HARD AND SOFT
Before very long it was manifest enough that Mr. Gundry looked down upon
Miss Sylvester with a large contempt. But while this raised my opinion
of his judgment, it almost deprived me of a great relief--the relief of
supposing that he wished his grandson to marry this Pennsylvania.
For although her father, with his pigs and cattle, and a low sort of
hostelry which he kept, could settle “a good pile of dollars” upon
her, and had kept her at the “learnedest ladies' college” even in
San Francisco till he himself trembled at her erudition, still it was
scarcely to be believed that a man of the Sawyer's strong common-sense
and disregard of finery would ever accept for his grandchild a girl made
of affectation, vulgarity, and conceit. And one day, quite in the early
spring, he was so much vexed with the fine lady's airs that he left no
doubt about his meaning.
Miss Sylvester was very proud of the figure she made on horseback; and
having been brought up, perhaps as a child, to ride after pigs and so
on, she must have had fine opportunities of acquiring a graceful style
of horsemanship. And now she dashed through thick and thin in a most
commanding manner, caring no more for a snow-drift than ladies do for a
scraping of the road. No one with the least observation could doubt that
this young woman was extremely anxious to attract Firm Gundry's notice;
and therefore, on the day above spoken of, once more she rode over, with
her poor father in waiting upon her as usual.
Now I know very well how many faults I have, and to deny them has never
been my practice; but this is the honest and earnest truth, that no
smallness of mind, or narrowness of feeling, or want of large or fine
sentiments made me bolt my door when that girl was in the house. I
simply refused, after seeing her once, to have any thing more to say to
her; by no means because of my birth and breeding (which are things that
can be most easily waived when the difference is acknowledged), nor yet
on account of my being brought up in the company of ladies, nor even by
reason of any dislike which her bold brown eyes put into me. My cause
was sufficient and just and wise. I felt myself here as a very
young girl, in safe and pure and honest hands, yet thrown on my own
discretion, without any feminine guidance whatever. And I had learned
enough from the wise French sisters to know at a glance that Miss
Sylvester was not a young woman who would do me good.
Even Uncle Sam, who was full of thought and delicate care about me, so
far as a man can understand, and so far as his simple shrewdness went,
in spite of all his hospitable ways and open universal welcome,
though he said not a word (as on such a point he was quite right in
doing)--even he, as I knew by his manner, was quite content with my
decision. But Firm, being young and in many ways stupid, made a little
grievance of it. And, of course, Miss Sylvester made a great one.
“Oh, I do declare, I am going away,” through my open window I heard her
exclaim in her sweetly affected tone, at the end of that long visit,
“without even having the honor of saying a kind word to your young
visitor. Do not wait for me, papa; I must pay my devoirs. Such a
distinguished and travelled person can hardly be afflicted with mauvaise
honte. Why does she not rush to embrace me? All the French people do;
and she is so French! Let me see her, for the sake of my accent.”
“We don't want no French here, ma'am,” replied Uncle Sam, as Sylvester
rode off, “and the young lady wants no Doctor Hunt. Her health is as
good as your own, and you never catch no French actions from her. If she
wanted to see you, she would 'a come down.”
“Oh, now, this is too barbarous! Colonel Gundry, you are the most
tyrannous man; in your own dominions an autocrat. Every body says
so, but I never would believe it. Oh, don't let me go away with that
impression. And you do look so good-natured!”
“And so I mean to look, Miss Penny, until you are out of sight.”
The voice of the Sawyer was more dry than that of his oldest and
rustiest saw. The fashionable and highly finished girl had no idea what
to make of him; but gave her young horse a sharp cut, to show her figure
as she reined him; and then galloping off, she kissed her tan gauntlet
with crimson net-work down it, and left Uncle Sam to revolve his
rudeness, with the dash of the wet road scattered in the air.
“I wouldn't 'a spoke to her so course,” he said to Firm, who now
returned from opening the gate and delivering his farewell, “if she
wasn't herself so extra particular, gild me, and sky-blue my mouldings
fine. How my mother would 'a stared at the sight of such a gal! Keep
free of her, my lad, keep free of her. But no harm to put her on, to
keep our missy alive and awake, my boy.”
Immediately I withdrew from ear-shot, more deeply mortified than I can
tell, and perhaps doing Firm an injustice by not waiting for his answer.
I knew not then how lightly men will speak of such delicate subjects;
and it set me more against all thoughts of Firm than a month's
reflection could have done. When I came to know more of the world, I saw
that I had been very foolish. At the time, however, I was firmly set
in a strong resolve to do that which alone seemed right, or even
possible--to quit with all speed a place which could no longer be suited
for me.
For several days I feared to say a single word about it, while equally
I condemned myself for having so little courage. But it was not as if
there were any body to help me, or tell me what to do; sometimes I was
bold with a surety of right, and then again I shook with the fear of
being wrong. Because, through the whole of it, I felt how wonderfully
well I had been treated, and what a great debt I owed of kindness; and
it seemed to be only a nasty little pride which made me so particular.
And being so unable to settle for myself, I waited for something to
settle it.
Something came, in a way which I had not by any means expected. I had
told Suan Isco how glad I was that Firm had fixed his liking steadily
upon Miss Sylvester. If any woman on earth could be trusted not to say
a thing again, that one was this good Indian. Not only because of her
provident habits, but also in right of the difficulty which encompassed
her in our language. But she managed to get over both of these, and to
let Mr. Ephraim know, as cleverly as if she had lived in drawing-rooms,
whatever I had said about him. She did it for the best; but it put him
in a rage, which he came at once to have out with me.
“And so, Miss Erema,” he said, throwing down his hat upon the table of
the little parlor, where I sat with an old book of Norman ballads, “I
have your best wishes, then, have I, for a happy marriage with Miss
Sylvester?”
I was greatly surprised at the tone of his voice, while the flush on his
cheeks and the flash of his eyes, and even his quick heavy tread, showed
plainly that his mind was a little out of balance. He deserved it,
however, and I could not grieve.
“You have my best wishes,” I replied, demurely, “for any state of life
to which you may be called. You could scarcely expect any less of me
than that.”
“How kind you are! But do you really wish that I should marry old
Sylvester's girl?”
Firm, as he asked this question, looked so bitterly reproachful (as if
he were saying, “Do you wish to see me hanged?”), while his eyes took a
form which reminded me so of the Sawyer in a furious puzzle, that it was
impossible for me to answer as lightly as I meant to do.
“No, I can not say, Firm, that I wish it at all; unless your heart is
set on it--”
“Don't you know, then, where my heart is set?” he asked me, in a deep
voice, coming nearer, and taking the ballad-book from my hands. “Why
will you feign not to know, Erema, who is the only one I can ever think
of twice? Above me, I know, in every possible way--birth and education
and mind and appearance, and now far above me in money as well. But what
are all these things? Try to think if only you could like me. Liking
gets over every thing, and without it nothing is any thing. Why do
I like you so, Erema? Is it because of your birth, and teaching,
and manners, and sweet looks, and all that, or even because of your
troubles?”
“How can I tell, Firm--how can I tell? Perhaps it is just because of
myself. And why do you do it at all, Firm?”
“Ah, why do I do it? How I wish I knew! Perhaps then I might cure it. To
begin with, what is there, after all, so very wonderful about you?”
“Oh, nothing, I should hope. Most surely nothing. It would grieve me to
be at all wonderful. That I leave for American ladies.”
“Now you don't understand me. I mean, of course, that you are
wonderfully good and kind and clever; and your eyes, I am sure, and your
lips and smile, and all your other features--there is nothing about them
that can be called any thing else but wonderful.”
“Now, Firm, how exceedingly foolish you are! I did hope that you knew
better.”
“Erema, I never shall know better. I never can swerve or change, if I
live to be a hundred and fifty. You think me presumptuous, no doubt,
from what you are brought up to. And you are so young that to seek to
bind you, even if you loved me, would be an unmanly thing. But now you
are old enough, and you know your own mind surely well enough, just to
say whether you feel as if you could ever love me as I love you.”
He turned away, as if he felt that he had no right to press me so, and
blamed himself for selfishness; and I liked him better for doing that
than for any thing he had done before. Yet I knew that I ought to speak
clearly, and though my voice was full of tears, I tried.
“Dear Firm,” I said, as I took his hand and strove to look at him
steadily, “I like and admire you very much; and by-and-by--by-and-by, I
might, that is, if you did not hurry me. Of all the obstacles you have
mentioned, none is worth considering. I am nothing but a poor castaway,
owing my life to Uncle Sam and you. But one thing there is which could
never be got over, even if I felt as you feel toward me. Never can
I think of little matters, or of turning my thoughts to--to any such
things as you speak of, as long as a vile reproach and wicked imputation
lies on me. And before even that, I have to think of my father, who gave
his life for me. Firm, I have been here too long delaying, and wasting
my time in trifles. I ought to have been in Europe long ago. If I am old
enough for what you talk of, I am old enough to do my duty. If I am old
enough for love, as it is called, I am old enough for hate. I have more
to do with hate than love, I think.”
“Erema,” cried Firm, “what a puzzle you are! I never even dreamed that
you could be so fierce. You are enough to frighten Uncle Sam himself.”
“If I frighten you, Firm, that is quite enough. You see now how vain it
is to say another word.”
“I do not see any thing of the sort. Come back, and look at me quite
calmly.”
Being frightened at the way in which I had spoken, and having passed the
prime of it, I obeyed him in a moment, and came up gently and let him
look at me to his liking. For little as I thought of such things
till now, I seemed already to know more about them, or at least to
wonder--which is the stir of the curtain of knowledge. I did not say
any thing, but labored to think nothing and to look up with unconscious
eyes. But Firm put me out altogether by his warmth, and made me flutter
like a stupid little bird.
“My darling,” he said, smoothing back my hair with a kindness such as I
could not resent, and quieting me with his clear blue eyes, “you are not
fit for the stormy life to which your high spirit is devoting you. You
have not the hardness and bitterness of mind, the cold self-possession
and contempt of others, the power of dissembling and the iron will--in
a word, the fundamental nastiness, without which you never could get
through such a job. Why, you can not be contemptuous even to me!”
“I should hope not. I should earn your contempt, if I could.”
“There, you are ready to cry at the thought. Erema, do not mistake
yourself. Remember that your father would never have wished it--would
have given his life ten thousand times over to prevent it. Why did he
bring you to this remote, inaccessible part of the world except to save
you from further thought of evil? He knew that we listen to no rumors
here, no social scandals, or malignant lies; but we value people as we
find them. He meant this to be a haven for you; and so it shall be
if you will only rest; and you shall be the queen of it. Instead of
redressing his memory now, you would only distress his spirit. What does
he care for the world's gossip now? But he does care for your happiness.
I am not old enough to tell you things as I should like to tell them.
I wish I could--how I wish I could! It would make all the difference to
me.”
“It would make no difference, Firm, to me; because I should know it was
selfishness. Not selfishness of yours, I mean, for you never could be
selfish; but the vilest selfishness of mine, the same as starved my
father. You can not see things as I see them, or else you would not
talk so. When you know that a thing is right, you do it. Can you tell me
otherwise? If you did, I should despise you.”
“If you put it so, I can say no more. You will leave us forever, Erema?”
“No, not forever. If the good God wills it, I will come back when my
work is done. Forgive me, dear Firm, and forget me.”
“There is nothing to forgive, Erema; but a great deal I never can hope
to forgot.”