"What is Miss Worthington to me?" came out sullenly from my lips.
"Nothing to you, certainly, nor can she ever be; but as the future wife
of my brother, she is something to me."
It was true, then; but so fully had I felt the truth before that this
certainty gave me no added pang. From its very depths of despair I drew
strength, and, my courage rising, I had power even to look full at Miss
Hammond, and say,--
"You may be sure I shall never intrude myself on Mr. Hammond's wife or
sister, nor upon him, unless he desires it, except, indeed, to wish him
happiness."
My unexpected calmness roused her worst feelings, her pride, her
jealousy, and, with a woman's keen aim, she sent the next dart home. So
calmly she spoke, too, with such command of herself,--with a lady-like
self-control that I, alas! knew not how to reach.
"I am happy to hear you say so, for there have been times when your
singular manner has made me fear that you nourished some very false and
idle dreams,--follies that I have sometimes thought it my duty as a
woman to warn you against"; and with one keen look at my burning face,
she took up the basket and walked away.
I think at that moment I could have killed her, so bitter was the hatred
which I felt towards her; but the next brought its crushing shame,
taking away from me all but the desire to hide myself from every eye.
Where should I go? Somewhere where nobody could find me, where I could
be insured perfect solitude. It was not difficult to bury myself in the
forest that pressed around me on every side, and a few minutes saw me
struggling with the embarrassments of the tangled vines which obstructed
the path up our steepest hill. There was in the very difficulties to be
overcome something that seemed to bring me relief; they forced my mind
from myself. On, on I went, as if my life depended upon my struggles,
till, breathless and utterly exhausted, I had reached the top of the
hill, the highest point for miles around.
I sank down on the cool grass, the fresh wind blowing on my face, and,
too wearied to think, shut my eyes against the beautiful Nature around
me, alive only to my own overpowering misery. How long I lay there I
never knew. I was safe and alone. I could be wretched as I pleased, away
from Miss Hammond's mocking eye, away from the sight of George Hammond's
happiness. But, strangely enough, out of the very freedom to be
miserable came at last a sense of relief. I looked my wretchedness full
in the face. Could I not bear it? And there rose within me a strength I
had not known before. I was young, I had a long life before me; it could
not be but that this great sorrow would pass away. At least, I would not
nourish it. I would do what I could to help myself. Help _myself_! For
the first time in my life I put up an earnest prayer for help out of
myself. The words, coming as such words come but few times in life, out
from the very depths of the heart, brought with them their softening
influence. The tears sprung forth, those tears which I thought I should
never shed again, and I burst into a passionate fit of crying, the
passionate crying of a child. It shook me from head to foot with its
hysterical convulsions, but it left me at last calmer, soothed into
stillness, with only now and then those choking after-sobs which I,
child like, sent forth there on the bosom of the only mother I had ever
known,--our kindly mother Earth.
The sun was going down when I rose up, soothed and comforted, and
strengthened, too, for a time. I would do what I could. I would live
down this grief: how I knew not, but the way would come to me. And
gathering up my hair, which had fallen around me, I stopped, on my way
home, by a running stream, and bathed my eyes and forehead until I was
fit to appear before my step-mother. She did not question me; she was
too used to my unexplained absences since I had grown out of her
control. Sufficient for her that my tasks were always performed;
sufficient for her, that, that very evening, I threw myself with an
apparently untiring energy into the household work,--that I never rested
a moment till she herself closed the house and insisted that I should go
to bed. I slept that night,--after such fatigue, it was impossible but
that I should,--and woke in the morning with a renewed determination to
struggle against my sorrow.
Alas! alas! I thought I had only to resolve. I thought the struggle
would be but once. How little I knew of the daily, almost hourly,
changes of feeling,--of the despondency, the despair, that would come, I
knew not why, directly upon my most earnest resolves, my hardest
struggles,--of the weakness that would make me at times give up all
struggling as useless,--of the mad hope that would sometimes arise that
something, some outward change, I did not dare to say what, would bring
me some relief!
I had at least the courage to keep away from the sight of all that was
so miserable to me. I did not see George Hammond for weeks, and he--ah!
there was the bitterness--he did not miss me.
And so the weary days went on. It is wonderful what endurance there is
in a young heart,--for how long a time it can beat off suffering all day
by unceasing labor, and lie awake all night with that same suffering for
a bedfellow, and still make no sign that a careless eye can see I look
at that time now with wonder. How did I bear that constant occupation by
day, alternated only with those sleepless nights, without breaking down
entirely? The crisis came at last,--a sort of stupor, a cessation of
suffering indeed, but a cessation, too, of all feeling. I was frightened
at myself. Alas! I had no one to be frightened for me. Could it be that
I was going to lose my senses? But no, I passed through that too, and
then came a more natural state of mind than any I had known since the
blow fell.
My suffering self seemed like something apart from me, which I could
pity and help, could counsel and act for, and this one thing became
clear to me. Some change of scene was necessary to me. I could never go
on so; it was idle to attempt it. I could not live any longer face to
face with my grief. There was the whole world before me. Was it not
possible to go out into it? I had health, strength, ability, I was sure
of it. How often before had I dreamed over the seeking my fortune in
that world which looked to me then so full of excitement! Nothing had
held me back then but the clinging to home-pleasures, to
home-enjoyments, to home-comforts, poor as they were,--nothing but the
sense of safety, of protection. What were these to me now? I cared
nothing for them. I only asked to be away from all that reminded me of
my suffering, to be so forced to struggle with external difficulties as
to have no thought for myself. I did not want to love anybody; I would
rather have nobody care for me. I would go. The only question was how.
A few days and nights of thought solved the problem for me, and, once
roused to action, I took my steps rapidly and well. The first thing
necessary was money, money enough to take me away, and to support me
until I could find employment; and the means of attaining it were
within my reach. I owned a watch that had been my mother's, a pretty
trinket, though somewhat old-fashioned, and which had often excited the
envy of the young wife of one of the head miners. I knew that her
husband was flush of money just then, for he had drawn his wages only
the week before,--and I knew, too, that he would give me a good price
for my watch, were it only to gratify the bride to whom he had as yet
denied nothing.
The sale was made at once. I do not know if I got anything like the
value of the watch, but the next day saw me with fifty dollars in my
pocket, a small bundle, made up from the most available part of my
wardrobe, under my arm, prepared to walk to Louisa, avowedly to buy
supplies, but with the secret determination to meet there the coal-boats
which were bound for the mouth, ask a passage on them as far as
Catlettsburg, and there take the first steamer that passed, and let it
carry me whither it would.
There was no pause of regret, no delay for parting looks or words; from
the moment that I had made up my mind to go, I felt nothing but a
desperate eagerness to be away, to be in action. The few words necessary
to prepare my step-mother for my ostensible errand were soon said, the
good-morning calmly spoken, and I passed into the forest-path leading to
the town. A pang smote me as I remembered her conscientious discharge of
duty toward me for so many years; but it was duty, not love, that had
urged her, and while I said that to myself, I said, too, that time would
bring to me the opportunity of repaying her.
Toward the settlement on the opposite shore I turned no look. I would
not trust myself; I knew my own weakness too well; this desperate energy
which was carrying me on now would fail, if I allowed my heart one
moment's indulgence. Steadily I walked on through the woods, my own
woods, which, perhaps, I should never see again, till, wearied out by
the exertion, which had precluded thought, I saw the houses of Louisa
rise before me.
The boats lay at the fork above the town. I had informed myself of their
movements, and knew they were to start at noon. A few inquiries for
groceries and so forth, where I know they could not be gotten, gave me
an excuse for the proposition to the captain of the boats to give me a
passage to Catlettsburg. It was readily granted, and the crew, most of
them Sandy men, put up a rough awning, and, spreading under it some
blankets, did their kind uttermost to make me comfortable.
I remember now, as one looks back into a dream, the afternoon and night
that passed before we reached Catlettsburg. I lay perfectly quiet,
watching the shadowy trees as we glided past them, noting their varied
reflections in the water, marking every peculiarity of shore and stream,
hearing the jests and laughter, the words of command and the oaths, that
went round among the boatmen; but all passed as something with which I
had nothing to do. To me there was the burning desire to put a great
distance between myself and my home,--but with it, too, the
consciousness, that, as I could do nothing to expedite our slow
progress, so neither could I afford to waste upon it in impatient
restlessness the strength which would be so much needed afterwards. The
men brought me a cup of coffee from their supper, which gave me strength
for the night. The biscuit I could not taste.
But how long was that night! how tedious the summer dawn! and how slowly
went the hours till we brought up our boats at the landing at
Catlettsburg!
I had formed my plans; so, telling the captain that I might perhaps want
to go back with him, I hurried into the town. A steamboat lay by the
wharf-boat. "The Bostona, for Cincinnati," said the board displayed over
her upper railing. She was to leave at eight o'clock. I walked about the
town till half-past seven; then, returning to the coal-boats, gave to
the man left in charge a letter I had prepared, in which I told my
step-mother, in as few words as possible, that I wanted to see something
of the world, and had determined to go for a time either to Cincinnati
or to Pittsburg,--that I begged her not to be uneasy about me, I had
sold my watch, and had money enough for the present; she should hear
from me in due time. The man took the letter, with some remark on my not
returning with them, and, with a quiet good-day, I left him and walked
rapidly toward the steamer. The plank was laid from the wharf-boat, and,
without daring to hesitate, I walked over it.
It was done. I was fairly separated from everything I had ever known
before; everything now was new to me; I was ignorant of all around me;
each step might be a mistake. I felt this, when a porter, stepping
forward and taking my bundle, asked me if I would have a state-room.
What was a state-room? I did not know, but saying, "Yes," with a
desperate feeling that it might as well be "yes" as "no," I was led back
to the ladies' cabin, a key was turned in one of an infinite number of
little doors, and I was ushered into what looked to me like a closet,
with shelves made to take the place of beds. Here at least I was alone,
and here I could be alone till dinner-time; till then there was no call
for action on my part.
And how precious seemed to me every hour of rest! Singularly enough, my
great sorrow did not come back to me in those pauses of action. I seemed
then to be entirely absorbed in gathering strength for the next
occasion; my grief was put away for the future, when there would come to
me the time to indulge it.
So I lay quiet during that morning, looking sometimes through my little
window at the passing shore, listening sometimes to the loud talking in
the cabin, sometimes to the noises on the boat, wondering if all those
strange creakings and shakings could be right, but finding a sense of
security in my very ignorance. Dinner came, and in the course of it I
found courage to ask the captain, at whose right hand I was placed, what
time we should reach Cincinnati. "Not till after breakfast," was his
welcome answer; for I had been haunted by a dread of being set adrift in
a great city in the middle of the night, when I might perhaps fall into
some den of thieves. I had read of such things in my books. This gave me
still the afternoon before it would be necessary to think, some hours
more in which to rest mind and body.
The night came at last, and I must decide what step to take next, that,
my mind made up, I might perhaps get some sleep. I turned restlessly in
my narrow bed, got up, and stood at the window, tried first the upper
shelf, and then the lower, but no possible plan presented itself. I
still saw before me that terrible city where I should be ten times
lonelier than in the midst of our forests, where I should make mistakes
at every turn, where I should not know one face out of the many
thousands that crowded upon my nervous fancy. I seemed to be afraid of
nothing but human beings, and, at the thought of encountering them, my
woman's heart gave way. In vain I reasoned with myself, "I shall not see
all Cincinnati at once,--not more at one time, perhaps, than I saw
to-day at dinner." Still came up those endless streets, all filled with
strange faces; still I saw myself pushed, jostled, by a succession of
men and women who cared nothing for me. Suddenly came the thought, "Tom
Salyers is in Cincinnati. There is one person there that I know. If I
could only find him, he would take care of me till I knew how to take
care of myself."
There came no remembrance of our last conversation to check my eager
joy. Indeed, it had never made much impression upon me, followed as it
had been by so much of nearer interest. I set myself to reflect on the
means of finding him. He had gone down in the employ of the coal
company. The captain could tell me where to look for him, and, satisfied
with that, I laid my weary head on my pillow.
The next morning at breakfast I gained the needed information. "Did I
want to find one of the men in Mr. Hammond's employment? I must go to
the coal-yard"; and the direction was written out for me.
And now we neared the city. I stood on the guards and looked wondering
at the steamboats that lined the river-bank, at the long rows of houses
that stretched before me, the tall chimneys vomiting smoke which
obscured the surrounding hills, at the crowd of men and drays on the
landing through which I was to make my way; but my courage rose with the
occasion, and, stepping resolutely from the plank, I walked up the hill
and stood among the warehouses. I had been told to "turn to the right
and take the first street, I could not miss my way"; but somehow I did
miss my way again and again, and wandered weary and bewildered, not
daring at first to ask for directions, till, gathering strength from my
very weariness, I at last saw before me the welcome sign. It was
something like home to see it; the familiar names cheered me while they
moved me. I entered the office trembling with a wild dread lest I should
meet Mr. Hammond there, but the sight of a stranger's face at the desk
gave me courage to ask for Tom Salyers.
"He is in the yard now. Here, Jim, tell Salyers there's a person"--he
hesitated--"a lady wants to see him."
I sat down in a chair which was luckily near me, for my knees trembled
so that I could not stand, and as the door opened and Tom's familiar
face was before me, my whole composure gave way and I burst into a
violent fit of crying.
"Janet! is it you? For Heaven's sake, what is the matter?"
But I could only sob in answer.
"Has anything happened up Sandy? Did you come for me?"
The poor fellow leaned over me, his face pale with surprise and
agitation.
"Take me out of here," was all I could muster composure enough to say.
He opened the door, and I escaped into the open air. We walked side by
side through the streets, he silently respecting my agitation with a
delicacy for which I had not given him credit, and I struggling to grow
calm. At last he opened a little side-gate.
"Come in here, Janet; we shall be quiet here."
And I entered a sort of garden: the grounds belonging to the city
waterworks I have since known them to be. We sat down on a bench that
overlooked the Kentucky hills. I love the seat now. I think the sight of
the familiar fields and trees calmed me, and I was able at last to
answer Tom's anxious questions.
"It is nothing; indeed, it is nothing. I am a foolish coward, and I was
frightened walking through the city, and then the sight of a home-face
upset me."
"But, Janet, why are you here? Is anything wrong about the works, the
men? Did Mr. Hammond send you down?"
"No, indeed, no! it was only a fancy of mine to see the world. I am
tired of that lonely life, and you know I am not needed there. My mother
can get along without me, and I am only a burden to my father."
"Not needed? Why, Janet, what will the Sandy country be without you?"
My eyes filled up with tears again.
"Don't ask me any more questions, dear Tom; only help me for a little
while, till I can help myself. I want to earn my living somehow, but I
have money enough to live upon till I can find something to do. Only
find me a place to stay quietly in while I am looking for work. You are
the only person I know in this great city; and who will help me, if you
do not?"
"You know I will help you with my whole heart and soul, Janet," he said,
his voice faltering.
I looked up, and in one moment rushed back upon me the remembrance of
his words that day in the boat, and I stood aghast at the new trouble
that seemed to rise before me. My voice must have changed as I said,--
"I only want you to find me a place to live in; I can take care of
myself"; for his countenance fell, and he sat silent for some moments.