Atlantic Monthly, Vol. VI.,October, 1860. No. XXXVI. - Various
* * * * *
"Nan, Nan! here's Philip! come and see!"
The happy call reechoed through the house, and Nan sprang up as if her
time for grief were past.
"I must tell them. Oh, my poor girls, how will they bear it?--they
have known so little sorrow!"
But there was no need for her to speak; other lips had spared her the
hard task. For, as she stirred to meet them, a sharp cry rent the air,
steps rang upon the stairs, and two wild-eyed creatures came into the
hush of that familiar room, for the first time meeting with no welcome
from their father's voice.
With one impulse, Di and Laura fled to Nan, and the sisters clung
together in a silent embrace, far more eloquent than words. John took
his mother by the hand, and led her from the room, closing the door
upon the sacredness of grief.
* * * * *
"Yes, we are poorer than we thought; but when everything is settled,
we shall get on very well. We can let a part of this great house, and
live quietly together until spring; then Laura will be married, and Di
can go on their travels with them, as Philip wishes her to do. We
shall be cared for; so never fear for us, John."
Nan said this, as her friend parted from her a week later, after the
saddest holiday he had ever known.
"And what becomes of you, Nan?" he asked, watching the patient eyes
that smiled when others would have wept.
"I shall stay in the dear old house; for no other place would seem
like home to me. I shall find some little child to love and care for,
and be quite happy till the girls come back and want me."
John nodded wisely, as he listened, and went away prophesying within
himself,--
"She shall find something more than a child to love; and, God willing,
shall be very happy till the girls come home and--cannot have her."
Nan's plan was carried into effect. Slowly the divided waters closed
again, and the three fell back into their old life. But the touch of
sorrow drew them closer; and, though invisible, a beloved presence
still moved among them, a familiar voice still spoke to them in the
silence of their softened hearts. Thus the soil was made ready, and in
the depth of winter the good seed was sown, was watered with many
tears, and soon sprang up green with the promise of a harvest for
their after years.
Di and Laura consoled themselves with their favorite employments,
unconscious that Nan was growing paler, thinner, and more silent, as
the weeks went by, till one day she dropped quietly before them, and
it suddenly became manifest that she was utterly worn out with many
cares and the secret suffering of a tender heart bereft of the
paternal love which had been its strength and stay.
"I'm only tired, dear girls. Don't be troubled, for I shall be up
to-morrow," she said cheerily, as she looked into the anxious faces
bending over her.
But the weariness was of many months' growth, and it was weeks before
that "tomorrow" came.
Laura installed herself as nurse, and her devotion was repaid
four-fold; for, sitting at her sister's bedside, she learned a finer
art than that she had left. Her eye grew clear to see the beauty of a
self-denying life, and in the depths of Nan's meek nature she found
the strong, sweet virtues that made her what she was.
Then remembering that these womanly attributes were a bride's best
dowry, Laura gave herself to their attainment, that she might become
to another household the blessing Nan had been to her own; and turning
from the worship of the goddess Beauty, she gave her hand to that
humbler and more human teacher, Duty,--learning her lessons with a
willing heart, for Philip's sake.
Di corked her inkstand, locked her bookcase, and went at housework as
if it were a five-barred gate; of course she missed the leap, but
scrambled bravely through, and appeared much sobered by the exercise.
Sally had departed to sit under a vine and fig-tree of her own, so Di
had undisputed sway; but if dish-pans and dusters had tongues, direful
would have been the history of that crusade against frost and fire,
indolence and inexperience. But they were dumb, and Di scorned to
complain, though her struggles were pathetic to behold, and her
sisters went through a series of messes equal to a course of "Prince
Benreddin's" peppery tarts. Reality turned Romance out of doors; for,
unlike her favorite heroines in satin and tears, or helmet and shield,
Di met her fate in a big checked apron and dust-cap, wonderful to see;
yet she wielded her broom as stoutly as "Moll Pitcher" shouldered her
gun, and marched to her daily martyrdom in the kitchen with as heroic
a heart as the "Maid of Orleans" took to her stake.
Mind won the victory over matter in the end, and Di was better all her
days for the tribulations and the triumphs of that time; for she
drowned her idle fancies in her wash-tub, made burnt-offerings of
selfishness and pride, and learned the worth of self-denial, as she
sang with happy voice among the pots and kettles of her conquered
realm.
Nan thought of John, and in the stillness of her sleepless nights
prayed Heaven to keep him safe, and make her worthy to receive and
strong enough to bear the blessedness or pain of love.
Snow fell without, and keen winds howled among the leafless elms, but
"herbs of grace" were blooming beautifully in the sunshine of sincere
endeavor, and this dreariest season proved the most fruitful of the
year; for love taught Laura, labor chastened Di, and patience fitted
Nan for the blessing of her life.
Nature, that stillest, yet most diligent of housewives, began at last
that "spring-cleaning" which she makes so pleasant that none find the
heart to grumble as they do when other matrons set their premises
a-dust. Her handmaids, wind and rain and sun, swept, washed, and
garnished busily, green carpets were unrolled, apple-boughs were hung
with draperies of bloom, and dandelions, pet nurslings of the year,
came out to play upon the sward.
From the South returned that opera troupe whose manager is never in
despair, whose tenor never sulks, whose prima donna never fails, and
in the orchard _bona fide_ matinees were held, to which buttercups and
clovers crowded in their prettiest spring hats, and verdant young
blades twinkled their dewy lorgnettes, as they bowed and made way for
the floral belles.
May was bidding June good-morrow, and the roses were just dreaming
that it was almost time to wake, when John came again into the quiet
room which now seemed the Eden that contained his Eve. Of course there
was a jubilee; but something seemed to have befallen the whole group,
for never had they all appeared in such odd frames of mind. John was
restless, and wore an excited look, most unlike his usual serenity of
aspect.
Nan the cheerful had fallen into a well of silence and was not to be
extracted by any hydraulic power, though she smiled like the June sky
over her head. Di's peculiarities were out in full force, and she
looked as if she would go off like a torpedo, at a touch; but through
all her moods there was a half-triumphant, half-remorseful expression
in the glance she fixed on John. And Laura, once so silent, now sang
like a blackbird, as she flitted to and fro; but her fitful song was
always, "Philip, my king."
John felt that there had come a change upon the three, and silently
divined whose unconscious influence had wrought the miracle. The
embargo was off his tongue, and he was in a fever to ask that question
which brings a flutter to the stoutest heart; but though the "man" had
come, the "hour" had not. So, by way of steadying his nerves, he paced
the room, pausing often to take notes of his companions, and each
pause seemed to increase his wonder and content.
He looked at Nan. She was in her usual place, the rigid little chair
she loved, because it once was large enough to hold a curly-headed
playmate and herself. The old work-basket was at her side, and the
battered thimble busily at work; but her lips wore a smile they had
never worn before, the color of the unblown roses touched her cheek,
and her downcast eyes were full of light.
He looked at Di. The inevitable book was on her knee, but its leaves
were uncut; the strong-minded knob of hair still asserted its
supremacy aloft upon her head, and the triangular jacket still adorned
her shoulders in defiance of all fashions, past, present, or to come;
but the expression of her brown countenance had grown softer, her
tongue had found a curb, and in her hand lay a card with "Potts,
Kettel, & Co." inscribed thereon, which she regarded with never a
scornful word for the "Co."
He looked at Laura. She was before her easel, as of old; but the pale
nun had given place to a blooming girl, who sang at her work, which
was no prim Pallas, but a Clytie turning her human face to meet the
sun.
"John, what are you thinking of?"
He stirred as if Di's voice had disturbed his fancy at some pleasant
pastime, but answered with his usual sincerity,--
"I was thinking of a certain dear old fairy tale called 'Cinderella.'"
"Oh!" said Di; and her "Oh" was a most impressive monosyllable. "I see
the meaning of your smile now; and though the application of the story
is not very complimentary to all parties concerned, it is very just
and very true."
She paused a moment, then went on with softened voice and earnest
mien:--
"You think I am a blind and selfish creature. So I am, but not so
blind and selfish as I have been; for many tears have cleared my eyes,
and much sincere regret has made me humbler than I was. I have found a
better book than any father's library can give me, and I have read it
with a love and admiration that grew stronger as I turned the leaves.
Henceforth I take it for my guide and gospel, and, looking back upon
the selfish and neglectful past, can only say, Heaven bless your dear
heart, Nan!"
Laura echoed Di's last words; for, with eyes as full of tenderness,
she looked down upon the sister she had lately learned to know,
saying, warmly,--
"Yes, 'Heaven bless your dear heart, Nan!' I never can forget all you
have been to me; and when I am far away with Philip, there will always
be one countenance more beautiful to me than any pictured face I may
discover, there will be one place more dear to me than Rome. The face
will be yours, Nan,--always so patient, always so serene; and the
dearer place will be this home of ours, which you have made so
pleasant to me all these years by kindnesses as numberless and
noiseless as the drops of dew."
"Dear girls, what have I ever done, that you should love me so?" cried
Nan, with happy wonderment, as the tall heads, black and golden, bent
to meet the lowly brown one, and her sisters' mute lips answered her.
Then Laura looked up, saying, playfully,--
"Here are the good and wicked sisters;--where shall we find the
Prince?"
"There!" cried Di, pointing to John; and then her secret went off like
a rocket; for, with her old impetuosity, she said,--
"I have found you out, John, and am ashamed to look you in the face,
remembering the past. Girls, you know, when father died, John sent us
money, which he said Mr. Owen had long owed us and had paid at last?
It was a kind lie, John, and a generous thing to do; for we needed it,
but never would have taken it as a gift. I know you meant that we
should never find this out; but yesterday I met Mr. Owen returning
from the West, and when I thanked him for a piece of justice we had
not expected of him, he gruffly told me he had never paid the debt,
never meant to pay it, for it was outlawed, and we could not claim a
farthing. John, I have laughed at you, thought you stupid, treated you
unkindly; but I know you now, and never shall forget the lesson you
have taught me. I am proud as Lucifer, but I ask you to forgive me,
and I seal my real repentance so--and so."
With tragic countenance, Di rushed across the room, threw both arms
about the astonished young man's neck and dropped an energetic kiss
upon his cheek. There was a momentary silence; for Di finely
illustrated her strong-minded theories by crying like the weakest of
her sex. Laura, with "the ruling passion strong in death," still tried
to draw, but broke her pet crayon, and endowed her Clytie with a
supplementary orb, owing to the dimness of her own. And Nan sat with
drooping eyes, that shone upon her work, thinking with tender pride,--
"They know him now, and love him for his generous heart."
Di spoke first, rallying to her colors, though a little daunted by her
loss of self-control.
"Don't laugh, John,--I couldn't help it; and don't think I'm not
sincere, for I am,--I am; and I will prove it by growing good enough
to be your friend. That debt must all be paid, and I shall do it; for
I'll turn my books and pen to some account, and write stories full of
dear old souls like you and Nan; and some one, I know, will like and
buy them, though they are not 'works of Shakspeare.' I've thought of
this before, have felt I had the power in me; _now_ I have the motive,
and _now_ I'll do it."
If Di had proposed to translate the Koran, or build a new Saint
Paul's, there would have been many chances of success; for, once
moved, her will, like a battering-ram, would knock down the obstacles
her wits could not surmount. John believed in her most heartily, and
showed it, as he answered, looking into her resolute face,--
"I know you will, and yet make us very proud of our 'Chaos,' Di. Let
the money lie, and when you have made a fortune, I'll claim it with
enormous interest; but, believe me, I feel already doubly repaid by
the esteem so generously confessed, so cordially bestowed, and can
only say, as we used to years ago,--'Now let's forgive and so
forget.'"
But proud Di would not let him add to her obligation, even by
returning her impetuous salute; she slipped away, and, shaking off the
last drops, answered with a curious mixture of old freedom and new
respect,--
"No more sentiment, please, John.
We know each other now; and when I find a friend, I never let him go.
We have smoked the pipe of peace; so let us go back to our wigwams and
bury the feud. Where were we when I lost my head? and what were we
talking about?"
"Cinderella and the Prince."
As he spoke, John's eye kindled, and, turning, he looked down at Nan,
who sat diligently ornamenting with microscopic stitches a great patch
going on, the wrong side out.
"Yes,--so we were; and now taking pussy for the godmother, the
characters of the story are well personated,--all but the slipper,"
said Di, laughing, as she thought of the many times they had played it
together years ago.
A sudden movement stirred John's frame, a sudden purpose shone in his
countenance, and a sudden change befell his voice, as he said,
producing from some hiding-place a little worn-out shoe,--
"I can supply the slipper;--who will try it first?"
Di's black eyes opened wide, as they fell on the familiar object; then
her romance-loving nature saw the whole plot of that drama which needs
but two to act it. A great delight flushed up into her face, as she
promptly took her cue, saying,--
"No need for us to try it, Laura; for it wouldn't fit us, if our feet
were as small as Chinese dolls';--our parts are played out; therefore
'Exeunt wicked sisters to the music of the wedding-bells.'" And
pouncing upon the dismayed artist, she swept her out and closed the
door with a triumphant bang.
John went to Nan, and, dropping on his knee as reverently as the
herald of the fairy tale, he asked, still smiling, but with lips grown
tremulous,--
"Will Cinderella try the little shoe, and--if it fits--go with the
Prince?"
But Nan only covered up her face, weeping happy tears, while all the
weary work strayed down upon the floor, as if it knew her holiday had
come.
John drew the hidden face still closer, and while she listened to his
eager words, Nan heard the beating of the strong man's heart, and knew
it spoke the truth.
"Nan, I promised mother to be silent till I was sure I loved you
wholly,--sure that the knowledge would give no pain when I should tell
it, as I am trying to tell it now. This little shoe has been my
comforter through this long year, and I have kept it as other lovers
keep their fairer favors. It has been a talisman more eloquent to me
than flower or ring; for, when I saw how worn it was, I always thought
of the willing feet that came and went for others' comfort all day
long; when I saw the little bow you tied, I always thought of the
hands so diligent in serving any one who knew a want or felt a pain;
and when I recalled the gentle creature who had worn it last, I always
saw her patient, tender, and devout,--and tried to grow more worthy of
her, that I might one day dare to ask if she would walk beside me all
my life and be my 'angel in the house.' Will you, dear? Believe me,
you shall never know a weariness or grief I have the power to shield
you from."
Then Nan, as simple in her love as in her life, laid her arms about
his neck, her happy face against his own, and answered softly,--
"Oh, John, I never can be sad or tired any more!"
* * * * *
THE OLD DAYS AND THE NEW.
A poet came singing along the vale,--
"Ah, well-a-day for the dear old days!
They come no more as they did of yore
By the flowing river of Aise."
He piped through the meadow, he piped through the grove,--
"Ah, well-a-day for the good old days!
They have all gone by, and I sit and sigh
By the flowing river of Aise.
"Knights and ladies and shields and swords,--
Ah, well-a-day for the grand old days!
Castles and moats, and the bright steel coats,
By the flowing river of Aise.
"The lances are shivered, the helmets rust,--
Ah, well-a-day for the stern old days!
And the clarion's blast has rung its last,
By the flowing river of Aise.
"And the warriors that swept to glory and death,--
Ah, well-a-day for the brave old days!
They have fought and gone, and I sit here alone
By the flowing river of Aise.
"The strength of limb and the mettle of heart,--
Ah, well-a-day for the strong old days!
They have withered away, mere butterflies' play,
By the flowing river of Aise.
"The queens of beauty, whose smile was life,--
Ah, well-a-day for the rare old days!
With love and despair in their golden hair,
By the flowing river of Aise.
"They have flitted away from hall and bower,--
Ah, well-a-day for the rich old days!
Like the sun they shone, like the sun they have gone,
By the flowing river of Aise.
"And buried beneath the pall of the past,--
Ah, well-a-day for the proud old days!
Lie valor and worth and the beauty of earth,
By the flowing river of Aise.
"And I sit and sigh by the idle stream,--
Ah, well-a-day for the bright old days!
For nothing remains for the poet's strains
But the flowing river of Aise."
Then a voice rang out from the oak overhead,--
"Why well-a-day for the old, old days?
The world is the same, if the bard has an aim,
By the flowing river of Aise.
"There's beauty and love and truth and power,--
Cease well-a-day for the old, old days!
The humblest home is worth Greece and Rome,
By the flowing river of Aise.
"There are themes enough for the poet's strains,--
Leave well-a-day for the quaint old days!
Take thine eyes from the ground, look up and around
From the flowing river of Aise.
"To-day is as grand as the centuries past,--
Leave well-a-day for the famed old days!
There are battles to fight, there are troths to plight,
By the flowing river of Aise.
"There are hearts as true to love, to strive,--
No well-a-day for the dark old days!
Go put into type the age that is ripe
By the flowing river of Aise."
Then the merry Poet piped down the vale,--
"Farewell, farewell to the dead old days!
By day and by night there's music and light
By the flowing river of Aise."
* * * * *
THE ICEBERG OF TORBAY.
TORBAY.
Torbay, finely described in a recent novel by the Rev. R.T.S. Lowell,
is an arm of the sea, a short strong arm with a slim hand and finger,
reaching into the rocky land and touching the water-falls and rapids
of a pretty brook. Here is a little village, with Romish and
Protestant steeples, and the dwellings of fishermen, with the
universal appendages of fishing-houses, boats, and "flakes." One
seldom looks upon a hamlet so picturesque and wild. The rocks slope
steeply down to the wonderfully clear water. Thousands of poles
support half-acres of the spruce-bough shelf, beneath which is a dark,
cool region, crossed with foot-paths, and not unfrequently sprinkled
and washed by the surf,--a most kindly office on the part of the sea,
you will allow, when once you have scented the fish-offal perpetually
dropping from the evergreen fish-house above. These little buildings
on the flakes are conspicuous features, and look as fresh and wild as
if they had just wandered away from the woodlands.
There they stand, on the edge of the lofty pole-shelf, or upon the
extreme end of that part of it which runs off frequently over the
water like a wharf, an assemblage of huts and halls, bowers and
arbors, a curious huddle made of poles and sweet-smelling branches and
sheets of birch-bark. A kind of evening haunts these rooms of spruce
at noonday, while at night a hanging lamp, like those we see in old
pictures of crypts and dungeons, is to the stranger only a kind of
buoy by which he is to steer his way through the darkness. To come off
then without pitching headlong, and soiling your hands and coat, is
the merest chance. Strange! one is continually allured into these
piscatory bowers whenever he comes near them. In spite of the chilly,
salt air, and the repulsive smells about the tables where they dress
the fish, I have a fancy for these queer structures. Their front door
opens upon the sea, and their steps are a mammoth ladder, leading down
to the swells and the boats. There is a charm also about fine fishes,
fresh from the net and the hook,--the salmon, for example, whose pink
and yellow flesh has given a name to one of the most delicate hues of
Art or Nature.
THE CLIFFS.
But where was the iceberg? We were not a little disappointed when all
Torbay was before us, and nothing but dark water to be seen. To our
surprise, no one had ever seen or heard of it. It must lie off Flat
Rock Harbor, a little bay below, to the north. We agreed with the
supposition that the berg must lie below, and made speedy preparations
to pursue, by securing the only boat to be had in the village,--a
substantial fishing-barge, laden rather heavily in the stern with at
least a cord of cod-seine, but manned by six stalwart men, a motive
power, as it turned out, none too large for the occasion. We embarked
at the foot of a fish-house ladder, being carefully handed down by the
kind-hearted men, and took our seats forward on the little bow-deck.
All ready, they pulled away at their long, ponderous oars with the
skill and deliberation of lifelong practice, and we moved out upon the
broad, glassy swells of the bay towards the open sea, not indeed with
the rapidity of a Yankee club-boat, but with a most agreeable
steadiness, and a speed happily fitted for a review of the shores,
which, under the afternoon sun, were made brilliant with lights and
shadows.
We were presently met by a breeze, which increased the swell, and made
it easier to fail in close under the northern shore, a line of
stupendous precipices, to which the ocean goes deep home. The ride
beneath these mighty cliffs was by far the finest boat-ride of my
life. While they do not equal the rocks of the Saguenay, yet, with all
their appendages of extent, structure, complexion, and adjacent sea,
they are sufficiently lofty to produce an almost appalling sense of
sublimity. The surges lave them at a great height, sliding from angle
to angle, and fretting into foam as they slip obliquely along the face
of the vast walls. They descend as deeply as two hundred feet, and
rise perpendicularly two, three, and four hundred feet from the water.
Their stratifications are up and down, and of different shades of
light and dark, a ribbed and striped appearance that increases the
effect of height, and gives variety and spirit to the surface. At one
point, where the rocks advance from the main front, and form a kind of
headland, the strata, six and eight feet thick, assume the form of a
pyramid,--from a broad base of a hundred yards or more running up to
meet in a point. The heart of this vast cone has partly fallen out,
and left the resemblance of an enormous tent with cavernous recesses
and halls, in which the shades of evening were already lurking, and
the surf was sounding mournfully. Occasionally it was musical, pealing
forth like the low tones of a great organ with awful solemnity. Now
and then, the gloomy silence of a minute was broken by the crash of a
billow far within, when the reverberations were like the slamming of
great doors.