 | XIII.
LUCY'S NEW HOME. Lucy Arlyn |  |
13. XIII.
LUCY'S NEW HOME.
NINE miles southward along the valley, by river
and grove and farm, went Guy with humming
wheels.
Before him, in the blue distance, rising from the valley at
its narrow outlet, old Mount Solomon reared his kingly head.
Huge and lone and grand that mountain was: in the sunset
light, it seemed “one entire and perfect chrysolite;” and, as
Guy drove by the glassy pond, he beheld all that prismatic
mass wondrously doubled, set in the severed ring of the
world, and suspended midway in a duplicated evening sky.
It typified the happiness he was going to meet; so beautiful,
so warm, suffused with blissful light; so magnified also, sundered
from the common world, and set in a ring of ideal life
by the mirror of his imagination.
The pond crossed, the valley once more intervened, embedding
(so it seemed) the fairer moiety of the enormous
brilliant. And now the veins of color that dissolved and
trickled down its crags flowed into a gulf of purple shadow,
rivers, and slowly submerging all beneath its dusky wave.
And, as Guy advanced, the mountain appeared to recede
before him, farther and farther, into a vast background of
shadow, that thickened and lay upon it like a pall.
Would it be thus with his happiness? Was it half illusion?
Would the glory fade from it, and the night ingulf it? A
chill foreboding crept over him, which he could neither account
for nor dispel. Enthroned above the understanding sits the
wise spirit, that perceives the shadows before us, and hints of
them.
In the mean time, out from the silver chambers of space
came Antares to keep watch above the mountain. Guy
looked up, and beheld that serene ray. “So,” he said, “if
dark hours are to come, may some heavenly power keep
starry watch over us till the morning dawns!”
With quickening thrills he entered the outskirts of a town
at the mountain's base. Through dark streets, by many a
glimmering cottage light, he passed, till the village hotel was
reached. He springs to the piazza, hurries up the hall stairs,
and raps in a dim passage at a door. A flutter, a light, quick
step, within; eager hands open for him, light and beauty
beam upon him; and love welcomes him with soft arms,
Than the two hearts beating each to each.”
“Guy!”
“Lucy!”
As if the few hours of their separation had been years.
And their lips are glued together with a kiss which seals the
spring of words, but floods the silence with communion sweeter
than speech.
“All mine, — all mine!” And Guy placed her on the
sofa, still clinging to him; her curls all alive, and quivering
on his shoulder and breast.
“O Guy!” — as soon as she could speak, — “we must
never be separated so again!”
“Darling, we never will! Your little home is prepared.”
Mine — not yours?”
“Ours, dearest! I shall see you every day, — every
night” —
“See me? That is such a cold word!”
“Till the time comes when you can be mine before the
world; which time will come soon.”
“Oh, I hope we are not building our house on the sand!
But we won't think of it!” Lucy quickly adds, as if
afraid of her own misgivings. “I have you now: that is
enough.”
“Is it real? is it not a dream?” says the intoxicated
Guy.
“And am I the poor little thing that ran away from you
— or tried to — four, five, how many days ago? I can't
reckon by days: they have all been melted up in the furnace”
—
Into which furnace had gone fear, resolution, pride; trial,
struggle, prayer; a journey and a return, with a whirl of
emotions and events, all fused into one fiery experience,
needless now to recall.
“Do you know what an awful thing it is to have such
power?” says Lucy with dewy eyes.
“It is a most glorious thing since it gives me you!”
answers the remorseless lover.
“Always think so! You are all I have. You stand between
me and the world: you are my world.”
At which he clasps her with impetuous passion, and vows
in his soul always to guard her tenderly, and love her well.
“Shall we go soon? or wait till the moon rises?”
“The moon rises late,” said Lucy; “and I am impatient
to quit this house.”
“I can imagine you have had a long and lonesome day in
it; but it is over now.”
“It seems that I have lived a lifetime in myself since you
left me this morning. But that's not it: there's a woman
here who haunts me. I have heard of the evil eye; but I
never knew what it was before.”
“What is it? who is she?”
“I don't know; only she is a spiritualist,” — Lucy could
not disguise her scorn, — “and a medium, I should think.”
“Ah!” — Guy was interested. “How did you find that
out?”
“I overheard her talking with the landlord and his wife:
woods. Come, let's go: I am growing a little superstitious
myself. I can feel that woman's spirit following me around.
She'll do me a mischief some time; I'm sure she will!”
“How does she act? Describe her.”
“I can't. You should have seen how she stared at me at
the tea-table! You would have thought she meant to have
my soul: I'm afraid she'll get it if we stay!” And Lucy
hurried on her things, whilst Guy sent her trunk — a new
one, large and well filled — down to the carriage. Then she
bade farewell to that ever-memorable room, and, leaning on
his arm, passed through the passage to the hall stairs. Suddenly
she recoiled.
“There she is!” she whispered, drawing him back.
“Wait here.”
Guy, who expected to behold a sinister-eyed sorceress,
started with surprise. An elegantly attired lady, quite
young, with a nervous, pale, peculiar face, was ascending
the stairs, followed by a gentleman. Lucy tried not to look
at her, but could not resist the fascination. The lady, however,
scarcely regarded Lucy, — merely giving her one penetrating,
almost disdainful glance; then bent those expressive
eyes of hers full on Guy, with a slight bow of graceful
recognition as she swept past. Guy touched his hat to her,
and again to the gentleman. Lucy felt suffocated.
“Do you know that woman?” she asked when they were
once in the carriage.
“I have met her.”
“When? — where?”
“To-day, — at Doctor Biddikin's, — when I went to hire
Madison.”
“Ah! then that is the place she told about!”
“What did she tell?”
“How she was sent there by spirits, — something about a
great organization which she wouldn't explain; and a mysterious
story of a dead body she saw in a sort of vision: did
you hear any thing about it?”
Guy felt the time had not come for relating all he had
heard: he accordingly answered evasively, and changed the
subject. Far different themes absorbed them soon, making
the way seem short.
The stars were misty when they set out: a veil of haze
covered the sky, and thickened to a cloud; so that it was quite
dark before their destination was reached. The carriage
struck a gate-post at the entrance to Jehiel's yard. The restless
horse alternately started and backed. Guy grew vexed
at trying to manage him; Lucy was alarmed; and, to add to
the impressiveness of the scene, it began to rain.
Jehiel brought a lantern to their aid. The wheels were
soon disembarrassed, and Guy whipped on to the house.
No serious accident had occurred. At another time, the little
adventure would have served only to raise his spirits. But
Guy was vexed that he had suffered himself to get vexed.
And Lucy, keenly sensitive, entering her new home with
and the collision were ominous; and experienced a secret
shame and misery at seeing only a man and a lantern, when
she should have received a far different welcome.
The warm pressure of Mrs. Hedge's hand partly re-assured
her. And the aspect of the room that awaited her; the neat
little bed-chamber adjoining; the pictures; the books; the
flowers that perfumed the air; the darkness and the rain shut
out, comfort and happiness shut in; and Guy, her sole companion
now in the wide world, her guide, her consolation,
smiling fondly beside her, — touched her with surprise and
gratitude.
“This is home!” the mellowest of all voices breathed
in her ear.
“It will be home when you are with me; but when you
are away” —
“My heart will never be away. I must live one life in
my father's eyes: he needs me. I shall do my duty; but
here is home. No Aunt Pinworth here, Lucy!”
“Poor Aunt Pinworth! What will she say?”
“Who cares what anybody says?” cried Guy, exultant.
“That is easy for you to ask: you are a man. But I,”
said Lucy, — not sadly or reproachfully, — “how am I going
to live through what I know must come? Here among the
very people I have always known, who can't understand me,
— to be wondered at, talked about, — oh, what a buzzing
there will be!” And still Lucy, who foresaw much, did
with that charming smile which relieved her words of all
shadow of complaint. “But Mrs. Hedge, she will not buzz.
Who else, Guy, could we trust? who else could I make my
home with now?”
“She will have charity when she comes to understand, —
thanks to her rich experience,” answered Guy.
“I wish I knew what her experience has been! Tell
me every thing you know about her.” And Lucy composed
herself seriously to listen.
“Well, let me remember. It was just about this season
of the year that I was driving home one evening by the
road which we just came. But such a time it was! It had
been raining for three days: the river had risen, and the flats
were covered. The water was in places knee-deep to my
horse in the centre of the road. And there I overtook a
woman, alone, on foot, — just at dark. She had acres of
water still to cross; and, naturally, I offered to carry her
over. She got into the wagon with her bundle; and, as I
drove along, I inquired where she wished to go. `Anywhere,
to get work,' she said. And I saw at once what manner of
woman I had picked up, — an afflicted woman; a woman
of heart, crushed by some terrible sorrow, and broken by
severe physical suffering. Well, I took her home: and it
was time; for she was nearly dead with exposure and exhaustion
when I put her into Rhoda's hands.”
“Oh, dreadful! But it was good in you, Guy!”
“This is all I know of her history; except that, three
weeks later, a child was born in our house, — our little
Teddy. Jehiel, who came to work for us, and believed
her a widow, fell in love with her, and she with him. He
offered himself; and she, true woman, thanking him with
tears for the blessing his love was to her, declined it, however,
and told him the reason, as a true woman should.
Either the refusal, or the reason of it, smote poor Jehiel a
stunning blow. I had befriended him in many things; and
he consulted me in this. I took him with me to see her,
and sat down between them, and put her hand in his,
with a few words of serious truth, and left them; and the
next spring they were married. I got him this house, gave
him land to work; and here they have lived ever since, and
been extremely happy. So they are naturally grateful to
me; though, of course, I have done nothing for them, to
speak of.”
“You showed them the way to happiness, when perhaps
they would never have been brave enough to do their simple
duty to each other without regard to the past or to prejudice.
No wonder they bless you! O Guy! you are
good!”
“And, do you know, the kind and sagacious world has
repaid me by giving me the credit of little Teddy's paternity?
What will be said now, I wonder? But we must make up
our minds never to care.”
“I have made up my mind, you know!” exclaimed Lucy;
home already. Dear Aunt Pinworth, sweet Cousin Sophy,
adieu, adieu! — What a beautiful carpet!” She
fluttered and cooed over it like a dove. “And what a wonderful
picture!” — holding the lamp to a large and remarkable
photograph of Thorwaldsen's “Night,” which, with its
companion “Morning,” hung by the entrance to the bed-chamber.
“Those wings, with that light on them, so majestic
and so calm, — they make me shiver! And those darling
little babies, — it seems as if I could take them from her
arms! It doesn't look like a picture: it is marble itself;
only no marble was ever so soft and pure.”
They sat down by the window.
“What noise is that? The brook? the mountain-brook?
Oh, how grand! Is it near?”
“Within a stone's toss of the house.”
She leaned upon the casement, and looked out into the
darkness, and listened to the roar of the stream. The wind
had risen, and the rain pattered on the leaves. She was
silent with awe; her enthusiastic and ever-changing features
fixed for a minute with sublime emotion.
“Such nights will make you melancholy when I am away,”
said Guy.
“Not if I can feel that you are coming again, and that you
love me when you are away,” answered Lucy.
“Then you shall never be lonely!”
“Oh! I may be lonely; and I love loneliness. How I
sounds wild and disconsolate to-night, — almost savage in its
woe, — wailing out there in the dark! Shut the window:
the rain will spoil our new carpet. And your horse — is he
taken care of?”
“Thoughtful child, yes! He is in Jehiel's barn.”
“Then let it rain! Won't it be fine, if there's a freshet,
to sit here and watch it, and hear the stones bump together
as the water carries them down? People call it Thunder
Brook, then; and this — we will name Thunder-Brook
Place.”
Lucy was in high spirits, — more radiant with loveliness
and exaltation than Guy had ever seen her. The very sight
of her was wine to his soul. But he grew pensive at times,
thinking how he should tell her what he most desired to
tell.
“How does Archy get along?” she inquired. And that
led the way.
“Archy has lost his situation.”
“Lost it! how?” she exclaimed with the disappointment
of a patroness; for, though Archy and the colonel were not
aware, it was by her recommendation that Guy had engaged
the genius.
“He is a medium,” Guy explained.
“A medium! What kind of a medium?”
“A boxing medium, — very well developed, I should say.
I caught him boxing the colonel, — cuffing my respected
to describe the ludicrous scene.
Lucy was amazed. If Archy did thus, — kind, honest,
timorous Archy, — she declared that he must be insane;
secretly suspecting, perhaps, that disappointed affection was
the cause.
Guy then related the previous occurrences which had
already made a stir in the village, and was almost vexed
at her incredulity and ridicule. She considered Madison's
bodily appearance in the room where his father was getting
communications from his spirit as a jocose circumstance, more
effective than any argument to prove the absurdity of it all.
“Perhaps,” said Guy, as if wishing to drop the subject.
He produced a sheet of paper, which he unfolded. “I have
a little drawing here: see if you recognize that profile.”
Lucy regarded it with a start of surprise, exclaiming instantly,
—
“Why! it is your mother!”
“Consider it well,” said Guy, — very grave, his features
flushed.
“The nose and forehead are perfect, and the mouth and
the chin! There can be no mistake. But what a peculiar
sketch! Where did you get it?”
Then Guy told his story; Lucy listening with astonishment
and concern. There was a long pause when he had
concluded.
“Do you believe,” faltered Lucy, “that she — your
mother — was there?”
She knew his love and reverence for that mother, and put
her question tremulously and hesitatingly. He studied the
profile with silent emotion.
“If I could believe that the spirit exists after the body
dies; if I could feel assured that she lives, a spirit, in the
invisible world,” — he began slowly and seriously.
“But you believe that!” Lucy eagerly interposed.
“Not clearly and fully,” Guy unwillingly admitted.
Lucy was shocked; as every true woman who loves is
shocked, when she learns that her lover holds a colder and
shallower faith than her own.
“No,” he added: “God help me, I never could say I
believed in the immortality of the soul. It is a beautiful
theory; but it `lacks confirmation.' I wait for proof.”
“Do not reason and intuition prove it, to say nothing of
the inspired Book?”
“Plato fails, with all his power of reason; and, when I
read the `Phædo,' I wish I were Cebes or Simmias, that
I might put to Socrates some pertinent questions. And intuition?
We feel that the soul is immortal, — I certainly
do; but may not that be because we desire it should
be so?”
“But the Scriptures?” said Lucy, pained and agitated.
“The promise there, — the resurrection, — the angels that
rolled away the stone!”
Guy smiled. “You wouldn't believe some things I told
you just now; though we have my father, Mr. Burble, and
can you expect me to believe what occurred hundreds of
years ago on the evidence of persons I never knew?”
Lucy looked frightened. “What proof can there be,
then?”
“None!” answered Guy; “unless some imprudent, sociable
angel let fall — as Emerson declares none ever did — a
syllable, or many syllables, to answer the longings of saints,
the fears of mortals.”
“O Guy!” pleaded Lucy, “don't talk of Emerson, or of
Plato, or of proof, but believe! Believe as I do; because
I know in my heart that God is, that Christ is, that my
mother who died lives still!”
“If I believed the same of my mother, then I should
know what I think of that!” — laying his hand earnestly
on the profile.
“That she was there?” Lucy inquired fearfully.
“What else so probable as that she was there? And, to
tell you the truth, I felt her there before the profile was
drawn. How that was done, even supposing she was present,
I don't pretend to say: but I can conceive that it might be;
while I can't conceive how by any chance or possibility it
could have been done, had there been no intelligence present
superior to the minds of us who were present bodily.”
“What! not if the medium had seen your mother?”
“If she had seen her a thousand times, it would be difficult
to credit that she could draw instantly from memory so
object could she have in denying that she is a genius?”
“I am sure of only one thing,” said Lucy, all her feminine
antipathy raised again, — “that she is an artful, designing
woman!”
“I hope you intend that simply as a pun,” Guy responded
somewhat bitterly.
“No pun at all, but downright earnest!”
He deliberately folded the paper, and replaced it in his
pocket with a hurt expression. She lost no time, but flung
her arms round his neck.
“I don't care what she draws, if she don't draw you!”
she cried with the charming playfulness with which she knew
how to embroider the most sombre scenes.
He did not smile. “I think we may use reason in speaking
of things we do not understand, and charity in speaking
of persons we don't know,” he said with a seriousness of
mien that went to her heart.
Thus the evening, which, of all evenings, should have been
warm and vibrant with harmonious love, was marred by
discord.
But the moody Guy could not long resist her sweet and
winning influence. The first silver tears that slid from those
beloved eyes transported him with tenderness; and soon all
differences were forgotten in the deliciousness of reconciliation.
It was raining still when he departed; and Lucy, watching
him from a window till he disappeared in the darkness
which no lantern could illume, listening to the slow grating
of the wheels along the gravel till all sounds were lost in the
universal pouring and pattering, felt a sense of loneliness
and dread come over her, solemn as death.
But she was weary. Guy had left her that she might
sleep; and nestling down in her cool white bed, with folded
palms and silent prayer, she, for the first time in many days,
felt herself at rest; and soon sank to sleep, breathing the
faint perfume of flowers that re-appeared in dreams, and hearing
all night long, — like the Fairy Knight of Spenser, —
A trickling stream from high rock tumbling down,
And ever drizzling rain upon the loft,
Mixt with a murmuring wind.”
| XIII.
LUCY'S NEW HOME. Lucy Arlyn | |