CHAPTER X.

THE ROMANCE OF A POOR OLD MAID.

If ever a man had reason to be disappointed at the ways of Providence, that man was Mark Small, owner of the mill, whose earthly possessions had vanished in fire and smoke. Twenty years before, he had wandered over from Foxtown, a sunburnt lad, with all his wardrobe--a cotton shirt, homespun pants, and a straw hat, stuck loosely upon his thin frame,--and the sad recollection of the death-bed of his father, a dissipated laborer, firmly fixed in his memory. In search of a job he stumbled into Capt. Thompson’s kitchen, where he was treated to a good, warm meal, and afterwards given charge of the captain’s “cattle;” _i. e._ a lively young horse, and a quiet, orderly cow,--for the captain’s domestic establishment was then on a very small scale. This work contented him for five years; when a desire to become a tin-peddler, induced the captain to equip him with a horse and wagon, and to set him off upon his travels. A very promising year at this business was ended by the disappearance of his whole stock from the breaking of a bridge; and the bankruptcy of that concern was the consequence. Then he tried book-peddling with considerable success, until one night the barn, in which he and his library had taken shelter from a storm, was struck by lightning and burned; he barely escaping with his life. Then he took to farming;--cut his leg with a scythe, and was laid up all winter. So fast failures followed all his attempts to rise in the world, that he jestingly asserted he must have been named Mark, that misfortune might make no mistake in marking him for its victim. At length he sought employment at the paper mill, where he prospered; and in time, by careful saving and shrewd management, was able to purchase the whole concern. And now fire had again made him penniless. Yet he sat there, lounging on a stone, humming a tune, and whittling a stick, as the twilight was gathering, and the flickering flames dying out of all that remained of his earthly possessions. He was a tall, thin man, with hollow cheeks, a ring of grizzled beard encircling his throat, a long, sharp nose, and a pair of rambling, piercing eyes, which were now fastened upon the fast blackening heap before him. So deeply was he interested in the last flashes of his expiring treasures, that he was unconscious of the approach of footsteps, until a hand was laid upon his shoulder.

“Mark, if it wasn’t the Lord’s doings, I should say that you’re the worst treated man in Cleverly.”

Mark started, and turned to see the sharp eyes of Hulda Prime looking into his eagerly. He was not quite sure, but he thought they looked moist and watery.

“Yes, Hulda, the old tune’s struck up again,”--by which Mark meant his old follower, misfortune--“I’d kinder lost the hang of it, so long since I’ve heeded it, but now it seems jist as natral as ‘auld lang syne.’”

“Mark, I’m real sorry for you. I don’t know as I’m welcome, but I couldn’t help putting on my bunnet and coming over to see you, if ’twas only for the sake of ‘auld lang syne’ you tell about.”

“Well, it’s real kind of you, Hulda; something I couldn’t expect; for I hain’t treated you jest right, nohow.”

Aunt Hulda shivered; it couldn’t be with cold, for the warmth of the failing embers was still powerful.

“Seems queer you should drop down on me jest then, Hulda; for I’ve been kinder lookin’ back, and jest when you put your hand on my shoulder, I was thinkin’ of that day when horse, wagon, tin-ware and peddler, went through the bridge together.”

Aunt Hulda shivered again, and somehow managed to slip down by Small’s side. He took no notice of the circumstance, but went on.

“Yes, you were stopping with Mrs. Johnson, helping her with her thanksgiving. You were a smart girl those days. Not handsome, but kinder good, wholesome lookin’. Don’t you remember my coming round to the kitchen and jokin’ you about Cyrus Cheever, who was kinder makin’ up to you; and I sung out to you, ‘Don’t have him, Hulda, wait for me. I’ll call when I come back, and pop the question.’ But I drove off and popped through the bridge. Don’t you remember it?”

Hulda Prime answered not. Her elbows were on her knees, her chin in her hand, her eyes looking into the gleaming ruins, where broken walls and twisted machinery, stood as monuments of destruction.

Remember it! had she not waited for that return? had she not taken to heart those playful words? And out of them woven a bright dream, and built upon it year by year, the only romance of her solitary life.

“I meant it, Hulda, true as gospel I meant it.”

Hulda’s old heart gave a bound. It was no jest after all.

“Yes, if it hadn’t been for that accident, I should have come back and asked you Hulda, true as preaching. But the old tune struck up, and ’twas no use trying to get up a wedding-dance to such music as that. And then when I got in luck again, somehow, I kinder got stuck up, and got used to being my own master; but I did keep kinder thinkin’ on you. But what’s the use of my tellin’ you all this? we’ve got by, all that nonsense, and I’m flat on by back agin, and as ‘poor as a puddock.’ I don’t s’pose it’s very manly in me to go confessing this thing now; but I’ve kinder felt mean about it, and your comin’, so cleverly and neighborly like, when I’ve nobody to feel sorry for me, has sorter made me do it.”

Mark Small shifted about uneasily in his seat, and whittled very briskly, and tried to whistle; but he found it hard to “pucker,” and could not muster a note.

Aunt Hulda shivered, and looked off into the ruins; and nursed her chin in her hand, and thought, “‘We’ve got by all that nonsense,’ have we?” Perhaps he had. She had not. No! Mark Small had been the idol of her younger days--her hero--by no means a handsome one; neither brave or gifted; yet she had loved him dearly, without any hope of being his wife, and now to find that he had thought of her, had wished to marry her, was happiness enough to pay for all the waiting, though they might never come any nearer to each other,--though, as he said, “they had got by all that nonsense.”

She spoke at last.

“Mark, I’m glad you told me this. You needn’t be ashamed of it, neither. It’s a manly thing for you to do. It’s wiped out some hard thoughts I’ve had of you; for I want you to understand that if you’d come back then, Cyrus Cheever, or any other man, would have been no consequence at all.”

And because all that nonsense had died out, Hulda’s hand fell upon Mark’s, and the ruined paper maker dropped his knife, and clasped it; and both gazed wistfully into the ruins, as the twilight darkened, and the fires burned dimmer.

“Mark, I am so sorry for you. What will you do now? Your mill is ruined. ’Twill take a heap of money to build it up again.”

“I don’t know, Hulda; but I ain’t a bit scart. I’ve begun too many times at the bottom of the ladder, to give up now.”

“Trust in the Lord, Mark, trust in the Lord.”

“That’s good, pious doctrine, Hulda, but I’m kinder unsteady on religious pints, and I think the Lord does the handsome thing, when he gives us this world, with all its fruits and products, and store of materials to work and weave, and brains to think, and arms to work; and we serve him best when we take all this, on trust, and turn it over, and work it up, and do the very best we can, givin’ him the glory. That’s my religion, Hulda, and I mean to live by it. And if I can do that, I ain’t afraid it won’t carry me over the river. I ain’t agoin’ to trouble him to set me goin’, but jest look ’round, find suthin’ to do, and then pitch in with a will.”

Hulda groaned in spirit, but kept her lips fast closed. This was not exactly what Parson Arnold preached, and the self-reliant religion of Mark Small, had a shade of blasphemy to her orthodox ears.

“Hulda, I wouldn’t sit here any longer if I were you. It’s getting dark and cold. I’ll walk down the road with you. It’s good of you to come, and I think I feel better for getting to be good friends with you again. I thought the old feelin’ had died out, but it hain’t, and if ever I get on my feet agen,--”

“Is that you, Mark Small?”

A burly form came between them and the light. Hulda recognized it, and sprang to her feet. Captain Thompson, the last man she expected to meet stood before them. She darted back of Mark Small, out of the light. The captain took no notice of her, supposing her one of the employees of the mill.

“Yes, Captain, here I am, watching the remains. The old mill’s done for--and so am I.”

The captain came forward with outstretched hands.

“Mark, I am sorry for you. If it had been one of my ships, I couldn’t have felt worse. I’ve been out of town all day. Just heard of it. Swept clean away, hey?”

“Yes, Captain, all gone. Some of the machinery might be saved, but it can do no good. What’s the use of a horse, if you can’t get a stable for him?”

“Well, the first thing to do is to build a stable for your iron horses.”

“It’s easy enough to talk, but where’s the money coming from?”

“How much will it take to set the mill agoing again?”

“Ten thousand dollars,” said Mark, with a very faint whistle.

“Ten thousand dollars!” echoed the captain, with a louder whistle. “Any insurance?”

“Not a cent’s worth!” said Mark; “it’s too risky. You see a little combustible cotton has swept away my fortune in a couple of hours.”

“Nobody hurt, was there?” queried the captain.

“No. Thanks to brave little Becky Sleeper, even the little cripple was got out. That’s a brave girl, Captain. She’ll be the town talk to-morrow. Her skill in climbing and lifting stood her friend to-day. She’s a wide-awake Sleeper. Pity we hadn’t more tomboys like her about.”

“She of any use? you surprise me, Mark.”

Hulda drew a step nearer. With her pet for a subject, the conversation was becoming interesting.

“Yes, while the building was in flames, she dragged Jenny York to the roof, and lowered her to the ground;” and Small related the adventure, painting in glowing colors the heroism of Becky Sleeper.

“Well, well,” said the captain at the close of the narrative, “I’m glad she’s done something to redeem her bad character.”

Hulda Prime took another step forward, and clenched her fist. The captain never knew how narrowly he escaped an assault. “The ugly brute!” she thought, “he should repent that speech.” But remembering she had no right to interfere in that place, she smothered her ruffled feelings, and listened.

“And you say ten thousand dollars would be required to rebuild the mill. A big sum, a very big sum;” and the captain rubbed his hand thoughtfully.

“Yes, the stock’s gone clean; but my agent in Boston would fill me up, if I could only get the mill on its legs again.”

“Hem! pays good profit, hey?” asked the captain.

“Splendid! I had a customer for all I could make. Might rebuild on shares with my agents. I guess they’d come down with five thousand, if I could show the other five.”

“Would they,” said the captain, lighting up, “then you’re all right, Small. All right! build it up and set it agoing.”

“Yes, but where’s my five thousand coming from?”

“Out of my pocket, Small. ’Tain’t the first time I’ve set you up in business. And though you’ve failed many times, I’ve never lost a cent. You’ve paid me up principal and interest. And the money’s yours, when you want it to set things agoing. And if your agents won’t go in with you, why, I will; though where so much money’s coming from, I can’t exactly see.”

Small sprang to his feet, with eyes full of tears.

“Captain Thompson, you’re a friend worth having; you’ve put new life into me. I thought my best friend was gone when the old mill burnt; but I’m all right now.” And he seized Captain Thompson’s hand and shook it warmly.

“That’s all right, Small. Don’t say any more about it. And don’t let it leak out; I don’t like to have my doings known.”

“But they shall be known, you ugly old angel,” cried Hulda Prime, pouncing upon the Captain, and shaking his hand with energy.

“Hulda Prime, you here!” cried the astonished Captain; backing away and endeavoring to release his hand,--

“Yes, and I bless the Lord I am here, to see such a noble spirit. Captain Thompson, I’ve said hard things about you, and to your face, too; but I take ’em all back,--except about Harry--that I will stick to.”

Remembering what had been said about Harry, the Captain was not well pleased at the reservation.

“Miss Prime, I am surprised to find you here,” began he, sternly.

“Well, you needn’t be. Mark Small and I are old friends, and so I ran over to console him and bid him trust in the Lord. And I guess he did, after all, for nobody else could have sent you here just in the nick of time. You’re just splendid. Folks round here pity Miss Thompson because she’s got such a brute of a husband. But they needn’t. You’re just as good as you can be, and I’ve a great mind to hug you.”

The Captain grew red, and the Captain grew pale. He never felt in such deadly peril before.

“Come, Captain, shake hands and forgive me.”

She stretched out her hand. The Captain hesitated--then took it.

“You’ll never regret this night’s work as long as you live,--never! And I’ll never go to sleep at night without a prayer for Captain Thompson.”

“Pray as much as you please, Hulda; I shall need it all. But if we are to be friends, not a word of what has been said to-night, in Cleverly. You understand?”

“If you insist on hiding your light under a bushel, I’m not mean enough to kick it over without your consent. But it’s a shame. Everybody ought to know what a good man you are.”

The Captain turned on his heel. “Good night, Hulda! Good night, Mark! I’ll see you in the morning.”

“Good night, Captain! You’ve made my sleep hearty to-night,” cried Small.

“Good night, Captain. God bless you!” cried Hulda. And so they parted.

The Captain laughed to himself, as he marched into the road; but there he met his son Harry. He pulled his hat over his eyes, and without recognition passed him by as he would a stranger.

“The Lord sent him, Mark, to-night, you believe that?” said Hulda, as the Captain disappeared.

“The Lord put a noble heart in his breast, and it turned him toward the old mill. It’s the same thing, Hulda; but you and I look at it in a different light. Now I’ll beau you home. You don’t get a beau every night, Hulda.”

“I never wanted but one, and he never happened along until to-night.”

They laughed merrily and started off, arm in arm, only a few steps, and they came plump upon Harry Thompson.

“Hullo! Small, is that you? I came up to offer a little friendly consolation, but you seem in good spirits. What, Aunt Hulda, you here! What’s the meaning of this?” and Harry for once, looked very sober.

“The fire is all out, Harry,” said Small, confused.

“Is it?” said Harry, “There’s no danger of its rekindling.” He looked hard at Aunt Hulda. He could not understand the situation. Until now, he supposed the two were strangers. Their confused manner was a puzzle, too.

“There’s no vestige of a flame there,” said Small, “not a spark. All dead and gone.”

Harry looked as though there was a flame very near to Small, but said nothing about it.

“I just ran up to look after you, Small, to see that you did not get down in the mouth, and to say for my mother, that if you need help, there’s money in her purse at your command. Good night! Look out for the sparks, Aunt Hulda.” And with a laugh he turned on his heel and walked away.

“Wonder if the Lord sent him?” growled Mark. Aunt Hulda said nothing. The situation in which she found herself, was very awkward, and she trudged along with her arm in Mark’s, very much like a lamb led to slaughter. This could not continue long however, and e’er they reached the Sleeper place, their tongues were loosened, and they found themselves building castles as airy and fleecy as lovers are accustomed to shape in the years allotted to youth and romance.