 | III. Beauty and the beast |  |
3. III.
“Will thee go along, Richard? I know where the
rudbeckias grow,” said Asenath, on the following
“Seventh-day” afternoon.
They crossed the meadows, and followed the course
of the stream, under its canopy of magnificent ash and
plane trees, into a brake between the hills. It was an almost
impenetrable thicket, spangled with tall autumnal
flowers. The eupatoriums, with their purple crowns,
blue spikes of lobelia, tangled in a golden mesh of dodder.
A strong, mature odor, mixed alike of leaves and
flowers, and very different from the faint, elusive sweetness
of spring, filled the air. The creek, with a few faded
leaves dropped upon its bosom, and films of gossamer
streaming from its bushy fringe, gurgled over the pebbles
in its bed. Here and there, on its banks, shone the deep
yellow stars of the flower they sought.
Richard Hilton walked as in a dream, mechanically
plucking a stem of rudbeckia, only to toss it, presently,
into the water.
“Why, Richard! what's thee doing?” cried Asenath;
“thee has thrown away the very best specimen.”
“Let it go,” he answered, sadly. “I am afraid everything
else is thrown away.”
“What does thee mean?” she asked, with a look of
surprised and anxious inquiry.
“Don't ask me, Asenath. Or—yes, I will tell you.
I must say it to you now, or never afterwards. Do you
know what a happy life I've been leading since I came
here?—that I've learned what life is, as if I'd never known
it before? I want to live, Asenath,—and do you know
why?”
“I hope thee will live, Richard,” she said, gently and
tenderly, her deep-blue eyes dim with the mist of unshed
tears.
“But, Asenath, how am I to live without you? But
you can't understand that, because you do not know what
I've been loving you more and more, until now I have no
other idea of death than not to see you, not to love you,
not to share your life!”
“Oh, Richard!”
“I knew you would be shocked, Asenath. I meant
to have kept this to myself. You never dreamed of it,
and I had no right to disturb the peace of your heart.
The truth is told now,—and I cannot take it back, if I
wished. But if you cannot love, you can forgive me for
loving you—forgive me now and every day of my life.”
He uttered these words with a passionate tenderness,
standing on the edge of the stream, and gazing into its
waters. His slight frame trembled with the violence of
his emotion. Asenath, who had become very pale as he
commenced to speak, gradually flushed over neck and
brow as she listened. Her head drooped, the gathered
flowers fell from her hands, and she hid her face. For a
few minutes no sound was heard but the liquid gurgling
of the water, and the whistle of a bird in the thicket beside
them. Richard Hilton at last turned, and, in a voice
of hesitating entreaty, pronounced her name—
“Asenath!”
She took away her hands, and slowly lifted her face.
She was pale, but her eyes met his with a frank, appealing,
tender expression, which caused his heart to stand still a
moment. He read no reproach, no faintest thought of
blame; but—was it pity?—was it pardon?—or—
“We stand before God, Richard,” said she, in a low,
forgive thee. If thee requires it, I also require His forgiveness
for myself.”
Though a deeper blush now came to cheek and brow,
she met his gaze with the bravery of a pure and innocent
heart. Richard, stunned with the sudden and unexpected
bliss, strove to take the full consciousness of it into a being
which seemed too narrow to contain it. His first impulse
was to rush forward, clasp her passionately in his
arms, and hold her in the embrace which encircled, for
him, the boundless promise of life; but she stood there,
defenceless, save in her holy truth and trust, and his heart
bowed down and gave her reverence.
“Asenath,” said he, at last, “I never dared to hope
for this. God bless you for those words! Can you trust
me?—can you indeed love me?”
“I can trust thee,—I do love thee!”
They clasped each other's hands in one long, clinging
pressure. No kiss was given, but side by side they walked
slowly up the dewy meadows, in happy and hallowed
silence. Asenath's face became troubled as the old farm-house
appeared through the trees.
“Father and mother must know of this, Richard,” said
she. “I am afraid it may be a cross to them.”
The same fear had already visited his own mind, but
he answered, cheerfully—
“I hope not. I think I have taken a new lease of
life, and shall soon be strong enough to satisfy them.
Besides, my father is in prosperous business.”
“It is not that,” she answered; “but thee is not one
of us.”
It was growing dusk when they reached the house.
In the dim candle-light Asenath's paleness was not remarked;
and Richard's silence was attributed to fatigue.
The next morning the whole family attended meeting
at the neighboring Quaker meeting-house, in the preparation
for which, and the various special occupations of
their “First-day” mornings, the unsuspecting parents
overlooked that inevitable change in the faces of the lovers
which they must otherwise have observed. After dinner,
as Eli was taking a quiet walk in the garden, Rich
ard Hilton approached him.
“Friend Mitchenor,” said he, “I should like to have
some talk with thee.”
“What is it, Richard?” asked the old man, breaking
off some pods from a seedling radish, and rubbing them
in the palm of his hand.
“I hope, Friend Mitchenor,” said the young man,
scarcely knowing how to approach so important a crisis
in his life, “I hope thee has been satisfied with my conduct
since I came to live with thee, and has no fault to
find with me as a man.”
“Well,” exclaimed Eli, turning around and looking
up, sharply, “does thee want a testimony from me? I've
nothing, that I know of, to say against thee.”
“If I were sincerely attached to thy daughter, Friend
Mitchenor, and she returned the attachment, could thee
trust her happiness in my hands?”
“What!” cried Eli, straightening himself and glaring
upon the speaker, with a face too amazed to express any
other feeling.
“Can you confide Asenath's happiness to my care?
I love her with my whole heart and soul and the fortune
of my life depends on your answer.”
The straight lines in the old man's face seemed to grow
deeper and more rigid, and his eyes shone with the chill
glitter of steel. Richard, not daring to say a word more,
awaited his reply in intense agitation.
“So!” he exclaimed at last, “this is the way thee's
repaid me! I didn't expect this from thee! Has thee
spoken to her?”
“I have.”
“Thee has, has thee? And I suppose thee's persuaded
her to think as thee does. Thee'd better never have
come here. When I want to lose my daughter, and can't
find anybody else for her, I'll let thee know.”
“What have you against me, Friend Mitchenor?”
Richard sadly asked, forgetting, in his excitement, the
Quaker speech he had learned.
“Thee needn't use compliments now! Asenath shall
be a Friend while I live; thy fine clothes and merry-makings
and vanities are not for her. Thee belongs to the
world, and thee may choose one of the world's women.”
“Never!” protested Richard; but Friend Mitchenor
was already ascending the garden-steps on his way to the
house.
The young man, utterly overwhelmed, wandered to
Thus, in a miserable chaos of emotion, unable to grasp
any fixed thought, the hours passed away. Towards evening,
he heard a footstep approaching, and sprang up. It
was Moses.
The latter was engaged, with the consent of his parents
and expected to “pass meeting” in a few weeks. He
knew what had happened, and felt a sincere sympathy for
Richard, for whom he had a cordial regard. His face was
very grave, but kind.
“Thee'd better come in, Richard,” said he; “the evenings
are damp, and I v'e brought thy overcoat. I know
everything, and I feel that it must be a great cross for
thee. But thee won't be alone in bearing it.”
“Do you think there is no hope of your father relenting?”
he asked, in a tone of despondency which anticipated
the answer.
“Father's very hard to move,” said Moses; “and
when mother and Asenath can't prevail on him, nobody
else need try. I'm afraid thee must make up thy mind
to the trial. I'm sorry to say it, Richard, but I think
thee'd better go back to town.”
“I'll go to-morrow,—go and die!” he muttered
hoarsely, as he followed Moses to the house.
Abigail, as she saw his haggard face, wept quietly.
She pressed his hand tenderly, but said nothing. Eli
was stern and cold as an Iceland rock. Asenath did not
make her appearance. At supper, the old man and his
son exchanged a few words about the farm-work to be
soon left the room and went up to his chamber to spend
his last, his only unhappy night at the farm. A yearning,
pitying look from Abigail accompanied him.
“Try and not think hard of us!” was her farewell
the next morning, as he stepped into the old chair,
in which Moses was to convey him to the village where
he should meet the Doylestown stage. So, without a
word of comfort from Asenath's lips, without even a last
look at her beloved face, he was taken away.
| III. Beauty and the beast | |