still on them--forgive an old woman's flowery speech, for that's the way we used to talk when I was young--yes, here is Ella, a little peach blossom, yet brimming over with the wish to become a big, luscious peach. Lor, Lor--oh, fie! Am I saying naughty words? But then, my dears, you know my husband was a naval officer, and no man ever swore more piously than he. Bad words never sounded bad to me when he spoke them--he was such a good Christian! and he always treated me as he expected to be treated when he was on deck. I reckon that I and the Commodore are the only ones that ever ordered _him_ around," and the old lady cried and laughed at the same time, while the faces of her young companions were like flowers brightened by the sun while still wet with dew.
"Let me see," continued the old lady, "where was I when I began to swear a little; just a little, you know. It is a sort of tribute to my husband, and so can't be very wicked. Oh, I remember, I was thinking what fun it would have been to chaperon you two girls at one of our grand balls in the good old times. I would sail around like a great ship of the line, convoying two of the trimmest little crafts that ever floated, and all the pirates, I mean gallant young men, my dears, would hover near, dying to cut you out right under my guns, or nose, as land-lubbers would say. Well, well, either of you could lead a score of them a chase before you signed articles of unconditional surrender," and Mrs. Bodine leaned back in her chair and laughed in her silvery little birdlike twitter. The girls laughed with her, pleased in spite of themselves with visions that, both in their nature and by tradition, accorded with the young romantic period of life. But memory speedily began to restore gravity to Mara's face. Mrs. Bodine recognized this, and her own face grew gentle and sorrowful. Laying a hand on each of the girls heads she resumed, "Do not think I am a frivolous old woman because I run on so. I do not forget the present any more than Mara, I see, cannot. Dear children, the circumstances of your lot render you as burdened and, in some ways, almost as old as I am. Ella can forget easier than you, Mara, but that is because God has put brightness into her heart. Let us all face the truth together. I am long past being an elegant matron. I am only a poor old childless widow with but a few more days of feebleness and suffering before me, yet I do not sigh in a bitter, murmuring spirit. Old as I am, I am still God's little child, and sometimes I think this truth makes me as mirthful as a child. When the pain is hardest to bear, when the past, oh, the past--with all its immeasurable losses, begins to crush my very soul, I turn my dim eyes upward and repeat to myself, 'There _is_ a Heaven of eternal rest and joy,' and so I grow serene in my waiting. I have always loved the bright, pleasant things of this world--it was my nature to do so--but He who bears the burdens and heartbreak of the whole world has gently lifted my love up to Him. Didn't He have compassion on the widow of Nain, and say to her, 'Weep not'? My gallant husband, my brave boys and this poor little widow are all in His hands, and I try to obey His gentle command not to weep except sometimes when I can't help it and He knows I can't."
The two girls with their heads in her lap were crying softly from sympathy. With light, caressing touches to each the old lady continued, "Ella, my dear, you are like me in some respects. You, too, love the bright pleasant things of this world, and you are so divinely blessed with a buoyancy of heart that you will make what is hard and humdrum bright for yourself and others. You will embroider life with sunshine if there is any sunshine at all. Like myself, you will be able to smile and laugh whenever the pain is not too severe, yet I fear it will be very hard sometimes. Bat, as my husband would say, you are taut, trim and well ballasted, and good for a long, safe voyage. You have obeyed the Fifth Commandment, and its promise is yours.
"Mara, dear child my heart, for some reason, aches for you. I knew and loved your grandfather and your father and mother. You were born into a heritage of bitterness and sorrow, and I fear Mrs. Hunter, with all her good qualities, was not so constituted as to be able to counteract inherited tendencies. I wish I could have brought you up, for then we could have cried or laughed together over what happened.
"But you have learned to repress and to brood--two dangerous habits. You want to do some great thing, and alas! there is seldom a great thing which we poor women can do. You are not impelled by ambition or a desire for notoriety, but by a sort of passion for self-sacrifice.
"If you had lived twenty odd years ago no soldier of the South could have been braver or more devoted. You are not satisfied with mere living and making the best of life as it is. I don't know why, but I feel that there are depths in your heart which no one understands. Be careful, dear child, and be patient. Don't yield to some morbid idea of duty, or be involved in some chimerical plan of an achievement.
"Learn Ella's philosophy, and be as content with sunshine and daily duty as possible. Ella will do this unconsciously, my dear; you will have to do it consciously, just as a sick man seeks health. But you will both have to go forward and meet woman's lot. I was once a young girl, fancy free, like you. How much has happened since! I now feel like an old hen that would like to gather you both under her wing in shelter from all trouble," and again her little laugh chimed out while she wiped away the tears which sprang from her motherly heart.
The thump of Captain Bodine's crutches was heard on the stair. "Bring him in," said Mrs. Bodine, mopping her eyes vigorously.
Ella ran to the door and admitted him, and then, with a pretty custom she had, took away a crutch, and substituting one of her own round shoulders supported him to a large armchair. The low western sun flooded the room with light. He looked questioningly at the dewy eyes of the two girls and at the evidences of emotion which Mrs. Bodine had not been fully able to remove.
"Well," said he, "what part am I to have in this mournful occasion?"
Ella stood beside him with her arm about his neck, and was about to speak, when Mrs. Bodine said quickly in her piquant way, "You are to be chief mourner."
"A role for which I am peculiarly fitted," he replied sadly, not catching her humor.
"Oh, papa, you don't understand," cried Ella, "we have been having just a heavenly time."
He looked at Mara as she stood beside the old lady, and his very soul was touched by the sympathy expressed for him in her beautiful eyes. Standing there, enveloped in sunshine, it seemed to him that no angel of God could regard him more kindly. It was not pity, but rather honor, affection and that deep commiseration of which but few women are capable. He felt instinctively that she knew all and that her woman's heart was suffering vicariously with him and for him. The very air was electrical with deep human feeling, and he, yielding to a strong impulse scarcely understood, said earnestly, "God bless you, Mara Wallingford."
Sensible old Mrs. Bodine felt that it was time to come back to every-day life, so she said promptly, "Yes, and He is going to bless her, and bless us all. If there is any mourning to be done on this occasion you must do it. We three girls have been having a good talk, and are the better for it. That's the demmed total--oh, fie! there I am at it again. Well, Cousin Hugh, to take you into our entire confidence, we have been facing things and have arrived at several conclusions, one of which is--now, Ella, shut your ears--that you have one of the best daughters in the world, and that she and Mara have quite broken the ice between them and are going to be very good friends, and I was saying how I would like to convoy two such girls in one of our ballrooms in the good old times--oh, well, we have just been having a long lingo as girls will when they get together."
Captain Bodine was gifted with tact and a quick appreciation. He understood the old lady and her purpose.
"Cousin Sophy," he said, "you are just the same as when, a boy, I used to visit you--tears and smiles close together. Well, I believe that Heaven comes down very near when you three girls get together."
The old lady lay back in her chair and laughed heartily. "Oh, Ella, if you only knew what a mischievous boy your father was once! But, there, we have had enough of the past and the future for one day. Mara, my dear, you must stay and banquet with us. No, no, no, I won't hear any excuse. When I once get on quarter-deck every one must obey orders. Ella, direct Hannah to spread the festive board. You and Mara can lend a hand, and you can put on all we have in five minutes. To think that I should have eaten that delicious jelly you brought, greedy old cormorant that I am!"
A few moments later Mara supported the old lady down to the dining-room, and, though the viands were few and meagre, the banqueters, to say the least, were not commonplace. Mara said nothing of her plan, but Ella was invited to spend the following morning with her. In the late lingering twilight Captain Bodine escorted the young girl home. On the way thither they came plump upon Owen Clancy. He glanced keenly from one to the other as he lifted his hat. Mara's only response was a slight bow.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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15
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TWO LITTLE BAKERS
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Mara led Captain Bodine up to their little parlor and introduced him to Mrs. Hunter, who received him most cordially, feeling that in him she recognized a congenial spirit. He treated her with the respect and old-time courtesy which she said was "so truly Southern." Their feelings and beliefs touched closely at several points, yet they were very different in their essential characteristics. Poor Mrs. Hunter had been limited by nature and education. She could not help being narrow in all her views; she was scarcely less able to dismiss her intense, bitter prejudices. She was quite incapable of reasoning herself into her mental position; it was simply the inevitable result of her circumstances, her lot and her own temperament. Captain Bodine was a proud man, as proud toward himself as toward others. The cause for which he and his kindred had suffered and lost so much had been sacred, and therefore it ever would be sacred. To change his views, to begin revising his opinions, would be to stultify himself and to reflect dishonor on his comrades in arms who had perished. In the very depths of his young, ardent spirit he had once devoted himself to the South; he had listened reverently to prayers from the pulpit that God would bless the Southern armies; he had never entered into battle without petitions to Heaven, not that he might escape, but that the "Northern invader" might be overcome; his uniform had been stained with blood again and again as he held dying comrades in his arms and spoke words of cheer. In his more limited way, he had the spirit of "Stonewall" Jackson. It was impossible for a man with his nature and with his memories to argue the whole matter over coolly and recognize misleading errors. During his youth and early manhood his feelings had been so intense as to be volcanic, and that feeling, like lava, had cooled of into its present unchangeable forms and sombre hues. What was bitterness and almost spite in Mrs. Hunter was a deep, abiding sorrow in his heart, a great dream unfulfilled, a cause lofty because so idealized, in support of which he often saw in fancy, when alone, spectral thousands in gray, marching as he once had seen them in actual life. That all had been in vain, was to him one of those mysterious providences to which he could only bow his head in mournful resignation, in patient endurance. He had no hate for the North, for he was broad enough in mind to recognize that it saw the question from its own point of view, and, as a soldier, he knew that its men had fought gallantly. But the North's side of the question was not his side. He had been conquered in arms but not convinced in spirit. While he had respect and even admiration for many of his old foes, and malice toward none, he still felt that there was a bridgeless chasm between them, and, by the instincts of his nature, he kept himself aloof. If he could perform an act of kindness to a Northerner he would do so unhesitatingly; then he would turn away with the impulse of an alien. He had no ambitious schemes or hopes for the future; he had buried the "lost cause" as he had buried his wife, with a grief that was too deep for tears. He had come to value life only for Ella's sake, and he tried to do his best from a soldier-like and Christian sense of duty, until he too could join his old comrade in arms.
Mrs. Hunter could not comprehend such a man, and he gave to her but the casual, respectful sympathy which he thought due to a gentlewoman who had lost much like so many other thousands in the South. After a brief call he hobbled away on his crutches, forgetting Mrs. Hunter and, indeed, almost everything in the deep interest excited by Mara, the daughter of his old friend. "Would to God," he muttered, "that Sidney Wallingford could have lived and seen that girl look at him as she looked at me to-day."
Soon after Captain Bodine's departure, Mara pleaded fatigue and retired to her room, promising to answer her aunt's many questions on the morrow. She was very sad and discouraged with herself, and yet she had not the despairing sense of the utter futility of her life which had oppressed her when she started out in the early afternoon.
She had become so absorbed and interested by the incidents and experiences of her visit as to be almost happy. Just as she had attained a condition of mind which had not blessed her for months, she must meet Owen Clancy. With a sort of inward rage and wonder, she asked herself: "Why did my heart flutter so? Why did every nerve in my body tingle? He is nothing to me and never can be, yet, when he passed, a spirit from heaven could hardly have moved me more. What is his mysterious power which I cannot eradicate? Oh, oh, was not my life hard enough before? Must I go on, hiding this bitter secret? fighting this hopeless and seemingly endless fight? Well, well, thank God for this day, after all. In Ella Bodine and her father I have found friends who will occupy my thoughts and become incentives which I did not possess before. Dear father, my own dear, dead, soldier father, it would please you to have me do something for your old friend."
The next morning was bright and sunny, and, after an early breakfast, Mara was in the kitchen, with all the ingredients of the dainties she so skilfully produced, spread out upon the tables. Ella had been asked to come early; her father had escorted her to Mara's residence, and then gone away on an errand of his own.
The young girl was greeted with a warmth which made her at home at once, and proved the experiences of the previous afternoon were not the result of mood or passing sentiment. There was a depth in Mara's eyes and a firmness about her mouth and chin which did not indicate changing and unreasoning "moods and tenses." In the clearer, calmer thought of the morning all her kind purposes toward Captain Bodine and Ella had been strengthened, and she also believed more fully that by interesting herself in them she would find the best antidote for her own trouble.
Ella had been welcomed by Mrs. Hunter, and now, as she sat in the little sun-lighted kitchen, there was neither past nor future to her. The present scene, with its simple, homely details, was all absorbing.
It meant very much to the girl, for she saw how Mara was achieving independence, and by work, too, which housekeeping for her father enabled her to understand better than any other. Mara's pulses were also quickened, for she understood the eager, intelligent glances of her friend. For a few moments, Ella, as company, felt compelled to maintain the quiet position of spectator; then overborne, she sprang up exclaiming: "Oh, Mara, dear, do give me an apron and let me help you. I'd have such a jolly forenoon!"
"Why, certainly, Ella, if it would give you pleasure."
The article was produced, and, with a sigh of deep content, the girl tied it around a waist by no means waspish. Then off came the little cuffs, and up the sleeves were rolled to the shoulder.
"Ella, what lovely arms you have! If I were a man I should be distracted by such a pair of arms."
"Well," remarked the girl, looking at them complacently, "they'd be strong enough to help a man that I cared sufficiently for to marry, but I haven't seen that man yet, and I hope his lordship will keep his distance indefinitely--till I have more time to bother with him and his distractions."
"Is your time, then, so completely occupied?"
"It isn't occupied at all, and that's the plague of it. But I reckon it soon will be," she added with an emphatic little nod. "Papa shall learn that I can do something more for him than cook, and your example has fired my ambition. I'll ransack this town till I find something to do that will bring money. Dear old Mrs. Bodine! wasn't she perfectly enchanting yesterday? Do you think I can be content to live in idleness on her slender means? No, indeed. I'd buy a scrubbing-brush first. Oh, isn't this fun?" and the flour was already up to her elbows.
"Oh, Ella, dear, I'd feel just as you do if I had a father to work for."
"Now, Mara, don't talk so, or I'll put my floury arms right about your neck and spoil this dough with a flood of briny tears. See, the sun is shining and there is work to be done. Let's be jolly, and we'll have our little weep after sundown. Oh, Mara, dear, I wish I could make you as light-hearted as I am. I used to think it was almost wicked for me to be so light-hearted, but I don't think so any more, for I know I've kept papa from going down into horrid depths of gloom. And then this irrepressible spirit of fun helps me over ever so many hard places." She sprang back into the middle of the room, and, striking a serio-comic attitude, continued: "Here I am in no end of trouble--for me. There is a grief preying on my vitals that would make a poet's hair stand on end should he attempt to portray it. Were there a lover around the corner, sighing like a furnace, I would say to him 'Avaunt! My heart is broken, and do you think I can bother with you?' I am at odds with fate. I am in the most deplorable position into which any human being can sink. I have _nothing to do_. But here is a weapon by which one girl has conquered destiny," and she brandished the roller with which she had been pressing out the dough, "and I, too, shall find a sword which will cut all the pesky knots of this snarled-up old world. Then when I have achieved complete and lofty victory and independence, as you have, dear, I may say to the lover around the corner, 'Step this way, sir. I must consider first whether you would be agreeable to papa, and then whether you would be agreeable to me and then'--Oh, what a little fool I am, and so many cookies to make. Please don't send me home. I will work now like a beaver," and her round white arms grew tense as she rolled with a vigor that would almost flatten brickbats.
Mara stood at one side watching her with eyes that grew wonderfully lustrous as was ever the case when she was pleased or excited. Then she stole up behind Ella, and, putting her arm around her neck, looked into her eyes as she asked, "Wouldn't you like to help me?"
"Of course I like to help you," said Ella, turning with surprise upon her friend.
"Now, Ella, be frank with me. Say no if you feel no. Wouldn't you like to help me all the time and earn money in this way?"
A slow deep flush overspread Ella's face as she stood for a moment with downcast eyes as if oppressed with a sense of shame. Then she said humbly: "Forgive me, Mara. I've been very thoughtless. I didn't think you would take my ranting as an appeal to your generous heart. Believe me, Mara, I was not hinting to you that I might share in the little you are earning so bravely. As if you had not burdens enough already."
Mara never once removed her eyes from the girl's ingenuous face and permitted her to reveal the unselfishness and sacred pride of her nature; then she said gently and firmly: "No, Ella, I did not misunderstand you a moment, and I want you to understand me. In one sense we have been acquainted always, yet we have loved each other from personal knowledge but a few short hours. We Southern girls need no apologies for our swift intuitions, our quick, warm feelings. I had this on my mind as soon as Mrs. Bodine told me about your being here, and I had quite set my heart upon it as soon as I saw you. Ella, dear, I _need_ help; I have more than I can do. There is business enough to support us both, and I had almost concluded to ask Aim' Sheba to get me a helper. But what a delight it would be to work with you!"
Ella's face had been brightening as if gathering all the sunshine in the spring sky, and she was about to speak eagerly when Mara stopped her by a gesture. "Wait," she said, "I did not say anything of this last evening because I was not sure you would like the work. If you do not like it, you must be frank to tell me so. If you do enter on it you must let me manage all in business-like ways, for I fear that you, like Aun' Sheba, will be inclined toward very loose accounts. You must be willing to take what I feel that you should have, and there must be no generous insubordination. Now you have the exact truth."
Ella's lip was quivering and her eyes were filling with gathering tears. With a little quaver in her voice she struggled hard to give a mirthful conclusion to the affair. "I accept the position, ma'am," she faltered, making a courtesy, then rushed into her friend's arms and sobbed: "Oh, Mara, Mara, you have lifted such a burden from my heart! I have had many troubles, but somehow it seemed that I couldn't bear this one, though I tried hard to keep the pain to myself--papa and I being dependent. And then to have the whole trouble banished by working with you in just the kind of work I like! Oh, Mara, darling, how can I ever thank you enough?"
"Good Lawd, honey, hab you heerd on any ob you'se folks dyin'?" and Aun' Sheba's awed face and ample form filled the doorway, with Vilet's wondering little visage peeping around behind her.
Ella sprang away, and, turning her back on the newcomers, mopped her face vigorously with her floury apron.
"No, Aun' Sheba," replied Mara, smiling through her tears, for Ella's strong emotion had unsealed the fountain of her eyes, "I've only followed your good advice and secured just the kind of help I need, the daughter of my father's dear old friend, Captain Bodine. I reckon you remember him."
"Well, now, de Lawd be bressed!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba, sitting down with her great basket at her feet. " 'Member him? Reckon I does. I kin jes' see de han'-som boy as he march away wid you'se fader. An' his little Missy is you'se helper?" and she looked curiously at Ella, who was still seeking to gain self-control.
The girl wheeled around with a face wonderfully stained and streaked with flour and tears, and, ducking just such a courtesy as Vilet would have made, said to Aun' Sheba, "Yes'm. I'm the new hand. I'm a baker by trade."
Aun' Sheba's appreciation of humor was instantaneous, and she sat back in her chair, which shook and groaned under her merriment. "Can't fool dis culled pusson," she began at last. "You tink we doesn't keep up wid de times, but we does. I'se had a bery int'restin' season wid ole Hannah, who lib wid Mis' Bodine, bress her heart! She's quality yere on arth an' she gwine ter be quality in Hebin. I knows a heap 'bout you an' you'se pa. I knowd him 'fore you did. I'se seed him in de gran' ole house in Meetin' Street a dinin' agin an' agin wid Marse Wallingford an' my deah Misse Mary, den a bride, an' de gran' ole Major Buggone. Oh, Missy Mara, ef you could ony seen de ole major, you'd a seen a genywine So' Car'liny gen'l'man ob wat dey call de ole school. Reckon dey habn't any betteh schools now. An' young Marse Sidney, dat's you'se fader, Missy, and young Marse Hugh, dat's you'se fader, Missy Ella, dey was han'som as picters an' dey drink toasts ter Missy Mary an' compliment her an' she'd blush like a red rose; an' wen dey all 'bout ter march away Missy Mary kiss Marse Hugh jes as ef he her own broder. Lor, Lor, how it all come back ter me! Ef de Lawd don' bress de pa'na'ship twix' you two gyurls den I des dun beat."
Regardless of flour the two little bakers stood before Aun' Sheba with arms around each other while she indulged in reminiscences, then Ella, dashing away the tears that were gathering again, said brusquely, "The new hand will have to be boss if we go on this way. Aun' Sheba, we haven't got a blessed thing ready to put in your basket."
"Many han's make light wuck," said the old woman sententiously. "I come yere arly dis mawnin' to gib Missy Mara a lif' kase she's been lookin' po'ly an' I hab her on my min' anxious-like. But now, wid a larfin', sunshiny little ting like you aroun', Missy Ella, she'll soon be as peart as a cricket. Vilet, chile, jes wait on me an' han' me tings, an' dese two baskets'll be filled in de quickest jiffy you eber see."
And so it turned out. Aunt Sheba was a veteran in the field. Flour, sugar and spices seemed to recognize her power and to come together as if she conjured. The stove was fed like the furnace of Nebuchadnezzar, and the girls' faces suggested peonies as the cake grew light and brown.
Mrs. Hunter, having finished her morning duties, entered at last and looked with doubtful, troubled eyes upon the scene. Ella and Aun' Sheba's mirthful talk ceased, while little Vilet regarded the tall, gray-haired woman with awe.
"Well, times _have_ changed," said the lady, with a sort of groan. "Our home has become little better than a bake-shop."
"Well, Missus," replied Aun' Sheba, with the graven-image expression that she often assumed before Mrs. Hunter, "I'se know'd of homes dat hab become wuss dan bake-shops. Neber in my bawn days hab I heerd on an active, prosp'rous baker starbin'. Jes' you try dis cooky right fum de stove an' see ef it doan melt in you'se mouf." And so Aun' Sheba stopped Mrs. Hunter's lamentations and clinched her argument.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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16
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HONEST FOES
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Captain Bodine's errand was characteristic of the man. He had accepted his cousin's hospitality and sympathy most gratefully, and his quick apprehension had gathered from some of her words that she was bent on moving her little segment of "heaven and earth," to secure him employment. While perfectly ready to receive any gracious benefactions from heaven, where he justly believed that the good old lady's power centred chiefly, he shrank from her terrestrial efforts in his behalf, knowing that they must be made with very few exceptions among those who were straitened and burdened already. He did not want a "place made" for him and to feel that other Southern men were practicing a severer self-denial in order to do so. With a grim, set look on his face as if he were going into battle, he halted downtown to the counting-room of one of the wealthiest merchants and shippers in the City. He knew this man only by reputation, and his friends would regard an application for employment to Mr. Houghton, as extraordinary as it certainly would be futile in their belief. Mr. Houghton was quite as bitter against the South in general and Charleston in particular as Mrs. Hunter in her enmity of all that savored of the North; and, as human nature goes, they both had much reason, or rather cause, for their sentiments. The experiences of many of that day were not conducive to calm historical estimates or to "the charity that suffereth long and is kind." Mr. Houghton was a New England man, and hated slavery almost as intensely as it deserved to be hated. The trouble with him had been that he did not separate the "peculiar institution" widely enough from the men who had been taught by their fathers, mothers and ministers to believe in it. He made no allowances for his Southern fellow-citizens, as many of them would make none for him. With him, it was "Slave-driver"; with them, "Abolitionist"; yet he revered and they revered the great-hearted planter of Mount Vernon.
When the war came at last to teach its terrible, yet essential lessons, Mr. Houghton's eldest son was among the first to exercise the courage of the convictions which had always been instilled into his mind. The grim New Englander saw him depart with eyes that, although tearless, were full of agony, also of hatred of all that threatened to cost him so much. His worst fears were fulfilled, for his son was drowned in a night attack on Fort Sumter, and, in his father's morbid fancy, still lay in the mud and ooze at the bottom of Charleston harbor.
The region gained a strange fascination for the stricken man, and he at last resolved to live near his son's watery grave and take from the very hands of those whom he regarded as his boy's murderers the business which they might regard as theirs naturally. So he removed to Charleston, and employed his capital almost as an instrument of revenge. He did not do this ostentatiously, or in any way that would thwart his purpose or his desire to accumulate money, but his aims had come to be very generally recognized, and he received as much hate as he entertained. Yet his wealth and business capacity made him a power in commercial circles, and Southern men, who would no more admit him to their homes than they would an ogre, dealt with him in a cool politeness that was but the counterpart of his grim civility.
Captain Bodine knew that Mr. Houghton employed much help in his business. He knew that the work of many of his employes must be largely mechanical, requiring little or no intercourse with the master, and the veteran reasoned, "I could give him honest work, and he in return, pay me my salary, we personally not being under the slightest social obligation to each other. I'd rather wring money from his hard fist than take it from the open hand of a too generous friend. I could then get bread for Ella and myself on the simple ground of services rendered."
He therefore entered the outer office and asked for Mr. Houghton. A clerk said, "He is very busy, sir. Cannot I attend to your matter?"
"I wish to see Mr. Houghton personally."
"Will you send in your card, sir?"
Captain Bodine took one from his pocket and wrote upon it, "I wish to see you briefly on a personal matter." A moment later he was ushered into Mr. Houghton's presence, who was writing rapidly at his desk. Bodine stood still, balancing himself on his crutches while the merchant finished the sentence. He looked at the hard wrinkled face and shock of white hair with the same steady composure that he had often faced a battery, as yet silent, but charged with fiery missiles.
At last Mr. Houghton looked up with an impatient word upon his lip, but checked it as he saw the striking figure before him. For an instant the two men looked steadily into each other's eyes. Ever since the war, Captain Bodine had dressed in gray, and Mr. Houghton knew instinctively that his visitor was a Confederate veteran. Then the captain's mutilation caught his attention, and his very manhood compelled him to rise and stiffly offer a chair.
"You wished to see me personally," he remarked, coldly. "I must request you to be brief, for I rarely allow myself to be disturbed at this hour."
"I will be brief. I merely come to ask if you have employment for a tolerably rapid, accurate penman?"
"Do you refer to yourself?" Mr. Houghton asked, his brow darkening.
"I do, sir."
"Do you think this a sufficient excuse for interrupting me at this hour?"
"Yes, sir."
Again there was a fixed look in each other's eyes, and Mr. Houghton, with his large knowledge of men and affairs, became more distinctly aware that he was not dealing with an ordinary character. He put his thought in words, for at times he could be very blunt, and he was conscious of an incipient antagonism to Bodine.
"You think you are a Southern gentleman, my equal, or rather, my superior, and entitled to my respectful consideration at any hour of the day."
"I certainly think I am a Southern gentleman. I do not for a moment think I am entitled to anything from you."
"Yet you come and ask a favor with as much dignity as if you represented the whole State of South Carolina."
"No, sir, I represent only myself, and I have asked no favor. There are many in your employ. I supposed your relations with them were those of business, not of favor."
"Well, sir," replied Mr. Houghton, coldly, "there are plenty with whom I can enter into such relations without employing an enemy of my country."
"Mr. Houghton, I will bring this interview to a close at once, and then you can settle the matter in a word. Your country will never receive any harm from me. I am one of a conquered people, and I have now no ambition other than that of earning bread for my child and myself. You have dealings with Southern men and ex-Confederate soldiers. You buy from them and sell to them. I, as one of them, ask nothing more than that you should buy my labor for what it is worth to you in dollars and cents. Regard my labor as a bale of cotton, and the case is simple enough."
The lava-crust over the crater of the old man's heart was breaking up, for the interview was recalling all the associations which centred around the death of his son. Captain Bodine evoked a strange mixture of antipathy and interest. There was something in the man which compelled his respect, and yet he seemed the embodiment of the spirit which the New Englander could neither understand nor tolerate. His thought had travelled far beyond business, and he looked at his visitor with a certain wrathful curiosity. After a moment he said abruptly, "You fought through the war, I suppose?"
"I fought till I was disabled, sir, but I tried to do a soldier's duty to the close of the war."
"Duty!" ejaculated Mr. Houghton, with an accent of indescribable bitterness. "You would have killed my son if you had met him?"
"Certainly, if I met him in fair fight and he did not kill me first."
"There wasn't any fair fight at all," cried the old man passionately. "It was an atrocious, wicked, causeless rebellion."
The dark blood mounted to Captain Bodine's very brow, but he controlled himself by a strong effort, and only said calmly, "That is your opinion."
The veins fairly stood out on Mr. Houghton's flushed, usually pallid, face. "Do you know," he almost hissed, "that my boy lies at the bottom of your accursed harbor yonder?"
"I did not know it, sir. I do know that the sons of Southern fathers and the fathers themselves lie beside him."
"But what was the use of it all? Damn the whole horrible crime! What was the use of it all?"
A weaker, smaller-brained man than Bodine would have retorted vehemently in kind and left the place, but the captain was now on his mettle and metaphorically in the field again, with the foe before him. What is more, he respected his enemy. This Northern man did not belong to the ex-governor Moses type. He was outspoken and sincere to the heart's core in his convictions, and moreover that heart was bleeding in father-love, from a wound that could never be stanched. Bodine resolved to put all passion under his feet, to hold his ground with the coolness and tenacity of a general in a battle, and attain his purpose without the slightest personal compromise. His indomitable pride led him to feel that he would rather work for this honest, implacable foe than for any man in the city, because their relations would be so purely those of business, and to bring him to terms now would be a triumph over which he could inwardly rejoice.
"Mr. Houghton," he said, gravely, "we have wandered far from the topic which I at first introduced. Your reference to your son proves that you have a heart; your management of business certifies to a large brain. I think our conversation has made it clear that we are both men of decided convictions and are not afraid to express them. If you were a lesser man than you are, I would have shrugged my shoulders contemptuously and left your office long ago. Yet I am your equal, and you know it, although I have scarcely a penny in the world. I am also as honest as you are, and I would work for you all the more scrupulously because you detest me and all that I represent. I, on the other hand, would not expect a single grain of allowance or consideration, such as I might receive from a kindly disposed employer. We would not compromise each other in the slightest degree by entering into the relations of employer and employed. I would obey your orders as a soldier has learned to obey. Apart from business we should be strangers. I knew we were hostile in our feelings, but I had the impression--which I trust may be confirmed--that you were not a commonplace enemy. The only question between us is, 'Will you buy my labor as you would any other commodity in the Charleston market?'"
Captain Bodine's words proved his keen appreciation of character. The old man unconsciously possessed the spirit of a soldier, and it had been evoked by the honest, uncompromising attitude of the Southerner. His emotion passed away. His manner became as courteous as it was cold and impassive. "You are right, sir," he said, "we are hostile and will probably ever remain so, but you have put things in a light which enables me to comply with your wishes. I take you at your word, and will buy your labor as I would any other article of value. I know enough of life to be aware of the courtesy which occasionally exists between men whose feelings and beliefs strongly conflict, yet I agree with you that, apart from business, we can have little in common. When can you come?"
"To-morrow."
"Are you willing to leave the question of compensation open till I can learn what your services are actually worth?"
"I should prefer to have the question settled in that way."
Both men arose. "Good-morning, Captain Bodine," said the merchant, bowing slightly. "Good-morning, Mr. Houghton," and the captain halted quietly back to Mrs. Bodine's home of faded gentility.
Mr. Houghton sat down at his desk and leaned his head thoughtfully upon his hand. "I wouldn't have believed that I could have done this," he muttered. "If he had knuckled to me one iota I would have shown him the door; if he hadn't been so crippled--if he hadn't been so downright honest and brave--confound it! he almost made me feel both like killing him and taking him by the hand. Oh, Herbert, my poor, lost boy, I don't wonder that you and so many fine fellows had to die before such men were conquered."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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17
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FIRESIDE DRAMAS
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Ella was so overjoyed at her prospects when all had been explained to her, that she insisted on Mara's spending the evening at the Bodines' so that her father might understand the whole arrangement.
When she returned early in the afternoon, she found him, as Mara had before, reading quietly at one of the parlor windows. He looked up with not only glad welcome in his eyes, but also with much genuine interest, for he was anxious to learn what further impression Mara had made upon his daughter. The man who had accepted patient endurance as his lot, could scarcely comprehend the profound impression made upon him by the child of his old friend. He had made no effort to analyze his feelings, not dreaming that there was any reason why he should do this. To his mind circumstances and the girl herself were sufficient to account for the deepest sympathy. Then that look with which she had regarded him on the previous evening--he could never forget that while he lived. He therefore regarded Ella's flushed, happy face, and said, "You seem to hesitate in letting your experiences be known, but I reckon, from the sparkle of your eyes, that you have had a good time."
"Oh, papa, I have had a good time, so much more than a good time. I hesitate because I don't know just how or where to begin--how to tell you all the good news. Dear papa, you have had so many more troubles than I have, and some perhaps which you think I do not share in very deeply. It was best for us both that I did not--too deeply. But you have a trouble now in which I do share more than you know, more than I wanted you to know. We were here dependent on our dear old cousin who is so unselfish that she would almost open her poor old veins for us. This was too hard for either of us to endure very long, and I had made up my mind that I would do something to relieve you--that if Mara could earn money I could."
"My dear child, I appreciate your feelings, and you have understood mine, but let me hasten to assure you that I have found a way by which I can support you and myself also."
"You have? So soon? Oh, that is glorious. Tell me all about it."
"No, indeed. Not till I have your wonderful news, and learn how you enjoyed your visit."
"No more visiting for me, or rather perpetual visiting. Oh, papa, think what bliss! I'm to help Mara, work with Mara every day, and have a share in the profits."
The captain's face grew sad and almost stern. Ella understood him instantly, and put her hand over his mouth as he was about to speak. "Now, papa, don't you perform the same little tragedy that I did. I know just how you feel and what you are going to say. Mara had it in her mind the moment she heard I was in town and--" "Ella," interrupted her father, firmly, "I do not often cross you, but you must let me decide this question. Mara is capable of any degree of self-sacrifice, of even something like a noble deception in this case. No, this cannot be. I would protect that girl even as I would you, and you both need protection against your own generous impulses more than all else."
In vain she tried to explain, and recounted minutely all that had happened. The captain was so deeply touched that his eyes grew dim with moisture. Again he exclaimed, "Would to God Sidney Wallingford had lived, even though poor and crippled as I am, that he might have worshipped this noble-hearted, generous girl. She has indeed a rare nature. She carried out her self-sacrificing purpose well, but I understand her better than you do, my dear. With all a woman's wit, tact, and heart she deceived you and would deceive us all. She would smile in triumph as she denied herself for our sakes what she most needed. But, Ella, you know we cannot let her do this."
The girl was staggered and in sore perplexity. Her father's view was not pleasing to her ingenuous nature; there had been a sincerity in Mara's words and manner which had been confirmed not only by circumstances, but also by Aun' Sheba's hearty approval. "I shall be sorry if what you think is true," she said, sadly. "I don't wish to be deceived, not even from such motives as you attribute to Mara, and, of course, she could have no others if you are right. But how can you be right? There was such a verity about it all. Why, papa, when at first I imagined that Mara might have thought I had been hinting in my very foolish talk that I wished what afterward took place, I was so overwhelmed with shame that I could hardly speak. If you had seen how she reassured me, and heard her earnest words, declaring she needed me--oh, if that was all deception, even from the kindest and noblest motive, I should be wounded to the heart, I could never be sure of Mara again and scarcely of any one else. I can't think as you do. Let us ask Cousin and see what she thinks."
The captain was now in perplexity himself, yet he held to his first impression. "I admit," he said, hesitatingly, "that it was not the wisest course on Mara's part, yet often the best people, especially when young, ardent, and a little morbid, are led by the noblest motives to do what is unwise and scarcely right. Mara is not an ordinary girl, and cannot be judged by common standards. Be assured, she would die rather than deceive you to your harm, but a purpose to do you good might confuse both her judgment and conscience, especially if it involved self-sacrifice on her part. You must not blame me if I wish to be more thoroughly convinced. Yes, you can ask Cousin Sophy's opinion if you wish."
"Then come with me, papa, and state your case as strongly as you can. I'd rather go hungry than go forward another step if you are right."
The wise old lady, who could talk by the hour on most occasions, listened to both sides of the question and then remarked with sphinx-like ambiguity. "Your father, Ella, has obtained a remarkably correct idea of Mara's character. You know I told her in your hearing that she had a passion for self-sacrifice, and was prone to take a morbid sense of duty. At the same time, I do not by any means say he is right in this particular instance. Mara is coming this evening--let her satisfy you both in her own way. I have my opinion, but would rather she would make the matter plain to you."
The shrewd old lady, to whom the wheels of time often seemed to move slowly, was bent on a bit of drama at her own fireside, at the same time believing that a word, a tone, or even a glance from the young girl herself would have more power to banish the captain's doubts than anything she could say. "And yet," thought Mrs. Bodine, "Mara is capable of just this very kind of dissimulation."
Evening in the South differs slightly from our late afternoon, and the sun was scarcely below the horizon when Mara arrived under the escort of Mrs. Hunter, who had also been invited. Therefore Ella in her feverish impatience had not long to wait.
Mrs. Bodine's simple meal was over, and after having had a fire lighted on the parlor hearth, she had ensconced herself in a low rocking-chair in readiness to receive her guests. There was a sort of stately cordiality in the meeting between her and Mrs. Hunter, quiet courtesy on the part of Captain Bodine toward all, while honest Ella could not banish a slight constraint from her manner. Mara gradually became conscious of this and wondered at it. She also soon observed that no reference was made to the compact of the morning, and this perplexed her still more.
Meanwhile, Mrs. Bodine, having all the dramatis personae about her, was complacency embodied, and not averse to taking a part in the little play herself. She managed at first that the conversation should be general. She serenely indulged in reminiscences which waked others from Mrs. Hunter, and even the captain was beguiled into half-humorous old-time anecdotes about some one they all knew.
"Well," ejaculated Mrs. Bodine, sighing, "that--oh, good gracious! what was I going to say? Cousin Hugh, you can remember that my most excellent husband accustomed me to rather strong adjectives. Well, that hardhearted old wretch, Mr. Houghton, eventually got all the property of the poor man we were talking about."
"Did he?" said the captain, quietly. "Well, I reckon I'll get some of it back again."
"You? I'd like to know how. He'd take your head off at one bite if he could."
"I reckon he would; he looked so inclined this morning. I spent half an hour alone with him this morning, and am going to work for him to-morrow."
The general exclamations amounted to a chorus, and Mrs. Hunter, bridling, began formally and almost severely, "Pardon me, Captain Bodine, I do not wish to be presuming or officious, but I fear you have been absent from the city so long that you are not aware of the general estimation in which this Northern carpet-bagger is held."
"I certainly have had a chance to form my own opinion of him, Mrs. Hunter, and I reckon that he and I will not be any better friends than he and you would be."
"Friends," ejaculated the old lady, "I could annihilate him. Oh, Captain Bodine, believe me, you have made a mistake. What will be left of our past if the best and bravest of our number strike hands with these vampires of the North?"
"I have not struck hands with him, nor do I ever expect to."
"Hugh, Cousin Hugh," protested Mrs. Bodine, "I don't understand this move at all."
"Papa," cried Ella, with her arms about his neck, "you have done this for my sake, so do please give it up for my sake. Some other way will be provided for us."
"Mara, are you, too, down on me?"
"No, sir, never; but I'll share my last crust with you if you will have nothing to do with that man."
"I thought so, you brave, generous girl. That was like your father, and reminds me of a bit of experience. We were on a forced march, and the provision train had not kept up. It was night, and we were too weary to hunt around for a morsel. Wallingford (he was major then) came to me and said, 'Bodine, I've a hard tack and one cup of coffee. We'll go halves,' and so we did. He was so impolite as to take his half first. Do you know why?"
"I can guess," she replied with downcast brimming eyes.
"I reckon you can--you of all others; but he didn't succeed. I turned on him in mock severity and remarked, 'Major Wallingford, I never thought you would try to overreach an old friend. See, you have scarcely taken over a third of the coffee and hard tack.' He slapped me on the back and declared he would have me arrested for insubordinate and disrespectful language. Considering what sleepy, jaded men we were, we had a lot of fun over that meagre banquet, but he had to yield even if he were my superior. I fear you are inclined to go halves just like your father."
"Well, Hugh," cried Mrs. Bodine impatiently, "even that is better than your taking whatever this--this--I want an adjective that is not too wicked."
"No matter, Cousin Sophy, we'll each supply one according to our own degree of wickedness. A Yankee would say 'darned' though, confound the fellows, they seem to learn to fight and swear in equal degrees."
"I won't say 'darned,'" said the old lady, almost trembling in her irritation and excitement, for she was being treated to more of a drama than she had bargained for. "It is a word I never heard my husband use. Bah! all words are inadequate. I say anything is better than that you should go to this old Houghton for what little he may choose to give you."
"Now, I appeal to you, Mara--is this fair, four against one?"
"But, dear Captain Bodine, you don't know how deeply we feel about this."
"Ah, that is the charge our enemies bring against us. We _feel_, but don't reason, they say. We have much reason to retort, 'You reason, but have no feeling and little comprehension for those that have.' Come, I will be serious now," and his expression became grave and firm. "Cousin Sophy, Mr. Houghton will never give me a penny, nor would I take a gift from him even if starving, yet I have a genuine respect for the man. Let me, as a soldier, illustrate my course, and then I will explain more fully. Suppose I was on a march and was hungry. On one hand were ample provisions in the camp of the enemy; on the other a small farmhouse occupied by friends who had already been robbed of nearly all they had. If I went to these friends they would, as Mara has said, share their last crust. Do you not think it would be more in accordance with the feelings of a man to make a dash at the enemy's overflowing larder, and not only get what I needed but also bring away something for my impoverished friends? I reckon it would. I much prefer spoiling the Egyptians, cost me what it may. My dear child," turning to Mara, "do you think I would take half your crust when I know you need the whole of it? No, indeed. Then you must remember that we got in the habit of living off the enemy during the war. To drop all this figurative talk, let me put the matter in plain English, as I did to Mr. Houghton this morning. We had a pretty hot action, I can tell you. There was no compromise in word or manner on either side, but he listened to reason, and so will you. Pick out your most blue-blooded, stanchest South Carolinians, in the city, and they deal with Mr. Houghton. They sell to him; they buy of him, and there it all ends. I have no cotton to sell, but I told him to regard my labor as a bale of cotton and to buy it, if he so wished, at what it was worth. I also told him that apart from our business relations we would be strangers, so you see I am neither better nor worse, practically, no different from other Charlestonians."
Mrs. Bodine leaned back in her chair, and laughed till the tears came into her eyes. "I do declare," she gasped: "God made men different from women, and I reckon He knew what He was about. I surrender, Cousin Hugh. Your argument has blown me out of the water. Spoil this old Egyptian to your heart's content, only remember when there are no Egyptians to spoil, if you don't come to your friends you will have one savage old woman to deal with."
Mrs. Hunter shook her head dubiously. "I don't know what to think of all this," she said. "It appears to me that it tends to break down the partition wall between us and those from whom we have received wrongs which should never be forgiven."
"My dear Mrs. Hunter," replied the captain, urbanely, "the more the partition wall is broken down in one sense, the better. Isn't it wiser for me to get money out of Mr. Houghton than to sulk and starve? I _had_ to break through the wall to get bread. Of course," he added quietly, "we all understand one another. My military figures of speech must not be pressed too far. I do not propose to knock Mr. Houghton on the head, or even take the smallest possible advantage of him. On the contrary, because we are hostile, I shall be over-scrupulous, if possible, to do his work well. From him, as I told him, I expect not the slightest allowance, consideration, or kindness."
"Oh," thought Mara, "how clearly he has put my own thought and wish. Why could not Owen Clancy have earned his own bread and mine by taking the course of this brave Southern man? I have been shown to-night how noble, how dignified and how easy it was. Why should he talk of love when he will not see what is so reasonable in the action of another?"
"Cousin Hugh, you said one thing which needs explanation. You said you had a respect for this man floughton, who we all know has not a particle of good-will toward us."
"Chiefly because he is such an honest enemy," Bodine replied. "He makes hard bargains with our people when he can, but have you ever heard of his cheating or doing anything underhand? I learned a good deal about his business character while in Georgia, and his course to-day corresponded with what I had been told. Moreover, his feelings got the better of him, and he revealed in one passionate sentence that his eldest son was killed, and, as he says, lies at the bottom of our harbor here. This fact enabled me to stand better what I had to take from him," and in answer to his cousin's questions he revealed the substance of the interview. "I do this," he concluded, "that you and other friends may better understand my course. To-morrow Mr. Houghton becomes my employer, and I shall owe a certain kind of loyalty. The more seldom we mention his name thereafter, the better; and I shall never speak of him except in terms of cold respect."
"Since you have told me about his son," said Mrs. Bodine, "I won't avail myself of the privilege of freeing my mind to-night, even if it will be my last chance, that is when you are present. After all, why should I berate him? In one aspect he is to me a sort of ogre representing all that is harsh, intolerant and cruel, rejoicing in his power to drain the life-blood of a conquered and impoverished people; yet he rose before me as you spoke as a heartbroken father, warped and made unnatural by pain, haunted by the ghost of his son whom his arms cannot embrace. Sometimes when thinking alone, the people of the world seem like a lot of squabbling children, with only degrees of badness and goodness between them. Children make no allowances for each other. It is like or dislike, quick and manifested. It is well there is a Heavenly Father over all who may lead one and all of us 'to make up' some day. I tell you what it is, Hugh, we may all have to shake hands in Heaven."
"Like enough, Cousin Sophy. In matters pertaining to Heaven you are a better authority than I am."
"For very good reason. Heaven is nearest those who feel its need most. You may think I am a queer Christian, and I sometimes think so myself--hating some people as near as I dare, and calling old Houghton a wretch. Don't I know about his heartache? Who better than I? God knows I would give his son back to him if I could. God knows I can almost swear at him; He knows also that if he were brought into this house wounded I'd nurse him with my feeble hand as I would you, Cousin Hugh, but I would be apt to say when he got well (and here came in her little chirping laugh), 'Good sir, I have not the slightest objection to your going back to Massachusetts, bag and baggage.' By the way, he has another son who has not been much in Charleston--being educated at the North, they say. He must be a grown man now. I was told that when here last he resented the fact bitterly that there was some society in town which he could not enter."
"I reckon not," remarked Mrs. Hunter, grimly, and then followed some desultory conversation between the two elder ladies.
As was frequently his custom--in common with men whose past is more than their future promises to be--the captain had lapsed into a train of thought which took him far away from present surroundings. He was roused by Mrs. Hunter's preparations for departure, and looking suddenly at Mara, saw that her eyes were filled with tears. He was at her side instantly, and, taking her hand, asked gently, "What troubles you, my child?"
With bowed head she replied: "I understand you, Captain Bodine; your words have made everything clear to me."
He still held her hand and thought a moment. "About Ella's coming to you?" he asked.
"Yes, I'm not one of the Egyptians, but I'd so set my heart on it."
"Because of _your_ need, not Ella's?" again the captain queried, while his grasp on her hand tightened.
"Oh, Captain Bodine, do you think I could deceive you or a girl like Ella under any circumstances? If she did not come after to-day I feel that I should give up in despair very soon. I do need help, and just such help to body and mind as she can give me."
"Forgive me, Mara. The little story I told about your father explains why I feared. But we will say no more about it. I would rather have Ella with you than with any one else in the world."
"There," cried that buoyant young woman, "I knew I was right. Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings you old people are destined to learn wisdom."
"Well," said Mrs. Bodine, "I've had more drama tonight than I reckoned on, and I haven't been leading lady either. Will the chief baker escort me to the dining-room?"
After cake and cream, the captain escorted Mrs. Hunter and Mara home. He detained the latter at the door a moment, and said gently, "Mara, shun the chief danger of your life. Never be unfair to yourself."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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18
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A FAIR DUELLIST
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The great hand of time which turns the kaleidoscope of human affairs appeared to move slowly for a few weeks, as far as the characters of my story are concerned. The two little bakers worked together daily, one abounding in mirth and drollery, and the other cheered, or rather beguiled from melancholy in spite of herself. Business grew apace, not only because two girls who evoked general sympathy were the principals of the firm, but also for the reason that they put something of their own dainty natures into their wares. Aun' Sheba trudged and perspired in moderation, for the fleet-footed Vilet seemed to outrun Mercury. Moreover, the "head-pahners," as Aun' Sheba called them, insisted that their commercial travellers should take the street-cars when long distances were involved.
Captain Bodine and Mr. Houghton maintained their business relation in the characteristic manner indicated by their first interview. The ex-Confederate was given some routine work which kept him at a remote desk a certain number of hours a day, and employer and employee rarely met, and scarcely ever spoke to each other. The captain, however, had no reason to complain of his salary, which was paid weekly, and sufficed for his modest needs. So far from being dependent on his large-hearted cousin, he and Ella were enabled to contribute much to her material comfort, and immeasurably to her daily enjoyment. She and Ella were in the sunshine again, and it was hard to say which of the two talked the most genial nonsense. The old lady had what is termed "a sweet tooth," and loved dainties. The two girls, therefore, vied with each other in evolving rare and harmless delicacies.
"Two Ariels are ministering to me," she said, "and sometimes I feel so jolly that I would like to share with that old--I mean Mr. Houghton."
The girls never forgot, however, the depths beneath the ripple and sparkle of the old lady's manner.
As spring verged into summer, Uncle Sheba yielded more and more to the lassitude of the season. His "bobscure 'fliction" seemed to grow upon him, if it were possible to note degrees in his malady, but Aun' Sheba said, "'Long as he is roun' like a log an' don' bodder me I is use' ter it." He even began to neglect the "prar-meetin'," and old Tobe told him to his face, "You'se back-slidin' fur as you kin slide, inch or so." His son-in-law, Kern Watson, had won such a good reputation for steadiness that he was taken into the fire department. When off duty he was always with "Sissy an' de chilen."
Outwardly there was but slight change in Owen Clancy. He had never been inclined to make many intimate acquaintances, and those who knew him best only noted that he seemed more reserved about himself if possible, and that he was unusually devoted to business. Yet he was much spoken of in business circles, for it was known that he was the chief correspondent of the wealthy Mr. Ainsley of New York, who was making large investments in the South. Among the progressive men of the city, no matter what might be their political faith and association, the young man was winning golden opinions, for it was clearly recognized that he ever had the interest of his section at heart, that in a straightforward, honorable manner he was making every effort to enlist Northern capital in Southern enterprises. He had withdrawn almost wholly from social life, and ladies saw him but seldom in their drawing-rooms. When among men, however, he talked earnestly and sagaciously on the business topics of the hour. The evening usually found him with book in hand in his bachelor apartment.
Beneath all this ordinary ebb and flow of daily life, changes were taking place, old forces working silently, and new ones entering in to complicate the problems of the future. As unobtrusively as possible, Clancy kept himself informed about Mara and all that related to her welfare. By some malign fate, as she deemed it, she would unexpectedly hear of him, encounter him on the street, also, yet rarely now, meet him at some small evening company. He would permit no open estrangement, and always compelled her to recognize him. One evening, to her astonishment and momentary confusion he quietly took a seat by her side and entered into conversation, as he might have done with other ladies present. By neither tone nor glance did he recognize any cause for estrangement between them, and he talked so intelligently and agreeably as to compel her admiration. His mask was perfect, and after an instant hers was equally so, yet all the time she was as conscious of his love as of her own.
He recognized the new element which the Bodines had brought into her life, and with a lover's keen instinct began to surmise what the captain might become to her. He was not long in discovering the former relations of the veteran to Colonel Wallingford, and he justly believed that, as yet, Mara's regard was largely the result of that old friendship and an entire accordance in views. But he was not so sure about Bodine, whom he knew but slightly and with whom he had no sympathy. He had learned substantially the ground on which the captain had taken employment from Mr. Houghton, and as we know, he was bitterly hostile to that whole line of policy. "It would eventually turn every Southern man into a clerk," he muttered, "when it is our patriotic duty to lead in business as in everything else that pertains to our section." Yet he knew, or at least believed, that if he had taken the same course Mara might now be his wife.
Sometimes, when reading, apparently, he would throw down his book and say aloud in his solitude, "Bah, I'm more loyal to the South than this sombre-faced veteran. He would keep his State forever in his own crippled condition. No crutches for the South, I say; no general clerkship to the North, but an equal onward march, side by side, to one national destiny. He thinks he is a martyr and may very complacently let Mara think so too. Who has given up the more? He a leg, and I my heart's love!"
It has already been shown that Clancy touched the extremes of political and social life in the city. Some, of whom Mrs. Hunter was an exasperated exponent, could be cold toward him, but they could neither ignore nor despise him. Those beginning to cast off the fetters of enmity and prejudice, secretly admired him and were friendly. While cordial in his relations, therefore, with Northern people and Northern enterprises of the right stamp, he had not so lost his hold on Mara's exclusive circle as to remain in ignorance of what was transpiring within it, and he secretly resolved that if Bodine sought to take the girl of his heart from him, and, as he truly believed, from all chance of true happiness herself, he would give as earnest a warning as ever one soul gave to another.
In June he received a strong diversion to his thoughts. Mr. Ainsley wrote him from New York, in effect, that he with his daughter would soon be in Charleston--that his interests in the South had become so large as to require personal attention; also that he had new enterprises in view. The young man's interest and ambition were naturally kindled. As Mara had taken the Bodines and their affairs as an antidote for her trouble, he sought relief in the preoccupation which the Ainsleys might bring to his mind. Accordingly he met father and daughter at the station and escorted them to the hotel with some degree of pleasurable excitement.
Miss Ainsley made the same impression of remarkable beauty and cosmopolitan culture as at first. There was a refined, easy poise in her bearing. Indeed he almost fancied that, to her mind, coming to Charleston was a sort of condescension, she had visited so many famous cities in the world. She greeted him cordially, and to a vain man her brilliant eyes would have expressed more than the mere pleasure of seeing an old acquaintance again.
But few days elapsed before Mr. Ainsley was on the wing, here and there where his interests called him, meantime making the Charleston hotel his headquarters. Miss Ainsley's friend, Mrs. Willoughby, carried off the daughter to her pretty home on the Battery, where sea-breezes tempered the Southern sun. Clancy aided the father satisfactorily in business ways, and the daughter found him so agreeable socially as to manifest a wish to see him often. She interested him as a _"rara avis"_ which he felt that he would like to understand better, and he would have been less than a man if not fascinated by her beauty, accomplishments and intelligence. Miss Ainsley could not fail to charm the eyes of sense as well, and she was not chary of the secret that she had been fashioned in one of Nature's finest molds. The soft, warm languor of the summer evenings was, to her, ample excuse for revealing the glowing marble of her neck and bosom to dark Southern eyes, and admirers began to gather like bees to honey ready made.
Clancy had wished to see her deportment toward other young men, and now had the opportunity. The result flattered him in spite of himself. To others she was courteous, affable and sublimely indifferent. When he approached it seemed almost as if a film passed from her eyes, that she awakened into a fuller life and became an enchantress in her versatile powers. He responded with as fine a courtesy as her own, although quite different, but there was a cool, steady self-restraint in eyes and manner which piqued and charmed her.
Clancy would be long in learning to understand Miss Ainsley. He might never reach the secret of her life, and certainly would not unless he bluntly asked her to marry him--asked her so bluntly and persistently that all the wiles of which woman is capable opened no avenue of escape. She was an epicure of the finest type. If she had been asked to a banquet on Mount Olympus, she would have preferred to dine from the one delicious dish of ambrosia most to her taste and to sip only the choicest brand of nectar. Profusion, even at a feast of the gods, would have no charms for her. She had begun to see the world so early and had seen so much of it that she had learned the art of elimination to perfection. Sensuous to the last degree, but not sensual, she had a cool self-control and a fineness of taste which led her to choose but a few refined pleasures at a time and then to enjoy them deliberately and until satiety pointed to a new choice. Keen of intellect, she had studied society and with almost the skill of a naturalist had recognized the various types of men and women. This cool observation had taught her much worldly wisdom. She saw all about her, mere girls jaded with life already, faded young women keeping up with the fashionable procession as fagged out soldiers drag themselves along in the rear of a column. She had seen fresh young _debutantes_ rush into the giddy whirl to become pallid from the excess of one season. At one time, she and other friends of hers had been exultant, excited and distracted by their many admirers and suitors. She soon wearied, however, of this indiscriminate slaughter, and the devoted eager attentions, the manifest desires and hopes of commonplace men, so far from kindling a sense of triumph and power, almost made her ill. She became like a knight of the olden time who had hewn down inferiors until he was sick of gore.
And so she gradually withdrew from the fashionable rout, took time for reading and study and the perfection of her accomplishments. She accepted merely such invitations as were agreeable to her, smiling contemptuously at the idea that in order to maintain position in society one must wear herself out by rushing around to everything; and society respected her all the more. It became a triumph to secure her presence; but she only went where everything would accord with her taste and inclination. This was true of her life abroad as well as at home. Conscious of her father's wealth, and that, apart from an unexacting companionship to him, she could do as she pleased, she proposed to make the most of life as she estimated it. She would have all the variety she wished, but she would take it leisurely. She would not perpetrate the folly of gulping pleasures, still less would she permit herself to fall tumultuously in love with some ordinary man only to waken from a romantic dream to discover how ordinary he was.
She was also too shrewd, indeed one may almost say too wise, to think of an ambitious marriage. The man of millions or the man of rank or fame could never buy her unless personally agreeable to her. Yet she was rarely without a suitor, whom to a certain point she encouraged. Unless a man possessed some real or fancied superiority which pleased or interested her, she was practically inaccessible to him. She would be courtesy itself, yet by her strong will and tact would speedily make a gentleman understand, "You have no claim upon me; your wishes are nothing to me." If he interested her, however, if she admired him even slightly, she would give him what she might term a chance. Then to her mind their relations became much like a duel; she at least would conquer him; he might subdue her if he could; she would give him the opportunity, and if he could find a weak place in her polished armor and pierce her heart she would yield. The question was whether she had a heart, and she was not altogether sure of this herself. On one thing, however, she was resolved--she would not give up her liberty, ease and epicurean life for the duties, obligations and probable sorrows of wifehood, unless she met a man who had the power to make this course preferable.
During Clancy's visit to New York in the winter, Mr. Ainsley had spoken of him to his daughter in terms that interested her before she even saw the young man, and the moment the experienced woman of the world (for she was a woman of the world, though but little past her majority) looked upon him she was still more interested, recognizing at a glance the truth that whatever Clancy might be, he was not commonplace. This explains why he was perplexed by the intentness and soft fire of her eyes. If the way opened, she was inclined to give him "a chance." It might cost him dear, as it had others, but that was his affair. She felt that he was highly honored and distinguished in being given what she contemptuously denied to the great majority. The way _had_ opened. She was in Charleston, and now, this particular and lovely June evening found her on a balcony overlooking the shining ripples of the bay, reclining in a cane chair with her head leaning against a pillar and her eyes fixed on him with all the dangerous fascination they possessed. Some soft, white clinging material draped her form that was rendered more graceful than usual by her well-chosen attitude. A spray from an ivy vine hung above her, and its slightly moving shadow flickered on her throat and bosom. She knew she was entrancingly beautiful; so did he. He felt that if he were an artist nothing was left to be desired. As a man he was flattered with her preference and charmed with her beauty. He did not and could not believe that he had more than a passing interest in her mind as yet, and he felt that she would never be more to him than a gifted lovely friend, who could at one and the same time gratify his taste and bestow fine intellectual companionship. They talked freely with lapses of silence between them. These she would occasionally break with little snatches of song from some opera. Her familiarity with life abroad enabled her to say much which supplemented his reading and which interested him. So he was not averse to these interviews and was conscious of no danger.
To her they had an increasing pleasure. She was delighted that Clancy thawed so deliberately, that instead of speedily verging toward sentiment he found more pleasure in her intellectuality than in her outward beauty. So many others to whom she had given a chance had quickly lost both their heads and hearts, and she was beginning to rejoice in the belief that it might require a summer's tactics to beguile him of either. His gray eyes, which appeared dark in the moonlight, were clearly regarding her with quiet admiration, but instead of paying a compliment he would broach some topic so interesting in itself that before she knew it she was talking well and even brilliantly.
This present evening he did pay her a compliment, however, which delighted her. She had stated her view of a subject, and he had replied, "I must differ with you most decidedly, Miss Amsley." Then he added with a little apologetic laugh, "I could have made such a remark to very few ladies. I would have said, 'I beg your pardon, do not think I am contradicting you, but possibly on further reflection--' In brief, I would have gone through the whole conventional circumlocution. You are a woman of mind, and you put your views so strongly and clearly that I forget everything except your thought. Good reason why, your thought is so interesting, all the more so because it is your view, not mine, and because I do not agree with you. Have I made sufficient apology?"
"You have done much more, Mr. Clancy, you have paid me the only kind of a compliment that I enjoy. I am sick of conventionalities, and as for ordinary compliments, I am as satiated as one would be if the entire contents of Huyler's candy-shop had been sent to him."
"Oh, I knew that much before I had seen you five minutes. The only question in my mind was whether you had not been made ill mentally by them as one would be physically by the candy."
"In other words, whether I was a fool or not."
"Precisely."
"Well?"
"No need of that rising inflection. If you were a fool I would not be here."
"I reckon not, as you say in the South."
"Yet you value your beauty, Miss Ainsley."
"Indeed I do, very highly."
"And you know equally well that I admire it greatly, but I value your power of companionship more. Why should not a man and woman entertain each other without compliments, conventionalities and sentimentalities?"
"No reason in the world if they are capable of such companionship. The trouble with so many is that they tumble into these things, especially the last, as if they were blind ditches in their path."
"That is excellent. Do you regard love as a blind ditch?"
"The deepest and worst of them all, judging from the experiences of very many."
"I am inclined to agree with you," he answered very quietly.
A few moments later he rose to take his leave. She gave him her hand without rising, and said, "Good-night. I'm not going to leave this lovely scene till I am sleepy. Come again when you want companionship. Drop conventionality I would like a friend who would talk to me as men of brains talk to men of brains, without circumlocution."
"Very well, then, I shall begin at once. You have a head that ought to inspire an artist, but I like its furniture. I am going to read up on our point of disagreement. If I actually prove you are wrong you must yield like a man."
"I will."
The smile on her lips still lingered as she looked out upon the moonlit waters, and she passed into a delicious revery. At last she murmured, "Yes, he has a chance. I don't know how it will end. I may yield to his argument, but as to yielding to him, that is another affair. The best part of it all is that he is so slow in yielding to me. Here, in this out-of-the-way corner of the world, is a cup that I can at least drain slowly."
Clancy sauntered up Meeting Street, his thoughts preoccupied with the interview. Then half a block in advance two persons entered the thoroughfare, and he recognized Captain Bodine and Mara. He crossed the street so as not to meet them, and they passed in low, earnest conversation. If Miss Ainsley had been in the furthest star, he would not have cared. Every drop of his Southern blood was fired, and, with clinched hands, he strode homeward, and passed a sleepless night.
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{
"id": "6719"
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19
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A CHIVALROUS IMPULSE
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It must be admitted that Clancy had some cause for his perturbation. Captain Bodine was a middle-aged man, who had had deep, if not wide experiences. He had come to regard himself as saddened and way-worn, halting slowly down the westward slope of life, away from the exaltations of vanished joys, and the almost despairing grief of former sorrows.
Memory kept both in sharp outline; nevertheless they were receding, as do hills and mountains which the traveller leaves behind him. The veteran had believed that he had no future besides earning an honest living, and providing for his beloved child.
The traveller--to employ again the figure--often journeys forward in what promises to be a monotonous road. He is not expecting anything, nor is he looking forward to any material change. Unawares he surmounts a little eminence, and there opens a vista which kindles his dull eyes with its beauty, and stirs his heavy heart with the suggestion that he has not passed by and beyond all the best things of life.
Mara's glance of profound and intelligent sympathy had opened such a vista to Bodine's mental vision. It had been enough then; it had been enough since, in the main, that she was the daughter of his old and dearest friend, and that their thoughts, beliefs and sorrows were in such complete accord. Mara had become his daughter's closest friend, as well as co-laborer, and so he heard of her daily, and saw her very often. All that he saw and heard confirmed and deepened his first impressions. A companionship, wonderfully sweet and cheering, was growing between them. He had not yet begun to analyze this, or to recognize whither it was tending, while not a shadow of suspicion crossed her mind. She only felt that she had found a friend who diverted her thoughts, solaced all her trouble, and made the past, to which she believed she belonged, more real, more full of precious memories. The days in the main were passing quietly and evenly for both, full of work and deeply interesting thoughts, and the delightful reunions around the chair of the genial invalid, Mrs. Bodine, increased in number.
The old lady talked and acted as if she had emerged into the warmest sunshine of prosperity, and only Ella could surpass her in blitheness of spirit and comical speeches. They caricatured each other, every one, everything, yet without a particle of malice. Even poor old Mrs. Hunter sometimes had to relax her grim rigidity, and Bodine often laughed with the hearty ring of his old campaigning days. At times Mara was beguiled into the belief that she was happy, that her deep wound was healing. The illusion would last for days together; then something unexpected would occur, and the love of her heart would reveal itself in bitter out-cry against its wrong. If she could only see Clancy in some light which her veritable God-bestowed conscience could condemn, she believed that her struggle would be much easier; but he always confronted her with his earnest, steady eyes, which said, "I have as true a right to think as I do, as you have to think differently. Not even for your sake will I be false." Thus after days of comparative peace, the tempest would again rage in her soul.
Buoyant, happy Ella felt now as if she could trip on through life indefinitely; but one summer morning she tripped into a little adventure which brought unwonted expressions of perplexity into her fair face. She was returning along the shady side of the street from her duties, her face like a blush-rose from the heat, when she observed coming toward her a young man who, from his garb and bearing, caught her eyes. Pretty Ella knew she attracted a great deal of attention from the opposite sex when she appeared in the street, and she was not such a demure little saint as to let a fine, manly figure pass without her observation, but her observance was quick, furtive, like the motion of a bird's eye that looks you over before you are aware of the bird's presence. No staring fellow ever met her blue eyes in the street. On the present occasion the little maiden said to herself, "There's a style of a man I haven't seen, and he's evidently a Northerner, too. Well, he's not bad; indeed he is the best-looking Vandal, as Mrs. Hunter would say--Oh, merciful Heaven! that old woman will be run over."
Her commentary had been interrupted by an express wagon driven recklessly around the corner. Picking her way slowly across the street was a plain, respectable looking old woman, with a basket of parcels on her arm, and, at the moment of Ella's cry, she was almost under the horse's feet, paralyzed with terror. Her cry caught the young man's attention. With a single bound, he was in the street, his right hand and arm forcing the horse back on its haunches, while with his left he gathered up the old woman. Then by a powerful effort he threw the horse's head and forequarters away from him with such force that the shafts cracked. Bearing the woman to the sidewalk, he placed her upon her feet, then went back, picked up her parcels and placed them in her basket. Without waiting to hear her thanks, he lifted his hat and was turning away as if all had been a trifle, when he was confronted by the enraged expressman pouring forth volleys of vituperation. With a chivalric impulse the girl drew nearer the stranger, who looked the bully steadily in the eyes while he kept his hands in his pockets. The man made a gesture as if to strike. Instantly the young fellow's left arm was up in the most scientific attitude of self-defence. "Don't do that, you fool," he said. "Are you too drunk not to see that I'm strong? Clear out, or I'll have you arrested. If you touch me, I'll knock you under the feet of your horse."
There was something in the athlete's bearing, and the way he put up his left arm, which brought the expressman to his senses, and he drew off swearing about the blanked "Northerners, who acted as if they owned the city."
George Houghton--for we may as well give his name at once--regarded the fellow contemptuously an instant, and again turned to pursue his way regardless of the gathering crowd. But his attention was at once arrested by a pair of blue eyes which were so eloquent with admiration and approval, that he smiled and again lifted his hat.
"You are a gentleman," Ella breathed softly, the words coming with scarcely any volition on her part.
A frown instantly darkened Houghton's face, and, with a slight, stiff acknowledgment, he strode away. "Why the deuce shouldn't I be a gentleman!" he muttered. "The very young girls of this town are taught to look upon Northerners as boors. One has only to save an old woman from being run over, face a blackguard, and the wondering expression is wrung from one of the blue-blooded scions, 'You're a gentleman!' And she was blue-blooded. A fellow with half an eye and in half a minute could see that. And I suppose she thought that one of my ilk was no more capable of such a deed than Toots or Uriah Heep. Bah!"
Having thus relieved his mind, young Houghton's step soon grew slower and slower. It was evident that a new and different train of thought had begun in his mind. At last, with characteristic force, he communed with himself: "Thin-skinned fool! why didn't I look at the girl instead of thinking of my blasted self and pride! Why, that girl's face will haunt me for many a day, whether I ever see her again or not. I'm as bad as these Bourbons themselves in my prejudice. Now I think of it she stood almost alone at my side when others were keeping at a safer distance, fearing a fight. Her look was one of simple, ingenuous approval--almost the expression of a child, and I acted like a brute. That's the Old Harry with me, I act first and think afterward."
A few minutes later he was at the office, and writing rapidly at his father's dictation. After a time Mr. Houghton said, "Take these two letters to Bodine's desk, and tell him to make copies. Then you can go, George. Your vacation is too new for me to take so much of your time."
"See here, father," replied the young man, putting his hand on the old gentleman's shoulder. "You've been here all these years working like thunder to make money, and I've been spending it like thunder. If you're going to keep on working, I'm going to work with you; if you'll knock off and go on a lark with me, I'll guarantee that you'll be ten years younger before fall."
The old man's face softened wonderfully. Indeed one could scarcely imagine it was capable of such an expression.
"Ah, George! you don't, you can't know," he said, "yet my heart is not so dead but that I feel and recognize the spirit in which you speak. My place is here, right here, and I should not be contented anywhere else. But you are just from your studies. You didn't dazzle the faculty by your performances. Perhaps they would say you were a little too much given to boating and that sort of thing. But I am satisfied that you have come home a man, and not a blue-spectacled milk-sop. Help me out a little, and then go off on your lark yourself and recuperate."
"Recuperate!" and the young fellow made the office ring with his laugh. "Feel of that muscle, old gentleman. All the recuperation I need I can get a few hours before and after sundown. I'll go now, however, for there's a spanking breeze on the bay, and I'd like to make a run around Fort Sumter."
"George, George, be prudent. You know that your brother lies at the bottom of that accursed bay."
"There, father, there, he died doing his duty like a man, and you mustn't grieve for him so. Good-by."
The old man looked wistfully after him a moment, then turned his mind, like a strong motor power, to the complicated machinery that was coining wealth.
George went to Bodine, whom he had never seen before, and of whom he knew nothing, and began in his half-boyish way: "Here, mine ancient, father wants--Beg your pardon. Didn't know that you had lost a leg."
"What is it that Mr. Houghton wishes?" said the captain coldly, and turning upon the young man a visage which impressed him instantly.
"I beg your pardon again," said George. "My father would like copies made of these letters;" and he touched his hat as he turned away.
"Thunder!" he muttered as he left the counting-house. "I was told that I was a gentleman for a little trumpery act in the street. That man tells you he is one by a single glance from his sad, stern eyes. He is another of the blue-bloods, Southerner to the backbone. How is it that he is in the old gentleman's employ, I wonder? I supposed father hated ex-Confederates as the Devil does holy water. Bodine, Bodine. I must find out who he is, for he evidently has a history."
He soon forgot all about Bodine in the pleasure of skilfully sailing his boat close to the wind.
Ella had pursued her way homeward with bowed head and a confused sense of shame and resentment. "Suppose I did speak to him, a stranger," she murmured, "was he so dull, or so cold and utterly conventional as to make no allowance for the circumstances? No matter, I've had a lesson that I shall never forget. Hereafter he and his kind may save all the old women in Charleston, and fight all the bullies, and I won't even look at them. If he had had the brains and blood of a frog even, he would have understood me. And he did seem to understand at first, for he smiled pleasantly and lifted his hat. Does he consider it an insult to be told he is a gentleman? Perhaps he thought this fact should be too apparent to be mentioned, or else he thought it bold and unmaidenly to open my lips at all. A plague on him for not being able to see the simple truth. No Southerner would have been so stupid, or ready to think evil."
Thus she communed with herself till she reached her own room. After a little thought, she decided not to speak of the adventure. She had an unusual share of common-sense, and knew that the affair would only give pain to her father and cousin, and that its relation would serve no earthly good to any one.
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{
"id": "6719"
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20
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THE STRANGER EXPLAINS
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There are those who touch our life closely, and become essentially a part of it; there are many more who are but casual and passing acquaintances, and yet these very people often unconsciously become the most important factors in our destiny. Ella Bodine was soon to prove this truth. It will of course be understood that her life was not so secluded and restricted that she practically had no acquaintances beyond the characters of our story. Sensible Mrs. Bodine had no intention that her pretty cousin should be hidden behind the prejudices so powerful in those with whom she was immediately associated.
"Cousin Hugh," she said, one day soon after Ella's encounter with Houghton, "how was it with you when you were a young fellow? how was it with me when I was a girl? Do you suppose your daughter is made of different flesh and blood? She is so unselfish in nature and sunny in temperament that you will never learn from her that she has longings for society of her own age. We have no right to keep her among our shadows. We belong to the past; she has a future, and should have the chance which is the right of every young girl. You must not judge her by Mara, who stands by herself, and is not a representative of any ordinary type. She is as old as you are, and a great deal older than I am. She has grown up among shadows and loves them. Ella loves the sunshine, and should have all of it that we can give her. Now, you must let her go out more. I will choose her chaperons, and I reckon I know whom to choose. If I do say it, I would like you to mention any one in Charleston more competent. I know about the fathers and mothers, the grandfathers and grandmothers, and the remote ancestors of every one in Charleston who _is_ any one."
"Cousin Sophy, I believe you are right. I have permitted Ella to be too devoted to me, but we have lived such a precarious life of late--indeed it has been the vital question how we were to live at all. We are now very differently situated. Yes, you are right. Ella should see something of society, and enjoy some of its pleasures, and, as you say, should have her chance." At these final words he sighed deeply.
"I know what that sigh means," resumed the old lady. "You would wish to keep Ella to yourself always--the natural impulse of a father's heart. Yet if you allow this impulse to control you, it will become selfishness of the worst kind. I say again that every girl should have her chance to see and be seen, and to make the most and best of her life according to woman's natural destiny. You may trust me, as I have said, to choose those who shall have the care of Ella when she goes out. She has an invitation to a little company at Mrs. Willoughby's, and a most discreet friend has offered to chaperon her. We'll fix her out so that she will appear as well as any one, and you know our claims don't rest on expensiveness of dress. Mrs. Willoughby comes of one of the oldest and best families in the State. I know she is liberal, and affiliates with Northern people more than I could wish, but they are all said to be of the best class--and I suppose there is a best class among 'em. Good Lor', Hugh! we may feel and think as we please, and can never change, but we can't keep back the rising tide. If there are a few Northern people present Ella won't be contaminated any more than you are by working among Northern people. We have our strong prejudices--that's what they are called--but we must not let them make us ridiculous. Mrs. Willoughby says she's emancipated, and that she'd have whom she pleased in her parlors. She has been abroad so much, you know. Well, well, we'll consider it settled." And so it was.
When Ella was informed of her cousin's plan in her behalf she was half wild with delight. "I may consider myself a debutante," she said. "Oh, Cousin Sophy! how shall I behave?"
"Behave just as a bird flies," said the wise old lady. "If you put on any airs, if you are not your own natural self, I'll shake you when you come home."
The captain saw his child's pleasure, and felt anew the truth of his cousin's words. Ella should be immured no longer. Mara had been invited also, but declined, preferring to spend the evening with Mrs. Bodine.
Mrs. Willoughby's company was not large, and had been selected from various motives. We need mention but one that had influenced her. Miss Ainsley had requested that George Houghton should be invited. Her father and Mr. Houghton had large business interests in common, and at Mr. Ainsley's request the young man had called upon his daughter. She was pleased with him, although she felt herself to be immeasurably older than he. Mrs. Willoughby had also been favorably impressed by his fine appearance and slightly brusque manner.
"Yes," said the astute Miss Ainsley, as they were talking him over after his departure, "he's a big, handsome, finely educated boy, who would walk through your Southern conventionalities as if they were cobwebs, had he a chance."
"Delightful!" cried Mrs. Willoughby. "If I can keep my drawing-room free from insipidity, I am content. As to his walking through our conventionalities, as you term them, let him try it. If he doesn't butt his head against some rather solid walls, I'm mistaken. You don't half know what a bold thing I am doing when I invite old Houghton's son; but then it is just this kind of social temerity that enchants me, and he shall come. I only hope that some good people won't rise up and shake off the dust of their feet."
"Don't worry; you're a privileged character. Mr. Clancy has told me all about it. He admires you immensely because you are so untrammelled."
"He admires you a hundred-fold more. What are you going to do with him?"
"I don't know. I couldn't do anything with him yet. That's his charm. If I didn't know better, I should say he was the coldest--he is not cold at all. The woman who reaches his heart will find a lot of molten lava. I'm often inclined to think it has been reached by some one else, and that his remarkable poise results from a nature fore-armed, or else chilled by a former experience. At any rate, there is a fire smouldering in his nature, and when it breaks out it won't be of the smoky, lurid sort that has so often made me ill. There will be light and heat in plenty."
"Well, you're an odd girl, Caroline. You experiment with men's hearts like an old alchemist, who puts all sorts of substances into his crucible in the hope of finding something that will enrich him."
"And probably, like the old alchemist, I shall never find anything except what, to me, is dross."
Under Mrs. Robertson's wing Ella appeared, and met with a very kindly reception. She had not Miss Ainsley's admirable ease, but she possessed something far better. There was a sweet girlish bloom in addition to her innately refined manner and ingenuous loveliness of face, which made even the experienced belle sigh that she had passed by that phase forever. Yet shrewd Ella's eyes were as busy as they were intelligent. She wondered at Miss Ainsley with mingled admiration and distrust, but she had received a sufficient number of hints from Mrs. Bodine to understand her hostess quite well. She saw Clancy enter, and Miss Ainsley's welcome, and quickly observed that there was a sort of free-masonry between them. Then some one appeared who almost took away her breath. It was the stranger to whom she had spoken so unexpectedly, even to herself. She saw that Mr. Clancy, Miss Ainsley, and Mrs. Willoughby greeted him cordially, but that many others appeared surprised and displeased. Little time was given to note more, for the stranger's eyes fell upon her. He instantly turned to his hostess, and evidently asked for an introduction. With a slight sparkle of mischief in her eyes, Mrs. Willoughby complied, and Ella saw the stranger coming toward her as straight and prompt as if he meant to carry her off bodily. He seemed to ignore every one and everything else in the room, but she was too high-spirited to fall into a panic, or even to be confused. Indeed she found herself growing angry, and was resolving to give him a lesson, when his name was mentioned. Then she was startled, and for an instant confused. This was no other than the son of "that old--Mr. Houghton," as Mrs. Bodine always mentioned him, with a little cough of self-recovery as if she had been on the perilous edge of saying something very unconventional. His father was her father's employer, and the instinctive desire to save her father from trouble led to hesitation in her plan of rebuke and retaliation. Her petty resentment should not lead to any unpleasant complications, and she therefore merely bowed civilly.
Houghton repeated her name as if a victim of momentary surprise himself, and then said with his direct gaze, "I wish to ask ten thousand pardons."
"That is a great many. I shall have to think about granting one."
"If I were you I wouldn't do it," was his next rather brusque remark.
"That is your advice, then?"
"No, indeed. I'm not my own worst enemy. Miss Bodine, circumlocution is not my forte. I had not walked a block away from you the other day before I charged myself with being a fool and a brute. It took just that long for me to get it into my thick head what your manner and words meant, and I've been in a rage with myself ever since."
"Well," she asked, looking down demurely, "what did they mean?"
"They meant you were a brave girl--that from a chivalric impulse you had drawn near when even men stood a little aloof, as if fearing that if the affair came to blows, they might get a chance one themselves. Your face had the frank expression of a child--how often in fancy I've seen it since! --the words came from your lips almost as a child would speak them. Now that I see you again I know how true my second thoughts were of you and of myself. I deserve a whipping instead of your pardon."
There was a point yet to be cleared up in Ella's mind, and she remarked coldly, "I do not see how you could have had any other thoughts than what you term your second thoughts."
"Nor do I, now; and I suppose you can have no mercy on a poor fellow who is often hasty and wrong-headed. I will make a clean breast of it. I was charmed with your expression when first aware of your presence, but when you spoke you touched a sore spot. Miss Bodine, you would not be ostracized at the North. You would be treated with the courtesy and cordiality to which every one would see you to be entitled. Practically I am ostracized here by the class to which you belong. When you spoke I stalked away like a sulky boy, muttering, 'Why shouldn't I be a gentleman?' Even the girls in this town are taught to look upon Northerners as boors. I had only to pick up an old woman, and face a bully, when, as if in utter surprise that one of my ilk should be so grandly heroic, I heard the words, 'You are a gentleman.' You see it was my wretched egotism that got me into the scrape. When I thought of you, not myself, I saw the truth at once, and felt like going back to the expressman and meekly asking him to give me a drubbing."
All was clear to Ella now. Indeed there was a frankness and sincerity about Houghton which left no suspicion of dark corners and mental reservations. As his explanation proceeded she began to laugh. "Well," she remarked, "I had my first thoughts too. I said to myself, as I pursued my way homeward, with burning cheeks, that you or any one else might save all the old women in town, and fight all the bullies, and that I would pass on my way without looking to the right or left."
"Pardon me, Miss Bodine, you are mistaken. Your generous spirit would get the better of you again in two seconds. Heaven grant, however, that next time you may have a gentleman as your ally. For a few moments I ceased to be one, and became an egotistical fool."
"You are too hard upon yourself. Since you interpret me so kindly it would ill become me to--" "Ella, my dear," said her chaperon, "let me present to you Mr. Vandeveer."
Houghton gave her a bright, grateful glance, rose instantly, and bowed himself away.
Mrs. Robertson had been on pins and needles over this prolonged conference. There was something so resolute about Houghton's manner, and he had placed his chair so adroitly to bar approach to Ella, that the good lady was in sore straits. Mrs. Willoughby saw her perplexity, and felt not a little mischievous pleasure over it. She disappeared that she might not be called upon to interfere. At last in desperation Mrs. Robertson laid hold on Mr. Vandeveer, and ended the ominous interview.
Ella gave rather lame attention to her new companion's commonplaces; then others were introduced, and the evening was drifting away in the ordinary fashion. She soon began to talk well in her own bright way, and had all the attention a young debutante could desire, but she was always conscious of Houghton's presence, and also aware that he was quietly observant of her. She saw that he met with very little cordiality, and that from but a few. Womanlike, she began to take his part in her thoughts, and to feel the injustice shown him. She had an innate sense of fair play, and she resented the manoeuvring of her chaperon to keep him away from her. Yet she soon found herself enjoying abundantly the conversation of such young men as met with Mrs. Robertson's approval. This truth was apparent to that lady's satisfaction, but the independent young woman was not long in resolving that if she went into society she would not go as a child in leading-strings, and she determined that she would speak to Houghton again before the evening was over, if the opportunity offered. He had at last disappeared, but she soon discovered that he was on the balcony with Clancy and Miss Ainsley. Strolling past them with her escort, she heard enough of their bright, merry talk to wish that she had a part in it. It was her nature, however, to avoid him until she could speak under the eye of her chaperon, and she again entered the lighted drawing-room.
Houghton, meanwhile, had been doing some thinking himself. The girl, whose blue eyes had looked at him so approvingly in the street, was taking a stronger hold on his fancy every moment. The relaxation of her cold aspect into mirthfulness, and an approach to kindness had enchanted him; while her ardent, honest, fearless nature appealed to him powerfully. "She strikes me as a woman who would stand by a fellow through thick and thin as long as he was right," he thought, "and if my judgment is correct the whole ex-Confederate army shan't keep me from getting acquainted with her. Ah! how I liked that severe look in her eyes till she knew what my first thoughts were! She _has_ blue blood of the right sort, and I'm sorely mistaken if it doesn't feed a brain that can think for itself."
He also returned to the drawing-room, and was vigilant for an opportunity. It soon occurred. Ella and her attendant were chatting with Mrs. Willoughby a little apart from the others. Houghton joined them instantly, and was encouraged when both the ladies greeted him with a smile. The attendant gentleman soon withdrew, the hostess remained a few moments longer, and then Houghton and Ella were alone.
"You may have observed," he said, "the penalty I pay for being a Northerner."
"Yes," she replied, "and I don't think it's fair."
"Miss Bodine, do you dare _think_ for yourself?"
"I scarcely know how I can help doing so."
"That is just what I was thinking out on the balcony."
"I thought you were charmed by that beautiful Miss Ainsley."
"She has no eyes except for Clancy, and a fine fellow he is too--too good for her, I imagine. I can't make her out."
"Neither can I." "Oh, bother her! I don't like feminine riddles. Miss Bodine, there's a gentleman in my father's employ bearing your name. Is he a relative?"
"He is my father," she replied proudly.
"I should guess as much if your eyes were not so blue."
"I have my mother's eyes, I am told."
"Well, on that same day--you know--he told me that he was a gentleman: can you guess how?"
"I would rather you should tell me."
"I was sent to him by my father with a message, and I spoke rudely to him at first; not intentionally, but as a harum-scarum young fellow might speak to an elderly man under ordinary circumstances, I meaning nothing more than friendly familiarity. I fear you won't understand, but with you I can't help downright honesty."
"Yes, I understand. He was one of your father's clerks, and you cared little what you said to him."
"Scarcely right, Miss Bodine. With all my faults--and they are legion--I'm good-natured, and do not intentionally hurt people's feelings. What a fine proof of that I gave you in my insufferable stupidity!"
"That's been explained and is past. Please don't refer to it any more."
"Heaven knows I wish to forget it. Well, your father turned to me from his writing. One look was enough. I begged his pardon twice on the spot. That is the way he told me he was a gentleman. It had been so born and bred into him that, unless a fellow was an idiot, one glance told the story."
Her face softened wonderfully as he spoke, and her eyes grew lustrous with feeling, as she said: "You are not an idiot, Mr. Houghton. I am glad you so quickly appreciated my father. He is more than a gentleman, he is a hero, and I idolize him."
"I should fancy it was a mutual idolatry," and his eyes expressed an admiration of which the dullest girl would have been conscious, and Ella was not dull at all. "I wish we could become acquainted," he added abruptly, and with such hearty emphasis that her color deepened.
Before she could reply, her chaperon managed to separate them again, and she saw him no more until, rather early in the evening, she was bidding her hostess goodnight. Then she encountered such an eager, questioning, friendly look, that she smiled involuntarily, and slightly bowed as she turned away. Mrs. Robertson was so preoccupied at the moment that she did not witness this brief, subtile exchange of--what? Ella did not know, herself, but her heart was wonderfully light, and there was a delicious sense of exhilaration in all her veins.
As they were driving home, Mrs. Robertson began sententiously, "Ella, in the main you behaved admirably. I don't suppose anything better could be expected of one so unversed in society, especially Charleston society. You were natural and refined in your deportment, and bore yourself as became your ancestry. You will soon learn to make discriminations. I had no idea that young Houghton would be present, or I would have told you about him and his father. Mrs. Willoughby is carrying things too far, even if many of our people have consented to wink at much that we disapprove of. Houghton represents the most detested Northern element among us. Of course you, in your inexperience, felt that you must be polite to every man introduced to you, and he talked with the volubility of which only a Yankee is capable. It is scarcely possible that you will meet him anywhere except at Mrs. Willoughby's, and if you go there any more you must learn the art of shaking off an objectionable person speedily. Your meeting Houghton to-night was purely accidental, and I reckon that after you have been out a few times you will learn to choose your associates from those only of whom your father and cousin would approve. Perhaps therefore you had better not say anything about your meeting Houghton, unless you feel that you ought. No harm has been done, and it would only displease your father, and render him adverse to your going out hereafter."
The good lady was a little worried by the fear that her reputation as a chaperon would be damaged, and, sincerely believing that "no harm had been done," and that her homily would remove all danger from the future, she counselled as she thought wisely. Her heart was full of goodwill toward the girl, and she was desirous that nothing should prevent her from enjoying society in her interpretation of the word.
Ella thanked her warmly for her kindness and advice, but she was in deep perplexity, for she had never concealed anything from her father before. Her lightness of heart was already gone, and there were tears in her eyes before she slept.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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21
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UNCLE SHEBA SAT UPON
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Old Tobe, keeper of the "rasteran," may have been right in saying that Uncle Sheba had backslidden as far as he could slide, remembering the limitations of a life like his, but circumstances had recently occurred which brought his church relations to a crisis. Tobe was the opposite pole in character to Uncle Sheba. There was an energy about the old caterer which defied age and summer heat. Even his white wool always seemed bristling aggressively and controversially. His fiery spirit influenced his commonest acts. When he boiled potatoes his customers were wont to say "he made 'em bile like de debil."
He carried his energy into his religion, one of his favorite exhortations in the prayer-meeting being, "Ef you sinners wants to'scape you'se got to git up an' git." During the preaching service he took a high seat in the synagogue, and if any one in the range of his vision appeared drowsy he would turn round and glare till the offender roused into consciousness. The children and young people stood in awe of him, and there was a perfect oasis of good behavior surrounding his pew. Once some irreverent young men thought it would be a joke to pretend to "conviction ob sin," and to seek religious counsel of old Tobe, but they came away scared half out of their wits, one of them declaring that he smelt brimstone a week afterward. The Rev. Mr. Birdsall felt that he had a strong ally in Tobe, but he often sighed over the old man's want of discretion.
Uncle Sheba was Tobe's _bete noir_, and he often inwardly raged over "dat lazy niggah." "De time am comin' w'en dat backslider got to be sot on," he would mutter, and this seemed his one consolation. He could scarcely possess his soul in patience in the hope of this day of retribution; "but I kin hole in till it come, fer it's gwine to come shuah," he occasionally said to some congenial spirits.
Tobe had a very respectable following in the church both as to numbers and character, for many looked upon his zeal as heaven-inspired. At last there came a hot Sunday afternoon which brought his hour and opportunity. Mr. Birdsall was not only expounding, but also pounding the pulpit cushion in order to waken some attention in his audience. Old Tobe had been whirling from one side to the other, and glaring hither and thither, till in desperation he got up and began to nudge and pinch the delinquents. From one of the back pews, however, there soon arose a sound which so increased as to drown even Mr. Birdsall's stentorian voice. Tobe tiptoed to the spot, and, in wrath that he deemed righteous, blended with not a little exultation, looked upon Uncle Sheba. His head had fallen on his bosom, and from his nose were proceeding sounds which would put to shame a high-pressure engine. Aun' Sheba was shaking him on one side and Kern Watson on the other. Audible snickering was general, but this soon gave way to alarm as Aun' Sheba exclaimed aloud, "He's dun gwine an' got de popoplexy shuah."
"Carry him out," said old Tobe, in a whisper which might have been heard in the street.
Two or three men sprang forward to aid, but Kern sternly motioned them back, and, lifting Uncle Sheba's portly form as if it were a child, carried the unconscious man to the vestibule. Scores were about to follow, but Tobe, with his wool bristling as never seen before, held up his hand impressively, and in the same loud whisper heard by all, remarked, "It doan took de hull cong'ration to wait on one po' sinner. Sabe yo'selves, brud'ren an' sisters. Sabe yo'selves, fer de time am a comin' w'en you'se all will be toted out dis yere temple ob de Lawd foot fo'most."
With this grewsome recollection forced upon their attention the people sat down again, wide awake at last. Tobe beckoned to three or four elderly men whom he knew he could rely upon, and they gathered around Uncle Sheba. His wife was slapping him on the back and chafing his hands, while Kern was splashing water in his face. The unfortunate man began to sneeze, and manifest rather convulsive signs of recovery. At last he blurted out, "Dar now, dar now, Aun' Sheba, doan go on so. I'se gwine to bring in de kinlins right smart."
"Bress de Lawd!" exclaimed Aun' Sheba, "dat soun' nat'rel. No popoplexy in dat ar kin' ob talk."
Tobe and his allies exchanged significant glances. Uncle Sheba was brought to his senses sufficiently to be supported home by his wife and son-in-law. He soon became aware that he had committed an awful indiscretion, for Watson looked stern, and there was a portentous solemnity in Aun' Sheba's expression. He began to enter on excuses. "I was jis' come ober by de heat," he said. " 'Tween de heat an' de po'ful sarmon, I was jis' dat 'pressed dat de sperit went out ob me."
"Mr. Buggone," replied his wife, severely, "it was wat went inter you, an' not wat wen' out ob you, dat made de trouble. You jes' gormidized at dinnah. I'se gwine to cut off you'se 'lowance one-half."
At this dire threat Uncle Sheba groaned aloud, feeling that his sin had overtaken him swiftly indeed. His supper was meagre, and to his plaintive remarks Aun' Sheba made no reply, but maintained an ominous silence until sleep again brought the relief of oblivion.
After Uncle Sheba's departure, Tobe and the other pillars of the church held a whispered conference in the vestibule, and soon agreed up their course. When the services were over, they, with other sympathizers, waited upon the minister. Mr. Birdsall was hot, tired, and incensed himself, and so was in a mood to listen to their representations.
"Hit's time dis yere scan'el was r'moved," said Tobe, solemnly. "We mus'purge ourselves. Mr. Buggone should be sot on, an' 'spended at de berry leas'; an' ter make de right 'pression on oders dat's gettin' weak in dere speritool jints, I move we sot on Mr. Buggone's case to-morrer ebenin'."
Mr. Birdsall was made to feel that it was his duty to accede, but he already felt sorry for Aun' Sheba and the Watsons, and had misgivings as to the result.
"Well," said he at last, "I'll agree to a prelim'nary conf'rence to-morrow evenin' at Mr. Buggone's house. Brud-'ren, we must proceed in de spirit ob lub an' charity, an' do our best to pluck a bran' from de burnin'."
In the morning he went around to prepare Aun' Sheba for the ordeal, but she and Vilet had gone out upon their mercantile pursuits, and Uncle Sheba also had disappeared. To Sissy the direful intelligence was communicated. In spite of all Mr. Birdsall's efforts to console, she was left sobbing and rocking back and forth in her chair. When Kern came home, he heard the news with a rigid face.
"Well," he said, "ef it's right, it's right. Ef I'd done wrong I'd stan' up an' face wot come ob it."
Uncle Sheba knew when his wife would return, and was ready to receive her in the meekest of moods. He had cut an unusual quantity of wood and kindlings, but they failed to propitiate. Sissy soon called her mother to come over to her cabin to hear of Mr. Birdsall's visit, and all that it portended. Aun' Sheba listened in silence, and sat for a long time in deep thought, while Sissy and Vilet sobbed quietly. At last the old woman said firmly, "Sissy, I wants you and Kern ter be on han'. Vilet kin take keer ob do chillun. Dis am gwine ter be a solemn 'casion, an' de Lawd on'y knows wot's gwine ter come out ob it. Anyhow dis fam'ly mus' stan' by one noder. My mind ain't clar jes yit, but'll git clar wen de'mergency comes; I jes' feel it in my bones it'll git clar den."
There was such an awful solemnity in her aspect when she returned, that Uncle Sheba was actually scared. It seemed to him that her manner could not be more depressing if she were making preparations for his funeral. His trepidation was increased when he was told briefly and sternly to put on his "Sunday-go-to-meetin's."
"Wotfer, Aun' Sheba?"
"You'se know soon 'nuff. De Elder's gwine to call on you dis ebenin'. Ef you'd had de popoplexy in arnest, we'd make great 'lowance fer you, but wen you eat an' drink till you mos' ready to bust, and den'sturb de hull meetin' by snortin' like a 'potamus, dar's got to be trouble, an' I'se got to meet it."
Uncle Sheba did as he was directed, with the feeling that the judgment day had come.
Meanwhile old Tobe had prepared his indictment, and marshalled his forces for the occasion. At seven in the evening he led them to the nearest corner, and waited for Mr. Birdsall, who soon appeared. Led by him, they entered Aun' Sheba's living-room in solemn procession. Although the evening was warm, there was a fire on the hearth, for she had said, "Dere's gwine ter be notin' wantin' to de 'casion." All the chairs had been brought in from Watson's cabin, and he and Sissy sat in the background. Uncle Sheba had been placed on the further side of the hearth, and was fairly trembling with apprehension. He tried to assume a pious, penitent air, but failed miserably. Aun' Sheba made an imposing spectacle.
She had arrayed herself in her Sunday gown and had wound a flaming turban about her head. Apparently she was the most collected person present, except Kern Watson who sat back in shadow, his face quiet and stern. As the minister and committee entered she rose with dignity and said, "Elder an' brud'ren, take cheers."
Then she sat down again, folded her hands and gazed intently at the ceiling.
If old Tobe was not cool, as indeed he never was, he was undaunted, and only waited for the minister to prepare the way before he opened on Uncle Sheba. A few moments of oppressive silence occurred, daring which the culprit shook as if he had an ague, but Aun' Sheba did not even wink. Mr. Birdsall, regarding her portentous aspect with increased misgiving, began at last in a mournful voice, "Mis Buggone, dis is a very sorrowful 'casion. We are here not as you'se enemies but as you'se fren's. Our duty is painful, 'stremely so, but de brud'ren feel dat de time is come wen Mr. Buggone mus' be made to see de error ob his ways, dat dere mus' be no mo' precrastination. De honah ob de church is japerdized. Neber-de-less he is a free-agent. De lamp still holes out to burn--" "An' de wilest sinner can return," interrupted Aun' Sheba, nodding her head repeatedly. "I unerstan'. You means well, Elder."
Old Tobe could hold in no longer, and began excitedly, "De question am weder de wile sinner's gwine ter return, or wants ter return, or's got any return in 'im. Elder, I feels fer Mis Buggone an' her family, but dis yere ting's gwine on long anuff. We'se been forbearin' an' long-sufferin' till dere's a scan'el in de church. I'se tried wid all my might 'er keep de people awake an' listenin', and I'se gettin' dun beat out. Ef we wink at dis awful 'zample you mought as well go to de grabeyard an' preach. It ud be mo' comfable fer you, kase dey'd hear jus' as well, an' dey wouldn't 'sturbe de'scorse by snorin' de roof off. Now I ask de sense ob dis meetin'. Wen a member backslide so he do notin' but eat an' sleep, oughtener he be sot on?"
There was audible approval from all of Tobe's followers, and he was encouraged to go on.
"Ef Mr. Buggone mus' sleep mos' ob de time let him sleep peac' ble in his own house, but de Scripter say, 'Wake dem dat sleepest,' an' we say it's time Mr. Buggone woke up. Any cullud pusson dat kin snore so po'ful as Mr. Buggone needn't say he weakly an' po'ly. Hafe de poah he put in his snore ud lif' 'im right along in all good works, week days an' Sundays. But I'se los' faith in 'im. He's been 'spostulated an' 'monstrated with, an' 'zorted so often dat he's hardened an' his conscience zeered wid a hot iron. We'se jes' got to take sich sinners in han', or de paster-lot won't hole de flock no mo'. I move we take steps to s'pend Mr. Buggone."
"Secon' dat motion," said one of his followers promptly.
"Mr. an' Mis Buggone, have you nothin' to say?" asked Mr. Birdsall sadly.
"Elder," began Uncle Sheba in his most plaintive tone, "you know de heat yistidy was po'ful--" "Mr. Buggone," interrupted his wife severely, "dis ain't no 'casion fer beatin' round de bush an' creepin troo knotholes. You knows de truf an' I knows de truf. No, Elder, we'se got not'in ter say at jes' dis time."
"Den, Elder, you put de motion dat we take steps," said Tobe, promptly.
With evident reluctance Mr. Birdsall did so, and the affirmative was unanimously voted by the committee.
"I wants ter be s'pended too," said Aun' Sheba, still gazing at the ceiling.
"Now, Mis Buggone, dere would be no right nor reason in dat," the minister protested.
"Elder, I doesn't say you-uns ain't all right, an' I does say you means well, but I'se de bes' jedge of my inard speritool frame. Hit was neber jes' clar in my mind dat I was 'ligious, an' now I know I ain't 'ligious, an' I wants ter be s'pended."
"But it is clar in my mind dat you are religious, dat you'se a good woman. Would to de good Lawd dat de church was full ob Christians like you!"
"I'se spoke my min'," persisted Aun' Sheba, doggedly. "Ole Tobe shall hab his way an' de church be purged."
"Elder," said Tobe, now quite carried away by zeal and exultation, "p'raps Mis Buggoue am de bes' jedge. Ef she feel she ain't one ob de aninted ones--" "Peace!" commanded Mr. Birdsall, "never with my consent shall any steps be taken to suspend Mis Buggone. You forgits, Tobe, how easy it is to pull up de wheat wid de tares."
"Den I s'pend myself," said Aun' Sheba, "an' I _is_ s'pended. Now I gwine ter 'fess de truf. I gave Mr. Buggone an extra Sunday dinner yistidy. I was puff up wid pride kase business was good, an' I bress de Lawd fer prosperin' me. Den like a fool I 'dulge myself and I 'dulge Mr. Buggone. Ef he's ter be s'pended fer a snorin' sleep, I oughter be s'pended fer a dozin' sleep, fer I _was_ a-dozin'; an' I feels it in my bones dat we bofe oughter be s'pended, an' I _is_, no matter wot you does wid Mr. Buggone. Now, Tobe, you hab had you'se say, an' I'se a-gwine to hab mine. You'se got a heap ob zeal. You wouldn't lead de flock; you'd dribe 'em, you'd chase 'em, you'd worry de bery wool off ob dem. Whar you git you sperit fum? You ain't willin' ter wait till de jedgment day; you'd hab a jedgment ebery day in de week. You'se like dem 'siples dat was allers wantin' ter call down fiah from Heben. Look out you don't get scorched yo'self. I can't be 'ligious long o' you, an' if you got 'ligion I habn't. Elder, you says de Lawd libed yere on dis yarth. I ony wish I'd libed in dem days. I'd a cooked, an' washed, an' ironed, an' baked fer Him an' all de 'siples. Den like anuff He'd say: 'Ole Aun' Sheba, you means well. I won't be hard on you nor none of you'se folks when de jedgment day comes.' But so much happen since dat ar time wen He was yere dat I kinder got mixed up. I reckon I jes' be s'pended, an' let Him put de ole woman whar she belong wen de time comes."
There was pathos in her tones; her stoicism had passed away, and tears were streaming from her eyes, while Sissy was sobbing audibly. The committee at first had been aghast at the result of the meeting, and now their emotional natures were being excited also. Old Tobe was disconcerted, and still more so when Aun' Sheba suddenly rallied, and, turning upon him, said with ominous nods, "Wen dat day come, Old Tobe, you won't be de jedge."
Thus far Kern Watson had sat silent as a statue, but now his strong feelings and religious instincts gained the mastery. Lifting up his powerful mellow voice he sang: "The people was a-gatherin' from far and neah; Some come fer fishes an' some ter heah; But He fed dem all, an' He look so kin' Dat dey followed, dey followed, an' none stay behin' "But one got loss, an' he wandered far, De night come dark, no moon, no star; De lions roared an' de storm rose high, An' de po' loss one lie down ter die.
"Den come a voice, an' de win's went down, An' de lions grovel on de groun', An' de po' loss one am foun' an' sabed, For de Shepherd ebery danger brabed."
These words, as sung by Kern, routed old Tobe completely; he hung his head and had not a word to say. The committee had beaten time with their feet, and began to clap their hands softly. Then Mr. Birdsall, with kindly energy, exhorted Uncle Sheba, who groaned aloud and said "Amen" as if in the depths of penitence. A long prayer followed which even moved old Tobe, for Aun' Sheba had shaken his self-confidence terribly. The little company broke up with hand-shaking all around, Tobe saying: "Sister Buggone, I bears no ill-will. I'se gwine ter look inter my speritool frame, an' ef I cotch de debil playin' hob wid me he's gwine to be put out, hoof an' horns."
Aun' Sheba wrung her son-in-law's hand, as she said: "You'se singin', Kern, kinder went to de right spot. Neber-de-less I'se s'pended till I feels mo' shuah."
Sissy kissed her mother and father affectionately, and then the old couple were left alone. Aun' Sheba gazed thoughtfully into the dying fire, but before long Uncle Sheba began to hitch uneasily in his chair. Finally he mustered up courage to say: "Aun' Sheba, dis am been bery po'ful 'casion, bery tryin' to my narbes an' feelin's. Yet I feels kinder good an' hopeful in my inards. Ef I wasn't jes' so dun beat out I'd feel mo' good. P'raps now, 'siderin' all I'se pass troo, you wouldn't min' gibin' me a bit ob dat cole ham an' hoe-cake--" "Mr. Buggone," began Aun' Sheba sternly, then she suddenly paused, threw her apron over her head and rocked back and forth.
"Dar now, Aun' Sheba, dar now, doan go on so. I was ony a sigestin' kase I feels po'ly, but I kin stan' it."
"I'se no better dan old Tobe hisself," groaned Aun' Sheba. "All on us is hard on some one, while a hopin' fer marcy ourselves. Ef you'se hebin is in de cubud, go in dar an' hep a sef." And she rose and opened the door of the treasure-house.
"I'se jes' take a leetle bite, Aun' Sheba, jes a leetle comf'tin bite, kase I'se been so sot on dat I feels bery weakly an' gone-like."
Uncle Sheba was soon comforted and sleeping, but Aun' Sheba still sat by the hearth until the last glowing embers turned to ashes. "Yes," she muttered at last, "I'se s'pended till I feels mo' shuah."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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22
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YOUNG HOUGHTON IS DISCUSSED
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Sleep and buoyancy of temperament enabled Ella to see everything in a very different light the following morning. "The idea of my taking what happened last night so seriously!" she said aloud while making her toilet. "As Mrs. Robertson said, 'no harm has been done.' Of course I shall tell papa and Cousin Sophy that I met and talked to Mr. Houghton. What if I did? He was introduced to me just as the others were, and what do I care for him? He was a very agreeable Vandal, and I'm glad to have had a chance to see what Vandals are like. As with other bugaboos they lose their terrors under close inspection."
At breakfast, therefore, she was merrier than usual, and gave a graphic and humorous account of the company, expatiating on the beauty and mystery of Miss Ainsley, her preference for Clancy, and his apparent devotion to her.
"By the way," she said at last, "who do you think was there? You can't guess, so I will tell you--young Mr. Houghton."
"What! the son of that old-beg pardon, Cousin Hugh," and Mrs. Bodine laughingly added, "It nearly slipped out that time."
"I hope he was not presented to you, Ella," said her father gravely.
"Well, he was, and by Mrs. Willoughby. I didn't talk with him very much, but of course I had to be polite. When I first heard his name I felt that I should be polite for your sake; and I was rather sorry for him, too, because so many evidently frowned on his presence."
"You need not be polite to him again for my sake," said her father decidedly. "I am under no obligations to him or his father, and this is a case into which policy cannot enter. I do not blame you, however," he added, more kindly, "for you acted from good impulses. Of course, as you say, you must be polite to every one, but you have a perfect right to be cold toward those who are unfriendly to us, and with whom we can never have any part or lot. I have been in Mr. Houghton's employ long enough to be convinced more fully, if possible, that, while he is an honest man, he has not a particle of sympathy with or for our people. I told him from the start that there could be no social relations between us. You must learn to avoid and shake off people who are objectionable."
"Well," said Ella, laughing, "I won't have to shake off people while under Mrs. Robertson's wing. She bore down upon us, as Cousin Sophy would say, like a seventy-four of the line. Dear papa, you know that Mr. Houghton is nothing to me, but it scarcely seems fair that he should be punished for the sins of his father."
"You need not punish him, my dear. Simply have nothing to do with him. He is the last person in the world to be regarded as an object of sympathy," and her father spoke a little irritably.
Ella thought it wise to make no further reference to him. "After all," she thought, "what does it matter? I'm glad he had a chance to explain that disagreeable episode in the street, and now I am practically done with him. I can at least be civil, should we ever meet again, and there it will end."
"Mrs. Willoughby is going too far," said Mrs. Bodine, musingly. "If she continues to invite such people she may find that other invitations will be declined without regrets. We haven't much left to us, but we can at least choose our associates."
"Don't be alarmed," said Ella lightly. "I did not invite him to spend this evening with us," and kissing her father and cousin good-by, she started for Mara's home.
Her thoughts were busy on the way, and they were chiefly of a self-gratulatory character. The whole episode now amused her greatly, for she could not help agreeing with her father that the great, strapping fellow was not an object of sympathy. "He probably has a score of flames at the North," she thought, "and wouldn't mind adding a little Southern girl to the number, especially as she is a sort of forbidden fruit to him. Well, he's not a bad fellow, if he is that old blank's son, as Cousin Sophy always suggests. Nevertheless, I don't think he's treated fairly, and I can't keep up these old bitter feelings. What had he or I to do with the war, I'd like to know? Well, well, I suppose it's natural for those who went through it to feel as they do, but I wish Mara wasn't so bound up in the past. It isn't fair to him," she broke out again. "He said I wouldn't be ostracized at the North. Bother! it don't matter what he said. As to our getting acquainted--" And she almost laughed outright at the preposterous idea.
She and Mara were soon busy as usual, and as opportunity offered, she told her fellow-worker of the events of the evening. Mara, with a languid interest, inquired about those whom she knew, and how they appeared, and she sometimes laughed aloud at Ella's droll descriptions. She was even more emphatic in her disapproval of young Houghton's presence than the captain or Mrs. Bodine had been. "I shall never accept any invitation from Mrs. Willoughby after this," she said firmly.
"Well now, Mara," replied Ella, with a little toss of her head, "I can't share in that spirit. Mr. Houghton is a gentleman, and I could meet him in society, chat with him, and let it end there. We can't keep this thing up forever, that is, we of the younger generations. Why should I hate that big, good-natured fellow? The very idea seems ridiculous. I could laugh at him, and tease and satirize him a little, but I could no more feel as you do toward him, than I could cherish an enmity toward a sunflower. Still, since father feels as he does, I shall have to cut him as far as possible, should I ever meet him again, which is not probable. I reckon that Mrs. Willoughby will be so crushed that even she won't invite him any more."
"I should hope not, truly."
"Well, she has a Northern girl visiting her, and a very remarkable looking girl she is."
"That is a different affair, although I do not approve of it. Miss Ainsley is the daughter of a rich man who is doing much for the South, and who feels kindly toward us, while old Mr. Houghton detests us as heartily as we do him. He is absorbing our business and taking it away from Southern men, and he exults over the fact. Miss Ainsley is certainly a very beautiful girl, for I've seen her. I suppose she received much attention." Mara purposely turned her back on Ella, and busied herself in the further part of the kitchen. She had heard rumors of Clancy's attention to the fair Northerner, and she both dreaded and hoped to have them verified. "Anything," she sighed, "oh, anything which will break his hold upon my heart!"
Unconsciously, Ella gave her more information than she could well endure. "I reckon she did receive attention, very concentrated attention, and that was all she cared for evidently. She was rather languid until Mr. Clancy appeared, and then she welcomed him with all her brilliant eyes. He looked as if he understood her perfectly, and they spent most of the evening on the shadowy balcony together. It is another case of the North conquering the South; but if I were a man, I'd think twice before surrendering to that girl. I had an instinctive distrust of her."
Mara felt that she was growing pale, and she immediately busied herself about the stove until her face flamed with the heat.
"You don't seem to take much interest in the affair," Ella remarked, as Mara continued silent.
"I never expect to make Miss Ainsley's acquaintance," was the quiet reply, "and Mr. Clancy in my view has almost ceased to be a Southerner."
"Well, I never met him before, and have only heard a little about him from cousin Sophy, and that not in his favor. He has a strong, intelligent face though, and a very resolute look in his eyes."
"Yes," admitted Mara coldly, "I reckon he's one who would have his own way without much regard for others."
"He may slip up for once. Miss Ainsley struck me as a girl who would have her way, no matter how many hearts she fractured."
Aun' Sheba and Vilet now entered, diverting Ella's thoughts. The old woman sat down rather wearily, a look of deep dejection on her face.
"Look here, Aun' Sheba," said the lively girl, "you're not well, or else something is troubling you. You looked down-hearted yesterday, and you look funereal now."
"We'se been sot on," said Aun' Sheba solemnly. " 'Sot on!' good gracious! Aun' Sheba, what do you mean?"
"Well, dey sot on my ole man, an' husband an' wife am me. Hit didn't turn out bad as I s'posed it would, bress tat ar son-in-law ob mine, but I keeps a tinkin' it all ober, an' I'se 'jected, I is; an' dar's no use ob shoutin' glory wen you doan feel glory." Then she told the whole story, which kept Ella on pins and needles, for, while she felt an honest sympathy for the poor soul, she had an almost uncontrollable desire to laugh.
"Yes, Missy Mara," concluded Aun' Sheba pathetically, "I'se s'pended, I s'pended myself, an' I'se gwine to stay s'pended till I feels mo' shuah."
"Suspended, Aun' Sheba!" said Mara, starting, suddenly becoming conscious of present surroundings.
Aun' Sheba looked at her wonderingly, but voluble Ella made it all right by saying, "No wonder Mara exclaimed. The idea! I wish I was half as good as you are."
"Oh, yes," cried Mara, striving to conceal her deep preoccupation, "that's the way with Aun' Sheba; the better she is, the worse she thinks she is. Do you mean to say that your church people have suspended you?"
"No. I'se s'pended myself. Didn't I tole you?"
"There, there, Aunty, I didn't understand. I believe in you and always will."
"Well, honey, I reckon you'se ole nuss'll alers be do same ter you wheder she'se 'ligious or no."
Both the girls now stood beside her, with a hand on either shoulder, and Ella said heartily, "Now, Aun' Sheba, it is just as you said, you're 'jected; you've got the blues, and everything looks blue and out of shape to you. You can't see the truth any more than if you were cross-eyed. I can prove to you whether you're 'ligious or not. Vilet, ain't your grandma a good Christian woman?" " 'Deed an' she is troo an' troo," said the child, who had been a silent, yet deeply sympathetic listener. "Many's de time she's sent me wid good tings to po' sick folks."
"There now," cried Ella. "Aun' Sheba, you've got to believe the Bible. 'Out of the mouths of babes and sucklings,' it says. You can't deceive a child. Vilet knows better than you do."
"Shuah now, does you tink it's dataway?" and Aun' Sheba looked up with hope in her eyes.
"Of course we think it's that way," said Ella. "Aun' Sheba, you know a heap, as you say, about many things, but you don't half know how good you are."
"I know how bad I is anyhow. I tells you I was in a dozin' sleep."
"Well, I've been in a dozin' sleep many a time," said Ella, "and I'm not going to be suspended by any one, not even myself."
"Aun' Sheba," said Mara gently but firmly, "you know I'm in earnest, and how much I love you for all your goodness ever since I was a helpless baby. You wouldn't say hard, untrue things against any one else. You have no more right to be unjust to yourself. As Ella says, I wish I was as good a Christian as you are."
"Now, Missy Mara, no mo' ob dat ar talk. I knows my inard feelin's bes' ob any one. What Vilet say chirk me up po'fully, kase she see me ebery day. I tell you what I'se gwine ter do; I'se gwine ter put myself on 'bation, and den see wot come ob it. Now, honeys, I'se 'feered long nuff wid business. You'se dun me good, honey lam's, an' de Lawd bress you bofe. I'se tote de basket a heap pearter fer dis yere talk. I feels a monst'us sight betteh. Wish I could see you, honey, lookin' as plump as Missy Ella. Dat do me mos' as much good as feelin' 'ligious."
Mara worried Mrs. Hunter over her pretence of making a dinner, and then gladly sought the solitude of her own room. At last she said with a bitter smile, "He has broken the last shred that bound me." But as the hours passed in tumultuous thoughts, her heart told her how vain were such words.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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23
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THE WARNING
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Captain Bodine was halting serenely down into that new vista in his life of which we have already spoken. Every day both promise and fulfilment seemed richer than he had ever imagined any future experience could be. He was domiciled in a home exactly to his taste; his cousin's brave, cheerful spirit was infectious; the worry of financial straits was over, and Ella was blooming and happy. These favorable changes in themselves would have done much toward banishing gloom and despondency; but another element had entered into his existence which was as unexpected as it was sweet. A deep, subtile exhilaration was growing out of his companionship with Mara. Every long, quiet talk that he enjoyed with her left a longing for another. She was learning to regard him almost as a father, but he did not think of her as he did of Ella. He loved Ella as his child, but her buoyant spirit, her intense enjoyment of the present, and her eager, hopeful eyes, fixed upon the future, separated her from him. He did not wish it otherwise in her case, for he hoped that there was a happy future for her, and he rejoiced daily over the gladness in her face. Mara, although so young, seemed of his own generation. He often repeated to himself his cousin's words, "She is as old as you are." She appeared to live in the past as truly as himself. There was scarcely a subject on which they were not in sympathy.
He believed that Mrs. Bodine was right, and that Mara was essentially different from others of her age. Indeed the impression grew upon him that the mysterious principle of heredity had prepared her for the companionship which apparently was valued as much by her as by himself. During the many hours in which he was alone, he thought the subject over in all its aspects, as he supposed, and a hope, exquisitely alluring, began to take form in his heart.
No man is without a certain amount of egotism and self-love, and, although these were not characteristics of Bodine, he could not help dwelling upon the truth that the remainder of his life would be very different from what he had expected could Mara be near to him.
Her eloquent look of sympathy so soon after they met began to take the form of prophecy. At first it led him to believe that she would receive a paternal, loving regard, much the same as he gave to Ella; but, as time passed, he began to dwell upon the possibility of a closer tie. She appeared to have no especial friends among young men, nor indeed to care for any. Might not a strong, quiet affection grow in each heart until they could become one in the closest sense, even as they were now one in so many of their thoughts and views?
It was natural that his deepening regard should tinge his manner, yet Mara dreamed of nothing beyond the affection which she was glad to receive from him. Vigilant eyes, however, were following Captain Bodine, and Clancy, with a lover's jealous intuition, was guessing his rival's thoughts and intentions more clearly every day. He did not adopt any system of espionage, nor did he ask questions of any one, but merely took occasion to walk on the Battery at an hour when it was most frequented. Here he often saw Mara and the veteran enjoying the cool sunset hour, and sometimes he observed that Mara saw him. So far from shunning such observation, he not infrequently compelled her recognition, which was always coldly bestowed upon her part.
"It would seem that Mr. Clancy is more inclined to be friendly than you are," Bodine remarked one evening.
"Before Mr. Clancy valued Northern friends more than Southern ones we were friendly," was Mara's quiet reply. She had schooled herself now into outward self-control, but she chafed at his presence, and thought he happened to be near her too frequently. Still it was ever will versus heart, for the latter always acknowledged him as master.
He was satisfied that his impressions in regard to Bodine were correct, and was impelled by his love to make an effort to save her from drifting into relations which he believed must inevitably destroy her chance for happiness. His strong, keen mind had analyzed her every word, tone, and varying expression, and he had become quite sure that her bearing toward him was not the result of indifference, but was rather due to pride, and a resolute purpose not to yield to him unless he adopted her views. He also understood her sufficiently well to dread lest a morbid sense of loyalty to her father's memory might lead her to accept his friend and old companion in arms.
"Her immediate associates would encourage the idea," he thought, "and there are none to advise or warn her except myself. She is morbid and unbalanced enough to commit just such a fatal error. Her bringing up, and all the influence of that warped Mrs. Hunter, would lead her to sacrifice herself to the manes of her ancestors. Yet how can I warn her--how can I reach her except I write? I wish to look into her eyes when I speak. I wish to plead with her with all the power that I possibly possess. Great Heaven! if this that I fear should happen, what an awakening she might have when it was too late!"
At last he resolved on the simplest and most straightforward course, and wrote-- "MARA--Will you grant me one more interview--the last, unless you freely concede others. I have something important to say to you, something that relates far more to your happiness than to my own. In excuse for my request, I have nothing better to plead than my love which you have rejected, and yet which entitles me to some consideration. I think my motive is unselfish--as unselfish as can be possible under the circumstances. You may treat me as you please, but your welfare will always be dear to me. I shall not seek to change your convictions, nor shall I plead for myself, for I know that all this would be useless; but I wish to see you face to face once more alone in your own home. I must also request that Mrs. Hunter will not interfere with our interview. You are not a child, and you know that I am a gentleman, and that I am incapable of saying a word at variance with my profound respect for you. OWEN CLANCY."
Mara was deeply agitated by this missive. Her first emotion was that of anger, as much at herself as at him--a confused resentment that his words, his very handwriting, should so move her, and that he should venture to write at all. Had she not made it sufficiently plain that he had no right to take, or, at least, to manifest any such interest in her affairs? Were all her efforts futile to hide her love? In spite of her habit of reserve and repression she had a passionate heart, and this fact had been forced upon her by vain and continuous struggles. Had he the penetration to learn the truth? She could not tell, and this uncertainty touched her pride to the very quick. After hours of wavering purpose, impulses to ignore him and his request, moments of tenderness in which will, pride, and every consideration were almost overwhelmed, she at last arrived at a fixed resolution. "I _will_ see him," she murmured. "He has virtually told me that he will not give up what he terms his principles for love. I shall not acknowledge my secret, but if he has discovered it, he shall learn that I also will not give up my principles for love."
The next morning she quietly handed Clancy's note to Mrs. Hunter.
"Shameful!" ejaculated the lady. "Of course you will pay no attention to him, or else write a curt refusal. I insist on one course or the other."
Mara looked steadfastly at her aunt until the worthy lady was somewhat disconcerted, and asked fretfully, "What do you mean by that look, Mara?"
"Aunty, can't you realize that I am no longer a child, as he says?"
"Well, but in a case like this--" "In a case like this which concerns me so personally, I must act according to my own judgment. You can be in the adjoining room. Indeed I have no objection to your hearing what is said, but I would rather you should not. You have no occasion to fear. Mr. Clancy has alienated me forever. I have no doubt that before the summer is over he will be engaged to Miss Ainsley, if he is not already engaged virtually. I have reasons for granting this final interview which are personal--which my self-respect requires, and, since they are personal, I need not mention them. There shall be no want of respect and affection for you, aunty, but you must realize that I have become an independent woman, and I have the entire right to decide certain questions for myself."
"Well, I wash my hands of it all," said Mrs. Hunter, coldly, "and since my strong convictions have no weight with you, and you intend to act independently of me, of course I shall not permit myself to hear a word of your conversation."
"That will be the more delicate and honorable course, aunty."
"Well, Mara, I only wish I need not be in the house at the time."
"Aunty, that is the same as saying that your enmity toward Mr. Clancy is greater than your love for me."
"But I don't see the use of this intensely disagreeable interview. This is the only home I have."
"And the only home I have also, aunty."
"Oh, well, if you will, you will, I reckon."
"Yes, if I will, I _will_, and Mr. Clancy shall learn that I have a will."
As Aun' Sheba was departing that morning, Mara followed her into the hallway, and, placing a note in her hand, said, "Give that to Mr. Clancy and to no other. Say nothing to him or to any one else. Do you understand, Aun' Sheba?"
"I does, honey. Wen you talk dataway you'se heah an eyster shoutin' 'fore Aun' Sheba speak."
Clancy only said, "Thank you," as he thrust a half-dollar into the old woman's hand.
Aun' Sheba laid it on the desk, and remarked with great dignity, "I does some tings widout money."
He paid no heed to her, but read eagerly, "Mr. Clancy--Come this evening. Mara Wallingford."
With a long breath he thought, "It will be my last chance. I fear it will be useless, but at no future day shall she think in bitterness of heart, 'He might have done more to save me.'"
There was no sudden, involuntary illumination of her face on this occasion when he entered her little parlor, and she could not help noticing that his face was pale. She also saw from his expression that his spirit was as high as hers; that there was not a trace of the lover, eager to plead his cause. "He has pleaded successfully elsewhere," she thought, and, in spite of all other conflicting feelings, she was curious to know what his motive could be in seeking the interview.
"Good-evening, Mr. Clancy. Will you sit down?" she said, coldly.
"Yes, Mara. Pardon me for calling you Mara. I am beyond any affectation of formality with you, and you know there is no lack of respect on my part."
She merely bowed and waited in silence.
"When you learn my motive for making my request, for coming here to-night, you will probably resent it, but you have taught me to expect little else except resentment from you."
"Mr. Clancy, there is no cause for such language. Certainly I was quietly pursuing the even tenor of my way."
"Do you understand fully whither that way is leading?"
"Truly, Mr. Clancy, that is a singular question for you to ask."
"I understand you, Mara. You mean that it is no affair of mine."
He knew that her silence gave assent to this view, and he answered as if she had spoken.
"Nevertheless you are mistaken. It _is_ an affair of mine. There could be no peace for me in the future if I failed you now, for it seems to me I am the only true friend you have in the world."
"Mr. Clancy," she said hotly, "we have differed so greatly before that I might have been saved the pain of this interview, but we never differed as we do at this moment. I cannot listen to you any longer. It would be disloyalty to those who _are_ true friends--friends that I love and honor."
"Do you love Captain Bodine?"
"Certainly I do. He was my father's friend; he is my honored friend."
"Do you _love_ Captain Bodine?"
"What do you mean?" she asked angrily, flushing to her very brow.
"Mara, be calm. Listen to me as you value your life, as you value your own soul. Do you think I would come here for slight cause at such cost to us both?"
"I think you are strangely mistaken in coming here, and using language which makes me doubt your sanity."
"Please do me the justice to note that there is nothing wild in my manner, nor any excitement in my words."
"Noting this, I find it more difficult to explain your course, or to pardon it."
"It is not necessary at present, that you should do either. Please be patient a few minutes longer and my mission is ended. I am not pleading for myself, but for you. Please listen, or a time may come when in a bitterness beyond words you may regret that you did not hear me. Thank Heaven! it is clear that I have not come too late. Captain Bodine is more than your friend in _his_ feelings; he is your lover, and you are so morbid, unfriended, unguided, that you are capable of sacrificing yourself--" "Hush! you are wronging a man whom you are unworthy to name. He has never dreamed of such love as you suggest."
"I am right. Oh, I have learned too deeply in the school of experience not to know. My warning may be of no avail, but you shall not drift unawares into this thing, you shall not enter into it, nor be persuaded into it from a false spirit of self-sacrifice--" "Mr. Clancy, I will not listen a moment longer to such preposterous language. You are passing far beyond the limits of my forbearance. If your conscience is burdened on my account because I am so 'unfriended,' I absolve you fully. You will and do know how to console yourself. Our interview must end here and now. It were disloyalty for me to listen a moment longer. We are strangers from this day forth, Mr. Clancy." And she rose flushed and trembling.
He also rose, and with an intent look which held her gaze, said gently: "There is that which will speak although I am banished."
"What?"
"Your heart."
"If it broke a thousand times I will not speak to you again," she cried passionately. "Even if you were right it would be ignoble to suggest such a thing. Truly your associations have led you far from the promise of your youth."
"I have not said that your heart would plead for me," he replied sternly. "But it _will_ plead against all that is unnatural, contrary to your young girlhood, contrary to the true, right instincts which God has created. You may seek to stifle its voice, but you cannot. When you are alone it will tell you, like the still small voice of God, that your obdurate will is wrong, that your narrow prejudices and morbid memories are all wrong and vain;--it will tell you that you cannot become the wife of this man, who would sacrifice you as a solace to his remaining years, without wrecking your happiness for life. Farewell, Mara Wallingford. There is one thing you can never forget--that I warned you."
He bowed low and departed immediately.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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24
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"THE IDEA!"
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Mara was not the kind of girl that faints or goes into hysterics. The spirit of her father was aroused to the last degree. She felt that she had been arraigned and condemned by one who had no right to do either; that all the cherished traditions of her life had been trampled upon; that her father's loved companion-in-arms, and her dear friend, had been insulted. Even wise, saintly Mrs. Bodine, her genial counsellor, had been ignored. "Was there ever such monstrous assumption!" she cried, as she paced back and forth with clinched hands.
She soon heard the step of Mrs. Hunter, and became outwardly calm.
"Well?" said her aunt.
"He won't come again, nor shall I speak to him again. Let these facts content you, aunty."
"That much at least is satisfactory," said Mrs. Hunter, "but I think it was a wretched mistake to see him at all."
"It was not a mistake, for he has revealed the depths into which a man can sink who adopts his course. I have some respect for an out-and-out Northerner, brought up as such; but it does seem that when a man turns traitor, as it were, he goes to greater lengths than those whose camp he joins. He suspects those who are too noble for him to understand."
"Whom does Mr. Clancy suspect?"
"Oh, all of us. He came to advise me as an unprotected, unfriended, unguided girl."
"Was there ever such impudence on the face of the earth!"
Mara sank exhausted into a chair in the inevitable reaction from her strong excitement.
"Aunty, it is all over, and we shall not meet again except as strangers. Never say a word of his coming, of this interview, to any one. It is my affair, and I wish to forget it as far as possible."
"You know I'm not a gossip, Mara, about family matters, especially disagreeable matters. Well, perhaps it will turn out for the best, since you have broken with him entirely. It always made me angry that he should continue to speak to you, and even sit down and talk to you at an evening company, when you could not repulse him without arresting the attention of every one."
"Good-night, aunty. All that is over."
"Mara, you must take an opiate to-night."
"Yes; give me something to make me sleep, that will bring oblivion for at least to-night. I must be ready for my work in the morning. It won't take me long _now_ to attain self-control."
"Mara," cried Ella the next day, "you look positively ill. I wish you could take a rest. Suppose we shut up shop for a while, and hang out a sign, 'closed for repairs.'"
"No, Ella. I can stand it, if you can, till August, and then we will take a month's rest. I wasn't very well last night, but I have found a remedy which is going to help me, and I shall be better."
Ella took the surface meaning of these words, and, being preoccupied with her own thoughts, remained, as well as Mara, rather silent that morning. Although she assured herself more than once that George Houghton was "nothing to her," she found herself thinking a great deal about him, and what she termed "their droll experiences." Prone to take a mirthful view of everything, she often laughed over the whole affair, and it grew rather than lost in interest with time. It was the first real adventure of her girlhood, and he was the first man who had retained more than a transient place in her thoughts. Feeling that their acquaintance had come about through no fault of hers, she was disposed to get all the fun possible out of what had occurred.
The morning was warm, and she was working in charming _dishabille_. Dressed in light summer costume, thrown open at her throat, and with sleeves rolled to her shoulders, she appeared a veritable Hebe. Her bright, golden, fluffy hair was gathered carelessly into a Grecian knot, and her flushed face received more than one flour-mark as she impatiently brushed away the flies. Seeing her smiling to herself so often, Mara envied her, but made no comment. At last the girl broke into a ringing laugh.
"What is amusing you so greatly?" Mara asked.
"I can't get over that party at Mrs. Willoughby's. It was all so irresistibly comical. Cousin Sophy thinks she has a genius for choosing chaperons, and so she has, but fate is too strong for men and gods, not to mention saintly and secluded old ladies. I had scarcely more than entered the drawing-room, and taken my bearings, as cousin would say, when the worst Vandal of the lot is marched up to me, and I--green little girl--thought I must be polite to him and every one else. When I think of it all, I see that my chaperon was like a distressed hen with a duckling that would go into the water. Without any effort of mine, that great Goth, Mr. Houghton, submitted himself to my inspection, and instead of being horrified, I have been laughing at him ever since. He struck me as an exceedingly harmless creature, with large capabilities for blundering. He would not step on a fly maliciously, yet poor Mrs. Robertson acted as if I were near an ogre who might devour me at a mouthful. How she did manoeuvre to keep that big fellow away! and what a homily she gave me on our way home! It all seems so absurd. I wish papa would not take such things so seriously, for I can't see any harm in making sport of the Philistines."
"Making sport _for_ the Philistines--that is what your father and what we all object to. This young Houghton would very gladly amuse himself at your expense."
"I'd like to see him try it," said Ella defiantly. "I'd turn the tables on him so quickly as to take away his breath."
"Oh, Ella! why do you think about such people at all?"
"Because they amuse me. What's the harm in thinking about him in my jolly way? There's nothing bad about him. His worst crimes are, that he is comical and the son of his father."
"How do you know there's nothing bad about him?"
"For the same reason that I distrust Miss Ainsley. Each makes an impression which I believe is correct."
"Well, well, Ella," said Mara, a little impatiently, "laugh it out and have done with him. For all our sakes, please have nothing more to do with such people."
"I haven't sought 'such people,'" replied Ella, with a shrug; "but I tell you, Mara, I'm not going through life with my eyes shut, nor am I going to look through a pair of blue spectacles. See here, sweetheart, what did God give me eyes for? What did he give me a brain for? To see through some one else's eyes? to think with the brain of another? No, indeed; that's contrary to such reason and common-sense as I possess."
"You certainly will be guided by your father?"
"Yes, yes, indeed, in all that pertains to his welfare and happiness. I could die for him this minute, and would if it were required. But there are things which I cannot do for him or any one. I cannot ignore my own conscience and sense of right. I cannot think his thoughts any more than he can think mine. You dear, melancholy little goose, don't you know that God never rolls two people into one, even after they are married? They are, or should be, one in a vital sense, yet they are different, independent beings, and were made so. I'd like to know of any one in this town more bent upon having her own way than you."
Mara was silent, for Ella had a way of putting things which disturbed her.
"Cousin Sophy," said Ella in the afternoon, "hasn't the proper time come for me to make my party call on Mrs. Willoughby? You are my Mentor in all that relates to etiquette, and that giddy fraction of the world termed society."
"Well, yes," said the old lady, "I suppose it is time. In the case of Mrs. Willoughby it will be little more than a formality, for she is an acquaintance you will not care to cultivate. You may be lucky enough to find her out, and then your card will answer all the purposes of a call."
"Oh, I know that much, cousin, if I am from the wilds of the interior; but if she is in, I suppose I should sit down and talk about the weather a little while."
"Go along, you saucy puss. Tell her how shocked you were to see old Houghton's son in her parlors."
"Well, I was at first. Bah! cousin, he's a great big boy, and doesn't know any more than I do about some things."
"Well added. Tell her, then, we have enough Southern gentlemen remaining, and there is no necessity of inviting big Northern hobble-de-hoys."
"Oh! I didn't mean that, cousin. Be fair now. He was gentlemanly enough, as much so as the rest of them, but he was young and giddy, like myself, just as you used to be and are now sometimes;" and she stopped the old lady's mouth with kisses, then ran to dress for the street.
The kitchen Hebe of the morning was soon metamorphosed into a very charmingly costumed young woman.
Even Miss Ainsley was compelled to recognize the lovely and harmonious effect, although it did not bear the latest brand of fashion, or represent costly expenditure.
Both she and Mrs. Willoughby were pleased as Ella stepped lightly into the back parlor, and the young girl congratulated herself that she had come so opportunely, for they were evidently expecting visits like her own.
One and another dropped in until Mrs. Willoughby was entertaining three or four in the front parlor. Miss Ainsley remained chatting with Ella, who felt that the Northern girl's remarks were largely tentative, evincing a wish to draw her out. Shrewd Ella soon began to generalize to such a degree that Miss Ainsley thought, "You are no fool," and had a growing respect for the "little baker," as she had termed the young girl.
Then Clancy appeared, and Ella was forgotten, but she saw the same unmistakable welcome which from some women would mean all that a lover could desire. Ella thought that a slight expression of vexation crossed his brow as he recognized in her Mara's partner and friend, but he spoke to her politely and even cordially. Indeed, no one could do otherwise, for her face would propitiate an ogre. She thought there was a spice of recklessness in Clancy's manner, and she heard him remark to Miss Ainsley that he had come to say good-by for a short time. That young woman led the way to the balcony and began to expostulate; and then Ella's attention was riveted on a tall young fellow, who was shaking hands with Mrs. Willoughby.
"Good gracious!" she thought, "what can I do if he sees me? How can I 'shake off and avoid' in this back parlor? I can't make a bolt for the front door or sneak out of the back door; I can't sit here like a graven image if he comes--" "Miss Bodine! Well, I'm lucky for once in my ill-fated life."
"Oh! I beg your pardon," remarked Ella, turning from the window, out of which she had apparently been gazing with intense preoccupation. "Good-afternoon, Mr. Houghton." But he held out his hand with such imperative cordiality that she had to take it. Then he drew up a chair to the corner of the sofa on which she sat and placed it in a way that barred approach or egress. "Oh, shade of Mrs. Hunter!" she groaned inwardly, "what can I do? I'm fairly surrounded--all avenues of retreat cut off. I must face the enemy and fight."
"I knew the chance would come for us to get acquainted," said Houghton, settling himself complacently in the great armchair, "but I had scarcely hoped for such a happy opportunity as this so soon."
"I must go in a few minutes," she remarked demurely. "I have been here some time."
"Miss Bodine, you are not capable of such cruelty. You know it is very early yet."
"I thought you came to call on Mrs. Willoughby?"
"So I did, and I have called on her. See her talking ancient history to those dowagers yonder. What a figure I'd cut in that group."
She laughed outright, as much from nervous trepidation as at the comical idea suggested, and was in an inward rage that she did so, for she had intended to be so dignified and cool as to depress and discourage the "objectionable person" who hedged her in.
"What a jolly, infectious laugh you have!" he resumed. "To be able to laugh well is a rare accomplishment. Some snicker, others giggle, chuckle, cackle, make all sorts of disagreeable noises, but a natural, merry, musical laugh-Miss Bodine, I congratulate you, and myself also, that I happened in this blessed afternoon to hear it. And that terrible chaperon of yours isn't here either. How she frowned on me the other evening as if I were a wolf in the fold," and the young man broke into a clear ringing laugh at the recollection.
Ella was laughing with him in spite of herself. Indeed the more she tried to be grave and severe the more impossible it became.
"Mr. Houghton," she managed to say at last, "will you do me a favor?"
"Scores of them."
"Then stop making me laugh. I don't wish to laugh."
His face instantly assumed such portentous and awful gravity that he set her off again to such a degree that the dowagers in the other room looked at her rebukingly. It was bad enough, they thought, that she should talk to old Houghton's son at all, but to show such unbecoming levity-well, it was not what they would "expect of a Bodine." Ella saw their disapproval, and felt she was losing her self-control. The warnings she had received against her companion embarrassed her, and banished the power to be her natural self.
"Please don't," she gasped, "or I shall go at once. I asked a favor."
"Pardon me, Miss Bodine," he now said in a tone and manner which quieted her nerves at once. "I have blundered again, but I was so happy to think that I had met you here. I am not wholly a rattle-brain. What would you like to talk about?" and he looked so kindly and eager to please her that she cast down her eyes and contracted her brow in deepest perplexity.
"Truly, Mr. Houghton, I should be on my way homeward, and you have so hedged me in that I cannot escape."
"Is running away from me escaping?"
"I don't like that phrase 'running away.'"
"Yet that is what you propose to do."
"Oh, no, I shall take my departure in a very composed and dignified manner."
His face had the expression of almost boyish distress. "You find on further thought that you cannot forgive me?" he asked sadly.
"Did I not say that was all explained and settled? Southern girls are not fickle or false to their word." And she managed to assume an aspect of great dignity. "If I do not shake him off in the next few minutes I'm lost," she thought.
"I've offended you again," he said anxiously.
She took refuge in silence.
"Miss Bodine, I ask your pardon. You know I can't do more than that, or if I can, tell me what. I wish to please you very much."
The girl was at her wit's end, for his ingenuous expression emphasized the truth of his words. "There is no reason why you should please me," she began coolly, and then knew not how to proceed.
"Let us be frank with each other," he resumed earnestly. "We are too young yet to indulge in society lies. When a man apologizes at the North he is forgiven. I have been told that Southerners are a generous, warm-hearted people. In their cool treatment of me they counteract the climate. Are you, too, going to ostracize me?"
"I fear I shall have to," she replied faintly.
"Of your own free will?"
"No, indeed."
His heart gave a great throb of joy, but he had the sense to conceal his gladness. He only said quietly, "Well, I'm glad that you at least do not detest me."
"Why should I detest you, Mr. Houghton?"
"I'm sure I don't know why any one should. I have never harmed any one in this town that I know of."
She knew not how to answer, for she could not reflect upon his father.
"I don't care about others, but your case."
"Truly, Mr. Houghton," she began hastily, "this is a large city. A few impoverished Southern people are nothing to you."
"I was not thinking of Southern people," he replied gravely. "You said a moment since you saw no reason why I should try to please you. Am I to blame if you have inspired many reasons? I know you better than any girl in the world. You revealed your very self in a moment of danger to me as you thought. I saw that you were good and brave--that you possess just the qualities that I most respect and admire in a woman. Every moment I am with you confirms this belief. Why should I not wish to please you, to become your friend? I know I should be the better in every respect if you were my friend."
She shook her head, but did not venture to look at him.
"You believe I am sincere, Miss Bodine. You cannot think I am sentimental or flirtatious. I would no more do you wrong, even in my thoughts, than I would think evil of my dead mother. You are mirthful in your nature; so am I, but I do not think that either of us is shallow or silly. If I am personally disagreeable, that ends everything, but how can a man secure the esteem and friendly regard of a woman, when he covets these supremely, unless he speaks and reveals his feelings?"
"You are talking wildly, Mr. Houghton," said Ella, with averted face. "We have scarcely more than met."
"You would lead me to think that you Southern people are tenfold colder and more deliberate than we of the North. You may not have thought of me since we met, but I have thought of you constantly. I could not help it."
Ella felt that she must escape now as if for her life, and, summoning all her faculties and resolution, she said, looking him in the eyes, "I've no doubt, Mr. Houghton, you think you are sincere in your words at this moment, but you may soon wonder that you spoke such hasty words."
"In proving you mistaken, time will be my ally."
"You have asked me to be frank," she resumed. "In justice to you and myself I feel that I must be so. I do not share in the prejudices, if you prefer that word, of my father, but I must be governed by his wishes. I trust that you will not ask me to say more. Won't you please let me go now? See, the last guests are leaving."
"Tell me one thing," he pleaded eagerly as he rose. "I am not personally disagreeable to you?"
"The idea of my telling you anything of the kind!" and there was a flash of mirthfulness in her face which left him in a most tormenting state of uncertainty. A moment later she had shaken hands with Mrs. Willoughby, and was gone.
He stood looking after her, half-dazed by his conflicting feelings. Turning, Mrs. Willoughby saw and understood him at once. She came to his side and said kindly, "Sit down, Mr. Houghton, I've not had a chance to talk with you yet."
With an involuntary sigh he complied.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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25
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FEMININE FRIENDS
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Mrs. Willoughby was a woman of the world, yet in no bad sense. Indeed, beneath the veneer of fashionable life she possessed much kindliness of nature. She was capable of a good deal of cynicism toward those who she said "ought to be able to take care of themselves," and in this category she placed Clancy and Miss Ainsley. "I shall leave both to paddle their own canoes," she had said to herself.
Looking kindly at Houghton, who seemed to have lost his volubility, and waited for her to speak again, she thought: "If this young fellow was infatuated with Caroline I'd warn him quick enough." With the astuteness of a matron she merely remarked: "You seem greatly pleased with my little friend, Miss Bodine. You must not trifle with her, if she is poor, for she comes of one of the best families in the State."
"Trifle with Miss Bodine! What do you take me for, Mrs. Willoughby?" and he rose indignantly.
"There, now, sit down, my friend. I only said that so you might reveal how sincere you are, and I won't use any more diplomacy with you."
"I hope not," he replied laughing grimly. "You ought to know, what I am fast finding out, that a young fellow, like me, can no more understand a woman, unless she is frank, than he can Choctaw."
Mrs. Willoughby laughed heartily, and said: "I'll be frank with you, if you will be so with me."
"Then tell me why I am treated by so many in your set as if I had overrun the South with fire and sword?"
His first question proved that she could not be frank, for in order to give an adequate explanation she would have to reveal to him his father's animus and the hostility it evoked. She temporized by saying: "I do not so treat you, and surely Miss Bodine seemed to enjoy your conversation."
"I'm not so sure of that. At any rate she said she would have to ostracize me like the rest."
"She was kind in telling you that she would have to do so. She certainly bears you no ill-will."
"She probably does not care enough about me yet to do that. The worst of it is that I shall have no chance. Her father objects to her having anything to do with me, and that blocks everything. Even if I were capable of seeking a clandestine acquaintance, she is not. She is a thoroughly good girl; she doesn't know how to be deceitful."
"I'm glad you appreciate her so truly."
"I'd be a donkey if I didn't."
"Well, don't be unwise in your future action."
"What action can I take?" and he looked at her almost imploringly. A young man of his age is usually very ready to make a confidante of a married woman older than himself, yet young enough to sympathize with him in affairs of the heart. Houghton instinctively felt that the case might not be utterly hopeless if he could secure an ally in Mrs. Willoughby, for he recognized her tact, and believed that she was friendly. He promptly determined therefore to seek and to take her advice.
She looked at him searchingly as she said: "Perhaps it would be best not to take any action at all. If Miss Bodine has made only a passing and pleasant impression, and you merely desire to secure another agreeable acquaintance you had better stop where you are. It will save you much annoyance, and, what is of far more consequence, may keep her from real trouble. As you suggest, you cannot do anything in an underhand way. If you attempted it, you would lose her respect instantly, your own also. She idolizes her father, and will not act contrary to his wishes. Why not let the matter drop where it is?"
"Can't take any such advice as that," he replied, shaking his head resolutely.
"Why not?"
"Oh, confound it! Suppose some one, years ago, had advised Mr. Willoughby in such style."
"Is it as serious as that?"
He passed his hand in perplexity over his brow. "Mrs. Willoughby," he burst out, "I'm in deep water. 'I reckon,' as you say here, you understand me better than I do myself. I only know that I'd face all creation for the sake of that girl, yet what you say about making her trouble, staggers me. I'm in sore perplexity, and don't know what to do."
"Will you take my advice?"
"Yes, I will, as long as I believe you are my honest friend, as long as I can."
"Well, you won't try to see Ella before you have consulted me?"
"I promise that."
"Don't do anything at present Think the matter over quietly and conscientiously. I'm sorry I must make one other suggestion. I fear your father would be as much opposed to all this as Captain Bodine himself."
"I think not. My father is not so stern as he seems. At least he is not stern to me, and he has let me spend more money than my neck's worth. I fancy he is well disposed toward Captain Bodine, for he has given him employment. I asked the old gentleman about it one day, but he changed the subject. He wouldn't have employed the captain, however, unless he was interested in him some way."
"Why wouldn't he?"
"Oh, well, he naturally prefers to have Northerners about him."
"Will you permit me to be a little more frank than I have been?"
"I supposed you were going to be altogether frank."
"For fear of hurting your feelings I have not been. Your father is not friendly to us, and we reciprocate. This makes it harder for you."
Houghton thought in silence for a few moments, and then said: "You should make allowance for an old man, half heart-broken by the death of his oldest son, drowned in the bay there."
"I do; so would others, if he were not vindictive, if he did not use his great financial strength against us."
"I don't think he does this, certainly not to my knowledge. He only seeks to make all he can, like other business men."
"Mr. Houghton, you haven't been very much in Charleston. Even your vacations have been spent mainly elsewhere, I think, and your mind has been occupied with your studies and athletics. You are more familiar with Greek and Roman history than with ours, and you cannot understand the feelings of persons like Captain Bodine and his cousin, old Mrs. Bodine, who passed through the agony of the war, and lost nearly everything--kindred, property, and what they deem liberty. You cannot understand your own father, who lost his son. You think of the present and future."
Houghton again sighed deeply as he said: "I admit the force of all you say. I certainly cannot feel as they do, nor perhaps understand them." Then he added: "I wouldn't if I could. Why should I tie the millstone of the past about my neck?"
"You should not do so; but you must make allowance for those to whom that past is more than the present or future can be."
"Why can't they forgive and forget, as far as possible, as you do?"
"Because people are differently constituted. Besides, young man, I am not old enough to be your grandmother. I was very young at the time of the war, and have not suffered as have others."
"Grandmother, indeed! I should think that Mr. Willoughby would fall in love with you every day."
"The grand passion has a rather prominent place in your thoughts just now. Some day you will be like Mr. Willoughby, and cotton, stocks, or their equivalents, will take a very large share of your thoughts."
"Well, that day hasn't come yet. Even the wise man said there was a time for all things. How long must my probation last before I can come back for more advice?"
"A week, at least" "Phew!"
"You must think it all over, as I said before, calmly and conscientiously. I have tried to enable you to see the subject on all its sides, and I tell you again that you may find just as much opposition from your father as from Captain Bodine. He may have very different plans for you. Ella Bodine has nothing but her own good heart to give you, supposing you were able to persuade her to give that much."
"That much would enrich me forever."
"Your father wouldn't see it in that light. He may call her that designing little baker."
"I hope he won't for God's sake. I never said a hot word to my father."
"Never do so, then. If you lose your temper, all is lost. But we are anticipating. Sober, second thoughts may lead you to save yourself and others a world of trouble."
"Oh! I've had second thoughts before. Good-by. At this hour, one week hence;" and he shook hands heartily.
A moment later, he came rushing back from the hall, exclaiming: "There! See, what a blunderbuss I am! I forgot to thank you, which I do, with all my heart."
"Ah!" sighed the mature woman, as her guest finally departed, "I'd take all his pains for the possibilities of his joys."
Ella had not been mistaken in thinking that she detected a trace of recklessness in Clancy's manner. He had been compelled to believe that Mara was in truth lost to him; that her will and pride would prove stronger than her heart. Indeed, he went so far as to believe that her heart, as far as he was concerned, was not giving her very much trouble.
"I fear she has become so morbid and warped by the malign influences that have surrounded her from infancy," he had thought, "that she cannot love as I love. My best hope now is, that when Bodine begins to show his game more clearly, she will remember my words. It's horrible to think that she may develop into a woman like Mrs. Hunter. Until this evening, I have always believed there was a sweet, womanly soul imprisoned in her bosom, but now I don't know what to think. I'll go off to the mountains on the pretence of a fishing excursion, and get my balance again."
The following morning had been spent in preparations, and the afternoon, as we have seen, found him at Mrs. Willoughby's. His sore heart and bitter mood were solaced by Miss Ainsley's unmistakable welcome. He knew he did not care for her in any deep and lasting sense, and he much doubted whether her interest in him was greater than that which she had bestowed upon others in the past. But she diverted his thoughts, flattered the self-love which Mara had wounded so ruthlessly, and above all fascinated him by her peculiar beauty and intellectual brilliancy.
"Why are you going away?" she asked reproachfully, when they were seated on the balcony.
"Oh, I've been working hard. I'm going off to the mountains to fish and rest."
"I hope you'll catch cold, and come back again soon."
"What a disinterested friend!"
"You are thinking only of yourself; why shouldn't I do likewise?"
"No, I'm thinking of you."
"Of course, at this minute. You'd be apt to think of a lamp-post if you were looking at it."
"Please don't put out the sunshine with your brilliancy."
"Ironical, too! What is the matter to-day?"
"What penetration! Reveal your intuitions. Have I failed in business, or been crossed in love?"
"The latter, I fancy."
"Well, then, how can I better recover peace of mind and serenity than by going a-fishing? You know what Izaak Walton says--" "Oh, spare me, please, that ancient worthy! You are as cold-blooded as any fish that you'll catch. If I find it stupid in Charleston I'll go North."
"That threat shakes my very soul. I promise to come back in a week or ten days."
"Or a month or so," she added, looking hurt.
"Come, my good friend," he said, laughing. "We're too good fellows, as you wished we should be, to pretend to any forlornness over a parting of this kind. You will sleep as sweetly and dreamlessly as if you had never seen Owen Clancy, and I will write you a letter, such as a man would write to a man, telling you of my adventures. If I don't meet any I'll bring some about--get shot by the moonlighters, save a mountain maid from drowning in a trout pool, or fall into the embrace of a black bear."
"The mountain maid, you mean."
"Did I? Well, your penetration passes bounds."
"You may go, if you will write the letter. There must be no dime-novel stories in it, no drawing on your imagination. It shall be your task to make interesting just what you see and do."
"Please add the twelve labors of Hercules."
"No trifling. I'm in earnest, and put you on your mettle in regard to that letter. Unless you do your best, your friendship is all a pretence. And remember what you said about its being a letter to a man. If you begin in a conventional way, as if writing to a lady, I'll burn it without reading."
"Agreed. Good-by, old fellow--beg pardon, Miss Ainsley."
She laughed and said, "I like that; good-by." And she gave him a warm, soft hand, in a rather lingering clasp.
When he was gone she murmured softly, "Yes, he has a chance."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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26
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ELLA'S CRUMB OF COMFORT
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Ella walked up Meeting Street in a frame of mind differing widely from the complacent mood in which she sought Mrs. Willoughby's residence. The unexpected had again happened, and to her it seemed so strange, so very remarkable, that she should have met Mr. Houghton once more without the slightest intention, or even expectation, on her part, that she was perplexed and troubled. What did it mean?
In matters purely personal, and related closely to our own interests, we are prone to give almost a superstitious significance to events which come about naturally enough. It was not at all strange that Houghton should have been strongly and agreeably impressed by Ella from the first; and that he should happen to call at the same hour that she did, would have been regarded by her as a very ordinary coincidence, had not the case been her own. Since it was her own, she was almost awed by the portentous interview from which she had just escaped. The inexperienced girl found her cherished ideas in respect to young Houghton completely at fault. She had sighed that she could not meet him without restraint or embarrassment, for, as she had assured herself, "It would be such fun." She had supposed that she could laugh at him and with him indefinitely--that he would be a source of infinite jest and amusement. He had banished all these illusions in a few brief moments. How could she make sport of a man who had coupled her name with that of his dead mother? His every glance, word, and tone expressed sincere respect and admiration, and, she had to admit to herself, something more. She was so sincere herself, so unsullied, so lacking in the callousness often resulting from much contact with the world, that it seemed to her that it would be a profanation henceforth to regard him as the butt of even the innocent ridicule of which she was capable. Yet in all her perplexity and trouble there was a confused exhilaration and a glad sense of power.
"To think that I, little Ella Bodine, a baker by trade," she thought, "should have inspired that big fellow to talk as he did! He is apology embodied, and seems far more afraid of me than he was of that great bully on the street." And she bent her head to conceal a laugh of exultation.
Then she remembered her father, and her face grew troubled. "I shall have to tell him," she murmured, "and then the old scene will be enacted over again. A plague on that old shadow of the war! If I were a man I'd fight it out and then shake hands."
Soon after reaching home she heard her father's crutches on the sidewalk, and ran down to meet him. In accordance with her custom, she took away one crutch, and supported him to a chair in the parlor. He kissed her fondly, and remarked, "You look a little pale, Ella."
"I feel pale, papa. I've something to tell you, and you must listen patiently and sensibly. I've met Mr. Houghton again."
The veteran's face darkened instantly, but he waited till she explained further.
"Now see how you begin to look," she resumed. "You are judging me already. You can't be even fair to your own child."
"It would rather seem that you are judging me, Ella."
"Oh, bother it all!" she exclaimed. "I wish I could be simple and natural in this affair, for I was so embarrassed and constrained that I fear I acted like a fool. Well, I'll tell you how it happened. After lunch I asked Cousin Sophy if it was not time for me to make my party call on Mrs. Willoughby, and she said it was. I found that Mrs. Willoughby was expecting callers. We chatted a few minutes, and then others came, Mr. Houghton among them. I no more expected to meet him than I expected to meet you there. After shaking hands with Mrs. Willoughby he came to me in the back parlor instantly, and drew up a chair so that I could not escape unless I jumped over him. He began with such funny speeches that I got laughing, as much from nervousness as anything else, for I'd been so warned against him that I couldn't be myself."
"You shall not go to Mrs. Willoughby's again," said her father, decidedly.
"Now please listen till I'm all through. He soon saw that I did not want to laugh, and stopped his nonsense. He wanted to become acquainted, friendly, you know; and finally I had to tell him that it couldn't be--that I must be governed by your wishes."
"Ah, that was my dear, good, sensible girl!"
"No, papa, I don't feel sensible at all. On the contrary, I have a mean, absurd feeling--just as if I had gone to Mrs. Willoughby's and slapped a child because it was a Northern child."
He laughed at this remark, for she unconsciously gave the impression that she had been more repellant than had actually been true. He soon checked himself, however, and said gravely, "Ella, you take these things too seriously."
"No, papa, it seems to me that it is you and Cousin and Mara who take these things too seriously. What harm has that young fellow ever done any of us?"
"He could do me an immense deal of harm if you gave him your thoughts, and became even friendly. I should be exceedingly unhappy."
"Oh, well! that isn't possible--I mean, that we should become friendly. I certainly won't permit him to speak to me in the streets, although I spoke to him once in the street. Oh, I'm going to tell you everything now!" and she related the circumstances of her first meeting with Houghton.
"All this is very painful to me," her father said, with clouded brow. "But, as you say, it has come about without intention on your part. I am glad you have told me everything, for now I can better guard you from future mischances. My relations to this young man's father are such that it would make it very disagreeable, indeed, positively unendurable, if his son should seek your society. You should also remember that Mr. Houghton would be as bitterly hostile to any such course on his son's part as I am. Your pride, apart from my wishes, should lead you to repel the slightest advance."
"I reckon your wishes will have the most influence, papa. I have too strong a sense of justice to punish the son on account of his father."
"You cannot separate them, Ella. Think of our own relation. What touches one touches the other."
"Well, papa, it's all over, and I've told you everything. Since I'm not to go to Mrs. Willoughby's any more, there is little probability that I shall meet him again, except in the street. If he bows to me, I shall return the courtesy with quiet dignity, for he has acted like a gentleman toward me, and, for the sake of my own self-respect, I must act like a lady toward him. If he seeks to talk to me, I shall tell him it is forbidden, and that will end it, for he is too honorable to attempt anything clandestine."
"I'm not sure of that."
"I am, papa. He wouldn't be such an idiot, for he understands me well enough to know what would be the result of that kind of thing. But he isn't that kind of a man."
"How should you know what kind of a man he is?"
"Oh, Heaven has provided us poor women with intuitions!"
"True, to a certain extent, but the rule is proved by an awful lot of exceptions."
"Perhaps if they were studied out, inclinations rather than intuitions were followed."
"Well, my dear, we won't discuss these vague questions. Your duty is as simple and clear as mine is. Do as you have promised, and all will be well. I must now dress for dinner." And kissing her affectionately, he went up to his room.
She took his seat, and looked vacantly out of the window, with a vague dissatisfaction at heart. Unrecognized fully as yet, the great law of nature, which brings to each a distinct and separate existence, was beginning to operate. As she had said to Mara, vital interests were looming up, new experiences coming, of which she could no more think his thoughts than he hers.
Her face was a little clouded when she sat down to dinner, and she observed Mrs. Bodine looking at her keenly. Instinctively she sought to conceal her deeper feelings, and to become her mirthful self.
"You have not told me about your call yet," the old lady remarked.
"Well, I felt that papa should have the first recital. I met again the son of that old--ahem! --Mr. Houghton, and I have begun to ostracize him."
"Ella," said her father, almost sternly, "do not speak in that way. Our feelings are strong, sincere, and well-grounded."
"There, papa, I did not mean to reflect lightly upon them. Indeed, I was not thinking of them, but of Mr. Houghton."
"Oh, Cousin Hugh! let the child talk in her own natural way. She wouldn't scratch one of your crutches with a pin, much less hurt you."
"Forgive me, Ella," he said, "I misunderstood you."
"Yes, in the main, papa, but to be frank, I don't enjoy this ostracizing business, and I hope I won't have any more of it to do."
"There is no reason why you should. Cousin Sophy, there should be people enough in Charleston for Ella to visit without the chance of meeting Mr. Houghton, or any of his ilk."
"So there are. I'll manage that. Well, Ella, how did you set about ostracizing young Houghton?" And the old lady began to laugh.
"It's no laughing matter," said Ella, shaking her head ruefully. "He was frank and polite and respectful as any young gentleman would be under similar circumstances, and he wanted to become better acquainted, call on me, I suppose, and all that, but I had to tell him virtually that he was an objectionable person."
"I would rather this subject should not be discussed any further," said her father gravely.
"So would I," Ella added. "Papa and I have settled the matter, and Mr. Houghton is to recede below the horizon."
The old lady thought that when Ella was alone with her she would get all the details of the interview, but she was mistaken. The girl not only grew more and more averse to speaking of Houghton, but she also felt that what he had said so frankly and sincerely to her was not a proper theme for gossip, even with kindly old Mrs. Bodine, and that a certain degree of loyalty was due to him, as well as to her father and cousin.
The captain had some writing on hand that night, and Ella read aloud to her cousin till it was time to retire. Apparently the evening passed uneventfully away; yet few recognize the eventful hours of their lives. A subtle and mysterious change was taking place in the girl's nature which in time she would recognize. More than once she murmured, "How can I be hostile to him? He said he could no more do me wrong, even in his thoughts, than think evil of his dead mother. He said he would be better if I were his friend, and he is as good-hearted this minute as I am. Yet I must treat him as if he were not fit to be spoken to. Well, I reckon it will hurt me as much as it does him. There's some comfort in that."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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27
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RECOGNIZED AS LOVER
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It was inevitable that Mara should pay the penalty of being at variance with nature and her own heart. The impulses of youth had been checked and restrained. Instead of looking forward, like Ella, she was turning ever backward, and drawing her inspiration from the past, and a dead, hopeless past, at that. It fell upon her like a shadow. All its incentive tended toward negation, prompting her to frown on changes, progress, and the hopefulness springing up in many hearts. The old can hug their gloom in a sort of complacent misanthropy; the young cannot. If they are unhappy they chafe, and feel in their deepest consciousness that something is wrong. Mara laid the blame chiefly upon Clancy, believing that, if he had taken the course adopted by Captain Bodine, she could have been happy with him in an attic. His words, at their interview, were not the only causes of her intense indignation and passion. Although she was incensed to the last degree, that he should charge Captain Bodine with such "preposterous" motives and intentions, she was also aware that her fierce struggles with her own heart, at the time, distracted and confused her. She could not maintain the icy demeanor she had resolved upon.
Left to herself, the long afternoon and evening of the following day, she had time for many second thoughts. She was compelled to face in solitude the hard problems of her life. Anger died out, and its support was lost. She had driven away the only man she loved, or could ever love, and she had used language which he could never forget, or be expected to forgive. The more she thought of his motive in seeking the interview, the more perplexed and troubled she became. As now in calmer mood she recalled his words and manner, she could not delude herself with the belief that he came only in his own behalf, or that he was prompted by jealousy. She remembered the grim frankness with which he said virtually that he had nothing to hope from her, not even tolerance. She almost writhed under the fact that he had again compelled her to believe that, however mistaken, he was sincere and straightforward, that he truly thought that Bodine was lover rather than friend.
She would not, could not, imagine that this was true, and yet she groaned aloud, "He has destroyed my chief solace. I was almost happy with my father's friend, and was coming to think of him almost as a second father. Now, when with him I shall have a miserable self-consciousness, and a disposition to interpret his words and manner in a way that will do him hateful wrong. Oh, what is there for me to look forward to? What is the use of living?"
These final words indicated one of Mara's chief needs. She craved some motive, some powerful incentive, which could both sustain and inspire. Mere existence, with its ordinary pleasures and interests, did not satisfy her at all. Clancy's former question in regard to her devotion to the past and the dead, "What goodwill it do?" haunted her like a spectre. He had again made the dreary truth more clear, that there was nothing in the future to which she could give the strong allegiance of her soul. She would work for nothing, suffer for nothing, hope for nothing, except her daily bread. As she said, the friendship of Bodine was but a solace, great indeed, but inadequate to the deep requirements of a nature like hers. She knew she was leading a dual life--cold, reserved, sternly self-restrained outwardly, yet longing with passionate desire for the love she had rejected, and, since that was impossible, for something else, to which she could consecrate her life, with the feeling that it was worth the sacrifice. If she had been brought up in the Roman Catholic religion, she might have been led to the austere life of a nun. But, in her morbid condition, she was incapable of understanding the wholesome faith, the large, sweet liberty of those who remain closely allied to humanity in the world, yet purifying and saving it, by the sympathetic tenderness of Him who had "compassion on the multitude." She had still much to learn in the hard school of experience.
The next day, Ella was nothing like so voluble as usual. Little frowns and moments of deep abstraction took the place of the mirthful smiles of the day before. Nevertheless, her strong love for Mara led her to speak quite freely of her experience during her call at Mrs. Willoughby's. As Mara's closest friend, she felt that reticence was a kind of disloyalty. It was also true that out of the abundance of her heart she was prone to speak. At the same time, the belief grew stronger hourly that she had a secret which she had not revealed, and could not reveal to any one. The more she thought over Houghton's words and manner, the more sure she became that his interest in her was not merely a passing fancy. Maidenly reserve, however, forbade even a hint of what might seem to others a conceited and indelicate surmise. She therefore gave only the humorous side of her meeting with Houghton again, and laughed at Mara's vexation. So far from being afraid of her friend, she rather enjoyed shocking her. At last she said, "There, Mara, don't take it so to heart. Papa says I must ostracize him, and so Goth and Vandal he becomes--the absurd idea!"
"Your father would not require you to do anything absurd."
"No, not what was absurd to him; but he does not know Mr. Houghton any more than you do. It's not only absurd, but it's wrong, from my point of view."
"Oh, Ella, I'm sorry you feel so different from the rest of us."
"Why do you feel different from so many others, Mara? It isn't to please this or that one, or because you have been told to think or to feel thus and so. You have your views and convictions because you are Mara Wallingford, and not someone else. Am I made of putty any more than you are, sweetheart?"
Her words were like a stab to Mara, for the thought flashed into her mind, "I have required that Clancy should be putty under my will." Ella, in her simple common-sense, often made remarks which disturbed Mara's cherished belief that she was right and Clancy all wrong.
As a very secondary matter of interest to her, Ella at last began to speak of Clancy and Miss Ainsley. "If ever a girl courted a man with her eyes that feminine riddle courts Mr. Clancy. I don't think I ever could be so far gone as to look at a man as she does at him, unless I was engaged."
"How does he look at her?" Mara asked with simulated indifference.
"Oh, there's some freemasonry between them, probably an engagement or an understanding! She expostulated against his going away as if she had the right. I don't think he cares for her as I would wish a man to care for me, for there was a humorous, half-reckless gleam in his eyes. It may be all natural enough though," she added musingly. "I don't believe Miss Ainsley could inspire an earnest, reverent love. A man wouldn't associate her in his thoughts with his dead mother."
"What a strange expression! What put it into your mind?"
"Oh," replied Ella hastily, and flushing a little, "I've been told that Mr. Clancy's parents are dead! A plague on them both, and all people that I can't understand--I don't mean the dead Clancys, but these two who are fooling like enough. You should be able to interpret Clancy better than I, for Cousin Sophy says you were once very good friends."
"I cannot remain the friend of any one who is utterly out of sympathy with all that I believe is right and dignified."
"Well, Mara, forgive me for saying it, but Mr. Clancy may have had convictions also."
"Undoubtedly," replied Mara coldly, "but there can be no agreeable companionship between clashing minds."
"No, I suppose not," said Ella, laughing; "not if each insists that both shall think exactly alike. It would be like two engines meeting on the same track. They must both back out, and go different ways."
"Well, I've back out," Mara remarked almost sternly.
"That's like you, Mara dear. Well, well, I hope the war will be over some day. By the way, papa told me to tell you that he was busy last evening, but that he would call this afternoon for a breathing with you on the Battery."
At the usual hour the veteran appeared. Mara's greeting was outwardly the same; nevertheless, Clancy's words haunted her, and her old serene unconsciousness was gone. Now that her faculties were on the alert, she soon began to recognize subtle, unpremeditated indications of the light in which Bodine had begun to regard her, and a sudden fear and repugnance chilled her heart. "Was Clancy right after all?" she began to ask herself in a sort of dread and presentiment of trouble. Instinctively, and almost involuntarily, she grew slightly reserved and distant in manner, ceasing to meet his gaze in her former frank, affectionate way. With quick discernment he appreciated the change, and thought, "She is not ready yet, and, indeed, may never be ready." His manner, too, began to change, as a cloud gradually loses something of its warmth of color. Mara was grateful, and in her thoughts paid homage to his tact and delicacy.
"Mara," he said, "has Ella told you of her experiences at Mrs. Willoughby's?"
"Yes, quite fully. I should think, however, from her words that you were more truly her confidant."
"Yes, she has acted very honorably, just as I should expect she would, and yet I am anxious about her. I wish she sympathized with us more fully in our desire to live apart from those who are inseparable in our thoughts from the memory of 'all our woes,' as Milton writes."
"I have often expressed just this regret to Ella; but she loves us all, and especially you, so dearly that I have no anxiety about her action."
"No, Mara, not her action; I can control that: but I should be sorry indeed if she became interested in this young man. There is often a perversity about the heart not wholly amenable to reason."
Poor Mara thought she knew the truth of this remark if any one did, nor could she help fancying that her companion had himself in mind when he spoke.
"Young Houghton," he resumed, "is beginning to make some rather shy, awkward advances, as if to secure my favor--a very futile endeavor as you can imagine. My views are changing in respect to remaining in his father's employ. The grasping old man would monopolize everything. I believe he would impoverish the entire South if he could, and I don't feel like remaining a part of his infernal business-machine."
"I don't wonder you feel so!" exclaimed Mara warmly. "I don't like to think of your being there at all."
"That settles it then," said Bodine quietly. "It would not be wise or honorable for me to act hastily. I must give Mr. Houghton proper notification, but I shall at once begin to seek other employment."
Mara was embarrassed and pained by such large deference to her views, and her spirits grew more and more depressed with the conviction that Clancy was right. But she had been given time to think, and soon believed that her best, her only course, was to ignore that phase of the captain's regard, and to teach him, with a delicacy equal to his own, that it could never be accepted.
"Moreover," resumed Bodine, "apart from my duty to Mr. Houghton--and I must be more scrupulous toward him than if he were my best friend--I owe it to Ella and my cousin not to give up the means of support, if I can honorably help it, until I secure something else. Houghton has held to our agreement both in spirit and letter, and I cannot complain of him as far as I am concerned."
"I have confidence in your judgment, Captain, and I know you will always be guided by the most delicate sense of honor."
"I hope so, Mara; I shall try to be, but with the best endeavor we often make mistakes. To tell the truth I am more anxious about Ella than myself. This young Houghton is, I fear, a rather hair-brained fellow. I've no doubt that he is sincere and well-meaning enough as rich and indulged young men of his class go, but he appears to me to be impetuous, and inclined to be reckless in carrying out his own wishes. Ella, in her inexperience, has formed far too good an opinion of him."
"Well, Captain, I wouldn't worry about it. Ella is honest as the sunshine. They have scarcely more than met, and she will be guided by you. This episode will soon be forgotten."
"Yes, I hope so; I think so. I shall count on your influence, for she loves you dearly."
"I know," was the rather sad reply, "but Ella does not think and feel as I do. I wish she could become interested in some genuine Southern man."
"That will come in time, all too soon for me, I fear," he said, with a sigh, "but I must accept the fact that my little bird is fledged, and may soon take flight. It will be a lonely life when she is gone."
"She may not go far," Mara answered gently, "and she may enrich you with a son, instead of depriving you of a daughter."
He shook his head despondently, and soon afterward accompanied her to her home. She knew there was something like an appeal to her in his eyes as he pressed her hand warmly in parting. By simply disturbing the blind confidence in which she had accepted and loved her father's friend, Clancy had given her sight. She saw the veteran in a new character, and she was distressed and perplexed beyond measure. Scarcely able, yet compelled to believe the truth, she asked herself all the long night, "How can I bear this new trouble?"
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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28
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"HEAVEN SPEED YOU THEN"
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Aun' Sheba and Vilet entered at the usual hour the following day. The girls smiled and nodded in an absent sort of way, and then the old woman thought they seemed to forget all about her. She also observed that they were not so forward with the work as customary, and she watched them wonderingly yet shrewdly. Suddenly she sprang up, exclaiming, "Lor bress you, Missy Ella, dat de secon' time you put aw-spice in dat ar dough."
Both the girls started nervously, and Ella began to laugh.
"Missy Mara, you fergits some cake in de oben from de way it smell," and Aun' Sheba drew out cookies as black as herself instead of a delicate brown.
Mara looked at them ruefully, and then said, "I must make some more, that's all." "Wot's de matter wid you bofe, honeys?" the old woman asked kindly.
"Politics," Ella blurted out.
"Polytics! No won'er you'se bofe off de handle. Dere's been only two times wen I couldn't stan' Unc. nohow. De fust an' wust was wen he get polytics on de brain, an' belebed dat ole guv'ner Moses was gwine ter lead de culud people to a promis' lan'. I alus tole him dat his Moses 'ud lead him into a ditch, an' so he did. De secon' time was wen he got sot on, but you knows all 'bout dat. You'se bofe too deep fer me. How you git into polytics I doan see nohow."
"There, Aun' Sheba, don't you mind Ella's nonsense. We're no more into politics than you are."
"You'se inter sump'in den."
"Yes," said Ella, "we're still carrying on the war."
"Please don't talk so, Ella."
"Oh, Mara! I must have my nonsense. You've got the 'storied past'--that's how it's phrased, isn't it? --to sustain you, and I've only my nonsense."
"Well, puttin' in aw-spice double is nonsense, shuah nuff," said Aun' Sheba, looking at the girl keenly. "Wot you want spicin' so fer all't once, Missy Ella? You peart, an' saucy as eber. I ony wish I could see Missy Mara lookin' like you."
"You are getting old and blind, Aun' Sheba. I have a secret sorrow gnawing at my 'inards,' as you term those organs which keep people awake o' nights, gazing at the moon."
"Yes, honey, Aun' Sheba gittin' bery ole an' bery blin', but she see dat dere's sump'in out ob kilter wid de inards ob you bofe. Well, well, I s'pose it's none ob de ole woman's business."
"Ann' Sheba," cried Ella, with an exaggerated sigh, "if you could mend matters I'd come to you quicker than to any one else, you dear old soul! Well now, to tell you the honest truth, there isn't very much the matter with me, and there's a certain doctor that's going to cure me just as sure as this batter (holding up a spoonful) is going to be cake in ten minutes."
"Who dat?"
"Doctor Time--oh, get out!" At this instant an irate bumble-bee darted in, and Ella, in a spasmodic effort of self-defence, threw the spoon at it, and both went flying out of the window. The girl sat down half-crying, half-laughing in her vexation, while Aun' Sheba shook with mirth in all her ample proportions.
"Dat ar cake's gwine to be dough for eber mo', Missy Ella," she said. "I'se feerd you'se case am bery serus. Yit I worries mo' 'bout Missy Mara. Heah now, honey, you jes dun beat out. You sit down an' Missy Ella an' me'll finish up in a jiffy. I reckon Missy Ella ony got a leetle tantrum dis mawnin, but you'se been a wuckin' an' tinkin' too hard dis long time."
"Yes, Aun' Sheba," cried Ella, "that's the trouble. Let's you and I take the business out of her hands for a time, and make her a silent partner."
"She too silent now. Bofe oh you gittin' ter be silent par'ners. In de good ole times I'd heah you chatterin' as I come up de stars, an' to-day you was bofe right smart ways off from dis kitchen in you mins. Mum, mum, tinkin' deep, bofe ob you. Eysters ud make a racket long ob you uns dis mawnin'."
"There, Aun' Sheba," said Mara, kindly, "don't you worry about us. This is July, and in August we'll take a rest. You deserve and need it as much as either of us. I'll get well and strong then, and you know it makes people worse to tell them they don't look well and all that."
Aun' Sheba gave a sort of dissatisfied grunt, but she helped the girls through with their tasks in her own deft way, and departed with Vilet, who was always very quiet and shy except when at home.
"Well," said Ella, giving herself a little shake, when they were alone, "I'm going to get over my nonsense at once."
"What's troubling you, Ella?"
"Oh, I hardly know myself. What's troubling you? We both seem out of sorts. Do let us be sensible and jolly. Now if we both had a raging toothache we'd have some excuse for melancholy. Good-by, dear, I'll be up with the lark to-morrow, and we'll make a lark of our work;" and she started homeward, with her cherry lips sternly compressed in her resolution to be her old mirthful self. In the energy of her purpose she began to walk faster and faster. "There now, Ella Bodine," she muttered, "since it's your duty to ostracize and bake, _ostracize_ and _bake_, and be done with your ridiculous fancies." And she swiftly turned the corner of a street, as if, under the inspiration of a great purpose, she was entering upon a new and wiser course. The result was, she nearly ran over George Houghton. Looking up, she saw him standing, hat in hand, with a broad, glad smile on his face.
"You almost equal that express-wagon," he said. "Are you going for the doctor?"
Her mouth twitched nervously, but she managed to say, "Good-morning, Mr. Houghton, I'm in haste," and on she went. He saw her head go down. Was she laughing or crying? The latter possibility brought him to her side instantly.
"Are you in trouble?" he asked very kindly. "Isn't there something--oh, I see you are laughing at me," and his tones proved that his feelings were deeply hurt.
Her mirth ceased at once. "No, Mr. Houghton," she replied, looking up at him with frank directness, "I was not laughing at _you_, but I could not help laughing at what you said. I'm in no trouble, nor shall I be if--if--well, you know what I told you. We must be strangers, you know," and she went on again as if her feet were winged.
"I don't know anything of the kind," he muttered, as he turned on his heel and slowly pursued his way to his father's counting-rooms. Entering he paused an instant and looked grimly at Bodine, whose head was bent over his writing. "I'll tackle you next, old gentleman," was his thought.
Punctually to a minute he called on Mrs. Willoughby when the week had expired. She looked into his resolute face and surmised before he spoke that time and reflection had not inclined him to a prudent withdrawal from a very doubtful suit. Nevertheless she said: "Well, you've had a little time to think, and you probably see now that your wisest course will be to give up this little affair utterly."
"Pardon me, Mrs. Willoughby, I've had an age in which to think, and it's not a little affair to me. I did not quite understand myself when I last saw you--it was all so new, strange, and heavenly. But I understand myself now. Ella Bodine shall be my wife unless she finally rejects me, unless she herself makes me sure that it's of no use to try. What's more, it will take years to prove this. As long as she does not belong to another I'll never give up."
"She belongs to her father."
"No, not in this sense. She has the right of every American girl to choose her husband."
"Do you mean to defy her father?"
"No, I mean to go to him like a gentleman, and ask permission to pay my addresses to his daughter. I mean to do this before I say one word of love to her."
"Since you are so resolved upon your course you do not need any more advice from me."
"I don't mean that at all. Isn't this the right, honorable course?"
"Oh, your royalty wishes me to applaud your decrees and decisions," she said laughing.
"Now please don't be hard on me, Mrs. Willoughby. I've followed your advice with all my might for a week."
"Done nothing with all your might?"
"Yes, and you couldn't have given me a harder task."
"Are you of age?"
"Yes, I am. I'm twenty-two, however immature I may seem to you."
"Miss Bodine is not of age."
"Well, I'll wait till she is."
"Wouldn't that be better? Wait till she is of age, and more capable of judging and acting for herself. Time may soften her father's feelings, and your father's also, for, believe me, you are going to have as much trouble at home as with Captain Bodine, that is, supposing that Ella would listen to your suit."
"And while I'm idly biting my nails through the creeping years some level-headed Southerner will quietly woo and win her. I would deserve to lose her, should I take such a course."
"You certainly would have to take that risk; but perhaps you will incur greater risks by too hasty action."
"Be sincere with me now, Mrs. Willoughby. I don't believe you women like timid, pusillanimous men. How could I appear otherwise to Miss Bodine if I should withdraw, like a growling bear into winter quarters, there to hibernate indefinitely? The period wouldn't be life to me, scarcely tolerable existence. What could she know about my motives and feelings? I tell you my love is as sacred as my faith in God. I'm proud of it, rather than ashamed. I wish her to know it, no matter what the result may be, and I don't care if all the world knows it, too."
"You mean to tell your father then?"
"Certainly, at the proper time."
"Suppose you find him utterly opposed to it all?"
"I do not think I shall; not when he sees my happiness is at stake. He may fume over it for a time, but when he comes to know Ella she'll disarm him. Why, it's just as clear to me as that I see you, that she could make the old gentleman happier than he has been for over a quarter of a century."
"My poor young friend! I wish I could share in your sanguine feelings."
"Oh, I'm not so very sanguine about her. What she will do worries me far more than what the old people will do."
"Well, you are right there. The old people are the outworks, she the citadel, which you can never capture unless she chooses to surrender."
"That's true, but I don't believe she ever would surrender to a man who was afraid to approach even the outworks."
Mrs. Willoughby laughed softly as she admitted, "Perhaps you are right."
"If I'm not, my whole manhood is at fault," he replied earnestly. "Please tell me, haven't I decided on the right, honorable course--on what would seem honorable to Captain Bodine and to Ella also?"
"Yes, if you _will_ act now you can take no other."
"Well, won't you please approve of it?"
"Mr. Houghton, I'm not going to be timid and pusillanimous either. Since you are of age, and will take a perfectly honorable course, I will stand by you as a friend. I will still counsel you, if you so wish, for I fear that your troubles have only begun."
"I thank you from my heart," he said, seizing her hand and pressing it warmly. "I do need and wish your counsel, for I have very little tact. I can sail a boat better than I can manage an affair like this."
"Will you make me one solemn promise?"
"Yes, if I can."
"Then pledge me your word that you will not lose your temper with either Captain Bodine or your father."
"Oh, I think I can easily do that," he said good-humoredly.
"You don't know, you can't imagine, how you may be tried."
"Well, it's a sensible thing you ask, and I've sense enough to know it. I pledge you my word. If I break it, it will be because I'm pushed beyond mortal endurance."
"Mr. Houghton," she said, almost sternly, "you must not break it, no matter what is said or what happens. You would jeopardize everything if you did. You might lose Ella's respect."
He drew a long breath. "You make me feel as if I were going into a very doubtful battle," he said thoughtfully.
"It is a very doubtful battle. It certainly will be a hard, and probably a long one, and you will lose it if you don't keep cool."
"I can be very firm, I suppose."
"Yes, as firm and decided as you please, as long as you are quiet and gentlemanly in your words. Let me say one thing more," she added, very gravely. "If you enter on this affair, and then, in any kind of weakness or fickleness, give it up, I shall despise you, and so will all in this city who know about it. Count the cost. I'm too true a Southerner to look at you again if you trifle with a Southern girl. Your father will offer you great inducements to abandon this folly, as he will term it."
He flushed deeply, but only said, in quiet emphasis, "If I ever give up, except for reasons satisfactory to you, I shall despise myself far more than you can despise me."
"And you give me your word that you will keep your temper to the very end?"
"Yes, Heaven helping me, I will."
"Heaven speed you then, my friend."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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29
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CONSTERNATION
|
Young Houghton was like a high-mettled steed, from which the curb had been removed. His temperament, even more than the impatience of youth, led him to chafe at delay, and Ella appeared so lovely, so exactly to his mind, that he had a nervous dread lest others should equally appreciate her, and forestall his effort to secure her affection. He resolved, therefore, that not an hour should be lost, and so went directly back to his father's counting-rooms.
Bodine was writing as usual at his desk, and Houghton looked at him with an apprehension thus far unknown in his experience. But he did not hesitate. "Captain Bodine," he said, with a little nervous tremor in his voice, "will you be so kind as to grant me a private interview this evening?"
The veteran looked at him coldly as he asked, "May I inquire, sir, your object in seeking this interview?"
"I will explain fully when we are alone. I cannot here, but will merely say that my motives are honorable, as you yourself will admit."
Bodine contracted his brows in painful thought for a moment. "I may as well have it out with him at once," was his conclusion. "Very well, sir, I will remain after the office is closed," he said frigidly, then turned to his writing.
George went to his desk in his father's private room, and there was a very grim, set look on his face also. "I understand you, my future father-in-law," he murmured softly. "You think you are going to end this affair in half an hour. We'll see."
The afternoon was very warm, and his father said kindly, "Come, George, knock off for to-day. I'm going home and shall try to get a nap before dinner."
"That's right, father; do so by all means. I have an engagement this evening, so please don't wait dinner for me." His thought was, "If I'm to keep my temper I can't tackle more than one the same day; yet I don't believe my father will be obdurate. If I succeed, the time will come when he'll thank me with all his heart."
Mr. Houghton had no disposition to control his son in small matters, and the young fellow came and went at his own will. Thus far his frankness and general good behavior had inspired confidence. His tastes had always inclined to athletic, manly sports, and these are usually at variance with dissipation of every kind.
The impatient youth had not long to wait. The clerks soon departed, and the colored janitor entered on his labors. Bodine remained writing quietly until George came and said, "Will you be so kind as to come to the private office?"
The veteran deliberately put his desk in order, and followed the young man without a word. There was still an abundance of light in which to see each other's faces, and George observed that Bodine's expression boded ill. He took a seat in silence, and looked at the flushed face of the youth coldly and impassively.
"Captain Bodine," George began hesitatingly, "you can make this interview very hard for me, and I fear you will do so. Yet you are a gentleman, and I wish to act and speak as becomes one also."
Bodine merely bowed slightly.
"I will use no circumlocution. You have been a soldier, and so will naturally prefer directness. I wish your permission to pay my addresses to your daughter."
"I cannot grant it."
"Please do not make so hasty a decision, sir. I fear that you are greatly prejudiced against me, but--" "No, sir," interrupted Bodine, "I am not prejudiced against you at all. I have my own personal reasons for taking the ground I do, and it is not necessary to discuss them. I think our interview may as well end at once."
"Captain Bodine, you will admit that I have acted honorably in this matter. Since your daughter told me that you were averse to our acquaintance, I have made no effort to see her."
"Certainly, sir, that was right and honorable. Any other course would not have been so."
"It is my purpose to maintain a strictly honorable and straightforward course in this suit."
"Do you mean to say that you will pursue this suit contrary to my wishes?"
"Certainly. There is no law, human or divine, which forbids a man from loving a good woman, and Miss Bodine is good if any one is."
"How do you propose to carry on this suit?" the captain asked sternly.
"I scarcely know yet, but in no underhand way. I must ask you to inform Miss Bodine of this interview."
"Suppose I decline to do this?"
"Then I shall make it known to her myself."
"In other words, you defy me."
"Not at all, not in the sense in which you speak. I shall take no action whatever without your knowledge."
"You must remember that my daughter is not of age."
"I do not dispute your right in the least to control her action till she is, but I shall not take the risk of losing her by timidity and delay. Others will appreciate her worth as well as myself. I wish her to know that I love her, and would make her my wife."
"You appear to think that this is all that is essential so far as she is concerned," said Bodine, in bitter sarcasm.
"You do me wrong, sir," Houghton replied, flushing hotly. "Even if you should give your full consent, I, better than any one, know that my suit would be doubtful. But it would be hopeless did I not reveal to her my feelings and purposes."
"If she herself, then, informs you that it is hopeless, that would end the matter?"
"Certainly, after years of patient effort to induce her to think otherwise."
"I do not think you have shown any patience thus far, sir. You have scarcely more than met her before you enter, recklessly and selfishly, on a 'suit,' as you term it, which can only bring wretchedness to her and to those who have the natural right to her allegiance and love."
"You do me wrong again, Captain Bodine. I am no more reckless or selfish than any other man who would marry the girl he loves. By reason of circumstances over which I had no control I have met Miss Bodine, and she has inspired a sacred love, such as her mother inspired in you. You can find no serious fault with me personally, and I am not responsible for others. I have my own life to make or mar, and never to win Miss Bodine would mar it wofully. I am an educated man and her equal socially, although she is greatly my superior in other respects. I have the means with which to support her in affluence. I mean only good toward her and you. This is neither selfishness nor recklessness."
"Have you spoken to Mr. Houghton of your intentions?"
"Not yet, but I shall."
"You will find him as bitterly opposed to it all as I am."
"I think not. I shall be sorry beyond measure if you are right, but it can make no difference."
"You will defy him also, then?"
"I object to the use of that word, Captain Bodine. In availing myself of my inalienable rights I defy no one."
"Have I no rights in my own child? Your purpose is to rob me as ruthlessly as our homes were desolated years since."
"I am not responsible for the past, any more than I am for your prejudices against me. My purpose is simple and honorable, as much so as that of any other man who may ask you for your daughter's hand."
"Mr. Houghton," said Bodine, rising, "there is no use in prolonging this painful and intensely disagreeable interview. I said to your father in this office that our relations could be only those of business. Even these shall soon cease. I now understand you, sir. Of course the past is nothing to you, and you are bent on obtaining what you imagine you wish at the present moment, without any regard to others. Let me tell you once for all there can be no alliance between your house and mine. I would as soon bury my daughter as see her married to you. I do find fault with you personally. You are headlong and inconsiderate. You would lay your hands on the best you can find in the South just as your armies and politicians have done. But you proceed further at your peril--do you comprehend me? --at your peril," and the veteran's eyes gleamed fiercely.
"Captain Bodine," said George, also rising, "you cannot make me lose my temper. I shall give you no just reason for saying that I am headlong. I wish you could be more calm and fair yourself. Before we part one point must be settled. My request must be met in one way or the other. If you will give me your word that you will repeat the purport of what I have said to Miss Bodine, I will make no effort to do so myself. However hostile you may be to me, I know that you are a man of honor, and I will trust you. I merely wish Miss Bodine to know that I love her and am willing to wait for her till I am gray."
"You wish me to tell her that you will wait and pray for my death, and seek to lead her to do likewise," was the angry reply.
"It is useless for me to protest against your unjust and bitter words. The trust that I offer to repose in you entitles me to better courtesy."
By a great effort Bodine regained self-control, and balanced himself for a few moments on his crutches in deep thought. At last he said, "I accept the trust, and will be as fair to you as it is possible for an outraged father to be. I forbid that you should have any communication with my daughter whatever, and I shall forbid her to receive any from you. What is more, you must take her answer as final."
"I promise only this, Captain Bodine, that I shall take no action without your knowledge. I shall trust you implicitly in repeating the purport of this interview. The moment that I looked into your face I recognized that you were a gentleman, and I again apologize for my rude remark before I knew who you were. Good-evening, sir."
Bodine bowed stiffly, and departed with many conflicting emotions surging in his breast, none of them agreeable. He scarcely knew whether he had acted wisely or not. Indeed, the impression grew upon him that he had been worsted in the encounter, that George, in making him his messenger to Ella, had acted with singular astuteness. This was true, but the young man's action was not the result of the Yankee shrewdness with which the veteran was disposed to credit him. A simple, straightforward course is usually the wisest one, and George instinctively knew that Ella would appreciate such openness on his part. He was left in a very anxious and perturbed condition, it is true, but in his heart he again thanked Mrs. Willoughby for putting him so sacredly on his guard against his hasty temper.
Absorbed in thought, he sat till the gloom of night gathered in the office; then the shuffling feet of the impatient janitor aroused him.
Solacing the old man with a dollar, he went out hastily, and walked a mile or two to work off his nervous excitement, then sought a restaurant, muttering, "I haven't reached the point of losing my appetite yet."
By the time Bodine reached home he was much calmer, and disposed to take a much more hopeful view of the affair.
He again concluded that after all it was best that he should be the one to inform Ella, and thus keep the matter entirely within his own hands. Believing her to be as yet untouched by anything that Houghton might have said to her, he felt quite sure that he could readily induce her to take the same attitude toward the objectionable suitor which he proposed to maintain to the end.
He found her and his cousin very anxious about his late return--an anxiety not allayed by his grim, stern expression.
"I have been detained by an unpleasant interview," he said.
"With that old--" "No, not with Mr. Houghton. I will explain after dinner."
With the swiftness of light, Ella surmised the truth, and made but a very indifferent repast. Her father noted this, and asked himself, "Could she have known of his purpose?" Then he reproached himself inwardly for entertaining the thought.
The meal was comparatively a silent one, and soon over; then they all went to Mrs. Bodine's room.
"I wish you to be present, Cousin Sophy," said the captain, "for I have a very disagreeable task to perform, and I can scarcely trust myself to do it fairly. You must prompt me if you think I do not. Ella, my dear and only child, I trust that you will receive the message, which, in a sense, I have been compelled to bring you, in the right spirit I feel sure that you will do so, and that your course now and hereafter will continue to give me that same deep, glad peace at heart which your fidelity to duty and your devotion to me have always inspired. You have my happiness now in your hands as never before; but I do not fear that you will fail me. The son of the man whom we all detest, and whose employ I shall leave presently, has asked permission to pay you his addresses."
She turned pale as he spoke so gravely, and trembled visibly.
"Why do you tell me this, papa?" she faltered. "I would rather not have known it."
"Because he requested me to tell you. Because he said he wished you to know that he loved you, and that if I did not tell you he would himself;" and he looked at her keenly.
"Then," cried Ella, impetuously, "although I may never speak to him again, I say he has acted honorably. I told you that he was incapable of anything clandestine."
"I trust that you never will speak to him again," said her father, almost sternly. "I have forbidden him to have any communication with you, and I certainly forbid your speaking with him again."
"Father," said Ella, gently, with tears in her eyes, "I do not deserve that you should speak to me in that tone. I've always tried to obey you."
"Forgive me, Ella, but I have been intensely annoyed by the interview inflicted upon me, and I cannot think of it, or of his preposterous course, with patience. Moreover, pardon me for saying it, you have shown a friendly interest in him which it has been very painful to note."
"I've only tried to be fair to him, papa."
"Please try merely to forget him, Ella--to think nothing about him whatever."
"I shall try to obey you, papa; but you are too old and wise to tell me not to think. As well tell me not to breathe."
"Ella," began her father sternly, "can you mean--" "Now, Hugh," interrupted his cousin, "be careful you don't do more mischief than young Houghton can possibly accomplish. How men do bungle in these matters! Hough-ton hasn't bungled, though. His making you his messenger strikes me as the shrewdest Yankee trick I ever heard of."
"I had the same impression on my way home," admitted Bodine, irritably.
Ella felt that she owed no such deference to Mrs. Bodine as she did to her father, and, with an ominous flash in her eyes, said decidedly, "You are bungling, Cousin Sophy. George Houghton is incapable of what you term a Yankee trick. I will be pliant under all motives of love and duty to my father, but you must not outrage my sense of justice. You must remember that I have a conscience, as truly as you have."
"There, forgive me, Ella. You've seen the young fellow, and I haven't. Cousin Hugh, remember that Ella has your spirit, and the spirit of her ancestors. Show her what is right and best, and she will do it."
Bodine looked at his daughter in deep perturbation. Could that flushed, beautiful woman be his little Ella? With an indescribable pang he began to recognize that she was becoming a woman, with an independent life of her own. The greatness of the emergency calmed him, as all strong minds are quieted by great and impending danger. "Ella," he said, gently and sadly, "I do not wish to treat you as a little, foolish girl, but as becomes your years. I wish your conscience and reason to go with mine. You know that your happiness is the chief desire of my life. There could be no happiness for either of us in such a misalliance. The father of this hasty youth will be as bitterly opposed to it all as I am. We belong to different camps, and can never have anything in common. You know my motive in taking employment from him. I have thought better of it, and shall now leave his office as soon as I can honorably. I don't wish to outrage your sense of justice, Ella, and I will mention one other essential point in the interview. I told young Houghton that he must accept your answer as final, and that he would proceed further at his peril, and he said he would only take a final answer from you after years of patient waiting and wooing. How he proposes to do the latter I do not know, nor does he know himself. He did say, however, that he would take no action without my knowledge. You see that I am trying to be just to him."
"I would like to ask one question, papa. Did he use any angry, disrespectful language toward you?"
Bodine winced under this question, but said plainly, "No, he did not. He apologized for the third time for a hasty remark he once made before he knew who I was. He said that he recognized that I was a gentleman then, and that he would trust me as such to deliver his message."
The girl drew a long breath as if a deep cause for anxiety had been removed.
"Oh, come now, Cousin Hugh, you and Ella are taking this matter too much to heart. Why, Lor bless you! I had nearly a dozen offers by the time I was Ella's age. There is nothing tragic about this young fellow or his proceedings. Indeed, I think with Ella, that he has done remarkably well, wonderfully well, considering. Nine out of ten of his kind wouldn't be so scrupulous. He has done neither you nor Ella any wrong, only paid you the highest compliment in his power. Regard it as such, and let the matter end there. He can't marry Ella out of hand any more than he can me."
At this the girl, seeing inevitably the comic side of everything, burst into a laugh. "Cousin Sophy," she cried, "you surpass Solomon himself. Come, dear papa, let us try to be sensible. Of course Mr. Houghton can't marry me without your consent or mine."
"Then I may tell him that you will never give your consent--that what he terms his suit must end at once and forever?"
She again became very pale, and did not answer immediately.
"Ella, my only child, the hope and solace of my life, can you hesitate?"
With a rush of tears, she threw herself upon his neck, and sobbed, "Tell him that I will never do anything without your consent." Then she fled to her own room.
The captain and Mrs. Bodine sat looking at each other in consternation.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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30
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TEMPESTS
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On his return home George found his father reading such of the Boston papers as most nearly reflected his own views, and in which he had lost none of his early interest. He had always looked upon himself somewhat in the light of an exile, and it had been his purpose to return to his native State; but as time passed, a dread of its harsh climate had begun to reconcile him to the thought of ending his days in Charleston. All morbid tendencies strengthen, if indulged. The desire, therefore, to remain near the watery grave of his eldest son increased. Allied to this motive was the pleasure of accumulating money, the excitement of business, and exultation over the fact that he was taking tens of thousands from his enemies. As far as possible he invested his capital at the North. The people among whom he dwelt knew this, knew that, unlike Mr. Ainsley, he was doing as little as possible to build up the section from which he was drawing his wealth.
George, as yet, had not been inducted into the spirit or knowledge of his father's business methods, for the old man had believed that the time for this had not come. Moreover, as the merchant became better acquainted with the maturer character of his son, he became convinced that George would not, indeed could not, carry on the business as he had. There was a large, tolerant good-nature about the youth which would render it impossible for him to deal with any one in his father's spirit. He had not known his elder brother, and was merely proud of his record as that of a brave soldier who had died in the performance of duty. George was like many of the combatants, both Union and Confederate, capable of fighting each other to the death during the war, but ready to shake hands after the battle was over.
No one understood this disposition better than Mr. Houghton, and he felt that the South was no place for George. He wished his son to go back to Massachusetts, where wealth and influence would open the way for a brilliant career; and the old man already saw in imagination his name famous in the Old Commonwealth.
He had been thinking over this scheme on the present evening, and his mind was full of it when George entered. "Glad to see you so early," he said genially. "Had a good dinner? Yes; well, then, sit down a while, for I wish to talk to you. I've had a good nap, and so won't need to go to bed very early. Well, my boy, you've reached that age when you should take your bearings for your future career."
"Why, father, I've always expected to go into business with you, and gradually relieve you of its burdens and cares."
"No, George, that wouldn't be best; that wouldn't suit me at all. You are fitted for something better and larger. You wouldn't carry on the business as I do, and that would lead to differences between us. I couldn't stand that. The iron entered into my soul before you were born. Your brother had equal promise with yourself, and, to put it very mildly, I have no love for those who destroyed him. I do business with them, but in much the same spirit that Antonio dealt with the Jew on the Rialto. You would not do this, nor could I expect you to. The accursed crime of rebellion has not smitten your soul as with lightning, nor broken your heart. The young fall into the ways of those with whom they live, and I wish you to have as little to do with this Southern people as possible. There is no career for you in this city, but in your native State you can become almost what you please. If, for instance, with your splendid health you entered upon the study of law and mastered it, I have influence and wealth enough to advance you rapidly, until by your own grip you can climb to the top of the ladder. You can then eventually marry into one of the best families in the State, and thus at the same time secure happiness and double your chances of success."
George listened aghast as his father proceeded complacently, and with a touch of enthusiasm rarely indulged. He was sitting by an open window, at some distance from Mr. Houghton, the darkness concealing his face. He now began to realize the truth of Mrs. Willoughby's belief and Bodine's conviction, that he might find as much trouble at home as elsewhere. It quickly became clear to him that he must reveal the truth at once, but how to set about it he scarcely knew, and he hesitated like one on the brink of icy water. What he considered a bright thought struck him, and he said, "Speaking of marrying, you never told me how you came to marry mother."
"Oh!" replied the old man dreamily, "I was almost brought up to marry her. She was the daughter of a near neighbor and dear friend of my father's. Your mother and I played together as children. I scarcely think we knew when our mutual affection changed into love--it all came about so gradually and naturally--and the union gave the deepest satisfaction to both families. Ah! George, George, your brother's death shortened the life of your mother, and left me very sad and lonely. I can never forgive this people for the irreparable injuries they have done to me and mine. I know you cannot feel as I do; but love of country and your affection for me should lead you to stand aloof from those who are still animated by the old, diabolical spirit which caused the death of such brave fellows as your brother, and broke the hearts of such women as your mother."
His son's distress was so deep that he buried his face in his hands.
"I don't wonder that your feelings are touched by my reminiscences, George," and the old man wiped tears from his own eyes.
"Oh, father!" cried the son, springing up, and placing his hand on the old man's shoulder, "I'm going to test your love for me severely. You are right in saying I cannot feel as you do. I did not know that you felt so strongly. I've given my love to a Southern girl."
Moments of oppressive silence followed this announcement, and the old man's face grew stern and rigid.
"Father, listen patiently," George began. "She is not to blame for the past, nor am I. If you only knew how good and noble and lovely she is--" "Who is she? What is her name?"
"Ella Bodine."
"What! A relative of that double-dyed rebel in my office?"
"His daughter."
"George Houghton!" and his father sprang up, and confronted his son with a visage distorted by anger. Never had the youth called forth a look like that, and he trembled before the passion he had evoked.
"Father," he said entreatingly, "sit down. Do not look at me so, do not speak to me till you are calm. Remember I am your son."
The old man paced the room for a few moments in strong agitation, for he had been wounded at his most vulnerable point. The thought that his only son would ally himself with those whom he so detested, and whom for years he had sought to punish, almost maddened him. As we have seen before, there was a slumbering volcano in this old man's breast when adequate causes called it into action, and now the deepest and strongest forces of his nature were awakened.
At last he said in a constrained voice: "I hope you also will remember that I am your father. It would appear that you had forgotten the fact, when you made love to one whom I never can call daughter."
"I have not made love to her yet. You--" "Has she been making love to you then?"
"Father, please don't speak in that way. There never were harsh words between us before, and there must not be now."
Again the dreadful silence fell between them, but it was evident that Mr. Houghton was making a great effort for self-control.
"You are right, George," he said at last. "I have never spoken to you before as I have to-night, and, I hope to God, I may never have cause to do so again. I have not been a harsh father, nor have I inflicted my unhappiness on you. I have given you large liberty, the best education that you would take, and ample means with which to enjoy yourself. I had expected that in return you would consult my wishes in some vital matters--as vital to your happiness as mine. I never dreamed that such incredible folly as you have mentioned was possible. Your very birthright precluded the idea. You said that you would have to test my love severely. I shall not only have to test your love, but also your reason, your common-sense, almost your sanity. What is thought of a man who throws away everything for a pretty face?"
"That I shall never do, father. The beauty in Ella Bodine's face is but the reflex of her character."
"That's what every enamored fool has said from the beginning of time," replied Mr. Houghton, in strong irritation. "What chance have you had to learn her character? I know more about the girl and her connections than you do. She works with that Wallingford girl, and that old fire-eater, Mrs. Hunter, in the baking trade. She lives with her cousin old Mrs. Bodine, who thinks of little else than what she is pleased to consider her blue blood, forgetting that it is not good, loyal, American blood. This little patch of a State is more to her than the Union bequeathed to us by our fathers. As to Bodine himself, if the South rose again, he'd march away on his crutches with the rebellious army. Can you soberly expect to live among such a set of people? Can you expect me to fraternize with them, to stultify all my life, to trample on my most sacred convictions, to be disloyal to the memory of wife and son, who virtually perished by the action of just such traitors?" and he laughed in harsh, bitter protest.
George sat down, again buried his face in his hands, and groaned aloud.
"You may well groan, young man, when you face the truth which you have so strangely forgotten. But come, I'm not one to yield weakly to any such monstrous absurdity. You are young and strong, and should have a spirit equal to your stature and muscle. You have not made love to this girl, you say. Never do it. Steer as wide of her as you would of a whirlpool, and all will soon be well. I won't believe that a son of mine can be so wretchedly, miserably, and contemptibly weak as to throw himself away in this fashion."
George was silent and overwhelmed. His father's words had opened an abyss at his feet. He loved the old man tenderly and gratefully, and, under his burning, scathing words, felt at the time that his course was black ingratitude. Even if he could face the awful estrangement which he saw must ensue, the thought of striking such a blow at his father's hopes, affection and confidence made him shudder in his very soul. It might be fatal even to a life already held in the feeble grasp of age. He could not speak.
At last Mr. Houghton resumed, very gravely, and yet not unkindly: "You are not the first one of your age who has been on the verge of an irreparable blunder. Thank God it is not too late for you to retreat! Do not let this word jar upon you, for it often requires much higher courage and manhood to retreat than to advance. To do the latter in this case would be as foolhardy as it would be wrong and disastrous to all concerned. It would be as fatal to me as to you, for I could not long survive if I learned that I had been leaning on such a broken reed. It would be fatal to you, for I would not leave my money so you could enrich these people. You would have nothing in the world but the pretty face for which you sold your birthright. I will say no more now, George. You will wake in the morning a sane man, and my son. Good-night."
"Good-night, father," George answered in a broken voice. Then, when alone, he added bitterly: "Wake! When shall I sleep again?"
The eastern horizon was tinged with light before, exhausted by his fierce mental conflict, he sank into a respite of oblivion. For a long time he wavered, love for his father tugging at his heart with a restraining power far beyond that of words which virtually were threats. "He could keep his money," the young fellow groaned, "if I could only keep his affection and confidence, if I could only be sure that I would not harm his life and health. I could be happy in working as a day-laborer for her."
At last he came to a decision. He had given both his love and his word to Ella. She only could reject the one, and absolve him from the other.
He was troubled to find that the forenoon had nearly passed when he awoke. Dressing hastily, he went down to make inquiries for his father.
"Marse Houghton went to de sto' at de us'l time," said the colored waiter. "He lef word not to 'sturb you, an' ter hab you'se breakfus' ready."
George merely swallowed a cup of coffee, and then hastened down town. Meanwhile, events had occurred at the office which require attention.
A very few moments after Mr. Houghton entered his private room he touched a bell. To the clerk who entered he said, "Take this letter to Mr. Bodine."
The veteran's face was as rigid and stern with his purpose as the employer was grim in his resolves; but when the captain read the curt note handed to him, his face grew dark with passion. It ran as follows: "MR. BODINE--I have no further need of your services. Inclosed find check for your wages to the end of the month."
The captain sat still a few moments to regain self-control then quietly put his desk in order. He next halted to the private office, and the two men looked steadily and un-blenchingly into each other's eyes for a moment. Then the Southerner began sternly, "That hair-brained son of yours has told you of the interview he forced upon me last night."
"This is my private office, sir," replied Mr. Houghton, with equal sternness. "You have no right to enter it, or to use such language."
"Yes, sir, I have the right. Were it not for the folly and presumption of your headlong boy, I would have left your employ quietly in a few days, and had nothing more to do with you or yours. To save my daughter annoyance from his silly sentimentality I was compelled to come into this hated place wherein you concoct your schemes to suck dry our Southern blood. He asked for permission to pay his addresses to my daughter, and I forbade it. I told him that he could only do so at his peril."
"You are certainly right, sir. I also have told him that he would do so at his peril."
"I also told him that I would rather bury my daughter than see her married to him."
"Truly, sir, I never imagined we could agree so perfectly on any question," was Mr. Houghton's sarcastic reply. "Can we not now part with this clear understanding? I have much to attend to this morning."
"I have but one word more, and then trust I am through with his sentimentality and your insolence. Tell the boy that my daughter says she will have nothing to do with him without my consent. Now if there is even the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he will leave us alone. Good-morning, sir." And tearing the check in two, he dropped it on the floor and halted away.
Mr. Houghton coolly and contemptuously turned to his writing till the door closed on Bodine, and then he smiled and rubbed his hands in self-felicitation. "This is better than I had hoped," he said. "I've often laughed at the idiotic pride of these black-blooded, rather than blue-blooded, fire-eaters, but I shall bless it hereafter."
"As you virtually say, you hardened old rebel, if George is worth the powder to blow him up, he'll drop you all now as if you had the plague. I've only to tell him what you and your doll-daughter have said."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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31
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"I ABSOLVE YOU"
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When George reached the counting-rooms, he saw that Bodine was not in his accustomed place. Surmising the truth at once, he hastened to his father's room, and asked almost sternly: "Where is Captain Bodine?"
"I neither know nor care," was the cool reply. "He is dismissed from my service."
"You have acted unjustly, sir," his son began hotly, "you have punished him for my--" "George," interrupted his father gravely, "remember what you said about angry words between us."
The young man paced the office excitedly for a few moments in silence and then sat down.
"That's right," resumed his father quietly. "I am glad you are able to attain self-control, for you now require the full possession of all your faculties. Fortunately for both of us, this man, Bodine, has said more than enough to end this folly forever," and he began to repeat the conversation which had taken place.
At a certain point George started, and, looking at his father with a shocked expression, asked, "Did you mean, sir, that you also would rather see me buried than married to a good woman whom I love?"
"That is your way of putting it," replied Mr. Houghton, somewhat disconcerted, for his son's tone and look smote him sorely. "You will understand my feelings better when you have heard that rebel's final words;" and he repeated them, ending with the sentences, "'Tell the boy that my daughter says she will have nothing to do with him without my consent. Now if there is even the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he will leave us alone.' In this final remark I certainly do agree with him most emphatically," concluded the old man sternly. "Any human being, possessing a particle of self-respect, would prefer death to the humiliation and dishonor of seeking to force himself on such people."
"I suppose you are right, sir, but I cannot help having my own thoughts."
"Well, what are they?"
"That the girl has met in her home the same harsh, terrible opposition that I have found in mine."
"Undoubtedly, thank heaven! Whether she needed it or not she has evidently had the sense to take the wholesome medicine. The probabilities are, however, that she has laughed at the idea of receiving attentions so repugnant to her father and to me."
"No doubt," said George wearily. "Very well, there _is_ a trace of a gentleman in my anatomy. I would like to leave town for a while."
"A very sensible wish, George," said his father kindly. "Go where you please, and take all the money you need. When you have come to see this affair in its true light come back to me. I will try to arrange my business so that we can make a visit North together in the early autumn."
"Very well, sir," and there was apathy in his tones. After a moment he added, "Please give me some work this morning."
"No, my boy. Go and make your preparations at once. Divert your thoughts into new channels. Be a resolute man for a few days, and then your own manhood will right you as a boat is righted when keeled over by a sudden gust."
George was not long in forming the same plan which Clancy had adopted. He would go to the mountains in the interior, fish, hunt and tramp till the fever in his blood subsided. He told his father of his purpose.
"All right, George. I only wish I were young and strong enough to go with you. It will not be long before you will see that I have had at heart only what was best for you."
"I hope so, father; I truly do, for I have had a new, strange experience. Even yet I can scarcely comprehend that you and Mr. Bodine could speak to your children, and dictate to them in matters relating to their happiness as you both have done. It savors more of feudal times than of this free age."
"In all times, George, the hasty passions and inconsiderate desires of the young, when permitted gratification, have led to a lifetime of wretchedness. But we need not refer to this matter again. Bodine's final words have settled it for all time."
"It would certainly seem so," said young Houghton. "Well, I will make my preparations to start to-morrow."
His first step was to go direct to Mrs. Willoughby, and his dejected expression revealed to the lady that her anticipations of strong opposition were correct.
"I won't annoy you," she said, as George sat down and looked at her with troubled eyes, "by that saying of complacently sagacious people, 'I told you so.' You may tell me all if you wish."
"I do so wish, for I fear my way is blocked." And he related all that had occurred. When he ended with Bodine's final words she said thoughtfully, "Such language as that, combined with Ella's message, does seem to end the affair."
"Well, I know this much," he replied ruefully, "I am a gentleman. No matter what it costs me I must continue to be one."
"Yes, Mr. Houghton, you have acted like a gentleman, and, as you say, you must continue to do so. Let me congratulate and thank you for keeping your temper."
"I nearly lost it when I learned that my father had discharged Mr. Bodine."
"I understand how you felt then. You were sorely tried as I feared. Have you any reason to think that Ella feels in any such way as you do?"
"None at all. My best hope was, that with time and opportunity I could awaken like regard. While not at all sanguine, I would have made every effort in my power to win her respect and love. But now what can I do? If I take another step I must forfeit my father's love and confidence, which is far more to me than his money. I have at least brain and muscle enough to earn a living for us both. I fear, however, that such a course would kill the old gentleman. I could meet this problem by simply waiting if Ella cared for me, but she and her father have made it impossible to approach her again. She has said she would have nothing to do with me without her father's consent, and he has said that he would rather bury her than permit my attentions."
"Well, my friend, I see how it is, and I absolve you utterly. You can't go forward under the circumstances."
"No, for she would now probably meet any effort on my part with contempt, and agree with her father that a Northern man couldn't even appreciate words that were like a kick."
"Well, then, go to the mountains and forget all about it. If Ella had set her heart upon you as you have on her, and you both could be patiently constant, the future might have possibilities; but if I were a man I would make no further effort under the circumstances."
George went home with a heavy heart, and grimly entered upon the first hard battle of his life.
Ella tried to be her old mirthful self when she came down to breakfast that morning, and succeeded fairly well. In spite of her father's bitter words and opposition he had told her a truth that was like the sun in the sky. George Houghton loved her, and he had revealed his love in no underhand way. She was proud of him; she exulted over him, and, in the delicious pain of her own awakening heart, she forgot nearly everything except the fact that he loved her.
Bodine was perplexed by her manner and not wholly reassured. When she had kissed him good-by for the day, he said, "Cousin Sophy, perhaps our fears last night had little foundation. Ella does not seem cast down this morning."
The old lady shook her head and only remarked, "I hope it is not as serious as I feared."
"Why do you fear so greatly?"
"Suppose Ella does care for him more than we could wish, the fact you told her last night that this young fellow loves her, or thinks he does, would be very exhilarating. Oh, I know a woman's heart. We're all alike."
"Curse him!" muttered the captain.
"No, no, no, pray for your enemies. That's commanded, but not that we should marry our daughters to them. Dear Cousin Hugh, we must keep our comon-sense in this matter. This is probably Ella's first little love affair, and girls as well as boys often have two or three before they settle down. Ella will soon get over it, if we ignore the whole affair as far as possible. You have much to be thankful for, since neither of the young people is sly and underhanded. Never fear. That old Houghton will set his boy down more decidedly than you have Ella, and also send him out of town probably. This cloud will sink below the horizon before we are many months older. Perhaps Ella will mope a little for a time, but we must not notice it, and must make it as cheerful for her as possible. Charleston men are beginning to call on her, and she'll soon discover that there are others in the world besides George Houghton."
But the veteran halted to his work sore-hearted and angry. Strong-willed and decided as Mr. Houghton himself, he could not endure the truth that his daughter had looked with favor on one so intensely disagreeable to him. He, too, felt that such an alliance would stultify his life and all his past, that it would bring him into contempt with those whose respect he most valued. Young Houghton's coolness and resolute purpose to ignore his opposition, together with the fact that Ella was not indifferent, troubled him, and led to the determination to take the strongest measures within his power to prevent further complications. This resolve accounted for his visit to Mr. Houghton's office and the words he uttered there. His employer, however, had aroused his anger to the last degree, and he returned home in a rage.
Mrs. Bodine listened quietly to his recital of what had occurred, and then said, with her irrepressible little laugh, "Well, it was Greek meeting Greek. You both fired regular broadsiders. Cool off, Cousin Hugh. Don't you see that all things are working for the best? Your rupture with old Houghton will only secure you greater favor with our people, and Ella be cured all the sooner of any weakness toward that old curmudgeon's son."
"I should hope so," said her father most emphatically.
"Don't you be harsh to Ella. We can laugh her out of this fancy much better than scold or threaten her out of it."
"I shall not do either," said Bodine gravely. "I shall tell her the facts and then trust to her love, loyalty and good sense. It has been no laughing matter to me."
Ella's cheerfulness and happiness grew apace all the morning. "To think that I should have brought that great Vandal to my feet so soon!" she thought, smiling to herself. "Dear me! Why can't people let bygones be bygones? Now if I could see him, naturally what a chase I could lead him! If he thinks I'll put my two hands together and say, 'Please, sir, don't exert yourself. The weather is too warm for that. Behold thine handmaid,' he will be so mistaken that he will make some poor dinners. I'd be bound to keep him sighing like a furnace for a time. Well, well, I fear we both will have to do a lot of sighing, but time and patience see many changes. As Aun' Sheba says, he's on ''bation,' and, if he holds out, our stern fathers may eventually see that the best way to be happy themselves is to make us happy. He thinks I'm a very frigid representative of the Southern people. Wouldn't he dance a jig if he knew? Well, speed thee on, old Father Time, and touch softly obdurate hearts." Thus with the hopefulness of youth she looked forward.
Mara regarded her with misgivings, but asked no questions. She also was sadly preoccupied with her own thoughts.
"Aun' Sheba," Ella said, as the old woman entered, "I rather like this ''bation' scheme of yours. I think of putting myself on ''bation.'"
"Oh, you go long, honey. Doan you make light ob serus tings."
"I'm doing nothing of the kind, Aun' Sheba. I've too much respect for you."
"Oh, well, honey, sich as you gits 'ligion jes as you did de measles. It's kin ob bawn an' baptize inter yez wen you doan know it. But I'se got to hab a po'ful conwiction ob sin fust, an' dats de trouble wid me. I says to myself, 'Aun' Sheba, you'se a wile sinner. Why doan you cry an' groan, an' hab a big conwiction? Den you feel mo' shuah;' but de conwiction won' come no how. Sted ob groanin' I gits sleepy."
"Well, I think I've got a conviction, Aun' Sheba, and I'm not a bit sleepy."
"I don't know what you dribin at. Bettah be keerful how you talk, honey."
"I think so too, Ella."
"Oh, Mara! you take such 'lugubrious' views, as I heard some one say. There, Aun' Sheba! I'll sober down some day."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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32
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FALSE SELF-SACRIFICE
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Ella was very much surprised to find her father reading in the parlor when she returned home. "Why papa!" she cried, with misgivings of trouble, "are you not well?"
"I cannot say that I am, Ella, but my pain is mental rather than physical. Mr. Houghton dismissed me with insults from his service this morning."
Ella flushed scarlet. "Where was young Mr. Houghton?" she asked indignantly.
"Sent to Coventry, probably. He evidently did not dare put in an appearance."
She sat down and drew a long breath.
"Ella," said her father very gravely, "I shall not treat you as a child. You have compelled me to recognize that you are no longer the little girl that had grown so gradually and lovingly at my side."
"Papa," cried Ella, "I am not less lovingly at your side to-day."
"I hope so. I shall believe it if, with the spirit which becomes your birth, you do take your place at my side in unrelenting hostility to these Houghtons who have heaped insult upon us, the son by rash, headlong action which he would soon regret, and the father by insufferable insolence. But you shall judge for yourself." And he began, as Mr. Houghton had done, to repeat what had passed between them.
At the same terrible words which had smitten George, she also cried, "Papa, did you say you would rather bury me?"
"Yes," said the veteran sternly, "and I would rather be buried myself. You must remember that I am at heart a soldier and not a trader. I could not survive dishonor to you or myself; and any relation except that of enmity to these Houghtons would humiliate me into the very mire. What's more, Mr. Houghton feels in the same way about his son. I am not one whit more averse than he is. He virtually said that he would disinherit and cast out his son should he continue to offend by seeking your hand. I, in return, told him that if the sentimental boy had even the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he would leave us alone. Now you can measure the gravity of the situation. The name of our ancestors, the sacred cause for which I and so many that I loved perilled and lost life, forbid that I should take any other course. Turn from this folly and all will be serene and happy soon. I can obtain a position elsewhere. Surely, Ella, you are too true a Southern girl to have given your heart unsought, unasked to your knowledge till last night. Your very pride should rescue you from such a slough as this."
The girl had turned pale and red as he spoke. Now she rose and said falteringly: "Papa, I'm no hypocrite. As I told you last night, I will do nothing whatever without your consent."
"You will never have my consent even to speak to that fellow."
"Very well then," she said quietly, "that ends it."
So apparently it did. Ella went to her room and for a few moments indulged in a passion of grief. "Oh, to think," she moaned, "that fathers can say to their children that they would rather bury them than give up the bitterness of an old and useless enmity! It is indeed all ended, for he would never look at me again after papa's words." In a few moments she added, "Mine also, mine also, for I said, 'Tell him I will do nothing without papa's consent.' Well, I only hope he can get over it easier than I can."
She soon washed the traces of tears from her eyes and muttered: "I won't show the white feather anyhow, even if I haven't Aun's Sheba's comfort of being on ''bation.'" And she marched down to dinner with the feeling of a soldier who has a campaign rather than a single battle before him.
There was a little stiffness at first; but Mrs. Bodine, with her fine tact, soon began to banish this, and the old lady was pleased that Ella seconded her efforts so readily. Bodine was a man and a straightforward soldier, honest in his views and actions, however mistaken they might be. He had not feminine quickness in outward self-recovery, and the waves of his strong feeling could only subside gradually. He soon began to congratulate himself, however, that his strong measures had led to a most fortunate escape, and he admitted the truth of his cousin's words that young girls were subject to sudden attacks of romantic sentiment before they were fairly launched into society.
As the days passed these impressions were strengthened, for Ella appeared merrier than ever before. Mrs. Bodine kept pace with her nonsense which at times even verged on audacity, and the veteran began to laugh as he had done before the "Houghton episode," as he now characterized it in his mind. Mrs. Bodine, however, began to observe little things in Ella which troubled her.
On the morning following that of Bodine's dismissal, Mara saw at once from Ella's expression that something unpleasant had occurred.
"What has happened?" she asked anxiously.
"Oh, we've had an earthquake at our house," was the somewhat bitter reply. Fondly as she loved Mara, Ella stood in no awe of her whatever, and her heart was almost bursting from the strong repression into which she knew she must school herself for the sake of her father.
"Please, Ella, don't talk riddles."
"Well, papa and old Houghton have had a regular pitched battle; papa has been discharged, and is now a gentleman of leisure."
"Shameful! What earthly reason could that old wretch--" "I'm the earthly reason."
"Ella, don't tantalize me."
"Well, that misguided little boy, who must stand six feet in his stockings, had the preposterous presumption--there's alliteration for you, but nothing else is equal to the case--to ask papa if he might pay his addresses to me. Isn't that the conventional phrase? At the bare thought both of our papas went off like heavy columbiads, and we poor little children have been blown into space."
"Oh, Ella I how can you speak so!" cried Mara indignantly. "The idea of associating your father with that man Houghton in your thoughts! It does indeed seem that no one can have anything to do with such Yankees as come to this city--" "There now, Mara," said Ella a little irritably, "I haven't Aun' Sheba's grace of self-depreciation. I haven't been conjured into a monster by Northern associations, and I haven't lost my common-sense. I don't associate papa with old Houghton, as no one should know better than you. No daughter ever loved father more than I love papa. What's more, I've given him a proof of it, which few daughters are called upon to give. But I'm not a fool. The same faculties which enable me to know that you are Mara Wallingford reveal to me with equal clearness that papa and Mr. Houghton have acted in much the same way."
"Could you imagine for a _moment_ that your father would permit the attentions of that young Houghton?"
"Certainly I could imagine it. If papa had come to me and said, 'Ella, I have learned beyond doubt that Mr. Houghton is sly, mean, unscrupulous, or dissipated,' I should have dropped him as I would a hot poker. Instead of all this the Vandal goes to papa like a gentleman, tells him the truth, intrusts him with the message of his regard for me, and promises that if papa will tell me he will not--also promises that he will not make the slightest effort to win my favor without papa's knowledge. Then he told his own father about his designs upon the little baker. Then both of our loving papas said in chorus of us silly children, 'We'll see 'em buried first.'"
"I don't wonder your father said so," Mara remarked sternly.
"Well, _I_ wonder, and I can't understand it," cried Ella, bursting into a passion of tears.
"There now, Ella," Mara began soothingly, "you will see all in the true light when you have had time to think it over. Remember how old Houghton is looked upon in this city. Consider his intense hostility to us."
"I've nothing to say for him," sobbed Ella.
"Well, it would be said that your father had permitted you to marry the son of this rich old extortioner for the sake of his money. Your action would throw discredit on all your father's life and devotion to a cause--" "Which is dead as Julius Caesar," Ella interrupted.
"But which is as sacred to us," continued Mara very gravely, "as the memory of our loved and honored dead."
"I don't believe our loved and honored dead would wish useless unhappiness to continue indefinitely. What earthly good can ever result from this cherished bitterness and enmity? Oh, mamma, mamma! I wish you had lived, for you would have understood the love which forgives and heals the wounds of the past."
"Ella, can you have given your love to this alien and almost stranger?"
"I have at least given him my respect and admiration," she replied, rising and wiping her eyes before resuming her work. Suddenly she paused, and in a serio-comic attitude she pointed with the roller as she said, "Mara, suppose you insisted that that kitchen table was a cathedral, would it be a cathedral to me? No more so than that your indiscriminate prejudices against Northern people are grand, heroic, or based on truth. So there, now. I've got to unburden my feelings somewhere; although I expect sympathy from no one, I believe in the angels' song of 'Peace on earth and good will toward men.'"
"I fear your good will toward one man," said Mara, very sadly, "is taking you out of sympathy with those who love you, and who have the best and most natural right to your love."
"See how mistaken you are! I shall never be out of sympathy with you, papa, or Cousin Sophy. But how can I sympathize with some of your views when God has given me a nature that revolts at them? If you ever love a good man, God and your own heart will teach you what a sacred thing it is. What if I am poor, and lacking in graces and accomplishments, I know I have an honest, loving nature. Think of that old man Houghton condemning and threatening his son, as if he had committed a vile crime in his most honorable intentions toward me! Well, well, it's all over. I've given my word to papa that I'll do nothing without his consent, and he'll see me buried before he'll give it. Don't you worry, I'm not going to pine and live on moonshine. I'll prove that I'm a Bodine in my own way."
"Yes, Ella, you will, and eventually it will be in the right way."
"Mara, what I have said is in confidence, and since I've had my say I'd rather not talk about it any more."
Mara was glad enough to drop the subject, for Ella had been saying things to which her own heart echoed most uncomfortably. She and Mrs. Hunter accepted Mrs. Bodine's invitation to dine that evening, and, in her sympathy for Bodine, was kinder to him than ever, thus reviving his hopes and deepening his feelings.
Time passed, bringing changes scarcely perceptible on the surface, yet indicating to observant eyes concealed and silent forces at work. And these were observant eyes; Mrs. Bodine saw that Ella was masking feelings and memories to which no reference was made. Ella began to observe that her father's demeanor toward Mara was not the same as that by which he manifested his affection for her. While she was glad for his sake, and hoped that Mara would respond favorably, she had an increased sense of injustice that he should seek happiness in a way forbidden to her. The thought would arise, "I am not so much to him after all."
One day, near the end of July, Ella, her father, Mrs. Hunter and Mara, were on the Battery, sitting beneath the shade of a live oak. The raised promenade, overlooking the water, was not far away, and among the passers-by Mara saw Clancy and Miss Ainsley approaching. Apparently they were absorbed in each other, but, when opposite, Clancy turned and looked her full in the face. She gave no sign of recognition nor did he. That mutual and unobserved encounter of their eyes set its seal on their last interview. They were strangers.
"There goes a pair, billing and cooing," said Ella with a laugh.
"Mara, don't you feel well?" asked the captain anxiously. "You look very pale."
"I felt the heat very much to-day," she replied evasively. "I am longing for August and rest."
"Oh, Mara! let us shut up shop at once," cried Ella. "Papa is at leisure now and we can make little expeditions down the bay, out to Summerville and elsewhere."
"No," Mara replied, "I would rather do just what we agreed upon. It's only a few days now."
"You are as sot as the everlasting hills."
Mara was silent, and glad indeed that her quiet face gave no hint of the tumult in her heart.
Mrs. Hunter's eyes were angrily following Clancy and Miss Ainsley. "Well," she said, with a scornful laugh, "that renegade Southerner has found his proper match in that Yankee coquette. I doubt whether he gets her though, if a man ever does get a born flirt. When she's through with Charleston she'll be through with him, if all I hear of her is true."
"Oh, you're mistaken, Mrs. Hunter," Ella answered. "She fairly dotes on him, and if he don't marry her he's a worse flirt than she is. Think of Mr. Clancy's blue blood. She undoubtedly appreciates that."
"I'm inclined to think that he was a changeling, and that old Colonel Clancy's child was spirited away."
"I beg your pardon, Mrs. Hunter, but I differ with you. While I cannot share in many of Mr. Clancy's views and affiliations, he has the reputation of being sincere and straightforward. Even his enemies must admit that he seeks to make his friendliness to the North conducive to Southern interests."
Mara's heart smote her that even Captain Bodine had been fairer to Clancy than she had been.
Words rose to Ella's lips, but she repressed them, and soon afterward they returned to their respective homes.
Mara early retired to the solitude of her own room, for that cold mutual glance on the Battery had suggested a new thought not yet entertained. In her mental excitement it promised to banish the dreary stagnation of her life. She must have a motive, and if it involved the very self-sacrifice that she had been warned against, so much the better.
"It would teach Owen Clancy how futile were his words," she said to herself. "It would bring happiness to my father's friend; it would become a powerful incentive in my own life, and, above all, would compel me to banish the thought of one to whom I have said I will never speak again."
The more she dwelt upon this course, the more clear it became in her warped judgment the one path of escape from an aimless, hopeless existence fast becoming unendurable. She was not by any means wholly selfish in reaching her decision, for thoughts of her own need did not predominate. "If I cannot be happy myself," she reasoned, "I can make Captain Bodine happy, for there could not be a more devoted wife than I will become, if he puts into words the language of his eyes. Ella has already ceased to be in true sympathy with him in matters that have made so much of the warp and woof of his life. We two are one in these respects. I can and will cast out all else if my motive is strong enough."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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33
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A SURE TEST
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Clancy had gone to Nature to be calmed and healed, but he had brought a spirit at variance with her teachings. He soon recognized that he was neither receptive nor docile. He chafed impatiently and angrily at Mara's obduracy, which, nevertheless, only increased his love for her. The deepest instincts of his nature made him feel that she belonged to him, and he to her. The barrier between them was so intangible that he was in a sort of rage that he could not brush it aside. Reflection always brought him back to the conviction that she did love him. Her passionate words: "If my heart break a thousand times I will never speak to you again," grew more and more significant. Odd fancies, half-waking dreams about her, pursued him into the solitude of the forest. She seemed like one imprisoned; he could see, but could not reach and release her. Again she was under a strange, malign spell, which some day might suddenly be broken--broken all too late.
Then she would dwell in his thoughts as the victim of a species of moral insanity which might pass away. At times her dual life became so clear to him that he was almost impelled to hasten back to the city, in the belief that he could speak such strong, earnest words as would enable her to cast aside her prejudices, and break away from the influences which were darkening and misshaping her life. Then he would despondently recall all that he had said and done, and how futile had been his effort.
He neither fished nor hunted, but passed the time either in long tramps, or in sitting idly tormented by perturbed thoughts. Believing that he had reached a crisis in his life, it was his nature to come to some decision. He was essentially a man of action, strong-willed and resolute. He despised what he termed weakness, forgetting that the impulses of strength often lead to error, for the reason that patience and fortitude are lacking.
In facing the possibilities of the future, he began to yield to the promptings of ambition, a trait which had no mean place in his character. "If Mara denies her love, and sacrifices herself to Bodine," he reasoned, "what is there left for me but to make the most of my life by attaining power and influence? I can only put pleasures and excitements in the place of happiness. I won't go through life like a winged bird."
When such thoughts were in the ascendant, Miss Ainsley presented herself to his fancy, alluring, fascinating, beckoning. She seemed the embodiment of that brilliant career which he regarded as the best solace he could hope for. Often, however, he would wake in the night, and, from his forest bivouac, look up at the stars. Then a calm, deep voice in his soul would tell him unmistakably that, even if he attained every success that he craved, his heart would not be in it, that he would always hide the melancholy of a lifelong disappointment. All these misgivings and compunctions usually ended in the thought: "Caroline Amsley and all that she represents is the best I can hope for now. She may be playing with me--I'm not sure, if she will marry me, I can probably give her as true a regard as she will bestow upon me. She is not a woman to love devotedly and unselfishly, not counting the cost. I could not marry such a woman, for I feel it would be base to take what I could not return; but I could marry her. I would do her no wrong, for I could give to her all the affection to which she is entitled, all that she would actually care for. If I am mistaken, I am totally at fault in the impression which she has made upon me, and I do not think that I am. I am not in love with her, and therefore am not blind. She is not in love with me. It has merely so happened that I have proved agreeable to her, pleased, amused, and interested her. Possibly I have led her to feel that we are so companionable that a life journey together would be quite endurable. My reason, all my instincts, assure me that this beautiful girl has considered this question more than once before--that she is considering it now, coolly and deliberately. I am being weighed in the balances of her mind, for I do not think she has heart enough to enable that organ to have much voice in the matter. Her views and beliefs are intellectual. No strong, earnest feelings sway her. When have her sympathies been touched in behalf of any one or any cause? Oh, my rare beauty! I am not blind. Selfishness is the mainspring of your character; but it is a selfishness so refined, so rational and amenable to the laws of good taste, that it can be calculated upon with almost mathematical accuracy. You are no saint, but a saint might be beguiled into faults which to you are impossible. You are a fit bride for ambition, and would be its crown and glory."
Such was often the tenor of his thoughts, and ambition suggested the many doors to advancement which such an alliance would open. Mr. Ainsley was not only a man of wealth, but also of large, liberal ideas. It certainly would be a pleasure and a constant exhilaration to aid him in carrying out his great enterprises.
Thus Clancy, as well as Mara, was led by disappointment in his dearest hope of happiness to seek what next promised best in his estimation to redeem life from a dreary monotony of negations. He also resolved to have motives and incentives; nor was his ambition purely selfish, for he purposed to use whatever power, wealth and influence he might obtain for the benefit of the people among whom he dwelt. Hers, however, was the nobler motive, and the less selfish, for it involved self-sacrifice, even though it was mistaken, and could lead only to wrong action. It would cost him nothing to carry out his large, beneficent purposes. Indeed, they would add to his pleasures and enhance his reputation. She was but a woman, and saw no other path of escape from the conditions of her lot except the thorny one of self-abnegation.
Alternately cast down, and fired by conflicting thoughts and purposes, Clancy soon discovered that the woods was no place for him, and he resolved to return to the city, there to be guided by the circumstances of the next few weeks. If it became clear that Mara had not been influenced by his warning, but on the contrary was accepting Bodine's attentions, then he would face the truth that she was lost to him beyond hope. Without compunction he would turn to Miss Ainsley, and, with all the wariness and penetration which he could exercise, seek to discover how far she would go with him in his life campaign to achieve eminence. He was glad, however, that he did not regard her as essential to his plans and hopes. Indeed, he had the odd feeling that even if she rejected him as a husband, he could shake hands with her and say: "Very well, Ainsley, we can be good comrades just the same. We amuse and interest each other, we mutually stimulate our mental faculties. Let it end here."
In this mood he fulfilled his promise and wrote as follows: "My DEAR AINSLEY--Permit me to remind you of my existence--if one can be said to exist in these wilds. An expedition of this kind is a good thing for a fellow occasionally. It enables him to get acquainted with himself, to indulge in egotism without being a nuisance. I have neither hunted, fished, nor studied the natives. I have not seen a "mountain maid" whose embrace I would prefer to that of a bear. I have merely tramped aimlessly about, meanwhile learning that I am not adapted to communion with nature. At this moment I should prefer smoking a cigar with you on the balcony to looking at scenery which should inspire artist and poet. I am neither, merely a man of affairs. Humanity interests me more than oaks, however gigantic. You see I have no soul, no heart, no soaring imagination. I am as matter-of-fact a fellow as you are. That's why we get on so well together. We can chaff, spar, and run intellectual tilts as amicably as any two men in town. This proves you to be quite exceptional--delightfully so. I'm not surprised, however, for, as I have said to you, you are sated with the other kind of thing. How long will this fancy last? Now that you are so manly you should not be fickle. You have not half comprehended the penalties of your new _role_, for you may find that it involves a distressing frankness. I think I had better close. Letter-writing pre-supposes literary qualities which I do not possess. Men, unless sentimentally inclined, or given to hobbies, rarely write long letters to each other. If unusually congenial they can talk together as long as women. I do not know of a man in town who can equal you as good company; and with this fact in mind, I shall atone for a brief letter by putting in an appearance at an early date. If you have had any flirtations in my absence I shall expect all the details. You know I do not care for such trivial amusements. In this material age, making the world move in the way of business affords ample scope for my limited faculties, while a chat with you is better than a game of chess in the way of recreation, better than moping in the woods. Your friend, CLANCY."
He had barely time to post the letter before the mail-stage left the little hamlet in which it was written. He was soon dissatisfied with himself and the missive, and regretted having written it. Before an hour had passed he muttered: "I never wrote such a letter to a woman before, and I won't again. I put myself in the worst light, in fact was unjust to myself. How differently I would write to Mara! Is it the difference in women which inevitably inspires different thought and action? At any rate, there is a touch of coarseness in this masculine _persiflage_ which grates. When I return we must become friends as man and woman. I wonder if she will feel as I do about it?"
Miss Ainsley was not satisfied with the letter at all, one reason being that it revealed too much penetration on Clancy's part. While she welcomed him with her old cordiality she took him to task at once.
"This is a spurious letter," she said, holding it up. "You would never write such an affair to a male friend. You betrayed a consciousness of my femininity in every line. You preached to me and warned me with the same penful of ink. You write as if you were a commonplace male cynic, and I a woman who was trying to unsex herself by a lot of ridiculous affectations. I wished a genial, jolly letter such as you might write to an old college chum."
"Do you know the reason why I did not, rather could not, write such a letter?"
"No."
"Because you are not an old college chum."
"I was not aware that you were so tremendously sincere."
"I'm not tremendously sincere--not tremendous in any grand sense of the word, but I've learned that I can be tremendously awkward in a false position. It is absurd of you to fancy that I can think of you in any other light than that of a beautiful woman, gifted with more than your share of intellect. I prefer that our friendship should rest on this obvious fact. We are too old 'to make believe,' as children say. I came to this conclusion within an hour after I wrote the letter."
"Oh, you dashed it off hastily, without giving it thought?"
"I've given you two thoughts to your one," he replied, laughing lightly.
"And none of them very complimentary, judging from the letter." And she impatiently tore it up.
"That's right. Put it out of existence."
"I almost wish I had kept it as documentary evidence against you," she remarked.
"Oh, come! Friends do not wish evidence against, but for each other. I could remain away scarcely a week."
"From business, yes."
"Or from my most delightful recreation; yes."
"You find me very amusing then."
"I do indeed, and interesting also. I am quite certain that your society gives me far more pleasure than mine affords you."
"Since I am relegated to woman's sphere I certainly shall not protest against that belief. I am now under no bonds to be distressingly frank."
"You never would have been any franker than you wished to be. For the manifestation of that trait I shall have to depend on something very different."
"And what may that be?"
"Why, simply the quality of your friendship."
"I am satisfied that mine compares very favorably with yours."
"In both instances neither of us can escape one sure test."
"Indeed! What test?"
"That of time," he replied, smiling significantly. "Good-by. I'm quite sure that your regard will survive till to-morrow afternoon when we are to take a sail in the harbor, so Mrs. Willoughby has informed me."
Miss Ainsley gave a little complacent nod in his direction as he disappeared, and thought, "Since you are so content and agreeable as a friend merely, I'm half-inclined to keep you as such, and marry some one else."
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{
"id": "6719"
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34
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"BITTERNESS MUST BE CHERISHED"
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To all appearance the long hot days of August were passing very uneventfully to the characters of our story. The cold look which Clancy received from Mara on the Battery, together with the fact that Bodine appeared more lover-like than ever, speedily satisfied him that his best resource was the ambitious career which in his absence he had accepted in the place of happiness. He therefore gave himself up quite unreservedly to Miss Ainsley's fascinations, and, with all the skill and energy he possessed, seconded her father's business enterprises. Mr. Ainsley was sometimes in town, and again absent, as his business interests required; for he was one of those indefatigable men who, with soldier-like energy and fearlessness, carry out their plans, regardless of discomfort or danger. He recognized the fact that Clancy was both capable and useful, and was already inclined to make him one of his chief lieutenants in the South. He understood the young man's relations to his daughter perfectly, and was not at all averse to a union between them. At the same time, he knew how problematical Caroline's action would be, and that it would be useless for him to appear for or against the match. He was aware of his daughter's attitude in regard to marriage, and also convinced that she would take her own course.
It would seem that she was taking no course whatever at present, but indolently and complacently letting matters drift. She sometimes smilingly thought, "I scarcely know whether Mr. Clancy is friend or lover. I suppose I could lead him to be more pronounced in either character if I chose, but since he is so agreeable as he is, I would be a fool not to keep everything _in statu quo_ till I wish a change. Life is too long to give up a pleasure before you are through with it."
Clancy quietly studied her mood, and was in no greater hurry than herself. Indeed, both felt that they had arrived at a comparatively clear mutual understanding, and so were quite at their ease, she enjoying his society abundantly, and he hers, as far as his bitter memories would permit.
Quick of apprehension, Bodine soon perceived a change in Mara's attitude toward him, but was considerate in availing himself of such slight encouragement as she gave. He had been taught by her manner that her first feeling on the discovery of a warmer regard than she had expected was that of repulsion. He now believed that she had thought the matter over, and was learning that it might not be impossible to regard him in a new and different light. Long since the ardor of youth had passed, and he was disposed to allow her time to become accustomed to the thought of wifehood. In the meantime he put forth every effort to prove himself companionable, in spite of their disparity in age. It was not his delicate and thoughtful attentions, however, which reconciled her to the future that she had accepted, but rather the motives already revealed. Under the influence of these, a certain species of mental excitement had been evoked. She had not ceased to suffer, but she had ceased merely to exist.
There was something now to look forward to, sacred duties to anticipate, and a future which was not a blank. She believed that in giving help and happiness to another she would more surely trample on self, and make it the vantage-ground for a greater devotion than that of most women whose love is often partly self-love. In regarding her first pure love and all its promptings as the phase of self to be destroyed, she was committing her fatal error; and of this error, not only Clancy's words, but also her own heart, often warned her. But she was not one to turn back, having once resolved upon a course.
She had far too much delicacy and maidenly pride to suggest consciously to Bodine the nature of her thoughts, but she was willing that he should see that she no longer shrank outwardly from his occasional manifestations of a tenderer regard than he bestowed upon Ella. That something in her woman's nature beyond her control did shrink and plead for escape, she knew well; but to conquer this instinctive aversion was a part of the task which she had set for herself.
Not only quick-witted Ella, but also Mrs. Bodine and Mrs. Hunter, saw the drift of affairs, and gave their unhesitating approval. Mrs. Hunter was glad, because it would destroy Clancy's prospects forever, and prove a sort of triumph over him. Then it was, as she assured Mara one day, "eminently fitting. Your father and mother would both approve."
"That thought comes to me, too," calmly rejoined the girl. "I hope they will--I think they will. But let us not talk further till all is settled."
Mrs. Bodine believed the marriage would result well on other grounds. "Cousin Hugh," she said one day when they were alone, "you may shut me up if I am meddling, but you are not thinking of Mara in the same way that you did in the spring."
"I admit it, Cousin Sophy, and you need not shut up."
"Well, I reckon it will come about. On general principles I don't approve of such marriages, but I suppose there are exceptions to most rules. As I have said to you before, Mara is as old in her feelings as you are, and I think you will be happier together than you would be apart. I never understood Mara altogether; but of one thing I am certain, she must have some strong motive, something or some person for whom she can sacrifice herself; and, being a woman, she would have a good deal better time sacrificing herself to a man than to anything else;" and the old lady chirped her little complacent laugh.
"Rest assured," said the veteran, "I don't want any self-sacrifice in Mara's case."
"Of course not; nor do I. I wouldn't approve of any actual self-sacrifice, but Mara will try to come as near it as she can. I reckon she'd be more drawn toward a cripple like you than the handsomest young fellow in town, on general principles; and then she has been interested in you from the first, because you, in a peculiar sense, represent to her the past, which has been almost her only inheritance."
"I confess that I have indulged in the same thoughts which you express. God grant that we both are right! She has become strangely dear to me. Once I could never have imagined it at my time of life."
"Oh, the heart needn't grow old," was the laughing reply.
The captain's outlook was rendered more favorable by the reception of a note which contained the offer of a better position than that held in the employ of the detested Mr. Houghton. When he investigated the matter he learned that the offer came largely through the influence of Clancy, and this last confirmed the veteran's impression that the young man was using his influence and prosperity for the benefit of the South.
To Mara it was a bitter ordeal to listen to Bodine's complacent explanation of the affair, and she was glad that she was told in the dusky twilight, which concealed an expression of pain even beyond her control. Words of passionate protest rose to her very lips, but she remembered in time that they would involve revelations which would thwart her purpose to make him happy at every cost to herself. If he ever learned what Clancy had been to her, what he was at this agonized moment, her vocation, if not gone, would be impaired beyond remedy. Afterward, in the solitude of her own room, she accepted this bitter experience, as she had resolved to accept all others, as a part of her lot.
In her morbidness she became Jesuitical. Her father's old friend should be made as happy as it was in her power to render him. Whatever interfered with this purpose should be concealed or trampled upon. Of Clancy she said bitterly, "If he thinks he has been magnanimous, how little he understands me."
Clancy's motives had been somewhat mixed. He was willing that her pride should be rebuked and wounded, and he also wished her to know that he was above the petty resentment of jealousy.
Poor Ella felt that she was becoming isolated; an impression, however, which she would not have had were it not for her recent experiences. Had her heart remained as light and untouched as it was when we first met her, her pleasure over her father's prospects would have been unalloyed. Even now her satisfaction was deep and sincere, but it was not in human nature to forget how summarily she had been denied the happiness so sweet to those of her age. She felt, however, that all were against her; that even kind old Mrs. Bodine would not listen patiently to her thoughts. So she kept them to herself, and sought by forced mirthfulness to disguise them. She talked and laughed with the young men who called upon her, and they came in increasing numbers as inevitably as a flower attracts the bees. She was the life of the "family excursions," as she characterized in her thoughts those in which Mara and Mrs. Hunter had a part; and she joined others of which her father approved, but there was often trouble and sadness in her eyes, and her cheeks and form were losing their roundness of outline. Mrs. Bodine was not deceived. She noted everything silently, and thought, "She is making a brave fight; she must make a brave fight. There is no other course for her. I reckon she'll win it, as many a girl has before."
The old lady was thoughtful, kind, and very attentive. At the same time, with the nicest tact, she infused a firmness and spirit into her demeanor which made the girl feel that her cousin had sympathy only with the effort to conquer or forget. And she honestly made such effort, but was often aghast at its futility. In her brusque way she said to herself, "What's the use of trying? It seems like a disease which must run its course till old Father Time brings some sort of a cure."
One day she went to see Aun' Sheba, and found the old woman feeling poorly.
"Yes, honey," she said, "bein' lazy doan 'gree wid me 'tall. I doan see how Unc. stan's it all de yeah roun'."
"I hab de rheumatiz," Uncle Sheba remarked in the way of explanation.
"Now, Unc., dat ar rheumatiz is like de scapegoat in de Bible. You loads it up with all you sins. We all hope dat wen you got so sot on dat you'd turn ober a new leaf. How you stan' it sittin' roun' all day I doan see, no how. I'se gettin' so heaby an' logy an' oncomf'ble dat I'se gwine ter take in washin' de rest ob de month."
"I'd be glad to go to work to-morrow, too," said Ella. "I'd be glad of anything to make the time pass."
"Why, honey, wot you want de time to pass quick fer? You oughter be like de hummin'-bird, gederin sweets all de day."
"I feel more like a croaking raven."
"You'se quar, Missy Ella. You'se up an' you'se down, an' you doan know why. Ole Hannah dat lib wid you says dat you'se gittin' a lot ob beaux. Why, you eben make a 'pression on dat big, 'ansome Northern chap, ole Houghton's son, wen you doan know it. More'n once he ax me which de cakes you make, an' wen I tell him, he wanter buy dem all."
"That's very funny," Ella said, and there was the old mirthful ring in her laugh.
"You know him?" Aun' Sheba asked, quickly.
"I met him at Mrs. Willoughby's."
"Shuah now! Dat counts fer it. Well, he'd gobble all you'se cake if I'd let him, but I had oder cus'mers on my min'; an' he seem ter hab on'y you on his min'."
"You were very wise, Aun' Sheba. So much cake would have made him ill," and she still laughed joyously. " 'Pears to me you'se gittin' betteh, Missy Ella."
"Oh, you always make me laugh and hearten me up, Aun' Sheba."
"Well, who'd a tink dat ar civil, nice spoken young man was de son ob dat ole sinner Houghton. Beckon Missy Mara doan like you'se talkin' wid him at Mis Wil'by's."
"Of course not. He's a Northern Vandal, you know."
"Dunno notin' 'bout Wandals. I jedge folks by wot dey is deysefs. He couldn't help bein' bawn at de Norf. Long as he 'habe himself, wot dat agin him?"
"Being born at the North is a crime, some people think."
"Yes,--I know, but dat ar suttingly fool talk. Dat ain't de trouble so much in dis case. It's cause he's dat ole 'tankerous Houghton's son."
"He isn't to blame for that either," Ella answered, hotly.
"Lor', Missy Ella! how you stan' up fer 'im."
"I don't believe in injustice, Aun' Sheba," said Ella quietly, conscious meanwhile that her cheeks were getting very red.
"De heat _am_ po'ful," Aun' Sheba remarked, sententiously. Then her plump form began to shake with mirth. "Dar now, Missy Ella," she added, "de blin' ole woman kin see as fur in de grin-stone as de next one. He'd stan' up fer you agin de hull worl. It shines right out in his 'ansome face."
"How very blind you are, Aun' Sheba! Why, he's not fit to be spoken to, and I'm not to speak to him again as long as I live. Good-by. Good-by, Uncle Sheba. I've heard that sawing wood was the best cure for rheumatism known;" and she flitted out of the dusky cabin like a tropical bird.
Aun' Sheba still laughed to herself, and remarked, "Unc., s'pose you try Missy Ella's cure?"
"Wot she know 'bout it?" growled Uncle Sheba, with an injured aspect. "Wot de use ob sawin' wood all day wen de town hot 'nuff now to roas' lobsters?"
"Dat min's me, Unc. Why don' you took ter some sittin' wuck like fishin' in de harbor? You mought catch a lobster, or some oder fish."
"De fish an' me 'ud bof be briled in dis yere sun 'fore we got home."
"Bar, Unc., you wouldn't go to Heben 'less you was toted."
"Ob cose not. Doan de Bible say de angels gwine ter tote us?"
"Well, I s'pose dey is. --Ef a body ony know'd weder it ud be up or down."
"Dar now, Aun' Sheba, wot fei you talk so se'rus in Augst? Nex' winter we'se gwine ter hab a refreshin' from on high."
"P'raps you won' lib till nex' winter, Unc."
Uncle Sheba began to hitch uneasily, and remarked, "I doan see no use ob sech oncomf'ble talk in de restin' time ob de yeah."
Aun' Sheba soon forgot him in her unspoken thoughts of Ella and young Houghton.
"I begins ter unerstan' dat leetle gal now, an' all her goins on--puttin' aw-spice in de cake twice, an' sayin' quar tings. Well, well, I knows dey's all agin her, po' chile. Wot foolishness it all am! I once jam my ban' in de do'--s'pose I went on jamin' for eber. Der's no use ob der lookin' glum at me, fer dat young man's gwine ter hab all her cakes he wants. I won'er if Missy Mara got de same 'plaint as Missy Ella. She bery deep, an' won' let on, eben ter her ole nuss. Pears ter me de cap'n's gittin' kiner lopsided toward her, but I don' belibe dat'll wuck."
Ella was both gladdened and saddened by her visit. Houghton's buying her cake was one of those little homely facts on which love delights to dwell; for the heart instinctively knows that genuine love permeates the whole being, prompting to thoughtfullness in small matters which indifference overlooks. She could not but be glad that he had seemed to have "on'y you on his min'"; and then she grieved that all which was coming about so naturally, like a spring growth, should have been harshly smitten by the black frost of prejudice and hate.
After an early dinner that evening her father asked her kindly to go with him and Mara to the Battery; but she declined, saying she would rather keep Mrs. Bodine company. He did not urge her; and he had been so preoccupied by his thoughts as not to observe that she was pale and dejected, in spite of her efforts to appear as usual.
When alone Mrs. Bodine said, "You should have gone, Ella. You need the fresh cool air from the water. Why didn't you go?"
"Oh!" said the girl, in assumed lightness of tone, "three is sometimes a crowd."
"You shouldn't feel that way, Ella. You would never be a crowd."
"You are forgetting your old experiences, Cousin Sophy."
"No, I'm not. So you see whither affairs are tending?"
"Oh, cousin! Am I a bat?"
"I hope you are not averse."
"No, Cousin Sophy, I would do anything, and suffer much, to make papa happy. You know how I love Mara, though we disagree on many points; and if she and papa would be happier--Oh! why can't I be happy, too?" and she gave way to a tempest of sobs.
"We all wish you to be happy, Ella," said Mrs. Bodine, soothingly.
"Yes, in your own way," she replied, brokenly. "What happened before I was born must be considered first. If love is sweet to papa at his age think what it is to me?"
"You must not imagine, Ella dear, that we don't feel with you and for you. I am proud of you as I watch your brave fight in which you will conquer."
"Why should I conquer when my heart tells me that the one I love is worthy of my love? It hurts me, it wounds my very soul, that he and I should be spoken to as if we had committed a crime. How could my love be so sacred and heavenly if it were wrong? Oh, how I hate, hate! There is nothing so hateful as hate."
"But, Ella, you don't consider all--" "There is no need of considering all, Cousin Sophy. There are some things which stand out so clearly that all else is insignificant. Mr. Houghton hates papa and me. Does papa love him or his son? You know me, faulty, foolish little girl that I am; but think of that man raging at his son because he dared to love me! If George had committed a crime his father would have spent a fortune in defending him. To love me was worse than a crime. He would have been turned into the streets. Oh, it's all so unjust, it's all the spawn of hate!"
Mrs. Bodine was aghast at the intensity of the girl's feelings, but could only say, "Well, Ella, dear, since things are as they are you must fight it out. Trust the experience of an old woman. Marriages in the face of such bitter opposition are rarely happy."
"Yes, the bitterness must be sacredly cherished, whatever else is lost. Oh, I know, Cousin Sophy, I know I must fight it out if it takes my lifetime, and all the while know that God would bless our love if hate hadn't blighted it."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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35
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NOBLE REVENGE
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George Houghton took to the mountain solitudes a better and purer spirit than Clancy, who was so ready to be consoled by ambition and the fascinations of a woman incapable of evoking the best in his nature. The young fellow did fish and hunt with tireless energy, and many a humble cabin was stocked with provisions by his exertions. Believing that not only Bodine, but also that Ella herself, would have nothing to do with him, his affectionate nature turned to his father. With a large charity he tried to forget the stern words which had sorely wounded him, and only to remember the influences on his father's life which had led to their utterance. He recalled the abundant proofs of his kindness and liberality; and, now that his young dream was over, he purposed to carry out the old man's schemes as best he could.
He tired himself out through the long hot days, and slept at night from exhaustion. The time thus passed until he felt that he had the strength to return to the city, and act as if Ella did not dwell there. He also thought of his father's need of help, and regretted that he had remained away so long.
The old man looked at him keenly when he returned, seeing that the young face had grown older by years, and that steadiness of purpose and resolution were in its every bronzed line.
"It's all right, father," George replied to the questioning glance. "I've come back to carry out your wishes."
"Ah, my boy! now I know that you are made of the same stuff as your brother. Well, you won't be sorry."
"I wish to leave this town, and I wish you would too. I don't think it's good for you to be here."
"I'll think of it, George. I have thought of it. I shouldn't be mulish since you are not."
"I'm glad you feel so about leaving, father. Go back with me to your old congenial friends and surroundings. I, for one, don't wish to stay where I am ostracized."
"Oh, curse the rebels! I've punished them! I've punished them well!"
"I don't wish to punish them; but, since they will have nothing to do with me, a decent self-respect leads me to go where I can be treated according to my behavior."
"I know you can't feel as I do. All I ask is that you have nothing to do with them."
For the next few days, regardless of the heat, George toiled early and late in his father's office, incited by the hope of soon taking the old man away on a visit to the more bracing climate of the North. In the evenings he refreshed himself by a long swim in the harbor, and by sailing his boat over its waters.
One evening, while enjoying the latter favorite pastime in the early twilight, it so happened that he caught sight, in a passing boat, of a group which made his heart throb quickly. In the stern sat Captain Bodine steering the vessel toward the city. Ella was near him, and two ladies whom he did not know. As a hunter his eyes were keen, and he was satisfied that he had not been recognized. He could not resist the temptation to get a better view of Ella, and, drawing his hat over his eyes, he began to manoeuvre his boat so as to accomplish his purpose.
His little craft skimmed here and there so swiftly, as he tacked, that Ella at last began to watch it with a pleased yet languid interest, remarking, "That boat yonder tacks about and sails as if it were alive."
"Yah, yah, so 'tis alibe," said the negro owner of the craft which Bodine had hired for their excursion. "Young Marse Houghton sail dat boat, an' he beats any duck dat eber swum."
Ella's breath came quick, and she turned pale and red in her conflicting feelings, for it was evident that Houghton was purposely keeping near to them. She saw the frown on her father's face, and that Mara's expression was grave. Mrs. Hunter indignantly said, "He had better go on and mind his own business. Why should old Houghton's son be hovering around us like a hawk, I'd like to know?"
"The harbor is as free to him as to us," Ella answered, hotly.
Mrs. Hunter pursed her lips and looked unutterable things at the girl, but she regarded neither the matron's sour expression nor her father's stern glance, for her eyes were fascinated and held by the vessel which sped along the water like a white-winged gull. No one except Ella and the colored man continued the observance of Houghton. The girl was in a perverse mood, and watched until her father rebukingly spoke her name; then she turned away.
Meanwhile George gazed wistfully at one whom he believed that he might never see again; for he and his father were almost ready for their visit North, where the young man was to remain. Then he saw her steady gaze in his direction. Could she have recognized him? Did she continue to watch him because of some faint interest? His pulses quickened at the thought. After a few moments he said bitterly: "Yes, she knows me at last, and turns away. Very well, away go I, then."
At this moment he caught a glimpse of the western sky, and his sailor instincts were alarmed. There was a single dark cloud rising rapidly, portending not a storm, but sudden, violent gusts. In the gathering gloom all thought of vanishing was abandoned. No matter how Ella regarded him, he would not be far away while there was a shadow of danger to her. Examining his sail carefully he knew he could drop it to the point of safety at a moment's notice.
The wind on which he had been sailing died out. Then came little puffs from the west. To catch these the colored skipper of the captain's boat took the helm and tacked, presenting a broad surface of sail to their force. Houghton tacked also in the same direction, but with his eye on the westward water, and his hand on the rope which would bring down his sail with a run. He speedily had need of this caution. There was a distant roar, the water shoreward darkened, and then, as his sail came down and the prow of his boat went round to the gust, he was enveloped in a cloud of spray. At the same instant shrill screams of women and the hoarse cries of men came from Bodine's vessel.
The fury of the first gust passed quickly. When the atmosphere cleared a little, Houghton saw that the mast of the other craft had broken, and, with the sail, lay over on the leeward side. He instantly knew that the occupants were in imminent danger. Raising his sail as high as he dared, he tacked toward them with such nice judgment that if he kept on he would pass a little abaft of the disabled vessel.
"Oh, Marse Houghton! come quick," yelled the negro. "She'm won' float anoder minit!"
"Bail, you lubber!"
"Don got notin to bail wid!"
"As usual," growled Houghton.
All the rest were now silent. In his agonized apprehension for Mara and Ella, Bodine felt his heart beat as it had never done in the bloodiest battle. His careless boatman had not recognized the danger since the cloud was so comparatively small, and when he sought to lower the sail something was out of gear and it stuck. The gust struck it fairly, and would have capsized the boat had not the mast broken. As it was, the vessel so careened as to ship a dangerous quantity of water, which was rapidly increased by every wave that broke over the sides.
Mara and Mrs. Hunter were pallid indeed, but calm in woman's patient fortitude, remembering, too, even in that awful moment, that if they escaped they would owe their lives to one whom they regarded with scorn and hostility. Ella's hope buoyed her spirit, although she felt herself sinking deeper every moment in the cold waters. With love's confidence she believed that Houghton would be equal to the emergency, and his swiftly coming sail was like the white wings of an angel. Then for an instant she was perplexed and troubled, for he seemed to be steering as if to pass them, near, yet much too far.
"She'm sinkin', she'm goin' un'er," the negro yelled.
"Be ready, every one, to jump the moment I lay alongside," Houghton shouted. Then he luffed sharply to the wind, dropped his sail; his light craft lost headway, and glided alongside of the sinking boat.
"Now jump, all," he cried.
The women and negro did so and were safe, but the crippled veteran failed, fell backward, and would have dragged Ella, who held his hand, with him, had not Houghton broken her grasp. As quick as light he sprang into the vessel, now down to the water's edge, and fairly flung the captain into his own boat. As he did so the water-logged craft went down, and he with it. Ella shrieked and called his name imploringly. In the wild anguish of the moment she would have jumped overboard after him had she not been restrained.
"Patience," cried her father, "he will rise in a moment."
Houghton's little boat, now so heavily freighted, had almost gone under in the suction. The negro, rendered half wild with terror, was bent only on saving his own life. He was scarcely in the boat before he had the oars in the rowlocks, and began to pull for the shore. In their eager scanning of the dark water, Bodine and the others did not notice this at first, and when they did the negro was deaf to their expostulations and threats. The captain tried to reach him as he heaped maledictions on his head, but at that instant another squall swooped down, enshrouding them in spray, and nearly swamping their frail vessel. They sat silent and trembling, expecting Houghton's fate, but the gust passed finally, and the lights of the city gleamed out.
"Now put about, you--coward," thundered Bodine.
"No, sah, neber," replied the negro; "de boat swamp in two mi nit if I put 'bout in dis sea."
The veteran began to crawl toward him to compel obedience. The man shouted: "Stop dat ar. Ef you comes nigher I hit you wid'n oar. Bettah one drown dan we all drown."
Ella gave a despairing cry, and found oblivion in a deathlike swoon.
"Truly, Captain Bodine," said Mrs. Hunter sternly, "you must keep your senses. If the man is right, and we have every reason to believe he is, you must not throw away all our lives for the chance of saving one."
Then she, with Mara, gave all her attention to Ella.
The captain groaned aloud, "Would to God it had been me instead of him!" Between his harrowing solicitude for Ella, and the awful belief that Houghton had given his life for him, he passed moments which whitened his hair.
As they neared the landing the water grew stiller, and their progress more rapid. Assured of safety, the negro began to reason and apologize. "Mus' be reas'n'ble, boss," he said. "I dun declar ter you dat we'd all be at de bottom, feedin' fishes, if I'd dun wot you ax. Been no use nohow. Young Marse Houghton mus' got cotched in de riggin' or he'd come up an' holler. I couldn't dibe a'ter 'im in de dark, and in dat swashin' sea."
"Stop your cursed croaking. If you had known how to manage your boat it wouldn't have happened."
"I dun my bes', boss. S'pose I want ter lose my boat an' my life? I'se jis' busted, an' I kin neber go out on de harbor agin widout fearin' I see young Marse Houghton's spook. I'se wus off dan you is, but I'se he'p you wen we gits asho', if you ain't 'tankerous."
"Certainly you must help us," said Mrs. Hunter, decidedly. "You must get men and a carriage. Captain Bodine has lost his crutches, and his daughter is in a swoon. If you help us I will testify that you did the best you could under the circumstances."
"All right, missus. I kin swar dat it ud been death to hab dun any oder ting."
The carriage was brought, and men lifted into it the unconscious girl and the almost equally helpless veteran. Then one mounted the box with the driver and another ran for a physician, who was directed to go to Mrs. Bodine's residence. The negro carefully moored Houghton's boat, feeling that there might be something propitiatory to the dreaded ghost in this act. He then hastened to his humble cabin, and filled the cars of his family and neighbors with lamentations over the lost boat and lost man, and also with self-gratulations that he was alive to tell the story.
On the way home, Mara took the stricken veteran's hand and said: "Captain, you must bear up under this. In no respect have you been to blame."
"Nevertheless," he replied, and there was almost desperation in his tone: "I feel that it will prove the most terrible misfortune of my life. Ella may never be herself again, and I have wronged one to whom I can never make reparation--a noble, generous boy who has taken a revenge like himself, but which is scorching my very soul."
"You are noble yourself, captain, or you wouldn't feel it so keenly," was the gentle reply.
Mrs. Bodine, without waiting for explanations, peremptorily ordered that Ella should be carried to her room. The veteran, using a second pair of crutches which he kept in reserve, went to the adjoining apartment, buried his face in his hands, and groaned audibly. He knew not how to perform one imperative and pressing duty, that of relating to Mr. Houghton what had happened.
Aware of what was on his mind, Mara came to him and said, "I will go and tell his father."
"God bless you, Mara, for the offer. I would rather face death than that old man, but it is my duty and I alone must do it. Hard as it is, it is not so terrible as the thought that the poor boy died for me and mine, and that I can never make the acknowledgment which his heroic self-sacrifice deserves. It would have been heroic in any man, but in him whom I had treated with such bitter scorn and enmity--How can I meet Ella's eyes again! Oh, I fear, I fear all this will destroy her!"
"Courage, my friend," said Mara, putting her hand on his shoulder. "Ella will live to comfort you."
"Mara, you will not fail me?"
"No, I will not fail you."
He pressed her hand to his lips, and then she returned to Ella.
Mrs. Hunter and old Hannah removed the poor girl's wet garments and applied restoratives. The invalid, whose strength and spirit rose with the emergency, directed their efforts, meantime listening to the fragmentary explanations which were possible at such a time.
"Oh, just God!" she exclaimed, "we are punished, terribly punished for our thoughts and actions toward that poor boy. Ella, dear child, was right after all, and we all wrong. She might well love such a hero."
At last Ella gave signs of returning consciousness. Mrs. Bodine hastened to the captain, and said: "Cousin Hugh, Ella is reviving. You must control yourself. Everything depends on how we tide her over the next few hours."
The length of the swoon revealed the force of the blow which the loving girl had received. Perhaps the long oblivion was nature's kindly effort to ward off the crushing weight. Mrs. Bodine hung over her when she opened her eyes with a dazed expression. "There, Ella dear," she said, "don't worry. You'll soon be better. Take this," and she gave the girl a little brandy and water.
The powerful stimulant acted speedily on an unvitiated system, and with returning strength memory recalled what had befallen the one she loved. From tears she passed to passionate sobs, writhing and moaning, as if the agony of her spirit had communicated itself to every fibre of her body.
"Oh, Ella, darling, don't," cried her father. "I cannot endure this. He has conquered me utterly; my prejudice is turned into homage. We will all love and revere his memory. Would to God it had been I instead of him!"
"There, Hugh, thank God," said Mrs. Bodine, "that Ella can weep. Such tears keep the heart from breaking."
The old lady was right. Expression of her anguish brought alleviation, and there was also consolation in her father's words. The physician came, and his remedies also had their effect.
There was nothing morbid or unhealthful in Ella's nature. With returning reason came also the influence of conscience and the sustaining power of a brave, unselfish spirit. Her father had put himself in accord with her feelings, and her heart began to go out toward him in tenderness and consideration, and she said brokenly: "Papa, I will rally. I will live for your sake, since you will let me love his memory."
"You cannot love it or honor it more than I shall," he replied, in a voice choked with emotion. Then he took the physician into the adjoining room, to consult how best they might break the dreadful news to Mr. Houghton.
At this moment the front door burst open, and hasty, uncertain steps were heard.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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36
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A FATHER'S FRENZY
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Mr. Houghton knew that his son had gone out sailing in the harbor, and, when the gusts swept over the city, became very anxious about him. He was aware, however, of George's good seamanship, and tried to allay his fears by thoughts of this nature. As time lapsed, anxiety passed into alarm and dread foreboding. At last he summoned his coachman, and determined to go to the place where his son moored his boat. As he was about to prepare himself for the street, there were two hasty rings of the door-bell. He sank into a chair, overcome by the awful fear which, for a moment, robbed him of strength.
Now it had so happened that one of his younger clerks had been on the Battery when the rescued party reached it, and he had gathered little more from the colored boatman than that young Houghton had been drowned in saving Bodine and the ladies with him. His first impulse was to go to tell his employer, and he started to carry out this purpose. On his way he remembered that, in horror over the event, he had not stopped to ask fuller particulars, and he turned back to question the negro more fully. When he reached George's boat he found that the man had gone, and that the small crowd which had gathered had dispersed. With a heavy heart he again started for Mr. Houghton's residence, regretting sadly that it was his duty to communicate the terrible news. His feelings increased to a nervous dread by the time he reached Mr. Houghton's door. He feared the stern old man, and believed that he would always be associated with the tragedy, and so become abhorrent in the eyes of his employer. But, as the thing must be done, the sooner it was over the better.
The colored waiter admitted the trembling form, and exclaimed, "O Lawd! what happen?"
"I wish to see Mr. Houghton."
"Bring him up," shouted the old man hoarsely. "Well," he gasped as the clerk entered.
"Mr. Houghton, I'm very sorry--" "For God's sake, out with it!"
"Well, sir, I fear Mr. George--" "Drowned!" shrieked the father.
The young clerk was silent and appalled.
"Oh, curse that harbor! Curse that harbor!" the old man groaned.
"Perhaps, sir," faltered the clerk, "Mr. Bodine can--" "Bodine! Bodine! what in hell had he to do with it?"
"I could not learn the particulars beyond that Mr. George was--was--in saving Mr. Bodine, his daughter, and two other ladies--" "Now may all the infernal powers blast that rebel!" and the old man rushed down the stairway.
The frightened clerk and waiter followed hastily, and restrained him as he was opening the front door.
"Sir, dear sir, be patient--" "Now, Marse Houghton, wot you gwine ter do?" cried the negro.
"I'm going straight to that damned Bodine."
"Den, Marse Houghton, you mus ride. Sam's puttin' de bosses to de kerrige dis minit."
Houghton instantly darted through the house and out to the stable. "Haste!" he thundered, "haste, you snail!"
The waiter helped Sam, and in a moment or two the carriage rumbled away, the waiter on the box with the coachman, and the clerk inside with the frenzied father.
It was his steps which had startled Bodine and the physician, and they opened the door facing the landing as the old man came rushing up, crying hoarsely, "Where's my boy?"
"Where I wish I was," replied Bodine gravely.
The doctor was a strong and decided man. A glance showed him that Mr. Houghton was excited almost to the point of insanity. Seizing his hand the doctor drew the old man into the room, and with gentle force placed him in a chair. Never for a moment, however, did Mr. Houghton take his fiery eyes from Bodine, who, now that he was in the stress of the emergency, maintained his sad composure perfectly. Only a soldier whose nerves had been steeled in battle could have looked upon the half-demented man so quietly, for he presented a terrible spectacle. His white hair was dishevelled, and his eyes had the ferocity of a lioness robbed of her young. Foam gathered at his lips as he began again: "Curse your ill-omened face! Such men as you are worse than a pestilence. As a rebel was there not enough blood on your hands? He saved you, why couldn't you do something to save him?"
"Mr. Houghton, I did try. I would have perilled even the lives of women."
"You have virtually murdered him, sir. Did you not say that if he had the trace of a gentleman in his anatomy he would leave you and yours alone? He would rather drown than go ashore with you."
Ella could not help hearing his loud, harsh words, and her long, wailing cry was their echo.
At this instant Mrs. Bodine burst into the room, and her slender form seemed to dilate until a consciousness of her presence filled the apartment. Her face was more than stern. It wore the commanding expression of a high-born woman roused to the full extent of an unusually strong nature. Her dark eyes had an overmastering fire, and her withered cheeks were red with blood direct from her heart.
"Listen to me, sir," she said imperiously, "and stop your raving. Do not forget for another instant that you are a man, and that there are women in this house whom you are wounding by your brutal words. You, yourself, in very truth will commit murder, if you do not become sane. Did you not hear that cry? fit response to language that is like a bludgeon. How are you worse off than I, who have lost husband, sons, all? Have you not said to your boy as cruel things as Captain Bodine has said? This son of yours was too noble, too generous, too lofty for either you or us to understand in our damnable prejudices and blind hate. Come with me," and, seizing his hand, she dragged him to where Ella lay, white as death. "There," she resumed in the same impetuous yet clear-cut tones, "is as pure and good a girl as ever God created. Was loving her a crime? Go home, and ask God to forgive you, to take you where your son is in His good time. That poor child is the real victim. Unless you are mad indeed you will ask her forgiveness, and go quietly away."
The old man trembled like a leaf, swayed to and fro between his fierce conflicting emotions, and then left the house as hastily as he had entered. As he did so, Ella called after him feebly, but her voice was unheard.
The clerk and the colored waiter stood at the open door, and received Mr. Houghton's tottering form. "Home," he gasped.
In renewed dread they bore him to his carriage, which Sam drove rapidly away. By the time he reached his residence he was in almost a fainting condition, and was carried to his bed. The waiter, who also acted in the capacity of valet at times, gave the old man stimulants, as he said to the clerk, "Go for Dr. Devoe: Sam dribe you. Bring 'im wid you quick."
The old man at last lay still, breathing heavily, and half-consciously making an instinctive struggle for existence. The shock of his passion and the weight of an immeasurable loss had been almost beyond endurance to a man of his age and of his volcanic nature. His physician was soon at his side, and, with some degree of success, put forth all his skill to rally his exhausted patient. He at last succeeded in producing a certain degree of lethargy, which, in benumbing the brain, brought respite from mental agony.
The impression of Bodine and all the others with him that young Houghton had been drowned was natural and almost inevitable. They had seen him disappear beneath the water, and that was the last that was seen or heard. The boatman's explanation that the young man had become entangled in the rigging of the sunken vessel seemed the only way of accounting for the fact that he did not rise again and strike out for his own boat. The words of Mr. Houghton, recalling that final sentence of Bodine's, which had destroyed George's hope and made him feel that he could not approach Ella again, had greatly augmented the veteran's distress. The thought, once lodged, could not be banished that the youth, in his wounded pride, might have silently chosen to brave every danger in order to prove that he was a "gentleman," and that he would "leave them alone," even at the cost of his life. This result of his harsh words was crushing to Bodine, and to escape from its intolerable weight he tried to entertain the hope that George had found some way of attaining safety as yet unknown.
The young man had not been drowned, although he had had an exceedingly narrow escape. It was not the rigging which so endangered his life. As he rose toward the surface his head struck the pole with which the negro was accustomed to push his boat around in the shallow water, and the blow was so stunning that he did no more than instinctively cling to the object which had injured him. It sustained his weight, but, in the wind-lashed waves and darkness, he and his support were unseen. The tide was running out swiftly, and he and the pole had been swept well astern, while Bodine looked at the spot where they thought he had sunk-a point from which the negro's frantic oar-strokes were rapidly taking them.
Gradually George's clouded senses cleared, and at last he recalled all that had occurred; far too late, however, for his voice to be heard. He shouted two or three time but soon recognized that his cries were lost in the dashing waves and howling wind. So far from giving way to panic, he encouraged himself with the hope that his effort to rescue Ella and those with her had not been in vain. Pointing the pole toward the city lights, he tried to make progress by striking out with his feet, but was soon convinced that he was exhausting himself to little purpose, for both wind and tide were against him. He therefore let himself float, hoping to be picked up by some vessel, or, at the worst, to land at Fort Sumter, which he deemed to be the nearest point of safety. Before very long he heard the throbbing of a steamer's engine, and soon her lights pierced the gloom. To get near enough to make his condition known without being run down was now his aim. She seemed to be coming directly toward him, and he thanked Heaven that the wind was dying out so that his voice might be heard.
As soon as he thought the steamer was within hailing distance he began to shout, "Ship ahoy!" No heed was given until the boat seemed to be almost upon him, and he swam, with his pole, desperately to the left to avoid her. Then inflating his lungs he shouted, "Help, if you are men and not devils!"
"Hallo there! Man overboard?"
"I should say so," thundered Houghton. "Slow up, and throw me a rope."
The wheels were reversed at once. A man near the bow seized a coil of rope and yelled, "Where are you?"
"Here!" cried Houghton, splashing the water with his hands.
The rope flew with a boatman's aim; George grasped it, and, with sailor-like dexterity, fastened the end around his body under his arms. Then laying hold of it also with his hands, he cried from the water almost under the wheel, "Pull."
In a moment or two he was on deck and besieged with questions. "Boat swamped in the squall," he replied briefly. "I kept afloat on a pole till you picked me up. There was another boat that I am anxious about. I'll go up in the pilot-house and keep a weather-eye open."
"Well, you're a cool one," said the captain.
"I've been in the water long enough to get cool. Would you mind lending me an overcoat or some wrap?" And he escaped from the gathering crowd to the pilot-house.
The vessel proved to be a little steamer which plied between the islands down the harbor and the city. "That was young Houghton," said one of the passengers. " --him!" said another. "It's a pity he and his old money-griper of a dad are not both at the bottom."
Wrapped in the captain's greatcoat, George was as comfortable as his anxieties would permit. No sign of life was upon the dark waters. When the boat made her landing, he slipped out of his coat, leaped ashore, and, walking and running alternately, soon reached his father's house.
Opening the door with his latch-key, he stumbled on Jube, the waiter, who backed away from him with something like a yell of fear, believing that his young master had come back in ghostly guise.
"Shut up, you fool!" said George sternly. "Don't you know me?"
"O Lawd, Lawd! you ain't a spook, Marse George?"
"I'll box your ears in a way that will convince you--" At this moment Dr. Devoe came hastily from the sickroom, and met George on the stairs. "Thank God!" exclaimed the physician, "you have escaped. Caution, now, caution. You must not show yourself to your father till I give permission."
"Has he heard? Is he very ill?" George asked, in deep anxiety.
"Yes, but he'll come through all right, now that you are alive, I've had to stupefy him partially. He was told that you had been drowned. Go change your clothes, and be ready when I want you. How did you escape?"
"Picked up by the steamer 'Firefly.' Did they escape? --I mean Mr. Bodine and his party."
"Yes; and, as far as I can make out, left you to drown."
When the physician returned Mr. Houghton roused a little, and asked, "What is the matter? Is George ill?"
"No, he's better."
The old man closed his eyes, and at last said dreamily, "Yes, he's better, better off in heaven."
"Mr. Houghton," said the doctor, kindly, "I've just heard that a man was picked up by the steamer running between the city and the islands. I don't give up hope yet."
"Hope! hope! Do you mean to say there is hope?"
"I do. If you will be patient we will soon know. I have taken steps to find out speedily."
"O God, be merciful! I don't see how I can long survive if he is dead."
Jube, satisfied that George was in the flesh, followed him to his room, and aided him in exchanging his wet clothes for dry ones, meanwhile answering the young man's rapid questions.
Touched to the very soul by the account of his father's frantic grief, George's thoughts centred on him, but he asked, "What happened at Mr. Bodine's?"
"Dunno, Marse George. Marse Houghton run up de stairs, an' dey took 'im in a room. Den I heerd loud talkin', an' soon he come runnin' out all kin ob gone like, and he gasp, 'Home.' We lif him in de kerrige, an Sam dribe as if de debil was arter 'im. Den we gits de doctor sudden."
Having dressed, George opened his desk and wrote: "CAPTAIN BODINE, "Sir--It may relieve you of some natural anxiety to learn that I escaped, and that I am well and at home. My father is very ill, and absolute quiet of mind and body is essential. GEORGE HOUGHTON."
Then he addressed a line to the editor of the daily paper: "Rumors of an accident in the harbor and of my being drowned may reach you. This note is evidence that I am safe and well. I will esteem it a favor if no mention is made of the affair."
Despatching Sam with these two missives, he held himself in readiness for the summons to his father's bedside.
Dr. Devoe, in his efforts to save his patient from any more nervous shocks, administered another sedative, and then talked quietly of the probability of George's escape.
The old man's mind was far from clear, and in his half dreamy state was inclined to believe what was said to him. Then the physician pretended to hear the return of his messenger, and went out for a few moments. When he came back he saw Mr. Houghton's eyes dilating with fear and hope.
"Take courage, my friend," he said. "Great joys are dangerous as well as great sorrows. You must be calm for your son's sake as well as for your own. He has escaped, as I told you he might, and will see you when you feel strong enough."
"Now, now!"
A moment later the father's arms were about his boy. With gentle, soothing words and endearing terms George calmed the sobs of the aged man, whose stern eyes had been so unaccustomed to tears. At last he slept, holding his son's hand.
The clerk was dismissed with cordial thanks; George and the physician watched unweariedly, for the latter said that everything depended on the patient's condition when he awoke.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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37
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CLOUDS LIFTING
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In Mrs. Bodine's humbler home there was another patient who also had found such respite as anodynes can bring. Ella's fair face had become like the purest marble in its whiteness, but the hot tears had ceased to flow, and the bosom which had heaved convulsively with anguish was now so still that the girl scarcely seemed to breathe at all. Captain Bodine, Mara, and old Hannah were the watchers. Mara now, for the first time, observed how white the veteran's iron-gray hair had become. He had grown old in a night, rather in an hour. The strong lines of his face were graven deep; his troubled eyes were sunken, giving a peculiarly haggard expression to his countenance.
Her heart was full of gentleness and sympathy toward him, and of this he was assured from time to time by her eloquent glances.
Mrs. Bodine was being cared for by Mrs. Hunter, for she was ill in the reaction from her strong excitement and unwonted exertion.
But few hours had passed when there was a ring at the door. All except Ella looked at each other with startled eyes. What did this late summons portend? Mara rose to go to the door, but with a silent gesture the captain restrained her and went down himself.
"Who is this from?" he asked, as he took the letter from Sam.
"Fum young Marse Houghton. He ain't drowned no mo'n I be."
"Thank God!" ejaculated Bodine, with such fervor that he was heard in the rooms above.
"Yes," said Sam, "I reckon He de one ter t'ank." Sam had imbibed the impression that Bodine had left his young master to drown.
"What is it?" whispered Mara over the banisters.
"Young Houghton escaped, after all. --Here, my man, is a dollar. Wait a few minutes, for I may wish to send an answer."
The gas was burning dimly in the parlor. Turning it up, he read the brief missive, and recognized from its tone that the young man still had in mind the veteran's former attitude toward him. He sat down and wrote rapidly: "MR. GEORGE HOUGHTON, "_Honored Sir_--At this late hour, and with your coachman waiting, I must be brief. My term, 'Honored Sir,' is no empty phrase, for from the depths of my heart I do honor your heroic, generous risk of life for me and mine; and my sentiments are shared by the ladies whom you rescued. I have been harsh and unjust to you, and I ask your forgiveness. You have conquered my prejudice utterly. Do not imagine that a Southern man and a Confederate soldier cannot appreciate such noble magnanimity.
"Yours in eternal respect and gratitude, "HUGH BODINE."
As he finished it Mara entered, and was astonished at his appearance. The haggard face, seamed with suffering, that she had looked upon but a few moments before, was transfigured. Anguish of soul was no longer expressed, but rather gladness, and the impress of those divine impulses which lead men to acknowledge their wrong and to make reparation. In the strong light his white hair was like a halo, and his luminous eyes revealed the good and the spiritual in the man, as they are manifested only in the best and supreme moments of life.
He handed Mara the letter. When she had read it she looked at him with tear-dimmed eyes, and said: "It is what I should have expected from you."
After dismissing Sam he returned to the parlor, and, taking the girl's hand again, began, "God bless you, Mara! You have stood by me, you have sustained me in the most terrible emergency of my life. There were features in this ordeal which it seemed impossible for me to endure, which I could not have endured but for your sympathy and the justice you have done me in your thoughts. Oh, Mara, do not let me err again. You know I love you fondly, but your happiness must be first, now and always. In my wish to make you my wife, let me be sure that I am securing your happiness even more than my own."
At that moment she was exalted by an enthusiasm felt to be divine. In her deep sympathy her heart was tender toward him. She had just seen him put his old proud self under his feet, as he acknowledged heroic action in one whom she had thought incapable of it. Could she fail this loved and honored friend, when a wronged Northern boy had counted his life as naught to save him?
Never had her spirit of self-sacrifice so asserted itself before. Indeed, it no longer seemed to be self-sacrifice, as she gave him her hand, and said, "Life offers me nothing better than to become your wife."
He drew her close to his breast, but at this touch of her sacred person, something deep in her woman's nature shrunk and protested. Even at that moment she was compelled to learn that the heart is more potent than the mind, even though it be kindled by the strongest and most unselfish enthusiasm. Only the deep and subtle principle of love could have given to that embrace unalloyed repose. Nevertheless she had said what she believed true, "Life had nothing better for her."
As Ella still slept quietly, Bodine insisted that Mara should retire, saying, "I and old Hannah can do all that is required."
"But you need rest more than I," Mara protested.
"No. Gladness has banished sleep from my eyes, and I must be at Ella's side when she wakes."
Mara was glad to obey, for no divine exhilaration had come to her. She was not strong, and a reaction approaching exhaustion was setting in.
In the dawn of the following day Ella began to stir uneasily in her sleep, to moan and sigh. Vaguely the unspent force of her grief was reasserting itself, as the benumbing effects of anodynes passed from her brain. Her father motioned Hannah to leave the apartment, and then took Ella's hand. At last she opened her eyes, and looked at him in a dazed, troubled way. "Oh!" she moaned, "I've had such dreadful dreams. Have I been ill?"
"Yes, Ella dear, very ill, but you are better now. The worst is well over."
"Dear papa, have you been watching all night?"
"That's a very little thing to do, Ella darling."
She lay silent for a few moments, and then began to sob, "Oh, I remember all now. He's dead, dead, dead."
"Ella," said her father gently, taking her hands from her face, "I do not believe he is dead. There is a report that he escaped--that he was picked up by a steamer."
She sat up instantly, as if all her strength had returned, and, with her blue eyes dilating through her tears, exclaimed, "Oh, papa, don't keep me on the rack of suspense! Give me life by telling me that he lives."
"Yes, Ella, he is alive. He has written to me, and I have answered in the way that you would wish."
She threw her arms about his neck in an embrace that was almost convulsive, and then sank back exhausted.
"Now, Ella darling, for all our sakes you must keep quiet and composed;" and he gave her a little of the strong nourishment which the physician had ordered.
For a long time she lay still with a smile upon her lips. In her feebleness one happy thought sufficed, "He is not dead!"
At last a faint color stole into her cheeks, and she asked: "What did you write, papa?"
He repeated his letter almost verbatim.
"That was enough, papa," she said, with a sigh of relief. "It was very noble in you to write in that way."
"No, Ella, it was simple justice."
She gave him a smile which warmed his heart. After a little while she again spoke. "Go and rest, papa. I feel that I can sleep again. Oh, thank God! thank God! His sun is rising on a new heaven and a new earth."
Kissing her fondly, her father halted away. Old Hannah resumed her watch, but was soon relieved by Mara.
When George read Captain Bodine's letter the night grew luminous about him. He had not expected any such acknowledgment. With characteristic modesty he had underrated his own action, and he had not given Bodine credit for the degree of manhood possessed by him. Indeed, he had almost feared that both father and daughter might be embarrassed and burdened by a sense of obligation, whose only effect would be to make them miserable. Generous himself, he was deeply touched by the proud man's absolute surrender, and he at once appreciated the fine nature which had been revealed by the letter.
"Now," he reasoned, "as far as her father is concerned, the way is open for me to seek Ella's love by patient and devoted attentions. I shall at last have the chance which was impossible when I could not approach her at all. After this experience I believe that my own dear father will be softened, and be led to see how much better are happiness and content than ambitious schemes."
But Mr. Houghton was destined to disappoint his son. He awoke very feeble in body, and not very clear in mind. His one growing desire was to get away from Charleston. "I don't ever wish to look on that accursed harbor again," he repeated over and over.
"We must humor him in every way possible," Dr. Devoe said to George, "and as soon as he is strong enough you must take him North."
George's heart sank at these words, and at others which his father constantly reiterated.
"I wish to get away from this city, George," he would say feebly. "I will go anywhere, only to be away from this town and its people. Oh, I've had such a warning! This is no place for you or me. Its people are aliens. They destroyed one of my boys, and they have nearly cost you your life, as well as your happiness and success in life. Oh, that terrible old woman, with her tongue of fire! She looked and talked like an accusing fiend. I want to go away from it all, and forget it all--that such a place and people exist. Help me get strong, doctor, and then George and I will go, as Lot fled from Sodom."
"Yes, Mr. Houghton," Dr. Devoe would answer, "all your wishes shall be carried out;" and this assurance would pacify the old man for a time.
When alone with George the physician would add: "You see how it is, my young friend. Your father is in such a feeble, wavering state of mind and body that we must make it all clear sailing for him. Even if he asks for what is impossible, we must appear to gratify him. Anything which disturbs his mind will be injurious to his physical health."
George could not but admit the truth of the doctor's words, and he manfully faced his duty, hoping that the future still had possibilities.
After getting some much-needed sleep the day following his escape, he wrote: "MY DEAR CAPTAIN BODINE--If I had known you better your letter would not have been such an agreeable surprise. Please do me the favor not to over-estimate my effort for you and those with you--an effort which any man would have made. That it was successful, is as much a cause for gratitude in my own case as in yours. Please present my compliments to the ladies, and express my hope that they suffered no ill effects from their hasty exchange of boats. I trust that the stupid boatman, who was to blame for your disaster, will not attempt to navigate anything more complicated than a wheelbarrow hereafter. I regret to say that my father is still very ill, and that his physician enjoins the utmost care and quiet until he recovers from his nervous shock. With much respect, I am, Gratefully yours, "GEORGE HOUGHTON."
When Ella's physician came the following day, he found his patient so much better that he could not account for it until he had heard the glad news. The healthful, elastic nature of the girl rallied swiftly. George's second letter was handed her to read, and she kept it. Being clever with her pencil, she made a ludicrous caricature of the colored boatman caught in a gale with a wheelbarrow. Her smile was glad now, for hope grew stronger every moment. Her right to love was now unquestioned, and even her proud father and cousin had only words of respect and admiration for the lover who, in a few brief moments, had vindicated the manhood which she had recognized in the first moments of their chance encounter.
She could not believe that Mr. Houghton would remain obdurate when he recovered sufficiently to think the matter over calmly. "Our papas," she thought, with a little sigh and a smile, "have learned that burying their children is a rather serious matter after all."
When two or three days passed, however, and no further communication had been received from George, her father thought it wise to say a few words of caution. "Ella," he began, "you are now strong enough to look at this matter in all its bearings. Young Mr. Houghton probably finds that his father is as adverse to his thoughts of you as ever. He has himself also had time for many second thoughts, and--" "Papa," said the girl, with a reproachful glance, "you have not yet learned to do George Houghton justice. At the same time I wish neither you nor any one else to give him the slightest hint of my feelings, nor to say anything to him of my illness and what occurred in the boat. He asked permission to pay his addresses, and he's got to pay them, principal and interest, if I wait till I am as gray as you are. Dear papa, how you must have suffered! To think that one's hair should turn white so soon! Haven't I got a little gray, too?"
She looked at herself in the mirror, but the late afternoon sun turned her light tresses, which she never could keep smooth, into an aureole of gold.
Mr. Houghton rallied slowly, but grew calmer and more rational with time. He wished to see his confidential clerk on business, but Dr. Devoe said gently but firmly, "Not yet." He began to permit, however, a daily written statement from the office that all was going well. During this convalescence George felt that he must take no middle course. He resolved to have no further communication with Captain Bodine, and not to do anything which, if it came to his father's knowledge, would retard his recovery. One thing, however, he was resolved upon. In carrying out his father's wishes he would draw the line at an ambitious alliance at the North. "Since I have conquered Captain Bodine," he muttered, with a little resolute nod of his head: "I will subdue my own paternal ancestor; then the way will be open for a siege of the fair citadel, the peerless little baker. No wonder her cakes seemed all sugar and spice." Thus George often mused, complacently regardless of the incongruous terms bestowed upon Ella in his thoughts.
Sometimes these reveries brought smiles to his face, and more than once he started and flushed as he observed his father looking at him searchingly yet wistfully.
Meanwhile he scarcely left the old man night or day. He slept on a cot by his side, and at the slightest movement was awake, and ready to anticipate wishes before they could be spoken. On the last day of August his father was well enough to be up and dressed most of the forenoon.
George began to read the beloved Boston papers, but Mr. Houghton soon said: "That will do, I'm in no mood for dog-day politics. Go off and amuse yourself, as long as you don't go near the harbor."
"I've no wish to go out, father. When the sun is low I'll take a tramp of a mile or two."
"In a week or so more I think I'll be able to travel, George."
"I hope so."
"I fear you don't wish to leave Charleston."
"I wish to do what is best for your health."
Then a long silence followed, each busy with his own thoughts.
At last Mr. Houghton said: "It's strange we've heard nothing from those Bodines. They appear to accept their lives from your hand as a matter of course;" and the old man watched the effect of these tentative words.
George flushed, but said gently: "Dear father, try to be just, even in your enmities. I have heard from Captain Bodine, and--" "What! have you been corresponding with them, and all that?" interrupted Mr. Houghton irritably. "Why didn't you tell me?"
"I merely replied to Mr. Bodine's note the day after the accident. Since then I have not heard from any of the rescued party, nor have I made the slightest effort to do so. Dr. Devoe said you required quiet of body and mind, and I have not done anything which would interfere with this."
"Thank you, my boy, thank you heartily. I shall owe my life more to your faithful attendance than to Dr. Devoe."
"I am glad to hear you say that, whether it is true or not. I wish you to live many years, and to take the rest to which a long and laborious life entitles you. I will show you Captain Bodine's letter if you wish."
"Well, let me see what the rebel has to say for himself."
"Humph!" Mr. Houghton ejaculated, finishing the letter. "What did you say in reply?"
George repeated the substance of his note.
"And nothing has passed between him, his daughter, or you since?"
"Nothing whatever."
"I suppose by this time that little gust of passion, inspired by the daughter's pretty face, has passed?" and he looked at his son keenly.
"It would have passed, father, if it had been only a gust of passion, and inspired merely by a pretty face."
"Humph! Do you mean to say that you love her still?"
"I cannot control my heart, only my actions."
"You will give her up then, since it is my wish?"
"I cannot give up loving her, father. If I had drowned and gone to another world I feel that I would have carried my love with me."
There was another long silence, and then Mr. floughton said, "But you will control your action?"
"My action, father, shall be guided by most considerate loyalty to you."
"But you will not promise never to marry her?"
"It is true, indeed, that I may never marry her, for I have no reason whatever to think that she cares for me in any such way as I do for her. As long as her father felt as he did, I could not approach her. As long as you feel as you do, I cannot seek her, but to give her up deliberately would be doing violence to the best in my nature. I know my love is the same as that which you had for mother, and God would punish a man who tried to put his foot on such a love. I feel that it would keep me from the evil of the world."
"The first thing you know, George, you will be wishing that I am dead."
"No, father, no!" his son cried impulsively. "You would do me wicked wrong in thinking that. A foolish, guilty passion might probably lead to such thoughts, but not a pure, honest love, which prompts to duty in every relation in life. I can carry out your every plan for me without bolstering myself by marrying wealth and position. My self-respect revolts at the idea. A woman that I loved could aid me far more than the wealthiest and highest born in the land. I believe that in time you will see these things as I cannot help seeing them. Until then I can be patient. I certainly will not jeopardize your health by doing what is contrary to your wishes. Don't you think we had better drop the subject for the present?"
"Yes, I think we had," said Mr. Houghton sadly, but without any appearance of irritation.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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38
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"YES, VILET"
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With the exception of Aun' Sheba's household, the final days of August were passing quietly and uneventfully to the other characters of our story. Little Vilet had received something like a sunstroke, and she never rallied. Day and night she lay on her cot, usually wakeful and always patient. It would seem that her vital forces were sapped, for she grew steadily weaker and thinner. Aun' Sheba did little else than wait on and watch her, except when Kern was home. When off duty at the fire department, he would permit no one else to do anything for his child but himself. The little girl preferred his attendance even to that of her mother, and the strong man would carry her up and down his little yard in the cool night air by the hour, or rock her to sleep on his breast when the sun was high. No touch was so gentle as his, or so soothing. He would hush his great, mellow voice into soft, melodious tones as he sung her favorite hymns, and often her feeble treble would blend with his rich baritone. He yearned over her with inexpressible tenderness, counting the minutes when on duty till the hour came which permitted his return.
In his agony of apprehension "his flesh jes drap off'n him," as Aun' Sheba and his wife said. He slept little and ate little, but was always punctual at the engine-house to the minute.
Mara and Ella visited the child daily, and tried to tempt her failing appetite with delicacies. Sissy, Vilet's mother, hovered about her child most of the time, when her housekeeping duties and the care of the other children permitted, but after all her chief solicitude centred in her husband. She and Aun' Sheba often said, "Kern, ef de Lawd wants her we mus jes gib her up. De Hebenly Fader hab de fust right."
"I hab my feelins all de same," Kern would reply. "Ef de Lawd put sech feelins in my heart I can't help it."
On the evening of the 31st of August, Vilet was very feeble. The closeness and heat oppressed her. All, except Uncle Sheba, made a poor pretence of supper. Nothing affected his appetite, and, having cleared the table, he went over to his own doorstep and lighted his pipe. Before it was finished he was dozing comfortably against the doorcase. Aun' Sheba, with a great sigh, lighted her pipe also, and sat down on the Watson steps with her daughter that they might breathe cooler air. Kern took up his little daughter, and began to walk in the yard and sing as usual.
"Well," ejaculated Aun' Sheba, "Missy Mara's call yis-tidy 'lieve my min' po'ful. I'se couldn't tromp de streets wid a basket now nohow. Missy Mara say she won' begin bakin' till I'm ready. She look too po'ly to tink ob it hersef. Lor! what a narrow graze she an de res ob dem hab! No won'er she all broken up. Dat awful 'scape keeps runnin ebin in my dreams. Bress de good Lawd dat brung Marse Houghton right dar in time!"
"Missy Ella an' Marse Houghton oughter hab dey own way now, shuah," Sissy remarked.
"I reckon dey will," Aun' Sheba answered. "Missy Ella look kin'er dat-a-way. Dey was all agin her 'fore de ax'dent, but now I reckon dey's all cabed in, from what she says, eben ef she ain't talkin' much. I 'specs ole man Houghton is de mos' sot;" and then their anxious thoughts reverted to the sick child.
"Daddy," said Vilet, when her father had finished a hymn, "I wants ter talk wid you."
"Well, chile, wot you wants ter say?"
"I wants you ter let me go to Hebin, daddy."
"I doesn't feel dat I kin spar' you, Vilet," and she felt his tears dropping on her cheeks.
"Yes, daddy, you kin, fer a little while. I'se gittin' so-o tired," and she sighed wearily, "an' you'se gittin' all worn out too."
"No, deah chile, I'd ruder tote you all de res' ob my bawn days. I couldn't stan' comin' home an' not fin' you lookin' fer me nohow."
Vilet thought a while in silence and then said, "Daddy, I'se keep a-lookin' fer you jes de same. I'se gwine ter ax de good Lawd ter gib me a little place on de wall near de pearly gate, an' dar I'se watch an' wait till you come, an' moder, an' granny all come. I kin watch bettah up dar, fer I won' be so bery, bery tired. Won' you let me go? 'Pears I couldn't go to Hebin widout you says, 'Yes, Vilet.'"
The man's powerful frame trembled like an aspen; convulsive sobs heaved his breast as he carried the child to the further corner of the yard. At last he buried his face in her neck and whispered, "Yes, Vilet."
"Dat's good an' kin' ob you, daddy. You fin' me waitin' and lookin' fer you, shuah."
Kern grew calm after his mighty struggle, and, in his simple faith, believed that angels were around him, ready to take his child when he should lay her down. He began to sing again, and, a little before nine o'clock, repaired to his post of duty.
As the days passed without any further communication from Houghton whatever, Ella's first glow of hope began to pale. She tried to banish all other thoughts except that Mr. Houghton was very ill or as obdurate as ever. On the last day of August, however, she heard a rumor that the invalid was better, and that his son was soon to take him North. Then her faith began to falter. If George should go away without seeing her, without a word or a line, what must she think? The tears would come at this possibility. She had noted that her father and cousin had ceased to speak of him, and that their bearing toward her was very gentle, giving her the impression of that deep yet delicate sympathy which is felt for one destined to pass through a very painful ordeal.
On the evening of this miserable day she yielded, for the first time, to great dejection, and was about to retire to her room early when Mrs. Bodine said kindly, "Don't go away, Ella. I feel strangely oppressed, as if I could scarcely breathe."
"I feel oppressed too, Cousin Sophy."
"Yes, dear child, I know you are grieving. I wish I could help you."
"Oh, Cousin Sophy, it would be so much harder to bear now! He looked so grand as he loomed up in the gloom of that terrible night! His eyes seemed like living coals; his action was swift and decided, showing that his mind was as clear as his courage was high. He seemed to take in everything at a glance, and in breaking my hold of papa's hand he almost the same as saved my life twice. And then his leap into the sinking boat, and the almost giant strength with which he flung papa into his own! --oh, I see it all so often, and my heart always seems to go down with him when, in fancy, I see him sink. It was all so heroic, so in accord with my ideal of a man! Why, Cousin Sophy, he was so sensible about it all! He did just the right thing and the only thing that could be done, except that horrid sinking. I can't help feeling that if he had got into the boat with us all would have come about right. Oh, that stupid, cowardly negro boatman! Well, well, somehow I fear to-night that I've only been saved to suffer a heartache all my life."
"I hope not, Ella dear. I cannot think so. God rarely permits to any life either unalloyed suffering or happiness."
"There, Cousin Sophy, I'm forgetting that you are suffering now. I'll put on my wrapper, and then fan you till you get asleep."
The captain meantime was solacing himself with thoughts of Mara--thoughts not wholly devoid of anxiety, for she appeared to be growing thin and losing strength in spite of her assurances to the contrary.
Mr. Houghton had not been so well in the afternoon and evening, and George did not leave him. As the evening advanced the sultriness increased. Since his father seemed quiet, and lay with his eyes closed, he installed Jube in his place with the fan, and went out into the open air. He found, with surprise, that he obtained scarcely any relief from the extreme closeness which had oppressed him indoors. He threw off even the light coat he wore, and walked up and down the gravel roadway in his shirtsleeves with the restlessness which great heat imparts to the full-blooded and strong. Sam sat near the barn-door, smoking his pipe. At last he said, "Marse George, 'spose I took out de hosses an let dem stan in de open."
"What's the matter with them?"
"Dunno, 'less it's de po'ful heat. Dey's bery oneasy."
"All right. Tie them outside here."
At this moment the watch-dog gave a long, piteous howl, and crept into his kennel.
"That's queer," George remarked. "What's the matter with the dog?"
"Pears as eberyting's gettin quar dis ebnin," Sam replied, knocking the ashes from his pipe and rising. "You'se pinter dar's been kin ob scrugin up agin me, an he neber do dat befo'. Now he's right twixt you'se legs es if he was feerd on someting."
George caressed the dog, and said: "What's up, old fellow?" and then was perplexed that, instead of answering him with wonted playfulness, the poor brute should begin to whine and yelp. The horses came out as if escaping from their stalls, but on reaching the door sniffed the air, stopped, and seemed reluctant to go further.
"Dey's eider gone crazy, or sump'n gwine ter happen," Sam affirmed, looking up and around uneasily.
At this moment the pointer broke away from George's caressing hand, and with a howl such as he had never been heard to utter, slunk away and disappeared.
"I declare, Sam, I don't know what to make of it all. The air is getting so hot and close that I can scarcely breathe."
The horses now came out hastily, and began to snort and whinny. Then they put their heads over Sam's shoulder, with that instinct to seek human protection often noted in domestic animals.
"Marse George, dey _is_ sump'n gwine ter happen. See dese bosses yere; see ole Brune dar. He darsn't stay in de ken'l an' he darsn't stay out. Heah how oder dogs is howlin. Dey is sump'n gwine ter--O good Lawd! what's dat?"
George's nerves were healthy and strong, but his hair rose on his head and his knees smote for a second as he heard what seemed a low, ominous roar. Having a confused impression that the sound came from the street he rushed toward it, but by the time he reached the front of the house the awful sound had grown into a thunder peal which was in the earth beneath and the air above. Obeying the impulse to reach his father, he sprung up the steps and dashed through the open door. As he did so the solid mansion rocked like a skiff at sea; the heavy portico under which he had just passed fell with a terrific crash; all lights went out; while he, stunned and bleeding from the falling plaster, clung desperately to the banisters, still seeking to reach his father.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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39
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THE EARTHQUAKE
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Owen Clancy was also leading a dual life, and when, at times, conscience compelled introspection, he was ill at ease, for he could not fail to recognize that his sinister side was gaining ascendency. With a feeling bordering on recklessness he banished compunctions, and yielded himself more completely to the inspiration of ambition and the fascinations of Miss Ainsley. It had become evident that Mara was either engaged to Bodine or soon would be, and the thought imbittered and hardened his nature. He gave the day to business, and in the evening was rarely absent from Miss Ainsley's side.
Mrs. Willoughby had invited a small whist party to meet at her house on the evening of the 31st, and Clancy of course was among the number.
Before sitting down to their games there was some desultory conversation, of which young Houghton's exploit was the principal theme. Mrs. Willoughby was enthusiastic in his praise, and even the most prejudiced yielded assent to her words. Equally strong in their commendation were Miss Ainsley and Clancy, and the latter, who had called on Houghton, explained how admirably he had managed his boat in effecting the rescue, and related the incidents of his narrow escape. Although there had been no published record of the affair, the main particulars had become very generally known, and the tide of public favor was turning rapidly toward Houghton, for the act was one that would especially commend itself to a brave people. Of the secret and inner history, known only to herself, Mrs. Willoughby did not speak, and in all comment a sharp line of division was drawn between George and his father.
Then conversation turned upon the slight earthquake tremor which had been experienced in Charleston and Summerville on the previous Friday. This phenomenon, scarcely noticed at the time and awakening no especial alarm, had been brought into greater prominence by the very serious disturbances in Greece on the following day, August 29, and some theories as to the causes were briefly and languidly discussed.
Then Clancy remarked lightly, "We had our share of disaster in the last August's cyclone. Lightning doesn't strike twice in the same place. The jar of Friday was only a little sympathetic symptom in old mother Earth, who, like other mothers and women in general, are said to be subject to nervous attacks. Suppose we settle down to our games."
"Nervous attacks in mother Earth and mother Eve's daughters are serious affairs, I'd have you understand, Mr. Clancy," laughed Mrs. Willoughby.
"And very mysterious," he added. "Who can account for either?"
"There is no reason why they should be accounted for in our case," Miss Ainsley remarked. "Woman should always remain a mystery."
"Yes, I suppose she must so remain in her deepest nature," he replied, sotto voce, "but is there any need for small secrecies?"
"That question would have to be explained before I could answer it. Will you deal?"
He was her partner. They played quietly for an hour, and then the wife of the gentleman opposed to them rose and said: "The heat is so great I shall have to be excused"; and, with her husband, she bade Mrs. Willoughby goodnight.
Clancy and Miss Ainsley repaired to the balcony, the latter taking her favorite seat, and leaning her head against the ivy-entwined pillar. She knew the advantages of this locality, for while she was hidden from the occupants of the parlor, the light shone through the open French windows in sufficient degree to reveal the graceful outlines of her person, which was draped as scantily on that hot night as fashion permitted.
"How stifling the air is!" she remarked. "I'm glad to escape from the lighted room, yet am surprised that we obtain so little relief out here."
"It is strange," Clancy replied. "I scarcely remember such a sultry evening. From what I've read I should be inclined to think it was an earthquake atmosphere, or else that it portended a storm."
"Now don't croak," she said. "The stars are shining, and there is no sign of a storm. You have already proved that an earthquake cannot occur. You know the old saying about worry over what never happens. The true way to enjoy life is to take the best you can get out of it each day as it comes. Don't you think so?"
"A very embarrasing question if I should answer it honestly," he replied, laughing.
"How so?" Never had the brilliant fire in her eyes been so soft and alluring. She had detected a slight tremor in his voice, and had seen an answering fire in his eyes. Although conscious of a rising and delicious excitement in her own veins, she believed from much experience that in her perfect self-control she could prevent him from saying too much. Even if he did overstep the liberal bounds which she was willing to accord, she thought, "I can rally him back into our old relations if I so wish."
What she did wish, she scarcely knew herself, and the thought passed through her mind, "I may accept him after all."
He shared her mood, with the exception that he had decided long since to obtain her hand if she was disposed to give it. To-night, more than ever, he felt the recklessness which had been growing upon him, and was inclined to follow her lead to the utmost, even warily to go beyond such encouragement as he might receive. He therefore replied vaguely, "One may wish the best in life, and not be able to obtain it."
"I see nothing embarrassing in that commonplace remark."
"There might be in its application."
"Possibly. Who knows to what one and one make two might lead? --a murder, like enough."
"Sometimes one and one make one."
"How odd! Still more so, that you should indulge in abstruse mathematics this hot night."
"That reminds me that a man is said to be merely a vulgar fraction till he is married, when he is redeemed into a whole number."
"If I were equal to it, I'd get a pencil, and preserve such great nuggets of abstract truth."
"When you are so concretely and distractingly enchanting, what other refuge is there for a man than the abstract?"
"Is the abstract a refuge?" she asked, looking dreamily out over the dark waters of the harbor. "Perhaps it is. It certainly suggests coolness which should be grateful tonight." Then turning, and with a mirthful and provoking gleam in her eyes, he remarked, "I should think this weather would be just to your taste."
"Why so?"
"Oh, you have become enough of a Yankee to guess."
"Would you say that even this furnace-like air cannot quicken my blood?"
"My friend, I do not believe that anything could quicken your pulse one beat."
"I'll demonstrate the contrary," he said, with a quick flash in his eyes. "Put your finger on my pulse."
She laughingly did so. By a slight, quick movement he clasped her hand, and it appeared to him that the passion which he knew to be in his face was reflected in hers. She did not withdraw her hand. For an instant there was a subtle, swift interchange of thought. She saw he was about to speak plainly, passionately; she felt herself yielding as never before in all her experience. It was as if a wave of emotion was lifting and sweeping her away. He held her eyes; a smile began to part her lips; the thought came to him that words were not essential, that she was giving herself to him through the agency of the brilliant eyes which at the first had awakened his wondering surmises. He gently drew her to her feet, and she did not resist. He bent toward her that he might look deeper into her rosy face, and felt her sweet breath coming quickly against his cheek. Then, as his lips parted to speak, a low, deep sound far to the southeast caught his attention. Still clasping hands they faced it. With awful rapidity it approached, increasing, deepening, pervading the air to the sky, bellowing as if from the centre of the earth, filling their ears with its unutterable and penetrating power, and appalling their hearts by its supernatural weirdness. They shrank before it down the balcony and through the window into the drawing-room, cowering, trembling, speechless.
They were scarcely within the apartment before the large, substantial mansion rocked as if it had been a cork, and the waters of the harbor had passed under it. The balcony on which they had stood an instant before went down, leaving gaping darkness in its place.
With an agonized shriek Miss Ainsley threw her arms about Clancy. As with uncertain footing he sought to place her on a sofa they were both thrown violently upon it. He saw the chandeler swaying to and fro, as if a thousand lights were dancing before his eyes; saw the other guests staggering and falling. Statuettes, bric-a-brac, and articles of furniture came crashing down; part of the ceiling fell with a thud, raising a stifling dust, which, choking the shrieking voices, rendered more distinct the grinding sound, as walls of solid masonry drew apart, gaped, and closed under the impulse of immeasurable power.
Above all rose the mysterious thunder, which was not thunder, because now it seemed to come from unknown depths. Time is but relative, and the occupants of the room felt as if they were passing through an eternity of agony.
The climax of horror was reached when the gas was extinguished, and all were left in pitchy darkness. It seemed as if reason itself would go, but as suddenly as the convulsion had begun, it ceased. There was a second or two of breathless waiting, and then Clancy shouted, "Come, quick. There may be another shock."
With his right hand he struck a match, and, supporting Miss Ainsley by his left arm, led the way.
"Oh, what is it?" she gasped.
"An earthquake. Come; courage. We must get away from all buildings." Half lifting her, he swiftly sought the street, and then the adjacent open ground of the Battery.
"All here?" he asked, panting, and looking around. The others soon appeared, Mr. Willoughby coming last, and carrying his half-fainting wife. The negro servants had preceded, and were already on their knees, groaning and praying. From every side other fugitives were pouring in.
"Miss Ainsley, you are with friends and as safe here as you can be anywhere," Clancy said hastily. "There are others in the heart of the city," and he dashed away, regardless of her appealing cry to return.
As Clancy rushed up Meeting Street he felt that any moment might be his last, and yet he was more appalled at himself than at the awful sights about him. The human mind in such crises is endowed with wonderful capacity. It seemed to him that his eyes took in all details as he passed, and that his brain comprehended them. People were rushing from their homes, or carrying out the feeble and injured. His way was impeded by fugitives, whose faces were seen by the street-lamps to be ghastly pale and horror-stricken. The awful impression of the final day of doom was heightened by the comparative nudity of many, both men and women; and among the multitudinous images passing through Clancy's mind was a picture of the Judgment Day by one of the old masters, with its naked, writhing human forms.
The air was resonant with every tone of anguish, hoarse shoutings, shrill screams, and the plaintive cries of children. Above all other sounds articulate and inarticulate was heard the word "God," as the stricken people appealed to Him, some on their knees, others as they stood dazed and almost paralyzed, and others still as they rushed toward open places for safety.
"Yes, God," muttered Clancy. "May He forgive me for having forgotten Him! There are but two thoughts left in this wreck, God and Mara. How unworthy were my recent motives and passion! How unlike the love which leads me inevitably to breathe the name of Mara in my appeal to God!"
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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40
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"GOD"
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Had Mara's heart been hers to keep or to give when she met Bodine, she could easily have learned to love him for his own sake. Mrs. Bodine's impression was well founded, that Mara, unlike most girls, was suited to such an alliance. The trouble was, that, before Bodine became friend, then lover, she had given to Clancy what she could not recall, although she strove to do so with a will singularly resolute, and from the strongest convictions of hopeless discord between him and herself. With the purpose to make her father's friend happy was also blended the powerful motive to extricate herself. She had felt that she must tear up by the roots the affection which had been growing for years before she had recognized it, and at times, as we have seen, thought it was yielding to the unrelenting grasp of her will. Again, discouraged and appalled by its hold upon every fibre of her being, she would recognize how futile had been her efforts. She could not, like many others, divert her thoughts and preoccupy her mind by various considerations apart from the truth that she had promised to marry a man whom she did not love. Although so warped, her nature was too simple, too concentrated, to permit any weak drifting toward events. She believed that her life had narrowed down to Bodine, and she had decided to become his devoted wife at every cost to herself, flow great that cost would be she was learning sadly, day by day and hour by hour. As we know, she had permitted Bodine to learn her purpose at a time of excitement and enthusiasm--at a time when his profound distress touched her deepest sympathies. She had also hoped, that, when the irrevocable words had been spoken on each side, the calm of fixed purpose and certainty would fall upon her spirit.
She had been disappointed. She trembled with a strange dread whenever she recalled the moment when Bodine drew her to himself, conscious now of a truth, before unknown, that there was something in her nature not amenable to enthusiasm, spiritual exaltation, or her passion for self-sacrifice--something that would not shrink from death for his sake yet which did shrink from his kisses upon her lips.
Never had she suffered as during the last few days, for she was being taught by the inexorable logic of facts and events. In Ella's crystal nature she saw what her own love should be, and might have been. She had witnessed the girl's wild impulse to follow her lover to the depths of the harbor, and her own heart gave swift interpretation. She was alive because a Northern boy, deemed incapable of anything better than selfish, reckless love-making, had unhesitatingly risked his life to save one who had spurned him. Even Mrs. Hunter's prejudice had been compelled to yield, and she to admit the young fellow's nobility, of which she was a living proof. The wretched thought haunted Mara that Owen Clancy, unblinded, had discovered for himself, what had been forced upon her, that there were Northern people with whom he could gladly affiliate. The shadow of death had not been so dark and baleful as the shadow of the past in which she so long had dwelt, for in the former there had been light enough to reveal the folly and injustice of indiscriminating prejudice and enmity. Worse than all these thoughts, piercing like shafts of light the darkness which had obscured her judgment, was the truth, upon which she could not reason, that she shrunk with an ever-increasing dread from words and acts of love unprompted by her heart.
Like a rock, however, amid all this chaos--this breaking up of the old which left nothing stable in its place--remained her purpose to go forward. On this evening which was to witness a wilder chaos than that of her long-repressed yet passionate heart, she had said sternly, "My word has been passed, my honor is involved, and he shall never learn that I have trembled and faltered."
Mrs. Hunter had retired, overcome by the heat, and, believing that she could endure the sultriness better in the little parlor, Mara had turned down the gas, and was sitting by an open window. The city seemed singularly quiet. The street on which she dwelt contained a large population, yet the steps on the pavement were comparatively few. Her own languor was general, and people sought refuge in the seclusion and the undress permitted in their own homes.
In a vague, half-conscious way she wondered that a large city could be so still at that hour. "Like myself," she murmured, "it is half shrouded in gloom and gives but slight hint of much that is hidden, that ever must be hidden. --I wonder where he is to-night. Oh, I've no right to think of him at all. Why can't I say, 'Stop,' and end it? --this miserable stealing away of my thoughts until will, like a jailer, pursues and drags them back. Why should a presentiment of danger to him weigh down my spirit to-night? What other peril can he be exposed to except that of marrying a beauty and an heiress? Ah! peril enough, if his heart shrinks like mine. Here, now, _quit_," and the word came sharply and angrily in her self-condemnation.
Then in the silence began that distant groan of nature. It was so distinct, so unlike anything she had ever heard in its horrible suggestion of all physical evil that she shrank from the window overwhelmed by a nameless dread. Instinctively she turned up the gas, that she might not face the terror in darkness. As she did so she thought of the rush and roar of the last year's cyclone, but in the next breath learned that this was something infinitely worse--what, she was too confused and terrified to imagine. Then she was thrown to the floor. Raising herself partially on a chair she witnessed an event which paralyzed her with horror. The wall toward the street, with its mirror, pictures, windows, and all pertaining to it fell outward with a crash.
For a second all was still, as she looked into the darkness which had swallowed up the front and sheltering side of her home. Then immediately about her began a wail of human anguish which grew in agonized intensity, gathering volume far and near until it became like the death-cry of a city. Unconsciously she was joining in it--that involuntary "oh-h," that crescendo tidal wave of sound sweeping upward from despairing humanity. Then this mighty and bitter cry seemed to become articulate in the word "God." With an instinct swift, inevitable, and irresistible as the power that had shaken the city, the thought of God as the only other power able to cope with the mysterious destroyer, entered into all hearts and found expression.
Clouds of stifling, whitish-looking dust now came pouring into the unprotected apartment, obscuring the street and rendering dim even the familiar objects near the terrified girl. For a few moments the nervous shock was so great that Mara felt as if paralyzed. She remained lying on the floor, half supporting herself by the chair, waiting in breathless expectation for she knew not what. The malign power had been so vast, and its work so swift, that even her fearless spirit was overwhelmed.
The shrieks, groans, and prayers, the hurrying steps in the dust-clouded street at last forced upon her attention the fact that all were seeking to escape from the buildings. With difficulty she regained her feet and tottered to Mrs. Hunter's room, but found, to her dismay, that she could not open the door. She called and even shrieked, but there was no answer. A sense of utter desolation and helplessness overpowered her. Who could come to her aid? Bodine could not. At such a time he would be almost helpless himself, and there were women in his charge. With a bitterness also akin to the death, which she momentarily expected, she knew that her thoughts had flown to Clancy and to no other human being at that hour. She was learning what all others discovered in the stress of the earthquake, that everything not absolutely essential to life and soul was swept away and almost forgotten.
To go into the street and get help seemed her only resource, and she made her way down the stairs to where had been the doorway. In vain she appealed to the flying forms. Her cries were unheard in the awful din of shrieks, prayers, groans, and calls of the separated to their friends. The impression made was of a wild panic in which the frenzied thought of flight, escape, predominated.
She was about to return in something like despair, feeling that she could not leave her aunt, when she saw a tall form rushing toward her. A second later she recognized Owen Clancy leaping over the ruins of her home. With a cry, she fell into his outstretched arms, faint, trembling, yet with a sense of refuge, a thrill of exquisite joy before unknown in all her life.
"Mara, dear Mara, you are not hurt?" he asked breathlessly.
"No, oh, thank God, you have come!"
Again there was the same ominous growl, deep in the earth, which once heard could never be mistaken, never forgotten. Lifting her up Clancy carried her swiftly from beneath the shattered buildings to the middle of the street. She clung to him almost convulsively as the earth again swayed and trembled beneath them, and the awful moan of nature swelled, then died away in the distance. There was an instant of agonized, breathless suspense, then the wail of the stricken city rose again with a deeper accent of terror, a more passionate appeal to heaven, and the effort to escape to the wider spaces was renewed in a more headlong flight.
"Mara," said Clancy, "at this hour, when everything may be swept away in a moment, there is nothing left for me but you and God. Will you trust me, and let me do my very best to save you?"
"Oh, Owen, Owen, God forgive me!" She uttered the words like a despairing cry, then buried her face upon his breast.
With a dread greater than that inspired by the earthquake he thought: "Is it too late? Can she have married Bodine?" The anguish in her tone combined with her action had revealed both her love and its hopelessness. He said gently, yet firmly: "We must act now and quickly. Where is Mrs. Hunter?"
Mara had apparently become speechless from grief. Without a word she turned swiftly, and taking his hand led him toward the ruined building.
"No, stay here. It will not be safe for you to enter," and pushing her gently back he ran up the exposed stairway, into the parlor, noticing with dismay the general wreck and the danger Mara had run.
He found that Mara had followed him. "Oh, why will you come?" he exclaimed in deep anxiety. "Where is she? We must get away from all this."
The sobbing girl could only point to Mrs. Hunter's door. Clancy tried it, but found it jammed, as were so many others that night, adding to the terror of imprisoned inmates. With strength doubled by excitement he put his shoulder against the barrier and burst it open. A ghastly spectacle met their eyes. Mrs. Hunter lay senseless on her bed in her night-robe, which was stained with blood. She had evidently risen to a sitting posture on the first alarm, and then had been stunned and cut by the hurling of some heavy object against her head and neck, the shattered mantel clock on the bed beside her showing how the injury had been done.
Mara's overwhelming distress ceased its expression at this new horror as she gasped, "Can she be dead?"
"This is no place to discover," Clancy replied, rolling the poor woman's form in a blanket. "Mara, dear, we must get away from this house. It may come down any moment. Snatch up wraps, clothing, all you can lay your hands upon, and come."
Already he was staggering away with Mrs. Hunter in his arms. In a moment Mara did his bidding and followed. Slowly and with difficulty he made his way down the tottering, broken stairway, then across the prostrate wall to the centre of the street, now almost deserted. He looked anxiously around, calculating that no building, if it fell, could reach them at that point, then laid his heavy burden down, and stood panting and recovering from his exertion.
"I think we shall be as safe here as anywhere until we can reach one of the squares. Put your hand, Mara, over Mrs. Hunter's heart, and see if it is beating."
"Yes, faintly."
"Have you stimulants in the house? Can you tell me where to find them?"
"You shall not go back there: I will go." And, as if endowed with sudden access of strength, she sprang away. Putting his coat under Mrs. Hunter's head for a pillow he followed instantly. "Now why do you come?" she protested.
"Because I would rather die with you, Mara, than live safely without you."
"Oh, for God's sake don't speak that way!" she replied with a sob. "Here, I have it. Come away, quick."
As she hastily sought to cross the ruins in the street she missed her footing, and would have fallen had not his ready arm encircled her and borne her to Mrs. Hunter's side.
"Would to God I had heeded your warning, Owen," she moaned, as she sought to give her aunt some of the brandy, while he chafed the poor woman's wrists.
"You are not married to Bodine?" he asked, springing to his feet.
"No, but I am pledged to him. I cannot break faith and live. You must be my protector in a double sense, protecting me against myself. As you are a Southern gentleman, help and shield me."
"You ask what is next to impossible, Mara. I can only do my best for you."
"Oh, how I have wronged you!"
"Not so greatly as I have wronged myself. I will tell you all some other time."
"No, Owen, no. We must keep apart. We must, we must indeed. Oh, oh, it would have been better that I had died! You must harden your face and heart against me--that is the only way to help me now."
"Never shall I harden my heart against you. Whatever comes I shall be your loyal friend."
"Oh, the cruelty of my fate--to wrong two such men!"
"Bress de Lawd! I'se fown you;" and Aun' Sheba stood before them, panting and abounding in grateful ejaculations.
"Aun' Sheba!" cried Mara, throwing herself into the arms of her old nurse. "To think that you should come to me through all these dangers!"
"Wot else I do, honey lam? You tink you kin be in trouble an' I ain't dar? Marse Clancy, my 'specs. Once I tinks you a far-wedder frien', but I takes it back. Lawd, Lawd! is de ole missus dun gone?"
"No, Aun' Sheba," said Clancy. "Help us revive her, and then help me carry her to a place of greater safety. You come like an angel of light."
"I'se rudder hebby an' brack fer'n angel, but, like de angels, we'se all got ter do a heap ob totin' ter-night."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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41
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SCENES NEVER TO BE FORGOTTEN
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When George Houghton reached his father's room he heard Jube fairly howling in the darkness, and the old man groaning heavily.
"Father," cried the young man, "you are not hurt?"
"Oh, George, thank God, you have again escaped! This is an earthquake, isn't it?"
"It must be, and I must take you out to some open space at once. Jube, shut up, and keep your senses. If you don't help me I'll break your bones."
Groping about he found a match and lighted a candle.
"Oh, George, you are hurt. Your face is covered with blood!" cried Mr. Houghton.
"Slight cuts only. Come, father, there may be another shock, and it will not be safe to dress you here. Let me wrap you in blankets, and then Jube and I will carry you to Marion Square. I will come back for your clothes."
This they proceeded to do, Mr. Houghton meanwhile protesting, "No, George, you shall not come back." Then he asked a moment or two later, "Why do you take me out at the side door?"
"It will be safer," George replied, not wishing to explain that the pillared and massive portico was in ruins.
As they passed the front of the house, however, Jube groaned, "Oh, Lawd! de porch dun smashed!"
"This is awful, my boy!" ejaculated Mr. Houghton. "Oh, this dreadful city! this dreadful city!"
"The worst is over, I think. Brace up, Jube. If you are so anxious to save your life, step lively."
"Jes hear de people holler," cried Jube, trembling so he could scarcely keep his hold, and he gave a loud, sympathetic yell himself.
"Stop that," said George sternly. "Oh, Dr. Devoe, I am so glad to see you," he added, as the physician came running up. "You are a godsend."
"I was passing near," explained the physician, "and, being a bachelor, can think of my patients first. Jube, if you yell again I'll cuff you. Be a man now and we'll all soon be safe."
They joined the throngs which were gathering on the square, and Mr. Houghton was tenderly placed upon the grass. "Doctor, you and Jube will stay with him while I get articles for his comfort;" and before his father could again interpose George was off at full speed.
"He will come out all right," said Dr. Devoe soothingly. "Never fear for George."
But when the second roll of subterranean thunder was heard, and the cries and lamentations of the people were redoubled, the old man wrung his hands and groaned, "Oh, why did you let him go?" After the quiver passed he sat up and strained his eyes in the direction from which he hoped again to see his son. The house was not far away, and George soon appeared staggering under a mattress, with bedding, clothing, and other articles essential to the comfort and safety of his father. Jube, under the doctor's assurances, was beginning to rally from his terror, and between them they speedily made the old man comfortable.
As George was arranging the pillows his father said, "God forgive me for being so obdurate, my boy. I know where your thoughts are. Go and help her if you can."
With heartfelt murmured thanks the young man kissed his father, and bounded away.
Ella Bodine and her father were truly in sore trouble. A few minutes before ten, Mrs. Bodine's delicate and enfeebled organization succumbed to the heat and closeness of the air, and she suddenly swooned. Ella in alarm summoned her father and old Hannah, and all were engaged in applying restoratives when they too were appalled by the hideous sound which gave such brief and terrible warning of the disaster. The veteran, who sat by the bedside, chafing his cousin's wrists with spirits, barely had time to get on his crutches when he was thrown violently to the floor, while Ella, with a wild cry, fell across the bed. Then, in expectation of instant death, they listened with an awe too great for expression to the infernal uproar, the crash of falling objects, the groaning and grinding of the swaying house, and above all to the voice of the deep, subterranean power which appeared to be rending the earth.
Most fortunately the gas was not extinguished, and when it was still again, Ella rushed to her father, and exclaimed as she helped him up, "Oh, papa, what is this?"
"De Jedgmen Day," said a quivering voice.
Bodine's face was very white, but his iron nerves did not give way. "Ella," he said firmly, "you must keep calm and do as I say. It is an earthquake. Since the house stands we may hope to revive Cousin Sophy before taking her to the street. Come, Hannah, get up and do your best."
From her sitting posture on the floor, the old woman only answered in a low terrified monotone, "De Jedgmen Day."
"Oh, papa, she's just crazed, and we must do everything ourselves;" and, Ella, with trembling hands and stifled sobs, began to aid her father. "Oh, hear those awful cries in the street," she said after a moment. "Don't you think we should try to take cousin out?"
"If I were not so helpless!" Bodine groaned. "Hannah, wake up and help."
"De Jedgmen Day," was the only response.
"There is no use to look to her, papa. I'm strong. See, I can lift cousin, she is so light."
"No, Ella, it might injure you for life. If we could only partially revive her, and she could help you a little--There may not be another shock."
They worked on, growing more assured as the house remained quiet. Hannah was evidently crazed for the time being, for, deaf to all expostulations, she would not move, and kept repeating the terrible refrain.
"O God!" said Bodine in tones of the deepest distress, "to think that I cannot go to Mara!"
"Well, papa, you can't help it. Your duty is here. May God pity and save us all!"
At last the ominous rumble began again in the distance. Ella gave her father a startled look, and saw confirmation of her fear in his face. Old Hannah started up exclaiming, "De Lawd is comin' now shuah. I'se gwine ter meet Him," and she rushed away.
With another wild cry Ella lifted the form of her cousin in her arms, and, with a strength created by the emergency, staggered down the stairs to the door. Then a man saw and relieved her of her burden. Bodine with difficulty tried to follow, but could not during the brief shock. When all was still again he threw the bedding over his shoulder, went down and speedily checked Ella's wild cries that he should not delay.
The street was comparatively wide; the houses were not high, and they found themselves in the midst of a group of refugees like themselves--mothers sobbing over their babes, men caring for sick and fainting wives, and children standing by feeble and aged parents. Family servants crouched on the pavement beside their employers, and continually gave utterance to ejaculatory prayers which found sympathetic echoes in the stoutest hearts. Many were coming and going. The place seemed a partial refuge, yet the proximity of houses led one group after another to seek the open squares. In many instances rare fortitude and calmness were displayed. Here, as elsewhere throughout the city, frail women, more often than strong men, were patient and resigned in their Christian faith.
Ella supported Mrs. Bodine's head upon her lap, and others now aided in the effort to bring back consciousness. Fortunately, however, for the poor lady, she knew not what was passing.
Suddenly the group parted to make way for a hatless, coatless man, whose face was terribly disfigured with blood and dust. Nevertheless Ella recognized him with the glad cry, "Mr. Houghton!"
"Thank Heaven you are safe!" he gasped, panting heavily; and he gave his hand to Mr. Bodine.
"But you are injured," said the captain, in deep solicitude.
"No, nothing worth mentioning; merely cut and bruised. I came as soon as I had fixed my father safe in the square. I thought you might need help."
"Mr. Houghton, you are overwhelming us--" "Please don't think and talk that way. God knows, a man should give help where it is most needed at such a time. This is Mrs. Bodine?"
"Yes, she fainted before the first shock. We have been unable to revive her. At the last shock my daughter carried her down."
"Miss Bodine!" exclaimed George in surprise and admiration.
She gave him a swift glance through her tears, and then, dropping her eyes, resumed her efforts to revive her cousin.
"You may well exclaim," said her father. "How she did it I do not know. Excitement gave strength, I suppose."
"Everything these kind friends and I can do for her seems useless," Ella faltered.
"Let me get my wind a little," said George, eagerly, "and I will carry her to the square, where my father is. A good physician is with him."
At this instant came a third and severer shock than the last, and with it the new terror which sickened the bravest. "O God," cried Ella, "will there be no respite?" Then observing for the first time the pillars of light and smoke rising at different points, she cried in still deeper fear, "Oh, papa, can those be volcanic fires?"
"No, no, my child."
"I saw a fire kindling in a deserted house as I came," George added excitedly. "Truly, Captain Bodine, this is no place for your family; or," turning to the groups near, "for you either, friends. Ah, see! there is a house almost opposite beginning to burn. Come;" and without further hesitation he lifted Mrs. Bodine and strode away.
Not only Ella and her father followed, but also the others, those who were the strongest supporting the feeble and injured.
They had gone but little way before Bodine said, "Ella, I must go and see if Mara has escaped. I cannot seek safety myself unless assured that she is safe."
"Oh, papa, it will be almost suicide for you to go through these streets alone."
"Ella, there are some things so much worse than death. If you and cousin were alone I would not leave you, but with a strong helper and a physician in prospect I must go. How could I look Mara in the face again if I made no effort in her behalf? Explain to Mr. Houghton."
He dropped behind, then turned up a side street and carefully yet quickly halted over and around the impediments strewn in the way.
Aware of the danger of delay, George went forward with a rapid stride. "Can you keep up?" he asked.
"Yes," Ella replied.
"We must get by and beyond these higher buildings. I have the horrible dread that they may fall on you any moment."
"You never seem to think of yourself, Mr. Houghton."
"I must now," he said after a moment or two. "Here is a corner at which we can rest, for there are no high buildings near;" and he sank on the ground with Mrs. Bodine still in his arms.
"Oh, you are killing yourself!" she cried in deep distress.
"Not at all, only resting. Where is your father?"
Ella explained and revealed her fears.
"I will go to his aid and Miss Wallingford's as soon as you and Mrs. Bodine are safe."
"Mr. Houghton, how can I--" "By giving me the privilege of serving you, and by not making me miserable from seeing you burdened with a sense of obligation," he said quickly. "That is the one thing I have feared--that you would be unhappy because it has been my good-fortune--oh, well, you understand."
She did, better than he, for his swift coming to her aid had banished all doubt of him.
"Please understand, then, that I gratefully and gladly accept your chivalrous help. Have I not seen it given to the old and feeble before? Oh, these heart-rending cries! It seems to me that they will haunt me forever."
"Please support Mrs. Bodine a moment. That is a woman's scream just beyond us. She is evidently injured, and probably held fast in the ruins."
He ran to the spot, and found that a woman had been prostrated and partially buried by the bricks of a falling chimney. She had been unconscious for a time, but now, reviving, her agonized shrieks rose above the other cries. George spoke soothingly to her as he threw the bricks to right and left. She was evidently suffering the extremity of pain, for she again screamed and moaned in the most heart-rending way, although George lifted her as carefully as possible. Laying her down beside Mrs. Bodine he began in distressed perplexity, "What shall we do now? We cannot leave her here."
At this moment a group of negroes approached. One was carrying a little girl whom Ella immediately recognized as Vilet. Then she saw Sissy, the mother, carrying her youngest, and weeping hysterically, while the other children clung to her skirts. Uncle Sheba brought up the rear, fairly howling in his terror. The man carrying the child was Mr. Birdsall, who had called with old Tobe just before the first shock. The gray-woolled negro was walking beside his minister, uttering petitions and self-accusations. Old Tobe was comparatively alone in the world, without kith or kin. Mr. Birdsall, feeling that he owed almost an equal duty to his flock, had only stipulated that he should stop at his home for his wife and children. Happily they were unharmed, and were able to follow unaided; and so, like a good shepherd, he still carried the weakest of his lambs.
Ella called to them, and they paused. George, ever prompt in action, saw that old Tobe and Uncle Sheba were able to do more than use their lungs, and he sprang forward to press them into his service. Tobe readily yielded, but Uncle Sheba would do nothing but howl. In his impatience George struck him a sharp blow across the mouth, exclaiming, "Stop your infernal noise. If you are strong enough to yell that way you can do something better. Stop, I say, or I'll be worse than two earthquakes;" and he shook Uncle Sheba's howl into staccato and tremolo notes.
"Dere am no use foolin' wid dat niggah," said old Tobe.
"Howl, then, if you will, but help you shall;" and taking him by his shoulder, George pushed him beside Tobe, made the two form a chair with their hands, and put the woman into it, with her arms about the neck of each.
Taking up Mrs. Bodine he again went forward. The miserable little procession followed, Uncle Sheba mechanically doing his part, at the same time continuing to make night hideous by the full use of a pair of lungs in which was no rheumatic weakness. Motion caused the wretched woman renewed agony, and her shrieks mingled with his stentorian cries.
"Oh, this is horrible!" Ella said at George's side.
"It is indeed, Miss Bodine; yet how glad I am that you Have not been injured!"
"Oh, oh, I fear so greatly that my cousin will not live through this dreadful night; and my father, too, is facing unknown dangers!"
"This is an awful ill wind, Miss Bodine, but the fact that I can help you and yours gives me a deeper satisfaction than you can imagine."
She could not trust herself to answer, therefore was silent, and his thought was, "I must go slower on that tack, and not so close to the wind." The forlorn company eventually reached the square, and made their way to the place where George had left his father. As the old man saw his son, and comprehended his mission of mercy as well as love, he murmured, "God forgive me that it should require an earthquake to teach how much better is his spirit than mine," and his heart grew as tender as a mother's toward his boy.
Dr. Devoe, who was attending another patient not far away, came up hastily and eased the poor creature out of the negroes' hands to the ground.
He gave her some of the wine George had brought for his father, saying as he did so, "Try to be calm, now, madam. I am a physician, and will do all I can for you."
Mr. Houghton promptly sent Jube to the doctor with one of his pillows and part of his bedding, so the woman was made as comfortable as her condition permitted.
George laid Mrs. Bodine on the grass, and then with the scanty bedding Ella had carried, aided in making a resting-place not far from his father. He next lifted Mrs. Bodine's head into the girl's lap, and was about to turn his attention to Uncle Sheba, but was anticipated. Two men had taken him by the shoulders, one of them saying, "If you don't keep still we'll tie you under the nearest building and leave you there," and they began to march him off. At this dire threat Uncle Sheba collapsed and fell to the ground, where he was left.
Dr. Devoe divided his attention between the fatally injured woman and Mrs. Bodine, who under his remedies and the efforts of George and Ella soon revived. Mr. Houghton looked with wonder, pity, and some embarrassment at the small, frail form, and the white, thin face of one whom had characterized as "that terrible old woman." She seemed scarcely a shadow of what she had been on that former night, more terrible even that this one to the then stricken father. Now the son whom he had thought dead had carried her to his side, and was bending over her.
"Well, well," he muttered, "the ways of God are above and beyond me. I give up, I give up."
Then his eyes rested on Ella. He saw a face which even the dust of the streets could not so begrime as to hide its sweetness or its tenderness, as, with deep solicitude, she bent over her cousin. A conflagration raging near now began to flame so high that its lights flickered on the girl's face, etherealizing its beauty, and turning her fluffy hair to gold. She became like a vision to the old man, angelic, yet human in her natural sympathy. The thought would come, "I have fought like a demon to keep that face from bending over me in my feebleness and age. Truly God's ways are best."
Ella had only glanced at his pale, rugged face with awe and dread, and then had given all her thoughts to her cousin.
As the latter began to regain consciousness, she motioned George away, and with Dr. Devoe, sought to complete the work of restoration. To dazed looks and confused questions she replied merely with soothing words until the doctor said kindly, but firmly, "Mrs. Bodine, you are now safe, and as comfortable as we can make you. Do not try to comprehend what has happened. There are so many worse off who need attention--" "There, there, doctor," Mrs. Bodine interrupted, with a flash of her old spirit, "no matter what's happened, I thank you for your attention. Please give it now to others."
"Doctor," said George, "I fear the little colored girl who came in with us is dying." They went to the spot where Sissy was pillowing Vilet's head against her breast. The physician made a brief examination, and heard how a brick had fallen on the child as they were getting her out, then said, "I'm sorry I can do nothing but alleviate her pain a little."
Turning away promptly he began, "See here, Houghton, I must go to the nearest drug-store and help myself if no one's there. Will you come with me? I shall need a lot of things, more than I can carry."
"I can't," George replied, "but here is the man that will, I think;" and he roused old Tobe who sat quietly near with his head buried in his hands.
"Sartin. I do wot I kin while de can'el hole out to burn," Tobe assented rising.
"That's right, my man, and you'll help other candles to hold out."
"Doctor, understand me," explained George, "I must go and search for Captain Bodine, who is wandering on crutches about the city," and he hastened to say a word to his father.
Ella saw him kneel by the old man, and then rise after a moment or two with such gladness in his face that even the blood and dust stains could not disguise it. Little wonder, for Mr. Houghton had said, "I'm conquered, George. I give all up--all my ambitious dreams about you. What dreams they now seem! This awful earthquake has shaken away everything except life, and the love which makes life worth anything. I've seen the girl, and I don't blame you. Go ahead."
"Oh, thanks, thanks. You'll never be sorry; but, father, please don't say anything to her about--about--Well, she don't know, and I must woo before I can hope to win."
"You needn't worry about me. I'm old enough to be wary," and the old man could not repress a grim smile. Then he added, "George, for mercy's sake, try to get the blood and dust off your face and find a coat. You look as if you had been through a prize-fight."
George explained the quest he was about to enter upon, and promised caution. Then he approached Ella. "Miss Bodine," he said, "I will now search for your father till I find him."
Again the girl could not trust herself to speak, but tears came into her eyes as she gave him her hand. He pressed it so hard as to leave a delicious ache, and hastened away.
"Good Lor! who was that awful-looking man?" Mrs. Bodine asked Ella.
"George Houghton. He carried you from home here."
"Lor! Lor! Saved my life as well as yours and Cousin Hugh's?"
"Yes, and now he's going to help papa and Mara."
"Well, well, we'll have to forgive him for being born North. Is that old--" Ella stopped her mouth with a kiss, and whispered: "That is his father. Don't let us look at him. In fact, I'm afraid to--at least while he is so ill."
"Well," ejaculated Mrs. Bodine, "if this earthquake does not cure him of his cussedness, I hope the Lord will take him to heaven."
"He did not prevent George from coming to me, nor his going to papa's aid. He was kind, too, to that poor woman yonder. Oh, I'm sorry for her, and I wish I could do something."
"Perhaps you can. Go and see."
"I've nothing to put under your head, cousin."
"I'll put patience under it. That, I reckon, is all I have left now. Go, Ella, dear, I can't bear to hear her moan. I'm in no pain, and that wine has quite heartened me."
Ella did as she was bidden. That Mr. Houghton was observant was quickly proved, for he said to Jube, "Take this pillow to that lady yonder. If she declines, say you have your orders, and leave it."
Mrs. Bodine raised herself on her elbow and protested.
"Madam," said Mr. Houghton, "do not deny a helpless man the privilege of doing a little for the comfort of others at a time like this."
"But you have none left for yourself, sir," Mrs. Bodine replied.
"Madam, you can understand what a satisfaction that will be to me under the circumstances."
Mrs. Bodine yielded and admitted to herself that she was much more comfortable. "I reckon the earthquake is doing him good," she thought, "and that the Lord better keep him here a while longer."
"Can't you lift me up a little?" gasped the injured woman to Ella. "Oh, how I suffer, _suffer_!"
Ella sat down beside her, and gently shifted the pillow so that it came under the wounded back, while the weary head rested against her bosom.
"Ah!" said the poor creature, "that's easier. I reckon I won't have to suffer much longer."
Ella spoke soothingly and gently. Mr. Houghton, who could only hear the sweet tenderness of her tones, wiped tears from his eyes as he again murmured, "God forgive me, blind, obstinate old fool that I've been!"
The adjacent flames now lighted up the entire scene, throwing their baleful light on such an assemblage as had never before gathered in this New World.
The convulsion which threatened to raze every home in the city had certainly brought the people down to the same level. Both white and colored citizens were mingled together on the square in a swiftly created democracy. Character, the noble qualities of the soul, without regard to color or previous condition, now only gave distinction.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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42
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A HOMELESS CITY
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The efforts of Clancy and Mara combined with the vigorous and sensible ministrations of Aun' Sheba at last brought consciousness to Mrs. Hunter. Tearing up a linen sheet they stanched and bound up her wounds, and then Clancy said, "We must get her to one of the squares and under a physician's care as soon as possible."
"My folks is gwine to Mar'on Squar, an' dar I promise ter come," said Aun' Sheba. "It's 'bout as nigh as any ob dem."
Mrs. Hunter looked at Clancy, and shrank from him visibly. He said quickly, "Surely, Mrs. Hunter, all enmities should be forgotten at this time, or at least put aside. We should leave this narrow side-street at once."
"Aunty," said Mara, gently, "Mr. Clancy has saved us both from destruction. For my sake and Aun' Sheba's as well as your own, you must let him do all in his power."
The earthly, yet unearthly, rumble of another shock put an end to further hesitation. It would be long before the terror inspired by this phenomenon would cease to be overwhelming.
Aun' Sheba lifted her arms imploringly to heaven, while the vivid consciousness of the direst peril known brought Mara and Clancy together again in an embrace that was the natural expression of the feeling that, if die they must, they would die together. With such black ruin about them, caused by one shock, the fear could not be combated that the next might end everything.
When the convulsion passed, Clancy and Aun' Sheba immediately formed a chair with their hands, and Mara helped Mrs. Hunter, now ready enough to escape by any means, to avail herself of it. They made their way with difficulty over the debris to King Street. Here they were obliged to pause and rest. No rest, however, did Clancy obtain, for a momentary glance revealed one of the awful phases of the disaster. Three or four doors above them, houses were burning from overturned and exploded lamps. Some of the shop-keepers were frantically endeavoring to save a few of their goods, often, in their excitement, carrying out the strangest and most valueless articles. Clancy's brief glance gave no heed to such efforts, but before he could turn away, a woman with a child in her arms came rushing from one of the burning houses. Her dress had touched the fire, and was beginning to burn. Clancy caught one of the blankets from Mara, and with it extinguished the flames, while Mara took the infant. The instant the babe was out of her arms the mother tried to break away and rush back, shrieking, "There's another! there's another child!"
"Where?" cried Clancy, restraining her.
"In the front room there."
"Stay here, then," and he darted through the doorway, out of which the smoke was pouring as from a chimney.
Mara and the mother looked after him in breathless and agonized suspense. The flames had burst suddenly into the apartment, and through the windows they could see him enter, snatch up the child, and disappear. But he did not come out of the street door as soon as they expected. They could endure waiting no longer. Both dashed into the smoke-clouded passage-way, and stumbled against Clancy Where he had sunk down within a few steps of safety.
The mother seized her child, while Mara, with a strength given by her heart, dragged the strangling man to the open air. By this time Aun' Sheba was at her side, and between them they carried him to the spot where Mrs. Hunter lay. Now that he could breathe he soon recovered; Mara's tender and imploring words being potent indeed in rallying him. His exposure to heat and the smoke had been terrible, but fortunately very brief. He was soon on his feet, exclaiming, "We must go on to Meeting Street, for there we shall have a better chance."
Thither they made their way with other fugitives, Clancy and Aun' Sheba carrying Mrs. Hunter as before, Mara following with the infant, and close beside her the grateful mother with the other child.
Having reached a somewhat open space in the wider thoroughfare, the young man became satisfied that another mode of transportation must be found. Mrs. Hunter was too heavy for the primitive method adopted in the emergency. Aun' Sheba took the injured woman's head upon her lap while he rested and looked about for something like an army stretcher. Among the ruins he found one of the long wooden shutters which a jeweller had placed against his window hours before. Watches and gems gleamed in the light of kindling fires, and were within easy reach, but the most unscrupulous of thieves were honest that night. Clancy carried the shutter to Mrs. Hunter's side, and then watched for some man whom he could persuade into his service.
The great thoroughfare was full of fugitives, and soon among them the mother recognized a man of her acquaintance, who took charge of her and the children. The majority, like Clancy, had been delayed by efforts in behalf of the sick or injured, and already had their hands full. Others were so dazed and horror-stricken that they moved about aimlessly, or sat upon the pavement, moaning and lamenting in despairing accents. It would appear as if the emergency developed the strength and the weakness of every mind. Some were evidently crazed. As Mara stood beside Mrs. Hunter to prevent the crowd from trampling upon her, she saw a half-dressed man, breaking his way through the throng. The maniac stopped before her, and for a moment fixed upon her wild, blood-shot eyes, then placed an infant in her arms, and with a yell bounded away. Mara, horror-stricken, saw that the child was dead, and that its neck was evidently broken. Clancy came up immediately, and taking the infant laid it down out of the central path, for all kept to the middle of the street.
As he did so, he heard his name called by a voice he knew too well. The feeling it inspired compelled him again to recognize how false he had been to himself and also to Miss Ainsley. Her summons now brought the feeling that he too, like Mara, was bound, and he went instantly to her side.
"Ah, you deserted me!" she said bitterly.
He silently pointed to Mrs. Hunter, who presented so sad a spectacle that even the exacting girl had no further words of reproach, but she glanced keenly at Mara.
"We feared a tidal wave," Mr. Willoughby explained, "and so decided to seek the upper portion of the city."
"Mrs. Willoughby, if you are able to walk," said Clancy, "your husband must aid me and Aun' Sheba in carrying Mrs. Hunter, who is very badly injured."
"Oh, now that the first terrible shock to my nerves is over, I am as well able to take care of myself as any of you," replied the spirited little woman.
"That's like you!" exclaimed Clancy heartily. Then turning, he said with emphasis, "Miss Ainsley, you see that a man's first duty to-night is to the injured and utterly helpless."
"Forgive me," she replied in tones meant for his ear only, "I did not know you owed so much to Mrs. Hunter and her niece."
"I shall owe my services to every injured man and woman until all are rescued," was his quiet reply. Then he helped Mr. Willoughby place Mrs. Hunter on the improvised support, and between them they bore her onward, the others following.
Their progress was necessarily slow, for the street was encumbered not only with fugitives like themselves, but also with tangled telegraph-wires and all sorts of other impediments. Once they had to cower tremblingly under a tall building while a fire-engine thundered by, threatening to bring down upon them the shattered walls. As they resumed their slow and painful march Bodine met them, his glad, outspoken greeting to Mara filling her heart with new grief and dismay, while it allayed the jealousy and bitterness of Miss Ainsley's wounded pride.
The Northern girl had heard the report that Mara and the veteran were engaged, and here was confirmation. Mara inquired eagerly after Mrs. Bodine and Ella, then took her place at the captain's side, while Clancy moved on with set teeth and a desperate rallying of his physical powers, which he knew to be failing.
Now that Ella was in the square, young Houghton was not so impetuous as to ignore the claims of nature or to be regardless of his outward appearance. He again returned to his home, and saw Sam kneeling and praying aloud near the barn, with the two horses standing beside him.
"Sam, go to the square," he shouted.
"Can't lebe dese hosses. Dey's bofe lookin' ter me, an' I'se prayin' fer dem an us all."
"No matter about the horses. The house is too near." Then he ventured into the butler's pantry, cleansed his face and the cuts and bruises about his head, snatched some food, and hastened away. He believed he had a hard night's work before him, and that he must maintain his strength. He had not gone very far down Meeting Street before he met the group accompanying Mrs. Hunter. With a glad cry he welcomed Mrs. Willoughby, and was about to take her hand when Clancy said, "Houghton, for God's sake, quick!"
George caught the end of the litter while Clancy reeled backward and would have fallen had not Mara, with a cry she could not repress, caught him in her arms and sunk with him to the pavement. He gasped a moment or two, then his eyes closed; he became still and looked as if dead.
Again the supremely dreaded subterranean rumble was heard. Mr. Willoughby shouted wildly, "Forward, quick! We can't stay here under these buildings." He and Houghton went on with a rush, the rest following with loud cries, Miss Ainsley's piercing scream ringing out above all. She did not even look back at her prostrate suitor.
Mara paid no heed to the passing shock, but with eyes full of anguish looked upon the white face in her lap.
"Mara," said the deep voice of Bodine after the awful sound had passed. She started violently and began to tremble.
"Mara, go with the others. I will stay with Mr. Clancy."
She shook her head, but was speechless.
He stood beside her, his face full of deep and perplexed trouble.
At last she said hoarsely, "You go and bring aid. He saved aunty and me, and I cannot leave him."
At this moment Aun' Sheba came running back, exclaiming: "Good Lawd forgib me dat I should leab my honey lam'! My narbes all shook out ob jint like de houses, an' my legs run away wid me, dog gone 'em! Dey's brung me back howsomeber. Now, Missy Mara, gib him ter me;" and taking him under the arms she dragged him by the adjacent tall buildings. "Missy," she added, sinking down with her burden, "go on ter de squar wid Marse Bodine, an' tell dat ar young Houghton ter come quick, 'fore my legs run away wid me agin." "Both of you go to the square," commanded Bodine in the tone he would have used on the battlefield. "I will stay. There shall be no useless risk of life."
Mara lifted her dark eyes to his face. Even at that moment he knew he should never forget their expression. "My friend," she said in low, agonized tones, "he may be dying, he may be dead. I cannot, will not leave him."
"No, he ain't dead," said Aun' Sheba, with her hand over Clancy's heart, "but seems purty nigh it. Him jes gone beyon his strengt. Ole missus po'ful heby ef she ain't fat like me. Tank de Lawd, I hasn't ter be toted ter-night. No one but Kern ud tote me. Po' Kern! him heart jes break wen he know."
Bodine stood guard silent and grim while Mara mechanically chafed one of Clancy's hands. She was now far beyond tears, far beyond anything except the anguish depicted in her face. In a confused way she felt that the terrible events of the night and her own heart had overpowered her; and, with a half-despairing recklessness, she merely lived from moment to moment.
The earthquake had ceased to have personal terrors for Bodine. He had faced death too often. Nevertheless a great fear oppressed him as he looked down upon the girl he loved.
The square was not far away; Houghton and Mr. Willoughby came hastening back, and Clancy was soon added to the group of sufferers under Dr. Devoe's care.
To Miss Ainsley's general disgust at a city in which she had been treated to such a rude and miserable experience, was added a little self-disgust that she had rushed away and left Clancy to his fate. She tried to satisfy herself by thinking that he had acted in much the same way toward her, but it would not answer. Mrs. Hunter's blood-stained face, rendered tenfold more ghastly by the light of the flames, was too strong refutation, and the fact that Mara had remained with Clancy had its sting. She saw Ella and many others ministering to the injured and feeble, and felt that she must redeem her character. When the unconscious man was brought in, therefore, she hastened forward to receive and in a measure claim him.
Although mentally comparing her conduct with that of Mara, Houghton and Mr. Willoughby thought it was all right, put Clancy in her charge, and began to follow Dr. Devoe's directions. Mara gave the girl a look which brought a blush to her face, and then devoted herself to her aunt.
Captain Bodine's first act was to speak gently and encouragingly to his daughter and cousin, congratulating the latter on her recovery.
"Yes, Hugh," said the old lady, "I'm safe, safer than I've been at other times in my life. This is but one more storm, and it is only driving me nearer the harbor. You look dreadfully; you're worn out."
"More by anxiety than exertion. It is awful to be so helpless at such a time."
"Sit down here on the grass beside me. I want to talk. I may not have much more chance in this world, but feel sure that I shall do my share in the next. Oh, Hugh, Hugh, we've all been shaken like naughty children, and some of us may be the better and the wiser for it. If Ella and that gallant knight of hers survive, how happy they will be! It makes me happy even to think of it, though for aught we know the earth may open and swallow us all within the next five minutes."
"Yes, the dear child! Thank God for her sake!"
"For your own too. There is Mara safe also. Poor Mrs. Hunter! she looks death-like to me. You look awfully too. I never saw you so pale and haggard."
"Cap'n Bodine, Marse Houghton send you dis," said Jube at his elbow, proffering a glass of wine.
The captain turned his startled eyes upon his old employer, who lay just out of earshot of their low tones.
"Take it, Hugh," said his cousin earnestly. "Drink to the death of hate. He and I have made up."
The veteran hesitated, and a spasm, as if from a wrench of pain, passed over his face. Then he took the glass, and said coldly, "I drink to your recovery, sir."
"I thank you," was Mr. Houghton's response.
"A very fair beginning, Hugh, for a man," his cousin resumed. "You might as well give up at once, though. Everything is going to be shaken down that shouldn't stand."
Ominous words to the veteran, for he felt that his dream of happiness was falling in ruins.
By the natural force of circumstances the several characters of our story had been brought comparatively near together, yet were separated into little groups. Dr. Devoe passed from one to the other as his services were needed, nor were they confined to those known to us. He simply made a little open space beside Mr. Houghton his headquarters, where he left his remedies under the charge of the invalid, Jube, and old Tobe. Other physicians had joined him and were indefatigable in the work of relief. Some of the city clergy were also in the square, speaking words of Christian faith and hope, which never before had seemed so precious.
To Clancy Dr. Devoe gave a good deal of attention. Not only was his hair singed, but his neck and hands were badly burned, and his swoon was so obstinate as to indicate great exhaustion. This could scarcely be otherwise, for he possessed no such physique as young Houghton had developed. Moreover, he had passed through a mental strain and excitement which no one could comprehend except Mara, and she but partially. Houghton had put his coat under the head of the unconscious man, and was doing his best for him. So also was Miss Ainsley now. She had purposely turned her back on Mara, and her face was toward the adjacent conflagration, which distinctly lighted up her face and form, transforming her into a vision of marvellous beauty. Her long hair had fallen in a golden veil over her bare shoulders and neck; her dark eyes were lustrous with excitement and full of solicitude. When at last Clancy opened his eyes his first impression was that an angel was ministering to him in a light too brilliant to be earthly. He recognized Miss Ainsley's voice, however, and when he had taken some of the wine which the doctor pressed to his lips, all that had happened came back to him. George now returned in solicitude to his father, also designing to take a little much-needed rest, while the doctor gave his attention to other patients. With returning consciousness Clancy was overpowered by a deep sense of gratitude to this beautiful creature, and also by a strong feeling of compunction that he had sought the regard which she now seemed to bestow unstintedly. "Like Mara," he thought, "there is nothing left for me but to fulfil obligations from which I cannot honorably withdraw."
"You are indeed kind and devoted," he said feebly. "I fear I have made a good deal of trouble."
"No, Mr. Clancy, you have gone beyond your strength. In fact, we are all distracted and half beside ourselves. Won't you let me take your head into my lap? If I am caring for you I can better endure these awful scenes." And she made the change.
"I hope you will forgive me for leaving you so abruptly on the Battery. Mrs. Hunter and Miss Wallingford really had no one to look to."
"Captain Bodine evidently thinks Miss Wallingford should look to him."
"In such an emergency he would be even more helpless than she."
"Oh, well, I hope the worst is now over for us all, and that we can soon get away from this awful town."
He gave no answer. Miss Ainsley knew that her father was not far distant, and that he would come for her by the first train which could reach the city. Accustomed all her life to look at everything from the central point of self, she now, in the greater sense of safety, began to give some thought to the future. Her first conscious decision was to try to be as brave as possible, and so leave a good impression. The second was to get away from the city at once, and she hoped she might never see it again. If Clancy would go with her, if he would even eventually join her at the North, she believed that she could marry him, so favorable was the impression that he had made, but she felt that she was making a great concession, which he must duly appreciate. At present the one consuming wish was to escape, to get away from scenes which to her were horrible in the last degree.
In truth only a brave spirit could witness what was taking place on every side, or maintain fortitude under the overwhelming impression of personal danger--an impression which soon banished the partial sense of security felt after reaching the square. The extent of the terror inspired by the earthquake can best be measured by the fact that although columns of smoke and fire, consuming homes and threatening to lay the city in ashes, were rising at several points, they were scarcely heeded. The roar of adjacent flames could even be heard by the vast concourse, but ears were strained to detect that more terrible roar that seemed to come from unknown depths beneath the ocean and the land, and to threaten a fate as awful and mysterious as itself. Even many of the white population could not help sharing in some degree the general belief among the negroes that the end of all things was at hand. The nervous shock sustained by all prepared the way for the wildest fears and conjectures. As in the instance of a bloody battle, those were the best off who were the most occupied.
Thousands, however, sat and waited in sickening apprehension, fearing some new horror with every passing moment. There was a sound of weeping throughout the square, while above this monotone rose groans, cries, hysterical screams, loud petitions for mercy, and snatches of hymns. The emotional negroes left no moments of silence. The majority of the white people had become comparatively calm. They talked in low tones, encouraging and soothing one another; the lips of even those who seldom looked heavenward now often moved in silent prayer; fathers, on whose brows rested a heavy load of care, tried to cheer their trembling families; and mothers clasped their sobbing children in their arms, with the feeling that even death should not part them.
Over all this array of pallid, haggard faces, shone the flames of the still unquenched conflagration.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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43
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"THE TERROR BY NIGHT"
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When Aun' Sheba saw that Mara, Mrs. Hunter, and Clancy were among friends, with a physician in attendance, she sat down by her daughter Sissy, and took little Vilet in her lap.
"I kin'er feel," she said, "dat ef de yearth is gwine ter swaller us, I'se like ter go down wid dis chile. Vilet shuah to go up ag'in, an' p'raps de Lawd ud say, 'You kin come too, Aun' Sheba.'"
The sound of her voice so far restored Uncle Sheba to his normal condition that he was able to creep on his hands and knees to a position just behind his wife, where he crouched as if she were a sort of general protection.
Vilet, roused at her grandmother's voice, looked around, and then asked in her plaintive voice, "Whar's daddy?"
"He's hep'n' put'n' out de fiahs, deah chile."
"My bref gittin' bery sho't, granny. I can't stay dis side ob de riber much longer; I wants ter see daddy 'fore I go."
"Po' chile and po' Kern," groaned Aun' Sheba. "We doesn't know whar he be, an' I'se 'feerd he couldn't lebe off puttin' out de fiahs."
From time to time Vilet wailed, "Daddy, come, come quick. I'se gwine fas, an' I wants to see you onst mo'."
Captain Bodine heard the cry, and, having rested himself a little, came to Aun' Sheba and asked, "Do you know where Kern is?"
"I doan, Marse Cap'n, but he mought be at dis nighest fiah."
"I'll see," said the veteran, halting away with the feeling that he must do something to divert his torturing thoughts.
Watson was soon pointed out to him, where with stern and quiet face he was carrying out his orders. When told that Vilet was near and calling for him, the veins came out on his forehead, and for a moment he was irresolute. Then he cried, "No, sah, I can't go. Fo' de Lawd, ef she die an' we all die I won't lebe my duty."
"You're a man," said Bodine, clapping him on the shoulder, "I will arrange this."
He went direct to Kern's superior officer and briefly told him the circumstances, then added, "I know these people. Watson deserves consideration. I will take his place. I can hold the hose as well as he, and will stand as near the fire as he does if you will order him to go to his dying child for a few minutes."
"In that case I can comply," said the officer. "Watson has behaved splendidly, and he'll come back soon."
The first thing Kern knew, the hose was taken from his hand, and he ordered to go and return within ten minutes. He hesitated. "Obey orders," was the stern command. Then he rushed away.
The plaintive cry, "Daddy, daddy," guided him, and Vilet was in his arms.
"Chile, deah chile!" was all he could say as he kissed the thin face again and again.
"Now my min's at res'," said the little girl, with a sigh of ineffable content. "You 'member, daddy--you says--'Yes, Vilet.' --I'se a-goin', daddy. De angels--is all ready--to tote me to Heben. I kin jes' heah dere wings--rustlin' roun' me. I was jes' waitin'--an' hol'n back--ter see you onst mo'. Good-by, moder--granny."
Then she feebly wound her little arms about Kern's neck and whispered, "Good-by, daddy, fer jes' a lil while. I'se wait neah de gate fer you _shuah_."
It would seem that she put all her remaining strength into this effort, for her head fell over on his shoulder; she quivered a moment, then was still. Kern could not repress one deep groan. He looked for a moment of agony into his child's face, kissed it, then placing her in Ann' Sheba's lap, departed as swiftly as he came. Sissy was so overcome as to be helpless.
"Your time wasn't up," said the veteran.
"Her time was up, Cap'n Bodine," Kern managed to reply, his face rigid with repressed emotion. "She die in my arms. God bless yo' fer you'se feelins fer a po' man."
"Watson, I do feel for you and with you. Our hearts are all breaking to-night. Take care of yourself. You have a wife and children still to live for." And Bodine halted back and seated himself by his cousin.
Alas! for thousands the words of Bodine were only too true. As they contemplated what had happened and what might occur at any moment, they felt that heavy, crushing pain, unlike all others, which gathers at the heart, overwhelming the spirit and threatening physical dissolution at one and the same time.
Yet such is the power of human affection and Christian faith, that they won many triumphs, even during that night of horrors. In Ella and the dying woman, whose head she pillowed on her breast, were examples of both. The girl's heart was indeed pitiful and sympathetic, and the poor creature knew that it was, for in broken, gasping words she told her brief, pathetic story, so like that of many other women in the South. Once she was a happy girl at home on a small plantation, but father, brothers, and lover had all perished in the war. Home and mother had since been lost and she was fighting out life's long, weary battle when this final disaster brought the end. "Yes, kind lady, I reckon I'm dying: I hope so. I couldn't take care of myself any longer, and I'd rather join those who have gone on before me than trust to the charity of this world. I am very weary, very heavy laden, and I'd rather go to Him who said, 'Come to Me.' If you can stay with me a little longer--I don't fear, but it's very sweet to have human kindness and company down into the dark valley."
Her words proved true. She evidently perished from internal injuries, for she soon ceased to gasp, and her head lay still against the bosom of the sobbing girl.
Dr. Devoe was present during the last moments, then gently relieved Ella from her lifeless burden, and supported her to her father on whose shoulder she shed those natural tears which soon bring relief to the hearts of the young. George Houghton and Jube carried the body to the place set apart for the dead. Then George returned to his father's side, but looked wistfully at Ella with an unspeakable longing to comfort her.
"I don't wonder, my boy," said Mr. Houghton, interpreting his thoughts. "Go and speak to her."
George approached timidly, and said, "Miss Bodine."
She started, raised her head, and began to wipe her eyes.
"I--I--Well, I don't know what to say to make you understand how my father and I have sympathized with your brave--Well, you were so kind and patient with that poor woman. I wish I could do something for _you_, and I will," and he hastened away.
She called, "I don't need anything, Mr. Houghton. Indeed I do not. It would only distress me--" But he was out of hearing. "Oh," she moaned again on her father's shoulder, "why will he take risks?"
It was evident that Mr. Houghton shared her anxiety, for he divined his son's purpose, and looked with troubled face for his return. He soon came back carrying another mattress, pillows and blankets. Sam, compelled to leave the horses, followed with a basket of provisions. Ella was clothed in little besides a light wrapper, and had shivered more than once in the night air. George tried to induce her and Mrs. Bodine to accept of the mattress, but they asked as a favor that it might be placed under Mrs. Hunter. He readily complied, saying he would get another for them.
At this moment came the ominous groan of the severe shock which occurred at about half-past two o'clock Wednesday morning. To the terrified people it was like the growl of some ravening beast rushing upon them, and a long wailing cry blended with the horrible roar as it swept under and over them, then died away in the northwest.
"Oh, Mr. Houghton," sobbed Ella, when her voice could be heard, "please don't go away--please don't go near a building again."
"George," added his father, almost sternly, "not with my consent will you leave me again till we learn more definitely what our fate is to be. If you were in the house when this shock occurred, you might have perished. It is no longer a question of more or less comfort."
"I reckon not," said Mrs. Bodine. "It's a question of ever seeing the sun rise again. We may as well speak out what is in our minds, and get ready for a city not made with hands."
"I wish we were all as ready to go as you are, Cousin Sophy," Ella whispered.
"Well, my dear, I've more property in that city than in this wrecked town, and 'where your treasure is, there will your heart be also.'" Then she added, "You'll be spared, dear child. You and your knight will see many happy years. God bless you both."
"Oh, cousin! it is such a comfort, even at this awful time, to see him, to know he is near, to think he came for--for us!"
"For you, dear little goose. He'd face earthquakes, volcanoes, tornadoes, cyclones, and even his father before this well-deserved shaking converted him, for your sake."
"Cousin," whispered the girl, "I'm so glad. Is it wrong to be glad at such a time?"
"Wrong to be glad when God loves you and a good man loves you? I reckon not. All the quakes that ever shook this crazy old earth are bagatelles compared with such facts."
"Oh, cousin, you are such a tower of strength and comfort!"
"I'm a leaning tower," replied the old lady, whose vein of humor ran through all her thoughts, "but I'm leaning on what won't fail me. Nestle down by my side, dear child. You are shivering, and this extra blanket will do us both good. Now be comfortable, and believe with me that nothing in the universe can or will harm you."
"Poor Mara!" Ella sighed.
"Yes, I've been watching and grieving over her. I never saw any face more expressive of suffering than hers. I don't understand her unless--unless--well, time will show, that is, if there is much more time for me."
"Oh, cousin, we never could spare you!"
"That is what I used to think about my husband, but he always went when sailing orders came, and I survived. I feel to-night as if he and the boys were just waiting off shore, if this tossing and pitching earth can be called shore, for me to join them."
Captain Bodine sat through the shock without moving a muscle. His eyes rested wistfully on Mara. With an indescribable pang he saw that in the supreme moment of general terror her eyes turned not to him but to Clancy, and that she made a half involuntary movement as if to go to him. The glance, the act, combined with what had gone before, were too significant, and Bodine buried his face in his hands that she might not see his trouble. She knew it all the more surely, yet felt how powerless she was to console him.
"Oh, my blind, blind folly!" she groaned inwardly. "If I had been true to my heart, I might be caring for Owen instead of that woman who left him to die, and my father's friend acting like a father toward us both. I wanted to be so heroic and self-sacrificing, and I've only sacrificed those I love most."
Mrs. Hunter was so fully under the influence of anodynes as not to be cognizant of what was taking place, and Bodine, soldier-like, was not long in reaching his decision. Rising, he went aside with Dr. Devoe, and said, "Miss Wallingford is keeping up from the sheer force of will. Nothing but your command can induce her to yield and take such rest as can be obtained here. I do not think you can interpose too soon. I will watch Mrs. Hunter."
Mara had indeed reached the limit of endurance, and the physician quickly detected the fact. He took her by the hand and arm, and gently raised her to her feet as he said, "I am autocrat here. Even kings and generals must obey their doctor. So I shall ask no permission to place you beside Mrs. Bodine. She and rest can do you more good than I can. Captain Bodine and I will look after Mrs. Hunter."
Mara gave the veteran a grateful glance and yielded. Then she buried her face in Mrs. Bodine's neck, and was silent until she slept from physical exhaustion.
Miss Ainsley, with multitudes of others, yielded to her terror at the passing of the midnight earthquake. She shrieked and half rose in her wild impulse to fly. Then apparently forgetting Clancy she piteously begged Dr. Devoe to give her something that would certainly bring oblivion for a few hours at least. He good-naturedly complied. When the opiate began to take effect she was placed on the mattress beside Mrs. Hunter, and was soon in stupor. Clancy had so far recovered that he was able to sit up, and he felt that he should watch beside the girl who he believed had been so devoted to him in his unconsciousness.
Dr. Devoe in excuse for Miss Ainsley said, "We can't make too much allowance to-night for every one. Many strong men are utterly overcome and nauseated by these, shocks. No wonder women cannot face them."
"I think Miss Ainsley has borne up wonderfully," Clancy replied.
"Oh, yes, as well as the average. It's a question of nerves with the majority."
Clancy sat down and looked with pity at the beautiful face and dishevelled hair. "Poor girl!" he thought, "she did her best by me. Indeed, I had scarcely thought her capable of such devotion. By all that's honorable I'm bound to her now. Well, eventually I can give her a truer affection, for she has ceased to be merely a part of my ambitious scheme. By our own acts Mara and I are separated, and, however deep our grief may be, it must be hidden from all."
Thus he and Captain Bodine sat on either side of the pallet, each immersed in painful thought, oblivious of the strange scenes enacted all around them. They did not feel then that they could speak to each other.
The veteran was perplexed, and his proud spirit also labored under a deep sense of wrong. It was evident that he had been deceived by Mara, and that all along she had loved the man so near to him, loved him better than her own life. Why had she concealed the fact? Why had she been so cold and harsh toward Clancy himself until the awful events of the night and peril to life had overpowered her reserve and revealed her heart? He could think of no other explanation than that afforded by the unconscious girl over whom Clancy watched. He had heard of the young man's devotion to Miss Ainsley, and, from what he had seen, believed that they were affianced. He was too just and large in his judgment to think Mara's course toward him was due to pique and wounded pride, and he was not long in arriving at a very fair explanation of her motives and action. Keenly intelligent and mature in years he was beyond the period of passionate and inconsiderate resentment. Moreover his love for the orphan girl was so true, and the memory of her father and mother so dear to him, that he was able to rise nobly above mere self, and resolve to become the most loyal of friends, a protector against her very self. "Now I think of it," he mused, "she has never said she loved me, although she permitted me to think she did. Even when I declared my love she only said, 'Life offers me nothing better than to be your wife.' That no doubt was true as she meant it, for she then thought this man here was lost to her. She did not welcome my love when she first recognized it, but soon her spirit of self-sacrifice came in, and she reasoned that since she could not be happy in herself, she would make me happy. From the very first I believed that this spirit could lead her to deception for the sake of others, and I have not been sufficiently on my guard against it. Yet how could I suspect this Clancy, whom she so repelled and contemned, and who was devoting himself to another woman? Perhaps she partially deceived herself as well as me. The affection probably struck root years since when she and Clancy were friends. He outgrew it; she has not, as she has learned to night, if not before. He went to her aid because he was friendly in spite of her apparent bitterness toward him, which perhaps he understood better than I. Possibly Mrs. Hunter may have broken their relations, for there is no doubt about her feelings. Well, time must unravel the snarl. It would now seem that he is devoted to this girl here, and she to him as far as she can be to any one. What he will think when he learns that she ran shrieking away and left him, while Mara, reckless of life itself, stood by him to the last, I cannot know. If he loves her he will forgive her, for no man can blame a woman for succumbing to the terror of this night. Possibly at some distant day Mara may still think that life offers her nothing better than to be my wife; but she shall be free, free as air, and know, too, that I know all."
Thus Bodine communed with himself after a habit learned long ago in the presence of danger.
Clancy also was confronted by possible results of his action, the fear of which enabled his cool, resolute nature to rise above all other fear. He resolved to go at once to Aun' Sheba, and caution her against speaking of the scenes in which she, with Mara, and himself had taken part.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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44
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HOPE TURNED INTO DREAD
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Clancy was guided by the voice of Aun' Sheba, the wailing of Sissy, and the groans and unearthly sounds to which Uncle Sheba was giving utterance. The adjacent fire was so far subdued that only a red glow in the sky above marked the spot. The stars shone in calm, mocking serenity on the wide scene of human distress and fear. "Alas," he thought, "what atoms we are; and what an atom is this earth itself! It would seem that faith is the simplest, yet mightiest effort of the mind at such a time," and he paused till Aun' Sheba should be more free to listen to him.
Mr. Birdsall, with his youngest child in his arms, had been exhorting those of his people near him, but his words had been of little effect in quieting Sissy and Uncle Sheba. The latter had concluded that he would not wait till the coming winter before again "'speriencin 'ligion," and his uncouth appeals to Heaven were but the abject expression of animal fear. Aun' Sheba had lost her patience with both him and her daughter, and was expostulating vigorously. "I'se asham on you, Sissy," she said. "Wot good de 'ligion you 'fess do you, I'd like ter know? Ain't Vilet in Hebin? Ain't you got de bes husban bawn? Ain't de oder chil'n heah? Now ef you'se 'ligion any good 'tall, be quiet an tankful dat you bettah off dan hun'erds. Unc., you kin pray all you wants, but ef you specs de Lawd ter listen you'se got ter pray like a man an not like a hog dat wants his dinnah. You'se 'sturbin everybody wuss dan you did wen you got sot on. I won hab it said my folks made a rumpus in dis time ob trouble. You'se got ter min me, Mr. Buggone, or I'se hab you took out de squar."
Uncle Sheba was never so far gone in his fears but that he shrunk from facing anything worse, and so he subsided into low inarticulate groans. Sissy was not so tractable, for her weeping was largely nervous and hysterical. She had an affectionate emotional nature, but was far from being gifted with the strength of mind and character possessed by her mother and husband.
"Aun' Sheba," said Clancy kindly, "your daughter needs something to quiet her nerves. I will bring it to her." He soon returned with medicine from the doctor, and under its influence the bereaved mother became calmer and wept softly by her dead child.
Clancy drew Aun' Sheba a little apart so that others could not hear, even if any were disposed to listen at this time of intense preoccupation. "You have been a friend indeed to-night," he said. "I must ask another proof of your good-will. The earthquake has brought trouble enough, but I fear that Mara and I have brought greater trouble upon ourselves. Probably you've seen enough to explain what I mean."
"I'se seen a heap, Marse Clancy."
"Well, you are Mara's old nurse. She loves and trusts you. She is engaged to Captain Bodine."
"She ain't mar'ed to 'im."
"She feels herself bound, and has said that if I was a true Southern gentleman I would not interfere. This is bad enough, but there's worse still. I thought she was lost to me--you know about it, I reckon."
"Yes, I knows now. I was a blin ole fool an tink it was wuckin' so hard dat made her po'ly."
"Oh, we have both made such fatal mistakes! I, like a fool, when I believed she would never speak to me again, entangled myself also. Now, Aun' Sheba, what I wish is that you say nothing to any one of what you have seen and heard. We've got to do what's honorable at every cost to ourselves."
"Dus wot's hon'ble mean dat Missy Mara got ter mar'y Marse Bodine an you de limpsey-slimpsey one wot say you 'serted her?"
"Nothing else seems to be left for us." " 'Pears ter me, Marse Clancy, you an Missy Mara gittin orful muxed up in wot's hon'ble. I'se only got wot folks calls hoss-sense, but it's dead agin you bofe. Take you now. Fust you got ter tell de gal lies, den lies to her fader an de minister wot jines you, and de hull worl. Missy Mara ud hab ter lie like de debil, too, an you bofe go on lyin 'miscuously. Anyhow, you'se hab ter act out de lies ef you didn't say 'em. 'Ud dat be hon'ble wen all de time you'se yearnin fer each oder?"
"Oh, Aun' Sheba, it's hard enough without such words as yours!"
"Ob corse it's hard. It orter be, fer it's agin de Lawd an natur. Marse Clancy, took keer wot you do, an wot you let Missy Mara do. My 'sperience teach me a heap. S'pose I doan' know de dif'ence 'tween Unc. dar an a man like Kern? I was young an foolish once, an mar'ed Unc. kase he was good lookin den, an mo' kase he ax me. Well, I'se made de bes on it, an I'se gwine ter make de bes on it; but if de yearth crack right open heah, as like 'nuff 'twill 'fo' mawnin, I'd jump right down in de crack 'fo' I'd do it ober ag'in. You'se on de safe side ob de crack yit, so be keerful. I knows woman folks soon as I claps my eyes on dem. Miss Mara quar in her notions 'bout de Norf--she was brung up to 'em--but dere's nuff woman in my honey lam' to make a tousan ob dis yere limpsey-slimpsey one."
Clancy clinched his hands in mental distress as he listened to the hard sense and unerring judgment of the sagacious old woman.
"I'm in terrible perplexity," he said, "for there is so much truth in your words. How can I escape the consequences of my own acts? Think how Miss Ainsley stood by me in my unconsciousness! When I revived--" "Dar now, Marse Clancy, you'se been fooled. She stood by hersef. De fac am, she didn't stan 'tall, but run like a deer, hollerin fer all she's wuth. Wen you swoonded, Missy Mara cotch you in her arms. I eben run away, an lef my honey lam' mysef, but I come back sudden, an dar she was a hol'n you head in her lap right uner a big bildin dat ud a squashed her. I drag you pass dat, an den Marse Bodine jes ordered me an Missy to go to de squar. He spoke stern an strong as if we his sogers. An Missy Mara look 'im in de eyes an say, you--dat's you, Marse Clancy--may be dead, or you may be dyin, an dat she can't leab you an she won leab you. She got de grit ob true lub, an dere'll neber be any runin away in her heart. Wot you an Marse Bodine gwine ter do 'bout sich lub as dat? 'Fo' de Lawd my honey lam' die ef you an Marse Bodine 'sist on bein so orful hon'ble. She ain't one dem kin' dat takes a husban like dey takes a breakfas kase its ready."
Clancy was so profoundly moved by what he heard that he turned away to hide his emotion. After a moment he said: "You have been true and faithful, Aun' Sheba. You won't be sorry. Please do as I have asked." And he hastened away.
"Reckon I put a spoke in dat hon'ble bizness," Aun' Sheba soliloquized. "Like 'nuff I put another in. Doan cotch me hep'n along any sich foolishness. I gibs no promise, an I'se gwine ter make my honey lam' happy spite hersef." Then she took one of her grandchildren, and soothed it to sleep.
The slow hours dragged wearily on; the majority of the white people quieted down to patient, yet fearful waiting; crying children, one after another, dropped off to sleep; parents and friends watched over them and one another, conversing in low tones or praying silently for the Divine mercy, never before felt to be so essential. The negroes were more demonstrative, and their loud prayers and singing of hymns continued without abatement or hindrance. The expressions of some were so extravagant and uncouth as to grate harshly on all natures possessing any refinement; but when such men as Mr. Birdsall exhorted or prayed, there were but few among the whites who did not listen reverently, and in their hearts acknowledge the substantial truth of the words spoken and their need of the petitions offered.
Clancy went back to his watch. Few men in the city were more troubled and perplexed than he, for he had not the calmness resulting from a definite purpose as was true of Bodine.
Unmovedly the two men remained at their posts of duty awaiting the day or what might happen before the dawn. George lay down beside his father, and soon slept from fatigue, while Mr. Houghton, now so softened and chastened, vowed to make him happy.
Ella watched her father in deep solicitude, feeling vaguely that his trouble was not caused wholly by the general reasons for distress. At last she stole to his side, and laid her head upon his shoulder. The act comforted and sustained him more than she knew at the time, for he was not a demonstrative man. He only kissed her tenderly and bade her return to her cousin, with whom she kept up a whispered and fragmentary conversation. Mrs. Willoughby sat beside her husband, her head pillowed against his breast as they waited for the day.
A breeze sprang up, and the freshness of the morning was in it. Would the sun ever rise again? Was not Nature so out of joint that nothing familiar could be looked for any more? The terrors of the long night inspired morbid thoughts, which come too readily in darkness.
At the appointed time, however, there was a glow in the east, which steadily deepened in color. Truly, to the weary, haggard, shivering, half-clad watchers, the sun was an angel of light that morning; and never did fire-worshippers greet his rise with a deeper feeling of gratitude and gladness.
There was a general stir in the strange bivouac, an increased murmur of voices. The hymns of the negroes gradually ceased; and people, singly or in groups, began to leave the square for their homes, in order to clothe themselves more fully, and to discover what was left to them in the general wreck.
There had been no shock since the convulsion at half-past two o'clock, the fact inspiring general confidence that the worst was over. Hope grew stronger with the blessed light, and fear vanished with the darkness.
Mr. Houghton touched his son, who immediately awoke, meditating deeds of hospitality. "Father," he said, "our house is near. Cannot I, with the aid of Jube and Sam, get our friends some breakfast?"
"Yes, George, and extend the invitation from me."
"Oh, father! I'm so grateful that you are giving me this chance to--to--" "You shall have all the chance you wish. In fact, I'm rather inclined to see what I can do myself. I may need a good deal of nursing." And the old man's face was lighted up with a kindly smile, which made his son positively happy.
Approaching Bodine, he asked, "Do you think it will be safe for the invalids to leave the square?"
"I scarcely think so," was the reply. "At least, not until more time passes without disturbance. From what I've read of earthquakes, our houses may be unsafe for days to come."
"Well, the first thing to be done is to see that you all have some breakfast. Fortunately, our house is not far; and, although our women-servants have fled, I have two men who will stand by me. The fact is, my hunting expeditions have made me a fairly good cook myself. My father cordially extends the invitation that all my friends here breakfast with us."
"I will join in your labors, Houghton," said Clancy, promptly. "Having no home, I gratefully accept your father's invitation."
"We're all shipwrecked on a desert island," added Mrs. Bodine cheerily to George. "You appear to be one of the friendly natives, and I put myself under your protection."
"Our custom here is," replied the young fellow in like vein, "that, after we have taken salt together, we become fast friends."
"Bring on the salt, then," she answered laughing, while Ella's smile seemed to the young fellow more vivifying than the first level rays of the sun. Mara, Mrs. Hunter, and Miss Ainsley were still sleeping, as also was Dr. Devoe.
"Houghton," called Mr. Willoughby, "won't you enroll me as one of your cooks or waiters?"
"No," replied George, "I must leave you and Captain Bodine in charge of camp."
"Too many cooks spile de brof," said Aun' Sheba, rising from Mara's side where she had been watching for the last hour. "Marse Houghton, you bery fine cook fer de woods, I spec, but I reckon I kin gib a lil extra tech to de doin's."
"Ah, Aun' Sheba, if you'll come, you shall be chief cook, and I, for one, promise to obey. Mrs. Willoughby, I'm so very glad that I can now return a little of your kindness."
"I take back what I said about absolving you," she whispered.
"You'd better. If I don't make the most of my chance now my name is not George Houghton. Of course I shan't say anything while these troubles last. You understand, I don't wish anything to happen which would embarrass her, or make it hard to accept what I can do for her and hers; but when the right time comes," and he nodded significantly.
"You are on the right tack as you boatmen say," she whispered laughing.
"See here, Houghton," remarked jolly Mr. Willoughby, "earthquakes and secret conferences with my wife are more than a fellow can stand at one and the same time."
"You shall soon have consolation," said George, hastening away, followed by Clancy, Aun' Sheba, Jube, and Sam. When the last-named worthy appeared near Mr. Houghton's barn the horses whinnied and the two dogs barked joyously.
"Mr. Clancy," said George, handing him his pocket-book, "since you have kindly offered to aid, please take Jube and visit the nearest butcher's shop and bakery. I suggest that you lay in a large supply, for we don't know what may happen. Please get eggs, canned delicacies, anything you think best. Don't spare money. Help yourself, if owners are absent. I will honor all your I.O.U's."
"All right, Houghton; but remember that I'm an active partner in this catering business. Fortunately I don't need to go to the bank for money."
Aun' Sheba exclaimed over the evidences of disaster along the street, but when she saw what a wreck Mr. Houghton's massive portico had become she lifted her hands in dismay.
"That don't trouble me," said George, "since I'm not under it. I passed beneath a second or two before it fell."
"De Lawd be praised! 'Pears ter me He know wot He 'bout, an is gwine ter bring down pride ez well ez piazzers."
"It looks that way, Aun' Sheba. Here, Sam, make the kitchen fire before you do anything else. Now we must rummage and see what we can find."
Aun' Sheba took possession of the kitchen, and with broom, mop, and cloths, soon brought order out of chaos. Sam found that although the chimney had lost its top, it fortunately drew, and the fire in the range speedily proved all that could be desired. George ravaged the store-closet until Aun' Sheba said, "Nuff heah already ter feed de squar."
Then he went up and looked about the poor wrecked home, meanwhile setting Sam to dusting chairs and carrying them to the square. Then a table, crockery, knives, forks, spoons, napkins, etc., were despatched.
Clancy and Jube found that the proprietors of some of the shops were plucking up courage to enter them and resume trade, and so they eventually returned well laden with provisions. Then Jube was sent with wash-basins, water and towels for ablutions. Meantime George and Clancy took a hasty bath and exchanged their ruined clothing for clean apparel.
"Houghton, you are a godsend to us all," exclaimed his friend.
"I suppose the whole affair is a godsend," was the reply; "anyway, I'm getting my satisfaction out of it this morning."
As sprightly Mrs. Willoughby saw the applicances for their comfort following one after another she said to Ella, "We may as well make believe that it is a picnic."
Ella smiled and replied, "I'm better dressed for breakfast than you are, for I have on a wrapper, and you are in a low-necked evening costume."
"I feel as if I could eat a breakfast all the same. What creatures these mortals be! A little while ago I was in the depths of misery, and now I'm hungry and kind of happy."
"Oh, you are," said her husband, "when you may have to take in washing for a living, while I shovel brick and mortar."
"No, indeed," cried his wife, "I'll join the firm of Wallingford and Bodine, and you can help Aun' Sheba peddle cakes."
"That's right, children," said Mrs. Bodine, "that's the true brave Southern spirit. We are all born soldiers, seamen rather, since the land has been as freakish as the waves. Now mind, I'll send the first one below who shows the white feather."
Mr. Houghton lay apart from this group; and, while he felt his isolation, knew that he was to blame for it. They also felt the awkwardness of their situation, not knowing how far he was willing or able to converse with them. Mr. Willoughby was about to break the ice, but Ella forestalled him. "Mr. Houghton," she said, timidly approaching, "is there anything we can do for you? We are all so grateful."
"Yes, Miss Bodine. Forget and forgive."
"There seems very little now to forgive, and we do not wish to forget your kindness."
"Good Lor!" whispered Mrs. Bodine to Mrs. Willoughby, "I couldn't have turned a neater sentence myself."
"Well, Miss Bodine," resumed Mr. Houghton, "I suppose we shall have to let bygones be bygones. Now that sunshine and brightness have come, we should not recall anything painful. I trust that the worst is over, but our courage may yet be sorely tried. I will esteem it a very great favor if you and your friends will accept without reluctance what my son can do for your comfort."
Ella could not repress a little laugh of pleasure as she replied, "It is too late now to affect any reluctance. We owe him so much that we might as well owe him more." Then, ever practical, she arranged a screen to shade his face from the sun's rays.
Mr. Willoughby now came up and spoke in a friendly way of the probable effects of the disaster upon the city, and so the touch of mutual kindness began to make them kin.
Mrs. Hunter commenced to moan and toss, and this awakened Miss Ainsley, who looked around wonderingly. Mrs. Willoughby in low tones recalled what had happened, and explained the present aspect of affairs. Mrs. Bodine performed the same office for Mara, who also had been aroused by the voices near. The girl's habit of self-control served her in good stead, and she immediately rose, gave her hand to Bodine in greeting, and then knelt beside her aunt. Seeing Mara so near, Miss Ainsley quickly rose also, and moved away in instinctive antipathy.
Mrs. Hunter was feverish and evidently very ill. She was unable to comprehend what was taking place, but recognized Mara, whose soothing touch and words alone had the power of quieting her.
Ella bathed Mrs. Bodine's face and hands, and enabled her to make "the ghost of a toilet," as the old lady said. Then Ella whispered, "I wish I could do as much for Mr. Houghton."
"I dare you to do it," said Mrs. Bodine, with a mirthful gleam in her eyes.
Ella caught her spirit, and without hesitation, although blushing like a rose, went to Mr. Houghton, and asked, "Will you please let me bathe your hands and face also?"
"Why, Miss Bodine, I should not expect such kindness from you. I can wait till my son returns."
"He is doing so much that he will be tired. It would give me pleasure if you will permit it. In waiting on my cousin I've learned to be not a very awkward nurse."
"Well, Miss Bodine, I am learning that even earthquakes can bring pleasant compensations. You shall have your own way. Yes, you are a good nurse, and a brave and patient one. Your kindness to that poor creature who died in your arms touched my heart."
"And mine too, Mr. Houghton. She told me a very pitiful story."
"You shall tell it to me some time, my dear."
Her heart thrilled as he gently spoke these words, while George, striding up with a great platter of steak, almost dropped it as he saw the girl waiting on his father as if filial relations were already established. The old man enjoyed his look of pleased wonder, and, when he had a chance, whispered, "I'm getting ahead of you, my boy, I don't want your clumsy hands or Jube's around me any more." Mrs. Bodine put her head under the blanket and shook with silent laughter.
Ella was very shy of the young man, however. He could not catch her eye, nor get a chance to speak to her except in the presence of her father, Mrs. Bodine, or some one else. But he possessed his soul in patience, and did his best to be a genial host. Clancy, Jube, and Sam followed with the coffee and various comestibles. Miss Ainsley was a little effusive in her greeting of the man whom she had deserted in the street, and again had left to pass the night as he could, while she sought oblivion. His response was grave, kind, yet not altogether reassuring. He certainly indulged in no lover-like glances; and he went direct to Mara, and inquired gently after Mrs. Hunter. She replied quietly, without looking up. It was evident that the sound of his voice distressed the injured woman, who was barely conscious enough to have vague memories of the past.
Weary Dr. Devoe was wakened, while George gave Mrs. Willoughby his arm, and gallantly placed her behind the coffee-urn. Even Captain Bodine assumed a measure of cheerfulness during breakfast. When newsboys came galloping up with the morning paper, Mr. Willoughby rose and waved his hat, joining in the general hurrah which rose from all parts of the square. Every one warmly appreciated the heroism displayed in gathering news and printing a journal during the past night. Next to the vivifying light and the apparent cessation of the shocks, nothing did more to restore confidence than the appearance of the familiar paper.
"Old Charleston is alive yet," cried Mr. Willoughby; "and if the rest of us have half the pluck shown in that printing-house, we'll soon restore everything."
"Give me a paper," said Mrs. Bodine. "I'd rather have it than my breakfast."
"You shall have both," replied Ella, bringing a little tray to her side.
"Ah, Cousin Hugh, you veterans never did anything braver. Own up."
"I do, most sincerely and heartily."
Clancy read the journal aloud; and the coffee grew cold as all listened breathlessly to a chapter in the city's history never to be forgotten. Mr. Houghton was so absorbed that he suddenly became conscious that Ella was beside him with the daintiest of breakfasts. "You are spoiling me for any other nurse," he said.
"It is a relief at such a time to care for those who are ill and feeble," she replied gently. "If we have to stay here, I hope you will let me wait on you; but I trust that we can all soon go to our homes."
"I have my doubts. Now give me the pleasure of seeing you make a good meal."
"Mr. Clancy," cried Mrs. Willoughby, "in the general chaos women may obtain their just pre-eminence. I shall take the lead by ordering you to lay down that paper, so that you and others may have a hot breakfast."
Mara could be induced to take nothing beyond a cup of coffee. In spite of the sunshine and the general reaction into hopefulness and courage, she felt that black chaos was coming into her life. Her aunt and natural protector was very ill. After the events of the night she shrank inexpressibly from her former relations to Bodine. Indeed, it seemed impossible to continue them. Yet she asked herself again and again, "What else is there for me?" He was very kind, but the expression of his face was inscrutable. Moreover, there was Miss Ainsley acting as if Clancy were her own natural property, and he unable to dispute her claims. It appeared to her that poor stricken Mrs. Hunter was her only refuge, and she resolved to remain close by the invalid's side.
With the coming of the day Uncle Sheba's most poignant fears had gradually subsided. He kept his eyes on his wife, feeling that any good that he might hope for in this world would come through her. Indeed the impression was growing that the greatest immediate good to be obtained from any world was a breakfast; and when Aun' Sheba went with George to his home, Unc. also followed at a discreet distance. The result was that his wife again had to put him on a "'lowance," or little would have been left in Mr. Houghton's kitchen. He surreptitiously stuffed a few eatables into his pocket, and then went out to smoke his pipe.
Breakfast was at last over at the square. Mr. Willoughby rose and said to his wife, "I will go to the house, and get more suitable costumes for you and Carrie. Houghton will loan you a dressing-room at his house, for the streets can be scarcely suitable for you to traverse yet. I'll bring a carriage for you, however, as soon as it is possible. Serious danger is now over, I hope."
He had scarcely uttered the words when, as if in mockery, far in the southeast was heard again the sound which appalled the stoutest hearts. On it came, as if a lightning express-train were thundering down upon them. They saw the tops of distant trees nod and sway as if agitated by a gale; men, women, and children rushing again, with loud cries, from their homes; then it seemed as if some subterranean monster was tearing its way through the earth.
The moment the paralysis of terror passed, Miss Ainsley threw herself shrieking upon Clancy, who was compelled to support and soothe her. Mara covered her face with her hands, trembled violently, but uttered no sound. Ella could not repress a cry, as she hid her face upon her father's breast, a cry echoed by Mrs. Willoughby as she and her husband clung together. George knelt, holding the hand of his father, who looked at his son with the feeling that, if the end had come, his boy should be the last object on which his eyes rested. Mrs. Bodine was as composed as the veteran himself, and simply looked heavenward. There was something so terrific in the immeasurable power of the convulsion, so suggestive of immediate and awful death, that few indeed could maintain any degree of fortitude.
There was one, however, a few rods away, who scarcely noticed the shock. Kern Watson, at last released from duty, sat on the ground, with his face buried in the neck of his dead child. He did not raise his head, and trembled only as the quivering earth agitated his form.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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45
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A CITY ENCAMPING
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The earthquake which occurred at 8:25 Wednesday morning had a disastrous effect, although it was not so severe as to injure materially the buildings already so shattered. It nipped hope and growing confidence in the bud. Multitudes had left the square for their homes, a large proportion with the immediate purpose of obtaining more clothing. Many would have been comparatively naked were it not for enveloping blankets and the loan of articles of apparel from the more fortunate. With the confidence which the morning and the continued quiet of the earth inspired there had been a general movement from the square. Some hastily dressed themselves, snatched up bedding and food, and returned to the open spaces immediately; others breakfasted at home, and some had the heart to begin the task of putting their houses in order. The shock drove them forth again with all their fears renewed and increased, for the homes, which in many cases had been a refuge for generations, were now looked upon as deathtraps, threatening to mangle and torture as well as destroy. The love of gain, the instinct to preserve property, was also obliterated. Merchants deserted their shops and warehouses. Banks were unopened, except for the gaps rent by the earthquake. The city was full of food, yet people went hungry, not daring to enter the places where it was stored. After a second and general flight to the square, the question in all hearts, "What next?" paralyzed with its dread suggestion.
The fear among the educated had become definite and rational. Not that they could explain the earthquake or its causes, but the sad experiences of other regions were known to them. These experiences, however, had varied so greatly in their horrors as to leave a wide margin of terrible possibilities. A tidal wave might roll in, for the city was scarcely more than nine feet above the sea. The earth might open in great and ingulfing fissures. The tremendous forces beneath them might seek a volcanic outlet. These were all dire thoughts, and were brought home to the consciousness the more vividly because the awful phenomena continued in the serene light of day. The nightmare aspect of what had occurred in darkness passed away, and the coolest and most learned found themselves confronted by dangers which they could not gauge or explain. Nor could the end be foreseen. If such considerations weighed down the spirits of the most intelligent men, imagine the fears of frail, nervous women, of the children, the wild panic of the superstitious negroes to whom science explained nothing. To their excited minds the earthquake was due directly either to the action of a malignant, personal devil, or of an angry God. While many of the poor ignorant creatures inevitably indulged in what were justly termed "religious orgies," the great majority were well behaved and patient, finding in their simple faith unspeakable comfort and support.
One fact, however, was clear to all: that the place of immediate and greatest danger was near or beneath anything which might be prostrated by the recurring shocks.
Another feature in Wednesday's experience was very depressing. The city was completely isolated from the rest of the world. All telegraph-wires were down, all railroads leading into the city had been rendered impassable. For many hours those without who had friends and relatives in Charleston were kept in dreadful suspense. From adjacent cities reports of the catastrophe were flashed continuously, but in regard to Charleston there was an ominous lack of information, and the fear was very general that the city by the sea had sunk beneath the waves.
Mr. Ainsley shared in this horrible dread. He telegraphed repeatedly from an inland town, and took the first train despatched toward the city. His daughter was right in believing that he would reach her at the earliest possible moment.
She was greatly demoralized by the shock which dissipated her impression of comparative safety; and when she realized that the city was utterly cut off from the outside world, that it was impossible to know when her father could arrive, she gave way to selfish fear and the deepest dejection. With embarrassing pertinacity she insisted that Clancy should remain near her. Even to the others it was apparent that fear, rather than affection, led her to desire his presence so earnestly. He had once wondered what kind of a woman was masked by her culture and a reserve so perfect that it had seemed frankness. The veneer now was stripped off. After her own fashion, she was almost as abject in her terror as Uncle Sheba, who had run howling back to the square, leaving the wife who had fed him to her fate. In her lack of honest sympathy for others, and indisposition to exert herself in their behalf, Miss Ainsley quite equalled the selfish old negro. The conventional world in which she had shone to such advantage had passed away. Her very perfection in form and feature made defects in character more glaring, for she was seen to be a fair yet broken promise.
How sweetly the noble qualities of Ella and Mara were revealed by comparison! They had been taught in the school of adversity. From childhood they had learned to think of others first rather than of themselves. Miss Ainsley would have been resplendent and at ease in a royal drawing-room; these two girls maintained womanly fortitude and gave themselves up to unselfish devotion in the presence of a mysterious power which would level an emperor's palace as readily as a negro's cabin.
Clancy saw the difference--no one more clearly--and his very soul recoiled from the woman he had purposed to marry. He patiently bore with her as long as he could after the shock, and then joined Mr. Willoughby, George, Bodine, and Dr. Devoe, who were consulting at Mr. Houghton's bedside. In his shame and distress he did not venture even to glance at Mara.
As the stress of the emergency increased Mr. Houghton's mind had grown clear and decided; his old resolute, business habits asserted themselves, and from his low couch he practically became the leader in their council. "From what we know of other and like disturbances," he said, "it is impossible to foresee when these shocks will end, or how soon a refuge can be sought in regions exempt from our dangers. Now that I am established in this square near my home I intend to remain here for the present. I cordially ask you all to share my fortunes. My son will spare no expense or effort, that can be made in safety, for our general comfort." Then he added before them all, "Captain Bodine, I have done you much wrong and discourtesy. I apologize. You have invalid and injured ladies in your charge. Their claims are sacred and imperative. I will esteem it a favor if you will permit my son to do what he can for their comfort and protection."
Bodine at once came forward, and giving Mr. Houghton his hand, replied, "You and your son are teaching me that I have done you both much greater wrong. I think I shall have to surrender as I did once before, but I am glad that it is to kindness rather than to force in this instance."
"Here's the true remedy for our differences," cried Mr. Willoughby. "Let the North and South get acquainted, and all will be well. But come, we must act, and act promptly."
"Yes," replied George, "for the square is filling up again, and we should keep as much space here as possible. I have a small tent which I will put up at once for Mrs. Bodine and Mrs. Hunter. Then I'll rig an awning for my father, and help the rest of you in whatever you decide upon."
"George," said his father, anxiously, "let your visits to the house be as brief as possible."
Clancy offered to assist George in meeting the immediate need of shelter from the sun, and Dr. Devoe gave the morning to the care of his many patients. Mr. Willoughby said that he must first go to his home for clothing and to look after matters, but that he would soon return. Bodine was asked to mount guard and prevent, as far as possible, the fugitives from encroaching on the needed space. This proved no easy task. Old Tobe, after having received some breakfast, maintained his watch over the medical stores, while Aun' Sheba, who had followed her husband as fast as her limited powers of travelling permitted, cleared away the remnants of the breakfast for her family, George assuring her that he would soon make all comfortable provision for her and them.
With Clancy and the two colored men he repaired to his home, as the wrecked venture to a ship which may break up at any moment, in order to secure what was absolutely essential. A tent was soon pitched for the invalids; a shelter of quilts suspended over and around his father, and a large carpet jerked from the floor formed an awning for the ladies. Part of this awning was partitioned off so as to give them all the privacy possible under the circumstances, and the remainder was inclosed on three sides, but left open toward the east.
"I'm not going to be sent to the hospital," said Mrs. Bodine. "I'd rather sit up and direct Ella how to transform this outer habitation into a drawing-room."
Then George brought her and his father easy-chairs. Rugs were spread on the grass, and the rude shelter became positively inviting. Ella and Mrs. Willoughby made themselves so useful that at last Miss Ainsley so far recovered from her panic as to assist. She detested Mara, and Mrs. Hunter's ghastly face and white hair embodied to her mind the terror of which all were in dread. The bright sunshine and homely work were suggestive of rural pleasures rather than of dire necessity, and helped, for the time, to retire the spectre of danger to the background. The coming and going of many acquaintances and friends also helped to rally her spirits, and incite her to the semblance of courage. Mrs. Willoughby, Mrs. Bodine, and Mara had stanch friends who sought them out the moment comparative safety had been secured for their nearer dependants. The demands of our story require nothing more than the brief statement that there was a general disposition on the part of the people to think of and care for all who had claims upon them. Even in the dreadful hours immediately following the first shock, much unselfish heroism was displayed; and during the weary days and nights which followed, men and women vied with each other in their attentions to those who most needed care.
Mrs. Bodine, Mrs. Willoughby, and the captain had several whispered conferences with those who felt surprise at associations with Mr. Houghton, and there was a quick, generous response to the old man's kindness. Some who would not have looked at him the day before now went and spoke to him gratefully and sympathetically, while for George only cordiality and admiration were manifested. He was not a little uneasy over the profuse attentions and offers of help which Ella received from several young men. To his jealous eyes she appeared unnecessarily gracious, and more ready to talk with them than with him; but he could not discover that she had an especial favorite among them. Indeed, she managed in their case as in his that Mrs. Willoughby, Miss Ainsley, or some one else should share in the conversation.
At last Bodine said to George, "I will now go to Mrs. Hunter's rooms and to Mrs. Bodine's residence, and obtain what is most essential. Can you spare one of your servants to carry what I cannot?"
"Certainly, and I will go with you myself. Clancy and Sam can continue operations here."
"George," said his father, "as soon as the absolute necessity for entering buildings is over, I wish you to keep away from them."
"Yes, father."
Ella added, "Remember, Mr. Houghton, that is a promise. Please let the words 'absolute necessity' have their full meaning;" and her face was so full of solicitude that he said, "I promise you also."
With a smile and flush she turned to her father whispering the tenderest cautions and emphasizing the truth that but few things were essential, some of which she mentioned. Jube had become like a faithful spaniel, the spirit of his young master reassuring him so as to feel his only safety lay in obedience.
As George and Bodine went down the street they were saddened by the evidences of disaster on every side. Even Meeting Street was still so obstructed as to be almost impassable for vehicles, and in some places the ruins were still being searched for the dead. When they reached Mrs. Hunter's home Bodine groaned inwardly, "How the poor girl must have suffered!" He added aloud, "The mental distress caused by my helplessness during the last few hours, Mr. Houghton, has been much harder to bear than the wound which cost me my leg and the suffering which followed."
"My dear captain," replied George, "your courage and clear head make you far less helpless than hundreds who only use their legs to run with. Let me enter this shell of a house alone."
"That would be a sad commentary on your remark."
They speedily obtained what they deemed essential, and turned off the gas, which was still burning. It was evident that no one had entered the house since its occupants had left it. Mrs. Bodine's residence was comparatively uninjured, and when leaving it the captain was able to lock the outer door.
On their way back to the square George stammered: "Captain Bodine, it may be very bad taste to speak of such a matter now, but we do not know what an hour will bring forth. I would like to have some understanding with you. Beyond that there may be no need of anything further being said until all these troubles are over. I--I--well, can I venture to make my former request? Your daughter has my happiness wholly in her hands. I do not intend to embarrass her by a word until she is again in her own home, but I wish to know that my hopes and efforts to win her regard have your sanction."
"How does your father feel about this?" Bodine asked gravely.
"He has given his full and cordial approval. Now that he has seen Miss Bodine she has won him completely."
"Mr. Houghton, I owe to you her life which I value more than my own. You know we are lacking in everything except pride and good name."
"My dear sir," interrupted George earnestly, "God has endowed your daughter as man could not. You know I love and honor her for herself and always shall."
"You are right," said the father proudly, "and you are so truly a man, as well as a gentleman, that you estimate my penniless daughter at her intrinsic worth. As far as my approval and good wishes are concerned you have them."
Ella thought that George's face was wonderfully radiant when he appeared. As soon as she could get a word alone with her father, she asked, "What have you been saying to Mr. Houghton?"
"I have only answered his second request that he might pay you his addresses."
"Oh, papa! what a tantalizing answer! What did he say, and what did you say, word for word? Surely you didn't tell--" "I only gave my consent, not yours. You are at perfect liberty to reject him," was the smiling reply.
"That is well as far as it goes, but I wish to know every word."
Her father's heart was too heavy to permit continuance in a playful vein, and he told her substantially what had been said. "Well," she concluded, with a complacent little nod, "I think I'll let him pay his addresses a while longer. The absurd fellow to go and idealize me so! Time will cure such folly, however. Papa, there's something troubling you besides the earthquake."
"Yes, Ella, and you must help me--you and Cousin Sophy." Then he told her how he thought matters stood between Mara and Clancy, checked her first indignant words, explained and insisted until she promised that she and Mrs. Bodine would shield Mara, and act as if she were as free as she had ever been. "It will all come about yet, papa," Ella whispered, "for Mr. Clancy has evidently committed himself to Miss Ainsley, although now I reckon he regrets it."
"Well, Ella dear, redouble your kindness and gentleness to Mara, and let matters over which we have no control take their course."
Clancy had not been idle during the morning, finding in constant occupation, and even in the incurring of risks, a relief to his perturbed thoughts. He and Sam procured a small cooking-stove, and also set up the cross-sticks of a gypsy camp before the open side of the awning. Aun' Sheba was placed in charge of the provisions, a responsibility in which Uncle Sheba wished to share, but she said severely, "Mr. Buggone, you'se dun git yer lowance wid Sissy an' de chil'n." Mr. Willoughby at last returned on an express-wagon, well loaded with articles which would add much comfort in the enforced picnic. His face was sad and troubled as he greeted his wife.
"Oh, Jennie," he said, "our pretty home is such a wreck!"
"No matter, Hal, since you are safe and sound," was her cheery reply. "Come, girls, we can now dress for dinner. I feel like a fool in this light silk."
They all eventually reappeared in costumes more suitable for camping.
Mrs. Bodine was also enabled to exchange her blanket wrapper for the one she was accustomed to wear at home. With almost the zest of a girl she appreciated the picturesque elements of their experiences; and her high spirits and courage were infectious. With the aid of Sam and Jube, Aunt Sheba entered vigorously on preparations for dinner; a breeze with passing clouds tempered the sun's hot rays; and hope again began to cheer as time passed without further disturbance.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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46
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"ON JORDAN'S BANKS WE STAND"
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Aunt Sheba had succeeded fairly well with the dinner, considering the materials and the appliances available. Not one, however, was disposed to epicurean fastidiousness. The situation was gravely discussed, and the experiences of friends related. Dr. Devoe gave cheering assurances that injury to life and limb had been far less than might have been expected. "The first shock could scarcely have come at a better time," he said. "If it had happened when the streets were full of people, one shudders to think of the number that would have been killed or maimed. The fact is, the great majority of casualties appear to have occurred as people were leaving their houses."
Mrs. Hunter received much attention from him, and she continued so ill that Mara did not leave her. Bodine became convinced that a chance to speak with Mara in private might not be obtained very speedily, and therefore, with kindly consideration for her feelings, resolved to write that afternoon. He had nothing at hand better than pencil and note-book. He wrote: "MY DEAR MARA--You have so many sorrows and anxieties now that I cannot wait longer in my effort to relieve you of one of them. You should have been more frank with me; yet, so far from reproaching you, I only remember that you are the daughter of my dearest friend, and that you need me as protector and father rather than as lover. I appreciate your motive to sacrifice yourself for my sake. Perhaps you will remember that I have warned you against this noble impulse of self-sacrifice--a tendency, however, which may be carried much too far. You utterly misjudge me if you think I would consciously accept any such sacrifice on your part. As far as I am concerned you are free from any obligation whatever, except that of trusting me, and coming to me as Ella does, as nearly as you can. You need a stanch and faithful protector against yourself, and such will be HUGH BODINE."
Ella carried this missive into the little tent set apart for Mrs. Hunter. When Mara read the note she hid it in her bosom, and buried her face in her hands. Ella tried to soothe her, assuring her that she knew how it had all come about, and that it would make no difference in her love.
"Oh, Ella!" Mara sobbed, "my pride needed humbling, and I am overwhelmed in very truth. I thought I was superior to you, and that my course was so heroic. The result is I have wronged and made unhappy your father, the man I honor most in all the world. Oh, I feel now that it would have been better if I had been buried under the ruins."
"Mara," said Ella firmly, "this is a time when we must make the best of everything--when we should not waste our strength in grieving over what cannot be helped. Papa has explained everything to me, and you will only wound him further if you do not comply with his wishes. He is very resolute; and, in a matter of this kind, you could not move him a hair's-breadth. Please do just what he asks now, and let time make future duty clearer."
Bodine was not astray in thinking that his note would relieve Mara's mind. Sad and humiliated as she was, his words had taken her from a false position, and would enable her to give him the filial love and homage with which her heart overflowed. Even if Clancy escaped from his entanglement, which she much doubted, she felt that both should pay the penalty of their errors in long probation.
As the afternoon wore away Mrs. Willoughby and Mrs. Bodine took some much-needed rest. Clancy went down town to look after his own affairs. Mr. Houghton had a consultation with his confidential man of business, at which George was present. Then the young fellow busied himself in perfecting the camp appointments and securing more provisions.
Kern Watson and his family, Aun' Sheba and her husband, with old Tobe and a few friends and neighbors, knelt around the remains of little Vilet as Mr. Birdsall offered a prayer. Bodine, Ella, and George, with his two servants, were also present. Then the minister and a few others helped the stricken father to bury his child. After the brief service the captain told Ella that she must go and rest till he called her.
George ventured to walk back with the tearful girl and to say, "Miss Bodine, you seem to have a hand to help and a heart to feel with every one."
"I should be callous indeed," she replied, "if I did not grieve at the death of that little girl. She aided in my effort to earn a livelihood. I saw her daily, and no one could help becoming fond of her, she was so good, and gentle, and quiet. Her poor father--how I pity him! The mute anguish in his face was overpowering. He is the most quiet, but he grieves the most, and will never get over it."
"I think you are right, Miss Bodine. I don't believe your intuitions would often lead you astray."
"I am very matter-of-fact," Ella replied.
"If I admit that, I must also add that one would have to do his level best to furnish the kind of facts you would approve of."
"And I must also add, Mr. Houghton, that you are furnishing them in plenty. I can never try to thank you, for I shouldn't know where to begin, or when to leave off."
"Please leave off now. Oh, Miss Bodine! I am so grateful for your kindness to my father, and he is just as pleased as I am."
"Ah! I've at last caught you in a bit of selfishness," she said with a piquant smile. "You would keep the privilege of thanking people while denying it to me;" and she vanished before he could reply.
"Oh!" he groaned inwardly, "if any of these Southern fellows carry her off, I'm done for."
Miss Ainsley spent a very wretched afternoon. Clancy was away, Mrs. Willoughby worn out, and she was left chiefly to her own resources, which were meagre indeed under the circumstances. Instead of forgetting self in behalf of those less fortunate, she brooded over what she deemed neglect. Mr. Willoughby talked to her for a time after dinner, and then busied himself in helping others provide shelter against the coming night; loaning here and there some of the articles which he had brought from his home. Throughout the day multitudes had been making preparations to spend the night in the squares, vacant lots, and in spacious yards. Few had been so forehanded as George Houghton, who had the advantage of abundant means, and good, fearless help in his efforts. By this time, however, the square was well covered by almost every variety of hastily improvised shelters, and the rays of the late afternoon sun brought out rainbow hues, strange and picturesque effects, so diverse were the materials employed and the ingenuity in construction which had been exercised.
Clancy had been almost reckless in his disposition to enter buildings, a risk which few others would incur on that day. He returned after four o'clock with a large supply of provisions, which he believed might be difficult to obtain should the shocks continue with greater violence. So far from observing that he was pale from exhaustion, Miss Ainsley was inclined to be reproachful that he had remained away so long. He listened wearily for a time, then answered, "I did not think that I could be especially useful here. _Men_, like soldiers, _must_ do what must be done. I have taken pains to learn in your behalf that telegraphic and railroad communication will soon be re-established, and I have arranged, as soon as a despatch can be sent, to have one forwarded to your father's last address, assuring him that you are safe."
"My father is not at the place of his last address. If he is alive, he is trying to reach me, and he will not leave me till he has taken me utterly away from all this horror and danger. I hope you are ready to leave Charleston now."
"Leave my native city in its present plight! Why, Miss Ainsley, that would be almost like running away and leaving my mother."
"Are brick and mortar more to you than I am?"
"Bricks and mortar do not make Charleston, but the people with whom I have always lived. I will certainly take you to a place of safety, if your father cannot; but my duty is here. I would not only lose the respect of every one, but also my own self-respect, if I did not cast in my lot with this people until every vestige of ruin has disappeared."
"I'm sure I never wish to see the place again," she replied sullenly.
"It would be unjust for me to expect that you should feel as I do about it; but I am a citizen, and you yourself would eventually despise me were I not faithful to my obligations."
This method of putting the case silenced her for the time. She knew that he had ascribed to her a higher conception of duty than she possessed, and she believed that he was also aware of the fact. Since she had gone so far with him she now wished him to be a blind, unquestioning lover, wholly devoted and ready to fly with her at the first opportunity. The very qualities which they had mutually admired were now seen on their seamy side. Her cosmopolitan spirit which led her to sigh, "Anywhere so it be not Charleston," was now at war with his feeling of almost passionate commiseration for his stricken birthplace; while she in turn found his unyielding nature and keen perceptions which had afforded such pleasure in overcoming and meeting were now not at all to her wishes. She had yielded to him as never before to any one, and was intensely chagrined that he was not wholly subservient to her. If he should not become so she could never think of him without humiliation. He had seen her undisguised in all her weakness. She had thrown herself into his arms and implored his protection almost as unreservedly as Mrs. Willoughby had clung to her husband. She had also left him when he was helpless, and again when he was ill and weak. What she required now, therefore, was a blind idolatry; and so many had offered this that she felt entitled to it, even though there should be no such devotion on her part. If, in any sense, he should be critic as well as lover, he could make her exceedingly uncomfortable; and she had a growing perception that he was comparing her with others, that there was a lack of warmth in his words and manner, which even the circumstances could not extenuate. She resolved, therefore, to teach him that she would tolerate nothing halfway in his conduct. She was sitting on a chair while he reclined at her feet, and she determined that he should be at her feet in a sense which had large meanings to her. So she rose and said coldly, "Mr. Clancy, you seem to have so many obligations that I scarcely know where I come in."
Then she went toward the awning, intending to withdraw herself from his society until he should become sufficiently humble. He rose in strong irritation, too weary even to be patient. At this instant the shock which occurred at 5.16 passed over the city. In a second all her purposes vanished; her abject terror returned, and she threw herself on his breast, and sobbing, buried her face on his shoulder. Mrs. Willoughby also fled to her husband. As Mrs. Hunter had seemed quieter Aun' Sheba had been watching in the place of Mara, who had sought a little rest beneath the awning. She now came hastily out, but Clancy would not encounter her eyes. Indeed, his false position overwhelmed him with increasing shame and confusion. He resolved in a sort of desperation to meet Miss Ainsley's requirements as far as possible until she was safe in her father's hands, and then to become free. If he had known how Mara's position enabled her to interpret his own he would have been more resigned.
The shock which occurred so late in the day was a sad preparation for the night, to which all looked forward with unspeakable dread. Such little confidence or cheerfulness as had been maintained was dissipated; weariness and deferred relief increased the general dejection; only the bravest could maintain their fortitude.
Mrs. Bodine's courage was due to a faith and a temperament which did not fail her. The veteran remained quiet and steady, with soldier-like endurance, but Ella was becoming exhausted. She had had very little sleep for a long time, and had passed through strong excitement. Indeed, all her powers had been taxed severely. While she had more physical and moral courage than most girls of her age possess, she, like the great majority, suffered much from fear at the recurrence of the shocks. As night came on she yielded to the general depression.
Aun' Sheba also had almost reached the limits of her powers, a fact she could not help showing as she set about preparations for supper. George instantly noted this. He had secured some rest the night before, and possessed great capabilities of endurance combined with an unusually fearless spirit. He also believed that this was his hour and opportunity, and that he could do more to win Ella's favor that night by brave cheerful effort than by any amount of love-making afterward. He little dreamed how completely won she was already. Her plan of receiving his "address" indefinitely had already lost its charms. She now simply longed to lean her weary head upon his shoulder and be petted and comforted a little. Unaware that the citadel could be had at any time for the asking, George began his sapping and mining operations with great vigor. He made Aun' Sheba sit down and give directions for supper, which he and his two colored men carried out. Mrs. Bodine was the only one who would jest with him, and he had a word of banter with her; and a cheery word for every one as occasion permitted.
"Bravo, George!" said Dr. Devoe, as they at last sat down to supper. "We vote you the Mark Tapley of this occasion. I'm so used up that I've only energy enough to drink a cup of coffee."
Ella was about to wait on Mr. Haughton as before, but George intercepted her, saying, "You are too tired."
"I would rather," she urged with downcast eyes. She bore the tray to the invalid, who looked at her very kindly, as he said, "You are worn out, my dear."
"Please don't speak that way," she faltered. "I'm just that silly and tired that I can't stand anything."
"You brave, noble girl! What haven't you stood and endured for the last few hours and weeks! I have a very guilty conscience, Miss Bodine, and you only can absolve me."
"No one must be kind to me to-night, or I shall break down utterly;" and dashing a tear away, she hastily withdrew.
George heaped her plate; but when he saw that she would touch nothing but her coffee, he looked at her with such deep solicitude in his face that she sprang up and fled to the sheltering awning, leaving him perplexed and troubled indeed. All were too well bred to make any remark upon this little side scene. At her post of observation by the fire, and although her eyes were full of tears, tributes to little Vilet, Aun' Sheba shook for a moment with suppressed laughter. Motherly Mrs. Bodine soon followed Ella, and taking her in her arms, said soothingly, "There, now, child, have a good cry, and you'll feel better. I wish to the Lord, though, that all the world had as little to cry about as you, my dear."
"That's what provokes me so, cousin. It's so silly and weak."
"Oh, well, Ella, you're done beat out, as Aun' Sheba says; and that's the only trouble--that and the blindness of yonder great boy, who expects to court you for months before venturing to stammer some incoherent nonsense. Now, a Southern man--" "Cousin Sophy, I won't listen to such words," said Ella, the hot blood coming into her pale face. "He isn't a great boy; he's the bravest man I ever heard of. Now, when every one is giving out, he is only the braver and stronger. If he is absurd enough to be afraid of me--Well, you are the last one to speak so."
"There, there, child; this is my way of feeling your pulse and giving a little tonic," said Mrs. Bodine, laughing. "You have indications of strong vitality, as the doctor would say. Bless the big Vandal! If I were a girl, I'd set my cap at him myself."
"Oh, Cousin Sophy! Aren't you ashamed to work me up so? Well, that is the last glimmer of spunk that I can show to-night."
"If I could only manage to give him a hint of your weak and defenceless condition--" "Cousin Sophy, if you do anything of the kind--" and she almost sprang to her feet.
The old lady pulled her back, stopped her mouth with kisses, as she said, "I won't tease you any more to-night." In a few moments she had soothed the girl to sleep.
George and Clancy now took full charge of the camp; for the members of their party, both white and black, were so exhausted and depressed as to be unequal to much exertion. Clancy seemed possessed by a sort of feverish restlessness. If he had been soothed and quieted when he returned in the afternoon, he would have passed the danger point unharmed; but his jaded body and mind had been stung into renewed action, and now he was fast losing the power to rest. Outraged Nature was beginning to take her revenge, but no one except Bodine observed the fact. Again putting self under his feet, he took Clancy aside, and said, "Pardon an old soldier, but experience in the field has taught me when a man must stop. Dr. Devoe is exhausted and asleep, or I would send him to you. So take honest advice from me. If you don't quiet your nerves and sleep, you'll have trouble."
Clancy, in grateful surprise, thanked him warmly, and said he would rest later on. His hope was that Miss Ainsley would retire, for in his present condition he felt that her voluble expressions of fear and general dissatisfaction would be intolerable. At this juncture some one came and said that a friend of his in another part of the square was ill and wished to see him. He explained and excused himself to Miss Ainsley, who replied only by a cold, reproachful glance.
The light of day faded; the stars shone calmly above the strange scene, where lamps and candles flickered dim and pale, like the hopes of those who had lighted them. The murmur of conversation was lost in the loud singing of hymns, prayers and exhortations on the part of the negroes.
Mr. Birdsall had gathered many of his flock about him, and was conducting a religious service in a fairly orderly manner. Both he and his people yielded somewhat to the intense excitement of the occasion, but it was his intention that the religious exercises should cease at a reasonable hour.
Kern, Sissy, and Aun' Sheba were sitting silently near him, and at last the minister said, "Bruder Watson, you an' your wife will feel bettah if you express you'se feelin's, an' sing a while. I reckon, if I say you an' you' wife will sing, they will be mo' quiet."
Kern assented to anything like a call of duty, and Mr. Birdsall resumed, "Fren's, in closin' de meetin' fer dis ebenin', Bruder an' Sista Watson will sing a hymn togeder; an' we, respectin' dere berebement, will listen. Dey have been greatly offlicted, for de Lawd has taken from dem de lam' of dere bosoms. I ask you all now to listen to de expression of dere faith in dis night ob sorrow. Den we mus' remembah dat de sick an' weak are in dis squar, and gib dem a chance to res'."
Kern lifted up his magnificent voice, charged with the pent-up feeling of his heart, and his wife joined him with her rich, powerful contralto.
"On Jordan's banks we stan', An Jordan's stream roll by; No bridge de watahs span, De flood am risin high. Heah it foam an' roar, de dark flood tide, How shel we cross to de oder side?
"De riber deep an strong, De wabes am bery cole; We see it rush along, But who can venture bole? Heah it foam an' roar, etc.
"A little chile step down; It go in de riber deep. Kin little feet touch groun' Whar mountain billows sweep? Heah dem foam an roar, etc.
"Dere comes a flash ob light, Ober de cole dark wabes; Dere come de angels' flight-- See shinin' bans dat sabe, From de watah's foam, de dark flood tide, Fer de Lawd hab seen from de oder side.
"Heah music swellin gran'; Yes, songs of welcome ring, White wings de riber span De little chile to bring. Den let ole Jordan roar, de dark flood tide; We'se borne across to de oder side."
The melodious duet rose and fell in great waves of sound, silencing all other voices. Contrary to Mr. Birdsall's expectations, religious fervor was only increased, and hoping to control it he asked Kern and Sissy to lead in several familiar hymns. The negroes throughout the square promptly responded, while not a few white refugees joined their voices to the mighty diapason of sound, which often swelled into grand harmonies.
Kern soon afterward went on duty for the night; Mr. Birdsall confined himself to quiet ministrations to his own people, and the leadership of the religious exercises fell into less judicious hands.
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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47
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LIGHTS AND SHADOWS OF A NIGHT
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Aun' Sheba, with a devotion which quite equalled that to her own offspring, returned to Mara with the intention of watching Mrs. Hunter while the girl slept. She found Mrs. Bodine sitting with Mara, but the old colored woman was received with a warmth of welcome and sympathy which put her at ease at once. Mrs. Hunter had sunk into a kind of stupor rendering her unconscious of what was passing, and therefore they conversed in low tones.
"I reckon we need have no secrets from Aun' Sheba," said Mrs. Bodine.
"No," answered Mara, taking her old mammy's hand. "If ever a motherless girl had a true friend I have one in Aun' Sheba."
"Yes, honey, you'se right dar, an' I hopes you git right on some oder tings. I put a spoke in de hon'ble business an' I'se ready to put mo' in." She then briefly related her interview with Clancy and concluded, "Missy Mara, fo' da Lawd, wot kin you do but mar'y Marse Clancy arter wot happen wen he come fer you an' ole missus?"
Mara made no reply, but sat with her face buried in her hands.
"Aun' Sheba, this matter is all settled and settled honorably, too, as far as it can be. Captain Bodine has released Mara in words of the utmost kindness."
"Well, now, he am quality!" ejaculated Aun' Sheba in hearty appreciation.
"But," sobbed Mara, "it just breaks my heart--" "No, honey lam', it won' break you heart, nor his nuther. Doin' what's right an' nat'ral an 'cordin to de Lawd doan break no hearts. It's de oder ting wot dus in de long run, an' mar'in' gen'ly means a long run. You'd hab ter begin by lyin' 'miscuously, as I tole Marse Clancy, an no good ud come ob dat."
"Well, it is all settled as far as Mara is concerned," said Mrs. Bodine, with a little laugh, "and there need be no 'miscuous lying. How Mr. Clancy will get out of his scrape remains to be seen."
"Well, I tells you how he git out. I'se keep an eye on dat limpsey-slimpsey runaway as well as on de pots an kittles, an she's gwine ter run away agin from dis yere town jes as soon as de way open. Dat'll be de las you see ob her."
"She's had a hard time of it, poor thing," said Mrs. Bodine, charitably, "and we can't expect her to feel about Charleston as we do. The question is, will Mr. Clancy feel obliged to follow her eventually?"
"I tink he's 'bliged not ter."
"Well, Aun' Sheba, I'm glad you have such strong religious ideas of marriage."
"I'se feerd I ain't bery 'ligious 'bout anyting. I put myself on 'bation while ago, but I kin'er forgits 'bout dat 'bation, I hab so much to tink ob."
Mrs. Bodine began to laugh as she said, "I thought you were a sensible woman, Aun' Sheba."
"Yes, I know. I did tole Marse Clancy dat I hab hoss-sense."
"Then you were lying 'miscuously."
"How dat, missus?"
"Why, Aun' Sheba, do you think you have been hiding your light under a bushel basket all this time? Old Hannah--poor old Hannah! I wonder what has become of her--she and Mara have told me how you do for the sick and poor. Don't you know that the Bible says, 'Inasmuch as ye have done it unto one of the least of these My brethren ye have done it unto Me'? You've sent me nice things more than once. I'm 'one of the least of these.' You don't do these things to be seen of men."
"No, nor I doesn't do it kase I specs ter git anoder string to my harp bime-by. I does it kase I'se kin'er sorry fer de po' critters."
"Exactly. That is why He fed the hungry and healed the sick. He was sorry for them. Come, Aun' Sheba, don't be foolish any more."
"I feels it kin'er sumptious ter be so shuah."
"Now, Aun' Sheba, you _are_ doing wrong," said Mrs. Bodine, gravely and earnestly. "The Lord has been very patient with you--more so than I would be. If I had made you promises and you kept saying, 'I don't feel sure about them,' I'd give you a piece of my mind."
"Lor, missus, how you puts it! Is it dataway?"
"Certainly."
"Well, den, I jes takes myse'f off 'bation. I'se gwine ter hang onter de promises. Lawd, Lawd, missus, I s'posed I'd hab ter groan so dey heah me all ober de square fo' I could be 'ligious."
"Oh, dear, hear it now! Such groaning makes every one else groan. The voice that God hears is the wish of the heart and not a hullabaloo. How shall we get through the night if this keeps up? If you'll help me to my quarters I'll try to get what rest I can."
When Aun' Sheba returned, Mara insisted on her lying down till she was called. "I shall do something in this time of trouble except make trouble," said the girl resolutely, and she would take no denial.
Clancy found that his friend needed much attention, which he gave until warned by his own symptoms that he must see a physician. He found George lying on a blanket by a small fire, and that all the others were either sleeping or resting. "I declare I hate to waken Dr. Devoe," he said, "but I feel as if I were going to be ill."
George felt the hand of his friend, and sprang up, saying, "I'll waken Dr. Devoe with or without your leave."
After a brief examination the physician said: "Why did you not come to me before?"
Clancy explained that he had been caring for a sick friend, to which the doctor replied testily: "I don't believe he was half so ill as you are. Well, you must obey me now as long as you are rational, and I fear that won't be very long." And he promptly placed Clancy under the open part of the awning, which was the sleeping-room for the men by night, and general living-room by day. Having given his patient a remedy, he returned and said, "Here you are, too, Houghton, up and around. Do you wish to break down also?"
"You forget, doctor, that I had some sleep last night. Feel my pulse."
"Slightly febrile, but then I know what's the matter with _you_. If I were not so old and bald-headed I'd cut out a slow coach like you. I'm half a mind to try it as it is."
"Go ahead, doctor. You'll be only one more. How many are there now, do you suppose?"
"I know how many there should be after what I've seen. But bah! you Northern young chaps lay siege to a girl at such long range that she surrenders to some other fellow before you find it out."
"Would you have me call her now, shake her awake, and propose?" asked George, irritably.
"No, I'd have you fight shy and give me a chance. There, you are too far gone for a jest. What are you up for?"
"Because I'm not sleepy, for one thing, and I think some one should be on guard. What's more, I don't like the way those negroes are performing. They seem to be going wild."
"Yes, and they are doing a lot of harm to the sick and feeble. If they don't stop at midnight I'll find out whether there's any law in this city. I say, Houghton, since you are going to sit up, give Clancy this medicine every half hour, and call me at twelve." He then wrapped himself in a blanket and was asleep in a minute.
If George had been wide awake before, the doctor's raillery so increased his impatience and worry that for a time he paced up and down before the fire. Was he faint-hearted in wooing Ella? Suppose some bold Southerner should forestall him? The thought was torture; yet it seemed ungenerous and unkind to seek her openly while she was in a sense his guest and dependent upon him. "Well," he growled at last, "I won't do it. When she first spoke to me she said I was a gentleman, and I'll be hanged if I don't remain one and take my chances."
He threw himself down again by the fire with his back to the awning. Before very long he heard a light step. Turning hastily he saw Ella's startled face by the light of the fire.
"Oh, Mr. Houghton! is it you? Pardon me for disturbing you," and she was about to retreat.
He was on his feet instantly and said, "You will only disturb me by going away, that is--I mean if you are not tired and sleepy."
"There is such a dreadful noise I can't sleep any more," she replied, hesitating a moment.
"Suppose--you might help me watch a little while then," he stammered.
"I'll watch if you will rest."
"Certainly;" and he brought her a chair and then reclined near her feet.
"But I meant that you should sleep."
"I only promised to rest."
"But you need sleep if any one does. I've had a good nap and feel much better. How late is it?"
"Nearly eleven, and time for Clancy's medicine." When he returned he told her about Clancy.
"Poor fellow!" she said, sympathetically, "Clancy seems to have trouble on his mind. We all have enough, but he more than his share."
"I should think you would be worried out of your senses with so many people to think about and care for. No wonder you can't sleep."
"Thoughts of _people_ do not keep me awake, and I am glad to say my father's resting quietly. He and your father are born soldiers."
"Your father's to blame for my making a fool of myself at the supper-table. He spoke so kindly and sympathetically, and I was so tired and silly that I couldn't stand anything. Then you looked reproachfully at me because I couldn't eat all you sent--enough to make Uncle Sheba ill."
"Now, Miss Bodine, I didn't look at you reproachfully."
"Who's that snoring over there?"
"Dr. Devoe. My facial muscles must have been shaken out of shape to have given you so false an impression. Anyhow, I seem to have driven you away, and I've been miserable ever since."
"Why, Mr. Houghton! The idea of letting a tired girl's weakness disturb you! You will soon be as ill as Mr. Clancy."
"I'm only stating a fact."
"Well, facts are very queer nowadays. I suppose we shouldn't be surprised at anything."
"Yet you are a continual surprise to me, Miss Bodine. Do you think I've forgotten anything since you carried Mrs. Bodine out of her tottering house?"
"Oh, Mr. Houghton! my memory goes further back than that. I can see a tall man leap into a sinking boat and--and--oh, why did you sink with it? My father's agony over the thought that you had died for him turned his hair white."
"I couldn't help sinking, Miss Bodine. If it hadn't been for that blasted pole--Well, perhaps it saved all our lives, for my boat was overloaded as it was. But don't think about that affair. It might have turned out worse."
"It might indeed. If you knew how we all felt when we thought you were drowned!"
"Well, I thank God that I happened to be near."
"Happened! You seemed to have a presentiment of evil, and kept near."
"I was facing a certainty of evil then, Miss Bodine. I expected to go North in a few days, and feared I might not see you again. There, I shouldn't speak so now. My memory goes back further than yours. I remember a blue-eyed stranger who drew near to me when I was facing a street bully, as if she meditated becoming my protector. I saw a noble woman's soul in those clear eyes, and she said 'I was a gentleman.' I must remember her words now with might and main. All that I ask is that you won't let any one else--that you will give me a chance when in your own home. Your father has--" "Mr. Houghton, is it not time for Mr. Clancy's medicine?"
"Yes, and past time," he replied, ruefully.
When he returned she said demurely, "I think I can promise what you ask. Now surely, since your mind is at rest, you can sleep. I will watch."
"I'm too happy to sleep."
"How absurd!"
"Oh, the shock this morning did not disturb me half so much as to see those fellows around with their devouring eyes."
"Mr. Houghton, don't you think that if we asked them, those colored people would be less loud? It must be dreadful for those who are sick, and there are so many."
"They will be brutal indeed if they don't yield to you," and he led the way to the nearest centre of disturbance.
"Oh, see! Mr. Houghton, there's our old Hannah."
He saw an old woman swaying back and forth, her lips moving spasmodically, but uttering no sound. The crowd watched her in a sort of breathless suspense. Suddenly she burst out with the hymn, "Oh, Raslin' Jacob! let me go," and the throng joined in the mighty refrain. The women swayed to and fro violently, all going together in a sort of rhythmic motion, meantime clapping their hands in an ecstasy of emotion. A man dropped to the earth "converted." He yelled rather than prayed for mercy, then suddenly swooned and became rigid as a corpse. Others, both men and women, were prostrated also; and to bring as many as possible into this helpless condition appeared to be the general object as far as any purpose was manifested. The crowd seemed to regard poor, demented Hannah as inspired, for a space was kept clear before her. When she began to sway in her weird fashion, and her face to twitch, she was the priestess and the oracle. The hymn she began was taken up first by two self-appointed exhorters, then by all.
"Oh, Hannah!" cried Ella, when her voice could be heard, "do stop and come away. You are harming the sick and the injured."
The old woman started, and on seeing the girl rushed forward, crying, "Down on you knees. Now you chance. Pray, bruders, pray, sistahs. De quakes neber stop till a white man or woman converted--converted till dere proud heads in de bery dus'"--and she sought to force Ella on her knees.
In a moment Ella was surrounded by the worshippers, whose groans, shouts, prayers and ejaculations created Pandemonium. The girl was terrified, but George encircled her with his arm, and thundered, "Give way. I'll brain the first man who stops us."
Awed for an instant they yielded to George's vigorous push out and away, and then returned to their former wild indulgence of religious frenzy.
For several paces after their escape he seemed to forget that his arm was still around Ella, nor did she remind him. Suddenly he removed it, saying, "Pardon me, Miss Bodine, I am that enraged with those lunatics that I'd like to give them something to howl about."
"Please be calm, Mr. Houghton," said Ella gently. "I'm not afraid now, and should not have been afraid at all. I know these people better than you do. They wouldn't have harmed us, and I fear they don't know any better. It's only their looks, tones, and words that seem blasphemous, that are frightful. It was I who took you there and I should have known better."
"Oh, Ella! --beg pardon--Miss Bodine, what a savage a man would be if you couldn't manage him!"
"Then promise you won't go near those people any more."
"You are too brave a girl to ask that when you learn that Dr. Devoe is going to tackle them with the police if they don't quiet down by midnight."
They spoke in low tones as he again held her hand, while they picked their way among the extemporized shelters and uneasy refugees in the square. As they approached their own quarters she faltered, "I'm not very brave tonight, and I have long since learned that you are only too brave."
He paused, still retaining her hand as he said, "What a strange scene this is! How wild and unearthly those sounds now seem! How odd it all is--our homes yonder deserted and we here under the stars. It's stranger than any dream I ever had, yet if it were a dream I would not wish to wake with you--" "Mr. Houghton, what's that, that, _that? _" Far oft in the southeast there were sounds like faint explosions which grew rapidly louder. Instinctively he drew her nearer, and saw her face grow white even in the faint radiance of the stars.
"Oh!" she gasped shuddering as the deep roar of the coming earthquake began. Then his arm drew her close, and she hid her face on his breast.
"Ella," he said solemnly, "I love you, God knows if these words were my last I would still say I love you."
The mighty roar gradually deepened, and with it blended the cry of thousands; the earth quivered and swayed, then the thunder passed on, accompanied by sounds like the distant crash of falling buildings.
George kissed the bowed head and whispered, "There, it's over and we are safe."
"Oh, thank God! you were with me!" she sobbed.
"May I not be with you always, Ella?"
"God grant it! Oh, George, George, I would have leaped after you into the water if they had not held me. How could I do without you now?"
"Come, my brave little wife, come with me to my father and reassure him."
"George," cried Mr. Houghton.
"We are here," he answered, drawing aside the screen.
"We?"
"Yes, Ella and I. That last shock has rather hastened matters."
"Ella, my dear child! Truly God is bringing good out of evil;" and he took the girl into his arms. Then he added, "You'll forgive me and be my own dear daughter?"
"Yes, Mr. Houghton. You'll find I am rich in love if nothing else."
"Ah! Ella dear, the world seems going to pieces, and my wealth with it, but love only grows more real and more precious."
"My father's calling me;" and kissing him a hasty good-by she vanished.
Miss Ainsley again ran shrieking out, calling upon Clancy, but Dr. Devoe met her and drew her away from his muttering, half-conscious patient. When she became sufficiently quiet he told her that Clancy was dangerously ill, and that nothing must be said or done to excite him. This seemed to her only another proof of general disaster, and, in almost abject tones, she begged, "Oh, doctor, make me sleep till--my father will surely come to-morrow, and then I can get away."
Her entreaty was so loud that even Mara could not help hearing her. The physician rather contemptuously thought that it would be better for all if she were quiet, and gave the anodyne. So far from feeling sympathy for Clancy she was almost vindictive toward him for having failed her.
Fear, uncontrolled, becomes one of the most debasing of the emotions. It can lead to panic even among soldiers with arms in their hands; sailors will trample on women and children in their blind rush for the boats; men will even deny their convictions, their faith, and cringe to brutal power; crimes the most vile are committed from fear, and fear had virtually obliterated womanhood in Miss Ainsley's soul. She was in a mood to accept any conditions for the assurance of safety, and she gave not a thought to any one or anything that offered no help. With the roar of the earthquake still in her ears, and in the dark midnight she knew there was no help, no way of escape, and so with the impulse of the shipwrecked who break into the spirit room she besought the opiate which could at least bring oblivion. Her eyes, which could be so beautiful, had the wild, hunted look of an animal, and her form, usually grace itself, writhed into distortions. Her demoralization under the long-continued terror was complete, and all were glad when she became unconscious and could be hidden from sight. As Aun' Sheba made her way to her own household she grunted, "A lun'tic out ob a 'sylem wouldn' mar'y dat gal if he seed wot I seed."
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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48
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GOOD BROUGHT OUT OF EVIL
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There were brave spirits and Heaven-sustained souls in the little camp which falls under our immediate observation; and outward calm was soon restored, yet it was long before any one could sleep again. Although she had trembled like a leaf, Mara had not left her watch by Mrs. Hunter, nor had Aun' Sheba till some moments after the shock. Then Mrs. Bodine joined the girl with soothing and reassuring words. She did not tell Mara, however, of Clancy's illness, feeling that no additional burden should be imposed until it was necessary. Mr. and Mrs. Willoughby sat together by the fire; so also did Ella, with her head upon her father's breast, as she told of the great joy which robbed the night of so much of its terror. Old Tobe, with Sam and Jube, crouched on the opposite side of the low, flickering blaze, which lighted up in odd effect the white wool and wrinkled visage of the aged negro. In some respects he and Mr. Houghton were alike. The scenes they were passing through toned down their fiery domineering spirits into resignation and fortitude.
George was restless, strong and inspired rather than awed by the recent events. He knew that Ella's eyes followed him as he came and went from his father's bedside, waited on Clancy, and made himself useful in other ways. A man would be craven indeed who could not be brave under such circumstances.
Beyond his camp, scenes impossible to describe were taking place. White clergymen were going from group to group, and from shelter to shelter, speaking words of cheer and hope. Physicians were busy among those who needed physical aid; husbands soothing wives, and parents their sobbing children.
On the edge of the square near the street the groans and cries of a woman began to draw the restless people who always run to any point of disturbance.
"George," shouted Dr. Devoe. The young man responded promptly. "Keep this crowd away--the vulgar wretches!"
A woman of refinement and wealth, who with her husband had clung to their adjacent home until the last shock occurred, was in the throes of childbirth.
No one could stand a moment before the young man's words and aspect, and in a few moments he secured all the privacy possible.
Eventually he bore the almost swooning mother to the inner room under the awning, where a bed had been made for her, while Mrs. Bodine and Mrs. Willoughby cared for the child. The husband was so prostrated by anxiety for his wife as to be almost helpless himself.
Among a certain class of the negroes, to religious excitement was added the wild terror of the earthquake, and they were simply becoming frantic in their actions and expressions. George, Dr. Devoe, Mr. Willoughby and some others went to the large group of which old Hannah and two great burly exhorters were the inspiration. They commanded and implored them to be more quiet, but received only insolent replies.
"We'se savin' de city which de wickedness ob you white folks is 'stroyin'," one of the shepherds shouted; "an' we'se gwine to cry loud and mighty till mawnin'."
At this moment, George espied Uncle Sheba, who certainly appeared, in the general craze, to have a sense of his besetting sin; for he was yelling at the top of his lungs, "I'se gwine ter wuck in de mawnin'."
Suddenly there burst through the crowd an apparition before which he quailed; his jaw dropped and his howl degenerated into a groan. Aun' Sheba had heard and recognized his voice, and she went through the throng like a puffing tug through driftwood. "Mister Buggone," she said, with the sternness of fate, "ef yer doan stop yer noise you'se 'lowance stop heah and now. Yer'll hab ter wuck shuah or starbe, fer if yer doan come wid me now yer neber come agin."
Uncle Sheba went away with her, meek as a lamb.
The others were too frenzied even to notice this little scene. George, Mr. Willoughby, and some others were with difficulty restrained by the cooler Dr. Devoe. "Go with me to the station-house," he said. "In behalf of my patients I will demand that this nuisance be abated."
The officer on duty returned with them, backed by a resolute body of men. The two exhorters were told to take their choice between silence and the station-house. There is usually a good deal of selfish method in such leaders' madness, and they sullenly retired. Poor, demented Hannah was bundled away, and comparative quiet restored through the square.
The weary hours dragged on; the uneasy earth caused no further alarms that night. At last the dawn was again greeted with thankfulness beyond words.
There was no paper that morning, for compositors and pressmen could not be induced to work, and at first there was a feeling of great uncertainty and depression.
Mrs. Bodine's spirit was again like a cork on the surface. At breakfast she remarked, "We had an awful time last night, but here we are still alive, and able to take some nourishment. I expect the Northern papers will say that this wicked and rebellious old city is getting its deserts; but we shall soon have help and cheer from our Southern friends."
"I think you will find yourself mistaken, Mrs. Bodine, about the North," said George.
"Oh. you!" cried the old lady, laughing, "you look at the South through a pair of blue eyes. I reckon we shall have to send you and Ella North as missionaries."
George in his pride and happiness could not keep his secret, and had been congratulated with honest heartiness. He therefore responded gayly, "When I take Ella North even earthquakes won't keep young fellows from coming here to see if any more like her are left."
Again Ella remarked, nodding significantly, "Time will cure him, Cousin Sophy."
Nevertheless the illness of Mrs. Hunter and Clancy, and the precarious condition of the young mother, cast a gloom over the little party. Clancy's pulse indicated great exhaustion, and he only recognized people when he was spoken to. Dr. Devoe prohibited any one from going near him except himself and George. Miss Ainsley uttered no protest at this. She truly felt that after the events of the night all was over between them. In a sort of sullen shame she said little and longed only for the hour which would bring her father and escape.
Mr. Ainsley arrived during the morning, and George entertained him hospitably. His daughter clung to him, imploring him to take her away at the first possible moment. He was much distressed at Clancy's condition, and offered to take him North also; but Dr. Devoe said authoritatively, "He is too ill to be moved or even spoken to." Mrs. Willoughby and her husband were determined that Miss Ainsley should not give her father a false impression, and spoke freely of Clancy's great exertions. "Yes," added Dr. Devoe, "I feel guilty myself. He should have been taken in hand yesterday afternoon and compelled to be quiet in mind and body, but I had so many to look after, and he seemed the embodiment of energy and fearlessness. Well, it's too late now, and we must do the best we can for him."
That day Mr. Ainsley and his daughter left the city. She gave vivid descriptions of the catastrophe at the North, but her friends remarked upon her fine reserve and modesty in speaking of her personal experiences. Her faultless veneer was soon restored, and we suppose she is pursuing her career of getting the most and best out of life after a fashion which has too many imitators.
Poor Mara's name was significant of her experience of that day and others which followed. In the morning she learned of Clancy's illness, and it was eventually found that her voice and touch had a soothing effect possessed by no other.
We have followed our characters through the climax of their experiences, and need only to suggest what further happened. They, with others, realized more fully the conditions of their lot and the extent of the disaster.
With an ever-increasing courage and fortitude the people faced the situation, and resolved to build anew the fortunes of their city. Communication with the outside world permitted messages of sympathy and far more. In the Sunday morning issue of the "News and Courier" the following significant editorial appeared: "There is no break in the broad line of brotherly love throughout the United States. All hearts in this mighty country throb in unison. In the North as in the South, in the West as in the East, there is a sincere sorrow at the calamity which has befallen Charleston, and there is shining evidence of a beneficent desire to give the suffering people the assistance of both act and word."
Boston, the former headquarters of the abolitionists, and the veterans of the Grand Army vied with Southern cities and ex-Confederates in a spontaneous outpouring of sympathy and help. The hearts of a proud people were at last subdued, but it was by hands stretched out in fraternal love and not to strike.
In the city squares and other places of refuge there still continued sad and awful experiences, one of which was graphically described by the city editor of the journal already quoted.
At nearly midnight on Friday there had been a cessation in the shocks for about twenty-four hours, and the people were resting quietly. Then came a convulsion second only in severity to the first one which had wrought such widespread ruin. "It had scarcely died away," to quote from the account referred to, "before there rose through the still night air in the direction of the public squares and parks the now familiar but still terrible cries of thousands of wailing voices, united in one vast chorus, expressive only of the utmost human misery. For a while this sound was heard above all other sounds, suggesting vividly to the mind what has been told by survivors of the scene that follows the sinking of a great ship at sea, when its living freight is left struggling with the waves; and this impression was heightened to the distant auditor by the gradual diminution in the volume of the cries, as though voice after voice were being silenced, as life after life were quenched beneath the tossing waves."
Dr. Devoe advised Mr. Houghton to leave the city, but he said, "No, I shall remain with my children; I shall share in the fortunes of the city which is henceforth to be my home."
Mrs. Hunter did not long survive, but she became quiet and rational before her end. To Mara's imploring words she replied calmly, "No, my time is near; and I feel that it is best. I belong to the old order of things, and have lingered too long already. I may have been mistaken in my feelings, and wrong in my enmities, but I had great provocation. Now I forgive as I hope to be forgiven. God grant, dear child, that you may have brighter days."
A sad little company followed her to the cemetery, and as they laid her to rest, they also spread over her memory the mantle of a broad, loving charity.
For a time it seemed as if brighter days could never come to Mara, for Clancy's life flickered like the light of an expiring candle. At last the fever broke and he became rational, the pure, open air conducing to his recovery. He was very weak and his convalescence was slow, measuring the mental and physical strain through which he had passed. Never had a poor mortal more faithful watchers, never was life wooed back from the dark shore by more devoted love. "Live, live," was ever the language of Mara's eyes, and happiness gave him the power to live.
Captain Bodine carried out both the letter and spirit of his note. While he was very gentle, he was also very firm with Mara, expressing only paternal affection and also exerting paternal authority. At proper times he told her to go and rest in tones which she obeyed.
One day when Clancy was able to sit up a little, he took her aside and said, "Mara, you and Mr. Clancy are in one sense comparatively alone in the world, although you have many stanch friends. His health, almost his life, requires the faithful, watchful care which you can best give, and which you are entitled to give. It is his wish and mine, also Cousin Sophy's, that you should be married at once."
Again she gave him that luminous look which he so well remembered--an expression so full of homage, affection and sympathy that for the first time tears came into his eyes. "There, my child," he said, "you have repaid me, you have compensated me for everything. There is no need of words"--and he turned hastily away.
When the sun was near the horizon Mara was married, not in old St. Michael's, as her mother had been, but in the large tent which of late had sheltered her lover. Her pastor employed the old sacred words to which her mother had responded; and Captain Bodine, with the impress of calm, victorious manhood on his brow, gave her away in the presence of the little group of those who knew her best and loved her most. We may well believe from that time forth her gentleness and happiness would change the meaning of her name.
At last all ventured back to their homes. Mr. Houghton was so averse to parting with Ella that he equalled George in his impatience for the marriage. Aun' Sheba, who supervised preparations for the wedding breakfast, declared, "It am jes jolly ter see old Marse Houghton. As fer Missus Bodine, it pears as if she'd go off de han'l." Then father and son took the blue-eyed bride to the North on a visit, in what George characterized as a "sort of triumphal procession."
The cabins of Aun' Sheba and Kern Watson were restored to a condition better than their former state, but Uncle Sheba discovered that the good old times of his wife's easy tolerance were gone. She put the case plainly, "Mr. Buggone, de Bible says dat dem dat doesn't wuck mus'n't eat, an' I'se gwine ter stick ter de Bible troo tick an' tin. You'se able to wuck as I be, an' you'se 'lowance now 'pends on you'se wuck."
We have already seen that Uncle Sheba was one of those philosophers who always submit to the inevitable.
Late one September night the moonbeams shone under the moss-draped branches of a live oak in a cemetery. They brought out in snowy whiteness a small headstone on which were engraved the words, "Yes, Vilet." Sitting by the grave and leaning his head against the stone was Kern Watson, but his calm, strong face was turned heavenward where his little girl waited for him "shuah."
THE END
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{
"id": "6719"
}
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1
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HEADSTRONG AND HEADLONG
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Far from any house or hut, in the depth of dreary moor-land, a road, unfenced and almost unformed, descends to a rapid river. The crossing is called the “Seven Corpse Ford,” because a large party of farmers, riding homeward from Middleton, banded together and perhaps well primed through fear of a famous highwayman, came down to this place on a foggy evening, after heavy rain-fall. One of the company set before them what the power of the water was, but they laughed at him and spurred into it, and one alone spurred out of it. Whether taken with fright, or with too much courage, they laid hold of one another, and seven out of eight of them, all large farmers, and thoroughly understanding land, came never upon it alive again; and their bodies, being found upon the ridge that cast them up, gave a dismal name to a place that never was merry in the best of weather.
However, worse things than this had happened; and the country is not chary of its living, though apt to be scared of its dead; and so the ford came into use again, with a little attempt at improvement. For those farmers being beyond recall, and their families hard to provide for, Richard Yordas, of Scargate Hall, the chief owner of the neighborhood, set a long heavy stone up on either brink, and stretched a strong chain between them, not only to mark out the course of the shallow, whose shelf is askew to the channel, but also that any one being washed away might fetch up, and feel how to save himself. For the Tees is a violent water sometimes, and the safest way to cross it is to go on till you come to a good stone bridge.
Now forty years after that sad destruction of brave but not well-guided men, and thirty years after the chain was fixed, that their sons might not go after them, another thing happened at “Seven Corpse Ford,” worse than the drowning of the farmers. Or, at any rate, it made more stir (which is of wider spread than sorrow), because of the eminence of the man, and the length and width of his property. Neither could any one at first believe in so quiet an end to so turbulent a course. Nevertheless it came to pass, as lightly as if he were a reed or a bubble of the river that belonged to him.
It was upon a gentle evening, a few days after Michaelmas of 1777. No flood was in the river then, and no fog on the moor-land, only the usual course of time, keeping the silent company of stars. The young moon was down, and the hover of the sky (in doubt of various lights) was gone, and the equal spread of obscurity soothed the eyes of any reasonable man.
But the man who rode down to the river that night had little love of reason. Headstrong chief of a headlong race, no will must depart a hair's-breadth from his; and fifty years of arrogant port had stiffened a neck too stiff at birth. Even now in the dim light his large square form stood out against the sky like a cromlech, and his heavy arms swung like gnarled boughs of oak, for a storm of wrath was moving him. In his youth he had rebelled against his father; and now his own son was a rebel to him.
“Good, my boy, good!” he said, within his grizzled beard, while his eyes shone with fire, like the flints beneath his horse; “you have had your own way, have you, then? But never shall you step upon an acre of your own, and your timber shall be the gallows. Done, my boy, once and forever.”
Philip, the squire, the son of Richard, and father of Duncan Yordas, with fierce satisfaction struck the bosom of his heavy Bradford riding-coat, and the crackle of parchment replied to the blow, while with the other hand he drew rein on the brink of the Tees sliding rapidly.
The water was dark with the twinkle of the stars, and wide with the vapor of the valley, but Philip Yordas in the rage of triumph laughed and spurred his reflecting horse.
“Fool!” he cried, without an oath--no Yordas ever used an oath except in playful moments--“fool! what fear you? There hangs my respected father's chain. Ah, he was something like a man! Had I ever dared to flout him so, he would have hanged me with it.”
Wild with his wrong, he struck the rowel deep into the flank of his wading horse, and in scorn of the depth drove him up the river. The shoulders of the swimming horse broke the swirling water, as he panted and snorted against it; and if Philip Yordas had drawn back at once, he might even now have crossed safely. But the fury of his blood was up, the stronger the torrent the fiercer his will, and the fight between passion and power went on. The poor horse was fain to swerve back at last; but he struck him on the head with a carbine, and shouted to the torrent: “Drown me, if you can. My father used to say that I was never born to drown. My own water drown me! That would be a little too much insolence.”
“Too much insolence” were his last words. The strength of the horse was exhausted. The beat of his legs grew short and faint, the white of his eyes rolled piteously, and the gurgle of his breath subsided. His heavy head dropped under water, and his sodden crest rolled over, like sea-weed where a wave breaks. The stream had him all at its mercy, and showed no more than his savage master had, but swept him a wallowing lump away, and over the reef of the crossing. With both feet locked in the twisted stirrups, and right arm broken at the elbow, the rider was swung (like the mast of a wreck) and flung with his head upon his father's chain. There he was held by his great square chin--for the jar of his backbone stunned him--and the weight of the swept-away horse broke the neck which never had been known to bend. In the morning a peasant found him there, not drowned but hanged, with eyes wide open, a swaying corpse upon a creaking chain. So his father (though long in the grave) was his death, as he often had promised to be to him; while he (with the habit of his race) clutched fast with dead hand on dead bosom the instrument securing the starvation of his son.
Of the Yordas family truly was it said that the will of God was nothing to their will--as long as the latter lasted--and that every man of them scorned all Testament, old or new, except his own.
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{
"id": "6824"
}
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2
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SCARGATE HALL
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Nearly twenty-four years had passed since Philip Yordas was carried to his last (as well as his first) repose, and Scargate Hall had enjoyed some rest from the turbulence of owners. For as soon as Duncan (Philip's son, whose marriage had maddened his father) was clearly apprised by the late squire's lawyer of his disinheritance, he collected his own little money and his wife's, and set sail for India. His mother, a Scotchwoman of good birth but evil fortunes, had left him something; and his bride (the daughter of his father's greatest foe) was not altogether empty-handed. His sisters were forbidden by the will to help him with a single penny; and Philippa, the elder, declaring and believing that Duncan had killed her father, strictly obeyed the injunction. But Eliza, being of a softer kind, and herself then in love with Captain Carnaby, would gladly have aided her only brother, but for his stern refusal. In such a case, a more gentle nature than ever endowed a Yordas might have grown hardened and bitter; and Duncan, being of true Yordas fibre (thickened and toughened with slower Scotch sap), was not of the sort to be ousted lightly and grow at the feet of his supplanters.
Therefore he cast himself on the winds, in search of fairer soil, and was not heard of in his native land; and Scargate Hall and estates were held by the sisters in joint tenancy, with remainder to the first son born of whichever it might be of them. And this was so worded through the hurry of their father to get some one established in the place of his own son.
But from paltry passions, turn away a little while to the things which excite, but are not excited by them.
Scargate Hall stands, high and old, in the wildest and most rugged part of the wild and rough North Riding. Many are the tales about it, in the few and humble cots, scattered in the modest distance, mainly to look up at it. In spring and summer, of the years that have any, the height and the air are not only fine, but even fair and pleasant. So do the shadows and the sunshine wander, elbowing into one another on the moor, and so does the glance of smiling foliage soothe the austerity of crag and scaur. At such time, also, the restless torrent (whose fury has driven content away through many a short day and long night) is not in such desperate hurry to bury its troubles in the breast of Tees, but spreads them in language that sparkles to the sun, or even makes leisure to turn into corners of deep brown study about the people on its banks--especially, perhaps, the miller.
But never had this impetuous water more reason to stop and reflect upon people of greater importance, who called it their own, than now when it was at the lowest of itself, in August of the year 1801.
From time beyond date the race of Yordas had owned and inhabited this old place. From them the river, and the river's valley, and the mountain of its birth, took name, or else, perhaps, gave name to them; for the history of the giant Yordas still remains to be written, and the materials are scanty. His present descendants did not care an old song for his memory, even if he ever had existence to produce it. Piety (whether in the Latin sense or English) never had marked them for her own; their days were long in the land, through a long inactivity of the Decalogue.
And yet in some manner this lawless race had been as a law to itself throughout. From age to age came certain gifts and certain ways of management, which saved the family life from falling out of rank and land and lot. From deadly feuds, exhausting suits, and ruinous profusion, when all appeared lost, there had always arisen a man of direct lineal stock to retrieve the estates and reprieve the name. And what is still more conducive to the longevity of families, no member had appeared as yet of a power too large and an aim too lofty, whose eminence must be cut short with axe, outlawry, and attainder. Therefore there ever had been a Yordas, good or bad (and by his own showing more often of the latter kind), to stand before heaven, and hold the land, and harass them that dwelt thereon. But now at last the world seemed to be threatened with the extinction of a fine old name.
When Squire Philip died in the river, as above recorded, his death, from one point of view, was dry, since nobody shed a tear for him, unless it was his child Eliza. Still, he was missed and lamented in speech, and even in eloquent speeches, having been a very strong Justice of the Peace, as well as the foremost of riotous gentlemen keeping the order of the county. He stood above them in his firm resolve to have his own way always, and his way was so crooked that the difficulty was to get out of it and let him have it. And when he was dead, it was either too good or too bad to believe in; and even after he was buried it was held that this might be only another of his tricks.
But after his ghost had been seen repeatedly, sitting on the chain and swearing, it began to be known that he was gone indeed, and the relief afforded by his absence endeared him to sad memory. Moreover, his good successors enhanced the relish of scandal about him by seeming themselves to be always so dry, distant, and unimpeachable. Especially so did “My Lady Philippa,” as the elder daughter was called by all the tenants and dependents, though the family now held no title of honor.
Mistress Yordas, as she was more correctly styled by usage of the period, was a maiden lady of fine presence, uncumbered as yet by weight of years, and only dignified thereby. Stately, and straight, and substantial of figure, firm but not coarse of feature, she had reached her forty-fifth year without an ailment or a wrinkle. Her eyes were steadfast, clear, and bright, well able to second her distinct calm voice, and handsome still, though their deep blue had waned into a quiet, impenetrable gray; while her broad clear forehead, straight nose, and red lips might well be considered as comely as ever, at least by those who loved her. Of these, however, there were not many; and she was content to have it so.
Mrs. Carnaby, the younger sister, would not have been content to have it so. Though not of the weak lot which is enfeoffed to popularity, she liked to be regarded kindly, and would rather win a smile than exact a courtesy. Continually it was said of her that she was no genuine Yordas, though really she had all the pride and all the stubbornness of that race, enlarged, perhaps, but little weakened, by severe afflictions. This lady had lost a beloved husband, Colonel Carnaby, killed in battle; and after that four children of the five she had been so proud of. And the waters of affliction had not turned to bitterness in her soul.
Concerning the outward part--which matters more than the inward at first hand--Mrs. Carnaby had no reason to complain of fortune. She had started well as a very fine baby, and grown up well into a lovely maiden, passing through wedlock into a sightly matron, gentle, fair, and showing reason. For generations it had come to pass that those of the Yordas race who deserved to be cut off for their doings out-of-doors were followed by ladies of decorum, self-restraint, and regard for their neighbor's landmark. And so it was now with these two ladies, the handsome Philippa and the fair Eliza leading a peaceful and reputable life, and carefully studying their rent-roll.
It was not, however, in the fitness of things that quiet should reign at Scargate Hall for a quarter of a century; and one strong element of disturbance grew already manifest. Under the will of Squire Philip the heir-apparent was the one surviving child of Mrs. Carnaby.
If ever a mortal life was saved by dint of sleepless care, warm coddling, and perpetual doctoring, it was the precious life of Master Lancelot Yordas Carnaby. In him all the mischief of his race revived, without the strong substance to carry it off. Though his parents were healthy and vigorous, he was of weakly constitution, which would not have been half so dangerous to him if his mind also had been weakly. But his mind (or at any rate that rudiment thereof which appears in the shape of self-will even before the teeth appear) was a piece of muscular contortion, tough as oak and hard as iron. “Pet” was his name with his mother and his aunt; and his enemies (being the rest of mankind) said that pet was his name and his nature.
For this dear child could brook no denial, no slow submission to his wishes; whatever he wanted must come in a moment, punctual as an echo. In him re-appeared not the stubbornness only, but also the keen ingenuity of Yordas in finding out the very thing that never should be done, and then the unerring perception of the way in which it could be done most noxiously. Yet any one looking at his eyes would think how tender and bright must his nature be! “He favoreth his forebears; how can he help it?” kind people exclaimed, when they knew him. And the servants of the house excused themselves when condemned for putting up with him, “Yo know not what 'a is, yo that talk so. He maun get 's own gait, lestwise yo wud chok' un.”
Being too valuable to be choked, he got his own way always.
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{
"id": "6824"
}
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3
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A DISAPPOINTING APPOINTMENT
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For the sake of Pet Carnaby and of themselves, the ladies of the house were disquieted now, in the first summer weather of a wet cold year, the year of our Lord 1801. And their trouble arose as follows: There had long been a question between the sisters and Sir Walter Carnaby, brother of the late colonel, about an exchange of outlying land, which would have to be ratified by “Pet” hereafter. Terms being settled and agreement signed, the lawyers fell to at the linked sweetness of deducing title. The abstract of the Yordas title was nearly as big as the parish Bible, so in and out had their dealings been, and so intricate their pugnacity.
Among the many other of the Yordas freaks was a fatuous and generally fatal one. For the slightest miscarriage they discharged their lawyer, and leaped into the office of a new one. Has any man moved in the affairs of men, with a grain of common-sense or half a pennyweight of experience, without being taught that an old tenter-hook sits easier to him than a new one? And not only that, but in shifting his quarters he may leave some truly fundamental thing behind.
Old Mr. Jellicorse, of Middleton in Teesdale, had won golden opinions every where. He was an uncommonly honest lawyer, highly incapable of almost any trick, and lofty in his view of things, when his side of them was the legal one. He had a large collection of those interesting boxes which are to a lawyer and his family better than caskets of silver and gold; and especially were his shelves furnished with what might be called the library of the Scargate title-deeds. He had been proud to take charge of these nearly thirty years ago, and had married on the strength of them, though warned by the rival from whom they were wrested that he must not hope to keep them long. However, through the peaceful incumbency of ladies, they remained in his office all those years.
This was the gentleman who had drawn and legally sped to its purport the will of the lamented Squire Philip, who refused very clearly to leave it, and took horse to flourish it at his rebellious son. Mr. Jellicorse had done the utmost, as behooved him, against that rancorous testament; but meeting with silence more savage than words, and a bow to depart, he had yielded; and the squire stamped about the room until his job was finished.
A fact accomplished, whether good or bad, improves in character with every revolution of this little world around the sun, that heavenly example of subservience. And now Mr. Jellicorse was well convinced, as nothing had occurred to disturb that will, and the life of the testator had been sacrificed to it, and the devisees under it were his own good clients, and some of his finest turns of words were in it, and the preparation, execution, and attestation, in an hour and ten minutes of the office clock, had never been equalled in Yorkshire before, and perhaps never honestly in London--taking all these things into conscious or unconscious balance, Mr. Jellicorse grew into the clear conviction that “righteous and wise” were the words to be used whenever this will was spoken of.
With pleasant remembrance of the starveling fees wherewith he used to charge the public, ere ever his golden spurs were won, the prosperous lawyer now began to run his eye through a duplicate of an abstract furnished upon some little sale about forty years before. This would form the basis of the abstract now to be furnished to Sir Walter Carnaby, with little to be added but the will of Philip Yordas, and statement of facts to be verified. Mr. Jellicorse was fat, but very active still; he liked good living, but he liked to earn it, and could not sit down to his dinner without feeling that he had helped the Lord to provide these mercies. He carried a pencil on his chain, and liked to use it ere ever he began with knife and fork. For the young men in the office, as he always said, knew nothing.
The day was very bright and clear, and the sun shone through soft lilac leaves on more important folios, while Mr. Jellicorse, with happy sniffs--for his dinner was roasting in the distance--drew a single line here, or a double line there, or a gable on the margin of the paper, to show his head clerk what to cite, and in what letters, and what to omit, in the abstract to be rendered. For the good solicitor had spent some time in the chambers of a famous conveyancer in London, and prided himself upon deducing title, directly, exhaustively, and yet tersely, in one word, scientifically, and not as the mere quill-driver. The title to the hereditaments, now to be given in exchange, went back for many generations; but as the deeds were not to pass, Mr. Jellicorse, like an honest man, drew a line across, and made a star at one quite old enough to begin with, in which the little moorland farm in treaty now was specified. With hum and ha of satisfaction he came down the records, as far as the settlement made upon the marriage of Richard Yordas, of Scargate Hall, Esquire, and Eleanor, the daughter of Sir Fursan de Roos. This document created no entail, for strict settlements had never been the manner of the race; but the property assured in trust, to satisfy the jointure, was then declared subject to joint and surviving powers of appointment limited to the issue of the marriage, with remainder to the uses of the will of the aforesaid Richard Yordas, or, failing such will, to his right heirs forever.
All this was usual enough, and Mr. Jellicorse heeded it little, having never heard of any appointment, and knowing that Richard, the grandfather of his clients, had died, as became a true Yordas, in a fit of fury with a poor tenant, intestate, as well as unrepentant. The lawyer, being a slightly pious man, afforded a little sigh to this remembrance, and lifted his finger to turn the leaf, but the leaf stuck a moment, and the paper being raised at the very best angle to the sun, he saw, or seemed to see, a faint red line, just over against that appointment clause. And then the yellow margin showed some faint red marks.
“Well, I never,” Mr. Jellicorse exclaimed--“certainly never saw these marks before. Diana, where are my glasses?”
Mrs. Jellicorse had been to see the potatoes on (for the new cook simply made “kettlefuls of fish” of every thing put upon the fire), and now at her husband's call she went to her work-box for his spectacles, which he was not allowed to wear except on Sundays, for fear of injuring his eyesight. Equipped with these, and drawing nearer to the window, the lawyer gradually made out this: first a broad faint line of red, as if some attorney, now a ghost, had cut his finger, and over against that in small round hand the letters “v. b. c.” Mr. Jellicorse could swear that they were “v. b. c.” “Don't ask me to eat any dinner to-day,” he exclaimed, when his wife came to fetch him. “Diana, I am occupied; go and eat it up without me.”
“Nonsense, James,” she answered, calmly; “you never get any clever thoughts by starving.”
Moved by this reasoning, he submitted, fed his wife and children and own good self, and then brought up a bottle of old Spanish wine to strengthen the founts of discovery. Whose writing was that upon the broad marge of verbosity? Why had it never been observed before? Above all, what was meant by “v. b. c.”?
Unaided, he might have gone on forever, to the bottom of a butt of Xeres wine; but finding the second glass better than the first, he called to Mrs. Jellicorse, who was in the garden gathering striped roses, to come and have a sip with him, and taste the yellow cherries. And when she came promptly, with the flowers in her hand, and their youngest little daughter making sly eyes at the fruit, bothered as he was, he could not help smiling and saying, “Oh, Diana, what is 'v. b. c.'?”
“Very black currants, papa!” cried Emily, dancing a long bunch in the air.
“Hush, dear child, you are getting too forward,” said her mother, though proud of her quickness. “James, how should I know what 'v. b. c.' is? But I wish most heartily that you would rid me of my old enemy, box C. I want to put a hanging press in that corner, instead of which you turn the very passages into office.”
“Box C? I remember no box C.” “You may not have noticed the letter C upon it, but the box you must know as well as I do. It belongs to those proud Yordas people, who hold their heads so high, forsooth, as if nobody but themselves belonged to a good old county family! That makes me hate the box the more.”
“I will take it out of your way at once. I may want it. It should be with the others. I know it as well as I know my snuff-box. It was Aberthaw who put it in that corner; but I had forgotten that it was lettered. The others are all numbered.”
Of course Mr. Jellicorse was not weak enough to make the partner of his bosom the partner of his business; and much as she longed to know why he had put an unusual question to her, she trusted to the future for discovery of that point. She left him, and he with no undue haste--for the business, after all, was not his own--began to follow out his train of thought, in manner much as follows: “This is that old Duncombe's writing--'Dunder-headed Duncombe,' as he used to be called in his lifetime, but 'Long-headed Duncombe' afterward. None but his wife knew whether he was a wise man, or a wiseacre. Perhaps either, according to the treatment he received. Richard Yordas treated him badly; that may have made him wiser. V. b. c. means 'vide box C,' unless I am greatly mistaken. He wrote those letters as plainly and clearly as he could against this power of appointment as recited here. But afterward, with knife and pounce, he scraped them out, as now becomes plain with this magnifying-glass; probably he did so when all these archives, as he used to call them, were rudely ordered over to my predecessor. A nice bit of revenge, if my suspicions are correct; and a pretty confusion will follow it.”
The lawyer's suspicions proved too correct. He took that box to his private room, and with some trouble unlocked it. A damp and musty smell came forth, as when a man delves a potato-bury; and then appeared layers of parchment yellow and brown, in and out with one another, according to the curing of the sheep-skin, perhaps, or the age of the sheep when he began to die; skins much older than any man's who handled them, and drier than the brains of any lawyer.
“Anno Jacobi tertio, and Quadragesimo Elisabethae! How nice it sounds!” Mr. Jellicorse exclaimed; “they ought all to go in, and be charged for. People to be satisfied with sixty years' title! Why, bless the Lord, I am sixty-eight myself, and could buy and sell the grammar school at eight years old. It is no security, no security at all. What did the learned Bacupiston say--'If a rogue only lives to be a hundred and eleven, he may have been for ninety years disseized, and nobody alive to know it!'”
Older and older grew the documents as the lawyer's hand travelled downward; any flaw or failure must have been healed by lapse of time long and long ago; dust and grime and mildew thickened, ink became paler, and contractions more contorted; it was rather an antiquary's business now than a lawyer's to decipher them.
“What a fool I am!” the solicitor thought. “My cuffs will never wash white again, and all I have found is a mare's-nest. However, I'll go to the bottom now. There may be a gold seal--they used to put them in with the deeds three hundred years ago. A charter of Edward the Fourth, I declare! Ah, the Yordases were Yorkists--halloa! what is here? By the Touchstone of Shepherd, I was right after all! Well done, Long-headed Duncombe!”
From the very bottom of the box he took a parchment comparatively fresh and new, indorsed “Appointment by Richard Yordas, Esquire, and Eleanor his wife, of lands and heredits at Scargate and elsewhere in the county of York, dated Nov. 15th, A.D. 1751.” Having glanced at the signatures and seals, Mr. Jellicorse spread the document, which was of moderate compass, and soon convinced himself that his work of the morning had been wholly thrown away. No title could be shown to Whitestone Farm, nor even to Scargate Hall itself, on the part of the present owners.
The appointment was by deed-poll, and strictly in accordance with the powers of the settlement. Duly executed and attested, clearly though clumsily expressed, and beyond all question genuine, it simply nullified (as concerned the better half of the property) the will which had cost Philip Yordas his life. For under this limitation Philip held a mere life-interest, his father and mother giving all men to know by those presents that they did thereby from and after the decease of their said son Philip grant limit and appoint &c. all and singular the said lands &c. to the heirs of his body lawfully begotten &c. &c. in tail general, with remainder over, and final remainder to the right heirs of the said Richard Yordas forever. From all which it followed that while Duncan Yordas, or child, or other descendant of his, remained in the land of the living, or even without that if he having learned it had been enabled to bar the entail and then sell or devise the lands away, the ladies in possession could show no title, except a possessory one, as yet unhallowed by the lapse of time.
Mr. Jellicorse was a very pleasant-looking man, also one who took a pleasant view of other men and things; but he could not help pulling a long and sad face as he thought of the puzzle before him. Duncan Yordas had not been heard of among his own hills and valleys since 1778, when he embarked for India. None of the family ever had cared to write or read long letters, their correspondence (if any) was short, without being sweet by any means. It might be a subject for prayer and hope that Duncan should be gone to a better world, without leaving hostages to fortune here; but sad it is to say that neither prayer nor hope produces any faith in the counsel who prepares “requisitions upon title.”
On the other hand, inquiry as to Duncan's history since he left his native land would be a delicate and expensive work, and perhaps even dangerous, if he should hear of it, and inquire about the inquirers. For the last thing to be done from a legal point of view--though the first of all from a just one--was to apprise the rightful owner of his unexpected position. Now Mr. Jellicorse was a just man; but his justice was due to his clients first.
After a long brown study he reaped his crop of meditation thus: “It is a ticklish job; and I will sleep three nights upon it.”
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{
"id": "6824"
}
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