"What a fair lady!--and beside her
What a handsome, graceful, noble rider."--_Longfellow._
"Love was to her impassioned soul
Not as with others a mere part
Of its existence--but the whole,
The very life-breath of his heart."--_Moore._
We would like to follow Miss Thusa and her wheel, and relate the manner
in which she defended it from many a rude and insolent attack. The
Israelites never guarded the Ark of the Covenant with more jealous care
and undaunted courage.
But as we have commenced the history of our younger favorites in early
childhood, and are following them up the steep of life, we find they
have a long journey before them, and we are obliged here and there to
make a long step, a bold leap, or the pilgrimage would be too long and
weary.
We acknowledge a preference for Miss Thusa. She is a strong, original
character, and the sunlight of imagination loves to rest upon its
salient angles and projecting lines. When we commenced her sketch, our
sole design was to describe her influence on the minds of others, and to
make her a warning beacon to the mariners of life, that they might avoid
the shoals on which the peace of so many morbidly sensitive minds have
been wrecked. But we found a fascination in the subject which we could
not resist. A heart naturally warm, defrauded of all natural objects on
which to expend its living fervor, a mind naturally strong confined
within close and narrow limits, an energy concentrated and unwasting,
capable of carrying its possessor through every emergency and every
trial--these characteristics of a lonely woman, however poor and
unconnected she might be, have sometimes drawn us away from attractive
themes.
We do not know that Mittie can be called attractive, but she is young,
handsome and intellectual, and there is a charm in youth, beauty and
intellect that too often disarms the judgment, and renders it blind to
moral defects.
When Mittie returned from school, crowned with the laurels of the
institution in which she had graduated, wearing the stature, and
exhibiting the manners of a woman, though still in years a child, she
appeared to her young companions surrounded with a _prestige_, in whose
dazzling rays her childish faults were forgotten.
Mrs. Gleason, who had been looking forward with dread to the hour of her
step-daughter's return, met her with every demonstration of affectionate
regard. She had never seen Mittie, and as her father always spoke of her
as "the child," palliating her errors on the plea of her motherless
childhood, she was not prepared for the splendidly developed, womanly
girl, who received her kind advances with a haughty and repelling
coldness, which brought an angry flush to the father's brow.
"Mittie," said he, emphatically, "this is your _mother_. Remember that
she is to receive from all my children the respect and affection to
which she is eminently entitled."
"I know she is your wife, sir, and that her name is Mrs. Gleason, but
that does not make her a mother of mine," replied the young girl, with
surprising coolness.
"Mittie," exclaimed the father--what he would have said was averted by a
hand laid gently on his arm, and a beseeching look from the eyes of the
amiable step-mother.
"Do not constrain her to call me mother," she said. "I do not despair of
gaining her affections in time. I care not for the mere name,
unaccompanied by the feelings which make it so dear and holy."
One would have supposed that a remark like this, uttered in a calm, mild
tone, a tone of mingled dignity and affability, would have touched a
heart of only fifteen summer's growth, but Mittie knew not yet that she
had a heart. She had never yet really loved a human being. Insensible to
the sweet tendernesses of nature, it was reserved for the lightning bolt
of passion to shiver the hard, bark-like covering, and penetrate to the
living core.
She triumphed in the thought that in the struggle for power between her
step-mother and herself she had gained the ascendency, that she had
never yielded one iota of her will, never called her _mother_, or
acknowledged her legitimate and sacred claims. She began to despise the
woman, who was weak enough, as she believed, to be overruled by a young
girl like herself. But she did not know Mrs. Gleason--as a scene which
occurred just one year after her return will show.
Mittie was seated in her own room, where she always remained, save when
company called expressly to see her. She never assisted her mother
either in discharging the duties of hospitality or in performing those
little household offices which fall so gracefully on the young.
Engrossed with her books and studies, pursuits noble and ennobling in
themselves, but degraded from their high and holy purpose when
cultivated to the exclusion of the lovely, feminine virtues, Mittie was
almost a stranger beneath her father's roof.
The chamber in which she was seated bore elegant testimony to the
kindness and liberality of her step-mother--who, before Mittie's return
from school, had prepared and furnished this apartment expressly for her
two young daughters. As Mittie was the eldest, and to be the first
occupant, her supposed tastes were consulted, and her imagined wants all
anticipated. Mrs. Gleason had a small fortune of her own, so that she
was not obliged to draw upon her husband's purse when she wished to be
generous. She had therefore spared no expense in making this room a
little sanctum-sanctorum, where youth would delight to dwell.
"Mittie loves books," she said, and she selected some choice and elegant
works to fill the shelves of a swinging library--of course she must be
fond of paintings, and the walls were adorned with pictures whose gilded
frames relieved their soft, neutral tint.
"Young girls love white. It is the appropriate livery of innocence."
Therefore bed-curtains, window-curtains, and counterpane were of the
dazzling whiteness of snow. Even the table and washstand were white,
ornamented with gilded wreaths.
"Mittie was fond of writing--all school girls are," therefore an elegant
writing desk must be ready for her use--and though her love of sewing
was more doubtful, a beautiful workbox was ready for her accommodation.
She well knew the character of Mittie, and her personal opposition to
herself, but she was determined to overcome her prejudices, and bind her
to her by every endearing obligation.
"His children _must_ love me," she said, "and all that woman can and
ought to do shall be done by me before I relinquish my labors of love."
Mittie enjoyed the gift without being grateful to the giver; she basked
in the sunshine of comfort, without acknowledging the source from which
it emanated. For one year she had been treated with unvarying
tenderness, consideration, and regard, in spite of coldness,
haughtiness, and occasional insolence, till she began to despise one who
could lavish so much on a thankless, unreturning receiver.
She was surprised when her step-mother entered her room at the unusual
hour of bed time--and looking up from the book she was reading, her
countenance expressed impatience and curiosity. She did not rise or
offer her a chair, but after one rude, fixed stare, resumed her reading.
Mrs. Gleason seated herself with perfect composure, and taking up a book
herself, seemed to be absorbed in its contents. There was something so
unusual in her manner that Mittie, in spite of her determination to
appear imperturbable and careless, could not help gazing upon her with
increasing astonishment. She was dressed in a loose night wrapper, her
hair was unbraided, and hanging loose over her shoulders, and there was
an air of ease and freedom diffused over her person, that added much to
its attractions. Mittie had always thought her stiff and formal--now
there was a graceful abandonment about her, as if she had thrown off
chains which had galled her, or a burden which oppressed.
"To what am I indebted for the honor of this visit, madam?" asked
Mittie, throwing her book on the table with unlady-like force.
"To a desire for a little private conversation," replied Mrs. Gleason,
looking steadfastly in Mittie's face.
"I am going to bed," said she, with an unsuppressed yawn, "you had
better take a more fitting hour."
"I shall not detain you long," replied her step-mother, "a few words can
comprehend all I have to utter. This night is the anniversary of the
one which brought us under the same roof. I then made a vow to myself
that for one year I would labor with a bigot's zeal and a martyr's
enthusiasm, to earn the love and entitle myself to the good opinion of
my husband's daughter. I made a vow of self-abnegation, which no Hindoo
devotee ever more religiously kept. I had been told that you were cold
hearted and selfish; but I said love is invincible and must prevail;
youth is susceptible and cannot resist the impressions of gratitude. I
said this, Mittie, one year ago, in faith and hope and self-reliance. I
have now come to tell you that my vow is fulfilled. I have done all that
is due to you, nay, more, far more. It remains for me to fulfill my
duties to myself. If I cannot make you _love_ me, I will not allow you
to _despise_ me."
The bold, bright eye of Mittie actually sunk before the calm, rebuking
glance, which gave emphasis to every cool, deliberate word. Here was the
woman she had dared to treat with disdain, as undeserving her respect,
as the usurper of a place to which she had no right, whom she had
predetermined to _hate_ because she was her _step-mother_, and whom she
continued to dislike because she had predetermined to do so, all at once
assuming an attitude of commanding self-respect, and asserting her own
claims with irresistible dignity and truth. Taken completely by
surprise, her usual fluency of language forsook her, and she sat one
moment confounded and abashed. _Her claims?_ it was the first time the
idea of her step-mother having any legitimate claims on her, had assumed
the appearance of reality. Something glanced into her mind,
foreshadowing the truth that after all she was more dependent on her
father's wife, than her father's wife on her. It was like the flashing
of lamplight on the picture-frames and golden flower leaves on the
table, at which they both were seated.
"I have been alone the whole evening," continued Mrs. Gleason, in a
still calmer, more decided tone, "preparing myself for this interview;
for the time for a full understanding is come. All the sacrifices I have
made during the past year were for your father's peace and your own
good. To him I have never complained, nor ever shall I; but I should
esteem myself unworthy to be his wife, if I willingly submitted longer
to the yoke of humiliation. I tell thee truly, Mittie, when I say, I
care not for your love, for which I have so long striven in vain. You do
not love your own family, and why should I expect to inspire what they,
father, brother and sister have never kindled in your breast? I care not
for your love, but I _will_ have your respect. I defy you from this
moment ever to treat me with insolence. I defy you henceforth, ever by
word, look or thought, to associate me with the idea of _contempt_."
Her eye flashed with long suppressed indignation, and her face reddened
with the liberated stream of her emotions. Rising, and gathering up her
hair, which was sweeping back from her forehead, she took her lamp and
turned to depart. Just as she reached the door she turned back and
added, in a softer tone,
"Though you will never more see me in the aspect of a seeker after
courtesy and good will, I shall never reject any overtures for
reconciliation. If the time should ever come, when you feel the need of
counsel and sympathy, the necessity of a friend; if your heart ever
awakens, Mittie, and utters the new-born cry of helplessness and pain,
you will find me ready to listen and relieve. Good night."
She passed from her presence, and Mittie felt as if she had been in a
dream, so strange and unnatural was the impression left upon her mind.
She was at first perfectly stunned with amazement, then consciousness,
accompanied with some very disagreeable stinging sensations, returned.
When a very calm, self-possessed person allows feeling or passion to
gain the ascendency over them, they are invested for the moment with
overmastering power.
"I have never done justice to her intellect," thought she, recalling the
words of her step-mother, with an involuntary feeling of admiration;
"but I want not her love. When it is necessary to my happiness I will
seek it. Love! she never cared any thing about me; she does not pretend
that she did. She tried to win my good will from policy, not
sensibility; and this is the origin of all the comforts and luxuries
with which she has surrounded me. Why should I be grateful then? Thank
Heaven! I am no hypocrite; I never dissembled, never professed what I do
not feel. If every one were as honest and independent as I am, there
would be very little of this vapid sentimentality, this love-breath,
which comes and goes like a night mist, and leaves nothing behind it."
The next morning Mittie could not help feeling some embarrassment when
she met her step-mother at the breakfast-table, but the lady herself was
not in the least disconcerted; she was polite and courteous, but calm
and cold. There was a barrier around her which Mittie felt that she
could not pass, and she was uncomfortable in the position in which she
had placed herself.
And thus time went on--thus the golden opportunities of youth fled.
Helen was still at school; Louis at college. But when Louis graduated,
he came home, accompanied by a classmate whose name was Bryant
Clinton--and his coming was an event in that quiet neighborhood. When
Louis announced to his father that he was going to bring with him a
young friend and fellow collegian, Mr. Gleason was unprepared for the
reception of the dashing and high bred young gentleman who appeared as
his guest.
Mittie happened to be standing on the rustic bridge, near the celebrated
bleaching ground of Miss Thusa, when her brother and his friend arrived.
She was no lover of nature, and there was nothing in the bland, dewy
stillness of declining day to woo her abroad amid the glories of a
summer's sunset. But from that springing arch, she could look up the
high road and see the dust glimmering like particles of gold, telling
that life had been busy there--and sometimes, as at the present moment,
when something unusually magnificent presented itself to the eye, she
surrendered herself to the pleasure of admiration. There had been heavy,
dun, rolling clouds all the latter part of the day, and when the sun
burst forth behind them, he came with the touch of Midas,
instantaneously transmuting every thing into gold. The trunks of the
trees were changed to the golden pillars of an antique temple, the
foliage was all powdered with gold, here and there deepening into a
bronze, and sweeping round those pillars in folds of gorgeous tapestry.
The windows of the distant houses were all gleaming like molten gold;
and every blade of grass was tipped with the same glittering fluid.
Mittie had never beheld any thing so gloriously beautiful. She stood
leaning against the light railing, unconscious that she herself was
bathed in the same golden light--that it quivered in the dark waves of
her hair, and gilt the roses of her glowing cheek. She did not know how
bright and resplendent she looked, when two horsemen appeared in the
high road, gathering around them in quivers the glittering arrows
darting from the sky. As they rapidly approached, she recognized her
brother, and knew that the young gentleman who accompanied him must be
his friend, Bryant Clinton. The steed on which he was mounted was black
as a raven, and the hair of the young man was long, black, and flowing
as his horse's sable mane. As he came near, reining in the high mettled
animal, while his locks blew back in the breeze, enriched with the same
golden lustre with which every thing was shining, Mittie suddenly
remembered Miss Thusa's legend of the black horseman, with the jetty
hair entwined in the maiden's bleeding heart. Strange, that it should
come back to her so vividly and painfully.
Louis recognized his sister, standing on the airy arch of the bridge, and
rode directly to the garden gate. Clinton did the same, but instead of
darting through the gate, as Louis did, he only dismounted, lifted his
hat gracefully from his head, and bowed with lowly deference--then
throwing his arm over the saddle bow, he waited till the greeting was
over. Mittie was not the favorite sister of Louis, for she had repelled
him as she had all others by her cold and haughty self-concentration--but
though he did not _love_ her as he did Helen, she was his sister, she
appeared to him the personification of home, of womanhood, and his pride
was gratified by the full blown flower and splendor of her beauty. She
had gained much in height since he had last seen her; her hair, which was
then left waving in the wild freedom of childhood, was now gathered into
bands, and twisted behind, showing the classic contour of her head and
neck. Louis had never thought before whether Mittie was handsome or not.
She had not seemed so to him. He had never spoken of her as such to his
friend. Helen, sweet Helen, was the burden of his speech, the one lovely
sister of his heart. The idea of being proud of Mittie never occurred to
him, but now she flashed upon him like a new revelation, in the glow and
freshness and power of her just developed womanly charms. He was glad he
had found her in that picturesque spot, graceful attitude, and partaking
largely and richly of the glorification of nature. He was glad that
Bryant Clinton, the greatest connoisseur in female beauty he had ever
seen, should meet her for the first time under circumstances of peculiar
personal advantage. He thought, too, there was more than her wonted
cordiality in her greeting, and that her cheek grew warm under his
hearty, brotherly kiss.
"Why, Mittie," cried he, "I hardly knew you, you have grown so handsome
and stately. I never saw any one so altered in my life--a perfect Juno.
I want to introduce my friend to you--a noble hearted, generous,
princely spirited fellow. A true Virginian, rather reckless with regard
to expenditure, perhaps, but extravagance is a kingly fault--I like it.
He is a passionate admirer of beauty, too, Mittie, and his manners are
perfectly irresistible. I shall be proud if he admires you, for I assure
you his admiration is a compliment of which any maiden may be proud."
While he was speaking, Clinton followed the beckoning motion of his
hand, and approached the bridge. It is impossible to describe the ease
and grace of his motions, or the wild charm imparted to his countenance
by the long, dark, shining, back-flowing locks, that softened their
haughty outline. His hair, eye-lashes and eye-brows were of deep, raven
black, but his eyes were a dark blue, a union singularly striking, and
productive of wonderful expression. As he came nearer and nearer, and
Mittie felt those dark blue, black shaded eyes riveted on her face, with
a look of unmistakable admiration, she remembered the words of her
brother, and the consciousness of beauty, for the first time, gave her a
sensation of pride and pleasure. She was too proud to be vain--and what
cared she for gifts, destined, like pearls, to be cast before an
unvaluing herd? The young doctor was the only young man whose admiration
she had ever thought worthy to secure, and having met from him only cold
politeness, she had lately felt for him only bitterness and dislike.
Living as she had done in a kind of cold abstraction, enjoying only the
pleasures of intellect, in all the sufficiency of self, it was a matter
of indifference to her what people thought of her. She felt so
infinitely above them, looking down like the aeronaut, from a colder,
more rarefied atmosphere, upon objects lessened to meanness by her own
elevation.
She could never look down on such a being as Bryant Clinton. Her first
thought was--"Will he dare to look down on me?" There was so much pride,
tempered by courtesy, such an air of lofty breeding, softened by grace,
so much intellectual power and sleeping passion in his face, that she
felt the contact of a strong, controlling spirit, a will to which her
own might be constrained to bow.
They walked to the house together, while Louis gave directions about the
horses, and he entered into conversation at once so easily and
gracefully, that Mittie threw off the slight embarrassment that
oppressed her, and answered him in the same light spirited tone. She was
astonished at herself, for she was usually reserved with strangers, and
her thoughts seldom effervesced in brilliant sallies or sparkling
repartees. But Clinton carried about with him the wand of an enchanter,
and every thing he touched, sparkled and shone with newly awakened or
reflected brightness. Every one has felt the influence of that
indescribable fascination of manner which some individuals possess, and
which has the effect of electricity or magnetism. Something that
captivates, even against the will, and keeps one enthralled, in spite of
the struggling of pride, and the shame attendant on submission. One of
these fascinating, electric, magnetic beings was Clinton. Louis had long
been one of his captives, but _he_ was such a gay, frank, confiding,
porous hearted being, it was not strange, but that he should break
through the triple bars of coldness, haughtiness and reserve, which
Mittie had built around her, so high no mortal had scaled them--this was
more than strange--it was miraculous.
When Mittie retired that night, instead of preparing for sleep, she sat
down in the window, and tried to analyze the charm which drew her
towards this stranger, without any volition of her own. She could not do
it--it was intangible, evasive and subtle. The effect of his presence
was like the sun-burst on the landscape, the moment of his arrival. The
dark places of her soul seemed suddenly illumined; the massy columns of
her intellect turned like the tree trunks, into pillars of gold and
light; gilded foliage, in new born leaflets, played about the branches.
She looked up into the heavens, and thought they had never bent in such
grandeur and splendor over her, nor the solemn poetry of night ever
addressed her in such deep, earnest language. All her senses appeared
to have acquired an acuteness, an exquisiteness that made them
susceptible almost to pain. The stars dazzled her like sunbeams, and
those low, murmuring, monotonous sounds, the muffled beatings of the
heart of night, rung loudly and distinctly on her ear. Alarmed at the
strange excitement of her nerves, she rose and looked round the
apartment which her step-mother's hand had adorned, and _ingratitude_
seemed written in large, dark characters on the soft, grayish colored
walls. Why had she never seen this writing before? Why had the debt she
owed this long suffering and now alienated benefactress, never before
been acknowledged before the tribunal of conscience? Because her heart
was awakening out of a life-long sleep, and the light of a new creation
was beaming around her.
She took the lamp, and placing it in front of the mirror, gazed
deliberately on her person.
"Am I handsome?" she mentally asked, taking out her comb, whose pressure
seemed intolerable, and suffering the dark redundance of her hair to
flow, unrestrained, around her. "Louis says that I am, and methinks this
mirror reflects a glorious image. Surely I am changed, or I have never
really looked on myself before."
Yes! she was changed. The light within the cold, alabaster vase was
kindled, giving a life and a glow to what was before merely symmetrical
and classic. There was a color coming and going in her cheek, a warm
lustre coming and going in her eye, and she could not tell whence it
came, nor whither it went.
From this evening a new era in her life commenced.
Days and weeks glided by, and Clinton still remained the guest of Louis.
He sometimes spoke of going home, but Louis said--"not yet"--and the
sudden paleness of Mittie's cheek spoke volumes. During all this time,
they had walked, and rode, and talked together, and the enchantment had
become stronger and more pervading Mr. Gleason sometimes thought he
ought not to allow so close an intimacy between his daughter and a young
man of whose private character he knew so little, but when he reflected
how soon he was to depart to his distant home, probably never to return,
there seemed little danger to be apprehended from his short sojourn with
them. Then Mittie, though she might be susceptible of admiration for
his splendid qualities, and though her vanity might be gratified by his
apparent devotion--_Mittie had no heart_. If it were Helen, it would be
a very different thing, but Mittie was incapable of love, uninflammable
as asbestos, and cold as marble.
Mrs. Gleason, with the quicker perception of woman, penetrated deeper
than her husband, and saw that passions were aroused in that hitherto
insensible heart which, if opposed, might be terrible in their power.
Since her conversation with Mittie, where she yielded up all attempt at
maternal influence, and like "Ephraim joined to idols, _let her alone_,"
she had never uttered a word of counsel or rebuke. She had been coldly,
distantly courteous, and as she had prophesied, met with at least the
semblance of respect. It was more than the semblance, it was the
reality. Mittie disdained dissimulation, and from the moment her
step-mother asserted her own dignity, she felt it. Mrs Gleason would
have lifted up her warning voice, but she knew it would be disregarded,
and moreover, she had pledged herself to neutrality, unless admonition
or counsel were asked.
"Let us go in and see Miss Thusa," said Louis, as they were returning
one evening from a long walk in the woods. "I must show Clinton all the
lions in the neighborhood, and Miss Thusa is the queen of the
menagerie."
"It is too late, brother," cried Mittie, well knowing that she was no
favorite of Miss Thusa, who might recall some of the incidents of her
childhood, which she now wished buried in oblivion.
"Just the hour to make a fashionable call," said Clinton. "I should like
to see this belle of the wild woods."
"Oh! she is very old and very ugly," exclaimed Mittie, "and I assure
you, will give you a very uncourteous reception."
"Youth and beauty and courtesy will only appear more lovely by force of
contrast," said Clinton, offering her his hand to assist her over the
stile, with a glance of irresistible persuasion.
Mittie was constrained to yield, but an anxious flush rose to her cheek
for the result of this dreaded interview. She had not visited Miss Thusa
since her return from school, for she had no pleasing associations
connected with her to draw her to her presence. Since her memorable
journey with her wheel, Miss Thusa had taken possession of her former
abode, and no entreaties could induce her to resume her wandering life.
She never revealed the mystery of the advertisement, or the result of
her journey, but a female Ixion, bound to the wheel, spun away her
solitary hours, and nursed her own peculiar, solemn traits of character.
The house looked very much like a hermitage, with its low, slanting,
wigwam roof, and dark stone walls, planted in the midst of underbrush,
through which no visible path was seen. There was no gate, but a stile,
made of massy logs, piled in the form of steps, which were beautifully
carpeted with moss. A well, whose long sweep was also wreathed with
moss, was just visible above the long, rank grass, with its old oaken
bucket swinging in the air.
"What a superb old hermitage!" exclaimed Clinton, as they approached the
door. "I feel perfectly sublime already. If the lion queen is worthy of
her lair, I would make a pilgrimage to visit her."
"Now, pray, brother," said Mittie, determined to make as short a stay as
possible, "don't ask her to tell any of her horrible stories. I am
sure," she added, turning to Clinton, "you would find them exceedingly
wearisome."
"They are the most interesting things in the world," said Louis, with
provoking enthusiasm, as opening the door, he bowed his sister in--then
taking Clinton's arm, ushered him into the presence of the stately
spinster.
Miss Thusa did not rise, but suffering her foot to pause on the treadle,
she pushed her spectacles to the top of her head, and looked round upon
her unexpected visitors. Mittie, who felt that the dark shaded eye of
Clinton was upon her, accosted her with unwonted politeness, but it was
evident the stern hostess returned her greeting with coldness and
repulsion. Her features relaxed, when Louis, cordially grasping her
hand, expressed his delight at seeing her looking so like the Miss Thusa
of his early boyhood. Perceiving the aristocratic stranger, she
acknowledged his graceful, respectful bow, by rising, and her tall
figure towered like a column of gray marble in the centre of the low
apartment.
"And who is Mr. Bryant Clinton?" said she, scanning him with her eye of
prophecy, "that he should visit the cabin of a poor, old, lonely woman
like me? I didn't expect such an honor. But I suppose he came for the
sake of the company he brought--not what he could find here."
"We brought him, Miss Thusa," said Louis; "we want him to become
acquainted with all our friends, and you know we would not forget you."
"We!" repeated Miss Thusa, looking sternly at Mittie, "don't say _we_.
It is the first time Mittie ever set foot in my poor cabin, and I know
she didn't come now of her own good will. But never mind--sit down,"
added she, drawing forward a wooden settee, equivalent to three or four
chairs, and giving it a sweep with her handkerchief. "It is not often I
have such fine company as this to accommodate."
"Or you would have a velvet sofa for us to sit down upon," cried Louis,
laughing, while he occupied with the others the wooden seat; "but I like
this better, with its lofty back and broad, substantial frame. Every
thing around you is in keeping, Miss Thusa, and looks antique and
majestic; the walls of gray stone, the old, moss-covered well-sweep, the
dear old wheel, your gray colored dress, always the same, yet always
looking nice and new. I declare, Miss Thusa, I am tempted to turn hermit
myself, and come and live with you, if you would let me. I am beginning
to be tired of the world."
He laughed gayly, but a shade passed over his countenance, darkening its
sunshine.
"And I am just beginning to be awake to its charms," said Clinton, "just
beginning to _live_. I would not now forsake the world; but if
disappointment and sorrow be my lot, I must plead with Miss Thusa to
receive me into her hermitage, and teach me her admirable philosophy."
Though he addressed Miss Thusa, his glances played lambently on Mittie's
face, and told her the meaning of his words.
"Pshaw!" exclaimed Miss Thusa, "don't try to make a fool of me, young
gentleman. Louis, Master Louis, Mr. Gleason--what shall I call you now,
since you're grown so tall, and seem so much farther off than you used
to be."
"Call me Louis--nothing but Louis. I cannot bear the thought of being
_Mistered_, and put off at a distance. Oh, there is nothing so sweet as
the name a mother's angel lips first breathed into our ears."
"I'm glad you have not forgotten your mother, Louis," said Miss Thusa,
her countenance softening into an expression of profound sensibility;
"she was a woman to be remembered for a life-time; though weak in body,
she was a powerful woman for all that. When she died, I lost the best
friend I ever had in the world, and I shall love you and Helen as long
as I live, for her sake, as well as your own. I won't be unjust to
anybody. _You've_ always been a good, respectful boy; and as for Helen,
Heaven bless the child! she wasn't made for this world nor anybody in
it. I never see a young flower, or a tender green leaf, but I think of
her, and when they fade away, or are bitten and shrivelled by the frost,
I think of her, too, and it makes me melancholy. When is the dear child
coming home?"
Before the conclusion of this speech, Mittie had risen and turned her
burning cheek towards the window. She felt as if a curse were resting
upon her, to be thus excluded from all participation in Miss Thusa's
blessing, in the presence of Bryant Clinton. Yes, at that moment she
felt the value of Miss Thusa's good opinion--the despised and contemned
Miss Thusa. The praises of Helen sounded as so many horrible discords in
her ears, and when she heard Louis reply that "Helen would return soon,
very soon, with that divine little blind Alice," she wished that years
on years might intervene before that period arrived, for might she not
supplant her in the heart of Clinton, as she had in every other?
While she thus stood, playing with a hop-vine that climbed a tall pole
by the window, and shaded it with its healthy, luxuriant leaves, Clinton
manifested the greatest interest in Miss Thusa's wheel, and the
manufacture of her thread. He praised the beauty of its texture, the
fineness and evenness of its fibres.
"I admire this wheel," said he, "it has such a venerable, antique
appearance. Its massy frame and brazen hoops, its grooves and swelling
lines are a real study for the architect."
"Why, I never saw those brazen rings before," exclaimed Louis, starting
up and joining Clinton, in his study of the instrument. "When did you
have them put on, Miss Thusa, and what is their use?"
"I had them made when I took that long journey," replied Miss Thusa,
pushing back the wheel with an air of vexation. "It got battered and
bruised, and needed something to strengthen it. Those saucy stage
drivers made nothing of tossing it from the top of the stage right on
the pavement, but the same man never dared to do it but once."
"This must be made of lignum-vitae," said Clinton, "it is so very heavy.
Such must have been the instrument that Hercules used, when he bowed his
giant strength to the distaff, to gratify a beautiful woman's whim."
"Well, I can't see what there is in an old wheel to attract a young
gentleman like you, so!" exclaimed Miss Thusa, interposing her tall
figure between it and the collegian. "I don't want Hercules, or any sort
of man, to spin at my distaff, I can tell you. It's woman's work, and
it's a shame for a man to interfere with it. No, no! it is better for
you to ride about the country with your black horse and gold-colored
fringes, turning the heads of silly girls and gaping children, than to
meddle with an old woman and her wheel."
"Why, Miss Thusa, what makes you so angry?" cried Louis, astonished at
the excitement of her manner. "I never knew you impolite before."
"I apologise for my own rudeness," said Clinton, with inexpressible
grace and ease. "I was really interested in the subject, and forgot that
I might be intrusive. I respect every lady's rights too much to infringe
upon them."
"I don't mean to be rude," replied Miss Thusa, giving her glasses a
downward jerk, "but I've lived so much by myself, that I don't know any
thing about the soft, palavering ways of the world. I say again, I don't
want to be rude, and I'm not ashamed to ask pardon if I am so; but I
know this fine young gentleman cares no more for me, nor my wheel, than
the man in the moon, and I don't like to have any one try to pass off
the show for the reality."
She fixed her large, gray eye so steadfastly on Clinton, that his cheek
flushed with the hue of resentful sensibility, and Louis thinking Miss
Thusa in a singularly repulsive mood, thought it better to depart.
"If it were not so late," said he, approaching the door, "I would ask
you for one of your interesting legends, Miss Thusa, but by the long
shadow of the well-sweep on the grass, the sun must be almost down. Why
do you never come to see us now? My mother would give you a cordial
welcome."
"That's right. I love to hear you call her mother, Louis. She is worthy
of the name. She is a lady, a noble hearted lady, that honored the
family by coming into it; and they who wouldn't own her, disgrace
themselves, not her. Go among the poor, _if_ you want to know her worth.
Hear _them_ talk--but as for my stories, I never can tell them, if there
is a scoffing tongue, and an unbelieving ear close by. I cannot feel my
_gift_. I cannot glorify the Lord who gave it. When Helen comes, bring
her to me, for I've something to tell her that I mustn't carry to my
grave. The blind child, too, I should like to see her again. I would
give one of my eyes now, to put sight into hers--both of them, I might
say, for I shan't use them much longer."
"Why, Miss Thusa, you are a _powerful_ woman yet," said Louis, measuring
her erect and commanding figure, with an upward glance. "I shouldn't
wonder if you lived to preside at all our funerals. I don't think you
ever can grow weak and infirm."
Miss Thusa shook her head, and slipped up the sleeve of her left arm,
showing the shrunken flesh and shrivelled skin.
"There's weakness and infirmity coming on," said she, "but I don't mind
it. This world isn't such a paradise, at the best, that one would want
to stay in it forever. And there's one comfort, I shall leave nobody
behind to bewail me when I'm gone."
"Ah! Miss Thusa, how unjust you are. _I_ shall bewail you; and, as for
Helen, I do believe the sweet, tender-hearted soul would cry her eyes
out. Even the lovely, blind Alice would weep for your loss. And
Mittie--but it seems to me you are not quite kind to Mittie. I should
think you had too much magnanimity to remember the idle pranks of
childhood against any one. Why, see what a handsome, glorious looking
girl she is now."
Mittie turned haughtily away, and stepped out on the mossy door-stone.
All her early scorn and hatred of Miss Thusa revived with even added
force. Clinton followed her, but lingered on the threshold for Louis,
whose hand the ancient sibyl grasped with a cordial farewell pressure.
"Mittie and I never were friends, and never can be," said she, "but I
wish her no harm. I wish her better luck than I think is in her path
now. As for yourself, if you should get into trouble, and not want to
vex those that are kin, you can come to me, and if you don't despise my
counsel and assistance, perhaps it may do you good. I have a legend that
I've been storing up for your ears, too, and one of these days I should
like to tell it to you. But," lowering her voice to a whisper, "leave
that long-haired, smooth-tongued gentleman behind."
"Was I not right," said Mittie, when they had passed the stile, and
could no longer discern the ancestral figure of Miss Thusa in the door
of her lonely dwelling, "in saying that she is a very rude, disagreeable
person? She is so vindictive, too. She never could forgive me, because
when a little child I cared not to listen to her terrible tales of
ghosts and monsters. Helen believed every word she uttered, till she
became the most superstitious, fearful creature in the world."
"You should add, the sweetest, dearest, best," interrupted Louis,
"unless we except the angelic blind maiden."
"I should think if you had any affection for me, Louis," said Mittie,
turning pale, as his praises of Helen fell on Clinton's ear, "you would
resent the rudeness and impertinence to which you have just exposed me.
What must your friend think of me? Was it to lower me in his opinion
that you carried him to her hovel, and drew forth her spiteful and
bitter remarks?"
"Do you think it possible that _she_ could alter my opinion of _you_?"
said Clinton, in a low, earnest tone. "If any thing could have exalted
it, it would be the dignity and forbearance with which you bore her
insinuations, and defeated her malice."
"I am sorry, Mittie," cried Louis, touched by her paleness and emotion,
and attributing it entirely to wounded feeling, "I am very sorry that I
have been the indirect cause of giving you pain. It was certainly
unintentional. Miss Thusa was in rather a savage mood this evening, I
must acknowledge; but she is not malicious, Clinton. With all her
eccentricities, she has some sterling virtues. If you could only see
her inspired, and hear one of her _powerful_ tales!"
"If you ever induce him to go there a second time!" exclaimed Mittie,
withdrawing herself from the arm with which he had encircled her waist,
and giving him a glance from her dark, bright eyes, that might have
scorched him, it was so intensely, dazzlingly angry.
"Believe me," said Clinton, "no inducement could tempt me again to a
place associated with painful remembrances in your mind."
He had not seen the glance, for he was walking on the other side, and
when she turned towards him, in answer to his soothing remark, the
starry moon of night is not more darkly beautiful or resplendent than
her face.
So he told her when Louis left them at the gate leading to their
dwelling, and so he told her again when they were walking alone together
in the star-bright night.
"Why do they talk to me of Helen?" said he, and his voice stole through
the stilly air as gently as the falling dew. "What can she be, in
comparison with you? Little did I think Louis had another sister so
transcendent, when I saw you standing on the rustic bridge, the most
radiant vision that ever beamed on the eye of mortal. You remember that
evening. All the sunbeams of Heaven gathered around _you_, the focus of
the golden firmament."
"Louis loves me not as he does Helen," replied Mittie, her heart
bounding with rapture at his glowing praises, "no one does. Even you,
who now profess to love me beyond all created beings, if Helen came,
might be lured by _her_ attractions to forget all you have been
breathing into my ears."
"I confess I should like to see one whose attractions _you_ can fear.
She must be superlatively lovely."
"She is not beautiful nor lovely, Clinton. No one ever called her so.
Fear! I never knew the sensation of fear. It is not fear that she could
inspire, but a stronger, deeper passion."
He felt the arm tremble that was closely locked in his, and he could see
her lip curl like a rose-leaf fluttering in the breeze.
"Speak, Mittie, and tell me what you mean. I can think of but one
passion now, and that the strongest and deepest that ever ruled the
heart of man."
"I cannot describe my meaning," replied Mittie, pausing under a tree
that shaded their path, and leaning against its trunk; "but I can feel
it. Till you came, I knew not what feeling was; I read of it in books.
It was the theme of many a fluent tongue, but all was cold and passive
_here_," said she, pressing her hand on the throbbing heart that now
ached with the intensity of its emotion. "Everybody said I had no heart,
and I believed them. You first taught me that there was a vital spark
burning within it, and blew upon it with a breath of flame. I tell you,
Clinton, you had better tamper with the lightning's chain than the
passions of this suddenly awakened heart. I tell you I am a dangerous
being. There is a power within me that makes me tremble with its
consciousness. I am a young girl, with no experience. I know nothing of
the blandishments of art, and if I did I would scorn to exercise them.
You have told me a thousand times that you loved me and I have believed
you. I would willingly die a thousand times for the rapture of hearing
it once; but if I thought the being lived who could supplant me--if I
thought you could ever prove false to me--"
Her eye flashed and her cheek glowed in the night-beams that, as Clinton
said, made her their focus, so brightly were they reflected from her
face. What Clinton said, it is unnecessary to repeat, for the language
of passion is commonplace, unless it flows from lips as fresh and
unworldly and impulsive as Mittie's.
"Let me put a mark on this tree," she said, stooping down and picking up
a sharp fragment of rock at its base. "If you ever forget what you have
said to me this night, I will lead you to this spot, and show you the
wounded bark--"
She began to carve her own initials, but he insisted upon substituting
his penknife and assisting her in the task, to which she consented. As
they stood side by side, he guiding her hand, and his long, soft locks
playing against her cheek, or mingling with her own, she surrendered
herself to a feeling of unalloyed happiness, when all at once Miss
Thusa's legend of the Black Knight, with the dark, far-flowing hair,
and the maiden with the bleeding heart, came to her remembrance, and she
involuntarily shuddered.
"Why am I ever recalling that wild legend?" thought she. "I am getting
to be as weak and superstitious as Helen. Why, when it seems to me that
the wing of an angel is fluttering against my cheek, should I remember
that demon-sprite?"
Underneath her initials he carved his own, in larger, bolder characters.
"Would you believe it," said she, in a light mocking tone, "that I felt
every stroke of your knife on that bark? Oh, you do not know how deep
you cut! It seems that my life is infused into that tree, and that it is
henceforth a part of myself."
"Strange, romantic girl that you are! Supposing the lightning should
strike it, think you that you would feel the shaft?"
"Yes, if it shattered the tablet that bears those united names. But the
lightning does not often make a channel in the surface of the silver
barked beech. There are loftier trees around. The stately oak and
branching elm will be more likely to win the fiery crown of electricity
than this."
Mittie clasped her arms around the tree, and laid her cheek against the
ciphers. The next moment she flitted away, ashamed of her enthusiasm, to
hide her blushes and agitation in the solitude of her own chamber.
The next morning she found a wreath of roses round the tablet, and the
next, and the next. So day after day the passion of her heart was fed by
love-gifts offered at that shrine, where, by the silver starlight, they
had met, and ONE at least had worshiped.
PART THIRD.