The morning rose clear and bright. The long storm was over, and the calm
autumnal sunshine was now to return, with all its infinite repose and
sweetness. With the earliest dawn exploring parties were out in every
direction along the southern slope of The Mountain, tracing the ravages
of the great slide and the track it had followed. It proved to be not
so much a slide as the breaking off and falling of a vast line of cliff,
including the dreaded Ledge. It had folded over like the leaves of a
half-opened book when they close, crushing the trees below, piling its
ruins in a glacis at the foot of what had been the overhanging wall of
the cliff, and filling up that deep cavity above the mansion-house which
bore the ill-omened name of Dead Man's Hollow. This it was which had
saved the Dudley mansion. The falling masses, or huge fragments
breaking off from them, would have swept the house and all around it to
destruction but for this deep shelving dell, into which the stream of
ruin was happily directed. It was, indeed, one of Nature's conservative
revolutions; for the fallen masses made a kind oz shelf, which
interposed a level break between the inclined planes above and below it,
so that the nightmare-fancies of the dwellers in the Dudley mansion, and
in many other residences under the shadow of The Mountain, need not keep
them lying awake hereafter to listen for the snapping of roots and the
splitting of the rocks above them.
Twenty-four hours after the falling of the cliff, it seemed as if it had
happened ages ago. The new fact had fitted itself in with all the old
predictions, forebodings, fears, and acquired the solidarity belonging
to all events which have slipped out of the fingers of Time and
dissolved in the antecedent eternity.
Old Sophy was lying dead in the Dudley mansion. If there were tears shed
for her, they could not be bitter ones; for she had lived out her full
measure of days, and gone--who could help fondly believing it?--to
rejoin her beloved mistress. They made a place for her at the foot of
the two mounds. It was thus she would have chosen to sleep, and not to
have wronged her humble devotion in life by asking to lie at the side
of those whom she had served so long and faithfully. There were very few
present at the simple ceremony. Helen Darley was one of these few. The
old black woman had been her companion in all the kind offices of which
she had been the ministering angel to Elsie.
After it was all over, Helen was leaving with the rest, when Dudley
Veneer begged her to stay a little, and he would send her back: it was
a long walk; besides, he wished to say some things to her, which he had
not had the opportunity of speaking. Of course Helen could not refuse
him; there must be many thoughts coming into his mind which he would
wish to share with her who had known his daughter so long and been with
filer in her last days.
She returned into the great parlor with the wrought cornices and the
medallion-portraits on the ceiling.
“I am now alone in the world,” Dudley Veneer said.
Helen must have known that before he spoke. But the tone in which he
said it had so much meaning, that she could not find a word to answer
him with. They sat in silence, which the old tall clock counted out in
long seconds; but it was silence which meant more than any words they
had ever spoken.
“Alone in the world. Helen, the freshness of my life is gone, and there
is little left of the few graces which in my younger days might have
fitted me to win the love of women. Listen to me,--kindly, if you can;
forgive me, at least. Half my life has been passed in constant fear and
anguish, without any near friend to share my trials. My task is done
now; my fears have ceased to prey upon me; the sharpness of early
sorrows has yielded something of its edge to time. You have bound me
to you by gratitude in the tender care you have taken of my poor child.
More than this. I must tell you all now, out of the depth of this
trouble through which I am passing. I have loved you from the moment
we first met; and if my life has anything left worth accepting, it is
yours. Will you take the offered gift?”
Helen looked in his face, surprised, bewildered.
“This is not for me,--not for me,” she said. “I am but a poor faded
flower, not worth the gathering, of such a one as you. No, no,--I have
been bred to humble toil all my days, and I could not be to you what
you ought to ask. I am accustomed to a kind of loneliness and
self-dependence. I have seen nothing, almost, of the world, such as you
were born to move in. Leave me to my obscure place and duties; I shall
at least have peace;--and you--you will surely find in due time some one
better fitted by Nature and training to make you happy.”
“No, Miss Darley!” Dudley Venner said, almost sternly. “You must not
speak to a man, who has lived through my experiences, of looking about
for a new choice after his heart has once chosen. Say that you can never
love me; say that I have lived too long to share your young life; say
that sorrow has left nothing in me for Love to find his pleasure in; but
do not mock me with the hope of a new affection for some unknown object.
The first look of yours brought me to your side. The first tone of your
voice sunk into my heart. From this moment my life must wither out or
bloom anew. My home is desolate. Come under my roof and make it bright
once more,--share my life with me,--or I shall give the halls of the old
mansion to the bats and the owls, and wander forth alone without a hope
or a friend!”
To find herself with a man's future at the disposal of a single word of
hers!--a man like this, too, with a fascination for her against which
she had tried to shut her heart, feeling that he lived in another sphere
than hers, working as she was for her bread a poor operative in the
factory of a hard master and jealous overseer, the salaried drudge of
Mr. Silas Peckham! Why, she had thought he was grateful to her as a
friend of his daughter; she had even pleased herself with the feeling
that he liked her, in her humble place, as a woman of some cultivation
and many sympathetic points of relation with himself; but that he loved
her,--that this deep, fine nature, in a man so far removed from her in
outward circumstance, should have found its counterpart in one whom life
had treated so coldly as herself,--that Dudley Venner should stake
his happiness on a breath of hers,--poor Helen Darley's,--it was all a
surprise, a confusion, a kind of fear not wholly fearful. Ah, me! women
know what it is, that mist over the eyes, that trembling in the
limbs, that faltering of the voice, that sweet, shame-faced, unspoken
confession of weakness which does not wish to be strong, that sudden
overflow in the soul where thoughts loose their hold on each other and
swim single and helpless in the flood of emotion,--women know what it
is!
No doubt she was a little frightened and a good deal bewildered, and
that her sympathies were warmly excited for a friend to whom she had
been brought so near, and whose loneliness she saw and pitied. She lost
that calm self-possession she had hoped to maintain.
“If I thought that I could make you happy,--if I should speak from my
heart, and not my reason,--I am but a weak woman,--yet if I can be to
you--What can I say?”
What more could this poor, dear Helen say?
“Elbridge, harness the horses and take Miss Darley back to the school.”
What conversation had taken place since Helen's rhetorical failure is
not recorded in the minutes from which this narrative is constructed.
But when the man who had been summoned had gone to get the carriage
ready, Helen resumed something she had been speaking of.
“Not for the world. Everything must go on just as it has gone on, for
the present. There are proprieties to be consulted. I cannot be hard
with you, that out of your very affliction has sprung this--this
well--you must name it for me,--but the world will never listen to
explanations. I am to be Helen Darley, lady assistant in Mr. Silas
Peckham's school, as long as I see fit to hold my office. And I mean to
attend to my scholars just as before; so that I shall have very little
time for visiting or seeing company. I believe, though, you are one of
the Trustees and a Member of the Examining Committee; so that, if you
should happen to visit the school, I shall try to be civil to you.”
Every lady sees, of course, that Helen was quite right; but perhaps here
and there one will think that Dudley Venner was all wrong,--that he was
too hasty,--that he should have been too full of his recent grief for
such a confession as he has just made, and the passion from which it
sprung. Perhaps they do not understand the sudden recoil of a strong
nature long compressed. Perhaps they have not studied the mystery
of allotropism in the emotions of the human heart. Go to the nearest
chemist and ask him to show you some of the dark-red phosphorus which
will not burn without fierce heating, but at 500 deg. Fahrenheit,
changes back again to the inflammable substance we know so well. Grief
seems more like ashes than like fire; but as grief has been love once,
so it may become love again. This is emotional allotropism.
Helen rode back to the Institute and inquired for Mr. Peckham. She had
not seen him during the brief interval between her departure from the
mansion-house and her return to Old Sophy's funeral. There were various
questions about the school she wished to ask.
“Oh, how's your haalth, Miss Darley?” Silas began. “We've missed you
consid'able. Glad to see you back at the post of dooty. Hope the Squire
treated you hahnsomely,--liberal pecooniary compensation,--hey? A'n't
much of a loser, I guess, by acceptin' his propositions?”
Helen blushed at this last question, as if Silas had meant something by
it beyond asking what money she had received; but his own double-meaning
expression and her blush were too nice points for him to have taken
cognizance of. He was engaged in a mental calculation as to the amount
of the deduction he should make under the head of “demage to the
institootion,”--this depending somewhat on that of the “pecooniary
compensation” she might have received for her services as the friend of
Elsie Venner.
So Helen slid back at once into her routine, the same faithful, patient
creature she had always been. But what was this new light which seemed
to have kindled in her eyes? What was this look of peace, which nothing
could disturb, which smiled serenely through all the little meannesses
with which the daily life of the educational factory surrounded her,
which not only made her seem resigned, but overflowed all her features
with a thoughtful, subdued happiness? Mr. Bernard did not know,--perhaps
he did not guess. The inmates of the Dudley mansion were not scandalized
by any mysterious visits of a veiled or unveiled lady. The vibrating
tongues of the “female youth” of the Institute were not set in motion by
the standing of an equipage at the gate, waiting for their lady-teacher.
The servants at the mansion did not convey numerous letters with
superscriptions in a bold, manly hand, sealed with the arms of a
well-known house, and directed to Miss Helen Darley; nor, on the other
hand, did Hiram, the man from the lean streak in New Hampshire,
carry sweet-smelling, rose-hued, many-layered, criss-crossed,
fine-stitch-lettered packages of note-paper directed to Dudley Venner,
Esq., and all too scanty to hold that incredible expansion of the famous
three words which a woman was born to say,--that perpetual miracle which
astonishes all the go-betweens who wear their shoes out in carrying a
woman's infinite variations on the theme--
“I love you.”
But the reader must remember that there are walks in country-towns where
people are liable to meet by accident, and that the hollow of an old
tree has served the purpose of a post-office sometimes; so that he has
her choice (to divide the pronouns impartially) of various hypotheses to
account for the new glory of happiness which seemed to have irradiated
our poor Helen's features, as if her dreary life were awakening in the
dawn of a blessed future.
With all the alleviations which have been hinted at, Mr. Dudley Venner
thought that the days and the weeks had never moved so slowly as
through the last period of the autumn that was passing. Elsie had been a
perpetual source of anxiety to him, but still she had been a companion.
He could not mourn for her; for he felt that she was safer with her
mother, in that world where there are no more sorrows and dangers, than
she could have been with him. But as he sat at his window and looked at
the three mounds, the loneliness of the great house made it seem more
like the sepulchre than these narrow dwellings where his beloved and her
daughter lay close to each other, side by side,--Catalina, the bride
of his youth, and Elsie, the child whom he had nurtured, with poor Old
Sophy, who had followed them like a black shadow, at their feet, under
the same soft turf, sprinkled with the brown autumnal leaves. It was not
good for him to be thus alone. How should he ever live through the long
months of November and December?
The months of November and December did, in some way or other, get
rid of themselves at last, bringing with them the usual events of
village-life and a few unusual ones. Some of the geologists had been
up to look at the great slide, of which they gave those prolix accounts
which everybody remembers who read the scientific journals of the time.
The engineers reported that there was little probability of any further
convulsion along the line of rocks which overhung the more thickly
settled part of the town. The naturalists drew up a paper on the
“Probable Extinction of the Crotalus Durissus in the Township of
Rockland.” The engagement of the Widow Rowens to a Little Millionville
merchant was announced,--“Sudding 'n' onexpected,” Widow Leech
said,--“waalthy, or she wouldn't ha' looked at him,--fifty year old,
if he is a day, 'n' hu'n't got a white hair in his head.” The Reverend
Chauncy Fairweather had publicly announced that he was going to join the
Roman Catholic communion,--not so much to the surprise or consternation
of the religious world as he had supposed. Several old ladies forthwith
proclaimed their intention of following him; but, as one or two of them
were deaf, and another had been threatened with an attack of that mild,
but obstinate complaint, dementia senilis, many thought it was not so
much the force of his arguments as a kind of tendency to jump as the
bellwether jumps, well known in flocks not included in the Christian
fold. His bereaved congregation immediately began pulling candidates on
and off, like new boots, on trial. Some pinched in tender places; some
were too loose; some were too square-toed; some were too coarse, and
did n't please; some were too thin, and would n't last;--in short, they
could n't possibly find a fit. At last, people began to drop in to hear
old Doctor Honeywood. They were quite surprised to find what a human old
gentleman he was, and went back and told the others, that, instead of
being a case of confluent sectarianism, as they supposed, the good old
minister had been so well vaccinated with charitable virus that he was
now a true, open-souled Christian of the mildest type. The end of all
which was, that the liberal people went over to the old minister almost
in a body, just at the time that Deacon Shearer and the “Vinegar-Bible”
party split off, and that not long afterwards they sold their own
meeting-house to the malecontents, so that Deacon Soper used often to
remind Colonel Sprowle of his wish that “our little man and him [the
Reverend Doctor] would swop pulpits,” and tell him it had “pooty nigh
come trew.”--But this is anticipating the course of events, which were
much longer in coming about; for we have but just got through that
terrible long month, as Mr. Dudley Venner found it, of December.
On the first of January, Mr. Silas Peckham was in the habit of settling
his quarterly accounts, and making such new arrangements as his
convenience or interest dictated. New Year was a holiday at the
Institute. No doubt this accounted for Helen's being dressed so
charmingly,--always, to be sure in, her own simple way, but yet with
such a true lady's air, that she looked fit to be the mistress of any
mansion in the land.
She was in the parlor alone, a little before noon, when Mr. Peckham came
in.
“I'm ready to settle my accaount with you now, Miss Darley,” said Silas.
“As you please, Mr. Peckham,” Helen answered, very graciously.
“Before payin' you your selary,” the Principal continued, “I wish to
come to an understandin' as to the futur'. I consider that I've been
payin' high, very high, for the work you do. Women's wages can't be
expected to do more than feed and clothe 'em, as a gineral thing, with
a little savin', in case of sickness, and to bury 'em, if they
break daown, as all of 'em are liable to do at any time. If I a'n't
misinformed, you not only support yourself out of my establishment, but
likewise relatives of yours, who I don't know that I'm called upon to
feed and clothe. There is a young woman, not burdened with destitute
relatives, has signified that she would be glad to take your dooties
for less pecooniary compensation, by a consid'able amaount, than you now
receive. I shall be willin', however, to retain your services at sech
redooced rate as we shall fix upon,--provided sech redooced rate be as
low or lower than the same services can be obtained elsewhere.”
“As you please, Mr. Peckham,” Helen answered, with a smile so sweet that
the Principal (who of course had trumped up this opposition-teacher for
the occasion) said to himself she would stand being cut down a quarter,
perhaps a half, of her salary.
“Here is your accaount, Miss Darley, and the balance doo you,”
said Silas Peckham, handing her a paper and a small roll of
infectious-flavored bills wrapping six poisonous coppers of the old
coinage.
She took the paper and began looking at it. She could not quite make up
her mind to touch the feverish bills with the cankering coppers in them,
and left them airing themselves on the table.
The document she held ran as follows:
Silas Peckham, Esq., Principal of the Apollinean Institute, In Account
with Helen Darley, Assist. Teacher.
Dr. Cr.
To salary for quarter By Deduction for absence
ending Jan 1st @ $75 per 1 week 3 days........... $10.00
quarter................ $75.00
“Board, lodging, etc for
10 days @ 75 cts per day.. 7.50
“Damage to Institution by
absence of teacher from
duties, say.............. 25.00
“Stationary furnished......... 43
“Postage-stamp................ 01
“Balance due Helen Darley. 32.06
------ --------
$75.00 $75.00
ROCKLAND, Jan. 1st, 1859.
Now Helen had her own private reasons for wishing to receive the
small sum which was due her at this time without any unfair
deduction,--reasons which we need not inquire into too particularly,
as we may be very sure that they were right and womanly. So, when she
looked over this account of Mr. Silas Peckham's, and saw that he had
contrived to pare down her salary to something less than half its
stipulated amount, the look which her countenance wore was as near to
that of righteous indignation as her gentle features and soft blue eyes
would admit of its being.
“Why, Mr. Peckham,” she said, “do you mean this? If I am of so much
value to you that you must take off twenty-five dollars for ten days'
absence, how is it that my salary is to be cut down to less than
seventy-five dollars a quarter, if I remain here?”
“I gave you fair notice,” said Silas. “I have a minute of it I took down
immed'ately after the intervoo.”
He lugged out his large pocket-book with the strap going all round it,
and took from it a slip of paper which confirmed his statement.
“Besides,” he added, slyly, “I presoom you have received a liberal
pecooniary compensation from Squire Venner for nussin' his daughter.”
Helen was looking over the bill while he was speaking.
“Board and lodging for ten days, Mr. Peckham,--whose board and lodging,
pray?”
The door opened before Silas Peckham could answer, and Mr. Bernard
walked into the parlor. Helen was holding the bill in her hand, looking
as any woman ought to look who has been at once wronged and insulted.
“The last turn of the thumbscrew!” said Mr. Bernard to himself.
“What is it, Helen? You look troubled.”
She handed him the account.
He looked at the footing of it. Then he looked at the items. Then he
looked at Silas Peckham.
At this moment Silas was sublime. He was so transcendently unconscious
of the emotions going on in Mr. Bernard's mind at the moment, that he
had only a single thought.
“The accaount's correc'ly cast, I presoom;--if the' 's any mistake
of figgers or addin' 'em up, it'll be made all right. Everything's
accordin' to agreement. The minute written immed'ately after the
intervoo is here in my possession.”
Mr. Bernard looked at Helen. Just what would have happened to Silas
Peckham, as he stood then and there, but for the interposition of a
merciful Providence, nobody knows or ever will know; for at that moment
steps were heard upon the stairs, and Hiram threw open the parlor-door
for Mr. Dudley Venner to enter.
He saluted them all gracefully with the good-wishes of the season, and
each of them returned his compliment,--Helen blushing fearfully, of
course, but not particularly noticed in her embarrassment by more than
one.
Silas Peckham reckoned with perfect confidence on his Trustees, who had
always said what he told them to, and done what he wanted. It was a good
chance now to show off his power, and, by letting his instructors know
the unstable tenure of their offices, make it easier to settle his
accounts and arrange his salaries. There was nothing very strange in Mr.
Venner's calling; he was one of the Trustees, and this was New Year's
Day. But he had called just at the lucky moment for Mr. Peckham's
object.
“I have thought some of makin' changes in the department of
instruction,” he began. “Several accomplished teachers have applied to
me, who would be glad of sitooations. I understand that there never have
been so many fust-rate teachers, male and female, out of employment as
doorin' the present season. If I can make sahtisfahctory arrangements
with my present corpse of teachers, I shall be glad to do so; otherwise
I shell, with the permission of the Trustees, make sech noo arrangements
as circumstahnces compel.”
“You may make arrangements for a new assistant in my department, Mr.
Peckham,” said Mr. Bernard, “at once,--this day,--this hour. I am not
safe to be trusted with your person five minutes out of this lady's
presence,--of whom I beg pardon for this strong language. Mr. Venner, I
must beg you, as one of the Trustees of this Institution, to look at
the manner in which its Principal has attempted to swindle this faithful
teacher whose toils and sacrifices and self-devotion to the school
have made it all that it is, in spite of this miserable trader's
incompetence. Will you look at the paper I hold?”
Dudley Venner took the account and read it through, without changing a
feature. Then he turned to Silas Peckham.
“You may make arrangements for a new assistant in the branches this
lady has taught. Miss Helen Darley is to be my wife. I had hoped to have
announced this news in a less abrupt and ungraceful manner. But I came
to tell you with my own lips what you would have learned before evening
from my friends in the village.”
Mr. Bernard went to Helen, who stood silent, with downcast eyes, and
took her hand warmly, hoping she might find all the happiness she
deserved. Then he turned to Dudley Venner, and said, “She is a queen,
but has never found it out. The world has nothing nobler than this dear
woman, whom you have discovered in the disguise of a teacher. God bless
her and you!”
Dudley Venner returned his friendly grasp, without answering a word in
articulate speech.
Silas remained dumb and aghast for a brief space. Coming to himself
a little, he thought there might have been some mistake about the
items,--would like to have Miss barley's bill returned,--would make it
all right,--had no idee that Squire Venner had a special int'rest in
Miss barley,--was sorry he had given offence,--if he might take that
bill and look it over--
“No. Mr. Peckham,” said Mr. Dudley Venner, “there will be a full meeting
of the Board next week, and the bill, and such evidence with reference
to the management of the Institution and the treatment of its
instructors as Mr. Langdon sees fit to bring forward will be laid before
them.”
Miss Helen Darley became that very day the guest of Miss Arabella
Thornton, the Judge's daughter. Mr. Bernard made his appearance a week
or two later at the Lectures, where the Professor first introduced him
to the reader.
He stayed after the class had left the room.
“Ah, Mr. Langdon! how do you do? Very glad to see you back again. How
have you been since our correspondence on Fascination and other curious
scientific questions?”
It was the Professor who spoke,--whom the reader will recognize as
myself, the teller of this story.
“I have been well,” Mr. Bernard answered, with a serious look which
invited a further question.
“I hope you have had none of those painful or dangerous experiences you
seemed to be thinking of when you wrote; at any rate, you have escaped
having your obituary written.”
“I have seen some things worth remembering. Shall I call on you this
evening and tell you about them?”
“I shall be most happy to see you.”
This was the way in which I, the Professor, became acquainted with some
of the leading events of this story. They interested me sufficiently
to lead me to avail myself of all those other extraordinary methods of
obtaining information well known to writers of narrative.
Mr. Langdon seemed to me to have gained in seriousness and strength of
character by his late experiences. He threw his whole energies into
his studies with an effect which distanced all his previous efforts.
Remembering my former hint, he employed his spare hours in writing for
the annual prizes, both of which he took by a unanimous vote of the
judges. Those who heard him read his Thesis at the Medical Commencement
will not soon forget the impression made by his fine personal appearance
and manners, nor the universal interest excited in the audience, as
he read, with his beautiful enunciation, that striking paper entitled
“Unresolved Nebulae in Vital Science.” It was a general remark of the
Faculty,--and old Doctor Kittredge, who had come down on purpose to hear
Mr. Langdon, heartily agreed to it,--that there had never been a diploma
filled up, since the institution which conferred upon him the degree of
Doctor Medicdnce was founded, which carried with it more of promise to
the profession than that which bore the name of
BERNARDUS CARYL LANGDON