University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
LOVERS' TRIALS.

For the space of an hour Albert Corrinton
remained in his office, disconsolate, sullen, angry
with the world. Nobody called to renew
old associations, to give him joy on his reentrance
into the world.

Thus he remained an hour alone, unspeakably
wretched. At the end of that time he
said to himself, —

“Why am I thus cast down? What weakness
is this I am guilty of, that the coldness of
Mrs. Silby, the scorn and hatred of Mr. Brance,
and the suspicions of a hundred others, crush
me thus easily? Conscious of my innocence, I
can frown down a world of fools. I can repay
suspicion with scorn, scorn with hatred, coldness
with contempt.”

The young man went forth. He left his
threshold to confront the world. In the tavern
he met Mr. Brance, whom he would doubtless
have overwhelmed with disdain, had not
that gentleman turned his back, as if he had

not observed him. Several respectable and influential
men, whose favor Corrinton had generally
enjoyed, were conversing with Mr. Brance;
and all of them regarded him coldly, bowing
stiffly, and treating him with marked reserve.
The young man looked full an inch taller as he
turned haughtily and walked away.

He called for his horse. The hostler led the
animal out, and the doctor patted his glossy
neck. The horse smelt of him, looked at him
strangely, and ended in making manifest his
pleasure by a fond drooping of his head on his
master's shoulder.

“Here is one true friend!” thought Albert.
“Would I had a trusty dog, that I might say I
had two!”

He mounted and rode off, while the eyes of
all Verfield followed him in wonder.

The “Indian summer” was over. The
trees had cast off their gorgeous garments, and
the soft, dreamy atmosphere of October had
given place to the clearer, more bracing November
air. The fields appeared in sober coats
of faded green; the wind swept through the
desolate woods with dreary moanings; and
dry and withered leaves filled the woodland

hollows, and rotted on the ground. But the
weather was not cold, and the sun shone with
brilliancy; and but for the wintry aspect of the
woods, all nature would have looked smiling.

Riding amid familiar scenes, on such a
day, Albert's eye could distinguish no beauty
in what he saw; his heart could gather no
cheerfulness from any thing around him. He
felt himself unjustly condemned, — an outcast
without cause, — and his bosom was filled with
bitterness. The walls of the jail had appeared
less dreary to his eye than those very scenes
which he had once so much admired and
loved.

He was still strong in his determination to
frown down suspicion, and to crush and outlive
scorn. He returned to his office; engaged the
lad who formerly had the care of it to sweep
it, dust it, and put it in perfect order; dined at
the tavern, amid a crowd of people who regarded
him with undisguised feelings of curiosity,
horror, and suspicion; and walked away at
last with an air of true dignity, as if he enjoyed
his notoriety, and felt himself honored.

Once more the young doctor sat in his office,
waiting for practice. Thus the day wore

away, and nothing took place to assure him
that his friends had not all deserted him. Nobody
called to see him, except two or three
young gentlemen of his acquaintance for whom
he cared but little; the man who had engaged
to remove to his office such articles as had
been conveyed thence to the jail during his
confinement; and one or two others who came
to see him on business.

The evening was chilly; and Corrinton,
wrapped in his cloak, which he drew over his
face, went forth into the village. His hat
shaded his brow, and he walked among his fellow-citizens
unknown. Groups were gathered
about the tavern, stores, shops, and in public
places, and every where the conversation was
about the murder and the trial. Corrinton
heard his name coupled with villanous epithets,
and comments of the freest nature were
made on his character by men whose esteem
he once enjoyed. Shuddering with horror, his
heart bursting with indignation, pain, and anguish,
he walked from group to group, and listened
to the calumny heaped upon his name.
Some declared that it was nothing but the
anti-hanging principles of the jury which prevented

his conviction; others argued that, although
there could be no doubt of his guilt, the
evidence was insufficient to convict him; a
few — an inglorious few — contended that the
verdict was true and just, and that the prisoner
was innocent of crime. The general voice was
against him; slanderous rumors of villanies he
was supposed to have perpetrated years before
were whispered round; and he heard more
than one malicious tongue predict that his
guilt would yet be proved, and that he “would
have to swing!”

The feelings of a sensitive, impulsive man
like Corrinton, listening to such calumny, cannot
be described. He gnawed his nether lip
until the blood crimsoned his beard, to restrain
his fiery tongue from hurling defiance and
scorn at the fools whose idle tongues stirred up
his soul with rage. He did restrain himself.
He took his way along a dark and deserted
road, and across a desolate field, and approached
Mr. Sorrel's house. He wished to
see Alice. He felt that she alone could calm
his troubled bosom. A domestic answered his
summons, and he inquired for Miss Silby.

“What name shall I give?” asked the

girl, looking curiously at the dark figure
before her.

“Corrinton,” answered the young man in a
deep voice, casting back the folds of his cloak,
and stepping forward into the light.

The girl disappeared with wonderful alacrity.
In a few moments she returned to Albert,
whom she had left standing in the hall.

“She is engaged,” said she, in an unsteady
voice.

Albert took a sudden step forward. The
girl took two very sudden steps backward.

“I wish to see Miss Silby!” he repeated, in
a tone of authority.

“She — is — en — engaged!” stammered the
domestic.

“Then I will see Mrs. Silby,” replied Corrinton.

The girl disappeared again, as if she felt
an inexpressible relief at getting away from the
young physician.

A minute later, and Albert saw before him
the tall, stately figure, the severe brow, the
cold, searching eyes of Mrs. Silby.

Albert removed his hat respectfully.

“I am anxious to know if your daughter

refuses to see me,” said he, in a voice of deep
and subdued passion.

“We, her friends, by whom she is influenced
and governed, think it best that she should not
see you,” answered Mrs. Silby, with great
firmness and severity.

“Well and good!” said Albert, with a profound
bow and a bitter curling of his lip. “I
only wished to know if it was her desire or
your will which was opposed to my seeing her.
I wish you a very good night.”

And the young man, having saluted Mrs.
Silby with praiseworthy politeness, gracefully
and deliberately withdrew.

Half an hour after, Corrinton was sitting
alone in his solitary office, the most desolate,
the most angry, the most wretched of men.
He was surprised in the midst of his bitter reflections
by the entrance of a visitor. Mr.
Joseph Sorrel, bowing with unaffected deference,
stood before him.

“Well, my good friend,” said Albert, “I am
glad to see you. Sit down. What news have
you, Joseph?”

“None,” answered Mr. Sorrel; “that is, I
have — this!”

And Joseph produced from the depths of his
coat pocket a letter, which he placed in Corrinton's
hands.

“From Alice — my charming cousin,” said
the young man. “I have the honor to be her
bearer of despatches.”

Corrinton broke open the note, and read as
follows: —

This was all, but it was enough for Albert's
understanding. He seemed, in opening the
brief epistle, to have opened a casket of jewels,
which shed flashes of sunshine on his face and
all around him.

“It was very kind in you, Joseph, to bring
me this,” said the doctor. “I don't know how
I shall repay the many obliging acts for which
I am indebted to your generosity.”

“O, don't speak of it,” cried Joseph, twirling
his hat in his hands. “I'd be glad to do any
thing for Alice, if I never got a `thank you'
for it. I am as devoted to her as the knights
of old to their fair ladies; though I don't

expect any return for my devotion,” he added,
in a tone verging on melancholy.

“You must be very fond of her, I am sure,”
said Corrinton, sympathetically.

“You've no idea!” exclaimed the warm-hearted
Joseph.

“Perhaps not,” said the doctor, smiling.

“I should love her to distraction,” added the
younger Mr. Sorrel, plunging his eyes into the
bottom of his hat, “if she had ever given me
the least encouragement. Cousinly affection
she gives me, but nothing more; and I suppose
I must be resigned.”

“What has become of Miss Fantom?”
asked the doctor. “I understood you were at
one time quite attentive —”

“I was,” said Joseph. “She is a fine girl —
a very spirited woman. But, unfortunately, she
has a passion for ferocious beards — a strange
fancy for outlandish mustaches.”

“It strikes me, you indulged in a little display
of hair on your upper lip, at one time,
Joseph?”

Mr. Sorrel stroked that part of his physiognomy,
which was very clean and smooth, and
smiling faintly, replied, —

“Your impression is correct, doctor. I did
raise a mustache. That is — I didn't. I only
made an attempt. I understood Miss Fantom's
passion for bearded faces. My mustache,
therefore, and my love for her, sprouted
simultaneously. They grew together, doctor.”

“Neither ever amounted to much, I suspect,”
said Corrinton.

“Well — no. I am not a monster by nature,
and I have not by nature a monstrous beard.
My mustache progressed slowly; so did my
suit with Miss Fantom. She gave a little encouragement
to both; but as her regard for
men was measured by their beards, I am afraid
I never rose very high in her affections. She
could not appreciate a civilized aspect — a
clean-shaved face. But I am naturally ambitious.
I had hope. I fostered my love and
my mustache with remarkable patience and
zeal. One night, however, she laughed at me;
disdained my suit; made fun of my mustache.
It was too much. My love died like a
lucifer match in a pail of water, and next
morning I made my appearance with a smooth-shaved
upper lip. Miss Fantom's rage for
monstrosities was too much for me.”

“So you have broken off with her?”

“Yes. That is — no. The truth is, she
broke off with me. And I don't regret it. Besides
the strange fancy for beards, she was too
spirited for me. She was always getting me
into difficulties. Do you remember the black
eye I carried for two weeks last summer? It
was the consequence of my chivalric devotion
to Miss F.”

“No!”

“Fact. Miss Fantom was always being
insulted when I had the honor of being her
protector. There is no end to the apologies
she has made me demand of the most terrible
fellows, who had no more regard for me than I
for a mosquito. I was walking out with her
one Sunday afternoon, when we met a barbarian,
who nodded to Miss F. in — I thought —
a very respectful manner.

“`O Heavens!' says she, faintly.

“`What, dear?' says I.

“`That man insulted me!' says Miss F.

“I knew what was coming, and shuddered
at the thought of being compelled to ask an
apology of such a Hercules of a man. But,
bless you, doctor, I couldn't get off. She had

never been introduced to the individual; he had
saluted her; therefore it was an insult. She
threatened to proclaim me a coward, and cast
me off forever, if I didn't protect her better.
So I went to the slaughter like a lamb. Miss
F. sat down on a stone, and watched me with
a little the coolest eyes I ever saw. I believe
she would have smiled to see me step off a
precipice into the ocean.

“`Beg pardon, sir,' says I to the stout fellow;
and I assure you, doctor, I was very
civil.

“Hercules smiled savagely.

“`Well,' says he, `what is it?'

“I stated the case in the most gentlemanly
manner, and I am sure my tone and language
were the most conciliatory I could command.
Now, how do you suppose my overtures were
received? Without the least provocation, the
Titan pulled my nose. What happened next
I don't know, for I was suddenly dazzled by
the illumination of the whole inside of my
head! And the next moment I was crawling
out of a ditch half full of water. It was my
impression that I had been struck, and, on
reflection, I became fully convinced of the fact.

I felt very dizzy and sick, and actually believe
I should have fainted, if it hadn't been for my
cold bath and the water my clothes had soaked
up in the ditch. As soon as I had collected
my scattered senses, I looked around for my
antagonist. Now, doctor, what do you think
I saw?”

“Another illumination,” suggested Albert.

“No!” answered Joseph, cocking his hat
firmly over his eyes. “The pain of being
knocked down again couldn't have been compared
to the pain I suffered. It was the unkindest
cut of all. I never can forgive Miss F.
for her treachery, more than I can forgive her
Goliah for blacking my eye and throwing me
into the ditch.”

“What did you see?” asked Albert.

“This: while I stood there, dripping ditch
water, uncertain whether my skull was broken
or not, suffering indescribable torments of mind
and body, — all for her sake, — she was bowing
and smiling, and smiling and bowing, to the
barbarian who had insulted her and killed
me!”

“Impossible!”

“It is a true bill, doctor!”

“What next?”

“I was a little confused; but as near as I
can remember, Ajax offered her his arm, which
she smilingly accepted, and they walked away
together.”

“Incredible!” exclaimed Corrinton.

“It is nevertheless a lamentable fact,” muttered
Joseph. “The hyena actually walked
home with Miss F. If I hadn't been hit quite
so hard, I believe I should have been desperate
enough to give fight to the audacious scamp,
and die like a hero at Miss Fantom's cruel
feet.”

“I presume one blow was enough,” suggested
the doctor.

“From such a monster, yes, quite; so I
didn't dispute the victory, and he marched off
with the spoils.”

“And you?”

“As for myself,” replied Joseph, with a good-humored
smile, “I fished my hat out of the
ditch, went into the woods, squeezed the water
out of my linen, emptied my boots, and spread
my coat on the ground to dry. All this time I
felt a puffing up of my right eye; and when I
examined it, I found a bunch about the size

and consistency of an ordinary, healthy puffball.
When I went home, I was the most
hideous-looking object that ever wore the human
form.”

“You must have attracted attention?”

“I might have attracted much attention,
doctor, if I hadn't avoided it by staying in the
woods until nightfall. Then I took an untravelled
path, and went home unseen. I was
a miserable fellow until I had told my story to
Alice and got her sympathy. Then I felt better;
but my Sunday suit was spoiled, and I
carried a black eye for a fortnight. As for Miss
F., I never could forgive her, although she explained
her singular conduct by saying that
her Titan was an old acquaintance, whom she
did not recognize until after he had knocked
me down. I shall always believe that she did
recognize him at first, and, dissatisfied with the
formal nod he gave her, resolved to make an
excuse for speaking with him, sacrificing me to
her treacherous designs.”

“Quite likely,” said Albert.

The brief but significant letter of which
Joseph was the bearer had inspired Corrinton
with an excellent humor for listening to the

young man's melancholy story, and for sympathizing
with his misfortunes; but now his
mind reverted to Alice, and he questioned his
simple-hearted companion about the object of
their mutual admiration.

Joseph knew but little of those matters of
which Albert would have had him know so
much; but the doctor gathered from what he
said that Mrs. Silby and her daughter differed
on some subject which was easy to be divined.

“O, she's such a remarkably severe woman
— is aunt Silby!” exclaimed Joseph. “I am
sometimes actually afraid of her. How Alice
— the dear girl — gets along with her, I don't
know; but then Alice is such a strong-minded,
even-tempered girl herself, that she can bear
with her mother, and reason with her, when
nobody else could.”

When Joseph was gone, the young doctor
was glad to indulge in uninterrupted reflections
on the subjects which occupied his mind. He
was less miserable than before Joseph's coming;
for Alice, her letter, and the anticipated
interview with her on the morrow, formed all
his thoughts and all his dreams that night.