 | CHAPTER IX.
MR. CLEMENT LINDSAY RECEIVES A LETTER, AND BEGINS
HIS ANSWER. The guardian angel |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
MR. CLEMENT LINDSAY RECEIVES A LETTER, AND BEGINS
HIS ANSWER.
IT was already morning when a young man living in
the town of Alderbank, after lying awake for an hour,
thinking the unutterable thoughts that nineteen years of
life bring to the sleeping and waking dreams of young
people, rose from his bed, and, half dressing himself, sat
down at his desk, from which he took a letter, which he
opened and read. It was written in a delicate, though
hardly formed female hand, and crossed like a checkerboard,
as is usual with these redundant manuscripts. The
letter was as follows: —
“My dearest Clement, — You was so good to write
me such a sweet little bit of a letter, — only, dear, you
never seem to be in quite so good spirits as you used to be.
I wish your Susie was with you to cheer you up; but no,
she must be patient, and you must be patient too, for you
are so ambitious! I have heard you say so many times
that nobody could be a great artist without passing years
and years at work, and growing pale and lean with thinking
so hard. You won't grow pale and lean, I hope; for I do
so love to see that pretty color in your cheeks you have
always had ever since I have known you; and besides, I do
not believe you will have to work so very hard to do something
great, — you have so much genius, and people of
genius do such beautiful things with so little trouble. You
sent you? Well, Mr. Hopkins told me he wrote those lines
in one evening without stopping! I wish you could see
Mr. Hopkins, — he is a very talented person. I cut out
this little piece about him from the paper on purpose to show
you, — for genius loves genius, — and you would like to
hear him read his own poetry, — he reads it beautifully.
Please send this piece from the paper back, as I want to
put it in my scrap-book, under his autograph: —
“`Our young townsman, Mr. Gifted Hopkins, has proved himself worthy of the
name he bears. His poetical effusions are equally creditable to his head and his
heart, displaying the highest order of genius and powers of imagination and fancy
hardly second to any writer of the age. He is destined to make a great sensation
in the world of letters.'
“Mrs. Hopkins is the same good soul she always was.
She is very proud of her son, as is natural, and keeps a
copy of everything he writes. I believe she cries over
them every time she reads them. You don't know how I
take to little Sossy and Minthy, those two twins I have
written to you about before. Poor little creatures, — what
a cruel thing it was in their father and mother not to take
care of them! What do you think? Old bachelor Gridley
lets them come up into his room, and builds forts and
castles for them with his big books! `The world 's coming
to an end,' Mrs. Hopkins said the first time he did so. He
looks so savage with that scowl of his, and talks so gruff
when he is scolding at things in general, that nobody
would have believed he would have let such little things
come anywhere near him. But he seems to be growing
kind to all of us and everybody. I saw him talking to the
Fire-hang-bird the other day. You know who the Fire-hang-bird
is, don't you? Myrtle Hazard her name is. I
wish you could see her. I don't know as I do, though.
You would want to make a statue of her, or a painting, I
round to see her come out of meeting. Some say that
Lawyer Bradshaw is after her; but my! he is ten years
older than she is. She is nothing but a girl, though she
looks as if she was eighteen. She lives up at a place called
The Poplars, with an old woman that is her aunt or something,
and nobody seems to be much acquainted with her
except Olive Eveleth, who is the minister's daughter at
Saint Bartholomew's Church. She never has beauxs
round her, as some young girls do — they say that she is not
happy with her aunt and another woman that stays with
her, and that is the reason she keeps so much to herself.
The minister came to see me the other day, — Mr. Stoker
his name is. I was all alone, and it frightened me, for he
looks, O, so solemn on Sundays! But he called me `My
dear,' and did n't say anything horrid, you know, about my
being such a dreadful, dreadful sinner, as I have heard of
his saying to some people, — but he looked very kindly at
me, and took my hand, and laid his hand on my shoulder like
a brother, and hoped I would come and see him in his
study. I suppose I must go, but I don't want to. I don't
seem to like him exactly.
“I hope you love me as well as ever you did. I can't
help feeling sometimes as if you was growing away from
me, — you know what I mean, — getting to be too great a
person for such a small person as I am. I know I can't always
understand you when you talk about art, and that you
know a great deal too much for such a simple girl as I am.
O, if I thought I could never make you happy!....
There, now! I am almost ashamed to send this paper so
spotted. — Gifted Hopkins wrote some beautiful verses one
day on `A Maiden Weeping.' He compared the tears falling
upon the flowers in the morning. Is n't it a pretty thought?
“I wish I loved art as well as I do poetry; but I am
afraid I have not so much taste as some girls have. You
remember how I liked that picture in the illustrated magazine,
and you said it was horrid. I have been afraid since
to like almost anything, for fear you should tell me some
time or other it was horrid. Don't you think I shall ever
learn to know what is nice from what is n't?
“O, dear Clement, I wish you would do one thing to
please me. Don't say no, for you can do everything you
try to, — I am sure you can. I want you to write me
some poetry, — just three or four little verses To Susie.
O, I should feel so proud to have some lines written all on
purpose for me. Mr Hopkins wrote some the other day,
and printed them in the paper, `To M—e.' I believe
he meant them for Myrtle, — the first and last letter of
her name, you see, `M' and `e.'
“Your letter was a dear one, only so short! I wish you
would tell me all about what you are doing at Alderbank.
Have you made that model of Innocence that is to have
my forehead, and hair parted like mine! Make it pretty,
do, that is a darling.
“Now don't make a face at my letter. It is n't a very
good one, I know; but your poor little Susie does the best
she can, and she loves you so much!
“Now do be nice and write me one little bit of a mite of
a poem, — it will make me just as happy!
“I am very well, and as happy as I can be when you are
away.
(Directed to Mr. Clement Lindsay, Alderbank.)
The envelope of this letter was unbroken, as was before
said, when the young man took it from his desk. He did
not tear it with the hot impatience of some lovers, but cut
it open neatly, slowly, one would say sadly. He read it
with an air of singular effort, and yet with a certain tenderness.
When he had finished it, the drops were thick on
his forehead; he groaned and put his hands to his face,
which was burning red.
This was what the impulse of boyhood, years ago, had
brought him to! He was a stately youth, of noble bearing,
of high purpose, of fastidious taste; and, if his broad forehead,
his clear, large blue eyes, his commanding features,
his lips, firm, yet plastic to every change of thought and
feeling, were not an empty mask, might not improbably
claim that Promethean quality of which the girl's
letter had spoken, — the strange, divine, dread gift of
genius.
This poor, simple, innocent, trusting creature, so utterly
incapable of coming into any true relation with his aspiring
mind, his large and strong emotions, — this mere child, all
simplicity and goodness, but trivial and shallow as the little
babbling brooklet that ran by his window to the river, to
lose its insignificant being in the swift torrent he heard
rushing over the rocks, — this pretty idol for a weak and
kindly and easily satisfied worshipper, was to be enthroned
as the queen of his affections, to be adopted as the companion
of his labors! The boy, led by the commonest instinct,
the mere attraction of biped to its female, which accident
had favored, had thrown away the dearest possession of
manhood, — liberty, — and this bawble was to be his lifelong
reward! And yet not a bawble either, for a pleasing
person and a gentle and sweet nature, which had once
were still hers. Alas! her simple words were true, —
he had grown away from her. Her only fault was that
she had not grown with him, and surely he could not reproach
her with that.
“No,” he said to himself, “I will never leave her so
long as her heart clings to me. I have been rash, but she
shall not pay the forfeit. And if I may think of myself,
my life need not be wretched because she cannot share all
my being with me. The common human qualities are
more than all exceptional gifts. She has a woman's
heart; and what talent of mine is to be named by the
love a true woman can offer in exchange for these divided
and cold affections? If it had pleased God to mate me
with one more equal in other ways, who could share my
thoughts, who could kindle my inspiration, who had wings
to rise into the air with me as well as feet to creep by my
side upon the earth, — what cannot such a woman do for a
man!
“What! cast away the flower I took in the bud because
it does not show as I hoped it would when it opened? I will
stand by my word; I will be all as a man that I promised
as a boy. Thank God, she is true and pure and sweet.
My nest will be a peaceful one; but I must take wing
alone, — alone.”
He drew one long sigh, and the cloud passed from his
countenance. He must answer that letter now, — at once.
There were reasons, he thought, which made it important.
And so, with the cheerfulness which it was kind and becoming
to show, so far as possible, and yet with a little
excitement on one particular point, which was the cause
of his writing so promptly, he began his answer.
“My dear Susie, — I have just been reading your
pleasant letter; and if I do not send you the poem you
ask for so eloquently, I will give you a little bit of advice,
which will do just as well, — won't it, my dear? I was
interested in your account of various things going on at
Oxbow Village. I am very glad you find young Mr. Hopkins
so agreeable a friend. His poetry is better than some
which I see printed in the village papers, and seems generally
unexceptionable in its subjects and tone. I do not believe
he is a dangerous companion, though the habit of writing
verse does not always improve the character. I think I have
seen it make more than one of my acquaintances idle, conceited,
sentimental, and frivolous, — perhaps it found them
so already. Don't make too much of his talent, and particularly
don't let him think that because he can write verses
he has nothing else to do in this world. That is for his
benefit, dear, and you must skilfully apply it.
“Now about yourself. My dear Susie, there was something
in your letter that did not please me. You speak of
a visit from the Rev. Mr. Stoker, and of his kind, brotherly
treatment, his cordiality of behavior, and his asking you to
visit him in his study. I am very glad to hear you say
that you `don't seem to like him.' He is very familiar,
it seems to me, for so new an acquaintance. What business
had he to be laying his hand on your shoulder? I
should like to see him try these free-and-easy ways in my
presence! He would not have taken that liberty, my
dear! No, he was alone with you, and thought it safe
to be disrespectfully familiar. I want you to maintain
your dignity always with such persons, and I beg you
not to go to the study of this clergyman, unless some older
the visit. I must speak plainly to you, my dear, as I have
a right to. If the minister has anything of importance to
say, let it come through the lips of some mature person.
It may lose something of the fervor with which it would
have been delivered at first hand, but the great rules of
Christian life are not so dependent on the particular individual
who speaks them, that you must go to this or that
young man to find out what they are. If to any man, I
should prefer the old gentleman whom you have mentioned
in your letters, Father Pemberton. You understand me,
my dear girl, and the subject is not grateful. You know
how truly I am interested in all that relates to you, —
that I regard you with an affection which — ”
Help! Help! Help!
A cry as of a young person's voice was heard faintly,
coming from the direction of the river. Something in the
tone of it struck to his heart, and he sprang as if he had
been stabbed. He flung open his chamber window and
leaped from it to the ground. He ran straight to the bank
of the river by the side of which the village of Alderbank
was built, a little farther down the stream than the house in
which he was living.
Everybody that travels in that region knows the beautiful
falls which break the course of the river just above
the village; narrow and swift, and surrounded by rocks
of such picturesque forms that they are sought and admired
by tourists. The stream was now swollen, and rushed in
a deep and rapid current over the ledges, through the
rocky straits, plunging at last in tumult and foam, with
loud, continuous roar, into the depths below the cliff from
which it tumbled.
A short distance above the fall there projected from the
water a rock which had, by parsimonious saving during a
long course of years, hoarded a little soil, out of which a
small tuft of bushes struggled to support a decent vegetable
existence. The high waters had nearly submerged it,
but a few slender twigs were seen above their surface.
A skiff was lying close to this rock, between it and the
brink of the fall, which was but a few rods farther down.
In the skiff was a youth of fourteen or fifteen years, holding
by the slender twigs, the boat dragging at them all the
time, and threatening to tear them away and go over the
fall. It was not likely that the boy would come to shore
alive if it did. There were stories, it is true, that the
Indians used to shoot the fall in their canoes with safety;
but everybody knew that at least three persons had been
lost by going over it since the town was settled; and more
than one dead body had been found floating far down the
river, with bruises and fractured bones, as if it had taken
the same fatal plunge.
There was no time to lose. Clement ran a little way
up the river-bank, flung off his shoes, and sprang from the
bank as far as he could leap into the water. The current
swept him toward the fall, but he worked nearer and
nearer the middle of the stream. He was making for the
rock, thinking he could plant his feet upon it and at the
worst hold the boat until he could summon other help by
shouting. He had barely got his feet upon the rock, when
the twigs by which the boy was holding gave way. He
seized the boat, but it dragged him from his uncertain footing,
and with a desperate effort he clambered over its side,
and found himself its second doomed passenger.
There was but an instant for thought.
“Sit still,” he said, “and, just as we go over, put your
arms round me under mine, and don't let go for your
life!”
He caught up the single oar, and with a few sharp paddle-strokes
brought the skiff into the blackest centre of the
current, where it was deepest, and would plunge them into
the deepest pool.
“Hold your breath! God save us! Now!”
They rose, as if with one will, and stood for an instant,
the arms of the younger closely embracing the other as he
had directed.
A sliding away from beneath them of the floor on which
they stood, as the drop fails under the feet of a felon. A
great rush of air, and a mighty, awful, stunning roar, — an
involuntary gasp, a choking flood of water that came bellowing
after them, and hammered them down into the
black depths so far that the young man, though used to diving
and swimming long distances under water, had well-nigh
yielded to the fearful need of air, and sucked in his
death in so doing.
The boat came up to the surface, broken in twain, splintered,
a load of firewood for those who raked the river
lower down. It had turned crosswise, and struck the rocks.
A cap rose to the surface, such a one as boys wear, — the
same that boy had on. And then — after how many
seconds by the watch cannot be known, but after a time
long enough, as the young man remembered it, to live his
whole life over in memory — Clement Lindsay felt the
blessed air against his face, and, taking a great breath, came
to his full consciousness. The arms of the boy were still
locked around him as in the embrace of death. A few
strokes brought him to the shore, dragging his senseless
burden with him.
He unclasped the arms that held him so closely encircled,
and laid the slender form of the youth he had almost died
to save gently upon the grass. It was as if dead. He
loosed the ribbon that was round the neck, he tore open
the checked shirt —
The story of Myrtle Hazard's sex was told; but she was
deaf to his cry of surprise, and no blush came to her cold
cheek. Not too late, perhaps, to save her, — not too late
to try to save her, at least!
He placed his lips to hers, and filled her breast with the
air from his own panting chest. Again and again he renewed
these efforts, hoping, doubting, despairing, — once
more hoping, and at last, when he had almost ceased to
hope, she gasped, she breathed, she moaned, and rolled her
eyes wildly round her, — she was born again into this
mortal life.
He caught her up in his arms, bore her to the house,
laid her on a sofa, and, having spent his strength in this
last effort, reeled and fell, and lay as one over whom have
just been whispered the words, “He is gone.”
| CHAPTER IX.
MR. CLEMENT LINDSAY RECEIVES A LETTER, AND BEGINS
HIS ANSWER. The guardian angel | |