CHAPTER III.
"Well, George," said Mr. Earl, as they were seated at the breakfast-table, "how do you intend to dispose of yourself to-day?"
"I have a great many old friends to visit, sir."
"It may not be convenient for some of them to see you early in the morning."
"Some of them, I think, will not be at all particular respecting the time of my visits. There is the white rock by the falls which I must give an hour to; and I must see if the old trout who lived under it has taken as good care of himself during my absence as he did before I went away. And there is the willow grove, too, which I wish very much to see."
"It has been cut down."
"Cut down!—what for?"
"Mr. Bullard thought it interfered with his prospect."
"Why did you not interfere, cousin?" turning to Emily.
"It was nothing to me what he did with his grove," said Emily.
"Oh, I had forgotten—" George did not finish the sentence. He turned the conversation to some of the ordinary topics of the day.
After breakfast, he set out for Willow Brook, and seated himself upon the white rock. The years that had passed since in childhood he sat upon that rock, were reviewed by him. Though he had met with trials and temptations, yet he was thankful that he could return to that rock with so many of the feelings of childhood; that his heart's best emotions had not been polluted by the world, but were as yet pure as the crystal stream before him.
When he rose from that rock, instead of visiting the other haunts of his early days, he found himself moving toward the village. Now and then a familiar face was seen. By those who recognized him, he was warmly greeted. It was not until he met a stranger that he inquired for the residence of the widow and her niece. He was directed to a small dwelling in a narrow lane. He knocked at the open door. The widow, who was busily employed in smoothing the white linen before her, bade him enter, but paused not from her work.
"Is Eliza at home?" said Mason.
"Who can you be that want to see Eliza?" said the poor woman, still not lifting her eyes from her work.
"I am an old friend of hers," said Mason.
"A friend! a friend!" said she, pausing and looking upward, as if striving to recall the idea belonging to the word. "Yes, she had friends once—where have they gone?"
Again she plied her task, as if unconscious of his presence. He seated himself and watched her countenance, which revealed so sad a history. Her lips kept moving, and now and then she spoke aloud. "Poor girl! a hard life has she had—it may all be right, but I can't see how; and now she might be a lady if she would leave her poor, half-crazy aunt." Her whispers were then inaudible. Soon she turned to Mason and said, as if in reply to a question, "No, I never heard her complain. When those she used to visit don't know her, and look the other way when they meet her, she never complains. What will become of her when her poor old aunt is gone? Who will take care of her?"
"I will," said Mason.
"Who may you be?" said she, scanning his countenance as if she had now seen him for the first time.
"A friend of her childhood."
"What is your name?"
"George Mason."
"George Mason! George Mason!—I have heard that name before. It was the name she had over so often when she had the fever, poor thing! I did not know what she said, though she did not say a word during the whole time that would not look well printed in a book. Did you use to live in the big white house?"
"Yes, I used to live with my Uncle Earl."
"And with that lady," laying a fierce emphasis upon the word, "who never speaks to Eliza now, though Eliza watched night after night with her when she was on the borders of the grave. Are you like her?" observing him to hesitate, she asked in a more excited manner, "are you like Emily Earl?" Fearing that her clouded mind might receive an impression difficult to remove, he promptly answered "No."
"I am glad of it," said the widow, resuming her work.
The last question and its answer was overheard by Eliza, as she was coming in from the garden where she had been attending to a few flowers. She turned deadly pale as she saw Mason, and remained standing in the door. He arose and took her hand in both of his, and was scarcely able to pronounce her name. The good aunt stood with uplifted hands, gazing with ludicrous amazement at the scene. Eliza was the first to recover her self-possession. She introduced Mason to her aunt as an old friend.
"Friend!—are you sure he is a friend?"
"He is a friend," said Mason, "who is very grateful to you for the love you have borne her, and the care you have taken of her."
"There," said she, opening a door which led to a parlor, perhaps ten feet square, motioning to them to enter. Mason, still retaining her trembling hand, led Eliza into the room, and seated her on the sofa, the chief article of furniture it contained. Her eyes met his earnest gaze. They were immediately filled with tears. His own overflowed. He threw his arm around her, and they mingled their tears in silence. It was long ere the first word was spoken. Eliza at length seemed to wake as from a dream.
"What am I doing?" said she, attempting to remove his arm, "we are almost strangers."
"Eliza," said he, solemnly, "do you say what you feel?"
"No, but I know not—" she could not finish the sentence.
"Eliza, you are dearer to me than any one upon earth." She made no efforts to resist the pressure of his arm. There were moments of eloquent silence.
"Eliza, will you become my wife?"
"Do you know how utterly destitute I am?"
"That has no connection with my question."
"If you are the same George Mason you used to be, you wish for a direct answer. I will." It was not till this word was spoken that he ventured to impress a kiss upon her cheek.
"I have not done right," said Eliza; "you can never know how much I owe to that dear aunt. I ought not to engage myself without her consent—I can never be separated from her."
"You cannot suppose that I would wish you to be separated."
"You are the same—" she was about to add some epithets of praise, but checked herself. "How is it that you have remained unchanged?"
"By keeping bright an image in my heart of hearts."
With some difficulty Eliza rose, and opening the door, spoke to her aunt. She came and stood in the door.
"Well, ma'am," said Mason, "I have gained Eliza's consent to change her name, if you will give your consent." She stood as one bewildered. The cloud which rested on her countenance was painful to behold. It was necessary to repeat his remark before she could apprehend it.
"Ah, is it so? It has come at last. He doeth all things well. I hadn't faith to trust Him. He doeth all things well."
"We have your consent?"
"If she is half as loving to you as she has been to me, you will never be sorry. But what will become of me?"
"We have no idea of parting with you. She has given her consent only on condition that you go with us." The old lady fixed her gaze upon her niece. It was strange that features so plain, so wrinkled by age and sorrow, could beam with such affection. She could find no words to express her feelings. She closed the door, and was heard sobbing like a child.
Hour after hour stole away unnoted by the lovers. They were summoned to partake of the frugal meal spread by Aunt Mary's hands, and no apologies were made for its lack of store. Again they retired to the little parlor, and it was not till the sun was low in the west, that he set out on his return to the "white house."
"We conclude that you have passed a happy day," said Mrs. Earl, "at least your countenance says so. We began to feel anxious about you."
"I went to the brook first, and then to the village."
"Have you seen many of your old friends?"
"Several of them."
Mason was released from the necessity of answering further questions by the arrival of a carriage at the door. Mr. Earl rose and went to the window. "Mr. Benfield has come," said he. Emily arose and left the room to return in another dress, and with flowers in her hair.
Mr. Benfield was shown to his room, and in a few moments joined the family at the tea-table. Emily received him with a smile, which, however beautiful it may have been, was not like the smile of Eliza Austin. Mason saw that Mr. Benfield belonged to a class with which he was perfectly well acquainted. "It is well," thought he, "that she has filed down her mind, if she must spend her days with a man like him." Mason passed the evening with his uncle, though he was sadly inattentive to his uncle's remarks. Emily and Mr. Benfield took a walk, and on their return did not join the family. Benfield's object in visiting the country at this time was to fix a day for his marriage. The evening was spent by them in discussing matters pertaining to that event.
It was necessary for Mr. Benfield to return to the city on the afternoon of the following day. Mason, for various reasons, determined to accompany him. Part of the morning was spent with Eliza, and arrangements for their union were easily fixed upon. No costly preparations for a wedding were thought to be necessary.
Emily devoted herself so entirely to Mr. Benfield, that Mason had no opportunity of informing her respecting the state of his affairs.
He sought his uncle, expressed to him his gratitude for his kindness, informed him of the state of his pecuniary affairs, and of his affections, and asked his approbation of his intended marriage.
"I can't say, George," said the old gentleman, "but that you have done the wisest thing you could do. Emily may not like it. I have nothing to say against it. I didn't do very differently myself, though it would hardly do to say so aloud now. Emily is to be married in three weeks. You must be with us then."
"Suppose I wish to be married myself on the same evening?"
"Well, I don't know. I think you had better be with us, then make such arrangements as you please, and say nothing to us about it. It may make a little breeze at first, but it will soon blow over. Nobody will like you the worse for it in the end." Heartily thanking his uncle for his frankness and affection, and taking a courteous leave of Emily, he took his departure, with Mr. Benfield, for the city.