The bishop's son a novel |
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| 3. | CHAPTER III.
A LOVER'S QUARREL. |
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 | CHAPTER III.
A LOVER'S QUARREL. The bishop's son |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
A LOVER'S QUARREL.
IT was near the sunset of a lovely day, early in
June, that Margaret Fairfax tripped down the
steps of the front door, (she experienced special
pleasure in tripping over those steps,) and running
lightly along the walk, passed through the door-yard
gate, which as it swung back behind her, brushed from the
rose-bush beside it a shower of fragrant leaves.
Her dress was plain to homeliness, her feet bare, and her
bright hair clipped, but not too short to blow about her forehead
that at a glance you would have seen there was some delicious
expectation in her bosom. She would certainly have
drawn your gaze after her as she went along, perhaps even
have entangled your heart among the roses ornamenting the
rustic hood she held in her hand; wise men have been thus
made captive by simple maidens, before now.
Twilight gathered the last splendor from the hill-tops, and
it grew dusky in the borders of the wood, far off the tinkling
of sheep-bells sounded pleasant, and near by the whistle of
the teamster made bolder music, as, sitting his wheel-horse,
so upright, he passed by, seeming not to see the fair vision
at the roadside. Light of spirit, and light of step, Margaret
walked forward, breaking off, in her cheery exuberance, the
tops of the aromatic weeds that fringed her path, and never
once looking back where her bashful lover was tracking her
by the prints of her bare feet. The world was all before
her, as yet; it was not her time to look back. She had
reached the terminus of the walk she had proposed to herself,
and stood on the slope of the hill beneath a clump of
young maples, gazing earnestly down the road, when a cloud
of rose leaves came between her eyes and the object she
watched for, and turning hastily, almost angrily about, she
found herself face to face with Samuel Dale. He saw the
look of surprise amounting pretty nearly to displeasure, and
was abashed, and doubtless meant it as an apology for intrusion,
when he said: “It is not to see you, Miss Margaret,
that I am here. I knew your mother would be tired when
she came from town, she mostly is you know, and happening
this way I thought I would stop and take charge of old
Whiteface.”
“O, if it's mother you want to see, perhaps you had better
walk on; I shan't go any further.” But Margaret had no
sooner said this than her heart misgave her. Samuel
looked so disappointed, so embarrassed, and awkward in his
disappointment, that she said she didn't mind if she did
go a little further. It was all right now, and as they
walked together, half an hour vanished like a moment.
There was nothing new or strange to say, to be sure, and
yet everything was new, and strangely sweet. Their world
was a small world, and their thoughts seldom travelled
beyond it; but just now it was wide enough, and each felt
cast out of Paradise.
Is it true, that when ignorance is bliss, 'tis folly to be
wise? Samuel had never looked so handsome as he did
that evening; he wore a blouse of blue stuff that became
him wonderfully, and his broad-brimmed palm-leaf, and the
single rose at his button-hole, gave a touch of the jaunty
that was to Margaret, at any rate, quite enchanting. He
was more at home with himself, too, with Mrs. Fairfax at
such a distance, and got through some sentences almost
elegantly, as it seemed to his charmed listener. If mother
could but hear him! This was her unspoken thought again
and again. But that, alas! was not possible; he could not
thus have spoken if she had been there, and she could not
have heard it if he had. Indeed, I think we must love our
friend before we can ever know the best of him.
He told Margaret how much money he had saved, and
how much more he would have saved by the end of the
year; how many pairs of shoes he had, and in what
states of preservation they were, and just what had been
the cost of four new shirts that he had purchased. It was a
good many to get at once, but he thought he might as well
have a full supply while he was about it. He asked Margaret's
advice about some quite private and personal matters,
and in many ways overstepped the reserve which Mrs. Fairfax
had enjoined upon him, yet withal, kept his promise; he
did not speak of love.
And in all this talk about the shoes, and the rest of it, he
did not appear foolish or small; fond, confidential — nothing
more. He was so honest, so great-hearted, so magnanimous
in all his feelings, he could not have appeared mean or
little in any circumstances. He possessed a certain pride
and ambition, too, that in their effect upon his manners
amounted almost to dignity. It is not generally conceded,
to be sure, that a poor working man may of right hold up
his head and lift up his hopes, but concession or no concession,
Samuel took such leave, and certainly his aspirations
were not very presumptuous; their ultimate stretch probably,
on the evening we write of, would have been, to own
fifty acres of ground, a house modelled humbly after the
parsonage, a garden, with beds of herbs and borders of
flowers, and to be able to say in the presence of all the men
young woman standing beside him. He had told this in
twenty different ways as they walked together in the twilight;
every touch of his hand had thrilled it to her heart,
every glance of his eyes had conveyed it to her soul; every
low and tremulous tone had intimated it, but Margaret,
though she perfectly understood, replied to what he said, and
not to the import of what he said; perhaps with womanish
perversity, perhaps, in part, with intent to draw him out.
And it may be said here, not inaptly, that men, as a general
thing, make their courtship with a cautious reservedness that
is likely to fall far short of the expectations and desires of
women. The lover, when he loves the most, does not give
himself freely, spontaneously, entirely; he gives by hints and
intimations, and compliments, and extravagant praises and
promises, so that even in marriage, sometimes, the woman
only knows that she has given herself, having taken a husband
solely on trust. Your lover may protest over and over,
my dear young lady, that he is ready to die for you, but that
is by no means equivalent to saying simply that he is willing
to live for you. Not at all.
When a woman really loves, she cannot find words sweet
enough, and generous enough, to say what she would. She
cannot repeat often enough the complete renunciation of
herself. She longs to unfold her most secret soul, and to
pour out all her heart, and holds the opportunity to do so as
the highest privilege of her life. When such opportunity is
withheld, therefore, is it any marvel if she should be sometimes
grieved, hurt, almost to vexation.
It is unsatisfactory to have a stone given us when we ask
for bread, and though Margaret had not been thus hardly
treated, she had certainly failed to receive the full, fresh loaf
she hoped for, and had reason to expect. Samuel was excusable,
but how should Margaret know of the obligation to
silence he was under. She did not dream of it, but feeling
the silence on his part to be an offence, took a colder and
more formal tone, and, at length fell to silence herself, altogether.
Samuel saw the cloud on her brow, and strove by
various little arts to win back the vanished radiance; he
gathered the blooming bunches of the iron-weed that grew
by the way, and playfully scattered them over her head,
until her hair and shoulders shone with them, until all her
them away; she did not lift her eyelid, did not smile, nor
speak; and when at last he said: “What is the matter with
you, Margaret?” She answered, “Nothing.” And when
he said in lower, tenderer tones, “Won't my dear Daisy tell
her clumsy Sam, her own clumsy Sam, that ought to know
of his own head, but don't?” She said she didn't know
who his Daisy was, and that for her part she hadn't any
Sam, that she knew of.
He brushed the flowers softly from her hair as he answered,
“You don't want any Sam; that is what you meant, I
reckon.”
What could Margaret do? She could not say what she
would, and she would not say what she could; therefore she
pouted and said nothing, while her admirer strewed his
flowers along the ground as they walked, looking upon her
now and then as the moth is supposed to look upon the star.
Her petulance was poetry, her chilliest words were charming
to him, and somehow, he knew not how, he was to blame.
When his dull brain should come to know in what he had
offended, it would all be right again.
“I have got a new name for you,” he said, looking straight
at Margaret, and speaking with make-believe animation.
She did not inquire what it was, and he went on — “Yes, I
have got a new name, since you don't like Daisy; I am
going to call you my Sensitive Plant!”
“Call me what you please,” Margaret answered, and she
added with cruel bitterness, “it's no difference to me, sir,
what you call me!”
“O Margaret! O my Daisy! My sweet Daisy! What
have I done to vex you? What can I do to please you?”
“If I must tell you what to say, there is but a poor chance
of your pleasing me, I should think! As I told you before,
say and do what you please, it's nothing to me.”
“God-a-mercy! God-a-mercy on me, then! I knowed I
was hopin' too much; I knowed it all the time; I knowed I
couldn't be nothin' to the like o' you! I knowed the shader
would turn into night soon or late; it's fell sooner 'an I
thought, that's all. I was like a weed that had growed in
your garden, and that the sun shone on for awhile because
it shines on everythin'; it is not your fault, little Daisy, oh,
no! don't think I'm a-blamin' you; I couldn't blame you for
you only found music in their breakin', that would be all
I'd ask.”
He grew pale with the passion that was in him, and the
moisture gathered to his eyes as he bent them on the ground
over which, to divert his emotion, he commenced strewing
the flowers again.
Margaret softened a little; it went to her pity, if not to
her love, to see the strong man thus moved. She put her
hand below his and received the falling flowers, but said
nothing. Samuel did not touch the hand, nor seek to touch
it, as he might have done, but steadying up his courage with
all his might, said: “There is but one thing for me to do,
Margaret, — Miss Margaret, I mean, — I mustn't see you
any more, I must go away.”
“Not on my account, I'm sure I wouldn't be the means
of sending you away, not for the world!” Margaret spoke
playfully, at the same time taking his hand in both hers, as
if to put in it the blossoms she had saved.
“They are blessed now,” he said, “my poor, homely blossoms!”
and he kissed them, and put them carefully away;
but he did not retain the hand; nor seek to retain it; he
did not say, as Margaret had perhaps expected, “you don't
love me, my darling; all my heart is yours, and to keep it
from breaking I must needs go out of your sight.” He
could not say this, as the reader knows, but if he could have
said it, or anything like it, the shadow that came between
them, the night that fell upon them, might have been
averted. The pride of the girl was touched now, but her
fears were touched too, and she humbled her pride and
asked him again why he would go away, adding, with a
manner between seriousness and jest, and which might have
been either, “I demand to know, I have a right to know!”
“My Daisy, my darlin' Daisy!” he laid his rough, sinewy
hand lightly on her bright, young head, “I wish I could tell
you all, but I don't dare to, I am under a sacred promise.”
What further he would have said, if anything was prevented
by the angry exclamation of Margaret.
“A sacred promise to be sure!” she cried, “then all I have
heard is true; I was blind and crazy not to believe it at
once; I'm sure, if you hold any promise sacred, it is more
than could have been expected; keep it by all means! and
I wish you much joy of your sweetheart, into the bargain!”
“You are crueler than you need to be, crueler than you
would be, if you knew all,” Samuel answered, “but I must
keep my promise; I never broke my sacred promise yet,
and I mustn't begin now.”
“Who wants you to begin? I'd like to know!”
“Nobody, without it's my own heart; but if I begun by
bein' false to one, how could I be true to another? I must
keep my promise, but it doesn't break it to say that I haven't
got a sweetheart anywhere.”
“That's a likely story! why, then, are you going away?”
“I don't know how to make it right, Miss Margaret; I
begun by bein' wrong; I oughtn't to 'a' made the promise,
but as I did, I must take the consequences, I reckon.”
There was a good deal more between them; talk about
things rather than directly of them, ending, on the part of
Margaret, with reference to the dark accusations that were
current against him.
“I don't know what you've heard against me,” Samuel
answered sadly, “but there's a mighty sight might be told
if the truth was all knowed; I ain't no saint, O no! I'm fur
enough from that, but the worst thing I ever done I wouldn't
be ashamed to tell you; why should I be? Don't I confess
my sins every night in my prayers, before I go to bed, and
ask to be forgiven as I forgive them that harm me?” He
broke quite down at this point, and turning away his face
applied himself assiduously to pulling their flowery tops
from the iron-weeds. Margaret remained silent, intent only,
as it seemed, upon catching the first glimpse of her mother;
and, at last, having got the mastery of himself, Samuel said,
“I wish it was all over, and that I was back agin.”
“Back where! with your sweetheart? and what do you
wish was over?”
“I told you I had no sweetheart, but if you don't believe
me, I can't make you. I wish I was back among the green
hills I came from, and with my dear old mother. She loves
me any how, and I wish the pain of this partin' was over;
that's what I meant”
“The pain of parting, to be sure! with whom, I wonder!”
And Margaret laughed scornfully.
Samuel was offended. “Laugh if you want to,” he said,
“rememberin' it will lighten my sufferings.” Margaret
laughed again, repeating the word sufferings several times,
my heart.”
“O, you're very good, and I'm sure I'm much obleeged to
you for your condescension,” Samuel replied, still further
offended. He then said there were some folks in the world
besides his mother, who believed in him, yet.
Margaret said she had heard as much; he drew himself up
at this, and as if the time were becoming tedious, said he
wished her mother would come.
“I wish so too,” replied Margaret, repeating the lie he had
uttered, with what seemed very earnest sincerity, and she
added directly, “You needn't wait for her, I'm sure mother
and I can take care of ourselves!”
“I know it, Miss Margaret,” he answered, half sadly, half
bitterly. “I a'most wish it wasn't so, for then I might hope
to be of some use to you; but now — but now —.” There
was a last chance for some relenting on the part of Margaret,
but she still bore herself coldly and proudly. She could
afford indifference just then; the roses of sixteen were bright
in her cheeks, and had not her mother the friendship of the
bishop's son? and was she not now gone to town to buy her
a new dress and earrings, and slippers, and ever so many
things besides! Ah, Samuel, there was but a sorry chance
for you just then.
In social position, and prospective future, they were about
equal, these young people, just now, but in moral nature and
in intellectual capacity there was a large difference in favor
of the man, though the young woman, to the casual observer
would have seemed to have the advantage. Women have a
natural artfulness, so to speak, that often stands them in the
stead of culture, and not only this, but conceals with its
perfect gilding the poverty of heart and spirit that is beneath.
Margaret possessed this questionable advantage, and construed
it into superiority, perhaps even at the best of times,
and she certainly did so now that her eyes were obscured
with none of the mists of tender feeling.
She felt that she condescended a little in permitting herself
to be loved by Samuel, and was, therefore, the more
indignant at his reticence.
“I am sorry you wish us harm,” she said, affecting not to
understand his remark about their independence, “but I
don't suppose we'll go to the poor-house just because you
would like to have it so.”
“I see you're determined not to understand anything I
say,” replied Samuel, in sorrow, rather than anger, “so it
ain't worth a-while for me to waste more words. I'll just
wait a bit longer, and then if Mrs. Fairfax don't come home
I'll go about my own affairs.”
“It's a pity if I can't be as independent as he,” thought
Margaret, “I won't be the one to be left, not I.” And telling
him that if he was going about his own affairs, so that
he might go away from her, she would save him the trouble,
she turned from him proudly, and walked slowly in the
direction of home, hoping, it is not unlikely, that he would
call her back.
He would gladly have done so, but he was not without his
share of pride too; then he indulged the hope that she would
return of her own free will when she should hear the market-cart
rattling in the distance. Both were disappointed, for
the sake of a foolish and wrong feeling, bred out of almost
nothing, nursed into bitter uneasiness, wilfully and perversely,
on the part of one of them, certainly, and entailing
upon both miserable days and nights that might as well have
been avoided, might as well have been blessed days and
nights.
Strange, that the course of true love never should run
smooth. Margaret was not yet out of sight when the market-cart
came rattling over the next hill, more noisily than
Samuel could have hoped, but the haughty girl did not so
much as turn her head. She knew that Samuel loved her,
and knew that she was making him wretched, knew that she
was not only making herself wretched for the time, but
moreover, laying up sorrow for the time to come. Do you
ask me why she did this? pray you, ask your own heart,
not me.
When Mrs. Fairfax found Samuel waiting for her, and
alone, she accosted him with great good humor; “Get right
up beside me,” she said, “and drive me home; my poor
arms ache with the pulling of old Whiteface upon the bit.
It was so good of you, I am sure, and where is Margaret?
How strange she isn't with you!”
Of course Samuel didn't know where Margaret was, and
this ignorance still further increased the cordiality of the
patroness, and as they drove forward she related all the experiences
of the day. She told him how she had lost a
his gig, and given her; and then she enumerated all the
things she had bought, and the price she had paid for each
article, and asked Samuel to sum up the entire amount, both
because she was proud of the largeness of the sum spent,
and for the reason that he would naturally feel himself
farther removed from her daughter, by a knowledge of her
pinchbeck earrings, and prunella slippers. She did not miscalculate.
Samuel had never in his life, felt so poor, so hurt,
as when carrying his arms full of parcels and boxes and
bundles, he laid them down in the lap of Margaret, who
received them without a smile. He would not go away
without a reconciliation, she felt sure of that, presuming upon
his love, and forgetting that love will sometimes bear less
than hate. The best table-cloth was laid, and all the tea
things arranged with unusual care, she peeping through the
curtains now and then to see him as he went about the evening
chores, his palm-leaf hat a little one side and his blue
blouse all unbuttoned to the wind.
Mrs. Fairfax, when she accepted his proffered services, did
not invite him to remain and drink tea with them, as she
used to do, — this was one of the differences she had made, —
she was willing to receive as much as ever, but when it came
to giving, she was chary. She estimated, indeed, the worth
of every kind word, and each particular smile, throwing in
more or less sweetness, as the case required.
Her forms of address indicated the degree of the favor
she was angling for — “Samuel” was for her most independent
moods, or, perhaps it were better said, for her least
dependent occasions, inasmuch as she was never independent.
She sucked up benefits as the sponge sucks water,
and was always on the alert. “Sam” served for occasions
a little more than ordinary, but not extraordinary; “dear
Sam,” or “Sam, you handsome rascal!” was brought into
requisition in exigent cases — for instance — “Samuel, would
it trouble you too much, when you go to the village this
evening, to see the butcher for me?” And again, “Sam,
do you know any good fellow that would spade my garden
for me some leisure morning? If you do, see that he does
it, will you? and when my ship comes in, he shall be remembered!”
or, “Sam, my dear fellow, really you are so good, I
don't mind asking you,” and then it would come out that
let alone ask for.
One day she said to him, “Sam, dear, if you find any nice
strawberries in the meadow, would you mind gathering a
bowl of them for me?”
Of course Samuel wouldn't mind, and of course she got
the strawberries — a beautiful basket of them, all blushing
among dewy leaves. “Now, my Saint Samuel,” she said,
when she received them, “will you oblige me once more, just
for the love I bear you?”
“Certainly,” what could he say otherwise, and then she
asked him to leave the strawberries at the parsonage, as a
little present from Mrs. Fairfax and daughter to the bishop's
son! This was the unkindest cut of all. Samuel had disliked
the bishop's son by anticipation before he ever saw
him, and had subsequently found no reason to change his
mind. Nevertheless he sat astride the fence and whistled to
the moon that evening, while the bishop's son said grace
over a silver bowl of strawberries.
It is a pity that Mrs. Fairfax had not held it beneath her
thus to sell her smiles, and let us hope with what confidence
we may, that there are few, if any women, who in any
degree resemble her. “No, dear,” she said when the tea
things were all on the table. “I really believe I forgot to
ask Samuel to sup with us; but he has already eaten, I dare
say, such persons have early hours, you know!” So they
sat down together, but to Margaret all the pleasure of the
time was gone. The new dress, the prunella slippers, the
earrings, all would not do. She tried in vain to seem gay,
the words came stammeringly, and then not at all, and finally
when the mother made some slighting remark about Samuel
she burst into tears. She didn't know what was the matter
she said in answer to her mother's inquiry. She had a little
headache, but nothing had happened to make her sad, nothing
in the world! Then she went away from the table, and
seating herself on the low doorstep, looked out into the
night, not to watch the soft rising moon, nor to see the
twinkling of the village lights; unconsciously to herself
almost, she hoped to see Samuel still lingering about the
well, or in the garden. She saw the slow sailing of the
night-hawk, and the blind flitting of the bat. She saw the
late workmen plodding home, and the cows lying down in
saw not whom she hoped to see.
Mrs. Fairfax sought by various little devices that would
have been kind if they had not been so artful, to interest
and amuse the sad girl. She had often felt just so herself
when there was nothing at the bottom of it that she knew
of, and she bustled about, and as she put away the supper
things, talked of indifferent matters, answering her own
questions the while, and making believe that no suspicion
of the truth had come near her; but when Margaret would
not be pacified, she said at last, pettishly, “I don't wonder
you are down-hearted! any body would be down-hearted,
if they had been alone all day as you have been, or what is
worse, had seen only that curious creature, Samuel; really,
my strong nerves are shocked by him sometimes! I suppose
he waited to-night to be especially invited to come in!
Well, if he waits for me to coax him he'll wait a good while,
I dislike him more and more every day; he is so big, and so
awkward!” This was not the way Margaret was to be
pacified. She could blame Samuel herself, but she could
not patiently hear another blame him, and that other, her
mother, who owed him so much gratitude. She said something
half inaudibly to the effect that Samuel could live
without some folks as well as some folks could live without
him, and so, sullen, as well as sad, went away to her chamber,
where, with her eyes hidden on her arm, she at last fell
asleep, sighing and sobbing even in her dream. What were
all the new things to her now? almost as nothing, but if she
could have known they were designed to buy her away from
Samuel, they would have been less than nothing; as it was,
she had them to set against his indifference, and thus she
made for herself some cold comfort.
She was sorry for what she had done, and yet she resolved
she would not take a single step to undo it. She was foolish,
but who of us all has not been foolish? For my part, I
believe women stand in their own light more wilfully and
persistently than do men — they never will, once for all,
bury the hatchet, and there let it lie and rust out unused;
no, they must needs haunt about the old ground, and every
now and then, as chance occurs, throw out dark hints and
intimations of what they might, could, would or should do,
and at last, in some ill-starred moment, up comes the cherished
left! Stand from under my good man, and the Lord have
mercy on your soul!
At such a time you said this! at such another you said
that! here you did thus, you hard-hearted, ungrateful
wretch! yes you did, too! doesn't my mother know it all?
And there you did so — you know it, very well! And so,
one after another, the old wounds are hewed open, and ache
and bleed afresh — and to what end? Why, to no good
end. When the little slight or the little quarrel is over, for
goodness' sake, for righteousness' sake, let it go, and never
by sign nor the shadow of a sign suffer it to be supposed that
you have any remembrance of it. Constant dropping you
know — well, constant fretting upon the heart will wear out
love. Cultivate the habit of not only making the best of the
best, but also of making the best of the worst — do not look
too far away for happiness, nor hope too much, — sufficient
for the day are its blessings, if we are diligent to gather
them up.
When the morning light streamed through the window
and across Margaret's pillow, the fear and despondency of
the previous night vanished like a shadow, she was so conscious
of possessing the love of Samuel that she could not
believe he would long remain away from her, and by anticipation
began almost to enjoy the triumph which she felt so
sure of achieving. She did not believe he in the least designed
to go away, but even supposing he had such thoughts,
he would come to see her before putting them in execution,
and if he once sees me, she said, let him go if he can! And
having taken this for granted, her thoughts ran forward and
pictured, after a fashion highly satisfactory to herself, all the
details of the interview; how Samuel should first relieve
her of all blame and afterwards own himself to blame, very
much to blame — wrong, altogether in the wrong — herself
quite right, and to be asked forgiveness of, which, after receiving
many promises and protestations, she would grant.
She meant that it should all be right in the end, more right
than it had ever been, and she planned a thousand generous
plans of this and that — she would not be a jealous and exacting
mistress any more, not she, but the truest and tenderest
of little maids that ever waited on a master's will.
In all this she reckoned without her Samuel, poor child;
enduring pride. If he had felt himself the superior person,
if he had felt himself in any way the equal of his captor,
which in his sweet humility he did not, he might not have
stood so coldly out, but he was conscious of all his clumsy
ways, and never without a suspicion that she was conscious
of them too; it seemed, therefore, as though there were
nothing for him to do but fall back upon his pride. He
remembered her bitter taunts, not with any feelings of resentment,
and not as attaching any blame to her, some how,
and some way, she was justified; it was her mother, it was
idle gossip, it was the bishop's son! And this, least of all
things, was, perhaps, the most extravagant extenuation he
could have made for his mistress. In the first place, she had
never so much as spoken to Mr. Lightwait, that he knew of,
and in the second, she had no admiration for him, that he
knew of. He put her from his mind as much as he could,
and evening after evening, descended to the workshop in
the cellar, when the day's toil was done, and by the light of
Peter's tallow candle read aloud from the Bible, or from the
Methodist hymn-book, and sometimes sung with all his soul,
devoutly grateful that his divine Lord had been once the
meekest and lowliest of men, and would not despise even
the like of him. Thus, there grew up between them a
friendship that became confidential in the end. And evening
after evening, as Samuel sat thus, reading and singing,
and talking of things unseen, Margaret walked in the lane
with a half scornful smile on her face, and evening after
evening the rosy twilight fell into gray, and the gray slowly
and soberly deepened to black, and he did not come — he
that she hoped to see.
Night after night she went to sleep with bitter tears in
her eyes, and morning after morning the embers of hope
kindled themselves and blazed again, for there is no end of
the devices with which we delude ourselves.
Meantime, the “fashionable dressmaker” of the village
was in requisition, and the cutting and shaping, and sewing
and fitting, went on, and the young girl could not but be
diverted in some sort by these processes; to stand up before
the glass and be laced up and pinned down, and called on to
decide the effect of this ribbon and that frill, was an exciting
novelty to her, whose simple gowns had always till now
been more simply fashioned.
When he sees me in all these fine things, she thought, as
she turned the little hat on her hand, gay amber ribbons and
blue flowers, and with admiring eyes upon me besides his,
he will repent of all this cruel coldness. And then she
resolved that she would not act proudly toward him in consequence
of all her finery, but on the contrary would take
special pains so show him that she was quite independent
of her new honors. Since she had first seen him, so many
days had not elapsed without a meeting between them, yet
Mrs. Fairfax passed it along without any notice whatever;
it happened that she had no especial need of Samuel during
these days.
They had met often, as the reader knows, previously to
the ill-starred evening, but not alone, and it is not unlikely
that, with all their hearts, both had been long desiring the
very interview which they had turned to such bad account,
why, neither of them could tell; it was with no premeditation,
surely, and yet it fell out.
Mrs. Fairfax passed it along, but she was not unobservant.
It is all going just as I would have it, she thought, but to
strengthen her hopes she constantly reminded Margaret that
she was placed under heavy obligations by these new favors;
“her mother's will is going to be hers for the future,” she
would say to the dressmaker with playful vivacity; “I see
that plain enough in all these pretty fringes and tassels and
cords, and everything! O, she is going to be the best and
dutifulest young lady in all the world!” It was much to
admit that Margaret was a young lady, even in this playful
manner, and was of itself expected to go a great way.
“I expect great things of her to pay for it all, to be sure!”
Then she would make a picture of Margaret in her finery shining
down all the village girls, and ending with, “Who knows
but she is going to marry the bishop's son, yet?” Then
fluttering the new hat with all its flowers and ribbons before
her, she would bow before it as if to Mrs. Lightwait. By
these means she hoped to expel from the mind of Margaret
humbler thoughts and fancies, but she had no intention of
making over the great man thus lightly. She felt that she
had a preëmption right in him, some how; and with reference
to appearing well in his eyes, she employed herself
“in the vast dead and middle of the night” in studying
effects of color and combinations of material upon her own
to set herself off — an ornament to be carried in her hand,
as it were.
Sunday morning dawned at last, in promise of the loveliest
of days. Margaret was astir by times. She would of
a surety meet Samuel at church; he would shake hands
with her; perhaps walk part of the way home with her, and
all would be made up! The milking was concluded before
the birds were well out of the bushes, and the breakfast-cups
done with, and shining along the dresser half an hour
sooner than common. The sacred psalm she was trying over
would run to a gay tune in spite of herself, as she flitted
about, putting by needles and thread, and removing from
shelf and table the shows of work-day labor and care, and
in their stead substituting the Bible, the hymn-book, the
pitcher of flowers, thereby imparting to all the house the air
of solemn Sabbath serenity which it was used to have, but
which for herself, she could not that day feel. The hour of
her triumph was almost come, so she believed in her heart;
her hand had never been so cunning; whatever she touched
adjusted itself to her will, so that all the morning chores
were completed while the dew yet lay fresh along the grass.
How charming she looked in her little chamber with its
sandwhite floor, and simple furniture, all set off with garniture
of her own maidenly invention; here some pretty device
of drapery, there a bowl of bright-colored pebbles, or a nest
full of tiny speckled eggs. Something everywhere that told
of a young girl's innocent thoughts and dreams. Above the
looking-glass, which was not much bigger than one's hand,
hung the scarlet wing of a wild bird, and beneath it, a curiously-curled
ram's horn, and these, as might be guessed, were
the gifts of Samuel. From the drawer of the bureau peeped
the blue fringes of the comforter she was secretly knitting for
him against the far-away Christmas time, and on the table
beside the Testament, lay a bunch of withered daisies,
gathered by the beloved hand. It was all so sweet, so still,
so full of holy associations, the boldest sunbeam might
scarcely dare look in, when Margaret, drawing the white
curtain across the small window, untied the cape modestly
fastened at the throat, and loosening the band at the waist,
went pattering about the floor with bare feet, and hair all
tumbled about her dimpled shoulders and arms. All the
sleeve, the ruffled hem, the handkerchief ironed
to small square folds, the snow-white stockings, the blue belt,
the fan of pheasant's feathers, tied with ribbons to match the
belt, the shawl, the parasol, and oh, triumph of art! the new
dress. Shall Samuel look upon all these new things unmoved?
If the vanity in her little heart answered, No, let
us forgive her.
“Come, Margaret!” calls the mother from the foot of the
stairs. And yet again: “Come, Margaret!” And this time
she adds that the church bell is ringing.
Margaret answers, “Yes, mother, in a moment!” but she
is not nearly ready, though she has been in her chamber so
long, getting ready. She was well enough pleased with
herself, but would she please Samuel?
At last she could delay no longer, and with a parting
glance in the looking-glass, partly satisfactory and partly
not, she descended, fluttering and blushing and trembling,
almost. Mrs. Fairfax stood still with admiration; for once
she was proud of her daughter, or, more correctly speaking,
she was proud of her daughter's clothes.
“The folks will think I have got a young lady from town
with me,” she said, and they set out together, talking little
by the way, each being preoccupied; the mother, with ambitious
hopes and schemes; Margaret, with Samuel. What
if he should not be at church! What if he should not
speak to her! And what if she should fall to crying in
the face of all the congregation! Then she would chide
her heart for its foolish fancies; he would be there, of
course he would be there, the first to seek her, and so humbly
penitent! He might not walk home with her, but he
would come in the evening, and they would sit in the moonlight
together once more, and she would say this and that,
and so she planned all her speech, and all her conduct. She
would not wear her fine things; she would wear the string
of black beads, tied with the blue ribbon with which he had
played so often, and the muslin dress with the brown speck,
that would be sure to please; he would call her Daisy, and
everything would be as it used to be.
Perhaps he had been watching for her, and would overtake
her before she reached the meeting-house; her heart
was a-tremble with sweet hopes; every approaching footstep
voice reached her ear but fancy made a picture of him;
eagerness to serve her, showing through his modesty, and
the grace of charm, shining over his clumsiness. They
reached the meeting-house gate, and she had not yet seen
him except in fancy; he was gone into the church before
her, and one opportunity was lost. She blamed herself for
being late, and was almost sorry she had waited to array
herself in her new things. She felt misgivings lest she
might not look well in his eyes, and lest he might think she
desired to be noticed. She could hardly lift her eyes as she
walked behind her mother down the aisle; his eyes were
upon her, she was sure, and now that she was so near him, her
fears got the better of her hopes. Not till long after she was
seated could she lift her face toward the pulpit where the
preacher was already reading the hymn, but she got courage
at last, and looked up? Was it fancy? or had those deep,
far-looking eyes singled her from the whole congregation?
Unconsciously her eyelids fell, and she fluttered all over like
a bird when danger approaches. She was ashamed of the
sensation; it was not likely Mr. Lightwait had noticed her
at all, but if he had, it was her too wordly dress that had
attracted him. It was not long, however, that she thought
of him, for with the first step that crossed the threshold her
thoughts reverted to Samuel. With every click of the gate
latch her heart would start up, and by the time the advancing
shadow touched the door-sill, the red spot in her cheek
would have widened all over her face, but when the disappointing
reality followed the shadow, the heart would sink
back, and the bright flush fade away.
She did not hear the sermon. She did not even hear the
prayer, and when the closing hymn was read, she could not
find the place, and remained turning the leaves of the book
after the singing began. Again she lifted her face, and Mr.
Lightwait, who was unmistakably observing her this time,
re-announced the number of the hymn. The sensation she
had previously experienced repeated itself at this, and she
came near dropping the book from her hand. She was mortified
beyond measure, though not a soul could be aware of
her emotion. It was inexplicable to herself, strange, painful.
Father Goodman might have looked at her in censure, or in
praise; any way he would, and she would not have fluttered
her book.
It was the custom of the congregation, during the singing
of the last hymn, to turn from the pulpit and facing the
choir; but though Margaret turned with the rest she could
not look up. Samuel was used to sing in the choir. She
had not distinguished his voice, but that might be owing to
her confusion; he was surely there, for he never failed of
being at church — never failed singing with all his soul.
And it was always a pleasure to her to hear his voice ring
out with the best of them. Perhaps he was not singing
with his accustomed spirit that day, but try as she would to
stay up her courage, the fear that he was not in the meeting-house,
and that some evil had befallen him — for love is
strangely apprehensive for the beloved — took possession of
her; a chilly dampness crept over her from head to foot,
a blindness that was dizzy veiled her sight, and she fell,
rather than sank, to her seat.
If she had been the object of curious attention before, she
was doubly so now, and as no one could possibly guess the
truth, her conduct met an interpretation unfortunate to herself.
She wished to make herself conspicuous because of
her new things, said the young folks, and some of the old
folks nodded and smiled; so true is it that some persons, at
least, get something out of the misfortunes of others that is
not displeasing to themselves. “We will not humor the
vanity of the young butterfly by giving her any attention,”
seemed to be the tacit understanding, and one and another
passed by, after the benediction had been pronounced, with
a formal salutation to Mrs. Fairfax, but no word for Margaret;
there she was trembling behind her mother's ampler
skirts, unnoticed, unseen, apparently, wishing to be anywhere,
rather than there, anywhere, so that she might hide
her head. The slight was specially marked, for it was the
custom of the time and place for the congregation to linger
after the close of the services for the purpose of shaking
hands with the preacher, and afterward with one another;
to exchange kind hopes and wishes, inquire after the old
grandmother and the lame boy left at home, and to make
little criticisms and comments on the sermon and the singing;
possibly to whisper a word about the last marriage, or
an expected event of great interest, generally nameless.
knowing her familiarly, to have said to Margaret how pretty
and becoming were her new dress and hat, but no such
pleasant and harmless flattery greeted her. One young
woman with a hat especially old-fashioned took occasion to
remark to her that she had never seen her looking so badly;
maybe it was partly owing to the horrid color of her ribbons!
If she moved, she wished to be noticed; if she shrank back,
it was coldness, it was pride — anything but modesty and
bashful confusion, when, poor child, it was only through her
sufferings that she thought of herself at all. What would
she not have given now to have that last miserable evening
with Samuel to live over again! Perhaps he had gone away
in very truth, and she was never to see him more, however
long she might live! Perhaps he was sick — dying, and she
not near to ask his forgiveness; these, and all the other tormenting
fancies that love is so cunning to devise, crowded
into her brain and made her heart sick. She dragged so
heavily on the arm of her mother as they went down the
aisle that she turned and spoke sharply to her. `My dear
Sister Fairfax, allow me? I see you little daughter is sick
and suffering.” And Mr. Lightwait took the hand that
hung dejected and cold by Margaret's side and drew it
through his arm. Half a dozen women were eager now to
give her water, to fan her, to do anything, but that first touch
of the young clergyman's hand had brought her quite to
herself. “Thank you,” she said, drawing away from him,
“I am better now.”
Would she not be carried to the parsonage, and rest there
for a few minutes, at least? She required some sort of cordial,
or restorative, and Mr. Lightwait would be only too
happy to be of any service; he had, in fact, always the
tenderest interest in the lambs of his flock. He addressed
himself to Mrs. Fairfax rather than to Margaret, and took
occasion to speak of the Sunday-school, and of the unnecessary
labor which Margaret was accustomed to impose upon
herself there. He did not say, “Margaret,” nor “your
daughter,” at this point, but touching her cheek softly with
his white fingers, called her “our little saint.” He had not
himself been in the Sunday-school, to be sure, but he knew
what passed there; his sister, a much more competent person
in executive matters, relieved him of many unprofitable
over-conscientiousness. “If our little saint insists too much
on martyrdom we will have her arrested” — (here he took
her hand and pressed it) — “and throw her into prison with
Peter Whiteflock and his spirits, perhaps. Have you ever
seen Brother Peter, darling?”
“Oh, Brother Lightwait, you don't think it's possible that
queer man has intercourse with spirits?”
“I think, madam, — Sister Fairfax, I would say, that
`there are more things in heaven and earth than are
dreamed of in your philosophy.”'
“But you can't think he talks with spirits, that odd creature?”
“Do you suppose, Sister Fairfax,” he turned and looked
upon her more closely than he had yet done, and added in a
changed tone, “that we are going to have prosperity in our
Zion here?”
There Mrs. Fairfax was quite at home, and ran on telling
him all about Father Goodman, and the souls that were
added to the church during his charge, and all about the
backsliders, and class-meetings and love-feasts; and all about
a great many incidents and accidents connected with the
church, to which he seemed to listen attentively, but he
asked no questions and made no audible responses, all the
while, against her will, retaining the hand of Margaret.
“And now you must go in,” he said, when they had
reached the gate of the personage, putting his arm about
her, and with a gentle force compelling obedience.
“No!” Margaret said she was sick, and would prefer to
go home. “I know it, my precious lamb, you are very sick,
and that is the reason you cannot be suffered to have your
own way; when I am sick, you shall rule me, my dear, but
not now.”
She was at the door, inside the door, all against her will.
“There, Kate, wheel the sofa this way.” “A pillow, quick!”
“Now a glass of wine!” “None of your common, everyday
stuff!” (he tossed what she had brought, from the window)
— “The best, the best!” “There, darling, all, you
must swallow it all!” And Margaret drank as much as she
could of the wine, and, utterly overpowered with the strangeness
and conflicting character of her emotions, sank back in
the corner of the sofa, quite regardless of the fresh flowers
hands, cried like a little child.
“Dear me!” cries Kate Lightwait, “what shall we do!
fetch the doctor?”
“Fetch your good sense, good sister, and get yourself out
of the room. She smothers you, my poor child, doesn't she,
with all her shawls and things? There, now you breathe
again. Sister Fairfax, will you please find Kate's maid, and
ask her for smelling salts?” He was alone with Margaret
now. “I am going to be nurse and physician, my darling,
as well as priest.” He was stooping over her, untying the
ribbons that fastened her hat. He was longer doing this
than need were, and his face came nearer Margaret's than
need were, and twice, or thrice, his hands unconsciously, or
by accident it might have been, dropped upon her neck.
“I am too troublesome,” said Margaret, and she untied
the ribbons at once; but the flushed cheek and something in
the tone made it almost as though she had said, “You are
too troublesome!” and the little flirt, so quickly effective,
which she had given to the lately obstinate strings was of
itself a reproof.
“Really, quite a stroke of genius, my child!” and then
he apologized for his own awkwardness with so sweet a
seriousness, it would have been impossible not to receive it
all in good faith.
Now he adjusted her pillow, and now he wrapt the little
silken shawl about her shoulders, addressing her sometimes
as “my darling,” sometimes as “my child,” and gliding from
this to that after a method that would have been gay and
worldly, but for the subduing grace, the religious gloom, so
to speak, that tinged it all with a sort of sad sanctity.
His tones, low and softly modulated, lulled and soothed
the perturbed heart, even when there was no continuity and
no purpose in what he said; a sweet silver jangle of sounds,
such as the careless touches of a cunning hand draw forth
from a fine instrument.
Margaret, young, simple-hearted and simple-minded, could
not begin to comprehend the man; she was puzzled, awed,
afraid, and withal, fascinated. It would, indeed, have puzzled
a wiser head than hers to tell from his words or his
manner whether he were lover, friend, father, or spiritual
father; he seemed not so much each by turns, as all in one.
The personality of the man was to Margaret, who had
hands were perfection, his complexion pale, sicklied, as it
were, with the cast of thought, his eyes of a deep, unfathomable
blue, and his hair, in its beauty and abundance, a glorious
wonder. He wore no beard — not a bit, and his long
wavy locks dropped about his forehead, hung full and flowing
down his neck, and sometimes fell over his face like the
tresses of a woman. The color was not very definite; one
would say brown shading to gold, another gold shading to
brown. But after all, perhaps the charm of the man was
chiefly in his smile, — clear and bright as a sunbeam, full of
wisdom, full of love, sweet as sweet can be, sedate, almost
sad. As often as this beamed upon Margaret, her heart
trembled toward it, all against her will.
It was a fine pleasure to be tended so carefully by those
exquisite hands; it was as if the grand proprietor had come
down to the little maid of the lodge. Everything was at
her service; the table sparkled with wine cups and silver
plate, essence bottles and cordials, and yet she had never in
all her life been so thoroughly uneasy as now, in her sudden
elevation. She feared to touch the tiny glass lest she should
crush it; she did not know how to unscrew the golden stopper
of the smelling-bottle, and Kate's great fan, flashing and
gleaming with ivory and pearl, made her own, with its
slender blue ribbon, seem poor indeed. The deep pile of the
carpet under her feet confused her; her finery seemed rustic,
and its reflection in the large mirror put her to shame. It
was all the strong master could do to manage this maid of
the lodge. Now he had her hands, chafing them, now her
little feet, now he petted, and now scolded, now smiled, and
now frowned, and yet he all the while perfectly understood
that his efforts were misdirected, and consequently must be
unavailing, for he said in a whisper, on the re-appearance of
Kate. “Cut her lace, Charmian, come,” and so went out
of the room.
The dressmaker's professional pride had been more at fault
than the girl's vanity, but the faintness and hysterics would
not have ensued, probably, but for the unusual flutterings
and swellings of the overcharged heart. What trifles
underlie great events, sometimes.
“The wheel is shunted from the tram, just an inch this
way or that, but try to get back again!” * * *
| CHAPTER III.
A LOVER'S QUARREL. The bishop's son | |