University of Virginia Library

30. CHAPTER XXX.
RICHARD AT THE GOVERNOR'S ONCE MORE.

Months wore away, and Richard was not idle. Green
Mill prospered; “Knuckle Lane” steadily advanced; the
“Friends of Improvement” were able to effect some wholesome
regulations; the majority of the workmen at the Saw-mills
devoted spare hours to the Griped Hand, and a better
tone of feeling and manner prevailed amongst them; the
parlor at Willow Croft was open, and Richard had much
delight in it with the children and his friends. His Father
and Mother had been to see him, and he, with Roxy, and
Memmy and Bebby, and Munk & St. John's best carriage,
made a journey to the paternal home.

Richard was happy, — at least, as much so as is ordinarily
the lot of mortals. He was invited to a party at the Mayor's,
to another at Nefon's, and to one at Judge Burp's; and these
were things of which his sister made account.

He called at the Governor's, — he was quite often there;
and, in fact, Roxy, and Memmy, too, began to suspect he
was specially attracted there. Memmy used to say, “I
know Uncle Richard wants to see Miss Melicent.” It was
obvious, on the other side, that his presence in St. Agnes-street
was allowed by the Family, and agreeable to Melicent.
So marked was the cordiality of these two persons,
it became rumored, in certain quarters, they were engaged.
The Family authorized no such declaration, — neither did
Richard. “If Melicent has her heart set on Mr. Edney, I
think she had better have him,” observed Mrs. Melbourne.

Madam never committed herself. She said, still intent cutting
out her pieces, “Yes, indeed; but young folks change
their minds.” “I should never change my mind,” added
Cousin Rowena. “Are you young?” asked Madam, with
a start. Cousin tried to laugh. “But how am I to regard
him?” inquired Eunice, — “as a suitor of Melicent's, or only
a friend of the family?” “You will not regard him at all,”
replied her mother. “You will only behave properly towards
him.” “I think,” continued Mrs. Melbourne, “Melicent
ought to know something.” “She does know something,
and will have to know more all her life,” answered Madam.
“Keep a learning, — go on to wisdom; she need not be in
haste to do it up at once; we must summer and winter our
knowledge before we really know anything.”

This was about the sum of what a bystander could collect
of the feelings of that domestic circle. Not but that
Miss Rowena had her asides, and pleasant innuendoes; and
Alice Weymouth would not only laugh outright, but even
relapse into great soberness, when she thought of it all.
The Governor in no wise interfered, leaving such matters to
the sense and choice of his children.

I know not that Richard asked any questions, or received
any answers. He was happy with Melicent; happy to
work with her in “Knuckle Lane,” — to walk with her in
Mayflower Glen, — to sit with her under the vines of the
piazza. Into the full circle of his being she seemed to flow,
and melt, and be as one with him; into his adoration of the
Supreme, into his studies of philanthropy, into his estimation
of man, and all his conscience of duty, she came. St.
Cuthbert built the windows of his hovel so high he could
not see the earth therefrom, and could only look out upon
the heavens, which became his sole object of contemplation.
Such was not the love of Richard and Melicent; it did not

look into the heavens, or the ideal and dreamy alone. It
looked upon the world at their feet, at men and things about,
them, and life as it is.

But lowly as Richard's feelings were, plain and simple as
were his delights, he was still a conspicuous mark for the
shafts of adversity. However, in his love of Melicent, he
may have had no other consciousness than that of the lily-of-the-valley,
there lurked an envious blast that would
reach and rend him. His relation to the Governor's Family
must of necessity become a topic of remark, — not to
say an occasion of surprise, — to many. Roxy, of course,
as the matter began to come into shape before her eyes, was
overjoyed; Mysie, who knew everybody, said. “I'm glad,
— she is one of the best critturs in the world.” Mangil
said, “She 's never hard up.” Miss Eyre must say something,
and do something. All that she said and did we
cannot relate.

But Richard ere long became sensible of her attempt at
something; and first, quite negatively, quite silently. She
did not bow as he passed her in the street. That was nothing,
— it might have been an accident. Soon he met her
face to face. She did not look at him; she averted her
eye, and slighted his salutation. That was positive, and
palpable. She came no more to Willow Croft; — that
meant something. He encountered her again at a party at
Tunny's. Her face was dark with apparent rage or contempt.
She flung herself from the side of the room where
he stood, as if he were the jaws of a crocodile. This was
awful, — it was dagger-like, — to Richard.

Here was food for speculation. Richard reflected that
he had been friendly, and even indulgent, towards her, —
that she had been free and easy with him. She had even
sometimes rallied him on going to the Governor's so

much. There was an outer door, a little porch-way of his
feelings, where he and Miss Eyre could entertain each
other, sit and chat; but into the inner chamber of his nature
she could not come, and he supposed she knew she could
not. Alas! here he was greatly mistaken. He had got out
of the mist she once raised about him, and could see things
very clearly, and, as he thought, see her very clearly; —
here, too, he was mistaken. He had always been glad to
meet her. She was vivacious, witty, pungent; and she
seemed glad to meet him. Now, this change, — what did it
purport? So sudden, too, so unpremised, — what had happened?
She was absent from the city when the rumor of
his engagement with Melicent transpired. After her return,
he noticed the alteration in her manner. It must have
something to do with that.

But what with that? — what with anything? He would
find out, — he would speak with her. No, — she would
not be spoken with; — she avoided him, — she went by on
the other side, — she was deaf when he addressed her.

Did he communicate this annoyance to Melicent? He
did not. He thought he would; — he was on the verge of
opening the subject one evening, when Chassford and Glendar
entered the room. This put his purpose to flight. Why
pursue it? Miss Eyre, and Miss Eyre's coolness, were no
part of him and Melicent; it was a mere fleck in the sky
that was full of brightness and repose to him; a fleck, too,
at his back, in some other direction than that towards which
he was looking. It was an irritation, and for that reason he
would avoid it, where all was quietness and joy. He scraped
it off as he entered the door of the pleasant mansion, as so
much mud on the sole of his boot. Was he not confidential
with Melicent? Exceedingly so. But this was a transient,
temporary grievance, personal to himself, that he need

not trouble her with, — that he would soon surmount or forget.
When one is introduced to the great and the good, he
instinctively leaves behind his meanness and his littleness;
and in the movement of the affections, what is hopeful, interesting,
fair, clusters together, as in winter we gather about
a bright fire, and forget how many cold and dreary rooms
there are in the house.

Chassford and Glendar were an embarrassment to Richard;
they embarrassed him by their looks, but more by their
conduct. In the same room with him, they disturbed what
we might call his physical equilibrium; in other rooms, and
other places, they disturbed his moral equanimity. Could
he shake them off? Could he disarm their insolence?
Could he expel the consciousness of their dissipation? They
were kind of suitors general of the Governor's Family, and
suitors particular of Melicent and Barbara. Glendar was a
fourth nephew and protégé of Mrs. Melbourne. His parents
resided in a distant city, and he came to Woodylin to
expatiate. Mrs. Melbourne saw no faults in her favorites.
There was a certain blind passionateness in this woman's
affection. She was, as some thought, the wilful supporter
and prejudiced advocate of those she liked. She saw no
reason why Glendar should not marry into the Family. If
Melicent was preoccupied, he might attach himself to Barbara.
But Chassford monopolized Barbara. Certainly,
then, Melicent ought to know, to make up her mind, and
have the thing settled in the house, whether she would have
Richard or not. However, these were points discussed
rather in her own mind, and just exposed edgewise in the
presence of the senior females, and not produced before the
girls themselves.

Chassford had a fine education, and fine abilities. He
led his class at College, — his professional promise was

great. But he was ruining himself by profligacy. And it
so happened, Richard knew more of this than anybody.
The shining talents of the young man, his boyhood fairness,
his visible industry, all the hopes and expectations that had
been garnered in him by doting parents and partial friends,
concealed the defects of his character. With Barbara, he
could be, and really was, musical, poetical, ideal, romantic,
profound, spiritual.

Richard found he had eggs to walk on, and a plenty of
them, and some not very sound ones, in the matter of these
young men. Nor was he sure that duty required, or expediency
would justify, any suggestions whatever as to what
he might know or think of them. The Governor's Family,
withal, was, to some extent, terra incognita to him; it had
its own customs, preferences, and reasons, — its own connections
and law of life, — and Richard might naturally
presume it would take care of itself, and must be indeed its
own keeper. Then it was a juncture of that extreme and
finished delicacy, for which he was not adequate, either in
tact or experience.

Lovers are oblivious; and when Richard was alone with
Melicent, Miss Eyre, Chassford and Glendar, were like a
dream of the night, which we never think of in the day-time.

But he could not always be alone with Melicent. One
day he found himself at the Governor's alone with Mrs.
Melbourne. Melicent and Barbara had gone on a journey
with their Father and Mother.

“If you like our Melicent, why do you not propose?”
Mrs. Melbourne said this not reproachfully, — not with any
dislike to Richard, but simply for his sake, and to fetch
things to a focus.

“The Governor and Madam Dennington both sanction
our intimacy, I believe,” replied he.

“Glendar wants her, if you don't have her,” added the
lady.

Daggers again! What could the woman think? Was
love like a berth in a steamboat, and were lovers to say quick
which they would have? Had Mrs. Melbourne forgotten
that she was once young, and had the tender passion? Not
exactly this; she deemed either of the young men an eligible
match for the young lady, — or, if her judgment consented
to Richard, her affection supported Glendar. She
did venture upon liberties with Richard, which she would
not have taken with some others, accounting possibly the
hardness of his early education and habits a sufficient foil
for her own boldness. She was kind-hearted in what she
said, and would have Richard know, if he did not take the
prize, he was only standing in the way of one eager to
grasp it.

Yet it was not so much Richard's sensibilities that were
startled, as his recollections; — it was that Glendar should
be named, — the Glendar whom he had seen in so many
unfavorable lights, and withal in so deep shadows, — and his
thought of whom was as wide from Melicent as the realm
of outer darkness.

He was moved to speak, and vent his mind. So he told
Mrs. Melbourne that, not a month before, he saw Glendar
drunk in a rookery, — that it was not possible for Melicent
to love him.

Mrs. Melbourne was horrified, — too much so to be calm, or
reasonable. She even went so far as to be more indignant
at the teller than the story; — she flouted the idea; she would
not believe such a thing; and, turning upon Richard, she
charged the story to his jealousy.

Richard left the house.

A few days afterwards, as he was sitting on the door-steps
at Willow Croft, the Governor's servant appeared at
the gate, and handed him a note, which ran as follows: —

If one of those forty-feet logs, that thrash about in such
hair-brained fashion, at the foot of the Dam, in a freshet,
had struck Richard across the breast, it could not have
affected him more sensibly in that region than did this
note.