University of Virginia Library

28. CHAPTER XXVIII.
IN WHICH HANNAH THURSTON, ALSO, HAS HER TROUBLES.

When Woodbury made his first appearance at the cottage,
the Widow Thurston, who had not seen him since his return
from the Lakes, frankly expressed her pleasure in his society.
It was one of her favorable days, and she was sitting in her
well-cushioned rocking-chair, with her feet upon a stool. She
had grown frightfully thin and pale during the summer, but
the lines of physical pain had almost entirely passed away
from her face. Her expression denoted great weakness and
languor. The calm, resigned spirit which reigned in her eyes
was only troubled, at times, when they rested on her daughter.
She had concealed from the latter, as much as possible, the
swiftness with which her vital force was diminishing, lest she
should increase the care and anxiety which was beginning to
tell upon her health. She knew that the end was not far off:
she could measure its approach, and she acknowledged in her
heart how welcome it would be, but for her daughter's sake.

“It's very kind of thee to come, Friend Woodbury,” said
she. “I've been expecting thee before.”

“I ought to have come sooner,” said he, “but there have
been changes at Lakeside.”

“Yes, I know. The two guests that will not be kept out
have come to thy home, as they come to the homes of others.
We must be ready for either. The Lord sends them both.”

“Yes,” said Woodbury, with a sigh, “but one of them is
long in coming to me.” The sweet serenity and truth of the
old woman's words evoked a true reply. All that she said
came from a heart too sincere for disguise, and spoke to his

undisguised self. There would have been something approaching
to sacrilege in an equivocal answer.

She looked at him with a sad, serious inquiry in her glance.
“I see thee's not hasty to open thy doors,” she said, at
last, “and it's well. There's always a blessing in store for
them that wait. I pray that it may come to thee in the Lord's
good time.”

“Amen!” he exclaimed, earnestly. An irresistible impulse,
the next moment, led him to look at Hannah Thurston. She
was setting in order the plants on the little flower-stand before
the window, and her face was turned away from him, but there
was an indefinable intentness in her attitude which told him
that no word had escaped her ears.

Presently she seated herself, and took part in the conversation,
which turned mainly upon Bute and his wife. The light
from the south window fell upon her face, and Woodbury
noticed that it had grown somewhat thinner and wore a weary,
anxious expression. A pale violet shade had settled under the
dark-gray eyes and the long lashes drooped their fringes. No
latent defiance lurked in her features: her manner was grave,
almost to sadness, and in her voice there was a gentle languor,
like that which follows mental exhaustion.

In all their previous interviews, Woodbury had never been
able entirely to banish from his mind the consciousness of her
exceptional position, as a woman. It had tinged, without his
having suspected the fact, his demeanor towards her. Something
of the asserted independence of man to man had modified
the deferential gentleness of man to woman. She had,
perhaps, felt this without being able to define it, for, though
he had extorted her profound respect he had awakened in her
a disposition scarcely warmer than she gave to abstract qualities.
Now, however, she presented herself to him under a
different aspect. He forgot her masculine aspirations, seeing
in her only the faithful, anxious daughter, over whom the
shadow of her approaching loss deepened from day to day.
The former chill of his presence did not return, but in its place

a subtle warmth seemed to radiate from him. Before, his
words had excited her intellect: now, they addressed themselves
to her feelings. As the conversation advanced, she recovered
her usual animation, yet still preserved the purely
feminine character which he had addressed in her. The positions
which they had previously occupied were temporarily
forgotten, and at parting each vaguely felt the existence of
unsuspected qualities in the other.

During this first visit, Hannah Thurston indulged without
reserve, in the satisfaction which it gave to her. She always
found it far more agreeable to like than to dislike. Woodbury's
lack of that enthusiasm which in her soul was an ever
burning and mounting fire—his cold, dispassionate power of
judgment—his tolerance of what she considered perverted
habits of the most reprehensible character, and his indifference
to those wants and wrongs of the race which continually appealed
to the Reformer's aid, had at first given her the impression
that the basis of his character was hard and selfish. She had
since modified this view, granting him the high attributes of
truth and charity; she had witnessed the manifestation of his
physical and moral courage; but his individuality still preserved
a cold, statuesque beauty. His mastery over himself,
she supposed, extended to his intellectual passions and his
affections. He would only be swayed by them so far as
seemed to him rational and convenient.

His words to her mother recalled to her mind, she knew
not why, the description of her own father's death. It was
possible that an equal capacity for passion might here again be
hidden under a cold, immovable manner. She had sounded,
tolerably well, the natures of the men of whom she had seen
most, during the past six or eight years, and had found that
their own unreserved protestations of feeling were the measure
of their capacity to feel. There was no necessity, indeed, to
throw a plummet into their streams, for they had egotistically
set up their own Nilometers, and the depth of the current
was indicated at the surface. She began to suspect, now, that

she had been mistaken in judging Woodbury by the same test.
The thought, welcome as it was from a broad, humane point
of view, nevertheless almost involved a personal humiliation.
Her strong sense of justice commanded her to rectify the mistake,
while her recognition of it weakened her faith in herself.

In a few days Woodbury came again, and as before, on an
errand of kindness to her mother. She saw that his visits gave
pleasure to the latter, and for that reason alone it was her duty
to desire them, but on this occasion she detected an independent
pleasure of her own at his appearance. A certain friendly
familiarity seemed to be already established between them.
She had been drawn into it, she scarcely knew how, and could
not now withdraw, yet the consciousness of it began to agitate
her in a singular way. A new power came from Woodbury's
presence, surrounded and assailed her. It was not the chill of
his unexcitable intellect, stinging her into a half-indignant resistance.
It was a warm, seductive, indefinable magnetism,
which inspired her with a feeling very much like terror. Its
weight lay upon her for hours after he had gone. Whatever
it was, its source, she feared, must lie in herself; he seemed
utterly unconscious of any design to produce a particular impression
upon her. His manner was as frank and natural as
ever: he conversed about the books which he or she had recently
read, or on subjects of general interest, addressing much
of his discourse to her mother rather than herself. She noticed,
indeed, that he made no reference to the one question
on which they differed so radically; but a little reflection
showed her that he had in no former case commenced the discussion,
nor had he ever been inclined to prolong it when
started.

Their talk turned for a while on the poets. Hannah Thurston
had but slight acquaintance with Tennyson, who was
Woodbury's favorite among living English authors, and he
promised to bring her the book. He repeated the stanzas descriptive
of Jephtha's Daughter, in the “Dream of Fair

Women,” the majestic rhythm and superb Hebrew spirit of
which not only charmed her, but her mother also. The old
woman had a natural, though very uncultivated taste for
poetry. She enjoyed nothing which was purely imaginative:
verse, for her, must have a devotional, or at least an ethical
character. In rhythm, also her appreciation was limited. She
delighted most in the stately march of the heroic measure, and
next to that, in the impetuous rush of the dactylic. In youth
her favorite poems had been the “Davidis” of Thomas Elwood,
Pope's “Essay on Man,” and the lamenting sing-song of Refine
Weeks, a Nantucket poet, whom history has forgotten.
The greater part of these works she knew by heart, and would
often repeat in a monotonous chant, resembling that in which
she had formerly preached. Hannah, however, had of late
years somewhat improved her mother's taste by the careful
selection of poetry of a better character, especially Milton's
“Christmas Hymn,” and the works of Thomson and Cowper.

Woodbury returned the very next day, bringing the promised
volumes. He was about to leave immediately, but the
widow insisted on his remaining.

“Do sit down a while, won't thee?” said she. “I wish thee
would read me something else: I like to hear thy voice.”

Woodbury could not refuse to comply. He sat down,
turned over the leaves of the first volume, and finally selected
the lovely idyll of “Dora,” which he read with a pure, distinct
enunciation. Hannah Thurston, busy with her sewing at
a little stand near the eastern window, listened intently. At
the close she turned towards him with softened eyes, and exclaimed:
“How simple! how beautiful!”

“I'm greatly obliged to thee, Maxwell,” said the widow,
addressing Woodbury for the first time by his familiar name.
“It is always pleasant,” she added, smiling, “to an old
woman, to receive a kindness from a young man.”

“But it ought to be the young man's pleasure, as it is his
duty, to give it,” he answered. “I am glad that you like my

favorite author. I have brought along `The Princess,' also,
Miss Thurston: you have certainly heard of it?”

“Oh yes,” said she, “I saw several critical notices of it
when it was first published, and have always wished to
read it.”

“It gives a poetical view of a subject we have sometimes
discussed,” he added playfully, “and I am not quite sure that
you will be satisfied with the close. It should not be read,
however, as a serious argument on either side. Tennyson, I
suspect, chose the subject for its picturesque effects, rather
than from any intentional moral purpose. I confess I think he
is right. We may find sermons in poems as we find them in
stones, but one should be as unconscious of the fact as the
other. It seems to me that all poetry which the author designs,
in advance, to be excessively moral or pious, is more or
less a failure.”

“Mr. Woodbury! Do you really think so?” exclaimed
Hannah Thurston, in surprise.

“Yes; but the idea is not original with me. I picked it up
somewhere, and finding it true, adopted it as my own. There
was a fanciful illustration, if I recollect rightly—that poetry is
the blossom of Literature, not the fruit; therefore that while
it suggests the fruit—while its very odor foretells the future
flavor—it must be content to be a blossom and nothing more.
The meaning was this: that a moral may breathe through a
poem from beginning to end, but must not be plumply expressed.
I don't know the laws which govern the minds of
poets, but I know when they give me most pleasure. Apply
the test to yourself: I shall be interested to know the result.
Here, for instance, is `The Princess,' which, if it has a particular
moral, has one which you may possibly reject, but I am
sure your enjoyment of pure poetry will not thereby be
lessened.”

“I shall certainly read the book with all the more interest
from what you have said,” she frankly replied. “You have
very much more literary cultivation than I, and perhaps it is

presumptuous in me to dispute your opinion; but my nature
leads me to honor an earnest feeling for truth and humanity,
even when its expression is not in accordance with literary
laws.”

“I honor such a feeling also, whenever it is genuine, however
expressed,” Woodbury answered, “but I make a distinction
between the feeling and the expression. In other
words, the cook may have an admirable character, and yet the
roast may be spoiled. Pollok is considered orthodox and
Byron heretical, but I am sure you prefer the `Hebrew Melodies'
to the “Course of Time.'”

“Hannah, I guess thee'd better read the book first,” said
the widow, who did not perceive how the conversation had
drifted away from its subject. “It is all the better, perhaps,
if our friend differs a little from thee. When we agree in
every thing, we don't learn much from one another.”

“You are quite right, Friend Thurston,” said Woodbury,
rising. “I should be mistaken in your daughter if she accepted
any opinion of mine, without first satisfying her own
mind of its truth. Good-by!”

He took the widow's hand with a courteous respect, and
then extended his own to Hannah. Hers he held gently for a moment
while he said: “Remember, I shall want to know what
impression the poem makes on your mind. Will you tell me?”

“Thank you. I will tell you,” she said.

Strange to say, the boldest eulogiums which had ever reached
Hannah Thurston's ears, never came to them with so sweet a
welcome as Woodbury's parting compliment. Nay, it was
scarcely a compliment at all; it was a simple recognition of
that earnest seeking for truth which she never hesitated to
claim for herself. Perhaps it was his supposed hostile attitude
which gave the words their value, for our enemies always have
us at a disadvantage when they begin to praise us. Politicians
go into obscurity, and statesmen fall from their high places,
ruined, not by the assaults but by the flatteries of the opposite
party.

She could no longer consider Woodbury in the light of an
enemy. His presence, his words, his self-possessed manner,
failed to excite the old antagonism, which always marred her
intellectual pleasure in his society. One by one the discordant
elements in her own nature seemed to be withdrawn, or
rather, she feared, were benumbed by some new power which
he was beginning to manifest. She found, with dismay, that
instead of seeking, as formerly, for weapons to combat his
views, her mind rather inclined to the discovery of reasons for
agreeing with them. It mattered little, perhaps, which course
she adopted, so long as the result was Truth; but the fact that
she recognized the change as agreeable gave her uneasiness.
It might be the commencement of a process of mental subjection—the
first meshes of a net of crafty reasoning, designed
to ensnare her judgment and lead her away from the high aims
she prized. Then, on the other hand, she reflected that such
a process presupposed intention on Woodbury's part, and
how could she reconcile it with his manly honesty, his open
integrity of character? Thus, the more enjoyment his visits
gave her while they lasted, the greater the disturbance which
they left behind.

That new and indescribable effluence which his presence gave
forth not only continued, but seemed to increase in power.
Sometimes it affected her with a singular mixture of fascination
and terror, creating a physical restlessness which it was almost
impossible to subdue. An oppressive weight lay upon her
breast; her hands burned, and the nerves in every limb trembled
with a strange impulse to start up and fly. When, at night,
in the seclusion of her chamber, she recalled this condition, her
cheeks grew hot with angry shame of herself, and she clenched
her hands with the determination to resist the return of such
weakness. But even as she did so, she felt that her power of
will had undergone a change. An insidious, corrosive doubt
seemed to have crept over the foundations of her mental life:
the forms of faith, once firm and fair as Ionic pillars under the
cloudless heaven, rocked and tottered as if with the first menacing

throes of an earthquake. When she recalled her past
labors for the sacred cause of Woman, a mocking demon now
and then whispered to her that even in good there were the
seeds of harm, and that she had estimated, in vanity, the fruits
of her ministry. “God give me strength!” she whispered—
“strength to conquer doubt, strength to keep the truth for
which I have lived and which must soon be my only life,
strength to rise out of a shameful weakness which I cannot
understand!”

Then, ere she slept, a hope to which she desperately clung,
came to smooth her uneasy pillow. Her own future life must
differ from her present. The hour was not far off, she knew,
when her quiet years in the cottage must come to an end.
She could not shut her eyes to the fact that her mother's time
on earth was short; and short as it was, she would not cloud
it by anxiety for the lonely existence beyond it. She resolutely
thrust her own future from her mind, but it was nevertheless
always present in a vague, hovering form. The uncertainty of
her fate, she now thought,—the dread anticipation of coming
sorrow—had shaken and unnerved her. No doubt her old,
steadfast self-reliance and self-confidence would assert themselves,
after the period of trial had been passed. She must only
have patience, for the doubts which she could not now answer
would then surely be solved. With this consolation at her
heart—with a determination to possess patience, which she
found much more easy than the attempt to possess herself of
will, she would close her aching eyes and court the refreshing
oblivion of sleep.

But sleep did not always come at her call. That idea of
the sad, solitary future, so near at hand, would not be exorcised.
If she repelled it, it came back again in company with
a still more terrible ghost of the Past—her early but now
hopeless dream of love. When she tried to call that dream a
delusion, all the forces of her nature gave her the lie—all the
fibres of her heart, trembling in divinest harmony under the
touch of the tormenting angel, betrayed her, despairingly, to

her own self. The crown of independence which she had won
bruised her brows; the throne which she claimed was carved
of ice; the hands of her sister women, toiling in the same
path, were grateful in their help, but no positive pulse of
strength throbbed from them to her heart. The arm which
alone could stay her must have firmer muscle than a woman's;
it must uphold as well as clasp. Why did Heaven give her
the dream when it must be forever vain? Where was the
man at the same time tender enough to love, strong enough to
protect and assist, and just enough to acknowledge the equal
rights of woman? Alas! nowhere in the world. She could
not figure to herself his features; he was a far-off unattainable
idea, only; but a secret whisper, deep in the sacredest
shrine of her soul, told her that if he indeed existed, if he
should find his way to her, if the pillow under her cheek were
his breast, if his arms held her fast in the happy subjection
of love—but no, the picture was not to be endured. It was
a bliss, more terrible in its hopelessness, than the most awful
grief in its certainty. She shuddered and clasped her hands
crushingly together, as with the strength of desperation, she
drove it from her bosom.

Had her life been less secluded, the traces of her internal
struggles must have been detected by others. Her mother,
indeed, noticed an unusual restlessness in her manner, but attributed
it to care for her own condition. With the exception
of Mrs. Waldo, they saw but few persons habitually.
Miss Sophia Stevenson or even Mrs. Lemuel Styles occasionally
called, and the widow always made use of these occasions to
persuade Hannah to restore herself by a walk in the open air.
When the former found that their visits were thus put to good
service, they benevolently agreed to come regularly. The
relief she thus obtained, in a double sense, cheered and invigorated
Hannah Thurston. Her favorite walk, out the Mulligansville
road, to the meadows of East Atauga Creek, took
her in a quarter of an hour from the primly fenced lots and
stiff houses of the village to the blossoming banks of the

winding stream, to the sweet breath of the scented grass, and
the tangled thickets of alder, over which bittersweet and
clematis ran riot and strove for the monopoly of support.
Here, all her vague mental troubles died away like the memory
of an oppressive dream; she drew resignation from every aspect
of Nature, and confidence in herself from the crowding
associations of the Past which the landscape inspired.

Mrs. Waldo, of course, soon became aware of Woodbury's frequent
visits. He had made no secret of them, as he always called
at the Parsonage at the same time, and she had shared equally
in the ripening vintage of Lakeside. But he had spoken much
more of the Widow Thurston than of her daughter, and the
former had been equally free in expressing her pleasure at his
visits, so that Mrs. Waldo never doubted the continuance of
the old antagonism between Hannah and Woodbury. Their
reciprocal silence in relation to each other confirmed her in
this supposition. She was sincerely vexed at a dislike which
seemed not only unreasonable, but unnatural, and grew so impatient
at the delayed conciliation that she finally spoke her
mind on the subject.

“Well, Hannah,” she said, one day, when Woodbury's
name had been incidentally mentioned, “I really think it is time
that you and he should practise a little charity towards each
other. I've been waiting, and waiting, to see your prejudices
begin to wear away, now that you know him better. You
can't think how it worries me that two of my best friends,
who are so right and sensible in all other acts of their lives,
should be so stubbornly set against each other.”

“Prejudices? Does he think I am stubbornly set against
him?” Hannah Thurston cried, the warm color mounting into
her face.

“Not he! He says nothing about you, and that's the worst
of it. You say nothing about him, either. But anybody can
see it. There, I've vexed you, and I suppose I ought not to
have opened my mouth, but I love you so dearly, Hannah—I
love him, too, as a dear friend—and I can't for the life of me

see why you are blind to the truth and goodness in each other
that I see in both of you.”

Here Mrs. Waldo bent over her and kissed her cheek as a
mother might have done. The color faded from Hannah
Thurston's face, as she answered: “I know you are a dear,
good friend, and as such you cannot vex me. I do not know
whether you have mistaken Mr. Woodbury's feelings: you
certainly have mistaken mine. I did his character, at first, injustice,
I will confess. Perhaps I may have had a prejudice
against him, but I am not aware that I have one now. I
honor him as a noble-minded, just, and unselfish man. We
have different views of life, but in this respect he has taught
me, by his tolerance towards me, to be at least equally tolerant
towards him.”

“You make me happy!” cried Mrs. Waldo, in unfeigned
delight; but the next instant she added, with a sigh: “But, in
spite of all, you don't seem to me like friends.”

This explanation added another trouble to Hannah Thurston's
mind. It was very possible that Woodbury suspected
her of cherishing an unfriendly prejudice against him. She
had assuredly given him cause for such a suspicion, and if the
one woman in Ptolemy, who, after her mother, knew her best,
had received this impression, it would not be strange if he
shared it. In such case, what gentle consideration, what forgiving
kindness had he not exhibited towards her? What
other man of her acquaintance would have acted with the same
magnanimity? Was it not her duty to undeceive him—not
by words, but by meeting him frankly and gratefully—by exhibiting
to him, in some indirect way, her confidence in his
nobility of character?

Thus, every thing conspired to make him the centre of her
thoughts, and the more she struggled to regain her freedom,
the more helplessly she entangled herself in the web which his
presence had spun around her.