MABEL WILLEY’S LOVERS.
Early one June morning, not many years ago, a young couple might have been seen strolling along by the side of a babbling brook a short distance from the village of North Conway, New Hampshire.
Harry Fletcher, although a late riser when at home, had determined to be up betimes this morning and catch a mess of trout for breakfast. Not for his own breakfast, however, but for that of Miss Kitty Gibbon, who, like himself, had come to pass a few weeks at the Kearsarge House.
“’Twill please her,” thought Harry, “to hear how I left my comfortable couch for her sake, at an hour when only farmers are stirring.”
But Miss Gibbon, who had seen him the evening before making ready his fishing-tackle, had said to herself: “I’ll be up early, too, and go with him.” And she kept her word; nay, she was down before her admirer. And when the latter discovered Kitty seated on the piazza reading Middlemarch, he of course invited her to accompany him; which invitation Kitty accepted, but not until he had asked her a second time; and then she closed the book slowly, lingering a moment over the last line and exclaiming: “What an interesting tale this is!” So that Harry was half tempted to apologize for thus interrupting her reading.
“The truth is, Miss Gibbon,” he said, as they wended their way toward the stream—“the truth is, I know that you like fresh trout. For no other human being would I have risen at such an unearthly hour.”
“Indeed!” returned Kitty with an air of perfect indifference. Yet, accustomed as she was to receiving attention and to hear flattering words, she could not prevent a tiny rose from blooming on her pallid cheek when Harry went on to assure her upon his honor that this was the truth.
In our opinion Miss Gibbon is an attractive young lady. But most people might not agree with us; and not a few of her rivals declare it is only her money that makes her so pleasing to the gentlemen. There is, indeed, a slight cast in one of her eyes, and her forehead is somewhat too broad for a woman’s. But then she is gifted with a melodious voice (a rare gift among American women) and has exquisite teeth, which she knows how to display to the best advantage by a merry laugh practised before the mirror. Her hair, too, wonderful to relate, is all her own, and, despite the care which she bestows on her toilet, one glossy ringlet always manages to escape from its thraldom and fly hither and thither. But the best feature Kitty possesses—at least so think we—is her nose. It is a bold Roman nose, which proclaims her to be a girl of character; and we are convinced that, however spoilt she may be by fortune, there is a solid groundwork of worth in Kitty which would reveal itself if the occasion demanded it.
Her mother, who is a rich widow, has been living five or six years abroad, most of the time in Paris, and Mrs. Gibbon only came home this summer because she thought that a trip across the ocean would be good for her daughter’s health.
Harry Fletcher, Kitty’s companion this June morning, is the son of a prominent New York banker; and as it seems to be one of the laws of nature that wealth should attract wealth, we cannot wonder if he and Miss Gibbon have very soon become known to each other.
“He will be as good a catch for you, child, as you will be for him,” spoke the watchful mother. “And if you play your cards right we may be back in Paris before October, bringing Mr. Fletcher along with us; and, considering his prospects, he will do almost as well as a count.”
It would be untrue, however, to say that there was no real love between this youthful pair. Money may, indeed, have first drawn them together; but now, after only a fortnight’s acquaintance, we doubt, if one of them were suddenly to be stricken with poverty, whether poverty would separate them.
“How charming this walk is!” exclaimed Harry, as he took Kitty’s hand to help her over a fallen tree.
“In Paris such a delightful walk would not be possible,” answered Kitty.
“Do you really enjoy it?” said Harry. “It must seem so different from the Champs Elysées and the Bois de Boulogne.”
His companion was silent a moment, and ’twas not until he repeated that the pine woods and stony fields of New Hampshire must appear very rugged and unpleasant to her that she said:
“Well, but here, sir, I do for once in my life feel that I am free. Why, at the fashionable pensionnat where mother put me I was not allowed to walk out alone even with my cousin Arthur.”
“Oh! you can’t imagine how I long to see Paris,” continued Harry.
“Well, despite what I have just said,” answered Kitty, “it is a most fascinating city—the queen of cities; and there is a large colony of Americans there, who have made up their minds to die in Paris, and who look upon their countrymen here as semi-barbarians.”
In a few minutes they reached the brook and Harry cast in his fly. But no fish rose; and presently he gave another throw. This time it was not skilfully done, or rather it was most skilfully done, for the fly, as it went circling round his head, got caught in Kitty’s truant curl, who laughed and said: “You have hooked a big trout now, Mr. Fletcher.”
“Well, I came purposely to catch a mess for you,” returned Harry. “But may I crave leave to keep this one dear fish all for myself?”
“What do you mean?” laughed Kitty, as he tried to disentangle the fly.
“I mean—” here his fingers stopped working and his voice trembled. “I mean—” Kitty, who understood him well enough, in another moment gave the happy response, and Harry was so overjoyed that he wound up his line and did not fish any more.
But they did not return immediately to the village; they felt drawn nearer to each other in the lonely woods, with only the trees and the brook to watch them; and so on and on they wandered, until by and by they emerged from the forest and saw before them an old farmhouse with moss-covered roof, on which the morning sun was shining, and round about the homestead the stream made well-nigh a circle—a bright, silvery circle, murmuring sweet music to those who dwelt there. The lovers paused a moment and gazed upon the scene without speaking. Then presently Kitty said: “I could live in such a spot all my life.”
“So could I,” said Harry, turning his sparkling eyes upon her. “With you I could live anywhere.”
“Let us draw nearer,” continued Kitty, “and speak to the young woman who is feeding the turkeys by the door; and quite a pretty girl she is,” Kitty added in an undertone, as Mabel Willey turned towards them.
“Yes, if one admires a dark complexion,” said Harry.
“And buried among these hills!” continued Kitty compassionately. “But I forgot what I said a moment ago; if I could be happy here with you, dear Harry, why, she may have a lover too, and not pine one bit for city life.”
The genial way in which Mabel returned their greeting quite won Kitty’s heart, while Harry inwardly confessed that, although he did not like brunettes, she was the handsomest one he had ever seen. And when presently he glanced down at her bare feet she did not blush, but quietly remarked:
“I have been gathering lilies, sir, at the pond, and I had to wade in after them.”
But Harry thought no excuse was needed; for Mabel’s foot was as perfectly shaped as her hand—a sculptor might have chosen it for a model.
“What a sweet home you have!” observed Kitty. “And the swallows love it, too; how many there are skimming over the grass!”
“’Tis not my home,” returned Mabel. “I am here only on a visit to my grandfather.”
“Indeed! Well, may I ask where your home is?” continued Kitty.
“In Illinois. My parents settled there twenty-three years ago, when they were first married, and I was born there, and I like it much better than New Hampshire.”
“Do you? And what part of Illinois are you from?”
“Lee County; and we live on the bank of a beautiful river called Rock River, which is full of black bass and pickerel, and in autumn ’tis covered with mallard and teal. Oh! I love Rock River.”
“Well, if your home is a more delightful spot than this it must be exquisite indeed.”
“I never saw a finer beech-tree than that one yonder,” put in Harry. Then turning to his betrothed and dropping his voice, “Let us go cut our names upon it, Kitty, to preserve the memory of this happy day.”
“Oh! do,” answered Kitty aloud. Then, taking Mabel’s hand, she added: “You must know, my dear, that he and I are just engaged. I spoke the sweet yes to him as we were strolling up the brook—this never-to-be-forgotten brook.”
“Engaged—going to be married,” said Mabel in a musing tone and fixing her dark eyes upon Harry, who wondered what she was thinking of while she watched him so wistfully. Then presently Mabel went on:
“Yes, do cut your names on the tree, for you must never forget this day—never; and your names will be visible upon it many years to come.”
All three now bent their steps to the beech, where Harry deftly carved his name and the name of his betrothed upon the bark.
“Why, how strange!” cried Mabel when he had finished. Then, taking Kitty by the sleeve, she drew her to the other side of the tree, where, lo! in letters almost obliterated by Time, was written Harry Fletcher—Mabel Willey!
“Then you have a lover, too, of the same name as mine,” observed Kitty.
“I a lover! I have none,” returned Mabel. “Besides, do you not perceive that these names have been here a long time, for the bark has nearly grown over them?”
“Well, who were these lovers, then?—for such no doubt they were,” said Kitty.
“I do not know; I only discovered the names yesterday. I’ll ask grandpa as soon as he comes back from the mill.”
“Do,” said Harry, “for I am curious to know.”
“And before you return to Illinois,” continued Kitty, “please come to the Kearsarge House, in order that I may see you again; for where your home is, is far, far from where ours is going to be.”
“We intend to live in Paris,” said Harry.
“In Paris?” observed Mabel. “You mean, of course, the Paris that is in France?”
“Is there any other?” said Kitty, inwardly smiling at her simplicity.
“Oh! yes. There is a Paris in Oregon and another in Texas.”
Here the talk ended by Mabel promising to visit Kitty ere many days were over.
“I should not have expected to meet such a fine-looking, well-mannered girl in a place like this,” spoke Miss Gibbon, when she and Harry were out of Mabel’s hearing.
“In America pretty girls are as plenty as blackberries,” answered Harry.
“Well, we certainly carry off the palm in Europe,” added Kitty. “But this young woman is a peasant.”
“A farmer’s daughter,” said Harry.
“Oh! we should call her a peasant in France, Harry dear. And I have some misgivings as to what mother will say when she hears that I have invited Mabel to visit me at the hotel.”
“Well, she is dark-complexioned, and I’ll swear she is an Italian baroness,” returned Harry, laughing.
“Oh! yes, do. A capital joke! Why, we know ever so many baronesses abroad. Ma has a large circle of noble acquaintances.”
“Really!”
“Yes. And I know three American girls married to counts. But there was no love between them during the courtship—not a spark—’twas all pure business from beginning to end, and I am told the young ladies are now very unhappy.”
“Well, our way of courting is the best,” said Harry.
“Judging from my own experience it undoubtedly is,” continued Kitty, looking tenderly at him. “The walks we have enjoyed together have taught me what you are, and taught you what I am; and, oh! how fortunate it is that I came back to America this year.”
“Most fortunate for me,” said Harry.
“And for me, too, dear boy. But now, to speak seriously about Mabel; I am in a quandary. What shall I do? Ma will see at a glance that she is a peasant.”
Mrs. Gibbon was highly pleased when her daughter told her of her engagement to Henry Fletcher, Jr.
“Console toi, ma fille,” she said. “S’il n’a pas de titre, l’argent au moins ne lui manque pas.”
But, as Kitty had feared, she was not at all pleased when she heard about Mabel Willey.
“Mais, mon Dieu! C’est une paysanne!” groaned the widow, who was wont to speak French to Kitty, and spoke it well, too—“une paysanne!” Then, sinking down in a rocking-chair, “Mon Dieu!” she sighed, “mon Dieu! quel scandale.”
Here the matter was let drop, for Mrs. Gibbon was too delighted with Kitty’s engagement to remain long out of humor.
Three days later, while the widow was seated on the piazza, fanning away the mosquitoes and wishing with all her heart that she was at Biarritz or Trouville, up rattled a farm-wagon. An old man was driving, his back pretty well bent with years, and beside him sat Mabel.
“Grandpa, I’ll not be long,” said the girl, alighting from the vehicle, and speaking loud enough to be overheard by a number of guests.
“Mon Dieu!” groaned Mrs. Gibbon, who guessed who it was.
Now, Mabel did not know Kitty’s mother, but it so happened that it was she whom the girl first addressed.
“I am come to call on Miss Gibbon. Can you tell me, madam, whether she is in?” inquired Mabel.
“Go ask one of the servants,” replied the widow, her eyes darting flashes of anger as she spoke. Then suddenly a bright thought struck her; quick a change came over her features, and, dropping her voice, she added just as Mabel was turning away, “Stop! I remember now Miss Gibbon has gone on a picnic and won’t be back till quite late.”
“Oh! too bad,” ejaculated Mabel. “I may never see her again.”
In another moment the wagon drove off and the girl was on her way to the West.
When Harry returned the following week to New York and told his father of his betrothal to Miss Gibbon, the heiress, Mr. Fletcher senior was as pleased as Kitty’s mother had been.
“But now, my son,” he said, “you must not be idle any longer; you must come down town and learn business.”
“Business!” exclaimed Harry with an air of surprise.
“Why, yes. Have I not been steadily at work in Wall Street more than twenty years? During all that time no holiday have I taken—not one, except a fortnight after your mother’s death. Then I own I did pass a short while in the country, for grief rendered brain labor out of the question. And now I am worth a million at the very least; and with such an example as I have set you would you lead a drone’s life?”
“Well, but, father, I am quite satisfied with our fortune; ’tis large enough, and I—I have promised Miss Gibbon that we should make our home abroad.”
Mr. Fletcher was so taken aback by these words that he could only knit his brow; he could not speak.
Then Harry proceeded: “And, father, I think you ought to take a holiday this season. What is the use of racking your brains for more money, since you have a million? Oh! I wish you had been with me at North Conway. I had such pleasant rambles among the hills, such fine trout-fishing! And in one of my walks—’twas the morning I proposed to Kitty—I found our name carved on a tree.” The youth now described the big beech and the brook and the old farm-house; for it was a never-to-be-forgotten morning, and he loved to tell all he remembered of those happy hours.
While he was speaking the look of displeasure which had clouded his father’s face when he began gradually passed away; the stern, matter-of-fact business man grew pensive; and when at length Harry came to describe Mabel—dark-eyed, barefooted, graceful Mabel Willey—the attentive listener shaded his eyes with his hand, and Harry could not imagine why his parent sighed. But the young man adroitly took advantage of his emotion to again ask if he might not go live in Paris. “I promised Miss Gibbon, father, that we would make our home there. You surely would not have me break my word?”
Mr. Fletcher merely answered: “Hush! speak no more about it. Go! go!”
Whereupon Harry, now in the blithest of moods, hurried off to get his trotting-wagon; for he had invited Kitty to take a drive in the Central Park.
At this same hour, while Harry and his betrothed were enjoying themselves together, conversing chiefly about Europe—their own country seemed to hold very little place in their thoughts—Mabel Willey was engaged in household duties with her mother.
Mabel was right when she praised her Western home: a log-house standing on a knoll which overlooked a swift-flowing river; beyond the river a broad expanse of rolling prairie, where the grouse were wont to gather in springtime, and for hours long their voices, saying, “Coo-ooo, coo-ooo, coo-ooo,” would reach Mabel’s ear; while ever and anon a black bass would spring up out of the flood, marking the spot where he fell back into the water by a ring of widening, quivering ripples. And, oh! how the girl loved these sights and sounds. But most of all did she love the deer, who would steal out of the forest of a moonlight night in autumn and make incursions into the corn-field hard by. Nothing had ever disturbed the harmony of this sweet spot. Husband and wife loved each other with true love, and God had blessed them with six children, of whom Mabel was the eldest; and when you saw Robert Willey felling a tree or following the plough you knew where his offspring had derived their health and strength from, while in the mother’s face still lingered traces of the beauty which young Mabel had inherited. But Robert did not perceive that his Mabel was changed: no, as fair in his eyes was she now as when he wooed her in the far-off days of his youth.
Above the broad fireplace in the room where the family assembled of an evening, to chat and make merry after the labors of the day were over, were these words, painted in large letters and taken from the Book of Proverbs:
“Give me neither beggary nor riches: lest perhaps being filled, I should be tempted to deny, and say: Who is the Lord? or being compelled by poverty, I should steal, and forswear the name of my God.”
What a happy hour this evening hour was! Sometimes Mr. Willey would tell the young ones a story; and when he began, what a scramble there was for his knees! Sometimes he would look over the columns of the Prairie Farmer, gleaning therefrom useful hints for his vocation. While he was thus occupied his wife would read aloud to the children. But she did not select anything from a silly dime novel or illustrated paper, but generally something in Washington Irving’s Sketch-Book, or one of Cooper’s tales; and let us say that the tale they all liked best was The Pioneers.
“I am glad you enjoyed your visit to grandpa,” spoke Mrs. Willey one morning, as she rested awhile at the churn.
“Oh! ever so much,” answered Mabel, who, with sleeves rolled up, was busy skimming cream. “But I forgot to tell you, mother, that a few days before I left him there came to the house, at a rather early hour, a young gentleman and lady from one of the hotels in North Conway. They had strolled up Wild-cat Run, which, you know, winds almost round grandpa’s home, and had become engaged to each other on the way. I told them it was quite romantic. The girl was stylish-looking, but didn’t appear to be strong; her face was like wax-work, and her dress was made in such a fashion that I think she must have found it hard work to breathe. But she was exceedingly polite, and I was quite taken with her before we parted. The young gentleman likewise was a very pleasant fellow, and much better-looking, too, than she was. I judged by his hands that he has never done any work in his life, and his moustache was twisted and curled in the most coquettish way imaginable—just like this.” Here Mabel put her fingers to her upper lip, then twirled them round and round to Mrs. Willey’s great amusement.
“But what I want most to speak of,” she continued, “is the big beech-tree.” Mabel now proceeded to tell how Harry had carved his name and Kitty’s upon it, and how she had discovered the names of Harry Fletcher and Mabel Willey upon the same tree in letters barely legible.
“O child!” exclaimed her mother, when she was done speaking, “you cannot imagine how vividly my girlish days come back upon my memory when you speak of that old beech. Yes, I can see Harry Fletcher cutting his name and mine upon it just as plainly as if it were yesterday. A handsome fellow was Harry. He wanted me to be his wife. I did not dislike him—no, indeed. We were good friends; we sat side by side at school; we picked huckleberries together. Many folks thought I should marry him. But there was another young man courting me, one who bore the same name as myself, though no relation; and one day we all three met, and my lovers agreed that I should then and there decide which of them I’d choose. And ’twas your father, Mabel, who won me; nor have I ever for a single moment regretted my choice. Yet Harry Fletcher was a brave, generous fellow, very smart, too, and I have often wondered what became of him. All I know is that soon after I refused him he quitted our part of the country to seek his fortune elsewhere.”
“Right, wife, right! A splendid fellow!” cried Mr. Willey, entering the dairy to get a cup of milk. “Why, I was thinking about him myself only a few minutes ago while I was looking at our corn—and a fine crop it’s going to be, a mighty fine crop. And I wondered whether Harry, if he is still in the land of the living, has a farm like ours and a snug log-house to shelter him. Many things may happen in the length of time since he and I parted; this world has many ups and downs—it’s a regular seesaw.”
After talking awhile about Harry Fletcher Farmer Willey said: “Come, wife, let’s take a row; and I’ll bring my rod along and catch a mess of black bass for supper.” Mrs. Willey, who liked to see her husband play as well as work, gladly assented. They did not fish much, however, for the skiff was long and broad and leaked never a drop; and the six happy children went a-rowing too. It did your eyes good to look at them, and your ears good, too, to hear them—so healthy and strong and rollicksome they were; dipping their hands in the water, sprinkling each other’s faces, singing, laughing; and finally barefooted Dick, who was ten years old, wittingly tumbled overboard and played fish around the boat—the boy could swim like a fish—to the great amusement of his brothers and sisters.
Three months after this pleasant excursion on the river Mabel found herself again in New Hampshire. The truth is her grandfather, whose feelings had been much wrought upon by the visit she had paid him in summer, could not bear to be separated any longer from those whom he loved, and, moreover, he was of an age when farm-labor was getting rather irksome. Accordingly, he had written to Mrs. Willey, telling her that he wished to spend the rest of his days in Illinois, and begged that he might have the company of young Mabel in the long, tiresome journey to the West. “For she is a bright girl,” he said, “and can take charge of me and my trunk, and of herself too.”
So Mabel, who, fond as she was of home, was not averse to seeing a little of the world, went to fetch her grandfather; and now in October we find her passing with him through the city of New York.
“It’s just like a beehive, this town,” spoke Mabel, as she paused a moment in Broadway near the Astor House to try and discover the ticket-office of the Michigan Southern Railway.
“Such a crowd makes my head swim,” said the old man, who was leaning on her arm.
“Well, I’ll ask somebody where the ticket-office is,” added Mabel.
And she did ask somebody, and that somebody happened to be no other than Harry Fletcher, Jr., who was on his way down town with his father. Right cordial was the meeting between them.
“I have often thought of you,” said Harry.
“Indeed! Well, the morning we first met was a blissful morning for you—was it not?” returned Mabel, with a laughing gleam in her eye. “Pray, sir, how is Miss Gibbon?”
“Oh! extremely well. She is now in Philadelphia, bidding good-by to some friends, for we sail shortly for Europe.”
“But you will not really settle abroad, as you once told me?” said Mabel. Then, with a little hesitation, she added: “Men like you, sir, ought to live in their own country.”
“You are more eloquent than you imagine,” answered the youth. “But I have promised Miss Gibbon that we should make our home in Paris.”
Here Mr. Fletcher senior shook his head, while Mabel’s grandparent observed: “Why, young man, isn’t this country big enough for you?”
Harry made no response, but, taking a pretty rosebud from his buttonhole, he presented it to Mabel, saying: “We may never meet again, but Miss Gibbon and I will often speak of you when we are far away.”
Closely during this brief conversation had Harry’s father watched Mabel, and now he took her hand and pressed it, and the girl wondered why he gazed upon her with moistened eyes. Then, after showing her the ticket-office, Mr. Fletcher went to a flower-stand near by and bought her a beautiful bouquet which quite threw into the shade Harry’s rosebud. “Oh! thanks, sir,” said Mabel, as she accepted the flowers. “How delicious they are!”
When presently they parted Harry said to his father: “Miss Willey is a very fine girl, isn’t she? And I’ll not let Kitty call her a peasant any more.”
Mr. Fletcher did not seem to hear this remark; he appeared like one absorbed in a reverie. But of a sudden he burst out: “A peasant! a peasant! By heaven! there is not a princess in Europe better than Mabel Willey.”
“Well, Kitty would not call her a peasant except for her mother,” continued Harry. “But Mrs. Gibbon has filled her head with foolish notions.”
“Such as living in Europe,” answered Mr. Fletcher. Then, with a sigh, he added, “O Harry! how you have disappointed me. Why, I would rather see you wed a girl like Mabel, even if she were poor, than have you pass your days in a foreign land.”
“Would you really?” exclaimed Harry.
“But, alas!” went on Mr. Fletcher, now speaking to himself—“alas! ’twas I who urged him to make a rich match. Yet I have been rolling up money for years and years; and now, when I am worth a million, my only child is going to spend my fortune among foreigners.”
As they pursued their way to Wall Street, Harry noticed the unhappy look on his father’s face and again advised him to take a holiday. But Mr. Fletcher answered: “I wish I could. But I have been so long in the treadmill of business that now I should not know how to play if I went away.”
And so the millionaire went down to his office, while the heir to all his wealth, with a fresh rosebud sticking in his buttonhole, repaired to Delmonico’s to kill time, as he expressed it—to kill time sipping sherry and thinking about Paris and Kitty Gibbon.
But the banker’s thoughts were of Mabel Willey. “She brings me right back to the dear old days,” he sighed—“the dear old days. She is the living image of her mother.”
For once in his life Mr. Fletcher was absent-minded, and the president of a trust company, who came to talk with him upon important business, fancied that he did not evince his usual shrewdness and penetration. They were still engaged in earnest conversation when a piece of news reached them, a startling piece of news, that made them both stare and wonder if their ears told the truth: the Confidence Trust Company had closed its doors!
But Harry, who heard of it at Delmonico’s, was not startled in the least; nay, he rather enjoyed the excitement which quickly followed. He was rich; how could this failure harm him? Ere long other failures were announced, and Wall Street became filled with an excited crowd—so filled that it was well-nigh impossible to move about; crash followed crash, and, judging by men’s faces, you might have thought the end of the world was at hand.
Yet Harry calmly edged his way through the throng, always careful of the pretty rosebud, over which he frequently placed his hand for protection.
But ere this memorable day came to an end Harry grew serious.
“This is going to prove the greatest financial crash our country has known since the Revolution,” said Mr. Fletcher to him in the evening; “and, my son, I may be utterly ruined.”
“And I’ll not be able to go to Paris,” said Harry inwardly. “Oh! what will Kitty say?”
But it was not so much Miss Gibbon as Miss Gibbon’s mother, who took to heart the sudden, unexpected, astonishing change in Mr. Fletcher’s fortune; for the banker, who had been entangled in many speculations, did indeed lose nearly all he possessed—so little had he left that the widow made up her mind that her daughter should not marry his son if she could prevent it.
A few days after the panic Harry called on his betrothed, who was now back from Philadelphia. He meant to tell her the whole sad truth, and afford her an opportunity to break off the engagement, if she wished to do so. In the parlor he found Mrs. Gibbon, who seemed to be expecting him (he had written Kitty a note to say he was coming), and the widow’s countenance chilled his heart as he entered. Harry began by making a commonplace remark about the weather—the equinoctial was raging—then went on to speak of the unhappy change in his father’s fortune, wondering all the while why Kitty did not appear.
“We have heard of it,” answered the other, “and needless to tell what a shock the news gave us. However, such misfortunes will happen—c’est la vie. And now that you have been so frank with me, Mr. Fletcher, let me be equally frank with you, and say that my daughter and I have had a long, serious talk on the subject. Miss Gibbon, you know, has set her heart upon living abroad—indeed, we wish to be back again by the end of the month, and—”
“And now that I am penniless,” interrupted Harry, “perhaps you deem it best that the engagement be broken off.”
“I regret to say it is the conclusion we have come to.”
Harry, who had feared this would be the step which Mrs. Gibbon would urge Kitty to take, nevertheless wished to see the young lady in person, and so he said: “But may I not speak with Miss Gibbon a moment? I—I—”
“She has a bad headache and is confined to her room,” interrupted the widow. “Besides, sir, I am fully authorized to speak for my daughter, who, you are aware, is not yet of age.”
“Oh! but do tell her I am here; let me speak only a word to her,” said Harry in a pleading tone.
“I am sorry that I cannot grant your request,” answered Mrs. Gibbon firmly.
With this the interview closed, and Harry departed in a sorrowful mood indeed.
For a while the blow quite stunned him. The tears did not flow; he could only sigh and groan. He wished he had been born poor, and that Kitty had not been an heiress. “For then poverty would not have separated us; we should have toiled for our daily bread, and been as happy as if we had lived on Fifth Avenue.”
The following week he read in a newspaper the names of Mrs. Gibbon and her daughter among the passengers by the steamship Russia for Liverpool.
“Well, Harry, let us not despair,” said Mr. Fletcher a month after the panic. “Happy days may yet be in store for us.”
And as he spoke his thoughts turned westward to Rock River—to Mabel Willey.
“And why not?” he asked himself, after musing a moment. “Why not? Many a man as old as I am has married a girl as young as Mabel.”
“Well, yes, father, I do believe happy days are in store for us,” returned the youth, his countenance brightening; for he was beginning to recover from the blow which his heart had received (young people easily recover from such blows). Besides, he had come to the conclusion that all had happened for the best. Miss Gibbon was not worthy of him, otherwise, despite her mother, she would certainly have managed to communicate with him ere she sailed. It was only his money she cared about. “And, father,” he added, “I could be perfectly content on a farm; yes, I know I could, and you have enough left from the wreck of your fortune to buy a farm, and we might live together on it very happily. Suppose, therefore, we go West—say to Illinois, where Mabel Willey’s father lives.”
“Just what I was thinking of,” said Mr. Fletcher, with a tender throbbing of the heart, which might have changed to a bitter pang had he known what was passing through Harry’s mind; for Harry, too, had asked himself:
“Why not? I abominate rich girls now. Mabel is quite good enough for me.”
Accordingly, to Illinois they went, and arrived in the most glorious time of the year—Indian summer.
“Why, I do declare! Can it be possible? Is this really my old friend Harry Fletcher?” cried Mr. Willey, as he grasped the other’s hand, while Mrs. Willey and Mabel and all the little ones stood in a gaping circle round them.
“Yes, I am he and nobody else,” was the response, given in a voice quivering with emotion.
“Well, you are welcome—a thousand times welcome!” put in the wife, a tear glistening in her eye. “Ay, Harry, it makes us young again to look at you.”
“And here is the image of yourself in the dear old days,” spoke Mr. Fletcher, turning towards Mabel, who blushed and looked very pretty, while Harry Fletcher, Jr.—who did not dream of his parent falling in love—whispered to Mabel:
“How romantic this is!”
“Very,” answered Mabel. “But pray, sir, why didn’t you bring Miss Gibbon? Or perhaps you are married, and I should say Mrs. Fletcher?”
“I’ll tell all about it by and by,” said Harry in a low tone. “It is an exceedingly painful subject. I am trying to forget it.”
Then, after a pause, and drawing the girl aside, he added:
“I may as well tell you now: our engagement is at an end—Miss Gibbon is in Europe.”
When Mabel heard this her kind heart was deeply moved for Harry as well as for Kitty. Mabel had no lover, but she had often thought that if she had one how dearly she would love him. “And if our engagement were to be broken off, I hardly think I should ever smile again.”
“Well, Harry,” continued Mr. Willey, addressing his old friend, and at the same time sweeping his hand over the landscape, “is not this a charming country? Look, yonder is the prairie; and there is Rock River—isn’t it a fine stream? And there you see my timber—I have fifty acres of it; and that is my corn-field—a good fifty acres of corn; and there are my cattle; and I have no end of chickens and turkeys; and I have a good orchard. In fact, I want for nothing, absolutely nothing.”
“Well, you ought to be happy,” answered Mr. Fletcher.
“Happy isn’t the word,” put in Mrs. Willey.
“Right, wife,” said the farmer. “I’d not change places with the richest man in New York. People talk about the panic. Why, it hasn’t harmed me a bit. My corn is ripening just as well now as before the crash; my land is all paid for; I owe not a dollar to anybody; and I really don’t know what worry means.”
“No worry!” murmured Mr. Fletcher, pressing his hand to his brow. “Alas! when have I been free from it?”
“Well, it is worry and not work that kills people,” went on Mr. Willey. “So stay out here and buy a quarter section; ’twill make you ten years younger. No life so happy as a farmer’s life.”
“The very thing I intend to do,” said Mr. Fletcher. Here Mabel clapped her hands, and all the little ones laughed and clapped their hands too; while Mrs. Willey said to herself: “How very pleasant it would be if the son of my old lover were to marry Mabel!”
It was long since Mr. Fletcher had passed a happier day than this first day in Illinois; the balmy air, the entire change of scene, the gladsome faces around him, but above all the company of sweet Mabel, who insisted on showing him all over the homestead, obliterated from his mind the troubles and worries he had gone through and really made him feel many years younger.
The following week Mrs. Willey was delighted when she heard Harry ask her daughter to take a row on the river. “I have only a short letter to write,” said the youth, “then I’ll be ready. Will you come?”
“Suppose we take a row,” said Harry’s father to Mabel a few minutes later—he had not heard Harry’s invitation.
“To be sure,” replied Mabel. “But shall we go immediately, sir, or wait for your son? He asked me to go with him as soon as he had done a little writing.”
“Oh! indeed,” said Mr. Fletcher; and now for the first time it occurred to him that perhaps Harry might fall under the influence of this simple yet bewitching maiden. “Well, if he does,” he added inwardly, “dearly as I feel that I could love her—for her mother’s sake, dearly, dearly—I’ll not stand in my boy’s way.”
However, Mr. Fletcher and Mabel did go down to the river without waiting for Harry, who made his appearance on the bank in less than twenty minutes, waving his hand and shouting lustily.
But Mr. Fletcher seemed not to hear his voice; at least he did not hear it for a long time—so long that Mabel fancied the old gentleman, as she inwardly called him, must be a little deaf. At length she made bold to inform him that his son was calling; whereupon Mr. Fletcher looked round and exclaimed: “Oh! ay, to be sure, so he is.” And now the bow of the skiff was turned slowly shoreward. But the oars did not move very briskly; nay, so sluggishly were they plied that the boat drifted a good half-mile below the landing-place—poor Harry following it along the shore, while Mabel was tempted more than once to ask her companion to let her have the oars.
“Well, well, I have had my day,” sighed Mr. Fletcher, about a quarter of an hour later, as he sat on a stump watching with tearful eyes his son, whose vigorous young arms were now sending the boat upstream as rapidly as he himself had sent it down with the current. “No, I must not lament; Mabel is worth a dozen city flirts, and I hope that Harry will fall in love with her.”
“Is it not a beautiful view from this knoll?” spoke a voice, presently, close behind him; and, turning, Mr. Fletcher beheld Mabel’s mother, who had approached him unheard over a bed of moss.
“It is indeed!” he replied. “And the most beautiful object in the whole landscape is your daughter.”
“Well, Mabel is a jewel, and no mistake,” continued Mrs. Willey. “And right glad am I that she and your son are enjoying themselves together on the river.” But even as she spoke a strange thought flashed upon the mother, for she perceived that the eyes of her old suitor were moistened with tears.
“Can it be possible,” she said to herself, “that he, too, is falling in love with Mabel? Well, I hope not; for there will be a poor chance for him while young Harry is about.”
We need scarcely say that for Harry Fletcher, Jr., this was only the first of many pleasant excursions on the river with Mabel; and day by day the recollections of his former life—the dinner-parties, the operas, the balls he had gone to, the pretty girls he had danced with—grew dimmer and dimmer in his mind’s eye. More than once, too, did Mrs. Willey discover Harry’s father watching the happy couple from the stump on the knoll.
“How strangely things turn out!” spoke Mr. Fletcher, a fortnight later, when Mabel’s mother once more approached him over the bed of moss.
“Perhaps you are thinking of just what I am thinking,” returned Mrs. Willey. “If so, it is indeed strange, and, I may add, a most romantic way of taking revenge on me; eh, Harry?”
“Ah! little did I dream of this the day when I proposed to you and you refused me,” continued Mr. Fletcher, shaking his head. “It seems only yesterday. Yet here is a son of mine, with beard on his chin, as much in love with your daughter as ever I was with you.”
“And I guess there’ll not be any nay spoken this time,” answered Mrs. Willey.
At these words Mr. Fletcher buried his face in his hands and sighed, while the other, who remembered the tears which had once moistened his eyes as he sat looking at Harry and Mabel from this same spot, felt more than ever convinced that her child had two lovers, and wished that she had two Mabels, in order to be able to give one to each.
Yes, Harry and Mabel were already deeply in love, and Mabel, for whom it was quite a new experience, trembled every time the youth met her—and he met her very often between sunrise and sunset: at the churn, feeding the poultry, gathering chestnuts—“For now I am sure he is going to propose,” she would say to herself.
At length a morning came when Harry resolved to put the all-important question. Why dally any longer? He had made up his mind to become a farmer; Mabel would be just the wife for him; she was not only handsome but healthy—no headaches, no dyspepsia. If her hands were not so soft as Miss Gibbon’s, what of it? They were industrious, willing hands, and able to do almost everything except thrum on a piano.
Accordingly, Harry went in quest of Mabel, who, one of the children told him, had gone to pay a visit to their neighbor. Whereupon he took the lane which led to the adjoining farm, and had proceeded about half way when he saw the girl coming towards him. She did not walk with her usual elastic step; her eyes were cast upon the ground, nor did she raise them until he was quite close, and then Harry perceived that she was very pale, and seemed to be startled, as if she had not heard him approaching.
“Dear Mabel, what is the matter?” said Harry, taking her hand as he spoke. “I never saw you look troubled before. Are you ill?”
In a voice wonderfully firm, considering the poignant anguish she was suffering, and forcing to her lips the ghost of a smile, Mabel answered:
“Ill? No, indeed, sir! And I should not have been moving at such a snail’s pace; I should have been running, flying, for I bring you great news—news that will ravish your heart with delight.”
“Really! Well, pray, what is it?” said Harry, who felt the hand which he clasped growing colder.
“Miss Gibbon has arrived,” continued Mabel. “She is at our neighbor’s; she mistook the road, and went there instead of coming to our house; and I told her to wait where she was until I found you and broke the glad tidings So, Mr. Fletcher, make haste, do, for Miss Gibbon is longing to meet you.”
Here Mabel, who could not trust herself to utter another syllable, tore away from him, leaving Harry perfectly dazed and bewildered.
But Mabel did not go home. No, into the woods she plunged, where no eye might witness the tears which now rolled down her cheeks. And it happened that somebody else was strolling among the trees at the same time, pensive and musing over days gone by. Suddenly the girl found herself face to face with Mr. Fletcher. In vain she strove to hide her grief—too late; not ten paces separated them.
“Why, Mabel, dear, darling Mabel,” cried the other, who fancied that a lover’s quarrel had broken out between herself and Harry, “what has happened? ’Tis the first time I have seen anything but gladness on your sweet face.”
As Mr. Fletcher spoke he drew her affectionately towards him. But it was several minutes ere she could check her sobs sufficiently to answer.
Finally, yielding to his solicitations, Mabel opened out her heart; she told him the whole truth, and we may faintly imagine what Mr. Fletcher’s feelings were as she went on to confess her love for his son, and the cruel shock which her heart had received a half-hour since when she met Miss Gibbon.
“And Miss Gibbon told me, sir, that she loved Harry as much as ever; that she had sold all her diamonds, run away from her mother, come alone the whole way from Paris to find him, and that her mother should never part them again.”
A spell of silence followed Mabel’s confession, and during the silence Mr. Fletcher’s heart throbbed violently.
“Well, Mabel,” he began presently, and looking her full in the face, “you have unbosomed yourself to me, let me now reveal my inmost feelings to you. I, too, have a cause for sorrow—one which I find it impossible to overcome. Nobody can remove it except you; but you can remove it—you may make me the happiest man in Illinois, if you choose.”
“I!” exclaimed Mabel in surprise. “O sir! I will do anything, anything to make you happy.”
“Ay, child, the happiest man in Illinois,” exclaimed Mrs. Willey, who had caught these last words as she pushed her way through the trees, and was determined to back him up in his suit with all the authority she could command.
“O mother, mother!” cried Mabel, leaving Mr. Fletcher and flinging herself in her parent’s arms.
“Come, come, child! Don’t take on so about it,” continued Mrs. Willey. “I know what the trouble is. But it can’t be helped. Harry loved Miss Gibbon before he ever laid eyes on you, and she loved him, and they were once engaged to be married; and now they are engaged anew—not the least doubt about it, for I have just left them walking arm-in-arm, cooing together like a pair of doves. So, Mabel, dry your tears, and let me declare you would make me the happiest woman in the State, if you would accept the hand of my dear, good friend Henry Fletcher.”
“What! marry the old gentleman?” whispered Mabel, looking up in her mother’s face; then turning she gazed furtively on Mr. Fletcher, who had retired a few steps, while a smile, a very faint smile, played on her lips.
“Hush, child!” returned Mr. Willey in an undertone. “He is not old; his heart is just like a boy’s.” Here Mabel again hid her face in her mother’s bosom, and the latter began to feel a little vexed, for she fancied that she heard Mabel laughing.
“Be my wife, Mabel!” exclaimed Mr. Fletcher, drawing near, “and then I’ll settle here, and Harry will too, and we will all be happy neighbors. Oh! speak, dear Mabel, speak.”
“Give me until to-morrow,” answered Mabel, with her face still concealed.
“Surely I will,” said Mr. Fletcher.
“O child! be business-like and arrange the matter at once,” urged Mrs. Willey.
“Not now; to-morrow,” said Mabel—“to-morrow.” And she ended her words with a sigh.
With this Mr. Fletcher withdrew, and mother and daughter went their way home—the mother eloquently pleading the cause of her old lover, Mabel patiently, reverently listening; and when they reached the log-house, whom should they meet standing by the porch but Harry. He was alone, and appeared much confused as Mabel fastened her eyes on him—poor Mabel! Then in broken accents he said: “Mabel, Mabel, can you forgive me? I—”
“Forgive you! Pray, for what?” she exclaimed, interrupting him. “Did I not tell you I brought glad news? And I hope that you and Miss Gibbon will live long and happily together.”
“Oh! how good, how generous, how noble you are,” said Harry, who knew full well that Mabel loved him; in more ways than one she had let the dear secret escape her. “And fortunate will be the man who wins you!”
Here the girl stood silent a moment; a violent struggle was going on within her. Then, a sunny look beaming over her face, “Who has won me,” she replied.
“Well spoken, child!” exclaimed Mrs. Willey, clapping her on the shoulder—“well spoken!”
“Why, Harry,” added Mabel, “I am going to be your step-mother.”
“Really, truly!” cried a voice from an upper window. “My Harry’s step-mother!” In another moment Kitty Gibbon came rushing down the staircase at a break-neck pace, and half choked Mabel with her embraces. Her arms were still clasping Mabel’s neck when the elder Harry appeared on the scene; and we may imagine, if we can, what his feelings were as Mabel stretched out one of her hands towards him.
Presently Mr. Willey arrived; then the grandfather and all the little ones; and while they were rejoicing together a man on horseback galloped up.
“Is there a lady here named Miss Gibbon?” inquired the stranger.
“Yes, I am she,” answered Kitty, looking somewhat agitated, for she could not imagine what the fellow wanted; all sorts of things passed through her head.
“Well, I have a telegram for you,” continued the man, handing her an envelope.
“A telegram! Why, so it is, and from Europe, too!” cried Kitty. Then, tearing it open, she read as follows:
“Kitty, I forgive you. Will allow you $5,000 per year. Count de Montjoli heart-broken. Write at once. God bless you!”
“Oh! it is from mamma,” she said, after reading it to herself. “And now I’ll read it aloud. And, Harry, listen well, for it’s jolly. But let me say before I begin—and I wish mother could hear me—you are worth, dear boy, all the counts in the world.”
Here Kitty read over the telegram, after which followed a general round of embraces. All were indeed happy beyond measure, Mabel as well as the rest; and the girl said to her mother, “You have chosen a husband for me, and no doubt chosen for the best.” Then, with a smile, she added: “And I promise to grow older every day and catch up to him by and by.”
“And you will teach me how to be a farmer’s wife,” said Kitty to Mabel.
“And I’ll play boss over you all,” spoke Farmer Willey, spreading forth his brawny arms so as to covey the whole group.
“Yes, yes,” said young Harry, “and I will write to New York and tell others who are crying over hard times to follow our example and come West.”
“Do, do!” exclaimed Harry’s father. “Here is health and no worry, sound sleep by night, and—”
“Wives to be had without much wooing,” interrupted Mabel, glancing archly at her future husband.
“Darling girl!” replied Mr. Fletcher, with tender pathos in his voice. “This is the blessed end of an old, old courtship. Ay, Mabel, the shadow of my days, like Hezekiah’s, runs backward when I gaze upon you.”
“Well spoken!” exclaimed Mrs. Willey, with tears of joy glistening in her eyes—“well spoken! And, oh! most sincerely do I thank God that my old lover has won his Mabel at last.”
ON THE SUMMIT OF MOUNT LAFAYETTE, N. H.
I.
Thou rear’st thy graceful head, thy serrate crest,
O noble mountain, o’er the busy vale,
Franconia’s seething, motley-crowded dale:
Below, we inly chafe; on thee, we rest.
The scars that seam thy fir-crowned, rocky breast,
The rifts that rend thy floating, cloud-spun veil,
Tell but of nature’s laws the ordered tale—
Each change with seal of sovereign might impressed.
If void of man’s proud gift, a living soul,
At least thou knowest naught of rebel will,
Of petty passions, pettier aims, that toll
The knell of love and praise his days should fill.
Here rest we, while thine anthems heavenward roll,
And list the voice of God, so sweet, so still.
II.
Ay, rest, poor human soul, but not for long:
That searching voice hath bid thee look below,
Where freshening streams by dusty roadsides flow,
Where sunlit dwellings vales and uplands throng.
It bids thy fretted, fainting heart be strong,
It whispers of a glory passing show,
Of loftier intercommune thou mayst know
Than mountain top, skies’ sweep, or forest song.
Above yon hamlet gleams a glittering cross,
A beacon light to show where dwells the Lord.
He calls! our brethren call! Can that be loss
Which brings us nearer Him whose life outpoured
Hath power to right all wrongs, lift this poor dross
To heights where thought of man hath ne’er yet soared?