 | CHAPTER XXXIII.
JUST AS YOU EXPECTED. The guardian angel |  |
33. CHAPTER XXXIII.
JUST AS YOU EXPECTED.
THE spring of 1861 had now arrived, — that eventful
spring which was to lift the curtain and show
the first scene of the first act in the mighty drama which
fixed the eyes of mankind during four bloody years. The
little schemes of little people were going on in all our
cities and villages without thought of the fearful convulsion
which was soon coming to shatter the hopes and
cloud the prospects of millions. Our little Oxbow Village,
which held itself by no means the least of human centres,
was the scene of its own commotions, as intense and
exciting to those concerned as if the destiny of the nation
had been involved in them.
Mr. Clement Lindsay appeared suddenly in that important
locality, and repaired to his accustomed quarters at
the house of Deacon Rumrill. That worthy person received
him with a certain gravity of manner, caused by
his recollection of the involuntary transgression into which
Mr. Lindsay had led him by his present of Ivanhoe. He
was, on the whole, glad to see him, for his finances were
not yet wholly recovered from the injury inflicted on them
by the devouring element. But he could not forget that
his boarder had betrayed him into a breach of the fourth
commandment, and that the strict eyes of his clergyman
had detected him in the very commission of the offence.
He had no sooner seen Mr. Clement comfortably installed,
therefore, than he presented himself at the door of his
very securely tied round with a stout string.
“Here is your vollum, Mr. Lindsay,” the Deacon said.
“I understand it is not the work of that great and good
mahn who I thought wrote it. I did not see anything
immoral in it as fur as I read, but it belongs to what I
consider a very dangerous class of publications. These
novels and rómances are awfully destructive to our youth.
I should recommend you, as a young man of principle, to
burn the vollum. At least I hope you will not leave it
about anywhere unless it is carefully tied up. I have
written upon the paper round it to warn off all the young
persons of my household from meddling with it.”
True enough, Mr. Clement saw in strong black letters
on the back of the paper wrapping his unfortunate Ivanhoe,
—
“Dangerous reading for Christian youth.
“Touch not the unclean thing.”
“I thought you said you had Scott's picture hung up
in your parlor, Deacon Rumrill,” he said, a little amused
with the worthy man's fear and precautions.
“It is the great Scott's likeness that I have in my parlor,”
he said; “I will show it to you if you will come
with me.”
Mr. Clement followed the Deacon into that sacred apartment.
“That is the portrait of the great Scott,” he said, pointing
to an engraving of a heavy-looking person whose
phrenological developments were a somewhat striking contrast
to those of the distinguished Sir Walter.
“I will take good care that none of your young people
yourself, however, and found something to please you in
it. I am sure you are safe from being harmed by any
such book. Did n't you have to finish it, Deacon, after
you had once begun?”
“Well, I — I — perused a consid'able portion of the
work,” the Deacon answered, in a way that led Mr.
Clement to think he had not stopped much short of Finis.
“Anything new in the city?”
“Nothing except what you 've all had, — Confederate
States establishing an army and all that, — not very new
either. What has been going on here lately, Deacon?”
“Well, Mr. Lindsay, not a great deal. My new barn
is pretty nigh done. I 've got as fine a litter of pigs as
ever you see. I don't know whether you 're a judge of pigs
or no. The Hazard gal 's come back, spilt, pooty much,
I guess. Been to one o' them fashionable schools, — I 've
heerd that she 's learnt to dance. I 've heerd say that that
Hopkins boy 's round the Posey gal, — come to think, she 's
the one you went with some when you was here, — I 'm
gettin' kind o' forgetful. Old Doctor Hurlbut 's pretty
low, — ninety-four year old, — born in '67, — folks ain't
ginerally very spray after they 're ninety, but he held out
wonderful.”
“How 's Mr. Bradshaw?”
“Well, the young squire, he 's off travellin' somewhere
in the West, or to Washin'ton, or somewhere else, — I
don't jestly know where. They say that he 's follerin' up
the courts in the business about old Malachi's estate. I
don' know much about it.”
The news got round Oxbow Village very speedily that
lover of Miss Susan Posey, had arrived in that place.
Now it had come to be the common talk of the village
that young Gifted Hopkins and Susan Posey were getting
to be mighty thick with each other, and the prevailing idea
was that Clement's visit had reference to that state of
affairs. Some said that Susan had given her young man
the mitten, meaning thereby that she had signified that his
services as a suitor were dispensed with. Others thought
there was only a wavering in her affection for her lover,
and that he feared for her constancy, and had come to
vindicate his rights.
Some of the young fellows, who were doubtless envious
of Gifted's popularity with the fair sex, attempted in the
most unjustifiable manner to play upon his susceptible nature.
One of them informed him that he had seen that
Lindsay fellah raound taown with the darndest big stick
y' ever did see. Looked kind o' savage and wild like.
Another one told him that perhaps he 'd better keep a little
shady; that are chap that had got the mittin was praowlin'
abaout with a pistil, — one o' them Darringers, — abaout as
long as your thumb, an' 'll fire a bullet as big as a p'tatahball,
— a fellah carries one in his breeches-pocket, an'
shoots y' right threugh his own pahnts, withaout ever takin'
on it aout of his pocket. The stable-keeper, who, it may
be remembered, once exchanged a few playful words with
Mr. Gridley, got a hint from some of these unfeeling
young men, and offered the resources of his stable to the
youth supposed to be in peril.
“I 've got a faäst colt, Mr. Hopkins, that 'll put twenty
mild betwixt you an' this here village, as quick as any
four huffs 'll dew it in this here caounty, if you should want
raound here that would n't be wholesome to meet, — jest
say the word, Mr. Hopkins, an' I 'll have ye on that are
colt's back in less than no time, an' start ye off full jump.
There 's a good many that 's kind o' worried for fear
something might happen to ye, Mr. Hopkins, — y' see fellahs
don't like to have other chaps cuttin' on 'em aout with
their gals.”
Gifted Hopkins had become excessively nervous by this
time. It is true that everything in his intimacy with
Susan Posey, so far, might come under the general head of
friendship; but he was conscious that something more
was in both their thoughts. Susan had given him mysterious
hints that her relations with Clement had undergone
a change, but had never had quite courage enough, perhaps
had too much delicacy, to reveal the whole truth.
Gifted was walking home, deeply immersed in thoughts
excited by the hints which had been thus wantonly thrown
out to inflame his imagination, when all at once, on lifting
his eyes, he saw Clement Lindsay coming straight towards
him. Gifted was unarmed, except with a pair of blunt
scissors, which he carried habitually in his pocket. What
should he do? Should he fly? But he was never a good
runner, being apt to find himself scant o' breath, like Hamlet,
after violent exercise. His demeanor on the occasion
did credit to his sense of his own virtuous conduct and his
self-possession. He put his hand out, while yet at a considerable
distance, and marched up towards Clement, smiling
with all the native amiability which belonged to him.
To his infinite relief, Clement put out his hand to grasp
the one offered him, and greeted the young poet in the
most frank and cordial manner.
“And how is Miss Susan Posey, Mr. Hopkins?” asked
Clement, in the most cheerful tone. “It is a long while
since I have seen her, and you must tell her that I hope I
shall not leave the village without finding time to call
upon her. She and I are good friends always, Mr. Hopkins,
though perhaps I shall not be quite so often at your
mother's as I was during my last visit to Oxbow Village.”
Gifted felt somewhat as the subject of one of those old-fashioned
forms of argument, formerly much employed to
convince men of error in matters of religion, must have
felt when the official who superintended the stretching-machine
said, “Slack up!”
He told Mr. Clement all about Susan, and was on the
point of saying that if he, Mr. Clement, did not claim
any engrossing interest in her, he, Gifted, was ready to
offer her the devotion of a poet's heart. Mr. Clement,
however, had so many other questions to ask him about
everybody in the village, more particularly concerning certain
young persons in whom he seemed to be specially interested,
that there was no chance to work in his own revelations
of sentiment.
Clement Lindsay had come to Oxbow Village with a
single purpose. He could now venture to trust himself in
the presence of Myrtle Hazard. He was free, and he
knew nothing to show that she had lost the liberty of disposing
of her heart. But after an experience such as he
had gone through, he was naturally distrustful of himself,
and inclined to be cautious and reserved in yielding to a
new passion. Should he tell her the true relations in
which they stood to each other, — that she owed her life
to him, and that he had very nearly sacrificed his own in
saving hers? Why not? He had a claim on her gratitude
gratitude there might naturally spring a warmer feeling.
No, he could not try to win her affections by showing
that he had paid for them beforehand. She seemed to be
utterly unconscious of the fact that it was he who had
been with her in the abyss of waters. If the thought came
to her of itself, and she ever asked him, it would be
time enough to tell her the story. If not, the moment
might arrive when he could reveal to her the truth that he
was her deliverer, without accusing himself of bribing her
woman's heart to reward him for his services. He would
wait for that moment.
It was the most natural thing in the world that Mr. Lindsay,
a young gentleman from the city, should call to see
Miss Hazard, a young lady whom he had met recently at
a party. To that pleasing duty he addressed himself the
evening after his arrival.
“The young gentleman 's goin' a courtin, 'I calc'late,”
was the remark of the Deacon's wife when she saw what
a comely figure Mr. Clement showed at the tea-table.
“A very hahnsome young mahn,” the Deacon replied,
“and looks as if he might know consid'able. An architect,
you know, — a sort of a builder. Wonder if he
has n't got any good plans for a hahnsome pigsty. I suppose
he 'd charge somethin' for one, but it could n't be
much, an' he could take it out in board.”
“Better ask him,” his wife said; “he looks mighty
pleasant; there 's nothin' lost by askin', an' a good deal
got sometimes, grandma used to say.”
The Deacon followed her advice. Mr. Clement was
perfectly good-natured about it, asked the Deacon the
number of snouts in his menagerie, got an idea of the
and appropriate edifice for the Porcellarium, as Master
Gridley afterwards pleasantly christened it, which was
carried out by the carpenter, and stands to this day a
monument of his obliging disposition, and a proof that
there is nothing so humble that taste cannot be shown
in it.
“What 'll be your charge for the plan of the pigsty,
Mr. Lindsay?” the Deacon inquired with an air of interest,
— he might have become involved more deeply than
he had intended. “How much should you call about right
for the picter an' figgerin'?”
“O, you 're quite welcome to my sketch of a plan,
Deacon. I 've seen much showier buildings tenanted by
animals not very different from those your edifice is meant
for.”
Mr. Clement found the three ladies sitting together in
the chill, dim parlor at The Poplars. They had one of the
city papers spread out on the table, and Myrtle was reading
aloud the last news from Charleston Harbor. She
rose as Mr. Clement entered, and stepped forward to meet
him. It was a strange impression this young man produced
upon her, — not through the common channels of
the intelligence, — not exactly that “magnetic” influence
of which she had had experience at a former time. It
did not overcome her as at the moment of their second
meeting. But it was something she must struggle against,
and she had force and pride and training enough now to
maintain her usual tranquillity, in spite of a certain inward
commotion which seemed to reach her breathing and her
pulse by some strange, inexplicable mechanism.
Myrtle, it must be remembered, was no longer the simple
country girl who had run away at fifteen, but a young
lady of seventeen, who had learned all that more than a
year's diligence at a great school could teach her, who had
been much with girls of taste and of culture, and was
familiar with the style and manners of those who came
from what considered itself the supreme order in the social
hierarchy. Her natural love for picturesque adornment
was qualified by a knowledge of the prevailing modes not
usual in so small a place as Oxbow Village. All this had
not failed to produce its impression on those about her.
Persons who, like Miss Silence Withers, believe, not in
education, inasmuch as there is no healthy nature to be
educated, but in transformation, worry about their charges
up to a certain period of their lives. Then, if the transformation
does not come, they seem to think their cares
and duties are at an end, and, considering their theories
of human destiny, usually accept the situation with wonderful
complacency. This was the stage which Miss Silence
Withers had reached with reference to Myrtle. It
made her infinitely more agreeable, or less disagreeable,
as the reader may choose one or the other statement, than
when she was always fretting about her “responsibility.”
She even began to take an interest in some of Myrtle's
worldly experiences, and something like a smile would now
and then disarrange the chief-mourner stillness of her
features, as Myrtle would tell some lively story she had
brought away from the gay society she had frequented.
Cynthia Badlam kept her keen eyes on her like a hawk.
Murray Bradshaw was away, and here was this handsome
and agreeable youth coming in to poach on the preserve
of which she considered herself the gamekeeper. What
off with her old love and on with a new one. Ah ha!
this is the game, is it?
Clement Lindsay passed not so much a pleasant evening,
as one of strange, perplexed, and mingled delight and inward
conflict. He had found his marble once more turned
to flesh and blood, and breathing before him. This was
the woman he was born for; her form was fit to model his
proudest ideal from, — her eyes melted him when they
rested for an instant on his face, — her voice reached the
hidden sensibilities of his inmost nature; those which never
betray their existence until the outward chord to which they
vibrate in response sends its message to stir them. But
was she not already pledged to that other, — that cold-blooded,
contriving, venal, cynical, selfish, polished, fascinating
man of the world, whose artful strategy would pass
with nine women out of ten for the most romantic devotion?
If he had known the impression he made, he would have
felt less anxiety with reference to this particular possibility.
Miss Silence expressed herself gratified with his
appearance, and thought he looked like a good young
man, — he reminded her of a young friend of hers who —
[It was the same who had gone to one of the cannibal
islands as a missionary, — and stayed there.] Myrtle was
very quiet. She had nothing to say about Clement, except
that she had met him at a party in the city, and found
him agreeable. Miss Cynthia wrote a letter to Murray
Bradshaw that very evening, telling him that he had better
come back to Oxbow Village as quickly as he could,
unless he wished to find his place occupied by an intruder.
In the mean time, the country was watching the garrison
in Charleston Harbor. All at once the first gun of
the four years' cannonade hurled its ball against the walls
of Fort Sumter. There was no hamlet in the land which
the reverberations of that cannon-roar did not reach. There
was no valley so darkened by overshadowing hills that
it did not see the American flag hauled down on the 13th
of April. There was no loyal heart in the North that did
not answer to the call of the country to its defenders
which went forth two days later. The great tide of feeling
reached the locality where the lesser events of our
narrative were occurring. A meeting of the citizens
was instantly called. The venerable Father Pemberton
opened it with a prayer that filled every soul with courage
and high resolve. The young farmers and mechanics
of that whole region joined the companies to which they
belonged, or organized in squads and marched at once, or
got ready to march, to the scene of conflict.
The contagion of warlike patriotism reached the most
peacefully inclined young persons.
“My country calls me,” Gifted Hopkins said to Susan
Posey, “and I am preparing to obey her summons. If
I can pass the medical examination, which it is possible I
may, though I fear my constitution may be thought too
weak, and if no obstacle impedes me, I think of marching
in the ranks of the Oxbow Invincibles. If I go, Susan,
and I fall, will you not remember me... as one who...
cherished the tenderest... sentiments... towards you
... and who had looked forward to the time when...
when... ”
His eyes told the rest. He loved!
Susan forgot all the rules of reserve to which she had
moment? “Never! never!” she said, throwing her arms
about his neck and mingling her tears with his, which were
flowing freely. “Your country does not need your sword,
... but it does need... your pen. Your poems will inspire...
our soldiers.... The Oxbow Invincibles will
march to victory, singing your songs.... If you go...
and if you... fall... O Gifted!... I... I... yes, I
... shall die too!”
His love was returned. He was blest!
“Susan,” he said, “my own Susan, I yield to your
wishes, at every sacrifice. Henceforth they will be my
law. Yes, I will stay and encourage my brave countrymen
to go forward to the bloody field. My voice shall
urge them on to the battle-ground. I will give my dearest
breath to stimulate their ardor.... O Susan! My own,
own Susan!”
While these interesting events had been going on beneath
the modest roof of the Widow Hopkins, affairs
had been rapidly hastening to a similar conclusion under
the statelier shadow of The Poplars. Clement Lindsay
was so well received at his first visit that he ventured
to repeat it several times, with so short intervals that
it implied something more than a common interest in one
of the members of the household. There was no room
for doubt who this could be, and Myrtle Hazard could not
help seeing that she was the object of his undisguised
admiration. The belief was now general in the village
that Gifted Hopkins and Susan Posey were either engaged,
or on the point of being so; and it was equally understood
that, whatever might be the explanation, she and
manner.
Love works very strange transformations in young
women. Sometimes it leads them to try every mode of
adding to their attractions, — their whole thought is how
to be most lovely in the eyes they would fill so as to keep
out all other images. Poor darlings! We smile at their
little vanities, as if they were very trivial things compared
with the last Congressman's speech or the great Election
Sermon; but Nature knows well what she is about. The
maiden's ribbon or ruffle means a great deal more for her
than the judge's wig or the priest's surplice.
It was not in this way that the gentle emotion awaking
in the breast of Myrtle Hazard betrayed itself. As the
thought dawned in her consciousness that she was loved, a
ehange came over her such as the spirit that protected her,
according to the harmless fancy she had inherited, might
have wept for joy to behold, if tears could flow from angelic
eyes. She forgot herself and her ambitions, — the
thought of shining in the great world died out in the presence
of new visions of a future in which she was not to be
her own, — of feelings in the depth of which the shallow
vanities which had drawn her young eyes to them for a
while seemed less than nothing. Myrtle had not hitherto
said to herself that Clement was her lover, yet her whole
nature was expanding and deepening in the light of that
friendship which any other eye could have known at a
glance for the great passion.
Cynthia Badlam wrote a pressing letter to Murray Bradshaw.
“There is no time to be lost; she is bewitched,
and will be gone beyond hope if this business is not put a
stop to.”
Love moves in an accelerating ratio; and there comes
a time when the progress of the passion escapes from all
human formulæ, and brings two young hearts, which had
been gradually drawing nearer and nearer together, into
complete union, with a suddenness that puts an infinity
between the moment when all is told and that which went
just before.
They were sitting together by themselves in the dimly
lighted parlor. They had told each other many experiences
of their past lives, very freely, as two intimate
friends of different sex might do. Clement had happened
to allude to Susan, speaking very kindly and tenderly of
her. He hoped this youth to whom she was attached
would make her life happy. “You know how simple-hearted
and good she is; her image will always be a pleasant
one in my memory, — second to but one other.”
Myrtle ought, according to the common rules of conversation,
to have asked, What other? but she did not. She
may have looked as if she wanted to ask, — she may have
blushed or turned pale, — perhaps she could not trust her
voice; but whatever the reason was, she sat still, with
downcast eyes. Clement waited a reasonable time, but,
finding it was of no use, began again.
“Your image is the one other, — the only one, let me say,
for all else fades in its presence, — your image fills all my
thought. Will you trust your life and happiness with one
who can offer you so little beside his love? You know
my whole heart is yours.”
Whether Myrtle said anything in reply or not, — whether
she acted like Coleridge's Genevieve, — that is, “fled
to him and wept,” or suffered her feelings to betray themselves
in some less startling confession, we will leave untold.
cruel one, for in another moment Clement was pressing
his lips to hers, after the manner of accepted lovers.
“Our lips have met to-day for the second time,” he said,
presently.
She looked at him in wonder. What did he mean?
The second time! How assuredly he spoke! She looked
him calmly in the face, and awaited his explanation.
“I have a singular story to tell you. On the morning of
the 16th of June, now nearly two years ago, I was sitting
in my room at Alderbank, some twenty miles down the
river, when I heard a cry for help coming from the river.
I ran down to the bank, and there I saw a boy in an old
boat —”
When it came to the “boy” in the old boat, Myrtle's
cheeks flamed so that she could not bear it, and she covered
her face with both her hands. But Clement told his
story calmly through to the end, sliding gently over its
later incidents, for Myrtle's heart was throbbing violently,
and her breath a little catching and sighing, as when she
had first lived with the new life his breath had given her.
“Why did you ask me for myself, when you could have
claimed me?” she said.
“I wanted a free gift, Myrtle,” Clement answered, “and
I have it.”
They sat in silence, lost in the sense of that new life
which had suddenly risen on their souls.
The door-bell rang sharply. Kitty Fagan answered its
summons, and presently entered the parlor and announced
that Mr. Bradshaw was in the library, and wished to see
the ladies.
| CHAPTER XXXIII.
JUST AS YOU EXPECTED. The guardian angel | |