The Atlantic Monthly, Volume 13, No. 78, April, 1864. Various

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СКАЧАТЬ custom of the place I also fell in with, which was, to keep an evening-school. All the schoolmasters had kept one from time immemorial. This evening-school I really enjoyed. Plenty of charming girls, too big or too busy to waste their daylight upon books, came from great distances, bringing their brothers and their beaux, all intent upon having a good time and getting on in their ciphering. Teaching them was a pleasure, for they felt the need of knowledge. I feel bound to say, however, that imparting knowledge was not my only pleasure. In intervals of leisure, before or after school, or at recess, I found much that was worthy attention. Seated at my desk, wrapped in my dignity, I watched, with many a sidelong glance, the progress of rustic love-making. I only mean by this, that from their general movements I constructed such love-stories as seemed to me probable. I learned who went with whom, who wished they could go with whom, who could and who couldn't, who did and who didn't.

      Did I not go into the business on my own account? That is by no means an improper question. In fact, I might have expected it. Some have, no doubt, considered it a settled thing that I fell in love with the bright-eyed beauty, before mentioned, or with the pink-cheeked; but I beg that such fancies may be brushed away, that all may be in readiness to receive the true queen, who in due time will come to take possession of her kingdom. For I will be honest with you, and not, like most story-tellers, try to pull wool over your eyes all the way through. I will say openly, that I did first see the girl who was afterwards my wife in that cold little village of Norway. Cold it seems not to me now, in the light of so many warm, sunshiny memories!

      When my evening-school had been in operation a few weeks, I noticed, one evening, at the end of the back-form on the girls' side a new face. The owner of this new face was very quietly studying her book, a thin, blue-covered book, Temple's Arithmetic. She was dressed in black,—not fine, glossy black, but black that was gray, rusty, and well worn. A very small silk handkerchief of the same color was drawn over her shoulders and pinned where its two corners met her gown in front, making a sort of triangle of whiteness,—some would say, "revealing a neck and throat pure and white as a lily-leaf"; and they would say no more than the truth, only I never like to put things in that way. Just so white was her face. Her hair was black, soft, but not what the other girls would have called smooth, or "slick." It was pulled away behind her ears, and fixed up rather queerly in a great bunch behind, as if the only aim were to get it out of the way. The upper part of her face was the most striking,—the black eyebrows upon such a white, straight forehead. I am rather particular in describing this new face, because—well, perhaps because I remember it so distinctly. While I was studying her as, I might perhaps say, a work of Art, she suddenly raised her eyes, as people always do when they are watched. I looked away in a hurry, though her eyes were just what I wanted to see more of, for they were splendid eyes. "Splendid" is not the right word, though. Deep, thoughtful, sorrowful, are the words which are floating about in my mind. I wondered how she would look when animated, and watched, at recess, for some of the others to talk to her.

      But she seemed one by herself. While other girls chatted with their beaux, or whispered wonderful secrets, she remained sitting alone, now looking at her book, and now glancing around in a pitiful sort of way, that made me feel like going to speak to her. In fact, as her teacher, I was bound to do this, and, true to the promptings of duty, I walked slowly down the alley. As I paused by her side, she glanced up in my face. I never forgot that look. I might say that I never recovered from the effects of it. I asked about her studies, and very willingly explained a sum over which she had stumbled.

      After this, she came every evening, and it usually happened that it was most convenient for me to attend to her at recess. Helping her in her sums was a pleasant thing to do, but in nothing was I more interested than in the writing-exercise. I felt that I was indeed fortunate to be in duty bound to follow the movement of her charming little hand across the page, to teach her pretty fingers how to hold the pen; but then, if pleasure and duty would unite, how could I help it? Then I had a way, all my own, of throwing looks sidelong at her face, while thus engaged; but sometimes my eyes would get so entangled in her long lashes, that I could hardly turn them away before she looked up.

      Yet I never thought then of being in love with the girl. Marriage was a subject upon which I had never seriously reflected. Much as I liked to watch, to criticize pretty faces, I never had thought of taking one for my own. I was like a good boy in a flower-garden, who looks about him with delight, admiring each beautiful blossom, but plucking none. Not that I meant to live a bachelor; for, whenever I looked forward,—an indefinite number of years,—I invariably saw myself sitting by my own fireside, with a gentle-faced woman making pinafores near me, a cradle close by, and one or two chaps reading stories, or playing checkers with beans and buttons. But this gentle maker of pinafores had never yet assumed a tangible shape. She had only floated before me, in my lonely moments, enveloped in mist, and far too indistinct for revealing the color of the eyes and hair. So I could not be in love with Rachel,—her name was Rachel Lowe,—only a sort of magnetism, as it would be called in these days, drew my eyes constantly that way. I soon found, however, that it was impossible to watch her face with that indifference with which, as I have before stated, it had been my custom to regard female beauty. Its peculiar expression puzzled me, and I kept trying to study it out. Interesting, but dangerous study! The difficulties of school-keeping are by no means fully appreciated.

      One evening, after school, the young folks stopped to slide down-hill. Rachel and a few little girls stood awhile, watching the sleds go by; but it was cold standing still, and they soon moved homewards. I walked along by the side of Rachel: this was the first time I ever went home with her. I found she was living in the family of Squire Brewster, a family in which I had not yet boarded. After this I frequently walked home with her. Sometimes I would determine not to do so again, for I was afraid I was getting—I didn't know where, but where I had never been before; but when evening came, and I saw how handsome she looked, and how all alone, I couldn't help it. It was not often I could get her to talk much. She was bashful, different from any girl I had ever met. The only friend she seemed to have was the young wife of the Doctor, Mrs. James. The Doctor, she said, had attended her through a fever, and asked no pay. His wife was kind, and lent her books to read.

      I was boarding at that time with a poor widow-woman, and one night I asked her about Rachel. She warmed up immediately, said Rachel Lowe was a good girl and ought to be "sot by," and not slighted on her parents' account.

      "And who were her parents?" I asked.

      "Why, when her father was a poor boy, the Squire thought he would take him and bring him up to learnin'; but when he came to be a man grown almost, he ran away to sea; and long afterwards we heard of his marryin' some outlandish girl, half English, half French,—but Rachel's no worse for that. After his wife died,—and, as far as I can find out, the way he carried on was what killed her,—he started to bring Rachel here; but he died on the passage, and she came with only a letter. I suppose he thought the ones that had been kind to him would be kind to her; but, you see, the Squire is a-livin' with his second wife, and she isn't the woman the first Miss Brewster was. In time folks will come round, but now they sort of look down upon her; for, you see, everybody knows who her father was, and how he didn't do any credit to his bringin' up, and nobody knows who her mother was, only that she was a furrener, which was so much agin her. But you are goin' right from here to the Squire's; and mebby, if you make of her, and let folks see that you set store by her, they'll begin to open their eyes."

      I thought I felt just like kissing the poor widow; anyway, I knew I felt like kissing somebody. To be sure, the talk was all about Rachel, and it might—But no matter; what difference does it make now who it was I wanted to kiss forty or fifty years ago?

      The next day I went to board at the Squire's. It was dark when I reached the house; the candles were just being lighted. The Squire, a kindly old man, met me in the porch and took my bundle. I followed him into the kitchen. There something more than common seemed to be going on, for chairs were being arranged in rows, and Mrs. Brewster was putting out of sight every article suggestive of work. There was to be an evening meeting. I watched the people as they came in, still and solemn. Not many of the women СКАЧАТЬ