THE DARK MAN.
The long summer days had merged into autumn, whose hazy breath floated
like a misty veil over the distant hills. Slowly and noiselessly the
leaves were dropping one by one from the maple trees, strewing the
withered grass with a carpet of gorgeous hue. The birds had sung their
farewell song to their summer nests, and were off for a warmer clime;
while here and there busy hands and feet were seen gathering in the
autumnal stores.
On Herbert’s farm, however, there was a look of decay. The yellow corn
and golden pumpkins were yet in the field; the apples lay in heaps upon
the ground; the gates swung loosely in the wind; while the horses,
uncared for and unfed, neighed piteously in their stalls as if asking
why they were thus neglected. Alas! their master was a drunkard. Anna
was a drunkard’s wife; and mine a drunkard’s home! It was no longer a
secret there, and the old men shook their heads, while the young men
sighed to think how he had fallen. Night after night we sat up for him,
my sister and I lifting him from the threshold across which he would
fall, and bearing him to his bed, where we would lay him beside his
innocent son, whose blue eyes often opened with wonder at being thus
disturbed. A night’s debauch was always followed by a day of weakness
and debility, in which he was incapable of exertion, and so everything
seemed on the verge of ruin, when he suddenly conceived the idea of
advertising for an efficient man, who would take the entire charge of
affairs and relieve him from all care.
About this time I went back to Meadow Brook for a few weeks to be
present at the bridal of my oldest sister. Anna, too, was urged to
accompany me, but she declined, extorting from me a promise that if it
were possible I would not divulge the real state of things. “Tell them I
am happy and do not regret what I have done,” said she, as she followed
me down to the gate.
“And would that be true?” I asked, looking her in the face.
For an instant she hesitated, while her pale cheeks flushed and the
tears started to her eyes; then glancing at little Jamie, whom she held
in her arms, she answered, “Yes, it would be true. I do not regret it. I
had rather be Herbert’s wife as he is, than not to have been his wife at
all.”
Ah, who can fathom the depths of woman’s love, and what punishment shall
be sufficient for him who wantonly tramples upon it. Thus I thought as I
turned away from my sister, pondering upon her words long after I
reached the cars, and wondering if I should ever love as she did.
Involuntarily the doctor rose up before me—a drunkard, and I his wife,
and from my inmost soul I answered, “rather death than that!” Then,
though I blushed as I did so, I fancied myself the wife of “the dark
man,” and _he_ a drunkard. “Yes, I could bear that,” I said, and as if
to make the old adage true, that a _certain individual_ is always near
when we are talking about him, the car door opened and the subject of my
meditations stood before me! There was no mistaking him. The same tall,
manly form, the piercing eyes, the coal black hair and the same deep cut
between the eyebrows. I knew him in a moment, and an exclamation of
surprise escaped my lips, which, however, was lost by the rush of the
cars. The seats were nearly all occupied, and as he passed down the
aisle, my readers, I trust, will pardon me, if I _did_ gather up the
skirt of my dress and take my travelling bag upon my lap, while I myself
sat nearer to the window, looking out in order to hide my face, which I
thought possibly might not attract him!
“Is this seat occupied, miss?” said a heavy voice, which seemed to come
from some far off region.
“No, sir,” I answered, timidly, without venturing to turn my head, until
I felt myself uncomfortably crowded; then I looked around, and behold!
the dark stranger was sitting behind me near the door, while at my side
was a man of mammoth dimensions, with immense moustaches, watery eyes,
and a brandy breath flavored with tobacco!
I wanted to cry, and should probably have done so, had not my companion
immediately commenced a conversation by asking “if I had come very far,
and where I was going?”
He was exceedingly loquacious, and for several hours plied me with
questions as to my own name—my parents—my grand-parents—my brothers—my
sisters—our standing in the world—our religion—our politics, and our
opinion of spiritualism, of which last he was a zealous advocate. At
length just as it was growing dark, he gathered up his huge proportions,
and to my great joy bade me adieu, expressing his regret at leaving me,
and also assuring me that I would one day be a medium, which assumption
he based upon the fact of my having admitted that sometimes when falling
away to sleep I started suddenly and awoke. _This_, he said, was a
_spirit shock_, and would in the end lead to great results.
About nine o’clock we stopped for refreshments, and on re-ëntering the
cars, I found to my joy that the dark stranger’s seat was appropriated
by a son of Erin, who seemed nowise inclined to surrender it, inasmuch
as he had with him his wife, baby, and bundle. This time the fates were
propitious, for after looking around him awhile, the stranger asked
permission to sit by me, saying he should not discommode me more than
two or three hours, as by that time he hoped to reach his journey’s end,
a remark which gave me more pain than pleasure, for every nerve thrilled
with joy at being thus near to one who, though an entire stranger,
possessed for me a particular attraction. It was quite dark where we
sat, and the night lamp burned but dimly, so he did not once obtain a
full view of my face. He proved a most agreeable and attentive
companion, opening and shutting the window just as often as I evinced an
inclination to have him, holding my sachel in his lap; placing his own
travelling trunk at my feet for a footstool, and offering me his
fur-lined overcoat for a pillow; besides expressing many fears that I
would take cold whenever the window was open. At almost every station,
too, he asked “if I wished for anything,” but I did not, except indeed
to know whether he was yet the husband of Ada Montrose, and to obtain
that information I would have given almost anything. At last I hit upon
the following expedient. He made some remark about the country through
which we were passing, and I replied by saying that “I believed it was
not the first time he had been over that road, as, if I mistook not, I
saw him in the cars with his _wife_ the year before.”
The wrinkle in his forehead grew deeper, and his face flushed as he said
quickly, “I do not remember of meeting you before, though I _was_ here
last fall, but not with my _wife_, for I have none. It was my _ward_,
Miss Montrose.”
Nothing could have given me more satisfaction than this announcement,
for if Ada were his _ward_, it explained, in a measure, his attentions
to her; and as I cast stolen glances at him, I felt more and more
convinced that there could be no affinity between him and the haughty,
imperious girl to whom he was guardian. It seemed to me a very short
time ere he arose, and offering me his hand, said he must go, adding,
“We shall undoubtedly meet again, as I occasionally travel this way.”
Yes, we should meet again. I felt sure of that, though how and where I
could not tell.
It was nearly noon of the next day when I reached Meadow Brook, where I
found my father at the dépôt, waiting to receive me. Very kindly he
greeted me, inquiring eagerly after Anna and her boy, his grandson, whom
he expressed a strong desire to see. “But I never shall,” he said sadly,
as he walked slowly beside me up the long hill which led to the village.
Of Herbert he spoke not a word, though my mother and my sisters did,
asking me numberless questions, some of which I answered, while the
others I managed to evade, keeping them ignorant of the existing state
of things.
I found them all busied with the preparations for Juliet’s wedding,
which took place within a week after my return, I officiating as
bridesmaid, while the groomsman was none other than my old enemy, JOHN
THOMPSON, now a tall young man of eighteen, and cousin to Juliet’s
husband. When first the plan was suggested to me I refused, for I bore
him no good will; but my objections were overruled by Juliet, who told
me how much he had improved, and that I would find him very agreeable,
which was indeed true. He was very polite and attentive, referring
laughingly to the “freaks of his _boyhood_,” as he termed them, while at
the same time he laid his hand upon his _chin_, caressing the beard
which was there only in imagination, and even apologizing to me in a
kind of off-hand way for his conduct of three years before. Of course I
forgave him, and we are now the best of friends. So much for childish
prejudices.
In the course of the evening I asked him about the doctor, and was told
that he was still in Boston, and doing remarkably well. “And do you
know,” said John, “he imputes his success to _you_! I verily believe he
thinks you a perfect angel! Any way, I know he likes you better than he
does Dell, for he told me so in plain English, and I don’t blame him
either; the way she cuts up is enough to kill any man. Why, if I were in
his place, I’d get a divorce from her at once, and offer myself to you!”
“I wouldn’t have him,” said I, quickly.
“Nor me either? Wouldn’t you have me?” asked John, playfully.
“No, I wouldn’t,” was my reply; whereupon he laughed heartily, saying
“he was glad he knew my sentiments before he committed himself;” and
there the conversation ended.
After Juliet had left us for her new home, in an adjoining town, there
ensued at our house a season of lonely quiet, in which we scarcely knew
whether to laugh or to cry. There is always something sad in the giving
up of a daughter to the care of another, and so my parents found it,
particularly my father, who, broken in spirit and feeble in health, was
unusually cast down. He could hardly suffer me to leave his sight for a
moment, and still he seemed to take special pleasure in finding fault
with whatever I did. Nothing pleased him, and gradually there returned
upon me with its full force the olden fancy of my childhood, that _I_
was not loved like the rest. It was a most bitter thought, wringing my
heart with a keener anguish than it had ever done before; and once, the
very day before the one set for my return to Rockland, my pent up
feelings burst forth, and in angry tones I told him “it was useless for
me to try to please him—he didn’t love me and never had—and I was glad
that the morrow would find me away, where he would no longer be troubled
with my presence, which was evidently so disagreeable to him.”
He made me no answer, but a fearful look of sorrow, which will haunt me
to my dying day, passed over his thin, white face, and his hand, which
was hard and brown with toil for _me_, was raised beseechingly as if to
stay the angry torrent. Oh, how I repented of my harshness then, but I
did not tell him so; I would wait till morning, and then, ere I left, I
would seek the forgiveness, without which I well knew I should be
wretched, for something told me that never in this world should we meet
again.
Next morning when I awoke, the sun was shining brightly in at my window,
and hurrying on my clothes, I descended to the dining-room. In silence
we gathered around the breakfast table, and then I saw that my father
was absent. “Where was he?” I asked, and was told that having business
in Southbridge, a town several miles distant, he had left early, telling
my mother to bid me good-bye for him. All my good resolutions were
forgotten, and again I said hastily, “I think he might at least have
bidden me good-bye himself, and you may tell him so.”
“Hush, Rose, hush,” said my mother. “Your father isn’t the man he was
before we left our old home. He is broken down, and it may be you have
seen him for the last time.”
“It is hardly probable,” I answered, and with a swelling heart I bade my
mother adieu; but I left no message which would tell my father how much
I repented of my rashness.
Upon his grave the tall grass is growing—howling storms have swept
across it—wintry snows have been piled upon it—the summer’s mellow
sunlight has fallen around it—flowers have blossomed and faded—changes
have come to us all—and still I have never ceased to regret that last
interview with my father, or to mourn over my distrust of his love for
me.