Mrs. Howe returned with the lilac hat in her possession, and her purse lighter by some scores of dollars. She had also a new Honiton pelerine, a thirty-dollarmouchoir, and a gold bracelet, all of which she spread out upon the silken coverlet of her bed, walking round and round it, with very unequivocal glances of admiration.
"Has that old woman gone?" she asked, as Patty answered the bell.
"Yes, ma'am; just gone, and desired her respects to you."
"Well, her room is better than her company. Hand me my wine-colored brocade, Patty, from the wardrobe, a pair of silk stockings, and my black satin slippers. Now give me my frilled under-sleeves. Dinner going on, Patty? I thought I smelt something burning as I came in; perhaps it was only my fancy."
"I am sure it was, ma'am—the pies has had a lovely bake, and so has the custards and puddings."
"I hope Nancy put vanilla in her custards," said Mrs. Howe. "Tell her I want wine in thepudding-sauce; and tell her to strew grapes over the dishes of oranges."
"Yes, ma'am."
"And, Patty?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"Tell Betty—where's my other slipper? Oh! here it is—tell Betty—did you take down my wine-colored brocade, Patty?—tell Betty—it's no matter, Patty; I don't know what I was going to tell you."
Patty had nearly closed the door, when she again heard her name called.
"I've just thought what I wanted to say, Patty: did you clean the silver, this morning?"
"Yes, ma'am."
"And wash the parlor looking-glass?"
"You told me not to do that, ma'am."
"Oh! so I did. Where's my other under-sleeve? Gracious! you burned a hole in it, ironing it. Oh, no; it is a fuzz of black silk sticking to it. There, do go along, Patty; I want to dress;" and the fussy Mrs. Howe locked the door, and gave herself up to the undisturbed contemplation of her new Honiton pelerine and gold bracelet.
Dinner had been satisfactorily discussed, and Mrs. Howe sat back in her cushioned chair to the work of digestion, and self-appreciation, while John retired to smoke.
A visitor is announced. (Enter Mrs. Flynn.)
The usual very sincere compliments, were tossed shuttle-cock fashion from one lady to the other, Mrs. Howe, meanwhile, losing no opportunity to display her new bracelet and settle the folds of her new pelerine, which Mrs. Flynn persistently declined observing.
"I amsotired," groaned Mrs. Howe, at length; "if I am stupid, my dear creature, you really must pardon me, for I have been at Du Pont's all the morning. I bought a few trifles of her, this pelerine, only forty dollars, and this cheap bracelet for fifty. Du Pont never is easy till I give her my opinion of her new millinery."
"She prefers the opinion of one qualified, by experience, to be a judge," said the vexed Flynn, alluding to Dolly's former chrysalis state.
Mrs. Howe bit her lip, and pulling themouchoirfrom her pocket, said, "I forgot to show you this seventy-five dollar handkerchief. I did not need anycommonhandkerchiefs, but I bought this to please Du Pont."
"I fancied I had seen that, as well as your pelerine and bracelet at Mrs. Gardiner's party last winter," said the fibbing, irritating Flynn.
"Last winter!"—screamed Mrs. Howe—"my dear creature, I wouldn't wear the same garter two winters."
"O, I must have been thinking of somebody else; pardon me, dear, my memory issobad. What kindof servants have you, dear? I am so plagued with servants."
"I have no trouble," replied Mrs. Howe, folding her hands complacently over her pelerine, "for I always pay the highest prices." The rising flush on Flynn's face announced this to be a dead shot.
Taking breath again, however, she came gallantly to the rescue.
"Yes my dear creature, but they are all alike about gossiping; now our Margy, came to me with a long story about a baby which she declares she saw up in your attic, and a young girl, beautiful as an angel, tending it, and an old woman, and a young doctor, and goodness knows what. I told her it was all nonsense, sheer nonsense, for of course you would have spoken of it had there been a baby in your house; did you ever hear such stuff?" asked Flynn, with a triumphant air.
"Never," replied the exasperated Mrs. Howe, stooping to settle her bracelet to conceal her vexation; "I never heed what they say."
"Of course not," said Flynn, who having accomplished her mission, was now ready to depart, before the enemy rallied sufficiently to charge back. "Call and see me, my dear creature; intimate friends like us should not stand upon ceremony. O, I forgot to tell you Finels called on me yesterday. Bon jour;" and Flynn made good her retreat with flying colors.
"Spiteful creature!" said Mrs. Howe, "she knows she never saw that pelerine, or bracelet, ormouchoir, before this morning. I shall go mad. And that baby business, too; if she had not floored me so unexpectedly on that, I could have said a few things that would have shut her mouth. I know that an own cousin of her husband is servant-man at Mr. Jenks's; but my bright thoughts never come till afterward. Yes, I will go and see her, as she requested. She shall hear of it yet, and then we will see. Finels call onher! Finels requiresmindin a female friend," and Dolly turned to the "marked passages" for consolation.
"Bless my soul! you don't mean to say you have been uphereall this time, Rose?" asked John, throwing open the door of the attic. "Why, bless my soul! Mrs. Howe told me that you were fixed very comfortable, and all that. I did not know any thing about it," said the penitent John, gazing at Charley's pale face. "This won't do; you must go down stairs. Why, bless my soul! youshallgo down stairs," and before Rose could reply, John had called Patty.
"Look here," said John, "take all those medicines and traps down into the best spare chamber, and bring up a blanket to wrap the baby in; for these folks are going down stairs."
"But, Mrs. Howe, sir, said that none of us was to wait on 'em on no account, sir, and I—"
"Do what I tell you," said John, "down with these medicines, quick. Why, bless me," he muttered, looking around, "no carpet on the floor, no—why—bless me—" and the good-natured John looked from Rose to the baby, and from the baby to Rose, and at last stooped and gave Charley an atoning kiss.
"Had you not better let us stay where we are?" asked Rose, wishing to avert from the head of herpro tem.protector the storm she knew would be sure to burst upon it. "I am very sorry that Charley was taken sick here, and that we have been so much trouble to you; very sorry that I"—and Rose's voice began to tremble.
"You need not be sorry for any thing at all, any thing," said the distressed John, "so, don't cry, it is a burning sha—well—never mind; give me that little fellow, and follow me down stairs. Why, bless my soul! no carpet on the floor—no—I had no idea of it."
"There now, Patty," said he, facing that astonished damsel, "go fill that ewer with fresh water, and don't wait for these folks to ring to find out whether they want any thing or not."
Patty stared at him as if she thought he were drunk or dreaming.
"D'ye hear?" said John.
"Y—e—s, s—i—r," said Patty, leaving her mouth wide open after this reply, as though there were several little remarks she might make, if she only dared.
Ah, well might little Charley open his wondering eyes at the crimson silk bed-curtains, looped away over his cherub head. He had never lain on so dainty a bed of roses as was embroidered on that gorgeous coverlet; and as Rose sank down beside him into oneof those luxuriously-cushioned chairs, and laid her beautiful head back, with her finely-chiseled profile relieved against its crimson damask, John thought how well both mother and child became their new surroundings.
Yes, Rose's picture should have been taken at that moment, with her unbound tresses, and her little hands crossed in her lap in such dreary hopelessness. But when was she not a picture? and what has beauty ever brought its possessor, but a broken heart?
"You will see the end of this," said Patty, to the cook, laying her forefinger mysteriously on the bridge of her nose. "You will see what's what, when Mrs. Howe comes home; those folks will be tramped back into the attic in double quick time."
"What will you bet on that?" said Nancy; "men get tired after awhile of being led by the nose. I will bet you that pair of gold ear-rings you have been hankering after, that they will stay where they are."
"Done!" exclaimed Patty, "and I will bet you my new silk apron, with the satin pockets, that they go back in the attic in less than twenty-four hours from now. Hark! there comes Mrs. Howe home this minute; now we shall see;" and Patty set the kitchen door wide open, that no sound might escape her.
John was pacing up and down the library, whither he had retired, after moving Rose into the best sparechamber. He was naturally a good-hearted fellow, but his constitutional indolence had made him a willing slave of his crafty, designing wife. John hated nothing so much as trouble. Inch after inch of ground he had yielded to the enemy, rather than contend for its possession. Now that the excitement of his late involuntary declaration of independence was over, he began to reflect upon the probable consequences, to listen nervously for the door-bell; in fact, he felt very much more like running away than "facing the music."
He had done penance before now, by drinking muddy coffee, eating half-boiled potatoes, raw meat, and smoky puddings. He had groaned under three weeks of sulks, with which Mrs. Howe had been afflicted, on account of what she considered his conjugal misdemeanors. He had missed his business memorandum-book for days together; been obliged to go out the back door, instead of the front; had stood on one leg three quarters of an hour at a friend's house, whither he had escorted Mrs. Howe to a party, waiting for that lady to rejoin him to enter the drawing-room; she, meanwhile, reclining composedly in an arm-chair in the ladies' dressing-room, leisurely enjoying the penance she was inflicting. He had been calledoutof the party at an early hour, to wait upon her ladyship home, merely because he seemed to be enjoying it; he had slept with the window open when it was cold, andslept with it shut when it was hot. No wonder John felt a little nervous.
"There it is—there it is," said Patty, rubbing her hands, "there's the bell for me," and up she ran, confident of winning the coveted gold ear-rings.
"Patty?"
"Yes, ma'am."
Mrs. Howe's face was pale with rage as, beckoning Patty to follow her, she pointed through the open door of the best chamber at Rose and the baby, to whom she had not deigned to speak.
"It was Mr. Howe's doings, ma'am. I told him you would be angry, and so I didn't want to have no hand in it, but Lor', ma'am, he made me; it wasn't no fault of mine, because I know'd it was agin' your wishes, and so I made bold to tell him, ma'am."
"Hold your tongue. Take those messes (pointing to the medicines) up into the attic, and then come back and get that baby."
Rose clasped Charley closer to her bosom, for Mrs. Howe's face was demoniac in its rage.
"Out with you," said Mrs. Howe, taking Rose by the shoulder and pointing to the door.
"Patty."
"Yes, ma'am."
"You see now," said that amiable lady, locking the door of the spare room, and putting the key into herpocket, "whom you are to mind—who is master in this house—do you? Go down into the kitchen."
"There—didn't I tell you so?" asked the triumphant Patty of the crest-fallen cook; "now for my gold ear-rings."
"Not that you know of," said Nancy.
"What do you mean? Didn't you say that if—"
"I said," said Nancy, crossing her two stubby forefingers, "that I would bet you that pair of gold ear-rings you wanted, thatthey would stay where they were; meaning that the ear-rings would stay where they were—in the jeweler's shop."
"It is right down mean," said the pouting Patty; "see if I am not even with you before the week is out."
Poor Rose sat down in her old quarters, with Charley in her lap, trying to read in his pale face the probable duration of his sickness. Poor little fellow! he did not like the change. He missed the sheen of the pretty satin curtains, and the glitter of their gilded cornices. They were something for baby eyes to wonder and look at. He had quite exhausted those ugly attic walls, hung with the cook's dingy wardrobe. Even the pretty sunbeams in which babies love to see the little motes glitter and float, had been jealously excluded by the tyrannical Aunt Dolly; so poor Charley had nothing to do but roll his little restless head from side to side, and whimper.
Ah, there is something now to look at! The door creaks on its hinges, and an old crone, bent almost double, her nose and chin meeting, totters in, leaning on a stick. A striped cotton handkerchief thrown over her spare gray locks, and tied under her chin, and an old shawl over her cotton gown, complete her wardrobe.
At any other time this little weird figure, appearingso suddenly, would have terrified Rose; now her despairing thoughts had crowded out every other feeling, so she sat quite still as the old woman hobbled, mumbling, toward her.
"Why, Maria! there now. Iknewyou were not dead. I told them so, but they would not believe a word I said. You look as sweet as a lily. Where is your husband, dear? and little Rose? and all of 'em, and every body? I can't find any body I want to see. I am so tired and lonely. Don'tyougo away now, Maria. Did you buy that little doll for me to play with?" she asked, catching sight of Charley. "It opens and shuts its eyes, don't it dear, just like the waxen dolls? I like it—chut—chut—chut," and the old lady touched Charley under the chin with her wrinkled fingers. "Pull the wire and make the doll laugh again, dear," she said, looking up in Rose's face. "I would like it to play with. I getsotired,sotired. I stole away to-day; Dolly didn't know it. Do you know Dolly? does Dolly strikeyou? What made you stay away such a long time, Maria? Let us go to your house. I don't like to be locked up in Dolly's house. I getsotired,sotired—dearie me—dearie me—where's little Rose, Maria?"
Rose did not answer, for a fight was struggling dimly through her brain. She remembered long years ago, when she first came to Dolly's, that an old woman came there, not so bent as this old crone wasnow, but yet gray haired and wrinkled, and that Dolly spoke harshly to her, and tried to make her go away, and that the old lady cried, and said it was cold at the poor house, and that she was hungry, and then Dolly said she would give her a small piece of money, and something to eat, if she would promise never to come there again; and that Dolly sent her (Rose) into the kitchen till the old lady was gone, but that she had heard all they said through the thin green baize door.
"Maria? why don't you speak? where is little Rose?"
"Is not this little Rose?" asked Rose, compassionately, as she pointed to Charley.
"Sure enough," said the pleased old lady; "I thought it was a doll—sure enough—why—I shall find 'em all by and by, who knows?—But—Maria, why don't it grow any? it is just as little as it was when I saw it last—where did I see it last, Maria?—chut—chut—chut—" she said, tickling Charley's chin again. "Maria? you won't go away again, will you?—youwon't strike me, will you? I'll be very good. Can't I stay here, dear, with you, and the little doll, little Rose? Why don't it grow bigger, Maria? Are you hungry? I am hungry—oh, dearie me—dearie me—"
"Dear, dear grandmother," sobbed Rose, "I love you."
"Love me! do you! what for? did Dolly make you cry too? Maria, where's Rose? Maria, what makes you call your mother grandmother? Do you know Dolly? Dolly is down stairs; I don't go down stairs. See here," and she touched her old faded gown and shawl, "I can't, you see, Dolly wouldn't like it. Oh! dearie me—dearie me! I amsotired," and the old lady laid her wrinkled face against her granddaughter's.
"Voices! and in Rose's room! what new treason now?" and Mrs. Howe applied her ear to the key-hole. The thin gray locks rested lovingly on Rose's glossy auburn tresses. Rose's arm was about her withered neck, and tears fell trickling from her eyes. It was a sweet picture; but the artist might have found a foil to it, in the demoniac face outside the door.
Ah! Rose, the hated Rose, in possession of her secret! Her face grew darker—deadlier. But perhaps she was notyetin possession of it; not a moment was to be lost.
Opening the door, she said, coaxingly, "Why, Betty, are you in here? This won't do. What will the doctor say? You must go back to bed, Betty," and Dolly fixed her basilisk eyes on her cowering victim, who nestled more closely to Rose.
"Poor crazed thing," said Mrs. Howe, "she imagines every body is going to hurt her; by and by she will think so of you. She may kill Charley. I oughtto send her to the Lunatic Asylum; but she is an old servant who used to live in Mr. Howe's family, and so I keep her, though she is so troublesome. Come, Betty!"
"Maria!" whispered the old lady, hoarsely, clutching at Rose's dress—"Maria, tell heryoulove me, Maria."
"I do—I do!" sobbed Rose, unable to restrain herself, as she threw her arms around her.
"Love that lunatic? What should you love her for, I'd like to know?" asked the startled Dolly.
"Because she is my grandmother—my own dear grandmother. Oh Aunt Dolly! hate me, if you will, but love her; she will not live long to trouble any body," and Rose kissed the furrowed temples and stroked back the thin gray locks.
"Well, if I ever!" said Dolly, looking innocent; "I believe the whole world is going mad! Come along, Betty."
"Maria! Maria!" whispered the old lady, again nestling up to Rose.
"There, you see, she is quite out; she fancies you are somebody she has seen before."
"No—she takes me for Maria, my mother," said Rose; "you say that I look like her exactly."
"Come along, Betty!" said the infuriated Mrs. Howe. "Mother and grandmother! you are both as mad as March hares," and seizing "Betty" by the arm, she drew her across the entry into her own den,and turning the key on her, put it in her pocket, and went down into the dining-room.
We have no desire to record her reflections as she sat down to "Moses in the Bulrushes," upon which she had already expended pounds and pounds of German worsted, and who, if ever found by his mother "Miriam," would scarcely have been recognized.
John was in his arm-chair reading theDaily Bulletin. He was perfectly aware of the late overthrow of his domestic authority by Dolly; not that it was by any means the first instance of the kind, but the others had been known to no third party. He trusted for the perpetuity of the declaration of domestic independence which he had lately set up, to its being made publicly before the servants. Mistaken man! Dolly's pride lay in a different direction. Well, it was all over now; he only wondered in his cool moments how he had ever been so mad as to attempt to make Rose more comfortable; but let no man ever say what he will or will not do till he has seen a pretty woman in tears.
Still, John had a rod in pickle for Dolly; his publicly-wounded pride must have some satisfaction. He saw by the gleam of her eye, as she sat down to Moses, that she was that morning particularly deficient in his "meekness." It was a good chance. John cleared his throat, preparatory to improving it.
"Oh, I forgot to tell you, Mrs. Howe," said he,laying down his newspaper, as if a sudden thought had struck him, "Finels asked me the other day who Rose was?"
"Finels! Finels!" screamed Mrs. Howe, sticking her needle vigorously into Moses, "how came Finels to see Rose?"
John's eyes gleamed. "When I waited upon him to the door the other day, Rose was just passing through the entry, with a pitcher of water."
"Just like her, and I told her expressly to go down the back stairs."
"But the carpenter was fixing the back stairs, that day," said John, "she couldn't pass, I suppose."
"I don't suppose any such thing," said Mrs. Howe, "she did it on purpose; I know she did. Well, what did Finels say of her?"
"He said she had the loveliest eyes he ever saw, and that her face was without a flaw."
"What o'clock is it?" asked Mrs. Howe, in a husky voice.
"Just one," said John, "Why?"
"What time does the stage go to Exeter?"
"Three, I believe."
"Believe! don't you know?"
"Yes, I know it goes at three."
"Well, go and order it here at our door by that time. Rose shall go back to old Bond this very day; I won't stand it."
"Is the baby well enough?" asked John, not looking for this painful termination to his little bit of connubial fun.
"I don't care whether it is or not; if you don't get that stage, I will."
"I'll get it," said John, "but—"
"There's no but about it, I tell you she shall go, if that child dies on the road; that's all there is to that," and Mrs. Howe went up stairs to inform Rose of her determination.
Rose had just succeeded in lulling the restless baby to sleep upon her bosom. Upon Mrs. Howe's violent bang of the door after entering the room, he uttered a loud, frightened cry.
"Stop that child, will you?" said Mrs. Howe, "I have something to say to you."
The quick blood rushed to Rose's face, as she nestled Charley to her bosom.
"It is now one o'clock," said Mrs. Howe, drawing out her gold watch, with its glittering chain and trinkets; "the stage will be at the door to take you to Exeter, at three o'clock precisely. Do you understand?" said she, as Rose bent an anxious glance at the sick baby's face.
"I will be ready," said Rose, in a trembling voice.
This mild, acquiescent reply was not what Mrs. Howe desired; she would have preferred something upon which to hinge her pent-up wrath.
"How came that rocking-chair up here, I should like to know?"
"Betty brought it up for old Mrs. Bond."
"Likely story; and Betty told you, I suppose, to parade yourself through the front entry, when Mr. Howe was talking with a gentleman; I know your tricks. I should think you had had enough ofgentlemento last you one while."
"The carpenter was—"
"Don't talk to me about 'carpenters;' where there is a will there is a way; you might have waited for the water."
"It was to mix Charley's medicine," said Rose, with brimming eyes.
"I dare say—such things don't go down with me; pick up your things quick and get ready."
Rose attempted to lay Charley down on the bed, but he began to cry most piteously.
"There is no need of your stopping for him now; he might as well cry for one thing as another; he is always crying, I am sick to death of hearing him; he is perfectly spoiled."
"He is sick," said Rose, stooping to kiss Charley as if he could be pained by Mrs. Howe's heartlessness.
"Well—any how, I am sick of both of you; so hurry, and don't think you are going to stay, because it is beginning to sprinkle," said she, drawing carefully aside one corner of the cook's petticoat as she peeredout the window—"come, make haste now," and Aunt Dolly swept down stairs.
Poor afflicted Mrs. Howe! Flynn had robbed the pelerine and bracelet of their power to charm, and the "marked passages" no longer gave her consolation, for Finels had admired Rose's eyes. Consuelo, too, lies wheezing in his embroidered blanket; dear little Consuelo! it could not be thathewas going to be sick! And Mrs. Howe takes him up gently, strokes his long silken ears, looks into his eyes, and offers him some food, which the pampered little cur refuses.
A scrambling in the blanket!
Consuelo is in a fit!
So is his mistress.
"O, John, for heaven's sake, run for Thomas, he knows all about dogs. Supposing he should die? O dear—make haste; my darling, my darling!" and Mrs. Howe ran up stairs, and ran down stairs, ran for water, and ran for physic, opened the windows, and shut them, pulled round Betty, and Sally, and Bridget, and threatened the whole crew, unless they helped Consuelo, to turn them all out of doors. And then Thomas came, and manipulated Consuelo as only his humbug-ship knew how, and restored the convalescent jewel to its mistress, who wept with delight, and crossed his palm with a five-dollar gold piece, and then Thomas retired, calling down blessings on all over-fed puppies in particular, and credulous women in general.
And Rose!
She crept down stairs as well as her tears would let her, stopping to kneel before the door through which the wailing "dearie me—dearie me," was issuing.
Wrapping Charley in the only shawl she owned, to defend him from the falling rain, she clambered unassisted, up into the stage. The passengers growled when they saw the baby; the rain spattered on the roof, and windows, and the coachman slamming to the door with an oath, cracked his whip, and the stage rolled away.
What pen can do justice to the atmosphere of a stage, omnibus, or railroad car, of a rainy day?
The fumes of alternate whisky and onions, the steaming, cigar-odored coats, the dirty straw soaking under foot, a deluge if you open the window, poison by inhalation if you do not. Charley became more and more restless, while Rose grew still paler, and the drops stood on her forehead, in dread of his prolonged cry.
"I think he will be good with me; let me take him, please," pleaded a sweet voice at her side.
Rose turned, and saw a lady dressed in black, whom she had not before noticed, extending her arms for Charley. Her face was sufficient to win confidence, and Rose accepted her offer. Handling him as only an experienced hand can handle a babe, she changed him with perfect ease from side to side, laid him nowup on her shoulder, now down on her lap, without the slightest appearance of discomfort to herself.
Rose looked the thanks she could not speak; then, stupified with exhaustion and sorrow, she leaned back in the dark corner where she sat, and closed her eyes.
The lady made no attempt to draw her into conversation, but gazed lovingly upon Charley's face. Living sorrows, she had none; but on a little tombstone in a church yard far away, the stranger's foot paused as he read:
"OUR FRANK!"
Oh, how many visions of home joys and home sorrows, did those two little words call up!
OurFrank! More than one heart had bled when that little tombstone was reared, and though the hands which placed it there were far away, yet the little grave had ever its garland, or its wreath, for even stranger eyes involuntarily dropped tears, when they read,
"OUR FRANK."
And so Frank's mother sat gazing on Charley's little cherub face, and wondering what grief amothercould know, with herbreathingbabe beside her.
Pity us, oh God! for every heart knoweth its own bitterness, and a stranger intermeddleth not therewith.
"What is that?" exclaimed old Mrs. Bond, as she saw the stage, dimly, through the pelting rain, plowing through the clayey mud, up the steep hill toward her door. "Somebody must be coming here, else the driver would have taken the easier cut to the village," and she pressed her face closer against the moist window-pane to get a clearer view.
"It is going to stop here, sure as the world," she exclaimed. "Who can be coming a visiting in such a rain as this? It is not time for old Cousin Patty, these three months yet."
"Dear heart," she said, as the driver jumped off his box, and opened the stage-door, "if it isn't Rose, and that sick baby! Dear heart—dear heart, it is as much as its life is worth. I hope I shall have grace to forgive that woman, but I don't know, I don't know; who could have believed it?" and by this time, the baby was handed into her outstretched arms, and Rose stepped dripping across the threshold.
"Cry, dear—do cry. I am going to cry myself. It is dreadful hard." And she drew the chairs up to the fire, and gazed by its light into Rose's brimming eyes and Charley's pale face.
"May God forgive her," she said, at last; "can't you say it, dear? Try."
Rose answered by pointing to Charley.
"I know it, dear heart; I know it; but you remember the 'crown of thorns,' and the mocking 'sponge,' and the cruel 'spear,'" said the old lady, struggling down her own incensed feelings.
"Take Charley now, dear, he is quite warm, while I run and make you a cup of hot tea," and the old lady piled fresh wood upon the huge andirons, and drew out her little tea-table, stopping now to wipe her eyes, now to kiss Rose and the baby, and whispering, "Try, dear, do; it will make you feel happier; try."
The cheerful warmth of the fire, and Mrs. Bond's motherly kindness, brought a little color into Rose's pale face, and Charley kicked his little cold toes out of his frock, and winked his eyes at the crackling blaze, as if to say,
"Now, this is something like."
After tea, Rose narrated to Mrs. Bond the visit of the old crone to her attic, and expressed her firm belief that she was Dolly's mother.
This was even worse in Mrs. Bond's eyes than Mrs. Howe's cruelty to Rose, and not trusting herself to speak, she gave vent to her feelings by alternately raising her hands and eyes to heaven.
"There will be a sad reckoning-day—a sad reckoning-day, dear," said the old lady solemnly. "He that keepeth Israel shall neither slumber nor sleep."
It was Monday morning. Mrs. Bond's little kitchen was full of the steam of boiling clothes. Little Charley, with one of Mrs. Bond's long calico aprons pinned over his frock, was pursuing on all fours his infantile investigations.
On the bench before the door stood two wash-tubs, at one of which stood a strapping Irish girl with red arms and petticoats, scrubbing the plowman's clothes with superhuman energy. At the other stood Rose, her curls knotted up on the back of her head, her sleeves rolled up above her round, white elbows, and her calico skirt pinned away from one of the prettiest ankles in the world; even this homespun attire could not disguise her beauty.
Three hours, by the old-fashioned clock in the corner, she had stood there; and yet, though she had rubbed the skin from her little hands, the pile of clothes before her seemed scarcely to have diminished, owing partly to her unskillfulness, and partly that she was obliged to leave off every few minutes to extricateCharley from some scrape with the shovel, tongs, or poker, or to barricade some door through which he seemed quite determined to go; added to this, her heart was very heavy, and one's fingers are apt to keep time with the heart pulses.
Oh, where was Vincent? Would he never return, as he had promised? Was he still "at his father's dying bed?" How strange she did not hear from him. How strange he had not told her where he was. He loved her? Oh, yes—"more than all the world beside." Had he not told her so? He could not have deserted her? Oh—no—no—and yet, poor Rose, there was such a weary pain at her heart; but see, there is Charley again, little mischief, between the andirons. Rose wipes the suds from her hands, and runs to extricate him for the twentieth time. She pats him petulantly; the boy does not cry, but he looks up at her with his father's eyes. Rose kisses those eyes; she dashes away her tears, and goes back again to her work. She tries to believe it will be all right. Mrs. Bond comes in to make the pudding for dinner. She sees how little progress Rose is making, and though Rose does her best to hide them, she sees the tell-tale tears, trembling on her long eyelashes.
Mrs. Bond has the best heart in the world; she never treads on the little ant-houses in the gravel walks, she says the robins have earned a right to the cherries by keeping the insects from the trees, she has turnedveterinary surgeon to keep the breath of life in an old skeleton of a horse which Zedekiah "vowed oughter been shot long ago," she puts crumbs on the piazza for the ground birds, and is very careful to provide for the motherly yellow cat a soft bed. The peddler always is sure of a warm cup of tea, and the wooden-ware man of a bit of cheese or pie. Rose's tears make her quite miserable, so she says to Bridget, in her soft kind way, "I should thinkyoumight help wash the baby's clothes, Bridget."
"Not for the likes of her," retorted the vixen, with her red arms a-kimbo. "Thank the Virgin,Iam an honest woman."
Rose snatched Charley from the floor and darted through the open door, with the fleetness of a deer; not weary now; strong to bear any thing, every thing but that coarse, cruel taunt. Away!—away from it! but where? Oh, Vincent, will it always follow! Strong, is she? Poor Rose! She falls earthward with her tender burden. Charley utters a cry of pain as his temples strike a sharp stone. Rose heeds not his cry, for she is insensible.
When her consciousness returns, some two hours after, she finds herself in her own little bed, with Mrs. Bond beside her. There are phials upon the table, and a strong smell of camphor; a bandage is around her forehead, and the blinds are closed, and Charley isnot there, but she hears him crowing below stairs. Mrs. Bond puts her finger on her lip, and says, "Try to sleep, dear," and Rose gladly closes her eyes; she only wishes it were forever.
"Six rows of the ruffling, edged with lace, and two tucks between each ruffle. Mind you don't make a mistake, now; had you not better write it down? You will remember to make the upper tuck about a fifth of an inch narrower than the others. Do it very nicely, you know I am particular about my work. Remember—let me have it, without fail, by next Thursday evening," and the speaker gathered her voluminous skirts in her hand and tripped through the door and into her carriage.
"For good gracious' sake, who's that?" asked Miss Snecker.
"Yes—who's that? Every body who sees her fine airs and gay dresses, asks me that question. I suppose you wouldn't believe if I should tell you what caterpillar that butterfly came from;" and Miss Bodkin put her feet upon the cricket, and took up the interminable yards of ruffling and commenced her work and her history.
"Well—that's Mrs. Howe, andhowshe ever became Howe, is more of a mystery to other people than it isto me.—'Mrs. John Howe'—a very well sounding name you see, but for all that it never can make a lady of her. 'Mrs. John Howe.' It used to be 'Dolly Smith;' it was 'Dolly Smith' much longer than its owner liked. It was painted in large, green letters over a little milliner's shop in Difftown. Such a fidget as it was in to get its name changed; but nobody seemed to want it. It tried the minister, it tried the deacon, it tried the poor, bony old sexton (mercy knows it never would have taken so much pains, had it known as much about men as I do), however, that's neither here nor there. It was a way it had. Well—by and by a shoe-maker from the city came up to our village for three weeks' fishing, and while he was baiting for fish, Dolly baited for him. She used to stand at the door of an evening, when he came up the village street, with his fishing tackle and basket; by and by he got to stopping a bit, to rest, and to buy a watch-ribbon and one thing and another, as a man naturally would, where he was sure of a welcome. Well, one evening when he came, Dolly was seized with a horrid cramp—I never had no faith in that cramp—such a fuss as she made. Well, John said he might be in the way, and so he would leave, till she was better. Simpleton! That was just what she didn't want him to do. Well, every body else round was sent flying for 'doctors and medicines,' and John staid through that cramp; and the next thing I heard, the bonnetswas took down out of the shop, it was shut up, and that's the way Dolly Smith became Mrs. John Howe. Of course it don't set very well on me to have her come in here with her patronizing airs, to bring me her work to do; but a body must pocket their pride such hard times as these. I shall nurse my wrath, any way, till I get a little richer."
"Well, I never!" exclaimed Miss Snecker, "how artful some women is! I suppose now she has every thing she wants, and has a beautiful time—the hateful creature."
"Yes, she is rich enough," said Miss Bodkin, "her husband gave up the shoe business long ago. She is as stingy as she is rich; she beats me down to the lowest possible price for every stitch I do for her.
"She was dreadful mortified about her niece Rose; suppose you know all about that? No! Well, Dolly took her when she was a little thing to bring up, as she said (the child was an orphan), and a poor sorry little drudge she made of her. She didn't have no childhood at all. She had a great faculty for reading, and wanted to devour every book she could get, which wasn't many, you may be sure, where Dolly was round. The child had no peace of her life, day nor night; was worried and hunted round like a wild beast.
"After Dolly married, she sent Rose away to school, making a great talk about her 'generosity ingiving her an eddication,' but the fact was, that Mr. Howe was younger than Dolly, and Rose was handsome: you see where the shoe pinched," said Miss Bodkin, giving Miss Snecker a nudge in the ribs.
"Certain," said Miss Snecker; "well, what became of the girl?"
"Well, Rose was handsome, as I told you, though she didn't know it, and good as she was handsome; but sad-like, for she never had any body to love her. I don't think she was sorry to leave her aunt, but still you know the world is a great wide cold place to push a young thing like that out into. However, she started off with her little trunk to Mrs. Graw's school.
"Mrs. Graw used to be chambermaid to a real Count's wife, and as soon as she found out that Rose was a poor relation, she kinder trod her down, and the school-girls disliked her, because she was handsomer than they, and so she was miserable enough, till she made the acquaintance of Captain Vincent, who took her away from school, to be married, as he said, and then ran off and left her. Of course, her aunt was dreadful hard on her, and drove her almost crazy with her reproaches. She wouldn't believe any thing she said about her being really married; and was just as bitter as if she herself hadn't been man-hunting all her life.
"Sheheld Rose off at arm's length, as if the poorbetrayed child's touch were poison; shut her doors in her face, and all that; and why the poor thing didn't take to bad ways nobody knows. She went to a Lying-in Hospital, and staid there till the babe was born, and then there was a great noise, when it was found out how rich her aunt was; and when Mrs. Howe found out that people's tongues were wagging about it, she came forward and offered to pay her board in the country awhile.
"Mrs. Howe herself lives up in St. John's Square. She is trying to ride into fashionable society with her carriage and liveried servants; and that poor girl so heart-broken.
"Well, the Lord only knows what is going to become of poor Rose! Beauty and misery—beauty and misery—I've seen what came of that partnership before now."
Mrs. Bond had drank her cup of tea and eaten her one slice of toast. Rose had not yet come down to breakfast, and she hesitated to disturb her slumbers. So she put the tea-pot down by the fire, covered over the toast, and sat back in her great leathern chair.
How beautiful they looked, Rose and the boy, the night before, when she crept in, shading her lamp with her hand, to see if they were comfortable. The boy's rosy cheek lay close to his mother's blue-veined breast, and one of his little dimpled arms was thrown carelessly about her neck. Rose with her long hair unbound vailing her neck and shoulders, the tears still glistening on her long lashes, heaving now and then a sigh that it was pitiful to hear.
"Ah!" thought Mrs. Bond, "the father of the child should have looked in upon that scene! Those sighs, those tears, went they not up to heaven as swift witnesses against him?"
And so Mrs. Bond, the previous night, extinguished her small lamp, and knelt by the bed-side; she prayed for those wronged sleepers from the gushing fullness ofher Christian motherly heart. Poor children!—for what was Rose but a child?
And now Mrs. Bond sat there over her breakfast-table thinking it all over. Her own life had been as placid as the little lake you could see from the cottage door; it was pitiful to her the storm of sorrow beating down upon that fair young head. She tried to see something bright in her future. She knew that though she herself had no wish beyond those humble walls, save to lie in the pleasant church-yard when her work was done, yet that life must be monotonous and dull there for one like Rose. She knew that the heart, when wretched and inactive, must prey upon itself. She wished she knew how to interest Rose in something. There was Charley, to be sure, dear little fellow, but he was at once a pain and a pleasure—a comfort and a reproach. Poor little lamb! he did not know why the caress he proffered was at one time so joyfully welcomed, then again repulsed with coldness; he did not know how cruelly the poor heart against which he nestled was rent with alternate hopes and fears; he did not know why he involuntarily hid his head from the strange, cold look, in those sometime—loving eyes.
Mrs. Bond sat a long time thinking of all this; yes, very long, for an hour and a half was a great while for her to sit still of a morning. She thought she might as well creep up softly, and see if Rose were waking. She knocks gently—no answer; they still sleep, shemust waken them. She opens the door—there is no one there but herself; the clothes have all gone from their pegs, and a note lies upon the table.
Mrs. Bond takes her spectacles from their leathern case, and her hand trembles as she breaks the seal. It is in a delicate, beautiful hand. Her dim eyes can scarce see the small letters; her hand trembles too, for an indefinable fear has taken possession of her.
The letter ran thus:—
"Mother,—"For so I will call you always, even though I am going to leave you. You thought I was sleeping when you knelt by my bed-side last night, and prayed for Charley and me. Every word I heard distinctly—every word was balm to my heart, andyetI leave you.Oh! do not ask me why—I lovehim, the father of my child—it is life where he is, it is death where he is not. I go to seek him, the wide earth over. What else is left me, when my heart wearies even ofyourkindness, wearies of poor Charley? Mother! pray for"YourRose."
"Mother,—
"For so I will call you always, even though I am going to leave you. You thought I was sleeping when you knelt by my bed-side last night, and prayed for Charley and me. Every word I heard distinctly—every word was balm to my heart, andyetI leave you.
Oh! do not ask me why—I lovehim, the father of my child—it is life where he is, it is death where he is not. I go to seek him, the wide earth over. What else is left me, when my heart wearies even ofyourkindness, wearies of poor Charley? Mother! pray for
"YourRose."
Mrs. Bond did "pray," long and earnestly; she shed reproachful tears, too—good, motherly Mrs. Bond, that she had not done impossibilities. Would that none of us more needed forgiveness.
The setting sun streamed in upon a parlor on St. John's Square. One might have mistaken it for an upholsterer's ware-room, so loaded was it with chairs, sofas, andtête-à-têtes, of every conceivable size and pattern. The same taste had hung the walls with pictures, whose coloring, perspectives, and foreshortening would have driven a true artist mad; the gaudy frames, with their elaborate gildings, being the magnet which had drawn the money from the pocket of the lady hostess.
Distorted mythology, in various forms, looked down from little gilt roosts in the corners, peeped at you from under tables, stared at you from out niches. Books there were, whose principal merit was their "pretty binding," the exception to this being in the shape of a large Family Bible, splendidly bound, and on the present occasion ostentatiously placed on the center-table, for Mrs. Howe had at last a baby, and this was christening-day.
Mrs. Howe had an idea that it was more exclusive and genteel to have this little ceremony performed in the house. There was to be a splendid christening—cake and wine, after the baptism, and only the appreciative select were to be present.
Mrs. Howe had expended a small fortune on the baby's christening-cap and robe, not to speak of her own dress, which she considered, coiffure and tournure, to be unsurpassable; and now she was flying in and out, with that vulgar fussiness so common to your would-be-fine-lady; giving orders, and countermanding them in the same breath, screaming up stairs and down to the servants; at one moment foolishly familiar with them, and at the next reprehensibly severe; pulling the furniture this way and that, and making her servants as much trouble, and herself as red in the face as possible. "Dolly Smith," was too much for "Mrs. John Howe." St. John's Square had an odor of the milliner's shop.
The baby slept as quietly as if it were not the heroine of the day; as if all the novels, and poems, and newspaper stories had not been ransacked for fitting appellations; as if its mother had not nudged its father in the ribs for fourteen consecutive nights, to know if "he had thought of any thing."
Mr. John Howe! who had married on purpose to getridof thinking; who had no more sentiment than a stove funnel; who would not have cared had his baby been named Zerubbabel or Kerenhappuch; who was contented to let the world wag on in its own fashion, provided it did not meddle with his "pipe."
Yes, Mr. Howe smoked "a pipe." Mrs. Howe got up several hysteric fits about it, but on that point only he was immovable, spite of smelling-salts and burned feathers. Finally, Mrs. Howe made up her mind to remove the odium by artistifying it, and with the sweetest conjugal smile presented him with an expensive chibouk, to take the place of that leveling clay pipe. She also added a crimson velvet smoking-cap, in which she declared he looked "as Oriental as a dervish."
"Thunder!" exclaimed Mr. Howe, as he caught sight of himself in a glass, "you have made me look like that foreign fool of a conjuror we went to see the other evening, who turned eggs into watches. You don't expect me to wear this gimcrack?"
Mrs. Howe whispered something in Mr. Howe's ear. Whatever it was, the effect was electrifying. Husband's have their weak points like other mortals. The smoking-cap was received into favor—so was the chibouk.
In default of any preference of Mr. Howe's for the baby's name, Mrs. Howe had selected "Fenella Fatima Cecilia." It was written on a card, all ready for the Reverend Doctor Knott, who had the misfortune to be a little deaf, laid by the side of the gilt Bible, and held down to the table by an alabaster hand, with arealdiamond ring on the third finger.
The baptismal basin was of silver, with two doves perched on the edges. The water to be used on the occasion, said to have come from the river Jordan, was in a state of preparedness in a corked bottle in the china closet.
All the preparations were completed, but still the baby slept on. Mrs. Howe was rather glad than otherwise, partly because it gave her plenty of time to survey her new apparel in a full-length mirror, partly because the baby always had "such a pretty color in its cheeks when it first 'woke," and she wanted to carry it in when the flush was on.
The last pin was adjusted in the maternal head-dress; the Reverend Dr. Knott had arrived, so had the appreciative select; Mr. Howe's cravat and waistcoat had been duly jerked into place by his wife, and now the baby "really must be woke." Mrs. Howe sprinkles a little jockey-club on Mr. Howe's handkerchief, takes one last lingering look in the mirror, readjusts a stray ribbon, changes the latitude of a gold head pin, then steps up to the rose-wood cradle, and draws aside the lace curtains.
What a pity! There is no flush on the babe's face! and how very pale she looks! Mrs. Howe takes hold of the plump little waxen hand that lies out upon the coverlid. What is there in the touch of her own flesh and blood to blanch her lip and palsy her tongue?
Ah! she can not face death, who could gaze with stony eyes on misery worse than death?
"Vengeance is mine—I will repay, saith the Lord."
"A stiff breeze, captain; we shall soon be in New Orleans at this rate. Talk about yellow fever; it can not be worse than sea-sickness. If a good appetite does not come to my rescue, on reaching land I shall pass for a live skeleton.
"But, captain, who is this pretty stewardess you have on board? and you a family-man, too; eh, captain? And what child is that she has the care of? And what the deuce ails her?—so young and so sedate, so pretty and so uncome-atable! I don't understand it."
"I don't know that it is necessary you should," said the old captain, dryly.
"That's true enough; and if she were homely, she might sigh her soul out before my curiosity would be piqued; but a pretty woman in trouble is another thing, you know. I feel an immense desire to raise a smile on that pretty face, though it could hardly look more enchanting under any circumstances."
"Look here, Fritz," said the captain; "while that young creature is aboard my ship, she is under myprotection. Understand? Not that any of your coxcombical nonsense could make any impression on her, for her heart is heavy with sorrow of some kind, but I won't have her annoyed or insulted. I don't know her history myself, nor shall I ask to know; her post as stewardess is a mere sinecure, though she does not know it.
"She came to me with that child in her arms, in great distress to get to New Orleans, and proposed herself as stewardess. I saw she was in trouble, somehow—young, beautiful, and unprotected; I have daughters just her age; I imagined them in a similar position. Her dignified modesty was a sufficient recommendation and guaranty. I knew she would be hurt at the offer of afreepassage, so I told her that I needed a second stewardess. That is all I know about her; and, as I said before, while she is aboard my ship, I will protect her as if she were my own child;" and the old man stowed away a tobacco-quid, and walked fore and aft the cabin, with a determined step.
"Certainly," said the foiled Fritz; "your sentiments do you honor, captain. But I have not seen her for two or three days; is she sick?"
"No; but the boy is, and I told her to let every thing go by the board, and attend to him till he was better. Beautiful child he is too; I have never seen a finer one. Doctor Perry thinks he will soon right him."
"Doctor Perry!" exclaimed Fritz, with a spasm of jealousy; "it is my opinion he will make a long job curing that boy."
"The doctor is not one ofyoursort," said the captain; "her very defenselessness would be to him her surest shield. The doctor is a fine man, Mr. Fritz."
"Yes, and young and unmarried," answered Fritz, with a prolonged whistle. "We shall see," said he, taking the captain's spy-glass to look at a vessel that was looming up in the distance.
"Charley appears brighter to-day," said Rose to Doctor Perry. "Captain Lucas is very kind to me; but I am very anxious to get about to fulfill my engagements. Don't you think my boy will be well soon?"
"There is every prospect of it," said Doctor Perry. "He is improving fast. I will stay by him, if you will allow me," said he, more anxious to give Rose a reprieve from the confined air of the cabin than solicitous for the "fulfillment of her engagements."
"Thank you," replied Rose, in her usual grave tone, without raising her eyes; "but I would not like to trouble you."
"Nothingyoucould ask would trouble me," replied the doctor, "unless you asked me to leave your presence."
Rose drew her girlish form up to its full height asshe answered: "I did not think you would take advantage of my position to insult me, sir."
"Nor have I, nor do I," replied the doctor, with a flushed brow. "I love you—I love you honorably; I would make you my wife; I am incapable of insulting any woman."
Tears sprang to Rose's eyes as she answered, "Forgive me; I can not explain to youwhyI am so sensitive to a fancied insult."
"Nor need you," replied the doctor, as an expression of acute pain passed over his fine features; "Rose, let me stand between you and harm; be my wife—my own, dear, honored wife."
"Oh no, no, no!" gasped Rose, retreating as he approached her; "you do not know—or you would not. Sir!" and the color receded from her lip and cheek—"that boy!—God knows I believed myself an honored wife."
"Rose," again repeated the doctor, without heeding her confession, "will you be my wife?"
"I can not," said Rose, moved to tears by his generous confidence, "thatwould be sin—I have no heart to give you. Though all is mystery, though I never more may see him, I love the father of my boy."
The doctor rose, and walked the little cabin.
"Is this your final answer?" asked he, returning to the side of Rose.
"I can give no other, much as I thank you for this proof of your—" and here her voice again failed her.
"Rose," exclaimed the doctor, passionately seizing her hand, "I will not ask you to loveme. I will be satisfied if you will allow me to loveyou."
Poor Rose, none knew better than herself how eloquently the heart may plead; andbecauseshe knew this, because only to the voice of the loved one would the chords ofherheart vibrate, did she turn away from that pleading voice and those brimming eyes.
For a long time Rose sat with her face buried in her hands after the doctor left her. It was hard so to repay such trust. Could he only be her brother—her counselor—but no—her path in life must be solitary.
Would the cloud never roll away?
Must it always be so?
Would Vincent never come to claim her?
Would a life of purest rectitudenevermeet its reward?
Would the world's scornful "Magdalena" be her earth-baptism?
Would the sweet fount of her boy's life be turned to bitterness?
Would he grow up to blush at his mother's name?
Would his hand be raised in deadly fray to avenge the undeserved taunt which yet he knew not how to repel?
O, Vincent!
Rose's refusal of Doctor Perry but added fuel to the flame; it is the unattainable we seek, the unattainable only that we fancy can satisfy; the unattainable that at any cost we must have.
How could he give her up? How think of her in the great, busy, wicked city, to which she was going, unfriended and penniless? Was there no way he could be of service to her? No way in which, without offending her sensitiveness, he could shield her from suffering and insult. Who was the father of her child? She "still loved him," believed him true to her—looked forward to the time when his honor should be vindicated on her behalf.
The doctor knew more of the world. The film would fall from her eyes by and by; he would wait patiently for that moment: then, perhaps, she would not turn away from him. She was too noble to cherish the memory of one she believed to be base. What alliance could purity have with pollution? Poor, trusting, wronged Rose! How immeasurably superior was she even now, and scorned thus, to the pharisaical of her own sex who, intrenched outwardly in purity, and pointing the finger of scorn at the suspected of their own sex, yet hold out the ready hand of welcome to him who comes into their presence, foul from the pollution of promiscuous harlotry.
Beautiful consistency! Pure Christianity! Fromthe decision of such an incompetent tribunal, thank God! Rose could appeal to a Higher Court.
Rose was a daily marvel to the conceited Fritz. Accustomed in his grosser moments to those debasingliaisonswhich so infallibly unfit a man for the society of the pure in heart, he could not comprehend the reserve—evenhauteur—with which the pretty Rose repelled every advance to an acquaintance.
At first, his surprised vanity whispered that it was only a cunning littleruse, to enhance the value of surrender, but this astute conclusion was doomed to be quenched by Rose's determinate and continued persistency. Then Fritz had fallen into the common error of fancying that to knowonewoman was to know the whole sex; not dreaming that it is necessary to begin with a different alphabet, in order to read understandinglyeachnew female acquaintance;—a little fact which most men blunder through life without finding out.
In vain he displayed his white hands. In vain he donned successively his black suit, his gray suit, and his drab suit (which last he never resorted to except in very obstinate cases); in vain he tied his cravats in all sorts of fanciful forms; in vain he played "sick" in his crimson silk dressing-gown, or languished on deck in his Jersey overcoat. In vain he, who detested children, made advances through Charley, who was now convalescent; in vain he remarked in Rose's hearing that "his gloves needed mending," and that "thebuttons were off his linen." Rose might as well have been deaf, dumb, and blind, for all the notice she took of him.
It was unaccountable. Fritz was piqued—in fact he did not like it, and consulted his never-failing solace, the looking-glass, to see what was the matter. There was still Fritz enough left (such was the verdict of the looking-glass), spite of sea-sickness, to satisfy any reasonable woman.
"Pooh! Rose was a stupid little thing; that was the amount of it; there was no use wasting his time on her;" and this last, by the way, was the only sensible reflection he had yet arrived at. He could fancy very well why she had not liked Doctor Perry (the doctor's distrait manner of late had attracted his notice). "Perry was well enough, but"—and Fritz finished the sentence by affectionately caressing his adolescent mustache.
"Yes, Rose was a stupid little automaton—she had no soul." Fritz had so much soul himself, that he considered that article asine quâ nonin any woman he honored with his notice.
Meanwhile the gallant vessel plowed her plashing way through the pathless waters. Over the mermaids, if there were any, over the coral reefs, over the wondrously beautiful sea-weeds, over the sheeted dead in their monumentless sepulchers; dashing—plunging—creaking—soaring and sinking—defying winds andstorms—scattering the dolphins—startling the sea-birds—hailing cheerily the homeward and outward bound—careering as gayly over the treacherous waves, as if the shivering of a mast, a little water in the hold, or the leaden lids of the pilot, might not land the passengers with their joys, sorrows, and embryo plans on that measureless shore whence there is no return boat.