University of Virginia Library

16. CHAPTER XVI.
CONCERNING AN UNEXPECTED JOURNEY TO TIBERIUS.

Two days after the departure of the Whitlows, Mr. Dyce,
during breakfast, announced his intention of leaving Ptolemy.
“I have promised to visit the Community,” said he, “and it is
now a pleasant time to be there. Could you lend me your
horse and carriage as far as Tiberius, Merryfield?”

“Not to-day, I guess,” said the farmer; “I must go to
Mulligansville this afternoon, to see about buying another cow,
and Henry has the hill-field to hoe. You could take Jinny and
the carriage, but how would I get them back again?”

“I will go,” said his wife, with an unusual eagerness. “I
must go there soon, any way. I've things to buy, you know,
James, and there's Mrs. Nevins that I've been owing a visit
to, this ever so long.”

“Well, if you want to, Sarah,” he answered, “I've nothing
against it. Are you sure it won't be too much for you? You
know you've been having extra work, and you're not strong.”

Mrs. Merryfield drew up the corners of her mouth, and gave
a spasmodic sob. “Yes, I know I am the weaker vessel,” she
wailed, “and my own judgment don't pass for any thing.”

“Sarah, Sarah, don't be foolish!” said her husband; “you
know I never interfere unreasonably with your ways. You
can do as you please. I spoke for your own good, and you
needn't cry about it.”

He rose with an impatient air, and left the table. He could
not but admit to himself, sometimes, that the happiness of his
married life had not increased in proportion to his progress in

the knowledge of Reform. When he looked back and recalled
the lively, rosy young woman, with her first nuptial bashfulness
and air of dependence on her husband fresh about her,
whom he had brought to the farm-house twenty-five years
before, when they lived in utter ignorance of dietetic laws and
solemn duties towards the Human Race, he could not repress
a feeling of pain. The sallow, fretful woman, who now considered
her years of confiding love as a period of servitude,
which she strove to balance by claiming more than an equal
share in the direction of the household, was another (and less
agreeable) creature, in comparison with her former self. Of
late, she had grown more than usually irritable and unsatisfied,
and, although he had kindly ascribed the fact to housekeeping
perplexities, his patience was sorely tried. There was no
remedy but endurance, so far as he could see. It was impossible,
now, to change his convictions in regard to woman's
rights, and he was too sincere to allow the practice of his life
to be inconsistent with them.

When he returned at noon from a distant field, where he had
been engaged all the morning, he was surprised to find the
carriage still at home, although his man Henry was engaged
in greasing the hubs of the wheels. “Why, Sarah,” said he,
as he sat down to dinner, “I thought you would have been
off.”

“I couldn't get ready,” she answered, rather sullenly. “But
I need not come back to-night. It will be better for Jinny,
anyhow.”

Mr. Dyce was unusually talkative on the subject of the Community,
the charms of which he painted in the liveliest colors.
His host was tired of the subject, but listened with an air of
tolerance, as he was so soon to get rid of the speaker.

Bidding the latter good-by, immediately after dinner, he
saddled his horse and rode to Mulligansville. The new cow
met his requirements, and a bargain was soon concluded. She
was to be brought to the farm next day, when the price agreed
upon would be paid. Mr. Merryfield had adopted the sensible

rule of defraying all such expenses as they arose. Hence his
crops were never mortgaged in advance, and by waiting until
they could be sold to the best advantage, he prospered from
year to year.

When he reached home again, it was nearly four o'clock.
Putting up his horse, he entered the house and went directly
to the old-fashioned mixture of book-case, writing-desk, and
chest of drawers, which stood in a corner of the sitting-room.
He must make a note of the purchase, and, since he was alone,
might as well spend an hour, he thought, in looking over his
papers and making his calculations for the summer.

He was very methodical in his business arrangements, and
the desk was in such perfect order that he always knew the
exact place of each particular paper. This was one of the
points of controversy with his wife, which he never yielded:
he insisted that she should not open the desk in his absence.
This time, however, as he seated himself, drew out the supports
for the lid, and let it down upon them, his exact eye
showed him that something had been disturbed. The papers
in one of the pigeon-holes projected a little further than usual,
and the corners were not square as they should be. Besides,
the pile appeared to be diminished in height. He knew every
paper the pigeon-hole contained, took them out and ran rapidly
through them. One was missing!—an envelope, containing
bonds of the New York Central Railroad, to the amount of
three thousand dollars, the private property of his wife. It
was the investment of a sum which she had inherited at her
father's death, made in her own name, and the interest of
which she had always received for her separate use.

He leaned back in his chair, thunderstruck at the discovery.
Could one of the servants have taken the envelope? Impossible.
Dyce?—how should he know where to find it? Evidently,
nothing else had been touched. Had his wife, perhaps,
taken it with her, to draw the semi-annual interest at Tiberius?
It was not yet due. Mechanically, hardly conscious of what he
suspected or feared, he arose and went up-stairs. In the bedroom

which Dyce had last occupied, every thing was in order.
He passed into his own, opening closets and wardrobes, expecting
either to find or miss something which might enlighten
him. In his wife's wardrobe three pegs, upon which dresses
had hung, were empty. He jerked open, in haste, the drawers
of her bureau: many things had apparently been removed.
Closing them again, he raised his head, and a little note, sticking
among the bristles of the hair-brush, which lay on its back
in front of the looking-glass, caught his eye. He seized it, unfolded
it with shaking hands, put on his spectacles and read.
There were but two lines:

“Send to Tiberius for the carriage. I am going to the
Community.”

It was a hard blow for the poor man. The idea of conjugal
infidelity on the part of his wife was simply incredible, and no
suspicion of that nature entered his mind. It was a deliberate
case of desertion, and the abstraction of the bonds indicated
that it was meant to be final. What her motives were, he
could only guess at in a confused way; but he knew that she
would never, of her own accord, have determined upon a course
so mad and ruinous. Many things were suddenly clear to him.
The evil influence of Dyce, strengthened by his assumed power,
as a medium, of bringing her children near to her; the magnetic
strength, morbid though it was, of the man's words and
presence; the daily opportunities of establishing some intangible
authority over the wife, during her husband's absence,
until she became, finally, the ignorant slave of his will—all this,
or the possibility of it, presented itself to Merryfield's mind in
a rush of dim and tangled impressions. He had neither the
time nor the power to unravel them, but he felt that there was
truth at the core. Following this conviction came the determination
to save her—yes! save her at once. There was no
time to be lost. Tiberius was eighteen miles distant, and they
could not yet have arrived there. He must follow instantly,
and overtake them, if possible, before the departure of the train
from the west.

Why was he delaying there? The ten minutes that he had
been standing, motionless, in the centre of the room, with the
note in his hand, his eyes mechanically reading the two lines
over and over, until the first terrible chaos of his feelings subsided,
had lengthened themselves into hours. Breaking the
spell at last, he drew a long breath, which resolved itself into
a groan, and lifted his head. The little looking-glass on the
bureau was before him: moving a step nearer, he examined his
own face with a pitiful curiosity. It looked old and haggard;
the corners of his mouth were rigidly drawn and tightened, and
the pinched nostrils twitched in spite of himself, but his eyes
were hard and dry.

“It don't make much difference in my looks, after all,” he
said to himself, with a melancholy laugh; and the next instant
the eyes overflowed.

After this brief outbreak, he recovered some strength and
steadiness, and rapidly arranged in his mind what was first to
be done. Taking off his work-day clothes, he put on a better
suit, and descended the stairs. Calling to the servant-girl in
the kitchen, he informed her, in a voice which he strove to
make natural and unconcerned, that he was suddenly obliged
to visit Tiberius on business, but would return the next day,
with his wife. He left directions with her for Henry, the
field-hand, regarding the morrow's work, then resaddled his
horse and rode rapidly to Ptolemy.

On the way, his thoughts involuntarily went in advance, and
he endeavored to prefigure the meeting with his wife. It was
impossible for him, however, to decide what course he should
pursue in case she should persist in her determination. It was
not enough to overtake her; he must be armed at all points
to subdue and reclaim her. She had a stubborn power of resistance
with which he was well acquainted; and, moreover,
Dyce would be ready enough to assist her. He foreboded his
own helplessness in such a case, though the right was on his
side and the flagrant wrong on hers.

“It's my own fault,” he groaned, bitterly; “I've given

way to her so long that I've lost my rightful influence over
her.”

One means of help suggested itself to his mind, and was
immediately accepted. Leaving his horse at the livery stable,
and ordering a fast, fresh animal and a light buggy to be sent
to the Cimmerian Parsonage, he proceeded thither on foot.

Mr. Waldo was in his “study,” which was one corner of
his wife's sitting-room. He was engaged in an epistolary controversy
with a clergyman of the Free-will Baptists, occasionally
reading aloud a paragraph as he wrote. His wife, busily
at work in remaking an old dress, listened and commended.
They were both startled by the entrance of Mr. Merryfield,
whose agitation was apparent in his face, and still more so in
his voice, as he greeted them.

“What has happened?” exclaimed Mrs. Waldo.

“I don't hardly know, as yet,” he stammered. “I want
your help, Mr. Waldo. Come with me—I'm going to Tiberius.
My wife”— Here he paused, blushing with utter shame
for her.

“Would you rather speak to my husband alone?” said Mrs.
Waldo, rising from her seat.

“No, you must hear the rest, now,” he answered. “You're
a good woman, Mrs. Waldo—good and true, and perhaps you,
too, can help. Sarah wants to leave me, and I must bring her
back—I must, this night.”

He then told them, briefly and brokenly, his painful story.
Amazement and pity filled the hearts of the two good people,
who felt his misfortune almost as keenly as if it were their
own. Mrs. Waldo commenced making the few preparations
necessary for her husband's departure, even before his consent
was uttered. When the team was announced as ready, she
took Mr. Merryfield's hand and bade him God-speed, with tears
in her eyes. The poor man was too much moved to reply.
Then, catching her husband's arm, as he was issuing from the
room, she whispered earnestly, “No harshness—I know her:
she must be coaxed and persuaded.”

“I wish it were you who were going, my good wife,” said
Mr. Waldo, kissing her; “you would make no mistake. But
be sure that I will act tenderly and carefully.”

They drove away. She watched them turn the next corner,
and went into the house powerfully excited by such a sudden
and singular catastrophe. Her quick, intuitive mind, and her
knowledge of Mrs. Merryfield's weak points, enabled her to
comprehend the action more correctly than the husband himself.
This very knowledge was the source of her greatest
anxiety; for she saw that the success of the journey hung by
a hair. Having already committed herself, Mrs. Merryfield,
she foresaw, would not give up her plan from the discovery
of it, merely. She was not the woman to fall at her husband's
feet, repentant, at the first sight of him, and meekly return to
her forsaken home. The utmost tact would be required—tact
of a kind, of which, with all her respect for the sex, she felt
that a man was not capable.

The more she pondered on the matter, the more restless
and anxious she grew. Her husband's last words remained
in her ears: “You would make no mistake.” That was not
certain, but she would make none, she knew, which could not
at once be rectified. An inner voice continually said to her,
“Go!” Her unrest became at last insupportable; she went
to the stable, and harnessed their horse to the old gig with her
own hands. Then taking her shawl, and thrusting some refreshments
into a basket—for she would not delay even long
enough to make a cup of tea—she clambered into the creaking
vehicle, and drove off.

Mrs. Waldo, however, like many good women whose moral
courage is equal to any emergency, was in some respects a
ridiculous coward. Even in company with her husband, she
never passed along the country roads, at night, without an incessant
sensation of fear, which had no positive shape, and
therefore could not be battled against. It was now six o'clock,
and the darkness would be upon her long before she could
reach Tiberius. The thought of making the journey alone,

was dreadful; if the suspended fate of the Merryfields was to
be decided by her alone, she would have been almost ready
to hesitate. There was but one person in Ptolemy to whom
she dared tell the story, and who was equally authorized with
herself, to go—that person was Hannah Thurston.

All these thoughts passed through her mind, and her resolution
was taken, while she was harnessing the horse. She
drove at once to the Widow Thurston's cottage, and was fortunate
enough to find her and her daughter at their early tea.
Summoning them into the next room, out of ear-shot of the
little servant, she communicated the story and her request in
the fewest possible words. She left them no time to recover
from the news. “Don't stop to consider, Hannah,” she said,
“we can talk on the way. There is not a moment to lose.”

Miss Thurston hesitated, overcome by a painful perplexity.
The matter had been confided to her, without the knowledge
of the principal actors, and she was not sure that her unexpected
appearance before them would lead to good. Besides,
Mrs. Merryfield's act was utterly abhorrent to all her womanly
instincts, and her virgin nature shrank from an approach to it,
even in the way of help. She stood irresolute.

The widow saw what was passing in her mind. “I know
how thee feels, Hannah,” said she, “and I would not advise
thee, if thy way were not clear to my mind. I feel that it is
right for thee to go. The Saviour took the hand of the fallen
woman, and thee may surely take Sarah's hand to save her,
maybe, from falling. Now, when thy gift may be of service
—now is the time to use it freely. Something tells me that
thy help will not be altogether in vain.”

“I will go, mother,” the daughter replied. “Thy judgment
is safer than mine.”

In five minutes more the two women were on their way.
The loveliest evening sunshine streamed across the valley,
brightening the meadows and meadow-trees, and the long,
curving sweep of the eastern hill. The vernal grass, which, in
its flowering season, has a sweeter breath than the roses of Gulistan,

was cut in many places, and lay in balmy windrows. The
air was still and warm, and dragon-flies, emitting blue and
emerald gleams from their long wings, hovered in zigzag lines
along the brooksides. Now and then a thrush fluted from
the alder-thickets, or an oriole flashed like a lighted brand
through the shadows of the elms. The broad valley basked
in the lazy enjoyment of its opulent summer hues; and whatever
sounds arose from its bosom, they all possessed a tone of
passive content or active joy. But the travellers felt nothing
of all this beauty: that repose of the spiritual nature, in which
the features of the external world are truly recognized, had
been rudely disturbed.

They passed the Merryfield farm-house. How sadly at variance
with its sunny air of peace was the tragic secret of its
owners, which the two women carried with them! The huge
weeping willow trailed its hanging masses of twigs against the
gable, and here and there a rose-tree thrust its arm through
the white garden paling and waved a bunch of crimson, as if
to say: “Come in and see how we are blooming!” Towards
the barn, the field-hand was letting down bars for the waiting
cows, and the servant-girl issued from the kitchen-door with
her tin milk-kettle, as they gazed. What a mockery it all
seemed!

A little further, and the cataract thundered on their right.
All below the rocky wall lay in shadow, but the trees on its
crest were still touched by the sun, and thin wreaths of spray,
whirling upward, were suddenly converted into dust of gold.
Hannah Thurston looked up at the silent grove, and shuddered
as she recalled the picture she had last seen there. The brook
could never again wear to her its former aspect of wayward,
impetuous jubilation. Under its green crystal and glassy
slides lurked an element of terror, of pitiless cruelty. Yet
even the minutes of agonizing suspense she had there endured
were already softened in her memory, and seemed less terrible
than the similar trial which awaited her.

Near the entrance to Lakeside they met Bute Wilson, with

a yoke of oxen. He recognized the old gig, and with a loud
“Haw, Buck,—come hither!” drew his team off the road.”

“Takin' a drive, are ye? How d'you do, Mrs. Waldo—
Miss Hannah?”

“Good-evening, Bute!” said Mrs. Waldo. “How is Mr.
Woodbury? I hope he has not suffered from being so long
in the water.”

“Bless you, no! Mr. Max. is as sound as a roach. He rid
over to Tiberius this afternoon. I say, wasn't it lucky that
jist he should ha' come along at the right time?” Bute's face
glowed with pride and delight.

“It was Providential: good-by!”

Slowly climbing the long ravine, through dark woods, it
was after sunset when they reached the level of the upland.
The village of Anacreon soon came in sight, and they drove
rapidly through, not wishing to be recognized. Beyond this
point the road was broad, straight, and firm, and they could
make better progress. A low arch of orange light lingered
in the west, but overhead the larger stars came out, one after
another. Belts of warm air enveloped them on the heights,
but the dusky hollows were steeped in grateful coolness, and
every tree by the roadside gave out its own peculiar odor.
The ripe, antique breath of the oak, the honeyed bitter of the
tulip-tree, and the perfect balsam of the hickory, were breathed
upon them in turn. A few insects still chirped among the
clover, and the unmated frogs serenaded, by fits, their reluctant
sweethearts. At one of the farm-houses they passed, a girl,
seated in the porch, was singing:

Every circumstance seemed to conspire, by involuntary contrast,
to force the difficult and painful task they had undertaken
more distinctly upon their minds. After Mrs. Waldo
had imparted all she knew, with her own conjectures of the

causes of the desertion, both women were silent for a long
time, feeling, perhaps, that it was impossible to arrange, in
advance, any plan of action. They must trust to the suggestions
which the coming interview would supply.

“I cannot understand it,” said Hannah Thurston, at last.
“After so many years of married life—after having children
born to them, and lost, uniting them by the more sacred bond
of sorrow—how is it possible? They certainly loved each
other: what has become of her love?”

“She has it somewhere, yet, you may be sure,” said Mrs.
Waldo. “She is weak and foolish, but she does not mean to
be criminal. Dyce is a dangerous man, and he has led her to
the step. No other man she knows could have done it.”

“Can she love him?”

“Probably not. But a strong, unscrupulous man who
knows our sex, Hannah, has a vast power which most women
do not understand. He picks up a hundred little threads of
weakness, each of which is apparently insignificant, and
twists them into a chain. He surprises us at times when our
judgment is clouded, his superior reason runs in advance of
our thoughts—and we don't think very hard, you know—and
will surely bind us hand and foot, unless some new personality
comes in to interrupt him. We women are governed by personal
influences—there is no use in denying the fact. And
men, of course, have the strongest.”

“I have sometimes feared as much,” said Hannah Thurston,
sadly, “but is it not owing to a false education? Are not
women trained to consider themselves inferior, and thus dependent?
Do not the daughters learn the lesson of their
mothers, and the fathers impress the opposite lesson on their
sons?”

“I know what you mean, and you are partly right. But
that is not all. There are superior women whom we look up
to—I look up to you, Hannah, who are, intellectually, so far
above me—but they never impress us with the same sense of
power, of protecting capacity, that we feel in the presence of

almost any man. It is something I cannot explain—a sort of
physical magnetism, I suppose. I respect men: I like them
because they are men, I am not ashamed to confess: and I am
not humiliated as a woman, by acknowledging the difference.”

“Habit and tradition!” Hannah Thurston exclaimed.

“I know you will think so, Hannah, and I am not able to answer
you. When I hear you speak, sometimes, every word you
say seems just and true, but my instincts, as a woman, remain
the same. Your life has been very different from mine, and
perhaps you have taken, without knowing it, a sort of warlike
position towards men, and have wilfully resisted their natural
influence over you. For your sake, I have often longed—and
you must pardon me, if I ought not to say such a thing—that
some man, in every respect worthy of you, should come to
know you as you are, and love you, and make you his wife.”

“Don't—don't speak of that,” she whispered.

“I couldn't help it, to-night, dear,” Mrs. Waldo soothingly
replied. “I have been thinking as I came along, what cause
I have to thank God for having given me a good and faithful
husband. I should never have been happy as a single woman,
and for that reason, no doubt, your life seems imperfect to
me. But we cannot always judge the hearts of others by our
own.”

By this time the glimmering arch of summer twilight had
settled behind the hills, and only the stars lighted them on
their way. The road stretched before them like a dusky
band, between the shapeless darkness of woods and fields, on
either side. Indistinct murmurs of leaves and rustlings among
the grass began to be heard, and at every sound Mrs. Waldo
started nervously.

“Was there ever such a coward as I am!” she exclaimed,
in a low voice. “If you were not with me, I should go wild
with fear. Do you suppose any man in the world is so
timid?”

“There, again, I cannot judge,” Miss Thurston answered.
“I only know that I am never alarmed at night, and that this

journey would be a perfect enjoyment, if we were not going
on such an unfortunate errand.”

“I always knew you were an exception among women.
Your nerves are like a man's, but mine are altogether feminine,
and I can't help myself.”

The horse stopped at a toll-gate. They were only two
miles from Tiberius, and the road descended the greater part
of the way. Mrs. Waldo recovered her courage, for the
houses were now more thickly scattered, and the drive would
soon be at an end. The old horse, too, had by this time recognized
the extent of his task, and determined to get through
with it. They rattled rapidly onwards, and from the next rise
saw the lights of the town, twinkling around the foot of
Atauga Lake.

As they reached the suburban belt, where every square,
flat-roofed, chocolate-colored villa stood proudly in the centre
of its own square plot of ground, Hannah Thurston asked:

“Where shall we go?”

“Bless me, I never thought of that. But I think my husband
generally stops at `The Eagle,' and we can at least leave
the horse there. Then we must try to find him and—the
others. I think our best plan would be to go to the railroad
station.”

The gardens and villas gradually merged into the irregular,
crowded buildings which lined the principal street. Many
stores were open, the side-walks were lively with people,
transparencies gleamed before ice-cream saloons, and gas-lamps
burned brilliantly at the corners.

“What time is it?” asked Mrs. Waldo.

Hannah Thurston looked at her watch. “A quarter past
nine.”

“We have made good time,” said her companion; “Heaven
grant that we are not too late!”