———
BY WM. ALBERT SUTLIFFE.
———
It was the twilight, and we sat alone.We sat alone beside the winter fire—My friend and I—a fire that crackled well,And sounded through the stillness as a flameShoots through the dark. The embers of the sunHad died to ashes. While it sunk we talkedOf Love, of Beauty, Poetry and Hope,Which are religion. For, is Beauty loved,Then God is loved, and in our loving weDo emulate his noblest attribute.But all our words had failed to silentness,And memories clustered in the heart’s twilight,As shadows in a wood; and all was still.But in the quietness there seemed to growA sympathetic mood, and we to look,As through glass, into each other’s mind,Calm reading, while our thoughts and feelings vergedIn a soft sadness to one common point.Then low I spoke:—“Were it not sweet and wellTo die from out this chaos of a lifeInto the waiting dark, and leave our toilTo stronger minds and hands? To spurn the clay,And mount the crystal air in spiral gyre,Glad-voiced, and angel-winged, like bird uncaged?I think it sweet! or so it seemeth now,When I look back, as down a charnel-vault,Into the retrospect, and see it all;—See every should-be that was never done,And every would-be that has died its death,And my hot dreams, and my distempered hopes,Pictured in light and dark as on a wall.”Then in the dusk I ceased, and so we sat,With hearthward faces, but with upward thought.I saw my words drop, pebble-like, down deepInto his inmost mind, and there they lay,While he, with careful quiet, shaped response,And then, abstract, as to himself, replied:—“’Tis speaking well, and yet not speaking well!For in the web of life are golden threads—And in the sky of life are brilliant stars—And on the sea of life are favoring gales—Or we should wither all as flowers in drought.He who doth pilot the great universe,Doth mete and parcel out the light and dark,Strange, varicolored, like a wanderer’s dream;—And He that made the man hath made his work.And in the bark of life hath given the oarAt which to tug and toil until the death;Nor yet all toil; for oft the summer seaRipples on bloomy shores, whence balmy windsBring a rich, spicy life to make one glad.We thrid wild mazes not without a clue—We sink again to soar as eagles do—We deeply quaff at the rare desert founts,And so plod on to fair oases green,Where rustling palms nod to the welcome wind—While with the sun of our own minds we shineOn planetary minds, and light, and cheer,And lead then to a loftier, brighter end.All this is well: So let the creature’s wishCircle its scanty orbit round and roundWith borrowed light from the Creator’s will.”Then I again:—“We are but merest dropsThat swell a deathward torrent, or as grainsOf sand, which make up a conglobéd sphere,And he that is fore’er undoes the workOf him that has been, through the whirl of time.What profits it to weave a golden webWhich all our heirs may rend above our grave!To pile our treasuries with yellow dustThat every reckless future wind may blow!To think to be unthought in coming years!To write to be the jest of fresher times!All this is emptiness! I wish the end.”What he had said I know not, for the wind,Which had blown fitful since the red sun sunk,Came in fierce gusts against the window now—Bringing large drops that pattered chill and loud.Then our talk changed to what might be afar—To the rude ocean, and the marinersDriven by windy war on unknown coasts,To sin and sorrow in this poor, poor world,And all those dreary themes akin to tears.So mused we in the dusk a gentle space,A cloudy dreamer I—my friend, that trodThe green hills of his own complacencyLike any king.
It was the twilight, and we sat alone.We sat alone beside the winter fire—My friend and I—a fire that crackled well,And sounded through the stillness as a flameShoots through the dark. The embers of the sunHad died to ashes. While it sunk we talkedOf Love, of Beauty, Poetry and Hope,Which are religion. For, is Beauty loved,Then God is loved, and in our loving weDo emulate his noblest attribute.But all our words had failed to silentness,And memories clustered in the heart’s twilight,As shadows in a wood; and all was still.But in the quietness there seemed to growA sympathetic mood, and we to look,As through glass, into each other’s mind,Calm reading, while our thoughts and feelings vergedIn a soft sadness to one common point.Then low I spoke:—“Were it not sweet and wellTo die from out this chaos of a lifeInto the waiting dark, and leave our toilTo stronger minds and hands? To spurn the clay,And mount the crystal air in spiral gyre,Glad-voiced, and angel-winged, like bird uncaged?I think it sweet! or so it seemeth now,When I look back, as down a charnel-vault,Into the retrospect, and see it all;—See every should-be that was never done,And every would-be that has died its death,And my hot dreams, and my distempered hopes,Pictured in light and dark as on a wall.”Then in the dusk I ceased, and so we sat,With hearthward faces, but with upward thought.I saw my words drop, pebble-like, down deepInto his inmost mind, and there they lay,While he, with careful quiet, shaped response,And then, abstract, as to himself, replied:—“’Tis speaking well, and yet not speaking well!For in the web of life are golden threads—And in the sky of life are brilliant stars—And on the sea of life are favoring gales—Or we should wither all as flowers in drought.He who doth pilot the great universe,Doth mete and parcel out the light and dark,Strange, varicolored, like a wanderer’s dream;—And He that made the man hath made his work.And in the bark of life hath given the oarAt which to tug and toil until the death;Nor yet all toil; for oft the summer seaRipples on bloomy shores, whence balmy windsBring a rich, spicy life to make one glad.We thrid wild mazes not without a clue—We sink again to soar as eagles do—We deeply quaff at the rare desert founts,And so plod on to fair oases green,Where rustling palms nod to the welcome wind—While with the sun of our own minds we shineOn planetary minds, and light, and cheer,And lead then to a loftier, brighter end.All this is well: So let the creature’s wishCircle its scanty orbit round and roundWith borrowed light from the Creator’s will.”Then I again:—“We are but merest dropsThat swell a deathward torrent, or as grainsOf sand, which make up a conglobéd sphere,And he that is fore’er undoes the workOf him that has been, through the whirl of time.What profits it to weave a golden webWhich all our heirs may rend above our grave!To pile our treasuries with yellow dustThat every reckless future wind may blow!To think to be unthought in coming years!To write to be the jest of fresher times!All this is emptiness! I wish the end.”What he had said I know not, for the wind,Which had blown fitful since the red sun sunk,Came in fierce gusts against the window now—Bringing large drops that pattered chill and loud.Then our talk changed to what might be afar—To the rude ocean, and the marinersDriven by windy war on unknown coasts,To sin and sorrow in this poor, poor world,And all those dreary themes akin to tears.So mused we in the dusk a gentle space,A cloudy dreamer I—my friend, that trodThe green hills of his own complacencyLike any king.
It was the twilight, and we sat alone.
We sat alone beside the winter fire—
My friend and I—a fire that crackled well,
And sounded through the stillness as a flame
Shoots through the dark. The embers of the sun
Had died to ashes. While it sunk we talked
Of Love, of Beauty, Poetry and Hope,
Which are religion. For, is Beauty loved,
Then God is loved, and in our loving we
Do emulate his noblest attribute.
But all our words had failed to silentness,
And memories clustered in the heart’s twilight,
As shadows in a wood; and all was still.
But in the quietness there seemed to grow
A sympathetic mood, and we to look,
As through glass, into each other’s mind,
Calm reading, while our thoughts and feelings verged
In a soft sadness to one common point.
Then low I spoke:—“Were it not sweet and well
To die from out this chaos of a life
Into the waiting dark, and leave our toil
To stronger minds and hands? To spurn the clay,
And mount the crystal air in spiral gyre,
Glad-voiced, and angel-winged, like bird uncaged?
I think it sweet! or so it seemeth now,
When I look back, as down a charnel-vault,
Into the retrospect, and see it all;—
See every should-be that was never done,
And every would-be that has died its death,
And my hot dreams, and my distempered hopes,
Pictured in light and dark as on a wall.”
Then in the dusk I ceased, and so we sat,
With hearthward faces, but with upward thought.
I saw my words drop, pebble-like, down deep
Into his inmost mind, and there they lay,
While he, with careful quiet, shaped response,
And then, abstract, as to himself, replied:—
“’Tis speaking well, and yet not speaking well!
For in the web of life are golden threads—
And in the sky of life are brilliant stars—
And on the sea of life are favoring gales—
Or we should wither all as flowers in drought.
He who doth pilot the great universe,
Doth mete and parcel out the light and dark,
Strange, varicolored, like a wanderer’s dream;—
And He that made the man hath made his work.
And in the bark of life hath given the oar
At which to tug and toil until the death;
Nor yet all toil; for oft the summer sea
Ripples on bloomy shores, whence balmy winds
Bring a rich, spicy life to make one glad.
We thrid wild mazes not without a clue—
We sink again to soar as eagles do—
We deeply quaff at the rare desert founts,
And so plod on to fair oases green,
Where rustling palms nod to the welcome wind—
While with the sun of our own minds we shine
On planetary minds, and light, and cheer,
And lead then to a loftier, brighter end.
All this is well: So let the creature’s wish
Circle its scanty orbit round and round
With borrowed light from the Creator’s will.”
Then I again:—“We are but merest drops
That swell a deathward torrent, or as grains
Of sand, which make up a conglobéd sphere,
And he that is fore’er undoes the work
Of him that has been, through the whirl of time.
What profits it to weave a golden web
Which all our heirs may rend above our grave!
To pile our treasuries with yellow dust
That every reckless future wind may blow!
To think to be unthought in coming years!
To write to be the jest of fresher times!
All this is emptiness! I wish the end.”
What he had said I know not, for the wind,
Which had blown fitful since the red sun sunk,
Came in fierce gusts against the window now—
Bringing large drops that pattered chill and loud.
Then our talk changed to what might be afar—
To the rude ocean, and the mariners
Driven by windy war on unknown coasts,
To sin and sorrow in this poor, poor world,
And all those dreary themes akin to tears.
So mused we in the dusk a gentle space,
A cloudy dreamer I—my friend, that trod
The green hills of his own complacency
Like any king.
MONDE HEDELQUIVER.
A TALE OF WINTER-LIFE IN NEW ENGLAND.
———
BY THE AUTHOR OF “SUSY L——’S DIARY.”
———
ROSAMONDE HEDELQUIVER TO EDITH MANNERS.
Danville, December 2, 1851.
At last, I have found a spot where, for myself, there can be no want; where I can sit and write in peace letters to you, my friend, and stories for the magazines. By the last, I shall win money, and, perhaps, laurels; although, I confess, I care little now for them—that is, for the laurels—if I can earn money. If I have genius, this may truly seem a poor aim; but, if I have genius, so have I along with it such a dread of what is heavy, and sordid, and perpetually toilsome—of extreme poverty; in short, so have I a longing for beauty, for ease, for a still home of plenty, so that sometimes I could stretch out my hands and cry, with an imploring voice—not as good Agar did, but—“Give me riches, oh! give me riches.” Yet, Heaven knows that it is not to be greatly rich that I desire; but to be so far supplied, that there need be no forebodings whenever it is seen that my parents’ steps begin already to be slow, and their eyes dull; so that there may be beautiful things in our home, and land about it which is ours, on which we may tread with independence, on which we may see the trees and the plants growing, on which God’s sunshine shall fall, and His rain, and His dews, so that we may feel him near, and know that our mother Earth is to us a good mother.
This is what I long for, when shut up in our close rooms in the city, morning, noon, and night. In the night, tears of yearning—mingled with the fear that it is never to be satisfied—go drop, drop on my pillow, until my head is ready to burst. Then I brush them away, and say—“God forgive me, his poor child, if, in my longing for what I have not, I forget the gratitude due for what I have.” Then come penitential feelings and, again weeping, I say—“Father, do with me as seemeth good in thy sight!” I would be able to say this at all seasons, working still with cheerfulness and trust in God’s ways: but He knows I cannot; that often when I would praise Him I can only pray, and beg Him to do that for me which Ifeelto be my great need.
But hear! I complain, I sigh. I sit here, buried in my own egotism, while the bright sunshine lies on the pure white fields, hills, and mountains, and the troops of merriest birds play with the new-fallen snow. I shall go and see them, and feed them with crumbs, as once a brown-haired boy, who now is gray-headed—my father—used to do.
Evening.
Uncle Hedelquiver said this morning, as he folded his paper, after breakfast was over—
“You had better ride this morning, Monde. Take Kate, she is hard on the bit; but all the better. I like this grappling with tough-bitted circumstances. It is exactly what you need to do. You have the name your old grandmother Hedelquiver had in her day. You can see yourself that you are like that portrait up there; and I want you to get hold of her energy—her kind of life. You have been an idle child compared with her, I fancy.”
“No doubt of it, uncle,” said I, with tears choking me. “But, because I have been so penned up there in the city, and by our bad circumstances, I could not do any thing but fold my hands and sigh, and long for better things to come to me.”
“Well, well, there is room here you see,” tossing his hand a little toward the window, through which we see the pine-covered Green Mountains that are near, and the snowy White Hills that are far, but gigantic and splendid to see. “You had better go the road we went yesterday,” preparing to leave the room, “over the hills. It is stinging cold up there, but all the better for that.”
Aunt dreaded the hills—
“I would let her go down the other way,” begged she.
“No—if she is wise, she will face the cold and wind—see the snow-birds out there!—and you are a little bit wise aint you, Monde?” with a smile the sweetest and most beaming one ever sees on mortal face. It is the more enlivening to see, because his brow when he is grave is so dark, heavy, and over-arching. It is pleasant therefore that he smiles often, when he is talking—that is, if he talks of the things that he values.
“O, I don’t know, uncle,” I replied. “I fear I have little wisdom or little any thing worth having. But I would like the bracing wind and this gleaming sunshine on the hills, at any rate. It must be glorious!—Is Kate fond of being mounted? Has any one ever rode her?”
“Many times. As I said before, she is hard-bited, but kind.” This is all uncle would have said; for he looks forward, leaving the dead to bury their dead. But aunt said, with drooping figure and dreamy voice—
“Poor Alice used to ride her very often when Alfred was here—at any other time she was afraid. But, then, he used to ride John, and urge her out. He was always anxious that she should ride often, although I am sure I don’t know why.” No, aunt seldom knows why things are thus and so, which is something of an annoyance to uncle, to whom most things in physics and metaphysics are merest transparencies. “John was such a headstrong horse,”resumed aunt, looking dreamily down on the crumb of bread she was rolling along the table-cover; “he was so headstrong, and Alfred not accustomed to the saddle—living in the city, as he has, for so many years. I was never easy when they were gone. I was always expecting that something bad would happen to them in some way.”
“There was never the least danger—not the least danger!” said uncle. “They were much too cautious for this. It was laughable, seeing the jog-trot they kept. Monde, your aunt will make a coward of you, if she can. She, for her own part, gets ten thousand needless hurts as she goes along in dread of their coming upon herself, or some of the rest of us. Isn’t this true, Alice?”
“I don’t know, I am sure. Perhaps I do,” replied aunt.
“You certainly do. Say, Monde, will you ride?” with an impatient jerk of his fine shaggy head.
“Yes, sir,” said I, springing promptly to my feet; for I felt, as I often do when he speaks to me, as if the current of his own electrical force ran through my brain and limbs—“over the hills, uncle mine, or anywhere!”
“That’s sensible,” replied he, with a look of hearty approbation. “Put on your things—I will have Kate at the door in five minutes.”
Heavens! how gorgeous is the winter landscape, when our sky is as blue as Italy’s, when the sun is on hills and mountains, and the blue shadows are in all the valleys and beside all the little knolls; when the dark firs, and pines, and hemlocks, and theblack-hazel-blossoms are fringed and tufted with the new-fallen snow, and the crows and jays go screaming, and the blood in all one’s veins is astir with the new life that comes on every breath.
“Father,” I said, lifting reverently upward the eyes that had been wandering over the beautified scene, “Father, accept Thou the love of Thy child. Help her to be always thankful to Thee.”
But, directly, between me and the Father, between me and His glorious earth came dark visions of my poor home, and of my parents, held back from a clear strong life, by their shame-faced poverty and pride. For you must be told, friend of mine, that we are much poorer than even you, who have seen us all and our home many and many a time, believe; and that we grow really poorer every day, because, with all our pains-taking and studiously-contrived appearances of competency, my father makes no head-way in engrossing popularity, and, therewith, the business that pays liberally. We brush and brush—or papa and mamma do—to move the dust and bring back the old polish and prime, and then go forth with lofty heads and independent feet; and papa talks in a brisk way of “My client A—; my clients, Messrs. B— and C—;” of the case of D—versusE—, and F—versusG—. Meanwhile, you have seen what mamma does—with what care she preserves her fine complexion, her natural graceful curls, into which the threads of silver are already coming; her cashmere long shawl and black silk gown, that were hers at her marriage—they look no older than most shawls and gowns do after five years’ service, and they have seen twenty-five. In these she goes out to the shops, and looks at carpets and mirrors andtête-à-têtes, as if she were a duchess. And she lets it be known, if it will come in gracefully in any way, that she is Mrs. Hedelquiver, and that her husband is Jerome Hedelquiver, Attorney at Law, V— Street. My father really did get a case, worth a hundred dollars to him, of a dealer, who hoped that, in compliment thereto, my mother would spend all the fee and other additional fees for his upholstery.
We laughed over it. My father called it “capital;” but he and my mother both sighed after it. I presume their souls—so deep within them, so gentle toned as seldom to be heard above the clamor that “the strong circumstances” make in controlling the hands, the lips, and the brain—spake then so as to be heeded, though not long. The hands, the lips, and the brain soon took up again their worldly, time-serving ways. My father talked again of his clients, my mother priced velvets and Axminsters. I would not say this to you, dear Edith, but that you have already seen the same when visiting us; and but that you are the friend of my soul, to whom I must speak of that which is so poor and so sorrowful to me, especially now that I have looked attentively upon uncle’s sincere, manly life.
Uncle’s circumstances are very different to my father’s—this is true. He is a very wealthy and distinguished man. Yet if he were as poor as my father—he would never mind this—he would keep Truth close beside him wherever he went, in whatever action he performed, in whatever words he spake. This would make him free and strong, indeed; and the freedom and strength would lay hold on success. Thus, in seeking first the kingdom of heaven, all these things for which the poor man seeks now first, and last, and at all times, would without pains-taking on his part, be added unto him. Would that he could see it—would that he were more quiet—happier! for I pity him so!
And I have seen men poorer than he, and less distinguished in learning and in an agreeable exterior, whom I cannot, by any view of their condition, bring myself to commiserate, any more than I can commiserate Christ. And you know, dear Edith, we may look at his life on earth as we will, at the hunger, the dusty journeyings, the thorns, the spear, the bitter cup, the blind revilings that came with them all, and the death of shame and lengthened agony, still it fills our hearts with praise—it is the sublimest destiny ever fulfilled on the earth! I will tell you what I desire more and more; what I desire now, at this still hour, above every other thing—and this is, to be so much like Christ, as to attain aperfectmastery of myself, so that none of the outward things shall move me. Christ’s excellence lay in this—did you ever think of it? Proffered crowns and kingdoms, the trammels of time-honored usages, threats at his side and a cross before him, all fell short of moving his soul. This never swerved a hair’s breadth from its high purpose, from beginning to end. And I would be able to look out from a quiet,inward life, and say to the world—“Poor world! enslaved and enslaving! Struggling, vain world; we love thee, we pity thee—poor world! We would die for thee, if the time might come when our blood would have the efficacy of a good martyr’s in healing thee. But we bow to thee, we follow thee, take up thy mummeries no more. For within us, the life breathed into us of God, the life that is divine and glorious—far beyond all that thou hast to offer, comes gently forward for its development into our daily thought and action. Poor world!dearworld! after this, the God of the true life helping us, while with thee we are above thee!”
But, my dear child Edith, I remember that you like short sermons, while, on the other hand, tales may be ever so long, ever so often told. I have no tale for you yet. We will wait and see what will come hereafter. Thine, dear,
Monde Hedelquiver.
——
MONDE HEDELQUIVER TO EDITH MANNERS.
Danville, Dec. 15, 1851.
“Rosamonde,” said Aunt Alice one morning, as she sat stitching a wristband; and her voice had an ominous cadence.
“What would you say to me, aunt?”
I looked up from my paper, but she had turned her face from me a little, and bent it low over her work, as if what she was going to say had a certain sort of wickedness in it that made her ashamed. “What would you say, aunt?” I repeated.
“Why it isn’t much; but I was thinking that if Alfred Cullen comes up while you are here—and I have an idea that he will—I hope you will try to like him.”
“Or rather, aunt, you hope I will like him without trying, don’t you?”
By the way, I wonder if you remember that Alfred Cullen was the betrothed of Cousin Alice. He still wears his weeds for her; still comes up here every few months, and sits at her piano playing the airs that she used to play most. Uncle and aunt say that he is very pale and very noble, with the air of one who follows Christ close at his feet; that he is gentle and loving like a child; always forgetful of himself, never forgetful of others. You see he is quite a miracle of goodness. If he comes, I fear I shall have a panic as long as he stays.
“Thatwouldbe better,” aunt replied; “I didn’t think of that. Yes, I hope you will like him with ease—if poor Alice had lived, he would have been her husband. As it is, I can’t wish him to be single always on her account; and, somehow, when I think of his marrying another, I want it to be one who would be a sort of daughter to me and your uncle as well as a wife to Alfred.”
“Yes, that would be pleasant for you,” answered I, feeling something of a panic beforehand. I feel the more of it, because aunt never sees through things that go on clearly, or understands how they go, or how they had best go. So she is always lending a word here and a word there for their adjustment, according to her idea. I thought this all over—covering a piece of waste paper with dashes, dots, and initials—while she considered what must next be said.
She said next, that Alfred is attentive to every body, especially—as she has sometimes thought—to Paulina Monroe, aunt’sniece, who lives in the neighborhood, who was Cousin Alice’s dearest companion, and who is now, as it were, a daughter in the house. Aunt’s “ideas,” of which she has so much to say, are not clear on this head. She has thought that it would not be strange if Alfred were to transfer his affections to Paulina; but she is sure she don’t know how it will terminate. He certainly sits by her a great deal; and when he is here, in summer, walks with her a great deal in the roads and paths she and Alice used to frequent—such as down the hill, through the back lane and the pasture to the old, deserted Fifield house, by the brook, where, as aunt says, the pinks and the roses still bloom, and the apples ripen, albeit the old couple that used to look on their growth have been mouldering this many a year under a hedge close by.
“If he does come while you are here,” again said aunt. “But you are done thinking about it, Rosamonde, and going on with your writing.” She looked as if she were deprecating some hurt I had given her.
“Oh, well, aunt, I am only writing a letter, and can write and talk at the same time.”
“This is strange; but your uncle can do just so, while I can never think of but one thing at a time. What I was going to say was, that you ought to stay longer than you say. Alfred will surely be up in the spring, if he don’t come this winter; and you ought to see our New England scenery in the summer, now that you are old enough to appreciate it. ‘The Switzerland of America’ you know our state has been called, although your uncle says ‘Poh!’ to this. He and Alfred both seem to think New England as good as Switzerland; or, at any rate, good enough without borrowing names for it.”
“As it certainly is, aunt.”
Finding that this was all I had to say, that I had no remark to make respecting Alfred Cullen, she added, hesitatingly—
“Paulina is, to be sure, my ownniece—she and Alice were like twins, almost. She is a good little girl as ever was; but, somehow, it seems to me, ever since you came, that Alfred would like you best.” Again aunt’s voice became a little husky, and again a little panic ran along my nerves. “Still, I do think,” added aunt, “that he grows more particular in his attentions to Paulina every time he comes up. And, lately, they correspond occasionally, although Paulina keeps a close mouth about it, so that neither her mother nor I know what it amounts to. Paulina is reckoned very pretty.”
“She is very pretty, indeed, aunt, with a beautiful complexion.”
“Yes, this is true; but, somehow, her beauty is of a very common kind. Alice’s wasn’t; yoursisn’t. You and Alice are alike, or were, only you have a better form for those who like dignity. And you have more courage: you are all Hedelquiver; she was half Monroe.”
“You estimate me very kindly, dear aunt,” said I, grateful for the cordial words and tones.
“Well, I like you, somehow, better and better every day. You are calm and strong, like your uncle. I always like to have such people with me, I suppose because I am so nervous and weak myself. Alfred is nervous, too, I think, although he commands himself perfectly.”
Thus it was Alfred, Alfred, all day, and for, many days, until I was quite tired of it; until I wished that there was no Alfred Cullen in the universe. She said to me this morning, in a way as if she were doubtful whether it would recommend him to me—“Alfred writes beautiful poetry, they say. I saw a piece he wrote on ‘Night,’ and it was very beautiful I thought.”
“Writes poetry, does he!” said I, determined to exorcise him and his praises. “I am sorry! I can never bear a man to be always scribbling poetry, whenever the moon shines, or any thing happens.”
Dismayed now, in her turn, aunt put in numberless disclaimers, which amounted to this—Why, she has heard, to be sure, that he does sometimes write very pretty poetry, and that some of it comes out in the “Tribune;” that, in fact, she has seen one piece with her own eyes—Paulina had it, she cut it out of the Tribune. But, for all that, he has as much energy and manliness as those have who never touch a pen but in keeping their accounts. She wouldn’t have me think, for a thousand worlds, that he is an effeminate, moon-struck young man. She hopes he will come up: she has no doubt he will while I am here, and then I shall see with my own eyes!
Yes, then I shall see, Edith mine, and then you shall hear about it. One thing troubles me—I fear aunt will be bumping our heads together every five minutes, in the way of making us like each other; that is, if he comes, as I presume he will by some device of aunt’s. If she does manœuvre in a way the least bit gross, I foresee—that I can live through it, to be sure, as one can live through every sort of vexation and grievance if one will. But I shall be very still, and very tall; and, moreover, so repulsive in various ways, that he will be propelled with something of a shock to the far corners of the room, as often as he meditates approach to me.
You should see how I thrive. The hardiest imp out at the red school-house on the corner, who does not once cease to turn sommersets, snow-ball, make pyramids and snow-images, and beat the snow from his iron-like boots, is hardly stronger, browner, hungrier than I am. For you see, I ride out often with uncle and aunt to call on substantial families, where are warm fires in two or three rooms, where great red and green apples and snapped-corn go round, if we can stay no more than fifteen minutes, and where, at any rate, a few lively jokes fly right and left, and a few earnest, friendly things are spoken, and promises of an early “visit” interchanged. We meet other sleighs, we pass them; they pass us, like lightning, with young village gents in them, and I am ready to go over the moon at the sound of the merry bells. Kate and I go up hill and down, let the weather be as it will. Yesterday, as if we were one feature of the storm, we went on and on, chasing the snow-clouds that were trooping over the fields and roads, and the snow-clouds that were trooping, chasing us. This morning it was still and splendid for a feathery hoar-frost clung to every branch and spray, and glittered in the early sun. It was stinging cold, as aunt forwarned me, the air “cut like a knife.” But I liked it—I felt it invigorate me every moment and prepare me for the rest of the day—for the rest of life; for I see it plainer and plainer, that every wholesome pleasure, and every wholesome sorrow, not the less, is such a preparation. Therefore, welcome all experiences, I will accept them as the loving child of Him who metes them out.
I am up early. This is easy for me here, for kitchen, dining-room and back-parlor are warm before six o’clock, and all in the house are moving. So that I write a great deal, and write well, as I believe you will say when you read what I have written. The publishers’ praise me and—pay me. Twenty-five dollars came from Philadelphia yesterday. Every cent of this (for I can have no wants of my own here) I shall send to my dear father. If he has only a few bits of silver in his purse, and no business, twenty-five dollars will go quite a long way in purchasing comforts. I am thine, dearest,
Rosa.
——
MONDE TO EDITH.
Wednesday, Dec. 24th.
Blessed Edith! Guess who said this to-day, after I had been reading aloud in the Westminster Review—“I don’t understand a word, hardly, about this constructive policy and conservative elements, or what sort of difference there is between them. It indeed, seems to me that they must mean really the same thing. Don’t it to you?”
“Oh no, aunt.”
“No, I suppose not; for you are like your uncle. He talks about these things a great deal, and about the political economists, too, as if they were something like gods—or very mischievous men, for I am sure, now I think about it, I can’t tell which it is—whether he approves them or not. At any rate, if they are wise and good men, I think he is as good as the best of them can be, I am sure”—with a long sigh, and listlessly drawing the point of her needle along the hem she was making—“there isn’t an hour, hardly, that I am not wondering at all he knows, and wishing that I were a hundredth part as wise.”
“I wouldn’t mind this, aunt. You are good and kind, and everybody loves you. Aunt! aunt! see! Ponto has upset your basket; he is eating your spools, isn’t he? What a naughty dog.”
Ponto took the reproof for so much coaxing, andcame scrambling over me. Aunt half-sighed, half-laughed, and said—
“This is the way Ponto serves me, if I don’t see to him. And I never do see to him, or any thing else, when I am talking or trying to think closely, never; I am discouraged sometimes, especially when I think how different you and your uncle are; and Mother Hedelquiver would see to twenty things, as if they were but one—I would give all the world that I could do the same. Ponto, Ponto, be still, or I will box your ears!”
But he didn’t be still, nor did aunt box his ears. He slipped off from beneath her hand and ran over the carpet like a bewitched thing, with a sleeve of the dress aunt was making in his mouth. He is a splendid little spaniel, the pet of all in the house, and I believe the fellow knows it.
I have had letters from home since I wrote before, and see what my mother says—“You are right, my good Rosamonde, truth is best for us; not only for its own great sake, but, as you, say, we feel so much better and nobler every way when speaking and acting it; and, besides, it serves us best in the end. It has been serving us a good turn, as you shall hear presently.
“Mrs. Hayden called here the day that we got your last. You know I have always tried to keep up appearances before her more than almost any other, she has things in such style at home. If she has ever called when I was feeling discouraged about our affairs I brushed the depression all away, you know, and was as lively and full of this and that thing that was going on, as if I hadn’t a care in the world. I was, in fact, never myself for one minute in her company until that day. Well, when she came in I was alone, your father was going here and there in the city, to make it appear that he had a great deal on his hands I have no doubt, and I was in tears over your letter—I brushed the tears off a little, but they ran again as soon as she began to speak kindly to me; and she was really as kind as a woman could be, Rose—so I told her all about our discouragements, how long they have lasted, how they were growing deeper, and all; and read her your letter and showed her the bank-bills. She was very sober, and as I had never seen her so before, it didn’t seem to me that it could be the same Mrs. Hayden that usually comes in once in six months, and after sitting fifteen minutes, talking of the weather, crotchet-work, her domestics and the like, goes out again as cold and stately as she came. She sat close beside me, and threw off her bonnet when she found the strings troublesome. She said she wished I had spoken of these things before, for that your father might have been helped to a good business in the first of it, as well as not. She told me to be of good courage, to be thankful that I have such a daughter. Here her tears started and mine ran again—she said she would speak to her husband, his brother, and hers, and all would soon be right.
“And allisright. Two retainers have already come in, one of fifty dollars, another of twenty. Old Judge Bailey sent for your father the other day—the judge is uncle to Mrs. Hayden; your father read with him six months, but never had put himself in his way, and so the judge had quite lost sight of him. He told your father that he would be in need of him often, and that if he—the judge, I mean—does sometimes scold and send the chairs against the wall when the gout is on him, your father must let it go as if it were a little rain and hail; he will give him, at the same time that he scolds, good work and good pay. I hope he wont scold, for I think your father is too proud to bear much—he would sooner sacrifice the work and the pay. I am afraid that nearly all these energetic patrons are either cross or whimsical, or have some troublesome fault. Your father says that, according to your Uncle Frederick’s philosophy of compensation, they are likely to have. Well, we must wait and see.
“P. S. I left this for your father to write a little, if he could find time; but he can’t, as true as you live. He is busy early and late with great books, and pens, and sheets of paper, and parcels of documents tied up with red tape. You don’t know how good this seems. He is as happy with it as a child, and proud of being all fagged out. You would be delighted to see him; he looks younger by ten years than he did a fortnight ago. He wants you to come home now. He says he couldn’t have consented to your going to stay so long but that he thought it might be pleasanter for you there. I couldn’t certainly.Ihope you will try to come sooner, for, guess who comes in to inquire about you—Esquire Charles Hayden;ourMr. Hayden’s youngest brother, you know, just home from California when you went away. He has established himself here; has his office close by your father’s; was in last evening, and didn’t want to talk of anybody but you. Mrs. Hayden had been telling him about you.
“Good-bye, dear. Mrs. Hayden has just sent me word that she will call in an hour, with Charles, to take me out to ride with them. I believe it more and more, that truth is best. Don’t you, Rose?”
No, my mother! I should believe it all the same, if, in following after it, you had been led into countless difficulties and tribulations, I should still believe it altogether best, because best for the soul, let what will come—come to the body.
Mr. Marsden, one of the village merchants, went to Boston yesterday, and aunt commissioned him to tell Alfred Cullen, with whom he deals largely, to come up and spend New Year with her and uncle. Now heaven forbid!
Uncle says—“Come, Monde, come and hear what that rascally Louis Napoleon is doing.” I go, for France is, as it were, our next door neighbor in these days.
——
MONDE TO EDITH.
Danville, Dec. 29, 1851.
Isn’t this outrageous bad, Edith? Mr. Marsden brought along, when he came back, a note from Alfred Cullen, saying that he will come to D——; abox of oysters from him for uncle, another of figs for aunt, (and she wants to see me eat them every five minutes; I think it is much the same as if she saw me eating the giver.)
Aunt is so glad to have him come that she hardly knows her head from her feet. She is in danger of stumbling over Ponto, or a foot-cushion, at every turn. She gives more directions to Bessy and Hamlet than ten Bessys and Hamlets could follow. It is well for them that she revokes half of them on the spot; that she modifies the rest according to their liking, and ends with telling them both to go on and do just what they see needs to be done, and to do it in the way they think best. She has no doubt, she says, that it will be done better than she can advise. And so it will assuredly. Bessy has been in the family ten years, Hamlet three; they both have clear brains and strong hands, and, as Bessy says, “have got the hang of every thing from garret to cellar.” This is no light achievement, for one does not often see so large a house, or such overflowing abundance. By the by, do you know that uncle has paid our house rent for the last ten years, and given us money and other things beside? I am thinking that, if you do not, you may be calling him “a miserly old fellow.” He has offered my father land, but my mother dreads leaving the city where she was reared. Now I hope you think, as Aunt Alice and I do, that uncle is the best man on earth, except Kossuth—I must say, except Kossuth always; for I believe he is the best man that breathes, or that has breathed, since the days of Christ. Uncle and I talk about him, we read his speeches, and I keep saying in my heart—“the Christ of the nations! the Christ of the nations!” And often a great fear comes over me, that, in another sense than his truth, his self-immolating goodness, his destiny is to be like that of the Christ. My heart is aching for him now—still I can put back the pain, and say, “Father, let it be as seemeth good in Thy sight; for, whether he lives or dies, in him the great cause of freedom and human progress shall be glorified; and he is strong and patient to drink of the cup that Thou givest him.”
Tuesday, 30th.
I think this Alfred Cullen, who will come to D—— to-morrow or next day, must be altogether precious. Even uncle is moved a little. He gives Hamlet orders touching John, and John’s harness, and the oats John must have, that he and his trappings may be in good condition for Alfred’s use. Aunt looks at me and adds some suggestions about Kate. Kate must be fed well and made sleek as can be; for—perhaps—. Aunt goes no further than this “perhaps” of hers, lately—she has seen, I presume, that her plans which embrace Alfred Cullen and me jointly, annoy me. Indeed, I was quite savage over them before she gave them up. Bessy bakes pies, and loaves of all sorts of cake and ginger-bread, without number, and wipes the dust out of every corner. Aunt praises all that she does and all that Hamlet does, puts her caps in order and sponges her dresses. Paulina Monroe, meanwhile, comes in often to look at my collars, under-sleeves and cuffs, that she may make her some like them. Her dress-maker hurries her sewing on a brown Thibet like mine, made like mine, that it may be finished before to-morrow night. Paulina smiles incessantly, has flutter in her manner, and a red spot on each cheek; so that Ponto and I are the only two who go our ways precisely in the usual mode. In truth, I am not sure that Ponto and I are entirely unaffected; we are out of doors more than heretofore, and when in the house are a little less sedate; I can’t bring my mind to my writing as usual, and I shall be glad when his face is set again toward Boston.
Good-night! I shall finish my letter after he comes. I shall tell you now, however, what a beautiful gift I had yesterday from uncle—a plumed Kossuth hat. This is for me to wear when riding. I wore it to-day, and uncle walked round it and me, saying with kindling eyes—“That is splendid! You never looked half so well, Monde, in any thing!” And according to the revelations of the long mirror, I think I never did. But it is a fact, Edith, my fair one, that I am as brown as a berry. Good-bye.
Wednesday, 31st.
Well! Alfred Cullen came this morning while I was gone to ride. We did not expect him until evening, because it is a day’s journey from Boston. But he stopped last evening at St. C——, where he had friends and business, and this morning was brought over.
“Guess who’s in the sitting-room with your uncle and aunt,” said Hamlet, with a broad smile, as he came to help me out of the saddle.
“Paulina, I dare say, Hamlet.”
“No. You go in an’ see who ’t is. Come, Katy.”
I came in straightway, expecting to see Hamlet’s pretty sister, Fanny; but saw, instead, a man of about thirty years; by no means tall, (for a man, that is; he is a little above me,) by no means large, but noble and graceful, and with a look in the highest degree animated and gentle. He and uncle stood face to face, talking energetically and laughing.
“Here she is!” said uncle, as soon as he saw me. “Here’s Monde. Monde, our friend, Mr. Cullen. Our niece, Miss Hedelquiver, Alfred. Ponto, be still; behave yourself, Ponto.”
Ponto wouldn’t behave himself at all, in the way uncle proposed; he was quite too glad to see me. When I would have stepped forward a little to meet Mr. Cullen, he was jumping on my long skirts and catching them in his teeth; and when I would have shaken hands with him, he sprang up between us, and was so unmanageable, that we were forced to dispense with the hand’s-shaking altogether. We called him a vicious puppy and boxed his soft ears a little; but, as we laughed all the while, he only dragged my skirts the more pertinaciously and jumped the higher. And judge you whether I was not glad that he did; glad that I must be busy scolding him and getting my skirts and gloves and riding-stick away from him; for uncle said, turning to Mr. Cullen—
“How do you like Monde’s hat, Alfred?”
“I was just thinking that it is the most becoming thing I ever saw,” replied he.
“I think so,” said uncle.
I can’t very well bear having any thing about my person commended, you know; especially if it brings such eyes as uncle’s and Mr. Cullen’s to bear upon my figure; and so I was glad enough to have aunt come into the room, and forward into our midst, that the survey might be broken.
But it was not long, for aunt looked down on my long train, and then said:
“Paulina has been trying to persuade Rosamonde to put on a Bloomer with her, she didn’t like to adopt it alone. But I think Rosamonde is wise in clinging to the long skirts, especially for riding. Do you like the Bloomers, Alfred?”
“Not at all! not at all!” and his eye ran over my figure again.
“Nor I,” said uncle. “To tell the truth,”—with his eyes on my face—“Monde wrote us spirited letters; I remembered a certain sort of dash and courage in her character, and I was more than half afraid that she would come amongst us looking up out of a Bloomer, and that the first thing she began to talk about would be Women’s Rights. Not, as Heaven knows,” added uncle, with increasing seriousness, “because there is not need of changes here, as every where else; but because the changes proposed are, as it appears to me, poor, one-sided things. I would not, therefore, like to hear so thoroughly sensible a girl as Monde, clamoring for them.”
“You will make Monde blush,” said aunt.
“Not at all,” Aunt Alice, replied I, doffing my hat, “I can bear very well having my brain praised, you know, at any time. Ponto—Ponto, bring me my glove.”
“Yes, that is true,” said aunt. And added, after a moment’s pause—“Ican never make much out of this Woman’s Rights business. With sister Eunice it is ‘equal rights, equal privileges, equal pantaloons,’ and some more, I don’t know what else. I never pretend to understand a word of it.”
This was cunning in aunt. We all had a hearty laugh over it. But good-night, dearest; I will finish in the morning.
Morning.
When I returned to the parlor, after changing my dress, yesterday, uncle and Mr. Cullen sat in their arm-chairs, face to face, talking with thoughtful eyes of Congress and Hungary. If Congress would do thus and so, then Hungary could do so and thus, so and thus. If Congress would not, then God help Hungary. They had their eyes on each other’s face; they appeared as if they two could sit there and talk forever, never once lacking themes of interest, never once tiring of each other’s discourse. And uncle—dear, good man that he is!—let me have a part now and then, by saying—“Yes, this is what I was saying to you yesterday, you remember, Monde.” And then again—“And Monde, I see, thinks the same.” So that he and Mr. Cullen soon came to speak as much to me as to each other.
Aunt came in, in a jet black dress, and rich black lace cap, with scarlet trimmings. She looked happy, and was as fresh and graceful as a girl—only her cap and collar were both awry, and a lock of hair straggled. Her eyes sought Mr. Cullen’s directly.
“Mother,” said he, answering her smile with one as genial, “I am as hungry as a wolf. What are you going to have for dinner, I wonder.”
“Guess.”
“A chicken-pie.”
“Yes! as true as you live. I remembered how you liked them, and we made this on purpose for you.”
“Thank you! you are always kind. What else have you? I am so hungry!”
“Pumpkin pies and toasted brown bread; it will be ready in less than five minutes.”
“Ah, this is good! there is nothing I love so well. But, Ponto, let this paper alone. Here, you little rascal!” (For Pontowas running off with the “Era;” going sideways in a highly comical way, that he might not step on it.) “Ponto grows more roguish: I am afraid you help to spoil him, Miss Hedelquiver.”
And in all that he said and did—I mean Mr. Cullen, of course—he was like a good son, running over with delight and sociability at finding himself beneath the home-roof once more.
“The handsomest pie I ever saw,” said he, as uncle was beginning to carve it.
I looked at aunt, but she would not look at me. She would say—“I think sotoo. Rosamonde put on the cross and border. Neither Bessy nor I should ever have thought of such a thing.”
Mr. Cullen looked up to me, I know, and uncle, too; but I was drinking, and kept my eyes down in my tumbler of water. “I am vexed,” thought I, for one moment, “for this is what she will keep doing.” But the next moment I looked about me undauntedly, and thought—“Yet, if she does, I wont be vexed. I will only do those things that I do in such a way that she can’t hold me up for admiration. Good! I fancy Mr. Cullen will see something not quite so pretty as that chicken-pie, before many days.” And I was full of mirth at thought of the hodge-podge I will perpetrate if I am troubled.
Mr. Cullen went over to Mr. Monroe’s after dinner, and brought Paulina back with him to take her supper with us and spend the evening. She was in the new Thibet, the new collar and under-sleeves, so that she was rather stiff, rather careful about her ways, but pretty as a rose and lily tied together, and Mr. Cullen evidently thought the same. He ate a part of her Baldwin apple, when she complained of its being so large that she could neither hold it with both her hands (and she spread them before him to let him see how much too small they were for that) nor eat it if she could hold it. She didn’t allow Ponto to come very near her new Thibet, or new under-sleeves, and so Mr. Cullen let the little fellow run over himself and me. He played backgammonwith her, game after game, as he talked with the rest, and allowed her to beat him in every game; whereupon she patted his shoulder with her dice-box and called him a careless goose.
“Rosamonde Hedelquiver,” said she to me, as she was putting on her furs to go, “what made you keep on this common-looking dress, and these plain duds,” touching her finger to my linen cuffs and collar. “I thought you would be all dressed up in your best, and so I put these on. I was mad with myself for my pains when I saw you.”
“Ah, this is nothing, any way, Paulina. Here is your hood; it is a beauty.”
“Yes, I like it pretty well. I suppose you’ll ride every day on horseback, just as you have done?”
“I presume so. Let me tie your hood for you. You can’t find the strings, can you?”
“No, my fingers are all thumbs to-night. I suppose Alfred will ride with you. Aunt will teaze him to. He used to ride with Alice; but he never liked it so well as walking, or going in a carriage. But he is one of those who will do every thing that is required of him.”
She was putting on her over-shoes, so that I could not see what sort of expression accompanied these words.
“You needn’t expect to see him here again to-night, Aunt Alice,” said she, hanging on his arm, at the parlor door. “I shall keep him. We’re going to have something for breakfast that he likes best of any thing; and I know he’ll stay for this, if not for any thing else. Wont you, Alfred?”
“No, no, Paulina. Let him come back,” said aunt. “We want him here to-night. Don’t stay, Alfred.”
“No, I will not, mother,” bowing to go.
“Then I will call you an obstinate and real cross pig, if you don’t,” I heard Paulina say, in tones half-laughing, half-pouting, in the hall.
Uncle took up the Tribune; aunt and I drew near the stove to toast our feet a little.
“I think he attends to her and humors her more and more,” said aunt at length, in a dreamy tone. She had been watching a chink in the stove where the flickering blaze was seen. “Don’t you think he does, Frederic? Frederic, don’t you think Alfred really means to make a wife of Paulina?”
“I think likely he does,” replied uncle, at the same time that he went on with his reading, as if he had not spoken, or aunt either.
Aunt kept her eyes on the stove after this until I rose to leave the room. “Good-night dear,” said she then, kissing me lovingly. She looked as if the last of ever so many cherished hopes was on its flight.
I write in a little library that opens out of the back-parlor, and is warmed by the book-parlor stove. Mr. Cullen has just entered the parlor; where he talks softly to Ponto, and rummages the newspapers. Now aunt comes in, and after the morning greetings, she says, clearing her throat—“So you think Paulina improves?”
“In some respects; don’t you?”
“Yes, I suppose she does. But breakfast is quite ready, Alfred. Monde, dear—” coming this way.
“Yes, dear aunt, I come.”
Evening.
This has been the busiest day! I couldn’t even find time to get this already longest of all letters ready for the mail. I will therefore sit here, now that it is all over, now that all have gone to rest but me, and tell you about it; and let me do it in little skirmishing scenes like this.
Scene1.The Breakfast Table.
Judge Hedelquiver.“So Burchard & Bean are lending their interests to the Nicaragua route?”
Mr. Cullen.“Yes; and so are Cornish & Brothers. They are much more substantial.”
Mrs. Hedelquiver.“The Nicaragua route, the Panama rail-road, free trade, and so on—Frederic and Rosamonde think that these are going to do not a little toward making this world all over new. They think they are going to do their part in putting down wars and every sort of thing that isn’t brotherly and according to what the gospel enjoins. Monde, have you water? Oh yes, I see. Now I’ve tried again and again to see what connection there can possibly be between peace and the Panama rail-road, for instance; and I can’t. I don’t half believe there is any—do you, Alfred?”
Mr. Cullen, laughing.“Oh yes, mother?”
Mrs. Hedelquiver.“Yes, I suppose you do. You and Frederic, and Monde think just alike about every thing, I see. Have some more chocolate, Alfred.”
Scene2.The Hall.
Mrs. Hedelquiver.“What do you want to say to me, dear?”
Monde.“I want to tell you—why, aunt, you see I want to write mornings, and then ride when I am tired of it—just as I have done all along. And I have been thinking that Mr. Cullen may feel that it belongs to him to—why, to see to me some, perhaps sometimes to ride with me. But it don’t, you know. I would rather attend to myself, and go alone, as I have done. So you wont let him think, will you, dear aunt, that it is necessary for him on any account, or at any time, to go with me any where.”
Mrs. Hedelquiver.“Why?”
Monde.“Because, if you do, aunt, it will put a disagreeable restraint upon him, and make me very unhappy. I have always been used, you know, to depending upon myself. I have never been a favorite of the gentlemen, or of anybody, except a few kind people who would see that there was something in me somewhere that deserved to be loved.”
Mrs. Hedelquiver.“And this has been a grief to you, dear, Monde? and is at this minute, as I know by the sound of your voice.”
Monde.“Sometimes it grieves me; and then again I am thankful. For it has made me self-reliant, and very loving toward Him who will always be near His child, and love her. Aunt, dear, you will promise not to hint it to him, in the remotest way, that he ought to ride with me, or wait on me at any time?”
Mrs. Hedelquiver, dreamily, and as if againhopes were flying.“Yes, I will promise. But I can’t see what objections you can have to his riding with you. There’s John almost always, you know, in the stable. There is nothing to hinder his going.”
Monde.“Nothing to hinder, if it is his own spontaneous will and wish; otherwise, every thing, in my way of thinking. Come, aunt, you are freezing.”
Scene3.Outside the Gate.
Judge Hedelquiver.“Ready, Monde?”
Monde.“Ready, uncle.”
Judge Hedelquiver.“Wait a moment. I want to tell you, Monde, that I overheard what you said to your aunt in the hall, this morning.”
Monde.“Did you, uncle?”
Judge Hedelquiver.“Yes; but never mind it: It was only a new proof that you are the most sensible girl in creation. It is just the way you ought to feel about it. What he will do of his own accord, let him do; but I will help you in this. I will take care that he don’t do any thing for you because he sees you in need of him.”
Monde.“You are the dearest, best uncle that any poor child ever had! Now, if you will help me.”
Judge Hedelquiver.“There you are! You mount as if you had some little wings up there among the plumes of your hat. I will bet you have.”
Mr. Cullen, appearing at the door with a book in his hand.“What, are you going to ride this morning, Miss Hedelquiver?”
Monde.“Yes, Mr. Cullen.”
Mr. Cullen.“And alone?”
Monde.“Yes, sir. Uncle, my stick, if you please.”
Mr. Cullen, springing forward to pick up the stick.“Now I protest against this! I have been thinking that I wanted to ride—and (laughing a little) that I wanted to ride with you. Let me help you off, now, for a few minutes. I will have John ready in—John is in the stable, isn’t he, judge?”
Judge Hedelquiver.“Yes, and at your service, if Monde will wait—if she wants you to go. Youhaven’t asked her.”
Mr. Cullen.“No! presuming blockhead that I am! Do you want me to go with you, Monde?”
Monde.“If you want to.”
Mr. Cullen.“As I most certainly do. Let me help you. Only I am sorry to give you so much trouble. I am sorry I didn’t know, in the first of it, that you were going. You will tell me next time, wont you?” (opening the gate for Monde to pass in.)
Monde.“I—I believe I sha’n’t promise you.”
Mr. Cullen.“Promise at any rate to let me know it, whenever you are willing to have me with you.”
Monde, with the door half shut between her and him.“I believe I sha’n’t promise that either.”
Mr. Cullen, on his way, with the Judge, to the stable.“Then I will always make you wait for me like this.”
Well, well! I see I might write all night, with my scenes first to twentieth, inclusive. But I sha’n’t. I shall go to bed, after I have told you that the morning ride was altogether delightful. I never knew such a splendid morning. I never had so agreeable a companion in ride, or ramble, or—I shall say it, Edith, for it is the truth—or any where. And I fancy that he found me—quite tolerable. One could not well be otherwise with him about.
We found company here when we returned—two of the professors from Woodstock, together with Judge Brentwood, and his wife and daughter, from Craftsburg. They all dined here; and things never went off so strongly. I sat by aunt, and helped her serve the guests. When I do this, and she can now and then look over the table into uncle’s always clear, calm face, and listen to his manly expression, she can know pretty well what she is doing, even if she does sometimes venture upon a little conversation.
While we were giving them our adieus at the door, two other sleighs came up with high-headed horses and loud-jingling bells, taking along fresh visitors to spend the rest of the day and the evening with us. They were wealthy farmers, who wanted to talk of horses and oxen, and different breeds of sheep, with uncle; and farmers’ wives, who talked with most interest with aunt, when it was upon butter and cheese, and preserves and bread-making. This, as you must see, left Mr. Cullen and me pretty much to ourselves. But we were at no loss. I can’t see how one can ever be at a loss with him; for his vigorous and fresh thought readily comprehends all the philosophy of nature, of morals, and of life; and he communicates himself, as it were, and all that is in him, so magically that—
But, see if I am going to write all night! A happy New Year, dearest. Extend the greetings of the season to all in your house.
Thy Loving Monde.
——