University of Virginia Library

23. CHAPTER XXIII.
THE CRAMPTON COMET REAPPEARS, PASSES ITS PERIHELION
AGAIN, AND FADES OUT.

“Commencement” at old Dartmouth! Day memorable
to incoming freshmen and outgoing graduates!
Annual epoch in the life of Hanover, on one side or the
other of which all events respectfully arrange themselves!
Holiday for all the region round about, for
which small boys save their money, and on which strings
of rustic lovers, in Concord wagons, make pilgrimages
to the shrines of learning! Day of the reunion of long-separated
classmates, who parted with beardless faces
and meet with bald heads! Day of black coats, pale
faces, and white cravats! Day of rosettes, and badges,
and blue ribbons, and adolescent oratory, and processions,
and imported brass bands! Carnival of hawkers
and peddlers! Advent of sweet cider, and funeral of
oysters, dead with summer travel! Great day of the
State of New Hampshire!

Commencement day came at old Dartmouth, and
found Dr. Gilbert and Fanny in the occupation of the
best rooms in the old Dartmouth Hotel. Booths and

tents had been erected in every part of the village
where they were permitted, and early in the morning,
before the good people of Hanover had kindled their
kitchen fires, or the barkeeper of the hotel had swept
off his foot-worn piazza, the throng of peddlers and boys
began to pour into the village.

Dr. Gilbert's zeal in educational matters, and Dr.
Gilbert's reputed wealth, were appreciated at Dartmouth.
He had, a few years before, been appointed to
a place upon the board of trustees of that venerable institution,
and had annually exhibited his portly form
and intelligent old face upon the platform during its
anniversaries. He enjoyed the occasion and the distinction
always; but he had never visited his alma mater
with such anticipations of pleasure as warmed him when
he rose on the morning we have introduced, and threw
open the shutters to let in the sunlight of a cloudless
“Commencement Day.” Dr. Gilbert shaved himself
very carefully that morning. Then he enveloped himself
in a suit of black broadcloth, that had never spent
on the Sabbath air its original bloom. Then he brushed
his heavy white hair back from his high forehead; and
it is possible that he indulged in some justifiable reflections
upon the grandeur of his personal appearance.

There were several reasons for the delightful character
of Dr. Gilbert's anticipations. The central reason
was, of course, the gratification he would have of seeing
the son of his love honored in the presence of a cloud
of witnesses. Another was the pleasure of appearing
with a daughter who had made herself famous. Another
was the expectation of meeting his surviving classmates.
To these it would be his pride to appear as a patron

and trustee of the college; as a man who had been successful
in his profession, and in the accumulation of
wealth; and as the father of the valedictorian, and a
celebrated authoress. In fact, as Dr. Gilbert stood that
morning, looking at himself in his mirror, and thinking
of what he was, and what the day had in store for him,
he could not help feeling that it was, indeed, the great
day of his life.

The breakfast bell rang its cheery summons, and the
doctor knocked at his daughter's door. She would be
ready in a moment. So he paced slowly up and down
the hall, swinging his hands, and giving courtly greeting
to the rabble that poured by him in their anxiety to get
seats at the board. The long stare that some of them
gave him, he took as a tribute to his venerable and
striking appearance, as, in fact, it was. At length
Fanny appeared; and taking the stylish woman upon
his arm, he descended to the breakfast-room, where fifty
men and women were feeding at a long table, at the head
of which were two vacant chairs, reserved for Dr. Gilbert
and his daughter. In an instant all eyes were upon
the distinguished pair. Then neighboring heads were
brought together, and, in whispers, the personal appearance
of the authoress was discussed. Old men looked
over their spectacles, and young men in white cravats
looked through theirs. Fanny could not but be conscious
that she was the object of many eyes, and, holding
her own fixed upon her plate, she breakfasted in
awkward silence.

She thought the company would never finish their
meal. The truth was, they were all waiting to see her
retire; and when she and her father rose to leave the

table, there was a general shoving back of chairs, and
two or three old gentlemen came around to exchange
a cordial “good morning” with Dr. Gilbert, and get an
introduction to his daughter. Busily engaged in conversation,
they naturally took their way to the parlor; and,
before Fanny could get away, she found herself holding
a levee, with a crowd of persons around, pressing forward
to be introduced. A fine old doctor of divinity
had assumed the privileges of a friend, and while Dr.
Gilbert was, with happy volubility, pouring into the
ears of an old classmate the praises and successes of his
son, his daughter was coolly receiving the homage of
the assembly. There were a dozen young men who
had come back to get their “master's degree.” Some
of them had their hair stuck up very straight, like
bristles, and some of them wore their hair very long,
and brushed behind their ears. Some were very carefully
dressed, and none more so than those who were
seedy. Some were prematurely fat, and others were
prematurely lean; but in all this wide variety and contrariety,
there were some things in which they were all
alike. They had all read “Rhododendron,” they all
admired it, they were all happy to meet its author, they
were all desirous of making an impression, and were all
secretly anxious of winning the special favor of Miss
Gilbert.

Thus forced into prominence, Fanny exerted herself
to converse as became her with those about her; but
always, as the smiling gentlemen appeared and retired,
she could not resist the feeling that they were beneath
her—that they were immature—that they wanted age
and character. There was an element of insipidity—

something unsatisfying—in all they said. Often the
figure of Arthur Blague, who had no part in this festival,
came before her imagination—the tall form, the
noble presence, the deep dark eye, the rich voice, revealing
the rich thought and the rich nature—and the
chattering and smiling throng seemed like dwarfs to her.

At length her brother appeared, and taking his arm
she left the room, and ascended with him to her parlor.
The poor boy was pale, and trembling with nervous apprehension.
A bright, red spot was burning upon
either cheek, his dark eye was unnaturally bright, and
the exertion of ascending the stairs had quite disturbed
his breathing. He had worked up to this point with
courage; but now, that he was about to grasp the prize
for which he had so faithfully struggled, not only his
courage, but his strength, failed him. Fanny was very
sadly impressed by the appearance of her brother.
Her eyes were full of tears as she put her hand upon his
shoulder, and said: “Ah, Fred! If I could only give
you some of my strength to-day!”

Then the doctor came in, but there was something
before his eyes that blinded him to the real condition of
his son. He was brimful of happiness. He had been
praised, and congratulated, and flattered, until he was as
happy as he could be. The young man saw it all;
pressed his feverish lips together in determination, and
spoke no word to dampen his father's ardor. In that
father's heart was the spring of his own ambition. To
gratify him—to accomplish that upon which his father
had hung many years of fond hopes—he had labored,
night and day, in health and sickness. Now he was determined
that the soul within him, upon which the frail

body had lived for months, should eke out his strength,
and carry him through the trial of the day. Fanny saw
it all, pressed his hand, and said, “God help you,
Fred!” and the young man went out, to act his part
with his associates.

At this time the village was becoming more and
more crowded; and word was brought to the doctor
that he had better secure a seat for his daughter in the
church, in which the exercises of the day were to be
held. So Fanny dressed early, and was taken over by a
smart boy with a blue ribbon in his buttonhole, while the
doctor remained behind to add dignity to the procession.

At ten o'clock, there was a sound of martial music
in Hanover; and a company of bearded men in military
uniform, preceded by a marshal, and followed by a
large company of students, marched to the Dartmouth
Hotel, and announced by trumpet and drum their readiness
to conduct Dr. Gilbert and his associate dignitaries
to the church.

Down the steps, through a crowd of eager boys,
and rosy-cheeked country belles, and their brown-faced
lovers, Dr. Gilbert, arm in arm with an old classmate,
made his way, and took his place of honor in the procession.
Word was given to march, and the village
rang again with the blare of brass, and the boom of
drums, and the din of cymbals; and the marshal, and
the band in beards, and the corps of students, took a
circuit around the common, and, reaching the church at
last, where a great crushing crowd was assembled upon
the steps, the students divided their lines, and the guests
and the men of honor passed through with uncovered
heads, and disappeared within.

In five minutes more, every seat and aisle in the
church was filled. It was ten minutes before order
could be secured. Then music was called for, and the
overture to Tancredi was played as a prelude to a
prayer not quite so long as the opera; which, in turn,
was followed by “Blue-eyed Mary,” introducing a lively
march, called “Wood-up,” which introduced the ambitious
leader of the band as the performer of a preposterous
key-bugle solo.

Then came the “Salutatory” in very transparent
Latin, in which everybody was “saluted”—the President
of the College, the professors, the trustees, and the
people. The beautiful women present received special
attention from the gallant young gentleman, and the
cordial terms of this portion of the salutation drew forth
marked demonstrations of applause. It was noticed,
however, that when the trustees were greeted, the young
man addressed himself particularly to Dr. Gilbert, who
received the address with graceful dignity; and that
when feminine beauty came in for its share of attention,
the young man's eyes were fastened upon Miss Gilbert,
who occupied a seat upon a retiring portion of the
stage. It really seemed to the doctor as if all the
events of the day took him for a pivot, and revolved
around him.

As the exercises progressed, Fanny Gilbert found
herself strangely interested. There was nothing of
special attraction and brilliancy in the orations; but
there was something in the subjects treated, and in the
names pronounced, that called back to her a scene of
the past, which occupied a position quite at the other
end of her career. “The Poetry of the Heavens”

brought back to her the chalk planetarium of many
years before, on which that poetry was illustrated under
her special direction. “Napoleon,” and Cæsar,” and
“Joan of Arc,” all figured upon the Dartmouth stage,
and she could not help smiling as Rev. Jonas Sliter
returned to her memory. So, through all that tedious
day, Dartmouth and Crampton were curiously mixed
together, as if in fact, no less than in imagination, there
were a connection between them. There sat her father
before her, as he had sat a dozen years ago—pleased,
eager, interested. There was she, occupying the same
relative place upon the platform. There was the green
baize carpet; there was the throng before it. Again
and again rang out the cheers, as they rang on the
day of the exhibition of the Crampton Light Infantry.
There was she, awaiting, as on that occasion, the appearance
of her brother—a comet to come forth from the
hidden space behind the curtain, and then to retire.

The vividness with which this old experience was recalled
to her imagination by the scenes and events
around her, impressed Fanny almost superstitiously.
The day and its incidents seemed like one of those passages
known to be strange to our observation, yet impressing
us with their familiarity—glimpses caught
through some rent in the oblivious veil that hides from
us a previous existence. The doctor saw nothing of
this. It was fitting that there should be this introduction
to the performance of his son. Every glory won
by those who came upon the stage, and retired, was
added to the crown of his boy, for he had distanced all
of them. Not a good word was spoken, not a worthy

success was achieved, that did not minister to the splendor
of his son's triumph.

Orations and music were finished at last, and only
the Valedictory of Fred Gilbert remained to be pronounced.
Around this performance and around him,
was concentrated the keenest interest of the occasion.
His devotion to study, his personal beauty, his excellent
character, his well-known gifts, and his achievement
of the highest honors of his class, brought to him universal
sympathy, and directed to his part in the day's
programme the most grateful attention.

His name was pronounced, and the moment he appeared
he was greeted with a general outburst of applause.
The doctor forgot himself, lost his self-possession,
and leaned forward upon his cane with an eager
smile. Quick before Fanny came again the old planetarium;
but alas! the golden-haired boy was gone, and
a pale, fragile young man, with chestnut curls, was in his
place. The house was still, and the feeble voice went
out upon the congregation like the wail of a sick child.
He had evidently summoned all his strength; and, as
he proceeded, his tones became rounder and more musical;
but the whole address seemed more like a farewell
to the world than a farewell to the college. Tears
gathered in all eyes under the spell of his plaintive
cadences, and all seemed to hold their breath, that he
might expend no more upon them than was necessary.

The last words were said, and then there rang out
over the whole assembly cheer upon cheer. Bouquets
were thrown upon the stage by fair hands in the galleries,
and handkerchiefs were waved at the tips of jewelled
fingers. The doctor's eyes are wet with delight, but

Fanny sits and watches the young man in alarm. There
is a strange, convulsive movement of his chest, as he
stoops to gather the bouquets at his feet. He carries
his handkerchief to his mouth, and holds it there while
he bows his acknowledgments to the galleries. As he
retires from the stage, Fanny catches a glimpse of the
handkerchief, and it is bright with the blood of his
heart! Ah! the comet has come and gone out into
the unknown spaces—sunned itself in public applause
for the last time—gone to shine feebler and feebler in
the firmament of life, until, in an unknown heaven, it
passes from human sight.

This fancy flies swiftly through Fanny's brain—this
thought pierces her heart—as she rises to her feet,
walks quickly across the stage, and whispers a few
words in her father's ear. He looks up into her face
with a vague, incredulous stare, and shakes his head.
She takes him firmly by the arm, and leads him wondering
to the curtain behind which Fred has retired.
She parts the hanging folds, and both enter. The movement
is little noticed by the assembly, for some have
already turned to leave the house, and others are listening
to the music, or making their comments to each
other upon the address.

As the doctor and Fanny entered the little curtained
corner, they saw Fred sitting in a chair, freely spitting
blood upon his handkerchief, and surrounded by a little
company of frightened associates. Dr. Gilbert, though
he had been accustomed through a long professional life
to disease and calamity in their most terrible forms,
stood before this case as helpless as a child. Beyond
the most obvious directions, he could say and do nothing;

and an eminent physician of the village, at that
moment seated upon the platform, was sent for. By
Fanny's order, Fred was removed to the hotel, where
she could nurse him; and all the events of the day were
forgotten in this new and most unlooked-for trial.

This seemed to be the one event of Dr. Gilbert's
life for which he had no preparation. It took from him
all his strength and all his self-possession. He stood
before it in utter helplessness, offering no opinion, assuming
no responsibility, hardly able to perform the
simplest office of attendance, taking Fanny's will as law,
and relying upon the professional skill of others. As
the more serious features of the attack passed away, and
Fred was allowed to whisper his feelings and desires into
the ear of his sister, he expressed a decided wish that
his father might be kept from his bedside. The affliction
of his father pained him more than his own disease,
and he could not bear to look at him.

The composure and happiness of her brother astonished
Fanny beyond measure. As he lay upon his bed,
day after day, with his pleasant eyes upon her, and her
hand in his, he seemed more like a child that had lain
down to rest, than like a young man, suddenly snatched
from active life and enterprise and hope. “Oh! it's so
sweet to rest, Fanny,” he would say, “so sweet to rest.”

The multitude had departed, and the hotel and the
street were pervaded by almost a Sabbath stillness.
Days passed away. Sympathizing friends called and
made inquiries, and offered unaccepted services, and retired.
The doctor lounged upon the piazza, or walked
listlessly about the halls, or engaged his friends in conversations,
of which his poor boy was always the theme.

Every word of encouragement given by the professional
attendant was repeated by the doctor to every man he
met. Once or twice, he entered his son's room, and
began, in the old way, to talk of what he should next
undertake, under a vague impression that a contemplation
of possible triumphs in the future would stimulate
and encourage him. But the young man turned his face
away in distress, and Fanny interfered in his behalf.

Fred Gilbert was not only a child again, but he
wished to be one. Manhood's great struggle with the
world had come upon him too early. He had been
forced away from home—driven to the seclusion of
study—stimulated to efforts that necessarily crucified
his social sympathies—and now, when he was disabled,
and the great prize secured, he was only too happy to
become helpless, and to give himself up to the care and
attention of others. A sick girl could not have been
more gentle, more affectionate, more submissive. He
rejoiced in subjection, and was as happy under Fanny's
brooding care as a babe upon its mother's bosom.

A fortnight passed away, and the young man became
able to occupy his chair for the greater portion of
every day. September was creeping on, and, though
the earth still looked fresh and green, the murmurous
hush of autumn was settling upon the landscape. The
dreamy, sibilant breath of insect life, unintermittent,
but heard rather by the listening soul than the listening
sense, pervaded the atmosphere, as if it were the aspiration
of a seething sea of silence. Industrious relays of
crickets made music all day and all night. Here and
there upon the tops of the maples, bright leaves of carmine
or vermilion showed themselves. The maize in

the fields displayed its tokens of maturity; and the
apple-orchards were bending beneath their burden of
crimson and gold.

On one of the loveliest days of this charming season,
Dr. Gilbert and his family set out upon their return to
Crampton. An easy carriage had been secured, and two
days of slow driving and frequent resting were occupied
by the journey. Dr. Gilbert entered his dwelling a
strangely altered man. His thoughts had flowed in one
channel so long, and he had lost in the passage of life so
much of his native elasticity, that he could carve out no
new enterprises and discover no new fields of interest.
His mind had travelled eagerly on with his boy, until
the current of his boy's life was checked, and then he
neither knew which way to turn, nor cared to turn at
all. Fanny studied carefully, not only the case of her
brother, but that of her father; and the more thoroughly
she became acquainted with both, the more was
she convinced that new and peculiar cares were coming
upon her.

While Fred was in immediate danger, her fears and
her sympathies, added to her active duties, kept her
mind engaged. The moment home was reached, and
Aunt Catharine's ministry secured, she began to grow
uneasy, and to long for something to engage her powers.
The further pursuit of literature did not enlist her
thoughts at all. She had had enough of that, and felt
that she could never undertake it again, unless under
the impulse of some new motive. But Fanny was not
left to seek for labor; it came to her. Her father
wanted writing done and business transacted; and, by
degrees, she found herself absorbed in an employment

entirely new to her. Gradually assuming the responsibilities
of her new position, she became accountant,
farmer, and general manager of the estate. This new
life pleased her well, and the success which attended her
administration of affairs was the marvel of all who
knew her.

The invalid brother grew stronger, but he was
broken-spirited. He had not a particle of ambition for
any thing higher than he had achieved; and it was evident
to his friends that his stock of vitality was too far
reduced by premature expenditures to allow him to accomplish
any thing further in the world. If he rode out,
Fanny always drove. If any business was to be done, it
was put upon Fanny. She assumed the reins of authority
in the household—gracefully, and with sufficient consideration
for her father—and became “the man of the house.”
All this pleased her not a little. When not otherwise
engaged, she was in the farm-yard, among the horses, the
cattle, and the sheep. Her dominion there had a strange
fascination for her. The dumb creatures all learned to
love her. They ran toward her when she appeared,
took food at her hand, obeyed her will. She drove
horses that were no more than half-tamed, and took
delight in the dangerous play. People talked about
her, and only a single autumn, filled with these pursuits,
made her rather unpleasantly notorious.

Out of this life, so greedy a nature as hers could not
draw food always, and was not destined to draw food
long. Yet she was trying to be more unselfish than she
had ever been. She was exercising more patience and
forbearance in her relations to her family than she had
ever exercised before. Her brother could not read;

so, many a long evening she read to him; but she felt
the task to be irksome. Often, when engaged in these
offices, she thought of her patient neighbor, Arthur
Blague, and wondered where his strength, patience, and
equanimity had their source. When she mixed with
the world, and came into contact with the rough natures
around her, she felt strong; but when she came to this
patient, humble ministry, she felt that she was but a
weak and wilful child.

Arthur had been an interested—sometimes a painfully
interested—observer of all her movements. He
had, however, little of her society, because he chose to
keep away from her. He had been pleased with her
efficiency in the service of her father, but there were
displays of masculine tastes that troubled him more
than he would have been willing to confess.