Mark Davenport was prosperous in all his undertakings. His position in
the school did not give much scope to his ambition, but the salary he
received was ample enough to pay his expenses, while the duties were
not so onerous as to engross all his time. All his leisure was given
to literary pursuits. He had many times thought he would relinquish
the drudgery of teaching, and support himself by his pen; but he
remembered the maxim of Scott,--that literature was a good staff, but
a poor crutch,--and he stuck to his school. As he grew into a
practised writer, he became connected with the staff of a daily
newspaper in the great city, furnishing leading articles when called
upon, and he soon acquired a position of influence among his
associates. He had maintained a correspondence with Mildred, and was
looking forward to the time when he should make a visit to his native
town, hoping then to be so well established in the world that he might
be able to bring her back with him as his bride. Every thought centred
in her. He coveted fame, wealth, position, only for her sake; and
stimulated by this thought, he had made exertions that would have
broken down a man less vigorous and less resolute.
He received a letter from Innisfield one day, after a long
interval,--so long that he had become uneasy, and imagined every kind
of evil as the cause of delay. He broke the seal; it was not from
Mildred, but from his cousin Lizzie. These were the contents:--
"My dear Mark,--I suppose you may have been anxious before this, at
not hearing from us; but the truth is, we have not had anything very
pleasant to write, and so have put off sending to you. Father is by no
means well or strong. The lawsuit, which is now likely to go wrong,
has troubled him very much. He has grown thin, he stoops as he walks
about, and by night he coughs terribly. I rarely hear him sing as he
used to. Then Squire Clamp has complained of him before the church,
and you know father is over-sensitive about his relations with 'the
brethren,'--even with those who are trying to ruin him. He is
melancholy enough. I hope he will be better, if he gets through his
difficulties; otherwise I am afraid to think of what may happen.
"You wonder, probably, at not getting a letter from Mildred. Don't be
surprised when I tell you that she has left home and is staying at Mr.
Alford's. Mrs. Kinloch has for a long time wanted her to marry that
hateful Hugh Branning, and became so violent about it that Mildred was
afraid of her. Lucy Ransom, who lived there, ran away a short time
ago, very mysteriously. It seems that the girl had stolen something
from the house, and, after Mildred had plumply refused to marry Hugh,
Mrs. Kinloch charged upon her that she had induced Lucy to steal the
papers or money, or whatever it was. Mrs. Kinloch acted so like an
insane woman, that Mildred would not stay in the house, but ran over
to Mr. Alford's, with only the clothes she wore. She passed by our
house yesterday and told me this hurriedly. I have heard, too, that
Squire Clamp is about to marry Mrs. Kinloch, and that he actually has
procured the license. It's a very strange affair.
"To fill out the account of disagreeable things,--last evening, in one
of the stores, people were talking of Lucy Ransom's fate, (as they
have been for weeks,) when Will Fenton, the cripple, said, 'he guessed
Hugh Branning could tell what had become of her, if he chose.' Hugh,
it seems, heard of the remark, and to-day he went with a dandyish
doctor, belonging to the navy, I believe, and beat the poor cripple
with a horsewhip, most shamefully. I think this violence has turned
suspicion against him.
"I am sorry not to have one pleasant thing to say, except that we all
love you as warmly as ever, and hope to see you soon here. Indeed,
Cousin Mark, I dread to write it,--but if you don't come soon, I think
you will see father only on his last bed.
"Good-bye, dear Mark!
Your Cousin,--LIZZIE."
We will waste no time in attempting to analyze Mark's conflicting
emotions, but follow him to Innisfield, whither he went the same day.
Great as was his desire to see his betrothed, from whom he had
received no letter for many weeks, he went first of all, where duty
and affection called, to see the dear old man who had been to him more
than a father.
Mr. Hardwick was sitting in the corner, but rose up with a new energy
as he heard the well-known voice. Mark was not prepared, even by his
cousin's foreboding letter, to see such a change as his uncle
exhibited;--the hollow eyes, the wasted cheeks, the bent figure, the
trembling hands, bore painful testimony to his enfeebled condition. He
held both of Mark's hands in his, and, while his eyes were dim in a
tear-mist, said, with a faltering voice, "Bless you, m-my boy! I'm
glad to see you once more. I thought I might hear my s-summons before
you'd come. You do remember your old uncle!"
Mark could not restrain himself, but wept outright. The old gentleman
sank into his chair, still clasping Mark's hands. Neither could speak,
but they looked towards each other an unutterable tenderness.
At length, controlling the tide of feeling, Mr. Hardwick
said,--"D-don't be cast down, Mark; these tears are not b-bitter, but
f-full of joy. Th-there, now, go and kiss your sister and Lizzie."
The girls appeared wiping their eyes, for they had left the room
overpowered; they greeted Mark affectionately, and then all sat down
about the hearth. Topics enough there were. Mark told of his pursuits
and prospects. The village gossip about the lost servant-girl, (of
whom Mark knew something, but had reasons for silence,) the
approaching marriage of Mrs. Kinloch, and the exile of the heiress
from her own home, were all discussed. After a reasonable time, Mark
excused himself and went to Mr. Alford's, pondering much on the
strange events that had perplexed the usually quiet village. He
reached the house, after a brief walk, and was met by Aunt Mercy, the
portly mistress, but with something less than her accustomed
cordiality.
"Miss Kinloch is not able to see company," she said, "and must be
excused."
Mark poured forth a torrent of questions, to which Mrs. Alford
listened, her broad features softening visibly; and at length, with an
apparent effort, she asked him "to come agin to-morrer or the day
arter."
The more Mark reflected on Mrs. Alford's behavior, the more he was
puzzled. Had Mildred denied him admission? His own betrothed refuse to
see him! No, he was sure she was sick; and besides, she could not have
heard of his coming. So he soothed himself. But the imps of suspicion
and jealousy still haunted him at intervals, and a more miserable man
than the usually buoyant and sanguine Mark it would be difficult to
find.
The next day, as soon as breakfast was over, Mark, though trying to
cheer up his uncle, was secretly longing for the hour when it would be
proper to present himself at Mr. Alford's. But time does move, albeit
with lagging pace to a lover, and in due season Mark was on his way.
Near the house he met the farmer, who greeted him heartily, and wished
him joy with a knowing smile. Mark took a freer breath; if there was
any difficulty, Mr. Alford certainly did not know it. But then it
occurred to him, that shy young ladies do not often make confidants of
elderly husbandmen in long blue frocks, and his spirits fell again.
Mr. Alford leaned against a fence and threshed his hands to keep them
warm, while he told Mark that "he had been with Mildred privately out
to the Probate Court,--that the case had been stated to the jedge, who
allowed, that, as she was above fourteen, she had a right to choose
her own guardeen,--that he, Alford, was to be put in, in place of the
Squire,--and that then, in his opinion, there would be an overhaulin'
so's to hev things set to rights."
Mark shook the hand of his good friend warmly, and commended his
shrewdness.
"But 'ta'n't best to stan' talkin' with an ol' feller like me," said
the farmer, "when you can do so much better. Jest look!"
Mark turned his head, and through the window of the house saw the
retreating figure of Mildred. He bounded across the yard, opened the
door without knocking, and rushed into the house. She had vanished: no
one was visible but Mrs. Alford, who was cutting up golden pumpkins in
long coils to dry.
"Come, Milly," said the good woman, "'ta'n't no use; he saw ye."
And Mildred appeared, coming slowly out of the buttery.
"Ye see, Mildred felt a little hurt about a letter; but I _knew_ there
was some mistake; so I wa'n't a-goin' to hev ye go off 'thout some
explanation."
"A letter?--explanation?" said Mark, thoroughly bewildered.
"Here it is," said Mildred, taking a letter from her pocket, still
looking down. Mark hastily took and opened it. The envelope bore
Mildred's address in a hand not unlike his own; the inclosure was a
letter from Mildred to himself, which he now saw for the first time.
"Mildred," said he, holding out his hands, "could you doubt me?"
She covered her face with her apron, but stood irresolute. He looked
again at the letter.
"Why, the clumsy trick, Mildred! This post-office stamp, 'New York,'
is not genuine. Just look! it is a palpable cheat, an imitation made
with a pen. The color did not spread, you see, as ink mixed with oil
does. This letter never left this village. I never saw it
before,--could not have seen it. Do you doubt me now, dear Mildred?"
Even if the evidence had been less convincing, the earnest, heartfelt
tone, the pleading look and gesture, would have satisfied a much more
exacting woman. She sprang towards her lover, and flung her arms about
his neck. The pent-up feeling of days and weeks rushed over her like a
flood, and the presence of Mrs. Alford was forgotten.
Mrs. Alford, it would seem, suddenly thought of something; for,
gathering herself up, she walked off as fast as the laws of
gravitation allowed, exclaiming,--"There! I never did see! Sech hens!
Allus a-flyin' into the kitchen. I wonder now who left that are door
open."
The frightened cackle of the hens, the rattling of pots and pans by
the assiduous housewife in the kitchen, were unheeded by the lovers,
"emparadised in one another's arms." The conversation took too wide a
range and embraced too many trivial details to be set down here. Only
this I may say: they both believed, (as every enamored couple
believes,) that, though other people might cherish the properest
affection for each other, yet no man or woman ever did or could
experience such intense and all-pervading emotion as now throbbed in
their breasts,--in fact, that they had been created to exemplify the
passion, which, before, poets had only imagined. Simple children! they
had only found out what hearts are made for!