On a bright April morning many years ago, a stout, red-faced old
gentleman, Geoffrey Purcill, followed by several workmen bearing
shovels and pick-axes, took his way to a little knoll on which stood a
wide-spreading chestnut-tree. When they reached the top of the knoll,
the old man paused a moment and then struck his gold-headed cane upon
the ground at some little distance from the trunk of the tree, saying,
"Dig here."
The workmen looked at each other and then at their master.
"It would be useless to dig a well here, Sir," said one of the workmen,
very respectfully,--"no water would ever come into it."
"Who asked for your opinion?" inquired Geoffrey, in an angry tone. "Do
as I bid you;--the well shall be digged here, and water _shall_ come
into it."
The man ventured no further remonstrance; he took off his jacket, and
struck his pickaxe into the hard, dry soil near the point where the
cane rested.
Geoffrey Purcill was a choleric old gentleman, who, having had his own
way all his life, was by no means inclined to forego that privilege now
that he was advanced in years. As he sat beneath the chestnut-tree, one
warm spring day, he felt very thirsty, and he suddenly thought what a
good thing it would be to have a well there, so that he might refresh
himself with a draught of clear, cool water, without the trouble of
returning to the house. The more thirsty he grew, the pleasanter seemed
the project to him,--a large, deep well, neatly stoned, with a sweep
and buckets,--it would be a pretty object to look at, as well as
comfort to man and beast. The well should be digged forthwith, and what
Geoffrey Purcill once resolved upon he was not slow to execute; and,
despite the remonstrances of those who knew better than he, the work
was commenced at once.
A more unpromising place for a well could not have been selected in all
his extensive grounds; but he was not a man to be patiently baffled
even by Nature herself, and he stood looking with grim satisfaction at
the hole which rapidly widened and deepened under the vigorous efforts
of his sturdy workmen.
Day after day old Geoffrey watched his workmen on the knoll. The well
increased in size till it was large enough to have watered a whole
caravan,--but the desert of Sahara itself was not drier. Geoffrey
fumed, raved, and swore; and when two of the men were killed by the
falling of the earth, and the rest absolutely refused to work any
longer, he bade them go, a pack of ungrateful scoundrels as they were,
and, procuring more laborers, declared "he would dig there till the
Devil came to fetch him."
Geoffrey was as good as his word;--he labored with a pertinacity worthy
of a better object, and dug deeper into the bowels of the earth, and
partly stoned his well,--but no water, save that which fell from
heaven, ever appeared in it.
And when old Geoffrey was gathered to his fathers, he left his house
and grounds to his only daughter, Eleanor Purcill, on the express
condition that the well was not to be filled up, but to remain open
till water did come into it.
* * * * *
One July day, when Geoffrey Purcill had been some twenty years with his
fathers, or with Satan, (which two destinies might have been one and
the same, after all, for he came of a turbulent, wicked race,) two
children, a boy and girl, sat on the brink of the well and looked down
into it. It was half filled with the rubbish of the fallen stones, but
it was still deep, and dark enough to tempt their curious eyes into
trying to discover what lay hidden in its shadowy depths. The great
chestnut-tree, rich with drooping, feathery blossoms, shaded them from
the burning sun,--a few stray beams only finding their way through the
glossy leaves, and resting on the golden curls of the girl.
The boy leaned over the well, and peered into it;--the little girl bent
forward, as if to do the same, but drew back again.
"Take hold of my hand, Mark," said she, "and let me lean over as you
do."
"What do you want to look in for?" asked the boy,--"there is nothing to
see. Oh, yes," continued he, mischievously, "there is a horrid dragon,
just such as St. George fought with, lying all curled up in the bottom
of the well, with fire and smoke coming out of his mouth."
Rosamond Purcill was too true a descendant of old Geoffrey to be
frightened at the thought of a dragon. She caught hold of Mark's arm to
steady herself, and leaned over the well.
"Let me see! let me see!" cried she, eagerly.
Mark made one or two feints of pushing her in, but at last held her
firmly by the waist, while she looked in vain for the fabulous monster
below.
"Where is he, Mark? I don't see anything, and I don't believe you saw
him."
"Oh, yes, I did," said Mark;--"there, don't you see the end of his tail
sticking out from under the largest stone? May-be he has had one little
girl for breakfast this morning, and don't care about another for
luncheon, or else he would spring up after you, and gobble you up in a
minute."
"What stories, Mark! Aunt Eleanor says there are no dragons, nor ever
were."
"Pooh!" retorted Mark, contemptuously,--"Aunt Eleanor has not seen
everything that there is to be seen in the world. Look again, Rosy."
Again the little curly head was bent over the well, somewhat puzzled
which to believe, Aunt Eleanor or Mark, but half-inclined to credit
Mark's eyes rather than Aunt Eleanor's words.
"Do you think that can be one of his scales?" asked she, pointing to a
small piece of tin which glittered in a stray sunbeam among the stones.
Mark's eyes followed the direction of her finger, and he was about to
declare that it must be a scale that the dragon had scraped off his
back, wriggling among the stones, when both children were startled by a
loud voice calling out, "What are you doing, children? You will fall
into the well and break your good-for-nothing little necks!"
Mark and Rosamond drew back, and saw a young man, their brother
Bradford, with a basket and a fishing-rod in his hand, coming up the
knoll.
"Why are you here, Mark?" asked he. "Aunt Eleanor thinks it a dangerous
place, and has forbidden you to play here."
Mark looked up at his brother. "I come," said he, sturdily, "for that
very reason,--because I am told not to. I won't mind Aunt Eleanor, nor
any other woman."
Bradford shook his head and burst out into a laugh. "Ah, Mark, my boy,"
said he, with a serious, comical air, "it will do very well for you to
talk,--you will find out, sooner or later, that all men have to do just
what women wish."
Mark opened his incredulous eyes, and inwardly resolved that this
should never be the case with him; and considering that Bradford was
only eighteen it is somewhat remarkable that he should have gained so
much wisdom, either by observation or experience, at so early an age.
"Mark says," chimed in Rosamond, "that there is a dragon at the bottom
of the well; and I want to see him."
"A dragon?" cried Bradford,--"Mark is a story-teller, and you are a
goose;--but if there is one, I will catch him for you";--and he stood
on the brink of the well, and sportively threw his line into it.
"You are a pretty fellow to talk about catching a dragon, Brad!"
retorted Mark, a little nettled at the tone in which Bradford spoke of
him,--"you can't even catch a shiner!"--and he glanced at Bradford's
empty basket.
Bradford laughed louder than before. "And for that very reason I expect
to catch the dragon. One kind of a line will not catch all kinds of
fish; and this line may be good for nothing but dragons, after
all.--There! I've got a bite. Stand back, Rosy," cried he, "the dragon
will be on the grass in a minute."
Bradford tried to pull up his line, but it was either entangled among
the stones, or had some heavy object attached to it, for the rod bent
beneath the weight as he with a strong pull endeavored to draw up his
prize. Rosamond's eyes opened to their widest extent, and, fully
expecting to see the dragon swinging wide-mouthed in the air over her
head, drew a little closer to Mark, who, on his part, wondered what
Bradford was at, and whether he was not playing some trick upon him.
When the end of the line rose to the top of the well, they saw
suspended by the two hooks, not a winged, scaly monster, but a small
rusty box, in the fastenings of which the hooks had caught.
Rosamond drew a long breath,--"Is that all, Bradford? I am so sorry! I
thought, to be sure, you had the dragon."
"Never mind the dragon, Rosy," cried he; "let us see what I have
caught.
"Who knows but the purse of Fortunatus or the slipper of Cinderella may
be in here?--they have been lost for many a day, and nobody knows where
they are."
Bradford knelt down on the grass, and, unhooking his line, strove to
undo the rusty hasp; but it resisted all the efforts of his fingers,
and it was only by the aid of a knife and a stone that he opened the
box. In it was a morocco case, much discolored, but still in tolerable
preservation, from which he drew a small manuscript book.
Rosamond's disappointment was greater than before. "It is nothing but a
writing-book, after all," said she. "I wish you had not said anything
about the purse or slipper, and then I should never have thought of
them. You never heard anybody say where they thought the purse and
slipper were hid,--did you?"
"Come, Rosy," cried Mark, "come down to the meadow; there is nothing
more to be got out of the old well. Let us leave Brad alone with his
book and his fish."
The children turned away towards the meadow,--Rosamond meditating upon
the probability of her ever finding the purse and slipper, if she
should ever set out in quest of them, and Mark thinking what a fool
such a big fellow as Bradford must be, to mind any woman that ever was
born.
Bradford took the box and the book to the chestnut-tree, and,
stretching himself at full length in the shade, began to turn over the
leaves. It was a journal, written in a delicate, graceful hand; and
though the paper was somewhat yellow, and the ink faded, the writing
was perfectly legible. Bradford looked at it, carelessly reading here
and there a sentence, till his eye catching some familiar names, he
opened it at the commencement, and read as follows:--
"_December_ 31.--It is the last night of the old year. A few more
steps, and the old year will have vanished into the great hall of the
Past, where all the ages that ever have been are gathered. I have been
sitting the last hour by myself, and have fancied that time moved not
with its usual swiftness,--that the old year lingered with a sad
regret, as if loath to pass away and let the new come in. Even now the
midnight clock is striking,--eleven,--twelve;--the last flutter of the
old year's robe is out of sight, and the new year glides in with
noiseless feet, like one who enters the chamber of the dead. These are
but melancholy fancies;--because I am sad myself must I put all the
world in mourning? The old year did not linger;--it is only I that am
loath to go. I have been so happy here, that the prospect of spending
the coming year with Cousin Eleanor fills my mind with sad
forebodings;--and yet my childish remembrances of her have in them
nothing unpleasant. I think of her as a grave, quiet woman, who never
strove to attract and win the love of a child. How I shall miss the
life and gayety, the jests and laughter of Madge and Bertha! Madge the
more, because she is so full of whims and oddities. To-night she came
into my room, and brought this little book for me to write a journal of
all that befell me while I was gone, making me promise to write often
in it. Not that she ever wished to see it again. Heaven forbid that she
should ever be so cruelly punished as to be made to read anybody's
journal!--least of all such a stupid one as mine must be, shut up with
Cousin Eleanor!--but she thought that I could never draw the book from
the case (she had chosen one that fitted very tightly, and would give
me much trouble for that very reason) without thinking of her;--and to
be thought of often by her friends she confesses she is weak enough to
wish.--Dear Madge, I could not forget her, if I would. The book just
fits in a little japanned box that belonged to my grandmother, in which
she used to keep rouge and pearl-powder. I will keep it in that, and
remember my promise to Madge.
"_February_ 21.--The journey is over, and I am at Cousin Eleanor's. How
the evils that we dread shrink into nothing when we fairly meet them!
Cousin Eleanor received me kindly, and looked neither so grave nor so
cold as my memory, assisted by my imagination, had pictured her; and
Ashcroft is a pretty place, even in midwinter. I am never tired of
sitting at the library-window, and looking at the bare branches of the
black ash-trees, as they spread out their network against the winter
sky. I have a little desk near the bay-window, where I have my drawing
and writing materials, and where I pretend to write and draw, while
Eleanor occupies a larger one at the opposite window. Eleanor is a
woman of business,--keeps all her accounts, looks after her farm and
servants, and manages all her own affairs, and, though a strict and
exacting mistress, is neither harsh nor unkind;--she evidently intends
to perform all her own duties punctually and faithfully, and expects
others to do the same. I often look at her with wonder, her nature is
so different from mine,--never impulsive, always cool and steady,--full
of ceaseless activity, yet never hurried, and seemingly never
perplexed. I sometimes think she sees the whole of her life mapped out
before her, and takes up every event in order. With the exception of
the servants, we are the only occupants of the house, Eleanor does not
seek nor desire the society of her neighbors; and so while she works I
dream, read, or answer Madge or Bertha's letters.
"_February_ 28.--It has been snowing ceaselessly for two days. I have
read, drawn, and sewed till I am as weary as Marianna in the moated
grange. I have yawned aloud a dozen times, but Eleanor does not mind
it. She has been extremely busy with accounts, papers, and letters. For
the last four hours I do not think she has spoken a word. I hear
nothing but the scratch of her pen as it moves over the paper, and the
wind in the ash-trees. I have taken Madge's journal in despair. Ah,
Madge! I wish the bonnie girl were here;--how we would talk nonsense by
the hour together, just to keep our tongues in practice, and Madge
would hunt down an idea through all its turnings and windings, as if it
were a hare, and she a dog in chase of it! A ring at the door;--I hope
it may be some human body that will make Cousin Eleanor open her lips
at last.
"_March_ 1.--The blots on the opposite page show with what haste I shut
up my journal yesterday. The ring at the door brought more than I
anticipated, and opened my eyes effectually for the rest of the day.
'Mr. Lee,' said the servant, throwing the library-door wide open, and
ushering in a man wrapped in a cloak, with a travelling-cap in his
hand. Cousin Eleanor rose instantly, and advanced to meet him. I
expected to see her extend her hand towards him, and welcome him in her
usual courteous manner. Instead of that, she gave him a hearty kiss,
which could be heard as well as felt, and which was returned, as I
thought, with interest. If the marble Widow Wadman in the library had
kissed the sympathizing face of Uncle Toby, I should not have been so
much surprised, and should have thought it much more likely to happen.
"'I am very glad to see you, Thornton,' said she. 'I did not think you
could come till to-morrow.'
"'I have made the best use of my time,' returned he, 'and had no wish
to spend my precious hours at a country inn. It seemed good to see
winter and snow again, after so many months of summer.'
"Bending forward to catch a better view of him as he spoke, the
rustling of my dress reminded Eleanor of my presence.
"'My cousin Elizabeth Purcill, Thornton Lee,' said she. 'My two good
friends I hope will also be friends to each other.'
"Mr. Lee made me a gentlemanly bow, and said something about the
pleasure of seeing me; but more than suspecting that my presence in the
library was no pleasure to either of them, I shut up my journal,
crowded it into the box, and stole out of the room at the first
convenient opportunity. On the stairs I met Mrs. Bickford, the
housekeeper.
"'Is any one in the library with Miss Purcill?' asked she.
"'Yes,--a Mr. Lee.'
"'Mr. Lee?' exclaimed she, in surprise. 'I did not know as he was
expected home now.'
"'Who is Mr. Lee?'
"'He is the gentleman whom Miss Purcill is to marry; but I thought he
was not coming till autumn. I wonder if she knew it.'
"What Eleanor knows she always keeps to herself; none of her household
are any the wiser for it. I was more surprised than Mrs. Bickford.
Eleanor affianced! I never thought or dreamed of such a thing. Eleanor
in love must be a curious spectacle. I did not feel sleepy any longer.
What could a woman, so independent, so self-relying, so sufficient for
herself, want of a lover? She always seemed to be a whole, and did not
need another half to complete herself. I speculated much on the
subject, and, when the bell rang for tea, went down-stairs with
something of the same feeling of eager curiosity with which I open the
pages of a good novel. There is nothing so interesting to idle,
observant people as a pair of lovers, provided they are not silly, in
which stage they are perfectly unbearable, and never should suffer
themselves to be seen even by their intimate friends. Was it my fancy,
or not? I thought Eleanor had grown young since I left the library. A
soft light beamed in her eyes, and a clear crimson--the first trace of
color I had ever seen in her face--burned on her cheek. It was a very
different countenance from that at which I had been casting sidelong
glances half the day, and yet it seemed to me that she was ashamed of
these signs of joy, and thought it but a weakness to feel so glad. I
sat silent nearly all the evening;--words always come more readily to
my pen than to my lips, and, were it not so, there would have been no
occasion for any speech of mine. Their conversation flowed on
uninterruptedly, like a full, free river, whose current is strong and
deep. How much richer both their lives seemed than mine! He had
travelled, thought, seen, and felt so much, and had brought such wealth
home with him, fitly coined into aptly chosen words; and she had
gathered treasures as priceless from the literature of her own and
foreign lands. I had nothing to offer either of them but my ears, and
for those I doubt whether they felt grateful,--and when that doubt
became a certainty, I crept into the great window in the drawing-room,
and looked out upon the lawn. The moon, breaking through the clouds,
shone brightly on the new-fallen snow. I sat down on a low chair,--the
curtains fell about me,--their voices came to me with a low, dreamy
sound,--I leaned my head on my hand, and fell asleep. When I awoke, the
fire had died away, and the chairs were empty.
"_March_ 20.--Mr. Lee comes every day. His father lives only a few
miles from us,--a distance so short as to be no obstacle to a lover
with a good horse; though I suspect, if the horse could speak, he would
wish the distance either less or greater. These midnight rides must be
detrimental to the constitution of any steady horse, and he often wakes
me up at night, pawing impatiently under the window while his master is
making his lingering adieux on the door-step.
"_April_ 1.--I dislike Eleanor more every day. I know not why, unless
because I watch her so closely. When Mr. Lee is not here she works as
industriously as ever. If I were in love, I would give myself up to a
dream or reverie now and then, and build myself an air-castle, if it
were only to see it tumble down, and call myself a fool for my pains;
but she is too matter-of-fact to do that. Well, if there is not much
romance about her love, perhaps there is more reality; yet Thornton Lee
is just the man one could make an ideal of, if one only would. But this
is not what I especially dislike her for; people must love according to
their own nature and temperament, and not after another's pattern. The
thing that frets me most just now is the way that Eleanor has of
divining my thoughts before they are spoken, and even before they are
quite clear to myself. Sometimes, when we are talking together, some
subject comes up on which I do not care to express my opinion. Eleanor
fixes her clear, penetrating eyes upon me, and drags my thought out
into the light, just as a kingfisher pounces upon and pulls a fish out
of the water. Had I anything to conceal, any secret, I should be afraid
of her; and as it is, I do not like this invasion of my personal
kingdom,--though my thoughts often acquire new strength and beauty from
Eleanor's strong and vigorous language. Last evening, Mr. Lee, Eleanor,
and myself were turning over the prints in a large portfolio. We paused
at one, the Departure of Hagar into the Wilderness. The artist had
represented Hagar turning away from the door of the tent with Ishmael
and the bottle of water; Abraham was near her; while Sarah in the
background with a triumphant face exulted at the driving out of the
bondmaid. The picture had not much merit as a work of Art; but in
Hagar's face was such a look of despairing, wistful tenderness, as she
turned towards Abraham for the last time, that it moved me almost to
tears. I drew a long breath as the picture was turned over. Looking up,
I saw Eleanor's eyes fixed upon me.
"'You pity Hagar, then? You think it was a harsh and cruel thing to
drive her out into the wilderness with her child?'
"'Yes,' said I, shortly,--a little provoked that she should have seen
it in my face.
"She went on: 'Sarah was right. Had I been she, I would have driven her
out as remorselessly and as pitilessly. Did she not, presuming upon her
youth, her beauty, and her child, despise her mistress? and why should
her mistress feel compassion for her? The love of a long life might
well thrust aside the passion of a few months, and Sarah, contemned by
her bondmaid, is more worthy of pity than Hagar, in my eyes.'
"I was about to say that Sarah was more to blame for Hagar's conduct
than she was herself, when Mr. Lee observed 'that Abraham was more to
be pitied than either of them, for he was unable or unwilling to
protect either of the women whom he loved,--his wife from the contempt
of her bondmaid, or the bondmaid from the fury of his wife.'
"I fancied Eleanor did not exactly like this remark, for she turned to
the next print hastily and began commenting upon it.
"_May_ 6.--The groves and fields are beautiful with the fresh beauty of
the early spring. We have given up our winter occupations for long
rambles on the hills and in the woods. I sometimes decline being a
third in the lovers' walks; but Eleanor seems so dissatisfied, if I
refuse to accompany them, that I consent, lagging behind often, and
have learned to be both blind and deaf as occasion requires. I think,
too, that Mr. Lee is not sorry to have me with them. He and Eleanor
have been separated for three years, and I sometimes wonder if they
have not grown away from each other in that time. A long absence is a
dangerous experiment even for friends, much more for lovers. Besides,
no life is long enough to allow such great gaps in it.
"_June_ 1.--We were sitting yesterday under the ash-trees on the
lawn,--Eleanor netting, Mr. Lee reading Dante aloud, and I making
myself rings and bracelets out of the shining blades of grass, and
pretending to listen, when a servant brought Eleanor a letter. It was
very short, for she did not turn the leaf. When she had read it she
drew out her watch.
"'I have an hour before the express-train starts. Tell Mrs. Bickford to
pack my trunk for a journey. Harness the black horse to drive to the
station.'
"She put the letter into Mr. Lee's hands. 'My brother is very ill, and
I shall go to him at once. Elizabeth, I am sorry to leave you here
alone, but while I am gone I hope Thornton will consider you under his
charge and protection.'
"She rose, as she spoke, and went towards the house, followed by
Thornton.
"In a few minutes she appeared again, dressed in a gray
travelling-dress,--kissed me lightly on the check, and bade me
good-bye. All her preparations for this long journey had been made
without any hurry or confusion, and she did not apparently feel so
agitated or nervous at the thought of travelling this distance alone as
I should to have gone by myself to the nearest town. Why Thornton did
not accompany her, whether he could not or she did not wish it, I do
not know; but he parted from her at the station, and soon returned for
his horse.
"_July_ 1.--Eleanor has been gone a month; in that time we have
received but one letter from her. Her brother still lies in a very
critical state, and she will not leave him at present. His motherless
children, too, she thinks require her care. It seemed very lonesome at
first without her. I did not think I could have missed an uncongenial
person, one with whom I had so little sympathy, so much. I think I must
belong to the tribe of creeping plants, which cling to whatever is
nearest to them. Ashcroft grows daily more beautiful, and Thornton
comes often to see me. We read together books that I like, (not Dante,)
walk and sketch. We are on excellent terms, and call each other Cousin
in view of our future relationship. I can talk more freely to him, now
that Eleanor is not here,--and feel no disposition to hide my thoughts,
now that I can keep them to myself, if I choose.
"_July_ 24.--A week ago, one fair midsummer afternoon, we strolled to
the knoll, and sat down under the blossoming boughs of the
chestnut-tree.
"'I think,' said I, 'this is the pleasantest place in all the grounds;
but Eleanor never seemed willing to come here.'
"'Eleanor has many unpleasant remembrances connected with the place,'
replied Thornton. 'Her father's obstinate persistence in digging the
well was a great annoyance to the whole household, and, unimaginative
as Eleanor is, I fancy sometimes, from her avoidance of the spot, that
she has some superstitious idea connected with the well,--that she
fears through it some great misfortune may happen to some of the
family.'
"'I hardly see how that can be,' said I, rising and going to the brink
of the well; 'it is very deep, but there was never any water in it.'
"Just then I caught sight of a little flower growing out of the cleft
of one of the stones. I knelt down and bent over to reach it. I
slipped, I know not how, and should have fallen, had not Thornton
sprung to my side and caught me.
"'Ah, my foolish cousin!' said he, 'there needs not to be water in the
well to make it a dangerous place. Promise me that you will not attempt
such a thing again.'
"'Not I,' said I, laughing gayly to conceal my fright,--for I did think
I was about to break my neck on the stones below. 'There is no harm
done, and I have got what I was after,'--and I held up the flower.
"It was an ugly little thing, and looked not half so pretty in my hand
as it did in the shadow of the well. I would not have gathered it, had
I seen it growing by the roadside. 'Is it not pretty?'
"'Humph!' said he, 'very!--worth breaking one's neck for!'
"'I was about to offer it to you, but, since you despise it, I will
keep it myself,'--and I stuck it into my hair.
"Some time after, I missed the flower. I did not see it on the grass,
but a leaf strangely similar peeped out of Thornton's waistcoat-pocket.
When we passed by the well, on leaving the knoll, 'Promise me,' said he
again, 'that you will not reach over the well for flowers any more.'
"I was a little irritated at his pertinacity. 'I shall do no such
thing,' returned I; 'you are growing as superstitious as Eleanor. On
the contrary, I think I shall make a garden there and tend it every
day; and whenever I go away from Ashcroft, I will leave something on
the stone for you, to show how idle your fears are.'
"Thornton did not answer. He was provoked, but showed his anger only by
his silence. We sauntered back to the house in a different mood from
that in which we had left it.
"_August_ 4.--Thornton came into the library to-day with a letter from
Eleanor. She cannot leave her brother, and wrote to Thornton about some
papers that she wished sent to her without delay. They were in the
drawer of the desk at which I was sitting. Thornton said he was in
haste, as he wished to prepare the packet for the next mail. I rose at
once. In his hurry he knocked the little japanned box on to the floor.
Begging pardon for his awkwardness, he picked it up, and looked at it a
moment to assure himself that it had suffered no damage.
"'It is a curious little thing,' said he, 'and looks as if it were a
hundred years old.'
"'It belonged once to my grandmother, and held pearl-powder and rouge,'
said I.
"'And is used for the same purpose now?' inquired he.
"'Yes,' returned I, my cheek reddening a little. 'I was just putting
some on as you entered.'
"'It must be very uncommon rouge,' remarked he, quietly fixing his eyes
on me; 'it grows red after it is put on, and must require much care in
the use of it.'
"'I thought you were in a great hurry, Thornton, when you came in.'
"'And so I am';--and he began undoing and separating papers, but every
few moments he would steal a glance--a glance that made me feel
uneasy--towards me, as I sat at the other window busying myself with my
needle.
"_August_ 25.--I wish Eleanor would come home. I sometimes think I will
go away; but to leave Ashcroft now would imply a doubt of Thornton's
honor, and impute thoughts to him which perhaps have no existence but
in my vanity.
"_October_ 3.--Ah, why was I so foolish? Why did I not go when I saw the
danger so clearly, instead of cheating myself into the belief that
there was none? Would that I had never come to Ashcroft, or had had the
courage to leave it! These last six weeks, I do not know, I cannot
tell, how they have been spent. Thornton was ever by my side, and
I--did not wish him away. We sat this afternoon on the lawn under the
great ash-tree,--the one under which he sat reading Dante to Eleanor
the last day she was with us. The love which had burned in his eyes all
day found utterance at last, and flamed out in fiery, passionate words.
He drew me towards him. His vehemence frightened me, and I muttered
something about Eleanor. It checked him for a moment, but, quickly
recovering, he spoke freely of himself and of her,--of the love which
had existed between them,--a feeling so feeble and so poor, compared to
that which he felt for me, as to be unworthy of the name. He entreated,
he implored my love. I was silent. He bent over me, gazing into my
face. There was a traitor lurking in my heart, which looked out of my
eyes, and spoke without my consent. He understood that language but too
well. I bent my eyes upon the ground,--his arm was around my waist, his
hand clasped mine, his lips approached my cheek. A shadow seemed
suddenly to come between me and the sun. I looked up and saw Eleanor,
clad in mourning, standing before us. I started at once to my feet,
and, like the coward that I am, fled and left them together. I ran down
to the old hawthorn-tree, against which I leaned, panting and
trembling. Yet, in a few moments, ashamed of my weakness, I stole back
to where I could see them unobserved. Eleanor stood upon the same spot,
calm and motionless. Thornton was speaking, but I was too far off to
hear more than the sound of his voice. When he had ended, he approached
her, as if to bid her adieu; but she passed him with a stately bow, and
entered the hall-door. Thornton took his way to the stables, and I soon
heard the clattering of his horse's hoofs on the hard gravelled road.
When the sound died away in the distance, I stole into the house and
crept up to my chamber. How long I was there I could not tell; but when
I heard the bell ring for tea, I washed my face and smoothed my hair.
I would not be so cowardly as to fear to see Eleanor again, and perhaps
it would be better for us both to meet in the presence of a third
person.
"Mrs. Bickford was alone at the table. 'Miss Purcill would not come
down tonight,--she was fatigued with her journey.'
"The good lady strove to entertain me with her conversation, but,
finding that I neither heard, answered, nor ate, our meal was soon
brought to a close. It is long past midnight. I have thought till I am
sick and giddy with thinking. I cannot sleep, and have been writing
here to control the wildness of my imaginings. I have been twice to
Eleanor's chamber. The door is half ground-glass, and I can see her
black shadow as she walks to and fro across the room. She has been
walking so ever since she entered it.
"_October_ 4.--What shall I do? Where shall I go? All night and all day
Eleanor has walked her chamber-floor. I have been to the door. I have
knocked. I have called her by name. I have turned the handle,--the door
is locked. No answer comes to me,--nothing but the black shadow
flitting across the panes. I sat down by the threshold and burst into
tears.
"Mrs. Bickford found me there. 'Do not grieve so, Miss Elizabeth,' said
she, kindly. 'It is dreadful, I know; but Miss Purcill walked the floor
all night after her father died, and would admit no one to her room.
She will be better to-morrow.'
"I shook my head. Could I believe that grief for the dead, and not
sorrow for the conduct of the living, moved her thus, I should be
happy. Then I could offer consolation and sympathy; but now, if I saw
her, what could I say? Pity, sorrow for her grief, would be but idle
words, which she would spurn with contempt,--and she would be right.
There is but one thing left for me,--I must go from Ashcroft; then,
perhaps, she and Thornton--But no, it cannot be; so wide asunder, they
cannot come together again. And do I wish it? Is not his love as much
mine now as it ever was hers? Ah, how some words once spoken cannot be
forgotten! Before me now is the little picture of Hagar, which Eleanor
had framed and hung in the library. Did she place it before my eyes as
a warning to me? In Hagar's fate I see my own; for even now I hear
Eleanor asking if the passion of a few hours is to thrust aside the
love of long years. The bondmaid will go ere she is driven out. But
Thornton--I cannot, will not, see him again. He has written to me
to-day, saying that he cannot come here, and asking me to meet him at
the well to-morrow. By that time I shall be far on my way to Madge. He
will wait for me, and I shall not come. How can I leave him thus? He
will believe me heartless and cruel. I grieve even now for his pain and
grief. He will think that I did not love, but only sported with him.
How dearly I love him words cannot tell; and I go that his way may be
smoother, and that in my absence he may find--peace at last. A little
dried flower lies on the page that I turned. It is one of those that
grew in the well, that I wore on my bosom one day, that he might see
and know it, and chide me for having been there again. His chiding was
sweeter to me than others' praise. I will not be so unjust to myself. I
will not go without one word. I jestingly told him once I would leave a
token for him on the stone in the well when I went away from Ashcroft.
I will put my journal there. He will see the box and remember it. He
will learn that I have gone, and will know that I love, but that I
leave and renounce him."
* * * * *
The remaining pages of the book were blank. Elizabeth Purcill's journal
was ended. Bradford was busy with conjectures. Why had not Thornton
found and kept the journal intended for him? Had it fallen at once to
the bottom of the well, and lain there for years, while he waited in
vain for her coming or her token? Her departure had not brought Eleanor
Purcill and Thornton Lee together; for his aunt still remained
unwedded, and he came every Sunday to the village church, with a sweet
matronly-faced woman on his arm, and two children by his side.
Bradford thrust the journal into his pocket, took up his fishing-rod
and basket, and sauntered towards the village. He thought he remembered
the name of Elizabeth Purcill on a head-stone in the church-yard. He
opened the little wicket and went in. The setting sun threw the long
shadows of the head-stones across the thick, rank grass. The sounds of
the village children at play on the green came to his ear softened and
mellowed by the distance.
He turned towards the spot where, year after year, the Purcills had
been gathered,--those who had died in their beds in their native town,
and those who had perished in far-off climes, and whose bones had been
brought to moulder by the old church-wall. He found the stone, and,
bending down, read, "Elizabeth Purcill, died Oct. 5th, 18--, aged 19."
Bradford opened the journal and looked at the last date. She had died,
then, the day after the journal was ended. But how, and where?
He sat down on the flat stone which covered his grandfather, and turned
over the pages again, as if they could tell him more than he already
knew. So absorbed was he, that he did not see a woman who a few minutes
afterwards knelt down before the same stone, and with a sickle began to
cut away the weeds and grass.
Bradford looked up at last, and, as the woman raised her head for an
instant, saw that it was Mrs. Bickford. He approached her and called
her by name. She gave a little start, as she heard his voice.
"Why, Master Bradford, who would have thought of seeing you here at
this time?"
Bradford smiled. "Whose grave is this that you are taking such pains to
clear?"
She pointed to the name with her sickle.
"Yes, I know all that that can tell me. But who was Elizabeth
Purcill?--what relation was she to me?--and how came she to die so
young, and to be buried here?"
"Why do you think I should know?" she replied. "People often die young;
and no matter where the Purcills die, they all wish to come here at
last;--that one died in Cuba,--that in France,--that in Greece,--and
that at sea." And she turned her hand towards them, as she spoke.
"But you do not care for their graves; look, how the grass and weeds
nod over that tombstone; and you would not clear this, unless you knew
something about the girl that lies underneath it."
"It is an old story," said she, with a sigh, "and I can tell you but
little of it." She laid her sickle down on the cut grass and sat down
by it.
"Elizabeth Purcill was the daughter of your grandfather's brother, and
therefore your father's cousin. Long as I have lived in the family, I
never saw him; for he went to India, while a young man, to seek a
fortune, which was found too late to benefit either himself or his
children. Elizabeth, his eldest daughter, was sent home for her
education, and lived first with one of her kinsfolk, and then another,
as her father's whims or their convenience dictated. You remember,
though so young, when your Aunt Eleanor came to your father's house on
her way to your Uncle Erasmus in his last illness?"
Bradford nodded.
"A little before that time Elizabeth Purcill came to Ashcroft. She was
a pretty, lively girl, and it was pleasant to see in our sober
household one who had time to be idle and could laugh. Your Aunt
Eleanor was always a busy woman,--busier then than she is now,--and had
no time for mirth. Every servant in the house liked Miss Elizabeth for
her sunny smile and her pleasant ways. Shortly afterwards, Thornton Lee
came home. He had been three years in Africa, and he and your aunt were
to be married in the autumn.
"When Miss Purcill went away, Mr. Lee remained, and came often to see
Miss Elizabeth. She had a winsome face, that few men could look upon
and not love; and I sometimes thought, when I saw them together, how
much better she was suited to Mr. Lee than your Aunt Eleanor, and
wondered if he had not found it out himself. Your aunt was away a long
time, and, by some mistake, the letter, saying that she was coming
home, did not reach us till the day after her arrival.
"It was a beautiful October afternoon. I had been gathering the grapes
that grew on the garden wall, and was carrying a basket of them to Miss
Elizabeth, whom I had seen, half an hour before, with Mr. Lee, on the
lawn. As I was crossing the hall, Miss Purcill, dressed in deep
mourning, looking ghastly pale, entered the front door. I started as if
I had seen a ghost, and dropped my basket. Miss Eleanor passed me
quickly and went up-stairs. I spoke to her. She did not answer, but,
entering her chamber, fastened the door behind her.
"I looked out of the window. No one was on the lawn; but presently I
saw Mr. Lee coming out of the stable, leading his horse. He mounted and
was out of sight in an instant. Miss Elizabeth was nowhere to be seen.
What had happened I could not tell. I could only guess.
"Miss Elizabeth was the only one who came to tea, and her eyes were
heavy and dull, and she seemed like one in a dream. That night was a
wretched one to both. When I went to the library to see if the windows
were fastened for the night, Miss Elizabeth sat by the smouldering fire
with her face buried in her hands. I shut the door softly and left her,
and till I slept I heard Miss Eleanor's steps across her chamber-floor.
"The day was no better than the night. Miss Purcill did not leave her
room, and her cousin wandered about the house, as if her thoughts would
not let her rest. Once I found her in tears at your aunt's door, and
tried to console her; but she shook her head impatiently, as if I could
not understand the cause of her grief.
"The next morning, while I was dressing, my niece Sally came to me in
great haste, saying that Roger, the gardener, wished to see me at once.
I hurried on my clothes and went down. I knew by the man's face that
something dreadful had happened; but when he told me that he had been
to the old well, and had found Miss Elizabeth lying dead at the bottom
of it, I felt as if I was stunned.
"I roused myself at last. I ran to Miss Purcill's door. I shook it
violently and called her by name. She came and opened the door in her
night-dress. Somehow, I know not and cared not how, for it seemed to me
that she had something to do with all this, I told her that her Cousin
Elizabeth was lying dead at the bottom of the old well. She staggered
and leaned against the door like one who had received a heavy blow. For
a moment I repented my roughness. But she was soon herself again. She
thrust her feet into her slippers, and, wrapping her dressing-gown
about her, went down-stairs, and gave directions, as calmly and
collectedly as if she were (Heaven help her!) ordering a dinner for the
men--to bring the body home. Ah, me! I never shall forget how the poor
thing looked when the four men who bore the litter set it down on the
library-floor. A bruise on the temple showed where she had struck on
the cruel stones. The hoarfrost, which had turned into drops of dew,
glittered among her soft brown curls."
The tears which had been gathering in Mrs. Bickford's eyes fell in
large drops into her lap as she went on.
"On the day of the funeral, she lay in the library, still and cold in
her coffin. I had gathered a few flowers, with which I was vainly
trying to cheat death into looking more like life, by placing them on
her bosom and in her stiffened fingers. Miss Eleanor sat at the foot of
the coffin, almost as motionless as the form within it. I had finished
my task and turned away, when the door opened and Mr. Lee came in
silently. A slight shudder went through him, as he came to the coffin
and bent over it. What a change had three days made in the man! Ten
years would not have taken so much youth and life from him and made him
look so old and wan. He looked upon her as a man who looks his last
upon what he loved best in the world;--his whole soul was in his eyes.
"I think he did not see Miss Eleanor till he was about to leave the
room. She had not spoken, and he was unconscious of her presence. He
turned towards her and held out his hand; his lips moved, but no words
escaped them. I heard Miss Purcill's low, unfaltering answer to his
unspoken thoughts. She did not take his proffered hand, but said,
'Nothing can unite us again, Thornton,--not even death.'
"His hand dropped by his side;--he quickly left the room, and never
came to Ashcroft again. When I went to take a last look of Miss
Elizabeth, I saw that the white rose which I had placed in her hand was
gone;--he had taken it."
Mrs. Bickford paused. Her story was ended. In a few minutes she took up
her sickle again, and Bradford stood leaning against the head-stone
till the grass was all cut on the grave. He had no more questions to
ask,--for the journal had told him more of the dead below, than Mrs.
Bickford, with all her love and sympathy, could do. She had fallen into
the well, then, while endeavoring to place the box on the stone. When
Mrs. Bickford's task was done, she walked silently back to Ashcroft
with Bradford.
Late in the evening he was alone in the library with his Aunt Eleanor.
The picture of Hagar, now so full of interest to him, still hung on the
wall, and the little desk was at the window which looked out upon the
lawn. Should he show the journal to his aunt, or keep it to himself?
Would Elizabeth Purcill wish her Cousin Eleanor to read her written
words as she once read her untold thoughts?
Wrapped up in his own musings, he started suddenly when Miss Purcill
said to him, "Rosamond tells me that you found a book to-day in the old
well; what was it?"--and answered promptly, "It was Elizabeth Purcill's
journal."
It was the first time Eleanor had heard the name for years. She showed
no signs of emotion. "I should like to see it," said she; "give it to
me."
Bradford had been brought up in such habits of obedience, that he never
thought of disputing his aunt's command. He drew the journal from his
pocket and handed it to her without speaking.
"You have read it?" said she, fixing her keen eyes upon him.
"Yes."
She drew the lamp towards her and opened the book. The shade on the
lamp kept the light from her face; but had Bradford seen it, it would
have told him no more of the thoughts beneath it than the stone in the
churchyard had told him of Elizabeth Purcill.
He watched her turning over the leaves slowly, and thought that her
hand trembled a little at the close. Those pages must have stirred many
a memory and many a grief, as the wind shakes the bare boughs of the
trees, though blossom, fruit, and leaves have long since fallen.
She closed the book, and spoke at last:--"I think, Bradford, this book
belongs rightfully but to one person,--Mr. Thornton Lee. Shall I send
it to him?"
Eleanor's question was uttered in a tone that seemed to admit of but
one reply. Bradford assented. If he might not keep the journal himself,
he would rather Thornton Lee should have it than his aunt.
The next day, Thornton Lee received a small packet, accompanied by a
note which ran thus:--
"To do justice to the memory of one who, years ago, came between us, I
send you this little book, found in the old well yesterday. From it you
will learn how she came by her death, and--how much she loved you.
ELEANOR PURCILL."
As Thornton Lee read the journal, his children climbed his knee and
twined his gray curls around their fingers, and his wife came and
leaned sportively over his shoulder and looked at the yellow leaves.
In some lives, as in some years, there is an after-summer; but in
others, the hoar-frosts are succeeded by the winter snow.