University of Virginia Library

2. CHAPTER II
MISS BLESSING.

To consider the evening party at Warriner's a scene of
“dissipation”—as some of the good old people of the neighborhood
undoubtedly did—was about as absurd as to call
butter-milk an intoxicating beverage. Anything more
simple and innocent could not well be imagined. The very
awkwardness which everybody felt, and which no one exactly
knew how to overcome, testified of virtuous ignorance.
The occasion was no more than sufficed for the barest need
of human nature. Young men and women must come together
for acquaintance and the possibilities of love, and,
fortunately, neither labor nor the severer discipline of their
elders can prevent them.

Where social recreation thus only exists under discouraging
conditions, ease and grace and self-possession cannot be
expected. Had there been more form, in fact, there would
have been more ease. A conventional disposition of the
guests would have reduced the loose elements of the company
to some sort of order; the shy country nature would
have taken refuge in fixed laws, and found a sense of freedom
therein. But there were no generally understood rules;
the young people were brought together, delighted yet uncomfortable,
craving yet shrinking from speech and jest and
song, and painfully working their several isolations into a
warmer common atmosphere.

On this occasion, the presence of a stranger, and that

stranger a lady, and that lady a visitor from the city, was
an additional restraint. The dread of a critical eye is most
keenly felt by those who secretly acknowledge their own
lack of social accomplishment. Anna Warriner, to be sure,
had been loud in her praises of “dear Julia,” and the guests
were prepared to find all possible beauty and sweetness; but
they expected, none the less, to be scrutinized and judged.

Bob Warriner met his friends at the gate and conducted
them to the parlor, whither the young ladies, who had been
watching the arrival, had retreated. They were disposed
along the walls, silent and cool, except Miss Blessing, who
occupied a rocking-chair in front of the mantel-piece, where
her figure was in half-shadow, the lamplight only touching
some roses in her hair. As the gentlemen were presented,
she lifted her face and smiled upon each, graciously offering
a slender hand. In manner and attitude, as in dress, she
seemed a different being from the plump, ruddy, self-conscious
girls on the sofas. Her dark hair fell about her neck
in long, shining ringlets; the fairness of her face heightened
the brilliancy of her eyes, the lids of which were slightly
drooped as if kindly veiling their beams; and her lips, although
thin, were very sweetly and delicately curved. Her dress, of
some white, foamy texture, hung about her like a trailing
cloud, and the cluster of rosebuds on her bosom lay as if
tossed there.

The young men, spruce as they had imagined themselves
to be, suddenly felt that their clothes were coarse and ill-fitting,
and that the girls of the neighborhood, in their neat
gingham and muslin dresses, were not quite so airy and
charming as on former occasions. Miss Blessing, descending
to them out of an unknown higher sphere, made their deficiencies
unwelcomely evident; she attracted and fascinated

them, yet was none the less a disturbing influence. They made
haste to find seats, after which a constrained silence followed.

There could be no doubt of Miss Blessing's amiable
nature. She looked about with a pleasant expression, half
smiled—but deprecatingly, as if to say, “Pray, don't be
offended!”—at the awkward silence, and then said, in a
clear, carefully modulated voice: “It is beautiful to arrive
at twilight, but how charming it must be to ride home in
the moonlight; so different from our lamps!”

The guests looked at each other, but as she had seemed to
address no one in particular, so each hesitated, and there
was no immediate reply.

“But is it not awful, tell me, Elizabeth, when you get
into the shadows of the forests? we are so apt to associate all
sorts of unknown dangers with forests, you know,” she continued.

The young lady thus singled out made haste to answer:
“O, no! I rather like it, when I have company.”

Elwood Withers laughed. “To be sure!” he exclaimed;
“the shade is full of opportunities.”

Then there were little shrieks, and some giggling and
blushing. Miss Blessing shook her fan warningly at the
speaker.

“How wicked in you! I hope you will have to ride
home alone to-night, after that speech. But you are all
courageous, compared with us. We are really so restricted
in the city, that it's a wonder we have any independence at
all. In many ways, we are like children.”

“O Julia, dear!” protested Anna Warriner, “and such
advantages as you have! I shall never forget the day Mrs.
Rockaway called—her husband's cashier of the Commercial
Bank” (this was said in a parenthesis to the other guests)—

“and brought you all the news direct from head-quarters,
as she said.”

“Yes,” Miss Blessing answered, slowly, casting down her
eyes, “there must be two sides to everything, of course; but
how much we miss until we know the country! Really, I
quite envy you.”

Joseph had found himself, almost before he knew it, in a
corner, beside Lucy Henderson. He felt soothed and happy,
for of all the girls present he liked Lucy best. In the few
meetings of the young people which he had attended, he had
been drawn towards her by an instinct founded, perhaps, on
his shyness and the consciousness of it; for she alone had
the power, by a few kindly, simple words, to set him at ease
with himself. The straightforward glance of her large brown
eyes seemed to reach the self below the troubled surface.
However much his ears might have tingled afterwards, as
he recalled how frankly and freely he had talked with her,
he could only remember the expression of an interest equally
frank, upon her face. She never dropped one of those
amused side-glances, or uttered one of those pert, satirical
remarks, the recollection of which in other girls stung him
to the quick.

Their conversation was interrupted, for when Miss Blessing
spoke, the others became silent. What Elwood Withers
had said of the phenomena of love, however, lingered in
Joseph's mind, and he began, involuntarily, to examine the
nature of his feeling for Lucy Henderson. Was she not
often in his thoughts? He had never before asked himself
the question, but now he suddenly became conscious that
the hope of meeting her, rather than any curiosity concerning
Miss Blessing, had drawn him to Warriner's. Would
he rather touch the edge of her dress than kiss anybody else?

That question drew his eyes to her lips, and with a soft
shock of the heart, he became aware of their freshness and
sweetness as never before. To touch the edge of her dress!
Elwood had said nothing of the lovelier and bolder desire
which brought the blood swiftly to his cheeks. He could
not help it that their glances met,—a moment only, but an
unmeasured time of delight and fear to him,—and then Lucy
quickly turned away her head. He fancied there was a
heightened color on her face, but when she spoke to him a
few minutes afterwards it was gone, and she was as calm
and composed as before.

In the mean time there had been other arrivals; and
Joseph was presently called upon to give up his place to
some ladies from the neighboring town. Many invitations
had been issued, and the capacity of the parlor was soon exhausted.
Then the sounds of merry chat on the portico
invaded the stately constraint of the room; and Miss Blessing,
rising gracefully and not too rapidly, laid her hands together
and entreated Anna Warriner,—

“O, do let us go outside! I think we are well enough
acquainted now to sit on the steps together.”

She made a gesture, slight but irresistibly inviting, and
all arose. While they were cheerfully pressing out through
the hall, she seized Anna's arm and drew her back into the
dusky nook under the staircase.

“Quick, Anna!” she whispered; “who is the roguish
one they call Elwood? What is he?”

“A farmer; works his father's place on shares.”

“Ah!” exclaimed Miss Blessing, in a peculiar tone;
“and the blue-eyed, handsome one, who came in with him?
He looks almost like a boy.”

“Joseph Asten? Why, he's twenty-two or three. He

has one of the finest properties in the neighborhood, and
money besides, they say; lives alone, with an old dragon of
an aunt as housekeeper. Now, Julia dear, there's a chance
for you!”

“Pshaw, you silly Anna!” whispered Miss Blessing,
playfully pinching her ear; “you know I prefer intellect to
wealth.”

“As for that”—Anna began, but her friend was already
dancing down the hall towards the front door, her gossamer
skirts puffing and floating out until they brushed the walls
on either side. She hummed to herself, “O Night! O lovely
Night!” from the Désert, skimmed over the doorstep, and
sank, subsiding into an ethereal heap, against one of the pillars
of the portico. Her eyelids were now fully opened, and
the pupils, the color of which could not be distinguished in
the moonlight, seemed wonderfully clear and brilliant.

“Now, Mr. Elwood—O, excuse me, I mean Mr. Withers,”
she began, “you must repeat your joke for my benefit. I
missed it, and I feel so foolish when I can't laugh with the
rest.”

Anna Warriner, standing in the door, opened her eyes
very wide at what seemed to her to be the commencement
of a flirtation; but before Elwood Withers could repeat his
rather stupid fun, she was summoned to the kitchen by her
mother, to superintend the preparation of the refreshments.

Miss Blessing made her hay while the moon shone. She
so entered into the growing spirit of the scene and accommodated
herself to the speech and ways of the guests, that
in half an hour it seemed as if they had always known her.
She laughed with their merriment, and flattered their sentiment
with a tender ballad or two, given in a veiled but not
unpleasant voice, and constantly appealed to their good-nature

by the phrase: “Pray, don't mind me at all; I'm
like a child let out of school!” She tapped Elizabeth Fogg
on the shoulder, stealthily tickled Jane McNaughton's neck
with a grass-blade, and took the roses from her hair to stick
into the buttonholes of the young men.

“Just see Julia!” whispered Anna Warriner to her half-dozen
intimates; “didn't I tell you she was the life of
society?”

Joseph had quite lost his uncomfortable sense of being
watched and criticized; he enjoyed the unrestraint of the
hour as much as the rest. He was rather relieved to notice
that Elwood Withers seemed uneasy, and almost willing to
escape from the lively circle around Miss Blessing. By and
by the company broke into smaller groups, and Joseph again
found himself near the pale pink dress which he knew.
What was it that separated him from her? What had
slipped between them during the evening? Nothing, apparently;
for Lucy Henderson, perceiving him, quietly
moved nearer. He advanced a step, and they were side by
side.

“Do you enjoy these meetings, Joseph?” she asked.

“I think I should enjoy everything,” he answered, “if I
were a little older, or—or—”

“Or more accustomed to society? Is not that what you
meant? It is only another kind of schooling, which we
must all have. You and I are in the lowest class, as we
once were,—do you remember?”

“I don't know why,” said he, “—but I must be a poor
scholar. See Elwood, for instance!”

“Elwood!” Lucy slowly repeated; “he is another kind
of nature, altogether.”

There was a moment's silence. Joseph was about to speak,

when something wonderfully soft touched his cheek, and a
delicate, violet-like odor swept upon his senses. A low, musical
laugh sounded at his very ear.

“There! Did I frighten you?” said Miss Blessing.
She had stolen behind him, and, standing on tiptoe, reached
a light arm over his shoulder, to fasten her last rosebud in
the upper buttonhole of his coat.

“I quite overlooked you, Mr. Asten,” she continued.
“Please turn a little towards me. Now!—has it not a
charming effect? I do like to see some kind of ornament
about the gentlemen, Lucy. And since they can't wear
anything in their hair,—but, tell me, wouldn't a wreath of
flowers look well on Mr. Asten's head?”

“I can't very well imagine such a thing,” said Lucy.

“No? Well, perhaps I am foolish: but when one has escaped
from the tiresome conventionalities of city life, and
comes back to nature, and delightful natural society, one
feels so free to talk and think! Ah, you don't know what
a luxury it is, just to be one's true self!”

Joseph's eyes lighted up, and he turned towards Miss
Blessing, as if eager that she should continue to speak.

“Lucy,” said Elwood Withers, approaching; “you came
with the McNaughtons, didn't you?”

“Yes: are they going?”

“They are talking of it now; but the hour is early, and
if you don't mind riding on a pillion, you know my horse
is gentle and strong—”

“That's right, Mr. Withers!” interrupted Miss Blessing.
“I depend upon you to keep Lucy with us. The night is at
its loveliest, and we are all just fairly enjoying each other's society.
As I was saying, Mr. Asten, you cannot conceive what
a new world this is to me: oh, I begin to breathe at last!”

Therewith she drew a long, soft inspiration, and gently
exhaled it again, ending with a little flutter of the breath,
which made it seem like a sigh. A light laugh followed.

“I know, without looking at your face, that you are smiling
at me,” said she. “But you have never experienced
what it is to be shy and uneasy in company; to feel that
you are expected to talk, and not know what to say, and
when you do say something, to be startled at the sound of
your voice; to stand, or walk, or sit, and imagine that everybody
is watching you; to be introduced to strangers, and be
as awkward as if both spoke different languages, and were
unable to exchange a single thought. Here, in the country,
you experience nothing of all this.”

“Indeed, Miss Blessing,” Joseph replied, “it is just the
same to us—to me—as city society is to you.”

“How glad I am!” she exclaimed, clasping her hands.
“It is very selfish in me to say it, but I can't help being sincere
towards the Sincere. I shall now feel ever so much more
freedom in talking with you, Mr. Asten, since we have one
experience in common. Don't you think, if we all knew
each other's natures truly, we should be a great deal more
at ease,—and consequently happier?”

She spoke the last sentence in a low, sweet, penetrating
tone, lifted her face to meet his gaze a moment, the eyes
large, clear, and appealing in their expression, the lips parted
like those of a child, and then, without waiting for his
answer, suddenly darted away, crying, “Yes, Anna dear!”

“What is it, Julia?” Anna Warriner asked.

“O, didn't you call me? Somebody surely called some
Julia, and I'm the only one, am I not? I've just arranged
Mr. Asten's rosebud so prettily, and now all the gentlemen
are decorated. I'm afraid they think I take great liberties

for a stranger, but then, you all make me forget that I am
strange. Why is it that everybody is so good to me?”

She turned her face upon the others with a radiant expression.
Then there were earnest protestations from the
young men, and a few impulsive hugs from the girls, which
latter Miss Blessing returned with kisses.

Elwood Withers sat beside Lucy Henderson, on the steps of
the portico. “Why, we owe it to you that we're here to-night,
Miss Blessing!” he exclaimed. “We don't come together
half often enough as it is; and what better could we do than
meet again, somewhere else, while you are in the country?”

“O, how delightful! how kind!” she cried. “And while
the lovely moonlight lasts! Shall I really have another
evening like this?”

The proposition was heartily seconded, and the only difficulty
was, how to choose between the three or four invitations
which were at once proffered. There was nothing better
to do than to accept all, in turn, and the young people
pledged themselves to attend. The new element which they
had dreaded in advance, as a restraint, had shown itself to
be the reverse: they had never been so free, so cheerfully
excited. Miss Blessing's unconscious ease of manner, her
grace and sweetness, her quick, bright sympathy with country
ways, had so warmed and fused them, that they lost the
remembrance of their stubborn selves and yielded to the
magnetism of the hour. Their manners, moreover, were
greatly improved, simply by their forgetting that they were
expected to have any.

Joseph was one of the happiest sharers in this change.
He eagerly gave his word to be present at the entertainments
to come: his heart beat with delight at the prospect of other
such evenings. The suspicion of a tenderer feeling towards

Lucy Henderson, the charm of Miss Blessing's winning
frankness, took equal possession of his thoughts; and not
until he had said good night did he think of his companion
on the homeward road. But Elwood Withers had already
left, carrying Lucy Henderson on a pillion behind him.

“Is it ten o'clock, do you think?” Joseph asked of one
of the young men, as they rode out of the gate.

The other answered with a chuckle: “Ten? It's nigher
morning than evening!”

The imp on the crupper struck his claws deep into Joseph's
sides. He urged his horse into a gallop, crossed the long
rise in the road and dashed along the valley-level, with the
cool, dewy night air whistling in his locks. After entering
the lane leading upward to his home, he dropped the reins
and allowed the panting horse to choose his own gait. A
light, sparkling through the locust-trees, pierced him with the
sting of an unwelcome external conscience, in which he had
no part, yet which he could not escape.

Rachel Miller looked wearily up from her knitting as he
entered the room. She made a feeble attempt to smile, but
the expression of her face suggested imminent tears.

“Aunt, why did you wait?” said he, speaking rapidly.
“I forgot to look at my watch, and I really thought it was
no more than ten—”

He paused, seeing that her eyes were fixed. She was
looking at the tall old-fashioned clock. The hand pointed
to half-past twelve, and every cluck of the ponderous pendulum
said, distinctly, “Late! late! late!”

He lighted a candle in silence, said, “Good night, Aunt!”
and went up to his room.

“Good night, Joseph!” she solemnly responded, and a
deep, hollow sigh reached his ear before the door was closed.