University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.
IN WHICH MR. WOODBURY PAYS AN UNEXPECTED VISIT.

On the following Monday, Woodbury having occasion to
visit Ptolemy, took with him the volume of Kalidasa, intending
to leave it at the cottage of the widow Thurston. The
day was mild and sunny, and the appearance of the plank
sidewalk so inviting to the feet, that he sent Bute forward to
the Ptolemy House with the cutter, on alighting at the cottage
gate.

The door of the dwelling, opening to the north, was protected
by a small outer vestibule, into which he stepped,
designing simply to leave the book, with his compliments, and
perhaps a visiting-card—though the latter was not de rigueur
in Ptolemy. There was no bell-pull; he knocked, gently at
first, and then loudly, but no one answered. Turning the knob
of the door he found it open, and entered a narrow little hall,
in which there was a staircase leading to the upper story, and
two doors on the left. Knocking again at the first of these,
an answer presently came from the further room, and the
summons, “Come in!” was repeated, in a clear though weak
voice.

He no longer hesitated, but advanced into the sitting-room.
Friend Thurston, sunning herself in her comfortable chair,
looked around. A fleeting expression of surprise passed over
her face, but the next moment she stretched out her hand,
saying: “How does thee do?”

“My name is Woodbury,” said he, as he took it respectfully,
“I—”

“I thought it must be thee,” she interrupted. “Hannah
described thy looks to me. Won't thee sit down?”

“I have only called to leave a book for your daughter, and
will not disturb you.”

“Thee won't disturb me. I feel all the better for a little
talk now and then, and would be glad if thee could sit and chat
awhile. Thee's just about the age my little Richard would
have been if he had lived.”

Thus kindly invited, Woodbury took a seat. His eye appreciated,
at a glance, the plainness, the taste, and the cozy
comfort of the apartment, betraying in every detail, the touches
of a woman's hand. Friend Thurston's face attracted and
interested him. In spite of her years, it still bore the traces
of former beauty, and its settled calm of resignation recalled
to his mind the expression he remembered on that of Mrs.
Dennison. Her voice was unusually clear and sweet, and the
deliberate evenness of her enunciation,—so different from the
sharp, irregular tones of the Ptolemy ladies,—was most agreeable
to his ear.

“Hannah's gone out,” she resumed; “but I expect her back
presently. It's kind of thee to bring the book for her. Thee
bears no malice, I see, that she lectured thee a little. Thee
must get used to that, if thee sees much of our people. We
are called upon to bear testimony, in season and out of season,
and especially towards men of influence, like thee, whose responsibilities
are the greater.”

“I am afraid you over-estimate my influence,” Woodbury
replied; “but I am glad you do not suppose that I could
bear malice on account of a frank expression of opinion.
Every man has his responsibilities, I am aware, but our ideas
of duty sometimes differ.”

“Thee's right there,” said the old lady; “and perhaps we
ought not to ask more than that the truth be sought for, in a
sincere spirit. I don't think, from thy face, that there is much
of stubborn worldly pride in thy nature, though thee belongs
to the world, as we Friends say.”

“I have found that a knowledge of the world cures one of
unreasonable pride. The more I mingle with men, the more I
find reflections of myself, which better enable me to estimate
my own character.”

“If thee but keeps the heart pure, the Holy Spirit may
come to thee in the crowded places, even as The Saviour was
caught up from the midst of His Disciples!” she exclaimed
with fervor. Gazing on her steady, earnest eyes, Woodbury
could not help thinking to himself: “The daughter comes
legitimately by her traits.”

“Can thee accustom thyself to such a quiet life as thee leads
now?” she asked; and then gazing at him, continued, as if
speaking to herself: “It is not a restless face. Ah, but that is
not always a sign of a quiet heart. There are mysteries in
man, past finding out, or only discovered when it is too late!”

“This life is not at all quiet,” he answered, “compared with
that which I have led for the past ten or twelve years. In a
foreign country, and especially within the tropics, the novelty
of the surroundings soon wears off, and one day is so exactly
the repetition of another, that we almost lose our count of
time. It seems to me, now, as if I were just awaking out of a
long sleep. I have certainly thought more, and felt more, in
these three months than in as many years abroad; for I had
come to believe that the world was standing still, while now I
see that it really moves, and I must move with it.”

“I like to hear thee say that!” exclaimed the widow, turning
suddenly towards him, with a bright, friendly interest in
her face. “Men are so apt to be satisfied with their own opinions—at
least, when they've reached thy age. Thee's over
thirty, I should think?”

“Thirty-six,” Woodbury respectfully answered, “but I hope
I shall never be so old as to suppose, like the counsellors of
Job, that wisdom will die with me.”

The widow understood his allusion, in the literal sense
which he intended: not so another auditor. Hannah Thurston,
who heard the last words as she entered the room, at once

suspected a hidden sarcasm, aimed principally at herself. The
indirect attacks to which she had been subjected,—especially
from persons of her own sex,—had made her sensitive and suspicious.
Her surprise at Woodbury's presence vanished in the
spirit of angry antagonism which suddenly arose within her.
She took the hand he frankly offered, with a mechanical coldness
strangely at variance with her flushed cheeks and earnest
eyes.

“I'm glad thee's come, Hannah,” said the old lady. “Friend
Woodbury has been kind enough to bring thee a book, and
I've been using an old woman's privilege, to make his acquaintance.
He'll not take it amiss, I'm sure!”

Woodbury replied with a frank smile, which he knew she
would understand. His manner towards the daughter, however,
had a shade of formal deference. Something told him
that his visit was not altogether welcome to her. “I found
the translation of the Megha-Duta, Miss Thurston,” he said,
“and have called to leave it, on my way to the village. If it
interests you, I shall make search for whatever other fragments
of Indian literature I may have.”

“I am very much obliged to you,” she forced herself to say,
inwardly resolving, that, whether interesting or not, this was
the first and last book she would receive from the library of
Lakeside.

“It is really kind of thee,” interposed the widow; “Hannah
finds few books here in Ptolemy that she cares to read, and we
cannot afford to buy many. What was the work, Hannah,
thee spoke of the other night?”

Thus appealed to, the daughter, after a moment's reluctance,
answered: “I was reading to mother Carlyle's Essay on
Goethe, and his reference to `Wilhelm Meister' excited my
curiosity. I believe Carlyle himself translated it, and therefore
the translation must be nearly equal to the original.”

“I read it some years ago, in Calcutta,” said Woodbury,
“but I only retain the general impression which it left upon
my mind. It seemed to me, then, a singular medley of wisdom

and weakness, of the tenderest imagination and the
coarsest reality. But I have no copy, at present, by which to
test the correctness of that impression. I am not a very critical
reader, as you will soon discover, Miss Thurston. Do you
like Carlyle?”

“I like his knowledge, his earnestness, and his clear insight
into characters and events, though I cannot always adopt his
conclusions. His thought, however, is strong and vital, and it
refreshes and stimulates at the same time. I am afraid he
spoils me for other authors.”

“Is not that, in itself, an evidence of something false in his
manner? That which is absolutely greatest or truest should
not weaken our delight in the lower forms of excellence. Peculiarities
of style, when not growing naturally out of the subject,
seem to me like condiments, which disguise the natural
flavor of the dish and unfit the palate to enjoy it. Have you
ever put the thought, which Carlyle dresses in one of his
solemn, involved, oracular sentences, into the Quaker garb of
plain English?”

“No,” said Hannah Thurston, somewhat startled. “I confess,”
she added, after a pause, “the idea of such an experiment
is not agreeable to me. I cannot coldly dissect an author
whom I so heartily admire.”

Woodbury smiled very, very slightly, but her quick eye
caught and retained his meaning. “Then I will not dissect
him for you,” he said; “though I think you would find a
pleasure in the exercise of the critical faculty, to counterbalance
the loss of an indiscriminate admiration. I speak for
myself, however. I cannot be content until I ascertain the
real value of a man and his works, though a hundred pleasant
illusions are wrecked in the process. I am slow to acknowledge
or worship greatness, since I have seen the stuff of which
many idols are composed. The nearer an author seems to reflect
my own views, the more suspicious I am, at first, of his
influence upon me. A man who knows how to see, to think,
and to judge, though he may possess but an average intellect,

is able to get at all important truths himself, without taking
them at second-hand.”

There was no assumption of superiority—not the slightest
trace of intellectual arrogance in Woodbury's manner. He
spoke with the simple frankness of a man who was utterly unconscious
that he was dealing crushing blows on the mental
habits of his listener—not seeming to recognize, even, that
they were different from his own. This calmness, so unlike
the heat and zeal with which other men were accustomed to
discuss questions with her, disconcerted and silenced Hannah
Thurston. He never singled out any single assertion of hers
as a subject of dispute, but left it to be quietly overwhelmed
in the general drift of his words. It was a species of mental
antagonism for which she was not prepared. To her mother,
who judged men more or less by that compound of snow and
fire who had been her husband, Woodbury's manner was exceedingly
grateful. She perceived, as her daughter did not,
the different mental complexion of the sexes; and moreover,
she now recognized, in him, a man with courage enough to
know the world without bitterness of heart.

“I thank thee,” said she, as he rose to leave with an apology
for the length of his stay; “I have enjoyed thy visit. Come
again, some time, if thee finds it pleasant to do so. I see thee
can take a friendly word in a friendly way, and thee may be
sure that I won't judge thy intentions wrongly, where I am
led to think differently.”

“Thank you, Friend Thurston: it is only in differing, that
we learn. I hope to see you again.” He took the widow's
offered hand, bowed to Hannah, and left the room.

“Mother!” exclaimed the latter, as she heard the outer
door close behind him, “why did thee ask him to come
again?”

“Why, Hannah! Thee surprises me. It is right to bear
testimony, but we are not required to carry it so far as that.
Has thee heard any thing against his character?”

“No, mother: he is said to be upright and honorable, but I

do not like to be obliged to him for kindnesses, when he,
no doubt, thinks my condemnation of his habits impertinent,—
when, I know, he despises and sneers at my views!”

“Hannah,” said the mother, gravely, “I think thee does him
injustice. He is not the man to despise thee, or any one who
thinks earnestly and labors faithfully, even in a cause he cannot
appreciate. We two women, living alone here, or only seeing
the men who are with us in sympathy, must not be too hasty
to judge. Is thee not, in this way, committing the very fault
of which thee accuses him?”

“Perhaps so,” said Hannah: “I doubt whether I know what
is true.” She sank wearily into a chair. The volume Woodbury
left behind, caught her eye. Taking it up, she turned
over the leaves listlessly, but soon succumbed to the temptation
and read—read until the fairy pictures of the Indian
moonlight grew around her, as the Cloud sailed on, over jungle
and pagoda, and the dance of maidens on the marble terraces.

Meanwhile, Woodbury having transacted his business and
Bute Wilson his, the two were making preparations to return
to Lakeside, when a plump figure, crossing the beaten snow-track
in front of the Ptolemy House, approached them. Even
before the thick green veil was thrown back, Woodbury recognized
the fat hand which withdrew itself from a worn chinchilla
muff, as the hand of Mrs. Waldo. Presently her round dark
eyes shone full upon him, and he heard—what everybody in
Ptolemy liked to hear—the subdued trumpet of her voice.

“Just in time to catch you!” she laughed. “How do you
do, Bute? Will you call at the parsonage, Mr. Woodbury?
No? Then I must give you my message in the open street.
Is anybody near? You must know it's a secret.” After having
said this in a loud tone, she lowered her voice: “Well, I
don't mind Bute knowing it: Bute is not a leaky pitcher, I'm
sure.”

“I reckon Mr. Max knows that,” said Arbutus, with a broad
laugh dancing in his blue eyes.

“What is it? Another fair for the Cimmerians? Or is
Miss Eliza Clancy engaged to a missionary?” asked Woodbury.

“Be silent, that you may hear. If it were not for my feet
getting cold, I would be a quarter of an hour telling you. But
I must hurry—there's Mrs. Bue coming out of her yard, and
she scents a secret a mile off. Well—it's to be at Merryfield's
on Saturday evening. You must be sure to come.”

“What—the Sewing Union?”

“Bless me! I forgot. No—Dyce is to be there.”

“Dyce?”

“Yes. They don't want it to be generally known, as so many
would go out of mere curiosity. I must say, between us, that
is my only reason. Neither you nor I have any faith in it; but
Mrs. Merryfield says she will be glad if you can come.”

“First tell me who Dyce is, and what is to be done,” said
Woodbury, not a little surprised. The expression thereof
was instantly transferred to Mrs. Waldo's face.

“Well—to be sure, you're as ignorant as a foreigner. Bute
knows, I'll be bound. Tell him, Bute, on the way home.
Good-by! How do you do, Mrs. Bue? I was just telling
Mr. Woodbury that the vessel for Madras”—and the remainder
of the sentence was lost in the noise of the departing bells.

“Dyce is what they call a Mejum,” explained Bute, as they
dashed out on the Anacreon road: “Merryfields believe in it.
I was there once't when they made the dinner-table jump like
a wild colt Then there's sperut-raps, as they call 'em, but
it's not o' much account what they say. One of 'em spoke to
me, lettin' on to be my father. `Arbutus,' says he (they spelt
it out), `I'm in the third spere, along with Jane.' Ha! ha!
and my mother's name was Margaretta! But you'd better
see it for yourself, Mr. Max. Seein' 's believin', they say,
but you won't believe more'n you've a mind to, after all.”