65. CHAPTER LXV.
Art thou so blind
To fling away the gem whose untold worth,
Hid 'neath the roughness of its native mine,
Tempts not the eye? Touched by the artist's wheel,
The hardest stone flashes the diamond's light.
— Anon.
A few days later, Morton was seated with his friend
Meredith.
“Ned, this is a slow life. Do you know, I have made up
my mind to change it.”
“You have been so busy this year past, that I thought
you would be content to stay where you are.”
“On the contrary, my vocation takes me abroad.”
“Where will you go?”
“To Egypt, Arabia, India, the East Indies, the South Sea
Islands.”
“All in the cause of science?”
“At any rate, the thing is necessary to my plans.”
“The old Adam sticks to you still. Are you sure that no
Pequot blood ever got into your veins?”
“I don't know as to that. My ancestors were Puritans to
the backbone, witch-burners, Quaker-killers, and Indian-haters.
I only know that when I am bored, my first instinct
is to cut loose, and take to the woods. It comes over me
like an ague-fit. There are two places where a man finds
sea room enough; one is a great metropolis, the other is a
wilderness. There is no freedom in a place like this. One
can only be independent here by living out of the world as I
have been doing.”
“Here in America, we have political freedom ad nauseam;
and we pay for it with a loss of social freedom.”
“You remember an agreement of ours, years ago, that you
and I should travel together. Now, will you stand to it, and
go with me?”
“Other considerations apart, I should like nothing better;
but, as matters stand with me now, it's quite out of the
question.”
Morton was silent for a moment. “Ned,” he said, at
length, “I heard a rumor yesterday. It is no part of mine
to obtrude myself into your private affairs, and I should not
speak if I had not a reason, the better half of which is, that
I think I can serve you. I heard that you were paying your
addresses to Miss Euston.”
“One cannot look twice at a lady without having it noted
down in black and white, and turned into tea-table talk.”
“I met Miss Euston a few evenings ago. I used to know
her before I went to Europe, but had not seen her since. If
what I heard is true, I think you have shown something more
than good taste.”
“You remember her,” said Meredith, after a pause, “as
she was the summer when you and I went to New Baden.”
“Yes, I knew her then very well.”
“I liked her better at that time than you ever supposed.
She was very young; just out of school, in fact. She had
lived all her life in the suburbs, and had grown up like an
unpruned rose bush, — a fine stock in a strong soil, but
throwing out its shoots quite wildly and at random.”
“I know it; but all that is changed, I can't conceive
how.”
“I can tell you. The one person whom she loved and
stood in awe of was her father. He was a man, and a strong
one. He died suddenly about the time you went away. It
was the first blow she had ever felt; and his death was only
the beginning of greater troubles. You remember her brother
Henry.”
“I remember him when he was at school — a good-natured,
high-spirited little fellow, whom every body liked.”
“With wild blood enough for a regiment, and as careless,
thoughtless, and easy-tempered as a child, such as he was, in
fact. His father, being out of the country on his affairs, sent
him to New York, where he fell in with a bad set, and grew
very dissipated. Then, to get him out of harm's way, they
shipped him off to Canton, where he soon began to ruin
himself, hand over hand. At last, a few months after his
father's death, his mother and sister heard that he was on his
way home, with his health completely broken. The next
news was, that he was at Alexandria, dangerously ill of
a slow fever. His mother, who, with all respect, is the
weakest of mortals, broke down at once into a state of helplessness,
and could do nothing but weep and lament. The
whole burden fell upon his sister. She went with her mother
and a man servant to Alexandria, and took charge of her
brother, whose fever left him in such an exhausted state that
he fell into a decline. She brought him as far as Naples,
but he could go no farther; and here she attended him for
five months, till he died; her mother sinking, meanwhile,
into a kind of moping imbecility. By that time, her uncle
had found grace to come and join them. Then her turn
came; her strength failed her, and she fell violently ill.
For a week, her life was despaired of; but she rallied, against
all hope. I was in Naples soon after, and used to meet her
every morning, as she drove in an open carriage to Baiæ. I
never saw such a transformation. She was pale as death, but
very beautiful; and her whole expression was changed. She
had always been very fond of her brother. There were some
points of likeness between them. He had her wildness, and
her kindliness of disposition, but none of her vigorous good
sense, and was altogether inferior to her in intellect. Now
you can have some idea why you find her so different from
what you once knew her to be.”
“I knew,” said Morton, “that she had passed through the
fire in some way; but how I could not tell. I think, now,
still better of your judgment, Ned.”
“Then you see why I will not go with you. I must
bring this matter to an issue. For good or evil, I must know
how it goes with me. It is not a new thing. It is of longer
date than you imagined, or she either. What the end of it
may be, Heaven only knows; but one thing is certain, — you
will not see me in the South Seas before this point is cleared.”
“Then I shall never see you there.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Your travelling days are over. At least I think so.”
“Do you mean —?”
“That you are playing at a game where I think you will
win.”
“What reason have you to think so?” demanded Meredith,
nervously.
“Take the opinion, and let the reason go. On such an
argument a good reason will sometimes dwindle into nothing
when one tries to explain it.”
His hand was on the door as he spoke, and bidding his
friend good morning, he left him to his meditations.
