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diff --git a/.gitattributes b/.gitattributes new file mode 100644 index 0000000..6833f05 --- /dev/null +++ b/.gitattributes @@ -0,0 +1,3 @@ +* text=auto +*.txt text +*.md text diff --git a/76948-0.txt b/76948-0.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..0d0939c --- /dev/null +++ b/76948-0.txt @@ -0,0 +1,7149 @@ + +*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76948 *** + + + + + +[Illustration: + + [Page 38 + “‘DAVID!’ SHE CALLED. ‘DAVID! DAVID! DAVID!’”] + + + + + SILENCE + + _AND OTHER STORIES_ + + _By_ MARY E. WILKINS + _Author of “Jerome, A Poor + Man” “Madelon” “Jane Field”_ + + WITH ILLUSTRATIONS + +[Illustration] + + NEW YORK AND LONDON + HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS + + + + + __________________________________________________ + | | + | +Books by+ | + | | + | MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN | + | | + | THE COPY-CAT AND OTHER STORIES. | + | Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | BY THE LIGHT OF THE SOUL. | + | Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | THE DEBTOR. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | EVELINA’S GARDEN. 16mo. | + | THE FAIR LAVINIA. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | GILES CORY, YEOMAN. Illustrated. 32mo. | + | THE GIVERS. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | A HUMBLE ROMANCE. Post 8vo. | + | JANE FIELD. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | JEROME--A POOR MAN. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | THE LOVE OF PARSON LORD. Post 8vo. | + | MADELON. Post 8vo. | + | A NEW ENGLAND NUN. Post 8vo. | + | PEMBROKE. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | THE PORTION OF LABOR. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | THE SHOULDERS OF ATLAS. | + | Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | SILENCE, ETC. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | SIX TREES. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | UNDERSTUDIES. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | THE WINNING LADY AND OTHERS. | + | Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | THE YATES PRIDE. Illustrated. 16mo. | + | YOUNG LUCRETIA. Illustrated. Post 8vo. | + | | + | HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK | + |________________________________________________| + + + Copyright, 1898, by +Harper & Brothers+. + + Printed in the United States of America + + + + + CONTENTS + + PAGE + + +Silence+ 1 + + +The Buckley Lady+ 55 + + +Evelina’s Garden+ 111 + + +A New England Prophet+ 184 + + +The Little Maid at the Door+ 225 + + +Lydia Hersey, of East Bridgewater+ 255 + + + + + ILLUSTRATIONS + + + + “‘DAVID!’ SHE CALLED. ‘DAVID! DAVID! + DAVID!’” _Frontispiece_ + AT ENSIGN SHELDON’S HOUSE THE MORNING + AFTER THE MASSACRE _Facing p._ 30 + “SHE HEARD RAPID FOOTSTEPS” ” 132 + “‘THE LORD MAKE ME WORTHY OF THEE, + EVELINA!’” ” 180 + + + + +SILENCE + + +At dusk Silence went down the Deerfield street to Ensign John Sheldon’s +house. She wore her red blanket over her head, pinned closely under her +chin, and her white profile showed whiter between the scarlet folds. +She had been spinning all day, and shreds of wool still clung to her +indigo petticoat; now and then one floated off on the north wind. It +was bitter cold, and the snow was four feet deep. Silence’s breath went +before her in a cloud; the snow creaked under her feet. All over the +village the crust was so firm that men could walk upon it. The houses +were half sunken in sharp, rigid drifts of snow; their roofs were laden +with it; icicles hung from the eaves. All the elms were white with snow +frozen to them so strongly that it was not shaken off when they were +lashed by the fierce wind. + +There was an odor of boiling meal in the air; the housewives were +preparing supper. Silence had eaten hers; she and her aunt, Widow +Eunice Bishop, supped early. She had not far to go to Ensign +Sheldon’s. She was nearly there when she heard quick footsteps on the +creaking snow behind her. Her heart beat quickly, but she did not look +around. “Silence,” said a voice. Then she paused, and waited, with her +eyes cast down and her mouth grave, until David Walcott reached her. +“What do you out this cold night, sweetheart?” he said. + +“I am going down to Goodwife Sheldon’s,” replied Silence. Then suddenly +she cried out, wildly: “Oh, David, what is that on your cloak? What is +it?” + +David looked curiously at his cloak. “I see naught on my cloak save old +weather stains,” said he. “What mean you, Silence?” + +Silence quieted down suddenly. “It is gone now,” said she, in a subdued +voice. + +“What did you see, Silence?” + +Silence turned towards him; her face quivered convulsively. “I saw a +blotch of blood,” she cried. “I have been seeing them everywhere all +day. I have seen them on the snow as I came along.” + +David Walcott looked down at her in a bewildered way. He carried +his musket over his shoulder, and was shrugged up in his cloak; his +heavy, flaxen mustache was stiff and white with frost. He had just +been relieved from his post as sentry, and it was no child’s play to +patrol Deerfield village on a day like that, nor had it been for many +previous days. The weather had been so severe that even the French and +Indians, lurking like hungry wolves in the neighborhood, had hesitated +to descend upon the town, and had stayed in camp. + +“What mean you, Silence?” he said. + +“What I say,” returned Silence, in a strained voice. “I have seen +blotches of blood everywhere all day. The enemy will be upon us.” + +David laughed loudly, and Silence caught his arm. “Don’t laugh +so loud,” she whispered. Then David laughed again. “You be all +overwrought, sweetheart,” said he. “I have kept guard all the afternoon +by the northern palisades, and I have seen not so much as a red fox +on the meadow. I tell thee the French and Indians have gone back to +Canada. There is no more need of fear.” + +“I have started all day and all last night at the sound of warwhoops,” +said Silence. + +“Thy head is nigh turned with these troublous times, poor lass. We must +cross the road now to Ensign Sheldon’s house. Come quickly, or you will +perish in this cold.” + +“Nay, my head is not turned,” said Silence, as they hurried on over the +crust; “the enemy be hiding in the forests beyond the meadows. David, +they be not gone.” + +“And I tell thee they be gone, sweetheart. Think you not we should +have seen their camp smoke had they been there? And we have had trusty +scouts out. Come in, and my aunt, Hannah Sheldon, shall talk thee out +of this folly.” + +The front windows of John Sheldon’s house were all flickering red from +the hearth fire. David flung open the door, and they entered. There was +such a goodly blaze from the great logs in the wide fireplace that even +the shadows in the remote corners of the large keeping-room were dusky +red, and the faces of all the people in the room had a clear red glow +upon them. + +Goodwife Hannah Sheldon stood before the fire, stirring some porridge +in a great pot that hung on the crane; some fair-haired children sat +around a basket shelling corn, a slight young girl in a snuff-yellow +gown was spinning, and an old woman in a quilted hood crouched in a +corner of the fireplace, holding out her lean hands to the heat. + +Goodwife Sheldon turned around when the door opened. “Good-day, +Mistress Silence Hoit,” she called out, and her voice was sweet, but +deep like a man’s. “Draw near to the fire, for in truth you must be +near perishing with the cold.” + +“There’ll be fire enough ere morning, I trow, to warm the whole +township,” said the old woman in the corner. Her small black eyes +gleamed sharply out of the gloom of her great hood; her yellow face +was all drawn and puckered towards the centre of her shrewdly leering +mouth. + +“Now you hush your croaking, Goody Crane,” cried Hannah Sheldon. “Draw +the stool near to the fire for Silence, David. I cannot stop stirring, +or the porridge will burn. How fares your aunt this cold weather, +Silence?” + +“Well, except for her rheumatism,” replied Silence. She sat down on the +stool that David placed for her, and slipped her blanket back from her +head. Her beautiful face, full of a grave and delicate stateliness, +drooped towards the fire, her smooth fair hair was folded in clear +curves like the leaves of a lily around her ears, and she wore a high, +transparent, tortoise-shell comb like a coronet in the knot at the back +of her head. + +David Walcott had pulled off his cap and cloak, and stood looking +down at her. “Silence is all overwrought by this talk of Indians,” he +remarked, presently, and a blush came over his weather-beaten blond +face at the tenderness in his own tone. + +“The Indians have gone back to Canada,” said Goodwife Sheldon, in a +magisterial voice. She stirred the porridge faster; it was steaming +fiercely. + +“So I tell her,” said David. + +Silence looked up in Hannah Sheldon’s sober, masterly face. “Goodwife, +may I have a word in private with you?” she asked, in a half-whisper. + +“As soon as I take the porridge off,” replied Goodwife Sheldon. + +“God grant it be not the last time she takes the porridge off!” said +the old woman. + +Hannah Sheldon laughed. “Here be Goody Crane in a sorry mind to-night,” +said she. “Wait till she have a sup of this good porridge, and I trow +she’ll pack off the Indians to Canada in a half-hour!” + +Hannah began dipping out the porridge. When she had placed generous +dishes of it on the table and bidden everybody draw up, she motioned to +Silence. “Now, Mistress Silence,” said she, “come into the bedroom if +you would have a word with me.” + +Silence followed her into the little north room opening out of the +keeping-room, where Ensign John Sheldon and his wife Hannah had slept +for many years. It was icy cold, and the thick fur of frost on the +little window-panes sent out sparkles in the candle-light. The two +women stood beside the great chintz draped and canopied bed, Hannah +holding the flaring candle. “Now, what is it?” said she. + +“Oh, Goodwife Sheldon!” said Silence. Her face remained quite still, +but it was as if one could see her soul fluttering beneath it. + +“You be all overwrought, as David saith,” cried Goodwife Sheldon, and +her voice had a motherly harshness in it. Silence had no mother, and +her lover, David Walcott, had none. Hannah was his aunt, and loved +him like her son, so she felt towards Silence as towards her son’s +betrothed. + +“In truth I know not what it is,” said Silence, in a kind of reserved +terror, “but there has been all day a great heaviness of spirit upon +me, and last night I dreamed. All day I have fancied I saw blood here +and there. Sometimes, when I have looked out of the window, the whole +snow hath suddenly glared with red. Goodwife Sheldon, think you the +Indians and the French have in truth gone back to Canada?” + +Goodwife Sheldon hesitated a moment, then she spoke up cheerily. “In +truth have they!” cried she. “John said but this noon that naught of +them had been seen for some time.” + +“So David said,” returned Silence; “but this heaviness will not be +driven away. You know how Parson Williams hath spoken in warning in the +pulpit and elsewhere, and besought us to be vigilant. He holdeth that +the savages be not gone.” + +Hannah Sheldon smiled. “Parson Williams is a godly man, but prone ever +to look upon the dark side,” said she. + +“If the Indians should come to-night--” said Silence. + +“I tell ye they will not come, child. I shall lay me down in that bed +a-trusting in the Lord, and having no fear against the time I shall +arise from it.” + +“If the Indians should come-- Goodwife Sheldon, be not angered; hear +me. If they should come, I pray you keep David here to defend you in +this house, and let him not out to seek me. You know well that our +house is musket-proof as well as this, and it has long been agreed that +they who live nearest, whose houses have not thick walls, shall come +to ours and help us make defence. I pray you let not David out of the +house to seek me, should there be a surprise to-night. I pray you give +me your promise for this, Goodwife Sheldon.” + +Hannah Sheldon laughed. “In truth will I give thee the promise, if it +makes thee easier, child,” said she. “At the very first war-screech +will I tie David in the chimney-corner with my apron-string, unless you +lend me yours. But there will be no war-screech to-night, nor to-morrow +night, nor the night after that. The Lord will preserve His people +that trust in Him. To-day have I set a web of linen in the loom, and +I have candles ready to dip to-morrow, and the day after that I have +a quilting. I look not for Indians. If they come I will set them to +work. Fear not for David, sweetheart. In truth you should have a bolder +heart, an’ you look to be a soldier’s wife some day.” + +“I would I had never been aught to him, that he might not be put in +jeopardy to defend me!” said Silence, and her words seemed visible in a +white cloud at her mouth. + +“We must not stay here in the cold,” said Goodwife Sheldon. “Out with +ye, Silence, and have a sup of hot porridge, and then David shall see +ye home.” + +Silence sipped a cup of the hot porridge obediently, then she pinned +her red blanket over her head. Hannah Sheldon assisted her, bringing it +warmly over her face. “’Tis bitter cold,” she said. “Now have no more +fear, Mistress Silence; the Indians will not come to-night; but do you +come over to-morrow, and keep me company while I dip the candles.” + +“There’ll be company enough--there’ll be a whole houseful,” muttered +the old woman in the corner; but nobody heeded her. She was a lonely +and wretched old creature whom people sheltered from pity, although she +was somewhat feared and held in ill repute. There were rumors that she +was well versed in all the dark lore of witchcraft, and held commerce +with unlawful beings. The children of Deerfield village looked askance +at her, and clung to their mothers if they met her on the street, for +they whispered among themselves that old Goody Crane rode through the +air on a broom in the night-time. + +Silence and David passed out into the keen night. “If you meet my +good-man, hasten him home, for the porridge is cooling,” Hannah +Sheldon called after them. + +They met not a soul on Deerfield street, and parted at Silence’s door. +David would have entered had she bidden him, but she said peremptorily +that she had a hard task of spinning that evening, and then she wished +him good-night, and without a kiss, for Silence Hoit was chary of +caresses. But to-night she called him back ere he was fairly in the +street. “David,” she called, and he ran back. + +“What is it, Silence?” he asked. + +She put back her blanket, threw her arms around his neck, and clung to +him trembling. + +“Why, sweetheart,” he whispered, “what has come over thee?” + +“You know--this house is made like--a fort,” she said, bringing out +her words in gasps, “and--there are muskets, and--powder stored in it, +and--Captain Moulton, and his sons, and--John Carson will come, and +make--a stand in it. I have--no fear should--the Indians come. Remember +that I have no fear, and shall be safe here, David.” + +David laughed, and patted her clinging shoulders. “Yes, I will +remember, Silence,” he said; “but the Indians will not come.” + +“Remember that I am safe here, and have no fear,” she repeated. Then +she kissed him of her own accord, as if she had been his wife, and +entered the house, and he went away, wondering. + +Silence’s aunt, Widow Eunice Bishop, did not look up when the door +opened; she was knitting by the fire, sitting erect with her mouth +pursed. She had a hostile expression, as if she were listening to +some opposite argument. Silence hung her blanket on a peg; she stood +irresolute a minute, then she breathed on the frosty window and cleared +a space through which she could look out. Her aunt gave a quick, fierce +glance at her, then she tossed back her head and knitted. Silence +stood staring out of the little peep-hole in the frosty pane. Her aunt +glanced at her again, then she spoke. + +“I should think if you had been out gossiping and gadding for two +hours, you had better get yourself at some work now,” she said, “unless +your heart be set on idling. A pretty house-wife you’ll make!” + +“Come here quick, quick!” Silence cried out. + +Her aunt started, but she would not get up; she knitted, scowling. “I +cannot afford to idle if other folk can,” said she. “I have no desire +to keep running to windows and standing there gaping, as you have done +all this day.” + +“Oh, aunt, I pray you to come,” said Silence, and she turned her white +face over her shoulder towards her aunt; “there is somewhat wrong +surely.” + +Widow Bishop got up, still scowling, and went over to the window. +Silence stood aside and pointed to the little clear circle in the midst +of the frost. “Over there to the north,” she said, in a quick, low +voice. + +Her aunt adjusted her horn spectacles and bent her head stiffly. “I see +naught,” said she. + +“A red glare in the north!” + +“A red glare in the north! Be ye out of your mind, wench! There be no +red glare in the north. Everything be quiet in the town. Get ye away +from the window and to your work. I have no more patience with such +doings. Here have I left my knitting for nothing, and I just about +setting the heel. You’d best keep to your spinning instead of spying +out of the window at your own nightmares, and gadding about the town +after David Walcott. Pretty doings for a modest maid, I call it, +following after young men in this fashion!” + +Silence turned on her aunt, and her blue eyes gleamed dark; she held up +her head like a queen. “I follow not after young men,” she said. + +“Heard I not David Walcott’s voice at the door? Went you not to +Goodwife Sheldon’s, where he lives? Was it not his voice--hey?” + +“Yes, ’twas, an’ I had a right to go there an I chose, an’ ’twas naught +unmaidenly,” said Silence. + +“’Twas unmaidenly in my day,” retorted her aunt; “perhaps ’tis +different now.” She had returned to her seat, and was clashing her +knitting-needles like two swords in a duel. + +Silence pulled a spinning-wheel before the fire and fell to work. The +wheel turned so rapidly that the spokes were a revolving shadow; there +was a sound as if a bee had entered the room. + +“I stayed at home, and your uncle did the courting,” Widow Eunice +Bishop continued, in a voice that demanded response. + +But Silence made none. She went on spinning. Her aunt eyed her +maliciously. “I never went after nightfall to his house that he might +see me home,” said she. “I trow my mother would have locked me up in +the garret, and kept me on meal and water for a week, had I done aught +so bold.” + +Silence spun on. Her aunt threw her head back, and knitted, jerking +out her elbows. Neither of them spoke again until the clock struck +nine. Then Widow Bishop wound her ball of yarn closer, and stuck in +the knitting-needles, and rose. “’Tis time to put out the candle,” she +said, “and _I_ have done a good day’s work, and feel need of rest. +They that have idled cannot make it up by wasting tallow.” She threw +open the door that led to her bedroom, and a blast of icy confined +air rushed in. She untied the black cap that framed her nervous face +austerely, and her gray head, with its tight rosette of hair on the +crown, appeared. Silence set her spinning-wheel back, and raked the +ashes over the hearth fire. Then she took the candle and climbed the +stairs to her own chamber. Her aunt was already in bed, her pale, +white-frilled face sunk in the icy feather pillow; but she did not +bid her good-night: not on account of her anger; there was seldom any +such formal courtesy exchanged between the women. Silence’s chamber +had one side sloping with the slope of the roof, and in it were two +dormer-windows looking towards the north. She set her candle on +the table, breathed on one of these windows, as she had on the one +down-stairs, and looked out. She stood there several minutes, then she +turned away, shaking her head. The room was very cold. She let down her +smooth fair hair, and her fingers began to redden; she took off her +kerchief; then she stopped, and looked hesitatingly at her bed, with +its blue curtains. She set her mouth hard, and put on her kerchief. +Then she sat down on the edge of her bed and waited. After a while +she pulled a quilt from the bed and wrapped it around her. Still she +did not shiver. She had blown out the candle, and the room was very +dark. All her nerves seemed screwed tight like fiddle-strings, and her +thoughts beat upon them and made terrific waves of sound in her ears. +She saw sparks and flashes like diamond fire in the darkness. She +had her hands clinched tight, but she did not feel her hands nor her +feet--she did not feel her whole body. She sat so until two o’clock in +the morning. When the clock down in the keeping-room struck the hours, +the peals shocked her back for a minute to her old sense of herself; +then she lost it again. Just after the clock struck two, while the +silvery reverberation of the bell tone was still in her ears, and she +was breathing a little freer, a great rosy glow suffused the frosty +windows. A horrible discord of sound arose without. Above everything +else came something like a peal of laughter from wild beasts or fiends. + +Silence arose and went down-stairs. Her aunt rushed out of her bedroom, +shrieking, and caught hold of her. “Oh, Silence, what is it, what is +it?” she cried. + +“Get away till I light a candle,” said Silence. She fairly pushed her +aunt off, shovelled the ashes from the coals in the fireplace, and +lighted a candle. Then she threw some wood on the smouldering fire. Her +aunt was running around the room screaming. There came a great pound on +the door. + +“It’s the Indians! it’s the Indians! don’t let ’em in!” shrieked her +aunt. “Don’t let them in! don’t let them!” She placed her lean shoulder +in her white bed-gown against the door. “Go away! go away!” she yelled. +“You can’t come in! O Lord Almighty, save us!” + +“You stand off,” said Silence. She took hold of her aunt’s shoulders. +“Be quiet,” she commanded. Then she called out, in a firm voice, “Who +is there?” + +At the shout in response she drew the great iron bolts quickly and +flung open the heavy nail-studded door. There was a press of frantic, +white-faced people into the room; then the door was slammed to and the +bolts shot. It was very still in the room, except for the shuffling +rush of the men’s feet, and now and then a stern, gasping order. The +children did not cry; all the noise was without. The house might have +stood in the midst of some awful wilderness peopled with fiendish +beasts, from the noise without. The cries seemed actually in the room. +The children’s eyes glared white over their mothers’ shoulders. + +The men hurriedly strengthened the window-shutters with props of logs, +and fitted the muskets into the loop-holes. Suddenly there was a great +crash at the door, and a wilder yell outside. The muskets opened fire, +and some of the women rushed to the door and pressed fiercely against +it with their delicate shoulders, their white, desperate faces turning +back dumbly, like a spiritual phalanx of defence. Silence and her aunt +were among them. + +Suddenly Widow Eunice Bishop, at a fresh onslaught upon the door, and +a fiercer yell, lifted up her voice and shrieked back in a rage as mad +as theirs. Her speech, too, was almost inarticulate, and the sense of +it lost in a savage frenzy; her tongue stuttered over abusive epithets; +but for a second she prevailed over the terrible chorus without. It was +like the solo of a fury. Then louder yells drowned her out; the muskets +cracked faster; the men rammed in the charges; the savages fell back +somewhat; the blows on the door ceased. + +Silence ran up the stairs to her chamber, and peeped cautiously out of +a little dormer-window. Deerfield village was roaring with flames, the +sky and snow were red, and leaping through the glare came the painted +savages, a savage white face and the waving sword of a French officer +in their midst. The awful warwhoops and the death-cries of her friends +and neighbors sounded in her ears. She saw, close under her window, the +dark sweep of the tomahawk, the quick glance of the scalping-knife, and +the red starting of caps of blood. She saw infants dashed through the +air, and the backward-straining forms of shrieking women dragged down +the street; but she saw not David Walcott anywhere. + +She eyed in an agony some dark bodies lying like logs in the snow. A +wild impulse seized her to run out, turn their dead faces, and see +that none of them was her lover’s. Her room was full of red light; +everything in it showed distinctly. The roof of the next house crashed +in, and the sparks and cinders shot up like a volcano. There was a +great outcry of terror from below, and Silence hurried down. The +Indians were trying to fire the house from the west side. They had +piled a bank of brush against it, and the men had hacked new loop-holes +and were beating them back. + +John Carson’s wife clutched Silence as she entered the keeping-room. +“They are trying to set the house on fire,” she gasped, “and--the +bullets are giving out!” The woman held a little child hugged close to +her breast; she strained him closer. “They shall not have him, anyway,” +she said. Her mouth looked white and stiff. + +“Put him down and help, then,” said Silence. She began pulling the +pewter plates off the dresser. + +“What be you doing with my pewter plates?” screamed her aunt at her +elbow. + +Silence said nothing. She went on piling the plates under her arm. + +“Think you I will have the pewter plates I have had ever since I was +wed, melted to make bullets for those limbs of Satan?” + +Silence carried the plates to the fire; the women piled on wood and +made it hotter. John Carson’s wife laid her baby on the settle and +helped, and Widow Bishop brought out her pewter spoons, and her silver +cream-jug when the pewter ran low, and finally her dead husband’s +knee-buckles from the cedar chest. All the pewter and silver in Widow +Eunice Bishop’s house were melted down that night. The women worked +with desperate zeal to supply the men with bullets, and just before +the ammunition failed, the Indians left Deerfield village, with their +captives in their train. + +The men had stopped firing at last. Everything was quiet outside, +except for the flurry of musket-shots down on the meadow, where the +skirmish was going on between the Hatfield men and the retreating +French and Indians. The dawn was breaking, but not a shutter had been +stirred in the Bishop house; the inmates were clustered together, their +ears straining for another outburst of slaughter. + +Suddenly there was a strange crackling sound overhead; a puff of hot +smoke came into the room from the stairway. The roof had caught fire +from the shower of sparks, and the stanch house that had withstood all +the fury of the savages was going the way of its neighbors. + +The men rushed up the stair, and fell back. “We can’t save it!” Captain +Isaac Moulton said, hoarsely. He was an old man, and his white hair +tossed wildly around his powder-blackened face. + +Widow Eunice Bishop scuttled into her bedroom, and got her best +silk hood and her giltframed looking-glass. “Silence, get out the +feather-bed!” she shrieked. + +The keeping-room was stifling with smoke. Captain Moulton loosened +a window-shutter cautiously and peered out. “I see no sign of the +savages,” he said. They unbolted the door, and opened it inch by inch, +but there was no exultant shout in response. The crack of muskets on +the meadow sounded louder; that was all. + +Widow Eunice Bishop pushed forward before the others; the danger by +fire to her household goods had driven her own danger from her mind, +which could compass but one terror at a time. “Let me forth!” she +cried; and she laid the looking-glass and silk hood on the snow, and +pelted back into the smoke for her feather-bed and the best andirons. + +Silence carried out the spinning-wheel, and the others caught up +various articles which they had wit to see in the panic. They piled +them up on the snow outside, and huddled together, staring fearfully +down the village street. They saw, amid the smouldering ruins, Ensign +John Sheldon’s house standing. + +“We must make for that,” said Captain Isaac Moulton, and they started. +The men went before and behind, with their muskets in readiness, +and the women and children walked between. Widow Bishop carried the +looking-glass; somebody had helped her to bring out her feather-bed, +and she had dragged it to a clean place well away from the burning +house. + +The dawnlight lay pale and cold in the east; it was steadily overcoming +the fire-glow from the ruins. Nobody would have known Deerfield +village. The night before the sun had gone down upon the snowy slants +of humble roofs and the peaceful rise of smoke from pleasant hearth +fires. The curtained windows had gleamed out one by one with mild +candle-light, and serene faces of white-capped matrons preparing supper +had passed them. Now, on both sides of Deerfield street were beds of +glowing red coals; grotesque ruins of door-posts and chimneys in the +semblances of blackened martyrs stood crumbling in the midst of them, +and twisted charred heaps, which the people eyed trembling, lay in the +old doorways. The snow showed great red patches in the gathering light, +and in them lay still bodies that seemed to move. + +Silence Hoit sprang out from the hurrying throng, and turned the head +of one dead man whose face she could not see. The horror of his red +crown did not move her. She only saw that he was not David Walcott. She +stooped and wiped off her hands in some snow. + +“That is Israel Bennett,” the others groaned. + +John Carson’s wife had been the dead man’s sister. She hugged her baby +tighter, and pressed more closely to her husband’s back. There was no +longer any sound of musketry on the meadows. There was not a sound to +be heard except the wind in the dry trees and the panting breaths of +the knot of people. + +A dead baby lay directly in the path, and a woman caught it up, and +tried to warm it at her breast. She wrapped her cloak around it, and +wiped its little bloody face with her apron. “’Tis not dead,” she +declared, frantically; “the child is not dead!” She had not shed a +tear nor uttered a wail before, but now she began sobbing aloud over +the dead child. It was Goodwife Barnard’s, and no kin to her; she was +a single woman. The others were looking right and left for lurking +savages; she looked only at the little cold face on her bosom. “The +child breathes,” she said, and hurried on faster that she might get +succor for it. + +The party halted before Ensign John Sheldon’s house. The stout door was +fast, but there was a hole in it, as if hacked by a tomahawk. The men +tried it and shook it. “Open, open, Goodwife Sheldon!” they hallooed. +“Friends! friends! Open the door!” But there was no response. + +Silence Hoit left the throng at the door, and began clambering up +on a slant of icy snow to a window which was flung wide open. The +window-sill was stained with blood, and so was the snow. + +One of the men caught Silence and tried to hold her back. “There may be +Indians in there,” he whispered, hoarsely. + +But Silence broke away from him, and was in through the window, and +the men followed her, and unbolted the door for the women, who pressed +in wildly, and flung it to again. A child who was among them, little +Comfort Arms, stationed herself directly with her tiny back against the +door, with her mouth set like a soldier’s, and her blue eyes gleaming +fierce under her flaxen locks. “They shall not get in,” said she. +Somehow she had gotten hold of a great horse-pistol, which she carried +like a doll. + +Nobody heeded her, Silence least of all. She stared about the room, +with her lips parted. Right before her on the hearth lay a little +three-year-old girl, Mercy Sheldon, her pretty head in a pool of blood, +but Silence cast only an indifferent glance when the others gathered +about her, groaning and sighing. + +Suddenly Silence sprang towards a dark heap near the pantry door, but +it was only a woman’s quilted petticoat. + +The spinning-wheel lay broken on the floor, and all the simple +furniture was strewn about wildly. Silence went into Goodwife Sheldon’s +bedroom, and the others followed her, trembling, all except little +Comfort Arms, who stood unflinchingly with her back pressed against +the door, and the single woman, Grace Mather; she stayed behind, and +put wood on the fire, after she had picked up the quilted petticoat, +and laid the dead baby tenderly wrapped in it on the settle. Then she +pulled the settle forward before the fire, and knelt before it, and +fell to chafing the little limbs of the dead baby, weeping as she did +so. + +Goodwife Sheldon’s bedroom was in wild disorder. A candle still burned, +although it was very low, on the table, whose linen cover had great +red finger-prints on it. Goodwife Sheldon’s decent clothes were tossed +about on the floor; the curtains of the bed were half torn away. +Silence pressed forward unshrinkingly towards the bed; the others, even +the men, hung back. There lay Goodwife Sheldon dead in her bed. All +the light in the room, the candle-light and the low daylight, seemed +to focus upon her white, frozen profile propped stiffly on the pillow, +where she had fallen back when the bullet came through that hole in the +door. + +Silence looked at her. “Where is David, Goodwife Sheldon?” said she. + +Eunice Bishop sprang forward. “Be you clean out of your mind, Silence +Hoit?” she cried. “Know you not she’s dead? She’s dead! Oh, she’s dead, +she’s dead! An’ here’s her best silk hood trampled underfoot on the +floor!” Eunice snatched up the hood, and seized Silence by the arm, but +she pushed her back. + +“Where is David? Where is he gone?” she demanded again of the dead +woman. + +The other women came crowding around Silence then, and tried to soothe +her and reason with her, while their own faces were white with horror +and woe. Goodwife Sarah Spear, an old woman whose sons lay dead in the +street outside, put an arm around the girl, and tried to draw her head +to her broad bosom. + +“Mayhap you will find him, sweetheart,” she said. “He’s not among the +dead out there.” + +But Silence broke away from the motherly arm, and sped wildly through +the other rooms, with the people at her heels, and her aunt crying +vainly after her. They found no more dead in the house; naught but ruin +and disorder, and bloody footprints and handprints of savages. + +When they returned to the keeping-room, Silence seated herself on a +stool by the fire, and held out her hands towards the blaze to warm +them. The daylight was broad outside now, and the great clock that had +come from overseas ticked; the Indians had not touched that. + +Captain Isaac Moulton lifted little Mercy Sheldon from the hearth and +carried her to her dead mother in the bedroom, and two of the older +women went in there and shut the door. Little Comfort Arms still stood +with her back against the outer door, and Grace Mather tended the dead +baby on the settle. + +“What do ye with that dead child?” a woman called out roughly to her. + +“I tell ye ’tis not dead; it breathes,” returned Grace Mather; and she +never turned her harsh, plain face from the dead child. + +“An’ I tell ye ’tis dead.” + +“An’ I tell ye ’tis not dead. I need but some hot posset for it.” + +Goodwife Carson began to weep. She hugged her own living baby tighter. +“Let her alone!” she sobbed. “I wonder our wits be not all gone.” She +went sobbing over to little Comfort Arms at the door. “Come away, +sweetheart, and draw near the fire,” she pleaded, brokenly. + +The little girl looked obstinately up at her. “They shall not come in,” +she said. “The wicked savages shall not come in again.” + +“No more shall they, an’ the Lord be willing, sweet. But, I pray you, +come away from the door now.” + +Comfort shook her head, and she looked like her father as he fought on +the Deerfield meadows. + +“The savages are gone, sweet.” + +But Comfort answered not a word, and Goodwife Carson sat down and began +to nurse her baby. One of the women hung the porridge-kettle over the +fire; another put some potatoes in the ashes to bake. Presently the +two women came out of Goodwife Sheldon’s bedroom with grave, strained +faces, and held their stiff blue fingers out to the hearth fire. + +Eunice Bishop, who was stirring the porridge, looked at them with sharp +curiosity. “How look they?” she whispered. + +“As peaceful as if they slept,” replied Goodwife Spear, who was one of +the women. + +“And the child’s head?” + +“We put on her little white cap with the lace frills.” + +Eunice stirred the bubbling porridge, scowling in the heat and steam; +some of the women laid the table with Hannah Sheldon’s linen cloth and +pewter dishes, and presently the breakfast was dished up. + +Little Comfort Arms had sunk at the foot of the nail-studded door +in a deep slumber. She slept at her post like the faithless sentry +whose slumbers the night before had brought about the destruction of +Deerfield village. Goodwife Spear raised her up, but her curly head +drooped helplessly. + +“Wake up, Comfort, and have a sup of hot porridge,” she called in her +ear. + +She led her over to the table, Comfort stumbling weakly at +arm’s-length, and set her on a stool with a dish of porridge before +her, which she ate uncertainly in a dazed fashion, with her eyes +filming and her head nodding. + +They all gathered gravely around the table, except Silence Hoit and +Grace Mather. Silence sat still, staring at the fire, and Grace had +dipped out a little cup of the hot porridge, and was trying to feed it +to the dead baby, with crooning words. + +“Silence, why come you not to the table?” her aunt called out. + +“I want nothing,” answered Silence. + +“I see not why you should so set yourself up before the others, as +having so much more to bear,” said Eunice, sharply. “There is Goodwife +Spear, with her sons unburied on the road yonder, and she eats her +porridge with good relish.” + +John Carson’s wife set her baby on her husband’s knee, and carried a +dish of porridge to Silence. + +“Try and eat it, sweet,” she whispered. She was near Silence’s age. + +Silence looked up at her. “I want it not,” said she. + +“But he may not be dead, sweet. He may presently be home. You would not +he should find you spent and fainting. Perchance he may have wounds for +you to tend.” + +Silence seized the dish and began to eat the porridge in great +spoonfuls, gulping it down fast. + +The people at the table eyed her sadly and whispered, and they also +cast frequent glances at Grace Mather bending over the dead baby. Once +Captain Isaac Moulton called out to her in his gruff old voice, which +he tried to soften, and she answered back, sharply: “Think ye I will +leave this child while it breathes, Captain Isaac Moulton? In faith I +am the only one of ye all who has regard to it.” + +But suddenly, when the meal was half over, Grace Mather arose, and +gathered up the little dead baby, carried it into Goodwife Sheldon’s +bedroom, and was gone some time. + +“She has lost her wits,” said Eunice Bishop. “Think you not we should +follow her? She may do some harm.” + +“Nay, let her be,” said Goodwife Spear. + +When at last Grace Mather came out of the bedroom, and they all turned +to look at her, her face was stern but quite composed. “I found a +little clean linen shift in the chest,” she said to Goodwife Spear, who +nodded gravely. Then she sat down at the table and ate. + +The people, as they ate, cast frequent glances at the barred door and +the shuttered windows. The daylight was broad outside, but there was +no glimmer of it in the room, and the candles were lighted. They dared +not yet remove the barricades, and the muskets were in readiness: the +Indians might return. + +All at once there was a shrill clamor at the door, and men sprang to +their muskets. The women clutched each other, panting. + +“Unbar the door!” shrieked a quavering old voice. “I tell ye, unbar the +door! I be nigh frozen a-standing here. Unbar the door! The Indians are +gone hours ago.” + +“’Tis Goody Crane!” cried Eunice Bishop. + +Captain Isaac Moulton shot back the bolts and opened the door a little +way, while the men stood close at his back, and Goody Crane slid in +like a swift black shadow out of the daylight. + +She crouched down close to the fire, trembling and groaning, and the +women gave her some hot porridge. + +“Where have ye been?” demanded Eunice Bishop. + +“Where they found me not,” replied the old woman, and there was a +sudden leer like a light in the gloom of her great hood. She motioned +towards the bedroom door. + +“Goody Sheldon sleeps late this morning, and so doth Mercy,” said she. +“I trow she will not dip her candles to-day.” + +The people looked at each other; a subtler horror than that of the +night before shook their spirits. + +Captain Isaac Moulton towered over the old woman on the hearth. “How +knew you Goodwife Sheldon and Mercy were dead?” he asked, sternly. + +[Illustration: AT ENSIGN SHELDON’S HOUSE THE MORNING AFTER THE MASSACRE] + +The old woman leered up at him undauntedly; her head bobbed. There was +a curious grotesqueness about her blanketed and hooded figure when +in motion. There was so little of the old woman herself visible that +motion surprised, as it would have done in a puppet. “Told I not Goody +Sheldon last night she would never stir porridge again?” said she. +“Who stirred the porridge this morning? I trow Goody Sheldon’s hands +be too stiff and too cold, though they have stirred well in their day. +Hath she dipped her candles yet? Hath she begun on her weaving? I trow +’twill be a long day ere Mary Sheldon’s linen-chest be filled, if she +herself go a-gadding to Canada and her mother sleep so late.” + +“Eat this hot porridge and stop your croaking,” said Goodwife Spear, +stooping over her. + +The old woman extended her two shaking hands for the dish. “That was +what she said last night,” she returned. “The living echo the dead, and +that is enough wisdom for a witch.” + +“You’ll be burned for a witch yet, Goody Crane, an you be not careful,” +cried Eunice Bishop. + +“There is fire enough outside to burn all the witches in the land,” +muttered the old woman, sipping her porridge. Suddenly she eyed Silence +sitting motionless opposite. “Where be your sweetheart this fine +morning, Silence Hoit?” she inquired. + +Silence looked at her. There was a strange likeness between the +glitter in her blue eyes and that in Goody Crane’s black ones. + +The old woman’s great hood nodded over the porridge-dish. “I can tell +ye, Mistress Silence,” she said, thickly, as she ate. “He is gone to +Canada on a moose-hunt, and unless I be far wrong, he hath taken thy +wits with him.” + +“How know you David Walcott is gone to Canada?” cried Eunice Bishop; +and Silence stared at her with her hard blue eyes. + +Silence’s soft fair hair hung all matted like uncombed flax over her +pale cheeks. There was a rigid, dead look about her girlish forehead +and her sweet mouth. + +“I know,” returned Goody Crane, nodding her head. + +The women washed the pewter dishes, set them back on the dresser, and +swept the floor. Little Comfort Arms had been carried up-stairs and +laid in the bed whence poor Mary Sheldon had been dragged and haled +to Canada. The men stood talking near their stacked muskets. One of +the shutters had been opened and the candles put out. The winter sun +shone in the window as it had shone before, but the poor folk in Ensign +Sheldon’s keeping-room saw it with a certain shock, as if it were a +stranger. That morning their own hearts had in them such strangeness +that they transferred it like motion to all familiar objects. The very +iron dogs in the Sheldon fireplace seemed on the leap with tragedy, +and the porridge-kettle swung darkly out of some former age. + +Now and then one of the men opened the door cautiously and peered out +and listened. The reek of the smouldering village came in at the door, +but there was not a sound except the whistling howl of the savage north +wind, which still swept over the valley. There was not a shot to be +heard from the meadows. The men discussed the wisdom of leaving the +women for a short space and going forth to explore, but Widow Eunice +Bishop interposed, thrusting her sharp face in among them. + +“Here we be,” scolded she, “a passel of women and children, and Hannah +Sheldon and Mercy a-lying dead, and me with my house burnt down, +and nothing saved except my silk hood and my looking-glass and my +feather-bed, and it’s a mercy if that’s not all smooched, and you talk +of going off and leaving us!” + +The men looked doubtfully at one another; then there was the hissing +creak of footsteps on the snow outside, and Widow Bishop screamed. “Oh, +the Indians have come back!” she proclaimed. + +Silence looked up. + +The door was tried from without. + +“Who’s there?” cried out Captain Moulton. + +“John Sheldon,” responded a hoarse voice. “Who’s inside?” + +Captain Moulton threw open the door, and John Sheldon stood there. +His severe and sober face was painted like an Indian’s with blood and +powder grime; he stood staring in at the company. + +“Come in, quick, and let us bar the door!” screamed Eunice Bishop. + +John Sheldon came in hesitatingly, and stood looking around the room. + +“Have you but just come from the meadows?” inquired Captain Moulton. +But John Sheldon did not seem to hear him. He stared at the company, +who all stood still staring back at him; then he looked hard and long +at the doors, as if expecting some one to enter. The eyes of the others +followed his, but no one spoke. + +“Where’s Hannah?” asked John Sheldon. + +Then the women began to weep. + +“She’s in there,” sobbed John Carson’s wife, pointing to the bedroom +door--“in there with little Mercy, Goodman Sheldon.” + +“Is--the child hurt, and--Hannah a-tending her?” + +The women wept, and pushed each other forward to tell him, but Captain +Isaac Moulton spoke out, and drove the knife home like an honest +soldier, who will kill if he must, but not mangle. + +“Goodwife Sheldon lies yonder, shot dead in her bed, and we found the +child dead on the hearth-stone,” said Isaac Moulton. + +John Sheldon turned his gaze on him. + +“The judgments of the Lord are just and righteous altogether,” said +Isaac Moulton, confronting him with stern defiance. + +“Amen,” returned John Sheldon. He took off his cloak, and hung it up on +the peg as he was used. + +“Where is David Walcott?” asked Silence, standing before him. + +“David, he is gone with the Indians to Canada, and the boys, Ebenezer +and Remembrance.” + +“Where is David?” + +“I tell ye, lass, he is gone with the French and Indians to Canada; +and you need be thankful he was but your sweetheart, and ye not wed, +with a half-score of babes to be taken too. The curse that was upon the +women of Jerusalem is upon the women of Deerfield.” John Sheldon looked +sternly into Silence’s white wild face; then his voice softened. “Take +heart, lass,” said he. “Erelong I shall go to Governor Dudley and get +help, and then after them to Canada, and fetch them back. Take heart; I +will fetch thee thy sweetheart presently.” + +Silence returned to her seat in the fireplace. Goody Crane looked +across at her. “He will come back over the north meadow,” she +whispered. “Keep watch over the north meadow; but ’twill be a long day +ere ye see him.” + +Silence paid seemingly little heed. She paid little heed to Ensign John +Sheldon relating how the French and Indians, with Hertel de Rouville +at their head, were on the road to Canada with their captives; of the +fight on the meadow between the retreating foe and the brave band of +Deerfield and Hatfield men, who had made a stand there to intercept +them; how they had been obliged to cease firing because the captives +were threatened; and the pitiful tale of Parson John Williams, two of +whose children were killed, dragged through the wilderness with the +others, and his sick wife. + +“Had folk listened to him, we had all been safe in our good houses with +our belongings,” cried Eunice Bishop. + +“They will not drag Goodwife Williams far,” said Goody Crane, “nor the +babe at her breast. I trow well it hath stopped wailing ere now.” + +“How know you that?” questioned Eunice Bishop, turning sharply on her. + +But the old woman only nodded her head, and Silence paid no heed, for +she was not there. Her slender girlish shape sat by the hearth fire in +John Sheldon’s house in Deerfield, her fair head showed like a delicate +flower, but Silence Hoit was following her lover to Canada. Every step +that he took painfully through pathless forests, on treacherous ice, +and desolate snow fields, she took more painfully still; every knife +gleaming over his head she saw. She bore his every qualm of hunger +and pain and cold, and it was all the harder because they struck on +her bare heart with no flesh between, for she sat in the flesh in +Deerfield, and her heart went with her lover to Canada. + +The sun stood higher, but it was still bitter cold; the blue frost on +the windows did not melt, and the icicles on the eaves, which nearly +touched the sharp snow-drifts underneath, did not drip. The desolate +survivors of the terrible night began work among the black ruins of +their homes. They cared as well as they might for the dead in Deerfield +street, and the dead on the meadow where the fight had been. Their +muscles were all tense with the cold, their faces seamed and blue with +it, but their hearts were strained with a fiercer cold than that. Not +one man of them but had one or more slain, with dead face upturned, +seeking his in the morning light, or on that awful road to Canada. Ever +as the men worked they turned their eyes northward, and met grimly the +icy blast of the north wind, and sometimes to their excited fancies +it seemed to bring to their ears the cries of their friends who were +facing it also, and they stood still and listened. + +Silence Hoit crept out of the house and down the road a little way, +and then stood looking over the meadow towards the north. Her fair hair +tossed in the wind, her pale cheeks turned pink, the wind struck full +upon her delicate figure. She had come out without her blanket. + +“David!” she called. “David! David! David!” The north wind bore down +upon her, shrieking with a wild fury like a savage of the air; the dry +branches of a small tree near her struck her in the face. “David!” she +called again. “David! David!” She swelled out her white throat like +a bird, and her voice was shrill and sweet and far-reaching. The men +moving about on the meadow below, and stooping over the dead, looked up +at her, but she did not heed them. She had come through a break in the +palisades; on each side of her the frozen snow-drifts slanted sharply +to their tops, and they glittered with blue lights like glaciers in the +morning sun over those drifts the enemy had passed the night before. + +The men on the meadow saw Silence’s hair blowing like a yellow banner +between the drifts of snow. + +“The poor lass has come out bareheaded,” said Ensign Sheldon. “She is +near out of her mind for David Walcott.” + +“A man should have no sweetheart in these times, unless he would her +heart be broke,” said a young man beside him. He was hardly more than +a boy, and his face was as rosy as a girl’s in the wind. He kept +close to Ensign Sheldon, and his mind was full of young Mary Sheldon +travelling to Canada on her weary little feet. He had often, on a +Sabbath day, looked across the meeting-house at her, and thought that +there was no maiden like her in Deerfield. + +Ensign John Sheldon thought of his sweetheart lying with her heart +still in her freezing bedroom, and stooped over a dead Hatfield man +whose face was frozen into the snow. + +The young man, whose name was Freedom Wells, bent over to help him. +Then he started. “What’s that?” he cried. + +“’Tis only Silence Hoit calling David Walcott again,” replied Ensign +Sheldon. + +The voice had sounded like Mary Sheldon’s to Freedom. The tears rolled +over his boyish cheeks as he put his hands into the snow and tried to +dig it away from the dead man’s face. + +“David! David! David!” called Silence. + +Suddenly her aunt threw a wiry arm around her. “Be you gone clean +daft,” she shrieked against the wind, “standing here calling David +Walcott? Know you not he is a half-day’s journey towards Canada an the +savages have not scalped him and left him by the way? Standing here +with your hair blowing and no blanket! Into the house with ye!” + +Silence followed her aunt unresistingly. The women in Ensign Sheldon’s +house were hard at work. They were baking in the great brick oven, +spinning, and even dipping poor Goodwife Sheldon’s candles. + +“Bind up your hair, like an honest maid, and go to spinning,” said +Eunice, and she pointed to the spinning-wheel which had been saved from +her own house. “We that be spared have to work, and not sit down and +trot our own hearts on our knees. There is scarce a yard of linen left +in Deerfield, to say naught of woollen cloth. Bind up your hair!” + +And Silence bound up her hair, and sat down by her wheel meekly, and +yet with a certain dignity. Indeed, through all the disorder of her +mind, that delicate maiden dignity never forsook her, and there was +never aught but respect shown her. + +As time went on, it became quite evident that although the fair +semblance of Silence Hoit still walked the Deerfield street, sat in the +meeting-house, and toiled at the spinning-wheel and the loom, yet she +was as surely not there as though she had been haled to Canada with the +other captives on that terrible February night. It became the general +opinion that Silence Hoit would never be quite her old self again and +walk in the goodly company of all her fair wits unless David Walcott +should be redeemed from captivity and restored to her. Then, it was +accounted possible, the mending of the calamity which had brought her +disorder upon her might remove it. + +“Ye wait,” Widow Eunice Bishop would say, hetchelling flax the while as +though it were the scalp-locks of the enemy--“ye wait. If once David +Walcott show his face, ye’ll see Silence Hoit be not so lacking. She +hath a tenderer heart than some I could mention, who go about smiling +when their nearest of kin lie in torment in Indian lodges. She cares +naught for picking up a new sweetheart. She hath a steady heart that be +not so easy turned as some. Silence was never a light hussy, a-dancing +hither and thither off the bridle-path for a new flower on the bushes. +An’, for all ye call her lacking now, there be not a maid in Deerfield +does such a day’s task as she.” + +And that last statement was quite true. All the Deerfield women, the +matrons and maidens, toiled unceasingly, with a kind of stern patience +like that which served their husbands and lovers in the frontier +corn-fields, and which served all the dauntless border settlers, who +were forced continually to rebuild after destruction, like way-side +ants whose nests are always being trampled underfoot. There was need +of unflinching toil at wheel and loom, for there was great scarcity of +household linen in Deerfield, and Silence Hoit’s shapely white maiden +hands flinched less than any. + +Nevertheless, many a day, in the morning when the snowy meadows were +full of blue lights, at sunset when all the snow levels were rosy, but +more particularly in wintry moonlight when the country was like a waste +of silver, would Silence Hoit leave suddenly her household task, and +hasten to the terrace overlooking the north meadow, and shriek out: +“David! David! David Walcott!” + +The village children never jeered at her, as they would sometimes jeer +at Goody Crane if not restrained by their elders. They eyed with a +mixture of wonder and admiration Silence’s beautiful bewildered face, +with the curves of gold hair around the pink cheeks, and the fretwork +of tortoise-shell surmounting it. David Walcott had given Silence her +shell comb, and she was never seen without it. + +Many a time when Silence called to David from the terrace of the north +meadow, some of the little village maids in their homespun pinafores +would join her and call with her. They had no fear of her, as they had +of Goody Crane. + +Indeed, Goody Crane, after the massacre, was in worse repute than ever +in Deerfield. There were dark rumors concerning her whereabouts upon +that awful night. Some among the devout and godly were fain to believe +that the old woman had been in league with the powers of darkness and +their allies the savages, and had so escaped harm. Some even whispered +that in the thickest of the slaughter, when Deerfield was in the midst +of that storm of fire, old Goody Crane’s laugh had been heard, and one, +looking up, had spied her high overhead riding her broomstick, her face +red with the glare of the flames. The old woman was sheltered under +protest, and had Deerfield not been a frontier town, and graver matters +continually in mind, she might have come to harm in consequence of the +gloomy suspicions concerning her. + +Many a night after the massacre would the windows fly up and anxious +faces peer out. It was as if the ears of the people were tuned up to +the pitch of the Indian warwhoops, and their very thoughts made the +nights ring with them. + +The palisades were well looked to; there was never a slope of frozen +snow again to form foothold for the enemy, and the sentry never +slept at his post. But the anxious women listened all winter for the +warwhoops, and many a time it seemed they heard them. In the midst of +their nervous terror it was often a sore temptation to consult old +Goody Crane, since she was held to have occult knowledge. + +“I’ll warrant old Goody Crane could tell us in a twinkling whether +or no the Indians would come before morning,” Eunice Bishop said one +fierce windy night that called to mind the one of the massacre. + +“Knowledge got in unlawful ways would avail us naught,” returned +Goodwife Spear. “I trow the Lord be yet able to protect His people.” + +“I doubt not that,” said Eunice Bishop, “but I would like well to know +if I had best bury my hood and my spinning-wheel and looking-glass in +a snow-drift to-night. I have no mind the Indians shall get them. I +warrant she knows well.” + +But Eunice Bishop did not consult Goody Crane, although she watched +her narrowly and had a sharp ear to her mutterings as she sat in the +chimney-corner. Eunice and Silence were living in John Sheldon’s +house, as did many of the survivors for some time after the massacre. +It was the largest house in the village, and most of its original +inhabitants were dead or gone into captivity. The people all huddled +together fearfully in the few houses that were left, and the women’s +spinning-wheels and looms jostled each other. + +As soon as the weather moderated, the work of building new dwellings +commenced, and went on bravely with the advance of the spring. The +air was full of the calls of spring birds and the strokes of axes and +hammers. A little house was built on the site of their old one for +Widow Bishop and Silence Hoit. Widow Sarah Spear also lived with them, +and Goody Crane took frequent shelter at their fireside. So they were +a household of women, with loaded muskets at hand, and spinning-wheels +and looms at full hum. They had but a scanty household store, although +Widow Bishop tried in every way to increase it. Several times during +the summer she took perilous journeys to Hatfield and Squakheak, for +the purpose of bartering skeins of yarn or rolls of wool for household +articles. In December, when Ensign Sheldon with young Freedom Wells +went down to Boston to consult with Governor Dudley concerning an +expedition to Canada to redeem the captives, Widow Eunice Bishop, +having saved a few shillings, burdened him with a commission to +purchase for her a new cap and a pair of bellows. She was much angered +when he returned without them, having quite forgotten them in his press +of business. + +On the day when John Sheldon and Freedom Wells started upon their +terrible journey of three hundred miles to redeem the captives, Eunice +Bishop scolded well as she spun by her hearth fire. + +“I trow they will bring back nobody,” said she, her nose high in air, +and her voice shrilling over the drone of the wheel; “an they could not +do the bidding of a poor lone widow-woman, and fetch her the cap and +bellows from Boston, they’ll fetch nobody home from Canada. I would I +had ear of Governor Dudley. I trow men with minds upon their task would +be sent.” Eunice kept jerking her head as she scolded, and spun like a +bee angry with its own humming. + +Silence sat knitting, and paid no heed. She had paid no heed to any of +the talk about Ensign Sheldon’s and Freedom Wells’s journey to Canada. +She had not seemed to listen when Widow Spear had tried to explain the +matter to her. “It may be, sweetheart, if it be the will of the Lord, +that they will bring David back to thee,” she had said over and over, +and Silence had knitted and made no response. + +She was the only one in Deerfield who was not torn with excitement and +suspense as the months went by, and the only one unmoved by joy or +disappointment when in May John Sheldon and Freedom Wells returned with +five of the captives. But David Walcott was not among them. + +“Said I not ’twould be so?” scolded Eunice Bishop. “Knew I not ’twould +be so when they forgot to get the cap and the bellows in Boston? The +one of all the captives that could have saved a poor maid’s wits they +leave behind. There’s Mary Sheldon come home, and she a-coloring red +before Freedom Wells, and everybody in the room a-seeing it. I trow +they might have done somewhat for poor Silence,” and Eunice broke down +and wailed and wept, but Silence shed not a tear. Before long she stole +out to the terrace and called “David! David! David!” over the north +meadow, and strained her blue eyes towards Canada, and held out her +fair arms, but it was with no new disappointment and desolation. + +There was never a day nor a night that Silence called not over the +north meadow like a spring bird from the bush to her absent mate, and +people heard her and sighed and shuddered. One afternoon in the last of +the month of June, as Silence was thrusting her face between the leaves +of a wild cherry-tree and calling “David! David! David!” David himself +broke through the thicket and stood before her. He and three other +young men had escaped from their captivity and come home, and the four, +crawling half dead across the meadow, had heard Silence’s voice from +the terrace above, and David, leaving the others, had made his way to +her. + +“Silence!” he said, and held out his poor arms, panting. + +But Silence looked past him. “David! David! David Walcott!” she called. + +David could scarcely stand for trembling, and he grasped a branch of +the cherry-tree to steady himself, and swayed with it. + +“Know--you not--who I am, Silence?” he said. + +But she made as though she did not hear, and called again, always +looking past him. And David Walcott, being near spent with fatigue and +starvation, wound himself feebly around the trunk of the tree, and the +tears dropped over his cheeks as he looked at her; and she called past +him, until some women came and led him away and tried to comfort him, +telling him how it was with her, and that she would soon know him when +he looked more like himself. + +But the summer wore away and she did not know him, although he +constantly followed her beseechingly. His elders even reproved him for +paying so little heed to his work in the colony. “It is not meet for a +young man to be so weaned from usefulness by grief for a maid,” said +they. But David Walcott would at any time leave his reaping-hook in +the corn and his axe in the tree, leave aught but his post as sentry, +when he heard Silence calling him over the north meadow. He would stand +at her elbow and say, in his voice that broke like a woman’s: “Here I +am, sweetheart, at thy side. I pray thee turn thy head.” But she would +not let her eyes rest upon him for more than a second’s space, turning +them ever past him towards Canada, and calling in his very ears with a +sad longing that tore his heart: “David! David! David!” It was as if +her mind, reaching out always and speeding fast in search of him, had +gotten such impetus that she passed the very object of her search and +knew it not. + +Now and then would David Walcott grow desperate, fling his arms around +her, and kiss her upon her cold delicate lips and cheeks as if he would +make her recognize him by force; but she would free herself from him +with a passionless resentment that left him helpless. + +One day in autumn, when the borders of the Deerfield meadows were a +smoky purple with wild asters, and golden-rods flashed out like golden +flames in the midst of them, David Walcott had been pleading vainly +with Silence as she stood calling on the north terrace. Suddenly he +turned and rushed away, and his face was all convulsed like a weeping +child’s. As he came out of the thicket he met the old woman Goody +Crane, and would fain have hidden his face from her, but she stopped +him. + +“Prithee stop a moment’s space, Master David Walcott,” said she. + +“What would you?” David cried out in a surly tone, and he dashed the +back of his hand across his eyes. + +“’Tis full moon to-night,” said the old woman, in a whisper. “Come out +here to-night when the moon shall be an hour high, and I promise ye she +shall know ye.” + +The young man stared at her. + +“I tell ye Mistress Silence Hoit shall know ye to-night,” repeated +the old woman. Her voice sounded hollow in the depths of her great +hood, which she donned early in the fall. Her eyes in the gloom of it +gleamed with a small dark brightness. + +“I’ll have no witch-work tried on her,” said David, roughly. + +“I’ll try no witch-work but mine own wits,” said Goody Crane. “If they +would hang me for a witch for that, then they may. None but I can cure +her. I tell ye, come out here to-night when the moon is an hour high; +and mind ye wear a white sheep’s fleece over your shoulders. I’ll harm +her not so much with my witch-work as ye’ll do with your love, for all +your prating.” + +The old woman pushed past him to where Silence stood calling, and +waited there, standing in the shadow cast by the wild cherry-tree until +she ceased and turned away. Then she caught hold of the skirt of her +gown, and David stood, hidden by the thicket, listening. + +“I prithee, Mistress Silence Hoit, listen but a moment,” said Goody +Crane. + +Silence paused, and smiled at her gently and wearily. + +“Give me your hand,” demanded the old woman. + +And Silence held out her hand, flashing white in the green gloom, as if +she cared not. + +The old woman turned the palm, bending her hooded head low over it. +“He draweth near!” she cried out suddenly; “he draweth near, with a +white sheep’s fleece over his shoulders! He cometh through the woods +from Canada. He will cross the meadow when the moon is an hour high +to-night. He will wear a white sheep’s fleece over his shoulders, and +ye’ll know him by that.” + +Silence’s wandering eyes fastened upon her face. + +The old woman caught hold of her shoulders and shook her to and fro. +“David! David! David Walcott!” she screamed. “David Walcott with a +white sheep’s fleece on his back! On the meadow! To-night when the +moon’s an hour high! Be ye out here to-night, Silence Hoit, if ye’d see +him a-coming down from the north!” + +Silence gasped faintly when the old woman released her and went +muttering away. Presently she crept home, and sat down with her +knitting-work in the chimney-place. + +When Eunice Bishop hung on the porridge-kettle, Goody Crane lifted the +latch-string and came in. It was growing dusky, but the moon would not +rise for an hour yet. Goody Crane sat opposite Silence, with her eyes +fixed upon her, and Silence, in spite of herself, kept looking at her. +A gold brooch at the old woman’s throat glittered in the firelight, +and that seemed to catch Silence’s eyes. She finally knitted with them +fixed upon it. + +She scarcely took her eyes away when she ate her supper; then she sat +down to her knitting and knitted, and gazed, in spite of herself, at +the gold spot on the old woman’s throat. + +The moon arose; the tree branches before the windows tossed half +in silver light; the air was shrill with crickets. Silence stirred +uneasily, and dropped stitches in her knitting-work. “He draweth near,” +muttered Goody Crane, and Silence quivered. + +The moon was a half-hour high. Widow Bishop was spinning, Widow Spear +was winding quills, and Silence knitted. “He draweth near,” muttered +Goody Crane. + +“I’ll have no witchcraft!” Silence cried out, suddenly and sharply. Her +aunt stopped spinning, and Widow Spear started. + +“What’s that?” said her aunt. But Silence was knitting again. + +“What meant you by that?” asked her aunt, sharply. + +“I have dropped a stitch,” said Silence. + +Her aunt spun again, with occasional wary glances. The moon was +three-quarters of an hour high. Silence gazed steadily at the gold +brooch at Goody Crane’s throat. + +“The moon is near an hour high; you had best be going,” said the old +woman, in a low monotone. + +Silence arose directly. + +“Where go you at this time of night?” grumbled her aunt. But Silence +glided past her. + +“You’ll lose your good name as well as your wits,” cried Eunice. But +she did not try to stop Silence, for she knew it was useless. + +“A white sheep’s fleece over his shoulders,” muttered Goody Crane as +Silence went out of the door; and the other women marvelled what she +meant. + +Silence Hoit went swiftly and softly down Deerfield street to her +old haunt on the north meadow terrace. She pushed in among the wild +cherry-trees, which waved, white with the moonlight, like ghostly arms +in her face. Then she called, setting her face towards Canada and the +north: “David! David! David!” But her voice had a different tone in it, +and it broke with her heart-beats. + +David Walcott came slowly across the meadow below; a white fleece of a +sheep thrown over his back caught the moonlight. He came on, and on, +and on; then he went up the terrace to Silence. Her face, white like a +white flower in the moonlight, shone out suddenly close before him. He +waited a second, then he spoke. “Silence!” he said. + +Then Silence gave a great cry, and threw her arms around his neck, and +pressed softly and wildly against him with her wet cheek to his. + +“Know you who ’tis, sweetheart?” + +“Oh, David, David!” + +The trees arched like arbors with the weight of the wild grapes, which +made the air sweet; the night insects called from the bushes; Deerfield +village and the whole valley lay in the moonlight like a landscape +of silver. The lovers stood in each other’s arms, motionless, and +seemingly fixed as the New England flora around them, as if they too +might reappear hundreds of spring-times hence, with their loves as +fairly in blossom. + + + + +THE BUCKLEY LADY + + +The dark slate stones that now slant to their falls in the old +burying-ground, or are fallen already, then stood straight. The old +inscriptions, now blurred over by moss and lichen, or worn back into +the face of the stone by the wash of the heavy coast rains, were +then quite plain. The winged cherubim and death-heads--the terrible +religious symbols of the Old Testament, made realistic by New England +minds under stress of grief--were quite fresh from the artist’s hands. + +The funeral urns and weeping-willows, a very art of sorrow in +themselves, with their every curve the droop of a mourner’s head, and +all their flowing lines of tears, were still distinct. Indeed, the +man who had graven many of them was still alive, and not yet past +his gloomy toil. He lived in his little house not far beyond the +burying-ground, and his name was Ichabod Buckley. He had a wife Sarah, +a son Ichabod, and three daughters, Submit, Rebecca, and Persis. When +Persis was twelve years old a great change and a romance came into her +life. She was the youngest of the family; her brother was ten years +older than she; her sisters were older still. She had always been to +a certain extent petted and favored from her babyhood; however, until +she was twelve, she had not been exempt from her own little duties and +privations. She had gathered drift-wood on the shore, her delicate +little figure buffeted and shaken by rough winds. She had dug quahaugs, +wading out in the black mud, with her petticoats kilted high over +her slender childish legs. She had spun her daily stint, and knitted +faithfully harsh blue yarn socks for her father and brother. In the +early autumn, when she was twelve years old, all that was changed. + +One morning in September it was hot inland, but cool on the point of +land reaching out into the sea where the Buckley house stood. The son, +Ichabod, had gone to sea in a whalingvessel; the father was at home, +working in the little slanting shed behind the house. One could hear +the grating slide of his chisel down the boughs of a weeping-willow on +a new gravestone. A very old woman of the village had died that week. + +At the left of the house there was a bright unexpected glint from a +great brass kettle which the eastern sun struck. Ichabod Buckley’s +wife had her dye-kettle out there on forked sticks over a fire. She +was dyeing some cloth an indigo-blue, and her two elder daughters were +helping her. The two daughters Submit and Rebecca looked like their +mother. The three, from their figures, seemed about of an age--all tall +and meagre and long-limbed, moving in their scanty petticoats around +the kettle with a certain dry pliability, like three tall brown weeds +on the windy marsh. + +Persis came up from the shore at the front of the house with her arms +full of drift-wood. She was just crossing the front yard when she heard +a sound that startled her, and she stood still and listened, inclining +her head towards the woods on the right. In the midst of these woods +was the cleared space of the graveyard; the rough path to the main road +ran past it. + +Seldom any but horseback riders came that way; but now Persis was sure +that she heard the rumble of carriage-wheels, as well as the tramp of +horses’ feet. She turned excitedly to run to her mother and sisters; +but all at once the splendid coach and four emerged with a great +flourish on the open space before the house, and she stood still. + +The short coarse grass in the yard had gotten a perpetual slant from +the wind. Just now it was still, but that low bending sweep of the +grass towards the west made it seem as if the wind were transfixed +there. Persis stood in the midst of this still show of wind, her +slender childish figure slanting a little also. All her fair hair was +tucked away tidily beneath a little blue hood tied under her chin. The +oval of her face showed like the oval of a pearl in this circle of +blue, and it had a beauty that could draw the thoughts of people away +from their own hearts. Even the folk of this old New England village, +who had in their stern doctrines no value for a fair face, turned for +a second, as if by some compelling gleam of light under their eyelids, +when this little Buckley maid entered the meeting-house; and her mother +and sisters, although they saw her every day, would stop sometimes +their work or speech when her face came suddenly before their eyes. + +Persis had her little looking-glass. She looked in it when she had +washed her face to see if it were clean, and when she braided her hair +to see if it were smooth. Sometimes she paused, herself, and eyed her +face with innocent wonder, but she did not know its value. She was like +a child with a precious coin which had its equivalent in goods beyond +her ken. + +To-day Persis had no idea why these fine strangers in the grand coach +sat still with their eyes riveted upon her face. + +She stood there in the windy grass, in her little straight blue gown, +clasping her bundle of drift-wood to her breast, and stared, turning +her back altogether upon her own self, at the coach and the trappings, +and the black coachman in his livery, with his head like a mop of black +sheep’s wool, and his white rolling eyes, which half frightened her. +She looked a little more curiously at this black coachman than at the +gentleman and lady in the coach, although they were grand enough; and, +moreover, the gentleman was very handsome, and not old. He thrust his +fair head, which had a slight silvery sheen of powder, out of the coach +window, and the pale old face and velvet hood of the lady showed over +his shoulder, and they both stared at Persis’s face. + +Then the gentleman spoke, and Persis started, and blushed, and dropped +a courtesy. She had forgotten that until now, and felt overcome with +shame. “Good-day, my pretty maid,” said the gentleman; and as he spoke +he stepped out of the coach and approached Persis. She saw, with +half-dazzled eyes, his grand fair head, his queue tied with a blue +silk ribbon, his jewelled knee-buckles and silk hose, his flowered +waistcoat and the deep falls of lace over his long white hands. No such +fine gentleman as this had ever come within her vision. She courtesied +again, and looked up in his face when he reached her. Then she looked +down again quickly, and the strange salt savor of the drift-wood, +overpowering a sweet perfume about the stranger’s rich attire, came up +in her blushing face. The gentleman looked very kind, and his eyes were +very gay and blue, yet somehow she was frightened and abashed. It was +as if he saw something within herself of which she had not dreamed, and +suddenly forced her to see it also, to her own confusion. + +The gentleman laughed softly when she looked down. “Is it the first +time you have had another pair of eyes for your looking-glass, little +maid?” he asked, with a kind of mocking caress in his tone. + +Persis did not lift her eyes from the drift-wood. She blushed more +deeply, and her sweet mouth trembled. + +“Nay, tease not the child. Ask if her father be in the house,” called +the lady’s soft voice, with a little impatient ring in it, from the +coach. + +“’Tis but the fault of my eyes, your ladyship,” retorted the gentleman, +gayly. “They are ever as lakes reflecting flowers in the presence of +beauty, and I doubt much if this little maid hath ever seen herself so +clearly before--if eyes like mine have come in her way.” + +Persis’s mouth quivered more. She wanted to run away, and did not dare; +but suddenly the gentleman spoke again, quite gravely and coldly, and +all the gay banter in his voice was gone. + +“Is your father, Ichabod Buckley, within, my good maid?” he said. + +Persis felt as if a spell which had been cast over her were broken. She +dropped a courtesy. + +“Please, sir, my father is yonder, cutting a weeping-willow on old +Widow Nye’s gravestone,” she replied, pointing towards the rear of the +house; and she spoke with that punctilious courtesy with which she had +been taught to address strangers. + +“Will you bid him come this way? I would speak with him,” said the +gentleman. + +“And bid him hasten, for this air from the sea is full cold for me!” +called the lady from the coach. + +Persis dipped another affirmative courtesy towards her, then fled +swiftly around the corner of the house. She met her mother and her +sister Submit face to face, with a shock. They had been peeping around +the corner at the grand folk. Rebecca had run into the house to put on +her shoes and a clean kerchief, in case one of the elder women had to +go forward to speak to them. + +“Father! the gentleman wants father,” said Persis, with soft pants. +“Oh, mother!” + +Her mother caught her arm with a jerk. “Who be they?” she hissed in her +ear. + +“I--don’t know--such--grand folks, and--the coach and the four, and the +black man--oh, mother!” + +“Go bid your father come quick.” + +Sarah Buckley gave her daughter a push, and Persis flew on towards the +shed where her father kept his stock of gravestones and worked. But +Rebecca had already given him the alarm, and he was at the well washing +the slate dust from his hands. + +“Go quick, father; they want you!” panted Persis. + +“Who be they?” queried Ichabod Buckley. His voice was as nervous as a +woman’s, and he was small and delicately made like one. He shook the +water from his small hands, his fingers twitching. The muscles on the +backs glanced under the thin brown skin; the muscles on his temples and +neck glanced also. Ichabod Buckley had, when nervously excited, a look +as if his whole body were based on a system of brown wires. + +Persis danced up and down before him, as if his nervous excitement +communicated itself to her. “I know not who they be,” she panted; “but, +oh, father, they be such grand folk!” + +When Ichabod Buckley, striving to pace with solemn dignity, as befitted +his profession, but breaking, in spite of himself, into nervous runs, +went around to the front of the house, Persis slunk at his heels, but +her mother arrested her at the corner. “Stay where you be, and not go +out there staring at the gentle-folk like a bold hussy!” she ordered. +So Persis stayed, peeping around the corner with her mother and Submit; +and presently Rebecca in her shoes, with her kerchief pinned over her +lean bosom, joined them. + +Once Persis, advancing her beautiful face a little farther around the +corner, caught the gentleman’s gay blue eyes full upon her, and she +drew back with a great start and a blush. + +Listen as they might, the women could not catch one word of Ichabod +Buckley’s and the gentleman’s discourse--they stood too far away. But +presently they saw the black coachman turn the coach and four around +with a wide careful sweep, and then the gentleman got in beside the +lady, and Ichabod beside the coachman, and then the horses leaped +forward, and the whole was out of sight behind the spray of pine woods. + + * * * * * + +Ichabod Buckley was gone about three-quarters of an hour. When he +returned he at once told his curious women-folks somewhat that had +passed, but his face was locked over more. “You have not told us +all,” said his wife, sharply. “It may well be, as you say, that the +gentle-folk wished to find the grave of the man who was their kin, and +died here in the first of the town, but that is not all.” + +“I pointed out the grave to them beyond a question,” said Ichabod, +“though there was no stone to it. I knew it well from hearsay. And I +am to make at once a fine stone, with a round top and a winged head, +and here is the pay already.” + +Ichabod jingled for the dozenth time a gold coin and some small silver +ones in his nervous hand, and his wife frowned. + +“You have told us all this before,” said she. “There is something else +that you keep back.” + +Ichabod was smiling importantly, he could not control his mouth; but he +went back without another word to old Widow Nye’s gravestone, and the +weeping-willow thereon grew apace under his hands. + +However, he could not keep anything to himself long, least of all from +his wife, with her imperative curiosity. After dinner that noon he +beckoned her into the front room. + +“What do you want of me?” she said. “I have the work to do.” She felt +that his previous silence demanded some show of dignity upon her part. + +Ichabod glanced at his staring daughters, and beckoned beseechingly. + +“Well, I can’t waste much time,” said Sarah; but she followed him +eagerly into the front room. They were shut in there some time. The +daughters, tidying up the kitchen, could hear the low murmur of their +parents’ voices, but that was all. Persis was polishing the brasses on +the hearth--the andirons and the knobs on the shovel and tongs. That +was always her task. It roughened her small hands, but nobody ever +minded that. To-day, as she was scouring away sturdily, her mother came +suddenly out of the front room and caught her plying arm. + +“There!” said she; “you need do no more of this. ’Twill get your hands +all out of shape, and make them rough. They are too small for such +work. Submit, come here and finish scouring the brasses.” + +Persis looked up at her mother and then at her little red grimy hands +in a bewildered way. + +“Go and wash your hands, and then rub some Injun meal on them, and see +if it will not make them a little softer,” ordered her mother. “Submit, +make haste.” + +Submit, although she was herself puzzled, and might well have been +resentful, knelt obediently down on the hearth, and fell to work on the +brasses, rubbing vigorously with salt and vinegar. + +Persis washed her hands as her mother bade her, and afterwards rubbed +on some Indian meal. Then she was ordered to put on her pink-flowered +chintz gown, and sit down in the front room with her sampler. Her +mother braided her fair hair for her in two tight smooth braids, and +crossed them neatly at the back. She even put her own beautiful high +tortoise-shell comb in her daughter’s head. + +“You may wear it a spell if you want to,” said she. + +Persis smiled delightedly. Her chief worldly ambition had been to wear +a shell comb like her mother’s. + +The window was open. She could hear faintly the rasp of her father’s +chisel upon the boughs of old Widow Nye’s weeping-willow. She could +hear the voices of her mother and sisters, who had gone back to their +work over the dye-kettle. After a while she saw Submit going down +to the shore for more drift-wood. “That is my work,” she thought to +herself with wonder. She could not understand her mother’s treatment of +her. It was very pleasant and grand to be sitting in state in the best +room, with the tortoise-shell comb in her hair, working her sampler, +and be rid of all ruder toil, yet she finally grew uneasy. + +She laid down her sampler, and pulled open the front door, which was +seldom used, and hard to move, being swollen with the sea dampness. +Then she stole around the house towards the group at the dye-kettle. +She felt scared and uncertain without knowing why. Her mother called +out sharply when she caught sight of her, and waved her back. “Can’t I +go down for more drift-wood?” pleaded Persis, timidly. + +“Back into the house!” ordered her mother, speaking against the wind, +which was now blowing hard. “Back with ye! Out here in this wind! Would +you be as black as an Injun? Go back to your sampler!” + +Persis crept back, bewildered. The other two daughters looked at each +other. Then Rebecca spoke out boldly. + +“Mother, what is all this?” said she. + +“Perhaps you will know sometime,” replied Sarah Buckley, smiling +mysteriously, and she would say no more. + +Persis continued to sit at the front-room window with her sampler in +her hands. She crossstitched a letter forlornly and laboriously, with +frequent glances out at the rosy wind-swept marshes and the blue dazzle +of sea beyond. She never dreamed of disputing her mother’s wishes +further. Persis Buckley, although full of nervous force, had also a +strange docility of character. She stitched on her sampler all the +afternoon. When it came time to prepare supper, her mother would not +even then let her out in the kitchen to help, as was her wont. “Stay +where you be,” said she, when Persis appeared on the threshold. And the +little maid remained in her solitary state until the meal was ready, +and she was bidden forth to it. There was a little sweet cake beside +her plate on the table, one of those which her mother kept in a stone +jar for company. Nobody else had one. Persis looked at it doubtfully +when she had finished her bread. “Eat it,” said her mother, and Persis +ate it, but it tasted strange to her. She wondered if her mother had +put anything different in the sweet cake. + +Persis had lately sat up until the nine-o’clock bell rang, knitting or +paring sweet apples to dry, but now her mother sent her off to bed at +half past seven. + +“Can’t I sit up and help Submit and Rebecca pare apples?” she begged, +but her mother was inexorable. + +“I am not going to have your hands spoilt with apple juice,” said she. +“Besides, if you go to bed early ’twill make you grow faster and keep +your cheeks red.” There was an unusual softness in Sarah Buckley’s +voice, and she colored and smiled foolishly, as if she were ashamed of +it. + +Ichabod Buckley sat on the hearth whittling chips with lightning jerks +of his clasp-knife. He did everything swiftly. “Do as your mother bids +you,” he said to Persis. He chuckled nervously, and looked meaningly at +his wife. + +Persis went laggingly out of the room. + +“Stand up straight,” ordered her mother. “The first thing you know +you’ll be all bent over like an old woman.” + +Persis threw back her weak girlish shoulders until her slender back +hollowed. She had been trained to obedience. She clattered slowly +up the stairs in her little heavy shoes, still trying to keep her +shoulders back, when her mother called again. + +“Come back here, Persis,” called her mother, and Persis returned to +the kitchen. “Sit down here,” said her mother, pointing to a chair, +and Persis sat down. She did not ask any questions; she felt a curious +terror and intimidation. She waited, sitting meekly with her eyes cast +down. She heard the snip of shears and the rattle of stiff paper at her +back, then she felt a sharp tug at her hair. She winced a little. + +“You keep still,” said her mother at her back, rolling a lock of hair +vigorously. “I ain’t going to have your hair as straight as a broom if +I can help it.” + +When Persis went to bed her head was covered with hard papered knots +of hair, all straining painfully at the roots. When she laid her head +uncomfortably on her pillow, she remembered in a bewildered way how her +mother had smoothed and smoothed and smoothed her hair in former days, +and how she had said many a time that rough and frowsy locks were not +modest or becoming. Her first conviction of the inconsistency of the +human heart was upon little Persis Buckley, and she was dazed. The +whole of this strange experience did not seem real enough to last until +the next day. + +But the days went on and on, and she continued to live a life as +widely different from her old one as if she had been translated into +another world. She sat at the front-room window, with her beautiful +face looking out meekly from under her crown of curl-papers. Her mother +had a theory that a long persistency in the use of the papers might +produce a lasting curl, and Persis was seldom freed from them. She +walked abroad on a pleasant day at a genteel pace, with a thick black +embroidered veil over her face to protect her complexion. She never ran +barefoot, and even her thick cowhide shoes were discarded. She wore +now dainty high-heeled red morocco shoes, which made her set her feet +down as delicately as some little pink-footed pigeon. All her coarse +home-spun gowns were laid away in a chest. She wore now fine chintz or +soft boughten wool of a week-day, and she even had a gown of silken +stuff and a fine silk pelisse for Sabbath days. + +Going into the meeting-house beside her soberly clad parents and +sisters, she looked like some gay-feathered bird which had somehow +gotten into the wrong nest. All the Buckley family seemed to have +united in a curious reversed tyranny towards this beautiful child. She +was set up as a queen among them, whether she would or no, and she was +made to take the best in their lot, whether she wanted it or not. + +When Persis was fourteen, her sister Rebecca went some fifty miles +away to keep house for a widowed uncle and take care of his family of +children. She was not needed at home, and in this way the cost of her +support was saved for Persis. Submit was a dull woman, and hard work +was making her duller. She broadened her patient back for her own and +her sister’s burdens without a murmur, and became a contented drudge +that Persis might sit in state in the front room, keeping her hands +soft and white. + +As for Persis’s brother Ichabod, nearly all his savings were given to +her, but, after all, not with any especial self-denial. This beautiful +young sister represented all the faint ambition in his life; he had +none left for himself, and nobody had tried to arouse any. He made +perilous voyages on a whaling-ship for his living. When he came home, +with his face browned and stiffened by his hard fight with the icy +winds of the North Atlantic, he sat down by the fire in his father’s +kitchen. Then he chewed tobacco, and never stirred if he could help it +until his next voyage. + +At thirty, Ichabod had become as old as his father. All the dreams of +youth had gone out of him, and he slumbered in the present like a very +old man. Always as he sat chewing by the fire his face wore that look +of set resistance, as if the lash of the North Atlantic wind still +threatened it. Ever since she could remember, Persis Buckley had seen +her brother sit there between his voyages, a dull reflective bulk +before the hearth, like some figure-head of a stranded whaler. + +The morning after his return from his voyage, Persis, passing her +brother, would be arrested by an inarticulate command, and would pause +while he dragged out his old leather bag, heavy with his hard-earned +coins. Then Persis would hold up her apron by the two lower corners, +and he would pour in a goodly portion of his wealth, while his face +looked more smiling and animated than she ever saw it at any other +time. “’Twill buy you something as good as anybody when you go among +the grand folk,” he would say, with a half-chuckle, when Persis thanked +him. + +Sarah Buckley hid away all this money for Persis in the till of the +chest. “It will come handy some day,” she would remark, with a meaning +smile. This fund was not drawn upon for the purchase of Persis’s daily +needs and luxuries. Her father’s earnings and her mother’s thrift +provided them, and with seemingly little stint. People said that the +materials for Persis Buckley’s crewel-work alone cost a pretty sum. +After she had finished her sampler she worked a mourning-piece, and +after that a great picture, all in cross-stitch, which was held to be a +marvel. + +Persis’s very soul flagged over the house and the green trees, the +river, and the red rose-bushes, and the blue sky, all wrought with +her needle, stitch by stitch. Once in the depths of her docile heart +a sudden wish, which seemed as foreign to her as an impious spirit, +leaped up that all this had never been created, since she was forced to +reproduce it in cross-stitch. + +“I wish,” said Persis, quite out loud to herself when she was all +alone in the front room--“I wish the trees had never been made, nor +the roses, nor the river, nor the sky; then I shouldn’t have had to +work them.” Then she fairly trembled at her wickedness, and counted the +stitches in a corner of the sky with renewed zeal and faithfulness. + +When Persis was sixteen, her mother, in her anxiety to provide her with +accomplishments, went a step beyond all previous efforts, and a piano +was bought for her. It was the very first piano which had ever come to +this little seaport town. Ichabod had commissioned a sea-captain to +purchase it in England. + +When it was set up on its slender fluted legs in the Buckley front +room, all the people came and craved permission to see it, and viewed +its satiny surface and inlaid-work in mother-of-pearl with admiration +and awe. Then they went away, and discoursed among themselves as to the +folly and sinful extravagance of Ichabod Buckley and his wife. + +There was in the village an ancient maiden lady who had lived in Boston +in her youth, and had learned to play several tunes on the harpsichord. +These, for a small stipend, she imparted to Persis. They were simple +and artless melodies, and Persis had a ready ear. In a short time she +had learned all the maiden lady knew. She could sing three old songs, +innocently imitating her teacher’s quaver with her sweet young voice, +and she could finger out quite correctly one battle piece and two +jigs. The two jigs she played very slowly, according to her teacher’s +instructions. Persis herself did not know why, but this elderly maiden +was astute. She did not wish Ichabod Buckley and his family to be +tormented with scruples themselves, neither did she wish to be called +to account for teaching light and worldly tunes. + +“Play these very slowly, my dear,” she said. She shook the two bunches +of gray curls which bobbed outside her cap over her thin red cheeks; +her old blue eyes winked with a light which Persis did not understand. + +“Be they psalm tunes?” she inquired, innocently. + +“’Tis according to the way you play them,” replied her teacher, +evasively. + +And Persis never knew, nor any of her family, that she played jigs. +However, one worldly amusement, which was accounted distinctly sinful, +was Persis taught with the direct connivance of her parents. + +This old maiden lady, although she was constant in the meeting-house +on the Sabbath day, and was not seen to move a muscle of dissent when +the parson proclaimed the endless doom of the wicked, had Unitarian +traditions, and her life in her youth had been more gayly and broadly +ordered than that of those about her. It had always been whispered that +she had played cards, and had even danced, in days gone by. To the +most rigidly sanctified nostrils there was always perceptible a faint +spiritual odor of past frivolity when she came into the meeting-house, +although she seemed to subscribe faithfully to all the orthodox tenets. +The parson often felt it his duty to call upon her, and enter into +wordy expounding of the truth, and tempt her with argument. She never +questioned his precepts, and never argued, yet a suspicion as to her +inmost heresy was always abroad. Had it not been so, Sarah Buckley +would never have dared make one proposition to her with regard to her +daughter’s accomplishments. + +One day the shutters in the Buckley front room were carefully closed, +as if some one lay dead therein; the candles were lighted, and this +ancient maiden lady, holding with both hands her petticoats above +her thin ankles in their black silk hose, taught Persis Buckley some +dancing steps. That, nobody in the village ever knew. All the parties +concerned would have been brought before the church had that secret +been disclosed. The Buckleys scarcely dared mention it to one another. + +This old teacher of Persis Buckley had still some relatives left in +Boston, and now and then she went to them on a visit. On one of these +occasions Sarah Buckley commissioned her to purchase some books for +Persis. All the literature in the Buckley house consisted of the Bible, +Watts’s Hymns, and Doddridge’s _Rise and Progress_, and Sarah fancied +that another book or two of possibly an ornamental and decorative +tendency might be of use in her daughter’s education. + +When Mistress Tabitha Hopkins returned from Boston she brought with her +a volume of Young’s _Night Thoughts_ and one of Richardson’s _Clarissa +Harlowe_. The first she presented with confidence, the second with some +excuses. + +“I know well that the poetry is of a nature that will elevate her soul +and tend to form her mind,” said she, “and I have myself no doubt as to +the other. If it be a tale, ’tis one she can read to her profit, and +the pleasure she may take in it may lead her to peruse it more closely. +’Tis well sometimes to season hard doctrines with sugar if you would +have them gulped down at all.” Mistress Hopkins made a wry face, as +if the said doctrines were even then like bitter pills in her mouth, +and Sarah Buckley glanced at her suspiciously. However, she took the +books, and paid for them a goodly sum, and Persis was henceforth made +acquainted with the lofty admonitions to Lorenzo and the woes of the +unfortunate and virtuous Clarissa. + +It might well have been that Tabitha Hopkins’s recommendation of the +story of poor Clarissa Harlowe and her desperate experience at the +hands of a faithless lover had its object. Mistress Tabitha Hopkins’s +single life had not predisposed her to implicit reliance upon the good +faith or the motives of gay gallants who, in the course of some little +trip out of their world, chanced to notice a beautiful rustic maiden. +Everybody in the village knew now the reason for Ichabod Buckley’s and +his wife’s strange treatment of their daughter Persis. They knew that +the grand gentleman who had come to town with the coach and four had +seen Persis, and cried out at her beauty, and made her father give his +promise that she should be kept for him until she was grown up, when he +would come over seas from England and marry her. + +Ichabod had vainly tried to keep this secret, but he had told it before +a week had passed to old Thomas Knapp, who was helping him to set Widow +Nye’s gravestone. + +Then the sun had not set before the news was widely spread. Marvellous +tales were told of this gentleman and his lady mother, who had come in +the coach with him. Persis, when she was wedded, would dwell in marble +halls, wear satin and velvet of a week-day, and eat off gold and silver +dishes. No wonder that Ichabod Buckley and his wife Sarah were doing +their poor best to fit their daughter for such a high estate! No wonder +that they kept her all day in the best room embroidering and reading +poetry and playing music! No wonder that they never let her walk abroad +without morocco shoes and a veil over her face! + +“It ain’t likely,” said old man Knapp, “that she’ll ever have any call +to so much as dye a hank of yarn or dip a candle arter she’s married.” + +Still, although people acquiesced in the wisdom of fitting Persis for +this grand station, if there were any prospect of her reaching it, they +were mostly incredulous or envious. + +The incredulous said quite openly that Ichabod Buckley always did +hear things five times as big as they were, and they doubted much if +the grand gentleman ever really meant to or said he would come back +for Persis. The envious declared that if he did come they mistrusted +that it would not be for any good and honest purpose, for he would +never think Persis Buckley his equal, in spite of all her fine +accomplishments and her gaudy attire. And her face might by that time +be no more beautiful than some others, after all. + +The incredulous moved the parson to preach many a discourse upon the +folly of worldly ambition and trust in the vain promises of princes. +The envious instigated sermons upon the sin of any other ornament or +accomplishment than a meek and quiet spirit for the daughters of Zion. + +Poor little Persis, in her silken attire, lifting her wonderful face +to the parson, never dreamed that the discourse was directed at her +and her parents, but Ichabod and Sarah knew, and sat up with bristling +stiffness. After that they withdrew themselves largely from intercourse +with their neighbors. They felt as if the spiritual watch-dog had +been set upon them, and they were justly indignant. Sarah Buckley had +always been given to staying at home and minding the affairs of her own +household; now she kept herself more close than ever. Ichabod was by +nature sociable, and liked to fraternize with his kind; but now almost +his only dealing with people outside his own family lay in his work +upon their gravestones. + +The Buckleys lived by themselves in their little house on the windy +land past the graveyard, following out their own end in life, and all +the time were under a subtle spiritual bombardment of doubt and envy +and disapproval from their neighbors in the village. + +People talked much about Submit’s patient drudgery, and felt for her +the resentment which she did not feel for herself. “It is a shame +the way they make that poor girl do all the work to keep her sister +in idleness!” said they. They began to call Persis in derision “The +Buckley Lady.” + +Poor Persis Buckley, shut out of the free air and away from all the +mates of her youth, was leading the life of a forlorn princess in +a fairy tale. She would have given all the money which her brother +Ichabod brought her for his privilege of a cruise over the wild seas. +Year after year she waited in her prison, cast about and bound, body +and spirit, by the will and ambition of her parents, like steel +cobwebs, for the prince who never came. + +At first the romance of it all had appealed to her childish +imagination. When the high destiny which awaited her had been +disclosed, her heart leaped. She had been amused and pleased. She liked +to watch out for that grand coach and four. When she remembered the gay +blue flash of that grand gentleman’s eyes she blushed, and laughed to +herself. + +But after a while all that failed. She did not grow incredulous, for +she had a simple and long-suffering faith in her parents, but quietly +and secretly frightened at the prospect before her. Poor Persis Buckley +sometimes felt herself turn fairly cold with dread at the thought of +entering that splendid coach and driving away forever out of her old +life at that strange gentleman’s side. He became to her as cold and +formless as a moving column of mist on the marsh, and even the dreams +which sprang of themselves in her girlish heart could not invest him +with love and life again. + +She did not dare confide her fears to her mother. Sometimes her mother +filled her with a vague alarm. Sarah Buckley in ten years grew old, and +the eagerness in her face waxed so bright and sharp that one shrank +before it involuntarily, as before some blinding on-coming headlight of +spirit. + +All those years she waited and watched and listened for that grand +coach and four which would bring her fortune in her daughter’s. All the +ambition of her earthly life, largely balked for herself, had centred +in this. Her lot in the world had been to tread out a ceaseless round +of sordid toil in her poor little home on the stormy coast, but her +beautiful daughter could take a flight above it, and something of +herself could follow her. + +She never gave up, although year after year she watched and listened in +vain; but finally her body failed under this long strain of the spirit. +When Persis was twenty-three her mother died, after a short illness. +Then Persis found her father as keen a guardian as her mother had +been. Sarah had given him her farewell charges, and during her lifetime +had imbued his nervous receptive nature with a goodly portion of her +own spirit. + +He wrought for his dead wife a fine tall stone, and set thereon a +verse of his own composition. Ichabod Buckley was somewhat of a poet, +publishing himself his effusions upon his gloomy stone pages. Then he +fulfilled his own and her part towards their daughter Persis. + + * * * * * + +Sarah Buckley had been dead two years, and the Buckley Lady was +twenty-five years old, sitting at her window in the front room, +watching for the prince who never came. + +“The fine gentleman will find an old maid waiting for him if he does +not come before long,” people said, with sniffs. + +But Persis had really grown more and more beautiful. Her complexion, +although she had lived so much within-doors, was not sickly, but pale +and fine as a white lily. Her eyes were like dark stars, and her hair +was a braided cap of gold, with light curls falling from it around her +face and her sweet neck. Of late Persis had rebelled upon one minor +point: she never, even of a morning, would sit at the window with +her hair rolled up in curl-papers. She argued with her father, with +a duplicity which was unlike her, that should the gentleman arrive +suddenly, she would have no time to take them down before he saw her. +But that was not the reason. Ichabod never suspected, neither did the +stupid Submit, padding faithfully in her household tracks; the son, +Ichabod, was away at sea. Nobody knew how the Buckley Lady, sitting +in her window watching, had seen Darius Hopkins pass by, with never a +coach and four, but striding bravely along on his own stalwart young +legs, and how her heart had gone out to him and followed him, whether +she would or not. + +Darius Hopkins was Mistress Tabitha Hopkins’s nephew, and he had +come from Boston to pay his aunt a visit. People whispered that he +had expectations, and had come with a purpose. Mistress Tabitha had +received within two years a legacy, nobody knew how large, by the death +of a relative. However that may have been, the young man treated his +aunt with exceeding deference and tenderness. Her pride and delight +were great. She held her head high, and swung out her slim foot with +almost the motion of her old dancing steps when she went up the +meeting-house aisle on a Sabbath day, leaning on her nephew’s arm. +Darius was finely dressed, and he was also a personable young man of +whom she might well be proud. She kept glancing at him almost with the +shy delight of a sweetheart. Darius had a glossy dark head and a dark +complexion, but his eyes were blue and light, and somewhat, as she +fondly thought, like her own. + +Darius had arrived on a Thursday, and it was on that day Persis Buckley +had seen him, and he had seen her at her window. Tabitha Hopkins’s +house was past the Buckleys’, fairly out at sea, on the point, across +the marshy meadows. + +The young man glanced up carelessly at the Buckley house as he passed; +then he started, and fairly stopped, and his heart leaped almost with +fear, for it actually seemed to him that he saw the face of an angel in +the window. + +“Who was the maid in the window of the house back yonder?” he said to +his aunt as soon as he had greeted her. He waved his hand carelessly +backward, and tried to speak as carelessly, but his aunt gave him a +sharp look. + +“It must have been Persis Buckley,” said she. + +“There is not another face like that in the whole country,” said the +young man, and in spite of himself his tongue betrayed him. + +“Yes, it is generally considered that she has a fair face,” said +Tabitha, dryly. “She has accomplishments also. She can play music, and +she has a pretty voice for a song. She can dance, though that’s not +to be spoke of in this godly town, and she is well versed in polite +literature. Persis Buckley is fitted to adorn any high estate to which +she may be called.” + +There was a mysterious tone in Tabitha’s voice, and her nephew looked +at her with eager inquiry. + +“What mean you, aunt?” he said. + +“What I have said,” replied she, aggravatingly, and would tell him no +more. She was secretly a little jealous that her nephew had shortened +his greeting to her to inquire about Persis. Old single woman though +she was, her feminine birthright of jealousy of the love of men, be +they lovers or sons or nephews, still survived in her heart. + +The young man dared not ask her any more questions, but the next day +he passed the Buckley house many a time with sidelong glances at the +window where Persis sat. He would not stare too boldly at that fair +vision. And in the evening he stole out and strolled slowly over the +meadows, and came to the Buckley house again. She was not at the window +then, but the sweet tinkle of her piano came out to him from the +candle-lit room, and he listened in rapture to her tender little voice +trilling and quavering. Then peeping cautiously, he saw her graceful +head thrown back, and her white throat swelling with her song like a +bird’s. + +When he returned, his aunt looked at him sharply, but she did not ask +where he had been. When he took his candle to retire for the night, her +old blue eyes twinkled at him suddenly. + +“How did the little bird sing to-night?” she said. + +The young man stared at her a second, then he blushed and laughed. +“Bravely, aunt, bravely,” he replied. + +“’Tis a bird in the bush, nephew,” said she, and her voice was mocking, +yet shrewdly tender. + +Darius’s face fell. “What do you mean, aunt?” he said. + +“’Tis a bird that will always sing in the bush, and never in hand.” + +Darius made as if he would question his aunt further, but he did not. +He bade her good-night in a downcast and confused manner, and was out +of the room like a shy girl. + +Mistress Tabitha chuckled to herself, then she looked grave, and sat in +her rocking-chair for a long time thinking. + +Darius Hopkins marvelled much what his aunt could mean by her warning, +and was uneasy over it. But the next day also he had many an errand +across the meadows, down the forest road, to the village, and always he +saw, without seeming to see, Persis at the window, and always she saw, +without seeming to see, him. + +On the Sabbath day, when he and his aunt went by the Buckley house on +their way to meeting, Persis was not at the window. His aunt surprised +his sly glances. “They go to meeting early,” said she, demurely. +Darius laughed in a shamefaced fashion. + +After he and his aunt were seated in the meeting-house, he scarcely +dared look up for a while, for he feared, should he see Persis suddenly +and near at hand, his face might alter in spite of himself. And, in +truth, when he did look up, and saw Persis close before him in a pew at +the side of the pulpit, a tremor ran over him, his lips twitched, and +all the color left his face. His aunt pressed her bottle of salts into +his hand, and he pressed it back almost sharply, and turned red as a +girl to the roots of his black hair. Then he sat up straight and looked +over almost defiantly at Persis. Her face in her blue satin bonnet, +with its drooping blue plume and lace veil thrown to one side, was fair +enough to stir the heart of any mortal man who looked at her. + +There were, indeed, in that meeting-house, certain godly men who kept +their eyes sternly turned away, and would not look upon her, thinking +it a sin, although it was a sin to their own hearts alone. + +But many a young man besides Darius Hopkins, although he had seen +her in that selfsame place Sabbath after Sabbath, still regarded her +furtively with looks of almost startled adoration. Not one of them +had ever spoken to her or heard her speak, or seen her except in the +meeting-house, or at her window, or thickly veiled on the village +street. + +Persis to-day kept her eyes fixed upon the parson, exhorting under his +echoing sounding-board. She never looked around, although she knew that +Darius was sitting beside his aunt in her pew. She also was afraid, and +she never recovered courage, like Darius. Her father, Ichabod, fiercely +intent upon the discourse, his nervous face screwed to a very point of +attention, sat on one side; her sister Submit, her back bowed like an +old woman’s, on the other. + +When meeting was over, Ichabod shot down the aisle, with his daughters +following, as was his wont, and reached the door before many that sat +farther back. + +When Darius and his aunt came out of the meeting-house, the Buckleys +were quite out of sight. When they emerged from the road past the +graveyard through the woods, Persis was already at the window, with her +bonnet off, but she kept her head turned far to one side, as if intent +upon something in the room, and only the pink curve of one cheek was +visible. + +Darius had grown bold in the meeting-house; this time he looked, and +forgot himself in looking. + +“She is a pretty maid, but she is not for you, nor for any other +young man unless he come for her with a coach and four, with a black +gentleman a-driving,” said his aunt’s voice half mockingly at his side. + +Then the young man turned and questioned her quite boldly. “I beg of +you to tell me what you mean, aunt,” he said. + +Then Mistress Tabitha Hopkins, holding her Sabbath gown high above her +hooped satin petticoat as she stepped along, unfolded to her nephew +Darius Hopkins the strange romance of Persis Buckley’s life. + +“’Tis a shame!” cried the young man, indignantly, when she had +finished--“a shame, to keep her a prisoner in this fashion!” + +“’Tis only a prince with a coach and four can set her free. A prince +from over seas, with a black gentleman a-driving,” said his aunt. + +Darius turned, and stared back across the flat meadow-land at Ichabod +Buckley’s house. It was late August now, and the meadow had great +rosy patches of marsh-rosemary flung upon it like silken cloaks of +cavaliers, and far-seen purple plumes of blazing-star. Darius studied +slowly the low gray walls and long slant of gray roofs in the distance. + +“A strong right arm and a willing heart might free her, were he prince +or not!” said he. And he flung out his own right arm as if it were the +one to do it. + +“Were the maid willing to be freed,” said Mistress Tabitha, softly. + +Darius colored. “That is true, aunt,” he said, with a downcast and +humbled air, and he turned and went on soberly. + +Mistress Tabitha looked at her nephew’s handsome face, and thought to +herself, with loving but jealous pride, that no maid could refuse him +as a deliverer. But she would not tell him so, for her heart was still +sore at his preference of Persis to herself. + +Darius Hopkins had an uneasy visit at his aunt Tabitha’s. He did not +speak again of Persis Buckley, but he thought the more. Useless, as +he told himself, as either hopes or fears were, they sprang up in his +heart like persistent flames, and could not be trodden out. + +He told himself that it was not sensible to think that the grand +Englishman would ever come for Persis after all these years, and that +it was nothing to him if he did. Yet he often trembled when he came in +sight of her house lest he see a coach and four standing before it, and +see her carried away before his very eyes. + +And sometimes he would look at his own comely face in the glass, and +look into his own heart, and feel as if the love therein must compel +her even against her will; for she was not an angel or a goddess, after +all, beautiful as she was, but only a mortal woman. “She cannot love +this man whom she has not seen since she was a child, and he must be +an old man now,” reasoned Darius, viewing his own gallant young face +in the glass. And he smiled with hope, although he knew that he could +not reasonably expect to have more of Persis than the sight of her face +in the meeting-house or at the window were he to stay in the village a +year. + +For a long time Darius was not sure that Persis even noticed him +when he passed by, but there came a day when he had that at least +for his comfort. That day he had not passed her house until late; on +the day before her face had been so far turned from the window that +his heart had sunk. He had said to himself that he would be such a +love-cracked fool no longer; he would not pass her house again unless +of a necessity. So all that day he had sat moodily with his aunt, but +just before dusk his resolution had failed him. He had strolled slowly +across the meadow, while his aunt watched him from her window, smiling +shrewdly. + +He had not meant to glance even when he passed the Buckley house, +but in spite of himself his eyes turned. And there was Persis at the +window, leaning towards him, with her face all radiant with joy. It +was only a second, and she was gone. Darius had no time for anything +but that one look, but that was enough. He felt as if he had already +routed the gallant with the coach and four. He meditated all sorts of +audacious schemes as he went home. What could he not do, if Persis +would only smile upon him? He felt like marching straight upon her +house, like a soldier upon a castle, and demanding her of her father, +who was her jailer. + +But the next day his heart failed him again, for she was not at her +window--nor the next, nor the next. He could not know that she was +peeping through the crack in the shutter, and that her embroidery and +her reading and her old thoughts were all thrown aside for his sake. +Persis Buckley could do nothing, day nor night, but think of Darius +Hopkins, and watch for him to pass her window. + +She did not know why, but she did not like to look fairly out of the +window at him any longer. She could only peep through the crack in the +shutter, with her color coming and going, and her heart beating loud in +her ears. + +But when Darius saw no more of Persis at the window, he told himself +that his conceit had misled him; that no such marvellous creature as +that could have looked upon him as he had thought, and that his bold +stare had affronted her. + +So he did not pass the Buckley house for several days, and Persis +watched in vain. One afternoon she rose up suddenly, with her soft +cheek all creased where she had leaned it against the shutter. “He will +not come; I will watch no longer,” she said to herself, half angrily. +And she got out her green silk pelisse and her bonnet, and prepared to +walk abroad. She went through the kitchen, and her sister Submit stared +up at her from the hearth, which she was washing. + +“You have not got on your veil, Persis,” said she. + +“I want no veil,” Persis returned, impatiently. + +“But you will get burned in the wind; father will not like it,” said +Submit, with wondering and dull remonstrance. + +“Well,” sighed Persis, resignedly. And Submit got the black-wrought +veil, and tied it over her sister’s beautiful face. + +Poor Persis, when she was out of the house, glanced hastily through the +black maze of leaves and flowers across the meadow, but she saw no one +coming. Then she strolled on away down the road through the woods. Just +that side of the burying-ground there was an oak grove, and she went in +there and sat down a little way from the road, with her back against a +tree. It was very cool for the time of year, but the sun shone bright. +All the oak-trees trilled sharply with the insects hidden in them, and +the leaves rustled together. + +Persis sat very stiffly under the oak-tree. Her petticoat was of green +flowered chintz, and her pelisse and her bonnet of green silk. She +was as undistinguishable as a green plant against the trunk of the +tree, and neither Darius Hopkins nor his aunt Tabitha saw her when +they passed. Persis heard their voices before they came in sight. She +scarcely breathed. She seemed to be fairly hiding within herself, and +forcing her very thoughts away from the eyes of Darius and his aunt. + +Mistress Tabitha came down the wood, stepping with her fine mincing +gait, and leaning upon her nephew’s arm. They never dreamed that Persis +was near. The green waving lines of the forest met their eyes on either +hand, but all unnoted, being as it were the revolutions of that green +wheel of nature of which long acquaintance had dimmed their perception. +Only an unusual motion therein could arouse their attention when their +thoughts were elsewhere, and they were talking busily. + +As they came opposite Persis, Mistress Tabitha cried out suddenly, and +her voice was full of dismay. “Not to-morrow!” she cried out. “You go +not to-morrow, Darius!” + +And Darius replied, sadly: “I must, Aunt Tabitha. I must go back to +Boston by the Thursday stage-coach, and to-day is Wednesday.” + +Persis heard no more. She felt faint, and there was a strange singing +in her ears. As soon as the aunt and nephew were well past, she got up +and hastened back to the house. She took off her bonnet and pelisse, +and sat down in her old place at the window, where she had watched so +many years through her strange warped youth. When she saw Darius and +his aunt returning, all her soul seemed to leap forward and look, out +of her great dark eyes. But Darius never glanced her way. He knew she +was there, for his aunt said, “There is Persis Buckley,” and nodded; +but he dared not look, for fear lest he look too boldly, and she be +offended. + +Persis did not nod in response to Mistress Tabitha. She only looked, +and looked at the slight, straight figure of the young man moving past +her and out of her life. She thought that it was the last time that +she should ever see him--the Boston stage left at daybreak. It seemed +to her that he would never come again; and if he did, that she could +not live until the time, but should ride away first from her old home +forever, in gloomier state than had been planned for so many years. + +When Darius and his aunt were out of sight she heard her father’s voice +in the kitchen, and she arose and went out there with a sudden resolve. +“Father,” she said, standing before Ichabod. + +He looked at her in a curious startled way. There was a strange gleam +in her soft eyes, and a strange expression about her docile mouth. + +“What is it?” he said. + +“He will never come, father. I want to be different.” + +“Who will never come? What do you mean, Persis?” + +“The--gentleman--the grand gentleman with--the coach and four. He will +never come for me now. I want to be different, father. I want to work +with Submit, and not stay in there by myself. If I have to any longer +I shall die, I think. I want to be different. He will never come now, +father.” + +Ichabod Buckley trembled with long convulsive tremors, which seemed to +leave him rigid and stiff as they passed. “He will come!” he returned, +and he shouted out the words like an oath. + +Submit, who was preparing supper, stopped, and stood pale and staring. + +Persis quailed a little, but she spoke again. + +“It is too long now, father,” she said. “He has forgotten me. He has +married another in England. He will never come, and I want to be +different. And should he come, after all, I should be sorely afraid to +go with him now. I could never go with him now, father.” + +Ichabod turned upon her, and spoke with such force that she shrank, +as if before a stormy blast. “I tell ye he will come!” he shouted, +hoarsely. “He will come, and you shall go with him, whether you will or +no! He will come, and you shall sit there in that room and wait for +him until he comes! You should wait there until you were dead, if he +came not before. But he will, I tell ye--_he will come!_” + +Persis fled before her father back to the best room, and sat there in +the gathering dusk. Across the meadows the light of Tabitha Hopkins +evening candle shone out suddenly like a low-hung star, and Persis sat +watching it. When Submit called, in a scared voice, that supper was +ready, she went out at once, and took her place at the table. There +were pink spots in her usually pale cheeks; she spoke not a word, and +scarcely tasted the little tid-bits grouped as usual around her plate. +Her father swallowed his food with nervous gulps, then he left the +table and went out. Soon Persis heard the grate of his tools on the +gravestone slate, and knew that he had gone to work by candle-light, +something he seldom did. + +“Father is put out,” Submit said, with a half-scared, half-reproachful +look at Persis. + +“Oh, Submit!” Persis cried out, with the first appeal she had ever made +in her life to her slow-witted elder sister, “I must be different, or I +think I shall die!” + +“Maybe he will come soon,” said Submit, who did not understand her +sister’s appeal. “Maybe he will come soon, Persis. Father thinks so,” +she repeated, as she rose from the table and padded heavily about, +removing the supper dishes. + +Then she added something which filled her sister’s soul with fright and +dismay. + +“Father he dreamt a dream last night,” said Submit, in her thick drone. +“He dreamt that the grand gentleman came with the coach and four, and +the black gentleman a-driving, and the grand lady in a velvet hood, +just as he came before, and you got in and rode away. And he dreamt he +came on a Thursday.” + +“To-morrow is Thursday,” gasped Persis. + +Submit nodded. “Father thinks he will come to-morrow,” said she. “He +bade me not tell you, but I will for your comfort.” + +Submit stared wonderingly at her sister’s distressed face as she ran +out of the room; then she went on with her work. She presently, in +sweeping the hearth, made a long black mark thereon, and straightway +told herself that there was another sign that the gentleman was coming. +Submit was well versed in New England domestic superstition, that being +her only exercise of imagination. + +Persis did not light the candles in the best room. She sat at the +window in the dark, and watched again Mistress Tabitha’s candle-light +across the meadow. She also stared from time to time in a startled +way in the other direction towards the woodland road. Persis also was +superstitious. She feared lest her father’s dream come true. She +seemed to almost see now and then that stately equipage emerge as of +old from the woods. She almost thought that she heard the far-away +rumble of the wheels. She kept reminding herself that it was Wednesday, +and her father’s dream said Thursday; but what if she did have to go +away forever with that strange gentleman only the next day! She thought +suddenly, not knowing why, of Clarissa Harlowe and Lovelace in her +book. Mistress Tabitha’s purpose had not wholly failed in its effect. +A great vague horror of something which she was too ignorant to see +fairly came over her. The face of that fine strange gentleman, dimly +remembered before through all the years, shaped itself suddenly and +plainly out of the darkness like the face of a demon. Persis looked +away, shuddering, to the candle-gleam over the meadow, and Darius +Hopkins’s eyes seemed to look wistfully and lovingly into hers. + +Persis Buckley arose softly, groped her way across the room in the +dark, sliding noiselessly like a shadow, felt for the latch of the door +that led into the front entry, lifted it cautiously, stole out into the +entry, then opened the outer door with careful pains by degrees, and +was out of the house. + +Persis fled then past the plumy gloom of the pine-trees that skirted +the wood, over the meadow, straight towards that candle-gleam in the +Hopkins window. + +There was a dry northeaster blowing, and it struck her as she fled, and +lashed her clothing about her. She had on no outer wraps, and her head +and her delicate face, which had always been veiled before a zephyr, +were now all roughened and buffeted by this strong wind, which carried +the sting of salt in it. + +She never thought of it nor minded it. She fled on and on like a +love-compelled bird, with only one single impulse in her whole being. +The measure of freedom is always in proportion to the measure of +previous restraint. Persis Buckley had been under a restraint which +no maiden in this New England village had ever suffered, and she had +gotten from it an impetus for a deed which they would have blushed to +think of. + +She fled on, forcing her way against the wind, which sometimes seemed +to meet her like a moving wall, and sometimes like the rushing legions +of that Prince of the Powers of the Air of whom she had read in the +Bible, making as if they would lift her up bodily and carry her away +among them into unknown tumult and darkness. + +When Persis reached Tabitha Hopkins’s door, she was nearly spent. Her +life had not trained her well for a flight in the teeth of the wind. +She leaned against the door for a minute faint and gasping. + +Then she raised the knocker, and it fell with only a slight clang; but +directly she heard an inner door open, and a step. + +Then the door swung back before her, and Darius Hopkins stood there in +the dim candle-light shining from the room within. + +He could not see Persis’s face plainly at first, only her little white +hands reaching out to him like a child’s from the gloom. + +“Who is it?” he asked, doubtfully, and his voice trembled. + +Persis made a little panting sound that was half a sob. Darius bent +forward, peering out. Then he cried out, and caught at those little +beseeching hands. + +“It is not you!” he cried. “It is not you! You have not come to me! It +is not you!” + +Darius Hopkins, scarcely knowing what he did, he was so stirred with +joy and triumph and doubt and fear, led Persis into the house and the +candle-lit room. Then, when he saw in truth before him that beautiful +face which he had worshipped from afar, the young man trembled and fell +down upon his knees before Persis as if she were indeed a queen, or an +angel who had come to bless him, and kissed her hand. + +But Persis stood there, trembling and pale, before him, with the tears +falling from her wonderful eyes, and her sweet mouth quivering. “Do +not let him carry me away,” she pleaded, faintly. + +Then Darius sprang to his feet and put his arms around her. “Who is it +would carry you away?” he said, angrily and tenderly. “No one shall +have you. Who is it?” + +“The--gentleman--from over-seas,” whispered Persis. Her soft wet cheek +was pressed against Darius’s. + +“He has not come?” he questioned, starting fiercely. + +“No; but--father has dreamed that he will--to-morrow.” + +Then Darius laughed gayly. “Dreams go by contraries,” he said. + +“Do not let him carry me away,” Persis pleaded again, and she sobbed on +his shoulder, and clung to him. + +Darius held her more closely. “He shall never carry you away, even if +he comes, against your will,” he said. “Do not fear.” + +“I will go with nobody but you,” whispered Persis in his ear. + +And he trembled, scarcely believing that he heard aright. And, indeed, +he scarcely believed even yet that he was not dreaming, and that he +held this beautiful creature in his arms, and, more than all, that she +had come to him of her own accord. + +“You--do--not--mean-- You cannot--oh, you cannot mean-- You are an +angel. There is no one like you. You cannot--you cannot feel so about +me?” he whispered, brokenly, at length. + +Persis nodded against his breast. + +“And--that was why--you came?” + +Persis nodded again. + +Darius bent her head back until he could see her beautiful, tearful +face. He gazed at it with reverent wonder, then he kissed her forehead, +and gently loosed her arm from his neck, and led her over to a chair. + +He knelt down before her then as if she were a queen upon a throne, and +held her hands softly. Then he questioned her as to how she had come, +and about the expected coming of her strange gentleman suitor, and she +answered him like a docile child. + +Mistress Tabitha Hopkins stood for quite a time in the doorway, and +neither of them saw her. Then she spoke up. + +“I want to know what this means,” said she. “How came she here?” She +pointed a sharp forefinger at Persis, who shrank before it. + +But Darius arose quickly and went forward, blushing, but full of manly +confidence. “Come out with me a moment, Aunt Tabitha,” he said; “I have +something to say to you privately.” He took his aunt’s arm and led her +out of the room, and, as he went, smiled back at Persis. “Do not be +afraid, sweetheart,” he said. + +“Sweetheart!” sniffed Mistress Tabitha, before the door closed. + +Persis Buckley had been gone no longer than an hour from her own home +when Darius and his aunt Tabitha escorted her back. She was wrapped +then in a warm cloak of Mistress Tabitha’s and clung to her lover’s +arm, and he leaned between her and the rough wind, and sheltered her. +Poor Mistress Tabitha, with her skirts whipping about her and her ears +full of wind, forced often by the onset of the gale at her back into +staggering runs, pressed along after them. She had declined with some +asperity her nephew’s proffered assistance. “You look out for her,” +she said, shortly. And then she added to temper her refusal, that she +could better keep her cloak around her if both her arms were free. All +her life had Mistress Tabitha Hopkins seen love only from the outside, +shining in her neighbor’s window. It was to her credit to-night if she +was not all bitter when its light fell on her solitary old maiden face, +but got a certain reflected warmth and joy from it. + +Nobody had missed Persis. Submit was fairly knitting in her sleep, by +the kitchen fire. Ichabod was still out in his shed at work. + +Mistress Tabitha stood back a little while her nephew bade Persis +good-bye at her door. “Remember, do not be frightened, whatever +happens to-morrow,” he whispered in her ear. “If the gentleman comes +with the coach and four, go with him, and trust in me.” + +“I will do whatever you bid me,” whispered Persis. Then Darius kissed +her hand, and she stole softly through the dark doorway into the gloom +of the house, while her faith in her lover was as a lamp to all her +thoughts. + +On the next afternoon there was a sensation in this little seaport +town. A grand coach and four, with a black man driving, a fine +gentleman’s head at one window, and a fine lady’s at another, came +dashing through the place at two o’clock. The women all ran to the +doors and windows. Lounging old men straightened themselves languidly +to stare, and turned their vacant faces over their shoulders. A +multitude of small lads, with here and there a little petticoat among +them, collected rapidly, and pelted along in the wake of this grand +equipage. They followed it quite through the town to the road that +led through the woods, past the graveyard, to the Buckley house, then +up the road, panting but eager, the smaller children dragging at the +hands of their elder brothers. When they reached the Buckley house, +this small rabble separated itself into decorously silent, primly +courtesying rows on either side of the way. Then the grand coach and +four at length turned about, and moved between the courtesying rows of +children, while Ichabod Buckley stood proudly erect in his best green +surtout watching it, and poor Submit, with a scrubbing-cloth in her +hand, peeped around the house corner, and the Buckley Lady rode away. + +And all the people saw the coach and four dash at a rattling pace back +through the town, with the Buckley Lady’s face set like a white lily +in a window, and her grand suitor’s fair head opposite. They also saw +another lady beside Persis; her face was well hidden in her great +velvet hood and wrought veil, but she sat up with a stately air. + +The children followed the coach on the Boston road as far as they were +able, then they straggled homeward, and the coach went out of sight in +a great billow of dust. + +It was several days before the people knew what had really +happened--that Persis Buckley had gone away with Darius Hopkins, with a +fair wig over his black hair, and the fine lady in the velvet hood had +been nobody but Mistress Tabitha. + +Darius Hopkins had sent a letter to the parson, and begged him to +acquaint Ichabod Buckley with the truth, and humbly to crave his pardon +for himself and Persis, who was now his wife, for the deceit they had +practised. “But, in truth,” wrote Darius Hopkins, “my beloved wife was +not acquaint with the plan at all, it being contrived by my aunt, who +hath a shrewd head, and carried out by myself; and I doubt much if she +fairly knew with whom she went at the very first, being quite overcome +by her fright and bewilderment.” And Darius Hopkins begged the parson +also to acquaint Ichabod Buckley, for his comfort, with this fact: +Although his daughter Persis had not wedded with a gentleman of high +estate from over-seas, yet he, Darius Hopkins, was of no mean birth, +and had a not inconsiderable share of this world’s goods, with more in +expectation, as his esteemed aunt bade him mention. And furthermore, +Darius Hopkins stated that had he believed any other way than the one +he had taken to be available for the purpose of winning his beloved +wife and freeing her from a hard and unhappy lot, he would much have +preferred it. But he had taken this, believing there was no other, in +all honesty and purity of purpose, and he again humbly begged Ichabod +Buckley’s pardon. + +One afternoon the parson paced solemnly up to the Buckley house with +the great red-sealed letter in his hand. Ichabod was not at work. +His nervous old face was visible at the window where his daughter’s +beautiful one had been so long, and the parson went in the front door. + +It was two hours before he came out, and went with his head bent +gravely down the road. He never told exactly what had passed between +himself and Ichabod Buckley, but it was whispered that the parson had +striven in prayer for him for the space of an hour and a half, but had +not reconciled him to his disappointment. + +After his daughter had departed in state, Ichabod Buckley, while not +returning to his old garrulous ways, but comporting himself with a +dignity that would have befitted a squire, was seen frequently in the +store and on the street, and he wore always his best green surtout, +which he had heretofore kept for Sabbath days. + +But after the truth was revealed to him Ichabod Buckley was seen no +more abroad. He shut himself up in his poor workshed, and all day long +his chisel rasped on the dark slate. Persis wrote to him, and Darius, +and he read the letters, scowling fiercely and painfully through his +iron-bowed spectacles, then put them away in his beetling old desk in +the kitchen, and fell to work again. + +It was not three weeks after Persis went away when Submit, with her +apron over her head, went one morning through the woods with lumbering +swiftness and called the doctor, for her father lay on his bed as +motionless as if he were dead, and could not speak. + +They sent for Persis, but her father was dead before she reached her +old home and went weeping over the threshold, leaning on her young +husband’s arm. Not a word did she have of blame or forgiveness from +her father’s lips; but she knew his last mind towards her when she saw +what his work had been since the day she left him. + +Out in Ichabod Buckley’s workshop stood a tall slate stone, shaped like +the one he had erected for his dearly beloved wife. On it were cut his +name, and the years of his birth and death, and under that a verse. In +his own poor brain, strained almost asunder with its awful stress of +one idea in life, he had devised this verse; with his poor old failing +hands he had cut it on the stone: + + “Stranger, view well this speaking stone, + And drop a pitying tear; + Ingratitude had overthrown, + And Death then laid me here.” + +Ichabod Buckley had left a space below, as if he had designed to make +still larger his appeal to the pity of those who should pause in the +future by his grave; and thereon did Darius Hopkins, to comfort his +wife Persis, who grieved as if she could never be comforted when she +read the first, cut another verse. + +When the stone was set up over Ichabod’s grave, people kneeling before +it read, after the piteous complaint and prayer for sympathy of the +dead man, Darius’s verse: + + “Who doth his clearer sight possess + In brighter realms above, + May come his earthly woe to bless, + And know that all was Love.” + +And it has so happened, because Darius cut with his strong young hands +more firmly and deeply his verse in the stone, that his has endured and +can be read, while Ichabod’s is all worn away by the rain-storms of the +years, as it might have been by the tears of mortal life. + + + + +EVELINA’S GARDEN + + +On the south a high arbor-vitæ hedge separated Evelina’s garden from +the road. The hedge was so high that when the school-children lagged +by, and the secrets behind it fired them with more curiosity than those +between their battered book covers, the tallest of them by stretching +up on tiptoe could not peer over. And so they were driven to childish +engineering feats, and would set to work and pick away sprigs of the +arbor-vitæ with their little fingers, and make peep-holes--but small +ones, that Evelina might not discern them. Then they would thrust their +pink faces into the hedge, and the enduring fragrance of it would come +to their nostrils like a gust of aromatic breath from the mouth of the +northern woods, and peer into Evelina’s garden as through the green +tubes of vernal telescopes. + +Then suddenly hollyhocks, blooming in rank and file, seemed to be +marching upon them like platoons of soldiers, with detonations of +color that dazzled their peeping eyes; and, indeed, the whole garden +seemed charging with its mass of riotous bloom upon the hedge. They +could scarcely take in details of marigold and phlox and pinks and +London-pride and cock’s-combs, and prince’s-feathers waving overhead +like standards. + +Sometimes also there was the purple flutter of Evelina’s gown; and +Evelina’s face, delicately faded, hung about with softly drooping +gray curls, appeared suddenly among the flowers, like another flower +uncannily instinct with nervous melancholy. + +Then the children would fall back from their peep-holes, and huddle +off together with scared giggles. They were afraid of Evelina. There +was a shade of mystery about her which stimulated their childish +fancies when they heard her discussed by their elders. They might +easily have conceived her to be some baleful fairy intrenched in her +green stronghold, withheld from leaving it by the fear of some dire +penalty for magical sins. Summer and winter, spring and fall, Evelina +Adams never was seen outside her own domain of old mansion-house and +garden, and she had not set her slim lady feet in the public highway +for nearly forty years, if the stories were true. + +People differed as to the reason why. Some said she had had an +unfortunate love affair, that her heart had been broken, and she +had taken upon herself a vow of seclusion from the world, but nobody +could point to the unworthy lover who had done her this harm. When +Evelina was a girl, not one of the young men of the village had dared +address her. She had been set apart by birth and training, and also +by a certain exclusiveness of manner, if not of nature. Her father, +old Squire Adams, had been the one man of wealth and college learning +in the village. He had owned the one fine old mansion-house, with +its white front propped on great Corinthian pillars, overlooking the +village like a broad brow of superiority. + +He had owned the only coach and four. His wife during her short life +had gone dressed in rich brocades and satins that rustled loud in the +ears of the village women, and her nodding plumes had dazzled the eyes +under their modest hoods. Hardly a woman in the village but could +tell--for it had been handed down like a folk-lore song from mother to +daughter--just what Squire Adams’s wife wore when she walked out first +as bride to meeting. She had been clad all in blue. + +“Squire Adams’s wife, when she walked out bride, she wore a blue satin +brocade gown, all wrought with blue flowers of a darker blue, cut low +neck and short sleeves. She wore long blue silk mitts wrought with +blue, blue satin shoes, and blue silk clocked stockings. And she wore +a blue crape mantle that was brought from over-seas, and a blue velvet +hat, with a long blue ostrich feather curled over it--it was so long +it reached her shoulder, and waved when she walked; and she carried a +little blue crape fan with ivory sticks.” So the women and girls told +each other when the Squire’s bride had been dead nearly seventy years. + +The blue bride attire was said to be still in existence, packed away in +a cedar chest, as the Squire had ordered after his wife’s death. “He +stood over the woman that took care of his wife whilst she packed the +things away, and he never shed a tear, but she used to hear him a-goin’ +up to the north chamber nights, when he couldn’t sleep, to look at +’em,” the women told. + +People had thought the Squire would marry again. They said Evelina, +who was only four years old, needed a mother, and they selected one +and another of the good village girls. But the Squire never married. +He had a single woman, who dressed in black silk, and wore always a +black wrought veil over the side of her bonnet, come to live with them, +to take charge of Evelina. She was said to be a distant relative of +the Squire’s wife, and was much looked up to by the village people, +although she never did more than interlace, as it were, the fringes +of her garments with theirs. “She’s stuck up,” they said, and felt, +curiously enough, a certain pride in the fact when they met her in the +street and she ducked her long chin stiffly into the folds of her black +shawl by way of salutation. + +When Evelina was fifteen years old this single woman died, and the +village women went to her funeral, and bent over her lying in a last +helpless dignity in her coffin, and stared with awed freedom at her +cold face. After that Evelina was sent away to school, and did not +return, except for a yearly vacation, for six years to come. Then she +returned, and settled down in her old home to live out her life, and +end her days in a perfect semblance of peace, if it were not peace. + +Evelina never had any young school friend to visit her; she had never, +so far as any one knew, a friend of her own age. She lived alone with +her father and three old servants. She went to meeting, and drove with +the Squire in his chaise. The coach was never used after his wife’s +death, except to carry Evelina to and from school. She and the Squire +also took long walks, but they never exchanged aught but the merest +civilities of good-days and nods with the neighbors whom they met, +unless indeed the Squire had some matter of business to discuss. Then +Evelina stood aside and waited, her fair face drooping gravely aloof. +She was very pretty, with a gentle high-bred prettiness that impressed +the village folk, although they looked at it somewhat askance. + +Evelina’s figure was tall, and had a fine slenderness; her silken +skirts hung straight from the narrow silk ribbon that girt her slim +waist; there was a languidly graceful bend in her long white throat; +her long delicate hands hung inertly at her sides among her skirt +folds, and were never seen to clasp anything; her softly clustering +fair curls hung over her thin blooming cheeks, and her face could +scarce be seen, unless, as she seldom did, she turned and looked full +upon one. Then her dark blue eyes, with a little nervous frown between +them, shone out radiantly; her thin lips showed a warm red, and her +beauty startled one. + +Everybody wondered why she did not have a lover, why some fine young +man had not been smitten by her while she had been away at school. +They did not know that the school had been situated in another little +village, the counterpart of the one in which she had been born, wherein +a fitting mate for a bird of her feather could hardly be found. The +simple young men of the country-side were at once attracted and +intimidated by her. They cast fond sly glances across the meeting-house +at her lovely face, but they were confused before her when they jostled +her in the doorway and the rose and lavender scent of her lady garments +came in their faces. Not one of them dared accost her, much less march +boldly upon the great Corinthian-pillared house, raise the brass +knocker, and declare himself a suitor for the Squire’s daughter. + +One young man there was, indeed, who treasured in his heart an +experience so subtle and so slight that he could scarcely believe in it +himself. He never recounted it to mortal soul, but kept it as a secret +sacred between himself and his own nature, but something to be scoffed +at and set aside by others. + +It had happened one Sabbath day in summer, when Evelina had not been +many years home from school, as she sat in the meeting-house in her +Sabbath array of rose-colored satin gown, and white bonnet trimmed with +a long white feather and a little wreath of feathery green, that of a +sudden she raised her head and turned her face, and her blue eyes met +this young man’s full upon hers, with all his heart in them, and it was +for a second as if her own heart leaped to the surface, and he saw it, +although afterwards he scarce believed it to be true. + +Then a pallor crept over Evelina’s delicately brilliant face. She +turned it away, and her curls falling softly from under the green +wreath on her bonnet brim hid it. The young man’s cheeks were a hot +red, and his heart beat loudly in his ears when he met her in the +doorway after the sermon was done. His eager, timorous eyes sought +her face, but she never looked his way. She laid her slim hand in its +cream-colored silk mitt on the Squire’s arm; her satin gown rustled +softly as she passed before him, shrinking against the wall to give +her room, and a faint fragrance which seemed like the very breath of +the unknown delicacy and exclusiveness of life came to his bewildered +senses. + +Many a time he cast furtive glances across the meeting-house at +Evelina, but she never looked his way again. If his timid boy-eyes +could have seen her cheek behind its veil of curls, he might have +discovered that the color came and went before his glances, although +it was strange how she could have been conscious of them; but he never +knew. + +And he also never knew how, when he walked past the Squire’s house +of a Sunday evening, dressed in his best, with his shoulders thrust +consciously back, and the windows in the westering sun looked full of +blank gold to his furtive eyes, Evelina was always peeping at him from +behind a shutter, and he never dared go in. His intuitions were not +like hers, and so nothing happened that might have, and he never fairly +knew what he knew. But that he never told, even to his wife when he +married; for his hot young blood grew weary and impatient with this +vain courtship, and he turned to one of his villagemates, who met him +fairly half way, and married her within a year. + +On the Sunday when he and his bride first appeared in the +meeting-house Evelina went up the aisle behind her father in an array +of flowered brocade, stiff with threads of silver, so wonderful that +people all turned their heads to stare at her. She wore also a new +bonnet of rose-colored satin, and her curls were caught back a little, +and her face showed as clear and beautiful as an angel’s. + +The young bridegroom glanced at her once across the meeting-house, then +he looked at his bride in her gay wedding finery with a faithful look. + +When Evelina met them in the doorway, after meeting was done, she bowed +with a sweet cold grace to the bride, who courtesied blushingly in +return, with an awkward sweep of her foot in the bridal satin shoe. The +bridegroom did not look at Evelina at all. He held his chin well down +in his stock with solemn embarrassment, and passed out stiffly, his +bride on his arm. + +Evelina, shining in the sun like a silver lily, went up the street, her +father stalking beside her with stately swings of his cane, and that +was the last time she was ever seen at meeting. Nobody knew why. + +When Evelina was a little over thirty her father died. There was not +much active grief for him in the village; he had really figured therein +more as a stately monument of his own grandeur than anything else. +He had been a man of little force of character, and that little had +seemed to degenerate since his wife died. An inborn dignity of manner +might have served to disguise his weakness with any others than these +shrewd New-Englanders, but they read him rightly. “The Squire wa’n’t +ever one to set the river a-fire,” they said. Then, moreover, he left +none of his property to the village to build a new meeting-house or a +town-house. It all went to Evelina. + +People expected that Evelina would surely show herself in her mourning +at meeting the Sunday after the Squire died, but she did not. Moreover, +it began to be gradually discovered that she never went out in the +village street nor crossed the boundaries of her own domains after her +father’s death. She lived in the great house with her three servants--a +man and his wife, and the woman who had been with her mother when she +died. Then it was that Evelina’s garden began. There had always been a +garden at the back of the Squire’s house, but not like this, and only a +low fence had separated it from the road. Now one morning in the autumn +the people saw Evelina’s man-servant, John Darby, setting out the +arbor-vitæ hedge, and in the spring after that there were ploughing and +seed-sowing extending over a full half-acre, which later blossomed out +in glory. + +Before the hedge grew so high Evelina could be seen at work in her +garden. She was often stooping over the flower-beds in the early +morning when the village was first astir, and she moved among them with +her watering-pot in the twilight--a shadowy figure that might, from her +grace and her constancy to the flowers, have been Flora herself. + +As the years went on, the arbor-vitæ hedge got each season a new growth +and waxed taller, until Evelina could no longer be seen above it. That +was an annoyance to people, because the quiet mystery of her life kept +their curiosity alive, until it was in a constant struggle, as it were, +with the green luxuriance of the hedge. + +“John Darby had ought to trim that hedge,” they said. They accosted him +in the street: “John, if ye don’t cut that hedge down a little it’ll +all die out.” But he only made a surly grunting response, intelligible +to himself alone, and passed on. He was an Englishman, and had lived in +the Squire’s family since he was a boy. + +He had a nature capable of only one simple line of force, with no +radiations or parallels, and that had early resolved itself into +the service of the Squire and his house. After the Squire’s death +he married a woman who lived in the family. She was much older than +himself, and had a high temper, but was a good servant, and he married +her to keep her to her allegiance to Evelina. Then he bent her, +without her knowledge, to take his own attitude towards his mistress. +No more could be gotten out of John Darby’s wife than out of John +Darby concerning the doings at the Squire’s house. She met curiosity +with a flash of hot temper, and he with surly taciturnity, and both +intimidated. + +The third of Evelina’s servants was the woman who had nursed her +mother, and she was naturally subdued and undemonstrative, and rendered +still more so by a ceaseless monotony of life. She never went to +meeting, and was seldom seen outside the house. A passing vision of a +long white-capped face at a window was about all the neighbors ever saw +of this woman. + +So Evelina’s gentle privacy was well guarded by her own household, +as by a faithful system of domestic police. She grew old peacefully +behind her green hedge, shielded effectually from all rough bristles of +curiosity. Every new spring her own bloom showed paler beside the new +bloom of her flowers, but people could not see it. + +Some thirty years after the Squire’s death the man John Darby died; his +wife, a year later. That left Evelina alone with the old woman who had +nursed her mother. She was very old, but not feeble, and quite able +to perform the simple household tasks for herself and Evelina. An old +man, who saved himself from the almshouse in such ways, came daily to +do the rougher part of the garden-work in John Darby’s stead. He was +aged and decrepit; his muscles seemed able to perform their appointed +tasks only through the accumulated inertia of a patiently toilsome +life in the same tracks. Apparently they would have collapsed had he +tried to force them to aught else than the holding of the ploughshare, +the pulling of weeds, the digging around the roots of flowers, and the +planting of seeds. + +Every autumn he seemed about to totter to his fall among the +fading flowers; every spring it was like Death himself urging on +the resurrection; but he lived on year after year, and tended well +Evelina’s garden, and the gardens of other maiden-women and widows +in the village. He was taciturn, grubbing among his green beds as +silently as a worm, but now and then he warmed a little under a fire of +questions concerning Evelina’s garden. “Never see none sech flowers in +nobody’s garden in this town, not sence I knowed ’nough to tell a pink +from a piny,” he would mumble. His speech was thick; his words were +all uncouthly slurred; the expression of his whole life had come more +through his old knotted hands of labor than through his tongue. But +he would wipe his forehead with his shirt-sleeve and lean a second on +his spade, and his face would change at the mention of the garden. Its +wealth of bloom illumined his old mind, and the roses and honeysuckles +and pinks seemed for a second to be reflected in his bleared old eyes. + +There had never been in the village such a garden as this of Evelina +Adams’s. All the old blooms which had come over the seas with the +early colonists, and started as it were their own colony of flora in +the new country, flourished there. The naturalized pinks and phlox +and hollyhocks and the rest, changed a little in color and fragrance +by the conditions of a new climate and soil, were all in Evelina’s +garden, and no one dreamed what they meant to Evelina; and she did not +dream herself, for her heart was always veiled to her own eyes, like +the face of a nun. The roses and pinks, the poppies and heart’s-ease, +were to this maiden-woman, who had innocently and helplessly outgrown +her maiden heart, in the place of all the loves of life which she had +missed. Her affections had forced an outlet in roses; they exhaled +sweetness in pinks, and twined and clung in honeysuckle-vines. The +daffodils, when they came up in the spring, comforted her like the +smiles of children; when she saw the first rose, her heart leaped as at +the face of a lover. + +She had lost the one way of human affection, but her feet had found a +little single side-track of love, which gave her still a zest in the +journey of life. Even in the winter Evelina had her flowers, for she +kept those that would bear transplanting in pots, and all the sunny +windows in her house were gay with them. She would also not let a +rose leaf fall and waste in the garden soil, or a sprig of lavender +or thyme. She gathered them all, and stored them away in chests and +drawers and old china bowls--the whole house seemed laid away in rose +leaves and lavender. Evelina’s clothes gave out at every motion that +fragrance of dead flowers which is like the fragrance of the past, and +has a sweetness like that of sweet memories. Even the cedar chest where +Evelina’s mother’s blue bridal array was stored had its till heaped +with rose leaves and lavender. + +When Evelina was nearly seventy years old the old nurse who had lived +with her her whole life died. People wondered then what she would do. +“She can’t live all alone in that great house,” they said. But she did +live there alone six months, until spring, and people used to watch +her evening lamp when it was put out, and the morning smoke from her +kitchen chimney. “It ain’t safe for her to be there alone in that great +house,” they said. + +But early in April a young girl appeared one Sunday in the old Squire’s +pew. Nobody had seen her come to town, and nobody knew who she was or +where she came from, but the old people said she looked just as Evelina +Adams used to when she was young, and she must be some relation. The +old man who had used to look across the meeting-house at Evelina, +over forty years ago, looked across now at this young girl, and gave +a great start, and his face paled under his gray beard stubble. His +old wife gave an anxious, wondering glance at him, and crammed a +peppermint into his hand. “Anything the matter, father?” she whispered; +but he only gave his head a half-surly shake, and then fastened his +eyes straight ahead upon the pulpit. He had reason to that day, for +his only son, Thomas, was going to preach his first sermon therein +as a candidate. His wife ascribed his nervousness to that. She put a +peppermint in her own mouth and sucked it comfortably. “That’s all +’tis,” she thought to herself. “Father always was easy worked up,” and +she looked proudly up at her son sitting on the hair-cloth sofa in the +pulpit, leaning his handsome young head on his hand, as he had seen +old divines do. She never dreamed that her old husband sitting beside +her was possessed of an inner life so strange to her that she would +not have known him had she met him in the spirit. And, indeed, it had +been so always, and she had never dreamed of it. Although he had been +faithful to his wife, the image of Evelina Adams in her youth, and that +one love-look which she had given him, had never left his soul, but had +given it a guise and complexion of which his nearest and dearest knew +nothing. + +It was strange; but now, as he looked up at his own son as he arose in +the pulpit, he could seem to see a look of that fair young Evelina, who +had never had a son to inherit her beauty. He had certainly a delicate +brilliancy of complexion, which he could have gotten directly from +neither father nor mother; and whence came that little nervous frown +between his dark blue eyes? His mother had blue eyes, but not like his; +they flashed over the great pulpit Bible with a sweet fire that matched +the memory in his father’s heart. + +But the old man put the fancy away from him in a minute; it was one +which his stern common-sense always overcame. It was impossible that +Thomas Merriam should resemble Evelina Adams; indeed, people always +called him the very image of his father. + +The father tried to fix his mind upon his son’s sermon, but presently +he glanced involuntarily across the meeting-house at the young girl, +and again his heart leaped and his face paled; but he turned his eyes +gravely back to the pulpit, and his wife did not notice. Now and then +she thrust a sharp elbow in his side to call his attention to a grand +point in their son’s discourse. The odor of peppermint was strong in +his nostrils, but through it all he seemed to perceive the rose and +lavender scent of Evelina Adams’s youthful garments. Whether it was +with him simply the memory of an odor, which affected him like the odor +itself, or not, those in the vicinity of the Squire’s pew were plainly +aware of it. The gown which the strange young girl wore was, as many +an old woman discovered to her neighbor with loud whispers, one of +Evelina’s, which had been laid away in a sweet-smelling chest since her +old girlhood. It had been somewhat altered to suit the fashion of a +later day, but the eyes which had fastened keenly upon it when Evelina +first wore it up the meeting-house aisle could not mistake it. “It’s +Evelina Adams’s lavender satin made over,” one whispered, with a sharp +hiss of breath, in the other’s ear. + +The lavender satin, deepening into purple in the folds, swept in a +rich circle over the knees of the young girl in the Squire’s pew. She +folded her little hands, which were encased in Evelina’s cream-colored +silk mitts, over it, and looked up at the young minister, and listened +to his sermon with a grave and innocent dignity, as Evelina had done +before her. Perhaps the resemblance between this young girl and the +young girl of the past was more one of mien than aught else, although +the type of face was the same. This girl had the same fine sharpness +of feature and delicately bright color, and she also wore her hair in +curls, although they were tied back from her face with a black velvet +ribbon, and did not veil it when she drooped her head, as Evelina’s +used to do. + +The people divided their attention between her and the new minister. +Their curiosity goaded them in equal measure with their spiritual zeal, +“I can’t wait to find out who that girl is,” one woman whispered to +another. + +The girl herself had no thought of the commotion which she awakened. +When the service was over, and she walked with a gentle maiden +stateliness, which seemed a very copy of Evelina’s own, out of the +meeting-house, down the street to the Squire’s house, and entered it, +passing under the stately Corinthian pillars, with a last purple gleam +of her satin skirts, she never dreamed of the eager attention that +followed her. + +It was several days before the village people discovered who she +was. The information had to be obtained, by a process like mental +thumbscrewing, from the old man who tended Evelina’s garden, but at +last they knew. She was the daughter of a cousin of Evelina’s on the +father’s side. Her name was Evelina Leonard; she had been named for +her father’s cousin. She had been finely brought up, and had attended +a Boston school for young ladies. Her mother had been dead many years, +and her father had died some two years ago, leaving her with only +a very little money, which was now all gone, and Evelina Adams had +invited her to live with her. Evelina Adams had herself told the old +gardener, seeing his scant curiosity was somewhat awakened by the sight +of the strange young lady in the garden, but he seemed to have almost +forgotten it when the people questioned him. + +“She’ll leave her all her money, most likely,” they said, and they +looked at this new Evelina in the old Evelina’s perfumed gowns with awe. + +However, in the space of a few months the opinion upon this matter was +divided. Another cousin of Evelina Adams’s came to town, and this time +an own cousin--a widow in fine black bombazine, portly and florid, +walking with a majestic swell, and, moreover, having with her two +daughters, girls of her own type, not so far advanced. This woman hired +one of the village cottages, and it was rumored that Evelina Adams paid +the rent. Still, it was considered that she was not very intimate with +these last relatives. The neighbors watched, and saw, many a time, Mrs. +Martha Loomis and her girls try the doors of the Adams house, scudding +around angrily from front, to side and back, and knock and knock again, +but with no admittance. “Evelina she won’t let none of ’em in more’n +once a week,” the neighbors said. It was odd that, although they had +deeply resented Evelina’s seclusion on their own accounts, they were +rather on her side in this matter, and felt a certain delight when they +witnessed a crestfallen retreat of the widow and her daughters. “I +don’t s’pose she wants them Loomises marchin’ in on her every minute,” +they said. + +The new Evelina was not seen much with the other cousins, and she made +no acquaintances in the village. Whether she was to inherit all the +Adams property or not, she seemed, at any rate, heiress to all the +elder Evelina’s habits of life. She worked with her in the garden, and +wore her old girlish gowns, and kept almost as close at home as she. +She often, however, walked abroad in the early dusk, stepping along +in a grave and stately fashion, as the elder Evelina had used to do, +holding her skirts away from the dewy roadside weeds, her face showing +out in the twilight like a white flower, as if it had a pale light of +its own. + +Nobody spoke to her; people turned furtively after she had passed and +stared after her, but they never spoke. This young Evelina did not seem +to expect it. She passed along with the lids cast down over her blue +eyes, and the rose and lavender scent of her garments came back in +their faces. + +But one night when she was walking slowly along, a full half-mile from +home, she heard rapid footsteps behind, and the young minister, Thomas +Merriam, came up beside her and spoke. + +“Good-evening,” said he, and his voice was a little hoarse through +nervousness. + +Evelina started, and turned her fair face up towards his. +“Good-evening,” she responded, and courtesied as she had been taught +at school, and stood close to the wall, that he might pass; but Thomas +Merriam paused also. + +“I--” he began, but his voice broke. He cleared his throat angrily, +and went on. “I have seen you in meeting,” he said, with a kind of +defiance, more of himself than of her. After all, was he not the +minister, and had he not the right to speak to everybody in the +congregation? Why should he embarrass himself? + +“Yes, sir,” replied Evelina. She stood drooping her head before him, +and yet there was a certain delicate hauteur about her. Thomas was +afraid to speak again. They both stood silent for a moment, and then +Evelina stirred softly, as if to pass on, and Thomas spoke out bravely. +“Is your cousin, Miss Adams, well?” said he. + +“She is pretty well, I thank you, sir.” + +“I have been wanting to--call,” he began; then he hesitated again. His +handsome young face was blushing crimson. + +Evelina’s own color deepened. She turned her face away. “Cousin Evelina +never sees callers,” she said, with grave courtesy; “perhaps you did +not know. She has not for a great many years.” + +“Yes, I did know it,” returned Thomas Merriam; “that’s the reason I +haven’t called.” + +“Cousin Evelina is not strong,” remarked the young girl, and there was +a savor of apology in her tone. + +“But--” stammered Thomas; then he stopped again. “May I--has she any +objections to--anybody’s coming to see you?” + +[Illustration: “SHE HEARD RAPID FOOTSTEPS”] + +Evelina started. “I am afraid Cousin Evelina would not approve,” +she answered, primly. Then she looked up in his face, and a girlish +piteousness came into her own. “I am very sorry,” she said, and there +was a catch in her voice. + +Thomas bent over her impetuously. All his ministerial state fell from +him like an outer garment of the soul. He was young, and he had seen +this girl Sunday after Sunday. He had written all his sermons with her +image before his eyes, he had preached to her, and her only, and she +had come between his heart and all the nations of the earth in his +prayers. “Oh,” he stammered out, “I am afraid you can’t be very happy +living there the way you do. Tell me--” + +Evelina turned her face away with sudden haughtiness. “My cousin +Evelina is very kind to me sir,” she said. + +“But--you must be lonesome with nobody--of your own age--to speak to,” +persisted Thomas, confusedly. + +“I never cared much for youthful company. It is getting dark; I must be +going,” said Evelina. “I wish you good-evening, sir.” + +“Sha’n’t I--walk home with you?” asked Thomas, falteringly. + +“It isn’t necessary, thank you, and I don’t think Cousin Evelina would +approve,” she replied, primly; and her light dress fluttered away into +the dusk and out of sight like the pale wing of a moth. + +Poor Thomas Merriam walked on with his head in a turmoil. His heart +beat loud in his ears. “I’ve made her mad with me,” he said to himself, +using the old rustic school-boy vernacular, from which he did not +always depart in his thoughts, although his ministerial dignity guarded +his conversations. Thomas Merriam came of a simple homely stock, whose +speech came from the emotions of the heart, all unregulated by the +usages of the schools. He was the first for generations who had aspired +to college learning and a profession, and had trained his tongue by the +models of the educated and polite. He could not help, at times, the +relapse of his thoughts, and their speaking to himself in the dialect +of his family and his ancestors. “She’s ’way above me, and I ought to +ha’ known it,” he further said, with the meekness of an humble but +fiercely independent race, which is meek to itself alone. He would have +maintained his equality with his last breath to an opponent; in his +heart of hearts he felt himself below the scion of the one old gentle +family of his native village. + +This young Evelina, by the fine dignity which had been born with her +and not acquired by precept and example, by the sweetly formal diction +which seemed her native tongue, had filled him with awe. Now, when he +thought she was angered with him, he felt beneath her lady-feet, his +nostrils choked with a spiritual dust of humiliation. + +He went forward blindly. The dusk had deepened; from either side of the +road, from the mysterious gloom of the bushes, came the twangs of the +katydids, like some coarse rustic quarrellers, each striving for the +last word in a dispute not even dignified by excess of passion. + +Suddenly somebody jostled him to his own side of the path. “That you, +Thomas? Where you been?” said a voice in his ear. + +“That you, father? Down to the post-office.” + +“Who was that you was talkin’ with back there?” + +“Miss Evelina Leonard.” + +“That girl that’s stayin’ there--to the old Squire’s?” + +“Yes.” The son tried to move on, but his father stood before him dumbly +for a minute. “I must be going, father. I’ve got to work on my sermon,” +Thomas said, impatiently. + +“Wait a minute,” said his father. “I’ve got something to say to ye, +Thomas, an’ this is as good a time to say it as any. There ain’t +anybody ’round. I don’t know as ye’ll thank me for it--but mother said +the other day that she thought you’d kind of an idea--she said you +asked her if she thought it would be anything out of the way for you +to go up to the Squire’s to make a call. Mother she thinks you can +step in anywheres, but I don’t know. I know your book-learnin’ and your +bein’ a minister has set you up a good deal higher than your mother +and me and any of our folks, and I feel as if you were good enough +for anybody, as far as that goes; but that ain’t all. Some folks have +different startin’-points in this world, and they see things different; +and when they do, it ain’t much use tryin’ to make them walk alongside +and see things alike. Their eyes have got different cants, and they +ain’t able to help it. Now this girl she’s related to the old Squire, +and she’s been brought up different, and she started ahead, even if her +father did lose all his property. She ’ain’t never eat in the kitchen, +nor been scart to set down in the parlor, and satin and velvet, and +silver spoons, and cream-pots ’ain’t never looked anything out of the +common to her, and they always will to you. No matter how many such +things you may live to have, they’ll always get a little the better of +ye. She’ll be ’way above ’em; and you won’t, no matter how hard you +try. Some ideas can’t never mix; and when ideas can’t mix, folks can’t.” + +“I never said they could,” returned Thomas, shortly. “I can’t stop to +talk any longer, father. I must go home.” + +“No, you wait a minute, Thomas. I’m goin’ to say out what I started to, +and then I sha’n’t ever bring it up again. What I was comin’ at was +this: I wanted to warn ye a little. You musn’t set too much store by +little things that you think mean consider’ble when they don’t. Looks +don’t count for much, and I want you to remember it, and not be upset +by ’em.” + +Thomas gave a great start, and colored high. “I’d like to know what you +mean, father,” he cried, sharply. + +“Nothin’. I don’t mean nothin’, only I’m older ’n you, and it’s come in +my way to know some things, and it’s fittin’ you should profit by it. +A young woman’s looks at you don’t count for much. I don’t s’pose she +knows why she gives ’em herself half the time; they ain’t like us. It’s +best you should make up your mind to it; if you don’t, you may find it +out by the hardest. That’s all. I ain’t never goin’ to bring this up +again.” + +“I’d like to know what you mean, father.” Thomas’s voice shook with +embarrassment and anger. + +“I ain’t goin’ to say anything more about it,” replied the old man. +“Mary Ann Pease and Arabella Mann are both in the settin’-room with +your mother. I thought I’d tell ye, in case ye didn’t want to see ’em, +and wanted to go to work on your sermon.” + +Thomas made an impatient ejaculation as he strode off. When he reached +the large white house where he lived he skirted it carefully. The +chirping treble of girlish voices came from the open sitting-room +window, and he caught a glimpse of a smooth brown head and a high shell +comb in front of the candle-light. The young minister tiptoed in the +back door and across the kitchen to the back stairs. The sitting-room +door was open, and the candle-light streamed out, and the treble voices +rose high. Thomas, advancing through the dusky kitchen with cautious +steps, encountered suddenly a chair in the dark corner by the stairs, +and just saved himself from falling. There was a startled outcry from +the sitting-room, and his mother came running into the kitchen with a +candle. + +“Who is it?” she demanded, valiantly. Then she started and gasped +as her son confronted her. He shook a furious warning fist at the +sitting-room door and his mother, and edged towards the stairs. She +followed him close. “Hadn’t you better jest step in a minute?” she +whispered. “Them girls have been here an hour, and I know they’re +waitin’ to see you.” Thomas shook his head fiercely, and swung himself +around the corner into the dark crook of the back stairs. His mother +thrust the candle into his hand. “Take this, or you’ll break your neck +on them stairs,” she whispered. + +Thomas, stealing up the stairs like a cat, heard one of the girls call +to his mother--“Is it robbers, Mis’ Merriam? Want us to come an’ help +tackle ’em?”--and he fairly shuddered; for Evelina’s gentle-lady +speech was still in his ears, and this rude girlish call seemed to jar +upon his sensibilities. + +“The idea of any girl screeching out like that,” he muttered. And if he +had carried speech as far as his thought, he would have added, “when +Evelina is a girl!” + +He was so angry that he did not laugh when he heard his mother answer +back, in those conclusive tones of hers that were wont to silence all +argument: “It ain’t anything. Don’t be scared. I’m coming right back.” +Mrs. Merriam scorned subterfuges. She took always a silent stand in a +difficulty, and let people infer what they would. When Mary Ann Pease +inquired if it was the cat that had made the noise, she asked if her +mother had finished her blue and white counterpane. + +The two girls waited a half-hour longer, then they went home. “What do +you s’pose made that noise out in the kitchen?” asked Arabella Mann of +Mary Ann Pease, the minute they were out-of-doors. + +“I don’t know,” replied Mary Ann Pease. She was a broad-backed young +girl, and looked like a matron as she hurried along in the dusk. + +“Well, I know what I think it was,” said Arabella Mann, moving ahead +with sharp jerks of her little dark body. + +“What?” + +“It was him.” + +“You don’t mean--” + +“I think it was Thomas Merriam, and he was tryin’ to get up the back +stairs unbeknownst to anybody, and he run into something.” + +“What for?” + +“Because he didn’t want to see us.” + +“Now, Arabella Mann, I don’t believe it! He’s always real pleasant to +me.” + +“Well, I do believe it, and I guess he’ll know it when I set foot in +that house again. I guess he’ll find out I didn’t go there to see him! +He needn’t feel so fine, if he is the minister; his folks ain’t any +better than mine, an’ we’ve got ’nough sight handsomer furniture in our +parlor.” + +“Did you see how the tallow had all run down over the candles?” + +“Yes, I did. She gave that candle she carried out in the kitchen to +him, too. Mother says she wasn’t never any kind of a housekeeper.” + +“Hush! Arabella: here he is coming now.” + +But it was not Thomas; it was his father, advancing through the evening +with his son’s gait and carriage. When the two girls discovered that, +one tittered out quite audibly, and they scuttled past. They were not +rivals; they simply walked faithfully side by side in pursuit of the +young minister, giving him as it were an impartial choice. There were +even no heart-burnings between them; one always confided in the other +when she supposed herself to have found some slight favor in Thomas’s +sight; and, indeed, the young minister could scarcely bow to one upon +the street unless she flew to the other with the news. + +Thomas Merriam himself was aware of all this devotion on the part of +the young women of his flock, and it filled him with a sort of angry +shame. He could not have told why, but he despised himself for being +the object of their attention more than he despised them. His heart +sank at the idea of Evelina’s discovering it. What would she think of +him if she knew all those young women haunted his house and lagged +after meeting on the chance of getting a word from him? Suppose she +should see their eyes upon his face in meeting time, and decipher +their half-unconscious boldness, as he had done against his will. +Once Evelina had looked at him, even as the older Evelina had looked +at his father, and all other looks of maidens seemed to him like +profanations of that, even although he doubted afterwards that he +had rightly interpreted it. Full it had seemed to him of that tender +maiden surprise and wonder, of that love that knows not itself, and +sees its own splendor for the first time in another’s face, and flees +at the sight. It had happened once when he was coming down the aisle +after the sermon and Evelina had met him at the door of her pew. But +she had turned her head quickly, and her soft curls flowed over her +red cheek, and he doubted ever after if he had read the look aright. +When he had gotten the courage to speak to her, and she had met him +with the gentle coldness which she had learned of her lady aunt and +her teacher in Boston, his doubt was strong upon him. The next Sunday +he looked not her way at all. He even tried faithfully from day to day +to drive her image from his mind with prayer and religious thoughts, +but in spite of himself he would lapse into dreams about her, as if +borne by a current of nature too strong to be resisted. And sometimes, +upon being awakened from them, as he sat over his sermon with the ink +drying on his quill, by the sudden outburst of treble voices in his +mother’s sitting-room below, the fancy would seize him that possibly +these other young damsels took fond liberties with him in their dreams, +as he with Evelina, and he resented it with a fierce maidenliness of +spirit, although he was a man. The thought that possibly they, over +their spinning or their quilting, had in their hearts the image of +himself with fond words upon his lips and fond looks in his eyes, +filled him with shame and rage, although he took the same liberty with +the delicately haughty maiden Evelina. + +But Thomas Merriam was not given to undue appreciation of his own +fascination, as was proved by his ready discouragement in the case +of Evelina. He had the knowledge of his conquests forced upon his +understanding until he could no longer evade it. Every day were +offerings laid upon his shrine, of pound-cakes and flaky pies, and +loaves of white bread, and cups of jelly, whereby the culinary skill +of his devotees might be proved. Silken purses and beautiful socks +knitted with fancy stitches, and holy book-marks for his Bible, and +even a wonderful bedquilt, and a fine linen shirt with hem-stitched +bands, poured in upon him. He burned with angry blushes when his +mother, smiling meaningly, passed them over to him. “Put them away, +mother; I don’t want them,” he would growl out, in a distress that was +half comic and half pathetic. He would never taste of the tempting +viands which were brought to him. “How you act, Thomas!” his mother +would say. She was secretly elated by these feminine libations upon +the altar of her son. They did not grate upon her sensibilities, which +were not delicate. She even tried to assist two or three of the young +women in their designs; she would often praise them and their handiwork +to her son--and in this she was aided by an old woman aunt of hers who +lived with the family. “Nancy Winslow is as handsome a girl as ever +I set eyes on, an’ I never see any nicer sewin’,” Mrs. Merriam said, +after the advent of the linen shirt, and she held it up to the light +admiringly. “Jest look at that hem-stitchin’!” she said. + +“I guess whoever made that shirt calkilated ’twould do for a weddin’ +one,” said old Aunt Betty Green, and Thomas made an exclamation and +went out of the room, tingling all over with shame and disgust. + +“Thomas don’t act nateral,” said the old woman, glancing after him +through her iron-bound spectacles. + +“I dun’no’ what’s got into him,” returned his mother. + +“Mebbe they foller him up a leetle too close,” said Aunt Betty. “I +dun’no’ as I should have ventured on a shirt when I was a gal. I made a +satin vest once for Joshua, but that don’t seem quite as p’inted as a +shirt. It didn’t scare Joshua, nohow. He asked me to have him the next +week.” + +“Well, I dun’no’,” said Mrs. Merriam again. “I kind of wish Thomas +would settle on somebody, for I’m pestered most to death with ’em, an’ +I feel as if ’twas kind of mean takin’ all these things into the house.” + +“They’ve ’bout kept ye in sweet cake, ’ain’t they, lately?” + +“Yes; but I don’t feel as if it was jest right for us to eat it up, +when ’twas brought for Thomas. But he won’t touch it. I can’t see as he +has the least idee of any one of them. I don’t believe Thomas has ever +seen anybody he wanted for a wife.” + +“Well, he’s got the pick of ’em, a-settin’ their caps right in his +face,” said Aunt Betty. + +Neither of them dreamed how the young man, sleeping and eating and +living under the same roof, beloved of them since he entered the world, +holding himself coldly aloof from this crowd of half-innocently, +half-boldly ardent young women, had set up for himself his own divinity +of love, before whom he consumed himself in vain worship. His father +suspected, and that was all, and he never mentioned the matter again to +his son. + +After Thomas had spoken to Evelina the weeks went on, and they never +exchanged another word, and their eyes never met. But they dwelt +constantly within each other’s thoughts, and were ever present to +each other’s spiritual vision. Always as the young minister bent over +his sermon-paper, laboriously tracing out with sputtering quill his +application of the articles of the orthodox faith, Evelina’s blue eyes +seemed to look out at him between the stern doctrines like the eyes of +an angel. And he could not turn the pages of the Holy Writ unless he +found some passage therein which to his mind treated directly of her, +setting forth her graces like a prophecy. “The fairest among women,” +read Thomas Merriam, and nodded his head, while his heart leaped with +the satisfied delight of all its fancies, at the image of his love’s +fair and gentle face. “Her price is far above rubies,” read Thomas +Merriam, and he nodded his head again, and saw Evelina shining as with +gold and pearls, more precious than all the jewels of the earth. In +spite of all his efforts, when Thomas Merriam studied the Scriptures in +those days he was more nearly touched by those old human hearts which +throbbed down to his through the ages, welding the memories of their +old loves to his living one until they seemed to prove its eternity, +than by the Messianic prophecies. Often he spent hours upon his knees, +but arose with Evelina’s face before his very soul in spite of all. + +And as for Evelina, she tended the flowers in the elder Evelina’s +garden with her poor cousin, whose own love-dreams had been illustrated +as it were by the pinks and lilies blooming around them when they +had all gone out of her heart, and Thomas Merriam’s half-bold, +half-imploring eyes looked up at her out of every flower and stung her +heart like bees. Poor young Evelina feared much lest she had offended +Thomas, and yet her own maiden decorum had been offended by him, and +she had offended it herself, and she was faint with shame and distress +when she thought of it. How had she been so bold and shameless as to +give him that look in the meeting-house? and how had he been so cruel +as to accost her afterwards? She told herself she had done right for +the maintenance of her own maiden dignity, and yet she feared lest she +had angered him and hurt him. “Suppose he had been fretted by her +coolness?” she thought, and then a great wave of tender pity went over +her heart, and she would almost have spoken to him of her own accord. +But then she would reflect how he continued to write such beautiful +sermons, and prove so clearly and logically the tenets of the faith; +and how could he do that with a mind in distress? Scarcely could she +herself tend the flower-beds as she should, nor set her embroidery +stitches finely and evenly, she was so ill at ease. It must be that +Thomas had not given the matter an hour’s worry, since he continued +to do his work so faithfully and well. And then her own heart would +be sorer than ever with the belief that his was happy and at rest, +although she would chide herself for it. + +And yet this young Evelina was a philosopher and an analyst of human +nature in a small way, and she got some slight comfort out of a shrewd +suspicion that the heart of a man might love and suffer on a somewhat +different principle from the heart of a woman. “It may be,” thought +Evelina, sitting idle over her embroidery with far-away blue eyes, +“that a man’s heart can always turn a while from love to other things +as weighty and serious, although he be just as fond, while a woman’s +heart is always fixed one way by loving, and cannot be turned unless it +breaks. And it may be wise,” thought young Evelina, “else how could +the state be maintained and governed, battles for independence be +fought, and even souls be saved, and the gospel carried to the heathen, +if men could not turn from the concerns of their own hearts more easily +than women? Women should be patient,” thought Evelina, “and consider +that if they suffer ’tis due to the lot which a wise Providence has +given them.” And yet tears welled up in her earnest blue eyes and fell +over her fair cheeks and wet the embroidery--when the elder Evelina was +not looking, as she seldom was. The elder Evelina was kind to her young +cousin, but there were days when she seemed to dwell alone in her own +thoughts, apart from the whole world, and she seldom spoke either to +Evelina or her old servant-man. + +Young Evelina, trying to atone for her former indiscretion and +establish herself again on her height of maiden reserve in Thomas +Merriam’s eyes, sat resolutely in the meeting-house of a Sabbath day, +with her eyes cast down, and after service she glided swiftly down the +aisle and was out of the door before the young minister could much more +than descend the pulpit stairs, unless he ran an indecorous race. + +And young Evelina never at twilight strolled up the road in the +direction of Thomas Merriam’s home, where she might quite reasonably +hope to meet him, since he was wont to go to the store when the +evening stage-coach came in with the mail from Boston. + +Instead she paced the garden paths, or, when there was not too heavy +a dew, rambled across the fields; and there was also a lane where she +loved to walk. Whether or not Thomas Merriam suspected this, or had +ever seen, as he passed the mouth of the lane, the flutter of maidenly +draperies in the distance, it so happened that one evening he also went +a-walking there, and met Evelina. He had entered the lane from the +highway, and she from the fields at the head. So he saw her first afar +off, and could not tell fairly whether her light muslin skirt might +not be only a white flowering bush. For, since his outlook upon life +had been so full of Evelina, he had found that often the most common +and familiar things would wear for a second a look of her to startle +him. And many a time his heart had leaped at the sight of a white bush +ahead stirring softly in the evening wind, and he had thought it might +be she. Now he said to himself impatiently that this was only another +fancy; but soon he saw that it was indeed Evelina, in a light muslin +gown, with a little lace kerchief on her head. His handsome young face +was white; his lips twitched nervously; but he reached out and pulled +a spray of white flowers from a bush, and swung it airily to hide his +agitation as he advanced. + +As for Evelina, when she first espied Thomas she started and half +turned, as if to go back; then she held up her white kerchiefed head +with gentle pride and kept on. When she came up to Thomas she walked +so far to one side that her muslin skirt was in danger of catching and +tearing on the bushes, and she never raised her eyes, and not a flicker +of recognition stirred her sweet pale face as she passed him. + +But Thomas started as if she had struck him, and dropped his spray of +white flowers, and could not help a smothered cry that was half a sob, +as he went on, knocking blindly against the bushes. He went a little +way, then he stopped and looked back with his piteous hurt eyes. And +Evelina had stopped also, and she had the spray of white flowers which +he had dropped, in her hand, and her eyes met his. Then she let the +flowers fall again, and clapped both her little hands to her face to +cover it, and turned to run; but Thomas was at her side, and he put out +his hand and held her softly by her white arm. + +“Oh,” he panted, “I--did not mean to be--too presuming, and offend you. +I--crave your pardon--” + +Evelina had recovered herself. She stood with her little hands clasped, +and her eyes cast down before him; but not a quiver stirred her pale +face, which seemed turned to marble by this last effort of her maiden +pride. “I have nothing to pardon,” said she. “It was I, whose bold +behavior, unbecoming a modest and well-trained young woman, gave rise +to what seemed like presumption on your part.” The sense of justice was +strong within her, but she made her speech haughtily and primly, as if +she had learned it by rote from some maiden school-mistress, and pulled +her arm away and turned to go; but Thomas’s words stopped her. + +“Not--unbecoming if it came--from the heart,” said he, brokenly, +scarcely daring to speak, and yet not daring to be silent. + +Then Evelina turned on him, with a sudden strange pride that lay +beneath all other pride, and was of a nobler and truer sort. “Do you +think I would have given you the look that I did if it had not come +from my heart?” she demanded. “What did you take me to be--false +and a jilt? I may be a forward young woman, who has overstepped the +bounds of maidenly decorum, and I shall never get over the shame of +it, but I am truthful, and I am no jilt.” The brilliant color flamed +out on Evelina’s cheeks. Her blue eyes met Thomas’s with that courage +of innocence and nature which dares all shame. But it was only for a +second; the tears sprung into them. “I beg you to let me go home,” she +said, pitifully; but Thomas caught her in his arms, and pressed her +troubled maiden face against his breast. + +“Oh, I love you so!” he whispered--“I love you so, Evelina, and I was +afraid you were angry with me for it.” + +“And I was afraid,” she faltered, half weeping and half shrinking +from him, “lest you were angry with me for betraying the state of my +feelings, when you could not return them.” And even then she used that +gentle formality of expression with which she had been taught by her +maiden preceptors to veil decorously her most ardent emotions. And, +in truth, her training stood her in good stead in other ways; for she +presently commanded, with that mild dignity of hers which allowed of no +remonstrance, that Thomas should take away his arm from her waist, and +give her no more kisses for that time. + +“It is not becoming for any one,” said she, “and much less for a +minister of the gospel. And as for myself, I know not what Mistress +Perkins would say to me. She has a mind much above me, I fear.” + +“Mistress Perkins is enjoying her mind in Boston,” said Thomas Merriam, +with the laugh of a triumphant young lover. + +But Evelina did not laugh. “It might be well for both you and me if she +were here,” said she, seriously. However, she tempered a little her +decorous following of Mistress Perkins’s precepts, and she and Thomas +went hand in hand up the lane and across the fields. + +There was no dew that night, and the moon was full. It was after nine +o’clock when Thomas left her at the gate in the fence which separated +Evelina Adams’s garden from the field, and watched her disappear +between the flowers. The moon shone full on the garden. Evelina walked +as it were over a silver dapple, which her light gown seemed to brush +away and dispel for a moment. The bushes stood in sweet mysterious +clumps of shadow. + +Evelina had almost reached the house, and was close to the great althea +bush, which cast a wide circle of shadow, when it seemed suddenly to +separate and move into life. + +The elder Evelina stepped out from the shadow of the bush. “Is that +you, Evelina?” she said, in her soft melancholy voice, which had in it +a nervous vibration. + +“Yes, Cousin Evelina.” + +The elder Evelina’s pale face, drooped about with gray curls, had an +unfamiliar, almost uncanny, look in the moonlight, and might have been +the sorrowful visage of some marble nymph, lovelorn, with unceasing +grace. “Who--was with you?” she asked. + +“The minister,” replied young Evelina. + +“Did he meet you?” + +“He met me in the lane, Cousin Evelina.” + +“And he walked home with you across the field?” + +“Yes, Cousin Evelina.” + +Then the two entered the house, and nothing more was said about the +matter. Young Evelina and Thomas Merriam agreed that their affection +was to be kept a secret for a while. “For,” said young Evelina, “I +cannot leave Cousin Evelina yet a while, and I cannot have her pestered +with thinking about it, at least before another spring, when she has +the garden fairly growing again.” + +“That is nearly a whole year; it is August now,” said Thomas, half +reproachfully, and he tightened his clasp of Evelina’s slender fingers. + +“I cannot help that,” replied Evelina. “It is for you to show Christian +patience more than I, Thomas. If you could have seen poor Cousin +Evelina, as I have seen her, through the long winter days, when her +garden is dead, and she has only the few plants in her window left! +When she is not watering and tending them she sits all day in the +window and looks out over the garden and the naked bushes and the +withered flower-stalks. She used not to be so, but would read her Bible +and good books, and busy herself somewhat over fine needle-work, and at +one time she was compiling a little floral book, giving a list of the +flowers, and poetical selections and sentiments appropriate to each. +That was her pastime for three winters, and it is now nearly done; but +she has given that up, and all the rest, and sits there in the window +and grows older and feebler until spring. It is only I who can divert +her mind, by reading aloud to her and singing; and sometimes I paint +the flowers she loves the best on card-board with water-colors. I have +a poor skill in it, but Cousin Evelina can tell which flower I have +tried to represent, and it pleases her greatly. I have even seen her +smile. No, I cannot leave her, nor even pester her with telling her +before another spring, and you must wait, Thomas,” said young Evelina. + +And Thomas agreed, as he was likely to do to all which she proposed +which touched not his own sense of right and honor. Young Evelina gave +Thomas one more kiss for his earnest pleading, and that night wrote out +the tale in her journal. “It may be that I overstepped the bounds of +maidenly decorum,” wrote Evelina, “but my heart did so entreat me,” and +no blame whatever did she lay upon Thomas. + +Young Evelina opened her heart only to her journal, and her cousin was +told nothing, and had little cause for suspicion. Thomas Merriam never +came to the house to see his sweetheart; he never walked home with her +from meeting. Both were anxious to avoid village gossip, until the +elder Evelina could be told. + +Often in the summer evenings the lovers met, and strolled hand in hand +across the fields, and parted at the garden gate with the one kiss +which Evelina allowed, and that was all. + +Sometimes when young Evelina came in with her lover’s kiss still warm +upon her lips the elder Evelina looked at her wistfully, with a strange +retrospective expression in her blue eyes, as if she were striving to +remember something that the girl’s face called to mind. And yet she +could have had nothing to remember except dreams. + +And once, when young Evelina sat sewing through a long summer afternoon +and thinking about her lover, the elder Evelina, who was storing rose +leaves mixed with sweet spices in a jar, said, suddenly, “He looks as +his father used to.” + +Young Evelina started. “Whom do you mean, Cousin Evelina?” she asked, +wonderingly; for the elder Evelina had not glanced at her, nor even +seemed to address her at all. + +“Nothing,” said the elder Evelina, and a soft flush stole over her +withered face and neck, and she sprinkled more cassia on the rose +leaves in the jar. + +Young Evelina said no more; but she wondered, partly because Thomas +was always in her mind, and it seemed to her naturally that nearly +everything must have a savor of meaning of him, if her cousin Evelina +could possibly have referred to him and his likeness to his father. For +it was commonly said that Thomas looked very like his father, although +his figure was different. The young man was taller and more firmly +built, and he had not the meek forward curve of shoulder which had +grown upon his father of late years. + +When the frosty nights came Thomas and Evelina could not meet and walk +hand in hand over the fields behind the Squire’s house, and they very +seldom could speak to each other. It was nothing except a “good-day” +on the street, and a stolen glance, which set them both a-trembling +lest all the congregation had noticed, in the meeting-house. When the +winter set fairly in they met no more, for the elder Evelina was taken +ill, and her young cousin did not leave her even to go to meeting. +People said they guessed it was Evelina Adams’s last sickness, and they +furthermore guessed that she would divide her property between her +cousin Martha Loomis and her two girls and Evelina Leonard, and that +Evelina would have the house as her share. + +Thomas Merriam heard this last with a satisfaction which he did not +try to disguise from himself, because he never dreamed of there being +any selfish element in it. It was all for Evelina. Many a time he had +looked about the humble house where he had been born, and where he +would have to take Evelina after he had married her, and striven to see +its poor features with her eyes--not with his, for which familiarity +had tempered them. Often, as he sat with his parents in the old +sitting-room, in which he had kept so far an unquestioning belief, as +in a friend of his childhood, the scales of his own personality would +fall suddenly from his eyes. Then he would see, as Evelina, the poor, +worn, humble face of his home, and his heart would sink. “I don’t see +how I ever can bring her here,” he thought. He began to save, a few +cents at a time out of his pitiful salary, to at least beautify his own +chamber a little when Evelina should come. He made up his mind that she +should have a little dressing-table, with an oval mirror, and a white +muslin frill around it, like one he had seen in Boston. “She shall have +that to sit before while she combs her hair,” he thought, with defiant +tenderness, when he stowed away another shilling in a little box in his +trunk. It was money which he ordinarily bestowed upon foreign missions; +but his Evelina had come between him and the heathen. To procure some +dainty furnishings for her bridal-chamber he took away a good half of +his tithes for the spread of the gospel in the dark lands. Now and +then his conscience smote him, he felt shamefaced before his deacons, +but Evelina kept her first claim. He resolved that another year he +would hire a piece of land, and combine farming with his ministerial +work, and so try to eke out his salary, and get a little more money to +beautify his poor home for his bride. + +Now if Evelina Adams had come to the appointed time for the closing of +her solitary life, and if her young cousin should inherit a share of +her goodly property and the fine old mansion-house, all necessity for +anxiety of this kind was over. Young Evelina would not need to be taken +away, for the sake of her love, from all these comforts and luxuries. +Thomas Merriam rejoiced innocently, without a thought for himself. + +In the course of the winter he confided in his father; he couldn’t keep +it to himself any longer. Then there was another reason. Seeing Evelina +so little made him at times almost doubt the reality of it all. There +were days when he was depressed, and inclined to ask himself if he had +not dreamed it. Telling somebody gave it substance. + +His father listened soberly when he told him; he had grown old of late. + +“Well,” said he, “she ’ain’t been used to living the way you have, +though you have had advantages that none of your folks ever had; but if +she likes you, that’s all there is to it, I s’pose.” + +The old man sighed wearily. He sat in his arm-chair at the kitchen +fireplace; his wife had gone in to one of the neighbors, and the two +were alone. + +“Of course,” said Thomas, simply, “if Evelina Adams shouldn’t live, the +chances are that I shouldn’t have to bring her here. She wouldn’t have +to give up anything on my account--you know that, father.” + +Then the young man started, for his father turned suddenly on him with +a pale, wrathful face. “You ain’t countin’ on that!” he shouted. “You +ain’t countin’ on that--a son of mine countin’ on anything like that!” + +Thomas colored. “Why, father,” he stammered, “you don’t think--you +know, it’s all for _her_--and they say she can’t live anyway. I had +never thought of such a thing before. I was wondering how I could make +it comfortable for Evelina here.” + +But his father did not seem to listen. “Countin’ on that!” he repeated. +“Countin’ on a poor old soul, that ’ain’t ever had anything to set her +heart on but a few posies, dyin’ to make room for other folks to have +what she’s been cheated out on. Countin’ on that!” The old man’s voice +broke into a hoarse sob; he got up, and went hurriedly out of the room. + +“Why, father!” his son called after him, in alarm. He got up to follow +him, but his father waved him back and shut the door hard. + +“Father must be getting childish,” Thomas thought, wonderingly. He did +not bring up the subject to him again. + +Evelina Adams died in March. One morning the bell tolled seventy long +melancholy tones before people had eaten their breakfasts. They ran +to their doors and counted. “It’s her,” they said, nodding, when they +had waited a little after the seventieth stroke. Directly Mrs. Martha +Loomis and her two girls were seen hustling importantly down the road, +with their shawls over their heads, to the Squire’s house. “Mis’ Loomis +can lay her out,” they said. “It ain’t likely that young Evelina knows +anything about such things. Guess she’ll be thankful she’s got somebody +to call on now, if she ’ain’t mixed much with the Loomises.” Then they +wondered when the funeral would be, and the women furbished up their +black gowns and bonnets, and even in a few cases drove to the next town +and borrowed from relatives; but there was a great disappointment in +store for them. + +Evelina Adams died on a Saturday. The next day it was announced from +the pulpit that the funeral would be private, by the particular request +of the deceased. Evelina Adams had carried her delicate seclusion +beyond death, to the very borders of the grave. Nobody, outside the +family, was bidden to the funeral, except the doctor, the minister, and +the two deacons of the church. They were to be the bearers. The burial +also was to be private, in the Squire’s family burial-lot, at the north +of the house. The bearers would carry the coffin across the yard, and +there would not only be no funeral, but no funeral procession, and no +hearse. “It don’t seem scarcely decent,” the women whispered to each +other; “and more than all that, she ain’t goin’ to be _seen_.” The +deacons’ wives were especially disturbed by this last, as they might +otherwise have gained many interesting particulars by proxy. + +Monday was the day set for the burial. Early in the morning old Thomas +Merriam walked feebly up the road to the Squire’s house. People noticed +him as he passed. “How terrible fast he’s grown old lately!” they said. +He opened the gate which led into the Squire’s front yard with fumbling +fingers, and went up the walk to the front door, under the Corinthian +pillars, and raised the brass knocker. + +Evelina opened the door, and started and blushed when she saw him. She +had been crying; there were red rings around her blue eyes, and her +pretty lips were swollen. She tried to smile at Thomas’s father, and +she held out her hand with shy welcome. + +“I want to see her,” the old man said, abruptly. + +Evelina started, and looked at him wonderingly. “I--don’t believe--I +know who you mean,” said she. “Do you want to see Mrs. Loomis?” + +“No; I want to see her.” + +“_Her?_” + +“Yes, _her_.” + +Evelina turned pale as she stared at him. There was something strange +about his face. “But--Cousin Evelina,” she faltered--“she--didn’t +want--Perhaps you don’t know: she left special directions that nobody +was to look at her.” + +“I _want to see her_,” said the old man, and Evelina gave way. She +stood aside for him to enter, and led him into the great north parlor, +where Evelina Adams lay in her mournful state. The shutters were +closed, and one on entering could distinguish nothing but that long +black shadow in the middle of the room. Young Evelina opened a shutter +a little way, and a slanting shaft of spring sunlight came in and shot +athwart the coffin. The old man tiptoed up and leaned over and looked +at the dead woman. Evelina Adams had left further instructions about +her funeral, which no one understood, but which were faithfully carried +out. She wished, she had said, to be attired for her long sleep in a +certain rose-colored gown, laid away in rose leaves and lavender in a +certain chest in a certain chamber. There were also silken hose and +satin shoes with it, and these were to be put on, and a wrought lace +tucker fastened with a pearl brooch. + +It was the costume she had worn one Sabbath day back in her youth, when +she had looked across the meeting-house and her eyes had met young +Thomas Merriam’s; but nobody knew nor remembered; even young Evelina +thought it was simply a vagary of her dead cousin’s. + +“It don’t seem to me decent to lay away anybody dressed so,” said Mrs. +Martha Loomis; “but of course last wishes must be respected.” + +The two Loomis girls said they were thankful nobody was to see the +departed in her rose-colored shroud. + +Even old Thomas Merriam, leaning over poor Evelina, cold and dead in +the garb of her youth, did not remember it, and saw no meaning in it. +He looked at her long. The beautiful color was all faded out of the +yellow-white face; the sweet full lips were set and thin; the closed +blue eyes sunken in dark hollows; the yellow hair showed a line of gray +at the edge of her old woman’s cap, and thin gray curls lay against the +hollow cheeks. But old Thomas Merriam drew a long breath when he looked +at her. It was like a gasp of admiration and wonder; a strange rapture +came into his dim eyes; his lips moved as if he whispered to her, but +young Evelina could not hear a sound. She watched him, half frightened, +but finally he turned to her. “I ’ain’t seen her--fairly,” said he, +hoarsely--“I ’ain’t seen her, savin’ a glimpse of her at the window, +for over forty year, and she ’ain’t changed, not a look. I’d have known +her anywheres. She’s the same as she was when she was a girl. It’s +wonderful--wonderful!” + +Young Evelina shrank a little. “We think she looks natural,” she said, +hesitatingly. + +“She looks jest as she did when she was a girl and used to come into +the meetin’-house. She is jest the same,” the old man repeated, in +his eager, hoarse voice. Then he bent over the coffin, and his lips +moved again. Young Evelina would have called Mrs. Loomis, for she was +frightened, had he not been Thomas’s father, and had it not been for +her vague feeling that there might be some old story to explain this +which she had never heard. “Maybe he was in love with poor Cousin +Evelina, as Thomas is with me,” thought young Evelina, using her own +leaping-pole of love to land straight at the truth. But she never told +her surmise to any one except Thomas, and that was long afterwards, +when the old man was dead. Now she watched him with her blue dilated +eyes. But soon he turned away from the coffin and made his way straight +out of the room, without a word. Evelina followed him through the entry +and opened the outer door. He turned on the threshold and looked back +at her, his face working. + +“Don’t ye go to lottin’ too much on what ye’re goin’ to get through +folks that have died an’ not had anything,” he said; and he shook his +head almost fiercely at her. + +“No, I won’t. I don’t think I understand what you mean, sir,” stammered +Evelina. + +The old man stood looking at her a moment. Suddenly she saw the tears +rolling over his old cheeks. “I’m much obliged to ye for lettin’ of me +see her,” he said, hoarsely, and crept feebly down the steps. + +Evelina went back trembling to the room where her dead cousin lay, and +covered her face, and closed the shutter again. Then she went about +her household duties, wondering. She could not understand what it all +meant; but one thing she understood--that in some way this old dead +woman, Evelina Adams, had gotten immortal youth and beauty in one human +heart. “She looked to him just as she did when she was a girl,” Evelina +kept thinking to herself with awe. She said nothing about it to Mrs. +Martha Loomis or her daughters. They had been in the back part of the +house, and had not heard old Thomas Merriam come in, and they never +knew about it. + +Mrs. Loomis and the two girls stayed in the house day and night until +after the funeral. They confidently expected to live there in the +future. “It isn’t likely that Evelina Adams thought a young woman +no older than Evelina Leonard could live here alone in this great +house with nobody but that old Sarah Judd. It would not be proper nor +becoming,” said Martha Loomis to her two daughters; and they agreed, +and brought over many of their possessions under cover of night to the +Squire’s house during the interval before the funeral. + +But after the funeral and the reading of the will the Loomises made +sundry trips after dusk back to their old home, with their best +petticoats and cloaks over their arms, and their bonnets dangling +by their strings at their sides. For Evelina Adams’s last will and +testament had been read, and therein provision was made for the +continuance of the annuity heretofore paid them for their support, with +the condition affixed that not one night should they spend after the +reading of the will in the house known as the Squire Adams house. The +annuity was an ample one, and would provide the widow Martha Loomis and +her daughters, as it had done before, with all the needfuls of life; +but upon hearing the will they stiffened their double chins into their +kerchiefs with indignation, for they had looked for more. + +Evelina Adams’s will was a will of conditions, for unto it she had +affixed two more, and those affected her beloved cousin Evelina +Leonard. It was notable that “beloved” had not preceded her cousin +Martha Loomis’s name in the will. No pretence of love, when she felt +none, had she ever made in her life. The entire property of Evelina +Adams, spinster, deceased, with the exception of Widow Martha Loomis’s +provision, fell to this beloved young Evelina Leonard, subject to two +conditions--firstly, she was never to enter into matrimony, with any +person whomsoever, at any time whatsoever; secondly, she was never to +let the said spinster Evelina Adams’s garden, situated at the rear and +southward of the house known as the Squire Adams house, die through any +neglect of hers. Due allowance was to be made for the dispensations of +Providence: for hail and withering frost and long-continued drought, +and for times wherein the said Evelina Leonard might, by reason of +being confined to the house by sickness, be prevented from attending to +the needs of the growing plants, and the verdict in such cases was to +rest with the minister and the deacons of the church. But should this +beloved Evelina love and wed, or should she let, through any wilful +neglect, that garden perish in the season of flowers, all that goodly +property would she forfeit to a person unknown, whose name, enclosed +in a sealed envelope, was to be held meantime in the hands of the +executor, who had also drawn up the will, Lawyer Joshua Lang. + +There was great excitement in the village over this strange and +unwonted will. Some were there who held that Evelina Adams had not been +of sound mind, and it should be contested. It was even rumored that +Widow Martha Loomis had visited Lawyer Joshua Lang and broached the +subject, but he had dismissed the matter peremptorily by telling her +that Evelina Adams, spinster, deceased, had been as much in her right +mind at the time of drawing the will as anybody of his acquaintance. + +“Not setting store by relations, and not wanting to have them under +your roof, doesn’t go far in law nor common-sense to send folks to +the madhouse,” old Lawyer Lang, who was famed for his sharp tongue, +was reported to have said. However, Mrs. Martha Loomis was somewhat +comforted by her firm belief that either her own name or that of one of +her daughters was in that sealed envelope kept by Lawyer Joshua Lang in +his strong-box, and by her firm purpose to watch carefully lest Evelina +prove derelict in fulfilling the two conditions whereby she held the +property. + +Larger peep-holes were soon cut away mysteriously in the high +arbor-vitæ hedge, and therein were often set for a few moments, when +they passed that way, the eager eyes of Mrs. Martha or her daughter +Flora or Fidelia Loomis. Frequent calls they also made upon Evelina, +living alone with the old woman Sarah Judd, who had been called in +during her cousin’s illness, and they strolled into the garden, spying +anxiously for withered leaves or dry stalks. They at every opportunity +interviewed the old man who assisted Evelina in her care of the garden +concerning its welfare. But small progress they made with him, standing +digging at the earth with his spade while they talked, as if in truth +his wits had gone therein before his body and he would uncover them. + +Moreover, Mrs. Martha Loomis talked much slyly to mothers of young +men, and sometimes with bold insinuations to the young men themselves, +of the sad lot of poor young Evelina, condemned to a solitary and +loveless life, and of her sweetness and beauty and desirability in +herself, although she could not bring the old Squire’s money to her +husband. And once, but no more than that, she touched lightly upon the +subject to the young minister, Thomas Merriam, when he was making a +pastoral call. + +“My heart bleeds for the poor child living all alone in that great +house,” said she. And she looked down mournfully, and did not see how +white the young minister’s face turned. “It seems almost a pity,” +said she, furthermore--“Evelina is a good housekeeper, and has rare +qualities in herself, and so many get poor wives nowadays--that some +godly young man should not court her in spite of the will. I doubt, +too, if she would not have a happier lot than growing old over that +garden, as poor Cousin Evelina did before her, even if she has a fine +house to live in and a goodly sum in the bank. She looks pindling +enough lately. I’ll warrant she has lost a good ten pound since poor +Evelina was laid away, and--” + +But Thomas Merriam cut her short. “I see no profit in discussing +matters which do not concern us,” said he, and only his ministerial +estate saved him from the charge of impertinence. + +As it was, Martha Loomis colored high. “I’ll warrant he’ll look out +which side his bread is buttered on; ministers always do,” she said to +her daughters after he had gone. She never dreamed how her talk had cut +him to the heart. + +Had he not seen more plainly than any one else, Sunday after Sunday, +when he glanced down at her once or twice cautiously from his pulpit, +how weary-looking and thin she was growing? And her bright color was +wellnigh gone, and there were pitiful downward lines at the corners +of her sweet mouth. Poor young Evelina was fading like one of her own +flowers, as if some celestial gardener had failed in his care of her. +And Thomas saw it, and in his heart of hearts he knew the reason, and +yet he would not yield. Not once had he entered the old Squire’s house +since he attended the dead Evelina’s funeral, and stood praying and +eulogizing, with her coffin between him and the living Evelina, with +her pale face shrouded in black bombazine. He had never spoken to her +since, nor entered the house; but he had written her a letter, in which +all the fierce passion and anguish of his heart was cramped and held +down by formal words and phrases, and poor young Evelina did not see +beneath them. When her lover wrote her that he felt it inconsistent +with his Christian duty and the higher aims of his existence to take +any further steps towards a matrimonial alliance, she felt merely that +Thomas either cared no more for her, or had come to consider, upon +due reflection, that she was not fit to undertake the responsible +position of a minister’s wife. “It may be that in some way I failed in +my attendance upon Cousin Evelina,” thought poor young Evelina, “or it +may be that he thinks I have not enough dignity of character to inspire +respect among the older women in the church.” And sometimes, with a +sharp thrust of misery that shook her out of her enforced patience and +meekness, she wondered if indeed her own loving freedom with him had +turned him against her, and led him in his later and sober judgment to +consider her too light-minded for a minister’s wife. “It may be that +I was guilty of great indecorum, and almost indeed forfeited my claim +to respect for maidenly modesty, inasmuch as I suffered him to give +me kisses, and did almost bring myself to return them in kind. But my +heart did so entreat me, and in truth it seemed almost like a lack of +sincerity for me to wholly withstand it,” wrote poor young Evelina in +her journal at that time; and she further wrote: “It is indeed hard +for one who has so little knowledge to be fully certain of what is or +is not becoming and a Christian duty in matters of this kind; but if I +have in any manner, through my ignorance or unwarrantable affection, +failed, and so lost the love and respect of a good man, and the +opportunity to become his helpmeet during life, I pray that I may be +forgiven--for I sinned not wilfully--that the lesson may be sanctified +unto me, and that I may live as the Lord order, in Christian patience +and meekness, and not repining.” It never occurred to young Evelina +that possibly Thomas Merriam’s sense of duty might be strengthened by +the loss of all her cousin’s property should she marry him, and neither +did she dream that he might hesitate to take her from affluence into +poverty for her own sake. For herself the property, as put in the +balance beside her love, was lighter than air itself. It was so light +that it had no place in her consciousness. She simply had thought, upon +hearing the will, of Martha Loomis and her daughters in possession of +the property, and herself with Thomas, with perfect acquiescence and +rapture. + +Evelina Adams’s disapprobation of her marriage, which was supposedly +expressed in the will, had indeed, without reference to the property, +somewhat troubled her tender heart, but she told herself that Cousin +Evelina had not known she had promised to marry Thomas; that she would +not wish her to break her solemn promise. And furthermore, it seemed to +her quite reasonable that the condition had been inserted in the will +mainly through concern for the beloved garden. + +“Cousin Evelina might have thought perhaps I would let the flowers die +when I had a husband and children to take care of,” said Evelina. And +so she had disposed of all the considerations which had disturbed her, +and had thought of no others. + +She did not answer Thomas’s letter. It was so worded that it seemed to +require no reply, and she felt that he must be sure of her acquiescence +in whatever he thought best. She laid the letter away in a little +rosewood box, in which she had always kept her dearest treasures since +her school-days. Sometimes she took it out and read it, and it seemed +to her that the pain in her heart would put an end to her in spite of +all her prayers for Christian fortitude; and yet she could not help +reading it again. + +It was seldom that she stole a look at her old lover as he stood in +the pulpit in the meeting-house, but when she did she thought with an +anxious pang that he looked worn and ill, and that night she prayed +that the Lord would restore his health to him for the sake of his +people. + +It was four months after Evelina Adams’s death, and her garden was in +the full glory of midsummer, when one evening, towards dusk, young +Evelina went slowly down the street. She seldom walked abroad now, but +kept herself almost as secluded as her cousin had done before her. But +that night a great restlessness was upon her, and she put a little +black silk shawl over her shoulders and went out. It was quite cool, +although it was midsummer. The dusk was deepening fast; the katydids +called back and forth from the way-side bushes. Evelina met nobody for +some distance. Then she saw a man coming towards her, and her heart +stood still, and she was about to turn back, for she thought for a +minute it was the young minister. Then she saw it was his father, and +she went on slowly, with her eyes downcast. When she met him she looked +up and said good-evening, gravely, and would have passed on, but he +stood in her way. + +“I’ve got a word to say to ye, if ye’ll listen,” he said. + +Evelina looked at him tremblingly. There was something strained and +solemn in his manner. “I’ll hear whatever you have to say, sir,” she +said. + +The old man leaned his pale face over her and raised a shaking +forefinger. “I’ve made up my mind to say something,” said he. “I don’t +know as I’ve got any right to, and maybe my son will blame me, but I’m +goin’ to see that you have a chance. It’s been borne in upon me that +women folks don’t always have a fair chance. It’s jest this I’m goin’ +to say: I don’t know whether you know how my son feels about it or not. +I don’t know how open he’s been with you. Do you know jest why he quit +you?” + +Evelina shook her head. “No,” she panted--“I don’t--I never knew. He +said it was his duty.” + +“Duty can get to be an idol of wood and stone, an’ I don’t know but +Thomas’s is,” said the old man. “Well, I’ll tell you. He don’t think +it’s right for him to marry you, and make you leave that big house, and +lose all that money. He don’t care anything about it for himself, but +it’s for you. Did you know that?” + +Evelina grasped the old man’s arm hard with her little fingers. + +“You don’t mean that--was why he did it!” she gasped. + +“Yes, that was why.” + +Evelina drew away from him. She was ashamed to have Thomas’s father see +the joy in her face. “Thank you, sir,” she said. “I did not understand. +I--will write to him.” + +“Maybe my son will think I have done wrong coming betwixt him and his +idees of duty,” said old Thomas Merriam, “but sometimes there’s a good +deal lost for lack of a word, and I wanted you to have a fair chance +an’ a fair say. It’s been borne in upon me that women folks don’t +always have it. Now you can do jest as you think best, but you must +remember one thing--riches ain’t all. A little likin’ for you that’s +goin’ to last, and keep honest and faithful to you as long as you live, +is worth more; an’ it’s worth more to women folks than ’tis to men, +an’ it’s worth enough to them. My son’s poorly. His mother and I are +worried about him. He don’t eat nor sleep--walks his chamber nights. +His mother don’t know what the matter is, but he let on to me some time +since.” + +“I’ll write a letter to him,” gasped Evelina again. “Good-night, sir.” +She pulled her little black silk shawl over her head and hastened home, +and all night long her candle burned, while her weary little fingers +toiled over pages of foolscap-paper to convince Thomas Merriam fully, +and yet in terms not exceeding maidenly reserve, that the love of his +heart and the companionship of his life were worth more to her than all +the silver and gold in the world. Then the next morning she despatched +it, all neatly folded and sealed, and waited. + +It was strange that a letter like that could not have moved Thomas +Merriam, when his heart too pleaded with him so hard to be moved. But +that might have been the very reason why he could withstand her, and +why the consciousness of his own weakness gave him strength. Thomas +Merriam was one, when he had once fairly laid hold of duty, to grasp it +hard, although it might be to his own pain and death, and maybe to that +of others. He wrote to poor young Evelina another letter, in which he +emphasized and repeated his strict adherence to what he believed the +line of duty in their separation, and ended it with a prayer for her +welfare and happiness, in which, indeed, for a second, the passionate +heart of the man showed forth. Then he locked himself in his chamber, +and nobody ever knew what he suffered there. But one pang he did not +suffer which Evelina would have suffered in his place. He mourned not +over nor realized the grief of her tender heart when she should read +his letter, otherwise he could not have sent it. He writhed under his +own pain alone, and his duty hugged him hard, like the iron maiden of +the old tortures, but he would not yield. + +As for Evelina, when she got his letter, and had read it through, she +sat still and white for a long time, and did not seem to hear when old +Sarah Judd spoke to her. But at last she rose and went to her chamber, +and knelt down, and prayed for a long time; and then she went out in +the garden and cut all the most beautiful flowers, and tied them in +wreaths and bouquets, and carried them out to the north side of the +house, where her cousin Evelina was buried, and covered her grave with +them. And then she knelt down there and hid her face among them, and +said, in a low voice, as if in a listening ear, “I pray you, Cousin +Evelina, forgive me for what I am about to do.” + +And then she returned to the house, and sat at her needle-work as +usual; but the old woman kept looking at her, and asking if she were +sick, for there was a strange look in her face. + +She and old Sarah Judd had always their tea at five o’clock, and put +the candles out at nine, and this night they did as they were wont. +But at one o’clock in the morning young Evelina stole softly down the +stairs with her lighted candle, and passed through into the kitchen; +and a half-hour after she came forth into the garden, which lay in full +moonlight, and she had in her hand a steaming teakettle, and she passed +around among the shrubs and watered them, and a white cloud of steam +rose around them. Back and forth she went to the kitchen; for she had +heated the great copper wash-kettle full of water; and she watered all +the shrubs in the garden, moving amid curling white wreaths of steam, +until the water was gone. And then she set to work and tore up by the +roots with her little hands and trampled with her little feet all the +beautiful tender flower-beds; all the time weeping, and moaning softly: +“Poor Cousin Evelina! poor Cousin Evelina! Oh, forgive me, poor Cousin +Evelina!” + +And at dawn the garden lay in ruin, for all the tender plants she had +torn up by the roots and trampled down, and all the stronger-rooted +shrubs she had striven to kill with boiling water and salt. + +Then Evelina went into the house, and made herself tidy as well as she +could when she trembled so, and put her little shawl over her head, and +went down the road to the Merriams’ house. It was so early the village +was scarcely astir, but there was smoke coming out of the kitchen +chimney at the Merriams’; and when she knocked, Mrs. Merriam opened the +door at once, and stared at her. + +“Is Sarah Judd dead?” she cried; for her first thought was that +something must have happened when she saw the girl standing there with +her wild pale face. + +“I want to see the minister,” said Evelina, faintly, and she looked at +Thomas’s mother with piteous eyes. + +“Be you sick?” asked Mrs. Merriam. She laid a hard hand on the +girl’s arm, and led her into the sitting-room, and put her into the +rocking-chair with the feather cushion. “You look real poorly,” said +she. “Sha’n’t I get you a little of my elderberry wine?” + +“I want to see him,” said Evelina, and she almost sobbed. + +“I’ll go right and speak to him,” said Mrs. Merriam. “He’s up, I guess. +He gets up early to write. But hadn’t I better get you something to +take first? You do look sick.” + +But Evelina only shook her head. She had her face covered with her +hands, and was weeping softly. Mrs. Merriam left the room, with a long +backward glance at her. Presently the door opened and Thomas came in. +Evelina stood up before him. Her pale face was all wet with tears, but +there was an air of strange triumph about her. + +[Illustration: “‘THE LORD MAKE ME WORTHY OF THEE, EVELINA!’”] + +“The garden is dead,” said she. + +“What do you mean?” he cried out, staring at her, for indeed he thought +for a minute that her wits had left her. + +“The garden is dead,” said she. “Last night I watered the roses with +boiling water and salt, and I pulled the other flowers up by their +roots. The garden is dead, and I have lost all Cousin Evelina’s money, +and it need not come between us any longer.” She said that, and looked +up in his face with her blue eyes, through which the love of the whole +race of loving women from which she had sprung, as well as her own, +seemed to look, and held out her little hands; but even then Thomas +Merriam could not understand, and stood looking at her. + +“Why--did you do it?” he stammered. + +“Because you would have me no other way, and--I couldn’t bear that +anything like that should come between us,” she said, and her voice +shook like a harp-string, and her pale face went red, then pale again. + +But Thomas still stood staring at her. Then her heart failed her. She +thought that he did not care, and she had been mistaken. She felt as if +it were the hour of her death, and turned to go. And then he caught her +in his arms. + +“Oh,” he cried, with a great sob, “the Lord make me worthy of thee, +Evelina!” + +There had never been so much excitement in the village as when the +fact of the ruined garden came to light. Flora Loomis, peeping through +the hedge on her way to the store, had spied it first. Then she had +run home for her mother, who had in turn sought Lawyer Lang, panting +bonnetless down the road. But before the lawyer had started for the +scene of disaster, the minister, Thomas Merriam, had appeared, and +asked for a word in private with him. Nobody ever knew just what that +word was, but the lawyer was singularly uncommunicative and reticent as +to the ruined garden. + +“Do you think the young woman is out of her mind?” one of the deacons +asked him, in a whisper. + +“I wish all the young women were as much in their minds; we’d have a +better world,” said the lawyer, gruffly. + +“When do you think we can begin to move in here?” asked Mrs. Martha +Loomis, her wide skirts sweeping a bed of uprooted verbenas. + +“When your claim is established,” returned the lawyer, shortly, and +turned on his heel and went away, his dry old face scanning the ground +like a dog on a scent. That afternoon he opened the sealed document +in the presence of witnesses, and the name of the heir to whom the +property fell was disclosed. It was “Thomas Merriam, the beloved and +esteemed minister of this parish,” and young Evelina would gain her +wealth instead of losing it by her marriage. And furthermore, after +the declaration of the name of the heir was this added: “This do I in +the hope and belief that neither the greed of riches nor the fear of +them shall prevent that which is good and wise in the sight of the +Lord, and with the surety that a love which shall triumph over so much +in its way shall endure, and shall be a blessing and not a curse to my +beloved cousin, Evelina Leonard.” + +Thomas Merriam and Evelina were married before the leaves fell in +that same year, by the minister of the next village, who rode over in +his chaise, and brought his wife, who was also a bride, and wore her +wedding-dress of a pink and pearl shot silk. But young Evelina wore the +blue bridal array which had been worn by old Squire Adams’s bride, all +remodelled daintily to suit the fashion of the times; and as she moved, +the fragrances of roses and lavender of the old summers during which it +had been laid away were evident, like sweet memories. + + + + +A NEW ENGLAND PROPHET + + +At half-past six o’clock a little company of people passed down the +village street in the direction of the Lennox farm-house. + +They advanced in silence, stepping along the frozen ridges of the road. +It was cold, but there was no snow. There was a young moon shining +through thin white clouds like nebulæ. + +Now and then, as the company went on, new recruits were gathered from +the scattered houses. A man would emerge darkly from a creaking gate, +with maybe a second and third dark figure following, with a flirt of +feminine draperies. “There’s Deacon Scranton,” or “There’s Thomas +Jennings and his wife and Ellen,” the people would murmur to one +another. + +Once a gleam of candle-light from an open door lay across the road in +advance, and wavered into darkness with a slam of the door when the +company drew near. Then a solitary woman came ponderously down the +front walk, seeming to jar the frozen earth with the jolt of her great +feminine bulk. “There’s Abby Mosely,” somebody muttered. Sometimes +two young girls fluttered out of a door-yard, clinging together with +nervous giggles and outcries, which were soon hushed. They moved along +with the others, their little cold fingers clinging together with a +rigid clutch. It was as if a strange, solemn atmosphere surrounded this +group moving along the country road in the starlit night. Whoever came +into their midst felt it, and his emotions changed involuntarily as +respiration changes on a mountaintop. + +When the party reached a windy hill-top in sight of the lighted windows +of the Lennox house in the valley below, it numbered nearly twenty. +Half-way down the hill somebody else joined them. He had been standing +ahead of them, waiting in the long shadow of a poplar, and they had not +discerned him until they were close to him. Then he stepped forward +and the shadow of the tree was left motionless. The young girls half +screamed, he appeared so suddenly, and their nerves were strained. The +elders made a solemn hushed murmur of greeting. They knew as soon as +he moved that he was Isaac Penfield. He had a martial carriage of his +shoulders, he was a captain in the militia, and he wore an ash-colored +cloak, which distinguished him. + +The young girls cast glances, bolder from the darkness, towards his +stately ash-colored shoulders and the pale gleam of his face. Not one +of them who had not her own lover but had her innocent secret dreams +about this Isaac Penfield. Now, had a light shone out suddenly in the +darkness, their dreams would have shown in their faces. + +One slender girl slunk softly around in the rear darkness and crept so +close to Isaac Penfield that his ash-colored cloak, swinging out in the +wind, brushed her cheek. He did not notice her; indeed, after his first +murmur of salutation, he did not speak to any one. + +They all went in silence down the hill, and flocked into the yard of +the Lennox house. There was a red flicker of light in the kitchen +windows from the great hearth fire, but a circle of dark heads and +shoulders hid the fire itself from the new-comers. There was evidently +a number of people inside. + +Deacon Scranton raised the knocker, and the door was opened +immediately. Melissa Lennox stood there holding a candle in a brass +candlestick, with the soft light streaming up on her fair face. She +looked through it with innocent, anxious blue eyes at the company. +“Won’t you walk in?” she said, tremulously, and the people passed into +the south entry, and through the door on the left into the great Lennox +kitchen. Some dozen persons who had come from the other end of the +village were already there. + +Isaac Penfield entered last. Melissa did not see him until he stepped +suddenly within her radius of candle-light. Then she started, and bent +her head before him, blushing. The candle shook in her outstretched +hand. + +Isaac Penfield took the candle without a word and set it on the stairs. +Then he took Melissa’s slim right hand in his, and stood a moment +looking down at her bent head, with its parted gloss of hair. His +forehead was frowning, and yet he half smiled with tender triumph. + +“Come out in the front yard with me a moment,” he whispered. He pulled +her with gentle force towards the door, and the girl yielded, after a +faint murmur of expostulation. + +Out in the front yard Isaac Penfield folded a corner of his ash-colored +cloak around Melissa’s slender shoulders. + +“Now I want you to tell me, Melissa,” he whispered. “You are not still +carried away by all this?” He jerked his head towards the kitchen +windows. + +Melissa trembled against the young man’s side under the folds of his +cloak. + +“You are not, after all I said to you, Melissa?” + +She nodded against his breast, with a faint sob. + +“I hoped you would do as I asked you, and cut loose from this folly,” +Isaac Penfield said, sternly. + +“Father--says--it’s true. Oh, I am afraid--I am afraid! My sins are so +great, and I cannot hide from the eyes of the Lord. I am afraid!” + +Isaac Penfield tightened his clasp of the girl’s trembling figure, and +bent his head low down over hers. “Melissa, dear, can’t you listen to +me?” he whispered. + +Suddenly the kitchen door opened, and a new light streamed across the +entry. + +“Melissa, where be you?” called a woman’s voice, high-pitched and +melancholy. + +“There’s mother calling,” Melissa said, in a frightened whisper, and +she broke away and ran into the house. + +Her mother stood in the kitchen door. “Where have you been?” she began. +Then she stopped, and looked at Isaac Penfield with a half-shrinking, +half-antagonistic air. This stalwart young man, radiant with the +knowledge of his own strength, represented to this delicate woman, who +was held to the earth more by the tension of nerves than the weight of +matter, the very pride of life, the material power which she was to +fear and fight for herself and for her daughter. + +“I thought I would step into your meeting to-night, if I were +permitted,” Isaac Penfield said. + +Mrs. Lennox looked at him with deep blue eyes under high, thin temples. +“All are permitted who listen to the truth with the right spirit,” +said she, and turned shortly and glided into the kitchen. Melissa and +Isaac followed. + +The company sat in wide semicircles, three deep, before the fire. In +the open space between the first semicircle and the fire, his wide +arm-chair on the bricks of the broad hearth, half facing the company, +sat Solomon Lennox. Near him sat his deaf-and-dumb son Alonzo. He held +up a large slate so the firelight fell upon it, and marked upon it with +a grating pencil. He screwed his face with every stroke, so it seemed +that one watching attentively might discern the picture itself from his +changing features. + +Alonzo Lennox was fourteen years old, but he looked no more than ten, +and he had been deaf and dumb from his birth. The firelight gave a +reddish tinge to his silvery blond hair, spreading out stiffly from the +top of his head over his ears like the thatch of a hut. His delicate +irregular profile bent over the slate; now and then a spasm of silent +merriment shook his narrow chest, and the surrounding people looked at +him with awe. They regarded it as the mystic ecstasy of a seer. + +Melissa and her mother had slid softly through the semicircles to the +chairs they had left. Isaac Penfield stood on the outskirts, towering +over all the people, refusing a seat which somebody offered him. He +threw off his ash-colored cloak and held it on his arm. His costume of +fine broadcloth and flowered satin and glittering buttons surpassed +any there, as did his face and his height and his carriage; and, more +than all, he stood among the others raised upon a spiritual eminence, +unseen, but none the less real, which his ancestors had reared for +him before his birth. The Penfield name had been a great one in that +vicinity for three generations. Once Penfields had owned the larger +part of the township. Isaac’s father, and his grandfather before him, +had been esquires, and held as nearly the position of lords of this +little village as was possible in New England. Now this young man was +the last of his race, living, with his housekeeper and an old servant, +in the Penfield homestead; and the village adulation which had been +accorded to his ancestors was his also in a large measure. + +To-night, as he entered, people glanced at him, away from Alonzo and +his slate, but only for a moment. The matter under discussion that +night was too solemn and terrible to be lost sight of long. + +In about ten minutes after Isaac Penfield entered, the boy gave a +shout, grating and hideous, with a discord of human thoughts and senses +in it. A shudder passed over the company like a wind. + +Alonzo Lennox sprang up and waved the slate, and his father reached +out for it. “Give it to me,” he demanded, sternly, as if the boy could +hear. But Alonzo gave another shout, and leaped aside, and waved the +slate out of his father’s reach. Then he danced lightly up and down +on the tips of his toes, shaking his head and flinging out fantastic +heels. His shock of hair flew out wildly, and looked like a luminous +crown; the firelight struck his dilated eyes, and they gleamed red. + +The people watched him with sobbing breaths and pale faces, all except +Isaac Penfield and one other. Isaac stood looking at him, with his +mouth curling in a scornful smile. Solomon Lennox stood aside with a +startled air, then he caught the boy firmly by the arm and grasped the +slate. + +Alonzo grinned impishly in his father’s face, then he let go the +slate, and sank down on his stool in the chimney-corner. There he sat +submissive and inactive, except for the cunning, sharp flash of his +blue eyes under his thatch of hair. + +Solomon Lennox held the slate to the light and looked at it, while the +people waited breathless, their pale intent faces bent forward. Then he +handed the slate, without a word, to the man at the end of the first +semicircle, and it was circulated through the entire company. As one +passed the slate to another a shuddering thrill like an electric shock +seemed to be passed with it, and there was a faint murmur of horror. + +Isaac Penfield held the slate longest, and examined it closely. Drawn +with a free hand, which certainly gave evidence of some inborn artistic +skill aside from aught else, were great sweeping curves of wings +upbearing an angel with a trumpet at his mouth. Under his feet were +lashing tongues as of flames, with upturned faces of agony in the midst +of them. And everywhere, between the wings and the angel and the flames +and the faces, were, in groups of five, those grotesque little symbols +of the sun, a disk with human features therein, which one sees in the +almanacs. + +After Isaac Penfield had finished looking at the mystic slate he passed +it to Solomon Lennox’s elder brother, Simeon, who sat at his right. The +old man’s hard shaven jaws widened in a sardonic grin; his small black +eyes twinkled derisively over the drawings. “Pretty pictures,” he said, +half aloud. Then he passed the slate along with a contemptuous chuckle, +which was heard in the solemn stillness all over the room. + +Solomon Lennox gave a furious glance in his brother’s direction. “This +is no time nor season for scoffers!” cried he. And his voice seemed to +shock the air like a musket-shot. + +Simeon Lennox chuckled again. Solomon’s right hand clinched. He +arose; then sat down again, with his mouth compressed. He sat still +until the slate had gone its rounds and returned to the boy, who sat +contemplating it with uncouth delight; then he stood up, and the words +flowed from his mouth in torrents. Never at a loss for subject-matter +of speech was Solomon Lennox. By the fluency of his discourse he might +well have been thought inspired. He spoke of visions of wings and holy +candlesticks and beasts and cups of abomination as if he had with his +own eyes seen them like the prophet of old. He expounded strange and +subtle mathematical calculations and erratic interpretations of history +as applied to revelation with a fervor which brought conviction to his +audience. He caught the slate from his deaf-and-dumb son, and explained +the weird characters thereon. The five suns were five days. Five times +the sun should arise in the east, as it had done from the creation; +then should the angel, upborne on those great white wings, sound his +trumpet, and the flames burst forth from the lower pit, and those +upturned faces in the midst of them gnash with despair. + +“Repent, for the day of the Lord is at hand!” shouted Solomon Lennox at +the close of his arguments, and his voice itself rang like a trumpet +full of all intonations and reverberations, of awe and dread. “Repent, +for the great and dreadful day of the Lord is at hand! Repent while +there is yet time, while there is yet a foothold on the shore of the +lake of fire! Repent, repent! Prepare your ascension robes! Renounce +the world, and all the lust and the vanity thereof! Repent, for the +day of judgment is here! Soon shall ye choke with the smoke of the +everlasting burning, soon shall your eyes be scorched with the fiery +scroll of the heavens, your ears be deafened with the blast of the +trumpet of wrath, and the cry against you of your own sins! Repent, +repent, repent!” + +Solomon Lennox’s slight figure writhed with his own emotion as with +internal fire; the veins swelled out on his high bald forehead; his +eyes blazed with fanatical light. Aside from the startling nature of +his discourse, he himself was a marvel, and a terror to his neighbors. +His complete deviation from a former line of life produced among them +the horror of the supernatural. He affected them like his own ghost. He +had always been a man of few and quiet words, who had never expressed +his own emotions in public beyond an inaudible, muttered prayer at a +conference meeting, and now this flood of fiery eloquence from him +seemed like a very convulsion of human nature. + +When a great physical malady is epidemic there are often isolated +cases in remote localities whose connection with the main disturbance +cannot be established. So in this little New England village, far from +a railroad, scarcely reached by the news of the day, Solomon Lennox +had developed within himself, with seeming spontaneity, some of the +startling tenets of Joseph Miller, and had established his own small +circle of devoted disciples and followers. It was as if some germs of +a great spiritual disturbance had sought, through some unknown medium, +this man’s mind as their best ripening place. + +After Solomon had arisen one night in conference meeting and poured +forth his soul to his startled neighbors in a strain of fiery prophecy, +Millerite publications had been sent for, and he had strengthened +his own theories with those of the original leader, although in many +respects his maintained a distinct variance. + +The effect of Solomon’s prophecies had been greatly enhanced by the +drawings of his deaf-and-dumb son. Alonzo Lennox’s slate, covered with +rude representations of beasts and trumpets and winged creatures--the +weird symbolic figures of the prophet Daniel--had aroused a tumult of +awe and terror in the village. And the more so because the boy had +never learned the language of the deaf and dumb, and had no ordinary +and comprehensible means of acquiring information upon such topics. + +To-night, as his father spoke, he kept his blue eyes upon his face +with such a keen look that it seemed almost impossible that he did not +hear and comprehend every word. Unbelievers in this new movement were +divided between the opinion that Lonny Lennox had heard more than folks +had given him credit for right along, and the one that he understood +by some strange power which the loss of his other faculties had +sharpened. + +“The boy has developed the sixth sense,” Isaac Penfield thought as he +watched his intent face upturned towards his father’s; and he also +thought impatiently that he should be cuffed and sent to bed for his +uncanny sharpness. He grew more and more indignant as the time went on +and the excitement deepened. He watched Melissa grow paler and paler, +and finally press her slender hands over her face, and shake with sobs, +and made a sudden motion as if he would go to her. Then he restrained +himself, and muttered something between his teeth. + +Old Simeon Lennox watched him curiously, then he hit him in the side +with a sharp elbow. “Made up your mind to go up in our family chariot +on the last day?” he whispered, with a hoarse whistle of breath in +Isaac’s ear. Then he leaned back, with a long cackle of laughter in his +throat, which was unheard in the din of his brother’s raging voice and +the responsive groans and sobs. + +Isaac Penfield colored, and kept his eyes straight forward and his head +up with a haughty air. Presently the old man nudged him again, with the +sharpness of malice protected by helplessness. “Guess,” he whispered, +craning up to the young man’s handsome, impatient face--“guess you +’ain’t much opinion of all this darned tomfoolery neither.” + +Isaac shook his head fiercely. + +“Well,” said the old man, “let ’em go it,” and he cackled with laughter +again. + +After Solomon Lennox had finished his fervid appeal, two or three +offered prayers, and many testified and confessed sins, and professed +repentance, and terror of the wrath to come, in hoarse, strained +voices, half drowned by sobs and cries. + +It was nearly midnight before Solomon Lennox declared the meeting at +a close, and recommended the brethren and sisters to repair to their +homes, not to sleep, but to pray, and appointed another session for +the next forenoon, for these meetings of terror-stricken and contrite +souls were held three times a day--morning, afternoon, and evening. In +those days the housewives’ kitchen tables were piled high with unwashed +dishes, the hearths were unswept and the fires low, the pantry shelves +were bare, and often the children went to bed with only the terrors of +the judgment for sustenance. + +In those days the cattle grew lean, and stood lowing piteously long +after nightfall at the pasture bars. Even the horses turned in their +stalls at every footfall and whinnied for food. Men lost all thought +for their earthly goods in their fierce concern for their own souls. + +The people flocked out of Solomon Lennox’s kitchen, some with rapt +eyes, some white-faced and trembling, huddling together as if with a +forlorn hope that human companionship might avail somewhat even against +divine judgment. The deaf-and-dumb boy went sleepily out of the room +and up-stairs with his candle, leaving his slate on the hearthstone. +Isaac Penfield stood a few minutes looking irresolutely at Melissa, who +sat still with her hands pressed tightly over her face, as if she were +weeping. Her mother stood near her, talking to Abby Mosely, who was +Simeon Lennox’s housekeeper. The woman was fairly gasping with emotion; +her broad shawled bosom heaved. + +“Repent!” cried Mrs. Lennox, loud, in her ears, like an echo of her +husband. “Repent; there is yet time! There are five days before the +heavens open! Repent!” Her nervous hands served to intensify her weak, +straining voice. They pointed and threatened in the woman’s piteous, +scared face. Isaac started to approach Melissa; then her mother half +turned and seemed to shriek out her warning cry towards him, and he +tossed his gray cloak over his shoulders, strode out of the room, and +out of the house. + +Old Simeon Lennox lingered behind the others. + +“I’m a-comin’ right along, Abby,” he called to his housekeeper when she +started to leave the room. “If ye go to bed afore I come, mind ye put +the cat out, so she won’t get afoul of that pig meat in the pantry.” +Simeon spoke with cool disregard of the distressed sobs and moans with +which the woman was making her exit. + +“D’ye hear what I say, Abby?” he called, sharply, when she did not +reply. + +The housekeeper groaned a faint assent over her shoulder as she crossed +the threshold. + +“Well, mind ye don’t forgit it,” said Simeon, “for I tell ye what ’tis, +if that cat does git afoul of that pig meat, there’ll be a jedgement +afore Thursday.” + +The old man clamped leisurely across the room, drew an arm-chair close +to the fire, and settled into it with a grunting yawn. + +“Fire feels good,” he remarked. His voice was thick, for he had tobacco +in his mouth. + +“Woe be unto you, Simeon Lennox, if you can still think of the comfort +of your poor body which will soon be ashes,” cried his sister-in-law. +She waved before him like a pale flame; her white face seemed fairly +luminous. + +Simeon shifted his tobacco into one cheek as he stared at her. “You’d +better go to bed, Sophy Anne; you’re gittin’ highstericky,” said he, +and chewed again. + +“Woe be unto you, fer the bed you shall lie on, unless you repent, +Simeon Lennox!” + +“Look at here, Sophy Anne,” said Simeon, “ain’t you got no mince-pies +in the house?” + +Mrs. Lennox looked at him, speechless, for a moment. + +“If you have,” Simeon went on, “I wish you’d give me a piece. I ’ain’t +had no mince-pie fit to eat I dun’no’ when. Abby Mosely wa’n’t never +much of a cook, and sence she’s took to goin’ to your meetin’ here +three times a day, it’s much as ever’s I get anything. It ain’t no +more’n fair, Sophy Anne, that you should give me a piece of mince-pie, +if you’ve got any.” + +Mrs. Lennox broke in upon him with a cry which was almost a shriek. “I +shall make no more pies in this world, Simeon Lennox. Woe be unto you! +Woe be unto you if you think of such things in the face of death and +eternal condemnation!” + +Solomon Lennox had followed the departing people into the yard. His +exhorting voice could still be heard out there, for the doors were open. + +Simeon looked around and shivered. “If you ’ain’t got no mince-pie, I +wish you’d shet that door, Sophy Anne,” he said. + +Sophia Anne Lennox stood looking at him for a minute. He chuckled in +her face. She snatched a candle from the shelf and went out of the room +with an air of desperation. + +Melissa rose up and crept after her, her face like a drooping white +flower, gliding so closely in her mother’s wake that she seemed to have +no individual motion of her own. Simeon looked hard at her as she went. + +“Sophy Anne is wiry,” he said, when his brother came in. “She’ll go it +all right if the wires don’t snap, an’ I reckon they won’t; but you’d +better look out for Melissy. She can’t stan’ such tearin’ work as this +very long. She’ll have a fever or somethin’.” + +“What matters that?” cried Solomon. “What matters any tribulation +of the flesh when the end of all flesh is at hand?” His voice was +hoarse with his long clamor. He leaned over and shook a nervous fist +impressively before his brother’s face. + +Simeon chewed on, and looked at the fist without winking. “You don’t +mean to say, Solomon Lennox,” said he at length, “that you believe all +this darned tomfoolery?” + +His brother looked at him with solemn wrath. “Do I believe revelation +and the prophets?” he cried. “Woe be unto all scoffers, even though +they be my own flesh and blood!” + +“Now, Solomon, I’ll jest stump ye to point out any passage in the +Scripturs that says, up an’ down, square an’ fair, that the world’s +comin’ to an end next Thursday. I’ll jest stump ye to do it.” + +“There are passages that point to the truth, and I have repeated them +to-night,” replied Solomon, hotly. + +“Passages that ye’ve had to twist hind-side foremost, an’ bottom-side +up, an’ add, an’ subtract, an’ divide, an’ multiply, an’ hammer, an’ +saw, an’ bile down, an’ take to a grist-mill, afore you got at the +meanin’ you wanted,” returned his brother, contemptuously. “That +ain’t the kind of passage I’m after. There’s too much two-facedness +an’ double-dealin’ about the Scripturs anyway, judgin’ by some of you +folks. What I want is a square up an’ down passage that says, without +no chance of its meanin’ anything else, ‘The world is comin’ to an end +next week Thursday.’ I stump ye to show me sech a passage as that. _Ye +can’t do it!_” + +The habits of a lifetime are strong even in strained and exalted +states, acting like the lash of a familiar whip. Solomon Lennox was +the younger brother; all his life he had borne a certain docility of +attitude towards Simeon, which asserted itself now. + +The fervid orator stood for a moment silent before this sceptical, +sneering elder brother. “I’d like to know how you account for Lonny’s +drawin’s,” he said at length, in a tone which he might have used when +bullied by Simeon in their boyhood. + +“Drawin’s,” drawled Simeon, and sarcasm itself seemed to hiss in the +final s--“dr-r-awin’s! The little scamp is sharp as steel, an’ he’s +watched an’ he’s eyed till he’s put two an’ two together. It’s easy +enough to account for the drawin’s. The air here has been so thick +lately with wings an’ wheels an’ horns an’ trumpets an’ everlastin’ +fire that anybody that wa’n’t an idgit could breathe it in. An’ I miss +my guess if his mother ’ain’t showed him the picturs in the big Bible +mor’n once when you’ve been talkin’, an’ pointed out the hearth fire +an’ the candlesticks an’ the powder-horn. Sophy Anne’s sharp, an’ she’s +done more to learn that boy than anybody knows of, though I’ve got my +doubts now as to how straight he’s really got it in his mind. Lord, +them drawin’s ain’t nothin’. Solomon Lennox, you can’t look me in the +face an’ say that you actilly believe all this darned tomfoolery!” + +Solomon for these few minutes had been on the old level of a brotherly +argument, but now he arose suddenly to his latter heights. + +“I believe that the end of the world is near, that the great and +dreadful day of the Lord is at hand, accordin’ to prophecy and +revelation,” he proclaimed, and his eyes shone under his high forehead +as under a majestic dome of thought and inspiration. + +Simeon whistled. “Ye don’t, though. Look at here, Solomon; tell ye what +I’ll do. I’ll put ye to the test. Look at here, you say the world’s +comin’ to an end next Thursday. Well, it stands to reason if it is, +that you ’ain’t got no more need of temporal goods. S’pose--you give me +a deed of this ’ere farm?” + +Solomon stared at his brother. + +Simeon shook his fist at him slowly. “_Ye won’t do it_,” he said, with +a triumphant chuckle. + +“I _will_ do it.” + +“Git Lawyer Bascombe to draw up the papers to-morrow?” + +“_I will_.” + +“Me to take possession by daylight next Friday mornin’, if the world +don’t come to an end Thursday night?” + +“_Yes_,” replied Solomon, hurling the word at his brother like a stone. + +Simeon got up and buttoned his coat over his lean chest. “Well,” said +he, “I’ve had pretty hard luck. I’ve lost three wives, and I’ve been +burnt out twice, an’ the last house ain’t none too tight. I’ll move +right in here next Friday mornin’ at daylight. Mebbe I’ll get married +again.” + +“Much good will the heaping up of barns an’ storehouses do when you +hear the voice of the Lord saying, ‘Thou fool, this night shall thy +soul be required of thee,’” returned his brother; but he spoke the +fervid words with a certain feebleness. All his life since he was a +boy had Solomon Lennox toiled and saved to own this noble farm. The +bare imagination of giving it up to another cost him much, although he +firmly believed that in a week’s space it would be only a modicum of +the blackened ashes of a world. He stood the test of his faith, but he +felt the scorch of sacrificial flame. + +“It ain’t me that’s the fool,” said Simeon, shrugging himself into his +great-coat. “I ain’t goin’ to hang back with my soul when it’s required +of me, but I ain’t goin’ to keep chuckin’ of it in the face of the Lord +afore He’s ready for it, like some folks I know. Them’s the fools. +When’ll you be down to Lawyer Bascombe’s to-morrow, Solomon, to deed +away these barns an’ storehouses that you ’ain’t no more use for?” + +“I’ll be down there at nine o’clock to-morrow mornin’.” + +“All right; you can count on me,” said Simeon. He went out, and +Solomon bolted the door after him promptly. But he had no sooner +returned to the kitchen than there came a sharp tap on the window, and +there was Simeon’s hard leering old face pressed against the pane. +“You’ll--have--to--fetch Sophy Anne down there to-morrow,” he called. +“She’ll--have to sign that deed too, or it won’t stan’.” + +“All right,” shouted Solomon, and the face at the window, with a +parting nod, disappeared. + +Lawyer Bascombe’s office was in the centre of the village, over the +store. A steep flight of stairs at the right of the store led to it. Up +these stairs, at nine o’clock the next morning, climbed Solomon Lennox +and his wife Sophia Anne, with pale devoted faces, and signed away all +their earthly goods as an evidence of their faith. + +In some way the matter had become known in the village. When Solomon +and Sophia Anne came down the stairs there was quite a crowd before the +door, standing back with awed curiosity to let them pass. Simeon Lennox +did not leave at once after the signing of the deed. When he appeared +in the doorway with a roll of paper in his hand the crowd had dispersed. + +Without any doubt this act of Solomon Lennox and his wife materially +strengthened their cause. When it became known that they had +actually signed away their property in their confidence that days of +property-holding were over, even scoffers began to look serious. That +evening the meeting at Solomon Lennox’s house numbered a third more +than usual. The next evening it was doubled, and the best room as well +as the kitchen was filled. Solomon stood at the foot of the stairs in +the entry between the rooms and exhorted, while the deaf-and-dumb boy’s +slate circulated among the awe-stricken people. + +Isaac Penfield came to no more meetings, and he did not see Melissa +again until Tuesday. Late Tuesday afternoon she went up to the village +store with a basket of eggs. The days of barter were nearly over, +as she had been taught to believe, but there was no molasses in the +house, and the poor deaf-and-dumb boy was weeping for it with uncouth +grief, and could not be comforted by the prospect of eternal joys. +When Melissa came out of the store with the bottle of molasses in her +basket, Isaac Penfield’s bay mare and chaise were drawn up before the +platform, and Isaac stood waiting. Melissa started and colored when she +saw him. + +“Get in, please,” he said, motioning her towards the chaise. + +She looked at him falteringly. + +“Get in, please, Melissa; I want to speak to you.” + +The bay mare was restive, tossing her head and pawing with one delicate +fore foot. Isaac could scarcely keep her quiet until Melissa got in. +When he took the reins she gave a leap forward, and the chaise swung +about with a lurch. Isaac threw himself back and held the reins taut; +the mare flew down the road, pulling hard on her bits; the chaise +rocked high on the frozen road. Melissa sat still, her delicate face +retired within the dark depths of her silk hood. + +Isaac did not speak to her until they reached the foot of a long hill. +“I want to ask you something,” he said then, with a wary eye still on +the straining shoulders of the mare. “I want to ask you again to give +this up.” + +Melissa did not speak. + +“Won’t you promise me?” + +“I can’t,” she said, faintly. + +“You can if you will.” Suddenly Isaac leaned over her. “Won’t you +promise _me_, Melissa?” + +She shrank away from him. “I--can’t. I believe father.” + +“Melissa, you don’t.” + +“I do,” said she, with a despairing sob. + +Isaac Penfield bent his face down close to hers. “Can’t you believe me +as well as your father? Melissa, look at me.” + +Melissa bent her head down over her hands. + +“Look at me, Melissa.” + +She raised her head slowly as if there were a constraining hand under +her chin, and her eyes met his. + +“Can’t you, Melissa?” + +Fair locks of hair fell over the girl’s gentle cheeks; her soft mouth +quivered. It seemed as if her piteous blue eyes were only upheld by +the look in the young man’s, and as if all the individual thought and +purpose in her face and her whole soul were being overcast by his +imperious will, but she shook her head. + +“Can’t you, Melissa?” + +She shook her head again. + +Isaac Penfield’s face turned white. He touched the whip to the mare, +and she gave a sharp bound forward. They had not much farther to go. +Neither of them spoke again until Isaac assisted Melissa out of the +chaise at her own gate. + +“Good-bye,” he said then, shortly. + +Melissa looked up at him and caught her breath. She could not speak. +Isaac sprang into his chaise, and was out of the yard with a sharp +grate of wheels, and she went into the house. + +Her mother was setting chairs in order for the evening meeting. She +looked up sharply as Melissa entered. + +“Who was that brought you home?” said she. + +“Isaac Penfield,” replied Melissa, turning her face from her mother’s +eyes. + +“I hope you ain’t letting your thoughts dwell on anything of that kind +now,” said her mother. + +“I met him as I was coming out of the store, and he asked me to ride. I +sha’n’t ever see him again,” Melissa returned, faintly. + +The deaf-and-dumb boy had been dozing with gaping mouth in his +chimney-corner. Now he waked, and caught sight of his sister and the +basket, and hastened to her with a cry of uncouth hunger and greediness. + +“In a minute, sonny,” Melissa said, in a sobbing voice; “wait a +minute.” She held the basket aloof while she removed her hood and shawl. + +“You may see him on his way to the outer darkness,” said her mother, +with solemn vindictiveness. + +“Mother, he has repented; he is a member of the church,” Melissa cried +out, with sudden sharpness. + +“Repentance avails nothing without faith,” returned her mother, setting +down a chair so heavily that the deaf-and-dumb boy started at the +concussion and looked about him wonderingly. + +“He has repented; he is a member of the church; he is safe,” Melissa +cried again. + +“I tell you he is not,” said her mother. + +Melissa went into the pantry with her brother at her elbow, and +prepared for him a plate of bread and molasses. The tears fell over +her cheeks, but Alonzo noticed nothing. His greedy eyes were fixed on +the food. When it was ready for him he sat down on his stool in the +chimney-corner and devoured it with loud smacks of his lips. That was +all the evening meal prepared in the Lennox house that night. After +the chairs were set in order for the meeting, Melissa and her mother +sat down close to the fire and sewed on some white stuff which flowed +in voluminous folds over their knees to the floor. Solomon came in +presently, and seated himself with the great Bible on his knees. He +read silently, but now and then gesticulated fiercely, as if he read +aloud. + +The meeting began at half-past six. About a quarter of an hour before, +the outer door was heard opening, and there was a shuffling step and a +clearing cough in the entry. + +“It’s your uncle Simeon,” whispered Mrs. Lennox to Melissa, and her +mouth took on a severer tension. + +Solomon frowned over the Holy Writ on his knee. + +Simeon advanced into the room, his heavy boots clapping the floor +with a dull clatter as of wood, dispelling the solemn stillness. His +grinning old face, blue with the cold, was sunk in the collar of his +great-coat. He rubbed his hands together as he approached the fire. + +“Well, how are ye all?” he remarked, with a chuckle, as if there were a +joke in the speech. + +Nobody replied. Simeon pulled a chair up close to the fire and sat down. + +“It’s tarnal cold,” said he, leaning over and spreading out his old +hands to the blaze. + +“The brands are all ready for the burning,” said his sister-in-law, in +a hollow, trembling voice. She drew a long thread through the white +stuff on her knee. + +Simeon turned suddenly and looked at her with a flash of small bright +eyes. Then he laughed. “Lord bless ye, Sophy Anne, I forgot how tarnal +hot you folks are calculatin’ to have it day after to-morrow,” said +he. “Well, if you fail in your calculations, an’ the cold continues, +I shall be mighty glad to come in here. My house is darned cold this +weather, and Abby Mosely ain’t particular ’bout the doors; seems to +me sometimes as if I was settin’ in a hurricane the heft of the time, +and as if my idees were gettin’ on a slant. Abby thinks she’s goin’ up +Thursday, and I wish in thunder she would. I wouldn’t have her another +day, if she wa’n’t a lone woman and nowheres to go. She ain’t no kind +of a cook. Look at here, Sophy Anne--” + +Mrs. Lennox sewed on with compressed lips. + +“Sophy Anne, look at here. You ’ain’t got no mince-pies on hand now, +have you?” + +“No, I ’ain’t.” + +“Well, I didn’t much s’pose you’d made any, you’ve been so busy gettin’ +ready to fly lately. Look at here, Sophy Anne, don’t you feel as if you +could roll me out a few mince-pies to-morrow, hey?” + +Mrs. Lennox looked at him. + +“I dun’no’ when I’ve eat a decent mince-pie,” pursued Simeon. “Abby +Mosely keeps the commandments, but she can’t make pies that’s fit to +eat. I ’ain’t had a mince-pie I could eat since my last wife died. I +wish you’d contrive an’ roll me out a few, Sophy Anne. Your mince-pies +used to go ahead of Maria’s; she always said they did. If the world +don’t come to an end day after to-morrow, I’d take a sight of comfort +with ’em, and I’ll be darned, if it does come to an end, if I don’t +think I’d have a chance to eat one or two of ’em before the fire got +round to me. Can’t ye do it, Sophy Anne, nohow?” + +“No, I can’t.” + +“Can’t ye roll me out just half a dozen mince-pies?” + +“I will never roll out a mince-pie for you, Simeon Lennox,” said Sophia +Anne, with icy fervor. + +“Ye never will?” + +“No, I never will.” Sophia Anne’s stern eyes in their hollow blue +orbits met his. + +Simeon chuckled; then he turned to his brother. “Well, Sol’mon, s’pose +you’re flappin’ all ready to fly?” he said. + +Solomon made no reply. He frowned over the great volume on his knees. +The deaf-and-dumb boy had set his empty plate on the hearth and fallen +asleep again, with his head tilted against the jamb. Melissa sewed, her +pale face bent closely over her work. + +“Hear ye are goin’ to fly from Penfield’s hill?” said Simeon. + +Still Solomon said nothing. + +“Well, I s’pose that’s as good a place as any,” said Simeon, “though +’tain’t a very high hill. I should ’most think you’d want a higher hill +than Penfield’s. I s’pose you’ll be kind of unhandy with your wings +at first, an’ start off something like hens. But then I s’pose a few +feet more or less won’t make no odds when they get fairly to workin’. I +heard the women was makin’ flyin’-petticoats. Them what you’re to work +on, Sophy Anne, you and Melissy?” + +Sophia Anne gave one look at him, then she took a stitch. + +“Abby Mosely’s to work on one, I guess,” said Simeon. “She’s ben +a-settin’ in a heap of white cloth a-sewin’ for three days. I came in +once, an’ she was tryin’ of it on, an’ she slipped out of it mighty +sudden. All I’ve got to say is she’ll cut a queer figure flyin’. She’s +pretty hefty. I miss my guess if she don’t find it a job to strike out +at first. Now I should think you might take to flyin’ pretty natural, +Sophy Anne.” + +Mrs. Lennox’s pale face was flushed with anger, but she sewed on +steadily. + +“As for Melissy,” said Simeon, in his chuckling drawl, “I ruther guess +she could fly without much practice too. She’s built light; but it +strikes me she’d better have a weddin’-gown than a flyin’-petticoat. +Young Penfield goin’ to fly with you, Melissy?” + +Solomon Lennox closed the Bible with a great clap. “I’ll have no more +of this!” he said, with a shout of long-repressed fury. + +“Now, Solomon, don’t ye get riled so near the end of the world,” +drawled his brother, getting up slowly. “I’m a-goin’. I ain’t goin’ +to be the means of makin’ you backslide when ye’re so nigh the top of +Zion’s Hill. I’m a-goin’ home. I don’t s’pose I shall get no supper on +account of Abby’s hurryin’ up on her flyin’-petticoat. Sure you ain’t +goin’ to make them mince-pies for me, Sophy Anne?” + +“Yes, I be sure.” + +The brother-in-law thrust his sharp old face down close to Sophia +Anne’s. “Sure?” he repeated. + +Sophia Anne started back and stared at him. There was something strange +in his manner. + +The old man laughed, and straightened himself. “Well, I’m a-goin’,” +said he. “Good-bye. Mebbe I sha’n’t see ye again before ye fly. Hope +ye’ll light easy. Good-bye.” + +After Simeon had closed the door, he opened it again, and thrust his +sharp features through a narrow aperture. “Look at here, Solomon,” said +he. “Mind ye leave the key in the door when ye go out to fly Thursday +night. I want to come right in.” Then Simeon shut the door again, but +his malicious laugh could be plainly heard in the entry. + +He did not go straight home as he had said, but up the road to Lawyer +Bascombe’s office. When he returned, the meeting in his brother’s house +was in session, and the windows were dark with heads against the red +firelight. Old Simeon stared up at them, and laughed aloud to himself +as he went by. “Sophy Anne won’t make me no mince-pies. She’s sure +on’t,” he said, and laughed again. + +The next day all the ordinary routine of life seemed at a standstill +in the village. The storekeeper had become a convert, the store was +closed, and the green inside shutters were fastened. Now and then +a village loafer lounged disconsolately up, shook the door on its +rattling lock, stared at the shuttered windows, then lounged away, +muttering. The summer resting-place of his kind, the long, bewhittled +wooden bench on the store platform, could not be occupied that wintry +day. The air was clear, and the dry pastures were white and stiff with +the hoar-frost; the slants of the roofs glistened with it in the sun. +The breaths of the people going to and from Solomon Lennox’s house were +like white smoke. The meeting began at dawn. Children were dragged +hither at their parents’ heels, cold and breakfastless. Not a meal was +cooked that day in the houses of Solomon Lennox’s followers. All the +precious hours were spent in fasting and prayer. Towards night the +excitement deepened. There was present within the village a spiritual +convulsion as real as any other convulsion of nature, and as truly +although more subtly felt. Even they who had scoffed and laughed at +this new movement from the first, and were now practically untouched by +it, grew nervous and ill at ease towards night as from the gathering of +a storm. The air seemed charged with electricity generated by the touch +of human thought and faith with the Unknown. The unbelievers pressed +their faces against the window-panes, shading their eyes from the +light within as the dusk deepened, or stood out in their yards watching +the sky, half fearful they should indeed see some sign or marvel +therein. + +But the night came on, and the stars shone out in their order as they +had done from the first, and there was no sign but the old one of +eternal love and beauty in the sky. The moon arose at nine o’clock, +nearly at her full. That, from some interpretation of symbolical +characters on the deaf-and-dumb boy’s slate, had been fixed upon as the +hour of meeting upon Penfield’s hill. The solemn and dreadful moment +which was to mark the climax of all creation was expected between that +hour and dawn. + +At half-past eight white-robed figures began to move along the road. +People peeped around their curtains to see them pass; now and then +belated children ran shrieking with terror into the houses at sight of +them. + +Beside the road, close to the gate which led to the wide field at the +foot of Penfield’s hill, under the shadow of a clump of hemlocks, Isaac +Penfield had been waiting since quarter past eight o’clock. When the +white company came in sight he drew farther back within the shadow, +scanning the people eagerly as they passed. + +Solomon Lennox and Deacon Scranton let down the bars, and the people +passed through silently, crowding each other whitely like a flock of +sheep. Sophia Anne, the deaf-and-dumb boy holding fast to her hand, was +among the first. + +Isaac had expected to see Melissa close to her mother; but she had +become separated from her and came among the last. + +Her slender figure was hidden in her flowing white robes, but there was +no mistaking her gentle faltering gait and the delicate bend of her +fair uncovered head. + +Isaac stepped forward suddenly, threw his arm around Melissa, and +drew her back with him within the shadow of the hemlocks. Nobody saw +it but Abby Mosely, Simeon Lennox’s housekeeper, and she was too +panic-stricken to heed it intelligently; she went panting on after the +others in her voluminous white robe, and left Melissa alone with Isaac +Penfield. + +Isaac pressed Melissa’s head close to his breast, leaned his face down +to hers, and whispered long in her ear. She listened trembling and +unresisting; then she broke away from him weakly, “I can’t, I can’t,” +she moaned. But he caught her again, and whispered again with his lips +close to her soft pale cheek, and frequent kisses between the words. + +“Come, now, sweetheart,” he said at length, and attempted to draw her +with him into the road; but she pulled herself away from him again, and +stood warding him off with her white-draped arms. + +“I can’t, I can’t,” she moaned again. “I must go with father and +mother.” + +“I tell you they are wrong; can’t you believe me?” + +“I--must--go with them.” + +“No; come with me, Melissa.” + +Melissa, still with her arms raised against him, looked away over the +meadow, full of moving white figures. The moon shone out over it, and +it gleamed like a field of Paradise peopled with angels. Then she +looked up in her lover’s face, and suddenly it was to her as if she saw +therein the new earth of all her dreams. + +Solomon Lennox and his followers kept on to Penfield’s hill, which +arose before them crowned with silver, and Isaac Penfield hastened down +the road to the village, half carrying Melissa’s little white-clad +figure, wrapped against the cold in his own gray cloak. + +Early the next morning a small company of pallid shivering people crept +through the village to their homes. Many had weakened and deserted +long before dawn, chilled to their very thoughts and fancies by their +long vigil on the hill-top. Young girls ran home, crying aloud like +children, and men half dragged hysterical wives rigid with chills. +Solomon Lennox and his wife remained until the dawn light shone; then +he beckoned to her and the whimpering deaf-and-dumb boy, and led the +way down the hill without a word. He never looked at the rest of the +company, but they followed silently. + +The Penfield house was about a quarter of a mile from the pasture bars. +When they reached it, Isaac stood waiting at the gate. He went up to +Solomon, who was passing without a look, and touched his arm with an +impatient yet respectful gesture. “You and Mrs. Lennox and Lonny had +better come in here, I think,” he said. + +Solomon was moving on with dull obstinacy, but Isaac laid his hand +on his arm. “I--think you have--forgotten,” he said. “I am sorry, +but--your brother Simeon has--taken possession of your house.” + +Solomon stared at him dully. He did not seem to comprehend. Sophia Anne +looked as blue and bloodless in her white robe as if she were dead. +She had scarce more control of her trembling tongue than if it were +paralyzed, but her highly strung feminine nerves gave out vibrations +still. + +“Has Simeon took possession?” she demanded, fiercely. + +Isaac Penfield nodded. “I think it would be pleasanter for you to come +in here now,” he said. Then he hesitated, and colored suddenly. “Your +daughter is in here,” he added. + +Sophia Anne gave a keen glance at him. Then she turned in at the +gate with a sharp twitch at the arm of the deaf-and-dumb boy, who +was making strange cries and moans, like a distressed animal. “Come, +father,” she called, impatiently; and Solomon also entered the Penfield +gate with a piteous, dazed air. + +In the great south room of the Penfield house were Melissa and Mrs. +Martha Joyce, the housekeeper. Mrs. Joyce was mixing something in a +steaming bowl; Melissa sat still, gazing at the fire. She was dressed +in a blue satin gown and fine lace tucker, which had belonged to Isaac +Penfield’s mother. Madam Penfield had been nearly Melissa’s size, and +the gown fitted her slender figure daintily. She sat with her fair head +bent, the color coming and going in her soft cheeks, as if from her own +thoughts. Her little hands were folded in her blue satin lap, and on +one finger gleamed a great pearl, which Madam Penfield had used to wear. + +When the door opened and her parents entered, she half started up, with +a great blush; then she sank back, trembling and pale. + +Isaac Penfield crossed over to her, and laid his hand on her shoulder. +“She is my wife,” he said. “We were married last night.” + +Sophia Anne made a faint gesture, which might have expressed anything. +Solomon staggered to a chair without a look. In truth, when they +entered the warm room, and the long strain of resistance against cold +and fatigue ceased, exhaustion overcame them. Mrs. Joyce administered +hot porridge and cordials, and Melissa knelt down in her blue satin and +rubbed her mother’s benumbed hands. + +Solomon took whatever was offered him, meekly, like a child. His face +was changed; the look which it had worn during the greater part of +his life, the expression of himself within his old worn channel, had +returned. + +He was sitting by the fire, sipping cordial, when his brother Simeon +came in; he had not even noticed the brazen clang of the knocker. + +Simeon came tiptoeing around in front of his brother, thrust down his +face on a level with his, and peered at him with a sharp twinkle of +black eyes. Then he looked at Sophia Anne, and chuckled. “’Pears to me +wings didn’t work very well,” said he. + +Simeon had a roll of paper in his hand. He went to the desk, and spread +it out ostentatiously. Then he began to read in a high, solemn voice, +with an undertone of merriment in it. “Know all men by these presents,” +began Simeon Lennox, and read straight through the deed, with all its +strange legal formalities, by which his brother Solomon had conveyed +his worldly goods to him. + +Sophia Anne writhed in her chair as Simeon read. She was on a rack of +torture, and every new word was a turn of the screw. Solomon set his +tumbler of cordial on the hearth, and rested his head on his hands. + +After Simeon had finished reading the deed, he paused for a moment. +Sophia Anne gave a dry sob. + +Then Simeon cleared his throat, and continued: “The foregoing I do +hereby declare null and void, and I do hereby remise, release, sell, +and forever quitclaim, for myself and my heirs, by these presents, the +aforementioned premises, with all the privileges and appurtenances +thereunto belonging, to the said Solomon Lennon, his heirs and assigns +forever, in consideration that Sophia Anne, the wife of said Solomon +Lennox, shall, during the term of her natural life, unless she be +prevented by sickness from so doing, make, mix, season, and bake for +me with her own hands, with her best skill, according to her own +conscience, seven mince pies during every week of the year, with one +extra for every Independence and Thanksgiving day, and that the said +Sophia Anne, the wife of the said Solomon Lennox, shall hereunto set +her hand and seal.” + +Simeon looked at Sophia Anne. She stared back at him, speechless. + +“Well, what ye goin’ to do about it, Sophy Anne?” said Simeon. + +Sophia Anne still looked at him as if he were a blank wall against +which her very spirit had been brought to a standstill. + +“Goin’ to sign it, Sophy Anne?” + +Sophia Anne got up. Her knees trembled, but she motioned back Isaac +Penfield’s proffered arm. She went to the desk, sat down, took the +quill, dipped it carefully in the inkstand, and shook it lest it blot. +Her lean arm crooked as stiffly as a stick, her lips were a blue line, +but she wrote her name with sharply rippling strokes, and laid the pen +down. + +“Sure ye won’t make them mince pies, Sophy Anne?” said Simeon. + +Sophia Anne made no reply. She put her elbow on the desk, and leaned +her head on her hand. Simeon looked at her a moment, then he gave her a +rough pat on her shoulder and turned and went to the window, and stood +there, staring out. + +Melissa was weeping softly; Isaac stood beside her, smoothing her hair +tenderly. The deaf-and-dumb boy’s fair head hung helplessly over his +shoulder. He had fallen asleep with the tears on his cheeks. + +The morning sunlight shone broadly into the room over them all, but +Solomon Lennox did not seem to heed that or anything that was around +him, sitting sadly within himself: a prophet brooding over the ashes of +his own prophetic fire. + + + + +THE LITTLE MAID AT THE DOOR + + +Joseph Bayley and his wife Ann came riding down from Salem village. +They had started from their home in Newbury the day before, and had +stayed overnight with their relative, Sergeant Thomas Putnam, in Salem +village; they were on their way to the election in Boston. The road +wound along through the woods from Salem to Lynn; it was some time +since they had passed a house. + +May was nearly gone; the pinks and the blackberry vines were in flower. +All the woods were full of an indefinite and composite fragrance, +made up of the breaths of myriads of green plants and seen and unseen +blossoms, like a very bouquet of spring. The newly leaved trees cast +shadows that were as much a part of the tender surprise of the spring +as the new flowers. They flickered delicately before Joseph Bayley and +his wife Ann on the grassy ridges of the road, but they did not remark +them. Their own fancies cast gigantic projections which eclipsed the +sweet show of the spring and almost their own personalities. That year +the leaves came out and the flowers bloomed in vain for the people in +and about Salem village. There was epidemic a disease of the mind which +deafened and blinded to all save its own pains. + +Ann Bayley on the pillion snuggled closely against her husband’s back; +her fearful eyes peered at the road around his shoulder. She was a +young and handsome woman; she had on her best mantle of sad-colored +silk, and a fine black hood with a topknot, but she did not think of +that. + +“Joseph, what is that in the road before us?” she whispered, timorously. + +He pulled up the horse with a great jerk. “Where?” he whispered back. + +“There! there! at the right; just beyond that laurel thicket. ’Tis +somewhat black, an’ it moves. There! there! Oh, Joseph!” + +Joseph Bayley sat stiff and straight in his saddle, like a soldier; his +face was pale and stern, his eyes full of horror and defiance. + +“See you it?” Ann whispered again. “There! now it moves. What is it?” + +“I see it,” said Joseph, in a loud, bold voice. “An’ whatever it be, I +will yield not to it; an’ neither will you, goodwife.” + +Ann reached around and caught at the reins. “Let us go back,” she +moaned, faintly. “Oh, Joseph, let us not pass it. My spirit faints +within me. I see its back among the laurel blooms. ’Tis the black beast +they tell of. Let us turn back, Joseph, let us turn back!” + +“Be still, woman!” returned her husband, jerking the reins from her +hand. “What think ye ’twould profit us to turn back to Salem village? +I trow if there be one black beast here, there is a full herd of them +there. There is naught left but to ride past it as best we may. Sit +fast, an’ listen you not to it, whatever it promise you.” Joseph looked +down the road towards the laurel bushes, his muscles now as tense as +a bow. Ann hid her face on his shoulder. Suddenly he shouted, with a +great voice like a herald: “Away with ye, ye cursed beast! away with +ye! We are not of your kind; we are gospel folk. We have naught to do +with you or your master. Away with ye!” + +The horse leaped forward. There was a great cracking among the laurel +bushes at the right, a glossy black back and some white horns heaved +over them, then some black flanks plunged heavily out of sight. + +“Oh!” shrieked Ann, “has it gone? Goodman, has it gone?” + +“The Lord hath delivered us from the snare of the enemy,” answered +Joseph, solemnly. + +“What looked it like, Joseph, what looked it like?” + +“Like no beast that was saved in the ark.” + +“Had it fiery eyes?” asked Ann, trembling. + +“’Tis well you did not see them.” + +“Ride fast! oh, ride fast!” Ann pleaded, clutching hard at her +husband’s cloak. “It may follow on our track.” The horse went down the +road at a quick trot. Ann kept peering back and starting at every sound +in the woods. “Do you mind the tale Samuel Endicott told last night?” +she said, shuddering. “How on his voyage to Barbadoes he, sitting on +the windlass on a bright moonshining night, was shook violently, and +saw the appearance of that witch Goody Bradbury, with a white cap and a +white neckcloth on her? It was a dreadful tale.” + +“It was naught to the sight of Mercy Lewis and Sergeant Thomas Putnam’s +daughter Ann, when they were set upon and nigh choked to death by Goody +Proctor. Know you that within a half-mile we must pass the Proctor +house?” + +Ann gave a shuddering sigh. “I would I were home again!” she moaned. +“They said ’twas full of evil things, and that the black man himself +kept tavern there since Goodman Proctor and his wife were in jail. Did +you mind what Goodwife Putnam said of the black head, like a hog’s, +that Goodman Perley saw at the keeping-room window as he passed, and +the rumbling noises, and the yellow birds that flew around the chimney +and twittered in a psalm tune? Oh, Joseph, there is a yellow bird now +in the birch-tree--see! see!” + +They had come into a little space where the woods were thinner. Joseph +urged his horse forward. + +“We will not slack our pace for any black beasts nor any yellow birds,” +he cried, in a valiant voice. + +There was a passing gleam of little yellow wings above the birch-tree. + +“He has flown away,” said Ann. “’Tis best to front them as you do, +goodman, but I have not the courage. That looked like a common +yellow-bird; his wings shone like gold. Think you it has gone forward +to the Proctor house?” + +“It matters not, so it but fly up before us,” said Joseph Bayley. + +He was somewhat older than Ann; fair-haired and fair-bearded, with blue +eyes set so deeply under heavy brows that they looked black. His face +was at once stern and nervous, showing not only the spirit of warfare +against his foes, but the elements of strife within himself. + +They rode on, and the woods grew thicker; the horse’s hoofs made only a +faint liquid pad on the mossy road. Suddenly he stopped and whinnied. +Ann clutched her husband’s arm; they sat motionless, listening; the +horse whinnied again. + +Suddenly Joseph started violently, and stared into the woods on the +left, and Ann also. A long defile of dark evergreens stretched up the +hill, with mysterious depths of blue-black shadows between them; the +air had an earthy dampness. + +Joseph shook the reins fiercely over the horse’s back, and shouted to +him in a loud voice. + +“Did you see it?” gasped Ann, when they had come into a lighter place. +“Was it not a black man?” + +“Fear not; we have outridden him,” said her husband, setting his thin +intense face proudly ahead. + +“I would we were safe home in Newbury,” Ann moaned. “I would we had +never set out. Think you not Dr. Mather will ride back from Boston with +us to keep the witches off? I will bide there forever, if he will not. +I will never come this dreadful road again, else. What is that? Oh, +what is that? ’Tis a voice coming out of the woods like a great roar. +_Joseph!_ What is _that_? That was a black cat run across the road +into the bushes. ’Twas a black cat. Joseph, let us turn back! No; the +black man is behind us, and the beast. What shall we do? What shall we +do? Oh, oh, I begin to twitch like Ann and Mercy last night! My feet +move, and I cannot stop them! Now there is a pin thrust in my arm! I am +pinched! There are fingers at my throat! Joseph! Joseph!” + +“Go to prayer, sweetheart,” shouted Joseph. “Go to prayer. Be not +afraid. ’Twill drive them away. Away with ye, Goody Bradbury! Away, +Goody Proctor! Go to prayer, go to prayer!” + +Joseph bent low in the saddle and lashed the horse, which sprang +forward with a mighty bound; the green branches rushed in their faces. +Joseph prayed in a loud voice. Ann clung to him convulsively, panting +for breath. Suddenly they came out of the woods into a cleared space. + +“The Proctor house! the Proctor house!” Ann shrieked. “Mercy Lewis +said ’twas full of devils. What shall we do?” She hid her face on her +husband’s shoulder, sobbing and praying. + +The Proctor house stood at the left of the road; there were some +peach-trees in front of it, and their blossoms showed in a pink spray +against the gray unpainted walls. On one side of the house was the +great barn, with its doors wide open; on the other, a deep ploughed +field, with the plough sticking in a furrow. John Proctor had been +arrested and thrown into jail for witchcraft in April, before his +spring planting was done. + +Joseph Bayley reined in his horse opposite the Proctor house. “Ann,” he +whispered, and his whisper was full of horror. + +“What is it?” she returned, wildly. + +“Ann, Goodman Proctor looks forth from the chamber window, and Goody +Proctor stands outside by the well, and they are both in jail in +Boston.” Joseph’s whole frame shook in a strange rigid fashion, as if +his joints were locked. “Look, Ann!” he whispered. + +“I cannot.” + +“Look!” + +Ann turned her head. “Why,” she said, and her voice was quite natural +and sweet, it had even a tone of glad relief in it, “I see naught but a +little maid in the door.” + +“See you not Goodman Proctor in the window?” + +“Nay,” said Ann, smiling; “I see naught but the little maid in the +door. She is in a blue petticoat, and she has a yellow head, but her +little cheeks are pale, I trow.” + +“See you not Goodwife Proctor in the yard by the well?” asked Joseph. + +“Nay, goodman; I see naught but the little maid in the door. She has +a fair face, but now she falls a-weeping. Oh, I fear lest she be all +alone in the house.” + +“I tell you, Goodman Proctor and Goodwife Proctor are both there,” +returned Joseph. “Think you I see not with my own eyes? Goodman Proctor +has on a red cap, and Goodwife Proctor holds a spindle.” He urged on +the horse with a sudden cry. “Now the prayers do stick in my throat,” +he groaned. “I would we were out of this devil’s nest!” + +“Oh, Joseph,” implored Ann, “prithee wait a minute! The little maid +is calling ‘mother’ after me. Saw you not how she favored our little +Susanna who died? Hear her! There was naught there but the little maid. +Joseph, I pray you, stop.” + +“Nay; I’ll ride till the nag drops,” said Joseph Bayley, with a lash. +“This last be too much. I tell ye they are there, and they are also in +jail. ’Tis hellish work.” + +Ann said no more for a little space; a curve in the road hid the +Proctor house from sight. Suddenly she raised a great cry. “Oh! oh!” +she screamed, “’tis gone; ’tis gone from my foot!” + +Joseph stopped. “What is gone?” + +“My shoe; but now I missed it from my foot. I must alight, and go back +for it.” + +Joseph started the horse again. + +Ann caught at the reins. “Stop, goodman,” she cried, imperatively. “I +tell you I must have my shoe.” + +“And I tell you I’ll stop for no shoe in this place, were it made of +gold.” + +“Goodman, you know not what shoe ’tis. ’Tis one of my fine shoes, in +which I have never taken steps. They have the crimson silk lacings. I +have even carried them in my hand to the meeting-house on a Sabbath, +wearing my old ones, and only put them on at the door. Think you I will +lose that shoe? Stop the nag.” + +But Joseph kept on grimly. + +“Think you I will go barefoot or with one shoe into Boston?” said Ann. +“Know you that these shoes, which were a present from my mother, cost +bravely? I trow you will needs loosen your purse strings well before we +pass the first shop in Boston. Well, go on, an’ you will, when ’tis but +a matter of my slipping down from the pillion and running back a few +yards.” + +Joseph Bayley turned his horse about; but Ann remonstrated. + +“Nay,” said she; “I want not to go thus. I am tired of the saddle. I +would like to feel my feet for a space.” + +Her husband looked around at her with wonder and suspicion. Dark +thoughts came into his mind. + +She laughed. “Nay,” said she, “make no such face at me. I go not back +to meet any black man nor sign any book. I go for my fine shoe with the +crimson lacing.” + +“’Tis but a moment since you were afraid,” said Joseph. “Have you no +fear now?” His blue eyes looked sharply into hers. + +She looked back at him soberly and innocently. “In truth, I feel no +such fear as I did,” she answered. “If I mistake not, your bold front +and your prayers drove away the evil ones. I will say a psalm as I go, +and I trow naught will harm me.” + +Ann slipped lightly down from the pillion, and pulled off her one +remaining shoe and her stockings; they were her fine worked silk ones, +and she could not walk in them over the rough road. Then she set forth +very slowly, peering here and there in the undergrowth beside the road, +until she passed the curve and the reach of her husband’s eyes. Then +she gathered up her crimson taffeta petticoat and ran like a deer, with +long graceful leaps, looking neither to right nor left, straight back +to the Proctor house. + +In the door of the house stood a tiny girl with a soft shock of yellow +hair. She wore a little straight blue gown, and her baby feet were +bare, curling over the sunny door-step. When she saw Ann coming she +started as if to run; then she stood still, her soft eyes wary, her +mouth quivering. + +Ann Bayley ran up quickly, and threw her arms around her, kneeling down +on the step. “What is your name, little maid?” said she, in a loving, +agitated voice. + +“Abigail Proctor,” replied the little maid, shyly, in her sweet +childish treble. Then she tried to free herself, but Ann held her fast. + +“Nay, be not afraid, sweet,” said she. “I love you. I once had a little +maid like you for my own. Tell me, dear heart, are you all alone in the +house?” + +Then the child fell to crying again, and clung around Ann’s neck. + +“Is there anybody in the house, sweet?” Ann whispered, fondling her, +and pressing the wet baby cheek to her own. + +“The constables came and took them,” sobbed the little maid. “They put +my poppet down the well, and they pulled mother and Sarah down the +road. They took father before that, and Mary Warren did gibe and point. +The constables pulled Benjamin away too. I want my mother.” + +“Your mother shall come again,” said Ann. “Take comfort, dear little +heart, they cannot have the will to keep her long away. There, there, +I tell you she shall come. You watch in the door, and you will see her +come down the road.” + +She smoothed back the little maid’s yellow hair, and wiped the tears +from her little face with a corner of her beautiful embroidered +neckerchief. Then she saw that the face was all grimy with tears and +dust, and she went over to the well, which was near the door, and drew +a bucket of water swiftly with her strong young arms; then she wet the +corner of the neckerchief and scrubbed the little maid’s face, bidding +her shut her eyes. Then she kissed her over and over. + +“Now you are sweet and clean,” said she. “Dear little heart, I have +some sugar cakes in my bag for you, and then I must be gone.” + +The little maid looked at her eagerly, her cheeks were waxen, and the +blue veins showed in her full childish forehead. Ann pulled some little +cakes out of a red velvet satchel she wore at her waist, and Abigail +reached out for one with a hungry cry. The tears sprang to Ann’s eyes; +she put the rest of the cakes in a little pile on the door-stone, and +watched the child eat. Then she gathered her up in her arms. + +“Good-bye, sweetheart,” she said, kissing the soft trembling mouth, the +sweet hollow under the chin, and the clinging hands. “Before long I +shall come this way again, and do you stand in the door when I go past.” + +She put her down and hastened away, but little Abigail ran after her. +Ann stopped and knelt and fondled her again. + +“Go back, deary,” she pleaded; “go back, and eat the sugar cakes.” + +But this beautiful kind vision in the crimson taffeta, with the rosy +cheeks and sweet black eyes looking out from the French hood, with the +gleam of gold and delicate embroidery between the silken folds of her +mantilla, with the ways like her mother’s, was more to little deserted +Abigail Proctor than the sugar cakes, although she was sorely hungry +for them. She stood aloof with pitiful determined eyes until Ann’s back +was turned, then, as she followed, Ann looked around and saw her and +caught her up again. + +“My dear heart, my dear heart,” she said, and she was half sobbing, +“now must you go back, else I fear harm will come to you. My goodman is +waiting for me yonder, and I know not what he will do or say. Nay; you +must go back. I would I could keep you, my little Abigail, but you must +go back.” Ann Bayley put the little maid down and gave her a gentle +push. “Go back,” she said, smiling, with her eyes full of tears; “go +back, and eat the sugar cakes.” + +Then she sped on swiftly; as she neared the curve in the road she +thrust a hand in her pocket, and drew forth a dainty shoe with dangling +lacings of crimson silk. She glanced around with a smile and a backward +wave of her hand; the glowing crimson of her petticoat showed for a +minute through the green mist of the undergrowth; then she disappeared. + +The little maid Abigail stood still in the road, gazing after her, her +soft pink mouth open, her hands clutching at her blue petticoat, as if +she would thus hold herself back from following. She heard the tramp of +a horse’s feet beyond the curve; then it died away. She turned about +and went back to the house, with the tears rolling over her cheeks; but +she did not sob aloud, as she would have done had her mother been near +to hear. A pitiful conviction of the hopelessness of all the appeals +of grief was stealing over her childish mind. She had been alone in +the house three nights and two days, ever since her sister Sarah and +her brother Benjamin had been arrested for witchcraft and carried to +jail. Long before that her parents, John and Elizabeth Proctor, had +disappeared down the Boston road in charge of the constables. None of +the family was spared save this little Abigail, who was deemed too +young and insignificant to have dealings with Satan, and was therefore +not thrown into prison, but was left alone in the desolate Proctor +house in the midst of woods said to be full of evil spirits and +witches, to die of fright or starvation as she might. There was but +little mercy shown the families of those accused of witchcraft. + +“Let some of Goody Proctor’s familiars minister unto the brat,” one of +the constables had said, with a stern laugh, when Abigail had followed +wailing after her brother and sister on the day of their arrest. + +“Yea,” said another; “she can send her yellow-bird or her black hog to +keep her company. I wot her tears will be soon dried.” + +Then the stoutly tramping horses had borne out of sight and hearing +the mocking faces of the constables; Sarah’s fair agonized one turned +backward towards her little deserted sister, and Benjamin raised a +brave youthful clamor of indignation. + +“Let us loose!” Abigail heard him shout; “let us loose, I tell ye! Ye +are fools, rather than we are witches; ye are fools and murderers! Let +us loose, I tell ye!” + +Abigail waited long, thinking her brother’s words would prevail; but +neither he nor Sarah returned, and the sounds all died away, and she +went back to the house sobbing. The damp spring night was settling down +in a palpable mist, and the woods seemed full of voices. The little +maid had heard enough of the terrible talk of the day to fill her +innocent head with vague superstitious horror. She threw her apron over +her head and fled blindly through the woods, and now and then she fell +down and bruised herself, and rose up lamenting sorely, with nobody to +hear her. + +As soon as she was in the house she shut the doors, and barred them +with the great bars that had been made as protection against Indians, +and now might wax useless against worse than savages, according to the +belief of the colony. + +All night long the little maid shrieked and sobbed, and called on her +father and her mother and her sister and her brother. Men faring in +the road betwixt Boston and Salem village heard her with horror, and +fled past with psalm and prayer, their blood cold in their veins. +They related the next day to the raging, terror-stricken people how +at midnight the accursed Proctor house was full of flitting infernal +lights, and howling with devilish spirits, and added a death-dealing +tale of some godly woman of the village who outrode their horses on a +broomstick and disappeared in the Proctor house. + +The next day the little maid unbarred the door, and stood there +watching up and down the road for her mother or some other to come. But +they came not, although she watched all day. That night she did not sob +and call out; she had become afraid of her own voice, and discovered +that it had no effect to bring her help. Then, too, early in the night, +she heard noises about the house which frightened her, and made her +think that perchance the dreadful black beast of which she had heard +them discourse was abroad. + +The next morning she found that the two horses and the cow and calf +were gone from the barn; also that there was left scarce anything for +her to eat in the house. There had been some loaves of bread, some +boiled meat, and some cakes; now they were all gone, and also all the +meal from the chest, and the potatoes and pork from the cellar. But +for that last she did not care, since she was not old enough to make a +fire and cook. She had left for food only a little cold porridge in a +blue bowl, and that she ate up at once and had no more, and a little +buttermilk in a crock, which, she being not over-fond of it, served +her longer. But that was all she had had for a day and a night, until +Goodwife Ann Bayley gave her the sugar cakes. These she ate up at once +on her return to the house. Then again she stood watching in the door, +but nothing passed along the road save a partridge or a squirrel. It +was accounted a bold thing for any solitary traveller to come this way, +save a witch, and she, it was supposed, might find many comrades in the +woods beside the road and in the Proctor house, which was held to be a +sort of devils’ tavern. But now no witch came, nor any of her uncanny +friends, unless indeed the squirrel and the partridge were familiar +demons in disguise. Nothing was too harmless and simple to escape that +imputation of the devil’s mask. + +Abigail took her little pewter porringer from the cupboard, and got +herself a drink of water from the bucketful that Goodwife Bayley had +drawn; then she stood on a stone, and peered into the well, leaning +over the curb. Her poppet was in there, her dear rag doll that Sarah +had made for her, and dressed in a beautiful silver brocade made from +a piece of a wedding-gown that was brought from England. One of the +constables had caught sight of little Abigail Proctor’s poppet, and +being straightway filled with suspicion that it was an image whereby +Goody Proctor afflicted her victims by proxy, had seized it and thrown +it into the well. The other constables had chidden him for such +rashness, saying it should have been carried to Boston and produced as +evidence at the trial; and little Abigail had shrieked out in a panic +for her poppet. + +She could see nothing of it now, and she went back to her +watching-place in the door. + +In the afternoon she felt sorely hungry again, and searched through the +house for food; then she went out in the sunny fields behind the house, +and found some honeysuckles on the rocks, and sucked the honey greedily +from their horns. On her return to the house she found a corn-cob, +which she snatched up and folded in her apron, and began tending. She +sat down in the doorway in her little chair, which she dragged out of +the keeping-room, and hugged the poor poppet close, and crooned over it. + +“Be not afraid,” said she. “I’ll not let the black beast harm you; I +promise you I will not.” + +That night she formed a new plan for her solace and protection in +the lonely darkness. All the garments of her lost parents and sister +and brother that she could find she gathered together, and formed in +a circle on the keeping-room floor; then she crept inside with her +corn-cob poppet, and lay there hugging it all night. The next day she +watched again in the door; but now she was weak and faint, and her +little legs trembled so under her that she could not stand to watch, +but sat in her small straight-backed chair, holding her poppet and +peering forth wistfully. + +In the course of the day she made shift to creep out into the fields +again, and lying flat on the sun-heated rocks, she sucked some more +honey drops from the honeysuckles. She found, too, on the edge of the +woods, some young wintergreen leaves, and she even pulled some blue +violets and ate them. But the delicate, sweet, and aromatic fare in the +spring larder of nature was poor nourishment for a human baby. + +Poor little Abigail Proctor could scarcely creep home, still clinging +fast to her poppet; scarcely lift herself into her chair in the door; +scarcely crawl inside her fairy-ring of her loved ones’ belongings at +night. She rolled herself tightly in an old cloak of her father’s, and +it was a sweet and harmless outcome of the dreadful superstition of the +day, grafted on an innocent childish brain, that it seemed to partake +of the bodily presence of her father, and protect her. + +All night long, as she lay there, her mother cooked good meat and broth +and sweet cakes, and she ate her fill of them; but in the morning she +was too weak to turn her little body over. She could not get to her +watching-place in the door, but that made no difference to her, for +she did not fairly know that she was not there. It seemed to her that +she sat in her little chair looking up the road and down the road; she +saw the green branches weaving together, and hiding the sky to the +northward and the southward; she saw the flushes of white and rose +in the flowering undergrowth; she saw the people coming and going. +There were her father and mother now coming with store of food and +presents for her, now following the constables out of sight. There +was that fine pageant passing, as she had seen it pass once before, +of the two magistrates, their worshipful masters John Hathorne and +Jonathan Corwin, with the marshal, constables, and aids, splendid and +awe-inspiring in all their trappings of office, to examine the accused +in the Salem meeting-house. There were the ministers Parris and Noyes +coming, with severe malignant faces, to question her mother as to +whether she had afflicted Mary Warren, their former maid-servant, who +was now bewitched. There went Benjamin, clamoring out boldly at his +captors. There came Sarah with the poppet, which she had drawn out of +the well, shaking the water from its silver brocade. + +All this the little maid Abigail Proctor saw through her half-delirious +fancy as she lay weakly on the keeping-room floor, but she saw not the +reality of her sister Sarah coming about four o’clock in the afternoon. + +Sarah Proctor, tall and slender, in her limp bedraggled dress, with her +fair severe face set in a circle of red shawl, which she had pinned +under her chin, came resolutely down the road from Boston, driving a +black cow before her with a great green branch. She was nearly fainting +with weariness, but she set her dusty shoes down swiftly among the +road weeds, and her face was as unyielding as an Indian’s. + +When she came in sight of the Proctor house she stopped a second. +“Abigail!” she called; “Abigail!” + +There was no answer, and she went on more swiftly than before. When she +reached the house she called again, “Abigail!” but did not wait except +while she tied the black cow, by a rope which was around her neck, to +a peach-tree. Then she ran in, and found the little maid, her sister +Abigail, on the floor in the keeping-room. + +She got down on her knees beside her, and Abigail smiled up in her face +waveringly. She still thought herself in the door, and that she had +just seen her sister come down the road. + +“Abigail, what have they done to you?” asked Sarah, in a sharp voice; +and the little maid only smiled. + +“Abigail, Abigail, what is it?” Sarah took hold of the child’s +shoulders and shook her; but she got no word back, only the smile +ceased, and the eyelids drooped faintly. + +“Are you hungry, Abigail?” + +The little maid shook her head softly. + +“It cannot be that,” said Sarah, as if half to herself; “there was +enough in the house; but what is it? Abigail, look at me; how long is +it since you have eaten? Abigail!” + +“Yesterday,” whispered the little maid, dreamily. + +“What did you eat then?” + +“Some posies and leaves out in the field.” + +“What became of all the bread that was baked, and the cakes, and the +meat?” + +“I--have forgot.” + +“No, you have not. Tell me, Abigail.” + +“The black beast came in the night and did eat it all up, and the cow, +and calf, and the horses, too.” + +“The black beast!” + +“I heard him in the night, and in the morning ’twas--gone.” + +Sarah sprang up. “Robbers and murderers!” she cried, in a fierce voice; +but the little maid on the floor did not start; she shut her eyes +again, and looked up and down the road. + +Sarah got a bucket quickly, and went out in the yard to the cow. Down +on her knees in the grass she went and milked; then she carried in the +bucket, strained the milk with trembling haste, and poured some into +Abigail’s little pewter porringer. “She was wont to love it warm,” she +whispered, with white lips. + +She bent close over the little maid, and raised her on one arm, while +she put the porringer to her mouth. “Drink, Abigail,” she said, with +tender command. “’Tis warm--the way you love it.” + +The little maid tried to sip, but shut her mouth, and turned her head +with weak loathing, and Sarah could not compel her. She laid her back, +and got a spoon and fed her a little, by dint of much pleading to make +her open her mouth and swallow. + +Afterwards she undressed her, and put her to bed in the south-front +room, but the child was so uneasy without the ring of garments which +she had arranged, that Sarah was forced to put them around her on the +bed; then she fell asleep directly, and stood in her dream watching in +the door. + +Sarah herself stood in the door, looking up and down the road. There +was the sound of a galloping horse in the distance; it came nearer and +nearer. She went down to the road and stood waiting. The horse was +reined in close to her, and the young man who rode him sprang off the +saddle. + +“It is you, Sarah; you are safe home,” he cried, eagerly, and would +have put his arm about her; but she stood aloof sternly. + +“For what else did you take me--my apparition?” she said, in a hard +voice. + +“Sweetheart!” + +“Know you that I have but just come from the jail in Boston, where I +have lain fast chained for witchcraft? See you my fine apparel with the +prison air in it? Know you that they called me a witch, and said that +I did afflict Mary Warren and the rest? I marvel not that you kept your +distance, David Carr; I might perchance have hurt you, and they might +have accused you, since you were in fellowship with a witch. I marvel +not at that. I would have no harm come to you, though far greater than +this came to me, but wherefore did you let my little sister Abigail +starve? That can I not suffer, coming from you, David.” + +The young man took her in his arms with a decided motion; and indeed +she did not repulse him, but began to weep. + +“Sarah,” said he, earnestly, “I was in Ipswich. I knew naught of you +and Benjamin being cried out upon until within this hour, when I +returned home, and my mother told me. I knew not you were acquitted, +and was on my way to Boston to you when I saw you at the gate. And as +for Abigail, I knew naught at all; and so ’twas with my mother, for she +but now wept when she said the poor little maid had been taken with +the rest. But you mean not that, sweetheart; she has not been let to +starve?” + +“They stole away the food in the night,” said Sarah, “and the horses +and the cow and calf. I found the cow straying in the woods but now, on +my way home, and drove her in and milked her; but Abigail would take +scarce a spoonful of the warm milk. She has had but little to eat for +three days, and has been distracted with fear, being left alone. She +has ever been but a delicate child, and now I fear she has a fever on +her, and will die, with her mother away.” + +“I will go for my mother, sweetheart,” said David Carr, eagerly. + +“Bring her under cover of night, then,” said Sarah; “else she may be +suspected if she come to this witch tavern, as they call it. Oh, David, +think you she will come? I am in a sore strait.” + +“I will bring her without fail, sweet, and a flask of wine also, and +needments for the little maid,” cried David. “Only do you keep up good +heart. Perchance, sweet, the child will amend soon, and the others +be soon acquit. Nay, weep not, poor lass! poor lass! Thou hast me, +whatever else fail thee, poor solace though that be, and I will fetch +thee my mother right speedily. She has ever set great store by the +little maid, and knows much about ailments; and I doubt not they will +be soon acquit.” + +“They say my mother will,” answered Sarah, tearfully; “and Benjamin is +acquit now, but had best keep for a season out of Salem village. But +my father will not be acquit; he has spoken his mind too boldly before +them all.” + +“Nay, sweetheart,” said David Carr, mounting, “’twill all have passed +soon; ’tis but a madness. Go in to the little maid, and be of good +comfort.” + +Sarah went sobbing into the house, but her face was quite calm when she +stood over little Abigail. The child was still asleep, and she could +arouse her only for a moment to take a few spoonfuls of milk; then she +turned her head on her pillow with weary obstinacy, and shut her eyes +again. She still held the poor corn-cob poppet fast. + +Sarah washed herself, braided her hair, and changed her prison dress +for a clean blue linen one; then she sat beside Abigail, and waited for +David Carr and his mother, who came within an hour. Goodwife Carr was +renowned through Salem village for her knowledge of medicinal herbs and +her nursing. She had a gentle sobriety and decision of manner which +placed her firmly in her neighbors’ confidences, they seeing how she +abode firmly in her own, and arguing from that. Then she had too the +good fortune to have made no enemies, consequently her ability had not +incurred for her the suspicion of being a witch. + +Goodwife Carr brought a goodly store of healing herbs, of bread and +cakes and meat, and she brewed drinks, and bent her face, pale and +soberly faithful, in her close white cap, untiringly over Abigail +Proctor. But the little maid never arose again. A fever, engendered by +starvation and fright and grief, had seized upon her, and she lay in +the bed with her little corn-cob baby a few days longer, and then died. + +They made a straight white gown for her, and dressed her in it, after +washing her and smoothing her yellow hair; and she lay, looking longer +and older than in life, all set about with flowers--pinks and lilacs +and roses--from Goodwife Carr’s garden, until she was buried. And they +had the Ipswich minister come for the funeral, for David Carr cried +out in a fury that Minister Parris, who had prosecuted this witchcraft +business, was her murderer, and blood would flow from her little body +if he stood beside it, and that it was the same with Minister Noyes; +and Sarah Proctor’s pale face had flushed up fiercely in assent. + +The morning after the little maid Abigail Proctor was buried, Joseph +Bayley and his wife Ann came riding down the road from Boston, and they +were in brave company, and needed to have but little fear of witches; +for the great minister Cotton Mather rode with them, his Excellency +the Governor of the colony, two worshipful magistrates, and two other +ministers--all on their way to a witch trial in Salem. + +And as they neared the Proctor house there was much discourse +concerning it and the inmates thereof, many strange and dreadful +accounts, and much godly denunciation. And as they reached the curve +in the road they came suddenly in sight of a young man and a tall fair +maid standing together at the side by some white-flowering bushes. +And Sarah Proctor, even with her little sister Abigail dead and her +parents in danger of death, was smiling for a second’s space in David +Carr’s face, for the love and hope in tragedy that make God possible, +and the selfishness of love that makes life possible, were upon her in +spite of herself. + +But when she saw the cavalcade approaching, saw the gleam of rich +raiment, and heard the tramp and jingling, the smile faded straightway +from her face, and she stood behind David in the white alder bushes. +And David stood before her, and gazed with a stern and defiant scowl at +the gentry as they passed by. And the great Cotton Mather gazed back at +that beautiful white face rising like another flower out of the bushes, +and he speculated with himself if it were the face of a witch. + +But Goodwife Ann Bayley thought only on the little maid at the door. +And when they came to the Proctor house she leaned eagerly from the +pillion, and she smiled and kissed her hand. + +“Why do you thus, Ann?” her husband asked, looking about at her. + +“See you not the little maid in the door?” she whispered low, for fear +of the goodly company. “I trow she looks better than she did. The roses +are in her cheeks, and they have combed her yellow hair, and put a +clean white gown on her. She holds a little doll, too.” + +“I see nobody,” said Joseph Bayley, wonderingly. + +“Nay, but she stands there. I never saw aught shine like her hair and +her white gown; the sunlight lies full in the door. See! see! she is +smiling! I trow all her griefs be well over.” + +The cavalcade passed the Proctor house, but Goodwife Ann Bayley’s sweet +face was turned backward until it was out of sight, towards the little +maid in the door. + + + + +LYDIA HERSEY, OF EAST BRIDGEWATER + + +Lydia Hersey sat out on the porch carding flax. She had taken her +work out there that she might not litter the house. It was Saturday +afternoon, and she had set every room in fine order for the Sabbath. + +Three tall Lombardy poplar-trees stood in a row on the road line, and +their long shadows, like the shadows of giant men, fell athwart the +gray unpainted house and the broad grassy yard. At the south of the +house was a flower bed of pinks and honeysuckles and thyme, and also a +vegetable garden. Beyond that were three beehives in a row, with little +black clouds of bees around them. Lydia carded assiduously, and never +looked up. Her long black lashes lay against her pink cheeks, her full +lips were half-smiling, as if she were saying some pleasant thing to +herself. Lydia wore her black hair in a braided knot at the back of her +head; in front she combed it smoothly down over her ears, then looped +it up behind them in two clusters of soft curls. Her flowered chintz +gown was cut low in the neck, and she wore a string of gold beads +around her long white throat. + +Lydia sat very erect as she carded; her shoulders never wavered with +the clapping motion of her hands; she even sat well forward in her +chair, and did not come in contact with its straight back. + +Lydia Hersey was noted for the majesty of her carriage as well as her +beauty, and was talked of as far as Boston. Young men had been known +to come from other villages and walk past her house on the chance of +seeing her at a window, although they dared not address her, nor do +more than halt and stand for a second with their hats raised like +school-boys before the parson or the squire, and that might have been +accounted poor reward for a long journey. But there were for these +New-Englanders no great pictures by old masters and no famous statues, +and Lydia Hersey’s beautiful living face, set like a jewel for a moment +in a window of the gray old Hersey house, served them instead. The +young Abington men, the North Bridgewater men, and the Canton men would +go home with their love of beauty all aflame, and never forget Lydia’s +face in the window; indeed, it would turn towards them like a portrait, +whichever way they moved, through their whole lives. Years afterwards, +when these admirers were old men and heard some young beauty praised, +they would look scornful and say, “You ought to have seen Lydia Hersey, +of East Bridgewater.” + +A bumblebee flew with a loud buzz past Lydia’s head, and she started +a little. He flew straight into the open window of the keeping-room. +“That’s a sign of company,” she thought, and she thought also +complacently how nicely the house was set in order, and she did not +care who came. + +The doors were all open as well as the windows. She heard the bee +buzzing and striking against the ceiling of the keeping-room. Presently +she heard another sound that made her drop her cards in her lap and +listen intently. It came from down the street, and sounded like an +irregular chorus of horns, a medley of harsh, hollow screeches. Lydia +frowned. The sounds grew louder; there were also great shouts of +laughter and clamorous voices. Soon a company of young men came in +sight; there were a dozen of them, and they had great conch shells at +their mouths, which they blew between their laughter and merry calls. + +Lydia stood up. She laid the cards down on the chair, folded the linen +cloth which she had spread on the porch floor carefully over the fluffy +heap of carded flax, and brushed all the shreds that she could from her +gown. Then she walked, carrying her beautiful head high, down to the +road. There was a sudden hush when the young men saw her. They took +their conch shells from their lips, and saluted her respectfully. One +young man, who came foremost of the troop, colored high. One of his +comrades nudged him, and he thrust his elbow back angrily in response. +Lydia took no notice of the other young men, she walked straight up to +this one. He stopped, and all the others halted at his back. + +“Where are you going, Freelove?” said she. + +“Not far,” he returned, evasively. + +“Where?” she demanded. + +The young man turned towards his companions. “Move on, lads,” he said, +in an imperious voice, which he tried to make good-natured, “I’ll be +with you in a moment.” + +His handsome face was burning. The young men trooped on; there was a +subdued chuckle. Freelove Keith looked Lydia full in the face, and his +blue eyes were as haughty as her black ones. + +“We’re going down to see Abraham White and Deborah,” said he. + +Lydia stared back at him scornfully. “You are going down there with +those loafers to blow those conch shells under the windows?” said she. + +“Squire Perkins’s son is one of ’em,” returned Freelove, defiantly. + +“The more shame to him!” said Lydia. “And the more shame to you, +Freelove Keith!” + +It seemed as if her bright scornful eyes, full on Freelove’s face, +could see all the weaknesses that he hid from himself behind his own +consciousness, but he did not flinch. + +“I don’t know what you call shame,” he said. “’Tis what the young +fellows in East Bridgewater have always done when they have not been +asked to a wedding.” + +“Asked to a wedding,” repeated Lydia, contemptuously. “A pretty +wedding! Deborah Belcher marrying Abraham White, when he’s twice as old +as she is, and his wife not dead six months. No wonder she asked nobody +to the wedding, marrying old Abraham White for his silver teaspoons and +tankard, and his wife’s silk gowns and satin pelisse!” + +“You don’t know that she married him for any such thing,” protested +Freelove, stoutly, although he had started on this very expedition with +a gay contempt for Deborah White. She was a very pretty girl, and once, +before he had dared address Lydia Hersey, people had coupled his name +with hers. He had gone home with her from singing-school, and kissed +her once at a husking. + +“Stand up for a girl like that if you want to,” said Lydia. She had +always had a lurking jealousy of Deborah Belcher. Deborah’s hair +was very fair, and she had a delicate evanescent bloom like a wild +rose. Lydia had often wondered if Deborah were not prettier than she +herself, and if men did not love fair hair better than black. + +Freelove Keith did not continue the dispute; he looked uneasily +after his comrades, who were nearly out of sight, even at their slow +lingering pace. Now and then the note of a conch shell was heard. “I +must go,” said he. “Good-day, Lydia.” + +“Do you mean that you are really going with that noisy crew to blow +conch shells under Abraham White’s windows, Freelove Keith?” + +“Yes, I am going, Lydia Hersey,” returned the young man, hotly; “and if +you thought I’d be ordered back by you before them all, like a whipped +puppy, you were mightily mistaken.” + +Lydia stared at him, she was so full of proud amazement that she would +say nothing; this Freelove Keith had often fretted beneath her rule, +but never before openly resisted it. + +“Go back to your flax-carding, Lydia,” said Freelove, in a softer tone. +“See, the flax is blowing all over the yard. I shall be up to see you +after supper.” + +Then Lydia found her tongue. “You haven’t been asked to come that +I know of,” said she. “I don’t know as I care to keep company with +young men that go blowing horns and shouting through the street, and +disturbing decent people.” + +“Then you needn’t,” retorted Freelove. + +He went quickly down the road after his companions. He was dressed +like a farmer, in slouching homespun, but there was a certain jaunty +grace about him, and a free swing in his gait, which did not accord +with his appearance. He had followed the sea for a living, going as +mate on a merchantman, and had been home only for a year and a half, +since his father’s death, managing the farm. + +Lydia went back to the house. She stepped as if she bore a crown on her +head instead of a tortoise-shell comb, and had a train to her cotton +gown. The wind had indeed stirred the linen cloth, and bits of flax +were floating about the yard, but she ignored that. She would not so +far unbend her dignity as to gather it up, even with nobody but herself +for witness. She folded the linen cloth firmly over the remaining flax, +and placed her foot in its buckled shoe on it when she sat down. She +fell to work with the cards again. The wild clamor of horns, which she +had heard break forth when Freelove joined his comrades, died away in +the distance. + +Lydia sat there steadily carding flax, as if imbued by nature with the +single instinct of industry, like a bee out in the garden. Her lips +were tight shut, and no longer smiling; her heart was anxious, but she +still made her store of linen as unquestioningly as the bee its honey. + +In about an hour the troop of young men with the conch shells returned. +Lydia heard them at a distance, and long before they reached the house +she sat with stiffer majesty, keeping her eyes so closely upon her work +that the flax became a silvery blur. However, she need not have taken +the trouble, for Freelove Keith swung past with as scornful a lift of +his head as she, and never once glanced her way. And, indeed, the young +men all passed very decorously and quietly, and only a few dared raise +their eyes towards the queenly figure on the porch, and then only for a +second. One of them was Abel Perkins, Squire Perkins’s son. He was home +from college on a vacation, and was quite looked up to by the village +youth, as he was the only collegian among them. Abel Perkins was slight +and pale, and walked with a nervous strut; but he wore broadcloth and +a fine flowered waistcoat, and carried a gold watch. He even gave a +hesitating glance back at Lydia on the porch, turning his little face +over his shoulder; but she did not see it. She did not look up from her +work until long after the company had passed. + +A half-hour later the stage went by, with the four horses at a gallop. +A fair face overtopped by white plumes looked out of the surging +window. Lydia turned her head hastily, and the red in her cheeks +deepened. It was the bride, Deborah White, going with her new husband +to spend the honeymoon with his relations in Abington. There was a +nice little hair trunk strapped on behind the stage. Lydia eyed it +contemptuously when Deborah could no longer see her. She thought, +“Maybe his first wife’s satin pelisse is in there.” + +A man emerged from the cloud of dust in the wake of the stage. He was +old, and wore his white hair in a queue. He had on a green double +cloak, although the day was warm, and walked with a stick, to whose +height he accommodated himself at every step with a downward motion of +his shoulders. He did not seem to need its support. + +When he approached the house, Lydia stood up and courtesied low. + +“Good-day, Lydia,” said he, in a solemn voice. + +“Good-day, sir,” she returned, with stately deference; and she +ushered the minister, Elihu Eaton, into the fore room, and placed the +rocking-chair with the feather cushion for him. + +The fore room was close and cool, for the windows had been shut all +day to keep out the flies. There was a smell of mint and lavender. The +great testered bedstead, with its chintz valance and curtains, stood in +one corner. There was a high chest of drawers and a splendid carved oak +linen chest, which Lydia’s grandmother had brought over from England. +On one side of the fireplace was a great cupboard with panelled doors, +and that was filled with gallipots. Lydia’s father had been a doctor. + +Lydia sat beside the window, opposite the minister. There was a +restrained defiance in the lift of her chin. Now and then she picked a +bit of the flax from her gown. + +She knew well why the minister had come. Aunt Nabby Keith had warned +her. It was ten months since her banns with Freelove had been +published, and she held herself aloof, and would not marry him out of +sheer wilfulness and coquetry, the neighbors said. Freelove’s aunt +Nabby had come to see her only the day before, and talked seriously +with her. + +“You ain’t livin’ up to your professions,” the old woman had said, “and +I’m going to speak plain. If you let this year go by and don’t marry +Freelove according to your banns, you’ll have a good deal to answer +for.” + +“Well, I’ll ask nobody else to answer for me,” Lydia returned. + +“The parson says he’s coming to reason with you, Lydia Hersey.” + +“Let him come,” said Lydia; and her head tossed up like a rose in a +wind. + +And now the parson had come. It was some little space before he opened +on the subject in hand. In truth, he stood somewhat in awe, although +he did not know it, of this beautiful high-spirited young woman. There +had been always a brisk feminine rule in his own house. Even now he +sweltered under the weight of the green double cloak which his wife +Sarah had hoisted upon his slender shoulders because she thought he had +taken cold. The waistcoat, which she had made to suit her own ideas +and not his requirements, bound his back; his neckcloth, which she had +wound with ardor, half choked him and fretted his chin. + +When at length he reasoned with Lydia Hersey on the matter of her +non-fulfilment of the marriage banns, and the report that she was about +to let the lawful year go by and jilt Freelove Keith, it was with +circumspect solemnity. Lydia’s cheeks flamed redder and redder, but her +black eyes never left his face. + +“Did you meet Freelove Keith with that noisy crew, who ought to have +been at home at work in the middle of the afternoon, shouting and +blowing conch shells under Mr. Abraham White’s windows?” she demanded. + +The minister admitted that he had, and had remonstrated with them. + +“It would make a better text for a discourse than some others that +meddlesome folks set,” said Lydia, for she had no fear of any one +before another, not even the minister or the squire. She stood up. The +minister Elihu Eaton’s sober peaked face rising out of his great capes, +which shrugged to his ears, looked up at her. “Either,” said she, in a +masterful way, and yet with a remembering sweetness, for the minister +looked suddenly very old to her--“either Freelove Keith has got to do +as I say or I have got to do as he says before we are married, if the +banns have been cried a thousand years.” + +Then she went out into the keeping-room, and presently returned with +a tray, on which were set out a decanter of West India Rum, a little +silver bowl of loaf-sugar, a tumbler, and a plate of pound-cake. + +When the minister had partaken of these refreshments, he offered a +prayer and took his leave. Lydia courtesied when he went out the door, +but her lips were tightly shut again, for Elihu Eaton, in his appeal +to the Lord, had spoken with more fire concerning her affairs than he +had dared use towards her. “O Lord, make this, Thy handmaiden, to keep +to the vows which she has spoken, and let not a froward mind lead her +aside into strange paths,” the minister had said, and more, and Lydia +could not expostulate. + +She went into the keeping-room and got supper ready. Lydia Hersey +had lived alone ever since her father’s death. All the more reason, +people thought, why she should fulfil her marriage contract with +Freelove Keith. There was she, living all alone in a large house, with +a comfortable income, and there was Freelove, who was no longer so +necessary at home since his sister had married and taken her husband +there to live, and who could easily manage his farm and live in the +Hersey house. There was Freelove, whom everybody liked, yet felt a +certain anxiety about, because he had been to sea, and might have seen +much evil in foreign ports, going too often to the tavern, people said, +and neglecting his farm to go on junketings with idle young men, to +Abington or Braintree, and once even over to Boston, and to be away all +night. It looked no better, people said, because Squire Perkins’s son +went with him, and he was college-learned. It was generally conceded +that Abel was not as reliable, and would not make as smart a man, as +the old squire. + +Lydia Hersey saw Abel Perkins again that night. After supper she +strolled down the road a little way. She was mindful that Freelove had +said he was coming, and she wondered if her rebuff would quite drive +him away. Before she started she stood hesitating a moment in the +doorway. The evening was cool, and she had put a yellow blanket over +her head and bare shoulders. + +She thought, angrily, that she would not stay at home and watch for +Freelove Keith, when he might not come; but, on the other hand, she did +not want to go away and never know if he had called. + +Finally she pulled some sprigs of mint from the bank under the +keeping-room windows, and she shut the house door, and stuck them +carefully under the sill. Then she went on down the road, and soon she +met Abel Perkins. He stood about, and took off his hat in a way he had +learned in college, and Lydia courtesied gravely. Abel was considerably +younger than she, and she had always had a certain disdain for him, in +spite of his being the squire’s son. Still it was quite evident that he +humbly admired her, and some deference was due him for that. + +So when he asked humbly if he might walk with her a way, she said yes, +and they went on together. Alder-trees, faintly sweet in a pale mist +of bloom, stood beside the road; there were distant peals of laughter, +tinklings of cow bells, and a hubbub of nestward birds. Lydia stepped +proudly along beside the little anxiously smiling squire’s son; her +beautiful face looked out of her yellow blanket as if it were a frame +of gold. + +Abel Perkins kept glancing up at her and blushing. “If you had told me +that you didn’t want me to go to Abraham White’s, I wouldn’t have gone, +Lydia,” he said, after a while. + +“I don’t approve of any such goings on,” Lydia returned, severely. + +“I don’t know as they are very becoming,” said Abel Perkins. + +They sauntered on slowly. The sunset light lay in red-gold patches +on the dusty road, some elm-trees ahead swayed in a mystical, rosy, +smokelike incense. Presently at the right of the road showed the red +walls of Aunt Nabby Keith’s house out of a thicket of purple-topped +lilac-bushes. Freelove suddenly appeared in the road. When he saw Lydia +he started, then went on with a jauntier swing. He scarcely nodded as +he went by. Lydia held her head like a statue. + +“Is he huffy?” whispered Abel. + +“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied Lydia, coldly. But in a second +she faced about. “I must go home,” said she. “It is getting damp.” + +Abel went obediently at her side. Freelove was still visible in the +road ahead. Lydia talked and laughed very loud, but he did not turn his +head, although he must have heard. When they reached the Hersey house, +Lydia turned promptly into the yard. “Good-night, Abel,” she called, +loudly. And Abel Perkins responded with rueful sweetness, for he had +thought to be asked in, and went on down the road in Freelove’s tracks. +Lydia watched him out of sight. She knew he would meet Freelove at the +village store, if he did not overtake him. She did not go into the +house and disturb the mint on the door-sill. She waited a few minutes, +then she also went on a little way to the next house, where lived a +young woman mate of hers. She went in and stayed until nearly nine +o’clock, and the two girls talked over Deborah Belcher’s wedding, but +not a word did Lydia say about her quarrel with Freelove. + +When she went home, she got down on her knees in the porch, and +examined the mint carefully. It was bright moonlight; not a sprig had +been disturbed. Lydia opened the door and walked in, trampling the mint +ruthlessly. + +The next day was Sunday, and she went to meeting dressed in her best +gown, with roses sprinkled over a blue ground, and her Leghorn bonnet +trimmed with a rose-colored ribbon, and sat fanning herself calmly with +a painted fan when Freelove entered, but he never looked at her. + +The minister preached from Psalm lxxv. 5, “Lift not up your horn on +high; speak _not_ with a stiff neck,” and there was much nudging in +the congregation, and uneasiness among the young men who had saluted +Abraham White and his bride. Freelove sat straight and stiff, but his +face was red. Lydia smiled behind her fan. + +The next morning Sarah Porter, the girl whom she had visited Saturday +evening, came in. She had heard that Lydia had really jilted her lover. +She and her mother had watched, and knew that he had not come courting +the night before. + +“I hear you and Freelove have fallen out,” said she. Her lips were +smiling archly, but her eyes were hard and curious. + +“There’s plenty to hear, if folks keep their ears pricked up,” replied +Lydia, and she would say no more. + +She smiled scornfully when presently she watched Sarah Porter’s squat +figure go out of the yard. “She didn’t find out much,” she muttered. +“She’d give all her old shoes to get Freelove herself, but he wouldn’t +look at her.” + +That forenoon Lydia took her flax-carding out on the porch again. +Soon, as she sat there, she saw Abel Perkins coming. He hesitated at +the gate. He carried a great bunch of white lilacs. Purple lilacs were +plenty in East Bridgewater, but white ones grew nowhere except in the +squire’s yard. + +“Ain’t you coming in, Abel?” called Lydia, and she smiled her sweet +imperious smile at him. + +Abel came up the path, extending the great bunch of lilacs like a +propitiatory offering to a deity. + +“I thought maybe you’d like a bunch of these white lilacs, Lydia,” he +said. + +“Thank you, Abel; they’re real handsome, and I’ll put them in a pitcher +when I go in,” replied Lydia, graciously. + +This morning she wore a green and white gown, which made her face still +more like a rose. Abel stood leaning against a post of the porch, +looking at her, then looking quickly away. + +“Have you got any errands or anything you want done, Lydia?” he +stammered. + +Lydia looked at him; a sudden wicked light came into her eyes. There +he stood, in his fine waistcoat and broadcloth, with his handsome +knee-buckles and gold chain. His hands were long and slim and white, +much whiter than hers. + +“Why, yes, Abel,” said she; “if you really want something to do, the +pease out in my garden need sticking.” + +Abel Perkins stared aghast a minute; then he started eagerly. + +“You’ll have to go up in the pasture and cut some brush,” said Lydia. + +The truth was that Freelove Keith had taken it upon himself to tend +Lydia’s garden, which was but a small one, and she thought with +spiteful delight how, when he came again, if he came at all, he would +find some of the work done, and wonder. But it did not fall out as she +had planned, for presently she heard loud voices out in the garden, and +peering around the corner of the porch, she saw Freelove and Abel, each +with a bundle of brush. + +Lydia gathered up her work hastily, and fled into the house. She went +up to the south chamber, and peeped around the curtain. Both of her +lovers were sticking the pease, Abel awkwardly, with trembling haste, +and Freelove with a sturdy vehemence that might have suited Cadmus +sowing the dragon’s teeth. Just then there was a sullen quiet, but +presently arose another altercation. Lydia spied a long rent in the +skirt of Abel’s fine coat. Soon Abel started towards the house, and she +sat down on the floor of the south chamber and laughed. She heard a +faint voice below calling her, but she did not reply, and Abel dared +not search for her in the house. + +Lydia peered out again, and saw Freelove at work alone in the garden, +but he never once glanced up at the house. She saw Sarah Porter’s face, +and her mother’s over her shoulder, at a window of their house across +the yard, and she watched jealously lest Freelove should glance that +way; but he did not. When the pease were finished, he went out of the +yard, looking neither to the right nor left. Lydia went down-stairs +cautiously, to be sure Abel Perkins was gone. + +However, when he came again, as he did soon, she greeted him kindly, +and smiled sweetly by way of indirect condolence when he told how +Freelove Keith had driven him from the garden. Lydia spied the rent, +which his mother had neatly mended, in his broadcloth coat. + +“Why, Abel, you have torn your fine coat,” said she. + +Abel blushed. “I tore it getting the sticks for the pease. But ’tis of +no account,” he said; “and I’m willing to tear it again if there is +anything else you want done, Lydia.” + +“Maybe your mother won’t be quite so willing to mend it again,” said +Lydia. + +But presently she brought out the churn, and set Abel Perkins, in his +fine clothes, churning cream out on the porch. Sarah Porter called her +mother out into their front yard to see, and Freelove Keith went by; he +went often to see his Aunt Nabby. + +Abel churned until the butter came, and it took full long, and his fine +waistcoat was spattered with cream; and then she sent him home like a +little boy. Lydia found many another domestic task for Abel Perkins, +and all on the porch. She set him carding flax, and spinning, and +making candle-wicks. She found errands also for him to do, and many +commands for him to obey. She sent him to Abington with a couple of +feather pillows for her aunt, and awkwardly enough he managed them on +horseback. She forbade his going to Boston on a little trip with some +of the village young men, Freelove being of the party. Abel Perkins +never rebelled against her rule, but there came a time when Lydia +herself arose for him. + +One afternoon he sat on the porch spinning at the wheel, and Lydia had +tied one of her blue aprons around his waist, when she suddenly spoke. + +“Take off that apron now, and stop spinning, and go home, Abel +Perkins,” said she. + +Abel jumped up, and stared at her. + +“I mean what I say,” said she. “If you are not ashamed for yourself, I +am ashamed for you, and I am ashamed for myself more than I am for you. +No man can make a woman like him by doing everything she tells him to; +she only despises him for it. You remember it next time. Now you had +better go home and learn your Latin books.” + +“Can’t I come again, Lydia?” said Abel. He was quite pale, and tears +stood in his eyes. + +But Lydia would not speak softly to him. “No,” she replied, “you can’t. +You mustn’t come here wasting your time any more. You must study your +books. You are not old enough to go courting; get your college books +learned through first.” + +“Can I come then, Lydia?” he inquired, faintly. + +“No,” said she; “I shall never want anybody coming again. Take off that +apron and go home.” + +And Abel Perkins obeyed. He looked very dejected and youthful going out +of the yard. Lydia went into the house and cried. + +Abel stayed away for a week; then he came again. Lydia would not have +gone to the door had she known who it was plying the knocker. She never +heard the knocker but with a hope that it might be Freelove, although +he never came now. + +When she saw Abel standing there, she frowned. + +“Don’t look at me so, Lydia,” he pleaded. “I couldn’t help coming. +I can’t eat, and I haven’t slept any. I’m sick, Lydia. Mother keeps +asking me what the matter is.” + +Indeed Abel looked ill; he was paler than usual, and had a pinched +and woe-begone expression that drew his face down, and made it appear +thinner. + +“Well, you come in,” said Lydia. “I’m going to mix you up some +medicine, if you’re sick. I know a very good one that my father showed +me how to make. It’ll cure you right up, Abel.” + +And Lydia made Abel seat himself on the settle in the keeping-room, and +went with a cup and spoon to the cupboard in the fore room, where her +father’s old gallipots were kept. Then she took from this and that, and +mixed carefully, and returned to Abel. + +“Here, drink this,” said she. + +Abel held out his hand, but turned his face away. + +“’Tis only a little assafœtida that I put in to quiet the nerves that +you smell,” said she. “’Tis mostly for the liver. My father used to say +that the root of all sickness was the liver, and he did not know but it +was the root of all evil. If your liver were in good order you would +not fret, Abel Perkins. Drink it down.” + +And Abel drank it down with an effort. + +“Now you’d better go home,” said she, “and wait till it takes effect. +I’ll warrant you’ll eat some supper to-night.” + +“I sha’n’t, Lydia, if you don’t let me come to see you,” said Abel, +piteously. + +“Yes, you will. How long did you go without your supper when that girl +in Abington gave you the mitten? I ain’t the first one you’ve stopped +eating for, Abel Perkins, and you not twenty! You know it’s so.” + +Abel blushed, and looked down foolishly. + +Lydia laughed. “If you keep on this way, you’ll starve to death before +you come of age,” said she. “Now you’d better go home and study your +books, and leave such matters alone until you get more sense to manage +them. I suppose you will when you’ve got the college books learned +through.” + +Abel arose. Lydia followed him to the door, and her voice was softer +as she bade him good-bye. He looked piteously backward at her as he +went out of the yard, but still she was not so touched as she had been +before. + +“That story about his being so crazy over that girl in Abington was +true,” she said to herself; and although she was generous enough +to feel relieved that her unlucky lover had an elastic as well as +susceptible temperament, and was likely to recover from his wounds, +still she disliked him the more for it. + +It now wanted only a month for the expiration of the year since Lydia +and Freelove’s banns had been published. Should they not marry before +then, they could not legally, unless they were again published. + +It was a month since Freelove had set foot in Lydia’s house, or indeed +spoken to her. He came, early in the morning sometimes, and cared for +her garden, but they never exchanged a word. Everybody said that the +marriage was broken off. Lydia kept on as usual. She had some beautiful +linen in the loom, and she wove as if she were certainly going to be +married. Sarah Porter used to come in and wonder, but she found out +nothing from Lydia, who never spoke Freelove’s name. + +“She’s making more linen,” Sarah told her mother when she got home, and +the two women speculated anxiously. They knew that Freelove did not go +to see Lydia, at all events, for they and all the neighbors watched. + +When the last day of the year since the banns came, there was no longer +doubt in anybody’s mind, nor was there, indeed, in Lydia’s. She stayed +in-doors, and wove her linen in a mechanical fashion. She sat before +the great loom, and it was as if she were playing a harmony of sweet +housewifely industry upon it like a very artist, but the tears rolled +down her cheeks, which were not rosy that morning. + +Had she not listened two months for the sound of the knocker, she would +not have heard it above the great hum of the loom that afternoon; but +hear it she did, and went to answer it, wiping her eyes. + +Freelove Keith stood in the porch, and out at the gate stood his horse, +with a pillion behind the saddle. + +“Come, Lydia,” said Freelove, “I want you to get on the pillion, and +ride over to Aunt Nabby’s with me.” + +“I can’t,” said Lydia, faintly. “I’m all over flax lint from the loom.” + +“Put on an apron,” said Freelove. + +Lydia went into the house, and tied an apron around her waist, and came +out again. Freelove lifted her on the pillion, and they rode down the +street without a word, until they reached the minister Elihu Eaton’s +house, which was about half way to Aunt Nabby’s. + +Freelove drew rein. “Now we’ll go in and get married, Lydia,” said he. + +“Oh, Freelove, _I_ can’t!” gasped Lydia. + +“Now or never,” said Freelove, sternly. + +“I was going to have a wedding, Freelove, and a brocade gown, and +cake--” + +“Now or never,” said Freelove. + +He sprang off the saddle and held up his arms. Lydia slipped down +into them, and followed him, trembling, her head drooping, into the +minister’s house. + +When they came out, a stout old woman stood waiting for them at the +gate. + +“I’ve got married, Aunt Nabby,” said Freelove, with a gay laugh. + +“Well, I should think ’twas time,” replied the old woman. She chuckled; +her iron-bowed spectacles flashed back the light. “I’ve got a bedquilt +made for Liddy, and six yarn socks for you, Freelove,” she said; “and +I’m going home and bake a pound-cake with some plums in it.” + +Aunt Nabby went scuttling down the road. Freelove and Lydia remounted, +and went back at a canter. Freelove pulled a conch shell from his +pocket, and blew as lustily as a herald. Folks ran to the windows, and +Lydia hid her blushing face against her husband’s shoulder. + + + + +THE END + +Transcriber's notes + +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the +public domain. + +Itemized changes from the original text: + + Page 41: "lay" is modified in "lie". The past tense is rather + confusing. + Page 67 contains a word, starting with "h" that was illegible in the + scan. The most probable completion is "her". + Page 69: "frowsly" has been changed into "frowsy". + Page 168 contains an interchange of the two Evelina's. Originally the + text said "Adams", but in view of the logic of the story it has to be + "Leonard". + Page 180: an exclamation mark has been added to the text below the + picture, in order to balance this text against the list of + illustrations. + +The author is not too consequent in the use of hyphens. Several words +are encountered with and without hyphen. A small overview: Over-seas +/ overseas; goodman / good-man; homespun / home-spun; hearth-stone / +hearthstone. + +In the text special characters are used surrounding words or phrases to +indicate formatting. Their meaning is as follows. + _word_ means 'word' is in italic; + +WORD+ means 'WORD' is in small capitals; + + + +*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76948 *** diff --git a/76948-h/76948-h.htm b/76948-h/76948-h.htm new file mode 100644 index 0000000..38ca8e6 --- /dev/null +++ b/76948-h/76948-h.htm @@ -0,0 +1,9980 @@ +<!DOCTYPE html> +<html lang="en"> +<head> + <meta charset="UTF-8"> + <title> + Silence and other stories | Project Gutenberg + </title> + <link rel="icon" href="images/cover.jpg" type="image/x-cover"> + <style> + +body { + margin-left: 10%; + margin-right: 10%; +} + + h1,h2,h3,h4,h5,h6 { + text-align: center; /* all headings centered */ + clear: both; +} + +p { + margin-top: .51em; + text-align: justify; + margin-bottom: .49em; +} + +hr { + width: 33%; + margin-top: 2em; + margin-bottom: 2em; + margin-left: 33.5%; + margin-right: 33.5%; + clear: both; +} + +hr.tb {width: 45%; margin-left: 27.5%; margin-right: 27.5%;} +hr.chap {width: 65%; margin-left: 17.5%; margin-right: 17.5%;} +@media print { hr.chap {display: none; 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+} +p.title_second { + text-align: center; + font-size: 120%; + padding-top: 0; + padding-bottom: 0; + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; +} +p.title_third { + text-align: center; + font-size: 100%; +} +p.title_fourth { + text-align: center; + font-size: 90%; +} + +div.title { + width: 18em; + text-align: right; + margin: auto; +} +div.copyright { + text-align: center; + margin: auto; + width: 23em; + padding-top: 5em; +} +div.copyright>p { + text-align: center; +} + +hr.copyright { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; + width: 20%; +} + +/* Images */ + +img { + max-width: 100%; + height: auto; +} + + +figure { + text-align: center; +} + +figure.width350 { + max-width: 350px; +} + +figure.width500 { + max-width: 500px; +} + +figure.width600 { + max-width: 600px; +} + +figure.figcenter { + text-align: right; + margin: auto; +} + +figcaption { + text-align: center; + font-weight: normal; +} + +figcaption.width350 { + font-size: 80%; +} + +/* Booklist */ + +div.booklist { + text-align: center; + margin: auto; + width: 23em; + border-width: thin; + border-style: solid; + padding: 2em; +} + +p.bl_title { + text-align: center; +} + +p.bl_author { + text-align:center; + font-size: 160%; +} + +p.bl_line { + padding-top: 0; + padding-bottom: 0; + margin-top: 0; + margin-bottom: 0; +} + +p.bl_line2 { + margin-left: 2em; +} + +hr.bl_hr { + margin-top: 1em; + margin-bottom: 1em; +} + +p.bl_publ { + text-align:center; +} + +/* comment out next line and uncomment the following one for floating figleft on ebookmaker output */ +.x-ebookmaker .figleft {float: none; text-align: center; margin-right: 0;} +/* .x-ebookmaker .figleft {float: left;} */ + + +/* comment out next line and uncomment the following one for floating figright on ebookmaker output */ +.x-ebookmaker .figright {float: none; text-align: center; margin-left: 0;} +/* .x-ebookmaker .figright {float: right;} */ + +/* Footnotes */ + +/* Poetry */ +/* uncomment the next line for centered poetry */ +/* .poetry-container {display: flex; justify-content: center;} */ +.poetry-container {text-align: center;} +.poetry {text-align: left; margin-left: 5%; margin-right: 5%;} +.poetry .stanza {margin: 1em auto;} +.poetry .verse {text-indent: -3em; padding-left: 3em;} + +/* Transcriber's notes */ +.transnote {background-color: #E6E6FA; + color: black; + font-size:small; + padding:0.5em; + margin-bottom:5em; + font-family:sans-serif, serif; +} + + +/* Poetry indents */ +.poetry .indent0 {text-indent: -3.0em;} +.poetry .indent2 {text-indent: -2.0em;} + + </style> +</head> +<body> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** START OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76948 ***</div> + +<!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p>--> + +<h1> +SILENCE AND OTHER STORIES +</h1> +<figure class="figcenter width350"> +<img src="images/i_frontis_verbeterd.jpg" id="illus_1" +alt="A woman on the lookout on a windy spot"> +<figcaption class="width350"> +<p class="right">[Page 38</p> +“‘DAVID!’ SHE CALLED. ‘DAVID! DAVID! DAVID!’” +</figcaption> +</figure> +<!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span></p>--> + + + +<div class="title"> +<p class="title_first">SILENCE</p> + +<p class="title_second"><i>AND OTHER STORIES</i></p> + +<p class="title_second"><i>By</i> MARY E. WILKINS</p> +<p class="title_second"><i>Author of “Jerome, A Poor</i></p> +<p class="title_second"><i>Man” “Madelon” “Jane Field”</i></p> + +<p class="title_third"><em class="gesperrt">WITH ILLUSTRATIONS</em></p> + +<p class="title_third"><img src="images/i_title_verbeterd.jpg" +alt="The emblem of the publisher showing a hand that offers something + - a flower? - to another accepting hand. There are 4 words, probably +in Greek but poorly legible" width="138" height="137"></p> + +<p class="title_fourth"><em class="gesperrt">NEW YORK AND LONDON</em></p> +<p class="title_fourth">HARPER & BROTHERS PUBLISHERS</p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span></p>--></div> + + +<div class="booklist"> +<p class="bl_title"><span class="smcap">Books by</span></p> +<p class="bl_author">MARY E. WILKINS FREEMAN</p> +<p class="bl_line">THE COPY-CAT AND OTHER STORIES.</p> +<p class="bl_line bl_line2">Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">BY THE LIGHT OF THE SOUL.</p> +<p class="bl_line bl_line2">Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">THE DEBTOR. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">EVELINA’S GARDEN. 16mo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">THE FAIR LAVINIA. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">GILES CORY, YEOMAN. Illustrated. 32mo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">THE GIVERS. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">A HUMBLE ROMANCE. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">JANE FIELD. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">JEROME—A POOR MAN. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">THE LOVE OF PARSON LORD. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">MADELON. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">A NEW ENGLAND NUN. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">PEMBROKE. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">THE PORTION OF LABOR. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">THE SHOULDERS OF ATLAS.</p> +<p class="bl_line">Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">SILENCE, ETC. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">SIX TREES. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">UNDERSTUDIES. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">THE WINNING LADY AND OTHERS.</p> +<p class="bl_line bl_line2">Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">THE YATES PRIDE. Illustrated. 16mo.</p> +<p class="bl_line">YOUNG LUCRETIA. Illustrated. Post 8vo.</p> +<hr class="bl_hr"> +<p class="bl_line bl_publ">HARPER & BROTHERS, NEW YORK</p> +</div> + +<div class="copyright"> +<p>Copyright, 1898, by <span class="smcap">Harper & Brothers</span>.</p> +<hr class="copyright"> +<p>Printed in the United States of America</p> +</div> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span></p>--> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="CONTENTS">CONTENTS</h2></div> + +<table> +<tr> +<th style="width: 90%"></th><th class ="tdr" style="width: 10%">PAGE</th> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>Silence</td><td class ="tdr"><a href="#SILENCE">1</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>The Buckley Lady</td><td class ="tdr"><a href="#THE_BUCKLEY_LADY">55</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>Evelina’s Garden</td><td class ="tdr"><a href="#EVELINAS_GARDEN">111</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>A New England Prophet</td><td class ="tdr"><a href="#A_NEW_ENGLAND_PROPHET">184</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>The Little Maid at the Door</td><td class ="tdr"><a href="#THE_LITTLE_MAID_AT_THE">225</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td>Lydia Hersey, of East Bridgewater</td><td class ="tdr"><a href="#LYDIA_HERSEY_OF_EAST">255</a></td> +</tr> +</table> +<!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span></p>--> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span></p>--> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="ILLUSTRATIONS">ILLUSTRATIONS</h2></div> + +<table> +<tr> +<th style="width: 5%"></th> +<th style="width: 72%"></th> +<th style="width: 15%"></th> +<th style="width: 8%"></th> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2">“‘DAVID!’ SHE CALLED. ‘DAVID! DAVID!</td><td></td><td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td></td><td>DAVID!’”</td><td colspan="2" class="tdr" ><i><a href="#illus_1">Frontispiece</a></i></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2">AT ENSIGN SHELDON’S HOUSE THE MORNING</td><td></td><td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td></td><td>AFTER THE MASSACRE</td><td><i>Facing p.</i></td><td class="tdr"><a href="#illus_2">30</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2">“SHE HEARD RAPID FOOTSTEPS”</td><td class="tdc" >”</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#illus_3">132</a></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td colspan="2">“‘THE LORD MAKE ME WORTHY OF THEE,</td><td></td><td></td> +</tr> +<tr> +<td></td><td>EVELINA!’”</td><td class="tdc">”</td><td class="tdr"><a href="#illus_4">180</a></td> +</tr> +</table> +<!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span></p>--> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_1">[Pg 1]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="SILENCE">SILENCE</h2></div> + + +<p>At dusk Silence went down the Deerfield +street to Ensign John Sheldon’s house. She +wore her red blanket over her head, pinned +closely under her chin, and her white profile +showed whiter between the scarlet folds. She +had been spinning all day, and shreds of wool +still clung to her indigo petticoat; now and then +one floated off on the north wind. It was bitter +cold, and the snow was four feet deep. +Silence’s breath went before her in a cloud; the +snow creaked under her feet. All over the village +the crust was so firm that men could walk +upon it. The houses were half sunken in sharp, +rigid drifts of snow; their roofs were laden with +it; icicles hung from the eaves. All the elms +were white with snow frozen to them so strongly +that it was not shaken off when they were +lashed by the fierce wind.</p> + +<p>There was an odor of boiling meal in the air; +the housewives were preparing supper. Silence +had eaten hers; she and her aunt, Widow Eunice +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_2">[Pg 2]</span>Bishop, supped early. She had not far to go to +Ensign Sheldon’s. She was nearly there when +she heard quick footsteps on the creaking snow +behind her. Her heart beat quickly, but she +did not look around. “Silence,” said a voice. +Then she paused, and waited, with her eyes cast +down and her mouth grave, until David Walcott +reached her. “What do you out this cold night, +sweetheart?” he said.</p> + +<p>“I am going down to Goodwife Sheldon’s,” +replied Silence. Then suddenly she cried out, +wildly: “Oh, David, what is that on your cloak? +What is it?”</p> + +<p>David looked curiously at his cloak. “I see +naught on my cloak save old weather stains,” +said he. “What mean you, Silence?”</p> + +<p>Silence quieted down suddenly. “It is gone +now,” said she, in a subdued voice.</p> + +<p>“What did you see, Silence?”</p> + +<p>Silence turned towards him; her face quivered +convulsively. “I saw a blotch of blood,” she +cried. “I have been seeing them everywhere all +day. I have seen them on the snow as I came +along.”</p> + +<p>David Walcott looked down at her in a bewildered +way. He carried his musket over his +shoulder, and was shrugged up in his cloak; his +heavy, flaxen mustache was stiff and white with +frost. He had just been relieved from his post +as sentry, and it was no child’s play to patrol +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_3">[Pg 3]</span>Deerfield village on a day like that, nor had it +been for many previous days. The weather had +been so severe that even the French and Indians, +lurking like hungry wolves in the neighborhood, +had hesitated to descend upon the town, and had +stayed in camp.</p> + +<p>“What mean you, Silence?” he said.</p> + +<p>“What I say,” returned Silence, in a strained +voice. “I have seen blotches of blood everywhere +all day. The enemy will be upon us.”</p> + +<p>David laughed loudly, and Silence caught his +arm. “Don’t laugh so loud,” she whispered. +Then David laughed again. “You be all overwrought, +sweetheart,” said he. “I have kept +guard all the afternoon by the northern palisades, +and I have seen not so much as a red fox on the +meadow. I tell thee the French and Indians +have gone back to Canada. There is no more +need of fear.”</p> + +<p>“I have started all day and all last night at +the sound of warwhoops,” said Silence.</p> + +<p>“Thy head is nigh turned with these troublous +times, poor lass. We must cross the road now +to Ensign Sheldon’s house. Come quickly, or +you will perish in this cold.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, my head is not turned,” said Silence, +as they hurried on over the crust; “the enemy +be hiding in the forests beyond the meadows. +David, they be not gone.”</p> + +<p>“And I tell thee they be gone, sweetheart. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_4">[Pg 4]</span>Think you not we should have seen their camp +smoke had they been there? And we have had +trusty scouts out. Come in, and my aunt, Hannah +Sheldon, shall talk thee out of this folly.”</p> + +<p>The front windows of John Sheldon’s house +were all flickering red from the hearth fire. +David flung open the door, and they entered. +There was such a goodly blaze from the great +logs in the wide fireplace that even the shadows +in the remote corners of the large keeping-room +were dusky red, and the faces of all the people in +the room had a clear red glow upon them.</p> + +<p>Goodwife Hannah Sheldon stood before the +fire, stirring some porridge in a great pot that +hung on the crane; some fair-haired children +sat around a basket shelling corn, a slight young +girl in a snuff-yellow gown was spinning, and an +old woman in a quilted hood crouched in a corner +of the fireplace, holding out her lean hands +to the heat.</p> + +<p>Goodwife Sheldon turned around when the +door opened. “Good-day, Mistress Silence +Hoit,” she called out, and her voice was sweet, +but deep like a man’s. “Draw near to the fire, +for in truth you must be near perishing with the +cold.”</p> + +<p>“There’ll be fire enough ere morning, I trow, +to warm the whole township,” said the old woman +in the corner. Her small black eyes gleamed +sharply out of the gloom of her great hood; her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_5">[Pg 5]</span>yellow face was all drawn and puckered towards +the centre of her shrewdly leering mouth.</p> + +<p>“Now you hush your croaking, Goody Crane,” +cried Hannah Sheldon. “Draw the stool near to +the fire for Silence, David. I cannot stop stirring, +or the porridge will burn. How fares your +aunt this cold weather, Silence?”</p> + +<p>“Well, except for her rheumatism,” replied +Silence. She sat down on the stool that David +placed for her, and slipped her blanket back from +her head. Her beautiful face, full of a grave and +delicate stateliness, drooped towards the fire, her +smooth fair hair was folded in clear curves like +the leaves of a lily around her ears, and she wore +a high, transparent, tortoise-shell comb like a +coronet in the knot at the back of her head.</p> + +<p>David Walcott had pulled off his cap and cloak, +and stood looking down at her. “Silence is all +overwrought by this talk of Indians,” he remarked, +presently, and a blush came over his weather-beaten +blond face at the tenderness in his own +tone.</p> + +<p>“The Indians have gone back to Canada,” +said Goodwife Sheldon, in a magisterial voice. +She stirred the porridge faster; it was steaming +fiercely.</p> + +<p>“So I tell her,” said David.</p> + +<p>Silence looked up in Hannah Sheldon’s sober, +masterly face. “Goodwife, may I have a word in +private with you?” she asked, in a half-whisper.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_6">[Pg 6]</span></p> +<p>“As soon as I take the porridge off,” replied +Goodwife Sheldon.</p> + +<p>“God grant it be not the last time she takes +the porridge off!” said the old woman.</p> + +<p>Hannah Sheldon laughed. “Here be Goody +Crane in a sorry mind to-night,” said she. “Wait +till she have a sup of this good porridge, and I +trow she’ll pack off the Indians to Canada in a +half-hour!”</p> + +<p>Hannah began dipping out the porridge. When +she had placed generous dishes of it on the table +and bidden everybody draw up, she motioned +to Silence. “Now, Mistress Silence,” said she, +“come into the bedroom if you would have a +word with me.”</p> + +<p>Silence followed her into the little north room +opening out of the keeping-room, where Ensign +John Sheldon and his wife Hannah had +slept for many years. It was icy cold, and the +thick fur of frost on the little window-panes +sent out sparkles in the candle-light. The two +women stood beside the great chintz draped and +canopied bed, Hannah holding the flaring candle. +“Now, what is it?” said she.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Goodwife Sheldon!” said Silence. Her +face remained quite still, but it was as if one +could see her soul fluttering beneath it.</p> + +<p>“You be all overwrought, as David saith,” +cried Goodwife Sheldon, and her voice had a +motherly harshness in it. Silence had no mother, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_7">[Pg 7]</span>and her lover, David Walcott, had none. Hannah +was his aunt, and loved him like her son, so +she felt towards Silence as towards her son’s +betrothed.</p> + +<p>“In truth I know not what it is,” said Silence, +in a kind of reserved terror, “but there has been +all day a great heaviness of spirit upon me, and +last night I dreamed. All day I have fancied +I saw blood here and there. Sometimes, when +I have looked out of the window, the whole snow +hath suddenly glared with red. Goodwife Sheldon, +think you the Indians and the French have +in truth gone back to Canada?”</p> + +<p>Goodwife Sheldon hesitated a moment, then +she spoke up cheerily. “In truth have they!” +cried she. “John said but this noon that naught +of them had been seen for some time.”</p> + +<p>“So David said,” returned Silence; “but this +heaviness will not be driven away. You know +how Parson Williams hath spoken in warning in +the pulpit and elsewhere, and besought us to +be vigilant. He holdeth that the savages be not +gone.”</p> + +<p>Hannah Sheldon smiled. “Parson Williams +is a godly man, but prone ever to look upon the +dark side,” said she.</p> + +<p>“If the Indians should come to-night—” said +Silence.</p> + +<p>“I tell ye they will not come, child. I shall +lay me down in that bed a-trusting in the Lord, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_8">[Pg 8]</span>and having no fear against the time I shall arise +from it.”</p> + +<p>“If the Indians should come— <a id="tn05"></a>Goodwife +Sheldon, be not angered; hear me. If they +should come, I pray you keep David here to defend +you in this house, and let him not out to +seek me. You know well that our house is +musket-proof as well as this, and it has long been +agreed that they who live nearest, whose houses +have not thick walls, shall come to ours and help +us make defence. I pray you let not David out +of the house to seek me, should there be a surprise +to-night. I pray you give me your promise +for this, Goodwife Sheldon.”</p> + +<p>Hannah Sheldon laughed. “In truth will I +give thee the promise, if it makes thee easier, +child,” said she. “At the very first war-screech +will I tie David in the chimney-corner with my +apron-string, unless you lend me yours. But +there will be no war-screech to-night, nor to-morrow +night, nor the night after that. The +Lord will preserve His people that trust in Him. +To-day have I set a web of linen in the loom, +and I have candles ready to dip to-morrow, and +the day after that I have a quilting. I look not +for Indians. If they come I will set them to +work. Fear not for David, sweetheart. In truth +you should have a bolder heart, an’ you look to +be a soldier’s wife some day.”</p> + +<p>“I would I had never been aught to him, that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_9">[Pg 9]</span>he might not be put in jeopardy to defend me!” +said Silence, and her words seemed visible in a +white cloud at her mouth.</p> + +<p>“We must not stay here in the cold,” said +Goodwife Sheldon. “Out with ye, Silence, and +have a sup of hot porridge, and then David shall +see ye home.”</p> + +<p>Silence sipped a cup of the hot porridge obediently, +then she pinned her red blanket over +her head. Hannah Sheldon assisted her, bringing +it warmly over her face. “’Tis bitter cold,” +she said. “Now have no more fear, Mistress +Silence; the Indians will not come to-night; +but do you come over to-morrow, and keep me +company while I dip the candles.”</p> + +<p>“There’ll be company enough—there’ll be a +whole houseful,” muttered the old woman in the +corner; but nobody heeded her. She was a lonely +and wretched old creature whom people sheltered +from pity, although she was somewhat +feared and held in ill repute. There were rumors +that she was well versed in all the dark lore +of witchcraft, and held commerce with unlawful +beings. The children of Deerfield village looked +askance at her, and clung to their mothers if +they met her on the street, for they whispered +among themselves that old Goody Crane rode +through the air on a broom in the night-time.</p> + +<p>Silence and David passed out into the keen +night. “If you meet my good-man, hasten him +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_10">[Pg 10]</span>home, for the porridge is cooling,” Hannah Sheldon +called after them.</p> + +<p>They met not a soul on Deerfield street, +and parted at Silence’s door. David would +have entered had she bidden him, but she said +peremptorily that she had a hard task of spinning +that evening, and then she wished him +good-night, and without a kiss, for Silence Hoit +was chary of caresses. But to-night she called +him back ere he was fairly in the street. “David,” +she called, and he ran back.</p> + +<p>“What is it, Silence?” he asked.</p> + +<p>She put back her blanket, threw her arms +around his neck, and clung to him trembling.</p> + +<p>“Why, sweetheart,” he whispered, “what has +come over thee?”</p> + +<p>“You know—this house is made like—a fort,” +she said, bringing out her words in gasps, “and—there +are muskets, and—powder stored in it, +and—Captain Moulton, and his sons, and—John +Carson will come, and make—a stand in it. I +have—no fear should—the Indians come. Remember +that I have no fear, and shall be safe +here, David.”</p> + +<p>David laughed, and patted her clinging shoulders. +“Yes, I will remember, Silence,” he said; +“but the Indians will not come.”</p> + +<p>“Remember that I am safe here, and have no +fear,” she repeated. Then she kissed him of +her own accord, as if she had been his wife, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_11">[Pg 11]</span>entered the house, and he went away, wondering.</p> + +<p>Silence’s aunt, Widow Eunice Bishop, did not +look up when the door opened; she was knitting +by the fire, sitting erect with her mouth +pursed. She had a hostile expression, as if she +were listening to some opposite argument. Silence +hung her blanket on a peg; she stood +irresolute a minute, then she breathed on the +frosty window and cleared a space through +which she could look out. Her aunt gave a +quick, fierce glance at her, then she tossed back +her head and knitted. Silence stood staring out +of the little peep-hole in the frosty pane. Her +aunt glanced at her again, then she spoke.</p> + +<p>“I should think if you had been out gossiping +and gadding for two hours, you had better +get yourself at some work now,” she said, “unless +your heart be set on idling. A pretty house-wife +you’ll make!”</p> + +<p>“Come here quick, quick!” Silence cried out.</p> + +<p>Her aunt started, but she would not get up; +she knitted, scowling. “I cannot afford to idle +if other folk can,” said she. “I have no desire +to keep running to windows and standing there +gaping, as you have done all this day.”</p> + +<p>“Oh, aunt, I pray you to come,” said Silence, +and she turned her white face over her shoulder +towards her aunt; “there is somewhat wrong +surely.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_12">[Pg 12]</span></p> +<p>Widow Bishop got up, still scowling, and went +over to the window. Silence stood aside and +pointed to the little clear circle in the midst of +the frost. “Over there to the north,” she said, +in a quick, low voice.</p> + +<p>Her aunt adjusted her horn spectacles and +bent her head stiffly. “I see naught,” said she.</p> + +<p>“A red glare in the north!”</p> + +<p>“A red glare in the north! Be ye out of your +mind, wench! There be no red glare in the +north. Everything be quiet in the town. Get +ye away from the window and to your work. I +have no more patience with such doings. Here +have I left my knitting for nothing, and I just +about setting the heel. You’d best keep to your +spinning instead of spying out of the window at +your own nightmares, and gadding about the +town after David Walcott. Pretty doings for a +modest maid, I call it, following after young +men in this fashion!”</p> + +<p>Silence turned on her aunt, and her blue eyes +gleamed dark; she held up her head like a queen. +“I follow not after young men,” she said.</p> + +<p>“Heard I not David Walcott’s voice at the +door? Went you not to Goodwife Sheldon’s, +where he lives? Was it not his voice—hey?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, ’twas, an’ I had a right to go there an I +chose, an’ ’twas naught unmaidenly,” said Silence.</p> + +<p>“’Twas unmaidenly in my day,” retorted her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_13">[Pg 13]</span>aunt; “perhaps ’tis different now.” She had +returned to her seat, and was clashing her knitting-needles +like two swords in a duel.</p> + +<p>Silence pulled a spinning-wheel before the +fire and fell to work. The wheel turned so rapidly +that the spokes were a revolving shadow; +there was a sound as if a bee had entered the +room.</p> + +<p>“I stayed at home, and your uncle did the +courting,” Widow Eunice Bishop continued, in a +voice that demanded response.</p> + +<p>But Silence made none. She went on spinning. +Her aunt eyed her maliciously. “I never went +after nightfall to his house that he might see me +home,” said she. “I trow my mother would +have locked me up in the garret, and kept me on +meal and water for a week, had I done aught so +bold.”</p> + +<p>Silence spun on. Her aunt threw her head +back, and knitted, jerking out her elbows. +Neither of them spoke again until the clock +struck nine. Then Widow Bishop wound her +ball of yarn closer, and stuck in the knitting-needles, +and rose. “’Tis time to put out the +candle,” she said, “and <i>I</i> have done a good day’s +work, and feel need of rest. They that have +idled cannot make it up by wasting tallow.” She +threw open the door that led to her bedroom, +and a blast of icy confined air rushed in. She +untied the black cap that framed her nervous +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_14">[Pg 14]</span>face austerely, and her gray head, with its tight +rosette of hair on the crown, appeared. Silence +set her spinning-wheel back, and raked the ashes +over the hearth fire. Then she took the candle +and climbed the stairs to her own chamber. Her +aunt was already in bed, her pale, white-frilled +face sunk in the icy feather pillow; but she did +not bid her good-night: not on account of her +anger; there was seldom any such formal courtesy +exchanged between the women. Silence’s +chamber had one side sloping with the slope of +the roof, and in it were two dormer-windows +looking towards the north. She set her candle +on the table, breathed on one of these windows, +as she had on the one down-stairs, and looked +out. She stood there several minutes, then she +turned away, shaking her head. The room was +very cold. She let down her smooth fair hair, +and her fingers began to redden; she took off +her kerchief; then she stopped, and looked hesitatingly +at her bed, with its blue curtains. She +set her mouth hard, and put on her kerchief. +Then she sat down on the edge of her bed and +waited. After a while she pulled a quilt from +the bed and wrapped it around her. Still she did +not shiver. She had blown out the candle, and +the room was very dark. All her nerves seemed +screwed tight like fiddle-strings, and her thoughts +beat upon them and made terrific waves of sound +in her ears. She saw sparks and flashes like diamond<span class="pagenum" id="Page_15">[Pg 15]</span> +fire in the darkness. She had her hands +clinched tight, but she did not feel her hands nor +her feet—she did not feel her whole body. She +sat so until two o’clock in the morning. When +the clock down in the keeping-room struck the +hours, the peals shocked her back for a minute +to her old sense of herself; then she lost it again. +Just after the clock struck two, while the silvery +reverberation of the bell tone was still in her ears, +and she was breathing a little freer, a great rosy +glow suffused the frosty windows. A horrible +discord of sound arose without. Above everything +else came something like a peal of laughter +from wild beasts or fiends.</p> + +<p>Silence arose and went down-stairs. Her aunt +rushed out of her bedroom, shrieking, and caught +hold of her. “Oh, Silence, what is it, what is +it?” she cried.</p> + +<p>“Get away till I light a candle,” said Silence. +She fairly pushed her aunt off, shovelled the +ashes from the coals in the fireplace, and lighted +a candle. Then she threw some wood on the +smouldering fire. Her aunt was running around +the room screaming. There came a great pound +on the door.</p> + +<p>“It’s the Indians! it’s the Indians! don’t let +’em in!” shrieked her aunt. “Don’t let them +in! don’t let them!” She placed her lean +shoulder in her white bed-gown against the +door. “Go away! go away!” she yelled. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_16">[Pg 16]</span>“You can’t come in! O Lord Almighty, save +us!”</p> + +<p>“You stand off,” said Silence. She took hold +of her aunt’s shoulders. “Be quiet,” she commanded. +Then she called out, in a firm voice, +“Who is there?”</p> + +<p>At the shout in response she drew the great +iron bolts quickly and flung open the heavy nail-studded +door. There was a press of frantic, white-faced +people into the room; then the door was +slammed to and the bolts shot. It was very still +in the room, except for the shuffling rush of the +men’s feet, and now and then a stern, gasping order. +The children did not cry; all the noise +was without. The house might have stood in +the midst of some awful wilderness peopled with +fiendish beasts, from the noise without. The +cries seemed actually in the room. The children’s +eyes glared white over their mothers’ shoulders.</p> + +<p>The men hurriedly strengthened the window-shutters +with props of logs, and fitted the muskets +into the loop-holes. Suddenly there was a +great crash at the door, and a wilder yell outside. +The muskets opened fire, and some of the women +rushed to the door and pressed fiercely against it +with their delicate shoulders, their white, desperate +faces turning back dumbly, like a spiritual +phalanx of defence. Silence and her aunt were +among them.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Widow Eunice Bishop, at a fresh onslaught<span class="pagenum" id="Page_17">[Pg 17]</span> +upon the door, and a fiercer yell, lifted +up her voice and shrieked back in a rage as mad +as theirs. Her speech, too, was almost inarticulate, +and the sense of it lost in a savage frenzy; +her tongue stuttered over abusive epithets; but +for a second she prevailed over the terrible chorus +without. It was like the solo of a fury. Then +louder yells drowned her out; the muskets cracked +faster; the men rammed in the charges; the +savages fell back somewhat; the blows on the +door ceased.</p> + +<p>Silence ran up the stairs to her chamber, and +peeped cautiously out of a little dormer-window. +Deerfield village was roaring with flames, the sky +and snow were red, and leaping through the +glare came the painted savages, a savage white +face and the waving sword of a French officer in +their midst. The awful warwhoops and the +death-cries of her friends and neighbors sounded +in her ears. She saw, close under her window, +the dark sweep of the tomahawk, the quick glance +of the scalping-knife, and the red starting of caps +of blood. She saw infants dashed through the +air, and the backward-straining forms of shrieking +women dragged down the street; but she +saw not David Walcott anywhere.</p> + +<p>She eyed in an agony some dark bodies lying +like logs in the snow. A wild impulse seized her +to run out, turn their dead faces, and see that +none of them was her lover’s. Her room was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_18">[Pg 18]</span>full of red light; everything in it showed distinctly. +The roof of the next house crashed in, +and the sparks and cinders shot up like a volcano. +There was a great outcry of terror from below, +and Silence hurried down. The Indians were +trying to fire the house from the west side. +They had piled a bank of brush against it, and +the men had hacked new loop-holes and were +beating them back.</p> + +<p>John Carson’s wife clutched Silence as she entered +the keeping-room. “They are trying to +set the house on fire,” she gasped, “and—the +bullets are giving out!” The woman held a little +child hugged close to her breast; she strained +him closer. “They shall not have him, anyway,” +she said. Her mouth looked white and +stiff.</p> + +<p>“Put him down and help, then,” said Silence. +She began pulling the pewter plates off the dresser.</p> + +<p>“What be you doing with my pewter plates?” +screamed her aunt at her elbow.</p> + +<p>Silence said nothing. She went on piling the +plates under her arm.</p> + +<p>“Think you I will have the pewter plates I +have had ever since I was wed, melted to make +bullets for those limbs of Satan?”</p> + +<p>Silence carried the plates to the fire; the +women piled on wood and made it hotter. John +Carson’s wife laid her baby on the settle and +helped, and Widow Bishop brought out her pewter +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_19">[Pg 19]</span>spoons, and her silver cream-jug when the +pewter ran low, and finally her dead husband’s +knee-buckles from the cedar chest. All the pewter +and silver in Widow Eunice Bishop’s house +were melted down that night. The women worked +with desperate zeal to supply the men with bullets, +and just before the ammunition failed, the +Indians left Deerfield village, with their captives +in their train.</p> + +<p>The men had stopped firing at last. Everything +was quiet outside, except for the flurry of +musket-shots down on the meadow, where the +skirmish was going on between the Hatfield men +and the retreating French and Indians. The +dawn was breaking, but not a shutter had been +stirred in the Bishop house; the inmates were +clustered together, their ears straining for another +outburst of slaughter.</p> + +<p>Suddenly there was a strange crackling sound +overhead; a puff of hot smoke came into the +room from the stairway. The roof had caught +fire from the shower of sparks, and the stanch +house that had withstood all the fury of the savages +was going the way of its neighbors.</p> + +<p>The men rushed up the stair, and fell back. +“We can’t save it!” Captain Isaac Moulton said, +hoarsely. He was an old man, and his white hair +tossed wildly around his powder-blackened face.</p> + +<p>Widow Eunice Bishop scuttled into her bedroom, +and got her best silk hood and her giltframed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_20">[Pg 20]</span>looking-glass. “Silence, get out the +feather-bed!” she shrieked.</p> + +<p>The keeping-room was stifling with smoke. +Captain Moulton loosened a window-shutter +cautiously and peered out. “I see no sign of +the savages,” he said. They unbolted the door, +and opened it inch by inch, but there was no +exultant shout in response. The crack of muskets +on the meadow sounded louder; that was all.</p> + +<p>Widow Eunice Bishop pushed forward before +the others; the danger by fire to her household +goods had driven her own danger from her mind, +which could compass but one terror at a time. +“Let me forth!” she cried; and she laid the +looking-glass and silk hood on the snow, and +pelted back into the smoke for her feather-bed +and the best andirons.</p> + +<p>Silence carried out the spinning-wheel, and +the others caught up various articles which they +had wit to see in the panic. They piled them up +on the snow outside, and huddled together, staring +fearfully down the village street. They saw, +amid the smouldering ruins, Ensign John Sheldon’s +house standing.</p> + +<p>“We must make for that,” said Captain Isaac +Moulton, and they started. The men went before +and behind, with their muskets in readiness, and +the women and children walked between. Widow +Bishop carried the looking-glass; somebody +had helped her to bring out her feather-bed,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_21">[Pg 21]</span> +and she had dragged it to a clean place well +away from the burning house.</p> + +<p>The dawnlight lay pale and cold in the east; +it was steadily overcoming the fire-glow from the +ruins. Nobody would have known Deerfield village. +The night before the sun had gone down +upon the snowy slants of humble roofs and the +peaceful rise of smoke from pleasant hearth fires. +The curtained windows had gleamed out one by +one with mild candle-light, and serene faces of +white-capped matrons preparing supper had +passed them. Now, on both sides of Deerfield +street were beds of glowing red coals; grotesque +ruins of door-posts and chimneys in the semblances +of blackened martyrs stood crumbling in +the midst of them, and twisted charred heaps, +which the people eyed trembling, lay in the old +doorways. The snow showed great red patches +in the gathering light, and in them lay still bodies +that seemed to move.</p> + +<p>Silence Hoit sprang out from the hurrying +throng, and turned the head of one dead man +whose face she could not see. The horror of his +red crown did not move her. She only saw that +he was not David Walcott. She stooped and +wiped off her hands in some snow.</p> + +<p>“That is Israel Bennett,” the others groaned.</p> + +<p>John Carson’s wife had been the dead man’s +sister. She hugged her baby tighter, and pressed +more closely to her husband’s back. There was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_22">[Pg 22]</span>no longer any sound of musketry on the meadows. +There was not a sound to be heard except the +wind in the dry trees and the panting breaths of +the knot of people.</p> + +<p>A dead baby lay directly in the path, and a +woman caught it up, and tried to warm it at her +breast. She wrapped her cloak around it, and +wiped its little bloody face with her apron. +“’Tis not dead,” she declared, frantically; “the +child is not dead!” She had not shed a tear nor +uttered a wail before, but now she began sobbing +aloud over the dead child. It was Goodwife +Barnard’s, and no kin to her; she was a single +woman. The others were looking right and left +for lurking savages; she looked only at the little +cold face on her bosom. “The child breathes,” +she said, and hurried on faster that she might +get succor for it.</p> + +<p>The party halted before Ensign John Sheldon’s +house. The stout door was fast, but there was +a hole in it, as if hacked by a tomahawk. The +men tried it and shook it. “Open, open, Goodwife +Sheldon!” they hallooed. “Friends! +friends! Open the door!” But there was no +response.</p> + +<p>Silence Hoit left the throng at the door, and +began clambering up on a slant of icy snow to +a window which was flung wide open. The +window-sill was stained with blood, and so was +the snow.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_23">[Pg 23]</span></p> +<p>One of the men caught Silence and tried to +hold her back. “There may be Indians in there,” +he whispered, hoarsely.</p> + +<p>But Silence broke away from him, and was in +through the window, and the men followed her, +and unbolted the door for the women, who pressed +in wildly, and flung it to again. A child who +was among them, little Comfort Arms, stationed +herself directly with her tiny back against the +door, with her mouth set like a soldier’s, and her +blue eyes gleaming fierce under her flaxen locks. +“They shall not get in,” said she. Somehow +she had gotten hold of a great horse-pistol, which +she carried like a doll.</p> + +<p>Nobody heeded her, Silence least of all. She +stared about the room, with her lips parted. +Right before her on the hearth lay a little three-year-old +girl, Mercy Sheldon, her pretty head in +a pool of blood, but Silence cast only an indifferent +glance when the others gathered about her, +groaning and sighing.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Silence sprang towards a dark heap +near the pantry door, but it was only a woman’s +quilted petticoat.</p> + +<p>The spinning-wheel lay broken on the floor, +and all the simple furniture was strewn about +wildly. Silence went into Goodwife Sheldon’s +bedroom, and the others followed her, trembling, +all except little Comfort Arms, who stood unflinchingly +with her back pressed against the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_24">[Pg 24]</span>door, and the single woman, Grace Mather; she +stayed behind, and put wood on the fire, after she +had picked up the quilted petticoat, and laid the +dead baby tenderly wrapped in it on the settle. +Then she pulled the settle forward before the fire, +and knelt before it, and fell to chafing the little +limbs of the dead baby, weeping as she did so.</p> + +<p>Goodwife Sheldon’s bedroom was in wild disorder. +A candle still burned, although it was +very low, on the table, whose linen cover had +great red finger-prints on it. Goodwife Sheldon’s +decent clothes were tossed about on the floor; +the curtains of the bed were half torn away. +Silence pressed forward unshrinkingly towards +the bed; the others, even the men, hung back. +There lay Goodwife Sheldon dead in her bed. +All the light in the room, the candle-light and +the low daylight, seemed to focus upon her white, +frozen profile propped stiffly on the pillow, where +she had fallen back when the bullet came through +that hole in the door.</p> + +<p>Silence looked at her. “Where is David, +Goodwife Sheldon?” said she.</p> + +<p>Eunice Bishop sprang forward. “Be you +clean out of your mind, Silence Hoit?” she cried. +“Know you not she’s dead? She’s dead! Oh, +she’s dead, she’s dead! An’ here’s her best silk +hood trampled underfoot on the floor!” Eunice +snatched up the hood, and seized Silence by the +arm, but she pushed her back.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_25">[Pg 25]</span></p> +<p>“Where is David? Where is he gone?” she +demanded again of the dead woman.</p> + +<p>The other women came crowding around +Silence then, and tried to soothe her and reason +with her, while their own faces were white with +horror and woe. Goodwife Sarah Spear, an old +woman whose sons lay dead in the street outside, +put an arm around the girl, and tried to draw her +head to her broad bosom.</p> + +<p>“Mayhap you will find him, sweetheart,” she +said. “He’s not among the dead out there.”</p> + +<p>But Silence broke away from the motherly +arm, and sped wildly through the other rooms, +with the people at her heels, and her aunt crying +vainly after her. They found no more dead in +the house; naught but ruin and disorder, and +bloody footprints and handprints of savages.</p> + +<p>When they returned to the keeping-room, +Silence seated herself on a stool by the fire, and +held out her hands towards the blaze to warm +them. The daylight was broad outside now, and +the great clock that had come from overseas +ticked; the Indians had not touched that.</p> + +<p>Captain Isaac Moulton lifted little Mercy Sheldon +from the hearth and carried her to her dead +mother in the bedroom, and two of the older +women went in there and shut the door. Little +Comfort Arms still stood with her back against +the outer door, and Grace Mather tended the +dead baby on the settle.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_26">[Pg 26]</span></p> +<p>“What do ye with that dead child?” a woman +called out roughly to her.</p> + +<p>“I tell ye ’tis not dead; it breathes,” returned +Grace Mather; and she never turned her harsh, +plain face from the dead child.</p> + +<p>“An’ I tell ye ’tis dead.”</p> + +<p>“An’ I tell ye ’tis not dead. I need but some +hot posset for it.”</p> + +<p>Goodwife Carson began to weep. She hugged +her own living baby tighter. “Let her alone!” +she sobbed. “I wonder our wits be not all gone.” +She went sobbing over to little Comfort Arms at +the door. “Come away, sweetheart, and draw +near the fire,” she pleaded, brokenly.</p> + +<p>The little girl looked obstinately up at her. +“They shall not come in,” she said. “The +wicked savages shall not come in again.”</p> + +<p>“No more shall they, an’ the Lord be willing, +sweet. But, I pray you, come away from the +door now.”</p> + +<p>Comfort shook her head, and she looked like +her father as he fought on the Deerfield meadows.</p> + +<p>“The savages are gone, sweet.”</p> + +<p>But Comfort answered not a word, and Goodwife +Carson sat down and began to nurse her +baby. One of the women hung the porridge-kettle +over the fire; another put some potatoes +in the ashes to bake. Presently the two women +came out of Goodwife Sheldon’s bedroom with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_27">[Pg 27]</span>grave, strained faces, and held their stiff blue +fingers out to the hearth fire.</p> + +<p>Eunice Bishop, who was stirring the porridge, +looked at them with sharp curiosity. “How look +they?” she whispered.</p> + +<p>“As peaceful as if they slept,” replied Goodwife +Spear, who was one of the women.</p> + +<p>“And the child’s head?”</p> + +<p>“We put on her little white cap with the lace +frills.”</p> + +<p>Eunice stirred the bubbling porridge, scowling +in the heat and steam; some of the women laid +the table with Hannah Sheldon’s linen cloth and +pewter dishes, and presently the breakfast was +dished up.</p> + +<p>Little Comfort Arms had sunk at the foot of +the nail-studded door in a deep slumber. She +slept at her post like the faithless sentry whose +slumbers the night before had brought about the +destruction of Deerfield village. Goodwife Spear +raised her up, but her curly head drooped helplessly.</p> + +<p>“Wake up, Comfort, and have a sup of hot +porridge,” she called in her ear.</p> + +<p>She led her over to the table, Comfort stumbling +weakly at arm’s-length, and set her on a +stool with a dish of porridge before her, which +she ate uncertainly in a dazed fashion, with her +eyes filming and her head nodding.</p> + +<p>They all gathered gravely around the table, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_28">[Pg 28]</span>except Silence Hoit and Grace Mather. Silence +sat still, staring at the fire, and Grace had dipped +out a little cup of the hot porridge, and was trying +to feed it to the dead baby, with crooning +words.</p> + +<p>“Silence, why come you not to the table?” +her aunt called out.</p> + +<p>“I want nothing,” answered Silence.</p> + +<p>“I see not why you should so set yourself up +before the others, as having so much more to +bear,” said Eunice, sharply. “There is Goodwife +Spear, with her sons unburied on the road +yonder, and she eats her porridge with good +relish.”</p> + +<p>John Carson’s wife set her baby on her husband’s +knee, and carried a dish of porridge to +Silence.</p> + +<p>“Try and eat it, sweet,” she whispered. She +was near Silence’s age.</p> + +<p>Silence looked up at her. “I want it not,” +said she.</p> + +<p>“But he may not be dead, sweet. He may +presently be home. You would not he should +find you spent and fainting. Perchance he may +have wounds for you to tend.”</p> + +<p>Silence seized the dish and began to eat the +porridge in great spoonfuls, gulping it down fast.</p> + +<p>The people at the table eyed her sadly and +whispered, and they also cast frequent glances at +Grace Mather bending over the dead baby. Once +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_29">[Pg 29]</span>Captain Isaac Moulton called out to her in his +gruff old voice, which he tried to soften, and she +answered back, sharply: “Think ye I will leave +this child while it breathes, Captain Isaac Moulton? +In faith I am the only one of ye all who +has regard to it.”</p> + +<p>But suddenly, when the meal was half over, +Grace Mather arose, and gathered up the little +dead baby, carried it into Goodwife Sheldon’s +bedroom, and was gone some time.</p> + +<p>“She has lost her wits,” said Eunice Bishop. +“Think you not we should follow her? She +may do some harm.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, let her be,” said Goodwife Spear.</p> + +<p>When at last Grace Mather came out of the +bedroom, and they all turned to look at her, her +face was stern but quite composed. “I found a +little clean linen shift in the chest,” she said to +Goodwife Spear, who nodded gravely. Then she +sat down at the table and ate.</p> + +<p>The people, as they ate, cast frequent glances +at the barred door and the shuttered windows. +The daylight was broad outside, but there was +no glimmer of it in the room, and the candles +were lighted. They dared not yet remove the +barricades, and the muskets were in readiness: +the Indians might return.</p> + +<p>All at once there was a shrill clamor at the +door, and men sprang to their muskets. The +women clutched each other, panting.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_30">[Pg 30]</span></p> +<p>“Unbar the door!” shrieked a quavering old +voice. “I tell ye, unbar the door! I be nigh +frozen a-standing here. Unbar the door! The +Indians are gone hours ago.”</p> + +<p>“’Tis Goody Crane!” cried Eunice Bishop.</p> + +<p>Captain Isaac Moulton shot back the bolts and +opened the door a little way, while the men stood +close at his back, and Goody Crane slid in like a +swift black shadow out of the daylight.</p> + +<p>She crouched down close to the fire, trembling +and groaning, and the women gave her some hot +porridge.</p> + +<p>“Where have ye been?” demanded Eunice +Bishop.</p> + +<p>“Where they found me not,” replied the old +woman, and there was a sudden leer like a light +in the gloom of her great hood. She motioned +towards the bedroom door.</p> + +<p>“Goody Sheldon sleeps late this morning, and +so doth Mercy,” said she. “I trow she will not +dip her candles to-day.”</p> + +<p>The people looked at each other; a subtler +horror than that of the night before shook their +spirits.</p> + +<p>Captain Isaac Moulton towered over the old +woman on the hearth. “How knew you Goodwife +Sheldon and Mercy were dead?” he asked, +sternly.</p> +<figure class="figcenter width600"> +<img src="images/i_fp030_verbeterd.jpg" id="illus_2" +alt="A woman bearing a baby, maybe even feeding it. In the background +a few men are seated at the table and standing by the fireplace"> +<figcaption> +AT ENSIGN SHELDON’S HOUSE THE MORNING AFTER THE MASSACRE +</figcaption> +</figure> +<p>The old woman leered up at him undauntedly; +her head bobbed. There was a curious grotesqueness<span class="pagenum" id="Page_31">[Pg 31]</span> +about her blanketed and hooded figure when +in motion. There was so little of the old woman +herself visible that motion surprised, as it would +have done in a puppet. “Told I not Goody +Sheldon last night she would never stir porridge +again?” said she. “Who stirred the porridge +this morning? I trow Goody Sheldon’s hands +be too stiff and too cold, though they have stirred +well in their day. Hath she dipped her candles +yet? Hath she begun on her weaving? I trow +’twill be a long day ere Mary Sheldon’s linen-chest +be filled, if she herself go a-gadding to Canada +and her mother sleep so late.”</p> + +<p>“Eat this hot porridge and stop your croaking,” +said Goodwife Spear, stooping over her.</p> + +<p>The old woman extended her two shaking +hands for the dish. “That was what she said +last night,” she returned. “The living echo +the dead, and that is enough wisdom for a +witch.”</p> + +<p>“You’ll be burned for a witch yet, Goody +Crane, an you be not careful,” cried Eunice +Bishop.</p> + +<p>“There is fire enough outside to burn all the +witches in the land,” muttered the old woman, +sipping her porridge. Suddenly she eyed Silence +sitting motionless opposite. “Where be your +sweetheart this fine morning, Silence Hoit?” she +inquired.</p> + +<p>Silence looked at her. There was a strange +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_32">[Pg 32]</span>likeness between the glitter in her blue eyes and +that in Goody Crane’s black ones.</p> + +<p>The old woman’s great hood nodded over the +porridge-dish. “I can tell ye, Mistress Silence,” +she said, thickly, as she ate. “He is gone to +Canada on a moose-hunt, and unless I be far +wrong, he hath taken thy wits with him.”</p> + +<p>“How know you David Walcott is gone to +Canada?” cried Eunice Bishop; and Silence +stared at her with her hard blue eyes.</p> + +<p>Silence’s soft fair hair hung all matted like +uncombed flax over her pale cheeks. There was +a rigid, dead look about her girlish forehead and +her sweet mouth.</p> + +<p>“I know,” returned Goody Crane, nodding her +head.</p> + +<p>The women washed the pewter dishes, set them +back on the dresser, and swept the floor. Little +Comfort Arms had been carried up-stairs and +laid in the bed whence poor Mary Sheldon had +been dragged and haled to Canada. The men +stood talking near their stacked muskets. One +of the shutters had been opened and the candles +put out. The winter sun shone in the window +as it had shone before, but the poor folk in Ensign +Sheldon’s keeping-room saw it with a certain +shock, as if it were a stranger. That morning +their own hearts had in them such strangeness +that they transferred it like motion to all familiar +objects. The very iron dogs in the Sheldon +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_33">[Pg 33]</span>fireplace seemed on the leap with tragedy, and +the porridge-kettle swung darkly out of some +former age.</p> + +<p>Now and then one of the men opened the door +cautiously and peered out and listened. The +reek of the smouldering village came in at the +door, but there was not a sound except the +whistling howl of the savage north wind, which +still swept over the valley. There was not a +shot to be heard from the meadows. The men +discussed the wisdom of leaving the women for +a short space and going forth to explore, but +Widow Eunice Bishop interposed, thrusting her +sharp face in among them.</p> + +<p>“Here we be,” scolded she, “a passel of women +and children, and Hannah Sheldon and Mercy +a-lying dead, and me with my house burnt down, +and nothing saved except my silk hood and my +looking-glass and my feather-bed, and it’s a +mercy if that’s not all smooched, and you talk +of going off and leaving us!”</p> + +<p>The men looked doubtfully at one another; +then there was the hissing creak of footsteps on +the snow outside, and Widow Bishop screamed. +“Oh, the Indians have come back!” she proclaimed.</p> + +<p>Silence looked up.</p> + +<p>The door was tried from without.</p> + +<p>“Who’s there?” cried out Captain Moulton.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_34">[Pg 34]</span></p> +<p>“John Sheldon,” responded a hoarse voice. +“Who’s inside?”</p> + +<p>Captain Moulton threw open the door, and +John Sheldon stood there. His severe and sober +face was painted like an Indian’s with blood and +powder grime; he stood staring in at the company.</p> + +<p>“Come in, quick, and let us bar the door!” +screamed Eunice Bishop.</p> + +<p>John Sheldon came in hesitatingly, and stood +looking around the room.</p> + +<p>“Have you but just come from the meadows?” +inquired Captain Moulton. But John +Sheldon did not seem to hear him. He stared +at the company, who all stood still staring back +at him; then he looked hard and long at the +doors, as if expecting some one to enter. The +eyes of the others followed his, but no one spoke.</p> + +<p>“Where’s Hannah?” asked John Sheldon.</p> + +<p>Then the women began to weep.</p> + +<p>“She’s in there,” sobbed John Carson’s wife, +pointing to the bedroom door—“in there with +little Mercy, Goodman Sheldon.”</p> + +<p>“Is—the child hurt, and—Hannah a-tending +her?”</p> + +<p>The women wept, and pushed each other forward +to tell him, but Captain Isaac Moulton +spoke out, and drove the knife home like an +honest soldier, who will kill if he must, but not +mangle.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_35">[Pg 35]</span></p> +<p>“Goodwife Sheldon lies yonder, shot dead in +her bed, and we found the child dead on the +hearth-stone,” said Isaac Moulton.</p> + +<p>John Sheldon turned his gaze on him.</p> + +<p>“The judgments of the Lord are just and +righteous altogether,” said Isaac Moulton, confronting +him with stern defiance.</p> + +<p>“Amen,” returned John Sheldon. He took +off his cloak, and hung it up on the peg as he +was used.</p> + +<p>“Where is David Walcott?” asked Silence, +standing before him.</p> + +<p>“David, he is gone with the Indians to Canada, +and the boys, Ebenezer and Remembrance.”</p> + +<p>“Where is David?”</p> + +<p>“I tell ye, lass, he is gone with the French +and Indians to Canada; and you need be thankful +he was but your sweetheart, and ye not wed, +with a half-score of babes to be taken too. The +curse that was upon the women of Jerusalem is +upon the women of Deerfield.” John Sheldon +looked sternly into Silence’s white wild face; +then his voice softened. “Take heart, lass,” +said he. “Erelong I shall go to Governor Dudley +and get help, and then after them to Canada, +and fetch them back. Take heart; I will fetch +thee thy sweetheart presently.”</p> + +<p>Silence returned to her seat in the fireplace. +Goody Crane looked across at her. “He will +come back over the north meadow,” she whispered.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_36">[Pg 36]</span> +“Keep watch over the north meadow; +but ’twill be a long day ere ye see him.”</p> + +<p>Silence paid seemingly little heed. She paid +little heed to Ensign John Sheldon relating how +the French and Indians, with Hertel de Rouville +at their head, were on the road to Canada with +their captives; of the fight on the meadow between +the retreating foe and the brave band of +Deerfield and Hatfield men, who had made a +stand there to intercept them; how they had +been obliged to cease firing because the captives +were threatened; and the pitiful tale of Parson +John Williams, two of whose children were +killed, dragged through the wilderness with the +others, and his sick wife.</p> + +<p>“Had folk listened to him, we had all been +safe in our good houses with our belongings,” +cried Eunice Bishop.</p> + +<p>“They will not drag Goodwife Williams far,” +said Goody Crane, “nor the babe at her breast. +I trow well it hath stopped wailing ere now.”</p> + +<p>“How know you that?” questioned Eunice +Bishop, turning sharply on her.</p> + +<p>But the old woman only nodded her head, and +Silence paid no heed, for she was not there. +Her slender girlish shape sat by the hearth fire +in John Sheldon’s house in Deerfield, her fair +head showed like a delicate flower, but Silence +Hoit was following her lover to Canada. Every +step that he took painfully through pathless +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_37">[Pg 37]</span>forests, on treacherous ice, and desolate snow +fields, she took more painfully still; every knife +gleaming over his head she saw. She bore his +every qualm of hunger and pain and cold, and it +was all the harder because they struck on her +bare heart with no flesh between, for she sat in +the flesh in Deerfield, and her heart went with +her lover to Canada.</p> + +<p>The sun stood higher, but it was still bitter +cold; the blue frost on the windows did not +melt, and the icicles on the eaves, which nearly +touched the sharp snow-drifts underneath, did +not drip. The desolate survivors of the terrible +night began work among the black ruins of their +homes. They cared as well as they might for +the dead in Deerfield street, and the dead on the +meadow where the fight had been. Their +muscles were all tense with the cold, their faces +seamed and blue with it, but their hearts were +strained with a fiercer cold than that. Not one +man of them but had one or more slain, with +dead face upturned, seeking his in the morning +light, or on that awful road to Canada. Ever as +the men worked they turned their eyes northward, +and met grimly the icy blast of the north +wind, and sometimes to their excited fancies it +seemed to bring to their ears the cries of their +friends who were facing it also, and they stood +still and listened.</p> + +<p>Silence Hoit crept out of the house and down +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_38">[Pg 38]</span>the road a little way, and then stood looking +over the meadow towards the north. Her fair +hair tossed in the wind, her pale cheeks turned +pink, the wind struck full upon her delicate +figure. She had come out without her blanket.</p> + +<p>“David!” she called. “David! David! +David!” The north wind bore down upon her, +shrieking with a wild fury like a savage of the +air; the dry branches of a small tree near her +struck her in the face. “David!” she called +again. “David! David!” She swelled out +her white throat like a bird, and her voice was +shrill and sweet and far-reaching. The men +moving about on the meadow below, and stooping +over the dead, looked up at her, but she did +not heed them. She had come through a break +in the palisades; on each side of her the frozen +snow-drifts slanted sharply to their tops, and +they glittered with blue lights like glaciers in +the morning sun over those drifts the enemy had +passed the night before.</p> + +<p>The men on the meadow saw Silence’s hair +blowing like a yellow banner between the drifts +of snow.</p> + +<p>“The poor lass has come out bareheaded,” +said Ensign Sheldon. “She is near out of her +mind for David Walcott.”</p> + +<p>“A man should have no sweetheart in these +times, unless he would her heart be broke,” said +a young man beside him. He was hardly more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_39">[Pg 39]</span>than a boy, and his face was as rosy as a girl’s in +the wind. He kept close to Ensign Sheldon, +and his mind was full of young Mary Sheldon +travelling to Canada on her weary little feet. +He had often, on a Sabbath day, looked across +the meeting-house at her, and thought that +there was no maiden like her in Deerfield.</p> + +<p>Ensign John Sheldon thought of his sweetheart +lying with her heart still in her freezing +bedroom, and stooped over a dead Hatfield man +whose face was frozen into the snow.</p> + +<p>The young man, whose name was Freedom +Wells, bent over to help him. Then he started. +“What’s that?” he cried.</p> + +<p>“’Tis only Silence Hoit calling David Walcott +again,” replied Ensign Sheldon.</p> + +<p>The voice had sounded like Mary Sheldon’s to +Freedom. The tears rolled over his boyish +cheeks as he put his hands into the snow and +tried to dig it away from the dead man’s face.</p> + +<p>“David! David! David!” called Silence.</p> + +<p>Suddenly her aunt threw a wiry arm around +her. “Be you gone clean daft,” she shrieked +against the wind, “standing here calling David +Walcott? Know you not he is a half-day’s +journey towards Canada an the savages have not +scalped him and left him by the way? Standing +here with your hair blowing and no blanket! +Into the house with ye!”</p> + +<p>Silence followed her aunt unresistingly. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_40">[Pg 40]</span>women in Ensign Sheldon’s house were hard at +work. They were baking in the great brick +oven, spinning, and even dipping poor Goodwife +Sheldon’s candles.</p> + +<p>“Bind up your hair, like an honest maid, and +go to spinning,” said Eunice, and she pointed to +the spinning-wheel which had been saved from +her own house. “We that be spared have to +work, and not sit down and trot our own hearts +on our knees. There is scarce a yard of linen +left in Deerfield, to say naught of woollen cloth. +Bind up your hair!”</p> + +<p>And Silence bound up her hair, and sat down +by her wheel meekly, and yet with a certain dignity. +Indeed, through all the disorder of her +mind, that delicate maiden dignity never forsook +her, and there was never aught but respect +shown her.</p> + +<p>As time went on, it became quite evident that +although the fair semblance of Silence Hoit still +walked the Deerfield street, sat in the meeting-house, +and toiled at the spinning-wheel and +the loom, yet she was as surely not there as +though she had been haled to Canada with the +other captives on that terrible February night. +It became the general opinion that Silence Hoit +would never be quite her old self again and +walk in the goodly company of all her fair wits +unless David Walcott should be redeemed from +captivity and restored to her. Then, it was accounted<span class="pagenum" id="Page_41">[Pg 41]</span> +possible, the mending of the calamity +which had brought her disorder upon her might +remove it.</p> + +<p>“Ye wait,” Widow Eunice Bishop would say, +hetchelling flax the while as though it were the +scalp-locks of the enemy—“ye wait. If once +David Walcott show his face, ye’ll see Silence +Hoit be not so lacking. She hath a tenderer +heart than some I could mention, who go about +smiling when their nearest of kin lie<a id="tn01"></a> in torment +in Indian lodges. She cares naught for picking +up a new sweetheart. She hath a steady heart +that be not so easy turned as some. Silence was +never a light hussy, a-dancing hither and thither +off the bridle-path for a new flower on the bushes. +An’, for all ye call her lacking now, there be not +a maid in Deerfield does such a day’s task as she.”</p> + +<p>And that last statement was quite true. All +the Deerfield women, the matrons and maidens, +toiled unceasingly, with a kind of stern patience +like that which served their husbands and lovers +in the frontier corn-fields, and which served all +the dauntless border settlers, who were forced +continually to rebuild after destruction, like +way-side ants whose nests are always being +trampled underfoot. There was need of unflinching +toil at wheel and loom, for there was +great scarcity of household linen in Deerfield, +and Silence Hoit’s shapely white maiden hands +flinched less than any.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_42">[Pg 42]</span></p> +<p>Nevertheless, many a day, in the morning +when the snowy meadows were full of blue +lights, at sunset when all the snow levels were +rosy, but more particularly in wintry moonlight +when the country was like a waste of silver, +would Silence Hoit leave suddenly her household +task, and hasten to the terrace overlooking +the north meadow, and shriek out: “David! +David! David Walcott!”</p> + +<p>The village children never jeered at her, as +they would sometimes jeer at Goody Crane if +not restrained by their elders. They eyed with +a mixture of wonder and admiration Silence’s +beautiful bewildered face, with the curves of +gold hair around the pink cheeks, and the fretwork +of tortoise-shell surmounting it. David +Walcott had given Silence her shell comb, and +she was never seen without it.</p> + +<p>Many a time when Silence called to David +from the terrace of the north meadow, some of +the little village maids in their homespun pinafores +would join her and call with her. They +had no fear of her, as they had of Goody Crane.</p> + +<p>Indeed, Goody Crane, after the massacre, was +in worse repute than ever in Deerfield. There +were dark rumors concerning her whereabouts +upon that awful night. Some among the devout +and godly were fain to believe that the old woman +had been in league with the powers of darkness +and their allies the savages, and had so +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_43">[Pg 43]</span>escaped harm. Some even whispered that in the +thickest of the slaughter, when Deerfield was in +the midst of that storm of fire, old Goody Crane’s +laugh had been heard, and one, looking up, had +spied her high overhead riding her broomstick, +her face red with the glare of the flames. The old +woman was sheltered under protest, and had +Deerfield not been a frontier town, and graver +matters continually in mind, she might have +come to harm in consequence of the gloomy suspicions +concerning her.</p> + +<p>Many a night after the massacre would the +windows fly up and anxious faces peer out. It +was as if the ears of the people were tuned up to +the pitch of the Indian warwhoops, and their +very thoughts made the nights ring with them.</p> + +<p>The palisades were well looked to; there was +never a slope of frozen snow again to form foothold +for the enemy, and the sentry never slept +at his post. But the anxious women listened all +winter for the warwhoops, and many a time it +seemed they heard them. In the midst of their +nervous terror it was often a sore temptation to +consult old Goody Crane, since she was held to +have occult knowledge.</p> + +<p>“I’ll warrant old Goody Crane could tell us in +a twinkling whether or no the Indians would +come before morning,” Eunice Bishop said one +fierce windy night that called to mind the one of +the massacre.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_44">[Pg 44]</span></p> +<p>“Knowledge got in unlawful ways would avail +us naught,” returned Goodwife Spear. “I trow +the Lord be yet able to protect His people.”</p> + +<p>“I doubt not that,” said Eunice Bishop, “but +I would like well to know if I had best bury my +hood and my spinning-wheel and looking-glass +in a snow-drift to-night. I have no mind the +Indians shall get them. I warrant she knows +well.”</p> + +<p>But Eunice Bishop did not consult Goody +Crane, although she watched her narrowly and +had a sharp ear to her mutterings as she sat in +the chimney-corner. Eunice and Silence were +living in John Sheldon’s house, as did many of +the survivors for some time after the massacre. +It was the largest house in the village, and most +of its original inhabitants were dead or gone into +captivity. The people all huddled together fearfully +in the few houses that were left, and the +women’s spinning-wheels and looms jostled each +other.</p> + +<p>As soon as the weather moderated, the work +of building new dwellings commenced, and went +on bravely with the advance of the spring. The +air was full of the calls of spring birds and the +strokes of axes and hammers. A little house +was built on the site of their old one for Widow +Bishop and Silence Hoit. Widow Sarah Spear +also lived with them, and Goody Crane took frequent +shelter at their fireside. So they were +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_45">[Pg 45]</span>a household of women, with loaded muskets at +hand, and spinning-wheels and looms at full +hum. They had but a scanty household store, +although Widow Bishop tried in every way to increase +it. Several times during the summer she +took perilous journeys to Hatfield and Squakheak, +for the purpose of bartering skeins of yarn +or rolls of wool for household articles. In December, +when Ensign Sheldon with young Freedom +Wells went down to Boston to consult with +Governor Dudley concerning an expedition to +Canada to redeem the captives, Widow Eunice +Bishop, having saved a few shillings, burdened +him with a commission to purchase for her a +new cap and a pair of bellows. She was much +angered when he returned without them, having +quite forgotten them in his press of business.</p> + +<p>On the day when John Sheldon and Freedom +Wells started upon their terrible journey of +three hundred miles to redeem the captives, +Eunice Bishop scolded well as she spun by her +hearth fire.</p> + +<p>“I trow they will bring back nobody,” said +she, her nose high in air, and her voice shrilling +over the drone of the wheel; “an they could not +do the bidding of a poor lone widow-woman, +and fetch her the cap and bellows from Boston, +they’ll fetch nobody home from Canada. I +would I had ear of Governor Dudley. I trow +men with minds upon their task would be sent.” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_46">[Pg 46]</span>Eunice kept jerking her head as she scolded, +and spun like a bee angry with its own humming.</p> + +<p>Silence sat knitting, and paid no heed. She +had paid no heed to any of the talk about Ensign +Sheldon’s and Freedom Wells’s journey to +Canada. She had not seemed to listen when +Widow Spear had tried to explain the matter to +her. “It may be, sweetheart, if it be the will +of the Lord, that they will bring David back to +thee,” she had said over and over, and Silence +had knitted and made no response.</p> + +<p>She was the only one in Deerfield who was not +torn with excitement and suspense as the months +went by, and the only one unmoved by joy or +disappointment when in May John Sheldon and +Freedom Wells returned with five of the captives. +But David Walcott was not among them.</p> + +<p>“Said I not ’twould be so?” scolded Eunice +Bishop. “Knew I not ’twould be so when they +forgot to get the cap and the bellows in Boston? +The one of all the captives that could +have saved a poor maid’s wits they leave behind. +There’s Mary Sheldon come home, and she +a-coloring red before Freedom Wells, and everybody +in the room a-seeing it. I trow they might +have done somewhat for poor Silence,” and +Eunice broke down and wailed and wept, but +Silence shed not a tear. Before long she stole +out to the terrace and called “David! David! +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_47">[Pg 47]</span>David!” over the north meadow, and strained +her blue eyes towards Canada, and held out her +fair arms, but it was with no new disappointment +and desolation.</p> + +<p>There was never a day nor a night that Silence +called not over the north meadow like a spring +bird from the bush to her absent mate, and +people heard her and sighed and shuddered. +One afternoon in the last of the month of June, +as Silence was thrusting her face between the +leaves of a wild cherry-tree and calling “David! +David! David!” David himself broke through +the thicket and stood before her. He and three +other young men had escaped from their captivity +and come home, and the four, crawling +half dead across the meadow, had heard Silence’s +voice from the terrace above, and David, leaving +the others, had made his way to her.</p> + +<p>“Silence!” he said, and held out his poor +arms, panting.</p> + +<p>But Silence looked past him. “David! David! +David Walcott!” she called.</p> + +<p>David could scarcely stand for trembling, and +he grasped a branch of the cherry-tree to steady +himself, and swayed with it.</p> + +<p>“Know—you not—who I am, Silence?” he +said.</p> + +<p>But she made as though she did not hear, and +called again, always looking past him. And +David Walcott, being near spent with fatigue +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_48">[Pg 48]</span>and starvation, wound himself feebly around the +trunk of the tree, and the tears dropped over his +cheeks as he looked at her; and she called past +him, until some women came and led him away +and tried to comfort him, telling him how it was +with her, and that she would soon know him +when he looked more like himself.</p> + +<p>But the summer wore away and she did not +know him, although he constantly followed her +beseechingly. His elders even reproved him for +paying so little heed to his work in the colony. +“It is not meet for a young man to be so weaned +from usefulness by grief for a maid,” said they. +But David Walcott would at any time leave his +reaping-hook in the corn and his axe in the tree, +leave aught but his post as sentry, when he heard +Silence calling him over the north meadow. He +would stand at her elbow and say, in his voice +that broke like a woman’s: “Here I am, sweetheart, +at thy side. I pray thee turn thy head.” +But she would not let her eyes rest upon him +for more than a second’s space, turning them +ever past him towards Canada, and calling in his +very ears with a sad longing that tore his heart: +“David! David! David!” It was as if her +mind, reaching out always and speeding fast in +search of him, had gotten such impetus that she +passed the very object of her search and knew it +not.</p> + +<p>Now and then would David Walcott grow desperate,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_49">[Pg 49]</span> +fling his arms around her, and kiss her +upon her cold delicate lips and cheeks as if he +would make her recognize him by force; but she +would free herself from him with a passionless +resentment that left him helpless.</p> + +<p>One day in autumn, when the borders of the +Deerfield meadows were a smoky purple with +wild asters, and golden-rods flashed out like +golden flames in the midst of them, David Walcott +had been pleading vainly with Silence as she +stood calling on the north terrace. Suddenly he +turned and rushed away, and his face was all convulsed +like a weeping child’s. As he came out +of the thicket he met the old woman Goody +Crane, and would fain have hidden his face from +her, but she stopped him.</p> + +<p>“Prithee stop a moment’s space, Master David +Walcott,” said she.</p> + +<p>“What would you?” David cried out in a +surly tone, and he dashed the back of his hand +across his eyes.</p> + +<p>“’Tis full moon to-night,” said the old woman, +in a whisper. “Come out here to-night +when the moon shall be an hour high, and I +promise ye she shall know ye.”</p> + +<p>The young man stared at her.</p> + +<p>“I tell ye Mistress Silence Hoit shall know ye +to-night,” repeated the old woman. Her voice +sounded hollow in the depths of her great hood, +which she donned early in the fall. Her eyes in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_50">[Pg 50]</span>the gloom of it gleamed with a small dark brightness.</p> + +<p>“I’ll have no witch-work tried on her,” said +David, roughly.</p> + +<p>“I’ll try no witch-work but mine own wits,” +said Goody Crane. “If they would hang me for +a witch for that, then they may. None but I +can cure her. I tell ye, come out here to-night +when the moon is an hour high; and mind ye +wear a white sheep’s fleece over your shoulders. +I’ll harm her not so much with my witch-work +as ye’ll do with your love, for all your +prating.”</p> + +<p>The old woman pushed past him to where Silence +stood calling, and waited there, standing +in the shadow cast by the wild cherry-tree until +she ceased and turned away. Then she caught +hold of the skirt of her gown, and David stood, +hidden by the thicket, listening.</p> + +<p>“I prithee, Mistress Silence Hoit, listen but a +moment,” said Goody Crane.</p> + +<p>Silence paused, and smiled at her gently and +wearily.</p> + +<p>“Give me your hand,” demanded the old +woman.</p> + +<p>And Silence held out her hand, flashing white +in the green gloom, as if she cared not.</p> + +<p>The old woman turned the palm, bending her +hooded head low over it. “He draweth near!” +she cried out suddenly; “he draweth near, with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_51">[Pg 51]</span>a white sheep’s fleece over his shoulders! He +cometh through the woods from Canada. He +will cross the meadow when the moon is an hour +high to-night. He will wear a white sheep’s +fleece over his shoulders, and ye’ll know him by +that.”</p> + +<p>Silence’s wandering eyes fastened upon her +face.</p> + +<p>The old woman caught hold of her shoulders +and shook her to and fro. “David! David! +David Walcott!” she screamed. “David Walcott +with a white sheep’s fleece on his back! On +the meadow! To-night when the moon’s an +hour high! Be ye out here to-night, Silence +Hoit, if ye’d see him a-coming down from the +north!”</p> + +<p>Silence gasped faintly when the old woman released +her and went muttering away. Presently +she crept home, and sat down with her knitting-work +in the chimney-place.</p> + +<p>When Eunice Bishop hung on the porridge-kettle, +Goody Crane lifted the latch-string and +came in. It was growing dusky, but the moon +would not rise for an hour yet. Goody Crane +sat opposite Silence, with her eyes fixed upon +her, and Silence, in spite of herself, kept looking +at her. A gold brooch at the old woman’s +throat glittered in the firelight, and that seemed +to catch Silence’s eyes. She finally knitted with +them fixed upon it.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_52">[Pg 52]</span></p> +<p>She scarcely took her eyes away when she ate +her supper; then she sat down to her knitting +and knitted, and gazed, in spite of herself, at +the gold spot on the old woman’s throat.</p> + +<p>The moon arose; the tree branches before the +windows tossed half in silver light; the air was +shrill with crickets. Silence stirred uneasily, +and dropped stitches in her knitting-work. “He +draweth near,” muttered Goody Crane, and Silence +quivered.</p> + +<p>The moon was a half-hour high. Widow +Bishop was spinning, Widow Spear was winding +quills, and Silence knitted. “He draweth near,” +muttered Goody Crane.</p> + +<p>“I’ll have no witchcraft!” Silence cried out, +suddenly and sharply. Her aunt stopped spinning, +and Widow Spear started.</p> + +<p>“What’s that?” said her aunt. But Silence +was knitting again.</p> + +<p>“What meant you by that?” asked her aunt, +sharply.</p> + +<p>“I have dropped a stitch,” said Silence.</p> + +<p>Her aunt spun again, with occasional wary +glances. The moon was three-quarters of an +hour high. Silence gazed steadily at the gold +brooch at Goody Crane’s throat.</p> + +<p>“The moon is near an hour high; you had +best be going,” said the old woman, in a low +monotone.</p> + +<p>Silence arose directly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_53">[Pg 53]</span></p> +<p>“Where go you at this time of night?” grumbled +her aunt. But Silence glided past her.</p> + +<p>“You’ll lose your good name as well as your +wits,” cried Eunice. But she did not try to +stop Silence, for she knew it was useless.</p> + +<p>“A white sheep’s fleece over his shoulders,” +muttered Goody Crane as Silence went out of +the door; and the other women marvelled what +she meant.</p> + +<p>Silence Hoit went swiftly and softly down +Deerfield street to her old haunt on the north +meadow terrace. She pushed in among the wild +cherry-trees, which waved, white with the moonlight, +like ghostly arms in her face. Then she +called, setting her face towards Canada and the +north: “David! David! David!” But her +voice had a different tone in it, and it broke +with her heart-beats.</p> + +<p>David Walcott came slowly across the meadow +below; a white fleece of a sheep thrown over his +back caught the moonlight. He came on, and +on, and on; then he went up the terrace to Silence. +Her face, white like a white flower in +the moonlight, shone out suddenly close before +him. He waited a second, then he spoke. “Silence!” +he said.</p> + +<p>Then Silence gave a great cry, and threw her +arms around his neck, and pressed softly and +wildly against him with her wet cheek to his.</p> + +<p>“Know you who ’tis, sweetheart?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_54">[Pg 54]</span></p> +<p>“Oh, David, David!”</p> + +<p>The trees arched like arbors with the weight +of the wild grapes, which made the air sweet; +the night insects called from the bushes; Deerfield +village and the whole valley lay in the +moonlight like a landscape of silver. The lovers +stood in each other’s arms, motionless, and seemingly +fixed as the New England flora around +them, as if they too might reappear hundreds of +spring-times hence, with their loves as fairly in +blossom.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_55">[Pg 55]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_BUCKLEY_LADY">THE BUCKLEY LADY</h2></div> + + +<p>The dark slate stones that now slant to their +falls in the old burying-ground, or are fallen already, +then stood straight. The old inscriptions, +now blurred over by moss and lichen, or worn +back into the face of the stone by the wash of +the heavy coast rains, were then quite plain. +The winged cherubim and death-heads—the terrible +religious symbols of the Old Testament, +made realistic by New England minds under +stress of grief—were quite fresh from the artist’s +hands.</p> + +<p>The funeral urns and weeping-willows, a very +art of sorrow in themselves, with their every +curve the droop of a mourner’s head, and all +their flowing lines of tears, were still distinct. +Indeed, the man who had graven many of them +was still alive, and not yet past his gloomy toil. +He lived in his little house not far beyond the +burying-ground, and his name was Ichabod +Buckley. He had a wife Sarah, a son Ichabod, +and three daughters, Submit, Rebecca, and Persis.<span class="pagenum" id="Page_56">[Pg 56]</span> +When Persis was twelve years old a great +change and a romance came into her life. She +was the youngest of the family; her brother was +ten years older than she; her sisters were older +still. She had always been to a certain extent +petted and favored from her babyhood; however, +until she was twelve, she had not been exempt +from her own little duties and privations. She +had gathered drift-wood on the shore, her delicate +little figure buffeted and shaken by rough +winds. She had dug quahaugs, wading out in +the black mud, with her petticoats kilted high +over her slender childish legs. She had spun +her daily stint, and knitted faithfully harsh +blue yarn socks for her father and brother. In +the early autumn, when she was twelve years +old, all that was changed.</p> + +<p>One morning in September it was hot inland, +but cool on the point of land reaching out into +the sea where the Buckley house stood. The +son, Ichabod, had gone to sea in a whalingvessel; +the father was at home, working in the +little slanting shed behind the house. One +could hear the grating slide of his chisel down +the boughs of a weeping-willow on a new gravestone. +A very old woman of the village had +died that week.</p> + +<p>At the left of the house there was a bright unexpected +glint from a great brass kettle which +the eastern sun struck. Ichabod Buckley’s wife +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_57">[Pg 57]</span>had her dye-kettle out there on forked sticks +over a fire. She was dyeing some cloth an indigo-blue, +and her two elder daughters were +helping her. The two daughters Submit and +Rebecca looked like their mother. The three, +from their figures, seemed about of an age—all +tall and meagre and long-limbed, moving in +their scanty petticoats around the kettle with a +certain dry pliability, like three tall brown weeds +on the windy marsh.</p> + +<p>Persis came up from the shore at the front of +the house with her arms full of drift-wood. She +was just crossing the front yard when she heard +a sound that startled her, and she stood still and +listened, inclining her head towards the woods on +the right. In the midst of these woods was the +cleared space of the graveyard; the rough path +to the main road ran past it.</p> + +<p>Seldom any but horseback riders came that +way; but now Persis was sure that she heard the +rumble of carriage-wheels, as well as the tramp +of horses’ feet. She turned excitedly to run to +her mother and sisters; but all at once the +splendid coach and four emerged with a great +flourish on the open space before the house, and +she stood still.</p> + +<p>The short coarse grass in the yard had gotten +a perpetual slant from the wind. Just now it +was still, but that low bending sweep of the +grass towards the west made it seem as if the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_58">[Pg 58]</span>wind were transfixed there. Persis stood in the +midst of this still show of wind, her slender +childish figure slanting a little also. All her +fair hair was tucked away tidily beneath a little +blue hood tied under her chin. The oval of her +face showed like the oval of a pearl in this circle +of blue, and it had a beauty that could draw the +thoughts of people away from their own hearts. +Even the folk of this old New England village, +who had in their stern doctrines no value for a +fair face, turned for a second, as if by some compelling +gleam of light under their eyelids, when +this little Buckley maid entered the meeting-house; +and her mother and sisters, although +they saw her every day, would stop sometimes +their work or speech when her face came suddenly +before their eyes.</p> + +<p>Persis had her little looking-glass. She looked +in it when she had washed her face to see if it +were clean, and when she braided her hair to see +if it were smooth. Sometimes she paused, herself, +and eyed her face with innocent wonder, +but she did not know its value. She was like a +child with a precious coin which had its equivalent +in goods beyond her ken.</p> + +<p>To-day Persis had no idea why these fine strangers +in the grand coach sat still with their eyes +riveted upon her face.</p> + +<p>She stood there in the windy grass, in her little +straight blue gown, clasping her bundle of +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_59">[Pg 59]</span>drift-wood to her breast, and stared, turning her +back altogether upon her own self, at the coach +and the trappings, and the black coachman in +his livery, with his head like a mop of black +sheep’s wool, and his white rolling eyes, which +half frightened her. She looked a little more +curiously at this black coachman than at the +gentleman and lady in the coach, although they +were grand enough; and, moreover, the gentleman +was very handsome, and not old. He +thrust his fair head, which had a slight silvery +sheen of powder, out of the coach window, and +the pale old face and velvet hood of the lady +showed over his shoulder, and they both stared +at Persis’s face.</p> + +<p>Then the gentleman spoke, and Persis started, +and blushed, and dropped a courtesy. She had +forgotten that until now, and felt overcome with +shame. “Good-day, my pretty maid,” said the +gentleman; and as he spoke he stepped out of +the coach and approached Persis. She saw, +with half-dazzled eyes, his grand fair head, his +queue tied with a blue silk ribbon, his jewelled +knee-buckles and silk hose, his flowered waistcoat +and the deep falls of lace over his long +white hands. No such fine gentleman as this +had ever come within her vision. She courtesied +again, and looked up in his face when he +reached her. Then she looked down again +quickly, and the strange salt savor of the drift-wood,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_60">[Pg 60]</span> +overpowering a sweet perfume about the +stranger’s rich attire, came up in her blushing +face. The gentleman looked very kind, and his +eyes were very gay and blue, yet somehow she +was frightened and abashed. It was as if he +saw something within herself of which she had +not dreamed, and suddenly forced her to see it +also, to her own confusion.</p> + +<p>The gentleman laughed softly when she looked +down. “Is it the first time you have had another +pair of eyes for your looking-glass, little +maid?” he asked, with a kind of mocking caress +in his tone.</p> + +<p>Persis did not lift her eyes from the drift-wood. +She blushed more deeply, and her sweet +mouth trembled.</p> + +<p>“Nay, tease not the child. Ask if her father +be in the house,” called the lady’s soft voice, +with a little impatient ring in it, from the +coach.</p> + +<p>“’Tis but the fault of my eyes, your ladyship,” +retorted the gentleman, gayly. “They +are ever as lakes reflecting flowers in the presence +of beauty, and I doubt much if this little +maid hath ever seen herself so clearly before—if +eyes like mine have come in her way.”</p> + +<p>Persis’s mouth quivered more. She wanted to +run away, and did not dare; but suddenly the +gentleman spoke again, quite gravely and coldly, +and all the gay banter in his voice was gone.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_61">[Pg 61]</span></p> +<p>“Is your father, Ichabod Buckley, within, my +good maid?” he said.</p> + +<p>Persis felt as if a spell which had been cast +over her were broken. She dropped a courtesy.</p> + +<p>“Please, sir, my father is yonder, cutting a +weeping-willow on old Widow Nye’s gravestone,” +she replied, pointing towards the rear of the +house; and she spoke with that punctilious +courtesy with which she had been taught to address +strangers.</p> + +<p>“Will you bid him come this way? I would +speak with him,” said the gentleman.</p> + +<p>“And bid him hasten, for this air from the +sea is full cold for me!” called the lady from +the coach.</p> + +<p>Persis dipped another affirmative courtesy towards +her, then fled swiftly around the corner of +the house. She met her mother and her sister +Submit face to face, with a shock. They had +been peeping around the corner at the grand +folk. Rebecca had run into the house to put on +her shoes and a clean kerchief, in case one of the +elder women had to go forward to speak to them.</p> + +<p>“Father! the gentleman wants father,” said +Persis, with soft pants. “Oh, mother!”</p> + +<p>Her mother caught her arm with a jerk. +“Who be they?” she hissed in her ear.</p> + +<p>“I—don’t know—such—grand folks, and—the +coach and the four, and the black man—oh, +mother!”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_62">[Pg 62]</span></p> +<p>“Go bid your father come quick.”</p> + +<p>Sarah Buckley gave her daughter a push, and +Persis flew on towards the shed where her father +kept his stock of gravestones and worked. But +Rebecca had already given him the alarm, and +he was at the well washing the slate dust from +his hands.</p> + +<p>“Go quick, father; they want you!” panted +Persis.</p> + +<p>“Who be they?” queried Ichabod Buckley. +His voice was as nervous as a woman’s, and he +was small and delicately made like one. He +shook the water from his small hands, his fingers +twitching. The muscles on the backs glanced +under the thin brown skin; the muscles on his +temples and neck glanced also. Ichabod Buckley +had, when nervously excited, a look as if his +whole body were based on a system of brown +wires.</p> + +<p>Persis danced up and down before him, as if +his nervous excitement communicated itself to +her. “I know not who they be,” she panted; +“but, oh, father, they be such grand folk!”</p> + +<p>When Ichabod Buckley, striving to pace with +solemn dignity, as befitted his profession, but +breaking, in spite of himself, into nervous runs, +went around to the front of the house, Persis +slunk at his heels, but her mother arrested her +at the corner. “Stay where you be, and not go +out there staring at the gentle-folk like a bold +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_63">[Pg 63]</span>hussy!” she ordered. So Persis stayed, peeping +around the corner with her mother and Submit; +and presently Rebecca in her shoes, with her +kerchief pinned over her lean bosom, joined +them.</p> + +<p>Once Persis, advancing her beautiful face a +little farther around the corner, caught the +gentleman’s gay blue eyes full upon her, and she +drew back with a great start and a blush.</p> + +<p>Listen as they might, the women could not +catch one word of Ichabod Buckley’s and the +gentleman’s discourse—they stood too far away. +But presently they saw the black coachman turn +the coach and four around with a wide careful +sweep, and then the gentleman got in beside the +lady, and Ichabod beside the coachman, and +then the horses leaped forward, and the whole +was out of sight behind the spray of pine woods.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Ichabod Buckley was gone about three-quarters +of an hour. When he returned he at once +told his curious women-folks somewhat that +had passed, but his face was locked over more. +“You have not told us all,” said his wife, sharply. +“It may well be, as you say, that the gentle-folk +wished to find the grave of the man who +was their kin, and died here in the first of the +town, but that is not all.”</p> + +<p>“I pointed out the grave to them beyond a +question,” said Ichabod, “though there was no +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_64">[Pg 64]</span>stone to it. I knew it well from hearsay. And +I am to make at once a fine stone, with a round +top and a winged head, and here is the pay already.”</p> + +<p>Ichabod jingled for the dozenth time a gold +coin and some small silver ones in his nervous +hand, and his wife frowned.</p> + +<p>“You have told us all this before,” said she. +“There is something else that you keep back.”</p> + +<p>Ichabod was smiling importantly, he could +not control his mouth; but he went back without +another word to old Widow Nye’s gravestone, +and the weeping-willow thereon grew +apace under his hands.</p> + +<p>However, he could not keep anything to himself +long, least of all from his wife, with her imperative +curiosity. After dinner that noon he +beckoned her into the front room.</p> + +<p>“What do you want of me?” she said. “I +have the work to do.” She felt that his previous +silence demanded some show of dignity upon +her part.</p> + +<p>Ichabod glanced at his staring daughters, and +beckoned beseechingly.</p> + +<p>“Well, I can’t waste much time,” said Sarah; +but she followed him eagerly into the front +room. They were shut in there some time. +The daughters, tidying up the kitchen, could +hear the low murmur of their parents’ voices, +but that was all. Persis was polishing the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_65">[Pg 65]</span>brasses on the hearth—the andirons and the +knobs on the shovel and tongs. That was always +her task. It roughened her small hands, +but nobody ever minded that. To-day, as she +was scouring away sturdily, her mother came +suddenly out of the front room and caught her +plying arm.</p> + +<p>“There!” said she; “you need do no more of +this. ’Twill get your hands all out of shape, +and make them rough. They are too small for +such work. Submit, come here and finish +scouring the brasses.”</p> + +<p>Persis looked up at her mother and then at +her little red grimy hands in a bewildered way.</p> + +<p>“Go and wash your hands, and then rub +some Injun meal on them, and see if it will not +make them a little softer,” ordered her mother. +“Submit, make haste.”</p> + +<p>Submit, although she was herself puzzled, and +might well have been resentful, knelt obediently +down on the hearth, and fell to work on +the brasses, rubbing vigorously with salt and +vinegar.</p> + +<p>Persis washed her hands as her mother bade +her, and afterwards rubbed on some Indian meal. +Then she was ordered to put on her pink-flowered +chintz gown, and sit down in the front room +with her sampler. Her mother braided her fair +hair for her in two tight smooth braids, and +crossed them neatly at the back. She even put +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_66">[Pg 66]</span>her own beautiful high tortoise-shell comb in +her daughter’s head.</p> + +<p>“You may wear it a spell if you want to,” +said she.</p> + +<p>Persis smiled delightedly. Her chief worldly +ambition had been to wear a shell comb like her +mother’s.</p> + +<p>The window was open. She could hear faintly +the rasp of her father’s chisel upon the boughs +of old Widow Nye’s weeping-willow. She could +hear the voices of her mother and sisters, who +had gone back to their work over the dye-kettle. +After a while she saw Submit going down to the +shore for more drift-wood. “That is my work,” +she thought to herself with wonder. She could +not understand her mother’s treatment of her. +It was very pleasant and grand to be sitting in +state in the best room, with the tortoise-shell +comb in her hair, working her sampler, and be +rid of all ruder toil, yet she finally grew uneasy.</p> + +<p>She laid down her sampler, and pulled open +the front door, which was seldom used, and +hard to move, being swollen with the sea dampness. +Then she stole around the house towards +the group at the dye-kettle. She felt scared +and uncertain without knowing why. Her +mother called out sharply when she caught +sight of her, and waved her back. “Can’t I go +down for more drift-wood?” pleaded Persis, +timidly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_67">[Pg 67]</span></p> +<p>“Back into the house!” ordered her<a id="tn02"></a> mother, +speaking against the wind, which was now blowing +hard. “Back with ye! Out here in this +wind! Would you be as black as an Injun? +Go back to your sampler!”</p> + +<p>Persis crept back, bewildered. The other two +daughters looked at each other. Then Rebecca +spoke out boldly.</p> + +<p>“Mother, what is all this?” said she.</p> + +<p>“Perhaps you will know sometime,” replied +Sarah Buckley, smiling mysteriously, and she +would say no more.</p> + +<p>Persis continued to sit at the front-room window +with her sampler in her hands. She crossstitched +a letter forlornly and laboriously, with +frequent glances out at the rosy wind-swept +marshes and the blue dazzle of sea beyond. She +never dreamed of disputing her mother’s wishes +further. Persis Buckley, although full of nervous +force, had also a strange docility of character. +She stitched on her sampler all the +afternoon. When it came time to prepare supper, +her mother would not even then let her out +in the kitchen to help, as was her wont. “Stay +where you be,” said she, when Persis appeared +on the threshold. And the little maid remained +in her solitary state until the meal was ready, +and she was bidden forth to it. There was a +little sweet cake beside her plate on the table, +one of those which her mother kept in a stone +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_68">[Pg 68]</span>jar for company. Nobody else had one. Persis +looked at it doubtfully when she had finished +her bread. “Eat it,” said her mother, and Persis +ate it, but it tasted strange to her. She wondered +if her mother had put anything different +in the sweet cake.</p> + +<p>Persis had lately sat up until the nine-o’clock +bell rang, knitting or paring sweet apples to dry, +but now her mother sent her off to bed at half +past seven.</p> + +<p>“Can’t I sit up and help Submit and Rebecca +pare apples?” she begged, but her mother was +inexorable.</p> + +<p>“I am not going to have your hands spoilt +with apple juice,” said she. “Besides, if you +go to bed early ’twill make you grow faster and +keep your cheeks red.” There was an unusual +softness in Sarah Buckley’s voice, and she colored +and smiled foolishly, as if she were ashamed of it.</p> + +<p>Ichabod Buckley sat on the hearth whittling +chips with lightning jerks of his clasp-knife. He +did everything swiftly. “Do as your mother +bids you,” he said to Persis. He chuckled +nervously, and looked meaningly at his wife.</p> + +<p>Persis went laggingly out of the room.</p> + +<p>“Stand up straight,” ordered her mother. +“The first thing you know you’ll be all bent +over like an old woman.”</p> + +<p>Persis threw back her weak girlish shoulders +until her slender back hollowed. She had been +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_69">[Pg 69]</span>trained to obedience. She clattered slowly up +the stairs in her little heavy shoes, still trying +to keep her shoulders back, when her mother +called again.</p> + +<p>“Come back here, Persis,” called her mother, +and Persis returned to the kitchen. “Sit down +here,” said her mother, pointing to a chair, and +Persis sat down. She did not ask any questions; +she felt a curious terror and intimidation. She +waited, sitting meekly with her eyes cast down. +She heard the snip of shears and the rattle of +stiff paper at her back, then she felt a sharp tug +at her hair. She winced a little.</p> + +<p>“You keep still,” said her mother at her +back, rolling a lock of hair vigorously. “I +ain’t going to have your hair as straight as a +broom if I can help it.”</p> + +<p>When Persis went to bed her head was covered +with hard papered knots of hair, all straining +painfully at the roots. When she laid her head +uncomfortably on her pillow, she remembered in +a bewildered way how her mother had smoothed +and smoothed and smoothed her hair in former +days, and how she had said many a time that +rough and frowsy<a id="tn07"></a> locks were not modest or becoming. +Her first conviction of the inconsistency +of the human heart was upon little +Persis Buckley, and she was dazed. The whole +of this strange experience did not seem real +enough to last until the next day.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_70">[Pg 70]</span></p> +<p>But the days went on and on, and she continued +to live a life as widely different from her +old one as if she had been translated into another +world. She sat at the front-room window, +with her beautiful face looking out meekly from +under her crown of curl-papers. Her mother +had a theory that a long persistency in the use +of the papers might produce a lasting curl, and +Persis was seldom freed from them. She walked +abroad on a pleasant day at a genteel pace, with +a thick black embroidered veil over her face to +protect her complexion. She never ran barefoot, +and even her thick cowhide shoes were discarded. +She wore now dainty high-heeled red +morocco shoes, which made her set her feet +down as delicately as some little pink-footed +pigeon. All her coarse home-spun gowns were +laid away in a chest. She wore now fine chintz +or soft boughten wool of a week-day, and she +even had a gown of silken stuff and a fine silk +pelisse for Sabbath days.</p> + +<p>Going into the meeting-house beside her soberly +clad parents and sisters, she looked like some +gay-feathered bird which had somehow gotten +into the wrong nest. All the Buckley family +seemed to have united in a curious reversed +tyranny towards this beautiful child. She was +set up as a queen among them, whether she +would or no, and she was made to take the best +in their lot, whether she wanted it or not.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_71">[Pg 71]</span></p> +<p>When Persis was fourteen, her sister Rebecca +went some fifty miles away to keep house for a +widowed uncle and take care of his family of +children. She was not needed at home, and in +this way the cost of her support was saved for +Persis. Submit was a dull woman, and hard +work was making her duller. She broadened +her patient back for her own and her sister’s burdens +without a murmur, and became a contented +drudge that Persis might sit in state in the front +room, keeping her hands soft and white.</p> + +<p>As for Persis’s brother Ichabod, nearly all his +savings were given to her, but, after all, not +with any especial self-denial. This beautiful +young sister represented all the faint ambition +in his life; he had none left for himself, and +nobody had tried to arouse any. He made perilous +voyages on a whaling-ship for his living. +When he came home, with his face browned and +stiffened by his hard fight with the icy winds of +the North Atlantic, he sat down by the fire in +his father’s kitchen. Then he chewed tobacco, +and never stirred if he could help it until his +next voyage.</p> + +<p>At thirty, Ichabod had become as old as his +father. All the dreams of youth had gone out +of him, and he slumbered in the present like a +very old man. Always as he sat chewing by the +fire his face wore that look of set resistance, as +if the lash of the North Atlantic wind still +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_72">[Pg 72]</span>threatened it. Ever since she could remember, +Persis Buckley had seen her brother sit there +between his voyages, a dull reflective bulk before +the hearth, like some figure-head of a +stranded whaler.</p> + +<p>The morning after his return from his voyage, +Persis, passing her brother, would be arrested by +an inarticulate command, and would pause while +he dragged out his old leather bag, heavy with +his hard-earned coins. Then Persis would hold +up her apron by the two lower corners, and he +would pour in a goodly portion of his wealth, +while his face looked more smiling and animated +than she ever saw it at any other time. “’Twill +buy you something as good as anybody when you +go among the grand folk,” he would say, with a +half-chuckle, when Persis thanked him.</p> + +<p>Sarah Buckley hid away all this money for Persis +in the till of the chest. “It will come handy +some day,” she would remark, with a meaning +smile. This fund was not drawn upon for the +purchase of Persis’s daily needs and luxuries. +Her father’s earnings and her mother’s thrift +provided them, and with seemingly little stint. +People said that the materials for Persis Buckley’s +crewel-work alone cost a pretty sum. After +she had finished her sampler she worked a +mourning-piece, and after that a great picture, +all in cross-stitch, which was held to be a marvel.</p> + +<p>Persis’s very soul flagged over the house and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_73">[Pg 73]</span>the green trees, the river, and the red rose-bushes, +and the blue sky, all wrought with her needle, +stitch by stitch. Once in the depths of her docile +heart a sudden wish, which seemed as foreign +to her as an impious spirit, leaped up that +all this had never been created, since she was +forced to reproduce it in cross-stitch.</p> + +<p>“I wish,” said Persis, quite out loud to herself +when she was all alone in the front room—“I +wish the trees had never been made, nor the +roses, nor the river, nor the sky; then I shouldn’t +have had to work them.” Then she fairly trembled +at her wickedness, and counted the stitches +in a corner of the sky with renewed zeal and +faithfulness.</p> + +<p>When Persis was sixteen, her mother, in her +anxiety to provide her with accomplishments, +went a step beyond all previous efforts, and a piano +was bought for her. It was the very first piano +which had ever come to this little seaport town. +Ichabod had commissioned a sea-captain to purchase +it in England.</p> + +<p>When it was set up on its slender fluted legs +in the Buckley front room, all the people came +and craved permission to see it, and viewed its +satiny surface and inlaid-work in mother-of-pearl +with admiration and awe. Then they went +away, and discoursed among themselves as to +the folly and sinful extravagance of Ichabod +Buckley and his wife.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_74">[Pg 74]</span></p> +<p>There was in the village an ancient maiden +lady who had lived in Boston in her youth, and +had learned to play several tunes on the harpsichord. +These, for a small stipend, she imparted +to Persis. They were simple and artless melodies, +and Persis had a ready ear. In a short time +she had learned all the maiden lady knew. She +could sing three old songs, innocently imitating +her teacher’s quaver with her sweet young voice, +and she could finger out quite correctly one +battle piece and two jigs. The two jigs she +played very slowly, according to her teacher’s +instructions. Persis herself did not know why, +but this elderly maiden was astute. She did not +wish Ichabod Buckley and his family to be tormented +with scruples themselves, neither did +she wish to be called to account for teaching +light and worldly tunes.</p> + +<p>“Play these very slowly, my dear,” she said. +She shook the two bunches of gray curls which +bobbed outside her cap over her thin red cheeks; +her old blue eyes winked with a light which +Persis did not understand.</p> + +<p>“Be they psalm tunes?” she inquired, innocently.</p> + +<p>“’Tis according to the way you play them,” +replied her teacher, evasively.</p> + +<p>And Persis never knew, nor any of her family, +that she played jigs. However, one worldly +amusement, which was accounted distinctly sinful,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_75">[Pg 75]</span> +was Persis taught with the direct connivance +of her parents.</p> + +<p>This old maiden lady, although she was constant +in the meeting-house on the Sabbath day, +and was not seen to move a muscle of dissent +when the parson proclaimed the endless doom of +the wicked, had Unitarian traditions, and her +life in her youth had been more gayly and broadly +ordered than that of those about her. It had +always been whispered that she had played +cards, and had even danced, in days gone by. +To the most rigidly sanctified nostrils there was +always perceptible a faint spiritual odor of past +frivolity when she came into the meeting-house, +although she seemed to subscribe faithfully to +all the orthodox tenets. The parson often felt +it his duty to call upon her, and enter into +wordy expounding of the truth, and tempt her +with argument. She never questioned his precepts, +and never argued, yet a suspicion as to +her inmost heresy was always abroad. Had it +not been so, Sarah Buckley would never have +dared make one proposition to her with regard +to her daughter’s accomplishments.</p> + +<p>One day the shutters in the Buckley front +room were carefully closed, as if some one lay +dead therein; the candles were lighted, and this +ancient maiden lady, holding with both hands +her petticoats above her thin ankles in their +black silk hose, taught Persis Buckley some dancing<span class="pagenum" id="Page_76">[Pg 76]</span> +steps. That, nobody in the village ever +knew. All the parties concerned would have +been brought before the church had that secret +been disclosed. The Buckleys scarcely dared +mention it to one another.</p> + +<p>This old teacher of Persis Buckley had still +some relatives left in Boston, and now and then +she went to them on a visit. On one of these +occasions Sarah Buckley commissioned her to +purchase some books for Persis. All the literature +in the Buckley house consisted of the +Bible, Watts’s Hymns, and Doddridge’s <i>Rise and +Progress</i>, and Sarah fancied that another book +or two of possibly an ornamental and decorative +tendency might be of use in her daughter’s education.</p> + +<p>When Mistress Tabitha Hopkins returned +from Boston she brought with her a volume of +Young’s <i>Night Thoughts</i> and one of Richardson’s +<i>Clarissa Harlowe</i>. The first she presented +with confidence, the second with some excuses.</p> + +<p>“I know well that the poetry is of a nature +that will elevate her soul and tend to form her +mind,” said she, “and I have myself no doubt +as to the other. If it be a tale, ’tis one she can +read to her profit, and the pleasure she may take +in it may lead her to peruse it more closely. ’Tis +well sometimes to season hard doctrines with +sugar if you would have them gulped down at +all.” Mistress Hopkins made a wry face, as if +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_77">[Pg 77]</span>the said doctrines were even then like bitter pills +in her mouth, and Sarah Buckley glanced at +her suspiciously. However, she took the books, +and paid for them a goodly sum, and Persis was +henceforth made acquainted with the lofty admonitions +to Lorenzo and the woes of the unfortunate +and virtuous Clarissa.</p> + +<p>It might well have been that Tabitha Hopkins’s +recommendation of the story of poor +Clarissa Harlowe and her desperate experience at +the hands of a faithless lover had its object. +Mistress Tabitha Hopkins’s single life had not +predisposed her to implicit reliance upon the +good faith or the motives of gay gallants who, in +the course of some little trip out of their world, +chanced to notice a beautiful rustic maiden. +Everybody in the village knew now the reason +for Ichabod Buckley’s and his wife’s strange +treatment of their daughter Persis. They knew +that the grand gentleman who had come to town +with the coach and four had seen Persis, and +cried out at her beauty, and made her father +give his promise that she should be kept for him +until she was grown up, when he would come +over seas from England and marry her.</p> + +<p>Ichabod had vainly tried to keep this secret, +but he had told it before a week had passed to +old Thomas Knapp, who was helping him to set +Widow Nye’s gravestone.</p> + +<p>Then the sun had not set before the news was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_78">[Pg 78]</span>widely spread. Marvellous tales were told of +this gentleman and his lady mother, who had +come in the coach with him. Persis, when she +was wedded, would dwell in marble halls, wear +satin and velvet of a week-day, and eat off gold +and silver dishes. No wonder that Ichabod +Buckley and his wife Sarah were doing their +poor best to fit their daughter for such a high +estate! No wonder that they kept her all day +in the best room embroidering and reading +poetry and playing music! No wonder that +they never let her walk abroad without morocco +shoes and a veil over her face!</p> + +<p>“It ain’t likely,” said old man Knapp, “that +she’ll ever have any call to so much as dye a +hank of yarn or dip a candle arter she’s married.”</p> + +<p>Still, although people acquiesced in the wisdom +of fitting Persis for this grand station, if +there were any prospect of her reaching it, they +were mostly incredulous or envious.</p> + +<p>The incredulous said quite openly that Ichabod +Buckley always did hear things five times as +big as they were, and they doubted much if the +grand gentleman ever really meant to or said he +would come back for Persis. The envious declared +that if he did come they mistrusted that it +would not be for any good and honest purpose, for +he would never think Persis Buckley his equal, +in spite of all her fine accomplishments and her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_79">[Pg 79]</span>gaudy attire. And her face might by that time +be no more beautiful than some others, after all.</p> + +<p>The incredulous moved the parson to preach +many a discourse upon the folly of worldly ambition +and trust in the vain promises of princes. +The envious instigated sermons upon the sin of +any other ornament or accomplishment than a +meek and quiet spirit for the daughters of Zion.</p> + +<p>Poor little Persis, in her silken attire, lifting +her wonderful face to the parson, never dreamed +that the discourse was directed at her and her +parents, but Ichabod and Sarah knew, and sat +up with bristling stiffness. After that they +withdrew themselves largely from intercourse +with their neighbors. They felt as if the spiritual +watch-dog had been set upon them, and they +were justly indignant. Sarah Buckley had always +been given to staying at home and minding +the affairs of her own household; now she kept +herself more close than ever. Ichabod was by +nature sociable, and liked to fraternize with his +kind; but now almost his only dealing with +people outside his own family lay in his work +upon their gravestones.</p> + +<p>The Buckleys lived by themselves in their +little house on the windy land past the graveyard, +following out their own end in life, and all +the time were under a subtle spiritual bombardment +of doubt and envy and disapproval from +their neighbors in the village.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_80">[Pg 80]</span></p> +<p>People talked much about Submit’s patient +drudgery, and felt for her the resentment which +she did not feel for herself. “It is a shame the +way they make that poor girl do all the work to +keep her sister in idleness!” said they. They +began to call Persis in derision “The Buckley +Lady.”</p> + +<p>Poor Persis Buckley, shut out of the free air +and away from all the mates of her youth, was +leading the life of a forlorn princess in a fairy +tale. She would have given all the money which +her brother Ichabod brought her for his privilege +of a cruise over the wild seas. Year after year +she waited in her prison, cast about and bound, +body and spirit, by the will and ambition of her +parents, like steel cobwebs, for the prince who +never came.</p> + +<p>At first the romance of it all had appealed to +her childish imagination. When the high destiny +which awaited her had been disclosed, her +heart leaped. She had been amused and pleased. +She liked to watch out for that grand coach and +four. When she remembered the gay blue flash +of that grand gentleman’s eyes she blushed, and +laughed to herself.</p> + +<p>But after a while all that failed. She did not +grow incredulous, for she had a simple and long-suffering +faith in her parents, but quietly and +secretly frightened at the prospect before her. +Poor Persis Buckley sometimes felt herself turn +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_81">[Pg 81]</span>fairly cold with dread at the thought of entering +that splendid coach and driving away forever +out of her old life at that strange gentleman’s +side. He became to her as cold and formless as +a moving column of mist on the marsh, and +even the dreams which sprang of themselves in +her girlish heart could not invest him with love +and life again.</p> + +<p>She did not dare confide her fears to her mother. +Sometimes her mother filled her with a +vague alarm. Sarah Buckley in ten years grew +old, and the eagerness in her face waxed so +bright and sharp that one shrank before it involuntarily, +as before some blinding on-coming +headlight of spirit.</p> + +<p>All those years she waited and watched and +listened for that grand coach and four which +would bring her fortune in her daughter’s. All +the ambition of her earthly life, largely balked +for herself, had centred in this. Her lot in the +world had been to tread out a ceaseless round of +sordid toil in her poor little home on the stormy +coast, but her beautiful daughter could take a +flight above it, and something of herself could +follow her.</p> + +<p>She never gave up, although year after year +she watched and listened in vain; but finally her +body failed under this long strain of the spirit. +When Persis was twenty-three her mother died, +after a short illness. Then Persis found her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_82">[Pg 82]</span>father as keen a guardian as her mother had been. +Sarah had given him her farewell charges, and +during her lifetime had imbued his nervous receptive +nature with a goodly portion of her own +spirit.</p> + +<p>He wrought for his dead wife a fine tall stone, +and set thereon a verse of his own composition. +Ichabod Buckley was somewhat of a poet, publishing +himself his effusions upon his gloomy +stone pages. Then he fulfilled his own and her +part towards their daughter Persis.</p> + +<hr class="tb"> + +<p>Sarah Buckley had been dead two years, and +the Buckley Lady was twenty-five years old, +sitting at her window in the front room, watching +for the prince who never came.</p> + +<p>“The fine gentleman will find an old maid +waiting for him if he does not come before +long,” people said, with sniffs.</p> + +<p>But Persis had really grown more and more +beautiful. Her complexion, although she had +lived so much within-doors, was not sickly, but +pale and fine as a white lily. Her eyes were like +dark stars, and her hair was a braided cap of +gold, with light curls falling from it around her +face and her sweet neck. Of late Persis had rebelled +upon one minor point: she never, even of +a morning, would sit at the window with her +hair rolled up in curl-papers. She argued with +her father, with a duplicity which was unlike +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_83">[Pg 83]</span>her, that should the gentleman arrive suddenly, +she would have no time to take them down before +he saw her. But that was not the reason. +Ichabod never suspected, neither did the stupid +Submit, padding faithfully in her household +tracks; the son, Ichabod, was away at sea. Nobody +knew how the Buckley Lady, sitting in her +window watching, had seen Darius Hopkins pass +by, with never a coach and four, but striding +bravely along on his own stalwart young legs, +and how her heart had gone out to him and followed +him, whether she would or not.</p> + +<p>Darius Hopkins was Mistress Tabitha Hopkins’s +nephew, and he had come from Boston to +pay his aunt a visit. People whispered that he +had expectations, and had come with a purpose. +Mistress Tabitha had received within two years a +legacy, nobody knew how large, by the death of +a relative. However that may have been, the +young man treated his aunt with exceeding +deference and tenderness. Her pride and delight +were great. She held her head high, and +swung out her slim foot with almost the motion +of her old dancing steps when she went up the +meeting-house aisle on a Sabbath day, leaning +on her nephew’s arm. Darius was finely dressed, +and he was also a personable young man of whom +she might well be proud. She kept glancing at +him almost with the shy delight of a sweetheart. +Darius had a glossy dark head and a dark complexion,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_84">[Pg 84]</span> +but his eyes were blue and light, and +somewhat, as she fondly thought, like her own.</p> + +<p>Darius had arrived on a Thursday, and it was +on that day Persis Buckley had seen him, and +he had seen her at her window. Tabitha Hopkins’s +house was past the Buckleys’, fairly out at +sea, on the point, across the marshy meadows.</p> + +<p>The young man glanced up carelessly at the +Buckley house as he passed; then he started, +and fairly stopped, and his heart leaped almost +with fear, for it actually seemed to him that he +saw the face of an angel in the window.</p> + +<p>“Who was the maid in the window of the +house back yonder?” he said to his aunt as soon +as he had greeted her. He waved his hand carelessly +backward, and tried to speak as carelessly, +but his aunt gave him a sharp look.</p> + +<p>“It must have been Persis Buckley,” said +she.</p> + +<p>“There is not another face like that in the +whole country,” said the young man, and in +spite of himself his tongue betrayed him.</p> + +<p>“Yes, it is generally considered that she has a +fair face,” said Tabitha, dryly. “She has accomplishments +also. She can play music, and +she has a pretty voice for a song. She can +dance, though that’s not to be spoke of in this +godly town, and she is well versed in polite +literature. Persis Buckley is fitted to adorn +any high estate to which she may be called.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_85">[Pg 85]</span></p> +<p>There was a mysterious tone in Tabitha’s +voice, and her nephew looked at her with eager +inquiry.</p> + +<p>“What mean you, aunt?” he said.</p> + +<p>“What I have said,” replied she, aggravatingly, +and would tell him no more. She was secretly +a little jealous that her nephew had shortened +his greeting to her to inquire about Persis. Old +single woman though she was, her feminine birthright +of jealousy of the love of men, be they +lovers or sons or nephews, still survived in her +heart.</p> + +<p>The young man dared not ask her any more +questions, but the next day he passed the Buckley +house many a time with sidelong glances at +the window where Persis sat. He would not +stare too boldly at that fair vision. And in the +evening he stole out and strolled slowly over the +meadows, and came to the Buckley house again. +She was not at the window then, but the sweet +tinkle of her piano came out to him from the +candle-lit room, and he listened in rapture to her +tender little voice trilling and quavering. Then +peeping cautiously, he saw her graceful head +thrown back, and her white throat swelling with +her song like a bird’s.</p> + +<p>When he returned, his aunt looked at him +sharply, but she did not ask where he had been. +When he took his candle to retire for the night, +her old blue eyes twinkled at him suddenly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_86">[Pg 86]</span></p> +<p>“How did the little bird sing to-night?” she +said.</p> + +<p>The young man stared at her a second, then +he blushed and laughed. “Bravely, aunt, bravely,” +he replied.</p> + +<p>“’Tis a bird in the bush, nephew,” said she, +and her voice was mocking, yet shrewdly tender.</p> + +<p>Darius’s face fell. “What do you mean, +aunt?” he said.</p> + +<p>“’Tis a bird that will always sing in the bush, +and never in hand.”</p> + +<p>Darius made as if he would question his aunt +further, but he did not. He bade her good-night +in a downcast and confused manner, and +was out of the room like a shy girl.</p> + +<p>Mistress Tabitha chuckled to herself, then she +looked grave, and sat in her rocking-chair for a +long time thinking.</p> + +<p>Darius Hopkins marvelled much what his +aunt could mean by her warning, and was uneasy +over it. But the next day also he had +many an errand across the meadows, down the +forest road, to the village, and always he saw, +without seeming to see, Persis at the window, +and always she saw, without seeming to see, +him.</p> + +<p>On the Sabbath day, when he and his aunt +went by the Buckley house on their way to meeting, +Persis was not at the window. His aunt +surprised his sly glances. “They go to meeting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_87">[Pg 87]</span>early,” said she, demurely. Darius laughed in a +shamefaced fashion.</p> + +<p>After he and his aunt were seated in the meeting-house, +he scarcely dared look up for a while, +for he feared, should he see Persis suddenly and +near at hand, his face might alter in spite of +himself. And, in truth, when he did look up, +and saw Persis close before him in a pew at the +side of the pulpit, a tremor ran over him, his +lips twitched, and all the color left his face. +His aunt pressed her bottle of salts into his +hand, and he pressed it back almost sharply, +and turned red as a girl to the roots of his black +hair. Then he sat up straight and looked over +almost defiantly at Persis. Her face in her blue +satin bonnet, with its drooping blue plume and +lace veil thrown to one side, was fair enough to +stir the heart of any mortal man who looked at +her.</p> + +<p>There were, indeed, in that meeting-house, +certain godly men who kept their eyes sternly +turned away, and would not look upon her, +thinking it a sin, although it was a sin to their +own hearts alone.</p> + +<p>But many a young man besides Darius Hopkins, +although he had seen her in that selfsame +place Sabbath after Sabbath, still regarded her +furtively with looks of almost startled adoration. +Not one of them had ever spoken to her or heard +her speak, or seen her except in the meeting-house,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_88">[Pg 88]</span> +or at her window, or thickly veiled on the +village street.</p> + +<p>Persis to-day kept her eyes fixed upon the parson, +exhorting under his echoing sounding-board. +She never looked around, although she knew +that Darius was sitting beside his aunt in her +pew. She also was afraid, and she never recovered +courage, like Darius. Her father, Ichabod, +fiercely intent upon the discourse, his nervous +face screwed to a very point of attention, sat on +one side; her sister Submit, her back bowed +like an old woman’s, on the other.</p> + +<p>When meeting was over, Ichabod shot down +the aisle, with his daughters following, as was +his wont, and reached the door before many that +sat farther back.</p> + +<p>When Darius and his aunt came out of the +meeting-house, the Buckleys were quite out of +sight. When they emerged from the road past +the graveyard through the woods, Persis was already +at the window, with her bonnet off, but +she kept her head turned far to one side, as if +intent upon something in the room, and only the +pink curve of one cheek was visible.</p> + +<p>Darius had grown bold in the meeting-house; +this time he looked, and forgot himself in looking.</p> + +<p>“She is a pretty maid, but she is not for you, +nor for any other young man unless he come for +her with a coach and four, with a black gentleman<span class="pagenum" id="Page_89">[Pg 89]</span> +a-driving,” said his aunt’s voice half mockingly +at his side.</p> + +<p>Then the young man turned and questioned +her quite boldly. “I beg of you to tell me what +you mean, aunt,” he said.</p> + +<p>Then Mistress Tabitha Hopkins, holding her +Sabbath gown high above her hooped satin petticoat +as she stepped along, unfolded to her +nephew Darius Hopkins the strange romance of +Persis Buckley’s life.</p> + +<p>“’Tis a shame!” cried the young man, indignantly, +when she had finished—“a shame, to +keep her a prisoner in this fashion!”</p> + +<p>“’Tis only a prince with a coach and four can +set her free. A prince from over seas, with a +black gentleman a-driving,” said his aunt.</p> + +<p>Darius turned, and stared back across the flat +meadow-land at Ichabod Buckley’s house. It +was late August now, and the meadow had great +rosy patches of marsh-rosemary flung upon it +like silken cloaks of cavaliers, and far-seen +purple plumes of blazing-star. Darius studied +slowly the low gray walls and long slant of gray +roofs in the distance.</p> + +<p>“A strong right arm and a willing heart might +free her, were he prince or not!” said he. And +he flung out his own right arm as if it were the +one to do it.</p> + +<p>“Were the maid willing to be freed,” said +Mistress Tabitha, softly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_90">[Pg 90]</span></p> +<p>Darius colored. “That is true, aunt,” he +said, with a downcast and humbled air, and he +turned and went on soberly.</p> + +<p>Mistress Tabitha looked at her nephew’s handsome +face, and thought to herself, with loving +but jealous pride, that no maid could refuse him +as a deliverer. But she would not tell him so, +for her heart was still sore at his preference of +Persis to herself.</p> + +<p>Darius Hopkins had an uneasy visit at his +aunt Tabitha’s. He did not speak again of Persis +Buckley, but he thought the more. Useless, +as he told himself, as either hopes or fears were, +they sprang up in his heart like persistent flames, +and could not be trodden out.</p> + +<p>He told himself that it was not sensible to +think that the grand Englishman would ever +come for Persis after all these years, and that it +was nothing to him if he did. Yet he often +trembled when he came in sight of her house +lest he see a coach and four standing before it, +and see her carried away before his very eyes.</p> + +<p>And sometimes he would look at his own +comely face in the glass, and look into his own +heart, and feel as if the love therein must compel +her even against her will; for she was not an +angel or a goddess, after all, beautiful as she was, +but only a mortal woman. “She cannot love +this man whom she has not seen since she was a +child, and he must be an old man now,” reasoned +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_91">[Pg 91]</span>Darius, viewing his own gallant young face in +the glass. And he smiled with hope, although +he knew that he could not reasonably expect to +have more of Persis than the sight of her face in +the meeting-house or at the window were he to +stay in the village a year.</p> + +<p>For a long time Darius was not sure that Persis +even noticed him when he passed by, but +there came a day when he had that at least for +his comfort. That day he had not passed her +house until late; on the day before her face had +been so far turned from the window that his +heart had sunk. He had said to himself that he +would be such a love-cracked fool no longer; he +would not pass her house again unless of a necessity. +So all that day he had sat moodily with +his aunt, but just before dusk his resolution had +failed him. He had strolled slowly across the +meadow, while his aunt watched him from her +window, smiling shrewdly.</p> + +<p>He had not meant to glance even when he +passed the Buckley house, but in spite of himself +his eyes turned. And there was Persis at the +window, leaning towards him, with her face all +radiant with joy. It was only a second, and she +was gone. Darius had no time for anything but +that one look, but that was enough. He felt as +if he had already routed the gallant with the +coach and four. He meditated all sorts of +audacious schemes as he went home. What +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_92">[Pg 92]</span>could he not do, if Persis would only smile upon +him? He felt like marching straight upon her +house, like a soldier upon a castle, and demanding +her of her father, who was her jailer.</p> + +<p>But the next day his heart failed him again, +for she was not at her window—nor the next, +nor the next. He could not know that she was +peeping through the crack in the shutter, and +that her embroidery and her reading and her old +thoughts were all thrown aside for his sake. +Persis Buckley could do nothing, day nor night, +but think of Darius Hopkins, and watch for him +to pass her window.</p> + +<p>She did not know why, but she did not like to +look fairly out of the window at him any longer. +She could only peep through the crack in the +shutter, with her color coming and going, and +her heart beating loud in her ears.</p> + +<p>But when Darius saw no more of Persis at the +window, he told himself that his conceit had +misled him; that no such marvellous creature +as that could have looked upon him as he had +thought, and that his bold stare had affronted +her.</p> + +<p>So he did not pass the Buckley house for several +days, and Persis watched in vain. One +afternoon she rose up suddenly, with her soft +cheek all creased where she had leaned it against +the shutter. “He will not come; I will watch +no longer,” she said to herself, half angrily. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_93">[Pg 93]</span>And she got out her green silk pelisse and her +bonnet, and prepared to walk abroad. She +went through the kitchen, and her sister Submit +stared up at her from the hearth, which she +was washing.</p> + +<p>“You have not got on your veil, Persis,” said +she.</p> + +<p>“I want no veil,” Persis returned, impatiently.</p> + +<p>“But you will get burned in the wind; father +will not like it,” said Submit, with wondering +and dull remonstrance.</p> + +<p>“Well,” sighed Persis, resignedly. And Submit +got the black-wrought veil, and tied it over +her sister’s beautiful face.</p> + +<p>Poor Persis, when she was out of the house, +glanced hastily through the black maze of leaves +and flowers across the meadow, but she saw no +one coming. Then she strolled on away down +the road through the woods. Just that side of +the burying-ground there was an oak grove, and +she went in there and sat down a little way from +the road, with her back against a tree. It was +very cool for the time of year, but the sun shone +bright. All the oak-trees trilled sharply with +the insects hidden in them, and the leaves rustled +together.</p> + +<p>Persis sat very stiffly under the oak-tree. Her +petticoat was of green flowered chintz, and her +pelisse and her bonnet of green silk. She was +as undistinguishable as a green plant against the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_94">[Pg 94]</span>trunk of the tree, and neither Darius Hopkins +nor his aunt Tabitha saw her when they passed. +Persis heard their voices before they came in +sight. She scarcely breathed. She seemed to +be fairly hiding within herself, and forcing her +very thoughts away from the eyes of Darius and +his aunt.</p> + +<p>Mistress Tabitha came down the wood, stepping +with her fine mincing gait, and leaning +upon her nephew’s arm. They never dreamed +that Persis was near. The green waving lines +of the forest met their eyes on either hand, but +all unnoted, being as it were the revolutions of +that green wheel of nature of which long +acquaintance had dimmed their perception. +Only an unusual motion therein could arouse +their attention when their thoughts were elsewhere, +and they were talking busily.</p> + +<p>As they came opposite Persis, Mistress Tabitha +cried out suddenly, and her voice was full of +dismay. “Not to-morrow!” she cried out. +“You go not to-morrow, Darius!”</p> + +<p>And Darius replied, sadly: “I must, Aunt +Tabitha. I must go back to Boston by the +Thursday stage-coach, and to-day is Wednesday.”</p> + +<p>Persis heard no more. She felt faint, and +there was a strange singing in her ears. As soon +as the aunt and nephew were well past, she got +up and hastened back to the house. She took +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_95">[Pg 95]</span>off her bonnet and pelisse, and sat down in her +old place at the window, where she had watched +so many years through her strange warped youth. +When she saw Darius and his aunt returning, all +her soul seemed to leap forward and look, out of +her great dark eyes. But Darius never glanced +her way. He knew she was there, for his aunt +said, “There is Persis Buckley,” and nodded; +but he dared not look, for fear lest he look too +boldly, and she be offended.</p> + +<p>Persis did not nod in response to Mistress +Tabitha. She only looked, and looked at the +slight, straight figure of the young man moving +past her and out of her life. She thought that +it was the last time that she should ever see him—the +Boston stage left at daybreak. It seemed +to her that he would never come again; and if +he did, that she could not live until the time, +but should ride away first from her old home +forever, in gloomier state than had been planned +for so many years.</p> + +<p>When Darius and his aunt were out of sight +she heard her father’s voice in the kitchen, and +she arose and went out there with a sudden +resolve. “Father,” she said, standing before +Ichabod.</p> + +<p>He looked at her in a curious startled way. +There was a strange gleam in her soft eyes, and +a strange expression about her docile mouth.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” he said.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_96">[Pg 96]</span></p> +<p>“He will never come, father. I want to be +different.”</p> + +<p>“Who will never come? What do you mean, +Persis?”</p> + +<p>“The—gentleman—the grand gentleman with—the +coach and four. He will never come for +me now. I want to be different, father. I want +to work with Submit, and not stay in there by +myself. If I have to any longer I shall die, I +think. I want to be different. He will never +come now, father.”</p> + +<p>Ichabod Buckley trembled with long convulsive +tremors, which seemed to leave him +rigid and stiff as they passed. “He will come!” +he returned, and he shouted out the words like +an oath.</p> + +<p>Submit, who was preparing supper, stopped, +and stood pale and staring.</p> + +<p>Persis quailed a little, but she spoke again.</p> + +<p>“It is too long now, father,” she said. “He +has forgotten me. He has married another in +England. He will never come, and I want to be +different. And should he come, after all, I +should be sorely afraid to go with him now. I +could never go with him now, father.”</p> + +<p>Ichabod turned upon her, and spoke with such +force that she shrank, as if before a stormy blast. +“I tell ye he will come!” he shouted, hoarsely. +“He will come, and you shall go with him, +whether you will or no! He will come, and you +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_97">[Pg 97]</span>shall sit there in that room and wait for him +until he comes! You should wait there until +you were dead, if he came not before. But he +will, I tell ye—<i>he will come!</i>”</p> + +<p>Persis fled before her father back to the best +room, and sat there in the gathering dusk. +Across the meadows the light of Tabitha Hopkins +evening candle shone out suddenly like a +low-hung star, and Persis sat watching it. When +Submit called, in a scared voice, that supper was +ready, she went out at once, and took her place +at the table. There were pink spots in her +usually pale cheeks; she spoke not a word, and +scarcely tasted the little tid-bits grouped as +usual around her plate. Her father swallowed +his food with nervous gulps, then he left the +table and went out. Soon Persis heard the +grate of his tools on the gravestone slate, and +knew that he had gone to work by candle-light, +something he seldom did.</p> + +<p>“Father is put out,” Submit said, with a half-scared, +half-reproachful look at Persis.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Submit!” Persis cried out, with the first +appeal she had ever made in her life to her slow-witted +elder sister, “I must be different, or I +think I shall die!”</p> + +<p>“Maybe he will come soon,” said Submit, who +did not understand her sister’s appeal. “Maybe +he will come soon, Persis. Father thinks +so,” she repeated, as she rose from the table +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_98">[Pg 98]</span>and padded heavily about, removing the supper +dishes.</p> + +<p>Then she added something which filled her +sister’s soul with fright and dismay.</p> + +<p>“Father he dreamt a dream last night,” said +Submit, in her thick drone. “He dreamt that +the grand gentleman came with the coach and +four, and the black gentleman a-driving, and the +grand lady in a velvet hood, just as he came before, +and you got in and rode away. And he +dreamt he came on a Thursday.”</p> + +<p>“To-morrow is Thursday,” gasped Persis.</p> + +<p>Submit nodded. “Father thinks he will come +to-morrow,” said she. “He bade me not tell +you, but I will for your comfort.”</p> + +<p>Submit stared wonderingly at her sister’s distressed +face as she ran out of the room; then +she went on with her work. She presently, in +sweeping the hearth, made a long black mark +thereon, and straightway told herself that there +was another sign that the gentleman was coming. +Submit was well versed in New England +domestic superstition, that being her only exercise +of imagination.</p> + +<p>Persis did not light the candles in the best +room. She sat at the window in the dark, and +watched again Mistress Tabitha’s candle-light +across the meadow. She also stared from time +to time in a startled way in the other direction +towards the woodland road. Persis also was +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_99">[Pg 99]</span>superstitious. She feared lest her father’s dream +come true. She seemed to almost see now and +then that stately equipage emerge as of old from +the woods. She almost thought that she heard +the far-away rumble of the wheels. She kept +reminding herself that it was Wednesday, and +her father’s dream said Thursday; but what if +she did have to go away forever with that +strange gentleman only the next day! She +thought suddenly, not knowing why, of Clarissa +Harlowe and Lovelace in her book. Mistress +Tabitha’s purpose had not wholly failed in its +effect. A great vague horror of something which +she was too ignorant to see fairly came over her. +The face of that fine strange gentleman, dimly +remembered before through all the years, shaped +itself suddenly and plainly out of the darkness +like the face of a demon. Persis looked away, +shuddering, to the candle-gleam over the meadow, +and Darius Hopkins’s eyes seemed to look +wistfully and lovingly into hers.</p> + +<p>Persis Buckley arose softly, groped her way +across the room in the dark, sliding noiselessly +like a shadow, felt for the latch of the door that +led into the front entry, lifted it cautiously, stole +out into the entry, then opened the outer door +with careful pains by degrees, and was out of +the house.</p> + +<p>Persis fled then past the plumy gloom of the +pine-trees that skirted the wood, over the meadow,<span class="pagenum" id="Page_100">[Pg 100]</span> +straight towards that candle-gleam in the +Hopkins window.</p> + +<p>There was a dry northeaster blowing, and it +struck her as she fled, and lashed her clothing +about her. She had on no outer wraps, and her +head and her delicate face, which had always +been veiled before a zephyr, were now all roughened +and buffeted by this strong wind, which +carried the sting of salt in it.</p> + +<p>She never thought of it nor minded it. She +fled on and on like a love-compelled bird, with +only one single impulse in her whole being. The +measure of freedom is always in proportion to +the measure of previous restraint. Persis Buckley +had been under a restraint which no maiden +in this New England village had ever suffered, +and she had gotten from it an impetus +for a deed which they would have blushed to +think of.</p> + +<p>She fled on, forcing her way against the wind, +which sometimes seemed to meet her like a moving +wall, and sometimes like the rushing legions +of that Prince of the Powers of the Air of whom +she had read in the Bible, making as if they +would lift her up bodily and carry her away +among them into unknown tumult and darkness.</p> + +<p>When Persis reached Tabitha Hopkins’s door, +she was nearly spent. Her life had not trained +her well for a flight in the teeth of the wind. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_101">[Pg 101]</span>She leaned against the door for a minute faint +and gasping.</p> + +<p>Then she raised the knocker, and it fell with +only a slight clang; but directly she heard an +inner door open, and a step.</p> + +<p>Then the door swung back before her, and +Darius Hopkins stood there in the dim candle-light +shining from the room within.</p> + +<p>He could not see Persis’s face plainly at first, +only her little white hands reaching out to him +like a child’s from the gloom.</p> + +<p>“Who is it?” he asked, doubtfully, and his +voice trembled.</p> + +<p>Persis made a little panting sound that was +half a sob. Darius bent forward, peering out. +Then he cried out, and caught at those little beseeching +hands.</p> + +<p>“It is not you!” he cried. “It is not you! +You have not come to me! It is not you!”</p> + +<p>Darius Hopkins, scarcely knowing what he +did, he was so stirred with joy and triumph and +doubt and fear, led Persis into the house and +the candle-lit room. Then, when he saw in +truth before him that beautiful face which he +had worshipped from afar, the young man trembled +and fell down upon his knees before Persis +as if she were indeed a queen, or an angel who +had come to bless him, and kissed her hand.</p> + +<p>But Persis stood there, trembling and pale, +before him, with the tears falling from her wonderful +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_102">[Pg 102]</span>eyes, and her sweet mouth quivering. +“Do not let him carry me away,” she pleaded, +faintly.</p> + +<p>Then Darius sprang to his feet and put his +arms around her. “Who is it would carry you +away?” he said, angrily and tenderly. “No one +shall have you. Who is it?”</p> + +<p>“The—gentleman—from over-seas,” whispered +Persis. Her soft wet cheek was pressed +against Darius’s.</p> + +<p>“He has not come?” he questioned, starting +fiercely.</p> + +<p>“No; but—father has dreamed that he will—to-morrow.”</p> + +<p>Then Darius laughed gayly. “Dreams go by +contraries,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Do not let him carry me away,” Persis pleaded +again, and she sobbed on his shoulder, and +clung to him.</p> + +<p>Darius held her more closely. “He shall +never carry you away, even if he comes, against +your will,” he said. “Do not fear.”</p> + +<p>“I will go with nobody but you,” whispered +Persis in his ear.</p> + +<p>And he trembled, scarcely believing that he +heard aright. And, indeed, he scarcely believed +even yet that he was not dreaming, and that he +held this beautiful creature in his arms, and, +more than all, that she had come to him of her +own accord.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_103">[Pg 103]</span></p> +<p>“You—do—not—mean— <a id="tn06"></a>You cannot—oh, +you cannot mean— You are an angel. There +is no one like you. You cannot—you cannot +feel so about me?” he whispered, brokenly, at +length.</p> + +<p>Persis nodded against his breast.</p> + +<p>“And—that was why—you came?”</p> + +<p>Persis nodded again.</p> + +<p>Darius bent her head back until he could see +her beautiful, tearful face. He gazed at it with +reverent wonder, then he kissed her forehead, +and gently loosed her arm from his neck, and +led her over to a chair.</p> + +<p>He knelt down before her then as if she were +a queen upon a throne, and held her hands softly. +Then he questioned her as to how she had +come, and about the expected coming of her +strange gentleman suitor, and she answered him +like a docile child.</p> + +<p>Mistress Tabitha Hopkins stood for quite a +time in the doorway, and neither of them saw +her. Then she spoke up.</p> + +<p>“I want to know what this means,” said she. +“How came she here?” She pointed a sharp +forefinger at Persis, who shrank before it.</p> + +<p>But Darius arose quickly and went forward, +blushing, but full of manly confidence. “Come +out with me a moment, Aunt Tabitha,” he said; +“I have something to say to you privately.” He +took his aunt’s arm and led her out of the room, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_104">[Pg 104]</span>and, as he went, smiled back at Persis. “Do +not be afraid, sweetheart,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Sweetheart!” sniffed Mistress Tabitha, before +the door closed.</p> + +<p>Persis Buckley had been gone no longer than +an hour from her own home when Darius and +his aunt Tabitha escorted her back. She was +wrapped then in a warm cloak of Mistress Tabitha’s +and clung to her lover’s arm, and he +leaned between her and the rough wind, and +sheltered her. Poor Mistress Tabitha, with her +skirts whipping about her and her ears full of +wind, forced often by the onset of the gale at her +back into staggering runs, pressed along after +them. She had declined with some asperity her +nephew’s proffered assistance. “You look out +for her,” she said, shortly. And then she added +to temper her refusal, that she could better +keep her cloak around her if both her arms were +free. All her life had Mistress Tabitha Hopkins +seen love only from the outside, shining in +her neighbor’s window. It was to her credit to-night +if she was not all bitter when its light fell +on her solitary old maiden face, but got a certain +reflected warmth and joy from it.</p> + +<p>Nobody had missed Persis. Submit was fairly +knitting in her sleep, by the kitchen fire. Ichabod +was still out in his shed at work.</p> + +<p>Mistress Tabitha stood back a little while her +nephew bade Persis good-bye at her door. “Remember, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_105">[Pg 105]</span>do not be frightened, whatever happens +to-morrow,” he whispered in her ear. “If the +gentleman comes with the coach and four, go +with him, and trust in me.”</p> + +<p>“I will do whatever you bid me,” whispered +Persis. Then Darius kissed her hand, and she +stole softly through the dark doorway into the +gloom of the house, while her faith in her lover +was as a lamp to all her thoughts.</p> + +<p>On the next afternoon there was a sensation in +this little seaport town. A grand coach and +four, with a black man driving, a fine gentleman’s +head at one window, and a fine lady’s at +another, came dashing through the place at two +o’clock. The women all ran to the doors and +windows. Lounging old men straightened themselves +languidly to stare, and turned their vacant +faces over their shoulders. A multitude of +small lads, with here and there a little petticoat +among them, collected rapidly, and pelted along +in the wake of this grand equipage. They followed +it quite through the town to the road that +led through the woods, past the graveyard, to +the Buckley house, then up the road, panting +but eager, the smaller children dragging at the +hands of their elder brothers. When they +reached the Buckley house, this small rabble +separated itself into decorously silent, primly +courtesying rows on either side of the way. +Then the grand coach and four at length turned +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_106">[Pg 106]</span>about, and moved between the courtesying rows +of children, while Ichabod Buckley stood proudly +erect in his best green surtout watching it, +and poor Submit, with a scrubbing-cloth in her +hand, peeped around the house corner, and the +Buckley Lady rode away.</p> + +<p>And all the people saw the coach and four +dash at a rattling pace back through the town, +with the Buckley Lady’s face set like a white +lily in a window, and her grand suitor’s fair +head opposite. They also saw another lady beside +Persis; her face was well hidden in her +great velvet hood and wrought veil, but she sat +up with a stately air.</p> + +<p>The children followed the coach on the Boston +road as far as they were able, then they +straggled homeward, and the coach went out of +sight in a great billow of dust.</p> + +<p>It was several days before the people knew +what had really happened—that Persis Buckley +had gone away with Darius Hopkins, with a +fair wig over his black hair, and the fine lady in +the velvet hood had been nobody but Mistress +Tabitha.</p> + +<p>Darius Hopkins had sent a letter to the parson, +and begged him to acquaint Ichabod Buckley +with the truth, and humbly to crave his pardon +for himself and Persis, who was now his +wife, for the deceit they had practised. “But, +in truth,” wrote Darius Hopkins, “my beloved +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_107">[Pg 107]</span>wife was not acquaint with the plan at all, it +being contrived by my aunt, who hath a shrewd +head, and carried out by myself; and I doubt +much if she fairly knew with whom she went at +the very first, being quite overcome by her fright +and bewilderment.” And Darius Hopkins begged +the parson also to acquaint Ichabod Buckley, +for his comfort, with this fact: Although his +daughter Persis had not wedded with a gentleman +of high estate from over-seas, yet he, Darius +Hopkins, was of no mean birth, and had a not +inconsiderable share of this world’s goods, with +more in expectation, as his esteemed aunt bade +him mention. And furthermore, Darius Hopkins +stated that had he believed any other way +than the one he had taken to be available for the +purpose of winning his beloved wife and freeing +her from a hard and unhappy lot, he would +much have preferred it. But he had taken this, +believing there was no other, in all honesty and +purity of purpose, and he again humbly begged +Ichabod Buckley’s pardon.</p> + +<p>One afternoon the parson paced solemnly up +to the Buckley house with the great red-sealed +letter in his hand. Ichabod was not at work. +His nervous old face was visible at the window +where his daughter’s beautiful one had been so +long, and the parson went in the front door.</p> + +<p>It was two hours before he came out, and went +with his head bent gravely down the road. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_108">[Pg 108]</span>never told exactly what had passed between +himself and Ichabod Buckley, but it was whispered +that the parson had striven in prayer for +him for the space of an hour and a half, but had +not reconciled him to his disappointment.</p> + +<p>After his daughter had departed in state, Ichabod +Buckley, while not returning to his old garrulous +ways, but comporting himself with a dignity that +would have befitted a squire, was seen +frequently in the store and on the street, and he +wore always his best green surtout, which he had +heretofore kept for Sabbath days.</p> + +<p>But after the truth was revealed to him Ichabod +Buckley was seen no more abroad. He shut +himself up in his poor workshed, and all day +long his chisel rasped on the dark slate. Persis +wrote to him, and Darius, and he read the letters, +scowling fiercely and painfully through his +iron-bowed spectacles, then put them away in +his beetling old desk in the kitchen, and fell to +work again.</p> + +<p>It was not three weeks after Persis went away +when Submit, with her apron over her head, +went one morning through the woods with lumbering +swiftness and called the doctor, for her +father lay on his bed as motionless as if he were +dead, and could not speak.</p> + +<p>They sent for Persis, but her father was dead +before she reached her old home and went weeping +over the threshold, leaning on her young +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_109">[Pg 109]</span>husband’s arm. Not a word did she have of +blame or forgiveness from her father’s lips; but +she knew his last mind towards her when she saw +what his work had been since the day she left +him.</p> + +<p>Out in Ichabod Buckley’s workshop stood a +tall slate stone, shaped like the one he had erected +for his dearly beloved wife. On it were cut +his name, and the years of his birth and death, +and under that a verse. In his own poor brain, +strained almost asunder with its awful stress of +one idea in life, he had devised this verse; with +his poor old failing hands he had cut it on the +stone:</p> + +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Stranger, view well this speaking stone,</div> +<div class="verse indent2">And drop a pitying tear;</div> +<div class="verse indent0">Ingratitude had overthrown,</div> +<div class="verse indent2">And Death then laid me here.”</div></div> +</div></div> + +<p>Ichabod Buckley had left a space below, as if he +had designed to make still larger his appeal to +the pity of those who should pause in the future +by his grave; and thereon did Darius Hopkins, +to comfort his wife Persis, who grieved as if she +could never be comforted when she read the first, +cut another verse.</p> + +<p>When the stone was set up over Ichabod’s +grave, people kneeling before it read, after the +piteous complaint and prayer for sympathy of +the dead man, Darius’s verse:</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_110">[Pg 110]</span></p> +<div class="poetry-container"><div class="poetry"> +<div class="stanza"><div class="verse indent0">“Who doth his clearer sight possess</div> +<div class="verse indent2">In brighter realms above,</div> +<div class="verse indent0">May come his earthly woe to bless,</div> +<div class="verse indent2">And know that all was Love.”</div></div> +</div></div> + +<p>And it has so happened, because Darius cut +with his strong young hands more firmly and +deeply his verse in the stone, that his has endured +and can be read, while Ichabod’s is all +worn away by the rain-storms of the years, as it +might have been by the tears of mortal life.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_111">[Pg 111]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="EVELINAS_GARDEN">EVELINA’S GARDEN</h2></div> + + +<p>On the south a high arbor-vitæ hedge separated +Evelina’s garden from the road. The +hedge was so high that when the school-children +lagged by, and the secrets behind it fired them +with more curiosity than those between their +battered book covers, the tallest of them by +stretching up on tiptoe could not peer over. +And so they were driven to childish engineering +feats, and would set to work and pick away sprigs +of the arbor-vitæ with their little fingers, and +make peep-holes—but small ones, that Evelina +might not discern them. Then they would +thrust their pink faces into the hedge, and the +enduring fragrance of it would come to their +nostrils like a gust of aromatic breath from the +mouth of the northern woods, and peer into +Evelina’s garden as through the green tubes of +vernal telescopes.</p> + +<p>Then suddenly hollyhocks, blooming in rank +and file, seemed to be marching upon them like +platoons of soldiers, with detonations of color +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_112">[Pg 112]</span>that dazzled their peeping eyes; and, indeed, +the whole garden seemed charging with its mass +of riotous bloom upon the hedge. They could +scarcely take in details of marigold and phlox +and pinks and London-pride and cock’s-combs, +and prince’s-feathers waving overhead like standards.</p> + +<p>Sometimes also there was the purple flutter of +Evelina’s gown; and Evelina’s face, delicately +faded, hung about with softly drooping gray +curls, appeared suddenly among the flowers, like +another flower uncannily instinct with nervous +melancholy.</p> + +<p>Then the children would fall back from their +peep-holes, and huddle off together with scared +giggles. They were afraid of Evelina. There +was a shade of mystery about her which stimulated +their childish fancies when they heard her +discussed by their elders. They might easily +have conceived her to be some baleful fairy intrenched +in her green stronghold, withheld from +leaving it by the fear of some dire penalty for +magical sins. Summer and winter, spring and +fall, Evelina Adams never was seen outside her +own domain of old mansion-house and garden, +and she had not set her slim lady feet in the public +highway for nearly forty years, if the stories +were true.</p> + +<p>People differed as to the reason why. Some +said she had had an unfortunate love affair, that +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_113">[Pg 113]</span>her heart had been broken, and she had taken +upon herself a vow of seclusion from the world, +but nobody could point to the unworthy lover +who had done her this harm. When Evelina was +a girl, not one of the young men of the village +had dared address her. She had been set apart +by birth and training, and also by a certain exclusiveness +of manner, if not of nature. Her +father, old Squire Adams, had been the one man +of wealth and college learning in the village. He +had owned the one fine old mansion-house, with +its white front propped on great Corinthian pillars, +overlooking the village like a broad brow of +superiority.</p> + +<p>He had owned the only coach and four. His +wife during her short life had gone dressed in +rich brocades and satins that rustled loud in the +ears of the village women, and her nodding +plumes had dazzled the eyes under their modest +hoods. Hardly a woman in the village but could +tell—for it had been handed down like a folk-lore +song from mother to daughter—just what Squire +Adams’s wife wore when she walked out first as +bride to meeting. She had been clad all in blue.</p> + +<p>“Squire Adams’s wife, when she walked out +bride, she wore a blue satin brocade gown, all +wrought with blue flowers of a darker blue, cut +low neck and short sleeves. She wore long blue +silk mitts wrought with blue, blue satin shoes, +and blue silk clocked stockings. And she wore +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_114">[Pg 114]</span>a blue crape mantle that was brought from over-seas, +and a blue velvet hat, with a long blue ostrich +feather curled over it—it was so long it +reached her shoulder, and waved when she walked; +and she carried a little blue crape fan with ivory +sticks.” So the women and girls told each other +when the Squire’s bride had been dead nearly +seventy years.</p> + +<p>The blue bride attire was said to be still in existence, +packed away in a cedar chest, as the +Squire had ordered after his wife’s death. “He +stood over the woman that took care of his wife +whilst she packed the things away, and he never +shed a tear, but she used to hear him a-goin’ up +to the north chamber nights, when he couldn’t +sleep, to look at ’em,” the women told.</p> + +<p>People had thought the Squire would marry +again. They said Evelina, who was only four +years old, needed a mother, and they selected one +and another of the good village girls. But the +Squire never married. He had a single woman, +who dressed in black silk, and wore always a black +wrought veil over the side of her bonnet, come +to live with them, to take charge of Evelina. She +was said to be a distant relative of the Squire’s +wife, and was much looked up to by the village +people, although she never did more than interlace, +as it were, the fringes of her garments with +theirs. “She’s stuck up,” they said, and felt, +curiously enough, a certain pride in the fact when +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_115">[Pg 115]</span>they met her in the street and she ducked her +long chin stiffly into the folds of her black shawl +by way of salutation.</p> + +<p>When Evelina was fifteen years old this single +woman died, and the village women went to her +funeral, and bent over her lying in a last helpless +dignity in her coffin, and stared with awed +freedom at her cold face. After that Evelina +was sent away to school, and did not return, except +for a yearly vacation, for six years to come. +Then she returned, and settled down in her old +home to live out her life, and end her days in a +perfect semblance of peace, if it were not peace.</p> + +<p>Evelina never had any young school friend to +visit her; she had never, so far as any one knew, +a friend of her own age. She lived alone with +her father and three old servants. She went to +meeting, and drove with the Squire in his chaise. +The coach was never used after his wife’s death, +except to carry Evelina to and from school. She +and the Squire also took long walks, but they +never exchanged aught but the merest civilities +of good-days and nods with the neighbors whom +they met, unless indeed the Squire had some +matter of business to discuss. Then Evelina +stood aside and waited, her fair face drooping +gravely aloof. She was very pretty, with a gentle +high-bred prettiness that impressed the village +folk, although they looked at it somewhat +askance.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_116">[Pg 116]</span></p> +<p>Evelina’s figure was tall, and had a fine slenderness; +her silken skirts hung straight from the +narrow silk ribbon that girt her slim waist; there +was a languidly graceful bend in her long white +throat; her long delicate hands hung inertly at +her sides among her skirt folds, and were never +seen to clasp anything; her softly clustering fair +curls hung over her thin blooming cheeks, and +her face could scarce be seen, unless, as she seldom +did, she turned and looked full upon one. +Then her dark blue eyes, with a little nervous +frown between them, shone out radiantly; her +thin lips showed a warm red, and her beauty +startled one.</p> + +<p>Everybody wondered why she did not have a +lover, why some fine young man had not been +smitten by her while she had been away at school. +They did not know that the school had been situated +in another little village, the counterpart of +the one in which she had been born, wherein a +fitting mate for a bird of her feather could hardly +be found. The simple young men of the country-side +were at once attracted and intimidated +by her. They cast fond sly glances across the +meeting-house at her lovely face, but they were +confused before her when they jostled her in the +doorway and the rose and lavender scent of her +lady garments came in their faces. Not one of +them dared accost her, much less march boldly +upon the great Corinthian-pillared house, raise +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_117">[Pg 117]</span>the brass knocker, and declare himself a suitor +for the Squire’s daughter.</p> + +<p>One young man there was, indeed, who treasured +in his heart an experience so subtle and so +slight that he could scarcely believe in it himself. +He never recounted it to mortal soul, but kept it +as a secret sacred between himself and his own +nature, but something to be scoffed at and set +aside by others.</p> + +<p>It had happened one Sabbath day in summer, +when Evelina had not been many years home from +school, as she sat in the meeting-house in her +Sabbath array of rose-colored satin gown, and +white bonnet trimmed with a long white feather +and a little wreath of feathery green, that of a +sudden she raised her head and turned her face, +and her blue eyes met this young man’s full upon +hers, with all his heart in them, and it was for a +second as if her own heart leaped to the surface, +and he saw it, although afterwards he scarce believed +it to be true.</p> + +<p>Then a pallor crept over Evelina’s delicately +brilliant face. She turned it away, and her curls +falling softly from under the green wreath on +her bonnet brim hid it. The young man’s cheeks +were a hot red, and his heart beat loudly in his +ears when he met her in the doorway after the +sermon was done. His eager, timorous eyes +sought her face, but she never looked his way. +She laid her slim hand in its cream-colored silk +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_118">[Pg 118]</span>mitt on the Squire’s arm; her satin gown rustled +softly as she passed before him, shrinking against +the wall to give her room, and a faint fragrance +which seemed like the very breath of the unknown +delicacy and exclusiveness of life came to his bewildered +senses.</p> + +<p>Many a time he cast furtive glances across the +meeting-house at Evelina, but she never looked +his way again. If his timid boy-eyes could have +seen her cheek behind its veil of curls, he might +have discovered that the color came and went before +his glances, although it was strange how she +could have been conscious of them; but he never +knew.</p> + +<p>And he also never knew how, when he walked +past the Squire’s house of a Sunday evening, +dressed in his best, with his shoulders thrust consciously +back, and the windows in the westering +sun looked full of blank gold to his furtive eyes, +Evelina was always peeping at him from behind +a shutter, and he never dared go in. His intuitions +were not like hers, and so nothing happened +that might have, and he never fairly knew what +he knew. But that he never told, even to his +wife when he married; for his hot young blood +grew weary and impatient with this vain courtship, +and he turned to one of his villagemates, +who met him fairly half way, and married her +within a year.</p> + +<p>On the Sunday when he and his bride first appeared +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_119">[Pg 119]</span>in the meeting-house Evelina went up the +aisle behind her father in an array of flowered +brocade, stiff with threads of silver, so wonderful +that people all turned their heads to stare at +her. She wore also a new bonnet of rose-colored +satin, and her curls were caught back a little, and +her face showed as clear and beautiful as an +angel’s.</p> + +<p>The young bridegroom glanced at her once +across the meeting-house, then he looked at his +bride in her gay wedding finery with a faithful +look.</p> + +<p>When Evelina met them in the doorway, after +meeting was done, she bowed with a sweet cold +grace to the bride, who courtesied blushingly in +return, with an awkward sweep of her foot in the +bridal satin shoe. The bridegroom did not look +at Evelina at all. He held his chin well down in +his stock with solemn embarrassment, and passed +out stiffly, his bride on his arm.</p> + +<p>Evelina, shining in the sun like a silver lily, +went up the street, her father stalking beside +her with stately swings of his cane, and that was +the last time she was ever seen at meeting. Nobody +knew why.</p> + +<p>When Evelina was a little over thirty her father +died. There was not much active grief for him +in the village; he had really figured therein more +as a stately monument of his own grandeur than +anything else. He had been a man of little force +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_120">[Pg 120]</span>of character, and that little had seemed to degenerate +since his wife died. An inborn dignity +of manner might have served to disguise his +weakness with any others than these shrewd New-Englanders, +but they read him rightly. “The +Squire wa’n’t ever one to set the river a-fire,” +they said. Then, moreover, he left none of his +property to the village to build a new meeting-house +or a town-house. It all went to Evelina.</p> + +<p>People expected that Evelina would surely +show herself in her mourning at meeting the Sunday +after the Squire died, but she did not. Moreover, +it began to be gradually discovered that she +never went out in the village street nor crossed +the boundaries of her own domains after her +father’s death. She lived in the great house +with her three servants—a man and his wife, and +the woman who had been with her mother when +she died. Then it was that Evelina’s garden began. +There had always been a garden at the +back of the Squire’s house, but not like this, and +only a low fence had separated it from the road. +Now one morning in the autumn the people saw +Evelina’s man-servant, John Darby, setting out +the arbor-vitæ hedge, and in the spring after that +there were ploughing and seed-sowing extending +over a full half-acre, which later blossomed out +in glory.</p> + +<p>Before the hedge grew so high Evelina could +be seen at work in her garden. She was often +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_121">[Pg 121]</span>stooping over the flower-beds in the early morning +when the village was first astir, and she moved +among them with her watering-pot in the twilight—a +shadowy figure that might, from her grace +and her constancy to the flowers, have been Flora +herself.</p> + +<p>As the years went on, the arbor-vitæ hedge got +each season a new growth and waxed taller, until +Evelina could no longer be seen above it. That +was an annoyance to people, because the quiet +mystery of her life kept their curiosity alive, until +it was in a constant struggle, as it were, with the +green luxuriance of the hedge.</p> + +<p>“John Darby had ought to trim that hedge,” +they said. They accosted him in the street: +“John, if ye don’t cut that hedge down a little +it’ll all die out.” But he only made a surly +grunting response, intelligible to himself alone, +and passed on. He was an Englishman, and had +lived in the Squire’s family since he was a boy.</p> + +<p>He had a nature capable of only one simple +line of force, with no radiations or parallels, and +that had early resolved itself into the service of +the Squire and his house. After the Squire’s +death he married a woman who lived in the family. +She was much older than himself, and had a high +temper, but was a good servant, and he married +her to keep her to her allegiance to Evelina. +Then he bent her, without her knowledge, to take +his own attitude towards his mistress. No more +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_122">[Pg 122]</span>could be gotten out of John Darby’s wife than +out of John Darby concerning the doings at the +Squire’s house. She met curiosity with a flash +of hot temper, and he with surly taciturnity, and +both intimidated.</p> + +<p>The third of Evelina’s servants was the woman +who had nursed her mother, and she was naturally +subdued and undemonstrative, and rendered still +more so by a ceaseless monotony of life. She +never went to meeting, and was seldom seen outside +the house. A passing vision of a long white-capped +face at a window was about all the neighbors +ever saw of this woman.</p> + +<p>So Evelina’s gentle privacy was well guarded +by her own household, as by a faithful system of +domestic police. She grew old peacefully behind +her green hedge, shielded effectually from all +rough bristles of curiosity. Every new spring her +own bloom showed paler beside the new bloom +of her flowers, but people could not see it.</p> + +<p>Some thirty years after the Squire’s death the +man John Darby died; his wife, a year later. +That left Evelina alone with the old woman who +had nursed her mother. She was very old, but +not feeble, and quite able to perform the simple +household tasks for herself and Evelina. An old +man, who saved himself from the almshouse in +such ways, came daily to do the rougher part of +the garden-work in John Darby’s stead. He was +aged and decrepit; his muscles seemed able to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_123">[Pg 123]</span>perform their appointed tasks only through the +accumulated inertia of a patiently toilsome life +in the same tracks. Apparently they would have +collapsed had he tried to force them to aught +else than the holding of the ploughshare, the +pulling of weeds, the digging around the roots of +flowers, and the planting of seeds.</p> + +<p>Every autumn he seemed about to totter to his +fall among the fading flowers; every spring it was +like Death himself urging on the resurrection; +but he lived on year after year, and tended well +Evelina’s garden, and the gardens of other maiden-women +and widows in the village. He was taciturn, +grubbing among his green beds as silently +as a worm, but now and then he warmed a little +under a fire of questions concerning Evelina’s +garden. “Never see none sech flowers in nobody’s +garden in this town, not sence I knowed +’nough to tell a pink from a piny,” he would +mumble. His speech was thick; his words were +all uncouthly slurred; the expression of his +whole life had come more through his old knotted +hands of labor than through his tongue. But +he would wipe his forehead with his shirt-sleeve +and lean a second on his spade, and his face +would change at the mention of the garden. Its +wealth of bloom illumined his old mind, and the +roses and honeysuckles and pinks seemed for a +second to be reflected in his bleared old eyes.</p> + +<p>There had never been in the village such a +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_124">[Pg 124]</span>garden as this of Evelina Adams’s. All the old +blooms which had come over the seas with the +early colonists, and started as it were their own +colony of flora in the new country, flourished +there. The naturalized pinks and phlox and +hollyhocks and the rest, changed a little in color +and fragrance by the conditions of a new climate +and soil, were all in Evelina’s garden, and no one +dreamed what they meant to Evelina; and she +did not dream herself, for her heart was always +veiled to her own eyes, like the face of a nun. +The roses and pinks, the poppies and heart’s-ease, +were to this maiden-woman, who had innocently +and helplessly outgrown her maiden heart, in the +place of all the loves of life which she had missed. +Her affections had forced an outlet in roses; they +exhaled sweetness in pinks, and twined and clung +in honeysuckle-vines. The daffodils, when they +came up in the spring, comforted her like the +smiles of children; when she saw the first rose, +her heart leaped as at the face of a lover.</p> + +<p>She had lost the one way of human affection, +but her feet had found a little single side-track +of love, which gave her still a zest in the journey +of life. Even in the winter Evelina had her flowers, +for she kept those that would bear transplanting +in pots, and all the sunny windows in +her house were gay with them. She would also +not let a rose leaf fall and waste in the garden +soil, or a sprig of lavender or thyme. She gathered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_125">[Pg 125]</span>them all, and stored them away in chests and +drawers and old china bowls—the whole house +seemed laid away in rose leaves and lavender. +Evelina’s clothes gave out at every motion that +fragrance of dead flowers which is like the fragrance +of the past, and has a sweetness like that +of sweet memories. Even the cedar chest where +Evelina’s mother’s blue bridal array was stored +had its till heaped with rose leaves and lavender.</p> + +<p>When Evelina was nearly seventy years old the +old nurse who had lived with her her whole life +died. People wondered then what she would do. +“She can’t live all alone in that great house,” +they said. But she did live there alone six +months, until spring, and people used to watch +her evening lamp when it was put out, and the +morning smoke from her kitchen chimney. “It +ain’t safe for her to be there alone in that great +house,” they said.</p> + +<p>But early in April a young girl appeared one +Sunday in the old Squire’s pew. Nobody had +seen her come to town, and nobody knew who +she was or where she came from, but the old people +said she looked just as Evelina Adams used +to when she was young, and she must be some +relation. The old man who had used to look +across the meeting-house at Evelina, over forty +years ago, looked across now at this young girl, +and gave a great start, and his face paled under +his gray beard stubble. His old wife gave an +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_126">[Pg 126]</span>anxious, wondering glance at him, and crammed +a peppermint into his hand. “Anything the +matter, father?” she whispered; but he only +gave his head a half-surly shake, and then fastened +his eyes straight ahead upon the pulpit. +He had reason to that day, for his only son, +Thomas, was going to preach his first sermon +therein as a candidate. His wife ascribed his +nervousness to that. She put a peppermint in +her own mouth and sucked it comfortably. +“That’s all ’tis,” she thought to herself. “Father +always was easy worked up,” and she looked +proudly up at her son sitting on the hair-cloth +sofa in the pulpit, leaning his handsome young +head on his hand, as he had seen old divines do. +She never dreamed that her old husband sitting +beside her was possessed of an inner life so strange +to her that she would not have known him had +she met him in the spirit. And, indeed, it had +been so always, and she had never dreamed of it. +Although he had been faithful to his wife, the +image of Evelina Adams in her youth, and that +one love-look which she had given him, had +never left his soul, but had given it a guise and +complexion of which his nearest and dearest knew +nothing.</p> + +<p>It was strange; but now, as he looked up at his +own son as he arose in the pulpit, he could seem +to see a look of that fair young Evelina, who had +never had a son to inherit her beauty. He had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_127">[Pg 127]</span>certainly a delicate brilliancy of complexion, +which he could have gotten directly from neither +father nor mother; and whence came that little +nervous frown between his dark blue eyes? His +mother had blue eyes, but not like his; they +flashed over the great pulpit Bible with a sweet +fire that matched the memory in his father’s +heart.</p> + +<p>But the old man put the fancy away from him +in a minute; it was one which his stern common-sense +always overcame. It was impossible +that Thomas Merriam should resemble Evelina +Adams; indeed, people always called him the +very image of his father.</p> + +<p>The father tried to fix his mind upon his son’s +sermon, but presently he glanced involuntarily +across the meeting-house at the young girl, and +again his heart leaped and his face paled; but he +turned his eyes gravely back to the pulpit, and +his wife did not notice. Now and then she thrust +a sharp elbow in his side to call his attention to +a grand point in their son’s discourse. The odor +of peppermint was strong in his nostrils, but +through it all he seemed to perceive the rose and +lavender scent of Evelina Adams’s youthful garments. +Whether it was with him simply the +memory of an odor, which affected him like the +odor itself, or not, those in the vicinity of the +Squire’s pew were plainly aware of it. The gown +which the strange young girl wore was, as many +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_128">[Pg 128]</span>an old woman discovered to her neighbor with +loud whispers, one of Evelina’s, which had been +laid away in a sweet-smelling chest since her old +girlhood. It had been somewhat altered to suit +the fashion of a later day, but the eyes which had +fastened keenly upon it when Evelina first wore +it up the meeting-house aisle could not mistake +it. “It’s Evelina Adams’s lavender satin made +over,” one whispered, with a sharp hiss of breath, +in the other’s ear.</p> + +<p>The lavender satin, deepening into purple in +the folds, swept in a rich circle over the knees of +the young girl in the Squire’s pew. She folded +her little hands, which were encased in Evelina’s +cream-colored silk mitts, over it, and looked up +at the young minister, and listened to his sermon +with a grave and innocent dignity, as Evelina +had done before her. Perhaps the resemblance +between this young girl and the young girl of the +past was more one of mien than aught else, although +the type of face was the same. This girl +had the same fine sharpness of feature and delicately +bright color, and she also wore her hair in +curls, although they were tied back from her face +with a black velvet ribbon, and did not veil it +when she drooped her head, as Evelina’s used to +do.</p> + +<p>The people divided their attention between +her and the new minister. Their curiosity goaded +them in equal measure with their spiritual zeal, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_129">[Pg 129]</span>“I can’t wait to find out who that girl is,” one +woman whispered to another.</p> + +<p>The girl herself had no thought of the commotion +which she awakened. When the service +was over, and she walked with a gentle maiden +stateliness, which seemed a very copy of Evelina’s +own, out of the meeting-house, down the street +to the Squire’s house, and entered it, passing +under the stately Corinthian pillars, with a last +purple gleam of her satin skirts, she never +dreamed of the eager attention that followed her.</p> + +<p>It was several days before the village people +discovered who she was. The information had +to be obtained, by a process like mental thumbscrewing, +from the old man who tended Evelina’s +garden, but at last they knew. She was the +daughter of a cousin of Evelina’s on the father’s +side. Her name was Evelina Leonard; she had +been named for her father’s cousin. She had +been finely brought up, and had attended a Boston +school for young ladies. Her mother had +been dead many years, and her father had died +some two years ago, leaving her with only a +very little money, which was now all gone, and +Evelina Adams had invited her to live with her. +Evelina Adams had herself told the old gardener, +seeing his scant curiosity was somewhat awakened +by the sight of the strange young lady in +the garden, but he seemed to have almost forgotten +it when the people questioned him.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_130">[Pg 130]</span></p> +<p>“She’ll leave her all her money, most likely,” +they said, and they looked at this new Evelina +in the old Evelina’s perfumed gowns with awe.</p> + +<p>However, in the space of a few months the +opinion upon this matter was divided. Another +cousin of Evelina Adams’s came to town, and +this time an own cousin—a widow in fine black +bombazine, portly and florid, walking with a majestic +swell, and, moreover, having with her two +daughters, girls of her own type, not so far advanced. +This woman hired one of the village +cottages, and it was rumored that Evelina Adams +paid the rent. Still, it was considered that she +was not very intimate with these last relatives. +The neighbors watched, and saw, many a time, +Mrs. Martha Loomis and her girls try the doors +of the Adams house, scudding around angrily +from front, to side and back, and knock and +knock again, but with no admittance. “Evelina +she won’t let none of ’em in more’n once a +week,” the neighbors said. It was odd that, although +they had deeply resented Evelina’s seclusion +on their own accounts, they were rather on +her side in this matter, and felt a certain delight +when they witnessed a crestfallen retreat of the +widow and her daughters. “I don’t s’pose she +wants them Loomises marchin’ in on her every +minute,” they said.</p> + +<p>The new Evelina was not seen much with the +other cousins, and she made no acquaintances in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_131">[Pg 131]</span>the village. Whether she was to inherit all the +Adams property or not, she seemed, at any rate, +heiress to all the elder Evelina’s habits of life. +She worked with her in the garden, and wore her +old girlish gowns, and kept almost as close at +home as she. She often, however, walked abroad +in the early dusk, stepping along in a grave and +stately fashion, as the elder Evelina had used to +do, holding her skirts away from the dewy roadside +weeds, her face showing out in the twilight +like a white flower, as if it had a pale light of its +own.</p> + +<p>Nobody spoke to her; people turned furtively +after she had passed and stared after her, but +they never spoke. This young Evelina did not +seem to expect it. She passed along with the +lids cast down over her blue eyes, and the rose +and lavender scent of her garments came back in +their faces.</p> + +<p>But one night when she was walking slowly +along, a full half-mile from home, she heard +rapid footsteps behind, and the young minister, +Thomas Merriam, came up beside her and spoke.</p> + +<p>“Good-evening,” said he, and his voice was a +little hoarse through nervousness.</p> + +<p>Evelina started, and turned her fair face up +towards his. “Good-evening,” she responded, +and courtesied as she had been taught at school, +and stood close to the wall, that he might pass; +but Thomas Merriam paused also.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_132">[Pg 132]</span></p> +<p>“I—” he began, but his voice broke. He +cleared his throat angrily, and went on. “I have +seen you in meeting,” he said, with a kind of defiance, +more of himself than of her. After all, +was he not the minister, and had he not the right +to speak to everybody in the congregation? Why +should he embarrass himself?</p> + +<p>“Yes, sir,” replied Evelina. She stood drooping +her head before him, and yet there was a certain +delicate hauteur about her. Thomas was +afraid to speak again. They both stood silent +for a moment, and then Evelina stirred softly, as +if to pass on, and Thomas spoke out bravely. “Is +your cousin, Miss Adams, well?” said he.</p> + +<p>“She is pretty well, I thank you, sir.”</p> + +<p>“I have been wanting to—call,” he began; +then he hesitated again. His handsome young +face was blushing crimson.</p> + +<p>Evelina’s own color deepened. She turned her +face away. “Cousin Evelina never sees callers,” +she said, with grave courtesy; “perhaps you did +not know. She has not for a great many years.”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I did know it,” returned Thomas Merriam; +“that’s the reason I haven’t called.”</p> + +<p>“Cousin Evelina is not strong,” remarked the +young girl, and there was a savor of apology in +her tone.</p> + +<p>“But—” stammered Thomas; then he stopped +again. “May I—has she any objections to—anybody’s +coming to see you?”</p> +<!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span></p>--> +<figure class="figcenter width500"> +<img src="images/i_fp132_verbeterd.jpg" id="illus_3" +alt="a young woman, dressed rather tightly and with a scarf around her +head is walking in a garden or forest, +She is followed by a man and she looks over her shoulder"> +<figcaption> +“SHE HEARD RAPID FOOTSTEPS” +</figcaption> +</figure> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_133">[Pg 133]</span></p> +<p>Evelina started. “I am afraid Cousin Evelina +would not approve,” she answered, primly. Then +she looked up in his face, and a girlish piteousness +came into her own. “I am very sorry,” she +said, and there was a catch in her voice.</p> + +<p>Thomas bent over her impetuously. All his +ministerial state fell from him like an outer garment +of the soul. He was young, and he had +seen this girl Sunday after Sunday. He had +written all his sermons with her image before his +eyes, he had preached to her, and her only, and +she had come between his heart and all the nations +of the earth in his prayers. “Oh,” he +stammered out, “I am afraid you can’t be very +happy living there the way you do. Tell +me—”</p> + +<p>Evelina turned her face away with sudden +haughtiness. “My cousin Evelina is very kind +to me sir,” she said.</p> + +<p>“But—you must be lonesome with nobody—of +your own age—to speak to,” persisted Thomas, +confusedly.</p> + +<p>“I never cared much for youthful company. +It is getting dark; I must be going,” said Evelina. +“I wish you good-evening, sir.”</p> + +<p>“Sha’n’t I—walk home with you?” asked +Thomas, falteringly.</p> + +<p>“It isn’t necessary, thank you, and I don’t +think Cousin Evelina would approve,” she replied, +primly; and her light dress fluttered away +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_134">[Pg 134]</span>into the dusk and out of sight like the pale wing +of a moth.</p> + +<p>Poor Thomas Merriam walked on with his head +in a turmoil. His heart beat loud in his ears. +“I’ve made her mad with me,” he said to himself, +using the old rustic school-boy vernacular, +from which he did not always depart in +his thoughts, although his ministerial dignity +guarded his conversations. Thomas Merriam +came of a simple homely stock, whose speech +came from the emotions of the heart, all unregulated +by the usages of the schools. He was the +first for generations who had aspired to college +learning and a profession, and had trained his +tongue by the models of the educated and polite. +He could not help, at times, the relapse of his +thoughts, and their speaking to himself in the +dialect of his family and his ancestors. “She’s +’way above me, and I ought to ha’ known it,” he +further said, with the meekness of an humble +but fiercely independent race, which is meek to +itself alone. He would have maintained his +equality with his last breath to an opponent; in +his heart of hearts he felt himself below the scion +of the one old gentle family of his native village.</p> + +<p>This young Evelina, by the fine dignity which +had been born with her and not acquired by precept +and example, by the sweetly formal diction +which seemed her native tongue, had filled him +with awe. Now, when he thought she was angered +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_135">[Pg 135]</span>with him, he felt beneath her lady-feet, his +nostrils choked with a spiritual dust of humiliation.</p> + +<p>He went forward blindly. The dusk had deepened; +from either side of the road, from the mysterious +gloom of the bushes, came the twangs of +the katydids, like some coarse rustic quarrellers, +each striving for the last word in a dispute not +even dignified by excess of passion.</p> + +<p>Suddenly somebody jostled him to his own side +of the path. “That you, Thomas? Where you +been?” said a voice in his ear.</p> + +<p>“That you, father? Down to the post-office.”</p> + +<p>“Who was that you was talkin’ with back +there?”</p> + +<p>“Miss Evelina Leonard.”</p> + +<p>“That girl that’s stayin’ there—to the old +Squire’s?”</p> + +<p>“Yes.” The son tried to move on, but his +father stood before him dumbly for a minute. +“I must be going, father. I’ve got to work on +my sermon,” Thomas said, impatiently.</p> + +<p>“Wait a minute,” said his father. “I’ve got +something to say to ye, Thomas, an’ this is as +good a time to say it as any. There ain’t anybody +’round. I don’t know as ye’ll thank me for +it—but mother said the other day that she thought +you’d kind of an idea—she said you asked her if +she thought it would be anything out of the way +for you to go up to the Squire’s to make a call. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_136">[Pg 136]</span>Mother she thinks you can step in anywheres, but +I don’t know. I know your book-learnin’ and +your bein’ a minister has set you up a good deal +higher than your mother and me and any of our +folks, and I feel as if you were good enough for +anybody, as far as that goes; but that ain’t all. +Some folks have different startin’-points in this +world, and they see things different; and when +they do, it ain’t much use tryin’ to make them +walk alongside and see things alike. Their eyes +have got different cants, and they ain’t able to +help it. Now this girl she’s related to the old +Squire, and she’s been brought up different, and +she started ahead, even if her father did lose all +his property. She ’ain’t never eat in the kitchen, +nor been scart to set down in the parlor, and satin +and velvet, and silver spoons, and cream-pots +’ain’t never looked anything out of the common +to her, and they always will to you. No matter +how many such things you may live to have, +they’ll always get a little the better of ye. She’ll +be ’way above ’em; and you won’t, no matter +how hard you try. Some ideas can’t never mix; +and when ideas can’t mix, folks can’t.”</p> + +<p>“I never said they could,” returned Thomas, +shortly. “I can’t stop to talk any longer, father. +I must go home.”</p> + +<p>“No, you wait a minute, Thomas. I’m goin’ +to say out what I started to, and then I sha’n’t +ever bring it up again. What I was comin’ at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_137">[Pg 137]</span>was this: I wanted to warn ye a little. You +musn’t set too much store by little things that +you think mean consider’ble when they don’t. +Looks don’t count for much, and I want you to +remember it, and not be upset by ’em.”</p> + +<p>Thomas gave a great start, and colored high. +“I’d like to know what you mean, father,” he +cried, sharply.</p> + +<p>“Nothin’. I don’t mean nothin’, only I’m +older ’n you, and it’s come in my way to know +some things, and it’s fittin’ you should profit by +it. A young woman’s looks at you don’t count +for much. I don’t s’pose she knows why she +gives ’em herself half the time; they ain’t like +us. It’s best you should make up your mind to +it; if you don’t, you may find it out by the hardest. +That’s all. I ain’t never goin’ to bring this +up again.”</p> + +<p>“I’d like to know what you mean, father.” +Thomas’s voice shook with embarrassment and +anger.</p> + +<p>“I ain’t goin’ to say anything more about it,” +replied the old man. “Mary Ann Pease and +Arabella Mann are both in the settin’-room with +your mother. I thought I’d tell ye, in case ye +didn’t want to see ’em, and wanted to go to work +on your sermon.”</p> + +<p>Thomas made an impatient ejaculation as he +strode off. When he reached the large white +house where he lived he skirted it carefully. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_138">[Pg 138]</span>chirping treble of girlish voices came from the +open sitting-room window, and he caught a +glimpse of a smooth brown head and a high shell +comb in front of the candle-light. The young +minister tiptoed in the back door and across the +kitchen to the back stairs. The sitting-room +door was open, and the candle-light streamed +out, and the treble voices rose high. Thomas, +advancing through the dusky kitchen with cautious +steps, encountered suddenly a chair in the +dark corner by the stairs, and just saved himself +from falling. There was a startled outcry from +the sitting-room, and his mother came running +into the kitchen with a candle.</p> + +<p>“Who is it?” she demanded, valiantly. Then +she started and gasped as her son confronted her. +He shook a furious warning fist at the sitting-room +door and his mother, and edged towards +the stairs. She followed him close. “Hadn’t +you better jest step in a minute?” she whispered. +“Them girls have been here an hour, and I know +they’re waitin’ to see you.” Thomas shook his +head fiercely, and swung himself around the corner +into the dark crook of the back stairs. His +mother thrust the candle into his hand. “Take +this, or you’ll break your neck on them stairs,” +she whispered.</p> + +<p>Thomas, stealing up the stairs like a cat, heard +one of the girls call to his mother—“Is it robbers, +Mis’ Merriam? Want us to come an’ help +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_139">[Pg 139]</span>tackle ’em?”—and he fairly shuddered; for Evelina’s +gentle-lady speech was still in his ears, and +this rude girlish call seemed to jar upon his sensibilities.</p> + +<p>“The idea of any girl screeching out like that,” +he muttered. And if he had carried speech as +far as his thought, he would have added, “when +Evelina is a girl!”</p> + +<p>He was so angry that he did not laugh when +he heard his mother answer back, in those conclusive +tones of hers that were wont to silence all +argument: “It ain’t anything. Don’t be scared. +I’m coming right back.” Mrs. Merriam scorned +subterfuges. She took always a silent stand in +a difficulty, and let people infer what they would. +When Mary Ann Pease inquired if it was the cat +that had made the noise, she asked if her mother +had finished her blue and white counterpane.</p> + +<p>The two girls waited a half-hour longer, then +they went home. “What do you s’pose made +that noise out in the kitchen?” asked Arabella +Mann of Mary Ann Pease, the minute they were +out-of-doors.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know,” replied Mary Ann Pease. She +was a broad-backed young girl, and looked like a +matron as she hurried along in the dusk.</p> + +<p>“Well, I know what I think it was,” said Arabella +Mann, moving ahead with sharp jerks of +her little dark body.</p> + +<p>“What?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_140">[Pg 140]</span></p> +<p>“It was him.”</p> + +<p>“You don’t mean—”</p> + +<p>“I think it was Thomas Merriam, and he was +tryin’ to get up the back stairs unbeknownst to +anybody, and he run into something.”</p> + +<p>“What for?”</p> + +<p>“Because he didn’t want to see us.”</p> + +<p>“Now, Arabella Mann, I don’t believe it! He’s +always real pleasant to me.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I do believe it, and I guess he’ll know +it when I set foot in that house again. I guess +he’ll find out I didn’t go there to see him! +He needn’t feel so fine, if he is the minister; his +folks ain’t any better than mine, an’ we’ve got +’nough sight handsomer furniture in our parlor.”</p> + +<p>“Did you see how the tallow had all run down +over the candles?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I did. She gave that candle she carried +out in the kitchen to him, too. Mother says she +wasn’t never any kind of a housekeeper.”</p> + +<p>“Hush! Arabella: here he is coming now.”</p> + +<p>But it was not Thomas; it was his father, advancing +through the evening with his son’s gait +and carriage. When the two girls discovered +that, one tittered out quite audibly, and they +scuttled past. They were not rivals; they simply +walked faithfully side by side in pursuit of the +young minister, giving him as it were an impartial +choice. There were even no heart-burnings +between them; one always confided in the other +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_141">[Pg 141]</span>when she supposed herself to have found some +slight favor in Thomas’s sight; and, indeed, the +young minister could scarcely bow to one upon +the street unless she flew to the other with the +news.</p> + +<p>Thomas Merriam himself was aware of all this +devotion on the part of the young women of his +flock, and it filled him with a sort of angry +shame. He could not have told why, but he despised +himself for being the object of their attention +more than he despised them. His heart +sank at the idea of Evelina’s discovering it. +What would she think of him if she knew all +those young women haunted his house and lagged +after meeting on the chance of getting a word +from him? Suppose she should see their eyes +upon his face in meeting time, and decipher their +half-unconscious boldness, as he had done against +his will. Once Evelina had looked at him, even +as the older Evelina had looked at his father, and +all other looks of maidens seemed to him like +profanations of that, even although he doubted +afterwards that he had rightly interpreted it. +Full it had seemed to him of that tender maiden +surprise and wonder, of that love that knows not +itself, and sees its own splendor for the first time +in another’s face, and flees at the sight. It had +happened once when he was coming down the +aisle after the sermon and Evelina had met him +at the door of her pew. But she had turned her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_142">[Pg 142]</span>head quickly, and her soft curls flowed over her +red cheek, and he doubted ever after if he had +read the look aright. When he had gotten the +courage to speak to her, and she had met him +with the gentle coldness which she had learned +of her lady aunt and her teacher in Boston, his +doubt was strong upon him. The next Sunday +he looked not her way at all. He even tried +faithfully from day to day to drive her image +from his mind with prayer and religious thoughts, +but in spite of himself he would lapse into dreams +about her, as if borne by a current of nature too +strong to be resisted. And sometimes, upon being +awakened from them, as he sat over his sermon +with the ink drying on his quill, by the +sudden outburst of treble voices in his mother’s +sitting-room below, the fancy would seize him +that possibly these other young damsels took +fond liberties with him in their dreams, as he +with Evelina, and he resented it with a fierce +maidenliness of spirit, although he was a man. +The thought that possibly they, over their spinning +or their quilting, had in their hearts the +image of himself with fond words upon his lips +and fond looks in his eyes, filled him with shame +and rage, although he took the same liberty with +the delicately haughty maiden Evelina.</p> + +<p>But Thomas Merriam was not given to undue +appreciation of his own fascination, as was proved +by his ready discouragement in the case of Evelina. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_143">[Pg 143]</span>He had the knowledge of his conquests +forced upon his understanding until he could no +longer evade it. Every day were offerings laid +upon his shrine, of pound-cakes and flaky pies, +and loaves of white bread, and cups of jelly, +whereby the culinary skill of his devotees might +be proved. Silken purses and beautiful socks +knitted with fancy stitches, and holy book-marks +for his Bible, and even a wonderful bedquilt, and +a fine linen shirt with hem-stitched bands, poured +in upon him. He burned with angry blushes +when his mother, smiling meaningly, passed +them over to him. “Put them away, mother; I +don’t want them,” he would growl out, in a distress +that was half comic and half pathetic. He +would never taste of the tempting viands which +were brought to him. “How you act, Thomas!” +his mother would say. She was secretly elated +by these feminine libations upon the altar of her +son. They did not grate upon her sensibilities, +which were not delicate. She even tried to assist +two or three of the young women in their designs; +she would often praise them and their handiwork +to her son—and in this she was aided by an old +woman aunt of hers who lived with the family. +“Nancy Winslow is as handsome a girl as ever I +set eyes on, an’ I never see any nicer sewin’,” +Mrs. Merriam said, after the advent of the linen +shirt, and she held it up to the light admiringly. +“Jest look at that hem-stitchin’!” she said.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_144">[Pg 144]</span></p> +<p>“I guess whoever made that shirt calkilated +’twould do for a weddin’ one,” said old Aunt +Betty Green, and Thomas made an exclamation +and went out of the room, tingling all over with +shame and disgust.</p> + +<p>“Thomas don’t act nateral,” said the old woman, +glancing after him through her iron-bound +spectacles.</p> + +<p>“I dun’no’ what’s got into him,” returned his +mother.</p> + +<p>“Mebbe they foller him up a leetle too close,” +said Aunt Betty. “I dun’no’ as I should have +ventured on a shirt when I was a gal. I made a +satin vest once for Joshua, but that don’t seem +quite as p’inted as a shirt. It didn’t scare +Joshua, nohow. He asked me to have him the +next week.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I dun’no’,” said Mrs. Merriam again. +“I kind of wish Thomas would settle on somebody, +for I’m pestered most to death with ’em, +an’ I feel as if ’twas kind of mean takin’ all these +things into the house.”</p> + +<p>“They’ve ’bout kept ye in sweet cake, ’ain’t +they, lately?”</p> + +<p>“Yes; but I don’t feel as if it was jest right +for us to eat it up, when ’twas brought for Thomas. +But he won’t touch it. I can’t see as he +has the least idee of any one of them. I don’t +believe Thomas has ever seen anybody he wanted +for a wife.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_145">[Pg 145]</span></p> +<p>“Well, he’s got the pick of ’em, a-settin’ their +caps right in his face,” said Aunt Betty.</p> + +<p>Neither of them dreamed how the young man, +sleeping and eating and living under the same +roof, beloved of them since he entered the world, +holding himself coldly aloof from this crowd of +half-innocently, half-boldly ardent young women, +had set up for himself his own divinity of love, before +whom he consumed himself in vain worship. +His father suspected, and that was all, and he +never mentioned the matter again to his son.</p> + +<p>After Thomas had spoken to Evelina the weeks +went on, and they never exchanged another word, +and their eyes never met. But they dwelt constantly +within each other’s thoughts, and were +ever present to each other’s spiritual vision. Always +as the young minister bent over his sermon-paper, +laboriously tracing out with sputtering +quill his application of the articles of the orthodox +faith, Evelina’s blue eyes seemed to look out +at him between the stern doctrines like the eyes +of an angel. And he could not turn the pages +of the Holy Writ unless he found some passage +therein which to his mind treated directly of her, +setting forth her graces like a prophecy. “The +fairest among women,” read Thomas Merriam, +and nodded his head, while his heart leaped with +the satisfied delight of all its fancies, at the image +of his love’s fair and gentle face. “Her price +is far above rubies,” read Thomas Merriam, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_146">[Pg 146]</span>he nodded his head again, and saw Evelina shining +as with gold and pearls, more precious than +all the jewels of the earth. In spite of all his efforts, +when Thomas Merriam studied the Scriptures +in those days he was more nearly touched +by those old human hearts which throbbed down +to his through the ages, welding the memories +of their old loves to his living one until they +seemed to prove its eternity, than by the Messianic +prophecies. Often he spent hours upon his +knees, but arose with Evelina’s face before his +very soul in spite of all.</p> + +<p>And as for Evelina, she tended the flowers in +the elder Evelina’s garden with her poor cousin, +whose own love-dreams had been illustrated as it +were by the pinks and lilies blooming around +them when they had all gone out of her heart, +and Thomas Merriam’s half-bold, half-imploring +eyes looked up at her out of every flower and +stung her heart like bees. Poor young Evelina +feared much lest she had offended Thomas, and +yet her own maiden decorum had been offended +by him, and she had offended it herself, and she +was faint with shame and distress when she +thought of it. How had she been so bold and +shameless as to give him that look in the meeting-house? +and how had he been so cruel as to +accost her afterwards? She told herself she had +done right for the maintenance of her own +maiden dignity, and yet she feared lest she had +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_147">[Pg 147]</span>angered him and hurt him. “Suppose he had +been fretted by her coolness?” she thought, and +then a great wave of tender pity went over her +heart, and she would almost have spoken to him +of her own accord. But then she would reflect +how he continued to write such beautiful sermons, +and prove so clearly and logically the tenets +of the faith; and how could he do that with a +mind in distress? Scarcely could she herself +tend the flower-beds as she should, nor set her +embroidery stitches finely and evenly, she was so +ill at ease. It must be that Thomas had not +given the matter an hour’s worry, since he continued +to do his work so faithfully and well. And +then her own heart would be sorer than ever with +the belief that his was happy and at rest, although +she would chide herself for it.</p> + +<p>And yet this young Evelina was a philosopher +and an analyst of human nature in a small way, +and she got some slight comfort out of a shrewd +suspicion that the heart of a man might love and +suffer on a somewhat different principle from the +heart of a woman. “It may be,” thought Evelina, +sitting idle over her embroidery with far-away +blue eyes, “that a man’s heart can always +turn a while from love to other things as weighty +and serious, although he be just as fond, while a +woman’s heart is always fixed one way by loving, +and cannot be turned unless it breaks. And it +may be wise,” thought young Evelina, “else how +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_148">[Pg 148]</span>could the state be maintained and governed, battles +for independence be fought, and even souls +be saved, and the gospel carried to the heathen, +if men could not turn from the concerns of their +own hearts more easily than women? Women +should be patient,” thought Evelina, “and consider +that if they suffer ’tis due to the lot which +a wise Providence has given them.” And yet +tears welled up in her earnest blue eyes and fell +over her fair cheeks and wet the embroidery—when +the elder Evelina was not looking, as she +seldom was. The elder Evelina was kind to +her young cousin, but there were days when +she seemed to dwell alone in her own thoughts, +apart from the whole world, and she seldom +spoke either to Evelina or her old servant-man.</p> + +<p>Young Evelina, trying to atone for her former +indiscretion and establish herself again on her +height of maiden reserve in Thomas Merriam’s +eyes, sat resolutely in the meeting-house of a +Sabbath day, with her eyes cast down, and after +service she glided swiftly down the aisle and was +out of the door before the young minister could +much more than descend the pulpit stairs, unless +he ran an indecorous race.</p> + +<p>And young Evelina never at twilight strolled +up the road in the direction of Thomas Merriam’s +home, where she might quite reasonably hope to +meet him, since he was wont to go to the store +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_149">[Pg 149]</span>when the evening stage-coach came in with the +mail from Boston.</p> + +<p>Instead she paced the garden paths, or, when +there was not too heavy a dew, rambled across +the fields; and there was also a lane where she +loved to walk. Whether or not Thomas Merriam +suspected this, or had ever seen, as he passed the +mouth of the lane, the flutter of maidenly draperies +in the distance, it so happened that one +evening he also went a-walking there, and met +Evelina. He had entered the lane from the +highway, and she from the fields at the head. So +he saw her first afar off, and could not tell fairly +whether her light muslin skirt might not be only a +white flowering bush. For, since his outlook upon +life had been so full of Evelina, he had found +that often the most common and familiar things +would wear for a second a look of her to startle +him. And many a time his heart had leaped at +the sight of a white bush ahead stirring softly in +the evening wind, and he had thought it might +be she. Now he said to himself impatiently that +this was only another fancy; but soon he saw +that it was indeed Evelina, in a light muslin +gown, with a little lace kerchief on her head. +His handsome young face was white; his lips +twitched nervously; but he reached out and +pulled a spray of white flowers from a bush, and +swung it airily to hide his agitation as he advanced.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_150">[Pg 150]</span></p> +<p>As for Evelina, when she first espied Thomas +she started and half turned, as if to go back; +then she held up her white kerchiefed head with +gentle pride and kept on. When she came up to +Thomas she walked so far to one side that her +muslin skirt was in danger of catching and tearing +on the bushes, and she never raised her eyes, +and not a flicker of recognition stirred her sweet +pale face as she passed him.</p> + +<p>But Thomas started as if she had struck him, +and dropped his spray of white flowers, and could +not help a smothered cry that was half a sob, as +he went on, knocking blindly against the bushes. +He went a little way, then he stopped and looked +back with his piteous hurt eyes. And Evelina +had stopped also, and she had the spray of white +flowers which he had dropped, in her hand, and +her eyes met his. Then she let the flowers fall +again, and clapped both her little hands to her +face to cover it, and turned to run; but Thomas +was at her side, and he put out his hand and +held her softly by her white arm.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” he panted, “I—did not mean to be—too +presuming, and offend you. I—crave your +pardon—”</p> + +<p>Evelina had recovered herself. She stood with +her little hands clasped, and her eyes cast down +before him; but not a quiver stirred her pale face, +which seemed turned to marble by this last effort +of her maiden pride. “I have nothing to pardon,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_151">[Pg 151]</span>said she. “It was I, whose bold behavior, +unbecoming a modest and well-trained young +woman, gave rise to what seemed like presumption +on your part.” The sense of justice was +strong within her, but she made her speech +haughtily and primly, as if she had learned it by +rote from some maiden school-mistress, and +pulled her arm away and turned to go; but +Thomas’s words stopped her.</p> + +<p>“Not—unbecoming if it came—from the +heart,” said he, brokenly, scarcely daring to +speak, and yet not daring to be silent.</p> + +<p>Then Evelina turned on him, with a sudden +strange pride that lay beneath all other pride, +and was of a nobler and truer sort. “Do you +think I would have given you the look that I did +if it had not come from my heart?” she demanded. +“What did you take me to be—false and a jilt? +I may be a forward young woman, who has overstepped +the bounds of maidenly decorum, and I +shall never get over the shame of it, but I am +truthful, and I am no jilt.” The brilliant color +flamed out on Evelina’s cheeks. Her blue eyes +met Thomas’s with that courage of innocence +and nature which dares all shame. But it was +only for a second; the tears sprung into them. +“I beg you to let me go home,” she said, pitifully; +but Thomas caught her in his arms, and +pressed her troubled maiden face against his +breast.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_152">[Pg 152]</span></p> +<p>“Oh, I love you so!” he whispered—“I love +you so, Evelina, and I was afraid you were angry +with me for it.”</p> + +<p>“And I was afraid,” she faltered, half weeping +and half shrinking from him, “lest you were +angry with me for betraying the state of my feelings, +when you could not return them.” And +even then she used that gentle formality of expression +with which she had been taught by her +maiden preceptors to veil decorously her most +ardent emotions. And, in truth, her training +stood her in good stead in other ways; for she +presently commanded, with that mild dignity of +hers which allowed of no remonstrance, that +Thomas should take away his arm from her waist, +and give her no more kisses for that time.</p> + +<p>“It is not becoming for any one,” said she, +“and much less for a minister of the gospel. And +as for myself, I know not what Mistress Perkins +would say to me. She has a mind much above +me, I fear.”</p> + +<p>“Mistress Perkins is enjoying her mind in +Boston,” said Thomas Merriam, with the laugh +of a triumphant young lover.</p> + +<p>But Evelina did not laugh. “It might be well +for both you and me if she were here,” said she, +seriously. However, she tempered a little her +decorous following of Mistress Perkins’s precepts, +and she and Thomas went hand in hand up the +lane and across the fields.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_153">[Pg 153]</span></p> +<p>There was no dew that night, and the moon +was full. It was after nine o’clock when Thomas +left her at the gate in the fence which separated +Evelina Adams’s garden from the field, and +watched her disappear between the flowers. The +moon shone full on the garden. Evelina walked +as it were over a silver dapple, which her light +gown seemed to brush away and dispel for a moment. +The bushes stood in sweet mysterious +clumps of shadow.</p> + +<p>Evelina had almost reached the house, and was +close to the great althea bush, which cast a wide +circle of shadow, when it seemed suddenly to +separate and move into life.</p> + +<p>The elder Evelina stepped out from the shadow +of the bush. “Is that you, Evelina?” she said, +in her soft melancholy voice, which had in it a +nervous vibration.</p> + +<p>“Yes, Cousin Evelina.”</p> + +<p>The elder Evelina’s pale face, drooped about +with gray curls, had an unfamiliar, almost uncanny, +look in the moonlight, and might have +been the sorrowful visage of some marble nymph, +lovelorn, with unceasing grace. “Who—was +with you?” she asked.</p> + +<p>“The minister,” replied young Evelina.</p> + +<p>“Did he meet you?”</p> + +<p>“He met me in the lane, Cousin Evelina.”</p> + +<p>“And he walked home with you across the +field?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_154">[Pg 154]</span></p> +<p>“Yes, Cousin Evelina.”</p> + +<p>Then the two entered the house, and nothing +more was said about the matter. Young Evelina +and Thomas Merriam agreed that their affection +was to be kept a secret for a while. “For,” +said young Evelina, “I cannot leave Cousin Evelina +yet a while, and I cannot have her pestered +with thinking about it, at least before another +spring, when she has the garden fairly growing +again.”</p> + +<p>“That is nearly a whole year; it is August +now,” said Thomas, half reproachfully, and he +tightened his clasp of Evelina’s slender fingers.</p> + +<p>“I cannot help that,” replied Evelina. “It +is for you to show Christian patience more than +I, Thomas. If you could have seen poor Cousin +Evelina, as I have seen her, through the long +winter days, when her garden is dead, and she +has only the few plants in her window left! +When she is not watering and tending them she +sits all day in the window and looks out over the +garden and the naked bushes and the withered +flower-stalks. She used not to be so, but would +read her Bible and good books, and busy herself +somewhat over fine needle-work, and at one time +she was compiling a little floral book, giving a +list of the flowers, and poetical selections and sentiments +appropriate to each. That was her pastime +for three winters, and it is now nearly done; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_155">[Pg 155]</span>but she has given that up, and all the rest, and +sits there in the window and grows older and +feebler until spring. It is only I who can divert +her mind, by reading aloud to her and singing; +and sometimes I paint the flowers she loves the +best on card-board with water-colors. I have a +poor skill in it, but Cousin Evelina can tell which +flower I have tried to represent, and it pleases +her greatly. I have even seen her smile. No, I +cannot leave her, nor even pester her with telling +her before another spring, and you must wait, +Thomas,” said young Evelina.</p> + +<p>And Thomas agreed, as he was likely to do to +all which she proposed which touched not his +own sense of right and honor. Young Evelina +gave Thomas one more kiss for his earnest pleading, +and that night wrote out the tale in her journal. +“It may be that I overstepped the bounds +of maidenly decorum,” wrote Evelina, “but my +heart did so entreat me,” and no blame whatever +did she lay upon Thomas.</p> + +<p>Young Evelina opened her heart only to her +journal, and her cousin was told nothing, and +had little cause for suspicion. Thomas Merriam +never came to the house to see his sweetheart; +he never walked home with her from meeting. +Both were anxious to avoid village gossip, until +the elder Evelina could be told.</p> + +<p>Often in the summer evenings the lovers met, +and strolled hand in hand across the fields, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_156">[Pg 156]</span>parted at the garden gate with the one kiss which +Evelina allowed, and that was all.</p> + +<p>Sometimes when young Evelina came in with +her lover’s kiss still warm upon her lips the elder +Evelina looked at her wistfully, with a strange +retrospective expression in her blue eyes, as if she +were striving to remember something that the +girl’s face called to mind. And yet she could +have had nothing to remember except dreams.</p> + +<p>And once, when young Evelina sat sewing +through a long summer afternoon and thinking +about her lover, the elder Evelina, who was storing +rose leaves mixed with sweet spices in a jar, +said, suddenly, “He looks as his father used to.”</p> + +<p>Young Evelina started. “Whom do you mean, +Cousin Evelina?” she asked, wonderingly; for +the elder Evelina had not glanced at her, nor +even seemed to address her at all.</p> + +<p>“Nothing,” said the elder Evelina, and a soft +flush stole over her withered face and neck, and +she sprinkled more cassia on the rose leaves in +the jar.</p> + +<p>Young Evelina said no more; but she wondered, +partly because Thomas was always in her +mind, and it seemed to her naturally that nearly +everything must have a savor of meaning of him, +if her cousin Evelina could possibly have referred +to him and his likeness to his father. For it was +commonly said that Thomas looked very like his +father, although his figure was different. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_157">[Pg 157]</span>young man was taller and more firmly built, and +he had not the meek forward curve of shoulder +which had grown upon his father of late years.</p> + +<p>When the frosty nights came Thomas and Evelina +could not meet and walk hand in hand over +the fields behind the Squire’s house, and they +very seldom could speak to each other. It was +nothing except a “good-day” on the street, and +a stolen glance, which set them both a-trembling +lest all the congregation had noticed, in +the meeting-house. When the winter set fairly +in they met no more, for the elder Evelina was +taken ill, and her young cousin did not leave her +even to go to meeting. People said they guessed +it was Evelina Adams’s last sickness, and they +furthermore guessed that she would divide her +property between her cousin Martha Loomis and +her two girls and Evelina Leonard, and that Evelina +would have the house as her share.</p> + +<p>Thomas Merriam heard this last with a satisfaction +which he did not try to disguise from +himself, because he never dreamed of there being +any selfish element in it. It was all for Evelina. +Many a time he had looked about the humble +house where he had been born, and where he +would have to take Evelina after he had married +her, and striven to see its poor features with her +eyes—not with his, for which familiarity had tempered +them. Often, as he sat with his parents +in the old sitting-room, in which he had kept +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_158">[Pg 158]</span>so far an unquestioning belief, as in a friend of +his childhood, the scales of his own personality +would fall suddenly from his eyes. Then he +would see, as Evelina, the poor, worn, humble +face of his home, and his heart would sink. “I +don’t see how I ever can bring her here,” he +thought. He began to save, a few cents at a +time out of his pitiful salary, to at least beautify +his own chamber a little when Evelina should +come. He made up his mind that she should +have a little dressing-table, with an oval mirror, +and a white muslin frill around it, like one he +had seen in Boston. “She shall have that to sit +before while she combs her hair,” he thought, +with defiant tenderness, when he stowed away +another shilling in a little box in his trunk. It +was money which he ordinarily bestowed upon +foreign missions; but his Evelina had come between +him and the heathen. To procure some +dainty furnishings for her bridal-chamber he took +away a good half of his tithes for the spread of +the gospel in the dark lands. Now and then his +conscience smote him, he felt shamefaced before +his deacons, but Evelina kept her first claim. +He resolved that another year he would hire a +piece of land, and combine farming with his ministerial +work, and so try to eke out his salary, and +get a little more money to beautify his poor home +for his bride.</p> + +<p>Now if Evelina Adams had come to the appointed +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_159">[Pg 159]</span>time for the closing of her solitary life, +and if her young cousin should inherit a share +of her goodly property and the fine old mansion-house, +all necessity for anxiety of this kind +was over. Young Evelina would not need to +be taken away, for the sake of her love, from +all these comforts and luxuries. Thomas Merriam +rejoiced innocently, without a thought for +himself.</p> + +<p>In the course of the winter he confided in his +father; he couldn’t keep it to himself any longer. +Then there was another reason. Seeing Evelina +so little made him at times almost doubt the reality +of it all. There were days when he was depressed, +and inclined to ask himself if he had not +dreamed it. Telling somebody gave it substance.</p> + +<p>His father listened soberly when he told him; +he had grown old of late.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said he, “she ’ain’t been used to +living the way you have, though you have had +advantages that none of your folks ever had; +but if she likes you, that’s all there is to it, I +s’pose.”</p> + +<p>The old man sighed wearily. He sat in his +arm-chair at the kitchen fireplace; his wife had +gone in to one of the neighbors, and the two were +alone.</p> + +<p>“Of course,” said Thomas, simply, “if Evelina +Adams shouldn’t live, the chances are that I +shouldn’t have to bring her here. She wouldn’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_160">[Pg 160]</span>have to give up anything on my account—you +know that, father.”</p> + +<p>Then the young man started, for his father +turned suddenly on him with a pale, wrathful +face. “You ain’t countin’ on that!” he shouted. +“You ain’t countin’ on that—a son of mine countin’ +on anything like that!”</p> + +<p>Thomas colored. “Why, father,” he stammered, +“you don’t think—you know, it’s all for +<i>her</i>—and they say she can’t live anyway. I had +never thought of such a thing before. I was +wondering how I could make it comfortable for +Evelina here.”</p> + +<p>But his father did not seem to listen. “Countin’ +on that!” he repeated. “Countin’ on a poor +old soul, that ’ain’t ever had anything to set her +heart on but a few posies, dyin’ to make room +for other folks to have what she’s been cheated +out on. Countin’ on that!” The old man’s +voice broke into a hoarse sob; he got up, and +went hurriedly out of the room.</p> + +<p>“Why, father!” his son called after him, in +alarm. He got up to follow him, but his father +waved him back and shut the door hard.</p> + +<p>“Father must be getting childish,” Thomas +thought, wonderingly. He did not bring up the +subject to him again.</p> + +<p>Evelina Adams died in March. One morning +the bell tolled seventy long melancholy tones before +people had eaten their breakfasts. They ran +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_161">[Pg 161]</span>to their doors and counted. “It’s her,” they +said, nodding, when they had waited a little after +the seventieth stroke. Directly Mrs. Martha +Loomis and her two girls were seen hustling importantly +down the road, with their shawls over +their heads, to the Squire’s house. “Mis’ Loomis +can lay her out,” they said. “It ain’t likely +that young Evelina knows anything about such +things. Guess she’ll be thankful she’s got somebody +to call on now, if she ’ain’t mixed much +with the Loomises.” Then they wondered when +the funeral would be, and the women furbished +up their black gowns and bonnets, and even in a +few cases drove to the next town and borrowed +from relatives; but there was a great disappointment +in store for them.</p> + +<p>Evelina Adams died on a Saturday. The next +day it was announced from the pulpit that the +funeral would be private, by the particular request +of the deceased. Evelina Adams had carried +her delicate seclusion beyond death, to the +very borders of the grave. Nobody, outside the +family, was bidden to the funeral, except the +doctor, the minister, and the two deacons of +the church. They were to be the bearers. The +burial also was to be private, in the Squire’s family +burial-lot, at the north of the house. The +bearers would carry the coffin across the yard, +and there would not only be no funeral, but no +funeral procession, and no hearse. “It don’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_162">[Pg 162]</span>seem scarcely decent,” the women whispered to +each other; “and more than all that, she ain’t +goin’ to be <i>seen</i>.” The deacons’ wives were especially +disturbed by this last, as they might otherwise +have gained many interesting particulars by +proxy.</p> + +<p>Monday was the day set for the burial. Early +in the morning old Thomas Merriam walked +feebly up the road to the Squire’s house. People +noticed him as he passed. “How terrible fast +he’s grown old lately!” they said. He opened +the gate which led into the Squire’s front yard +with fumbling fingers, and went up the walk to +the front door, under the Corinthian pillars, and +raised the brass knocker.</p> + +<p>Evelina opened the door, and started and +blushed when she saw him. She had been crying; +there were red rings around her blue eyes, +and her pretty lips were swollen. She tried to +smile at Thomas’s father, and she held out her +hand with shy welcome.</p> + +<p>“I want to see her,” the old man said, abruptly.</p> + +<p>Evelina started, and looked at him wonderingly. +“I—don’t believe—I know who you +mean,” said she. “Do you want to see Mrs. +Loomis?”</p> + +<p>“No; I want to see her.”</p> + +<p>“<i>Her?</i>”</p> + +<p>“Yes, <i>her</i>.”</p> + +<p>Evelina turned pale as she stared at him. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_163">[Pg 163]</span>There was something strange about his face. +“But—Cousin Evelina,” she faltered—“she—didn’t +want—Perhaps you don’t know: she left +special directions that nobody was to look at her.”</p> + +<p>“I <i>want to see her</i>,” said the old man, and Evelina +gave way. She stood aside for him to enter, +and led him into the great north parlor, where +Evelina Adams lay in her mournful state. The +shutters were closed, and one on entering could +distinguish nothing but that long black shadow +in the middle of the room. Young Evelina +opened a shutter a little way, and a slanting shaft +of spring sunlight came in and shot athwart the +coffin. The old man tiptoed up and leaned over +and looked at the dead woman. Evelina Adams +had left further instructions about her funeral, +which no one understood, but which were faithfully +carried out. She wished, she had said, to be +attired for her long sleep in a certain rose-colored +gown, laid away in rose leaves and lavender in a +certain chest in a certain chamber. There were +also silken hose and satin shoes with it, and these +were to be put on, and a wrought lace tucker +fastened with a pearl brooch.</p> + +<p>It was the costume she had worn one Sabbath +day back in her youth, when she had looked +across the meeting-house and her eyes had met +young Thomas Merriam’s; but nobody knew nor +remembered; even young Evelina thought it +was simply a vagary of her dead cousin’s.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_164">[Pg 164]</span></p> +<p>“It don’t seem to me decent to lay away anybody +dressed so,” said Mrs. Martha Loomis; +“but of course last wishes must be respected.”</p> + +<p>The two Loomis girls said they were thankful +nobody was to see the departed in her rose-colored +shroud.</p> + +<p>Even old Thomas Merriam, leaning over poor +Evelina, cold and dead in the garb of her youth, +did not remember it, and saw no meaning in it. +He looked at her long. The beautiful color was +all faded out of the yellow-white face; the sweet +full lips were set and thin; the closed blue eyes +sunken in dark hollows; the yellow hair showed +a line of gray at the edge of her old woman’s cap, +and thin gray curls lay against the hollow cheeks. +But old Thomas Merriam drew a long breath +when he looked at her. It was like a gasp of +admiration and wonder; a strange rapture came +into his dim eyes; his lips moved as if he whispered +to her, but young Evelina could not hear +a sound. She watched him, half frightened, but +finally he turned to her. “I ’ain’t seen her—fairly,” +said he, hoarsely—“I ’ain’t seen her, +savin’ a glimpse of her at the window, for over +forty year, and she ’ain’t changed, not a look. I’d +have known her anywheres. She’s the same as +she was when she was a girl. It’s wonderful—wonderful!”</p> + +<p>Young Evelina shrank a little. “We think +she looks natural,” she said, hesitatingly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_165">[Pg 165]</span></p> +<p>“She looks jest as she did when she was a girl +and used to come into the meetin’-house. She +is jest the same,” the old man repeated, in his +eager, hoarse voice. Then he bent over the coffin, +and his lips moved again. Young Evelina +would have called Mrs. Loomis, for she was +frightened, had he not been Thomas’s father, and +had it not been for her vague feeling that there +might be some old story to explain this which +she had never heard. “Maybe he was in love +with poor Cousin Evelina, as Thomas is with me,” +thought young Evelina, using her own leaping-pole +of love to land straight at the truth. But +she never told her surmise to any one except +Thomas, and that was long afterwards, when the +old man was dead. Now she watched him with +her blue dilated eyes. But soon he turned away +from the coffin and made his way straight out of +the room, without a word. Evelina followed him +through the entry and opened the outer door. +He turned on the threshold and looked back at +her, his face working.</p> + +<p>“Don’t ye go to lottin’ too much on what ye’re +goin’ to get through folks that have died an’ not +had anything,” he said; and he shook his head +almost fiercely at her.</p> + +<p>“No, I won’t. I don’t think I understand +what you mean, sir,” stammered Evelina.</p> + +<p>The old man stood looking at her a moment. +Suddenly she saw the tears rolling over his old +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_166">[Pg 166]</span>cheeks. “I’m much obliged to ye for lettin’ of +me see her,” he said, hoarsely, and crept feebly +down the steps.</p> + +<p>Evelina went back trembling to the room where +her dead cousin lay, and covered her face, and +closed the shutter again. Then she went about +her household duties, wondering. She could not +understand what it all meant; but one thing she +understood—that in some way this old dead +woman, Evelina Adams, had gotten immortal +youth and beauty in one human heart. “She +looked to him just as she did when she was a girl,” +Evelina kept thinking to herself with awe. She +said nothing about it to Mrs. Martha Loomis or +her daughters. They had been in the back part +of the house, and had not heard old Thomas +Merriam come in, and they never knew about it.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Loomis and the two girls stayed in the +house day and night until after the funeral. +They confidently expected to live there in the +future. “It isn’t likely that Evelina Adams +thought a young woman no older than Evelina +Leonard could live here alone in this great house +with nobody but that old Sarah Judd. It would +not be proper nor becoming,” said Martha Loomis +to her two daughters; and they agreed, and +brought over many of their possessions under +cover of night to the Squire’s house during the +interval before the funeral.</p> + +<p>But after the funeral and the reading of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_167">[Pg 167]</span>will the Loomises made sundry trips after dusk +back to their old home, with their best petticoats +and cloaks over their arms, and their bonnets +dangling by their strings at their sides. For +Evelina Adams’s last will and testament had been +read, and therein provision was made for the continuance +of the annuity heretofore paid them for +their support, with the condition affixed that not +one night should they spend after the reading of +the will in the house known as the Squire Adams +house. The annuity was an ample one, and +would provide the widow Martha Loomis and her +daughters, as it had done before, with all the +needfuls of life; but upon hearing the will they +stiffened their double chins into their kerchiefs +with indignation, for they had looked for more.</p> + +<p>Evelina Adams’s will was a will of conditions, +for unto it she had affixed two more, and those +affected her beloved cousin Evelina Leonard. It +was notable that “beloved” had not preceded +her cousin Martha Loomis’s name in the will. No +pretence of love, when she felt none, had she ever +made in her life. The entire property of Evelina +Adams, spinster, deceased, with the exception of +Widow Martha Loomis’s provision, fell to this +beloved young Evelina Leonard, subject to two +conditions—firstly, she was never to enter into +matrimony, with any person whomsoever, at any +time whatsoever; secondly, she was never to let +the said spinster Evelina Adams’s garden, situated +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_168">[Pg 168]</span>at the rear and southward of the house known +as the Squire Adams house, die through any neglect +of hers. Due allowance was to be made for +the dispensations of Providence: for hail and +withering frost and long-continued drought, +and for times wherein the said Evelina Leonard<a id="tn03"></a> +might, by reason of being confined to the house +by sickness, be prevented from attending to the +needs of the growing plants, and the verdict in +such cases was to rest with the minister and the +deacons of the church. But should this beloved +Evelina love and wed, or should she let, through +any wilful neglect, that garden perish in the season +of flowers, all that goodly property would +she forfeit to a person unknown, whose name, enclosed +in a sealed envelope, was to be held meantime +in the hands of the executor, who had also +drawn up the will, Lawyer Joshua Lang.</p> + +<p>There was great excitement in the village over +this strange and unwonted will. Some were there +who held that Evelina Adams had not been of +sound mind, and it should be contested. It was +even rumored that Widow Martha Loomis had +visited Lawyer Joshua Lang and broached the +subject, but he had dismissed the matter peremptorily +by telling her that Evelina Adams, spinster, +deceased, had been as much in her right +mind at the time of drawing the will as anybody +of his acquaintance.</p> + +<p>“Not setting store by relations, and not wanting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_169">[Pg 169]</span>to have them under your roof, doesn’t go far +in law nor common-sense to send folks to the +madhouse,” old Lawyer Lang, who was famed +for his sharp tongue, was reported to have said. +However, Mrs. Martha Loomis was somewhat +comforted by her firm belief that either her own +name or that of one of her daughters was in that +sealed envelope kept by Lawyer Joshua Lang +in his strong-box, and by her firm purpose to +watch carefully lest Evelina prove derelict in fulfilling +the two conditions whereby she held the +property.</p> + +<p>Larger peep-holes were soon cut away mysteriously +in the high arbor-vitæ hedge, and therein +were often set for a few moments, when they +passed that way, the eager eyes of Mrs. Martha or +her daughter Flora or Fidelia Loomis. Frequent +calls they also made upon Evelina, living alone +with the old woman Sarah Judd, who had been +called in during her cousin’s illness, and they +strolled into the garden, spying anxiously for +withered leaves or dry stalks. They at every opportunity +interviewed the old man who assisted +Evelina in her care of the garden concerning its +welfare. But small progress they made with him, +standing digging at the earth with his spade +while they talked, as if in truth his wits had gone +therein before his body and he would uncover +them.</p> + +<p>Moreover, Mrs. Martha Loomis talked much +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_170">[Pg 170]</span>slyly to mothers of young men, and sometimes +with bold insinuations to the young men themselves, +of the sad lot of poor young Evelina, condemned +to a solitary and loveless life, and of her +sweetness and beauty and desirability in herself, +although she could not bring the old Squire’s +money to her husband. And once, but no more +than that, she touched lightly upon the subject +to the young minister, Thomas Merriam, when +he was making a pastoral call.</p> + +<p>“My heart bleeds for the poor child living all +alone in that great house,” said she. And she +looked down mournfully, and did not see how +white the young minister’s face turned. “It +seems almost a pity,” said she, furthermore—“Evelina +is a good housekeeper, and has rare +qualities in herself, and so many get poor wives +nowadays—that some godly young man should +not court her in spite of the will. I doubt, too, +if she would not have a happier lot than growing +old over that garden, as poor Cousin Evelina did +before her, even if she has a fine house to live in +and a goodly sum in the bank. She looks pindling +enough lately. I’ll warrant she has lost a +good ten pound since poor Evelina was laid away, +and—”</p> + +<p>But Thomas Merriam cut her short. “I see +no profit in discussing matters which do not concern +us,” said he, and only his ministerial estate +saved him from the charge of impertinence.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_171">[Pg 171]</span></p> +<p>As it was, Martha Loomis colored high. “I’ll +warrant he’ll look out which side his bread is buttered +on; ministers always do,” she said to her +daughters after he had gone. She never dreamed +how her talk had cut him to the heart.</p> + +<p>Had he not seen more plainly than any one else, +Sunday after Sunday, when he glanced down at +her once or twice cautiously from his pulpit, how +weary-looking and thin she was growing? And +her bright color was wellnigh gone, and there +were pitiful downward lines at the corners of her +sweet mouth. Poor young Evelina was fading +like one of her own flowers, as if some celestial +gardener had failed in his care of her. And +Thomas saw it, and in his heart of hearts he +knew the reason, and yet he would not yield. +Not once had he entered the old Squire’s house +since he attended the dead Evelina’s funeral, and +stood praying and eulogizing, with her coffin between +him and the living Evelina, with her pale +face shrouded in black bombazine. He had never +spoken to her since, nor entered the house; but +he had written her a letter, in which all the fierce +passion and anguish of his heart was cramped and +held down by formal words and phrases, and poor +young Evelina did not see beneath them. When +her lover wrote her that he felt it inconsistent +with his Christian duty and the higher aims of +his existence to take any further steps towards a +matrimonial alliance, she felt merely that Thomas +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_172">[Pg 172]</span>either cared no more for her, or had come to consider, +upon due reflection, that she was not fit to +undertake the responsible position of a minister’s +wife. “It may be that in some way I failed in +my attendance upon Cousin Evelina,” thought +poor young Evelina, “or it may be that he thinks +I have not enough dignity of character to inspire +respect among the older women in the church.” +And sometimes, with a sharp thrust of misery +that shook her out of her enforced patience and +meekness, she wondered if indeed her own loving +freedom with him had turned him against +her, and led him in his later and sober judgment +to consider her too light-minded for a minister’s +wife. “It may be that I was guilty of great indecorum, +and almost indeed forfeited my claim +to respect for maidenly modesty, inasmuch as I +suffered him to give me kisses, and did almost +bring myself to return them in kind. But my +heart did so entreat me, and in truth it seemed +almost like a lack of sincerity for me to wholly +withstand it,” wrote poor young Evelina in her +journal at that time; and she further wrote: “It +is indeed hard for one who has so little knowledge +to be fully certain of what is or is not becoming +and a Christian duty in matters of this kind; but +if I have in any manner, through my ignorance +or unwarrantable affection, failed, and so lost the +love and respect of a good man, and the opportunity +to become his helpmeet during life, I pray +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_173">[Pg 173]</span>that I may be forgiven—for I sinned not wilfully—that +the lesson may be sanctified unto me, and +that I may live as the Lord order, in Christian +patience and meekness, and not repining.” It +never occurred to young Evelina that possibly +Thomas Merriam’s sense of duty might be +strengthened by the loss of all her cousin’s property +should she marry him, and neither did she +dream that he might hesitate to take her from +affluence into poverty for her own sake. For +herself the property, as put in the balance beside +her love, was lighter than air itself. It was so +light that it had no place in her consciousness. +She simply had thought, upon hearing the will, +of Martha Loomis and her daughters in possession +of the property, and herself with Thomas, +with perfect acquiescence and rapture.</p> + +<p>Evelina Adams’s disapprobation of her marriage, +which was supposedly expressed in the will, +had indeed, without reference to the property, +somewhat troubled her tender heart, but she told +herself that Cousin Evelina had not known she +had promised to marry Thomas; that she would +not wish her to break her solemn promise. And +furthermore, it seemed to her quite reasonable +that the condition had been inserted in the will +mainly through concern for the beloved garden.</p> + +<p>“Cousin Evelina might have thought perhaps +I would let the flowers die when I had a husband +and children to take care of,” said Evelina. And +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_174">[Pg 174]</span>so she had disposed of all the considerations +which had disturbed her, and had thought of no +others.</p> + +<p>She did not answer Thomas’s letter. It was +so worded that it seemed to require no reply, and +she felt that he must be sure of her acquiescence +in whatever he thought best. She laid the letter +away in a little rosewood box, in which she +had always kept her dearest treasures since her +school-days. Sometimes she took it out and read +it, and it seemed to her that the pain in her heart +would put an end to her in spite of all her prayers +for Christian fortitude; and yet she could not +help reading it again.</p> + +<p>It was seldom that she stole a look at her old +lover as he stood in the pulpit in the meeting-house, +but when she did she thought with an +anxious pang that he looked worn and ill, and +that night she prayed that the Lord would restore +his health to him for the sake of his people.</p> + +<p>It was four months after Evelina Adams’s death, +and her garden was in the full glory of midsummer, +when one evening, towards dusk, young Evelina +went slowly down the street. She seldom +walked abroad now, but kept herself almost as +secluded as her cousin had done before her. But +that night a great restlessness was upon her, and +she put a little black silk shawl over her shoulders +and went out. It was quite cool, although it +was midsummer. The dusk was deepening fast; +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_175">[Pg 175]</span>the katydids called back and forth from the way-side +bushes. Evelina met nobody for some distance. +Then she saw a man coming towards her, +and her heart stood still, and she was about to +turn back, for she thought for a minute it was +the young minister. Then she saw it was his +father, and she went on slowly, with her eyes +downcast. When she met him she looked up and +said good-evening, gravely, and would have +passed on, but he stood in her way.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got a word to say to ye, if ye’ll listen,” +he said.</p> + +<p>Evelina looked at him tremblingly. There was +something strained and solemn in his manner. +“I’ll hear whatever you have to say, sir,” she +said.</p> + +<p>The old man leaned his pale face over her and +raised a shaking forefinger. “I’ve made up my +mind to say something,” said he. “I don’t know +as I’ve got any right to, and maybe my son will +blame me, but I’m goin’ to see that you have a +chance. It’s been borne in upon me that women +folks don’t always have a fair chance. It’s jest +this I’m goin’ to say: I don’t know whether you +know how my son feels about it or not. I don’t +know how open he’s been with you. Do you +know jest why he quit you?”</p> + +<p>Evelina shook her head. “No,” she panted—“I +don’t—I never knew. He said it was his +duty.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_176">[Pg 176]</span></p> +<p>“Duty can get to be an idol of wood and stone, +an’ I don’t know but Thomas’s is,” said the old +man. “Well, I’ll tell you. He don’t think it’s +right for him to marry you, and make you leave +that big house, and lose all that money. He don’t +care anything about it for himself, but it’s for +you. Did you know that?”</p> + +<p>Evelina grasped the old man’s arm hard with +her little fingers.</p> + +<p>“You don’t mean that—was why he did it!” +she gasped.</p> + +<p>“Yes, that was why.”</p> + +<p>Evelina drew away from him. She was ashamed +to have Thomas’s father see the joy in her face. +“Thank you, sir,” she said. “I did not understand. +I—will write to him.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe my son will think I have done wrong +coming betwixt him and his idees of duty,” +said old Thomas Merriam, “but sometimes +there’s a good deal lost for lack of a word, and I +wanted you to have a fair chance an’ a fair say. +It’s been borne in upon me that women folks +don’t always have it. Now you can do jest as +you think best, but you must remember one +thing—riches ain’t all. A little likin’ for you +that’s goin’ to last, and keep honest and faithful +to you as long as you live, is worth more; an’ it’s +worth more to women folks than ’tis to men, an’ +it’s worth enough to them. My son’s poorly. +His mother and I are worried about him. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_177">[Pg 177]</span>don’t eat nor sleep—walks his chamber nights. +His mother don’t know what the matter is, but +he let on to me some time since.”</p> + +<p>“I’ll write a letter to him,” gasped Evelina +again. “Good-night, sir.” She pulled her little +black silk shawl over her head and hastened home, +and all night long her candle burned, while her +weary little fingers toiled over pages of foolscap-paper +to convince Thomas Merriam fully, and +yet in terms not exceeding maidenly reserve, that +the love of his heart and the companionship of +his life were worth more to her than all the silver +and gold in the world. Then the next morning +she despatched it, all neatly folded and sealed, +and waited.</p> + +<p>It was strange that a letter like that could not +have moved Thomas Merriam, when his heart too +pleaded with him so hard to be moved. But that +might have been the very reason why he could +withstand her, and why the consciousness of his +own weakness gave him strength. Thomas Merriam +was one, when he had once fairly laid hold +of duty, to grasp it hard, although it might be +to his own pain and death, and maybe to that of +others. He wrote to poor young Evelina another +letter, in which he emphasized and repeated his +strict adherence to what he believed the line of +duty in their separation, and ended it with a +prayer for her welfare and happiness, in which, +indeed, for a second, the passionate heart of the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_178">[Pg 178]</span>man showed forth. Then he locked himself in +his chamber, and nobody ever knew what he suffered +there. But one pang he did not suffer +which Evelina would have suffered in his place. +He mourned not over nor realized the grief of her +tender heart when she should read his letter, +otherwise he could not have sent it. He writhed +under his own pain alone, and his duty hugged +him hard, like the iron maiden of the old tortures, +but he would not yield.</p> + +<p>As for Evelina, when she got his letter, and +had read it through, she sat still and white for a +long time, and did not seem to hear when old +Sarah Judd spoke to her. But at last she rose +and went to her chamber, and knelt down, and +prayed for a long time; and then she went out +in the garden and cut all the most beautiful flowers, +and tied them in wreaths and bouquets, and +carried them out to the north side of the house, +where her cousin Evelina was buried, and covered +her grave with them. And then she knelt +down there and hid her face among them, and +said, in a low voice, as if in a listening ear, “I +pray you, Cousin Evelina, forgive me for what I +am about to do.”</p> + +<p>And then she returned to the house, and sat at +her needle-work as usual; but the old woman +kept looking at her, and asking if she were sick, +for there was a strange look in her face.</p> + +<p>She and old Sarah Judd had always their tea +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_179">[Pg 179]</span>at five o’clock, and put the candles out at nine, +and this night they did as they were wont. But +at one o’clock in the morning young Evelina stole +softly down the stairs with her lighted candle, +and passed through into the kitchen; and a half-hour +after she came forth into the garden, which +lay in full moonlight, and she had in her hand +a steaming teakettle, and she passed around +among the shrubs and watered them, and a white +cloud of steam rose around them. Back and +forth she went to the kitchen; for she had heated +the great copper wash-kettle full of water; and +she watered all the shrubs in the garden, moving +amid curling white wreaths of steam, until the +water was gone. And then she set to work and +tore up by the roots with her little hands and +trampled with her little feet all the beautiful tender +flower-beds; all the time weeping, and moaning +softly: “Poor Cousin Evelina! poor Cousin +Evelina! Oh, forgive me, poor Cousin Evelina!”</p> + +<p>And at dawn the garden lay in ruin, for all the +tender plants she had torn up by the roots and +trampled down, and all the stronger-rooted shrubs +she had striven to kill with boiling water and +salt.</p> + +<p>Then Evelina went into the house, and made +herself tidy as well as she could when she trembled +so, and put her little shawl over her head, and +went down the road to the Merriams’ house. It +was so early the village was scarcely astir, but +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_180">[Pg 180]</span>there was smoke coming out of the kitchen chimney +at the Merriams’; and when she knocked, +Mrs. Merriam opened the door at once, and stared +at her.</p> + +<p>“Is Sarah Judd dead?” she cried; for her first +thought was that something must have happened +when she saw the girl standing there with her +wild pale face.</p> + +<p>“I want to see the minister,” said Evelina, +faintly, and she looked at Thomas’s mother with +piteous eyes.</p> + +<p>“Be you sick?” asked Mrs. Merriam. She laid +a hard hand on the girl’s arm, and led her into +the sitting-room, and put her into the rocking-chair +with the feather cushion. “You look real +poorly,” said she. “Sha’n’t I get you a little of +my elderberry wine?”</p> + +<p>“I want to see him,” said Evelina, and she almost +sobbed.</p> + +<p>“I’ll go right and speak to him,” said Mrs. +Merriam. “He’s up, I guess. He gets up early +to write. But hadn’t I better get you something +to take first? You do look sick.”</p> + +<p>But Evelina only shook her head. She had her +face covered with her hands, and was weeping +softly. Mrs. Merriam left the room, with a long +backward glance at her. Presently the door opened +and Thomas came in. Evelina stood up before +him. Her pale face was all wet with tears, but +there was an air of strange triumph about her.</p> +<!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span></p>--> +<figure class="figcenter width600"> +<img src="images/i_fp180_verbeterd.jpg" id="illus_4" +alt="A young woman, poorly recognisable becaus of the scarf around her head, +is held in the arms of a gentleman. The man is wearing formal clothes"> +<figcaption> +“‘THE LORD MAKE ME WORTHY +OF THEE, EVELINA!’” +</figcaption> +</figure> +<a id="tn04"></a> +<!--<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span></p>--> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_181">[Pg 181]</span></p> +<p>“The garden is dead,” said she.</p> + +<p>“What do you mean?” he cried out, staring +at her, for indeed he thought for a minute that +her wits had left her.</p> + +<p>“The garden is dead,” said she. “Last night +I watered the roses with boiling water and salt, +and I pulled the other flowers up by their roots. +The garden is dead, and I have lost all Cousin +Evelina’s money, and it need not come between +us any longer.” She said that, and looked up in +his face with her blue eyes, through which the +love of the whole race of loving women from +which she had sprung, as well as her own, seemed +to look, and held out her little hands; but even +then Thomas Merriam could not understand, and +stood looking at her.</p> + +<p>“Why—did you do it?” he stammered.</p> + +<p>“Because you would have me no other way, +and—I couldn’t bear that anything like that +should come between us,” she said, and her voice +shook like a harp-string, and her pale face went +red, then pale again.</p> + +<p>But Thomas still stood staring at her. Then +her heart failed her. She thought that he did +not care, and she had been mistaken. She felt +as if it were the hour of her death, and turned to +go. And then he caught her in his arms.</p> + +<p>“Oh,” he cried, with a great sob, “the Lord +make me worthy of thee, Evelina!”</p> + +<p>There had never been so much excitement in +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_182">[Pg 182]</span>the village as when the fact of the ruined garden +came to light. Flora Loomis, peeping through +the hedge on her way to the store, had spied it +first. Then she had run home for her mother, +who had in turn sought Lawyer Lang, panting +bonnetless down the road. But before the lawyer +had started for the scene of disaster, the minister, +Thomas Merriam, had appeared, and asked +for a word in private with him. Nobody ever +knew just what that word was, but the lawyer +was singularly uncommunicative and reticent as +to the ruined garden.</p> + +<p>“Do you think the young woman is out of her +mind?” one of the deacons asked him, in a whisper.</p> + +<p>“I wish all the young women were as much in +their minds; we’d have a better world,” said the +lawyer, gruffly.</p> + +<p>“When do you think we can begin to move in +here?” asked Mrs. Martha Loomis, her wide +skirts sweeping a bed of uprooted verbenas.</p> + +<p>“When your claim is established,” returned +the lawyer, shortly, and turned on his heel and +went away, his dry old face scanning the ground +like a dog on a scent. That afternoon he opened +the sealed document in the presence of witnesses, +and the name of the heir to whom the property +fell was disclosed. It was “Thomas Merriam, +the beloved and esteemed minister of this parish,” +and young Evelina would gain her wealth instead +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_183">[Pg 183]</span>of losing it by her marriage. And furthermore, +after the declaration of the name of the heir was +this added: “This do I in the hope and belief +that neither the greed of riches nor the fear of +them shall prevent that which is good and wise +in the sight of the Lord, and with the surety that +a love which shall triumph over so much in its +way shall endure, and shall be a blessing and not +a curse to my beloved cousin, Evelina Leonard.”</p> + +<p>Thomas Merriam and Evelina were married +before the leaves fell in that same year, by the +minister of the next village, who rode over in his +chaise, and brought his wife, who was also a bride, +and wore her wedding-dress of a pink and pearl +shot silk. But young Evelina wore the blue +bridal array which had been worn by old Squire +Adams’s bride, all remodelled daintily to suit the +fashion of the times; and as she moved, the fragrances +of roses and lavender of the old summers +during which it had been laid away were evident, +like sweet memories.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_184">[Pg 184]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="A_NEW_ENGLAND_PROPHET">A NEW ENGLAND PROPHET</h2></div> + + +<p>At half-past six o’clock a little company of people +passed down the village street in the direction +of the Lennox farm-house.</p> + +<p>They advanced in silence, stepping along the +frozen ridges of the road. It was cold, but there +was no snow. There was a young moon shining +through thin white clouds like nebulæ.</p> + +<p>Now and then, as the company went on, new +recruits were gathered from the scattered houses. +A man would emerge darkly from a creaking +gate, with maybe a second and third dark figure +following, with a flirt of feminine draperies. +“There’s Deacon Scranton,” or “There’s Thomas +Jennings and his wife and Ellen,” the people +would murmur to one another.</p> + +<p>Once a gleam of candle-light from an open door +lay across the road in advance, and wavered into +darkness with a slam of the door when the company +drew near. Then a solitary woman came +ponderously down the front walk, seeming to jar +the frozen earth with the jolt of her great feminine +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_185">[Pg 185]</span>bulk. “There’s Abby Mosely,” somebody +muttered. Sometimes two young girls fluttered +out of a door-yard, clinging together with nervous +giggles and outcries, which were soon hushed. +They moved along with the others, their little +cold fingers clinging together with a rigid clutch. +It was as if a strange, solemn atmosphere surrounded +this group moving along the country +road in the starlit night. Whoever came into +their midst felt it, and his emotions changed involuntarily +as respiration changes on a mountaintop.</p> + +<p>When the party reached a windy hill-top in +sight of the lighted windows of the Lennox house +in the valley below, it numbered nearly twenty. +Half-way down the hill somebody else joined +them. He had been standing ahead of them, +waiting in the long shadow of a poplar, and they +had not discerned him until they were close to +him. Then he stepped forward and the shadow +of the tree was left motionless. The young girls +half screamed, he appeared so suddenly, and their +nerves were strained. The elders made a solemn +hushed murmur of greeting. They knew as soon +as he moved that he was Isaac Penfield. He had +a martial carriage of his shoulders, he was a captain +in the militia, and he wore an ash-colored +cloak, which distinguished him.</p> + +<p>The young girls cast glances, bolder from the +darkness, towards his stately ash-colored shoulders +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_186">[Pg 186]</span>and the pale gleam of his face. Not one of +them who had not her own lover but had her innocent +secret dreams about this Isaac Penfield. +Now, had a light shone out suddenly in the darkness, +their dreams would have shown in their +faces.</p> + +<p>One slender girl slunk softly around in the rear +darkness and crept so close to Isaac Penfield that +his ash-colored cloak, swinging out in the wind, +brushed her cheek. He did not notice her; indeed, +after his first murmur of salutation, he did +not speak to any one.</p> + +<p>They all went in silence down the hill, and +flocked into the yard of the Lennox house. +There was a red flicker of light in the kitchen +windows from the great hearth fire, but a circle +of dark heads and shoulders hid the fire itself +from the new-comers. There was evidently a +number of people inside.</p> + +<p>Deacon Scranton raised the knocker, and the +door was opened immediately. Melissa Lennox +stood there holding a candle in a brass candlestick, +with the soft light streaming up on her fair +face. She looked through it with innocent, anxious +blue eyes at the company. “Won’t you +walk in?” she said, tremulously, and the people +passed into the south entry, and through the door +on the left into the great Lennox kitchen. Some +dozen persons who had come from the other end +of the village were already there.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_187">[Pg 187]</span></p> +<p>Isaac Penfield entered last. Melissa did not +see him until he stepped suddenly within her +radius of candle-light. Then she started, and +bent her head before him, blushing. The candle +shook in her outstretched hand.</p> + +<p>Isaac Penfield took the candle without a word +and set it on the stairs. Then he took Melissa’s +slim right hand in his, and stood a moment looking +down at her bent head, with its parted gloss +of hair. His forehead was frowning, and yet he +half smiled with tender triumph.</p> + +<p>“Come out in the front yard with me a moment,” +he whispered. He pulled her with gentle +force towards the door, and the girl yielded, after +a faint murmur of expostulation.</p> + +<p>Out in the front yard Isaac Penfield folded a +corner of his ash-colored cloak around Melissa’s +slender shoulders.</p> + +<p>“Now I want you to tell me, Melissa,” he +whispered. “You are not still carried away by +all this?” He jerked his head towards the +kitchen windows.</p> + +<p>Melissa trembled against the young man’s side +under the folds of his cloak.</p> + +<p>“You are not, after all I said to you, Melissa?”</p> + +<p>She nodded against his breast, with a faint +sob.</p> + +<p>“I hoped you would do as I asked you, and +cut loose from this folly,” Isaac Penfield said, +sternly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_188">[Pg 188]</span></p> +<p>“Father—says—it’s true. Oh, I am afraid—I +am afraid! My sins are so great, and I cannot +hide from the eyes of the Lord. I am afraid!”</p> + +<p>Isaac Penfield tightened his clasp of the girl’s +trembling figure, and bent his head low down +over hers. “Melissa, dear, can’t you listen to +me?” he whispered.</p> + +<p>Suddenly the kitchen door opened, and a new +light streamed across the entry.</p> + +<p>“Melissa, where be you?” called a woman’s +voice, high-pitched and melancholy.</p> + +<p>“There’s mother calling,” Melissa said, in a +frightened whisper, and she broke away and ran +into the house.</p> + +<p>Her mother stood in the kitchen door. “Where +have you been?” she began. Then she stopped, +and looked at Isaac Penfield with a half-shrinking, +half-antagonistic air. This stalwart young +man, radiant with the knowledge of his own +strength, represented to this delicate woman, +who was held to the earth more by the tension of +nerves than the weight of matter, the very pride +of life, the material power which she was to fear +and fight for herself and for her daughter.</p> + +<p>“I thought I would step into your meeting +to-night, if I were permitted,” Isaac Penfield +said.</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lennox looked at him with deep blue +eyes under high, thin temples. “All are permitted +who listen to the truth with the right spirit,” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_189">[Pg 189]</span>said she, and turned shortly and glided into the +kitchen. Melissa and Isaac followed.</p> + +<p>The company sat in wide semicircles, three +deep, before the fire. In the open space between +the first semicircle and the fire, his wide arm-chair +on the bricks of the broad hearth, half facing +the company, sat Solomon Lennox. Near +him sat his deaf-and-dumb son Alonzo. He held +up a large slate so the firelight fell upon it, and +marked upon it with a grating pencil. He +screwed his face with every stroke, so it seemed +that one watching attentively might discern the +picture itself from his changing features.</p> + +<p>Alonzo Lennox was fourteen years old, but he +looked no more than ten, and he had been deaf +and dumb from his birth. The firelight gave a +reddish tinge to his silvery blond hair, spreading +out stiffly from the top of his head over his ears +like the thatch of a hut. His delicate irregular +profile bent over the slate; now and then a spasm +of silent merriment shook his narrow chest, and +the surrounding people looked at him with awe. +They regarded it as the mystic ecstasy of a seer.</p> + +<p>Melissa and her mother had slid softly through +the semicircles to the chairs they had left. Isaac +Penfield stood on the outskirts, towering over all +the people, refusing a seat which somebody offered +him. He threw off his ash-colored cloak +and held it on his arm. His costume of fine +broadcloth and flowered satin and glittering buttons +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_190">[Pg 190]</span>surpassed any there, as did his face and his +height and his carriage; and, more than all, he +stood among the others raised upon a spiritual +eminence, unseen, but none the less real, which +his ancestors had reared for him before his birth. +The Penfield name had been a great one in that +vicinity for three generations. Once Penfields +had owned the larger part of the township. +Isaac’s father, and his grandfather before him, +had been esquires, and held as nearly the position +of lords of this little village as was possible +in New England. Now this young man was the +last of his race, living, with his housekeeper and +an old servant, in the Penfield homestead; and +the village adulation which had been accorded +to his ancestors was his also in a large measure.</p> + +<p>To-night, as he entered, people glanced at him, +away from Alonzo and his slate, but only for a +moment. The matter under discussion that night +was too solemn and terrible to be lost sight of +long.</p> + +<p>In about ten minutes after Isaac Penfield entered, +the boy gave a shout, grating and hideous, +with a discord of human thoughts and senses in +it. A shudder passed over the company like a +wind.</p> + +<p>Alonzo Lennox sprang up and waved the slate, +and his father reached out for it. “Give it to +me,” he demanded, sternly, as if the boy could +hear. But Alonzo gave another shout, and leaped +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_191">[Pg 191]</span>aside, and waved the slate out of his father’s +reach. Then he danced lightly up and down on +the tips of his toes, shaking his head and flinging +out fantastic heels. His shock of hair flew out +wildly, and looked like a luminous crown; the +firelight struck his dilated eyes, and they gleamed +red.</p> + +<p>The people watched him with sobbing breaths +and pale faces, all except Isaac Penfield and one +other. Isaac stood looking at him, with his +mouth curling in a scornful smile. Solomon +Lennox stood aside with a startled air, then he +caught the boy firmly by the arm and grasped the +slate.</p> + +<p>Alonzo grinned impishly in his father’s face, +then he let go the slate, and sank down on his +stool in the chimney-corner. There he sat submissive +and inactive, except for the cunning, +sharp flash of his blue eyes under his thatch of +hair.</p> + +<p>Solomon Lennox held the slate to the light and +looked at it, while the people waited breathless, +their pale intent faces bent forward. Then he +handed the slate, without a word, to the man at +the end of the first semicircle, and it was circulated +through the entire company. As one passed +the slate to another a shuddering thrill like an +electric shock seemed to be passed with it, and +there was a faint murmur of horror.</p> + +<p>Isaac Penfield held the slate longest, and examined +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_192">[Pg 192]</span>it closely. Drawn with a free hand, +which certainly gave evidence of some inborn +artistic skill aside from aught else, were great +sweeping curves of wings upbearing an angel +with a trumpet at his mouth. Under his feet +were lashing tongues as of flames, with upturned +faces of agony in the midst of them. And everywhere, +between the wings and the angel and the +flames and the faces, were, in groups of five, those +grotesque little symbols of the sun, a disk with +human features therein, which one sees in the +almanacs.</p> + +<p>After Isaac Penfield had finished looking at the +mystic slate he passed it to Solomon Lennox’s +elder brother, Simeon, who sat at his right. The +old man’s hard shaven jaws widened in a sardonic +grin; his small black eyes twinkled derisively +over the drawings. “Pretty pictures,” he said, +half aloud. Then he passed the slate along with +a contemptuous chuckle, which was heard in the +solemn stillness all over the room.</p> + +<p>Solomon Lennox gave a furious glance in his +brother’s direction. “This is no time nor season +for scoffers!” cried he. And his voice seemed to +shock the air like a musket-shot.</p> + +<p>Simeon Lennox chuckled again. Solomon’s +right hand clinched. He arose; then sat down +again, with his mouth compressed. He sat still +until the slate had gone its rounds and returned +to the boy, who sat contemplating it with uncouth +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_193">[Pg 193]</span>delight; then he stood up, and the words +flowed from his mouth in torrents. Never at a +loss for subject-matter of speech was Solomon +Lennox. By the fluency of his discourse he +might well have been thought inspired. He +spoke of visions of wings and holy candlesticks +and beasts and cups of abomination as if he had +with his own eyes seen them like the prophet of +old. He expounded strange and subtle mathematical +calculations and erratic interpretations +of history as applied to revelation with a fervor +which brought conviction to his audience. He +caught the slate from his deaf-and-dumb son, and +explained the weird characters thereon. The +five suns were five days. Five times the sun +should arise in the east, as it had done from the +creation; then should the angel, upborne on +those great white wings, sound his trumpet, and +the flames burst forth from the lower pit, and +those upturned faces in the midst of them gnash +with despair.</p> + +<p>“Repent, for the day of the Lord is at hand!” +shouted Solomon Lennox at the close of his arguments, +and his voice itself rang like a trumpet +full of all intonations and reverberations, of awe +and dread. “Repent, for the great and dreadful +day of the Lord is at hand! Repent while there +is yet time, while there is yet a foothold on the +shore of the lake of fire! Repent, repent! Prepare +your ascension robes! Renounce the world, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_194">[Pg 194]</span>all the lust and the vanity thereof! Repent, for +the day of judgment is here! Soon shall ye choke +with the smoke of the everlasting burning, soon +shall your eyes be scorched with the fiery scroll +of the heavens, your ears be deafened with the +blast of the trumpet of wrath, and the cry against +you of your own sins! Repent, repent, repent!”</p> + +<p>Solomon Lennox’s slight figure writhed with +his own emotion as with internal fire; the veins +swelled out on his high bald forehead; his eyes +blazed with fanatical light. Aside from the startling +nature of his discourse, he himself was a +marvel, and a terror to his neighbors. His complete +deviation from a former line of life produced +among them the horror of the supernatural. He +affected them like his own ghost. He had always +been a man of few and quiet words, who had +never expressed his own emotions in public beyond +an inaudible, muttered prayer at a conference +meeting, and now this flood of fiery eloquence +from him seemed like a very convulsion +of human nature.</p> + +<p>When a great physical malady is epidemic +there are often isolated cases in remote localities +whose connection with the main disturbance cannot +be established. So in this little New England +village, far from a railroad, scarcely reached +by the news of the day, Solomon Lennox had developed +within himself, with seeming spontaneity, +some of the startling tenets of Joseph Miller, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_195">[Pg 195]</span>and had established his own small circle of devoted +disciples and followers. It was as if some +germs of a great spiritual disturbance had sought, +through some unknown medium, this man’s mind +as their best ripening place.</p> + +<p>After Solomon had arisen one night in conference +meeting and poured forth his soul to his +startled neighbors in a strain of fiery prophecy, +Millerite publications had been sent for, and he +had strengthened his own theories with those of +the original leader, although in many respects +his maintained a distinct variance.</p> + +<p>The effect of Solomon’s prophecies had been +greatly enhanced by the drawings of his deaf-and-dumb +son. Alonzo Lennox’s slate, covered with +rude representations of beasts and trumpets and +winged creatures—the weird symbolic figures of +the prophet Daniel—had aroused a tumult of +awe and terror in the village. And the more so +because the boy had never learned the language +of the deaf and dumb, and had no ordinary and +comprehensible means of acquiring information +upon such topics.</p> + +<p>To-night, as his father spoke, he kept his blue +eyes upon his face with such a keen look that it +seemed almost impossible that he did not hear +and comprehend every word. Unbelievers in this +new movement were divided between the opinion +that Lonny Lennox had heard more than folks +had given him credit for right along, and the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_196">[Pg 196]</span>one that he understood by some strange power +which the loss of his other faculties had sharpened.</p> + +<p>“The boy has developed the sixth sense,” Isaac +Penfield thought as he watched his intent face +upturned towards his father’s; and he also +thought impatiently that he should be cuffed and +sent to bed for his uncanny sharpness. He grew +more and more indignant as the time went on +and the excitement deepened. He watched Melissa +grow paler and paler, and finally press her +slender hands over her face, and shake with sobs, +and made a sudden motion as if he would go to +her. Then he restrained himself, and muttered +something between his teeth.</p> + +<p>Old Simeon Lennox watched him curiously, +then he hit him in the side with a sharp elbow. +“Made up your mind to go up in our family +chariot on the last day?” he whispered, with a +hoarse whistle of breath in Isaac’s ear. Then +he leaned back, with a long cackle of laughter in +his throat, which was unheard in the din of his +brother’s raging voice and the responsive groans +and sobs.</p> + +<p>Isaac Penfield colored, and kept his eyes +straight forward and his head up with a haughty +air. Presently the old man nudged him again, +with the sharpness of malice protected by helplessness. +“Guess,” he whispered, craning up to +the young man’s handsome, impatient face—“guess +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_197">[Pg 197]</span>you ’ain’t much opinion of all this darned +tomfoolery neither.”</p> + +<p>Isaac shook his head fiercely.</p> + +<p>“Well,” said the old man, “let ’em go it,” and +he cackled with laughter again.</p> + +<p>After Solomon Lennox had finished his fervid +appeal, two or three offered prayers, and many +testified and confessed sins, and professed repentance, +and terror of the wrath to come, in hoarse, +strained voices, half drowned by sobs and cries.</p> + +<p>It was nearly midnight before Solomon Lennox +declared the meeting at a close, and recommended +the brethren and sisters to repair to their homes, +not to sleep, but to pray, and appointed another +session for the next forenoon, for these meetings +of terror-stricken and contrite souls were held +three times a day—morning, afternoon, and evening. +In those days the housewives’ kitchen tables +were piled high with unwashed dishes, the hearths +were unswept and the fires low, the pantry shelves +were bare, and often the children went to bed +with only the terrors of the judgment for sustenance.</p> + +<p>In those days the cattle grew lean, and stood +lowing piteously long after nightfall at the pasture +bars. Even the horses turned in their stalls +at every footfall and whinnied for food. Men +lost all thought for their earthly goods in their +fierce concern for their own souls.</p> + +<p>The people flocked out of Solomon Lennox’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_198">[Pg 198]</span>kitchen, some with rapt eyes, some white-faced +and trembling, huddling together as if with a forlorn +hope that human companionship might avail +somewhat even against divine judgment. The +deaf-and-dumb boy went sleepily out of the room +and up-stairs with his candle, leaving his slate on +the hearthstone. Isaac Penfield stood a few minutes +looking irresolutely at Melissa, who sat still +with her hands pressed tightly over her face, as +if she were weeping. Her mother stood near +her, talking to Abby Mosely, who was Simeon +Lennox’s housekeeper. The woman was fairly +gasping with emotion; her broad shawled bosom +heaved.</p> + +<p>“Repent!” cried Mrs. Lennox, loud, in her +ears, like an echo of her husband. “Repent; +there is yet time! There are five days before +the heavens open! Repent!” Her nervous +hands served to intensify her weak, straining +voice. They pointed and threatened in the woman’s +piteous, scared face. Isaac started to approach +Melissa; then her mother half turned and +seemed to shriek out her warning cry towards +him, and he tossed his gray cloak over his shoulders, +strode out of the room, and out of the +house.</p> + +<p>Old Simeon Lennox lingered behind the others.</p> + +<p>“I’m a-comin’ right along, Abby,” he called +to his housekeeper when she started to leave the +room. “If ye go to bed afore I come, mind ye +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_199">[Pg 199]</span>put the cat out, so she won’t get afoul of that +pig meat in the pantry.” Simeon spoke with +cool disregard of the distressed sobs and moans +with which the woman was making her exit.</p> + +<p>“D’ye hear what I say, Abby?” he called, +sharply, when she did not reply.</p> + +<p>The housekeeper groaned a faint assent over +her shoulder as she crossed the threshold.</p> + +<p>“Well, mind ye don’t forgit it,” said Simeon, +“for I tell ye what ’tis, if that cat does git afoul +of that pig meat, there’ll be a jedgement afore +Thursday.”</p> + +<p>The old man clamped leisurely across the room, +drew an arm-chair close to the fire, and settled +into it with a grunting yawn.</p> + +<p>“Fire feels good,” he remarked. His voice +was thick, for he had tobacco in his mouth.</p> + +<p>“Woe be unto you, Simeon Lennox, if you can +still think of the comfort of your poor body which +will soon be ashes,” cried his sister-in-law. She +waved before him like a pale flame; her white +face seemed fairly luminous.</p> + +<p>Simeon shifted his tobacco into one cheek as +he stared at her. “You’d better go to bed, +Sophy Anne; you’re gittin’ highstericky,” said +he, and chewed again.</p> + +<p>“Woe be unto you, fer the bed you shall lie +on, unless you repent, Simeon Lennox!”</p> + +<p>“Look at here, Sophy Anne,” said Simeon, +“ain’t you got no mince-pies in the house?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_200">[Pg 200]</span></p> +<p>Mrs. Lennox looked at him, speechless, for a +moment.</p> + +<p>“If you have,” Simeon went on, “I wish you’d +give me a piece. I ’ain’t had no mince-pie fit to +eat I dun’no’ when. Abby Mosely wa’n’t never +much of a cook, and sence she’s took to goin’ to +your meetin’ here three times a day, it’s much as +ever’s I get anything. It ain’t no more’n fair, +Sophy Anne, that you should give me a piece of +mince-pie, if you’ve got any.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lennox broke in upon him with a cry +which was almost a shriek. “I shall make no +more pies in this world, Simeon Lennox. Woe +be unto you! Woe be unto you if you think of +such things in the face of death and eternal condemnation!”</p> + +<p>Solomon Lennox had followed the departing +people into the yard. His exhorting voice could +still be heard out there, for the doors were +open.</p> + +<p>Simeon looked around and shivered. “If you +’ain’t got no mince-pie, I wish you’d shet that +door, Sophy Anne,” he said.</p> + +<p>Sophia Anne Lennox stood looking at him +for a minute. He chuckled in her face. She +snatched a candle from the shelf and went out +of the room with an air of desperation.</p> + +<p>Melissa rose up and crept after her, her face +like a drooping white flower, gliding so closely in +her mother’s wake that she seemed to have no +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_201">[Pg 201]</span>individual motion of her own. Simeon looked +hard at her as she went.</p> + +<p>“Sophy Anne is wiry,” he said, when his brother +came in. “She’ll go it all right if the wires +don’t snap, an’ I reckon they won’t; but you’d +better look out for Melissy. She can’t stan’ +such tearin’ work as this very long. She’ll have +a fever or somethin’.”</p> + +<p>“What matters that?” cried Solomon. “What +matters any tribulation of the flesh when the end +of all flesh is at hand?” His voice was hoarse +with his long clamor. He leaned over and shook a +nervous fist impressively before his brother’s face.</p> + +<p>Simeon chewed on, and looked at the fist without +winking. “You don’t mean to say, Solomon +Lennox,” said he at length, “that you believe all +this darned tomfoolery?”</p> + +<p>His brother looked at him with solemn wrath. +“Do I believe revelation and the prophets?” he +cried. “Woe be unto all scoffers, even though +they be my own flesh and blood!”</p> + +<p>“Now, Solomon, I’ll jest stump ye to point +out any passage in the Scripturs that says, up +an’ down, square an’ fair, that the world’s comin’ +to an end next Thursday. I’ll jest stump ye to +do it.”</p> + +<p>“There are passages that point to the truth, +and I have repeated them to-night,” replied Solomon, +hotly.</p> + +<p>“Passages that ye’ve had to twist hind-side +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_202">[Pg 202]</span>foremost, an’ bottom-side up, an’ add, an’ subtract, +an’ divide, an’ multiply, an’ hammer, an’ +saw, an’ bile down, an’ take to a grist-mill, afore +you got at the meanin’ you wanted,” returned his +brother, contemptuously. “That ain’t the kind +of passage I’m after. There’s too much two-facedness +an’ double-dealin’ about the Scripturs +anyway, judgin’ by some of you folks. What I +want is a square up an’ down passage that says, +without no chance of its meanin’ anything else, +‘The world is comin’ to an end next week Thursday.’ +I stump ye to show me sech a passage as +that. <i>Ye can’t do it!</i>”</p> + +<p>The habits of a lifetime are strong even in +strained and exalted states, acting like the lash +of a familiar whip. Solomon Lennox was the +younger brother; all his life he had borne a certain +docility of attitude towards Simeon, which +asserted itself now.</p> + +<p>The fervid orator stood for a moment silent +before this sceptical, sneering elder brother. “I’d +like to know how you account for Lonny’s drawin’s,” +he said at length, in a tone which he might +have used when bullied by Simeon in their boyhood.</p> + +<p>“Drawin’s,” drawled Simeon, and sarcasm itself +seemed to hiss in the final s—“dr-r-awin’s! +The little scamp is sharp as steel, an’ he’s watched +an’ he’s eyed till he’s put two an’ two together. +It’s easy enough to account for the drawin’s. The +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_203">[Pg 203]</span>air here has been so thick lately with wings an’ +wheels an’ horns an’ trumpets an’ everlastin’ fire +that anybody that wa’n’t an idgit could breathe +it in. An’ I miss my guess if his mother ’ain’t +showed him the picturs in the big Bible mor’n +once when you’ve been talkin’, an’ pointed out +the hearth fire an’ the candlesticks an’ the powder-horn. +Sophy Anne’s sharp, an’ she’s done +more to learn that boy than anybody knows of, +though I’ve got my doubts now as to how straight +he’s really got it in his mind. Lord, them drawin’s +ain’t nothin’. Solomon Lennox, you can’t +look me in the face an’ say that you actilly believe +all this darned tomfoolery!”</p> + +<p>Solomon for these few minutes had been on the +old level of a brotherly argument, but now he +arose suddenly to his latter heights.</p> + +<p>“I believe that the end of the world is near, +that the great and dreadful day of the Lord is at +hand, accordin’ to prophecy and revelation,” he +proclaimed, and his eyes shone under his high +forehead as under a majestic dome of thought +and inspiration.</p> + +<p>Simeon whistled. “Ye don’t, though. Look +at here, Solomon; tell ye what I’ll do. I’ll put +ye to the test. Look at here, you say the world’s +comin’ to an end next Thursday. Well, it stands +to reason if it is, that you ’ain’t got no more need +of temporal goods. S’pose—you give me a deed +of this ’ere farm?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_204">[Pg 204]</span></p> +<p>Solomon stared at his brother.</p> + +<p>Simeon shook his fist at him slowly. “<i>Ye +won’t do it</i>,” he said, with a triumphant chuckle.</p> + +<p>“I <i>will</i> do it.”</p> + +<p>“Git Lawyer Bascombe to draw up the papers +to-morrow?”</p> + +<p>“<i>I will</i>.”</p> + +<p>“Me to take possession by daylight next Friday +mornin’, if the world don’t come to an end Thursday +night?”</p> + +<p>“<i>Yes</i>,” replied Solomon, hurling the word at +his brother like a stone.</p> + +<p>Simeon got up and buttoned his coat over his +lean chest. “Well,” said he, “I’ve had pretty +hard luck. I’ve lost three wives, and I’ve been +burnt out twice, an’ the last house ain’t none +too tight. I’ll move right in here next Friday +mornin’ at daylight. Mebbe I’ll get married +again.”</p> + +<p>“Much good will the heaping up of barns an’ +storehouses do when you hear the voice of the +Lord saying, ‘Thou fool, this night shall thy soul +be required of thee,’” returned his brother; but +he spoke the fervid words with a certain feebleness. +All his life since he was a boy had Solomon +Lennox toiled and saved to own this noble +farm. The bare imagination of giving it up to +another cost him much, although he firmly believed +that in a week’s space it would be only a +modicum of the blackened ashes of a world. He +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_205">[Pg 205]</span>stood the test of his faith, but he felt the scorch +of sacrificial flame.</p> + +<p>“It ain’t me that’s the fool,” said Simeon, shrugging +himself into his great-coat. “I ain’t goin’ +to hang back with my soul when it’s required of +me, but I ain’t goin’ to keep chuckin’ of it in the +face of the Lord afore He’s ready for it, like some +folks I know. Them’s the fools. When’ll you +be down to Lawyer Bascombe’s to-morrow, Solomon, +to deed away these barns an’ storehouses +that you ’ain’t no more use for?”</p> + +<p>“I’ll be down there at nine o’clock to-morrow +mornin’.”</p> + +<p>“All right; you can count on me,” said Simeon. +He went out, and Solomon bolted the door +after him promptly. But he had no sooner returned +to the kitchen than there came a sharp +tap on the window, and there was Simeon’s hard +leering old face pressed against the pane. “You’ll—have—to—fetch +Sophy Anne down there to-morrow,” +he called. “She’ll—have to sign that +deed too, or it won’t stan’.”</p> + +<p>“All right,” shouted Solomon, and the face at +the window, with a parting nod, disappeared.</p> + +<p>Lawyer Bascombe’s office was in the centre of +the village, over the store. A steep flight of +stairs at the right of the store led to it. Up +these stairs, at nine o’clock the next morning, +climbed Solomon Lennox and his wife Sophia +Anne, with pale devoted faces, and signed away +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_206">[Pg 206]</span>all their earthly goods as an evidence of their +faith.</p> + +<p>In some way the matter had become known in +the village. When Solomon and Sophia Anne +came down the stairs there was quite a crowd before +the door, standing back with awed curiosity +to let them pass. Simeon Lennox did not leave +at once after the signing of the deed. When he +appeared in the doorway with a roll of paper in +his hand the crowd had dispersed.</p> + +<p>Without any doubt this act of Solomon Lennox +and his wife materially strengthened their +cause. When it became known that they had +actually signed away their property in their confidence +that days of property-holding were over, +even scoffers began to look serious. That evening +the meeting at Solomon Lennox’s house numbered +a third more than usual. The next evening +it was doubled, and the best room as well as +the kitchen was filled. Solomon stood at the +foot of the stairs in the entry between the rooms +and exhorted, while the deaf-and-dumb boy’s +slate circulated among the awe-stricken people.</p> + +<p>Isaac Penfield came to no more meetings, and +he did not see Melissa again until Tuesday. Late +Tuesday afternoon she went up to the village +store with a basket of eggs. The days of barter +were nearly over, as she had been taught to believe, +but there was no molasses in the house, and +the poor deaf-and-dumb boy was weeping for it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_207">[Pg 207]</span>with uncouth grief, and could not be comforted +by the prospect of eternal joys. When Melissa +came out of the store with the bottle of molasses +in her basket, Isaac Penfield’s bay mare and +chaise were drawn up before the platform, and +Isaac stood waiting. Melissa started and colored +when she saw him.</p> + +<p>“Get in, please,” he said, motioning her towards +the chaise.</p> + +<p>She looked at him falteringly.</p> + +<p>“Get in, please, Melissa; I want to speak to +you.”</p> + +<p>The bay mare was restive, tossing her head +and pawing with one delicate fore foot. Isaac +could scarcely keep her quiet until Melissa got +in. When he took the reins she gave a leap forward, +and the chaise swung about with a lurch. +Isaac threw himself back and held the reins taut; +the mare flew down the road, pulling hard on her +bits; the chaise rocked high on the frozen road. +Melissa sat still, her delicate face retired within +the dark depths of her silk hood.</p> + +<p>Isaac did not speak to her until they reached +the foot of a long hill. “I want to ask you something,” +he said then, with a wary eye still on the +straining shoulders of the mare. “I want to ask +you again to give this up.”</p> + +<p>Melissa did not speak.</p> + +<p>“Won’t you promise me?”</p> + +<p>“I can’t,” she said, faintly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_208">[Pg 208]</span></p> +<p>“You can if you will.” Suddenly Isaac leaned +over her. “Won’t you promise <i>me</i>, Melissa?”</p> + +<p>She shrank away from him. “I—can’t. I believe +father.”</p> + +<p>“Melissa, you don’t.”</p> + +<p>“I do,” said she, with a despairing sob.</p> + +<p>Isaac Penfield bent his face down close to hers. +“Can’t you believe me as well as your father? +Melissa, look at me.”</p> + +<p>Melissa bent her head down over her hands.</p> + +<p>“Look at me, Melissa.”</p> + +<p>She raised her head slowly as if there were a +constraining hand under her chin, and her eyes +met his.</p> + +<p>“Can’t you, Melissa?”</p> + +<p>Fair locks of hair fell over the girl’s gentle +cheeks; her soft mouth quivered. It seemed as +if her piteous blue eyes were only upheld by the +look in the young man’s, and as if all the individual +thought and purpose in her face and her +whole soul were being overcast by his imperious +will, but she shook her head.</p> + +<p>“Can’t you, Melissa?”</p> + +<p>She shook her head again.</p> + +<p>Isaac Penfield’s face turned white. He touched +the whip to the mare, and she gave a sharp bound +forward. They had not much farther to go. +Neither of them spoke again until Isaac assisted +Melissa out of the chaise at her own gate.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye,” he said then, shortly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_209">[Pg 209]</span></p> +<p>Melissa looked up at him and caught her breath. +She could not speak. Isaac sprang into his +chaise, and was out of the yard with a sharp +grate of wheels, and she went into the house.</p> + +<p>Her mother was setting chairs in order for the +evening meeting. She looked up sharply as Melissa +entered.</p> + +<p>“Who was that brought you home?” said she.</p> + +<p>“Isaac Penfield,” replied Melissa, turning her +face from her mother’s eyes.</p> + +<p>“I hope you ain’t letting your thoughts dwell +on anything of that kind now,” said her mother.</p> + +<p>“I met him as I was coming out of the store, +and he asked me to ride. I sha’n’t ever see him +again,” Melissa returned, faintly.</p> + +<p>The deaf-and-dumb boy had been dozing with +gaping mouth in his chimney-corner. Now he +waked, and caught sight of his sister and the basket, +and hastened to her with a cry of uncouth +hunger and greediness.</p> + +<p>“In a minute, sonny,” Melissa said, in a sobbing +voice; “wait a minute.” She held the +basket aloof while she removed her hood and +shawl.</p> + +<p>“You may see him on his way to the outer +darkness,” said her mother, with solemn vindictiveness.</p> + +<p>“Mother, he has repented; he is a member of +the church,” Melissa cried out, with sudden +sharpness.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_210">[Pg 210]</span></p> +<p>“Repentance avails nothing without faith,” +returned her mother, setting down a chair so +heavily that the deaf-and-dumb boy started at +the concussion and looked about him wonderingly.</p> + +<p>“He has repented; he is a member of the +church; he is safe,” Melissa cried again.</p> + +<p>“I tell you he is not,” said her mother.</p> + +<p>Melissa went into the pantry with her brother +at her elbow, and prepared for him a plate of +bread and molasses. The tears fell over her +cheeks, but Alonzo noticed nothing. His greedy +eyes were fixed on the food. When it was ready +for him he sat down on his stool in the chimney-corner +and devoured it with loud smacks of his +lips. That was all the evening meal prepared in +the Lennox house that night. After the chairs +were set in order for the meeting, Melissa and +her mother sat down close to the fire and sewed +on some white stuff which flowed in voluminous +folds over their knees to the floor. Solomon +came in presently, and seated himself with the +great Bible on his knees. He read silently, but +now and then gesticulated fiercely, as if he read +aloud.</p> + +<p>The meeting began at half-past six. About a +quarter of an hour before, the outer door was +heard opening, and there was a shuffling step and +a clearing cough in the entry.</p> + +<p>“It’s your uncle Simeon,” whispered Mrs. Lennox +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_211">[Pg 211]</span>to Melissa, and her mouth took on a severer +tension.</p> + +<p>Solomon frowned over the Holy Writ on his +knee.</p> + +<p>Simeon advanced into the room, his heavy +boots clapping the floor with a dull clatter as of +wood, dispelling the solemn stillness. His grinning +old face, blue with the cold, was sunk in the +collar of his great-coat. He rubbed his hands together +as he approached the fire.</p> + +<p>“Well, how are ye all?” he remarked, with a +chuckle, as if there were a joke in the speech.</p> + +<p>Nobody replied. Simeon pulled a chair up +close to the fire and sat down.</p> + +<p>“It’s tarnal cold,” said he, leaning over and +spreading out his old hands to the blaze.</p> + +<p>“The brands are all ready for the burning,” +said his sister-in-law, in a hollow, trembling voice. +She drew a long thread through the white stuff +on her knee.</p> + +<p>Simeon turned suddenly and looked at her with +a flash of small bright eyes. Then he laughed. +“Lord bless ye, Sophy Anne, I forgot how tarnal +hot you folks are calculatin’ to have it day after +to-morrow,” said he. “Well, if you fail in your +calculations, an’ the cold continues, I shall be +mighty glad to come in here. My house is darned +cold this weather, and Abby Mosely ain’t particular +’bout the doors; seems to me sometimes as if +I was settin’ in a hurricane the heft of the time, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_212">[Pg 212]</span>and as if my idees were gettin’ on a slant. Abby +thinks she’s goin’ up Thursday, and I wish in +thunder she would. I wouldn’t have her another +day, if she wa’n’t a lone woman and nowheres to +go. She ain’t no kind of a cook. Look at here, +Sophy Anne—”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lennox sewed on with compressed lips.</p> + +<p>“Sophy Anne, look at here. You ’ain’t got no +mince-pies on hand now, have you?”</p> + +<p>“No, I ’ain’t.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I didn’t much s’pose you’d made any, +you’ve been so busy gettin’ ready to fly lately. +Look at here, Sophy Anne, don’t you feel as if +you could roll me out a few mince-pies to-morrow, +hey?”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lennox looked at him.</p> + +<p>“I dun’no’ when I’ve eat a decent mince-pie,” +pursued Simeon. “Abby Mosely keeps the commandments, +but she can’t make pies that’s fit to +eat. I ’ain’t had a mince-pie I could eat since my +last wife died. I wish you’d contrive an’ roll me +out a few, Sophy Anne. Your mince-pies used +to go ahead of Maria’s; she always said they did. +If the world don’t come to an end day after to-morrow, +I’d take a sight of comfort with ’em, and +I’ll be darned, if it does come to an end, if I don’t +think I’d have a chance to eat one or two of ’em +before the fire got round to me. Can’t ye do it, +Sophy Anne, nohow?”</p> + +<p>“No, I can’t.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_213">[Pg 213]</span></p> +<p>“Can’t ye roll me out just half a dozen mince-pies?”</p> + +<p>“I will never roll out a mince-pie for you, +Simeon Lennox,” said Sophia Anne, with icy +fervor.</p> + +<p>“Ye never will?”</p> + +<p>“No, I never will.” Sophia Anne’s stern eyes +in their hollow blue orbits met his.</p> + +<p>Simeon chuckled; then he turned to his brother. +“Well, Sol’mon, s’pose you’re flappin’ all +ready to fly?” he said.</p> + +<p>Solomon made no reply. He frowned over the +great volume on his knees. The deaf-and-dumb +boy had set his empty plate on the hearth and +fallen asleep again, with his head tilted against +the jamb. Melissa sewed, her pale face bent +closely over her work.</p> + +<p>“Hear ye are goin’ to fly from Penfield’s hill?” +said Simeon.</p> + +<p>Still Solomon said nothing.</p> + +<p>“Well, I s’pose that’s as good a place as any,” +said Simeon, “though ’tain’t a very high hill. I +should ’most think you’d want a higher hill than +Penfield’s. I s’pose you’ll be kind of unhandy +with your wings at first, an’ start off something +like hens. But then I s’pose a few feet more or +less won’t make no odds when they get fairly to +workin’. I heard the women was makin’ flyin’-petticoats. +Them what you’re to work on, Sophy +Anne, you and Melissy?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_214">[Pg 214]</span></p> +<p>Sophia Anne gave one look at him, then she +took a stitch.</p> + +<p>“Abby Mosely’s to work on one, I guess,” +said Simeon. “She’s ben a-settin’ in a heap of +white cloth a-sewin’ for three days. I came in +once, an’ she was tryin’ of it on, an’ she slipped +out of it mighty sudden. All I’ve got to say +is she’ll cut a queer figure flyin’. She’s pretty +hefty. I miss my guess if she don’t find it a +job to strike out at first. Now I should think +you might take to flyin’ pretty natural, Sophy +Anne.”</p> + +<p>Mrs. Lennox’s pale face was flushed with anger, +but she sewed on steadily.</p> + +<p>“As for Melissy,” said Simeon, in his chuckling +drawl, “I ruther guess she could fly without +much practice too. She’s built light; but it +strikes me she’d better have a weddin’-gown than +a flyin’-petticoat. Young Penfield goin’ to fly +with you, Melissy?”</p> + +<p>Solomon Lennox closed the Bible with a great +clap. “I’ll have no more of this!” he said, with +a shout of long-repressed fury.</p> + +<p>“Now, Solomon, don’t ye get riled so near the +end of the world,” drawled his brother, getting +up slowly. “I’m a-goin’. I ain’t goin’ to be the +means of makin’ you backslide when ye’re so nigh +the top of Zion’s Hill. I’m a-goin’ home. I don’t +s’pose I shall get no supper on account of Abby’s +hurryin’ up on her flyin’-petticoat. Sure you ain’t +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_215">[Pg 215]</span>goin’ to make them mince-pies for me, Sophy +Anne?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I be sure.”</p> + +<p>The brother-in-law thrust his sharp old face +down close to Sophia Anne’s. “Sure?” he repeated.</p> + +<p>Sophia Anne started back and stared at him. +There was something strange in his manner.</p> + +<p>The old man laughed, and straightened himself. +“Well, I’m a-goin’,” said he. “Good-bye. +Mebbe I sha’n’t see ye again before ye fly. Hope +ye’ll light easy. Good-bye.”</p> + +<p>After Simeon had closed the door, he opened +it again, and thrust his sharp features through a +narrow aperture. “Look at here, Solomon,” +said he. “Mind ye leave the key in the door +when ye go out to fly Thursday night. I want +to come right in.” Then Simeon shut the door +again, but his malicious laugh could be plainly +heard in the entry.</p> + +<p>He did not go straight home as he had said, +but up the road to Lawyer Bascombe’s office. +When he returned, the meeting in his brother’s +house was in session, and the windows were dark +with heads against the red firelight. Old Simeon +stared up at them, and laughed aloud to himself +as he went by. “Sophy Anne won’t make me +no mince-pies. She’s sure on’t,” he said, and +laughed again.</p> + +<p>The next day all the ordinary routine of life +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_216">[Pg 216]</span>seemed at a standstill in the village. The storekeeper +had become a convert, the store was closed, +and the green inside shutters were fastened. Now +and then a village loafer lounged disconsolately +up, shook the door on its rattling lock, stared at +the shuttered windows, then lounged away, muttering. +The summer resting-place of his kind, +the long, bewhittled wooden bench on the store +platform, could not be occupied that wintry day. +The air was clear, and the dry pastures were white +and stiff with the hoar-frost; the slants of the +roofs glistened with it in the sun. The breaths +of the people going to and from Solomon Lennox’s +house were like white smoke. The meeting +began at dawn. Children were dragged hither +at their parents’ heels, cold and breakfastless. +Not a meal was cooked that day in the houses of +Solomon Lennox’s followers. All the precious +hours were spent in fasting and prayer. Towards +night the excitement deepened. There was present +within the village a spiritual convulsion as +real as any other convulsion of nature, and as +truly although more subtly felt. Even they who +had scoffed and laughed at this new movement +from the first, and were now practically untouched +by it, grew nervous and ill at ease towards night +as from the gathering of a storm. The air seemed +charged with electricity generated by the touch +of human thought and faith with the Unknown. +The unbelievers pressed their faces against the +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_217">[Pg 217]</span>window-panes, shading their eyes from the light +within as the dusk deepened, or stood out in their +yards watching the sky, half fearful they should +indeed see some sign or marvel therein.</p> + +<p>But the night came on, and the stars shone out +in their order as they had done from the first, and +there was no sign but the old one of eternal love +and beauty in the sky. The moon arose at nine +o’clock, nearly at her full. That, from some interpretation +of symbolical characters on the deaf-and-dumb +boy’s slate, had been fixed upon as the +hour of meeting upon Penfield’s hill. The solemn +and dreadful moment which was to mark the +climax of all creation was expected between that +hour and dawn.</p> + +<p>At half-past eight white-robed figures began to +move along the road. People peeped around +their curtains to see them pass; now and then +belated children ran shrieking with terror into +the houses at sight of them.</p> + +<p>Beside the road, close to the gate which led to +the wide field at the foot of Penfield’s hill, under +the shadow of a clump of hemlocks, Isaac Penfield +had been waiting since quarter past eight +o’clock. When the white company came in sight +he drew farther back within the shadow, scanning +the people eagerly as they passed.</p> + +<p>Solomon Lennox and Deacon Scranton let +down the bars, and the people passed through +silently, crowding each other whitely like a flock +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_218">[Pg 218]</span>of sheep. Sophia Anne, the deaf-and-dumb boy +holding fast to her hand, was among the first.</p> + +<p>Isaac had expected to see Melissa close to her +mother; but she had become separated from her +and came among the last.</p> + +<p>Her slender figure was hidden in her flowing +white robes, but there was no mistaking her +gentle faltering gait and the delicate bend of her +fair uncovered head.</p> + +<p>Isaac stepped forward suddenly, threw his arm +around Melissa, and drew her back with him +within the shadow of the hemlocks. Nobody +saw it but Abby Mosely, Simeon Lennox’s housekeeper, +and she was too panic-stricken to heed it +intelligently; she went panting on after the others +in her voluminous white robe, and left Melissa +alone with Isaac Penfield.</p> + +<p>Isaac pressed Melissa’s head close to his breast, +leaned his face down to hers, and whispered long +in her ear. She listened trembling and unresisting; +then she broke away from him weakly, “I +can’t, I can’t,” she moaned. But he caught her +again, and whispered again with his lips close to +her soft pale cheek, and frequent kisses between +the words.</p> + +<p>“Come, now, sweetheart,” he said at length, +and attempted to draw her with him into the +road; but she pulled herself away from him +again, and stood warding him off with her white-draped +arms.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_219">[Pg 219]</span></p> +<p>“I can’t, I can’t,” she moaned again. “I +must go with father and mother.”</p> + +<p>“I tell you they are wrong; can’t you believe +me?”</p> + +<p>“I—must—go with them.”</p> + +<p>“No; come with me, Melissa.”</p> + +<p>Melissa, still with her arms raised against him, +looked away over the meadow, full of moving +white figures. The moon shone out over it, and +it gleamed like a field of Paradise peopled with +angels. Then she looked up in her lover’s face, +and suddenly it was to her as if she saw therein +the new earth of all her dreams.</p> + +<p>Solomon Lennox and his followers kept on to +Penfield’s hill, which arose before them crowned +with silver, and Isaac Penfield hastened down +the road to the village, half carrying Melissa’s +little white-clad figure, wrapped against the cold +in his own gray cloak.</p> + +<p>Early the next morning a small company of +pallid shivering people crept through the village +to their homes. Many had weakened and +deserted long before dawn, chilled to their very +thoughts and fancies by their long vigil on the +hill-top. Young girls ran home, crying aloud +like children, and men half dragged hysterical +wives rigid with chills. Solomon Lennox and his +wife remained until the dawn light shone; then +he beckoned to her and the whimpering deaf-and-dumb +boy, and led the way down the hill without +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_220">[Pg 220]</span>a word. He never looked at the rest of the company, +but they followed silently.</p> + +<p>The Penfield house was about a quarter of a +mile from the pasture bars. When they reached +it, Isaac stood waiting at the gate. He went up +to Solomon, who was passing without a look, +and touched his arm with an impatient yet respectful +gesture. “You and Mrs. Lennox and +Lonny had better come in here, I think,” he +said.</p> + +<p>Solomon was moving on with dull obstinacy, +but Isaac laid his hand on his arm. “I—think +you have—forgotten,” he said. “I am sorry, but—your +brother Simeon has—taken possession of +your house.”</p> + +<p>Solomon stared at him dully. He did not seem +to comprehend. Sophia Anne looked as blue and +bloodless in her white robe as if she were dead. +She had scarce more control of her trembling +tongue than if it were paralyzed, but her highly +strung feminine nerves gave out vibrations +still.</p> + +<p>“Has Simeon took possession?” she demanded, +fiercely.</p> + +<p>Isaac Penfield nodded. “I think it would be +pleasanter for you to come in here now,” he said. +Then he hesitated, and colored suddenly. “Your +daughter is in here,” he added.</p> + +<p>Sophia Anne gave a keen glance at him. Then +she turned in at the gate with a sharp twitch at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_221">[Pg 221]</span>the arm of the deaf-and-dumb boy, who was making +strange cries and moans, like a distressed animal. +“Come, father,” she called, impatiently; +and Solomon also entered the Penfield gate with +a piteous, dazed air.</p> + +<p>In the great south room of the Penfield house +were Melissa and Mrs. Martha Joyce, the housekeeper. +Mrs. Joyce was mixing something in a +steaming bowl; Melissa sat still, gazing at the +fire. She was dressed in a blue satin gown and +fine lace tucker, which had belonged to Isaac +Penfield’s mother. Madam Penfield had been +nearly Melissa’s size, and the gown fitted her +slender figure daintily. She sat with her fair head +bent, the color coming and going in her soft +cheeks, as if from her own thoughts. Her little +hands were folded in her blue satin lap, and on +one finger gleamed a great pearl, which Madam +Penfield had used to wear.</p> + +<p>When the door opened and her parents entered, +she half started up, with a great blush; then she +sank back, trembling and pale.</p> + +<p>Isaac Penfield crossed over to her, and laid his +hand on her shoulder. “She is my wife,” he +said. “We were married last night.”</p> + +<p>Sophia Anne made a faint gesture, which might +have expressed anything. Solomon staggered to +a chair without a look. In truth, when they entered +the warm room, and the long strain of resistance +against cold and fatigue ceased, exhaustion +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_222">[Pg 222]</span>overcame them. Mrs. Joyce administered +hot porridge and cordials, and Melissa knelt down +in her blue satin and rubbed her mother’s benumbed +hands.</p> + +<p>Solomon took whatever was offered him, meekly, +like a child. His face was changed; the look +which it had worn during the greater part of his +life, the expression of himself within his old worn +channel, had returned.</p> + +<p>He was sitting by the fire, sipping cordial, when +his brother Simeon came in; he had not even +noticed the brazen clang of the knocker.</p> + +<p>Simeon came tiptoeing around in front of his +brother, thrust down his face on a level with his, +and peered at him with a sharp twinkle of black +eyes. Then he looked at Sophia Anne, and +chuckled. “’Pears to me wings didn’t work very +well,” said he.</p> + +<p>Simeon had a roll of paper in his hand. He +went to the desk, and spread it out ostentatiously. +Then he began to read in a high, solemn voice, +with an undertone of merriment in it. “Know +all men by these presents,” began Simeon Lennox, +and read straight through the deed, with +all its strange legal formalities, by which his +brother Solomon had conveyed his worldly goods +to him.</p> + +<p>Sophia Anne writhed in her chair as Simeon +read. She was on a rack of torture, and every +new word was a turn of the screw. Solomon set +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_223">[Pg 223]</span>his tumbler of cordial on the hearth, and rested +his head on his hands.</p> + +<p>After Simeon had finished reading the deed, +he paused for a moment. Sophia Anne gave a +dry sob.</p> + +<p>Then Simeon cleared his throat, and continued: +“The foregoing I do hereby declare null and void, +and I do hereby remise, release, sell, and forever +quitclaim, for myself and my heirs, by these +presents, the aforementioned premises, with all +the privileges and appurtenances thereunto belonging, +to the said Solomon Lennon, his heirs +and assigns forever, in consideration that Sophia +Anne, the wife of said Solomon Lennox, shall, +during the term of her natural life, unless she be +prevented by sickness from so doing, make, mix, +season, and bake for me with her own hands, +with her best skill, according to her own conscience, +seven mince pies during every week of +the year, with one extra for every Independence +and Thanksgiving day, and that the said Sophia +Anne, the wife of the said Solomon Lennox, shall +hereunto set her hand and seal.”</p> + +<p>Simeon looked at Sophia Anne. She stared +back at him, speechless.</p> + +<p>“Well, what ye goin’ to do about it, Sophy +Anne?” said Simeon.</p> + +<p>Sophia Anne still looked at him as if he were +a blank wall against which her very spirit had +been brought to a standstill.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_224">[Pg 224]</span></p> +<p>“Goin’ to sign it, Sophy Anne?”</p> + +<p>Sophia Anne got up. Her knees trembled, but +she motioned back Isaac Penfield’s proffered arm. +She went to the desk, sat down, took the quill, +dipped it carefully in the inkstand, and shook it +lest it blot. Her lean arm crooked as stiffly as a +stick, her lips were a blue line, but she wrote her +name with sharply rippling strokes, and laid the +pen down.</p> + +<p>“Sure ye won’t make them mince pies, Sophy +Anne?” said Simeon.</p> + +<p>Sophia Anne made no reply. She put her elbow +on the desk, and leaned her head on her +hand. Simeon looked at her a moment, then he +gave her a rough pat on her shoulder and turned +and went to the window, and stood there, staring +out.</p> + +<p>Melissa was weeping softly; Isaac stood beside +her, smoothing her hair tenderly. The deaf-and-dumb +boy’s fair head hung helplessly over his +shoulder. He had fallen asleep with the tears +on his cheeks.</p> + +<p>The morning sunlight shone broadly into the +room over them all, but Solomon Lennox did not +seem to heed that or anything that was around +him, sitting sadly within himself: a prophet +brooding over the ashes of his own prophetic +fire.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_225">[Pg 225]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="THE_LITTLE_MAID_AT_THE">THE LITTLE MAID AT THE +DOOR</h2></div> + + +<p>Joseph Bayley and his wife Ann came riding +down from Salem village. They had started from +their home in Newbury the day before, and had +stayed overnight with their relative, Sergeant +Thomas Putnam, in Salem village; they were on +their way to the election in Boston. The road +wound along through the woods from Salem to +Lynn; it was some time since they had passed a +house.</p> + +<p>May was nearly gone; the pinks and the blackberry +vines were in flower. All the woods were +full of an indefinite and composite fragrance, +made up of the breaths of myriads of green plants +and seen and unseen blossoms, like a very bouquet +of spring. The newly leaved trees cast shadows +that were as much a part of the tender surprise +of the spring as the new flowers. They +flickered delicately before Joseph Bayley and his +wife Ann on the grassy ridges of the road, but +they did not remark them. Their own fancies +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_226">[Pg 226]</span>cast gigantic projections which eclipsed the sweet +show of the spring and almost their own personalities. +That year the leaves came out and the +flowers bloomed in vain for the people in and +about Salem village. There was epidemic a disease +of the mind which deafened and blinded to +all save its own pains.</p> + +<p>Ann Bayley on the pillion snuggled closely +against her husband’s back; her fearful eyes +peered at the road around his shoulder. She was +a young and handsome woman; she had on her +best mantle of sad-colored silk, and a fine black +hood with a topknot, but she did not think of that.</p> + +<p>“Joseph, what is that in the road before us?” +she whispered, timorously.</p> + +<p>He pulled up the horse with a great jerk. +“Where?” he whispered back.</p> + +<p>“There! there! at the right; just beyond that +laurel thicket. ’Tis somewhat black, an’ it moves. +There! there! Oh, Joseph!”</p> + +<p>Joseph Bayley sat stiff and straight in his saddle, +like a soldier; his face was pale and stern, +his eyes full of horror and defiance.</p> + +<p>“See you it?” Ann whispered again. “There! +now it moves. What is it?”</p> + +<p>“I see it,” said Joseph, in a loud, bold voice. +“An’ whatever it be, I will yield not to it; an’ +neither will you, goodwife.”</p> + +<p>Ann reached around and caught at the reins. +“Let us go back,” she moaned, faintly. “Oh, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_227">[Pg 227]</span>Joseph, let us not pass it. My spirit faints within +me. I see its back among the laurel blooms. ’Tis +the black beast they tell of. Let us turn back, +Joseph, let us turn back!”</p> + +<p>“Be still, woman!” returned her husband, jerking +the reins from her hand. “What think ye +’twould profit us to turn back to Salem village? +I trow if there be one black beast here, there is +a full herd of them there. There is naught left +but to ride past it as best we may. Sit fast, an’ +listen you not to it, whatever it promise you.” +Joseph looked down the road towards the laurel +bushes, his muscles now as tense as a bow. Ann +hid her face on his shoulder. Suddenly he +shouted, with a great voice like a herald: “Away +with ye, ye cursed beast! away with ye! We are +not of your kind; we are gospel folk. We have +naught to do with you or your master. Away +with ye!”</p> + +<p>The horse leaped forward. There was a great +cracking among the laurel bushes at the right, +a glossy black back and some white horns heaved +over them, then some black flanks plunged heavily +out of sight.</p> + +<p>“Oh!” shrieked Ann, “has it gone? Goodman, +has it gone?”</p> + +<p>“The Lord hath delivered us from the snare +of the enemy,” answered Joseph, solemnly.</p> + +<p>“What looked it like, Joseph, what looked it +like?”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_228">[Pg 228]</span></p> +<p>“Like no beast that was saved in the ark.”</p> + +<p>“Had it fiery eyes?” asked Ann, trembling.</p> + +<p>“’Tis well you did not see them.”</p> + +<p>“Ride fast! oh, ride fast!” Ann pleaded, +clutching hard at her husband’s cloak. “It may +follow on our track.” The horse went down the +road at a quick trot. Ann kept peering back +and starting at every sound in the woods. “Do +you mind the tale Samuel Endicott told last +night?” she said, shuddering. “How on his +voyage to Barbadoes he, sitting on the windlass +on a bright moonshining night, was shook violently, +and saw the appearance of that witch Goody +Bradbury, with a white cap and a white neckcloth +on her? It was a dreadful tale.”</p> + +<p>“It was naught to the sight of Mercy Lewis +and Sergeant Thomas Putnam’s daughter Ann, +when they were set upon and nigh choked to +death by Goody Proctor. Know you that within +a half-mile we must pass the Proctor house?”</p> + +<p>Ann gave a shuddering sigh. “I would I were +home again!” she moaned. “They said ’twas full +of evil things, and that the black man himself +kept tavern there since Goodman Proctor and +his wife were in jail. Did you mind what Goodwife +Putnam said of the black head, like a hog’s, +that Goodman Perley saw at the keeping-room +window as he passed, and the rumbling noises, +and the yellow birds that flew around the chimney +and twittered in a psalm tune? Oh, Joseph, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_229">[Pg 229]</span>there is a yellow bird now in the birch-tree—see! +see!”</p> + +<p>They had come into a little space where the +woods were thinner. Joseph urged his horse forward.</p> + +<p>“We will not slack our pace for any black +beasts nor any yellow birds,” he cried, in a valiant +voice.</p> + +<p>There was a passing gleam of little yellow +wings above the birch-tree.</p> + +<p>“He has flown away,” said Ann. “’Tis best +to front them as you do, goodman, but I have not +the courage. That looked like a common yellow-bird; +his wings shone like gold. Think you it +has gone forward to the Proctor house?”</p> + +<p>“It matters not, so it but fly up before us,” +said Joseph Bayley.</p> + +<p>He was somewhat older than Ann; fair-haired +and fair-bearded, with blue eyes set so deeply +under heavy brows that they looked black. His +face was at once stern and nervous, showing not +only the spirit of warfare against his foes, but the +elements of strife within himself.</p> + +<p>They rode on, and the woods grew thicker; +the horse’s hoofs made only a faint liquid pad on +the mossy road. Suddenly he stopped and whinnied. +Ann clutched her husband’s arm; they +sat motionless, listening; the horse whinnied +again.</p> + +<p>Suddenly Joseph started violently, and stared +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_230">[Pg 230]</span>into the woods on the left, and Ann also. A long +defile of dark evergreens stretched up the hill, +with mysterious depths of blue-black shadows between +them; the air had an earthy dampness.</p> + +<p>Joseph shook the reins fiercely over the horse’s +back, and shouted to him in a loud voice.</p> + +<p>“Did you see it?” gasped Ann, when they +had come into a lighter place. “Was it not a +black man?”</p> + +<p>“Fear not; we have outridden him,” said her +husband, setting his thin intense face proudly +ahead.</p> + +<p>“I would we were safe home in Newbury,” +Ann moaned. “I would we had never set out. +Think you not Dr. Mather will ride back from +Boston with us to keep the witches off? I will +bide there forever, if he will not. I will never +come this dreadful road again, else. What is +that? Oh, what is that? ’Tis a voice coming +out of the woods like a great roar. <i>Joseph!</i> What +is <i>that</i>? That was a black cat run across the road +into the bushes. ’Twas a black cat. Joseph, let +us turn back! No; the black man is behind us, +and the beast. What shall we do? What shall +we do? Oh, oh, I begin to twitch like Ann and +Mercy last night! My feet move, and I cannot +stop them! Now there is a pin thrust in my +arm! I am pinched! There are fingers at my +throat! Joseph! Joseph!”</p> + +<p>“Go to prayer, sweetheart,” shouted Joseph. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_231">[Pg 231]</span>“Go to prayer. Be not afraid. ’Twill drive +them away. Away with ye, Goody Bradbury! +Away, Goody Proctor! Go to prayer, go to +prayer!”</p> + +<p>Joseph bent low in the saddle and lashed the +horse, which sprang forward with a mighty +bound; the green branches rushed in their faces. +Joseph prayed in a loud voice. Ann clung to +him convulsively, panting for breath. Suddenly +they came out of the woods into a cleared space.</p> + +<p>“The Proctor house! the Proctor house!” +Ann shrieked. “Mercy Lewis said ’twas full of +devils. What shall we do?” She hid her face +on her husband’s shoulder, sobbing and praying.</p> + +<p>The Proctor house stood at the left of the road; +there were some peach-trees in front of it, and +their blossoms showed in a pink spray against the +gray unpainted walls. On one side of the house +was the great barn, with its doors wide open; on +the other, a deep ploughed field, with the plough +sticking in a furrow. John Proctor had been arrested +and thrown into jail for witchcraft in +April, before his spring planting was done.</p> + +<p>Joseph Bayley reined in his horse opposite the +Proctor house. “Ann,” he whispered, and his +whisper was full of horror.</p> + +<p>“What is it?” she returned, wildly.</p> + +<p>“Ann, Goodman Proctor looks forth from the +chamber window, and Goody Proctor stands outside +by the well, and they are both in jail in Boston.” +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_232">[Pg 232]</span>Joseph’s whole frame shook in a strange +rigid fashion, as if his joints were locked. “Look, +Ann!” he whispered.</p> + +<p>“I cannot.”</p> + +<p>“Look!”</p> + +<p>Ann turned her head. “Why,” she said, and +her voice was quite natural and sweet, it had even +a tone of glad relief in it, “I see naught but a +little maid in the door.”</p> + +<p>“See you not Goodman Proctor in the window?”</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said Ann, smiling; “I see naught but +the little maid in the door. She is in a blue petticoat, +and she has a yellow head, but her little +cheeks are pale, I trow.”</p> + +<p>“See you not Goodwife Proctor in the yard by +the well?” asked Joseph.</p> + +<p>“Nay, goodman; I see naught but the little +maid in the door. She has a fair face, but now +she falls a-weeping. Oh, I fear lest she be all +alone in the house.”</p> + +<p>“I tell you, Goodman Proctor and Goodwife +Proctor are both there,” returned Joseph. “Think +you I see not with my own eyes? Goodman +Proctor has on a red cap, and Goodwife Proctor +holds a spindle.” He urged on the horse with a +sudden cry. “Now the prayers do stick in my +throat,” he groaned. “I would we were out of +this devil’s nest!”</p> + +<p>“Oh, Joseph,” implored Ann, “prithee wait +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_233">[Pg 233]</span>a minute! The little maid is calling ‘mother’ +after me. Saw you not how she favored our little +Susanna who died? Hear her! There was +naught there but the little maid. Joseph, I +pray you, stop.”</p> + +<p>“Nay; I’ll ride till the nag drops,” said Joseph +Bayley, with a lash. “This last be too much. I +tell ye they are there, and they are also in jail. +’Tis hellish work.”</p> + +<p>Ann said no more for a little space; a curve in +the road hid the Proctor house from sight. Suddenly +she raised a great cry. “Oh! oh!” she +screamed, “’tis gone; ’tis gone from my foot!”</p> + +<p>Joseph stopped. “What is gone?”</p> + +<p>“My shoe; but now I missed it from my foot. +I must alight, and go back for it.”</p> + +<p>Joseph started the horse again.</p> + +<p>Ann caught at the reins. “Stop, goodman,” +she cried, imperatively. “I tell you I must have +my shoe.”</p> + +<p>“And I tell you I’ll stop for no shoe in this +place, were it made of gold.”</p> + +<p>“Goodman, you know not what shoe ’tis. ’Tis +one of my fine shoes, in which I have never taken +steps. They have the crimson silk lacings. I +have even carried them in my hand to the meeting-house +on a Sabbath, wearing my old ones, and +only put them on at the door. Think you I will +lose that shoe? Stop the nag.”</p> + +<p>But Joseph kept on grimly.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_234">[Pg 234]</span></p> +<p>“Think you I will go barefoot or with one shoe +into Boston?” said Ann. “Know you that these +shoes, which were a present from my mother, +cost bravely? I trow you will needs loosen your +purse strings well before we pass the first shop +in Boston. Well, go on, an’ you will, when ’tis +but a matter of my slipping down from the pillion +and running back a few yards.”</p> + +<p>Joseph Bayley turned his horse about; but +Ann remonstrated.</p> + +<p>“Nay,” said she; “I want not to go thus. I +am tired of the saddle. I would like to feel my +feet for a space.”</p> + +<p>Her husband looked around at her with wonder +and suspicion. Dark thoughts came into his +mind.</p> + +<p>She laughed. “Nay,” said she, “make no +such face at me. I go not back to meet any +black man nor sign any book. I go for my fine +shoe with the crimson lacing.”</p> + +<p>“’Tis but a moment since you were afraid,” +said Joseph. “Have you no fear now?” His +blue eyes looked sharply into hers.</p> + +<p>She looked back at him soberly and innocently. +“In truth, I feel no such fear as I did,” she answered. +“If I mistake not, your bold front and +your prayers drove away the evil ones. I will +say a psalm as I go, and I trow naught will harm +me.”</p> + +<p>Ann slipped lightly down from the pillion, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_235">[Pg 235]</span>pulled off her one remaining shoe and her stockings; +they were her fine worked silk ones, and +she could not walk in them over the rough road. +Then she set forth very slowly, peering here and +there in the undergrowth beside the road, until +she passed the curve and the reach of her husband’s +eyes. Then she gathered up her crimson +taffeta petticoat and ran like a deer, with long +graceful leaps, looking neither to right nor left, +straight back to the Proctor house.</p> + +<p>In the door of the house stood a tiny girl with +a soft shock of yellow hair. She wore a little +straight blue gown, and her baby feet were bare, +curling over the sunny door-step. When she saw +Ann coming she started as if to run; then she +stood still, her soft eyes wary, her mouth quivering.</p> + +<p>Ann Bayley ran up quickly, and threw her +arms around her, kneeling down on the step. +“What is your name, little maid?” said she, in +a loving, agitated voice.</p> + +<p>“Abigail Proctor,” replied the little maid, +shyly, in her sweet childish treble. Then she +tried to free herself, but Ann held her fast.</p> + +<p>“Nay, be not afraid, sweet,” said she. “I +love you. I once had a little maid like you for +my own. Tell me, dear heart, are you all alone +in the house?”</p> + +<p>Then the child fell to crying again, and clung +around Ann’s neck.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_236">[Pg 236]</span></p> +<p>“Is there anybody in the house, sweet?” Ann +whispered, fondling her, and pressing the wet +baby cheek to her own.</p> + +<p>“The constables came and took them,” sobbed +the little maid. “They put my poppet down +the well, and they pulled mother and Sarah down +the road. They took father before that, and +Mary Warren did gibe and point. The constables +pulled Benjamin away too. I want my +mother.”</p> + +<p>“Your mother shall come again,” said Ann. +“Take comfort, dear little heart, they cannot +have the will to keep her long away. There, +there, I tell you she shall come. You watch in +the door, and you will see her come down the +road.”</p> + +<p>She smoothed back the little maid’s yellow +hair, and wiped the tears from her little face +with a corner of her beautiful embroidered neckerchief. +Then she saw that the face was all +grimy with tears and dust, and she went over to +the well, which was near the door, and drew a +bucket of water swiftly with her strong young +arms; then she wet the corner of the neckerchief +and scrubbed the little maid’s face, bidding her +shut her eyes. Then she kissed her over and +over.</p> + +<p>“Now you are sweet and clean,” said she. +“Dear little heart, I have some sugar cakes in +my bag for you, and then I must be gone.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_237">[Pg 237]</span></p> +<p>The little maid looked at her eagerly, her +cheeks were waxen, and the blue veins showed +in her full childish forehead. Ann pulled some +little cakes out of a red velvet satchel she wore +at her waist, and Abigail reached out for one with +a hungry cry. The tears sprang to Ann’s eyes; +she put the rest of the cakes in a little pile on +the door-stone, and watched the child eat. Then +she gathered her up in her arms.</p> + +<p>“Good-bye, sweetheart,” she said, kissing the +soft trembling mouth, the sweet hollow under the +chin, and the clinging hands. “Before long I +shall come this way again, and do you stand in +the door when I go past.”</p> + +<p>She put her down and hastened away, but little +Abigail ran after her. Ann stopped and knelt +and fondled her again.</p> + +<p>“Go back, deary,” she pleaded; “go back, and +eat the sugar cakes.”</p> + +<p>But this beautiful kind vision in the crimson +taffeta, with the rosy cheeks and sweet black eyes +looking out from the French hood, with the +gleam of gold and delicate embroidery between +the silken folds of her mantilla, with the ways +like her mother’s, was more to little deserted +Abigail Proctor than the sugar cakes, although +she was sorely hungry for them. She stood aloof +with pitiful determined eyes until Ann’s back +was turned, then, as she followed, Ann looked +around and saw her and caught her up again.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_238">[Pg 238]</span></p> +<p>“My dear heart, my dear heart,” she said, and +she was half sobbing, “now must you go back, +else I fear harm will come to you. My goodman +is waiting for me yonder, and I know not what +he will do or say. Nay; you must go back. I +would I could keep you, my little Abigail, but +you must go back.” Ann Bayley put the little +maid down and gave her a gentle push. “Go +back,” she said, smiling, with her eyes full of +tears; “go back, and eat the sugar cakes.”</p> + +<p>Then she sped on swiftly; as she neared the +curve in the road she thrust a hand in her pocket, +and drew forth a dainty shoe with dangling +lacings of crimson silk. She glanced around +with a smile and a backward wave of her hand; +the glowing crimson of her petticoat showed for +a minute through the green mist of the undergrowth; +then she disappeared.</p> + +<p>The little maid Abigail stood still in the road, +gazing after her, her soft pink mouth open, her +hands clutching at her blue petticoat, as if she +would thus hold herself back from following. +She heard the tramp of a horse’s feet beyond the +curve; then it died away. She turned about and +went back to the house, with the tears rolling +over her cheeks; but she did not sob aloud, as +she would have done had her mother been near +to hear. A pitiful conviction of the hopelessness +of all the appeals of grief was stealing over her +childish mind. She had been alone in the house +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_239">[Pg 239]</span>three nights and two days, ever since her sister +Sarah and her brother Benjamin had been arrested +for witchcraft and carried to jail. Long +before that her parents, John and Elizabeth +Proctor, had disappeared down the Boston road +in charge of the constables. None of the family +was spared save this little Abigail, who was +deemed too young and insignificant to have dealings +with Satan, and was therefore not thrown +into prison, but was left alone in the desolate +Proctor house in the midst of woods said to be +full of evil spirits and witches, to die of fright or +starvation as she might. There was but little +mercy shown the families of those accused of +witchcraft.</p> + +<p>“Let some of Goody Proctor’s familiars minister +unto the brat,” one of the constables had +said, with a stern laugh, when Abigail had followed +wailing after her brother and sister on the +day of their arrest.</p> + +<p>“Yea,” said another; “she can send her yellow-bird +or her black hog to keep her company. +I wot her tears will be soon dried.”</p> + +<p>Then the stoutly tramping horses had borne +out of sight and hearing the mocking faces of the +constables; Sarah’s fair agonized one turned +backward towards her little deserted sister, and +Benjamin raised a brave youthful clamor of indignation.</p> + +<p>“Let us loose!” Abigail heard him shout; “let +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_240">[Pg 240]</span>us loose, I tell ye! Ye are fools, rather than we +are witches; ye are fools and murderers! Let +us loose, I tell ye!”</p> + +<p>Abigail waited long, thinking her brother’s +words would prevail; but neither he nor Sarah +returned, and the sounds all died away, and she +went back to the house sobbing. The damp +spring night was settling down in a palpable +mist, and the woods seemed full of voices. The +little maid had heard enough of the terrible talk +of the day to fill her innocent head with vague +superstitious horror. She threw her apron over +her head and fled blindly through the woods, and +now and then she fell down and bruised herself, +and rose up lamenting sorely, with nobody to +hear her.</p> + +<p>As soon as she was in the house she shut the +doors, and barred them with the great bars that +had been made as protection against Indians, and +now might wax useless against worse than savages, +according to the belief of the colony.</p> + +<p>All night long the little maid shrieked and +sobbed, and called on her father and her mother +and her sister and her brother. Men faring in +the road betwixt Boston and Salem village heard +her with horror, and fled past with psalm and +prayer, their blood cold in their veins. They +related the next day to the raging, terror-stricken +people how at midnight the accursed Proctor +house was full of flitting infernal lights, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_241">[Pg 241]</span>howling with devilish spirits, and added a death-dealing +tale of some godly woman of the village +who outrode their horses on a broomstick and +disappeared in the Proctor house.</p> + +<p>The next day the little maid unbarred the door, +and stood there watching up and down the road +for her mother or some other to come. But they +came not, although she watched all day. That +night she did not sob and call out; she had become +afraid of her own voice, and discovered +that it had no effect to bring her help. Then, +too, early in the night, she heard noises about +the house which frightened her, and made her +think that perchance the dreadful black beast of +which she had heard them discourse was abroad.</p> + +<p>The next morning she found that the two +horses and the cow and calf were gone from the +barn; also that there was left scarce anything for +her to eat in the house. There had been some +loaves of bread, some boiled meat, and some cakes; +now they were all gone, and also all the meal +from the chest, and the potatoes and pork from +the cellar. But for that last she did not care, +since she was not old enough to make a fire and +cook. She had left for food only a little cold +porridge in a blue bowl, and that she ate up at +once and had no more, and a little buttermilk in a +crock, which, she being not over-fond of it, served +her longer. But that was all she had had for a +day and a night, until Goodwife Ann Bayley gave +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_242">[Pg 242]</span>her the sugar cakes. These she ate up at once +on her return to the house. Then again she +stood watching in the door, but nothing passed +along the road save a partridge or a squirrel. It +was accounted a bold thing for any solitary traveller +to come this way, save a witch, and she, it +was supposed, might find many comrades in the +woods beside the road and in the Proctor house, +which was held to be a sort of devils’ tavern. But +now no witch came, nor any of her uncanny +friends, unless indeed the squirrel and the partridge +were familiar demons in disguise. Nothing +was too harmless and simple to escape that +imputation of the devil’s mask.</p> + +<p>Abigail took her little pewter porringer from +the cupboard, and got herself a drink of water +from the bucketful that Goodwife Bayley had +drawn; then she stood on a stone, and peered +into the well, leaning over the curb. Her poppet +was in there, her dear rag doll that Sarah had +made for her, and dressed in a beautiful silver +brocade made from a piece of a wedding-gown +that was brought from England. One of the +constables had caught sight of little Abigail Proctor’s +poppet, and being straightway filled with +suspicion that it was an image whereby Goody +Proctor afflicted her victims by proxy, had seized +it and thrown it into the well. The other constables +had chidden him for such rashness, saying +it should have been carried to Boston and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_243">[Pg 243]</span>produced as evidence at the trial; and little Abigail +had shrieked out in a panic for her poppet.</p> + +<p>She could see nothing of it now, and she went +back to her watching-place in the door.</p> + +<p>In the afternoon she felt sorely hungry again, +and searched through the house for food; then +she went out in the sunny fields behind the house, +and found some honeysuckles on the rocks, and +sucked the honey greedily from their horns. On +her return to the house she found a corn-cob, +which she snatched up and folded in her apron, +and began tending. She sat down in the doorway +in her little chair, which she dragged out of +the keeping-room, and hugged the poor poppet +close, and crooned over it.</p> + +<p>“Be not afraid,” said she. “I’ll not let the +black beast harm you; I promise you I will not.”</p> + +<p>That night she formed a new plan for her solace +and protection in the lonely darkness. All +the garments of her lost parents and sister and +brother that she could find she gathered together, +and formed in a circle on the keeping-room floor; +then she crept inside with her corn-cob poppet, +and lay there hugging it all night. The next day +she watched again in the door; but now she was +weak and faint, and her little legs trembled so +under her that she could not stand to watch, but +sat in her small straight-backed chair, holding +her poppet and peering forth wistfully.</p> + +<p>In the course of the day she made shift to +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_244">[Pg 244]</span>creep out into the fields again, and lying flat on +the sun-heated rocks, she sucked some more +honey drops from the honeysuckles. She found, +too, on the edge of the woods, some young wintergreen +leaves, and she even pulled some blue +violets and ate them. But the delicate, sweet, +and aromatic fare in the spring larder of nature +was poor nourishment for a human baby.</p> + +<p>Poor little Abigail Proctor could scarcely creep +home, still clinging fast to her poppet; scarcely +lift herself into her chair in the door; scarcely +crawl inside her fairy-ring of her loved ones’ belongings +at night. She rolled herself tightly in +an old cloak of her father’s, and it was a sweet +and harmless outcome of the dreadful superstition +of the day, grafted on an innocent childish +brain, that it seemed to partake of the bodily +presence of her father, and protect her.</p> + +<p>All night long, as she lay there, her mother +cooked good meat and broth and sweet cakes, and +she ate her fill of them; but in the morning she +was too weak to turn her little body over. She +could not get to her watching-place in the door, +but that made no difference to her, for she did +not fairly know that she was not there. It seemed +to her that she sat in her little chair looking up +the road and down the road; she saw the green +branches weaving together, and hiding the sky +to the northward and the southward; she saw +the flushes of white and rose in the flowering +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_245">[Pg 245]</span>undergrowth; she saw the people coming and +going. There were her father and mother now +coming with store of food and presents for her, +now following the constables out of sight. There +was that fine pageant passing, as she had seen it +pass once before, of the two magistrates, their +worshipful masters John Hathorne and Jonathan +Corwin, with the marshal, constables, and aids, +splendid and awe-inspiring in all their trappings +of office, to examine the accused in the Salem +meeting-house. There were the ministers Parris +and Noyes coming, with severe malignant faces, +to question her mother as to whether she had afflicted +Mary Warren, their former maid-servant, +who was now bewitched. There went Benjamin, +clamoring out boldly at his captors. There came +Sarah with the poppet, which she had drawn out +of the well, shaking the water from its silver brocade.</p> + +<p>All this the little maid Abigail Proctor saw +through her half-delirious fancy as she lay weakly +on the keeping-room floor, but she saw not the +reality of her sister Sarah coming about four +o’clock in the afternoon.</p> + +<p>Sarah Proctor, tall and slender, in her limp +bedraggled dress, with her fair severe face set in +a circle of red shawl, which she had pinned under +her chin, came resolutely down the road from +Boston, driving a black cow before her with a +great green branch. She was nearly fainting +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_246">[Pg 246]</span>with weariness, but she set her dusty shoes down +swiftly among the road weeds, and her face was +as unyielding as an Indian’s.</p> + +<p>When she came in sight of the Proctor house +she stopped a second. “Abigail!” she called; +“Abigail!”</p> + +<p>There was no answer, and she went on more +swiftly than before. When she reached the +house she called again, “Abigail!” but did not +wait except while she tied the black cow, by a +rope which was around her neck, to a peach-tree. +Then she ran in, and found the little maid, her +sister Abigail, on the floor in the keeping-room.</p> + +<p>She got down on her knees beside her, and +Abigail smiled up in her face waveringly. She +still thought herself in the door, and that she had +just seen her sister come down the road.</p> + +<p>“Abigail, what have they done to you?” asked +Sarah, in a sharp voice; and the little maid only +smiled.</p> + +<p>“Abigail, Abigail, what is it?” Sarah took +hold of the child’s shoulders and shook her; but +she got no word back, only the smile ceased, and +the eyelids drooped faintly.</p> + +<p>“Are you hungry, Abigail?”</p> + +<p>The little maid shook her head softly.</p> + +<p>“It cannot be that,” said Sarah, as if half to +herself; “there was enough in the house; but +what is it? Abigail, look at me; how long is it +since you have eaten? Abigail!”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_247">[Pg 247]</span></p> +<p>“Yesterday,” whispered the little maid, dreamily.</p> + +<p>“What did you eat then?”</p> + +<p>“Some posies and leaves out in the field.”</p> + +<p>“What became of all the bread that was baked, +and the cakes, and the meat?”</p> + +<p>“I—have forgot.”</p> + +<p>“No, you have not. Tell me, Abigail.”</p> + +<p>“The black beast came in the night and did +eat it all up, and the cow, and calf, and the +horses, too.”</p> + +<p>“The black beast!”</p> + +<p>“I heard him in the night, and in the morning +’twas—gone.”</p> + +<p>Sarah sprang up. “Robbers and murderers!” +she cried, in a fierce voice; but the little maid on +the floor did not start; she shut her eyes again, +and looked up and down the road.</p> + +<p>Sarah got a bucket quickly, and went out in +the yard to the cow. Down on her knees in the +grass she went and milked; then she carried in +the bucket, strained the milk with trembling +haste, and poured some into Abigail’s little pewter +porringer. “She was wont to love it warm,” +she whispered, with white lips.</p> + +<p>She bent close over the little maid, and raised +her on one arm, while she put the porringer to +her mouth. “Drink, Abigail,” she said, with +tender command. “’Tis warm—the way you +love it.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_248">[Pg 248]</span></p> +<p>The little maid tried to sip, but shut her mouth, +and turned her head with weak loathing, and +Sarah could not compel her. She laid her back, +and got a spoon and fed her a little, by dint of +much pleading to make her open her mouth and +swallow.</p> + +<p>Afterwards she undressed her, and put her to +bed in the south-front room, but the child was so +uneasy without the ring of garments which she +had arranged, that Sarah was forced to put them +around her on the bed; then she fell asleep directly, +and stood in her dream watching in the +door.</p> + +<p>Sarah herself stood in the door, looking up and +down the road. There was the sound of a galloping +horse in the distance; it came nearer and +nearer. She went down to the road and stood +waiting. The horse was reined in close to her, +and the young man who rode him sprang off the +saddle.</p> + +<p>“It is you, Sarah; you are safe home,” he +cried, eagerly, and would have put his arm about +her; but she stood aloof sternly.</p> + +<p>“For what else did you take me—my apparition?” +she said, in a hard voice.</p> + +<p>“Sweetheart!”</p> + +<p>“Know you that I have but just come from +the jail in Boston, where I have lain fast chained +for witchcraft? See you my fine apparel with +the prison air in it? Know you that they called +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_249">[Pg 249]</span>me a witch, and said that I did afflict Mary Warren +and the rest? I marvel not that you kept +your distance, David Carr; I might perchance +have hurt you, and they might have accused you, +since you were in fellowship with a witch. I +marvel not at that. I would have no harm come +to you, though far greater than this came to me, +but wherefore did you let my little sister Abigail +starve? That can I not suffer, coming from you, +David.”</p> + +<p>The young man took her in his arms with a decided +motion; and indeed she did not repulse +him, but began to weep.</p> + +<p>“Sarah,” said he, earnestly, “I was in Ipswich. +I knew naught of you and Benjamin being +cried out upon until within this hour, when +I returned home, and my mother told me. I +knew not you were acquitted, and was on my +way to Boston to you when I saw you at the +gate. And as for Abigail, I knew naught at all; +and so ’twas with my mother, for she but now +wept when she said the poor little maid had been +taken with the rest. But you mean not that, +sweetheart; she has not been let to starve?”</p> + +<p>“They stole away the food in the night,” said +Sarah, “and the horses and the cow and calf. I +found the cow straying in the woods but now, on +my way home, and drove her in and milked her; +but Abigail would take scarce a spoonful of the +warm milk. She has had but little to eat for +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_250">[Pg 250]</span>three days, and has been distracted with fear, being +left alone. She has ever been but a delicate +child, and now I fear she has a fever on her, and +will die, with her mother away.”</p> + +<p>“I will go for my mother, sweetheart,” said +David Carr, eagerly.</p> + +<p>“Bring her under cover of night, then,” said +Sarah; “else she may be suspected if she come +to this witch tavern, as they call it. Oh, David, +think you she will come? I am in a sore strait.”</p> + +<p>“I will bring her without fail, sweet, and a +flask of wine also, and needments for the little +maid,” cried David. “Only do you keep up good +heart. Perchance, sweet, the child will amend +soon, and the others be soon acquit. Nay, weep +not, poor lass! poor lass! Thou hast me, whatever +else fail thee, poor solace though that be, +and I will fetch thee my mother right speedily. +She has ever set great store by the little maid, +and knows much about ailments; and I doubt +not they will be soon acquit.”</p> + +<p>“They say my mother will,” answered Sarah, +tearfully; “and Benjamin is acquit now, but had +best keep for a season out of Salem village. But +my father will not be acquit; he has spoken his +mind too boldly before them all.”</p> + +<p>“Nay, sweetheart,” said David Carr, mounting, +“’twill all have passed soon; ’tis but a madness. +Go in to the little maid, and be of good +comfort.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_251">[Pg 251]</span></p> +<p>Sarah went sobbing into the house, but her face +was quite calm when she stood over little Abigail. +The child was still asleep, and she could arouse +her only for a moment to take a few spoonfuls of +milk; then she turned her head on her pillow +with weary obstinacy, and shut her eyes again. +She still held the poor corn-cob poppet fast.</p> + +<p>Sarah washed herself, braided her hair, and +changed her prison dress for a clean blue linen +one; then she sat beside Abigail, and waited for +David Carr and his mother, who came within an +hour. Goodwife Carr was renowned through Salem +village for her knowledge of medicinal herbs +and her nursing. She had a gentle sobriety and +decision of manner which placed her firmly in her +neighbors’ confidences, they seeing how she abode +firmly in her own, and arguing from that. Then +she had too the good fortune to have made no +enemies, consequently her ability had not incurred +for her the suspicion of being a witch.</p> + +<p>Goodwife Carr brought a goodly store of healing +herbs, of bread and cakes and meat, and she +brewed drinks, and bent her face, pale and soberly +faithful, in her close white cap, untiringly +over Abigail Proctor. But the little maid never +arose again. A fever, engendered by starvation +and fright and grief, had seized upon her, and +she lay in the bed with her little corn-cob baby a +few days longer, and then died.</p> + +<p>They made a straight white gown for her, and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_252">[Pg 252]</span>dressed her in it, after washing her and smoothing +her yellow hair; and she lay, looking longer +and older than in life, all set about with flowers—pinks +and lilacs and roses—from Goodwife +Carr’s garden, until she was buried. And they +had the Ipswich minister come for the funeral, +for David Carr cried out in a fury that Minister +Parris, who had prosecuted this witchcraft business, +was her murderer, and blood would flow +from her little body if he stood beside it, and +that it was the same with Minister Noyes; and +Sarah Proctor’s pale face had flushed up fiercely +in assent.</p> + +<p>The morning after the little maid Abigail Proctor +was buried, Joseph Bayley and his wife Ann +came riding down the road from Boston, and +they were in brave company, and needed to have +but little fear of witches; for the great minister +Cotton Mather rode with them, his Excellency +the Governor of the colony, two worshipful magistrates, +and two other ministers—all on their +way to a witch trial in Salem.</p> + +<p>And as they neared the Proctor house there +was much discourse concerning it and the inmates +thereof, many strange and dreadful accounts, +and much godly denunciation. And as +they reached the curve in the road they came +suddenly in sight of a young man and a tall fair +maid standing together at the side by some white-flowering +bushes. And Sarah Proctor, even with +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_253">[Pg 253]</span>her little sister Abigail dead and her parents in +danger of death, was smiling for a second’s space +in David Carr’s face, for the love and hope in +tragedy that make God possible, and the selfishness +of love that makes life possible, were upon +her in spite of herself.</p> + +<p>But when she saw the cavalcade approaching, +saw the gleam of rich raiment, and heard the +tramp and jingling, the smile faded straightway +from her face, and she stood behind David in the +white alder bushes. And David stood before +her, and gazed with a stern and defiant scowl at +the gentry as they passed by. And the great +Cotton Mather gazed back at that beautiful white +face rising like another flower out of the bushes, +and he speculated with himself if it were the face +of a witch.</p> + +<p>But Goodwife Ann Bayley thought only on +the little maid at the door. And when they +came to the Proctor house she leaned eagerly +from the pillion, and she smiled and kissed her +hand.</p> + +<p>“Why do you thus, Ann?” her husband asked, +looking about at her.</p> + +<p>“See you not the little maid in the door?” she +whispered low, for fear of the goodly company. +“I trow she looks better than she did. The roses +are in her cheeks, and they have combed her yellow +hair, and put a clean white gown on her. +She holds a little doll, too.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_254">[Pg 254]</span></p> +<p>“I see nobody,” said Joseph Bayley, wonderingly.</p> + +<p>“Nay, but she stands there. I never saw +aught shine like her hair and her white gown; +the sunlight lies full in the door. See! see! she +is smiling! I trow all her griefs be well over.”</p> + +<p>The cavalcade passed the Proctor house, but +Goodwife Ann Bayley’s sweet face was turned +backward until it was out of sight, towards the +little maid in the door.</p> +<hr class="chap x-ebookmaker-drop"><div class="chapter"><p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_255">[Pg 255]</span></p> + + + +<h2 class="nobreak" id="LYDIA_HERSEY_OF_EAST">LYDIA HERSEY, OF EAST +BRIDGEWATER</h2></div> + + +<p>Lydia Hersey sat out on the porch carding +flax. She had taken her work out there that she +might not litter the house. It was Saturday afternoon, +and she had set every room in fine order +for the Sabbath.</p> + +<p>Three tall Lombardy poplar-trees stood in a +row on the road line, and their long shadows, +like the shadows of giant men, fell athwart the +gray unpainted house and the broad grassy yard. +At the south of the house was a flower bed of +pinks and honeysuckles and thyme, and also a +vegetable garden. Beyond that were three beehives +in a row, with little black clouds of bees +around them. Lydia carded assiduously, and +never looked up. Her long black lashes lay +against her pink cheeks, her full lips were half-smiling, +as if she were saying some pleasant thing +to herself. Lydia wore her black hair in a braided +knot at the back of her head; in front she combed +it smoothly down over her ears, then looped it +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_256">[Pg 256]</span>up behind them in two clusters of soft curls. +Her flowered chintz gown was cut low in the +neck, and she wore a string of gold beads around +her long white throat.</p> + +<p>Lydia sat very erect as she carded; her shoulders +never wavered with the clapping motion of +her hands; she even sat well forward in her chair, +and did not come in contact with its straight +back.</p> + +<p>Lydia Hersey was noted for the majesty of +her carriage as well as her beauty, and was talked +of as far as Boston. Young men had been +known to come from other villages and walk past +her house on the chance of seeing her at a window, +although they dared not address her, nor +do more than halt and stand for a second with +their hats raised like school-boys before the parson +or the squire, and that might have been accounted +poor reward for a long journey. But +there were for these New-Englanders no great +pictures by old masters and no famous statues, +and Lydia Hersey’s beautiful living face, set like +a jewel for a moment in a window of the gray +old Hersey house, served them instead. The +young Abington men, the North Bridgewater +men, and the Canton men would go home with +their love of beauty all aflame, and never forget +Lydia’s face in the window; indeed, it would +turn towards them like a portrait, whichever way +they moved, through their whole lives. Years +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_257">[Pg 257]</span>afterwards, when these admirers were old men +and heard some young beauty praised, they would +look scornful and say, “You ought to have seen +Lydia Hersey, of East Bridgewater.”</p> + +<p>A bumblebee flew with a loud buzz past Lydia’s +head, and she started a little. He flew straight +into the open window of the keeping-room. +“That’s a sign of company,” she thought, and +she thought also complacently how nicely the +house was set in order, and she did not care who +came.</p> + +<p>The doors were all open as well as the windows. +She heard the bee buzzing and striking against +the ceiling of the keeping-room. Presently she +heard another sound that made her drop her +cards in her lap and listen intently. It came +from down the street, and sounded like an irregular +chorus of horns, a medley of harsh, hollow +screeches. Lydia frowned. The sounds grew +louder; there were also great shouts of laughter +and clamorous voices. Soon a company of young +men came in sight; there were a dozen of them, +and they had great conch shells at their mouths, +which they blew between their laughter and +merry calls.</p> + +<p>Lydia stood up. She laid the cards down on +the chair, folded the linen cloth which she had +spread on the porch floor carefully over the fluffy +heap of carded flax, and brushed all the shreds +that she could from her gown. Then she walked, +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_258">[Pg 258]</span>carrying her beautiful head high, down to the +road. There was a sudden hush when the young +men saw her. They took their conch shells from +their lips, and saluted her respectfully. One +young man, who came foremost of the troop, colored +high. One of his comrades nudged him, +and he thrust his elbow back angrily in response. +Lydia took no notice of the other young men, she +walked straight up to this one. He stopped, and +all the others halted at his back.</p> + +<p>“Where are you going, Freelove?” said she.</p> + +<p>“Not far,” he returned, evasively.</p> + +<p>“Where?” she demanded.</p> + +<p>The young man turned towards his companions. +“Move on, lads,” he said, in an imperious +voice, which he tried to make good-natured, “I’ll +be with you in a moment.”</p> + +<p>His handsome face was burning. The young +men trooped on; there was a subdued chuckle. +Freelove Keith looked Lydia full in the face, and +his blue eyes were as haughty as her black ones.</p> + +<p>“We’re going down to see Abraham White and +Deborah,” said he.</p> + +<p>Lydia stared back at him scornfully. “You +are going down there with those loafers to blow +those conch shells under the windows?” said she.</p> + +<p>“Squire Perkins’s son is one of ’em,” returned +Freelove, defiantly.</p> + +<p>“The more shame to him!” said Lydia. “And +the more shame to you, Freelove Keith!”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_259">[Pg 259]</span></p> +<p>It seemed as if her bright scornful eyes, full on +Freelove’s face, could see all the weaknesses that +he hid from himself behind his own consciousness, +but he did not flinch.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know what you call shame,” he said. +“’Tis what the young fellows in East Bridgewater +have always done when they have not been asked +to a wedding.”</p> + +<p>“Asked to a wedding,” repeated Lydia, contemptuously. +“A pretty wedding! Deborah +Belcher marrying Abraham White, when he’s +twice as old as she is, and his wife not dead six +months. No wonder she asked nobody to the +wedding, marrying old Abraham White for his +silver teaspoons and tankard, and his wife’s silk +gowns and satin pelisse!”</p> + +<p>“You don’t know that she married him for +any such thing,” protested Freelove, stoutly, although +he had started on this very expedition +with a gay contempt for Deborah White. She was +a very pretty girl, and once, before he had dared +address Lydia Hersey, people had coupled his +name with hers. He had gone home with her +from singing-school, and kissed her once at a +husking.</p> + +<p>“Stand up for a girl like that if you want to,” +said Lydia. She had always had a lurking jealousy +of Deborah Belcher. Deborah’s hair was +very fair, and she had a delicate evanescent bloom +like a wild rose. Lydia had often wondered if +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_260">[Pg 260]</span>Deborah were not prettier than she herself, and +if men did not love fair hair better than black.</p> + +<p>Freelove Keith did not continue the dispute; +he looked uneasily after his comrades, who were +nearly out of sight, even at their slow lingering +pace. Now and then the note of a conch shell +was heard. “I must go,” said he. “Good-day, +Lydia.”</p> + +<p>“Do you mean that you are really going with +that noisy crew to blow conch shells under Abraham +White’s windows, Freelove Keith?”</p> + +<p>“Yes, I am going, Lydia Hersey,” returned +the young man, hotly; “and if you thought I’d +be ordered back by you before them all, like a +whipped puppy, you were mightily mistaken.”</p> + +<p>Lydia stared at him, she was so full of proud +amazement that she would say nothing; this +Freelove Keith had often fretted beneath her +rule, but never before openly resisted it.</p> + +<p>“Go back to your flax-carding, Lydia,” said +Freelove, in a softer tone. “See, the flax is +blowing all over the yard. I shall be up to see +you after supper.”</p> + +<p>Then Lydia found her tongue. “You haven’t +been asked to come that I know of,” said she. +“I don’t know as I care to keep company with +young men that go blowing horns and shouting +through the street, and disturbing decent people.”</p> + +<p>“Then you needn’t,” retorted Freelove.</p> + +<p>He went quickly down the road after his companions. +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_261">[Pg 261]</span>He was dressed like a farmer, in slouching +homespun, but there was a certain jaunty +grace about him, and a free swing in his gait, +which did not accord with his appearance. He +had followed the sea for a living, going as mate +on a merchantman, and had been home only for +a year and a half, since his father’s death, managing +the farm.</p> + +<p>Lydia went back to the house. She stepped as +if she bore a crown on her head instead of a tortoise-shell +comb, and had a train to her cotton +gown. The wind had indeed stirred the linen +cloth, and bits of flax were floating about the +yard, but she ignored that. She would not so +far unbend her dignity as to gather it up, even +with nobody but herself for witness. She folded +the linen cloth firmly over the remaining flax, +and placed her foot in its buckled shoe on it when +she sat down. She fell to work with the cards +again. The wild clamor of horns, which she had +heard break forth when Freelove joined his comrades, +died away in the distance.</p> + +<p>Lydia sat there steadily carding flax, as if imbued +by nature with the single instinct of industry, +like a bee out in the garden. Her lips were +tight shut, and no longer smiling; her heart was +anxious, but she still made her store of linen as +unquestioningly as the bee its honey.</p> + +<p>In about an hour the troop of young men with +the conch shells returned. Lydia heard them at +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_262">[Pg 262]</span>a distance, and long before they reached the +house she sat with stiffer majesty, keeping her +eyes so closely upon her work that the flax became +a silvery blur. However, she need not have +taken the trouble, for Freelove Keith swung past +with as scornful a lift of his head as she, and +never once glanced her way. And, indeed, the +young men all passed very decorously and quietly, +and only a few dared raise their eyes towards +the queenly figure on the porch, and then only +for a second. One of them was Abel Perkins, +Squire Perkins’s son. He was home from college +on a vacation, and was quite looked up to by the +village youth, as he was the only collegian +among them. Abel Perkins was slight and +pale, and walked with a nervous strut; but he +wore broadcloth and a fine flowered waistcoat, +and carried a gold watch. He even gave a hesitating +glance back at Lydia on the porch, turning +his little face over his shoulder; but she did +not see it. She did not look up from her work +until long after the company had passed.</p> + +<p>A half-hour later the stage went by, with the +four horses at a gallop. A fair face overtopped +by white plumes looked out of the surging window. +Lydia turned her head hastily, and the +red in her cheeks deepened. It was the bride, +Deborah White, going with her new husband to +spend the honeymoon with his relations in Abington. +There was a nice little hair trunk +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_263">[Pg 263]</span>strapped on behind the stage. Lydia eyed it contemptuously +when Deborah could no longer see +her. She thought, “Maybe his first wife’s satin +pelisse is in there.”</p> + +<p>A man emerged from the cloud of dust in the +wake of the stage. He was old, and wore his +white hair in a queue. He had on a green double +cloak, although the day was warm, and walked +with a stick, to whose height he accommodated +himself at every step with a downward motion of +his shoulders. He did not seem to need its support.</p> + +<p>When he approached the house, Lydia stood up +and courtesied low.</p> + +<p>“Good-day, Lydia,” said he, in a solemn voice.</p> + +<p>“Good-day, sir,” she returned, with stately +deference; and she ushered the minister, Elihu +Eaton, into the fore room, and placed the rocking-chair +with the feather cushion for him.</p> + +<p>The fore room was close and cool, for the +windows had been shut all day to keep out the +flies. There was a smell of mint and lavender. +The great testered bedstead, with its chintz valance +and curtains, stood in one corner. There +was a high chest of drawers and a splendid carved +oak linen chest, which Lydia’s grandmother had +brought over from England. On one side of the +fireplace was a great cupboard with panelled +doors, and that was filled with gallipots. Lydia’s +father had been a doctor.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_264">[Pg 264]</span></p> +<p>Lydia sat beside the window, opposite the minister. +There was a restrained defiance in the lift +of her chin. Now and then she picked a bit of +the flax from her gown.</p> + +<p>She knew well why the minister had come. +Aunt Nabby Keith had warned her. It was ten +months since her banns with Freelove had been +published, and she held herself aloof, and would +not marry him out of sheer wilfulness and coquetry, +the neighbors said. Freelove’s aunt +Nabby had come to see her only the day before, +and talked seriously with her.</p> + +<p>“You ain’t livin’ up to your professions,” the +old woman had said, “and I’m going to speak +plain. If you let this year go by and don’t marry +Freelove according to your banns, you’ll have a +good deal to answer for.”</p> + +<p>“Well, I’ll ask nobody else to answer for me,” +Lydia returned.</p> + +<p>“The parson says he’s coming to reason with +you, Lydia Hersey.”</p> + +<p>“Let him come,” said Lydia; and her head +tossed up like a rose in a wind.</p> + +<p>And now the parson had come. It was some +little space before he opened on the subject in +hand. In truth, he stood somewhat in awe, although +he did not know it, of this beautiful high-spirited +young woman. There had been always +a brisk feminine rule in his own house. Even +now he sweltered under the weight of the green +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_265">[Pg 265]</span>double cloak which his wife Sarah had hoisted +upon his slender shoulders because she thought +he had taken cold. The waistcoat, which she +had made to suit her own ideas and not his +requirements, bound his back; his neckcloth, +which she had wound with ardor, half choked +him and fretted his chin.</p> + +<p>When at length he reasoned with Lydia Hersey +on the matter of her non-fulfilment of the +marriage banns, and the report that she was about +to let the lawful year go by and jilt Freelove +Keith, it was with circumspect solemnity. Lydia’s +cheeks flamed redder and redder, but her +black eyes never left his face.</p> + +<p>“Did you meet Freelove Keith with that noisy +crew, who ought to have been at home at work +in the middle of the afternoon, shouting and +blowing conch shells under Mr. Abraham White’s +windows?” she demanded.</p> + +<p>The minister admitted that he had, and had +remonstrated with them.</p> + +<p>“It would make a better text for a discourse +than some others that meddlesome folks set,” +said Lydia, for she had no fear of any one before +another, not even the minister or the squire. She +stood up. The minister Elihu Eaton’s sober +peaked face rising out of his great capes, which +shrugged to his ears, looked up at her. “Either,” +said she, in a masterful way, and yet with a remembering +sweetness, for the minister looked +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_266">[Pg 266]</span>suddenly very old to her—“either Freelove Keith +has got to do as I say or I have got to do as he +says before we are married, if the banns have been +cried a thousand years.”</p> + +<p>Then she went out into the keeping-room, and +presently returned with a tray, on which were set +out a decanter of West India Rum, a little silver +bowl of loaf-sugar, a tumbler, and a plate of +pound-cake.</p> + +<p>When the minister had partaken of these refreshments, +he offered a prayer and took his leave. +Lydia courtesied when he went out the door, but +her lips were tightly shut again, for Elihu Eaton, +in his appeal to the Lord, had spoken with more +fire concerning her affairs than he had dared use +towards her. “O Lord, make this, Thy handmaiden, +to keep to the vows which she has spoken, +and let not a froward mind lead her aside into +strange paths,” the minister had said, and more, +and Lydia could not expostulate.</p> + +<p>She went into the keeping-room and got supper +ready. Lydia Hersey had lived alone ever +since her father’s death. All the more reason, +people thought, why she should fulfil her marriage +contract with Freelove Keith. There was +she, living all alone in a large house, with a comfortable +income, and there was Freelove, who +was no longer so necessary at home since his +sister had married and taken her husband there +to live, and who could easily manage his farm and +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_267">[Pg 267]</span>live in the Hersey house. There was Freelove, +whom everybody liked, yet felt a certain anxiety +about, because he had been to sea, and might +have seen much evil in foreign ports, going too +often to the tavern, people said, and neglecting +his farm to go on junketings with idle young +men, to Abington or Braintree, and once even +over to Boston, and to be away all night. It +looked no better, people said, because Squire +Perkins’s son went with him, and he was college-learned. +It was generally conceded that Abel +was not as reliable, and would not make as smart +a man, as the old squire.</p> + +<p>Lydia Hersey saw Abel Perkins again that +night. After supper she strolled down the road +a little way. She was mindful that Freelove +had said he was coming, and she wondered if her +rebuff would quite drive him away. Before she +started she stood hesitating a moment in the doorway. +The evening was cool, and she had put a +yellow blanket over her head and bare shoulders.</p> + +<p>She thought, angrily, that she would not stay +at home and watch for Freelove Keith, when he +might not come; but, on the other hand, she did +not want to go away and never know if he had +called.</p> + +<p>Finally she pulled some sprigs of mint from +the bank under the keeping-room windows, and +she shut the house door, and stuck them carefully +under the sill. Then she went on down +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_268">[Pg 268]</span>the road, and soon she met Abel Perkins. He +stood about, and took off his hat in a way he had +learned in college, and Lydia courtesied gravely. +Abel was considerably younger than she, and she +had always had a certain disdain for him, in spite +of his being the squire’s son. Still it was quite +evident that he humbly admired her, and some +deference was due him for that.</p> + +<p>So when he asked humbly if he might walk +with her a way, she said yes, and they went on +together. Alder-trees, faintly sweet in a pale +mist of bloom, stood beside the road; there were +distant peals of laughter, tinklings of cow bells, +and a hubbub of nestward birds. Lydia stepped +proudly along beside the little anxiously smiling +squire’s son; her beautiful face looked out of her +yellow blanket as if it were a frame of gold.</p> + +<p>Abel Perkins kept glancing up at her and +blushing. “If you had told me that you didn’t +want me to go to Abraham White’s, I wouldn’t +have gone, Lydia,” he said, after a while.</p> + +<p>“I don’t approve of any such goings on,” Lydia +returned, severely.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know as they are very becoming,” +said Abel Perkins.</p> + +<p>They sauntered on slowly. The sunset light +lay in red-gold patches on the dusty road, some +elm-trees ahead swayed in a mystical, rosy, smokelike +incense. Presently at the right of the road +showed the red walls of Aunt Nabby Keith’s +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_269">[Pg 269]</span>house out of a thicket of purple-topped lilac-bushes. +Freelove suddenly appeared in the road. +When he saw Lydia he started, then went on with +a jauntier swing. He scarcely nodded as he went +by. Lydia held her head like a statue.</p> + +<p>“Is he huffy?” whispered Abel.</p> + +<p>“I don’t know and I don’t care,” replied Lydia, +coldly. But in a second she faced about. +“I must go home,” said she. “It is getting +damp.”</p> + +<p>Abel went obediently at her side. Freelove +was still visible in the road ahead. Lydia talked +and laughed very loud, but he did not turn his +head, although he must have heard. When they +reached the Hersey house, Lydia turned promptly +into the yard. “Good-night, Abel,” she called, +loudly. And Abel Perkins responded with rueful +sweetness, for he had thought to be asked in, +and went on down the road in Freelove’s tracks. +Lydia watched him out of sight. She knew he +would meet Freelove at the village store, if he +did not overtake him. She did not go into the +house and disturb the mint on the door-sill. She +waited a few minutes, then she also went on a +little way to the next house, where lived a young +woman mate of hers. She went in and stayed until +nearly nine o’clock, and the two girls talked +over Deborah Belcher’s wedding, but not a word +did Lydia say about her quarrel with Freelove.</p> + +<p>When she went home, she got down on her +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_270">[Pg 270]</span>knees in the porch, and examined the mint carefully. +It was bright moonlight; not a sprig had +been disturbed. Lydia opened the door and +walked in, trampling the mint ruthlessly.</p> + +<p>The next day was Sunday, and she went to +meeting dressed in her best gown, with roses +sprinkled over a blue ground, and her Leghorn +bonnet trimmed with a rose-colored ribbon, and +sat fanning herself calmly with a painted fan +when Freelove entered, but he never looked at +her.</p> + +<p>The minister preached from Psalm lxxv. 5, +“Lift not up your horn on high; speak <i>not</i> with +a stiff neck,” and there was much nudging in the +congregation, and uneasiness among the young +men who had saluted Abraham White and his +bride. Freelove sat straight and stiff, but his +face was red. Lydia smiled behind her fan.</p> + +<p>The next morning Sarah Porter, the girl whom +she had visited Saturday evening, came in. She +had heard that Lydia had really jilted her lover. +She and her mother had watched, and knew that +he had not come courting the night before.</p> + +<p>“I hear you and Freelove have fallen out,” +said she. Her lips were smiling archly, but her +eyes were hard and curious.</p> + +<p>“There’s plenty to hear, if folks keep their +ears pricked up,” replied Lydia, and she would +say no more.</p> + +<p>She smiled scornfully when presently she +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_271">[Pg 271]</span>watched Sarah Porter’s squat figure go out of the +yard. “She didn’t find out much,” she muttered. +“She’d give all her old shoes to get Freelove herself, +but he wouldn’t look at her.”</p> + +<p>That forenoon Lydia took her flax-carding out +on the porch again. Soon, as she sat there, she +saw Abel Perkins coming. He hesitated at the +gate. He carried a great bunch of white lilacs. +Purple lilacs were plenty in East Bridgewater, +but white ones grew nowhere except in the squire’s +yard.</p> + +<p>“Ain’t you coming in, Abel?” called Lydia, +and she smiled her sweet imperious smile at him.</p> + +<p>Abel came up the path, extending the great +bunch of lilacs like a propitiatory offering to a +deity.</p> + +<p>“I thought maybe you’d like a bunch of these +white lilacs, Lydia,” he said.</p> + +<p>“Thank you, Abel; they’re real handsome, +and I’ll put them in a pitcher when I go in,” replied +Lydia, graciously.</p> + +<p>This morning she wore a green and white gown, +which made her face still more like a rose. Abel +stood leaning against a post of the porch, looking +at her, then looking quickly away.</p> + +<p>“Have you got any errands or anything you +want done, Lydia?” he stammered.</p> + +<p>Lydia looked at him; a sudden wicked light +came into her eyes. There he stood, in his fine +waistcoat and broadcloth, with his handsome +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_272">[Pg 272]</span>knee-buckles and gold chain. His hands were +long and slim and white, much whiter than hers.</p> + +<p>“Why, yes, Abel,” said she; “if you really +want something to do, the pease out in my garden +need sticking.”</p> + +<p>Abel Perkins stared aghast a minute; then he +started eagerly.</p> + +<p>“You’ll have to go up in the pasture and cut +some brush,” said Lydia.</p> + +<p>The truth was that Freelove Keith had taken +it upon himself to tend Lydia’s garden, which +was but a small one, and she thought with spiteful +delight how, when he came again, if he came +at all, he would find some of the work done, +and wonder. But it did not fall out as she had +planned, for presently she heard loud voices +out in the garden, and peering around the corner +of the porch, she saw Freelove and Abel, each +with a bundle of brush.</p> + +<p>Lydia gathered up her work hastily, and fled +into the house. She went up to the south chamber, +and peeped around the curtain. Both of her +lovers were sticking the pease, Abel awkwardly, +with trembling haste, and Freelove with a sturdy +vehemence that might have suited Cadmus sowing +the dragon’s teeth. Just then there was a +sullen quiet, but presently arose another altercation. +Lydia spied a long rent in the skirt of +Abel’s fine coat. Soon Abel started towards the +house, and she sat down on the floor of the south +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_273">[Pg 273]</span>chamber and laughed. She heard a faint voice +below calling her, but she did not reply, and Abel +dared not search for her in the house.</p> + +<p>Lydia peered out again, and saw Freelove at +work alone in the garden, but he never once +glanced up at the house. She saw Sarah Porter’s +face, and her mother’s over her shoulder, at a +window of their house across the yard, and she +watched jealously lest Freelove should glance +that way; but he did not. When the pease were +finished, he went out of the yard, looking neither +to the right nor left. Lydia went down-stairs +cautiously, to be sure Abel Perkins was gone.</p> + +<p>However, when he came again, as he did soon, +she greeted him kindly, and smiled sweetly by +way of indirect condolence when he told how +Freelove Keith had driven him from the garden. +Lydia spied the rent, which his mother had neatly +mended, in his broadcloth coat.</p> + +<p>“Why, Abel, you have torn your fine coat,” +said she.</p> + +<p>Abel blushed. “I tore it getting the sticks for +the pease. But ’tis of no account,” he said; “and +I’m willing to tear it again if there is anything +else you want done, Lydia.”</p> + +<p>“Maybe your mother won’t be quite so willing +to mend it again,” said Lydia.</p> + +<p>But presently she brought out the churn, and +set Abel Perkins, in his fine clothes, churning +cream out on the porch. Sarah Porter called +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_274">[Pg 274]</span>her mother out into their front yard to see, and +Freelove Keith went by; he went often to see his +Aunt Nabby.</p> + +<p>Abel churned until the butter came, and it took +full long, and his fine waistcoat was spattered +with cream; and then she sent him home like a +little boy. Lydia found many another domestic +task for Abel Perkins, and all on the porch. She +set him carding flax, and spinning, and making +candle-wicks. She found errands also for him to +do, and many commands for him to obey. She +sent him to Abington with a couple of feather +pillows for her aunt, and awkwardly enough he +managed them on horseback. She forbade his +going to Boston on a little trip with some of the +village young men, Freelove being of the party. +Abel Perkins never rebelled against her rule, but +there came a time when Lydia herself arose for +him.</p> + +<p>One afternoon he sat on the porch spinning at +the wheel, and Lydia had tied one of her blue +aprons around his waist, when she suddenly +spoke.</p> + +<p>“Take off that apron now, and stop spinning, +and go home, Abel Perkins,” said she.</p> + +<p>Abel jumped up, and stared at her.</p> + +<p>“I mean what I say,” said she. “If you are +not ashamed for yourself, I am ashamed for you, +and I am ashamed for myself more than I am for +you. No man can make a woman like him by +<span class="pagenum" id="Page_275">[Pg 275]</span>doing everything she tells him to; she only despises +him for it. You remember it next time. +Now you had better go home and learn your +Latin books.”</p> + +<p>“Can’t I come again, Lydia?” said Abel. He +was quite pale, and tears stood in his eyes.</p> + +<p>But Lydia would not speak softly to him. +“No,” she replied, “you can’t. You mustn’t +come here wasting your time any more. You +must study your books. You are not old enough +to go courting; get your college books learned +through first.”</p> + +<p>“Can I come then, Lydia?” he inquired, +faintly.</p> + +<p>“No,” said she; “I shall never want anybody +coming again. Take off that apron and go +home.”</p> + +<p>And Abel Perkins obeyed. He looked very +dejected and youthful going out of the yard. +Lydia went into the house and cried.</p> + +<p>Abel stayed away for a week; then he came +again. Lydia would not have gone to the door +had she known who it was plying the knocker. +She never heard the knocker but with a hope that +it might be Freelove, although he never came now.</p> + +<p>When she saw Abel standing there, she frowned.</p> + +<p>“Don’t look at me so, Lydia,” he pleaded. +“I couldn’t help coming. I can’t eat, and I +haven’t slept any. I’m sick, Lydia. Mother +keeps asking me what the matter is.”</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_276">[Pg 276]</span></p> +<p>Indeed Abel looked ill; he was paler than +usual, and had a pinched and woe-begone expression +that drew his face down, and made it +appear thinner.</p> + +<p>“Well, you come in,” said Lydia. “I’m going +to mix you up some medicine, if you’re sick. +I know a very good one that my father showed +me how to make. It’ll cure you right up, Abel.”</p> + +<p>And Lydia made Abel seat himself on the settle +in the keeping-room, and went with a cup and +spoon to the cupboard in the fore room, where +her father’s old gallipots were kept. Then she +took from this and that, and mixed carefully, +and returned to Abel.</p> + +<p>“Here, drink this,” said she.</p> + +<p>Abel held out his hand, but turned his face +away.</p> + +<p>“’Tis only a little assafœtida that I put in to +quiet the nerves that you smell,” said she. “’Tis +mostly for the liver. My father used to say that +the root of all sickness was the liver, and he did +not know but it was the root of all evil. If your +liver were in good order you would not fret, Abel +Perkins. Drink it down.”</p> + +<p>And Abel drank it down with an effort.</p> + +<p>“Now you’d better go home,” said she, “and +wait till it takes effect. I’ll warrant you’ll eat +some supper to-night.”</p> + +<p>“I sha’n’t, Lydia, if you don’t let me come to +see you,” said Abel, piteously.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_277">[Pg 277]</span></p> +<p>“Yes, you will. How long did you go without +your supper when that girl in Abington gave +you the mitten? I ain’t the first one you’ve +stopped eating for, Abel Perkins, and you not +twenty! You know it’s so.”</p> + +<p>Abel blushed, and looked down foolishly.</p> + +<p>Lydia laughed. “If you keep on this way, +you’ll starve to death before you come of age,” +said she. “Now you’d better go home and study +your books, and leave such matters alone until +you get more sense to manage them. I suppose +you will when you’ve got the college books +learned through.”</p> + +<p>Abel arose. Lydia followed him to the door, +and her voice was softer as she bade him good-bye. +He looked piteously backward at her as he +went out of the yard, but still she was not so +touched as she had been before.</p> + +<p>“That story about his being so crazy over that +girl in Abington was true,” she said to herself; +and although she was generous enough to feel relieved +that her unlucky lover had an elastic as +well as susceptible temperament, and was likely +to recover from his wounds, still she disliked +him the more for it.</p> + +<p>It now wanted only a month for the expiration +of the year since Lydia and Freelove’s banns +had been published. Should they not marry before +then, they could not legally, unless they +were again published.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_278">[Pg 278]</span></p> +<p>It was a month since Freelove had set foot in +Lydia’s house, or indeed spoken to her. He +came, early in the morning sometimes, and cared +for her garden, but they never exchanged a word. +Everybody said that the marriage was broken off. +Lydia kept on as usual. She had some beautiful +linen in the loom, and she wove as if she were +certainly going to be married. Sarah Porter used +to come in and wonder, but she found out nothing +from Lydia, who never spoke Freelove’s +name.</p> + +<p>“She’s making more linen,” Sarah told her +mother when she got home, and the two women +speculated anxiously. They knew that Freelove +did not go to see Lydia, at all events, for they +and all the neighbors watched.</p> + +<p>When the last day of the year since the banns +came, there was no longer doubt in anybody’s +mind, nor was there, indeed, in Lydia’s. She +stayed in-doors, and wove her linen in a mechanical +fashion. She sat before the great loom, and +it was as if she were playing a harmony of sweet +housewifely industry upon it like a very artist, +but the tears rolled down her cheeks, which were +not rosy that morning.</p> + +<p>Had she not listened two months for the sound +of the knocker, she would not have heard it +above the great hum of the loom that afternoon; +but hear it she did, and went to answer it, wiping +her eyes.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_279">[Pg 279]</span></p> +<p>Freelove Keith stood in the porch, and out at +the gate stood his horse, with a pillion behind the +saddle.</p> + +<p>“Come, Lydia,” said Freelove, “I want you +to get on the pillion, and ride over to Aunt Nabby’s +with me.”</p> + +<p>“I can’t,” said Lydia, faintly. “I’m all over +flax lint from the loom.”</p> + +<p>“Put on an apron,” said Freelove.</p> + +<p>Lydia went into the house, and tied an apron +around her waist, and came out again. Freelove +lifted her on the pillion, and they rode down the +street without a word, until they reached the +minister Elihu Eaton’s house, which was about +half way to Aunt Nabby’s.</p> + +<p>Freelove drew rein. “Now we’ll go in and get +married, Lydia,” said he.</p> + +<p>“Oh, Freelove, <i>I</i> can’t!” gasped Lydia.</p> + +<p>“Now or never,” said Freelove, sternly.</p> + +<p>“I was going to have a wedding, Freelove, and +a brocade gown, and cake—”</p> + +<p>“Now or never,” said Freelove.</p> + +<p>He sprang off the saddle and held up his arms. +Lydia slipped down into them, and followed him, +trembling, her head drooping, into the minister’s +house.</p> + +<p>When they came out, a stout old woman stood +waiting for them at the gate.</p> + +<p>“I’ve got married, Aunt Nabby,” said Freelove, +with a gay laugh.</p> +<p><span class="pagenum" id="Page_280">[Pg 280]</span></p> +<p>“Well, I should think ’twas time,” replied the +old woman. She chuckled; her iron-bowed spectacles +flashed back the light. “I’ve got a bedquilt +made for Liddy, and six yarn socks for +you, Freelove,” she said; “and I’m going home +and bake a pound-cake with some plums in it.”</p> + +<p>Aunt Nabby went scuttling down the road. +Freelove and Lydia remounted, and went back +at a canter. Freelove pulled a conch shell from +his pocket, and blew as lustily as a herald. Folks +ran to the windows, and Lydia hid her blushing +face against her husband’s shoulder.</p> + + +<p class="center">THE END</p> +<div class="transnote"> +<h2>Transcriber's notes</h2> +<p> +New original cover art included with this eBook is granted to the +public domain. +</p> +<p> +Itemized changes from the original text: +</p> +<ul> +<li>Page <a href="#tn01">41</a>: "lay" is modified in "lie". The past +tense is rather confusing.</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn02">67</a> contains a word, starting with "h" +that was illegible in the scan. The most probable completion +is "her".</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn07">69</a>: "frowsly" has been changed into "frowsy".</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn03">168</a> contains an interchange of the two +Evelina's. Originally the text said "Adams", but in view of the logic +of the story it has to be "Leonard".</li> +<li>Page <a href="#tn04">180</a>: an exclamation mark has been added +to the text below the picture, in order to balance this text against +the list of illustrations.</li> +</ul> +<p> +The author is not too consequent in the use of hyphens. Several +words are encountered with and without hyphen. +A small overview:<br> +Over-seas / overseas; goodman / good-man; homespun / home-spun; +hearth-stone / hearthstone. +</p> +<p> +At the very beginning of the text a level-1 header is added for +"SILENCE AND OTHER STORIES". +</p> +</div> +<div style='text-align:center'>*** END OF THE PROJECT GUTENBERG EBOOK 76948 ***</div> +</body> +</html> + diff --git a/76948-h/images/cover.jpg b/76948-h/images/cover.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..aeb4d12 --- /dev/null +++ b/76948-h/images/cover.jpg diff --git a/76948-h/images/i_fp030_verbeterd.jpg b/76948-h/images/i_fp030_verbeterd.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..b1cbab9 --- /dev/null +++ b/76948-h/images/i_fp030_verbeterd.jpg diff --git a/76948-h/images/i_fp132_verbeterd.jpg b/76948-h/images/i_fp132_verbeterd.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2435e0a --- /dev/null +++ b/76948-h/images/i_fp132_verbeterd.jpg diff --git a/76948-h/images/i_fp180_verbeterd.jpg b/76948-h/images/i_fp180_verbeterd.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..f2e0e1f --- /dev/null +++ b/76948-h/images/i_fp180_verbeterd.jpg diff --git a/76948-h/images/i_frontis_verbeterd.jpg b/76948-h/images/i_frontis_verbeterd.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..2cb8c17 --- /dev/null +++ b/76948-h/images/i_frontis_verbeterd.jpg diff --git a/76948-h/images/i_title_verbeterd.jpg b/76948-h/images/i_title_verbeterd.jpg Binary files differnew file mode 100644 index 0000000..65654dc --- /dev/null +++ b/76948-h/images/i_title_verbeterd.jpg diff --git a/LICENSE.txt b/LICENSE.txt new file mode 100644 index 0000000..b5dba15 --- /dev/null +++ b/LICENSE.txt @@ -0,0 +1,11 @@ +This book, including all associated images, markup, improvements, +metadata, and any other content or labor, has been confirmed to be +in the PUBLIC DOMAIN IN THE UNITED STATES. + +Procedures for determining public domain status are described in +the "Copyright How-To" at https://www.gutenberg.org. + +No investigation has been made concerning possible copyrights in +jurisdictions other than the United States. 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