University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II.

As Old Jude now rode into the yard his restless eyes at once
fell on the partially disclosed forms of his niece and a young
gentleman occupying two windows opening from the parlor towards
the garden, and immediately his usually severe and bitter
countenance assumed an expression of unwonted asperity.
Leaping from his horse with an air of nervous irritation, he
made a few rapid strides towards the barn and began to bawl
loudly and angrily to the servant boy we have named, who stood
leaning over the fence heedlessly gazing at the yarded cows.

“Shack! I say, Shack! Shack Rogers! do you hear, you
deaf booby?—come here, then, and take care of this horse.”

“Um?—what?—oh, yes,” replied the other, at length rousing
up and coming forward.

“Shack,” said the old man going up closely to the other, as
he handed him the bridle-reins, and speaking in his ear, “do
you know who that is in the parlor with Lucy?”

“Um?—what?—Oh—why, yes—Lot Fisher, the young lawyer—guess—an't
sartin—the one that used to live with 'Squire
Stacy down in the street, you know.”

“How long has he been here?”

“Um? Oh 'bout two hours, guess—took tea—may be three.”

“Has he ever been here before, when I was away?”

“Um? Oh, yes, think likely, but not so long, guess.”

“What does the fellow want here?”

“Um? Oh,—don't know—may be Lucy does,” added the
speaker, with a knowing wink of the off eye.

“Look here, Shadrack,” said the old man complaisantly addressing
the other by his true name, instead of the usual contraction,
“I want you should tell me if that fellow comes here
again in my absence. Be still about it; but keep a little eye on
their movements, and I'll do what is right—I'll pay you something
extra.”

“What's right, hey?” muttered Shack to himself, as he led
the horse away to the stable—“Do what is right, hey, old head
—'twould be plaguy strange if you should do any thing that's
next door neighbor to right. Extra pay for keeping an eye on
them, hey? Yes, I'll keep an eye on them, old chap, without
pay, but in a way you don't think of, may be.”

With knitted brow, Old Jude took his way towards the kitchen
where he encountered the old house-maid, before described,
shaking a fine damask table cloth at the door. “So Tabby,
you have been getting tea for those parlor gentry, eigh,” said he,
sneeringly.

“Why, la!—why, yes, Sir,” replied the other turning up her
great white eyes deprecatingly to the angry face of her master.

“And you made a great parade, I'll warrant it?” resumed the
former, in the same tone.

“Why, goodness, now! Why, Lucy ordered tea in the dining-room
with the reg'lar company things—be sure she did; and
I didn't know you'd got objections, or I'd never done it in the
born world, Mr. Hosmer,” said the girl in a fluster.

Old Jude made no further remark, but after musing a moment
made his way directly for the parlor, and unceremoniously entered
the room, where the lovers, for such they might in truth
be called, were sitting happy in the interchange of congenial
thought and feeling, and wholly unconscious of the domestic
storm that was about to burst upon them.

“I didn't know that you was going to have company, this afternoon,
Lucy,” said the old man in a voice tremulous with suppressed
passion, as he turned abruptly on the astonished girl,
without deigning a look or word to her companion.

“Nor did I, myself, scarcely,” she responded with some confusion—“But
if I had,” she continued with increasing firmness,
and spirit, “if I had known certainly that Mr. Fisher was to
call this afternoon, I should have not considered it necessary,
perhaps, to apprise you of the fact, Uncle.”

“Mr. Fisher?” said the former tauntingly, without pretending
to heed what she said, except the name of the person she mentioned,—“Mr.
Fisher?—who is Mr. Fisher?”

“Why, you certainly have not forgotten Mr. Fisher, Uncle—
the young gentleman that studied law with Squire Stacy,” answered

the girl, turning on the other a searching and reproachful
look.

“Fisher!” pursued the old man with a disdainful snuff. “Lot
Fisher, the illegitimate boy that Stacy got from a poor-house
down south somewhere?”

“Yes, Sir, the same!” promptly said the young man elevating
a head that might have served as a model for an Appollo, and
turning his clear, frank, self-possessed countenance full on the
other.

“O, is it,” returned the former, in the same sneering tone,
without looking up,—“I was not aware, that I ever invited you
here, Sir.”

“Mr. Hosmer,” rejoined the young man, still courting the
averted gaze of the old man, “this is very hard to bear, but as it
is in your own house, I will try to do it without losing temper.
I am here without invitation from you, it is true, for I did not
suppose you would expect me to wait for one, if I desired to
come. But I wish to make no secret of my business here, Sir,—
It was to address Miss Hosmer with the view to a future connection
with me, and with the intention, if she did not discourage
my suit, of consulting you early on the subject.”

“Consulting! umph! really! It would'nt require much consulting
to get my mind on that matter. If Lucy can't look anywhere
but among illegitimates and town-paupers for a future
connection, as you call it, I think she better not form one at all.”

So saying the old man turning hastily on his heel, shuffled
out of the room and slammed the door after him, leaving the
distressed and deeply offended girl in tears, and her insulted
companion pacing the room in silence, and struggling hard to
maintain the mastery over his outraged feelings.

“Miss Hosmer,” said the young man pausing before her after
quelling his emotions in a good degree,—

The girl raised her tearful eyes to the face of the other with
a look full of tenderness and respect, when, with a softened and
less formal tone, he resumed.

“Lucy, when I offered you my hand, at our former interview,
it was done with much hesitation, and the openly expressed
fears, that the circumstances, of which your uncle has so harshly
taken advantage, would be made, in case you accepted me, a

source of pain and mortification to you by the evil minded. The
trial, as you now see, is already begun,—to be repeated, I know
not how often, through life. And if, from this foretaste, you begin
to wish it, Lucy, I will relinquish my suit from this hour,
and with it, of course, all hopes of that union, to which I have
been looking forward with so many sweet anticipations of happiness.”

“I was not looking for such an appeal from you, Lot,” responded
the other again looking up with an expression of disappointment
and regret. “I remember what you said at the interview,
to which you allude; and I remember, also, you added, that, as
for yourself, you should never be disturbed by those circumstances;
for those who were worthy your esteem would never, in
thought or word, disparage you on that account; and that no
others would have the power to wound you. To this I assented,
as a just remark, and assured you, that if you could thus reason
and endure, I certainly ought not, and should not, allow such a
thing to disturb me. Has any thing now occurred, Lot, to lead
you to discredit the sincerity of my assurances, or doubt my consistency
and firmness?”

“No, Lucy,” replied the young man with a breast swelling
with emotions of gratitude and admiration,—“No, noble—noble
girl; but when I saw you in tears”—

“It was not that,”—quickly interposed the other,—“nothing of
that kind, Lot. I indeed felt wounded—deeply wounded—insulted
by my uncle; for I was insulted, as much as you, by his
treatment of company, whom I chose to receive, and whose respectability
he knew as well as myself—ay, insulted by my uncle,
my only near surviving relative, whom I so wished to love! It
was a bitter thought!—I could not have believed he would ever
have treated his dead brother's daughter so shamefully.”

“Then, dear girl, I am to feel assured, that, for aught that has
now happened, I stand with you as before?”

“As well, most certainly—perhaps I should say better—your
forbearance and manly conduct under such trying circumstances
should raise you in my esteem,—at all events it will be highly
appreciated. But I must not allow you to infer from this, any
final answer to your proposals. I would first have you received

here as you should be. My uncle, as you must know, has great
faults and peculiarities; but I would preserve his character in
spite of himself, and induce him to take a course that will be for
the credit and happiness of us both. In short, I would have his
consent to any union I may form.”

“His consent to a union with me, I fear, you will never have,
Lucy,” said Lot despondingly.

“We do not know that,” rejoined she, “he may have other
objections to you than those he has led you to infer. He is a
man, I am sorry to say, whose motives are often deeply masked.”

“It may be,” said the former, “that I have been misrepresented
to him; and when disabused, he may consent. And if he
should?—you have not yet said what you should then do,
Lucy.”

“Why how dull you are!” she playfully responded with reddening
cheek.

“Ay, but the words,” persisted the lover, “the comforting
words, Lucy,—what should you do then?”

“Why—why, of course, I should submit to my Lot,” she replied,
as blushing and laughing at her inadvertent pun, she dropped
her head on that fondly, proudly throbbing bosom, which,
at that moment, a moment ever fearfully important to the sex,
she had thus virtually chosen for weal or for wo,—that bosom,
on which—such is woman!—she must now depend for the only
talisman of her earthly happiness in the allotted calm and sunshine
of life—her only refuge in its never failing storms and
reverses.”

The lovers, not deeming it expedient to attempt any more interviews
in this house at present, agreed on a future correspondence
by letter, or perhaps such occasional meetings at the house
of a mutual friend in the village, as opportunity should permit;
and having settled this, they were on the point of separating,
when Old Jude, not satisfied with the abuse he had already offered
Fisher, or irritated that he still presumed to linger, hastily
reentered the room, and began to repeat his insults in terms even
more aggravating than before. But failing to elicit this time a
single word of reply from the young man he seemed to lose all

his patience, and, suddenly pointing to the outer entrance, exclaimed,

“There is the way out, Sir—there is the door; and while I
live here don't let me see you darken it again.”

The young man deliberately took his hat, and bowing an
adieu to Miss Hosmer, departed in silence.

“Well, well,” said the old man, in an attempted jocular tone,
as he turned to his niece with the air of one ready to apologize
or conciliate.

But his niece, without paying the least attention to his words
or manner, brushed by him with an air of chilling dignity, and
immediately quitted the room, leaving the nonplussed old man
to digest his spleen and enjoy his reflections by himself.

As to Lot, he soon found his way into the street, but he scarcely
knew how he had done so; for now, when he came to be
alone, and relaxed the curb of self-control which he had so successfully
imposed upon himself, his bosom became a perfect
turmoil of conflicting emotions. Although his heart had been
made to bound with happiness by the gratifying proofs he had
received of the niece's love, and the noble traits of character on
which he might rely for its continuance, yet that cup of happiness
had been sadly dashed by the treatment of the uncle. That
delicacy, which he had naturally felt before his mistress, had
been rudely shocked, his pride humbled, and his whole feelings
outraged; and chagrin, vexation and resentment, in all their
mingled power, took possession of his breast, for awhile over-mastering
all the better feelings of his heart, which usually so
strongly predominate there, and driving him almost to curse
those who had been the instruments of an origin, which now,
for the first time in his life, perhaps, he was ready to pronounce
a reproach.

While struggling under the influence of such feelings, as he
was slowly pursuing his way, with drooping head and abstracted
mien, towards the inn where he had left his horse, the hand
of some one, who had overtaken him unperceived, was laid
familiarly on his shoulder, with a good-natured,

“Hurra to you, Lot!—is this you, moping along with a gait
so unlike your usual one?—what has happened to you?”

“Squire Stacy!” exclaimed the other, starting, “You have
fairly taken me by surprise.”

“Ay,” rejoined the former, a very plain, but well favored,
keen eyed man of the middle age, “Ay, doubtless, but that don't
answer my question.—You look disturbed; something is wrong
with you, Lot,—where have you been?”

“Why, really, Squire Stacy,” said Lot, with a half offended,
remonstrating air, “you really press me very hard about”—

“About that which is none of my business, eigh?” interrupted
the Squire with good natured bluntness—“true enough, I presume;
but what other than a friendly motive do you suppose I
have for so particular an enquiry, Lot?”

“None, none, certainly,” replied the former relaxing. “And
you are right; for who is so well entitled to my confidence, as a
consulting friend, as you, Squire Stacy. You shall know:—I
have been to visit your fair favorite, Miss Lucy Hosmer.”

“I suspected so, Lot. And your reception has not been such
as you had hoped, I suppose?”

“From Lucy herself it has been—even more—but her uncle,
unexpectedly obtruding himself, insulted me beyond bearing;
and not content with that, finally turned me out of doors.”

“Indeed?—Do you mean to be understood literally?”

“Yes.”

“Well, I should hardly thought that of Old Jude. What could
be his motive in taking that foolish course to break off the match?
I confess I don't now see, though I very well understand why
he will oppose it. But stay—did you lose your temper and retort
upon him?”

“No, I governed myself perfectly, though I wonder how I
did.”

“That is well—very well—thanks to my training, eigh, Lot?”

“I confess it—otherwise I must have all but struck him.”

“Ay, and defeated yourself with both uncle and niece. But
one serious question to you, Lot. Why do you seek a union
with Lucy Hosmer? Do you want her for herself, or for her
money?”

“For herself, certainly. You surprise me by the question; for
I have understood she would have no property, or very little

Indeed, she once incidentally told me herself, that her uncle
had notified her to that effect. And were it otherwise, I had
hoped you entertained such opinions of my general motives as
would render that question unnecessary.”

“Well I do Lot, as far as you are aware yourself of your
leading motives in a given case, but we are all so constituted,
that we do not always realize what influences most contribute to
form our motives, or rather what our wishes would be, in a case,
if certain influences did not—perhaps unconsciously, operate on
us. But one question more—does Lucy love you?”

“I flatter myself it is so. Indeed I can no longer doubt it.”

“Well, Lot, I am now satisfied with your motives towards
that noble girl, the lovely inheritor of all her father's sterling
worth. I believe, also, you are worthy of her; and I think I
can promise you success.”

“You? you promise me success?”

“Yes, I—for I think I can. This doubtless sounds strange to
you, but it will appear less so when you hear certain developments,
which it is now expedient, perhaps, that I should make
to you.”

“It may be so; but I doubt it. She will not marry me without
her uncle's consent, which I have every reason to believe
will be withheld. And besides every means will doubtless be
employed to destroy me in her present good opinion, and I fear
with eventual success.”

“Poo! Lot, faint heart, eigh? I see you have not so high
an opinion of the girl as I have, after all. But come, let us go
into my office, where we can be free from intrusion. I have,
as I just intimated, some confidential disclosures to make to
you.”

But before following them to the proposed conference, we
will glance at the character and previous career of Stacy, together
with so much of the early history of our hero, as may
serve to explain the nature of the connection between them, and
the unpleasant circumstances attending the origin of the latter
to which allusion has already been made.