AT GORHAM.
Mrs. Martha Herkimer, with her husband, travelling at their leisure in
"Noo Hampshire," the country of her girlhood, was a happy woman. He
was constantly with her, had few letters to write, and no men to talk
business with. He seemed to have laid business aside, would read his
newspaper beside her of a morning, and drive with her in the
afternoon, to admire the scenery--"objects of interest," the American
says, meaning everything the residents plume themselves upon, from the
Falls of Niagara, should they possess them, to the new school-house at
the Five-mile Cross Roads.
It felt like a renewal of the honeymoon, or those delightful "latter
rains," spoken of in scripture, when the thirsty earth, long parched
and chapped with drought, drinks in once more the life-restoring
moisture, and clothes itself anew with grass and verdure. He told her
one day that his house had suspended payment and he was bankrupt, but
as they were travelling with every comfort, and there seemed no lack
of money, she accepted it as one of the inscrutable phenomena of the
commercial world, which she had long given up attempting to
understand. Her Ralph, she told herself, could have done nothing
wrong. He was fonder of money, and harder and keener about acquiring
it, she feared, than was perhaps, perfectly right. Her father had been
a preacher of the old Puritan school, ministering to villagers in a
sequestered valley, and warning them against worldliness and the race
for wealth, the world of wealth being an unknown country there about.
If Ralph had lost some of his gatherings now, it might be for his
greater good perhaps in other ways. She saw many around her who had
failed, and yet lived comfortably and respected afterwards, and she
would not be sorry if such were to be the fate of her own good man. It
would wean him from the hurry and worry of business, and let him stay
more at home than theretofore, to his own good, very probably, and
assuredly to her greater happiness.
They travelled about, by road and rail, from one summer hotel to
another--there are many of them in the White Mountains--climbing
mountains, sailing on ponds, and honeymooning it delightfully all day
long, and now they were arriving at Gorham by the evening train,
meaning to ascend Mount Washington, already distinguished by his
snow-tipped summit, on the morrow. It was a purple evening, with the
eastward slopes of the valley reddening in the afterglow, while cool
blue shadows stole out of hollows to the westward, forerunners of the
twilight. The people on the platform stood in bright relief as the
train drew up at the station, and Martha's eye took them all in as she
alighted.
"What?" she cried, "General Considine! _you_ here?" She felt a bump
between her shoulders from the wallet of Ralph close behind her, as
though he stumbled. "Ralph!" and she turned round, but Ralph was
gone--gone back for something left behind no doubt. "General," and she
ran up to him and took his hand, while Considine looked disturbed, and
said nothing.
"What have you been about, general? Nobody has seen you, nobody knew
you were away; and one of your friends--you know who--is far from
pleased, I can tell you. But say!--your arm in a sling? Oh, general,
you have not been fighting, at _your_ time of day, I do hope. When I
was a girl we always said a Southern man must have been fighting if he
was tied up any way. What have you been doing? A hunting accident?"
"Madam," Considine began, clearing his throat, and looking tall and
sternly in the good woman's face, who was regarding him with such
friendly eyes. He coughed again, his face softened, and showed signs
of discomposure. How could he speak as he felt to this good soul about
her own husband, and tell her he was a murderer? He would have liked
to get away from her without saying anything; but she had mentioned "a
friend," the friend to whom he was at that moment hastening back to
apologize for, or at least to explain, his absence. He would like to
know beforehand what the friend was saying, and for that, self-control
and reticence, combined if necessary with invention, were needed. He
coughed again. Martha's last words, "hunting accident," still hanging
on his ear, came to his tongue-tip of itself.
"Yes. Hunting accident--gun accident, that is. Thought I was killed.
Insensible. A gang of tramps found me, and robbed me--they wore my own
clothes before my eyes, the rascals--and saved my life. And now that
they have cashed the cheque they made me give them in payment of the
treatment, they have discharged me cured. But what do the Miss
Stanleys say?"
"Matildy was mighty huffy at first. 'You should have called to
explain, or sent a note to apologize,' she said. But when you went on
doing neither, she grew down hearted like,--took it to heart serious,
I do believe, though she has never owned up as much to anybody. But,
if once she makes sure you are in the land of the livin', see if you
don't catch it, that's all. I guess I shouldn't like to be you, when
you call to explain, unless you can make the narrative real thrillin'.
But how was it, general? You must come up to the hotel with us and see
Ralph--I don't see where that man's run to--and tell us all about them
tramps. Do, now, general, like a dear."
"Impossible, Mrs. Herkimer. I go to Montreal by this very train.
Good-bye."