REMINISCENCE.
On the very evening that General Belch and Abel Newt were sitting
together, smoking, taking snuff, sipping wine, and discussing the great
principles that should control the action of American legislators and
statesmen, Hope Wayne and Mrs. Simcoe sat together in their pleasant
drawing-room talking of old times. The fire crackled upon the hearth, and
the bright flames flickering through the room brought out every object
with fitful distinctness. The lamp was turned almost out--for they found
it more agreeable to sit in a twilight as they spoke of the days which
seemed to both of them to be full of subdued and melancholy light. They
sat side by side; Hope leaning her cheek upon her hand, and gazing
thoughtfully into the fire; Mrs. Simcoe turned partly toward her, and
occasionally studying her face, as if peculiarly anxious to observe
its expression.
It might have happened in many ways that they were speaking of the old
times. The older woman may have intentionally led the conversation in
that direction for some ulterior purpose she had in view. Or what is more
likely than that the young woman should constantly draw her friend and
guardian to speak of days and people connected with her own life, but
passed before her memory had retained them?
After a long interval, as if, when she had once broken her reserve about
her life, she must pour out all her experience, Mrs. Simcoe began:
"When I was twenty years old, living with my father, a poor farmer in the
country, there came to pass the summer in the village a gentleman, a good
deal older than I. He was handsome, graceful, elegant, fascinating. I saw
him at church, but he did not see me. Then I met him sometimes upon the
road, idly sauntering along, swinging a little cane, and looking as if
village life were fatiguing. He seemed at length to observe me. One day
he bowed. I said nothing, but hurried on. When I was a little beyond him
I turned my head. He also was turning and looking at me.
"I was old enough to know why I turned. Yes, and so was he. How well
I remember the peaceful western light that fell along the fields and
touched the trees so kindly! Every thing was still. The birds dropped
hurrying homeward notes, and the cows were coming in from the pasture.
I was going after our cow, but I leaned a long time on the bars and
looked at the new moon timidly showing herself in the west. Then I looked
at my clumsy gown, and thick shoes, and large hands, and thought of the
graceful, elegant man, who had not bowed to me insolently. I imagined
that a gentleman used to city life must find our country ways tiresome.
I pitied him, but what could I do?
"Once in the meadows I was following up the brook to find cardinal
flowers. The brook wound through a little wood; and as I was passing,
looking closely among the flags and pickerel-wood, I suddenly heard a
voice close to me--'The lobelia blossoms are further on, Miss Jane.' I
knew instantly who it was, and I was conscious of being more scarlet
than the flowers I was seeking.
"Well, dear," said Mrs. Simcoe, after pausing for a few moments, "I can
not repeat every detail. The time came when I was not afraid to speak to
him--when I cared to speak to no one else--when I thought of him all day
and dreamed of him all night--when I wore the ribbons he praised, and the
colors he loved, and the flowers he gave me; when he told me of the great
life beyond the village, of lofty and beautiful women he had known, of
wise men he had seen, of the foreign countries he had visited--when he
twined my hair around his finger and said, 'Jane, I love you!'"
Her eyes were excited, and her voice was hurried, but inexpressibly sad.
Hope sat by, and the tears flowed from her eyes.
"A long, long time. Yet it was only a few months--it was only a summer.
He came in May, and was gone again in November. But between his coming
and going the roses in our garden blossomed and withered. So you see
there was time enough. Time enough! Time enough! I was heavenly happy.
"One day he said that he must go. There was some frightful trouble in his
eye. 'Will you come back?' I asked. I tremble to remember how sternly I
asked it, and how cold and bloodless I felt. 'So help me God!' he
answered, and left me. Left me! 'So help me God!' he murmured, as his
tears fell upon my cheek and he kissed me. 'So help me God!'--and he left
me. Not a word, not a look, not a sign had he given me to suppose that he
would not return; not a thought, not a wish had he breathed to me that
you might not hear. His miniature hung in a locket around my neck,
even as my whole heart and soul hung upon his love. 'So help me God!'
he whispered, and left me.
"He did not come back. I thought my heart was frozen. My mother sighed
as she went on with her hard, incessant work. My father tried to be
cheerful. 'Cry, girl, cry,' my mother said; 'only cry, and you'll be
better.' I could not cry; I could not smile. I could do nothing but help
her silently in the long, hard work, day after day, summer and winter.
I read the books he had given me. I thought of the things he had said.
I sat in my chamber when the floor was scrubbed, and the bread baked, and
the dishes washed, and the flies buzzed in the hot, still kitchen. I can
hear them now. And there I sat, looking out of my window, straining my
eyes toward the horizon--sometimes sure that I heard him coming, clicking
the gate, hurrying up the gravel, with his eager, handsome, melancholy
face. I started up. My heart stood still. I was ready to fall upon his
breast and say, 'I believe 'twas all right.' He did not come. 'So help me
God!' he said, and did not come.
"My father brought me to New York to change the scene. But God had
brought me here to change my heart. I heard one Sunday good old Bishop
Asbury, and he began the work that Summerfield sealed. My parents
presently died. They left nothing, and I was the only child. I did what I
could, and at last I became your grandfather's housekeeper."
As her story proceeded Mrs. Simcoe looked more and more anxiously at
Hope, whose eyes were fixed upon her incessantly. The older woman paused
at this point, and, taking Hope's face between her hands, smoothed her
hair, and kissed her.
"Your grandfather had a daughter Mary."
"My mother," said Hope, earnestly.
"Your mother, darling. She was as beautiful but as delicate as a flower.
The doctors said a long salt voyage would strengthen her. So your
grandfather sent her in the ship of one of his friends to India. In India
she staid several weeks, and met a young man of her own age, clerk in a
house there. Of course they were soon engaged. But he was young, not
yet in business, and she knew the severity of your grandfather and his
ambition for her. At length the ship returned, and your mother returned
in it. Scarcely was she at home a month than your grandfather told me
that he had a connection in view for his daughter, and wanted me to
prepare her to receive the addresses of a gentleman a good deal older
than she, but of the best family, and in every way a desirable husband.
He was himself getting old, he said, and it was necessary that his
daughter should marry. Your mother loved me dearly, as I did her. Gentle
soul, with her soft, dark, appealing eyes, with her flower-like fragility
and womanly dependence. Ah me! it was hard that your grandfather should
have been her parent.
"She was stunned when I told her. I thought her grief was only natural,
and I was surprised at the sudden change in her. She faded before our
eyes. We could not cheer her. But she made no effort to resist. She did
not refuse to see her suitor; she did not say that she loved any one
else. I think she had a mortal fear of her father, and, dear soul! she
could not do any thing that required resolution.
"One day your grandfather said at dinner, 'To-morrow, Miss Mary, your new
friend will be here.'
"All night she lay awake, trembling and tearful; and at morning she
rose like a spectre. The stranger arrived. Mary kept her room until
dinner-time. Then we both went down to see the new-comer. He was in the
library with your grandfather, and was engaged in telling him some very
amusing story when we came in, for your grandfather was laughing
heartily. They both rose upon seeing us.
"'Colonel Wayne, my daughter,' said your grandfather, waving his hand
toward her. He bowed--she sank, spectre-like, into a chair.
"'Mrs. Simcoe, Colonel Wayne.'
"Our eyes met. It was my lover. He was too much amazed to bow. But in a
moment he recovered himself, smiled courteously, and seated himself; for
he saw at once what place I filled in the household. I said nothing. I
remember that I sank into a chair and looked at him. He was older, but
the same charm still hovered about his person. His voice had the same
secret music, and his movement that careless grace which seemed to spring
from the consciousness of power. I was conscious of only two things--that
I loved him, and that he was unworthy the love of any woman.
"During dinner he made two or three observations to me. But I bowed and
said nothing. I think I was morally stunned, and the whole scene seemed
to me to be unreal. After a few days he made a formal offer of his hand
to Mary Burt. Poor child! Poor child! She trembled, hesitated, fluttered,
delayed. 'You must; you shall!' were the terrible words she heard from
her parent. She dreaded to tell the truth, lest he should force a summary
marriage. Hope, my child, you could have resisted--so could I; she could
not. 'Only, dear father,' she said, 'I am so young. Let me not be married
for a year.' Her father laughed and assented, and I think she instantly
wrote to her lover in India.
"People came driving out to congratulate. 'Such a reasonable connection!'
every body said; 'a military man of fine old family. It is really
delightful to have a union sometimes take place in which all the
conditions are satisfactory.'
"All the time his miniature hung round my neck. Why? Because, in the
bottom of my soul, I still believed him. I had heard him say, So help
me God!'
"He went away, and sometimes returned for a week. I was comforted by
seeing that he did not love your mother, and by the confidence I had that
she would not marry him. I was sure that something would happen to
prevent.
"The year was coming round. One night your mother appeared in my room in
her night-dress; her face was radiant, and she held a note in her hand.
It was from her lover. He had thrown himself upon a ship when her letter
reached him, and here he was close at hand. Full of generous ardor, he
proposed to marry her privately at once; there was no other way, he was
sure.
"'Will you help us?' she said, after she had told me every thing.
"'But you are two such children,' I said.
"'Then you will not help. You will make me marry Colonel Wayne.'
"I tried to see the matter calmly. I sought the succor of God. I do
not say that I did just what I should have done, but I helped them. The
heart is weak, and perhaps I was the more willing to help, because the
fulfillment of her plan would prevent her becoming the wife of Colonel
Wayne. The time was arranged when she was to go away. I was to accompany
her, and she was to be married.
"The lover came. It was a June night; the moon was full. We went quietly
along the avenue. The gate was opened. We were just passing through when
your grandfather and Colonel Wayne suddenly stepped from the shadow of
the wall and the trees.
"Your mother and her lover stood perfectly still. She gave a little cry.
Your grandfather was furious.
"'Go, Sir!' he shrieked at the young man.
"'If your daughter commands it,' he replied.
"Your grandfather seized him involuntarily.
"'Sir, my daughter is the betrothed wife of Colonel Wayne.'
"The young man looked with an incredulous smile at your mother, who had
sunk senseless into my arms, and said, in a low voice,
"'She was mine before she ever saw him.'
"Your grandfather actually hissed at him with contempt.
"'Go--before I strike you!'
"The young man hesitated for a few moments, saw that it was useless to
remain longer at that time, and went.
"The next day Mr. Burt sent for Dr. Peewee.
"The moment I knew what he intended to do I ran to your grandfather and
told him that Colonel Wayne was not a fit husband for his daughter. But
when I told him that the Colonel had deserted me, Mr. Burt laughed
scornfully.
"'You, Mrs. Simcoe? Why, you have lost your wits. Remember, Colonel Wayne
is a gentleman of the oldest family, and you are--you were--'
"'I was a poor country girl,' said I, 'and Colonel Wayne loved me, and
I loved him, and here is the pledge and proof of it.'
"I drew out his miniature as I spoke, and held it before your
grandfather's eyes. He fairly staggered, and rang the bell violently.
"'Call Colonel Wayne,' he said, hastily, to the servant.
"In a moment the Colonel came in. I saw his color change as his eye fell
upon me, holding the locket in my hand, and upon your grandfather's
flushed face.
"'Colonel Wayne, have you ever seen Mrs. Simcoe before?'
"He was very pale, and there were sallow circles under his eyes as he
spoke; but he said, calmly,
"'Not to my knowledge.'
"Scorn made me icily calm.
"'Who gave me that, Sir?' said I, thrusting the miniature almost into his
face.
"He took it in his hand and looked at it. I saw his lip work and his
throat quiver with an involuntary spasm.
"'I am sure I do not know.'
"I was speechless. Your grandfather was confounded. Colonel Wayne looked
white, but resolute.
"'God only is my witness,' said I, slowly, as if the words came gasping
from my heart. 'So help me God, I loved him, and he loved me.'
"A quiver ran through his frame as I spoke, but he preserved the same
placidity of face.
"'There is some mistake, Mrs. Simcoe,' said your grandfather, not
unkindly, to me. 'Go to your room.'
"I obeyed, for my duty was done."
Mrs. Simcoe paused, and rocked silently to and fro. Hope took her hand
and kissed it reverently. Presently the narration was quietly resumed:
"I told your mother my story. But she was stunned by her own grief, and I
do not think she comprehended me. Dr. Peewee came, and she was married.
Your mother did not say yes--for she could not utter a word--but the
ceremony proceeded. I heard the words, 'Whom God hath joined together,'
and I laughed aloud, and fell fainting.
"It was a few days after the marriage, when Colonel Wayne and his wife
were absent, that your grandfather said to me,
"'Mrs. Simcoe, your story seems to be true. But think a moment. A man
like Colonel Wayne must have had many experiences. We all do. He has been
rash, and foolish, and thoughtless, I have no doubt. He may even have
trifled with your feelings. I am very sorry. If he has done so, I think
he ought to have acknowledged it the other day. But I hope sincerely that
we shall all let by-gones be by-gones, and live happily together. Ah! I
see dinner is ready. Good-day, Mrs. Simcoe. Dr. Peewee, will you ask a
blessing?'"
It was already midnight, and the two women sat before the fire. It was
the moment when Abel Newt was stealing through his rooms, fastening doors
and windows. Hope Wayne was pale and cold like a statue as she listened
to the voice of Mrs. Simcoe, which had a wailing tone pitiful to hear.
After a long silence she began again:
"What ought I to have done? Should I have gone away? That was the easiest
course. But, Hope, the way of duty is not often the easiest way. I wrote
a long letter to the good old Bishop Asbury, who seemed to me like a
father, and after a while his answer came. He told me that I should seek
the Lord's leading, and if that bade me stay--if that told me that it
would be for my soul's blessing that my heart should break daily--then I
had better remain, seeing that the end is not here--that here we have no
continuing city, and that our proud hearts must be bruised by grief, even
as our Saviour's lowly forehead was pierced with thorns.
"So I staid. It was partly pity for your mother, who began to droop at
once. It was partly that I might keep my wound bleeding for my soul's
salvation; and partly--I see it now, but I could not then--because I
believed, as before God I do now believe, that in his secret heart I was
the woman your father loved, and I could not give him up.
"Your mother's lover wrote to me at once, I discovered afterward, but his
letters were intercepted, for your grandfather was a shrewd, resolute
man. Then he came to Pinewood, but he was not allowed to see your mother.
The poor boy was frantic; but before he could effect any thing your
mother was the wife of Colonel Wayne. Then, in the same ship in which he
had come from India, he returned; and after he was gone all his letters
were given to me. I wrote to him at once. I told him every thing about
your mother, but there was not much to tell. She never mentioned his name
after her marriage. There were gay parties given in honor of the wedding,
and her delicate, drooping, phantom-like figure hung upon the arm of her
handsome, elegant husband. People said that her maidenly shyness was
beautiful to behold, and that she clung to her husband like the waving
ivy to the oak.
"She did not cling long. She was just nineteen when she was married--she
was not twenty when you were born--she was just twenty when they buried
her. Oh! I did not think of myself only, but of her, when I heard the
saintly youth breathe that plaintive prayer, 'Draw them to thee, for they
wearily labor: they are heavily laden, gracious Father! oh, give them
rest!'
"'No chilling winds or pois'nous breath
Can reach that healthful shore:
Sickness and sorrow, pain and death,
Are felt and fear'd no more.'"
"And my father?" asked Hope, in a low voice.
"He went abroad for many years. Then he returned, and came sometimes to
Pinewood. His life was irregular. I think he gambled, for he and your
grandfather often had high words in the library about the money that he
wanted. But your grandfather never allowed you to leave the place. He
rarely spoke of your mother; but I think he often thought of her, and
he gradually fell into the habit you remember. Yet he had the same
ambition for you that he had had for your mother. He treated me always
with stately politeness; but I know that it was a dreary home for a young
girl. Hope," said Mrs. Simcoe, after a short pause, "that is all--the end
you yourself remember."
"Yes," replied Hope, in the same low, appalled tone, "my father went out
upon the pond, one evening, with a friend to bathe, and was drowned. Mr.
Gray's boys found him. My grandfather would not let me wear mourning for
him. I wore a blue ribbon the day Dr. Peewee preached his funeral sermon;
and I did not care to wear black. Aunty, I had seen him too little to
love him like a father, you know."
She said it almost as if apologizing to Mrs. Simcoe, who merely bowed her
head.
It was past midnight. It was the very moment when Abel Newt was starting
with horror as he saw his own reflection in the glass.
Something yet remained to be said between those two women. Each knew
it--neither dared to begin.
Hope Wayne closed her eyes with an inward prayer, and then said, calmly,
but in a low voice,
"And, aunty, the young man?"
Mrs. Simcoe took Hope's face between her caressing hands. She smoothed
the glistening golden hair, and kissed her upon the forehead.
"Aunty, the young man?" said Hope, in the same tone.
"Was Lawrence Newt," answered Mrs. Simcoe.
--It was the moment when Abel sat at his desk writing the name that Mrs.
Simcoe had pronounced.
Hope Wayne was perfectly sure it was coming, and yet the word shot out
upon her like a tongue of lightning. At first she felt every nerve in
her frame relaxed--a mist clouded her eyes--she had a weary sense of
happiness, for she thought she was dying. The mist passed. She felt her
cheeks glowing, and was preternaturally calm. Mrs. Simcoe sat beside her,
weeping silently.
"Good-night, dearest aunty!" said Hope, as she rose and bent down to kiss
her.
"My child!" said the older woman, in tones that trembled out of an aching
heart.
Hope took her candle, and moved toward the door. As she went she heard
Mrs. Simcoe repeating, in the old murmuring sunset strain,
"Convince us first of unbelief,
And freely then release;
Fill every soul with sacred grief,
And then with sacred peace."