University of Virginia Library

75. CHAPTER LXXV.
REMINISCENCE.

On the very evening that General Belch and Abel Newt
were sitting together, smoking, taking snuff, sipping wine, and
discussing the great principles that should control the action
of American legislators and statesmen, Hope Wayne and Mrs.
Simcoe sat together in their pleasant drawing-room talking of
old times. The fire crackled upon the hearth, and the bright
flames flickering through the room brought out every object
with fitful distinctness. The lamp was turned almost out—
for they found it more agreeable to sit in a twilight as they
spoke of the days which seemed to both of them to be full of
subdued and melancholy light. They sat side by side; Hope
leaning her cheek upon her hand, and gazing thoughtfully
into the fire; Mrs. Simcoe turned partly toward her, and occasionally
studying her face, as if peculiarly anxious to observe
its expression.

It might have happened in many ways that they were speaking
of the old times. The older woman may have intentionally
led the conversation in that direction for some ulterior
purpose she had in view. Or what is more likely than that
the young woman should constantly draw her friend and guardian

to speak of days and people connected with her own life,
but passed before her memory had retained them?

After a long interval, as if, when she had once broken her
reserve about her life, she must pour out all her experience,
Mrs. Simcoe began:

“When I was twenty years old, living with my father, a
poor farmer in the country, there came to pass the summer in
the village a gentleman, a good deal older than I. He was
handsome, graceful, elegant, fascinating. I saw him at church,
but he did not see me. Then I met him sometimes upon the
road, idly sauntering along, swinging a little cane, and looking
as if village life were fatiguing. He seemed at length to observe
me. One day he bowed. I said nothing, but hurried
on. When I was a little beyond him I turned my head. He
also was turning and looking at me.

“I was old enough to know why I turned. Yes, and so
was he. How well I remember the peaceful western light
that fell along the fields and touched the trees so kindly!
Every thing was still. The birds dropped hurrying homeward
notes, and the cows were coming in from the pasture.
I was going after our cow, but I leaned a long time on the
bars and looked at the new moon timidly showing herself in
the west. Then I looked at my clumsy gown, and thick shoes,
and large hands, and thought of the graceful, elegant man,
who had not bowed to me insolently. I imagined that a gentleman
used to city life must find our country ways tiresome.
I pitied him, but what could I do?

“Once in the meadows I was following up the brook to
find cardinal flowers. The brook wound through a little
wood; and as I was passing, looking closely among the flags
and pickerel-wood, I suddenly heard a voice close to me—
`The lobelia blossoms are further on, Miss Jane.' I knew instantly
who it was, and I was conscious of being more scarlet
than the flowers I was seeking.

“Well, dear,” said Mrs. Simcoe, after pausing for a few moments,
“I can not repeat every detail. The time came when

[ILLUSTRATION]

Colonel Wayne's First Love.

[Description: 538EAF. Page 424. In-line Illustration. Image of a well dressed man talking to a poor looking woman. She clutches her shawl about her shoulders. There is a cow in the background.] I was not afraid to speak to him—when I cared to speak to no
one else—when I thought of him all day and dreamed of him
all night—when I wore the ribbons he praised, and the colors
he loved, and the flowers he gave me; when he told me of the
great life beyond the village, of lofty and beautiful women he
had known, of wise men he had seen, of the foreign countries
he had visited—when he twined my hair around his finger and
said, `Jane, I love you!”'

Her eyes were excited, and her voice was hurried, but inexpressibly
sad. Hope sat by, and the tears flowed from her
eyes.

“A long, long time. Yet it was only a few months—it was
only a summer. He came in May, and was gone again in November.
But between his coming and going the roses in our
garden blossomed and withered. So you see there was time
enough. Time enough! Time enough! I was heavenly
happy.

“One day he said that he must go. There was some frightful
trouble in his eye. `Will you come back?' I asked. I
tremble to remember how sternly I asked it, and how cold
and bloodless I felt. `So help me God!' he answered, and
left me. Left me! `So help me God!' he murmured, as his
tears fell upon my cheek and he kissed me. `So help me
God!'—and he left me. Not a word, not a look, not a sign
had he given me to suppose that he would not return; not a
thought, not a wish had he breathed to me that you might
not hear. His miniature hung in a locket around my neck,
even as my whole heart and soul hung upon his love. `So
help me God!' he whispered, and left me.

“He did not come back. I thought my heart was frozen.
My mother sighed as she went on with her hard, incessant
work. My father tried to be cheerful. `Cry, girl, cry,' my
mother said; `only cry, and you'll be better.' I could not
cry; I could not smile. I could do nothing but help her silently
in the long, hard work, day after day, summer and winter.
I read the books he had given me. I thought of the
things he had said. I sat in my chamber when the floor was
scrubbed, and the bread baked, and the dishes washed, and
the flies buzzed in the hot, still kitchen. I can hear them
now. And there I sat, looking out of my window, straining
my eyes toward the horizon—sometimes sure that I heard
him coming, clicking the gate, hurrying up the gravel, with
his eager, handsome, melancholy face. I started up. My
heart stood still. I was ready to fall upon his breast and say,

`I believe 'twas all right.' He did not come. `So help me
God!' he said, and did not come.

“My father brought me to New York to change the scene.
But God had brought me here to change my heart. I heard
one Sunday good old Bishop Asbury, and he began the work
that Summerfield sealed. My parents presently died. They
left nothing, and I was the only child. I did what I could,
and at last I became your grandfather's housekeeper.”

As her story proceeded Mrs. Simcoe looked more and more
anxiously at Hope, whose eyes were fixed upon her incessantly.
The older woman paused at this point, and, taking Hope's
face between her hands, smoothed her hair, and kissed her.

“Your grandfather had a daughter Mary.”

“My mother,” said Hope, earnestly.

“Your mother, darling. She was as beautiful but as delicate
as a flower. The doctors said a long salt voyage would
strengthen her. So your grandfather sent her in the ship of
one of his friends to India. In India she staid several weeks,
and met a young man of her own age, clerk in a house there.
Of course they were soon engaged. But he was young, not
yet in business, and she knew the severity of your grandfather
and his ambition for her. At length the ship returned,
and your mother returned in it. Scarcely was she at home
a month than your grandfather told me that he had a connection
in view for his daughter, and wanted me to prepare
her to receive the addresses of a gentleman a good deal older
than she, but of the best family, and in every way a desirable
husband. He was himself getting old, he said, and it was
necessary that his daughter should marry. Your mother
loved me dearly, as I did her. Gentle soul, with her soft,
dark, appealing eyes, with her flower-like fragility and womanly
dependence. Ah me! it was hard that your grandfather
should have been her parent.

“She was stunned when I told her. I thought her grief
was only natural, and I was surprised at the sudden change in
her. She faded before our eyes. We could not cheer her.

But she made no effort to resist. She did not refuse to see
her suitor; she did not say that she loved any one else. I
think she had a mortal fear of her father, and, dear soul! she
could not do any thing that required resolution.

“One day your grandfather said at dinner, `To-morrow,
Miss Mary, your new friend will be here.'

“All night she lay awake, trembling and tearful; and at
morning she rose like a spectre. The stranger arrived. Mary
kept her room until dinner-time. Then we both went down
to see the new-comer. He was in the library with your grandfather,
and was engaged in telling him some very amusing
story when we came in, for your grandfather was laughing
heartily. They both rose upon seeing us.

“`Colonel Wayne, my daughter,' said your grandfather,
waving his hand toward her. He bowed—she sank, spectre-like,
into a chair.

“`Mrs. Simcoe, Colonel Wayne.'

“Our eyes met. It was my lover. He was too much
amazed to bow. But in a moment he recovered himself,
smiled courteously, and seated himself; for he saw at once
what place I filled in the household. I said nothing. I remember
that I sank into a chair and looked at him. He was
older, but the same charm still hovered about his person. His
voice had the same secret music, and his movement that careless
grace which seemed to spring from the consciousness of
power. I was conscious of only two things—that I loved
him, and that he was unworthy the love of any woman.

“During dinner he made two or three observations to me.
But I bowed and said nothing. I think I was morally stunned,
and the whole scene seemed to me to be unreal. After a few
days he made a formal offer of his hand to Mary Burt. Poor
child! Poor child! She trembled, hesitated, fluttered, delayed.
`You must; you shall!' were the terrible words she
heard from her parent. She dreaded to tell the truth, lest he
should force a summary marriage. Hope, my child, you could
have resisted—so could I; she could not. `Only, dear father,'

she said, `I am so young. Let me not be married for a year.'
Her father laughed and assented, and I think she instantly
wrote to her lover in India.

“People came driving out to congratulate. `Such a reasonable
connection!' every body said; `a military man of fine old
family. It is really delightful to have a union sometimes take
place in which all the conditions are satisfactory.'

“All the time his miniature hung round my neck. Why?
Because, in the bottom of my soul, I still believed him. I had
heard him say, `So help me God!'

“He went away, and sometimes returned for a week. I
was comforted by seeing that he did not love your mother,
and by the confidence I had that she would not marry him. I
was sure that something would happen to prevent.

“The year was coming round. One night your mother appeared
in my room in her night-dress; her face was radiant,
and she held a note in her hand. It was from her lover. He
had thrown himself upon a ship when her letter reached him,
and here he was close at hand. Full of generous ardor, he
proposed to marry her privately at once; there was no other
way, he was sure.

“`Will you help us?' she said, after she had told me every
thing.

“`But you are two such children,' I said.

“`Then you will not help. You will make me marry Colonel
Wayne.'

“I tried to see the matter calmly. I sought the succor of
God. I do not say that I did just what I should have done,
but I helped them. The heart is weak, and perhaps I was the
more willing to help, because the fulfillment of her plan would
prevent her becoming the wife of Colonel Wayne. The time
was arranged when she was to go away. I was to accompany
her, and she was to be married.

“The lover came. It was a June night; the moon was full.
We went quietly along the avenue. The gate was opened.
We were just passing through when your grandfather and

Colonel Wayne suddenly stepped from the shadow of the wall
and the trees.

“Your mother and her lover stood perfectly still. She gave
a little cry. Your grandfather was furious.

“`Go, Sir!' he shrieked at the young man.

“`If your daughter commands it,' he replied.

“Your grandfather seized him involuntarily.

“`Sir, my daughter is the betrothed wife of Colonel Wayne.'

“The young man looked with an incredulous smile at your
mother, who had sunk senseless into my arms, and said, in a
low voice,

“`She was mine before she ever saw him.'

“Your grandfather actually hissed at him with contempt.

“`Go—before I strike you!'

“The young man hesitated for a few moments, saw that it
was useless to remain longer at that time, and went.

“The next day Mr. Burt sent for Dr. Peewee.

“The moment I knew what he intended to do I ran to your
grandfather and told him that Colonel Wayne was not a fit
husband for his daughter. But when I told him that the Colonel
had deserted me, Mr. Burt laughed scornfully.

“`You, Mrs. Simcoe? Why, you have lost your wits. Remember,
Colonel Wayne is a gentleman of the oldest family,
and you are—you were—'

“`I was a poor country girl,' said I, `and Colonel Wayne
loved me, and I loved him, and here is the pledge and proof
of it.'

“I drew out his miniature as I spoke, and held it before
your grandfather's eyes. He fairly staggered, and rang the
bell violently.

“`Call Colonel Wayne,' he said, hastily, to the servant.

“In a moment the Colonel came in. I saw his color change
as his eye fell upon me, holding the locket in my hand, and
upon your grandfather's flushed face.

“`Colonel Wayne, have you ever seen Mrs. Simcoe before?'

“He was very pale, and there were sallow circles under his
eyes as he spoke; but he said, calmly,

“`Not to my knowledge.'

“Scorn made me icily calm.

“`Who gave me that, Sir?' said I, thrusting the miniature
almost into his face.

“He took it in his hand and looked at it. I saw his lip
work and his throat quiver with an involuntary spasm.

“`I am sure I do not know.'

“I was speechless. Your grandfather was confounded.
Colonel Wayne looked white, but resolute.

“`God only is my witness,' said I, slowly, as if the words
came gasping from my heart. `So help me God, I loved him,
and he loved me.'

“A quiver ran through his frame as I spoke, but he preserved
the same placidity of face.

“`There is some mistake, Mrs. Simcoe,' said your grandfather,
not unkindly, to me. `Go to your room.'

“I obeyed, for my duty was done.”

Mrs. Simcoe paused, and rocked silently to and fro. Hope
took her hand and kissed it reverently. Presently the narration
was quietly resumed:

“I told your mother my story. But she was stunned by
her own grief, and I do not think she comprehended me. Dr.
Peewee came, and she was married. Your mother did not
say yes—for she could not utter a word—but the ceremony
proceeded. I heard the words, `Whom God hath joined together,'
and I laughed aloud, and fell fainting.

“It was a few days after the marriage, when Colonel Wayne
and his wife were absent, that your grandfather said to me,

“`Mrs. Simcoe, your story seems to be true. But think a
moment. A man like Colonel Wayne must have had many
experiences. We all do. He has been rash, and foolish, and
thoughtless, I have no doubt. He may even have trifled with
your feelings. I am very sorry. If he has done so, I think
he ought to have acknowledged it the other day. But I hope

sincerely that we shall all let by-gones by by-gones, and live
happily together. Ah! I see dinner is ready. Good-day, Mrs.
Simcoe. Dr. Peewee, will you ask a blessing?”'

It was already midnight, and the two women sat before the
fire. It was the moment when Abel Newt was stealing through
his rooms, fastening doors and windows. Hope Wayne was
pale and cold like a statue as she listened to the voice of Mrs.
Simcoe, which had a wailing tone pitiful to hear. After a long
silence she began again:

“What ought I to have done? Should I have gone away?
That was the easiest course. But, Hope, the way of duty is
not often the easiest way. I wrote a long letter to the good
old Bishop Asbury, who seemed to me like a father, and after
a while his answer came. He told me that I should seek the
Lord's leading, and if that bade me stay—if that told me that
it would be for my soul's blessing that my heart should break
daily—then I had better remain, seeing that the end is not
here—that here we have no continuing city, and that our
proud hearts must be bruised by grief, even as our Saviour's
lowly forehead was pierced with thorns.

“So I staid. It was partly pity for your mother, who began
to droop at once. It was partly that I might keep my
wound bleeding for my soul's salvation; and partly—I see it
now, but I could not then—because I believed, as before God
I do now believe, that in his secret heart I was the woman
your father loved, and I could not give him up.

“Your mother's lover wrote to me at once, I discovered
afterward, but his letters were intercepted, for your grandfather
was a shrewd, resolute man. Then he came to Pinewood,
but he was not allowed to see your mother. The poor boy
was frantic; but before he could effect any thing your mother
was the wife of Colonel Wayne. Then, in the same ship in
which he had come from India, he returned; and after he was
gone all his letters were given to me. I wrote to him at once.
I told him every thing about your mother, but there was not
much to tell. She never mentioned his name after her marriage.

There were gay parties given in honor of the wedding,
and her delicate, drooping, phantom-like figure hung upon the
arm of her handsome, elegant husband. People said that her
maidenly shyness was beautiful to behold, and that she clung
to her husband like the waving ivy to the oak.

“She did not cling long. She was just nineteen when she
was married—she was not twenty when you were born—she
was just twenty when they buried her. Oh! I did not think
of myself only, but of her, when I heard the saintly youth
breathe that plaintive prayer, `Draw them to thee, for they
wearily labor: they are heavily laden, gracious Father! oh,
give them rest!'

“And my father?” asked Hope, in a low voice.

“He went abroad for many years. Then he returned, and
came sometimes to Pinewood. His life was irregular. I think
he gambled, for he and your grandfather often had high words
in the library about the money that he wanted. But your
grandfather never allowed you to leave the place. He rarely
spoke of your mother; but I think he often thought of her, and
he gradually fell into the habit you remember. Yet he had
the same ambition for you that he had had for your mother.
He treated me always with stately politeness; but I know
that it was a dreary home for a young girl. Hope,” said Mrs.
Simcoe, after a short pause, “that is all—the end you yourself
remember.”

“Yes,” replied Hope, in the same low, appalled tone, “my
father went out upon the pond, one evening, with a friend to
bathe, and was drowned. Mr. Gray's boys found him. My
grandfather would not let me wear mourning for him. I wore
a blue ribbon the day Dr. Peewee preached his funeral sermon;
and I did not care to wear black. Aunty, I had seen
him too little to love him like a father, you know.”

She said it almost as if apologizing to Mrs. Simcoe, who
merely bowed her head.

It was past midnight. It was the very moment when Abel
Newt was starting with horror as he saw his own reflection
in the glass.

Something yet remained to be said between those two women.
Each knew it—neither dared to begin.

Hope Wayne closed her eyes with an inward prayer, and
then said, calmly, but in a low voice,

“And, aunty, the young man?”

Mrs. Simcoe took Hope's face between her caressing hands.
She smoothed the glistening golden hair, and kissed her upon
the forehead.

“Aunty, the young man?” said Hope, in the same tone.

“Was Lawrence Newt,” answered Mrs. Simcoe.

—It was the moment when Abel sat at his desk writing the
name that Mrs. Simcoe had pronounced.

Hope Wayne was perfectly sure it was coming, and yet the
word shot out upon her like a tongue of lightning. At first
she felt every nerve in her frame relaxed—a mist clouded her
eyes—she had a weary sense of happiness, for she thought she
was dying. The mist passed. She felt her cheeks glowing,
and was preternaturally calm. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her,
weeping silently.

“Good-night, dearest aunty!” said Hope, as she rose and
bent down to kiss her.

“My child!” said the older woman, in tones that trembled
out of an aching heart.

Hope took her candle, and moved toward the door. As
she went she heard Mrs. Simcoe repeating, in the old murmuring
sunset strain,