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From Jest to Earnest

<h1 id="id02615" style="margin-top: 6em">CHAPTER XXXIII.</h1> <h5 id="id02616">THE END OF THE "JEST."</h5> It is a common impression that impending disasters cast their shadows before; and especially in the realm of fiction do we find that much is made of presentiments, which are usually fulfilled in a very dramatic way. But the close observer of real life, to a large degree, loses faith in these bodings of ill. He learns that sombre impressions result more often from a defective digestion and a disquieted conscience than from any other cause; and that, after the gloomiest forebodings, the days pass in unusual serenity. Not that this is always true, but it would almost seem the rule. Perhaps more distress is caused by those troubles which never come, but which are feared and worried over, than by those which do come, teaching us, often, patience and faith. Does not experience show that disasters and trials more often visit us, like the "thief in the night," unexpectedly? At any rate, it so occurred to Hemstead and Lottie on the dreary Monday that followed their glorified Sunday. And yet, never did a day open with fairer promise. A cloudless sky bent over a crystal earth. The mystic peace of Christmas seemed to have been breathed even into bleak December; for the air was mild and still, and the shadow of many a slender tree crept across the snow as steadily as that made by the sun-dial on the lawn. Within doors all appeared equally serene. The fire burned cheerily upon the hearth when Hemstead came down to breakfast. What was of far more importance, the light of love glowed as brightly in Lottie's eyes, as she beamed upon him across the table; and the spell which kept him, unthinking, unfearing, in the beatified present remained unbroken. But the darkest shadows were creeping towards both. To any situated as they were, and in their condition of mind and heart, a mere awakening would have been a rude shock. Some one had only to show them, with the remorseless logic of this world, what all their heavenly emotions involved, in order to cause perplexity and almost consternation. They could not long dwell, like the immortal gods, on the Mount Olympus of their exalted feeling, subsisting on the nectar and ambrosia of tones and glances. Lottie was the fashionable daughter of an ultra-fashionable mother and a worldly father, in whose eyes sins against the beau monde were the most irrational and unpardonable. Hemstead was a predestined home missionary, upon whom the Christian Church proposed to inflict the slow martyrdom of five or six hundred a year. Mrs. Marchmont but reflected the judgment of the world when she thought that for two young people, thus situated, to fall in love with each other, would be the greatest possible misfortune. Therefore, with the sincerest sense of duty, and the very best intentions, she set about preventing it, after all the mischief had been done. Like a prudent lady, as she was, she first sought to get sufficient information to justify her in speaking plainly to both nephew and niece. For this purpose she drew Addie out on Sunday afternoon, asking her if she had noticed anything peculiar in the manner of Hemstead and Lottie towards each other. Then, for the first time, and with just indignation, to her credit be it said, she learned of the practical joke of which her nephew was to have been the victim. She skilfully drew from her daughter all the details of its inception and the mode in which it had been carried out; for, to Addie's superficial observation, Lottie was only indulging in one of her old flirtations, She neither saw, nor was she able to understand, the change in Lottie's feelings and character. She also wronged Lottie by giving the impression that she herself had had nothing to do with the plot, with the exception that she had promised not to interfere. Mrs. Marchmont could scarcely believe what she heard, but Addie referred her to Bel, who confirmed her words and admitted that from the first she had "known it was very wrong, but had not believed that anything would come of it, until it seemed too late." "Besides," she said, "Lottie told me that if I said a word, or interfered in any way, she would from that time treat me as a stranger, and she said it in a way that proved she meant it. Therefore, whatever you do, please let it appear that I have no part in it." "You surprise and shock me greatly," said Mrs. Marchmont. "With all Lottie's wild nonsense and fondness for flirting, I would not have thought that she could be guilty of such deliberate and persistent effort to trifle with one so sincere and good as Frank. The most heartless coquette would scarcely call him fair game. She puzzles me too, for she does not seem like one who is acting, but more like one in earnest. Besides, look at the interest she is beginning to take in religion. She surely could not employ such sacred things for the purposes of mere flirtation." But Bell soon converted Mrs. Marchmont to her way of thinking. Lottie had found Hemstead more interesting than she had expected, and had foolishly and recklessly permitted a mere sentiment for him to develop, which, in her case, would end with the visit, and soon be forgotten in the mad whirl of New York gayety. "But with Mr. Hemstead," concluded Bel, "it will be a very different affair. He is one of the kind that will brood over such a disappointment and wrong to the end of life." So it was settled that Mrs. Marchmont should "speak plainly" to her nephew, and warn him against "Lottie's wiles," as soon as possible. But no opportunity occurred before Monday morning, and then not until Hemstead had received some of the most blissful experiences that he had yet enjoyed. For, immediately after breakfast, all had flocked into the back parlor, where the laden Christmas tree revealed the secrets that had filled the air with mystery during the preceding days. All had been remembered, and Mr. Martell's munificence towards the gallant coachman quite took away his breath. But Hemstead was overwhelmed and troubled at first, when he opened an envelope, and found a check for a thousand dollars, with the words: "We send you this, not in any sense as compensation,—for we know enough of your character to recognize that you would have taken equal risks in behalf of the penniless,—but because we wish to be remembered by you, whom we can never forget. And we only request tint you invest this sum towards your library, so that, in coming years, the thoughts of your favorite authors may remind you of those whose best wishes, sincerest gratitude, and highest esteem Will ever be yours. "(Signed) HERBERT MARTELL, ALICE MARTELL." "Now, Frank, what is the use of putting on such airs?" said Addie. "You surely expected a handsome present from Mr. Martell." "I assure you, I expected nothing of the kind," he replied, a trifle indignantly. "Why should I? As it is, I am doubtful whether I ought to accept it." "Why should I?" Lottie echoed with a merry laugh. "That's like you. But, unless you wish to hurt and wrong sincere friends very much, I advise you to keep it and do as they say. You are so exceedingly proud or humble—which shall I call it?—that I fear you neither expect, nor will take anything from me." "Here is a queer-looking parcel for Frank Hemstead," said Mr. Dimmerly, with his chuckling laugh. With intense delight Lottie saw the student hesitate, and his hand tremble as he slowly began to open it. "It's not a torpedo, or an infernal machine, that you need be in such trepidation," she whispered. "It won't go off." "Is it from you?" "Look and see." It was a sermon holder, of rich, plain morocco without, but within, most elaborately embroidered. Most prominent among the rare and dainty devices was a single oar. The expression of his face repaid her, as he examined it with a comical blending of reverence and affection, such as a devout Catholic would manifest towards a relic. In the blade of the oar were worked, with the most exquisite fineness, the words, "A True Knight." Within an inner pocket, where they could not be readily seen, were the words, "With the thanks of Lottie Marsden." But his quick scrutiny soon discovered them, and he turned and said, with an emphasis that did her good, "I value this more than the check." "What folly!" she said, blushing with pleasure; "it isn't worth five dollars." "I can prove that it is worth more than the check," he said, in a low tone. "How?" "We value that gift most which we receive from the friend we value most. There; it is proved in a sentence; but I can prove it over again." "What delightful lessons in logic! But you surely cannot prove it again." "Yes. If the gift from the friend we value most contains evidence that thought and time have been expended upon it, that gift, however slight its market value, has a worth to us beyond price, because showing that the friend we love supremely thinks of us in our absence." "I did put a great deal of time and thought in that little gift, but you have repaid me," Lottie answered. Their brief but significant tete-a-tete was now interrupted by De Forrest, who came forward to thank Lottie for her costly gift to him,—a gift bought on Broadway. He had uneasily marked the fact that she had given something to Hemstead, but when he saw that it was only a sermon-cover, he was quite relieved. "Come here, Frank, and show me your present," said Mr. Dimmerly, a little later. Hemstead good-naturedly complied, and the old gentleman looked at the single embroidered oar, with a comical twinkle in his eye, and called again, "Lottie, come here." She approached rather shyly and reluctantly, not knowing what to expect. "Now, Lottie," said her uncle, reproachfully, pointing to the oar, "I did not expect that from so sensible a girl as you are. What is a man going to do with one oar, unless he is to take a lonely scull through life as I have? Did you mean to suggest that to Mr. Hemstead?" "Mr. Hemstead found out another meaning than that," she said, laughing, "and I'm not going to stay here to be teased by you"; and she ran out of the room, the picture of blushing happiness. When Hemstead again saw her it was with a great dread in his heart, and his tones were grave and almost stern. "O—h—h, you found out another meaning, did you?" said Mr. Dimmerly, looking both kindly and quizzically over his spectacles at his nephew. "Well, uncle, to tell you the truth I hardly understand myself. My visit here is a great contrast to my quiet seminary life, and I have been getting deeper and deeper into a maze of happy bewilderment every day. So much has happened, and I am so changed, that, like many in tales of enchantment, I scarcely know whether I am myself." "I have seen the spell working," said Mr. Dimmerly, dryly, "and am thankful that the transformation has not been of the nature that Shakespeare portrayed in his Midsummer Night Fantasy. Your head might have become turned by the wrong girl, and you have reached the period when it is bound to be turned by some one." "Uncle," he said, fervently, "she is the noblest and most beautiful being in existence." "Frank, I wish to see you," said his aunt, quietly; and he followed her to her own private sitting-room. Mr. Dimmerly indulged in his chuckling laugh as he looked after them. "Now she's going to 'stop' it, he—he—In the mean time I'll go out and stop the brook from running down hill." "The time has come," said Mrs. Marchmont to her perplexed nephew, with the complacent superiority with which the wise of this world enlighten those whose "heads are often in the clouds,"—"the time has come when I must speak plainly to you of a matter as important as it is delicate. You are my own sister's child, and I cannot see you wronged or going blindly into trouble without warning you. Are you not permitting yourself to become interested in Miss Marsden to a degree that is not wise?" "Why not wise?" he answered with burning cheeks. "Have you not realized that she is one of the most fashionable young ladies in New York, and belongs to one of the wealthiest and most fashionable families? If you could but once see her mother you would understand me." "But she herself has changed," he urged, eagerly. Mrs. Marchmont smiled incredulously and pityingly. "How little you know the world!" she said. "In what do you expect all your sentiment to end? Only sentiment? You say you purpose being a home missionary. Can you imagine for a moment that one situated as she is would contemplate such a life? Her parents would as soon bury her." Hemstead groaned under his aunt's remorseless words, but said in a sort of blind desperation: "Her parents! Is this Hindostan, that parents can treat their daughters as merchandise? A girl of Miss Marsden's force and nobility of character—" "O Frank, hush! It absolutely makes me sick to see one so easily deceived. 'Nobility of character,' indeed! Well, I didn't wish to speak of it. I could not believe it even of Lottie, but nothing less than the whole truth will convince you"; and she told him of the plot in which Lottie purposed to make him the ridiculous subject of a practical joke, and intimated that all her action since had been but the carrying out of that plot. At first Hemstead grew deathly pale, and his aunt, thinking he was going to faint, began fumbling for her salts. But a moment later the blood suffused even his neck and brow, and he said passionately, "I don't believe a word of this; Miss Marsden is not capable of such falsehood." "Whether in your unreasoning passion you will believe it or not makes no difference," said Mrs. Marchmont, quietly. "It is true, as I can prove by Addie and Miss Parton." He took a few hasty strides up and down the room and muttered, "I will take her word against all the world. She shall answer for herself"; and he rang the bell. When the servant appeared he said, "Please ask Miss Marsden to come here at once." Mrs. Marchmont regretted Hemstead's action very much, but it was too firm and decided to be prevented. She had planned that after his "eyes had been opened to his folly," and Lottie's frivolity, to say the least, her nephew would, with quiet dignity, cease his attentions, and perhaps shorten his visit. She had a horror of scenes, but feared that one was coming now. Hemstead admitted Lottie with a silent bow and gave her a chair. When she saw his grave, pale face, her heart misgave her strangely, and she trembled so that even he noticed it, and also another fact,—she did not meet his eyes. He fastened his upon her, as if he would read her soul, for he now felt that more than life was at stake. "Miss Marsden," he said, in a low, deep tone, "my aunt has made a strange charge against you, but I said to her, and I now say to you, that I will take your word against all the world. She asserts, and she gives the names of her witnesses, that your action—your kindness towards me from the first—has been but the carrying out of a deliberate and heartless jest. Is it true?" Lottie's wonted quickness failed her. She had been so happy, she had seemed to have got so far beyond her old, false self, and so established in his affection, that such a reverse did not appear possible. But the evil that at one time she had feared had now come in a form so unexpected and serious that, for a moment, she was stunned and bewildered, and fell into helpless confusion. The nature of the case aggravated her distress. How could she explain? What could she say? In response to his question she only trembled more violently and buried her burning face in her hands. He saw in this action confirmation of fears that he at first would scarcely entertain, and regarded her a moment with a strange expression upon his face,—anger and pity blended,—and then silently left the room. The sleigh stood at the door, and the coachman was just starting on an errand to Newburgh. Mr. Dimmerly looked with surprise at his nephew's pale face,—a surprise that was greatly increased as the young man seized his hat and coat, and said in a husky tone, "I am going to New York for some days," and sprang into the sleigh and was driven away. "Well," said the old man, testily, "if she 'stopped' him as easily as that, he deserves to lose her." And Mrs. Marchmont, seeing Hemstead depart so silently, congratulated herself that she had escaped a scene after all, and complacently thought, "These things can be 'stopped' if taken in time, notwithstanding brother's sentimental nonsense." As poor Lottie's mind emerged from its chaos into connected thought, she speedily came to the conclusion to tell Hemstead the whole truth, to condemn herself more severely than even he could in his anger, and to ask his forgiveness. But when she raised her tearful face to speak, he was gone. She heard the sound of bells. A sudden fear chilled her, and she sprang to the window and saw a vanishing form that she dreaded might be his. Without a word to Mrs. Marchmont, she rushed down to the lower hall, where she found Mr. Dimmerly fuming about. "Where is Mr. Hemstead?" she asked, eagerly. "What the deuce is the matter? What have you sister been saying that Frank should come down here white as a sheet?" "But where is he?" she asked again, in a tone that her uncle had never heard her use before. "Gone to New York for several days," he said. Lottie tottered a moment as if she had received a blow. With one hand she steadied herself on the balustrade of the stairs, while she passed the other across her brow, then turned and wearily climbed to her room. <div style="break-after:column;"></div>

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