University of Virginia Library

22. CHAPTER XXII.

Two or three days after the interview between Peter Trimble
and Hugh Parsons, those individuals accidentally met.
The former was ready for the meeting, but the latter was
not. Peter had arranged his inquiries for every possible
contingency, and (there being several individuals present) he
asked Hugh if he had “been to Spain.” On receiving the
reply that he had not, he asked him if he had “seen the
queen.” Having obtained the same reply, he inquired if it
were not about time he was taking the voyage. Hugh obligingly
told him that perhaps it was, and Peter, as he parted
from him, remarked that he should think so.

The next day the two met again, when Peter asked whether
Hugh had succeeded in “treeing the squirrel” which
he understood he was after, and propounded various other
inquiries based on that peculiarly happy figure of speech.
Hugh saw that he was to have no peace until something had
been done towards fulfilling the mission he had so foolishly
assumed, and desperately determined to call on Mary
Woodcock, and make known his unpleasant business.

On a convenient evening, therefore, Hugh made his toilet
with such taste as his means would allow, walked to the
house of Mr. Holyoke, and huriedly knocking at the door,
as if apprehensive that his courage would fail him should he
delay, he stood with a pale face and a throbbing heart awaiting
the answer to his summons. The door was opened by
Mary herself, and Hugh could not choose but notice the
delight that flashed in her dark eye, and illuminated—as
the lightning a cloud—her strong and expressive features,

when she took his hand, and invited him into the
house.

Fortune had favored Hugh with the choice of an evening
when Holyoke and his wife were absent, and in Mary's
smile there was a satisfaction and delight that were based
upon an instant comprehension of the circumstances of the
visit. Mary retained Hugh's passive hand within her own
as he crossed the threshold, and then she led him to a seat
with a gallantry and tenderness of manner which were the
appropriate expression of the sentiments which possessed
her. When she had placed Hugh's hat upon the table she
returned to the fire, and taking a seat where she could look
him fairly in the face, regarded him with an affectionate
admiration which she took no pains to conceal. Hugh
timidly lifted his eyes to her face, and for the first time in
his life thought her the most beautiful woman he had ever
seen. Instead of being abashed as he had expected to be in
her presence, he suddenly felt his heart going out to her in
confidence and trust, and self-possession came with the assurance
that his spirit was in harmony with her own.

Mary inquired for his health and that of his father's
family, wondered he had never called upon her before,
frankly declared her delight with the opportunity of an interview,
and then referred to the day on which she saw
him in the training band, when (she told him without reserve)
she was “looking at him all the time.”

There was nothing in Hugh's nature that revolted at this
forwardness. On the contrary, he felt that he had never
previously met a woman so agreeable. There was something
in her frankness, her self-confidence, her strength and
fearlessness, that impressed him with admiration, and as he
sat and gazed upon her, and listened to her impulsive utterances,
all the women he had ever known sank to mere
nothings in his estimation.

Just as a faint idea of the real character of the impression

she was making upon him crept into his consciousness, the
object of his visit obtruded itself, and in dissipating a beautiful
dream which had begun to overshadow him quite upset
his equanimity.

“I came,” said Hugh, determined to keep his promise at
all hazards, and blushing to his temples, “on a queer
errand, and I hope you will not blame me for it, for I
really could not get along very well without promising to
come.”

“Did you wish to see Mr. Holyoke?” inquired Mary—
adding, “if you do, he is not at home, and his wife is absent
also.”

“No, I came to see you, and I hope you will not be
offended with me for coming on such an errand.”

“Just think of my being offended with you!” exclaimed
Mary, bursting into a hearty ringing laugh which disturbed
the sleeping children in the next room. Then, as her merriment
subsided, she bade Hugh get rid of his errand as
quickly as possible and fear nothing.

“Why, you see,” said Hugh, “I was down to see Peter
Trimble the other night—he wanted me to come—and he
wanted to have me go to see you, and tell you that he had
a friend that thought a good deal of you—”

Hugh paused. A pair of glowing eyes were flashing full
upon him, and the sense of the utter meanness of his position
and the subterfuge of which he had become the mouthpiece,
with a consciousness that Mary saw and detested
both, overcame him with shame, and with a burning face
he dropped his eyes, while his tongue refused the performance
of its office.

Mary rose to her feet, and, giving vent to her exuberant
contempt by a vigorous onset with the tongs upon the back
log of the fire, she turned around with the tongs still in her
hand, and exclaimed, “Peter Trimble is a fool! A spindle-shanked,
squash-headed fool! And if you are so good at

doing errands, I wish you would have the kindness to tell
him just what I have said; and, while you are about it, tell
him that if he sends any more of his impudent messages to
me, I'll slap his ugly face for him.”

Having said this with an angrily impulsive utterance,
Mary gave the back log another punch, set the tongs in
the corner, and looked at Hugh in silence.

That individual was dumbfoundered, and his admiration of
the woman before him was fast dying out, when her countenance
relaxed from its harsh expression, and, breaking into
a low, musical laugh, she said, “Hugh Parsons, how could
you let that poor puppy impose upon you so?” Then she
laughed again, and bent down and looked into Hugh's
eyes—conscious of having offended his sensibilities, but determined
to win a smile of forgiveness before another step
was taken. “Did I scare you?” said she, resuming her
chair, and laying her hand upon his arm. “Well, you can't
imagine how much I despise that Peter, and you do not
know what reason I have to hate him. He has no memory,
and he imagines I have none. It made me mad to think
he should suppose it possible for me to show him anything
more than common politeness, and madder still to see that
he made you a pack-horse of his impudence, as well as his
lies.”

“I was afraid it would offend you,” said Hugh, “but he
seemed to feel so badly about it that I couldn't refuse
him.”

“Hush! hush! hush!” exclaimed Mary, tapping her
finger upon Hugh's lip. “Don't tell me any more, or
you'll make me mad again!”

“You really don't wish me to carry the message to him
which you just now gave me,” said Hugh, deprecatingly.

“Oh, no!” replied the girl; “I'll tell you what to say to
him. Say that I have given my heart to another, and that
he must forget me,” and Mary laughed outright at the idea

of her sending such a message to such a man. “If he asks
you who it is,” added Mary, “tell him you do not know,
but that what I say is true.”

As the girl closed, Hugh rose to his feet, his errand being
finished, and, as he met the direct gaze of her marvellous
eyes—bright with an unwonted excitement, searching for
sympathy down into the very depths of his soul, and pouring
out upon him (as he felt) an influence which, though
strange to him, found just as strange a response within him,
he trembled in every fibre of his frame—trembled under
a power all-pervading in its effect, prostrating for the moment
his will, and shaking the very foundations of his being.

A strange feeling crept into his heart, as he stood there,
looking Mary in the face—a feeling that he was in the
shadow of a nature stronger than his own—that that shadow
was his home—that he was not in will and purpose, in
thought and feeling, in strength and determination, a man.
These emotions were quickly experienced, and those more
indefinite and confused succeeded, so that Mary's hearty
grasp at parting, and his promise to call again, and tell
her how Peter received her message, were matters that
were remembered rather than realized.

Hugh found himself in the open air, in a state of mind
bordering upon insanity. Her eyes were still looking into
his, her laugh still rang in his ears, her storm of contemptous
passion swept wildly through his memory, and every
artery was throbbing with a passion as new as it was delicious.
His heart, with a truthfulness which he could not
doubt, had told him the secret of her own, and oh! how
precious was that secret. He longed to get home—to get
into his room—to lock his door, and think it all over—to
surround himself with it as a cloud in which he might bathe
—to drink it in as if it were nectar—and tremblingly to
open the door that stood between him and the future, and
look upon the charmed land.

Perfectly absorbed in his new thoughts, he had proceeded
but a short distance on his way homewards when Peter
stepped forth from a road-side cover, and silently joined
his startled messenger.

“You see,” said Peter, in a subdued voice, “I go down
there pretty much every night, and walk by the house, and,
once in a while, I get a squint into the windows, and see
her washing dishes and cutting round in the kitchen; but,
land ahead! I'd no more idea of seeing you there to-night
—a talking with her—I didn't s'pose you'd dare to—I
didn't, 'pon my word. Says I, as I stood out there a peeking
in, Hugh Parsons is the greatest feller I ever see in my
life—I did now—that's jest what I said, word for word.”

Hugh lifted his eyes to his voluble companion, to ascertain
from his countenance, if possible, in the dim light,
whether he had in any measure made himself acquainted
with the result of his visit. He was interrupted in his serutiny,
and relieved in his apprehensions, by Peter himself.

“I didn't wait,” continued that individual, “to hear what
she had to say, for I wasn't ready; but I jest come right
out under the cover here, and got myself all fixed for whatever
she might say. It's a great contrivance now, I tell
you, and you'll say so jest as quick as you come to see it.
Where shall we go?”

“We will go to my room,” said Hugh.

“Have you got a board there, or anything for me to
make a few chalk marks on?” inquired Peter, and then added,
“never mind about the chalk, for I always carry that
in my pocket. Everybody is wanting chalk, and nobody
has it. You never catch me without chalk.”

“It wouldn't hurt the floor, would it?” inquired Hugh.

“Hurting the floor depends upon what woman makes up
the bed. It wouldn't do to chalk the floor where I live.
I've tried that, and I've always kept a loose board there
ever since. Land ahead! what a row that was!” and

Peter shrugged his shoulders as the memory of the stirring
occasion to which he alluded swept over him.

Hugh replied that he imagined that some method could
be devised for Peter's accommodation when the room should
be reached, and they walked on in silence until they arrived
at the house.

A minute sufficed for the lighting of a candle, and the
two proceeded up the rough stairway to Hugh's room. As
Peter followed Hugh up the steps, he became possessed
with a feeling of importance that he had never before experienced.
His throat swelled, he held his breath with an
inflated chest, he looked down upon his remarkable legs
with utter complacency, and said to and within himself,
“These are great doings! This pays if it doesn't amount
to anything. It takes me to put these little chaps round,
and get the work out of 'em.” Peter terminated his interesting
soliloquy by a grand flourish of his fists at Hugh's
back, as he entered his chamber, and a kick into the darkness
he had left behind him, both of which demonstrations
were intended as an expression of his momentary exaltation
above all the humanity in his immediate vicinity.

Arriving in the room, both of the young men sat down,
and Peter drew forth his carefully preserved chalk. “Now,”
said he, “I s'pose you want to see how I'm going to fix it.
Well, I'll tell you first how I come at it. She's made you
one of two answers. It's either all right, or all wrong. If
it's all right, there's one thing for me to do; if it's all wrong,
there's another thing. You see that, don't you?”

Hugh assented.

“Well, now you see I'm standing right in the crotch of
the roads, don't you?” (and Peter made chalk marks on
the floor representing a road branching off into two roads,
the whole being a rude representation of a hay fork.) “Up
this way,” continued Peter, designating the left hand path,
“is where I live. Beyond there is Deacon Chapin's house,

and his lot that he offers to let me plant next year to halves,
and the lot that I shall clear on the commons. There's
women on the road, but you can't see 'em now, and there's
a pretty little house that isn't built that I own. Enough
said. Now, on the right hand road, where I've been wanting
to go, there's Holyoke's house, and Mary Woodcock
inside of it, and all Woodcock's land, and a cabin on it, and
everything all right. Now you see I'm at the crotch of the
roads, don't you?”

Hugh assented again.

“Now I'm bound not to make a fuss, any way, and you
see if Mary turns up her nose to me, I shall take the left
hand road, turn my back upon the right, and make believe
I never see it in my life; and then I shall take the deacon's
lot to halves, build a house on the commons, take a wife
out of them pretty women you can't see now, and have a
great time. If Mary is all right, I shall take the right hand
road, walk into Holyoke's house, take Mary and walk out,
fix up the cabin on old Woodcock's land, and invite in my
friends. Now, what do you say?” (inquired Peter, rising
and taking his position upon the point he legitimately occupied
upon his diagram), “shall I take the right hand or the
left?”

Hugh, who, though still under the excitement induced
by his interview with Mary, could not avoid being excessively
amused with the measures Peter had instituted for
the preservation of his equanimity, replied to Peter's
inquiry with a freedom he had not anticipated—“The
left.”

“Forward, march!” exclaimed Peter, stepping off in the
direction indicated, until he reached the wall, where he
measured time upon a squeaking pair of shoes for at least
a minute, with a neck and back as stiffly set as if they
were made of cast iron. Then he turned briskly round,
and, walking back to where Hugh was sitting, said, in a

tone of curiosity rather than of apprehension, “Is it r'ally
so, Hugh?”

Hugh asserted that the left was the only direction he
could give him.

“Well, how did you get at it, Hugh, any way? What
did she say? Tell a feller all about it. By George! you
must have had a great time!”

“She said,” replied Hugh, with a strange thrill in his
brain, “that she had given her heart to another, and that
you must forget her.”

“Did she say that, though? I don't know what you
think of that, Hugh, but it seems to me as if it was darn
pretty. How was it? You jest say that again.”

“That she had given her heart to another, and that you
must forget her.”

“It seems to me,” continued Peter, his lip quivering, and
his eyes becoming suffused, “as if that was jest about the
prettiest thing I ever heard in my life. Don't you think
so, now, r'ally? By George!” exclaimed the enthusiastic
young man, in a burst of admiration that was accompanied
by a slap upon Hugh's back, “I hope she'll do well—I do,
'pon my word.”

“Yes—I hope so,” responded Hugh.

“Anything said—'bout—p'ints?” inquired Peter, turning
his eyes upwards, with an occasional side glance at Hugh,
and drawing his fingers slowly down over his face.

“Nothing that I shall tell you,” replied Hugh with a
smile.

“She didn't though, did she, Hugh?” said Peter, bursting
into a snicker. “Well, I hope she'll do well—I do,
'pon my word, if it was the last thing I had to say. I hope
she'll do first-rate. Hugh, you get off that word she sent
to me again. I can't seem to hold on to it.”

“That she had given her heart to another, and that you
must forget her.”

“I don't know how you feel about it, Hugh,” said Peter,
“but that pays me. I tell you, it's something to get such
a word as that from a girl. It's about as good as marrying
her. Jest think how it sounds! By George! I've no
reason to complain—now that's a fact. I r'ally hope she'll
do well.”

Hugh was about expressing his gratification that Peter
had borne his disappointment so well, when the latter rose
to take his leave.

“If you'll jest whip them chalk marks,” said Peter,
looking considerately down upon the diagram of his life,
“they'll come out, but if you rub 'em, you'll only rub 'em
in. When you've used chalk as much as I have you'll know
without being told.”

Peter looked round the room, and finding no more to
say, turned and walked down stairs, Hugh following him,
and seeing him safely landed in the street.

On arriving in the open air, he pulled his coat collar up
about his ears, and burying his face in it as far as possible,
whispered and chuckled, and shook his fists all the way
home.

Hugh was alone at last, and, hastily undressing, he committed
himself to his bed. In an instant, the face and form
of Mary Woodcock were before him. He transported himself
in imagination back to the room in which he had had
his interview with her, recalled every word she uttered and
every look she gave him, and feasted his memory upon
what he had suddenly discovered to be her wonderful
beauty. She filled his heart and head full. He felt that he
had given himself to her, and that only in her possession
could he thenceforth be happy. His head grew feverish
with excitement, and he tossed upon his bed for hours without
sleep, dwelling upon and recalling constantly the same
images, the same words, and the same wonderful emotions.

In his first dream, Mary's eyes were looking with their

wonted fascination into his own—her hand was upon his
arm—warm, electrical, subduing. A deep sense of harmony
and happiness played about his heart—and yet, he felt his
whole nature yearning for something unpossessed—something
without him, yet supremely necessary to him.

And Hugh was not alone in his restlessness and dreams
that night. Mary was exultant. She had hardly a doubt
after Hugh retired that she should conquer him, and win
him to herself; and this she determined to do in spite of
any opposition that might interpose. She would walk barefoot
to the Bay—nay, she would walk the world over—
through danger and darkness and despair, before she would
relinquish her design to make him her own. Her heart
brimmed with the most perfect tenderness towards him—it
overflowed in gushing words, softly whispered to her pillow
—words of endearment—words that were caresses—words
of gentlest idolatry.