The spring of 1861 had now arrived,--that eventful spring which was to
lift the curtain and show the first scene of the first act in the mighty
drama which fixed the eyes of mankind during four bloody years. The
little schemes of little people were going on in all our cities and
villages without thought of the fearful convulsion which was soon coming
to shatter the hopes and cloud the prospects of millions. Our little
Oxbow Village, which held itself by no means the least of human centres,
was the scene of its own commotions, as intense and exciting to those
concerned as if the destiny of the nation had been involved in them.
Mr. Clement Lindsay appeared suddenly in that important locality, and
repaired to his accustomed quarters at the house of Deacon Rumrill. That
worthy person received him with a certain gravity of manner, caused
by his recollections of the involuntary transgression into which Mr.
Lindsay had led him by his present of “Ivanhoe.”--He was, on the whole,
glad to see him, for his finances were not yet wholly recovered from
the injury inflicted on them by the devouring element. But he could not
forget that his boarder had betrayed him into a breach of the fourth
commandment, and that the strict eyes of his clergyman had detected him
in the very commission of the offence. He had no sooner seen Mr. Clement
comfortably installed, therefore, than he presented himself at the
door of his chamber with the book, enveloped in strong paper and very
securely tied round with a stout string.
“Here is your vollum, Mr. Lindsay,” the Deacon said. “I understand it is
not the work of that great and good mahn who I thought wrote it. I did
not see anything immoral in it as fur as I read, but it belongs to what
I consider a very dangerous class of publications. These novels and
romances are awfully destructive to our youth. I should recommend you,
as a young man of principle, to burn the vollum. At least I hope you
will not leave it about anywhere unless it is carefully tied up. I have
written upon the paper round it to warn off all the young persons of my
household from meddling with it.”
True enough, Mr. Clement saw in strong black letters on the back of the
paper wrapping his unfortunate “Ivanhoe,”--
“DANGEROUS READING FOR CHRISTIAN YOUTH.
“TOUCH NOT THE UNCLEAN THING.”
“I thought you said you had Scott's picture hung up in your parlor,
Deacon Rumrill,” he said, a little amused with the worthy man's fear and
precautions.
“It is the great Scott's likeness that I have in my parlor,” he said; “I
will show it to you if you will come with me.”
Mr. Clement followed the Deacon into that sacred apartment.
“That is the portrait of the great Scott,” he said, pointing to an
engraving of a heavy-looking person whose phrenological developments
were a somewhat striking contrast to those of the distinguished Sir
Walter.
“I will take good care that none of your young people see this volume,”
Mr. Clement said; “I trust you read it yourself, however, and found
something to please you in it. I am sure you are safe from being harmed
by any such book. Did n't you have to finish it, Deacon, after you had
once begun?”
“Well, I--I--perused a consid'able portion of the work,” the Deacon
answered, in a way that led Mr. Clement to think he had not stopped much
short of Finis. “Anything new in the city?”
“Nothing except what you've all had,--Confederate States establishing
an army and all that,--not very new either. What has been going on here
lately, Deacon?”--
“Well, Mr. Lindsay, not a great deal. My new barn is pretty nigh done.
I've got as fine a litter of pigs as ever you see. I don't know whether
you're a judge of pigs or no. The Hazard gal's come back, spilt, pooty
much, I guess. Been to one o' them fashionable schools,--I 've heerd
that she 's learnt to dance. I've heerd say that that Hopkins boy's
round the Posey gal, come to think, she's the one you went with some
when you was here,--I 'm gettin' kind o' forgetful. Old Doctor Hurlbut's
pretty low,--ninety-four year old,--born in '67,--folks ain't ginerally
very spry after they're ninety, but he held out wonderful.”
“How's Mr. Bradshaw?”
“Well, the young squire, he's off travellin' somewhere in the West, or
to Washin'ton, or somewhere else,--I don't jestly know where. They say
that he's follerin' up the courts in the business about old Malachi's
estate. I don' know much about it.”
The news got round Oxbow Village very speedily that Mr. Clement Lindsay,
generally considered the accepted lover of Miss Susan Posey, had arrived
in that place. Now it had come to be the common talk of the village that
young Gifted Hopkins and Susan Posey were getting to be mighty thick
with each other, and the prevailing idea was that Clement's visit had
reference to that state of affairs. Some said that Susan had given her
young man the mitten, meaning thereby that she had signified that his
services as a suitor were dispensed with. Others thought there was only
a wavering in her affection for her lover, and that he feared for her
constancy, and had come to vindicate his rights.
Some of the young fellows, who were doubtless envious of Gifted's
popularity with the fair sex, attempted in the most unjustifiable manner
to play upon his susceptible nature. One of them informed him that he
had seen that Lindsay fellah raound taown with the darndest big stick y'
ever did see. Looked kind o' savage and wild like. Another one told him
that perhaps he'd better keep a little shady; that are chap that had
got the mittin was praowlin' abaout--with a pistil,--one o' them
Darringers,--abaout as long as your thumb, an' fire a bullet as big as a
p'tatah-ball,--'a fellah carries one in his breeches-pocket, an' shoots
y' right threugh his own pahnts, withaout ever takin' on it aout of his
pocket. The stable-keeper, who, it may be remembered, once exchanged
a few playful words with Mr. Gridley, got a hint from some of these
unfeeling young men, and offered the resources of his stable to the
youth supposed to be in peril.
“I 've got a faast colt, Mr. Hopkins, that 'll put twenty mild betwixt
you an' this here village, as quick as any four huffs 'll dew it in this
here caounty, if you should want to get away suddin. I've heern tell
there was some lookin' raound here that wouldn't be wholesome to
meet,--jest say the word, Mr. Hopkins, an' I 'll have ye on that are
colt's back in less than no time, an' start ye off full jump. There's a
good many that's kind o' worried for fear something might happen to ye,
Mr. Hopkins,--y' see fellahs don't like to have other chaps cuttin' on
'em aout with their gals.”
Gifted Hopkins had become excessively nervous by this time. It is true
that everything in his intimacy with Susan Posey, so far, might
come under the general head of friendship; but he was conscious
that something more was in both their thoughts. Susan had given him
mysterious hints that her relations with Clement had undergone a change,
but had never had quite courage enough, perhaps had too much delicacy,
to reveal the whole truth.
Gifted was walking home, deeply immersed in thoughts excited by
the hints which hail been thus wantonly thrown out to inflame his
imagination, when all at once, on lifting his eyes, he saw Clement
Lindsay coming straight towards him. Gifted was unarmed, except with a
pair of blunt scissors, which he carried habitually in his pocket. What
should he do? Should he fly? But he was never a good runner, being apt
to find himself scant o' breath, like Hamlet, after violent exercise.
His demeanor on the occasion did credit to his sense of his own virtuous
conduct and his self-possession. He put his hand out, while yet at a
considerable distance, and marched up towards Clement, smiling with all
the native amiability which belonged to him.
To his infinite relief, Clement put out his hand to grasp the one
offered him, and greeted the young poet in the most frank and cordial
manner.
“And how is Miss Susan Posey, Mr. Hopkins?” asked Clement, in the most
cheerful tone. “It is a long while since I have seen her, and you must
tell her that I hope I shall not leave the village without finding time
to call upon her. She and I are good friends always, Mr. Hopkins, though
perhaps I shall not be quite so often at your mother's as I was during
my last visit to Oxbow Village.”
Gifted felt somewhat as the subject of one of those old-fashioned forms
of argument, formerly much employed to convince men of error in matters
of religion, must have felt when the official who superintended the
stretching-machine said, “Slack up!”
He told Mr. Clement all about Susan, and was on the point of saying that
if he, Mr. Clement, did not claim any engrossing interest in her, he,
Gifted, was ready to offer her the devotion of a poet's heart. Mr.
Clement, however, had so many other questions to ask him about everybody
in the village, more particularly concerning certain young persons in
whom he seemed to be specially interested, that there was no chance to
work in his own revelations of sentiment.
Clement Lindsay had come to Oxbow Village with a single purpose. He
could now venture to trust himself in the presence of Myrtle Hazard. He
was free, and he knew nothing to show that she had lost the liberty
of disposing of her heart. But after an experience such as he had gone
through, he was naturally distrustful of himself, and inclined to be
cautious and reserved in yielding to a new passion. Should he tell her
the true relations in which they stood to each other,--that she owed her
life to him, and that he had very nearly sacrificed his own in saving
hers? Why not? He had a claim on her gratitude for what he had done in
her behalf, and out of this gratitude there might naturally spring a
warmer feeling.
No, he could not try to win her affections by showing that he had paid
for them beforehand. She seemed to be utterly unconscious of the fact
that it was he who had been with her in the abyss of waters. If the
thought came to her of itself, and she ever asked him, it would be time
enough to tell her the story. If not, the moment might arrive when
he could reveal to her the truth that he was her deliverer, without
accusing himself of bribing her woman's heart to reward him for his
services. He would wait for that moment.
It was the most natural thing in the world that Mr. Lindsay, a young
gentleman from the city, should call to see Miss Hazard, a young lady
whom he had met recently at a party. To that pleasing duty he addressed
himself the evening after his arrival.
“The young gentleman's goin' a courtin', I calc'late,” was the remark of
the Deacon's wife when she saw what a comely figure Mr. Clement showed
at the tea-table.
“A very hahnsome young mahn,” the Deacon replied, “and looks as if he
might know consid'able. An architect, you know,--a sort of a builder.
Wonder if he has n't got any good plans for a hahnsome pigsty. I suppose
he 'd charge somethin' for one, but it couldn't be much, an' he could
take it out in board.”
“Better ask him,” his wife--said; “he looks mighty pleasant; there's
nothin' lost by askin', an' a good deal got sometimes, grandma used to
say.”
The Deacon followed her advice. Mr. Clement was perfectly good-natured
about it, asked the Deacon the number of snouts in his menagerie, got an
idea of the accommodations required, and sketched the plaza of a
neat, and appropriate edifice for the Porcellarium, as Master Gridley
afterwards pleasantly christened it, which was carried out by
the carpenter, and stands to this day a monument of his obliging
disposition, and a proof that there is nothing so humble that taste
cannot be shown in it.
“What'll be your charge for the plan of the pigsty, Mr. Lindsay?” the
Deacon inquired with an air of interest,--he might have become involved
more deeply than he had intended. “How much should you call about right
for the picter an' figgerin'?”
“Oh, you're quite welcome to my sketch of a plan, Deacon. I've seen much
showier buildings tenanted by animals not very different from those your
edifice is meant for.”
Mr. Clement found the three ladies sitting together in the chill, dim
parlor at The Poplars. They had one of the city papers spread out on
the table, and Myrtle was reading aloud the last news from Charleston
Harbor. She rose as Mr. Clement entered, and stepped forward to meet
him. It was a strange impression this young man produced upon her,--not
through the common channels of the intelligence, not exactly that
“magnetic” influence of which she had had experience at a former time.
It did not over come her as at the moment of their second meeting. But
it was something she must struggle against, and she had force and pride
and training enough now to maintain her usual tranquillity, in spite of
a certain inward commotion which seemed to reach her breathing and her
pulse by some strange, inexplicable mechanism.
Myrtle, it must be remembered, was no longer the simple country girl who
had run away at fifteen, but a young lady of seventeen, who had learned
all that more than a year's diligence at a great school could teach her,
who had been much with girls of taste and of culture, and was familiar
with the style and manners of those who came from what considered
itself the supreme order in the social hierarchy. Her natural love for
picturesque adornment was qualified by a knowledge of the prevailing
modes not usual in so small a place as Oxbow Village. All this had not
failed to produce its impression on those about her. Persons who, like
Miss Silence Withers, believe, not in education, inasmuch as there is no
healthy nature to be educated, but in transformation, worry about
their charges up to a certain period of their lives. Then, if the
transformation does not come, they seem to think their cares and duties
are at an end, and, considering their theories of human destiny, usually
accept the situation with wonderful complacency. This was the stage
which Miss Silence Withers had reached with reference to Myrtle. It made
her infinitely more agreeable, or less disagreeable, as the reader may
choose one or the other statement, than when she was always fretting
about her “responsibility.” She even began to take an interest in some
of Myrtle's worldly experiences, and something like a smile would now
and then disarrange the chief-mourner stillness of her features, as
Myrtle would tell some lively story she had brought away from the gay
society she had frequented.
Cynthia Badlam kept her keen eyes on her like a hawk. Murray Bradshaw
was away, and here was this handsome and agreeable youth coming in to
poach on the preserve of which she considered herself the gamekeeper.
What did it mean? She had heard the story about Susan's being off with
her old love and on with a new one. Ah ha! this is the game, is it?
Clement Lindsay passed not so much a pleasant evening, as one of
strange, perplexed, and mingled delight and inward conflict. He had
found his marble once more turned to flesh and blood, and breathing
before him. This was the woman he was born for; her form was fit to
model his proudest ideal from, her eyes melted him when they rested for
an instant on his face,--her voice reached the hidden sensibilities of
his inmost nature; those which never betray their existence until the
outward chord to which they vibrate in response sends its message
to stir them. But was she not already pledged to that other,--that
cold-blooded, contriving, venal, cynical, selfish, polished, fascinating
man of the world, whose artful strategy would pass with nine women out
of ten for the most romantic devotion?
If he had known the impression he made, he would have felt less anxiety
with reference to this particular possibility. Miss Silence expressed
herself gratified with his appearance, and thought he looked like a good
young man,--he reminded her of a young friend of hers who--[It was the
same who had gone to one of the cannibal islands as a missionary,--and
stayed there.] Myrtle was very quiet. She had nothing to say about
Clement, except that she had met him at a party in the city, and found
him agreeable. Miss Cynthia wrote a letter to Murray Bradshaw that very
evening, telling him that he had better come back to Oxbow Village as
quickly as he could, unless he wished to find his place occupied by an
intruder.
In the mean time, the country was watching the garrison in Charleston
Harbor. All at once the first gun of the four years' cannonade hurled
its ball against the walls of Fort Sumter. There was no hamlet in the
land which the reverberations of that cannon-roar did not reach. There
was no valley so darkened by overshadowing hills that it did not see the
American flag hauled down on the 13th of April. There was no loyal
heart in the North that did not answer to the call of the country to
its defenders which went forth two days later. The great tide of feeling
reached the locality where the lesser events of our narrative were
occurring. A meeting of the citizens was instantly called. The venerable
Father Pemberton opened it with a prayer that filled every soul with
courage and high resolve. The young farmers and mechanics of that whole
region joined the companies to which they belonged, or organized in
squads and marched at once, or got ready to march, to the scene of
conflict.
The contagion of warlike patriotism reached the most peacefully inclined
young persons.
“My country calls me,” Gifted Hopkins said to Susan Posey, “and I am
preparing to obey her summons. If I can pass the medical examination,
which it is possible I may, though I fear my constitution _may_ be thought
too weak, and if no obstacle impedes me, I think of marching in the
ranks of the Oxbow Invincibles. If I go, Susan, and I fall, will you not
remember me... as one who... cherished the tenderest... sentiments...
towards you... and who had looked forward to the time when... when....”
His eyes told the rest. He loved!
Susan forgot all the rules of reserve to which she had been trained.
What were cold conventionalities at such a moment? “Never! never!” she
said, throwing her arms about his neck and mingling her tears with his,
which were flowing freely. “Your country does not need your sword... but
it does need... your pen. Your poems will inspire... our soldiers....
The Oxbow Invincibles will march to victory, singing your songs.... If
you go... and if you... fall... O Gifted!... I... I... yes, I shall die
too!”
His love was returned. He was blest!
“Susan,” he said, “my own Susan, I yield to your wishes at every
sacrifice. Henceforth they will be my law. Yes, I will stay and
encourage my brave countrymen to go forward to the bloody field. My
voice shall urge them on to the battle-ground. I will give my dearest
breath to stimulate their ardor.
“O Susan! My own, own Susan!”
While these interesting events had been going on beneath the modest roof
of the Widow Hopkins, affairs had been rapidly hastening to a similar
conclusion under the statelier shadow of The Poplars. Clement Lindsay
was so well received at his first visit that he ventured to repeat it
several times, with so short intervals that it implied something more
than a common interest in one of the members of the household. There was
no room for doubt who this could be, and Myrtle Hazard could not help
seeing that she was the object of his undisguised admiration. The belief
was now general in the village that Gifted Hopkins and Susan Posey
were either engaged or on the point of being so; and it was equally
understood that, whatever might be the explanation, she and her former
lover had parted company in an amicable manner.
Love works very strange transformations in young women. Sometimes it
leads them to try every mode of adding to their attractions,--their
whole thought is how to be most lovely in the eyes they would fill so
as to keep out all other images. Poor darlings! We smile at their little
vanities, as if they were very trivial things compared with the last
Congressman's speech or the great Election Sermon; but Nature knows well
what she is about. The maiden's ribbon or ruffle means a great deal more
for her than the judge's wig or the priest's surplice.
It was not in this way that the gentle emotion awaking in the breast
of Myrtle Hazard betrayed itself. As the thought dawned in her
consciousness that she was loved, a change came over her such as the
spirit that protected her, according to the harmless fancy she had
inherited, might have wept for joy to behold, if tears could flow from
angelic eyes. She forgot herself and her ambitions,--the thought of
shining in the great world died out in the presence of new visions of a
future in which she was not to be her own,--of feelings in the depth of
which the shallow vanities which had drawn her young eyes to them for a
while seemed less than nothing. Myrtle had not hitherto said to herself
that Clement was her lover, yet her whole nature was expanding and
deepening in the light of that friendship which any other eye could have
known at a glance for the great passion.
Cynthia Badlam wrote a pressing letter to Murray Bradshaw. “There is no
time to be lost; she is bewitched, and will be gone beyond hope if this
business is not put a stop to.”
Love moves in an accelerating ratio; and there comes a time when the
progress of the passion escapes from all human formulae, and brings
two young hearts, which had been gradually drawing nearer and nearer
together, into complete union, with a suddenness that puts an infinity
between the moment when all is told and that which went just before.
They were sitting together by themselves in the dimly lighted parlor.
They had told each other many experiences of their past lives, very
freely, as two intimate friends of different sex might do. Clement had
happened to allude to Susan, speaking very kindly and tenderly of her.
He hoped this youth to whom she was attached would make her life happy.
“You know how simple-hearted and good she is; her image will always be a
pleasant one in my memory,--second to but one other.”
Myrtle ought, according to the common rules of conversation, to have
asked, What other? but she did not. She may have looked as if she wanted
to ask,--she may have blushed or turned pale, perhaps she could not
trust her voice; but whatever the reason was, she sat still, with
downcast eyes. Clement waited a reasonable time, but, finding it was of
no use, began again.
“Your image is the one other,--the only one, let me say, for all else
fades in its presence,--your image fills all my thought. Will you trust
your life and happiness with one who can offer you so little beside his
love? You know my whole heart is yours.”
Whether Myrtle said anything in reply or not, whether she acted like
Coleridge's Genevieve,--that is, “fled to him and wept,” or suffered her
feelings to betray themselves in some less startling confession, we will
leave untold. Her answer, spoken or silent, could not have been a cruel
one, for in another moment Clement was pressing his lips to hers, after
the manner of accepted lovers.
“Our lips have met to-day for the second time,” he said, presently.
She looked at him in wonder. What did he mean? The second time! How
assuredly he spoke! She looked him calmly in the face, and awaited his
explanation.
“I have a singular story to tell you. On the morning of the 16th of
June, now nearly two years ago, I was sitting in my room at Alderbank,
some twenty miles down the river, when I heard a cry for help coming
from the river. I ran down to the bank, and there I saw a boy in an old
boat--”
When it came to the “boy” in the old boat, Myrtle's cheeks flamed so
that she could not bear it, and she covered her face with both her
hands. But Clement told his story calmly through to the end, sliding
gently over its later incidents, for Myrtle's heart was throbbing
violently, and her breath a little catching and sighing, as when she had
first lived with the new life his breath had given her.
“Why did you ask me for myself, when you could have claimed me?” she
said.
“I wanted a free gift, Myrtle,” Clement answered, “and I have it.”
They sat in silence, lost in the sense of that new life which had
suddenly risen on their souls.
The door-bell rang sharply. Kitty Fagan answered its summons, and
presently entered the parlor and announced that Mr. Bradshaw was in the
library, and wished to see the ladies.