which her elevation of mood had imparted had vanished now, leaving her
more haggard and worn than ever. A faded, prematurely old woman, she
sat twisting her red, stained hands in a vain attempt to hide their
ugliness in the folds of her poor dress. Even self-pity in Farnsworth's
breast began to vanish in the depth of compassion which the sexton
excited.
"Delia," he said, "I must think for us both, and for the boy. He must
be considered. For his sake we must be married."
It was at once with a sense of relief and of humiliation that he saw how
she shrank from this proposition. To have fallen from godhood in the
meanest woman's eyes is the keenest thrust at man's pride. It gave
Farnsworth a new conception that the gulf between them must look as
impassable from her side as from his. He had thus far been too much
absorbed in the sacrifices he himself was making to consider that all
the desirabilities of his world would not appeal to her as to him,--that
its very fulness and richness which so held and delighted him would
confuse and repel her.
"It is of no use!" he exclaimed, starting up. "I must have time to
think. I will come back in the morning. Think yourself, Delia,--not of
me, or even of yourself, so much as of the boy. It is of him that we
must have the first care. Nothing can much change our lives; but the
world is before him. Goodnight."
However different may have been the reflexions of Farnsworth and of
Delia Grimwet through that long, sad night, their conclusions must have
been in some respects identical, for when the former came to the house
in the morning with the astonished clergyman the woman acquiesced
without any discussion in the performance of the marriage ceremony. It
was an occasion which the Rev. Mr. Eaton long remembered, and of which
he told to the end of his life, filling out, it must be confessed, as
time went on, its spare facts with sundry incidents, trifling, it is
true, yet gradually overlaying the bare truth with a completeness which
the clerical gossip himself, whose belief always kept pace with his
invention, was far from realizing. The only thing he could with accuracy
have told, beyond the simple fact of the marriage, was that when,
according to his wont, he attempted to add a few words of exhortation
and moral reflection, the bridegroom cut him short and showed him to
the door with a courtesy perfect but irresistible, the rebuff somewhat
softened by the liberality of the fee which accompanied the dismissal.
The boy during these singular proceedings had remained in a state of
excited astonishment almost amounting to stupefaction; but when the
newly united family were alone together, his natural perversity broke
out, and showed itself in its natural and unamiable colors. To the
father the child's every uncouth word and act were the most acute
torture; and the mother, partly by woman's instinct, partly from
previous acquaintance with her husband's fastidiousness, was to a great
degree sensible of this. She made no effort, however, to restrain her
child. She seemed to have thrown off all responsibility upon the father,
and busied herself in preparations for the boy's departure, about which,
although neither had spoken of it, there seemed to be some tacit
understanding.
The forenoon was well worn when Farnsworth came to the door with his
carriage, for which he had gone in person.
"Come, Delia," he said, entering the house. "We may as well leave
everything as it is. I told Mrs. Bemis to lock up the house and see to
it. Are you ready?"
"Farnsworth is," she replied, seating herself in a low chair and drawing
to her side the uncouth boy, who struggled to get free.
He broke in rudely, announcing his readiness, his joy at leaving
Kempton, and his satisfaction at wearing his Sunday jacket, which to
his father looked poor enough.
"But you, Delia?" her husband inquired, putting up his hand to quiet the
child. "Are you ready?"
"I am not going."
Whether it was relief, remorse, or astonishment which overwhelmed him,
John Farnsworth could not have told. He stood speechless, looking at his
wife like one suddenly stricken dumb. The boy filled in the pause with
noisy expostulations, depriving the tragedy of even the poor dignity of
silence. The father knew from the outset that remonstrances would not
be likely to avail, yet he remonstrated; perhaps, for human nature is
subtle beyond word, he was unconsciously for that reason the more
earnest in his pleading. He would have been glad could this woman and
her child have been swept out of existence. Already he had to hold
himself strongly in check, lest the reaction which had followed his
heroic resolve to marry Delia should show itself; but he choked back
the feeling with all his resolution.
"No," Delia persistently said, her eyes dry, her voice harsh from
huskiness. "I've no place anywhere but here. It is too late now. I've
more feeling than I thought, for I do care something even now to be an
honest woman in the sight of my neighbors; and that'll help me bear it,
I suppose. Take the boy, and do for him all you owed to me. I should
spoil all if I went. He is best quit of me if he's to please you and
grow like you. I'll stay here and dig graves; I am fit for nothing else.
I want nothing of you. I married you for the boy's sake, and for his
sake I break my heart and send him away; but I will have nothing for
myself. The days when I would have taken a penny from you are long
gone."
She spoke calmly enough, but with a certain poignant stress which made
every word fall like a weight. He did not urge her further. He held out
his hand, into which she laid hers lifelessly.
"Good-bye," he said. "As God sees me, Delia, I'll do my best by the boy.
I will write to you. If you change your decision,--but no matter now. I
will write to you and to the minister."
All other words of parting were brief and soon spoken. The boy showed
no emotion at leaving his mother, as he had throughout exhibited no
tenderness. He climbed noisily into the carriage, and the father and
son, so strangely assorted, rode together up the hill, past the stark
meeting-house, and so on into the world whose seething waves seldom
troubled, even by such a ripple as the events just narrated, the dull
calm of Kempton; and to John Farnsworth it was as if the woful burden of
remorse which had so long vexed heart and conscience had taken bodily
shape and rode by his side.
Delia had been calm until the two were gone,--so calm that her husband
thought her still half dazed by the excitement and anguish of the
previous night. She stood steadily at the window until the carriage
disappeared behind the grave-covered hill. Then she threw herself
grovelling upon the floor in the very ecstasy of woe. She did not
shriek, strangling in her throat into inarticulate moans and gurglings
the cries which rent their way from her inmost soul; but she beat her
head upon the bare floor; she caught at the furniture like a wild
beast, leaving the print of her strong teeth in the hard wood; she
was convulsed with her agony, a speechless animal rage, a boundless,
irrepressible anguish which could not be measured or expressed. She
clutched her bosom with her savage hands, as if she would tear herself
in pieces; she wounded and bruised herself with a fierceness so intense
as to be almost delight.
In the midst of her wildest paroxysm there came a knocking at the door.
She started up, her face positively illuminated.
"They have come back!" she murmured in ecstasy.
She rushed to the door and undid its fastenings with fingers tremulous
from eager joy. A neighbor confronted her, staring in dismay and
amazement at her strange and dishevelled appearance.
"What's come to ye, Dele?" he demanded roughly, though not unkindly.
"When ye goin' to put the box in Widder Pettigrove's grave?"
She confronted him for an instant with a wandering look in her eye, as
though she had mercifully been driven mad. Then the tyranny of life and
habit reasserted itself.
"I'll come up now, Bill," she said.
And she went back to her graves.
THE END.
_Messrs. Roberts Brothers' Publications._
A LAD'S LOVE.
By ARLO BATES.
=16mo, Cloth. Price, $1.00. Paper Covers, 50 Cents.=
It is just the kind of a story to suit the majority of watering-place
people who wish to help pass the time with light reading. The scene is
laid in Campobello; and the social life at a sea-side resort, with its
impromptu festivities, is attractively set forth. The persons who form
the principal group in the story are above the usual watering-place
gossips, that magnify every innocent flirtation they see; and the lad
who at twenty-one falls desperately in love with a charming widow of
thirty-five years, at last sensibly turns to the daughter, loves her and
marries her, through the shrewd management of her mother. The object
of the book is to show how often and how fervently a callow youth is
attracted to some one older and more cultivated than himself; and the
analysis of his passion is very well done.--_Hartford Times._
This time Mr. Bates, who wields a facile pen, has taken up a facile
subject, for the burden of his story is the evolution of a young
man's love in the cool shades and sylvan retreats of Campobello....
Incidentally he pictures certain aspects of society and gives a fair
account of Campobello. _A Lad's Love_ is a readable story, and young
women will read it not only with pleasure but also with profit. It will
teach them how love acts in a pure lad.--_The Beacon._
Arlo Bates is favorably known as a writer of pleasant and healthy verse,
and he appears to equal advantage as the author of this bright novel,
which is as breezy as the air of Mount Desert, where the scene is laid.
The "Lad" is a youth of twenty-two or so, just through Harvard; and the
depth, strength, and variety of his love are well illustrated by his
frantic passion for a widow old enough to be his mother, by his rapid
transfer of affection to her lovely daughter, and by his nearly getting
entangled with a third woman before he secures the right one. There is
a thorough-bred air about the book which leaves a good impression, and
a liveliness of fancy and description which promises more good stories
from Mr. Bates's pen. The minor characters, though merely sketched in
lightly, fill their places admirably, and the two heroines are quite
delicious.--_Pittsburgh Bulletin._
The author delights in making an analytical study of the mental
condition of the principal actors at various stages of the story, and
now and then brightens the pages with a crisp epigram that betrays
a habit of close observation of human nature in the lines of the
story's theme.... The people of the story are lifelike, however,
and there is not an impossible nor even an improbable person among
them.--_Springfield Union._
_Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the price, by the
Publishers_,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
POEMS BY ARLO BATES.
_Including "BERRIES OF THE BRIER," and "SONNETS IN SHADOW."_
=One Volume. 16mo, Cloth. Price, $1.50.
Each volume separate, price, $1.00.=
These poems are always poetical; they are carefully finished; they are
not _vers de société_; they do not affect American humor, and they are
utterly unpretentious. Mr. T. B. Aldrich might own a good many of them.
They reveal Mr. Bates' mind and temper at their very best, and will be
enjoyed by those who have an ear for fine, light impressions finely and
delicately expressed.--_The Beacon._
The poems, all very short, except the "Ballad of the Spinner," are
almost all flavorous with love's delicious essence. The perennial
passion receives fresh illumination in a hundred ways. Warmth, richness,
suggestiveness, smooth-flowing melody,--these are some of the traits of
Mr. Bates' verses, which are well worthy the tasteful setting here given
them.
They are almost invariably the setting of some pretty and thoroughly
poetic thought; and the writer's expression is clear and precise, and
studded with bits of exquisite imagery.--_Argonaut._
There are many who will welcome another volume from the pen of Arlo
Bates, although it be a sad one. The twenty-nine sonnets which make up
this little collection are but variations of one melody, and that played
in the minor key. They will sink deep into many hearts, for they are the
expressions of various moods which all who have known grief and loss
will have felt and be able to comprehend. The men and women who have no
artistic gifts, and who sit and shed salt tears in stony silence, unable
to give their woe adequate words, will feel that a human heart has here
been revealed to them able to sympathize with every throb and pulsation
of their own. There is not a cry of a bruised soul but will find its
echo in some one of these sonnets, and the knowledge that they are the
expression of a real and personal sorrow gives them a power and interest
that no ideal or imaginary work could possess.--_Transcript._
ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
A WOODLAND WOOING.
By ELEANOR PUTNAM.
=16mo, Cloth. Price, $1.00. Paper Covers, 50 Cents.=
A thoroughly wholesome story is _A Woodland Wooing_, by Eleanor Putnam
(the late Mrs. Arlo Bates). It is as sweet as a meadow of clover and
as bright as a crisp October morning. Its simplest events are made
fascinating by their rare naturalness. The motherless children of a
country doctor figure prominently in the tale, and they devise all sorts
of original modes of amusing themselves, of course omitting whatever is
incompatible with self-respect or unapproved by conscience. Boys and
girls are for the most part the story's heroes and heroines, and when
they find themselves quite unexpectedly grown into men and women and
realize all that maturity means, their natures are strong and unhurt by
the evils of self-consciousness or of unwholesome speculations regarding
the significance of this life or the next. They are children of fine,
vigorous intellectual fibre and noble impulses that lead them toward
worthiness, happiness, and usefulness, and the story of their progress
toward higher things is charmingly told.--_The Delineator._
Like a cool breeze on a sultry day comes this little book, _A Woodland
Wooing_, by Eleanor Putnam, fresh and sparkling, with almost child-like
fun, and not even the shadow of a moral spectre to be found stalking
anywhere between its dainty covers.... The Yankee country-folks all
around are photographed very accurately to our mind's eye, and it is
difficult to say whether they are more amusing than the widely-travelled
and elegantly-Bohemian family of Sparhawks, whose advent in the village
makes such a sensation. The infant Sparhawks are especially droll, and
remind one strongly of those famous personages, "Toddy and Budge." In
fact it is just the sort of book to read aloud, so as to have some one
to laugh with over its joyous humor.--_Home Journal._
One of the breeziest, brightest books of the year. It is not only
charmingly original, but thoroughly amusing. Its characters are drawn
with all the skill of the literary artist, and stand out in the mind of
the reader like beautiful pictures upon the canvas. The reading will
make old gray heads feel again young. It will revive the visions of
youth, with spring flowers, when all the world stretched away in
brightness. The story is a summer camping-out, told in alternate
chapters by a brother and sister, in which all sorts of people are
introduced to the reader in a most delightful and amusing way. It
matters not that it contains much nonsense; life needs a good deal of
such to spice it up. The woodland wooing, it may be remarked, is carried
on under many and trying circumstances. But it all ends well. It is
indeed a bright, breezy, pleasing book, and tears will only come in the
remembrance that the hand that penned the lines has ceased forever from
such pleasing earthly tasks.--_Chicago Inter-Ocean._
_Sold everywhere. Mailed, post-paid, on receipt of the price, by the
Publishers_,
ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
PRINCE VANCE.
=A Story of a Prince with a Court in His Box.= By ELEANOR PUTNAM and
ARLO BATES. Illustrated by Frank Myrick.
[Illustration]
_"Prince Vance" is an Entertaining Fairy Story of the wildest and most
fantastic adventures and of amusing and original impossibilities, which,
however, carry with them a stern puritan moral. This allegiance of
unfettered imagination and straightforward, wholesome, moral teaching is
unusual, and gives the little book a special value._
Small 4to. Cloth gilt. Price, $1.50.
ROBERTS BROTHERS, BOSTON.
Transcriber's Note
For this txt-version italics were surrounded with _underscores_, bold
with =signs=, and small capitals changed to all capitals.
In the Table of Contents "283" was changed to "285" (Interlude Eighth:
A CUBAN MORNING 285). Also the following corrections were made, on page
171 "forgotton" changed to "forgotten" (he had forgotten the pain
she might endure)
174 "Dr" changed to "Dr." (while Dr. Lommel, who had charge of the
ward)
240 "Gran'sir" changed to "Gran'sir'" (Gran'sir' Welch's red
cottage)
269 "slighest" changed to "slightest" (I had not the slightest
difficulty)
273 "anoyance" changed to "annoyance" (mingling of philosophy and
annoyance)
279 "persausions" changed to "persuasions" (but my persuasions,
seconded by those of)
313 "accomodations" changed to "accommodations" (furnished
accommodations to a boarder).
Otherwise the original was preserved, including archaic and inconsistent
spelling and hyphenation.