University of Virginia Library

26. XXVI.
THE WANDERERS.

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 731EAF. Page 409. In-line Illustration. Image of a man and girl walking outside. Their arms are wrapped around them as if they are cold.]

LEVISTON the misanthrope
was alarmed at the change
which had come over Martin.
He saw him shun
society, and go wandering
up and down in solitary
mood, too much after his
own sad fashion to merit his approval.
And, with the very best
intentions, he exerted himself to be
of service in his case. But of the
workings of that finer spirit he knew nothing; he was insensible
to the voice of conscience speaking ever in Martin's soul, and
to the subtle chains that vexed his impatient feet. So that his
best counsel sounded cold, and hard, and out of place, to his
friend's sensitive ears.

One evening — it was this same fourth of July — he saw him
seek the loneliest streets for his walk, and followed him, taking
his arm. Martin was not glad to be thus interrupted in his meditations;
but, resigning himself as best he could, he entered into
conversation with his self-appointed mentor.

“I tell you this will never do,” said George, in his harsh way.
“You are making a fool of yourself. If you are n't careful,
you 'll find yourself a subject for the insane asylum, some fine
morning.”

“I certainly should be such a subject soon, if two or three
independence days came together, and if I were obliged to live
through their din and dust in Boston.”

“Come, you need n't try to get off so; I am in earnest.”

“My dear Leviston,” replied Martin, with feeling, “I know
you are; and I thank you; but you don't know how much you
pain me. It 's very irritating to be threatened with a straitjacket,
even by a friend. Perhaps I shall have one, but you will
not prevent the catastrophe in this way.”

“Well, well. Maybe I was wrong. But I want to see you
out of this state.”

“This state — I would have gone out of it last week, if the
means of getting out had not been wanting. I think Rhode
Island or Vermont would be far preferable, — any state, in fact,
but Massachusetts.”

“Come, come! I am in no mood for joking.”

“Neither am I, dear Leviston. But when you vex me with
your harsh words, I must either be facetious or angry.”

“You think I don't understand you. Tell me, then, what is
the matter.”

“If you insist on explanations, I will try to speak. This problem
of existence troubles me. I don't know why I am here, with
these longings unsatisfied, with these clouds of passion which shut
out the pure light of heaven, with these hopes which never blossom
into fulfilment.”

“Where is all your fine philosophy, my friend?” demanded

Leviston. “You talked very differently when you came home from
that mad jaunt into the country last winter. What faith you had
then! what reliance on the spirit within you! But it is well; it
was necessary that you should learn this lesson, — that, spite of
philosophy, human nature is human nature still. What do all
your dreams of a better life amount to? So much!” said Leviston,
snapping his fingers.

Martin was silent, and his friend heard him sigh.

“Another thing — speaking of human nature; don't trust
yourself too far; for, if you do, you 'll get deceived. You are
not half as wise and strong as you flatter yourself that you are.
Several times I have been going to warn you against committing
yourself with that Miss Murray, out there near Summer
Hill.”

“Good Heavens!” interrupted Martin, incensed, “do you think
I need watching over like a child? Am I a fool?”

“In some things you are — if I may be plain with you.
Last month, when Miss Murray was in town, you could think of
nothing else but her; and during the three weeks she staid you
did act as much like a fool as a fellow of your natural abilities
could do conveniently. She was silly enough to encourage you,
and so you ran after her day and night — until, I have no
doubt, her friends here were heartily glad when her visit was
concluded.”

“If anybody but you said this,” interposed Martin, with spirit,
“I should certainly knock him down. But you don't know what
you say.”

“Yes, I do. And I know you better than you know yourself.
You need some friend to look after you a little. You are making
love to this Miss Murray, and winning her affections, — just as

you conducted yourself with Miss Dabney, — to find, in the end,
that she is another Sophronia, not worth winning.”

“She! another Sophronia!”

“O, you think her perfection, of course! There 's too much
romance in your head yet. You don't know what you want.
Now, take a friend's advice. Stop where you are. Don't go and
play the same part over again that you played with Sophronia;
if you do —”

Stung to the quick, Martin abruptly shook off his friendly
adviser, and left him without a word. Leviston called to him,
but, making no answer, he hastened up the street, and rushed
into the thickest of the throng that flocked to the Common to see
the fireworks. He witnessed the exhibition — saw the revolving
wheels of fire, and rockets dropping stars; the blazing ships,
and eagles, and Washington, of dazzling many-colored flames;
beheld the picturesque effect of the bright lights shining over a
mighty concourse of people, under the cloudy sky of night; heard
the tumultuous applause, mingled with the crying of innumerable
babies in the press; and departed, when all was over, borne
along by the resistless river of human life, that poured out, swaying
and heaving, into the streets. Still his mind was absent. On
he went, insensible alike to the smell of powder that filled the air,
the deafening explosions of bunches of crackers on the pavements,
the cries of fire, and the ringing of bells. Before he was aware,
he found himself in a confused crowd before a building, the front
windows of which, in the third story, poured forth volumes of
smoke and flame.

“Hello, Mr. Mer'vale!” cried a well-known voice.

“Ha, Cheesy! what 's the news to-night?”

“I 'm glad you 're here!” exclaimed the excited Cheesy.

“They say there 's a blind girl up in the chamber where the fire
is.”

“A blind girl! Who says so?” Martin rushed through the
crowd towards the door, followed by Cheesy. “Where are the
firemen? why don't they bring her down?” He ran against M.
Peliqué, who was coming out of the house with an arm-full of
pictures. “Where is the blind girl, sir? Is there one?” he
demanded, seizing the Frenchman in his excitement.

“Dse leetle Alice?” ejaculated M. Peliqué.”

“Is she up there?” rang out the voice of Martin.

“Away up. It come fire and smoke between. Dse firemen
will take her from dse window on dse laddare.”

Martin had no thought of waiting for the firemen, who were but
just arriving on the spot. He bounded into the hall, and sprang
blindly up the stairway, followed by Cheesy.

“Button your coat, and turn up your collar!” cried the latter,
as they made the ascent.

Martin acted upon the advice, and climbed higher still, until he
could hear the roaring of the flames, and feel the stifling smoke
roll over him.

“I guess I dasn't go no fu'ther!” gasped Cheesy

“Give me your coat!” shouted Martin.

Cheesy stripped off his jacket, and thrust it into his friend's
hands; then fled, panic-stricken, from the scene. Martin whipped
the garment around his face, and rushed athwart a flood of flame
that poured from the burning apartments into the third landing.
On the stairs above, he paused amid the dense smoke, in the hope
that the blind girl's cries would guide him to the room. No cries
reached his ear, however; and he was struggling up farther,
in uncertainty, when he tumbled over a body on the stairs.

“Caleb Thorne!” he cried, lifting up the form of a man.

“No, 't an't Caleb; it 's Bob Synders,” articulated a choked
voice. “But don't mind me. Save Alice Thorne! She 's in
the front attic. I got up so far after her, but I 'm pretty drunk,
and hang me if I can go any further.”

“But you will perish here, poor fellow!”

And Martin dragged the brave Robert through the fire, across
the landing, and left him on the flight of stairs below.

“Save — save — save Caleb, too, if you can!” shouted Mr.
Synders, indistinctly, as he descended, sliding and tumbling,
towards the lower floors.

The conflagration was increasing with frightful rapidity. One
entire portion of the landing seemed a sheet of fire, and the
flames darted up towards the attics over the crackling stairs. But
now the voice of Alice, crying wildly for help, came to Martin's
ear, inspiring him with fresh courage and new strength. How
the feat was accomplished he himself could not have told; but a
minute later he had the blind girl in his arms, with Cheesy's
jacket wrapped about her face and bosom, bearing her downward
through the fire. The danger was passed, and with his burnt
hands he removed the garment which was smothering her in its
close folds.

“My brother Martin!” cried Alice, clinging to him with
strange energy.

“My dear child! don't be frightened; you are safe now.”

“But what has happened? I awoke just now — the room was
full of smoke, and, when I opened the door, I heard such horrid
noises, and felt such a dreadful blaze! Is the house burning up?”

“The house is burning, sure enough. But don't tremble so, my
poor girl! You are out of danger.”

“And you brought me out! O, my dear, dear brother! But
my father — where is he? He sat by me when I fell asleep.
I had n't gone to bed. I had only just lain down, with my clothes
on, — but I must have slept so sound! I don't know where he
can have gone. But, if he had been in the building, he would
have brought me out, would n't he?'

“But he is in the building!” exclaimed Robert Synders, staggering
to his feet as Martin passed through the hall with his burden.
“He left me here just before the fire, and went up into
the very room where it broke out. He 'd been drinking, and I
should n't wonder if he set it.”

“O, my father — my father!” cried Alice, in piteous accents.
“Save him! — save him! Leave me here, and save my father!”

“My child, if human arm can save him, he shall be saved! See
to her, Cheesy!” cried Martin to the excited youth. “Don't let
her go from your sight an instant.”

He hastily put down his burden, and returned, heated, scorched
and half-stifled as he was, into the midst of the burning building.
But this time he was not alone. Two firemen mounted the stairs
by his side. It was well, perhaps; for the attics were now all
aflame, and in his impetuosity he might have risked his life in the
tide of fire that rolled up the stairs, had he not been restrained.
Hose-pipes were now beginning to pour streams of water upon the
conflagration from without and from within, and, convinced that
no Caleb Thorne was there, he descended to the spot where he
had left his charge. The hall, and a space for some yards in front
of the dwelling, were cleared, and Alice was nowhere to be seen.
At length his eyes fell upon Cheesy, hurrying to and fro in the
crowd.

“Have you seen her?” asked the boy, eagerly, as Martin
struck his shoulder.

“Alice — where is she?” demanded Martin.

“I 'm looking for her,” replied Cheesy, in alarm.

“But I told you to take care of her.”

“I know it; but I could n't help it. I got her a place to set
down on the door-steps opposite, and stood looking at the firemen,
when I see Uncle Joe Kevill, and run to speak to him; but he
got into the crowd, and I could n't find him, and when I went
back to the door-step she was gone; and I can't find nothing of
her sence.”

Quelling a certain exasperation of feeling that swelled up in
his heart against Cheesy, Martin, alarmed for the safety of the
child, joined him in the search. By the light of the blazing
windows, which cast a red glare on the crowd, they looked on all
sides, making hasty inquiries here and there, but all in vain.

“I bet,” said Cheesy, “'t the minute I le' go on her to ketch
Uncle Joe, she started to foller you up them stairs; 'cause she kep'
twisting her hands and moaning about her father, all the while he
was gone. If she did, she 's most likely got knocked down by the
folks fetchin' out the things; or mebby her clo'es ketched afire —
should n't wonder at all, should you?”

“Cheesy! Cheesy! how could you leave her at such a time?”
was the sole reply forced from Martin's overcharged heart.

Meanwhile the subject of all his trouble is making her way from
the fire as fast as her little feet can carry her. Not alone: the
form of a man by her side appears, hurrying her along.

“Hush! don't cry, my child!” says Caleb — for it is he.
“We are safe — let the old house burn!”

“You did not set the fire, did you, father? O, tell me you did
not set it!”

“Who put such a thought into your head?

“Don't be angry; don't speak so,” pleads the trembling girl.
“I was sure you did not set it; and Mr. Synders had been drinking,
or he would not have said so.”

Caleb answers not, but hurries on, as if in fear.

“We must leave the city at once, my child,” he mutters. “We
will leave it behind us forever now.”

“But my brother Martin — he brought me out of the fire, and
went back for you. I have not even thanked him yet. Do —
do let me speak with him once more!”

“Went back for me, did he? There was no need. I could
take care of myself.”

“But me — he brought me down. I should have burnt up, if
it had not been for him.”

“No, I would have saved you, if death itself had held me
back!” articulated Caleb. “I should have been the first to reach
you,” he adds, “but I did n't know very well what had happened
when I scrambled out of the room where the camphene exploded;
and when I quite came to myself, I found I had fallen down the
back stairs.”

“O, I am so glad you got away! But why do you hurry me
off so? Can't I just speak to my brother Martin?”

Twenty times the poor child asks the question, with every argument
her tremulous little heart can devise.

But Caleb is inexorable. Through the night they fly. The
noise of crackers exploding becomes less frequent; reports of
rushing rockets die away in the distance; and the hum of the
city grows far-off and faint. Alice smells the fragrance of
gardens and fields, and the stony pave has given place at length
to the green turf and dusty road. Still no pause. Spurred by
conscience and fear, the guilty Caleb makes all haste to lose himself

and child in the country solitude. And when her weary feet
refuse to bear her further, he turns aside into a lonely wood, and,
seating himself upon the ground, holds her while she sleeps. How
still and solemn the night! The mournful notes of a few sad
insects, the fitful cries of a shrill-voiced whippoorwill, and the
babbling of a brook in the gloom, seem but to add intensity to
the silence. Who can divine the thoughts of the remorseful Caleb,
as he listens? Till long past midnight he watches over his child;
then, reclining his heavy head against a tree-trunk, falls into a
troubled slumber. The gnashing of his teeth in sleep awakens
Alice. She starts up in affright. She cannot see the dim hillsides,
and dark hollows, and ghostly shapes of trees, and the starshine
gleaming through the leafage overhead; but the smell of
the wood, and the singing of the brook near by, and the feel of
the ground on which she lays her intelligent hand, recall to mind
the strange night-journey, and the solemn bed in the grove.

Caleb is awake at dawn, and they travel some miles in the cool
of the day. In the soft-bedded dust of the wagon-track, or on
the dewy road-side, the blind girl walks silently by her father's
side. The mellow-piping robins, the wild-chattering bobolinks,
and the lazy-cackling hens, proclaim the reign of the golden
midsummer days, and each well-remembered note touches the
heart of Alice with an indefinable sweet sadness. Ah, many a
summer morning, gone down into the sepulchred past, finds
dreamy resurrection in her memory now, and floods her soul with
its soft purple light. The fragrance of the new-mown meadows,
stealing upon her sense, brings up Sabbath-recollections, the
sweetest and best. The brook-like music of rustling leaves transports
her to the delicious shadows of the woodland retreat, where
she used to sit by her mother's side, and listen to her quiet talk.

The shaking of the willow boughs reminds her of that mother's
grave. What wonder that her sightless blue eyes overflow with
tears!

“Dear father,” she says, “let us go back now to our dear
home in the country. The old house, and the orchard, and the
pretty grove, and the corner of the yard where the grass was so
deep, and the bees used to hum so, all day long, around their
hives, — my heart yearns for them; I did not know how well I
loved them before!”

“I will see what can be done,” answers the dark-browed Caleb.
“But you know that our home is ours no longer, my poor
child!”

“I know it. But the people who live there — they will let
us sit in the orchard, and walk through the grass where the beehives
are, and perhaps sleep one night in the house, won't they?
O dear! O dear!” murmurs Alice, weeping; “I don't know
what makes me cry; but I can't help it.”

They cross a bridge, and, as the blind girl feels the planks
beneath her feet, and hears the liquid rippling of a stream spilled
over its shallow bed of stones, she pauses, with a smile of subdued
rapture, like one listening to catch the faint notes of music borne
from far.

“Here is a creek like ours at home, is n't it?”

“Somewhat like,” answers the down-looking Caleb.

“And does it wind about in the meadow, and sometimes lie
like glass under clumps of willows, with the blue sky and the
clouds away down in it, like another world below!”

“Just so,” says Caleb, moodily.

“And in some places there are tall green flags along the edges,
and lilies afloat; and the banks overhang the stream just by the

little bend on the right, and make it look so cool, and still, and
soft, in the shadow! I can see it all! Let us rest here; and I
will go down and put my feet in the water, where it slips over
these smooth stones.”

The weather continues fine, and the travellers, resting often, get
over a good deal of ground before night. Wherever they apply
for food, or shelter, or drink, they are hospitably received; and,
at the approach of evening, a good woman, at the door of a farm-house,
invites them to come into the yard, and gives them new
milk to drink, and bread and berries to eat. They spend the
night there; and on the following day they journey the same, or
rather wander, for Caleb has no fixed course in view, but seems
to be directed hither and thither by chance. By this chance, as
it were, he finds himself, towards evening, picking berries for
Alice on a rough hill-side, while she sits in the shadow
of a great elm, listening to the splash of a streamlet that
falls over a near ledge of rocks. And by the same chance —
if there be any such thing as chance in this wondrous world,
whose coat of many colors is composed, web and woof, of subtle
threads of divine law — he at length emerges from a maze of
bushes, and stands face to face with a female, who also appears
to be picking berries. She is pale, and restless-looking, and her
dark eye flashes on Caleb suspiciously, — so, at least, he thinks.

“I beg your pardon, if this is private ground,” he says. “I
was gathering a few berries for my little girl.”

“If it is private ground, it 's none of mine,” answers the woman.
“I am a stranger here.” She takes a few quick steps towards the
road, then turns back. “Where is your little girl? As I have
only myself to pick berries for, she shall have some of mine.”

Caleb gives her cold thanks, and, with looks somewhat forbidding,
walks towards the elm-tree by the ledge.

The woman follows, however, and, kneeling down upon the
grass by Alice, opens her handkerchief of berries.

“Help yourself; I have eaten all I wish,” she says, abruptly,
but yet kindly.

“What is it?” timidly asks the blind girl, extending her hand
gropingly.

“Why don't you look and see?”

“She is blind,” says Caleb, fixing his haggard eye on the
woman's face.

He has seen before that she is young, and might be handsome,
with her finely-moulded features and silken hair, but for the pallor
of her face, her worn and wasted looks, and the unnatural fire
that burns in her large brown eyes. And now he sees her start
strangely, and, with a certain wildness of manner, hasten down
the slope.

“Did I offend her?” asks the blind girl.

“No; I think she must be crazy,” replies her father, thoughtfully.
“There, she 's coming back.”

“I forgot to leave my berries,” observes the strange woman,
in a tremulous voice, emptying the contents of her handkerchief
into the blind girl's lap. “Poor child! — I am sorry you are
blind! Are you travelling far?”

She adds a sympathetic word or two, then turns again to go;
but hesitates still, and, finally, throwing herself on the ground
by the side of Alice, bursts into tears. The blind girl smooths
the wet cheek with her tender hand, and presses the bowed head
to her loving breast. Without a word; yet she weeps too, and
the woman sees her weep.

“God bless you!” says the latter, choking back her sobs, and
rising to her feet. “These are the first tears I have shed for

weeks. I owe them to you. They have burned here,” — she
presses her thin temples, — “but they would not fall. I don't
know what it is, but something in you has drawn them out, and I
shall be better for it. God bless you again and again, my pure
little angel!”

She kisses the hands of Alice, then her brow, — “I am not
worthy to kiss your mouth!” she says, — while Caleb looks on
darkly, breathing hard.

“Let me kiss you,” murmurs Alice, putting up her sweet lips.

As they touch those of the stranger, the hot tears rain again,
and the unrestrained sobs burst forth.

“What does all this mean?” demands Caleb, anxious and
trembling.

“I cannot tell,” responds the weeper, throwing back the
masses of her loosened hair. “I have sinned, I have suffered,
and the sight of this pure one melts me — that is all I know.”

This passion of repentance touches Caleb. He calls the woman
sister, clasps her hand, and, with his glassy eyes all filmed with
tears, confesses his own sin and sorrow. And so they sit and
talk until the shadow of a great hill creeps across the valley, and
rises like a tide upon the sunshine of another great hill beyond;
then, in the cool of evening, they descend the slope to the road.

“Which way do you travel?” Caleb asks.

“I do not know. An hour ago I could have told, but now” —
the speaker looks about her wildly — “all things seem changed.
O, I am bound upon a mad, mad errand!” she adds quickly.
“The thought of it fills me again like fire! I cannot abandon it,
if I would. This way I go,” she says, with sharp decision.
“And you?”

“Any way, so that it but leads from the city,” Caleb responds.
“If it suits you, we will travel together.”

By way of reply, she takes the blind girl's hand, and they walk
on until the shadow of the hills has deepened into dusk, and the
dusk verges on toward darkness, revealing one by one the silver
stars. And when the stars have thickened in the overarching
blue, and their first faint light has blushed into lustrous gold, the
wanderers lie under a farm-house roof. Heaven send them peaceful
sleep!

Another refulgent morning, dewy, and not overwarm; and
while the grass still glistens, the travellers are once more upon
the road.

“You are very feeble,” Caleb observes to the strange woman,
in a tone of compassion, as they stop early to rest by the road-side.
“I wonder how you bear up to travel in this way.”

“I can't but wonder myself,” she answers, hiding her face in
her hands. “Sometimes I feel that I can go no further. And
yesterday, as I came by a pond, I thought I would walk out in
it a little ways, and get down upon my face in the still water, and
lie there till some one came and found me asleep forever! — O, it
would have been so sweet, that rest! But something drove me
away, — and that something tells me now I must go on. A little
further, and my journey will be finished.”

At noon she for the last time makes inquiries concerning the place
towards which her footsteps tend. It is at the door of a sunny
farm-house, and a gentle-faced woman points out to her a steeple
that overlooks the foliage of a grove. She starts, breathes
quick, and the small hectic spot her pale cheek shows deepens in
color, as, with visible agitation, she clutches at the woman's sleeve,
and puts an eager question in a low tone of voice.

“O, yes,” her informant answers, not without a look of surprise;
“I can show you the house from the garden-gate. But

you had better come in and rest, and eat something, before you
go so far.”

“No, no!” replies the wanderer, with a passionate gesture,
moving away. She pauses, and, designating Caleb and his child,
who stand waiting for her in the road, remarks that if her companions
can find rest there until her return, she will be grateful.
She of the gentle face smiles sweet consent. And now,
while their new acquaintance walks rapidly away, Caleb and blind
Alice pass through the clover-scented yard, and enter the cottage
door.

“My poor little girl!” said their hostess, with warm sympathy,
“lie down upon this lounge. You look tired. How far have
you travelled, sir?”

Caleb replied from Boston; and added that he had come out in
search of some light work to do, and a home for his blind child.

“Blind? How sad!” exclaimed the woman, kissing her blue
eyes. “There, you can sleep now, if you will,” — placing her
fair young head upon a pillow, — “and when you have rested,
you shall have some dinner.”

“I don't care for dinner; I don't feel like sleeping,” was the
child's soft reply. “Only let me lie so. You make me very
happy. O, father!” she continued, in a whisper, to Caleb, “I
can feel her heart warm me! It seems as if we had found a
home, at last.”

“Have you been always blind?” the kind woman inquired.

“Only since I was nine years old, ma'am.”

“And how old are you now, my dear?”

“I shall be thirteen in September.”

“And your name?”

She put these questions in no idle mood; her interest in the

girl was evidently strong and deep; and when, in answer to her last
inquiry, the name of “Alice Thorne” was breathed, her countenance
lighted up with lively emotion.

“I think I have heard of you before, dear Alice.”

“Have you?”

“Yes, dear. A young man was here from Boston —”

“Was it Martin? — was it my brother Martin?” cried Alice,
eagerly.

“Yes, it was Martin; and he told me all about you, my poor
girl.”

“O! do you know where he is? And will you send for him
to come and see me?”

“I know where he is, and he shall be sent for, and you shall
stay till he comes,” replied Martha Doane.

Her full heart overflowed through her eyes. Alice wept too,
pressing to her lips the kind hand that smoothed her brow; while
Caleb Thorne looked on bewildered, and passed his palm twice
or thrice across his dimmed eyesight, clearing it of mist, before
he appeared at all able to determine whether he was awake or
dreaming.