 | XIX.
THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
19. XIX.
THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT.
In its better moments, the soul looks with clear vision upon the
confused drama of life, and sees use and meaning everywhere.
Wisdom and beauty shift the scenes. The tragic and comic unite
in holy marriage, bringing alternate laughter and tears, joy and
trial, and love, and mighty sorrow, to the development and expansion
of man's entire nature.
But there are times when, from the shock of some terrible experience,
we grope, stunned and blinded, amid the ruins of happiness,
and believe ourselves the mere playthings of chance. It was
so with Charlotte now. What this last great trial was for, she
could not divine. How like a dream it all appeared! Here she
was again in Mr. Jackwood's house: life then was the same as it
had been a few short months before: but, in the interim, what an
existence had she lived!
Mrs. Dunbury sent early for Charlotte to return to the shelter
of her abode. But she could not go back there. Hector's home
could not be her home. Where he had lived, she could not be at
rest. Nor could her spirit find peace with her old friends.
“Do you recollect,” said Phœbe, “the day when Mr. Dunbury
called to borry our wagon, and told us Hector was coming home?
How long ago it seems! Does it to you? Everybody thought,
one time, he was paying attention to you; and I expected, much
as could be, you 'd be married. O, do you remember the stone he
give me for a keepsake, the day you ketched me asleep by the
fence?” And Phœbe, running to her closet, and taking out the
cobble, rolled it upon the floor. “It 's like men's hearts, he said,
and told me to look at it whenever I was in danger of falling in
he 's splendid! — don't you? There 's Bertha Wing, and I don't
know how many others, would give their eyes to git him. I know
I would,” said Phœbe, frankly. “But this summer he never
appeared to care for anybody but you. Maybe you might 'a got
him, — don't you suppose you might, if you had tried?”
One afternoon, Phœbe came running to Charlotte, in high
glee.
“You can't think who 's come! My heart almost hopped out
of my mouth when I saw him ride up.”
Charlotte started, as Hector's image flashed momentarily before
her.
“How does my hair look?” cried Phœbe. “Come up stairs;
I 'll put on my de-laine dress. Mother! ask him into the setting-room.
There 's his knock!”
Ah! too well poor Charlotte knew that knock; and it was
needless now for the excited Phœbe to whisper, “It 's Robert
Greenwich!”
“I wonder if he knows you are here!” said Miss Jackwood,
closing the chamber door. “Though I 'm sure he 's come to see
me! You would n't be surprised, if you knew half the things he
said to me the other day. Will you hook my dress? How nervous
I be! Don't you like Robert? What a splendid moustache
he wears!”
Charlotte assisted her friend to arrange her dress; and, in
return, Phœbe generously invited her to go down and share the
visitor with her.
“No, I thank you,” said Charlotte. “If he has called to see
you, I should be an intruder.”
The idea flattered Phœbe; and she had no wish to urge the
point. Having taken a last critical glance at her beauty in the
glass, and given her “beau-catchers” a final polish, she descended
alone, simpering and blushing, to charm the smitten Robert.
The visitor staid nearly an hour; during which time, at his
suggestion, Charlotte was twice invited to the sitting-room. But
she persisted in her determination, and at length the foiled hypocrite
took his leave.
“O, I had such a nice chat!” exclaimed Phœbe, running up
stairs. “Say, he 's coming again! Have I got pretty eyes?”
“Did he tell you so?”
The elated child smiled at herself in the glass, and put on self-complacent
airs.
“O, I an't going to tell! If he did, I suppose it was in fun.
He talked ever so much about you, and asked how long you are
going to stay here, and whether you correspond with Hector. He
said I need n't mention it to you; but I did n't promise. Would
you care if he thought I was handsomer than you?”
Charlotte smiled. “I should not be at all displeased, my dear
Phœbe!”
Phœbe, affectedly: “I don't say he does, you know. If he said
so, he probably did n't mean it. His moustache is perfectly
bewitching, any way!”
Charlotte ventured to utter a few gentle words of warning
against the fascinations of that gay moustache. But Phœbe would
not listen to reason.
“Hector was jealous of Robert, and prejudiced you against
him, or else you would n't speak so. How old should you think
he was? Not over twenty-four, is he? I shall be seventeen
next July.”
So Phœbe chatted, on the same delicious theme, all that day,
the next, and the day after. On the third day, Robert came
again. This time he brought his sister Etty, the genius; by
which stratagem he managed to compel Charlotte's presence, engage
her in conversation, and make Phœbe jealous. The latter
showed a good deal of spite towards her innocent friend; but
when the visitors had gone, Charlotte talked with her so unselfishly
and kindly, showing her what a little fool she was, that she
gave vent to her vexation in a shower of tears, embraced her companion,
asked her forgiveness, and felt better.
On the following day, Robert took the girls by surprise, as they
were walking together by the creek.
“Who would have thought I should be here again so soon?”
he cried, gayly. “Is an excuse necessary?”
“O, no!” said Phœbe.
“Then I wish my excuse would keep until another time. But
the truth is, I left a pair of gloves here yesterday.”
Phœbe: “I have n't seen any. What kind of gloves?”
Robert entered upon a grave and minute description of the
articles in question, expressing his conviction that they were on
the mantel-piece, under the clock; and it was expected of Phœbe
to go and find them.
“You 'll wait for me here?”
“Certainly. Go quick! If you don't find them under the
clock, look under the bureau; if they are n't there, hunt for 'em
in the barn. — The goose!” laughed Robert; “see her run!”
Charlotte, indignantly: “It 's wicked to deceive her so!”
“Then love will have many sins to answer for. Every artifice
seems right by which I get near you.”
“But you have made her believe you love her!”
“The ninny! did she tell you so? But why so angry? I
wish I could think 't was jealousy; then I should have some
hopes. But we have no time to quarrel. The simpleton will be
back presently, — unless she breaks her neck, as I devoutly pray
she may! Have you heard from Hector?”
A shadow swept over Charlotte's face.
“How should I hear from him? Why do you ask?”
“Because — I have heard from him!”
Charlotte started. The villain smiled, showing the edge of his
white teeth under his moustache.
“I had a letter this morning. It was written on board the
ship Excelsior, bound for California. Would you like to see it?”
She did not speak; she kept her large, intense eyes fixed upon
a willow-twig she turned swiftly round and round in her fingers.
“Indifferent, are you?” Again Robert's teeth showed their
white points beneath his moustache. “He mentions your name,
— shall I tell you what he says?”
Faster still beat Charlotte's heart; faster still she twirled the
willow-twig. Robert opened a letter, and read.
“`I had a queer experience with that girl, Rob. But it is all
over now. The spell is broken. I was a great fool, where you
would have been a great villain!' Complimentary to me, as ever,
him in San Francisco.”
The light of Robert's eye, and the glitter of his teeth, became
lynx-like, as he watched her. Her restless fingers dropped the
twig. He stooped to pick it up; but she put her foot upon it.
“Show me that letter!”
“So, you have changed your mind? Here it is. But, since
you declined it before, you shall give me a kiss for it now.”
“Give me the letter!” and down went Charlotte's little foot
upon the grass.
Robert laughed impudently, but she kept her eyes on his, and
held out her commanding hand.
“The kiss!” said Robert.
“I would not give you that for fifty letters, with fifty fortunes,
each with fifty slaves like you!”
“I like your temper! Here, — take the letter!” But Robert
knew she would not have it then. She had turned her back
upon him scornfully. “At least, tell me if you have any message
to send to Hector,” — and he held her arm.
“Let me go!” she cried, with haughty mien. “Your touch
makes me shudder! Is not that enough?”
“You speak very plainly!” said Robert.
“So I can afford to speak. I have feared to offend you heretofore,
because it has been in your power to crush me.”
“Has been?” repeated Robert, significantly.
“Has been, — and is; but I do not care much now. Come
what will, I am ready to meet it.”
The impure flame in Robert's eyes could not endure the light
of her clear orbs. He shivered from head to foot.
“You are a noble girl,” he muttered, stifling the rage that
stung him. “But you wrong me; and it is my fault, perhaps.
I have not said to you what I would say, because you would
never hear me. It is from no mean motive that I follow you; I
am true and sincere; I would make you my wife.”
As Charlotte looked upon him, her whole form seemed to undulate
and expand with emotions that swelled up from the depths
of her injured soul.
“A generous offer! What more you could have said, I do not
know! I thank you! Still, suffer me to be true. My entire
nature shrinks at the thought of giving myself to one I do not
love. By no law, human or divine, can I ever, ever be yours.
So I have the same answer for you I had before. You may be
vindictive, or you may be generous: I have been true: I have
no more to say.”
Robert was astounded.
“Stop!” he aspirated, — “Charlotte!”
Impassioned, quivering, flushed, he strove to clasp her; but she
escaped his arm. He caught her cape; and, tearing it from her
throat, she left it in his grasp. With a quick, desperate step, he
followed her in the meadow, but stopped suddenly, with a curse
muttered through his teeth, at sight of Phœbe. She was approaching,
out of breath, to tell him that no gloves were to be found.
“Why! what is the matter with Charlotte?”
“We have had a terrible quarrel!”
Phœbe, with great eyes: “About what?”
“About you, darling! She is jealous. Watch her, Phœbe. I
shall walk by the corner of the orchard this evening at nine;
meet me there, and I will tell you more.”
And, leaving Phœbe flattered and excited by the important
charge, Robert retreated across the field.
That night Charlotte conferred with Mr. Jackwood, whom she
found the same prompt and hearty friend as of old. His earnest
sympathy, and his ready promise of secrecy and aid, brought tears
of gratitude to her eyes.
“How shall I ever repay you?”
“Don't speak o' that! I only wish I could do suthin' hansum
by ye,” said the farmer. — “Hark! who 's there?”
Phœbe entered, with a shawl over her head.
“I thought ye was abed long ago! Where ye ben?”
Phœbe, very innocently: “Nowheres — only setting under the
stoop a little.”
“And here it is 'most ten o'clock! Be ye crazy? I hope ye
han't ketched yer death-o'-cold, in the night-air. Go to bed!
Cha'lotte an' me 's havin' a talk 't an't necessary you should hear.”
Phœbe, pretending obedience, lighted a candle, and withdrew.
But the young girl had impressed Charlotte strangely; and, having
vainly attempted to pursue the subject on which she had been
conversing with Mr. Jackwood, she bade him good-night, and
opened the entry-door just in time to hear a step and the rustling
of a dress, and catch a glimpse of Phœbe's candle vanishing up
the stairs.
On the following day, Phœbe gave her father no peace, in her
persistent efforts to draw from him the secret of his talk with
Charlotte.
“What a botheration you be!” exclaimed the indulgent Jackwood.
“Will ye keep it to yourself, if I tell ye?”
“Of course I will — if it 's anything I don't ought to tell,”
added Phœbe, securing that loop-hole for her conscience.
“Wal, I 'xpect we 're goin' to lose Cha'lotte. Spite of all I
can say, she thinks she must be goin' away to-morrow.”
“Going?” echoed Phœbe, startled. “Where?”
“That I don' know myself; only I 'm to carry her over to the
railroad in time for the train 't goes north.”
Phœbe was touched; Phœbe was softened; Phœbe was no longer
jealous. She ran to Charlotte, and threw her arms around
her neck.
“I knew something was the matter!” she stammered forth.
“You 're going off, and it 's me that 's made you so unhappy you
can't stay! And you won't never forgive me, — I don't see how
you can!”
“My dear child!” said Charlotte, very tenderly, “you have
been a little unjust to me, but you have a good heart; and I do
forgive you, most sincerely.”
“I 'm ashamed of myself!” exclaimed Miss Jackwood. “I
never knew anybody half so good as you be, nor anybody that I
ever loved half so well. And I won't ever see you again!”
“Perhaps not, dear child!”
Then Phœbe threw herself wildly upon a chair, and indulged in
spasms, and refused to be comforted on any account.
“Why, Phœbe!” said her mother; “you shan't act so!
You 'll break a blood-vessel!”
Still Phœbe tortured herself; nor would she suffer anything to
come between her and her grief, until Bim appeared, driving Rover
in harness. The pleasing novelty had a singularly quieting
effect upon her nerves; and, five minutes later, she might have
been seen busily engaged in sewing together strips of cloth for
traces, with the understanding that when the silly-looking cur was
properly attached to the wagon, she should be allowed to drive.
Still her grief returned at intervals, and was very violent indeed.
It did not, however, prevent her from keeping an appointment she
had made to meet Mr. Greenwich that night; and afterward,
going late to bed, she slept so soundly, that, when called to breakfast,
next morning, she dreamed that her mother was chasing her
and Robert around the orchard with a broom, and crying to her
to stop.
It was a chill, cloudy day, and, as Mr. Jackwood drove
through the gate with Charlotte, he felt a rain-drop strike his
hand.
“Hold on!” said he; “we did n't put in the umbrel', arter
all! Fetch it 'long, Bim'lech! — Looks kind o' bad to see you
start off on your ja'nt sich a day as this, Cha'lotte. Had n't ye
better put it off till fair weather, think?”
But Charlotte told him no. The time had come; and, dreary
as the future seemed, she must go forth to meet it.
“Come, come!” cried Mr. Jackwood, “what 's that boy
about?”
“He 's trying to make Rover draw the umbrella on the wagon,”
said Phœbe.
Bim, appearing around the corner: “Git up, Rove! He'p!
clear the track! The big team 's comin'!”
Mr. Jackwood: “Quit yer nonsense, boy, an' bring along that
umbrel'!”
Bim, stoutly: “An't I bringin' it? — Whoa, — back!”
The wagon had struck a post, and lodged. While Bim was
disengaging the vehicle, Rover took advantage of a slack rein,
and, attempting to leap through a favorite hole in the fence, progressed
in the undertaking as far as his hind-quarters, when the
him out of the difficulty by the legs.
“There!” said Mr. Jackwood, “don't le' me see that dog harnessed
up agin to-day!”
He spread the umbrella, which Phœbe handed up to him, and,
having once more earnestly counselled Charlotte to postpone her
expedition, touched the horse with the whip, and drove away.
Somehow, Charlotte could not utter her “good-by.” Yet, as
the animal trotted slowly along the dusty road, amid the pattering
rain, she looked back. Mrs. Jackwood watched her from the front
door, with a countenance full of regretful and tender interest.
Phœbe stood at the gate, waving her handkerchief in the air,
and wiping her eyes with it, alternately. Even Bim, although
ostensibly engaged in training Rover to hold up his foolish head
in harness, and keep his tail from between his legs, showed
unmistakable signs of unmanly weakness, in passing the corner
of his sleeve across his eyes. Then there was a repetition of farewells;
and Phœbe and her mother went in, out of the rain;
and Charlotte was once more a homeless wanderer in the gloomy
world.
Patter, patter, went the dull rain, drumming upon the umbrella,
checkering the dusty bed of the road, and rattling among the dry
leaves. The sky grew darker still, and a long line of showers
swept along the misty mountain side. Then a peculiar smell of
mould, exhaling from the earth, loaded the atmosphere. The
weather was chill, too, and Charlotte found it necessary to wrap
her shawl closely about her, to keep warm.
They rode past Mr. Dunbury's house, and Charlotte's sad eyes
looked their last upon the spot that had been more than a home
to her, in the summer that was gone. The house stood silent and
gloomy in the rain; the windows of Hector's chamber were closed
and curtained; and the little portico, under which he used to sit,
was desolate and deserted. The only living object in view was
Corny, who sat upon the fence, under the shelter of the door-yard
trees, whittling. Recognizing the half-concealed face that peered
from the sombre background of the umbrella, he poised his knife
and stick, nodded, and grinned. Mr. Jackwood drew rein a moment,
letter, which Bridget brought out for Charlotte, — then drove on,
stopping not again until the railway-station was reached.
“By jingoes!” said Mr. Jackwood, who never indulged in profanity
except on exciting occasions, “we 're jest in time! There
comes the cars! Not many minutes to lose, nuther; for they 'll
be off agin in a jiffy.”
Bell ringing, steam whizzing, wheels clanging and clashing,
the engine, with the long train behind, rolled past the platform of
the little country station, and came to a halt. During the excitement
of getting aboard, Charlotte happily forgot everything else.
She was safely seated, and Mr. Jackwood had barely time to give
her the check for her baggage, and bid her good-by, when the
bell rang again, the engine panted and gasped, and the train was
once more in motion. She returned the hasty pressure of his
hand, but she had no words either of farewell or of thanks. The
next moment, he was gone; only strangers surrounded her; and
the terrible engine thundered on with the train that bore her
swiftly to an unknown destiny, over a dark and rainy land.
At first Charlotte gave little heed to external objects. Her
spirit dwelt deeply within itself. And now, notwithstanding the
gloom and mist that shrouded the future, she experienced a sense
of relief, amounting almost to happiness, in the thought that thus
the past, with all its errors, with all its troubles and alarms, was
swept behind her, as it were, into a gulf.
Swiftly, more swiftly still, sped the train, — on, on, on, through
woods and vales, over streams and chasms, under the mountain's
rocky ribs, with echoing clang and roar. Charlotte felt a wondrous
joy swell in her heart at this wild speed. “Faster, faster — further,
further — on, on, on!” said her soul. When the train
stopped at way-stations, she became impatient; she could scarce
keep her seat; she wished to fly.
Ah! she did not see the crested snake that glided out of the
abyss from which she fled, and followed in her track, and kept its
glittering eyes upon her still!
But once, when the cars had stopped, she looked out of the
train.
There, upon the platform, stood the man who, of all men, she
feared and abhorred. Her impulse was to withdraw instantly
from view; but already she was observed; and the detested face
approached, wreathed in smiles of hypocritical surprise.
“By what singular chance — where in the wide world are you
going?”
The shock and revulsion of the moment had turned Charlotte's
heart to ice.
“The train is off again!” said Robert. “Since there is room
in your car, I will take a seat beside you. How singular that
we should both be travelling the same way!”
She gave neither word nor look in reply, nor did she stir when
he entered and placed himself by her side, but sat faint, and cold,
and still, while once more the rushing and thundering wheels bore
her on and away.
| XIX.
THE DOVE AND THE SERPENT. Neighbor Jackwood | |