 | XXX.
AN UNWELCOME GUEST. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
30. XXX.
AN UNWELCOME GUEST.
Hector's preparations were made. Then came the parting.
O, Charlotte! be brave! be strong! What is life, what is death,
what are the pangs and fears of a day, if thou hast faith in the
immortality of love?
Charlotte was brave and strong; she looked beyond all the
clouds that hung over her path, into the light of a clear, deep
heaven, to which Hector pointed her, and which love and truth
made theirs, whatever might be their fortunes for a time. She
gave him only words and looks of encouragement at their parting,
and waved her handkerchief to him from her window, until he
was shut from her view. Then what tears she shed in the
secrecy of her chamber, no one knew. When she entered Mrs.
Dunbury's room, it was she who had strength and cheer to impart
to the desponding mother.
Mr. Dunbury, still suffering from his hurts, grew more moody
than before. In the unoccupied hours of his indisposition, his
morbid mind dwelt upon the past. He remembered the golden
prospects of his youth, his proud family connections, the elegance
and ease that graced his early life. From that bright beginning,
his star had waned and sunk, until now he could look upon himself
only as a coarse and vulgar old man. He was conscious that
all the finer feelings of his youth were deadened. Life had
become a desert, with not one oasis in the dreary waste of common
toils and trials, on which to feed a hope. And it was his own
wretched folly which alone he had to accuse. Conviviality,
extravagance, wild dissipation, ruin; such was his history. Two
pictures, in tragical contrast, hung forever before his eyes, — what
remorse, and gnawed his heart. Or if at any time his better
angel whispered that by a true life he might still atone for his
errors, his thousand resolutions in the past, made only to be
broken, arose like ghosts before him, grinning and mocking.
All this Charlotte perceived. She knew, too, that he regarded
her with jealous eyes. He was proud still; he remembered that
Hector was the son of a gentleman, and that Charlotte was a
servant. He had observed their intimacy; and now Hector was
abroad on her business. “The next thing will be a marriage!”
He expressed his thoughts to his wife; he did not conceal them
from Charlotte. Still, she had no condemnation for him, but
much compassion. She sought his good-will; she exerted herself
to please him; and often there was a charm about her which not
even he could resist.
One day, having dressed his wound as usual, she asked permission
to comb his hair. He answered that he could never endure
any person to touch it; but her tone, her smile, and the winning
assurance with which she brought the brush and comb, quite disarmed
his ill-nature. Never was experiment more successful.
There was certainly a magnetism in her touch; for, so far from
being irritated, he felt only a soothing influence. The invalid
looked on in mild delight, to see Charlotte do, with such perfect
ease and grace, what had never before been accomplished.
Unfortunately, Corny's ever-recurring head was put in at the
door.
“'S a man out here. Do'no' what he wants; guess he 'd like
to hire out. Said he 'd saw for me, if I 'd come in an' tell ye.”
“Tell me what?”
“Do'no'; did n't say,” drawled Corny.
The boy was sent about his business, with an injunction to
enter the house with no more such meaningless errands. But in
five minutes the indefatigable head reäppeared.
“Tol' me to come in an' tell ye!”
“To tell us what?”
“Did n't say; I can't git nothin' out on him. Guess it 's
Charlotte he wants; for he said 't wan't you nor Mis' Dunbury,
looked — I can't tell how, but real funny, an' he called me Telescope.
That 's all; an' he made me come in an' tell ye.”
Mr. Dunbury answered with a look, which Corny understood,
and he withdrew muttering. Charlotte continued her task. But
the charm was broken. Her hand had grown nervous, and Mr.
Dunbury's equanimity was destroyed. Another reäppearance of
Corny. Charlotte looked pale. Mr. Dunbury looked very red.
“I do'no' what to do. I can't git red on him. He keeps
makin' me come an' tell ye. I never see sich a man. He can't
saw wood more 'n a hen; and he 's mos' broke the saw a'ready.”
With a fiery expression Mr. Dunbury arose.
“Let me go!” cried Charlotte. In the wood-shed she found
the incomprehensible visitor. He was making violent efforts to
extricate the saw, which had become pinched in the stick he was
cutting, notwithstanding the handfuls of snow he had put in to
facilitate the movement.
“Edward!”
He looked up, took off his hat, and, drawing up his meagre
figure with great dignity, made a profound obeisance.
“Salutation, your majesty! I abdicate the saw-horse! I
hope my appearance is not premature. I am unused to state
occasions.”
“You 've e'en-a-jest broke the saw!” muttered Corny.
“Verification!” whispered Edward, with a keen glance. “If
dissatisfied, you can appeal. But say no more, and here 's a butternut
for you.”
“I do' want none o' yer butt'nuts! I s'pose I shall be
blamed for these 'ere teeth bein' broke; that 's all I care fur.”
“Broken teeth — so shall truth be delivered! Acts have
their meaning. I surprise your majesty?”
“I little suspected to see you again so soon,” said Charlotte.
“Where are you from to-day?”
“From Siberia, the land of exile!” answered the prime minister.
“To bring your majesty an offering. Will you receive it
now?”
“What is it, Edward?”
“A head, your majesty; that of a subject who had the misfortune
to offend you!” and Edward's eyes gleamed.
“What do you mean?” cried Charlotte.
“Will you have it in a sack, or on a charger? It awaits
your bidding!”
“Where, Edward?”
“On these shoulders, your majesty!” and the prime minister
bowed gravely. “If convenient, I 'd have pickled it, and brought
it you in a jar. But it can be presently taken off, at your command.
Behold the executioner with his axe!” indicating Corny
with his wood-saw.
“Edward,” said Charlotte, “these things are unworthy of you.
Come in, and tell us of your journey.”
“Though worn, and shorn, and tattered, and torn, he was
onward borne! There were wolves and bald-eagles, but the
Seven Wise Men carried him through. Over the snow, now high,
now low, now fast, now slow, on, on we go! whoo-ip! whoo-oa!
That 's the ginger!”
“Edward, do you hear me? You are among relatives now,
who will not appreciate your flights of intellect. You must be
like other people, if you would please me.”
“What! since that morning? You thought to deceive; but,
glory to the sacred titmouse! it was all whispered in my ear.
You rode off grandly with Prince Hector; but I was at the
church before you. I covered myself with a blanket, and hid
behind the organ.”
“Dear Edward,” pleaded Charlotte, “if you have any regard
for me, forget all that; speak of it to no one here! Consider me
as I was before!”
“Prince Hector looked royal; but the hypocrite in the robes
turned pale as his shirt. I groaned three times for the echo.
Wo! wo! wo! — how it sounded in the roof! I laughed like a
handsome young widow at the funeral of a rich old husband!
'T was solemn fun!”
“Edward, you do not please me, and I shall leave you. In
that room you will find your relatives.”
“Siberia!” exclaimed the prime minister. “If my wits wander,
lamented the marriage; but I did not envy the prince. So — or
call in the executioner. Ho! what functionary?”
The sitting-room door was opened, and Mr. Dunbury appeared.
“Edward Longman! how came you here?”
“What shall I say?” asked the prime minister, aside. “Can I
mention the Seven Wise Men?”
“No, Edward. Tell him you walked, if you did walk.”
“I walked, if I did walk, your honor!” — and, bowing profoundly,
Edward looked to Charlotte for her approbation.
A shadowy scowl passed over the wintry landscape of Mr.
Dunbury's face, as he made a motion for the wanderer to go in.
“Welcome is the honey of souls,” remarked Edward, “but
dark looks are gall. Thank your honor. In our kingdom there
shall be schools of the virtues, and hospitality shall be taught
before ciphering. I engage you as a professor. There 's a
smiling face,” scrutinizing Mrs. Dunbury, who held out her hand
to him from her easy-chair; “but we are not what we seem.
Experience is the mother of caution.”
“Have you forgotten me, cousin?”
“I should do ill to forget so venerable a lady! And here 's a
shake for you!”
Mrs. Dunbury invited him to be seated, and inquired about his
family.
“They are well, for a family of sinners. The old lady has
experienced a miraculous cure.”
“Your mother?”
“Whom they called my mother. Disease has vanished, and
she enjoys rest; bless her dear old soul!”
“How do you mean?”
“O, death is your only doctor! She put off mortality nine
days ago. Let fools weep at funerals; the wise will take holiday.
It 's a weary world; and all who live sin, and all who sin
suffer. I could name an exception; for one soul is exempt. Or if
ever he suffers,” — the prime minister laid his hand upon his breast,
bowing graciously, — “it is from spare diet, thin clothes, and the
sins of others! But he bears up, thanks to a sound mind in a sound
and I 've tramped through snow and through water.”
He glanced downwards to his boots, which were thin, red, and
saturated; and the expression of his face was wild, and weary,
and haggard. Mrs. Dunbury questioned him concerning his
mother; but he shook his head thoughtfully, still gazing at his
feet.
“Give him some dry socks,” muttered Mr. Dunbury, “and let
Bridget set out a luncheon. I 'd rather have seen the cholera enter
the house; but while he remains he must be cared for.”
“Thank you, professor!” Edward looked up, with a bright
expression. “When I go, the cholera shall come. The cramps
are jolly! Then you 'll think of me!”
And he laughed a light, airy, hollow laugh, which chilled the
blood to hear. His eyes followed Charlotte, as she passed from
the room; then, moving over to Mrs. Dunbury, he put his hand to
his mouth, and whispered, mysteriously,
“She 's a queenly figure! But where 's the bridegroom? I
am to omit all titles, or I would call him Prince Hector. 'T was
an illustrious marriage, but there was an attempt at secrecy.”
“What are you talking about?” demanded Mr. Dunbury.
“State policy! I suspected his second visit; and they could
not deceive me! She had been two weeks preparing. They
knew my opinions of marriage, and feared my opposition. But I
was at the church before them. Ha! you look troubled!”
“Dismiss Charlotte from your mind, and dry your feet by the
fire,” said Mrs. Dunbury.
“Evasion! You are the queen-mother; and you fear treason.
I have no griefs; but I liked not that the ceremony should be
mean and obscure. I would have had it grand and imposing.
The guests are met, the feast is set, mayst hear the merry din!
So I cried wo! three times, and heard it echo in the roof. You
are the bridegroom's father.”
Mr. Dunbury turned upon his wife. Her looks betrayed
her. The shadow on his face became that of a thunder-cloud.
“This means something! And you are not ignorant! What
is it? What of Hector and Charlotte?”
Edward laughed. “Excellent artifice! But no deception.
They had two witnesses at the church; and I made a third. I
was the guest that had not on a wedding garment.”
His wild words were cut short by the appearance of Charlotte.
“What is this, I say?” roared Mr. Dunbury. “Have I been
duped? Has my son married my servant?”
Charlotte reeled and clung to the door for support.
“Mr. Dunbury! — husband! — father! — in the name of
mercy,” pleaded the invalid, “be gentle with the child! If fault
there be, it is not hers, — it is Hector's — mine! Do not kill
her!”
The prayer was unheeded. The purple rage in Mr. Dunbury's
face, and the bursting fury of his speech, struck Charlotte down,
as at a blow. With a faint cry of anguish, she loosed her hold,
and fell to the floor. The invalid, tottering forward, essayed to
raise her in her arms. Edward set up a shout.
“Ha! ha! ha! The world is topsy-turvy! They would
cheat me of my wit; but artifice, avaunt! 'T was I that hid in
the church, and groaned behind the organ!”
| XXX.
AN UNWELCOME GUEST. Neighbor Jackwood | |