 | CHAPTER IX.
A DESERT ISLAND. What can she do? |  |
9. CHAPTER IX.
A DESERT ISLAND.
THE good cry that Edith indulged in on her
way to the boat was a relief to her heart which
had long been overburdened. But the necessity
of controlling her feelings, and the natural buoyancy
of youth enabled her by the time they reached
the wharf to see that the furniture and baggage
were properly taken care of. No one could detect
the traces of grief through her thick veil, or guess
from her firm, quiet tones, that she felt somewhat
as Columbus might when going in search of a new
world. And yet Edith had a hope and expectation
from her country life which the others did
not share at all.
When she was quite a child her feeble health
induced her father to let her spend an entire summer
in a farm house of the better class, whose
owner had some taste for flowers and fruit. These
she had enjoyed and luxuriated in as much as any
butterfly of the season, and as she romped with the
farmer's children, roamed the fields and woods
after berries, and tumbled in the fragrant hay,
health came tingling back with a fullness and vigor
that had never been lost. With all her subsequent
enjoyment, that summer still dwelt in her memory
the country she associated it. Every year she had
longed for July, for then her father would break
away from business for a couple of months and
take them to a place of resort. But the fashionable
watering places were not at all to her taste as
compared with that old farm-house, and whenever
it was possible she would wander off and make
“disreputable acquaintances,” as Mrs. Allen termed
them, among the farmers and laborers' families
in the vicinity of the hotel. But by this means
she often obtained a basket of fruit or bunch of
flowers that the others were glad to share in.
In accordance with her practical nature she
asked questions as to the habits, growth and culture
of trees and fruits, so that few city girls situated
as she had been, knew as much about the products
of the garden. She had also haunted conservatories
and green-houses as much as her sisters
had the costly Broadway temples of fashion, where
counters are the altars to which the women of the
city bring their daily offerings; and as we have
seen, a fruit store was a place of delight to her.
The thought that she could now raise fruit,
flowers, and vegetables on her own place without
limit, was some compensation even for the trouble
they had passed through and the change in their
fortunes.
Moreover she knew that because of their poverty
she would have to secure from her ground
substantial returns, and that her gardening must
having found a seat in the saloon of the boat,
she drew out of her leather bag one of her gardenbooks,
and some agricultural papers, and commenced
studying over for the twentieth time the
labors proper for April. After reading a while,
she leaned back and closed her eyes and tried to
form such crude plans as were possible in her
inexperience and lack of knowledge of a place that
she had not even seen.
Opening her eyes suddenly she saw old Hannibal
sitting near and regarding her wistfully.
“You are a foolish old fellow to stay with us,”
she said to him. “You could have obtained plenty
of nice places in the city. What made you do it?”
“Is'e couldn't gib any good reason to de world,
Miss Edie, but de one I hab kinder satisfies my
ole black heart.”
“Your heart isn't black, Hannibal.”
“How you know dat?” he asked quickly.
“Because I've seen it often and often. Sometimes
I think it is whiter than mine. I now and
then feel so desperate and wicked, that I am afraid
of myself.”
“There now, you'se worried and worn out and
you thinks dat's being wicked.”
“No, I'm satisfied it is something worse than
that. I wonder if God does care about people who
are in trouble, I mean practically, so as to help
them any?”
“Well, I specs he does,” said Hannibal vaguely.
some hab to kinder look arter thesselves.” Then
as if a bright thought struck him, he added, “I specs
he sorter lumps 'em jes as Massa Allen did when
he said he was sorry for de people burned up in
Chicago. He sent 'em a big lot ob money and den
seemed to forget all about 'em.”
Hannibal had never given much attention to
religion, and perhaps was not the best authority
that Edith could have consulted. But his conclusion
seemed to secure her consent, for she leaned
back wearily and again closed her eyes saying,—
“Yes, we are mere human atoms, lost sight of
in the multitude.”
Soon her deep regular breathing showed that
she was asleep, and Hannibal muttered softly,—
“Bress de child, dat will do her a heap more
good dan asking dem deep questions,” and he
watched beside her as a large faithful Newfoundland
might.
At last he touched her elbow and said, “We
get off at de next landing, and I guess we mus be
pretty nigh dare.”
Edith started up much refreshed and asked,
“What sort of an evening is it?”
“Well, I'se sorry to say it's rainin' hard and
berry dark.”
To her dismay she also found that it was nearly
nine o'clock. The boat had been late in starting,
and was so heavily laden as to make slow progress
against wind and tide. Edith's heart sank within
place that dismal night. It was indeed new experience
to her. But she donned her waterproof,
and the moment the boat touched the wharf, hurried
ashore, and stood under her small umbrella,
while her household gods were being hustled out
into the drenching rain. She knew the injury that
must result to them unless they could speedily be
carried into the boat-house near. At first there
seemed no one to do this save Hannibal, who at
once set to work, but she soon observed a man with
a lantern gathering up some butter-tubs that the
boat was landing, and she immediately appealed to
him for help.
“I'm not the dock-master,” was the gruff reply.
“You are a man, are you not, and one that will
not turn away from a lady in distress. If my things
stand long in this rain they will be greatly injured.”
The man thus adjured turned his lantern on
the speaker, and while we recognize the features
of our acquaintance, Arden Lacey, he sees a
face on that old dock that quite startles him. If
Edith had dropped down with the rain, she could
not have been more unexpected, and with her
large dark eyes flashing suddenly on him, and her
appealing yet half indignant voice breaking in upon
the waking dream, with which he was beguiling the
outward misery of the night, it seemed as if one of
the characters of his fancy had suddenly become
real. He who would have passed Edith in surly
unnoting indifference on the open street in the
in her. He had actually been appealed to, as an
ancient knight might have been, by a damsel in
distress, and he turned and helped her with a will,
which, backed by his powerful strength, soon placed
her goods under shelter. The lagging dock-master
politicly kept out of the way till the work was
almost done and then bustled up and made some
show of assisting in time for any fees, if they were
offered, but Arden told him that since he had kept
out of sight so long, he might remain invisible,”
which was the unpopular way the young man had.
When the last article had been placed under
shelter Edith said,—
“I appreciate your help exceedingly. How
much am I to pay you for your trouble?”
“Nothing,” was the rather curt reply.
The appearance of a lady like Edith, with a
beauty that seemed weird and strange as he caught
glimpses of her face by the fitful rays of his lantern,
had made a sudden and strong impression on his
morbid fancy and fitted the wild imaginings with
which he had occupied the dreary hour of waiting
for the boat. The presence of her sable attendant
had increased these impressions. But when she
took out her purse to pay him his illusions vanished.
Therefore the abrupt tone in which he
said “Nothing,” and which was mainly caused by
vexation with the matter of fact world that continually
mocked his unreal one.
“I don't quite understand you,' said Edith.
strength without remuneration.”
“I told you I was not the dock-master,” said
Arden rather coldly. “He'll take all the fees you
will give him. You appealed to me as a man, and
said you were in distress. I helped you as a man.
Good evening.”
“Stay,” said Edith hastily. “You seem not
only a man, but a gentleman, and I am tempted,
in view of my situation, to trespass still further on
your kindness,” but she hesitated a moment.
It perhaps had never been intimated to Arden
before that he was a gentleman, certainly never in
the tone with which Edith spoke, and his fanciful
chivalric nature responded at once to the touch of
that chord. With the accent of voice he ever used
toward his mother, he said,—
“I am at your service.”
“We are strangers here,” continued Edith.
“Is there any place near the landing where we can
get safe comfortable lodging?”
“I am sorry to say there is not. The village is
a mile away.”
“How can we get there?”
“Isn't the stage down?” asked Arden of the
dock-master.
“No!” was the gruff response.
“The night is so bad I suppose they didn't
come. I would take you myself in a minute if I
had a suitable wagon.”
“Necessity knows no choice,” said Edith
wagon, and I surely hope you won't leave me on
this lonely dock in the rain.”
“Certainly not,” said Arden, reddening in the
darkness that he could be thought capable of such
an act. “But I thought I could drive to the village
and send a carriage for you.”
“I would rather go with you now, if you will let
me,” said Edith decidedly.
“The best I have is at your service, but I fear
you will be sorry for your choice. I've only a
board for a seat, and my wagon has no springs.
Perhaps I could get a low box for you to sit on.”
“Hannibal can sit on the box. With your permission
I will sit with you, for I wish to ask you
some questions.”
Arden hung his lantern on a hook in front of
his wagon, and helped or partly lifted Edith over
the wheel to the seat, which was simply a board
resting on the sides of the box. He turned a
butter-tub upside down for Hannibal, and then
they jogged out from behind the boat-house where
he had sheltered his horses.
This was all a new experience to Arden. He
had, from his surly misanthropy, little familiarity
with society of any kind, and since as a boy, he
had romped with the girls at school, he had been
almost a total stranger to all women save those in
his own home. Most young men would have been
awkward louts under the circumstances. But this
was not true of Arden, for he had daily been
with women of finer clay than he could have found
at Pushton. He would have been excessively
awkward in a drawing-room or any place of conventional
resort, or rather he would have been
sullen and bearish, but the place and manner in
which he had met Edith, accorded with his romantic
fancy, and the darkness shielded his rough exterior
from observation.
Moreover, the presence of this flesh and blood
woman at his side gave him different sensations
from the stately dames, or even the most piquant
maidens that had smiled upon him in the shadowy
scenes of his imagination; and when at times, as
the wagon jolted heavily, she grasped his arm for
a second to steady herself, it seemed as if the
dusky little figure at his side was a sort of human
electric battery charged with that subtle fluid
which some believe the material life of the universe.
Every now and then as they bounced over
a stone, the lantern would bob up and throw a ray
on a face like those that had looked out upon
him from the plays of Shakespeare whose scenes
are laid in Italy.
Thus the dark, chilly, rainy night, was becoming
the most luminous period of his life. Reason
and judgment act slowly, but imagination takes
fire.
But to poor Edith, all was real and dismal
enough, and she often sighed heavily. To Arden
each sigh was an appeal for sympathy. He had
get her out of the rain, but at last she said clinging
to his arm,—
“Won't you drive slowly, the jolting has given
me a pain in my side.”
He was conscious of a new and peculiar sensation
there also, though not from jolting. He had
been used to that in many ways all his life, but,
thereafter they jogged forward on a walk through
the drizzling rain, and Edith, recovering her
breath, and a sense of security, began to ask the
questions.
“Do you know where the cottage is that was
formerly owned by Mr. Jenks?”
“Oh yes, it's not far from our house—between
our house and the village.” Then as if a sudden
thought struck him he added quickly, “I heard it
was sold, are you the owner?”
“Yes,” said Edith a little coolly, she had expected
to question and not be questioned. And
yet she was very glad she had met one who knew
about her place. But she resolved to be non-committal
till she knew more about him.
“What sort of a house is it?” she asked after
a moment. “I have never seen it.”
“Well, it's not very large and I fear it is somewhat
out of repair—at least it looks so, and I
should think a new roof was needed.”
Edith could not help saying pathetically, “Oh,
dear, I'm so sorry.”
Arden then added hastily. “But it's a kind of
grape vines on it.”
“So I've been told,” said Edith. “And that
will be its chief attraction to me.”
“Then you are going to live there?”
“Yes.”
Arden's heart gave a sudden throb. Then he
would see this mysterious stranger often. But he
smiled half bitterly in the darkness as he queried,
“What will she appear like in the daylight?”
Her next question broke the spell he was under
utterly. They were passing through the village
and the little hotel was near, and she naturally
asked,—
“To whom am I indebted for all this kindness?
I am glad to know so much as that you are my
neighbor.”
Suddenly and painfully conscious of his outward
life and surroundings, he answered briefly,—
“My name is Arden Lacey. We have a small
farm a little beyond your cottage.”
Wondering at his change of tone and manner,
Edith still ventured to ask,—
“And do you know of any one who could bring
my furniture and things up to-morrow?”
As he sometimes did that kind of work, an
impulse to see more of her impelled him to say,—
“I suppose I can do it. I work for a living.”
“I am sure that is nothing against you,” said
Edith kindly.
“You will not live long in Pushton before learning
bitter reply. “But that need not prevent my
working for you, as I do for others. If you wish,
I will make a fire in your house early, to take off
the chill and dampness, and then go for your furniture.
The people here will send you out in a carriage.”
“I will be greatly obliged if you will do so and
let me pay you.”
“Oh certainly, I will charge the usual rates.”
“Well, then, how much for to-night?” said
Edith as she stood in the hotel door.
“To-night is another affair,” and he jumped
into his wagon and rattled away in the darkness,
his lantern looking like a “will-o'-the-wisp” that
might vanish altogether.
The landlord received Edith and her attendant
with a gruff civility, and gave her in charge of his
wife, who was a bustling red-faced woman with a
sort of motherly kindness about her.
“Why you poor child,” she said to Edith, turning
her round before the light, “you're half drowned.
You must have something hot right away, or you'll
take your death o' cold,” and with something of
her husband's faith in whiskey, she soon brought
Edith a hot punch that for a few moments seemed
to make the girl's head spin, but as it was followed
by strong tea and toast, she felt none the
worse, and danger from the chill and wet was
effectually disposed of.
As she sat sipping her tea before a red-hot
how she had got up from the boat.
“Who is this Lacey, and what is there against
them?” she asked suddenly.
The hostess went across the hall, opened the
bar-room door, and beckoned Edith to follow her.
In a chair by the stove sat a miserable bloated
wreck of a man, drivelling and mumbling in a
drunken lethargy.
“That's his father,” said the woman in a whisper,
“When he gets as bad as that he comes here
because he knows my husband is the only one as
won't turn him out of doors.”
An expression of intense disgust flitted across
Edith's face, and by the necessary law of association,
poor Arden sank in her estimation, through
the foulness of his father's vice.
“Is there anything against the son?” asked
Edith in some alarm. “I've engaged him to bring
up my furniture and trunks. I hope he's honest.”
“Oh, yes, he's honest enough, and he'd be
mighty mad if any body questioned that, but he's
kind o' soured and ugly, and don't notice nobody nor
nothing. The son and Mrs. Lacey keep to themselves,
the man does as you see, but the daughter,
who's a smart pretty girl, tries to rise above it all,
and make her way among the rest of the girls; but
she has a hard time of it, I guess, poor child.”
“I don't wonder,” said Edith, “with such a
father.”
But between the punch and fatigue, she was
and all her troubles, in quiet sleep.
The next morning the storm was passing
away in broken masses of clouds, through which
the sun occasionally shone in April-like uncertainty.
After an early breakfast she and Hannibal were
driven in an open wagon to what was to be her future
home—the scene of unknown joys and sorrows.
The most memorable places, where the mightiest
events of the world have transpired, can never
have for us the interest of that humble spot, where
the little drama of our own life, will pass from act
to act till our exit.
Most eagerly did Edith note everything as revealed
by the broad light of day. The village,
though irregular, had a general air of thriftiness
and respectability. The street, through which
she was riding, gradually fringed off from stores and
offices, into neat homes, farm-houses, and here
and there the abodes of the poor, till at last three-quarters
of a mile out, she saw a rather quaint little
cottage with a roof steeply sloping and a long
low porch.
“That's your place, Miss,” said the driver.
Edith's intent eyes took in the general effect
with something of the practiced rapidity with
which she mastered a lady's toilet on the Avenue.
In spite of her predisposition to be pleased, the
prospect was depressing. The season was late and
patches of discolored snow lay here and there, and
were piled up along the fences. The garden and
up the porch had been untrimmed of the
last year's growth, and sprawled in every direction.
The gate hung from one hinge, and many palings
were off the fence, and all had a sodden, dingy
appearance from the recent rains. The house itself
looked so dilapidated and small in contrast
with their stately mansion on Fifth Avenue, that
irrepressible tears came into her eyes, as she murmured,—
“It will kill mother just to see it.”
Old Hannibal said in a low, encouraging tone,
“It'll look a heap better next June, Miss Edie.”
But Edith dropped her veil to hide her feelings,
and shook her head.
They got down before the shackly gate, took
out the basket of provisions which Hannibal had
secured, paid the driver, who splashed away through
the mud as a boat might that had landed and left
two people on a desert island. They walked up
the oozy path with hearts about as chill and empty
as the unfurnished cottage before them.
But utter repulsiveness had been taken away
by a bright fire that Arden had kindled on the
hearth of the largest room; and when lighting it
he had been so romantic as to dream of the possibility
of kindling a more sacred fire in a heart that
he knew now to be as cold to him as the chilly
room in which he shivered.
Poor Arden! If he could have seen the expression
on Edith's face the night previous, as she
cursed what he termed the blight of his life, more
bitterly than ever.
| CHAPTER IX.
A DESERT ISLAND. What can she do? | |