Democratic Sentinel, Volume 2, Number 23, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 19 July 1878 — A NOBLE GENTLEMAN. [ARTICLE]

A NOBLE GENTLEMAN.

The Story of an Old Lady. I sat spinning at nay little wheel in the sun, for the autumn day was cold, when I heard some one whistling, and, looking up, there was young ’Squire Turner, with his arms folded on the gate, looking over. When he caught my eye he laughed and blushed ; and I rose and made him a courtesy. He was a handsome gentleman, the ’Squire, and the hand from which he pulled the glove shimmered in the sun with pearls and diamonds ; and he was bonny to look at, with his hair like spun gold in the October sunlight. When I courtesied, he bowed, making his curls dance over his shoulders, and, said iie, “ I’ve spoiled one pretty picture that I could have looked at all day, but I’ve made, another as pretty, so I’ll not grieve. May I come in ?” “ And welcome, sir,” said I; and I sat a chair for him, for he was grandfather’s landlord; but for all that I felt uncomfortable, for I was not used to fine company. He talked away, paying me more compliments than I was used to, for grandmother, who brought me up, always said, “ Handsome is as handsome does,” and “Beauty is but skin deep.” Since I’m telling the story I’ll tell the truth. I had done wrong about one thing. Neither of the old folks knew that I wore Evan Locke’s ring in my bosom, or that we’d tiiken a vow to each other under the hawthorn that grew in the church lane. I never meant to deceive, but grannie was old and a little hard of hearing, and that love of mine was such a sweet secret. Besides, money seems to outweigh all else when people have struggled all their lives through to turn a penny, and they knew Evan was a poor, struggling surgeon. I thought I’d wait a while until I could sweeten the news with the fact that he’d begun to make his fortune. Grannie came in from the dairy five minutes after the ’Squire was gone, and heard he had been there. I didn’t tell her of the fine speeches, but there was a keyhole to the door she came through, and I have a guess she heard them. That night wo had something else to think of. Misfortunes had come upon grandfather; but I didn’t foresee that when the half year’s rent should come due not a penny to pay it with would be found. xA.ll this time Evan Locke and I had been ns fond as ever of each other, and he camo as often as before to talk with grandpa, on the winter nights; and still every little while our young landlord, ’Squire Turner, would ‘ drop in and sit in his lazy way watching me knit or spin. Once or twice he was flushed with wine, and over bold, for he tried to kiss mo. But, ’Squire or no, I boxed his ears for his pains, and no softer than I could help either. I could not help his coming, nor help seeing him when he came, and I did not desire that Evan should be angrv with me. But he was. Eh, so high and mighty, and spoke as though one like the ’Squire could mean no good by coming to so poor a place as the schoolmaster’s.

lie made me angry, and I spoke up. “Forthat matter, the ’Squire would be glad to have me promise to marry him,” said I. “He thinks more of me than you do just now. ” “Maybe you like him better,” said Evan. “I don’t say that,” replied I. “But bad temper and jealousy scarce make me over fond of another. I pray I may never have a husband who will scold me. ” For he had been scolding me. Th£re was no other name for it. - Well, Evan was wroth with me and I with him—not heart, deep, though I thought—and I did not see him for more than a week. I was troubled much, though. I knew he would come round again, and mayhap ask my pardon. For before you are wed you can bring your lover to his senses when you will. Sol did not fret after Evan’s absence nor quite snub ’Squire Turner, who liked me more than ever. But one night grandfather came in from a lonely ride, and, shutting the door, stood between grandmamma and me, looking at me, and so strangely that we both grew frightened. At last he spoke: “I’ve been to the ’Squire’s,” said he. “For the first time I had to tell him that I could not pay his rent when due.” I opened my lips. Grandmamma’s hand covered them. Grandpa drew me to him.

“ Thou art young, lass,” he said, “ and they are right who call thee pretty. Say could st like the ’Squire well enough to wed him?” ° Eh? cried grand ma. “ Sure, you’re not wandering?” ' J “’Squire Turner asked me for this lass of ours to-night. Of all the women in the there is but one he loves as he should his wife, and that is our Agatha.” “I dreamt of golden rings and a bunch of white roses on Christmas eve ” cried grannie. ‘‘ I knew the lass wouid be lucky.” But I put my head nn grandfather’s shoulder and hid my face. The truth must out, I knew. “ Wilt have him, and be a rich lady ?” said grandpa. And when he had waited for an answer, I burst out with “No’’and a sob together. ‘ She s frightened, ” said grandmamma. ‘ • Nay, we must all wed once in our lives, my child.” Then grandpa talked to me. He told me how poor they had grown, and how kind the ’Squire was, and J had but to

many him to make my grandparents free from debt and poverty their lives through. If I refused and vexed the ’Squire, Heaven only knew what might happen. “She’ll never ruin her poor grandpapa,” sobbed grandmamma. Ah ! it was hard to bear—bitter hard; but now there was no help for it I took the ring from my bosom and laid it in my palm, and told them it was Evan Locke’s, and that I had plighted my troth to him. And grandmamma called me a deceitful wench, and grandfather looked as though his heart would break. Oh I I would have done anything for them—anything but give up my true love.

That night I kissed his ring and prayed Heaven that he might love me always. In the morning it was gone, ribbon and all, from my neck. I looked for it high and low, but found no sign of it. And 1 began to fear the loss of the dear ring was a sign that I would never marry Evan Locke. The days passed on, and he never came near me. “ Oh, it was cruel in him,” I thought, “ to hold such anger for a hasty word he had provoked; when I spoke it that he must know I loved him so.”

And grandma would scarcely look at me (I know why now), and grandpa sighed and moaned, and talked of the workhouse. And I thought I should die of grief among them. One day grandma said to me, “It seems that your sweetheart is not over fond of you, not over anxious to see you.” “ Why not?” said I. “Where has he been this month back ?” “Busy, doubtless,” said I, with a smile, though I thought my heart would burst. “ Perhaps you know all about it,” said grandma. “You are going with him, maybe.” “ Where?” said I. She went to the kitchen door and beckoned in a woman who sat there— Dame Coombs, who had come over with, eggs. “I heard you rightly,” she said. “You told me Evan Locke and his mother were making ready for a voyage.” “They’re going to Canada. My son, a carpenter—and a good one, though I say it—made the doctor a box for his things. The old lady dreads the new country, but she goes for the doctor’s sake. There’s money to be made there, they say. That’s what takes him.” “ I told you so,” said grandmother. “ I don’t believe it,” said I

“ They’ve sold the house, and gone to Liverpool to take ship; and you may find the truth for yourself, if you choose to take the trouble,” said Dame Coombs. “I’m no chatterbox, to tell falsehoods about my neighbors.” And she went away in wrath. And still I would not believe it till I had walked across the moor and had seen the shutters fast closed and the door barred, and not a sign of life about the place. Then I gave up hope. I went home all pale and trembling, and sat down at grandmamma’s knee. “ ft’s true,” said I. “And for the sake of so false a lad •you’ll see your grandfather ruined, and break his heart, and leave me, that have nursed you from a babe, a widow. ” I looked at her as she sobbed, and I found strength to say: “Give me to whom you will, then, since my own love does not want me. ” And then I crept up stairs and sat down on my bedside, weak as though I had fainted. I would have thanked Heaven for forgetfulness just then, but it wouldn’t come.

The next day ’Squire Turner was in the parlor as my accepted lover. How pleased he was, and how the color came back into grandfather’s old face ! And grannie grew so proud and kind, and all the house was aglow, and only I sad. But I couldn’t forget Evan—Evan whom I had loved so—sailing away from me without a word. I suppose they all saw I looked sad. The ’Squire talked of my health, and would make me ride with him over the moors for strength. The old folks said nothing. They knew what ailed me; only our little Scotch maid seemed to think there was aught wrong. Once.she said to me :

“What ails ye, miss? Your eye is dull and your cheek is pale, and your braw grand lover canna make ye smile • ye are na that ill, either.” “ No; I’m well enough,” said I. She looked at me wistfully. “Gin ye’d tell me your ail, I might tell you a cure,” she said. But there was no cure for me in this world, and I couldn’t open my heart to simple Jennie. So the days rolled by, and. I was close on my marriage eve and grannie and Dorothy Plume were busy with my wedding robes. I wished it was my shroud they were working at, instead. And one night the pain in my heart grew too great, and I went out among the purple heather on the moor, and there knelt down under the stars and prayed to be taken from the world ; “for how can I live without Evan?” i said. I spoke the words aloud, and then started up in affright, for there at my side was an elfish little figure, and 1 heard a cry that at first I scarce thought earthly. Yet it was but Scotch Jennie, who had followed me. “ Why do ye call for your true love now ?” she said ; “ ye sent him fra ye for sake o’ the young ’Squire. ” “How dare you follow and watch me ?”

But she caught my sleeve. “ Dinna be vexed,’” she said. “Just bide a wee, and answer what I speer. It’s for love of you, for I seen ye waste like the snaw wreath in the sun sin the ’Squire wooed ye. Was it your will the lad that loved the ground ye trod on should have his ring again?” “ What do you mean ?” I said. “ I’ll speak gin I lose my place,” said Jennie. “ I rode with the mistress to young Dr. Locke’s place past the moor, and there she lighted and gave him a ring, end what she said I know not, but it turned him the tint o’ death, and said he: ‘There’s na a drop o’ true bluid in a woman ’gin she is false.’ And he turned to the wall and covered his eyes, an’ your grannie rode home. There’ ’tis all I ken—wull it do ?” “Ay, Jennie,” said I; “Heaven bless you !” And had I wings on my feet I could not have come to the cottage door sooner.

I stood before my grandmother, trembling and white, and I said: “ Oh, don’t tell me, grannie, you have cheated me and robbed me of my true love by a lie. Did you steal the troth ring from my neck and give it back to Evan, as if from me ? You I’ve loved and honored my life long—l’d rather die than think it.”

She turned scarlet. “ True love ?” said she; “ you’ve but one love now—’Squire Turner.” “ You have done it!” I cried. “ It’s written on your face. ” And she looked down at that and fell to weeping. *‘ My own true love was breaking his heart,” she said. “My husband and I had loved for fifty years. I did it to save him. Could I let a girl’s fancy, worth nothing, stand in my way, and see him a beggar in his old age ? Oh, girl girl!” °

And then I fell down at her feet like a stone. I knew nothing for an hour or more; but then, when I was better, and they left me with Jennie, I bade her fetch my hood and cloak and her own; away I went across the moor in the starlight.to where the hall windows wore ablaze with light, and asked the house, keeper to let me see the Squire.

She stared at me for my boldness—no wonder—but called him. So in a moment he stood before me in his evening dress, with his cheeks flushed and his eyes bright, and led me into a little room and seated me. “Agatha, my love, I hope no mischance brings you here,” he began. But I stopped him. “Not your love, ’Squire Turner,” I said. “I thank you for thinking sowell of me, but even after all that had passed, I—” I could say no more. He took my hand. “ Have I offended you, Agatha?” he said. “ Not you. The offense—the guilt—oh, I have been sorely cheated I” and all I could do was to sob and think he thought me mad. At last strength came to me. I went back to the first and told him all—how we had been plighted to each other, waiting only for better prospects to be wed, and how, when he honored me by the offer of his hand, I angered my grandparents by owning to the truth, and of the ring Grannie had stolen from my breast, and the false message that had sent my promised husband from me. “ And though I never see Evan Locke again,” said I, “still I can never be another man’s true love, for I am his until I die.”

Then, as I looked, all the rich color faded out of the ’Squire’s face, and I saw the sight we seldom see more than once in a lifetime—a strong young man in tears. At last he arose and came to me. “My little Agatha never loved me,” he said. “Ah, me! The news is bad —I thought she did. This comes of vanity.” “ Many a higher and fairer have hearts to give,” I said. “Mine had gone ere you saw me.” And then, kind and gentle as though I had not grieved him, he gave me his arm and saw me across the moor, and at the gate paused and whispered : “Be at rest, Agatha. The Canadian ship Golden George has not sailed yet. ” I liked him better than I had ever done before that night when I told Grannie that I would never wed him. Eh ! but he was fit to be a King—the grandest, kindest, best of living men ; who rode away with the break of the morrow and never stopped till he reached Liverpool, and found Evan Locke just ready to set foot upon the Golden George, and told him a tale that made his heart light and sent him back to me; but our young ’Squire ? Heaven bless him !

And who was it that sent old grandfather the deed of gift that made the cottage his own, and who spoke a kind word to the gentry for young Dr, Locke that helped him into practice ? Still no one but ’Squire Turner, whom we taught our children to pray for every night. For we were married, and in a few years had boys and girls at our knees; and, when the eldest was nigh 2, the thing I needed to make me quite happy happened—and from far over the sea, where he had been three good twelve-months, came our ’Squire, with the bonniest lady that ever blushed beside him, and the hall had a mistress at last—and a mistress who loved the ’Squire as I loved Evan. Eh ! but it’s an old story. She that I remembered a girl I saw in her coffin, withered and old. And then they opened the vault where the ’Squire had slept ten years to put her beside him; and I’ve nothing left of Evan, my life and my love, but his memory, and it seems as if every hope and dream of joy I ever had were put away under tombstones. And even the Golden George, the great, strong ship that would have borne my dear from me, has moldered away on the bottom of the sea somewhere. And I think my wedding-ring is likely to outlast us all, for I have it yet, and I shall be 90 tomorrow. Ninety! it’s a good old age, and it can’t be long now before I meet Evan and the rest in heaven.