She and I, Volume 1

by John C. Hutcheson

  CHAPTER THIRTEEN.

  "GOOD-NIGHT!"

  Era gia l'ora che volge 'l disio, A' naviganti e 'ntenerisce il cuore, Lo di ch' ban detto a' dolci amici addio, E che lo nuova peregrin d'amore Punge, se ode Squilla di lontano, Che paja 'l giorno pianger che si muore!

  "Parting is such sweet sorrow, That I could say good-night till it be morrow!"

  We were sitting side by side, Min and I, leaning over the gunwale of the"gondola" which was rapidly gliding down the river; the stream being inour favour, and our teamster on the towing path keeping his horse up toa brisk trot, that caused us to proceed at a faster rate than we couldhave pulled even a lighter boat.

  It was a lovely summer night, calm and still, with hardly a breath ofwind in the air; although, it was not at all unpleasantly close oroppressive.

  A bright crescent moon was shining, touching up the trees that skirtedthe bank with a flood of silvery-azure light, that brought out each twigand particle of foliage in strong relief, and cast their trunks inshade; while, the surface of the water, unstirred by the slightestripple, gleamed like a mirror of burnished steel, winding in and out, inits serpentine course, between masses of dense shadow--until it was lostto sight in the distance, behind a sudden bend, and a dark projectingclump of willows and undergrowth.

  Our boat seemed to be the only floating thing for miles!

  Had it not been for an occasional twinkle from the far-off window ofsome riparian villa, and the "whish" of a startled swan as it swervedaside to allow the boat to sweep by, we might easily have imaginedourselves traversing the bosom of one of those vast, solitary rivers ofthe wilderness across the sea.

  The children were nearly all asleep, tired out with happiness in excess;and, most of us were silent, being awed by the beauty of the eveninginto voiceless admiration.

  A little girl near us, wakeful still, was breaking one of the daisy-chains that Min had woven her at Richmond, and casting the pieces one byone into the current as it hurried along:--the daisy cups sometimeskeeping pace with us, as our tow-rope slackened, and then fallingastern, on our horse trotting ahead once more.

  "Don't you remember," said I to Min, "those lines of Schiller's _DerJungling am Bache_? They seem appropriate to that little incident,"--Icontinued, pointing to the small toddlekin, who was destroying thedaisy-chain:--

  "`An der Quelle sass der Knabe Blumen wand er sich zum Kranz, Und er sah sie fortgerissen Treiben in den wellen Tanz. Und so fleihen meine Tage, Wie die quelle rastlos hin! Und so bleichet meine Jugend, Wie die Kranze schnell verbluhn!'"

  "They are very pretty," said Min. "Still, do you know, as a rule I donot think German poetry nice. It always sounds so harsh and guttural tome, however tender and sentimental the words may be."

  "That may be true in some respects," I answered; "but if you hear itwell read, or sung, there is much more pathos and softness about it thanone is able to discern when simply skimming it over to oneself. Some ofGoethe's little ballads, for instance, such as `The Erl King,' andothers that Walter Scott has translated, are wonderfully beautiful; notto speak of Uhland's poetry, and La Motte Fouque's charming _Undine_,which is as pretty a poem as I have ever read."

  "I confess," said Min, "that I have not had any general experience ofGerman literature. Indeed, I have quite neglected it since I leftschool; and then I only studied heavy books--such as _The History ofFrederick the Great_, that wearisome _Jungfrau von Orleans_, and othersof Schiller's plays."

  "Ah!" I replied, "that accounts for it, then. The more you readGerman, the more you will like it. I think our schoolmasters andschoolmistresses make a great mistake, generally, in the books theyselect for the instruction and familiarising of their pupils withforeign languages. They appear, really, to choose the driest authorsthey can pick out! If I had anything to do with `teaching the youngidea how to shoot,' I should adopt a very different plan."

  "Dear me!" she exclaimed, laughing. "I can fancy I see you, a grim oldpedagogue, with a pair of horn-rimmed spectacles and a snuff-colouredcoat! What would be your new system, Mr Professor?"

  "Well," said I, "in the first place, I should not dream of putting bookslike Schiller's dramas into their hands, as is the ordinary course,before they were able to translate pretty fluently, gathering the senseof what they read without the aid of a dictionary. I say nothingagainst the masterpieces of the great German classic. I like Schiller,myself. But, what boy or girl can appreciate the poetry of hisdescriptions, and the grandeur of his verse, when every second word theymeet with is a stumbling-block, that has to be sought out diligently inthe lexicon ere they can understand the context? Instead of thisinculcating a love for what they read, it breeds disgust. Even now, Iconfess, I cannot take an interest in _William Tell_, just because he,and his fellow Switzers, of Uri and elsewhere, will always be associatedin my mind with so many lines of translation and repetition that I hadto learn by heart at school."

  "But, what would you give your pupils to study in lieu of such works?"she asked.

  "Vividly interesting stories--novels, if you like--in the language theyhad to learn. Not short pieces, or `elegant extracts;' but, good, longtales of thrilling adventure and well worked-up plots, whose interest,and the desire to know what was coming next, would make them read on andstammer out the sense, until they reached the denouement. And, if itshould be objected that German and French novels are not exactly whatyou would place before young children for study, I would retort, that,the majority of the works of our best authors are now translated intoboth those languages almost as soon as they are published over here; letthem read those! However, you were saying that you did not think Germanpoetry pleasing or euphonious?"

  "No," she said, "I do not; although, it may be owing to what you haveremarked, that school study has given me a distaste for it. Still, youhave now made me wish that I knew more of it. I think I will take it upagain; and, perhaps, Mr Professor, under your tuition, I may learnbetter to like it."

  "I should be only too glad, Min," I said, "to unfold its beauties toyou; but, I'm the worst teacher in the world, and too impatient ofblunders. Yet, I don't think I could be a very hard master to _you_" Iadded, lowering my voice to a whisper.

  "Couldn't you?" she said. "I don't know about that, Master Frank! Iwell remember a particular evening, and my birthday party; and how acertain gentleman--whom I won't name--behaved then and since."

  "Oh! Haven't you forgiven me yet, Min?" I exclaimed. "I thought--"

  "Don't mind about that," she said, hurriedly.--"Go on with what you weretelling me concerning German; the others will hear you! Do you thinkthe language soft?"

  "I can't say exactly that it _is_ as soft as our own," I proceeded tosay, for the benefit of Miss Spight, who appeared to be listening to ourconversation.--"But, a good many people, who call the Teuton tongueuncouth, seem to forget its close resemblance both in style andexpression, to English. Either language can be rendered in thevernacular of the other, without losing its force or even sound; andthat is more than can be said for French or Italian. Shakspeare, forinstance, in German, is almost equally as telling and forcible asShakspeare in English; while, in French--Bah! you should just hear it as_once_ I heard it, and you would laugh! Indeed, if we are strictlylogical on the point of the euphony of language, the Italian dialect,which we deem so soft and liquid, sounds quite harsh, I'm told, incomparison with the labial syllables that the Polynesian islanders usein the South Seas."

  We then relapsed into silence again, Min still leaning over the side ofthe boat and dipping her fingers in the limpid, silvery water, whichsparkled with gem-like coruscations of light as she stirred it to andfro.

  At Mortlake she splashed a shower of sprinkling pearls over an irateswan pater-familias, who had hurried out from the alders, to see whatbusiness we meant by coming at that time of night so near the domain ofMrs Swan and her cygnet progeny. We were both much amused at thefierce air with which he advanced, as if to eat us all up; and then, hisprecipitate retreat,
on getting wetted so unceremoniously. He turnedtail at once; and, propelling himself away with vigorous strokes of hiswebbed sculls, made the water foam from his prow-like curving neck,leaving a broad wake behind him of glistening sheen.

  "What a nice day we have had," said Min, presently. "All has gone offso well, without a hitch. We have had such a nice talk, too. Why isit, I wonder," she continued, musingly, "that ordinary conversation isgenerally so empty and silly? Gentlemen appear to believe that ladiesknow nothing but about balls, and dancing, and the weather, and croquet!I do not mean, when we are all talking together, as to-day; but, whenone is alone with them, and not one of a circle of talkers, they neversay anything of any depth and reflection. Perhaps, when I go out, it ismy fate to meet with exceptional partners at parties. But, I declare,they never utter a sensible remark! I suppose they think me verystupid, and not worth the trouble of seriously conversing to. Really, Iimagine that gentlemen believe all girls to belong to an inferior orderof intellect; and fancy that it is necessary for them to descend fromtheir god-like level, in order to talk to them about such senselesstrivialities as they think suited to their age and sex!"

  "Perhaps it is not all the fault of the men," said I. "They areprobably bashful, as most of us are."

  "Bashful?" she replied; "I like that, Master Frank. Why, you are all amost intolerable set of conceited mortals! No, it is not that:--it is,because the `lords of creation' think us beneath the notice of theirsuperior minds."--And she tossed her little head proudly.

  "Well, then," I said, "your duty is to draw us out. Many men arediffident of speaking earnestly and showing their feelings, from thefear of being laughed at, or ridiculed, as solemn prigs and book-worms.Ladies should think of this, and encourage us."

  "Yet, some of you," she replied, undauntedly, "are not so reticent andretiring. There is Mr Mawley, for instance. He always talks to meabout literature and art, and politics, too--although I do not care muchabout _them_--just as if I were a man like himself, and blessed with thesame understanding!"

  "Oh," said I, "the curate is usually fond of hearing himself talk!"

  "You need not abuse poor Mr Mawley," she said, laughing. "`Those wholive in glass houses,' you know, `should not throw stones!' _You_ are,also, not averse to airing your opinions, Master Frank! But, don't getangry--" she continued, as I slightly withdrew from her side, inmomentary pique at hearing the curate's part taken.--"I like to hear youtalk of such things, Frank, far better than if you only spoke to me ofcommonplace matters, as most gentlemen do, or dosed me with flattery,which I detest!"

  "I do not talk so to _everybody_,"--I said, meaningly, coming closer toher again and taking one of her hands captive.--"Do you know why I liketo let you know my deeper thoughts, Min, and learn more of my innernature than others?" I whispered, bending over her.

  "N-o!" she said, faintly, turning away her head.

  "Because, Min--" I said, hesitatingly, almost abashed at my ownrashness--"because, I--I--love you!"

  She said nothing in reply; but she bent her head lower, so that I couldnot see her face; and, the little hand I held, trembled in my grasp.

  At this point, too, our conversation was interrupted by the vicar askingBessie Dasher and her sister to start the "Canadian Boat Song," in whichwe all joined in harmony:--the music, borne far and wide over theexpanse of resonant water, sounding like some fairy chorus of yellow-haired sea-maidens, singing fathoms deep below in ocean caves!

  When I was seeing her home, however, after we had all arrived at thevicarage, and separated severally with a cheerful "good-night," I wasable to prosecute my wooing.

  We were walking along side by side--she declined taking my arm, beingshy, and quite unlike the frank, straightforward Min whom I had beforeknown. I was not downhearted at this change, though:--I really feltshy, and nervous, myself!

  As soon as we had got a safe distance from the others, and there was nofear of being overheard in the stillness of the night, I again spoke toher.

  "Min," I said, "do you remember what I said to you just now when we wereon the river?"

  She made no answer; but, quickening her steps, walked on hurriedly, Istill keeping pace by her side.

  "Min, my darling," I said once more, "I love you dearer than life.Won't you try to like me a little in return? Won't you listen to me?Won't you hear me?"

  "O-oh, Frank!" she exclaimed.

  "Ever since I first saw you in church, so many long months ago, Min, Ihave thought of you, dreamt of you, loved you!"--I proceeded,passionately.--"O, my darling! my darling! won't you try and like me alittle; or, have I been deceived in thinking that you could care forme?"

  "I _do_ like you, Frank," she said, softly, laying her little hand on myarm.

  I seized it in transport, and put it within my arm proudly.

  "Sweet!" I said, "_liking_ alone will not do for me! You must learn tolove me, darling, as I love you! Will it be very hard?"

  "I don't know, Frank, I can try," she said, demurely; looking up at mewith her deep, grey eyes, which, now suffused with a tender love-light,had a greater charm for me than ever.

  I felt as if I were walking on air!

  After a little pause, during which we both walked on slowly, I too happyto speak, Min squeezed my arm.

  "Do you then love me so _very_ much, Frank?" she said; and, there was awistful look in her eyes, an earnest pathos in her voice, that touchedme to the heart.

  "Love you, Min? I adore you! I dote on you! I worship the very groundyou walk on; and, if you were cruel to me, I think I would die to-morrow!"

  "Poor fellow!" she said, pressing closer to my side.

  "O, Min,"--I went on,--"if you only knew the agony I have suffered inthinking that you cared for some one else! I love you so much, that Iam jealous of every word you speak, every glance of your darling eyeswhich is not directed to me. I envied my very dog the other day becauseyou caressed him!"

  "What!" she exclaimed, "Jealous of poor Catch! Do you know, Frank, thatmade me ove you first, your fondness for your dog and little DickyChips!"

  "You _do_ love me, then? O, Min, my darling!" I exclaimed in ecstasy.

  "I didn't say so, did I?" she said, saucily. "Well, then," I entreated,"say it now, sweet! Say that you love me, my darling!"

  "You are much too exacting, sir!"--she said, drawing herself up with theair of a haughty little Empress.--"I must consider your petition first."

  "But you _do_ love me, darling; so why cannot you say it? Tell me, pet,`Frank, I love you;' and, you'll make me happy for ever!" I pleaded.

  "I _shan't_ be ordered," she said, with a piquante coquetry which madeher appear all the more winning.--"I'm not going to tell you anything ofthe kind, for I won't be dictated to; but, I'll say `I love you, Frank.'There! sir, will that please your lordship, although it is not in theexact words you have asked me?"--and she made a pretty little gesture ofaffected disdain.

  "O Min, my love! my pet! my darling!"--said I, rapturously--

  I stopped, breathless with emotion. I could not get out a word more!

  We had now reached her door, and she said she must go in. I persuadedher, however, to wait a little while longer before she knocked, as Icould not say `Good-night' yet. Parting was too hard, though sweet.So, we talked on in whispers to one another for some minutes--it mayhave been hours, for all I know to the contrary--what might be to youonly a lot of uninteresting talk, but, what was heaven to me!

  "Good-night, Frank!" Min said at length. "I really must go in now, ormamma will think me lost. And, O Frank!" she exclaimed in alarm, as thesudden thought struck her--"what _will_ she say when she hears of this!"

  "Oh, never mind thinking of that now!" I said. "I will come round to-morrow afternoon, sweet, and ask her whether I may be allowed to hope,and win you for my own dear, darling little wife!"

  We were standing close together in the porch, just under the gas-light.I was gazing into her eyes, which seemed to me ever so much brighterthan the light of t
he lamp above us, or the stars overhead.

  The little ear next me got quite pink.

  She quickly bent down her head in confusion.

  "You mustn't call me names, Frank!" she said. "I won't have it, sir! Iwon't have it! You have no right!"

  I clasped her little hand firmly in mine.

  "This belongs to me now, darling, does it not? You _will_ be my owndarling little wife, won't you?" I repeated.

  She said nothing, but, after a moment, she raised her face to mine; and,as I bent down my head, and looked into her very soul, through the deep,honest, trusting, loving, grey eyes, our lips met in one long thrillingkiss.

  It was a foretaste of paradise!

  END OF FIRST VOLUME.