HISTORY.
From the time Manson, as a barefooted boy, caught trout in Ragged Brook,
until the winter of '62, when, a sturdy young man of eighteen, he had
fallen deeply in love with Liddy Camp, a few changes had taken place in
Southton. Three different principals had been in charge of the academy,
one of these, a Mr. Snow, being very capable and universally popular.
Later, when Mr. Webber succeeded to that position, the question of
popularity may have been considered an open one. We must do him the
justice to say he was efficient, however, and if he had an exaggerated
idea of his own importance, it was inherited, and a failing that neither
time nor experience could eradicate.
The two worthy dominies continued to try to convert sinners by
exhaustive arguments on predestination and infant damnation, but strange
to say, made little progress. A few of the good townspeople who were not
members of either church, as well as some that were, had been for many
years reading and thinking for themselves, and had come to realize that
the dry bones of Calvinistic argument had lost their force, and that the
Supreme Being was not the merciless God the churches had for years
depicted him, but rather a Father whose love and mercy was infinite. The
then ultra-liberal Unitarian idea had begun to spread and a few who had
outgrown the orthodox religion organized a Unitarian Society, and built
a modest church to worship in. Among these pioneers in thought were
Loring Camp and Jesse Olney, the latter the author of some of the best
school-books then used; a deep thinker and a leader in town affairs.
There were other thinking men, of course, who were prominent in this new
movement, but, as this simple story is not an historical narrative,
their names need not be mentioned. This new church and its followers of
course incurred the condemnation of the other two, especially the one
led by Parson Jotham, who exhausted all argument and invective to
convince his hearers that Unitarianism and sin were synonymous terms,
and that all the new church followers were surely slated for the fiery
furnace. So vigorous were his utterances in this connection, and so
explicit his description of the fire that is never quenched and the
torture that never ends, that it was said some of his hearers could
smell brimstone and discern a blue halo about his venerable white head.
One of his favorite arguments was to describe the intense joy those who
were saved through his scheme of salvation would feel when they came to
look over the heavenly walls and see the writhing agony of all sinners
in the burning lake below. When his eloquence reached this climax he
would cease pounding his open Bible and glare over the top of his tall
pulpit at the assembled congregation, in the hope, perhaps, of
discovering among them some Unitarian sinner who could thus be made to
realize his doom.
In justice to Parson Jotham it must be said that his intentions were of
the best, no doubt, but his estimate of the motive forces of human
action was too narrow. He believed the only way to win people from vice
to virtue and good conduct was to scare them into it.
In spite of all the denunciations of the other two churches, the new
one, though feeble at first, slowly increased its following. To this one
with their respective parents, came Liddy and Manson. While perhaps not
mature enough to understand the wide distinction between Unitarianism
and Calvinism, they realized a little of the inexpressible horror of
Rev. Mr. Jotham's theories of infant damnation and the like, and were
glad to hear no more of them. Like many other young people to-day, they
accepted their parents' opinions on all such matters as best and wisest.
They were not regular in their church attendance, either, for Liddy
could not always leave her invalid mother, and occasionally she and
Manson found a drive in the summer's woods or a visit to the top of Blue
Hill more alluring than even the Unitarian church. Of similar tastes in
that respect, and both ardent admirers of nature, and loving fields and
flowers, birds and brooks, as the lovers of nature do, they often
worshipped in that broad church. Manson especially, who had from
childhood spent countless hours alone in the forests or roaming over the
hills or along the streams, had learned all the lessons there taught,
and now found Liddy a wonderfully sympathetic and sweet companion. To
spend a few quiet hours on pleasant Sundays in showing her some pretty
cascade where the foam-flecks floated around and around in the pool
below; or a dark gorge, where the roots of the trees along its bank grew
out and over the rocks like the arms of fabled gnomes, was a supreme
delight to him. He knew where every bed of trailing arbutus for miles
around could be found; where sweet flag and checkerberries grew; where
all the shady glens and pretty grottoes were, and to show her all these
charming places and unfold to her his quaint and peculiar ideas about
nature and all things that pertain to the woods and mountains delighted
his heart.
Since the evening when she had given him the wise advice not to cross
bridges till he came to them, they had grown nearer together in thought
and feeling, and whether in summer, when they drove in shady woods or
visited a beautiful waterfall, where the rising mist seemed full of
rainbows when the sun shone through it; or in winter, when they went
sleighing over the hills, after an ice storm, and were breathless with
admiration at the wondrous vision, no words or declaration of love had
as yet passed his lips. He had vowed to himself that none should until
the time came when he had more than mere love to offer. Since all his
acts and words showed her so plainly what his feelings were, she began
to realize what it must all mean in the end, and that in due time he
would ask her the one important question that contains the joy or sorrow
of a woman's life. As this belief began to grow upon her it caused her
many hours of serious thought, and had she not discovered in her own
heart an answering throb of love it is certain she was far too honorable
to have allowed his attentions to continue.
How the townspeople viewed the affair may be gathered from a remark made
by Aunt Sally Hart, the village gossip, one Sunday at church.
"They tell me," she said, "that young Manson's keeping stiddy company
with Liddy Camp, and they're likely to make a match. Wonder if they'll
go to live on his father's farm, or what he will do?"
As Aunt Sally was an estimable lady of uncertain age, who, never having
had a love affair of her own, felt a keen interest in those of others,
and as she occupied a place in Southton akin to the "personal mention"
column of a modern society newspaper, it may be said her remark was a
sufficient reflex of public opinion.
When there were any social gatherings where they were invited, he was by
tacit consent considered as her proper and accepted escort. At the
academy she had never been in the habit of discussing her private
affairs with her mates, and so perhaps was spared what might have become
an annoyance. While she listened to much gossip, she seldom repeated it,
and, by reason of a certain dignified reticence among even her most
intimate schoolgirl friends, no one felt free to tell her of the
opinions current among them regarding herself and Manson. For this
reason a little deviation from the usual rule, made one day by her
nearest friend, Emily Hobart, came with all the greater force.
"Do you know," said Emily, when they were alone, "it is common talk here
in school that you and Charlie Manson are engaged? Oh, you need not
blush so," she continued, as she saw the color rise in Liddy's face,
"everybody says so and believes it, too. Shall I congratulate you?"
This did not please Liddy at all.
"I wish everybody would mind their own business," she said with a snap,
"and leave me to mind mine."
"Oh, fiddlesticks," continued Emily; "what do you care? He is a nice
fellow, and comes of a good family. We have all noticed that he has no
eyes for any other girl but you, and never had. They say he fell in love
with you when you wore short dresses."
When Liddy went home that night she held a communion with herself. So
everybody believed it, did they? And she, in spite of her invariable
reticence, was being gossiped about, was she? "I've a good mind never
to set foot in the academy again," she said to herself.
For a solitary hour she was miserable, and then the reaction came. She
began to think it all over, and all the years she had known him from his
boyhood passed in review. And in all those years there was not one
unsightly fact, or one hour, or one word she could wish were blotted
out. And they said he had loved her from the days of short dresses!
Well, what if he had? It was no disgrace. Then pride came in and she
began to feel thankful he had, and as the recollection of it all came
crowding into her thoughts and surging through her heart, she arose and
looked into her mirror. She saw the reflection of a sweet face with
flushing cheeks, red lips, bright eyes, and--was it possible! a faint
glistening of moisture on her eyelashes!
"Pshaw," she said to herself as she turned away, "I believe I am losing
my senses."
The next two days at school she barely nodded to him each day. "At least
he shall not see it," she thought.
When the next Sunday eve came she dressed herself with unusual care, and
as it was a cold night she piled the parlor fireplace full of wood and
started it early.
Then she sat down to wait. The time of his usual coming passed, but
there was no knock at the door. The hall clock with slow and solemn tick
marked one hour of waiting, and still he did not come. She arose and
added fuel to the fire, and then, taking a book, tried to read. It was
of no use, she could not fix her mind upon anything, and she laid the
book down and, crossing the room, looked out of the window. How
cheerless the snowclad dooryard, and what a cold glitter the stars
seemed to have! She sat down again and watched the fire. The tall clock
just outside the parlor door seemed to say: "Never--never--never!"
She arose and shut the door, for every one of those slow and solemn
beats was like a blow upon her aching heart. Then she seated herself
again by the dying fire, and as she gazed at the fading embers a little
realization of what woman's love and woman's waiting means came to her.
When the room had grown chill, she lighted her lamp and retired to her
chamber.
"I have never realized it before," she said, as she looked at the sad,
sweet face in the mirror. And that night it was long ere slumber came to
her pillow.