She threw off her things, opened it, and began reading. When I saw the
smile spreading over her face, I knew Mr. Nathaniel had been writing
some of his nonsense.
"Perhaps," said I, as she was folding it up, "you don't know Mr.
Nathaniel. He says anything. I don't know what he's been writing, but"--
"Oh, nothing bad," said she, laughing. "He only says you are a nice
young man."
"Ah!" I replied. "Well, he does sometimes speak the truth."
Then we both laughed, and, for new acquaintances, seemed on pretty good
terms.
There was something about her face which made me think of the little
Margaret who had moved away. She had the same pretty laugh, the same
innocent-looking mouth,--only the child Margaret was not so
fair-complexioned. Her figure, and the way of carrying her head,
reminded me of the West-India girls, as I had seen them riding out in
their _volantes_. I decided that I was pleased with her. When she was
ready to go, with her blue silk pelisse and the plumes in her hat, I was
glad I came, and thought, "How much better is a girl than a sheep!"
The old man made us stay to dinner; but then he hurried us off, that we
might be over The Mountains before dark.
The air was chilly when we started, and a few snow-flakes were flying.
But we had everything to make us comfortable. The old horse always
stepped quick, going home; the wind was in our favor; our chaise had a
boot which came up, and a top which tipped down. We should soon be home.
There is nothing very bad, after all, in being sent for a girl you never
saw!
And we were not two dummies. She was willing to do her part in talking,
and I could always hold my own, if no more.
She seemed, in conversation, not at all like a "little young thing,"--so
that I kept turning round to see if the look of the child Margaret was
still in her face. Oh, how that face played the mischief with me! And
in more ways than one.
We were speaking of large families; I had told her about ours. All at
once she exclaimed at a big rock ahead, which overhung the road.
The moment I placed my eye on it, I turned the horse's head.
"Wrong road," said I.
The horse had turned off, when I wasn't minding, and was taking us to
Cutler's Mills. We tried several ways to set ourselves right by a short
cut, but were finally obliged to go all the way back to where we turned
off. In a summer day this would only have been lengthening out a
pleasant ride. But the days were at the shortest. Snow-flakes fell
thicker, and, what was worse, the wind changed, and blew them straight
into our faces. By the time we reached the foot of The Mountains it was
nearly dark, and snowing furiously. I never knew a storm come on faster.
'Twas a regular, old-fashioned, driving snow-storm, with the wind to the
eastward.
Margaret seemed noways down-hearted. But I feared she would suffer. I
shook the snow from the blanket and wrapped her in it. I drew it over
her head, pinned it under her chin, and tucked it all about her.
'Twas hard pulling for the old horse, but he did well. I felt uneasy,
thinking about the blind roads, which led nowhere but to wood-lots.
'Twas quite likely that the horse would turn into one of these, and if
he did, we should be taken into the very middle of the woods.
It seemed to me we were hours creeping on in the dark, right in the
teeth of the storm. 'Twas an awful night; terribly cold; seemed as if it
was window-glass beating against our faces.
By the time I judged we had reached the top of The Mountains, the wind
blew a hurricane. Powerful gusts came tearing through the trees,
whirling the snow upon us in great smothering heaps. The chaise was
full. My hands grew numb, and I began slapping them upon my knees.
Margaret threw off the blanket with a jerk, and seized the reins.
"Stupid!" said she, "to be sitting here wrapped up, letting you freeze!"
But the horse felt a woman's hand upon the reins, and stopped short.
I urged him on a few yards, but we were in a cleared place, and the snow
had drifted. 'Twas no use. He was tired out.
"Take him out!" cried Margaret; "we can ride horseback."
I sprang out, knowing that no time should be lost. Margaret had not
complained. But I was chilled through. My feet were like blocks of wood.
I knew she must be half frozen. It seemed as if I never should do
anything with the tackling. My fingers were numb, and I could hardly
stand up, the wind blew so.
With the help of my jack-knife I cleared the horse. I rode him round to
the chaise, and took Margaret up in front of me, then let him take his
own course.
I asked Margaret if she was cold. She said, "Yes," in a whisper.
Throwing open the blanket had let in the snow upon her, and the sharp
wind. The horse floundered about in the drifts. Every minute I expected
to be thrown off. Time never seemed so long before.
All at once it occurred to me that Margaret was very quiet. I asked
again if she was cold. She said, "No; only sleepy." I knew in a minute
what that meant. That was a terrible moment. Freezing as I was, the
sweat started out at every pore. The pretty, delicate thing would die!
And I, great strong man, couldn't save her!
But I wouldn't despair. I made her talk. Kept asking her questions: If
the wind had not gone down? If she heard the surf upon the beach? If she
saw a light?
"Yes," said she at last,--"I see a light."
At first I was frightened, thinking her mind wandered. But directly I
saw that towards the right, and a little in advance of us, was a misty
spot of light.
When we were near enough to see where it came from, it seemed as if all
my strength left me at once,--the relief was so sudden.
'Twas a squaw's hut. I knew then just where we were. I climbed up the
bank, with Margaret in my arms, and pounded with all my might upon the
side of the hut, calling out, "For God's sake, open the door!" A latch
rattled close to my ears, and a door flew open. 'Twas Old Suke. I had,
many a time, when a boy, called out to her, "Black clouds arising!"--for
we always would torment the colored folks, when they came down with
their brooms.
I pushed past her into the hut,--into the midst of rushes, brooms, and
baskets,--into a shelter. I never knew before what the word meant.
The fireplace was full of blazing pine-knots, which made the room as
light as day. Old Suke showed herself a Christian. She told me where to
find a shed for my horse; and while I was gone, she took the wet things
off Margaret, and rubbed her hands and feet with snow. She took red
peppers from a string over the fireplace, boiled them in milk, and made
us drink it. I thought of "heaping coals of fire." She dipped up hulled
corn from a pot on the hearth, and made us eat. I felt like singing the
song of Mungo Park.
Margaret kept pretty still. I knew the reason. The warm blood was
rushing back to her fingers and toes, and they ached like the toothache.
Mine did. 'Twas a long while before Old Suke would let us come nearer
the fire. Her old mother was squatting upon the hearth. She looked to be
a hundred and fifty. Her face was like a baked apple,--for she was part
Indian, not very black. She had a check-handkerchief tied round her
head, and an old pea-jacket over her shoulders, with the sleeves
hanging. She hardly noticed us, but sat smoking her pipe, looking at the
coals. 'Twas curious to see Margaret's face by hers in the firelight.
A little after midnight the storm abated, and by four o'clock the stars
were out. I asked Margaret if she would be afraid to stay there, while I
went home to tell the folks what had become of us.
"Oh, no," she said. "'Twas just what she'd been thinking about. She
would be making baskets."--Some girls would never have dared stay in
such a place.
I promised to be back as soon as possible, and left her there by the old
woman.
'Twas just about daylight when I came in sight of father's. Mr.
Nathaniel was walking about the yard, looking up the road at every turn.
He hurried towards me.
"All safe!" I called out.
"Thank God!" he cried. "It has been a dreadful night."
Jamie was in the house. They two had been sitting up. They wouldn't hear
of my going back, but put me into bed, almost by main strength. Then
they started with fresh horses. They took a pillion for Margaret, and a
shovel to dig through the drifts when they couldn't go round.
Mother gave me warm drinks, and piled on the bed-clothes. But I couldn't
sleep for worrying about Margaret. I was afraid the exposure would be
the death of her.
About noon Mary came running up to tell me they had just gone past. The
window was near my bed. I pulled aside the curtain, and looked out. They
were just going over the hill,--Jamie, with Margaret on the pillion, and
Mr. Nathaniel along-side.
I often think what a mysterious Providence it was that made me the means
of bringing together the two persons who, as it turned, controlled my
whole life. In fact, it seems as if it were only then that my real life
began.
* * * * *
Nobody could have been more pleased with a bright, beautiful, grown-up
daughter than was Mr. Nathaniel. He was always bragging about her. And
well he might,--for never was a better-dispositioned girl, or a
livelier. She entered right into our country-life, was merry with the
young folks and wise with the old ones. Aunt Chloë said she was good
company for anybody.
She was a real godsend to our neighborhood, especially at the
merry-makings; for she could make fun for a roomful, and tell us what
they played at the Boston parties.
Of course, that long ride with her in the snow-storm had given me an
advantage over the other young men. It seemed to be taken for granted by
them, that, as I brought her to town, I should be the one privileged to
wait upon her about. 'Twas a privilege I was glad enough to claim, and
she never objected. Many would have been glad to be in my place, but
they never tried to cut me out. Margaret was sociable enough with
them,--sometimes I thought too much so. But then I knew 'twas only her
pleasant way. When we two were walking home together, she dropped her
fun, and seemed like another person. I felt pleased that she kept the
best part of herself for me.
I was pleased, too, to see that she took to Mary, and Mary to her. The
women were hurried with their sewing, and Margaret used to be often at
our house helping. Cynthia was glad enough of her help, because she knew
the fashions, and told how weddings were carried on in Boston. Thus it
happened that she and Mary were brought much together; and before winter
was over they were like two sisters.
And before winter was over, what was I? Certainly not the same Joseph
who went to Swampsey Village. My eagerness to be on the sea, my pride,
my temper, were gone; and all I cared for was to see the face and hear
the voice of Margaret Holden.
At first, I would not believe this thing of myself; said it was folly to
be so led about by a woman. But the very next moment, her sitting down
by my side would set me trembling, I didn't know myself; it seemed as if
I were wrong side up, and all my good feelings had come to the top.
Our names were always called together, but I felt noways sure. I
couldn't think that a girl every way so desirable as Margaret should
take up with a fellow so undesirable as myself. I felt that she was too
good for me. I thought then that this was peculiar to our case. But I
have since observed, that, as a general thing, all women are too good
for all men. I am very sure I have seen something of the kind in print.
Then there was another feeling which worked itself in by degrees,--one
which would come back as often as I drove it away. And once admitted, it
gained strength. 'Twas not a pleasant feeling, and it had to do with
Jamie.
I had all along felt sure that he was attached to Mary. I had therefore
never thought anything of his being on pretty good terms with Margaret.
They were both of a lively turn, and thrown much together. But by
degrees the idea got possession of me that there was a secret
understanding between them about something. They had long talks and
walks together. And, in fact, I observed many little things, trifling in
themselves, but much to me after my thoughts were once turned that way.
Sometimes I think, that, if I had never gone to sea, or had never met
Jamie, or had not brought him home, my life might have been very
different. But then, if we once begin upon the "ifs," we might as well
go back to the beginning, and say, "If we had never been born."
Jealousy. And my proud, flashy temper. That was it.
Jamie was like a brother to me. He was a noble fellow, with a pleasant
word and smile for everybody. Not a family in the place but was glad to
see him enter their doors. It looks strange now that I could have
distrusted him so. Still, I must say, there seemed some cause.
But it's not pleasant dwelling on this. The daily events which stirred
me up so then seem too trifling to mention. I don't like to call up all
those dead feelings, now I'm an old man, and ashamed of them.
Jamie and Margaret became a mystery to me. And I was by no means one to
puzzle it out, as I would a sum in the rule-of-three. 'Twas not all
head-work. However, I said nothing. I was mean enough to watch, and too
proud to question.
At last I began to ask myself what I really knew about Jamie. He was
only a poor sailor-boy, whom I had picked up and befriended. And, once
put upon thought, what did I know of Margaret? What did anybody in the
place? Even Mr. Nathaniel only knew her father. Her simple, childish
ways might be all put on. For she could act. I had seen her, one
evening, for our entertainment, imitate the actresses upon the stage.
First, she was a little girl, in a white frock, with a string of coral
about her neck, and curls hanging over her pretty shoulders. She said a
little hymn, and her voice sounded just like a child's. Afterwards, she
was a proud princess, in laces and jewels, a long train, and a bright
crown. Dressed in this way, with her head thrown back, her bosom
heaving, and reciting something she had heard on the stage, we hardly
knew our Margaret.
It was at our house, one stormy evening. Mother would never allow it
again. She said it was countenancing the theatre. Besides, I thought
she'd rather not have me look at Margaret when under the excitement of
acting, for the next day she cautioned me against earthly idols. But
Margaret was my idol.
It was because she was so bewitching to me that I thought it could not
be but that Jamie must be bewitched as well. And it was because he was
so taking in his manner that I felt certain she must be taken with him.
Thus I puzzled on from day to day, drifting about among my doubts and
fears, like a ship in a fog.
I knew that Margaret thought my conduct strange. Sometimes I seemed
scarcely to live away from her; then I would change about, and not go
near her for days. To Jamie, too, I was often unfriendly, for it
maddened me to think he might be playing a double game. Mary seemed just
as she always did. But then she was simple-minded, and would never
suspect anything or anybody. It was astonishing, the state of excitement
I finally worked myself into. That was my make. Once started upon a
road, I would run its whole length.
* * * * *
February and March passed, and still we were not sent for to join our
ship. Jamie was getting uneasy, living, as he said, so long upon
strangers. Besides, I knew my manner troubled him.
One evening, as we were sitting around our kitchen-fire, Margaret with
the rest, Mr. Nathaniel came in, all of a breeze, scolding away about
his fishermen. His schooner was all ready for The Banks, and two of his
men had run off, with all their fitting-out.
"Come, you two lazy chaps," said he, "you will just do to fill their
places."
"Agreed!" said Jamie. "I'll go, if Joseph will."
"I'll go," said I. For I thought in a minute that he would rather not
leave me behind, and I knew he needed the chance.
The women all began to exclaim against it,--all but Margaret. She turned
pale, and kept silence. That was Friday. The vessel would sail Monday.
Mother was greatly troubled, but said, if I would go, she must make me
comfortable; and all night I could hear her opening and shutting the
bureau-drawers. Margaret stopped with Mary: I think they sewed till near
morning.
The next evening the singers met in the vestry, to practise the tunes
for the Sabbath. We all sat in the singing-seats. I played the small
bass-viol. Jamie sang counter, and the girls treble. Margaret had a
sweet voice,--not very powerful. She sat in the seats because the other
girls did.
I went home with her that night. She seemed so sad, so tender in her
manner, that I came near speaking,--came near telling her how much she
was to me, and owning my feeling about Jamie. But I didn't quite.
Something kept me from it. If there is such a thing as fate, 'twas that.
Going home, however, I made a resolution that the next night I would
certainly know, from her own lips, whether it was me she liked, or
Jamie.
I walked slowly home, and directly up-stairs to bed. I lay awake a long
time, heard father and mother go to their chamber, then Mary and Sophy
to theirs. At last I wondered what had become of Jamie.
I pushed aside the window-curtain and looked out. 'Twas bright
moonlight. I saw Jamie coming over the hill from Mr. Nathaniel's. He
came in softly. I pretended sleep. He was still so long that I looked up
to see what he could be doing. He was leaning his elbow on the desk,
looking straight at the floor, thinking.
All that night I lay awake, staring at the moonlight on the curtains. I
was again on the old track, for I could not possibly imagine what he
should have to say to Margaret at that hour.
Towards morning I fell asleep, and never woke till the people were
getting ready for meeting. I hurried, for the instruments met before the
rest to practise.
Nearly all the young folks sat in the seats. Jamie stood at the head of
the back row, on the men's side. His voice was worth all the rest.
Margaret came in late. She looked like a beauty that day. Her place was
at the head of the first row of girls. I, with my bass-viol, was behind
all.