University of Virginia Library

11. CHAPTER XI.
CONTAINING TWO DECLARATIONS, AND THE ANSWERS THERETO.

As Bute, on entering the village, passed the Widow Thurston's
cottage, he noticed a dim little figure emerging from the
gate. Although the night was dark, and the figure was so
muffled as to present no distinct outline, Bute's eyes were
particularly sharp. Like the sculptor, he saw the statue in
the shapeless block. Whether it was owing to a short jerking
swing in the gait, or an occasional sideward toss of what
seemed to be the head, he probably did not reflect; but he
immediately drew the rein on Diamond, and called out “Miss
Carrie!”

“Ah!” proceeded from the figure, as it stopped, with a
start; “who is it?”

Bute cautiously drove near the plank sidewalk, before
answering. Then he said: “It's me.”

“Oh, Bute,” exclaimed Miss Dilworth, “how you frightened
me! Where did you come from?”

“From home. I'm a-goin' to fetch Mr. Max., but there's no
hurry. I say, Miss Carrie, wouldn't you like to take a little
sleigh-ride? Where are you goin' to?”

“To Waldo's.”

“Why, so am I! Jump in, and I'll take you along.”

Miss Dilworth, nothing loath, stepped from the edge of the
sidewalk into the cutter, and took her seat. Bute experienced
a singular feeling of comfort, at having the soft little body
wedged so closely beside him, with the same wolf-skin spread
over their mutual knees. His heart being on the side next

her, it presently sent a tingling warmth over his whole frame;
the sense of her presence impressed him with a vague physical
delight, and he regretted that the cutter was not so narrow as
to oblige him to take her upon his knees. It was less than
half a mile to the parsonage—about two minutes, as Diamond
trotted—and then the doors of heaven would close upon him.

“No! by Jimminy!” he suddenly exclaimed, turning
around in the track, at the imminent risk of upsetting the
cutter.

“What's the matter?” cried Miss Dilworth, a little alarmed
at this unexpected manœuvre.

“It isn't half a drive for you, Carrie,” Bute replied. “The
sleddin's prime, and I'll jist take a circuit up the creek, and
across into the South Road. We'll go it in half an hour, and
there's plenty of time.”

Miss Dilworth knew, better even than if he had tried to tell
her, that Bute was proud and happy at having her beside
him. Her vanity was agreeably ministered to; she enjoyed
sleighing; and, moreover, where was the harm? She would
not have objected, on a pinch, to be driven through Ptolemy
by Arbutus Wilson, in broad daylight; and now it was too
dark for either of them to be recognized. So she quietly
submitted to what was, after all, not a hard fate.

As they sped along merrily over the bottoms of East
Atauga Creek, past the lonely, whispering elms, and the
lines of ghostly alders fringing the stream, where the air
struck their faces with a damp cold, the young lady shuddered.
She pressed a little more closely against Bute, as if
to make sure of his presence, and said, in a low tone: “I
should not like to be alone, here, at this hour.”

Poor Bute felt that the suspense of his heart was no longer
to be borne. She had played with him, and he had allowed
himself to be played with, long enough. He would ask a
serious question and demand a serious answer. His resolution
was fixed, yet, now that the moment had arrived, his tongue
seemed to become paralyzed. The words were in his mind,

every one of them—he had said them over to himself, a hundred
times—but there was a muzzle on his mouth which prevented
their being put into sound. He looked at the panels
of fence as they sped past, and thought, “so much more of
the road has gone, and I have said nothing.”

Miss Dilworth's voice was like a palpable hand stretched
out to draw him from that quagmire of silence. “Oh,
Carrie!” he exclaimed, “you needn't be alone, anywheres—
leastways where there's any thing to skeer or hurt you.”

She understood him, and resumed her usual tactics, half-accepting,
half-defensive. “We can't help being alone sometimes,
Bute,” she answered, “and some are born to be alone
always. Alone in spirit, you know; where there is no congenial
nature.”

“You're not one o' them, Carrie,” said Bute, desperately.
“You know you're not a genus. If you was, I shouldn't keer
whether I had your good-will or not. But I want that, and
more'n that, because I like you better than any thing in this
world. I've hinted the same many a time, and you know it,
and I don't want you to turn it off no longer.”

The earnestness of his voice caused Miss Dilworth to tremble.
There was a power in the man which she feared she
could not withstand. Still he had made no definite proposal,
and she was not bound to answer more than his words literally
indicated.

“Why, of course I like you, Bute,” said she; “everybody
does. And you've always been so kind and obliging towards
me.”

“Like! I'd ruther you'd say hate than like. There's two
kinds o' likin', and one of 'em's the kind that doesn't fit anybody
that comes along. Every man, Carrie, that's wuth his
salt, must find a woman to work for, and when he's nigh onto
thirty, as I am, he wants to see a youngster growin' up, to
take his place when he gits old. Otherways, no matter how
lucky he is, there's not much comfort to him in livin'. Now,
I'm awful serious about this. I don't care whether we're congenial

spirits, or not, but I want you, Carrie, for my wife.
You may hunt far and wide, but you'll find nobody that'll
keer for you as I will. Perhaps I don't talk quite as fine as
some, but talkin's like the froth on the creek; maybe it's
shallow, and maybe it's deep, you can't tell. The heart's the
main thing, and, thank God, I'm right there. Carrie, this
once, jist this once, don't trifle with me.”

Bute's voice became soft and pleading, as he closed. Miss
Dilworth was moved at last; he had struck through her affected
sentimentalism, and touched the small bit of true womanly
nature beneath it. But the impression was too sudden. She
had not relinquished her ambitious yearnings; she knew and
valued Bute's fidelity, and, precisely for that reason, she felt
secure in seeming to decline it. She would have it in reserve,
in any case, and meanwhile, he was too cheerful and light-hearted
to suffer much pain from the delay. Had he taken
her in his arms, had he stormed her with endearing words,
had he uttered even one sentence of the hackneyed sentiment
in which she delighted, it would have been impossible to resist.
But he sat silently waiting for her answer, while the
horse slowly climbed the hill over which they must pass to
reach the South Road; and in that silence her vanity regained
its strength.

“Carrie?” he said, at last.

“Bute?”

“You don't answer me.”

“Oh, Bute!” said she, with a curious mixture of tenderness
and coquetry, “I don't know how. I never thought you
were more than half in earnest. And I'm not sure, after all,
that we were meant for each other. I like you as well as I
like anybody, but—”

Here she paused.

“But you won't have me, I s'pose?” said Bute, in a tone
that was both bitter and sad.

“I don't quite mean that,” she answered. “But a woman
has so much at stake, you know. She must love more than a

man, I've been told, before she can give up her name and her
life to him. I don't know, Bute, whether I should do right to
promise myself to you. I've never thought of it seriously.
Besides, you come upon me so sudden—you frightened me a
little, and I really don't exactly know what my own mind is.”

“Yes, I see,” said Bute, in a stern voice.

They had reached the top of the hill, and the long descent
to Ptolemy lay before them. Bute drew the reins and held
the horse to his best speed. Some inner prop of his strong
breast seemed to give way all at once. He took the thick
end of his woollen scarf between his teeth and stifled the convulsive
movements of his throat. Then a sensation of heat
rushed through his brain, and the tears began to roll rapidly
down his cheeks. He was grateful for the darkness which hid
his face, for the bells which drowned his labored breathing,
and for the descent which shortened the rest of the drive. He
said nothing more, and Miss Dilworth, in spite of herself, was
awed by his silence. By the time they had reached the parsonage
he was tolerably calm, and the traces of his passion
had disappeared from his face.

Miss Dilworth lingered while he was fastening the horse.
She felt, it must be confessed, very uneasy, and not guiltless of
what had happened. She knew not how to interpret Bute's
sudden silence. It was probably anger, she thought, and
she would therefore lay the first stone of a temple of reconciliation.
She liked him too well to lose him wholly.

“Good-night, Bute!” she said, holding out her hand: “you
are not angry with me, are you?”

“No,” was his only answer, as he took her hand. There
was no eager, tender pressure, as before, and the tone of his
voice, to her ear, betrayed indifference, which was worse than
anger.

After Woodbury had taken leave, there was a general movement
of departure. The sempstress had come to spend a few
days with Mrs. Waldo, and did not intend returning; it was
rather late, and the Merryfields took the nearest road home, so

that Hannah Thurston must have walked back, alone, to her
mother's cottage, had not Seth Wattles been there to escort her.
Seth foresaw this duty, and inwardly rejoiced thereat. The
absence of Woodbury restored his equanimity of temper, and
he was as amiably disposed as was possible to his incoherent
nature. He was not keen enough to perceive the strong relief
into which his shapeless mind was thrown by the symmetry
and balance of the man whom he hated—that he lost ground,
even in his own circle, not merely from the discomfiture of the
moment, but far more from that unconscious comparison of the
two which arose from permanent impressions. He was not
aware of the powerful magnetism which social culture exercises,
especially upon minds fitted, by their honest yearning
after something better, to receive it themselves.

Seth was therefore, without reason, satisfied with himself as
he left the house. He had dared, at least, to face this self-constituted
lion, and had found the animal more disposed to
gambol than to bite. He flattered himself that his earnestness
contrasted favorably with the levity whereby Woodbury had
parried questions so important to the human race. Drawing
a long breath, as of great relief, he exclaimed:

“Life is real, life is earnest! We feel it, under this sky:
here the frivolous chatter of Society is hushed.”

Hannah Thurston took his proffered arm, conscious, as she
did so, of a shudder of something very like repugnance. For
the first time it struck her that she would rather hear the
sparkling nothings of gay conversation than Seth's serious
platitudes. She did not particularly desire his society, just
now, and attempted to hasten her pace, under the pretext that
the night was cold.

Seth, however, hung back. “We do not enjoy the night as
we ought,” said he. “It elevates and expands the soul. It is
the time for kindred souls to hold communion.”

“Scarcely out of doors, in winter, unless they are disembodied,”
remarked Miss Thurston.

Seth was somewhat taken aback. He had not expected so

light a tone from so grave and earnest a nature. It was unusual
with her, and reminded him, unpleasantly, of Woodbury's
frivolity. But he summoned new courage, and continued:

“We can say things at night for which we have no courage
in daylight. We are more sincere, somehow—less selfish, you
know, and more affectionate.”

“There ought to be no such difference,” said she, mechanically,
and again hastening her steps.

“I know there oughtn't. And I didn't mean that I wasn't
as true as ever; but—but there are chosen times when our
souls are uplifted and approach each other. This is such a
time, Hannah. We seem to be nearer, and—and—”

He could get no farther. The other word in his mind was
too bold to be used at the outset. Besides, having taken one
step, he must allow her to take the next: it would make the
crisis easier for both. But she only drew her cloak more
closely around her, and said nothing.

“The influences of night and—other things,” he resumed,
“render us insensible to time and—temperature. There is
one thing, at least, which defies the elements. Is there not?”

“What is it?” she asked.

“Can't you guess?”

“Benevolence, no doubt, or a duty so stern and sacred that
life itself is subordinate to its performance.”

“Yes, that's true—but I mean something else!” Seth exclaimed.
“Something I feel, now, deep in my buzzum. Shall
I unveil it to your gaze?”

“I have no right to ask or accept your confidence,” she
replied.

“Yes, you have. One kindred soul has the right to demand
every thing of the other. I might have told you, long ago,
but I waited so that you might find it out for yourself, without
the necessity of words. Surely you must have seen it in my
eyes, and heard it in my voice, because every thing powerful
in us expresses itself somehow in spite of us. The deepest

emotions, you know, are silent; but you understand my silence
now, don't you?”

Hannah Thurston was more annoyed than surprised by this
declaration. She saw that a clear understanding could not be
avoided, and nerved herself to meet it. Her feeling of repugnance
to the speaker increased with every word he uttered;
yet, if his passion were genuine (and she had no right to doubt
that it was so), he was entitled at least to her respect and her
pity. Still, he had spoken only in vague terms, and she could
not answer the real question. Why? Did she not fully understand
him? Was the shrinking sense of delicacy in her
heart, which she was unable to overcome, a characteristic of
sex, separating her nature, by an impassable gulf, from that of
man?

“Please explain yourself clearly, Seth,” she said, at last.

“Oh, don't your own heart explain it for you? Love don't
want to be explained: it comes to us of itself. See here—
we've been laboring together ever so long in the Path of Progress,
and our souls are united in aspirations for the good of our
fellow-men. All I want is, that we should now unite our lives
in the great work. You know I believe in the equal rights of
Woman, and would never think of subjecting you to the
tyranny your sisters groan under. I have no objection to
taking your name, if you want to make that sort of a protest
against legal slavery. We'll both keep our independence, and
show to the world the example of a true marriage. Somebody
must begin, you know, as Charles Macky, the glorious poet of
our cause, says in his Good Time Coming.”

“Seth,” said Hannah Thurston, with a sad, deliberate sweetness
in her voice, “there is one thing, without which there
should be no union between man and woman.”

“What is that?” he asked.

“Love.”

“How? I don't understand you. That is the very reason
why—”

“You forget,” she interrupted, “that love must be reciprocal.

You have taken it for granted that I returned, in equal
measure, the feelings you have expressed towards me. Where
the fortune of a life is concerned, it is best to be frank, though
frankness give pain. Seth, I do not, I never can, give you
love. A coincidence of opinions, of hopes and aspirations, is
not love. I believe that you have made this mistake in your
own mind, and that you will, sooner or later, thank me for
having revealed it to you. I have never suspected, in you,
the existence of love in its holiest and profoundest meaning,
nor have I given you reason to suppose that my sentiments
towards you were other than those of friendly sympathy and
good-will. I deeply regret it, if you have imagined otherwise.
I cannot atone to you for the ruin of whatever hopes you may
have cherished, but I can at least save you from disappointment
in the future. I tell you now, therefore, once and forever,
that, whatever may happen, however our fates may
change, you and I can never, never be husband and wife.”

Sweet and low as was her voice, an inexorable fate spoke in
it. Seth felt, word by word, its fatal significance, as the condemned
culprit feels the terrible phrases of his final sentence.
He knew, instinctively, that it was vain to plead or expostulate.
He must, perforce, accept his doom; but, in doing so, his injured
self-esteem made a violent protest. It was the fretful
anger of disappointment, rather than the unselfish sorrow of
love. He could only account for the fact of his refusal by the
supposition that her affections were elsewhere bestowed.

“I see how it is,” said he, petulantly; “somebody else is in
the way.”

“Do not misunderstand me,” she answered. “I, only, am
responsible for your disappointment. You have no right to
question me, and I might well allow your insinuation to pass
without notice; but my silence may possibly mislead you, as
it seems my ordinary friendly regard has done. I will, therefore,
for my own sake no less than yours—for I desire, in so
solemn a matter, to leave no ground for self-reproach—voluntarily
say to you, that I know no man to whom I could surrender

my life in the unquestioning sacrifice of love. I have long
since renounced the idea of marriage. My habits of thought
—the duties I have assumed—my lack of youth and beauty,
perhaps” (and here the measured sweetness of her voice was
interrupted for a moment), “will never attract to me the man,
unselfish enough to be just to my sex, equally pure in his aspirations,
equally tender in his affections, and wiser in the
richness of his experience, whom my heart would demand, if
it dared still longer to cherish a hopeless dream. I have not
even enough of an ideal love remaining, to justify your jealousy.
In my association with you for the advancement of
mutual aims, as well as in our social intercourse, I have treated
you with the kindly respect which was your due as a fellow-being,
but I can never recognize in you that holy kinship of
the heart, without which Love is a mockery and Marriage is
worse than death!”

Seth felt it impossible to reply, although his self-esteem was
cruelly wounded. She thought herself too good for him, then:
that was it! Why, the very man she had described, as the
ideal husband she would never meet—it was exactly himself!
It was of no use, however, for him to say so. She had rejected
him with a solemn decision, from which there was no appeal.
He must, also, needs believe her other declaration, that
she loved no one else. Her inordinate mental pride was the
true explanation.

They had stopped, during the foregoing conversation. Hannah
Thurston had dropped her hold on his arm, and stood,
facing him, on the narrow sidewalk. The night was so dark
that neither could distinctly see the other's face. A melancholy
wind hummed in the leafless twigs of the elms above
them, and went off to sough among a neighboring group of
pines. Finding that Seth made no answer, Miss Thurston
slowly resumed her homeward walk. He mechanically accompanied
her. As they approached the widow's cottage, he
heaved a long, hoarse sigh, and muttered:

“Well, there's another aspiration deceived. It seems

there's no quality of human nature which we can depend
upon.”

“Do not let this disappointment make you unjust, Seth,”
she said, pausing, with her hand upon the gate. “You have
deceived yourself, and it is far better to become reconciled to
the truth at once. If I have ignorantly, in any way, assisted
in the deception, I beg you to pardon me.”

She turned to enter the cottage, but Seth still hesitated.
“Hannah,” he said at last, awkwardly: “You—you won't say
any thing about this?”

She moved away from him with an instant revulsion of feeling.
“What do you take me for?” she exclaimed. “Repeat
that question to yourself, and perhaps it may explain to you
why your nature and mine can never approach!” Without
saying good-night, she entered the house, leaving Seth to wander
back to his lodgings in a very uncomfortable frame of
mind.

Hannah Thurston found the lighted lamp waiting for her in
the warm sitting-room; her mother was already in bed. She
took off her bonnet and cloak, and seated herself in the widow's
rocking-chair. Tears of humiliation stood in her eyes. “He
does not deserve,” she said to herself, “that I should have
opened my heart before him. I wanted to be just, for I thought
that love, however imperfect or mistaken, was always at least
delicate and reverent. I thought the advocacy of moral truth
presupposed some nobility of soul—that a nature which accepted
such truth could not be entirely low and mean. I have
allowed a profane eye to look upon sanctities, and the very
effort I made to be true and just impresses me with a sense of
self-degradation. What must I do, to reconcile my instincts
with the convictions of my mind? Had I not suppressed the
exhibition of my natural repugnance to that man, I should have
been spared the pain of this evening—spared the shrinking
shudder which I must feel whenever the memory of it returns.”

Gradually her self-examination went deeper, and she confessed

to herself that Seth's declaration of love was in itself her
greatest humiliation. She had not told him the whole truth,
though it had seemed to be so, when she spoke. She had not
renounced the dream of her younger years. True, she had
forcibly stifled it, trodden upon it with the feet of a stern
resolution, hidden its ruins from sight in the remotest
chamber of her heart—but now it arose again, strong in its
immortal life. Oh, to think who should have wooed her under
the stars, in far other words and with far other answers—the
man whom every pulse of her being claimed and called upon,
the man who never came! In his stead this creature, whose
love seemed to leave a stain behind it—whose approach to
her soul was that of an unclean footstep. Had it come to this?
Was he the only man whom the withheld treasures of her
heart attracted towards her? Did he, alone, suspect the
splendor of passion which shone beneath the calmness and
reserve of the presence she showed to the world?

It was a most bitter, most humiliating thought. With her
head drooping wearily towards her breast, and her hands
clasped in her lap, with unheeded tears streaming from her
eyes, she sought refuge from this pain in that other pain of the
imagined love that once seemed so near and lovely—lovelier
now, as she saw it through the mist of a gathering despair.
Thus she sat, once more the helpless captive of her dreams,
while the lamp burned low and the room grew cold.