University of Virginia Library

3. CHAPTER III.

We have, in the two preceding chapters, followed our student through his
collegiate life, and drawn a faithful, but not exaggerated, outline of the painful
privations of which he was the subject, through the ill-directed ambition of
misjudging parents. A few weeks' sojourn at home recruited his health, which
care, study, and confinement had, as we have seen, impaired; and he now began
to look about him for a profession. He had a preference for that of medicine,
but the expense of the courses of lectures, he felt he could not meet, and
he rejected the idea as soon as formed; for he shuddered at the thought of
going again into debt, after the mental sufferings he had experienced on the
`last day of the term.'

One morning he returned from a long walk on the banks of the beautiful river,
near which the parsonage stood, with a quicker step than usual, and a flushed
cheek. His father was in his study, and he went at once into it, and sat
down at the table, where the Rev. Mr. Blackford was preparing the heads of his
next Sabbath's morning discourse, and waited till he should notice him.

`Well, my son,' said the rector looking up and surveying him through his
glasses.

`I have come to consult with you, sir. I am determined no longer to remain
idle; the scorn of your parishioners. Every man has something to do but me.'

`You look flushed, my son! what has distressed you?'

`I am mortified. In my walk home, I was passing the village inn, and over-heard,
as I got by, some one ask another who I was. `That is gentleman
Charles—old parson Blackford's son, that he's trying to make a gentleman of;
and a fine gentleman he is, for he has nothing to do but walk the streets and
fields,—while his father is as poor as Peter Pence, and I have to give him in
my account every year or two, receipted, for he can't pay!

`Who, who was so unmannerly and irreverent as to say this?' demanded the
clergyman, with a higher color than usual.

`I turned after I got some distance, as soon as my shame would let me, and
saw farmer Gage standing by the tavern, and, from the voice, I believe it was
he.'

`Yes, yes, I dare say. He is my creditor for hay and other produce, I believe.
He has brought all his sons up rude farmers, and thinks every other
man's son should wear homespun, and follow the plough-tail. Never heed him
Charles, it is envy that you have a superior education, and—'

`Education! and how did I obtain it? Sir, I would willingly change lots
with either of farmer Gage's sons. They will be comfortably settled in life,
with few cares—while I shall be poor, a wanderer perhaps, and continually in
difficulties. If I am to have a profession, sir, it is time I were commencing its
study. It is three months since I quit college, and my health is now quite restored.'

`What do you think of theology, and the church?' asked the rector, sympathising
in his son's feelings, yet not willing to confess to himself his error in
making him a victim of his own pride and prejudices, against the industrial
pursuits.

`I cannot think of it sir. My views have never been directed that way, nor
do I think my labor called for the progress of religious truth. As a profession
merely, I can never think of so sacred a calling. Medicine and law only remain
for me to choose from, for,' added the young man ironically, `I believe
these are the other two great avenues to respectability.'

`They are, my son,' answered the Rev. Mr. Blackford, without seeming to
notice the reproof; `in the law I think you have the talent and energy to distinguish
yourself. You may do well as a doctor—but then this does not require
such great abilities—and it were a pity to throw years away, as it were,
when you can put them out to such good interest at the bar. I hope yet, if you
choose this profession, to see you in Congress one day.'

`Medicine I cannot think of, though it has my preterence to the law. The
latter requires too much of an honest man's conscience; it withers the fairer
sensibilities of man's nature; and gives him habits of inhumanity from the peculiar
persecutions of the unfortunate which necessarily belong to the protession.
Yet I may be compelled to choose it against my strong prejudices, for I
can never pay the fees for medical lectures. I have not now a dollar in the
world, and am wholly dependant on your paternal indulgence for my daily
bread.'

`What will be the expenses of attending the lectures for three winters.'

`At least one hundred dollars each course, including board in Boston, and
the fees. How am I to earn this, sir, and at the same time give proper attention
to my studies?'

`Mr. Blackford mused a few minutes, while Charles, rising from his chair,
walked the room impatiently, and at length stood by the window, gazing forth
upon the winding stream, with its pleasant intervales of verdure, and the village
of Bradford beyond, till his father essayed again to speak. A boat containing
two young ladies, or rather misses, just putting off from the foot of a
garden opposite, also drew his attention.

`Well, Charles, I see there is no alternative but the law. This can be pursued
without expense, in the village—perhaps in Judge Orne's office, and you can
live at home until you are through; so—'

Charles did not wait to hear the remainder of his father's remarks, but suddenly
throwing up the window from which he had been gazing, he sprang out
upon the lawn, and flew with the speed of the deer towards the river.

`Ah, oh! this a strange caper in the boy,' cried the astonished rector, jumping
up; `what has got into him. The boy must be mad! Heaven have mercy,
and give him strength and courage to save them,' he earnestly exclaimed,
as he beheld from the window a boat floating bottom upwards upon the river,
a young lady clinging to it, and another, some distance from it, struggling to
keep above the surface of the water.

The boat had been upset, while Charles was looking at it, by the thoughtlessness
of one of the young girls, in leaning over to reach after an oar which she
had let fall into the water. He now ran, like the wind, to the shore, which
was about three hundred yards from the house, his ear painfully pierced by
their shrieks, as he made his way through a piece of wood which intervened,
and for some time concealed the river from his view. A few bounds brought
him to the bank of the river, within a few yards of them, and, leaping in, he
swam towards the drowning girl who was unsupported by the boat, and with
difficulty keeping her head above water. She was the fartherest from the shore,
and, in his rapid way toward her, passed close to the upturned boat, to which
the young girl was clinging with wonderful calmness and self possession, and,
forgetful of herself, interested only in the safety of her companion.

`Sustain yourself, Miss Hare, `he said, recognizing her as the daughter of
Colonel Hare, from whose country house near by they had rowed with their
boat. `In a few moments I will reclaim you from your perilous situation.'

`Oh, think not of me,' sir,' I am in safety—but save, oh save Grace! She
will perish before you reach her Oh, she has sunk.'

`Let not go your hold, Miss Hare, or you will both perish,' he cried as he
saw her clasp her hands together in despair. She seized the boat again in time
to prevent the fatal consequence of her imprudence, while Charles exerting all
his strength swam towards the spot where she had gone down. As he came
near it, she rose again with her hands stretched out above the surface. By two
or three nervous strokes of his arms he was enabled to grasp one of her hands
ere she disappeared, and with a strong effort raised her head above the surface.
A loud shriek of joy from Miss Hare, and a shout from the rector on the shore
acknowledged his success.

She was insensible and it was with the utmost difficulty he could sustain the
burden. The abundant tresses of black hair covered his shoulder and her pale
cheek rested unconscious against his. He now swam towards the boat to avait
himself of its aid in supporting her till further assistance should arrive, which
was speedily promised, as the citizens of the village had gathered at the water
side and several boats were putting off from the Haverhill shore. He succeeded
in reaching the bottom of the boat where Miss Hare still clung though plainly
under the greatest excitement on discovering the insensible condition of her
companion, and Charles feared she would herself speedily require his support
as well as the other, whom he sustained partly by raising her head upon the
boat He now saw that relief was at hand from half a dozen sources and encouraging
Miss Hare to preserve her self-possession—saying that her friend was
by no means lifeless and would soon be restored—he was so fortunate as to see
her taken safely into the first boat that came up, which she no sooner was placed
in than she fainted away. Whether because he had been instrumental in
saving the other, and so felt a peculiar interest in her, or whether impressed by
her extraordinary loveliness, which insensibly only modified to a more etherial
tone, but did not destroy, cannot be told, but Charles would not let the men who
had raised Miss Hare into the boat do the same office for her, but getting into
it first, he drew her from the water, refusing their assistance, and gently laid
her upon the stern seats. Recommending Miss Hare to the care of one of the
gentlemen who was in the boat, he bade the men row to the rectory; but immediately
countermanding the order as he saw Colonel Hare's seat was much
nearer, he supported her all the while chafing her temples, till the boat arrived
at the foot of the garden from which it had sailed. Here they were met by the
agonized family who ignorant whether life yet remained received them as dead.
Colonel Hare took up his daughter and pressing warmly Charles's hand, looked
his thanks. Charles would not resign his charge but bore her after him to the
house. The usual means and restoratives were applied successfully, and after
a few hours the young ladies were so far recovered as to go to the dinner table
and also to give an account of the accident.

`We were,' said Miss Hare, glancing with the smile of affection at Grace,
who with a pale face sat opposite to her in the easy chair, for she was still weak
and invalid from the effects of her late danger, `we were taking a walk in the
garden, and Grace, seeing the boat, said she should like to sail, the water was
so clear and pleasant looking, and so we got into it and cast it off.'

`Not withstanding my wish, Mary,' said Colonel Hare in a tone of mild reproof,
`that you should never get into it unless I was with you. Had you forgotten
your former narrow escape from drowning?'

`No sir, and I thought of it when I was clinging to the boat to-day, and
though I should certainly now be drowned for my disobedience, sir. But
Grace was not under your orders and as she was a visitor, I did not say any
thing to her about your injunctions, and so got in with her.'

`I am sure, dear Colonel Hare,' said Miss Gordon, `I should instantly have
yielded had I been informed of your wishes; but we were both very wild and
foolish, and I shall never feel too grateful to that young gentleman for saving
me from the awful consequences of my imprudence.'

`How did you upset?' asked the Colonel.

`I had let drop my paddle, and in stooping over to reach it, my weight upset

the boat and we were both precipitated into the water. I never shall forget the
fearful sensation I experienced in my mind, as I found myself falling. Mary
clung to the boat and I rose to the surface some distance beyond it. I don't
know how I kept myself so long above the surface; and I should have sunk
sooner than I find I did, if I had not seen young Mr. Blackford running towards
the river. This gave me hope and energy to struggle.'

God be thanked, my dear children both of you for this timely aid,' said Colonel
Hare with grateful eatnestness.

`Where is he, sir?' suddenly inquired Grace, her large black eyes expressing
the deepest gratitude, at the remembrance of his courage and humanity.
`I have not seen him.'

He pleaded some engagement and left so soon as he saw you open your eyes
and were out of danger,' answered Mary; `he did not seem to care about me,
though I was worth half a dozen of you full an hour before you came to yourself.
I have to thank him for my own life as well as you have, for I never
should have held on that boat after seeing you go down, if it had not been for
his firm and encouraging voice. But you were the one he felt the most interested
in. Shall I tell Grace, father, how tenderly he bent over her, and watched
with such anxious solicitude for returning consciousness.'

`No, no, you little mischief! Do not tease her!' Miss Gordon fixed her
eyes imploringly upon her friend and then dropped them with a heightened
color.

`You are endeavoring to conceal your own feeling towards our gallant preserver,
Mary, by giving me the credit of having awakened an interest in your
lover.

`My lover!' repeated the young girl quickly, and with a slight cast of hauteur.

`He must be, I think, being your neighbor, and young and handsome, and so
brave too. It is thus you would deceive me, you sly one.'

`I assure you,' answered Mary Hare. `I have no acquaintance with him.—
He is the clergyman's son, but is very poor and dependant on his father, and is
no match for me.'

Thus one caste grades the respectability of another, not by trades or professions,
but by wealth. This is a new modification of our subject, and shows
that even a profession does not ensure reception into certain castes, and that indigent
members of these professions will be just as much shut out from those
orders of society where wealth is the basis of regard, as if they were tradespeople.
The daughter of the rich Colonel Hare could be no fit companion for
the son of the poor pastor—though a professional man. Poor, proud parents
who aim to see their sons professional men, should bear this in mind. The only
true basis of respect is an unspotted character!

`I should not care for his poverty, so he bore a noble heart in his bosom,' answered
Grace Gordon with spirit. `Which of the rich young men in Boston,
of our acquaintance, would have risked their lives as this Clergyman's son has
to day done. I shall be proud to know him, Mary; and I hope Colonel Hare
will call with me, this afternoon at the rectory, that I may have an opportunity
of thanking him.'

`This is a different thing from loving him,' said Mary laughing, `I shall
thank him too, and could almost love him for saving your life. But I shall never
look upon him as an equal,' added the aristocratic maiden; a `smith from the
village smithery might have saved us, but this should give him no claim even
to the hospitality of my father's table, much more to the presumption of an intimacy
with either of us. Do not talk so spirited, dear Grace, I am not comparing
Mr. Blackford, who is a very respectable and worthy young man, to a
blacksmith; I am merely considering the case in its common sense aspect.'

`Hush, Mary!' said her father, smiling, yet looking a reproof; `you have no
business to be talking so freely, and about marrying too, at your age! Grace
is a sensible girl, and you are a very foolish one. Charles Blackford, Miss Gordon,
is an estimable young man, who has recently graduated at Yale with some
credit, I learn. His father is a Clergyman, and of course the young man has

nothing to look to but some profession, which he will doubtless soon decide
upon. His character is irreproachable, and his talents I have heard are of a
high order. I have little or no acquaintance with him, having seen him to-day
for the second time since he returned from College. His noble conduct to-day,
has enlisted for him my warmest gratitude, and I am glad to see I am likely to
be seconded in you. Mary is right enough about the respective conditions in
society of yourselves and him—but this is nothing to the purpose. Neither of
you are seventeen, and have no business thinking about young gentlemen and
matrimony in the same breath, because one chances to snatch you out of the
water. We'll ride over this afternoon to the parsonage, and pay our respect to
your preserver.'

Charles had, as had been intimated, modestly retired from Hare Hall, after
seeing Miss Gordon perfectly restored to consciousness, without waiting to receive
her thanks. Mary, with the first impulse of her joy at her own escape,
had overwhelmed him with her gratitude, but though he had listened to the expressions
of her indebtedness to him for her life, and that of her friends, he
could not help feeling, he knew not wherefore, that a single glance from the
eyes of Grace Gordon, would be of more value to him, as a reward, than all
the noble eloquence of Mary Hare. On reaching home his father met him and
embraced him.

`You are a generous and brave son,' he said, with emotion. `I witnessed
your conduct from the river bank, and felt if you had perished, you would have
perished nobly. But God has spared my boy's life and made him the instrument
of saving the lives of others. You should have been a soldier, and now
I know how brave you are, I wish I had made influence to put you at West
Point or got you into the Navy.'

`I have no ambition, sir, of the like kind,' answered Charles, smiling at his
father's earnestness; `both, doubtless, are noble professions. If every man
who is ready to risk his life to preserve that of others, should have been a soldier
or sailor, there would be now more epaulettes than civilians in the land. I
must think only, sir, of a civilian's profession, and I have decided on that of
the law.'

`So had I for you, my son, and was telling you my plan when you sprang
out of the window in such style, that till I saw the poor young ladies in the
water, made me think you had suddenly gone mad. How did you leave them?
I trust in no danger of illness, resulting from their morning ablutions. Who
was the other?'

They are out of danger. One of them was Miss Hare, whom I had seen at
Church.'

`But the other with the long black curls—the one you saved,' asked the rector,
as they re-entered the house.

`I do not know, sir—she was very lovely,' answered Charles with an embarrassment
he could not account for; `but I have neglected to change my
wet clothes. Excuse me sir.'

The image of the beautiful young stranger so filled his mind that it was abstracted
from every thing else around him. After changing his dress he stood
for some time looking upon the dark flowing river, dwelling upon the late scene,
and recalling every expression of her features, and the sweet moaning tones of
her voice when she revived and looked around her. At length he was recalled
to himself by the question put to his own reason:

`What am I, a poor clergy man's son, without means to support myself, without
a profession or a home, to do with regarding with interest, any young lady,
and permitting the holiest affections of my nature to unfold themselves, to fall
back upon my heart withered. Let me forget that sweet face lest I think of it
so much, that what is now a pleasant subject of the thoughts, shall by and by
become a source of deep misery to me. I will forget her—forget that I have
preserved so much loveliness from perishing by a horrible death—forget that
her head has laid upon my shoulder, that her heart has beat against mine, and
her luxuriant hair mingled with mine! Yes I will forget all—all, all except
that I am a penniless law-student and have to look to in the future, years of toil

and privation; while before her is a vista of joy, peace, and all the soft pleasures
that wealth and luxury and refined society can afford. She must increase
in loveliness and pride of beauty, be admired, caressed, sued and won, blessed
and blessing, while I must struggle on in mortification and poverty; perhaps
successful in my profession, and commanding even her respect, when she shall
be called by another name; but more likely unsuccessful and indigent, despised,
and suffering, and die in obscurity. I will forget her—for my heart's fears tell
me our orbits will never again meet in the social system of life.'

Having come very resolutely to this most irresolute decision, he spent a few
hours in hunting up law-books in an old book-case. At lengh he left his father's
study, where he intended to settle finally the course he should adopt in
pursuing his law studies. He was crossing the front hall, the door of which
was open, when a carriage, containing two females, drove rapidly up, and a
gentleman alighted, before he could retreat, as it was his first uncontrollable
impulse to do on discovering that the ladies were Miss Hare and her guest—the
girl with the raven hair who had made such an impression upon him, and whom
he had so firmly made up his mind to forget.

`Ah, my dear Mr. Blackford, I am delighted to find you are at home,' said
Colonel Hare, grasping his hand; `you see our awkward young sailors have
quite got over their ducking, and have come to thank you for so intrepidly
coming to their rescue. Indeed, sir, we are deeply under obligations to you,'
he added with earnest feeling; `but for you I should have been childless. You
deserve our lasting gratitude and esteem.'

Charles felt embarrassed, for his was one of those rare, generous natures, that
feels pained at being complimented for an act of humanity. The young ladies
were still in the phœton, and it occurred to him that it would be no more than
civil in him to ask them in to the parsonage. He gave the invitation with suitable
self possession, though he felt the young stranger's eye scanning his features.
The invitation was accepted, and Charles offered his hand to Miss
Hare, while the Colonel assisted his guest to the porch. Now our hero behaved
very well, as he had resolved to forget the other young person to assist
Miss Hare, and leave her to Col. Hare; but the truth must be told, that his
heart leaped to have the privilege of doing the office for the other, notwithstanding
his lately formed resolution; but there was a feeling of timidity which
prevented him from enjoying the happy honor of touching her hand, instead of
that of Mary, the contact of whose fingers made no impression, or produced
no sensation, either agreeable or disagreeable.

`Mr. Blackford, this is Miss Grace Gordon, a young lady from Boston, and
daughter of General Gordon, lately of Roxbury. She and Mary are school
fellows at Bradford, and she is passing a holiday with her. She is a good girl,
though something wild and ventursome, as von have had experience of this
morning. She desired me to present you to her that she may thank you in her
own way, for your gallantry in her behalf. There, Grace, I have introduced
you, though an acquaintance began so unceremonious as yours, scarce calls for
a very particular introduction afterwards between the parties.'

Mr. Blackford,' said Grace, taking his hand, and warmly pressing it between
both her own, while tears came into her fine dark eyes, `I feel I owe you my
life. For this thanks are poor return. I shall always gratefully remember this
day. I feel I can never forgive myself for exposing a brave man's life, by an
act of imprudence. If you had perished, and I had been saved, how bitter
would have been my reflections at this moment. I trust you will forgive the
folly of a young girl, who to gratify the idle whim of a moment, placed you in
such great peril.'

`I—at least—you'—hesitated Charles, dropping his eyes beneath her own,
`I mean I shall esteem this idle whim the cause of the happiest moment of my
life.' Unconscionsly, he pressed her hand, and the blood raced through his
veins to his temples, and then rushed in a volume back to his heart. Her hand
was hastily withdrawn. What had he rashly done? He raised his eyes to see
if he had given offence, and they met hers, full and deep. She colored, and
turned so quickly away, that he was at a loss to tell whether the look with which

she met him was that of displeasure, surprise, pity, or, or—he dared not hope
—forgiveness and interest. He looked round, met Miss Hare's glance of unequivocal
surprise, for she had noticed this little scene, and rightly read his feelings.
He felt angry with himself for this betrayal of the secret of his heart,
and he firmly believed he had made and lost two friends in one day. His pride
was pained lest they should entertain the humiliating idea that he wished to
take advantage of their obligations to him, by intruding upon their delicacy an
improper expression of light personal admiration—an apprehension exquisitely
distressing to a sensitive and high-minded spirit. He, therefore, became suddenly
reserved, and left the further courtesies of their reception and entertainment
to his father, and as soon as they departed he hastened and shut himself
up in his chamber.

Here his feelings grew intensely agonising. He feared he had offended Miss
Gordon, and incurred also the contempt of Miss Hare, who, he was innately
conscious had seen his involuntary pressure of the hand which held his, and
had put upon it a construction he could not endure that she or any one else
should for a moment entertain.

Miss Gordon rode back to Hare Hall, silent, and very thoughtful. She was
insensible to the scenery, and indifferent to conversation. She had been struck
with the fine, intelligent face of Charles Blackford, as she looked at him before
she alighted. His modesty of manner impressed her favorably, and though she
saw that he assisted Mary out, in preference to herself, she was satisfied that
his thoughts were upon her.

How a young lady knows when a young man's thoughts are upon herself,
merely by watching the expression of his face, we are at a loss to divine, unless
it be by that mysterious influence which is known as Mesmerism. She saw his
embarrassment as he replied to her, but was by no means displeased at the earnest
words in which it was conveyed. The pressure of the hand surprised her,
but the expression in her large eyes as Charles met them was very far from displeasure.
She knew, thereby, what it made her secretly happy to believe, that
she had created an interest in the heart of her hands orne young deliverer, and
a new feeling was awakened in her soul. It was not delight, for it was sadder;
it was not joy, for it was less buoyant; it was not sadness, for it was a pleasing
emotion; it was not fear, for it was confiding; it was a union of all, and the
sensation was sweet, peaceful, and belonged to hope.