Holland_Arthur_Bonnicastle.txt topic ['13', '324', '378', '393']
CHAPTER I.
THANK A BLIND HORSE FOR GOOD LUCK.
Life looks beautiful from both extremities. Prospect and
retrospect shine alike in a light so divine as to suggest that the
first catches some radiance from the gates, not yet closed, by
vrhich the soul has entered, and that the last is illuminated from
the opening realm into which it is soon to pass.
Now that they are all gone, I wrap myself in dreams of them,
and live over the old days with them. Even the feeblest mem-
ory, that cannot hold for a moment the events of to-day, keeps
a firm grasp upon the things of youth, and rejoices in its treas-
ures. It is a curious process this of feeling one's way back
to childhood, and clothing one's self again with the little frame
the buoyant, healthy, restless bundle of muscles and nerves
and the old relations of careless infancy. The growing port
of later years and the ampler vestments are laid aside ; and one
stands in his slender young manhood. . Then backward still
the fancy goes, making the frame smaller, and casting aside
each year the changing garments that marked the eras. of early
growtli, until, at last, one holds himself upon his own knee
a ruddy-faced, wondering, questioning, uneasy )ioungster, in his
first trousers and roundabout, and dandles and kisses the dear
little fellow that he was !
They were all here then father, mother, brothers and sis-
ters ; and the family life was at its fullest Now they are all
gone, and I am alone. All the present relations of mj life are
those which have originated since. I have wife and childrcD,
and troops of friends, yet still I am alone. No one of all the
number can go back with me into these reminiscences of my
earliest life, or give me sympathy in them.
My father was a plain, ingenious, industrious craftsman, and
a modest and thoroughly earnest Christian. I have always
supposed that the nei^bors held him in contempt or pity for
his lack of shrewdness in business, although they knew that he
was in all respects their superior in education and culture.
He was an omnivorous reader, and was so intelligent in matters
of history and poetry that the village doctor, a man of literary
tastes, found in him almost his only sympathetic companion.
The misfortunes of our family brought them only too frequently
together ; and my first real thinking was excited by their con-
versations, to which I was always an eager listener.
My father was an affectionate man. His life seemed bound
up in that of my mother, yet he never gave a direct expression
to his affection. I knew he could not live without her, yet I
never saw him kiss her, or give her one caress. Indeed, I do
not remember that he ever kissed me, or my sisters. We all
grew up hungry, missing something, and he, poor man, was
hungriest of all \ but his Puritan training held him through life
in slavery to notions of propriety which forbade all impulses to
expression. He would have been ashamed to kiss his wife in
the presence of his children !
I suppose it is this peculiarity of my father which makes me
remember so vividly and so gi^ctcfuUy a little incident of my
boyhood. It was an early summer evening ; and the yellow
moon was at its full. I stood out in tlie middle of the lawn
before the house alone, looking up to the golden-orbed won-
der, which so liigh were the hills piled around our little
valley seemed very near to me. I felt rather than saw my
father approa^Jiing me. There was no one looking, and he
half knelt and put his arm around me. There was something
in the clasp of that strong, warm arm that I have never forgot-
Arthur BonnicasHe. ii
ten. It thrilled me through with the consciousness that I was
most tenderly beloved. Then he told me what the moon was,
and by the simplest illustrations tried to bring to my mind a
comprehension of its magnitude and its relations to the earth*
I only remember that I could not grasp the thought at all, and
that it all ended in his taking me in his arms and carrying me
to my bed.
The seclusion in which we lived among the far New Hamp-
shire hills was like that in which a family of squirrels lives in
the forest; and as, at ten years of age, I had never been ten
miles from home, the stories that came to my ears of the great
world that lay beyond my vision were like stories of fairy-land.
Fifty years ago the echoes of the Revolution and the War of
1812 had not died away, and soldiers who had served in both
wars were plenty. My imagination had been many times excited
by the stories that had been told at my father's fireside ; and
those awful people, " the British," were to me the embodiment
of cruelty and terror. One evening, I remember, my father
came in, and remarked that he had just heard the report of a
cannon. The phrase was new, and sounded very large and
significant to me, and I attributed it at once to the approach
of " the British." My father laughed, but I watched the con-
verging roads for the appearance of the red-coats for many
days. The incident is of no value except to show how closely
between those green hills my life had been bound, and how
entirely my world was one of imagination. I was obliged to
build the world that held alike my facts and my fancies.
When I was about ten years old, I became conscious that
something was passing between my father and my mother of an
unusual character. They held long conferences from which
their children were excluded. Then a rich man of the neigh-
borhood rode into the yard, and tied his horse, and walked
about the farm. From a long tour he returned and entered
the stable, where he was joined by my father. Both came into
the house together, and went all over it, even down to the cellar,
where they held a long conversation. Then they were closeted
12 Arthur Bonnicastle.
for an hour in the room which held my father's T^rriting-desk.
At last, my mother was called into the room. The children,
myself among them, were huddled together in a comer of the
large kitchen, filled with wonder at the strange proceedings ;
and when all came out, the stranger smiling and my father and
mother looking very serious, my curiosity was at a painful height ;
and no sooner had the intruder vanished from the room
pocketing a long paper as he went than I demanded an
explanation.
My sisters were older than I, and to them the explanation was
addressed. My father simply said at first : *' I have sold the
place." Tears sprang into all our eyes, as if a great calamity
had befallen us. Were we to be wanderers? Were we to
have no home ? Where were we to go ?
Then my father, who was as simple as a child, undertook the
justification of himself to his children. He did not know why
he had consented to live in such a place for a year. He
told the story of the fallacious promises and hopes that had
induced him to buy the farm at first ; of his long social depri-
vations ; of his hard and often unsuccessful efforts to make the
year's income meet the year's constantly increasing expenses ;
and then he dwelt particularly on the fact that his duty to his
children compelled him to seek a home where they could secure
a better education, and have a chance, at least, to make their
way in the world. I saw then, just' as clearly as I see to-day,
that the motives of removal all lay in the last consideration.
He saw possibilities in his children which demanded other cir-
cumstances and surroundings. He knew that in his secluded
home among the mountains they could not have a fair chance
at life, and he would not be responsible for holding them to
associations that had been simply starvation and torment to
him.
The first shock over, I turned to the future with the most
charming anticipations. My life was to be led out beyond the
hills into an unknown world ! I learned the road by which we
were to go ; and beyond the woods in which it terminated to
Arthur Bonnicastle. \x
my vision my imagination pushed through splendid towns,
across sweeping rivers, over vast plains and meadows, on and
on to the wide sea. There were castles, there were ships,
there were chariots and horses, there was a noble mansion
swept and garnished, waiting to receive us all, and, more than
all, there was a life of great deeds which should make my fathei
proud of his boy, and in which I remember that " die British *
were to be very severely handled.
The actual removal hardly justified the picture. There were
two overloaded three-horse teams, and a high, old-fashioned
wagon, drawn by a single horse, in which were bestowed the fam
ily, the family satchels, and the machinery of an eight-day clock
a pet of my father, who had had it all in pieces for repairs every
year since I was bom. I did not burden the wagon with my pres-
ence, but found a seat, when I was not running by the way-
side, with the driver of one of the teams. He had attracted
me to his company by various sly nods and winks, and by a
funny way of talking to his horses. He was an old teamster,
and knew not only every inch of the road that led to the dis-
tant market-town to which we were going, but every landlord,
groom, and bar-keeper on the way. A man of such vast geo-
graphical knowledge, and such extensive and interesting
acquaintance with men, became to me a most important per
sonage. When he had amused himself long enough with stories
told to excite my imagination, he turned to me sharply and
said :
" Boy, do you ever tell lies ? "
" Yes, sir," I answered, without hesitation.
'* You do ? Then why didn't you lie when I asked you the
question ? "
" Because I never lie except to please people," I replied.
" Oh I you are one of the story-tellers, are you ? " he said,
in a tone of severity.
" Yes, sir."
"Well, then, you ought to be flogged. If I had a story-
telling boy I would flog it out of him. Truth, boy always
14 Arthur Bonnicastle.
stand by the truth ! It was only this time last year that I was
carrying a load of goods down the mountain for a family the
same as yours, and there was a little boy who went with me
the same as you are going now. I was sure I smelt tobacco.
Said I, * I smell tobacco.' He grew red in the face, and I
charged him with having some in his pocket He declared he
had none, and I said, * We shall see what will come to liars.*
I pitied liim, for I knew something terrible would happen. A
strap broke, and the horses started on a run, and oflf went the
boy. I stopped them as soon as I could, ran back and picked
him up insensible, with as handsome a plug of tobacco in his
pocket as you ever saw ; and the rascal had stolen it from his
grandmother I Always speak the truth, my boy, always speak
the truth!"
" And did you steal the tobacco from him ? " I asked.
"No, lad, I took it and used it, because 1 knew it would
hurt him, and I couldn't bear the thought of exposing him to
his grandmother."
" Do you think lying is worse than stealing ? " I asked.
" That is something we can't settle. Tobacco is very pre-
serving and cleansing to the teeth, and I am obliged to use it
Do you see that little building we are coming to ? That is
Snow's store : and now, if you are a boy that has any heart
any real heart and if you have saved up a few pennies, you
will go in there and get a stick of candy for yourself and a plug
of tobacco for me. That would be the square thing for a bov
to do who stands by the truth, and wants to do a good turn to
a man that helps him along ; " and he looked me in the eye so
steadily and persuasively that resistance was tmpossible, and
my poor little purse went back into my pocket painfully empty
of that which had seemed like wealth.
We rode along quietly after this until my companion asked
me if I knew how tall I was. Of course I did not know any-
thing about it, and wished to learn the reason of the question.
He had a little boy of his own at home a very smart little
fellow ^who could exactly reach tlie check-fein of his leading
Arthur Bonnicastle. 15
horse. He had been wondering if I could do the same. He
should think we were about the same height, and as it would be
a tiptoe stretch, the performance would be a matter of spring
and skilL At that moment it happened that we came to a
watering-trough, which gave me the opportunity to satisfy his
curiosity ; and he sat smiling appreciatively upon my frantic and
at last successful efforts to release the leader's head, and lift it
again to its check.
We came to a steep acclivity, and, under the stimulating
influence of the teamster's flattery, I carried a stone as large
as my head from the bottom to the top, to stay the wheels when
the horses paused for breath.
I recall the lazy rascal's practice upon my bo)dsh credulity
and vanity more for my interest in my own childishness than
for any interest I still have in him ; though I cannot think that
the jolly old joker was long ago dust, without a sigh. He was
a great man to me then, and he stirred me with appeals to my
ambition as few have stirred me since. And " standing by the
truth," as he so feelingly adjured me to stand, I may confess
that his appeals were not the basest to which my life has re-
sponded.
The forenoon was long, hot and wearisome, but at its close
we emerged upon a beautiful valley, and saw before us a char-
acteristic New England village, with its white houses, . large
and little, and its two homely wooden spires. I was walking
as I came in sight of the village, and I stopped, touched with
the poetry of the peaceful scene. Just then the noon-bell
pealed forth from one of the little churches the first church-
bell I had evei^ heard. I did not know what it was, and was
obliged to inquire. I have stood under the belfry of Bruges
since, and heard, amid the dull jargon of the deca3dng city, the
chimes from its silver-sounding bells with far less of emotion
than I experienced that day, as I drank my first draught of
the wonderful music. O sweet first time of everything good in
life !
Thank heaven that, with an eternity of duration before us,
1 6 Arthur Bmnicastle.
theie is also infinity of resources, with ever-varying sapply
and ministry, and ever-recurring first times I
W.y father and the rest of the family had preceded us, and
we found them waiting at the village tavern for our arrival.
Dinner was ready, and I was quite ready for it, though I -was
not so much absorbed that I cannot recall to-day the fat old
woman with fi3dng cap-strings who waited at the table. Indeed,
were I an artist, I could reproduce the pictures on the walls
of the low, long dining-room where we ate, so strongly did they
impress themselves upon my memory. We made but a short
stay, and then in our slow way pressed on. My fiiend of the
team had evidently found something more exhilarating at the
tavern than tobacco, and was confidential and affectionate, not
only toward me but toward all he met upon the road, of whom
he told me long and marvelous histories. But he grew dull
and even ill-tempered at last, and I had a quiet cry behind a
projecting bedstead, for very weariness and homesickness.
I was too weary when at dusk we arrived at the end of our
da/s progress to note, or care, for anything. My supper was
quickly eaten, and I was at once in the oblivion of sleep. The
next day's journey was unlike the first, in diat it was crowded
with life. The villages grew larger, so as quite to excite my
astonishment. I saw, indeed, the horses and the chariots.
There were signs of wealth that I had never seen before,
beautifully kept lawns, fine, stately mansions, and gayly-
dressed ladies', who humiliated me by regarding me with a sort
of stately curiosity ; and I realized as I had never done before
that there were grades of life far above that to which I had
been accustomed, and that my father was comparatively a poor,
plain man.
Toward the close of the second afternoon we came in sight
oi Bradford, which, somewhere within its limits, contained our
future home. There were a dozen stately spires, there were
tall chimneys waving their plumes of pearly smoke, there were
long rows of windows red in the rays of the declining sim,
there was a river winding away into the distance between its
Arthur Bonnicastle. 1 7
borders of elm and willow, and there were white-winged craft
that glided hither and thither in the far silence.
" What do you think of that, boy ? " inquired my friend the
teamster.
" Isn't it pretty 1 " I responded. " Isn't it a grand place to
live in ? "
" That depends upon whether one lives or starves," he said.
" If I were going to starve, I would rather do it where there
isn't anything to eat"
" But we are not going to starve," I said. " Father never
will let us starve."
^^ Not if he can help it, boy ; but your father is a lamb a
great, innocent lamb."
'' What do you mean by calling my father a lamb ? He is as
good a man as there is in Bradford, any way," I responded,
somewhat indignantly.
The man gave a new roll to the enormous quid in his mouth,
a solace that had been purchased by my scanty pennies, and
said, with a contemptuous smile, '* Oh ! he's too good. Some
time when you think of it, suppose you look and see if he has
ever cut his eye-teeth."
" You are making fun of my father, and I don't like it. How
should you like to have a man make fun of you to your little
boy?"
At this he gave a great laugh, and I knew at once that he
had no little boy, and that he had been playing off a fiction
upon me throughout the whole journey. It was my first en-
counter with a false and selfish world. To find in my hero of
the three horses and the large acquaintance only a vulgar ras-
cal who could practice upon the credulity of a little boy was
one of the keenest disappointments I had ever experienced.
" If I could hurt you, I would strike you," I said in a rage.
" Well, boy," he replied almost affectionately, and quite ad-
miringly, " you will make your way, if you have that sort of
thing in you* I wouldn't have believed it Upon my word, I
wouldn't have believed it I take it all back. Your father is a
1 8 Arthur Bonntcastle.
first-rate man for heaven, if he isn't for Bradford ; and he's
sure to go there when he moves next, and I should like to be
the one to move him, but I'm afraid they wouldn't let me in to
unload the goods."
There was an awful humor in this strange speech which I fully
comprehended, but my reverence for even the name of heaven
was so profound that I did not dare to laugh. I simply said :
" I don't like to hear you talk so, and I wish you wouldn't"
"Well, then, I won't, my lad. They say the lame and the
lazy are always provided for, and I don't know why the lambs
are not just as deserving. You'll all get through, I suppose ;
and a hundred years hence there will be no diffeience."
" Who provides for the lame and the lazy ? " J inquired.
" Well, now you have me tight," said the fellow with a sigh.
" Somebody up there, I s'pose ; " and he pointed his whip up-
ward with a little toss.
" Don't you know ? " I inquired, with ingenuous and undis-
guised wonder.
" Not a bit of it. I never saw him. I've been lazy all my
life, and I was lame once for a year, falling from this very
wagon, and a mighty rough time I had of it, too ; and so far
as I am concerned it has been a business of looking out for
number one. Nobody ever let down a silver spoon full of
honey to me ; and what is more, I don't expect it. If you
have that sort of thing in your head, the best way is to keep it.
You'll be happier, I reckon, in the long run if you do ; but I
didn't get it in early, and it is too late now."
"Then your father was a goat, wasn't he ?" I said, with a
quitk impulse.
" Yes," he replied with a loud laugh. " Yes indeed ; he was
a goat with the biggest and wickedest pair of horns you ever
saw. Boy, remember what I tell you. Goodness in this world
is a thing of fathers and mothers. I haven't any children, and
I shouldn't have any right to them if I had. People who bring
children into the world that they are not fit to take care of, and
who teach them nothing but drinking and fighting and swearing.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 19
ought to be shot If I had had your start, I snould be all right
to-day."
So I had another lesson, two lessons, indeed, one in the
practical infidelity of the world, and one in social and family
influence. They haunted me for many days, and brought to me
a deeper and a more intelligent respect for my father and b's
goodness and wisdom than I had ever entertained.
" I wish I were well down that hill," said my teamster at last,
after we had jolted along for half a mile without a word. As
he said this he looked uneasily around upon his load, which,
with the long transportation, had become loose. He stopped
his horses, and gave another turn to the pole with which he
had strained the rope that, passing lengthwise and crosswise the
load, held it together. Then he started on again. I watched
him closely, for I saw real apprehension on his face. His
horses were tired, and one of them was blind. The latter fact
gave me no apprehension, as the driver had taken much pains
to impress upon me the fact that the best horses were always
blind. He only regretted that he could not secure them for
his whole team, principally on account of the fact that not hav-
ing any idea how far they had traveled, they never knew when
to be tired. The reason seemed sound, and I had accepted it
in good faith.
When we reached the brow of the hill that descended into
the town, I saw that he had some reason for his apprehension,
and I should have alighted and taken to my feet if I had not
been as tired as the horses. But I had faith in the driver, and
faith in the poor brutes he drove, and so remained on my seat.
Midway the hill, the blind horse stepped upon a rolling stone ;
and all 1 remember of the scene which immediately followed
was a confused and violent struggle. The horse fell prone
upon the road, and while he was trying in Vain to rise, I was
conscious that my companion had leaped off Then something
struck me from behind, and I felt myself propelled wildly and
resistlessly through the air, down among the struggling horses,
after which I knew no more.
20 Arthur Bonnicastle.
^Vhen consciousness came back to me it was night, and I
was in a strange house. A person who wakes out of healthy
sleep recognizes at once his surroundings, and by a process in
which volition has no part reunites the thread of his life with
that which was dropped when sleep fell upon him. The un-
consciousness which follows concussion is of a different sort,
and obliterates for a time the memory of a whole life.
I woke upon a Httle cot on the floor. Though it was sum-
mer, a small fire had been kindled on the hearth, my father was
chafing my hands, my brothers and sisters were looking on at
a distance with apprehension and distress upon their faces, and
the room was piled with furniture in great confiision. The
whole journey was gone firom my memory ; and feeling that I
could not lift my head or speak, I could only gasp and shut my
eyes and wonder. I knew my father's face, and knew the
family faces around me, but I had no idea where we were, or
what had happened. Something warm and stinging came to
my lips, and I swallowed it with a gulp and a strangle. Then
I became conscious of a voice that was strange to me. It was
deep and musical and strong, yet there was a restraint and a
conscious modulation in its tone, as if it were trying to do that
to which it was not well used. Its possessor was evidently
talking to my mother, who, I knew, was weeping.
" Ah ! madam ! Ah 1 madam ! This will never do ^never
do ! " I heard him say. " You are tired. Bless me ! You
have come eighty miles. It would have killed Mrs. Bradford
All you want is rest I am not a chicken, and such a ride in
such a wagon as yours would have finished me up, Fm sure,"
" Ah, my poor boy, Mr. Bradford ! " my mother moaned.
" The boy will be all right by to-morrow morning," he re-
plied. " He is opening his eyes now. You can't kill such a
little piece of stuff as that. He hasn't a broken bone in his
body. Let him have the brandy there, and keep his feet warm.
Those little chaps are never good for anything until they have
had the daylight knocked out of them half-a-dozen times. I
wonder what has became of that rascal, Dennis ! "
Arthur Bo7inicastle. 21
At this he rose and walked to the window, and peered out
into the darkness. I saw that he was a tall, plainly dressed
man, with a heavy cane in his hand. One thing was certain :
he was a type of man I had never seen before. Perfectly self-
possessed, entirely at home, superintending all the affairs of the
house, commanding, advising, reassuring, inspiring, he was
evidently there to do good. In my speechless helplessness, my
own heart went out to him in perfect trust I had the fullest
faith in what he said about myself and my recovery, though at
the moment I had no idea what I was to recover from, or
rather, what had been the cause of my prostration.
" There the vagabond comes at last ! " said the stranger.
He threw open the door, and Dennis, a smiling, good-natured
looking Irishman, walked in with a hamper of most appetizing
drinks and viands. An empty table was ready to receive them,
and hot coffee, milk, bread, and various cold meats were placed
one after another upon it.
" Set some chairs, Dennis, and be quick about it," said Mr.
Bradford.
The chairs were set, and then Mr. Bradford stooped and
offered my mother his arm, in as grand a manner as if he were
jH-offering a courtesy to the Queen of England. She rose and
took it, and he led her to the table. My father was very much
touched, and I saw him look at the stranger with quivering lips.
This was a gentleman a kind of man he had read about in
books, but not the kind of man he had ever been brought much
in contact with. This tender and stately attention to my mother
was an honor which was very grateful to him. It was a touch
of ideal life, too, above the vulgar, graceless habits of those
among whom his life had been cast Puritan though he was,
and plain and undemonstrative in his ways, he saw the beauty
of this new manner with a thrill that brought a crimson tint to
his hollow cheeks. Both he and my mother tried to express their
thanks, but Mr. Bradford declared that he was the lucky man
in the whole matter. It was so fortunate that he had happened
to be near when the accident occimred ; and though the service
22 Arthur Bonnicastle.
he had leudcred was a very small one, it had been a genuine
pleasure to him to render it Then, seeing that no one touched
the food, he turned with a quick instinct to Dennis, and said :
" By the way, Dennis, let me see you at the door a moment"
Dennis followed him out, and then my father bowed his head,
and thanked the Good Giver for the provision made for his
family, for the safety of his boy, and for the prosperous journey,
and ended by asking a blessing upon the meal.
When, after a considerable interval, Mr. Bradford and his
servant reappeared, it was only on the part of the former to say
that Dennis would remain to assist in putting the beds into such
shape that the family could have a comfortable night's rest, and
to promise to look in late in the morning. He sliook hands in
a hearty way with my father and mother, said " good-night " to
the children, and then came and looked at me. He smiled a
kind, good-humored smile, and shaking his long finger at me,
said t " Keep quiet, my little man : you'll be all right in the
morning." Then he went away, and after the closing of the
door I heard his brisk, strong tread away into the darkness.
I have often wondered whether such men as Mr. Bradford
realize how strong an impression they make upon the minds of
children. He undoubtedly realized that he had to deal with a
family of children, beginning with my father and mother as
truly children as any of us ; but it is impossible that he could
know what an uplift he gave to the life to which he had minis-
tered. The sentiment which he inspired in me was as truly
that of worship as any of which I was capable. The grand
man, with his stalwart frame, his apparent control of unlimited
means, his self-possession, his commanding manner, his kindness
and courtesy, lifted him in my imagination almost to the dig
nity of a God. I wondered if I could ever become such a man
as he ! I learned in after years that even he had his weaknesses,
but I never ceased to entertain for him the most profound respect.
Indeed, I had good and special reason for this, beyond what at
present appears.
After he departed I watched Dennis. If Mr. Bradfoid was
Arthur Bonnicastle. 23
my first gentleman, Den&is was my first Irishman. Oh, sweet
first time ! let me exclaim again. I have never seen an Irish
man since who so excited my admiration and interest
** Me leddy," said Dennis, imitating as well as he could the
grand manner of his master, "if ye'll tek an Irish bys advice,
ye'll contint yoursilf with a shake-down for the night, and set
up the frames in the mamin'. I'm thinkin' the Squire will lit
me give ye a lift thin, an it's slape ye're wantin' now."
He saw the broad grin coming upon the faces of the children
as he proceeded, and joined in their unrestrained giggle when
he finished.
"Ah! there's nothing like a fine Irish lad for makin' little
gfurr*ls happy. It's better nor whisky any day."
My poor father and mother were much distressed, fearing
that the proprieties had been trampled on by the laughing
children, and apologized to Dennis for their rudeness.
" Och I niver mind 'em. An Irish b'y is a funny bird any
way, and they're not used to his chirrup yet."
In the meantime he had lighted half a dozen candles for as
many rooms, and was making quick work with the bedding.
At length, with the help of my mother, he had arranged beds
enough to accommodate the family for the night, and with many
professions of good-wiM, and with much detail of experience
concerning moving in his own country, he was about to bid us
all " good-night," when he paused at the door and said :
"Thank a blind horse for good luck 1 "
' " What do you mean, Dennis ? " inquired my lather.
" Is it what I mane ? ye ask me. Wasn't it a blind horse
that fell on the hill, and threw the lad aff jist where the Squire
was standin,' and didn't he get him in his arms the furr'st one,
and" wasn't that the beginnin' of it all? Thank a blind horse
for good luck, I till ye. The Squire can no more drap you
now than he can drap his blissid ould hearr't, though it's likely
I'll have to do the most of it mesilf."
My mother assured Dennis that she was sorry to give him
the slightest trouble.
24 ArtJmr Bonnicastle.
"Never mind me, me leddy. Lei an Irish b'y alone foi
bein' tinder of himsilf. Do I look as if I had too much worfk
and my bafe comin' to me in thin slices ? " And he spread
out his brawny hands for inspection.
The children giggled, and he went out with a " good-night"
Then he reopened the door, and putting only his head in, said,
** Remimber what I till ye. A blind horse for good luck ; "
and, nodding his head a dozen times, he shut the door again
and disappeared for the night
When I woke the next morning, it all came back to rae
the long ride, the fearful experience upon the hill, and the
observations of the previous evening. We were indebted to
the thoughtful courtesy of Mr. Bradford for our breakfast, and,
after Dennis had been busy during half the morning in assistuig to
put the house in order, I saw my gentleman again. The only
inconvenience from which I suflfered was a sense of being
bruised all over ; and when he came in I greeted him with such
a smile of hearty delight that he took my cheeks in his hands
and kissed me. How many thousand times I had longed for
such an expression of affection from my father, and longed in
vain ! It healed me and made me happy. Then I had an
opportunity to study hun more closely. He was fresh from
his toilet, and wore the cleanest linen. His neck was envel-
oped and his chin propped by the old-fashioned "stock" of
those days, his waistcoat was white, and his dark gray coat and
trousers had evidently passed under Dennis's brush in the
early morning. A heavy gold chain with a massive seal de-
pended from his watch-pocket, and he carried in his hand what
seemed to be his constant companion, his heavy cane. At
this distance of time I find it* difficult to describe his face, be-
cause it impressed me as a whole, and not by its separate feat-
ures. His eyes were dark, pleasant, and piercing so much
I remember ; but the rest of his face I cannot describe. I
trusted it wholly ; but, as I recall the man, I hear more than I
see. Impressive as was his presence, his wonderful voice was
his finest mterpreter to me. I lingered uion his tones and
Arthur Bonntcastle. 25
cadences as I have often listened to the voice of a distant water-
fall, lifted and lowered by the wind. -I can hear it to-day as
plainly as I heard it then.
During the visit of that morning he learned the situation of
the family, and comprehended with genuine pain the helpless-
ness of my father. That he was interested in my father I could
see very plainly. His talk was not in the manner of working- ^
men, and the conversation was discursive enough to display his
intelligence. The gentleman was evidently puzzled. Here
was a plain man who had seen no society, who had lived for
years among the woods and hills ; yet the man of culture could
start no subject without meeting an intelligent response.
Mr. Bradford ascertained that my father had but little money,
that he had come to Bradford with absolutely no provision but
a house to move into, that he had no definite plan of business,
and that his desire for a better future for his children was the
motive that had induced him to migrate from his mountain
home.
After he had made a full confession of his circumstances,
with the confiding simplicity of a boy, Mr. Bradford looked at him
with a sort of mute wonder, and then rose and walked the room.
'^ I confess I don't understand it, Mr. Bonnicastle," said he,
stopping before him, and bringing d6wn his cane. " You want
your children to be educated better than you are, but you are
a thousand times better than your circumstances. Men are
happiest when they are in harmony with their circumstances.
I venture to say that the men you left behind you were con-
tented enough. What is the use of throwing children out of
all pleasant relations with their condition ? I don't blame you
for wanting to have your children educated, but I am sure that
educating working people is a mistake. Work is their life ;
and they worked a great deal better and were a great deal hap-
pier when they knew less. Now isn't it so, Mr. Bonnicastle ?
isn't it so?"
Quite unwittingly Mr. Bradford had touched my father's
sensitive point, and as there was something in the gentleman's
2
26 Arthur Bonnicastle.
manner that inspired the conversational faculties of all with
whom he came in contact, my father's tongue was loosed, and
it did not stop until the gentleman had no more to say.
" Wellj if we diflfer, we'll agree to diflfer," said he, at last ;
" but now you want work, and I will speak to some of my
friends about you. Bonnicastle Peter Bonnicastle, I think ? "
My father nodded, and said " a name I inherit from I do
not know how many great-grandfathers."
** Your ancestor was not Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury ? "
" That is what they tell me."
" Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury ! "
" Ayj Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury."
" By Jove, man ! Do you know you've got the bluest blood
in your veins of any man in Bradford ?"
I shall never forget the pleased and proud expression that
came into the faces of my father and mother as these words
were uttered. What blue blood was, and in what its excel-
lence consisted, I did not know ; but it was something to be
proud of that was evident.
" Peter Bonnicastle of Roxbury ! Ah yes ! Ah yes ! I under-
stand it. It's all plain enough now. You are a gentleman
without knowing it z, gentleman tr)dng in a blind way to get
back to- a gentleman's conditions. Well, perhaps you will ; I
shall not wonder if you do."
It was my first observation of the reverence for blood that I
have since found to be nearly universal The show of con-
tempt for it which many vulgar people make is always an affec-
tation, unless they are very vulgar indeed. My father, who,
more than any man 1 ever knew, respected universal human-
ity, and ignored class distinctions, was as much delighted and
elevated with the recognition of his claims to good family
blood as if he had fallen heir to the old family wealth.
"And what is this lad's name?" inquired Mr. Bradford,
pointing over his shoulder toward me.
" My name is Arthur Bonnicastle," I replied, taking the
v^rords out of my father's mouth.
Arthur Bonnzcastle. 27
" And Arthur Bonnicastle has a pair of ears and a tongue,'*
responded Mr. Bradford, turning to me with an aniused expres-
sion upon his face.
I took the response as a reproof, and blushed painfully.
" Tut, tut, there is no harm done, my lad," said he, rising
and coming to a chair near me, and regarding me very kindly.
" You know you had neither last night," he added, feeling my
hand and forehead to learn if there were any feverish reaction.
. I was half sitting, half lying on a lounge near the window,
and he changed his seat from the chair to the lounge so that
he sat over me, looking down into my face. " Now," said he,
regarding me very tenderly, and speaking gently, in a tone
that was wholly his own, " we will have a little talk all by our-
selves. What have you been thinking about ? Your month
has been screwed up into ever-so-many interrogation points
ever since your father and I began to talk."
I laughed at the odd fancy, and told him I should like to
ask him a few questions.
" Of course you would. Boys are always full of questions-
Ask as many as you please."
"I should like to ask you if you own this town," I began.
" Why ? "
"Because," I answered, "you have the same name the town
lias."
" No, my lad, I own very little of it ; but my great-grand-
father owned all the land it stands on, and tiie town was
[named for him, or rather he named it for himself."
. " Was his blood blue ? " 1 inquired.
He smiled and whistled in a comical way, and said he was
pcfraid that it wasn't quite so blue as it might liave been.
" Is yours ? "
"Well, that's a tough question," he responded. ' I fancy
the family blood has been growing blue for several generations,
and perhaps there's a little indigo in me."
" Do you eat anything in particular?" I inquired.
" No, nothing in particular : it isn't made in that way."
28 Arthur Bonntcastle.
" How is it made ? " I inquired.
"Thafs a. tough question, too," he replied.
** Oh ! if you can't answer it,'* I said, " don't trouble youF
self; but do you think Jesus Christ had blue blood ?"
**Why yes ^yes indeed. Wasn't he the son of David
when he got back to him ^and wasn't David a King ? "
" Oh 1 that* s what you mean by blue blood ; and thafs
another thing," I said.
"What do you mean by another thing, my boy?" inquired
Mr. Bradford.
" I was thinking," I said, " that my father was a carpenter,
and so was his ; and so his blood was blue and mine too. And
there are lots of other things that might have been true."
" Tell me all about them," said my interlocutor. " Wliat
have you been thinking about ? "
" Oh 1 " I said, " I've been thinking that if my father had lived
when his father lived, and if they had lived in the same country,
perhaps they would have worked in the same shop and on the
same houses ; and then perhaps Jesus Christ and I should have
played together with the blocks and shavings. And then,
when he grew up and became so wonderful, I should have grown
up and perhaps been one of the apostles, and written part of
the Bible, and preached and healed the sick, and been a martyr,
and gone to heaven, and and I don't know how many other,
things." ^
" Well, I rather think you would, by Jove," he said, rising
to his feet, impulsively.
" One thing more, please," I said, stretching my hands up to
him. He sat down again, and put his face close to mine. " I
want to tell you that I love you."
His eyes filled with tears ; and he whispered : " Thank you,
my dear boy : love me always. Thank you."
Then he kissed me again and turned to my father. " I think
you are entirely right in coming to Bradford," I heard him say.
" I don't think I should like to see this little chap going back
to the woods again, even if I could have my own way about it."
; .
SV
.-n^ ^HOX AND
Arthur Bonntcastle. 29
For some minutes he walked the room backward and forward,
sometimes pausing and looking out of the window. My father
saw that he was absorbed, and said nothing. At length he
stopped suddenly before my father and said : " This is the
strangest affair I ever knew. Here you come out of the woods
with this large family, without the slightest idea what you are
going to do with no provision for the future whatever. How
did you suppose you were going to get along ? "
How well I remember the quiet, confident smile with which
my father received his strong, blunt words, and the trembling
tone in which he replied to them !
** Mr. Bradford," said he, " none of us takes care of himself.
I am not a wise man in worldly things, and I am obliged to
trust somebody ; and I know of no one so wise as He who
knows all things, or so kind as He who loves all men. I
do the best I can, and I leave the rest to Him. He has never
failed me in the great straits of my life, and He never will. I
have already thanked Him for sending you to me yesterday ;
and I believe that by His direction you are to be, as you have
already been, a great blessing to me. I shall seek for work,
and with such strength as I have I shall do it, and do it well. I
shall have troubles and trials, but I know that none will come
that I cannot transform, and that I am not expected to trans-
form, into a blessing. If I am not rich in money when the
end comes, I shall be rich in something better than money."
Mr. Bradford took my father's hand, and shaking it warmly,
responded : "You are already rich in that which is better than
money. A faith like yours is wealth inestimable. You are a
thousand times richer than I am to-day. I beg your pardon,
Mr. Bonnicastle, but this is really quite new to me. I have
heard cant and snuffle, and I know the difference. If the Lord
doesn't take care of such a man as you are, he doesn't stand
by his friends, that's all."
My father's reverence was offended by this familiar way ot
speaking a name which was ineffably sacred to him, and he
made no reply, I could see, -too, that he felt that the humilitx
30 Arthur Bonnicastle.
with which he had spoken was not fully appreciated by Mr,
Bradford.
Suddenly breakhig the thread of the conversation, Mr. Brad^
ford said : " By the way, who is your landlord ? I ought to
know who owns this little house, but I don't."
" The landlord is not a landlord at sUl, I believe. The owner
is a landlady, though I have never seen her a Mrs. Sanderson
Ruth Sanderson."
" Oh ! I know her well, and ought to have known that this is
her property," said Mr. Bradford. " I have nothing against the
lady, though she is a little odd in her ways ; but I am sorry
you have a woman to deal with, for, so far as I have observed,
a business woman is a screw by rule, and a woman without a
business faculty and with business to do is a screw without
rule."
In the midst of the laugh that followed Mr. Bradford's
axiomatic statement he turned to the window, and exclaimed :
" Well, I declare ! here she comes."
I looked quickly and saw a curious turn-out approaching the
house. It was an old-fashioned chaise, set low between two
high wheels, drawn by a heavy-limbed and heavy-gaited black
horse, and driven by a white-haired, thin-faced old man. Be-
side the driver sat a Uttle old woman ; and tlie first impression
given me by the pair was that the vehicle was much too large
for them, for it seemed to toss them up and catch them, and to
knock them together by its constant motion. The black horse,
who had a steady independent trot, that regarded neither stones
nor ruts, made directly for our door, stopped when he found
the place he wanted, and then gave a preliminary twitch at the
reins and reached down his head for a nibble at the grass.
The man sat still, looking straight before him, and left the little
old woman to alight without assistance ; and she did alight in
a way which showed that she had little need of it. She was
dressed entirely in black, with the exception of the white
widow's cap drawn tightly around a Uttle face set far back
in a deep bonnet. She had a quick, wiry, nervous way in
Arthur Bomiicastle. 31
walking ; and coming up the path that led through a little gar-
den lying between the house and the street, she cast furtive
glances left and right, as if gathering the condition of her prop-
erty. Then followed a sharp rap at the door.
The absorbed and embarrassed condition of my father and
mother was evident in the fact that neither started to open the
door ; but Dennis, coming quickly in from an adjoining room
where he was busy, opened it, and Mr. Bradford went forward
to meet her in the narrow halL He shook her hand in his
own cordial and stately way, and said jocularly : ." Well,
Madame, you see we have taken possession of your snug little
house."
Her lips, which were compressed and thin as if she were
suffering pain, parted in a faint smile, and her dark, searching
eyes looked up to him in a kind of questioning wonder. There
was nothing in her face that attracted me. I remember only
that I felt moved to pity her, she seemed so small, and
lonely, and careworn. Her hands were the tiniest I had ever
seen, and were merely litde bundles of bones in the shape of
hands.
" Let me present your tenants to you, Mrs. Sanderson, and
commend them to your good opinion," said Mr. Bradford.
She stood quietly and bowed to my father and mother, who
bad'risen to greet her. I was young, but quick in my instincts,
and I saw at once that she regarded a tenant as an inferior,
with whom it would not do to be on terms of social famili-
arity.
" Do you find the house comfortable ? " she inquired, speak-
ing in a quick way and addressing my father.
** Apparently so," he answered ; and then he added : " we
are hardly settled yet, but I tliink we shall get along very well
in it"
" With your leave I will go over it, and see for myself," she
said quietly.
" Ob, certainly ! " respopded my father. " My wife will go
with you."
32 Arthur Bonnicastle.
"If slie will ; but I want you, too."
They went off together, and I heard them for some minutes
talking around in the different parts of the house.
"Any more questions?" inquired Mr. Bradford witii a
smile, looking over to where I sat on the lounge.
" Yes, sir," I replied. " I have been wondering whether
that lady has a crack in the top of her head."
"Well, I shouldn't wonder if she had a very, very small
one," he replied ; " and now what started that fancy ? "
" Because," I continued, " if she is what you call a screw, I
was wondering how they turned her."
" Well, my boy, it is so very small indeed," said Mr. Brad-
ford, putting on a quizzical look, " that Tm afraid they can't
turn her at all."
When the lady came back she seemed to be ready to go
away at once ; but Mr. Bradford detained her with the story of
the previous nighfa experiences, including the accident that
had happened to me. She listened sharply, and then came
over to where I was sitting, and asked me if I were badly hurt
I assured her I was not Then she took one of my plump
hands in her own little grasp, and looked at me in a strange,
intense way without sa3dng a word.
Mr. Bradford interrupted her, with an eye to business, by
saying : " Mr. Bonnicastle, your new tenant here, is a carpen-
ter ; and I venture to say that he is a good one. We must do
what we can to introduce him to business."
She turned with a quick motion on her heel, and bent her
eyes on my father. "Bonnicastle?" said she, with almost a
fierce interrogation.
"Oh! I supposed you knew his name, Mrs. Sanderson,"
said Mr. Bradford ; and then he added, " but I presume your
agent did not tell you."
She made no sign to show that she had heard a word that
Mr. Bradford had said.
"Peter Bonnicastle," said my father, breaking the silence
with the only words he could find.
J
Arthur Bonnicastle. 33
'^feter Bonnicasde ! " she repeated almost mecfaanically,
and continued standing as if dazed.
She stood with her back toward me, and I could only guess
at her expression, or the strangely curious interest of the scene,
by its reflection in Mr. Bradford's face. He sat uneasily in his
chair, and pressed the head of his cane against his chin, as if
he were using a mechanical appliance to keep his mouth shut
He knew the woman before him, and was determined to be
wise. Subsequently I learned the reason of it all of his
silence at the time, of his reticence for months and even years
afterward, and of what sometimes seemed to me and to my
father like coolness and neglect
l^he silence was oppres^ve, and my &ther, remembering
the importance which Mr. Bradford had attached to the fact,
and ncioved by a newly awakened pride, said : " I am one of
many Peters, they tell me, the first of whom settled in Roxbury.
' Roxbury ? " and she took one or two steps toward him.
** You are sure ? '*
" Perfectly sure," responded my father.
She made no explanation, but started for the door, dropping
a little bow as she turned away. Mr. Bradford was on his feet
in a moment, and, opening the door for her, accompanied her
into the street I watched them from the window. They
paused just far enough from the driver of the chaise to be be-
yond his hearing, and conversed for several minutes. I could
not doubt that Mr. Bradford was giving her his impression of
us. Then he helped her into the chaise, and the little gray-
haired driver, gathering up his reins, and giving a great pull at
the head of the black horse, which seemed fastened to a
particularly strong tuft of grass, turned up the street and drove
off, tossing and jolting in the way he came.
There was a strong, serious, excited expression on Mr.
Bradford's face as he came in. "My friend," said he, taking
my father* Sl hand, " this is a curious affair. ! cannot explain
it to you, and the probabilities are that I shall have less to do
with and for you than I supposed I might have. Be sure,
2*
34 Arthur Bonnzcastle.
however, that I shall always be interested in your prosperity ;
and never hesitate to come to me if you are in serious trouble.
And now let me ask you never to mention my name to Mrs.
Sanderson, with praise ; never tell her if I render you a
sei*vice. I know the lady, and I think it quite likely that you
will hear from her in a few days. In the mean time you will
be busy in making your family comfortable in your new hmiie."
Then he spoke a cheerful word to my mother, and bade us all
a good-morning, only looking kindly at me instead of bestow-
ing upon me the coveted and expected kiss.
When he was gone, my father and mother looked at each
other with a significant glance, and I waited to hear what they
would say. If I have said little about my mother, it is because
she had very little to say for hersel She was a weary, worn
woman, who had parted with her vitality in the bearing and
rearing of her children and in hard and constant care and work.
Life had gone wrong with her. She had a profound respect for
practical gifts, and her husband did not possess them. She
had long since ceased to hope for anything good in life, and her
face had taken on a sad, dejected expression, which it never
lost under any circumstances. To my father's abounding hope-
fulness she always opposed her obstinate hopelessness. This
was partly a matter of temperament, as well as a result of
disappointment I learned early that she had very little faith
in me, or rather in any natural gifts of mine that in the future
might retrieve the fortunes of the family. I had too many of
the characteristics of my father.
I see the two now as they sat thinking and talking over the
events and acquaintances of the evening and the morning as
plainly as I saw them then my father with his blue eyes all
alight, and his cheeks touched with the flush of excitement, and
my mother with her distrustful face, depreciating and question-
ing everything. She liked Mr. Bradford. Mr. Bradford was a
gentleman ; but what had gentlemen to do with them ? It was
all very well to talk about family, but what was family good for
j^ithout money ? Mr. Bradford had his own affairs to attend tQ,
\
\
Arthur Bonnicastle. 35
and we should see precious little more of him ! As for Mrs.
Sanderson, she did not like her at all. Poor people would get
very little consideration from an old woman whose hand was
too good to be given to a stranger who happened to be hei
tenant
I have wondered often how my father maintained his courage
and faith with such a drag upon them as my mother's morbid
sadness imposed, but in truth they were proof against every de-
pressing influence. Out of every suggestion of possible good
fortune he built castles that filled his imagination with almost a
childish delight. He believed that something good was soon
to come out of it all, and he was really bright and warm in the
smile of that Providence which had manifested itself to him in
these new acquaintances. I pinned my faith to my father's
sleeve, and believed as fully and as far as he did. There was
a rare sympathy between us. The great sweet boy that he was
and the little boy that I was, were one in a charming commu-
nion. Oh God ! that he should be gone and I here I He has
been in heaven long enough to have won his freedom, and I am
sure we shall, kiss when we meet again !
Before the week closed, the gray-haired old servant of Mrs.
Sanderson knocked at tiie door, and brought a little note. It
was from his mistress, and read thus, for I copy from the faded
document itself:
* The Mansion, Bradford.
" Mr. Peter Bonnicastle :
" I should like to see you here' next Monday morning, in r^^d to some
repairs about The Mansion. Come early, and if your little boy Arthur is
well enough you may bring him.
"Ruth Sanderson."
The note was read aloud, and it conveyed to my mind in-
stantaneously a fact which I did not mention, but which filled
me with strange excitement and pleasure. I remembered that
my name was not once mentioned while Mrs. Sanderson was in
the house. She had learned it therefore from Mr. Bradford,
36 Arthur Bonnicastle.
while talking at the door. Mr. Bradford liked me, I knew, and
he had spoken well of me to her. What would come of it all ?
So, with the same visionary hopefulness that characterized nay
father, I plunged into a sea of dreams on which I floated over
depths paved with treasure, and under skies bright with promise,
until Monday morning dawned. When the early breakfast wa?
finished, and my father with unusual fervor of feeling had com-
mended his family and himself to the keeping and the blessing
of heaven, we started forth, he and I, hand in hand, with as
cheerful anticipations as if we were going to a f ^ast
f
J
CHAPTER 11.
1 VISIT AN OGRES^S AND A GIANT IN THEIR ENCHANTED
CASTLE.
"The Mansion" of Mrs. Sanderson was a long half-mile
a^'ay from us, situated upon the hill that overlooked the little
city. It appeared grand in the distance, and commanded the
most charming view of town, meadow and river imaginable.
We passed Mr. Bradford's house on the way a plain, rich, un-
pretending dwelling and received from him a hearty good-
morning, with kind inquiries for my mother, as he stood in his
open doorway, enjoying the fresh morning air. At the window
sat a smiling little woman, and, by her side, looking out at me,
stood the prettiest little girl I had ever seen. Her raven-black
hair was freshly curled, and shone like her raven-black eyes ;
and both helped to make the simple frock in which she was
dressed seem marvelously white. I have pitied my poor little
self many times in thinking how far removed from me in condi-
tion the petted child seemed that morning, and how unworthy
I felt,, in my homely clothes, to touch her dainty hand, or even
to speak to her. I was fascinated by the vision, ]^ut glad to
get out of her sight
On arriving at The Mansion, my father and I walked to
the great front-door. There were sleeping lions at the side
and there was a rampant lion on the knocker which my father
was about to attack when the door swung noiselessly upon its
hinges, and we were met upon the threshold by the mistress
herself. She looked smaller than ever, shorn of her street
costume and her bonnet ; and her lips were so thin and her
face seemed so full of pain that I wondered whether it were
her head or her teeth that ached
38 Arthur Bonnicastle.
" The repairs that I wish to talk about are at the rear of the
house," she said, blocking the way, and with a nod directing
my father to that locality. There was no show of courtesy in
ner words or manner. My father turned away, responding to
her bidding, and still maintaining his hold upon my hand.
" Arthur," said she, " come in here."
I looked up questioningly into my father's face, and saw that
It was clouded. He relinquished my hand, and said : " Go
with the lady."
She took me into a little library, and, pointing me to a chair,
said: "Sit there until I come back. Don't stir, or touch
anything."
I felt, when she left me, as if there were enough of force in
her command to paralyze me for a thousand years. I hardly
dared to breathe. Still my young eyes were active, and were
quickly engaged in taking an inventory of the apartment,
and of such rooms as I could look into through the open
doors. I was conscious at once that I was looking upon
nothing that was new. Everything was faded and dark and
old, except those things that care could keep bright. The
large brass andirons in the fireplace, and the silver candlesticks
on the mantel-tree were as brilliant as when they were new.
So perfect was the order of the apartment so evidently had
every article of furniture and every little ornanient been ad-
justed to its place and its relations that, after the fii-st ten
minutes of my observation, I could have detected any change
as quickly as Mrs. Sanderson herself.
Through a considerable passage, with an open door at either
end, I saw on the wall of the long dining-room a painted por-
trait of a lad, older than I and very handsome. I longed to
go nearer to it, but the prohibition withheld me. In truth, J
forgot all else about me in my curiosity concerning it forgot
even where I was ^yet I failed at last to carry away any im-
pression of it that my memory could recall at will.
It may have been half an hour it may have been an hour
that Mrs. Sanderson was out of the room, engaged with my
i
^
Arthur Bonnicastle. 39
father. It seemed a long time that I had been left when she
returned.
" Have you moved, or touched anything'? " she inquired.
" No, ma'am."
** Are you tired ? "
** Yes, ma*am."
** What would you like to do ? "
" I should like to go nearer to the picture of die beautiful
Kttle boy in that room," I answered, pointing to it
She crossed the room at once and closed the door. Then she
came back to me and said with a voice that trembled : ** You
must not see that picture, and you must never ask me any-
thing about it"
"Then," I said, **I should like to go out where my father
is at work."
" Your father is busy. He is at work for me, and I do not
wish to have him disturbed," she responded.
" Then I should like a book," I said.
She went to a little case of shelves on the opposite side of the
room, and took down one book after another, and looked, not
at dje contents, but at the fly-leaf of each, where the name ol
the owner is usually inscribed. At last she found one that
apparently suited her, and came and sat down by me, holding
it in her lap. She looked at me curiously, and then said :
" What do you expect to make of yourself, boy ? What do
you expect to be ? "
" A man," I answered.
" Do you ? That is a great deal to expect."
" Is it harder to be a man than it is to be a woman ? " I
inquired.
Yes."
" Why ? "
** Because it is," she replied almost snappishly.
" A woman isn't so large," I responded, as if that statement
might contain a helpful suggestion.
She smiled faintlyj and then her face grew stem and sad ; and
40 Arthur Bonnicastle.
she seemed to look at something far off. . At length she turned
to me and said : "You are sure you will never be a drunkard ? '*
" Never," I replied.
" Nor a gambler ? "
" I don't know what a gambler is."
" Do you think you could ever become a disobedient, un
grateful wretch, child ? " she continued.
I do not know where my responding words or my impulse to
utter them came from : probably from some romantic passage
that I had read, coupled with the conversations I had recently
heard in my home ; but I rose upon my feet, and with real
feeling, though with abundant mock-heroism in the seeming, I
said : " Madame, I am a Bonnicastle ! "
She did not smile, as I do, recalling the incident, but she
patted me on the head with the first show of affectionate re-
gard. She let her hand rest there while her eyes looked far
off again ; and I knew she was thinking of things with which
I could have no part
"Do you think you could love me, Arthur?" she said, look-
ing me in the eyes.
" I don't know," I replied, " but I think I could love any-
body who loved me."
" That* s true, that's true," she said sadly ; and then she
added : " Would you like to live here with me ? "
" I don't think I would," I answered frankly,
"Why?"
" Because it is so still, and everything is so nice, and my
father and mother would not be here, and I should have no-
body to play with," I replied.
"But you would have a large room, and plenty to eat and
good clothes to wear," she said, looking down upon my hunible
garments.
" Should I have this house when you get through with it ? "
I inquired.
"Then you would like it without me in it, would you ?" she
said, with a smile which she could not repress.
\
Arthur Bonnicastle. 41
" I should think it would be a very good house for a man to
live in," I replied, evading her question.
" But you would be alone."
" Oh no! " I said, " I should have a wife and children,"
" Humph ! " she exclaimed, giving her head a Httle toss and
mine a little rap as she removed her hand, "you will be a
man, I guess, fast enough ! "
She sat a moment in silence, looking at me, and then she
lianded me the book she held, and went out of the room again
to see my father at his work. It was a book full of rude pic-
tures and uninteresting text, and its attractions had long been
exhausted when she returned, flushed and nervous. I learned
afterwards that she had had a long argument with my father
about the proper way of executing the job she had given him.
My father had presumed upon his knowledge of his craft to
suggest that her way of doing the work was not the right way ;
and she had insisted that the work must be done in her way or
not done at all. Those who worked for her were to obey her wilL
She assumed all knowledge of everything relating to herself and
her possessions, and permitted neither argument nor opposi-
tion ; and when my father convinced her reason that she had
erred, she was only fixed thereby in her error. I knew that
something had gone wrong, and I longed to see my father, but
I did not dare to say anything about it
How the morning wore away I do not remember. She led
me in a dreary ramble through the rooms of the large old
house, and we had a good deal of idle talk that led to nothing.
She chilled and repressed me. I felt that I was not myself,
that her will overshadowed me. She called nothing out of me
that interested her. I remember thinking how different she
was from Mr. Bradford, whose presence made me feel that I
was in a large place, and stirred me to think and talk.
At noon the dinner-bell rang, and she bade me go with her
to the dining-room. 1 told her my father had brought dinner
for me, and I would like to eat with him. I longed to get
out of her presence, but she insisted that I must eat with hei
42 Arthur Bonnicastle.
and there was no escape. As we entered the dining-room,
I looked at once for my picture, but it was gone. In its
place was a square area of unfaded wall, where it had hung
for many years. I knew it had been removed because 1
*wislie4 to see it and was curious in regard to it The spot
where it hung had a fascination for me, and many times my
eyes went up to it, as if that which had so strangely vanished
might as strangely reappear.
" Keep your eyes at home," said my snappish little hostess,
who had placed me, not at her side, but vis h vis ; so afterward,
when they were not glued to my plate, or were not watching
the movements of the old man-servant whom I had previously
seen driving his mistress's chaise, they were fixed on her.
I could not but feel that " Jenks," as she called him, dis
liked me. I was an intruder, and had no right to be at
Madame's table. When he handed me anything at the lad/s
bidding, he bent down toward me, and uttered something
between growling and muttering. I had no doubt then that
he would have torn me limb from limb if he could. I found
afterward that growling and muttering were the habit of his
life. In tlie stable he growled and muttered at the horse. In
the garden, he growled and muttered at the weeds. Blacking
his mistress's shoes, he growled and muttered, and turned them
over and over, as if he were determining whether to begin to
eat them at the toe or the heel. If he sharpened the lad/s
carving-knife, he growled as if he were sharpening his own
teeth. I suppose she had become used to it, and did not
notice it ; but he impressed me at first as a savage monster.
I was conscious during the dinner, to which, notwithstand-
ing all the disturbing and depressing influences, I did full
justice, that I was closely observed by my hostess ; for she
freely undertook to criticise my habits, and to lay down rules
for my conduct at the table. After every remark, Jenks
growled and muttered a hoarse response.
Toward the close of the meal there was a long silenc^*
and I became very much absorbed in my thoughts and fancier.
Arthur Bonntcastle. 43
My hostess observed that something new had entered my
mind ^for her apprehensions were very quick and said
abruptly : " Boy, what are you thinking about ? "
I blushed and replied that I would rather not tell.
** Tell me at once," she commanded.
I obeyed with great reluctance, but her expectant eye wat
upon me, and there was no escape.
** I was thinking," I said, " that I was confined in an
enchanted castle where a little ogress lived with a gray-headed
giant One day she invited me to dinner, and she spoke very
cross to me, and the gray-headed giant growled always when
he came near me, as if he wanted to eat me ; but I couldn't
stir from my seat to get away from him. Then I heard
a voice outside of the castle walls that sounded like my fathers,
only it was a great way off, and it said :
Come, little boy, to me.
On the back of a bmnble-bee.'
Then I tried to get out of my chair, but I couldn't. So I
clapped my hands three times, and said : 'Castle, castle, Bonni-
castle!' and the little ogress flew out of the window on a
broomstick, and I jumped up and seized the carving-knifq and
slew the gray-headed giant, and pitched him down cellar
with the fork. Then the doors flew open, and I went out to
see my father, and he took me home in a gold chaise with a
black horse as big as an elephant."
I could not tell whether amazement or amusement prevailed
in the 5xpression of the face of my little hostess, as I proceeded
with the revelation of vrj fancies. I think her first impression
was that I was insane, or that my recent fall had in some
way injured my brain, or possibly that fever was coming on,
for she said, with real concern in her voice : " Child, are you
lure you are quite well ? "
"Very well, I thank you, ma'am," I replied, after the
formula in which I had been patiently instructed.
Jenks growled and muttered, but as I looked into his l^ce
44 Arthur Bonntcastle.
I was sure I caught the slightest twinkle in his little gray eyes
At any rate, I lost all fear of him from that moment
" Jenks," said the lady, " take this boy to his father, and tell
him I think he had better sen^ him home. If it is necessary,
you can go with him."
As I rose from the table, I remembered the directions my
mother had given me in the morning, and my tongue being
relieved from its spell of silence, I went around to Mrs.
Sanderson, and thanked her for her invitation, and formally
gave her my hand, to take leave of her. I am sure the lady
was surprised not only by the courtesy, but by the manner in
which it was rendered ; for she detained my hand, and said,
in a voice quite low and almost tender in its tone : " You do
not think me a real ogress, do you ? "
" Oh no ! " I replied, " I think you are a good woman,
only you are not very much like my mother. You don't seem
used to little boys : you never had any, perhaps ? "
Jenks overheard me, pausing in his work of clearing the
table, and growled.
" Jenks, go out," said Mrs. Sanderson, and he retired to the
kitchen, muttering as he went.
As I uttered my question, I looked involuntarily at the vacant
spot upon the wall, and although she said nothing as I turned
back to' her, I saw that her face was full of pain.
" I beg your pardon," I said, in simplicity and earnestness.
My quick sense of what was' passing in her mind evidently
touched her, for she put her arm around me, and drew me close
to her side. I had unconsciously uncovered an old fountain of
bitterness, and as she held me she said, "Would you like to
kiss an old lady ? "
I laughed, and said, " Yes, if she would like to kiss a boy."
She strained me to her breast. I knew that my fresh, bo)dsh
lips were sweet to hers, and I knew afterwards that they were
the first she had pressed for a quarter of a century. It seemed
a long time that she permitted her head to rest upon my shoul-
der, for it quite embarrassed me. She released me at length,
-: NEW YORK
Arthur Bonnicastle. 45
f(;r Jenks began to fumble at the door, to announce that he
was about to enter. Before he opened it, she said quickly:
" I shall see you again ; I am going to have a talk with your
father."
During the closing passages of our interview, my feelings to-
wards Mrs. Sanderson had undergone a most unexpected change.
My heart was full of pity for her, and I was conscious that for
some reason which I did not know she had a special regard for
me. When a strong nature grows tender, it possesses the most
fascinating influence in the world. When a powerful will bends
to a child, and undertakes to win that which it cannot com-
mand, there are very few natures that can withstand it I do
not care to ask how much of art there may have been in Mrs.
Sanderson's caresses, but she undoubtedly saw that there was
nothing to be made of me without them. Whether she felt
little, or much, she was determined to win me to her will ; and
from that moment to this, I have felt her influence upon my
life. She had a way of assuming superiority to everybody of
appearing to be wiser than everybody else, of finding eveiy body's
weak point, and exposing it, that made her seem to be one
whose word was always to be taken, and whose opinion was
always to have precedence. It was in this way, in my subsequent
intercourse with her, that she exposed to me the weaknesses of
my parents, and undermined my confidence in my friends, and
showed me how my loves were misplaced, and almost absorbed
me into herself. On the day of my visit to her, she studied me
very thoroughly, and learned the secret of managing me. I
think she harmed me, and that but for the corrective influences
to which I was subsequently exposed, she would well-nigh
have ruined me. It is a curse to any child to have his whole
personality absorbed by a foreign will, to take love, law and
life from one who renders all with design, in the accomplish-
ment of a purpose. She could not destroy my love for my
father and mother, but she made me half ashamed of them.
She discovered in some way my admiration of Mr. Bradford,
and managed in her own way to modify it Thus it was
46 Arthur Bonnicastle.
with every acquaintance, until, at last, she made herself to me
the pivotal point on which the world around her turned.
As I left her, Jenks took me by the hand, and led me out,
with the low rumble in his throat and the mangled words be-
tween his teeth which were intended to indicate to Mrs, San-
derson that he did not approve of boys at all. As soon, how-
ever, as the door was placed between us and the lady, the
rumble in his throat was changed to a chuckle. Jenks was not
given to words, but he was helplessly and hopelessly under
Mrs. Sanderson's thumb, and all his. growling and muttering
were a pretence. He would not have dared to utter an opin-
ion in her presence, or express a wish. He had comprehended
my story of the ogress and the giant, and as it bore rather
harder upon the ogress than it did upon the giant, he was in
great good humor.
He squeezed my hand and shook me around in what be in-
tended to be an affectionate and approving way, and then gave
me a large russet apple, which he drew from a closet in the
carriage-house. Not until he had placed several walls between
himself and his mistress did he venture to speak.
"Well, youVe said it, little fellow, thafs^a fact."
"Said what?" I inquired.
" YouVe called the old woman an ogress, he ! he ! he ! and
that* s just what she is, he ! he ! he ! How did you dare to do
such a thing?"
" She made me," I answered. ** I did not wish to tell the
story."
"That's what she always does," said Jenks. "She always
makes people do what they don't want to do. Don't you ever
tell her what I say, but the fact is I'm going to leave. She'll
wake up some morning and call Jenks, and Jenks won't come I
Jenks won't be here ! Jenks will be far, far away ! "
His last phrase was intended undoubtedly to act upcr my
boyish imagination, and I asked him with some concern whiiher
he would go.
" I shall plough the sea," said Jenks. " You will find no
m^t^k
Arthur Boimicastle, 47
Jenks here and no russet apple when you cora again. I shall
be on the billow. Now mind you don't tell her " tossing a
nod toward tlie house ever his left shoulder " for that would
spoil it all." .
I i^romised him that I would hold the matter a profound se-
cret, although I was conscious that I was not quite loyal to my
new friend in keeping from her the intelligence that her servant
was about to leave The Mansion for a career upon the ocean.
" Here's your boy," said Jenks, leading me at last to my
father. "Mrs. Sanderson thinks you had better send him
home, and says I can go with him if he cannot find the way
alone."
" Fm very much obliged to Mrs. Sanderson," said my father
with a flush on his face, " but I will take care of my boy my-
self. He will go home when I do."
Jenks chuckled again. He was delighted with anything that
crossed the will of his mistress. As he turned away, I said :
"Good-by, Mr. Jenks, I hope you won't be very sea-sick."
This was quite too much for the litde old man. He had
made a small boy believe that he was going away, and that he
was going to sea ; and he returned to the house so much de-
lighted with himself that he chuckled all the way, and even
kicked at a stray chicken that intercepted his progress.
During the remainder of the day I amused myself with watch-
ing my father at his work. I was anxious to tell him of all that
had happened in the house, but he bade me wait until his work
was done. I had been accustomed to watch my father's face,
and to detect upon it the expression of all his moods and feel-
ings ; and I knew that afternoon that he was passing through a
great trial. Once during the afternoon Jenks came out of
the house with another apple; and while he kept one eye
on the windows he beckoned to me and I went to him. Plac-
ing the apple in my hand, he said : " Far, far away, on the
billow I Good-by." Not expecting to meet him again, I was
much inclined to sadness, but as he did not seem to be very
much depressed, I spared my sympathy, and heartily bade him
48 Arthur Bonnicastle.
"good luck." So the stupid old servant had had his practice
upon the boy, and was happy in the lie that he had passed
upon him.
There are boys who seem to be a source of temptation to
every man and woman who comes in contact with them. The
temptation to impress them, or to excite them to free and
characteristic expression, seems quite irresistible. Everybody
tries to make them believe something, or to make them
say something. I seemed to be one of them. Everybody
tried eitlier to make me talk and give expression to my
fancies, or to make me believe things that they knew to be false.
They practiced upon my credulity, my sympathy, and my im-
agination for amusement. Even my parents smiled upon my
efforts at invention, until I found that they were more interested
in my lies than in my truth. The consequence of it all was a
disposition to represent every occurrence of my life in false
colors. The simplest incident became an interesting advent-
ure ; the most common-place act, a heroic achievement. With
a conscience so tender tiiat the smallest theft would have made
me utterly wretched, I could lie by the hour without compunc-
tion. My father and mother had no idea of the injury they
were doing me, and whenever tfiey realized, as they sometimes
did, that they could not depend upon my word, they were sadly
puzzled.
When my father finished his work for the day, and with my
hand in his I set out for home, it may readily be igaagined that
I had a good deal to tell. I not only told of all that I had
seen, but I represented as actual all that had been suggested.
Such wonderful rooms and dismal passages and marvelous pic-
tures and services of silver and gold and expansive mirrors as
I had seen I Such viands as I had tasted ^uch fruit as I had
eaten ! And my honest father received all the marvels with
hardly a question, and, after him, my mother and the children.
I remember few of the particulars, except that the picture of
the boy came and went upon the wall of the dining-room as if
by magic, and that Mrs. Sanderson wished to have me live with
Arthur Bojinicastle. 49
her that I might become her heir. The last statement my
lather examined with some care. Indeed, I was obliged to tell
exactly what was said on the subject, and he learned that, while
the lady wished me to live with her, the matter of inheritance
had not been suggested by anybody but mysel
8
CHAPTER III.
I GO TO IHE bird's NEST TO LIVE, AND THE GIANT PERSISTS
IN HIS PLANS FOR A SEA-VOYAGE.
My father worked for Mrs. Sanderson during the week, but he
came home every night with a graver face, and, on the closing
evening of the week, it all came out It was impossible for him
to cover from my mother and his family for any length of time
anything which gave him either satisfaction or sorrow.
I remember how he walked the room that night, and swung
his arms, and in an excitement that was full of indignation and
self-pity declared that he could not work for Mrs. Sanderson
another week. " I should become an absolute idiot if I were
to work for her a month," I heard him say.
And then my mother told him that she never expected any-
thing good from Mrs. Sanderson that it had turned out very
much as she anticipated though for the life of her she could
not imagine what difference it made to my father whether he
did his work in one way or another, so long as it pleased Mrs.
Sanderson, and he got his money for his labor. I did not at all
realize what an effect this talk would have upon my father then,
but now I wonder that with his sensitive spirit he did not upbraid
my mother, or die. In her mind it was only another instance
of my father's incompetency for business, to which incompe-
tency she attributed mainly the rigors of her lot.
Mrs. Sanderson was no better pleased with my father than
he was witli her. If he had not left her at the end of his first
week, she would have managed to dismiss him as soon as she
had secured her will concerning myself. On Monday morning
I was dispatched to The Mansion with a note from my father
Arthur Bonnicastle. 51
'which informijd Mrs. Sanderson that she was at liberty to suit
herself with other service.
Mrs. Sanderson read the note, put her lips very tightly to-
gether, and then called Jenks.
" Jenks," said she, " put the horse before the chaise, change
your clothes, and drive to the door."
Jenks disappeared to execute her commands, and, in the
meantime, Mrs. Sanderson busied herself with preparations.
First she brought out sundry pots of jam and jelly, and then
two or three remnants of stuffs that could be made into clothing
for children, and a basket of apples. When the chaise arrived
at the door, she told Jenks to tie his horse and bestow the
articles she had provided in the box. When tMs task was com-
pleted she mounted the vehicle, and bade me get in at her side.
Then Jenks took his seat, and at Mrs. Sanderson's command
drove directly to my father's house.
When we arrived, my father had gone out ; and after express-
ing her regret that she could not see him, she sat down by my
mother, and demonstrated her knowledge of human nature by
winning her confidence entirely. She even commiserated her
on the impracticable character of her husband, and then she
left with her the wages of his labor and the gifts she had
brought My mother declared after the little lady went away
that she had never been so pleasantly disappointed as she had
been in Mrs. Sanderson 1 She was just, she was generous, she
was everything that was sweet and kind and good. All this my
father heard when he arrived, and to it all he made no reply.
He was too kind to carry anger, and too poor to spurn a freely
offered gift, that brought comfort to those whom he loved.
Mrs. Sanderson was a woman of business, and at night she
came again. I knew my father dreaded meeting her, as he
always dreaded meeting with a strong and unreasonable will.
He had a way of avoiding such a will whenever it was possible,
and of sacrificing everything unimportant to save a collision
with it. There was an insult to his manhood in the mere exist-
ence and exercise of such a will, while actual subjection to it
52 Arthur Bonnicastle.
was the extreme of torture. But sometimes the exercise of
such a will drove him into a comer ; and when it did, the
shrinking, peaceable man became a lion. He had seen how
easily my mother had been conquered, and, although Mrs.
Sanderson's gifts were in his house, he determined that what-
ever might be her business, she should be dealt with frankly
and firmly. ^
I was watching at the window when the little lady alighted
at the gate. As she walked up the passage from the street,
Jenks exchanged some signals with me. He pointed to the
east and then toward the sea, with gestiures, which meant that
long before the dawning of the morrow's sun Mrs. Sanderson's
aged servant would cease to be a resident of Bradford, and would
be tossing " on the billow." I did not have much opportunity
to carry on this kind of commerce with Jenks, for Mrs. Sander-
son' s conversation had special reference to myseh".
I think my father was a good deal surprised to find the lady
agreeable and gracious. She alluded to his note as something
which had disappointed her, but, as she presumed to know her
own business and to do it in her own way, she supposed that
other people knew their own business also, and she was quite
willing to accord to them such privileges as she claimed
for herself. She was glad there was work enough to be done
in Bradford, and she did not doubt that my father would get
employment. Indeed, as he was a stranger, she would take the
liberty of commending him to her friends as a good workman.
It did not follow, she said, that because he could not get along
with her he could not get along with others. My father was
very silent and permitted her to do the talking. He knew that
she had come with some object to accomplish, and he waited
for its revelation.
She looked at me, at last, and called me to her side. She
put her arm around me, and said, addressing my father : "I
suppose Arthur told you what a pleasant day we had together."
" Yes, and I hope he thanked you for your kindness to him,"
my father answered.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 53
" Oh, yes, he was very polite and wonderfully quiet for a
boy," she responded.
My mother voluntee/ed to express the hope that I had not
given the lady any trouble.
" I never permit boys to trouble me," was the curt response.
There was something in this that angered my father some-
thing in the tone adopted toward my mother, and something
that seemed so cruel in the utterance itself. My father be-
lieved in the rights of boys, and when she said this, he re-
marked with more than his usual incisiveness that he had no-
ticed that those boys who had not been permitted to trouble
anybody when they were young, were quite in the habit, when
they ceased to be boys, of giving a great deal of trouble. He
did not know that he had touched Mrs. Sanderson at a very
tender point, but she winced painfully, and then went directly
to business.
" Mr. Bonnicastle," said she, " I am living alone, as you
know. It is not necessary to tell you much about myself, but
I am alone, and with none to care for but myself. Although I
am somewhat in years, I come of a long-lived race, and am
quite weH. I believe it is rational to expect to live for a con-
siderable time yet, and though I have much to occupy my mind
it would be pleasant to me to help somebody along. You
have a large family, whose fortunes you would be glad to ad-
vance, and, although you and I do not agree very well, I hope
you will permit me to assist you in accomplishing your wish."
She paused to see how the proposition was received, and was
apparently satisfied that fortune had favored her, though my
father said nothing.
" I want this boy," she resumed, drawing me more closely to
her. " I want to see him growing up and becoming a man un-
der my provisions for his support and education. It is not pos-
sible for you to do for him what I can do. It will interest me
to watch him from year to year, it will bring a little young blood
into my lonely old house occasionally, and in one way and
another it will do us all good."
54 Arthur Bonnicastle.
My father looked very serious. He loved me as he loved
his life. His great ambition was to give me the education
which circumstances had denied to him. Here lyas tlie oppor-
tunity, brought to his door, yet he hesitated to accept it After
thinking for a moment, he said gravely : ^' Mrs. Sanderson, God
has placed this boy in my hands to train for Himself, and I can*
not surrender the control of his life to anybody. Temporarily
I can give him into the hands of teachers, conditionally I can
place him in your hands, but I cannot place him in any hands
beyond my immediate recall I can never surrender my right
to his love and his obedience, or count him an alien from my
heart and home. If, understanding my feeling in this matter,
you find it in your heart to do for him what I cannot, why, you
have the means, and I am sure Go^ will bless you for employ-
ing them to this end."
"I may win all the love and all the society from him I can ? "
said Mrs. Sanderson, interrogatively.
" I do not think it would be a happy or a healthy thing for
the child to spend much time in your house, deprived of young
society," my father replied. " If you should do for him what
you suggest, I trust that the boy and that all of us would make
such expressions of our gratitude as would be most agreeable
to yourself; but I must choose lus teachers, and my home, how-
ever humble, must never cease to be regarded by him as his
home. I must say this at the risk of appearing ungrateful,
Mrs. Sanderson."
The little lady had the great good sense to know when she
had met with an answer, and the adroitness to appear satisfied
with it. She was one of those rare persons who, seeing a rock
in the way, recognize it at once, and, without relinquishing their
purpose for an instant, either seek to go around it or to arrive
at their purpose from some other direction. She had concluded,
for reasons of her own, to make me so far as possible her
possession. She had had already a sufficient trial of her power
to show her something of what she could do with me, and she
Arthur Bonnicastle. 5$
calculated with considerable certainty that she could manage
my father in some way.
" Very well : he shall not come to me now, and shall nevet
come unless I can make my home pleasant to him," she said
" In the meantime, you will satisfy yourself in regard to a desir-
able school for him, and we will leave all other questions ion I
time to determine."
Neither my father nor my mother had anything to oppose to
this, and my patroness saw at once that her first point was
gained. Somehow all had been settled without trouble. Every
obstacle had been taken out of the way, and the lady seemed
more than satisfied.
" When you are ready to talk decisively about the boy, you
will come to my house, and we wiU conclude matters," she
said, as she rose to take her leave.
I noticed that she did not recognize the existence of my
little brothers and older sisters, and something subtler than
reason told me that she was courteous to my father and mother
only so far as was necessary for the accomplishment of her pur-
poses. I was half afiraid of her, yet I could not help admiring
her. She kissed me at parting, but she made no demonstration
of responsive courtesy to my parents, who advanced in a cor-
dial way to show their sense of her kindness.
In the evening, my father called upon Mr. Bradford and
made a full exposure of the difficulty he had had with Mrs. San-
derson, and the propositions she had made respecting myself;
and as he reported his conversation and conclusions on his re-
turn to my mother, I was made acquainted with them. Mr.
Bradford had advised that the lady's offer concerning me should
be accepted. He had reasons for this which he told my father
he did not feel at liberty to give, but there were enough that
lay upon the surface to decide the matter. There was nothing
humiliating in it, for it was no deed of charity. A great good
could be secured for me by granting to the lady what she re-
garded in hei own heart as a favor. She never had been greatly
given to deeds of benevolence, and this was the first notable
56 Arthur Bonnicastle.
act in her history that looked like one. He advised, however,
that my father hold my destiny in his own hands, and keep me
as much as possible away from Bradford, never permitting me
to be long at a time under Mrs. Sanderson's roof and immediate
personal influence. "When the youngster gets older," Mr.
Bradford said, " he will manage all this matter for himself, bet-
ter than we can manage it for him,"
Then Mr. Bradford told him about a famous family school in
a country village some thirty miles away, which, from the name
of the teacher, Mr. Bird, had been named by the pupils " The
Bird's Nest" Everybody in the region knew about The Bird's
Nest ; and multitudinous were the stories told about Mr. and
Mrs. Bird ; and very dear to all the boy^ many of whom had
grown to be men, were the house and the pair who presided
over it Mr. Bradford drew a picture of this school which
quite fascinated my father, and did much everything indeed
to reconcile him to the separation which xsiy removal thither
would make necessary. I was naturally very deeply interested
in all that related to the school, and, graceless as the fact may
seem, I should have been ready on the instant to part with all
that made my home, in order to taste the new, strange life it'
would bring me. I had many questions to ask, but quickly ar-
rived at the end of my father's knowledge ; and then my im-
agination ran wildly on until the images of The Bird's Nest and
of Mr. and Mrs. Bird and Hillsborough, the village that made
a tree for the nest, were as distinctly in my mind as if I had
known them all my life.
The interview which Mrs. Sanderson had asked of my father
was granted at an early day, and the lady acceded without a
word to the proposition to send me to The Bird's Nest She
had heard only good reports of the school, she said, and was
apparently delighted with my father's decision. Indeed, I sus-
pect she was quite as anxious to get me away from my father
and my home associations as he was to keep me out of The
Mansion and away from her. She was left to make her own
arrangements for my outfit, and also for my admis^on to the
aMi
Arthur Bonnicastle. 57
school, though my father stipulated for die privilege of accom
panying me to the new home.
One pleasant morning, some weeks afterward, she sent for
me to visit her at The Mansion. She was very sweet and
motherly ; and when I returned to my home I went clad in a
suit of garments that made me the subject of curiosity and
envy among my brothers and mates, and with the news that in
one week I must be ready to go to Hillsborough. During all
that week my father was very tender toward me, as toward
some great treasure set apart to absence. He not only did not
seek for work, but declined or deferred that which came. It
was impossible for me to know then the heart-hunger which he
anticipated, but I know it now. I do not doubt that, in his
usual way, he wove around me many a romance, and reached
forward into all the possibilities of my lot He was always as
visionary as a child, though I do not know that he was more
childlike in this respect than in others.
My mother was full of the gloomiest forebodings. She felt
as if Hillsborough would prove to be an unhealthy place ; she
did not doubt that there was something wrong about Mr. and
Mrs. Bird, if only we could know what it was ; and for her part
there was something in the name which the boys had given the
school that was fearfully suggestive of hunger. She should
always think of me, she said, as a bird with its mouth open,
crying for something to eat. More than all, she presumed that
Mr. Bird permitted his boys to swim without care, and she
would not be surprised to learn that the oldest of them carried
guns and pistols and took the little boys with them.
Poor, dear mother 1 Most fearful and unhappy while living,
and most tenderly mourned and revered in memory ! why did
you persist in seeing darkness where others saw light, and in
making every cup bitter with the apprehension of evil ? Why
were you forever on the watch that no freak of untoward 'for-
tune should catch you unaware ? Why did you treat the Provi-
dence you devdutly tried to trust as if you supposed he meant
to trick you, if he found you for a moment off your guard ? Oh,
3*
58 Arthur Bonnicastle.
the twin charms of hopefulness and trustfulness ! What ixwer
have they to strengthen weary feet, to sweeten sleep, to make
the earth green and the heavens blue, to cheat misfortune of
its bitterness and to quench even the poison of death itself !
It was arranged that my father should take me to Hills-
borough in Mrs. Sanderson's chaise the same vehicle in which
I had first seen the lady herselfl My little trunk was to be at-
tached by straps to the axletree, and so ride beneath us. Tak-
ing leave of xxiy home was a serious business, notwithstanding
my anticipations of pleasure. My mother said that it was not
at all hkely we should ever meet again ; and I parted with her
at last in a passion of tears. The children were weeping too,
firom sympathy rather than from any special or well-compre-
hended sorrow, and I heartily wished myself away, and out of
sight.
Jenks brought the horse to us, and, after he had assisted
my father in fastening the trunk, took me apart from the
group that had gathered around the chaise, and said in a con-
fidential way that he made an attempt on the previous night to
leave. He had got as far as the window from which he in-
tended to let himself down, but finding it dark and rather cloudy
he had concluded to defer his departure until a lighter and
clearer night. " A storm, a dark storm, is awful on the ocean,
you know," said Jenks, "but I shall go. You will not see me
here when you come again. Don't say anything about it,. but
the old woman is going to be surprised, once in her life. She
will call Jenks, and Jenks won't come. He will be far, far
away on the billow."
" Good-by," I said ; " I hope I'll see you again somewhere,
but I don't think you ought to leave Mrs. Sanderson."
" Oh, I shall leave," said Jenks. " The world is large and
Mrs. Sanderson is is quite small. Let her call Jenks once,
and see what it is to have him far, far away. Her time will
come." And he shook his head, and pressed his lips together,
and ground the gravel under his feet, as if nothing less than
an earthquake could shake his determination. The case seemed
Arthur Bonnivastle. 59
quite hopeless to me, and I remember that the unpleasant pos-
sibility suggested itself that I might be summoned to The Man-
sion to take Jenks's place.
At the close of our little interview, he drew a long paper box
from his pocket, and gave it to me with the injunction not to
open it until I had gone half way to Hillsborough. I accord-
ingly placed it in the boot of the chaise, to wait its appointed
tune.
Jenks rode with us as far as The Mansion, spending the
time in instructing my father just where, under the shoulder
of the old black horse, he could make a whip the most eflfective
without betraying the marks to Mrs. Sanderson, and, when we
drove up to the door, disappeared at once around the comer
of the house. I went in to take leave of the lady, and found
her in the little library, awaiting me. Before her, on the table,
were a Barlow pocket-knife, a boy's playing-ball, a copy of
the New Testament, and a Spanish twenty-five cent piece.
"There," she said, "young man, put all those in your
pockets, and see that you don't lose them. I want you to write
me a letter 'once a month, and, when you write, begin your let-
ters with * Dear Aunt' "
The sudden accession to my boyish wealth almost drove me
wild. I had received my first knife and ray first silver. I im-
pulsively threw my arms around the neck of my benefactress,
and told her I should never, never forget her, and should
never do anything that would give her trouble.
"See that you don't ! " was the sharp response.
As I bade her good-by, I was gratified by the look of pride
which she bestowed on me, but she did not accompany me to
the door, or speak a word to my father. So, at last, we were gone,
and fairly on the way. I revealed to my father the treasures I
had received, and only at a later day was I able to interpret the
look of pain that accompanied his congratulations. I was in-
debted to a stranger, who was trying to win my heart, for pos-
sessions which his poverty forbade him to bestow upon me.
Of the deUghts of that drive over the open country I can
6o Arthur Bonnicastle.
give no idea. We climbed long bills ; we rode by the side of
cool, dasliing streams ; we paused imder the shadow of way-
side trees ; we caught sight of a thousand forms of frolic life
on the fences, in the forests, and in the depths of crystal pools ;
we saw men at work in the fields, and I wondered if they did not
envy us ; we met strange people on the road, who looked at
us with curious interest ; a black fox dashed across our way,
and, giving us a scared look, scampered into the cover and was
gone ; bobolinks sprang up in the long grass on wings tangled
with music, and sailed away and caught on fences to steady
themselves ; squirrels took long races before us on the road-side
rails ; and far up through the trees and above the hills white-
winged clouds with breasts of downy brown floated against a sky
of deepest blue. Never again tliis side of heaven do I expect
to experience such perfect pleasure as I enjoyed that day z,
delight in all forms and phases of nature, sharpened by the
expectations of new companionships and of a strange new life
that would open before I should sleep again.
The half-way stage of our journey was reached before noon,
and I was quite as anxious to see the gift which Jenks had
placed in my hands at parting as to taste the luncheon which
my mother had provided. Accordingly, when my repast was
taken from the basket and spread before me, I first opened the
paper box. I cannot say that I was not disappointed;
but the souvenir was one of which only I could understand
the significance, and that fact gave it a rare charm. It con-
sisted of a piece of a wooden shingle labeled in pencil
" Atlantick Oshun," in the middle of which was a litde ship,
standing at an angle of forty-five degrees to the plane of
the shingle, with a mast and a sail of wood, and a figure
at the bow, also of wood, iniUfeded doubtless to represent
Jenks himself, looking off" upon the boundless waste. The
utmost pomt of explanation to which my father could urge me
was the statement that some time something would happen at
The Mansion which would explain all. So I carefully put the
"Atlantick Oshun" into its box, in which I preserved it for
Arthur Bonnicastle. 6i
many months, answering all inquiries concerning it with the
tantalizing statement that it was " a secret"
Toward the close of tlie afternoon, we came in sight of
Hillsborough, with its two churches, and its cluster of embow-
ered white houses. It was perched, like many New England
villages, upon the top of the highest hill in the region, and we
entered at last upon the long acclivity that led to it. Half-
way up the hill, we saw before us a light, open wagon drawn by
two gray horses, and bearing a gentleman and lady who were
quietly chatting and laughing together. As we drew near to
them, they suddenly stopped, and the gentleman, handing the
reins to his companion, rose upon his feet, drew a rifle to his
eye and discharged it at some object in the fields. In an
instant, a little dog bounced out of the wagon, and, striking
rather heavily upon the ground, rolled over and over three
or four times, and then, gaining his feet, went for the game.
Our own horse had stopped, and, as wild as the Httle dog, I
leaped from the chaise, and started to follow. When I came
up with the dog, he was making the most extravagant plunges
at a wounded woodchuck, who squatted, chattering and show-
ing his teeth. I seized the nearest weapon in the shape of a
cudgel-that I could find, dispatched the poor creature, and bore
him in triumph to the gentleman, the little dog barking and
snapping at the game all the way.
" Well done, my lad ! I have seen boys who were afraid of
woodchucks. Toss him into the ravine: he is good for
nothing," said the man of the rifle.
Then he looked around, and, bowing to my father, told him
that as he was fond of shooting he had undertaken to rid the
farms around him of the animals that gave their owners so
much trouble. " It is hard upon the woodchucks," he added,
** but kind to the farmers." This was apparently said to defend
himself from the suspicion of being engaged in cruel and
wanton sport.
At the sound of his voice, the tired and reeking horse which
my father drove whinnied, then started on, and, coming to the
62 Arthur Bonnicastle,
back of the other carriage, placed his nose close to the gentle-
roan's shoulder. The lady looked around and smiled, while
the man placed his hand caressingly upon the animal* s head
" Animals are all very fond of me," said he. " I don't under-
stand it : I suppose they do."
There was something exceedingly winning and hearty in the
gentleman's voice, and I did not wonder that all the animals
liked him.
" Can you tell me," inquired my father, " where The Bird's
Nest is ? "
" Oh, yes, Fm going there. Indeed, I'm the old Bird himself."
" Tut ! who takes care of the nest ? " said the lady with a
smile.
' And this is the Mother Bird Mrs. Bird," said the gentle-
man.
Mrs. Bird bowed to us both, and, beckoning to me, pointed
to her side. It was an invitation to leave my father, and take
a seat with her. The little dog, who had been helped into his
master's wagon, saw me coming, and mounted into his lap,
determined that he would shut that place from the intruder. I
accepted the invitation, and, with the lady's arm around me,
we started on.
" Now I am going to guess," said Mr. Bird, " I guess your
name is Arthur Bonnicastle, that the man behind us is your
father, that you are coming to The Bird's Nest to live, that
you are intending to be a good boy, and that you are going to
be very happy."
" You've guessed right the first time," I responded laughing.
" And I can always guess when a boy has done right and
when he has done wrong," said Mr. Bird. " There's a little
spot in his eye ah, yes 1 you have it ! that tells the whole
story," and be looked down pleasantly into my face.
At this moment one of his horses discovered a young calf by
the roadside, and, throwing back his ears, gave it chase. I
had never seen so funny a performance. The horse, in genuine
frolic, dragged his less playful mate and the wagon through the
HI
Arthur Bonnzcastle. 63
6
glitter and over rocks for many rods, entirely unrestrained by
his driver until the scared object of the chase slipped between
two bars at the roadside, and ran wildly off into the field. At
this the horse shook his head in a comical way and went
quietly back into the road.
" That horse is laughing all over," said Mr. Bird. " He
thinks it was an excellent joke. 1 presume he will think of it,
and laugh again when he gets at his oats."
"Do you really think that horses laugh, Mr. Bird?" I.in-
. quired.
" Laugh ? Bless you, yes," he replied. " All animals laugh
when they are pleased. Gyp " and he turned his eyes upon
the little dog in his lap " are you happy ? "
Gyp looked up into his master's face, and wagged his tail.
"Don't you see 'yes* in his eye, and a smile in the wao^ of
his tail?" said Mr. Bird. "If I had aslged you the sai
question you would have answered with your tongue, ind
smiled with your mouth. That's all the difference. se
creatures understand us a great deal better than w ' ' r-
stand them. Why, I never drive these horses v "n
finely dressed for fear they will be ashamed of tl^ ^ unae ^
ness." . ^^^^ ^ ^^
Then turning to the Httle dog again, he r '^^^^ ^^^ ^^^
down." Gyp immediately jumped down, ai'
feet. "Gyp, come up here," said he,./ ^^^- "GyP g^^
quickly to his old seat. " Don't you seei ^^ ^"^^^ "P ^^ ^^'.
stands the English language ? " said Mr. L ^"^ ^P mount. ^
see that we are not so bright as a dog, if t ^'^^ ^^^ f ^^ ""^ 5 ?
Why, I know the note of every bird, ?^i/ ' nd
every animal on all these bi]Jfi,,anfL \/ know their and
habits. Wbai^t'is more, they know I .locrstand them, and you
will hear how they call me and sin^ tO me at The Bird's Nest."
So I had received my first lesson Ik .n n^v new leacjicr, ^-^d-
little did he appreciate the impress*;:- -'riTdinaae upon me.
It gave me a sympathy with aninr !''fe and an interest in its
habits which hsJe lasted until this hcu ^- ^^ g^ve me, too, an
64 Arthur Bonnicastle.
insight into him. He had a strong sTnpathy in the life of a
boy, for his own sake. Every new boy was a new study that
he entered upon, not from any sense of duty, or from any
scheme of policy, but with a hearty interest excited by the boy
, himself. He was as much interested in the animal play of a
boy as he had been in the play of the horse. He watched a
group of boys with the same hearty amusement that held him
while witnessing the frolic of kittens and lambs. Indeed, he
often played with them ; and in this sympathy, freel}'^ mani-
fested, he held the springs of his wonderful power over them.
We soon arrived at The Bird's Nest, and all the horses were
passed into other hands. My little trunk was loosed, and
carried to a room I had not seen, and in a straggling way we
entered the house.
.Before we alighted, I took a hurried outside view of my
la 're home. Oh the whole, "The Bird's Nest" would have
b ' "' good name for it if a man by any other name had pre-
i ';^^ ^"^ ^r it. It had its individual and characteristic beauty,
,1. v./ & vv, t^^j been shaped to a special purpose; but it seemed
sided ovcv brought together at different times, and from wide
because it th ^j-e was a central old house, and a hexagonal
to nave been iwer, and a long piazza that tied everything
distances. Tiit^ -^^ looked grand among the humble ises
Addition; and a Wx. \^ j presume that a professional ar^ tect
pgether. It certau the highest pleasure in it As Mr. Bird
si ^ ^^^ ^"^Se ; thoi, ^on upon the piazza, and took oflf his hat, I
,j, uld not have tak .. , g^e him and to fix .my impressions of his
ap[ ^ ^' ^' a tall, handsome, strongly-built man, a
litil ' * ' '-^^^vith a certain fullness of habit that comes
of go- ., fj ^M "41 a i.vopy tfempenar^ent. His eye was blue,
' 7is forehead high, and h whole face bright and beamiii^ w\th
ggjod-iiature. His comparifi;/i was a woman above the medium
but* :vi-h . e-'^s the saL .e color of his own, into whose plainly-
parted hair tfte frosf'-irar ' -pt, and upon whose honest face
uud goodly figure hung ^ _^ ineffable grace which we try to
characterize by the word ' aiotherly."
ji Arthur Bonnicastle. 65
I heard the shouts of boys at play upon the green, for it was
after school hours, and met half-a-dozen little fellows on the
piazza, who looked at me with pleasant interest as " the Dew
boy ; " and then we entered a parlor with curious angles, and
fumitiu*e that betrayed thorough occupation and usage. There
were thrifty plants and beautiful flowers in the bay-window, for
plants and flowers came as readily within the circle of Mr.
Bird's spnpathies as birds and boys. There was evidently an
uncovered stairway near one of the doors, for we heard two or
three boys running down the steps with a little more noise than
was quite agreeable. Immediately Gyp ran to the door where
the noise was manifested, and barked with all his might
" Gyp is OMe of my assistants in the school," said Mr. Bird.--'
in explanation, " especially in the matter of preserving orl^r-
A boy never runs down-stairs noisily without receiv^'^g ^ scold-
ing from him. He is getting a U^^Ja^ old now and sensitive, nd
I am afraid haa not quite c^^nsideration enough for the young-
sters."
I Iraughed at the idea of having a dog for a teacher, but with
my new notions of Gyp's capacity I was quite ready to believe
what Mr. Bird told me about him.
My father found himself very much at home with Mr. and
Mrs. Bird, and was evidently delighted with them, and with my
prospects under their roof and care. We had ^per in the
great dining-room with forty hungry but orderly boys, a pleas-
ant evening with music afterward, and an eai V bei- I was
permitted to sleep with my father that mgbt, and he was per-
mitted to take me upon his arm, and pill' a my slumbers there,
while he prayed for me and secretly po^ 5d out his love upon
/'
me.
Before we went to sleep my fat^ - -aid a few words to me,
but those words were new and maae a deep impression.
My little boy," he said, " you have my life in your hands.
If you grow up iato a true, goUd man. T shoU be happy, al-
though I may continue poor. 1 ^-'^ always v . ard, and
I am willing to work even ha- Aan ever, if .. - all right
66 Arthur Bonnicastle.
with you ; but if you disappoint me and turn out badly, you
will kill me. I am living now, and expect always to live, in
and for my children. I have no ambitious projects for myself.
Providence has opened a way for you whicli I did not antici-
pate. \^Q all you can to please the woman who has under-
taken to do so much for you, but do not forget your father and
mother, and remember always that it is not possible for any-
body to love you and care for you as we do. If you have any
troubles, come to me with them, and if you arc tempted to do
wrong pray for help to do right You will have many struggles
and trials everybody has them but you can do what you
will, and become what you wish to become."
The resolutions that night formed a thousand times shaken
^^'ad a thousand times renewed ^became the determining and
fruittur iC^ces of my life.
The next minnT^;i^, vrxKnn the old black horse and chaise were
brought to the door, and my faither, full of tender pain, took
leave of me, and disappeared at last at u\e toot ot L*iW hill, and
I felt that I was wholly separated from my home, I cried as if
I had been sure that I had left that home forever. The pas-
sion wasted itself in Mrs. Bird's motherly arms, and then, with
words of cheer and diversions that occupied my mind, she cut
me adrift, to find my own soundings in the new social life of
the school.
Of the first few days of school-life there is not much to be
said. They passed pleasantly enough. The aim of my teach-
ers at first was not to push me into study, but to make me
happy, to teach me the ways of my new life, and to give me an
opportunity to imbibe the spirit of the school. My apprehen-
sions were out in every direction. I learned by watching
others my own deficiencies ; and my appetite for study grew
by a natural process. I coiiid not be content, at last, until I
had become one widi the rest in work and in acquirements.
There lies before me now a package of my letters, made
sacred by my fathei^s interest hi and perusal and preservation
of them; and, although I hr e no intention to burden these
Arthur Bonnicastle. 67
pages with their cnidenesses and puerilities, I cannot resist the
temptation to reproduce the first which I wrote at The Bird's
Nest, and sent home. I shall spare to the reader its wretched
orthography, and reproduce it entire, in the hope that he will
at least enjoy its unconscious humor.
**The Bird^s Nest.
Dear precious father:
**I haye lost my balL I don't know where in the world it can be. It
seemed to get away from me in a curious style. Mr. Bird is very kind,
and I like him very much. I am sorry to say I have lost my Barlow knife
too. Mr. Bird says a Barlow knife is a very good thing. I don't quite
think I have lost the twenty-five cent piece. I have not seen it since yes-
terday morning, and I think I shall find it. Henry Hulm, who is my
chum, and a very smart boy, I can tell you, thinks the money will be foimd,
Mr. Bird says there must be a hole in the top of my pocket. I don't know
what to do. I am afraid Aunt Sanderson will be cross about it. Mr
Bird thinks I ought to give my knife to the boy that will find the money,
and the money to the boy that will find the knife, but I don't see as I
should make much in that way, do you ? I love Mrs. Bird very much.
Miss Butler is the dearest young lady I ever knew. Mrs. Bird kisses us all
when we go to bed, and it seems real good. I have jput the testament in
the bottom of my trunk, under all the things. I shall keep that if possible.
If Mrs. Sanderson finds out that I have lost the things, I wish you would
explain it and tell her the testament is safe. Miss Butler has dark eye-
brows and wears a belt. Mr.- Bird has killed another woodchuck. I won-
der if you left the key of my trunk. It seems to be gone. We have real
good times, playing ball and taking walks. I have walked out with Miss
Butler. I wish mother could see her hair, and I am your son with ever so
much knre to you and mother and all,
''Arthur Bonnicastle."
CHAPTER IV.
IN WHICH THE COURSE OF TRUE LOVE IS NOT PERMITTED TO
RUN AT ALL.
The first ni^t which I spent in The Bird's Nest, after my
father left me, was passed alone, though my room opened into
another that was occupied by two boys. On the following day
Mr. Bird asked me if I had met with any boy whom I would
like for a room-mate; and I told him at once that Henry
Hulm was the boy I wanted. He smiled at my selection, and
asked for the reason of it ; atid he smiled more warmly still
when I told him I thought he was handsome, and seemed
lonely and sad. The lad was at least two years older than I,
but among all the boys he had been my first and supreme
attraction. He was my opposite in every particular. Quiet,
studious, keeping much by himself, and bearing in his dark
face and eyes a look of patient self-repression, he enlisted at
once my curiosity, my sympathy and my admiration.
Henry was called into our consultation, and Mr. Bird in-
formed him of my choice. The boy smiled gratefully, for he
had been shunned by the ruder fellows for the same qualities
which had attracted me. As the room I occupied was better
than his, his trunk was moved into mine; and wliile we
^ remained in the school we continued our relations and kept
the same apartment If I had any distinct motive of cmiosity
in selecting him he never gratified it He kept his history cov-
ered, and very rarely alluded, in any way, to his home or his
family.
The one possession which he seemed to prize more highly
than any other was an ivory miniature portrait of his mother,
which, many a time during our life together, I saw him take
\
Arthur Bonnicastle. 69
from his trunk and press to his lips. I soon learned to respect
his reticence on topics which were quite at home on my own lips.
I suspect I did talking enough for two boys. Indeed, I threw
my whole life open to him, with such embellishments as my
imagination suggested. He seemed interested in my talk, and
was apparently pleased with me. I brought a new element
into his life, and we became constant companions when out of
school, as well as when we were in our room.
We were always wakened in the morning by a " whoop " and
** halloo " that ran from room to room over the whole estab-
lishment. A little bell started it somewhere ; and the first boy
who heard it gave his call, which was taken up by the rest and
borne on from bed to bed until the whole brood was in full cry.
Thus the school called itself. It was the voices of merry and
wide-awake boys that roused the drowsy ones ; and very rarely
did a dull and sulky face show itself in the breakfast-room.
This morning call was the key to all the affairs of the day !
and to the policy of the school. Self-direction and self-
government these were the mo^t important of all the lessons
learned at The Bird's Nest. Our school was a little community
brought together for common objects the pursuit of useful
learning, the acquisition of courteous manners, and the practice
of those duties which relate to good citizenship. The only
laws of the school were those which were planted in the con-
science, reason, and sense of propriety of the pupils. The
ingenuity with which these were developed and appealed to has
been, from that day to this, the subject of my unbounded ad-
miration. The boys were made to feel that the school was
their own, and that they were responsible for its good order.
Mr. Bird was only the biggest and best boy, and the accepted
president of the establishment. The responsibility of the boys
was not a thing of theory only. It was deeply realized in the
conscience and conduct of the school. ' However careless and
refractory a new boy might be, he soon learned that he had a
whole school to deal with, and that he was not a match for the
public opinion. He might evade the master's or a teacher's
70 Arthur Bonnicastle.
will, but he could not evade the eyes or the sentiments of the
little fellows around him.
On the first Friday evening of my term, I entered as a
charmed and thoroughly happy element into one of the social
institutions of the schooL On every Friday evening, after the
hard labor of the week was over, it was the custom of the
school to hold what was called a " reception." Teachers and
pupils made the best toilet they could, and spent the evening
in the parlors, dancing, and listening to music, and socially
receiving the towns-people and such strangers as might happen
to be in the village. The piano that furnished the music was
the first I had ever heard, and at least half of my first recep-
tion-evening was spent by its side, in watching the skillful and
handsome fingers that flew over its mysterious keys. I had
always been taught that dancing was only indulged in by wicked
people ; but there were dear Mr. and Mrs. Bird looking on ;
there was precious Miss Butler without her belt, leading little
fellows like myself through the mazes of the figures ; there were
twenty innocent and happy boys on the floor, their eyes spark-
ling with excitement ; there were fine ladies who had come to
see their boys, and village maidens simply clad and as fresh as
roses ; and I coul i not make out that there was anything wicked
about it
It was the theory of Mr. Bird that the more the boys could
be brought into daily familiar association with good and gra-
cious women the better it would be for them. Accordingly he
had no men among his teachers, and as his school was the
social center of the village, and all around him were interested
in his objects, there were always ladies and young women at
the receptions who devoted themselves to the happiness of the
boys. Little lads of less than ten summers found no difficulty
in securing partners who were old enough to be their mothers
and grandmothers \ and as I look back upon the patient and
hearty efforts of these women, week after week and year after
year, to make the boys happy and manly and courteous, it en-
hances my respect for womanhood, and for the wisdom which
X
\ Arthur Boiuiicastle. 71
laid all its plans to secure these attentions and this influence
for us. I never saw a sheepish-looking boy or a sheepish-act-
ing boy who had lived a year at The Bird's Nest. Through the
influence of the young women engaged as teachers and of those
who came as sympathetic visitors, the boys never failed to be-
come courteous, self-respectful, and fearless in society.
Miss Butler, the principal teacher, who readily understood
my admiration of her, undertook early in the evening to get me
upon the floor ; but it was all too new to me, and I begged to
be permitted for one evening to look on and do nothing. She
did not urge me ; so I played the part of an observer. One
of the first incidents of the evening that attracted my attention
was the entrance in great haste of a good-natured, rollicking boy,
whose name I had learned from the fellows to be Jack Linton.
Jack had been fishing and had come home late. His toilet
ijctu ueeii iiui/;ed, and he came blundering into the room with
his laughing face flushed, his neck-tie awry, and his heavy boots
on.
Mr. Bird, who saw everything, beckoned Jack to his side.
" Jack," said he, " you are a very rugged boy."
"Am I ? " And Jack laughed.
" Yes, it is astonishing what an amount of exercise you re-
quire," said Mr. Bird.
" Is it ? " And Jack laughed again.
" Yes, I see you have your rough boots on for another walk.
Suppose you walk around Robin Hood's Barn, and report
yourself in a light, clejn pair of shoes, as soon as you return."
Jack laughed again, but he made rather sorry work of it ;
and then he went out. " Robin Hood's Bam " was the na',
given to a lonely building a mile distant, to which Mr. Birc^
in the habit of sending boys whose surplus vitality hap
lead them into boisterousness or mischief. Gyp, v'
an attentive listener to the conversation, and app^i
stood eveiy word of it, followed Jack to the dr , . .
dismissed him into the pleasant moonlight,
light yelps and went back into the drawing- ^-p*'
Mr
r O .. ,..
72 Arthur Bonnicastle,
Jack was a brisk walker and a lively runner, and before an
hour had elapsed was in the drawing-room again, looking as
good-natured as if nothing unusual had occurred. I looked at
his feet and saw that they were irreproachably incased in light,
shining shoes, and that his neck-tie had been readjusted. He
came directly to Mr. Bird and said : " I have had a very pleas-
ant walk, Mr. Bird."
" Ah 1 I'm delighted," responded the master, smiling , and
n added :
Did you meet anybody ? "
" Yes, sir ; I met a cow."
" What ^*^ vou say to her ? "
** I said * H -^p you do, ma'am ? How's your calf? ' "
" What did si ^ ? " asked Mr. Bird very much amused.
" She said tJ ., , - "vas very well, and would b^ fough enough
toiv the boys in about two weeks," replied Jac i Ji" ^ ^
laugh.
Mr. Bird enjoyed the sally quite as much as the bojrs who
had gathered round him, and added :
" We ail know who will want the largest piece, Jack, Now
go to yppi dancing."
In a *;inute afterwaxd, Jack was on the floor with a ma-
tronly-looking lady to whom he related the events of the even-
ing without the slightest sense of annoyance or disgrace. But
that was :he last time he ever attended a reception in his rough
The evening was filled with life and gayety and fireedom.
To jny unaccustomed eyes it was a scene of enchantment I
wished m^' father could see it I would have given anything
ling I had to give could he have looked in upon it
: ;, ^'t was nothing wrong in such amusement I
' -.^ how a boy could be made worse by such
^ i'^ i'''., discovered that he was. Indeed, I can
'^ '! /" .1' ^ and refining influences to those even-
" ' ' *^ ^ t5 shining goals of every week's race with
^ . - ta;^^ and while they were accounted sim-
jj^ Arthur Bonnicastle, ^j^
H
ply as pleasures by us, they were regarded by the master and
the teachers as among the choicest means of education. The
manners of the school were shaped by them ; and I know that
hundreds of boys attribute to them their release from the bond-
age of bashfulness, under which many a man suffers while in
the presence of women during all his life.
I repeat that I have never discovered that a boy was made
worse by his experiences and exercises during those precious
evenings ; and I have often thought how sad a thing it is for a
child to learn that he has been deceived or misinformed by his
parents with relation to a practice so charged with innocent
enjoyment I enter here no plea for dancing '^^
ful record of its effect upon the occupants r*" f ^ ^i ! ' ' *'
I suppose the amusement may be liable f ^i ,
things are ; -a4 I do not know why this I
f , V . uv .^vever, I am sure it is
the sin of abuse, be it great or little u
that which presents to the conscieL
which is not a sin in itself, and thus d*
inent with the flavor of guilt, and c
exuberant life and love of harmonioi
of Christian s)aiipathy.
As I recall the events of the occa^Ion 1 1*
analyze the feeling that one figur* 'uir g the Qc*.. '
me. Whenever Miss Butler was on the floor I sa,
Her dark eyes, her heavy shining hair, the inexpressil
her motionSt her sunny smile, that combination o
and manners which makes what we call womanliness.
nated me, and inspired me with just as much love a- ^*t is p.
sible for a boy to entertain. I am sure no girl of m - ^^^
could have felt toward her as I did. I -'.ould -h^^c uee
angry with any boy who felt toward her thus, and equally
angry with any boy who did not admire her as much, or who
should doubt, or undertake to cheapen, her ohamis. How can
I question that it was the dawn within n t of me grand passion
an apprehension of personal and spiri4iutl fitnen ixx compan-
.
',.
\. .
74 Arthur Bonnicastce.
ionship ? Pure as childhood, inspired by personal loveliness,
clothing its object with all angelic perfections, this boy-love
for a woman has always been to me the subject of pathetic
admiration, and has proved that the sweetest realm of love is
untainted by any breath of sense.
There was a bUnd sort of wish within me for possession,
even at this early age, and I amused the lady by giving utter-
ance to my feelings. Wearied with the dancing, she took my
hand and led me to a retired seat, where we had a delightful
chat
" I think you were born too soon," I said to her, still cling-
ing to her hand, aiM looking my admiration.
'* Oh ! if T had been bom later," she replied, " I should not
i "Id be a little girl somewhere."
I should love you if you were a little girl," I
ou were not bom soon enough,"- she sug*
. t
bom sooner I shouldn't be here now,"
, v
the lady, " and that would be very bad,
-.ad," I said. " I wouldn't miss being here
. ^, *iundred dollars."
e in which I had undertaken to measure the pleas-
society amused Miss Butler very much ; and as I felt
'; le sum had not impressed her sufficiently, I added fifty
At this she laughed heartily, and said I was a strange
-y, a statement which I received as pleasant flattery.
"Did you ever hear of the princess who was put to sleep for
a hundred years and kept young and beautiful through it all ? "
I inquired.
" Yes."
"Well, I wish Mr. Bird were an enchanter, and would put
you to sleep until I get to be a man," I said.
" But then I couldn't see you for ten years," she replied.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 75
" Oh dear ! " I exclaimed, " it seems to be all wrong."
" Well, my boy, there are a great many tilings in the world
that seem to be all wrong. It is wrong for you to talk such
nonsense to me, and it is wrong for me to let you do it, and we
will not do wrong in this way any more. But I like you, and
we will be good friends always."
Thus saying, my love dismissed me, and went back among
the boys ; but little did she know how sharp a pang ^e left \\\
my heart. The forbidden subject was never mentioned again,
and like other boys under similar circumstances, I survived.
There was one boy besides myself who enacted the part of
an observer during that evening. He was a new boy, 1^0 had
entered the school only a few days before myself. He was from
the city, and looked with hearty contempt upon the whole
entertainment He had made no friends daring the fortnight
which had passed since he became an occupant of The Bird's.
Nest His haughty and supercilious ways, his habit of finding
fault with the school and everything connected with it, his
overbearing treatment of the younger boys, and his idle habits
had brought upon him the dislike of all the fellows. His name
was Frank Andrews, though for some reason we never called
him by his first name. He gave us all to understand that he was
a gentleman's son, that he was rich, and, particularly, that he
was in the habit of doing what pleased him and nothing else.
He was dressed better than any of the other boys, and
carried a watch, the chain of which he took no pains to con-
ceal. During all the evening he stood here and there about
the rooms, his arms folded, looking on with his. critical eyes and
cynical smile. Nobody took notice of him, and he seemed
to be rather proud of his isolation. I do not know why he
should have spoken to me, for he was my senior, but toward
the close of the evening he came up to me and said in his
patronizing way :
" Well, little chap, how do you like it ? "
"Oh I I think it's beautiful," I replied.
" Do you ! That's because you're green," said Andrews.
76 Arthur Bonnicastle.
*^ Is itl" I responded, imitating his tone. "Then they're
all green Mr. Bird and alL"
" There's where you're right, little chap," said he. " They
are all green Mr. Bird and all."
" Miss Butler isn't green," I asserted stoutly.
"Oh! isftt she?" exclaimed Andrews, with a degree of
sarcasm in his tone that quite exasperated me. " Oh, no ! Miss
Butler isn't green of course," he continued, as he saw my face
reddening. "She's a duck so she is ! so she is ! and if you
are a good little boy you shall waddle around with her some
time, so you shall ! "
I was so angry that I am sure I should have struck him if
we had been out of doors, regardless of his superior size and
age. I turned sharply on my heel, and, retiring to a comer
of the room, glared at him savagely, to his very great amuse-
ment
It was at this moment that the bell rang for bed ; and receiv-
ing, one after another, the kisses of Mr. and Mrs. Bird, and
bidding the guests a good-night, some of whom were departing
while others remained, we went to our rooms.
CHAPTER V.
THE DISCIPLINE OP THE BIRD'S NEST AS ILLUSTRATED BY TWO
STARTLING PUBUC TRIALS.
Scarcely less interesting than the exercises of reception-
evening were those of the "family meeting," as it was called,
which was always held on Sunday. This family meeting was
one of the most remarkable of all the institutions of The Bird's
Nest It was probably more influential upon us than even the
attendance at church, and our Bible lessons there, which occurred
on the same day, for its aim and its result were the application
of the Christian rule to our actual, every-day conduct
I attended the family meeting which was held on my first
Sunday at the school with intense interest I suspect, indeed,
that few more interesting and impressive meetings had ever
been held in the establishment
After we were all gathered in the hall, including Mrs. Bird
and the teachers, as well as the master, Mr. Bird looked kindly
out upon us and said :
"Well, boys, has anything happened during the week that
we ought to discuss to-day? Is the school going along all
right ? Have you any secrets buttoned up in your jackets that
you ought to show to me and to the school ? Is there any-
thing wrong going on which will do harm to the boys ? "
As Mr. Bird spoke, changing the form of his question
so as to reach the consciences of his boys from different direc-
tions, and get time to read their faces, there was a dead silence.
When he paused, every boy felt that his face had been shrewdly
read and was still under inspection.
" Yes, there is something wrong : I see it," said Mr. Bird.
** I see it in several faces; but Tom Kendrick can tell us just
4
78 Arthur Bonnicastle.
vthzX. it is. And he will tell us just what it is, for Tom Ken-
drick never lies."
All eyes were instantly turned on Tom, a blushing, frank-faced
boy of twelve. Close beside him sat Andrews, the new boy,
who had so roused my anger on Friday night His face wore
the same supercilious, contemptuous expression that it wore
that night. The whole proceeding seemed to impress him
as unworthy even the toleration of a gentleman's son, yet I felt
sure that he would be in some way implicated in Tom Ken-
drick's revelations. Indeed, there was, or I thought there was,
a look of conscious guilt on his face and the betrs^yal of
excitement in his eye, when Tom rose to respond to Mr. Bird's
bidding.
Tom hesitated, evidently very unwilling to begin. He
looked blushingly at Mrs. Bird and the teachers, then looked
down, and tried to start, but his tongue was dry.
" Well, Tom, we are all ready to hear you," said Mr. Bird.
After a little stammering, Tom pronounced the name of
Andrews, and told in simple, straightforward language, how
he had been in the habit of relating stories and using words .
which were grossly immodest ; how he had done this repeatedly
in his hearing and against his protests, and furthermore, how
he had indulged in this language in the presence of smaller
boys. Tom also testified that other boys besides himself had
warned Andrews that if he did not mend his habit he would be
reported at the family meeting.
There was the utmost silence in the room. The dropping
of a pin could have been heard in aAy part of it, for, while the
whole school disliked Andrews, his arrogance had impressed
them, and they felt that he would be a hard boy to deal with.
I watched alternately the accuser and the accused, and I
trembled in every nerve to see the passion depicted on the fea-
tures of the latter. His face became pale at first deathly pale
then livid and pinched ^and then it burned with a hot flame
of shame and anger. He sat as if he were expecting the
roof to fall, and were bracing himself to resist the shock.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 79
When Tom took his seat Andrews leaned toward him and
muttered something in his ear.
" What does he say to you, Tom ? " inquired Mr. Bird.
** He says hell flog me for telling," answered Tom.
" We will attend to that," said Mr. Bird. " But first let us
hear from others about (this matter. Has any other boy heard
this foul language ? Henry Hulm, can you tell us anything? '
Henry was another boy who always told the truth; and
Henry's testimony was quite as positive as Tom's, though it
was given with even more reluctance. Other boys testified in
confirmation of the report of Tom and Henry, until, in thp
opinion of the school, Andrews was ^lamefully guilty of the mat
ter charged upon him. I was quite ignorant of the real char-
acter of the offense, and wondered whether his calling Miss
Butler a duck was in the line of his sin, and whether my testi-
mony to the fact was called for. No absurdity, such as this
would have been, broke in upon the earnest solemnity of the
occasion, however, and the house was silent until Mr. Bird said :
" What have you to say for yourself, Andrews ? "
The boy was no whit humbled. Revenge was in his heart
and defiance in his eye. He looked Mr. Bird boldly in the
face ; his lips trembled, but he made no reply.
"Nothing?" Mr. Bird's voice was severe this time, and
rang like a trumpet.
Andrews bit his lips, and blurted out : '' I think it is mean
for one boy to tell on another."
" I don't," responded Mr. Bird ; " but I'll tell you what is
mean : it is mean for one boy to pollute another to fill his
mind with words and thoughts that make him mean; and I
should be sorry to believe that I have any other boy in school
who is half as mean as you are. If there is anything to be
said about mean boys, you are not the boy to say it."
At first, I confess tRat I was quite inclined to sympathize
with the lad in his view of the dishonor of " telling on " a boy,
notwithstanding my old grudge ; but my judgment went with
the majority at last
8o Arthur Bonntcastle.
Mr. Bird said that, as there were several new boys in the school,
it would be best, perhaps, to talk over this matter of reporting
one another's bad conduct to him and to the school
" When boys first come here," said Mr. Bird, " they invariably
have those false notions of honor which lead them to cover up
all the wrong-doings of their mates ; but they lose them just as
soon as they find themselves responsible for the good order of
ouf little community. Now we are all citizens of this little town
of Hillsborough, in which we live. We have our own town
authorities and our magistrate, and we are all interested in the
good order of the village. Suppose a man should come here
to live who is in the habit of robbing hen-roosts, or setting
barns on fire, or getting drunk and beating his wife and chil-
dren : is it a matter of honor among those citizens who behave
themselves properly, to shield him in his crimes, and refrain
from speaking of him to the authorities ? Why, the thing is
absurd. As good citizens ^as honbratle citizens we must re-
port this man, for he is a public enemy. He is not only dan-
gerous to us, but he is a disgrace to us. So long as he is per-
mitted to live among us, unreproved and uncorrected, every man
in the community familiar with his misdeeds is, to a certain ex-
tent, responsible for them. Very well : we have in this house
a little republic, and if you can learn to govern yourselves here,
and to take care of the enemies of the order and welfare of the
school, you will become good citizens, prepared to perform the
duties of good citizenship. I really know of nothing more de-
moralizing to a boy, or more ruinous to a school, than that
false sense of honor which leads to the covering up of one an-
other's faults of conduct."
Mr. Bird paused, and, fixing his eye upon Andrews, who had
not once taken his eye from him, resumed : " Now here is a
lad who has come to us from a good family ; and they have
sent him here to get him away from bad influences and bad
companions. He comes into a community of boys who are
trying to lead good lives, and instead of adopting the spirit of
the school, and trying to become one with us, he still holds the
Arthur Bonnicastle. 8i
spiiit of the bad companions of his previous life, and goes per-
sistently to work to make all around him as impure and base
as himself. Nearly all these boys have mothers and sisters,
who would be pained almost to distraction to learn that here,
upon these pure hills, they are drinking in social poison with
every breath. How am I to guard you from this evil if I do
not know of it ? How can I protect you from harm if you
shield the boy who harms you ? There is no mischief of which a
boy is capable that will not breed among you like a pestilence
if you cover it ; and instead of sending you back to your homes
at last with healthy bodies and^ healthy minds and pure spirits,
I shall be obliged, with shame and tears, to return you soiled
and spotted and diseased. Is it honorable to protect crime ?
Is it honorable to shield one who dishonors and damages you ?
Is it honorable to disappoint your parents and to cheat me ?
Is it honorable to permit these dear little fellows to be spoiled,
when the wicked lad who is spoiling them is allowed to go free
of arrest and conviction ? "
Of course I cannot pretend to reproduce the exact words in
which Mr. Bird clothed his little argumentative address. I was
too young at the time to do more than apprehend the meaning of
it : and the words that I give are mainly remembered from rep-
etitions of the same argument in the years that followed. The
argument and the lesson, however, in their substance and prac-
tical bearings, I remember perfectly.
Continuing to speak, and releasing Andrews from his regard
for a moment, Mr. Bird said : " I want a vote on this question.
I desire that you all vote with perfect freedom. If you are not
thoroughly convinced that I am right in this matter, I wish you
to vote against me. Now all those boys who believe it to be
an honorable thing to report the persistently bad conduct of a
schoolmate will rise and stand."
Every boy except Andrews rose, and with head erect stood
squarely upon his feet. The culprit looked from side to side
with a sneer upon his lip, that hardened into the old curl of
defiance as he turned his eyes upon Mr. Bird's face again.
4*
82 Arthur Bonntcastle.
" Very well," said Mr. Bird, " now sit down, and remembei
that you are making rules for the government of yourselves.
Tliis question is settled for this term, and there is to be no
complaint hereafter about what you boys call " telling on one
another." I do not wish you to come to me as tattlers. In-
deed, I do not wish you to come to me at all. K any boy
does a wrong which I ought to know, you are simply to tell
him to report to me what he has done, and if he and I cannot
settle the matter together I will call upon you to help us.
There will be frictions and vexations among forty boys ; I
know that, and about these I wish to hear nothing. Settle
these matters among yourselves. Be pdtient and good-natured
with each other ; but all those things that interfere with the
order, purity, and honor of the school all those things that
refuse to be corrected must be reported. I think we under-
stand one another. The school is never to suffer in order to
save the exposure and punishment of a wrong-doer.
" As for this boy, who has oflfended the school so grossly
and shown so defiant a spirit, I propose, with the private as-
sistance of the boys who have testified against him, to make
out a literal report of his foul languagis and forward it to his
mother, while at the same time I put him into the sta^e-coach
and send him home."
It was a terrible judgment, and I can never forget the pas-
sion depicted upon Andrews* face as he comprehended it He
seemed like one paralyzed.
" Every boy," said Mr. Bird, "who is in favor of this punish-
ment will hold up his right hand."
Two or three hands started to go up among the smaller boys,
but as their owners saw that they had no support, they were drawn
down again. Four or five of the boys were in tears, and dear
Mr. Bird's eyes were full. He gathered at a glance the mean-
ing of the scene, and was much moved. " Well, Tom Ken-
diick, you were the first to testify against him; what have you
to say against this punishment ? "
Tom rose with his lips trembling, and every nerve full of
THE NEW YOHK
PUBLIC LIBRARY.
L
MT, LCNOX AND
Arthur Bonnieastle. 83
excitement " Please, sir," said Tom, " I should like to have
you give Andrews another chance. I think it's an awful thing
to send a boy home without giving him more than one chance."
Tom sat down and blew his nose very loud, as a measure of
relief.
I watched Andrews with eager eyes during the closing pas-
sages of his triaL When Tom rose on behalf of the whole
school to plead for him that he might have one more chance
^the defiant look faded from hb face, and he gave a convulsive
gulp as if his heart had risen to his throat and he were struggling
to keep it down. When Tom sat down, Andrews rose upon his
feet and staggered and hesitated for a moment ; then, overcome
by ^lame, grief and gratitude, he ran rather than walked to
Idiere Mrs. Bird was sitting near her husband, and with a wild
burst of hysterical sobbing &rew himself upon his knees, and
buried his face in the dear motherly lap that had comforted so
many boyish troubles before. The appeal from man to woman
^from justice to mercy moved by the sympathy of the boys,
was the most profoundly touching incident I had ever witnessed,
and I wept almost as heartily as did Andrews himself. In
truth, I do not think there was a dry eye in the room.
" Tom," said Mr. Bird, " I think you are right. You have
helped me, and helped us all. The lad ought to have another
chance, and he shall have one if he de^es it. The rest of
this matter you can safely leave to Mrs. Bird and myself Now
remember that this is never to be alluded to. If the lad remains
and does right, or tries to do right, he is to be received and cher-
ished by you all. No one of us is so perfect that he does not
need the charity of his fellows. If Andrews has bad habits,
you must help him to overcome them. B^ brothers to him in
all your future intercourse, as you have been here to-day ; and
as we have had business enough for one family meeting, you
may pass out.and leave him with us."
" Gorry ! " exclaimed Jack Linton, wiping his eyes and wring-
ing his handkerchief as he left the doOr, '' wasn't that a freshet ?
Wett^fit time 1 ever saw in Hillsborough."
84 ArtfiMT Bonnicastle. ,
But the boys were not in a jesting mood, and Jack's drolleries
were not received with the usual fisivor. Every thoughtful and
sympathetic lad retired with a tableau on his memory never to be
forgotten a benignant man looking tearfully and most affec-
tionately upon him, and a sweet-faced, large-hearted woman
pillowing in her lap the head of a kneeling boy, whose destiny
for all the untold and unguessed ages was to be decided there
and then.
It was more than an hour before we saw anything of Mr.
and Mrs. Bird. When they issued from their retirement they
were accompanied by a boy who was as great a stranger to
himself as he was to the schooL Conquered and humbled,
looking neither to the right nor the left, he sought his room,
and none of us saw his face until the school was called togeth^
on Monday morning. His food was borne to his room by Mrs.
Bird, who in her own way counseled and comforted him, and pre-
pared him to encounter his new relations with the institution.
The good, manly hearts of the boys never manifested theii
quality more strikingly than when they undertook on Monday
to help Andrews into his new life. The obstacles were all taken
out of his path obstacles which his own spirit and life had
planted and without a taunt, or a slight, or a manifestation
of revenge in any form, he was received into the brother-
hood. '
On Monday evening we were somewhat surprised to see him
appear, dressed in his best, his hands nicely gloved, making his
way across the village green. No one questioned him, and all
understood the case as he turned in at the gate which led to the
home of the village minister.
When any lad had behaved in an unseemly manner at church,
it was Mr. Bird's habit to compel him to dress himself for a call,
and visit the pastor with an apology for his conduct " It is not
a punishment, my boy," Mr. Bird used to say, " but it is what
one gentleman owes to another. Any boy who so far forgets
his manners as to behave improperly in the presence of a clergy-
man whose ministration he is attending owes him an apology,
Arthur Bonnicastle. 85
if he proposes to be considered a gentleman; and he must
make it, or he cannot associate with me or my school."
In this case he had made conformity to his rule a test of the
genuineness of the boy's penitence, and a trial of his newly-pro-
fessed loyalty. The trial was a severe one, but the result grati-
fied all the boys as much as it did dear Mr. and Mrs. Bird.
I was very much excited by the exposure of Andrews, and
put a good many serious questions to myself in regard to my
own conduct The closing portion of the Sunday evening on
which the event occurred was spent by several boys and myself
in our rooms. We were so near each other that we could easily
converse through the open doors, and I was full of questions.
" What do you think Mr. Bird will do with Andrews ? " I in-
quired of Jack Linton.
" Oh, nothing : he's squelched," said Jack.
" I should think he would punish him," I said, ** for I know
Mr. Bird was angry."
" Yes," responded Jack, " the old fellow fires up sometimes
like everything; but you can't flail a boy when he's got his
head in a woman's lap, can you, you little coot ? "
" That's the way my mother always flailed me, any way," I
said, at which Jack and all the boys gave a great laugh.
'^ Flailing," said Jack, taking up a moralizing strain, when
the laugh was over, " don't pay. The last school I went to be-
fore I came here was full of no end of flailing. There gets to
be a sort of sameness about it after a while. Confound that
old ruler! I used to get it about every day three or four
whacks on a fellow's hand ; first it stung and then it was numb ;
and it always made me mad, or else I didn't care. There isn't
quite so much sameness about a raw-hide, for sometimes you
catch it on your legs and sometimes on your shoulders, but
there gets to be a sort of sameness about that too. But here
in this school I My ! You never know whaf s coming. Say,
boys, do you remember that day when I was making such a row
out in the yard, how Mr. Bird made me take a fish-horn, and
blow it at each comer of the church on the green ? "
86 Arthur Bonnicastle.
The boys laughed, and Henry Hulm said : " Yes, Jack, but
you liked that better than that other punishment when he sent
you out into the grove to yell for three-quarters of an hour."
" I'll bet I did," responded Jack. " I got so hoarse that time
I couldn't speak the truth for a week, but that's -enough better
than meditating. If there's anything I hate it's meditating on
my misdemeanors and things, kneeling before a tree by the
side of the road, like a great heathen luny. I suppose half the
people thought I was praying like an old Pharisee. Gorry !
If the minister had found me there I believe he'd have kneeled
right by the side of a fellow ; and wouldn't that have be^i a
pretty show ! Did any of you ever hug a tree for an hour ? "
None of them ever did. " If s awful tiresome," ccmtmued
Jack, upon whose punishments Mr. Bird seemed to have exer-
cised all his ingenuities. ''If s awful tiresome and it isn't a bit
interesting. If it was only a birch-tree a fellow might amuse
himself gnawing the bark, but mine was a hemlock with an ant-
heap at the bottom. Oh ! I tell 3rou, my stockings wanted
tending to ^en I got through : more ants in 'em than you
could count in a week. Got a little exercise out of it, though
fighting one foot with the other. After all if s better than it
is when there's so much sameness. If s tough enough when
you are at it, but it doesn't make you mad, and if s funny to
think of afterwards. I tell you, old Bird ^"
" Order I Order I Order I " came from all the boys within
hearing.
"Well, whafs broke now?" inquired Jack.
* There isn't any Old Bird, in the establishment," said one
of them.
" Mr. Bird, then. Confound you, you've put me out I for-
get what I was going to say."
Here I took the opportunity to inquire whether any sins of
the boys were punishable by " flailing."
"Yes," replied Jack, " big lying and tobacco. Unless a fel-
low breaks right in two in the middle, as Andrews did to-day,
he'd better make his will before he does anything with either of
Arthur Bonnicastle. 87
'em. Old Bird Mr. Bird, I mean don't stand the weakest
sort of a cigar ; and look here, Arthur Bonnicastle " (suddenly
turning to me), " you're a little blower, and you'd better hold
up. If you don't, you'll find out whether there's any flailing
done here."
The conversation went on, but I had lost my interest in it.
The possibility of being punished filled me with a vague alarm.
It was the first time I had ever been characterized as " a little
blower," but my sober and conscientious dium had plainly told
me of my fault, and I knew that many statements which I had
made during my short stay in the school would not bear exami-
nation. I resolved within myself that I would reform, but the
next day I forgot my resolution, and the next, and the next,
until, as I afterwards learned, my words were good for nothing
among the boys as vouchers for the truth. I teceived my cor-
rection in due time, as my narrative will show.
My readers will have seen already that The Bird's Nest was
not very much like other schools, though I find it difficult to
choose from the great variety of incidents with which my mem-
ory is crowded those which will best illustrate its peculiarities. /
The largest liberty was given to us, and we were simply respon-i
sible for the manner in which we used it. We liad the freedom
of long distances of road and wide spaces of field and forest
Indeed, there was no lihiit fixed to our wanderings, except the
limit of time. There were no feuds between the town-boys
and the school. It was not uncommon to see them at our
receptions, and everybody in Hillsborough was glad when The
Bird's Nest was full.
During the first week of my active study I got very tired, and
after the violent exercise of the play-ground I often found my-
self so much oppressed by the desire for sleep that it was
simply impossible for me to hold up my head. It was on one
such occasion that my sleepy eyes caught the wide-awake
glance of Mr. Bird, and the beckoning motion of his finger. I
went to his side, and he lifted me to his knee. Pillowing my
head upon his broad breast, I went to sleep ; and thus holding
88 Arthur Bonnicastle.
' me with his strong arm he went on with the duties of the
school. Afterwards, when similarly oppressed, or when lan-
guid with indisposition, I sought the same resting-place many
times, and was never refused. A scene like this was not an
uncommon one. It stirred neither surprise nor mirth among
the boys. It fitted into the life of the family so naturally that
it never occasioned remark.
It must have been three weeks or a month after I entered
the school that, on a rainy holiday, as I was walking through
one of the halls alone, I was met by two boys who ordered me
peremptorily to " halt." Both had staves in their hands, taller
than themselves, and one of them addressed me with the words :
" Arthur Bonnicastle, you are arrested in the name of The
High Society of Inquiry, and ordered to appear before that
august tribunal, to answer for your sins and misdemeanors.
Right about face I "
The movement had so much the air of mystery and romance
that I was about equally pleased and scared. Marching be-
tween the two officials, I was led directly to my own room,
which I was surprised to find quite full of boys, all of whom
were grave and silent I looked from one to another, puzzled
beyond expression, though I am sure I preserved an unruffled
manner, and a confident and even smiling face. Indeed, I
supposed it to be some sort of a lark, entered upon for passing
away the time while confined to the house.
" We have secured the offender," said one of my captors,
" and now have the satisfaction of presenting him before this
honorable Society."
" The prisoner will stand in the middle of the room, and
look at me," said the presiding officer, in a tone of dignified
^severity.
I was accordingly marched into the middle of the room and
left alone, where I stood with folded arms, as became the grand
occasion.
"Arthur Bonnicastle," said the officer before mentioned,
* you are brought before The High Society of Inquiry on a
Arthur Bonnicastle. 89
charge of telling so many lies that no dependence whatever
can be placed upon your words. What have you to reply to
this charge. Are you guilty or not guilty ? "
"I am not guilty. Who says I am?" I exclaimed indig-
nantly.
" Henry Hulm, advance ! " said the officer.
Henry rose, and walking by me, took a position near the
officer, at the head of the room.
" Henry Hulm, you will look upon the prisoner and tell the
Society whether you know him."
" I know him well. He is my chum," replied Henry.
" What is his general character ? "
" He is bright and very amiable."
" Do you consider him a boy of truth and veracity ? "
" I do not"
" Has he deceived you ? " inquired the officer. " If he has,
please to state the occasion and circumstances."
" No, your Honor. He has never deceived me. I always
know when he lies and when he speaks the truth."
" Have you ever told him of his crimes, and warned him to
desist from them ?"
" I have," replied Henry, " many times."
" Has he shown any disposition to mend ? "
" None at all, your honor."
" What is the character of his falsehood ? "
" He tells," replied Henry, " stunning stories about himself.
Great things are always happening to him, and he is always
performing the most wonderful deeds."
I now began with great shame and confusion to realize that
I was to be exposed to ridicule. The tears came into my eyes
and dropped from my cheeks, but. I would not yield to the im-
pulse either to cry or to attempt to fly.
" Will you give us some specimens of his stories ? " said the
officer.
" I will," responded Henry, "but I can do it best by asking
him questions."
90 Arthur Bonntcastle.
" Very well," said the officer, with a polite bow. " Pursue
the course you think best"
" Arthur," said Henry, addressing me directly, " did you ever
tell me that, when you and your father were on the way to
this school, your horse went so fast that he ran down a black
fox in the middle of the road, and cut off his tail with the wheel
of the chaise, anxl that you sent that tail home to one of your
sisters to wear in her winter hat ? "
" Yes, I did," I responded, with my face flaming and painful
with shame.
" And did your said horse really run down said fox in the
middle of said road, and cut off said tail ; and did you send
home said tail to said sister to be worn in said hat ? " inquired
the judge, with a low, grum voice. "The prisoner will answer
so that all can hear."
" No," I replied, and, looking for some justification of my
story, I added : " but I did see a black fox ^a real black fox,
as plain as day ! "
" Oh I Oh ! Oh ! " ran around the room in diorus. " He
did see a black fox, a real black fox, as plain as day ! "
" The witness will pursue his inquiries," said the officer.
"Arthur," Henry continued, "did you or did you not tell
me that when on the way to tiiis school you overtook Mr. and
Mrs. Bird in their wagon, that you were invited into the wagon
by Mrs. Bird, and that one of Mr. Bird's horses chased a calf
on the road, caught it by the ear and tossed it over the fence
and broke its leg ? "
" I s'pose I did," I said, growing desperate.
" And did said horse really chase said calf, and catch him by
said ear, and toss him over said fence, and break said leg ? " in-
quired the officer.
" He didn't catch him by the ear," I replied doggedly, "but
he really did chase a calf."
" Oh ! Oh ! Oh I " chimed in the chorus. " He didn't catch
him by the ear, but he really did chase a calf 1 "
" Witness," said the officer, "you will pursue your inquiries."
Arthur Bonnicastle. 91
"Arthur, did you or did you not tell me," Henry went on,
"that you have an old friend who is soon to go to sea, and that
he has promised to bring you a male and female monkey, a
male and female bird of paradise, a barrel of pineapples, and a
Shetland pony ? "
"It doesn't seem as if I told you exactly that," I replied
"Did you or did you not tell him so?" said the officer, se-
verely.
" Perhaps I did," I responded.
" And did said friend, who is soon to go to said sea, really
promise to bring you said monkeys, said birds of paradise, said
pine-apples, and said pony ? "
" No," I replied, " but I really have an old friend who is going
to sea, and he'll bring me anything I ask him to."
"Oh! Oh I Oh!" swept round the room again. "He really
has an old friend who is going to sea, and he'll bring him any-
thing he asks him to."
"Huhn, proceed with your inquiries," said the officer.
" Did you or did you not," said Henry, turning to me again,
"tell me that one day, when dining at your Aunt's, you saw a
inagic portrait of a boy upon the wall, that came and went, and
came and went, like a shadow or a ghost ? "
As Henry asked this question he stood between two windows,
while the lower portion of his person was hidden by a table be-
hind which he had retired. His face was lighted by a half-smile,
and I saw him literally in a frame, as I had first seen the pict-
ure to which he alluded. In. a moment I became oblivious to
everything around me except Henry's face. The portrait was
there again before my eyes. Every lineament and even the
peculiar pose of the head were recalled to me. I was so much
excited that it really seemed as if I were looking again upon the
picture I had seen in Mrs. Sanderson's dining-room. Henry was
disconcerted, and even distressed by my intent look. He was
evidently afraid that the matter had been carried too far, and
that I was growing wild with the strange excitement Endeavor-
u% to recall me to myself^ he said in a tone of friendliness :
92 Arthur Bonnicastle.
"Did you or did you not tell me the story about the poi trait,
Arthur ? "
" Yes," I responded, " and it looked just like you. Oh ! it
did, it did, it did ! There turn yoiu: head a little more that
way so ! It was a perfect picture of you, Henry. You nevor
could imagine such a likeness."
** You are a little blower, you are," volunteered Jack Linton,
from a comer,
" Order ! Order ! Order ! " swept around the room.
" Did said portrait," broke in the voice of the officer, "come
and go on said wall, like said shadow or said ghost ? "
" It went but it didn't come," I replied, with my eyes still
fixed on Henry.
" Oh ! Oh ! Oh ! " resumed the chorus. " It went but it
didn't come ! "
" Please stand still, Henry ! don't stir ! " I said. " I want
to go nearer to it. She wouldn't let me."
I crept slowly toward him, my arms still folded. He grew
pale,' and all the room became still. The presiding officer and
the members of The High Society of Inquiry were getting
scared. "It went but it didn't come," I said. "This one
comes but it doesn't go. I should like to kiss it"
I put out my hands towards Henry, and he sank down be-
hind the table as if a ghost were about to touch him. The
illusion was broken, and I started as if awakened suddenly
fi-om a dream. Looking around upon the boys, and realizing
what had been done and what was in progress, I went into a
fit of hearty crying, that distressed them quite as much as my
previous mood had done. Nods and winks passed firom one
to another, and Hulm was told that no further testimony was
needed. They were evidently in a hurry to conclude the case,
and felt themselves cut short in their forms of proceeding. At
this moment a strange silence seized the assembly. All eyes
were directed toward the door, upon which my back was
turned. I wheeled around to find the cause of the interrup-
tion. There, in the doorway, towering above us all^ and look
Arthur Bonnicastle. 93
ing questioningly down upon the little assembly, stood Mr.
Bird.
" What does this mean ? " inquired the master.
I flew to his side and took his hand. The officer who had
presided, being the largest boy, explained that they had been
trying to break Arthur Bonnicastle of l3ang, and that they were
about to order him to report to the master for confession and
correction.
Then Mr. Bird took a chair and patiently heard the whole
story.
Without a. reproach, further than saying that he thought me
much too young for experiments of the kind they had insti-
tuted in the case, he explained to them and to me the nature
of my misdemeanors.
" The boy has a great deal of imagination," he said, " and a
strong love of approbation. Somebody has flattered his power
of invention, probably, and, to secure admiration, he has exer-
cised it until he has acquired the habit of exaggeration. I
doubt whether the lad has done much that was consciously
wrong. It is more a fault of constitution and character than a
sin of the will ; and now that he sees that he does not win
admiration by telling that which is not true, he will become
truthful. I am glad if he has learned, even by the severe
means which have been used, that if he wishes to be loved and
admired he must always tell the exact truth, neither more nor
less. If you had come to me, I could have told you all about
the lad, and instituted a better mode of dealing with him. He
has been through some sudden changes of late that have had
the natural tendency to exaggerate his fault. But I venture to
say that he is cured. Are n't you, Arthur?" And he stooped
and lifted me to his face and looked into my eyes.
" I don't think I shall do it any more," I said.
Bidding the boys disperse, he carried me down stairs into his
own room, and charged me with kindly counsel. I went out
from the interview humbled and without a revengeful thought
in my heart toward the boys who had brought me to my trial.
94 Arthur Bonnicastle.
I saw that they were my friends, and I was determined to prove
myself worthy of their friendship.
Jack Linton was waiting for me on the piazza, and wished to
explain to me that he hadn't anything against me. *' I went in
with the rest of 'em because they wanted me to," said Jack,
" and because I wanted to see what it would be like ; but
really, now, I don't object so much to blowing myself. There's
a sort of sameness, you know, about always telling the truth
that there isn't about blowing, but it's the same thing with hash
and bread and butter, and it seems to be necessary."
I told him that I wasn't going to blow any more, and
that I had arranged it all with Mr. Bird. He shook hands with
me and then stooped down and whispered : " You don't catch
me trying any High old Society of Inquiries on a chap of your
size again."
As soon as I settled into the routine of my school life the
weeks flew away so fast that they soon got beyond my count-
ing. The term was long, but I was happy in my study, happy
in my companionships, and happy in the love of Mr. and Mrs.
Bird, and in their control and direction. I wrote letters home
every week, and received prompt replies from my father. The
monthly missives to " My dear Aunt," were regularly written,
though I won no replies to them. I learned, however, that
Mr. Bird had received communications from her concerning
myself. On one occasion she sent her love to me through
him, and he delivered the message with an amused look in his
eyes that puzzled me.
The summer months passed away, and that great, mysterious
change came on which reported the consummation of growth
and maturity in the processes and products of the year. The
plants that had toiled all summer, evolving flower and fiiiit,
were soothed to sleep. The birds stopped singing lest they
should waken them. The locusts by day and the crickets by
night crooned their lullaby. A dreamy haze hung around the
distant hills, and here and there a woodbine lighted its torch
m the darkening dingle, and the maples in mellow fire signalled
Arthur BonnicastU. 95
each other from hill to hill. The year had begun to die.
There were chills at night and fevers by day, and stretches of
weird silence that impressed me more profoundly than I can
possibly reveal. It was as if the angels of the summer had fled
at the first frost, and the angels of the autumn had come down,
bringing with them a new set of spiritual influences that sad-
dened while they sweetened every soul whose sensibilities were
delicate enough to apprehend and receive them.
During those days I felt my first twinges of genuine home-
sickness. I was conscious that I had grown in body and mind
during my brief absence ; and I wanted to show myself to the
dear ones with whom I had passed my childhood. I imagined
the interest with which they would listen to the stories of my
life at school ; and I had learned enough of the world already to
know that there was no love so sweet and strong as that which
my home held for me. I had been made glad by my father's
accounts of his modest prosperity. Work had been plenty and
the pay was sure and sufficient The family had been reclothed,
and new and needed articles of fiimitiure had been purchased.
I wrote to Mrs. Sanderson and asked the privilege of going
home to spend my vacation, and through my father's letters I
learned that she would send for me. A week or more before
the close of the term I received a note addressed to me in a
hand-writing gone to wreck through disuse, from old Jenks. If
I were to characterize the orthography in which it was clothed,
I should say it was eminently strong. I do not suppose it was
intended to be blank verse, but it was arranged in discon-
nected lines, and read thus :
" Bring home your Attlus.
'^I stere boldly for the Troppicks.
" Desk and cumpusses in the stable.
When this you see bum this when this you see.
" The sea rolls away and thare is no old wooman thare.
* Where the spisy breazes blow.
** I shall come for you with the Shaze.
* From an old Tarr
" Theophilus Jenks.*
q6 Arthur Bonnicastle.
This unique document was not committed to the flames,
according to the directions of the writer. It was much too
precious for such a destiny, and was carefully laid away between
the leaves of my Testament, to be revealed in this later time.
The last evening of the term was devoted to a reception.
Many parents of the boys who had come to take their darlings
home were present ; and sitting in the remotest comer of the
dancing-room, shrunken into the smallest space it was possible
for him to occupy, was old Jenks, gazing enchanted upon such
a scene as had never feasted his little gray eyes before. I had
learned to dance, in a bo/s rollicking fashion, and during the
whole evening tried to show off my accomplishments to my old
friend. One after another I led ladies middle-aged and young
to the floor, and discharged the courtesies of the time with
all the confidence of a man of society. Occasionally I went to
his side and asked him how he liked it.
" It's great if s tremenduous," said Jenks. " How do you
dare to do it eh ? say ! " said he, drawing me down to him by the
lappel of my coat : " I've been thinking how I'd like to have
the old woman on the floor, and see her tumble down once. I
ain't no dancer, you know, but I'd dance a regular break-down
over her before I picked her up and set her on her pins again.
Wouldn't it be fun to see her get up mad, and limp ofl* into a
corner?"
I laughed at Jenks's fancy, and asked him what he thought of
the last lady I danced with.
" She's a beauty," said Jenks. " I should like to sail with
her just sit and hold her hand and sail sail away, and keep
sailing and sailing and sailing."
" I'm glad you like her," I said, " for that is my lady-lovp.
That's Miss Butler."
" You don't say ! " exclaimed Jenks. " Well, you don't
mind what I say, do you ? "
"Oh no," I said, "you're too old for her."
"Well, yes, perhaps I am, but isn't she just isn't slie rather
that is, isn't she a bit too old for you ? "
Arthttr Bonnicastle. 97
" I shall be old enough for her by and by," I replied.
" Well, don't take to heart anything I say," responded Jenks.
" I was only talking about sailing, any way. My mind is on the
sea a good deal, you know. Now you go on with your danc-
ing, and don't mind me."
The next morning there were all sorts of vehicles at the
door. There were calls and farewells and kisses, and promises
to write, and hurrahs, and all the incidents and excitements of
breaking up. With a dozen kisses warm upon my cheeks,
from teachers and friends, I mounted the chaise, and Jenks
turned the old horse toward home.
I suppose the world would not be greatly interested in the
conversation between the old servant and the boy who that
day drove from Hillsborough to Bradford. Jenks had been
much moved by the scenes of the previous evening, and his mind,
separated somewhat from the sea, out toward whose billowy
' freedom it had been accustomed to wander, turned upon
' women.
] ''I think a woman is a tremenduous being," said Jenks.
* When she's right, she's the rightest thing that floats. When
she's wrong, she's the biggest nuisance that ploughs the sea,
even if she's little and don't draw two feet of water. Perhaps
it isn't just the thing to say to a boy like you, but you'll never
speak of it, if I should tell you a little something ? "
" Oh, never I " I assured him.
" Well, I 'spose I might have been a married man ; " and
Jenks avoided my eyes by pretending to discover a horse-shoe
in the road.
^' You don't say so 1 " I exclaimed in undisguised astonish-
ment, for it had never occurred to me that such a man as Jenks
could marry.
" Yes, I waited on a girl once."
" Was she beautiful ? " I inquired.
"Well, I should s^jjauLJtomiddling,'' responded Jenks,
pursing his lips ao^^^^^tVri^uUd^ya^ a candid judgment
"Fair to middwMj barring a few frec^l^sX ^a
?/-
//
f ixEkjs. ke was s good
^sAf asae
' * -'* =XM BS- -a^-.
aampag lanitd,
2iBT. Kki didn't
- - -^ - -^ ^ ae ^KK. Z ^=.-w & wiii raoom
CHAPTER VI.
I BECOME A MEMBER OF MRS. SANDERSON'S FABflLY AND HAVE
A WONDERFUL VOYAGE WITH JENKS UPON THE ATLAS.
At an early hour on the following morning, dressed in my
best, I went to pay ray respects to Mrs, Sanderson at The
Mansion. As I walked along over the ground stiffened with
the autumn frost, wondering how "my dear Aunt** would
receive me, it seemed as if I had lived half a lifetime since my
father led me over the same road, on my first visit to the same
lady. I felt older and larger and more independent ' As
I passed Mr. Bradford's house, I looked at the windows, hoping
to see the little girl again, and feeling that in my holiday
clothes I could meet her eyes unabashed. But she did not
appear, nor did I get a sight of Mr. Bradford.
The autumn was now in its glory, and, as I reached the
summit of the hill, I could not resist the temptation to pause
and look off upon the meadows and the distant country.
I stood under a maple, full of the tender light of lemon-colored
leaves, while my feet were buried among their fallen 'fellows
with which the ground was carpeted. The sounds of the town
reached my ears mellowed into music by the distance, the
smoke from a hundred chimneys rose straight into die sky, the
river was a mirror for everything upon it, around it and above
it, and all the earth was a garden of gigantic flowers. For that
one moment my life was full With perfect health in my
veins, and all my sensibilities excited by the beauty before me,
my joy was greater in living than any words can express.
Nothing but running, or shouting, or singing, or in some way
violently spending the life thus swelled to its flood, could give
it fitting utterance ; but, as I was near The Mansion, all these
were denied me, and I went on, feeling that passing out of the
343660
98 Arthur Bottnicasile.
"Bkit ytn dkfci't leirc bcr for the freckles P " I laid.
* No^ I dktn't leave hei Ibr the freckles. Sie was a good
girl, and I waited on her. It don't seem possible now, that
1 ever ra'alf waited on a giri, bat I did."
"And why didn't joo manj ber?" I ioqaired waimly.
' It waso't ber fault," said Jenks. " She was a good ^L"
"Then wfaf didn't yoo many ber?" I insisted.
"Wdl, there was aootber feUow got to bai^g round,
and joa Yaam bow such things go. I was busy, and didn't
'lend Dp TC17 wdl, I ^pose and she got tired waiting for
me or something and tbe other fellow aianied her, but I've
never bluncd bcr. She's been sony enoo^ I goe^"
Jenks gave a li^ of mii^led regret and ^ij, and tbe subject
was dropped
Tlie limits were shining cbeeifulljr in the windows at we
drove into Kadford When we came in sight oi my fiuhei'i
boose, Jenks ciacted a pledge from me that all tbe ccmfidences
at tbe day which be had so freely reposed in me should neva
be divuli^ Arriving at the gate, I gave a wild wiioop,
which brouf^ all tbe fimiily to tbe door, and in a moment I
was smotb^ed with welcome.
Ah! what an evening was tbatl What sad, sweet tears
drop upon my paper as I recall i^ and remember that eveiy
eye that sparkled with peeting then has ceased to shine,
that every band that grafted mine is turned to dust, and that
all those loving qxiits wait somewhoc to wdcome me home
from the school where I have been k^throoi^Hidi a loDft
evcntfiil torn.
CBAFTER TL
t BECDU A
doibei I coM mea kar ww iiilMMair B jAk diC (
appean; Bor^ I gel H^Ciilti. XkaSi^
The wilBwni "^ *^ to #iwc.m. ^ J Ba^ !iie
sdhuM of &e i^ I :
and kMk off no **
lOO Arthur Bonnicastle.
morning sunlight into a house would be like going into a
prison. Before reaching the door I l6oked at the stable, and
saw the old horse with his head out of one window, and Jenks's
face occupying another. Jenks and the horse looked at one
another and nodded, as much as to say : " That is the little
fellow we brought over from Hillsborough yesterday."
That Mrs. Sanderson saw me under the tree, and watched
every step of my progress to the house, was evident, for when
I mounted the steps, and paused between the sleeping lions,
the door swung upon its hinges, and there stood the little old
woman in the neatest of morning toilets. She had expected
me, and had prepared to receive me.
" And how is Master Bonnicastle this pleasant morning ? "
she said as I entered.
I was prepared to be led into any manifestation of respect
or affection which her greeting might suggest, and this cheery
and flattering address moved me to grasp both her hands,
and tell her that I was very well and very happy. It did not
move me to kiss her, or to expect a kiss from her. I had
never been called "Master" Bonnicastle before, and the new
title seemed as if it were intended so to elevate me as to place
me at a distance.
Retaining one of my hands, she conducted me to a large
drawing-room, into which she had admitted the full glow of the
morning light, and, seating me, drew a chair near to me for her-
self, where she could look me squarely in the face. Then she
led me into a talk about Mr. and Mrs. Bird, and my life at
school. She played the part of a listener well, and flattered
me by her little comments, and her almost deferential attention.
I do her the justice to believe that she was not altogether play-
ing a part, thoroughly pre-considered, for I think she was really
interested and amused. My presence, and my report of what
was going on in one little part of the great world which was so
far removed from the pursuits of her lonely life, were refreshing
influences. Seeing that she was really interested, my tongue
ran on without restraint, until I had told all I had to telL
Arthur Bonnica^tle. loi
Many times, when I found myself tempted to exaggerate, I
checked my vagrant speech with corrections and qualifications,
determined that my old fault should have no further sway.
"Well, my boy," she said at last, in a tone of great kindness,
" I find you much improved. Now let us go up-stairs and see
what we can discover there."
I followed her up the dark old stairway into a chamber
whose windows commanded a view of the morning sun and the
town.
" How lovely this is I " I exclaimed!
" You like it, then ? " she responded with a gratified look.
" Yes," I said, " I think it is the prettiest room I ever saw."
"Well, Master Bonnicastle, this is your room. This new
paper on the walls and all this new furniture I bought for you.
Whenever you want a change from your house, which you
know is rather small and not exactly the thing for a young
gentleman like you, you will find this room ready for you.
There are the drawers for your linen, and there is the closet
for your other clothes, and here is your mirror, and this is a
pin-cushion which I have made for you with my own hands."
She said this, walking from one object named to another,
until she had shown me all the appointments of the chamber.
I was speechless and tearful with delight. And this was all
mine 1 And I was a young gentleman, with the prettiest room
in the grandest house of Bradford at my command ! It was
like a dream to me, bred as I had been in the strait sim-
plicity of poverty. Young as I was, 1 had longed for just this
for something around me in my real life that should corre-
spond with my dreams of life. Already the homely furniture of
my father's house, and the life with which it was associated,
seemed mean almost wretched ; and I was distressed by my
Sjonpathy for those whom I should leave behind in rising to
my new estate. By some strange intuition I knew that it would
not do to'speak to my benefactress of my love for my father.
I was full of the thought that my love had been purchased,
and fairly paid for. I belonged to Mrs. Sanderson. She who
I02 Arthur Bonnicastle.
had expended so much money for me, without any reward, had
a right to me, and all of my society and time that she desired.
If she had asked me to come to her house and make it my
only home, I should have promised to do so without reserve,
but she did not do this. She was too wise. She did not in
tend to exact anything from me ; but I have no doubt that she
took the keenest delight in witnessing the operation and con-
summation of her plans for gaining an ascendency over my
affections, my will, and my life.
Her revelations produced in me a strange disposition to
silence which neither she nor I knew how to break. I was
troubled with the fear that I had not expressed sufficient grati-
tude for her kindness, yet I did not know how to say more.
At length she said : '' I saw you under the maple : what were
you thinking about there ? "
'' I was wondering if the world was not made in the fall," I
replied.
"Ah?"
" Yes," I continued, " it seemed to me as if God must have
stood under that same naple-tree, when the leaves were chang-
ing, and saw that it was all very good."
With something of her old asperity she said she wished my
boyish fancies would change as well as the leaves.
" I cannot help having them," I replied, " but if you don't
like them I shall never speak of them again."
" Now I tell you what I think," said she, assuming her pleas-
ant tone again. " I dunk you would like to be lefl alone for a
little while."
" Oh 1 I should like to be alone here in xxay own room ever
so much I " I responded.
" You can stay here until dinner if you wish," she said, and
then she bent down and kissed my forehead, and retired.
I listened as she descended the stairs, and when I felt that
she was far enough away, I rose, and carefully locked my door.
Then I went to the mirror to see whether I knew myself, and
to find what there was in me that cpuld be addressed as ^^Mas-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 103
ter/' or spoken of as ''a foiiag gentleman.'* Then I ransacked
the closet, and climbed to a high shelf in it, with the vague lKpe
that the portrait which had once excited my curiosity was hid-
den th^re. Finding nodiing I had not previously seen, I went
to the window, and sat down to think.
I looked off upon the town, and felt myself lifted immeasura-
bly above it and all its plodding cares and industries. This was
mine. It had been won without an effort. It had come to me
without a thought or a care. I believed there was not a boy in
the whole town who possessed its equal, and I wondered what
there was in me that should call forth such munificence from
my benefactress. If my good fortune as a boy were so great,
w^t brilliant foture awaited my manhood ? Then I thought of
my father, working humbly and patiently, day after day, for bread
for his Dsimily, and of the tender love which I knew his heart held
for me ; and I wondered why God should lay so heavy a burden
upon him and so marvelously favor me. Would it not be mean
to take this good fortune and sell my love of him and of home
for it? Oh I if I could only bring them all here, to share my
sweeter lot, I should be content, but I could not even speak of
this to the woman who had bestowed it on me.
It all ended in a sweet and hearty fit of crying, in which I
sobbed until the light faded out of my eyes, and I went to
sleep. I had probably slept two hours when a loud knock
awakened me, and, stag^^ering to my feet, and recognizing at
last the new objects around me, I went to the door, and found
Jenks, in his ndiite apron, who told me that dinner was waiting
for me. I gave a hurried glance at the mirror and was startled
to find my eyes still red ; but I could not wait. As he made
way for me to pass down before him, he whispered : " Come
to the stable as soon as you can after dinner. The atlas and
compasses are ready."
I remembered then that he had borrowed the former of me
on the way home, and secreted it under the seat of the chaise.
. Mrs. Sanderson was already seated when I entered the
difimg-voom.
I04 Arthur Bonnicastle.
u
It
Your eyes are red," she said quickly.
I have been asleep, I think," I responded.
Jenks mumbled something, and commenced growling. His
nustress regarded me closely, but thought best not to push in
quiries further.
Conversation did not promise to be lively, especially in the
presence of a third party, between whom and myself there
existed a guilty secret which threatened to sap the peace of the
establishment
At length I said : '' Oh ! I did not think to tell you anything
about my chum."
" What is his name ? " she inquired.
'' His name is Henry Hulm," I replied ; and then I went on
at length to describe his good qualities and to tell wh^t ex-
cellent friends we had been. " He is not a bit like me,*^!
said, ' he is so steady and quiet."
' Do you know anytMng about his people ? " inquired the
lady.
" No, he never says anything about them, and I am afraid
he is poor," I replied.
" How does he dress ? "
'' Not so well as I do, but he is the neatest and carefullest
boy in the school"
'' Perhaps you would like to invite him here to spend your
vacation with you, when you come home again," she suggested.
* May I ? Can I ? " I eagerly inquired.
" Certainly. If he is a good, respectable boy, and you would
like him for a companion here, I should be delighted to have
you bring him."
" Oh ! I thank you : I am so glad ! I'm sure he'll come, and
he can sleep in my room with me."
" That will please you very much, will it not ? " and the lady
smiled with a liyly look of gratification.
I look back^ow with mingled pity of my simple self and
admiration of the old lady who thus artfully wove her toils
about me. She knew she must not alarm my father, or im-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 105
prison me, or fail to make me happy in the gilded trap she had
set for me. All her work upon me was that of a thorough
artist. What she wanted was to sever me and my sympathy
from my father and his home, and to make herself and her
house the center of my life. She saw that my time would pass
slowly if I had no companion ; and Henry's coming would be
likely to do more than anything to hold me. My pride would
certainly move me to bring him to my room, and she would
manage the rest
After dinner, I asked liberty to go to the stable. I was fond
of horses and all domestic animals. I made my request in the
presence of Jenks, and that whimsical old hypocrite had the
hardihood to growl and grumble and mutter as if he regarded
the presence of a boy in the stable as a most offensive intru-
sion upon his special domain. I could not comprehend such
duplicity, and looked at him inquiringly.
" Don't mind Jenks," said Madame : " he's a fool."
Jenks went growling out of the room, but, as he passed me,
I caught the old cunning look in his little eyes, and followed
him. When the door was closed he cut a pigeon-wing, and
ended by throwing one foot entirely over my head. . Then he
whispered: "You go out and stay there until I come. Don't
disturb anything." So I went out, thinking him quite the
nimblest and queerest old fellow I had ever seen.
I passed half an hour patting the horse's head, calling the
chickens around me, and wondering what the plans of Jenks
would be. At length he appeared. Walking tiptoe into the
stable, he said : ' The old woman is down for a nap, and
we've got two good hours for a voyage. Now, messmate, let's
up sails and be off I"
At this he seized a long rope which depended from one of
the great beams above, and pulled away with a " Yo I heave
oh I " sotto vocCj (letting it slide through his hanc^t every call),
as if an immense spread of canvas was to be the result
" Belay there 1 " he said at last, in token that his ship was
under way, and the voyage begun.
5*
io6 Arthur Bonnicastle.
'^I^s a bit cold, my hearty, and now for a turn on die
quarter-deck," he eaid, ag he grasped my hand, and walked
with me back and forth across the floor. I was seized with aik
oncontroUable fit of laughter, but walked with him, nothing
loth. ^ Now we plough the billow/' said Jenks, '' This is what
I call gay."
After giving our blood a jog, and getting into a glow, he be
gan to laugh.
" What are you laughing at ? " I inquired.
'' She made me {M-omise that I wouldn't tease or trouble you,
she did!" and then he laughed again. ''Oh yes; Jenks is a
fool, he is ! Jenks is a tremenduous fool I " Then he suddenly
sobered, and suggested that it was time to examine our chart.
Dropping my hand, he went to a bin of oats, built like a de^
and opening fsom die top with a falling lid. To this lid he had
attached two legs by hinges of leather, which sui^[orted it at a
convenient atigle. Then he brought forth two three4egged
milking-stools and placed them before it, md plunging his
band deep down into the oats drew out my adas, neady
wrapped in an old newspaper. This he opened before me, and
we took our seats.
"Now where are we?" said Jenks.
I opened to the map of the world, and said: "Here is Neir
York, and there is Boston. We can't be very far from either
of 'em, but I d^k we are between 'em."
"Very well, let it be between 'em," said Jenks. "Now
what ? "
"Where will you go?" I inquired.
'' I don't care where I go ; let us have a big sail, now that
we are in for it," he replied.
" Well, dien, lefs go to Great Britain," I said.
" Isn't diere somediing that they call the English Channel ? **
inquired Jenks with a doubtful look.
"Yes, there is," and cruising about among the fine t]rpe, I
found it
" Well, I don't like this idea of bemg out of sight of land.
J
AriAur BmtfUcusile, 107
If s dangerous, imd ^ you can't sleep, there is no place to go
to. Lef s steer straight for the English Channel strai^^t as a
ramrod."
^'But it will take a month,*' I said ; *' I have heard people
say so a great many times."
'* My ! A month ? Out of sight of land? No old woman
and no curry-comb for a month ? Hey de diddle I Very well,
let it be a month. Hullo ! if s all over ! Here we are : now
where are we on the map ? "
* We seem to be pretty near to Paris," I said, "but we don't
quite touch it There must be some little places along here
that are not put down. There's London, too: that doesn't
seem to be a great way 0% but here's a strip of land between
it and the Water."
" Why, yes, there's Paris," said Jenks, looking out of the
stable window, and down upon the town. '* Don't you see ?
If s a fine ci^. I think I see just whefe Napoleon Bonaparte
lives. But if s a wicked place ; lef s get away from it Bear
off now ; " and so our imaginary baik^ to use Jenks's large
phrase, " swept up the channel."
Here I suggested that we had better take a map of Great
Britain, zXiA we should probably find more places to stop at.
I found it easily, with the " English Channel" in large letters.
" Here we are ! " I said : " see the towns I "
"My! Ain't they thick!" responded Jenks. 'What is
l3)at name running lengthwise Uiere right through the water ? "
"Thafs the * Strait A Dover,'" I replied.
" Well, then, look out ! We're running right into it t
If s a confounded narrow place, any way. Bear away there ;
take the middle course. I've heard of thn Straits of Dover
before. They are dangerous ; but we're thi'ough, we're through.
Now where are we ? "
" We are right at tfie mouth of the Thames^" I replied, " and
here is a river that leads straight up to London."
" Cruise off ! cruise off ! " said Jenks. " We're in an enemy's
eoimtiy. Sure enough, thae's Iiondon ; " and he looked out
io8 Arthur Bonntcastle.
of the window with a fixed gaze, as if the dome of St Paul s
were as plainly in sight as his own nose. After satisf3dng him-
self with a survey of the great city, he remarked, interroga-
tively, " Haven't we had about enough of this ? I want to
go where the spicy breezes blow. Now that we have got our
sea-legs on, let us make for the equator. Bring the ship
round ; here we go ; now what ? "
"We have got to cross the Tropic of Cancer, for all that I
can see," said I.
" Can't we possibly dodge it ? " inquired Jenks with concern.
" I don't see how we can," I replied. " It seems to go clean
around."
" What is it, any way ?" said he.
" It don't seem to be anything but a sort of dotted line," I
answered.
" Oh well, never mind ; we'll get along with that," he said
encouragingly. "Steer between two dots, and hold your
breath. My uncle David had one of them things."
Here Jenks covered his mouth and nose with entire gravity,
and held them until the imaginary danger was past. At last,
with a red face, he inquired, " Are we over ? "
" All over," I replied ; " and now where do you want to go ? "
** Isn't there something that they call the Channel of Mo-
zambique ? " said Jenks.
"Why?" I asked.
"Well, I've always thought it must be a splendid sheet of
water 1 Yes : Channel of Mozambique splendid sheet of
water ! Mozambique I Grand name, isn't it? "
" Why, here it is," said I, " away round her^ We've got to
run down the coast of Africa, and around the Cape of Good
Hope, and up into the Indian Ocean. Shall we touch any-
where ? "
" No, I reckon it isn't best The niggers will think we are
after 'em, and we may get into trouble. But look here, boy !
We've forgot the compassed How we ever managed to get
across the Atlantic without 'em is more than I know. That's
Arthur Bonnicastle. 109
one of the carelessest things I ever did. I don't suppose we
could do it again in trying a thousand times."
Thereupon he drew from a corner of the oat-bin an old pail
of carpenter's compasses, between which and the mariner's
compass neither he nor I knew the difference, and said : " Now
let us sail by compasses, in the regular way."
" How do you do it ?" I inquired.
" There can't be but one way, as I see," he replied. " You
put one leg down on the map, where you are, then put , the
other down where you want to go, and just sail for that leg."
" Well," said I, " here we are, close to the Canary Islands.
Put one leg down there, and the other down here at St
Helena."
After considerable questioning and fumbling and adjusting of
the compasses, they were held in their place by the ingenious
navigatCMT, while we drove for the lonely island. After a con-
siderable period of silence, Jenks broke out with : " Doesn't
she cut the water beautiful ? It takes the Jane Whitdesey 1 "
" Oh ! " X exclaimed, " I didn't know you had a name for
her."
" Yes," said Jenks with a sigh still holding fast to the com-
passes, as if our Uves depended upon his faithfulness '^ Jane
Whittlesey has been the name of every vessel I ever owned.
You know what I told you about that young woman ? "
" Yes," I said ; " and was that her name ? "
Jenks nodded, and sighed again, still keeping his ;ye upon
the outermost leg of the instrument, and holding it firmly in its
place.
" Here we are," he exclaimed at last " Now lef s double
over and start again."
So the northern leg came around with a half circle, and went
down at the Cape of Good Hope. The Tropic of Capricorn
proved less dangerous than the northern corresponding line, and
so, at last, sweeping around the cape, we brought that leg of
the compasses which we had left behind toward the equator
again, and, working up on the map, arrived at our destinatioiu
no Arthur Bonnicastle.
"Well, here we are in the Channel of Mozambique," I said
'' Whafs that blue place there on the right hand side ^ it ? "
he inquired
"That* s the Island of Madagascar."
" You don't tell me I " he exclaimed " Well I I never ex-
pected to be so near that place. The Island of Madagascar !
The Island of Mad-a-gas-car 1 Let* s take a look at it"
Thereupon he rose and took a long look out of the win-
dow. " Elephants mountains tigers monke js golden
sands cannibals," he exclaimed slowly, as he apprehended
seriatim the objects he named Then he elevated .his nose, and
began to sniff the air, as if some u:-off odor had readied him
on viewless wings. " Spicy breezes, upon my word I " he ex-
claimed " Don't you notice 'em, boy ? Smell uncommonly
like hay ; what do you think ? "
We had after this a long and interesting cmise, running into
various celebrated ports, and gradually working toward home.
I was too busy with the navigation to join Jenks in his views of
the countries and islanck which we passed on the voyage, but
he enjoyed every league of the long and eventful sail. At last
the Jane Whittlesey ran straight into Mre. Sander&on's home in-
closures, and Jenks cast anchr by dropping a huge stXHie
through a trap-door in ^e floor.
*" It really seems good to be at home again, and to feel every-
thing standing still, doesn't it?" said he. " I wonder if I can
walk straight," he went on, and then proceeded to ascertain by
actual experiment I have laughed a hundred times since at
the recollection of the old fellow's efforts to adapt himself to
die imaginary billows of the staUe-floor.
'' I hope I shall get over this before supper-time," said Jenks,
" for the old woman will know we have been to sea."
I enjoyed the play quite as well as my companion did, but
even then I did not comprehend that it was simply play, with
htm. I supposed it was a trick of his to learn something of
geography before cutting loose from service and striking out
Arthur Bonntcastle. ill
mto the great world by way of the ocean. So I said to him :
" What do you do this for ? "
"What do I doit for? What does anybody go to sea for?"
he inquired with astonishment
" Well, but you don't go to the real sea, ygu know," I sug-
gested.
" Don't 1 1 That* s what the atlas says, any way, and die atlas
ought to know," said Jenks. " At any rate it's as good a sea
as I want at this time of year, just before winter comes on. If
you only think so, it's a great deal better sailing on an atlas
dian it is sailing on the water. You have only to go a few
indies, and you needn't get wet, and you can't drown. You
can see everything there is in the world by looking out of the
window, and thinking you do ; and what's the use spending sc
much time as people do travelling to the ends of the earth ?
The only thing that troubles me is that Bradford's Irishman
down here has really come across the ocean, and I don't s'pose
he cared any more about it than if he'd been a pig. If
I could only have had a real sail on the ocean, and got
through with it, I don't know but I should be resdy to die."
" But you will have, some time, you know," I said encour-
i^gingly.
" Do you think so? "
"When you run away you will," I said.
"I don't know," he responded dubiously. "I tfiink per-
haps I'd better run away on an atlas a few times first, just tc
learn the ropes."
Here we were interrupted by the tinkle of a bell, and it wa/
marvelous to see how quickly the atlas disappeared in the oat
and the lid was closed over it Jenks went to the house and I
followed him.
Mrs. Sanderson did not inquire how I had spent my time.
It was enou^ for her that I had in no way disturbed her after-
dinner nap, and tiiat I came when she wanted me. I told her
I had enjoyed the day very much, and that I hoped my father
would let me come up soon and occupy my room. Then I
112 Arthur Bonnicastle.
went up-stairs and looked the room all over again, and tried to
realize tke extent and value of my new possession. Wlien I
went home, toward night, she loaded me with nice little gifts
for my mother and the children, and I lost no time in my haste
to tell the family pf the good fortune that had befallen me. My
mother was gready delighted with my representations, but my
father was sad. I think he was moved to sever my connection
with the artful woman at once, and take the risks of the step,
but a doubt of his own ability to do for me what it was her in^
tention and power to do withheld him. He consented at last to
lose me because he loved me, and on the following day I went
out from my home with an uneasy conviction that I had been
bought and paid for, and was little better than an expensive
piece of property. What she would do with me I could not
telL I had my doubts and my dreams, which I learned to keep
to myself; but in the swift years that followed there was never
an unkind word spoken to me in my new home, or any unkind
treatment experienced which made me regret the step I had
taken.
I learned to regard Mrs. Sanderson as the wisest woman liv-
ing ; and I found, as the time rolled by, that I had adopted her
judgments upon nearly every person and every subject that
called forth her opinion. She assumed superiority to all her
neighbors. She sat on a social throne, in her own imagination.
There were few who openly acknowledged her sway, but she
was imperturbable. Wlierever she appeared, men bowed to
her with profoundest courtesy, and women were assiduous in
their politeness. They may have flouted her when she was out
of sight, but they were flattered by her attentions, and were al-
ways careful in her presence to yield her the pre-eminence
she assumed. No man or woman ever came voluntarily into
collision with her wilL Keen, quiet, alert, self-possessed, she
lived her own independent life, asking no favors, granting few,
and holding herself apart from, and above, all around her. The
power of this self-assertion, insignificant as she was in physique^
was simply gigantia
Arthur Bonnzcastle. 113
To this height she undertook to draw me, severing one by
one the sympathies which bound me to my family and my com-
panions, and makbg me a part of herself! I remember dis-
tmctly the processes of the change, and their result 1 grew more
silent, more self-contained, more careful of my associations.
The change in me had its effect in my own home. I came to be
regarded there as a sort of superior being ; and when I went
there for a day the best things were given me to eat, and cer-
tain proprieties were observed by the family, as if a rare stranger
had come among them. In the early part of my residence at
The Mansion, some of the irreverent little democrats of the
street called me "Mother Sanderson's Baby," but even this
humiliating and maddening taunt died away when it was whis-
pered about that she was educating her heir, and that I should
be some day the richest young man in the town.
CHAPTER VII.
I LEAVE THE BIRD's NEST AND MAKE A GREAT DISCXERY.
Life is remembered rather by epochs than by contiiiaous de-
tails. I spent five years at The Bird's Nest, visiting home twice
every year, and becoming more and more accustomed to the
thought that X had practically ceased to be a member of my
own family. My home and all my belcmgings were at the Maii-
sion ; and although I kept a deep, warm spot in my heart for
my father, which never grew cold, there seemed to be a differ-
ence in kind and quality between me and my brothers and sis-
ters which forbade the old intimacy. The life at home had
grown more genefous with my father's advancing prosperity,
and my sisters, catching the spirit of the prosperoGs community
around them, had done much to beautify and elevate its ap-
pointments.
The natural tendency of the treatment I received, both at
my father's house and at The Mansion, was for a long time to
concentrate my thoughts upon myself, so that when, on my
fifteenth birthday, I entered my father's door, and -felt pecu-
liarly charmed by my welcome and glad in the happiness which
my presence gave, I made a discovery. I found my sister
Claire a remarkably pretty young woman. She was two years
my senior, and had been so long my profoimdest worshipper
that I had never dreamed what she might become. She was
the sweetest of blondes, 'with that unerring instinct of dress
which enabled her to choose always the right color, and so to
drape her slender and graceful figure as to be always attractive.
My own_ advance toward manhood helped me, I suppose, to
appreciate her as I had not hitherto done ; and before I parted
with her, to return to the closing term of Mr. Bird's tuition, I
Arthur Bvnnicastle. 115
had become proud of her, and ambitious lor her future. I
found, tooy that she had more than kept pace with me in study.
It was a great surprise. By what ingenuities she had managed
to win her accomplishments, and become the educated lady that
she was, I knew not. It was the way of New England girls
then as it is now. I had long talks and walks with her, and
quite excited the jealousy of Mrs. Sanderson by the amount of
time I devoted to her.
In these years Mrs. Sanderson herself had hardly grown ap-
predably older. Her hair had become a little whiter, but she
retained, apparently, all her old vigor, and was the same strong-
willed, precise, prompt, opinionated woman she was when I
first knew her. Jenks and I had many sails upon the atlas suc-
ceedii^ that which I have described, but something had always
interfered to prevent him from taking the final step which would
sever his connection with the service of his old mistress for-
ever.
Every time during these five years that I went home to spend
my vacation, I invited Henry to accompany me, but his mother
invariably refused to permit him to do so. Mrs. Sanderson, in
her disappointment, offered to defray all the expenses of the
journey, which, in the mean time, had ceased to be made with
the old hcMrse and chaise ; but there came always fi'om his mother
the same refusal The old lady was piqued at last, and became
soured toward him. Indeed, if she could have found a valid
excuse for the step, she would have broken off our intimacy.
She had intended an honor to an unknown lad in humble cir-
cumstances ; and to have that honor persistently spumed, with-
out apparent reason, exasperated her. " The lad is a churl,
depend upon it, when you get at the bottom of him," was the
stereotyped reply to all my attempts to palliate his offence, and
vindicate the lovableness of his character.
These years of study and development had wrought great
changes in me. Though thoroughly healthy thanks to the
considerate management of my teacher I grew up tall and
dender, and promised to reach the reputed altitude of the old
ii6 Arthur Bonnicastle.
Bonnicastles. I was a man in stature by the side of my sister
Claire, and assumed the dress and carriage of a man. Though
Henry was two years older than I, we studied together in every-
thing, and were to leave school together. Our companionship
had been fruitful of good to both of us. I stirred him and he
steadied me.
There was one aim which we held in common the aim at
personal integrity and thorough soundness of character. This
aim had been planted in us both by^Christian parents, and it
was fostered in every practicable way by Mr. and Mrs. Bird.
There was one habit, learned at home, which we never omitted
for a night while we were at school the habit of kneeling at
our bedside before retiring to slumber, and offering silently a
prayer. Dear Mrs. Bird that sweet angel of all the little boys
was always with us in our first nights together, when we en-
gaged in our devotions, and sealed our young lips for sleep with
a kiss. Bidding us to pray for what we wanted, and to thank
our Father f6r all that we received, with the simple and hearty
language we would use if we were addressing our own parents,
and adjuring us never, under any circumstances, to omit our
oflfering, she left us at last to ourselves. " Remember," she used
to say, " remember that no one can do this for you. The boy
who confesses his sins every night has always the fewest sins
to confess. The habit of daily confession and prayer is the
surest corrective of all that is wrong in your motives and con-
duct"
In looking back upon this aspect of our life together, I am
compelled to believe that both Henry and myself were in the
line of Christian experience. Those prayers and those daily
efforts at good, conscientious living, were the solid beginnings
of a Christian character. I do not permit myself to question
that had I gone on in that simple way I should have grown into
a Christian man. The germination and development of the
seed planted far back in childhood would, I am sure, have been
crowned with a divine fruitage. Both of us had been taught
that we belonged to the Master that we had beefa given to
Arthur Bonnicastle. 117
Him in baptism. Neither of us had been devoted to Him by
parents who, having placed His seal upon our foreheads, thence-
forth strove to convince us that we were the children of the
devil. Expecting to be Christians, trjdng to live according to
the Christian rule of life, never doubting that in good time we
should be numbered among Christian disciples, we were already
Christian disciples. \Vhy should it be necessary that the aggre-
gate sorrow and remorse for years of selfishness and transgres-
sion be crowded into a few hours or days ? Why should it be
necessary to be lifted out of a great horror of blackness and
darkness and tempest, into a supernal light by one grand sweep
of passion ? Are safe foundations laid in storms and upheavals ?
Are conviction and character nourished by violent access and
reaction of feeling? We give harsh remedies for desperate dis-
eases, and there are such things as desperate diseases. I am
sure that Henry and I were not desperately diseased. The
^hole drift of our aims was toward the realization of a Chris-
ian life.- The grand influences shaping us from childhood
firere Christian. Every struggle with that which was base and
unworthy within us was inspired by Christian motives. Im-
perfect in knowledge, infirm in will, volatile in purpose as boys
always are and always will be, still we were Christian boys, who
had only to grow in order to rise into the purer light and better
life of the Christian estate.
I am thus particular in speaking of this, for I was des-
tined to pass through an experience which endangered all
that I h&d won. I shall write of this experience with great
care, but with a firm conviction that my unvarnished story
bas a useful lesson in it, and an earnest wish that it may advance
the cause which holds within itself the secret of a world's re-
demption. I am sure that our religious teachers do not com-
petently estimate the power of religious education on a great
multitude of minds, or adequately measure the almost infinite
mischief that may be inflicted upon sensitive natures by methods
of address and influence only adapted to those who are sluggish
in temperament or besotted by vice.
ii8 Arthur Bonntcastle,
My long stay at The Bird's Nest was a period rf uninterrupted
growth of mind as well as of body. Mr. Bird was a man who
recognized the fact that time is one of the elements that enter
into a healthy development of the mind that mental digestion
and assimilation are quite as essential to true growdi as the re-
ception of abundant food. Hence his aim was never to crowd
a pupil beyond his powers of easy digestion, and never to press
to engorgement the receptive faculties. To give the mind ideas
to live upon while it acquired the discipline for work, was his
steady practice and policy. All the current social and political
questions were made as familiar to the boys under his charge as
they were to the reading world outside. The issues involved
in every political contest were explained to us, and I think we
learned more that was of practical use to us in after-life from
his tongue than from the text-books which we studied.
Some of the peculiarities of Mr. Bird's administration I have
already endeavored to represent, and one of these I must recall
at the risk of repetition and tediousness. In the five years which
I spent under his roof and care, I do not think one lad left the
school with the feeling that he had been unjustly treated in any
instance. No bitter revenges were cherished in any heart. If,
in his haste or perplexity, the master ever did a boy a wrong,
he made instant and abundant reparation, in an acknowledg-
ment to the whole school. He was as tender of the humblest
boy's reputation as he was of any man's, or even of his own.
When I think of the brutal despotism that reigns in so many
schools of this and other countries, and of the indecent way in
which thousands of sensitive young natures are tortured by men
who, in the sacred office of the teacher, display manners that
have ceased to be respectable in a stable, I bless my kind stars
nay, I thank God for those five years, and the sweet influ-
ence that has poured from them in a steady stream through all
my life.
The third summer of my school life was " Reunion Summer,*'
and one week of vacation was devoted to the old boys. It
was with inexpressible interest that I witnessed the interviews
Arthur Bdnnicastle. 1 1 g
between them and their teacher. Young men from colkge
with downy whiskers and fashionable clothes ; young men in
business, with the air of business in their manners; young
dergjrmen, doctors, and lawyers came back by scores. They
brought a great breeze from the world with them, but all be-
came boys again when they entered the j^esence of their old
master. They kissed him as they were wont to do in the times
which had become old times to them. They hung' upon his
neck ; they walked up and down the parlors with their arms
around him ; they sat in his lap, and told him of their changes,
trouUe? and successes ; and all were happy to be at the old nest
again.
Ah, what fetes were crowded into that lu^ppy week ! ^what
games of ball, what receptions, what excursions, what meetings
and speeches, what soi^;s^ what delightful interminglings of all
the social elements of the Tillage ! What did it matter that we
small boys felt very small by the side of those young men whose
old rooms we were occup3ring ? We enjoyed their presence,
and found in it the promise that at some future time we should
come back with whiskers upon our cheeks, and the last triumphs
of the tailor in our coats 1
Henry and I were to leave school in the autumn ; and as the
time drew near for our departure dear Mr. and Mrs. Bird grew
more tender toward us, for we had been there longer than any
of the other boys. I think there was not a lad at The Bird's
Nest during our last t^m whom we found there on our entrance
five years before. Jolly Jack Linton had become a clerk in a
city shop, and was already thrifty and popular. Tom Kendrick
was in college, and was to become a Christian minister. An-
A^ews, too, was in college, and was bringing great comfort to
his family by a true life that had been begun with so bad a
promise. Mr. Bird seemed to take a special pleasure in our so-
ciety, and, while loosening his claim upon us as pupils, to hold us
as associates and friends the more closely. He loved his boys as
a father loves his children. In one of our closing interviews, he
aud Mrs. Bird talked freely of the life they had lived, and its
I20 Arthur Bonnicastle.
beautiful compensations. They never wearied with their work,
but found in the atmosphere of love that enveloped them an in-
spiration for all their labor and care, and a balm for all their trials
and troubles. " If I were to live my life over again," said Mrs.
Bird to me one evening, " I should choose just this, and be per-
fectly content." There are those teachers who have thought
and said that " every boy is a bom devil," and have taught for
years because they were obliged to teach, with a thorough
and outspoken detestation of their work. It is sad to think
that multitudes of bovs have been trained and misunderstood and
abused by these men, and to know that thousands of them are
still in office, untnisted and unloved by the tender spirits which
they have in charge.
My connection with Mrs. Sanderson was a subject to which
Mr. Bird very rarely alluded. I was sure there was something
about it which he did not like, and in the last private conversa-
tion which I held with him it all came out.
" I want to tell you, Arthur," he said, " that I have but one
fear for you. You have already been greatly injured by Mrs.
Sanderson, and by the peculiar relations which she holds to
your life. In some respects you are not as lovable as when
you first came here. You have become exclusive in your so-
ciety, obtrusive in your dress, and fastidious in your notions of
many things. You are under the spell of a despotic will, and
the moulding power of sentiments entirely foreign to your nat-
ure. She has not spoiled you, but she has injured you. You
have lost your liberty, and a cunning hand is endeavoring to
shape you to a destiny which it has provided for you. Now no
wealth can compensate you for such a change. If she make
you her heir, as I think she intends to do, she calculates upon
your becoming a useless and selfish gentleman after a pattem
of her own. Against this transformation you must struggle.
To lose your sympathy fdr your own family and for the great
multitude of the poor ; to limit your labor to the nursing of an
old and large estate ; to surrender all your plans for an active
life of usefulness among men, is to yield yourself to a fate worse
Arthur Bonnicastle. 121
than any poverty can inflict. It is to be bought, to be paid for,
and to be made a slave of. I can never be reconciled to any
such consummation of your life."
This was plain talk, but it was such as he had a right to in-
dulge in ; and I knew and felt it to be true. I had arrived at
the conviction in my own way before, and I had wished in my
heart of hearts that I had had my own fortune to make, like
the other boys with whom I had associated. I knew that
Henry's winter was to be devoted to teaching, in order to pro-
vide himself with a portion of the funds which would be neces-
sary for the further pursuit of his education. He had been
kept back by poverty from entering school at first, so that he
was no further advanced in study than myself, though the years
had given him wider culture and firmer character than I pos-
sessed. Still, I felt entirely, unable and unwilling to relinquish
advantages which brought me immunity from anxiety and care,
and the position which those advantages and my prospects
gave me. My best ambitions were already sapped. I had be-
come weak and to a sad extent self-indulgent. I had acquired
no vices, but my beautiful room at The Mansion had been
wade still more beautiful with expensive appointments, my
wardrobe was much enlarged, and, in short, I was in love with
tiches and al^that riches procured for me.
Mr. Bird's counsel produced a deep impression upon me,
and made me more watchful of the changes in my character
and the processes by which they were wrought. In truth, I
strove against them, in a weak way, as a slave might strive
with chains of gold, which charm him and excite his cupidity
while they bind him.
Here, perhaps, I ought to mention the fact that there was
one subject which Henry would never permit me to talk about,
vi?., the relations with Mrs. Sanderson upon whose baleful
power over me Mr. Bird had animadverted so severely. Why
these and my allusions to them were so distasteful to him, I did
not know, and could not imagine, unless it were that he did
not like to realize the difference between his harder lot and
6
122 Arthur Bonnicastle.
mine. " Please never mention the name of Mrs. Sanderson to
me again," he said to me one day, almost ill-naturedly, and
quite peremptorily. "I am tired of the old woman, and I
should think you would be."
Quite unexpectedly, toward the close of the term, I received
a letter from my father, conveying a hearty invitation to Henry
to accompany me to Bradford, and become a guest in his house.
With the fear of Mrs. Sanderson's displeasure before my' eyes,
should he accept an invitation from my father which he had
once and many times again declined when extended by herself
I was mean enough to consider the purpose of withholding it
from him altogether. But I wanted him in Bradford. I wanted
to show him to my friends, and so, risking all untoward con-
sequences, I read him the invitation.
Henry's face brightened in an instant, and, without consult-
ing his mother, he said at once : " I shall go."
Very much surprised, and fearful of what would come of it,
I blundered out some faint expression of my pleasure at the
prospect of his continued society, and the matter was settled.
I cannot recall our parting with Mr. and Mrs. Bird without
a blinding suffusion of the eyes. Few words were said. "You
know it all, my boy," said Mr. Bird, as he put his arms around
me, and pressed me to his side. "I took you into my heart
when I first saw you, and you will live there until you prove
yourself unworthy of the place."
For several years a lumbering old stage-coach with two
horses had run between Hillsborough and Bradford, and to
this vehicle Henry and I committed our luggage and ourselves.
It was a tedious journey, which tenninated at nightfall, and
brou^t us first to my father's house. Ordering my trunks
to be carried to The Mansion, I went in to introduce Henry
to the family, with the purpose of completing my own jour-
ney on foot
Henry was evidently a surprise to them alL Manly in size,
mould and bearing, he bore no resemblance to the person
whom they had been accustomed to regard as a lad. There
I i
Arthur Bonmcastle. 123
was embarrassment at first, which Henr/s quiet aud unpre-
tending manners quickly dissipated ; and soon the stream of
easy conversation was set flowing, and we were all happy to-
gether. I quickly saw that my sister Claire had become the
real mistress of the household. The evidences of her care were
everywhere. My mother was feeble and prone to melancholy ;
but her young spirit, full of vitality, had asserted its sway, and
produced a new atmosphere in the little establishment. Order,
taste, and a look of competency and comfort prevailed. Without
any particular motive, I watched the interchange of address
and impression between Henry and my sister. It was as
charming as a play. Two beings brought together from dif-
ferent worlds could not have appeared more interested in each
other. Her cheeks were flushed, her blue eyes were luminous,
her words were fresh and vivacious, and with a woman's quick
instinct she felt that she pleased him. Absorbed in his study
of the new nature thus opened to him, Henry so far forgot
the remainder of the family as to address all his words to her.
If my father asked him a question, he answered it to Claire.
If he told a story, or related an incident of our journey home-
ward, he addressed it to her, as if her ears were the only ones
that could hear it, or at least were those which would hear it
with the most interest. I cannot say that I had not anticipated
something like this. I had wondered, at least, how they would
like each other. Claire's hand lighted the candle with which I
led him to his room. Claire's hand had arranged the little
tK)uquet which we found upon his table.
" I shall like ail your father's family very much, I know,"
said Henry, in our privacy.
I was quick enough to know who constituted the largest
portion of the family, in his estimate of the aggregate.
It was with a feeling of positive unhappiness and humilia-
tion that I at last took leave of the delightful and delighted
circle, and bent my steps to my statelier lodgings and the
society of my cold and questioning Aunt. I knew that there
^ould be no hope of hiding from her the fact that Henry had
1 24 Arthur Bonnicastle.
accorapanit^d me home, and that entire frankness and prompt-
ness in announcing it was my best policy ; but I dreaded tho
impression it would make upon her. I found her awaiting my
arrival, and met from her a hearty greeting. How I wished
that Henry were a hundred miles away I
** I left my old chum at my father's," I said, almost before
she had time to ask me a question.
" You did ! " she exclaimed, her dark eyes flaming with anger.
" How came he there ? "
" My father invited him and he came home with me," I re-
plied.
'' So he spurns your invitation and mine, and accepts your
father's. Will you explain this ? "
" Indeed I cannot," I replied. " I have nothing to say, ex-
cept that I am sorry and ashamed."
'* I should think so ! I should think so I " she exclaimed, ris-
ing and walking up and down the little library. '' I should
think so, indeed ! One thing is proved, at least, and proved to
your satisfaction, I hope that he is not a gentleman. I really
must forbid" here she checked herself, and reconsidered.
She saw that I did not follow her with my sympathy, and
thought best to adopt other methods for undermining my firiend-
ship for him.
"Arthur," she said, at last, seating herself and controlling
her rage, "your model friend has insulted both of us. I am an
old woman, and he is nothing to me. He has been invited
here solely on your account, and, if he is fond of you, he has
declined the invitation solely on mine. There is a certain
chivalry z. sense of what i due to any woman under these
circumstances that you understand as well as I do, and I
shall leave you to accept or reject its dictates. I ask nothing
of you that is based in any way on my relations to you. This
fellow has grossly, and without any apology or explanation,
slighted my courtesies, and crowned his insult by accepting
those coming from a humbler source ^from one of my own ten-
ants, in fact"
Arthur Bonnicastle. 125
" I have nothing to say," I responded. " I am really not to
hlame for his conduct, but I should be ashamed to quarrel with
anybody because he would not do what I wanted him to do."
" Very well. If that is your conclusion, I must ask you never
to mention his name to me again, and if you hold any commu
nication with him, never to tell me of it You disappoint me,
but you are young, and you must be bitten yourself before you
will learn to let dogs alone."
I had come out of the business quite as well as I expected
to, but it was her way of working. She saw that I loved my
companion with a firmness that she could not shake, and that
it really was not in me to quarrel with him. She must wait foi
^voring time and circumstances, and resort to other arts to
accomplish her ends arts of which she was the conscious mis-
tress. She had not forbidden me to see him and hold inter-
course with him. She knew, indeed, that I must see him, and
that I could not quarrel with him without offending my father,
whose guest he was ^a contingepcy to be carefully avoided.
I knew, however, that all practical means would be used to
keep me out of his company during his stay in Bradford, and I
was not surprised to be met the next morning with a face cleared
from all traces of anger and suUenness, and with projects for
the occupation of my time.
" I am getting to be an old woman, Arthur," said she, after
a cheefy breakfast, *' and need help in my affairs, which you
ought to be capable of giving me now."
I assured her most sincerely that nothing would give me
greater pleasine than to make what return I could for the kind-
ness she had shown me.
Accordingly, she brought out her accounts, and as she laid
down her books, and package after package of papers, she
said: " I am going to let you into some of my secrets. All
that you see here, and learq of my affairs, is to be entirely con-
fidential. I shall show you more than my lawyer knows, and
more than anybody knows beyond myself."
Then she opened an account book, and in a neat hand made
126 Arthur Bonnicastle.
out a bill for rent to one of her tenants. This was the form
she wished me to follow in making out twenty-five or thirty
other bills which she pointed out to me. As I did the work
with much painstaking, the task gave me emplojanent during
the whole of the morning. At its close, we went over it to-
gether, and she was wann in her praises of my handwriting and
the correctness of my transcript
After dinner she told me she would like to have me look over
some of the papers which she had left on the table. " It is pos-
sible," she said, '' that you may find something that will interest
you. I insist only on two conditions : you are to keep secret
everything you learn, and ask me no question about what may
most excite your curiosity."
One ponderous bimdle of papers I found to be composed
entirely of bonds and mortgages. It seemed as if she had her
hold upon nearly every desirable piece of property in the town.
By giving me a view of this and showing me her rent-roll, she
undoubtedly intended to exhibit her wealth, which was certainly
very much greater than I had suspected. " All this if you con-
tinue to please me," was what the exhibition meant ; and, young
as I was, I knew what it meant To hold these pledges of real
estate, and to own this rent-roll was to hold power ; and with
that precious package in my hands there came to me my first
ambition for power, and a recognition of that thirst to gratify
which so many men had bartered their honor and their souls.
In that book and in those papers lay the basis of the old lad/s
self-assurance. It was to these that men bowed with deferen-
tial respect or superfluous fawning. It was to these that fine
ladies paid their devoirs ; and a vision of the future showed all
these demonstrations of homage transferred to me ^a young
man ^with life all before me. The prospect held not only
these but a thousand delights travel in foreign lands, horses
and household pets, fine equipage, pictures, brilliant society, and
some sweet, unknown angel in the form of a woman, to be loved
and petted and draped witli costly fabrics and fed upon dainties.
I floated ofl" into a wild, intoxicating dream. All the possi*
J
Arthur Bonnicastle. 127
bilities of my future came before me. In my imagination I
abready stood behind that great bulwark against a thousand ills
of life which money builds, and felt myself above the petty
needs that harass the toiling multitude. I was already a social
center and a king. Yet after all, when the first excitement
was over, and I realized the condition that lay between me and
the realization of my dreams "all this if you continue to
please me " I knew and felt that I was a slave. I was not
my own : I had been purchased. I could not freely follow
even the impulses of my own natural affection.
Tiring of the package at last, and of the thoughts and
emotions it excited, I turned to others. One after another I
took them up and partly examined them, but they were mostly
dead documents old policies of insurance long since expired,
old contracts for the erection of buildings that had themselves
grown old, mortgages that had been canceled, old abstracts, of
title, etc., etc. At last I found, at the bottom of the pile, a
package yellow with age ; and I gasped with astonishment as 1
read on the 1;ack of the first paper : ^-^ James Mansfield to Peter
S^fnicastleP I drew it quickly from the tape, and saw ex-
posed upon the next paper : ^^ Julius Wheeler to Peter Bonnu
castle^'* Thus the name went on down through the whole
package. All the papers were old, and all of them were deeds
some of them conveying thousands of acres of colonial
lands. Thus I learned two things that filled me with such de-
light and pride as I should find it altogether impossible to
describe ; first, that the fortune which I had been examining,
and which I had a tolerable prospect of inheriting, had its
foundations laid a century before by one of my own ancestors ;
and second, that Mrs. Sanderson and I had common blood in
our veins. This discovery quite restored my self-respect,
because I should arrive at my inheritance by at least a show
of right. The property would remain in the family where ii
belonged, and, so far as I knew, no member of the family
would have a better right to it than myself I presumed that
toy father was a descendant of this same Peter Bonnicastle,
128 Arthur Bonnicastle.
who was doubtless a notable man in his time ; and only the
accidents of fortune had diverted this large wealth from my
own branch of the family.
This discovery brought up to my memory the conversations
that had taken place in my home on my first arrival in the
town, between Mr, Bradford aiid my father. Here was where
the "blue blood" came from, and Mr. Bradford had known
about this all the time. It was his hint to Mrs. Sanderson
that had procured for me my good fortune. My first impulse
was to thank him for his service, and to tell him that I probably
knew as much as he did of my relations to Mrs. Sanderson ; but
the seal of secrecy was upon my lips. I recalled to mind Mrs.
Sanderson's astonishment and strange behavior when she first
heard my father's name, and thus all the riddles of that first
interview were solved.
Pride of wealth and power had now firmly united itself in my
mind with pride of ancestry ; and though there were humili-
ating considerations connected with my relations to Mrs.
Sanderson, my self-respect had been, wonderfully stijengthened,
and I found that my heart was going out to the little old 1^^
with a new sentiment 2k sentiment of kinship, if not of love.
I identified myself with her more perfectly than I had hitherto
done. She had placed confidence in me, she had praised my
work, and she was a Bonnicastle.
* I have often looked back upon the revelations and the
history of that day, and wondered whether it was possible that
she had foreseen all the processes of mind through which I
passed, and intelligently and deliberately contrived to procure
them. She must have done so. There was not an instrument
wanting for the production of the result she desired, and there
was nothing wanting in the result
The afternoon passed, and I neither went home nor feh a
desire to do so. In the evening she invited me to read, and
thus I spent a pleasant hour preparatory to an early bed.
"You have been a real comfort to me to-day, Arthur," she
saidi as I kissed her forehead and bade her good-ni^t.
Arthur Bonmcastle. 129
What more could a lad who loved praise ask than this ? I
went to sleep entirely happy, and with a new determination to
devote myself more heartily to the will and the interests of my
benefactress. It ceased to be a great matter that my com-
panion for five years was in my father's home, and I saw little
of him. I was employed with writing and with business
errands all the time. During Henry's visit in Bradford I was in
and out of my father's house, as convenience favored, and always
while on an errand that waited. I think Henry appreciated
the condition of affairs, and as he and Claire were rm charming
terms, and my absence gave him more time with her, J presume
that he did not miss me. All were glad to see me useful, and
happy in my usefulness.
When Henry went away I walked down to bid him ferewelL
"Now don't cry, my boy," said Henry, "for I am coming
back; and don't be excited when I tell you that I have
engaged to spend the winter in Bradford. I was wondering
where I could find a school to teach, and the school has come
to me, examining committee and all."
f was delighted. I looked at Claire with the unguarded im-
pulse of a boy, and it brought the blood into her cheeks pain-
folly. Henry parted with her very quietly ^indeed, with
studied quietness ^but was warm in his thanks to my father
and mother for their hospitality, and hearty with the boys, with
whom he had become a great favorite.
I saw that Henry was happy, and particulariy happy in the
thought of returning. As tiie stage-coach rattled away, he
kissed his hand to us all, and shouted " Au remir/** as if his
anticipations of pleasure were embraced in those words rather
than in the fact that he was homeward-bound.
CHAPTER VIII.
I AM INTRODUCED TO NEW CHARACTERS AND ENTER THE
SHADOW OF THE GREAT BEDLOW REVIVAL.
While Henry was a guest at my ol'd home, Mr. Bradford
resumed his visits there. That he had had much to do with
securing my father's prosperity in his calling, I afterwards
learned with gratitude, but he had done it without his humble
friend's knowledge, and while studiously keeping aloof from
him. I never could imagine any reason for his policy in this
matter except the desire to keep out of Mrs. Sanderson's way.
He seemed, too, to have a special interest in Henry; and
it soon came to my ears that he had secured for him his place
as teacher of one of the public schools. Twice during the
young man's visit at Bradford, he had called and invited him
to an evening walk,. on the pretext of showing him some of the
more interesting features of the rapidly growing little city.
Henry's plan for study was coincident with my own. We
had both calculated to perfect our preparation for college
during the winter and following spring, under private tuition ;
and this work, which would be easy for me, was to be accom-
plished by him during the hours left from his schoql duties.
I made my own independent arrangements for recitation and
direction, as I knew such a course would best please Mrs.
Sanderson, and left him to do the same on his return. With
an active temperament and the new stimulus which had come
to me with a better knowledge of my relations and prospects,
I found my nund and my time fully absorbed. When I was
not engaged in study, I was actively assisting Mrs. Sanderson
in her affairs.
One morning in the early winter, after Henry had returned,
and had been for a week or two engaged in his school, I met
Arthur Bonnicastle. 131
Mr. Bradford on the street, and received from him a cordial
invitation to take tea and spend the evening at his home.
Without telling me what company I should meet, he simply
said that there were to be two or three young people beside
me, and that he wanted Mrs. Bradford to know me. Up to
this time, I had made comparatively few acquaintances in the
town, and haul entered, in a social way, very few homes.
The invitation gave me a great deal of pleasure, for Mr. Brad-
ford stood high in the social scale, so that Mrs. Sanderson
could make no plausible objectioA to my going. I was careful
not to speak of the matter to Henry, whom I accidentally
met during the day, and particularly careful not to mention
it in my father's family, for fear that Claire might feel herself
slighted. I was therefore thoroughly surprised when I entered
Mrs. Bradford's cheerful drawing-room to find there, engaged
in the merriest conversation with the family, both Henry and
my sister Claire. Mr. Bradford rose and met me at the door
in lus own hospitable, hearty way, and, grasping my right hand,
put his free arm around me, and led me to Mrs. Bradford
and presented me. She was a sweet, pale-faced little woman,
with large blue eyes, with which she peered into mine with a
charming look of curious inquiry. If she had said : ** I
have long wanted to know you, and am fully prepared to be
pleased with you and to love you," she would only have put
into words the meaning which her look conveyed. I had
never met with a greeting that more thoroughly delighted me,
or placed me more at my ease, or stimulated me more to show
what there was of good in me.
" This is my sister, Mis^ Lester," said she, turning to a prim
personage sitting by the fire.
As the lady did not rise, I bowed to her at a distance, and
she recognized me with a little nod, as if she would have said :
" You are well enough for a boy, but I don't see the propriety
of putting myself out for such young people."
The contrast between her greeting and that of Mr. and Mrs.
Bradford led me to give her more than a passing* look. I con-
132 Arthur Bonntcastle.
eluded at once that she was a maiden of an age more advanced
than she should bewilling to confess, and a person with ways
and tempers of her own. She sat alone,* trotting her knees,
looking into the fire, and knitting with such emphasis as to
give an electric snap to every pass of her glittering needles.
She was larger than Mr$. Bradford, and her dark hair and
swarthy skin, gathered into a hundred wrinkles around her black
eyes, produced a strange contrast between the sisters.
Mrs. Bradford, I soon learned, was one of those women in
whom the motherly instinct is so strong that no living thing
can come into their presence without exciting their wish to
care for it The first thing she did, therefore, after I had
exchanged greetings, was to set a chair for me at the fire,
because she knew I must be cold and my feet must be wet
When I assured her that I was neither cold nor wet, and she
had accepted the statement with evident incredulity and
disappointment, she insisted that I should change my chair
for an easier one. I did this to accommodate her, and then
she took a fiancy that I haul a headache and needed a bottle
of salts. This I found in my hand before I knew it.
As these attentions were rendered, they were regarded by
Mr. Bradford with good-natured toleration, but there issued
fi-om the comer where " Aunt Flick " sat for fi*om some lip I
had already caught her home-name little impatient snifis, and
raps upon the hearth with her trotting heeL
" Jane Bradford," Aunt Flick broke out at last, " I should
think you'd be ashamed. You've done nothing but worry that
boy since he came into the room. One would think he was a
baby, and that it was your business to 'teod him. Just as if he
didn't know whether he was cold, or his feet were wet, or
liis head ached ! Just as if he didn't know enough to go to
the fire if he wanted to ! Millie, get the cat-for your mother,
and bring in the dog. Something must be nursed, of coiu-se."
" Why, Flick, dear ! " was all Mrs. Bradford said, but Mr.
Bradford looked amused, and there came from a corner of the
room that my eyes had not explored the merriest young lau^
Arthur Bonnicastle. 133
imaginable. I had no doubt as to its authorship. Seeing
that the evening was to be an informal one, I had already
begun to wonder where the little girl might be, with whose face
I had' made a brief acquaintance five years before, and of
whom I had caught occasional glimpses in the interval.
Mr. Bradford looked in the direction of the laugh, and ex-
claiming : " You saucy puss 1 " started from his chair, and found
her seated behind an ottoman, where she had been quietly
reading.
" Oh, father I don't, please ! " she exclaimed, as he drew her
from her retreat She resisted at first, but when she saw that
she was fully discovered, she consented to be led forward and
presented to us.
" When a child is still," said Aunt Flick, " I can't see the
use of stirring her up, unless it is to send her to bed."
" Why, Flick, dear !" said Mrs. Bradford again ; but Mr. Brad-
ford to^ no notice of the remark, and led the little girl to us.
She shook hands with us, and then her mother caught and
pulled her into her lap.
"Jane Bradford, why will you burden yourself with that
heavy child ? I should think you would be ilL"
Millie's black eyes flashed, but she said nothing, and I had
an opportunity to study her wonderful beauty. As I looked at
her, I could think of nothing but a gypsy. I could not imagine
how it was possible that she should be the daughter of Mr. and
Mrs. Bradford. It was as if some unknown, oriental ancestor had
reached across the generations and touched her, revealing to
her parents the long-lost secrets of their own blood. Her hair
hung in raven ringlets^ and her dark, healthy skin was as
smooth and soft as the petal of a pansy. She had put on a
scarlet jacket for comfort, in her distant comer, and the color
heightened all her charms. Her face was bright with intel-
ligence, and her full, mobile lips and dimpled chin were charged
with the prophecy of a wonderfully beautiful womanhood. I
looked at her quite enchanted, and I am sure that she was
conscious of my scrutiny, for she disengaged herself gently from
134 Arthur Bonnicastle.
her mothei's hold, and saying that she wished to finish die
chapter she had been reading, went back to her seclusion.
The consciousness of her presence in the room somehow
destroyed my interest in the other members of the family, and
as I felt no restraint in the warm and free social atmosphere
around me, I soon followed her to her comer, and sat down
upon the ottoman behind which, upon a hassock, she had en-
sconced herselfl
" What have you come here for? " she inquired wonderingly,
looking up into my eyes.
" To see you," I replied.
" Aren't you a young gentleman ? "
** No, I am only a big boy."
"Why, thafs jolly," said she. "Then you can be my cchh-
pany."
" Certainly," I responded.
"Well, then, what shall we do? Fm sure I don't know
how to play with a boy. I never did."
" We can talk," I said. " What a fimny woman your Aunt
Flick is ! Doesn't she bother you ? "
She paused, looked down, then looked up into my &ce, and
said decidedly : " I don't like that question."
" I meant nothing ill by it," I responded.
" Yes you did ; you meant something ill to Aunt Flick.'*
" But I thought she bothered you," I said.
"Did I say so?"
" No."
"Well, when I say so, I shall say so to her. Papa and I
understand it"
So this was my little girl, with a feeling of family lo3ralty in
her heart, and a family pride that did not choose to discuss
with strangers the foibles of kindred and the jars of home life.
I was rebuked, though the consciousness of the fact came too
slowly to excite pain. It was her Aunt Flick ; and a stranger
had no right to question or criticise. That was what I gatli-
ered from her words ; and there was so much that charmed me
Arthur Bonnicastle. 135
in tills fine revelation of character, that I quite lost sight of the
fact that I had been snubbed.
" She has a curious name, any way," I said.
At tliis her face lighted up, and she exclaimed : " Oh I TU
tell you all about that. When I was a little girl, ever so much
smaller than I am now, we had a minister in the house. You
know mamma takes care of everybody, and when the minister
came to town he came here, because nobody else would have
him. He stayed here ever so long, and used to say grace at
the table and have prayers. Aunt Flick was sick at the time,
and he used to pray every morning for our poor afflicted sister,
and papa was full of fun with her, just to keep up her courage,
I suppose, and called her *'Flicted,' and then he got to calling
her * Flick ' for a nickname, and now we all call her Flick."
"But does she like it ? "
" Oh, she's used to it, and don't mind."
Millie had closed her book, and sat with it on her lap, her
large black eyes looking up into mine in a dreamy way.
"There's one thing I should like to know," said Millie,
"and that is, where all the books came from. Were they
always here, like the ground, or did somebody make them ? "
" Somebody made them," I said.
"I don't believe it," she responded.
" But if nobody made them, how did they come here ? "
" They are real things : somebody found them."
" No, I've seen men who wrote books, and women too," I
said.
"How did they look?"
" Very much like other people."
"And did they act like other people ?"
" Yes."
" Well, that shows that they found them. They are hum-
bugs."
I laughed, and assured her that she was mistaken.
" Well," said rfie, " if anybody can make books I can ; and
if I don't get married and keep house I shalL"
136 Arthur Bonnicastle.
Veiy much amused, I asked her which walk of life she would
prefer.
" I think I should prefer to be married."
" You are sensible," I said.
"Not to any boy or young man, though," responded the
child, with peculiar and suggestive emphasis.
"And why not?"
" They are so silly ; " and she gave her curls a disdainful
toss. " I shall marry a big man like papa, with gray whiskers
somebody that I can adore, you know."
" Well, then, I think you had better not be married," I rcr
plied. " Perhaps, after all, you had better write books."
" If I should ever write a book," said MilHe, looking out of
the window, as if she were reviewing the long chain of charac-
ters and incidents of which it was to be composed, " I should
begin at the foundation of the world, and come up through
Asia, or Arabia, or Cappadocia . . . and stop under palm-
trees . . . and have a lot of camels with bells. ... I should
have a young man with a fez and an old man with a long beard,
and a chibouk, and a milk-white steed. ... I should have a
maiden too beautiful for anything, and an Arab chieftain with a
military company on horseback, kicking up a great dust in the
desert, and coming after her. . . And then I should have some
sort of an escape, and I should hide the maiden in a tower
somewhere on the banks of the Danube. . . And then Vva
sure I don't know what I should do with her."
"You would many her to the young man with the kz^
wouldn't you?" I suggested.
" Perhaps ^if I didn't conclude to kill him."
" You couldn't be so cruel as that," I said.
" Why, thaf s the fun of it : you can stab a man right through
the heart in a book, and spill every drop of his blood without
hurting him a particle."
" Well," I said, " I don't see but you have made a book al-
ready."
Arthur Bonnicastle. 137
"Would that really be a book ?" she asked, looking eagerly
into my face.
" I should think so," I replied.
" Then it's just as I thought it was. I didn't make a bit of
it I saw it I found it. They're everywhere, and people
see them, just like flowers, and pick them up and press
them."
It was not until years after this that with my slower mascu-
line intellect and feebler instincts I appreciated the beauty of
this revelation and the marvelous insight which it betrayed.
These crude tropical fancies she could not entertain with any
sense of ownership or authorship. They came of themselves,
in gorgeous forms and impressive combinations, and passed
before her vision. She talked of what she saw not of what
she made. I was charmed by her vivacity, acuteness, frank-
ness and spirit, and really felt that the older persons at the
other end of the drawing-room were talking common-places
compared with Millie's utterances. We conversed a long time
upon many things ; and what impressed me most, perhaps, was
that she was living the life of a woman and thinking the
tiioughts of a woman incompletely, of course, and imrecog-
nized by her own family !
. When we were called to tea, she rose up quickly and whis-
pered in my ear : " I like to talk with you." As she came
around the end of the ottoman I offered her my arm, in the
manner with which my school habits had familiarized me. She
took it without the slightest hesitation, and put on the air of a
grand lady.
**Why this is like a book, isn't it?" said she. Then she
pressed my arm, and said : " notice Aunt Flick, please."
Aimt Flick had seen us from the start, and stood with ele-
vated nostrils. The sight was one which evidently excited her
beyond the power of expression. She could do nothing but
sniff as we approached her. I saw a merry twinkle in Mr.
Bradford's eyes, and noticed that as he had Claire on his arm,
and Heniy was leading out Mrs. Bradford, Aunt Flick was left
138 Arthur Bonnicastle.
alone. Without a moment's thought, I walked with Millie
straight to her, and offered her my other arm.
Aunt Flick was thunder-struck, and at first could only say :
" Well 1 well I well I " with long pauses between. Then she
found strength to say : " For all the world like a pair of young
monkeys! No, I thank you; when I want a cane I won't
choose a corn-stalk. I've walked alone in the world so far, and
I think I can do it the rest of the way."
So Aunt Flick followed us out, less vexed than amused, I am
sure.
There are two things which, during all my life, have been
more suggestive to me of home comfoits and home delights
than any others, viz. : A blazing fire upon the hearth, and the
odor of fresh toast I found both in Mrs. Bradford's supper-
room, for a red-cheeked lass with an old-fashioned toasting-
jack in her hand was browning the whitest bread before our
eyes, and preparing to bear it hot to our plates. The subtle
odor had reached me first in the far comer of the drawing-room,
and had grown more stimulating to appetite and the sense of
social and home comfort as I approached its source.
The fire upon the hearth is the center and symbol of the
family life. When the fire in a house goes out, it is because
the life has gone out Somewhere in every house it bums, and
bums, in constant service ; and every chimney that sends its
incense heavenward speaks of an altar inscribed to Love and
Home. And when it ceases to bum, it is because the altar is
forsaken. Bread is the symb#l of that beautiful ministry of
God to human sustenance, which, properly apprehended, trans-
forms the homeliest meal into a sacrament. What wonder,
then, that when the bread of h'fe and the fire on the hearth
meet, they should interpret and reveal each other in an odor
sweeter than violets an odor so subtle and suggestive that
tlie heart breathes it rather than the sense 1
This is all stuff and sentiment, I suppose; but I doubt
whether the scent of toast has reached my nostrils since that
evening without recalling that scene of charming domestic life
Arthur Bonntcastle. 139
and comfort It seemed as if all the world were in that room
and, indeed, it was all there all that, for Xht hour, we could
appropriate.
As we took our seats at the table, I found myself by the side
of MiUie and opposite to Aunt Flick. Then began on the
pari of the latter personage, a pantomimic lecture to her niece.
First she straightened herself in her chair, throwing out her
chest and holding in her chin a performance which Millie
imitated. Then she executed the motion of putting some
stray hair behind her ear. Millie did the same. Then she
tucked an imaginary napkin into her neck. Millie obeyed
the direction thus conveyed. Then she examined her knife,
and finding that it did not suit her, sent it away and received
one that did.
In the mean time, Mrs. Bradford had begun to dispense the
hospitalities of the table. She was very cheerful ; indeed, she
was so happy herself that she overflowed with assiduities that
ran far into superfluities. She was afraid the toast was not
hot, or that the tea was not sweet enough, or that she had for-
gotten the sugar altogether, or that everybody was not prop-
erly waited upon and supplied. I could see that all this
rasped Aunt Flick to desperation. The sniffs, which were
h'ght at first, grew more impatient, and after Mrs. Bradford had
urged half a dozen things upon me that I did not want, and
was obliged to decline, the fiery spinster biurst out with :
" Wouldn't you like to read the Declaration of Independence ?
Wouldn't you like to repeat the Ten Commandments?
Wouldn't you like a yard of calico ? Do have a spoon to eat
your toast with ? Just a trifle more salt in your tea, please ? "
All this was delivered without the slightest hesitation, and
with a rapidity that was fairly bewildering. Poor Millie was
overcome by the comical aspect of the matter, and broke out
into an irrepressible laugh, which was so hearty that it became
contagious, and all of us laughed together except Aunt Flick,
who devoted herself to her supper with imperturbable gravity.
"Why, Flick, dear!" was all that Mrs. Bradford could say
140 Arthur Bonnicastle.
to this outburst of scornful criticism upon her* well-meant cour-
tesies.
Just as we were recovering from our merriment, there was a
loud knock at the street door. The girl with the toasting-jack
dropped her implement to answer the imwelcome summons.
We all involuntarily listened, and learned from his voice \hat
the intruder was a man. We heard him enter the drawing-
room, and then the girl came in and said that Mr. Grimshaw
had called upon the family. In the general confusion that fol-
lowed the announcement, Millie leaned over to me and said :
" It's the very man who used to pray for Aunt Flick."
Mr. Bradford, of course, brought him to the tea-table at
once, where room was made for him by the side of Aunt Flick,
and a plate laid. The first thing he did was to siyallow a cup
of hot tea almost at a gulp, and to send back the empty vessel
to be refilled. Then he spread with butter a whole piece of
toast, which disappeared in a wonderfully brief space of time.
Until his hunger was appeased he did not seem disposed to
talk, replying to such questions as were propounded to him
concerning himself and his family in monosyllables.
Rev. Mr. Grimshaw was the minister of a struggling Congre-
gational church in Bradford. He had been hard at work for
half a dozen years with indifferent success, waiting for some
manifestation of the Master which would show him that his
service and sacrifice had been accepted. I had heard him
preach at different times during my vacation visits, though Mrs.
Sanderson did not attend upon his ministry ; and he had always
impressed me as a man who was running some sort of a
machine. He had a great deal to say about " the plan of sal-
vation" and the doctrines covered by his creed. I cannot
aver that he ever interested me. Indeed, I may say that he
always confused me. Religion, as it had been presented to
my mind, had been a simple thing so simple that a child
might understand it. My Father in Heaven loved me ; Jesus
Christ had died for me. Loving both, trusting both, and serv-
ing both by worship, and by affectionate and helpful good-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 141
will toward all around me was religion, as I had learned it ;
and I never came from hearing one of Mr. Grimshaw's ser-
mons without finding it difficult to get back upon my simple
ground of faith. Religion, as he preached it, was such a tre-
mendous and such a mysterious thing in its beginnings ; it in-
volved such a complicated structure of belief; it divided God
into such opposing forces of justice and mercy ; it depended
upon such awful processes of feeling ; it was so much the pro-
duct of a profoundly ingenious scheme, that his sermons always
puzzled me.
As he sat before me that evening, pale-faced and thin, with
his intense, earnest eyes and solemn bearing and self-crucified
expression, I could not doubt his purity or his sincerity. There
was something in him that awoke my respect and my sympathy.
Our first talk touched only common-places, but as the meal
drew toward its close he ingeniously led the conversation into
religious channels.
" There is a very tender and solemn state of feeling in the
church," said Mr. Grimshaw, " and a great deal of self-examin-
ation and prayer. The careless are beginning to be thought-
ful, and the backsliders are returning to their first love. I most
devoutly trust that we are going to have a season of refresh-
ment. It is a time when all those who have named the name
of the Lord should make themselves ready for His coming."
Aunt Flick started from her chair exactly as if she were
about to put on her hat and cloak ; and I think that was really
her impulse ; but she sat down again and listened intently.
I could not fail to see that this turn in the conversation was
not relished by Mr. Bradford ; but Mrs. Bradford and Aunt
Flick were interested, and I noticed an excited look upon the
faces of both Henry and Claire.
Mrs. Bradford, in her simplicity, made a most natural re-
sponse to the minister's communication in the words : " You
must be exceedingly delighted, Mr. Grimshaw." She said this
very sweetly, and with her cheerful smile making her whole
countenance light.
142 Arthur Bonnicastle.
" Jane Bradford ! " exclaimed Aunt Flick, " I believe you
would smile if anybody were to tell you the judgment-day had
come."
Mrs. Bradford did not say this time : " Why, Flick, dear ! "
but she said with great tenderness : " When I remember who
is to judge me, and to whom I have committed myself, I think
I should."
" Well, I don't know how anybody can make light of such aw-
ful things," responded Aunt Flick.
" Of course, I am rejoiced," said Mr. Grimshaw, at last get-
ting his chance to speak, "but my joy is tempered by the
great responsibility that rests upon me, and by a sense of the
lost condition of the multitudes around me."
"In reality," Mr. Bradford broke in, "you don't feel quite
so much like singing as the angels did when the Saviour came
to redeem the world. But then, they probably had no such
sense of responsibility as you have. Perhaps they didn't appre-
ciate the situation. It has always seemed to me, however, as
if that which would set an angel singing a being who ought
to see a little further forward and backward than we can, and
a little deeper down and higher up -ought to set men and
women singing. I confess that I don't understand the long
faces and the superstitious solemnities of what is called a sea-
son of refreshment If the Lord is with his own, they ought
to be glad and give him such a greeting as will induce him to
remain. I really do not wonder that he flies from many con-*
gregations that I have seen, or that he seems to resist their en-
treaties that he will stay. Half the prayers that I hear sound
like abject beseechings for the presence of One who is very
far off, and very unwilling to come."
This free expression on the part of Mr.' Bradford would have
surprised me had I not just learned that the minister had at one
time been a member of his family, with whom he had been on
familiar terms ; yet I knew that he did not profess to be a relig-
ious man, and that his view of the matter, whether sound or
otherwise, was from the outside. There was a subtle touch d
Arthur Bonnicastle. 143
satire in his words, too, that did not altogether please me ; but
\ did not see what reply could be made to it.
Aunt Flick was evidently somewhat afraid of Mr. Bradford,
and simply said : " 1 hope you will remember that your child is
present"
" Yes, I do remember it," said he, " and what I say about it
is as much for her ears as for anybody's. And I remember
too, that, during all my boyhdbd, I was made afraid of religion.
I wish to save her, if I can, from such a curse. I have read
that when the Saviour was upon the earth, he took little chil-
dren in His arms and blessed them, and went so far as to say
that of such was the kingdom of heaven. If He were to come
to the earth again. He would be as apt to take my child upon
His knee as any man's and bless her, and repeat over her the
same words ; and if He manifests His presence among us in any
way I do not wish to have her kept away from Him by the im-
pression that there is something awful in the fact that He is
here. My God ! if I could believe that the Lord of Heaven
and Earth were really in Bradford, with a dispensation of faith
and mercy and love in His hands for me and mine, do you think
I would groan and look gloomy over it ? Why, I couldn't eat ;
I couldn't sleep ; I couldn't refrain from shouting and singing."
Mr. Grimshaw was evidently touched and impressed by Mr,
Bradford's exhibition of strong feeling, and said in a calm, judi-
cial way that it was impossible that one outside of the church
should comprehend and appreciate the feelings that exercised
him and the church generally. The welfare of the unconverted
depended so much upon a revival of religion within the church
^it brought such tremendous responsibilities and such great
duties ^that Qiristian men and women were weighed down with
solemnity. The issues of eternal life and death were tremen-
dous issues. Even if the angels sang, Jesus suffered in the
garden, and bore the cross on Calvary ; and Christians who are
worthy must suffer and bear the cross also.
" Mr. Grimshaw," said Mr. Bradford, still earnest and excited,
" I have heard from your own lips that the fact that Christ was
144 Arthur Bonnicastle.
to suffer and bear the cross was at least a part of the inspiration
of the song which the angels sang. He suffered and bore die
cross that men might not suffer. That is one of the essential
parts of your creed. He suffered that He might give peace to
the world, and bring life and immortality to light You have
taught me that He did not come to torment the world, but to
save it. The religion which Christendom holds in theory is a
religion of unbounded peace and joy ; that which it holds in fact
is one of torture and gloom ; and I do not hesitate to say that
if the Christian world were a peaceful and joyous world, taking
all the good things of this life in gratitude and gladness, while
holding itself pure from its corruptions, and not only not fear-
ing death, but looking forward with unwavering faith and hope
to another and a happier life beyond, the revivals which it
struggles for would be perpetual, dnd the millennium which it
prays for woiild come."
Then Mr. Bradford, who sat near enough to touch me, laid his
hand upon my shoulder, and said : " Boy, look at your father,
if you wish to know what my ideal of a Christian is, a man of
cheerfulness, trust and hope, under discouragements that would
kill me. Such examples save me from utter infidelity and
despair, and, thank God, I have one such in my own home."
His eyes filled with tears as he turned them upon his wife,
who sat watching him with intense sympathy and affection,
while he frankly poured out his heart and thought.
" I suppose," said the minister, " that we should get no nearer
together in the discussion of this question than we did when
we were more in one another's company, and perhaps it would
be well not to pursue it. You undoubtedly see the truth in a
single aspect, Mr. Bradford ; and you will pardon me for say-
ing that you cannot see it in the aspects which it presents to
me. I came in, partly to let you and your family know of our
plans, and to beg you to attend our services faithfully. I
hope these young people, too, will not fail to put themselves in
the way of religious influence. Now is their time. To-morrow
or next year it may be too late. Many a poor soul is obliged
Arthur Bonnicastle. 145
to take up the lament after every revival : The harvest is past,
the summer is ended, and my soul is not saved.' Before the
spirit takes its flight, all these precious youth ought to be
gathered into the kingdom."
I could not doubt die sincerity of this closing utterance, for
it was earnest and tearfuL In truth, I was deeply moved by it ;
for while Mr. Bradford carried my judgment and opened before
me a beautiful life, I had always entertained great reverence for
ministers, and found Mr. Grimshaw's views and feelings most
in consonance with those I had been used to hear proclaimed
.from the pulpit.
The fact that a revival was in progress in some of the
churches of the town, had already come to my ears.
I had seen throngs pouring into or coming out of church-
doQrs and lecture-rooms during other days than Sunday ; and
a vague uneasiness had possessed me for several weeks. A
cloud had arisen upon my life. I may even confess that my
heart had rebelled in secret against an influence which promised
to interfere with the social pleasures and the progress in study
which I had anticipated for the winter. The cloud came nearer
to me now, and in Mr. Grimshaw's presence quite overshadowed
me. Was I moved by sympathy ? Was I moved by the spirit
of the Almighty ? Was superstitious fear at the bottom of it
all ? Whatever it was, my soul had crossed the line of that
circle of passion and experience in whose center a great mul-
titude were groping and crying in the darkness, and striving to
get a vision of the Father's face. I realized the fact then and
there. I felt that a crisis in my life was approaching.
On Aunt Flick's face there came a look of rigid determina-
tion. She was entirely ready to work, and inquired of Mr.
Grimshaw what his plans were.
" I have felt," said he, " that the labor and responsibility are
too great for me to bear alone, and, after a consultation with
our principal men, have concluded to send for Mr. Bedlow, the
e-iangefist, to assist me."
" Mr. Grimshaw," said Mr. Bradford, " I suppose it is none of
7
146 Arthur BonnicastU.
my business, but I am sony you have done this. I have no faith
in the man or his methods. Mrs. Bradford and her sister will
attend his preaching if they choose : I am not afraid tliat they
will be harmed ; but I decidedly refuse to have this child ol
mine subjected to his processes. Why parents will consent to
yield their children to the spiritual manipulation of strangers I
cannot conceive."
Mr. Grimshaw smiled sadly, and said : "You assume a grave
re^)onsibility, Mr. Bradford."
" /assume a grave responsibility ? " exclaimed Mr. Bradford :
" I had the impression that I relieved you of one. No, leave
the child alone. She is safe with her mother ; and no such man
as Mr. Bedlow shall have the handling of her sensibilities.'*
We had sat a long time at the tea-table, and as we .rose and
adjourned to the drawing-room Mr. Grimshaw took sudden leave
on the plea that he had devoted the evening to many other calls
yet to be made. He was very solemn in his leave-taking, and
for some time after he left we sat in silence. Then Mr. Brad-
ford rose and paced the drawing-room back and forth, his coun-
tenance full of perplexity and pain. I could see plainly that a
storm of utterance was gathering, but whether it would burst in
thunder and torrent, or open with strong and healing rain, was
doubtful
At length he paused, and said : " I suppose that as a man old
enough to be the father of all these young people I ought to say
frankly what I feel in regard to this subject I do not believe
it is right for me to shut my mouth tight upon my convictions.
My own measure of faith is smalL I wish to God it were
larger, and I am encouraged to believe that it is slowly strength-
ening. I am perfectly aware that I lack peace in the exact
proportion that I lack faith ; and so does every man^ no matter
how much he may boast Faith is the natural and only healthy
attitude of the soul. I would go through anything to win it,
but such men as Grimshaw and Bedlow cannot help me. They
simply distress and disgust me. Their whole conception of
Christianity is cramped and mean, and their methods of opeuu
Arthur Bonnicastle. 147
tioii are unwise and unworthy. I know how Mr. Grimshaw
feels: he knows that revivals are in progress in the other
churches, and sees that his own congregation is attracted to
their meetings. He finds it impossible to keep the tide from
retiring from his chiurch, and feels the necessity of doing some-
thing extraordinary to make it one of the centers and receivers
of the new influence. He has been at work faithfully, in his
way, for years, and desires to see the harvest which he lias been
trying to rear gathered in. So he sends for Bedlow. Now I
know all about these Bedlow revivals. They come when he
comes, and they go when he goes. His mustard-seed sprouts
at once, and grows into a great tree, which withers and dies as
soon as he ceases to breathe ujjpn it. I never knew an instance
in which a church that had been raised out of the mire by his
inlQuence did not sink back into a deeper indifference after he
had left it, and that by a process ^i^ch is just as natural as it
is inevitable. An artificial excitement is an artificial exhaus-
tion. He breaks up and ruins processes of religious education
that otherwise would have gone on to perfection. He has one
process for the imbruted, the ignorant, the vicious, the stolid,
the sensitive, die delicate, the weak and the strong, the old
and the young. I know it is said that the spirit of God is with
him, and I hope it is ; but one poor man like him does not
monopolize the spirit of God, I trust ; nor does that spirit re-
fuse to stay where he b not No, it is Bedlow it's all Bedlow ;
and the fact that a revival got up under his influence ceases
when he retires, proves that it is all Bedlow, and accounts for
Ae miserable show of permanently good results."
There was great respect for Mr. Bradford in his own house
hold, and there was great respect for him in the hearts of the
three young people who listened to him as comparative
strangers ; and when he stopped, and sank- into an arm-chair,
looking into the fire, and shading his face with his two hands,
no one broke the silence. Aunt Flick had taken to her cornel
and her knitting, and Mrs. Radford sat with her hands on hei
lap, as if waiting for somediing further.
148 Arthur Bonnicastle,
At length Mr. Bradford looked up with a smile, and regard*
ing the silent group before him, said : " upon my word, we are
not having a very merry evening."
" I assure you," responded Henry, " that I have- enjoyed
every moment of it. I could hear you talk all night."
" So could I," added Claire.
I could not say a word. The eyes of the minister still
haunted me : the spell of a new influence was upon me. What
Mr. Bradford had said about Mr. Bedlow only increased my
desire to hear him, and to come within the reach of his power.
"Well, children," said Mr. Bradford, "for you will let me
call you such, I know, I have only one thing more to say to
you, and that is to stand by your Christian fathers and mothers,
and take their faith just as it is. Not one of you is old enough
to decide upon the articles of a creed, but almost any fiadth is
good enough to hold up a Christian character. Don't bother
yourselves voluntarily with questions. A living vine grows
just as well on a rough trellis of simple branches as on the
smoothest piece of ornamental work that can be made. If you
ever wish to change the trellis when you get old enough to do
it, be careful not to ruin the vine, that is all. I am trying to
keep my vine alive around a trellis that is gone to wreck. I be-
lieve in God and His Son, and I believe that there is one thing
which God delights in more than in all else, and that is Chris-
tian character. I hold to the first and strive for the last,
though I am looked upon as little better than an infidel by all
but one."
A thrill, S3rmpathetically felt by us all, and visible in a blush
and eyes suffused, ran through the dear little woman seated at
his side, and she looked up into his face with a trustful smile
of response.
After this it was difficult to engage in light conversation.
We were questioned in regard to our past experiences and
future plans. We looked over volumes of pictures and a cab-
inet of curiosities, and Millie amused us by reading, and at an
early hour we rose to go home. Millie went to her comer as
Arthur Bonnicastle. 149
soon as we broke up, giving me a look as she passed me. J
took the hint and followed her.
" Shall you go to hear Mr. Bedlow ? " she inquired.
" I think I shall," I answered.
" I knew you would. I should like to go with you, but you
know I can't Will you tell me what he is like, and all about
it?"
"Yes."
I pressed her hand and bade her "good-night"
Mr. Bradford parted with us at the door with pleasant and
courteous words, and told Henry that he must regard the house
as his home,. and assured him that he would always find a wel-
come there. I had noticed during the evening a peculiarly affec-
tionate familiarity in his tone and bearing toward the young man.
I could not but notice that he treated him with more consider-
ation than he treated me. I went away feeling that there were
confidences between them, and suffered the suspicion to make
me uneasy.
I walked home with Henry and Claire, and we talked over
the affairs of the evening together. Both declared their adhe-
sion to Mr. Bradford's views, and I, in my assumed pride of
independent opinion, dissented. I proposed to see for myself
I would listen to Mr. Bedlow* s preaching. I was not afraid of
being harmed, and, indeed, I should not dare to stay away
from him.
As I walked to The Mansion, I found my nerves excited in a
strange degree. The way was full of shadows. I started at
every noise. It was as if the spiritual world were dropped
down around me, and I were touched by invisible wings, and
moved by mysterious influences. The stars shivered in their
high places, the night-wind swept by me as if it were a weird
power of evil, and I seemed to be smitten through heart and
brain by a nameless fear. As I kneeled in my accustomed
way at my bed I lost my confidence. I could not recall my
usual words or frame new ones. I lingered on my knees like
one crushed and benumbed. What it all meant I could not
150 Arthur Bonnicastle.
tell. I only knew that feelings and influences which long had
been gathering in me were assuming the predominance, and
that I was entering upon a new phase of experience. At last
I went to bed, and passed a night crowded with strange dreaim
and dreary passages of unrefreshing dumber.
CHAPTER IX.
I PASS THROUGH A TERRIBLE TEMPEST INTO THE SX7NUGHT.
I HAD never arrived at any definite comprehension of Mrs.
Sanderson^s ideas of religion. Whether she was religious in
any worthy sense I do not know, even to-day. The respect
which she entertained for the clergy was a sentinTent which she
shared with New Englanders generally. She was rather gener-
ous than otherwise in her contributions to their support, yet
the most I could make of her views and opinions was that re-
ligion and its institutions were favorable to the public order
and security, and were, therefore, to be patronized and perma-
nently sustained. I never should have thought of going to her
for spiritual counsel, yet I had learned in some way that she
thought religion was a good thing for a young man, because it
would save him from dissipation and from a great many dangers
to which young men are exposed. The whole subject seemed
to be regarded -by her in an economical or prudential aspect.
I met her on the motning following my visit at the Bradfords,
in the breakfast-room. She was cheery and expectant, for she
always found me talkative, and was prepared to hear the full
story of the previous evening. That I was obliged to tell her
that Henry was there with my sister, embarrassed me much,
for, beyond the fact that she disliked Henry intensely, there
was the further fact most offensive to her that Mr. Bradford
was socially patronizing the poor, and bringing me, her protege,
into association with them. Here was where my chain galled
me, and made me realize my slavery. I saw the thrill of
anger that shot through her face, and recognized the effort she
made to control her words. She did not speak at first, and
not until she felt perfectly sure of self-control did she say :
" Mr. Bradford is very unwise. He inflicts a great wrong upon
152 Arthur Bofintcastle.
young people without position or expectations, when he undei
takes to raise them to his own social leveL How he could dci
such a thing as he did last night is more than I can imagine,
unless he wishes either to humiHate you or offend me."
For that one moment how 1 longed to pour out my love for
Henry and Claire, and to speak my sense of justice in the vindi-
cation of Mr. Bradford I It was terrible to sit still and hold
my tongue while the ties of blood and friendship were con-
temned, and the motives of my hospitable host were, miscon-
strued so cruelly. Yet I could not open my lips. I dreaded a
collision with her as if she had been a serpent, or a furnace of
fire, or a hedge of thons. Ay, I was mean enough to explain
that I had no expectation of meeting either Henry or my sister
there ; and she was adroit enough to reply that she was at least
sure of that without my sapng so.
Then I talked fully of Mr. Grimshaw's call, and gave such
details of the conversation that occurred as I could without
making Mr. Bradford too prominent.
" So Mr. Bradford doesn't like Mr. Bedlow," she remarked ;
' but Mr. Bradford is a trifle whimsical in his likes and dislikes.
Tm sure Fve always heard Mr. Bedlow well spoken of. He
has the credit of having done a great deal of good, and if he is
coming here, Arthur, I think you cannot do better than to go
and hear him for yourself."
Like a flash of light diere passed through my mind the
thought that Providence had not only thus opened the way for
me, but with an imperative finger had directed me to walk in it
God had made the wrath of woman to praise Him, and the re-
mainder He had restrained. Imagining myself to be thus di-
rected, I should not have dared to avoid Mr. Bedlow* s preach-
ing. The whole interview with Mr. Grimshaw, the fact that,
contrary to ray wont, I had not found myself in sympathy with
my old friend, Mr. Bradford, and the strange and unlooked-for
result of my conversation with Mrs. Sanderson, shaped them-
selves into a divine mandate to whose authority my spirit bowed
in ready obedience.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 153
Mr. Bedlow made his appearance in Mr. Grimshaw's pulpit on
the following Sunday ; and a great throng of excited and ex*
pectant people, attracted by the notoriety of the preacher, and
moved by the influences of the time, were in attendance. The
hush of solemnity that pervaded the assembly when these two
men entered the desk impressed me deeply. My spirit was
thrilled with strange apprehension. My emotional nature was
in chaos ; and such crystallizations of opinion, thought, and
feeling as had taken place in me during a life-long course of
religious nurtmre and education were broken up. Outside of
the church, and entirely lacking that dramatic experience of
conversion and regeneration which all around me regarded as
the only true beginning of a religious life, my wAole soul lay
open, quick and quivering, to the influences of the hour, and
the words which soon fell upon it
The pastor conducted the opening services, and I had never
seen him in such a mood. Inspired by the presence of an im-
mense congregation and by the spirit of the time, he rose en-
tirely out of the mechanisms of his theology and his stereot)rped
forms of expression, and poured out the burden of his soul in
a prayer that melted every heart before him. Deprecating the
judgments of the Most High on the coldness and worldliness of
the church ; beseeching the Spirit of all Grace to come and
work its own great miracles upon those who loved the Master,
moving them to penitence, self-sacriflce, hmnility and prayer ;
entreating that Spirit to plant the arrows of conviction in all
unconverted souls, and to bring a great multitude of these into
the Kingdom a multitude so great that they should be like
doves flocking to their windows he prayed like a man inspired.
His voice trembled and choked with emotion, and the tears
coursed down his cheeks unheeded. It seemed as if he could
not pause, or be denied.
Of Mr. Bedlow* s sermon that followed I can give no fitting
idea. After a severe denunciation of the coldness of the church
that grieved and repelled the Spirit of God, he turned to those
without the fold to the unconverted and impenitent. He told
154 Arthur Bonnicastle.
us that God was angry with us eveiy day, that every imagination
of the thoughts of our hearts was only evil continually, that we
were exposed every moment to death and the perdition of un-
godly men, and that it was our duty to turn, then and there, from
the error of our wa3rs, and to seek and seciu'e the pardon which a
pitying Chiist extended to us a pardon which could be had
for the taking. Then he painted with wonderful power the joy
and peace diat follow the ccmsciousness of sin forgiven, and the
glories of that heaven which the Saviour had gone to {prepare
for those who love Him.
I went home blind, staggering, almost benumbed ^with the
words ringing in my ears that it had been my duty before ri^g
from vay seat to give myself to the Saviour, and to go out of
the door rejoicing in the possession of a hope which should be
as an anchor in all the storms of my life ; yet I did not know
what the process was. I was sure I did not know. I had not
the sli^test comprehension of what was required of me, yet
the lact did not save me from the impression that I had con^
mitted a ^eat sin. I went to my room and tried to pray, and
spent half an hour of such helpless and pitiful distress as X
cannot describe. Then there arose in me a longing for com-
panionship. I could not unbosom myself to Mrs. Sanderson.
Henry's calm spirit and sympathetic counsels were beyond my
reach. Mr. Bradford was not in the church, and I could only
think of my &ther, and determine that I would see him. I ate
but little dinner, made no conversation with Mrs. Sanderson,
and, toward n^t, left the house and sought ray father's home.
I found the house as solemn as death. AH the family save
Claire had heard Mr. Bedlow, and my mother was profoundly
dejected. A cloud rested upon my brothers and sisters. My
fiather apprehended at once the nature of my errand, and,
by what seemed to be a mutual impulse and understanding,
we passed into an unoccupied room and closed the door. The
moment I found n^self alone with him I threw my arms around
his neck, and bursting into an uncontrollable fit of weeping,
exclaimed : "Oh. fether ! father 1 what shall I do ? "
Arthur Bonntcastle. 155
For years I had not come to him with a trouble. For years
I had not reposed in him s^ single heart-confidence, and foi the
first time in his life he put both his arms affectionately around
me and embraced me. Minutes passed while we stood thus.
I could not see his face, for my own was bowed upon his shoul-
der, but I could feel his heart-beats, and the convulsions of
emotion which shook him in every fiber. At last he gently put
me off, led me to a seat, and sat down beside me. He took
my hand, but he could not speak.
" Oh, father ! what shall I do ? " I exilaimed again.
" Go to God, my boy, and repeat the same words to him with
the same earnestness."
" But he is angry with me," I said, " and you are not You
pity me and love me. I am your child. You cannot help be-
ing sorry for me."
" You are his child too, my boy, by relations a thousand
tknes tenderer and more significant than those which make you
mine. He loves you and pities you more than I can."
" But I don't know how to give myself to him," I said.
" I have had the impression and the hope," my father re-
sponded, " that you had already given yourself to him."
" Oh, not in this way at all," I said.
My father had his own convictions, but he was almost mor-
Indly conscientious in all his dealings with the souls around
him. Fearful of meddling with that which the Gracious Spirit
had in charge and under influence, and modest in the assertion
of views which might possibly weaken the hold of conviction
upon me ; feeling, too, that he did not know me well enough
to direct me, and fearful that he might arrest a process which,
perfected, might redeem me, he simply said : " I am not wise ;
let us pray together, that we may be led aright"
Then he kneeled and prayed for me. Ah 1 how the blessed
words of that prayer have lingered in my memory 1 Though
not immediately fruitful in my experience, they came to me
' ^ng years after, loaded with the balm of healing. " Oh,
Father in Heaven i " he said, '^ this is our boy, thy child and
156 Arthur Bonnicastle.
mine. Thou lovest and pitiest him more than I can. Help
him to %o to Thee as he has come to me, and to say in perfect
submission, * Oh, Father, what shall I do 1 ' "
I went home at last somewhat calmed, because I had had
sympathy, and, for a few moments, had leaned upon another
nature and rested. I ate little, and, as soon as the hour ar-
rived, departed to attend the evening service, previously having
asked old Jenks to attend the meeting and walk home with
me, for I was afraid to return alone.
fA. strange and gloon^ change had come over the sky ; and
the weather, which had been extremely cold for a week, had
grown warm. The snow under my feet was soft and yielding,
and ahready little rivulets were coursing along the ruts worn by
the sleighs. The nerves which had been braced by the tonic
of the cold, clear air were relaxed, and with the uncertain foot-
ing of the streets I went staggering to the church.
In the endeavor now to analyze my feelings I find it impos-
sible to believe that I was convinced that my life had been one
of bold and intentional sin. A considerable part of my pain^
I know, arose from the fact that I could not realize my own
sinfulness as it had been represented to me. I despaired be-
cause I could not despair. I was distressed because I could
not be sufficiently distressed. There was one sin, however, of
which I had a terrified consciousness, viz.,, that of rejecting
the ofier of mercy which had been made to me in the morning,
and of so rejecting it as to be in danger of forever grieving
away the Spirit of God which I believed was at work upon my
heart This was something definite and dreadful, though I felt
perfectly ignorant of the exact thing required of me and impo-
tent to perform it. If I could have known the precise nature
of the surrender demanded of me, and could have compre-
hended the effort I was called upon to make, I believe I should
have been ready for both ; but in truth I had been so mystified
by the preacher, so puzzled by his representation of the mira-
cle of conversion, which he made to appear to be dependent
on God's sovereign grace entirely, and yet so entirely depend.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 157
ent on me that the whole giiilt of remaining unconverted would
rest with me ; I was so expectant of some mighty, overwhelm-
ing influence that would bear me to a point where I could see
through the darkness and the discord an influence which did
not come that I was paralyzed and helpless.
I was early in the church, and saw the solemn groups as
they entered and gradually filled the pews. The preachers,
too, were early in the desk. Mr. Bedlow sat where he could
see me and read my face. I knew that his searching, magnetic
eyes were upon me, and in the exalted condition of my sensi-
bilities I felt them. In, the great hush that followed the en-
trance of the crowd and preceded the beginning of the exer-.
cises I saw him s]^wly rise and walk down the pulpit stairs. I
had never known anything of his methods, and was entirely
unprepared for what followed. Reaching the aisle, he walked
^ directly to where I sat, and raising his finger, pointed it at me
and said : " Young man, are you a Christian ? "
" I suppose not," I answered.
" Do you ever expect to become one ? "
'* I do," I.replied.
At this he left me, and went to one and another in the con-
gregation, putting his question and making some remark. Sen-
sitive men and women hung their heads, and tried to evade his
inquiries by refusing to look at him.
At length he went back to his desk, and said that the church
could do no better than to hold for a few minutes a season of
prayer, preparatory to the services of the evening ; and then
he added: "Will some brother pray for a young man who
expects to become a Christian, and pray that that expectation
may be taken aw^y from him."
Thereupon a young man, full of zeal, kneeled before the
congregation and poured out his heart for me, and prayed as
he had been asked to pray : that my expectation to become a
Christian might be taken away from me. He was, however,
considerate and kind enough so far to modify the petition as to
B^ th^ I might lose my expectation in the immediate realiza^
158 Arthur Bonnicastle.
tion of a Christian experience ^that my hope to beconae a
Christian might be swallowed up in my hope of a Christian's
reward.
This kindness of the young man, however, to whose ^al and
good-will I give hearty honor, could not eflface the sore sense
of wrong I had suffered at the hand of Mr. Bedlow. Why he
should have singled me out in the throng for such an awful
infliction I did not knOw, and why he should have asked any-
body to pray that all expectation of becoming a Christian
should be taken away from me I could not imagine. I felt
that I was misunderstood and outraged, at first, and as voj
anger died away, or was quenched by odier emotions, I found
that I was still more deeply puzzled than l9f(M*e. Was I not
carefully and prayerfully seeking ? And was not this expecta-
tion the one thing which made my life endurable ? Would I
not give all the world to find my feet upon the sure foundation ?
Had I not in my heart of hearts determined to find what there
was to be found if I could, or die ?
No : Mr. Bedlow, meaning well no doubt, and desiring to
lead me nearer to spiritual rest, had thrust me intp deeper and
wilder darkness ; and in that darkness, haunted by forms of tor-
ment and terror, I sat through one of the most impres^ve ser-
mons and exhortations I had ever heard. I went out of the
church at last as utterly hopeless and wretched as I could be.
There was a God of wrath above me, because th^e was the
guilt of unfulfilled duty gnawing at my conscience. It seemed
as if the great tragedy of the universe were being performed in
my souL Sun, moon, stars, the kingdoms and glory of the
world ^what were all these, either in themselves or to me, com-
pared with the interests of a soul on which rested the burden of
a decision for its own heaven or hell?
As I emerged into the open air, I met Jenks at the door,
waiting for me, and as I lifted my hot face I felt the cold rain
falling upon it. Pitchy darkness, unrelieved save by the dim
lights around the town and the blotched and rapidly melting
snow, had settled upon the world. I clutched the old srva&f f
Arthur Bonnicasile. 159
ann, and struck off in silence towards home. We had hardly
walked the distance of a block before there came a flash of
blinding lightning, and we were in the midst of that impressive
anomaly, a January thunder-storm. It was strange how har-
moniously this storm supplemented the influences of the ser-
vices at the church, from which I had just retired. To me it
was the crowning terror of the night. I had no question that
it was directed by the same unseen power which had been
stni^ling with me all day, and that it was expressive of His in-
finite anger. As we hurried along, improtected in the pouring
rain, flash after flash illuminated the darkness, and peal after
peal ctf thunder hurtled over the city, rolled along the heavens,
and echoed among the distant hiUs. I walked in constant
fear of being struck dead, and of passing to the judgment un-
reconciled and unredeemed. I felt that my soul was dealing
directly with the great God, and under the play of his awful en-
ginery of destruction I realized my helplessness, I could only
pray to him, with gasps of agony, and in whispers : " Oh, do
not crush me ! Spare me, and I will do anything ! Save my
life, and it shall be thine ! "
When I arrived at the house I did not dare to go in, for then
I sh(Mild be left alone. Without a word I led Jenks to the
stable, and, dripping with the rain, we passed in.
" Oh, Jenks," I said, " I must pray, and you must stay with
me. I cannot be left alone."
I knelt upon the stable-floor, and the old man, touched with
sympathy, and awed by the passion which possessed me, knelt
at my side. Oh, what pledges and promises I gave in that
prayer, if God would spare my life ! How wildly I asked for
pardon, and how earnestly did I beseech the Spirit of all Grace
to stay with me, and never to be grieved away, until his work
was perfected in n e !
The poor old man, with his childish mind, could not under
stand my abandonment to grief and terror ; but while I knelt
I felt his trembling arm steal around me, and knew that he was
sobbing. His heart was deeply moved by pity, but the case
i6o Arthur Bonnzcastle.
was beyond his comprehension. He could say nothing, but
the s}Tnpathy was very grateful to me.
And all this time there was another arm around me, whose
touch I was too benumbed to feel ; there was another heart
beside me, tender with sympathy, whose beatings I was too
much agitated to apprehend ; there was a voice calling to the
tempest within me, "Peace ! be still!" but I could not hear it.
Oh, infinite Father ! Oh, loving and pitying Christ 1 Why
could I not have seen thee, as thou didst look down upon and
pity thy terror-stricken child ? Why could I not have seen thy
arms extended toward me, and thy eyes beaming with ineffable
love, calling me to thy forgiving embrace? How could I have
done thee the dishonor to suppose that the simple old servant
kneeling at my side was tenderer and more pitiful than thou ?
We both grew chilly at last, and passed quietly into the house.
Mrs. Sanderson had retired, but had left a bright fire upon the
hearth, at which both of us warmed and dried ourselves. The
storm, meantime, had died away, though the lightning still
flapped its red wings against the windows, and the dull rever-
berations of the thunder came to me from the distance. With
the relief from what seemed to be the danger of imminent death,
I had the strength to mount to my room alone, and, after an-
other prayer which failed to lift my burden, I consigned myself
to my bed. The one thought that possessed me as I lay down
was that I might never wake if I should go to sleep. My ner-
vous exhaustion was such that when sinking into sleep I started
many times from my pillow, tossing the clothes from me, and
gasping as if I had been sinking into an abyss. Sleep came at
last, however, and I awoke on the morrow, conscious that I
had rested, and rejoicing at least in the fact that my day of pro-
bation was not yet past. My heart kindled for a moment as I
looked from my window into the face of the glorious sun, and
the deep blue heaven, but sank within me when I remembered
my promises, and felt that the struggle of the previous day was
to be renewed.
This struggle I do not propose to dwell upon further in ex
Arthur Bonnicastle. i6i
tended detail. If the record of it dius far is as painful to read
as it is to write, the reader will have tired of it already. It
lasted for weeks, and I never rationally saw my way out of that
blindness. There were literally hundreds in the city who pro-
fessed to have found a great and superlatively joyous peace,
but I did not find it, nor did it come to me in any way by
which I dreamed it might come.
The vital point with me was to find some influence so power-
fill that I could not resist it. I felt myself -tossing upon a
dangerous sea, just outside the harbor, between which and me
there stretched an impassable bar. So, wretched and worn
with anxious waiting, I looked for the coming in of some
mighty wave which would lift my sinking bark over the forbid-
ding obstacle, into the calm waters that mirrored upon their
banks the domes and dwellings of the city of the Great King.
Sometimes I tired of Mr. Bedlow, and went to other churches,
longing always to hear some sermon or find some influence
that would do for me that which I could not do for myself. I
visited my father many times, but he could not help me, beyond
what he had already done. One of the causes of my perplex-
ity was the fact that Henry attended the prayer-meetings, and
publicly participated in the exercises. I heard, too, that, in a
quiet way, he w^r very influential in his school, and that many
of his pupils had beguB a religious life. Why was he different
firom myself ? Why was it necessary that I should go through this
experience of fear and torment, while he escaped it altogether ?
All our previous experience had been nearly identical. For
years we had been subjected to the same influences, had
struggled for the same self-mastery, had kneeled at the same
bed in daily devotion ; yet here he was, busy in Christian ser-
vice, steadily rejoicing in Christian hope, into which he had
grown through processes as natural as those by which the rose-
tree rises to the grace of inflorescence. I see it all now, but
then it not only perplexed me, but filled me with weak com-
plaining at my harder lot.
During these eventful weeks I often met Millie Bradfd):d on
1 62 Arthur Bonnicastle.
her way to and from school I have no doubt that, from her
window, she had made herself familiar with my habits of going
and coming, and had timed her own so as to fall in with me.
In communities not familiar with the character and history of
a New England revival, it wcmld be impossible to conceive of
the universality of the influence which they exert during tiie
time of their highest activity. Multitudes of men neglect their
business. Meetings are held during every evening of the
week, and sometimes during all the days of the week. Giil-
dren, gathered in their own little chambers, hold prayer-
meetings. Religion is the all-absorbing topic, with old and
young.
Millie was like the rest of us ; and, forbidden to hear Mr.
Bedlow preach, she had determined to win her experience at
home. It touches me now even to tears to remember how she
used to meet me in the street, and ask me how I was getting
along, how I liked Mr. Bedlow, and whether he had helped me.
She told me that she and her mother were holding little prayer-
meetings together, but that Aunt Flick was away pretty much
all the time. She was seeking to become a Christian, and at
last she told me that she thought she had become one. I was
rational enough to see that it was not necessary for an innocent
child like her to share my graver experiences. Indeed, I
listened eagerly to her expressions c^ simple faith and trust, and
to her recital of the purposes of life to which she had com-
mitted herself. One revelation which she made in confidence,
but which I am sure was uttered because she wanted me to
think well of her father, interested me much. She said her
father prayed very much alone, though he did not attend the
meetings. The thought of my old friend toiling in secret over
the problem which absorbed us all was very impressive.
Thus weeks passed away, and the tide which rose to its food
began to ebb. I could see that the meetings grew less fre-
quent, and that the old haUts of business and pleasure were
reasserting themselves. Conversions were rarer, and the
blazing fervor of action and devotion cocked. As I realized
Arthur Bonnicastle. 163
this, and, in realizing it, found tliat I was just as &r from the
point at which I had aitne(l as I was at the beginning, a strange,
desperate despair seized me. I could hope for no influences in
the fijture more powerful than those to which I had been sub-
jected. The stimulus to resolution and endeavor was nearly
expended. Yet I had many times vowed to the Most High
^t before that season had passed away I would find Him, and,
with him, peace, if He and it were to be found. What was I
to do?
At last there came a day of in-gathering. The harvest was to
be garnered. A great number of men, women, and youth were
to be received into the church. I went early, and took a seat
in the gallery, where I could see the throng as they presented
themselves in the aisles to make their profession of faith and
unite in their covenant When called upon they took their
places, coming forward from all parts of the audience in front of
the Communion table. Among them were both Henry and
Cl^e, At sight of them I grew sick. Passage after passage
of Scripture that seemed applicable to my condition, crowded
into my mind. They came from the North and the South and
the East and the West, and sat down in the Kingdom of God,
and I, a child of the Kingdom, baptized into the name of the
IneffaUe, was cast out The harvest was past, the summer
was ended, aiid my soul was not saved I I witnessed the cere-
monies wi& fedings mingled of despair, bitterness, and despe-
ration. On the faces of these converts, thus coming into the
fold, there was impressed the seal of a great and solemn joy.
Within my bosom there burned the feeling that I had honestly
tried to do my duty, and that my endeavors had been spumed.
In a moment, to which I had been led by processes whose end
I could not see, my will gave way, and I said, " I will try no
longer. This is the end." Every resolution and purpose within
me was shivered by the fall.
To what depth of perdition I might be hurled under what
judgment I might be crushed I could not tell, and hardly cared
to imaginjC. Quite to my amazement, I found myself at perfect
164 Arthur Bonnicastle.
peace. What did it mean ? Not only was the burden gone,
but there thrilled through my soul a quick, strong joy. A|y
spirit was like a broad sea, alive all over with sunlit ripples,
with one broad track of glory that stretched across into the un-
fathomable heaven ! I felt the smile of God upon me. I felt
the love of God within me. Was I insane ? Had satan ap-
peared to me as an angel of light and deceived me ? Was thb
conversion ? I was so much in doubt in regard to the real nat-
ure of this experience, that when I left the house I spoke to
no one of it Emerging into the open air, I found myself in a
new world. I walked the streets as lightly as if wings had been
upon my shoulders, lifting me from point to point through all
the passage homeward. Ah, how blue the heavens were, and
how broad and beautiful the world ! What a blessed thing it
was to live 1 How sweet were the faces not only of friends,
but even of those whom I did ijot know 1 How gladly would I
have embraced every one of them ! It was as if I had been un-
clothed of my mortality, and clothed upon with the immortal.
I was sure that heaven could hold no joy superior to that.
When passing Mr. Bradford's, I saw Millie at the window.
She beckoned to me, and I went to her door. " How is it
now ? " she said.
" I don't know, Millie," I replied, " but I think it is all right.
I never felt before as I do now."
" Oh, I was getting so tired ! " said she. " Fve been pray-
ing for you for days, and days, and days ! and hoping and hop-
ing you'd get through."
I c 'Tild only thank her, and press her little hand ; and then I
hurried to luy home, mounted to my room, shut and locked the
door, and sat down to think.
CHAPTER X.
I JOIN A CHURCH THAT LEAVES OUT MR. BRADFORD AKD
MILLIE.
How shUl I write the history of the few weeks that followed
my new experience ? I had risen, as on wings, from the depths
of despair to the heights of hope. I had emerged from a valley
of shadows, haunted by ten thousand forms of terror and shapes
of anguish, and sat down upon the sunny hUls of peace. The
world, which had become either mocking or meaningless to me,
was illuminated with loving expression in every feature. Far
above the deep blue of the winter skies my imagination caught
the sheen of winged forms and the far echoes of happy angel-
voices. I lifted my face to the sun, and, shutting my eyes, fejt
the smile of God upon me. Every wind that blew brought its
ministry of blessing. Every cloud that swept the sky bore its
message of good-will from heaven. I loved life, I loved the
world, I loved every living thing I saw, and, more than all, I
loved the Great Father who had bestowed upon me such gra-
cious gifts of hope and healing.
Mrs. Sanderson, though she had said little, and had received
no confidence from me, had been troubled for many weeks.
She had seen in my haggard eyes and weary look the evidences
of a great trial and struggle ; but without the power to enter
into it, or to help me out of it, she had never done more than
to ask me if^ for my health's sake, it would not be better for
me to attend fewer meetings and take more sleep. The weeks
that followed were only more satisfactory to her from the con.
viction that I was happier, for I gave myself with hearty zeal
to the work which I felt had been imposed upon me.
My father was happy in my new happiness, never doubting
1 66 Arthur Bonnicastle.
that it had come to me through the Grace of Heaven. I was
assured on every hand that I had passed through that change
of regeneration which was the true basis in me, and in many at
least, of the new life. Meeting Mr. Bradford, I spoke freely to
him of my change, and he told me with a sigh that he was glad
I was at peace. He evidently did not say all that he felt, but
he said nothing to discourage me.
It soon became known to Mr. Grimshaw and the members
of his church that I had become a convert, and I found abun-
dant opportunities at once to exercise such gifts as I possessed
to induce others to drink at the fountain from which I had
drawn such draughts of peace and pleasure, I prayed in pub-
lic ; I exhorted ; I went from one to another of my own age
with personal persuasions. Nay, I was alluded to and held up,
in public and private, as one of the most notable of the trophies
which had been won in the great struggle with the powers of
darkness through which the church had passed.
I look back now upon the public life that I lived in those
youthful days with wonder. Audiences that I then faced and
addressed without embarrassment would now send fever into
my lips and tongue, or strike me dumb. I rejoiced then in a
prominence from which I should now shrink with a sensitiveness
of pain quite insupportable. I was the youthful mai-vel of the
town ; and people flocked again to the church where I was to
be seen and heard as if a new Bedlow had come down to them
from the skies.
This publicity did not please Mrs. Sanderson, but she saw
farther, alas ! than I did, and knew that such exaltation could
not be perpetual. Could I have had a wise counsellor then.
It would hnve saved me years of wandering and years of sorrow.
1 lie t inlency of this public work was to make me vain, and
induce a love of the sound of my own voice. Without experi-
ence, flattered by attention, stimulated by the assurance that I
was doing a great cieal of good, and urged on by my own de-
light in action, 1 fui ly took the bit in my teeth, and ran such a
race as left me at last utterly exhausted. I went from meeting
Arthur Bonnicastle. 167
to meeting all over the city. There was hardly a church in
which my voice was not heard. Everywhere I was thanked
and congratulated. I did not realize then as I do now that I
was moved by a thirst for praise, and that motives most human
mingled strangely and strongly with the divine in urging me
forward. O Heaven ! to think that I, a poor child in life and
experience, should have labored in Thy name to win a crown
to my personal vanity !
I shudder nowat the cruelty practiced upon the young nearly
ever)rwhere, in bringing them to the front, and exposing them
to sudi temptations as those which then had the power to
poison all my motives, to brush away from my spirit the bloom
of youthful modesty, and to expose me to a process which was
certain to ultimate in spiritual torpor and doubt I always
tremble and sicken when I behold a child or youth delighting
in the exercises of a public exhibition ; and when I see, inside
or outside of church walls, children bred to boldness through
the public show of themselves and their accomplishments, and
realize what part of their nature is stimulated to predominance
by the process, and what graces are extinguished by ij, I do
not wonder at the lack of reverence in American character,
and that exhaustion of sensibility which makes our churches so
faint and fitftil in feeling.
Having given up all my earlier ideas of religion, and learned
to regard them as wholly inadequate and unworthy, I could be
in my new work little more than a parrot. I had passed
through but a single phase of what I had learned to regard as a
genuine religious experience, and my counsels were but the
repetitions of what I had heard. If some wise man or woman
could have told me of myself of the proprieties that belong to
the position of alieoph)rte of the dangers of public labor, and of
beingpublicly petted and exhibited, how well for me would it have
been ! But I had no such counsellor. On the contrary, I was
seized upon at once as a fresh instrumentality for carrying on a
work already waning. I am ashamed to think of the immod-
esty of some of my personal approaches to my elders whom I
1 68 Arthur Bonnicastle.
regarded as needing my ministry, and humiliated by the memoiy
of the considerate forbearance with which I was treated for
religion's and my motive's sake.
It was in labors and experiences like these that a few weeks
passed away. Another in-gathering of the great spiritual har-
vest approached. I, among others, was to make a public pro-
fession of my faith, and become a member of the church. Mr.
Grimshaw put upon me the task of persuading the yoimg of my
own age to join me in this solemn self-dedication, and I had
great success in my mission.
Among the considerable number whom I had selected as
proper subjects of my counsels and persuasions, was my in-
teresting friend Millie Bradford : but I knew she was quite too
yoimg to decide so momentous a question, and that her ^ther
would not permit her to decide it for herself. To tell the
truth, I did not like to meet Mr. Bradford with my proposition,
for I anticipated objections, and did not feel qualified to argue
with him. I consulted with Mr. Grimshaw in regard to the
case, and it was finally decided that we should visit Mr. Brad-
ford together.
Accordingly we called upon him, and spent an evening in
conversation, which, although it won no hew members to my
group, left a deep impression upon my mind and memory.
The conversation was begun by Mr, Grimshaw, who said :
" We liave called, Mr. Bradford, with the purpose of conferring
with you in regard to your daughter Millie. I know but little
of her, but I learn through Arthur that she is a sharer in the
blessings of our great revival. Have you any objection to her
union with our church, provided she shall choose to become a
member ? "
" Have you no invitation for any one else in the family ? "
inquired Mr. Bradford, with a smile.
"I was not aware that there were other converts in the
family," responded the minister.
" I speak it with great humility, Mr. Grimshaw," said Mr.
Bradford, " but I count myself a disciple. I am a learner at the
Arthur Bonnicastle. 169
feet of your Master and mine ; and I have been a learner for
years. I do not regard myself as having attained, or fully ap-
prehended, but I follow on, and I should like society on the
way, as well as any one."
" But your views do not accord with those professed by our
church," said Mr. Grimshaw.
" I do not know what business the church may legitimately
have with my private opinions. I learn from the New Testa-
ment that he who repents and believes on the Lord Jesus Christ
shall be saved. A man who does this belongs at least to the
invisible church, and I do not recognize the ri^t of a body of
men calling themselves a church to shut out from their com-
munion any man or woman who belongs to the church invisible,
or any one whom the Master counts among his disciples."
" But we must have some standard of faith and belief," said
Mr. Grimshaw.
" I suppose you must," responded Mr. Bradford, " but why
should you construct it of non-essential materials? Why
should you build a high fence around your church, and insist
that every man shall climb every rail, when the first is all that
the Master asks him to climb. I recognize repentance and
trust as the basis of a Christian character and life, and I regard
character as the one grand result at which the Author of Chris-
tianity aimed. He desired to make good men out of bad men ;
and repentance and trust form the basis of the process. MTien
you go beyond this, with your dogmas and your creeds, you in-
frbge upon the liberty of those whom repentance and trust
have made free. Personally, I feel that I am suffering a great
wrong, inflicted in ignorance and with good motives no doubt,
but still a wrong, in that I am shut out from Christian sympathy
and fellowship. I will not profess to believe any more than I
do believe. It is simply impossible for me, a rational, honest,
mature man, to accept that which you prescribe for me. I am
perfectly willing that you should believe what seems to you to
be true, touching all these points of doctrine. I only insist
that you shall be a Christian in heart and life an honest disci
8
170 Arthur Bonntcastle.
pie. If you cannot give me the same liberty, under the same
conditions, we can never get any nearer together."
" You seem to forget," responded the minister, " that our
creed is the product of whole ages of Christian wisdom that
it has been framed by men of wide and profound experience,
who have learned by that experience what is essential to the
stability and purity of the church."
"And you seem to forget," said Mr. Bradford, "that the
making and defense of creeds have rent the seamless garment
of the Lord into ten thousand fragments that they have been
the instruments for the destruction of the unity of the church in
fact and feeling that they have not only been the subjects of
controversies that have disgraced the church before the world,
and embittered the relations of large bodies of Chiistians, but
have instigated the crudest persecutions and the most out-
rageous murders and martyrdoms. You are not so bigoted as
to deny that tfiere are Christians among all the sects ; and you
are liberal enough to give to the different sects the liberty of
faith which they claim. The world is growing better in this
thing, and is not so intolerant as it was. Now, why will you
not give me the same liberty, as a man, that you give to churches
founded on creeds at variance with yours? You invite the
teachers of other sects into your pulpit You invite their peo-
ple to your communion table, while you shut me away by con-
ditions that are just as impossible to me as they would be to
them."
I could see that Mr. Grimshaw was not only overwhelmed in
argument but deeply moved in feeling. He grasped Mr. Brad-
ford's hand, and said: "My dear sir, it would give me one of
the greatest pleasures of my life to receive you into our com-
munion, for I believe in your sincerity and in your character,
but I could not if I would."
" I know it," responded Mr. Bradford : " your sympathies
go beyond your creed, and your most earnest convictions stop
short of it. Your hands are tied, and your tongue must be
dumb. You and your church will go on in the old way. The
Arthur Bonnicastle. 171
young who do not think, and the mature who will not try to
think, or do not dare to try, will accept what you prescribe for
them. Women, more trustful and religious than men, will con-
stitute the majority of your members. In the mean time, the
thinking men the strong, influential, practical men of society
the men of culture, enterprise, and executive power ^will re-
main outside of the church shut out by a creed which their
reason refuses to accept."
" I am afraid the creed is not altogether to blame for their
exclusion," said the minister. "*Not many wise* ^you re-
member the quotation."
"When Christianity was an apostasy from a church to which
all the wise and mighty were attached," replied Mr. Bradford,
" your quotation was doubtless true as a statement of fact, but
we belong to another nation and age. I hold myself a type
and representative of a large class, who cannot enter the church
without self stultification and a sacrifice of that liberty of
thought and opinion which is their birthright. We cannot
afford to do without you, and you cannot afford to do without
us. It is your business to make a home for us, for we are all
passing on to that stage and realm of being where opinions will
be of small account, and where character will decide everything."
" We have wandered very far from your daughter, Mr. Brad-
ford, about whom we came to talk," said Mr. Grimshaw.
An expression of pain passed over Mr. Bradford's face.
Then he rose, and walking to a door which closed another
room, opened it, and called his daughter. Millie entered the
room with a question in her eyes, and shaking hands with us,
went to her father's side, where she stood with his arm around
her during the remainder of the interview.
" Millie," said her father, " Mr. Grimshaw and Arthur have
conpe here to invite you to join the church. Would you like
to do so?"
"If you and mamma think I ought to," she replied.
At this moment, Mrs. Bradford, conjecturing, I suppose, the
object of our visit, entered the room, and giving us a most
172 Arthur Bonnicastle.
friendly greeting, took a seat near her daughter. Mr. Bradford
repeated our proposal to h6r, and Millie's reply to it.
" I should regard it as one of the sweetest satisfactions of my
life to have my child with me in church communion," die said,
looking down to hide the tears that she felt filling her eyes.
" And I sympathize with you entirely in your feeling," added
Mr. Bradford.
" Then," said Mr. Grimshaw, " nothing will stand in the way,
provided, upon examination, your daughter gives evidence of
an intelligent entrance upon a Christian experience."
" Which means, I suppose," said Mr. Bradford, " that if she
will accept your whole creed and scheme on trust, as wdl as
give evidence of having determined upon a Christian life, you
will endow her with the privileges of membership."
"We have but one condition for all, as you know," re-
sponded the minister.
" I suppose so ; and it is my duty to tell you that it is a very
cruel thing ; for her intelligence reaches no further than the one
essential thing which makes her a Christian child, viz., personal
loyalty to the Master. Beyond this she knows absolutely
nothing, and for her it is enough. To insist that she shall re-
ceive a whole body of divinity about which she is utterly
ignorant, and which, at present, has no relation to her
Christian character and life, is to do that which you have no
right to da When Jesus took little children in his arms and
blessed them, and declared that of such was the kingdom of
heaven, he did not impose any conditions upon them. It was
sufficient for him that they were in his arms, and had trust and
confidence enough to nestle and be contented and happy
there. You take the responsibility of going beyond him, and
of making conditions which cannot be complied with without a
surrender of all future liberty of thought and opinion. You
have members in your church to-day who committed themselves
to opinions when young, or under excitement, that they now
hold most loosely, or with questionings that are a constant tor-
ture to them.^ I know it, for they have told me so ; and I can-
Arthur Bonntcastle. 173
sot consent that my chSd . shall be denied the free and
unrestrained formation of opinions when her maturer mind
becomes able to form them. The reason that has no range
but the bounds of a creed, constructed b^ human hands, will
become dwarfed as certainly as the wings of a bird are weak-
ened by the wires of a cage."
Mr. Grimshaw listened attentively to the speaker, and then
said : " I fear that your ideas would form a very poor basis for
a church. We should be deprived of any principle or power
of cohesion, without unity of belief Such liberty as you desire,
or seem to think desirable, would soon degenerate into license.
The experience of the church has proved it, and the united
wisdom of the churcli has declared it."
*' My ideas of the true basis of the church are very simple,"
said Mr. Bradford. ''I would make it an organization of
Christian disciples of Christian learners ; you would make it
a conservatory of those who have arrived at the last conclu-
sions in dogmatic theology. I would make it a society of
those who have accepted the Master, and pledged their hearts
and lives to him, with everything to learn and the liberty to
learn it by such means as they can command ; you would frame
it with limits to all progress. You would make it a school
where all are professors ; I would make it a school where all
are learners. In short, you would make a sectarian church,
and I would make a Christian church ; and I cannot but be-
lieve that there is such a church awaiting us in the future a
church which will receive both me and my daughter, to give
me the rest and fellowship I long for, and her the nurture,
restraint and support which she will need among the world's
great temptations."
I do not know what the minister thought of all this, for he
said but little. He had been accustomed to these discussions
with Mr. Bradford, and either deemed them unfruitful of good
or found it difficult to maintain his position. He felt sure of
me, and did not regard it of consequence to talk on my
account As Mr. Bradford closed, he sighed and said :
174 Arthur Bonnicastle.
''Well, Millie, I suppose you will do as your father wisheSi
and stay away from us."
Millie looked at her father and then at her mother, with a
quick, earnest glance of inquiry.
Mrs. Bradford said : " Mr. Bradford and I never differ on
anything relating to our child. So far as our creed is con-
cerned I am entirely content with it ; but I have no wish to
commit my child to it, though I freely instruct her in it."
" Very well," said the minister, " perhaps it will be better to
leave her with you for the present."
Then he advanced to Mr. Bradford for a private conference
upon some other subject, apparently, and Millie started quickly
and walked to the window where I joined her.
" Are n't you sorry ? " I inquired.
"No."
" I thought you would be," I said.
" No, it is all right Father knows. Don't you think he's
splendid ? "
I suppose he thinks he is right," I responded.
Why, I know he's right," she said warmly. " He's always
right ; and isn't it sweet of him to let me hear him talk about
everything ? "
Here was the personal loyalty again. Beyond this the girl
could not go. She could trust her father and her Master.
She could obey both and love both, and it was all of religion
that she was capable of. I supposed that the minister must
know better than any of us, but I had no doubt of Millie's fit-
ness for the church, and wondered why it was that a baptized
child should be shut out of the fold by a creed she was utterly-
incapable of comprehending. I confess, too, that I sympathized
with Mr. Bradford's view of the church as it related to himself,
yet I had given my trust to the minister, and it was only my
personal loyalty to him that reconciled me to his opposing
opinions. Then there flashed upon me the consciousness that
I was to profess before God and men a belief in dogmas that I
had not even examined, and was entirely without the power o
Arthur Bonnicastle. 175
explaining or defending to myself or others. The fact made
mt tremble, and I dismissed it as soon as possible.
I fear that I should weary my reader by dwelling upon the
spiritual experiences that attended the assumption of my vows
Since the memorable day on which I stood among twenty
others, and publicly pledged my life to the Redeemer, and
gave my unqualified assent to the doctrines of the creed, I have
never been able to witness a similar scene without tears.
With all the trust natural to youth I received that which was
presented to me, and with all the confidence of youth in its
own power to fulfill its promises, I entered into the most
solemn covenant which man can make. There was no sus-
picion in me of a possible reaction. There was no anticipation
of temptations before which I should tremble or fall. There
was no cloud that portended darkness or storm. I regarded
myself as entering a fold from which I should go out no more,
save under the conduct and ward of a Shepherd who would
lead me only through green pastures and beside still waters. '
All my friends, including Mrs. Sanderson, were present
Mr. Bradford and his family sat near me, and I saw that he
had been deeply moved. He read the future better than I,
and saw before my intense and volatile spirit that which I could
not see. He knew the history of one human heart, and he
mterpreted the future of mine by hb own. At the close of the
services Mrs. Sanderson drove home alone with Jenks ; and the
Bradfords with Henry and my own family walked home to-
gether. As I left my father at his door, with Henry and
Claire, I found myself with Millie. We fell behind her father
and mother, and after she had looked around to make sure that
she was not observed, she unfolded her handkerchief and
showed me a crumb of the sacramental bread.
" Where did you get it ? " I inquired.
'' I prayed that it might drop when it was handed to mf
mother, and it did," she replied.
" What are you going to do with it ? " I inquired.
176 Arthur Bonnicastle.
'^ I am going to my room when I get home, and have a
communion all by myself."
'' But do you think it will be right ? " I inquired.
'' I don't think He will care. He knows that I love him, and
that it is the only chance I have. It is his bread, and came
from his table, and Mr.^ Grimshaw has nothing to do with if'
I was dumb with astonishment, and could offer no reDion-
strance. Indeed I sympathized with her so much that I could
not have deprived her of her anticipated enjoyment.
Then I asked her what she would do for wine.
^' I shall kiss my mother's lips," she replied, and then added :
''I wonder if she will know that anything is gone, as the
Saviour did when the woman touched him ? "
I think if I could have retired with Millie to her seclusion,
and shared her crumb away from the eyes of a curious world,
and the distractions of the public gaze, I should have come
out stronger and purer for the feast I left her at her door,
and went slowly home, imagining the little girl at prayer, and
tasting the crumb which had fsQlen from the Master's table.
The thought of the reverent kiss which the mother was to re-
ceive that night, all unconscious of the draught of spiritual
comfort which her child would quaff there, quite overcame me.
And it was this child, with her quick insight and implicit
faith, that had been shut out of the fold because she had no
opinions ! It was her father, too, carefriUy seeking and prayer-
fully learning, who had been refrised admittance, because he
would not surrender his reason and his liberty of thought !
Already I began to doubt the infallibility of my Pope. Al-
ready there had crept into my mind the suspicion that there
was something wrong in a policy which made more of sound
opinions than of sound character. Already I felt that there
was something about these two persons that was higher in
Christian experience than an3rthing I could clainL Already I
had become dimly conscious of a spiritual pride in myself, that
I did not see in them, and convinced that they were better
fitted to adorn a Christian profession than myself.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 177
So the struggle was over, and I was called upon by the rap-
idly advancing spring to resume the studies whidi had long
been interrupted. As I addressed myself with strong deter-
mination to my work, I was conscious of a greatly impaired
power of application. The effect of the winter's excitement
and absorption had been to dissipate my mental power, and
destroy my habits of mental labor. It took me many weeks
to get back upon my old track, and I was led through many
discouragements. When I had fairly accomplished my purpose
and felt that I was making genuine progress, I discovered that
it was impossible to keep up the public life I had been leading,
and the zeal which had spurred me on in my Christian work.
For weeks I faithfully continued my attendance on the meetings
of the church, which, by becoming less frequent, had adapted
themselves somewhat to my new circumstances, but to my great
sorrow I found xaj zest in their exercises gradually dying
away. I prayed often and long that I might not become a
back-slider, and that the joy and comfwt of the early days might
abide with me. It was all in vain. The excitement of s)n:n-
pathetic crowds and the predominance of a single topic in the
public mind had passed away, and, unsupported by those stimuli,
I was left to stand alone an uncertain, tottering, self-suspi-
dous youth ^with the great work of life all before me.
Gradually the old motives which had actuated me came back
and presented themselves ; and to my sad surprise they found
that in me which responded to them. The wealdi which had
held before me its glittering prcmiise still possessed its charm-
ing power, and suggested its worldly delightst The brilliant
college career which I had determined to achieve for honor's
and glory's sake came up to me among my suspended purposes,
and shone with all its old attractions. The pride of dress and
social position was not dead it had only slept, and waited but
a touch and a nod to spring into life again. The temptations
which the world held for my sensuous nature found my appetites
and passions still unsubdued.
Then there came upon me first the conviction smd the con-
8*
178 Arthur Bonnicastle.
sciousness that my life was to be one of warfare, if it was to
be a Christian life at all that I was really back upon my old
ground, and that whatever of genuine progress I should make
would be through prayerful, rigid, persistent culture. That
there was something unspeakably discouraging in this, I need
not affirm. It had the power to make the experiences through
which I had so recently passed seem altogether hollow and
unreal. I had only dreamed of regeneration, after alL The
new birth had only been the birth of a purpose, which needed
nursing and strengthening and educating like an infant
Still I would not, could not, admit that I had not made the
genuine beginning of a religious life. If I had done this, I
should have grown callous or desperate at once.
And now I beg the privilege of saying to those who may be
interested in this narrative, that I have not addressed myself to
the task of writing down revivals. I am detailing the experi-
ences of a human soul. That revivals are useful in communi-
ties where great excitements are necessary to attract the atten-
tion of the careless and the vicious, I can well believe. That
multitudes begin a religious life through their influence there is
no doubt That they are dangerous passages for the church to
pass through would seem also to be well established, as by the
laws of the human mind all great excitements and all extraordi-
nary labors are followed by corresponding depressions and ex-
haustions. I seriously doubt whether Christian growth is
gi:eatly forwarded by these exceptional agencies. All true
growth in the realm of nature is the result of a steady unfold-
ing from a germ : and the realm of grace is ruled by the same
Being who perfects the flower and builds the tree. I can afford
to be misconstrued, misunderstood and misrepresented if I can
do anything to direct the attention of the church to the fact
that there are better methods of progress than those which are
attended with such cost and such danger, and that in the Chris-
tian nurture of children and the wide opening of the Christian
fold to them abides the hope of the church and the world. I
hall be ten thousand times repaid for any suspicion of my mo-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 179
dves, if I can bring a single pastor, or a single churchy to the
realization of the fact that true Christian beginnings are not nee
essarily conformed to any special dramatic experience ; that a
pastor can lead his flock better than a stranger whose voice they
do not know, and that their creeds are longer and more elabo-
rate than they have any right to nmke. If the labor expended
upon revivals were spread evenly over greater space, and
applied with never-flagging persistency to the shaping and the
nurture of the plastic and docile minds of the yo.ung, I am sure
that the Christian kingdom would increase in numbers and ad-
vance in power by a progress at once natural, healthy and irre-
sistible. The fiery shower that pours its flood upon the earth
in an hour, leaves the ground fresh for the day, but it also leaves
it scarred and seamed, the swollen torrents carrying half its
wealth into the sea, while the steady rain of da3rs sinks into the
earth to nourish the roots of all things, and make the springs
petenniaL
CHAPTER XI.
TBE OLD PORTRAIT IS DISCOVERED AND OLD JBNKS HAS A
REAL VOYAGE AT SEA.
The spring passed quickly away, and the fervors of the June
cin were upon us. Mrs. Sanderson, whose health had been a
marvel of uniformity, became ill, and showed signs of that fail-
ure of the vitial power which comes at last to all She was adr
vised by her physician that she needed a change of air, and en-
couraged to believe that if she should get relief at once she
might retain her hold upon life for some years longer. Ar*
rangements were accordingly perfected to send her with a trusty
maid to a watering-place a few leagues distant I have no
doubt that she had come to look upon death as not far away
from her, and that she had contemplated the possibility of its
visitation while absent from home. I could see that her eye
was troubled and anxious. Her lawyer was with her for two
days before her departure.
On the morning before she left she called me into her little
library, and delivering her keys into my keeping, said :
" I have nothing to tell you, Arthur, except that all my af-
fairs are airanged, so that if I should never return you will find
everything in order. You know my ways and wishes. Follow
out your plans regarding yourself and my lawyer will tell you
of mine. Maintain the position and uphold the honor of this
house. It will be yours. I cannot take it with me ; I have
no one else to leave it to and yet **
She was more softened than I had ever seen her, and her sad
and helpless look quite overwhelmed me. I had so long ex-
pected her munificence that this affected me much less than
the change, physical and mental, which had passed over her.
"My dear, precious Aunt," I said, "you are not going to
Arthur Bonntcastle. i8i
die. I cannot let you die. I am too young to spare you. You
will go away, and get well, and live a long time."
Then I kissed her, and thanked her for her persistent kir dness
and her splendid gifts, in words that seemed so poor and inad-
equate that I was quite distressed.
She was deeply moved. Her physical weakness was such
that the iron rule of her wiU over her emotions was broken. 1
believe she would have been glad to have me take her in my
amis, like a child, and comfort her. After sitting awhile in
silence, I said : "Please tell me what you were thinking of
when you said : * And yet ' ? "
She gave me no direct reply, but said : " Do you remember
the portiait of a boy which you saw when you first came to the
house ? "
^Perfectly," I replied.
" This key," said she, taking the bunch of keys from my
hand which X still held, " will open a door in the dining-room
which you have never seen opened You know where it i&
After I am gone away, I wish you to open that closet, and
take out the portrait, and hai^ it just where it was before. I
wish to have it hang there as long as the house stands. You
have learned not to ask any questions. If ever I come back,
I shall find it there. If I do not, you will keep it there for my
sake."
I promised to obey her will in every particular, and then the
carriage drove up to bear her away. Our parting was very
quiet, but full of feeling ; and I saw her turn and look back af-
fecticmately at the old house, as ^e passed slowly down the hilL
I was thus left alone ^with the old servant Jenks the mas-
ter of The Mansion. It will be readily imagined that, still re-
taining my curiosity with regard to the picture, I lost no time
in finding it Sending Jenks away on some unimportant
errand, I entered the dining-room, and locked myself in. Un-
der a most fascinating excitement I inserted the key in the lock
(rf* the closet The bolt was moved with difficulty, like one
long unused. Throwing open the door, I looked in. First I
1 82 Arthur Bonnicastle.
saw an old trank, the covering of rawhide, fastened by hrxss
nail'} which had turned green with rust. I lifted the lid, and
found it full of papers. I had already caught a glimpse of the
picture, yet by a curious perversity of will I insisted on seeing
it last Next I came upon an old punch-bowl, a reminder of
the days when there were men and revelry in the house. It
was made of silver, and had the Bonnicastle arms upon its side.
How old it was, I could not tell, but it was evidently an heir-
loom. A rusty musket stood in one comer, of the variety then
known as " Queen's Arms." In another comer hung a military
coat, trimmed with gold lace. The wreck of an ancient and
costly clock stood upon a shelf, the pendulum of which was a
swing, with a little child in it I remember feeling a whimsical
pity for the child that had waited for motion so long in the
darkness, and so reached up and set him swinging, as he had
done so many million times in the years that were dead and
gone. I lingered long upon every article, and wondered how
many centuries it would take of such seclusion to dissolve
them' all into dust.
I had no excuse for withholding my eyes from the picture
any longer. I lifted it carefully from the nail where it hung,
and set it down by the dining-room wall. Then I closed and
locked the door. Not until I had carefully cleaned the paint-
ing, and dusted the frame, and hung it in its old place, did
I venture to look at it with any thought of careful study ; and
even this observation I determined to take first from the point
where I sat when I originally discovered it I arranged the
light to strike it at the right angle, and then opening tiie pas-
sage into the library, went and sat down precisely where I had
sat nearly six years before, under the spell of Mrs. Sanderson's
command. I had already, while handling it, found the date of
the picture, and the name of the painter on the back of the
canvas, and knew that the lad whom it represented had become
a man considerably past middle life, or, what seemed more
probable, remembering Mrs. Sanderson's strange actions in re-
gard to it, a heap of dust and ashes.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 183
Wth my first long look at the picture, came back the old
days ; and I was again a little boy, with all my original interest
in the beautiful young face. I expected to see a likeness 0/
Henry, but Henry had grown up and changed, and I found it
quite impossible to take him back in my imagination to the
point where his face answered, in any considerable degree, to
the lineaments of this. Still there was a likeness, indefinable,
far back in the depths of expression, and hovering around the
contour of the face and head, that at first puzzled me, and at
last convinced me that, if I could get at the secrets of my
friend's life, I should find that he was a Bonnicastle. I had
often while at school, in unexpected glimpses of Henry's feat-
ures, been startled by the resemblance of his face to some of
the members of my own family. The moment I studied his
features, however, the likeness was gone. It was thus with
the picture. Analysis spoiled it as the likeness of my firiend,
yet it had a subtle power to suggest him, and to convince me
that he was a sharer of the family blood.
I cannot say, much as I loved Henry, that I was pleased
with my discovery. Nor was I pleased with the reflections
which it stirred in me ; for I saw through them something of
the mercenary meanness of my own character. I was glad
that Mrs. Sanderson had never seen him. I was glad that he
had declined her invitation, and that she had come to regard
him with such dislike that she would not even hear his name
mentioned. I knew that if he were an accepted visitor of the
house I should be jealous of him, for I was conscious of his su-
periority to me in many points, and felt that Mrs. Sanderson
would find much in him that would please her. His quiet bear-
ing, his steadiness, his personal beauty, his steadfast integrity,
would all be appreciated by her ; and I was sure she could not
fail to detect in him the family likeness.
Angry with myself for indulging such unworthy thoughts, I
sprang to my feet, and went nearer to the picture went where
I could see it best. As I approached it, the likeness to Henry
gradually faded, and what was Bonnicastle in the distance be-
f84 Arthur Bonnicastle.
came something of another name and blood. Another nature
mmgled strangely with that to which I was consciously kindred.
Beneath the soft veil which gentle Uood had thrown over the
features, there couched something base and brutaL Some-
where in the family history of the person it represented the
spaniel had given herself to the wolf Sheathed within the foot
of velvet was hidden a talon of steeL Under those beautiful
features lay the capacity of cruelty and crime. It was a won-
derful revelation, and it increased rather than lessened the ^isci-
nation which the picture exerted upon me. Not until an hour
had passed away, and I knew that Jenks had returned from his
errand, did I silently unlock the doors of the dining-room and
go to my chamber for study.
When the dinner-hour arrived, I was served alone. Jenks
had set the table without discovering the returned picture, but
in one of the pauses of his service he started and turned pale.
" What is the matter, Jenks ? " I said.
"Nothing," he replied, "I tiioughtit was burned. It ought
to be."
It was the first intimation that I had ever received that he
knew an}rthing about the subject of the picture ; but I asked
hun no more questions, first, because I thought it would vir-
tually be a breach of the confidence which its owner had re-
posed in me, and, second, because I was so sure of Jenks's reti-
cence that I knew I had nothing to gain by askii^. He had
kept his place because he could hold his tongue. Still, the
fact that he could tell me all I wanted to know had the power
to heighten my curiosity, and to fill me with a discomfort of
which I was ashamed.
A few days of lonely life passed away, in which, for a de-
fense against my loneliness, I devoted myself with unusual dili-
gence to study. The first letter I received firom Mrs. Sander-
son contained the good news that her strong and elastic consti-
tution^ had responded favorably to the change of air and place.
Indeed, she was doing so well that she had concluded to stay
by the sea during the summer, if she should continue to find
Arthur Bonnicastle. 185
herself improving in strength. I was very much relieved, for in
truth I had no wish to assume the cares of the wealth she
would leave me. I was grateful, too, to find that I had a genuine
affection for her, and that my solicitude was not altogether selfish.
One warm evening, just before sunset, I took a chair froni
the hall and placed it upon the landing of the steps that led
from the garden to the door, between the sleeping lions, and
sat down to enjoy the fresh air of the coming twilight I had
a book in my hand, but I was weary and listless, and sat look-
ing off upon the town. Presently I heard the sound of voices
and laughter from the hill below me ; and soon there came in
sight a little group whose approach made my heart leap with
delight Henry, Claire and Millie were coming to make a call
upon their lonely friend.
I greeted them heartily at a distance, and Henry, with his
hat in his hand, walking between the two girls, sauntered up
to the house, looking it over, as it seemed to me, very carefully.
Suddenly, Millie sprang to the side of the road, and plucked a
flower which she insisted upon placing in the button-hole of his
coat He bent to her while she fastened it It was the work
of an instant, yet there was in it that which showed me tliat the
girl was fond of him, and that, young as she was, she pleased
him. I was in a mood to be jealous. The thoughts I had in-
dulged in while looking at the picture, and the belief that Henry
had Claire's heart in full possession, to say nothing of certain
plans of my own with regard to Millie, reaching far into the fut-
ure plans very vague and shadowy, but covering sweet pos-
sibilities awoke a feeling in my heart towards Henry which I
am sure made my courtesies seem strangely constrained.
I invited, the group into the house, and Claire and Millie ac-
cepted the invitation at once. Henry hesitated, and finally
said that he did not care to go in. The evening was so pleas-
ant that he. would sit upon the steps until we returned. Re-
membering his repeated refusals to go home with me from
school, and thinking, for a reason which I could not have
shaped into words, that I did not wi^ to have him see the pict
"'^'T
%
186 Arthur Bonnicastle.
ure in the dining-room, I did not urge him. So the two girls
and myself went in, and walked over the house. Millie had
been there before with her mother, but it was the first time that
Claire's maidenly figure had ever entered the door. Tbe
dining-room had already been darkened for the night, and.w
only looked in and took a hurried glimpse of its shadowy rtit||it
lure, and left it. Both the girls were curious to see my roill^
and to that we ascended. The outlook was so pleasant and
chairs were so inviting that, after looking at the pictures
the various tasteful appointments with which the room had h&s^
furnished, we all sat down, and in our merry convers
quite foi^ot Henry, and the fact that he was waiting for
rejoin him.
Near the dose of our pleasant session I was conscioofti
feet were moving in the room below. Then I heard the
of opening or closing shutters. My first thought was
Jenks had come in on some errand. Interrupted in
thought by the conversation in progress, the matter was \
out of iny mind for a moment Then it returned, and as
fleeted that Jenks had no business in that part of the hoi
that hour, I became uneasy.
" We have quite forgotten Henry," I said ; and we all
to our feet and walked down stairs.
Millie was at the foot iaa twinkling, and exclaimed :
he isn't here \ He is gone ! "
I said not a word, but went straight to the dining-
Every shutter was open, and there stood Heniy before the
ure. He appeared to be entirely unconscious of my enl
so, stepping up behind him, I put my hand upon his shoi
and said : " Well^ how do you like it ? "
He started as if i had struck him, trembled, and turned
" The fact is, I got tired with waiting, my boy," he said, " an8
so came in to explore, you know, ha ! ha ! ha ! Quite an old
curiosity-shop, isn't it ? Oh ! * How do I like it ? ' Yes, quite
a picture quite a picture, ha I ha ! ha !"
There, certainly was no likeness in the picture to the Heniy
- ^"
\" 1
M-.
V . t
, ^
i Ni-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 187
who stood before it then. Haggard, vacant, convulsed with
feeliDg which it was impossible for him to conceal, he stood be*
fore it as if fastened to the spot by a relentless spell. I took
him by the arm and led him into the open air, with his hollow-
sounding voice and his forced, mechanical laugh still ringing in
my ears. The girls were alarmed, and asked him if he were ill.
" Not in the least," he replied, with another attempt at a
laugh which made me shiver. The quick instinct of his com-
panions recognized the fact that something unpleasant had hap-
pened, and so, overcoming the chill which his voice and man-
ner had thrown upon them, they thanked me for showing them
the old house, and declared that it was time for them to go
home. Bidding me a hearty good-night, they started and went
out of the gate. Henry lingered, holding my hand for a mo-
ment, and then, finding it impossible to shape the apology he
had evidently intended to make, abruptly left me, and joined
the girls. They quickly passed out of sight, Claire tossing me
a kiss as she disappeared, and I was left alone.
I was, of course, more mystified than ever. I did not think
it strange or ill-mannered for Henry to enter the dining-room
unattended, for I had invited him in, I had kept him long wait-
ing, and there was no one to be disturbed by his entrance, as
he knew ; but I was more convinced than ever that there was
some strange connection between that picture and his destiny
and mine. I was convinced, too, that by some means he had
recognized the fact as well as I. I tossed upon my bed until
midnight in nervous wakefulness, thinking it over, permitting
my imagination to construct a thousand improbable possibili-
ties, and chafing under the pledge that forbade me to ask a
question of fiiend or servant.
It was a week before I saw him again, and then I foimd him
quite self possessed, though there was a shadow of restraint
upon him. No allusion was made to the incident in the dining-
room, and it gradually fell back into a memory, among the
things that were, to be recalled years afterward in the grand
crisis of my personal history.
t88 Arthur Bonntcastle.
N(t a day passed away in which Jenks did not inquire lex
the health of '^ the mistress." He seemed to be lost without
her, and to feel even more anxious for her health than I did.
" How is she now?" and " When does she say she is coming
back ? " were always the inquiries, after he had brought me a
letter.
One day I said to him : " I. thought you did not like my Aunt
You were always wanting to get away from her."
''I don't say that I do like her," said Jenks, with a quizzical
expression of countenance, as if he were puzzled to know ex-
actly what his feelings were, '* but the fact is she's a good woman
to get away from, and thaf s half the fun of living. When she's
here I'm always thinking of leaving her, and that takes up the
time and sets me contriving, yon know."
'^ You can*t sail quite as much as you used to," I said, lang^
ing.
" No," said he, " I'm getting rather old for the sea, and I
don't know but thinking of the salt water so much has given
me the rheumatism. I'm as stifif as an old horse. Any way, I
can't get away until she comes back, if I want to ever so much.
I've nothing to get away from."
" Yes, Jenks," I said, " you and your mistress are both get-
ting old. In a few years you'll both get away, and you will
not return. Do you ever think of what will come after ? "
" Thaf s so," he responded, " and the thing that bothers me
is that I can't get away from the place I go to, whether itf s
good or bad. How a man is going to kill time without some
sort of contriving to get into a better place, I don't know. Do
you think there's really such a place as heaven ? "
" Of course I do."
" No offense, sir," said Jenks, " but it seems to me some-
times as if it was only a sort of make-believe place, that peo*
pie dream about just to pass away the time. They go to meet-
ing, and pray and sing, and take the sacrament, and talk about
heaven and hell, and then they come home and laugh and can/
on and work just the same as ever. It makes a nice way to
Arthur Bonnicastle. 189
pass Sunday, and it seems to me just about the same thing aa
sailing on an Atlas. One day they make believe very hard,
and the next if s all over with. Everybody must have his fun,
and everybody has his own way of getting it Now here's this
Miss Lester down at Mr. Bradford's. She's got no end of a
constitution, and takes it out in work. She goes to all the
prayer-meetings, and knits piles of stockings for poor i)eople ;
but, dear me ! she has to do something,, or else she couldn't
live. So she tramps out in all sorts of weather, and takes solid
comfort in getting wet and muddy, and amuses herself thinking
she's doing good. If s just so with the stockings. She must
knit 'em, any way, and so she plays charity with 'em. I reckon
we're all a good deal alike."
"No, Jenks," I said, "there's really and truly such a place
as heaven."
"I s'pose there is," he responded, "but I don't see what I
can do there. I can't sing."
"And there's another place."
"I s'pose there is that's what they say, and I don't see
what I am going to do there, for I don't like the sort of people
that live there. I never had anything to do with 'em here, and
I won't have anything to do with 'em anywhere. I've always
kept my own counsel and picked my own company, which has
been mighty small, and I always expect to."
These last remarks of Jenks were a puzzle to me. I really
^d not know what to say, at first, but there came back to me
the memory of one of our early conversations, and I said :
"What if she were to go to one place and you to the other?"
"Well," he replied, his thin lips twitching and quivering,
"I shouldn't be any worse oflF than I am now. She went to .
one place and I went to another a good while ago ; but do you
really think people know one another there ? "
" I have no doubt of it," I replied.
"Well, I shouldn't care where I was, if I could be with her,
and everything was agreeable," sard Jenks.
" So you still remember her."
190 Arthur Bonnicastle.
" Hw do you s'pose I could live if I didn't ? "
At this he excitedly unbuttoned the wristband of his left
arm, and pulled up his sleeve, and there, pricked patiently into
the skin, after the manner of sailors, were the two names in
rude letters : ** Theophilus Jenks and Jane Whittlesey."
" I did it myself," said Jenks. " Every prick of the needle
hurt me, but the more it hurt the happier I was, just to see
the two names together where no man could rub 'em out ; and
I think I could stand 'most anything else for the sake of being
with her."
I was much impressed by this revelation of the inner life of
the simple old man, and the frankness with which he had given
me his confidence. Laboring from day to day, year after year,
in a position fi'om which he had no hope of rising, he had his
separate life of the affections and the imagination, and in this
he held all his satisfactions, and won all his modest mental and
spiritual growth. At the close of our conversation I took out
my watch, and, seeing that it was time for the mail, I sent him
off to obtain it. When he returned, he brought me among
other letters one from Mrs. Sanderson. He had placed it uion
the top of the package, and, when he had handed it to me, he
waited, as had become his custom, to learn the news from his
mistress.
When I had opened the letter and read a few lines, I ex-
claimed : " Oh, Jenks ! here's some great news for you.**
And then I read from the letter :
" My physician sas that I must have a daily drive upon the beach, bat
I really do not feel as if I should take a moment of comfort without my
old horse and carriage and my old driver. If you can manage to get along
for two or three weeks with the cook, who is entirely able to take all the
service of the house upon her hands, you may send Jenks to me with the
horse and carriage. The road is very heavy, however, and it is best for
him to put everything on the Belle of Bradford^ and come with it him-
self. The Belle touches every day at our wharf, and the horse will be
ready for service as soon as he lands.''
I read this without looking at Jenks's face, but when I finished
^ Arthur Bonntcastle. 191
I glanced at him, expecting to see him radiant with delight
I was therefore surprised to find him pale and trembling in
every fiber of his firame.
" That* s just like an old woman," said Jenks. " How does
she s*pose a horse is going to sea ? What's he to do when the
steamer rolls ? "
"Oh, horses are very fond of rolling," I said, laughing.
" All he will have to do will be to lie down and roll all the
way, without straining himself for it"
^^ And how does she s^pose a- carriage is going to keep right
side up?"
" Well, you can sit in it and hold it down."
Jenks looked down upon his thin frame and slender legs,
and shook his head. " If there's anything that I hate," said
he, ^^if s a steamboat I think it will scare the old horse to
death. They whistle and toot, and blow up and bum up.
Now, don't you really think candid, now that I'd better
drive the old horse down? Don't you think the property'U
be safer ? She never can get another horse like him. Shfe
never'll get a carriage that suits her half as well as that It
don't seem to me as if I could take the responsibility of risking
that property. She left it in my hands. * Take good care of
the old horse, Jenks,' was the last words she said to me ; and
now because she's an old woman, and does'n't know any better,
she tells me to put him on a steamboat, where he's just as
likely to be banged about and have his ribs broke in, or be
burned up or blowed up, as he is to get through alive. It seems
to me the old woman is out of her head, and that I ought to
do just as she told me to do when she was all right *Take
good care of the old horse, Jenks,' was the last words she said."
The old man was excited but still pale, and he stood waiting
before me with a pitiful, pleading expression upon his wizen
features.
I shook my head. " I'm afi-aid we shall be obliged to risk
the property, Jenks," I said. " Mrs. Sanderson is very particu*
lar, you know, about having all her orders obeyed to the letter.
192 Arthur Bonnicastle. ^
She will have no one to blame bat herself if the whole estab*
lishment goes overboard, and if I were you I wouldn't miss
this chance of going to sea at her expense for an)rthing."
Then Jenks resolutely undertook to bring his mind to it
" How long will it take ? " he inquired
" Oh, three hours or so," I replied carelessly.
" Do we go out of signt of land ? "
'* No, you sail down the rl7er a few miles, then you strike the
ocean, and just hug the shore until you get there," I replied.
"Yes ; strike the ocean ^hug the shore ^" he mumbled to
himself looking down and rubbing the bald spot on the top of
his head. " Strike the Ocean ^hug the shore. Three hours
ohl do you know whether they have life-preservers on that
steamboat ? "
" Stacks of them," I replied. " I've seen them often."
" Wouldn't it be a good plan to slip one on to the horse^s
neck when they start ? He'll think if s a collar, and won't be
scared, you know ; and if there should happen to be any trouUe
it would help to keep his nose up."
" Capital plan," I responded.
" What time do we start? "
" At eight o'clock to-m(rrow morning."
Jenks retired with the look and bearing of a man who had
been sentenced to be hanged. He went first to the stable, and
made all the necessary arrangements there, Snd late into the
night I heard him moving about his room. I presume he did
not once close his eyes in sleep that night. I was exceedingly
amused by his nervousness, though I would not have intimated
to him that I had any doubt of his courage, for the world. He
was astir at an early hour in the morning ; and breakfast was
upon the table while yet the early birds were singing.
" You will have a lovely day, Jenks," I said, as he handed
me my coffee.
As he bent to set the cup beside my plate, there came dose
to my ear a curious, crepitant rustle, " What have you got
about you, Jenks?" I inqyuired.
^ Arthur Bonnicastle. 193
He made a sickly attempt to smile, and then pulling open
the bosom of his shirt, displayed a collapsed, dry bladder, with
a goose-quill in the neck ready for its inflation.
** That's a capital idea, Jenks," I said.
* Do you think so ? What do you think of that ? and he
showed me the breast pocket of his coat full of corks.
It was impossible for me to restrain my laughter any longer.
'* Number one, you know," said Jenks, buttoning up his
coat. " Number one, and a stiff upper lip."
** You're a brave old fellow, any way, Jenks, and you're going
to have the best time you ever had. I envy you."
I drove down to the boat with him, to make the arrangements
for the shipment, and saw him and the establishment safely on
board. The bottom of the carriage was loaded with appliances
for securing his personal safety in case of an accident, includ-
ing a billet of wood, which he assured me was to be used for
blocking the wheels of the carriage in case of a storm.
I bade him good-by at last, and went on shore, where I waited
to see the steamer wheel into the stream. The last view I had
of the old man showed that he had relieved himself of hat and
boots, and placed himself in light swimming order. In the place
of the former he had tied a red bandanna handkerchief around his
head, and for the latter he had substituted slippers. He had
entirely forgotten me and the existence of such a town as Brad-
ford. Looking dreamily down the river, out towards that mys-
terious sea, on which his childish imagination had dwelt so long,
and of which he stood in such mortal fear, he passed out of
sight.
The next evening I heard from him in a characteristic letter.
It was dated at "The Glaids," and read thus :
The Bell is a noble vesseL
** The horse and carridge is saif.
* She welcomed me from the see.
** It seems to me I am in the moon.
* Once or twise she roaled ferefully.
** But she rited and drove on.
194 Arthur Sonnicastle^
"1 count nineteen distant sales.
*' If you will be so kind as not to menshun the blader.
** The waves roll in and rore all night.
'* The see is a tremenduous thing, and the atlus is nowhare.
" From an old Tarr
"Theophilus Jbnks."
A few days afterwards, Hemy and I made a flying trip to
New Haven, passed our examination for admission to the re^-
man class, and in the weeks that followed gave ourselves up to
recreations which a debilitating summer and debilitating labor
had made necessary.
CHAPTER XII.
MRS. SANDERSON TAKES A COMPANION AND I GO TO COLLEGE
During the closing days of summer, I was surprised to meet
in the street, walking alone, the maid who accompanied Mrs*
Sanderson to the sea-side. She courtesied quite profoundly
to me, after the manner of the time, and paused as though she
wished to speak.
" Well, Jane," I said, " how came you here ? "
She colored, and her eyes flashed angrily as she replied
" Mrs. Sanderson sent me home."
" If you are willing, I should like to have yoa tell me all
about it," I said,
" It is all of a lady Mrs. Sanderson met at the hotel," she
responded, "a lady with a pretty face and fine manners, who
is as poor as I am, I warrant ye. Mighty sly and quiet she
was ; and your aunt took to her from the first day. They walked
together every day till Jenks came, and then they rode
together, and she was always doing little things for your aunt,
and at last they left me out entirely, so that I had nothing in
the world to do but to sit and sew all day on just nothing
at all. The lady read to her, too, out of the newspapers and the
books, in a very nice way, and made herself agreeable with her
pretty manners until it was nothing but Mrs. Belden in the
morning, and Mrs. Belden at night, and Mrs. Belden all the
time, and I told your aunt that I didn't tliink I was needed
any more, and she took me up mighty short and said she didn't
think I was, and that I could go home if I wished to ; and
I wouldn't stay a moment after that, but just packed up and
came home in the next boat"
The disappointed and angry girl rattled off her story as ii
196 Arthur Bonnicastle.
she had told it forty times to her forty friends, and learned it
all by rote.
"I am sorry, Jane, that you have been disappointed,"
I responded, " but is my aunt well ? "
** Just as well as she ever was in her life."
"But how will she get home without you?" I inquired,
quite willing to hear her talk farther.
" She'll manage the same as she does now, faith. You may
wager your eyes the lady will come with her. You never
saw the like of the thickness there is between *em."
" Is she old or young ? " I inquired.
" Neither the one nor the other," she replied, " though I
think she's older than she looks. Oh, she's a sharp one she's
a sharp one! You'll see her. There was a world of quiet
talk going on between 'em, when I couldn't hear. They've
been at it for more than a month, and it means something. I
think she's after the old lady's money."
I laughed, and again telling Jane that I was sorry for her
disappointment, and expressing the hope that it would all turn
out well, parted with her.
Here was some news that gave me abundant food for reflec-
tion and conjecture. Not a breath of a;ll this had come to
me on the wings of the frequent missives that had reached me
from Mrs. Sanderson's hand ; but I had an unshaken faith
in her discretion. The assurance that she was well was an
assurance that she was quite able to take care of herself. It
was natural that the maid should have been irate and jealous,
and I did not permit her words to prejudice me against Mrs.
Sanderson's new friend. Yet, I was curious, and not quite
comfortable, with the thoughts of her, and permitted my mind
to frame and dwell upon the possible results of the new con-
nection.
It was a week after this meeting, perhaps, that I received
a note from Mrs. Sanderson, announcing the confirmation of
her health, stating that she should bring a lady with her on her
return to Bradford, and giving directions for the preparation
Arthur Bonnicastle. 197
of a room for her accommodation. It would not have been
like my aunt to make explanations in a letter, so that I was
not disappointed in finding none.
At last I received a letter informing me that the mistress of
The Mansion would return to her home on the following day.
I was early at the wharf to meet her so early that the
steamer had but just showed her smoking chimneys far down
the river. As the boat approached, I detected two female
figures upon the hurricane deck which I was not long in
concluding to be my aunt and her new friend. Jenks, in his
impatience to get quickly on shore, had loosed his horse from
the stall, and stood holding him by the bridle, near the carriage,
upon the forward deck. He saw me and swung his hat, in
token of his gladness that the long trial was over.
The moment the boat touched the wharf I leaped on board,
mounted to the deck, and, in an impulse of real gladness
and gratitude, embraced my aunt. For a moment her com-
panion was forgotten : then Mrs. Sanderson turned and presented
her. I did not wonder that she was agreeable to Mrs. San-
derson, for I am sure that no one could have looked into her
face and received her greeting without being pleased with her.
She was dressed plainly but with great neatness ; and every-
thing in her look and manner revealed the well-bred woman.
The whole expression of her personality was X)ne of refinement.
She looked at me with a . pleased and inquiring gaze which
quite charmed me a gaze that by some subtle influence
inspired me to special courtesy toward her. When the carriage
had been placed on shore, and had been made ready for the
ride homeward, I found myself under the impulse to be as
polite to her as to my aunt.
As I looked out among the loungers who always attended
the arrival jof the Belle^ as a resort of idle amusement, I caught
a glimpse of Henry. Om^^-^fsf^^^^^p^xh-.^^ instant, and I
detected a look of eageri^!tft^uponliis'fa(fe/^^^My recognition
seemed to quench thdQftok at^OBfe^^^md he tttratd abruptly
on his heel and walteQ iMaf ."'^It was notrli^ im to be
198 Arthur Bonfiicastki
among a company of idlers, and I knew that the arrival of Mrs.
Sanderson could not have attracted him. It was an incident,
however, of no significance save as it was interpreted by sub-
sequent events which wait for record.
Mrs. Sanderson was quite talkative dn the way home, in
pointing out to her ne^ companion the objects of interest pre-
sented by the thriving little city, and when she entered her
house seemed like her fonner self She was like the captain
of a ship who had returned from a short stay on shore, having
left the mate in charge. All conmrand and direction returned
to her on the instant she placed her foot upon the threshold.
She was in excellent spirits, and seemed to look forward upon
life more hopefully thaii she had done for a long time previ-
ous. Mrs. Belden was pleased with the house, delighted with
her room, and charmed with all the surroundings of the place ;
and I could see that Mrs. Sanderson was more than satisfied
with the impression which her new friend had made upon me.
I remember with how much interest I took her from windoiv to
window to show her the views which the house commanded,
and how much she gratified me by her hearty appreciation of
my courtesy and of the home to which circumstances had
brought her.
I saw at once that she was a woman to whom I could yield
my confidence, and who was wholly capable of understanding
me and of giving me counsel. I saw, too, that the old home
would become a very diflferent place to me from what it ever
had been before, with her gracious womanliness within it. It
was love with me at first sight, as it had been with my more
critical aunt
The next morning Mrs. Sanderson called me into her little
library and told me the whole story of her new acquaintance.
She had been attracted to her by some heartily-rendered cour-
tesy when she found herself among strangers, feeble and alone,
and had learned from her that she was without relatives and a
home of her own. They had long conversations, and were led,
step by step, to a mutual revelation of personal wishes and
Arthur Bonnicastle. 199
needs, until it was understood between them that one was in
want of a companion in her old age, and the other was in want
of a home, for which she was willing to give service and society.
** I have come," said my aunt, " to realize that I am old, and
that it is not right for me to stay in the house alone as I have
done ; and now that you are to be absent for so long a time, I
shall need society and help. I am sure that Mrs. Belden is the
right woman for me. Although she will be in a certain sense a
dependent, she dogerves and will occupy the place of a friend.
I do not think I can be mistaken in her, and I believe that you
will like her as well as I do."
I frankly told my aunt of the pleasant impression the lady
had made upon me, and expressed my entire satisfaction with
the arrangement ; so Mrs. Belden became, in a day, a member
of our home, and, by the ready adaptiveness of her nature,
fitted into her new place and relations without a jar.
On the same day in which Mrs. Sanderson and I held our
conversation, I found myself alone with Mrs. Belden, who led
me to talk of myself, my plans, and my associates. I told her
the history of my stay at The Bird's Nest, and talked at length
of ray companion there. She listened to all I had to say with
interest, and questioned me particularly about Henry. She
thought a young man's intimate companions had much to do
with his safety and progress, and was glad to learn that my
most intimate friend was all that he ought to be.
" You must never mention him to Mrs. Sanderson," I said,
" for he oflfended her by not accepting her invitation to spend
his vacations with me."
" I shall never do it, Arthur," she responded. " You can
always rely upon my discretion."
" We are to be chums at college," I said.
"How will you manage it without offending your aunt?"
she inquired.
" Oh, she knows that I like ifiim ; so we agree not to men-
tion his name. She asks me no questions, and I say nothing.
Beside^, I think she knoWs sbniething else and ^" I hesitated
200 Arthur Bonnicastle.
"And what?" inquired Mrs. Belden, smiling.
" I think she knows that he is fond of my sister Claire," I
said.
Mrs. Belden gave a visible start, but checking herself, said,
coolly enough, " Well, is he ? "
" I think so," I answered. " Indeed, I think they are very
fond of one another."
Then, ?it the lad/s request, I told her all about my sister
her beauty, her importance in my father's house, and her ac-
complishments. She listened with great interest, and said that
she hoped she should make her acquaintance.
" If you are to be lied to my aunt in the society you meet
here you will be pretty sure not to know her," I responded.
" My fg^ther is Mrs. Sanderson's tenant, and she has very strict
notions in regard to poor people, and especially in regard to
those who occupy her houses. She has never invited a mem-
ber of my family into her house, and she never will. She has
been very kind to me, but she has her own way about it."
" Yes, I see ; but I shall meet your sister in some way, I
know, if I remain here," Mrs. Belden replied.
I had never seen Jenks so happy as he appeared the next day
after his arrival. He had been elevated immensely by his voy-
age and adventures, and had been benefited by the change quite
as much as his mistress. He went about humming and growl-
ing to himself in the old way, seeking opportunities to pour into
my amused ears the perils he had encovmtered and escaped.
There had been a terrific " lurch " on one occasion, when every-
body staggered; and a suspicious sail once "hove in sight**
which turned out to be a schooner loaded with lumber ; and
there were white caps tossing on a reef which the captain
skillfully avoided; and there was a "tremenduous ground swell "
during a portion of the homeward passage which he delighted
to dwell upon.
But Jenks was in no way content until I had pointed out his
passage to him on the map. When he comprehended the
humiliating fact that he had sailed only half an inch on the larg-
Arthur Bonntcastle. 201
est map of the region he possessed, and that on the map of
the world the river by which he passed to the sea was not large
enough to be noticed, he shook his head.
" If s no use," said the old man. ** I thought I could do it,
but I can't The world is a big thing. Don't you think, your-
self, it would be more convenient if it were smaller? I can't
see the use of such an everlasting lot of water. A half an inch i
My ! think of sailing a foot and a half! I give it up."
" But you really have been far, far away upon the billow,"
I said encouragingly.
"Yes, thafs so that's so that is so," he responded, nod-
ding his head emphatically : " and I've ploughed the waves,
and struck the sea, and hugged the shore, and embarked and
prepared for a storm, and seen the white caps, and felt a ground
swell, and got through alive, and all that kind of thing. I tell
you, that day when we swung into the stream I didn't know
whether I was on my head or my heels. I kept saying to my-
self : * Theophilus Jenks, is this you ? Who's your father and
who's your mother and who's your Uncle David? Do you
know what you're up to?' I'll bet you can't tell what else I
said?"
" No, I'll not try, but you'll tell me," I responded.
"Well, 'twas a cm-ious thing to say, and I don't know but it
was wicked to talk out of the Bible, but it came to me and
came out of me before I knew it."
" What was it, Jenks ? Fm curious to know."
" Says I : ' Great is Diany of the 'Phesians 1 ' "
I laughed heartily, and told Jenks that in my opinion he
couldn't have done better.
" That wasn't all," said Jenks. " I said it more than forty
times. A fellow must say something when he gets full, and ii
he doesn't swear, what is he going to do, I should like to know ?
So always when I found myself running over, I said * Great is
Diany of the 'Phesians,' and thaf s the way I spilt myself all
the way down."
It was a great comfort to me, on the eve of my departure, to
9*
202 Arthur Eonnicustle.
feel that the two lives wfaidh had been identified with my new
home, and had made it what it had been to me, were likely to
be spared for some years longer spared, indeed, mitil I should
return to take up xsiy permanent residence at The Mansion.
Mrs. Belden's presence, too, was reassuring. It helped to give
a look of permanence to a home which seemed more and more,
as the years went by, to be built of very few and frail materials.
I learned ahnost at once to identify her with my future, and to
associate her with all my plans for coming life. If my aunt
should die, I determined that Mrs. Belden should remain.
There was one fact which gave me surprise and annoyance,
viz., that both my father and Mc Bradford regarded the four
years that lay immediately before me as the critical years of my
history. Whenever I met them, I found dial my future was
much upon their minds, and that my experiences of (he previ- '
ous winter were not relied upon by either of them as sufficient
guards against the temptations to which I was about to be sub-
jected. They knew tiiat for many reasons, growing out of the
softening influence of age and of apprehended helplessness on
the part of Mrs. Sanderson, she had become very indulgent to-
wards me, and had ceased to scan with her old closeness my
expenditures of money that, indeed, she had a growing pride
in me and fondness for me which prompted her to give me all
the money that might be desirable in sustaining me in the po-
sition of a rich young gentleman. Even Mr. Bird came all the
way from Hillsborough to see his boys, as he called Henry and
myself. He, too, was anxious about me, and did not leave
me until he had pointed out the mistakes I should be likely to
make and exhorted me to prove myself a man, and to remember
what he and dear Mrs. Bird expected of me.
These things surprised and annoyed me, because they indi-
cated a solicitude which must have been based upon suspicions
of my weakness, yet these three men were all wise. What
could it mean? I learned afterwards. They had seen enough
of life to know that when a young man meets the world, tempta-
tion comes to him, and always seeks and finds the point in his
AHhur Bonnicastte. 203
character at which it may enter. They did not know where
that point was in me, but they knew it was somewheie, and
that my ready sympathy would be my betrayer, unless I should
be on my guard.
I spent an evening with Henry in my fathei^s family, and
recognized, in the affectionate paternal eye. that followed me
everywhere, the old love which knew no diminution. I believe
there was no great and good deed which my fond father did not
deem me capable bf performing, and that he had hung the
sweetest and highest hopes of his life upon me. He was still
working from day to day to feed, shelter and clothe his depend-
ent Hock, but he looked for his rewards not to them but to me.
The noble life which had been possible to him, under more
favorable circumstances, he expected to live in me. For this
he had sacrificed my society, and suffered the pain of witness-
ing the transfer of my affections and interests to another home.
On the day before that fixed for my departure, a note was
received at The Mansion inviting us all to spend the evening
at Mrs. Bradford's. The good lady in her note of invitation
stated that she should be most happy to see Mrs. Sanderson,
and though she hardly expected her to break her rule of not
leaving her house in the evening, she hoped that her new com-
panion, Mrs. Belden, would bear me company, and so make
the acquaintance of her neighbors. My aunt read the note to
Mrs. Belden, and said : ^^ Of course I shall not go, and you
will act your own pleasure in the matter.'' Hoping that the
occasion would give me an opportunity to present my friend
and my sister to Mrs. Belden, I urged her to go with me, and
she at last consented to do so.
1 had strongly desired to see my friend Millie once more, and
was delighted with the opportunity thus offered. The day was
one of busy preparation, and Mrs. Belden was dressed and
ready to go when I came down from my toilet. As we walked
down the hill together toward Mr. Bradford's house, she said :
' Arthur, I have been into society so little during the last few
years that I feel very uneasy over this affair. Indeed, every
204 Arthur Bonnicastle.
nerve in my body is trembling now." I laughed, and told her she
was going among people who would make her at home at once
people whom she would soon leam to love and confide in.
I expected to see Henry and Claire, and I was not disap-
pointed. After greeting my hearty host and lovely hostess, and
presenting Mrs. Belden, I turned to Henry, who, with a strange
pallor upon his face, grasped and fairly ground my hand within
his own. He made the most distant of bows to the strange
lady at my side, who looked as ghost-like at the instant as him-
self. The thought instantaneously crossed my mind that he
had associated her with Mrs. Sanderson, against whom I knew
he entertained the most bitter dislike. He certainly could not
have appeared more displeased had he been compelled to a mo-
ment's courtesy toward the old lady herself. When Mrs. Bel-
den and Claire met, it was a different matter altogether.
There was a mutual and immediate recognition of sympathy
between them. Mrs. Belden held Claire's hand, and stood and
chatted with her until her self-possession returned. Henry
watched the pair with an absorbed and anxious look, as if he
expected his beloved was in some way to be poisoned by the
breath of her new acquaintance.
At last, in the general mingling of voices in conversation
and laughter, both Mrs. Belden and Henry regained their
usual manner ; and the fusion of the social elements present
became complete. As the little reunion was given to Henry
and myself, in token of interest in our departure, that departure
was the topic of the evening upon every tongue. We talked
about it while at our tea, and there were many sportive specu-
lations upon the possible transformations in character and
bearing which the next four years would effect in us. As we
came out of the tea-room I saw that Mrs. Belden and Claire
still clung to each other. After a while Henry joined them,
and I could see, as both looked up into his face with amused
interest, that he was making rapid amends for the coolness
with which he had greeted the stranger. Then Mr. Bradford
went and took Claire away, and Mrs. Belden and Henry sat
,rlD,
. ;." 1.1
, , -. ^ fc N,0
Arthur Bonnicastle. 205
down by themselves and had a long talk together. All this
pleased me, and I did nothing to interfere with their Ute-drtUe;
and all this I saw from the corner to which Millie and I had
retired to have our farewell talk.
" What do you expect to make ? " said Millie, curiously,
continuing the drift of the previous conversation.
" I told Mrs. Sanderson, when I was a little fellow, that I
expected to make a man," I answered; "and now please tell
me what you expect to make."
" A woman, I suppose," she replied, with a little sigh.
" You speak as if you were sad about it," 1 responded.
"I am." And she looked oflf as if reflecting upon the bitter
prospect
"Why?"
" Oh, men and women are so different from children," she
said. " One of these years you'll come back with grand airs,
and wliiskers on your face, and you will find me grown up,
with a long dress on ; and I'm afraid I shan't like you as well
as I do now, and that you will like somebody a great deal bet-
ter than you do me."
" Perhaps we shall like one another a great deal better than
we do now," I said.
" If s only a perhaps," she responded. " No, we shall be
new people then. Just think of my father being a little boy
once 1 I presume I shouldn't have liked him half as well as I
do you. As likely as any way he was a plague and a pester."
" But we are growing into new people all the time," I said.
" Your father was a young man when he was married, and now
he is another man, but your mother is just as fond of him as
she ever was, isn't she? "
" Why, yes, that's a fact ; I guess she is indeed ! She just
adores him, out and out."
"Well, then, what's to hinder other people from liking one
another right along, even if they are changing all the time ? "
" Nothing," she replied quickly. " I see it : I understand
2o6 Arthur Bonnicastle.
There's something that does'n't change, isn't there ? or some
thing that need*n*t change : which is it? "
" Whatever it is, Millie," I answered, " we will not let it
change. We'll make up our minds about it right here. When
I come back to stay, I will be Arthur Bonnicastle and you shal'
be Millie Bradford, just the same as now, and we'll sit and talk
in this corner just as we do now, and there shall be no Mister
and Miss between us."
Millie made no immediate response, but looked off again in
her wise way, as if searching for something that eluded and
puzzled her. I watched her admiringly while she paused. At
last a sudden flash came into her eyes, and she turned to me
and said : " Oh, Arthur I I've found it ! As true as you live,
I've found it ! "
"Found what, MiUie?"
"The thing that does' n't change, or need'n't change," she
replied.
" Well, what is it ? "
" Why, it's everything. When I used to dress up my little
doll and make a ^and lady of her, there was the same doll,
inside, after all ! Don't you see ? "
" Yes, I see."
" And you know how they are building a great church right
over the little one down on the comer, without moving a single
stone of the chapel. The people go to the big church every
Sunday, but all the preaching and singing are in the chapel
Don't you see ? "
"Yes, I see, Millie," I answered; "but I don't think I
should see it without your eyes to help me. I am to build a
man and you are to build a woman right over the boy and girl,
without touching the boy and girl at all \ and so, when we come
together again, we can walk right into the little chapel, and find
ourselves at home."
"Isn't that lovely !" exclaimed Millie. "I can see things,
and you can make things. I couldn't have said that about
our going into the little chapel, you know."
Arthur Bonntcastle. 207
"And I couldn't have said it if you hadn't found the chapel
for me," I responded.
"Why, doesn't it seem. as if we belonged together, and had
been separated in some way ? "
At this moment Mr. Bradford rose and came near us to get
a boot. He smiled pleasantly upon us while we looked up to
him, pausing in our conversation. When he had gone back
and resumed his seat, Millie said ;
" There's a big church over two chapels. He has a young
man in him and a boy besides. The boy plays with me and un-
derstands me, and the young man is dead in love with mamma,
and the old man takes care of us both, and does everytiiing.
Isn't it splendid ! "
Ah, Millie ! I have heard many wise men and wise
women talk philosophy, but never one so wise as you ; and I
have never seen a young man whose growth had choked
and destroyed his childhood, or an old man whose youth had
died out of him, without thinking of our conversation that
night. The dolls are smothered in their clothes, and the little
chapels are fated to fall when the grand cathedral walls are fin-
ished. The one thing that need not change, the one thing that
should not change, the one thing which has the power to pre-
serve the sweetness of all youthful relations up to the change
of death, and, doubtless, beyond it, is childhood the innocent,
playful, trusting, lo)ral, loving, hopeful childhood of the soul,
with all its illusions and romances and enjoyment of pure and
simple delights.
Millie and I talked of many things that evening, and partici-
pated very little in the general conversation which went on at
the other end of the drawing-room. I learned from her of the
plans already made for sending her away to school, and realized
with a degree of pain which I found difficult to explain to my-
self that years were to pass before we should meet for such an
hour of unrestrained conversation again.
Before I bade the family farewell, Aunt Flick presented to
2o8 Arthur Bonnicastle.
both Henry and myself a little box containing pins, needles,
buttons, thread, and all the appliances for making timely re-
pairs upon our clothing, in the absence of feminine friends.
Each box was a perfect treasure-house of convenience, and had
cost Aunt Flick the labor of many hours.
" Henry will use this box," said the donor, " but you '^ (ad-
dressing me) " will not"
" I pledge you my honor. Aunt Flick," I responded, " that
I will use and lose every pin in the box, and lend all the needles
and thread, and leave the cushions where they will be stolen,
and make your gift just as universally useful as I can."
This saucy speech set Millie into so hearty a laugh that the
whole company laughed in sympathy, and even Aunt Flick's face
relaxed as she remarked that she believed every word I had said.
It was delightful to me to see that while I had been engaged
with Millie, Mrs. Belden had quietly made her way with the
family, and that Henry, who had met her coldly and almost
rudely, had become so much interested in her that when the
time of parting came he was particularly warm and courteous
toward her.
The farewells and kind wishes were all said at last, and with
Mrs. Belden upon my arm I turned my steps toward The Man-
sion. The lady thought the Bradfords were delightful people,
that Henry seemed to be a young man of a good deal of in-
telligence and character, and that my sister Claire was lovely.
The opening chapter of her life in Bradford, she said, was the
most charming reading that she had found in any book for
many years ; and if the story should go on as it had begun she
should be more than satisfied.
I need not dwell upon my departure further. In the early
morning of the next day, Henry and I were on our way, with
the sweet memory of tearful eyes in our hearts, and with the
consciousness that good wishes and prayers were following us
as white birds follow departing ships far out to sea, and with
hopes that beckoned us on in every crested wave that leaped
before us and in every cloud that flew.
CHAPTER XIII.
THE BEGINNING OF COLLEGE LIFE I MEET PETER MULLENS,
GORDON LIVINGSTON, AND TEMPTATION.
The story of my college life occupies so large a space in my
memory, that in the attempt to write it within practicable
limits I find myself obliged to denude it of a thousand inter-
esting details, and to cling in my record to those persons and
incidents which were most directly concerned in shaping my ^
character, my course of life, and my destiny.
I entered upon this life panoplied with good resolutions and
worthy ambitions. I was determined to honor the expectations
of those who had trusted me, and to disappoint the fears of
those who had not. Especially was I determined to regain a
measure of the religious zeal and spiritual peace and satisfac-
tion which I had lost during the closing months of my stay in
Bradford. Henry and I talked the matter all over, and laid
our plans together. We agreed to stand by one another in all
emergencies in sickness, in trouble, in danger and to be
^thful critics and Mentors of each other.
Both of us won at once honorable positions in our class, and
the good opinion of our teachers, for we were thoroughly in
earnest and scrupulously industrious. Though a good deal of
society forced itself upon us, we were sufficient for each other,
and sought but little to extend the field of companionship.
We went at once into the weekly prayer-meeting held by the
religious students, thinking, that whatever other effect it might
have upon us, it would so thoroughly declare our position that
all that was gross in the way of temptation would shun us.
Taking our religious stand early, we felt, too, that we should
have a better outlook upon, and a sounder and safer estimate
o^ all those diversions and dissipations which never fail to come
2IO Arthur Bonnicastle.
with subtle and specious temptation to large bodies of young
men deprived of the influences of home.
The effect that we aimed at was secured. We were classed
at once among those to whom we belonged ^ but, to me, I
cannot say that the classification was entirely satisfactory. I
did not find the brightest and most desirable companions
among those who attended the prayer-meetings. They were
shockingly common-place fellows, the most of them ^par-
ticularly those most forward in engaging in the exercises.
There were a few shy-looking, attractive young men, who
said but little, took always the back seats, and conveyed
to me die impression that they had come in as" a matter of
duty, to give theu* countenance to the gatherings, but without
a disposition to engage actively in the discussions and prayers.
At first their position seemed cowardly to me, but it was only
a few weeks before Henry and I belonged to their number.
The meetings seemed to be in the possession of a set of young
men who were preparing themselves for the Christian ministry,
and who looked upon the college prayer-meeting as a sort of
gymnasium, where they were to exercise . and develop their
gifts. Accordingly, we were treated every week to a sort of
dress-parade of mediocrity. Two or three long-winded fel-
lows, who seemed to take the greatest delight in public
speech, assumed the leadership, and I may frankly say tiiat
they possessed no power to do me good. It is possible that
the rest of us ought to have frowned upon their presumption,
and insisted on a more democratic division of duty and priv-
ilege ; but, in truth, there was something about them with which
we did not wish to come into contact. So we contented our-
selves with giving the honor to them, and cherishing the hope
tliat what they did would bring good to somebody.
Henry and I talked about the matter in our walks and times
of leisure, and the result was to disgust us with the semi-pro-
fessional wordiness of the meetings, as well as with the little
body of windy talkers who made those meetings so fruitless
and unattractive to us. We found ourselves driven in at lengA
Arthur Bonnicastle. 211
I
upon our own resources, and became content with our daily
prayer together. This was our old habit at The Bird's Nest,
and to me, for many months, it was a tower of strength.
Toward the close of our first term an incident occurred which
set me still more strongly against the set of young men t9 whom
I have made allusion. There was one of them who had been
more offensive than all the rest. His name'was Peter Mullens.
He was an unwholesome-looking fellow, who wore clothes that
never seemed as if they were made for him, and whose false shirt-
bosom neither fitted him nor appeared clean. There was a
rumpled, shabby look about his whole person. His small, cun-
ning eyes were covered by a pair of glasses which I am sure he
wore for ornament, while his hair was combed back straight
over his head, to show all the forehead he possessed, though it
was not at all imposing in its height and breadth. I had made
no inquiries into his history, for he was uninteresting to me in
the last degree.
One evening, just before bedtime, he knocked at our door and
entered. He had never done this before, and as he seemed to
be in unusually good spirits, and to come in with an air of good-
fellowship and familiarity, both Henry and myself regarded his
call with a sort of questioning surprise. After the utterance of
a few commonplace remarks about the weather, and the very
interesting meetings they were having, he explained that he
had called to inquire why it was that we had forsaken the prayer-
meetings.
Henry told him at once, and frankly, that it was because he
was not interested in them, and because he felt that he could
spend his time better.
Still more frankly, and with less discretion, I told him that
the meetings seemed to be in the hands of a set of muffs, who
knew very little and assumed to know everything.
" The trouble with you fellows," responded Mr. Peter Mul-
lens, " is that you are proud, and will not humble yourselves
to learn. If you felt the responsibility of those of us who are
fitting for the ministry, you would look upon the matter in a very
212 Arthur Bonnicastle.
different way. We have begun our work, and we shall cany it
on, whether men will hear or forbear."
" Is it any of your business whether they hear or forbear?"
said I, touchily : "because, if it is, Henry and I will sweep the
floor and get down on our knees to you."
" It is my business to do my duty, in the face of all the
taunts and ridicule which you may heap upon me," replied Mr.
Mullens, loftily.
" Excuse me, Mr. Mullens," I said, "but it seems to me that
fellows of your sort thrive on taunts and ridicule. Don't you
rather like them now ? "
Mr. Mullens smiled a sad, pitying smile, and said that no one
who did his duty could hope to live a life of gratified pride or of
ease.
"Mr. Mullens," said Heniy, "I suppose that so far as you
know your own motives, those which led you here were good;
but lest you should be tempted to repeat your visit, let me say
that I relieve you of all responsibility for ray future conduct.
You have done me all the good that you can possibly do me,
except in one way."
" What is that ? " inquired Mullens.
" By carefully keeping out of this room, and out of my sight,"
responded Henry.
" Henry has expressed my feelings exactly," I added ; " and
now I think there is a fair understanding of the matter, and we
can feel ourselves at liberty to change the conversation."
Mullens sat a moment in thought, then he adjusted his spec-
tacles, tucked down his false shirt-bosom, which always looked
as if it were blown up and needed pricking, and turning to me,
said with an air of cunning triumph : " onnicastle, I believe
you are one of us."
" What do you mean ?" I inquired.
" Why, one of us that have aid, you know what they call
charity students."
" Charity students ! " I exclaimed in astonishment
" Oh, I've found it out. You are luckier than the rest of 0%
Arthur Bonnicastle. 213
for you have no end of money. I wish you could manage in
some^vay to get the old woman to help me, for I really need
more aid than I have. I don't suppose she would feel a gift of
fifty dollars any more than she would one of fifty cents. So
small a sum as ten dollars would do me a great deal of good,
or even five."
" How would you like some old clothes ? " inquired Henry,
with a quiet but contemptuous smile.
** That is really what I would like to speak about," said Mr.
Mullens. " You fellows who have plenty of money throw away
your clothes when* they are only a little worn ; and when you
have any to give away, you would oblige me very much by re-
membering me. I have no new clothes myself. I take the
crumbs that falL"
**And that reminds me," resumed Henry, "that, perhaps
you might like some cold victuals."
** No, I'm provided for, so far as board and lodging are con-
cerned," responded Mr. Mullens, entirely unconscious of the
irony of which he was the subject.
Henry turned to me with a hopeless look, as if he had
sounded himself in vain to find words which would express his
contempt for the booby before him. As for myself, I had been
so taken ofif my guard, so shamed with the thought that he and
his confreres regarded me as belonging to their number, so dis-
gusted with the fellow's greed and lack of sensibility, and so
angry at his presumption, that I could not trust myself to
speak at all. I suspected that if I should begin to express my
feelings I should end by kicking him out of the room.
Henry looked at him for a moment, in a sort of dumb won-
der, and then said : " Peter Mullens, what do you suppose I
think of you ? "
There was something in the flash of Henry's eye and in the
tone of his voice, as he uttered this question, that brought
Mullens to his feet in an impulse to retire.
" Sit down," said Henry.
Mr. Mullens i^t down with his hat between his knees, and
214 Arthur BonnicastU.
mumbled something about having stayed longer than he m*
tended.
"You cannot go yet," Henry continued. "You capie in
here to lecture us, and to humiliate one of us ; and now I pro
pose to tell you what I think of you. There is not the first
element of a gentleman in you. You came in here as a bully
in the name of religion, you advertise yourself as a sneak by
boasting that you have been prying into otjier people's siffairs,
and you end by begging old clothes of those who have too
much self-respect to kick you for your impudence and your
impertinence. Do you suppose that sucl^ &*puppy as you are
can ever prepare for the ministry ? "
I think that this was probably the first tfme Peter Mullens
had ever heard the plain truth in regard to himself. He was
very much astonished, for his slow apprehension had at last
grasped the conclusions that he was heartily despised and that
he was in strong hands.
" I really really beg your pardon, gentlemen," said Mr.
Mullens, ramming down his rising shirt-bosom, and wiping his
hat with his sleeve ; " I meant no offense, but really I I
must justify myself for asking for aid. 1 have given myself to
the church, gentlemen, and the laborer is worthy of his hire.
What more can I do than to give myself? The church wants
men. The church must have men ; and she owes it to them
to see that they are taken care of. If she neglects her duty
she must be reminded of it. If I am willing to take up with
old clothes she ought not to complain."
Mr. Mullens paused with a vocal inflection that indicated a
deeply wounded heart, rammed down his shirt-bosom again,
and looked to Henry for a response.
" There is one thing, Mr. Mullens," said Henry, " that the
church has no right to ask you to give up ; one thing which
you have no right to give up ; and one thing which, if given
up, leaves you as worthless to the Church as despicable in
yourself, and that is manhood ; and I know of nothing that
kills manhood quicker than a perfectly willing, dependence on
Arthur Bonnicastle. 215
others. You are beginning life as a beggar. You justify your-
self in beggary, and it takes no prophet to foresee that you will
end life as a beggar. Once down where you are willing to sell
yourself and take your daily dole at the hand of your purchaser,
and you are forever down."
" But what can I do ? " inquired Mullens.
" You can do what I do, and what thousands of your betters
are doing all the time ^work and take care of yourself," re-
plied Henry.
^' But the time just think of the time that would be lost to
the cause."
"I am not very old," responded Henry, "but I am old
enough to know that the time which independence costs is
never wasted. A man who takes fifteen years to prepare
himself for life is twice the man, when prepared, that he is who
only takes ten ; and the best part of his education is that which
he gets in the struggle to maintain his own independence. I
have an unutterable contempt for this whole charity business,
as it is applied to the education of young men. A man who
has not pluck and persistence enough to get his own education
is not worth educating at alL It is a demoralizing process, and
you, Mr. Peter Mullens^ in a very small way, are one of its
victims."
Henry had been so thoroughly absorbed during these last
utterances that he had not opce looked at me. I doubt,
indeed, whetlKr he was conscious of my presence ; but as he
closed his sentence he turned to me, and was evidently pained
and surprised at the expression upon my face. With a quick
instinct he saw how readily I had applied his words to myself,
and, once more addressing Mullens, said : " When a childless
won^an adopts a relative as a member of her family, and makes
him her own, and a sharer in her love and fortune, it may be
well or ill for him, but it is none of your business, and makes
him no. fellow of yours. And now, Mr. Mullens, if you wish
to go, you are at liberty to do so. If I ever have any old
clothes I shall certainly remember you."
2i6 Arthur Bonnicastle.
" I should really be very much obliged to you," said Mr.
Mullens, " and " (turning to me) " if you should happen to be
writing to your aunt ^^
"For Heaven's sake, Mullens," exclaimed Henry, "go
now," and then, overwhelmed with the comical aspect of the
matter, we both burst into a laugh that was simply irresistible.
Mullens adjusted his spectacles with a dazed look upon his face,
brushed back his hair, rammed down his shirt-bosom, buttoned
his coat, and very soberly bade us a good-evening.
Under ordinary circumstances we should have found
abundant food for merriment between ourselves after the man's
departure, but Henry, under the impression that he had unin-
tentionally wounded me, felt that nothing was to be gained by
recalling and explaining his words, and I was too sore to risk
the danger of further allusion to the subject. By revealing my
jKJsition and relations to Mullens, Henry had sought, in the
kindest way, to place me at my ease, and had done all that he
had the power to do to restore my self-complacency. So the
moment Mullens left the room some other subject was broached,
and in half an hour both of us were in bed, and Henry was
sound asleep.
I was glad in my consciousness to be alone, for I had many
things to think of. There was one reason for the omission of
all comment upon our visitor and our conversation, so far as
Henry was concerned, which, with a quick insight, I detected.
He had, in his anxiety to comfort me, spoken of nie as a rel-
ative of Mrs. Sanderson. He had thus revealed to me the
possession of knowledge which I had never conveyed to him.
It certainly had not reached him from Mrs. Sanderson, nor had
he gathered it from Claire, or my father's family ; for I had
never breathed a word to them of the secret which my aunt had
permitted me to discover. He must have learned it from the
Bradfords, with whom he had maintained great intimacy. I had
long been aware of the fact that he was carrying on a secret life
into which I had never been permitted to look. I should not
have cared for this had I not been suspicious that I was in some
Arthur Bonnicastle, 217
way concerned with it. I knew that he did not like my rela-
tions to Mrs. Sanderson, pjid that he did not wish to speak of
them. I had learned to refrain from all mention of her name ;
but he had talked with somebody about her and about me, and
had learned one thing, at least, which my own father did not
know.
All this, Jhowever, was a small vexation compared with the
revelation of the influence which my position would naturally
exert upon my character. However deeply it might wound
my self-love, I knew that I was under the same influence which
made Mr. f eter Mullens so contemptible a person. He was a
willing dependent upon strangers, and was not I ? This de-
pendence was sapping my own manhood as it had already de-
stroyed his. If MuUcns had come to me alone, and claimed
fellowship with me, ^if Henry had not been near me in his
quiet and self-respectful independence to put him down, I felt
that there would have been no part for me to play except that
of the coward or the bully. I had no ground on which to stand
for self-defense. Mr. Peter Mullens would have been master
of tlie situation. The thought galled me to the quick.
It was in vain that I remembered that I was an irresponsible
child when this dependence began. It was in vain that I as-
sured myself that I was no beggar. The fact remained that I
had been piurchased and paid for, and that, by the subtly de-
moralizing influence of dependence, I had been so weakened
that I shrank from assuming the responsibility of my own life.
I clung to the gold that came with the asking. I clung to the
delights that only the gold could buy. I shuddered at the
thought of taking myself and my fortunes upon my own hands,
and I knew by that fact that something manly had sickened or
died in me.
I do not know how long I lay revolving these things in my
mind. It was certainly far into the night ; and when I woke in
the morning I found my heart discontented and bitter. I had
regarded myself as a gentleman. I had borne myself with a
considerable degree of exclusiveness. I had not cared for rec-
30
2i8 Arthur Bonnuastle.
ognition. Having determined to do my work well, and to seek
no man's company as a thing necessary to fix my social status,
1 had gone on quietly and self-respectfully. Now I was to gc
out and meet the anger of Peter Mullens and his tribe. I was
to be regarded and spoken of by them as a very unworthy
member of their own order. My history had been ascertained,
and would be reported to all who knew me.
All these reflections and suggestions may seem very foolish
and morbid to the reader, but they were distressing to me be-
yond my power of telling. I was young, sensitive, proud, and
self-loving, and though I prayed for help to enable me to face
my fellows, and so to manage my life as to escape the harm
which my position threatened to inflict upon me, I could not
escape the conviction that Peter Mullens and I were, essenti-
ally, on the same ground.
Up to this time I had looked for temptations in vain. No
temptations to dissipation had presented themselves. I was
sure that no enticement to sensuality or gross vice would have
power to move me. Steady employment and daily fatigue held
in check my animal spirits, and all my life had gone on safely
and smoothly. The daily prayer had brought me back from
every heart-wandering, had sweetened and elevated all my
desires, had strengthened me for my work, and given me some-
thing of the old peace. Away from Henry, I had found but
little s)rmpathetic Christian society, but I had been entirely at
home and satisfied with him. Now I found that it required
courage to face the little world around me ; and almost uncon-
sciously I began the work of making acquaintances with the
better class of students. Although I had held myself apart
from others, there were two or three, similarly exclusive, whom
I had entertained a private desire to know. One of these was
a New Yorker, Mr. Gordon Livingston by name. He had the
reputation of belonging to a family of great wealth and splen-
did connections, and although his standing as a student was not
the best, it was regarded as an honor to know him and the lit-
tle set to which he belonged. I was aware that the morality of
Arthur Bonnzcasile. 219
the man and his immediate companions was not much believed
in, and I knew, too, that the mean envy and jealousy of many
students would account for this. At any rate, I was in a mood,
after my interview with Mr. Mullens, to regard him yery chari-
tably, and to wish that I might be so far recognized by him and
received into his set as to advertise to Mullens and his clique
my social removal from them. I determined to brace myself
around with aristocratic associations. I had the means in my
hands for this work. I could dress with the best I had per-
sonal advantages of which I need not boast here, but which I
was conscious would commend me to them. I had no inten-
tion to cast in my life with them, but I determined to lose no
good opportunity to gain their recognition.
One evening, walking alone, outside the limits of the town
for in my morbid mood I had taken to solitary wanderings, I
fell in with Livingston, also alone. We had approached each
other from opposite directions, and met at the comers of the
road that led to. the city, toward which we were returning. We
-walked side by side, with only the road between us, for a few
yards, when, to my surprise, he crossed over, saying as he ap-
proached me : " Hullo, Mr. Bonnicastle I Whafs the use of
two good-looking fellows like us walking alone when they can
have company?"
As he came up I gave him my hand, and called him by
name.
" So you've known me, as I have known you," he said cor-
dially. " If s a little singular that we haven't been thrown to-
gether before, for I fancy you belong to our kind of fellows."
I expressed freely the pleasure I felt in meeting him, and told
him how glad I should be to make the acquaintance of his
friends ; and we passed the time occupied in reaching the col-
lege in conversation that was very pleasant to me.
Livingston was older than I, and was two classes in advance
of me. He was therefore in a position to patronize and pet me
a position which he thoroughly understood and appreciated.
In his manner he had that quiet self-assurance and command
220 Arthur Bonnicastle.
that only come from life-long familiarity with good society,
and the consciousness of unquestioned social position. He
had no youth of poverty to look back upon. He had no asso-
ciations with mean conditions and circumstances. With an
attractive face and figure, a hearty manner, a dress at once
faultlessly tasteful and unobtrusive, and with all the prestige of
wealth and femily, there were few young fellows in college
whose notice would so greatly flatter a novice as his. The men
who spoke against him and affected contempt for him would
have accepted attention from him as an honor.
Livingston had undoubtedly heard my stc^y, but he did not
sympathize with the views of Mr. Peter Mullens and his friends
concerning it He found me as well dressed as himself^ quite
as exclusive in my associations, liked my looks and manners,
and, with all the respect for money natural to his class, con-
cluded that I belonged to him and his set In the mood of
mind in which I found myself at meeting him, it can readily be
imagined that his recognition and his assurance of friendliness
and fellowship brought me great relief.
As we entered the town, and took our way across the green,
he became more cordial, and pulled my arm within his own.
We were walking in this way when we met Mr. Mullens and a
knot of his fellows standing near the path. It was already
twilight, and they did not recognize us until we were near
them. Then they paused, in what seemed* to have been an
excited conversation, and stared at us with silent impertinence.
Livingston hugged my arm and said coolly and distinctly :
" By the way, speaking of mules, have you ever familiarized
yourself with the natural history of the ass ? I assure you it is
very interesting his length of ear, his food of thistles, his
patience under insult, the toughness of his hide ^in short ^"
By this time we were beyond their hearing and he paused.
I gave a scared laugh which tlie group must also have heard,
and said : " Well that was cool, any way."
"You see," said Livingston, "I wanted to have them un
derstand that we had been improving our minds, by devo-
Arthur Bonnzcastle. 221
tion to scientific subjects. They were bcwind to hear what we
said and I wanted to leave a good impression."
The cool impudence of the performance took me by surprise,
but, on the whole, it pleased me. It was a deed that I never
could have done myself, and I was astonished to find that there
was something in it that gratified a spirit of resentment of
, which I had been the unconscious possessor. The utter indif-
ference of the man to their spite was an attainment altogether
beyond me, and I could not help admiring it.
I^ivingston accompanied me to my room, but we parted at
the door, although I begged the privilege of taking him in and
making him acquainted with my chum. He left me with an
invitation to call upon him at my convenience, and I entered
my room in a much lighter mood than that which drove me
out from it. I did not tell Henry at once of my new acquaint-
ance, for I was not at all sure that he would be pleased with
the information. Indeed, 1 knew he would not be, for he was
a fair measurer of personal values, and held Livingston and
Mullens in nearly equal dislike. Still I took a strange comfort
in the thought that I had entered the topmost clique, and that
Mullens, the man who had determined to bring me to his own
level, had seen me arm-in-arm with one of the most exclusive
and aristocratic fellows in the college.
And now, lest the reader should suppose that Henry had a
knowledge of Livingston's immorality of character which justi-
fied his dislike of him, I ought to say at once that he was not a
bad man, so far as I was able to learn. If he indulged in im-
moral practices with those of his own age, he never led me
into them. I came to be on familiar terms with him and them.
I was younger than most of them, and was petted by them.
My purse was as free as theirs on all social occasions, and I
was never made to feel that I was in any way their inferior.
Henry was a worker who had his own fortune to make, and
he proposed to make it. He was conscious that the whole
clique of which T^ivingston was a member held nothing in com-
mon with him, and that they considered him to be socially be-
222 Arthur Bonnicastle.
neath them. He knew they were not actuated by manly aims,
and that they had no sympathy with those who were thus act-
uated. They studied no more than was necessary to avoid
disgrace. They intended to have an easy time. They were
thoroughly good-natured among themselves, laughed freely
about professors and tutors, took a very superficial view of life,
and seemed to regard the college as a mill through which it was
necessary to pass, or a waiting-place in which it was considered
the proper thing to stop until their beards should mature.
The society of these men had no bad eflfect upon me, or
none perceptible to myself for a long time. Braced by them
as I was, Mr. Mullens made no headway against me ; and I
came at last to feel that my position was secure. With the
corrective of Henry's society and example, arid with the habit
of daily devotion unimpaired, I went on for months with a
measurable degree of satisfaction to myself. Still I was con-
scious of a gradually lowering tone of feeling. By listening to
the utterance of careless words and worldly sentiments from
my new companions, I came to look leniently upon many
things and upon many men once abhorrent to me. Uncon-
sciously at the time, I tried to bring my Christianity into a com-
promise with worldliness, and to sacrifice my scruples of con-
science to what seemed to be the demands of social usage. I
had found the temptation for which I had sought so long, and
which had so long sought without finding me^ but alas ! I did
not recognize it when it came.
CHAPTER XIV.
MY FIRST VISIT TO NEW YORK, AND MY FIRST GLASS OF WIHE.
Relying upon my new associations for the preservation of
my social position, now that my history had become known in
the college, it was necessary for me to be seen occasionally
with the set to which I had been admitted and welcomed.
This apparent necessity not unfrequently led me to their rooms,
in which there were occasional gatherings of the fellows, and
in one or two of which a surreptitious bottle of wine was in-
dulged in. Of the wine I steadily refused to be a partaker,
and it was never urged upon me but once, when Livingston
interposed, and said I should act my own pleasure. This made
the attempt to carry on my double life easier, and saved me
from being scared away from it. There was no carousing and
no drunkenness nothing to offend, in those modest symposia
and they came at last to wear a very harmless look to me,
associated as they were with good fellowship and hospitality.
Walking one day with Livingston, who fancied me and liked
to have me with him, he said : '' Bonnicastle, you ought to see
more of the world. YouVe been cooped up all your life, and
are as innocent as a chicken."
" You wouldn't have me anything but innocent would you ?"
I said laughing.
" Not a bit of it I like a clean fellow like you, but you
must see something, some time."
" There'll be time enough for that when I get through study,"
I responded.
"Yes, I suppose so," he said, "but, my boy, Tve taken it
into my head to introduce you to New York life. I would
like to show you my mother and sisters and my frve hundred
^24 Arthur Bonnicastle.
friends. I want to have you see where I live and how I live,
and get a taste of my sort of life. Bradford and your aunt are all
very well, I dare say, but they are a little old-fashioned, I fancy.
Come, now, don't they bore you ? "
" No, they don't," I replied heartily. " The best friends I have
in the world are in Bradford, and I am more anxious to please
and satisfy them than I can tell you. They are very fond of
me, and that goes a great way with such a fellow as I am."
" Oh, I understand that," said Livingston, " but I am fond
of you too, and, what's more, you must go home with me next
Christmas, for I shall leave college when another summer
comes, and that will be the last of me, so far as you are con-
cerned. Now you must hiake that little arrangement with your
aunt You can tell her what a splendid fellow I am, and
humbug the old lady in any harmless way you choose; but the
thing must be done."
The project, to tell the truth, set my heart bounding with a
keen anticipation of delight. Livingston was the first New
York fiiend I had made who seemed to be worth the making.
To be received into his family and introduced to the acquaint-
ance of his friends seemed to me to be the best opportunity
possible for seeing the city on its better side. I was sure that
he would not willingly lead me into wrong-doing. He had
always forborne any criticism of my conscientious scruples.
So I set myself at work to win Mrs. Sanderson's consent to the
visit She had become increasingly fond of me, and greedy
of my presence and society with her increasing age, and I knew
it would be an act of self-denial for her to grant my request
However, under my eloquent representations of the desirable-
ness of the visit, on social grounds, she was persuaded, and I
*^ had the pleasure of reporting her consent to Livingston.
I pass over the events of the swift months that made up the
record of my first year and of the second autumn of my col-
lege life, mentioning only the facts that I maintained a respect-
able position in my class without excellence, and that I visited
home twice. Everything went on well in my aunf s family.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 225
She retained the health she had regained ; and Mrs. Belden
had become, as her helper and companion, everything she had
anticipated. She had taken upon herself much of the work I
had learned to do, and, so far as I could see, the family life was
harmonious and happy.
My vanity was piqued by the reflection that Henry had
achieved better progress than I, and was much more generally
respected. He had gradually made himself a social center
without the effort to do so, iind had pushed his way by sterling
work and worth. Nothing of this, ^however, was known in
Bradford, and we were received with equal consideration by all
our friends.
#or months the projected holiday visit to New York had
sholie before me as a glittering goal ; and when at last, on a
sparkling December morning, I found myself with Livingston
dashing over the blue waters of the Sound toward the great
city, my heart bounded with pleasure. Had I been a winged
spirit, about to explore a new star, I could not have felt more
buoyantly expectant. Livingston was as delighted as myself,
for he was sympathetic with me, and anticipated great enjoy-
ment in being the cup-bearer at this new feast of my life.
We passed Hellgate, we slid by the sunny islands, we ap-
proached the gray-blue cloud pierced by a hundred shadowy
spires under which the city lay. Steamers pushed here and
there, forests of masts bristled in the distance, asthmatic little
tugs were towing great ships seaward, ferry-boats crowded with
men reeled out from their docks and flew in every direction,
and a weather-beaten, bkck ship, crowded with immigrants,
cheered us as we rushed by them. As far as the eye could see,
down the river and out upon the bay, all was life, large and
abounding. My heart swelled within me as I gazed upon the
splendid spectacle, and in a moment, my past life and all that
was behind me were dwarfed and insignificant
As we approached the wharf, we saw among the assemblage
of hacks and their drivers drivers who with frantic whips en-
deavored to attract our attention a plain, shining carriage,
10*
226 Arthur Bonntcastle^
with a coachman and footman in livery on the box. The men
saw us, and raised their hats. The footman jumped from his
place as we touched the wharf, and, relieved by him of our
satchels, we quiedy walked through the boisterous crowd, en-
tered the coach, and slowly took our way along the busy streets.
To be thus shut in behind the cleanest of cut-glass, to recline
upon the most luxurious upholstery, to be taken care of and
shielded from all the roughness of that tumultuous out-door
world, to be lifted out of the harsh necessities that made that
world forbidding, to feel that I was a favored child of fortune,
filled me with a strange, selfish delight It was like entering
upon the realization of a great, sweet dream.
Livingston watched my face with much secret pleasure, I do
not doubt, but he said little, except to point out to me the more
notable edifices on the route. I was in a city of palaces
warehouses that were the homes of mighty commerce and
dwellings that spoke of marvelous wealth. Beautiful women,
wrapped in costly furs, swept along the pavement, or peered
forth from the windows of carriages like our own ; shops were
in their holiday attire and crowded with every conceivable arti-
cle of luxury and taste, and the evidences of money, money,
money, pressed upon me from every side. My love of beauti-
ful things and of beautiful life life relieved of all its homely
details and necessities ^life that came through the thoughtful
and skillful ministry of others life that commanded what it
wanted with the waving of a hand or the breathing of a \rord
life that looked down upon all other life and looked up to none
my love of this life, always in me, and more and more devel-
oped by the circumstances which surrounded me, was stimu
lated and gratified beyond measure.
At length we drew up to a splendid house in a fashionable
quarter of the city. The footman opened the door in a twink-
ling, and we ran up the broad steps to a landing at which an
eager mother waited. Smothered with welcoming kisses fitjm
her and his sisters, Livingston could not inmiediately present
me, and Mrs. Livingston saved him the trouble by calling m)
Arthur Bonnicastle., 227
name and taking my hand with a dignified cordiality which
charmed nie. The daughters, three in number, were shyer,
but no less hearty in their greeting than their mother. Two of
them were young ladies, and the third was evidently a school-
girl who had come home to spend the holidays.
Livingston and I soon mounted to our room, but in the brief
moments of our pause in the library and our passage through
the hall my eyes had been busy, and had taken in by hurried
glances the beautiful appointments of my friend's home. It
was as charming as good taste could make it, with unlimited
wealth at command. The large mirrors, the exquisite paint-
ings, the luxurious furniture, the rich carvings, the objects of
art and vertu^ gathered from all lands, and grouped with faultless
tact and judgment, the carpets into which the foot sank as into
a close-cropped lawn, the artistic forms of every article of ser-
vice and convenience, all combined to make an interior that
was essentially a poem. I had never before seen such a house,
and when I looked upon its graceful and gracious keepers, and
received their gentle courtesies, I went up-stairs with head and
heart and sense as truly intoxicated as if I had been mastered
by music, or eloquence, or song.
At the dinner-table, for which we made a careful toilet, all
these impressions were confirmed or heightened. The ladies
were exquisitely dressed, the service was the perfection of quiet
and thoughtfiil ceremony, the cooking was French, the china
and glass were objects of artistic study in their forms and deco-
rations, the choicest flowers gathered from a conservatory which
opened into the dining-room, breathed a delicate perfume, and
all the materials and ministries of the meal were wrapped in
an atmosphere of happy leisure. Livingston was evidently a
favorite and pet of the family, and as he had come back to his
home from another sphere and experience of life, the conver-
sation was surrendered to him. Into this conversation he
adroitly drew me, and under the grateful excitements of the hour
I talked as I had never talked before. The ladies flattered me
by their attention and applause, and nothing occurred to
228 Arthur Bonnicastle.
dampen my spirits until, at the dessert, Mrs. Livingston begged
the pleasure of drinking a glass of wine with me. .
Throughout the dinner I had declined the wine that had
been proffered with every course. It was quietly done, with
only a motion of the hand to indicate refusal, and I do not
think the family had noticed that I had not taken nay wine with
themselves. Now the case was different. A lady whom I
honored, whom I desired to please, who was doing her best to
honor and please me my friend's mother at her own table
offered what she intended to be a special honor. My face
flamed with embarrassment, I stammered out some sort of
apology, and declined.
" Now, mother, you really must not do anything of that sort,"
said Livingston, " unless you wish to drive Bonnicastle out of
the house. I meant to have told you. If s one of the things
I like in him, for it shows that he's clean and plucky."
" But only one little glass, you know just a sip, to celebrate
the fact that we like one another," said Mrs. Livingston, with
an encouraging smile.
But I did not drink. Livingston still interposed, and, al-
though the family detected the disturbed condition of my feel-
ings, and did what they could to restore my equanimity, I felt that
my little scruple had been a discord in the music of the feast
Mr. Livingston, the head of the house, had not yet shown
himself. His wife regretted his absence, or said she regretted
it, but he had some special reason for dining at his dub that
day; and I may as well say that that red-faced gentleman
seemed to have a special reason for dining at his club nearly
every day while I remained in New York, although he con-
sented to get boozy at his own table on Christmas.
We had delightful music in the evening, and my eyes were
feasted with pictures and statuary and the bric-dr-brac gathered
in long foreign travel ; but when I retired for the night 1 was
in no mood for devotion, and I found myself quarreling with
the scruple which had prevented me from accepting the special
friendly courtesy of my hostess at dinner.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 229
^Wne seemed to be the natural attendant upon this high and
beautiful life. It was the most delicate and costly language in
which hospitality could speak. There were ladies before me,
old and young, who took it without a thought of wrong or ol
harm. Was there any wrong or harm in it ? Was my objection
to it bom of a narrow education, or an austere view of life, or
of prejudices that were essentially vulgar ? One tiling 1 saw
very plainly, viz., that the practice of total abstinence in tht
society and surroundings which I most courted would make me
uncomfortably singular, and, what was most distressing to me,
suggest the vulgar rusticity of my associations.
From my childhood wine and strong drink had been repre-
sented to me to be the very poison on which vice and immo-
rality lived and thrived. My father had a hatred of them which
no words could express. They were the devil's own instruments
for the destruction of the souls and lives of men. I was bred
to this belief and opinion. Mr. Bradford had warned me against
the temptation to drink, in whatever form it might present
itself. Mr. Bird was a sworn foe to all that had the power to
intoxicate. When I went away from home, it was with a de-
termination, entered into and confirmed upon my knees, that I
would neither taste nor handle the seductive draught which had
brought ruin to such multitudes of young men.
Yet I lay for hours that first night in my friend's home, while
he was quietly sleeping, debating the question whether, in the
new and unlooked-for circumstances in which I found myself, I
should yield my scruples, and thus bring myself into harmony
with the life that had so many charms for me. Then my im-
agination went forward into the beautiful possibilities of my fu-
ture life in The Mansion, with the grand old house refitted and
refurnished, with its service enlarged and refined, with a grace-
ful young figure occupying Mrs. Sanderson's place, and with all
the delights around me that eye and ear could covet, and taste
devise and gather.
In fancies like these I found my scruples fading away, and
those manly impulses and ambitions which had moved me
230 Arthur Bonnicastle.
mightily at first, but which had stirred me less and less with the
advancing months, almost extinguished. I was less interested
in what I should do to make myself a man, with power and in-
fluence upon those around me, than with what I should enjoy.
One turn of the kaleidoscope had changed the vision from a
mass of plain and soberly tinted crystals to a galaxy of bril-
liants, which enchained and enchanted me.
I slid at last from fancies into dreams. Beautiful maidens,
with yellow hair and sweeping robes moved through grand sa-
loons, pausing at harp and piano to flood the air with the rain
of heavenly music ; stately dames bent to me with flattering
words ; groups in marble wreathed their snowy arms against a
background of flowering greenery ; gilded chandeliers blazed
through screens of prismatic crystal ; fountains sang and
splashed and sparkled, yet all the time there was a dread of
some lurking presence some serpent that was about to leap
and grasp me in its coils some gorgon that would show his
grinning head behind the forms of beauty that captivated my
senses some impersonated terror that by the shake of its
finger or the utterance of a dreadful word would shatter the
beautiful world around me into fi-agments, or scorch it into
ashes.
I woke the next morning unrefreshed and unhappy. I woke
with that feeling of weariness which comes to every man who
tampers with his convictions, and feels that he has lost some-
thing that has been a cherished part of himsel This feeling
wore away as I heard the roar of carriages through the streets,
and realized the novelty of the scenes around me. Livingston
was merry, and at the breakfast table, which was crowned with
flowers and Christmas gifts, the trials of the previous night were
all forgotten.
The Livingstons were Episcopalians the one Protestant
sect which in those days made much of Christmas. We all
attended their church, and for the first time in my life I wit-
nessed its beautiful ritual. The music, prepared with great
care for the occasion, was more impressive than any I had
Arthur Bonnicastle. 231
ever heard. My aesthetic nature was charmed. Everything
seemed to harmonize with the order and the appointments of
the house I had just left. And there was my stately hostess,
with her lovely daughters, kneeling and devoutly responding
she who had offered and they who had drunk without offense
to their consciences the wine which I, no better than they, had
refused. They could be Christians and drink wine, and why
not I ? It must be all a matter of education. High life could
be devoutly religious life, and religious life was not harmed by
wine. My conscience had received its salvo, and oh, pitiful,
recreant coward that I was, I was ready to be tempted !
The Christmas dinner brought the temptation. Mr. Living-
ston was at home, and presided at his table. He had broached
a particularly old and choice bottle of wine for the occasion,
and would beg the pleasure of drinking with the young men.
And the young men drank with him, and both had the dishonor
of seemg him stupid and silly before he left the board. I did
not look at Mrs. Livingston during the dinner. I had refused to
drink with her the day before, and I had fallen from my resolu-
tion. The wine I drank did not go down to wann and stimu-
late the sources of my life, nor did it rise and spread confusion
through my brain, but it burned in my conscience as if a torch,
dipped in some liquid hell, had been tossed there.
It was a special occasion this was what I whispered to my
conscience this was the breath that I breathed a hundred
times into it to quench the hissing torture. It was* a special
occasion. What was I, to stand before these lovely Christian
women with an assumption of superior virtue, and a rebuke of
their habits and indulgences ? I did not want the wine ; I
did not wish to drink again ; and thus the fire gradually died
away. . I was left, however, with the uncomfortable conscious-
ness that I had in no degree raised myself in the estimation of
the family. They had witnessed the sacrifice of a scruple and
an indication of my weakness. Livingston, I knew, felt sadly
about it. It had brought me nothing that I desired or expected.
The days between Christmas and New Year's were packed
232 Arthur Bonnicastle.
with a thousand pleasures. A party was gathered far us in
which I was presented to many beautiful girls and their stylish
brothers. We visited the theaters, we were invited everywhere,
and we often attended as many as two or three assemblies in
an evening. The days and nights were a continued round of
social pleasures, and we Hved in a whirl of excitement There
was no time for thought, and with me, at least, no desire for it
But the time flew away until we waited only the excitements
of New Year's Day to close our vacation, and return to the
quiet life we had left under the ehns of New Haven. That
day was a memorable one to me and demands a chapter for
its record.
CHAPTER XV.
I GO GUT TO MAKE NEW YEAR'S CALLS AND RETURN IN
DISGRACE.
New Year's morning dawned bright and cold. " A happy
New Year to you I " shouted Livingston from his bed. The
call woke me from a heavy sltunber into delightful anticipa-
tions, and the realization of a great joy in living, such as conies
only to youth an exulting, superabounding sense of vitality
that care and age never know.
We rose and dressed ourselves with scrupulous pains-taking
for calls. On descending to the breakfast-room, we found the
young ladies quite as excited as ourselves. They had prepared
a little book in which to keep a record of the calls they ex-
pected to receive during the day, for, according to the uni-
versal custom, they were to keep open house. The carriage
was to be at the disposal of my friend and myself, and we were
as ambitious concerning the amount of courtesy to be shown
as the young ladies were touching the amount to be received.
We intended, before bedtime, to present our New Year's greet-
ings to every lady we had met during the week.
Before we left the house, I saw what preparations had been
made for the hospitable reception of visitors. Among them
stood a row of wine bottles and decanters. The view sad- .
dened me. Although I had not tasted wine since " the special
occasion," my conscience had not ceased to remind me, though
with weakened sting, that I had sacrificed a conscientious scru-
ple and broken a promise. I could in no way rid myself of
the sense of having been wounded, stained, impoverished. I
had ceased to be what I had been. I had engaged in no de-
bauch, I had developed no appetite, I was not in love with my
234 Arthur Bonnicastle.
sin. I could have heartily wished that wine were out of the
world. Yet I had consented to have my defenses broken into,
and there had been neither time nor practical disposition to
repair the breach. Not one prayer had I offered, or dared to
offer, during the week. My foolish act had shut out God and
extinguished the sense of his loving favor, and I had rushed
blindly through my pleasures from day to day, refusing to lis-
ten to the upbraidings of that faithful monitor which he had
placed within me.
At last, it was declared not too early to begin our visits.
Already several young gentlemen had shown themselves at the
Livingstons, and my friend and I sallied forth. The coachman,
waiting at the door, and thrashing his hands to keep them warm,
wished us " a happy New Year " as we appeared.
" The same to you," responded Livingston, " and there'll be
another one to-night, if you serve us well to-day."
" Thankee, sir," said the coachman, smiling in anticipation
of the promised fee.
The footman took the list of calls to be made that Living-
ston had prepared, mounted to his seat, the ladies waved
their hands to us from the window, and we drove rapidly away.
" Bonnicastle, my boy," said Livingston, throwing his arm
around me as we rattled up the avenue, " this is new business
to you. Now don't do anything to-day that you will be sorry
for. Do you know, I cannot like what has happened ? You
have not been brought up like the rest of us, and you're all
right. Have your own way. It's nobody's business."
I knew, of course, exactly what he meant, but I do not know
what devil stirred within me the spirit of resentment. To be
cautioned and counseled by one who had never professed or
manifested any sense of religious obligation ^by one above
whose moral plane I had fancied that I stood made me half
angry. I had consciously fallen, and I felt miserably enough
about it, when I permitted myself to feel at all, biit to be re-
minded of it by others vexed me to the quick, and rasped my
wretched pride.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 235
'* Take care of yourself," I responded, sharply, " and don't
worry about me. I shall do as I please."
**If s the last time, old boy," said Livingston, biting his lip,
which quivered with pain and mortification. "Ifs the last
time. When I kiss a fellow and he spits in my face I nevei
do it again. Make yourself perfectly easy on that score."
Impulsively I grasped his hand and exclaimed : " Oh ! don't
say that. I beg your pardon. Let's not quarrel : I was a
fool and a great deal worse, to answer as I did."
**A11 right," said he; "but if you get into trouble, don't
blame me ; that's all."
At this, we drew up to a house to make our first call. It was
a grand establishment. The ladies were beautifully dressed,
and very cordial, for Livingston was a favorite, and any young
man whom he introduced was sure of a welcome. I was flat-
tered and excited by the attention I received, and charmed by
the graceful manners of those who rendered it. House after
house we visited in the same way, uniformly declining all the
hospitalities of the table, on the ground that it was too early
to think of eating or drinking.
At last we began to grow hungry for our lunch, and at a
bountifully loaded table accepted an invitation to eat. Several
young fellows were standing around it, nibbling their sandwiclies,
and sipping their wine. A glass was poured and handed to me
by a young lady with the toilet and manner of a princess. I
took it without looking at Livingston, held it for a while, then
tasted it, for I was thirsty ; then tasted again and again, until
my glass was empty. I was as unused to the stimulant as a
child ; and when I emerged into the open air my face was
aflame with its exciting poison. There was a troubled look on
Livingston's face, and I could not resist the feeling that he was
either angry or alarmed. My first experience was that of de-
pression. This was partly moral, I suppose; but the sharp
air soon reduced the feverish sensation about my head and
eyes, and then a strange thrill of exhilaration passed through
236 Arthur Bonnicastle.
me. It was different from anydiing I had ever known, and I
was conscious, for the first time, of the charm of alcohol
Then came the longing to taste again. I saw tliat I was in
no way disabled. On the contrary, I knew I had never been
so buoyant in spirits, or so brilliant in conversation. My im-
agination was excited. Everything presented to me its comi-
cal aspects, and there were ripples and roars of laughter where-
ever I went After repeated glasses, I swallowed 2X one house
a draught of champagne. It was the first I had ever tasted,
and the cold, tingling fluid was all that was necessary to make
me noisy and hilarious. I rallied Livingston on his long face,
assured him that I had never seen a jolly fellow alter so rap-
idly as he had since morning, begged him to take something
that would warm him, and began to sing.
" Now, really you must be quiet in this house," said he, as
we drew up to an old-fashioned mansion in the suburbs.
" They are quiet people here, and are not used to noisy fellows."
" ril wake 'em up," said I, " and make 'em jolly."
We entered the door. I was conscious of a singing in my
ears, and a sense of confusion. The warm air of the room
wrought in a few moments a change in my feelings, but I strag-
gled against it, and tried with pitiful efforts to command my-
self, and to appear the sober man I was not There was a
little group around us near the windows, and at the other end
of the drawing-room somewhat in shadow, for it was nearly
night there was another. At length a tall man rose firom this
latter group, and advanced toward the light Immediately be-
hind him a young girl, almost a woman in stature and bearing,
followed. The moment I could distinguish his form and feat-
ures and those of his companion, I rushed toward them, for-
getful for the instant that I had lost my self-control, and em-
braced them both. Then I undertook to present Air. Bradford
and my friend Millie to Livingston.
It did not seem strange to me to find them in New York.
What foolish things I said to Mr. Bradford and what maudlin
words to Millie I do not know. Both carried grave faces,
Arthur Bonntcastle. 237
Millie's eyes ^for even through all that cloud of stupid insanity,
from this far point of distance I see them still burned first
like fire, then filled with tears.
For what passed immediately after this, I am indebted to an*
other memory and not to my own.
After watching me and listening to me for a minute in silence,
Millie darted to the side of Livingston, and looking him fiercely
in the face, exclaimed : *^ You are a wicked man. You ought
to be ashamed to let him do it. Oh ! he was so good and
so sweet when he went away from Bradford, and you have
spoiled him you have spoiled hiuL Til never forgive you,
never !."
" Millie ! my daughter ! " exclaimed Mr. Bradford.
Millie threw herself upon a sofa, and burying her head in
the pillow, burst into hysterical tears.
Livingston tiuned to Mr. Bradford and said : " I give you
my word of honor, sir, that I have not drunk one drop of
wine to-day. I have refrained fi'om drinking entirely for his
sake, and your daughter's accusation is most unjust."
Mr. Bradford took the young man's hand cordially and said :
" I believe you, and you must pardon Millie. She is terribly
disappointed, and so am I. She supposed her friend had been
tempted by bad companions, and as you were with him, she at
once attributed the evil influence to you."
" On the contrary," responded Livingston, " no man has
tempted him at all, and no man could tempt him. None but
women who prate about their suflerings from drunken husbands
and brothers could have moved him from his determination.
I am ashamed to tell you who attacked his scruples first. It
was one who has reason enough, Heaven knows, to hate wine ;
but her efibrts have been followed by scores of younger
women to-day, who have seemed to take delight in leading him
into a mad debauch."
Livingston spoke bitterly, and as he closed, Millie sprang
from the sofa, and seizing his hand, kissed it, and wet it with her
tears.
238 Arthur Bonnzcastle.
" Please take him home, and be kind to him," she said "I
am suie he will never do it again."
In the meantime, entirely overcome by the heat of the room,
acting upon nerves which had been stimulated beyond the
power of endurance, I had sunk helplessly into a chair, where
I stared stupidly upon the group, unable to comprehend a
word of the conversation.
Mr. Bradford took Livingston aside, and after some words of
private conversation, both approached me, and taking me by
my arms, led me from the house, and placed me in the car-
riage. The dusk had already descended, and I do not think
that I was observed, save by one or two strangers passing upon
the sidewalk. The seal of secrecy was placed upon the lips of
the household by the kind offices of Mr. Bradford, and the
story, so far as I know, was never told, save as it was afterward
told to me, and as I have told it in these pages.
The carriage was driven rapidly homeward The house of
the Livingstons was upon a corner, so that a side entrance was
available for getting me to my room without public observa-
tion. The strong arms of Livingston and the footman bore
me to my chamber, removed my clothing, and placed me in
bed, where I sank at once into that heavy drunken slumber
from which there is no waking except that of torture.
The morning after New Year's was as bright as that which
preceded it, but it had no brightness for me. The heart which
had leaped up into gladness as it greeted the New Year's dawn,
was a lump of lead. The head that was as clear as the sky it-
self on the previous morning, was dull and heavy with a strange,
throbbing pain. My mouth was dry and hot, and a languor
held me in possession from which it seemed impossible to rouse
myself Then all the mad doings of the day which had wit-
nessed my fall came back to me, and it seemed as if the shame
of it all would kill me. Livingston brought me some cooling
and corrective draught, on the strength of which I rose. The
dizzy feeling was not entirely gone, and I reeled in a pitiful
Arthur Bonnicastle. 239
way while dressing ; but cold water, a cool room, and motion,
soon placed me in possession of myself.
" I can*t go down to breakfast, Livingston," I said. " I
have disgraced you and all the family."
" Oh ! women forgive, my boy," said he, with a contemptuous
shmg. " Never you mind. If they don't like their own work,
let them do it better."
" But I can't face them," I said.
"Face them! Bah! it's they who are to face you. But
don't trouble yourself You'll find them as placid as a summer
morning, ignoring everything. They're used to it."
He insisted, and I descended to the breakfast room. Not
an allusion was made to the previous day's experiences, except
as a round of unalloyed pleasure. The young ladies had
received an enormous number of calls, and on the sideboard
stood a row of empty decanters. There was no thought of the
headaches and heart-burnings with which the city abounded, no
thought of suicidal habits begun or confirmed through their
agency, no thought of the drunkards they were nursing into
husbands. There sat the mother in her matronly dignity, dis-
pensing her fragrant coffee, there were the young ladies chat-
tering over their list, and talking of this one and that one of
their callers, and there was I, a confused ruin of hopes and
purposes which clustered around a single central point of con-
sciousness and that point hot with shame and remorse.
We were to return on the afternoon boat that day, and I was
not sorry. I was quite ready to turn my back on all the splen-
dors, that had so charmed me on my arrival, on all the new
acquaintances I had made, and on my temptations.
Special efforts were made by Mrs. Livingston and her
daughters to reinstate me in my self-respect. They were cor-
dial in their expressions of friendship, begged that I would not
forget them, invited me to visit them again and often, and
loaded me with all courteous and friendly attentions. Living-
ston was quiet and cold through it all. He had intended to
return me as good as he brought me, and had failed. He was
240 Arthur Bonnicastle.
my senior, and had entertained a genuine respect for my con-
scientious scruples, over which, from the first moment I had
known him, he had assumed a sort of guardianship. He was
high-spirited, and as 1 had once repelled his cautioning care, I
knew I should hear no more from him.
When we arrived at the boat, I went at once into the cabin,
sank into a chair, buried my face in my hands, and gave my-
self up to my sorrow and shame. I was glad that I should not
find Henry in my room on my return. He had been gone a
month when I left, for, through the necessities of self-suppwt,
he had resumed his school duties in Bradford for the winter,
I thought of him in his daily work, and his nightly visits at my
father's house ; of the long conversations that would pass be-
tween him and those whom I loved best about oae who ha4
proved himself unworthy of their regard ; of the shameful
ner in which I had betrayed the confidence of vay benefaci
and the disgrace which I had brought upon myself in the
of Mr. Bradford and Millie. It then occurred to me. fopr
first time tliat Mr. Bradford was on a New Year's visit
daughter, whom he had previously placed in a N^jnr:*
school. How should I ever meet them again ? H0W,
tliey ever forgive me ? How could I ever win their
and confidence again ? " O God ! O God I " I said, ill^
per of anguish, " how can I ever come to Thee ^^in, i
knew in my inmost heart that I was disobeying and
Thee ? "
I was conscious at this moment that steps approached
Then followed a light touch upon my shoulder. I looked flfA"
and saw Mr. Bradford. I had never before seen his coiuM^
nance so sad, and at the same time so severe.
" Don't reproach me," I said, lifting my hands in depreca-
tion, "don't reproach me : if you do, I shall die."
" Reproach you, my boy ? " he said, drawing a chair to my
side while his lips quivered with sympathy, " there would be no
need of it if I were disposed to do so. Reproach for error be-
tween erring mortals is not becoming."
\ ::. NEW V ^ ' .|
v
'.0*' 0N8.
Arthur Bpnnicastle. 241
" Do you suppose you can ever forgive me and trust me
again?" I asked.
" I forgive you and trust you now. I give you credit for
common-sense. You have proved, in your own experience,
the truth of all I have told" you, and 1 do not believe that you
need to learn anything further, except that one mistake and
misstep like yours need not ruin a life."
"Do you really think," said I, eagerly grasping his arm,
"that I can ever be again what I have been ? "
" Never again," he replied, sadly shaking his head. " The
bloom is gone from the fruit, but if you hate your folly with a
hatred which will forever banish it from your life, the fruit is
uninjured."
"And are they to know all this in Bradford? " I asked.
"Never from me," he replied.
"You are too kind to me," I said " You have always been
kind."
"I don't know. I have intended to be kind, but if you are
mined through the influence of Mrs. Sanderson's money I shall
curse the day on which I suggested the thought that brought
you under her patronage."
"Will you accept a pledge from me," I said eagerly, "in
regard to the future ? "
" No indeed, Arthur. No pledge coming from you to-day,
while you are half beside yourself with shame and sorrow,
would have the value of a straw. A promise can never redeem
a man who loses himself through lack of strength and principle.
A man who cannot be controlled by God's Word certainly
cannot be controlled by his own. It will take weeks for you
to arrive at a point where you can fonn a resolution that will
be of the slightest value, and, when you reach that point, no
resolution will be needed. Some influence has changed your
views of life and your objects. You have in some way been
shaken at your foundations. When these become sound again,
you will be restored to yourself, and not until then. You fan-
cied that the religious influences and experiences which we
11
242 Arthur Bonnzcastle.
both remember had done much to strengthen you, but In truth
they did nothing. They interrupted, and, for the time, ruined
the processes of a religious education. You fancied that in a
day you had built what it takes a lifetime to build, and yoa
were, owing to the reactions of that great excitement, and to
the confusion into which your thoughts and feelings were
thrown, weaker to resist temptation than when you returned
from The Bird's Nest I saw it all then, just as plainly as I see
it now. I have discounted all this experience of yours not
precisely this, but something like it. I knew you would be
tempted, and that into the joints of a harness too loosely knit
and fastened some arrow would find its way,"
" What am I to do ? What can I do ? " I said piteously.
" Become a child again," he responded. " Go back to the
simple faith and the simple obedience which you learned of
your father. Put away your pride and your love of that which
enervates and emasculates you, and try with God's help to grow
into a true man. I have had so many weaknesses and faults of
my own to look after, that I have never had the heart to under-
take the instruction of others ; but I feel a degree of responsi-
bility for you, and I know it is in you to become a man who
will bring joy to your father and pride to mfe."
" Oh ! do believe me, Mr. Bradford, do," I said, " when I
tell you that I will try to become the man you desire me to
be."
" I beKeve you," he responded. " I have no doubt that you
will try, in a weaker or stronger way and more or less persist-
ently, to restore yourself to your old footing. And now, as
you have forced a promise upon me, which I did not wish you
to make, you must accept one from me. I have taken you
into my heart I took you into its warmest place when, years
ago, on our first acquaintance, you told me that you loved me.
And now I promise you that if I see that you cannot be what
you ought to be while retaining your present prospects of
wealth, I will put you to such a test as will prove whether you
have the manhood in you that I have given you the credit for,
Arthur Bonnicastle. 243
and whether jrou are worth saving to yourself and youi
friends."
His last words wounded me. Nay, they did nK)re they
kindled my anger. Though grievously humiliated, my pride
was not dead. I questioned in my heart his right to speak so
strongly to me, and to declare his purpose to thrust himself
into my life in any contingency, but I covered my feelings, and
even thanked him in a feeble way for his frankness. Then I
inquired about Henry, and learned in what high respect he was
held in Bradford, how much my father and all his acquaintances
were delighted in him, and how prosperously his affairs were
going on. Even in his self-respectful poverty, I envied him
a poverty through which he had manifested such sterling man-
hood as to win the hearts of all who came in contact with him.
" I shall miss him more than I can tell you," I said, " when
I get back to vay lonely room. No one can take his place, and
I need him now more than I ever did before."
" It is as well for you to be alone," said Mr. Bradford, *' if
you are in earnest There are some things in life that can only
be wrought out between a man and his God, and you have just
that thing in hand."
Our conversation was long, and touched many topics. Mr.
Bradford shook my hand heartily as we parted at the wharf, and
Livingston and I were soon in a carriage, whirling towards tlie
town. I entered my silent room with a sick and discouraged
feeling, with a sad presentiment of the struggle which its walls
woyld witness during the long winter months before me, and
with a terrible sense of the change through whicli I had passed
during the brief week of my absence.
And here, lest my reader be afflicted with useless anticipa-
tions of pain, I record the fact that wine never tempted me
again. One bite of the viper had sufficed. I had trampled
upon my conscience, and even that had changed to a viper
beneatlr my feet, and struck its fangs deep into the recoiling
flesh. From that day forward I forswore the indulgence of the
cup. While in college it was comparatively easy to do this, for
244 Arthur Bonnicastle.
my habit was known, and as no one but Livingston knew of
my fall, it was respected. I was rallied by some of the fellows
on my sleepy eyes and haggard looks, but none of them imag-
ined the cause, and the storm that had threatened to engulf me
blew over, and the waves around me grew calm again, the
waves around me, but not the waves within.
For a whole week after I returned, I was in constant and al-
most unendurable torture. The fear of discovery took posses-
sion of me. What if the men who were passing at the time Mr.
Bradford and Livingston lifted me into the carriage had known
me ? Was Peter Mullens in New York that night, and was he
one of them ? Thb question no sooner took possession of my
mind, than I mcied, from the looks and whisperings of him
and his companions, that the secret was in their possession. I
had no peace from these suspicions until I had satisfied myself
that he had not left the college during the holidays. Would
Mr. Bradford, by some accident, or through forgetfulness of his
promise to me, speak of the matter to my father, or Henry, or
Mrs. Sanderson? Would Millie write about it to her mother?
Would it be carelessly talked about by the ladies who had wit-
nessed my disgrace? Would it be possible for me ever to show
myself in Bradford again ? Would the church learn of my
lapse and bring me under its discipline ? Would the religious
congregations I had addressed hear of my fall from sobriety,
and come to regard me as a hypocrite ? So sore was my self-
love, so sensitive was my pride, that I am sure I should have
lied to cover my shame, had the terrible emergency arisen. It
did not rise, and for that I cannot cease to be grateful
It will readily be seen that, while the fear of discovery was
upon me, and while I lived a false life of carelessness and even
gayety among my companions, to cover the tumults of dread
and suspicion that were going on within me, I did not make
much progress in spiritual life. In truth I made none at all
My prayers were only wild beseechings that I might be spared
from exposure, and pledges of future obedience should my
prayers be answered. So thoroughly did my fears of men pos-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 245
sess me, tha^ there was no room for repentance toward Godi
or such a repentance as would give me the basis of a new de-
parture and a better life. I had already tried to live two lives
that should not be discordant with each other ; now I tried to
live two lives that I knew to be antagonistic. It now became
an object to appear to be what I was not. I resumed at inter-
vals my attendance upon the prayer-meetings to make it appear
that I still clung to my religious life. Then, while in the soci-
ety of my companions, I manifested a careless gayety which I
did not feeL All the manifestations of my real life took place
in the solitude of my room. There, wrestling with my fears,
and shut out from my old sources of comfort and strength, I
passed my nights. \^th a thousand luxurious appliances around
me, no lense of luxury ever came to me. My heart was a
central living coal, and all around it was ashes. I even feared
that the coal might die, and that Henry, when he should return,
would find his room bereft of all that would give him welcome
and cheer.
As the weeks passed away, the fear slowly expired, and alas !
nothing that was better came in its place. No sooner did I
begin to experience the sense of safety from exposure, and
from the temptation which had brought n^ such grievous harm,
than the old love of luxurious life, and the old plans for secur-
ing it, came back to me. I felt sure that wine would never
tempt me again, and with this confidence I built me a foun-
dation of pride and self-righteousness on which I could stand,
and regard myself with a certain degree of complacency.
As for efficient study, that was out of the question. I was
in no mood or condition for work. I scrambled through my
lessons in a disgraceful way. The better class of students
were all surpassing me, and I found myself getting hopelessly
into the rear. I had fitful rebellions against this, and showed
them and myself what I could do when I earnestly tried : but
the power of persistence, which is bom of a worthy purpose,
held strongly in the soul, was absent, and there could be no
true advancement without it
246 Arthur Bonnicastle.
I blush with shame, even now, to think how I tried to cover
my delinquencies from ray fe-ther and Mrs. Sandersot, by
becoming more attentive to them than I had ever been in the
matter of writing letters. I knew that there was nothing that
carried so much joy to my father as a letter from me.
I knew that he read every letter I wrote him, again and again
that he carried it in his pocket at his work that he took it
out at meals, and talked about it I knew also that Mrs.
Sanderson's life was always gladdened by attentions of this sort
from me, and that they tended to keep her heart open toward
me. In just the degree in which I was conscious that I
was unworthy of their affection, did I strive to present to
them ray raost amiable side, and to convince them that I was
unchanged.
I lived this hypocritical, unfruitful life during all that winter ;
and when Henry came to rae in the spring, crowned with the
fruits of his labor, and fresh from the loves and friendships
of his Bradford home, with his studies all in hand, and with such
evident growth of manhood that I felt ahnost afraid of him,
he found me an unhappy and almost reckless laggard, with
nothing to show for the winter's privileges but a weakened will,
dissipated powers, frivolous habits, deadened moral and religious
sensibilities, and a life that had degenerated into subterfuge
and sham.
My natural love of approbation the same greed for the good
opinion and the praise of others which in my childhood made
me a liar had lost none of its force, and did much to shape
my intercourse with all around me. The sense of worthless-
ness which induced my special efforts to retain the good-will
of Mrs. Sanderson, and the admiration and confidence of my
father, raoved rae to a new endeavor to gain the friendship
of all my fellow-students. I felt that I could not afford to
have enemies. I had lost none of my popularity with the
exclusive clique to which I had attached myself, for even
Livingston had seen with delight that I was not disposed to
repeat the mistake of which he had been so distressed a wit-
Arthur Bonnicastle^ 247
ness. I grew more courteous and complaisant toward those I
had regarded as socially my inferiors, until I knew that I was
looked upon by them as a good fellow. I was easy-tempered,
ready at repartee, generous and careless, and although I
had lost all reputation for industry and scholarship, I possessed
just the character and manners which made me welcome to
every group. I blush while I write of it, to remember how I
curried favor with Mr. Peter Mullens and his set ; .but to such
mean shifts did a mean life force me. To keep the bark of
my popularity from foundering, on which I was obliged to trust
everything, I tossed overboard from time to time, to meet
every rising necessityi my self-respect, until I had but little
left
, 1
CHAPTER XVI.
PETER MX7LLENS ACQUIRES A VERY LARGE STOCK OF OLD
CLOTHES.
Though Mr. Peter Mullens had but slender relations to my
outer life ^hardly enough to warrant the notice I have already
taken of him ^there was a relation which I recognized in my
experience and circumstances that makes it necessary for me
to say more of him. He had recognized this relation him-
self, and it was this that engendered my intense personal dislike
of him. I knew that his willing dependence on others had
robbed him of any flavor of manhood he might at one time
have possessed, and that I, very differently organized, was suf-
fering from the same cause. I watched the effect upon him of
this demoralizing influence, with almost a painful curiosity.
Having, as he supposed, given up himself, he felt that he
had a right to support There seemed to him to be no sweet-
ness in bread that could be earned. Everything came amiss
to him that came with personal cost He was always looking for
gifts. I will not say that he prayed for them, but I have no
doubt that he prayed, and that his temporal wants mingled inhSs
petitions. No gift humiliated him : he lived by gifts. His greed
for these was pitiful, and often ludicrous. Indeed, he was the
strangest mixture of piety, avarice, and beggarly meanness that
I had ever seen.
My second spring in college was verging upon summer.
The weather was intensely hot, and all the fellows had put
themselves into summer clothing all but poor Peter Mullens.
He had come out of the winter very seedy, and his heavy
clothing still clung to him, in the absence of supplies of a
lighter character. Although he had a great many pairs of
Arthur Bonntcastle. 249
woolen socks and striped mittens, and a dozen or two neck-
fies, which had been sent to him by a number of persons to
whom he gave the indefinite designation of " the sisters," there
seemed to be no way by which he could transform them into
summer clothing. He was really in a distressed condition, and
" the sisters " failed to meet the emergency.
At a gathering of the fellows of our clique one night, his
afiairs were brought up for discussion, and it was determined
that we should go through our respective wardrobes and weed
out all the garments which we did not intend to wear again,
and, on the first dark night, take them to his room. I was to
make the first visit, and to be followed in turn by the others.
Accordingly, having made up a huge bundle of garments
that would be of use to him, provided he could wear them
and he could wear anything, apparently I started out one
evening, and taking it in my arms, went to his room. This
was located in a remote comer of the dormitory, at the bottom
of a narrow hall, and as the hall was nearly dark, I deposited
my bundle at the door and knocked for admission.
" Come in I " responded Mullens.
' I entered, and by good fortune found him alone. He was
sitting in the dark, by the single open window of his room, and
I could see by the dim light that he was stripped of coat and
waistcoat. He did not know me at first, but, rising and strik-
ing a light, he exclaimed : '* Well, this is kind of you, Bonnicastle.
I was just thinking of you."
He then remembered that his glasses had been laid aside.
Putting them on, he seemed to regard himself as quite present-
ablej and made no fiurther attempt to increase his clothing. I
looked around the bare room, with its single table, its wretched
pair of chairs, its dirty bed, and its lonely occupant, and con-
trasting it with the cosy apartment I had just left, my heart
grew full of pity for him.
" So you were thinking of me, eh ? " I said. " That was very
kiird of you. Pray, what were you thinking ? Nothing bad, J
hope."
250 Arthur Bonnicastle.
" No, I was thinking about your privileges. I was thinking
how you had been favored."
It was strange that it had never occurred to Mullens to think
about or to envy those who held money by right, or by the
power of earning it. It was only the money that came as a
gift that stirred him. There were dozens or hundreds of fellows
whose parents were educating them, but these were never the
subject of his envious thoughts.
" Let* s not talk about my privileges," I said. " How are you
getting along yourself? "
"I am really very hard up," he replied. "If the sisters
would only send me trousers, and such things, I should be all
right, but they don't seem to consider that I want trousers any
more than they do, confound them."
The quiet indignation with which this was uttered amused
me, and I laughed outright But Mullens was in sober earnest,
and going to his closet he brought forth at least a dozen pairs
of thick woolen socks, and as many pairs of striped mittens,
and laid them on the table.
" Look at that pile," said Mullens, " and weep."
The comical aspect of the matter had really reached the*
poor fellow's apprehension, and he laughed heartily with me.
" What are you going to do with them ? " I asked.
" I don't know," he replied ; " Tve thought of an auction.
What do you say?"
" Why don't you try to sell them at the shops ? " I inquired.
" Let me alone for that I've been all over the city with
'em," said he. " One fellow said they didn't run even, and I
don't think they do, very, that's a fact Another one said they
looked like the fag-end of an old stock ; and the last one I went
to asked me if I stole them."
" Well, Mullens, the wind is tempered to the shorn lamb," 1
said, consolingly. " It's June."
" But it don't apply," said Mullens. " I'm not shorn. The
trouble is that I've got too much wooL"
This was bright for Mullens, and we both laughed again.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 251
After the laugh had passed, I said : " I think I know of eight
or ten fellows who will relieve you of your surplus stock, and^
as I am one of them, I propose to take a pair of socks and a
pair of mittens now."
The manner of the man changed immediately. His face
grew animated, and his eyes fairly gleamed through his specta-
cles. He jumped to his feet as I spoke of purchasing, and ex-
claimed: "Will you? What will you give? Make us an
bffer."
" Oh, you must set your own price," I said.
"Well, you see they are very good socks, don't you ?" said
Mullens. "Now, every stitch in those socks and mittens was
knit upon honor. There isn't a mercenary inch of yam in 'em.
Take your pick of the mittens. By the way, I haven't shown
you my neck-ties," and, rushing to his closet, he brought forth
quite an armful of them.
The humble suflferer had become a lively peddler, bent upon
driving the sharpest bargain and selling the most goods possible
to a rare customer. Selecting a pair of socks, a pair of mittens,
and a neck-tie of a somewhat soberer hue than I had been ac-
customed to wear, he laid them by themselves, and then, wiping
his forehead and his glasses with a little mop of a handkerchief,
he put on a mildly judicial face, and said :
" Bonnicastle, my dear friend, I've always taken a great deal
of interest in you ; and now you have it in your power to do
me a world of good. Think, just think, Bonnicastle, of the
weary hours that have been spent on these articles of apparel
by those of whom the world is not worthy ! Think of the be-
nevolence that inspired every stitch. Think of the of the
thoughts that have run through those devoted minds. Think
of those sisters respectively saying to themselves : ' I know not
whom I am laboring for ^it may be for Mullens or it may be
for one more worthy, ^but for whomsoever it is, it is for one who
will stand up in defense of the truth when I am gone. His feet,
bent upon errands of mercy, will be kept comfortable by these
stockings. His hands, carrying succor to the fallen and con-
252 Arthur Bonnicastle.
solation to the afflicted, w3l be warmed by these mittens.
These neck-ties will surround the neck the throat of one
who^will breathe words of peace and good-wilL' My dear Bon-
nicastle, there is more in these humble articles of apparel than
appears to the carnal eye much more incalculably more.
Try to take it in when we come to the matter of price. Try to
take it all in, and then discharge your duty as becomes a man
Tdio has been favored."
" Look here, Mullens," said I, " you are working on ray feel-
mgs, and the articles are getting so expensive that I can't buy
them."
" Oh, don't feel that way ; " said he, " I only want to have
you get some idea what there is in these things. Why, there's
love, good-will, self-sacrifice, devotion, and woman's tender
heart"
" Pity there couldn't have been some trowsers," said L
Mullens' lip quivered. He was not sure whether I was jok-
ing or not, but he laid his hand appealingly upon my knee, and
then settled back in his chair and wiped his forehead and spec-
tacles again. Having made up my mind that Mullens had de-
termined to raise an enormous revenue from his goods, I was
somewhat surprised when he said briskly, '' Bonnicastle, what
do you say to a dollar and a half? That's only fifty cents an
article, and the whole stock will bring me only fifteen or twenty
dollars at that price."
" I'll take them," said I.
" Good !" exclaimed Mullens, slapping his knee. " Who'll
have the next bowl ? Walk up, gentlemen ! "
Mullens had evidently officiated in an oyster booth at militia
musters. In his elated state of feeling, the impulse to run into
his old peddler's lingo was irrepressible. I think he felt com
plimented by the hearty laugh with which I greeted his cry.
" If I'm going into this business," said Mullens, " I really
must have some brown paper. Do you suppose, Bonnicastle,
that if you should go to one of the shops, and tell them the
object, a shop kept by one of our.friends, you know,- one
Arthur Bonnicastle. 253
who has the cause at heart ^he would give you a package of
brown paper ? I'd go myselfi but I've been around a good
deal"
" Wouldn't you rather have me buy some ? " I asked.
" Why, no ; it doesn't seem to be exactly the thing to pay
out money for brown paper," responded Mullens.
" Tm not used to begging," I said.
" Why, it isn't begging, Bonnicastle ; it's asking for the cause."
" You really must excuse me, Mullens."
"All right," said he; " here's an old newspaper that will do
for your package. Now don't forget to tell all your friends that
I am ready for 'em. Tell 'em the cause is a good one that
it really involves the the welfare of society. And tell 'em
the things are dirt cheap. Don't forget that"
Mullens had become as cheerful and lively as a cricket ; and
while he was doing up my package, I opened the door and
brought in my bundle. As I broke the string and unfolded the
bountiful contents, he paused in a pleased amazement, and
then, leaping forward and embracing me, exclaimed : " Bonni-
castle, you're an angel 1 What do you suppose that pile is
worth, now, in hard cash ? "
" Oh, I don't know ; if s worth a good deal to you," I re-
plied.
" And you really don't feel it at all, do you now? Own up."
"No," I answered, "not at alL You are welcome to the
whole pile."
" Yes, Bonnicastle," said he, sliding smoothly back from the
peddler into the pious- beneficiary, " you've given out of your
abundance, and you have the blessed satisfaction of feeling that
you have done your duty. I don't receive it for myself, but
for the cause. I am a poor, unworthy instrument. Say, Bonni-
castle, if you should see some of these things on others, would
you mind?"
" Not in the least," I said. " Do you propose to share your
good fortune with your friends ? "
"Yes," said Mullens, "I shall sell these things to them.
254 Arthur Bonntcastle.
veiy reasonably indeed. They shall have no cause to com-
plain."
At this moment there was a knock, and Livingston, with a
grave face, walked in with his bundle, and opening it, laid it
upon the table. Mullens sank into his chair, quite overwhelmed.
" Fellows," said he, " this is too much. I can bear one bun-
dle, but under two you must excuse me if I seem to totter."
Another and another followed Livingston into the room, and
deposited their burdens, until the table was literally piled. Mul-
lens actually began to snivel.
" If s a lark, fellows," said Mullens, from behind his handker-
chief " If s a lark : I know it I see it ; but oh, fellows ! if s
a blessed lark z, blessed, blessed lark ! Larks may be em-
ployed to bring tribute into the storehouse. Larks niay be
overruled, and used as means. I know you are making fun A
me, but the cause goes on. If there isn't room on the table,
put them on the floor. They shall all be employed. If I have
ever done you injustice in my thoughts, fellows, you must for-
give me. This wipes out everything ; and as I don't see any
boots in your parcels, perhaps you'll be kind enough to re-
member that I wear tens, with a low instep. Has the last
man come ? Is the cup full ? What do you suppose the whole
pile is worth?"
Mullens ran on in this way, muddled by his unexpected good
fortune and his greed, with various pious ejaculations which,
for Very reverence of the words he used, my pen refuses to
record.
Then it suddenly occurred to him that he was not making the
most of his opportunities. Springing to his feet, and turning
peddler in an instant, he said: "Fellows, Bonnicastle has
bought a pair of socks, a pair of striped piittens and a neck-
tie from my surplus stock. Fve got enough of them to go all
around. WTiat do you say to them at fifty cents apiece ? "
"We've been rather expecting," said Livingston, with a
quiet twinkle in his eye, " thaty9u would make us a present of
these."
Arthur Bonnicastle. 255
This was a new thought to Mullens, and it sobered him at
once. " Fellows," said he, " you know vs\y heart ; but these
things are a sacred trust. They have been devoted to a cause,
and from that cause I cannot divert them."
" Oh I of course not," said Livingston ; " I only wanted to
test your faithfulness. You're as sound as a nut."
The conversation ended in a purchase of the " surplus stock,"
and then, seeing that the boys had not finished their fun, and
fearing that it might run into some unpleasant excesses, Liv-
ingston and I retired.
The next morning our ears were regaled with an account of
the remaining experiences of the evening, but it does not need
to be recorded here. It is sufficient to say that before the
company left his room, Mullens was arrayed from head to foot
with a dress made up from various parcels, and that in that
dress he was obliged to mount his table and make a speech. ^
He appeared, however, the next morning, clothed in comforta-
ble garments, which of course were recognized by their for-
mer owners, and formed a subject of merriment among them.
We never saw them, however, upon any others of his set, and
he either chose to cover his good fortune from them by selling
his frippery to the Hebrew dealers in such merchandise, or
they refrised to be his companions in wearing garments that
were known in the college.
CHAPTER XVII.
I CHANGB BIY RELIGIOUS VIEWS TO CONFORM WITH IfY MORAL
PRACTICE, AND AM GRADUATED WITHOUT HONORS.
From the first hour of my direct violation of my conscience^
there began, almost imperceptibly at first, a change of my
views of religious doctrine and obligation. It was one of the
necessities of my position. Retaining the strict notions of my
childhood and younger youth, I should not have enjoyed a
moment of peace ; and my mind involuntarily went to work
to reconcile my opinions to my looser life. It was necessary
to bring my convictions and my conscience into harmony
with my conduct, else the warfare within n^e would have been
unendurable. The first change related to duty. It seemed
to me that God, remembering that I was dust, and that I was
peculiarly weak under specific temptations, would be less rigid
in his requirements of me than I had formerly supposed. As
this conclusion seemed to make him more lovable to me, I
permitted it to deceive me wholly. Then there was something
which flattered me in being considered less '' blue " than the
majority of those who made a profession of religion. It was
pleasant to be liberal, for liberality carried no condemnation
with it of the careless life around me.
But this was not all. It was only the open gate at which
I entered a wide field of doubt All my religious opinions took
on an air of unreality. The old, implicit faith which, like an
angel with a sword of fiame, had stood at the doc^ of my
heart, comforting me with its presence, and keeping at a dis-
tance all the shapes of unbelief, took its flight, and the dark
band gathered closer, with a thousand questions and sugges-
tions. Was there a God ? Was the God whom I had learned
to worship anything more than a figment of conspiring im-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 257
aginations? If He were more than this, had he revealed
himself in words? Was Jesus Christ a historical character
or a vafiki ? Was there any such thing, after all, as personal
accountability? Was the daily conduct of so insignificant a
person as myself of the slightest moment to a Being who held
an infinite universe in charge? Who knew that the soul
was immortal, and that its condition here bore any relation to
its condition there ? Was not half of that which I had looked
upon as sin, made sin only by a conscience wrongly educated?
Was drinking wine a sin in itself? If not, why had it so wounded
me ? Other consciences did not condemn an act which had
cost me my peace and self-respect Who knew but that
a thousand things which I had considered wrong were only
wrong because I so considered them ? After all my pains-tak-
ing and my prayers, had I been anything better than a slave
to a conscience perverted or insufficiently informed ?
The path firom an open violation of conscience to a condi-
tion of religious doubt, is as direct as that which leads to
heaven. It was so in my case, and the observation of a long
life has shown me that it is so in every case. Just in the pro-
portion that my practice degenerated did my views become
modified to accommodate themselves to my life.
I said very little about the changes going on in my mind,
except to my faithfiil companion and fiiend, Henry. When he
returned firom Bradford, he, for the first time, became fully
aware of the great change that had taken place in me. He was
an intense hater of sham and cant, and sympathized with me
in my dislike of the type of piety with which we were often
thrown in contact. This, I suppose, had blinded him to the
fact that I was trying to sustain myself in my criticism of oth-
ers. I could not hide my growing infidelity from him, however,
for it seemed necessary for me to have some one to talk with,
and I was conscious of a new disposition to argue and defend
m3rselfl . Here I was misled again. I fancied that my
modification of views came of intellectual convictions, and
that I could not be to blame for changes based upon wh^t
258 Arthur Bonnzcastle.
I was fond of calling " my God-given reason." I lost sight of
the fact that the changes came first, and that the only office
to which I put " my God-given reason " was that of satisfying
and defending mysel Oh, the wretched sophistries of those
wretched days and years !
I do not like to speak so much of prayer as I have been com-
pelled to in these pages, for even this sounds like cant to many
ears ; but, in truth, I cannot write the story of my Ufe without
it I do not believe there can be such a thing as a truly
religious life without prayer. The religious soul must hold
converse and communion with the Infinite or its religion can
not live. It may be the simple expression of gratitude and
desire. It may be the prostration of the soul in worship and
adoration. It may be the up-springing of the spirit in strong
aspiration ; but in some way or form there must be prayer, or
religion dies. There must be an open way between the heart
of man and the heart of the Infinite a ladder that reaches
from the pillow of stone to the pillars of the Throne, where
angels may climb and angels may descend or the religious
life of the soul can have no ministry.
In my changed condition and circumstances, I found mjrself
deprived of this great source of life. First my sin shut me
away, and my neglect of known and acknowledged duty. Then
my fiivolous pursuits and trifling diversions rendered me unfit
for the awful presence into which prayer led me. Then, un-
belief placed its bar before me. In truth, I found in prayer,
whenever I attempted it, only a hollow expression of penitence,
from a weak and unwilling heart, toward a being in whose ex-
istence I did not more than half believe.
I bowed with Henry at our bed every night, but it was only
a mockery. He apprehended it at last, and questioned me
about it One night, after we had risen from our knees, he
said : " Arthur, how is it with you ? I don't understand how
a man who talks as you do can pray with any comfort to himself
You are not at all what you used to be."
" m be frank with you, Henry," I answered. " I don t pray
Arthur Bonnicastle. 259
"with any comfort to myself, or any profit either. It's all a
shaniy and I don't intend to do any more of it."
** Oh, Arthur, Arthur, has it come to this I " exclaimed the
dear fellow, his eyes filling .with tears. " Have you gone so
far astray? How can you live? I should think you would
die."
** You see !" I said carelessly: " Tm in very good health.
The world goes on quite well. There are no earthquakes or
hurricanes. The sun rises and sets in the old way, and the
wicked prosper like the righteous, the same as they have always
done, and get along without any serious bother with their con-
sciences besides. The fact is that my views of everything
have changed, and I don't pray as I used to pray, simply be-
cause the thing is impossible."
Henry looked at me while I said this, with a stunned,
bewildered expression, and then, putting his arms around my
neck, bowed his head upon my shoulder and said, half choked
with emotion : "I can't bear it; I can't bear it. It must not
be so."
Then he put me off, and looked at me. His eyes were dry,
and a determined, almost prophetic expression was in them as
he said : " It will not be so ; it shall not be so."
** How are you going to prevent it ? " I inquired, coolly.
** I shall not prevent it, but there is one who will, you may
be very sure," he replied. "There is a God, and he hears the
prayers of those who love him. You cannot prevent me from
prajdng f8r you, and I shall do it always. You and I belong
to the same church, and I am under a vow to watch over
you. Besides, you and I promised to help one another in every
emergency, and I shall not forget the promise."
** So I am under a guardian, am I ? "
** Yes, you are under a guardian a very much more powerful
guardian than I am," he replied.
" I suppose I shall be taken care of, then," I said.
** Yes, you will be taken care of; if not in the mild way with
which you have hitherto been treated, then in a rough way to
26o Arthur Bonnicastle.
which you are not used. The prayers and hopes and expecta-
tions of such a father as yours are not to be disregarded or
go for nothing. By some means, tender or terrible, you are to
be brought out of your indifference and saved."
There was something in this talk which brou^t back to me
the covert threat that I had heard from the lips of Mr. Brad-
ford, of which I had not thought much. Were he and Henry
leagued together in any plan that would bring me punishment?
That was impossible, yet I grew suspicious of both of them. I
did not doubt their friendship, yet the thing I feared most was
an interference with my prospects of wealth. Was it possible
that they, in case I should not meet their wishes, would inform
Mrs. Sanderson of my unworthiness of -her benefactions, and
reduce me to the necessity and shame of taking care of
myself? This was the great calamity I dreaded. Here was
where my life could only be touched. Here was where I fdt
painfully sensitive and weak.
A Uttle inddent occurred about this time which rendered me
still more suspicious. I had been in the habit of receiving let-
ters from Mrs. Sanderson, addressed in the handwriting of Mrs.
Belden. Indeed, not a few of my letters from The Mansion were
written entirely by that lady, under Mrs. Sanderson's dictation.
I had in this way become so familiar with her hand-writing
that I could hardly be mistaken in it, wherever I might see it
From the first day of our entering college, Henry had insisted on
our having separate boxes at the Post-Office. I had never known
the real reason for this, nor had I cared to inquire what it might
be. The thought had crossed my mind that he was not willing
to have me know how often he received letters from my sister.
One morning he was detained by a severe cold from going, in
his accustomed way, for his mail, and as I was at the office, I
inquired whether there were letters for him. I had no object
in this but to do him a brotherly service ; but as his letters were
handed to me, I looked them over, and was startled to find an
address in what looked like Mrs. Belden's hand-writing. I ex-
amined it carefully, compared it with several addresses from hef
i\
Arthur Bonnicastle. 261
hand which I had in my pocket, and became sure that my first
suspicions were correct.
Here was food for the invagination of a guilty man. I took
the letters to Henry^ and handing them to him in a careless
way, remarked that, as I was at the office, I thought I
would save him the trouble of sending for his mail. He
took the package, ran it over in his hand, selected the letter
that had attracted my attention, and put it into his pocket un-
opened. He did not look at me, and I was sure he could not,
for I detected a flush of alarm upon his face at the moment I
handed the letters to him. I did not pause to see more, or to
make any inquiry for Bradford friends, and, turning upon xxxf
heel, left the room.
I could not do else than conclude that there was a private
understanding of some sort between him and Mrs. Belden.
What this was, was a mystery which I taxed my ingenuity to
fathom. My mind ran upon it all day. I knew Henry had
seen Mrs. Belden at Mr. Bradford's, and even at my father's
during the wmter, for she had maintained her friendship for
Claire. Could there have sprung up a friendly intimacy be-
tween- her and Henry of which this correspondence was an
outgrowth ? It did not seem likely. However harmless my
siumises might be, I always came back to the conclusion 'that
through Mrs. Belden and Henry an espionage upon my conduct
had been established by Mrs. Sanderson, and that all my words
and acts had been watched and reported. As soon as this
conviction became rooted in my mind, I lost my faith in Henry,
and from that hour, for a long time, shut away my confidence
from him. He could not but notice this change, and he was
deeply wounded by it Through all the remainder of the time
we spent in college together, there was a restraint in our in-
tercourse. I spent as Httle- time with him as possible, though
I threw new guards around my conduct, and was careful that he
should see and hear nothing to my discredit. I even strove,
in a weak way, to regain something of the ground I had lost in
262 Arthur Bonnicastle.
study ; but as I was not actuated by a worthy motive, my prcig*
ress was neither marked nor persistent
I certainly was not happy. I sighed a thousand times to
thin)L of the peace and inspiration I had lost My better am-
bitions were gone, my conscience was unsatisfied, my dispel-
tion to pray had fled, my Christian hope was extinguished, and
my faith was dead. I was despoiled of all that made me truly
rich ; and all that I had left were the good-will of those around
me, my social position, and the expectation of wealth which,
when it should come into my hands, would not only give me
the luxurious delights that I craved as the rarest boon of life,
but command the respect as well of the rich as of those less
favored than myself. I longed to get through with tlie bond-
age and the duty of my college life. I do not dare to say that
I longed for the death of my benefactress. I will not acknowl-
edge that I had become so base as this, but I could have been
reconciled to anything that would irrevocably place in my power
the wealth and independence I coveted.
It is useless to linger further over this period of my life. I
have traced with sufficient detail the influences which wrought
my transformation. They have been painful in the writing,
and they must have been equally painful in the reading, to all
those who had become interested in my career, welfare and
character. My suspicions that Henry was a spy upon my con-
duct were eff*aced for the time whenever I went home. Mrs.
Sanderson, upon whom the passing years began to lay a
heavy finger, showed no abatement of affection for me, and
seemed even more impatient than I for the termination of my
college life and my permanent restoration to her home and so-
ciety. Mrs. Belden was as sweet and ladylike and cordial as
ever. She talked freely of Henry as one whom she had learned
to admire and respect, and thought me most fortunate in hav-
ing such a companion. There was a vague shadow of disap-
pointment on my father's face, and I saw too, with pain, that
time and toil had not left him untouched with change.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 263
My visits in Bradford always made me better. So much was
expected of me, so much was I loved and trusted, so sweet and
friendly were all my acquaintances, that I never left them to
return to my college life without fresh resolutions to industry
and improvement If these resoliitions were abandoned, those
who know the power of habit and the influence of old and un-
renounced companionships will understand the reason why. I
had deliberately made my bed, and I was obliged to lie in it.
My compliant disposition brought me uniformly under the
yoke of the old persuasions to indolence and frivolous pursuits.
Livingston went away when his time came. There was
much that was lovable in him. He had a stronger character
than I, and he had always been so used to wealth and the expec-
tation of wealth that he was less harmed than I by these influ-
ences. Peter Mullens went away, and though I occasionally
heard about him, I saw him no more for several years. I
became at last the leader of my set, and secured a certain
measure of respect from them because I led them into no
vicious dissipations. In this I took a degree of pride and satis-
faction j but my teachers had long abandoned any hope that I
should distinguish myself and had come to regard me coldly.
My religious experiences were things of the past I continued
to show a certain respect for religion, by attending the public
services of the church. I did everything for the sake of
appearances, and for the purpose of blinding myself and my
friends to the deadness and hollowness of a life that had ceased
to be controlled by manly and Christian motives.
At last the long-looked-for day of release approached, and
although I wished it to come, I wished it were well over and for-
gotten. I had no honors to receive, and I knew that it was uni-
versally expected that Henry would carry away the highest of
his class. I do not think I envied him his eminence, for I
knew he had nobly earned it, and that in the absence of other
advantages it would do him good. I had money and he had
scholarship, which, in time, would give him money. In these
possessions we should be able to start more evenly in life.
264 Arthur Bonnicastle.
The time passed away, until the day preceding the annual
Commencement dawned. In the middle of this da/s excite-
ments, as I was sitting in my room, there was a rap at my door.
There were a dozen of my fellows with me, and we were in a
merry mood. Supposing the caller to be a student, I made a
response in some slang phrase, but the door was not opened.
I then went to it, threw it wide, and stood face to face with my
father. I was not glad to see him, and as my nature was too
transparent to permit me to deceive him, and he too senative
to fail of apprehending the state of my feelings, even if I had
endeavored to do so, the embarrassment of the moment may
be imagined.
" Well, father ! " I said, " this is a surprise ! "
The moment I pronounced the word "father," the fellows
began to retire, with hurried remarks about engagements, and
with promises to call again. It was hardly ten seconds before
every man of them was out of my room.
The dear old man had dressed himself in his plain best, and had
come to see realized the great hope of his life, and I, miserable
ingrate that I was, was ashamed of him. My fellows had fled the
room because they knew I was, and because they wished to save
me the pain of presenting him to them. As soon as they were
gone I strove to reassure him, and to convince him that I was
heartily glad to see him. It was easy for him to make apolo-
gies for me, and to receive those which I made for mjrselfl
He had had such precious faith in me that he did not wish to
have it shaken. He had left his work' and come to the City of
Elms to witness my triumphs. He had intended to give me a
glad day. Indeed, he had had dreams of going about to make
the acquaintance of the professors, and of being entertained
with a view of all the wonders of the college. I knew him so
well that I did not doubt that he expected to be taken in hand
b}" his affectionate son on his arrival, and conducted every-
where, sharing his glory. Never in my life had I received so
startling a view of the meanness of my own character as on
that morning. I could not possibly hide myself from myself;
Arthur Bonnicastle. 265
and my disgust with mjrself was measureless. Here was a man
whom I loved better than I loved, or had ever loved, any other
human being a man worthy of my profoundest respect the
sweetest, simplest, purest, noblest man whom I had ever known,
with a love in his heart for me which amounted to idolatry ^yet I
could have wished him a thousand miles away, rather than have
my gay and aristocratic companions find me in association with
him, and recognize the relations that existed between us.
What should I do with him? Where could I put him?
How could I hide him ? The thought of showing him around
was torture. Why had he not stayed at home ? What could
I say to him to explain my failure ? How could I break the
force of the blow which he must soon receive ? I inquired
about home and its affairs. I talked of everything but that
which he most desired to talk about ; and all the time I was
contriving ways to cut him adrift, or to cover him up.
I was saved the trouble I anticipated by my good friend
Henry, who, when he came, was so heartily delighted to see my
father that the whole course of relief was made plain. Henry
knew me and my circumstances, and he knew that my father's
presence was unwelcome. He at once took it upon himself to
say that I had a great many companions, and that they would
want me with them. So he should have the pleasure of look-
ing after my father, and of showing him everything he wanted
to see. He disregarded all my protests, and good-naturedly
told me to go where I was wanted.
The good old man had a pleasant time. He visited the cab-
inets, he was introduced to the professors when he chanced to
meet them, he saw all that was worth seeing. He had a con-
versation with Henry about me, which saved me the making of
apologies that would have been essential falsehoods. I had
won no honors, Henry told him, because I had had too much
money; but I was popular, was quite the equal of many others,
and would receive my degree. I saw them together, going
from building to building and walking under the elms and along
the streets. That which to my wretched vanity would have
. 12
266 Arthur Bonnicastle.
been pain was to Henry's self-assured and self-respectful man-
hood a rare pleastu'e. I doubt whether he spent a day during
his whole college life more delightfully than that which he spent
with my father.
At night I had another calL Mr. Bird came in. I went to
him in my old way, sat down in his ample lap, and put vay
arms around his neck.
" Arthur, my boy, I love you," he said. " There is a man
in you still, but all that I feared might be the result of yoiir cir-
cumstances has happened, Henry has outstripped you, and
while we are all glad for him, we are all disappointed in you."
I tried to talk in a gay way about it, but I was troubled Uk1
ashamed.
" By the way, I have seen your father to-day," he said.
" And what did he say ? " I inquired.
" No matter what he said : he is not happy. You have disap-
pointed him, but he will not upbraid you. He is pained to feel
that privileges which seemed to him inestimable should have
been so poorly improved, and that the boy from whom he
hoped and for whom he has sacrificed so much should have
shown himself so careless and unworthy."
" Pm sorry for him," I said.
"Very well, my boy ; and now tell me, has the kind of life
which has cost him so much pain paid you ? "
No."
" Are you going to change ? "
" I don't know : I doubt if I do," I responded.
" Has money been a good thing for you ? "
" No ; it has been a curse to me."
" Are you willing to relinquish it ? "
" No : Tm spoiled for poverty. It's too late."
" Is it ? We'll see."
Then the good man, with a stem look upon his face, kissed
me as he used to in the old times, and took his leave.
Here was another warning or threat, and it filled me with
uneasiness. Long after Henry had fallen asleep that ni^t, I
Arthur Bonnicastle. 267
lay revolving it in my mind. I began to feel that I had been
craelly treated. If money had spoiled me, who had been to
blame? It was forced upon me, my father consenting. It
had wrought out its natural influence upon me. Somebody
ought to have foreseen it. I had been wronged, and was now
blamed for that which others were responsible for.
Commencement day came, with its crowd of excitements.
The church in which the public exercises were held was
thronged. Hundreds from the towns and cities around had
assembled to witness the bestowal of the honors of study upon
their friends and favorites. Our class had, as usual on such
occasions, our places together, and as I did not belong to the
group of fellows who had appointments for orations, I was with
the class. Taking my seat, I looked around upon the multi
tude. Beautifully dressed ladies crowded the galleries, and 1
was deeply mortified that I should win neither their smiles nor
their flowers. I was, for the time at least, a nonentity. They
had eyes for none but those who had won the right to ad-
miration.
At my right I saw a figure which I thought to be that of an
acquaintance. His head was turned fi"om me, while he con-
versed with a strikingly beautiful girl at his side. He looked
towards the stage at last, and then I saw that it was Mr. Brad-
ford. Could that young woman be Millie ? I had not seen
her since I so shamefully encountered her more than two years
before. It was Millie. She had ripened into womanhood dur-
ing this brief interval, and her beauty was conspicuous even
among the score of beauties by which she was surrounded.
The orators came and went, receiving their tributes of ap-
plause fi-om the audience, and of flowers firom their friends ; but
I had no eyes for any one but Millie. I could regard her with-
out hinderance, for she did not once look at me. I had always
carried the thought of her in my heart. The little talks we
had had together had been treasured in my memory among its
choicest possessions. She had arrived at woman's estate, and
I had now no laurels to lay at her feet This was the one
268 Arthur Bonnicastle.
pungent drop of gall in my cup of wormwood, for then and
there I acknowledged to myself that in a vague way I had
associated her in my imagination witii all my future life. When
I had dreamed of one who should sit in Mrs. Sanderson's chair,
after she had passed away, it was always Millie. I had not
loved her with a man's love, but my heart was all open toward
her, ready to kindle in her smile or the glance of her marvelous
eyes. I knew there was only one whom she had come to see,
and rejoiced in the thought that she could be nothing more
to him than a friend, yet I grudged the honor which he was that
day to win in her eyes.
At last the long list of speakers was exhausted, and Heniy
came upon the stage to deliver the valedictory. He was re-
ceivied with a storm of cheers, and, perfectly self-possessed,
came forward in his splendid young manhood to perform his
part I knew that Mr. Bird was somewhere in the audience,
looking on and listening with moistened eyes and swelling
heart. I knew that my father, in his lonely sorrow, was think-
ing- of his disappointment in me and my career. I knew that
Mr. Bradford and Millie were regarding Henry with a degree
of pride and gratification which, for the moment, shut me out
of their minds. As his voice rang out over the vast congrega-
tion, and cheer after cheer greeted his splendid periods, I bent
my head with shame ; and tears that had long been strangers to
my eyes fell unbidden down my cheeks. I inwardly cursed my
indolence, my meanness, and the fortune which had enervated
and spoiled me.
As Henry made his bow in retiring, there was a long-con-
tinued and universal burst of applause, and a rain of bouquets
upon the platform which half-bewildered him. I watched for
the Bradfords, and the most beautiful bouquet of all was handed
by Millie to her father and tossed by him at Henry's feet. He
picked up all the others, then raised this to his lips, and, look-
ing up at the gallery, made a profound bow to the giver and
retired. Knowing that with my quicker brain it had been in
my power to win that crowning honor, and that it was irrevo-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 269
cably lost to me, the poor diploma that came to me among the
others of my class gave me no pleasure.
I knew that the young woman was right. She was true to
her womanly instincts, and had no honors to bestow except
upon the worker and the hero. The man who had demon-
strated his manhood won the honor of her womanhood. Henry
was everything ; I was nothing. " The girl is right," I said to
myself, " and some time she shall know that the stuff she wor-
ships is in me."
A young man rarely gets a better vision of himself than that
which is reflected from a true woman's eyes, for God himself
sits behind them. That which a man was intended to be is
that which unperverted womanhood demands that he shall be.
I felt at the moment that a new motive had been bom in me,
and that I was not wholly shorn of power and the possibiHties
of heroic life.
Before we left New Haven, Mr. Bradford, Mr. Bird, and my
father met by appointment What their business was I did not
know, but I had little doubt that it related to me. I was
vexed by the thought, but I was too proud to ask any ques-
tions. I hoped that the whole Bradford party would find
themselves in the same conveyance on the way home ; but on
the morning following Commencement, my father, Henry, and
myself took our seats in the coach, and Mr. Bradford and Mil-
lie were left behind. I had not spoken to either of them. I
did not like to call upon Millie, and her father had not sought
me.
I was not disposed to talk, and all the conversation was
carried on by my father and Henry. I saw that the young
man had taken a warm place near my father's heart that they
understood and appreciated one another perfectly. Remember-
ing what an idol I had been, and how cruelly I had defaced my
own lineaments and proved myself unworthy of the worship, a
vision of this new friendship was not calculated to increase my
happiness. But I was full of my plans. I would win Millie
Bradford's respect or I would die. My imagination constructed
270 Arthur Bonnicastle.
all sorts of impossible situations in which I was to play the part
of hero, and compel her admiration. I would devote myself to
labor ; I would acquire a profession ; I would achieve renown ;
I would become an orator; I would win office; I would
wrench a bough from the highest laurel, and, dashing it at her
feet, say: "There! I have earned your approval and your
smile ; give them to me 1 "
The practical power that resides in this kind of vaporing
is readily appreciated. I had at last my opportunity to de-
monstrate my possession of heroism, but it did not come in the
form I anticipated and hoped for.
Our welcome home was cordial My poor mother thought
I had grown thin, and was afraid I had studied too much. The
unintended sarcasm did not reassure me. Henry and Claire
were happy, and I left the beloved group to seek my own
lonelier home. There I manifested a delight I did not feeL I
tossed my diploma into Mrs. Sanderson's lap, and lightly told her
that there was the bit of sheepskin which had cost her so much.
Mrs. Belden congratulated me, and the two women were glad
to have me at home. I spent the evening with them, and led
the conversation, so far as I could, into channels that diverted
their minds from uncomfortable inquiries.
Our life soon took on the old habits, and I heartily tried to
make myself tributary to the comfort and happiness of the
house. Poor old Jenks was crippled with rheumatism, and while
he was made to believe that the domestic establishment could
not be operated without him, he had in reality become a burden.
As the weather grew intensely hot, and Mrs. Sanderson showed
signs of weakness, Mrs. Belden took her away to the seaside
again, leaving me once more the master of The Mansion.
A little incident occurred on the morning of Mrs. Sander-
son's departure which left an uncomfortable impression upon
my mind. She went into the dining-room, and closed the door
behind her. As the carnage was waiting for her, I unthink
ingly opened the door, and found her before the picture. The
tears were on her cheeks, and she looked pale and distressed.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 271
I ioipuTsively put my arm around her, bent down and kissed
her, and led her away. As I did this, I determined that I
would find out the secret of that picture if I could. I was old
enough to be trusted with it, and I would have it. I did not
doubt that many in the town could tell me all about it, though
I knew there were reasons connected with my relations to Mrs.
Sanderson which had thus fiu forbidden them to Epealc to me
about iL
CHAPTER XVIIL
HENRY BECOMES A GUEST AT THE MANSION BY FORCE OP
CIRCUMSTANCES.
It was natural that the first business which presented itself
to be done after the departure of Mrs. Sanderson, should be
the reinstatement of my social relations with the Bradfords, yet
how it could be effected without an invitation from them I
could not imagine. I knew that they were all at home, and
that Henry and Claire had called upon them. Day after day
passed, however, and 1 heard nothing from them. The time
began to drag heavily on my idle hands, when, one pleasant
evening, Mr. Bradford made his appearance at The Mansion.
I had determined upon the course to be pursued whenever I
should meet him, and after some common-place conversation,
I said to him, with all my old frankness, that I wished to open
my heart to him.
"I cannot hide from myself the fact," I said, " that I am in
disgrace with you and your family. Please tell me what I can
do to atone for a past for which I can make no apology. Do
you wish to see me at your house again ? Am I to be shut
out from your family, and shut up here in a palace which your
proscription will make a prison ? If I cannot have the respect
of those whom I love best, I may as well die."
The tears filled my eyes, and he could have had no doubt as
to the genuineness of my emotion, though he made no imme-
diate reply. He looked at me gravely, and hesitated as if he
were puzzled as to the best way to treat me.
At length he said : " Well, Arthur, I am glad you have got
as far as this that you have discovered that money cannot buy
everything, and that there are tilings in the world so much more
it
.Arthur Bonmcasile. 273
precious than money, that money itself is good for nothing
without them. It is well, at least, to have learned so much,
but the question with me is : how far will this conviction be per-
mitted to take practical hold of your life ? What are your plans ?
What do you propose to do to redeem yourself? "
I will do anything," I answered warmly and impulsively.
That is very indefinite," he responded, " and if you have
no plans there is no use in our talking further upon the sub-
ject."
' " What would you have me do ? " I inquired, with a feeling
that he was wronging me.
" Nothing certainly nothing that is not bom of a principle.
If there is no higher purpose in you than that of regaining the
good opinion of your friends and neighbors, you will do nothing.
When you wish to become a man for manhood's sake, your
purpose of life and work will come, and it will be a worthy one.
When your life proceeds from a right principle, you will secure
the respect of everybody, though you will care very little about
it certainly much less than you care now. My approval will
avail little ; you have always had my love and my faith in your
ability to redeem yourself. As for my home it is always open
to you, and there is no event that would make it brighter for
me tlian to see you making a man's use of your splendid
opportunities."
We had further talk, but it was not of a character to reassure
me, for I was conscious that I lacked the one thing which he
deemed essential to my improvement. Wealth, with its immu-
nities and delights, had debauched me, and though I craved the
good opinion of the Bradfords, it was largely because I had
associated Millie with my future. It was my selfishness and
my natural love of approbation that lay at the bottom of it all ;
and as soon as I comprehended myself I saw that Mr. Bradford
understood me. He had studied me through and through,
and had ceased to entertain any hope of improvement ex-
cept through a change of circumstances.
As I went to the door with him, and looked out into the
13*
274 Arthur Bonntcastle.
night, two dark figures were visible in the middle of the road
They were standing entirely still when the door was opened,
for the light from the hall revealed them. They immediately
moved on, but the sight of them arrested Mr. Bradford on the
step. When they had passed beyond hearing, he turned to me
and, in a low voice, said : " Look to all your fastenings to-
night. There is a gang of suspicious fellows about town, and
already two or three burglaries have been committed. There
may be no danger, but it is well to be on your guard."
Though I was naturally nervous and easily excited in my im-
agination, I was by no means deficient in physical courage,
and no child in physical prowess. I was not afiraid of anything
I could see ; but the thought of a night-visitation firom ruffians
was quite enough to keep me awake, particularly as I could
not but be aware that The Mansion held much that was valu-
able and portable, and that I was practically alone. Mr. Brad-
ford' s caution was quite enough to put all my senses on tension
and destroy my power to sleep. That there were men about
the house in the night I had evidence enough, both while I lay
listening, and, on the next morning, when I went into the gar-
den, where they had walked across the flower-beds.
I called at the Bradfords' the next day, meeting no one, how-
ever, save Mr. Bradford, and reported what I had heard and
seen. He looked grave, and while we were speaking a neigh*
bor entered who reported two burglaries which had occurred on
the previous night, one of them at a house beyond The Man-
sion.
" I shall spend the night in the streets," said Mr. Bradford
decidedly.
" Who will guard your own house ? " I inquired.
" I shall depend upon Aunt Flick's ears and Dennis's hands,"
he replied.
Our little city had greatly changed in ten years. The first
railroad had been built, manufactures had sprung up, business
and population had increased, and the whole social aspect ol
the place had been revolutionized. It had entirely outgrown
Arthur Bonnicastle. 275
its unchanged police machinery and appointments, and now,
when there was a call for efficient surveillance, the authorities
were sadly inadequate to the occasion. Under Mr. Brad-
ford's lead, a volunteer corps of constables was organized and
sworn into office, and a patrol established which promised pro-
tection to the persons and property of the .citizens.
The following night was undisturbed. No suspicious men
were encountered in the street ; and the second night passed
away in the same peaceable manner. Several of the volunteer
constables, supposing that the danger was past, declined to
watch longer, though Mr. Bradford and a faithful and spirited
few still held on. The burglars were believed by him to be
still in the city, under cover, and waiting either for an opportunity
to get away, or to add to their depredations. I do not think
that Mr. Bradford expected his own house to be attacked, but,
from the location of The Mansion, and Mrs. Sanderson's repu-
tation for wealth, I know that he thought it more than likely
that I should have a visit from the marauders. During these
two nights of watching, I slept hardly more than on the night
when I discovered the loiterers before the house. It began to be
painful, for I had no solid sleep until after the day had dawned.
The suspense wore upon me, and I dreaded the night as much
as if I had been condemned to pass it alone in a forest. I had
said nothing to Jenks or the cook about the matter, and was
all alone in my consciousness of danger, as I was alone in
the power to meet it Under these circumstances, I called
upon Henry, and asked as a personal favor that he would come
and pass at least one night with me. He seemed but little in-
clined to favor my request, and probably would not have done
so had not a refusal seemed like cowardice. At nine o'clock,
however, he made his appearance, and we went immediately to
bed.
Fortified by a sense of protection and companionship, I
sank at once into a slumber so profound that a dozen men
might have ransacked the house without waking me. Though
Henry went to sleep, as he afterwards told me, at his usual
276 Arthur Bonntcastle.
hour, he slept lightly, for his own fears had been awakened by
the circumstances into which I had brought him. We both
slept until about one o'clock in the morning, when there canie
to me in the middle of a dream a crash which was incorporated
into my dream as the discharge of a cannon and the rSttle of
musketry, followed by the groans of the dying. I awoke be-
wildered, and impulsively threw my hand over to learn whether
Henry was at my side. I found the clothes swept from the
bed as if they had been thrown off in a sudden waking and
flight, and his place empty. I sprang to my feet, conscious at
the same time that a struggle was in progress near me, but in
the dark. I struck a light, and, all unclad as I was, ran into
the halL As I passed the door, I heard a heavy fall, and
caught a confused glimpse of two figures embracing and rolling
heavily down the broad stairway. In my haste I almost tum-
bled over a man lying upon the floor.
" Hold on to him here's Arthur," the man shouted, and I
recognized the voice of old Jenks.
" What are you here for, Jenks ? " I shouted.
"I'm hurt," said Jenks, "but don't mind me. Hold on to
him ! hold on to him ! "
Passing Jenks, I rushed down the staircase, and found
Henry kneeling upon the prostrate " figure of a ruffian, and
holding his hands with a grip of iron. My light had alrea'l^
been seen in the street ; and I heard shouts without, and a
hurried tramping of men. I set my candle down, and was at
Henry s side in an instant, asking him what to do.
" Open the door, and call for help," he answered between
his teeth. " I am faint and cannot hold on much longer."
I sprang to the door, and while I was pushing back the bolt
was startled by a rap upon the outside, and a call which I
recognized at once as that of Mr. Bradford. Throwing the
door open, he, with two others, leaped in, and comprehended
the situation of affairs. Closing it behind him, Mr. Bradford
told Henry to let the fellow rise. Henry did not stir. The
ruffian lay helplessly rolling up his eyes, while Henry's head
Arthur Bonnicastle. 277
dropped upon his prisoner's breast The brave fellow was
badly hurt, and had fainted. Mr. Bradford stooped and lifted
his helpless form, as if he had been a child, and bore him up
stairs, while his companions pinioned his antagonist, and
dragged him out of the door, where his associate stood under
guard. The latter had been arrested while running away, op
the approach of Mr. Bradford and his posse.
Depositing his burden upon a bed, Mr. Bradford found
another candle and came down to light it Giving hurried
directions to his men as to the disposition of the arrested
burglars, he told one of them to bring Aunt Flick at once from
his house, and another to summon a surgeon. In five minutes
the house would have been silent save for the groanings of
poor old Jenks, who still lay where he fell, and the screams o'
the cook, who had, at last, been wakened by the din and com
motion.
As soon as Henry began to show signs of recovery from his
fainting fit we turned our attention to Jenks, who lay patiently
upon the floor, disabled partly by his fall, and partly by his
rheumatism. Lifting him carefully, we carried him to his bed,
and he was left in my care while Mr. Bradford went back to
Henry.
Old Jenks, who had had a genuine encounter with ruffians
in the dark, seemed to be compensated for all his hurts and
dangers by having a marvelous story to tell and this he told
to me in detaiL He had been wakened in the night by a noise.
It seemed to him that somebody was trying to get into the house.
He lay until he felt his bed jarred by some one walking in the
room below. Then he heard a little cup rattle on his table
a little cup with a teaspoon in it. Satisfied that there was
some one in the house who did not belong in it, he rose, and
undertook to make his way to my room for the purpose of giv-
ing md the information. He was obliged to reach me through
a passage that led from the back part of the house. This he
undertook to do in the stealthy and silent fashion of which he
was an accomplished master, and had reached the staircase
278 Arthur Bonnicastle.
that led from the grand hall, when he encountered the intmder
who, taking him at once for an antagonist, knocked him down.
The noise of this encounter woke Henry, who sprang from his
bed, and, in a fierce grapple with the rascal, threw him and
rolled with him to the bottom of the staircase.
I could not learn that the old man had any bones broken, or
that he had suflfered much except by the shock upon his nervous
system and the cruel jar he had received in his rheumatic joints.
After a while, having administered a cordial, I left him with the
assurance that I should be up for the remainder of the night
and that he could sleep in perfect safety. Returning to my
room I found Aunt Flick already arrived, and busy with service
at Henry's side. The surgeon came soon afterwards, and
having made a careful examination, declared that Henry had
suffered a bad fracture of the thigh, and that he must on no ac-
count be moved from the house.
At this annonncement, Mr. Bradford, Henry and I looked at
one another with a pained and puzzled expression. We said
nothing, but the same thought was running through our minds.
Mrs. Sanderson must know of it, and how would she receive
and treat it ? She had a strong prejudice against Henr)', of
which we were all aware. Would she blame me for the invita-
tion that had brought him there ? would she treat him well, and
make him comfortable while there ?
" I know what you are thinking of," said Aunt Flick sharply,
" and if the old lady makes a fuss about it I shall give her a
piece of my mind."
" Let it be small," said Henry, smiling through his pain.
The adjustment of the fracture was a painful and tedious
process, which the dear fellow bore with the fortitude that was
his characteristic. It was hard for me to think that he had
passed through his great danger and was suflfering this pain for
me, though to tell the truth, I half envied him the good fortune
that had demonstrated his prowess and had made him for the
time the hero of the town. These unworthy thoughts I thrust
from m mind, and determined on thorough devotion to the
Arthur Bonnicastle. 279
companion who had risked so much for me, and who had pos
sibly been the means of saving my life.
It seemed, in the occupation and absorption of the occasion,
but an hour after my waking, before the day began to dawn ;
and leaving Aunt Flick with Henry, Mr. Bradford and I retired
for consultation.
It was decided at once that Mrs. Sanderson would be of-
fended should we withhold from her, for any reason, the news
of what had happened in her house. The question was whether
she should be informed of it by letter, or whether Mr. Bradford
or I should go to her on the morning boat, and tell her the
whole story, insisting that she should remain where she was un-
til Henry could be moved. Mr. Bradford had reasons of his
own for believing that it was best that she should get her intel-
ligence from me, and it was decided that while he remained in
or near the house, I should be the messenger to my aunt, and
ascertain her plans and wishes.
Accordingly, bidding Henry a hasty good-morning, and de-
dining a breakfast for which I had no appetite, I walked down
to the steamer, and paced her decks during all her brief pas-
sage, in the endeavor to dissipate the excitement of which I
had not been conscious until after my departure from the house.
I found my aunt and Mrs. Belden enjoying the morning breeze
on the shady piazza of their hotel. Mrs. Sanderson rose with
excitement as I approached her, while her companion became
as pale as death. Both saw something in my face that betok-
ened trouble, and neither seemed able to do more than to utter
an exclamation of surprise. Several guests of the house being
near us, I offered my arm to Mrs. Sanderson, and said :
" Let us go to your parlor : I have something to tell you."
We went up-stairs, Mrs. Belden following us. When we
reached the door, the latter said : " Shall I come in too ? "
" Certainly," I responded. " You will learn all I have t
tell, and you may as well learn it from me."
We sat down and looked at one another. Then I said :
"We have had a burglary."
28o Arthur Bonntcastle.
Both ladies uttered an exclamation of terror.
" What was carried away ? " said Mrs. Sanderson sharply.
" The burglars themselves," I answered.
" And nothing lost ? "
" Nothing."
" And no one hurt ? "
" I cannot say that," I answered. " That is the saddest part
of it. Old Jenks was knocked down, and the man who saved
the house came out of his struggle with a badly broken limb."
" Who was he ? JHow came he in the house ? "
" Henry Hulm ; I invited him. I was worn out with three
nights of watching."
Mrs. Sanderson sat like one struck dumb, while Mrs. Bel-
den, growing paler, fell in a swoon upon the floor. I lifted her
to a sofa, and calling a. servant to care for her, after she began
to show signs of returning consciousness, took my aunt into
her bed-room, closed the door, and told her the whole story in
detail. I cannot say that I was surprised by the result She
always had the readiest way of submitting to the inevitable of
any person I ever saw. She knew at once that it was best for
her to go home, to take charge of her own house, to superin-
tend the recovery of Henry, and to treat him so well that no
burden of obligation should rest upon her. She knew at once
that any coldness or lack of attention on her part would be
condemned by all her neighbors. She knew that she must put
out of sight all her prejudice against the young man, and so
load him with attentions and benefactions that he could never
again look upon her with indifference, or treat her with even
constructive discourtesy.
While we sat talking, Mrs. Belden rapped at the door, and
entered.
" I am sure we had better go home," she said, tremblingly.
" That is already determined," responded my aunt
With my assistance, the trunks were packed long before the
boat returned, the bills at the hotel were settled, and the ladies
were ready for the little jtfiuiiey.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 281
I had never seen Mrs. Belden so thoroughly deposed from
her self-possession as she seemed all the way home. Her agi^
tation, which had the air of impatience, increased as we came
in sight of Bradford, and when we arrived at the door of The
Mansion, and alighted, she could hardly stand, but staggered
up the walk like one thoroughly ilL I was equally distressed
and perplexed by the impression which the news had made
upon her, for she had always been a marvel of equanimity and
self-controL
We met the surgeon and Mr. Bradford at the door. They
had good news to tell of Henry, who had passed a quiet day ;
but poor old Jenks had shown signs of feverish reaction, and
had been anxiously inquiring when I should return. Aunt
Flick was busy in Henry's room; My aunt mounted at once
to the young man's chamber with the surgeon and myself.
Aunt Flick paused in her work as we entered, made a distant
bow to Mrs. Sanderson, and waited to see what turn affairs
would take, while she held in reserve that " piece of her mind "
which contingently she had determined to hurl at the little mis-
tress of the establishment.
It was with a feeling of triumph over both Henry and his
spirited guardian, that I witnessed Mrs. Sanderson's meeting
with my friend. She sat down by his bedside, and took his
pale hand in both her own little hands, saying almost tenderly :
" I have heard all the story, so that there is nothing to say,
except for me to thank you for protecting my house, and to
assure you that while you remain here you will be a thousand
times welcome, and have every service and attention you need.
Give yourself no anxiety about anything, but get well as soon
as you can. There are three of us who have nothing in the
world to do but to attend you and help you."
A tear stole down Henry's cheek as she said this, and she
reached over with her dainty handkerchief, and wiped it away
as tenderly as if he had been a child.
I looked at Aunt Flick, and found her face curiously puck-
ered in the attempt to keep back the tears. Then my aunt
382 ArihuT BonnicastU,
addressed her, thanking her for her service^ and teDing h that
she could go home and rest, as the fiunily woold be quite safiB-
cient lor the narsii^ of the invalid. The woman could not
saj a word. She was prqared for anj emergency but this,
and soi bidding Hcnij gpod-n^^ ^le retired from the loom
and the house.
When siqiper was announced, Mrs. SainlerscHi and I went
down stairs. We met Mrs. Belden at the foot, ^dio declared
that ^le was not in a condition to eat anything, and would go
1^ and sit with Henry. We tried to dissuade her, but she was
decided, and my aimt and I passed on into the dining-room.
Remembering idien I arrived diere that I had not seen Jenks,
I excused myself for a moment, and as silently as possible
remounted die stairs. As I passed Henry's doc^, I impulsivdy
pushed it open. It made no noise, and there, before me^
Mrs. Belden kndt at Henry's bed, with her arms around his
neck and her ched^ lying against his own. I pulled back the
door as noiselessly as I had op^ied it, and half stunnedby
what I had seen, passed on through the passage that led tofte
room of the old servant The poor man looked haggard wd
wretched, ndule his eyes shone strangely above cheeks flat
burned with the flush of fever. I had been so astonished 67
what I had seen that I could hardly give rational replies to \i&
inquiries.
"I doubt if I weather it, Mr. Arthur; what do you think ?**
said he, fairly looking me through to get at my opinion.
^' I hope you will be all right in a few days," I responded.
'' Don't give yourself any care. I'll see that you are attended
to."
" Thank you. Give us your hand."
I pressed his hand, attended to some trifling service that he
required of me, and went down stairs with a sickening mis-
giving concerning my old friend. He was shattered and worn,
and, though I was but little conversant with disease, there was
something in his appearance that alarmed me, and made me
feel that he had reached his deathrbed.
THE NEW YORK
PUBLIC LIBRARY.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 283
With the memory of the scene which I had witnessed in
Henry's room fresh in my mind, with all its strange sugges
tions, and with the wild, inquiring look, of Jenks still before me,
I had little disposition to make conversation. Yet I looked
up occasionally at my aunf s face, to give her the privilege
of speaking, if she were disposed to talk. She, however, was
quite as much absorbed as myself. She did not look sad.
There played around her mouth a quiet smile, while her eyes
shone with determination and enterprise. Was it possible that
she was thinking that she had Henry just where she wanted
him ? Was she glad that she had in her house and hands an-
other spirit to mould and conquer ? Was she delighted that
something had come for her to do, and thus to add variety to
a life which had become tame with routine ? I do not know,
but it seemed as if this were the case.
At the close of the meal, I told her of the impression I had
received from Jenks's appearance, and begged her to go to his
room with me, but she declined. There was one presence into
which this brave woman did not wish to pass ^the presence
of death. Like many another strongly vitalized nature hers
revolted at dissolution. She could rise to the opposition of
anything that she could meet and master, but the dread
power which she knew would in a few short years, at most,
unlock the clasp by which she held to life and her possessions
filled her with horror. She would do anything for her old
servant at a distance, but she could not, and would not, wit-
ness the process through which she knew her own frame and
spirit must pass in the transition to her final rest.
That night I spent mainly with Jenks, while Mrs. Belden
attended Henry. This was according to her own wish ; and
Mrs. Sanderson was sent to bed at her usual hour. Whenever
I was wanted for anything in Henry's room, Mrs. Belden
called me ; and, as Jenks needed frequent attention, I got very
little sleep during the night
Mrs. Sanderson was alarmed by my haggard looks in the
morning, and immediately sent for a professional nurse to at-
284 Arthur Bonnicdstle.
tend her servant, and declared that my watching must be
stopped.
Tired with staying in-doors, and wishing for a while to sepa.
rate myself from the scenes that had so absorbed me, and the
events that had broken so violently in upon my life, I took a
long stroll in the fields and woods. Sitting down at length in the
shade, with birds singing above my head and insects humming
around me, I passed these events rapidly in review, and there
came to me the conviction that Providence had begun to deal
with me in earnest Since the day of my entrance upon my new
life at The Mansion, I had met with no trials that I had not
consciously brought upon myself. Hardship I had not known.
Sickness and death I had not seen. In the deep son'ows of the
world, in its struggles and pains and self-denials, I had had no part
Now, change had come, and further change seemed imminent
How should I meet it? What would be its eflfect upon me?
For the present my selfish plans and pleasures must be laid
aside, and my life be devoted to others. The strong hand of
necessity was upon me, and there sprang up within me, respon-
sive to its touch, a manly determination to do my whole duty.
Then the strange scene I had witnessed in Henry's room came
back to me. Wliat relations could exist between this pair, so
widely separated by age, that warranted the intimacy I had
witnessed ? Was this woman who had seemed to me so nearly
perfect a base woman ? Had she woven her toils about Henry ?
Was he a hypocrite? Every event of a suspicious nature
which had occurred was passed rapidly in review. I remem-
bered his presence at the wharf when she first debarked in the
city, his strange appearance when he met her at the Brad-
fords for the first time, the letter I had carried to him written
by her hand, the terrible effect upon her of the news of his
struggle and injury, and many other incidents which I have not
recorded. There was some sympathy between them which I
did not understand, and which filled me with a strange misgiv-
ing, both on account of my sister and myself; yet I knew that
she and Claire were the closest friends, and I had never re-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 285
ceived from her anything but the friendliest treatment Since
she had returned, she had clung to his room and his side as if
he were her special charge, by duty and by right One thing
I was sure of : she would never have treated me in the waj
she had treated him.
Then there came to me, with a multitude of thoughts and
events connected with my past history, Mrs. Sanderson's sin-
gular actions regarding the picture that had formed with me
the subject of so many speculations and surmises. Who wa^
the boy ? What connection had he with her life and history ?
Was she tired of me ? Was she repentant for some great in-
justice rendered to one she had loved? Was she sorrowing
over some buried hope ? Did I stand in the way of the reali-
zation of some desire which, in her rapidly declining years,
had sprung to life within her ?
I do not know why it was, but there came to me the con-
sciousness that events were before me ^ready to disclose
themselves shut from me by a thin veil ^which would change
the current of my life ; and the purpose I had already formed
of seeking an interview with Mr. Bradford and asking him the
questions I had long desired to ask, was confirmed. I would
do it at once. ' I would learn my aunfs history, and know the
ground on which I stood. I would pierce the mysteries that
had puzzled me and were still gathering around me, and front
whatever menace they might bear.
CHAPER XrX.
JSNKS GOES FAR, FAR AWAY UPON THE BUXOW AlfD NEVER
COMES BACK.
On returning to the house I found myself delayed in die
execution of my determination by the increasing and alarming
sickness of the old servant Jenks, and by his desire that I
should be near him. The physician, who was called at once,
gave us no hope of his recovery. He was breaking down
rapidly, and seemed to be conscious of the fact.
On the following morning, after I had spent the most of the
night in his room^ he requested the nurse to retire, and calling
me to his bedside said he wished to say a few words to me. I
administered a cordial, which he swallowed with pain, and after
a fit of difficult breathing caused by the eflfort, he said feebly :
" It*s no use, Mr. Arthur; I can't hold on, and I don't think I
want to. If s a mere matter of staying. I shotild never work
any more, even if I should weather this."
I tried to say some comforting words, but he shook his head
feebly, and simply repeated : " If s no use."
" What can I do for you, Jenks ? " I said.
" Do you know Jim Taylor's wife ? " he inquired.
" IVe seen her," I replied. *
" She's a hard working woman."
" Yes, with a great many children."
"And Jim don't treat her very well," he muttered.
" So I've heard."
He shook his head slowly, and whispered : "Ifs too bad;
if s too bad."
" Don't worry yourself about Jim Taylor's wife ; she's noth-
ing to you," I said.
Arthur BonnicastU. 287
"Do you think so? nothing to me? Don't say that; I
can't bear it"
** You don't mean to tell me that Jim Taylor's wife is ^"
He nodded his head ; and I saw that he had not yet finislied
what he had to say about her.
Have you any message for her ? " I inquired.
Well, you know, Mr. Arthur, that she's been ever3rthing to
me, and Td like to do a little something for her. You don't
think she'd take it amiss if I should leave her some money, do
you ? "
** Oh, no, she's very poor," I said. " I think she would be
very grateful for anything you can do to help her along."
His eye lighted, and a feeble smile spread over his wizen
features.
* Pull out that little box under the bed," he said. " The
key is under my pillow."
I placed the box on the bed, and, after fumbling under his
pillow, found the key and opened the humble coffer.
" There's a hundred clean silver dollars in that bag, that I've
been saving up for her for thirty years. I hope they'll do her
good. Give them to her, and don't tell Jim. Tell her Jenks
never forgot her, and that she's been everything to him. Tell
her I was sorry she had trouble, and don't forget to say that J
never blamed herP
I assured him that I would give her the money and the
message faithfully, and he sank back into his pillow with a satis-
fied look upon his face that I had not seen there since his sick-
ness. The long contemplated act was finished, and the work
of his life was done.
After lying awhile with his eyes dosed, he opened them and
said : '' Do you s'pose we shall know one another over
yonder ? "
" I hope so ; I think so," I responded.
" If she comes before Jim, I shall look after her. Do you
dare to tell her that ?" and he fixed his glazing eyes upon me
with a wild, strained look that thrilled me.
288 Arthur Bonnicastle.
" I think It would scare her," I answered. " Perhaps you had
better not send her such a message."
" Well, I shall look after her, any way, if I get a chance, and
perhaps both of 'em won't go to one place and ^"
What further possibilities ran through the old man's imagina-
tion I do not know, for he seemed exhausted, and ceased to
speak. I sat for an hour beside his bed, while he sank into a
lethargic slumber. At last he woke and stared wildly about
him. Then, fixing his eyes on me, he said : " Mow's my time !
If I'm ever going to get away from this place I must go to-
night ! "
There was a pathetic and poetic appositeness in these words
to the facts of his expiring life that touched me to tears, and I
wiped my eyes. Then listening to some strange singing in his
ears, he said : " Doesn't it rain ? Doesn't it pour ? You'll
take cold, my boy, and so shall I."
The thought carried him back over the years to the scene m
the stable where in agony I knelt, with the elements in tumult
above me and his arm around my neck, and prayed.
" Pray again, Arthur. I want to hear you pray."
I could not refuse him, but knelt at once by his bed, and
buried my face in the clothes by his side. He tried to lift his
hand, but the power to do so was gone. I recognized his wish,
and lifted his arm and placed it round my neck. It was several
minutes before I could command my voice, and then, choking
as on the evening which he had recalled, I tried to commend
his departing spirit to the mercy and fatherly care of Him who
was so soon to receive it Having prayed for him it was easiei
to pray for myself; and I did pray, fervently and long. As I
closed, a whispered "Amen" came from his dying lips.
" There," he said ; " let's go into the house ; if s warm there."
There was something in these words that started my tears
again.
After this his mind wandered, and in his delirium the old
passion of his life took full possession of him.
" To-morrow I shall be far, far away on the billow.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 289
The old woman will call Jenks, but Jenks won't be here.
Jenks will be gone 1 . . . This is the craft : up with her sails :
down with the compasses : My 1 how she slides ! Run her
straight for the moon 1 . . . Doesn't she cut the water beau-
tiful 1 . . . . The sea rolls and swings, and rolls and swings,
and there are the islands ! I see 'em 1 I see 'em 1 . . . If s
just like a cradle, and I can't keep awake Oh, Fm
going to sleep ! I'm going to sleep Tell the old
woman I bore her no ill will, but I had to go I was
obliged to go Straight along in the track of the moon."
He said all this' brokenly, with his eyes closed ; and then he
opened them wide, and looked around as if suddenly startled
out of sleep. Then life went out of them, and there came on
that quick, short breathing, unmistakable in its character, even
to a novice, and I rose and called the nurse and Mrs. Belden
to witness the closing scene.
So, sailing out upon that unknown sea made bright by a
hovering glory, with green islands in view and the soft waves
lapping his little vessel, escaping from all his labors and pains,
and realizing all his dreams and aspirations, the old man passed
away. There was a smile upon his face, left by some sweet
emotion. If he was hailed by other barks sailing upon the
same sea, if he touched at the islands and plucked their golden
fruit, if there opened to his expanding vision broader waters
beyond the light of the moon, and bathing the feet of the
Eternal City, we could not know. We only knew that his clos-
ing thought was a blessed thought, and that it glorified the
features which, in a few short days, would turn to dust. It was
delightful to think that the harmless, simple, ignorant, dear old
boy had passed into the hands of his Father. There I left him
-without a care^ in the hands of One whose justice only is te^i-
derer than His mercy, and whose love only is stronger than His
justice.
The superintendence of all the affairs connected with his
funeral was devolved upon me ; and his burial was like the
burial of an old playfellow. I could not have believed that
18
ago Arthur Bonnzcastle.
his death would grieve me so. It was the destruction of a part
of my home. Now nothing was left but a single frail woman,
whose years were almost told ; and when her time should be
spent, the house would be empty of all but myself and those
whom I might choose to retain or procure.
His remains were followed to the grave by Mrs. Sanderson
and myself in the family carriage, and by the Bradfords, with
some humble acquaintances. His relatives were all at a dis-
tance, if he had any living, or they had left the world before
him. The house seemed more lonely after his death than I
had ever felt it to be before, and poor Mrs. Sanderson \ras
quite broken down by the event. The presence of death in
the house was so sad a remembrancer of previous occurrences
of which I had had no knowledge, and was such a suggestion
to herself of the brevity of her remaining years, that she was
wonderfully softened.
She had, ever since her return, lived apparently in a kind of
dream. There was something in Henry's presence and voice
that had the power to produce this tender, silent mood, and
Jenks's death only deepened and intensified it.
When all was over, and the house had resumed its every-day
aspects and employments, I took the little sum that Jenks had
saved with such tender care, and bore it to the woman who had
so inspired his affection and sweetened his life. I found her a
hard-faced, weary old woman, whose life of toil and trouble had
wiped out every grace and charm of womanhood that she had
ever possessed. She regarded my call with evident curiosity ;
and when I asked her if she had ever known Jenks, and
wheti:er anything had occurred between them in their early
life that would make him remember her with particular regard,
she smiled a grim, hard smile and said : " Not much."
" What was it ? I have good reasons for inquiring."
"Well," said she, "he wanted me to marry him, and I
wouldn't. Thaf s about all. You see he was a kind of an in*
nocent, and I s'pose I made fiin of him. Perhaps Tve had m
pay for't."
Arthur Bonnicastle. 291
** Do you know that he has loved you dearly all his life ;
that he has pricked your name into his arm, and that it was
the tenderest and sweetest word that ever passed his lips ; that
the thought of you comforted him at his work and mingled
"with all his dreams ; that he would have gone through fire and
water to serve you \ that he saved up money all his life to give
you, and that he hopes you will die before your husband, so
that he may have the chance to care for you in the other coun-
try to which he has gone ? "
As I uttered these words slowly, and with much emotion,
her dull eyes opened wider and wider, and filled with tears
which dropped unregarded from her cheeks. I suppose thesf
were the first words of affection that had been spoken to her
for twenty years. Her heart had been utterly starved, and my
words were like manna to her taste. She could not speak at
first, and then with much difficulty she said : " Are you tell-
ing me the truth ?*'
" I am not telling you half of the truth. He loved you a
thousand times more devotedly than I can tell you. He would
have worshiped a ribbon that you had worn. He would have
kissed the ground on which you stepped. He would have
been your slave. He would have done anything, or been any-
thing, that would have given you pleasure, even though he had
never won a smile in return."
Then I untied the handkerchief in whi^h I had brought the
old man's savings, and poured the heavy silver into her lap.
She did not look at it She only looked into my face with a
sad gaze, while the tears filled her eyes anew.
" I don't deserve it : I don't deserve it," she repeated in a
hopeless way, " but I thank you. Fve got something to think
of besides kicks and cuflfs and curses. No they won't hurt
me any more."
Her eyes brightened then so that she looked almost beauti-
ful to me. The assurance that one man, even though she had
regarded him as a simpleton, had persistently loved her, had
parsed into her soul, so that she was strengthened for a life-
292 Arthur Bonnicastle.
time. The little hoard and the love that came with it wete a
mighty re-enforcement against all the trials which a brutal hus^
band and forgetful children had brought upon her.
I left her sitting with her treasure still in her lap, dreaming
over the old days, looking fc^ward to those that remained, and
thinking of the man who would have asked for no sweeter
heaven than to look in and see her thus employed. Afterwards
I saw her often. She attended the church which she had long
forsaken, with clothes so neat and comfortable that her neigh-
bors won(kred where and how she had managed to procure
them, and took up the burden of her life again with ccwrage and
patience.
She went before Jim.
Whom she found waiting on the other side of that moonlit
sea over which my old friend had sailed homeward^ I shall
know some time; but I cannot turn my eyes from a
picture which my fancy sketches, of a sweet old man, grown '
wise and strong, standing upon a sunny beach, with arms oat-
stretched; to greet an in-going shallop that bears still the name
of all the vessels he had ever owned " the Jane "nnbittlesey 1"
CHAPTER XX.
MR. BRADFORD TBLLS BfB A STORY WHICH CHANGES THK
DETERMINATIONS OF MY LIFE.
I HAVE abeadjT alluded to the effect which Henry's presence
produced upon Mr& Sanderson. For a few dajs after her re*
turn, I watched with covert but most intense interest the devel*
opment of her acquaintance with him. Mrs. Belden had been
for so long a time her companion, and was so constantly at
Henry's bedside, diat my aunt quickly took on the habit of go-
ing in to sit for an hour with the lady and her charge. I was
frequently in and out, doing what I could for my friend's amuse-
ment, and often found both the ladies in attendance* Mrs.
Sanderson always sat at the window in an old-fashioned rock-
ing cludr, listening to the conversation between Mrs. Belden and
Heniy. Whenever Henry laughed, or uttered an exclamation,
she st^urted and looked over to his bed, as if the sounds were
^moiliar, or as if they had a strange power of suggestion.
There was some charm in his voice and look to which she sub*
mitted herself more and more as the days went by a charm so
subtle that I doubt whether she understood it or was conscious
of its power*
Two or three days passed after I had executed Jenks's will,
with relation to his savings, when my old resolution to visit Mr.
Bradford recurred. In the meantime, I felt that I had won
strength from my troubles and cares, and was better able to
bear trial than I had ever been before. I was little needed in
the house, now that Jenks was gone, so, one morning after
breakfaist, I started to execute my purpose. As I was taking
my^ hat m die hall, there came a rap upon die door, and as I
stood near it 1 opened it and encountered Millie Bradford
294 Arthur Bonnicastle.
She met me with a cordiality that spoke her friendship, but with
a reserve which declared that the old relations between us had
ceased. I know that I blushed painfully, for she had been
much in my thoughts, and it seemed, somehow, that she must
have been conscious of the fact I knew, too, that I had disap-
pointed and shamed her.
" My father is busy this morning, Mr. Bonnicastle," she said,
"and I have been sent up to inquire after the invalid."
Ah, how her "Mr. Bonnicastle" removed me from her!
And how much more lovely she seemed to me than she had
ever seemed before I Dressed in a snowy morning wrapper,
with a red rose at her throat, and only a parasol to shade her black
hair and her luminously tender eyes, and with all the shapely
beauty in her figure that the ministry of seventeen gracious
years could bestow, she seemed to me almost a goddess.
I invited her in, and called my aunt. Mrs. Belden heard
her voice soon afterwards and came down, and we had a pleasauit
chat As soon as Mrs. Belden appeared, I noticed that Millie
addressed all her inquiries concerning Henry to her, and that
there seemed to be a very friendly intimacy between them.
When, at last, the girl rose to go, I passed into the hall with
her, and taking my hat, said : " Miss Bradford, I was about to
go to your house iox a business call upon your father, when you
came in. May I have the pleasure of walking home with you ? "
" Oh certainly," she replied, though with a shadow of reluct-
ance in her look, " but I fear your walk will be fruitless. My
father has gentlemen with him, and perhaps will not be at
liberty to see you."
"Still, with your leave I will go. I shall win a walk at
least," I responded.
The moment I was alone with her, I found myself laboring
under an embarrassment that silenced me. It was easy to talk
in the presence of others, but it was "Arthur" and "Millie"
no more between us.
She noticed my silence, and uttered some common-place
remark about the changes that had taken place in the city.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 295
** Yes," I said, "I see they have the cathedral finished yonder."
" Entirely," she responded, " and the little chapel inside has
been torn down."
' How much she meant by this, or whether she intended any
allusion to the old conversation, every word of which I recol-
lected so vividly, I could not tell, but I gave her the credit of
possessing as good a memory as myself, and so concluded that
she considered Arthur Bonnicastle, the boy, as a person dead
and gone, and Mr. Bonnicastle the young man as one whom
she did not know.
As we came in sight of her house, we saw three gentlemen at
the door. Two of them soon left, and the third, who was Mr.
Bradford, went back into the house.
'' I believe those two men are my father and Mr. Bird," I
said. '' I don't think I can be mistaken."
'^ You are not mistaken," she responded, looking flushed and
troubled.
" What can they want of your father at this time of the
morning?" I said
She made no reply, but quickened her steps, as if she wished
to shorten the interview. Whatever their business was, I felt
sure that she understood its nature, and almost equally sure
that it related to myself. I knew that the three had met at
New Haven; and I had no doubt that they had the same
business on hand now that they had then. I determined to
learn it before I left the house.
As we approached the gate, she suddenly turned to me in
her impulsive way, and said :
'' Arthur Bonnicastle, are you strong this morning ? "
" Yes," I replied, " I can meet anything."
" I am glad ; I believe you."
That was all. As we mounted the steps we found Mr.
Bradford sitting before the open door, reading, or pretending to
read, a newspaper.
"Here's Mr. Bonnicastle, father," Millie said, and passed
through the hall and out of sight
296 Arthur Bonnicastle.
Mr. Bradford rose and gare me his hand. My cooiiiig had
evidently agitated him, though he endeavored to bear himself
calmly.
'' I wish to ask you some questions, and to talk with you,''
I said.
" Let us go where we can be alone," he responded, leading
the way into a little library or office which I had never seen
before. Throwing open the shutters, and seating himself by the
window, at the same time pointing me to a chair opposite to
him, he said : *'Now for the questions."
" I want you to tell me what person is represented by the
picture of a boy in Mrs. Sanderson's dining-room."
*' Her own son, and her only child^" he replied*
" Is he living or dead ? "
" He is dead."
" Will you tell me his history ? " I said.
He hesitated a moment, looking out of the window, and
then replied slowly : '^ Yes, I wilL It is time you should know
it, and everything connected with it Have you leisure to
hear it now ? "
" Yes. That is my business here this morning."
" Then I must begin at the beginning," he replied. " I sup-
pose you may have learned before this time that Mrs. Sander-
son was a Bonnicastle."
" I know it," I said.
' You have learned, too, that she is a willful woman. In
her youth, at least, she was unreasonably so. She was an heir-
ess, and, in her young days, was pretty. For fifty miles around
she was regarded as the hnest " catch " within the reach of any
ambitious young man. Her suitors were niunerous, and
among them was the one to whom, against the wishes of her
parents, she at last gave her hand. He was handsome, bright,
gallant, bold and vicious. It was enough for her that her
parents opposed his attentions and designs to secure for him
her s}rmpathy. It was enough for her that careM friends
warned her against him. She turned a deaf ear to them ally
Arthur Bonnicastle. 297
and became fixed in her choice by the oppositbn she encoun-
tered To the sorrow of those viho loved her and wished her
well, she was married to him. Her parents, living where she
lives now, did the best they could to secure her happiness, aad
opened their home to their new scm-in-law, but witnessing his
careless treatment of their daughter, and his dissipations, died
soon afterwards, of disappointed hopes and mined peace.
"The death of her parents removed all the restraint which
had thitherto influenced hiffl and he plunged into a course of
dissipation and debauchery whidi made the life of his wife an
unceasing torment and sorrow. He gambled, he kept &e
grossest companions around him, he committed a thousand
accesses, and as he had to do with a will as strong as his own,^
^ domestic life of The Mandon was notoriously inharmonious.
'*' After a few years, a child was bom. The baby was a boy,
and over this event the father indulged in a debauch from
which he never recovered. Farafysis and a softened brain re*
doced him in a few months to essential idiocy, and when he died
^ Di4Kle town gave a sigh of reliefL Self-sufficient in her nature,
your aunt was self:ontained in ber mortification and sorrow.
No one ever heard a complaint firom her lips, and no one ever
dared to mention the name of her husband to her in any terms
but those of respect His debts were paid, and as- his time
^ indulgence had been comparatively short, her large fortune
was not seriously impau-ed.
** Then she gave herself up to the training of her boy. I
Aink she saw in him some^ng of the nature of his father, and
set herself to the task of curbing and killing it. No boy in
Bradford ever had so rigid a training as Henry Sanderson.
She did not peraiit him to leave her sight. All his early edu-
cation was received at her hands. Every wish, every impulse,
even every aspiration of the child, was subjected to the iron
role of her wilL No slave that ever lived was more absorbed,
directed and controUedb^Iuti-'M^iUa^^h^ this imfortunate
child was by his mot)^j^^ Sfct on^iafelet^fe^rty did he ever
know, until she wa^ompelled to^sesdhim Jbi^ from her to
18* ^
298 Arthur Bannicastle.
complete his edacatioii. The portrait of him which has
excited yoor oiriosity for so many years was painted when he
was less dian twelve years old, thou^ he was not permitted to
leave his home until some years later.
" 1 was yoong at that time mjrsel^ though I was older than
Henry ^yoong enongh, at least, to s]anpathize with him, and to
wish, with other bojrs, that we could get him away from her
and give him one taste (^ social freedom and fellowship.
When she rode he was with her, looking wistfully and smilingly
out upon the boys wherever he saw them playing, and when
she walked she held his hand until he was quite as large as her-
self Every act of his life was regulated by a rule which con-
sulted neither his wish nor his reason. He had absolutely no
training of his own will ^no development within his own heart
of the principles of right conduct, no exercise of liberty under
those wise counsels and restraints which would lead him safely
up to the liberty of manhood. He was simply her creature,
her tool, her puppet, slavishly obedient to her every wish and
word. He was treated as if he were a wild animal, whom she
wished to tame an animal without affection, without reason,
without any rights except those which she might give him. She
was determined that he should not be like his father.
" I have no doubt that she loved this child with all the
strength of her strong nature, for she sacrificed society and a
thousand pleasures for the purpose of carrying out her plans
concerning him. She would not leave him at home with ser-
vants any more than she would give him the liberty of inter-
course with other children, and thus she shut herself away from
the world, and lived wholly with and for him.
"He was fitted for college in her own house, by the tuition
of a learned clerg3maan of the town, who was glad to eke out
a scanty professional maintenance by attending her son, though
she was present at every recitation, and never left him for a
moment in the tutor's company.
" When the work of preparation was completed, she went
through the terrible struggle of partmg with her charge, and
Arthur Bonnicastle. 299
sending him away from her for the first time. He went from her
as dependent and self-distrustful as a child of three a trembling,
bashful, wretched boy, and came back in less than a year just
what any wise man would have anticipated a rough, roystering,
ungovernable fellow, who laughed at his mother, turned her or-
derly home into a pandemonium, flouted her autiiority, and made
her glad before his vacation ended to send him back again, out
of her sight. Untramed in self-control and the use of liberty, he
went into all excesses, and became the one notorious rowdy of
the college. He was rusticated more than once, and would have
been expelled but for the strong influence which his mother
brought to bear upon the government of the college.
*' After his graduation, he was for a time at home ; but Bradford
was too small to cover up his debaucheries and immoralities.
He had all the beauty and boldness of his father, and inherited
his dominant animal nature. After a long quarrel with hu?
mother, he made an arrangement with her by which he was al-
lowed a generous annuity, and with this he went away, drifting
at last to New Orleans. There he found college classmates
who knew of his mother's wealth, and as he had money enough
to dress like a gentleman, he was admitted at once into society,
and came to be regarded as a desirable match for any one of
the many young women he met. He lived a life of gayety,
gambled with the fast men into whose society he was thrown, and
at last incurred debts which, in desperation, he begged his mother
to pay, promising in return immediate and thorough reform.
After a long delay his request was granted ; and I have no
doubt that he honestly undertook the reform he had promised,
for at this time he became acquainted with a woman whose in-
fluence over him was purifying and ennobling, and well calcu-
ted to inspire and fortify all his good resolutions. She was not
rich, but she belonged to a good family, and was well educated.
" Of course he showed her only his amiable side ; and the
ardent love she inspired in him won her heart, and she married
him. At this time he was but twenty-five years old. His mother
had been looking forward wearily to the hour when he would
300 Arthur Bonntcasile.
see die folly of his course, would complete the sowing oi his
wild oatSy and be glad to return to his home. She had her own
ambitious projects concerning a matrimonial alliance for him ;
and when he married without consulting her, and married one
who was poor, her anger was without bounds. Impulsively she
sat down and wrote him the cruelest letter that it was in her
power to write, telling him that the allowance which she had
hitherto sent him would be sent to him no longer, and that h^
property would be left to others.
" The blow was one from which he never recovered. He
was prostrated at once upon a bed of sickness, which, acting
upon a system that had been grossly abused, at last carried
him to his grave. Once during this sickness his wife wrote
to his mother a note of entreaty, so full of tender love for her
sick and dying husband, and so appealing in its Christian
womanliness, that it might well have moved a heart of stone ;
but it found no entrance at a door which disappointed pride
had closed. The note was never answered, and was un-
doubtedly tossed into the fire, that the receiver might never be
reminded of it '
''The son and husband died, and was buried by alien hands,
and his mother never saw his face again."
Here Mr. Bradford paused, as if his story was finished.
"Is this all?" I asked
" It is, in brie^ the history of the boy whose portrait you
have inquired about," he replied.
" What became of his widow ? " I inquired
" She returned to her parents, and never wrote a word to
Mrs. Sanderson. She had been treated by her in so cruel a
manner that she could not Afterwards she married again, and
removed, I have since learned, to one of the Northern States."
I sat in silence for some moments, a terrible question burn-
ing in my throat, which I dared not utter. I felt myself trem-
bling in every nerve. I tried to thrust the question from me^
but it would not go.
Then Mr. Bradford, who, I doubt not, read my thoughts,
Arthur Bonnzcastle. 301
and did not feel ready to answer my question, said : '' You
see how difierently Mrs. Sanderson has treated you. I have
no doubt that she reasoned the matter all out, and came to
the conclusion that she had acted unwisely. I have no doubt,
though she never acknowledged it to any one, that she saw the
reason of the faDtu'e of the plan of training which she adopted
in the case of her son, and determined upon another one for
you."
" And that has failed too," I said sadly.
'' Yes : I mean no reproach and no imkindness when I
frankly say that I think it has. Both plans ignored certain
principles in human nature which must be recognized in all
sound training. No true man was ever made either by absorb-
ing and repressing his will, or by removing from him all stimulus
to manly endeavor."
'' Do you think my aunt cares much for these things that
happened so long ago ? " I inquired.
" Yes, I think that she cares for them more and more as
the days go by, and bring her nearer to her grave. She has
softened wonderfully within a few years, and I have no doubt
that they form the one dark, ever-present shadow upon her life.
As she feels the days of helplessness coming, she clings more
to companions, and misses the hand that, for sixteen long and
laborious years, she tried to teach obedience, and train into
helpfulness against the emergency that is almost upon her.
She mourns for her child. She bewails in secret her mistakes ;
and, while she is true to you to-day, I have no doubt that if
the son of her youth could come to her in rags and wretched-
ness, with all his sins upon him, and with the record of his
ingratitude unwashed of its stains, she would receive him with
open arms, and be almost content to die at once in his em-
brace."
The tears filled my eyes, and I said : " Poor woman I I
wish he could come."
Mr. Bradford's observations and conclusions with regard to
her coincided with my own. I had noticed this change coming
302 Arthur Bannicastle.
over her. I had seen her repeatedly standing before the pict-
ure. I had witnessed her absorption in revery. Even from
the first day of my acquaintance with her I saw the change had
been in progress. Her heart had been unfed so long that it
had begun to starve. She had clung more and more to me ;
she had lived more and more in the society of Mrs. Belden;
and now that Henry had become an inmate of her house, she
evidently delighted to be in his presence. Her strong charac-
teristics often betrayed themselves in her conduct, but they
were revealed through a tenderer atmosphere. I pitied her
profoundly, and I saw how impossible it was for me, under any
circumstances, to fill the place in her heart of one who had
been nursed upon it
We went on talking upon various unimportant matters, both
of us fighting away from the question which each of us felt was
uppermost in the other's mind. At last, summoning all my
resolution and courage, I said : "Was there any child ?"
" Yes."
"IsthatchUdHving?"
"Yes; I think. so yes."
I knew that at this reply to my question the blood wholly
forsook my face. My head swam wildly, and I reeled heav-
ily upon my feet, and came close to the window for air.
Mr. Bradford sprang up, and drew my chair close to where I
stood, and bade me be seated. I felt like a man drifting resist-
lessly toward a precipice. The rocks and breakers had been
around me for days, and I had heard indistinctly and afar the
roar of tumbling waters ; but now the sound stunned my ears,
and I knew that my hurrying bark would soon shoot into the
air, and pitch with me into the abyss.
" Does Mrs. Sanderson know of this child ?"
" I do not think she does. There has been no one to tell
her. She comiuunicates with no one, and neither child nor
mother would ever make an approach to her in any assertion
of their relations to her, even if it were to save them from
starving. But the man undoubtedly lives to-day to whom Mrs.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 303
Sanderson's wealth will belong by every moral and natural
right, when she shall have passed away/'
The truth had come at last, and although I had anticipated
it, it was a plunge into warring waters that impelled, and held,
and whelmed, and tossed me like some poor weed they had
torn from sunny banks far away and above. Would they play
with me for an hour, and then carry me with other refuse out
to the sea, or would they leave me upon the shore, to take root
again in humbler soil and less dangerous surroundings ? I did
not know. For the moment I hardly cared.
Nothing was said for a long time. I looked with compressed
lips and dry eyes out of the window, but I knew that Mr.
Bradford's eyes were upon me. I could not but conclude
that it was the intention of my friends that Mrs. Sanderson
should be informed that her grandson was living, else Mr. Brad-
ford would not have told me. I knew that Mrs. Sanderson
had arrived at that point in life when such information woult"
come to her like a voice from heaven. I knew that the fortune
I had anticipated was gone ; that my whole scheme of life was
a shattered dream ; that I was to be subjected to the task of
taking up and bearing unassisted the burden of my destiny ;
that everybody must know my humiliation, and that in my
altered lot and social position I could not aspire to the hand
of the one girl of all the world whose love I coveted.
The whole dainty fabric of my life, which my imagination
had reared, was carried away as with the sweep of a whirlwind,
and the fragments filled the air as far as I could see.
When reaction came, it was at first weak and pitiful. It
made me angry and petulant. To think that my own father
and my old teacher should have been plotting for months with
my best friend to bring me into this strait, and that all should
not only have consented to this catastrophe, but have sought
it, and laid their plans for it, made me angry.
" Mr. Bradford," I said, suddenly and fiercely, rising to my
feet, " I have been abused. You led me into a trap, and now
my 0m father and Mr. Bird join with you to spring it upon me.
304 Arthur Bcnnicaslle.
You have wheedled them into it ; 70a have determined to nxin
me, and all my hopes and prospects for life, because 1 ^ not
choose to model my life on your stingy little pattern. Who
knows anything about this fellow whom you propose to pmt in
my place ? A pretty story to be trumped up at this late ds^,
and palmed off upon an old woman made weak by remorse,
anxious to right herself before she goes to her grave 1 I wiU
fight this thing to the death for her and for mjrseE I will not
be imposed upon ; nor wiU I permit her to be knposed upon*
Thank you for nothing. You have treated me brutally, and I
take your grand ways for just what they are worth."
I whirled upon my feet, and^ without bidding him good naorn-
ing, attempted to leaver the room^ His hand was on my shoul-
der in an instant, and I turned upon him savagely, and yelled :
'* Well, what more do you want ? Isn't it enou^ that you
ruin me ? Have you any new torture V*"
He lifted his free hand to my otha: shoulder^ and looked me
calmly and with a sad smile in the Be.
"I forgive it all, Arthur," he saki, "even before you repent
of it. The devil has been speaking to me, and not Ardiur
Bonnicastle. I expected just this, and now tl^ it is come, let
us forget it This is nc^ the mood in which a wise maa en
counters the world, and it is not the mood of a man at all^ but
of a child"
At this, I burst into tears,^^ and he drew me to his breast,
where I wept with painfril convul^ons. Then he led me back
to my seat
' When you have had time to think it all over," he said
calmly and kindly, '' you will find bef:e ycm the most beauti-
ful opportunity to begin a true caieer that nmn ever had It
would be crud. to deprive you of it Your aunt will never
know of this heir by your father's lips, or Mr. Bird's, or my own.
Neither the heir nor his mother will ever report themselves to
her. Everything is to be done by you, of your own free wilL
You have it in your power to make three persons superlatively
happy,, and, at the same time, to make a man of youfself II
\
s
it
Arthur Bonnkasfle. 305
r
jou cannot appropriate such an opportunity as this, then your
manhood is more thoroughly debased, or lost, than I sup
posed."
I saw how kindly and strongly they had prepared it all foi
me, and how all had been adjusted to a practical appeal to my
manhood, to my sense of justice, and to my gratitude.
I must have time," I said at last ; " but where is this man ? "
In his grandmother's house, with a broken leg, suffered in
the service of his friendship for you ; and his mother is nursing
him!"
" Grandmother's house ? . . . Henxy Hulm ? . . . Mrs.
Belden ? "
I was so stunned by the informaticm that I uttered the words
in gasps, with long pauses between.
"Yes, the Providence that has cared for you and me has
brou^t them there, and fastened them in the home where they
belong. There has been no conspiracy, no intrigue,no scheme.
It has all been a happening, but a happening after a plan that
your father learned long before I did to recognize as divine."
" Do they know where they are ? "
I asked the question blindly, because it seemed so strange
that they should know anything about it
'''Certainly," Mr. Bradford said, "and Henry has always
known his relations to Mrs. Sanderson, from the first day on
which you told him of your own. When you first went to her,
I knew just where both mother and.son were, and was in com-
munication with them ; but I knew quite as well then that any
attempt to reconcile Mrs. Sanderson to the thought of adopting ^
them would have been futile. Things have changed with her
and with you."
" Why are they here under false names ? Why have they
kept up this deception, and carried on this strange masquer-
ade ? " I asked.
" Henry very naturally took his step-father's name, because
he was but a child at his mother's second marriage ; and Mrs.
Belden Hulm chose to be known by a part of her name only,
3o6 Arthur Bonnicastle.
for the purpose of hiding her personality from Mrs. Sanderson,
whom she first met entirely by accident."
" Do they know that you have intended to make this dis-
closure ? " I inquired.
" No, they know nothing of it It was once proposed to
them, but they declared that if such a thing were done they
would fly the city. Under Mr. Bird's and your father's advice
I have taken the matter into my own hands, and now I leave
it entirely in yours. This is the end of my responsibility, and
here yours begins."
"Will you be kind enough to send a messenger to Mrs.
Sanderson, to tell her that I shall be absent during the day ? "
I said " I cannot go home now."
Yes."
I shook his hand, and went out into the sunlight, with a
crushed, bruised feeling, as if I had passed through a great ca-
tastrophe. My first impulse was to go directly to my father,
but the impulse was hardly born before I said aloud, as if moved
by some sudden inspiration : " No ; this thing shall be setded
between God and myself." The utterance of the words seemed
to give me new strength. I avoided the street that led by my
fathei's door, and walked directly through the town. I met
sun-browned men at work, earning their daily bread. On every
side I heard the din of industry. There were shouts and calls,
and snatches of song, and rolling of wheels, and laughter of
boys. There was no sympathy for nae there, and no *touch of
comfort or healing.
Then I sought the solitude of the woods, and the silence of
nature. Far away from every sight and sound of man I sat
down, but even there went on the ceaseless industries of life.
The bees were plundering the flowers with not a thought of
me or of play. A humming bird probed a honeysuckle at ray
side, and darted away like a sunbeam. A foraging squirrel
picked up his dinner almost at my feet, and ran up a tree,
where he sat to eat it and scold me for my idleness. A spring
of water, twinkling in the light, gushed firom under a rock, and
Arthur Bonnuastle. 307
went singing down the valley on its mission of service. Bacli
and forth a robin fiew, carrying food to her young. The air was
loaded with the breath of flowers and the scent of balsams,
beauty appealed to my eyes wherever I turned them, and the
summer breezes fanned my feverish cheeks. Industry and
ministry these were the words of the world, and God had
uttered thenL
I looked up through the trees into the deep blue Heaven,
and thought of the Being of whom that sky was but an emana-
tion, with its life-giving sun and its wilderness of unseen stars
wheeling in infinite cycles of silence, and there came unbidden
to my lips those words ^a thousand times divine " My father
worketh hitherto, and I work." I realized that to live outside
of work was to live outside of the universal plan, that there
could be no true godliness without work, and that manliness
was simply godliness made human.
I thought I knew from the first what I should do in the end ;
but I felt the necessity of being led to my act by deliberation.
I need not tell how many aspirations went up from my heart
that day. I threw my soul wide open to every heavenly influ-
ence, and returned at night strong.
On the way, I thought over all that had occurred in my inter-
course with Henry, and wondered why I had not apprehended
the facts which now seemed so plain to me. I thought of his
reticence, his reluctance to enter the door of his friend and
companion, his likeness to his father's portrait, his intimacy
with Mrs. Belden, of a thousand incidents that pointed to this
one conclusion, and could never have led to anything else. It
is more than likely that the reader of this history anticipated
all that I have recorded, but to me it was a staggering surprise
that would have been incredible, save for the conspiring testi-
mony of every event and fact in our intercourse and history.
I entered the house with a new glow upon my face, and a
new light in my eyes. Mrs. Sanderson noticed my altered look,
and said she was glad I had spent the day away.
In the evening, I went out upon the broad acres that lay
1
3o8 Arthur Bonnicastk. \
about me, looked up at the grand old boose and Ibe s^denfid
ekns that stood around, and said : '^ I can do '% and I wiH*
Then I went to bed, and with tbs^ ^Rfeet and str^ deter-
mination locked in my breast, I slept, brooded over and wrapt
around by a peace that held every nerve and muscle of my
body and eveiy fiuail^ of my soul in dowi^ bonds until monr
ii^
^
CHAPTER XXL
I MEET AS OLD FRIEND WHO BECOMES MY RIVAL.
When I woke, on the following morning, it was with a stiit
and a pang. It was like the shrinking shiver one feels in pass-
ing from a room full of warmth and die perfume of flowers and
the appliances of comfort into one that is bare and chill ; or,
it was like rising from a bed, sweet with invitations to dreams
and languid luxury, to an icy bath and a frosty toilet. The
pang, however, did not last long. With the consciousness that
I was relinquishing the hopes and plans of a life, there was
mingled a sense of power over other lives that was very stimu-
latii^ and pleasant It was a great thing to be able to crown
my benefactress with the highest earthly blessing she could
wish for. It was a great thing to be able to make my faithful
fnend and fellow rich, and to restore to him his rights. It was
a great thing to have the power to solve the problems of three
lives by making them one.
Mr. Bradford and his advisers were exceedingly wise in leav-
ing eveT3rthing to me, and placing all the responsibility upon
me. The appeal to my sense of justice to my manliness
was simply irresistible. If Henry had been other than what he
was^-if he had been a young man inheriting the nature of his
father I should. doubtless have had difficulty enough with him,
but they would have stood by me. He would have made my
place hot with hate and persecution, and they would have sup-
ported me and trmed against him ; but they knew that he was
not only the r^atural heir to all that had been promised to me,
but that he would use it all worthily, in carrying out the pur*
poses of a manhood worthily won.
It was strange how my purposes with regard to the inmates
3IO Arthur Bonntcastle.
of The Mansion glorified them all in my sight Mrs. Sanderson
shone like a saint in the breakfast-room that morning. Mrs.
Belden was as fresh and beautiful as a maiden. I sat with
Henry for an hour, and talked, not lightly, but cheerfully.
The greatness of my sacrifice, prospective though it was, had
already enlarged me, and I loved my friend as I had nevei
loved him before. My heart reached forward into the fiiture,
and took hold of the new relations which my sacrifice would
establish between us ; and I drank of his new love, even before
it had welled from his heart.
Thus all that morning I bore about my secret ; and, so long
as I remained in the presence of those whom I had the power
and the purpose to make happy, I was content and strong ; but
when, at length, I went out into the street, and met the courteous
bows and warm greetings that came to me from every side as
the heir of Mrs. Sanderson, and appreciated the difference be-
tween that position and the one to which I should fall as soon
as my duty should be done to my benefactress and my friend,
I groaned with pain, and, lifting my eyes, exclaimed : " God
help me I God help me I "
Without a very definite purpose in my walk, I bent my steps
toward my father's house, and on my way was obliged to pass
the house of Mr. Bradford. The moment I came in sight of
it, I recognized the figure of Millie at work among her flowers
in the garden. I saw a quick motion of her head, as she
caught the sound of my steps approaching upon the opposite
side of the way, and then she rose without looking at me and
walked into the house. I had aheady begun to cross the street
toward her ; but I returned and passed the house with many
bitter thoughts.
It had come to this I As the heir of a large property, I was
one whose acquaintance was worth the keeping. As a penni-
less young man, with his fortune to make, I was quite another
person. I wondered if Millie Bradford, the young woman, flat-
tered herself with the supposition that Millie Bradford, the lit-
tle girl, was still in existence I
Arthur Bonnicastle. 3 1 1
The helpless position in which I found myself with relation
to this girl worried me and discouraged me. Loyal to her
uher in every thought and affection, I knew, she would not
and could not approve my course, unless I followed out his
conviction concerning my duty. Yet, if I should do this, what
had I to offer her but poverty and a social position beneath
her own ? I could never make her my wife without her father's
approval, and when I had secured that, by the sacrifice of all
my expectations, what had I left to offer but a partnership in a
straggle against odds for the means and ministries of the kind
of life to which she had been bred ? To surrender all that I
had expected would be my own, and Millie Bradford jfcoo, was
more than I had bargained for, in my negotiation with my-
sell
I had not yet learned that a duty undone is always in the
way that it stands so near and high before the feet that it be-
comes a stiunbling-block over which thousands are constantly
plunging into disaster. Since those days, in which I was taking
my first lessons in life, I have learned that to do one's next
duty is to take a step towards all that is worth possessing that
it is the one step which may always be taken without regard to
consequences, and that there is no successful life which is not
made up of steps thus consecutively taken.
I reached home, not expecting to find my father there, but I
was informed by my mother, with many sighs and with the ex-
pression of many confidential fears, that he was breaking down
and had taken to his bed. Something, she said, had been
prejdng on his mind which she was unable to induce him to re-
veal She was glad I had come, and hoped I would ascertain
what the trouble was. She had been looking forward to some-
thing of this kind for years, and had frequently warned my
father of it. Mr. Bird had been there, and had accompanied
my father to Mr. Bradford's, whence he had returned with a ter-
rible headache. She always had believed there was something
wrong about Mr. Bird, and she always should believe thus.
As for Mr. Bradford, she had nothing to say about him ; but
312 Arthur Bonnicastle.
she had noticed that men with strange notions about reli^on
were not to be trusted.
I listened to, the. long and doleful story, conscious all the
time that my father's illness was one into which he had been
thrown by his sympathy for me. He had been trying to do his
duty by me, and it had made him iU. In a moment, Millie
Bradford went out of my mind, and I only delayed going into
his room long enough to prepare myself to comfort him. I
presume that he had heard my voice, for, when I entered the
dear old man's chamber, his face was turned to the wall, and
he was feigning unconsciousness of my presence in the house.
"Well, father, what* s the matter ? " I said cheerfully.
"Is that you?" he responded feebly, without turning his head.
Yes."
"How are you?"
" I was never better in my life," I responded.
** Have you seen Mr. Bradford ? "
" Yes."
" And had a talk with him ?^
"Yes."
"Has he told you?"
"Yes."
" Are you going to do it ?"
" Yes."
I was laughing, ^I could not help it, ^wfaen I was sobered
at once by seeing that he was convulsed with emotion. The
bed shook with his passion, and he could not say a word, but
lay with his face covered by his hands. I did not know what
to say, and concluded to say nothing, and to let his feeling
take its natural course. For many long minutes he lay silently
trying to recover the mastery of himself. At last he seized the
wet handkerchief with which he had been .trying to assuage the
pain and fever of his head, and threw it into a comer of the
room, and then turned toward me, laughing and crying to-
gether, and stretched his arms toward me. I bowed to his
embrace, and so the long years of the past were blotted out in
our mutual tears, and we were boys once more.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 313
I brought him his clothes, and he put them on. Tlien I
turned the key in the door, and, sitting down side by side upon
the? bed, we talked the matter all over. I confessed to him my
idleness, my meanness, my shameless sacrifice of golden op-
portunities, my weakness and my hesitations, and promised
that when the right time should come I would do what I could
to give Henry and his mother the home that belonged to them,
and to bestow uppn my benefactress the boon which she would
prize a thousand times more than all the money she had ever
expended upon me.
''And you are not going to be unhappy and blame me?"
he said.
"Never."
* " And are you coming home ? "
** Yes, to look after and serve you all, so long as you may
live."
We looked in one another's faces, and the same thought
thrilled us. We knelt at the bed, and my father poured out
his gratitude for the answer that had come with such sweet and
beautiful fulfillment to his prayers. There was but little of
petition in his utterances, for his heart was too full of thankful-
ness to give a place to his own wants or to mine. When he
rose, there was the peace of heaven on his features, and the
light of a new life in his faded blue eyes.
" Does my mother know of this," I inquired.
" No," he replied ; " and this is the one great trouble that
lies before me now."
" Let me break it to her, then, while you go out of the
house," I said.
In the state of mind in which my father found himself at the
close of our interview, it would have been cruel to subject him
to the questions and cavils and forebodings of my mother. So,
taking his way out of the house by a side door, he left me at
liberty to seek her, and to reconcile her to the new determina-
tions of my life.
I do not suppose it would be interesting to recount the long
314 Arthur Bonnicastle.
and painful conversation I had with her. She had foreseen
that something of this kind would occur. She had never be-
lieved that that great fortune would come to me, but she had
never dreamed that I should be the one to give it up. She was
disappointed in Henry, and, as for Mrs. Belden, she had always
regarded her as a schemer. She presumed, too, that as soon as
Henry found himself the possessor of a fortune he would forsake
Claire a step which she was sure would kill her. It all came of
mingling with people who have money. Mr. Bradford was
very officious, and she was glad that I had found out Mr. Bird
at last Her life had been a life of trial, and she had not been
deceived into supposing that it would be anything else.
During all the tune I had been in the house, Claire and the
boys had been out My task with my mother was interrupted
at last by the sound of Claire's voice at tiie door. She was
trolling in her own happy way the refrain of a familiar song.
I had only time to impress upon my mother the necessity of
keeping all knowledge of the new phase of my affairs from her
and the rest of the family, and to secure her promise in accord-
ance with it, before Claire entered the room. I knew it would
be best that my sister should learn everything from the lips of
Henry. She would have been distressed beyond measure at
the change in my prospects as well as the change in her own.
1 knew she had learned to look forward upon life as a struggle
with poverty, by the side of a brave man, equipped for victory.
She had dreamed of helping him, solacing him, blessing him with
faith and love, and rising with him to the eminence which she felt
sure he had the power to achieve. No wildest dream of her
young imagination had ever enthroned her in The Mansion, or
made her more than a welcome visitor there after its present
mistress should have passed away.
I exchanged a few pleasant words with her, assuring her that
I had cured my father by a few talismanic touches, and sent
him out to get some fresh air, and was trying my cure upoH my
mother when she iriterrupted me. Then we talked about
Henry, and his rapid progress toward recovery. I knew that
Arthur Bonnicastle. 315
d;e did not expect or wish to see him, because the visit that
such a step would render necessary would be regarded as the
advertisement of an engagement which had not yet been openly
confessed. But she was glad to hear all about him, and I
gratified her by the rehearsal of all the details that I could
remember. I could not help thinking, as I talked with her,
that I had in hand still another destiny. It was astonishing
how fruitful a good determination was, when it took the path of
Providence and of natural law. I had already four for one,
and felt that I could not foresee how many more would be
added to the gain already made.
When, at last, I bade my mother and Claire a " good morn-
ing," the only question left upon my mind concerned the time
and manner of the announcement to Mrs. Sanderson of the
relations of Mrs. Belden and Henry to her. Henry, I knew,
was still too weak to be subjected to strong excitement with-
out danger, and this fact made it absolutely necessary to defer
the proposed revelation and* the changes that were sure to
follow.
I went out upon the street with a buoyant feeling, and with
that sense of strength that one always feels when his will is
consciously ih harmony with the Supreme will, and his deter-
minations proceed from his better pature. But my trials had
not all been seen and surmounted.
Making a detour among the busier streets, that my passage
to The Mansion might be longer and more varied, I saw, walk-
ing before me, an elegant young man, in the jauntiest of morn-
ing costumes. I could not see his face, but I knew at once
that he was a stranger in the city, and was impressed with the
conviction that I was familiar with his gait and figure. If I
had seen him where I had previously known him, his identity
would have been detected at once ; but he was the young man
furthest from my thoughts, and the one old companion whom
I had learned to count out of my life. I quickened my steps,
and, as I approached him, some sudden and characteristic
movement of his head revealed my old college friend Livingston.
3i6 Arthur Bonnicastle.
*' Well, well, well ! Man in the Moon ! When did you drop,
and where did you strike ? " I shouted, running up behind him.
He wheeled and grasped both niy hands in his cordial way,
pouring out his greetings and compliments so freely that pas-
sengers involuntarily stopped upon the walk to witness the
meeting.
" 1 was wondering where you were, and was about to in-
quire," he said.
"Were you ? How long have you been in town ? "
" Two or three days," he replied.
"You must have been very desirous to find me," I re-
sponded. " I have a good mind to leave you, and send you
my address. Permit me to bid you good-morning. This
meeting in the street is very irregular."
" None of your nonsense, my boy," said he. " I came here
on business, and pleasure comes after that, you know."
" Oho ! Business ! We are becoming useful are we ? Can I
assist you ? I assure you I have^nothing else to do."
" Bonnicastle," said he, " you are hungry. You evidently
want something to stop your mouth. Let's go into the hotel
and get a lunch."
Saying this, he grasped my arm, and we walked together
back to his hotel, and were soon seated at a table in his par-
lor, doing the duty of two hearty young men to a chop and a
salad.
We talked of old times, then of his emplojonents since he
left me at college two years before, and then I told him of my-
self, of the encounter at The Mansion which had resulted in
Henry's confinement there with a broken limb, and of the way
in which I had been passing my time.
" What are you going to do next ? " he inquired.
"That* s a secret," I said, witii a blush, all the frolic gofng
out of me in a moment
" I know what you are going to do."
"What?"
" You are going to Europe and the East with me. We are
Arthur Bonnzcastle. 317
to be gone two years, and to see everything. We'll sing Yan-*
kee Doodle on the Pyramids, have a fish-fry on the shores of
Galilee, light our cigars at Vesuvius, call on the Pope, see aU
the pictures, and dance with all the pretty girls from Vienna
and Paris to St Petersburg, and call it study. On very rainy
days, we'll write dutifiil letters to our friends, conveying assui
ances of our high consideration, and asking for remittances."
Little did the merry fellow imagine, as he rattled oflf his pro-
gramme, what a temptation he was placing before me. It pre-
sented the most agreeable path out of my difficulty. I believed
Mrs. Sanderson would deny me nothing, even should I re-
nounce all my expectations, and surrender my home to him to
whom it naturally belonged. The act of surrender would
place her under such obligations to me that any request that
might come with it would, I supposed, be sure to be granted.
Then it would let me down easily, and save me the necessity
of facing my townsmen under my new circumstances. It
would furnish me with a knowledge of the world which would
be useful to me in the future task of providing for myselfl It
would complete my education, and give me the finest possible
start in life. Livingston's connections would carry me into the
best society, and bring me advantages such as I could not
secure by means within my own command.
" Are you in earnest ? " I inquired, hesitatingly.
" I never was more so in my life."
" You tempt me."
" Well, you know just how much my rattle means," said he,
sobered by the tone of my inquiry. " You know I take care
of myself, and others too when they let me. We can have a
good time and one that will do us good."
While I felt pretty sure that I should not go with him, unless
Mrs. Sanderson should" voluntarily offer me the means for the
journey, and my friends should urge me to accept them, I toW
him I would think of it.
"Thaf s right," he said, "and you'Jl conclude to go.**
"When?"
3i8 Arthur Bonntcastle.
" Next month."
Was this Providence too ? Was my road out of my difficulty
to be sfrewn with flowers? How could I tell? Unexpect-
edly, at the exact moment when it would meet with a greedy
welcome, came this proposition. To accept it would be to
take me away from every unpleasant association, and all the
apprehended trials attending the execution of my great pur-
pose, and give me pleasure that I coveted and culture that I
needed. To reject it was to adopt a career of hardship
at once, to take up my life beneath my father's humble roof^
to expose myself to the triumphant sneers of the coarse men
who had envied me, and to forsake forever those associations
which had become so precious to me. I could do justice to
Henry and my benefactress, and secure this great pleasure to
myself also. Had Providence directed all this ?
Many things have been accepted first and last, among men,
as providential, under the mistaken supposition that the devil
does not understand the value of times and opportunities.
Evil has its providences as well as Good ; and a tempted man
is often too much befogged to distinguish the one from the
other. Interpreting providences by wishes is the favorite trick
of fools.
After a long and disciu^ive talk on the subject of foreign
travel generally, and of the project before us particularly, I was
bold enough to ask Livingston what business it could be that
had brought him to Bradford. He fought shy of the question
and seemed to be embarrassed by it Licensed by the famil-
iarly friendly terms of our previous intercourse, I good-nat-
uredly pressed my question. He gave all kinds of evasive
and unsatisfactory replies ; and then I pushed the matter further
by asking him what friends he had in the place, and endeavor-
ing to ascertain what new acquaintances he had made. I
could not learn that he knew anybody in Bradford but Henry
and myself, and I became satisfied at last that he had not
been frank with me. It is true that he was not accountable to
me, and that I had no right to pry into his affairs ; but he had
/
Arthur Bonnicastle. 319
volunteered to say that his errand was a business errand;
and I felt that in a place where I was at home, and he was
not, I could serve him if he would permit me to do so.
As soon as he could divert me from my purpose, he put me
the question whether I had remained heart and fancy free;
" for you know," he said, " that it will never do for rovers to
leave pining maidens behind them."
I assured him (with those mental reservations with which
uncommitted lovers so ingeniously sophisticate the truth) that
there was not a woman in the world, with the exception of cer-
tain female relatives, who had any claim upon my affection.
" By the way," said Livingston with sudden interest, as if the
thought had struck him for the first time, " what has become
of that littie Bradford girl, whom we met on that memorable
New Year's at the Spencers' ; you remember that old house
in the suburbs? or were you too foggy for that ?"
If Livingston had realized how painful such an allusion
would be to me, he would not have made it ; but his standard
of morality, so far as it related to excesses in drink, was so
different from mine, that it was impossible for him to appreciate
the shame which my fall had caused me, and the shrinking sor-
row with which I still looked back upon it.
I told him frankly that I remembered the meeting imper-
fectly, and that I heartily wished I had no memory of it what-
ever. " I made an ass of myself," I said, " and worse ; and I
doubt whether it has ever been forgotten, or ever will be."
There was a quiet lighting of his eye as he heard tliis ; and
then he went on to say that her New York friends told very
extravagant stories about her beauty and attractiveness, and
that he should really like to fall in with her again. Then he
went on to moralize, after the wise manner of young men, on
the heartlessness of city life, and particularly of city girls, and
said that he had often told his mother that no hot-house rose
i^ould ever adorn his button-hole, provided he could pluck a
satisfactory wayside daisy.
A jealous lover has no rival in the instantaneous construe*
320 Arthur Bonnicastle.
tion of a hypothesis. I saw at once the whole trick. Tiring of
his New York life, having nothing whatever to do, remember-
ing the beautiful face and hearty manner of Millie Bradford,
and moved by some recent conversations about her with her
friends, he had started off from home with the determination to
meet her in some way. Endeavoring first to assure himself that
I had no claim upon her, he undoubtedly intended to engage
my services to bring about a renewal of his acquaintance with her.
I had met my rival ; for I could not but feel that if he had
been impressed by her when she was little more than a child,
her charms of womanhood her beautiful person, and her
bright, pure nature would impress him still more. It was a
bitter draught for me to drink, without the privilege of making
a wry face or uttering a protest He was maturer than I, and
possessed of every personal attraction. He carried with him,
and had behind him, the highest social consideration and
influence. He was rich, he was not base, he was the best of
his set, he was the master of himself and of all the arts of
society; he was one of those young men whose way with
women is easy. What was I by the side of a man like him ?
The only occasion on which Millie Bradford had ever seen him
was one associated with my disgrace. She could never meet
him again without recalling my fall, and his own honorable
freedom from all responsibihty for it The necessity of getting
him out of the country by a period of foreign travel seemed
laid upon me. To have him within an easy distance, afrer I
had voluntarily forsaken my fortune, and before I had had an
opportunity to prove my power to achieve a fortune for
myself, was to live a life of constant misery, with the chances
of having the one grand prize of existence torn from my hands
and borne hopelessly beyond my reach.
"Oh, ifs a daisy business, is it?" I said, with a pale face
and such carelessness of tone as I could assume. " There are
lots of them round here. The/re a bit dusty, perhaps, in dry
weather, but are fresh after a shower. You would never be
contented with one : what do you say to a dozen ? "
Arthur Bonnicasile. 321
Livingston laughed, and laughed in such a way that I knew
he had no business in Bradford. But why had he kept away from
me ? Why had he been three days in the town without appris-
ing me of his presence ?
He held up his hand and looked at it with a curious smile.
'^ Bonnicastle," said he, '' do you see anything peculiar on the
back of that hand ? "
" Nothing," I replied, " except that it seems to be clean."
'' Does it seem to you that there is one spot on it that is
cleaner than all the rest ? " he inquired.
I confessed that I was unable to detect any such locality.
" Well, my boy, there is a spot there which I could define to
you, if I should try, that I have kept clean for two years, and
which has a life and sacredness of its own. It once had a sen*
sation ^the sweetest and most thrilling that you can imagine.
It was pressed by a pair of innocent lips, and wet by as sweet
a dew-drop as ever nestled in the heart of a rose. You never
thought me romantic, but that little touch and baptism have
set that hand apart for the present, any way."
" If you wish to give me to understand that Milly Bradford
ever kissed your hand and dropped a tear upon it, you^ave
brought your chaff to the wrong market," I said, the anger ris-
ing in my heart and the color mounting to my face.
" Don't be hasty, old fellow," said he, reaching over and
patting me on my shoulder. " Fve said nothing about Millie
Bradford. I've lived among roses and daisies all my life."
Whether Livingston saw that I had a little personal feeling
about the matter, or felt that he had been foolishly confidential,
or were afraid that I should push him to an explanation, which
would compel him to reveal the circumstances under which
Millie had begged his forgiveness with a kiss, for charging him
with my intoxication a fact of which I was too stupid at the
time to be conscious I do not know ; but he assured me that
he had been talking nonsense, and that I was to lay up and
remember nothing that he had said.
We had already pushed back from the table, and he had
14*
322 Arthur Bonntcastle.
rung for a waiter to have it cleared. In response to the bell,
a man came with his tray in one hand and a card in the other.
Handing the latter to Livingston, the young man took it with a
strange, embarrassed flush on his face. Turning it over, and
looking at it the second time, he exclaimed : " I wonder how
he knew me to be here. It's your friend Mr. Bradford." Then
turning to the waiter, he added : "Take these dishes away and
ask him up.''
I rose at once to go ; and he did not detain me, or suggest
a future meeting. I shook his hand and bade him "good-morn-
ing," but was arrested at the door by finding Mr. Bradford wait-
ing outside. Seeing Livingston within, he came forward, and,
while he took my arm and led me back, said : " I am some-
what in haste this morning, and so have followed my card at
once. I am not going to separate two fellows like you ; so,
Arthur, sit down."
I did not believe my presence welcome to Livingston during
this interview ; but as I was curious to witness it, and had a
sufficient apology for doing so, I sat down, and remained.
" I have just taken from the office," Mr. Bradford went on,
" a letter from my friends the Spencers, who tell me that you
are to be here for a few days ; and as the letter has evidently
been detained on the way, I have called at once to apologize
fbr not having called before."
Livingston was profuse in his protestations that it was not of
the slightest consequence, and that while he should have been
glad to meet Mr. Bradford, he had passed his time quite pleas-
antly. I saw at once what had occupied him during those
three days, in which he had not announced his presence to me.
He had been awaiting the arrival of this letter. He had chosen
to be introduced in this way, rather than bear the letter him-
self. It was a cunningly-contrived, but a very transparent,
proceeding.
Livingston was invited to the Bradfords to dine the next day,
of course, and quite of course, as I was present when the invi-
tation was given, I was invited to meet him. This was satis-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 323
factory to me, though I doubt whether Livingston was pleased
with the arrangement, for he had evidently intended to see
Millie Bradford before he announced himself to me.
Inviting my friend to call at The Mansion during the after-
noon and make my aunt's acquaintance, and renew his ac-
quaintance with Henry, I took my leave of him and passed out
with Mr. Bradford. I was not a little surprised to learn how
pleasantly the latter remembered my college acquaintance, and
how high an estimate he placed upon him. If Livingston
could have heard his hearty words of praise, he would have
learned how smoothly the way was paved to the accomplish-
ment of his hopes and his possible purposes. In my jealousy,
every word he uttered was full of discouragement, for I was sure
that I knew the motive which had drawn Livingston to the
town, while Mr. Bradford was as innocent as a child of any
suspicions of such a motive.
As we came near his house, I said: '* You are in haste this
morning, but I wish to see you soon before to-morrow, if you
can spare me the time."
" Come in to-night, then," he responded.
At night, accordingly, I went, and he received me alone, as
he did on the previous d^. I told him of my interview with
my father and mother, and of the determination at which I had
arrived with relation to Mrs. Sanderson and Henry. He list-
ened to me with warm approval, which was evident, though he
said but little ; but when I told him of Livingston's proposition
to travel, and my wishes in regard to it, he dropped his head
as if he were disappointed. I urged the matter, and frankly
gave him the reasons for my desire to absent myself for a
while after the change in my circumstances.
He made me no immediate reply, but rose and walked the
room, as if perplexed and uncertain concerning the response
which he ought to make to the project At length he paused
before me, and said : " Arthur, you are young, and I am afraid
that I expect too much of you. I see very plainly, however,
that if you go away for a protracted absence, to live still longer
324 Arthur Bonnicasttk
on Mrs. Sanderson's benefactions, you will return more dis-
qualified than you are at this moment to take up an indepen-
dent life. I do not approve of your plan, but I will not lift a
finger to thwart it After you have surrendered your place in
Mrs. Sanderson's family, you will be in a better position to
judge whether your plan be either desirable or practicable."
Then he laid his hand upon my shoulder, in an affectionate
way, and added : " I confess I should be sorry to lose sight of
you for the next two years. Your father needs you, and will
need you more and more. Besides, the next two years are to
confirm you more than you can see in the style of character
and manhood which you are to carry through life. I am very
anxious that these two years should be made the most of"
The interview was a brief one, and I left the presence and
house of my friend under the impression th^ he not only did
not approve my plan, but that he thought it very doubtful
whether I should have the opportunity to realize it He said
but little, yet I saw that his faith in Mrs. Sanderson's gen^-
osity, where her own selfish ends were not involved, was not
very hearty.
On the following day I met Livingston at Mr. Bradford's
table. The family were all at home, and Millie, most becom-
ingly dressed, never had seemed so beautiful to me. Living-
ston was evidently very much impressed by her charms, and
showed by the attention he bestowed upon her his desire to
appear at his best in her presence. I was distressed by my
own youth, and the easy superiority which he maiiifested in all
his manners and conversation.
It was strange, too, to see how the girl's quick nature had
shot beyond mine into maturity, and how, in her womanliness,
she matched my friend better than myself I was full of em-
barrassment and jealousy. The words that were addressed to
me by the other members of the family were half unheard and
but clumsily replied to, absorbed as I was in watching Living-
ston and Millie, and seeing how happily they carried on their
conversation. I was enraged with myself I who had always
Arthur Bonnicastle. 325
been quick and careless for I knew that I did not appear well,
and felt tiiat the girl, whose senior I was by several years, re-
garded me as a youth in whom the flavor and power of maturity
were lacking. Livingston was a man, she was a woman, and I
was a boy. I saw it all and felt it all, with pangs that none may
know save those who have experienced them.
The evening did not pass away, however, without giving me
an opportunity for a quiet talk with Millie. There was one
woman whose sharp vision ISUd not fail to detect the real state
of affairs. Aunt Flick was on the alert. She had watched the
pkiy from the first, with eyes that comprehended the situation,
and in her own perverse way she was m3r friend. She managed
to call Livingston away from Millie, and then I took a seat at
her side. I tried to lead her into conversation on the subject
most interesting to me, but she declined to say a word, though
I knew that she was aware of all that was occurring in relation
to my life.
The moments were precious, and I said impulrively, out of
the burden of my heart, ^' Miss Bradford, I am passing through
a great trial."
'^ I know it," she replied, looking away from me.
"Are you sorry?"
" No," still looking awa}%
" Are you my friend ?"
" That depends."
" I get very little sympathy," I responded bitterly. " No one
but my dear old father seems to understand how hard this is,
and how hard all have helped to make it for me. The revolu-
tion of one^s life is not a pleasant process. A dozen words,
spoken to me by the right lips, would make many things easy
and anything possible."
She turned to me in a startled way, as if I had given her sud-
den pain, and she had been moved to ask me why I had done
it I was thrilled by the look, and thoroughly ashamed of the
words that had inspired it What right had I to come to her
with my troubles ? What right had I to seek for her sympathy ?
326 Arthur Bonnicastle.
Was it manly for me to seek help fixm her to be a man ? If
she had not pitied me and seen further than I did, she would
have spumed me.
This conversation was nothing but a brief episode in the
evening's experiences, but it made a healthy impression upon
me.
Livingston and I left the Bradfords together, and, as we
were to take opposite directions to our lodgings, we. parted at
the door. Not a word was said abbut Millie ; and all that he
said about the Bradfords was in the guarded words : " These
friends of yours seem to be very nice people." I knew that he
would be there again, as soon as it would be practicable, and
that he would be there without me. I was quite reconciled to
this, for I saw that he monopolized attention, and that I could
be nothing but a boy by his side, when he chose that I should
be.
He remained in the town for a week, calling upon the Brad-
ford family nearly every day, and on one occasion taking a drive
with them in the family carriage. In the meantime Henry
made rapid strides toward recovery, and the dreaded hour
approached when it would be necessary for me to take the step
which would abruptly change the current of my life.
When I parted with Livingston, he still entertained the proj-
ect of travel, and said that he should return in a fortnight to
ascertain my conclusiomi.
CHAPTER XXIL
MRS. SANDERSON MEETS HER GRANDSON AND I RETURN TO MY
father's HOME.
Livingston had been gone three or four days when, one
morning, Henry's surgical attendant came down stairs from his
regular visit to the young man, and announced that his patient
was sitting in a chair by the window, and that he would soon
be able to take a little passive exercise in the open air. Having
given me directions with regard to getting him back to his bed,
when he should become tired with sitting, he went away. The
sudden realization that Henry was so near the point of perfect
recovery sent the blood to my heart with a dull throb that made
me tremble. I knew that he would endeavor to get away as
soon as possible, and that he would go whenever his mother
should consider it safe for him to be separated from her.
"Are you well to day?" I said, lifting my eyes to my
aunt
" Perfectly weU."
" Are you willing to have a long talk with me this morning ? "
I inquired.
She looked at me with a quick, sharp glance, and seeing that
I was agitated, replied with the question : " Is it a matter of
great importance ? "
" Yes, of the greatest importance."
" Hm ! You're not in love, I hope ? "
" No," I responded, coloring in spite of the terrible depres-
sion that had come upon me, " though I probably should not
tell of it if I were."
"I'm sure I don't see why you shouldn't," she answered
quickly.
328 Arthur Bonnicastle.
" No," I said, " it has nothing to do with that I wish it
had, but it doesn't look as if anything of that kind would ever
come to me."
" Psh I You're a boy. Don't worry yourself before your
time."
We were seated in the little library where she first received
me. I rose from my chair, went to the door that opened into
the hall, and locked it The door into the dining-room stood
ajar, and I threw it wide open. Then I went back to my chair
and sat down. She watched these movements in silent aston-
ishment, and her eyes fairly burned with excited curiosity when
I concluded them.
Looking into the dining-room upon the picture that still hung
where I had replaced it, I said : " Aunt, you must forgive
me ; but I have learned all about that picture, and I know the
whole history of the person whom it represents."
"Who has been base enough to tell you?" she almost
screamed.
"A person who wishes no harm eitlier to you or me," I
replied.
She had risen to her feet at the first announcement, but she
sank back into her chair again, and covered her face with her
hands. Suddenly steeling herself against the feelings that were
overwhelming her, she dropped her hands^ and said, with a
voice equally charged with fiight and defiance : " So, this is
the important business, is it I You have listened to the voice
of. a slanderer, who has represented me to be little better than
a fiend ; and I am to be lectured, am I ? You, to whom I have
given my bread and my fortune you, to whom I have given
my love are turning against me, are you? You have con-
sented to sit still and hear me maligned and condemned, have
you ? Do you wish to forsake me ? Have I done anything to
deserve such treatment at your hands? Does my presence
defile you ? Do I go about meddling with other people's busi-
ness ? Have I meddled with anything that was not my own ?
I would like to know who has been poisoning your mind against
Arthur Bonnicastle. 329
me. Has there been anything in my treatment of you that
would lead you to think me possessed of the devil ? "
She poured out these words in a torrent so impetuous and
continuous that I could not even attempt to interrupt her ; and it
was better that she should spend the fif st gush of her passion with-
out hinderance. It was to me a terrible revelation of the
condition of her mind, and of the agitations to which it was
familiar. This was doubtless the first utterance to which those
agitations had ever forced her.
I paused for a minute to collect my thoughts, while she
buried her face in her hands again. Then I said : " Mrs. San-
derson, 1 have noticed, since my return from college particularly,
that you have been in trouble. I have seen you many times
before that picture, and known that it was associated in your
mind with distressing thoughts. It has troubled me, because it
has given me the impression that I am in some way, directly or
indirectly, connected with it I have sought for the explanation
and found it No one has prejudiced my mind against you, as I
will prove to you by such a sacrifice as few men have been called
upon to make. You have been very kind to me, and I do not
now see how it is possible for me ever to cease to be grateful to
you. You have been my most generous and indulgent bene-
fiaictress, and it is partly because I am grateful, and desire to
prove my gratitude, that I have sought this interview."
She looked up to me with a dazed, distressed expression
upon her sharpened features, as if waiting for me to go on.
" There was once a little boy," I said, " who grew up in this
old house, under his mother's care ; and then he went away,
and went wrong. His mother was distracted with his ingrati-
tude and his excesses, and finally cut him adrift, with the means
of continuing his dissipations. After a time he married one of
God's own angels."
"You know nothing about it," she interrupted, spitefully.
"YOU know nothirig about her. She was a poor girl without any
position, who managed to weave her net about him and inveigle
him into marriage. I cursed her then, and I curse her stilL''
330 Arthur Bonnicastle.
'* Don't, aunt," I said. " I am sure you have done some
tilings in your life that you are sorry for, and I know you will
be sorry for this."
" Don't lecture me, boy."
" I don't lecture you. * I don't presume to do anything (rf
the kind, but I know I speak the truth."
" Well, then, ^diat about the angel ? "
'' She did her best to make him what his mother had failed
to make him."
"And the angel failed," she said contemptuously. "Cer-
tainly a woman may be excused for not accomplishing what a su-
perior being failed to accomplish."
" Yes, the angel failed, mainly because his mother would not
help her."
" 1 tell you again that you know nothing about it. I am a
fool for listening to another word."
It was a strange thing to me, as I sat before this agitated
woman, quarreling with her own history, and helplessly angry
with me and with the unknown man who had given me my infor-
mation, to find myself growing cool and strong with every burst
of her passion. I had found and pierced the joints of her
closely-knit harness. I was in the center of the rankling secret
of her life, and she was self-contained no longer. I was in
power, and she was fretfully conscious that she was not
" Yes, the angel failed, because his mother would not help
her. I presume the mother intended to drive that angel to for-
sake him, and compel him to return to herself. If she did not
have so good a motive as this, she intended to drive him to the
grave into which he was soon gathered."
" Oh, Arthur ! Arthur ! Arthur ! Don't say it ! don't say it I "
The anger was gone, and the old remorse which had been
eating at her heart for years resumed its sway. She writhed
in her chair. She wrung her hands. She rose and paced the
room, in a painful, tottering way, which distressed me, and
made me fear that I had been harsh, or had chosen the wrong
plan for approaching her and executing my purpose.
Arthur Bonnicastle. 331
" Yes, aunt, the woman was an angel. If she had not been,
she would have become a torment to you. Did she ever write
to you ? Did she ever ask a favor of you ? Do you suppose
that she would ever receive from you a farthing of the wealth
that her husband would rightly have inherited, unless fitst you
had poured out your heart to her in a prayer for forgiveness ?
Has she acted like a mercenary woman ? No, aunt, it is you
who know nothing about her."
" She was nothing to me," Mrs. Sanderson said. " She
never could have been anything to me."
" That you don't know."
" Well, what else have you to say ? "
" She is living to-day, and, in a self-respectful way, is earn-
ing her own livelihood."
" I tell you again she is nothing to me," my aunt responded.
" She is doing to-day what I presume she did before her mar-
riage. I know of no reason why she should not earn her living.
She probably knows me well enough to know that I will do
nothing for her, and can be nothing to her. If you have taken
it into your head to try to bring me to recognize her and give
her money, I can tell you that you have undertaken a very
foolish and fruitless enterprise. If this is all you have to say
to me, we may as well stop our conversation at once. It is a
boy's business, and if you know what is for your own good you
will never allude to her again."
She rose impatiently as if determined to close the interview,
but I did not stir; so, seeing me determined, she sat down
again.
" Mrs. Sanderson," I said, " is your heart satisfied with me ?
Have you not, especially in these last years and months, longed
for some one of your own blood on whom to bestow your af-
fections? I grant that you have treated me like a son. I
grant that I not only have nothing to complain of, but that I
have a thousand things to be grateful for. You have tried to
love me. You have determined with all your power of will to
make me everything to yourself ; but, after all, are you satisfied ?
332 Arthur Sonnicastle.
m
Though one of your kindred, my blood does not come near
enough to yours to make me yours. Have you not longed to
do something before you die to wipe out the memories that
haunt you ? "
She watched me with sad, wide-open eyes, as I firmly and
tenderly said all this, and then, as if she could conceive of but
one conclusion, her anger rose again, and she exclaimed:
" Don't talk to me any more about this woman ! I tell you I
will have nothing to do with her."
'' I am saying nothing about this woman, aunt," I responded.
'' I am going to talk about some one besides this woman, for
she had a child, of whom your son was die father."
"What?"
Half exclamation, half interrogation, the word pierced my
ears like a scream.
^ Mrs. Sanderson, you are the grandmother of as noble a
man as breathes."
She cried ; she laughed ; she exclaimed : " Oh, Arthur ! Oh
God!" She covered her face; she threw her handkerchief
upon the floor ; she tore open her dress to relieve her throbbing
heart, and yielded herself to such a tumult of conflicting pas-
sions as I had never witnessed before such as I hope I may
never be called upon to witness again. I sat frightened and
dumb. I feared she would die that she could not survive
such agitations.
" Ha ! ha ! ha ! I have a grandson ! I have a grandson !
Oh, Arthur I Oh, God I Is it so? Is it so? You lie I You
know you lie ! You are deceiving me. Is it so, Arthur? Say
it again. It can't be so. I should have known it Somebody
has lied to you. Oh, how could you, how could you deceive
an old woman, with one foot in the grave an old woman who
has loved you, and done all she could for you ? How could
you, Arthm* ? "
Thus she poured out her emotions and doubts and depreca-
tions, unmindful of all my attempts to interrupt her, and I saw
at once that it was the only mode by which die could ever be*
Arthur Bonnicastle. 333
come composed enough to hear the rest of my story. The
storm could only resolve itself into calm through the processes
of storm. When she had exhausted herself she sank back in hei
chair. Then, as if moved by an impulse to put me under the
strongest motive to truthfulness, she rose and came to me.
With a movement so sudden that I was entirely unprepared for
it, she threw herself upon my lap, and clasping her arms around
my neck, placed her lips close to my ear, and said in a voice
surcharged with tender pleading : " Don't deceive me, dear !
Don'ti be cruel to me ! I have never used you ill. Tell me
all about it, just as it is. I am an old woman. I have only a
little while to live."
" I have told you ever3rthing just as it is," I responded.
" And I have a grandchild ? "
" One that you may love and be proud o "
" And can I ever see him ? "
"Yes."
" Do you know him ? "
"Yes."
" Do you suppose he wUl come to live with me, if I ask
him?"
" I don't know."
" Does he hate me ? "
" I don't think he hates anybody."
" Is he with his mother ? "
" Yes."
" Is he fond of her ? "
" So fond of her," I answered, " that he will accept no invi-
tation from you that does not include her."
" I take it all back, Arthur," she said. " He is right. He
is a Bonnicastle. When can I see him ? "
" Soon, I think."
" And I have really a grandson a good grandson ? how
long have 3^u known it ? "
Only a few days."
((
334 Arthur Bonnicastle.
" Perhaps I shall not live forty-eight hours. I must see him
at once."
" You shall see him soon."
Then she patted my cheek and kissed me, and played with
my hair like a child. She called me her good boy, her noble
boy. Then, struck suddenly with the thought of the changes
that were progressing in her own mind and affections, and the
changes that were imminent in her relations to me, she rose and
went back to her chair. When I looked her in the face again,
I was astonished at the change which a single moment of Reflec-
tion had wrought upon her. Her anger was gone, her remorse
had vanished, her self-possession had come back to her, en-
veloping her as with an armor of steel, and she was once more
the Mrs. Sanderson of old. How was she to get rid of me ?
What arrangement could she make to get me out of the house,
loosen Ti\y hold upon my expectations, and instal the rightful
heir of her wealth in her home ? She turned to her new life
and her new schemes with the eager determination of a woman
of business.
"What has led you to tliis announcement, Arthur?" she
inquired.
" A wish to do justice to all the parties to whom it relates,"
I replied.
" You have done right," she said, " and of course you have
counted the cost. If my grandson comes here, you t/^tII not
expect to stay. Have you made any plans? Have you any
reward to ask for your sacrifice ? I trust that in making up
your mind upon this point, you will remember what I have done
for you. You will find my expenses on yoiu* account in a book
which I will give you."
The cool cruelty of the woman, at this supreme moment of
her life, angered and disgusted me. I bit my lips to keep
back the hot words that pressed for utterance. Then, with aU
the calmness I could command, I said : " Do you suppose that
I have come to you to-day to sell your grandson to you for
money ? Do you suppose that your dollars weigh a pin with
Arthur Bonnicasth. 335
me ? Can't you realize that I am voluntarily relinquishing the
hopes and expectations of a lifetime ? Can't you see that I
am going from a life of independence to one of labor and
struggle?"
" Don't be angry, Arthur," she responded coolly. " I have
given you your education, and taken care of you for years. I
have done it under the impression that I had no heir. You teU
me that I have one, and now I must part with you. You foresaw
tliis, and I supposed that you had made your plans for it The
simple question is, how much do you want in consideration of
your disappointment ? How are we to separate, so that you
shall feel satisfied that I have done you justice ? "
" I have no stipulations to make," I answered ; " I under-
stand that you have done much for me, and that 1 have done
very little for you, indeed ; that I have very poorly improved
the privileges you have bestowed upon me. I understand that
you do not consider yourself under the slightest obligation to
me, and that so soon as you may get your grandson into your
possession, through my means, you will drop meand be glad to
be rid of me forever."
" You speak bitterly, Arthur. I shall always be interested in
your welfare, and shall do what I can to serve you ; but when
we separate we must be quits. You know my mode of doing
business. I exact my rights and pay my dues."
" I have no bargains to make with you, Mrs. Sanderson," I
said. " We are quits now. I confess that I have had a dream
of travel. I have hoped to go away after this change in my
life, and to forget it among new scenes, and prepare myself to
take up and bear a burden for which my life here has done
much to unfit me. I have dreamed of getting away from Brad-
ford for a time, until the excitement that will attend these
changes shall have blown over. I confess that I shrink from
meeting the questions and sneers that await me ; but we are
quits now."
** Have you any idea what the expenses of a foreign tour
will be ? " she inquired in a cool, calculating tone.
336 Arthur Bonnicastle.
** Mrs. Sanderson, you have just come into the possession of
the most precious knowledge the world holds for you, and
through it you expect to receive the great boon of your life.
All this comes through me. Neither your daughter-in-law nor
your grandson would ever have made themselves known to you,
and now, when I have sacrificed the expectations of a life to
them and to you, you talk about the price of a foreign trip for
me, as if you were bargaining for a horse. No, madam ; I
wash my hands of the whole business, and it is better for us both
to talk no more about this matter. We are quits to-day. I
shall feel better by and by, but you have disappointed me and
made me very unhappy."
Even while I talked, I could see her face harden from
moment to moment Her heart had gone out toward her heir
with a selfish affection, which slowly, quietly, and surely shut out
every other human being. She grudged me every dollar of her
fortune on his behalf. The moment she ceased to regard me as
her heir, I stood in the same relation to her that any other poor
young man in Bradford occupied. Her wealth was for her grand-
son. She would pay to him, on his father's account, every dollar
she held. She would lavish upon him every affection, and every
service possible. She would offer herself and her possessions
to atone for wrongs for which her conscience had upbraided her
more and more, as her life had approached its close. She
longed for this consummation, and looked to it for peace.
Thus I reached the moment of transition, and in disappoint-
ment and bitterness feeling that my sacrifice was not appre-
ciated, and that my benefactress had lost all affection for and
interest in me ^I took up the burden of my own life, determined
that on no consideration would I receive, beyond the clothes I
wore, one dollar more of the fortune on which I had lived.
" AVhen can I see my grandson ? "
" When you choose."
"Today?"
Yes."
" Bring him to me.*'
Arthur Bonnicastle. 337
" I must go to my room first,"! saiA
I mounted to my chamber, and threw myself into my
accustomed chair by the window. I had passed into a new
world. The charming things about me, which I had counted
my own, were another's. The old house and the broad, beau-
tiful acres which stretched around it were alienated forever. I
realized that every dollar that had been bestowed upon me,
and every privilege, service, and attention I had received, had
come from a supremely selfish heart, through motives that sought
only to fill an empty life, and to associate with an honored
ancestral name the wealth which could not be taken out of the
world with its possessor. A mercenary value had been placed
upon every sentiment of gratitude and respect and love which
my benefactress had inspired in me. I had been used as a
thing of convenience, and being a thing of convenience no
longer, I was dropped as a burden. I was humiliated, shamed,
angered by the way in which I had been treated, but I was
cured. The gifts that I had received looked hateful to me. The
position I had occupied the position in which I had not
only grown to be content, but in which I had nursed and devel-
oped a degree of aristocratic pride seemed most unmanly. I
had been used, played with, petted, fed with daily indulgences
and great promises, and then cast away, there being no further
use for me.
" Never again ! " I said to myself " never again ! I would
not take another dollar firom this estate and its owner to keep
myself from starving."
The dream of travel was shattered. My new life and rela-
tions were squarely before me. Where and what I should be
in a week I did not know. What old fiiends would fall away
from me, what new friends I should make, how I should earn
the bread which had thus far been supplied, was all uncertain.
I believed, however, that I had done my duty ; and out of all
my shame and disappointment and disgust and apprehension,
there rose within me a sentiment of self-respect and a feeling
of strength. And when I thought of all the circumstances
338 Arthur Bonnicastle.
that had conspired to bring me to this point, I could not doHbt
that Frovidencc-^the great will that embraces all wills the
supreme plan that subordinates and weaves into serviceable
relations all plans the golden fabric that unrolls from day to
day, with the steady revolutions of the stars, and rolls up again,
studded thick with the designs of men had ordered everything,
and ordered it aright It was best for me that I had gone
through with my indulgences and my discipline. It was best
for me that I had passed through the peculiar experiences of
my life. It was best for Mrs. Sanderson that she had been
tormented, and that, at last, she was passing into the hands that
were strong and steady ^hands that would lead her aright
hands into which she was ready to throw herself, with self-aban-
doning love and trust. It was best that Henry had struggled
and learned the worth of money, and acquired s)mapathy and
respect for the poor. It was best that the feet of all the per-
sons concerned in this great change of relations should be
brought together at last, by a series of coincidences that
seemed well-nigh miraculous.
One thing struck me as being very singular, viz. : that Mrs.
Sanderson was so easily satisfied that she had a grandson, and
that I not only knew him, but that he was close at hand. It
only showed how eagerly ready she was to believe it, and to
believe that I had prepared everything to satisfy her desire.
In another frame of mind if another frame of mind had been
possible she would have questioned me doubted me put
me to the proof of my statements; but she was ready to
accept anything on my simple assurance. After sitting quietly
for an hour, I rose with a long sigh. I had still the duty of
presenting Henry Sanderson for that was his real name to
his grandmother. My heart throbbed wildly every time the
thought of this meeting came to me. I had said nothing to
Henry, for I knew that it would distress him beyond measure,
nay, that, disabled as he was, he would contrive some way
to get out of the house and out of the town. Nothing but a
sense of freedom from detection and discovery had ever recon-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 339
cfled him and his mother to an hour's residence in The Mansion.
Hidden away in this New England town, toward which they had
drifted from the far South, partly on the current of circumstan-
ces, and partly by the force of a desire to see and know the
early home and associations of the husband and father, they
did not doubt that they could cover their identity so perfectly
that it would not be suspected. Henry had studiously kept
away from the house. His mother had met Mrs. Sanderson
entirely by accident, and had taken a sweet and self amusing
revenge by compelling her to love and trust her. They had
confided their secret to but one man, and he had had their
permission to confide it to his family. Through all these long
years, the two families had been intimate friends, and Mr. Brad-
ford had endeavored in every possible way to obtain their con-
sent to the course he had pursued, but in vain. After the
death of Mrs. Sanderson, he would doubtless have informed
me of Henry's natural claims to the estate, relying upon my
sense of justice and my love for him for its division between
us ; but he saw that my prospects were ruining me, and so had
taken the matter into his own hands, simply confiding the facts
of the case to my father and Mr. Bird, and acting with their
advice and consent
I drew out my trunk, and carefully packed my clothing. Not
an article in the room that was not necessary to me did I take
from its place. It would be Henry's room, and all the choice
ornaments and appointments that I had liad the happy pains to
gather, were left to please his eye and remind him of me. The
occupation, while it pained me, gave me strength and calmness.
When the work was done, I locked my trunk, put the key in
my pocket, and was about to leave the room when there came
to me the sense of a smile from the skies. . A cloud had been
over the sun, and as it passed a flood of sunlight filled the room,
growing stronger and stronger until my eyes were almost blinded
by the sweet effulgence. I was not superstitious, but it seemed
as if God had given me His benediction.
I turned the key in my door, and bowed at my bed. " Dear
340 Arthur Bonnicastle.
Father," I said, " at last nothing stands between Thee an J tne.
That which I have loved better than Thee is gone, and now I
beg Thee to help me and lead me in Thine own way to Thyself.
I shrink from the world, but Thou hast made it I shrink from
toil and struggle, but Thou hast ordained them. Help me to
be a man after Thine own heart Give me wisdom, guidance,
and assistance. Help me to lay aside my selfishness, my love
of luxury and ease, and to go down heartily into the work of
the world, and to build my life upon sure foundations."
Then there rose in me a flood of pity and charity for one
who had so long been my benefactress ; and I prayed for her
that in her new relations she might be blessed with content and
satisfaction, and that her last days might be filled with some-
thing better than she had known. I forgave her for her quick
and complete renunciation of myself, and the cruel wounds she
had inflicted upon my pride, and felt the old good-will of child-
hood welling in my heart I enveloped her with my charity. I
crowned her with the grace of pardon.
When I went down stairs I found her awaiting me in the room
where I had left her. She sat holding a paper in her hand. She
had dressed herself in her best, as if she were about to receive
a prince. There was a bright spot of red on either thin and
wrinkled cheek, and her eyes shone like fire.
" You are sure you have made no mistake, Arthur ? " she
said, with a Voice quite unnatural in its quavering sharpness.
" Quite sure," I answered.
" This," said she, holding up her paper, " is my will. There
is no will of mine beside this in existence. I have no time to
ask my lawyer here to-day to make another. Life is uncertain,
and there must be no mistake. I wish you to go with me to
the kitchen."
She rose and I followed her out. I could not imagine what
she would do, but she went straight to the old-fashioned fire-
place, where the dinner was cooking, and holding the paper in
her hands, opened it, and asked me to read the beginning of it
and the signatures. I did so, and then she laid it upon the
Arthur Bonnicastle. 341
coals. The quick flame shot up, and we both looked on in
silence, until nothing was left of it but white ashes^ which a
breath would scatter. The elements had swallowed all my claim
to her large estate. The old cook regarded us in wondering
silence, with her hands upon her hips, and watched us as we
turned away from the fire, and left her alone in her domain.
When we returned to the library, Mrs. Sanderson said : " The
burning of that will is equivalent to writing another: in favor of
my grandson ; so, if I make no other, you will know the rea-
son."
She pressed her hand upon her heart in a distressed way, and
added ; " I am as nearly ready as I ever can be to see ^"
" Henry Sanderson," I said.
'' Is that his name ? Is that his real name ? " she asked,
eagerly.
" It is."
" And it will all go to Henry Sanderson I "
The intense, triumphant satisfaction with which she said this
was almost enough, of itself, to repay me for the sacrifice I
had made.
"Mrs. Sanderson," I said, "I have put into my trunk the
clothes I need, and when I go away I will send for them. I
have left everything else."
" For Henry my Henry Sanderson I "
" Yes, for yoiu: Henry ; and now I must go up and see my
Henry, and Mrs. Belden ; for after I have presented your grand-
son to you I shall go away."
I mounted the stairs with a throbbing heart, and a face that
told the tale of a terrible excitement and trouble. Both Henry
and his mother started as I came into the room, and simultane-
ously uttered the words, "What is it, Arthur?"
" Nothing, except that my aunt and I have had a talk, and I
am going away."
A quick, involuntary glance passed between the pair, but
both waited to hear my announcement.
" I am glad you are here/' I said. " You can stay as long
342 Arthur Bonnicastle.
as you wish, but I am going away. I shall see you again, but
never as an inmate of this house. I want to thank you for all
your kindness and love, and to assure you that I shall always
remember you. Mrs. Belden, you never kissed me : kiss me
now."
The dear woman looked scared, but obeyed my wish. I sat
down on Henry's bed and laid my head beside his. " Good-
by, old boy ; good-by I Thank you for all your faithfulness to
me and for your example. I hope some time to be half as
good as you are."
My eyes were flooded with tears, and both Mrs. Belden and
Henry were weeping in sympathy.
" What is it, Arthur ? what is it ? Tell us. Perhaps we can
help you."
"Whatever it is, it is *all right," I answered. "Some time
you will know, and you will find that I am not to blame."
Then I shook their hands, went abruptly out of the room,
and ran down stairs to Mrs. Sanderson. She saw that I was
strangely agitated, and rose feebly as I entered.
" I wish you to go up stairs with me before I leave," I said.
" Will you be kind enough to go with me now ? "
There was no dawning suspicion in her heart of what I
had prepared for her. She had expected me to go out and
bring in a stately stranger for whose reception she had pre-
pared her toilet. She had wondered how he would look, and
by what terms she should address him.
I gave her my arm and we slowly walked up the stairs to-
gether, while my heart was beating so heavily that I could hear
it, blow upon blow, in my ears. I knocked at Henry's door
and entered. The moment Henry and his mother saw us to-
gether, and caught the agitated look that both of us wore, they
anticipated the announcement that was imminent, and grew
pale as ghosts.
" Mrs. Sanderson," I said, without offering her a seat, " this
is Mrs. Belden Hulm, your daughter-in-law, and this (turning
i
Arthur Bonnicastle. 343
to Henry) is your grandson, Henry Sanderson. May God
bless you all ! "
I dropped her arm and rushed to the door. A hurried
glance behind me showed that she was staggering and falling.
Turning swiftly back, I caught her, while Mrs. Hulm supported
her upon the other side, and together we led her to Henry's
bed. Then he dropped upon her knees and Henry threw his
arms around her neck, and said softly : '^ Grandmother !"
"My boy, my boy I" was all she could say, and it was
enough.
Then I left them. I heard Henry say : " Don't go," but I
did not heed him. Running down stairs, with limbs so weak
with excitement that I could hardly stand, I seized my hat
in the hall, and went out of doors, and hurriedly took my
way toward my father's house. I did not even cast a glance
at the Bradford residence, so absorbed was 1 in the events
in which T had been an actor. The vision of the tliree
persons clustered at Henry's bed, the thought of the powerful
emotions that were surging in them all, the explanations that
were pouring from Henry's lips, the prayers for forgiveness that
my old benefactress was uttering, and the dreams of the new
life of The Mansion which I had inaugurated blotted out the
sense of my own sacrifice, and made me oblivious to all around
me. Men spoke to me on the street, and I remembered after-
wards that I did not answer them. I walked in a dream, and
was at my father's door before I was aware. I felt that I was
not ready to go in, so I turned away and continued my walk.
Up the long streets I went, wrapped in my dream. Down
through the busy life along the wharves I wandered, and looked
out upon the water. The sailors were singing, children were
playing, apple-women were chaffing, but nothing could divert
me. My heart was in the room I had left. The scene was
burnt indelibly upon my memory, and no new impression could
take its place.
Slowly I turned toward home again. I had mastered myself
sufficiently to be able to think of my future, and of the necesii-
344 Arthur Bonnicastle.
ties and proprieties of my new position. When I reached my
father's -house, I found Mrs. Sanderson's man-servant old
Jenks*s successor waiting at the gate with a message from
H^nry, desiring my immediate return to The Mansion, and re-
questing that I bring with me my sister Claire. Tiiis latter
request was one that brought me to myself. I had now the
responsibility of leading another through a great and unantici-
pated excitement. Dismissing tlie servant, with a promise to
obey his new master's wish, I went into the house, and found
myself so much in self-possession that I told Claire with calm-*
ness of the message, and refrained from all allusion to what had
occurred. Claire dressed herself quickly, and I could see as
she presented herself for the walk that she was full of wonder.
Nothing was said as we passed out There was a strange
silence in the family. The message meant a great deal, and
all so thoroughly trusted Henry that no questions were asked.
When we were away from the house, I said : " Glaire, you
must be a woman to-day. Strange things have happened.
Brace yourself for anything that may come."
"What can you mean? Has anything happened to to
him?"
" Yes, much, much to him, and much to me ; and some-
thing very strange and unexpected will happen to you."
She stopped short in the street, and grasping my two hands
nervously, exclaimed : " Tell me what it is."
" My dear," I said, " my life at Mrs. Sanderson's has ceased.
I am no more her heir, for Henry is discovered to be her own
grandson."
" You deceive me ; you can't mean it"
" It is just as I tell you."
She burst into a fit of weeping so passionate and uncontrol-
lable that in a low voice I said, " You must command your-
self. You are observed."
We resumed our walk, but it was a long time before she
could speak. At length she said, " I am so sorry for you, and
so sorry for mysel I do not want it so. It changes all my
^ Arthur Bonnicastle. 345
plans. I never can be to him what I could be if he were poor ;
and you are to work. Did he know he was her grandson ? "
" Yes, he has always known it."
" And he never told me a word about it How could he
treat me so like a child ? "
She was half angry with the thought that he had shut from
her the most important secret of his life. As to the fortune
which was opened to her, it did not present to her a single
charm. The thought of it oppressed and distressed her. It
made her life so large that she could not comprehend it She
had had no natural growth up to it and into it
When we reached The Mansion she was calm ; and it seemed,
as we stood at the door and I looked inquiringly into her face,
as if her beauty had taken on a maturer charm while we had
walked. I led her directly to Henry's room, and there, in the
presence of Mrs. Sanderson, who sat holding Henry* s hand as
if she were determined that her newly-found treasure should
not escape her, and in the presence of Henry's mother, neither
of whom she either addressed or regarded, she stooped and re-
ceived her lover's kiss. I saw simply this, and with tears in
my eyes went out and closed the door softly behind me. What
occurred during that interview I never knew. It was an inter-
view so tenderly sacred* that neither Henry nor Claire ever al-
luded to it afterwards. I went down stairs, and awaited its
conclusion. At the end of half an hour, I heard voices whis-
pering above, then the footsteps of Mrs. Sanderson going to
her chamber, and then the rustle of dresses upon the stairs.
I went out into the hall, and met Mrs. Hulm and Claire with
their arms arotmd each other. Their eyes were wet, but they
Mrere luminous with a new happiness, and I knew that all had
been settled, and settled aright
" Henry wishes to see you," said his mother.
I cannot tell how much I dreaded this interview. I knew
of course that it would come, sooner or later, and I dreaded it
as much on Henry's account as on my own.
I sat down by his bed, and gave to his eager grasp both
15*
346 Arthur Bonnicastle.
fay hands. He looked at me with tears reeling down his
cheeks, with iips compressed and with the perspiration standing
unbrushed from his forehead, but without the power to speak a
word I pulled out my handkerchief, and wiped his forehead
and his cheeks.
"Are you hs^py, Henry ? " I said.
'^ Yes, thank God and you," he answered, with choking emo-
tion;
" So am I."
"Are you? Are you? Oh Arthur I What can I ever do
to show you my gratitude ? How can I look on and see you
toiling to win the bread you have voluntarily given to me ? "
" You have had your hard time, and I my ea^ one. Now
we are to change places, that's all, and it b right You have
learned the value of money, and you will spend this which has
come to you as it ought to be spent"
" But it is not the money ; it is the home of my father the
home of my ancestors. It is a home for my mother. It is
rest from uncertain wandering. I cannot tell you what it is.
It is something so precious that money cannot represent it It
is something so precious that I would willingly work harder all
my life for having found it And now, my dear fellow, what
can I do for you ? "
" Nothing only love me."
" But I must do more. Your home must be here. You
must share it with me."
" No, Henry, the word is spoken. You have come to your
own, and I shall go to mine. My lot shall be my Cither's lot,
until I can make it better. We shall be friends forever. The
surrender I have made shall do me more good than it has done
you. You did not absolutely need it, and I did. You could
do without it and I could not. And now, lefs not talk about
it any more."
We embraced and kissed as if we had been lovers, and I left
him, to walk back with Claire. That night the story was all
told in our little home. My trunk was brought and carried to
Arthur Bonnzcastle. 347
tny bare and cramped chamber; and when the accustomed
early hour for retirement came I knelt with the other children
and worshipped as of old. My father was happy, my mother
was reconciled to the change, for Claire had been recognized
at The Mansion, and I went to bed and rested through a dream-
less sleep until the morning light summoned me to new changes
and new duties
CHAPTER XXIIL
I TAKE ARTHUR BONNICASTLE UPON MY OWN HANDS AND SUC-
CEED WITH HIM.
In a small town like Bradford, the birds have a way of collect-
ing and carrying news, quite unknown in more considerable
cities ; and, apparently, a large flock of them had been around
The Mansion during the events narrated in the preceding
chapter ; for, on the following day, the community was alive
with rumors concerning them. A daily paper had just been
established, whose enterprising editor deemed it his special duty
and privilege to bruit such personal and social intelligence as
he could gain by button-holing his victims on the street, or by
listening to the voluntary tattle of busy-bodies. My good angel,
Mr. Bradford, apprehending an unpleasant notoriety for me,
and for the occurrences associated with my name, came to me
at once and heard my story. Then he visited the editor, and
so represented the case to him that, on the second morning
after taking up my home with my father, I had the amusement
of reading a whole column devoted to it The paper was very
wet and very dirty ; and I presume that that column was read
with more interest, by all the citizens of Bradford, thaii anything
of national import which it might have contained. I will re-
produce only its opening and closing paragraphs :
Romance in High Life. Our little city was thrown into intense cxdte-
ment yesterday, by rumors of a most romantic and extraordinary character,
concerning occurrences at
A CERTAIN MANSION,
which occupies an elevated position, locally, socially, and historically. It
J
Arthur Bonnicastle. 349
i4pears that a certain estimable young man, whose heroic feat cost him so
dearly in a recent struggle with
A MIDNIGHT ASSASSIN,
is the natural heir to the vast wealth which he so gallantly rescued from spol-
iation, and that
A CERTAIN ESTIMABLE LADY,
well known to our citizens as the companion of a certain other lady, also
well known, is his mother. Nothing more startling than the developments
in this case has occurred in the eventful history of our city.
A BfYSTERY
has always himg around these persons, and we are not among those who
are surprised at the solution. But the most remarkable part of the story
is that which relates to the young man who has been reared with the expec-
tation of becoming the owner of this magnificent estate. Upon learning the
relations of the young man previously alluded to, to his benefactress, he at
once, in loyalty to hb friend and his own personal honor, renounced for-
ever his expectations, surrendered his position to the heir so strangely dis-
covered, and took up his abode in his father's humble home. This act, than
which none nobfer was ever performed, was, we are assured by as good au-
thority as there is in Bradford, wholly voluntary.
WE GIVE THAT YOUNG MAN OUR HAT
Miller & Sons* best and assure him that, in whatever position he may
choose to take in this community, he will have such support as our humble
editorial pen may give him. We feel that no less than this is due to his
nobility of character.
After half a dozen paragraphs in this strain, the article closed
as follows :
It is rumored that the newly-found heir has formed
A TENDER ALLIANCE
with a beautiful young lady a blonde ^who is not a stranger in the
family of our blue-eyed hero an alliance which will enable her to
SHARE HIS BONNY CASTLE,
and unite the fortunes of the two families in indissoluble bonds. Long
may they wave 1
350 Arthur Bonnicastle.
Far be it from vs, enthroned upon the editorial tripod, and widding dia
scepter of the press, to invade the sanctities of private life, and we there-
fore withhold all names. It was due to the parties concerned and to the
public, however, to state the facts, and put an end to gossip and conjecture
among those who have no better business than that of tampering -with the
secrets of the hearthstone and the heart.
During the day, I broke through the reluctance which I nat-
urally felt to encounter the public gaze, after this exposure of
my afairs, and went out upon the street Of course, I found
myself the object of universal curiosity and the subject of uni-
versal remark. Never in my life had I been treated with more
deference. Something high in position had been won back to
the sphere of common life ; and common life was profoundly
interested. My editorial friend had so represented the case
as to win for me something better than sjrmpathy ; and a good-
natured reticence under all inquiries, on my own part, seemed
to enhance the respect of the people for me. But I had some-
thing more important on hand than seeking food for my van-
ity. I had myself on hand and my future ; and the gossip" oi
the commimity was, for the first time in my life, a matter of in-
difference.
It occurred to me during the day that an academy, which a
number of enterprising people had built two or three years be-
fore, had been abandoned and closed, with the conclusion of
the spring term, for lack of support, and that it would be pos-
sible for me to secure it for the field of my future enterprise.
I called at once upon those who held the building in charge,
and, before I slept, closed a bargain, very advantageous to my-
self, which placed it at my disposal for a term of three years.
The next day I visited my friend the editor, whom I found with
bare arms, well smeared with ink, at work at his printer's case,
setting up the lucubrations of the previous night He was
evidently flattered by my call, and expressed the hope that
what he had written with reference to myself was satisfactory.
Assuring him that I had no fault to find with him, I exposed
my project, which not only met with his hearty approval, but
Arthur Bonntcastle. 351
Ae promise of his unstinted support. From his office I went
directly to the chambers of the principal lawyer of the city, and
entered my name as a student of law. I took no advice, J
sought no aid, but spoke freely of my plans to all around me.
I realized almost at once how all life and circumstance bend
to the man who walks his own determined way, toward an ob-
ject definitely apprehended. People were surprised by my
promptness and energy, and indeed I was surprised by myself.
My dreams of luxury and ease were gone, and the fascinations
of enterprise and action took strong possession of me. I was
busy with my preparations for school and with study all day,
and at night, every moment stolen fi*om sleep was filled with
planning and projecting. My father was delighted, and almost
lived and moved and had his being in me. To him I told
everything ; and the full measure of his old faith in me was re-
covered.
When the autumn term of the academy opened, of which I
was principal, and my sistef Claire the leading assistant, every
seat was fiilL Many of the pupils had come from the towns
around, though the principal attendance was from the city, and
I entered at once upon a life of the most fatiguing labor and
the most grateful prosperity. My purse was filled at the out-
set with the advanced installment upon the term-bills, so that
both Claire and myself had a delightful struggle with- my father
in our attempt to compel him to receive payment for our
board and lodgings. Our little dwelling was full of new life.
Even my mother was shaken from her refuge of faithlessness,
and compelled to smile. Since those days I have had many
pleasant experiences ; but I doubt whether I have ever spent
three years of purer happiness than those which I passed with
Claire beneath the roof of that old academy old, now, for
though put to strange uses, the building is standing still.
There was one experience connected with this part of my
history of which it is a pain to speak, because it relates to the
most subtle and sacred passage of my inner life ; but having
led the reader thus far, I should be disloyal to my Christian
352 Arthur Bonnicastle.
confession were I to close my lips upon it and refuse its revda*-
tion.
From the hour when I first openly joined a band of Chris-
tian disciples, I had been conscious of a mighty arm around me.
Within the circuit of that restraining power I had exercised an
almost unrestricted liberty. I had violated my conscience in
times and ways without number, yet, when tempted to reckless
wandering, I had touched the obstacle and recoiled. In what-
ever direction I might go, I always reached a point where I
became conscious of its living pulsations and its unrelaxing em-
brace. Unseen, impalpable, it was as impenetrable as ada-
nEiant and as strong as God. The moment 1 assumed respon-
sibility over other lives, and gave my own life in counsel and
labor for the good of those around me, the arm came closer,
and conveyed to me the impression of comfort and health and
safety. I thanked God for the restraint which that voluntary
act of mine had imposed upon me.
But this was not all. My life had come into the line of
the divine plan for my own Christian development. I had
been a recipient all jny life; now I had become an active
power. I had all my life been appropriating the food that came
to me, and amusing myself with the playthings of fancy and
imagination ; now I had begun to act and expend in earnest
work for worthy objects. The spiritual attitude effected by
this change was one which brought me face to face with all that
was unworthy in me and my past life, and I felt myself under
the operations of a mighty regenerating power, which I had
no disposition to resist. I could not tell whence it came or
whither it went. If it was born of myself, it was a psycholog-
ical experience which I could neither analyze nor measure. It
was upon me for days and weeks. It was within me like
leaven in the lump, permeating, enlivening, lifting me. It was
like an eye-stone in the eye, searching for dust in every place
and plication, and removing it, until the orb was painless
and the vision pure. There was no outcry, no horror of great
darkness, no disposition to publish, but a subtle, silent, sweet
Arthur Bonnicastle. 353
revolution. As it went on within me, I grew stronger day by
day, and my life and work were flooded with the light of a
great and fine significance. Sensibility softened and endurance
hardened under it
Spirit of God ! Infinite Mother ! Thou didst not thunder
on Sinai amidst smoke and tempest ; but in the burning bush
thou didst appear in a flame that warmed without withering,
and illuminated without consuming. Thou didst not hang
upon the cross on Calvary, but thou didst stir the hearts of the
bereaved disciples as they walked in the way with their risen
Lord. All gentle ministries to the spiritual life of men emanate
from Thee. Thou brooding, all-pervading presence, holding a
weeping world in thy maternal embrace, with counsel and ten-
der chastening and holy inspirations, was it thy arms that had
been around me all these years, and came closer and closer,
until I felt myself folded to a heart that flooded me with love ?
I only know that streams rise no higher than their fountain,'
and that the fountain of spiritual life in me had sunk and ceased
to flow long before- this time. Could anything but a long,
strong rain from the skies have filled it ? All the things we see are
types of things we do not see visible expressions of the things
and tlioughts of God. All the phenomena of nature the persist-
ent radiance of the sun and moon the coming, going, and unload-
ing, and the grace and glory of the clouds the changes of the
seasons and of the all-enveloping atmosphere, are revelations
to our senses and our souls of those operations and influences
which act upon our spiritual natures. I find no miracle in this ;
only nature speaking' without material interpreters only the
God of nature shunning the coarser passages of the senses, and
finding his way direct to the Spirit by means and ministries and
channels of his own.
Was this conversion ? It was not an intellectual matter at
alL I had changed no opinions, for the unworthy opinions I
had acquired had fallen from me, one by' one, as my practice
had conformed more and more to the Christian standard. In-
deedy they were not my opinions at all, for they had been
354 Arthur Bonnicastle.
assumed in consequence of the necessity of somewhat bringing
my spiritual and intellectual natures into harmony. My deep-
est intellectual convictions remained precisely what they had
always been. No, it was a spiritual quickening. It had been
winter with me, and I had been covered with snow and locked
with ice. Did I melt the bonds vdiich held me, by warmdi
self-generated ? Does the rose do this or the violet ? There
was a sun in some heaven I could not see that shone upon me.
There was a wind from some far latitude that breathed upon
me. To be quickened is to be touched by a vital finger. To
be quickened is to receive a fructifying flood from the great
source of life.
The change was something better than had happened to me
under Mr. Bedlow's preaching, long years before ; but neitiier
change was conversion. Far back in childhood, at my
mother's knee, at my father's side, and in my own secret cham-
ber, those changes were wrought which had dire^d my life
toward a Christian consummation. My little rivulet was'flow-
ing toward the sea, increasing as it went, when it was disturbed
by the first awful experiences of my life ; and its turbid waters
were never, until this latter time, wholly clarified. My little
plant, tender but upright, was just rising out of its nursing
shadows into the light when the great tempest swept over it
If my later experience was conversion, then conversion may
come to a man every year of his life. It was simply the re-
vivification and reinforcement of the powers and processes of
spiritual life. It was ministrj'-, direct and immediate, to devel-
opment and growth ; and with me it wa^ complete restoration
to the track of my Christian boyhood, and a thrusting out of
my life of all the ideas, policies and results of that terrible winter
which I can never recall without self-pity and humiliation.
The difference in the respective effects of the two great
crises of my spiritual history upon my power to work illus-
trated better than anything else, periiaps, the difference in
their nature. The first was a dissipation of power. I could
not work while it lasted, and it was a long time before I could
Arthur Bonnicastle. 355
gather and hold in hand my naental forces. The second was
an acces^on of strength and the power of concentration. I
am sure that I never worked harder or better than I did during
the time that my late change was in progress. It was an up-
lifting, enlightening and strengthening inspiration. One was
a poison, the other was a cure ; one disturbed, the other har-
monized; one was surcharged with fear, the other brimmed
with hope; one exhausted, the other nourished and edified
me ; one left my spirit halting and ready to stumble, the other
left it armed and plumed.
After my days at the academy, came my evening readings of
the elementary books of the profession which I had chosen*
There were no holidays for me ; and during those three years I
am sure I accomplished more professional study than nine-tenths
di the young men whose every day was at their disposal. I
was in. h^ health and in thorough earnest My physical pow-
ers had never been overtasked, and I found myself in the
possession of vkal resources which enabled me to accomplish
an enormous amount of labor. I have no doubt that there
were those around me who felt a measure of pity for me, but
I had no occasion to thank tliem for it I had never before
felt so happy, and I learned then, what the world is slow to
learn, that there can be no true happiness that is not the re-
sult of the action of harmonious powers steadily bent upon
pursuits that seek a worthy end. Comfort of a certain sort
there may be, pleasure of a certain quality there may be, in
ease and in the gratification of that which is sensuous and
sensual in human nature ; but happiness is never a lazy man's
dower nor a sensualist's privilege. That is reserved for the
worker, and can never be grasped and held save by true man-
hood and womanhood. It was a great lesson to learn, and it
was learned for a lifetime ; for, in this eventide of life, with
the power to the rest, I find no joy like that which comes to
me at the table on which, day after day, I write the present
record.
During the autumn and winter which followed the assump-
356 Arthur Bonnicastle.
tion of my new duties, I was often at The Mansion, and a
witness of the happiness of its inmates. Airs. Sanderson was
living in a new atmosphere. Every thought and feeling seemed
to be centered upon her lately discovered treasure. She lis-
tened to his every word, watched his every motion, and seemed
to feel that all her time was lost that was not spent in his pres-
ence. The strong, indomitable, self-asserting will which she
had exercised during all her life was laid at his feet. With her
fortune she gave herself. She was weary with the long strain
and relinquished it She trusted him, leaned upon him, lived
upon him. She was in the second childhood of her life, and it
was better to her than her womanhood. He became in her
imagination the son whom long years before she had lost. His
look recalled her boy, his voice was the repetition of the old
music, and she found realized in him all the dreams she had in-
dulged in concerning him who so sadly dissipated them in his
own self-ruin.
The object of all this trust and tenderness was as happy as
she. It always touched me deeply to witness the gentleness of
his manner toward her. He anticipated all her wants, deferred
to her slightest wish, shaped all his life to serve her own. The
sense of kindred blood was strongly dominant within him, and
his grandmother was held among the most sacred treasures of
his heart Whether he ever had the influence to lead her to
higher sources of joy and comfort than himself, I never knew,
but I know that in the old mansion that for so many years had
been the home of revelry or of isolated selfishness, an altar was
reared from which the incense of Christian hearts rose with the
rising sun of morning and the rising stars of night
Henry passed many days with me at the academy. In truth,
my school was his loitering place, though his loitering was of
a very useful fashion. I found him so full of the results of ex-
perience in the calling in which I was engaged that I won from
him a thousand valuable suggestions ; and such was his love
for the calling that he rarely left me without hearing a recitationi
which he had the power to make so vitally interesting to my
Arthur Bonnicastle. 357
pupfls that he never entered the study-hall i;v'ithout awakening
a smile of welcome from the whole school. Sometimes he
went with Claire to her class-rooms ; and, as many of her pupils
had previously been his own, he found himself at home every-
where. There was no foolish pride in his heart that protested
against her emplo)rment He saw that she was not only useful
but happy, and knew that she was learning quite as much that
would be useflil to her as those who engaged her eflforts. Her
office deepened and broadened her womanhood ; and I could
see that Henry was every day more pleased and satisfied with
her. If she was ill for a day, he took her place, and watched
for and filled every opportunity to lighten her burdens.
Mr. Bradford was, perhaps, my happiest friend. He had had
so much responsibility in directing and changing the currents
of my life, that it was with unbounded satisfaction that he
witnessed my happiness, my industry and my modest pros-
perity. Many an hour did he sit upon my platform with me,
with his two hands resting upon his cane, his fine, honest face
all aglow with gratified interest, listening to the school in its
regular exercises; and once he came in with Mr. Bird who
had traveled all the way from Hillsborough to see me. And
then my school witnessed such a scene as it had never wit-
nessed before. I rushed to my dear old friend, threw my arms
around him and kissed him. The silver had begun to show
itself in his beard and on his temples, and he looked weary.
I gave him a chair, and then with tears in my eyes I stood out
upon the platform before my boys and girls, and told them
who he was, and what he had been to me. I pictured
to them the life of The Bird's Nest, and assured them that if
they had found anything to approve in me, as a teacher and a
friend, it was planted and shaped in that little garden on the
hill. I told them further that if any of them should ever come
to regard me with the affection I felt for him, I should feel
myself abundantly repaid for all the labor I had bestowed upon
them nay, for the labor of a life. I was roused to an elo-
quence and touched to a tenderness which were at least new to
358 Arthur Bonntcastle.
them, and their eyes were wet When I concludetl, poor Mr.
Bird sat with his head in his hands, unable to say a word.
As we went out from the school that night, arm in arm, he
said : " It was a good medicine, Arthur heroic, but good."
" It was," I answered, " and I can never thank you and Mr.
Bradford enough for it."
First I took him to my home, and we had a merry tea^
drinking, at which my mother yielded up all her prejudices
against him. I showed him my little room, so like in its
dimensions and appointments to the one I occupied at The
Bird's Nest, and then I took him to The Mansion for a call
upon Henry. After this we went to Mr. Bradford's, where wc
passed the evening, and where he spent die ni^t
CHAPTER XXIV.
IN WHICH I LEARN SOMETHING ABOUT LIVINGSTON, MIL LIB
BRADFORD AND MYSELF.
Since the old days of my boyhood, when Millie Bradford
and X had been intimate, confidential friends, she had never
received me with the cordiality that she exhibited on that
evening. I suppose she had listened to the account which her
father gave of my meeting with my old teacher, and of the
words which that meeting had inspired me to utter. I have no
doubt that my later history had pleased her, and done much to
awaken her old regard for me. Whatever the reasons may
have been, her grasp was hearty, her greeting cordial, and her
face was bright with welcome. I need not say that all this
thrilled me with pleasure, for I had inwardly determined to
earn her respect, and to take no steps for greater intimacy until
I had done so, even if it should lead me to abandon all hope
of being more to her than I had been.
It was easy that evening to win her to our old comer in the
drawing-room. Mrs. Bradford and Aunt Flick were ready
listeners to the conversation in prc^ess between Mr. Bradford
and Mr. Bird, and we found ourselves at liberty to pursue our
own ways, without interruption or observation.
She questioned me with great interest about my school, and
as that was a subject which aroused all my enthusiasm, I talked
freely, and amused her with incidents of my daily work. She
could not but have seen that I was the victim of no vain regrets
concerning my loss of position and prospects, and that all my
energies and all my heart were in my new life. I saw that she
was gratified; and I was surprised to find that she was pro-
foundly interested in my success.
360 Arthur Bonnicastle.
By the way," I said, after having dwelt too long upon a
topic that concerned myself mainly, " I wonder what has be-
come of Livingston ? He was going to Europe, but I have not
heard a word from him since I parted with him months ago.
Do you know anything of him ? "
" Have n't heard from him ? " she said, with a kind of in-
credulous gasp.
" Not a word."
Have n't you seen him ? "
Why, I have n't been out of the town,"
" No, but you have seen him here ? "
" Not once."
" You are sure ? "
" Perfectly sure," I responded, with a smile at her obstinate
unbelief.
" I don't understand it," she said, looking away from me.
" Has he been here ? " I inquired.
" Twice."
I saw that she was not only puzzled, but deeply moved ; and
I was conscious of a flush of mingled anger and indignation
sweeping over my own tell-tale face.
" Did he call on Henry when he was here ? " I inquired.
" He did, on both occasions. Did not Henry tell you ? "
" He did not"
" That is strange, too," she remarked.
" Miss Bradford," I responded, " it is not strange at all. I
comprehend the whole matter. Henry knew Livingston better
than I did, and, doubting whether he would care to continue his
acquaintance with me after the change in my circumstances, had
not mentioned his calls to me. He knew that if I had met him,
I should speak of it ; and as I did not speak of it, he concluded
that 1 had not met him, and so covered from me by his silence
the presence of my old friend in the city. Livingston did not
call upon me because, having nothing further in common with
me, he chose to ignore me altogether, and to count all that had
appeared like friendship between us for nothing. I was no
Arthur Bonnicastle. 361
longer an heir to wealth. I was a worker for my own bread,
with my position to make by efforts whose issue was uncertain.
I could be his companion no further ; I could be received at
his father's home no more. Every attention or courtesy he
might render me could be rendered no more except as a matter
of patronage. I can at least give him the credit for having
honesty and delicacy enough to shun me when he could meet
me no more on even terms."
" Even terms ! " exclaimed the girl, with a scorn in her man-
ner and voice which verged closely upon rage. " Is that a
style of manhood that one may apologize for ? "
"Well," I answered, "considering the fact that I was at-
tracted to him at first by the very motives Which control him
now, I ought to be tolerant and charitable."
" Yes, if that is true," she responded ; " but the matter is in-
credible and incomprehensible."
" It begins to seem so now, to me," I replied, " but it did
not then. Our clique in college were all fools together, and
fancied that, because we had some worldly advantages not
shared by others, we were raised by them above the common
level. We took pride in circumstances that were entirely inde-
pendent of our manhood circumstances that were gathered
around us by other hands. I am heartily ashamed of my old
weakness, and despise myself for it ; but I can appreciate the
strength of the bonds that bind Livingston, and I forgive him
with all my heart"
" I do not," she responded. " The slight he has put upon you,
aj)d his new friendship for Henry, disgust me more than I can
tell you. His conduct is mercenary and unmanly, and offends
me from the crown of my head to the sole of my foot"
In the firm, strong passion of this true girl I saw my old self,
and realized the wretched slough from which I had been lifted.
I could not feel as she did, however, toward Livingston, After
the first flush of anger had subsided, I saw that, without some
radical change in him, he could not do otherwise than he had
done. Though manly in many of his characteristics, his scheme
362 Arthur Bonnzcdstle.
of life was rotten at its foundatiGn, in that it ignored manliness*
His standard of respectability was not natural, it was conven-
tional ; and so long as he entertained no plan of life that was
based in manliness and manly work, his associations would be
controlled by the conventional standard to which he and those
around him bowed in constant loyalty.
After her frank expression of indignation, she seemed inclined
to drop the subject, and only a few more words were uttered
upon either side concerning it I saw that she was troubled,
that she was angry, and that, during the moments devoted to
the conversation, she had arrived at some determination whose
nature and moment I could not guess. Sometimes she looked
at me : sometimes she looked away from me ; and then her lips
were pressed together with a strange spasm of firmness, as if
some new resolution of her life were passing step by step to its
final issue.
I did guess afterward, and guessed aright Livingston had
fascinated her, while she had so wholly gained his affection
and respect, and so won his admiration, that he was laying
siege to her heart by all the arts and appliances of which he was
so accustomed and accomplished a master. He was the first
man who had ever approached her as a lover. She had but just
escaped fi-om the seclusion of her school-life, and this world of
love, of which she had only dreamed, had been opened to her
by the hands of a prince. He was handsome, accomplished in
the arts of society, vivacious and brilliant ; and while he had
made comparatively little progress in winning her heart, he had
carried her fancy captive and excited her admiration, and only
needed more abundant opportunity to win her wholly to himself
The revelation of the real character of the man, and of his
graceless dealing with me the hoUow-heartedness of his friend-
ship, and the transfer of his regard and courtesy from me to
Henry offended all that was womanly within her. From the
moment when she comprehended his position ^its meanness,
its injustice and unmanliness she determined that he should be
forever shut out of her heart She knew that her judgment
Arthur Bonnicastle. 363
imd conscience could never approve either his conduct or him
that tihis one aot could never be justified or apologized for.
The determination cost her a struggle which called into action
all the forces of her liiature. I have been a thousand times
thankful that I did ixQt know what w|is passing in her mind, for
I was thus saved from all temptation to attempt to turn hei
heart against him, and turn it toward myself.
She wrote him a letter, as I subsequently learned, which was
intended to save him the mortification of visiting her again ; but
he came again, armed with his old self-possession, determined
to win the prize upon which he had set his heart ; and then he
went away, visiting neither Henry nor myself. Afterward he
went to Europe, and severed forever all his relations to the
lives of his Bradford acquaintances.
When Millie and I closed our conversation about Livingston,
I found her prepossessed and silent ; and, as if by mutual im-
pulse and consent, we rose from our seats, and returned to the
other end of the drawing-room, where the remainder of the
family were gathered. There we found a ccmversation in pro-
gress which I had no doubt had been suggested by my own
personality and position ; and as it was very fruitfully sugges-
tive to me, and became a source of great encouragement to me,
I am stu'e my readers will be interested in it. We came within
hearing of the conversation, just as Mr. Bird was saying :
" I never saw a man with anything of the real Shakspeare in
him ^using him as our typical man ^who could not be any sort
of a man that he chose to be. A genuinely practical man a
man who can adapt hijnself to any sort of life is invariably a
man of imagination. These young men who have the name of
being eminently practical especially among women, who
usually consider all practical gifts to be those which relate to
making money and providing for a family are the least
practical, in a wide sense, of anybody. They usually have a
strong bent toward a certain industrial or commercial pursuit,
and if they follow that bent, persistently, they succeed ; but if
by any chance they are diverted from it, they fail irrevocably.
364 Arthur Bonnicastle.
Now the man of imagination is he who apprehends and com-
prehends the circumstances, proprieties and opportunities ol
every life in which his lot may be cast, and adapts himself to
and employs them alL I have a fine chance to notice this in
my boys ; and whenever I find one who has an imagination, I
see ten chances to make a man of him where one exists in
those less generously furnished."
" Yet our geniuses," responded Mr. Bradford, " have not
been noted for their skill in practical affairs, or for their power
to take care of themselves."
"No," said Mr. Bird, "because our geniuses, or what by
courtesy we call such, are one-sided men, who have a ^ngle
faculty developed in exceptionally large proportion. They are
practical men only in a single direction, like the man who has
a special gift for money-making, or affairs ; and the latter is
just as truly a genius as the former, and both are necessarily
narrow men, and limited in their range of effort. This is not
at all the kind of man I mean ; I allude to one who has fairly
symmetrical powers, with the faculty of imagination among
them. Without this latter, a man can never rise above the
capacity of a kind of human machine, working regularly or ir-
regularly. A man who cannot see the poetical side of his work,
can never achieve the highest excellence in it The ideal must
always be apprehended before one can rise to that which is in
the highest possible sense practical. I have known boys who
were the despair of their humdrum fathers and mothers, because,
forsooth, they had the faculty of writing verses in their youth.
They were regarded by these parents with a kind of blind pride,
but with no expectation for them except poverty, unsteady pur-
poses and dependence. I have seen these same parents, many
times, depending in their old age upon their verse-writing boys
for comfort or luxury, while their practical brothers were tug-
ging for their daily bread, unable to help anybody but themselves
and their families."
Mr. Bradford saw that I was intensely interested in this talk
of Mr. Bird, and said, with tlie hope of turning it more thor-
Arthur Bonnicastle. 365
oughly to my own practical advantage : " Well, what have you
to say to our young man here ? He was so full of imagination
when a ladtliat we could hardly trust his eyes or his con-
science."
He said this with a laugh, but Mr. Bird turned toward me
with his old affectionate look, and replied : " I have never seen
the day since I first had him at my side, when I did not beHeve
that he had the making of a hundred different men in him. He
was always a good student when he chose to be. He would
have made, after a tune, an ideal man of leisure. He is a
good teacher to-day. He has chosen to be a lawyer, and it
rests entirely with him to determine whether he will be an
eminent one. If he had chosen to be a preacher, or an author,
or a merchant, he would meet no insurmountable difficulty in
rising above mediocrity, in either profession. The faculty of
imagination, added to S3rmmetrical intellectual powers, makes
it possible for him to be anything that he chooses to become.
By this faculty he will be able to see all the possibilities of any
profession, and all the possibilities of his powers with relation
to it."
" As frankness of speech seems to be in order," said Mr.
Bradford, " suppose you tell us whether you do not think that
he spends money rather too easily, and that he may find future
trouble in that direction."
Mr. Bird at once became my partisan. " What opportunity
has the boy had for learning the value of money ? . When he
has learned what a dollar costs, by the actual experiment of
labor, he will be corrected. Thus far he has known the value
of a dollar only from one side of it. He knows what it will
buy, but he does not know what it costs. Some of the best
financiers I ever met were once boys who placed little or no
value upon money. No man can measure the value of a dol-
lar justly who cannot place by its side the expenditure of time
and labor which it costs. Arthur is learning all about it."
" Thank you," I responded, " I feel quite encouraged about
myself!"
366 Arthur Bonnicastle.
" Now, then, what do you think of Hiiy, in his new dr-
cumstances ? " inquired Mr. Bradford.
" Henry," replied Mr. Bird, " never had the faculty to learn
the value of a dollar, except through the difficulty of getting it
The real superiority of Arthur over Henry in this matter is in
his faculty, not only to measure the value of a dollar by its cost,
but to measure it by its power. To know how to win money
and at the same time to know how to use it when won, is the
prerogative of the highest style of practical financial wisdom.
Now that money costs Henry nothing, he will cease to value
it ; and with his tastes I think the care of his fortune will be
very irksome to him. Indeed, it would not be strange if, in five
years, that care should be transferred to the very hands that
surrendered the fortune to him. So our practical boy is quite
likely, in my judgment, to become a mere baby in business,
while our boy whose imagination seemed likely to run away
with him, will nurse him and his fortune together."
" Why, that will be delightful," I responded. " I shall be
certain to send the first business-card I get printed to Heniy,
and solicit his patronage."
There was much more said at the time about Henry's fiiture
as well as my own, but the conversation I have rehearsed was
all that was of vital importance to me, and I will not burden
the reader with more. I cannot convey to any one an idea of
the interest which I took in this talk of my old teacher. It
somehow had the power to place me in possession of m)rself.
It recognized, in the presence of those who loved but did not
wholly trust me, powers and qualities which, in a half-blind way,
I saw within myself It strengthened my self-respect and my
faith in my future.
Ah ! if the old and the wise could know how the wisdom
won by their experience is taken into the heart of every earnest
young man, and how grateful to such a young man recognition
is, at the hand of the old and the wise, would they be stingy
with their hoard and reluctant with their hand ? I do not be*
Arthur Bonnicastle. 367
Keve tiiey would They forget their youth, when they drop
peas instead of pearls, and are silly rather than sage.
When I left the house to return to my home, I was charged
with thoughts which kept me awake far into the night The
only man from whom I had anything to fear as a rival was in
disgrace. My power to win a practical man's place in the
world had been recognized in Millie Bradford's presence, by
one whose opinion was very highly prized. I had achieved the
power of looking at m3rself and my possibilities through the
eyes of a wisdom-winning experience. I was inspired, encour-
aged and strengthened, and my life had never seemed more full
of meaning and interest than it did then.
Early the next morning I went for Mr. Bird, accompanied
him to the stage-office, and bade him good-by, grateful for such
a friend, and determined to realize all that he had wished and
hoped forme.
CHAPTER XXV.
I WIN A WIFE AND HOME OF MY OWN, AND THE SCANSION LOSES
AND GAINS A MISTRESS.
In those early days, professional study was carried on very
generally without the aid of professional schools ; and during
my three years at the academy, accomplished with sufficient
pecuniary success, 1 read all the elementary books of the pro-
fession I had chosen, and, at the close, was admitted to the
bar, after an examination which placed me at once at the head
of the little clique of young men who had fitted themselves for
the same pursuit Henry, meantime, had realized a wish, long
secretly cherished, to study divinity, and, under a license from
the ministerial association of the county, had preached many
times in the vacant pulpits of the city and the surrounding
country. Mrs. Sanderson always went to hear him when the
distance did not forbid her ; and I suppose that the city did
not hold two young men of more unwearied industry than our-
selves.
My acquaintance with Millie Bradlord ripened into confiden-
tial friendship, and, so far as 1 was concerned, into something
warmer and deeper, yet nothing of love was ever alluded to be-
tween us. I saw that she did not encourage the advances of
other young men which were made upon every side, and I was
quite content to let matters rest as they were, until my pros-
pects for life were more definite and reliable than they were
then. We read the same books, and talked about them. We
engaged in the same eflforts to arouse the spirit of literary cult-
ure and improvement in the neighborhood. In the meantime
her womanliood ripened day by day, and year by year, until she
Arthur Bonnicastle. 369
became the one bright star of my life. I learned to look at mj
own character and all my actions through her womanly eyes.
I added her conscience to my own. I added her sense of that
which was proper and becoming and tasteful to my own.
Through her sensibilities I learned to see things finely, and by
persuasions which never shaped themselves to words, I yielded
myself to her, to be led to fine consummations of life and
character. She was a being ineffably sacred to me. She was
never associated in my mind with a coarse thought She lifted
me into a realm entirely above the atmosphere of sensuality,
from which I never descended for a moment ; and I thank
God that I have never lost that respect for woman which she
taught me.
I have seen, since those days, so charged with pure and pre-
cious memories, many women of unworthy aims, and low and
fiivolous tastes, yet I have never seen anything that bore the
form of woman that did not appeal to my tender consideration.
I have never seen a woman so low that her cry of distress or
appeal for protection did not stir me like a trumpet, or so base
that I did not wish to cover her shame from ribald eyes, and
restore her to that better self which, by the grace of her nature,
can never be wholly destroyed.
Soon after the term had closed which severed the connection
of Claire and myself with the academy, I was made half wild
with delight by an invitation, extended to Henry and Claire, as
well as to Millie and myself, to visit Hillsborough, and join the
Bird's Nest in their biennial encampment. I knew every rod
of ground around the beautiful mountain-lake upon whose
shores the white tents of the school were to be planted, for,
though six miles away from my early school, I had visited it
many times during holidays, and had sailed and angled and
swam upon its waters. For many years it had been Mr. Bird's
habit, at stated intervals, to take his whole school to this lovely
spot during the fervors of the brief New England summer and
to yield a fortnight to play. The boys looked forward to this
event, through the long months of their study, with the most
16*
370 Arthur Botmicastle.
cfaarming anticipations, and none of them could have been
more delighted with the prospect than Henry and myselfl We
were now the old boys going back, to be looked at and talked
about by the younger boys. We were to renew our boyhood
and our old associations before undertaking the professional
work of our lives.
As both Mr. Bradford and my father trusted Mr. and Mrs.
Bird, it was not difficult to obtain their consent that Millie and
Claire should accompany us; and when the morning of our
departure arrived, we were delighted to find that we should be
the only occupants of the old stage-coach which was to bear us
to our destination. The day was as beautiful as that on which
my father and I first made the journey over the same route.
The objects along the way were all familiar to Henry and my-
self but it seemed as if we had lived a whole lifetime ^nce we
bad seen them. We gave ourselves up to merriment The
spirit of play was upon us all ; and the old impassive stage-
driver must have thought us half insane. The drive was long,
but it might have been twice as long without wearying us.
I was going back to the fountain fi-om which I had drunk
so much that had come as a pure force into my life. Even the
privilege to play, without a thought of work, or a shadow of
care and duty, I had learned fi-om the teachings of Mr. Bird. I
had been taught by him to believe what many others had en-
deavoured to make me doubt that God looked with delight
upon his weary children at play, that the careless lambs that
gambolled in their pastiure, and the careless birds singing and
fljdng in the air, were not more innocent in their sports than
men, women and children, when, after work faithfully done,
they yielded to the recreative impulse, and with perfect freedom
gave themselves to play. I believed this then, and I believe it
still ; and I account that religion poor and pitiful which ascribes
to the Good Father of us all less delight in the firee and care-
less sports of his children than we take in the firolic of our
own.
The whole school was out to see the new-comers when we
Arthur Bonnicastle. . 371
arrived, and we were received literally with open arms by the
master and mistress of the establishment Already the tents
and cooking utensils had gone forward. A few of the older
boys were just starting on foot for the scene of the fortnight's
play, to sleep in neighboring bams, so as to be on the ground
early to assist in raising the tents. They could have slept in
beds, but beds were at a discount among lads whose present
ambition was to sleep upon the ground. The whole building
was noisy with the notes of preparation. Food was preparing
in incredible quantities, and special preparations were in pro-
gress for making Millie and Claire comfortable ; for it was sup-
posed that '' roughing it " was something foreign to their taste
and experience.
On the following morning, I was roused from my dreams by
the same outcry of the boys to which I had responded, or in
which I had joined, for a period of five happy years. I was
obliged to rub my eyes before I could realize that more than
seven years lay between me and that golden period. When at
last I remembered how, under that roofi breathed the woman
dearer to me than all the rest of the world, and that for two
precious weeks she would be my companion, amid the most
enchanting scenes of nature, and under circumstances so fresh
and strange as to touch all her sensibilities, I felt almost guilty
that I could not bring to Mr. and Mrs. Bird an undivided
heart, and that The Bird's Nest, and the lake, and the camp-
fires, and the fi*ee life of the wilderness would be compara*
tively meaningless to me without her.
Our breakfast was a hurried one. The boys could hardly
wait to eat anything, and started off by pairs and squads to
make the distance on foot A huge lumber-wagon, loaded with
supplies, was the first carriage dispatched. Then those who
would need to ride took their seats in such vehicles as the
school and village afforded, and the straggling procession moved
on its way; Henry and I spumed the thought of being carried,
and took our way on foot We had not gone half the distance,
however, when Millie and Claire insisted on joining us. So
372 Arthur Bonnicastle.
our little party bade the rest good-by, and we were left to take
our own time for the journey.
We were the last to arrive at the encampment, and the sun
was already hot in the sky. Poor Claire was quite exhausted,
but Millie grew stronger with every step. The flush of health
and happiness upon her face drew forth a compliment from
Mr. Bird which deepened her color, and made her more charm-
ing than ever. The life was as new to her as if she had ex-
changed planets ; and she gave herself up to it, and all the
pleasant labor which the provision for so many rendered neces-
sary, with a ready and hearty helpfulness that delighted every one.
She could not move without attracting a crowd of boys. She
walked and talked with them ; she sang to them and read to
them ; and during the first two or three days of camp-life, I be-
gan to fear that I should have very little of her society.
The days were not long enough for oiu: pleasures. Bathing,
boating, ball-playing and eating through the day, and singing
and story-telling during the evening, constituted the round of
waking delights, and the nights, cool and sweet, were long
with refreshing and dreamless slumber.
There is no kinder mother than the earth, when we trust-
fully lay our heads upon her bosom. She holds balm and
blessing for the rich and the poor, for the hardy and the dainty
alike, which the bed of luxury never knows. Pure air to
breathe,* pure water to drink and a pillow of stone ah ! how
easy it is for the invisible ministers of health and happiness to
build ladders between such conditions and heaven !
Far back over the dim years that have come between, I see
those camp-fires glowing still, through evenings full of music
and laughter. I see the groups of merry boys dancing around
them. I hear their calls for Echo to the woods, and then, in
the pauses, the plash of oars, as some group of late sailors
comes slowly in, stirring the lake into ripples that seem phos-
phorescent in the firelight. I watch those fires crumbling
away, and dying at last into cloudy darkness, or into the milder
moonlight which then asserts its undivided sway, and floods
Arthur Bonnicastle. 373
lake and forest and mountain, and all the night-sweet atmos-
phere with its steady radiance. I see the tent in which my
sister and my love are sleeping, and invoke for them the guar-
dian care of God and all good angels. I go at last to my own
tent, and lie down to a sleep of blessed, blank unconscious-
ness, from which I am roused by the cry of healthy lungs that
find no weariness in play, and by the tramping of feet around
me that spring to the tasks and sports of the day with unflag-
ging appetite and interest.
Did Mr. and Mrs. Bird know how much pleasure they were
giving to the young life around them ? Did they know that
they were enabling us all to lay up memories more precious
than gold? Did they know they were developing a love of
nature and of healthful and simple pleasures that should be a
constant guard around those young feet, when they should find
themselves among the slippery places of life and the seductive
influences of artificial society. Did they know that making
the acquaintance of the birds and flowers and open sky and
expanding water and rough life was better than the culture and
restraint of drawing-rooms ? Did they know that these boys,
deprived of this knowledge and these influences, would go
through life lacking something inexpressibly valuable ? Surely
they did, or they would not have sacrificed labour and care and
comfort to achieve these objects and results. A thousand
blessings on you, my wise, patient, self-sacrificing frieiTds ! It
is no wonder that all who have lived under your ceaseless and
self-devoted ministry love you !
Tlie moon was new when we went into camp, and as it grew
larger the weather grew finer, until, as the fortnight waned, it
came to its glorious full, on a night whose events made it for-
ever niemorable to me.
I do not know why it is that a boy, or a collection of boys,
is so keen in the discovery of tender relations between young
men and young women, but I think that, from the first, the
school understood exactly the relations of Henry to Claire
and of Millie to myself. There was a lively family interest in
374 Arthur Bonnicastle.
OS ally and the young rogues seemed to understand that mat
ters were all settled between the former pair, and that thej
had not reached a permanent adjustment between the latter.
Henry and Claire could always be with each other without in-
terruption. They could go down to the shore at any time of
tlie day or evening, enter a boat, and row out upon the lake,
and find nothing to interfere with their privacy ; but Millie and
I could never approach a boat without finding half a dozen
little fellows at our side, begging to be taken out with us upon
the water. There was always mischief in their eyes, and an
evident wish, to make the course of true love rough to us.
There was something so amusing in all this, to me, that I never
could get angry with them, but Millie was sometimes disturbed
by their good-natured persecutions.
On one of the later evenings, however, Millie and I took
advantage of their momentary absorption in some favorite
game, and quietly walked to the shore, unnoticed by any of
them. She took her seat in the boat, and, shoving it from the
sand, I sprang in after her, and we were afloat and free upon the
moonlit water. For some minutes I did not touch the oars, but
let the boat drift out with the impulse I had given it, while we
watched the oudines of the white tents against the sky, and the
groups which the camp-fires made fantastic.
It was the first time, since our residence at die camp, that I
had been alone with her under circumstances which placed us
beyond hearing and interruption. I had been longing and
laboring for this opportunity, and had detennined to bring
matters between us to a crisis. I had faitlifully tried to do
those things and to adopt those plans and purposes of life
which would command her respect and confidence. I had
been so thoroughly sincere, that I had the consciousness of
deserving her esteem, even though her heart might not have
been drawn toward me with any tenderer regard. I had been
in no haste to declare my passion, but the few days I had
spent with her in camp had so ripened and intensified it, that
I saw I could not carry it longer, uncertain of its issue, without
Arthur Bonnicastle. 375
present torment or prospective danger. It seemed, sometimes
to my great horror, as if my life hung entirely upon hers as if
existence would be a curse without her companionship.
After a while spent in silence and a strange embarrassment
I took the oars, and as quietly as possible rowed out into the
middle of the lake. The deep blue sky and the bright moon
were above us, and the pure water below ; and all the sounds
that came to us from the shore were softened into music.
At last I broke the spell that had held my voice with what I
intended for a common-place, and said : " It seems a comfort
to get away from the boys for a little while, doesn't it 1 "
"Does it?" she responded. "You know you have the
advantage of me; I haven't that pleasure yet"
" Oh ! thank you," I said: " I didn't know that you still
regarded me as a boy."
" You were to remain a boy, you know. Didn't you prom-
ise ? Have you forgotten ? "
" Have I fulfilled my promise ? "
" Yes, after a weary time."
** And you recognize the boy again, do you ? "
" I diink so."
" Are you pleased ? "
" I have no fault to find, at least"
" And you are the same girl I used to know ? " I said.
" Yes."
" Does the fact forbid us to talk as men and women talk ? "
" We are here to play," she replied, " and I suppose we
may play that we are man and woman."
" Very well," I said, " suppose we play that we are man and
woman, and that I am very fond of you and you are very fond
of me."
" It seems very difficult to play this, especially when one of
us is so very much in earnest"
" Which one ? "
" The one who wishes to play."
" Ah I Millie," I said, " you really must not bandy words
3/6 Arthur Bonnicc.
with me. Indeed, I am too much
have a secret to tell you, and this is m;
to tell it, and you must hear it."
" A secret ? do you think so ? I dou
" Do you read me so easily ? "
Slie reached out her hand upon tht
liLtle object, past which we were slowlj
from its lung, litlie stem a water-Iil]
feet "There's a secretin that little
know what it is as well as if the momin
" Do you mean to say that my secre
spell of your eyes every day like the Wc
" Yes, if you insist on putting it in tl
" Are you fond of water-lilies ? "
"Very : fonder of them than of any i
"Well," I responded, "I'ni a man
you choose and don't pretend to b
wish my roots were as safely anchored
surrounded and protected. I beheve
nopolizes all the hlies for its various
the present purpose, I should really
are willing to take the water-lily for I
life, with all its secrets which you claim
" Charmingly done," she said "for
" You taunt me."
"No, Arthur," she responded, "but
things so. Just think, of trying to si
fninutes, and think, too, of the incoi
boat. You cannot get upon your k
us, and then you know I might be com
Uly."
" Particularly if the lily should save
"Yes."
"Suppose we go ashore."
" Not for the world."
"Ah I Millie, I think I kuow your Si
-.
(I
Arthur Bonnicastle. 377
" It isn't hard to discover."
"Well, then lefs not talk in riddles any more. I love you
more than life, Millie ! may I continue to love you ? "
She paused, and I saw tears upon her face, glittering in the
moonlight.
Yes," she said, " always."
Thank you ! tliank God ! " I said with a hearty impulse.
Life is all bright to me now, and all full of promise. I
wish I could come to you and close this business in the good
old orthodox fashion."
She laughed at my vexation, and counseled patience.
There is something very provoking about the coolness of a
woman under circumstances like those in which I found
mysel For many days I had permitted myself to be wrought
into an exalted state of feeling. Indeed, I had been mustering
strength* for this interview during all the time I had lived in
the camp. I was prepared to make a thousand protestations
of everlasting devotion. I was ready to cast at her feet my
hopes, my life, my all ; yet she had anticipated everything, and
managed to hold the conversation in her own hands. Then
she apparently took delight in keeping me at my end of the
boat, and in dissuading me from my ardent wish to reach the
shore. I said I thought it was time for us to return. She
protested. The people would miss us, I assured her, and
would be apprehensive that we had met with an accident. She
was equally sure that they would not miss us at all. Besides,
if they should, a little scare would give piquancy to the night's
pleasure, and she would not like to be responsible for such a
deprivation. In truth, I think she would have been delighted
to keep me on the lake all night.
I finally told her that I held the oars, that if she wished to
remain longer she would accommodate me by jumping over-
board, and assured her that I would faithfully deliver her last
messages. As she made no movement, I dipped my oars and
rowed toward the dying lights of the camp-fires, congratulating
myself that I should land first, and help her from the boat.
378 Arthur Bannicastle.
Under the sheltering willows, I received her into my arms,
and gave her my first lover's kiss. We walked to her tent
hand in hand, like children, and there, while the boys gathered
round us to learn where we had been, and to push their
good-natured inquiries, I bent and gave her a good-night kiss,
which told the whole story to them all.
It seems strange to me now that I could have done so, and
that she would have permitted it, but it really was so like a
family matter, in which all were int^-ested in the most fiiendly or
brotherly way, that it was quite the natural thing to do. Millie
immediately disappeared behind her muslin walls, while I was
overwhelmed with congratulations. Nor was this all. One
little fellow called for three cheers for Miss Bradford, which were
given with a will ; and then three dieers were given to Arthur
Bonnicastle ; and as their lungs were in practice, they cheered
Henry and Claire, and Mr. and Mrs. Bird, and wound up that
part of their exercise by three cheers for themselves. Then
they improvised a serenade for the invisfcle lady, selecting
" Oft in the stilly night," and " The Pirate's Serenade," as
particularly appropriate to the occasion, and went to their
beds at last only under the peremptory conunands of Mr. Bird.
There were two persons among the fifty that lay down upon
the ground that night who did not sleep very soundly, though
the large remainder slept, I presume, much as usual I had
lain quietly thinking over the events of the evening; and trying
to realize the great blessing I had won, when, at about two
o'clock in the morning, I heard the word "Arthur" distinctly
pronounced. Not having removed all my clothing, I leaped
from my blanket, and ran to the door of the tent There I
heard the call agam, and recognized the voice of Millie Brad-
ford.
"Well, what is it?" I said.
" There is some one about the camp."
By this time Henry was on his feet and at my side, and both
of us went out together. We stumbled among the tent-stakes
in different directions, and at last found a man so muddled with
Arthur Bonnzcastle. 379
liquor that he hardly knew where he was. We collared him,
and led him to our tent, where we inquired of him his business.
As he seemed unable to tell us, I searched his pockets for the
bottle which I presumed he bore about him somewhere, and in
the search found a letter, the address of which I read with the
expectation of ascertaining his name. Very much to my sur-
prise, the letter was addressed to Henry. Then the whole
matter became plain to me. ^ He had been dispatched with thia^
letter from Hillsborough, and on the way had fallwi in with dis-
solute companions, though he had retained sufficient sense to
know that the camp was his destination,
Henry broke the seal. The letter was from his mother, in-
forming him that Mrs. Sanderson was very ill, and that she de-
sired his immediate return to Bradford. I entered Mr. Bird's
tent and told him of the letter,"^i^d then satisfied the curiosity
of Millie and Claire. In such clothing as we could snatch
readily from our tents we gathered for a consultation, which re-
sulted in the conclusion that any sickness which was sufficiently
serious to call Henry home, was sufficient to induce the entire
Bradford party to accompany him. He protested against this,
but we overruled him. So we simply lay down until daylight,
and then rose for a hurried breakfast. Mr. Bird drove us to
Hillsborough, and at seven o'clock we took the stage for home.
The ride homeward was overshadowed by a grave apprehen-
sion, and the old driver probably never had a quieter fare over
his route, than die party which, only a few days before, had as-
tonished him by their hilarity.
On reaching Bradford we found our worst fears realized.
The old lady was rapidly declining, and for three days had been
vainly calling for her grandson. When he arrived he brought to
her a great flood of comfort, and with her hand in his, she de-
scended into the dark valley. What words she spoke I never
knew. I was only sure that she went out of her earthly life in
an atmosphere of the most devoted filial affection, that words
of Christian counsel and prayer were tenderly spoken to her
deafening senses, and that hands bathed in tears closed her eyes.
380 Arthur Bonnicastle.
The funeral was the largest and most remarkable I had evef
seen in Bradford, and Henry went back to his home, its owner
and master.
On the day following the funeral my father was summoned to
listen to the reading of Mrs. Sanderson's wilL We were all
surprised at this, and still more surprised to learn, when he re-
turned, that the house in which he lived had been bequeathed
to him, with an annuity which would forever relieve me from
supporting him after he should cease to labor. This I knew to
be Henry* s work. My fadier was the father of his future wife,
and to save him the mortification of being dependent on his
children, he had influenced Mrs. Sanderson to do that which he
or I should be obliged to do at some time not far in the future.
My father was very grateful and tearful over this unexpected
turn in his fortunes. My mother could not realize it at all, and
was sure there must be some mistake about it. One of the
most touching things in the prayer offered that night at our
family altar was the. earnest petition by this simple and humble
saint, that his pride might not be nourished by this good fort-
une.
After this the matter came to a natural shape in the good
man's mind. It was not Mrs. Sanderson's gift She had been
only the almoner of Providence. The God whom he had
trusted, seeing that the time of helplessness was coming, had
provided for his necessities, and relieved him of all apprehen-
sion of want, and more than all, had relieved me of a burden.
Indeed, it had only fulfilled a life-long expectation. His natu-
ral hopefulness would have died amid his hard life and cir-
cumstances if it had not fed itself upon dreams,
gift ^oV^^' however, that he never felt quite easy with his
cT.Su r^^ ^^ lived, but carried about with him a sense of
guut. Others \\\ u
with hii A companions in labor ^were not blessed
theni Th ^ ^^^Id not resist the feeling that he had wronged
it, for they we ^^"^^^^^^^^^^ ^^^ on his " luck," as they called
always pain H \- ^^^ fnends ; but their allusions to the matter
""^ and he had many an hour of torment over
Arthur Bonnicastle. 381
tiie thought that some of them might think him capable of for
getting them, and of pluming his pride upon his altered circum-
stances.
It was, perhaps, a fortnight after the death of Mrs. Sander-
son, that Henry came to my father's house one morning, and
asked me when I intended to begin business. I informed
him that I had already been looking for an eligible office, and
that I should begin the practice of the law as soon as the op'
portunity should come. Then he frankly told me that looking
after his multiplied affairs was very distasteful to him, and that
he wished, as soon as possible, to place everything in my hands.
He advised me to take the best and most central chambers I
could find, and offered me, at little more than a nominal rent,
a suite of rooms in one of his own buildings. I took the rooms
at once, and furnished them with such appointments and books
as the savings of three industrious years could command, and
Henry was my first, as he has remained my constant, client.
The affairs of the Sanderson estate, of which I knew more than-
any man except Mrs. Sanderson's lawyer, were placed in my
hands, where they remain at this present writing. The business
connected with them was quite enough for my support in those
days of moderate expenses and incomes, but it brought me so
constantly into contact with the business men of the city that,
gradually, the tide of legal practice set towards me, until, in
my maturer years, I was almost overwhelmed by it I was en-
ergetic, enthusiastic, persevering, indomitable, and successful ;
but amid all my triumphs there was nothing that gave me such
pure happiness as my father's satisfaction with my efforts.
I never engaged in an important public trial for many years,
in which he was not a constant attendant at the court-house.
All the lawyers knew him, and my position commanded a seat
for him inside die bar. Every morning he came in, leaning on
his cane, and took the seat that was left or vacated for him,
and there, all day long, he sat and watched me. If for a day
he happened to be absent, I missed the fnspiration of his in-
terested face and approving eyes, as if he were a lover. My
382 Arthur Bonnicastle.
office was his lounging-place, and my public efforts were his
meat and drink. A serener, sweeter old age than his I never
saw, and when, at last, I missed him ^for death came to him
as it comes to all ^I felt that one of the loveliest lights of my
life had gone out I have never ceased to mourn for him, and
I would not cease to mourn for him if I could.
A year after I commenced the practice of my profession, Mr.
Grimshaw exhausted his narrow lode and went to mine in oAer
fields. Naturally, Henry was called upon to fill temporarily
the vacant pulpit, and quite as naturally, the people learned in
a few weeks that they could serve themselves no better than by
calling him to a permanent pastorate. This they did, and as
he was at home with them, and every circumstance favored his
settlement over them, he accepted their invitation. On the
day of his ordination a ceremony which was very largely at-
tended he treated his new people to a great surprise. Before
the benediction was pronounced, he descended from the pulpit,
took his way amid the silence of the congregation to my father's
pew, and then led my sister Claire up the broad aisle to where
an aged minister stood waiting to receive them, and join them
in holy wedlock. The words were few which united these two
lives that had flowed in closely parallel currents through so
long a period, but they were spoken with great feeling, and
amid the tears of a crowd of sympathetic friends. So the church
had once more a pastor, and The Mansion once more a mis-
tress ; and two widely divided currents of the Bonnicastle blood
united in die possession and occupation of the family estate.
I do not need to give the details of my own marriage, which
occurred a few months later, or of our first experiments at
house-keeping in the snug home which my quick prosperity en-
abled me to procure, or of the children that came to bless us
in the after-years. The memory of these events is too sweet
and sacred to be unveiled, and I cannot record them, though
my tears wet the paper as I write. The freshness of youth has
long passed away, the silver is stronger than the jet among the
curls of the dear woman who gave herself to me, and bore in
Arthur Bonnicastle. 383
loving pain, and reared with loving patience, my priceless flock
of children ; my own face is deeply furrowed by care and labor
and time ; but those days of young love and life never come
back to me in memory save as a breeze across a weary sea
from some far island loaded with odors of balm and whispers
of blessing.
Thank God for home and woman ! Thank God a thousand
times for that woman who makes home her throne ! When I
remember how bright and strong a nature my young wife pos-
sessed ^how her gifts and acquirements and her whole person-
ality fitted her to shine in society as a center and a sun and
then recall her efforts to serve and solace me, and train my chil-
dren into a Christian manhood and womanhood, until my house
was a heaven, and its presiding genius was regarded with a love
that rose to tender adoration I turn with pity, not unmingled
with disgust, from those I see around me now, who cheapen
marriage, the motherly office and home, and choose and advo-
cate courses and careers of life independent of them all.
Neither Henry's marriage nor my own was in the slightest
degree romantic ^hardly romantic enough to be of interest to
the average reader.
It was better so. Our courtships were long and our lives
were so shaped to each other that when marriage came it was
merely the wan-ant and seal of a union that had already been
established. Elach lover knew his love, and no misunderstand-
ings supervened. The hand of love, by an unconscious pro-
cess, had shaped each man to his mate, each woman to her
mate, before they were joined, and thus saved all after-discords
and collisions. All this may be very uninteresting to outsiders,
but to thoie concerned it was harmony, satisfaction and peace.
CHAPTER XXVX
WHICH BRIFLY RECORDS THE PROFESSIONAL LIFE OF REV.
PETER MULLENS.
It must have been three or four years after Henry took
charge of his parish, and I had entered upon the duties of my
profession, that I met him one morning upon the street, wear-
ing that peculiar smile on his face which said, as plainly as
words could have told me, that he was the bearer of news.
" Who do you think spent the night at The Mansion, and is
even now reveling in the luxuries of your old apartment ? "
said he.
" I was never good at conundrums," I replied. " Suppose
you tell me."
" The Rev. Peter MuUens."
" Clothed, and in his right mind ? "
" Yes, clothed, for he has one of my coats on, which I have
told him he may carry away with him ; and in his right mind,
because he has the coat, and expects to live upon the donor
for a few days."
We both laughed over the situation, and then Henry told me
that Mullens was in a good deal of perplexity on account of
the fact that he had two " calls " on hand, to which answers
must be made immediately.
" I have agreed with Mullens," said Henry, " to invite you
to dinner, in order that he may have the benefit of your
advice."
* Thank you. Is there a fee ?"
" Nothing stipulated, but I think you had better bring a pair
of trowsers," he replied. " Mullens, you know, wants to see
Arthur Bonnicastle. 3S5
the advantages that are likely to come from following your
advice, and if he has them in hand he can decide at once."
The prospect of dining with Mullens was not an unpleasant
one. I was curious to see what he had made of himself, and
to learn what he was going to do. So I congratulated Henry
on the new light that had risen upon his domestic life, and
{Promised him that I would meet his guest at his table.
On entering The Mansion that day in my usual informal
way, I found the Rev. Peter Mullens lying nearly upon his
back, in the most luxurious chair of the large drawing-room,
apparently in a state of serene and supreme happiness. He
was enjoying the privileges of the cloth, in the house of a pro-
fe^onal brother who had been exceptionally " favored." For
tibe time, the house was his own. All petty cares were dis-
naissed. All clouds were lifted from his life, in the conscious-
ness that he had a good coat on which had cost him nothing, and
tfiat, for a few days at least, board and lodging were secure at
&e same price. His hair was brushed back straight over his
head in the usual fashion, ^d evidently fastened there by the
contents of a bo* of pomatum which he had found in my old
chamber. He had managed to get some gold-bowed specta-
cles, and when I met him he presented quite an imposing
front Rising and greeting me with a cordial and somewhat
patronizing air, he quickly resumed his seat and his attitude,
and subsided into a vein of moralizing. He thought it must
be a source of great satisfaction to me that the property which
had once been my own, apparently, had been devoted to the
mmistry, and that henceforth The Mansion would be the home
of those who had given themselves to the church.
Mullens evidently regarded himself as one who had a cer-
tain pecuniary interest in the estate. The house was to be
his tavern his free, temporary home whenever it might be
convenient for him to pass a portion of his time in the
city. Indeed, he conducted himself as if he were my host,
and expressed the hope that he should see me always when
visiting the town. His assumptions amused me exceedingly,
386 Arthur Bonnicastle.
thooi^ I was sorry to think that Heniy and Claire would fed
themselves obliged to tolerate him.
At the dinner-table, Mr. Mullens disclosed the questions in
regard to his settlement " The truth is," said he, " that I am
divided on a question of duty. Given equal opportunities of
doing good, and unequal compensation, on which side does
duty lie ? That is the question. I don't wish to be mercen-
ary ; but when one Church offers me five hundred dollars a
year, payable quarterly in advance, and the other offers me
five hundred dollars a year, payable quarterly at the end of the
quarter, with an annual donation-party, I feel myself divided.
There is an advantage in being paid quarterly in advance, and
there is an advantage in a donation-party, provided the peo-
ple do not eat up what they bring. How great this advantage
is I do not know ; but there is something very attractive to me
in a donation-party. It throws the people together, it nourishes
the social element, it develops systematic benevolence, it ce-
ments the friendship of pastor and people, it brings a great
many things into the house that a man can never afford to buy,
and it must be exceedingly interesting to reckon up the results.
Tve thought about it a great deal, and it does seem to me that
a donation-party must be a very valuable test of usefiilness.
How am I to know whether my services are acceptable, unless
every year there is some voluntary testimonial concerning
them ? It seems to me that I must have such a testimoniaL
I find myself looking forward to it. Here's an old farmer,
we'll say, without any public gifts. Hosannas languish on his
tongue, and, so far as I can tell, all devotion dies. He brings
me, perhaps, two cords or two cords and a half of good hard
wood, and by that act he says, * The Rev. Mr. Mullens has
benefited me, and I wish to tell him so. He has warmed my
heart, and I will warm his body. He has ministered to me in
his way, and I will minister to him in my way.* Here's a
woman with a gift of flannel a thing that's always useful in a
minister's family and there's another with a gift of socks, and
here's another with a gift of crullers, and here's a man with a
Arthur Bonnicastle. 387
gift of a spare-rib or a ham, and another with a gift of potatoes
and"
Mr. Mullens gave an extra smack to his lips, as, in the
midst of his dinner, this vision of a possible donation-party
passed before the eyes of his imagination.
" It is plain- to see which way your inclination points," I
said to him.
" Yes, that is what troubles me," he responded. " I wish
to do right. There may be no difference between having
your pay quarterly in advance ^d the donation-party ; but the
donation-party, all things considered, is the most attractive."
" I really think it would suit you best," I said, " and if the
opportunity for doing good is the same in each place, I'm sure
you ought not to hesitate."
" Well, if I accept your advice," said Mr. Mullens, " you
must stand by me This place is only six miles from Bradford,
and if I ever get hard up it will be pleasant to think that I have
such friends at hand is you and Brother Sanderson."
This was a new aspect of the affair, and not at all a pleasant
one ; but I had given my advice and could not retract it
Mullens remained at The Mansion several days, and showed
his white cravat and gold-bowed spectacles all over the city.
He was often in my office, and on one occasion accomianied
me to the court-room, where I gave him a seat of honor and
introduced him to my legal friends. He was so very comfortable
in his splendid quarters, so shielded from the homely affairs of
the world by his associations, and so inexpensive to himself,
that it was a hardship to tear himself away at last, even with
the prospect of a donation -party rising beforr him* in the at-
tractive perspective of his future.
He had been several days in the house, and had secured such
plunder as would be of use to him, personally, when he sur-
prised us all by the announcement that he was a married man,
and was already the father of a helpless infant. He gave us
also to understand that Mrs. Mullens was, like himself, poor,
that her wardrobe was none of the most comfortable, and thai
388 Arthtcr Bonnicastle.
hier " helpless infant " would rejoice in garmenls cast off by
children more " favored " than his own. His statement was in-
tended to appeal to Claire and Millie, and was responded to
accordingly. When he went away, he bore a trunk full of
materials, that, as he said, ^^ would be useful in a minister's
family.**
Henry and I attended his installation shortly aflerwards, and
assisted him in beginning his housejceeping. We found Mrs.
Mullens to be a woman every way adapted to the companion
she had chosen. She was willing to live upon her friends. She
delighted in gifts, and took them as if they were hers by right
Everything was grain that came to her mill in this way. Her
wants and her inability to supply them were the constant
theme of her communications with her friends and neighbors,
and for ten long years she was never without a " helpless in-
fant" with which to excite their laggard and weary charities.
Whenever she needed to purchase an)rthing, she sent to me or
to Millie, or to her friends at The Mansion, her commission,
always without the money. She either did not know how much
the desired articles would cost, or there was such danger of los-
ing money when sent by post, or she had not the exact change on
hand ; but she assured us that Mr. Mullens would call and pay us
when visiting Bradford. The burden thus rolled upon Mr. Mul-
lens was never taken up by him ; and so, year after year, we
consented to be bled by this amiable woman, while the Mullens
family went on increasing in numbers and multiplying in wants.
It became a matter of wonder that any religious society should
be content wi h the spiritual ministrations of such a man as
Mullens ; but t.iis society was simple and poor, and their pastoi
had an ingenious way of warming over his old broth an 1 the
old broth of others which secured for him a certain measure of
respect. His tongue was glib, his presence imposing, and his
self-assurance quite overwhelming.
But at last there came a change. New residents in the
parish saw through his shallow disguises, and raised such a storm
of discontent about his ears that he was compelled to resign his
Arthur Bonntcastle. 389
pulpit and lo cast about for other means of living. No other
pulpit opened its doors to him. The man's reputation outside
of his parish was not a desirable one. Everybody had ceased
to regard him as a man capable of teaching ; and he had so
begged his way and lived upon his acquaintances, and had so
meanly incurred and meanly refused to recognize a thousand
little debts among his early friends, that it was impossible for
him to obtain even a temporary engagement as a preacher.
There was nothing left for him to do, but to become a ped-
dler of some sort, for which office he had rare natural gifts.
Leaving his family where they were, he took an agency for the
sale of the Cottage Bible. He drove a thrifty business with this
publication, going from house to house, wearing always his white
cravat, living upon the ministers and deacons, and advertising
himself by speeches at evening meetings and Sunday-schools.
Sometimes he got an opportunity to preach on Sunday, and hav-
ing thus made his face familiar to the people, drove a brisk
business among them on Monday. His white cravat he used as
a sort of pass on railroads and steamboats, or as an instrument
by which it was to be secured. Every pecuniary consideration
which could be won from a contemptuous business world, by the
advertisement of the sacred office which he once held, he took
the boldest or the most abject way to win.
It must not be supposed that "old Mullens," as people
learned to call him, was really distressed by poverty. Never
paying out a cent of money that came into his hands if he
could avoid it, he accumulated a handsome property, which he
skillfully hid away in investments, maintaining his show of pov-
erty, through all his active life. Henry shook him off at last
and helped me to do the same. We heard of him not long ago
lecturing to Sunday-schools and buying wool, and it is not ten
years since he appeared in Bradford as an agent of a life-insur-
ance company, with specially favorable terms to clerg3rmen who
were kind enough to board him during his visit 1 shrink from
writing here the stories I heard about him, concerning the way
ill which he advertised his business by mixing it with his public
390 Arthur Bonnicastle.
religious teachings, because it associates such base ideas with
an office which I revere as the highest and holiest a man can
hold ; but when I say that in his public addresses he represented
the Christian religion as a system of life-insurance of the
spiritual kind, J sufficiently illustrate his methods and his
motives.
He passed a useless life. He became a nuisance to his
professional brethren, a burden to all who were good-natured
enough to open their houses to him, and a disgrace to the
Christian ministry. Wearing the badge of a clergyman, exact-
ing as a right that which was rendered to others as a courtesy
or a testimonial of love and friendship, surrendering his man-
hood for the privileges of ministerial mendicancy, and indulg-
ing his greed for money at the expense of a church to which
he fancied he had given his life, he did, unwittingly perhaps,
what he could to bring popular contempt upon his profession,
and to associate with the Christian religion the meanest type of
personal character it is possible to conceive.
Amid the temptations of this poor, earthly life, and the
weaknesses of human nature, even the most sacred profession
will be disgraced, now and then, by men who repent in dust
and ashes over their fall from rectitude, and the dishonor the^
bring upon a cause which in their hearts they love ; but Mul-
lens carried his self-complacency to the end, and demonstrated
by his character and influence how important it is that dunces
shall not be encouraged to enter upon a high walk of life by
bene&ctions which rarely fail to induce and develop in them
the spirit of beggars. I am siu-e there is no field of Christian
benevolence more crowded with untoward results than that in
which weak men have found the means for reaching the Chris-
tian ministry. The beggarly helplessness of some of these men
is pitiful ; and a spirit of dependence is fostered in them which
emasculates them, and makes them contemptible among those
whom they seek to influence.
Though the Rev. Peter Mullens is still living, I have no fear
that I shall be called to an account for my plain treatment (rf
Arthur Bjonnicastle. 391
him, as Le will never .buy this book, or find a friend who will
be willing to give or lend it to him. Even if he had such a
fiiend, and he should recognize his portrait, his a$nour fropre
would not be wounded, and he would complacently regard him-
self as persecuted for ri^^teousaessf sake.
CHAPTER XXVII.
IN WHICH I SAY GOOD-NIGHT TO MY FRIENDS AND THE PASf
AND GOOD-MORROW TO MY WORK AND THE FUTURE.
Thus I have lived over the old life, or, rather, the young life
which lies with all its vicissitudes of pain and pleasure, and all
its lessons and inspirations, embalnaed in my memory ; and here,
alas ! I must re-write the words with which I began. " They
were all here then father, mother, brothers and sisters ; and
the family life was at its fullest Now they are all gone, and
I am alone. I have wife and children and troops of friends,
yet still I am alone." No later relation can remove the sense
of loneliness that comes to him whose first home has forever
vanished from the earth.
As I sit in my library, recording this last chapter of my little
history, I look back through the ceaseless round of business
and care, and, as upon a panorama unrolling before me, I see
through tears the events which have blotted out, one after an-
other, the old relations, and transferred the lives I loved to
another sphere.
I see a sun-lit room, where my aged father lies propped
among his pillows, and tells me feebly, but with a strange light
in his eyes, that it is so much better for him to go before my
mother 1 She can do better without him than he can without
her ! It is sweet to learn that she who had always been re-
T garded by her family and fiiends as a care and a burden to him,
had been his rest and reward ; that there had always been
something in his love for her which had atoned for his hard lot^
and that, without her, his life would be undesirable.
I read to him the psalms of assurance' and consolation :
" Yea, though I walk through the valley of the shadow of death,
Arthur Bonnicastle. 393
I will fear no evil." I repeat the words of the tried and patient
patriarch : " I know that my Redeemer liveth." I join with
the family in singing the inspiring lines which he had never un-
dertaken to read aloud without being crushed into sobbing
silence :
** There is a calm for those who weep,
A rest for weary pilgrims found ;
They softly lie and sweetly sleep
Low in the ground.
* The storm that wrecks the winter sky
No more disturbs their deep repose
Than summer evening's latest sigh
That shuts the rose.
*' I long to lay this painful head
And aching heart beneath the soil.
To slumber in that dreamless bed
From all my toiL
The sun is but a spark of fire,
A transient meteor in the sky ;
The soul, immortal as its sire.
Shall never die."
I press his hand, and hear him say : '^ It is all well. Take
care of your mother."
We all bend and kiss him ; a few quick breaths, and the
dear old heart is still a heart so true, so tender, so pure, so
faithful, so trusting, that no man could know it without recog-
nizing the Christian grace that made it what it was, or finding
in it infallible evidence of the divinity of tlie religion by whose
moulding hand it was shaped^ and from whose inspirations it
had drawn its life. Then we lay him to rest among the June
roses, with birds singing around us, and all nature robed in the
glowing garb of summer, feeling that there are wings near us
which we do not see, that songs are breathed which we do not
hear, and that somewhere, beyond the confines of mortal pain
and decay, he has found a summer that will be perennial
394 Arthur Bonnicastle.
The picture moves along, and I am in the same room again ;
and she who all her life, through fear of death, had been sub-
ject to bondage, has come to her final hour. She has reached
the door of the sepulchre from a long distance, questioning
painfully at every step : " Who shall roll away the stone ? " and
now that she is arrived, she finds, to her unspeakable joy and
peace, that the stone is rolled away. Benignant nature, which
has given her so strong a love of life, overcomes in its own
tender way the fear of death that had been generated in her
melancholic temperament, and by stealing her senses one by
one, makes his coming not only dreadless, but desirable. She
finds the angels too, one at the head, the other at the foot
where death has lain, with white hands pointing upward. I
weep, but I am grateful that the life of fear is past, and that
she can never live it again, gratefiil, too, that she is reunited
to him who has been waiting to introduce her to her new being
and relations. We lay her by the side of the true husband
whose life she has shared, and whose children she has borne
and reared, and then go back to a home which death has left
without a head to a home that is a home no longer.
The picture moves on, and this time I witness a scene full
of tender interest to me in my own house. A holy spell of
waiting is upon us all Aunt Flick comes in, day after day,
with litde services which only she can render to her tenderly
beloved niece, and with little garments in her hands that wait
the coming of a stranger. It is night, and there is hurrying to
and fro in the house. I sit in my room, wrapped in pity and
feverish with anxiety, with no utterance save that of whispered
prayers for the safety of one dearer to me than life. I hear
at last the feeble wail of a new being which God has intriisted
to her hands and mine. Some one comes and tells me that
all is well, and then, after a weary hour, I am summoned to
the chamber where the great mystery of birth has been enacted.
I kneel at the bedside of my precious wife. I cover her hands
and her face with kisses. I call her my darling, my angel,
while my first-bom nesdes upon her arm, wrapped in the at
Arthur Bonnicastle. 395
mosphere of mother-love which her overflowing heart breathes
out upon it. I watch her day by day, and night by night,
through all her weakness and danger, and now she sits in her
room with her baby on her breast, looking out upon the sky and
the flowers and the busy world.
Still, as the canvas moves, come other memorable nights,
with varying fortunes of pain and pleasure, till my home is res-
onant with little feet, and musical with the voices of children.
They dimb my knees when I return from the fatigues of the
day ; I walk in my garden with their little hands clinging to
mine ; I listen to their prayers at their mother's knee ; I watch
over them in sickness ; I settle their petty disputes ; I And in
them and in their mother all the solace and satisfaction that I
desire and need. Clubs cannot win me from their society ;
fame, honor, place, have no charms that crowd them from my
heart. My home is my rest, my amusement, my consolation,
my treasure-house, my earthly heaven.
And here stoops down a shadow. I stand in a darkened
room before a little casket that holds the silent form of my
first-bom. My arm is aroupd the wife and mother who weeps
over the lost treasure, and cannot, till tears have had their way,
be comforted. I had not thought that my child could die that
my child could die. I knew that other children had died, but
I felt safe. We lay the little fellow close by his grandfather at
last ; we strew his j;rave with flowers, and then return to out
saddened home with hearts united in sorrow as they had never
been united in joy, and with sympathies forever opened toward
all who are called to a kindred grief. I wonder where he is
to-day, in what mature angelhood he stands, how he will look
when I meet him, how he will make himself known to me,
who has been his teacher ! He was like me : will his grand-
father know him ? I never can cease thinking of him as cared
for and led by the same hand to which my own youthful fingers
clung, and as hearing firom the fond lips of my own father, the
story of his father's eventful life. I feel how wonderful to me
has been the ministry of my children* how much more I have
39^ Arthur Bonnicastle.
learned from them than they have ever learned from me
how by holding my own strong life in sweet subordination to
their helplessness, they have taught me patience, self-sacrifice,
self-control, truthfulness, faith, simplicity and purity.
Ah I this taking to one's arms a little group of souls, fresh
from the hand of God, and living with them in loving compan-
ionship through all their stainless years, is, or ought to be, like
living in heaven, for of such is the heavenly Kingdom. To no
one of these am I more indebted than to the boy who went
away from me before the world had touched him with a stain.
The key that shut him in the tomb was the only key that could
unlock my heart, and let in among its sympathies the world ol
sorrowing men and women, who mourn because their little
ones are not.
The little graves, alas I how many they are I The mourners
above them, how vast the multitude ! Brothers, sisters, I am
one with you. I press your hands, I weep with you, I trust
with you, I belong to you. Those waxen, folded hands, that
still breast so often pressed warm to our own, those sleep-
bound eyes which have been so full of love and life, that sweet,
unmoving, alabaster face ah ! we have all looked upon them,
and they have made us one and made us better. There is no
fountain which the angel of healing troubles with his restless
and life-giving wings so constantly as the fountain of tears, and
only those too lame and bruised to bathe miss the blessed
influence.
The picture moves along, and now sweeps into view The
Mansion on the hill my old home the home of my friend
and sister. I go in and out as the years hurry by, and little
feet have learned to run and greet me at the door, and young
lips have been taught to call me " uncle." It is a door from
which no beggar is ever turned away unfed, a door to which
the feeble, the despairing, the sorrowing, the perplexed have
come for years, and been admitted to the counsels, encourage-
ments, and self-denying helpfulness of the strongest and noblest
man I know. The ancient mistress of the establishment is
Arthur Bonnicastle. 397
quite forgotten by the new generation, and the house which,
for so many years, was shut to the great world by the selfish
recluse who owned it, is now the warmest social center of the
town. Its windows blaze with light through many along even-
ing, while old age and youth mingle in pleasant converse ; and
forth from its ample resources go food and clothing for the
poor, and help for the needy, and money for those who bear
the Good Tidings to the border. Familiar names are multi-
plied in the house. First there comes a little Claire, then an
Arthur Bonnicastle, then a Ruth, and last a Minnie; and Claire,
so like her mother in person and temper, grows up to be a
helpful woman. I visit my old room, now the chamber of
little Arthur Bonnicastle, but no regrets oppress me. I am
glad of the change, and glad that the older Arthur has no sel-
fish part or lot in the house.
And now another shadow droops. Ah I why should it
come ? The good Lord knows, and He loves us alL
In her room, wasting day by day with consumption, my sister
sits and sees the world glide away from her, with all its indus-
tries and loves, and social and home delights. The strong man
at her side, loaded with cares which she so long has lightened,
comes to her from his wearying labor, and spends with her
every precious flying hour that he can call his own. He almost
tires her with tender ministry. He lifts her to her bed ; he lifts
her to her chair ; he reads to her; he talks calmly with her of the
great change that approachefs ; he sustams her sinking courage ;
he calls around her every help ; he tries in every way to stay
the hand of the fell destroyer, but it is all in vain. The long-
dreaded day comes at last, and The Mansion nay, all Bradford
is in mourning. A pure woman, a devoted wife, a tender
mother, a Christian friend, sleeps ; and a pastor, whose life is
deepened and broadened and enriched by a grief so great and
lasting that no future companionship of woman can even be
thought o^ goes to his wor kjaith ^new devotion and the unc-
tion of a new pow^^^^^heiStis^.g^^^l^^aiFe to guide the
'^;/;.r^r,r?N^'':
398 Arthur Bonmcastle.
house, and the memory and influence of a saint to Lallow all
its walls, and chasten all its associations.
The picture sweeps along, and presents to my imagination
a resistless river, calm in its beginnings, but torn and turbulent
as it proceeds, till it plunges in a cataract and passes from my
sight Along its passage are little barks, each bearing a mem-
ber of my family my brothers and sisters separated from me
and from each other by miles of distance, but every one moving
toward the abyss that swallows them one by one. The disease
that takes my sister Claire takes them all. Each arriving at
her age passes away. Each reaching the lip of the cataract,
lets go the oars, tosses up helpless hands, makes the fatal
plunge, and the sob surge and of the waters, wind-borne to my
shrinking ears, is all that is left to me. Not all, for even now
a rainbow spans the chasm, to promise me that floods shall
never overwhelm them again, and to prove to me that tears
may be informed with the same heavenly light tliat shines in living
flowers, and paints the clouds of sunrise.
The noise of the cataract dies away in the distance, the
river dissolves, and I sit inside a new and beautiful church.
The old one has been torn down to make way for a larger and
better one. It is communion-day, and behind the table on
which is spread the Christian feast of commemoration sits my
boyhood's companion, my college friend, my brother and pastor,
Henry Sanderson. The years have strewn silver over his tem-
ples and graven furrows upon his face, but earnestness, strength,
and benignity are the breath and burden of his presence. An
event is about to take place of great interest to him, to the
church, and to a large circle of business men. Mr. Bradford,
for the first time, publicly takes his stand among the Christian
family. He is old now, and the cane which he used to carry for
company, and as a habit, has become a necessity. He takes
his place in the aisle, and by his side my own dear wife, who from
her childhood has stood loyally by him and refused to unite
with a church until he could do so. The creed has been re-
vised. The refinements and elaborate definitions and non-es*
Arthur Bonnicastle. 399
sential dogmas have been swept away, and the simple old (Apos-
tle's Creed, in which millions of disciples and saints have lived
and died in the retiring centuries, is all that is read to him, and
all to which he is called upon to respond.
Home at last I Received into the fold where he has al-
ways belonged 1 A patriarch, seated at the table of the Lord
from which he has been shut away by children in experience,
wisdom, and piety 1 He is my father now, the grandfather of
my children, and the little wife who has trusted him and believed
in him all her life has at last the supreme happiness of commun-
ing with him and her daughter in the holy festival.
Why do I still watch the unrolling canvas ? The scenes that
come and pass are not painful to me, because they are all associ-
ated with precious memories and precious hopes, but to those
who read they must be somber and saddening. Why tell of
the news that reached me one day from Hillsborough ? Why
tell of that which reached me six months afterward from the
same place? They sleep well and their graves are shrines.
Why tell how Aunt Flick, from nursing one with malignant dis-
ease, came home to die, and left undone a world of projected
work ? Why tell how Mr. Bradford was at last lefr alone, and
came to pass the remnant of his life with me ? Why tell of
another shadow that descended upon The Mansion, and how,
in its dark folds, the lovely mother of my friend disappeared ?
It is the story of the world. We are bom, we grow to man-
hood and womanhood, we marry, we work, we die. The gene-
rations come and go, and they come without call and go with-
out significance if there be not a confident hope and expectation
of something to follow, so grand and sweet and beautiful that
we can look upon it all without misgiving or pain. Faith draws
the poison from every grief, takes the sting from every loss, and
quenches the fire of every pain; and only faith can do it.
"V^'isdom, science, power, learning all these are as blind and
impotent before the great problem of life as ignorance and
weakness. The feeblest girl, believing in God and a hereafter,
is an archangel by the side of the strongest man who questions
400 Arthur Bonnicastle.
her simple faith, and mounts on wings where he stumbles in
doubt and distress, or sinks in darkness.
To those of two homes who are living, through six long and
ever-memorable evenings, I have read my book, and now the]^
are all with me to-night as I draw the chair to my library-table,
to write these closing paragraphs. The center of the group
is Mr. Bradford, an old, old man, though he is still strong
enough to hold my youngest upon his knee. Henry sits near
him, talking with Millie, while tlie young people are gathered
in a distant corner, conversing quietly among themselves about
the events I have for the first time fully unveiled to them.
Their talk does not disturb me, for my thoughts linger over
what I have written, and I feel that the task which has been
such a delight to me is soon to pass from my hands. No work
can come to me so sweet as this has been. I have lived my
life again a life so full of interest. that it seems as if I could
never tire of it, even though death should come nearer and
nearer to me, waiting for my consent to be pushed from the
verge of earthly existence.
I hear the quiet voices around me. I know where and what
I am, but I cannot resist the feeling that there' are more forms
in the room than are visible to my eyes. I do not look up,
but to me my library is full. Those who are gone cannot have
lost their interest in those who remain, and those who are gone
outnumber us two to one. My own, I am sure, are close about
me, looking over my shoulder, and tracing with me these clos-
ing words. Their arms are intertwined, they exchange their
thoughts about me all unheard by my coarse senses, and I am
thrilled by an influence which I do not understand. My sister
sits by the side of her husband unseen, and listens to the words
which he is speaking to my wife, and hears her own name pro-
nounced with grateful tenderness. Mr. Bradford has a com-
panion older than the little one who sits upon his knee and
plays with his great gold chain, but sees her not. There are
I
Arthtir Bonnicastle. 401
wistful, sympathetic faces among the children, and they cannot
know why they are so quiet, or what spell it is that holds them.
A severe, restless little woman watches her grandson with
greedy eyes, or looks around upon those she once had within
her power, but regards us all in impotent silence. Of them,
but apart, companions in the new life as they were in the old,
are two who come to visit their boys again boys growing old
in labor and preparing to join them in another school, among
higher hills and purer atmospheres, or to be led by them to the
tented shores of the River of the Water of I^ife. The two
worlds* have come so near together that they mingle, and
tliere are shadows around me, and whispers above me, and
the rustle of robes that tell me that life is one, and the love of
kindred and friends etemaL
To morrow, ah I golden to morrow I Thank God for the hope
of its coming, with all its duty and care, and work and ministry,
and all its appeals to manliness and manly endeavor ! Thank
God, too, for the long dissipation of the dreams of selfish ease
and luxury ! Life has no significance to me, save as the thea-
ter in which my powers are developed and disciplined by use,
and made fruitful in securing my own independence and the
good of those around me, or as the scene in which I am fitted
for the work and worship of the world beyond The little
ones and the large ones of my own flock are crowding me
along. Soon they will have my place. I do not pity, I almost
envy them. Life is so grand, so beautiful, so full of meaning,
so splendid in its opportunities for action, so hopeful in its high
results, that, despite all its sorrows, I would willingly live it over
again.