THE NEW CHOICE.
We have given a more thorough retrospect of the missionary's antecedents
than did he to his friend on that memorable night at Kennons. But the
gleam of his flashing eye, and the glow of the sparkling flame into
which he gazed was like flint to flint; and to us was it given
mysteriously to read the fiery flashes thus revealed.
From the death of Della, he went on to inform his brother-in-law that he
had brought back his child in care of the faithful Minerva, whom he had
left with his younger sister for the present. He did _not_ tell him that
the real object of his present visit to America was to take to himself a
wife for the second time. This, however, he might, have told, had he not
found his friend in such affliction, as that any news of this kind must
have grated upon him harshly.
Indeed, several months previously he had written to the principal of the
Seminary for her to select a suitable young lady for his future wife.
This was not the first time her offices had been solicited in this line;
but she was an elderly lady, sensible and practical, and naturally
thought that a missionary's second wife should be distinguished for
something more than youth and beauty.
Accordingly, when, upon Philip's arrival in his native city, he had
visited his friends, and disposed of his daughter, he called upon Madame
X--, she presented to him her choice for Mrs. St. Leger, in the person
of Miss Arethusa Toothaker, the eldest, tallest, most sedate young lady
of her establishment.
Miss Toothaker was of an uncertain age, though she called herself
twenty-seven--was tall, as we have said, and slender, had a long, narrow
head, which she carried on a neck too long, had very red cheeks, small
snapping black eyes, very thin hair, of which she wore in front two very
meagre curls done in cork-screw style, held her broad shoulders high, as
if vainly striving to get them far as possible from her long, ant-like
waist--well, this is enough, for at the very first glance Philip St.
Leger turned away his eyes and closed his heart.
Upon taking his leave Philip informed Madame that Miss Toothaker would
not do.
Madame was surprised; "She would make a worthy companion," insisted the
principal, "and the dream of her life has been to become the wife of a
missionary."
The missionary smiled--he would not disturb her dreams for the
world--but "would Madame X--allow him to be present at the morning
exercises of the school some day?"
"Certainly, any morning you please--to-morrow, if agreeable, you can
open school with prayer and address some useful remarks to the young
ladies."
On the following morning was great commotion in the ranks of the young
ladies. The handsome, distinguished foreign missionary was to open
school. At the "let us pray," a hundred young heads rested upon the
upraised right hand; but it is to be feared that authorized devotional
attitude was sadly infringed upon, for, when he pronounced "Amen" sooner
than was anticipated, he encountered so many bright admiring eyes that a
less self-possessed person than Philip might have been abashed. As our
hero had studied his speech, however, he was able to commence and go
through without the slightest embarrassment. His keen eye swept the
array of youth and beauty before him, and so quick was he in arriving at
conclusions, his choice was made before his remarks were ended.
A person of less penetration might have chosen many another than Emily
Dean. There were several among her compeers of more beauty and
brilliance. But Philip St. Leger was a good judge of character; he had
but to look upon a face to read the heart. He had loved Della Lisle from
hearing her voice, and from one glance at her countenance. Emily Dean
wore her hair, like hers also in color and abundance, as had Della. In
this only was resemblance, unless in a certain pensiveness of expression
and pose of attitude.
Madame X--was again surprised, when, in the afternoon of the same day,
the missionary asked for an interview with "the young lady who had
occupied the fifth seat on the right hand side of the third row, who
wore her hair somewhat like a crown, and was dressed in pale blue."
"Ah! Emily Dean--a very fine girl--but is she not too young--hardly
nineteen?"
"I myself am not a Methuselah," remarked the missionary, somewhat
piqued that although but thirty-one, he should be esteemed too
unsuitably old for even the youngest of Madame X----'s pupils.
"Of course--O certainly--of course--I beg your pardon," said the lady
hastily, "but a missionary's wife, you know--there is much to be
considered."
Philip, evidently bent upon doing his own considering, pursued his
inquiries, and gained the interview. He proposed to the young lady in
presence of the principal, and in so very business-like a way as
convinced both the elder and the younger that there was more
practicability beneath that poetical exterior, than the latter would
have suggested or warranted them in believing.
Philip was not long in discovering Emily Dean to be the eldest child of
an independent farmer in Western New York. She had four sisters and
three brothers younger than herself. "With such a family, the father can
more easily part with this daughter," thought Philip; and he started off
on the next train to visit the family of the Deans.
Emily he found to be a favorite in the household. His proposition to
take her with him "away to the barbarous Turk" was received with
consternation and tears. The more, that it was felt, from the first,
that if she wished it they should have to give her up.
The enthusiastic suitor proposed the father should at once go for his
daughter and conduct her home. To all objections and demurrers as to
haste and postponement Philip had a ready and eloquent answer. There was
no gain-saying this ardent pleader.
The farmer left his host of potato-gatherers and apple-pickers and went
off on the express. In twenty-four hours he returned with his daughter.
Philip would have given no time for preparations--but in this he was
forced to yield.
The parents insisted their eldest daughter should have a wedding
_trousseau_--it was not meet she should set out on so long a voyage,
across the ocean of water, and the ocean of married life, in the
condition of Miss Flora McFlimsey. So Philip St. Leger took this
interval of time for his flying trip to his brother-in-law in Virginia.
But he found, as we have seen, the gloom of death spread over Kennons.
Had he needed aught to convince him anew of the evanescent nature of all
beneath the sun, he found it here. It was indeed painful to contrast the
joy and happiness of this Southern home of little more than six years
ago, and the present desolation. In that joy he had shared--in this
gloom was his own heart wrung. In the moment of mournful silence that
followed his long; discourse and Duncan's, life seemed to him not worth
the living, and rising from his chair he said, with marked emphasis:
"Duncan, my friend, we are but travelers of a day. Our life, like that
fire, goes out in ashes. The night comes, and we sleep. _Do_ we rise
again? Does this corruption put on incorruption--this mortal put on
immortality? O, could I hear a voice from Heaven say unto me '_Yes_,' I
should be comforted!"
"Why, Philip! Have you, too, doubts? God Almighty help us, when the
faith of His ministers falters!"
"Bear with me now, Duncan; the darkness in my soul is deep and terrible
to-night; death and the grave seem the only sure certainties we have in
this world. Morning may bring me right again, if another morning remain
for me. Let us sleep--and good night!"
The friends separated--and Duncan pondered on the missionary's last
words. They seemed prophetic; and he almost expected, when he sent
Grandison to his room on the following morning, to see that servant
return with direful news. Not so. Philip appeared about ten o'clock,
declaring he had slept well, and felt much refreshed. He remained for
several days at Kennons, during which time the grave of Ellice was
opened, and a tiny coffin let down upon her own; mother and child were
re-united; and as Philip offered a prayer over the fresh-thrown earth, a
ray of stronger faith enkindled his heart. Philip talked of his own
little girl to Duncan Lisle:
"I had intended leaving her with my sister Estelle, who was my favorite.
She was much attached to Della," said Philip; "But I found Estelle's
husband does not like children; besides, she has three of her own, the
eldest but a baby, and twins younger. Leonora is well married, but
devoted to society, has no children of her own, and no idea of being
troubled with other people's. I could not leave her with my mother, even
though she had not been an invalid. My only resource was to entrust her
with Juliet, who was but recently married, and who, with her husband,
received the child delightedly. I do not feel at all satisfied with the
arrangement, but it was the best I could do. Juliet is good-hearted,
over-affectionate, and will be kind to the child; but she is rather
simple-minded, frivolous, and variable. Her husband is a kind, sensible
man, but he was raised a Roman Catholic. Juliet tells me that he is not
much of anything now; but I doubt it, for he insisted on being married
by the priest, before the ceremony at St. Mark's; and then again, the
idea of one who has been raised a Catholic ever being anything else
_but_ a Catholic. It is preposterous. I have charged Juliet to see that
no influence is ever brought to bear upon the mind of my child as she
advances in years--but I have still grave fears. Possibly the time may
come when you can remove her to Kennons, say, for a year or so, at a
time; it would be a source of pleasure to me to have Althea beneath the
roof under which her excellent mother was reared."
Duncan but too gladly promised to keep an oversight of the child; he
would occasionally visit her during her infancy, and his home should
ever be open to her; had Ellice lived she should have known no other.
The friends, newly attached, took sad leave of each other. Duncan leaned
upon the gate, and watched the other as he rode slowly through the lane.
Had the feet of the horse been mounting stairs that led upward to the
skies, Duncan would not have felt more sure that Philip was passing
forever from his view.
"Traveling, he one way, I another, yet both to the same goal--eternity,"
mused Duncan.
As he spoke, a carriage came in view, hiding the retreating traveler. He
discerned at a glance that the carriage, drawn by fiery, coal-black
steeds, was that of Mrs. Rush, He remained by the gate until the driver
drew rein, and the bright, glowing face of the lady put itself out of
the window.
"So, Mr. Lisle, your friend has already gone. I had no idea he was going
so soon. I am so sorry. I was going to have had you over to dinner
to-day. As it is, you can come, Mr. Lisle,--you and Hubert."
Duncan Lisle pleaded indisposition, and politely declined.
"But what are you going to do? House yourself up and mope yourself to
death?" persevered the handsome widow. "I know how it is, and that you
must feel a disinclination to society; but one must make an effort, you
know. Come, I will take you right over in my carriage; there is plenty
of room. Come, Hubert, come, jump in;" and the little boy, very willing,
sprang up to the side of the carriage. His father went to assist him.
"Hubert may go, but, really, I cannot, Mrs. Rush. You must excuse me.
Another time, perhaps."
"But I don't excuse you, Mr. Lisle. I am so disappointed You know what a
splendid cook my Dinah is, and I ordered her to do her best. But then I
suppose if you won't, you won't, and there's an end of it; is that so?"
"That is so, Madam," and touching his hat gracefully, he bade her an
inaudible "good-morning," and turned away.
Mrs. Rush ordered Washington, her coachman, to drive home. She was
disappointed and chagrined, but not discouraged. She was vain as a
peacock or Queen Elizabeth. Like another _Dorcasina_, she fancied every
man to be her _inamorata_. She had never abandoned the idea that Duncan
Lisle had been once in love with her. She had been encouraged in this
delusion by the duplicity of her servants, who, to propitiate her favor,
had been in the habit of repeating false expressions of his admiration
and regard.
"If all reports are true, he thinks more of you this day than he does of
Miss Ellice," said one.
"Everybody knows that Duncan Lisle worships the ground you tread on, and
always did. Miss Ellice happened to come along and just inveigled him,
that is all; he is sorry enough, you may 'pend," falsified another.
"He always _was_ talking about how mighty han'some you was, and what
beautiful eyes you had," declared a third, and so it went, and credulous
Mrs. Rush laid the flattering unction to her soul that she was the one
woman in the world for Duncan Lisle.
"It is only for looks' sake; he wanted to come bad enough, you may bet
on that," said Dinah to her mistress, when informed that she had got up
her great dinner for nobody but little Master Hubert.
As to Hubert, after he was through with his good dinner, he had anything
but a pleasant visit. Thornton Rush--his name was Jude Thornton
Rush--was a few months older than Hubert, He possessed the beauty of his
mother, with the dark, hidden nature of his father. He was stubborn,
morose, and quarrelsome. He abounded in bad qualities, but if there was
one which excelled another, it was cunning and duplicity. These were so
combined as really to form but one. Had he been a man and termed
_Jesuitical_, in the Protestant sense, that term would have aptly
described him. Now Hubert was not perfect more than other children, but,
compared to Thornton Rush, he was a little saint. His organ of
combativeness frequently waged stern conflicts with his bump of
reverence. His sense of right was keen as his sensitiveness against
wrong and falsehood. He was, like his mother, frank and open as the day,
generous, disinterested, and unselfish.
What should happen, then, when these two natures came together? What but
thunder and lightning, as when two clouds meet?
Duncan Lisle thought about this as he saw his boy borne away from him,
and he resolved to go over for him very soon after dinner. He arrived
just in time to rescue him, bruised and bleeding, from the fists and
fury of Thornton Rush. The quarrel had commenced in this way: Thornton
had asserted that everything at Thornton Hall was his; Hubert had
nothing. Hubert admitted as much, insisting, however, that all at
Kennons was his.
"No such thing," denied Thornton. "Everything at Kennons is your
father's; you have nothing."
"Well," said the other, "so everything at Thornton Hall is your
mother's, and not yours."
"No such thing. I am the master of Thornton Hall. My father is dead,
sir."
"Yes, I know that."
"You know that! And is that all you can say? Say that I am master of
Thornton Hall, and that you are nobody but Hubert Lisle," said
Thornton, intent upon a quarrel.
"I shall say no such thing."
"But you will, sir, and I can make you. I am stronger than you are, and
I have bigger fists. Look here, aren't you afraid?" shaking his clenched
fist in the other's face.
"No, I am _not_ afraid," spoke Hubert boldly, striving to grapple with
his stronger foe.
So engaged were the boys, they heard not the approach of Mr. Lisle,
till, having dismounted from his horse, he seized Thornton by the collar
and flung him afar, as he would have done a wild cat.
Mrs. Rush, who had seen the whole from the window, and enjoyed it
immensely, now thought it worth while to come upon the scene.
"What does all this mean?" as if just surprised. "Thornton Rush, you
will be punished for this. Have you no better manners than to treat your
young visitor in that way? Really, Mr. Lisle, I am truly distressed, and
offer you a thousand apologies. Please do not take Hubert home in that
condition; bring him to the kitchen and let Dinah bathe his face and
hands. How unfortunate this should have occurred!"
Mr. Lisle complied, and waited until his boy was brought to him in a
more presentable condition; then he went away, very wroth indeed in
heart, but outwardly calm and composed.