2(return)Copyright 1885, by Elizabeth Porter Gould.
Our days are like swift shuttles in the loom,In which time weaves the warp and woof of fate;Its varied threads that interpenetrateThe pattern woven, picture bride and groom,A life-like scene in their own happy home.There are some frayed and shaded strands, fair Kate,But lines of purest gold illuminateOur wedded lot, as stars the heavenly dome,And come what may, sunshine or chilling rain,Prosperity and peace or woe instead,Untruth and selfishness shall never stainThe web of love and hope illustrated.Not even death unravels when we die,The woven work approved of God on high.
Our days are like swift shuttles in the loom,In which time weaves the warp and woof of fate;Its varied threads that interpenetrateThe pattern woven, picture bride and groom,A life-like scene in their own happy home.There are some frayed and shaded strands, fair Kate,But lines of purest gold illuminateOur wedded lot, as stars the heavenly dome,And come what may, sunshine or chilling rain,Prosperity and peace or woe instead,Untruth and selfishness shall never stainThe web of love and hope illustrated.Not even death unravels when we die,The woven work approved of God on high.
Our days are like swift shuttles in the loom,
In which time weaves the warp and woof of fate;
Its varied threads that interpenetrate
The pattern woven, picture bride and groom,
A life-like scene in their own happy home.
There are some frayed and shaded strands, fair Kate,
But lines of purest gold illuminate
Our wedded lot, as stars the heavenly dome,
And come what may, sunshine or chilling rain,
Prosperity and peace or woe instead,
Untruth and selfishness shall never stain
The web of love and hope illustrated.
Not even death unravels when we die,
The woven work approved of God on high.
It was two weeks after the scene at Colonel Archdale's dinner-party. There was quite a knot of people in Madam Pepperell's drawing-room. All the household at Seascape had come on the way home from a drive to pay a morning visit here, and found the in-door coolness refreshing. Colonel Archdale, who had joined his son, was there also. Mr. Royal, as it happened, was in Portsmouth that morning.
Edmonson had been exemplary enough in avoiding the cant of pretended regret for what must have given him pleasure. Archdale had no complaints to make on that score, but he distrusted Edmonson more and more, and perceived more clearly that he was attracted by Elizabeth. He wondered if she encouraged him: that was not like the person she seemed to be; yet why not? She had assured Archdale more than once that she was free, and her certainty had given him comfort. But he was here this morning for another purpose than to weigh the question of Miss Royal's fancy. If she did encourage Edmonson she was all the more inexplicable.
Stephen bent over Lady Dacre's chair, talking gayly to her; yet his eyes wandered every now and then, and, gradually, after he had stopped several times beside one and another, he came up to Elizabeth, as she was sitting listening to a young lady who, with her brother, had come back from town with Madam Pepperell, the night before, to spend a few days at the house.
As Stephen stood behind her chair he looked across the room, and saw Edmonson leaning with folded arms against a window. The light fell over his face; he had been looking at Elizabeth, but his eyes met Archdale's at once with an expression meant for cool scrutiny and a dash of insolent triumph at the victory he had scored. Edmonson's fierceness was not easily fettered; the dark shadow in his heart darted over his face, and, withdrawing as hastily, left to view a light that blazed in his eyes and only slowly died down into the cordial warmth necessary between guest and host, even under peculiar circumstances. Stephen's face darkened also, but his feeling was less, and his control greater. Elizabeth was listening quietly to some account of a merry-making atwhich Katie must have been present, for her name occurred frequently in the narrative. As she perceived that Archdale was behind her she looked round at him a moment, and by a few words included him in the conversation. She was as entertaining as usual and rather more talkative after he came. Yet he thought that under her ease of manner he detected a current of nervousness that made him the more anxious to carry out the purpose with which he had come to her.
But it was not easy to find any excuse for withdrawing her from the circle in which she had made herself so welcome. At last, however, under cover of a general movement, which he had secretly instigated, he succeeded in getting her into the library, on the plea of a message to her father. When there, he closed the door behind him, and said:—
"I have a message to your father, it is true, Mistress Royal, but it is only to beg him to interfere."
"Interfere?" she echoed with a nervousness that this time was unmistakable.
"Pray be seated," he said, drawing a chair toward her as she stood by the mantel.
"Thank you, but—I don't mind standing. What you—the business will not take long, you said."
"As you please." And he stood facing her on the opposite side of the great fireplace.
She heard his tones, glanced at him, and sat down. He took a chair also, still placing himself so that he could watch her. She grew plainly more nervous.
"Who is Mr. Hartly?" he asked, abruptly.
She looked at him in a frightened way, and the hand that she lifted to her throat was trembling.
"He is"—she began, then she stopped; without any warning her expression and her manner changed, for with the coming of what she had dreaded came the strength to meet it. There was no more tremulousness of voice or hand, and the face that looked at Stephen Archdale was the face of a woman who met him upon equal terms; yet, as he looked at her steadily, he was not quite sure even of that; it seemed to him that it would require an effort on his part to keep at her level; that at least he must stand at his full height. She sat silent, meeting his steady gaze. There was a dignity about her that would have been haughtiness but for her simplicity. Even her dress carried out the effect of this simplicity; it was a white muslin, very plain, and the single pink hollyhock that the new guest had slipped into her hair, and Elizabeth had forgotten, gave to her attire the touch of warmth that something in her face showed, too. It was to Stephen the calmness of flesh and blood, not of marble, that he was looking at; a possibility of life and motion was there, but a possibility beyond his reach. Some one might arouse her; to him she was impassive.
"You've not finished your sentence," he said, coldly.
"Why should I? You know the rest of it."
"Nevertheless, I wish you would say it."
"Very well. Mr. Hartly is an agent of Mr. Peterborough."
"And Mr. Peterborough?"
"My solicitor."
"You mean your father's?"
"Yes, and mine, too."
"Then you have property of your own?"
"Yes. You did not know it?"
"I heard of it yesterday. Your property is no concern of mine, you understand." She was silent. Under the circumstances the statement was significant. "Mr. Hartly came to my father the other day," he went on. Still no answer. "Possibly you knew it?" he persisted. She lifted her eyes which had been fixed on the cover of a book that her fingers were toying with, and said:—
"Yes."
Stephen waited to choose words which should not express too forcibly the impetuous feeling that shone in his eyes and rang in his voice when he spoke.
"Let me put a case to you," he said, "or, rather, not an indifferent case, but our own, and hear how it sounds in plain English. How we were married, if married we are, it is useless to speak of; how absolutely nothing we are to one another it is unnecessary also to say. I appreciate your efforts and your courtesy when I see so plainly that it is with difficulty you can bring yourself even to speak a word to me." Elizabeth glanced up a moment, and down again, and her fingers went on idly turning the leaves of the book. "When I see what social powers you have," he pursued, "I assure you that I shall regret it for you if fate have denied you a better choice. But at all events" (constrainedly), "I must thank you for the gracious and successful manner in which you have kept suspicion from becoming certainty before time proves it so."
She looked fully at him this time, and smiled.
"Gratitude comes hard to you," she said. "There is no cause for it in anything I have ever done. You may be sure it was not to please you at all, but to gratify something in myself that demanded satisfaction. Now, please explain to me what you mean by your extraordinary summary of things we know too well, and how I have offended you when I am really your friend—yours, and "—She stopped, a smile flitted over her face and was gone; it revealed for the unnamed person a gentleness and an affection that perhaps she did not care to have her tones betray.
"Yes, you have offended me," he said. "I have no right to comment on your actions in general."
"None whatever."
"But what I do have a right to demand is an explanation from you of conduct so strange as to be unaccountable."
She flushed a little.
"It's not pleasant," she answered, "when one has done the best that opened up to be told that it's unaccountable conduct."
"Then it was you? I was sure of it." She looked at him earnestly.
"Why should there be any beating about the bush?" she answered. "I should like it better if you need never have known; but, since you were sure to find it out sooner or later, it might as well come now. What I have done is wise and right, the most satisfactory thing to me, and to others wiser than I. But I wish you would never speak of it."
"Never speak of your coming forward with your whole fortune to make up the loss that this fellow's claim will be to us? Never speak of it!" cried Archdale. "And accept it? From you? You certainly have a flattering opinion of me."
"If it were like any business losses," she said, "it would be different. But this is something nobody could have been prepared for; it needs something outside of the routine to meet it." She waited a moment. "Will you put your case, as you said you were going to do?" she asked. "It will make it clearer, and you will see that there is nothing extraordinary. I think you need not say anything more about—about us, that is all understood. Go on from there."
"A father and a son, then, are nominally in business together," he answered; "the father does the work; the son has a generous share of the profits. Matters are going on swimmingly. Suddenly a claimant turns up who wants a grand slice of the property. He is the only son of the father's elder brother,—a being who was not known to have existed, that is, who was supposed to have died when an infant. The father, my father, was named for him, and my grandfather's will gave the largest share of his fortune to his oldest son, Walter, whom he supposed to be my father, but who was really Gerald Edmonson's father—if the fellow's proofs turn out valid; they are having a thorough overhauling. My uncle does not suffer; it is only we. I am sorry," he added, "that you are liable to be in any way connected with loss, but at the worst it is so remotely that it will never affect you. As for the other matter, the story,"—he stopped with a movement of irritation, perhaps of some deeper feeling,—"that must be borne as best it can, nothing of that falls upon you, certainly. How the matter concerns a young lady at all I can't imagine; so I fail to see what interest you can have in it, or what right to move in it."
"You fail to see?" she said and gave him a smile full of sweetness. It was not a coaxing smile, as if she begged him to reconsider his opinions; it indorsed her own while placidly acquiescing in mutual indifference. "Besides, do you know it was through me that the portrait was found?" And she gave him an account of the discovery. He did not think it necessary to interrupt her by saying that he had heard Edmonson give it with great relish; it seemed a good opportunity to learn whether he had been telling the truth. The story was substantially the same, but the enjoyment of the narrator was absent. "And, then," she added, finishing, "this is not a bad investment."
"It may be now; I can't tell. We were under full sail; we have large ventures, and to give out so much ready money may mean ruin. In a few months, perhaps sooner, you may have the happiness of bearing a bankrupt name."
Elizabeth's eyes were full of pity at the bitter tones in which she heard suffering; she looked away and answered:—
"It is merely justice to me to let me prevent that, if I can."
"Good heavens!" he cried; and, struck with the readiness of her answer, he studied her face. He would have liked to be sure from what motive she was acting. Was it pride, or really pity? The thought of the last made him furious; the other was at least endurable. "And you might not prevent it," he added, watching to catch her eyes as she should turn them back to answer. He was reasonably sure that it was pride.
"Then let me do this for my own sake," she said. "Listen to me calmly for a moment. There is one thing you ought not to forget. Either I am your wife, which God forbid, and I believe he has forbidden it, or I am simply Katie's friend. In case of the first,—if I have destroyed your happiness and Katie's, and my own,—what can money do for me? Life offers me nothing; there are no possibilities before me so far as joy is concerned; there is nothing left for me but to do the best I know how; we must pick up the little things that lie along the way in life, you and I; there will be nothing else for us; I have made you suffer so much, and you deny me this little thing that can never balance any pain, but is all I can dot? Why are you so unwise? Why should we make ourselves more miserable than we need be?"
He sprang up. These very words—that he had often said to himself in regard to his own life, that in effect he had said to her that morning—how harsh they were, how they cut him! He was tender with his wounded vanity. What man would like to hear that a woman has nothing before her but misery if she be bound to himself?
"There is one condition," he cried, harshly, "under which I will accept your money,—when you love me; when it is the gift of love." He laughed bitterly. "I am safe," he said.
"Yes, Mr. Archdale, you are safe," she answered, rising to meet him as he stood before her. "I can use no such weapons. It is beneath you to do it. To say such a thing to me when you know that in any event my great blessing is that I don't care a pin's worth for you, that I am not a sighing woman wasting her affection on you, while you—But I don't suppose you meant your words as an insult."
"Have I ever been rude to you?" he asked, eagerly. "Such a thing would be an infinite disgrace to me."
"Yes," she said, answering his assertion.
"'While you,'" he repeated, "you said 'while you'—What were you going to say about me?"
"While you love Katie with all your heart," she answered, "as it isright you should do." He looked at her, and remembered that for all her courage it might be that he owed her at least the courtesy of all observances of respect and regard before others. He had committed an unpardonable error that day of the dinner at his father's, and he felt a confusion, as if the color were coming to his face now as he thought of it.
"You—mistake," he stammered. "I assure you you do. I think I understand—I"—
She looked up at him. Her face was pale, and there was in it the kind of compassion that one might imagine a spirit to feel for a wayworn mortal.
"You owe me no explanation," she said. "Let us believe in the victory of the right, and put this nightmare away from us. Remember you are speaking only to Katie's friend."
He looked at her, and he could not be sure.
"But you must let me speak," he said, "because I see you mistake. I don't want you to think because—I confess it—her beauty has a great fascination for me that I can forget myself, that I—it was like admiring a beautiful living picture."
She moved nearer, involuntarily.
"Poor fellow!" she said under her breath, "you have been brave; you are brave, very brave. I've seen it." Then, after a pause in which she retreated a little and stood considering deeply, she said, "I will tell you something; it would be too much to be spoken of, only that you don't understand why I did this thing about the business. Think how I am placed. I may be standing between my dear friend and the man who was to have been her husband, and separating them forever. That night when I came home from your father's I realized it more than ever before; it filled me so that I could not bear the thought of life. I happened to have something by me, and I—almost took it. I should have slipped away from between you two, I was so bent upon doing it,—only, the warning saved me from such a sin. It will never be again," she added as she saw his eyes dilate with questioning horror. "That temptation has gone. I have accepted my lot, for it was permitted to come, or even that wicked man could not have brought it. But now, think, think how I must long to do some little thing, not to atone, that's impossible, but to make life not quite so hard to you, and to her. Now, this has come for you. Take it, I entreat you. Some day I may be able to help her in some way; I think it will be so."
He looked into her eyes as she raised them to his.
"But you didn't mean to—do all this, if it is done," he said. "There's no need of talking about atoning, as if you were guilty of anything."
"But, then, I ought to have refused; it was my place. It would have saved everything."
"You wanted to," he said, "and you yielded to oblige Katie."
She looked relieved at his answer. It surprised him; he wondered that he had remembered her hesitation.
"You will do this thing?" she persisted. "You see it is your duty."
"Do you know the reason you are so anxious to have me do it?" he asked, the momentary softening of his face gone. "It's out of no love for Katie, or friendliness to me."
"No," she said to his last statement, and added, "Yes, I know; I've seen it."
"What is it?"
"I suppose," she said, humbly, "that it's my pride.
"Yes," he cried, "that's what it is—your pride. Well, I have my pride, too. I'll take your money, when you love me—when it's the gift of your love, as I said—no sooner; I shall have to do without it this year, I'm afraid."
Her eyes swept him from head to foot in an indignant glance. Then she turned and walked away as if disdaining further speech. He bowed in silence as he opened the door for her, looking at her with a mocking smile, and even as he did so taking in every line of her graceful figure, the pose of her head, and the flush upon her face. In answer to the taunt she did speak one sentence under her breath, but he caught it:—
"You are not the only one," she said.
When he had closed the door after her he walked slowly the length of the room, and, standing by the window, in another moment saw her pass by on her way to the shore where she had learned that the party had gone. If they were already sailing it was no matter; she could wait for them there, or come back; but they might not have started, and to put any part of sea and land between herself and Archdale would be a joy to her.
Archdale watched her until she disappeared.
"And I called myself proud," he muttered. He stood lost in revery, living the scene over again. "What eyes!" he thought; "they're as unconscious as a child's, but such power as they have; they call out a man's best, and I met her with my worst. I never even told her she was generous. She meant to be kind when she humiliated me so." And then he thought that she deserved a better fate than to be bound to him whose heart was with Katie, and realized that Elizabeth was not at all the kind of woman whom he should choose to set his love upon. Yet he smiled scornfully at himself for the eager start with which he had cried out that if she were roused she could be magnificent. A magnificent woman was not in his line, and if it proved that she was his wife, she would go through the world a sleeping princess, he said to himself, unless he should go off to the wars and get shot. Perhaps that would be the best way out of the difficulty, he thought, and would leave her free. At the moment Edmonson's face rose before him, and he frowned as he wondered what feeling there was in that quarter. "No, no," he said to himself. "Not Edmonson. I know he's a villain; I feel it." He interrupted his thoughts by asking, sarcastically, what it could all matter tohimself, well out of harm's way, what happened, what Elizabeth or anybody else did? He was very angry with her, and she did not realize the Archdale unforgiveness. If she had, would she have cared? She had not yielded her purpose.
"I hate November," cried Mrs. Eveleigh, coming into Elizabeth's room and bringing a whiff of cold air with her. "It's a mean month," she continued. "There's nothing but disagreeable things about it. The leaves are all gone, and the snow hasn't come. You can't even go out riding with any comfort, the ground is so frozen you are jolted to pieces." And with step emphasizing the petulance of her voice, the speaker turned from her companion and went to her own room, to put away her bonnet and the heavy cloak that, if it had not been able to protect her from the roughness of the roads, had kept the cold air from doing more than biting revengefully at her nose and the tips of her fingers, in place of all the mischief it would have been glad to inflict if it had had the chance. The steps grown fainter, went about the next room, and Elizabeth went on with her reading only half attentively, watching for the inevitable coming back. "But then," resumed Mrs. Eveleigh, returning to her subject as soon as she had opened the door wide enough to admit her voice, "one must see a little of the world sometimes. I'm coming in to warm my feet by your fire, shan't I? mine is low. I declare, it's hard that Nancy should be so partial to you. I can get scarcely any attention, though, to be sure, poor thing, it's well to have it from somebody, even if it is from dependents. And you don't get any too much from the quarter where you've a right to it."
Elizabeth, knowing it would be useless to attempt going on with her reading, had laid aside her book on Mrs. Eveleigh's entrance, and now she looked up from the sewing toward which she had reached out her hand, and said:—
"You know as well as I do that it is exactly as I want it. Mr. Archdale considers my wishes, and as to having a right, you know, Cousin Patience, that that is what is being disproved now. Haven't I declared that the ceremony was nothing at all?"
"Oh, certainly you have, but you'll find out how little good that will do. I have not an idea that you'll ever have a chance to say 'Yes' to that splendid Edmonson. You'll find it out soon enough, poor child."
Elizabeth flushed, then turned pale.
"Have you heard anything?" she asked.
"Not yet; not since that Mr. Harwin turned out a minister, just as I thought he would, and your case went to the court to be decided. You'll have the first news, I suppose, but I don't doubt what it will be."
"Neither do I," returned the girl, resolutely.
"We shall see," said Mrs. Eveleigh. "Do you know," she added, "that Mr. Edmonson came yesterday when you were out?"
"Yes."
Then there fell between the pair as long an interval of silence as Mrs. Eveleigh ever permitted where she was concerned. She broke it by asking, energetically:—
"Elizabeth, if you really believed that you were not Mr. Archdale's wife, why, in the name of wonder, did you go and put your whole fortune into his business? And why did your father let you?"
"My father had no legal right to interfere," said the girl, ignoring the first question, "and he did not choose to strain his authority. When was he ever unkind to me?"
"I think he was then, decidedly." And the speaker nodded her head with emphasis. "But you have not told me why you did it," she continued.
Elizabeth was silent a moment. "I had been the means of the whole thing being discovered," she said, "and I had hurt him enough already."
"And he let you risk your whole fortune just because you had happened to put your finger through a hole in the hall tapestry."
"No," cried Elizabeth, "he did no such thing. He is very angry with me now because I invested it; he is not willing, even though he knows that it's for Katie's sake."
"I thought you said just now that it was for Mr. Archdale's." Elizabeth looked at her, and smiled triumphantly.
"I did," she answered. "It's the same thing; I have always told you so."
"Um!" said Mrs. Eveleigh, and returned to the attack. "If he wouldn't take the money, how could you give it?" The girl was silent. "It was the father, I know; they say a penny never comes amiss to him."
"How did you find this out, Cousin Patience?" But Mrs. Eveleigh laughed instead of answering. "You have not spoken of it?" cried Elizabeth.
"Not a word. Why, I don't want to proclaim any one of my own family a goose." The only answer was a smile of satisfaction. "You don't mind being called a goose, I see," pursued the speaker.
"Not at all. I know it's often true. Only it doesn't happen to be true here."
Though Mrs. Eveleigh had so openly criticised Elizabeth, it would have gone ill with any one who had dared to follow her example. She was often annoyed by things in Elizabeth; but she believed in the girl's truth more than she did in her own. And there she was quite right. Now she began to talk about the portrait scene, and declared that Mr. Edmonson looked very handsome standing beside the old picture that he so much resembled.
"That portrait was Colonel Archdale's grandfather, his mother'sfather, Mr. Edmonson," explained Elizabeth, perceiving that her companion's ideas were somewhat mixed. And then Mrs. Eveleigh confessed that she had been trying to explain about the portrait and the relationship, and that though she had talked learnedly about the matter, she had been a little confused in her own mind.
"This portrait was in the colonel's father's house, lent him to be copied, and when he fled he took the original with him, and left the copy. It was a duel that he fought, and there was something irregular that he did about it. He went to Virginia, you remember, and while there he changed his name. Then he came here, and the search for him died out. The matter was hushed up some way, I suppose."
"And pretended that he belonged to a different race of Archdales in another part of England," asserted Mrs. Eveleigh, contemptuously.
"Perhaps we should, too, if we had been in his place."
"What! in his place, Elizabeth? Can you even imagine how you would feel if you had murdered anybody, or about the same as that?"
"Yes."
"Nonsense, my dear. You must have a powerful imagination; I shouldn't think it was healthy. There's no use, any way, in being so odd."
"No."
"First 'yes,' and then 'no,' and neither of them means anything. But if you haven't anything to say, I wish you would tell me how those people, the colonel's father and mother, happened to have a son living that they didn't know anything about."
Elizabeth, full of remembrance of the time when a human life, even if her own, had seemed light to her, could not help smiling at Mrs. Eveleigh's literal interpretation of things. "They had to escape at once," she said, "and the doctor said the child would die if he undertook a sea-voyage in that state. So she sent him to her father's home with a nurse who was very fond of him; he was a baby then. And she went away with her husband with the understanding that when the child recovered, as the doctor expected him to do, the nurse should bring him to her in America. And she left open some way of communication. But, instead of the baby, there came news that he was dead."
"And he wasn't dead?"
"No; his grandfather adopted him, and gave him his name. He hated Mr. Archdale; he had lost his daughter through him, and he determined to keep the child. So he bribed the nurse to report his death, and persuaded her that it was better for the little fellow to stay with him as his sole heir than follow the fortunes of a haunted man in a wilderness, as America must have been then."
"And do you really believe they never knew of this son of theirs being alive?"
"Mr. Archdale's will, if nothing else, proves that. He had three sons here, you remember; and the colonel, the eldest of these, was named Walter, after the one supposed to have died in England. And,now, you see how this trouble all happened. The will left the greater part of the property to Mr. Archdale's oldest son, Walter, whom he supposed the colonel. But the real oldest son, Walter, was this Mr. Edmonson's father. So that the colonel was really left penniless."
"Yes, yes, now I see," cried Mrs. Eveleigh. "You are like your father when you come to explanations, Elizabeth; a person can always get at what you mean. Now tell me about the portrait, how it came there, and how in the world Mr. Edmonson found it."
"I don't know how it came there," she answered, leading away from the rest of the question by adding, "I have never asked a word about it."
"Elizabeth! youareodd, that's certain. And if Mr. Archdale is never coming here any more, you will never have a chance now to ask him. It's a pity to be so diffident."
Elizabeth smiled a little. "What else did you hear this morning?" she asked.
"Nothing that will interest you, though of course I thought it would when I heard it. Stephen Archdale has come back from his expedition up to the Penobscots with Colonel Pepperell. I wonder how they succeeded?"
"I can tell you that. The Indians have sent word that they will not fight against their brothers of St. John's and New Brunswick. That means that they'll fight for them. We shall have an Indian war with the French one. Think of the horrors of it." She shuddered as she spoke.
"Yes," returned Mrs. Eveleigh, with calm acquiescence. "It will be dreadful for the people that live in the little villages and in the open country."
This calmness, as if one were gazing from an impregnable fortress upon the tortures and deaths of others, silenced Elizabeth. She looked the speaker over slowly and turned away.
"Any more news?" asked Mrs. Eveleigh in a cheerful tone.
"I can tell you nothing more," returned Elizabeth.
This was literally true. It would not have been true if she had said that she had heard nothing else, for she had been sitting with her father for an hour, and had learned of a secret scheme,—a scheme so daring that the very idea of it made her eyes kindle and her breath come quickly,—a scheme that if it should fail would be hooted at as the dream of vain-glorious madmen, and if it should succeed, would be called a stroke of genius—magnificent. It interested her to know that among the most eager to carry out the scheme was Major Vaughn, the man whose valor she had asserted to Sir Temple Dacre a few months before. A small band of men had pledged themselves to put reality into this dream of grand achievement. "Its failure means," thought Elizabeth, "that America is to be French and Jesuit; its success that Englishmen, and liberty of mind and conscience, rule here." She prayed and hoped for success, and took an eager interest in all the details of the scheme that had reachedher; but these were meagre enough, for, as yet, it was only outlined; the main thing was that it was resolved upon. The prisoners captured at Canso had been at last exchanged. They had been brought to Boston, and had given valuable information about the place of their captivity, the stronghold of France in America. Governor Shirley had declared that Louisburg was to be captured, and that Colonel Pepperell was the man to do it. Elizabeth, as she looked across at Mrs. Eveleigh, wondered what she would say to the project. But she wondered in silence, not only because silence had been enjoined, but because this was not a woman to trust with the making of great events. She had heard of an Indian war, and her chief thought had been that she would be safe.
The war had been talked about all the autumn. It was a terrible necessity, but this new direction that it was to take was something worth pondering over.
Elizabeth naturally, took large views of things, and, as her father's companion, she had not learned to restrict them. But, also, for the last months she had perceived dimly that there was a power within her which might never be called into action. And this power rose, sometimes, with vehemence against the monotony of her surroundings, in the midst of her wealth of comforts and of affection.
It was the last of November, only two days after this conversation, that Stephen Archdale was announced.
"He has come to tell me the decision," said Elizabeth to Mrs. Eveleigh; "he promised he would come immediately. It's good news."
"Then what makes you so pale? And you're actually trembling."
Elizabeth looked at her companion in surprise, for all her years of acquaintance with her.
"Don't you understand?" she said. "The strain is to be taken off. The certainty must be good; and yet there is the possibility that it is not. This and the thought that the moment has come make me tremble."
As she was speaking she moved away and in another moment was in the drawing-room with Archdale.
"You have brought me word," she said, as soon as her greeting was over. "You have good news; I see it in your eyes."
"Yes," he answered. "I suppose you will call it good news. You are free; you are still Mistress Royal."
She clasped her hands impulsively, and retreated a few steps. It seemed to him as he watched her that her first emotion was a thankfulness as deep as a prayer. He saw that she could not speak. Then she came up to him holding out both her hands.
"Never was any one so welcome to me as you with your words this morning," she said. "I have not spoiled your life and Katie's."
"And you are free," he said again.
"Yes," she repeated, "I am free." And as she drew away her hands she made a movement almost imperceptible and instantly checked, as if she had thrown off some heavy weight. He read it, however, as he stoodthere with his eyes upon her face, which was bright with a thankfulness and a beauty that, although he had seen something of her possibilities of expression, he had never dreamed of. How glad she was! A pang went through him. He understood it afterward. It had meant that he was asking himself if Katie's face, when he told her the news, would look so happy at having gained him as this girl did at having lost him; and he had not been sure of it. All the autumn there had been strange fancies in his head about Katie. He had had no right, under the circumstances, to send Lord Bulchester away; but it had seemed strange to him that any girl's love of power should be carried so far if it were mere love of power that moved her. But no shadow on Elizabeth's face showed him that she dreamed of change in Katie, and Stephen felt rebuked that friendship could find its object more perfect than love did.
"Will the wedding be on the anniversary of the other one?" asked Elizabeth. "I suppose it will," she added; "Katie ought to have it so. That will come in three weeks. It will be a little time before you sail, if you go." And she smiled rather sadly, then glanced about her to make sure that the last remark had not been overheard.
"Ah!" he said, "I see you know all about the scheme on foot. But it is safe to trust you. You are very much interested," he added, watching her.
"Very much. My father does trust me a good deal. But I hope I shall not make him sorry for it."
Archdale kept on looking at her, and smiling.
"You prefer making people glad," he answered.
"But perhaps you will not go—now?" she said.
"Oh, yes. I promised my services to Colonel Pepperell last summer; that holds me, you see. Besides, I want to do my part."
"I could not imagine you standing idle by while others were striking the blows for our country," said Elizabeth. "Katie has told me a good deal about you at one time and another. Dear Katie!" she added in an undertone, with an exquisite gentleness in her face. Then, looking back from the window where her eyes had wandered, she turned off her emotion by some gay speech.
Very soon afterward the young man left her. For he was on his way to carry the news to Katie who was then in Boston visiting her aunt. But to go to her he passed Mr. Royal's door, and his wishes, as well as his promise, made him delay his own happiness for a moment to see Elizabeth rejoice. He saw her rejoice to his heart's content; and then he took leave of her for his happy meeting with his betrothed.
3(return)Copyright, 1884, by Frances C. Sparhawk.
Evidences are constantly multiplying that American history is a subject which has not lost its interest to investigators or to readers. During the past month four distinct works, namely, the fifth volume of Von Holst's Constitutional History of the United States, the third of Schouler's History of the United States, the second of McMaster's History of the People of the United States, and also a new volume of Hubert Howe Bancroft's History of the Pacific States, have been published, and are destined, no doubt, to take their places as "standards." This diligence on the part of their respective writers, and the interest in them manifested by the great public is commendable, and in a measure dispels the oft-repeated saying that Americans are a nation of novel-readers.
It is gratifying, also, to record another fact. During the third week in July the Old South lectures for young people, illustrative of "The War for the Union," were inaugurated in Boston. The ancient "meeting-house" was crowded with earnest students to hear the first lecture on slavery, delivered by William Lloyd Garrison, Jr. The speaker gave a vivid sketch of the chief events of the anti-slavery movement, and of the part taken by George Thompson, Garrison, Phillips, Whittier, and Harriet Martineau.
Students of the anti-slavery struggle should not forget, however, how much the success of that struggle was due to Mrs. Maria Weston Chapman, whose death occurred at Weymouth, Mass., on July 12. She was not only amagna parsof the struggle, but one of the most remarkable women of our time. Mrs. Maria Child used to relate how Mrs. Chapman, clad in the height of fashion of that day, came into the first anti-slavery fair, an entire stranger to every one present. "She looked around over the few tables, scantily supplied, and stopped by some faded artificial flowers. The poor commodity only indicated the utter poverty of means to carry on the work. We thought her a spy, or maybe she was a slave-holder." From that time she entered heartily into the work. She became the life of the Female Anti-slavery Society in Boston, she spoke often in public; her pen was never idle when it could advance the cause of equal rights and freedom.
Mr. Lowell, in his rhymed letter, descriptive of an anti-slavery bazaar at Faneuil Hall, and the celebrities of the cause there assembled, drew the portrait of this gifted woman with his usual felicitous touch:—
"There was Maria Chapman, too,With her swift eyes of clear steel-blue,The coiled up mainspring of the Fair,Originating everywhereThe expansive force, without a sound,That whirls a hundred wheels around;Herself meanwhile as calm and stillAs the bare crown of Prospect Hill;A noble woman, brave and apt,Cumæa's sybil not more rapt,Who might, with those fair tresses shorn,'The Maid of Orlean' casque have worn;Herself the Joan of our Arc,For every shaft a shining mark."
"There was Maria Chapman, too,With her swift eyes of clear steel-blue,The coiled up mainspring of the Fair,Originating everywhereThe expansive force, without a sound,That whirls a hundred wheels around;Herself meanwhile as calm and stillAs the bare crown of Prospect Hill;A noble woman, brave and apt,Cumæa's sybil not more rapt,Who might, with those fair tresses shorn,'The Maid of Orlean' casque have worn;Herself the Joan of our Arc,For every shaft a shining mark."
"There was Maria Chapman, too,
With her swift eyes of clear steel-blue,
The coiled up mainspring of the Fair,
Originating everywhere
The expansive force, without a sound,
That whirls a hundred wheels around;
Herself meanwhile as calm and still
As the bare crown of Prospect Hill;
A noble woman, brave and apt,
Cumæa's sybil not more rapt,
Who might, with those fair tresses shorn,
'The Maid of Orlean' casque have worn;
Herself the Joan of our Arc,
For every shaft a shining mark."
It is one thing to be a good ship-builder for the government, and quite another thing to be in favor with the Secretary of the Navy, at Washington. This is the lesson, and the only lesson, which can be deduced from the two dispatches which have been transmitted over the country, namely: that the "Dolphin" has been rejected, and that John Roach, her builder, has failed.
The case has its value as a warning to American ship-builders. They are given to understand that the closest compliance with the requisitions of the department in the process of constructing a vessel, and that under the direction of experts,perfectly competent to determine what is good work and what is bad, will avail them nothing unless they are in favor with the Secretary when the vessel is offered for acceptance. And they are warned that the Department of Justice holds it perfectly legal for the Navy Department to lay upon them such conditions as to construction as must determine the capacity of the vessel for speed, and yet reject the vessel as not fast enough. They may be fined heavily for not having used their discretion, and yet may have been denied discretion as to the plans used.
It will be remembered by all who have watched the case, that the "Dolphin" was found satisfactory and in full accordance with the terms of the contract by one naval board, and that it was then condemned by another board of no greater weight or capacity. If this fact be remembered, it should be weighed with the full understanding that naval officers, chosen by Mr. Whitney for this service, are just as much dependents of the new Secretary as their predecessors were of Mr. Chandler. The last set of officials, as experts, were not superior to those which constituted the first; and yet Mr. Whitney bases his refusal to accept the vessel upon the contradiction of the first report to the second. If the first report was worthless, why not the second, in the light of all the facts?
What is needed to-day is a board of examiners fully competent to pronounce on the merits, of not only the "Dolphin" but of any and every other ship that shall be built, and fully sundered from, and independent of, political and official relations with the Navy Department. The nearest approach to this is the report of the body of experts—ship-builders, and ship-captains, experts in ship's materials, and the like—whom Mr. Roach invited to examine the "Dolphin." The report of these gentlemen flatly contradicts Mr. Whitney's board on points which are matters of fact, and not of opinion, and therefore throws the burden of proof upon Mr. Whitney himself. Until some equally unpolitical and unofficial body refutes it, the treatment Mr. Roach has received will be set down to other motives than the best.
The republic at last bows its head in sorrow at the death of its greatest citizen. In awe and admiration it honors the character which, heroic to the last, has never been more conspicuously shown than during the months of that depressing illness, the end of which must have been to him a welcome entering into rest.
The same unquailing courage, and the same calm, grim fortitude which shed their fadeless lustre upon his whole extraordinary career were evinced by General Grant at the last moments of his life. For months the nation has hung over his bedside, awaiting the silent foot-fall of the unseen conqueror of all that is mortal.
The nation's loss is not measured by the vacant place. For nearly a decade General Grant had been only a private citizen, wielding no sceptre of authority, and exercising no sway in the public councils. And yet his going is a loss; for he was everywhere felt, not merely by what he had done, but by what he was,—one of the great reserve forces of our national commonwealth.
"Great men," said Burke, "are the guideposts and landmarks of the State." General Grant was the guidepost of a victorious war, and a landmark of a magnanimous peace. A pillar of strength has fallen; and yet a broken shaft is not the fit emblem of his life. It is a finished and splendid column, crowned with its full glory.
The chieftain is dead. The American people themselves will now judge him, after the calm evening and the serene repose of retirement, more justly than in the stress and storm of struggle. The asperities of angry contentions have passed; the flaws have faded, and the blemishes are dimmed, while the splendor of General Grant's achievements and the simple grandeur of his character have gained a brighter halo as the years have rolled by. The clouds and the smoke of battle have long since lifted; the fragments and the scenes are swallowed in the majestic drama; and to-day we see the hero elevated on his true pedestal of fame through the just perspective of history.
It is given to few men to bear suffering with the fortitude displayed by the departed hero; it is given to fewer still to await in patience and without complaint the certain issue of suffering in death. But it is neither his fortitude, nor his patience, nor his touching solicitude, nor his unselfish industry which distinguished him in an almost unique degree. It was rather, in one word, his simplicity, his strong but unpretentious character, and his firm but magnanimous nature.
Of such, plainly, is the kingdom of Heaven, and it is a national glory that of such, too, in the instance of General Grant, the American people was never neglectful.
If every person who is inclined to attribute to Socialism all the discontent now prevalent among the laboring classes of this country, would carefully read Mr. Laurence Gronlund's remarkable book, entitled,The Coöperative Commonwealth,—an exposition of modern Socialism,—he would perhaps awaken to a comprehension of the fact that true Socialism is neither communism, nor lawlessness, nor anarchy. We wish this book could be scattered, by millions, among the intelligent people of this land, if for no other purpose than to root out many of the false ideas which are current, as well as to inculcate a logical explanation of much that is transpiring at the present moment.
We are told that at least 30,000 laborers are out of work in Cincinnati, and that full as many are unemployed in Chicago. The same state of affairs prevails in other large cities. These people, we are also told by the newspapers, are "exposed to the designs of socialistic leaders, and liable to embrace their dangerous schemes." Hence, it is to be inferred, of course, that timely measures should be instituted to "guard the unreflecting against socialistic theories and measures."
Despair sometimes calls for a desperate remedy. When men are in physical or financial distress theyareapt to lose their heads, so to speak, and to be subject to the wildest delusions and hallucinations. A great many of the unfortunates now out of employment have been already reduced to misery and want; but it is a mistake to suppose that the philosophy of Socialism can afford them any relief or consolation, or that it can incite them to mad deeds of violence. There are certain demagogues in this country who, assuming to be Socialists, are ready to stir up the popular mind, even to the shedding of blood; but such men are few in numbers, and wield only a limited influence.
Now, Socialism holds that the impending reconstruction of society, which Huxley predicts, will be brought about by the logic of events, and teaches that the coming revolution, which every intelligent mind must foresee, is strictly an evolution. Socialists of this school reason from no assumed first principle, like the French, who start from "social equality," or like Herbert Spencer, who lays it down as an axiom that "every man has freedom to do all that he wills, provided he infringes not the like freedom of every other man;" but basing themselves squarely onexperience,—not individual but universal experience,—they can, and do present clear-cut, definite solutions.
It is this trueGermanSocialism which Mr. Gronlund, in the work previously alluded to, very clearly presents, and which should be more generally understood than it is.
Apropos of the subject, it will not be amiss to recall a statement made by Frederic Harrison, namely:—
"The working-class is the only class which is not a class. It is the nation. It represents, so to speak, the body as a whole, of which the other classes only represent special organs. These organs, no doubt, have great and indispensable functions, but for most purposes of government the state consists of the vast laboring majority. Its welfare depends on what their lives are like."
And this from Carlyle:—
"It is not to die, or even to die of hunger that makes a man wretched; many men have died; all men must die. But it is to live miserable, we know not why: to work sore and yet gain nothing; to be heartworn, weary, yet isolated, unrelated, girt in with a cold universalLaissez-faire."