In this little Vermont village, lying among peacefully sloping hills,
away from boisterous river-courses, there was small chance of those
physical convulsions which sometimes disturb the quiet of
generations. The roar of a spring freshet never smote the ears of the
dwellers therein, and the winters passed with no danger of
avalanches. From its sheltered situation destructive storms seldom
launched themselves upon it; the oldest inhabitant could remember
little injury from lightning or hail or wind.
However, there is no village in this world so sheltered in situation
that it is not exposed to the full brunt of the great forces of human
passion, when they lash themselves at times into the fury of storm.
It was here in this little village of Ware Centre, which could never
know flood or volcanic fire, as if a sort of spiritual whirlpool had
appeared suddenly in its midst. The thoughts of all the people, lying
down upon their pillows, or rising for their daily tasks, centred
upon it, and it was as if the minds of all were prone upon the edge
of it, gazing curiously into the vortex.
The Sunday after Burr Gordon's disastrous wedding-day the faces of
all the people on their way to meeting wore the same expression, in
different degrees of intensity. One emotion of strained curiosity and
wonder made one family of the whole village. The people thought and
spoke of only one subject; they asked each other one question--"Will
any of them be at meeting?" The Unitarian church was nearly deserted
that Sunday, for Parson Fair's former parishioners returned to their
old gathering place, under stronger pressure, for the time, than
religious tenets.
It was a burning day for May--as hot as midsummer. The flowers were
blossoming visibly under the eyes of the people, but they did not
notice. They flocked into the meeting-house and looked about them,
all with the same expression in their eyes.
When Burr Gordon and his mother entered, a thrill seemed to pass
through the whole congregation. Nobody had thought they would come.
Mrs. Gordon, gliding with even pace, softly murmurous in her Sunday
silk, followed her son, who walked with brave front, although he was
undeniably pale, up the aisle to their pew. He stood about to let his
mother enter, meeting the eyes of the people as he did so; then sat
down himself, and a long glance and a long nudge of shoulders passed
over the meeting-house. Burr and his mother both knew it, but she sat
in undisturbed serenity of pallor, and he stirred not a muscle,
though a red spot blazed out on each cheek.
Madelon Hautville sat in the singing seats, but he never looked at
her nor she at him. There were curious eyes upon her also, for people
wondered if Burr would turn to her now Dorothy Fair had jilted him;
but she did not know it. She heeded nobody but Burr, though she did
not look at him, and when she stood up in the midst of her brothers
and sang, she sang neither to the Lord nor to the people, but to this
one weak and humiliated man whom she loved. The people thought that
she had never sung so before, recognizing, though ignorantly, that
she struck that great chord of the heart whose capability of sound
was in them also. For the time she stood before and led all the
actors in that small drama of human life which was on the village
stage, and in which she took involuntary part; and the audience saw
and heard nobody but her.
Burr, stiff as a soldier, at the end of his pew, felt his heart leap
to hope and resolve through the sound of this woman's voice in the
old orthodox hymns, and laid hold unknowingly, by means of it, of the
love and force which are at the roots of things for the strengthening
of the world. With weak and false starts and tardy retrogrades he had
woven around his feet a labyrinth of crossing paths of life, but now,
of a sudden, he saw clearly his way out. He trampled down the
scruples which hampered and blinded him like thorns and had their
roots in a false pride of honor, and recognized that divine call
of love to worship which simplifies all perplexities. He would
take that girl singing yonder for is wife, if she were indeed so
generous-minded after all, not now, but later, when there could be no
possibility of slight to Dorothy Fair. His honest work in the world
he would do, were it in the ploughshares or the wayside ditches, with
no striving for aggrandizement through untoward ways, and so would he
humbly attain the full dignity of his being.
When Madelon Hautville stopped singing not one in the meeting-house
had seen Burr Gordon stir, but the soul in him had surely turned and
faced about with a great rending as of swathing wills that bound it.
Parson Fair preached that morning. Great had been the speculation as
to whether he would or not. When he stood up in his pulpit and faced
the crowded pews and the steely glances of curious eyes through the
shifting flutter of fans, he was as austerely composed as ever; but a
buzzing whisper went through the audience like a veritable bee of
gossip. "He looks dreadful," they hissed in each other's ears, with
nudges and nods.
All the principal participants in the village commotion were there
except Lot Gordon and Dorothy Fair. Dorothy had not come, in spite of
her father's stern commands, and sterner they had been than any
commands of his to his beloved child before. Dorothy had cowered
before her father, in utter misery and trepidation, after the company
had left that wedding-night, but yielded she had not--only fallen ill
again of that light fever which so easily beset her under stress of
mind.
That Sunday morning, striving to rise and go to meeting as her father
said, and being in truth willing enough, since she had a terrified
longing to see Eugene Hautville in the choir and ascertain if he were
angry or glad, she fell back weak and dizzy on her pillows, and the
doctor was called. Dorothy's fever ran lightly, as all ailments of
hers, whether mental or physical, were wont to do; and yet she had a
delicacy of organization which caused her to be shaken sorely by
slight causes. A butterfly may not have the capacity for despair, but
the touch of a finger can crush it; and had it more capacity, there
would be no butterflies.
It was a full month before Dorothy was able to go out of doors,
and all that time the gossips were cheated out of the sight of
her, and her father was constrained to treat her with a sort of
conscience-stricken tenderness, in spite of her grave fault. Her
mother had never risen from a fever which seemed akin to this; and
Dorothy, in spite of his stern Puritan creed, was yet dearer to him
than that abstraction of her which he deemed her soul.
Looking at the girl, flushed softly with fever, her blue eyes shining
like jewels, as she lay in her white nest, he knew that he loved her
life more fiercely than he judged her sins. He would turn his back
upon her and go out of her chamber, his black height bowed like a
penitent, and down to his study, and wrestle there upon his knees for
hours with that earthly and natural love which he accounted as of the
Tempter, yet might after all have been an angel, and of the Lord. And
when Dorothy came weakly down-stairs at last, with the great black
woman guarding her steps as if she were a baby, he found not in
himself the power of stern counsel and reproof which he had decided
upon when she should have left her chamber.
All the neighbors knew when Dorothy Fair first stepped her foot out
of doors, and told one another suspiciously that she did not look
very sick, and that they guessed she might have come out sooner, and
gone to meeting, had she been so minded.
And in truth the girl, beyond slight deflections in the curves of her
soft cheeks, and a wistful enlarging and brightening of her blue
eyes, as in thoughtful shadows, was not much changed. The first
Sunday when she appeared in the meeting-house she wore, to the
delight and scandal of the women, one of the new gowns and hats of
her bridal outfit. Dorothy Fair, in a great plumed hat of peach-blow
silk, in a pearly silk gown and pink-silk mitts, in a white-muslin
pelerine all wrought with cunning needlework, sat in the parson's
pew, and uplifted her lovely face towards her father in the pulpit,
and nobody knew how her whole mind and fancy were set, not upon the
sermon, but upon Eugene Hautville in the singing-seats behind her.
And nobody dreamed how, as she sat there, she held before her face,
as it were, a sort of mental hand-mirror, in which she could see her
head of fair curls, her peach-blow hat, and her slender white-muslin
shoulders reflected from Eugene's dark eyes. The fall of every curl
had she studied well that morning, and the folds of the muslin
pelerine over her shoulders. And when the congregation arose for the
hymns and faced about towards the singers, then did Dorothy let her
blue eyes seek, with an innocent unconsciousness, as of blue flowers,
which would have deceived the very elect, Eugene's face.
But his black eyes met hers with no more fiery glances. Eugene never
even looked at her, but sang, with stern averted face, which was
paler and thinner than Dorothy's, though he had had no illness save
of the spirit. In vain Dorothy sought his eyes, with her blue
appealing ones, during every hymn; in vain once or twice during the
sermon she even cast a glance around her shoulder with a slight fling
of her curls aside, and a little shiver, as if she felt a draught.
Eugene never looked her way that she could see.
When the long service was over, Dorothy, with sly, watchful eyes,
quickened her pace, and strove so to manage that she and Eugene
should emerge from the meeting-house side by side. But he was
striding far ahead, with never a backward glance, when she came out,
lifting daintily her pearly skirts. Burr was near her, but him she
never thought of, even to avoid, and his mother's stately aside
movement was not even seen by her. She courtesied prettily to those
who met her face to face, from force of habit, and went on thinking
of no one but Eugene.
Again, in the afternoon, Dorothy went to meeting, though her pulses
began to beat, with a slight return of the fever, and again she
strove with her cunning maiden wiles to attract this obdurate Eugene,
and again in vain. That night Dorothy lay and wept awhile before she
fell asleep, and dreamed that she and Eugene were a-walking in the
lane and that he kissed her. And when she awoke, blushing in the
darkness, she resolved that she would go a-walking in the lane on
every pleasant day, in the hope that the dream might come true.
And Mistress Dorothy Fair, with many eyes in the neighbors' windows
watching, went pacing slowly, for her delicate limbs as yet did not
bear her strongly, day after day down the road and into the lane,
and, with frequent rests upon wayside stones, to the farther end of
it. And yet she did not meet Eugene therein, and her dream did not
come true.
But it happened at last, about the middle of the month of June, when
the great red and white roses in the dooryards were in such full
bloom that in another day they would be past it and fall, that
Dorothy and Eugene met in the lane; for there is room enough in time
for most dreams to come true, and for the others there is eternity.
That afternoon Dorothy had gone forth as usual, but she said to
herself that he would not come; and half-way down the lane she ceased
peering into the green distances for him, and sat herself down on a
stone, and leaned back against the trunk of a young maple, and shut
her eyes wearily, and told herself in a sort of sad penitence that
she would look no more for him, for he would not come.
The grass in the lane was grown long now, with a pink mist over the
top of it; the trees at the sides leaned together heavy with foliage,
and the bordering walls were all hidden under bushes and vines.
Everywhere on bush and vine were spikes and corymbs of lusty
blossoms. Birds were calling to their mates and their young; the
locusts were shrilling out of depths of sunlight. Dorothy, in the
midst of this uncontrolled passion of summer, was herself in utter
tune and harmony with it. She was just as sweet and gracefully
courtesying among her sisters as any flower among the host of the
field; and she had silently and inconsequently, like the flower, her
own little lust of life and bloom which none could overcome, and
against which she could know no religion. This Dorothy, meekly
leaning her slender shoulders against the maple-tree, with her blue
eyes closed, and her little hands folded in her lap, could no more
develop into aught towards which she herself inclined not than a
daisy plant out in the field could grow a clover blossom. Moreover
her heart, which had after all enough of the sweetness of love in it,
opened or shut like the cup of a sensitive plant, with seemingly no
volition of hers; therefore was she in a manner innocently helpless
and docile before her own emotions and her own destiny.
She sat still a few minutes and kept her eyes closed. Then she
thought she heard a stir down the lane, but she would not open her
eyes to look, so sadly and impatiently sure was she that he would not
come. Even when she knew there was a footstep drawing near she would
not look. She kept her eyes closed, and made as if she were asleep;
and some one passed her, and she would not look, so sure was she that
it was not Eugene.
But that afternoon Eugene Hautville, who had gone all this time the
long way to the village, felt his own instincts, or the natural
towardness of his heart, too strong for him. Often, watching from a
distance across the fields, he had seen a pale flutter of skirts in
the lane, and knew well enough that Dorothy was there, and had turned
back; but this time he walked on. When he came to Dorothy he cast one
glance at her, then set his face sternly and kept on, with his heart
pulling him back at every step. Dorothy did not open her eyes until
he had fairly passed her, and then she looked and saw him going away
from her without a word. Then she gave a little cry that no one could
have interpreted with any written language. She called not Eugene by
his name; she said no word; but her heart gave that ancient cry for
its lover which was before all speech; and that human love-call
drowned out suddenly all the others.
But when Eugene stopped and turned, Dorothy blushed so before his
eyes that her very neck and arms glowed pink through her lace tucker
and sleeves. She shrank away, twisting herself and hiding her face,
so that he could see naught of her but the flow of her muslin skirts
and her curling fair locks.
Eugene stood a minute looking at her. His dark face was as red as
Dorothy's. He made a motion towards her, then drew back and held up
his head resolutely.
"It is a pleasant day," he said, as if they were exchanging the
everyday courtesies of life; and then when she made no reply, he
added that he hoped she was quite recovered from her sickness.
And then he was pressing on again, white in the face now and
wrestling fiercely with himself that he might, as it were, pass his
own heart which stood in the way; but Dorothy rose up, with a sob,
and pressed before him, touching his arm with her slender one in her
lace sleeve, and shaking out like any flower the rose and lavender
scent in her garments.
"I want to speak to you," she said, and strove in vain to command her
voice.
Eugene bowed and tried to smile, and waited, and looked above her
head, through the tree branches into the field.
"I want to know if--you are angry with me because--I would not--marry
Burr," said Dorothy, catching her breath between her words.
"I told you that you had no reason--that he was not guilty," Eugene
said, with a kind of stern doggedness; and still he did not look at
her.
"I could not marry--him," Dorothy panted, softly.
"I told you you had no reason," Eugene said again, as if he were
saying a lesson that he had taught himself.
"Are you angry--with me because I could not marry him?" Dorothy
asked, with her soft persistency in her own line of thought, and not
his.
Then Eugene in desperation looked down at her, and saw her face worn
into sweet wistfulness by her illness, her dilated eyes and lips
parted and quivering into sobs, like a baby's.
"I am not angry, but I encourage no woman to be false to her
betrothal vows," he said, and strove to make his voice hard; but
Dorothy bent her head, and the sobs came, and he took her in his
arms.
"Are you angry with me?" Dorothy sobbed, piteously, against his
breast.
"No, not with you, but myself," said Eugene. "It is all with myself.
I will take the blame of it all, sweet," and he smoothed her hair and
kissed her and held her close and tried to comfort her; and it seemed
to him that he could indeed take all the blame of her inconstancy and
distrust, and could even bear his self-reproach for her sake, so much
he loved her.
"I would not have married Burr--even if--he had told me--he was
innocent," Dorothy said, after a while. She was hushing her sobs, and
her very soul was smiling within her for joy as Eugene's fond
whispers reached her ears.
"Why?" said Eugene.
"Because--you came first--when you looked at me in the
meeting-house," Dorothy whispered back. Then she suddenly lifted her
face a little, and looked up at him, with one soft flushed cheek
crushed against his breast, and Eugene bent his face down to hers.
They stood so, and for a minute had, indeed, the whole world to their
two selves, for love as well as death has the power of annihilation;
and then there was a stir in the lane, a crisp rustle of petticoats
and a hiss of whispering voices; and they started and fell apart.
There in the lane before them, their eyes as keen as foxes, with the
scent of curiosity and gossip, their cheeks red with the shame of it,
and their lips forming into apologetic and terrified smiles, stood
Margaret Bean and two others--the tavern-keeper's wife and the wife
of the man who kept the village store.
For a second the three women fairly cowered beneath Eugene
Hautville's eyes, and Margaret Bean began to stammer as if her old
tongue were palsied. Then Eugene collected himself, made them one of
his courtly bows, turned to Dorothy with another, offered her his
arm, and walked away with her out of the lane, before the eyes of the
prying gossips.