Simon received the usual elements of a practical education in a New England public school. And what was more to his benefit, he was taught by parental admonition and example the way in which he should go; and was founded in true faith in the God whom he should love. And between himself and a young woman, his neighbor, Margaret Goodenow, there grew an attachment which strengthened with their years. Neither could go back and fix the date when the other was not a chosen companion. It was love, pure and unsophisticated; and it was only when they learned by observation that they were not and could not be brother and sister to each other, that the thought came into their heads that they might be something else, still nearer and dearer. Simon continued his attentions naturally, and Margaret as naturally accepted them as matters of course. There were no vows—no protestations—no jealous fits—no frantic passages—no prudery and no affectation of concealment. None of the romantic artillery which gives eclat to the pages of a fashionable novel marked their intercourse. All went quietly and happily, without any particularly definite thought of the future; until, about the same time, Simon’s father asked him how he would like to build over against the big elm, (that same house of which we were speaking just now,) and Margaret’s mother asked her why she did not put a web for herself in the loom.
That “set them to thinking,” as the Yankee phrase is. Mag plied the distaff and shuttle as if at task-work—and a pleasant task too. Simon would not wait that spring, till the frost was out of the ground, before he tried some experimental blows with the pick, at the cellar; and as for the stone for cellar-wall and foundation, that was on the spot before sledding was over. And everybody looked forward to the completion of the house as a probable approximation to the date of the young couple’s wedding. Margaret was daily at the building—her mother daily scolding her, good-humoredly, and telling her that Simon would certainly get his part done first; but then Margaret knew that Simon would rather the cloth should not be woven, than that she should not know every inch of the house’s progress. So together they consulted, and together they planned all the details; and as the walking became “settled,” it was not unfrequently the case that both families were collected there once a day, if not oftener. Every body had some advice or suggestion, or incident from experience, how cellars should be kept dry, and rats and mice kept out; how room could be saved this way and that—how too many corners catch dirt, and above all, how a house is nothing without “cupboards” and closets. Manifold where the dark places which were economized into “stow-holes,” and long and earnest the conferences between Simon and Margaret. They heard the others, and then did as they pleased—or rather as she pleased. A wise man will let woman have her way in such arrangements, provided that she does not wish to do any thing quite as outre as commencing the chimneys at the top, after the mode described in Gulliver’s Travels.
Summer sometimes brought idlers and valetudinarians to Hill-side. It was not a regular summering resort; but those who really wish to enjoy country-life occasionally discover that the crowded watering-place is not the true scene of rural pleasures. A young man named Bernard came this summer to the village. Whether his pocket, his taste, or a mere whim brought him there; whether he sought retirement, or traveled for health, or what induced him to pitch upon this spot, nobody knew. Some letters he had, and what was a better introduction, he had a good address. He was young and pale, and of course, interesting. He had frequent letters and parcels at the post-office, and must therefore be a man of some note. He was extremely affable to all whom he met, old and young; and in a very little time every body at Hill-side felt an interest in the handsome stranger; and trusted that he would carry away such a report of the place, its advantages and hospitalities, as would induce other visiters.
The young people voted him an author—perhaps a poet—certainly a student; and Margaret’s mother was not at all displeased when the young student applied to her for summer-quarters; for to tell the truth, she had already resolved such a possibility in her mind. He said he wished home comforts, which were not to be found at a country tavern, and delicately conveyed his firm impression that her house would be to him a perfect elysium. She was not prepared to take a stranger into the house, lived in a plain way, and all that. But he protested that these objections were precisely the advantages that he sought in a country visit—the absence of a mercenary calculation—a mouthful for each penny paid, and a set price for lodgings. Where one party is determined, and the other opposes only feigned resistance, the point at issue is soon determined, and Bernard was at once domiciliated at Chestnut-Farm.
Never was man so little trouble as he—never were family so much infatuated with a stranger. Margaret and all partook of the fascination. It seemed as if she never would tire of reciting his praises to Simon at their daily meetings. She was very anxious that the two young men should be intimate, and as she said, “like each other very much.” She knew that they would do so if each could only know the good points of the other as well as she knew both. But neither of them could be inspired with any very warm attachment in the direction she desired. Bernard was civil and courteous to Simon, as he was to every body; but Margaret thought she could detect some appearance of undervaluing her lover on the part of the stranger. And he permitted this impression to be gathered in the most agreeable manner—that is to say, as if he accidentally betrayed his sense of her exceeding worth, and his sorrow that she was to be sacrificed to Simon. In no way did he attempt to derogate from that individual’s good points in the abstract, or as plain Simon—but it was as Margaret’s accepted that he fell below Bernard’s standard. Margaret pleaded with Bernard for her lover, and that was dangerous business, because it was in some sort admitting what Bernard rather implied than alleged. It was reading his hieroglyphics, and that indicated a common understanding between them, and emboldened Bernard, while it threw Margaret in the way of temptation.
And she pleaded with Simon for Bernard. That was dangerous business too. The most unsuspecting heart is not proof against all misgivings—and Simon did not like that she should enter so warmly into advocacy for a man in whose behalf he saw no reason why she should be so deeply interested. The stranger was but a transient guest—never again to visit the vicinity Simon hoped; and he could not perceive that it was a matter of great consequence whether he ever learned to like him particularly or not. He soon ceased to argue the matter at all with her. He forced himself to listen; but it was with evident disrelish, and Margaret, finding the subject an unpalatable one, abandoned it. But this did not mend matters much, since Simon’s uneasiness now look a positive character. He had disliked to hear Margaret continually talking of the stranger, but her evident reserve upon all that related to him was worse. And Margaret shared in his discontent; for it seemed to her, though she did not trust herself to say it, or even dare to think of it, that Simon was unkind. And, what was more unfortunate for her peace, she felt that Bernard was not.
The young stranger was by no means an indifferent observer of all this. Nay, it seemed wonderfully to fall in with his plans—perhaps with his expectations—certainly with his wishes. Margaret learned to be very much pleased with him, and fond of his conversation and society; and yet she felt a half-consciousness that she was doing her old friend a wrong. But why? she would ask herself. Is it esteeming Simon less, to do justice where he refuses it? It was too knotty a point in casuistry for her to solve; and things at Chestnut-Farm now began to go on strangely. Simon was spoken of in a tone in which he had never been mentioned before. Bernard was particular in his expressions of good opinion—too particular—patronizing. But there was, withal, a covert spice of detraction in it—as neatly contrived as Mark Antony’s effort “to bury Cæsar, not to praise him.” Bernard affected to praise Simon, not to detract from him; but the effect of all his conversation was precisely the opposite of his ostensible design. After a time even Margaret could laugh heartily at a joke uttered at the expense of her lover in his absence. At first she was almost offended at any liberty taken with the character or person of Simon, however well it was gilded; but the polished wit of Bernard, and his apparently unassuming superiority, led her more and more to desire that her country lover could resemble her accomplished friend.
It would too much lengthen our sketch to describe the whole process and progress of the estrangement—for an estrangement it became. Bernard’s discussions upon architecture quite ruined in the eyes of Margaret the humble dwelling which had once seemed to her a palace. As she suggested this and that and the other impossible change in the original plan, and treated poor Simon’s cherished notions with ill-disguised superciliousness, he was grieved to perceive in all this, that he as well as the house, was daily growing less and less in her estimation. And the villagers began now to perceive the growing coolness. It made the judicious sad; the thoughtless sneered, the friends of Simon were angry. And at last he became angry himself; or at least his feelings approached as near to anger as the love he still felt would admit; and he looked anxiously forward to the time when the departure of the dangerous guest would release Margaret from her hallucination.
Summer passed away, and the foliage commenced to wear its autumn hue. Long before this Simon had taken it for granted that his house would have been finished and furnished, and that his wife would have been busy with him, perfecting their winter comforts. But now things began to wear the aspect of a house begun without counting the cost. There was a delay in the few finishing touches which alone remained to perfect the building. A step here, and a pale there were ready for their places, but still stood unadjusted. The gate which had been tacked up, waiting for bolts and hinges, still waited. Dust blew over the door-stone, and all looked like neglect. Simon Gray was no more seen daily at the building; indeed he was scarcely seen abroad at all, and when he did make his appearance, it was with an aspect so wan and woful, that men saw he had a broken-heart.
The student had gone from the village. Margaret, who had grieved the good people by a flirtation with him which had grown more and more open and unblushing, was now seldom met. The whole vicinage, so cheerful and pleasant in the spring, appeared to have had a spell cast over it; and the people—for in a village men sympathize with each other—looked as if a heavy secret lay at all their hearts; as if they knew more than they would speak, and feared more than they knew.