DUMB LOVE
His heart
Had far outgrown his years, and to his eye
There was but one beloved face on earth,
That ever shone upon him. He had looked
Upon it till it would not pass away,
But she in these fond feelings had no share;
To her he was a brother; ’twas a name
Her infant friendship had bestowed on him—
No more.
BYRON.
The years that had been spent by Gloria in study during the school
terms, or in travel during her vacations, had been passed by David
Lindsay on the little sandy island near the promontory.
This was his post of duty. Here his aged grandmother still lived without
any companion or protector but himself.
He had steadily worked on the fishing landing, and he had employed his
limited leisure in studying the elementary school books left him by his
little playmate. He had thoroughly mastered them all, and now he longed
for more liberty and better means of culture. But, true sentinel of
Providence, he would not leave his sterile post of duty to attain them.
He had long ceased to ask after Gloria, chilled by the coldness with
which his modest inquiries had been met by Colonel de Crespigney.
But he had never forgotten his childhood friend. He cherished the memory
of the summers passed in the society of his little playmate as the
happiest portions of his poor life; and he worshiped her image, that in
the light of that memory shone like the vision of an angel.
It was she who had found him on the beach toiling at his daily task, and
had awakened his strong but dormant intelligence, and inspired him with
the love and longing for knowledge.
He owed her this good, and was glad and grateful to owe it.
One morning in June, he arose early, as usual, and looking out from the
little loft window of his bedroom in the island cot, he saw an unusual
thing—a large schooner at the old promontory wharf, and men landing many
boxes, barrels and kegs.
He had a job of work to do on the landing that day, so he dressed
himself quickly, ate his breakfast in a hurry, got into his little old
boat, and in a few moments rowed himself to the wharf.
“What is all this to-do?” he inquired of old Laban, who was busy
receiving the goods.
“Come ashore and lend a hand here! Our young lady is coming home for
good dis fall, and de house an’ groun’ is to be done up splendidly for
her—an’ outen her money, too, for I know Marse Colonel hasn’t got none
to spare!” answered the negro, as he let down a heavy box he had been
helping to land.
David Lindsay secured his boat, sprang on the wharf, and gave his
assistance to the men.
“So Miss de la Vera is really coming home?” he ventured to ask of Laban.
“Yes, on de first October! Ole Marse Colonel, he done gone to Baltimo’
to take her out’n school when de holidays come, an’ dey’s gwine for a
trip to Lunnun or Europ’, or some o’ dem dere outlandish savidge parts
o’ de worl’, an’ dey’s gwine to be gone all de summer; but dey’s comin’
back in de fall; dat is, ef so be de cannibals out in dem dere parts
don’t kill an’ eat ’em fust! I fink it’s downright dange’ous an’ a
temptin’ o’ Providence to leave one’s ’spectable home an’ go traipsin’
off to dem dare igno’nt places—Lunnun an’ Europ’, and de like!”
exclaimed Laban, in a tone of disgust and abhorrence.
“Miss de la Vera going to Europe!” said David Lindsay, to himself rather
than to Laban.
“Hi! what I tell you, boy? Yes, gwine to Europ’ long o’ Marse Colonel
Discrepancy! Gwine to see de savidges what lib across de big sea. Dare
now, yer got it. I calls it a downright fiyin’ inter de face ob
Providence. I does! What he fink, de Lord A’mighty put de big sea a
rollin’ ’tween we an’ de cannibals for he to go an’ sail across it on a
big ship out’n contrariness?” said Laban.
“Is Miss Agrippina to be one of the party?” inquired the young man.
“No. Miss Aggravater is gwine to stay here to watch the workmen. Miss
Aggravater gwine indeed! Catch her at it! Wish she was, dough! She might
go, ’dout any danger. Cannibals wouldn’t eat her, leastways not if dey
wa’n’t uncommon hungry.”
David Lindsay said no more, but mused, as he helped to land the goods.
“Dere’s an’ arckman an’ a decorum an’ a skippin’ gardener comin’ down by
de stage-coach to-morrow,” explained Laban, meaning the architect,
decorator and landscape gardener engaged by Colonel de Crespigney to
transfigure the dreary promontory and its prison-like buildings into a
habitable home for the young heiress.
“And a precious deal ob money it is a gwine to cost, too, wherever it
comes from, which I do ’spects it’ll be out’n Miss Glo’s own fortin’,
for Marse Colonel Discrepancy hasn’t got too much to tro’ away, dat I
knows.”
Laban was mistaken. He had been misled by appearances.
Marcel de Crespigney, leading his hermit life at the promontory, never
receiving company and never going from home except when he went to take
his ward from school, spent little money, had few wants, and lived like
a very much poorer gentleman than he really was.
Hence, in the years he had spent at the promontory, the revenues from
the fisheries, though not large, had been left to accumulate until they
had reached a round sum, which he determined to invest in the
restoration and improvement of Promontory Hall, to make his home as
attractive as possible to his beautiful and beloved ward.
The goods brought to the wharf were all landed and stored away in the
old dilapidated store-house, and then the schooner sailed away, and
David Lindsay crossed the point to the fishing landing and set about his
own especial work.
The next day the architect, decorator and landscape gardener came, and
work began. The three principals went back and forth between the
promontory and the city once or twice a month, but the workmen remained,
and were quartered in the house, to the great discontent of Miss
Agrippina, who vowed that she had never spent such a disagreeable summer
in all the days of her life.
The works were all completed, however, by the middle of October; the
gray stone walls of the old house were completely covered by a veneering
of thin white slabs, that gave the building the appearance of a marble
palace. French plate-glass windows opened upon piazzas with mosaic
floors and Corinthian pillars. A mansard roof crowned the mansion. A
fine garden, with a parterre of flowers, bloomed around it. Beyond that,
the once barren fields were verdant with grass. The fishing landing on
the point had been abolished as an ugly nuisance, and a pretty pier,
with an equally pretty boat-house, had been erected on the place. The
old sea-wall was repaired and a hedge of Osage orange trees was planted
on its inner side.
Within the house every part was refurnished freshly and handsomely, if
not very expensively.
When the finishing touch was put to the hanging of the mirrors and the
drooping of the curtains, the decorator and the upholsterer, who were
the last of the artisans to depart, came to take leave of Miss Agrippina
de Crespigney.
“And I suppose you are very glad to see the last of us, ma’am,” said Mr.
Bracket, the great artist in “effects.”
“I should rather see you here than your successors,” replied Miss
Agrippina, with even unusual grimness.
“Beg pardon?” said Bracket, interrogatively.
“I say I would rather see you here than your certain successors, the
sheriff’s officers, for I expect they will be the next strangers I shall
be called upon to entertain! Such extravagance I never did see in all
the days of my life! Well, I thank Providence my little portion is safe
enough. Marcel can’t make ducks and drakes out of that.”
The two men bowed themselves out of Mrs. “Aggravater’s” presence and
went their way.
Colonel de Crespigney and Gloria were expected home in a few days. They
had returned from their European tour in a steamer bound for Quebec, and
were making a short tour through Canada, before completing their
travels.
The first of October was a glorious autumn day. The sun was shining with
dazzling splendor from a deep blue, cloudless sky; a soft, bright golden
haze hung over the gorgeously colored woods and fields.
The new carriage and horses had been sent to St. Inigoes to meet the
stage that was to bring the travelers that far on their journey home. It
was from this circumstance that David Lindsay knew that Colonel de
Crespigney and Gloria were expected to arrive that afternoon. He knew,
besides, that they could only come at low tide, when the waves would
have ebbed from the “neck” and left the road free. There would be low
tide at half-past three o’clock.
Now the poor young fisherman was seized with an irresistible longing to
look once more upon the face of her whom he had loved with the purest
and most devoted affection, from the hour of their childhood when she
found him on the beach and claimed him as her playmate until this hour,
when, after a seven years’ absence, she was returning home. If he should
not succeed in getting a glimpse of her now, he feared that he might
never see her again, for his occupation on the promontory was gone,
since the fishing landing had been replaced by a pier and a boat-house.
He took his fishing-rod and went down on the neck at low tide, to wait
for her carriage to pass.
He sat on a high rock, and baited his hook for “sheep’s-head,” which
most did congregate about that spot. But before he could cast his line
into the sea, the sound of wheels was heard approaching. He looked up
and saw the promontory carriage coming slowly down the gradual descent
leading on to the neck. He drew his broad-brimmed straw hat low over his
eyes, and his heart almost stood still as he muttered within himself:
“Will she recognize ‘David Lindsay?’ I should know her anywhere, or
after any length of time.”
The carriage was coming. It was wide open, the top had been thrown quite
down, both back and front, that the travelers might enjoy the fresh air
and fine scenery of land and water on that delicious October afternoon.
On the coachman’s box sat Laban, lazily holding the reins. On the front
seat, with his back to the negro, sat Colonel de Crespigney, with his
traveling cap on his knees before him, leaving his fine head, with his
waving black hair and beard and his Roman features, bare.
Opposite him, on the back seat, sat a very restless young lady, with the
face of an eager, vivacious child—a face with a delicate Grecian
profile, a dainty, rosebud complexion, sparkling, glad blue eyes, and
rippling, golden-hued hair.
She was constantly springing from side to side, gazing now on the right,
now on the left, to catch glimpses of distant objects, once familiar,
but long unseen.
“Oh, uncle!” she gladly exclaimed. “I can see the tall trees on this
side of the dee-ar old house!”
“Wait until you see the house, my darling!” he replied, conscious of the
surprise he should give her when he should show her the gray old
“penitentiary” transfigured to a white palace.
A few more turns of the wheel and he exclaimed:
“Look!”
But the effect was not what he desired and expected. She turned on him a
surprised and distressed face, exclaiming:
“Oh, Marcel, what is that? Where is the dee-ar old home?”
“There it is, my precious child! That is the old home, renovated and
adorned, and made worthy to receive its fair young mistress,” replied
the colonel, with evident self-complacency.
“Oh, Marcel, how could you? How could you do such a thing?” she cried,
reproachfully—“how could you treat the dee-ar old home that way? It is
not familiar; it is not the same at all! I do not know it at all! Oh, I
am so disappointed and so sorry!”
“My dear, I thought to have given you a pleasant surprise. I thought
only of your happiness,” replied the poor colonel.
“And I expected to find the dee-ar old place just as I left it! Just as
I left it! And, oh! look there!”
“What now, my dear?”
“Oh, Marcel! what have you done to the old sea-wall and the dee-ar old
fishing landing, where I and David Lindsay used to play when we were
children?”
“My dear, that fishing landing was a nuisance to sight and smell. See
what a pretty pier and boat-house are built on its site,” said Colonel
de Crespigney.
“Oh, Marcel! how could you? How could you? You have spoiled everything!
You have spoiled everything! You have killed the dee-ar old place!
Instead of a living being in poor old clothes, it is a dead corpse in
fine dress and flowers. Oh, I shall never see the dee-ar old house and
the dee-ar old landing again! If I had known this I would never have
come back! I might as well have stayed in Europe. Oh, I am so
disappointed and so sorry I could break my heart!” cried the girl, with
a piteous look of distress into the face of her guardian; but there she
met an expression of so much misery that her tone changed instantly from
reproaches to self-condemnation.
“Oh, what a selfish, ungrateful wretch I am, dee-ar Marcel! And such an
idiotic little fool besides. You did it all to please me, and I ought to
be glad and grateful, and so I shall be when I have sense enough to
appreciate it all; dee-ar Marcel, forgive me,” she pleaded, bending
forward to lay her cheek against his whiskered face, as she had been
used to do in her childhood.
“I am only so grieved, my child, to have given you pain instead of
pleasure; but no doubt I am but a blundering brute!” sighed the colonel.
“Oh, no, no; you are the very best and dearest and most unselfish one in
the world. I cannot remember the time when I did not love and honor you
above all other ones on earth!”
“My little Glo’, it was all the more reason I should have studied your
nature and planned for your happiness more intelligently,” sadly replied
the colonel.
“Oh, Marcel! Don’t say that, or I shall think you have not forgiven me.
You have studied my happiness more than I deserved. You have done the
very best for me always. In regard to these changes, they certainly do
make a great improvement, which I shall be sure to appreciate and enjoy.
It was only just at first, when I was looking to see the dee-ar old
place in its old familiar face, that the change struck me as a
disappointment, and I am such a fool for blurting out my very first
thoughts and feelings!” said Gloria, caressing her uncle.
She was disappointed, poor girl; for to return some time to the old home
and the old life had been the fond dream of the young, faithful heart in
the long years of her exile and homesickness; and now to return and find
all changed, even for the better, was a painful shock.
Colonel de Crespigney knew it now, and could not forgive himself for not
anticipating such an effect.
“Do not look so grave, Marcel, or I shall think you never will forget my
folly,” she pleaded. “Listen, now, and let me tell you something,
Marcel! Seeing the dee-ar old place all freshened up, and decorated and
changed into something else, was just as if, when I was looking for you,
and expecting to see you as you used to look—why—instead of my dee-ar,
old, black-bearded darkey of an uncle, I had found a golden-haired,
rosy-cheeked young fairy prince! There! That expresses my feelings in
regard to seeing the dee-ar old home changed into something else!”
De Crespigney smiled; he felt pleased and flattered; he also understood
her better and loved her more, as he remembered that she had always
cherished a sweet, loyal love for old familiar friends and places. He
suddenly recalled the days when he had first known her as an infant of
three years old, when some one had broken the head of her doll, and he
himself had bought her a splendid young lady of waxen mould with rosy
cheeks and flaxen hair, and dressed in silk attire, how she had hugged
her poor old headless dolly to her faithful little heart and refused to
part with it in favor of the radiant new one.
And later when she first arrived at the Promontory, bringing a little
mongrel dog, who died soon after, and to comfort her he brought home a
little white poodle, how sadly she turned away from the new claimant of
her notice, murmuring, “Oh, uncle, I can’t love another little dog so
soon,” though a few days afterwards she picked up the little poodle and
petted him, muttering, “Poor Carlo, it wasn’t your fault that poor
little Flora died, was it?” and loved him ever afterwards.
About the same time, reading the story of “Beauty and the Beast,” she
had sighed, and said, “If I had been Beauty I would have loved the
dee-ar old Beast; I would not have wanted to have his head cut off to
change him into anything else, not even a fairy prince!”
All these traits of her childhood recurred to the mind of De Crespigney,
as he listened to the little penitent’s frank confession.
“I understand, dear heart! I understand perfectly,” he said, as he
raised her hand and pressed it to his lips.
She smiled radiantly on him, and then turned and looked about her, as if
in search of other changes.
Then her eyes fell upon the form of a young man seated on a rock, and
apparently engaged in fishing.
She bent forward and suddenly exclaimed:
“Oh, Marcel, there is David Lindsay! I know it is David Lindsay! He has
grown tall; of course, I expected to find him grown up, but he has the
same face and eyes that I should know if I should meet him in Africa.
Oh! I thank the Lord he is not changed into anything else! Oh, Marcel! I
must speak to David Lindsay. Here, Laban, stop the horses! Stop them
right here!”
The negro coachman touched his hat and drew up opposite the rock on
which the young man sat, and within a few feet of it.
She leaned out, and called:
“David Lindsay! David Lindsay! Oh, David Lindsay, please come here!”
He looked up at the sound of her voice, and paled and shook with emotion
as he drew in his fishing-line, laid it down beside him, arose, and
approached the carriage.
“Oh, David Lindsay, how do you do? I am so overjoyed to see you once
more! Why! don’t you remember me—your old playmate of the fishing
landing?” she inquired, seeing that he hesitated to take the hand she
had offered him.
He took the delicately gloved fingers then, however, and bowed over
them.
“Why—don’t you remember the old sea-wall, and the old broken boat, and
the good times we used to have there, and the little dinners we used to
cook on the beach, and the little schools we used to keep? Don’t you
remember, David Lindsay?” she gladly inquired, with a childlike
eagerness, as she smiled upon him.
“Oh, yes, Miss, I remember well,” he answered, in a low, subdued voice.
“Oh, I think that was the happiest time in my whole life, David Lindsay!
Don’t you?”
“It was the happiest time in mine, Miss,” he replied, in the same
subdued tone, as he kept his eyes fixed upon the ground, not trusting
them to look at her again.
“And how is dear Granny Lindsay? Is she still at the cot on the isle? Is
she as busy and active as ever?” inquired Gloria, with new interest in
her tone.
“She is as well as she can be at seventy years of age, but more infirm
than when you knew her last. She lives at the cot on the isle, and she
is as busy, but not as active, as ever,” he answered, slowly and
gravely.
“Oh, what happy, happy days we used to have at her house, David Lindsay!
Such happy, happy days! Do you remember them?”
Did he not remember them?
Ah, yes! but, with her bright face beaming down upon him, bringing the
light of those days so vividly before him, with the memory of their
frank, childish affection then, and the consciousness of the gulf that
opened between them now, it had grown more and more difficult for him to
answer her. Now he seemed tongue-tied.
“Do you think she will let me come and spend a day with her, just as I
used to do? Oh, how I should like to do so! It would be so like old
times! Would she let me, David Lindsay?”
“Indeed, she would be very happy to do so,” replied the young man,
partly recovering his voice.
“Well, then, will you ask her if I may come to-morrow? And will you row
me over, as you used to do, David Lindsay?”
“I shall be too happy to do so, Miss de la Vera.”
“Ah, how glad I shall be to see dee-ar Granny Lindsay, and revive one of
those old-time, happy, happy days!” exclaimed Gloria.
“My dear,” said Colonel de Crespigney, gravely, “the tide is coming in,
and we are not more than half-way across. It is not safe to remain here
a moment longer. We can scarcely cross before the road will be six feet
under water!”
“And David Lindsay has to walk! He will never be able to cross in
safety! And it is I who have kept him loitering here! Oh, I am so sorry!
But you must not walk, indeed, David Lindsay! Get in here and sit beside
me, if you please. Yes, but I insist upon it now!” she added, seeing
that he did not comply with her request.
“You had better do so, Lindsay,” coldly added Colonel de Crespigney, as
he left his own seat and sat down beside Gloria, leaving the front
cushion free for the young man.
“I thank you very much, Miss de la Vera, and you also, sir; but I can
easily walk the way before the road will be covered,” replied young
Lindsay, as he bowed and retreated from the carriage.
“‘A willful man must have his way,’” said the colonel.
“Oh, Marcel, you did not invite him half cordially enough!” cried
Gloria. “And suppose he was to be overtaken by the tide and swept away!”
“No danger. Look there,” said the colonel, pointing to the road before
the carriage, down which David Lindsay, with his fishing tackle in his
hand, was striding at a good rate.
The horses were now started and driven off at a speed. They passed the
young man, who raised his hat as they whirled out of sight.
“Marcel, I will never forgive you if David Lindsay is drowned!”
exclaimed Gloria.
“No danger, Miss!” volunteered old Laban from the box. “There is a
plenty o’ time, an’ he’s a famous hand at walking.”
“Foot at walking, you mean, old man, don’t you?” inquired Colonel de
Crespigney.
“I don’t see how you can jest, Marcel, when any fellow-creature, not to
say David Lindsay, is in peril,” exclaimed Gloria, reproachfully.
“Do you, then, suppose, my dear, that I am capable of jesting with the
peril of any fellow-creature? Is not my jesting proof enough that there
is no peril?” inquired the colonel, deprecatingly.
She did not answer him. She had twisted her head quite around to look
back on the figure of the young man, who was striding fast behind the
carriage.
And during the remainder of their rapid drive she continued from time to
time to look back at the striding figure, until at length they had
crossed the long stretch of road and reached the higher and broader
portion of the promontory that was so soon to be turned by the high tide
into an island.
Then for the last time she looked and saw that though the lowest part of
the isthmus was covered with the waves, yet as David Lindsay was already
ascending the rise towards the promontory, he was out of danger.
It was nearly dark when they reached the house, which was already
lighted up for the reception of the travelers.
Miss Agrippina de Crespigney, attended by Sophia and Lamia, stood in the
hall to welcome them home.
She took Gloria by the waist, kissed her on both cheeks and said:
“You are looking very well, my dear. How much you have grown!”
And then Gloria returned her caresses and her compliments, saying:
“You are looking finely, aunt. You are not changed at all. I think no
one is changed except David Lindsay and myself. I think people must grow
up and stay so until they become very old.”
But quick Miss Grip had already turned to her nephew to shake hands with
him, and left Gloria free to receive the welcome of her colored friends.
“How you has growed! My patience alibe, how you has growed, honey!” was
the greeting of ’Phia.
“’Deed I is mighty proud to see you, Miss Glo’, ’deed is I!” was the
cordial exclamation of Lamia.
“You had better prove your feelings in a more practical manner by
showing your mistress up to her room,” said prompt Miss Grip.
“Come on, Miss Glo’!” said the unceremonious girl.
“Yes, indeed, Lamia, I do wish to lay off my wraps. I have been wearing
them so long,” responded the young lady, as she followed her maid up the
broad staircase to the large southeast room overlooking the sea, which
had been hers in her childhood.
“Ain’t it just lovely, Miss Glo’?” triumphantly exclaimed the girl, as
she threw open the door and displayed the renovated and decorated
chamber, blooming like a rose in its pink silk and white lace curtains,
its pink velvet and white satin chairs, and its pink and white walls and
carpet.
“Isn’t it just lovely, now, Miss Glo’?” repeated the pleased maid.
“Oh, dear, yes, I suppose it is; but it isn’t like my dee-ar old room at
all! Not even the fireplace!” she sighed, as she turned to the glowing
coals on a polished steel grate that had replaced the blazing hickory
logs of the old open chimney that was so familiar to her childhood.
“Why, you don’t like it, Miss Glo’!” exclaimed the girl in surprise and
disappointment.
“Oh, yes, I do; but—it is not like home at all! Nothing is like home,
and I feel as if I had come into a strange house, and should never reach
home again!” sighed the homesick child, as she laid her hat on the
pretty counterpane of white crochet over pink silk.
“And we took such pains to please you!” said the maid, sorrowfully.
“Poor Lamia! Well, I am pleased, only I would like to have seen my old
room once more just as it was. Come now and help me to dress. My boxes
have arrived, I suppose. They were sent by express to Leonardtown last
week.”
“Oh, yes, Miss, soon as ebber de letter an’ de keys come by mail, us
sent daddy wid de wagon to Lennuntowm to fetch de boxes home, which dey
rove safe an’ soun’, an’ I unpacked dem an’ put all de fings ’way in de
boorers an’ ward’obes.”
“That was right. Just give me the blue cashmere suit and the lace that
is with it.”
The girl obeyed, and the young lady soon completed her toilet and went
down stairs to join her aunt and uncle in the drawing-room.
Dinner was soon afterward served.
When that was over, the small party returned to the drawing-room, where
Colonel de Crespigney wished to show his niece the new grand piano that
he had selected for her. Here was also a music-stand supplied with the
works of the great masters.
He opened the piano and led her to it.
She seated herself and touched the keys, and found the instrument to be
one of very superior tone.
She spent the remainder of the evening in playing and singing the
favorite airs and songs of her uncle. Her voice was a pure, clear
soprano, and her soul was always in her song. Hence, though she might
never have achieved a grand success as a public singer, she was very
effective as a parlor performer.
At the close of this musical entertainment the small party separated and
retired to bed.
And so ended the day of Gloria’s return home.