University of Virginia Library

7. CHAPTER VII.
IN WHICH THE CENTRE SCHOOL OF CRAMPTON IS HANDSOMELY
PROVIDED FOR.

Arthur divulged his new plan to his mother, kindly
bore with her scruples, or very kindly bore them down,
and quite inspired her, for the moment, with his own
overflowing enthusiasm. That was the initial step in
the business; the next was to see Dr. Gilbert.

So he left the mill early one evening for the purpose
of making the visit. He rang the bell at the physician's
dwelling, and was invited into the parlor. Aunt
Catharine was rocking herself very slowly and knitting
very fast, showing thereby a peaceful condition of mind,
and, on the whole, a pleasant state of things in the family.
Fanny, looking weary and sleepy, was reading a
novel. Little Fred sat at his sister's side, his head in
her lap, asleep.

Aunt Catharine, who indulged in a great admiration
of Arthur, greeted him as if he had been a favorite
nephew; and Fanny's face lost its weary look entirely.
The doctor, whom Arthur inquired for, was not at home,
but was expected every moment.

“How is your mother to-night?” inquired Aunt
Catharine, in her crisp way, her needles snapping as if
they were letting off sparks of electricity.

“She is as well as usual,” replied Arthur, “but
you know how it is with her.”

“Miserable, I suppose, of course,” said Aunt Catharine.
“She always is miserable, and I presume she
always will be, and it's a blessed thing that it is so. I
sometimes think that she is so used to misery that happiness
would shock her. I've seen a good deal of her
this winter, and it's my candid opinion that misery, if
she has a good chance to talk about it, is the only solid
comfort she has. I think it would seem so unnatural
for her to be comfortable, that it would make her—”.

“Miserable,” suggested Fanny; and the young woman
laughed at her aunt's philosophy.

“It's just so,” pursued Aunt Catharine, “and you
mark my word, Arthur—your mother will live to be
an old woman.”

“I'm quite delighted,” said Arthur.

“As for me, trouble kills me,” resumed Aunt Catharine.
“Oh! if I could only wilt down like your
mother when trouble comes, and get so used to it as
not to expect any thing better, I could get along; but
dear me! I've no doubt that some day will bring along
a great tribulation that will break my life off as short
as a pipe-stem.”

This was altogether the most cheerful view of his
mother's case that Arthur had ever seen presented. It
was not offensive to him, because he knew that it came
from as sympathetic and friendly a heart as Crampton
contained.

“How have you enjoyed being in Mr. Ruggles' family
this winter?” inquired Fanny, archly.

Arthur, poor simpleton, did not know how much
there was in this inquiry; so he replied that he had
“enjoyed it as well as possible, under the circumstances”—a
very safe and comprehensive answer, that
might mean much or little, in either direction.

“Miss Ruggles, I understand, is quite accomplished,”
said Fanny.

“Is she?”

“Is she, indeed! Is it possible you have been three
months in the family, and her mother hasn't told you?”

There was a delicious bit of malice and jealousy in
this, that would have excited any man but one who was
wholly preoccupied; so, while the hit appeared admirable,
he did not understand his own relations to it.

“I've been told she was very expensively educated,”
pursued Fanny, “really, now!”

“So have I.”

“You're a sweet pair of slanderers, upon my word,”
exclaimed Aunt Catharine.

“At least,” said Fanny, “she must present a very
strong contrast to her father and mother.”

“I think she does, very,” responded Arthur.

“Oh! you do! I presumed so.” Fanny nodded
her head and smiled very shrewdly, as if her suspicions
were fully confirmed. “Perhaps,” she continued, “you
will tell Aunt Catharine and me some of the precious
particulars of this contrast.”

“I should say,” replied Arthur, “that her father was
not lazy, and that her mother was not extravagant.”

“Upon my word!” exclaimed Aunt Catharine again.

“Arthur Blague, apologize to me this instant for slandering
one of my sex.”

“It's the old story,” replied Arthur. “The woman
tempted me, and I did eat.”

“And who tempted the woman, pray?” said Fanny.

“A little serpent with very green eyes,” responded
Aunt Catharine.

“Aunt Catharine! Arn't you ashamed!” Fanny
was vexed, and blushed charmingly.

“Arthur has a right to be just as much pleased with
Miss Leonora as he chooses to be, my dear,” said Aunt
Catharine in her spicy way. “I confess that I do not
see what right you have to question him.”

“Of course, he has,” responded Fanny. “I hope
you don't imagine that I have any fault to find with any
fondness he may have for her.”

“Oh! not the least, my dear,” Aunt Catharine responded,
thoroughly enjoying Fanny's poorly disguised
annoyance; “girls are so generous toward each other!”

Fanny was delighted to hear her father's footsteps
at the door, and to have a change in the current of conversation.
Dr. Gilbert came into the parlor, greeted
Arthur with bluff heartiness, and then, with whip in
hand and buffalo coat still unbuttoned, inquired if there
had been any calls for him. There had been none.
The coat was thrown open, and the doctor sat down before
the fire and warmed himself.

There was something in the conversation which preceded
his advent, that made Arthur shrink from presenting
his errand in the presence of the family; but it
seemed quite as hard to ask him for a private audience,
as to state his wishes in the hearing of Aunt Catharine

and Fanny. He felt half-guilty, and he knew not of
what. His heart beat thickly, and his hands and feet
grew cold.

“Well, Arthur,” said Dr. Gilbert, still looking into
the fire, “how do you and Ruggles get along together?”

“Pretty well,” replied Arthur.

“Glad to hear it. The old fellow is not quite so
bad as he is represented to be—is he, now?”

“Possibly not, though to tell the truth, he is quite
as agreeable to me when he is disagreeable, as he is
when agreeable.”

“Father, you don't know how absurd these people
are to-night,” said Fanny, glad to find her tongue again.
“Aunt says that Mrs. Blague is never so happy as when
she is miserable, and Arthur thinks that Mr. Ruggles is
never so agreeable as when he is disagreeable.”

“And Fanny has been anxiously inquiring of Arthur
about a girl for whom she does not care a straw,” responded
Aunt Catharine. “Very absurd, indeed!”

Arthur laughed feebly with the rest, but felt desperately
pushed to business. Dr. Gilbert removed his
overcoat, and hung it with his whip in the hall, and the
young man renewed the conversation with: “Speaking
of Mr. Ruggles—he wishes very much to have me give
up boarding at home, and to become more thoroughly
a fixture of his establishment. I have so much to do
for him, that it really seems necessary to be there all
the time, and the walking, you know, is very bad
now.”

“Who is to take care of your mother?” inquired
the doctor.

“That is precisely the question which brought me

here to-night. I wish to get your advice, and possibly
your help.”

“What are your plans? Have you any plans?”

The young man fidgeted. He knew Fanny's eyes
were upon him, and was half-afraid that they read every
thing that was in his heart.

“Any thing definite to propose?” and the doctor
wheeled about, and looked him in the face.

“I understand,” said Arthur very clumsily, “that—
that the, ah—centre school is soon to be without a
teacher.”

“Another sad case of matrimony,” said Fanny aside
to her aunt.

“Yes, there'll be a vacancy at the centre in a week,”
replied the doctor.

“You are the prudential—prudential—”

“Prudential committee,” slipped in the doctor in a
hurry. “Of course I am, and have been these twenty
years.”

“Have you secured anybody to fill the vacancy?”
inquired Arthur.

“No, I suppose not,” replied the doctor, half-spitefully.
“I should be glad to have Fanny take the school,
but she is engaged in something that suits her better, I
suppose.”

“Oh! of course, I haven't any thing to say if Fanny
wants the school,” said Arthur, bowing to the young
woman, and wishing from the bottom of his heart that
she would take it, and relieve him of his embarrassment
at once.

“Father knows that I will never willingly take the

school,” responded Fanny, her face grown hard with
determination.

“I was thinking,” said Arthur, trying to assume a
business tone, “that perhaps you would be willing to
engage some one who would board with my mother,
and be society for her in my absence.”

Fanny was mystified, but eager. Her quick insight
had detected a secret motive in Arthur's strange embarrassment,
that shaped his policy quite as powerfully
as his wish to provide for his mother's comfort.

“Do you know of a teacher whom your mother
would like to have in her family?” inquired the doctor.

“She would take any one whom I would recommend,”
replied Arthur evasively.

“Then I take it you have some one in mind whom
you can recommend,” responded the doctor. “Tell us
who she is.”

“There's a young woman at the Run,” replied Arthur,
his face glowing with the consciousness that the
eyes of Aunt Catharine and Fanny were upon him,
“who, I think, would make an excellent teacher of the
school, and a very pleasant companion for my mother.”

“At the Run? How came she at the Run?”

“I never inquired,” Arthur replied.

“Does she work in the mill?”

“Yes, sir.”

“What do you know about her?” inquired the doctor.

“I know very little,” replied the young man, getting
very hot in the face. I know she is a lady, that
she seems very different from the other girls, that she

associates with them but little, that she is intelligent,
and that she ought to be somewhere else.”

“But where did she come from?”

“I don't know sir.”

“How old is she?”

“She is not old; that is all I know about her age.”

“What is her name?”

“Mary Hammett.”

“Mary Hammett—Mary Hammett.” The doctor
pronounced the name two or three times to see if it
would recall the face of any one, dead or living, whom
he had known. “Mary Hammett. What makes you
think she is intelligent?”

“She looks and talks as if she were.”

“Does she desire the place?”

“I'm sure I—I don't know,” replied Arthur. “I
never have spoken to her about it. I should think she
would like it very much.”

“Ha! ha! ha!” roared the doctor. “I like this,
Arthur, it's excellent.” And the doctor laughed again.
Then Arthur laughed, though he did not know exactly
what he was laughing about; and Aunt Catharine and
Fanny laughed, because the doctor and Arthur laughed;
and little Fred awoke from his nap, because they all
laughed.

“I think Miss Mary Hammett had better be consulted
on the subject before we dispose of her,” said the
doctor.

“That is precisely what I came to ask you to do,”
replied Arthur.

“Well, I'll do it. I'll do it to-morrow,” said Dr.
Gilbert. “I'm quite anxious to see this marvel.”

“Now you shall tell us all about her,” said Fanny,
speaking with that cordial sweetness which a young
woman, just a little jealous, can assume when she tries
very hard. “Is she beautiful?”

“I think so. She seems so,” replied Arthur.

“Hum! seems so! Feeling as you do toward her,
she seems so! You are not entirely certain whether
she be so or no. Seems so!” (Turning to the doctor,
and attempting to laugh:) “Father, this is a dangerous
case. Treat it very carefully.”

“The green-eyed serpent again,” said Aunt Catharine.

“Aunt, you are insufferable. I really feel very
much interested in Miss Hammett already. It's quite
a romance.”

Arthur was embarrassed, and felt very uncomfortable.
He called Fred to him, and took him upon his
knee. The little fellow had always been a favorite with
Arthur, and had been famous for asking “leading questions.”
Some further conversation was had, when Fred
looked up in Arthur's face and said, “Do you love Miss
Hammett better than you do Sister Fanny?”

This terminated the conference, and in the midst of
much merriment, Arthur rose to take his leave. Aunt
Catharine lifted her forefinger to him, and said, in her
good-natured, emphatic way: “Arthur Blague, don't you
think of getting married before you are thirty—not a
day; don't you dream of such a thing!”

When Arthur had retired, and closed the door after
himself, Fanny said to her brother: “Why, Fred! don't
you know that it is very improper indeed for you to
ask such a question of Arthur Blague?”

“I thought you acted as if you wanted to know,” replied
the boy, “and I wasn't afraid to ask him. He always
tells me.”

“Well, I think you had better go to bed. You are
a very dangerous young man.”

“Don't be afraid, Fanny, I won't hurt you,” responded
Fred.

Dr. Gilbert was thinking, and drumming with his
fingers upon the arms of his chair. “How fortunate it
would be,” said the doctor, “if Miss Hammett should
prove to be a good teacher for our little boy here;”
and he thought on, and drummed till the little boy
went to bed.

When Arthur went to his room that night, he felt
that he had done a very unwarrantable thing. What
would Miss Hammett think of him for daring to propose
such a step before consulting her? What was he
—what was his mother—that they should presume to
dream that so angelic a being as Mary Hammett would
deem it a privilege to find a lodging under their humble
roof? She would refuse, of course, and that would be
the last of his intercourse with her. She would detect
all his motives—read the mean record of his selfishness
—and despise him for a desire to entrap her.

The purer and the more exalted a young lover's
love may be, the more unworthy and insignificant does
he become in his own self-estimation. His fine ideal
becomes, with the growth of his passion, a finer ideal,
until he stands mean and poor and contemptible in the
presence of perfections which his own sublimated imagination
has builded. This is one of love's sweet mysteries,
and if Arthur did not comprehend it, it must be

remembered that he was hardly nineteen, and that he
was in love with a woman some years his senior.

He dreamed of Mary Hammett and Dr. Gilbert all
night, and awoke at last in the height of a personal altercation
with that gentleman, resulting from the doctor's
treacherous attempt to secure the consent of the
young woman to take the place of Mrs. Dr. Gilbert,
deceased.

When it is remembered that up to this time Arthur
Blague had never exchanged a word with Miss Hammett
upon the subject of his passion; that their interviews
had always been brief, hardly extending, in any
instance, beyond the simplest and most commonplace
courtesies, it will be understood that he got along very
fast, and was a great distance in advance of the young
woman herself. In truth, she had not the remotest suspicion
of the condition of his heart. She understood,
respected, nay, admired, his character, and whenever she
had mentioned him, she had very freely and frankly
praised him, and this was all.

According to his promise, Dr. Gilbert drove to
Hucklebury Run the next day. Alighting at the boarding-house,
he sent to the mill for Mary Hammett, and
was soon in a very interesting conference with her.
Half an hour—three-quarters—a whole hour—passed
away, and still her looms did not start. Old Ruggles,
hobbling feebly about, was in a fidget at the end of the
first half-hour, and in a fever at the end of the second.
Arthur saw the little gig standing outside, knew what
business was in progress, and cursed his own temerity
a hundred times within the hour.

At length a messenger came into the mill from the

boarding-house, and said that Dr. Gilbert wished to see
Arthur Blague. Old Ruggles, even more irritable and
exacting than before his sickness, was enraged. He
would “teach Dr. Gilbert to let his hands alone;” and
that was what “came of having help that had high notions.”
He did not undertake to interfere with Arthur's
immediate response to the doctor's summons, however,
for he could not afford to offend him now; but he laid
up a grudge against the doctor which he never forgot.

Arthur entered the boarding-house with great trepidation,
and found the doctor cosily cornered with Miss
Hammett in the large dining-hall, and talking as easily
with her as if he had known her from childhood. His self-possession
in the presence of such divinity was something
entirely beyond Arthur's comprehension. The young
woman rose as Arthur entered, gave him a pleasant
greeting, and pointed him to a chair with as much quiet
case as if she were the accustomed queen of a drawing-room,
and were receiving her friends. Arthur returned
her greeting with rather an unnatural degree of warmth,
the doctor thought; and then the latter said: “We are
getting along pretty well, but Miss Hammett declines
to close any bargain with me unless you are present.”

“You have been kind enough,” said Miss Hammett
to Arthur, “to recommend me to Dr. Gilbert as a fit
person to take charge of the centre school. He tells
me, also, that you desire to have me become a member
of your mother's family. You know that I cannot be
otherwise than thankful for this mark of your confidence
and respect, but there are some things that must be considered
before I enter into your plans. I wish to have
you withdraw your recommendation of me entirely.”

“But I cannot do that,” said Arthur, puzzled by the
nature of the request.

“Very well; then you will, of course, tell Dr. Gilbert
and me what you know about me.”

“I know nothing but what you have taught me,”
said Arthur.

Miss Hammett smiled. “That is very little,” said
she, “and I wish to remove from you, in the presence
of Dr. Gilbert, all responsibility for me. I did not
suppose you had a competent reason for recommending
me, and I wish the doctor to know it. You have
thought it strange that I am here, I suppose.”

Arthur colored, and said that he had.

“Has there been any gossip about me at the Run?”
inquired Miss Hammett.

“None of any consequence—none that has done you
harm.”

“Yet I am a mystery, I suppose.”

“They wonder where you came from, why you are
here, what your history is—it is very natural.”

“Possibly, though I do not see how. I have never
assumed any thing. I have never sought, as I have
never shunned, society; and I presume there are many
here whose histories are unknown to the rest, like my
own. You are sure that if I go to Crampton no rumors
will follow me to injure my good name, and those who
befriend me?”

The doctor had spent all the time he could, and rose
to his feet. “I see what you wish,” said he to Miss
Hammett, “and as my shoulders are broad, I will release
Arthur from all responsibility. I don't care
where you came from, what your history is, or what

you are here for. I have seen something of men and
women in my life, and I say to you frankly, that I
thoroughly trust you.”

Miss Hammett's blue eyes grew luminous with sensibility.
“I thank you, sir,” said she, “and now
promise me that you will always trust me. I will not
say that I am unworthy of your confidence, for I should
belie myself; but I must remain to you just as much of
a mystery as I am now. Only believe this, Dr. Gilbert,
that if you ever learn the truth about me, by any
means, it will bring disgrace neither to me nor to those
who may befriend me. Will you promise me?”
Miss Hammett looked in the doctor's eyes, and gave
him her hand.

“It does not seem difficult,” said Dr. Gilbert, “to
promise you any thing; and now we will consider the
engagement closed. I bid you a very good morning.”
There was something so uncommonly complimentary,
nay, gallant, in the doctor's tone and bearing, that Arthur
was annoyed.

When the doctor left the room, he left the young
man not only annoyed, but oppressed with an uncomfortable
sense of youthful insignificance. The self-possessed
and easy style in which Dr. Gilbert had borne
himself in Miss Hammett's presence, the calm tone of
the young woman, the quiet manner in which she had
shown him the valueless and boyish character of his
recommendation of her, all tended to dwarf him. He
could not realize at all that he was six feet high, or
that he had risen above his initial teens. Oppressed by
a crushing sense of his insignificance, he blushed under
the frank blue eyes, with the thought that he could ever

have had the audacity to love the exalted being who
owned them.

“The doctor seems to have a strong, hearty nature,”
said Miss Hammett, resuming conversation.

“And a strong and hearty will within it,” responded
Arthur.

“I judge so,” said Miss Hammett, “and do not object
to it. I think I shall like him.”

“I'm afraid you—yes, of course, I think you will,”
said Arthur.

Unsuspicious of Arthur's feelings, Miss Hammett
thanked him for his thoughtfulness, and told him that
her situation at the Run had become almost insupportable
to her. “I knew that Providence would open a
door for me,” said she, “and somehow I felt, when I
first saw you, that you were sent to do it. I think I
shall like your quiet home and your quiet mother very
much.” Then she went to the mill to find the proprietor,
that she might give him notice of her intention to
leave, and Arthur returned to his employment, thankful,
at least, that he was considered by Miss Hammett
worthy to be the doorkeeper of Providence for her benefit.
He hoped that Providence would allow him to
open doors for her gentle feet in the years before him,
a great many times.