University of Virginia Library

9. CHAPTER IX.

WASHINGTON dreamed his way along the street, his
fancy flitting from grain to hogs, from hogs to
banks, from banks to eye-water, from eye-water to Tennessee
Land, and lingering but a feverish moment upon each of
these fascinations. He was conscious of but one outward
thing, to wit, the General, and he was really not vividly conscious
of him.

Arrived at the finest dwelling in the town, they entered it
and were at home. Washington was introduced to Mrs.
Boswell, and his imagination was on the point of flitting into
the vapory realms of speculation again, when a lovely girl of
sixteen or seventeen came in. This vision swept Washington's
mind clear of its chaos of glittering rubbish in an instant.
Beauty had fascinated him before; many times he had
been in love—even for weeks at a time with the same object
—but his heart had never suffered so sudden and so fierce an
assault as this, within his recollection.

Louise Boswell occupied his mind and drifted among his
multiplication tables all the afternoon. He was constantly
catching himself in a reverie—reveries made up of recalling
how she looked when she first burst upon him; how her voice
thrilled him when she first spoke; how charmed the very air
seemed by her presence. Blissful as the afternoon was, delivered
up to such a revel as this, it seemed an eternity, so

impatient was he to see the girl again. Other afternoons like
it followed. Washington plunged into this love affair as he
plunged into everything else—upon impulse and without reflection.
As the days went by it seemed plain that he was
growing in favor with Louise,—not sweepingly so, but yet
perceptibly, he fancied. His attentions to her troubled her
father and mother a little, and they warned Louise, without
stating particulars or making allusions to any special person,
that a girl was sure to make a mistake who allowed herself
to marry anybody but a man who could support her well.

Some instinct taught Washington that his present lack of
money would be an obstruction, though possibly not a bar, to
his hopes, and straightway his poverty became a torture to
him which cast all his former sufferings under that head into
the shade. He longed for riches now as he had never longed
for them before.

He had been once or twice to dine with Col. Sellers, and had
been discouraged to note that the Colonel's bill of fare was
falling off both in quantity and quality—a sign, he feared,
that the lacking ingredient in the eye-water still remained
undiscovered—though Sellers always explained that these
changes in the family diet had been ordered by the doctor, or
suggested by some new scientific work the Colonel had stumbled
upon. But it always turned out that the lacking ingredient
was still lacking—though it always appeared, at the
same time, that the Colonel was right on its heels.

Every time the Colonel came into the real estate office
Washington's heart bounded and his eyes lighted with hope,
but it always turned out that the Colonel was merely on the
scent of some vast, undefined landed speculation—although
he was customarily able to say that he was nearer to the all-necessary
ingredient than ever, and could almost name the
hour when success would dawn. And then Washington's
heart would sink again and a sigh would tell when it touched
bottom.

About this time a letter came, saying that Judge Hawkins
had been ailing for a fortnight, and was now considered to

[ILLUSTRATION]

CONSOLATION.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 095. In-line image of a young woman trying to comfort a young man in plaid pants.] be seriously ill. It was thought best that Washington should
come home. The news filled him with grief, for he loved
and honored his father; the Boswells were touched by the
youth's sorrow, and even the General unbent and said encouraging
things to him.—There was balm in this; but when
Louise bade him good-bye, and shook his hand and said,
“Don't be cast down—it will all come out right—I know it
will all come out right,” it seemed a blessed thing to be in
misfortune, and the tears that welled up to his eyes were the
messengers of an adoring and a grateful heart; and when
the girl saw them and answering tears came into her own
eyes, Washington could hardly contain the excess of happiness
that poured into the cavities of his breast that were so
lately stored to the roof with grief.

All the way home he nursed his woe and exalted it. He
pictured himself as she must be picturing him: a noble,
struggling young spirit persecuted by misfortune, but
bravely and patiently waiting in the shadow of a dread calamity

and preparing to meet the blow as became one who was
all too used to hard fortune and the pitiless buffetings of fate.
These thoughts made him weep, and weep more brokenheartedly
than ever; and he wished that she could see his
sufferings now.

There was nothing significant in the fact that Louise,
dreamy and distraught, stood at her bedroom bureau that
night, scribbling “Washington” here and there over a sheet
of paper. But there was something significant in the fact
that she scratched the word out every time she wrote it;
examined the erasure critically to see if anybody could guess
at what the word had been; then buried it under a maze of
obliterating lines; and finally, as if still unsatisfied, burned the
paper.

When Washington reached home, he recognized at once
how serious his father's case was. The darkened room, the
labored breathing and occasional moanings of the patient,
the tip-toeing of the attendants and their whispered consultations,
were full of sad meaning. For three or four nights
Mrs. Hawkins and Laura had been watching by the bedside;
Clay had arrived, preceding Washington by one day, and he
was now added to the corps of watchers. Mr. Hawkins
would have none but these three, though neighborly assistance
was offered by old friends. From this time forth three-hour
watches were instituted, and day and night the watchers
kept their vigils. By degrees Laura and her mother began
to show wear, but neither of them would yield a minute of
their tasks to Clay.—He ventured once to let the midnight
hour pass without calling Laura, but he ventured no more;
there was that about her rebuke when he tried to explain,
that taught him that to let her sleep when she might be ministering
to her father's needs, was to rob her of moments that
were priceless in her eyes; he perceived that she regarded it
as a privilege to watch, not a burden. And he had noticed,
also, that when midnight struck, the patient turned his eyes
toward the door, with an expectancy in them which presently
grew into a longing but brightened into contentment as soon

as the door opened and Laura appeared. And he did not
need Laura's rebuke when he heard his father say:

“Clay is good, and you are tired, poor child; but I wanted
you so.”

“Clay is not good, father—he did not call me. I would
not have treated him so. How could you do it, Clay?”

Clay begged forgiveness and promised not to break faith
again; and as he betook him to his bed, he said to himself,
“It's a steadfast little soul; whoever thinks he is doing the
Duchess a kindness by intimating that she is not sufficient for
any undertaking she puts her hand to, makes a mistake; and
if I did not know it before, I know now that there are surer
ways of pleasing her than by trying to lighten her labor when
that labor consists in wearing herself out for the sake of a
person she loves.”

A week drifted by, and all the while the patient sank lower
and lower. The night drew on that was to end all suspense.
It was a wintry one. The darkness gathered, the snow was
falling, the wind wailed plaintively about the house or shook
it with fitful gusts. The doctor had paid his last visit and
gone away with that dismal remark to the nearest friend of
the family that he “believed there was nothing more that he
could do”—a remark which is always overheard by some one
it is not meant for and strikes a lingering half-conscious hope
dead with a withering shock; the medicine phials had been
removed from the bedside and put out of sight, and all things
made orderly and meet for the solemn event that was impending;
the patient, with closed eyes, lay scareely breathing;
the watchers sat by and wiped the gathering damps from his
forehead while the silent tears flowed down their faces; the
deep hush was only interrupted by sobs from the children,
grouped about the bed.

After a time,—it was toward midnight now—Mr. Hawkins
roused out of a doze, looked about him and was evidently
trying to speak. Instantly Laura lifted his head and in a
failing voice he said, while something of the old light shone
in his eyes:

“Wife—children—come nearer—nearer. The darkness

[ILLUSTRATION]

THE DYING FATHER.

[Description: 499EAF. Page 098. In-line image of a person on a death bed with young men and women weeping around her body.] grows. Let me see you all, once more.”

The group closed together at the bedside, and their tears
and sobs came now without restraint.

“I am leaving you in cruel poverty. I have been—so
foolish—so short-sighted. But courage! A better day is—
is coming. Never lose sight of the Tennessee Land! Be
wary. There is wealth stored up for you there—wealth that
is boundless! The children shall hold up their heads with
the best in the land, yet. Where are the papers?—Have
you got the papers safe? Show them—show them to me!”

Under his strong excitement his voice had gathered power
and his last sentences were spoken with scarcely a perceptible
halt or hindrance. With an effort he had raised himself
almost without assistance to a sitting posture. But now the
fire faded out of his eyes and he fell back exhausted. The
papers were brought and held before him, and the answering
smile that flitted across his face showed that he was satisfied.
He closed his eyes, and the signs of approaching dissolution

[ILLUSTRATION] [Description: 499EAF. Page 099. Tail-piece image of a river with broken branches popping out of the water's surface.] multiplied rapidly. He lay almost motionless for a little
while, then suddenly partly raised his head and looked about
him as one who peers into a dim uncertain light. He muttered:

“Gone? No—I see you—still. It is—it is—over. But
you are—safe. Safe. The Ten——”

The voice died out in a whisper; the sentence was never
finished. The emaciated fingers began to pick at the coverlet,
a fatal sign. After a time there were no sounds but the
cries of the mourners within and the gusty turmoil of the
wind without. Laura had bent down and kissed her father's
lips as the spirit left the body; but she did not sob, or utter
any ejaculation; her tears flowed silently. Then she closed
the dead eyes, and crossed the hands upon the breast; after
a season, she kissed the forehead reverently, drew the sheet
up over the face, and then walked apart and sat down with
the look of one who is done with life and has no further
interest in its joys and sorrows, its hopes or its ambitions.
Clay buried his face in the coverlet of the bed; when the
other children and the mother realized that death was indeed
come at last, they threw themselves into each others' arms
and gave way to a frenzy of grief.