PLANTING HYACINTHS.
Desdemona listening to the Moor is a parallel not now used for the
first time. The "cultured" reader has met it before. But where to find
a better? Matilda sat and listened with open-eyed attention while
Considine told his story.
She had received him with some slight display of coolness, when he
first appeared, but without question and comment. If the men cared no
more than to forget their little plan of a lunch in the woods, of what
consequence could it possibly be to them? They would know better than
trouble him with their little female festivities again, that was all;
and if he had been indifferent or rude, at least they knew better than
make themselves absurd by showing offence. It was "good morning, Mr.
Considine," when he appeared. "So sorry Penelope has gone out.
However, she is only down at the farm, talking to Bruneau. She will be
back presently." Considine had to say everything for himself, without
the assistance which even pretending to call him to account would have
given; while all the time he recognized how deeply he must have
offended by the severity with which he was chilled and sat upon, as
Miss Matilda went on most industriously with her embroidery.
"I failed to turn up at your pic-nic, Miss Matilda."
"Oh! It was no consequence. I dare say you would have found it dull if
you had come. As it was, the day was so sultry we felt sure it would
thunder, and did not go."
"But I really wished to go, Miss Matilda. I was most desirous---"
Matilda lifted her face to smile a sweet incredulous smile on the
visitor, and then went on with her work.
"But it is so, Miss Matilda. I beg you will believe me. And do you
suppose I would not have sent you word if it had been possible?"
"We were surprised at that, now I remember. But it was not a party. It
was nothing. Pray do not mention it!"
"But I must, Miss Matilda. It was most important to me!"
Miss Matilda laid her work in her lap and looked up.
"I went to bed, Miss Matilda, intending to join your expedition. I got
up next morning, still intending it, at six o'clock. You were not to
start till eleven. I bathe every morning in the river. I went out in a
boat, as usual--one of Podevin's boats. I plunged in and swam--just as
I always do--when a rascal--I will not name him--took aim at me from
the shore, and shot me in the shoulder. You see my arm is in a sling."
"Oh!" cried Matilda, half rising and dropping the work; "I did not
notice your poor arm, Mr. Considine. Indeed I did not. Shot you in the
arm? Did it hurt much? Shot--You? Pray tell me about it. Who was the
person?"
"A person we both know. But you must not mention his name. Not that he
deserves any consideration from honest folks, but for his wife's sake,
who is a good woman, and would be horrified if she knew. It was Ralph
Herkimer."
"Ralph Herkimer! But why?"
"He called on me with Jordan the night before, asking me to give up
his uncle's money, which I hold in trust. You may have heard of the
uncle's curious will, which tied up the money out of Ralph's reach.
Ah! he knew the rascal. I could not give up the money. It would have
been a breach of trust. And so, the very next morning, he fires at me
while I am swimming in the river. Fired and struck me. I tried to
regain the boat, but I could not. I was crippled of an arm, and I
sank, and know no more."
"Mr. Considine!" and Matilda rose and came to the sofa where he sat,
her cheek blanched, and betraying an interest which made him feel glad
that he had suffered, to call it forth.
"And--well, Mr. Considine, what then?"
"The next thing I knew, I was barely conscious; but I was on dry land,
feeling sick and stupid, and more dead than alive. A whole crowd of
people were about me, shaking me, punching me, pulling me, bumping me,
while I only wished they would let me alone, and let me die; for
already I had gone through all the horrors of drowning, and this
seemed like an after-death. And then I found myself among blankets,
and some one--a witch she looked like--was forcing whisky down my
throat, and fingering my wounded shoulder. I was drowsy and miserable,
and, thinking I was already dead, I wondered if all this was for my
sins. And then I slept, I suppose, for when I woke next it was dark or
nearly so; and there was a jolting and rumbling which set my poor
shoulder aching miserably; and I tried to sit up, but some one pushed
me down again and bade me keep still. When I looked, the witch was
perched upon my pillow, with the moonlight slanting through her grisly
hair, and a long skinny arm pressing me down. She forced more whisky
into my mouth, and then I slept."
"Oh! Mr. Considine. What an experience!"
"I woke again, and it was daylight, and the old hag seated on my
pillow had fallen asleep. I sat up slowly and with difficulty, for I
was stiff and sore. I was in a waggon under a tree. I tried to rise,
but could find nothing save my blanket to dress in. The hag opened her
eyes and looked at me, and grinned, and asked me what I wanted to do.
I said,' to go home,' and then she laughed out, pointing to me, and
reminding me I had no clothing; and at the sound of her voice there
gathered round a whole crowd of swarthy vagabonds, grinning at me, and
jeering, and when I looked at them, one rascal was wearing my coat,
and another kicked up his heels and showed me my boots. A pimpled baby
was rolled up in my nice clean shirt, and the captain of the gang
pulling my watch out of his pocket, told me it was only five o'clock,
and a heap too early for 'a swell cove' to think of rising. I was
their prisoner, in short, though I must confess the old woman attended
to my wounded shoulder very kindly; bathing it with cool water several
times a day, and bandaging it as well as one of our surgeons could
have done during the war. They kept me several days with them, in
their journeyings and campings, travelling by all kinds of bye-ways
and unfrequented places, and keeping me concealed whenever strangers
came about the camp. They crossed the Lines, by-and-bye, and travelled
into the States. I knew that by the nasal Yankee twang of the
strangers' voices, though great care was taken that I should not get
speech of them--and then, one day, the captain, the fellow, at least,
who wore my watch, told me he thought I was strong enough to travel
now, and if I would give them some money to buy me clothes, and pay
for the care they had taken of me, I might go my ways. I was so
helplessly in their power, that we did not haggle long about the
price, though it was a pretty steep one. I wrote them a cheque, which
they carried to a neighbouring bank, and so soon as my bankers had
honoured it I was set at liberty. I put in a bad time, Miss Matilda, I
promise you; but, if you will believe me, what vexed me most of all
was to think how I had kept you waiting, and never been able to send a
word of excuse. When I was drowning in the river, it was my very last
thought, I remember, and when I came to myself it was my first."
"Oh! Mr. Considine. How very nice of you to say so. But don't! It is
really too dreadful. It is horrible. I never did hear anything so
frightful. And you say that Ralph Herkimer did this abominable deed?
Are you sure you are not mistaken? Or it may have been an accident."
"Not a bit of it. I saw him as plain as I see you, and it was no
accident. I saw him shoulder his gun to fire again, while I was
struggling in the water, in case I had succeeded in gaining my boat."
"You will have him taken up, Mr. Considine? It seems wrong--and
dangerous to leave such a person at large."
"I would if it were not for his wife. But you know how she would
suffer. She never would be able to show face again. No! For her sake I
mean to let the thing pass; and you must promise me, Miss Matilda, you
will never mention it."
"How noble of you! Mr. Considine. I shall never be able to look at the
ruffian again. And his son is here constantly. But we must put a stop
to that. It will vex poor Muriel, I fear, but she will see the reason
of the thing. You will allow me to explain to Muriel? There they go;
passed the window this very minute. The assassin!"
"Nay! Miss Matilda. Let me intercede for the lad. There is no harm in
my young friend Gerald. A fine manly youngster--his mother's son,
every inch of him. No, no, my little Muriel--forgive the freedom--must
know least of all. Young love! Miss Matilda. It is a charming sight to
see. So full, and so trusting--so all-in-all, and yet so delicate and
dainty. So fleeting, sometimes. Always so fragile and so irreparable
if it gets a bruise. So hopeless to try and bring back its early
lustre if once it grows dim. So--but--I'm a maundering old fogey, I
suppose. Forgive an old bachelor's drivel, Miss Matilda."
"There's nothing to forgive, Mr. Considine. I sympa--I agree
with--it's all so true! There's nothing like youth in all the world,
and--love--but, there now! These are things which middle-aged people
have no business with----"
"But surely, Miss Matilda. We--they--the middle-aged--have business
with that? If our hearts have remained unwithered by the world--if
there should still be a germ of life at the core, though hidden by the
rind which time brings for a protection, like the scales on a hyacinth
root in a gardener's drawer, do you not think it allowable and even
fitting, that when warmth gets at them, and moisture, they may sprout
forth worthily, even if out of season, each after its kind? Do you
suppose a sound heart can ever grow incapable of love. Miss Matilda?
Will love ever die?"
"Ah!" and Matilda looked upward. "My own feeling. So true! So
comforting! Love never dies. The poets say so. Beyond the grave are we
not assured that still and for ever we shall love? But yet--but yet--I
fear sometimes that it shows a grovellingness in myself, that I do not
cherish the thought more eagerly--as we grow older should our
affections not take a higher flight? I long so for more warmth, and
regret my coldness and frivolity; but I feel going to church so little
helpful."
"You are lonely. Miss Matilda. Aspiring after unseen goodness is a
high and abstract flight. It needs companionship. I, too, know what
it means. But a man in the world is little able to withdraw his
thoughts from worldliness, and I am alone. With help--a good woman's
help--Matilda! May I say it? as I have long felt it?--with yours----"
He took her hand and held it, looking in her face.
She did not seem to hear him at first, her eyes were far away. And
then she grew to feel the intentness of his gaze, and drew away her
hands to hold before her face, where a blush was rising; for the look
spoke more of a human than immortal love, and it confused her.
"We will be friends," she said.
"But friendship will not be enough for me, Matilda. You must be my
wife."
Matilda was white now. She leaned back in the sofa, and her head fell
forward. It seemed to Considine that she would faint, and he had risen
to ring, when she recovered self-control, and looked up in his face.
Being a lady of an earlier generation, when fainting was occasionally
practised as a climax to emotion, and brides sometimes wept at the
altar on bidding _adieu_ to the associations of their youth, allowance
must be made for Matilda by young women of the modern and robuster
school, who can ratify an engagement for life with the same outward
composure as one for the next valse. The modes of emotional expression
and disguise are as much a question of date as the fashions in
hair-dressing. Matilda was no more a lackadaisical fool than you are,
my good madam; nor are you, I do believe, one whit more hard or
heartless than she, whom I take to have been a good and affectionate
woman.
Penelope came in from the farm not long after, and there was much to
tell her. Considine was persuaded to remain for dinner, and went away
in the evening a happy man.
The hyacinths were getting their chance at last, and he promised
himself that with care and shelter they would sprout yet, and bloom in
the autumn, as fragrantly and gay as with other fortune they might
have done in spring.