 | CHAPTER XLIX.
WHAT CAME OF IT. Oldtown folks |  |
49. CHAPTER XLIX.
WHAT CAME OF IT.
THE next week Mr. and Mrs. Ellery Davenport sailed for
England.
I am warned by the increased quantity of manuscript which
lies before me that, if I go on recounting scenes and incidents with
equal minuteness, my story will transcend the limits of modern
patience. Richardson might be allowed to trail off into seven volumes,
and to trace all the histories of all his characters, even unto
the third and fourth generations; but Richardson did not live in the
days of railroad and steam, and mankind then had more leisure
than now.
I am warned, too, that the departure of the principal character
from the scene is a signal for general weariness through the audience,
— for looking up of gloves, and putting on of shawls, and
getting ready to call one's carriage.
In fact, when Harry and I had been down to see Tina off, and
had stood on the shore, watching and waving our handkerchiefs,
until the ship became a speck in the blue airy distance, I turned
back to the world with very much the feeling that there was
nothing left in it. What I had always dreamed of, hoped for,
planned for, and made the object of all my endeavors, so far as
this world was concerned, was gone, — gone, so far as I could see,
hopelessly and irredeemably; and there came over me that utter
languor and want of interest in every mortal thing, which is one
of the worst diseases of the mind.
But I knew that it would never do to give way to this lethargy.
I needed an alternative; and so I set myself, with all my might
and soul, to learning a new language. There was an old German
emigrant in Cambridge, with whom I became a pupil, and I plunged
into German as into a new existence. I recommend everybody
who wishes to try the waters of Lethe to study a new language,
one sphere of existence into another.
Some may wonder that I do not recommend devotion for this
grand alternative; but it is a fact, that, when one has to combat with
the terrible lassitude produced by the sudden withdrawal of an
absorbing object of affection, devotional exercises sometimes hinder
more than they help. There is much in devotional religion
of the same strain of softness and fervor which is akin to earthly
attachments, and the one is almost sure to recall the other. What
the soul wants is to be distracted for a while, — to be taken out
of its old grooves of thought, and run upon entirely new ones.
Religion must be sought in these moods, in its active and preceptive
form, — what we may call its business character, — rather
than in its sentimental and devotional one.
It had been concluded among us all that it would be expedient
for Miss Mehitable to remove from Oldtown and take a residence
in Boston.
It was desirable, for restoring the health of Emily, that she
should have more change and variety, and less minute personal
attention fixed upon her, than could be the case in the little village
of Oldtown. Harry and I did a great deal of house-hunting for
them, and at last succeeded in securing a neat little cottage on
an eminence overlooking the harbor in the outskirts of Boston.
Preparing this house for them, and helping to establish them in
it, furnished employment for a good many of our leisure hours.
In fact, we found that this home so near would be quite an
accession to our pleasures. Miss Mehitable had always been one
of that most pleasant and desirable kind of acquaintances that a
young man can have; to wit, a cultivated, intelligent, literary female
friend, competent to advise and guide one in one's scholarly career.
We became greatly interested in the society of her sister. The
strength and dignity of character shown by this unfortunate lady
in recovering her position commanded our respect. She was
never aware, and was never made aware by anything in our
manner, that we were acquainted with her past history.
The advice of Tina on this subject had been faithfully followed.
No one in our circle, or in Boston, except my grandmother, had
Mehitable had always said that her sister had gone abroad to
study in France, and her reappearance again was only noticed
among the few that inquired into it at all, as her return. Harry
and I used to study French with her, both on our own account,
and as a means of giving her some kind of employment. On
the whole, the fireside circle at the little cottage became a cheerful
and pleasant retreat. Miss Mehitable had gained what she
had for years been sighing for, — the opportunity to devote herself
wholly to this sister. She was a person with an enthusiastic
power of affection, and the friendship that arose between the two
was very beautiful.
The experiences of the French Revolution, many of whose
terrors she had witnessed, had had a powerful influence on the
mind of Emily, in making her feel how mistaken had been those
views of human progress which come from the mere unassisted
reason, when it rejects the guidance of revealed religion. She
was in a mood to return to the faith of her fathers, receiving it
again under milder and more liberal forms. I think the friendship
of Harry was of great use to her in enabling her to attain
to a settled religious faith. They were peculiarly congenial to
each other, and his simplicity of religious trust was a constant
corrective to the habits of thought formed by the sharp and pitiless
logic of her early training.
A residence in Boston was also favorable to Emily's recovery,
in giving to her what no person who has passed through such
experiences can afford to be without, — an opportunity to help those
poorer and more afflicted. Emily very naturally shrank from
society; except the Kitterys, I think there was no family which
she visited. I think she always had the feeling that she would
not accept the acquaintance of any who would repudiate her
were all the circumstances of her life known to them. But with
the poor, the sick, and the afflicted, she felt herself at home. In
their houses she was a Sister of Mercy, and the success of these
sacred ministrations caused her, after a while, to be looked upon
with a sort of reverence by all who knew her.
Tina proved a lively and most indefatigable correspondent.
the great gay world of London society, into which she was
thrown as wife of the American minister. Her letters were
like her old self, full of genius, of wit, and of humor, sparkling
with descriptions and anecdotes of character, and sometimes
scrawled on the edges with vivid sketches of places, or scenes,
or buildings that hit her fancy. She was improving, she told
us, taking lessons in drawing and music, and Ellery was making
a capital French scholar of her. We could see through all her
letters an evident effort to set forth everything relating to him
to the best advantage; every good-natured or kindly action,
and all the favorable things that were said of him, were put
in the foreground, with even an anxious care.
To Miss Mehitable and Emily came other letters, filled with
the sayings and doings of the little Emily, recording minutely all
the particulars of her growth, and the incidents of the nursery,
and showing that Tina, with all her going out, found time strictly
to fulfil her promises in relation to her.
“I have got the very best kind of a maid for her,” she wrote,
— “just as good and true as Polly is, only she is formed by the
Church Catechism instead of the Cambridge Platform. But she
is faithfulness itself, and Emily loves her dearly.”
In this record, also, minute notice was taken of all the presents
made to the child by her father, — of all his smiles and caressing
words. Without ever saying a word formally in her husband's
defence, Tina thus contrived, through all her letters, to
produce the most favorable impression of him. He was evidently,
according to her showing, proud of her beauty and her
talents, and proud of the admiration which she excited in society.
For a year or two there seemed to be a real vein of happiness
running through all these letters of Tina's. I spoke to Harry
about it one day.
“Tina,” said I, “has just that fortunate kind of constitution,
buoyant as cork, that will rise to the top of the stormiest waters.”
“Yes,” said Harry. “With some women it would have
been an entire impossibility to live happily with a man after
such a disclosure, — with Esther, for example. I have never
horror of the man that she never could recover from.”
“It is not,” said I, “that Tina has not strong moral perceptions;
but she has this buoyant hopefulness; she believes in herself,
and she believes in others. She always feels adequate to manage
the most difficult circumstances. I could not help smiling that
dreadful day, when she came over and found us all so distressed
and discouraged, to see what a perfect confidence she had in herself
and in her own power to arrange the affair, — to make Emily
consent, to make the child love her; in short, to carry out everything
according to her own sweet will, just as she has always
done with us all ever since we knew her.”
“I always wondered,” said Harry, “that, with all her pride,
and all her anger, Emily did consent to let the child go.”
“Why,” said I, “she was languid and weak, and she was overborne
by simple force of will. Tina was so positive and determined,
so perfectly assured, and so warming and melting, that she
carried all before her. There was n't even the physical power
to resist her.”
“And do you think,” said Harry, “that she will hold her
power over a man like Ellery Davenport?”
“Longer, perhaps, than any other kind of woman,” said I,
“because she has such an infinite variety about her. But, after all,
you remember what Miss Debby said about him, — that he never
cared long for anything that he was sure of. Restlessness and
pursuit are his nature, and therefore the time may come when
she will share the fate of other idols.”
“I regard it,” said Harry, “as the most dreadful trial to a
woman's character that can possibly be, to love, as Tina loves, a
man whose moral standard is so far below hers. It is bad enough
to be obliged to talk down always to those who are below us in
intellect and comprehension; but to be obliged to live down, all
the while, to a man without conscience or moral sense, is worse.
I think often, `What communion hath light with darkness?' and
the only hope I can have is that she will fully find him out at
last.”
“And that,” said I, “is a hope full of pain to her; but it seems
done to one woman certainly never will be true to another.”
Harry and I were now thrown more and more exclusively
upon each other for society.
He had received his accession of fortune with as little exterior
change as possible. Many in his situation would have rushed
immediately over to England, and taken delight in coming
openly into possession of the estate. Harry's fastidious reticence,
however, hung about him even in this. It annoyed him to be
an object of attention and gossip, and he felt no inclination to go
alone into what seemed to him a strange country, into the midst
of social manners and customs entirely different from those among
which he had been brought up. He preferred to remain and
pursue his course quietly, as he had begun, in the college with
me; and he had taken no steps in relation to the property except
to consult a lawyer in Boston.
Immediately on leaving college, it was his design to be married,
and go with Esther to see what could be done in England. But I
think his heart was set upon a home in America. The freedom
and simplicity of life in this country were peculiarly suited to his
character, and he felt a real vocation for the sacred ministry, not
in the slightest degree lessened by the good fortune which had
rendered him independent of it.
Two years of our college life passed away pleasantly enough
in hard study, interspersed with social relaxations among the few
friends nearest to us. Immediately after our graduation came
Harry's marriage, — a peaceful little idyllic performance, which
took us back to the mountains, and to all the traditions of our old
innocent woodland life there.
After the wholesome fashion of New England clergymen, Mr.
Avery had found a new mistress for the parsonage, so that Esther
felt the more resigned to leaving him. When I had seen them
off, however, I felt really quite alone in the world. The silent,
receptive, sympathetic friend and brother of my youth was gone.
But immediately came the effort to establish myself in Boston.
And, through the friendly offices of the Kitterys, I was placed in
connection with some very influential lawyers, who gave me that
profession. Harry had been most generous and liberal in regard
to all our family, and insisted upon it that I should share his
improved fortunes. There are friends so near to us that we can
take from them as from ourselves. And Harry always insisted
that he could in no way so repay the kindness and care that had
watched over his early years as by this assistance to me.
I received constant letters from him, and from their drift it
became increasingly evident that the claims of duty upon him
would lead him to make England his future home. In one of
these he said: “I have always, as you know, looked forward
to the ministry, and to such a kind of ministry as you have in
America, where a man, for the most part, speaks to cultivated,
instructed people, living in a healthy state of society, where a
competence is the rule, and where there is a practical equality.
“I had no conception of life, such as I see it to be here, where
there are whole races who appear born to poverty and subjection;
where there are woes, and dangers, and miseries pressing on
whole classes of men, which no one individual can do much to
avert or alleviate. But it is to this very state of society that I
feel a call to minister. I shall take orders in the Church of
England, and endeavor to carry out among the poor and the suffering
that simple Gospel which my mother taught me, and which,
after all these years of experience, after all these theological
discussions to which I have listened, remains in its perfect simplicity
in my mind; namely, that every human soul on this
earth has One Friend, and that Friend is Jesus Christ its Lord
and Saviour.
“There is a redeeming power in being beloved, but there are
many human beings who have never known what it is to be be
loved. And my theology is, once penetrate any human soul with
the full belief that God loves him, and you save him. Such is to
be my life's object and end; and, in this ministry, Esther will go
with me hand in hand. Her noble beauty and gracious manners
make her the darling of all our people, and she is above measure
happy in the power of doing good which is thus put into her
hands.
“As to England, mortal heart cannot conceive more beauty than
there is here. It is lovely beyond all poets' dreams. Near to
our place are some charming old ruins, and I cannot tell you the
delightful hours that Esther and I have spent there. Truly, the
lines have fallen to us in pleasant places.
“I have not yet seen Tina, — she is abroad travelling on
the Continent. She writes to us often; but, Horace, her letters
begin to have the undertone of pain in them, — her skies are certainly
beginning to fade. From some sources upon which I place
reliance, I hear Ellery Davenport spoken of as a daring, plausible,
but unscrupulous man. He is an intrigant in polities, and
has no domestic life in him; while Tina, however much she loves
and appreciates admiration, has a perfect woman's heart. Admiration
without love would never satisfy her. I can see, through
all the excuses of her letters, that he is going very much one way
and she another, that he has his engagements, and she hers,
and that they see, really, very little of each other, and that all
this makes her sad and unhappy. The fact is, I suppose, he has
played with his butterfly until there is no more down on its
wings, and he is on the chase after new ones. Such is my reading
of poor Tina's lot.”
When I took this letter to Miss Mehitable, she told me that a
similar impression had long since been produced on her mind by
passages which she had read in hers. Tina often spoke of the
little girl as very lovely, and as her greatest earthly comfort.
A little one of her own, born in England, had died early, and
her affections seemed thus to concentrate more entirely upon the
child of her adoption. She described her with enthusiasm, as a
child of rare beauty and talent, with capabilities of enthusiastic
affection.
“Let us hope,” said I, “that she does take her heart from her
mother. Ellery Davenport is just one of those men that women
are always wrecking themselves on, — men that have strong
capabilities of passion, and very little capability of affection, — men
that have no end of sentiment, and scarcely the beginning of real
feeling. They make bewitching lovers, but terrible husbands.”
One of the greatest solaces of my life during this period was
time when I had first opened to her my boyish heart, she had
seemed to regard me with an especial tenderness, and to connect
me in some manner with the image of her lost son. The assistance
that she gave me in my educational career was viewed
by her as a species of adoption. Her eye always brightened,
and a lovely smile broke out upon her face, when I came to
pass an hour with her. Time had treated her kindly; she still
retained the gentle shrewdness, the love of literature, and the
warm kindness which had been always charms in her. Some
of my happiest hours were passed in reading to her. Chapter
after chapter in her well-worn Bible needed no better commentary
than the sweet brightness of her dear old face, and her occasional
fervent responses. Many Sabbaths, when her increasing
infirmities detained her from church, I spent in a tender, holy rest
by her side. Then I would read from her prayer-book the morning
service, not omitting the prayer that she loved, for the King
and the royal family, and then, sitting hand in hand, we talked together
of sacred things, and I often wondered to see what strength
and discrimination there were in the wisdom of love, and how unerring
were the decisions that she often made in practical questions.
In fact, I felt myself drawn to Madam Kittery by a closer, tenderer
tie than even to my own grandmother. I had my secret remorse
for this, and tried to quiet myself by saying that it was because,
living in Boston, I saw Madam Kittery oftener. But, after all, is
it not true that, as we grow older, the relationship of souls will
make itself felt? I revered and loved my grandmother, but I
never idealized her; but my attachment to Madam Kittery was
a species of poetic devotion. There was a slight flavor of romance
in it, such as comes with the attachments of our maturer
life oftener than with those of our childhood.
Miss Debby looked on me with eyes of favor. In her own
way she really was quite as much my friend as her mother. She
fell into the habit of consulting me upon her business affairs, and
asking my advice in a general way about the arrangements of life.
“I don't see,” I said to Madam Kittery, one day, “why Miss
Deborah always asks my advice; she never takes it.”
“My dear,” said she, with the quiet smile with which she often
looked on her daughter's proceedings, “Debby wants somebody
to ask advice of. When she gets it, she is settled at once as to
what she don't want to do; and that 's something.”
Miss Debby once came to me with a face of great perplexity.
“I don't know what to do, Horace. Our Thomas is a very
valuable man, and he has always been in the family. I don't
know anything how we should get along without him, but he is
getting into bad ways.”
“Ah,” said I, “what?”
“Well, you see it all comes of this modern talk about the rights
of the people. I 've instructed Thomas as faithfully as ever a
woman could; but — do you believe me? — he goes to the primary
meetings. I have positive, reliable information that he does.”
“My dear Miss Kittery, I suppose it 's his right as a citizen.”
“O, fiddlestick and humbug!” said Miss Debby; “and it may
be my right to turn him out of my service.”
“And would not that, after all, be more harm to you than to
him?” suggested I.
Miss Debby swept up the hearth briskly, tapped on her snuff-box,
and finally said she had forgotten her handkerchief, and left
the room.
Old Madam Kittery laughed a quiet laugh. “Poor Debby,”
she said, “she 'll have to come to it; the world will go on.”
Thomas kept his situation for some years longer, till, having
bought a snug place, and made some favorable investments, he
at last announced to Miss Debby that, having been appointed
constable, with a commission from the governor, his official
duties would not allow of his continuance in her service.
| CHAPTER XLIX.
WHAT CAME OF IT. Oldtown folks | |