THE OAK.
In the morning, as she narrated the events of the evening, she told her
aunt of the acquaintance she had made, and that he had seen her home.
This information did not please the old lady, as, indeed, without
knowing any reason, Letty had expected. Mrs. Wardour knew all about
Tom's mother, or thought she did, and knew little good; she knew also
that, although her son was a general favorite, her own son had a very
poor opinion of him. On these grounds, and without a thought of
injustice to Letty, she sharply rebuked the poor girl for allowing such
a fellow to pay her any attention, and declared that, if ever she
permitted him so much as to speak to her again, she would do something
which she left in a cloud of vaguest suggestion.
Letty made no reply. She was hurt. Nor was it any wonder if she judged
this judgment of Tom by the injustice of the judge to herself. It was
of no consequence to her, she said to herself, whether she spoke to him
again or not; but had any one the right to compel another to behave
rudely? Only what did it matter, since there was so little chance of
her ever seeing him again! All day she felt weary and disappointed,
and, after the merrymaking of the night before, the household work was
irksome. But she would soon have got over both weariness and tedium had
her aunt been kind. It is true, she did not again refer to Tom, taking
it for granted that he was done with; but all day she kept driving
Letty from one thing to another, nor was once satisfied with anything
she did, called her even an ungrateful girl, and, before evening, had
rendered her more tired, mortified, and dispirited, than she had ever
been in her life.
But the tormentor was no demon; she was only doing what all of us have
often done, and ought to be heartily ashamed of: she was only emptying
her fountain of bitter water. Oppressed with the dregs of her headache,
wretched because of her son's absence, who had not been a night from
home for years, annoyed that she had spent time and money in
preparation for nothing, she had allowed the said cistern to fill to
overflowing, and upon Letty it overflowed like a small deluge. Like
some of the rest of us, she never reflected how balefully her evil mood
might operate; and that all things work for good in the end, will not
cover those by whom come the offenses. Another night's rest, it is
true, sent the evil mood to sleep again for a time, but did not
exorcise it; for there are demons that go not out without prayer, and a
bad temper is one of them--a demon as contemptible, mean-spirited, and
unjust, as any in the peerage of hell--much petted, nevertheless, and
excused, by us poor lunatics who are possessed by him. Mrs. Wardour was
a lady, as the ladies of this world go, but a poor lady for the kingdom
of heaven: I should wonder much if she ranked as more than a very
common woman there.
The next day all was quiet; and a visit paid Mrs. Wardour by a favorite
sister whom she had not seen for months, set Letty at such liberty as
she seldom had. In the afternoon she took the book Godfrey had given
her, in which he had set her one of Milton's smaller poems to study,
and sought the shadow of the Durnmelling oak.
It was a lovely autumn day, the sun glorious as ever in the memory of
Abraham, or the author of Job, or the builder of the scaled pyramid at
Sakkara. But there was a keenness in the air notwithstanding, which
made Letty feel a little sad without knowing why, as she seated herself
to the task Cousin Godfrey had set her. She, as well as his mother,
heartily wished he were home. She was afraid of him, it is true; but in
how different a way from that in which she was afraid of his mother!
His absence did not make her feel free, and to escape from his mother
was sometimes the whole desire of her day.
She was trying hard, not altogether successfully, to fix her attention
on her task, when a yellow leaf dropped on the very line she was poring
over. Thinking how soon the trees would be bare once more, she brushed
the leaf away, and resumed her lesson.
"To fill thy odorous lamp with deeds of light,"
she had just read once more, when down fell a second tree-leaf on the
book-leaf. Again she brushed it away, and read to the end of the sonnet:
"Hast gained thy entrance, virgin wise and pure."
What Letty's thoughts about the sonnet were, I can not tell: how fix
thought indefinite in words defined? But her angel might well have
thought what a weary road she had to walk before she gained that
entrance. But for all of us the road _has_ to be walked, every step,
and the uttermost farthing paid. The gate will open wide to welcome us,
but it will not come to meet us. Neither is it any use to turn aside;
it only makes the road longer and harder.
Down on the same spot fell the third leaf. Letty looked up. There was a
man in the tree over her head. She started to her feet. At the same
moment, he dropped on the ground beside her, lifting his hat as coolly
as if he had met her on the road. Her heart seemed to stand still with
fright. She stood silent, with white lips parted.
"I hope I haven't frightened you," said Tom. "Do forgive me," he added,
becoming more aware of the perturbation he had caused her. "You were so
kind to me the other night, I could not help wanting to see you again.
I had no idea the sight of me would terrify you so."
"You gave me such a start!" gasped Letty, with her hand pressed on her
heart.
"I was afraid of it," answered Tom; "but what could I do? I was
certain, if you saw me coming, you would run away."
"Why should you think that?" asked Letty, a faint color rising in her
cheek.
"Because," answered Tom, "I was sure they would be telling you all
manner of things against me. But there is no harm in me--really, Miss
Lovel--nothing, that is, worth mentioning."
"I am sure there isn't," said Letty; and then there was a pause.
"What book are you reading, may I ask?" said Tom.
Letty had now remembered her aunt's injunctions and threats; but,
partly from a kind of paralysis caused by his coolness, partly from its
being impossible to her nature to be curt with any one with whom she
was not angry, partly from mere lack of presence of mind, not knowing
what to do, yet feeling she ought to run to the house, what should she
do but drop down again on the very spot whence she had been scared!
Instantly Tom threw himself on the grass at her feet, and there lay,
looking up at her with eyes of humble admiration.
Confused and troubled, she began to turn over the leaves of her book.
She supposed afterward she must have asked him why he stared at her so,
for the next thing she remembered was hearing him say:
"I can't help it. You are so lovely!"
"Please don't talk such nonsense to me," she rejoined. "I am not
lovely, and I know it. What is not true can not please anybody."
She spoke a little angrily now.
"I speak the truth," said Tom, quietly and earnestly. "Why should you
think I do not?"
"Because nobody ever said so before."
"Then it is quite time somebody should say so," returned Tom, changing
his tone. "It may be a painful fact, but even ladies ought to be told
the truth, and learn to bear it. To say you are not lovely would be a
downright lie."
"I wish you wouldn't talk to me about myself!" said Letty, feeling
confused and improper, but not altogether displeased that it was
possible for such a mistake to be made. "I don't want to hear about
myself. It makes me so uncomfortable! I am sure it isn't right: is it,
now, Mr. Helmer?"
As she ended, the tears rose in her eyes, partly from unanalyzed
uneasiness at the position in which she found herself and the turn the
talk had taken, partly from the discomfort of conscious disobedience.
But still she did not move.
"I am very sorry if I have vexed you," said Tom, seeing her evident
trouble. "I can't think how I've done it. I know I didn't mean to; and
I promise you not to say a word of the kind again--if I can help it.
But tell me, Letty," he went on again, changing in tone and look and
manner, and calling her by her name with such simplicity that she never
even noticed it, "do tell me what you are reading, and that will keep
me from _talking_ about you--not from--the other thing, you know."
"There!" said Letty, almost crossly, handing him her book, and pointing
to the sonnet, as she rose to go.
Tom took the book, and sprang to his feet. He had never read the poem,
for Milton had not been one of his masters. He stood devouring it. He
was doing his best to lay hold of it quickly, for there Letty stood,
with her hand held out to take the book again, ready upon its
restoration to go at once. Silent and motionless, to all appearance
unhasting, he read and reread. Letty was restless, and growing quite
impatient; but still Tom read, a smile slow-spreading from his eyes
over his face; he was taking possession of the poem, he would have
said. But the shades and kinds and degrees of possession are
innumerable; and not until we downright love a thing, can we _know_ we
understand it, or rightly call it our own; Tom only admired this one;
it was all he was capable of in regard to such at present. Had the whim
for acquainting himself with it seized him in his own study, he would
have satisfied it with a far more superficial interview; but the
presence of the girl, with those eyes fixed on him as he read--his
mind's eye saw them--was for the moment an enlargement of his being,
whose phase to himself was a consciousness of ignorance.
"It is a beautiful poem," he said at last, quite honestly; and, raising
his eyes, he looked straight in hers. There is hardly a limit to the
knowledge and sympathy a man may have in respect of the finest things,
and yet be a fool. Sympathy is not harmony. A man may be a poet even,
and speak with the tongue of an angel, and yet be a very bad fool.
"I am sure it must be a beautiful poem," said Letty; "but I have hardly
got a hold of it yet." And she stretched her hand a little farther, as
if to proceed with its appropriation.
But Tom was not yet prepared to part with the book. He proceeded
instead, in fluent speech and not inappropriate language, to set forth,
not the power of the poem--that he both took and left as a matter of
course--but the beauty of those phrases, and the turns of those
expressions, which particularly pleased him--nor failing to remark
that, according to the strict laws of English verse, there was in it
one bad rhyme.
That point Letty begged him to explain, thus leading Tom to an
exposition of the laws of rhyme, in which, as far as English was
concerned, he happened to be something of an expert, partly from an
early habit of scribbling in ladies' albums. About these surface
affairs, Godfrey, understanding them better and valuing them more than
Tom, had yet taught Letty nothing, judging it premature to teach
polishing before carving; and hence this little display of knowledge on
the part of Tom impressed Letty more than was adequate--so much,
indeed, that she began to regard him as a sage, and a compeer of her
cousin Godfrey. Question followed question, and answer followed answer,
Letty feeling all the time she _must_ go, yet standing and standing,
like one in a dream, who thinks he can not, and certainly does not
break its spell--for in the act only is the ability and the deed born.
Besides, was she to go away and leave her beautiful book in his hand?
What would Godfrey think if she did? Again and again she stretched out
her own to take it, but, although he saw the motion, he held on to the
book as to his best anchor, hurriedly turned its leaves by fits and
searching for something more to his mind than anything of Milton's.
Suddenly his face brightened.
"Ah!" he said--and remained a moment silent, reading. "I don't wonder,"
he resumed, "at your admiration of Milton. He's very grand, of course,
and very musical, too; but one can't be listening to an organ always.
Not that I prefer merry music; that must be inferior, for the tone of
all the beauty in the world is sad." Much Tom Helmer knew of beauty or
sadness either! but ignorance is no reason with a fool for holding his
tongue. "But there is the violin, now!--that can be as sad as any
organ, without being so ponderous. Hear this, now! This is the violin
after the organ--played as only a master can!"
With this preamble, he read a song of Shelley's, and read it well, for
he had a good ear for rhythm and cadence, and prided himself on his
reading of poetry.
Now the path to Letty's heart through her intellect was neither open
nor well trodden; but the song in question was a winged one, and flew
straight thither; there was something in the tone of it that suited the
pitch of her spirit-chamber. And, if Letty's heart was not easily
found, it was the readier to confess itself when found. Her eyes filled
with tears, and through those tears Tom looked large and injured. "He
must be a poet himself to read poetry like that!" she said to herself,
and felt thoroughly assured that her aunt had wronged him greatly.
"Some people scorn poetry like sin," she said again. "I used myself to
think it was only for children, until Cousin Godfrey taught me
differently."
As thus her thoughts went on interweaving themselves with the music,
all at once the song came to an end. Tom closed the book, handed it to
her, said, "Good morning, Miss Lovel," and ran down the rent in the
ha-ha; and, before Letty could come to herself, she heard the soft
thunder of hoofs on the grass. She ran to the edge, and, looking over,
saw Tom on his bay mare, at full gallop across the field. She watched
him as he neared the hedge and ditch that bounded it, saw him go flying
over, and lost sight of him behind a hazel-copse. Slowly, then, she
turned, and slowly she went back to the house and up to her room,
vaguely aware that a wind had begun to blow in her atmosphere, although
only the sound of it had yet reached her.