THE SECOND MEETING.
Miss Eveleth requests the pleasure of Mr. Lindsay's company to meet a few
friends on the evening of the Feast of St. Ambrose, December 7th,
Wednesday.
THE PARSONAGE, December 6th.
It was the luckiest thing in the world. They always made a little
festival of that evening at the Rev. Ambrose Eveleth's, in honor of his
canonized namesake, and because they liked to have a good time. It came
this year just at the right moment, for here was a distinguished stranger
visiting in the place. Oxbow Village seemed to be running over with its
one extra young man,--as may be seen sometimes in larger villages, and
even in cities of moderate dimensions.
Mr. William Murray Bradshaw had called on Clement the day after his
arrival. He had already met the Deacon in the street, and asked some
questions about his transient boarder.
A very interesting young man, the Deacon said, much given to the reading
of pious books. Up late at night after he came, reading Scott's
Commentary. Appeared to be as fond of serious works as other young folks
were of their novels and romances and other immoral publications. He,
the Deacon, thought of having a few religious friends to meet the young
gentleman, if he felt so disposed; and should like to have him, Mr.
Bradshaw, come in and take a part in the exercises.--Mr. Bradshaw was
unfortunately engaged. He thought the young gentleman could hardly find
time for such a meeting during his brief visit.
Mr. Bradshaw expected naturally to see a youth of imperfect constitution,
and cachectic or dyspeptic tendencies, who was in training to furnish one
of those biographies beginning with the statement that, from his infancy,
the subject of it showed no inclination for boyish amusements, and so on,
until he dies out, for the simple reason that there was not enough of him
to live. Very interesting, no doubt, Master Byles Gridley would have
said, but had no more to do with good, hearty, sound life than the
history of those very little people to be seen in museums preserved in
jars of alcohol, like brandy peaches.
When Mr. Clement Lindsay presented himself, Mr. Bradshaw was a good deal
surprised to see a young fellow of such a mould. He pleased himself with
the idea that he knew a man of mark at sight, and he set down Clement in
that category at his first glance. The young man met his penetrating and
questioning look with a frank, ingenuous, open aspect, before which he
felt himself disarmed, as it were, and thrown upon other means of
analysis. He would try him a little in talk.
"I hope you like these people you are with. What sort of a man do you
find my old friend the Deacon?"
Clement laughed. "A very queer old character. Loves his joke as well,
and is as sly in making it, as if he had studied Joe Miller instead of
the Catechism."
Mr. Bradshaw looked at the young man to know what he meant. Mr. Lindsay
talked in a very easy way for a serious young person. He was puzzled.
He did not see to the bottom of this description of the Deacon. With a
lawyer's instinct, he kept his doubts to himself and tried his witness
with a new question.
"Did you talk about books at all with the old man?"
"To be sure I did. Would you believe it,--that aged saint is a great
novel-reader. So he tells me. What is more, he brings up his children
to that sort of reading, from the time when they first begin to spell.
If anybody else had told me such a story about an old country deacon, I
wouldn't have believed it; but he said so himself, to me, at breakfast
this morning."
Mr. Bradshaw felt as if either he or Mr. Lindsay must certainly be in the
first stage of mild insanity, and he did not think that he himself could
be out of his wits. He must try one more question. He had become so
mystified that he forgot himself, and began putting his interrogation in
legal form.
"Will you state, if you please--I beg your pardon--may I ask who is your
own favorite author?"
"I think just now I like to read Scott better than almost anybody."
"Do you mean the Rev. Thomas Scott, author of the Commentary?"
Clement stared at Mr. Bradshaw, and wondered whether he was trying to
make a fool of him. The young lawyer hardly looked as if he could be a
fool himself.
"I mean Sir Walter Scott," he said, dryly.
"Oh!" said Mr. Bradshaw. He saw that there had been a slight
misunderstanding between the young man and his worthy host, but it was
none of his business, and there were other subjects of interest to talk
about.
"You know one of our charming young ladies very well, I believe, Mr.
Lindsay. I think you are an old acquaintance of Miss Posey, whom we all
consider so pretty."
Poor Clement! The question pierced to the very marrow of his soul, but
it was put with the utmost suavity and courtesy, and honeyed with a
compliment to the young lady, too, so that there was no avoiding a direct
and pleasant answer to it.
"Yes," he said, "I have known the young lady you speak of for a long
time, and very well,--in fact, as you must have heard, we are something
more than friends. My visit here is principally on her account."
"You must give the rest of us a chance to see something of you during
your visit, Mr. Lindsay. I hope you are invited to Miss Eveleth's
to-morrow evening?"
"Yes, I got a note this morning. Tell me, Mr. Bradshaw, who is there
that I shall meet if I go? I have no doubt there are girls here in the
village I should like to see, and perhaps some young fellows that I
should like to talk with. You know all that's prettiest and pleasantest,
of course."
"Oh, we're a little place, Mr. Lindsay. A few nice people, the rest
comme Va, you know. High-bush blackberries and low-bush
black-berries,--you understand,--just so everywhere,--high-bush here and
there, low-bush plenty. You must see the two parsons' daughters,--Saint
Ambrose's and Saint Joseph's,--and another girl I want particularly to
introduce you to. You shall form your own opinion of her. I call her
handsome and stylish, but you have got spoiled, you know. Our young
poet, too, one we raised in this place, Mr. Lindsay, and a superior
article of poet, as we think,--that is, some of us, for the rest of us
are jealous of him, because the girls are all dying for him and want his
autograph. And Cyp,--yes, you must talk to Cyp,--he has ideas. But
don't forget to get hold of old Byles Master Gridley I mean--before you
go. Big head. Brains enough for a cabinet minister, and fit out a
college faculty with what was left over. Be sure you see old Byles. Set
him talking about his book, 'Thoughts on the Universe.' Did n't sell
much, but has got knowing things in it. I'll show you a copy, and then
you can tell him you know it, and he will take to you. Come in and get
your dinner with me to-morrow. We will dine late, as the city folks do,
and after that we will go over to the Rector's. I should like to show
you some of our village people."
Mr. Bradshaw liked the thought of showing the young man to some of his
friends there. As Clement was already "done for," or "bowled out," as
the young lawyer would have expressed the fact of his being pledged in
the matrimonial direction, there was nothing to be apprehended on the
score of rivalry. And although Clement was particularly good-looking,
and would have been called a distinguishable youth anywhere, Mr. Bradshaw
considered himself far more than his match, in all probability, in social
accomplishments. He expected, therefore, a certain amount of reflex
credit for bringing such a fine young fellow in his company, and a second
instalment of reputation from outshining him in conversation. This was
rather nice calculating, but Murray Bradshaw always calculated. With most
men life is like backgammon, half skill, and half luck, but with him it
was like chess. He never pushed a pawn without reckoning the cost, and
when his mind was least busy it was sure to be half a dozen moves ahead
of the game as it was standing.
Mr. Bradshaw gave Clement a pretty dinner enough for such a place as
Oxbow Village. He offered him some good wine, and would have made him
talk so as to show his lining, to use one of his own expressions, but
Clement had apparently been through that trifling experience, and could
not be coaxed into saying more than he meant to say. Murray Bradshaw was
very curious to find out how it was that he had become the victim of such
a rudimentary miss as Susan Posey. Could she be an heiress in disguise?
Why no, of course not; had not he made all proper inquiries about that
when Susan came to town? A small inheritance from an aunt or uncle, or
some such relative, enough to make her a desirable party in the eyes of
certain villagers perhaps, but nothing to allure a man like this, whose
face and figure as marketable possessions were worth say a hundred
thousand in the girl's own right, as Mr. Bradshaw put it roughly, with
another hundred thousand if his talent is what some say, and if his
connection is a desirable one, a fancy price,--anything he would fetch.
Of course not. Must have got caught when he was a child. Why the diavolo
didn't he break it off, then?
There was no fault to find with the modest entertainment at the
Parsonage. A splendid banquet in a great house is an admirable thing,
provided always its getting up did not cost the entertainer an inward
conflict, nor its recollection a twinge of economical regret, nor its
bills a cramp of anxiety. A simple evening party in the smallest village
is just as admirable in its degree, when the parlor is cheerfully
lighted, and the board prettily spread, and the guests are made to feel
comfortable without being reminded that anybody is making a painful
effort.
We know several of the young people who were there, and need not trouble
ourselves for the others. Myrtle Hazard had promised to come. She had
her own way of late as never before; in fact, the women were afraid of
her. Miss Silence felt that she could not be responsible for her any
longer. She had hopes for a time that Myrtle would go through the
customary spiritual paroxysm under the influence of the Rev. Mr. Stoker's
assiduous exhortations; but since she had broken off with him, Miss
Silence had looked upon her as little better than a backslider. And now
that the girl was beginning to show the tendencies which seemed to come
straight down to her from the belle of the last century, (whose rich
physical developments seemed to the under-vitalized spinster as in
themselves a kind of offence against propriety,) the forlorn woman folded
her thin hands and looked on hopelessly, hardly venturing a remonstrance
for fear of some new explosion. As for Cynthia, she was comparatively
easy since she had, through Mr. Byles Gridley, upset the minister's
questionable arrangement of religious intimacy. She had, in fact, in a
quiet way, given Mr. Bradshaw to understand that he would probably meet
Myrtle at the Parsonage if he dropped in at their small gathering.
Clement walked over to Mrs. Hopkins's after his dinner with the young
lawyer, and asked if Susan was ready to go with him. At the sound of his
voice, Gifted Hopkins smote his forehead, and called himself, in subdued
tones, a miserable being. His imagination wavered uncertain for a while
between pictures of various modes of ridding himself of existence, and
fearful deeds involving the life of others. He had no fell purpose of
actually doing either, but there was a gloomy pleasure in contemplating
them as possibilities, and in mentally sketching the "Lines written in
Despair" which would be found in what was but an hour before the pocket
of the youthful bard, G. H., victim of a hopeless passion. All this
emotion was in the nature of a surprise to the young man. He had fully
believed himself desperately in love with Myrtle Hazard; and it was not
until Clement came into the family circle with the right of eminent
domain over the realm of Susan's affections, that this unfortunate
discovered that Susan's pretty ways and morning dress and love of poetry
and liking for his company had been too much for him, and that he was
henceforth to be wretched during the remainder of his natural life,
except so far as he could unburden himself in song.
Mr. William Murray Bradshaw had asked the privilege of waiting upon
Myrtle to the little party at the Eveleths. Myrtle was not insensible to
the attractions of the young lawyer, though she had never thought of
herself except as a child in her relations with any of these older
persons. But she was not the same girl that she had been but a few
months before. She had achieved her independence by her audacious and
most dangerous enterprise. She had gone through strange nervous trials
and spiritual experiences which had matured her more rapidly than years
of common life would have done. She had got back her health, bringing
with it a riper wealth of womanhood. She had found her destiny in the
consciousness that she inherited the beauty belonging to her blood, and
which, after sleeping for a generation or two as if to rest from the
glare of the pageant that follows beauty through its long career of
triumph, had come to the light again in her life, and was to repeat the
legends of the olden time in her own history.
Myrtle's wardrobe had very little of ornament, such as the modistes of
the town would have thought essential to render a young girl like her
presentable. There were a few heirlooms of old date, however, which she
had kept as curiosities until now, and which she looked over until she
found some lace and other convertible material, with which she enlivened
her costume a little for the evening. As she clasped the antique
bracelet around her wrist, she felt as if it were an amulet that gave her
the power of charming which had been so long obsolete in her lineage. At
the bottom of her heart she cherished a secret longing to try her
fascinations on the young lawyer. Who could blame her? It was not an
inwardly expressed intention,--it was the simple instinctive movement to
subjugate the strongest of the other sex who had come in her way, which,
as already said, is as natural to a woman as it is to a man to be
captivated by the loveliest of those to whom he dares to aspire.
Before William Murray Bradshaw and Myrtle Hazard had reached the
Parsonage, the girl's cheeks were flushed and her dark eyes were flashing
with a new excitement. The young man had not made love to her directly,
but he had interested her in herself by a delicate and tender flattery of
manner, and so set her fancies working that she was taken with him as
never before, and wishing that the Parsonage had been a mile farther from
The Poplars. It was impossible for a young girl like Myrtle to conceal
the pleasure she received from listening to her seductive admirer, who
was trying all his trained skill upon his artless companion. Murray
Bradshaw felt sure that the game was in his hands if he played it with
only common prudence. There was no need of hurrying this child,--it might
startle her to make downright love abruptly; and now that he had an ally
in her own household, and was to have access to her with a freedom he had
never before enjoyed, there was a refined pleasure in playing his
fish,--this gamest of golden-scaled creatures,--which had risen to his
fly, and which he wished to hook, but not to land, until he was sure it
would be worth his while.
They entered the little parlor at the Parsonage looking so beaming, that
Olive and Bathsheba exchanged glances which implied so much that it would
take a full page to tell it with all the potentialities involved.
"How magnificent Myrtle is this evening, Bathsheba!" said Cyprian
Eveleth, pensively.
"What a handsome pair they are, Cyprian!" said Bathsheba cheerfully.
Cyprian sighed. "She always fascinates me whenever I look upon her. Is
n't she the very picture of what a poet's love should be,--a poem
herself,--a glorious lyric,--all light and music! See what a smile the
creature has! And her voice! When did you ever hear such tones? And
when was it ever so full of life before."
Bathsheba sighed. "I do not know any poets but Gifted Hopkins. Does not
Myrtle look more in her place by the side of Murray Bradshaw than she
would with Gifted hitched on her arm?"
Just then the poet made his appearance. He looked depressed, as if it
had cost him an effort to come. He was, however, charged with a message
which he must deliver to the hostess of the evening.
"They 're coming presently," he said. "That young man and Susan. Wants
you to introduce him, Mr. Bradshaw."
The bell rang presently, and Murray Bradshaw slipped out into the entry
to meet the two lovers.
"How are you, my fortunate friend?" he said, as he met them at the door.
"Of course you're well and happy as mortal man can be in this vale of
tears. Charming, ravishing, quite delicious, that way of dressing your
hair, Miss Posey! Nice girls here this evening, Mr. Lindsay. Looked
lovely when I came out of the parlor. Can't say how they will show after
this young lady puts in an appearance." In reply to which florid
speeches Susan blushed, not knowing what else to do, and Clement smiled
as naturally as if he had been sitting for his photograph.
He felt, in a vague way, that he and Susan were being patronized, which
is not a pleasant feeling to persons with a certain pride of character.
There was no expression of contempt about Mr. Bradshaw's manner or
language at which he could take offence. Only he had the air of a man
who praises his neighbor without stint, with a calm consciousness that he
himself is out of reach of comparison in the possessions or qualities
which he is admiring in the other. Clement was right in his obscure
perception of Mr. Bradshaw's feeling while he was making his phrases.
That gentleman was, in another moment, to have the tingling delight of
showing the grand creature he had just begun to tame. He was going to
extinguish the pallid light of Susan's prettiness in the brightness of
Myrtle's beauty. He would bring this young man, neutralized and rendered
entirely harmless by his irrevocable pledge to a slight girl, face to
face with a masterpiece of young womanhood, and say to him, not in words,
but as plainly as speech could have told him, "Behold my captive!"
It was a proud moment for Murray Bradshaw. He had seen, or thought that
he had seen, the assured evidence of a speedy triumph over all the
obstacles of Myrtle's youth and his own present seeming slight excess of
maturity. Unless he were very greatly mistaken, he could now walk the
course; the plate was his, no matter what might be the entries. And this
youth, this handsome, spirited-looking, noble-aired young fellow, whose
artist-eye could not miss a line of Myrtle's proud and almost defiant
beauty, was to be the witness of his power, and to look in admiration
upon his prize! He introduced him to the others, reserving her for the
last. She was at that moment talking with the worthy Rector, and turned
when Mr. Bradshaw spoke to her.
"Miss Hazard, will you allow me to present to you my friend, Mr. Clement
Lindsay?"
They looked full upon each other, and spoke the common words of
salutation. It was a strange meeting; but we who profess to tell the
truth must tell strange things, or we shall be liars.
In poor little Susan's letter there was some allusion to a bust of
Innocence which the young artist had begun, but of which he had said
nothing in his answer to her. He had roughed out a block of marble for
that impersonation; sculpture was a delight to him, though secondary to
his main pursuit. After his memorable adventure, the image of the girl
he had rescued so haunted him that the pale ideal which was to work
itself out in the bust faded away in its perpetual presence, and--alas,
poor Susan! in obedience to the impulse that he could not control, he
left Innocence sleeping in the marble, and began modelling a figure of
proud and noble and imperious beauty, to which he gave the name of
Liberty.
The original which had inspired his conception was before him. These
were the lips to which his own had clung when he brought her back from
the land of shadows. The hyacinthine curl of her lengthening locks had
added something to her beauty; but it was the same face which had haunted
him. This was the form he had borne seemingly lifeless in his arms, and
the bosom which heaved so visibly before him was that which his eyes they
were the calm eyes of a sculptor, but of a sculptor hardly twenty years
old.
Yes,--her bosom was heaving. She had an unexplained feeling of
suffocation, and drew great breaths,--she could not have said why,--but
she could not help it; and presently she became giddy, and had a great
noise in her ears, and rolled her eyes about, and was on the point of
going into an hysteric spasm. They called Dr. Hurlbut, who was making
himself agreeable to Olive just then, to come and see what was the matter
with Myrtle.
"A little nervous turn,--that is all," he said.
"Open the window. Loose the ribbon round her neck. Rub her hands.
Sprinkle some water on her forehead.
"A few drops of cologne. Room too warm for her,--that 's all, I think."
Myrtle came to herself after a time without anything like a regular
paroxysm. But she was excitable, and whatever the cause of the
disturbance may have been, it seemed prudent that she should go home
early; and the excellent Rector insisted on caring for her, much to the
discontent of Mr. William Murray Bradshaw.
"Demonish odd," said this gentleman, "was n't it, Mr. Lindsay, that Miss
Hazard should go off in that way. Did you ever see her before?"
"I--I--have seen that young lady before," Clement answered.
"Where did you meet her?" Mr. Bradshaw asked, with eager interest.
"I met her in the Valley of the Shadow of Death," Clement answered, very
solemnly.--"I leave this place to-morrow morning. Have you any commands
for the city?"
"Knows how to shut a fellow up pretty well for a young one, doesn't he?"
Mr. Bradshaw thought to himself.
"Thank you, no," he answered, recovering himself. "Rather a melancholy
place to make acquaintance in, I should think, that Valley you spoke of.
I should like to know about it."
Mr. Clement had the power of looking steadily into another person's eyes
in a way that was by no means encouraging to curiosity or favorable to
the process of cross-examination. Mr. Bradshaw was not disposed to press
his question in the face of the calm, repressive look the young man gave
him.
"If he was n't bagged, I shouldn't like the shape of things any too
well," he said to himself.
The conversation between Mr. Clement Lindsay and Miss Susan Posey, as
they walked home together, was not very brilliant. "I am going to-morrow
morning," he said, "and I must bid you good-by tonight." Perhaps it is as
well to leave two lovers to themselves, under these circumstances.
Before he went he spoke to his worthy host, whose moderate demands he had
to satisfy, and with whom he wished to exchange a few words.
"And by the way, Deacon, I have no use for this book, and as it is in a
good type, perhaps you would like it. Your favorite, Scott, and one of
his greatest works. I have another edition of it at home, and don't care
for this volume."
"Thank you, thank you, Mr. Lindsay, much obleeged. I shall read that
copy for your sake, the best of books next to the Bible itself."
After Mr. Lindsay had gone, the Deacon looked at the back of the book.
"Scott's Works, Vol. IX." He opened it at hazard, and happened to fall
on a well-known page, from which he began reading aloud, slowly,
"When Izrul, of the Lord beloved,
Out of the land of bondage came."
The whole hymn pleased the grave Deacon. He had never seen this work of
the author of the Commentary. No matter; anything that such a good man
wrote must be good reading, and he would save it up for Sunday. The
consequence of this was, that, when the Rev. Mr. Stoker stopped in on his
way to meeting on the "Sabbath," he turned white with horror at the
spectacle of the senior Deacon of his church sitting, open-mouthed and
wide-eyed, absorbed in the pages of "Ivanhoe," which he found enormously
interesting; but, so far as he had yet read, not occupied with religious
matters so much as he had expected.
Myrtle had no explanation to give of her nervous attack. Mr. Bradshaw
called the day after the party, but did not see her. He met her walking,
and thought she seemed a little more distant than common. That would
never do. He called again at The Poplars a few days afterwards, and was
met in the entry by Miss Cynthia, with whom he had a long conversation on
matters involving Myrtle's interests and their own.