IN THE GARDEN.
Rachel Miller was not a woman to do a thing by halves. As soon as the
question was settled, she gave her heart and mind to the necessary
preparations. There might have been a little surprise in some quarters,
when the fact became known in the neighborhood through Joseph's
invitation, but no expression of it reached the Asten place. Mrs.
Warriner, Anna's mother, called to inquire if she could be of service,
and also to suggest, indirectly, _her_ plan of entertaining company.
Rachel detected the latter purpose, and was a little more acquiescent
than could have been justified to her own conscience, seeing that at the
very moment when she was listening with much apparent meekness, she was
mentally occupied with plans for outdoing Mrs. Warriner. Moreover, the
Rev. Mr. Chaffinch had graciously signified his willingness to be
present, and the stamp of strictest orthodoxy was thus set upon the
entertainment. She was both assured and stimulated, as the time drew
near, and even surprised Joseph by saying: "If I was better acquainted
with Miss Blessing, she might help me a good deal in fixing everything
just as it should be. There are times, it seems, when it's an advantage
to know something of the world."
"I'll ask her!" Joseph exclaimed.
"You! And a mess you'd make of it, very likely; men think they've only
to agree to invite a company, and that's all! There's a hundred things
to be thought of that women must look to; you couldn't even understand
'em. As for speaking to her,—she's one of the _invites_, and it would
never do in the world."
Joseph said no more, but he silently determined to ask Miss Blessing on
her arrival; there would still be time. She, with her wonderful
instinct, her power of accommodating people to each other, and the
influence which she had already acquired with his aunt, would certainly
see at a glance how the current was setting, and guide it in the proper
direction.
But, as the day drew near, he grew so restless and uneasy that there
seemed nothing better to do than to ride over to Warriner's in the hope
of catching a moment's conference with her, in advance of the occasion.
He was entirely fortunate. Anna was apparently very busy with household
duties, and after the first greetings left him alone with Miss Blessing.
He had anticipated a little difficulty in making his message known, and
was therefore much relieved when she said: "Now, Mr. Asten, I see by
your face that you have something particular to say. It's about
to-morrow night, isn't it? You must let me help you, if I can, because I
am afraid I have been, without exactly intending it, the cause of so
much trouble to you and your aunt."
Joseph opened his heart at once. All that he had meant to say came
easily and naturally to his lips, because Miss Blessing seemed to feel
and understand the situation, and met him half-way in her bright,
cheerful acquiescence. Almost before he knew it, he had made her
acquainted with what had been said and done at home. How easily she
solved the absurd doubts and difficulties which had so unnecessarily
tormented him! How clearly, through her fine female instinct, she
grasped little peculiarities of his aunt's nature, which he, after years
of close companionship, had failed to define! Miss Rachel, she said, was
both shy and inexperienced, and it was only the struggle to conceal
these conscious defects which made her seem—not unamiable, exactly, but
irregular in her manner. Her age, and her character in the neighborhood,
did not permit her to appear incompetent to any emergency; it was a very
natural pride, and must be treated very delicately and tenderly.
Would Joseph trust the matter entirely to her, Miss Blessing? It was a
great deal to ask, she knew, comparative stranger as she was; but she
believed that a woman, when her nature had not been distorted by the
conventionalities of life, had a natural talent for smoothing
difficulties, and removing obstacles for others. Her friends had told
her that she possessed this power; and it was a great happiness to think
so. In the present case, she was _sure_ she should make no mistake. She
would endeavor not to seem to suggest anything, but merely to assist in
such a way that Miss Rachel would of herself see what else was necessary
to be done.
"Now," she remarked, in conclusion, "this sounds like vanity in me; but
I really hope it is not. You must remember that in the city we are
obliged to know all the little social arts,—and artifices, I am afraid.
It is not always to our credit, but then, the heart _may_ be kept fresh
and uncorrupted."
She sighed, and cast down her eyes. Joseph felt the increasing charm of
a nature so frank and so trustful, constantly luring to the surface the
maiden secrets of his own. The confidence already established between
them was wholly delightful, because their sense of reciprocity increased
as it deepened. He felt so free to speak that he could not measure the
fitness of his words, but exclaimed, without a pause for thought:—
"Tell me, Miss Julia, did you not suggest this party to Aunt Rachel?"
"Don't give me too much credit!" she answered; "it was talked about, and
I couldn't help saying Ay. I longed so much to see you—all—again before
I go away."
"And Lucy Henderson objected to it?"
"Lucy, I think, wanted to save your aunt trouble. Perhaps she did not
guess that the real objection was inexperience, and not want of will to
entertain company. And very likely she helped to bring it about, by
seeming to oppose it; so you must not be angry with Lucy,—promise me!"
She looked at him with an irresistibly entreating expression, and
extended her hand, which he seized so warmly as to give her pain. But
she returned the pressure, and there was a moment's silence, which Anna
Warriner interrupted at the right time.
The next day, on the Asten farm, all the preparations were quietly and
successfully made long in advance of the first arrivals. The Rev. Mr.
Chaffinch and a few other specially chosen guests made their appearance
in the afternoon. To Joseph's surprise, the Warriners and Miss Blessing
speedily joined them. It was, in reality, a private arrangement which
his aunt had made, in order to secure at the start the very assistance
which he had been plotting to render. One half the secret of the ease
and harmony which he felt was established was thus unknown to him. He
looked for hints or indications of management on Miss Blessing's part,
but saw none. The two women, meeting each other half-way, needed no
words in order to understand each other, and Miss Rachel, gradually made
secure in her part of hostess, experienced a most unaccustomed sense of
triumph.
At the supper-table Mr. Chaffinch asked a blessing with fervor; a great,
balmy dish of chickens stewed in cream was smoking before his nostrils,
and his fourth cup of tea made Rachel Miller supremely happy. The meal
was honored in silence, as is the case where there is much to eat and a
proper desire and capacity to do it; only towards its close were the
tongues of the guests loosened, and content made them cheerful.
"You have entertained us almost too sumptuously, Miss Miller," said the
clergyman. "And now let us go out on the portico, and welcome the young
people as they arrive."
"I need hardly ask you, then, Mr. Chaffinch," said she, "whether you
think it right for them to come together in this way."
"Decidedly!" he answered; "that is, so long as their conversation is
modest and becoming. It is easy for the vanities of the world to slip
in, but we must watch,—we must watch."
Rachel Miller took a seat near him, beholding the gates of perfect
enjoyment opened to her mind. Dress, the opera, the race-course,
literature, stocks, politics, have their fascination for so many several
classes of the human race; but to her there was nothing on this earth so
delightful as to be told of temptation and backsliding and sin, and to
feel that she was still secure. The fact that there was always danger
added a zest to the feeling; she gave herself credit for a vigilance
which had really not been exercised.
The older guests moved their chairs nearer, and listened, forgetting the
sweetness of sunset which lay upon the hills down the valley. Anna
Warriner laid her arm around Miss Chaffinch's waist, and drew her
towards the mown field beyond the barn; and presently, by a natural
chance, as it seemed, Joseph found himself beside Miss Blessing, at the
bottom of the lawn.
All the western hills were covered with one cool, broad shadow. A rich
orange flush touched the tops of the woods to the eastward, and
brightened as the sky above them deepened into the violet-gray of coming
dusk. The moist, delicious freshness which filled the bed of the valley
slowly crept up the branching glen, and already tempered the air about
them. Now and then a bird chirped happily from a neighboring bush, or
the low of cattle was heard from the pasture-fields.
"Ah!" sighed Miss Blessing, "this is too sweet to last: I must learn to
do without it."
She looked at him swiftly, and then glanced away. It seemed that there
were tears in her eyes.
Joseph was about to speak, but she laid her hand on his arm. "Hush!" she
said; "let us wait until the light has faded."
The glow had withdrawn to the summits of the distant hills, fringing
them with a thin, wonderful radiance. But it was only momentary. The
next moment it broke on the irregular topmost boughs, and then
disappeared, as if blown out by a breeze which came with the sudden
lifting of the sky. She turned away in silence, and they walked slowly
together towards the house. At the garden gate she paused.
"That superb avenue of box!" she exclaimed; "I must see it again, if
only to say farewell."
They entered the garden, and in a moment the dense green wall, breathing
an odor seductive to heart and senses, had hidden them from the
sight—and almost from the hearing—of the guests on the portico. Looking
down through the southern opening of the avenue, they seemed alone in
the evening valley.
Joseph's heart was beating fast and strong; he was conscious of a wild
fear, so interfused with pleasure, that it was impossible to separate
the sensations. Miss Blessing's hand was on his arm, and he fancied that
it trembled.
"If life were as beautiful and peaceful as this," she whispered, at
last, "we should not need to seek for truth and—and—sympathy: we should
find them everywhere."
"Do you not think they are to be found?" he asked.
"O, in how few hearts! I can say it to _you_, and you will not
misunderstand me. Until lately I was satisfied with life as I found it:
I thought it meant diversion, and dress, and gossip, and common daily
duties, but now—now I see that it is the union of kindred souls!"
She clasped both her hands over his arm as she spoke, and leaned
slightly towards him, as if drawing away from the dreary, homeless
world. Joseph felt all that the action expressed, and answered in an
unsteady voice:—
"And yet—with a nature like yours—you must surely find them."
She shook her head sadly, and answered: "Ah, a woman cannot seek. I
never thought I should be able to say—to any human being—that I have
sought, or waited for recognition. I do not know why I should say it
now. I try to be myself—my true self—with all persons; but it seems
impossible: my nature shrinks from some and is drawn towards others. Why
is this? What is the mystery that surrounds us?"
"Do you believe," Joseph asked, "that two souls may be so united that
they shall dare to surrender all knowledge of themselves to each other,
as we do, helplessly, before God?"
"O," she murmured, "it is my dream! I thought I was alone in cherishing
it! Can it ever be realized?"
Joseph's brain grew hot: the release he had invoked sprang to life and
urged him forward. Words came to his lips, he knew not how.
"If it is my dream and yours,—if we both have come to the faith and the
hope we find in no others, and which alone will satisfy our lives, is it
not a sign that the dream is over and the reality has begun?"
She hid her face in her hands. "Do not tempt me with what I had given
up, unless you can teach me to believe again?" she cried.
"I do not tempt you," he answered breathlessly. "I tempt myself. I
believe."
She turned suddenly, laid a hand upon his shoulder, lifted her face and
looked into his eyes with an expression of passionate eagerness and joy.
All her attitude breathed of the pause of the wave that only seems to
hesitate an instant before throwing itself upon the waiting strand.
Joseph had no defence, knew of none, dreamed of none. The pale-brown
eyes, now dark, deep, and almost tearful, drew him with irresistible
force: the sense of his own shy reticent self was lost, dissolved in the
strength of an instinct which possessed him body and soul,—which bent
him nearer to the slight form, which stretched his arms to answer its
appeal, and left him, after one dizzy moment, with Miss Blessing's head
upon his breast.
"I should like to die now," she murmured: "I never can be so happy
again."
"No, no," said he, bending over her; "live for me!"
She raised herself, and kissed him again and again, and this frank,
almost childlike betrayal of her heart seemed to claim from Joseph the
full surrender of his own. He returned her caresses with equal warmth,
and the twilight deepened around them as they stood, still
half-embracing.
"Can I make you happy, Joseph?"
"Julia, I am already happier than I ever thought it possible to be."
With a sudden impulse she drew away from him. "Joseph!" she whispered,
"will you always bear in mind what a cold, selfish, worldly life mine
has been? You do not know me; you cannot understand the school in which
I have been taught. I tell you, now, that I have had to learn cunning
and artifice and equivocation. I am dark beside a nature so pure and
good as yours! If you must ever learn to hate me, begin now! Take back
your love: I have lived so long without the love of a noble human heart,
that I can live so to the end!"
She again covered her face with her hands, and her frame shrank, as if
dreading a mortal blow. But Joseph caught her back to his breast,
touched and even humiliated by such sharp self-accusation. Presently she
looked up: her eyes were wet, and she said, with a pitiful smile:—
"I believe you _do_ love me."
"And I will not give you up," said Joseph, "though you should be full of
evil as I am, myself."
She laughed, and patted his cheek: all her frank, bright, winning manner
returned at once. Then commenced those reciprocal expressions of bliss,
which are so inexhaustibly fresh to lovers, so endlessly monotonous to
everybody else; and Joseph, lost to time, place, and circumstance, would
have prolonged them far into the night, but for Miss Julia's returning
self-possession.
"I hear wheels," she warned; "the evening guests are coming, and they
will expect you to receive them, Joseph. And your dear, good old aunt
will be looking for _me_. O, the world, the world! We must give
ourselves up to it, and be as if we had never found each other. I shall
be wild unless you set me an example of self-control. Let me look at you
once,—one full, precious, perfect look, to carry in my heart through the
evening!"
Then they looked in each other's faces; and looking was not enough; and
their lips, without the use of words, said the temporary farewell. While
Joseph hurried across the bottom of the lawn, to meet the stream of
approaching guests which filled the lane, Miss Julia, at the top of the
garden, plucked amaranth leaves for a wreath which would look well upon
her dark hair, and sang, in a voice loud enough to be heard from the
portico:—
"Ever be happy, light as thou art,
Pride of the pirate's heart!"
Everybody who had been invited—and quite a number who had not been,
availing themselves of the easy habits of country society—came to the
Asten farm that evening. Joseph, as host, seemed at times a little
confused and flurried, but his face bloomed, his blue eyes sparkled, and
even his nearest acquaintances were astonished at the courage and
cordiality with which he performed his duties. The presence of Mr.
Chaffinch kept the gayety of the company within decorous bounds; perhaps
the number of detached groups appeared to form too many separate
circles, or atmospheres of talk, but they easily dissolved, or gave to
and took from each other. Rachel Miller was not inclined to act the part
of a moral detective in the house which she managed; she saw nothing
which the strictest sense of propriety could condemn.
Early in the evening, Joseph met Lucy Henderson in the hall. He could
not see the graver change in her face; he only noticed that her manner
was not so quietly attractive as usual. Yet on meeting her eyes he felt
the absurd blood rushing to his cheeks and brow, and his tongue
hesitated and stammered. This want of self-possession vexed him; he
could not account for it; and he cut short the interview by moving
abruptly away.
Lucy half turned, and looked after him, with an expression rather of
surprise than of pain. As she did so she felt that there was an eye upon
her, and by a strong effort entered the room without encountering the
face of Elwood Withers.
When the company broke up, Miss Blessing, who was obliged to leave with
the Warriners, found an opportunity to whisper to Joseph: "Come _soon_!"
There was a long, fervent clasp of hands under her shawl, and then the
carriage drove away. He could not see how the hand was transferred to
that of Anna Warriner, which received from it a squeeze conveying an
entire narrative to that young lady's mind.
Joseph's duties to his many guests prevented him from seeing much of
Elwood during the evening; but, when the last were preparing to leave,
he turned to the latter, conscious of a tenderer feeling of friendship
than he had ever before felt, and begged him to stay for the night.
Elwood held up the lantern, with which he had been examining the harness
of a carriage that had just rolled away, and let its light fall upon
Joseph's face.
"Do you really mean it?" he then asked.
"I don't understand you, Elwood."
"Perhaps I don't understand myself." But the next moment he laughed, and
then added, in his usual tone: "Never mind; I'll stay."
They occupied the same room; and neither seemed inclined to sleep. After
the company had been discussed, in a way which both felt to be awkward
and mechanical, Elwood said: "Do you know anything more about love, by
this time?"
Joseph was silent, debating with himself whether he should confide the
wonderful secret. Elwood suddenly rose up in his bed, leaned forward,
and whispered: "I see,—you need not answer. But tell me this one thing:
is it Lucy Henderson?"
"No; O, no!"
"Does she know of it? Your face told some sort of a tale when you met
her to-night."
"Not to her,—surely not to her!" Joseph exclaimed.
"I hope not," Elwood quietly said: "I love her."
With a bound Joseph crossed the room and sat down on the edge of his
friend's bed. "Elwood!" he cried; "and you are happy, too! O, now I can
tell you all,—it is Julia Blessing!"
"Ha! ha!" Elwood laughed,—a short, bitter laugh, which seemed to signify
anything but happiness. "Forgive me, Joseph!" he presently added, "but
there's a deal of difference between a mitten and a ring. You will have
one and I have the other. I did think for a little while that you stood
between Lucy and me; but I suppose disappointment makes men fools."
Something in Joseph's breast seemed to stop the warm flood of his
feelings. He could only stammer, after a long pause: "But I am not in
your way."
"So I see,—and perhaps nobody is, except myself. We won't talk of this
any more; there's many a roundabout road that comes out into the
straight one at last. But you,—I can't understand the thing at all. How
did she—did you come to love her?"
"I don't know; I hardly guessed it until this evening."
"Then, Joseph, go slowly, and feel your way. I'm not the one to advise,
after what has happened to me; but maybe I know a little more of
womankind than you. It's best to have a longer acquaintance than yours
has been; a fellow can't always tell a sudden fancy from a love that has
the grip of death."
"Now I might turn your own words against you, Elwood, for you tried to
tell me what love is."
"I did; and before I knew the half. But come, Joseph: promise me that
you won't let Miss Blessing know how much you feel until—"
"Elwood," Joseph breathlessly interrupted, "she knows it now! We were
together this evening."
Elwood fell back on the pillow with a groan. "I'm a poor friend to you,"
he said: "I want to wish you joy, but I can't,—not to-night. The way
things are fixed in this world stumps me, out and out. Nothing fits as
it ought, and if I didn't take my head in my own hands and hold it
towards the light by main force, I'd only see blackness, and death, and
hell."
Joseph stole back to his bed, and lay there silently. There was a subtle
chill in the heart of his happiness, which all the remembered glow of
that tender scene in the garden could not thaw.
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