"THERE IS A MAN IN ENGLAND, NAMED DARWIN"
It was the following Sunday morning, if I remember aright, that I first
heard the name of Charles Darwin and received an intimation as to the
now world-famous theory of the origin and descent of mankind. What a
singular name Darwin seemed to me, too, the first time I heard it.
The Old Squire was a great reader, for a Maine farmer, who as a rule has
little time for that, during the summer season. But he always caught a
few minutes for his newspapers at breakfast, or dinner, although we did
not then take a daily paper.
The old gentleman had not received a college education, but he had once
attended Fryeburg Academy, at the time Daniel Webster taught there, and
afterwards had been a student for two terms at Hebron Academy. Even at
the age of sixty-nine he retained a somewhat remarkable thirst for
information of all kinds. I remember that he would sit for a whole
evening, poring so intently in a volume of Chamber's _Encyclopaedia_ as
to be hardly aware of what was going on in the room about him. After a
manner, too, he kept pretty well posted, not only on events of current
history and politics, but of scientific progress.
That spring of 1866, he had privately sent to an acquaintance in
Portland to procure for him a copy of _The Origin of Species_, then a
new book, to which he had seen brief allusions in our weekly newspapers,
and concerning which he felt much curiosity. He read it all through,
carefully, without saying much, if anything, about it to Gram, or any
one else. But Elder Witham found out, somehow, that there was such a
book in our house, and his animosity against it was much excited.
Before prayers that Sunday morning the Old Squire looked around--though
I think he had Addison and Theodora chiefly in mind--and said, "There is
a man in England, named Darwin, Charles Darwin, who has written a book,
called _The Origin of Species_, of which a great deal begins to be said.
This Darwin is a scholarly man and writes modestly. I see that a great
many appear to be adopting his views. He holds that man has risen from
certain lower animals, somewhat like the monkeys, or apes, and therefore
that we are related by descent to these animals, instead of having been
created perfect, as the Bible seems to teach.
"This man Darwin brings forward a great many things in support of his
views, some of which seem reasonable. He appears to be a sincere man,
and as such ought not to be condemned hastily. I think it is still too
soon to form a decided opinion as to this, and that it is safer for us
to go on believing as the Scriptures teach.
"I mention this," the Old Squire continued, "Because Elder Witham tells
me that he is going to take up Darwin's book in his sermon a week from
to-day, to warn people against it. The Elder, who is also very sincere,
believes that this Darwin is a dangerous man who is doing vast harm to
Christianity. I do not go quite so far as that, myself, although I still
hold to the Scriptural account of man's creation. But if Mr. Darwin is
as honest a man as he seems and has published what he thinks to be the
truth, I do not believe his book will in the end do any harm in the
world. But it is always better, in such important matters, not to change
our opinions hastily, but to reflect carefully." After a pause Addison
spoke. "Elder Witham's sermon against Darwin will not change my mind,"
said he, very decidedly. "I think Darwin is right. He is a great man.
Elder Witham is always down on everything that touches his narrow views
of the Bible."
"The Elder is an honest, fearless man," was all the reply the Old Squire
made to that. But Gram exclaimed that she hoped none of us would ever
read that wicked book about mankind being from monkeys--which somehow
made me perversely resolve to read it.
The Old Squire, however, kept _The Origin of Species_ put away in some
secret receptacle known only to himself.
That same Sabbath morning, too, the Old Squire read briefly from one of
the papers of a terrible war that was raging in South America, between
Paraguay on one hand and Brazil and the Argentine Republic on the other.
As usual, after reading anything of this kind at table, the old
gentleman commented on it and generally made some point clear to us.
"The trouble down there in South America," said he, "comes wholly from
an unscrupulous man, named Francisco Lopez, who has contrived to make
himself Dictator of Paraguay. Lopez is an imitator of Napoleon
Bonaparte. He has an insatiate ambition to conquer all South America and
found an empire there, much as Napoleon sought to conquer Europe and
establish a great French empire. Napoleon is Lopez' model. He has
plunged Paraguay in misery and mourning.
"When I was a boy," the Old Squire added, "I had a great admiration for
Napoleon Bonaparte and loved to read of his great battles. Nearly all
young people do admire him. But now that I see his motives and his acts
more clearly, I regard him as a monster of egotism and brutal
ambition."
Halstead had stolen out while the Old Squire was reading to us. We could
not find him during the forenoon, but he came in after we sat down at
dinner, much as on a former Sunday; this time, too, he looked much
heated. Addison and Theodora bent their eyes on their plates, but
nothing was said by any one. Halstead ate hurriedly, with covert glances
around. He seemed disturbed or excited, and after dinner went out in the
garden alone, keeping aloof, but came up to our room late that evening,
after I was abed.
At length I fell asleep, but immediately a noise like scratching or
squeaking on the window pane, roused me suddenly. The window was on the
back side of the house, but there was a driveway beneath it, and any one
outside could, with a very long stick, reach up to the glass panes. It
had grown dark, but when the noise waked me, I found that Halstead was
sitting on the side of the bed, as if listening.
"What was that?" I said, sleepily.
"Oh, nothing," replied Halse. "The wind rattled the window, I guess."
I recollect thinking, that there was no wind that night, and I believe I
said so, but I was very sleepy, and although I thought it queer that
Halse should be sitting up to hear the wind, I soon fell into a drowse
again and probably snored, for my room-mate often accused me of that
offense.
I had not fallen soundly asleep, however, when I again heard the tapping
at the window. A sly impulse, suggested probably by Halstead's demeanor,
prompted me to play 'possum and pretend that I had not waked this time.
I even went on breathing hard, on that pretense.
Halstead was still sitting on the bed. He listened for a moment to my
counterfeit breathing, then slid easily off and approached the window.
It was already raised a little and rested on a New Testament which Gram
always kept in our room. Halse gently shoved the window higher and put
out his head. The air of the quiet country night was very still, and I
heard a hoarse whisper from the ground outside, although I could not
distinguish the words.
"Yes," whispered Halstead in reply.
Then the whisper below resumed.
"I don't want to do that," said Halstead.
The whisper outside rejoined, at some length.
"Perhaps," answered Halse.
The other whisper continued.
"When?" asked Halstead.
The whisper replied for some moments.
"By eleven," Halse then said. "Not before."
Then there was a good deal of whispering beneath, and Halstead replied,
"Well, I'll be there."
Not long after, he crept back to bed, I meantime continuing my
fraudulent hard breathing, although by this time I was very much awake
and consumed by curiosity and suspicion. For at least half an hour,
Halse tossed and turned about, seeming to be very restless and uneasy;
in fact, he was still turning, when I fell asleep in very truth.
When I first waked next morning, I did not recollect this circumstance
of the previous evening; in fact, it did not come into my mind till we
had gone out to milk the cows. I then began to think it over earnestly
and continued doing so throughout the forenoon. At first I had no
thought of telling any one what I had heard, for although Halse had
recently threatened me, I did not wish to play the spy on him.
But the idea that something wrong was on foot grew very strong within
me. The more I pondered the circumstances the more certain I felt of it.
At length I concluded to speak of it to Theodora; for some reason my
choice of a confidante fell instinctively on her.
We were "cultivating" the corn that forenoon with old Sol, and hoeing it
for the second time. Finally, I made an excuse to go to the house for a
jug of sweetened water. While preparing it, I found opportunity to call
Theodora into the wood-shed, and first exacting a promise of secrecy
from her, I told her what had occurred the previous evening.
She seemed surprised at first, then terrified, and I went back to the
field with my jug, leaving her greatly disturbed.
When we came in at noon, she motioned me aside in the pantry and said
hurriedly, that I must tell Addison and ask him to speak with her after
dinner.
Twice during the afternoon we saw Theodora out in sight of the
corn-field, and I knew that she was anxiously looking for a word or sign
from Addison. At last, towards supper time, taking advantage of a few
minutes when Halse had gone to the horse pasture with old Sol, I briefly
mentioned the thing to Addison and proffered Theodora's request for an
interview.
Addison listened with a frown. "I think I know who that was under the
window," said he. "Halse has been running round with him, on the sly,
for a month, and they've got some kind of a 'dido' planned out."
"Suppose it is anything bad?" I queried.
"Oh, I don't know," said Ad, impatiently. "Bad enough, I'll warrant you.
If it is the fellow I think it is, he is an out-and-out 'tough' and a
blackguard. One of those chaps that are hanging round Tibbett's rum shop
out at the Corners. You may be sure that a man of that stamp isn't
whispering around under windows, for any good."
"Why, you don't suppose they were planning to steal, or rob, do you?" I
asked, much startled.
"Who knows," replied Addison, coolly. "Halse is a strange boy. He is
just rattle-headed and foolish enough to get coaxed into some scrape
that will disgrace him and all the rest of us. I never saw a fellow in
my life so lacking in good sense.
"Oh yes, I'll talk with Doad," continued Ad, somewhat impatiently. "Doad
is a good girl. She thinks moral suasion and generosity will do
everything. But if I had Halse to manage, I would put him under lock and
key, every night," said Addison, striking his hoe sharply into the
ground.
"And if we only let him alone, I guess he will get there, of his own
accord," he added with a fine irony.
I saw quite plainly that, as Theodora had once said to me, Addison had
no patience with Halstead and his but too evident weakness of character.
"I don't like to run to the Old Squire with all that I see and hear,"
Addison went on, in a low tone, for Gramp was hoeing only a few steps
behind us, and Halstead was now coming back from the pasture. "For they
all think now that I don't like Halse and that I am too hard on him. But
they will find out who is in the right about it."
After supper I saw Theodora in earnest conversation with Addison, out in
the garden by the bee-house. Doad was a great friend of the bees; if she
were wanted and not in the house, we generally looked first for her in
the garden, in the vicinity of the bee-house.
Later in the evening, after we had finished milking and were going into
the dairy with our pails, Addison said to me that it was best, he
thought, to say nothing to the old folks just yet. "Doad wants me to
watch to-night and, if Halse gets up to go off anywhere, to stop him and
coax him back to his room.
"It isn't a job I like," continued Addison, "but perhaps we had better
try it; Doad thinks so.
"So if you can keep awake, till ten or eleven, you had better," Addison
went on. "If he gets up to start off, ask him where he is going, and if
he really starts, come and call me, and we will go after him. I can
dress in a minute."
To this proposal I agreed, and I may add here that at about eleven
o'clock we surprised Halse in the act of stealing away to the Corners,
but after some parley and a scuffle with him, succeeded in getting him
back to bed, and I lodged with Addison.
It was but a short night thenceforward till five o'clock in the morning.
Before going down-stairs we peeped into Halse's room, to see if he were
there still. He lay soundly asleep. Addison closed the door softly.
"Poor noodle," said he, as we got the milk pails. "Let him snooze
awhile. I suppose it isn't really his fault that he has got such a head
on his shoulders. He is rather to be pitied, after all. He is his own
worst enemy.
"I've heard," Ad continued in a low tone, as we opened the barnyard
gate, "that Aunt Ysabel, Halse's mother, was a sort of queer, tempery,
flighty person."
The Old Squire had got out a little in advance of us and sat milking.
"Good morning, boys," said he, looking up cheerily, as we passed.
"Another fine day. The whole country looks bright and smiling. Grand
year for crops."
"We will not say a word to him about our scrape with Halse last night,"
Addison remarked to me. "There's no use plaguing him with it. We cost
him so much and give him so much trouble, that I am ashamed to let him
know of this."
When we took in the milk, Theodora was grinding coffee (and how good it
smelled! She had just roasted it in the stove oven). "We got him back
all right, with no great difficulty," Addison whispered to her, in
passing.
"Oh, I'm so glad," she replied.
Halse had not come down; and pretty soon we heard the Old Squire call
him, at which Addison laughed a little as he glanced at me. At
breakfast Halstead looked somewhat glum; in fact, he did not look at
Addison and me at all, if he could avoid it.
That forenoon we hoed corn again and talked a good deal of the Fourth of
July celebration which was to come off at the village the following
week.
Toward noon, however, word was sent us that the husband of a cousin of
the Old Squire's who resided in the town adjoining, to the eastward, had
suddenly died, and that the funeral was to be at two o'clock that
afternoon.
No one of the family seemed much disposed to attend it. It appeared that
the deceased had not been a highly respected citizen. It was said that
he had died from the effects of a fit of intoxication. The liquor which
drunkards were able to obtain, by hook or crook, at that period and in
spite of the Prohibitory Law, was of a peculiarly deleterious character.
At dinner the Old Squire remarked that he should attend the funeral, and
that I could go with him, if I liked, but that the others might be
excused. I at once accepted the invitation; almost anything was
preferable to hoeing corn in the hot sun.
It was a pleasant ride of eight miles along the county road to the
northeastward. We first passed numerous farms, then a "mud pond" and a
"clear water pond," following afterwards the valley of a small river
between two high, wooded mountains, till we came at last to a saw-mill,
grist-mill and a few houses at a place whimsically known as the "city."
Here in a little weathered house the last rites and services to the
deceased were held. Elder Witham, still in his duster, preached a short
discourse during which I felt somewhat distressed to hear him express
certain doubts as to the man's future state. The Elder was a thoroughly
upright Yankee and Methodist, who tried to preach the truth and the
gospel, as he apprehended it; he did not believe that all a person's
faults are, or ought to be, forgiven at his death. I remember the
following words which he made use of on that occasion, for they appealed
to some nascent sense of logic in me, I suppose: "The evil which men do
in this life lives on in the world after they die; and even so the just
penalty for it continues with them in a future state."
The Old Squire, although ordinarily a kind and reasonable man, yet
possessed some of the same severe traits of character, which have
descended in the sons of New England, from the days of the Puritans. I
remember that he said, as we drove along the road, going homeward: "The
death of a drunkard is a shameful end. Such a person can expect other
people to mourn only for his folly."
But these sentiments made far less impression upon me then than the
conduct of the wife of the dead man. I had somehow supposed that he was
an old man; but instead, he was only thirty-four years of age; and his
wife was an auburn-haired, strong woman, not more than thirty, unusually
handsome in face and form. She was in a state of great excitement, not
wholly caused by sorrow. It appeared that there had been a violently
bitter quarrel between the pair, the night before the man's death; and
so far from having forgiven her husband, even then, the woman exhibited
the turbulence of her temper and behaved in an unseemly manner during
and after the services. Her outcries gave me a very strange impression
and in fact so shocked and terrified me, that to this day I cannot
recall the scene without a singular sensation of disquiet. Withal, it
was the first funeral which I had ever attended. As a lad I was in not a
little doubt on several points, touching the behavior of widows on such
occasions; and as we drove homeward, I ventured to ask the Old Squire
whether women were often liable to go on at funerals as that one did.
For I remember thinking that if this were really the case, I should
never under any circumstances whatever, be allured into matrimony.
But the Old Squire at once said, positively, that they did not behave
so, and that this woman (her name was Britannia) was an exception to all
rules.
My next question upset him, however, for after a few moments of decent
inward satisfaction over his reply, I asked him whether Britannia was a
_Pepperill_.
Gramp turned half around on the wagon seat and looked at me in
astonishment for an instant; he then burst out in a hearty laugh.
"No, no," said he. "She is no Pepperill, no connection whatever of your
grandmother. The shoe is on the other foot. It's on my side this time."
He laughed again as he drove on; and just before we reached home, he
told me, and seemed much in earnest that I should understand it, that
the Pepperills were a very good family, as much or more so than the
average, and that if I had got any different impression from anything I
had heard said, it was utterly erroneous.
"You must never mind any of the nonsense I have over to your grandmother
when we are at table," he continued. "It's all fun. We don't mean
anything. Your grandma is the best woman I ever knew."
I replied that I had thought that was the way of it, myself. As the old
gentleman had expressed himself so magnanimously toward the Pepperills,
I at once resolved not to say a word to Gram, or any of the others,
about this Britannia's behavior. I did not like to have Gramp put at any
disadvantage in the family; so the old gentleman and I kept that
incident quiet between us for a good many years.