At the end of ten days he came.
In the under-sized, earnest, dark-haired and dark-eyed young man of
three-and-twenty, Abigail Mitchenor at once felt a motherly interest.
Having received him as a temporary member of the family, she considered
him entitled to the same watchful care as if he were in reality an
invalid son. The ice over an hereditary Quaker nature is but a thin
crust, if one knows how to break it; and in Richard Hilton's case, it
was already broken before his arrival. His only embarrassment, in fact,
arose from the difficulty which he naturally experienced in adapting
himself to the speech and address of the Mitchenor family. The greetings
of old Eli, grave, yet kindly, of Abigail, quaintly familiar and tender,
of Moses, cordial and slightly condescending, and finally of Asenath,
simple and natural to a degree which impressed him like a new revelation
in woman, at once indicated to him his position among them. His city
manners, he felt, instinctively, must be unlearned, or at least laid
aside for a time. Yet it was not easy for him to assume, at such short
notice, those of his hosts. Happening to address Asenath as “Miss
Mitchenor,” Eli turned to him with a rebuking face.
“We do not use compliments, Richard,” said he; “my daughter's name is
Asenath.
“I beg pardon. I will try to accustom myself to your ways, since you
have been so kind as to take me for a while,” apologized Richard Hilton.
“Thee's under no obligation to us,” said Friend Mitchenor, in his strict
sense of justice; “thee pays for what thee gets.”
The finer feminine instinct of Abigail led her to interpose.
“We'll not expect too much of thee, at first, Richard,” she remarked,
with a kind expression of face, which had the effect of a smile: “but
our ways are plain and easily learned. Thee knows, perhaps, that we're
no respecters of persons.”
It was some days, however, before the young man could overcome his
natural hesitation at the familiarity implied by these new forms of
speech. “Friend Mitchenor” and “Moses” were not difficult to learn,
but it seemed a want of respect to address as “Abigail” a woman of such
sweet and serene dignity as the mother, and he was fain to avoid either
extreme by calling her, with her cheerful permission, “Aunt Mitchenor.”
On the other hand, his own modest and unobtrusive nature soon won the
confidence and cordial regard of the family. He occasionally busied
himself in the garden, by way of exercise, or accompanied Moses to
the corn-field or the woodland on the hill, but was careful never to
interfere at inopportune times, and willing to learn silently, by the
simple process of looking on.
One afternoon, as he was idly sitting on the stone wall which
separated the garden from the lane, Asenath, attired in a new gown of
chocolate-colored calico, with a double-handled willow work-basket on
her arm, issued from the house. As she approached him, she paused and
said--
“The time seems to hang heavy on thy hands, Richard. If thee's strong
enough to walk to the village and back, it might do thee more good than
sitting still.”
Richard Hilton at once jumped down from the wall.
“Certainly I am able to go,” said he, “if you will allow it.”
“Haven't I asked thee?” was her quiet reply.
“Let me carry your basket,” he said, suddenly, after they had walked,
side by side, some distance down the lane.
“Indeed, I shall not let thee do that. I'm only going for the mail,
and some little things at the store, that make no weight at all. Thee
mustn't think I'm like the young women in the city, who, I'm told, if
they buy a spool of Cotton, must have it sent home to them. Besides,
thee mustn't over-exert thy strength.”
Richard Hilton laughed merrily at the gravity with which she uttered the
last sentence.
“Why, Miss--Asenath, I mean--what am I good for; if I have not strength
enough to carry a basket?”
“Thee's a man, I know, and I think a man would almost as lief be thought
wicked as weak. Thee can't help being weakly-inclined, and it's only
right that thee should be careful of thyself. There's surely nothing in
that that thee need be ashamed of.”
While thus speaking, Asenath moderated her walk, in order, unconsciously
to her companion, to restrain his steps.
“Oh, there are the dog's-tooth violets in blossom?” she exclaimed,
pointing to a shady spot beside the brook; “does thee know them?”
Richard immediately gathered and brought to her a handful of the nodding
yellow bells, trembling above their large, cool, spotted leaves.
“How beautiful they are!” said he; “but I should never have taken them
for violets.”
“They are misnamed,” she answered. “The flower is an Erythronium; but
I am accustomed to the common name, and like it. Did thee ever study
botany?”
“Not at all. I can tell a geranium, when I see it, and I know a
heliotrope by the smell. I could never mistake a red cabbage for a
rose, and I can recognize a hollyhock or a sunflower at a considerable
distance. The wild flowers are all strangers to me; I wish I knew
something about them.”
“If thee's fond of flowers, it would be very easy to learn. I think a
study of this kind would pleasantly occupy thy mind. Why couldn't thee
try? I would be very willing to teach thee what little I know. It's not
much, indeed, but all thee wants is a start. See, I will show thee how
simple the principles are.”
Taking one of the flowers from the bunch, Asenath, as they slowly walked
forward, proceeded to dissect it, explained the mysteries of stamens and
pistils, pollen, petals, and calyx, and, by the time they had reached
the village, had succeeded in giving him a general idea of the Linnaean
system of classification. His mind took hold of the subject with a
prompt and profound interest. It was a new and wonderful world which
suddenly opened before him. How surprised he was to learn that there
were signs by which a poisonous herb could be detected from a wholesome
one, that cedars and pine-trees blossomed, that the gray lichens on
the rocks belonged to the vegetable kingdom! His respect for Asenath's
knowledge thrust quite out of sight the restraint which her youth and
sex had imposed upon him. She was teacher, equal, friend; and the simple
candid manner which was the natural expression of her dignity and purity
thoroughly harmonized with this relation.
Although, in reality, two or three years younger than he, Asenath had
a gravity of demeanor, a calm self-possession, a deliberate balance of
mind, and a repose of the emotional nature, which he had never before
observed, except in much older women. She had had, as he could well
imagine, no romping girlhood, no season of careless, light-hearted
dalliance with opening life, no violent alternation even of the usual
griefs and joys of youth. The social calm in which she had expanded had
developed her nature as gently and securely as a sea-flower is unfolded
below the reach of tides and storms.
She would have been very much surprised if any one had called her
handsome: yet her face had a mild, unobtrusive beauty which seemed
to grow and deepen from day to day. Of a longer oval than the Greek
standard, it was yet as harmonious in outline; the nose was fine and
straight, the dark-blue eyes steady and untroubled, and the lips calmly,
but not too firmly closed. Her brown hair, parted over a high white
forehead, was smoothly laid across the temples, drawn behind the ears,
and twisted into a simple knot. The white cape and sun-bonnet gave her
face a nun-like character, which set her apart, in the thoughts of “the
world's people” whom she met, as one sanctified for some holy work. She
might have gone around the world, repelling every rude word, every bold
glance, by the protecting atmosphere of purity and truth which inclosed
her.
The days went by, each bringing some new blossom to adorn and illustrate
the joint studies of the young man and maiden. For Richard Hilton
had soon mastered the elements of botany, as taught by Priscilla
Wakefield,--the only source of Asenath's knowledge,--and entered,
with her, upon the text-book of Gray, a copy of which he procured from
Philadelphia. Yet, though he had overtaken her in his knowledge of the
technicalities of the science, her practical acquaintance with plants
and their habits left her still his superior. Day by day, exploring the
meadows, the woods, and the clearings, he brought home his discoveries
to enjoy her aid in classifying and assigning them to their true places.
Asenath had generally an hour or two of leisure from domestic duties
in the afternoons, or after the early supper of summer was over; and
sometimes, on “Seventh-days,” she would be his guide to some locality
where the rarer plants were known to exist. The parents saw this
community of interest and exploration without a thought of misgiving.
They trusted their daughter as themselves; or, if any possible fear had
flitted across their hearts, it was allayed by the absorbing delight
with which Richard Hilton pursued his study. An earnest discussion as to
whether a certain leaf was ovate or lanceolate, whether a certain plant
belonged to the species scandens or canadensis, was, in their eyes,
convincing proof that the young brains were touched, and therefore NOT
the young hearts.
But love, symbolized by a rose-bud, is emphatically a botanical emotion.
A sweet, tender perception of beauty, such as this study requires, or
develops, is at once the most subtile and certain chain of communication
between impressible natures. Richard Hilton, feeling that his years were
numbered, had given up, in despair, his boyish dreams, even before he
understood them: his fate seemed to preclude the possibility of love.
But, as he gained a little strength from the genial season, the pure
country air, and the release from gloomy thoughts which his rambles
afforded, the end was farther removed, and a future--though brief,
perhaps, still a FUTURE--began to glimmer before him. If this could
be his life,--an endless summer, with a search for new plants every
morning, and their classification every evening, with Asenath's help
on the shady portico of Friend Mitchenor's house,--he could forget his
doom, and enjoy the blessing of life unthinkingly.
The azaleas succeeded to the anemones, the orchis and trillium followed,
then the yellow gerardias and the feathery purple pogonias, and finally
the growing gleam of the golden-rods along the wood-side and the red
umbels of the tall eupatoriums in the meadow announced the close of
summer. One evening, as Richard, in displaying his collection, brought
to view the blood-red leaf of a gum-tree, Asenath exclaimed--
“Ah, there is the sign! It is early, this year.”
“What sign?” he asked.
“That the summer is over. We shall soon have frosty nights, and
then nothing will be left for us except the asters and gentians and
golden-rods.”
Was the time indeed so near? A few more weeks, and this Arcadian life
would close. He must go back to the city, to its rectilinear streets,
its close brick walls, its artificial, constrained existence. How could
he give up the peace, the contentment, the hope he had enjoyed through
the summer? The question suddenly took a more definite form in his mind:
How could he give up Asenath? Yes--the quiet, unsuspecting girl, sitting
beside him, with her lap full of the September blooms he had gathered,
was thenceforth a part of his inmost life. Pure and beautiful as she
was, almost sacred in his regard, his heart dared to say--“I need her
and claim her!”
“Thee looks pale to-night, Richard,” said Abigail, as they took their
seats at the supper-table. “I hope thee has not taken cold.”