THE END OF THE "JEST."
It is a common impression that impending disasters cast their
shadows before; and especially in the realm of fiction do we find
that much is made of presentiments, which are usually fulfilled
in a very dramatic way. But the close observer of real life, to a
large degree, loses faith in these bodings of ill. He learns that
sombre impressions result more often from a defective digestion
and a disquieted conscience than from any other cause; and that,
after the gloomiest forebodings, the days pass in unusual serenity.
Not that this is always true, but it would almost seem the rule.
Perhaps more distress is caused by those troubles which never come,
but which are feared and worried over, than by those which do come,
teaching us, often, patience and faith.
Does not experience show that disasters and trials more often visit
us, like the "thief in the night," unexpectedly?
At any rate, it so occurred to Hemstead and Lottie on the dreary
Monday that followed their glorified Sunday. And yet, never did a
day open with fairer promise. A cloudless sky bent over a crystal
earth. The mystic peace of Christmas seemed to have been breathed
even into bleak December; for the air was mild and still, and the
shadow of many a slender tree crept across the snow as steadily as
that made by the sun-dial on the lawn.
Within doors all appeared equally serene. The fire burned cheerily
upon the hearth when Hemstead came down to breakfast. What was of
far more importance, the light of love glowed as brightly in Lottie's
eyes, as she beamed upon him across the table; and the spell which
kept him, unthinking, unfearing, in the beatified present remained
unbroken.
But the darkest shadows were creeping towards both.
To any situated as they were, and in their condition of mind and
heart, a mere awakening would have been a rude shock. Some one had
only to show them, with the remorseless logic of this world, what
all their heavenly emotions involved, in order to cause perplexity
and almost consternation. They could not long dwell, like the immortal
gods, on the Mount Olympus of their exalted feeling, subsisting on
the nectar and ambrosia of tones and glances.
Lottie was the fashionable daughter of an ultra-fashionable mother
and a worldly father, in whose eyes sins against the beau monde
were the most irrational and unpardonable.
Hemstead was a predestined home missionary, upon whom the Christian
Church proposed to inflict the slow martyrdom of five or six hundred
a year. Mrs. Marchmont but reflected the judgment of the world when
she thought that for two young people, thus situated, to fall in
love with each other, would be the greatest possible misfortune.
Therefore, with the sincerest sense of duty, and the very best
intentions, she set about preventing it, after all the mischief
had been done.
Like a prudent lady, as she was, she first sought to get sufficient
information to justify her in speaking plainly to both nephew and
niece. For this purpose she drew Addie out on Sunday afternoon,
asking her if she had noticed anything peculiar in the manner of
Hemstead and Lottie towards each other. Then, for the first time,
and with just indignation, to her credit be it said, she learned
of the practical joke of which her nephew was to have been the
victim. She skilfully drew from her daughter all the details of
its inception and the mode in which it had been carried out; for,
to Addie's superficial observation, Lottie was only indulging
in one of her old flirtations, She neither saw, nor was she able
to understand, the change in Lottie's feelings and character. She
also wronged Lottie by giving the impression that she herself had
had nothing to do with the plot, with the exception that she had
promised not to interfere.
Mrs. Marchmont could scarcely believe what she heard, but Addie
referred her to Bel, who confirmed her words and admitted that from
the first she had "known it was very wrong, but had not believed
that anything would come of it, until it seemed too late."
"Besides," she said, "Lottie told me that if I said a word, or interfered
in any way, she would from that time treat me as a stranger, and
she said it in a way that proved she meant it. Therefore, whatever
you do, please let it appear that I have no part in it."
"You surprise and shock me greatly," said Mrs. Marchmont. "With all
Lottie's wild nonsense and fondness for flirting, I would not have
thought that she could be guilty of such deliberate and persistent
effort to trifle with one so sincere and good as Frank. The most
heartless coquette would scarcely call him fair game. She puzzles
me too, for she does not seem like one who is acting, but more like
one in earnest. Besides, look at the interest she is beginning to
take in religion. She surely could not employ such sacred things
for the purposes of mere flirtation."
But Bell soon converted Mrs. Marchmont to her way of thinking.
Lottie had found Hemstead more interesting than she had expected,
and had foolishly and recklessly permitted a mere sentiment for
him to develop, which, in her case, would end with the visit, and
soon be forgotten in the mad whirl of New York gayety. "But with
Mr. Hemstead," concluded Bel, "it will be a very different affair.
He is one of the kind that will brood over such a disappointment
and wrong to the end of life."
So it was settled that Mrs. Marchmont should "speak plainly" to her
nephew, and warn him against "Lottie's wiles," as soon as possible.
But no opportunity occurred before Monday morning, and then not
until Hemstead had received some of the most blissful experiences
that he had yet enjoyed. For, immediately after breakfast, all
had flocked into the back parlor, where the laden Christmas tree
revealed the secrets that had filled the air with mystery during
the preceding days.
All had been remembered, and Mr. Martell's munificence towards the
gallant coachman quite took away his breath.
But Hemstead was overwhelmed and troubled at first, when he opened
an envelope, and found a check for a thousand dollars, with the
words:
"We send you this, not in any sense as compensation,--for we know
enough of your character to recognize that you would have taken
equal risks in behalf of the penniless,--but because we wish to be
remembered by you, whom we can never forget. And we only request
tint you invest this sum towards your library, so that, in coming
years, the thoughts of your favorite authors may remind you of
those whose best wishes, sincerest gratitude, and highest esteem
Will ever be yours.
"(Signed) HERBERT MARTELL, ALICE MARTELL."
"Now, Frank, what is the use of putting on such airs?" said Addie.
"You surely expected a handsome present from Mr. Martell."
"I assure you, I expected nothing of the kind," he replied, a
trifle indignantly. "Why should I? As it is, I am doubtful whether
I ought to accept it."
"Why should I?" Lottie echoed with a merry laugh. "That's like you.
But, unless you wish to hurt and wrong sincere friends very much,
I advise you to keep it and do as they say. You are so exceedingly
proud or humble--which shall I call it?--that I fear you neither
expect, nor will take anything from me."
"Here is a queer-looking parcel for Frank Hemstead," said Mr.
Dimmerly, with his chuckling laugh.
With intense delight Lottie saw the student hesitate, and his hand
tremble as he slowly began to open it.
"It's not a torpedo, or an infernal machine, that you need be in
such trepidation," she whispered. "It won't go off."
"Is it from you?"
"Look and see."
It was a sermon holder, of rich, plain morocco without, but within,
most elaborately embroidered. Most prominent among the rare and
dainty devices was a single oar.
The expression of his face repaid her, as he examined it with
a comical blending of reverence and affection, such as a devout
Catholic would manifest towards a relic. In the blade of the oar
were worked, with the most exquisite fineness, the words, "A True
Knight." Within an inner pocket, where they could not be readily
seen, were the words,
"With the thanks of Lottie Marsden."
But his quick scrutiny soon discovered them, and he turned and
said, with an emphasis that did her good, "I value this more than
the check."
"What folly!" she said, blushing with pleasure; "it isn't worth
five dollars."
"I can prove that it is worth more than the check," he said, in a
low tone.
"How?"
"We value that gift most which we receive from the friend we value
most. There; it is proved in a sentence; but I can prove it over
again."
"What delightful lessons in logic! But you surely cannot prove it
again."
"Yes. If the gift from the friend we value most contains evidence
that thought and time have been expended upon it, that gift, however
slight its market value, has a worth to us beyond price, because
showing that the friend we love supremely thinks of us in our
absence."
"I did put a great deal of time and thought in that little gift,
but you have repaid me," Lottie answered.
Their brief but significant tete-a-tete was now interrupted by De
Forrest, who came forward to thank Lottie for her costly gift to
him,--a gift bought on Broadway. He had uneasily marked the fact
that she had given something to Hemstead, but when he saw that it
was only a sermon-cover, he was quite relieved.
"Come here, Frank, and show me your present," said Mr. Dimmerly,
a little later.
Hemstead good-naturedly complied, and the old gentleman looked at
the single embroidered oar, with a comical twinkle in his eye, and
called again, "Lottie, come here."
She approached rather shyly and reluctantly, not knowing what to
expect.
"Now, Lottie," said her uncle, reproachfully, pointing to the oar,
"I did not expect that from so sensible a girl as you are. What
is a man going to do with one oar, unless he is to take a lonely
scull through life as I have? Did you mean to suggest that to Mr.
Hemstead?"
"Mr. Hemstead found out another meaning than that," she said,
laughing, "and I'm not going to stay here to be teased by you";
and she ran out of the room, the picture of blushing happiness.
When Hemstead again saw her it was with a great dread in his heart,
and his tones were grave and almost stern.
"O--h--h, you found out another meaning, did you?" said Mr.
Dimmerly, looking both kindly and quizzically over his spectacles
at his nephew.
"Well, uncle, to tell you the truth I hardly understand myself.
My visit here is a great contrast to my quiet seminary life, and I
have been getting deeper and deeper into a maze of happy bewilderment
every day. So much has happened, and I am so changed, that, like
many in tales of enchantment, I scarcely know whether I am myself."
"I have seen the spell working," said Mr. Dimmerly, dryly, "and am
thankful that the transformation has not been of the nature that
Shakespeare portrayed in his Midsummer Night Fantasy. Your head
might have become turned by the wrong girl, and you have reached
the period when it is bound to be turned by some one."
"Uncle," he said, fervently, "she is the noblest and most beautiful
being in existence."
"Frank, I wish to see you," said his aunt, quietly; and he followed
her to her own private sitting-room.
Mr. Dimmerly indulged in his chuckling laugh as he looked after
them.
"Now she's going to 'stop' it, he--he--In the mean time I'll go
out and stop the brook from running down hill."
"The time has come," said Mrs. Marchmont to her perplexed nephew,
with the complacent superiority with which the wise of this world
enlighten those whose "heads are often in the clouds,"--"the time
has come when I must speak plainly to you of a matter as important
as it is delicate. You are my own sister's child, and I cannot see
you wronged or going blindly into trouble without warning you. Are
you not permitting yourself to become interested in Miss Marsden
to a degree that is not wise?"
"Why not wise?" he answered with burning cheeks.
"Have you not realized that she is one of the most fashionable young
ladies in New York, and belongs to one of the wealthiest and most
fashionable families? If you could but once see her mother you
would understand me."
"But she herself has changed," he urged, eagerly.
Mrs. Marchmont smiled incredulously and pityingly. "How little
you know the world!" she said. "In what do you expect all your
sentiment to end? Only sentiment? You say you purpose being a home
missionary. Can you imagine for a moment that one situated as she
is would contemplate such a life? Her parents would as soon bury
her."
Hemstead groaned under his aunt's remorseless words, but said in
a sort of blind desperation: "Her parents! Is this Hindostan, that
parents can treat their daughters as merchandise? A girl of Miss
Marsden's force and nobility of character--"
"O Frank, hush! It absolutely makes me sick to see one so easily
deceived. 'Nobility of character,' indeed! Well, I didn't wish
to speak of it. I could not believe it even of Lottie, but nothing
less than the whole truth will convince you"; and she told him of
the plot in which Lottie purposed to make him the ridiculous subject
of a practical joke, and intimated that all her action since had
been but the carrying out of that plot.
At first Hemstead grew deathly pale, and his aunt, thinking he was
going to faint, began fumbling for her salts. But a moment later
the blood suffused even his neck and brow, and he said passionately,
"I don't believe a word of this; Miss Marsden is not capable of
such falsehood."
"Whether in your unreasoning passion you will believe it or not
makes no difference," said Mrs. Marchmont, quietly. "It is true,
as I can prove by Addie and Miss Parton."
He took a few hasty strides up and down the room and muttered,
"I will take her word against all the world. She shall answer for
herself"; and he rang the bell.
When the servant appeared he said, "Please ask Miss Marsden to come
here at once."
Mrs. Marchmont regretted Hemstead's action very much, but it was
too firm and decided to be prevented. She had planned that after
his "eyes had been opened to his folly," and Lottie's frivolity,
to say the least, her nephew would, with quiet dignity, cease his
attentions, and perhaps shorten his visit. She had a horror of
scenes, but feared that one was coming now.
Hemstead admitted Lottie with a silent bow and gave her a chair.
When she saw his grave, pale face, her heart misgave her strangely,
and she trembled so that even he noticed it, and also another
fact,--she did not meet his eyes. He fastened his upon her, as if
he would read her soul, for he now felt that more than life was at
stake.
"Miss Marsden," he said, in a low, deep tone, "my aunt has made
a strange charge against you, but I said to her, and I now say to
you, that I will take your word against all the world. She asserts,
and she gives the names of her witnesses, that your action--your
kindness towards me from the first--has been but the carrying out
of a deliberate and heartless jest. Is it true?"
Lottie's wonted quickness failed her. She had been so happy, she
had seemed to have got so far beyond her old, false self, and so
established in his affection, that such a reverse did not appear
possible. But the evil that at one time she had feared had now
come in a form so unexpected and serious that, for a moment, she
was stunned and bewildered, and fell into helpless confusion. The
nature of the case aggravated her distress. How could she explain?
What could she say? In response to his question she only trembled
more violently and buried her burning face in her hands.
He saw in this action confirmation of fears that he at first
would scarcely entertain, and regarded her a moment with a strange
expression upon his face,--anger and pity blended,--and then
silently left the room.
The sleigh stood at the door, and the coachman was just starting
on an errand to Newburgh.
Mr. Dimmerly looked with surprise at his nephew's pale face,--a
surprise that was greatly increased as the young man seized his
hat and coat, and said in a husky tone, "I am going to New York
for some days," and sprang into the sleigh and was driven away.
"Well," said the old man, testily, "if she 'stopped' him as easily
as that, he deserves to lose her."
And Mrs. Marchmont, seeing Hemstead depart so silently, congratulated
herself that she had escaped a scene after all, and complacently
thought, "These things can be 'stopped' if taken in time,
notwithstanding brother's sentimental nonsense."
As poor Lottie's mind emerged from its chaos into connected
thought, she speedily came to the conclusion to tell Hemstead the
whole truth, to condemn herself more severely than even he could
in his anger, and to ask his forgiveness.
But when she raised her tearful face to speak, he was gone.
She heard the sound of bells. A sudden fear chilled her, and she
sprang to the window and saw a vanishing form that she dreaded
might be his. Without a word to Mrs. Marchmont, she rushed down to
the lower hall, where she found Mr. Dimmerly fuming about.
"Where is Mr. Hemstead?" she asked, eagerly.
"What the deuce is the matter? What have you sister been saying
that Frank should come down here white as a sheet?"
"But where is he?" she asked again, in a tone that her uncle had
never heard her use before.
"Gone to New York for several days," he said.
Lottie tottered a moment as if she had received a blow. With one
hand she steadied herself on the balustrade of the stairs, while she
passed the other across her brow, then turned and wearily climbed
to her room.