"I shouldn't wonder a mite," went on Jane, with increasing animation,
"I shouldn't wonder a single mite if you should git a husband, after
all!"
Thirza's pale face flushed, and she made an involuntary gesture of
impatience with one shoulder.
"Oh, ye needn't twist around so," said the undaunted spinster, dryly.
"Ye ain't no chicken, laws knows, but ye needn't give up all hopes.
Ye're twenty-five if ye're a day, but that ain't nothin' when a woman's
got a farm worth three thousand dollars."
Three thousand dollars! For the first time her inheritance assumed
its monetary value before Thirza's eyes. Hitherto she had regarded it
merely as an indefinite extent of pastures, woods, and swamps--but
three thousand dollars! It sounded like a deal of money to her, who
had never owned a hundred dollars at one time in her life, and her
imagination immediately wandered off into fascinating vistas, which
Jane's prosaic words had thrown open before her. She heard, as in a
dream, the nasal, incisive voice as it went on with the catalogue of
her possessions.
"Yes, it's worth three thousand dollars, if it's worth a cent! I heerd
Squire Brooks a-tellin' Orthaniel Stebbins so at the funeral. An' then,
here's the house. There ain't no comfortabler one on Joneses' Hill, nor
one that has more good furnitoor an' fixin's in it. Then there's Aunt
Abigail's clo'es an' things. Why, ter my _sartain_ knowledge there's
no less'n five real good dresses a-hangin' in the fore-chamber closet,
ter say nothin' of the bureau full of under-clo'es an' beddin'." Jane
did not think it necessary to explain by what means this "sartain
knowledge" had been achieved, but continued: "There's a silk warp
alpacky now, a-hangin' up there, why--it's e'en-a-most as good as new!
The creases ain't out on't." (Unsophisticated Jane! not to know that
the creases never _do_ go out of alpaca.) "I don't see what in the
name o' sense ye're a-goin' ter dew with all them dresses. It'll take
ye a life-time ter wear 'em out. If _I_ hed that silk warp alpacky
now,"--she continued musingly, yet raising her voice so suddenly that
Thirza started; "if _I_ hed that are dress, I should take out two of
the back breadths for an over-skirt--yes--an' _gore_ the others!" This
climax was delivered in triumphant tone. Then lowering her voice she
continued, reflectively: "Aunt Abigail was jest about my build."
Thirza caught the import of the last words.
"Jane," said she, languidly, with an undertone of impatience in her
voice (it was hard to be recalled from her pleasant wanderings by a
silk warp alpaca!), "Jane, you can have it."
"Wh--what d'ye say?" inquired Jane, incredulously.
"I said you could have that dress; I don't want it," repeated Thirza.
Jane sat a moment in silence before she trusted herself to speak. Her
heart was beating with delight, but she would not allow the smallest
evidence of joy or gratitude to escape in word or look.
"Wall," she remarked, coolly, after a fitting pause, "ef you haint got
no use for it, I might take it, I s'pose. Not that I'm put tew it for
clo'es, but I allers did think a sight of Aunt Abigail----"
Her remarks were interrupted by an exclamation from Thirza. The
front gate opened with a squeak and closed with a rattle and bang,
and the tall form of Orthaniel Stebbins was seen coming up the path.
Orthaniel was a mature youth of thirty. For length and leanness of
body, prominence of elbow and knee joints, size and knobbiness of
extremities, and vacuity of expression, Orthaniel would have been hard
to match. He was attired in a well-preserved black cloth suit, with
all the usual accessories of a rustic toilet. His garments seemed to
have been designed by his tailor for the utmost possible display of
the joints above mentioned, and would have suggested the human form
with equal clearness, if buttoned around one of the sprawling stumps
which were so prominent a feature in the surrounding landscape. On
this particular occasion there was an air of importance, almost of
solemnity, about his person, which, added to a complacent simper, born
of a sense of the delicate nature of his present errand, produced in
his usually blank countenance something almost amounting to expression.
At first sight of this not unfamiliar apparition, Thirza had
incontinently fled, but Jane received the visitor with becoming
impressiveness.
"Good-evenin', Mr. Stebbins. Walk right into the fore-room," she
remarked, throwing open the door of that apartment of state.
"No need o' puttin' yourself out, marm; the settin'-room's good enough
for me," graciously responded the gentleman.
"Walk right in," repeated Jane, throwing open one shutter, and letting
in a dim light upon the scene--a veritable chamber of horrors, with its
hideous carpet, hair-cloth chairs and sofa, the nameless abominations
on its walls, and its general air of protest against the spirit of
beauty and all that goes to make up human comfort.
Mr. Stebbins paused on the threshold. There was something unusually
repellent about the room, a lingering funereal atmosphere, which
reached even his dull senses. He would have infinitely preferred the
sitting-room; but a latent sense of something in his errand which
required the utmost dignity in his surroundings prevailed, and he
therefore entered and seated himself on one of the prickly chairs,
which creaked expostulatingly beneath him.
"I--ahem! Is Miss Bradford in?"
This question was, of course, a mere form,--a _ruse de guerre_, as
it were,--and Mr. Stebbins chuckled inwardly over his remarkable
diplomacy. He had seen Thirza at the window, and witnessed her sudden
flight; but, so far from feeling affronted by the act, it had rather
pleased him. It indicated maiden shyness, and he accepted it as a
flattering tribute to his powers of fascination. "She's gone to fix up
her hair, or somethin'," he reflected.
When Jane came to summon her, she found Thirza sitting by the window of
the fore-chamber, gazing thoughtfully out into the twilight again.
"Thirzy!" whispered the spinster, as mysteriously as if Mr. Stebbins
was within possible earshot, "Orthaniel Stebbins wants ter see yer. Go
right down!"
"Jane, I--sha'n't!" answered Thirza, shortly.
Jane started, and opened her small gray eyes their very widest.
"Wh-at?" she stammered.
"I mean I don't want to go down," said Thirza, more politely. "I don't
wish to see him."
"Wall, if that don't beat the master!" exclaimed Jane, coming nearer.
"Why, he's got on his Sunday clo'es! 'S likely 's not he's a-goin' ter
propose ter ye!"
"You had better send him away, then," said Thirza.
"Ye don't mean to say ye wouldn't hev him!" gasped Jane, with a look of
incredulous amazement which, catching Thirza's eye, caused her to burst
into a laugh.
"I suppose I must go down," she said at last, rising. "If I don't, I
shall have all Jones' Hill down upon me. Oh dear!"
Mr. Stebbins would have been surprised to see that she passed the
mirror without even one glance.
"Hadn't ye better take off yer apron, an' put on a pink bow, or
somethin'?" suggested Jane; "ye look real plain."
Thirza did not deign to reply, but walked indifferently away.
"Wall!" ejaculated the bewildered spinster, "I hope I may never!" And
then, being a person who believed in improving one's opportunities,
she proceeded at once to a careful re-examination of the "silk-warp
alpacky," which hung in straight, solemn folds from a nail in the
closet; it had hung precisely the same upon Aunt Abigail's lathy form.
Thirza went into the gloomy fore-room. It struck a chill to her heart,
and she went straight past Mr. Stebbins, with merely a nod and a
"good-evening," and threw open another shutter, before seating herself
so far from him, and in such a position, that he could only see her
face by an extraordinary muscular feat. Mr. Stebbins felt that his
reception was not an encouraging one. He hemmed and hawed, and at last
managed to utter:
"Pleasant evenin', Miss Bradford."
"Very," responded Thirza. It was particularly cold and disagreeable
outside, even for a New England April.
"I guess we kin begin plantin' by next week," continued the gentleman.
"Do you really think so?" responded Thirza, in an absent sort of way.
It was not much; but it was a question, and in so far helped on the
conversation. Mr. Stebbins was re-assured.
"Yes," he resumed, in an animated manner, "I actooally dew! Ye see,
Miss Bradford, ye haint said nothin' tew me about the farm, so I
thought I'd come 'roun' an' find out what yer plans is."
"I haven't made any," said Thirza, as he paused.
"Oh--ye haint? Well, ye know I've been a-workin' on't on shares fur
yer aunt Abigail, goin' on five year, an' I'm ready ter dew the same
fur _you_; that is----" and here Mr. Stebbins hitched a little nearer,
while a smile, which displayed not only all his teeth, but no little
gum as well, spread itself over his bucolic features, "that is, if we
can't make no other arrangements more pleasin'."
There was no mistaking his intentions now; they spoke from every
feature of his shrewdly smiling countenance, from his agitated knees
and elbows, and from the uneasy hands and feet which seemed struggling
to detach themselves from their lank continuations and abscond then and
there.
Thirza looked her wooer calmly in the face. Her imperturbability
embarrassed but did not dishearten him.
"Thar ain't no use in foolin' round the stump!" he continued. "I
might jest as well come out with it, plain an' squar! I'm ready an'
willin' to take the _hull_ farm off yer hands if you're agreeable. You
jest marry me, Thirzy, an' that settles the hull question slick as a
whistle!" and Mr. Stebbins settled back in his chair with a look as if
he had just elucidated a long-mooted problem in social science.
Thirza rose: there was a little red spot on each cheek, and an unwonted
sparkle in her soft eyes; but her manner was otherwise unruffled as she
answered:
"You are really very kind, Mr. Stebbins, but I think I shall find some
other way out of the dilemma. I couldn't think of troubling _you_."
"Oh----" he stammered, "'tain't--no trouble--at all!"
But Thirza was gone.
For a moment Mr. Stebbins doubted his identity. He stared blankly
at the open door awhile, and then his eyes wandered vacantly over
the carpet and wall, finally coming to rest upon the toes of his
substantial boots. He sat for some time thus, repeating Thirza's words
as nearly as he could recall them, endeavoring to extract the pith
of meaning from the surrounding fibres of polite language. Had she
actually refused him? Mr. Stebbins, by a long and circuitous mental
process, arrived at length at the conclusion that she _had_, and
accordingly rose, walked out of the front door and down the narrow
path, in a state of mind best known to rejected suitors. As he closed
the gate he cast one sheepish look toward the house.
"I'll be darned!" he muttered, "I'll be darned if I hain't got
the mitten!" and, discomfited and sore, the Adonis of Jones' Hill
disappeared in the evening shadows.
Jane was watching his departure from behind the curtain of the
sitting-room window. In all probability her gentle bosom had never been
the scene of such a struggle as was now going on beneath the chaste
folds of her striped calico gown. She could not doubt the object of Mr.
Stebbins's visit, nor its obvious result. Astonishment, incredulity,
curiosity, in turn possessed her.
"Waal!" she soliloquized, as the curtain fell from her trembling
fingers, "the way some folks fly in the face of Providence doos beat
the master!"
Thirza, too, had observed her suitor as he strode away, with an
expression of scorn upon her face which finally gave way to one of
amusement, ending in a laugh--a curious hysterical laugh. A moment
later she had thrown herself upon the bed, and Jane, who in a state of
curiosity bordering on asphyxia, came up to the door soon after, heard
a sound of sobbing, and considerately went away.
Thirza had her cry out; every woman knows what that means, and knows,
too, the mingled sense of relief and exhaustion which follows. It was
fully an hour later when she arose and groped her way down into the
sitting-room where Jane sat knitting zealously by the light of a small
lamp. That person's internal struggles commenced afresh, and a feeling
of indignation quite comprehensible burnt in her much-vexed bosom as
Thirza, after lighting another lamp, bade her "good-night," and went
out of the room, leaving her cravings for fuller information unassuaged.
Once more in her room, Thirza seated herself before the glass and began
to loosen the heavy dark braids of her hair. Upon the bureau lay an
open letter, and leaving the soft tresses half undone, she took it up
and re-read it. When she had finished she let it fall upon her lap
and fell to thinking. The letter was from her cousin Sue, and bore a
foreign post-mark, and from thinking over its contents Thirza fell into
reflections upon the diversity of human fate, particularly her own and
Sue's. They had commenced life under very similar circumstances. Both
had been born about the same time, and in the town of Millburn. Both
were "only" children, the fathers of both were mechanics of the better
class, and the girls were closely associated up to their fourteenth
year, as play-fellows and school-mates. Sue was an ordinary sort of
a girl, with a rather pretty blonde face; Thirza, a bright, original
creature, with a mobile, dark face, which almost every one turned to
take a second look at; a girl who, with a book, almost any book, became
oblivious of all else. Her father was a man of more than ordinary
intelligence, of a dreamy, speculative turn of mind, and subject to
periods of intense depression. When she was about fourteen years old,
Thirza went one evening to the barn to call her father to supper.
Receiving no answer to her call, she entered, and there, in a dim
corner, she saw _something_ suspended from a beam,--something she could
never efface from her memory. A shaft of sunlight full of dancing motes
fell athwart the distorted face, whose smile she must now forever miss,
and across the rigid hands which would never again stroke her hair
in the old fond, proud way. In that moment the child became a woman.
She went to the nearest neighbor, and without scream or sob told what
she had seen--then she went to her mother. Soon after, the young girl
whose school-life was thus early ended took her place at a loom in one
of the great cotton-mills, and there she remained for more than ten
years, the sole support and comfort of her weak, complaining mother,
who from the dreadful day that made her a widow, sank into hopeless
invalidism. One year previously to the commencement of this story she
had been laid to rest. In the meantime Sue had grown up, and married a
"smart fellow," who after a few years of successful business life in
New York, had been sent by some great firm to take charge of a branch
establishment in Paris.
Thirza was thinking of these things now, as she sat with Sue's gossipy
letter on her lap--thinking of them wearily, and even with some
bitterness. It seemed to her hard and strange that Sue should have
everything, and she only her lonely, toilsome life, and her dreams.
These indeed remained; no one could forbid them to her--no amount of
toil and constant contact with sordid natures could despoil her of her
one priceless treasure, the power to live, in imagination, brief but
exquisite phases of existence which no one around her ever suspected.
Books furnished the innocent hasheesh, which transported her out of the
stale atmosphere of her boarding-house into realms of ever new delight.
But to-night she could not dream. The interview with Mr. Stebbins had
been a rude shock, a bitter humiliation to her. She had held herself
so proudly aloof from the men of her acquaintance that none had ever
before ventured to cross the fine line of reserve she had drawn about
her; and now, this uncouth, mercenary clown had dared pull down the
barrier, and trample under foot the delicate flowers of sentiment she
had cherished with such secrecy and care. Her first wooer! Not thus, in
the idle dreams which come to every maiden's heart, had Thirza pictured
him. That other rose before her now, and strangely enough, it took on
the semblance, as it often had of late, of one she had almost daily
seen--a handsome face, a true and good one, too; and yet the hot blood
surged into her cheeks, and she tried to banish the image from her
mind. It would not go at her bidding, however, and, as if to hide from
her own eyes in the darkness, Thirza arose and put out the light.
There was no time for dreaming after this, for the question of her
inheritance must be settled. So, after a day or two of reflection,
Thirza drove into town and held a long consultation with Squire Brooks,
the result of which was that the farm was announced for sale. It was
not long before a purchaser appeared, and in due course of time Thirza
found herself, for the first time in her life, in possession of a
bank-book!
She returned to her place in the mill, notwithstanding, and was
secretly edified in observing the effect which her re-appearance
produced upon the operatives. The women watched her askance, curiously
and enviously, indulging in furtive remarks upon her unchanged
appearance. As an heiress something had evidently been expected of
her in the way of increased elegance in dress, and its non-appearance
excited comment. On the part of the men there was a slight increase
of respect in their mode of salutation, and in one or two instances,
an endeavor to cultivate a nearer acquaintance, an endeavor, it is
needless to say, without success.
But if there was no outer change in Thirza, there was an inner change
going on, which became at length a feverish restlessness, which
disturbed her night and day. She found herself continually taking down
from her shelves certain fascinating books, treating of foreign scenes
and people; reading and re-reading them, and laying them aside with
strange reluctance. Then she fell into a habit of taking her little
bank-book, and figuring assiduously upon the covers. Three thousand
dollars! Enough, she bitterly reflected, to keep her from the almshouse
when her hands became too feeble to tend the loom, but a paltry sum,
after all! Many persons, even in Millburn, spent far more than that
yearly.
All at once a thought flashed upon her, a thought which took away her
breath and set her brain to whirling. And yet it was not an absolutely
new thought. It had haunted her under various disguises from the
moment when Jane Withers, by a few words, had transmuted the barren
pastures and piney woods of her farm into actual dollars; and now,
after hovering about all this time, it had found a moment,--when some
fascinating book had thrown her off her guard,--to spring upon and
overpower her. For a moment she was stunned and overwhelmed--then she
calmly closed the little bank-book, and said: "I will do it!"
In one week the whole town knew that Thirza Bradford was going to
travel, and all former discussions of her affairs sank into nothing
in comparison with the importance they now assumed. Among her
immediate acquaintances there was considerable excitement, and their
opinions were freely, if not elegantly, expressed. The men, almost
without exception, pronounced her "a fool," as did the elder women,
whose illusions, if they had ever entertained any, had long since
been dispelled. But among the younger women there was a more or
less repressed feeling of sympathy, amounting to envy. Poor girls!
they, too, no doubt, indulged in secret longings which their prosaic
work-a-day world failed to satisfy; and doubtless those who had
themselves "aunt Abigails," or any other "expectations" of a like
nature, were led into wild and wicked speculations upon the tenure
of human life, for which, it is to be hoped, Thirza will not be held
accountable.
It is the fashion of the day to ascribe our more objectionable
peculiarities and predilections to "hereditary taint," and there is
something so comforting and satisfactory in this theory, that it has
attracted many adherents not otherwise of a scientific turn of mind.
Millburn was not scientific; but even Millburn fell into the same way
of theorizing.
"Bill Bradford," said public opinion, "was an oneasy sort of a chap,--a
half crazy, extravagant critter,--and Thirzy is a chip o' the old
block."
When the news reached Jones' Hill,--which it shortly did by the
never-failing means of Jane Withers, who was accommodatingly helping
Orthaniel's mother through a course of "soap-bilin',"--the comments
were severe. Orthaniel received the tidings as he was about starting
for the cow-yard, with a milk-pail in each hand. He listened, with
fallen jaw, unto the bitter end. Then, giving his blue overalls an
expressive hitch, he remarked ungallantly:
"That gal hain't got no more sense 'n a yaller dog!"--and he, at least,
may be pardoned for so thinking.
As for Thirza, her decision once made, she troubled herself little
about the "speech of people." From the moment when she had closed
her little bank-book with the words "I will do it," she became, not
another woman, but her real self. She went serenely about her simple
preparations for her departure in a state of quiet exultation which
lent a new charm to her dark face and a new grace to her step.
Squire Brooks arranged her money affairs for her,--not without
remonstrance, however. It seemed to the close-fisted, elderly man
a wild and wanton thing to do; but there was something in the
half-repressed enthusiasm of the girl which caused the wise, prudential
words to die upon his lips. When she left his office, on the evening
before her departure, he watched the light-stepping figure out of
sight, and then walked up to the dingy office mirror and surveyed his
wrinkled visage on all sides. Carefully brushing up the sparse gray
locks which had been ordered to the front, as it were, to fill the gaps
created by Time's onslaughts, he shook his head deprecatingly, and with
a sigh walked away from the glass, humming softly "Mary of Argyle."
As Thirza, absorbed in thought, turned into the long, shaded street
which led down to her boarding-house, she was startled out of her
reverie by the sound of her own name, pronounced in a friendly tone.
Looking up, she saw a gentleman approaching. Her heart gave a quick
leap as she recognized Warren Madison, son of the richest manufacturer
of Millburn. He was no recent acquaintance. In her school days, when
social distinctions weighed but little, there had been a childish
intimacy and fondness between them. Time and separation, and the
wide difference in their position,--which she, at least, felt most
keenly,--had estranged them. Since the young man's return, after years
of study and travel, to become his father's partner, she had met him
very often, both in the mill and outside of it, and he had constantly
shown a disposition to renew their former friendship. But poor, proud
Thirza had rejected all his advances. Even now, although her cheeks
tingled and her hands trembled nervously, she would have passed him
with a simple nod; but somehow, before she realized it, young Madison
had secured her hand and a smile, too; and, to her surprise, she found
herself walking by his side, talking with something of the familiarity
of the old school days.
"I have been absent for some time, and only heard to-day that you are
going away," he said.
"Yes," responded Thirza. "I am going away--to Europe."
"To seek your fortune?" said he, with a smile.
"No--to spend it," said Thirza, in the same manner. "I suppose that
you, like Parson Smythers and the rest of Millburn, consider it an
'ex_try-or_dinary proceeding,'"--this with a fair imitation of the
reverend gentleman's peculiar drawl.
Madison smiled.
"Don't count me among your judges, I beg of you, Thirza," he responded,
more gravely. "Perhaps I understand you better than you think."
She glanced quickly up into his face,--a handsome face, frank and noble
in its expression.
"Understand me?" she repeated; "I don't think any one understands me.
Not that they are to blame--I am hardly worth the trouble, I suppose. I
know," she continued, moved by an impulse to unburden her heart to some
one, "I know that people are discussing and condemning me, and it does
not trouble me at all to know it; but I don't mind saying this much
_to you_." She caught the last two words back between her lips, but
not before they had reached the young man's ears. He glanced quickly
into her downcast face, with a look full of eager questioning; but this
Thirza did not see, for she had turned her eyes away in confusion. "You
know what my life has been," she went on impetuously. "I have never
had any youth. Ever since I was a child, I have toiled to keep body
and soul together. I have succeeded in feeding the one; but the other
has starved. I have weighed everything in the balance. I am all alone
in the world--all I had to live for is--up there." She pointed over
her shoulder toward the old burying-ground. "I may be foolish,--even
selfish and wicked,--but I can't help it! I am going to leave
everything behind me, all the work and all the worry, and give myself a
holiday. For one whole year I am going to _live_--really _live_! After
that, I can bear the old life better--perhaps!"
The girl was almost beautiful as she spoke, with the soft fire in her
eyes and her cheeks aglow. Her voice was sweet and full, and vibrated
like a harp-string. The young man beside her did not look at her. He
walked steadily forward, gazing straight down into the dusty road, and
striking out almost savagely with his cane at the innocent heads of the
white clover which crowded up to the road-side.
"I think I know how you feel," he said, after a while. "Why, do you
know, I have often had such thoughts myself. Better one year of real
life, as you say, than a century of dull routine!"
By this time they had reached the door of Thirza's boarding-house.
There were faces at almost every window of the much-windowed
establishment, to say nothing of those of the neighboring houses; but
neither Thirza nor her companion was aware of this.
They stood on the steps a moment in silence; then he held out his hand.
As she placed her own within it, she felt it tremble. Their eyes met,
too, with a swift recognition, and a sharp, sweet pain went through her
heart. She forced herself to turn her eyes away, and to say quietly:
"Good-evening and good-bye, Mr. Madison."
The young man dropped her hand and drew a quick breath.
"Good-bye, Thirza," he said; "may you find it all that you anticipate.
Good-bye."
And the score or more pairs of inquisitive eyes at the surrounding
windows saw young Mr. Madison walk calmly away, and Miss Bradford, with
equal calmness, enter her boarding-house.
The next morning Thirza went away, and, the nine days' wonder being
over, she was dropped almost as completely out of the thoughts and
conversation of the people of Millburn as if she had never existed.
We will not accompany her on her travels. There was a time when
we might have done so; but alas, for the story-writer of to-day!
Picture-galleries, palaces, and châlets, noble, peasant, and brigand,
gondolas, volcanoes, and glaciers,--all are as common and familiar to
the reader of the period as bonbons. It is enough to say that Thirza
wandered now in reality, as she had so often in fancy, through the
storied scenes which had so charmed her imagination; often doubting if
it were indeed herself, or if what she saw were not the baseless fabric
of a vision, which the clanging of the factory bell might demolish at
any moment.
Sue's astonishment when Thirza, after two months in England and
Scotland, walked one day into her apartment in Paris, quite
unannounced, can be imagined. She wondered and conjectured, but, as her
unexpected guest was neither awkward nor badly dressed, accepted the
situation gracefully, and ended by really enjoying it. After delightful
Paris days, came Italy, Germany, and Switzerland, and then more of
Paris, and at last came a time when inexorable figures showed Thirza
plainly that she must think of returning to America.
"Thirza," protested Sue, "you really _mustn't_ go."
For answer Thirza held up to view a travel-stained porte-monnaie.
"Perhaps we can arrange it somehow," persisted her cousin, vaguely.
"You might take a situation as governess, you know;" these words were
uttered doubtfully, and with a deprecating glance at the face opposite.
"Thank you!" responded Thirza. "I don't feel a call in that direction.
I think, on the whole, I'd prefer weaving cotton."
"You'll find it unendurable!" groaned Sue.
"Well, _que voulez-vous_?" responded her cousin, lightly; a quick ear
would have noted the slight tremor in her voice. "I have had a glorious
holiday."
"But the going back will be simply dreadful," persisted Sue. "I wish I
were rich--then you shouldn't go!"
"I hardly think that would make any difference, my dear cousin. I don't
think I am eminently fitted to become a parasite," laughed Thirza.
"Do you know what you _are_ eminently fitted for?" cried Sue,
energetically.
"Sue!" cried Thirza, warningly.
"I don't care," Sue continued, daringly; "you are so set on going back
to America that I half suspect----"
"Don't, Sue, please!" interrupted Thirza, with such evident signs of
genuine displeasure, that Sue, who stood somewhat in awe of her cousin,
ceased to banter, mentally vowing that she was "the queerest girl she
had ever met with."
Thirza arose and went out into the flower-adorned balcony. She sought
distraction, but somehow the surging, chattering crowd in the street
below, the brilliant illumination, the far-off strains of music, did
not bring her what she sought.
"If only Sue wouldn't!" she reflected, and then, between her and the
sea of heads, and the lights and the flowers rose a face--the face
that had troubled her meditations on Jones' Hill, that had followed
her in all her wanderings, the noble face, with its blue eyes bent
upon her so earnestly, so eloquently. Had she read aright, even if too
late, the meaning of those eyes as they met hers at parting? The same
sweet, sharp pain that was not all pain, shot through her heart, and a
consciousness of something blindly missed, something perversely thrown
away, came over her. Sighing, she arose, and in response to Sue's call,
went in and dressed for a gay party, in which, in her present mood, she
felt neither pleasure nor interest. "If people here knew what a pitiful
fraud I am--what a despicable part I am acting!" she said to herself,
as, well-dressed and handsome, she entered the brilliant _salon_.
It was all over in a few days, and Thirza was sailing homeward as fast
as wind and wave and steam could carry her. The year that had passed
had brought little outward change in the girl. She looked fairer and
fresher, perhaps, and certain little rusticities of dress and speech
and manner had disappeared--worn off, as had the marks of toil from
the palms of her slender hands. But to all intents and purposes, the
tall figure in its close-fitting brown suit, which during the homeward
voyage sat for the most part in the vessel's stern, gazing back over
the foaming path, was the same which had watched a year before with
equal steadiness from the steamer's bow. The very same, and yet--the
girl often wondered if she were indeed the same, and lost herself in
speculations as to how the old life at Millburn would seem to her now.
She recalled with inflexible accuracy the details of her existence
there, and tried to look her future undauntedly in the face. But all
her philosophy failed her when in imagination she found herself upon
the threshold of the old mill. There, indeed, she faltered weakly, and
turned back.
When at last, one evening in June, she stepped out of the train at the
little station of Millburn, a crowd of bitter thoughts came rushing
upon her, as if they had been lying in wait there to welcome her.
She had informed no one of her coming, and it was not strange that
no friendly face greeted her, and yet, as she pursued her way alone
through the silent, unlighted streets, her heart grew faint within her.
How poor and meagre everything seemed! The unpaved streets, the plank
sidewalks, the wooden houses, and yonder, across the river, the great
mills, looming grim and shapeless through the dusk! The long, glorious
holiday was over--there lay her future.
Weary and sick at heart she entered her boarding-house. The old
familiar aroma saluted her, the hard-featured landlady welcomed her
with a feeble smile, the unwashed children with noisy demonstrations.
Her room was at her disposal, and under the plea of fatigue she kept
out of sight the whole of the succeeding day, which happened to be
Sunday. She lay the greater part of the day upon the old lounge,
looking round upon the well-known furnishings with a weary gaze. How
small and shabby the room, how hideous the wall paper, how mean and
prosaic everything, and the very canaries in their cage had forgotten
her, and screamed shrilly at her approach!
That was a long day--the longest of her life, she thought. But the girl
was made of good stuff; she made a brave fight, and this time came off
conqueror. When Monday morning came, she arose and dressed herself in
the old gray working suit, smiling back encouragement to her reflection
in the glass as if it had been that of another person. There was no
use in putting off the evil day, she said to herself, it would only
make it harder; and so, when the great bells clanged out their harsh
summons, she went out into the beautiful June morning, joined the crowd
which streamed across the bridge, and before the last brazen tone had
died away, preliminaries were arranged, and Thirza was in her old place
again.
All through the long summer days Thirza labored on at the old work,
with aching limbs and throbbing pulses. The unceasing din and jar,
the invisible flying filaments, the hot, oily atmosphere, the coarse
chatter of the operatives, wearied and sickened her as never before.
Every evening she left the mill with a slower step; deep lines began
to show themselves in her face, heavy shadows to settle beneath her
dark, sad eyes. Poor girl! it was all so much harder than she had
anticipated. The latent forces in her nature, which, through all
those years of toil, had never been called into action, were now,
since her plunge into another phase of life, fully aroused, and
asserted themselves in ceaseless clamor against surroundings. Besides
this,--smother it, fight it, ignore it, as she might,--she was living
in a state of tremulous expectancy. Again and again her heart had
leaped at the sight of a figure in the distance, only to sink again
into a dull throb of disappointment.
The fourth Sunday after her return, Thirza went to church for the first
time. It was early when she arrived and people were just beginning to
assemble. Many greeted her warmly and proffered her a seat, but she
refused all, taking one far back, and at one side where she could see
all who entered. The seats gradually filled, but it was not until the
last strains of the voluntary were dying away that Madison, senior, the
great manufacturer, and his large complacent-looking wife came in, and
with an air of filling the whole edifice, marched down to their pew in
the front row. The music ceased. There was a rustling of silk which was
audible in every part of the little church, and Warren Madison entered,
accompanied by a stately blonde girl, elegantly attired. Queen-like
she swept along, and Thirza saw, as if in a dream, the smile which
she bestowed upon her escort as he stood aside to allow her to enter
the pew, and she saw also his face, looking handsomer and manlier
than ever. Then they were seated, and only the backs of their heads
were visible. Thirza's heart stood still for a moment, and then began
beating so wildly that she almost feared those around her might hear
it. She went through mechanically with the simple forms the service
required. She even tried to follow the thread of the Rev. Mr. Smyther's
labored discourse, but there, between her and the pulpit, were the
nodding white plumes and the yellow braid, and the brown shapely head
and broad shoulders, and oh! so near together! Interminable as the
service seemed, it came to an end at last, and before the amen of the
benediction had died upon the air, Thirza was in the street, hastening
homeward.
The next day she stood at her loom, listlessly watching the shifting
cloud-pictures in the midsummer sky, the glittering river, and the
distant meadows and woods, and wishing herself away from the noise and
the close air, and alone in some deep nook, where she could hide her
face and think. A loud, confused mingling of voices, among which a
high-pitched, girlish one was most conspicuous, rose above the clatter
of the machinery, and drew her attention. She turned involuntarily
toward the sound, and as quickly back again. That one glance had
sufficed to show her Warren Madison, escorting a party of ladies
through the mill. The blonde girl was there, looking, in her white
dress, like a freshly-gathered lily. The party passed near her. She
heard young Madison's voice warning the ladies to keep their draperies
from the machinery; she heard the girlish voice in laughing answer,
and, as they passed by, the same voice exclaiming, "Why, Warren, what
a nice girl, for a mill-girl! The dark one, I mean, by the window."
Then there came a little whiff of violet perfume, and they had gone--he
had gone! And, even in the midst of her humiliation and anger and
self-pity, she could not but be thankful that he had thus passed her
by, without a word. She could not have borne it--there.
The machinery roared and clattered and groaned, the air grew closer and
hotter, the silvery clouds grew denser and blacker, and little puffs
of wind blew in and fanned her feverish temples; and at last the bell
sounded, and she could go. Away! no matter where, so that she were out
of sight of everything and everybody, so that she could be alone with
her own torn, wrathful, tortured soul. Straight through the town she
went, up the hill beyond, and into the old burying-ground, where her
parents rested. It was the only place, alas! where she was sure of
being left alone; for there is no place so given over to loneliness
and solitude as a country grave-yard. Here, among the quiet sleepers,
where the grass and brier-roses grew rank and tall, and undisturbed,
except now and then to make room for a new-comer,--here she dared
look herself in the face. And oh, the shame and scorn and loathing
which that self-inspection produced! She threw herself down by the
graves,--her graves,--and buried her face upon her arms. She lay
there until shadows gathered about her, so still that the small brown
sparrows hopped fearlessly across the folds of her dress and nestled
in the grass beside her. At last she started up, and pressed her hands
against her temples.
"I cannot bear it!" she cried aloud. "I thought I could; but I cannot!
I must leave this place--this hateful, dreadful place----"
Was there a footstep near her in the dry grass, and was some one
standing there in the dusk? She sprang to her feet and would have fled;
but the figure came rapidly toward her. It was Warren Madison.
"You must pardon my following you, Thirza," he said. "I went to the
house, and they told me you had come up this way. I came after you,
because I have something I must say to you."
It was light enough for Thirza to see that he was very pale, and that
his eyes were fixed eagerly upon her face. Trembling, bewildered, she
made another attempt to pass him; but he seized her wrist and detained
her.
"Thirza," he cried, "do not run away from me until you have heard what
I have to say. Let me look in your face, and see if I can find what I
thought I saw there when we parted that evening, more than a year ago."
He drew her toward him, and compelled her to meet his gaze. She tried
to meet it with coldness and scorn; but she was weak and unnerved, and
there was such pleading tenderness in his voice! She trembled, and
sought feebly to withdraw her hand.
"Thirza, won't you listen? I love you! I have loved you so long--I
never knew it until you went away; I never knew how much until I saw
you to-day. I did not even know you had returned. Oh, Thirza, I could
not have spoken a word to you before those people for worlds; but how I
longed to snatch you up in my arms! If you had only looked at me, proud
little statue in a gray dress!"
He compelled her to turn her face toward him.
"Thirza, was I mistaken? No, I was not!" and his voice was full of
exultation. "I see the same look in your eyes again. You love me, my
darling! There!" he cried, releasing her hands, "proud, cruel little
woman, go! Leave me! Run away from me! I do not keep you; but, Thirza,
you are mine, for all that!"
Hardly conscious of herself, Thirza stood before him, making no use of
her liberty.
"Come, Thirza," said the shaking, passionate voice, "leave all the work
and all the worry--your own words, darling; how often I have thought of
them! Leave it all behind, and come here, to me!"
The clouds had parted, and the stars flamed out, one after another;
and, as they were going home together through the starlight, the young
man said:
"And did you live the 'real life' you anticipated, Thirza?"
She raised her shining face to his.
"It has just begun," she said.