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Trumps: A Novel, a novel by George William Curtis |
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Chapter 75. Reminiscence |
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_ CHAPTER LXXV. 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!'
"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, |
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