 | V.
A. B. BECOMES A VICTIM. Coupon bonds, and other stories |  |
5. V.
A. B. BECOMES A VICTIM.
Archy shut the door, and placed two chairs against it,
— there being no lock, — pulled off the said boots, hung
his wig on the bedpost, and in due time retiring, thought
of the widow, and called himself a victim, until he fell
asleep; when he dreamed that he was wedded to a spectre,
in soiled shirt-sleeves and patched trousers, and had nine
children, all of whom were born with little wheelbarrows
in their hands.
He was awakened by shouts of childish laughter. He
thought of his dream, rubbed his eyes, recognized his wig
on the bedpost, and remembered where he was. The
laughter proceeded from an adjoining room, where the
little Blossoms slept. Archy took his watch from beneath
the pillow, and discovered that he had been robbed of his
rest three hours earlier than his usual time for rising.
“I 'm always being a victim!” he said, with a yawn.
“But I suppose it 's the custom in the country to get up
at five. It will be such a novelty, I 'll try it for once.”
So Archy arose, dressed, put on his hat, found his
gold-headed cane (with the marks of Cyrus's soapy fingers
on it), and went out to walk. There was a freshness and
beauty in nature which afforded him an agreeable surprise.
“Really, and upon my soul,” he said, “I had quite
forgotten that mornings in the country were so fine! One
might enjoy an experience of this kind once or twice a
year very well indeed.”
Priscilla was occupied in dressing the children when
he went out. On his return she was preparing breakfast.
He was curious to see how she would look by daylight;
and he was conscious of a slight agitation as he entered
the room. Her occupation, together with the heat of the
kitchen stove, had given her a beautiful color; and the
tear and smile with which she greeted him completed the
charm. Thus the day began. Archy, who had intended
to return on the first train to town, stayed until the afternoon.
He then found it impossible to turn a deaf ear to
the widow's entreaties, who urged him to remain another
night beneath her roof. He delayed his departure another
day, and still another night; and ended by spending
a week with the widow, Cyrus, and the children, — a week
whose history would fill a volume. What we have not
space to detail here the reader's imagination — it must be
vivid — will supply.
At last the bachelor returned to town. He had long
wished to go, and wished not to go. His experiences had
been both sweet and terrible; and to depart was as excruciating
as to remain. In tearing himself away he left
behind a lacerated heart, which Mrs. Priscilla Blossom
retained, and in return for which she sent him letters full
of affection and bad spelling. It is singular how soon
a tender interest in persons invests even their faults with
a certain charm. Not a month had elapsed before Archy
had learned to love those innocent little errors of orthography
and construction as dearly as if the i's she neglected
to dot were the very eyes which he had so often
seen weep and smile.
“Really, and upon my soul,” said Archy, one morning,
after kissing her letter at least twice for every precious
error it contained, “she is a delightful creature; and, by
Jove, I 'd marry her — I would, truly — if — if it was n't
for being a victim!”
A strange unrest — to use a perfectly unhackneyed
expression — agitated his once placid bosom. Appetite
and flesh forsook him; his landlady observed that her
bountiful repasts no longer filled him; his tailor, that
he no longer filled his clothes. His friends shook their
heads and said, “The Blossom has been nipped by untimely
frost!”
At length, yielding to destiny, he again disappeared
mysteriously from town. It is supposed that he visited
Priscilla. He was absent a week. He returned, bearing
a still larger burden of unrest than he had carried away.
In short — to sum up the tragical result in one word —
Archy was a victim, and he knew it!
How it all happened, poor Archy could never tell; and
if he could not, how can his biographer? As early as the
middle of October he had written to Priscilla irrevocable
words, ordered a wedding suit of his tailor, bought a new
wig, and purchased a trunkful of presents for his future
wife and children. The 11th of November was fixed
for the fatal event. On the night of the 9th he slept
not at all, but filled the hours with wakefulness and sighs.
“O Benjamin,” he said, “if you had only lived! I wish
I had never gone up there! But it is too late to retract!
It would break poor dear Priscilla's heart! I am quite
sure she would die of grief! I must go through with it
now, — I see no other way!” Mrs. Brown wondered what
made her lodger groan so in his sleep.
On the other hand, Archy endeavored to console himself
by reasoning thus: “It was n't in human nature to
only doing my duty. I should have the family to support
any way. I can keep them in the country, and spend as
much time in town as I choose. I shall probably spend
all my time in town, with the exception of now and then
a few days in summer. Though really, and upon my soul,
if it was n't for Cyrus and the children I think I could be
very happy with Priscilla.”
He sank into a half-conscious state, and fancied himself
pursuing a wild, sweet, dangerous road, with two figures
whirling in a dance before him, one beautiful and bright,
but nearly enveloped in the other's black, voluminous
robes. One was Happiness, the other Misery; and so
they led him on, until the former quite disappeared, and
the latter, grim, inexorable, whirled alone. He awoke
with a start just as the hideous creature reached forth a
skeleton hand to claim him as a partner; and once more
Mrs. Brown wondered what made her lodger groan in
his sleep.
Archy was expected on the afternoon of the 10th, and
Cyrus was at the railroad station to meet him when the
train came in. The surviving brother felt not only like a
victim, but also very much like a culprit, when he stepped
from the cars, a spectacle to the group of loungers.
“Haryunclarchy?” (that is, “How are you, Uncle
Archy?”) cried Cyrus, familiarly advancing to shake
hands. “Got along, have ye? P'scill 's been drea'ful
'fraid you would n't come.” A broad grin from Mr. Drole.
Laughter and significant looks from the crowd. Embarrassment
on the part of Mr. Blossom.
“Where 's the carriage?” whispered the future bridegroom,
who, anticipating this scene, had directed that a
decent conveyance should be in waiting for him on his
arrival.
“Could n't git no kind of a one,” said Cyrus, in a loud
tone of voice. “Jinkins 's usin' hisn; Alvord's hoss 's lame;
Hillick, that keeps the tavern, had let hisn; I told 'em
you was comin', and I did n't know what I should do; but
not a darned thing in the shape of a carriage could I scare
up. So I concluded you could walk over to the house, —
guess you ha'n't quite forgot the way; and I 've brought
my wheelbarrer for your trunks.”
“Always a victim!” muttered Archy, red and perspiring,
perhaps at the recollection of his first adventure with
the wheelbarrow. He would have given worlds — as the
romance writers say — had he never set foot in the village.
But retrogression was now impossible. He hastily
pointed out his baggage with his gold-headed cane, and
walked up the street. He had not proceeded twenty
yards when Cyrus came after him, running his wheelbarrow
on the walk, and shouting to the retiring loungers
to “clear the track.” He pushed his load of trunks to
Archy's heels, and there he kept it, occasionally grazing
his calves with the wheel, until the exasperated bridegroom
stepped aside and stopped.
“Go on!” he said, hoarsely.
“Never mind; I a'n't pa'tic'lar!” replied Cyrus, setting
the wheelbarrow down, and spitting on his hands.
“I jest as lives you 'd go ahead. Whew! makes me
blow!”
Archy raised his cane, but forebore exercising it upon
the young gentleman's back (as justice seemed to require)
in consequence of the publicity of the scene. He walked
on. The wheelbarrow followed, again at his heels. And
thus the bridegroom traversed the village, the head of a
procession which caused a general expansion of risible
muscles and a compression of noses upon window-panes
as it passed.
“By the furies!” thought Archy, “I can't go through
with it! I 'll put a stop to the insane proceeding at
once! I 'll make some excuse; I 'll say I 've heard from
California and Benjamin is n't dead. That would n't do,
though; Priscilla 's had a letter from the friend who
received his parting breath. I 'll tell her — I 'll tell her
I 've got another wife. Then she 'll reproach me, and
what shall I say? Say I thought my wife was dead, but
she 's turned up again! That won't do, though, — I
can't lie.”
“Look out for yer legs!” cried Cyrus. They had
passed the gate. Archy was met by Mrs. Blossom and
four little Blossoms, soon to be all his own. Priscilla
clung to his neck, Benjie to his hand, Phidie to his coat-tails,
leaving the lesser Blossoms each a leg.
“I am doomed!” thought Archy. He assumed a gayety,
though he felt it not; opened his heart and his trunk;
distributed presents; received a good many more thanks
and kisses than he wanted; withdrew to the solitude of
his chamber; conferred with Priscilla, who followed him
thither, and whom he found, after all his doubts and despair,
to be the dearest and best of women.
He came out brighter than he had gone in; taking his
seat at the tea-table with Blossoms three and four on each
side and Priscilla opposite. The children had quarrelled
to sit next their uncle, and that rare indulgence had been
granted to the youngest two. Little Archy was barefoot,
and he persisted in rubbing his toes against big Archy's
trousers. Little Cilly (Blossom number four) sprinkled
him with crumbs, buttered his coat-sleeve, and tipped
over his teacup. Archy (the uncle) was beginning to
have very much the air of a parent.
The presents had so much excited the children that the
house that evening was a perfect little Babel. “And this
Cyrus was practising upon a new fiddle, in the kitchen,
and nothing could silence his horrible discords. The
domestic — a recent addition to Mrs. Blossom's establishment
— let fall a pile of dishes, deluging the threshold
with fragments. Benjie upset the table with a lamp and
pitcher, which saturated the carpet with oil and water.
Phidie and Archy quarrelled, and cried an hour after they
had gone to bed. Number four was sick, in consequence
of eating too much of Uncle Archy's candy, and had to
be doctored. Priscilla was harassed and — shall we confess
it? — cross. Add to the picture the melancholy coloring
of the season, — imagine the dreary whistling of the
November wind, and the rattling of dry leaves and naked
boughs, — and you have some notion of a nice, comfort-loving
old bachelor's reasons for homesickness.
Archy retired to his room. “I can't go through with
it! It 's no use! I 'll break it to Priscilla — gradually —
but I 'm resolved to do it! Suppose I make believe
I 'm insane, and tear things? Insane! I 've been insane!
O Benjamin —”
Rap, rap! gently, at the door. “There she is!” said
Archy. “Now, Blossom, be a man!” He opened; Priscilla
entered. She observed his excited mien with a look
of alarm.
“Dear Archy! what is the matter?”
What a wonderful influence there is in woman's eyes, a
ripe lip reaching up to you, and an arm about your neck!
Archy was afraid he was going to be shaken.
“Priscilla!” he said, with a tragic air, “I 've had a
horrid thought! Suppose — suppose Benjamin should
still be alive! and should come home! and find me — me
— a usurper of his happiness!”
“O Archy!” articulated Priscilla, with strong symptoms
of fainting, “spare me! spare me!”
“Of course it is n't reasonable to suppose such a thing,
— but,” stammered Archy, “is n't our marriage hasty,
— premature? Not six months after the news of his
death, — though, to be sure, he had then been dead four
months, and that makes ten. But would n't it, after all,
be wise to postpone our bliss, — say till spring?”
“If you leave me,” said Priscilla, “I shall die!” She
closed her eyes, drooping tremulously in his arms; and
the scene would have been very romantic indeed but for
the plumpness of her figure and the laws of gravitation,
which united in compelling him to ease her down upon
a chair. “But go!” she added, “go! you do not love me!”
“Really, and upon my soul, I do!” vowed Archy,
greatly moved. “Priscilla, I adore you!”
“Then don't — don't break my heart!”
His resolution was melted; he saw that either Priscilla
or himself must be a victim. “I 'll be one myself,” he
thought; “I 'm used to it!” And he said no more of
postponing their conjugal felicity.
We read of prisoners sleeping soundly on the eve of
their execution. So Archy slept that night. The wedding
was appointed for the next morning. The bridegroom
awoke at half past six. It was cold and rainy. He
looked out upon the dismallest scene, — dark and dreary
hills, a deserted street, dripping and shivering trees, dead
leaves rotting upon the ground.
“I have brought my razor with me,” said Archy;
“really, and upon my soul, I think the best thing I can
do is to cut off the wretched thread of my existence,
just under the chin!”
Already the children were laughing and screaming in
the next room, and Cyrus's fiddle squeaked in the kitchen.
Archy got up, took his razor, deliberately honed it, uncovered
his throat, and — with a firm hand — shaved himself.
| V.
A. B. BECOMES A VICTIM. Coupon bonds, and other stories | |