 | CHAPTER I.
THE WANDERER. The deserted family, or, Wanderings of an
outcast |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
THE WANDERER.
On the afternoon of a quiet summer's day,
a weary foot traveller turned aside from a dusty
country road, and on the grassy slope of a
pleasant hillside sat down upon the ground.
With a heavy sigh he removed from his brow
a torn and faded straw hat, and brushing back
the moist locks of gray hair that fell upon his
forehead, gazed sadly down into the beautiful
valley before him.
“Well, well! here I am at last,” he murmured;
“this is the spot. Yonder, half concealed
by oak trees, is the school house I have
sought. The scene is new to me, but I should
know that little building among hundreds of
dwelling houses. The school house is like
nothing else. Ah, how quiet it looks! while
there is probably a score of young hearts, impatient
of restraint, confined within its walls.
I will wait here until the school comes out.”
Using his arm for a pillow, the wanderer
reclined upon the ground, and closed his eyes
in the soft sunshine which bathed the hillside
in a mellow flood of light. In a few minutes
he was sleeping soundly. His mind was lost
in unconsciousness, and his weary frame lay
motionless, in perfect repose.
But a sad picture was the wanderer, as he
lay sleeping on the hillside. A middle-aged
man, his brow was furrowed with care, and his
sallow features bore the traces of sickness, sorrow,
and toil. His beard was long and silvery,
and his lineaments were marked with sweat
and dust. A coarse, threadbare dress, soiled
and torn by hard usage, covered his limbs,
and the dust of travel lay heavy upon his
garments.
Before the wanderer awoke, the cool shadow
of a noble elm had crept along the turf, lengthening
as the afternoon wore on, until it blotted
the sunshine from his face. As he opened his
eyes, a shimmer of light in the branches of the
old tree, where the sun shone through the quivering
leaves, attracted his attention, and he did
not observe a man who stood by his side.
“You've a rather hard bed, my friend,” said
a voice
The traveller turned quickly, and his eyes
rested upon the figure of a portly, well-dressed,
comfortable-looking man, whose florid countenance
contrasted strongly with the sallow
visage of the being he addressed.
“There are harder beds than this in the
world,” exclaimed the traveller, briefly.
“The pavement of a jail, or the floor of a
poorhouse, I suppose,” said the portly gentleman.
The traveller cast an angry look at the
speaker, and drew his form up proudly.
“Do you take me for a thief or beggar?”
he demanded with a dark scowl.
“O, I take you for nothing, my good fellow,”
replied the portly gentleman; “though,
perhaps, there are those who might take you for
something. Ha, ha! But no offence, no offence,
man!”
And the portly gentleman, laughing heartily
at his attempt at wit, approached, as if to obtain
a nearer view of the traveller. The latter's
brow gathered, as he grasped his staff and
looked defiance at his chance acquaintance.
“Who are you,” he muttered through his
teeth, “that you should take the liberty to
and who has no desire to quarrel with any
man?”
“My dear fellow, you seem put out at my
familiarity,” cried the portly gentleman. “Ha,
ha! you wish to know who I am! Well, I
happen to be the proprietor of the turf you
stand on. My name is Brance.”
The traveller drew back apace; his fingers
closed more tightly on his staff, a sudden flush
overspread his pallid features, and his eyes
twinkled with passion, on hearing this announcement.
For a moment he regarded the
portly gentleman searchingly; then, with teeth
closed firmly on his nether lip, turned slowly
and marched away.
The portly gentleman, with a smile of imperturbable
coolness, as if he regarded the
wretched figure of the stranger as a fit subject
for his amusement, advanced and laid his hand
upon the arm which carried the heavy staff,
saying, —
“Listen to me a moment. I have no desire
to drive you off my land.”
“Touch me not!” growled the stranger,
with an angry start, “or I may do you some
injury!”
Mr. Brance drew back with a smile of derision.
“So! the fellow is desperate!” he murmured,
shrugging his shoulders. “A proud
spirit he has, too, for such a beggarly-looking
customer! Well, I have no ambition to quarrel
with him. Good day, my friend.”
The traveller made no answer, but, without
deigning even to look at the portly gentleman,
sought the highway, and walked sullenly in
the direction of the school house. What his
dark thoughts were we will not divine, but his
features were contracted, until he was startled
from his meditations by a sudden peal of
mingled shouts and laughter, which rang out
joyously on the clear, quiet air. Twenty juvenile
voices joined the merry chorus, and at the
same time the old school house poured forth a
tide of happy life, in the shape of a score
of children, whose ardent spirits, no longer under
restraint, burst forth in joy.
The angry scowl on the traveller's features
softened into a melancholy smile, as he heard
the merry laughter of the children, and saw
them run and leap about.
This cheerful scene was changed, however,
and the faces of the children gradually
turned one way, and became motionless. They
were all gazing with wondering eyes at the
unusual appearance of the traveller, and a sort
of awe had made them silent.
Presently, however, one of the bolder and
more malicious of the boys uttered a derisive
laugh, which was followed by murmurs of approval
from his companions. Encouraged thus
in his audacity, and ambitious of leading in
mischief, the boy shouted saucily, —
“Halloo, beggar man! what's the price of
rags?”
The smile passed from the features of the
wretched man. His dark eyes scanned the
faces of the boyish throng, and his look was sorrowful,
not angry. The laughter ceased. The
boy who had distinguished himself by his audacity
slunk away in silence, as if ashamed.
The shadow of the traveller's grief had fallen
darkly upon those who would have insulted
him with mockery.
At that moment, in the ancient doorway of
the time-worn school house appeared a new
face. A female figure of surprising beauty,
love, an expansive brow, shaded by soft brown
hair, fine hazel eyes, and a form of perfect
symmetry, astonished the traveller's vision.
His lips quivered with emotion as he gazed.
He clasped his hands together impulsively, and
an expression of unutterable yearning took possession
of his features.
“Boys,” said the schoolmistress, — for such
she appeared to be, — in a clear, sweet tone of
voice, “come here. I want to speak to you.”
She spoke reproachfully, and the boys, with
faces cast down with shame, drew near to receive
the merited reproof. What she further
said the traveller could not hear, and with a
slow step he walked silently on.
Presently he paused, and, leaning on his staff,
looked back wistfully at the old school-house
door. The children were once more gambolling
about, and going off in different directions;
but their laughter was subdued, and those who
followed the traveller were less frolicsome than
the rest.
Once more he turned from the dusty road,
and, entering a field, sauntered slowly on towards
a woodland which lay about a quarter of
his course, and soon he was seen again approaching
the school house which he had
so lately passed. Once more he faltered, and,
pausing, sat down upon a stone.
The school-house door was in full view, and
when the traveller saw the beautiful form and
face which had so moved him before reappear,
he suddenly started from his seat. The young
teacher wore a light bonnet, and carried in her
hand a small volume, as she left the door.
The traveller watched her with an anxious eye,
and followed her at a distance.
The schoolmistress entered a path which led
across the fields in the direction of the woodland.
Without looking back, or observing by
whom she was followed, she walked into the
cool shadows of the trees. The leaves rustled
in the breeze above her head, a few birds were
chirping among the branches, slender twigs
crackled beneath her light footsteps, and now
and then a squirrel started up before her in
silly affright, and skipping across the dry
ground and mossy logs, scrambled up the
rough bark of the nearest oak, to leap from
bough to bough above her, or chatter at her
of the fair girl seemed to add light and cheerfulness
to the sober aspect of the woods, as
she passed over the brown hills, and through
shadowy hollows, and under arches of overhanging
vines.
Still the wanderer followed her at a distance.
In the woods he quickened his pace, and
neared her slowly. When she disappeared in
the hollows, he advanced rapidly; and when
she came into full view, ascending some woody
acclivity, he fell back, or slowly kept on under
cover of large trees. At length she went out
of sight in a ravine, and he looked for her
reappearance in vain.
Arrived at the summit of an eminence, the
man beheld once more the object of his pursuit.
A brook flowed through the little valley,
winding among hillocks overgrown with
bushes, and banks barren of verdure, washing
mossy stones, and gurgling over beds of glistening
pebbles; and in a quiet spot, close to the
water's edge, the fair young schoolmistress sat
on a rudely-constructed bench.
The traveller stole down the declivity, and
cautiously approached under cover of a thicket.
around, but beholding no object, her eye once
more sought the page of the volume which lay
open on her lap. Peering then through an
opening in the bushes, the traveller fixed his
eager gaze upon her serene face. Her bonnet
lay upon the bench by her side, and a gush of
sunlight, robbed of its glare by an intervening
network of green boughs, painted her lovely
brow with a faint tinge of gold.
The frame of the watcher trembled with
agitation. His lips moved, but uttered no articulate
sound. Suddenly he clasped his heavy
palm across his eyes, as if his vision were pained.
“O God! O God!” he muttered in a low
voice, broken by sobs. “I can't endure it! I
must speak to her! Yet — to be pitied by her!
I am a wretched wanderer, a miserable vagabond,
and she will despise me! But I must
speak to her, nevertheless!”
Sounds of rustling bushes and approaching
footsteps startled the young girl from her
book dream. She looked up. The bowed
frame, the dusty garments, the haggard features
of the wanderer were before her. Most
girls would have been frightened by such an
few would have thought proper to faint. The
schoolmistress betrayed no symptoms of alarm.
Perfectly self-possessed, she turned her serene
countenance full upon the stranger, and
scanned him with a calm, steadfast look.
“I beg your pardon,” said the man. “I
intrude upon your meditation. But don't
mind me. I only wish to thank you for
saving me from the jeers and scoffs of your
thoughtless schoolboys.”
“O, I certainly deserve no thanks for administering
a reproof for their rudeness,” replied
the schoolmistress. “But you look weary,
sir,” she added, in a tone of kindness.
“O — I am weary — yes,” murmured the
strange man. “But it is of no consequence.
Don't disturb yourself, I beg.”
“Rest yourself on this bench,” said the girl,
observing how pale and haggard he looked.
“Sit down, I pray you.”
“You are so kind!” exclaimed the stranger,
with emotion, sinking upon the extremity of
the bench farthest from the girl. “Now, don't
let me disturb you. Read your book, and don't
mind me at all.”
“You look ill, sir,” cried she, with an expression
of solicitude. “Is there nothing I
can do for you?”
“Yes, child!” murmured the man with a
strange smile. “Let me look at you! Let me
gaze at you, and do not think me rude. There
is so much quiet goodness in your face, that it
does my heart good only to look at it.”
The schoolmistress, with ready perception,
saw that these words were not meant for flattery.
The stranger's face was full of emotion.
Far from being offended, therefore, she replied,
with a smile, —
“I really can't refuse so small a request, sir.
But I fancy it can be of little satisfaction to
you to look at me.”
The stranger shook his head.
“You are young for a schoolmistress,” he
said, abruptly.
“Perhaps I am not quite so young as you
suppose.”
“You are seventeen.”
“So I am,” said the schoolmistress with a
smile. “And I have been teaching nearly a
year.”
“And do you like the occupation?”
“I confess I find some of my duties unpleasant.
But I love children; I love to teach; I
delight to make young hearts happy. Besides,
I choose to do something to support myself.”
“You have parents?”
“Only a mother.”
“Ah!” murmured the man, suddenly passing
his hand across his brow. “Your father —
he is dead, then?”
“Yes, sir,” was the reply.
“You must consider me very impertinent,”
said the stranger, after a pause. “But you
have inspired me with interest. Have you
brothers or sisters?”
“No sister,” answered the girl, sadly. “But
I suppose I have a brother somewhere.”
“You do not know where?”
“Alas, no! He went away four years ago.
He was then fifteen — young, but impatient
of restraint. It is possible that he is dead.”
“The absent live long,” said the traveller,
“longer than is sometimes thought. Does
your mother believe him to be dead?”
“O, no; she knows not what to believe
about him. We have not heard from him but
once since he left us. He was then in Boston.”
The schoolmistress observed that the stranger's
face was hidden in his hands, and she
saw his bosom heave with a heavy sigh.
“You are very ill, I fear!” she exclaimed
with kindly solicitude.
“No, no!” muttered the stranger, rising
abruptly. “I am not ill. I am weary — only
weary! God bless your kind heart, Miss Silby!”
“Ah! you know my name!” cried the fair
schoolmistress.
“Your name?” repeated the man, vaguely.
“O, yes! I had it from your schoolboys.
But I must leave you. You must be tired of
my presence. Heaven protect you, Miss Silby!”
And with an abrupt movement, the stranger
hurried way. Alice Silby saw not the tears
which burst from his eyes and coursed down
his pallid cheeks, as he pronounced his earnest
blessing and bade her farewell.
He toiled up the acclivity which we have
before described, crossed the fields, and once
more plodded on along the great highway.
| CHAPTER I.
THE WANDERER. The deserted family, or, Wanderings of an
outcast | |