The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 02, No. 12, October, 1858

Rosamond drew a long breath,—"Is that all, Bradford? I am so sorry! I thought, to be sure, you had the dragon."

"Never mind the dragon, Rosy," cried he; "let us see what I have caught.

"Who knows but the purse of Fortunatus or the slipper of Cinderella may be in here?—they have been lost for many a day, and nobody knows where they are."

Bradford knelt down on the grass, and, unhooking his line, strove to undo the rusty hasp; but it resisted all the efforts of his fingers, and it was only by the aid of a knife and a stone that he opened the box. In it was a morocco case, much discolored, but still in tolerable preservation, from which he drew a small manuscript book.

Rosamond's disappointment was greater than before. "It is nothing but a writing-book, after all," said she. "I wish you had not said anything about the purse or slipper, and then I should never have thought of them. You never heard anybody say where they thought the purse and slipper were hid,—did you?"

"Come, Rosy," cried Mark, "come down to the meadow; there is nothing more to be got out of the old well. Let us leave Brad alone with his book and his fish."

The children turned away towards the meadow,—Rosamond meditating upon the probability of her ever finding the purse and slipper, if she should ever set out in quest of them, and Mark thinking what a fool such a big fellow as Bradford must be, to mind any woman that ever was born.

Bradford took the box and the book to the chestnut-tree, and, stretching himself at full length in the shade, began to turn over the leaves. It was a journal, written in a delicate, graceful hand; and though the paper was somewhat yellow, and the ink faded, the writing was perfectly legible. Bradford looked at it, carelessly reading here and there a sentence, till his eye catching some familiar names, he opened it at the commencement, and read as follows:—

"December 31.—It is the last night of the old year. A few more steps, and the old year will have vanished into the great hall of the Past, where all the ages that ever have been are gathered. I have been sitting the last hour by myself, and have fancied that time moved not with its usual swiftness,—that the old year lingered with a sad regret, as if loath to pass away and let the new come in. Even now the midnight clock is striking,—eleven,—twelve;—the last flutter of the old year's robe is out of sight, and the new year glides in with noiseless feet, like one who enters the chamber of the dead. These are but melancholy fancies;—because I am sad myself must I put all the world in mourning? The old year did not linger;—it is only I that am loath to go. I have been so happy here, that the prospect of spending the coming year with Cousin Eleanor fills my mind with sad forebodings;—and yet my childish remembrances of her have in them nothing unpleasant. I think of her as a grave, quiet woman, who never strove to attract and win the love of a child. How I shall miss the life and gayety, the jests and laughter of Madge and Bertha! Madge the more, because she is so full of whims and oddities. To-night she came into my room, and brought this little book for me to write a journal of all that befell me while I was gone, making me promise to write often in it. Not that she ever wished to see it again. Heaven forbid that she should ever be so cruelly punished as to be made to read anybody's journal!—least of all such a stupid one as mine must be, shut up with Cousin Eleanor!—but she thought that I could never draw the book from the case (she had chosen one that fitted very tightly, and would give me much trouble for that very reason) without thinking of her;—and to be thought of often by her friends she confesses she is weak enough to wish.—Dear Madge, I could not forget her, if I would. The book just fits in a little japanned box that belonged to my grandmother, in which she used to keep rouge and pearl-powder. I will keep it in that, and remember my promise to Madge.

"February 21.—The journey is over, and I am at Cousin Eleanor's. How the evils that we dread shrink into nothing when we fairly meet them! Cousin Eleanor received me kindly, and looked neither so grave nor so cold as my memory, assisted by my imagination, had pictured her; and Ashcroft is a pretty place, even in midwinter. I am never tired of sitting at the library-window, and looking at the bare branches of the black ash-trees, as they spread out their network against the winter sky. I have a little desk near the bay-window, where I have my drawing and writing materials, and where I pretend to write and draw, while Eleanor occupies a larger one at the opposite window. Eleanor is a woman of business,—keeps all her accounts, looks after her farm and servants, and manages all her own affairs, and, though a strict and exacting mistress, is neither harsh nor unkind;—she evidently intends to perform all her own duties punctually and faithfully, and expects others to do the same. I often look at her with wonder, her nature is so different from mine,—never impulsive, always cool and steady,—full of ceaseless activity, yet never hurried, and seemingly never perplexed. I sometimes think she sees the whole of her life mapped out before her, and takes up every event in order. With the exception of the servants, we are the only occupants of the house, Eleanor does not seek nor desire the society of her neighbors; and so while she works I dream, read, or answer Madge or Bertha's letters.

"February 28.—It has been snowing ceaselessly for two days. I have read, drawn, and sewed till I am as weary as Marianna in the moated grange. I have yawned aloud a dozen times, but Eleanor does not mind it. She has been extremely busy with accounts, papers, and letters. For the last four hours I do not think she has spoken a word. I hear nothing but the scratch of her pen as it moves over the paper, and the wind in the ash-trees. I have taken Madge's journal in despair. Ah, Madge! I wish the bonnie girl were here;—how we would talk nonsense by the hour together, just to keep our tongues in practice, and Madge would hunt down an idea through all its turnings and windings, as if it were a hare, and she a dog in chase of it! A ring at the door;—I hope it may be some human body that will make Cousin Eleanor open her lips at last.

"March 1.—The blots on the opposite page show with what haste I shut up my journal yesterday. The ring at the door brought more than I anticipated, and opened my eyes effectually for the rest of the day. 'Mr. Lee,' said the servant, throwing the library-door wide open, and ushering in a man wrapped in a cloak, with a travelling-cap in his hand. Cousin Eleanor rose instantly, and advanced to meet him. I expected to see her extend her hand towards him, and welcome him in her usual courteous manner. Instead of that, she gave him a hearty kiss, which could be heard as well as felt, and which was returned, as I thought, with interest. If the marble Widow Wadman in the library had kissed the sympathizing face of Uncle Toby, I should not have been so much surprised, and should have thought it much more likely to happen.

"'I am very glad to see you, Thornton,' said she. 'I did not think you could come till to-morrow.'

"'I have made the best use of my time,' returned he, 'and had no wish to spend my precious hours at a country inn. It seemed good to see winter and snow again, after so many months of summer.'

"Bending forward to catch a better view of him as he spoke, the rustling of my dress reminded Eleanor of my presence.

"'My cousin Elizabeth Purcill, Thornton Lee,' said she. 'My two good friends I hope will also be friends to each other.'

"Mr. Lee made me a gentlemanly bow, and said something about the pleasure of seeing me; but more than suspecting that my presence in the library was no pleasure to either of them, I shut up my journal, crowded it into the box, and stole out of the room at the first convenient opportunity. On the stairs I met Mrs. Bickford, the housekeeper.

"'Is any one in the library with Miss Purcill?' asked she.

"'Yes,—a Mr. Lee.'

"'Mr. Lee?' exclaimed she, in surprise. 'I did not know as he was expected home now.'

"'Who is Mr. Lee?'

"'He is the gentleman whom Miss Purcill is to marry; but I thought he was not coming till autumn. I wonder if she knew it.'

"What Eleanor knows she always keeps to herself; none of her household are any the wiser for it. I was more surprised than Mrs. Bickford. Eleanor affianced! I never thought or dreamed of such a thing. Eleanor in love must be a curious spectacle. I did not feel sleepy any longer. What could a woman, so independent, so self-relying, so sufficient for herself, want of a lover? She always seemed to be a whole, and did not need another half to complete herself. I speculated much on the subject, and, when the bell rang for tea, went down-stairs with something of the same feeling of eager curiosity with which I open the pages of a good novel. There is nothing so interesting to idle, observant people as a pair of lovers, provided they are not silly, in which stage they are perfectly unbearable, and never should suffer themselves to be seen even by their intimate friends. Was it my fancy, or not? I thought Eleanor had grown young since I left the library. A soft light beamed in her eyes, and a clear crimson—the first trace of color I had ever seen in her face—burned on her cheek. It was a very different countenance from that at which I had been casting sidelong glances half the day, and yet it seemed to me that she was ashamed of these signs of joy, and thought it but a weakness to feel so glad. I sat silent nearly all the evening;—words always come more readily to my pen than to my lips, and, were it not so, there would have been no occasion for any speech of mine. Their conversation flowed on uninterruptedly, like a full, free river, whose current is strong and deep. How much richer both their lives seemed than mine! He had travelled, thought, seen, and felt so much, and had brought such wealth home with him, fitly coined into aptly chosen words; and she had gathered treasures as priceless from the literature of her own and foreign lands. I had nothing to offer either of them but my ears, and for those I doubt whether they felt grateful,—and when that doubt became a certainty, I crept into the great window in the drawing-room, and looked out upon the lawn. The moon, breaking through the clouds, shone brightly on the new-fallen snow. I sat down on a low chair,—the curtains fell about me,—their voices came to me with a low, dreamy sound,—I leaned my head on my hand, and fell asleep. When I awoke, the fire had died away, and the chairs were empty.

"March 20.—Mr. Lee comes every day. His father lives only a few miles from us,—a distance so short as to be no obstacle to a lover with a good horse; though I suspect, if the horse could speak, he would wish the distance either less or greater. These midnight rides must be detrimental to the constitution of any steady horse, and he often wakes me up at night, pawing impatiently under the window while his master is making his lingering adieux on the door-step.

"April 1.—I dislike Eleanor more every day. I know not why, unless because I watch her so closely. When Mr. Lee is not here she works as industriously as ever. If I were in love, I would give myself up to a dream or reverie now and then, and build myself an air-castle, if it were only to see it tumble down, and call myself a fool for my pains; but she is too matter-of-fact to do that. Well, if there is not much romance about her love, perhaps there is more reality; yet Thornton Lee is just the man one could make an ideal of, if one only would. But this is not what I especially dislike her for; people must love according to their own nature and temperament, and not after another's pattern. The thing that frets me most just now is the way that Eleanor has of divining my thoughts before they are spoken, and even before they are quite clear to myself. Sometimes, when we are talking together, some subject comes up on which I do not care to express my opinion. Eleanor fixes her clear, penetrating eyes upon me, and drags my thought out into the light, just as a kingfisher pounces upon and pulls a fish out of the water. Had I anything to conceal, any secret, I should be afraid of her; and as it is, I do not like this invasion of my personal kingdom,—though my thoughts often acquire new strength and beauty from Eleanor's strong and vigorous language. Last evening, Mr. Lee, Eleanor, and myself were turning over the prints in a large portfolio. We paused at one, the Departure of Hagar into the Wilderness. The artist had represented Hagar turning away from the door of the tent with Ishmael and the bottle of water; Abraham was near her; while Sarah in the background with a triumphant face exulted at the driving out of the bondmaid. The picture had not much merit as a work of Art; but in Hagar's face was such a look of despairing, wistful tenderness, as she turned towards Abraham for the last time, that it moved me almost to tears. I drew a long breath as the picture was turned over. Looking up, I saw Eleanor's eyes fixed upon me.

"'You pity Hagar, then? You think it was a harsh and cruel thing to drive her out into the wilderness with her child?'

"'Yes,' said I, shortly,—a little provoked that she should have seen it in my face.

"She went on: 'Sarah was right. Had I been she, I would have driven her out as remorselessly and as pitilessly. Did she not, presuming upon her youth, her beauty, and her child, despise her mistress? and why should her mistress feel compassion for her? The love of a long life might well thrust aside the passion of a few months, and Sarah, contemned by her bondmaid, is more worthy of pity than Hagar, in my eyes.'

"I was about to say that Sarah was more to blame for Hagar's conduct than she was herself, when Mr. Lee observed 'that Abraham was more to be pitied than either of them, for he was unable or unwilling to protect either of the women whom he loved,—his wife from the contempt of her bondmaid, or the bondmaid from the fury of his wife.'

"I fancied Eleanor did not exactly like this remark, for she turned to the next print hastily and began commenting upon it.

"May 6.—The groves and fields are beautiful with the fresh beauty of the early spring. We have given up our winter occupations for long rambles on the hills and in the woods. I sometimes decline being a third in the lovers' walks; but Eleanor seems so dissatisfied, if I refuse to accompany them, that I consent, lagging behind often, and have learned to be both blind and deaf as occasion requires. I think, too, that Mr. Lee is not sorry to have me with them. He and Eleanor have been separated for three years, and I sometimes wonder if they have not grown away from each other in that time. A long absence is a dangerous experiment even for friends, much more for lovers. Besides, no life is long enough to allow such great gaps in it.

"June 1.—We were sitting yesterday under the ash-trees on the lawn,—Eleanor netting, Mr. Lee reading Dante aloud, and I making myself rings and bracelets out of the shining blades of grass, and pretending to listen, when a servant brought Eleanor a letter. It was very short, for she did not turn the leaf. When she had read it she drew out her watch.

"'I have an hour before the express-train starts. Tell Mrs. Bickford to pack my trunk for a journey. Harness the black horse to drive to the station.'

"She put the letter into Mr. Lee's hands. 'My brother is very ill, and I shall go to him at once. Elizabeth, I am sorry to leave you here alone, but while I am gone I hope Thornton will consider you under his charge and protection.'

"She rose, as she spoke, and went towards the house, followed by Thornton.

"In a few minutes she appeared again, dressed in a gray travelling-dress,—kissed me lightly on the check, and bade me good-bye. All her preparations for this long journey had been made without any hurry or confusion, and she did not apparently feel so agitated or nervous at the thought of travelling this distance alone as I should to have gone by myself to the nearest town. Why Thornton did not accompany her, whether he could not or she did not wish it, I do not know; but he parted from her at the station, and soon returned for his horse.

"July 1.—Eleanor has been gone a month; in that time we have received but one letter from her. Her brother still lies in a very critical state, and she will not leave him at present. His motherless children, too, she thinks require her care. It seemed very lonesome at first without her. I did not think I could have missed an uncongenial person, one with whom I had so little sympathy, so much. I think I must belong to the tribe of creeping plants, which cling to whatever is nearest to them. Ashcroft grows daily more beautiful, and Thornton comes often to see me. We read together books that I like, (not Dante,) walk and sketch. We are on excellent terms, and call each other Cousin in view of our future relationship. I can talk more freely to him, now that Eleanor is not here,—and feel no disposition to hide my thoughts, now that I can keep them to myself, if I choose.

"July 24.—A week ago, one fair midsummer afternoon, we strolled to the knoll, and sat down under the blossoming boughs of the chestnut-tree.

"'I think,' said I, 'this is the pleasantest place in all the grounds; but Eleanor never seemed willing to come here.'

"'Eleanor has many unpleasant remembrances connected with the place,' replied Thornton. 'Her father's obstinate persistence in digging the well was a great annoyance to the whole household, and, unimaginative as Eleanor is, I fancy sometimes, from her avoidance of the spot, that she has some superstitious idea connected with the well,—that she fears through it some great misfortune may happen to some of the family.'

"'I hardly see how that can be,' said I, rising and going to the brink of the well; 'it is very deep, but there was never any water in it.'

"Just then I caught sight of a little flower growing out of the cleft of one of the stones. I knelt down and bent over to reach it. I slipped, I know not how, and should have fallen, had not Thornton sprung to my side and caught me.

"'Ah, my foolish cousin!' said he, 'there needs not to be water in the well to make it a dangerous place. Promise me that you will not attempt such a thing again.'

"'Not I,' said I, laughing gayly to conceal my fright,—for I did think I was about to break my neck on the stones below. 'There is no harm done, and I have got what I was after,'—and I held up the flower.

"It was an ugly little thing, and looked not half so pretty in my hand as it did in the shadow of the well. I would not have gathered it, had I seen it growing by the roadside. 'Is it not pretty?'

"'Humph!' said he, 'very!—worth breaking one's neck for!'

"'I was about to offer it to you, but, since you despise it, I will keep it myself,'—and I stuck it into my hair.

"Some time after, I missed the flower. I did not see it on the grass, but a leaf strangely similar peeped out of Thornton's waistcoat-pocket. When we passed by the well, on leaving the knoll, 'Promise me,' said he again, 'that you will not reach over the well for flowers any more.'

"I was a little irritated at his pertinacity. 'I shall do no such thing,' returned I; 'you are growing as superstitious as Eleanor. On the contrary, I think I shall make a garden there and tend it every day; and whenever I go away from Ashcroft, I will leave something on the stone for you, to show how idle your fears are.'

"Thornton did not answer. He was provoked, but showed his anger only by his silence. We sauntered back to the house in a different mood from that in which we had left it.