University of Virginia Library

3. THE DUMB GIRL.

Some thirty years ago there resided on a little
corner of a farm belonging to my uncle, an aged
man of the name of Angevine, an “old continental,”
as he was called in the language of the times.
He had returned very poor, after having served
during the whole war, and bravely too, if his own
word might be taken for it, and was permitted by my
uncle to occupy a small tenement with a garden, on
a remote angle of his estate, rent free. Angevine
was a brave soldier, but rather an idle man. His
delight was to talk of the revolutionary war; and
who has a better right to talk, than a man who has
lent a hand in giving liberty to his country? I have
known Angevine stop on his way to mill, with a
bushel of corn on his shoulder, and talk a full hour
about the revolutionary war, without ever thinking
of putting down his bag. What was his origin I

know not, it was probably French; but I remember
whenever he got offended with my good uncle, who
in truth was of the family of Melchesideck—he
used to be somewhat scurrilous on the subject of
ancestry. He held it as a maxim that a soldier was
always a gentleman; and his conduct verified his
maxim, for he never worked when he could help it,
and passed most of his time in telling stories of the
revolutionary war. His revenue was his good spirits,
which generally made him a welcome intruder in all
the neighbouring houses; and when they failed in
that, served to reconcile him to his disappointment.
I believe he was never serious except when he read
his Bible, which he did every day. He would walk
fifteen miles to a training, for fun; got his head frequently
broken, in fun; was run over by a wagon, in
fun; was pitched down a high bank, in wrestling,
for fun; had his hip put out of joint—and once
was put into jail, in fun. In short, it was said of
him that he talked more and worked less than any
man in the county; his maxim being that all the
good people worked for him, and it ran against his
conscience to work for the wicked. He died as he
lived, in fun; giving his pipe to one, his tobacco
box to another, his odd knee buckles to a third; and
bequeathing his testament, which he knew by heart,
to my uncle, in payment of his rent. He was a libel
on all who possess the means of being happy, yet
are wretched; for he enjoyed more pleasure, and
created more mirth, than any man I ever knew, at
the very time that in the opinion of all reflecting
persons, he ought to have been miserable. In truth
he had enough to make him so, besides poverty.
He had but two children, a girl and a boy; the
former was dumb, and the latter an idiot.

At the time of the old man's death, Ellee, as he
was called—it was a contraction of some name I
have forgot—was about fourteen, his sister Phoebe,
about sixteen years of age. The poor boy had a
heart, though he had no head; his affections were
singularly strong; his reason but a little beyond
instinct. He loved his mother because she fed and
clothed him; he loved his sister, for she was his companion,
and he seemed to have a full perception that
she laboured under some privation, which resembled
his own; yet was not exactly the same. In all
times of danger, suffering, insult, or injury, he flew
to his sister for refuge, and she in time became a
young lioness in his defence. The boy was quite
tractable, and could do many little things, such as
bringing water, going of errands to the neighbours,
who understood his dumb show, and weeding the
garden; until one day, whether in mischief, or from
not knowing better, he plucked up a bed of radishes
for weeds. He had a singular, wild note, which he
sometimes uttered when in violent agitation, which
was not unlike the low, distant whoop of the owl,
though somewhat more plaintive. His chief delight
was to go every where with his sister.

Phoebe was not born dumb, but lost her speech

about the age of fourteen, as was supposed at the
time by a shock of lightning, which paralyzed the
organs of speech without affecting her hearing.
Before this happened, she had learned to read and
write, and her mind had been considerably improved
at a school hard by, whither old Angevine
had sent her at his own cost, as he boasted; though
truth obliges me to confess he never paid a shilling
for her schooling. At the same time, he scouted
the offers which were made to bring up his children
at the expense of the town. When Phoebe lost her
speech in this unaccountable and melancholy way,
it was affecting to see her impatience at first, her
succeeding despair, and the steps by which by degrees
she regained her spirits and resumed her useful
occupations. Ellee exhibited indications of a vague,
indefinite wonder and anxiety at first; but in a few
days all traces of these wore away, and he seemed unconscious
that his sister had undergone any change.
Her mother, an honest, careful, industrious woman,
took it sadly to heart; but after a time, the only effect
it was observed to have upon the good woman was that
she talked twice as much as ever, I suppose to make
up for the silence of Phoebe. Angevine took to
his Bible for days and weeks afterwards. Indeed I
believe he never fairly recovered the shock, although
the force of habit and constitution still caused him
to exhibit the usual indications of hilarity. He died
about two years after the accident.

At sixteen, Phoebe Angevine was the prettiest
girl in all the surrounding country, as well as the
most industrious. Indeed it was observed that Ellee
was better dressed, the garden in finer order, and
every thing about the house more tidy and comfortable,
since the death of the `old continental.' The
overseers of the poor offered to take charge of poor
Ellee; but both mother and daughter declared that
so long as they could maintain him, he should
never be a burthen to others. This was before the
poor were coaxed to become paupers, and lured into
idleness and unthrift, by the mistaken benevolence of
morbid sensibility. I thought it necessary to premise
this, in order to render the anecdote credible.
I don't remember ever to have seen exactly such a
face and figure as those of Phoebe. Her hair was
amazingly long, luxuriant, and silky; of a dark
brown colour, to match her eyes; and what is very
rare with our country girls, out of New England,
her skin was excessively white; but her face was all
lily; there was not the slighest tinge of the rose,
except when the impulse of her heart drove the
blood into her cheeks. It is impossible to give any
idea of her features and expression; the former
were rather sharp than oval, and the latter displayed
the character and impress of most intense passion, or
sensibility, or both. Never woman could better
afford to lose her tongue, for every feature of her
face supplied its place. The two poles are not
more distant than was the contrast between the

lowly, subdued, and dewy eye with which she
curtsied to my good old uncle, and the flashing
intensity of its rage, when any one played tricks
upon the simplicity of her brother, or laughed at his
infirmity; her eyes then did the errand of her
tongue, and their language was terrible. Every
body wondered how she always kept herself so neat,
for she was neatness itself. It was partly innate delicacy,
and partly personal vanity. It was impossible to
see Phoebe, without discovering at once that she
knew she was handsome, and that this was seldom
absent from her thoughts. She never passed a
looking-glass without casting a glance; and doubtless
many are the crystal mirrors of the neighbourhood
that could murmur of her beauties, from the
frequent opportunities she afforded them for contemplation.
There was some excuse for her, since,
independently of the singular charms of her face,
her person was very remarkable. It had no pretensions
to resembling that of a fashionable lady,
for in my opinion she never wore corsets in her life;
but it possessed that singular trimness and natural
grace, which the connoiseur will not fail to discover
and admire in an Indian warrior, fresh from the
hand of nature. It was as much superior to the
caricatures fabricated by fashionable milliners, as
the virgin Miranda was to the monster Caliban.

Phoebe was fond of dress; it was her foible, nay
her fault; for it was the mischievous minister to a
vanity already become one of the master passions of

her bosom. At church she was always the beauty,
and the best dressed of all the country girls; and he
knows little of a country church that does not know
how many hearts throb with envy, how many tongues
overflow with gall, when the owners are outdressed
and outshone by one they consider beneath them.
These sometimes rudely assailed her with sneers and
inuendoes. Phoebe could not answer but with a
look that no eye that ever I have seen but hers
could give. The poor girl indeed was sadly envied
and hated by the young females of her acquaintance,
because she was not only handsomer and better
dressed, but on account of her triumphs over the
rustic beaus, and the speaking, taunting glance of
her eye, when she carried off the schoolmaster or
heard some stranger ask who was that neat, pretty
girl. Then her ear drank the delicious sounds, and
almost made amends for the loss of the power of
answering but with her eyes. Phoebe was indeed
the belle of all the neighbourhood—a dangerous
pre-eminence! for her poverty, her idiot brother,
and her own misfortune, were so many bars to any
thing beyond the gratification of a passing hour.
She had many admirers; but none that passed the
usual bounds of rustic gallantry, none that sought
her for a wife. All they did was to administer to
her dangerous vanity, and awaken thoughts and
anticipations dangerous to her future peace of mind.

I went to school with Phoebe, during a period of
three or four years that I sojourned with my good

uncle. The schoolmaster was a gallant old bachelor,
whose house and barn had been burned by the
British, during the revolutionary war. Having
petitioned congress seventeen years in succession,
and cost the nation ten times the amount of his
losses in speeches, he at last got out of patience
and out of bread, and turned to the useful as well
as honourable office of teaching the young idea how
to shoot. He was a lazy, easy-tempered man,
grievously inclined to gallantry, and novels, in the
purchase of which he spent much of his superfluities.
These he lent to the young girls of the country
round, and scarcely ever visited one of them without a
love tale in his pocket, to make him welcome. I cannot
say whether these useful works had any thing to do
with the matter, but certain it is, there were a number
of odd accidents happened to the young damsels
of the neighbourhood about this time. The prettiest
girl in the school was always the greatest favourite,
and the prettiest girl was Phoebe, who always had
the first reading of his novels. I recollect perfectly
that such was her appetite for these high-seasoned
dishes, that she would read them in walking home
from school, and often came near being run over in
the road, so completely was she occupied with the dangers
of some lone lover or imprisoned heroine. When
she lost her speech, of course she quitted school;
but the gallant teacher still continued to visit, and
bring her the newest novels. These indeed did not
make their appearance so frequently at that time as
they do now, when, I am credibly informed, young
ladies take a new novel every Sunday to church, to
read during the sermon. Poor Ellee used to be
sometimes out of all patience with his sister, for sitting
thus whole hours without taking notice of him,
and once threw a whole set of Pamela into the fire, to
the irreparable loss of poor Phoebe and the schoolmaster.

At the age of eighteen, Phoebe had many admirers
besides the schoolmaster; her beauty attracted
the young men, but the misfortunes of herself and
family restrained them within the bounds of idle
admiration and homely gallantry. But even if this
had not been the case, Phoebe was too well read in
novels, to relish the devoirs of these rustical and
barbarous Corydons. Thus she grew up in the
beauty of finished womanhood, her imagination
inflated with unreal pictures, and her passions stimulated
by overwrought scenes of sentiment or
sensuality, for it is difficult to draw the line now.

About this time, the only son of a neighbouring
squire whose wealth outwent the modest means of
all his neighbours, not excepting my worthy uncle,
and was moreover enhanced by his official dignity,
returned home, like the prodigal son of holy writ,
poor and penitent. He had in early youth been
smitten with the romantic dangers of the seas, and,
being restrained in his inclinations by his parents,
especially his mother, had run away. He had been
absent six years without ever being heard of, and

the disconsolate parents long mourned him as dead.
His return was therefore hailed with tears of joy and
welcome: the father fell on his neck and wept;
the mother first scolded him for running away, and
then kissed him, till he was ready to run away again.
All was joy, welcome, and curiosity; and for several
days the prodigal had nothing to do but relate his
adventures. He had been to the Northwest Coast,
to the West Indies, and to the East; he had harpooned
whales in the Frozen Ocean, and caught
seals in the South Sea; he had been shipwrecked
on the coast of Patagonia, where he saw giants
eight feet high; and stranded on the coast of Labrador,
where he dined on raw fish, with pigmies of
not more than three; he had gone overboard with
a broken yard, and was taken up ten days after
perfectly well, having lived all the while on ropeyarns
and canvass; and he was carried down to the
bottom in six fathoms, by the anchor, and could tell
better than the gentlemen who have lately taken up
the biographies of dead men come to life, exactly
how a man felt when he was drowned. In short, he
had seen the Peak of Teneriffe; Mount ætna in an
eruption; the Bay of Biscay in a storm; and the
sea serpent off Nahant. Of all the heroes in a country
circle, the greatest is he who can tell the most
stories of wonders of his own creation. Accordingly
our hero, for such he is, was the lion of
the day, the wonder of the men, and the admiration
of the ladies, old and young. One day, after our
Sindbad had been telling of the wonders he had
seen, and the perils he had encountered, the old
squire suddenly asked,

“But have you brought home any money, Walter?”

“Not a sous, sir.”

“Hum!” quoth the squire.

The first Sunday after his arrival, our hero went to
church, whither the fame of his adventures had already
preceded him. Every body looked at him during
the whole sermon. The old people observed how
much he had grown since he was a boy; the young
ladies thought him very handsome; and the young
fellows all envied him to a man. Walter in his
turn looked about, with the air of a man unconscious
of the notice he excited, and after making the circuit
of the church with his eyes, at length rested
them in evident admiration on Phoebe Angevine,
who was that day dressed in her best style, and
looked as neat as a new pin. Phoebe blushed up
to the eyes, and her proud heart swelled in her bosom.
She continued to steal occasional looks at
him, and always found his eyes fixed upon her, not
insolently, but with an air of entreaty to be forgiven
the liberty they were taking. Poor Ellee had come
that day to church with her, and for the first time
perhaps in her life she felt ashamed of him, and
wished him away, although he always behaved himself
bettert han some people who think themselves
very wise.

It was the custom of the country at the time I
speak of, and I believe is so still, for the congregation
to remain during the interval between the two
services, most of them living too far off to go home
and return again in time. This interval is usually
spent by the good pastor, in making kind inquiries
about the health and prosperity of the good people;
by the old men, in talking of their crops and their
prospects; by the old gossips, in talking scandal;
and by the young folks, in strolling about under the
trees, or rambling through the church yard, reading
the epitaphs, and looking unutterable things. It is
here, amidst the records and memorials of mortality,
the precepts of religion, and the mouldering remains
of the departed, that human passions, even among
the best of us, still will exercise their irrepressible
influence. Vanity contemplates her Sunday suit with
glances of glowing admiration; Love nourishes
his idle dreams; Revenge studies modes of gratification;
and Avarice plans schemes requiring years
to realize, in the midst of a thousand breathless
whispers, that remind him of the woful uncertainty
of life—that say to the aged, Your time is but a span;
to the young children, There are shorter graves than
thine in the church yard, and smaller skulls in Golgotha.

During these various occupations and amusements
of the simple folks, Phoebe was strolling
about among the rest, with the gallant schoolmaster,
and Ellee, of whom she felt more ashamed every

moment; for she could not help observing, that is,
she could not help every now and then casting a sly
glance at our hero, and seeing that he was always
following her with his eyes. She wished poor
Ellee at home, and the schoolmaster in his school
teaching A, B, C.

“Well, what do you think of young Mr. Avery?”
asked the schoolmaster; “I don't admire him much
for my part.”

“Nor I,” said Phoebe, blushing to the eyes,
with that instinctive spirit of deception, which marks
the beginning, middle, end—no, not the end—of
love in the female bosom. There is not a greater
hypocrite in the world than a young and bashful
girl, learning the first rudiments of affection.

“Who is that beautiful girl, in the white muslin
gown?” asked our hero of a covey of rural belles,
with whom he had become acquainted; “she seems
very bashful, for I have not seen her open her
mouth.”

The young damsels began to giggle, and titter,
and exchange significant looks, which excited the
curiosity of Walter to ask an explanation.

“She's dumb,” at length said one, with another
suppressed giggle, in which the others joined. They
were by no means ill-natured girls, but I know not
how it was, they did not like the curiosity of our
hero. Women can't bear curiosity in others, except
it relates to their own particular affairs.

“Dumb!” said Walter; “poor girl.” Dumb,
thought he, a few minutes afterwards; so much the
better; and sinking into thought, he asked no more
questions.

The good Mrs. Angevine staid from church that
sabbath, on account of a rheumatism. When Phoebe
came home, she asked her, according to custom,
where the text was, bidding her seek it out in the
Bible. Phoebe shook her head, and looked confused.

“What! you've forgot, you naughty girl?”

Phoebe nodded.

“I dare say you were asleep,” said the mother.

Phoebe shook her head again.

“Then I dare say you were gaping at the young
fellows,” said the mother, angrily.

Phoebe shook her head more emphatically, and
with a look of indignation. There was too much
truth in this last supposition.

“Well, well,” quoth the mother, “I'm sure something
is going to happen, for you never forgot the
text before.”

Dreams, clouds, gipseys, and ghosts, are all prophetic
now-a-days, at least in fashionable novels;
and why may not this remark of the good woman
have been prophetic too? Certain it is, that something
did happen before long.

It was two or three days after this memorable prediction,
that young Walter Avery, being out shooting,
and finding himself thirsty, stopped at the house

of the widow Angevine for a drink of water. The
good dame asked him in to rest himself, which invitation
he accepted, and staid almost an hour, during
which time he talked to the mother, and looked at
the daughter. In going away, he shook poor Ellee
by the hand, as an excuse for doing the same to
Phoebe, which he did with a certain lingering, gentle,
yet emphatic pressure, that made her blood come
and go on errands from her heart to her face.
Phoebe thought of this gentle pressure, with throbbing
pulses, and poor Ellee was as proud as a peacock
at shaking hands with such a smart young gentleman.

From this time no one ever came to the house
without being obliged to shake hands with him half
a dozen times. With that strange sagacity and quickness
of observation which frequently accompanies
the absence of reason, he had marked the expression
of Phoebe's face, when Walter Avery looked
at and took her hand; and he made her blush often
afterwards by his grotesque imitation of his manner.
“Stop in again when you come this way,” cried the
old dame, highly pleased with his particular notice
of every thing she said. Walter was highly flattered,
and assured her he would come that way often.
At parting, he gave Phoebe a look that kept her
awake half that night.

“Didn't I say something was going to happen
last Sunday, when you forgot the text?” said Mrs.
Angevine. Phoebe was watching to see if Walter

turned to look back as he wound round an angle of
the road, and took no notice of what the good woman
said; so she continued talking on to herself,
for want of somebody else to listen.

“Something has happened,” thought Phoebe,
with a sigh, as Walter in turning the angle kissed
his hand to her, and disappeared. The rest of the
day she was so idle that her mother scolded her
soundly. The inertness of new-born passion was
gradually crawling over her, and she more than
ever regretted the destruction of Pamela, by the sacrilegious
hand of Ellee. From this time Walter
was out every day shooting, and what the old woman
thought rather singular, he always grew thirsty
about the time of passing her door. “It is worth
while to go a mile out of the way to get a drink of
such water,” would he say, though it tasted a little
of iron, and was not the coolest in the world. While
the mother was attending to household affairs, Walter
talked to Phoebe, and she answered him with her eyes.
But as there are certain little promises and engagements,
requiring more specific replies than even the
brightest eyes can give, he one day made her a present
of a silver pencil and pocket-book, in which she
sometimes made her responses in writing. Many
opportunities occurred for nourishing the growing
passion of the poor girl, notwithstanding the perpetual
intrusions of Ellee, who had taken a great fancy
to Walter ever since he gave him the friendly
shake of the hand, which went directly to his heart;

he seldom received such an attention except from
my kind-hearted old uncle. After this, he never
met Walter without going up, making a strange,
grotesque bow, and shaking him by the hand most
emphatically. Walter sometimes wished him in the
Red sea, for he interfered with his designs, and unknowingly
often proved the guardian genius of his
sister. If they sometimes stole a march upon him,
and wandered along the little river Byram, which
skirted the foot of the neighbouring hills, it was seldom
but Ellee found them out, with the instinct of
a pointer; when he would come running up, with a
chuckling laugh at his cleverness, and give master
Walter a cordial shake of the hand. Yet still they
had their moments of solitude and silence, such as
innocent lovers cherish as the brightest of their
lives, and deceivers seize upon for the attainment of
their objects. In the wicked twilight of the quiet
woods, the purest heart sometimes swells with the
boiling eddies of a youthful fancy; and it is there
that the purest person is won to the permission of
little freedoms and progressive endearments, which,
if not checked in time, are only atoned for by the
tears of a whole life. Phoebe became gradually
absorbed in the all-devouring passion. She could
not relieve her heart and express her feelings in
speech, and thus they preyed upon her almost to
suffocation. There is no reason to doubt her entire
conviction that Walter intended her marriage,
for he had told her so a thousand times.

Rumour, which like echo loves to abide among
the rocks and dells, where she delights to blow her
horn, the signal of awakening to a thousand blabbing
tongues—rumours and scandals now began to
circulate among the neighbours, all to the disadvantage
of Phoebe. It was nonsense to suppose Walter
intended to marry a dumb girl, and one so poor as
her. His father was the richest man in the county,
and he was the only son. It was impossible.

“Nobody can believe it, in their right senses,”
cried Mrs. Toosy.

“The girl must be a fool!” cried Mrs. Ratsbane,
“or something worse.”

“I thought what would come of her fine clothes
and foolish books,” cried Mrs. Dolan.

“And then the silver pencil,” cried Mrs. Nolan.

“And the morocco pocket-book—people don't
give these things for nothing,” cried Mrs. Dollinger.

“The mother must be mad to think of such a
thing,” cried Mrs. Fadladdle.

“The girl is no better than she should be,” cried
Mrs. Doorise.

“She is certainly a good for nothing cretur,”
cried Mrs. Cackle.

“Lord have mercy upon us! what is this world
coming to?” cried Mrs. Skimpey, with upturned
eyes, “it puts me in mind of—I don't know what.”

“Heigho!” cried Mrs. Fubsy, taking a pinch of

snuff, with a deep sigh, “it puts me in mind of
Joseph in Egypt.”

“Well, after all, let as hope for the best,” cried
Mrs. Daisy.

“Amen!” answered they all, and thereupon the
tea-party broke up, at five o'clock in the afternoon.
Women are in fact ill-natured toads, especially towards
each other, but they make it up in kindness
to us bachelors. There is good reason why they
should be intolerant to certain transgressions of the
sex. Vice thrives apace where it carries with it no
other penalty but that denounced by the laws. It
is the inquest, the censure, the terrible verdict of the
society in which we live and move and have our very
being, that constitutes the severest punishment; and
it behooves women to be inflexible in visiting sins,
that if they were to become common, would degrade
them from divinities into slaves—from the
chosen companions of man to the abject ministers
of his pleasures. As yet, however, the censures
of our tea-party were premature. Phoebe was innocent,
though on the brink of a precipice.

At length Mrs. Ratsbane thought it her duty, as
a neighbour and a Christian, to open the whole
matter to the mother of our hero, who forthwith reported
it to the Squire. Not that she thought or
meant he should take any steps in the affair;
she was a remarkable, a very remarkable woman,
such a woman as we doubt if the world ever
produced before or ever will again; for it was her

maxim, that as women could have no wills when
they died, it was but fair they should have their wills
all the rest of their lives. Never woman stuck
closer to her favourite maxim, as the Justice, were
he living, could testify. The name of this puissant
justice was Hezekiah Lord Avery, but his neighbours
usually called him Lord Avery, a name which
I shall adopt in order to give dignity to my story.
It is very seldom one gets so good an opportunity of
ennobling one's pages. His lordship was a silent
man in the presence of his wife, but a great talker
every where else, especially when sitting as a magistrate,
at which times he would never suffer any
body to speak a word but himself; for such was his
astonishing sagacity that he always knew what a
client was going to say before he opened his mouth.
The only man that ever got the better of him, was a
little pestilent lawyer of the township, who once spoke
eight hours on a point of law, which, though it had
nothing to do with the case, involved a great principle;
whereupon the people sent him to Congress.
Lord Avery was a man of great substance; partly
derived from his father, and partly of his own acquisition;
for he was what is called a lucky man. If
there happened a drought all over the country that
raised the price of wheat, Lord Avery was sure to
have a redundant harvest; if apples were scarce, his
orchards groaned with their product; if he sold any
thing it was sure to fall in price, and if he bought
it was as certain to rise. In short, he was the Midas
of modern times, and even his blunders turned to
gold. He had a neighbour his exact opposite; a
sensible, calculating man, who was always giving
his advice to his lordship, but without effect. This
worthy but unfortunate man never undertook any
thing without the most mature deliberation and consulting
every body. One year, observing all his
neighbours were planting a more than usual quantity
of corn, he sagely concluded that there would
be a glut in the market, and planted great fields of
potatoes. About harvest time the news of a failure
of crops in Europe came, and doubled the price of
corn, while the good man's potatoes stood stock
still. Lord Avery had gone on without caring a straw
about what his neighbours were doing, and reaped
a swinging harvest. The calculator was obliged
to buy corn of his lordship, who took occasion to
crack a joke on his foresight.

“An ounce of luck is worth a pound of understanding,”
replied the long-headed man.

It is well it was, for his lordship had plenty of one
and very little of the other.

Lord Avery loved his son Walter for two especial
reasons; he was his only son, and he told the
most entertaining stories in the world. Her ladyship
immediately, on receiving the information from
Mrs. Ratsbane, sought her lord, and poured it all
into his ear, with additions.

“I will”—quoth Lord Avery in a passion.

“You will!” cried her ladyship, contemptuously,
“your will is in the cherry-tree.”

“Well, well, it is my opinion,” said he, perfectly
cool.

“Your opinion! how often have I told you, you
have no opinion of your own?”

“No opinion of my own—a justice have no
opinion of his own!” thought he.

“Well, then, I think”—

“Think! how often have I told you there is no
use in your thinking?”

“Not much!” thought his lordship adding,

“Well then, my dear, I say—that is, I think—
that is, I am of opinion—my dear, what is your
opinion of the matter?”

“My opinion is, that you had better say nothing
on the subject.”

“What did you come and tell me of it for?”
asked his lordship, a little nettled.

There is a pleasant story, that the secret of Midas
having asses ears, was finally discovered by his barber,
who, unable to contain himself, at length communicated
it to the earth, whence soon after sprung
up certain reeds, that whispered it to the four winds,
which blabbed it all over the world. Her ladyship
had never heard this story, but told hers to his
lordship for the same reason the barber whispered
his to the earth. She wanted somebody to listen,
not talk to her.

“What did I tell it to you for;” at length replied
her ladyship, after a puzzling pause, “are you not
his father?”

“I wish I was his mother!” quoth his lordship.

“If you were you'd be twice the man you are at
present,” retorted her ladyship. “But what do
you mean to do?” Her ladyship always asked his
advice, while she as invariably took by the rule of
contrary.

“Why, I mean to disinherit him, if”—said his
lordship, pompously.

“You disinherit him! you shall do no such
thing!”

“Why, then, I'll make him marry the girl.”

“Marry her!” screamed her ladyship, “why the
creature is dumb!”

“Hum!” said Lord Avery, “I don't think that
any mighty objection.”

“Her brother is an idiot.”

“Poor fellow, I'm sorry for him.”

“Her mother is a fool.”

“There are plenty to keep her in countenance.”

“You're enough to provoke a saint.”

“How should you know?” quoth Lord Avery,
whose mind was wandering a little from the subject.
Her ladyship insisted this was as much as telling
her she was no saint, and thereupon made her exit
in hysterics. And thus the consultation ended.

The next time Lord Avery saw his son, he questioned
him on the subject of Phoebe, and received

his solemn assurance of her innocence. The good
man believed him, but the lady maintained its impossibility.

“Why, how do you know it is impossible?” said
his lordship.

“By experience,”—answered the lady.

“Hum,”—quoth his lordship.

Her ladyship finding herself in a dilemma, made
her retreat, as usual, and fell into hysterics.

“Walter,” said his lordship, who talked like an
orator, in the absence of his wife, “Walter, you must
not think of marrying this poor dumb girl.”

“I don't mean to,” said Walter, with a sly look.

“Ah! you wicked dog!” quoth his lordship—
“but mind you don't make a fool of yourself.”

“Never fear, I only mean to make a fool of the
girl.”

“Ah! Walter, you're a chip of the old block”—
said his lordship, complacently. “But I'm glad to
find you don't mean to disgrace your family.”

That worthy and gallant bachelor, the schoolmaster,
came to caution Phoebe, and spoke like an
oracle of the improbability that the only son of
Lord Avery, should marry, or be permitted to marry
the daughter of an `old continental,' in her situation.
He then went away, but being moved by
her tears, left with her a new novel, in which the
rustic heroine becomes a duchess. Phoebe wept
for an hour after he went away, at the end of which

she took up the book, and soon lost herself in the
extravagancies of sentiment and fiction.

Matters went forward for some time after this in
the usual way; the lovers took long walks together,
and the neighbourhood held long talks. Her ladyship
scolded, and his lordship very discreetly held
his peace at home, consoling himself by making as
much noise as possible abroad. All of a sudden
however, Phoebe became very sad; and was observed
to weep bitterly whenever Walter came to see
her, which was not now as often as usual. She refused
any more to accompany him in walks through
the wood, or along the banks of the Byram, and he
would go away in a passion, threatening never to see
her more. Poor Ellee watched her, as a faithful
dog watches the looks of his master, and it was apparent
that he could see she was unhappy, though he
only remotely comprehended the cause. He no
longer however, shook hands with Walter, and when
he went away, leaving Phoebe in tears, would sit
down by her side, take hold of her hand, kiss it,
and utter his mournful music. He never shed tears,
for nature, though she had given him feelings, had
denied him the means of expressing them except by
gestures and moanings. It was an aching sight to
see these two poor bereaved beings, thus suffering
together, without the power of alleviating their sorrows,
except by the silent sympathy of expressive
actions and speaking looks. This sympathy was
not shared by the mother, whom age and toil had

rendered callous to all the ills of life, except poverty
and sickness. If she took particular notice of
Phoebe, it was to flout her for her idleness, or sneer
at her grand lover; for the hints and tales of the
neighbours had soured her mind towards her daughter,
and infected her with strange suspicions.

One day Phoebe received a little billet, and shortly
afterwards, having contrived to evade the notice
of Ellee, was seen to bend her course towards a little
retired spot, distant from any habitation. It was
here she had often met Walter, and while leaning
on his bosom tasted the joys of an innocent love,
ripening into an all devouring flame. A high rock
gloomed over the river's bank as it whirled violently
round a sharp angle, deep and turbid. Within the
angle, and close under the side of the rock, was a
little greensward, shadowed by lofty sycamores, and
shut in on all sides by the perpendicular rock, the
mountain in the rear, and the deep brawling torrent
in front. It was a scene made for love, and it might
easily be consecrated to a more malignant passion.
Ellee followed his sister, as usual when he found she
was gone, and after an absence of perhaps two
hours, came home without her, in a state of terrible
agitation. He motioned with his hands; he ran to
and fro; pointed to the spot I have described, and
attempted to drag his mother violently towards it,
gnashing his teeth and actually foaming at the
mouth all the while. At length he sat down in a
corner, and commenced that strange melancholy

moaning, which was the only sound he ever uttered.
Labour and poverty harden the heart. The mother
thought strange of this behaviour at first; but she
was busy at work, and her mind became gradually
drawn off from the poor boy.

My uncle and myself happened to come riding by
at this moment, and no sooner did Ellee perceive us,
than he darted out, seized my uncle's bridle, and
pointing first to the house, then to the river, with
convulsive rapidity, concluded his dumb show by
the customary moan. Assured that something uncommon
had taken place, we alighted, and went into
the house, where we found the old woman, so busily
at work that she had not been aware of our coming.
Ellee followed us in, hung upon our steps, watched
every movement, and fixed so intense an eye upon
the motion of our lips, that it seemed as if he intended
to translate their very movements. On inquiring
what was the matter the good woman related
all she knew; but did not seem to think any thing
extraordinary had happened. It was otherwise with
my uncle and myself, who determined to go under
the guidance of Ellee, and see what had become of
his sister. As soon as we mounted our horses, and
turned them towards the river, the idiot boy seemed
to understand our object. He again commenced his
furious gesticulations; gnashed his teeth, foamed at
the mouth, and sinking as usual into a low and plaintive
quaver, ran with all his might towards the river,

only stopping at times to see if we were coming, and
beckoning us eagerly to follow.

It was now verging towards the sunset of a long
day in the month of June. Ellee led us to the
place where the river rolled rapidly around the sharp
angle of the rock, and there again began the most
violent course of gesticulation. He pointed to the
roots of an old branching sycamore, then twined his
arms about my body and kissed me, then wrung his
hands, and imitated weeping as well as he could,
and finally ran moaniug to the river's bank, and
making as if he would cast himself in, howled most
piteously, while he pointed to the deep current rolling
past. These significant actions naturally awakened
in our minds the most unpleasant suspicions.
We examined the spot with the most minute attention.
On the bark of the old tree appeared the initials
P. A. and W. A. apparently but just cut, and
at the root, the grass seemed to us to exhibit traces
of two persons having been sitting there very lately,
side by side. A little blood was sprinkled on one of
the projecting roots of the tree, and a piece of paper
was picked up crumpled together and stained with
blood. On examining it more particularly, there
were found upon it, written with a pencil, some
words in the handwriting as it afterwards appeared, of
Walter Avery, that seemed to form part of an invitation
to meet him somewhere or other. While this
scrutiny was going on, poor Ellee accompanied us
with the most intense interest, and watched our looks,

apparently to learn the impression made on our
minds by these circumstances. By this time it was
growing dark, and we quitted the place, notwithstanding
the violent opposition of Ellee, with a determination
to pursue the investigation next morning,
if on inquiry it was found Phoebe had not returned.
She did not return that night, nor did she
make her appearance the next morning. We accordingly
again proceeded to the spot where Ellee
had before directed us, accompanied by several of
the neighbours, and continued our examination. Nothing
more was observed that could throw light on
the affair, though the river was closely and particularly
investigated for some miles below. The general
conclusion was that she had been made away
with in some way or other, and suspicion fell strongly
upon Walter Avery. The notoriety of his courtship
to Phoebe, the circumstance of the fragment of
the note, and the fact that he had been seen going
towards the spot where the fragment was found, all
combined, seemed to bring the fact of murder, if not
home to him, yet close to his door.

The conduct of Ellee corroborated these suspicions.
Whenever by any chance he encountered
Walter, his rage was ungovernable; he would assail
him violently with stones, or when occasion offered,
lay hold of him with all the violence of infuriate
madness, tearing his clothes, biting, scratching,
kicking, and foaming at the mouth, with a bitterness
of rage and antipathy he never exhibited towards

any other person. Rumours gathered
strength every day; each one compared notes, and
each had some circumstance of his own to communicate,
that added to the mass of presumptions. A
legal inquiry was at length instituted, but the dumb
testimony of Ellee was so vague and unsatisfactory
that the grand jury, while in their hearts they believed
Walter guilty, declined to find an indictment.
Yet in the eyes of all the neighbourhood, Walter
stood convicted as a murderer and seducer. He
escaped the judgment of the law, but the verdict of
society condemned him. He stood a marked man,
avoided by all, feared and hated by all; in the midst
of society he was alone, and he sought to be alone.
It seemed as if he did not like to look in the face of
any human being, and the quick apprehension with
which he turned his eye, when it met the glance of
another appeared to indicate that he feared they might
behold the reflection of his crime in the mirror of
his soul.

Time passed on, carrying as usual on the bosom
of his mighty stream, the wrecks of men and things.

The old Lord, who never since the absence of
Phoebe, had once called Walter `a chip of the old
block,' disappeared from this world in the fullness
of years. His good fortune followed him to the last,
for he sent for a physician who could not come,
and thereby escaped the persecutions of the seven
sciences, and died of the disease instead of the doctor.
His wife soon followed; for it would seem that

the lives of old people who have lived together a
long while, become intertwined with each other.
Too weak, as it were, for self-support, they lean
upon each other in the down-hill course, and like
Jack and Gill, when one falls, the other comes `tumbling
after.' About the same time, or shortly after,
for my memory is now grown somewhat indistinct,
the mother of Phoebe likewise departed this
life, and poor Ellee was taken to my uncle's house,
where he remained the rest of his days, exhibiting
in his profound devotion to his benefactor, a libel
on human reason, which ought to hide its head in
shame, when told that dogs and idiots transcend it
in gratitude. He died of a sort of premature old
age about three years subsequently.

Walter Avery, the worthy young squire, after
the lapse of several years of gloomy retirement,
married a woman, who thought his wealth a counterpoise
to all his other delinquencies. They both
lived to repent this union. He was a misanthrope,
and she a shrew. The days of Walter were days
of bitterness, his nights were nights of horror. It
seemed as if guilt had unmanned him entirely. He
was afraid to be alone in the dark; the rattling of
the shutters made him start; the howling of the
winds, the rolling of the thunder, every shooting
star, and every ordinary phenomenon of nature
seemed to him the menacings of heaven's wrath, the
forerunners of something dreadful. He became the
slave of conscience and superstition combined, and

never knew the blessings of a night of balmy rest.
Awake, he lay perspiring in vague indefinite horrors;
and sleeping, he rolled from side to side, muttering
unintelligible words, and moans that seemed to rend
his very vitals. Guilt and remorse are the parents of
superstition. Walter became a believer in dreams;
as if the gracious Being, whose attribute is truth,
would condescend to convey his intimations through
what, ninety-nine times in a hundred, is only the
medium of irreconcilable falsehoods and contradictory
absurdities. The impression uppermost in his
mind, was his crime; the figure of Phoebe was ever
present to his waking hours; what wonder then if it
haunted his dreams? Some little coincidences
served to frighten him into a belief that they were
more than accidental; and he gradually became a
victim to the most abject superstition. In the gloom
and silence of night, a thousand fantastic illusions
preyed upon his guilty soul; and when he shut his
eyes, a perpetual phantasmagoria of shapeless monsters
danced before him, grinning in horrid deformity
unlike to any human form, or wearing the well
remembered visage of Phoebe, sometimes pale, sad,
and deathlike, at others distorted by the most malignant
and diabolical passions. By degrees, as his
mind and body became gradually weakened by
being thus perpetually assailed, a firm conviction
fastened itself on his imagination, that this besetting
phantasy was a malignant fiend, empowered by a
just Providence to assume the shape of his victim,
to punish him for his crime. At length his wife
died; he never had any children by her; and that
night the figure of Phoebe appeared to him as usual,
pointing to a leaf in the pocket-book he had given
her, which bore these words: “You shall see me
once more.”

Not long after this event, he was sitting on his
piazza in the summer twilight, drinking the very
dregs of misery, when he was roused by a little
boy, about six or eight years old, who stood weeping
before him.

“What do you want, sir?” cried Walter, with
the impatience common to his state of mind.

“I want my mother,” answered the boy, weeping
bitterly.

“You fool! I am not your mother. She is not
here.”

“I know it, sir; but she sent me to you.”

“For what, boy?”

“To bring you a letter and some things, sir,”
said the boy, handing him at the same time a soiled
note.

Walter opened the note. It contained only two
words: “Your son.” And it was signed “Phoebe
Angevine.”

Walter was half insensible for a moment. At
length seizing the boy's hand, he asked eagerly,
when and where he got that letter.

“My mother gave it me this morning,” said the
child.

“Oh God!” cried Walter; “I am not then a
murderer.” And his hard heart melted for once into
gratitude to Heaven. His next impulse was to catch
the boy's hand, and study his face, where he saw,
as he thought, the sparkling eye and glossy ringlets
of his ruined mother; and he hugged him in his
arms, and wept delicious tears. The boy did not
altogether decline these endearments, but seemed
hardly to understand them.

“I am thy father,” said Walter, at length.

“What is a father?” said the boy. “Is it any
thing like my mother?”

“Not much,” answered the other, and hid his
face with his hands.

“No,” said the boy, `I might have known that;
my mother never spoke to me—she only kissed me;
but I knew what she meant. Oh, I had almost forgot;
she told me with her fingers to give you these.”
And he handed a little bundle.

Walter opened it. It contained the silver pencilcase
and little pocket-book he had given to Phoebe.

“Enough,” said he, “come in to thy father's
home;” and he led him by the hand into his house.

That evening he questioned the boy closely as to
where and how he had lived, and where his mother
had left him in the morning; for now he was determined
to seek her, bring her to his home, and make
her all the amends in his power.

“You will find it all there,” answered the boy,
pointing to the pocket-book. On opening it, he

found it was almost filled with writing, some of it
nearly illegible.

“I am hungry and sleepy,” said the boy.

Walter had his supper brought him, which he ate
voraciously; and being placed in Walter's bed, he
fell into such a sweet and balmy sleep as that bed
had not witnessed for many a year.

Walter then proceeded to make out, as well as he
could, the contents of the pocket-book. It was a
wretched scrawl, full of details of misery. Connected
together, and in our own words, it was as
follows:

It seems that on the day Phoebe disappeared, she
had arrived at the place he appointed to meet her
some time before him, and had passed the interval
in carving their initials on the bark of the old sycamore.
In doing this, she cut her finger, and wrapped
up the wound in a piece of the note he had sent
her, requesting a meeting. When he came, she had,
in every way she could make herself understood,
pressed him to make her amends for the shame he
had brought upon her. To all these he had replied
only by lascivious toyings, and attempts to obtain
new favours. Indignant at this, the poor girl was
running away, when he seized her, just on the borders
of the rapid river. A struggle ensued; and
Phoebe at length, through rage and despair, threw
herself into the stream, just as Ellee, who had as
usual followed her, came up, and forgetting in his
rage the situation of his sister, furiously assailed

Walter, and prevented him from affording her any
assistance. She floated down the stream, kept up
by her clothes and the force of the current, till she
became entangled in the thick boughs of a tuft of
dwarf willows, that, as is usual with this kind of
tree, bent down and floated on the surface of the water.
Seizing upon these, she drew herself to the
bank, got out of the water, and darted into the thick
wood without being perceived. It was then that,
smarting under the recollection of Walter's insulting
behaviour, and the anticipation of certain disgrace
and exposure, she formed the resolution never to return
home again. Accordingly, she crossed the
mountain, which bordered the river, and became an
outcast and a wanderer.

Her infirmity of speech proved her best friend
among the strangers at a distance with whom
she sojourned. She was treated with kindness, as
one on whom the hand of Providence had inflicted
the sorest evils; and she made herself useful by her
habits of industry. At this time news did not travel
as fast as now; for there were few readers, and fewer
newspapers to trumpet forth murders and accidents
of flood and field. She remained here accordingly
without seeing or hearing any inquirers or inquiries
after her, and without knowing what was passing
at home. When her child was born, they wished
to take it away, and place it at nurse in a poorhouse;
but she would not consent. She nursed
it and brought it up, without being a burthen to any

living soul. Thus she continued on, till one day,
as chance would have it, a person came that way,
who lived in her neighbourhood, and knew her at
once. From him she learned all I have been relating,
up to the period in which Walter's wife died.
She took her resolution at once, and departed from
her asylum with her child. On arriving in the vicinity
of Walter's habitation, she placed herself in a
situation where she would not be observed, and instructing
the boy what to do, embraced him with
tears, and forced him from her much against his
will. She waited to see her son received into his
father's arms, and taken to his home, and then disappeared
from the knowledge of all, completely
eluding the inquiries of Walter. On the last page
of the pocket-book was written, “You shall see me
once more.” Strange, thought Walter, the very
words of my dream! The coincidence was singular;
but where is the wonder that one dream out of
a whole life should present some resemblance to a
reality?

Walter Avery had paid the full penalty of his
crime, in the misery of seven long years. He now
enjoyed comparative ease, although he never, to the
latest period of his life, could cast off the terrors of
darkness and the leaden chains of superstition.
Time swept on, and the boy Walter grew up towards
manhood, giving promise of becoming as
handsome as his mother, and a better man than his
father. At length Walter took sick, and lay on his

death-bed. It was just in the twilight of the evening,
when his son was alone with him in the room. A
female figure came quietly in, and sat down by the
bedside.

“Who's that?” asked Walter, in a weak whisper.

“It is my mother!” cried the boy, starting up
and kissing her affectionately.

“She said she would come and see me once
more,” thought Walter. “It is for the last time;
now I know that I shall die.” And he lay for a
while almost insensible. At length he requested his
son to raise him.

“Phoebe,” said he, “can you forgive me?”

Phoebe pointed to the boy; then placed her hand
on her heart; and raising her still beautiful eyes
towards heaven, leant down and kissed him.

Walter seemed endowed with new life.

“Send for Doctor Townley—quick—quick!”
said he.

“You mean Doctor Barley,” said his son.

“No, no; I mean Parson Townley,” answered
he; “run, run!”

“He wishes the doctor to pray with him,” thought
Phoebe, and motioned her son to obey. In the
course of half an hour the clergyman arrived.

“Doctor,” cried Walter, “I sent for you to marry
me.” “He is delirious, poor man,” observed the
clergyman; “he will be wedded to none but the
winding-sheet and the worm, poor soul.”

“Come, come; there is no time to be lost.”

“Where is the bride?” said the clergyman, willing
to soothe him.

“There,” answered Walter; “the mother of
that boy.”

“Indeed!” cried the good man; “then he is not
mad. I am ready, Mr. Avery; come hither,
Phoebe; I did not know you; give me your hand.”

Phoebe hung back, and shook her head, with
determined opposition.

“For the sake of thy son.”

Still she refused her hand.

“For the sake of the father, then. Would you
refuse him the opportunity of making his peace with
Heaven, by atoning his injuries to thee?”

Phoebe bowed her head with reverence, and
gave the clergyman her hand. He placed it within
that of the sick man, and went through with the
ceremony.

“May God reward you for this act of justice,”
said the clergyman.

“May God forgive me,” replied Walter.

Two weeks afterwards Phoebe was a widow.

“Well, for my part,” said Mrs. Fubsy, “I sha'n't
visit her.”

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Cluckey.

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Skimpey.

“Nor I,” said Mrs. Ratsbane.

Yet they all went to see Phoebe in the course of a
fortnight, and all declared she was one of the most

agreeable creatures in the world. The truth is, our
heroine was an excellent listener, which, in this
talking republic of ours, is better than the eloquence
of a Patrick Henry, a Randolph, or a Clay.