“One of the most convenient things in house-keeping is a ham. It is always ready, and always welcome. You can eat it with any thing and without any thing. It reminds me always of the great wild boar Scrimner, in the Northern Mythology, who is killed every day for the gods to feast on in Valhalla, and comes to life again every night.”
“In that case, I should think the gods would have the night-mare,” said his wife.
“Perhaps they do.”
And then another long silence, broken only by the skating of the swift pen over the sheet. Presently Mrs. Churchill said, — as if following out her own train of thought, while she ceased plying her needle to bite off the thread, which ladies will sometimes do in spite of all that is said against it, —
“A man came here to-day, calling himself the agent of an extensive house in the needle trade. He left this sample, and said the drill of the eye was superior to any other, and they are warranted not to cut the thread. He puts them at the wholesale price; and if I do not like the sizes, he offers to exchange them for others, either sharps or betweens.”
To this remark the abstracted school-master vouchsafed no reply. He found his half-dozen letters not so easily answered, particularly that to the poetical young lady, and worked away busily at them. Finally they were finished and sealed; and he looked up to his wife. She turned her eyes dreamily upon him. Slumber was hanging in their blue orbs, like snow in the heavens, ready to fall. It was quite late, and he said to her, —
“I am too tired, my charming Lilawati, and you too sleepy, to sit here any longer to-night. And, as I do not wish to begin my Romance without having you at my side, so that I can read detached passages to you as I write, I will put it off till to-morrow or the next day.”
He watched his wife as she went up stairs with the light. It was a picture always new and alwaysbeautiful, and like a painting of Gherardo della Notte. As he followed her, he paused to look at the stars. The beauty of the heavens made his soul overflow.
“How absolute,” he exclaimed, “how absolute and omnipotent is the silence of the night! And yet the stillness seems almost audible! From all the measureless depths of air around us comes a half-sound, a half-whisper, as if we could hear the crumbling and falling away of earth and all created things, in the great miracle of nature, decay and reproduction, ever beginning, never ending, — the gradual lapse and running of the sand in the great hour-glass of Time!”
In the night, Mr. Churchill had a singular dream. He thought himself in school, where he was reading Latin to his pupils. Suddenly all the genitive cases of the first declension began to make faces at him, and to laugh immoderately; and when he tried to lay hold of them, they jumped down into the ablative, and the circumflex accent assumed the form of a great moustache. Then the little village school-house was transformed into a vast and endless school-house of the world, stretching forward, form after form, through all the generations of coming time; andon all the forms sat young men and old, reading and transcribing his Romance, which now in his dream was completed, and smiling and passing it onward from one to another, till at last the clock in the corner struck twelve, and the weights ran down with a strange, angry whirr, and the school broke up; and the school-master awoke to find this vision of fame only a dream, out of which his alarm-clock had aroused him at an untimely hour.
VI.
Meanwhile, a different scene was taking place at the parsonage. Mr. Pendexter had retired to his study to finish his farewell sermon. Silence reigned through the house. Sunday had already commenced there. The week ended with the setting of the sun, and the evening and the morning were the first day.
The clergyman was interrupted in his labors by the old sexton, who called as usual for the key of the church. He was gently rebuked for coming so late, and excused himself by saying that his wife was worse.
“Poor woman!” said Mr. Pendexter; “has she her mind?”
“Yes,” answered the sexton, “as much as ever.”
“She has been ill a long time,” continuedthe clergyman. “We have had prayers for her a great many Sundays.”
“It is very true, sir,” replied the sexton, mournfully; “I have given you a great deal of trouble. But you need not pray for her any more. It is of no use.”
Mr. Pendexter’s mind was in too fervid a state to notice the extreme and hopeless humility of his old parishioner, and the unintentional allusion to the inefficacy of his prayers. He pressed the old man’s hand warmly, and said, with much emotion, —
“To-morrow is the last time that I shall preach in this parish, where I have preached for twenty-five years. But it is not the last time I shall pray for you and your family.”
The sexton retired also much moved; and the clergyman again resumed his task. His heart glowed and burned within him. Often his face flushed and his eyes filled with tears, so that he could not go on. Often he rose and paced the chamber to and fro, and wiped away the large drops that stood on his red and feverish forehead.
At length the sermon was finished. He rose and looked out of the window. Slowly the clockstruck twelve. He had not heard it strike before, since six. The moon-light silvered the distant hills, and lay, white almost as snow, on the frosty roofs of the village. Not a light could be seen at any window.
“Ungrateful people! Could you not watch with me one hour?” exclaimed he, in that excited and bitter moment; as if he had thought that on that solemn night the whole parish would have watched, while he was writing his farewell discourse. He pressed his hot brow against the window-pane to allay its fever; and across the tremulous wavelets of the river the tranquil moon sent towards him a silvery shaft of light, like an angelic salutation. And the consoling thought came to him, that not only this river, but all rivers and lakes, and the great sea itself, were flashing with this heavenly light, though he beheld it as a single ray only; and that what to him were the dark waves were the dark providences of God, luminous to others, and even to himself should he change his position.
VII.
The morning came; the dear, delicious, silent Sunday; to the weary workman, both of brain and hand, the beloved day of rest. When the first bell rang, like a brazen mortar, it seemed from its gloomy fortress to bombard the village with bursting shells of sound, that exploded over the houses, shattering the ears of all the parishioners and shaking the consciences of many.
Mr. Pendexter was to preach his farewell sermon. The church was crowded, and only one person came late. It was a modest, meek girl, who stole silently up one of the side aisles, — not so silently, however, but that the pew-door creaked a little as she opened it; and straightway a hundred heads were turned in that direction, although it was in the midst of the prayer. Old Mrs. Fairfield did not turn round, but she and herdaughter looked at each other, and their bonnets made a parenthesis in the prayer, within which one asked what that was, and the other replied, —
“It is only Alice Archer. She always comes late.”
Finally the long prayer was ended, and the congregation sat down, and the weary children — who are always restless during prayers, and had been for nearly half an hour twisting and turning, and standing first on one foot and then on the other, and hanging their heads over the backs of the pews, like tired colts looking into neighbouring pastures — settled suddenly down, and subsided into something like rest.
The sermon began, — such a sermon as had never been preached, or even heard of before. It brought many tears into the eyes of the pastor’s friends, and made the stoutest hearts among his foes quake with something like remorse. As he announced the text, “Yea, I think it meet as long as I am in this tabernacle to stir you up, by putting you in remembrance,” it seemed as if the apostle Peter himself, from whose pen the words first proceeded, were calling them to judgment.
He began by giving a minute sketch of his ministry and the state of the parish, with all itstroubles and dissensions, social, political, and ecclesiastical. He concluded by thanking those ladies who had presented him with a black sil
k gown, and had been kind to his wife during her long illness; — by apologizing for having neglected his own business, which was to study and preach, in order to attend to that of the parish, which was to support its minister, — stating that his own short-comings had been owing to theirs, which had driven him into the woods in winter and into the fields in summer; — and finally by telling the congregation in general that they were so confirmed in their bad habits, that no reformation was to be expected in them under his ministry, and that to produce one would require a greater exercise of Divine power than it did to create the world; for in creating the world there had been no opposition, whereas, in their reformation, their own obstinacy and evil propensities, and self-seeking, and worldly-mindedness, were all to be overcome!
VIII.
When Mr. Pendexter had finished his discourse, and pronounced his last benediction upon a congregation to whose spiritual wants he had ministered for so many years, his people, now his no more, returned home in very various states of mind. Some were exasperated, others mortified, and others filled with pity.
Among the last was Alice Archer, — a fair, delicate girl, whose whole life had been saddened by a too sensitive organization, and by somewhat untoward circumstances. She had a pale, transparent complexion, and large gray eyes, that seemed to see visions. Her figure was slight, almost fragile; her hands white, slender, diaphanous. With these external traits her character was in unison. She was thoughtful, silent, susceptible; often sad, often in tears, often lost inreveries. She led a lonely life with her mother, who was old, querulous, and nearly blind. She had herself inherited a predisposition to blindness; and in her disease there was this peculiarity, that she could see in Summer, but in Winter the power of vision failed her.
The old house they lived in, with its four sickly Lombardy poplars in front, suggested gloomy and mournful thoughts. It was one of those houses that depress you as you enter, as if many persons had died in it, — sombre, desolate, silent. The very clock in the hall had a dismal sound, gasping and catching its breath at times, and striking the hour with a violent, determined blow, reminding one of Jael driving the nail into the head of Sisera.
One other inmate the house had, and only one. This was Sally Manchester, or Miss Sally Manchester, as she preferred to be called; an excellent chamber-maid and a very bad cook, for she served in both capacities. She was, indeed, an extraordinary woman, of large frame and masculine features; — one of those who are born to work, and accept their inheritance of toil as if it were play, and who consequently, in the language of domestic recommendations, are usually styled”a treasure, if you can get her.” A treasure she was to this family; for she did all the housework, and in addition took care of the cow and the poultry, — occasionally venturing into the field of veterinary practice, and administering lamp-oil to the cock, when she thought he crowed hoarsely. She had on her forehead what is sometimes denominated a “widow’s peak,” — that is to say, her hair grew down to a point in the middle; and on Sundays she appeared at church in a blue poplin gown, with a large pink bow on what she called “the congregation side of her bonnet.” Her mind was strong, like her person; her disposition not sweet, but, as is sometimes said of apples by way of recommendation, a pleasant sour.
Such were the inmates of the gloomy house, — from which the last-mentioned frequently expressed her intention of retiring, being engaged to a travelling dentist, who, in filling her teeth with amalgam, had seized the opportunity to fill a soft place in her heart with something still more dangerous and mercurial. The wedding-day had been from time to time postponed, and at length the family hoped and believed it never would come, — a wish prophetic of its own fulfilment.
Almost the only sunshine that from without shone into the dark mansion came from the face of Cecilia Vaughan, the school-mate and bosom-friend of Alice Archer. They were nearly of the same age, and had been drawn together by that mysterious power which discovers and selects friends for us in our childhood. They sat together in school; they walked together after school; they told each other their manifold secrets; they wrote long and impassioned letters to each other in the evening; in a word, they were in love with each other. It was, so to speak, a rehearsal in girlhood of the great drama of woman’s life.
IX.
The golden tints of Autumn now brightened the shrubbery around this melancholy house, and took away something of its gloom. The four poplar trees seemed all ablaze, and flickered in the wind like huge torches. The little border of box filled the air with fragrance, and seemed to welcome the return of Alice, as she ascended the steps, and entered the house with a lighter heart than usual. The brisk autumnal air had quickened her pulse and given a glow to her cheek.
She found her mother alone in the parlour, seated in her large arm-chair. The warm sun streamed in at the uncurtained windows; and lights and shadows from the leaves lay upon her face. She turned her head as Alice entered, and said, —
“Who is it? Is it you, Alice?”
“Yes, it is I, mother.”
“Where have you been so long?”
“I have been nowhere, dear mother. I have come directly home from church.”
“How long it seems to me! It is very late. It is growing quite dark. I was just going to call for the lights.”
“Why, mother!” exclaimed Alice, in a startled tone; “what do you mean? The sun is shining directly into your face!”
“Impossible, my dear Alice. It is quite dark. I cannot see you. Where are you?”
She leaned over her mother and kissed her. Both were silent, — both wept. They knew that the hour, so long looked forward to with dismay, had suddenly come. Mrs. Archer was blind!
This scene of sorrow was interrupted by the abrupt entrance of Sally Manchester. She, too, was in tears; but she was weeping for her own affliction. In her hand she held an open letter, which she gave to Alice, exclaiming amid sobs, —
“Read this, Miss Archer, and see how false man can be! Never trust any man! They are all alike; they are all false — false — false!”
Alice took the letter and read as follows: —
“It is with pleasure, Miss Manchester, I sit down to write you a few lines. I esteem you as highly as ever, but Providence has seemed to order and direct my thoughts and affections to another, — one in my own neighbourhood. It was rather unexpected to me. Miss Manchester, I suppose you are well aware that we, as professed Christians, ought to be resigned to our lot in this world. May God assist you, so that we may be prepared to join the great company in heaven. Your answer would be very desirable. I respect your virtue, and regard you as a friend.
Martin Cherryfield.
“P. S. The society is generally pretty good here, but the state of religion is quite low.”
“That is a cruel letter, Sally,” said Alice, as she handed it back to her. “But we all have our troubles. That man is unworthy of you. Think no more about him.”
“What is the matter?” inquired Mrs. Archer, hearing the counsel given and the sobs with which it was received. “Sally, what is the matter?”
Sally made no answer; but Alice said, —
“Mr. Cherryfield has fallen in love with somebody else.”
“Is that all?” said Mrs. Archer, evidently relieved. “She ought to be very glad of it. Why does she want to be married? She had much better stay with us; particularly now that I am blind.”
When Sally heard this last word, she looked up in consternation. In a moment she forgot her own grief to sympathize with Alice and her mother. She wanted to do a thousand things at once; — to go here; — to send there; — to get this and that; — and particularly to call all the doctors in the neighbourhood. Alice assured her it would be of no avail, though she finally consented that one should be sent for.
Sally went in search of him. On her way, her thoughts reverted to herself; and, to use her own phrase, “she curbed in like a stage-horse,” as she walked. This state of haughty and offended pride continued for some hours after her r
eturn home. Later in the day, she assumed a decent composure, and requested that the man — she scorned to name him — might never again be mentioned in her hearing. Thus was her whole dream of felicity swept away by the tide of fate, as the nest of a ground-swallow by an inundation. It had been built too low to be secure.
Some women, after a burst of passionate tears, are soft, gentle, affectionate; a warm and genial air succeeds the rain. Others clear up cold, and are breezy, bleak, and dismal. Of the latter class was Sally Manchester. She became embittered against all men on account of one; and was often heard to say that she thought women were fools to be married, and that, for one, she would not marry any man, let him be who he might, — not she!
The village doctor came. He was a large man, of the cheerful kind; vigorous, florid, encouraging; and pervaded by an indiscriminate odor of drugs. Loud voice, large cane, thick boots; — every thing about him synonymous with noise. His presence in the sick-room was like martial music, — inspiriting, but loud. He seldom left it without saying to the patient, “I hope you will feel more comfortable to-morrow,” or, “When your fever leaves you, you will be better.” But, in this instance, he could not go so far. Even his hopefulness was not sufficient for the emergency. Mrs. Archer was blind, — beyond remedy, beyond hope, — irrevocably blind!
X.
On the following morning, very early, as the school-master stood at his door, inhaling the bright, wholesome air, and beholding the shadows of the rising sun, and the flashing dew-drops on the red vine-leaves, he heard the sound of wheels, and saw Mr. Pendexter and his wife drive down the village street in their old-fashioned chaise, known by all the boys in town as “the ark.” The old white horse, that for so many years had stamped at funerals, and gnawed the tops of so many posts, and imagined he killed so many flies because he wagged the stump of a tail, and, finally, had been the cause of so much discord in the parish, seemed now to make common cause with his master, and stepped as if endeavouring to shake the dust from his feet as he passed out of the ungrateful village. Under the axle-treehung suspended a leather trunk; and in the chaise, between the two occupants, was a large bandbox, which forced Mr. Pendexter to let his legs hang out of the vehicle, and gave him the air of imitating the Scriptural behaviour of his horse. Gravely and from a distance he saluted the school-master, who saluted him in return, with a tear in his eye, that no man saw, but which, nevertheless, was not unseen.
Delphi Complete Works of Henry Wadsworth Longfellow (Delphi Poets Series Book 13) Page 174
