in her lover’s last words. And yet they had almost made her tremble. He
had been so bold, and stern, and confident. He had seemed so utterly to
defy the impregnable discretion of Mr. Beckard, so to despise the
demure propriety of Hetta. But of this she felt sure, when she came to
question her heart, that she could never, never, never cease to love him
better than all the world beside. She would wait--patiently if she could
find patience--and then, if he deserted her, she would die.
In another month Hetta became Mrs. Beckard. Susan brisked up a little
for the occasion, and looked very pretty as bridesmaid. She was
serviceable too in arranging household matters, hemming linen and sewing
table-cloths; though of course in these matters she did not do a tenth
of what Hetta did.
Then the summer came, the Saratoga summer of July, August, and
September, during which the widow’s house was full; and Susan’s hands
saved the pain of her heart, for she was forced into occupation. Now
that Hetta was gone to her own duties, it was necessary that Susan’s
part in the household should be more prominent.
Aaron did not come back to his work at Saratoga. Why he did not they
could not then learn. During the whole long summer they heard not a word
of him nor from him; and then when the cold winter months came and their
boarders had left them, Mrs. Beckard congratulated her sister in that
she had given no further encouragement to a lover who cared so little
for her. This was very hard to bear. But Susan did bear it.
That winter was very sad. They learned nothing of Aaron Dunn till about
January; and then they heard that he was doing very well. He was engaged
on the Erie trunk line, was paid highly, and was much esteemed. And yet
he neither came nor sent! “He has an excellent situation,” their
informant told them. “And a permanent one?” asked the widow. “Oh, yes,
no doubt,” said the gentleman, “for I happen to know that they count
greatly on him.” And yet he sent no word of love.
After that the winter became very sad indeed. Mrs. Bell thought it to be
her duty now to teach her daughter that in all probability she would see
Aaron Dunn no more. It was open to him to leave her without being
absolutely a wolf. He had been driven from the house when he was poor,
and they had no right to expect that he would return, now that he had
made some rise in the world. “Men do amuse themselves in that way,” the
widow tried to teach her.
“He is not like that, mother,” she said again.
“But they do not think so much of these things as we do,” urged the
mother.
“Don’t they?” said Susan, oh, so sorrowfully; and so through the whole
long winter months she became paler and paler, and thinner and thinner.
And then Hetta tried to console her with religion, and that perhaps did
not make things any better. Religious consolation is the best cure for
all griefs; but it must not be looked for specially with regard to any
individual sorrow. A religious man, should he become bankrupt through
the misfortunes of the world, will find true consolation in his religion
even for that sorrow. But a bankrupt, who has not thought much of such
things, will hardly find solace by taking up religion for that special
occasion.
And Hetta perhaps was hardly prudent in her attempts. She thought that
it was wicked in Susan to grow thin and pale for love of Aaron Dunn, and
she hardly hid her thoughts. Susan was not sure but that it might be
wicked, but this doubt in no way tended to make her plump or rosy. So
that in those days she found no comfort in her sister.
But her mother’s pity and soft love did ease her sufferings, though it
could not make them cease. Her mother did not tell her that she was
wicked, or bid her read long sermons, or force her to go oftener to the
meeting-house.
“He will never come again, I think,” she said one day, as with a shawl
wrapped around her shoulders, she leant with her head upon her mother’s
bosom.
“My own darling,” said the mother, pressing her child closely to her
side.
“You think he never will, eh, mother?” What could Mrs. Bell say? In her
heart of hearts she did not think he ever would come again.
“No, my child. I do not think he will.” And then the hot tears ran down,
and the sobs came thick and frequent.
“My darling, my darling!” exclaimed the mother; and they wept together.
“Was I wicked to love him at the first,” she asked that night.
“No, my child; you were not wicked at all. At least I think not.”
“Then why----” Why was he sent away? It was on her tongue to ask that
question; but she paused and spared her mother. This was as they were
going to bed. The next morning Susan did not get up. She was not ill,
she said; but weak and weary. Would her mother let her lie that day? And
then Mrs. Bell went down alone to her room, and sorrowed with all her
heart for the sorrow of her child. Why, oh why, had she driven away from
her door-sill the love of an honest man?
On the next morning Susan again did not get up;--nor did she hear, or if
she heard she did not recognise, the step of the postman who brought a
letter to the door. Early, before the widow’s breakfast, the postman
came, and the letter which he brought was as follows:--
“MY DEAR MRS. BELL,
“I have now got a permanent situation on the Erie line, and the
salary is enough for myself and a wife. At least I think so, and I
hope you will too. I shall be down at Saratoga to-morrow evening,
and I hope neither Susan, nor you will refuse to receive me.
“Yours affectionately,
“AARON DUNN.”
That was all. It was very short, and did not contain one word of love;
but it made the widow’s heart leap for joy. She was rather afraid that
Aaron was angry, he wrote so curtly and with such a brusque
business-like attention to mere facts; but surely he could have but one
object in coming there. And then he alluded specially to a wife. So the
widow’s heart leapt with joy.
But how was she to tell Susan? She ran up stairs almost breathless with
haste, to the bedroom door; but then she stopped; too much joy she had
heard was as dangerous as too much sorrow; she must think it over for a
while, and so she crept back again.
But after breakfast--that is, when she had sat for a while over her
teacup--she returned to the room, and this time she entered it. The
letter was in her hand, but held so as to be hidden;--in her left hand
as she sat down with her right arm towards the invalid.
“Susan dear,” she said, and smiled at her child, “you’ll be able to get
up this morning? eh, dear?”
“Yes, mother,” said Susan, thinking that her mother objected to this
idleness of her lying in bed. And so she began to bestir herself.
“I don’t mean this very moment, love. Indeed, I want to sit with you for
a little while,” and she put her right arm affectionately round her
daughter’s waist.
“Dearest mother,” said Susan.
“Ah! there’s one dearer than me, I guess,” and Mrs. Bell smiled sweetly,
as she made the maternal charge against her daughter.
Susan raised herself quickly in the bed, and looked straight into her
mother’s face. “Mother, mother,” she said, “what is it? You’ve something
to tell. Oh, mother!” And stretching herself over, she struck her hand
against the corner of Aaron’s letter. “Mother, you’ve a letter. Is he
coming, mother?” and with eager eyes and open lips, she sat up, holding
tight to her mother’s arm.
“Yes, love. I have got a letter.”
“Is he--is he coming?”
How the mother answered, I can hardly tell; but she did answer, and they
were soon lying in each other’s arms, warm with each other’s tears. It
was almost hard to say which was the happier.
Aaron was to be there that evening--that very evening. “Oh, mother, let
me get up,” said Susan.
But Mrs. Bell said no, not yet; her darling was pale and thin, and she
almost wished that Aaron was not coming for another week. What if he
should come and look at her, and finding her beauty gone, vanish again
and seek a wife elsewhere!
So Susan lay in bed, thinking of her happiness, dozing now and again,
and fearing as she waked that it was a dream, looking constantly at that
drawing of his, which she kept outside upon the bed, nursing her love
and thinking of it, and endeavouring, vainly endeavouring, to arrange
what she would say to him.
“Mother,” she said, when Mrs. Bell once went up to her, “you won’t tell
Hetta and Phineas, will you? Not to-day, I mean?” Mrs. Bell agreed that
it would be better not to tell them. Perhaps she thought that she had
already depended too much on Hetta and Phineas in the matter.
Susan’s finery in the way of dress had never been extensive, and now
lately, in these last sad winter days, she had thought but little of the
fashion of her clothes. But when she began to dress herself for the
evening, she did ask her mother with some anxiety what she had better
wear. “If he loves you he will hardly see what you have on,” said the
mother. But not the less was she careful to smooth her daughter’s hair,
and make the most that might be made of those faded roses.
How Susan’s heart beat,--how both their hearts beat as the hands of the
clock came round to seven! And then, sharp at seven, came the knock;
that same short bold ringing knock which Susan had so soon learned to
know as belonging to Aaron Dunn. “Oh mother, I had better go up stairs,”
she cried, starting from her chair.
“No dear; you would only be more nervous.”
“I will, mother.”
“No, no, dear; you have not time;” and then Aaron Dunn was in the room.
She had thought much what she would say to him, but had not yet quite
made up her mind. It mattered however but very little. On whatever she
might have resolved, her resolution would have vanished to the wind.
Aaron Dunn came into the room, and in one second she found herself in
the centre of a whirlwind, and his arms were the storms that enveloped
her on every side.
“My own, own darling girl,” he said over and over again, as he pressed
her to his heart, quite regardless of Mrs. Bell, who stood by, sobbing
with joy. “My own Susan.”
“Aaron, dear Aaron,” she whispered. But she had already recognised the
fact that for the present meeting a passive part would become her well,
and save her a deal of trouble. She had her lover there quite safe, safe
beyond anything that Mr. or Mrs. Beckard might have to say to the
contrary. She was quite happy; only that there were symptoms now and
again that the whirlwind was about to engulf her yet once more.
“Dear Aaron, I am so glad you are come,” said the innocent-minded widow,
as she went up stairs with him, to show him his room; and then he
embraced her also. “Dear, dear mother,” he said.
On the next day there was, as a matter of course, a family conclave.
Hetta and Phineas came down, and discussed the whole subject of the
coming marriage with Mrs. Bell. Hetta at first was not quite
certain;--ought they not to inquire whether the situation was permanent?
“I won’t inquire at all,” said Mrs. Bell, with an energy that startled
both the daughter and son-in-law. “I would not part them now; no, not
if----” and the widow shuddered as she thought of her daughter’s sunken
eyes, and pale cheeks.
“He is a good lad,” said Phineas, “and I trust she will make him a sober
steady wife;” and so the matter was settled.
During this time, Susan and Aaron were walking along the Balston road;
and they also had settled the matter--quite as satisfactorily.
Such was the courtship of Susan Dunn.
RELICS OF GENERAL CHASSÉ.
A TALE OF ANTWERP.
That Belgium is now one of the European kingdoms, living by its own
laws, resting on its own bottom, with a king and court, palaces and
parliament of its own, is known to all the world. And a very nice little
kingdom it is; full of old towns, fine Flemish pictures, and interesting
Gothic churches. But in the memory of very many of us who do not think
ourselves old men, Belgium, as it is now called--in those days it used
to be Flanders and Brabant--was a part of Holland; and it obtained its
own independence by a revolution. In that revolution the most important
military step was the siege of Antwerp, which was defended on the part
of the Dutch by General Chassé, with the utmost gallantry, but
nevertheless ineffectually.
After the siege Antwerp became quite a show place; and among the
visitors who flocked there to talk of the gallant general, and to see
what remained of the great effort which he had made to defend the place,
were two Englishmen. One was the hero of this little history; and the
other was a young man of considerably less weight in the world. The less
I say of the latter the better; but it is necessary that I should give
some description of the former.
The Rev. Augustus Horne was, at the time of my narrative, a beneficed
clergyman of the Church of England. The profession which he had graced
sat easily on him. Its external marks and signs were as pleasing to his
friends as were its internal comforts to himself. He was a man of much
quiet mirth, full of polished wit, and on some rare occasions he could
descend to the more noisy hilarity of a joke. Loved by his friends he
loved all the world. He had known no care and seen no sorrow. Always
intended for holy orders he had entered them without a scruple, and
remained within their pale without a regret. At twenty-four he had been
a deacon, at twenty-seven a priest, at thirty a rector, and at
thirty-five a prebendary; and as his rectory was rich and his prebendal
stall well paid, the Rev. Augustus Horne was called by all, and called
himself, a happy man. His stature was about six feet two, and his
corpulence exceeded even those bounds which symmetry would have
preferred as being most perfectly compatible even with such a height.
But nevertheless Mr. Horne was a well-made man; his hands and feet were
small; his face was handsome, frank, and full of expression; his bright
eyes twinkled with humour; his finely-cut mouth disclosed two marvellous
rows of well-preserved ivory; and his slightly aquiline nose was just
such a projection as one would wish to see on the face of a well-fed
good-natured dignitary of the Church of England. When I add to all this
that the reverend gentleman was as generous as he was rich--and the kind
mother in whose arms he had been nurtured had taken care that he should
never want--I need hardly say that I was blessed with a very pleasant
travelling companion.
I must mention one more interesting particular. Mr. Horne was rather
inclined to dandyism, in an innocent way. His clerical starched
neckcloth was always of the whitest, his cambric handkerchief of the
finest, his bands adorned with the broadest border; his sable suit never
degenerated to a rusty brown; it not only gave on all occasions glossy
evidence of freshness, but also of the talent which the artisan had
displayed in turning out a well-dressed clergyman of the Church of
England. His hair was ever brushed with scrupulous attention, and showed
in its regular waves the guardian care of each separate bristle. And all
this was done with that ease and grace which should be the
characteristics of a dignitary of the established English Church.
I had accompanied Mr. Horne to the Rhine; and we had reached Brussels on
our return, just at the close of that revolution which ended in
affording a throne to the son-in-law of George the Fourth. At that
moment General Chassé’s name and fame were in every man’s mouth, and,
like other curious admirers of the brave, Mr. Horne determined to devote
two days to the scene of the late events at Antwerp. Antwerp, moreover,
possesses perhaps the finest spire, and certainly one of the three or
four finest pictures, in the world. Of General Chassé, of the cathedral,
and of the Rubens, I had heard much, and was therefore well pleased that
such should be his resolution. This accomplished we were to return to
Brussels; and thence, viâ Ghent, Ostend, and Dover, I to complete my
legal studies in London, and Mr. Horne to enjoy once more the peaceful
retirement of Ollerton rectory. As we were to be absent from Brussels
but one night we were enabled to indulge in the gratification of
travelling without our luggage. A small sac-de-nuit was prepared;
brushes, combs, razors, strops, a change of linen, &c. &c., were
carefully put up; but our heavy baggage, our coats, waistcoats, and
other wearing apparel were unnecessary. It was delightful to feel
oneself so light-handed. The reverend gentleman, with my humble self by
his side, left the portal of the Hôtel de Belle Vue at 7 A.M., in good
humour with all the world. There were no railroads in those days; but a
cabriolet, big enough to hold six persons, with rope traces and
corresponding appendages, deposited us at the Golden Fleece in something
less than six hours. The inward man was duly fortified, and we started
for the castle.
It boots not here to describe the effects which gunpowder and grape-shot
had had on the walls of Antwerp. Let the curious in these matters read
the horrors of the siege of Troy, or the history of Jerusalem taken by
Titus. The one may be found in Homer, and the other in Josephus. Or if
they prefer doings of a later date there is the taking of Sebastopol, as
narrated in the columns of the “Times” newspaper. The accounts are
equally true, instructive, and intelligible. In the mean time allow the
Rev. Augustus Horne and myself to enter the private chambers of the
renowned though defeated general.
We rambled for a while through the covered way, over the glacis and
along the counterscarp, and listened to the guide as he detailed to us,
in already accustomed words, how the siege had gone. Then we got into
the private apartments of the general, and, having dexterously shaken
off our attendant, wandered at large among the deserted rooms.
“It is clear that no one ever comes here,” said I.
“No,” said the Rev. Augustus; “it seems not; and to tell the truth, I
don’t know why any one should come. The chambers in themselves are not
attractive.”
What he said was true. They were plain, ugly, square, unfurnished rooms,
here a big one, and there a little one, as is usual in most
houses;--unfurnished, that is, for the most part. In one place we did
find a table and a few chairs, in another a bedstead, and so on. But to
me it was pleasant to indulge in those ruminations which any traces of
the great or unfortunate create in softly sympathising minds. For a time
we communicated our thoughts to each other as we roamed free as air
through the apartments; and then I lingered for a few moments behind,
while Mr. Horne moved on with a quicker step.
At last I entered the bedchamber of the general, and there I overtook my
friend. He was inspecting, with much attention, an article of the great
man’s wardrobe which he held in his hand. It was precisely that virile
habiliment to which a well-known gallant captain alludes in his
conversation with the posthumous appearance of Miss Bailey, as
containing a Bank of England £5 note.
“The general must have been a large man, George, or he would hardly have
filled these,” said Mr. Horne, holding up to the light the respectable
leathern articles in question. “He must have been a very large man,--the
largest man in Antwerp, I should think; or else his tailor has done him
more than justice.”
They were certainly large, and had about them a charming regimental
military appearance. They were made of white leather, with bright metal
buttons at the knees and bright metal buttons at the top. They owned no
pockets, and were, with the exception of the legitimate outlet,
continuous in the circumference of the waistband. No dangling strings
gave them an appearance of senile imbecility. Were it not for a certain
rigidity, sternness, and mental inflexibility,--we will call it military
ardour,--with which they were imbued, they would have created envy in
the bosom of a fox-hunter.
Mr. Horne was no fox-hunter, but still he seemed to be irresistibly
taken with the lady-like propensity of wishing to wear them. “Surely,
George,” he said, “the general must have been a stouter man than I
am”--and he contemplated his own proportions with complacency--“these
what’s-the-names are quite big enough for me.”
I differed in opinion, and was obliged to explain that I thought he did
the good living of Ollerton insufficient justice.
“I am sure they are large enough for me,” he repeated, with considerable
obstinacy. I smiled incredulously; and then to settle the matter he
resolved that he would try them on. Nobody had been in these rooms for
the last hour, and it appeared as though they were never visited. Even
the guide had not come on with us, but was employed in showing other
parties about the fortifications. It was clear that this portion of the
building was left desolate, and that the experiment might be safely
made. So the sportive rector declared that he would for a short time
wear the regimentals which had once contained the valorous heart of
General Chassé.
With all decorum the Rev. Mr. Horne divested himself of the work of the
London artist’s needle, and, carefully placing his own garments beyond
the reach of dust, essayed to fit himself in military garb.
At that important moment--at the critical instant of the attempt--the
clatter of female voices was heard approaching the chamber. They must
have suddenly come round some passage corner, for it was evident by the
sound that they were close upon us before we had any warning of their
advent. At this very minute Mr. Horne was somewhat embarrassed in his
attempts, and was not fully in possession of his usual active powers of
movement, nor of his usual presence of mind. He only looked for escape;
and seeing a door partly open, he with difficulty retreated through it,
and I followed him. We found that we were in a small dressing-room; and
as by good luck the door was defended by an inner bolt, my friend was
able to protect himself.
“There shall be another siege, at any rate as stout as the last, before
I surrender,” said he.
As the ladies seemed inclined to linger in the room it became a matter
of importance that the above-named articles should fit, not only for
ornament but for use. It was very cold, and Mr. Horne was altogether
unused to move in a Highland sphere of life. But alas, alas! General
Chassé had not been nurtured in the classical retirement of Ollerton.
The ungiving leather would stretch no point to accommodate the divine,
though it had been willing to minister to the convenience of the
soldier. Mr. Horne was vexed and chilled; and throwing the now hateful
garments into a corner, and protecting himself from the cold as best he
might by standing with his knees together and his body somewhat bent so
as to give the skirts of his coat an opportunity of doing extra duty, he
begged me to see if those jabbering females were not going to leave him
in peace to recover his own property. I accordingly went to the door,
and opening it to a small extent I peeped through.
Who shall describe my horror at the sight which I then saw? The scene,
which had hitherto been tinted with comic effect, was now becoming so
decidedly tragic that I did not dare at once to acquaint my worthy
pastor with that which was occurring,--and, alas! had already occurred.
Five country-women of our own--it was easy to know them by their dress
and general aspect--were standing in the middle of the room; and one of
them, the centre of the group, the senior harpy of the lot, a maiden
lady--I could have sworn to that--with a red nose, held in one hand a
huge pair of scissors, and in the other--the already devoted goods of my
most unfortunate companion! Down from the waistband, through that goodly
expanse, a fell gash had already gone through and through; and in
useless, unbecoming disorder the broadcloth fell pendant from her arm on
this side and on that. At that moment I confess that I had not the
courage to speak to Mr. Horne,--not even to look at him.
I must describe that group. Of the figure next to me I could only see
the back. It was a broad back done up in black silk not of the newest.
The whole figure, one may say, was dumpy. The black silk was not long,
as dresses now are worn, nor wide in its skirts. In every way it was
skimpy, considering the breadth it had to cover; and below the silk I
saw the heels of two thick shoes, and enough to swear by of two woollen
stockings. Above the silk was a red and blue shawl; and above that a
ponderous, elaborate brown bonnet, as to the materials of which I should
not wish to undergo an examination. Over and beyond this I could only
see the backs of her two hands. They were held up as though in wonder at
that which the red-nosed holder of the scissors had dared to do.