University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

— Katharine and Petruchio.

Meredith went away, as he had proposed, leaving Morton
at New Baden. The latter soon came to the opinion that
he had never yet found so interesting a subject of psychological
observation as that afforded him in the person of his
relative, Miss Euston. She seemed to him the most wayward
of mortals; yet in the midst of this lawlessness, generous
instincts were constantly betraying themselves, and a certain
native grace, a charm of womanhood, followed her wildest
caprices. She often gave great offence by her brusqueries;
yet those who best knew her were commonly her ardent
friends.

Mrs. Primrose looked upon her with her most profound
and unqualified disapprobation. Her daughter copied her
sentiments; while Stubb thought her an outside barbarian of
the most alarming character. Fanny Euston's perceptions
were very acute. She saw the effect she had produced, and
seemed to take peculiar delight in aggravating it, and shocking
the prejudices of her critics still more.

One afternoon, Miss Primrose, Mr. Stubb, Fanny Euston,
Morton, and several others, set out on a horseback excursion,
matronized by Mrs. Primrose. At a few miles from New

Baden, Morton found himself riding at his cousin's side, a
little behind the rest.

“Do you know, I came this morning, to ask you to join us
on our walk to Elk Ridge.”

“Ah, I am sorry I was not there.”

“You were there; but you seemed so deep in Ivanhoe, or
some other of your favorites, that I had no heart to interrupt
you.”

“But that was quite absurd. I should like to have gone.”

“I am curious to know what book you were so busy with.
Something of Scott's — was it not?”

“Not precisely.”

“Nor one of the new novels,” pursued Morton — “those
are not after your taste.”

“Not at all; they are all full of some grand reform or philanthropic
scheme, or the sorrows of some destitute, uninteresting
little wretch, with whom you are required to sympathize.”

“You are not moulded after the philanthropic model. But
may I ask, what book was entertaining you so much?”

“Napier's Life of Montrose.”

“And do you like it?”

“Indeed I do.”

“And you like Montrose?”

“Certainly I like him.”

“I could have sworn it. Do you remember his verses to
the lady of his heart?”

“That I do,” said Fanny Euston, —

“Admirable! I thought I had a good memory, but you
beat me hollow. You repeat the lines as if you liked them.”

“Who would not like them?”

“And yet his fashion of wooing would be a little peremptory
for the nineteenth century.”

“There are no Montroses in the nineteenth century.”

“They are out of date, like many a good thing besides.
Not long ago, I saw some verses in a magazine — a kind of
ballad on Montrose's execution.”

“Can you repeat it?”

“I cannot compete with you; but I think I can give you a
stanza or two: —

Fanny Euston's eye kindled, as if at a strain of warlike
music.

“Go on.”

“I have forgotten the rest.”

“Then pray find the verses and send them to me. Why is
it that, as you say, such men are out of date?”

“What place, or what career, could they find in a commercial
country?”

“Then why were we born in a commercial country?”

“You seem to make an ideal hero of Montrose.”

“Not I. I am not the school girl you take me for. I
have no ideal hero. I do not believe in ideal heroes. Montrose
was a man, with the faults of a man; full of faults, and
yet not a bad man either.”

“Very far from it.”

“He had great faults, but grand qualities to match them,
— worth a thousand of the small, tame, correct virtues that
one sees hereabouts.”

“Dangerous ideas, those, Mrs. Primrose would tell you.”

“Deliver me from Mrs. Primrose!” ejaculated Fanny.

They rode in silence for a few minutes, Morton's companion
murmuring to herself fragments of the lines which he had
just repeated.

“Look!” she cried, suddenly. “How slowly our horses
have been walking! The rest are almost out of sight. We
had better join them. Will you race with me?”

“Any thing you please.”

“Come on, then.”

She touched her horse with the whip, and they set forward
at full speed. Fanny, who was by far the better mounted,
soon gained the day.

“Rein up,” cried Morton, as they came near the party,
“or your horse will startle the others.”

Fanny drew the curb, but not quite successfully; and her
rapid arrival produced some commotion. Stubb's horse, in
particular, began to prance and curvet in a manner which
greatly disturbed his rider's equanimity.

“Whoa! Whoa, boy!” said Stubb. “Steady, now!
steady, sir! Whoa!”

Fanny's eyes twinkled with malicious delight. She had a
great contempt for Stubb, who, on his part, was mortally
afraid of her.

“That's a good horse of yours,” pushing close to his side.

“Yes, a very fine horse, indeed. Steady, boy! Steady,
now!”

“A capital horse; but he needs a spirited hand like yours
to manage him.”

“Whoa! Quiet, now! — poor fellow!”

This last endearing address was checked by a sudden jolt,
produced by a spasmodic movement of the horse, which
shook the cavalier to his very centre.

“Punish him well with your spurs, Mr. Stubb, and let
him run; that's the way to cure him of his tricks. Suppose
we try a race together.”

“Thank you, Miss Euston, but the fact is — Whoa, boy!
whoa! — I mean, the stableman told me that he is rather
short of breath.”

“O, never mind the stableman. Come, let's go.”

“Thank you, Miss Euston, I believe not to-day.”

“You astonish me. I will lay any bet you like — you
shall name the wager — any thing you please.”

“Really, this is a little too bad!” soliloquized the horrified
Mrs. Primrose. “Miss Euston, I entreat of you — I
beg — that we may have no more racing. It is very dangerous,
besides being —”

“What is it besides being dangerous, Mrs. Primrose?”

“Very indecorous.”

“I am very sorry, for I have set my heart on a race with
Mr. Stubb.”

“Mr. Morton,” said the distressed lady, aside to that
young gentleman, “you are a prudent and sober-minded
person; pray use your influence.”

She was interrupted by a most uncanonical ejaculation
from the author of her embarrassments, which, though
couched in a foreign language, petrified her into silence. A
sharp gust of wind had blown away Fanny's veil, and she
was on the point of dashing off in pursuit of it.

“Stop!” cried Morton, “you'll break your neck. Let
me get it for you.”

The veil sailed away before the wind, and Morton spurred
in pursuit, delighted to display his horsemanship before
ladies, though it had no other merit than a tenacious seat
and a kind of recklessness, the result of an excitable temperament.
The ground was rough and broken, and studded
with rocks and savin bushes, and as he galloped at a breakneck
speed down the side of the hill, in a vain attempt to
catch the veil flying, even Fanny held her breath. He
secured his prize, as it caught against a bush, and returned
to the road.

“Now, Miss Euston,” said Mrs. Primrose, looking folios
at the offender, “I trust we shall be allowed to go on in
peace.”

There was an interval of repose. Stubb regained his peace
of mind. Miss Primrose, with whom he fancied himself in
love, smiled upon him, and his self-conceit, before shaken in
its stronghold, was returning in full force, when Fanny, who
nourished a peculiar spite against this harmless blockhead,
and whom that afternoon a very Satan of mischief seemed to
possess, again rode to his side, and renewed her solicitations
for a race.

“Miss Euston,” said Mrs. Primrose, “I am certain you

would do nothing so unladylike as to force Mr. Stubb to
race against his will. Consider the example you would set
to Georgiana Gosling, who always imitates what she sees
you do.”

The words were mild and motherly; but the countenance
of the outraged matron had an uncompromising look
of reprehension, which exasperated Fanny's wayward humor
beyond measure. She began, it is true, a lively conversation
on general topics with the intelligent Stubb, but, meantime,
by alternately checking and exciting her horse, and urging
him to play a variety of antics, she contrived to infect her
companion's steed with the like contagion. He pranced,
plunged, and chafed, till his rider was brought to the verge
of despair.

The road had become quite narrow, running through a
thick forest, frequented chiefly by woodcutters in the winter,
and hunters of the picturesque in summer. Fanny's imitator,
the adventurous Miss Gosling, a little girl of fourteen, had
ridden a few rods in advance of the rest, when suddenly they
saw her returning, astonished and disconsolate.

“We can't go any farther; there's a great tree fallen
across the road.”

A severe thundergust of the night before had overthrown
a hemlock, the trunk of which, partly sustained by the roots
and branches, formed a barrier about four feet from the
ground. It was impossible to pass through the woods on
either side, as they were very dense, and choked with a
tangled growth of laurel bushes.

“How very annoying!” said Miss Primrose.

“What shall we do?” inquired Miss Gosling.

“Why, jump over it, to be sure,” said Fanny. “Mr.
Stubb and I will show you the way.”

“You are surely not in earnest!” cried Mrs. Primrose.

“Of course I am. I have taken higher leaps at the riding
school, twenty times.”

“You had better not,” said Morton, who had alighted by
the roadside to draw his saddle girth.

“It is too dangerous to be thought of for a single moment,”
added Mrs. Primrose.

“Our horses,” pursued the indiscreet Stubb, “are not
used to leaping, and some of the ladies would certainly be
hurt.”

“The fool!” thought Morton. “He has done it now.”

Fanny threw a laughing, caustic glance at her victim.

“Mine will leap, I know; and you are not a lady. Come,
Mr. Stubb.”

“Miss Euston,” interposed the excited Mrs. Primrose, “this
must not be. I am here in your mother's place, and she will
hold me responsible for your safety. I forbid you to go, Miss
Euston.”

Fanny looked for a moment in her face. Morton caught
the expression. It was one of unqualified, though not ill-natured,
defiance.

“Come,” cried Fanny again, and ran her horse towards the
tree. She leaped gallantly, and cleared the barrier; but it
was evident that she had lost control of the spirited animal,
who galloped at a furious rate down the road.

Morton was still on foot, busied with his saddle girth.

“The crazy child!” exclaimed Mrs. Primrose; “her horse
is running away. Go after her — pray! — Mr. Stubb —
somebody.”

“O, quick! quick! — do,” cried little Miss Gosling, who
idolized Fanny, and was in an agony of fright for her.

Thus exhorted, the desperate Stubb cried, “Get up,” and
galloped for the tree; but his horse balked, and, leaping
aside, tumbled him into the mud. The ladies screamed.
Morton would have laughed, if he had not been too anxious
for Fanny.

“Get out of the way, Stubb,” he cried, mounting with all
despatch.

Miss Primrose's admirer gathered himself up, regained his
hat, which had taken refuge in a puddle, and looked with
horror at a ghastly white rent across his knee. Morton
spurred his hack against the barrier, which the beast cleared
with difficulty, striking his hind hoofs as he went over. After
riding a short distance, he discovered Fanny, and saw, to his
great relief, that she was regaining control over her horse.
Half a mile farther on, the road divided. The larger branch
led to the right, Morton did not know whither; the smaller
turned to the left, and after circling through the woods for
two or three miles, issued upon the high road. Fanny, who
was ignorant of the way, took the right hand branch. In a
few minutes after, she had brought her horse to a trot, and
Morton rode up to her side.

“You are wiser than I am, if you know where we are
going.”

“I thought you knew the way. You were to have been
our guide.”

“We are on the wrong road. You should have turned to
the left.”

“But have you no idea where this will lead us?”

“Into a cedar swamp, for what I know. Had we not
better turn back?”

“O, don't speak of turning back. I am in no mood for
turning back. Let us keep on. I am sure this will bring
us out somewhere.”

“As you please,” said Morton, knowing himself to be in
the position of an angler, whose only chance of managing his
salmon is to give it line.

“Where are all the rest?”

“Holding a convention behind the tree, I suppose. At
least, I left them there.”

“And did not Mr. Stubb dare the fatal leap?”

“He tried, and was thrown into a mud puddle.”

“No bodily harm, I hope.”

“No; beaver and broadcloth were the principal sufferers.
But his conceit is shaken out of him for twenty-four hours,
at least.”

“Then I have wrought a miracle, and can claim to be
canonized on the strength of it.”

“I hope you may be; but I never expected to see your
name in the calendar of saints.”

“As you will not allow me to be a saint, I suppose you
consider me as mad. Sanctity and madness, they say, are
of kin.”

“A hair's breadth, or so, on this side madness.”

“Then I am entitled to great credit for keeping my wits at

all. What reasonable girl would not be driven mad with
Mrs. Primrose to watch her, and disapprove of her, and correct
her? Strange — is it not? — that some people — if
Mrs. Primrose will allow me to use so inelegant an expression
— are always rubbing one against the grain.”

“To give you your due, I think you have paid off handsomely
any grudge you may owe in that quarter.”

“There is consolation in that. Tell me — you are of the
out-spoken sort — are you not of my opinion? Let me
know your mind. Mr. Stubb is —”

“A puppy.”

“And the Primroses are —”

“Uninteresting.”

“For uninteresting, say insufferable. If Lucifer wishes to
gain me over to his side, let Mrs. Primrose be made my guardian
angel, and his work is done.”

“Your horse has cast a shoe,” said Morton, abruptly, —
“yes; and he is lame besides.”

“It is this broken, stony road. I wish we were at the end
of it.”

“So do I. If the clouds would break for a moment, and
show us the sun, I could form some idea of the direction we
are following.”

“Why,” said Fanny, in alarm, looking at her watch, “the
sun must be very near setting.”

Morton began to be very anxious, for his companion's sake,
when, a moment after, they came upon a broader track, which
intersected the other, and seemed a main thoroughfare of the
woodcutters.

“This looks more promising,” said Morton; and turning
to the left, they pushed their horses to their best pace. Twilight
came on, and it was quite dark when they emerged at
length upon the broad and dusty highway. In a few minutes
they saw a countryman, with his hands in his pockets, and a
long nine between his lips, lounging by the roadside.

“How far is it to New Baden?”

“Wal,” replied the man, after studying his querist in
silence for about half a minute, “it's fifteen mile strong.”

Morton looked at Fanny, whose horse was very lame, and
who, in spite of her spirit, began to show unmistakable signs
of fatigue.

“Is there a public house any where near?”

“Yas; it ain't far ahead to Mashum's.”

“How far?”

“Rather better nor a mile.”

On coming to the inn, Morton commended Fanny to the
care of the landlady, an honest New Hampshire woman,
remounted without delay, and urged his tired horse to such
speed that he reached the hotel before half past nine. His
arrival relieved the anxieties, or silenced the tattle of the
inmates; and in the morning Fanny's uncle drove to the inn,
and brought back the adventurous damsel to New Baden.