University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
SUSAN POSEY'S TRIAL.

A DAY or two after Myrtle Hazard returned to the
village, Master Byles Gridley, accompanied by Gifted
Hopkins, followed her, as has been already mentioned, to
the same scene of the principal events of this narrative.
The young man had been persuaded that it would be doing
injustice to his talents to crowd their fruit prematurely
upon the market. He carried his manuscript back with
him, having relinquished the idea of publishing for the
present. Master Byles Gridley, on the other hand, had in
his pocket a very flattering proposal from the same publisher
to whom he had introduced the young poet, for a
new and revised edition of his work, “Thoughts on the
Universe,” which was to be remodelled in some respects,
and to have a new title not quite so formidable to the
average reader.

It would be hardly fair to Susan Posey to describe with
what delight and innocent enthusiasm she welcomed back
Gifted Hopkins. She had been so lonely since he was
away! She had read such of his poems as she possessed —
duplicates of his printed ones, or autographs which he had
kindly written out for her — over and over again, not without
the sweet tribute of feminine sensibility, which is the
most precious of all testimonials to a poet's power over the
heart. True, her love belonged to another, — but then
she was so used to Gifted! She did so love to hear him
read his poems, — and Clement had never written that

“little bit of a poem to Susie,” which she had asked him
for so long ago! She received him therefore with open
arms, — not literally, of course, which would have been a
breach of duty and propriety, but in a figurative sense,
which it is hoped no reader will interpret to her discredit.

The young poet was in need of consolation. It is true
that he had seen many remarkable sights during his visit
to the city; that he had got “smarted up,” as his mother
called it, a good deal; that he had been to Mrs. Clymer
Ketchum's party, where he had looked upon life in all its
splendors; and that he brought back many interesting experiences,
which would serve to enliven his conversation
for a long time. But he had failed in the great enterprise
he had undertaken. He was forced to confess to his revered
parent, and his esteemed friend Susan Posey, that
his genius, which was freely acknowledged, was not thought
to be quite ripe as yet. He told the young lady some particulars
of his visit to the publisher, how he had listened
with great interest to one of his poems, — “The Triumph
of Song,” — how he had treated him with marked and flattering
attention; but that he advised him not to risk anything
prematurely, giving him the hope that by and by he
would be admitted into that series of illustrious authors
which it was the publisher's privilege to present to the
reading public. In short, he was advised not to print.
That was the net total of the matter, and it was a pang to
the susceptible heart of the poet. He had hoped to have
come home enriched by the sale of his copyright, and with
the prospect of seeing his name before long on the back of
a handsome volume.

Gifted's mother did all in her power to console him in
his disappointment. There was plenty of jealous people

always that wanted to keep young folks from rising in the
world. Never mind, she did n't believe but what Gifted
could make jest as good verses as any of them that they
kept such a talk about. She had a fear that he might pine
away in consequence of the mental excitement he had gone
through, and solicited his appetite with her choicest appliancess,
— of which he partook in a measure which showed
that there was no immediate cause of alarm.

But Susan Posey was more than a consoler, — she was
an angel to him in this time of his disappointment. “Read
me all the poems over again,” she said, — “it is almost the
only pleasure I have left, to hear you read your beautiful
verses.” Clement Lindsay had not written to Susan quite
so often of late as at some former periods of the history of
their love. Perhaps it was that which had made her look
paler than usual for some little time. Something was evidently
preying on her. Her only delight seemed to be in
listening to Gifted as he read, sometimes with fine declamatory
emphasis, sometimes in low, tremulous tones, the various
poems enshrined in his manuscript. At other times
she was sad, and more than once Mrs. Hopkins had seen a
tear steal down her innocent cheek, when there seemed to
be no special cause for grief. She ventured to speak of it
to Master Byles Gridley.

“Our Susan 's in trouble, Mr. Gridley, for some reason
or other that 's unbeknown to me, and I can't help wishing
you could jest have a few words with her. You 're a kind
of a grandfather, you know, to all the young folks, and
they 'd tell you pretty much everything about themselves.
I calc'late she is n't at ease in her mind about somethin' or
other, and I kind o' think, Mr. Gridley, you could coax it
out of her.”

“Was there ever anything like it?” said Master Byles
Gridley to himself. “I shall have all the young folks in
Oxbow Village to take care of at this rate! Susan Posey
in trouble, too! Well, well, well, it 's easier to get a birch-bark
canoe off the shallows than a big ship off the rocks.
Susan Posey's trouble will be come at easily enough; but
Myrtle Hazard floats in deeper water. We must make
Susan Posey tell her own story, or let her tell it, for it will
all come out of itself.”

“I am going to dust the books in the open shelves this
morning. I wonder if Miss Susan Posey would n't like to
help for half an hour or so,” Master Gridley remarked at
the breakfast-table.

The amiable girl's very pleasant countenance lighted up
at the thought of obliging the old man who had been so
kind to her and so liberal to her friend, the poet. She
would be delighted to help him; she would dust them all
for him, if he wanted her to. No, Master Gridley said, he
always wanted to have a hand in it; and, besides, such a
little body as she was could not lift those great folios out
of the lower shelves without overstraining herself; she
might handle the musketry and the light artillery, but he
must deal with the heavy guns himself. “As low down as
the octavos, Susan Posey, you shall govern; below that,
the Salic law.”

Susan did not know much about the Salic law; but she
knew he meant that he would dust the big books and she
would attend to the little ones.

A very young and a very pretty girl is sometimes quite
charming in a costume which thinks of nothing less than
of being attractive. Susan appeared after breakfast in the

study, her head bound with a kerchief of bright pattern, a
little jacket she had outgrown buttoned, in spite of opposition,
close about her up to the throat, round which a white
handkerchief was loosely tied, and a pair of old gauntlets
protecting her hands, so that she suggested something between
a gypsy, a jaunty soubrette, and the fille du regiment.

Master Gridley took out a great volume from the lower
shelf, — a folio in massive oaken covers with clasps like
prison hinges, bearing the stately colophon, white on a
ground of vermilion, of Nicholas Jenson and his associates.
He opened the volume, — paused over its blue and scarlet
initial letter, — he turned page after page, admiring its
brilliant characters, its broad, white marginal rivers, and
the narrower white creck that separated the black-typed
twin-columns, — he turned back to the beginning and read
the commendatory paragraph, “Nam ipsorum omnia fulgent
tum correctione dignissima, tum cura imprimendo
splendida ac miranda,” and began reading, “Incipit proemium
super apparatum decretalium.....” when it suddenly
occurred to him that this was not exactly doing what
he had undertaken to do, and he began whisking an ancient
bandanna about the ears of the venerable volume. All
this time Miss Susan Posey was catching the little books
by the small of their backs, pulling them out, opening
them, and clapping them together, 'p-'p-'p! 'p-'p-'p! and
carefully caressing all their edges with a regular professional
dusting-cloth, so persuasively that they yielded up
every particle that a year had drifted upon them, and came
forth refreshed and rejuvenated. This process went on for
a while, until Susan had worked down among the octavos,
and Master Gridley had worked up among the quartos.
He had got hold of Calmet's Dictionary, and was caught

by the article Solomon, so that he forgot his occupation
again. All at once it struck him that everything was very
silent, — the 'p-'p-'p! of clapping the books had ceased, and
the light rustle of Susan's dress was no longer heard. He
looked up and saw her standing perfectly still, with a book
in one hand and her duster in the other. She was lost in
thought, and by the shadow on her face and the glistening
of her blue eyes he knew it was her hidden sorrow that
had just come back to her. Master Gridley shut up his
book, leaving Solomon to his fate, like the worthy Benedictine
he was reading, without discussing the question
whether he was saved or not.

“Susan Posey, child, what is your trouble?”

Poor Susan was in the state of unstable equilibrium
which the least touch upsets, and fell to crying. It took
her some time to get down the waves of emotion so that
speech would live upon them. At last it ventured out, —
showing at intervals, like the boat rising on the billow,
sinking into the hollow, and climbing again into notice.

“O Mr. Grid—ley — I can't — I can't — tell you or —
any—body — what's the mat—mat—matter. — My heart
will br—br—break.”

“No, no, no, child,” said Mr. Gridley, sympathetically
stirred a little himself by the sight of Susan in tears and
sobbing and catching her breath, “that must n't be, Susan
Posey. Come off the steps, Susan Posey, and stop dusting
the books, — I can finish them, — and tell me all about
your troubles. I will try to help you out of them, and I
have begun to think I know how to help young people
pretty well. I have had some experience at it.”

But Susan cried and sobbed all the more uncontrollably
and convulsively. Master Gridley thought he had better

lead her at once to what he felt pretty sure was the source
of her grief, and that, when she had had her cry out, she
would probably make the hole in the ice he had broken big
enough in a very few minutes.

“I think something has gone wrong between you and
your friend, the young gentleman with whom you are in
intimate relations, my child, and I think you had better
talk freely with me, for I can perhaps give you a little
counsel that will be of service.”

Susan cried herself quiet at last. “There 's nobody in
the world like you, Mr. Gridley,” she said, “and I 've been
wanting to tell you something ever so long. My friend —
Mr. Clem — Clement Lindsay does n't care for me as he
used to, — I know he does n't. He has n't written to me
for — I don't know but it 's a month. And O Mr. Gridley!
he 's such a great man, and I am such a simple person, —
I can't help thinking — he would be happier with somebody
else than poor little Susan Posey!”

This last touch of self-pity overcame her, as it is so apt
to do those who indulge in that delightful misery, and she
broke up badly, as a horse-fancier would say, so that it
was some little time before she recovered her conversational
road-gait.

“O Mr. Gridley,” she began again, at length, “if I only
dared to tell him what I think, — that perhaps it would be
happier for us both — if we could forget each other!
Ought I not to tell him so? Don't you think he would
find another to make him happy? Would n't he forgive
me for telling him he was free? Were we not too young
to know each other's hearts when we promised each other
that we would love as long as we lived? Sha'n't I write
him a letter this very day and tell him all? Do you think

it would be wrong in me to do it? O Mr. Gridley, it
makes me almost crazy to think about it. Clement must
be free! I cannot, cannot hold him to a promise he
does n't want to keep.”

There were so many questions in this eloquent rhapsody
of Susan's that they neutralized each other, as one might
say, and Master Gridley had time for reflection. His
thoughts went on something in this way: —

“Pretty clear case! Guess Mr. Clement can make up
his mind to it. Put it well, did n't she? Not a word
about our little Gifted! That 's the trouble. Poets!
how they do bewitch these school-girls! And having a
chance every day, too, how could you expect her to stand
it?” Then aloud: “Susan Posey, you are a good, honest
little girl as ever was. I think you and Clement were too
hasty in coming together for life before you knew what
life meant. I think if you write Clement a letter, telling
him that you cannot help fearing that you two are not
perfectly adapted to each other, on account of certain differences
for which neither of you is responsible, and that
you propose that each should release the other from the
pledge given so long ago, — in that case, I say, I believe
he will think no worse of you for so doing, and may perhaps
agree that it is best for both of you to seek your happiness
elsewhere than in each other.”

The book-dusting came to as abrupt a close as the reading
of Lancelot. Susan went straight to her room, dried
her tears so as to write in a fair hand, but had to stop
every few lines and take a turn at the “dust-layers,” as
Mrs. Clymer Ketchum's friend used to call the fountains
of sensibility. It would seem like betraying Susan's confidence
to reveal the contents of this letter, but the reader

may be assured that it was simple and sincere and very
sweetly written, without the slightest allusion to any other
young man, whether of the poetical or cheaper human varieties.

It was not long before Susan received a reply from
Clement Lindsay. It was as kind and generous and noble
as she could have asked. It was affectionate, as a very
amiable brother's letter might be, and candidly appreciative
of the reasons Susan had assigned for her proposal.
He gave her back her freedom, — not that he should cease
to feel an interest in her, always. He accepted his own
release, not that he would ever think she could be indifferent
to his future fortunes. And within a very brief
period of time after sending his answer to Susan Posey,
whether he wished to see her in person, or whether he had
some other motive, he had packed his trunk, and made
his excuses for an absence of uncertain length at the
studio, and was on his way to Oxbow Village.