MAIDEN AND WOOD-SAWYER
Before utterly abandoning all hope of finding employment that should in
some small degree preserve an air of respectability, Haldane resolved to
give up one more day to the search, and on the following morning he
started out and walked until nightfall. He even offered to take the
humblest positions that would insure him a support and some recognition;
but the record of his action while in Mr. Arnot's employ followed him
everywhere, creating sufficient prejudice in every case to lead to a
refusal of his application. Some said "No" reluctantly and hesitatingly,
as if kindly feelings within took the young man's part; but they said
it, nevertheless.
For the patient resolution with which he continued to apply to all kinds
of people and places, hour after hour, in spite of such disheartening
treatment, he deserved much praise; but he did not receive any; and at
last, weary and despondent, he returned to his miserable lodgings. He
was so desperately depressed in body and mind that the contents of the
black bottle seemed his only resource.
Such a small sum now remained that he felt that something must be done
instantly. He concluded that his only course now was to go out and pick
up any odd bits of work that he could find. He hoped that by working
half the time he might make enough to pay for his board at his present
cheap lodging-place. This would leave him time to continue his writing,
and in the course of a week more he would certainly hear from the
manuscripts already forwarded. On these he now built nearly all his
hope. If they were well received and paid for, he considered his
fortunes substantially restored, and fame almost a certainty in the
future. If he could only produce a few more manuscripts, and bridge over
the intervening time until he could hear from them, he felt that his
chief difficulties would be past.
Having decided to do a laborer's work, he at once resolved to exchange
his elegant broadcloth for a laborer's suit, and he managed this
transfer so shrewdly that he obtained quite a little sum of money in
addition.
It was well that he did replenish his finances somewhat, for his
apparently phlegmatic landlord was as wary as a veteran mouser in
looking after his small interests. He had just obtained an inkling as to
Haldane's identity, and, while he was not at all chary concerning the
social and moral standing of his few uncertain lodgers, he proposed
henceforth that all transactions with the suspicious stranger should be
on a strictly cash basis.
It was the busy spring-time, and labor was in great demand. Haldane
wandered off to the suburbs, and, as an ordinary laborer, offered his
services in cleaning up yards, cutting wood, or forking over a space of
garden ground. His stalwart form and prepossessing appearance generally
secured him a favorable answer, but before he was through with his task
he often received a sound scolding for his unskilful and bungling style
of work. But he in part made up by main strength what he lacked in
skill, and after two or three days he acquired considerable deftness in
his unwonted labors, and felt the better for them. They counteracted the
effects of his literary efforts, or, more correctly, his means of
inspiration in them.
Thus another week passed, of which he gave three days to the production
of two or three more brief manuscripts, and during the following week he
felt sure that he would hear from those first sent.
He wrote throughout the hours of daylight on Sunday, scarcely leaving
his chair, and drank more deeply than usual. In consequence, he felt
wretchedly on Monday, and, therefore, strolled off to look for some
employment that would not tax his aching head. Hitherto he had avoided
all localities where he would be apt to meet those who knew him; and by
reason of his brief residence in town there were comparatively few who
were familiar with his features. He now recalled the fact that he had
often seen from his window, while an inmate of Mrs. Arnot's home, quite
a collection of cottages across a small ravine that ran a little back of
that lady's residence. He might find some work among them, and he
yielded to the impulse to look again upon the place where such rich and
abundant happiness had once seemed within his grasp.
For several days he had been conscious of a growing desire to hear from
his mother and Mrs. Arnot, and often found himself wondering how they
regarded his mysterious disappearance, or whether reports of his vain
inquiry for work had reached them.
With a pride and resolution that grew obstinate with time and failure,
he resolved that he would not communicate with them until he had
something favorable to tell; and he hoped, and almost believed, that
before many days passed, he could address to them a literary weekly
paper in which they would find, in prominent position, the underscored
initials of E. H. Until he could be preceded by the first flashes of
fame he would remain in obscurity. He would not even let Mrs. Arnot know
where he was hiding, so that she might send to him his personal effects
left at her house. Indeed, he had no place for them now, and was,
besides, more morbidly bent than ever on making good the proud words he
had spoken. If, in the face of such tremendous odds he could, alone and
unaided, with nothing but his hands and brain, win again all and more
than he had lost, he could compel the respect and admiration of those
who had witnessed his downfall and consequent victorious struggle.
Was the girl who had inspired his sudden, and, as he had supposed,
"undying" passion, forgotten during these trying days? Yes, to a great
extent. His self-love was greater than his love for Laura Romeyn. He
craved intensely to prove that he was no longer a proper object of her
scorn. She had rejected him as a slave to "disgusting vices," and such
he had apparently shown himself to be; but now he would have been
willing to have dipped his pen in his own blood, and have written away
his life, if thereby he could have filled her with admiration and
regret. Although he scarcely acknowledged it to himself, perhaps the
subtlest and strongest impulse to his present course was the hope of
teaching her that he was not what she now regarded him. But he was not
at that time capable of a strong, true affection for any one, and
thoughts of the pretty maiden wounded his pride more than his heart.
After arriving at the further bank of the ravine, back of Mrs. Arnot's
residence, he sat down for a while, and gave himself up to a very bitter
revery. There, in the bright spring sunshine, was the beautiful villa
which might have been a second home to him. The gardener was at work
among the shrubbery, and the sweet breath of crocuses and hyacinths was
floated to him on the morning breeze. There were the windows of his
airy, lovely room, in comparison with which the place in which he now
slept was a kennel. If he had controlled and hidden his passion, if he
had waited and wooed patiently, skilfully, winning first esteem and
friendship, and then affection, yonder garden paths might have witnessed
many happy hours spent with the one whom he loved as well as he could
love any one save himself. But now--and he cursed himself and his folly.
Poor fellow! He might as well have said, "If I had not been myself, all
this might have been as I have imagined." He had acted naturally, and in
accordance with his defective character; he had been himself, and that
was the secret of all his troubles. He sprang up, exclaiming in anger:
"Mother made a weak fool of me, and I was willing to be a fool. Now we
are bothing reaping our reward."
He went off among the cottages looking for employment, but found little
encouragement. The people were, as a general thing, in humble
circumstances, and did their work among themselves. But at last he
found, near the ravine, a small dwelling standing quite apart from any
others, before which a load of wood had been thrown. The poor woman
whose gateway it obstructed was anxious to have it sawed up and carried
to her little wood-shed, but was disposed to haggle about the price.
"Give me what you please," said Haldane, throwing off his coat; "I take
the job;" and in a few moments the youth who had meditated indefinite
heights of "gloomy grandeur" appeared--save to the initiated--as if he
had been born a wood-sawyer.
He was driving his saw in the usual strong, dogged manner in which he
performed such tasks, when a light step caused him to look up suddenly,
and he found himself almost face to face with Laura Romeyn. He started
violently; the blood first receded from his face, and then rushed
tumultuously back. She, too, seemed much surprised and startled, and
stopped hesitatingly, as if she did not know what to do. But Haldane had
no doubt as to his course. He felt that he had no right to speak to her,
and that she might regard it as an insult if he did; therefore he bent
down to his work again with a certain proud humility which Laura, even
in her perturbation, did not fail to notice.
In her diffidence and confusion she continued past him a few steps, and,
although he expected nothing less, the fact that she did not recognize
or speak to him cut to his heart with a deeper pain than he had yet
suffered. With a gesture similar to that which he made when she saw him
on the way to prison, he dashed his hat down over his eyes, and drove
his saw through the wood with savage energy.
She looked at him doubtfully for a moment, then yielding to her impulse,
came to his side. His first intimation of her presence was the scarcely
heard tones of her voice mingling with the harsh rasping of the saw.
"Will you not speak to me, Mr. Haldane?" she asked.
He dropped his saw, stood erect, trembled slightly, but did not answer
or even raise his eyes to her face. His pain was so great he was not
sure of his self-control.
"Perhaps," she added timidly, "you do not wish me to speak to you."
"I now have no right to speak to you, Miss Romeyn," he answered in a
tone which his suppressed feelings rendered constrained and almost
harsh.
"But I feel sorry for you," said she quickly, "and so does my aunt, and
she greatly--"
"I have not asked for your pity," interrupted Haldane, growing more
erect and almost haughty in his bearing, quite oblivious for a moment of
his shirt-sleeves and bucksaw. What is more, he made Laura forget them
also, and his manner embarrassed her greatly. She was naturally gentle
and timid, and she deferred so far to his mood that one would have
thought that she was seeking to obtain kindness rather than to confer
it.
"You misunderstand me," said she: "I do respect you for the brave effort
you are making. I respect you for doing this work. You cannot think it
strange, though, that I am sorry for all that has happened. But I did
not intend to speak of myself at all--of Mrs. Arnot rather, and your
mother. They do not know where to find you, and wish to see and hear
from you very much. Mrs. Arnot has letters to you from your mother."
"The time shall come--it may not be so very far distant, Miss
Romeyn--when it will be no condescension on your part to speak to me,"
said Haldane loftily, ignoring all that related to Mrs. Arnot and his
mother, even if he heard it.
"I do not feel it to be condescension now," replied Laura, with almost
the frank simplicity of a child. "I cannot help feeling sympathy for
you, even though you are too proud to receive it." Then she added, with
a trace of dignity and maidenly pride, "Perhaps when you have realized
your hopes, and have become rich or famous, I may not choose to speak to
you. But it is not my nature to turn from any one in misfortune, much
less any one whom I have known well."
He looked at her steadily for a moment, and his lip quivered slightly
with his softening feeling.
"You do not scorn me, then, like the rest of the world," said he in a
low tone.
Tears stood in the young girl's eyes as she answered, "Mr. Haldane, I do
feel deeply for you; I know you have done very wrong, but that only
makes you suffer more."
"How can you overlook the wrong of my action? Others think I am not fit
to be spoken to," he asked, in a still lower tone.
"I do not overlook the wrong," said she, gravely; "it seems strange and
terrible to me; and yet I do feel sorry for you, from the depths of my
heart, and I wish I could help you."
"You have helped me," said he, impetuously; "you have spoken the first
truly kind word that has blessed me since I bade mother good-by. I was
beginning to hate the hard-hearted animals known as men and women. They
trample me down like a herd of buffaloes."
"Won't you go with me and see Mrs. Arnot? She has letters for you, and
she greatly wishes to see you."
He shook his head.
"Why not?"
"I have the same as made a vow that I will never approach any one to
whom I held my old relations until I regain at least as good a name and
position as I lost. I little thought we should meet soon again, if ever,
and still less that you would speak to me as you have done."
"I had been taking some delicacies from auntie to a poor sick woman, and
was just returning," said Laura, blushing slightly. "I think your vow is
very wrong. Your pride brings grief to your mother, and pain to your
good friend, Mrs. Arnot."
"I cannot help it," said he, in a manner that was gloomy and almost
sullen; "I got myself into this slough, and I intend to get myself out
of it. I shall not take alms from any one."
"A mother cannot give her son alms," said Laura simply.
"The first words my mother said to me when my heart was breaking were,
'You have disgraced me.' When I have accomplished that which will honor
her I will return."
"I know from what auntie said that your mother did not mean any
unkindness, and you surely know that you have a friend in Mrs. Arnot."
"Mrs. Arnot _has_ been a true friend, and no small part of my punishment
is the thought of how I have requited her kindness. I reverence and
honor her more than any other woman, and I did not know that you were so
much like her. You both seem different from all the rest of the world.
But I shall take no advantage of her kindness or yours."
"Mr. Haldane," said Laura gravely, but with rising color, "I am not a
woman. In years and feelings I am scarcely more than a child. It may not
be proper or conventional for me to stop and talk so long to you, but I
have acted from the natural impulse of a young girl brought up in a
secluded country home. I shall return thither tomorrow, and I am glad I
have seen you once more, for I wished you to know that I did feel sorry
for you, and that I hoped you might succeed. I greatly wish you would
see Mrs. Arnot, or let me tell her where she can see you, and send to
you what she wishes. She has heard of you once or twice, but does not
know where to find you. Will you not let me tell her?"
He shook his head decidedly.
"Well, then, good-by," said she kindly, and was about to depart.
"Wait," he said hastily; "will you do me one small favor?"
"Yes, if I ought."
"This is my father's watch and chain," he continued, taking them off.
"They are not safe with me in my present life. I do not wish to have it
in my power to take them to a pawnshop. I would rather starve first, and
yet I would rather not be tempted. I can't explain. You cannot and
should not know anything about the world in which I am living. Please
give these to Mrs. Arnot, and ask her to keep them till I come for them;
or she can send them, with the rest of my effects, to my mother. I have
detained you too long already. Whatever may be my fate, I shall always
remember you with the deepest gratitude and respect."
There was distress in Laura's face as he spoke; but she took the watch
and chain without a word, for she saw that he was fully resolved upon
his course.
"I know that Mrs. Arnot will respect my wish to remain in obscurity
until I can come with a character differing from that which I now bear.
Your life would be a very happy one, Miss Romeyn, if my wishes could
make it so;" and the wood-sawyer bowed his farewell with the grace and
dignity of a gentleman, in spite of his coarse laborer's garb. He then
resumed his work, to the great relief of the woman, who had caught
glimpses of the interview from her window, wondering and surmising why
the "young leddy from the big house" should have so much to say to a
wood-sawyer.
"If she had a-given him a tract upon leavin', it would a-seemed more
nateral like," she explained to a crony the latter part of the day.
Mrs. Arnot did respect Haldane's desire to be left to himself until he
came in the manner that his pride dictated; but, after hearing Laura's
story, she cast many a wistful glance toward the one who, in spite of
his grave faults and weaknesses, deeply interested her, and she sighed:
"He must learn by hard experience."
"Did I do wrong in speaking to him, auntie?" Laura asked.
"I do not think so. Your motive was natural and kindly; and yet I would
not like you to meet him again until he is wholly different in
character, if that time ever comes."