 | THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN. The soldier's bride and other tales |  |
THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN.
The reader who has ever been in the pleasant
town of Herkimer in New York, may know something
of Johnny Vanderbocker, a neat, square built
Dutch lad, who was a great favourite among the
ladies of that place, a few years back. The reason
of his popularity with the fair, I could never exactly
learn; for he was the most uncomely youth that a
traveller could meet between Albany and Buffalo.
Perhaps it might have been in consequence of his
expectations; for his father, who was a baker, was
said to have several hundreds of silver dollars,
locked up in an oaken chest which stood by his bed-side;
and as he had always permitted John to roam
about the village, without paying the least attention
to his education or conduct, it seemed very evident
that he intended to make him his heir. Perhaps it
might have been owing to his good nature; for to
tell the truth, there was not a better tempered lad
said in disparagement of John, all admitted that he
was a well conditioned creature, and had not the
least harm in him. He would lie for hours, under
the shade of a great willow which stood before his
father's door, looking at the sky, or crawl about the
grass, hunting for four-leafed clover; and no change
in the weather, nor other cross accident, was ever
known to disturb his serenity. In this respect he
was a fair example of the influence of circumstances;
for, having been raised—as we say in the
west—by a baker, it was naturally to be expected
that his heart should be light.
After all, he might owe his favour with the female
public to his musical abilities, which were
certainly remarkable. When quite small, he was
an adept at playing on the Jews-harp, and the boys
and girls would crowd around him to listen to his
melody, as if he had been another Orpheus. As
he grew older, he took to the violin, and his services
began to be in request. A man may always
fiddle his way through this world; no matter whether
he play for love or money, whether he is a
hired musician, or an amateur; fiddling is a genteel,
popular, and profitable employment. Johnny
was now a regular and an acceptable visiter at all
the tea parties, quiltings, and house raisings, in and
around the town, and never did any human being
fill a station with more propriety, than he did the
responsible post of fiddler. By nature he was
of an inspiring beverage; qualifications which, if
they be not proofs of musical genius, may at least
be set down as the appropriate accomplishments of
a connoisseur in the science of sweet sounds.
Seated in an easy chair, for he loved a comfortable
position, he would throw back his head, close his
eyes, open his huge mouth, and fiddle away for a
whole night, without exhibiting the least sign of
vitality, except in his elbow and his fingers. Often
when a dance was ended, he would continue to
play on until admonished that his labours were unnecessary;
but when a new set took the floor, it
was only requisite to give Johnny a smart jog, and
off he went again like a machine set in motion.
When refreshments were brought him, he poured
into the vast crater which performed the functions
of a mouth, whatever was offered; and more than
once has he swallowed the contents of an inkstand,
smacked his lips over a dose of Peruvian bark, or
pronounced a glass of sharp vinegar “humming
stuff.”
Thus passed the halcyon days of Johnny Vanderbocker,
until the completion of his twenty-first
year, when an event occurred which entirely
changed the tenor of his life. This was no other
than the decease of his worthy parent the baker,
who was suddenly gathered to his fathers, on a
cold winter evening while Johnny was fiddling at a
neighbouring fair. The news startled our hero
with a heavy heart to his paternal mansion, and
retired to rest somewhat consoled by the reflection,
that although he had lost a parent, he had become
master of the rolls. He laid aside his amusements
to follow the remains of the honest baker to their
last receptacle. For a wonder, he remained wide
awake the whole day, and slept quietly in his bed
the whole of the ensuing night. On the following
morning he unlocked the oaken chest, emptied the
contents of several greasy bags on the floor, counted
them over eagerly, and then determined—to
buy a new violin.
In his new situation, many cares pressed upon
the attention of our hero. Letters of administration
had to be taken out, the stock in trade and
the implements of his ancestor to be sold, debts to
be collected, and debts to be paid; and before a
week elapsed, the heir at law acknowledged that
the gifts of fortune are not worth the trouble they
bring. His new suit of black imposed an unwonted
constraint upon him. He could no longer
roll upon the grass, for fear of soiling his clothes,
and he was told it would be wrong to fiddle at the
dances while he was in mourning.
When an old man gets into trouble, he is apt to
betake himself to the bottle; when a young one
becomes perplexed, he generally turns his attention
to matrimony. Thus it was with Johnny,
who, in those golden and joyous days, when he
fiddle, never dreamed of the silken fetter. But
when care and trouble, and leather bags, and silver
dollars, and black broadcloth, came upon him, he
thought it high time to shift a portion of the burthen
of his existence upon some other shoulders.
I must now apprise the reader, that although my
hero had never thought of marriage, it was only
because he was too single-minded to think of two
things at once. He had not reached the mature
age of one and twenty, untouched by the arrows
of the gentle god. In love he had been, and at the
precise point of time to which we have brought
this veracious history, the tender passion was blazing
in his bosom, as kindly and as cheerfully as a
Christmas fire. Its object was a beautiful girl of
nineteen, who really did great credit to the taste of
the enamoured musician. She was the daughter
of a widow lady of respectable connections, but
decayed fortune—the damaged relic of a fashionable
spendthrift. Lucy Atherton, the young lady in
question, had beauty enough to compensate for the
absence of wealth, and a sufficient portion of the
family inheritance of pride to enable her to hold
her head quite as high as any belle in the village.
Indeed, she made it a point to take precedence
wherever she went, and as she did this without the
least appearance of ill nature, and without displaying
any self-important airs, but rather as a
matter of course, it seemed to be universally
beauty of the village—the prettiest, the gayest, and
the most graceful of the maiden train who danced
to the music of Johnny Vanderbocker's violin. In
the dance she was grace personified. It was a
treat to behold her laughing face, her lovely form,
and her light step, as she flew with joyous heart
and noiseless foot through the mazes of the contra-dance.
Now it happened to Johnny occasionally
to shut his mouth and open his eyes, just at the
dangerous moment when Miss Atherton was engaged
in these captivating performances, and he must
have been the most churlish of all Dutchmen, not
to have been fascinated. She was in the habit,
too, of leading off the sets, and the choice of the
air was generally dictated by her taste. On such
occasions she would address our hero with the
most winning grace, and in tones of the sweetest
euphony, ask Mr. Vanderbocker for “that delightful
tune which he played so charmingly.” Accustomed
to the appellation of plain “Johnny” from
every other tongue, the title of Mister, conveyed in
such honeyed accents, fell pleasantly upon his ear,
and whether the fair lady was actuated by self-respect,
or by a respect for Johnny, the effect was
to make him her fast friend. The fact was, that
Miss Atherton had an art, which some ladies exercise
as skilfully as some gentlemen, and which is
found among distinguished belles as often as among
ambitious men;—I mean that universal courtesy
ranks—that ready smile, and pleasant phrase, and
convenient bow, which, like a panacea, suits all occasions.
In statesmen this desirable accomplishment
is the result of judicious training; in handsome
women it is an instinct, connected with that
love of applause, which is almost inseparable from
beauty.
Often would Johnny surprise the company, by
keeping his eyes open for whole minutes together,
as the lovely vision of Lucy Atherton flitted before
him. The fire would flash from his eye, and the
blood rush from his heart to his elbow, as he gazed
in ecstasy at the loveliest dancer in the village—
his fingers fell with renewed vivacity upon the
tuneful strings, and the very violin itself seemed to
melt in sympathy, and gave forth softer, and mellower,
and gayer tones. Then would he close his
eyes, and having laid in an agreeable idea, feed
upon it in secrecy, as a stingy boy devours a dainty
morsel in some hidden corner. With his stringed
instrument rattling away like a locomotive
engine, apparently unconscious of any animal propulsion,
his mouth wide open, his visage devoid of
expression, and the whole outward man reposing
in death-like torpidity, he was dreaming of Lucy
Atherton—his heart was beating time to the imaginary
motion of her feet, as her form floated and
whirled, up the sides and down the middle, cross
over, and right and left, through every nook and
image was too dearly cherished to be shared with
another, or too faintly shadowed out to be altogether
intelligible to himself, he kept his own counsel
so closely, that none could have suspected the object
of his thoughts, or have pronounced with the
slightest shadow of reason, that he had any
thoughts at all—except upon one occasion, when
Miss Lucy Atherton having gone through a scamper
down with uncommon spirit, he exclaimed
with great emotion, that she was “a dreadful nice
dancer.”
Yet with all this devotion of heart, and with
feelings that vibrated to every echo of Lucy's feet,
there was not a single chord of association in the
mind of Johnny Vanderbocker, which connected
the image of Miss Atherton with the idea of wedlock.
On the contrary, having seldom seen her
except on high days and holidays, when she shone
as a bright peculiar star in the constellation of village
beauty, her name was engraven on the same
tablet on which was recorded his agreeable recollections
of in-fairs, quiltings, fiddle-strings, minced
pies, egg-flip, and hot spiced gingerbread. All
these good things came together, and with them always
came—Lucy Atherton. When therefore the
notion of a wife came into his head, it was like the
intrusion of a comet into the solar system, disturbing
the regular economy of nature, and eclipsing
the other orbs by its brilliancy. It entirely unsettled
which commonly moved on from point to point as
regularly as the hands of a watch. “A wife!”—
quoth he, casting a look of silly bashfulness all
around, as if afraid of detection—“A wife!”—exclaimed
he a second time, laughing aloud as at the
absurdity of such a proposition—“A wife!”—muttered
he again,—and then the image of Lucy
Atherton came dancing before him. The greatest
discoveries have been the result of accident, the
happiest invention is but the felicitous application
of a known power to a novel purpose; and equally
fortuitous was that train of thought in the mind of
our hero, which united his own destiny with that
of the fashionable and admired Lucy Atherton.
The thought was ecstatic; it brought a glow to the
heart of Johnny, such as seldom beams upon the
high latitude of a Dutchman's breast, and he resolved
to become, forthwith, a candidate for the
hand of the village belle.
Great designs give unwonted energy to the character.
Idle and timid as our hero usually was,
the idea of marrying Lucy Atherton awakened him
to a new being. His conceptions were enlarged,
his resolution quickened, and all his senses strung
anew, and he was as different a man from what he
was an hour before, as a stringless violin is, from the
same instrument properly attired and screwed into
tune. He felt his importance increased, his notions
of happiness expanded, and his whole sphere
the matter settled. “Me and Lucy will just
suit,” said he to himself. “She dances prime, and
I take it, I can outfiddle the world.” It never occurred
to him that the lady would make any objection
to the arrangement.
How could she? for Johnny was possessed of
the only two things which he considered absolutely
necessary to enjoyment; music and money. What
more could a lady want? “And then,” thought
he, “I'm not the worst-looking fellow in the country,
and this is not such a bad house neither, and
three hundred dollars, and the bake-shop, is no
trifle.” Johnny capered round the room in great
glee, and one of his companions coming in at this
moment, he embraced him, and said, “Don't you
wish me joy?”
“For what?” enquired his friend.
“O I'm so happy!”
“Is it your father's death that pleases you so
much?”
“O no! I'm going to be married.”
“Indeed! Who to?”
“Ah, that's a secret; I ha n't told her about it
yet, but I know she'll have no objection.”
The next morning found our hero at a neighbouring
shop, purchasing a variety of trinkets and
clothing, for the decoration of his ungainly person.
A purple watch ribbon, a pink silk neckcloth, and
a huge breastpin which struck him as peculiarly
and these, together with a scarlet velvet waistcoat,
of the proper goods and chattels of the late Herman
Vanderbocker deceased, which came to the
hands of the said John to be administered, were
severally arranged in their respective stations; and
the worthy amateur, adorned with a dazzling elegance,
to which he had until that time been a
stranger, placed his fiddle triumphantly under his
arm, and marched boldly to the dwelling of the
widow Atherton.
It is necessary to explain in this place, that in
calling our hero a fiddler, we have never meant to
insinuate that he played for money. He was as
much above such mercenary considerations, as any
other lover of the fine arts. He was an amateur.
That delicate discrimination of sounds, which enables
its happy possessor to arrange the vibrations
of coarse strings and fine ones into harmony, and
that love of melodious tones and skilful combinations,
which distinguish the musician, and of which
the writer of this history has not the faintest conception,
all belonged to Johnny. He was a welcome
visiter at all the parties in the village, because
he played cotillions and contra-dances with
“accuracy and despatch,” and moreover not only
rendered such services gratuitously, but with the
utmost good humour. Whoever else was omitted,
on any such occasion, Mr. Vanderbocker was sure
to receive a formal card, or a hearty invitation, as
as an equal in every circle, and had access to
the best society in the village; a privilege which
he seldom used, but which permitted him on the
present occasion to tap at the door of Mrs. Atherton
with the air of a familiar friend.
“Good morning, Mrs. Atherton,” said our hero,
as he entered the widow's parlour, “Good morning.
How's Lucy?”
The lady, surprised at this unwonted familiarity
in the son of the village baker, raised her spectacles,
and having gazed at him for a moment in
mute astonishment, haughtily replied that Miss
Atherton was well. Johnny was glad to hear it;
but before he could express his joy, the offended
parent stalked out, and the young lady herself glided
in. “She don't know what I came for, or
she'd be more civil,” thought Johnny, as he looked
after the proud widow—but the entrance of the
daughter changed the current of his reflections.
“How d' ye do, Lucy?” said the amateur.
Lucy was thunderstruck. The young man had
never before addressed her in such a strain; but
she had too much self-possession to betray the least
embarrassment; for a reigning belle can generally
command her feelings with as much success as a
veteran politician. She returned his salutation,
therefore, with the utmost sweetness and ease of
manner, and took her seat, inwardly resolving to
penetrate into the cause of the strange revolution
of her visiter. Arrayed in the simple elegance
of a morning dress, and adorned with youth,
health, and beauty, she bent gracefully over her
work, and never looked prettier than at this moment,
when an inquisitive archness was added to
the usually intelligent expression of her countenance.
For the present, however, her curiosity
was balked; for Johnny, who really meant only to
show his tenderness, and had already advanced to
the utmost bounds of his assurance, began to falter.
The courage, which had sustained him thus far,
and which some have insinuated was borrowed
from a source that our temperance societies would
hardly approve, was fast evaporating; and after
sitting some time in silence, playing with his purple
watch-ribbon, he drew his violin from its green bag,
and enquired whether Miss Atherton would “fancy
a tune.”
The young lady declared that it always afforded
her infinite pleasure to listen to Mr. Vanderbocker's
delightful music; and in an instant the musical
machine started into action—the head fell
back, the mouth yawned, the eye-lids closed, and
Johnny, the best and drowsiest of fiddlers, added
a new proof, that even the tender passion is not
sufficiently powerful to overcome inveterate habit.
But love did not entirely quit the field, or abandon
his votary, who opened his eyes at intervals, and
bowed and smirked upon his fair auditress in a
airs he would enquire if the last tune was
not “cruel purty,” or “desparate fine,” or “eleganter
than all the rest.”
Music, which has charms to “soothe the savage
breast,” seems to have operated differently on that
of the young lady on this occasion; for the antique
velvet vest, the pink neckcloth, the smirking, the
bowing, and above all, the short naps which her
visiter seemed to enjoy with such complacency,
were altogether so irresistibly ludicrous, that in
spite of her endeavours to suppress it, she was
compelled to burst into a fit of laughter. Johnny,
who very properly considered this as an unequivocal
expression of delight, was overjoyed at his success,
and adding his own bass to the melodious
tenor of his fair companion, shook the room with
peals of obstreperous mirth.
Thus ended the first act of this comedy. The
second commences with a sprightly dialogue.
Johnny, who had now found his tongue, opened
the conversation by asking “Lucy” if she did not
think he ought to be married.
“Undoubtedly, Mr. Vanderbocker,” was the reply;
“nothing could be more proper; provided you
believe that marriage would conduce to your happiness.”
“I do n't know as I should be any happier, but
somehow I think I should be better contented.”
“Then you ought certainly to marry, for contentment
“I shall quit drinking entirely,” continued the
lover, who misunderstood the last position of the
lady.
“I am glad to hear it. Sobriety is very becoming;
particularly in married men.”
“And who do you think I ought to have.”
“O dear! I cannot tell, indeed. That is a delicate
question; and perhaps it might be necessary
to determine first who would have you.”
“I guess, a'most any of 'em would be glad to
catch at me,” replied the swain; “for father 's left
me a snug house, and three hundred dollars in silver,
besides the bake-shop.”
“Quite a fortune, I declare!” exclaimed Lucy.
“To be sure there 's some that 's richer than
me, and some better looking,” continued Johnny,
glancing at the mirror which hung opposite to him;
“but then you know, Miss Lucy—”
—“That half a loaf is better than no bread,”
added the young lady, ironically.
“Yes—just so—that 's my idee to a notch, a half
bread, as you say, is better than no loaf, and so—
three hundred dollars and a house and lot—”
“And gentle Mr. Vanderbocker into the bargain,
would be a comfortable lot for any lady. Surely
the girls in Herkimer ought not to hesitate, for the
temptation is very great!”
“An't it?” exclaimed Johnny, in a tone of exultation.
own question. “It is n't every gal that gets such
a chance. Now I 'll tell you a secret,” continued
he, lowering his voice—“if you 'll have me, it 's
all your own, me and the fiddle, the three hundred
dollars, the bake-shop, and all!”
“The impudent fellow!” thought Lucy; but she
had the politeness and good sense to suppress that
thought. A lady is never seriously offended with
the swain who offers to marry her; for however
humble may be the source from which the proposition
emanates, it is still a compliment. Lucy's
list of conquests was tolerably long for blooming
nineteen, and the name of Johnny would add but
little dignity to the train; yet truth obliges me to
record that a slight blush, and a very slight toss of
the head, with a glance at the mirror, showed that
the tribute of admiration was not unwelcome even
from our hero. She civilly, but peremptorily declined
the honour which he had intended for her,
and adding, “You must excuse me now, sir, I have
other engagements,” left the room.
“Other engagements!” thought Johnny, “that
means that she is going to be married to somebody
else. What a dunce was I not to speak first!”
And he retired, deeply chagrined, and not a little
puzzled, that a young lady of marriageable age and
sound discretion, who was not worth a cent, should
refuse a neat cottage, a bake-shop, and three hundred
dollars, with the slight incumbrance of himself
made a previous engagement with another gentleman!
Had there been a mill-pond at Mrs. Atherton's
front door, our hero would undoubtedly have
drowned himself; and it is altogether probable that
he would even have gone out of his way to seek
the means of self-destruction, had he not prudently
reflected that the estate of Herman Vanderbocker,
deceased, was not yet fully administered, nor the
leather bags emptied. To leave this treasure vacant,
and the bake-shop unoccupied, would have
been rashness. But he felt unhappy. His heart,
which had been as light as a hot roll, was now as
heavy as dough; and being little disposed to mingle
in company, he determined to mount his horse, and
take a short ride. How far he went, or what he
thought of, I am unable to say, as I dined that day
with Mrs. Atherton, and spent the afternoon in assisting
her lovely daughter to draw patterns, a fact
which will account for my intimate knowledge of
the events of the morning.
It was nearly night, when Johnny, who was trotting
briskly homewards, overtook a stranger within
a mile or two of the village. He was a tall, slim
man, mounted on a high, strong, bony horse; but
he was so muffled up, from top to toe, that our
hero could not tell whether he was old or young,
gentle or simple. His hat was covered with an
oil-cloth, his legs were enveloped in ample wrappers
and over all he wore one of those uncouth but
comfortable coats, fabricated out of a green Mackinaw
blanket, which are so common on the Mississippi.
His horse was covered with mud, aud evidently
tired. His own appearance was way-worn,
and weather-beaten. He seemed to have travelled
far, and faced many a storm. Before him were a
pair of large holster pistols; behind him, a roll containing
his surtout and umbrella; and across the
saddle, a pair of immense saddle bags, fastened with
a brass padlock.
Johnny, who had all the fiddler's wonted love of
company, and was particularly averse to riding
alone in the dark, trotted up along side of the stranger,
and accosted him with a cheerful “Good evening.”
The traveller nodded stiffly, without deigning to
turn his head.
Johnny gazed wistfully at the jaded rider, the
tired nag, the Mackinaw blanket, the leggins, and
other fixens, as we say in the West, and wondered
who this could be, that was so strangely accoutred,
and was too proud to return a civil salutation. Determined
to satisfy his curiosity, he tried to commence
a conversation, by making some common-place
remark about the weather; but, as this elicited
no other reply than a cold monosyllable, he resolved
to make a bold push, and come to the point at once.
“You seem to be travelling, mister,” said he.
“You have guessed right,” replied the traveller.
“Have you travelled far, if it's a fair question?”
“Tolerably.”
Now this reply seemed to our hero most perplexingly
inexplicit. “Tolerably” might comprise ten
miles, or twenty, or a hundred, but it could not
apply to a long journey. He took another look at
the leggins, the pistols, and the green blanket coat,
and, edging up to the stranger, thought he would try
it again.
“Well, mister,” said he, “if I mought make so
bold, where did you come from?”
“Just back here,” was the laconic reply.
“From Oneida?”
“No; further back.”
“From Cataraugus?”
“No; further back.”
Johnny considered a moment—for his stock of
geographical knowledge was but slender—and again
pushed his enquiries.
“I guess, may be, you came all the way from
Buffalo?”
“No; further back.”
Johnny scratched his head, in some amazement,
and edged off from the stranger, as if fearful he had
fallen into bad company; but his curiosity over-coming
every other feeling, he continued;—“Why
I don't know as any body lives any further off than
that. If I mought make so free, what's back of
Buffalo?”
“Ohio.”
“O—o—h! yes! sure enough! So you live in
Ohio?”
“No; further back.”
“Well, what's back of that?”
“Indiana.”
“And do you live there?”
“No; further back.”
“And what's back of that?”
“Illinois.”
“Oh! you live in Illinois.”
“No I don't.”
“Where do you live?”
“Further back.”
“I guess you don't live at all!” exclaimed Johnny
trembling all over, for it was now growing dark,
and the tall stranger, who seemed to have ridden so
hard and so far, appeared to deny being an inhabitant
of this world. But Johnny thought he would
try another question.
“Well, mister, if it's no harm, what's back of
Illinois?”
“Missouri.”
“Do you live there?”
“Yes.”
Johnny absolutely started, and stood up in his
stirrups, and a cold chill ran over him; for the
conversation was brought to a dead stand by this
reply, with a shock resembling that with which a
steamboat, under rapid way, is checked by a snag.
a long breath, he exclaimed—
“Well, I'm glad on't. I am almost out of breath
in finding it out. I don't know how you stood it to
travel so far; it must be a long way off. How far
is it, sir, if it's a fair question?”
“Something over a thousand miles. And now,”
said the stranger, “as I have answered all your
enquiries, I hope you will allow me to put a few
questions to you.”
“O certainly.”
“Do you live in this village?”
“Yes—I was born here.”
“What's your business?”
“I'm a gentleman.”
“What does your father do for a living?”
“Nothing.”
“What is he?”
“He is a dead man.”
“Do you know Mrs. Atherton?”
“Yes—do you?”
“Is her daughter married?”
“No, indeed, far from it.”
“Why far from it?”
“She refused an excellent offer this morning.”
“From whom?”
“That's a secret.”
“How do you know this if it is a secret?”
“I had it from herself. But here is the hotel, I'll
bid you a good evening.”
“Stay. Have you any objection to carry a note
to Miss Atherton?”
“I can't say as I have.”
“Well, then, as she seems to have made you her
confidant, I will entrust you with one.” So saying,
he stepped into the tavern, and in a few minutes
returned with a neat billet, which he put into the
hands of Johnny, requesting him to be particularly
careful to deliver it to Lucy herself.
Proud of an office which would introduce him into
the presence of her who had occupied so large a
share of his thoughts, he departed with alacrity, but
meeting with some of his companions, who detained
him, sorely against his will, more than an hour
elapsed before he reached the dwelling of Mrs.
Atherton. That lady and her fair daughter were
seated, tête á tête, at their work-stand, when a modest
knock was heard at the door, and in a few moments
the crest fallen Johnny Vanderbocker stood
before them. Bowing reverently to both ladies, he
advanced in silence, and laid the note before Lucy,
who at first took it up with hesitation, supposing
that it contained an effusion of the bearer's own
hopeless passion; but no sooner had the superscription
caught her eye, than she tore it open, and exclaimed,
“He is come, he is come! Mother, mother!
he is come!”
“Who is come?” enquired Johnny, whose feelings
were too much excited to permit him to remain
silent. But Lucy's head had fallen upon her
her cheeks, while the good lady's eyes were also
filled.
“Never mind,” said Johnny, in a soothing tone;
don't be scared, ladies. If he does carry horse
pistols, he is not a going to do as he pleases in
Herkimer. Don't, don't cry, Miss Lucy—I'll fight
for you as long as I can stand.” At this juncture,
the door again opened, and the stranger stood before
them. The blanket-coat fell from his shoulders,
and Lucy Atherton rushed into his arms. “Dear
Lucy!” “Dear Charles!” was all they could utter.
Mrs. Atherton glided out of the room. “The old
lady does not like you either,” thought Johnny;
“she served me just so.”
“Three are poor company,” continued Johnny
to himself, and he too retired; but he had the consolation
of believing that he had found a complete
solution of the mystery of the young lady's conduct
in the morning. “She would never,” he argued,
“have refused me, and three hundred dollars, and
the bake-shop, if she had n't been engaged already.
She was sorry about it, no doubt, though she did
pretend not to mind it. Dear me, what a pity! the
poor thing laughed so, and was so overjoyed when
I went there a-courting to-day, and now this great
backwoodsman has come from nobody knows where,
to carry her off. Well she knows her own business
best. Three hundred dollars won't go a begging
long in Herkimer. So good-bye to Lucy Atherton.”
But manfully as our hero strove against his disappointment,
it preyed upon him, and for two days he
remained in his own house quite disconsolate, moping
about like a hypochondriac, and poking the fire with
the petulance of a bachelor who is past hope, or—
past forty. At the end of that time he received an
unexpected visit from the stranger. Stripped of his
blanket-coat and leggins, and disarmed of those
ferocious weapons which had excited our hero's
curiosity so strongly, he seemed another person.
Although somewhat above the ordinary stature, his
person was slender and genteel, his face, which was
browned by exposure to the weather, was remarkably
handsome, and his address frank and easy. His
age might have been two or three and twenty, but
having already mixed with the world, and felt the
touch of care, he had the manners of an older man.
“Mr. Vanderbocker,” said he, “you guided me into
the village the other evening, when I was tired and
perhaps less sociable than I ought to have been, and
I have called to thank you for your civility, and to
request the pleasure of your company on to-morrow
evening at Mrs. Atherton's.” Johnny pleaded his
black coat, and tried to beg off; for he had heard it
whispered that Lucy was to give her hand to the
handsome stranger, and felt but little inclination to
be present at the wedding. His visiter, however,
pressed him, adding, “Miss Atherton esteems you
as one of her earliest friends, and will have it so.”
“I will go then,” said Johnny, greatly soothed by
such he had learned was the stranger's name, “will
you be kind enough to tell me how you managed to
court one of our Herkimer ladies, without ever setting
your foot in the village—our belle, too, that has
had so many good offers at home?” Mr. Wilkinson
smiled, and replied, “Lucy and myself met at
Schenectady, where we were both going to shcool,
and were well enough pleased with each other to
agree to unite our destinies. Her father was but
recently deceased, and she was supposed to have
inherited a fortune, while my own circumstances
were such that it was with difficulty I completed
my education. Mrs. Atherton might possibly have
taken these things into consideration; at all events,
her views differed from ours, and she no sooner
heard of our attachment than she took Lucy home,
and, rather haughtily as I thought, forbade my
visiting at her house. Poor Lucy! her fortune
turned out to be illusory. Her father had died a
bankrupt, and left his family so destitute, that Mrs.
Atherton had to struggle with many difficulties.
Though they have kept up a genteel appearance, I
fear they have sometimes wanted even the necessaries
of life. But Lucy lived through it all with a
gay heart, and a noble spirit, and refused, as you
remark, many a good offer. As for me, I went to
the West, mortified at having been spurned from
the door of a proud woman, and determined to
earn that wealth and distinction, which I saw could
Lucy's family. I went, friendless and pennyless,
to the shores of the Mississippi, where not a heart
beat responsive to my own, and where I was exposed
to many hardships and dangers. But I was
so eminently successful in business, that I am already
independent, and able to claim the fulfilment
of her promise. There is no objection now on the
part of either mother or daughter, and, to-morrow
evening, I shall become the happy possessor of
Lucy's hand.”
“You deserve it,” said Johnny, sobbing, “indeed
you do—for, simple as I seem, and simple as
I be, I'm not the lad to envy a true lover and a
generous-hearted girl their happiness. But do you
intend to take her `further back?' ” added he,
pointing significantly to the West.
“Yes, that is my home now.”
“Good luck to you both, then. I will certainly
attend the wedding; and if father had been dead a
little longer, I would play for you, that I might see
Miss Lucy dance for the last time. Yes, it would
be the last time. Never will I see such another
figure on the floor. And never shall any other
woman dance to music of mine. I'll hang up my
fiddle. There will be nobody in the village fit to
play for when she is gone. I have played my last
tune, and I shall now do as my father did—bake
bread, and lock up my dollars in the old oak
chest.”
Johnny kept his word. Several years have
passed, and he may now be seen any summer's
day, seated at the door of his cottage, with a red
night-cap on his head, and a short black pipe in his
mouth, chuckling over the idea that he has more
hard dollars under lock and key than any man in
the village. He bakes excellent bread, gives good
weight, and drinks nothing but his own beer, while
the sound of a violin, or the smile of a woman,
never gladdens his roof, and
The soul of music shed,
Now hangs as mute on Tara's walls,
As if that soul were fled.”
| THE VILLAGE MUSICIAN. The soldier's bride and other tales | |