University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.
RICHARD AND THE GOVERNOR'S FAMILY AGAIN.

The Governor was in the practice of taking his family,
in a festive way, sometimes to “Spot,” sometimes to
“Speckle,” — names of ponds, of which there were several
in the neighborhood of the city, — where they spent the
day, and returned at night. This year he would go to
“Spot,” and “Climper's,” Mr. Climper being the proprietor of
“Spot,” and its hotel, its boats, and other recreative additaments.
The family, in this instance, meant more than it
does in our title; it included married children and grandchildren,
and it did not include Roscoe or Benjamin.

The Governor's carriage was too small, and he ordered
Munk & St. John's omnibus, and Richard was commissioned
to drive it.

Alice Weymouth, emerging from under the trees in the
front yard, was the first to discover Richard Edney on the
box. She smiled and blushed, and turned to Miss Rowena,
who laughed and turned to Barbara; who did the same to
Melicent, by whom the drollery was conveyed to her mother
and Mrs. Melbourne, where it stopped. And for a good
reason, — these were the last out of the house. “What are
you laughing at?” asked Mrs. Melbourne. Madam laughed
just because the others did, and said, “This is a pleasant
beginning, and we shall have more sport before the day is
over.”

Notwithstanding Barbara and Melicent were so much
alike they were often mistaken for each other, they had

their peculiarities; and one was this, — that Barbara could
not ride on the outside of a coach, and Melicent disliked the
inside. So, when the rest were seated, Melicent mounted
the box with Richard. It had indeed got whispered all
through the party that it was Richard; but Madam, who
hated an ado, hushed the folks, and Richard drove on
without molestation.

He took the same road that, a few months before, in midwinter,
he had come to the city on. Grass was sprouting
where the heavy drifts lay. Cattle luxuriously fed in fields
from which they had gladly retreated. Barn-yards that had
been so variously and thickly stocked were open and
empty. Buds that folded themselves from the storm beneath
the bark of trees were abroad and wantoning in the
sun. Doors that had been doubled, listed, bolted against
winter, were waltzing with summer. Men, whose every
look and step, whose every article of dress, and posture of
body, indicated a struggle with the old temperature,
sparkled and sped in the deliciousness and congeniality of
the new.

Richard remarked these changes, and spoke also of the
woman whom he extricated from a snow-drift. Melicent
knew Miss Freeling well, and liked her much; and they
talked of that.

Richard went on to thinking of his first coming to the
city; — of the Bridge, and the lively people from the
Athenæum; of the man with the umbrella, and his
solemn warning; and of other things that had befallen, in
many of which Melicent herself had borne a part; and now
he sat alone with one of the objects of his thought, and he
wished to know more of her, and she was ready to know
more of him.

How he could talk at random, and think of remote

things, and mind his four horses so well, she would like to
be informed. It was habit, he said, and the horses were well
trained. But attention to the brake now and then interrupted
conversation; and she was not sorry it did, for going
down hill on the top of an omnibus inclines a woman to
silence. How could horses be so courteous? Why should
they not, in some rude moment, jerk the coach into the
ditch? This brought up the whole question of horses, and
domestication, and the power of the human over the brute;
all which topics Richard handled very sagely and instructively.

As they were walking slowly up a hill, Melicent observed,
for the second time since they started, “It is a fine day.”
“Exquisitely fine,” added Richard. There must have been
something in Richard's mind, or education, or association, to
suggest this expletive, which he pronounced as if he was
used to it, and deeply felt it. And there must have been
something in the day to revive the memory of such an expletive.
And Melicent looked again at the day, and thought
of Richard. “A very blue sky, and very white clouds,”
added he. A common remark. But Melicent herself had
hardly noticed the intensity of the blue and the white, and
she looked at them again. “How beautiful an opening
into the sky those two mountains make!” she said, inclining
her fan carelessly in the direction indicated, and letting it
rock back on the pivot of her hand. “How fine a promontory
the sky makes down among the mountains!” Richard
rejoined. He was ahead of her this time; but he instantly
apologized by saying, “My teacher, Mr. Willwell, used to
instruct us that there was an earth-line of the sky, as
well as a sky-line of the earth. Instead of calling a mountain
high, he said we might call the sky hollow.” “He
must be an ingenious man,” observed Melicent. “He is,”

answered Richard. “He told the class in geography there
were harbors in the sky, and capes, and peninsulas; and took
us out and showed them to us. The sky, he said, was like
a great ocean overhanging us, and bounded by the earth, and
having its shores along the hills and plains. He showed us
clouds at sea, and in a storm, and at anchor in the harbors.
Then he showed us how this earth-line of the sky varied its
height and distance relatively to our position and to surrounding
objects. Here was a hill fifty feet high, and sky
above it; and the sky was fifty feet high, apparently, he
said, and the clouds were the same; and it looked as he
said. On each side was a range of mountains a mile off,
and there the sky and clouds appeared to be a mile off.
The sky, he said, was not like an inverted bowl, having a
regular edge in the horizon, but rather like a bowl full of
water, that took all the forms of the irregularities of things
about us. — Here the road goes through a piece of woods;
let us see what is there.”

“The sky,” said Melicent, “is like a river above us; and
there is a cloud before us, that seems to rest on the trees,
and is just as high as they are, — rather it is a bridge
across the river. Were we spiders or spirits, we might walk
on that bridge, or sail on that river. Your teacher's
theory,” she added, as they drove on, “is a good one. As
we ascend, the sky recedes; as we descend, it comes nearer.”

“At the bottom of a well,” remarked Richard, “the sky,
he said, would appear to rest on its mouth. We went
down into one, and found the fact to be so.”

“A cloud,” resumed Melicent, “appears to be stranded on
the top of that pasture-ground, and the cows look as if they
might tear it with their horns. Yet, if we were up there,
I suppose we should see the same cloud on the summit of

some higher hill. — Have you seen paintings much, Mr.
Edney?”

“I have not,” replied Richard.

“I have often thought what studies the clouds might be
for painting; yet how much better they are without painting!”

“They are better than pictures, Mr. Willwell said; and
I doubt if any picture can exceed them.”

Melicent wondered that a mill-boy and hack-driver should
be so well informed. There was no wonder about it. He
had had a good village school education, and improved on
what he was taught.

A scream was heard from the inside of the coach. A
bonnet had fallen. Melicent would hold the reins, while
Richard jumped down and recovered it, — she really would.
This pleased Richard, and it pleased Melicent, both equally.

Here was sympathy, harmony, a certain piece of never-to-be-forgotten
mutual good feeling. That Melicent should
offer to hold the reins, that Richard should think she
could hold them, that she did hold them, that she had held
them, — the reins, and the four horses, and the coachful of
people, — oh, these are trifles, but they are such sort of trifles
as helped while away a mile of the road, and such as
have their place and mission all along the road of life.

Let us look at this ride, and in fact this entire tale, in one
point of view: — that Richard Edney now had the Governor's
Family under his thumb, or, more literally, in his two
hands; that there they were, closely stowed under his feet,
in a tight vehicle, — a mere box, — and four stout horses in
front. If Richard were evil-disposed, how easy to do them
an injury! If he were vain, how natural to feel exalted! If
he were wanton, how pleasant to tease and scare them! If
he knew the dignity, extent, and value of the Family, how

readily he might manage an advantage out of them! But
his Father told him to treat everybody respectfully, — to
behave properly in all relations. If he were a servant, to be
faithful; if he were a master, to be kind; and if he drove,
to do it carefully, — to reverence life, and be tender of sensibility,
human or brute. Almost the last word his Mother
said to him was, “Richard, be a good boy. I need n't say
it, I know; but it is all that is in my heart, and all that is
in your duty, and I will say it again, Be a good boy.”
Richard was a good boy, and of course a good driver, and
treated the Governor's Family becomingly, and drove them
securely.

So he got the party, in good shape, to “Spot,” and
“Climper's.” The hotel overlooked the water, and commanded
a picturesque horizon. Climper was fat, and gruff,
— Giles to the contrary notwithstanding, — petulant, and
slow; and one would think he neither understood the arts
of courtesy, nor the tricks of trade; — and, furthermore,
that he had been set up in life at Spot Pond, by some cynical
school of philosophers, on purpose to prove that our theories,
touching the effect of beauty and goodness on the
character, are moonshine. Every coach that darkened his
yard was not half so dark as he himself was all over his
house. But somehow Climper was the proprietor of
“Climper's,” and of the fine view therefrom, and of the
best side of the Pond, and of the boats and bowling-alley;
and everybody liked Climper's, while everybody had an idea
of hating Climper, but did not do it.

This shows there is a difference between a man and
his attributes, — between quality and substance; for there
might be a Climper's, and no Climper.

So Richard thought, when Climper wheezed forth to let
down the steps and hand the people out. He scowled, when

he did so, and scolded because Richard had not driven a
few feet further, and worried because word had not been
sent that they were coming. The grandchildren were
intimidated by the man, but Madam urged them along.
Still, Melicent would not be squired by such a grumbler,
and tried to find her way down from the box alone. Her foot
caught, and she would have fallen, if Richard had not
caught her. This brought around him the whole Family.
Madam had an inkling as to who the driver was; and when
she saw him in such near proximity to her daughter, she
cast a searching sidelong glance at him, and thanked him.
Miss Rowena, who, on a former occasion, had really sneered
at Richard, was awe-stricken. Melicent introduced Richard
in form to her several friends.

When this ceremony was ended, Richard proceeded to
look after his team. Climper's boy had already unhitched
the horses, and was leading them to the stable. Richard
took from the box a coarse frock he wore on such occasions,
and followed. While he was rubbing down the horses,
Climper appeared in haste, and said Mrs. Melbourne wanted
to see him. Richard would take off his frock. No! The
lady could not wait, and Climper drove him off with his
fists. Richard went to the drawing-room, where were
Madam, Mrs. Melbourne, Melicent, and Rasle. “You wish
to see me,” said Richard, looking rather indefinitely. “We
are very glad to see you,” answered Madam, yet rather
dubiously. “Mrs. Melbourne wishes to see me,” particularized
Richard. “I do not,” answered that lady; “I am
far from it,” Richard was quite blanked. “Mr. Climper
said you did,” he explained. They all smiled, and looked
knowing, except Mrs. Melbourne, who looked knowing,
but did not smile. Richard neither smiled nor looked
knowing. “A little pleasantry,” said Melicent. “How are

your horses, sir?” She wished to turn the subject.
“There was n't anything pleasant about it,” spoke out
Rasle. “Aunt Melbourne said she wished to see you punished
for sweating the horses, and she did n't care how
quick.” “Never mind, young man,” said Madam, coming
kindly towards him, and as it were moving with him towards
the door. “Mrs. Melbourne has a way, and Mr. Climper has
a way, and we all have ways, you know.” O yes, Richard
knew; and went back, very pleasantly, to his work. It was
a trick of Climper's.

Having finished the horses, he threw off his frock, went
to the house, where he washed and combed, and loitered to
the verandah; where were Madam and Mrs. Melbourne.
Madam beckoned him to her side. “We owe you an apology,”
she began. “Do not speak of it,” said Richard.
“We owe you something—” “Nothing,” he persisted.
“We owe you,” she went on, “for the deliverance of the
Governor in one instance, and our daughter Melicent in
two, which makes three.” “I only did my duty,” answered
Richard. “And in that,” interposed Mrs. Melbourne,
“we all come short. Why, Cousin, make such account of
trifles, when a whole life of sin lies against us?” Madam
was silent; she never argued. This silence was interrupted
by the dashing of the Governor through the hall, followed
by the little ones.

“Hurra for the boats!” he cried.

The Governor was a grave and reverend man; but he
could unbend, — he could be quite relaxed, — and with children
he was playful as a child. Perhaps he remembered a
certain great one who was detected in his library playing
leap-frog with his children.

They scampered to the Pond, and after them puffed and
fretted the head of the domain. When they were well

seated in the boat, Climper shoved them off; and he did it
after a fashion as if they were a cargo of small-pox.

Richard took the oars. He had seen that article before,
on the River, and the Lakes, to say nothing of his father's
mill-pond; and he pulled dextrously and strong. They
rowed to the middle of the Pond. The children dropped
hook; had much gayety over their glorious expectations and
their insignificant success. They heard the rattle of the
king-fisher; they descried the black heads of loons floating
upon the surface, like pieces of charcoal; they saw the tall
firs on the banks, standing base to base, and spiring substance
and shadow, into the skies. There were little holms,
and large islands. On one side, a dark schistous bluff
faced the sky and darkened the water. On another, parallelogramic
farms, with white houses and capacious barns at
the head, and corn and grass lots at the foot, sloped to the
shore. “If sky is like water,” said Melicent, “what shall
we do with sky in the water?” “Sail on it,” answered
Richard. “Un-spidered, un-spirited, we can do it, can't
we?” she rejoined. “I wonder,” said Barbara, “how the
fishes relish the arrival of a boat from the air-world, passing
like a cloud over their pleasant prospects. How should we
like to see a galley, having its sides lined with sharp-shooters,
sail out from the Moon, and hover over the city?” “I
wish I was a fish,” spoke out Rasle. “Why?” asked Melicent.
“I would bite Aunt Rowena's hook.” That was
Rasle all over, and he made it all over with the rest.
There was great concert of merriment, and great disconcertion
of purpose. Miss Rowena had been soberly watching
her line, and calculating her luck, for half an hour; and
some others had, too. As it is considered a semi-crime and
a certain disgrace to go a-fishing and not catch fish, this sally
at once aggravated and decided their failure, and they concluded

to return. “The fish are at the hotel,” said the
Governor, “and I have a hook in my pocket that will catch
them.” “What was that?” the little ones asked. “The
round O hook, with a white face,” said Rasle, addressing
one of his nephews that was beginning to go to school.

Rolling nine-pins was part of “Climper's,” and a considerable
part to the children.

Who should choose up with Grandfather? Mr. Edney,
he said; and what he said, everybody said; and some of
them thought so, and some of them did not think so. It
was Richard's first choice, and whom should he choose but
Madam herself? The Governor took Mrs. Melbourne;
Then Melicent was matched against Barbara, Eunice answered
to Rasle, and so on to the very baby end of things.
Miss Rowena kept the tally. Now commenced the solemn
pauses, and the obstreperous outbursts; the spurrings on to
the alley, and the banterings off; the flourishes of attempt,
and the blankness of defeat; the young ones jumping up
and spatting their hands, the old ones heroically staid;
complaints at the unevenness of floor on the one hand,
and quips at the awkwardness of the roller on the other;
mock condolences, answered by mock applause; such
screamings after some little runaway partisan, and such
cautions when he was found; such shouts when Grandfather
got a spare ball, and such shouts when Eunice got
one pin; the intense excitement as to who should beat,—
the little ones beating and annihilating each other a dozen
times, with their joyous tongues, before it was decided
which side had beat. Richard led off handsomely, and
Madam was no mean player; but the Governor was a great
ball, and so was Mrs. Melbourne: but Richard beat, or his
side did; and such Yankee-doodling as the little ones, who

had beaten Grandfather, set up, was never heard this side
of the Revolution.

Some staid, and rolled longer; some rushed to the swing,
and tore at it like a house-a-fire; others chased one another,
like a troop of dogs, over the grass; a portion betook themselves
to the seclusion of a pine grove; a few explored the
edges of the pond for lilies.

They were summoned to a dance; and the Governor
asked Richard to join them. But Richard, imagining the
invitation to spring more from politeness than cordiality,—
that it was rather from consistency's sake than any singleness
of feeling, — declined. Now, Climper, fat and mulish,
always on the off side, always plaguing people, declared
Richard should dance; and, pushing him into the hall, said
if he did not dance, he would make him, and rendered
excuse abortive and retreat impossible.

Madam was tired; so the Governor led out Miss Rowena,
Melicent paired off with Barbara, and Richard bowed
to Mrs. Melbourne. This lady could not refuse, and Richard
could not but advance; so he and Mrs. Melbourne
danced together! There may have been contrivance in
this; and, judging from the way Cousin bit her lip, one
might conclude she had something to do with it.

There was one advantage in Climper's, — it levelled distinctions.
Here the Governor's Family bowled and danced
with their hack-driver. The same thing might not happen
anywhere else; but here, in this out of the way place,
where mirth and good feeling were the presiding genii, the
common sensibilities had free play; and those tastes and
inclinations, which of themselves know no rank and belong
to all men, were spontaneously developed and harmoniously
exercised. They could all be merry, Richard and the Governor
alike; and Mrs. Melbourne had to be, albeit she did

not like to be; besides, among the oddities of Climper was
the practice of jumbling all sorts of people together, — a
practice, indeed, that might not seem suited either to the
decorum or the policy of a respectable landlord; but it was
a way he had, and all who went to Climper's must put up
with Climper. More than that: this very way he had, so
repugnant to certain standards of feeling, accomplished the
end every one aimed at in going thither, — to be merry.

After the dance, Richard stood with Melicent on a knoll
overlooking the very pretty sheet of water that formed the
nucleus of the interest of the place.

“I have not thanked you,” he said, “for the pleasure I
have had here.”

“You have been a part of the pleasure,” she replied,
“and may take a portion of the credit to yourself.”

“How could such an one as Climper have selected this
beautiful place to dwell in?”

“It was one of his oddities, I imagine; he knew that
natural propriety would assign to him a plainer residence,
and out of sheer opposition to his destiny he came hither.”

“The love of the Beautiful,” continued Richard, “may
have captivated his heart.”

“Did you say that?” rejoined Melicent, in a way rather
abrupt, but earnest.

“Did I say what?” inquired Richard, as if he was startled
at something he might have said.

“About Beauty and Climper.”

“I said what I have heard Parson Harold say.”

“Then you do not believe it?”

“I believe and feel it.”

“Repeat what you said.”

“You banter me.”

“I never was more serious.”

“I said the beauty of the place may have captivated
Climper.”

“In that Pond,” interposed Mrs. Melbourne, who had not
been far off during this conversation, “is plenty of slime
and eel-pouts, and the garbage of a thousand years.”

“The slime,” replied Richard, “is one of the best of fertilizers;
and eel-pouts are a grateful dish to some people.”

“Who told you so?” asked the lady, quickly.

While Richard seemed to be refreshing his memory, Melicent,
laughing, said, “Parson Harold, I suppose.”

“Very likely,” answered Richard. “The Parson often
says everything in God's world has its use.”

“Who is Parson Harold? — and what does he know
about the wickedness that lies under all this fair surface?”

Mrs. Melbourne delivered this slattingly, and then pulling
at Melicent, she said the little children wanted help in getting
strawberries; and she asked — she only asked — Richard
if his horses had been watered; she could not bear that the
poor, dumb beasts should suffer through the folly of men.

Richard went towards the stable.

“I must water my team,” he said to Climper, whom he
encountered in the way.

“Don't pull wool over my eyes so!” replied the latter.
“I smell dogs.”

“Dogs!” echoed Richard.

“Yes, dogs. And if it ain't dogs, it's pups; and I won't
have one here! They bring them out in their coaches, and
hide them under the straw. Climper's is not to be imposed
upon, — Climper's has no hand in it; when they go up to
the polls, they shan't say, `Climper's is against us, — Climper's
harbors dogs.”'

Richard laughed outright; but the more he laughed, the
more Climper blared, until he consented that the carriage

should be overhauled. The straw was ransacked, shawls
and tippets were thrown out, but to no purpose, — no sign
of a dog appeared.

“You belong to the anti-dogs?” asked the landlord.

“I am of no party,” replied Richard. “There is some
good in all parties.”

“There is n't some good in all parties!” replied the other,
doggishly.

“Indeed, there is some good in you.”

“No, there is n't any good in me! Don't tell me that!”

“You love cats, don't you? Kitty, Kitty,” he called to
his fingers an amiable and womanly looking Maltese, and
taking her in his arms, stroked her back, in face of the wilful
man, and added, “That is good; I love cats, too!”

The strange Phumbician was touched, and, smiling good-naturedly,
he struck Richard smartly on his shoulders, and
bade him look after the horses, and went with him towards
the barn.

“You love cats,” said Richard; “and do you love nothing
else?”

“I love to be odd, — so get along!”

“And nothing more?”

“I love to hate dogs and plague folks.”

“Do you not love this spot, this hill, this view, this
water?”

“Yes, and because it plagues folks so to climb the hill,
and because they don't catch any fish, and because they get
ducked in the water. I love to have Mrs. Melbourne come
here, because she finds so many things to fret about; the
children will get cold, or they will get drowned.”

“You love cats, and to plague people?”

“I did n't say I loved to plague people; but to see them

plague themselves, if they have a mind to. It is no
business of mine. I only give them the opportunity.”

“That is why you settled here? Come, now, tell me
the whole.”

“I never told anybody.”

“Tell me.”

“I lost my wife and my children, and I had none to
love; and I bought here, where I could love God alone, and
let the world craze about me as it liked.”

“Can't you love me?”

“Get along!”

“Why hate dogs so?”

“My child was bitten by one; don't ask about that.
She died; don't speak of that; let me alone of the dogs.”

Climper helped Richard lead his horses to the pump; he
gave them their full measure of oats, then drove our hero
back to where the Family was.

But Richard could not find it, or come near it; for the
whole group was concealed, and monopolized by certain
strangers, young gentlemen who had just arrived from the
city, among whom were young Chassford and Glendar.
The entire aspect of things indicated to Richard that his
company was not wanted, and he strolled to a distance.
He did wish to see Melicent, and make, as he thought, a
great communication to her.

Nor was Melicent indifferent to Richard. She saw his
disappointed look, and watched his retreating steps. She
presently took the liberty to leave her friends, and go where
he was sitting.

“I have discovered the secret of Climper,” said Richard,
with considerable enthusiasm; and related what Climper
had said. “He has been smitten by adversity, and makes
of this spot a refuge to his spirit.”

Melicent looked at Richard incredulously, and then with
an expression of wonder.

“Do you doubt what I say?” asked Richard.

“I am only surprised to hear you say it.”

“If it be true —”

“Yes; — but that you should discover it.”

“Why should I not?”

“Why should you not? Only I did not think it of you.”
She gave Richard another direct look, — one of so fixed and
searching a nature, that he started and said, “I hope I have
done no wrong.”

“None at all,” she replied, and caught a twig of the tree,
which she tore off and flung away with great apparent indifference.

Richard, not wholly at his ease, was yet sufficiently disembarrassed
to say, “This place is a Hermitage, — a queer
one; but shall we not call it so? My Teacher used to say
we ought to give pleasant names to pleasant places.”

“Call it Mystery,” she said.

“Nay,” replied Richard, as the little children chased their
Grandfather in and out among the trees, full of gambol, and
breathlessness, and joy, “let us call it Merrywater.”

“Climper will not like that.”

“I will make him like it. He shall pull down his present
sign, and run up another.”

“Will you be kind enough to see that my horse is rubbed
down, and grained, and put into my phaeton, when we start,
young man?” said Glendar, who approached at this moment,
and threw a quarter to Richard. “I will,” replied
Richard, picking up the money, and going off.

The bell rang for supper, and the party was soon seated
around the sumptuous tables of Climper. Chassford took
care of Barbara, Glendar of Melicent, and the Governor and

Climper of the whole. There were nice fried, white perch,
and crisp, savory pork; piles of bread, white and light;
yellow and sweet butter; bowls of strawberries, and pitchers
of cream; cake of all sorts; and the Family were hungry
and merry. Climper loved to plague people; and Mrs. Melbourne
eschewed gingerbread, but Climper would make her
eat his gingerbread. Madam was sometimes delicate in
her meals, but he made her eat; and those that loved to eat,
he would force to eat more than they ought to; and so he
plagued them all. If mouths watered for the strawberries,
the strawberries seemed to water for the mouths, and the
cream foamed for the strawberries; the bread was piled up
high, on purpose to fall easily into the hand; and the pies
were in large plates, on purpose to go off in large pieces.
Climper's servants were at hand, with smoking cups of tea;
and it was as if Climper, out of this abundance of good
things, had determined to destroy them all.

The sun was going down when Climper shut the coach
door, flung up the steps, and cried to Richard to be off with
his load.

Barbara was timid, and did not like the omnibus, and was
persuaded to resign herself to Chassford and his buggy.

Glendar attempted the same arrangement with Melicent,
but failed; and she rode home as she had come out, — on
the box, with Richard.

They returned safely to Woodylin. Melicent, with apparent
sincerity and good intention, invited Richard to call
at her father's. Nay, more, — Madam herself, to the
amazement of all, asked him to tea on a specified evening.