MUDDY LITTLE YORK.
If the course of true love could be persuaded to forsake its ancient
uncomfortable method in favour of a single harrassed lover, surely the
trials of Allan Dunlop might soften its harsh turbulence, and move it
to a gentler flow. Rose was devoted to her father, and the tie between
them, made stronger by her mother's death, was not of a nature to be
affected by the sighing breath of a mere lover. Then she was as
lovable as she was lovely, and there was nothing in the cordial liking
of a host of friends to encourage the growth of any morbid desire for
the affection of a poor and insignificant outsider. There were other
insurmountable points on the mountain chain of circumstance that lay
between him and his heart's dearest wish. The Commodore's inherent
reverence for birth and breeding, and his comparative indifference to
brain, was one of them. The obstinate pride of Allan's undistinguished
and ambitious self was another.
Of all sorts of pride the sort that goes with inferiority, not of
person, or behaviour, or talents, but of mere social position, is the
most inveterate. This unreasonable feeling was the mightiest of all
the obstructions that, mountain-like, lay between them; but on its
rough sides--flowers on an arid rock--grew the yearning affections,
seemingly rootless, yet continuing to bloom in secret, scarce
discovered beauty. Of what use was it, he asked himself in bitterness,
to brood over these impassable barriers, to cultivate a faith in the
power of his own affection strong enough to remove them, to cherish
the vain imagination that this incomparably sweet girl and his own
plain self were made for each other, and that no earthly obstacle
could suffice to separate them? Upon his soul had fallen the edict of
society, "What man hath put asunder let no higher power join together!"
And so he hardened his heart and closed his eyes to the heavenly
vision of girlish beauty and purity that shone forever in the upper
skies of his consciousness, as clear as the star of evening, and
almost as far away. But tears flow as easily beneath closed lids as
when the eyes are wide open, and to the hardest heart come moments of
reverie, of sudden waking from sleep, or involuntary lapsing into day
dream, when, like a sword in the heart, comes the thought of one too
dearly loved. Do his best he could not escape these moments of
exquisite torture. The poem he was reading fell fantastically into the
tune of the last waltz down which he and Rose had drifted together.
The prose--and very prosy--work he impatiently seized in the hope of
banishing that witching melody from his brain, simply followed the
perverted feet of the poem. Down the dull page danced the meaningless
syllables, keeping time to the delicious strain in a way that was
simply appalling to a mind whose intellectual processes were, as a
rule, thoroughly well regulated. If he walked the street there was
small chance but that some half-turned head or fluttering robe among
the women he met would remind him of the sweetest head and prettiest
drapery in the world.
Always along the misty aisles of his consciousness sped this little
lovely vision, now hasting, now delaying, now bending with melting
tenderness toward him, now mockingly eluding his grasp, never out of
sight, never within reach. No wonder he grew pale and heavy-eyed and
_distrait_. But no one of those who noticed that he ate little and
spoke little, and walked with weary footsteps, knew that he was a
haunted man--haunted not by any pale spectre, but by veritable flesh
and blood, gold crowned, pink tinted, and illumined by the bluest eyes
this side of the blue heavens. It is useless for those who are
troubled in this way to say they _will not_ be haunted. Celestial
visits are planned with reference to anything but the convenience of
their recipient.
Allan Dunlop was spoken of as 'a pushing young man,' but in affairs of
the heart he did not push--he simply waited. Not that he had any faith
in the so-called beneficent influences of time--for what young lover
is willing to believe that the slow drag of months and years over his
passion will crush all life from it at last?--but he had the delicacy
of nature which forbids the gross intrusion of personal wishes and
desires upon unwilling ears. He had, besides, a spark of that
old-world loyalty which is prone to uphold the claim of the father in
the face of despairing aspirants for the daughter's hand.
This unwillingness to take an advantage, or to push it when it was
thrust upon him, was not without a certain allurement for Rose. She
was accustomed to be sought after; but the man who unconsciously
occupied a higher place in her estimation than any by whom she was
surrounded, held himself aloof. Probably he despised her and the
frivolous society in which she moved. It was a depressing reflection,
for the regard of those whom we believe to be our superiors is
infinitely more precious than the adoration of those who are not.
To the lover, as to the good general, the knowledge of when not to
approach is of inestimable importance. Scarce are the girls upon whose
hearts a tender impression can be made in the middle of an ordinary
work-a-day forenoon, or who can give sigh for sigh immediately after a
hearty dinner. Very few are those who, at all times, are equally
approachable and appreciative. Allan's stern, self-denying course of
action, to which he considered himself forced, could not have been
better chosen had he had nothing at heart but the aim of furthering
his own interests. In Rose's imagination he had always formed an
admirable contrast to the purposeless, objectless young men of her
acquaintance, and his wise withdrawal after he had roused her
interest, she interpreted as indifference. So let it be, thought the
young lady, assuming a feeling of entire content. But assumed feelings
are not lasting. She who had been the life of society now grew very
weary of it. She yawned secretly in rooms of entertainment, or
invented lame excuses for her non-appearance there. "I can't think
what is the matter with me," she said to herself. "I never cared for
solitude, and I don't now; but I care less for common people and
commonplace talk."
It was perfectly consistent with this state of feeling that, on one of
the most disagreeable of all disagreeable March days, she should go
out alone for a long walk which had no definite direction nor object.
There was a certain satisfaction in matching her restless mood with
the restless weather, in feeling herself now gently buoyed along, now
almost lifted up and borne away on the strong wings of the rushing
wind. Great soft flakes of snow were falling, and yielding up their
heavenly purity at the first touch of earth, and the dull sunless day,
weary of its own existence, was with seeming relief dying into night.
Rose walked very fast without being aware of the fact. It is a
peculiarity of windy weather that it begets a mental exaltation, in
which even the clumsiest body seems to partake of the immortal energy
of the soul. Rose's trim figure moved as softly and swiftly as a
sail-boat before the wind. Nevertheless it was with a feeling of
dismay that she found herself at the edge of night and far from home.
She had been dreaming as she walked, and now--the usual fate of
dreamers--she found herself abruptly brought face to face with reality.
The big flakes were still falling, the wind still urging her forward,
as she turned to retrace her steps. But now progress became difficult.
The wind was in her face, and the snow blinded her eyes. She had
turned so suddenly that the broad-shouldered, heavily-coated young
pedestrian, who had been following in her wake, was astounded to see
her, with down-bent head, swiftly advance and abruptly fling herself
upon him with an impetuosity born of sightless but determined
resistance to the rampant breezes. The next instant, with a movement
equally impetuous, and a deeply drawn "oh!" she swept aside and looked
straight into the eyes of Allan Dunlop. "I didn't know it was you,"
she murmured, her cheeks turning to flame beneath his gaze.
"No, you usually treat me with more _hauteur_. I never expected you to
make all the advances in this way."
"Oh, shameless!" exclaimed Rose, clasping both daintily gloved hands
first to her ears, then to her eyes. Then, mockingly, she responded,
"I never expected to find you so approachable."
They were very glad to meet again. They did not say so, but what
necessity existed for the verbal expression of a fact so apparent in
the face looking down and in the face that for more than a moment at a
time was unable to look up. She laid her hand within his arm, and they
faced the storm together. "What were you doing at this end of the
town?" she asked, fearing he would make the same inquiry of her.
"Following in your footsteps," he replied. "I was not sure who it was,
but your gait reminded me so much of yourself."
What light words to make a little heart beat faster! The wind would
have blown them away if she had not caught them.
"Ah, yes, no doubt a moving spectacle, but," glancing at the rough
pavement which had grown worse and worse, until in pure self pity it
came to an end, "I'm afraid that for the last half-hour I have led you
a hard life of it."
"It was hard--very. This side-walk is a disgrace to the town, and it
usually has a depressing effect on me to be out in windy, uncertain
kind of weather, but I think"--the wind blew an end of her long silken
scarf caressingly about his neck--"I think it was worth while."
In his heart he added, "Little darling, what rough road would I not
travel in pursuit of you, if only you would turn at last to throw
yourself in my arms."
They walked on for a little in silence. When love looks out of the
eyes, and hesitates on the lips, and trembles in the arm that feels
the confiding pressure of a tiny hand, it seems as though words were a
crude, primitive method of communicating ideas. Nevertheless, so
strong is the power of habit, that there are few who can resist the
imagined necessity to talk if one feels like it, and make talk if one
does not. So presently Rose remarked upon the beauty of the town. Even
in his love wrapt state the idea struck Allan as slightly absurd.
"Where do you find it?" he asked in amused perplexity, looking at the
little wooden houses and shops, the meagre beginnings of a city that
as yet had no time to be beautiful, and noted the vile mud with which
the streets were thickly overlaid. "Though, of course," he added,
"there is scarcely anything to be seen save darkness, and that element
is strictly necessary to an appreciation of the beauties of 'Muddy
Little York.'"
"Oh," exclaimed Rose, "don't you see the lights flashing in the
windows, and in every little muddy pool on the street? Think of the
concentrated life in these little human nests set against the vast
wilderness. Look at those faint yellow rays mingling with the slanting
lines of snow, with the deep woods and dark sky in the distance. If it
isn't beauty it is poetry."
Her foot slipped a little on an unexpected piece of ice, and his arm
felt the momentary pressure of both hands. "It is everything heavenly
you can mention," said Allan devoutly.
He noticed the slight instantaneous withdrawal, and was impelled to be
practical, if possible; so he began to dilate at length upon the
future glories of York. "This will be a great city, some day," he said.
"Possibly, but who loves greatness? People may say what they please
against muddy little York. To me it is dear because it is so little."
"Yes, there is an unexplainable charm in littleness." He glanced
thoughtfully down at the dainty figure beside him, while Rose wondered
if it would be possible for her to make a remark to which he could not
give a personal application. It was impossible for them to walk on in
silence, as though this were a lover's idle stroll. Her face warmed at
the mere fancy. No, she must e'en try again.
"Particularly when it is a little breeze," she said. "Now, a huge,
awkward, overgrown affair like this changes what ought to be a caress
into an assault."
"Yes; but you brave little creature, how blithely you face it. I wish
I could shelter you from the storm. I wish I could defend you from all
the storms of life."
His voice broke, and the girl felt as though her heart would burst. No
bold, imperious, master spirit was this, demanding her love and life
as if they were his by natural right. It was as though she had been
newly roused by a faint knock at the door; and now, before her foot
was set upon the stair that led down to the entering guest, he had
turned away again.
"I like your way of meeting the tempest," he continued. "You face it
for a moment with mocking defiance, then you step aside to escape a
fierce gust, or turn your head to avoid at least half its violence.
You seem to be coquetting with old Boreas. For me, I can't play with
the foe; I simply have to meet him and fight him till my strength is
exhausted--then rest till I can get breath--then up and at it again.
Do you remember those old lines:
"'A little I'me hurt but not yett slaine,
I'le but lye down and bleed awhile,
And then I'le rise and fight againe!'"
"Oh, heaven help me," thought poor Rose, "what _can_ I say now? There
is nothing in the world to say." She fell to crying bitterly, as she
safely could under cover of the snow and the darkness; but after a
minute she controlled herself, and was, to outward appearance,
tranquil and buoyant as before.
They had reached the house. He stepped inside the warmly-lighted hall
just for a moment, as Rose, with a gesture of dismay, threw off her
wraps, and disclosed an inappropriately elaborate little gown,
partially soaked by the storm. "I suppose I need not have put on
anything so fine as this to go out in on a wet day, but I am fond of
dressing, not for others, but for myself. I prefer feeling effects to
producing them. Do you think me very selfish?"
"Oh, yes; everything that is hard, unfeeling, and unlike your sweet
little self."
She had already mounted a few steps of the stairway, as he had said he
could not stay. His outstretched hand held hers in a last good-by, but
instead of going he touched a fold of the damp edge of her gown. "It
is very wet," he said. "You are shockingly careless." And then,
without daring to meet the divine eyes bent upon him, he lifted her
hand reverently to his lips, and so went forth into the night and the
storm.
"Rose," said the Commodore, interrupting her at the head of the
stairs, "who is it that has just gone?"
"Mr. Dunlop," said his daughter hesitatingly; "he overtook--he met--I
met him on my way home, and he came with me." The young girl's face
was a flame, and her heart was a song. She felt that she was
aggressively, barbarously happy, and tried to modify the unruly
emotion out of deference to her father's anticipated anger. He looked
extremely annoyed.
"I am sorry to seem arbitrary," he said, "but in future, my dear, it
will greatly oblige me if you will so conduct yourself towards that
young man as to discourage him from meeting or overtaking you, or
accompanying you home."
"Very well, Papa." Not a ray of light faded from her eyes, not a
particle of warmth from her smile. She had heard him make similar
remarks before, and they affected her the same as if he had said: "It
is yet winter; don't be deceived into supposing that spring-time is
coming." Ah! but under the snows of winter, what power can hinder the
countless delicate roots of spring flowers from thrilling into life?