 | I.
THE VILLAGE GENIUS. Lucy Arlyn |  |
1. I.
THE VILLAGE GENIUS.
IT was a proud day for Archy Brandle and
his mother when Lucy Arlyn came out to their
house to make a friendly visit and to drink tea.
The sun seemed to shine more brightly and the birds to
sing more sweetly for her sake, that afternoon. For her the
widow put on her handsomest white cap; for her the nicest
tea-things were produced; and for her the widow's son, in
the little workshop at the kitchen-end, made extravagant
flower-boxes, and devotedly hammered his thumb.
The shop itself was a mere box, filled with grotesque rubbish,
— dog-carts, dog-harnesses, and dog-churns; cog-wheels
without number; a wooden horse without legs; a native
hand-organ, and a hickory fiddle, with other extraordinary
and unmentionable trumpery; in the midst of which toiled
the genius of the place, with sweaty cheeks and rolled-up
sleeves, at his work-bench by the window.
On the threshold of the shop-door sat Lucy, watching
Archy at his work, or looking out upon the pleasant orchard;
but always, whatever else she did, charming away the young
man's heart with those tender hazel eyes and soft brown curls,
on which the checkered sunshine flickered.
The tea ready, Mrs. Brandle came smilingly to announce
it. Lucy was lost in revery at the moment; her eyes, full
of dreams, gazing farther away than Archy or the orchard:
but she looked up quickly, and shook her sunny curls.
“Why, Mrs. Brandle,” she said, “you never told me
what a genius our Archy is!”
The simple widow regarded the awkward and blushing
youth with a look full of fondness and maternal pride.
“He takes arter his father, Miss Arlyn. His father was
a master-hand to be always contrivin' somethin' or other no
mortal ever thought on. Ever sence Archy was a baby, he
has been jes' so famous for putterin'; and there's no end to
the time he has spent and the property he has destroyed follerin'
his bent.”
“Oh, pshaw!” said Archy modestly: “I ain't so bad as
that!”
“He has been telling me about his flying-machine,” said
Lucy; “and he has promised me a ride in it, if he can ever
get it to go. Only think of flying, Mrs. Brandle!”
Archy grinned, and turned over a flower-box to hide his
blushes.
“I consider it a good idee myself,” remarked the widow.
always make 'em work jest to suit him. There was his improved
clo'es-dryer: it was a very good idee; and I thought
a great deal on't, till it fell into the fire one day, and burnt
up a hull week's washin'. His new lever pump was very ingenious;
but then he never could make it pump arter he got
it into the well. Then there was his Yankee cutting-box: he
cut off two fingers in that” —
“Come, don't tell about that!” interposed Archy, putting
one hand behind him.
“While he was laid up with his hand,” continued the
widow, good-humoredly laughing in sympathy with their visitor,
“he studied up a dog-churn to save labor.”
“Don't mention that thing!” pleaded Archy.
“Oh, yes!” cried Lucy, delighted. “How did the dog-churn
succeed?”
“He worked long enough at it to churn all the butter in
town one season!” said the good woman, glad to entertain
her guest, even at the risk of annoying her beloved Archy.
“Then it took him a month to train Carlo.”
“Wal, such a stupid dog as that!”
“Finally he got him perty well larnt: but, when he was in
the churn, somebody had to stand by and whip him all the
time to make him go; and you know it wouldn't be my
way to do that, when I could take hold and bring the butter
enough sight quicker myself. One mess, Carlo was two days
churnin'; the next he e't up when my back was turned; and,
over, and made the awfulest muss, — got the cream all over
him, and run with it all over the house!” —
Here Archy took to flight, and left Lucy suffocating with
laughter.
“I believe,” said the widow, wiping away tears of merriment
from her eyes with her apron, “I come to call you to
tea; but you got me to talkin', and I never know when to
stop. Poor boy! he can't bear to hear about that dog-churn!”
She led the way to the kitchen, where the tea-table was set,
and a detachment of sunbeams from the waving pear-branches
by the window danced like a troop of fairies on the white
cloth and cheery dishes of the little banquet, of which they
had playfully taken possession in her absence.
There was the little tea-tray in its place, where many and
many a time, for years, it had graced the board at which she
and her lamented husband sat down, until the sight of its
worn japan and battered rim was dearer to the widow's eyes
than the gayest salver would have been, all of silver or gold.
Mrs. Brandle brought the little black tea-pot from the
hearth, and placed it upon the tray. Beside it were three
white cups and three white saucers, set into each other, and
covered by a snowy napkin. There was an old-fashioned
sugar-bowl standing by an old-fashioned milk-mug, both looking
like an aged married couple that had lived together happily
for a great while, and were quite contented. Then there
were the brightest knives in the village, for Mrs. Brandle was
rim of a shield. One of the fairy sunbeams had the audacity
to dance upon the very edge of one of these shining
blades. Others of the merry troop were capering upon the
slices of white bread, the golden butter, and the dishes of
cookies and preserves. There was a great fluttering among
the intruders when the company sat down; the pear-branches
rustling to give them warning. About half of them ventured
to remain on the table, while the rest flew to Archy's head,
on which they played fantastically, as if leaping and clapping
their hands with glee at his grinning bashfulness.
With the beautiful and admired Lucy sitting opposite him,
talking and laughing with the most graceful condescension,
the village genius could only look at her and listen to her,
and blush and stammer when she looked at him. It is not
probable that he had any distinct consciousness of tasting
food that night, or was even aware that he stirred his tea with
his knife, ate sauce with his fingers, and bread and butter
with a spoon.
While the youth's cup of bliss was mixed half and half
with painful diffidence, his mother's overflowed with unalloyed
happiness. She knew how ardently Archy loved Lucy, and
felt a warm hope that Lucy had become interested in him.
The young girl's occasional fits of abstraction, pensiveness,
and sighs, were undoubted symptoms of love; and who so
likely to be the object of her affection as that paragon of excellence
and prodigy of talent, the widow's darling son?
saw with a mother's eyes, but thought only of the joy of
having so sweet a companion sitting there at every meal,
rendering unspeakably happy Archy, who worshipped her so,
and filling the house with the charm of her loveliness.
The widow resolved to give her son some practical advice
on the subject before he set out to escort Lucy home; and
accordingly followed him to the workshop when he went to get
the flower-boxes.
“Now is your chance, my son!” she whispered.
“My chance?” repeated Archy, with an earnest, hopeful
look.
“Yes, my son. Remember the old adage, — `Happy's
the wooing that's not long a-doing.'”
“O ma! you don't mean” —
“Come, you musn't be bashful now,” — the widow smiled
encouragingly. “Be bold as a lion. Tell her you love
her!”
“I dasn't!” said the agitated Archy. “Don't seem as
though I ever could mention it to her! But I do!” — and
the tears came into his eyes.
“You musn't cry and appear down-hearted. Chirk up,
my son. Remember the old saying, — `Be as merry as you
can; for love ne'er delights in a sorrowful man.' You don't
know the natur' o' these gals as well as I do.”
“But you don't re'lly think, though, she's any notion arter
me, do ye?”
“I'm satisfied on't, child! I can tell! But she never'll
have you in the world if you hang back in this way. Now,
don't you leave her to-night till you've popped the question.”
“Oh, if I only das't to!” replied Archy. “Sposen anybody
should hear?”
“Watch your chance, my son. It'll be a good time when
you're goin' over the bridge. If anybody happens along,
you can kind o' throw a stun into the water, and make
believe you see a mud-turtle or somethin', and so have an
excuse to stop. She ain't a bit happy there to hum with her
Aunt Pinworth's folks; and I hain't a doubt but she'll jump
at the chance to come and live here. Now, promise you'll do
as I say.”
Archy promised, although with fear and trembling; and
the widow returned to the kitchen in order to speak a few
words in praise of her son, and prepare Lucy's mind for what
was coming.
“He's got jest one of the best dispositions under the sun,
Miss Lucy; and we're jest as happy as we can be here together,
as you see. But I suppose we sha'n't always live alone.
`Wives must be had, be they good or bad,' says the proverb.
I hope Archy will git a good one; for he desarves one, if
anybody does in this world!”
“Indeed he does!” said the sympathizing Lucy, not suspecting
the artful mother's design.
“`Little farm well tilled, little house well filled, little wife
well willed,' — that's Archy's idee. He'll make jest the
growing familiar; when Archy, entering with the flower-boxes,
put an end to the eulogy.
Lucy praised the workmanship of the boxes, but regretted
that he had put by his flying-machine to make them; assuring
him that she could never repay his kindness.
“Oh! mabby you can, some way.” And Archy gave his
mother an inquiring look, wondering if it would not be better
to make his declaration then, when she was present to help it
through.
But Mrs. Brandle motioned him to go. Lucy was already
at the door, appearing anxious to depart. Archy sidled up
to her with an embarrassed air; his mother smiling encouragement,
and putting out her elbow to imply that he ought to
offer her his arm. It was a moment of extreme trial to the
suffering genius.
“Take my arm?” he faltered; at the same moment dropping
one of the flower-boxes. Stooping to pick that up, he
dropped the other; and, looking hastily to see if Lucy was
laughing at him, he dropped them both.
“Thank you, Archy,” said Lucy with a smile: “you have
your hands full, and I can take care of myself.” And, bidding
the widow good-by, she walked away gracefully beside
the humiliated and red-faced youth.
Mrs. Brandle watched them with eyes of fond solicitude
until they disappeared from sight over the hill against the
sunset sky; then returned to the kitchen and her work, smiling
life.
The breezes sank to rest with the sun. The mill-pond was
unruffled, reflecting in its dreamy bosom the cool green banks,
motionless and drooping elms, the far-off purple hills, and
fiery evening sky. Lucy, gay and sociable at starting, grew
thoughtful and silent as she approached her home. Archy
almost gasped for breath, coming in sight of the bridge below
the dam, and remembering his mother's injunction. He did
not have to resort to the device of throwing a stone at some
imaginary reptile; for, reaching the bridge, Lucy stopped by
the rail, and looked down at the swift-running water.
A stream speaks many languages, and can discourse of
mirth and sadness, of love and despair, equally well, —
flowing forth frolicsome and bubbling with laughter at morning;
murmuring of liquid coolness and sweet rest under the
noonday heats; hoarse and melancholy at nightfall; uttering
solemn things and dread uncertainties at midnight with mysterious
moan; the same unchanging and perpetual strain, interpreting
to every season its sentiment, and to every heart its
own joy or sorrow. Archy and Lucy stood together on the
bridge, the waters rushing over shadowy shallows beneath
them; and it talked of love and trouble to both: yet it spoke
one thing to the simple youth, and to the maiden far other
things, — hopes and sufferings and yearnings which he could
never understand.
“Who was that for?” asked Archy as she sighed.
“For you, Archy,” she playfully answered, faintly smiling,
and wondering to think how far the youth was from her,
and how near another was, at that moment.
“You don't say — you don't mean that?” exclaimed the
genius. “It was for Abner Roane, wasn't it?”
Lucy smiled at his breathless earnestness, but shook her
head.
“Abner has red hair: I never could sigh for red hair,
Archy!”
Archy sifted sand through a crack of the bridge with his
foot, not knowing what next to say. The sand spilled into
the stream; and the stream talked on the same, wild and
dark, and prophetic of griefs, yet far different griefs, to both.
Archy had to think of all his mother had said to him before
he could gain courage to add, —
“If I re'lly thought that was for me, I — I should feel I
was the luckiest feller: the flyin'-machine wouldn't be a
circumstance!”
“Nonsense, Archy!” laughed his companion; but his face
was full of emotion that surprised and touched her. “Ah,
Archy!” she said, laying her hand kindly upon his shoulder,
“you are an honest boy, and you have a good heart, if you
are not very smart! We will always be good friends!”
The serious shades of evening closing around, together with
what the water said to her, had softened her eyes and voice to
a strange tenderness, which Archy hoped was tenderness for
him. “I do love you!” he burst forth, his eyes glistening
it; though I know I ain't any thing that you should
care for me!” And down went the flower-boxes on the
bridge, and down got Archy to pick them up; where, finding
himself on his knees in a convenient posture, he remained
to plead his cause.
“There, there, Archy! get up quick!” cried Lucy; and
as he scrambled to his feet, thinking somebody was coming,
she once more laid her gentle and consoling hand upon his
shoulder. “Never do such a thing, nor think of such a
thing, again, Archy!”
“I knowed you wouldn't have me, or I might have
knowed!” said the wretched genius, hanging his head.
“Don't be put out 'cause I mentioned it: I won't agin.
I know I'm a fool!”
“And so you are, dear, good Archy!” said Lucy, in a
tone so full of sympathy and pity, that the poor fellow, quite
overcome, burst into tears. “Come, now, cheer up, Archy:
let us be friends as before.”
“I'll always be your friend, if you'll let me!” exclaimed
Archy. “I'll do any thing for you; only let me know if ever
you wa-want me” — chokingly over his sleeve.
She waited for him to dry his tears, talking to him cheeringly;
then said she would see how much he was willing to
do for her.
“I've a letter I want you to carry,” — taking one from
her bosom.
“O, I'll — I'll carry it!” said the eager Archy.
“I don't want anybody to know about it: for that reason,
I trust you with it,” Lucy added, placing it in his hand.
“Carry it” — in a faint voice — “to Guy Bannington!”
Archy recoiled, holding the letter from him.
“Why, Archy, won't you take it?”
“O Lucy!” he murmured, with a look of astonishment
and distress. “Guy Bannington! — that bad young man!”
“What do you know about Guy Bannington?” cried
Lucy, irritated. “Give me back the letter!”
“I'll carry it, if you say so: only, you know, he's the wust
young man in the county, everybody says.”
“And what everybody says you believe, simpleton!”
said Lucy impatiently. “Give it to me!”
“No; I'll take it: I said I would. But why didn't you
tell us what you come over to our house for?”
“Why, Archy, what do you mean?”
“'Cause, I know now, you don't care no more for ma or
me than noth'n; and you never would have come if 't hadn't
been for gittin' me to carry this letter.”
Lucy blushed crimson; for the simple genius, out of the
anguish of his soul, as geniuses are said to do, had spoken
the living truth.
“Very well!” said Lucy coldly; “if you think so, you
will never wish to see me again: and I cannot keep the boxes,
nor let you carry the letter.”
“Now, don't be put out!” implored the widow's son, quite
none of my business who you write to. You know better'n
I do 'bout Guy; for you're enough sight smarter'n I be, I
know!” And he entreated so earnestly to be permitted to
show his devotion by conveying the missive, that Lucy could
not well refuse him had she wished to.
“Good-night, then, Archy. I can go alone the rest of the
way, and carry the boxes.” And, dismissing him with a
kind word he never forgot, she lingered there in the shadows
on the bridge, listening to the prophetic waters; while Archy
hurried away, clasping tight the letter, and blistering it with
his tears.
| I.
THE VILLAGE GENIUS. Lucy Arlyn | |