Martin Merrivale his X mark |
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| 22. | XXII.
IN THE COUNTRY. |
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 | XXII.
IN THE COUNTRY. Martin Merrivale |  |
22. XXII.
IN THE COUNTRY.
THE stage was crowded,
and the passengers were
growing impatient.
“Why don't that miserable
driver start?” cried
one, putting his head out
into the storm. “Hello,
you, teamster! where be
you?”
The tempest and the
whirling snow stifled his
voice, and he was fain to withdraw his head, and shut the
window.
“He 's gone to warm his fingers,” growled another. “Open
that window again, and let me try my lungs.” The window was
opened; in came the blast and the snow, and out went the head
of the growler. “Dr-i-v-e-r!” he roared, at the top of his voice,
three times, with increasing fury. Suddenly he changed his tune.
“There! by Judas! if the wind han't got my hat!”
Wishing the driver in a place where — if the legend be true —
fingers may be warmed gratuitously, and where snow-storms are
— perhaps we should call him the roarer — jumped out of the
vehicle, and disappeared in the storm and darkness, chasing his
hat.
“I 'd let my hat go, and make the driver pay for it,” said a
squeaking voice in the corner. “This is a shameful imposition.
I declare, if it is n't night!”
“No, 't an't night, neither,” observed an easy old gentleman,
whose corpulency almost extinguished the slender owner of the
squeaking voice. “ 'T an't much after four, if 't is that. You see,
the storm makes it appear later 'n it re'ly is.”
“It 's late enough, at all events,” spoke up one of the female
passengers. “Here we 've been all day coming from Boston, —
only think of it! a trip that it never ought to take over an hour
and a half to make, at the furthest.”
“But, you know,” remonstrated the corpulent gentleman, good-humoredly,
“we 've had snow-drifts to dig out and plough through;
then the cars got off the track — how many times was it? — I
forgit; I was busy reading a newspaper, and did n't mind. — You
see, such storms is n't very favorable to railroad travelling.”
“Well, we need n't be made to wait all night, now we 're here,”
retorted the matron. “The stage is full, — why don't we go
along, I 'd like to know?”
At that moment the driver made his appearance, and put his
head in at the door.
“Room for one more?”
“No,” cried the squeaking voice. “We 're crowded a'ready.”
“Not much, be we?” asked the corpulent gentleman, with a
hitch towards his slender companion.
“Here! I shall be crushed!”
“Dear me! I would n't crush you for the world, my young
friend. But there 's a lady in the case. We must make room
for her, somehow.”
“Don't you get my seat!” growled the growler, reäppearing
with his hat. “The stage is full,” he added, climbing in. “What
ye waiting for, driver?”
“I 've been helping this young woman find her baggage.”
“Well, I don't see what you will do with her, after all.”
“Never mind,” said the fair passenger, — her face was veiled,
but, judging from the sweet tone of her voice, and the outlines of
her form, dimly seen in the obscurity, you would have pronounced
her fair. “I will ride outside.”
Thereupon a young man, who had been all day in the cars, and
who, having learned patience through much tribulation, had seated
himself at the corpulent gentleman's right hand, as if prepared to
remain all night in the stage, aroused himself from his moody
posture, and offered the young lady his place.
“No, thank you,” said she, with dignity. “Keep your seat,
sir. I can ride outside.”
The young man jumped to the ground, however, and insisted on
her taking his place.
“You better,” cried the driver. “You 'd git blowed away on
top, I tell ye.”
“Settle it somehow, and be quick,” growled the growler from
his retreat.
The young lady made haste to get into the sleigh, — for the
stage was on runners, — thanking the young man for his kindness;
while he, exhilarated by the change of position, mounted
the box with the driver, and wrapped himself around about with
the folds of a horse-blanket.
“Le' 's see,” said the driver, cracking his whip, “where was I
to leave you? At Colonel Merrivale's?”
Martin answered in the affirmative.
“You 're the man, then, that was asking how the colonel was?
I was too busy to talk to you, jest then. Fact, I han't heard from
there since day before yesterday.”
“How was he then?” asked the anxious traveller.
The horses were dashing forward through the flying snow-clouds;
the gale was blowing furiously; and he was obliged to shout in
order to make himself heard. The driver had good ears, as well
as a sociable disposition, and shouted back.
“They did n't think he 'd live the night through, I heard.”
“You don't know whether he is still living, then?”
“No, I 'm sure I don't. I should have heard on 't, though, if
he had died 'fore this morning. Everybody knows the colonel,
and his death would make a noise.”
“How far is it to Summer Hill?”
“About two miles from the station. 'T won't take us long to
drive there. There 's some hard travelling when we come to the
cross-road, though. Look out for your hat.”
The stage got on very well, and Martin looked out for his hat,
until the cross-road was reached. Suddenly, as the horses were
beginning to plunge through the drifts, he uttered a cry, and made
a hasty snatch at something which went flying off into the stormy
air like a monstrous bat.
“There you be!” said the driver. “Jest as I expected.”
“Don't wait for me,” cried Martin, shaking off the blanket.
“I can overtake you.”
He jumped down, and the stage went on without him, laboring
through the drifts. He rushed to a corner of the fence where his
useful piece of property shoot between a pair of rails, and go flying
off again across the country. To climb the fence, take a long
leap into the drift on the other side, and wallow on to the broad
field from which the snow was mostly swept away, was not exactly
the work of a moment; but, certainly, Martin accomplished
the feat with surprising swiftness and agility, considering the
obstructions to be overcome. In the mean time his hat had
blown off nearly a quarter of a mile, and lodged in a whortleberry-bush,
on the other side of the pasture.
Martin had the wind in his favor. In that respect he enjoyed
equal advantages with his hat. But in bulk, shape and manner
of locomotion, the hat possessed such a decided superiority over
the man's body and limbs, that, by the time its owner approached
the whortleberry-bush, it was well rested, and ready for a fresh
start. Accordingly, the moment he stooped to seize the wary
fugitive, it frisked out of its retreat, ran up the snow-drift,
which formed an inclined plane, or rather curve, to the summit of
the next fence, and darted down the other side, carrying the war
into the adjoining field.
Out of breath, bare-headed, his hair flying in the gale, Martin
paused an instant, amazed, and uncertain what to do. This was
a new kind of steeple-chase, affording sport to the pursued, and
only vexation and chagrin to the pursuer. But he did not hesitate
long. The thought of appearing at his uncle's house without
his hat spurred his energies, and he repeated the feat of scrambling
over the fence, not quite so nimbly as before, perhaps, yet
with considerable despatch. He was in time to see something
black skim away across the plain, in the rushing waves of snow,
and disappear in the darkness.
The second field also Martin traversed, running before the
wind. Once more he came upon deep drifts, and plunged into
them above his knees, before he was aware of the vicinity of the
fence. He slackened his speed, and looked about him for his hat.
It was now so dark, and the air was so full of snow, that he could
scarcely distinguish a tree a few yards distant. It seemed almost
impossible, then, that he should be able to find his hat; he was,
in fact, on the point of giving up the search in despair, when he
discovered it jammed in between two rails, and nearly filled with
snow. He seized it, emptied it of its contents, and placed it on
his head.
“I 've got you at last, my bird!” said he, triumphantly. “Try
that trick again, if you please.”
The hat seemed inclined to try it, notwithstanding the defiance.
Martin was still muttering when a sudden blast took him,
as he was struggling to get out of the banks, and blew him over.
He stretched forth his hands to save himself; the opportunity
was too good to be lost; off flew his hat again; it whirled up
twenty feet into the air, and alighted somewhere in the neighboring
field.
Still the persevering Martin pursued. But, finding himself in a
hilly region, with rocks, and hollows full of snow, on every side,
he was compelled to abandon the hope of discovering his lost
property. He kept on, however, directly before the gale, until
he came to a lane, where certain drifts appeared, lying several
feet deep, between the fences. Here he paused; reluctantly acknowledged
to himself that he was outwitted and beaten by a
hat; and turned back, not a little exasperated, to retrace his
steps to the cross-road and the stage.
This was a more difficult undertaking than he had anticipated.
conld see nothing before him but a wild, gloomy waste, enveloped
in clouds of snow. The fierce gale struck him in the face with
stinging whips; its fury took away his breath and blinded his
eyes. The storm within the city was mild in comparison with
that which revelled on the unsheltered mountain side. Even the
atheltic and resolute Martin could make no headway against it.
Besides, he suffered inexpressibly; so that, after indulging for some
minutes in the insane hope of beating up to the cross-road, he
turned his back despairingly, and once more sailed down before
the wind. Already he had taken the precaution to tie a handkerchief
over his head, and now, with his surtout-collar — a large
one, fortunately — turned up about his ears, he was able to proceed
quite comfortably, all things considered.
Martin saw plainly in what danger he was. He likened himself
to a sailor lost overboard, and drifting off, benighted, on an
unknown sea. His only hope of safety lay in being cast upon
some friendly shore. Yet, in peril as he was, he scarce regretted
the adventure. To an imaginative mind like his, there was a sublimity
in the hour worth days of peaceful beauty. Rejoicing in the
majesty of the tempest; expanding with a sense of freedom, in
the savage solitude of that dark, stormy waste; hatless, his
boots and trousers filled with snow, he wandered on, trusting to
the all-watchful Spirit to guide him forth from that scene of desolation.
Through hard drifts he struggled; fences he climbed; by
reeling and roaring trees he passed; and still onward into the
awful night he journeyed blindly, until at length a shadowy shape
loomed up in the misty obscurity before him. He was almost
under it before he discovered its dim outlines; when, with a thrill
of satisfaction, he perceived that he was running against a barn!
snow towards a red ray of light which glimmered from the window
of a cottage beyond. He gave an energetic knock at the
door; it was opened readily; and in went Martin, with a whirlwind
that filled the room with fine siftings of snow.
“I don't believe I can shut the door!” cried the boy who had
opened it, pressing hard against the blast.
“I 'll help you, my little fellow,” said Martin. “There you
are! Quite a breezy night, is n't it?”
“I should think so, — breezy!” exclaimed the boy, pleasantly
excited. “It blew over the smoke-house, a little while ago.”
“And it blew away my hat, and led me a wild chase across the
fields,” rejoined the young man, removing the handkerchief from
his head.
“Could n't you find your hat?” asked the boy, with an animated
face. “Say, mother! this man's hat blew away, and he
can't find it! I guess father 'll lend him one, won't he?”
The question was addressed to a female who approached from
an adjoining room. She was a woman scarcely forty years of age,
not handsome, but with an exceedingly sweet and winning countenance,
which caused Martin at once to feel at ease beneath her roof.
She welcomed him hospitably, conducted him to the sitting-room,
— a humble, but neat and comfortable apartment, — and listened
to his story with an expression of interest and solicitude which
surprised him. She even appeared quite agitated when he
related how, by a seeming chance, he had been led to her house.
“You must not think of going further to-night,” said she, eagerly,
when he spoke of pushing on to Colonel Merrivale's. “Your
uncle was better — much better — this morning, I was told. He
is considered out of danger, now. So there 's nothing to prevent
take off his boots.”
“Really, I can't resist this kindness!” returned Martin, overflowing
with gratitude. “Thank you —” to the boy who brought
the jack; “I won't trouble you any more.”
“Shan't I put my foot on the toe of your boot?” asked Amos.
“That 's the way I help father pull his off.”
“Well, sir, I don't know but it will be an assistance. Steady,
now,” said Martin. “My boots draw hard, you see.”
“I should think they would, there 's so much snow in 'em,”
cried the sympathetic Amos. “I guess you had some regular
Bunker-hill banks to wallow through, did n't you?”
During the operation of drawing the boots, the woman of the
house made haste to find some dry clothing for her guest, in an
adjoining bed-chamber. The moment she was alone, she threw
herself on her knees, beside the bed, and remained in an attitude
of prayer for several minutes. Her hands were clasped, her
face was buried in the bed-clothes, and her frame was shaken by
a powerful emotion.
“O, God!” she murmured at length, with quivering lips, turning
her streaming eyes upward, “O, Heavenly Father! I thank
thee! — I thank thee!”
When, after a lapse of a few minutes, she appeared again
before Martin, her eyes glistened still, but her face was radiant
and happy. She brought him a pair of socks and some slippers
— a humble duty, truly; but there was such sweetness and love
in her countenance the while, such mellowness and softness in her
voice, that he saw in the act exceeding grace and beauty; his
heart was deeply touched; and as his eyes followed her, they filled
with tears.
“Shan't I put some more wood in the stove?” inquired Amos.
“There an't a very hot fire, I don't think.”
The permission was granted, and the boy applied the fuel with
the air of a person conscious of doing valuable service. In the
mean time, the woman set out the table, spread a neat white cloth
upon it, and made other preparations for supper, the grateful
Martin still following her with his eyes.
“Why, mother, how you act!” said Amos, observing the
stranger's interested gaze, and looking for the cause of it. “I
guess you 're a little nervous to-night, an't you? You step around
like a young girl. And you look as though you was just going to
laugh, — or cry, — I don't know which.”
“Hush, Amos!” she replied, in a tremulous voice.
She tried to hide her emotion; but the boy looked up wistfully
in her face. She could conceal nothing even from him; what,
then, must the keen-eyed traveller think? Once more she hastened
to her chamber; once more, sinking on her knees, she buried her
face in the bed-clothes, and gave relief to her feelings in a flood
of tears. This time she remained absent longer than before. On
her return to the sitting-room, she found a thin, gray-haired old
man in the corner, leaning upon his staff, and watching her guest
with an expression of childish curiosity.
“This is Mr. Doane, my father,” said she, with a full heart,
addressing Martin. She added something touching the young
man's adventures; but, her voice failing her, she turned away
her face, and became silent.
Martin shook hands cordially with the old man, whose pale
features lighted up with pleasure.
“I have seen you somewhere, have n't I?” the latter inquired,
I am sure. How is it, Martha?”
The woman made no reply, but, with her face still turned
away, abruptly left the room.
“He looks like his uncle a good deal, I think,” said Amos.
“His uncle?” queried the old man, with a perplexed look.
“Colonel Merrivale,” said Martin, — “I have been told that I
resemble him.”
The old man's countenance changed. He dropped Martin's
hand suddenly, and started back, trembling with excitement. At
that moment his daughter sprang to his side, and supported his
unsteady footsteps to a chair.
“Be calm, dear father!” she murmured, soothingly. “It is
nothing that should trouble you. The nephew — he is not responsible
for the uncle.”
“But that face — it is his face!” exclaimed the old man, with
passion.
“For Heaven's sake,” pleaded the other, embracing him, “do
not speak of the past! Where is your charity, father?”
“True, true!” faltered the old man. “I am quite a child, —
I act very foolishly, I know. If you can forgive and forget,
why should I remember?”
The cloud cleared from his brow, and a cheerful sunshine broke
through, illumining his features with a light as pure and happy
as that of an infant's smile.
“O, sir, think nothing of it,” murmured the agitated woman
regarding Martin with suffused features. “You are welcome
here — heartily welcome, believe me.”
Her voice became too tremulous for speech; her features were
all alive and quivering with emotion; and tears, which did not
face, as if she could not remove them if she would; until, her
feelings overcoming her, she was forced to turn away. Martin,
embarrassed, but fascinated by the strange, almost passionate
look she gave him, glanced from her to the white-haired old
man, with an expression of painful interest. The latter broke the
silence.
“This is one of our old-fashioned storms,” said he, with enthusiasm.
“I don't remember such another for years. What a time
they 'll have breaking roads, when it 's all over! There 'll be a
grand chance for snow-fights, too. Ha! ha!”
The old man's laughter was so very childish and airy, that
it pained Martin to hear him. He had already discovered that
his mind was shattered and enfeebled.
“I have understood that you used to have more violent storms,
and a great deal more snow, during the winter, than we have
these late years.”
“Dear me, yes!” cried the old man, brightening with the
reminiscence. He went on to relate incidents of old-time storms,
which made Amos look wild and excited. He told of fences hidden
from sight, houses buried, and men and cattle entombed in
the deluging snow. “But I used to enjoy those times, though!
It was sport, when we got out the shovels and the ox-teams and
big sleds, breaking tracks. I should like to try that kind of
sport over again, to-morrow.”
Martin continued to converse with the old man, while his daughter,
assisted by a girl who from time to time made her appearance
from the kitchen, concluded her preparations for the evening
meal.
“Amos,” said she, — there was still a tremor in her voice, and
TWO CHILDREN. p. 337.
[Description: 731EAF. Illustration page. Image of a man and a boy warming a lamb in front of a fire. Two other men are watching.]
set it in the wood-shed window. Your father must be ready to
leave his work by this time, I think.”
“Will he see the candle?” asked Amos. “He 's bedding-down
the horses, or mixing meal for the cows, or something of
that kind. He 'll come in when he gets the chores done, won't
he?”
“Do as I tell you,” she replied, mildly, but firmly. “He
may be engaged on something which he can as well leave till
morning. He told me to have a light put in the window when
supper was ready.”
Amos seemed inclined to argue a little on the subject; but he
obeyed quite cheerfully, nevertheless; and, in a little while, —
Martin at the time was washing at a sink in the kitchen, — in
came a tall, straight farmer, with a bundle in his arms, and a tin
lantern in his hand.
“O, father! what have you got there?” cried Amos.
“Take this lantern and put it away,” replied the farmer, shutting
the door with his shoulder, “and I will show you. Good-evening,
sir.” He nodded a welcome to Martin. “Here, father,
is something that will please you.”
It would be difficult to say which was the most eager to examine
the contents of the bundle, old Mr. Doane or Amos.
“It 's a lamb that has made its appearance in this stormy
world a little out of season,” said the farmer, opening the bundle
on the kitchen hearth.
Amos and the old man seemed equally delighted with the novelty.
Martin looked on with interest.
“What will you do with it?” he inquired. “Can it be made
to live?”
“I think so, if proper care is taken of it?” replied the farmer.
“Warm a little milk for it, Jane, to begin with. I 'll make you
a present of it, Amos, if you will see that it is fed and kept
warm.”
“I 've saved more than one lamb in my day,” laughed the
old man, bending over the hearth. “I remember one pet I had
that learned to butt, and finally got to knocking people over, the
little rogue! Let me show you how to feed it, Amos.”
The same childishness that had so pained Martin at first. But
it was more affecting now to see the feeble old man, imagining
himself a boy again, get down with difficulty on the hearth,
laughing with quiet glee, and vie with Amos in his attentions to
the lamb.
Meanwhile his daughter called to the last comer from the other
room. The farmer said he would wash himself first, then wait
on her immediately; and presently he entered the sitting-room,
rolling down his sleeves.
“O, Jared!” she articulated, clasping his hand; “I have so
much to say to you! I could scarcely refrain from running
out to the barn through the storm to find you. Come!”
The farmer looked surprised, and followed her — rather deliberately,
considering how eager she was — into the bed-chamber
beyond. Martin, returning from the kitchen, observed, from the
doorway, this little scene, and asked himself, with some perplexity
of thought, if all this excitement and mystery had any connection
personally with himself.
It was many minutes before Jared and his companion reappeared,
and Martin sat alone by the stove the while, pondering
over his adventure, and glancing in thought at his uncle, whom
he expected to see in the morning, and at Alice and Sophronia
— somewhat to the surprise of her guest — introduced the farmer
as her brother.
“I see you are a little puzzled,” observed Jared, after she had
withdrawn to the kitchen.
“A little, I confess,” returned Martin, blushing. “I have only
my own stupidity to blame, however.”
“You had looked upon Martha and me as man and wife,” said
Jared, smiling. “A natural mistake. But we are only brother
and sister, as you see. And this old man —” he lowered his
voice, and spoke in a very tender and touching tone — “is our
father. We three live together here; I am an old bachelor, and
they are company enough for me.”
“Your sister, then, is a widow.”
“O, no.”
“Her husband is still living, then?”
“No,” said Jared; “she has never been married.”
Martin blushed more deeply than ever. The farmer perceived
his difficulty, and made haste to help him out of it.
“You are thinking of Amos. He calls us father and mother,
— but it is only because we occupy the place of parents to him.
He is a boy we have taken to bring up.”
After these explanations, Martin and Jared entered into a
conversation on topics of general interest. The farmer was intelligent,
sympathetic, and whole-souled; his honest, unaffected manner
commanded Martin's admiration, and won his confidence; and
he appeared not less pleased with his guest's generous sentiments
and ingenuous behavior.
The supper, which was presently announced, was a cheerful
meal, at which the whole family attended, Jane, the hired girl,
dish of bread and milk, in order to pay visits to the poor lamb,
that sent up its piteous little bleat, from time to time, from the
kitchen hearth, that he could scarcely be said to have taken
supper. He made his transits like a benevolent pendulum, or philanthropic
shuttle. But, if he ate little, she whom he called mother
ate still less. She seemed to give her whole attention to her
guest, listening with tears and smiles to his conversation, to the
neglect of her appetite, — if she had any.
Jared was calm and happy. His treatment of his guest was
easy and familiar, without lacking the element of dignity. His
talk was manly; it was like choice wine, with the sparkle of true
humor in its flow.
At the same time the old man refrained not from speech; the
son always deferring to his childish prattle with a tenderness
and sympathy exceedingly beautiful to witness.
The supper itself was a very simple meal, consisting of rich
milk, fresh, yellow butter, and white, light bread, with excellent
apple-sauce and sponge-cake. Besides, there was fragrant tea for
old Mr. Doane, — of which his daughter also took a cup, — and
some nice slices of fried ham, cooked, as it appeared, expressly
for Martin. The company remained a good while at table, —
always excepting Amos, the lamb-doctor, — Jared himself, who
was a slow eater as well as a persevering talker, setting the example.
Jane was the first to leave, adjourning to the kitchen.
The old man followed soon, with a view to affording aid and counsel
to Amos in the affair of nursing the lamb.
“We shall miss Junius this evening, Martha,” observed Jared,
at length, shoving back his chair. “We will not complain, however,
Providence has furnished us with so good a substitute.”
“O, but I wish Junius would come in!” exclaimed Martha, in
a tone of deep earnestness. “He and — and Mr. Merrivale,” she
faltered, — “it seems as though they should be acquainted.”
“We are speaking of a young friend — a favorite of ours,”
added Mr. Doane. “He is the son of our minister, and a near
neighbor. Scarce an evening passes that we do not see him, if
only for a few minutes. Martha wishes he would come in to-night;
but I am afraid you would be disappointed in him. If the caprice
should strike him, he would have no scruples at all about
remaining silent as a mute, from the time he entered the door
until he took his departure.”
“His sociability depends upon the persons he meets,” Martha
hastened to say. “If one does not please him, he pays no compliments;
he is polite, but strikingly taciturn. It is not because
he cannot talk; but he prefers to pass for a fool, rather
than enter into forced and commonplace conversation with people
he has no sympathy with.”
“The truth is, Junius so detests anything like a falsehood or a
sham, that he would starve, I think, sooner than coin words
or smiles merely to please everybody. But it is useless to attempt
to give you a satisfactory picture of him. I should like to have
you see him, for my own selfish gratification,” said Jared, laughing.
“It would be as interesting as the observation of a rare
chemical experiment, —bringing into contact two unique elements,
to mark their affinity.”
The farmer had an errand to the barn, after rising from the
supper-table; Jane was engaged with the dishes, and old Mr.
Doane and Amos with the lamb. Thus Martin was left alone
with Martha, whose heart seemed full of the warmest interest
in his behalf, — so much so, that she could not converse with him
son; that topic leading to the more general one of the world,
which suggested something of Martin's own experience in Boston
and elsewhere; a tissue of discourse beginning with Junius, and
ending with Martin himself — a sort of interlocutory suspension-bridge,
on whose wires of thought Martha passed over, from one to
the other, with exceeding eagerness. She was thoughtful of her
guest, however. She took care not to weary him with too many
questions, notwithstanding the keen interest she took in all he had
to say. Martha was merciful, — would more women were so! —
and not long after Jared's return from the barn, Martin, who
really needed repose, as any one could see, was sent up stairs
to bed.
Not on an empty stomach, as the phrase is; his supper had
been too recent for that. It would have been better for his
dreams, perhaps, had he given digestion a little better chance
before retiring. He might have been saved that horrible phantasm
of attempting to fly (using Miss Tomes' bonnet for a wing)
against a tempestuous snow-storm; of being blown off upon a
bleak mountain-side, which changed suddenly to a sea of bread
and milk; and of swimming, under great difficulties, to overtake
Amos, who was dashing away before a spanking breeze, in the
yacht Junius, with a colossal wooden spoon for a sail.
| XXII.
IN THE COUNTRY. Martin Merrivale | |