University of Virginia Library

32. CHAPTER XXXII.
IN WHICH ALL RETREAT IS CUT OFF.

“Come back to-morrow, Maxwell,” the Widow Thurston
had said, as he took an affectionate leave of her; “come back,
and let me hear what thee and Hannah have to say. I am too
weak now to talk any more. My life has been so little acquainted
with sudden visitations of joy, that this knowledge
takes hold of my strength. Thee may leave me too, Hannah;
I think I could sleep a little.”

The latter carefully smoothed and arranged the pillows, and
left the invalid to repose. Woodbury was waiting for her, in
the door leading from the sitting-room to the hall. “I am
going home now,” he said; “can you give me a word of hope
and comfort on the way? tell me that you trust me!”

“Oh, I do, I do!” she exclaimed; “Do not mistake either
my agitation or my silence. I believe that if I could once be
in harmony with myself, what I have heard from your lips to-day
would make me happy. I am like my mother,” she
added, with a melancholy smile, “I am more accustomed to
contempt than honor.”

He led her into the hall and closed the door behind them.
He put one arm protectingly around her, and she felt herself
supported against the world. “Hereafter, Hannah,” he whispered,
“no one can strike at you except through me. Good-by
until to-morrow!” He bent his head towards her face,
and their eyes met. His beamed with a softened fire, a dewy
tenderness and sweetness, before which her soul shivered and
tingled in warm throbs of bliss, so quick and sharp as to touch
the verge of pain. A wonderful, unknown fascination drew

her lips to his. She felt the passionate pressure; her frame
trembled; she heard the door open and close as in a dream,
and blindly felt her way to the staircase, where she sank upon
the lower step and buried her face in her hands.

She neither thought, nor strove to think. The kiss burned
on and on, and every throb of her pulses seemed to break in
starry radiations of light along her nerves. Dissolving rings
of color and splendor formed and faded under her closed lids,
and the blood of a new life rustled in her ears, as if the spirits
of newly-opened flowers were whispering in the summer wind.
She was lapped in a spell too delicious to break—an exquisite
drunkenness of her being, beside which all narcotics would
have been gross. External sounds appealed no more to her
senses; the present, with its unfinished struggles, its torturing
doubts, its prophecies of coming sorrow, faded far away, and
her soul lay helpless and unresisting in the arms of a single
sensation.

All at once, a keen, excited voice, close at hand, called her
name. It summoned her to herself with a start which took
away her breath.

“My dear girl! Good gracious, what's the matter!” exclaimed
Mrs. Waldo, who stood before her. “I saw your
mother was asleep, and I've been hunting you all over the
house. You were not asleep, too?”

“I believe I was trying to think.”

“Bless me, haven't you thought enough yet? I should say,
from the look of your face, that you had seen a ghost—no, it
must have been an angel! Don't look so, my dear, or I shall
be afraid that you are going to die.”

“If I were to die, it would make all things clear,” Hannah
Thurston answered, with a strong effort of self-control; “but
I must first learn to live. Do not be alarmed on my account.
I am troubled and anxious: I am not my old self.”

“I don't wonder at it,” rejoined Mrs. Waldo, tenderly.
“You must see the loss that is coming, as well as the rest
of us.”

“Yes, I know that my mother can never recover, and I begin,
already, to shrink from the parting, as if it were close at hand.”

“Oh, my dear,” cried Mrs. Waldo, melting into tears, “don't
you see the truth yet? Don't you see that the parting is
close at hand? I was afraid you did not know; your mother,
I was sure, would not tell you; but, putting myself in your
place, I did not think it right that you should be kept in ignorance.
She is failing very fast.”

Hannah Thurston grew very pale. Her friend led her
through the door, and out into the little garden in the rear of
the cottage. Some wind, far away to the west, had lifted
into a low arch the gray concave of cloud, and through this
arch the sinking sun poured an intense, angry, brassy light
over the tree-tops and along the hillside fields. They leaned
against the paling at the bottom of the garden, and looked
silently on the fiery landscape. Hannah was the first to speak.

“You are a good friend to me,” she said; “I thank you for
the knowledge. I knew the blow must come, but I hoped
it might be delayed a little longer. I must bear it with what
strength I may.”

“God will help you, Hannah,” said Mrs. Waldo, wiping
away her tears. “He measures the burden for the back that
is to bear it.”

Woodbury walked home alone, without waiting, as usual,
for Bute and the buggy. He threw back his shoulders and inhaled
long draughts of the fresher evening air, with the relief
of a man who has performed a trying task. He had full confidence
in the completeness of his victory, yet he saw how narrowly
he had escaped defeat. Had his mind not been previously
occupied with this woman—had he not penetrated to
the secret of her nature—had he not been bold enough to stake
his fortune on the inherent power of his manhood, he must
have failed to break down those ramparts of false pride which
she had built up around her heart. A man of shallower knowledge
would have endeavored to conquer by resistance—would
have been stung by her fierce assertion of independence,

utterly mistaking the source from whence it sprang. In him
it simply aroused a glorious sense of power, which he knew
how to curb to the needs of the moment. It thrilled him
with admiration, like the magnificent resistance of some wild
mare of the steppes, caught in the hunter's lasso. It betrayed
an unsuspected capacity for passion which could satisfy the
cravings of his heart. This is no tame, insipid, feminine creature,
he thought; but a full-blown woman, splendid in her
powers, splendid in her faults, and unapproachable in that
truth and tenderness which would yet bring her nature into
harmony with his own.

A part of the power he had drawn from her seemed to be
absorbed into his own being. The rapid flow of his blood
lifted his feet and bore him with winged steps down the valley.
His heart overleaped the uncertainties yet to be solved, and
stood already, deep in the domestic future. After crossing
Roaring Brook, he left the road and struck across his own
meadows and fields in order to select a site, at once convenient
and picturesque, for the cottage which he must build for Bute.
Of course there could not be two households at Lakeside.

The next day made good the threat of the brassy sunset.
It rained in wild and driving gusts, and the sky was filled with
the rifled gold of the forests. Woodbury paced his library
impatiently, unable to read or write, and finally became so
restless that he ordered dinner an hour before his accustomed
time, to Mrs. Carrie Wilson's great dismay. Bute was no less
astonished when Diamond and the buggy were demanded.
“Why, Mr. Max.!” he exclaimed; “you're not goin' out such
a day as this? Can't I go for you?”

“I have pressing business, Bute, that nobody can attend to
but myself. Don't let your tea wait for me, Mrs. Wilson: I
may be late.”

Leaving the happy pair—happy in the rain which kept
them all day to each other—to their wonder and their anxious
surmises, Woodbury drove through the wind, and rain, and
splashing mud, to the Widow Thurston's cottage. Hannah

met him with an air of touching frankness and reliance, clasping
his hand with a tender firmness which atoned for the
silence of her lips. She looked pale and exhausted, but
a soft, rosy flush passed over her face and faded away.

“I will tell mother you have come,” she said. The next
moment she reappeared at the door of the sick-room, and
beckoned him to enter.

The widow was still in bed, and it was plainly to be seen
that she would never leave it again. The bouquet of gentian
and life-everlasting stood on a little table near her head. Her
prim Quaker cap was uncrumpled by the pillow, and a light
fawn-colored shawl enveloped her shoulders. She might have
been placed in the gallery of the meeting-house, among her
sister Friends, without a single fold being changed. Her thin
hands rested weakly on the coverlet, and her voice was
scarcely above a whisper, but the strong soul which had sustained
her life was yet clear in her eye.

The daughter placed a chair for Woodbury by the bedside.
He sat down and took the old woman's hand in both his own.
She looked at him with a gentle, affectionate, motherly benignity,
which made his eyes dim with the thought of his own
scarcely-remembered mother.

“Maxwell,” she said at last, “thee sees my days on the
earth are not many. Thee will be honest with me, therefore,
and answer me out of thy heart. I have not had many opportunities
of seeing thee, but thee had my confidence from the
first. Thee has had thy struggles with the world; thee is old
enough to know thyself, and I will believe that thee hast
learned to know Hannah, truly. She is not like other girls:
she was always inclined to go her own way, but she has never
failed in her duty to me, and I am sure she will not fail in her
duty as thy wife.”

Hannah, sitting at the foot of the bed, started at these
words. She looked imploringly at her mother, but did not
speak.

“Yes, Hannah,” continued the old woman, “I have no

fears for thee, when thee once comes to understand thy true
place as a woman. Thee was always more like thy father than
like me. I see that it has not been easy for thee to give up
thy ideas of independence, but I am sure that thy husband
will be gentle and forbearing, so that thee will hardly feel the
yoke. Will thee not, Maxwell?”

“I will,” Woodbury replied. “I have told your daughter
that I impose no conditions upon our union. It was the
purity and truth of her nature which drew me almost against
my will, to love her. I have such entire faith in that truth,
that I believe we shall gradually come into complete harmony,
not only in our feelings and aspirations, but even in our
external views of life. I am ready to sacrifice whatever
individual convictions may stand in the way of our mutual approach,
and I only ask of Hannah that she will allow, not
resist, the natural progress of her heart in the knowledge of
itself.”

“Thee hears what he says?” said the old woman, turning
her eyes on her daughter. “Maxwell has answered the question
I intended to ask: he loves thee, Hannah, as thee
deserves to be loved. The thought of leaving thee alone in
the world was a cross which I could not bring my mind to
bear. The Lord has been merciful. He has led to thee the
only man into whose hands I can deliver thee, with the certainty
that he will be thy stay and thy happiness when I am
gone. Tell me, my daughter, does thee answer his affection
in the same spirit?”

“Mother,” sobbed Hannah, “thee knows I would show
thee my heart if I could. Maxwell deserves all the honor and
gratitude I am capable of giving: he has been most noble and
just and tender towards me: I cannot reject him—it is not in
my nature—and yet—don't think hard of me, mother—it has
all come so suddenly, it is so new and strange—”

Here she paused and covered her face, unable to speak
further.

“It seems that I know thee better than I thought,” said

the widow, and something like a smile flitted over her wasted
features. “Thee needn't say any thing more: my mind is
at rest. Come nearer to me, here, and seat thyself at Maxwell's
side. I have a serious concern upon me, and you must
both bear with me while I tell it.”

The daughter came and seated herself at the head of the
bed, beside Woodbury. The mother's right hand seemed to
feel for hers, and she gave it. The other found its way, she
knew not how, into his. The old woman looked at them both,
and the expression of peace and resignation left her eyes.
They were filled with a tender longing which she hesitated to
put into words. In place of the latter came tears, and then
her tongue was loosed.

“My children,” she whispered, “it is best to be plain with
you. From day to day I expect to hear the Master's call. I
have done with the things of this life; my work is over, and
now the night cometh, when I shall rest. The thought came
to me in the silent watches, when I lifted up my soul to the
Lord and thanked Him that He had heard my prayer. I
thought, then, that nothing more was wanting; and, indeed,
it may be unreasonable of me to ask more. But what I ask
seems to be included in what has already happened. I know
the instability of earthly things, and I should like to see with
these eyes, the security of my daughter's fate. Maxwell, I
lost the little son who would have been so near thy age had he
lived. Will thee give me the right to call thee `son' in his
place? Is thee so sure of thy heart that thee could give Hannah
thy name now? It is a foolish wish of mine, I know; but
if you love each other, children, you may be glad, in the
coming time, that the poor old mother lived to see and to
bless your union!”

Woodbury was profoundly moved. He tenderly kissed the
wasted hand he held, and said, in a hushed, reverential voice:
“I am sure of my own heart. With your daughter's consent,
it shall be as you say.”

“Mother, mother!” cried Hannah: “I cannot leave thee!”

“Thee shall not, child. I would not ask it of thee. Maxwell
knows what I mean: nothing shall be changed while
I live, but you will not be parted for long. Nay, perhaps,
I am selfish in this thing. Tell me, honestly, my children,
would it make your wedding sad, when it should be joyful?”

“It will make it sacred,” Woodbury answered.

“I will not ask too much of thee, Hannah,” the widow continued.
“What I wish would give me a feeling of comfort
and security; but I know I ought to be satisfied without it. I
have had my own concerns on thy account; I saw a thorny
path before thee if thee were obliged to walk through life
alone, and I feared thee would never willingly bend thy neck
to wear the pleasant yoke of a wife. If I knew that thy lot
was fixed, in truth; if I could hear thee speak the words
which tell me that I have not lost a daughter but gained a
son, the last remaining bitterness would be taken from death,
and I would gladly arise and go to my Father!”

All remaining power of resistance was taken away from
Hannah Thurston. She had yielded so far that she could no
longer retreat with honor. Woodbury had taken, almost even
before he claimed it, the first place in her thoughts, and though
she still scarcely confessed to herself that she loved him as
her husband should be loved, yet her whole being was penetrated
with the presentiment of coming love. If she still
feebly strove to beat back the rising tide, it was not from fear
of her inability to return the trust he gave, but rather a mechanical
effort to retain the independence which she felt to be
gradually slipping from her grasp. Her mother's words
showed her that she, also, foreboded this struggle and doubted
its solution; she had, alas! given her cause to mistrust the
unexpected emotion. Towards men—towards Woodbury,
especially—she had showed herself hard and unjust in that
mother's eyes. Could she refuse to remove the unspoken
doubt by postponing a union, which, she acknowledged to herself,
was destined to come? Could she longer hold back her

entire faith from Woodbury, with his parting kiss of yesterday
still warm upon her lips?

She leaned forward, and bent her head upon the old woman's
breast. “Mother,” she said, in a scarcely audible voice,
“it shall be as thee wishes.”

The widow tenderly stroked her dark-brown hair. “If I
were not sure it was right, Hannah,” she said, “I would give
thee back thy consent. Let it be soon, pray, for I see that
my sojourn with you is well-nigh its end.”

“Let it be to-morrow, Hannah,” Woodbury then said.
“Every thing shall be afterwards as it was before. I will not
take you from your mother's bedside, but you will simply give
me the right to offer, and her the right to receive, a son's help
and comfort.”

It was so arranged. Only the persons most intimately connected
with both—Waldos, Merryfields, Bute and Carrie—
were to be informed of the circumstances and invited to be
present. Mr. Waldo, of course, was to solemnize the union,
though the widow asked that the Quaker form of marriage
should first be repeated in her presence. She was exhausted
by the interview, and Woodbury soon took his leave, to give
the necessary announcements.

Hannah accompanied him to the door, and when it closed
behind him, murmured to herself:

The Waldos were alone in their little parlor—alone, but
not lonely; for they were one of those fortunate wedded pairs
who never tire of their own society. The appearance of
Woodbury, out of the wind and rain, was a welcome surprise,
and they both greeted him with hearty delight.

“Husband,” cried Mrs. Waldo, “do put the poor horse into
our stable, beside Dobbin. Mr. Woodbury will not think of
going home until after tea.”

The clergyman was half-way through the door before the

guest could grasp his arm. “Stay, if you please,” he said; “I
have something to say, at once, to both of you.”

His voice was so grave and earnest, that they turned
towards him with a sudden alarm. Something in his face
tranquilized while it perplexed them.

“I once promised you, Mrs. Waldo,” he continued, “that
your husband should perform the marriage ceremony for me.
The time has come when I can fulfil my promise. I am to be
married to-morrow!”

The clergyman's lips receded so as to exhibit, not only all
of his teeth, but also a considerable portion of the gums. His
wife's dark eyes expanded, her hands involuntarily came
together in a violent clasp, and her breath was suspended.

“I am to be married to-morrow,” Woodbury repeated,
“to Hannah Thurston.”

Mrs. Waldo dropped into the nearest chair. “It's a poor
joke,” she said, at last, with a feeble attempt to laugh; “and
I shouldn't have believed you could make it.”

In a very few words he told them the truth. The next
moment, Mrs. Waldo sprang upon her feet, threw both arms
around him, and kissed him tempestuously. “I can't help it,
husband!” she cried, giving way to a mild hysterical fit of
laughter and tears: “It's so rarely things happen as they
ought, in this world! What a fool I've been, to think you
hated each other! I shall never trust my eyes again, no, nor
my ears, nor my stupid brains. I'll warrant Mrs. Blake was
a deal sharper than I have been; see if she is surprised when
you send her word! Oh, you dear people, how happy you
have made me—I'd rather it should come so than that husband
should get a thousand converts, and build the biggest
church in Ptolemy!”

Mr. Waldo also was moved, in his peculiar fashion. He
cleared his throat as if about to commence a prayer, walked
three times to the door and back, squeezing Woodbury's
hand afresh at each return, and finally went to the window
and remarked: “It is very stormy to-day.”

In proportion as the good people recovered from their
happy amazement, Woodbury found it difficult to tear himself
away. They stormed him with questions about the rise and
progress of his attachment, which his sense of delicacy forbade
him to answer. “It is enough,” he said, “that we love
each other, and that we are to be married to-morrow.”
As he turned his horse's head towards Ptolemy, a figure
wrapped in an old cloak and with a shapeless quilted hood
upon the head, appeared on the plank sidewalk hastening
in the direction of the widow's cottage. It was Mrs.
Waldo.

The Merryfields were also at home when he called. Their
life had, of late, been much more quiet and subdued than formerly,
and hence they have almost vanished out of this history;
but, from the friendly relation which they bore to Hannah
Thurston, they could not well be omitted from the morrow's
occasion. The news was unexpected, but did not seem to
astonish them greatly, as they were both persons of slow perceptions,
and had not particularly busied their minds about
either of the parties.

“I'm sure I'm very glad, as it were,” said Mr. Merryfield.
“There are not many girls like Hannah Thurston, and she
deserves to be well provided for.”

“Yes, it's a good thing for her,” remarked his wife, with
a little touch of malice, which, however, was all upon the
surface; “but Women's Rights will be what they always
was, if their advocates give them up.”

Darkness was setting down, and the rain fell in torrents, as
Woodbury reached Lakeside. Bute, who had been coming
to the door every five minutes for the last hour, had heard the
rattling of wheels through the storm, and the Irishman
was already summoned to take charge of the horse. In the
sitting-room it was snug, and bright, and cheerful. A wood-fire
blazed on the hearth, and Mrs. Carrie, with a silk handkerchief
tied under her chin, was dodging about the tea-table.
By the kindly glow in his heart towards these two happy

creatures, Woodbury felt that his cure was complete; their
bliss no longer had power to disturb him.

“How pleasant it is here!” he said. “You really make the
house home-like, Mrs. Wilson.”

Carrie's eyes sparkled and her cheeks reddened with delight.
Bute thought: “He's had no unlucky business, after
all.” But he was discreet enough to ask no questions.

After tea, Woodbury did not go into the library, as usual.
He drew a chair towards the fire, and for a while watched Mrs.
Wilson's fingers, as they rapidly plied the needles upon a pair
of winter socks for Bute. The latter sat on the other side of
the fire, reading Dana's “Two Years before the Mast.”

“Bute,” said Woodbury, suddenly, “do you think we have
room for another, in the house?”

To his surprise, Bute blushed up to the temples, and seemed
embarrassed how to answer. He looked stealthily at Carrie.

Woodbury smiled, and hastened to release him from his
error. “Because,” said he, “you brought something to Lakeside
more contagious than your fever. I have caught it, and
now I am going to marry.”

“Oh, Mr. Max., you don't mean it! It's not Miss Amelia
Smith?”

Woodbury burst into a laugh.

“How can you think of such a thing, Bute?” exclaimed his
wife. “There's only one woman in all Ptolemy worthy of
Mr. Woodbury, and yet I'm afraid it isn't her.”

“Who, Mrs. Wilson?”

“You won't be offended, Sir, will you? I mean Hannah
Thurston.”

“You have guessed it!”

Carrie gave a little scream and dropped her knitting. Bute
tried to laugh, but something caught in his throat, and in his
efforts to swallow it the water came into his eyes.