 | Beauty and the beast |  |
THE STRANGE FRIEND.
IT would have required an intimate familiarity
with the habitual demeanor of the
people of Londongrove to detect in them
an access of interest (we dare not say excitement),
of whatever kind. Expression with
them was pitched to so low a key that its
changes might be compared to the slight variations in the
drabs and grays in which they were clothed. Yet that there
was a moderate, decorously subdued curiosity present in
the minds of many of them on one of the First-days of the
Ninth-month, in the year 1815, was as clearly apparent
to a resident of the neighborhood as are the indications
of a fire or a riot to the member of a city mob.
The agitations of the war which had so recently come
to an end had hardly touched this quiet and peaceful
community. They had stoutly “borne their testimony,”
and faced the question where it could not be evaded;
and although the dashing Philadelphia militia had been
the previous year, these good people simply ignored the
fact. If their sons ever listened to the trumpets at a distance,
or stole nearer to have a peep at the uniforms, no
report of what they had seen or heard was likely to be
made at home. Peace brought to them a relief, like the
awakening from an uncomfortable dream: their lives at
once reverted to the calm which they had breathed for
thirty years preceding the national disturbance. In their
ways they had not materially changed for a hundred years.
The surplus produce of their farms more than sufficed for
the very few needs which those farms did not supply, and
they seldom touched the world outside of their sect except
in matters of business. They were satisfied with
themselves and with their lot; they lived to a ripe and
beautiful age, rarely “borrowed trouble,” and were patient
to endure that which came in the fixed course of
things. If the spirit of curiosity, the yearning for an
active, joyous grasp of life, sometimes pierced through
this placid temper, and stirred the blood of the adolescent
members, they were persuaded by grave voices, of
almost prophetic authority, to turn their hearts towards
“the Stillness and the Quietness.”
It was the pleasant custom of the community to arrive
at the meeting-house some fifteen or twenty minutes
before the usual time of meeting, and exchange quiet and
kindly greetings before taking their places on the plain
benches inside. As most of the families had lived during
the week on the solitude of their farms, they liked to see
of isolation into the common atmosphere, before yielding
to the assumed abstraction of their worship. In this preliminary
meeting, also, the sexes were divided, but rather
from habit than any prescribed rule. They were already
in the vestibule of the sanctuary; their voices were subdued
and their manner touched with a kind of reverence.
If the Londongrove Friends gathered together a few
minutes earlier on that September First-day; if the younger
members looked more frequently towards one of the
gates leading into the meeting-house yard than towards
the other; and if Abraham Bradbury was the centre of a
larger circle of neighbors than Simon Pennock (although
both sat side by side on the highest seat of the gallery),
—the cause of these slight deviations from the ordinary
behavior of the gathering was generally known. Abraham's
son had died the previous Sixth-month, leaving a
widow incapable of taking charge of his farm on the
Street Road, which was therefore offered for rent. It
was not always easy to obtain a satisfactory tenant in
those days, and Abraham was not more relieved than surprised
on receiving an application from an unexpected
quarter. A strange Friend, of stately appearance, called
upon him, bearing a letter from William Warner, in Adams
County, together with a certificate from a Monthly
Meeting on Long Island. After inspecting the farm and
making close inquiries in regard to the people of the
neighborhood, he accepted the terms of rent, and had
now, with his family, been three or four days in possession.
In this circumstance, it is true, there was nothing
strange, and the interest of the people sprang from some
other particulars which had transpired. The new-comer,
Henry Donnelly by name, had offered, in place of the
usual security, to pay the rent annually in advance; his
speech and manner were not, in all respects, those of
Friends, and he acknowledged that he was of Irish birth;
and moreover, some who had passed the wagons bearing
his household goods had been struck by the peculiar patterns
of the furniture piled upon them. Abraham Bradbury
had of course been present at the arrival, and the
Friends upon the adjoining farms had kindly given their
assistance, although it was a busy time of the year.
While, therefore, no one suspected that the farmer could
possibly accept a tenant of doubtful character, a general
sentiment of curious expectancy went forth to meet the
Donnelly family.
Even the venerable Simon Pennock, who lived in the
opposite part of the township, was not wholly free from
the prevalent feeling. “Abraham,” he said, approaching
his colleague, “I suppose thee has satisfied thyself that
the strange Friend is of good repute.”
Abraham was assuredly satisfied of one thing—that
the three hundred silver dollars in his antiquated secretary
at home were good and lawful coin. We will not say
that this fact disposed him to charity, but will only testify
that he answered thus:
“I don't think we have any right to question the certificate
from Islip, Simon; and William Warner's word
honest man. Henry himself will stand ready to satisfy
thee, if it is needful.”
Here he turned to greet a tall, fresh-faced youth, who
had quietly joined the group at the men's end of the meeting-house.
He was nineteen, blue-eyed, and rosy, and a
little embarrassed by the grave, scrutinizing, yet not unfriendly
eyes fixed upon him.
“Simon, this is Henry's oldest son, De Courcy,” said
Abraham.
Simon took the youth's hand, saying, “Where did thee
get thy outlandish name?”
The young man colored, hesitated, and then said, in a
low, firm voice, “It was my grandfather's name.”
One of the heavy carriages of the place and period,
new and shiny, in spite of its sober colors, rolled into the
yard. Abraham Bradbury and De Courcy Donnelly set
forth, side by side, to meet it. Out of it descended a tall,
broad-shouldered figure—a man in the prime of life,
whose ripe, aggressive vitality gave his rigid Quaker garb
the air of a military undress. His blue eyes seemed to
laugh above the measured accents of his plain speech, and
the close crop of his hair could not hide its tendency to
curl. A bearing expressive of energy and the habit of
command was not unusual in the sect, strengthening, but
not changing, its habitual mask; yet in Henry Donnelly
this bearing suggested—one could scarcely explain why—
a different experience. Dress and speech, in him, expressed
condescension rather than fraternal equality.
He carefully assisted his wife to alight, and De Courcy
led the horse to the hitching-shed. Susan Donnelly was
a still blooming woman of forty; her dress, of the plainest
color, was yet of the richest texture; and her round, gentle,
almost timid face looked forth like a girl's from the
shadow of her scoop bonnet. While she was greeting
Abraham Bradbury, the two daughters, Sylvia and Alice,
who had been standing shyly by themselves on the edge
of the group of women, came forward. The latter was a
model of the demure Quaker maiden; but Abraham experienced
as much surprise as was possible to his nature
on observing Sylvia's costume. A light-blue dress, a
dark-blue cloak, a hat with ribbons, and hair in curls—
what Friend of good standing ever allowed his daughter
thus to array herself in the fashion of the world?
Henry read the question in Abraham's face, and preferred
not to answer it at that moment. Saying, “Thee
must make me acquainted with the rest of our brethren,”
he led the way back to the men's end. When he had
been presented to the older members, it was time for
them to assemble in meeting.
The people were again quietly startled when Henry
Donnelly deliberately mounted to the third and highest
bench facing them, and sat down beside Abraham and
Simon. These two retained, possibly with some little inward
exertion, the composure of their faces, and the
strange Friend became like unto them. His hands were
clasped firmly in his lap; his full, decided lips were set
together, and his eyes gazed into vacancy from under the
the house, but, meeting his father's eyes, replaced it
suddenly, with a slight blush.
When Simon Pennock and Ruth Treadwell had spoken
the thoughts which had come to them in the stillness, the
strange Friend arose. Slowly, with frequent pauses, as
if waiting for the guidance of the Spirit, and with that inward
voice which falls so naturally into the measure of a
chant, he urged upon his hearers the necessity of seeking
the Light and walking therein. He did not always employ
the customary phrases, but neither did he seem to
speak the lower language of logic and reason; while his
tones were so full and mellow that they gave, with every
slowly modulated sentence, a fresh satisfaction to the ear.
Even his broad a's and the strong roll of his r's, which
verified the rumor of his foreign birth, did not detract
from the authority of his words. The doubts which had
preceded him somehow melted away in his presence, and
he came forth, after the meeting had been dissolved by
the shaking of hands, an accepted tenant of the high
seat.
That evening, the family were alone in their new home.
The plain rush-bottomed chairs and sober carpet, in contrast
with the dark, solid mahogany table, and the silver
branched candle-stick which stood upon it, hinted of
former wealth and present loss; and something of the
same contrast was reflected in the habits of the inmates.
While the father, seated in a stately arm-chair, read aloud
to his wife and children, Sylvia's eyes rested on a guitar-case
themselves to the imaginary frets. De Courcy twisted
his neck as if the straight collar of his coat were a bad
fit, and Henry, the youngest boy, nodded drowsily from
time to time.
“There, my lads and lasses!” said Henry Donnelly,
as he closed the book, “now we're plain farmers at last,
—and the plainer the better, since it must be. There's
only one thing wanting—”
He paused; and Sylvia, looking up with a bright,
arch determination, answered: “It's too late now, father,
—they have seen me as one of the world's people, as I
meant they should. When it is once settled as something
not to be helped, it will give us no trouble.”
“Faith, Sylvia!” exclaimed De Courcy, “I almost
wish I had kept you company.”
“Don't be impatient, my boy,” said the mother, gently.
“Think of the vexations we have had, and what a rest
this life will be!”
“Think, also,” the father added, “that I have the
heaviest work to do, and that thou'lt reap the most of
what may come of it. Don't carry the old life to a land
where it's out of place. We must be what we seem to be,
every one of us!”
“So we will!” said Sylvia, rising from her seat,—“I,
as well as the rest. It was what I said in the beginning,
you—no, thee knows, father. Somebody must be interpreter
when the time comes; somebody must remember
while the rest of you are forgetting. Oh, I shall be talked
so easy. Stay where you are, De Courcy; that coat will
fit sooner than you think.”
Her brother lifted his shoulders and made a grimace.
“I've an unlucky name, it seems,” said he. “The old
fellow—I mean Friend Simon—pronounced it outlandish.
Couldn't I change it to Ezra or Adonijah?”
“Boy, boy—”
“Don't be alarmed, father. It will soon be as Sylvia
says; thee's right; and mother is right. I'll let Sylvia
keep my memory, and start fresh from here. We
must into the field to-morrow, Hal and I. There's no
need of a collar at the plough-tail.”
They went to rest, and on the morrow not only the
boys, but their father were in the field. Shrewd, quick,
and strong, they made available what they knew of farming
operations, and disguised much of their ignorance,
while they learned. Henry Donnelly's first public appearance
had made a strong public impression in
his favor, which the voice of the older Friends soon
stamped as a settled opinion. His sons did their share,
by the amiable, yielding temper they exhibited, in accommodating
themselves to the manners and ways of
the people. The graces which came from a better education,
and possibly, more refined associations, gave them
an attraction, which was none the less felt because it was
not understood, to the simple-minded young men who
worked with the hired hands in their fathers' fields. If
the Donnelly family had not been accustomed, in former
and be addressed by the latter in fraternal phrase, no
little awkwardnesses or hesitations betrayed the fact.
They were anxious to make their naturalization complete,
and it soon became so.
The “strange Friend” was now known in Londongrove
by the familiar name of “Henry.” He was a constant
attendant at meeting, not only on First-days, but
also on Fourth-days, and whenever he spoke his words
were listened to with the reverence due to one who was
truly led towards the Light. This respect kept at bay
the curiosity that might still have lingered in some minds
concerning his antecedent life. It was known that he
answered Simon Pennock, who had ventured to approach
him with a direct question, in these words:
“Thee knows, Friend Simon, that sometimes a seal is
put upon our mouths for a wise purpose. I have learned
not to value the outer life except in so far as it is made
the manifestation of the inner life, and I only date my
own from the time when I was brought to a knowledge
of the truth. It is not pleasant to me to look upon
what went before; but a season may come when it shall
be lawful for me to declare all things—nay, when it shall
be put upon me as a duty. Thee must suffer me to wait
the call.”
After this there was nothing more to be said. The
family was on terms of quiet intimacy with the neighbors;
and even Sylvia, in spite of her defiant eyes and worldly
ways, became popular among the young men and maidens.
seemed marvellous to the latter; and when it was known
that her refusal to enter the sect arose from her fondness
for the prohibited instrument, she found many apologists
among them. She was not set upon, and called hard
names, as she had anticipated. It is true that her father,
when appealed to by the elders, shook his head and said,
“It is a cross to us!”—but he had been known to remain
in the room while she sang “Full high in Kilbride,”
and the keen light which arose in his eyes was neither
that of sorrow nor anger.
At the end of their first year of residence the farm
presented evidences of much more orderly and intelligent
management than at first, although the adjoining neighbors
were of the opinion that the Donnellys had hardly
made their living out of it. Friend Henry, nevertheless,
was ready with the advance rent, and his bills were promptly
paid. He was close at a bargain, which was considered
rather a merit than otherwise,—and almost painfully exact
in observing the strict letter of it, when made.
As time passed by, and the family became a permanent
part and parcel of the remote community, wearing
its peaceful color and breathing its untroubled atmosphere,
nothing occurred to disturb the esteem and respect
which its members enjoyed. From time to time the postmaster
at the corner delivered to Henry Donnelly a letter
from New York, always addressed in the same hand. The
first which arrived had an “Esq.” added to the name,
but this “compliment” (as the Friends termed it) soon
whether there was any connection between the occasional
absence of Friend Henry—not at Yearly-Meeting time—
and these letters. If he had been a visitor at the farm-house
he might have noticed variations in the moods of its
inmates, which must have arisen from some other cause
than the price of stock or the condition of the crops.
Outside of the family circle, however, they were serenely
reticent.
In five or six years, when De Courcy had grown to be
a hale, handsome man of twenty-four, and as capable of
conducting a farm as any to the township born, certain
aberrations from the strict line of discipline began to be
rumored. He rode a gallant horse, dressed a little more
elegantly than his membership prescribed, and his unusually
high, straight collar took a knack of falling over.
Moreover, he was frequently seen to ride up the Street
Road, in the direction of Fagg's Manor, towards those
valleys where the brick Presbyterian church displaces the
whitewashed Quaker meeting-house. Had Henry Donnelly
not occupied so high a seat, and exercised such an
acknowledged authority in the sect, he might sooner have
received counsel, or proffers of sympathy, as the case
might be; but he heard nothing until the rumors of De
Courcy's excursions took a more definite form.
But one day, Abraham Bradbury, after discussing
some Monthly-Meeting matters, suddenly asked: “Is this
true that I hear, Henry,—that thy son De Courcy keeps
company with one of the Alison girls?”
“Who says that?” Henry asked, in a sharp voice.
“Why, it's the common talk! Surely, thee's heard
of it before?”
“No!”
Henry set his lips together in a manner which Abraham
understood. Considering that he had fully performed
his duty, he said no more.
That evening, Sylvia, who had been gently thrumming
to herself at the window, began singing “Bonnie Peggie
Alison.” Her father looked at De Courcy, who caught
his glance, then lowered his eyes, and turned to leave the
room.
“Stop, De Courcy,” said the former; “I've heard
a piece of news about thee to-day, which I want thee to
make clear.”
“Shall I go, father?” asked Sylvia.
“No; thee may stay to give De Courcy his memory.
I think he is beginning to need it. I've learned which
way he rides on Seventh-day evenings.”
“Father, I am old enough to choose my way,” said
De Courcy.
“But no such ways now, boy! Has thee clean forgotten?
This was among the things upon which we agreed,
and you all promised to keep watch and guard over yourselves.
I had my misgivings then, but for five years I've
trusted you, and now, when the time of probation is so
nearly over—”
He hesitated, and De Courcy, plucking up courage,
spoke again. With a strong effort the young man threw
true nature. “Has O'Neil written?” he asked.
“Not yet.”
“Then, father,” he continued, “I prefer the certainty
of my present life to the uncertainty of the old. I will
not dissolve my connection with the Friends by a shock
which might give thee trouble; but I will slowly work
away from them. Notice will be taken of my ways; there
will be family visitations, warnings, and the usual routine
of discipline, so that when I marry Margaret Alison, nobody
will be surprised at my being read out of meeting.
I shall soon be twenty-five, father, and this thing has gone
on about as long as I can bear it. I must decide to be
either a man or a milksop.”
The color rose to Henry Donnelly's cheeks, and his
eyes flashed, but he showed no signs of anger. He moved
to De Courcy's side and laid his hand upon his shoulder.
“Patience, my boy!” he said. “It's the old blood,
and I might have known it would proclaim itself. Suppose
I were to shut my eyes to thy ridings, and thy
merry-makings, and thy worldly company. So far I might
go; but the girl is no mate for thee. If O'Neil is alive,
we are sure to hear from him soon; and in three years,
at the utmost, if the Lord favors us, the end will come.
How far has it gone with thy courting? Surely, surely,
not too far to withdraw, at least under the plea of my prohibition?”
De Courcy blushed, but firmly met his father's eyes.
custom of our family to break plighted faith.”
“Thou art our cross, not Sylvia. Go thy ways now.
I will endeavor to seek for guidance.”
“Sylvia,” said the father, when De Courcy had left
the room, “what is to be the end of this?”
“Unless we hear from O'Neil, father, I am afraid it
cannot be prevented. De Courcy has been changing for
a year past; I am only surprised that you did not sooner
notice it. What I said in jest has become serious truth;
he has already half forgotten. We might have expected,
in the beginning, that one of two things would happen:
either he would become a plodding Quaker farmer or take
to his present courses. Which would be worse, when this
life is over,—if that time ever comes?”
Sylvia sighed, and there was a weariness in her voice
which did not escape her father's ear. He walked up and
down the room with a troubled air. She sat down, took
the guitar upon her lap, and began to sing the verse, commencing,
“Erin, my country, though sad and forsaken,”
when—perhaps opportunely—Susan Donnelly entered the
room.
“Eh, lass!” said Henry, slipping his arm around his
wife's waist, “art thou tired yet? Have I been trying
thy patience, as I have that of the children? Have there
been longings kept from me, little rebellions crushed, battles
fought that I supposed were over?”
“Not by me, Henry,” was her cheerful answer. “I
have never have been happier than in these quiet ways
and the letters cease to come? And it has seemed
to me—now that the boys are as good farmers as any,
and Alice is such a tidy housekeeper—that we could manage
very well without help. Only for thy sake, Henry:
I fear it would be a terrible disappointment to thee. Or
is thee as accustomed to the high seat as I to my place on
the women's side?”
“No!” he answered emphatically. “The talk with
De Courcy has set my quiet Quaker blood in motion. The
boy is more than half right; I am sure Sylvia thinks so
too. What could I expect? He has no birthright, and
didn't begin his task, as I did, after the bravery of youth
was over. It took six generations to establish the serenity
and content of our brethren here, and the dress we
wear don't give us the nature. De Courcy is tired of the
masquerade, and Sylvia is tired of seeing it. Thou, my
little Susan, who wert so timid at first, puttest us all to
shame now!”
“I think I was meant for it,—Alice, and Henry, and
I,” said she.
No outward change in Henry Donnelly's demeanor betrayed
this or any other disturbance at home. There
were repeated consultations between the father and son,
but they led to no satisfactory conclusion. De Courcy
was sincerely attached to the pretty Presbyterian maiden,
and found livelier society in her brothers and cousins than
among the grave, awkward Quaker youths of Londongrove.
With the occasional freedom from restraint there
suppressed license of youth. His new acquaintances
were accustomed to a rigid domestic régime, but of a different
character, and they met on a common ground of rebellion.
Their aberrations, it is true, were not of a very
formidable character, and need not have been guarded but
for the severe conventionalities of both sects. An occasional
fox-chase, horse-race, or a “stag party” at some
outlying tavern, formed the sum of their dissipation; they
sang, danced reels, and sometimes ran into little excesses
through the stimulating sense of the trespass they were
committing.
By and by reports of certain of these performances
were brought to the notice of the Londongrove Friends,
and, with the consent of Henry Donnelly himself, De Courcy
received a visit of warning and remonstrance. He had
foreseen the probability of such a visit and was prepared.
He denied none of the charges brought against him, and
accepted the grave counsel offered, simply stating that
his nature was not yet purified and chastened; he was
aware he was not walking in the Light; he believed it to
be a troubled season through which he must needs pass
His frankness, as he was shrewd enough to guess, was a
scource of perplexity to the elders; it prevented them
from excommunicating him without further probation,
while it left him free to indulge in further recreations.
Some months passed away, and the absence from
which Henry Donnelly always returned with a good supply
of ready money did not take place. The knowledge of
It was necessary to exercise both skill and thrift in order
to keep up the liberal footing upon which the family had
lived; for each member of it was too proud to allow the
community to suspect the change in their circumstances.
De Courcy, retained more than ever at home, and bound
to steady labor, was man enough to subdue his impatient
spirit for the time; but he secretly determined that with
the first change for the better he would follow the fate he
had chosen for himself.
Late in the fall came the opportunity for which he had
longed. One evening he brought home a letter, in the
well-known handwriting. His father opened and read it
in silence.
“Well, father?” he said.
“A former letter was lost, it seems. This should have
come in the spring; it is only the missing sum.”
“Does O'Neil fix any time?”
“No; but he hopes to make a better report next year.”
“Then, father,” said De Courcy, “it is useless for me
to wait longer; I am satisfied as it is. I should not have
given up Margaret in any case; but now, since thee can
live with Henry's help, I shall claim her.”
“Must it be, De Courcy?”
“It must.”
But it was not to be. A day or two afterwards the
young man, on his mettled horse, set off up the Street
Road, feeling at last that the fortune and the freedom of
his life were approaching. He had become, in habits and
the hope in which his father still indulged brought him a
firmer courage, a more settled content. His sweetheart's
family was in good circumstances; but, had she been poor,
he felt confident of his power to make and secure for her
a farmer's home. To the past—whatever it might have
been—he said farewell, and went carolling some cheerful
ditty, to look upon the face of his future.
That night a country wagon slowly drove up to Henry
Donnelly's door. The three men who accompanied it
hesitated before they knocked, and, when the door was
opened, looked at each other with pale, sad faces, before
either spoke. No cries followed the few words that were
said, but silently, swiftly, a room was made ready, while
the men lifted from the straw and carried up stairs an unconscious
figure, the arms of which hung down with a horrible
significance as they moved. He was not dead, for
the heart beat feebly and slowly; but all efforts to restore
his consciousness were in vain. There was concussion
of the brain the physician said. He had been thrown
from his horse, probably alighting upon his head, as there
were neither fractures nor external wounds. All that
night and next day the tenderest, the most unwearied care
was exerted to call back the flickering gleam of life. The
shock had been too great; his deadly torpor deepened
into death.
In their time of trial and sorrow the family received
the fullest sympathy, the kindliest help, from the whole
neighborhood. They had never before so fully appreciated
were members. The plain, plodding people living on the
adjoining farms became virtually their relatives and fellow-mourners.
All the external offices demanded by the sad
occasion were performed for them, and other eyes than
their own shed tears of honest grief over De Courcy's coffin.
All came to the funeral, and even Simon Pennock,
in the plain yet touching words which he spoke beside the
grave, forgot the young man's wandering from the Light,
in the recollection of his frank, generous, truthful nature.
If the Donnellys had sometimes found the practical
equality of life in Londongrove a little repellent they
were now gratefully moved by the delicate and refined
ways in which the sympathy of the people sought to express
itself. The better qualities of human nature always
develop a temporary good-breeding. Wherever any of the
family went, they saw the reflection of their own sorrow;
and a new spirit informed to their eyes the quiet pastoral
landscapes.
In their life at home there was little change. Abraham
Bradbury had insisted on sending his favorite grandson,
Joel, a youth of twenty-two, to take De Courcy's
place for a few months. He was a shy, quiet creature, with
large brown eyes like a fawn's, and young Henry Donnelly
and he became friends at once. It was believed that
he would inherit the farm at his grandfather's death; but
he was as subservient to Friend Donnelly's wishes in regard
to the farming operations as if the latter held the fee
of the property. His coming did not fill the terrible gap
it less constantly and painfully evident.
Susan Donnelly soon remarked a change, which she
could neither clearly define nor explain to herself, both in
her husband and in their daughter Sylvia. The former,
although in public he preserved the same grave, stately
face,—its lines, perhaps, a little more deeply marked,—
seemed to be devoured by an internal unrest. His dreams
were of the old times: words and names long unused
came from his lips as he slept by her side. Although he
bore his grief with more strength than she had hoped, he
grew nervous and excitable,—sometimes unreasonably petulant,
sometimes gay to a pitch which impressed her with
pain. When the spring came around, and the mysterious
correspondence again failed, as in the previous year, his
uneasiness increased. He took his place on the high seat
on First-days, as usual, but spoke no more.
Sylvia, on the other hand, seemed to have wholly lost
her proud, impatient character. She went to meeting much
more frequently than formerly, busied herself more actively
about household matters, and ceased to speak of the uncertain
contingency which had been so constantly present
in her thoughts. In fact, she and her father had changed
places. She was now the one who preached patience, who
held before them all the bright side of their lot, who
brought Margaret Alison to the house and justified her
dead brother's heart to his father's, and who repeated to
the latter, in his restless moods, “De Courcy foresaw the
truth, and we must all in the end decide as he did.”
“Can thee do it, Sylvia?” her father would ask.
“I believe I have done it already,” she said. “If it
seems difficult, pray consider how much later I begin my
work. I have had all your memories in charge, and now I
must not only forget for myself, but for you as well.”
Indeed, as the spring and summer months came and
went, Sylvia evidently grew stronger in her determination.
The fret of her idle force was allayed, and her content increased
as she saw and performed the possible duties of
her life. Perhaps her father might have caught something
of her spirit, but for his anxiety in regard to the suspended
correspondence. He wearied himself in guesses, which
all ended in the simple fact that, to escape embarrassment,
the rent must again be saved from the earnings of
the farm.
The harvests that year were bountiful; wheat, barley,
and oats stood thick and heavy in the fields. No one
showed more careful thrift or more cheerful industry than
young Joel Bradbury, and the family felt that much of the
fortune of their harvest was owing to him.
On the first day after the crops had been securely
housed, all went to meeting, except Sylvia. In the walled
graveyard the sod was already green over De Courcy's
unmarked mound, but Alice had planted a little rose-tree
at the head, and she and her mother always visited the
spot before taking their seats on the women's side. The
meeting-house was very full that day, as the busy season
of the summer was over, and the horses of those who lived
at a distance had no longer such need of rest.
It was a sultry forenoon, and the windows and doors
of the building were open. The humming of insects was
heard in the silence, and broken lights and shadows of the
poplar-leaves were sprinkled upon the steps and sills.
Outside there were glimpses of quiet groves and orchards,
and blue fragments of sky,—no more semblance of life in
the external landscape than there was in the silent meeting
within. Some quarter of an hour before the shaking
of hands took place, the hoofs of a horse were heard in
the meeting-house yard—the noise of a smart trot on the
turf, suddenly arrested.
The boys pricked up their ears at this unusual sound,
and stole glances at each other when they imagined themselves
unseen by the awful faces in the gallery. Presently
those nearest the door saw a broader shadow fall over
those flickering upon the stone. A red face appeared for
a moment, and was then drawn back out of sight. The
shadow advanced and receded, in a state of peculiar restlessness.
Sometimes the end of a riding-whip was visible,
sometimes the corner of a coarse gray coat. The boys
who noticed these apparitions were burning with impatience,
but they dared not leave their seats until Abraham
Bradbury had reached his hand to Henry Donnelly.
Then they rushed out. The mysterious personage was
still beside the door, leaning against the wall. He was a
short, thick-set man of fifty, with red hair, round gray
eyes, a broad pug nose, and projecting mouth. He wore
a heavy gray coat, despite the heat, and a waistcoat with
many brass buttons; also corduroy breeches and riding
mouth and eyes, and stared wildly in their faces. They
gathered around the poplar-trunks, and waited with some
uneasiness to see what would follow.
Slowly and gravely, with the half-broken ban of silence
still hanging over them, the people issued from the house.
The strange man stood, leaning forward, and seemed to
devour each, in turn, with his eager eyes. After the young
men came the fathers of families, and lastly the old men
from the gallery seats. Last of these came Henry Donnelly.
In the meantime, all had seen and wondered at
the waiting figure; its attitude was too intense and self-forgetting
to be misinterpreted. The greetings and remarks
were suspended until the people had seen for whom
the man waited, and why.
Henry Donnelly had no sooner set his foot upon the
door-step than, with something between a shout and a
howl, the stranger darted forward, seized his hand, and
fell upon one knee, crying: “O my lord! my lord! Glory
be to God that I've found ye at last!”
If these words burst like a bomb on the ears of the
people, what was their consternation when Henry Donnelly
exclaimed, “The Divel! Jack O'Neil, can that be
you?”
“It's me, meself, my lord! When we heard the letters
went wrong last year, I said `I'll trust no such good news
to their blasted mail-posts: I'll go meself and carry it to
his lordship,—if it is t'other side o' the say. Him and
my lady and all the children went, and sure I can go too
Castle, I'll go back with you to that same, for it stands
awaitin', and blessed be the day that sees you back in
your ould place!”
“All clear, Jack? All mine again?”
“You may believe it, my lord! And money in the
chest beside. But where's my lady, bless her sweet face!
Among yon women, belike, and you'll help me to find her,
for it's herself must have the news next, and then the
young master—”
With that word Henry Donnelly awoke to a sense of
time and place. He found himself within a ring of staring,
wondering, scandalized eyes. He met them boldly,
with a proud, though rather grim smile, took hold of
O'Neil's arm and led him towards the women's end of the
house, where the sight of Susan in her scoop bonnet so
moved the servant's heart that he melted into tears. Both
husband and wife were eager to get home and hear
O'Neil's news in private; so they set out at once in their
plain carriage, followed by the latter on horseback. As for
the Friends, they went home in a state of bewilderment.
Alice Donnelly, with her brother Henry and Joel
Bradbury, returned on foot. The two former remembered
O'Neil, and, although they had not witnessed his first interview
with their father, they knew enough of the family
history to surmise his errand. Joel was silent and troubled.
“Alice, I hope it doesn't mean that we are going back,
don't you?” said Henry.
“Yes,” she answered, and said no more.
They took a foot-path across the fields, and reached
the farm-house at the same time with the first party. As
they opened the door Sylvia descended the staircase dressed
in a rich shimmering brocade, with a necklace of amethysts
around her throat. To their eyes, so long accustomed
to the absence of positive color, she was completely
dazzling. There was a new color on her cheeks, and
her eyes seemed larger and brighter. She made a stately
courtesy; and held open the parlor door.
“Welcome, Lord Henry Dunleigh, of Dunleigh Castle!”
she cried; “welcome, Lady Dunleigh!”
Her father kissed her on the forehead. “Now give us
back our memories, Sylvia!” he said, exultingly.
Susan Donnelly sank into a chair, overcome by the
mixed emotions of the moment.
“Come in, my faithful Jack! Unpack thy portmanteau
of news, for I see thou art bursting to show it; let
us have every thing from the beginning. Wife, it's a little
too much for thee, coming so unexpectedly. Set out the
wine, Alice!”
The decanter was placed upon the table. O'Neil filled
a tumbler to the brim, lifted it high, made two or three
hoarse efforts to speak, and then walked away to the window,
where he drank in silence. This little incident touched
the family more than the announcement of their good
fortune. Henry Donnelly's feverish exultation subsided:
he sat down with a grave, thoughtful face, while his wife
wept quietly beside him. Sylvia stood waiting with an
shawl; and Henry and Joel, seated together at the farther
end of the room, looked on in silent anticipation.
O'Neil's story was long, and frequently interrupted.
He had been Lord Dunleigh's steward in better days, as
his father had been to the old lord, and was bound to the
family by the closest ties of interest and affection. When
the estates became so encumbered that either an immediate
change or a catastrophe was inevitable, he had been
taken into his master's confidence concerning the plan
which had first been proposed in jest, and afterwards
adopted in earnest. The family must leave Dunleigh Castle
for a period of probably eight or ten years, and seek
some part of the world where their expenses could be reduced
to the lowest possible figure. In Germany or Italy
there would be the annoyance of a foreign race and language,
of meeting of tourists belonging to the circle in
which they had moved, a dangerous idleness for their sons,
and embarrassing restrictions for their daughters. On
the other hand, the suggestion to emigrate to America
and become Quakers during their exile offered more advantages
the more they considered it. It was original in
character; it offered them economy, seclusion, entire liberty
of action inside the limits of the sect, the best moral
atmosphere for their children, and an occupation which
would not deteriorate what was best in their blood and
breeding.
How Lord Dunleigh obtained admission into the sect
as plain Henry Donnelly is a matter of conjecture with
been practised upon them—although it was perhaps less
complete than they imagined—left a soreness of feeling
behind it. The matter was hushed up after the departure
of the family, and one might now live for years in the
neighborhood without hearing the story. How the shrewd
plan was carried out by Lord Dunleigh and his family,
we have already learned. O'Neil, left on the estate, in
the north of Ireland, did his part with equal fidelity. He
not only filled up the gaps made by his master's early
profuseness, but found means to move the sympathies of
a cousin of the latter—a rich, eccentric old bachelor,
who had long been estranged by a family quarrel. To
this cousin he finally confided the character of the exile,
and at a lucky time; for the cousin's will was altered in
Lord Dunleigh's favor, and he died before his mood of
reconciliation passed away. Now, the estate was not only
unencumbered, but there was a handsome surplus in the
hands of the Dublin bankers. The family might return
whenever they chose, and there would be a festival to welcome
them, O'Neil said, such as Dunleigh Castle had
never known since its foundations were laid.
“Let us go at once!” said Sylvia, when he had concluded
his tale. “No more masquerading,—I never
knew until to-day how much I have hated it! I will not
say that your plan was not a sensible one, father; but I
wish it might have been carried out with more honor to
ourselves. Since De Courcy's death I have begun to appreciate
our neighbors: I was resigned to become one of
they give us any credit for goodness and truth, I wonder?
Yes, in mother's case, and Alice's; and I believe both of
them would give up Dunleigh Castle for this little farm.”
“Then,” her father exclaimed, “it is time that we
should return, and without delay. But thee wrongs us
somewhat, Sylvia: it has not all been masquerading. We
have become the servants, rather than the masters, of our
own parts, and shall live a painful and divided life until
we get back in our old place. I fear me it will always be
divided for thee, wife, and Alice and Henry. If I am
subdued by the element which I only meant to asssume,
how much more deeply must it have wrought in your natures!
Yes, Sylvia is right, we must get away at once.
To-morrow we must leave Londongrove forever!”
He had scarcely spoken, when a new surprise fell
upon the family. Joel Bradbury arose and walked forward,
as if thrust by an emotion so powerful that it transformed
his whole being. He seemed to forget every
thing but Alice Donnelly's presence. His soft brown
eyes were fixed on her face with an expression of unutterable
tenderness and longing. He caught her by the
hands. “Alice, O, Alice!” burst from his lips; “you
are not going to leave me?”
The flush in the girl's sweet face faded into a deadly
paleness. A moan came from her lips; her head dropped,
and she would have fallen, swooning, from the chair
had not Joel knelt at her feet and caught her upon his
breast.
For a moment there was silence in the room.
Presently, Sylvia, all her haughtiness gone, knelt beside
the young man, and took her sister from his arms.
“Joel, my poor, dear friend,” she said, “I am sorry that
the last, worst mischief we have done must fall upon you.”
Joel covered his face with his hands, and convulsively
uttered the words, “Must she go?”
Then Henry Donnelly—or, rather, Lord Dunleigh, as
we must now call him—took the young man's hand. He
was profoundly moved; his strong voice trembled, and
his words came slowly. “I will not appeal to thy heart,
Joel,” he said, “for it would not hear me now. But thou
hast heard all our story, and knowest that we must leave
these parts, never to return. We belong to another station
and another mode of life than yours, and it must come to
us as a good fortune that our time of probation is at an end.
Bethink thee, could we leave our darling Alice behind us,
parted as if by the grave? Nay, could we rob her of the
life to which she is born—of her share in our lives? On
the other hand, could we take thee with us into relations
where thee would always be a stranger, and in which a
nature like thine has no place? This is a case where
duty speaks clearly, though so hard, so very hard, to
follow.”
He spoke tenderly, but inflexibly, and Joel felt that
his fate was pronounced. When Alice had somewhat
revived, and was taken to another room, he stumbled
blindly out of the house, made his way to the barn, and
there flung himself upon the harvest-sheaves which, three
hope working in his arm.
The day which brought such great fortune had thus a
sad and troubled termination. It was proposed that the
family should start for Philadelphia on the morrow, leaving
O'Neil to pack up and remove such furniture as they
wished to retain; but Susan, Lady Dunleigh, could not
forsake the neighborhood without a parting visit to the
good friends who had mourned with her over her firstborn;
and Sylvia was with her in this wish. So two
more days elapsed, and then the Dunleighs passed down
the Street Road, and the plain farm-house was gone from
their eyes forever. Two grieved over the loss of their
happy home; one was almost broken-hearted; and the
remaining two felt that the trouble of the present clouded
all their happiness in the return to rank and fortune.
They went, and they never came again. An account
of the great festival at Dunleigh Castle reached Londongrove
two years later, through an Irish laborer, who
brought to Joel Bradbury a letter of recommendation
signed “Dunleigh.” Joel kept the man upon his farm,
and the two preserved the memory of the family long
after the neighborhood had ceased to speak of it. Joel
never married; he still lives in the house where the great
sorrow of his life befell. His head is gray, and his face
deeply wrinkled; but when he lifts the shy lids of his
soft brown eyes, I fancy I can see in their tremulous
depths the lingering memory of his love for Alice Dunleigh.
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