The Atlantic Monthly, Vol. I, No. 1, Nov. 1857

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Presently a sulky came dashing up the drive, and soon afterwards the Doctor
came in, who, being made acquainted with Mr. Talcott by the blushing
Amelia, fell into a lively conversation with his visitor, which finally
turning upon the subject of politics, both gentlemen agreed cordially
in lauding the wisdom displayed in Mr. Adams's administration, and
congratulating each other and the country upon the defeat of General
Jackson. After tea, the hired man was sent to fetch Mr. Talcott's horse and
luggage from the inn, and then, it being near sundown, the Doctor put on as
solemn an expression as his merry visage was capable of assuming, took up
the big quarto Bible from its place, on a stand in the corner of the room,
and read a chapter from the New Testament. Then, standing up behind his
arm-chair, he made a hurried prayer, which was evidently one he had got by
heart; for when he endeavored to interpolate an apt allusion to the young
"stranger within his gates," he made such a piece of work of it, that
everybody but the dowager had to bite his lips to keep from smiling. The
brief remainder of the evening was spent in sober conversation. Soon after
nine o'clock the little black girl showed Mr. Talcott up the broad stairway
into the best front chamber, a spacious apartment directly over the parlor,
where he went to bed under a lofty tester canopy, with embroidered curtains
trimmed with lace. After a long reverie, coming to the conclusion that
the downright courtship of a young lady in her father's house was a much
more serious affair than a mere clandestine flirtation with a pretty
school-girl, the young gentleman turned over upon his side and went to
sleep.

The next day, being Sunday, everybody went to meeting, except the Doctor,
who was obliged to ride away upon his round of visits. Accordingly, Mr.
Talcott walked twice to and fro across the green, with Miss Amelia tripping
demurely by his side, and served as the target for a thousand eyeshots as
he stood up at the head of the Doctor's pew during the long prayers.

In the evening, after supper, the Doctor put off his grave Sabbath face
and invited his young guest to walk over to the store, which stood in the
corner of the yard, a little distance off. Presently, Miss Amelia, peeping
from behind her bedroom window-curtain, beheld them sitting together upon
the broad back-stoop of the store, talking and smoking in a most amicable
manner, the fragrant incense of their cigars being wafted across the
intervening space, which was quite too wide, however, to enable her to hear
the words of their earnest conversation. But that night, as she and her
lover sat together alone in the front parlor, after the family had gone to
bed, he told her that her father had consented to his courtship.

But if I am so circumstantial in relating these events, which are merely
introductory to my story, I shall have neither time nor space left for
the story itself. So I will hasten to say, that the upshot of Mr. Edward
Talcott's frequent visits, as might have been expected, was a very splendid
wedding, which took place in the front parlor of the Bugbee mansion, one
evening during the winter after Amelia came nineteen, the bridegroom being
then twenty-three, and just admitted to practice as an attorney-at-law. In
pursuance of a condition which Mrs. Bugbee had proposed, in order to avoid
the pangs of a separation from her child, the young couple remained members
of the Doctor's household; and Mr. Talcott, who, through the influence of
his wife's father, had been taken into partnership with a well-established
attorney, commenced the practice of law at the Hillsdale bar. His partner,
Squire Bramhall, had for many years been clerk of the courts, and was a
sage and prudent counsellor, noted for the careful preparation bestowed
upon his causes before they came to trial. But, in spite of his learning
and industrious painstaking, he used to cut a poor figure at the bar; for
being, though a lawyer, an exceedingly modest and bashful man, he failed to
acquire the habit of addressing either court or jury with ease, fluency, or
force. On the other hand, Squire Talcott, as he soon came to be called, was
a young man of fine appearance and good address, in no wise troubled with
an undue degree of doubt touching the excellence of his own abilities. His
first argument before a jury was a showy and successful effort in behalf
of a person for whom the sympathies of the public were already warmly
enlisted. By this, of course, he won considerable applause. His subsequent
attempts sustained the popular expectation. He began to acquire distinction
as a fluent, persuasive, and even eloquent speaker. A lawyer haranguing a
jury in a densely crowded courtroom fills a much larger space in the public
eye than when, in the solitude of his back-office, he is preparing a brief;
and, as young Squire Talcott used to argue all the cases which his plodding
partner elaborately prepared to his hand, his fame as a wonderfully smart
young lawyer soon began to extend even beyond the limits of the county.
The judges, in other places upon their circuit, spoke of his quick and
brilliant parts, and his apparent learning and familiar acquaintance
with authorities, so unusual at his age. These flattering commendations,
returning to Belfield, came to young Talcott's ears. It would have been
strange if he had not been too much elated by his sudden success in
the practice of a profession in which so very few win a speedy renown.
Forgetful how much of the praise he received was due to his partner's
laborious researches and unobtrusive learning, he suffered his vanity to
lead him astray; becoming discontented with his position, and secretly
repining at the necessity by which he was compelled to remain in an obscure
country town, when, as he imagined, his talents were sufficient to win for
him, unaided, an easy and rapid promotion even at the metropolitan bar.

The Doctor and his wife, as was to be expected, soon got to be proud of
their clever son-in-law. In fact, after the birth of a little girl, an
event by which the honors of grand-paternity were conferred upon the Doctor
when he was but a year or two past forty, Mrs. Bugbee could scarcely tell
which she loved best, her daughter, the baby, or its father.

When little Helen, as the child was named, was just coming three years old,
Mrs. Talcott, being in childbed again, was taken with a fever, and, in
spite of everything which was done to save her, died, and was buried with
her infant on her bosom. I do not need to relate what a grievous stroke
this sad event was to all the household,--nay, I might say to the whole
village as well; for all who knew Amelia loved her, and the praise of the
dead was in everybody's mouth. As for poor Mrs. Bugbee, she sorrowed like
one in despair. Even the worthy parson's pious words, to which she appeared
to listen with passive attention, fell unheeded upon her ear. People began
to shake their heads when her name was mentioned, and to predict that ere
long she would follow her daughter to the grave. At last, however, after
many weeks of close seclusion, she grew more cheerful, and seemed to
transfer all the affection she had borne the dead to the child who survived
her.

Not long after Amelia's death, the secret discontent existing in her
husband's mind, which, if she had lived, would in time, perhaps, have
abated, began instead to increase, and at length he came to talk openly
of departure. The Doctor, perceiving that he was firmly resolved upon the
step, did not seriously endeavor to dissuade him; and even Mrs. Bugbee
could not withhold her consent, when the young widower said, with a
trembling voice, he could not endure to stay in a spot endeared to him by
no other associations than those which continually reminded him of his
grievous loss. One stipulation only the good couple insisted on; namely,
that Amelia's child should be given to them, to be adopted as their own
daughter. Knowing not whither he should go, the father yielded; reflecting
that he could not better promote the welfare of his little girl than by
consenting.

So, a few weeks afterwards, when Edward Talcott bade farewell to Belfield,
the relation of parent and child between him and his little daughter was
completely severed. For though since their first sorrowful parting they
have met more than once, and though long after that mournful day she used
to wear in her bosom a locket containing his miniature and a lock of his
hair, which she used to kiss every night and morning, yet Helen seldom
remembers that the distant stranger is her father, and he forgets to reckon
his first-born among the number of his children.

When he was gone, the child was told that the name of Bugbee was thereafter
to be appended to those she already bore; and being quite pleased with the
notion, she forthwith adopted her new appellative, retaining it for several
years, until (such is the fickle nature of women) she took a fancy to
change it for another which she liked better still. She was also taught
to call her grandparents papa and mamma; and though, while a child, she
continued to address Miss Cornelia by the title of "Aunty," this respectful
custom, as the relative difference between her age and the elder spinster's
gradually diminished, was suffered, at the latter's special request, to
fall into disuse, and give place to the designation of sister. The few
new-comers to Belfield, therefore, were never apt to suspect that Helen
Bugbee was not really the Doctor's own daughter; and even the neighbors
forgot that her name had ever been changed, except when the gossips
sometimes put each other in mind of it.

The older she grew the more Helen resembled her mother, as the ladies
always used to exclaim when they came to take tea with Mrs. Bugbee. Some
of the village folks, who were in the habit, so common with old people, of
thinking that the race is continually degenerating, I have heard express
the opinion that Helen was never so handsome as her mother had been. But I
have seen a portrait of Miss Amelia Bugbee, for which she sat just before
her wedding, and which, I am assured, was, in the time of it, called a
wonderful likeness; I also knew Miss Helen Talcott Bugbee when she was not
far from her mother's age at the time the picture was taken; and though
Miss Amelia must have been a very sweet young lady, of extraordinarily good
looks, I used to think, for my part, that Helen was much handsomer than the
portrait; although people of a different taste might very properly have
preferred the less haughty expression of the face depicted on the canvas.

It was not strange that Helen was petted and humored as much as was well
for her. But her disposition being naturally docile and amiable, she was
not to be easily spoiled. Be that as it may, however, when she had grown to
be a woman, there were, I dare say, no less than fifty young men who knew
her well, any one of whom would have jumped at the chance to get her for a
wife, and made but little account of the risk of her turning out a shrew.
To be sure, when I first knew her, she had rather a high and mighty
way with her, at which some people took offence, calling her proud and
disdainful; but those whom she wished to please never failed to like her;
and I used to observe she seldom put on any of her lofty airs when she
spoke to unpresuming people, especially if they were poor or in humble
circumstances.

Though the indulgence of all her whims and fancies by her doting
grandparents was a danger of no small magnitude, Helen encountered a still
greater peril in the shape of a vast store of novels, poems, and romances,
which Miss Cornelia had accumulated, and to which she was continually
making additions. In that young lady's bedchamber, where Helen slept,
there was a large bookcase full of these seductive volumes; even the upper
shelves of the wardrobe closet, and a cupboard over the mantel, were
closely packed with them; and there was not one of them all which Helen
had not read by the time she was fifteen. Thus, in spite of natural good
sense, strengthened and educated by much wise and wholesome instruction,
she grew up with an imagination quite disproportioned to her other mental
faculties; so that, in some respects, she was almost as romantic in her
notions as her Aunt Cornelia, who, at forty, used to prefer moonlight to
good honest sunshine, and would have heard with an emotion of delight
that the mountains between Belfield and Hartford were infested by a band
of brigands, in picturesque attire, with a handsome chief like Rinaldo
Rinaldini, or haunted by two or three dashing highwaymen, of the genteel
Paul-Clifford style. Indeed, the ideal lover, to whom for many years Miss
Cornelia's heart was constant as the moon, was a tall, dark, mysterious
man, with a heavy beard and glittering eyes, who, there is every reason to
suspect, was either a corsair, a smuggler, or a bandit chief.

I am loath to have it supposed that Helen turned out a silly young woman.
Indeed, it would be wrong to believe so; for she possessed many good parts
and acquirements. But I must confess that her fancy, being naturally
lively, was unduly stimulated by reading too many books of the kind I have
mentioned; and that seeing but little of the world in her tender years, she
learned from their pages to form false and extravagant notions concerning
it. She used to build castles in the air, was subject to fits of tender
melancholy, and, like Miss Cornelia, adored moonlight, pensive music, and
sentimental poetry. But she would have shrunk from contact with a brigand,
in a sugar-loaf hat, with a carbine slung across his shoulder, and a
stiletto in his sash, with precisely the same kind and degree of horror and
disgust that would have affected her in the presence of a vulgar footpad,
in a greasy Scotch-cap, armed with a horse-pistol and a sheath-knife. Her
romantic tastes differed in many respects from her Aunt Cornelia's. She,
too, had an ideal lover; (and for that matter the fickle little maid had
several;) but the special favorite was a charming young fellow, of fair
complexion, with blue eyes, and a light, elegant moustache, his long brown
hair falling down his neck in wavy masses,--tall in stature, athletic, and
yet slim and graceful,--gifted with many accomplishments, with a heart full
of noble qualities, and a brain inspired by genius,--a poet, or an author,
or an artist, perhaps a lawyer merely, but of rare talents, at any rate
a man of superior intellect,--in a word, a paragon, who, when he should
appear upon the earth, incarnate, she expected would conceive a violent
passion for her, in which case, she should take it into consideration
whether to marry him or not.

My inexperience in the art of story-telling must be manifest to everybody;
for here I am talking of Helen, as of a young lady of sixteen or more, with
shy notions of beaux and lovers in her head,--whereas, in point of time,
my story has not advanced by regular stages beyond the period of her
childhood, when she thought more of a single doll in her baby-house, and
held her in higher estimation, than the whole rising generation of the
other sex. I shall resume the thread of my narrative by relating, that,
some two or three years before Miss Cornelia Bugbee, in her journey across
the sands of time, came to the thirtieth mile-stone, she arrived at an
oasis in the desert of her existence; or, to be more explicit, she had the
rare good-fortune to find a heart throbbing in unison with her own,--a
tender bosom in whose fidelity she could safely confide even her most
precious secret; namely, the passion she entertained for the aforementioned
corsair,--a being of congenial soul, whose loving ears could hear and
interpret her lowest whisper and most incoherent murmur, by means of the
subtile instinct of spiritual sympathy,--in fine, a trusty, true, and
confidential friend.

All this, and more, was Miss Laura Stebbins, the youngest sister of Mrs.
Jaynes, who, being suddenly left an orphan, dependent on the charity of her
kindred, came to reside at the parsonage in Belfield. An intimacy forthwith
commenced between the Doctor's daughter and the Parson's sister-in-law,
which ripened speedily into the enduring friendship of which mention has
just been made. There were some who affected to wonder at the ardent
attachment which sprung up between the two young ladies, because, forsooth,
one was but sixteen, and the other eight-and-twenty; as if this slight
disparity in years must necessarily engender a diversity of tastes, fatal
to a budding friendship.

I would fain describe the person of Miss Laura Stebbins, if I could call
to mind any similitudes, whereunto to liken her charms, which have not
been worn out in the service of other people's heroines. To use any but
brand-new comparisons to illustrate graces like hers would be singularly
inappropriate; for she herself always had a bright, fresh look, like some
piece of handiwork just finished by the maker. Her hair was black, glossy,
and abundant. She had large, hazel eyes, full of expression, shaded by
long, black eyelashes, a clear, light-brown complexion, rosy cheeks, small,
even teeth, as white as cocoanut meat, and lips whose color was like the
tint of sealing-wax. There was not a straight line or an angle about her
plump and well-proportioned figure. Her waist was round and full, and yet
appeared so slim between the ravishing curves of her shapely form, above
and below it, that it seemed as if it were fashioned so on purpose to be
embraced.

If Laura had been as wise as she was handsome, some pen more worthy than
mine would have celebrated her wit and beauty. But she was nothing more
than a wild, merry, frolicsome girl, whom, if you knew her, it was very
hard not to like; even her reverend brother-in-law, a very grave personage,
of whom, at first, she stood in no little awe, learned to smile at some of
her very giddiest nonsense, and Mrs. Bugbee's sober reserve, which had been
increased by her domestic afflictions, thawed in the sunshine of Laura's
presence, like snow in the warmth of a bright spring morning. Helen, also,
grew to be extremely fond of Laura, who returned the child's regard in
twofold measure, at least, and yet had love enough to spare wherewith
to answer the immense draughts upon her heart by which Miss Cornelia's
romantic affection was repaid.

It was more than even Miss Cornelia Bugbee could do to transform this gay
creature into a lackadaisical young lady; though, as she tried her very
best to do so, none ought to blame her because she failed of success. All
her stock of novels she lent to Laura, who read them, every one, in secret,
skipping only the dull and didactic pages. That she was not spoiled by
this experiment was due less to the strength of Laura's understanding than
to the liveliness of her temper, which, in this strait, stood her in very
good stead of more solid qualities and a wiser experience. As it was,
she learned to talk in a romantic fashion, longed, above all things, to
grow thin, pretended to sigh frequently, and affected, at times, an air
of pensive thoughtfulness. Her imagination began to be haunted by the
apparition of a brave, gallant, and exceedingly graceful and good-looking
young officer, of rank and high renown, who, she confidently hoped, would
some day appear before her, arrayed in full uniform, with a sword by his
side, and, with all the impetuous ardor of a soldier, throw himself at her
feet and pour forth a declaration of inextinguishable love.

Until Laura was nearly twenty, this phantom in regimentals held exclusive
possession of her bosom, and reigned in that sweet domain without a rival;
for, strange as it may appear, she never had a suitor of real flesh and
blood, until a certain young divinity-student from East Windsor Seminary,
who sometimes of a Sunday when Mr. Jaynes was absent came over to Belfield
to try his hand at preaching, perceived, by sly and stealthy glances at
Laura over the rim of his blue spectacles, how exceeding comely the damsel
was, and firmly resolved to win her for a helpmeet. And even Mr. Elam Hunt
(for that was the pious student's name) seemed scarcely more substantial
than a ghost, so very pale and bloodless was his meagre face, and so lean
and spare his stooping, narrow-chested figure.

This youthful saint was well esteemed by Laura's sister, Mrs. Jaynes, a
sharp-visaged little woman, to whose energetic control her absent-minded,
studious husband surrendered the parsonage and all it contained. Nay,
she even shared his labors in the moral vineyard of his parish; for
while he remained at home among his favorite volumes, she used to go
about from house to house, collecting donations in aid of some one of
the great eleemosynary corporations, whose certificates attesting her
life-membership, all framed and glazed, covered the walls of the parsonage
parlor. Her zeal in this good work was untiring, and she levied tribute to
her favorite charities upon all classes and conditions of her neighbors
with strict impartiality. The poorest widow was not suffered to withhold
her mite, and, wherever she went, the pouting children of the household
were forced to open their money-boxes and tin savings-banks, and bring
forth the hoarded pence with which they had hoped to purchase candy and
toys at Christmas and New Year. The village folks reckoned the cost of her
visits among their annual expenses, and, when she was seen approaching,
made ready, as if a sturdy beggar or a tax-gatherer was at the door.

To have heard this estimable lady, when in private she sometimes rebuked
the failings of her reverend spouse, one would not have supposed that she
regarded him with awful veneration; nevertheless, she magnified his
office greatly. The dignity conferred by ordination she held to be the
highest honor to which a mortal man can possibly attain. Herself adorning
the elevated station of a pastor's wife, she resolved to secure for Laura a
position of equal eminence. When, therefore, she perceived that her sister
had found favor in the eyes of Mr. Elam Hunt, she gave the bashful student
frequent opportunities to speak his mind; and when, at last, he ventured
in private to tell her of the flame which warmed his breast with a
gentle glow, quite unlike that fervent heat by which the hearts of more
impassioned, worldly-minded swains are apt to be tortured and consumed, she
assuaged his pangs of doubt by encouraging assurances of her countenance
and favor. In the mean time she resolved to guard against every
misadventure by which the successful termination of his suit might be
prevented or imperilled.

This was by no means an easy thing to do; for Laura, at twenty, though an
orphan, without a penny to buy even so much as a dozen teaspoons for a
setting-out, was not a girl that would have been apt to lack for lovers, if
she had had a fair chance to get them. As I have already told you, she was
as sweet and as pretty as a pink full of dewdrops, and might have picked
out a sweetheart from as many beaux as she had fingers and thumbs, but that
her vigilant duenna, Mrs. Jaynes, kept the young fellows beyond courting
distance. It was impossible, even for this shrewd and discreet lady, so
to manage, without danger of giving offence, as to prevent Laura from
associating with the other young folks of the parish; and indeed, to do
her justice, she was not so austerely strict that she desired her sister
to abstain from all social intercourse with those of her own age, sex, and
condition. On the contrary, as the reader already knows, she was permitted
to cherish a tender and devoted friendship for Miss Cornelia Bugbee; and
there were several other young ladies, whose brothers were only little
boys, with whom she was on the most amicable and familiar terms.

But by means of various arts and devices Mrs. Jaynes contrived to keep the
young men from becoming too intimate with her pretty sister; although some
of them had vainly endeavored to be more than neighborly. If one ventured
to call at the parsonage, Mrs. Jaynes was always in the parlor, with Laura,
to receive him, and sat there, grimly, on the sofa, as long as he staid;
taking a part in the conversation, which she generally managed to turn upon
the most grave and serious topics. The benighted condition of the heathen
was a favorite subject of discourse with her, upon these occasions; and the
visitor was a lucky youth, if he escaped without making, upon the spot,
a cash contribution to the worthy cause of foreign missions. If Laura
was invited to ride or to walk with a gentleman, Mrs. Jaynes always had a
plausible pretext for objecting. It was either too hot, or too cold, or
too damp, or too dusty, or there was sure to be some other reason, equally
sufficient, for withholding her consent. As for balls and cotillon parties,
the most enterprising and audacious youngster of them all would have
quailed at the idea of facing the parson's wife with a request to take her
sister to such a place. At last the report got wind that Mrs. Jaynes was
saving Laura for Mr. Elam Hunt, until such time as, having finished his
course of study at East Windsor, he should be ordained and settled in a
parish of his own, and ready to take to himself a wife. To be sure, it did
not seem that Laura was of the right sort of temper for a minister's sober
helpmeet; nevertheless, this rumor gained credit, and very soon came to
be believed by many of the neighbors. Mrs. Jaynes, it was noticed, would
never contradict the story, though, to be sure, Laura herself always did,
whenever she had a chance to do so. Indeed, she was often heard to declare,
with great vehemence and apparent sincerity, that she would as lief be
buried alive as marry that living skeleton,--by which scandalous epithet
she designated the lean and reverend youth from East Windsor. Some people
who heard these protestations let them go for naught, giving them all the
less heed on account of their violence, or, perhaps, being even confirmed
in the belief of what she so earnestly denied. For it is a very common
artifice with young women to pretend a strong aversion for their most
favored lovers, and to feign an utter dislike and abhorrence for the very
persons whom they love most fondly. Others, however, gave credit to her
passionate declarations, and believed that she recoiled from the idea of
marrying the lank young student with unfeigned repugnance and disgust.
Between people holding these diverse opinions discussions would sometimes
arise, especially at meetings of the Dorcas Society, when neither Laura
nor Mrs. Jaynes was present. But, just at this juncture, an event occurred
which gave a new direction to the current of village gossip, setting every
member of the Dorcas sisterhood all agape with wonder and surprise, and all
agog with excitement and curiosity. Of this strange and memorable affair I
will presently give a veritable account, and even show the reader how it
came to pass. But in the mean time the fortunes of the Bugbee family demand
my brief attention.

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