 | Western clearings |  |
AN EMBROIDERED FACT.
All the stories in this volume are from the life—either in facts
or characters, or both; but the one which succeeds is as nearly
a transcript of actual reality, as could well be without giving
names and dates. The ride and its object—the suspicion—the
pursuit—the arrest—and the denouement—were described to
me by the hero himself, ere yet the memory of the toilsome winning
of his beautiful bride had lost any of its freshness.
What the phrenologists call “approbativeness” is an excellent
development, but we may have it too full. People born without it
are intolerable—those who have a superabundance, pay dearly
enough for being agreeable. They win, without conscious effort,
—instinctively, as it were,—“golden opinions” from those with
whom they associate; and too good a reputation is sometimes a
severe tax in more ways than one. As with other luxuries, it
costs a good deal to support it. One of our friends got rid of his,
inadvertently. We have the story from himself, only adding some
explanations of our own.
George Elliott had, from his childhood, been the model of all excellence
among his own family. His parents had other children,
and they all did very much as they pleased, not having set out
with a character to support. They did not always please to prefer
what was wisest; and then they were sure of a lecture, to
which George's prudence and self-government afforded the text.
George must have been really a good fellow, for his brothers
loved him in spite of his position; and as for his sisters, they
thought no mortal man, and hardly even Thaddeus of Warsaw, approached
him in excellence. He was, in truth, less spoiled by this
general homage than was to be expected. The shape of his head
was not improved by the cultivation of a faculty which shows itself
his black hair hid the superfluity, and the ceaseless good humour
that beamed from his eyes, joined to a fine ruddy complexion and
white teeth, made him an Adonis in the eyes of all the young ladies
of the neighbourhood. Not a house but was open to him—
not a mamma but smiled upon him. He was already “well to
do,” and such qualities as his promised constant bettering.
But here, again, George experienced the disadvantage of being
too well liked. The invariable welcome which awaited him,
the capital footing on which he stood with the mammas and papas,
and the fear that whenever he should select a special partner, it
would be at the expense of a large amount of friendship and attention,
had kept him undecided until five-and-twenty; and, we fear,
a little too well satisfied with himself to promise uncommonly well
as a husband.
Among his perfections,—in his father's eyes, at least,—was a
strict and energetic attention to matters of business. He was the
factotum in every affair requiring peculiar skill and discretion.
He travelled, he negotiated, he advised. Never was there an
eldest son on whose indomitable prudence a father could rely so completely.
Was a hard thing to be said, George must say it—because
George could say it without hurting any body's feelings.
Was a slippery debtor to be approached, George was the messenger;
and if it proved necessary to follow the “defaulter” to
Texas, he never flinched, and generally returned with man or
money. We will not say that such trusts were always agreeable;
indeed, we have already hinted that our friend sometimes
found his reputation rather costly. But developments are fate,
and his “approbativeness” kept on growing.
Once upon a time, when affairs called George from home, he
was about to pass the night in a village, about sixty-five miles
from his father's residence. There was no one to visit, for he
knew none but the gentleman with whom his business lay; and
he strolled out after tea, as men will when they have nothing else
to do, not exactly seeking adventure, but in a mood of mind to be
well pleased with any thing that should occur, to help off the
evening. He paced the bank of the noisy little “privilege” that
turned the grist-mill, the carding machine and the trip hammer,
to that pleasant gray which we poetically call dusk; and he was
about returning to the inn to read the newspaper over again, when
a wild-looking girl, with a shawl over her head, accosted him.
“They want you, up yander,” she said, in a mumbling and
embarrassed tone.
George's eyes followed the direction of the thick red finger,
and rested upon a pretty cottage on the side of a hill, at no great
distance.
“Who wants me? There must be some mistake.”
The girl stood perfectly still, staring straight forward.
“Who is it that wishes to see me?” repeated George. “Whom
were you told to ask for?”
“You're the one,” said the messenger, confidently. “I've forgot
the name.”
“Was it Elliott?” asked George.
“Yes,” said the messenger; “they want you right off.”
Musingly did George follow the girl up the hillside, perfectly
convinced of the impracticability of getting any thing more out
of her, and tolerably certain that he could not be the person in
requisition. Why did he go then? We have already said that
he was born to oblige, and also that he found the Templeville hotel
somewhat dull.
The clumsy-footed emissary turned into a little court, full of
spring flowers, and passing through a porch shaded to perfect
darkness by climbing plants, opened a door on the right. The
room thus disclosed was a pretty rural parlour, on the sofa of
which lay a young girl in a white wrapper, with an elderly lady
sitting by her side.
“Here he is,” said the girl; “I've fetched 'um.”
The young lady started—the elder screamed outright.
“Who is this?” said the more ancient, turning to the girl with
an annihilating frown, and seeming entirely to forget that the
young man might be innocent, and was therefore entitled to decent
treatment.
“I perceive there has been some mistake, madam,” began our
discomfited incomparable.
“Mistake! Oh yes, I dare say!” muttered the guardian,
she proceeded to scold her in an under tone, but with inconceivable
rapidity and sharpness, while George stood most uneasily
waiting the result. He felt inclined to disappear at once, but that
course seemed liable to further misconstruction; and he was,
moreover, rather attracted by the invalid, who, though embarrassed,
lost not her ladylike self-possession.
“The girl is newly come to us, and quite ignorant,” she said,
in rather a deprecatory tone. “She was sent for our physician,
and must have mistaken you—”
“Oh, very likely,” interrupted the elder lady, who forgot to
scold the maid as soon as the young lady ventured to speak to
George. “Doctor Beasley, with his bald head and one eye, is
exceedingly like this gentleman! Quite probable that Hetty
mistook the one for the other!”
The air of incredulity with which this was said could not be
mistaken; but the implication was one which it was impossible
to notice under the circumstances; and George concluded that
the only course left for him was to make his bow and leave his
character behind him.
As he turned, with his hat in his hand, a letter fell from it to
the floor, unobserved by him in his embarrassment. He had not
cleared the porch, when the maid ran after him with it.
“Here, Mister, they say they don't want none of yer letters.”
George looked in his hat, found he must have dropt a letter,
and took it, though it was now too dark to examine it. Here
was a new confirmation of the evident suspicions of the lady-dragon
as to some designs upon her fair charge.
Is it singular that a conviction began to dawn upon his mind
that the said charge must possess considerable attractions?
“Don't touch that thing upon the table,” says grandmamma, to
the little one who is quietly playing on the floor.
“No, grandma,” says the youth, and immediately leaves his
play to get up and walk round and round the table, trying to
reach the prohibited article.
George the prudent slept little that night. The young lady's
eyes and voice, the delicate and languid grace of her figure, as
she lay extended in evident feebleness on the sofa, rather unhinged
recollection of the spiteful air of the duenna, and the probability
that the error had cost the fair invalid some discomfort. Altogether,
there was food for reverie; and a hasty, unrefreshing
morning slumber had not made amends for a wakeful night,
when he was aroused by the breakfast bell.
Inquiries respecting the people of the cottage elicited only the
interesting information, that there was “an oldish woman, and a
young gal,” which added little to George's knowledge. The
innkeeper guessed they were “pretty likely folks,” but couldn't
say, as they had not been there long.
George went home, but said nothing of his adventure. He
said he did not think it worth while. But he thought it worth
while, two weeks afterwards, to travel the sixty-five miles which
lay between his home and Templeville, just to try whether the
landlord might not have discovered something beyond the interesting
facts before ascertained as to the “young gal” and her
duenna.
But the innkeeper had added nothing to his store of information
on this point, except the conclusion that the people on the hill
were “fore-handed folks,” and that there was a man who came
once in a while to see them and brought them lots of things.
“A man!” said George. “Ah yes,” (very unconcernedly, of
course;) “of what age—about?”
“Oh, he always comes in the evening, and is off again early
in the morning. Their help guesses he's an uncle or something.”
Not much enlightened, even yet, George adopted the desperate
resolution of trying boldly for an acquaintance. He judged it
absolutely necessary to inquire after the health of the invalid.
So, writing a civil card of inquiry, he walked up to the pretty
cottage, and, after reconnoitering a little, rapped at the door, and
awaited the coming of the stupid maid, with a trepidation quite
new to his quiet and well-assured frame of mind.
What was his dismay when the aunt herself, with a face of
iron, opened the door.
George was completely at a loss for the moment. The card
was in his hand, but he could not offer it to the lady, so he stammered
out something of his wish to inquire after the health of the
former occasion.
Rigid was the brow with which the careful dame heard this
announcement, and wiry were the muscles which held the door
half shut, as if defying a forty-young-man power of getting in
without consent of the owner.
“We're all quite well, I thank you,” she said, closing her lips
as tightly as possible as soon as she had communicated the information.
George stood still, and the lady stood as still as he. She looked
at the distant hills, and he at the door which had once disclosed to
him the reclining figure in white. At length, finding it in vain to
attempt wearying the grim portress into an invitation to enter this
enchanted castle, he turned off in despair, when the young lady
came through the gate, as if just returning from a walk.
George darted towards her, but the elder lady scarce allowed
time for a word.
“Come, Julia,” she said, “it is quite time you came in.”
The young lady looked at George with a scarce perceptible
smile, and such a comical expression, that their acquaintance
seemed ripened in a moment.
“I must say good morning,” said she, in a rather low tone, but
so decidedly, that George, perceiving any attempt for a longer
interview to be hopeless, put his card into her hand and departed
—not without a secret vow that he would yet baffle the duenna.
The sixty-five miles seemed rather long this time, and his father
remarked upon the difficulties which he must have encountered,
to account for a two days' absence, and such a worn-out air.
Yet all this time George persuaded himself that it was not worth
while to mention his new acquaintance. He, with his old head
upon young shoulders,—pattern of nice young men!—to find
himself interested in a chance acquaintance—to be suspected by
an ancient lady of designs upon her niece, and what was worse,
to be conscious of a strong desire to furnish some foundation for
such suspicions! Oh, it was too much! Pattern people find it
so hard to come down to a neighbourly level with common, erring
mortals! George found it easier to learn to perform the Templeville
trip in the space of twenty-four hours, although it was, in
to be necessary for him to take Templeville in his way to any
point of the compass; and, at last, chance, or some other power
that favours the determined, gave him an unexpected advantage.
It was the elder lady's turn to be an invalid, and, while she
was, perhaps, enjoying an interview with the veritable Dr. Beasley,
his former unwitting representative espied the now blooming
cheeks of the young lady among other roses in a pretty little
arbour in the garden.
“The garden walls are high, and hard to climb,” said Juliet
once; and the pretty Julia of our story might have said much
the same thing of the picket fence which separated her from her
new friend. But George was on the other side of it before she
could have had time to quote the line.
Could two young people, who met in this romantic sort of way,
in these unromantic times,—and after many a momentary interview,
cut short by the cares of a duenna, too,—fail to find some
very particular subjects of conversation? We ask the initiated,
not pretending to be au fait in these matters. However this may
be, it must have been that very visit that enlightened George
Elliott as to the young lady's position.
She was the prospective heiress of a bachelor uncle, who, in
consequence of a violent prejudice against matrimony, had vowed
all practicable vengeance in case she ventured to engage herself
before the mature age of twenty-five, full six years of which were
yet to come. A very liberal provision, which this same odd uncle
allowed to the elder lady, Mrs. Roberts, who was his sister only
by marriage, was made dependent upon the same point.
Now, the natural consequence of all this was, first, an irresistible
inclination on Julia's part to fall in love, just for the sake of
seeing whether her uncle would keep his word; and, secondly,
from the extreme prudence of the aunt leading her to take up
her residence in a region of clodhoppers, an inevitable proclivity
of the damsel to fancy the very first tall, dark-eyed, personable
youth who should come in her way. We are not sure that Julia
told George all this. We give it merely as a comment of our
own, by way of avis au lecteur.
The garden interview was prolonged until the ruddy-fingered
on that occasion, put behind a thicket of lilacs for the moment,
we infer that a considerable degree of intimacy had by this time
been established between the young people.
Peaches were like little green velvet buttons when George was
first mistaken for Dr. Beasley, and before they were ripe, he had
learned to think it a small matter to ride one hundred and thirty
miles in twenty-four hours, for the sake of spending an hour or
two in the cottage garden at Templeville, and occasionally getting
a cup of tea from the unwilling fingers of Mrs. Roberts.
He had, in the mean time, become the object of much remark
at home. He had always been fond of a good horse, and rather
celebrated for his equestrian skill; but people began to call him
a jockey now—so many fine animals did he purchase, and so
many did he discard again after only one trial on the Templeville
road. The difficulty of breaking the subject at home had become
greater with every visit, and our mirror of prudence had nearly
persuaded Julia that her uncle's fortune was of no sort of consequence,
and a six year's probation quite out of the question,
before he could resolve to tell his father that he was about to
marry a penniless young lady and her not very agreeable aunt—
Mrs. Roberts being, of course, to be taken (fasting) with her niece.
While the disclosure was yet to make, a letter came for Mr.
George Elliott, postmarked “Templeville,” and directed in a prodigious
scrawl with a very fine pen—a young-lady-like attempt
at disguise which could not but draw attention at a country post-office,
if any body could have suspected so prudent a youth of
clandestine proceedings. This epistle, being opened, was found
to contain only a few lines, most cautiously worded, to inform Mr.
George Elliott that suspicions of treachery and fears of consequent
calamity made a friend of his very miserable. Further
specifications, diplomatically urged, gave Mr. Elliott to understand
that the uncle was expected, and that there was reason to suppose
he had been induced to plan a sudden removal of the cottagers to
a far distant and (of course) inaccessible part of the country.
The rising sun of the next morning saw Elliott “making
tracks” for Templeville, most literally; for the fierce pace of his
gallant steed indented itself upon the moist soil in a striking manner.
although he had more than once performed the same feat before,
he was now so anxious lest some accident should cause delay,
that he pushed on with unwonted vehemence. He had twice
changed horses, and had passed through a small village about
twenty miles from Templeville, when the people on the road noticed
that he was closely pursued by two horsemen in fiery haste.
George rode like the Wild Huntsman, and his pursuers were
nearly as well mounted. At every point they inquired how far
the maker of those dashing tracks was in advance of them, and
their breathless questions were always answered in such terms as
induced them to hope their chase was nearly at an end. They
spared neither whip nor spur, therefore; but their horses were
not so well used to that rate of travel, and one of them gave out
entirely just as they entered Templeville, with our tired hero full
in sight.
George reached the tavern, and went, as was his wont, immediately
to the stables, to see his horse cared for. He examined
several stalls before he chose one, and was giving his directions
to the ostler when he was rather roughly accosted by two persons,
who took their places on either side of him, and began in
very aggressive style asking him various questions. Our prudent
friend was not, we regret to say, a member of the peace society;
and he responded to these inquiries in a way which
threatened difficulties in the pursuit of knowledge.
The crowd increased every moment. The whole town of
Templeville seemed congregated in the stable-yard. “There he
is!” “That's him!” “That's the chap!” “I'd know him for a
thief, anywhere!” were the cheering exclamations that met Elliott's
ear on every side.
Not to dwell unnecessarily on particulars, we may say at once
that the elder of these gentlemen had been robbed of a pocketbook,
containing a large sum of money, and that circumstances
favoured the idea that the thief had taken the Templeville road.
George's hard riding pointed him out as the delinquent; and his
having gone into several stalls on his first arrival, led the bystanders
to suppose he had been seeking for a place to secrete his booty.
We need not notice Elliott's indignant denials of the charge.
rather advised him (as a friend) to give up the pocket-book at
once, without attempting to deceive a person of his astuteness.
George, who was anxious beyond every thing to be on his way to
the cottage, and who, likewise, felt exceedingly unwilling to call
upon his only acquaintance in the village, knowing that would be
to insure a faithful report of the whole affair at home, offered to
submit to a search, provided it might be performed in private and
without unnecessary delay. To this, after some consultation, the
old gentleman agreed; and the landlord, (who, by the way, disclaimed
all knowledge of the accused, except that he had made a
great many inquiries as to the people at the cottage,) was showing
the way through the crowd to an inner room, when George
encountered Mr. Henderson, the person to whom he was known.
All chance of escaping recognition was now at an end, and it
became evident to George Elliott that, in addition to the loss of
consideration by an imprudent marriage, he must expect a good
deal of hard joking on the subject of hard riding. The gaping
crowd, commenting audibly upon every point of his physiognomy
and equipment, and agreeing, nem. con., that he had state prison
written upon his face if ever a fellow had, was nothing, compared
with the keen sense of mortification which came with every
thought of home. Julia's power, however, was irresistible; and
George, perceiving that Mr. Henderson knew his accuser, requested
an introduction, which was accordingly performed, to the
great discomfiture of the old gentleman, who became unpleasantly
sensible that his wild goose chase had led him a great way from
his lost money, ruined a fine horse, and brought him into very unpleasant
circumstances with a young gentleman, who, upon close
examination, did not look half so much like a gallows-bird as he
had supposed.
“Upon my word and honour, sir,” said the old gentleman, wiping
his forehead with an air of the greatest perplexity, “I am extremely
sorry for this mistake. If I can make you any amends,
this gentleman, Mr. Henderson, will answer for me, that I shall
be happy to offer any atonement in my power.”
George, of course, disclaimed any such wish, and, only anxious
to see Julia, he shook hands with his accuser and hurried off.
Before he shut the door, the old gentleman stopped him. “Will
you do me the favour to tell me, before we part, what possible inducement
you could have for riding at such a pace?”
George laughed, said he was fond of fast riding, and disappeared.
Julia, in tears, and all the despair of nineteen, met George
with the intelligence that her aunt, after appearing to favour
them, must have played them false, and induced the uncle to insist
upon an immediate change of residence.
“To-morrow morning,” she said, “we are to leave here, for
ever. My uncle has already arrived, and we should have set off
this evening, but for the circumstance of his having been robbed
on his way hither.”
“Robbed?” said George.
“Yes. He is now in pursuit of the thief, and will not probably
return before night.”
As Julia said this, sobbing all the time as if her little heart
would break, not for her uncle's loss, but her own woes, the door
opened, and George's new acquaintance walked in.
“Hey-day, hey-day, here's a pretty affair! This is the nice
youth that has persuaded you to throw away your bread and butter,
is it?”
Then, coming nearer, and taking a better look at George, who
had thrown off the India-rubber overcoat which western men are
wont to wear when showers are probable, he burst into a hearty
laugh as he recognized the object of his former suspicions.
“So it wasn't my pocket-book you wanted, sir?” said he.
“No, sir,” said George, glad of so good an opening for his suit,
“No, sir; it is your niece, without any pocket-book at all.”
“Will you take her without?”
“With all my heart and soul!”
“In one year from this time I will not object, on those terms,”
said the old gentleman.
But he probably thought he owed some reparation for his hasty
accusation, for, when the year was out, George got the niece and
the pocket-book too; but he could not regain his reputation as
the mirror of prudence. We have never heard, however, that
this detracted materially from his happiness.
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