And now I will let you into a secret, which, according to the received
rules for story-construction, should be barred against you yet a little
longer. I will fling it wide open at once, instead of holding it ajar
and admitting you edgewise, as it were, one conjecture at a time.
Miss Wimple had a lover;--she had had him since six months before her
father died, and the decayed publisher had never guessed of him nor
Sally confessed him; for the good, thoughtful daughter knew it would
but complicate the old man's perplexities and cares to no purpose. To
be sure, his joyful consent was certain; but so long as he lived, "the
thing was not to be thought of," she said, and it was not wise to plant
in his mind a wish with which her duty could not accord. So Sally's
lover was hushed up,--hidden in discretion as in a closet.
Simon Blount was his name, and he was a young farmer of five hundred
acres in first-rate cultivation, with barns, stables, and offices in
complete repair,--a well-stocked, well-watered place, with "all the
modern improvements," and convenient to the Hendrik branch of the New
York and Bunker Hill railroad.
The young man had inherited this very neat property from his father,--a
thriving, intelligent farmer of the best class, Mr. Wimple's oldest
friend, his playmate in boyhood, and his crony when he died. Simon's
mother and Sally's had likewise been schoolmates, and intimates to the
last, fondly attached to each other, and mutually confiding in each
other's love and truth in times of pain and trouble.
But Mr. Blount and Mrs. Wimple had been dead these ten years;--they
died in the same month. Simon and Sally were children when that
happened, and since then they had grown up together in the closest
family intimacy, interrupted only by Sally's winter schooling in New
York, and renewed every summer by her regular seasons at Hendrik.
To the young man and the ripening maiden, then, their love came as
naturally as violets and clover-blooms, and was as little likely to
take their parents or the familiar country-folk by surprise.
When Simon took trips to New York, he "stopped" at Mr. Wimple's, and
Sally's summer home in Hendrik was always "Aunt Phoebe's," as she had
been taught to call Simon's mother.
You will wonder, then, that Mr. Paul Wimple should have blushed and
struggled and died in the forlorn little "Athenaeum," and that Sally
should sit down in her loneliness and "that fright of a delaine" to
wait for customers that came not, when in their old friends' house were
comfortable mansions, and in their old friends' hearts tearful kisses
and welcome free as air. But you must remember that with sudden poverty
comes, often, shrinking pride, and a degree of suspicion, and high
scorn of those belittled pensioners who hang upon old ties; that old
age, when it is sorely beset, is not always patient, clear-sighted, and
just; that, when the heart of a young girl, in Sally's extremity,
carries the helpless love that had been clad in purple, and couched in
eider, and pampered with bonny cats, and served in gold, to Pride, and
asks, "Stern master, what shall I do with this now?" the answer will
be, "Strip it of its silken fooleries,--let it lie on the ground, the
broad bosom of its honest, hearty mother,--teach it the wholesomeness
of brown bread and cresses, fairly earned, and water from the
spring,--and let it wait on itself, and wait for the rest!" Once, when
the talk at the Splurge house descended for a moment from its lofty
flights to describe a few eccentric mocking circles around the Hendrik
Athenaeum and Miss Wimple, Madeline said, "If you have sense or
decency, be silent;--the girl is true and brave, every way better
taught than we, and prouder than she knows. If we were truly as
scornful of her as she is indifferent to us, we would let her glorious
insignificance alone."
So Miss Wimple waited in her shabby little shop and plied her needle
for hire. Her lover was a handsome fellow, with a bright, frank face,
and a vigorous, agile, and graceful form; there was more than common
intellect in his clear, broad brow, overhung with close clusters of
brown country curls; taste was on his lips and tenderness in his eyes;
his soul was full of generosity, candor, and fidelity; his every
movement and attitude denoted native refinement, and in his talk he
displayed an excellent understanding and remarkable cultivation; for
his father had bestowed on him superior advantages of education;--"as
fine a young fellow, Sir," that estimable old Doctor Vandyke would say,
"as ever you saw."
It was true, Simon's travels had never reached beyond New York; but,
unlike Mr. Philip Withers, he had brought home solid comforts, useful
facts, wholesome sentiments, natural manners, and sensible, but modest
conversation,--instead of an astonishing variety of intellectual
curiosities and intricate moral toys, whereat plain people
marvelled--as in the case of a certain ingenious Chinese puzzle, ball
within ball, all save the last elaborately carved--how the very
diminutive _plain_ one at the centre ever got in there, or ever could
be got out.
In another respect the young farmer enjoyed a noticeable advantage over
the man-of-the-world;--he was quite able to tear down those fancy
donjon additions, and erect a plain, honest, substantial, very
comfortable, and very cheerful Yankee porch on their site.
But Miss Wimple said to Simon,--"For a season you will keep aloof from
this place and from me. I must see you no oftener than it would be
allowable for an occasional customer of the better sort to drop in; and
when you do come, state your business--let it always be _business_, or
pass by--and take your leave, like any indifferent neighbor who came to
change a book, or purchase a trifle, or engage work. On these terms our
love must wait, until by my own unaided exertions--without help, mark
you, Simon, from any man or woman on earth--I have discharged the debt
of charity that is due to the good people of this place who helped my
father in his utmost need, and gave him this shop and these things in
trust. From you, of all men, Simon, I will accept no aid. Play no
tricks of kindness upon me; nor let your love tempt you to experiment,
with disguised charity, upon my purpose. You would only find that you
had failed, and ruined all. The proceeds of this poor shop must belong
to those whose money procured it, until I shall have paid its price; on
no pretext shall that fund be touched for other purposes. I will
sustain myself independently; you know that I ply a nimble needle, and
that my handiwork will be in esteem among the richer folks of Hendrik.
And now, dear Simon, let me have my way. You need no more earnest
assurance of my love than the pains I would take, in this matter, to
make you respect me more. When my task is done, I will deck myself as
of old, and again light up the rose-star in my hair, and stand in the
door and clap my hands to call you hither, and hold you fast; but not
till then. Let me have my way till then."
And Simon said,--"You are wiser than I, Sally, and braver, and every
way better. I will obey you in this, and wait,--the more cheerfully
because I shall be always at hand, and, if your heart should fail you,
I know you will not refuse my aid, nor prefer another's to mine."
And so they passed for mere acquaintances; and there were some who
said--Philip Withers among them--that "that plausible Golden Farmer,
young Blount, had treated the forlorn thing shabbily."
About that time hoops came in, and the Splurge girls flourished the
first that appeared in Hendrik.
One day, as Miss Wimple sat in a low Yankee rocking-chair, sewing among
her books, she was favored with the extraordinary apparition of Miss
Madeline Splurge,--her first visitor that day, whether on business or
curiosity.
"I wish to procure a small morocco pocket-book, Miss Wimple, if you
keep such things."
Miss Wimple, with a slight bow of assent, took from a glass
counter-case a paper box in which was a miscellaneous assortment of
such articles; there were five or six of the pocket-books. Madeline
selected one,--a small, flexible affair, of some dark-colored morocco
lined with pink silk. She paid the trifle the shy, demure little
librarian demanded, and was taking her leave in silence, without even a
"Good-day," when, as she was passing the door, Miss Wimple espied on
the counter, near where her customer had stood, a visiting-card; her
eye fell on the engraved name,--"Mr. Philip Withers"; of course Miss
Splurge had dropped it unawares. She hastened with it to the
door,--Madeline had just stept into the street,--
"This card is yours, I presume, Miss Splurge?"
Madeline turned upon her with a surprised air, inquiringly,--looked in
her own hands, and shook her handkerchief with the quick, nervous,
alarmed movement of one who suddenly discovers a very particular
loss,--became, in an instant, pale as death, stared for a moment at
Miss Wimple with fixed eyes, and slightly shivered. Then, quickly and
fiercely, she snatched the card from Miss Wimple's hand,--
"Where--where did you find this? Did--did I leave--drop--?"
"You left it on my counter," Miss Wimple quietly replied, with a
considerate self-possession that admirably counterfeited
unconsciousness of Madeline's consternation.
"Come hither, into the shop,--a word with you,"--and Madeline entered
quickly, and closed the door behind her. For a moment she leaned with
her elbow on the counter, and pressed her eyes with her fingers.
"Are you ill, Miss Splurge?" Miss Wimple gently inquired.
"No. Did you read what is on this card?"
"Yes."
"You--you--you read"----Madeline's hands were clenched, her face red
and distorted; she gnashed her teeth, and seemed choking.
"Why, Miss Splurge, what is the matter with you? Yes, I read the
name,--Mr. Philip Withers. The card lay on the counter,--I could not
know it was yours,--I read the name, and immediately brought it to you.
What excites you so? Sit down, and calm yourself; surely you are ill."
Madeline did not accept the stool Miss Wimple offered her, but,
availing herself of the pause to assume a forced calmness which left
her paler than at first, she fixed her flashing eyes steadily on the
deep, still eyes of her companion, and asked,--
"You did not turn this card, then?--you did not look on the other
side?"
"On my honor, I did not."
"On your honor! You are not lying, girl?"--Miss Splurge thrust the card
into the newly-purchased pocket-book, and hid that in her bosom.
"Miss Splurge," said Miss Wimple, very simply, and with no excitement
of tone or expression, "when you feel sufficiently recovered to appear
on the street, without exposing yourself there as you have done in
here, go out!"
And Miss Wimple turned from Madeline and would have resumed her sewing;
but Madeline cried,--
"Stay, stay, Miss Wimple, I beseech you! I knew not what I said;
forgive me, ah, forgive me!--for you are merciful, as you are pure and
true. If you were aware of all, you would know that I could not insult
you, if I would. Trouble, distraction, have made me coarse,--false,
too, to myself as unjust and injurious to you; for I know your virtues,
and believe in them as I believe in little else in this world or the
next. If in my hour of agony and shame I could implore the help of any
human being, I would come to you--dear, honest, brave girl!--before all
others, to fling myself at your feet, and kiss your hands, and beseech
you to pity me and save me from myself, to hold my hot head on your
gentle bosom, and your soothing hand on my fierce heart. Good-by!
Good-by! I need not ask your pardon again,--you have no anger for such
as I. But if your blessed loneliness is ever disturbed by vulgar,
chattering visitors, you will not name me to them, or confess that you
have seen me." And ere Miss Wimple could utter the gentle words that
were already on her lips, Madeline was gone.
For a while Miss Wimple remained standing on the spot, gazing
anxiously, but vacantly, toward the door by which the half-mad lady had
departed,--her soft, deep eyes full of painful apprehension. Then she
resumed her little rocking-chair, and, as she gathered up her work from
the floor where she had dropped it, tears trickled down her cheeks; she
sighed and shook her head, in utter sorrow.
"They were always strange women," she thought, "those Splurges,--not a
sound heart nor a healthy mind among them. Could their false, barren
life have maddened this proud Madeline? Else what did she mean by her
'hot head' and her 'fierce heart'? And what had that Philip Withers to
do with her trouble and her distraction? She recollected now that Simon
had once said, in his odd, significant way, that Mr. Withers was a
charming person to contemplate from a safe distance,--Simon, who never
lent himself to idle detraction. She remembered, too, that she had
often reproached herself for her irrational prejudice against the
man,--that she was forever finding something false and sinister in the
face that every one else said was eminently handsome, and ugly
dissonance in the voice that all Hendrik praised for its music. Was he
on both sides of that card?--Ah, well! it might be just nothing, after
all; the poor lady might be ill, or vexed past endurance at home; or
some unhappy love affair might have come to fret her proud, impatient,
defiant temper. But not Withers,--oh, of course not Withers!--for was
it not well known that Adelaide was his choice, that his assiduous and
graceful attentions to her silenced even his loudest enemies, who could
no longer accuse him of duplicity and disloyalty to women? But she
would feel less disturbed, and sleep better, perhaps, if she knew that
Madeline was safe at home, and tranquil again."
Thinking of sleep reminded Miss Wimple that she had a pious task to
perform before she could betake her to her sweet little cot. A
superannuated and bedridden woman, who had nursed her mother in her
last illness, lived on the northern outskirts of the town; and she must
cross the long covered bridge that spanned the Hendrik River to take a
basket full of comforting trifles to old Hetty that night.
About nine o'clock Miss Wimple had done her charitable errand, and was
on her way home again, with a light step and a happy heart, an empty
basket and old Hetty's abundant blessings. She was alone, but feared
nothing,--the streets of Hendrik at night were familiar to her and she
to them; and although her shy and quiet traits were not sufficiently
understood to make her universally beloved, not a loafing ruffian in
town but knew her modest face, her odd attire, and her straightforward
walk; and the rudest respected her.
As she approached the covered bridge, the moon was shining brightly at
the entrance, making the gloom within profounder. It was a long, wooden
structure, of a kind common enough on the turnpikes of the Atlantic
States, where they cross the broader streams. Stout posts and
cross-beams, and an arch that stretched from end to end, divided the
bridge into two longitudinal compartments, for travellers going and
coming respectively; there were small windows on each side, and at
either end, on a conspicuous signboard, were the Company's
"Rules,"--"Walk your Horses over this Bridge, or be subject to a Fine
of not less than Five nor exceeding Twenty Dollars"--"Keep to the
Right, as the Law directs."
As Miss Wimple entered the shadow of the bridge on the right hand, she
was startled by hearing excited voices, which seemed to come from the
other side of the central arch, and about the middle of the bridge,
where the darkness was deepest:--
"Speak low, I say, or be silent! Some one will be coming presently;--I
heard steps approaching even now"--Miss Wimple instinctively stopped,
and stood motionless, almost holding her breath, at the end of the arch
where the moonlight did not reach. She was no eavesdropper, mark
you,--the meannesses she scorned included that character in a special
clause. But she had recognised the voice, and with her own true
delicacy would spare the speaker the shame of discovery and the dread
of exposure.--"Speak low, or I will leave you. If you are indifferent
for yourself, you shall not toss me to the geese of Hendrik."
"You are right";--it was a woman's voice; but, whatever her tone had
been before, she spoke so low now, and with a voice so hoarse with
suppressed emotion, so altered by a sort of choking whisper, that Miss
Wimple, if she had ever heard it before, could not recognize it;--"You
are right; the time for that has not come;--I could not stay to enjoy
it;--I am going now, but we will meet again."
"What would you have? I have said I would marry you,--and leave
you,--so soon as I can shake myself clear of that other stupid
infatuation."
"Now, Philip Withers, what a weak, pusillanimous wretch you must be,
having known me so long, and tried my temper so well, to hope to find
me such a fool, after all,--that kind of fool, I mean! My deepest
shame, in this unutterably shameful hour, is that I chose such a
cowardly ass to besot myself with.--There, the subject sickens me, and
I am going. Dare to follow me, and the geese of Hendrik shall have you.
I go scot-free, fearing nothing, having nothing to lose; but I hold
you, my exquisite Joseph Surface--oh, the wit of my sister! oh, the
wisdom of fools!--by your fine sentiments; and when I want you I shall
find you. I can take care of me and _mine_; but beware how you dare to
claim lot or portion in what I choose to call my own, even though your
brand be on it,--Joseph!"
She hissed the name, and, with hurried steps, and a low, scornful
laugh, departed. As Miss Wimple, all aghast, leaned forward with quick
breath and tumultuous heart, and peered through the gloom toward where
the silver moonlight lay across the further end of the bridge, she saw
a white dress flash across a bright space and disappear. Then Philip
Withers stepped forth into the moonlight, stood there for a minute or
two, and gazed in the direction of a branch road which made off from
the turnpike close to the bridge, and led, at right angles to it, to
the railroad station on the right; then slowly, and without once
looking back, he followed the turnpike to the town.
All astonished, bewildered, full of strange, vague fears, Miss Wimple
remained in the now awful gloom and stillness of the bridge till he had
quite disappeared. Then gathering up her wits with an effort, she
resumed her homeward way. As she emerged from the shadows into the same
bright place which Withers and his mysterious companion had just
passed, she spied something dark lying on the ground. She stooped and
picked it up; it was a small morocco pocket-book lined with pink silk.
Good Heaven! She remembered,--the one she had sold to Miss Madeline
Splurge that afternoon,--the very same! So, then, that was her voice,
her dress; she had, indeed, dimly thought of Madeline more than once,
while that woman was speaking so bitterly,--but had not recognized her
tones, nor once fancied it might be she. Now she easily recalled her
words, and understood some of her allusions. And her wild, distracted,
incoherent speech in the shop, too,--ah! it was all too plain; that was
surely she; but what might be the nature or degree of her trouble Miss
Wimple dared not try to guess. This Philip Withers,--was he a villain,
after all? "Had he--this poor lady--Oh, God forbid! No, no, no!"
She opened the pocket-book;--a visiting-card was all it contained. She
drew it forth,--"Mr. Philip Withers,"--yes, she knew it by that broken
corner, as though it had been marked so for a purpose. She held it up
before her eyes where the moon was brightest, and--turned the other
side.
"Ah, me!" exclaimed that Chevalier Bayard in shabby, skimped delaine,
"what was I going to do?"
Blushing, she returned the card to its place, and hiding the
pocket-book in her honorable bosom, hurried homeward. But her soul was
troubled as she went; sometimes she sobbed aloud, and more than once
she stood still and wrung her hands.
"Ah! if Simon Blount would but come now to advise me what is safest and
best to do!"
Should she go to Mrs. Splurge and tell her all? No,--what right had
she? That would but precipitate an exposure which might not be
necessary. The case was not clear enough to justify so officious a
step. Madeline was in no immediate danger. Perhaps she had only taken a
different road to avoid the odious companionship of Withers. No doubt
she was half-way home already. She would wait till morning, for clearer
judgment and information. Till then she would hope for the best.
When Miss Wimple reached her humble little nest, she knelt beside her
bed and prayed, tearfully, to the God who averts danger and forgives
sin; but she did not sleep all night.
In the morning a gossiping neighbor came with the news;--"that little
cooped-up Wimple never hears anything," she thought.
Miss Madeline Splurge had disappeared. Mr. Philip Withers was searching
for her high and low. She had not been seen since yesterday
afternoon,--had not returned home last night. It was feared she had
drowned herself in the river for spite. She, the knowing neighbor, "had
always said so,--had always said that Madeline Splurge was a quare
girl,--sich high and mighty airs, and _sich_ a temper. Now here it was,
and what would people say,--specially them as had always turned up
their nose at her opinion?"
Miss Wimple said nothing; but she treated Pity to two poor little
lies;--one she told, and the other she looked:--She was not well, she
said, which was the reason why she was so pale; and then she looked
surprised at the news of Madeline's flitting.
Later in the day another report:--A letter left by Madeline had been
found at home. She had taken offence at some sharp thing that sarcastic
Mr. Withers, who always did hate her, had said; and had gone off in a
miff, without even good-by or a carpet-bag, and taken the night train
to New York, where she had an uncle on the mother's side.--And a good
riddance! Now Miss Addy and Mr. Withers would have some peace of their
time. Such a sweet couple, too!
Madeline _had_ left a note:--"I was sick of you all, and I have escaped
from you. You will be foolish to take any trouble about it."
[To be continued.]