It was Saturday night, and Mr. Hardwick was closing his shop. A customer
was just leaving, his horse's feet newly rasped and white, and a sack of
harrow-teeth thrown across his back. The boys, James and Milton, had been
putting a load of charcoal under cover, for the wind was southerly and
there were signs of rain. Of course they had become black enough with
coal-dust,--not a streak of light was visible, except around their eyes.
They were capering about and contemplating each other's face with
uproarious delight, while the blacksmith, though internally chuckling at
their antics, preserved a decent gravity, and prepared to go to his house.
He drew a bucket of water, and bared his muscular arms, then, after
washing them, soused his curly hair and begrimed face, and came out
wonderfully brightened by the operation. The boys continued their sports,
racing, wrestling, and putting on grotesque grimaces.
Charlotte, the youngest child, now came to the shop to say that supper was
ready.
"C-come, boys, you've ha-had play enough," said Mr. Hardwick. "J-James,
put Ch-Charlotte down. M-M-Milton, it's close on to S-Sabba'day. Now w-
wash yourselves."
Just as the merriment was highest, Charlotte standing on James's
shoulders, and Milton chasing them, while the blacksmith was looking on,--
his honest face glistening with soap and good-humor,--Mildred Kinloch
passed by on her way home from a walk by the river. She looked towards the
shop-door and bowed to Mr. Hardwick.
"G-good evenin', M-Miss Mildred," said he; "I'm g-glad to see you lookin'
so ch-cheerful."
The tone was hearty, and with a dash of chivalrous sentiment rarely heard
in a smithy. His look of half-parental, half-admiring fondness was
touching to see.
"Oh, Uncle Ralph," she replied, "I am never melancholy when I see you. You
have all the cheerfulness of this spring day in your face."
"Y-yes, I hev to stay here in the old shop; b-but I hear the b-birds in
the mornin', and all day I f-feel as ef I was out under the b-blue sky,
an' rejoicin' with all livin' creaturs in the sun and the s-sweet air of
heaven."
"I envy you your happy frame; everything has some form or hue of beauty
for you. I must have you read to me again. I never take up Milton without
thinking of you."
"I c-couldn't wish to be remembered in any p-pleasanter way."
"Well, good evening. I must hurry home, for it grows damp here by the
mill-race. Tell Lizzy and Anna to come and see me. We are quite lonesome
now."
"P-p'raps Mark'll come with 'em."
"Mark? Is he here? When did he come?"
"H-he'll be here t-to-night."
"You surprise me!"
"'Tis rather s-sudden. He wrote y-yes-terday 't he'd g-got to come on
urgent b-business."
"Urgent business?" she repeated, thoughtfully. "I wonder if Squire
Clamp"----
The blacksmith nodded, with a gesture towards his children, as though he
would not have them hear.
"Yes," he added, in a low tone, "I g-guess that is it."
"I must go home," said Mildred, hurriedly.
"Well, G-God bless you, my daughter! D-don't forgit your old sooty friend.
And ef ever y-you want the help of a s-stout hand, or of an old gray head,
don't fail to come to the ber-blacksmith's shop."
"Thank you, Uncle Ralph! thank you with all my heart! Good-night!"
She walked lightly up the hill towards the principal street. But she had
not gone half a dozen yards before a hand grasped her arm. She turned with
a start.
"Mark Davenport!" she exclaimed, "Is it you? How you frightened me!"
"Yes, Mildred, it is Mark, your old friend" (with a meaning emphasis). "I
couldn't resist the temptation of giving you a little surprise."
"But when did you come to town?"
"I have just reached here from the station at Riverbank. I went to the
house first, and was just going to see Uncle at the shop, when I caught
sight of you."
Mark drew her arm within his own, and noticed, not without pleasure, how
she yet trembled with agitation.
"I am very glad to see you," said Mildred; "but isn't your coming sudden?"
"Yes, I had some news from home yesterday which determined me to come, and
I started this morning."
"Quick and impetuous as ever!"
"Yes, I don't deliberate long."
There was a pause.
"I wish you had only been here to see father before he died."
"I wish I might have seen him."
"I am sure _he_ would never have desired to put you to any trouble."
"I suppose he would not have _troubled_ me, though I never expected to do
less than repay him the money he was so good as to lend me; but I don't
think he would have been so abrupt and peremptory as Squire Clamp."
"Why, what has he done?"
"This is what he has done. A lawyer's clerk, as I supposed him to be,
called upon me yesterday morning with a statement of the debt and
interest, and made a formal demand of payment. I had only about half the
amount in bank, and therefore could not meet it. Then the clerk appeared
in his true character as a sheriff's officer, drew out his papers, and
served a writ upon me, besides a trustee process on the principal of the
school, so as to attach whatever might be due to me."
"Oh, Mark, were you treated so?"
"Just so,--entrapped like a wild animal. To be sure, it was a legal
process, but one designed only for extreme cases, and which no gentleman
ever puts in force against another."
"I don't know what this can mean. Squire Clamp is cruel enough, I know;
but mother, surely, would never approve such conduct."
"After all, the mortification is the principal thing; for, with what I
have, and what Uncle can raise for me, I can pay the debt. I have said too
much already, Mildred. I don't want to put any of my burdens on your
little shoulders. In fact, I am quite ashamed of having spoken on the
subject at all; but I have so little concealment, that it popped out
before I thought twice."
They were approaching the house, both silent, neither seeming to be bold
enough to touch the tenderer chords that thrilled in unison.
"Mildred," said Mark, "I don't know how much is meant by this suit. I
don't know that I shall be able to see you again, unless it be casually,
in the street, as to-night, (blessed accident!)--but remember, that,
whatever may happen, I am always the same that I have been to you."
Here his voice failed him. With such a crowd of memories,--of hopes and
desires yet unsatisfied,--with the crushing burden of debt and poverty,--
he could not command himself to say what his heart, nevertheless, ached in
retaining. Here he was, with the opportunity for which during all his
boyhood he had scarcely dared to hope, and yet he was dumb. They were at
the gate, under the dense shade of the maples.
"Good-night, dear Mildred!" said Mark.
He took her hand, which was fluttering as by electrical influence, and
raised it tenderly to his lips.
"Good-night," he said again.
She did not speak, but grasped his hand with fervor. He walked away slowly
towards his uncle's house, but often stopped and looked back at the
slender figure whose outlines he could barely see in the gateway under the
trees. Then, as he lost sight of her, he remembered with shame the selfish
prominence he had given to his own troubles. He was ashamed, too, of the
cowardice which had kept him from uttering the words which had trembled on
his lips. But in a moment the thought of the future checked that regret.
Gloomy as his own lot might be, he could bear it; but he had no right to
involve another's happiness. Thus he alternated between pride and
abasement, hope and dejection, as many a lover has done before and since.