As every human life has its crises and turning-points for better or
worse, it will not surprise the reader to learn that there came a day
when Destiny, having nothing else to do, probably, turned her
good-humoured attention towards mine.
The commemoration of the coming into the world of my step-mother's
illustrious darling had been celebrated with due and undue festivities
and enthusiasm from the rising to the setting of a golden June sun.
Whether from an excess of spasmodic affectionate hugging, which, by
the way, was the chief feature of these joyful monthly, and quarterly,
and half-yearly solemnities, or not, the little being in question was
most unmanageably peevish and ill-humoured for three or four days
following these occasions of ecstatic thanksgiving.
One would imagine that by this time I had had sense enough to train
myself into a placid resignation over such circumstances of my life,
as seemed to me to be presided over by some inevitable ill-luck, but,
on the contrary, a growing perversity began to stimulate me at this
epoch more eagerly than ever to rebel against decrees so openly unfair
to me, and unable or unwilling, to cope with this moral enemy that had
taken so firm a hold of me, I yielded myself up, a sort of helpless
and reckless victim to its wiles, at the sacrifice, I must admit, of
my personal peace and comfort.
Usually, at this period I surprised and annoyed myself, when, in
passing accidentally before some tell-tale mirror, I saw the
reflection of a distressed and impatient scowl: usually, too, I was
conscious of my step being quick and angry, I was not aware, however,
that it was a growing deformity of my moral nature, oozing out thus in
every look and tone and gesture.
I had no apprehension of a dawning crisis that would call upon me to
declare war against my worse or better self, for, of course, they
could not both be mistress of the field. How could I, all untaught,
suspect that upon the issue of such a victory would depend the
happiness or misery of my after life?
Fortunately for me, some kind unseen hand was stretching forth in the
hour of my need, somebody's deft fingers snatched the tangled web that
had gone so far astray in the weaving, and in the nick of time made a
hazardous effort to smoothen the silken threads for the busy loom that
waits not for the slow or the erring.
I was standing on the gravel path beside a bed of flowers that was the
object of my fondest care, one fair summer morning, immediately after
a festive celebration in baby's honour. My cherished, but homely, wall
flowers were dripping in the morning sunlight, and every leaf on my
blossomless geraniums was carefully saturated.
I stood, with my faded water-pot carelessly dangling from three
fingers of one hand, looking so absorbedly down the avenue after the
vanishing outlines of a glittering carriage that had just rolled
splendidly by, that the dregs of my water-can trickled all unheeded by
me, down the side of my new sateen frock, accomplishing what, in the
eyes of my step-mother, would seem nothing less than an absolute ruin
and wreck.
My attention was riveted upon the liveried driver and shining gilded
trimmings of this handsome conveyance, and a flood of serious
reflections suddenly burst upon me. I had begun to imagine myself the
lucky centre of a thousand and one happy possibilities. I was grown
up, and out in the world, the wife of a very rich man, with costly
plumes in my bonnet, and rich lace on my showy parasol, like the lady
who had just driven by: I was quite my own mistress, with servants and
other people to obey me. I had a dashing barouche of my own, and was
rolling in conscious grandeur past my step-mother's window, with the
back of my expensive bonnet turned towards the half-closed shutter,
through which she was sure to be peering enviously--when the laths of
the very shutter in question were shaken impatiently, and a hasty,
authoritative voice cried out, "If you've nothing else to do but spoil
your new pink frock out there, Amelia Hampden, I wish you would come
in and play with your baby-brother for awhile;" and then, as the blind
and voice were lowered, I heard the usual "enough to provoke a saint,"
which was the finishing touch to every reprimand I either did, or did
not, deserve.
History repeats itself; nothing is surer. Here was I hand in hand with
a well-known hero of the Arabian Nights, weeping in open-mouthed
sorrow and astonishment over my basket of shattered glassware. I had
broken the salutary precept which exhorts us sanguine mortals not to
count our chickens before they are hatched, and now mourned the
prescribed result, an ice-cold shower bath in a Canadian December
could hardly be a more undesirable and unlooked for intrusion than was
this unappreciated and pressing invitation of Mrs. Hampden's in my
ears at this particular moment.
The rude awakening which her words caused me made me look quite absurd
in my own eyes, and with the sudden consciousness that I had been
making a fool of myself, pondering over such shadowy improbabilities,
as they seemed to me now, I turned sharply and impatiently from the
spot where I had been standing, and passing through a rustic gateway
at the end of the walk, I flung my innocent water-pot, with a gesture
of desperate anger, in among the cedar-bushes that skirted the
causeway leading into the lawn, and passed into the house.
It has been written, that "nothing like the heavy step betrays the
heavy heart," and if this be true, the matter of weight regarding the
seat of my affections, on this particular morning, was not a trivial
one. With an inflamed and spiteful wilfulness, I stamped my feet with
a louder and heavier tread on each step, as I ascended to answer my
unwelcome summons.
When I reached my step-mother's bed-chamber, the heavy curtain of
padded repp, which was suspended for the prevention of such draughts
as might be smuggled in through key-holes, or other minute openings
caused by an ill-fitting door, was drawn quite across the entrance,
and in my hasty and unforeseeing impatience I pushed it rudely aside
with rough hands and admitted myself within the sacred precincts, just
in time to see myself branded by my own actions, an intolerable little
imp, who, on this occasion, if never before, _was_ "enough to provoke
a saint."
In drawing the curtain so hastily from the entrance, I had pushed the
panels of the door rudely in, which unexpected treatment caused that
oft-abused fixture to swing unusually far back on its hinges, and
knock with a heart-rending violence against the edge of baby's frail
little cot, over which the fretted mother was now bending
breathlessly.
In a moment the terrible nature of my misdeed burst upon me; my
step-mother's horrified countenance and the baby's frightened screams
were a simultaneous and forcible indication of what awful results may
spring from a trifling source. I became angry with myself, for once,
and with a very contrite countenance, I went towards my step-mother
and held my arms out repentantly, offering to soothe the refractory
darling, all by myself.
But, by this time her indignation had found a voice, and interrupted
my eager solicitude for reparation with a volley of well-merited
reproaches. Stamping her slipper emphatically upon the ground, and
declaring that "I would pay for this," she turned to the screaming
little mortal who was struggling nervously among lace and finery, with
no small show of an ill-temper of its own, and resumed the patient and
would be soothing lullaby, whose efficacy in the first instance had
been so ruthlessly spoiled by my impetuous conduct.
Not daring to leave the room again until summarily dismissed by the
ruling power, I stood guiltily by the doorway with a look of sullen
helplessness on my face, toying half indifferently with the ends of a
pink ribbon that was fastened artistically to my frock. Suddenly, the
unforgiving baby sent forth a fresh volley of screams, and the irate
mother turned towards me with a new and awful scowl and bade
me--"Begone" that "my very presence terrified the child."
Nothing loth to leave this scene of confusion of which I myself was
the direct cause, I turned abruptly and quitted the apartment in an
impertinent silence. My step, so long as I thought my step-mother
could hear it, was quick and haughty.
I passed along the corridor above, and down the broad front stairway,
rattling the heels of my garden shoes on the tiles of the hall below
with rather unnecessary emphasis. A loud slamming of the library
door--which shook the pendants of the gasaliers and caused a momentary
quaking of the whole house--announced my exit into the side garden,
where I threaded my way among trees and flowerbeds to a vine-covered
summer-house that stood at the end of the lawn. Arrived here, I flung
myself upon one of the rustic benches that lined the walls, and
throwing my arms at full length across the small table that stood
beside me, I laid my face down upon them and burst into tears. After
all, I was only a child, though so obstinate and impulsive: only a
child, and yet I was very miserable. Reader, have you ever been
persuaded to a popular, though strange belief, that our happiest are
our youngest days? Are you able to look regretfully back upon your
long-vanished yesterdays and wish that destiny might, for one short
moment of time, let you hold them in your hands, to live them all over
again? If so, indeed your youth must have been an exceptionally happy
one: for whether I speak from a personal experience or from
observation, I cannot agree that the paths of childhood are flooded
with Life's sunshine, or overgrown with Fortune's flowers. If we look
back upon our earliest sorrows (and who are they that have none to
look upon?), and take into consideration the narrow limits of our
capacity for either pleasure or pain when we are young, we must admit
that a broken doll or a lost penny are, after all, as fruitful of
genuine and hopeless misery in their way, as are, in after-life, a
broken heart or a lost friend.
I do believe that on that June morning, when full of an untold sorrow,
I stole away to the most secret and secluded spot I could find, I was
not less miserable than I have been many a June morning since, though
the best of life's hard lessons have been learned in the meantime. It
seemed to me that all my hopes, and wishes, and endeavors would always
be vain and fruitless; I could not see a bright side anywhere I
looked. I was always doing and saying the wrong things; I was in
everybody's way: no one wanted me, no one cared for me--why was I ever
born? I had no companions. My stepmother looked down upon the
dangerous habit of allowing children to cultivate juvenile friendships
indiscriminately, and I was not sufficient unto myself for
distractions that would keep me quietly out of the way. What good was
I? I was always ill-humored, vexing my step-mother and making baby
cry. It was plain to see that I was one too many in the world, and
whatever I did with myself I would be surely trespassing upon
somebody's privilege, outraging somebody's patience, and making myself
a nuisance generally. If there was a better place, thought I, I wonder
would I go there when all this discord of my present life had killed
me? Besides, old Hannah had told me that I had another mother in that
vague "better place." Every night at Hannah's knee I recited a little
prayer for her, and asked her to watch over me, to guard me from evil
and make me worthy of joining her some day in her happy home. If my
"other mother" was so sweet and kind and good, as Hannah told me in
confiding whispers she was, why did she not come to me when I was in
tears and tell me how to be good like her? She was too far away, I
supposed, up among the blue sunlit clouds, where all was bright and
cheerful: an angel-mother with beautiful white wings like the picture
in Hannah's prayer-book, and a sweet smiling face that always looked
down on me, watching my words and actions. And while I thought thus, I
saw many such white-winged angels floating noiselessly about in an
exquisite confusion, and distant strains of music, as Hannah said they
sang, filled my listening ears. I felt myself being lifted gently by
tender, unseen hands, and I wondered whether they would bear me far up
above spire and tower, away from all the worries of this desolate
world, into that happy sphere beyond where all is peace, and joy, and
contentment.
On a sudden, I opened my eyelids and looked up. A cry of "Mr. Dalton!"
escaped my lips before I had met his answering glance. I had
understood the situation and buried my face upon his shoulder, to hide
the fast gathering tears that swelled into an after-flood and
threatened to deluge my already tell-tale cheeks. I was no longer
thrown recklessly upon the wooden summer-house bench. The gentle hands
that raised me in my dream and bore me heavenward, were not those of a
far-off angel, as I understood the term, they were the strong brawny
palms of a man of four-and-thirty years, not so strong that their
touch could not be as gentle as a mother's own, not so brawny that
they could not dry the tearful lids of a sleeping child without
disturbing its repose.
He had taken me in his arms and pillowed my drooping head upon his
manly breast. When I opened my eyes he was looking dreamily, half
sadly, half smilingly, into my face. He was not what you, reader,
would call a handsome man, for you never knew him. To you, and to all
the world perhaps but me, he would be no more than a man in a crowd.
But I need not here bring forward the wonderful power of association
which is the underlying beauty reflected from many a homely surface to
eyes that prize and cherish them. What though a thing possess not in
reality those charms with which it is identical in our minds and
hearts? That which we believe to be, is, as effectually for us as if
its existence were sanctioned and sustained by all mankind, and so far
as personal conviction goes there is no standard outside the
individual one. My idea of the beautiful is the only beautiful I can
ever really acknowledge or enjoy, and yet how far astray may it not be
from the concurrent idea of the majority, which is supposed to be the
only true standard.
With a quick though earnest purpose, Mr. Dalton laid his strong warm
hand upon my head and turned my tearful face towards him. There was a
hovering smile around the pale, calm countenance that met my shy and
half averted look.
"Who is this?" he asked, peering into my misty eyes. "Is this Amey
Hampden, I wonder, or have I made some dreadful mistake?"
I saw immediately that he suspected me of having been a naughty girl,
and my sensitive pride was breaking into revolt. I tried to force
myself from his steady hold, but his knitted fingers were as iron
fetters about me. I had nothing left to do but give way to an outburst
of rising ill-humor, or through my gathering tears, to make an humble
confession of all that had passed that morning. While I debated with
myself I was conscious of his steady gaze being fixed upon me. I saw
the half-mischievous smile vanish from the corners of his eyes and
mouth; my lips were trembling with a suppressed sorrow. He saw it, and
bending over me asked in a tender, solicitous voice:
"What is the matter, little Amey? Are you ill? Come, tell me" he
urged, with a gentle firmness turning me around and taking both my
hands in his own large ones.
"No, no, Mr. Dalton, Amey is not ill" I answered, sighing and looking
away. "I wish she was though" I continued after a pause, "ill enough
to die."
And this was all I could say, for my lips trembled ominously, though
there were now no unshed tears in my eyes.
The expression on my companion's face changed suddenly. He had worn a
half amused, half sympathetic look all along, as if my little troubles
were something he could afford to smile upon, and persuade even myself
to laugh at, but I fancy my voice must have been unusually sorrowful,
as I am sure my face was unusually tear-stained and disfigured, for he
drew me to him a little closer and toying ever so affectionately and
kindly with my flowing hair, his tone was gently remonstrative as he
said:
"Amey, do you know that you use very wicked words when you talk like
this? You are a very comfortable and fortunate little girl in many
ways, and because something disagreeable happens now and then you must
not be so impatient and want to die. If you did die now" he continued
slowly and emphatically--then paused and added, "maybe you would be
sorry."
"I don't care" came from me in a half defiant retort, "I couldn't be
sorrier than I am now. I am not comfortable and I am not fortunate,
and disagreeable things are always happening, and if I can't die
soon," I went on waxing quite tragic, "I'll run away."
I stopped short after this, thinking I had put a splendid
finishing-touch to my out-spoken determination. I do not know whether
I expected Mr. Dalton to faint with fright and surprise on hearing
such a daring declaration from me. If I did, I must have been sadly
disappointed when I detected a shadow of that hovering smile flitting
back across his features, and heard him ask in a provoking tone.
"Away! Where, Amey?"
The incisive ridicule implied in these words urged me to a still more
reckless defiance, and affecting a very cutting sneer I answered--
"Perhaps you think I am not in earnest, Mr. Dalton, but _you'll see!_
Remember I have told you that I am wretched, and it's all _her_ fault
When I am gone you can tell papa that 'twas all her doing, that she
hated me and I hated her, and I thought 'twas better to go away--and I
_will_ go away Mr. Dalton"--I emphasized--"away into the bush, and if
no one comes to take me I'll do like the babes in the woods, and the
little birds will cover me with nice green leaves when I'm dead."
There were no tears now, I had worked myself into a dry rage and could
look my monitor full in the face; my little arms were crossed with a
determination worthy of maturer years, and I was grand with the
conviction of having frightened this big man into a belief of my
rambling threats. I was a little disconcerted, however, when he looked
at me seriously and said in a slow measured tone:
"Then _this_ is not the Amey Hampden that I have known all along. She
would never have said such ugly things as those I have just heard; she
was not a selfish little girl, and would fear to displease her friends
or those who loved her."
He was winning me over, but before I yielded I must aim another arrow.
"I guess you're right after all Mr. Dalton" I answered swinging one
kid shoe in an aimless indifferent manner, and looking purposely away
at the leg of the rustic table, "cause _this_ Amey Hampden hasn't got
any friends, or any one to love her, either."
"Are you telling the truth now, Amey? Look at me and repeat that," he
interrupted quickly.
I wished to be very brave, and turned my eyes full upon him; he took
my chin in his large, warm palm and looked steadily into my face for a
moment. I was conquered, and he saw it; he stooped and kissed me, and
we both laughed as I said
"Well; you never _said_ you were my friend."
He arose, and taking me by the hand, we strolled over the lawn and
passed into the library together.
Ernest Dalton was nearly twenty-five years my senior!