A House of Entertainment
I.
THE road upon which Holcroft’s Tavern stood was a disused turnpike. Years ago, when it was made, it ran straight as a railroad on its unbending way to the city, forty miles to the eastward. Not far from the tavern it encountered a slate quarry, cut it in two instead of avoiding it, then entered the woods, and, crossing the wet intervale upon an embankment made just wide enough, was carried by a bridge over the river, and climbed the hills on the other side. Then there were toll-gates, and a thriving business was done. Now it is not easy to tell where the road ran. By the tavern it has become obliterated in a wider, more pliant road, which winds and bends, in deference to houses and farms, this way and that; the slate quarry, abandoned since, had yet vigor enough to cover the old road-bed with slate chips, and in one place drown it under a stagnant pool; where once it emerged from the quarry is now a buckwheat field, and though its course can be tracked by a grassy wood-road which leads thence to the river, it cannot be long before that part also is reclaimed by nature. I went down the wood - road yesterday, and just made out the rude abutments of the long since ruined bridge; in rambling upon the hill beyond I stumbled once on a piece of the old turnpike, with a sign warning people that it was not for public travel. The road that once was a great public thoroughfare now begins nowhere and ends nowhere.
At intervals upon the turnpike stood solitary houses of entertainment, which drew all their nourishment from the dusty stream that flowed past, and so became, when that was drawn off, very weak and helpless. One sees great rambling buildings which may have looked hospitable enough to the tired traveler or drover, but now are suspected of being the resort of gangs of thieves; large barns, with weakness in their joints, stand heavily about, their capacity rendered impertinent by the emptiness that reigns there; long sheds, with roofs that rise and sink as if a perpetual sigh had taken possession of them, are in readiness for the wagons and horses that were long since transformed into freight cars and locomotives, — when the railroad, carried through this part of the country, extinguished the turnpike; and a sturdy pole stands, stiffly skewered at the top by iron rods, from which once swung and creaked a sign in token of the good cheer to be found within the house. The only part of the old establishment grown thrifty with age is the environment of oaks and elms, which throw a grateful shade over the buildings and hide the infirmities of a pride that sinks lower year by year.
Holcroft’s Tavern was one of these roadside inns; not, indeed, a prominent one, but rather a baiting-place. It had kept its name through various vicissitudes, even after it had ceased to afford slender entertainment to man or beast. It was at one of the loneliest places on the old turnpike; at its back were some shy woods that crept with increasing confidence nearer the house each year, and had little fear of being discovered, for very few people passed in front. The innkeeper and owner worked his meagre farm and kept the ghostly show of an inn, but the misfortunes of the house easily passed upon the family within, and one after another dropped away to join the procession of travelers who never used the turnpike. It had long been wholly closed, when it was opened one day to admit the law, that unwelcome guest that so often comes as undertaker when good fortune has died in a family.
The inn was the only property which could be found in the possession of a certain scampish son of the old innkeeper, when his pockets were turned inside out in the, chance of finding stray coin to satisfy just claims. Notice was accordingly given of a sheriff’s sale of the house and land, the barns and outhouses, and all the furniture and agricultural implements and what not to be found on the premises. There was a small gathering of farmers and their wives and idlers of both sexes on the day of the sale. The women went cautiously through the cobwebbed rooms, holding their skirts about them, properly shocked at the lamentable neglect that prevailed, while their lords walked about the barns and sheds, scoffing at the remains of what had once been industrious tools and serviceable vehicles; but when the hour of sale came, it appeared that there had been some shrewd calculation going on as to the worth of the place and its appurtenances. Estimates were ventured warily, and the old tavern was apparently only waiting certain formalities before it should be dismembered by an unsympathetic crowd.
The auctioneer stated the terms of sale and announced that he was instructed first to offer the entire estate, and if no sale was made then to dispose of it in lots, beginning with the buildings. As no person present proposed to buy the whole of this worthless estate, there was some curiosity to know who the voiceless person was whose bid was taken by the auctioneer as a starting-point. It was supposed that the glib salesman, with the vivid imagination of his profession, had suddenly constructed a buyer and was using him as a lure to others; but after all the urging which the impassive company seemed likely to stand, the announcement was made, as the hammer fell, that the tavern was sold to Alden Holcroft.
Who Alden Holcroft was no one knew; certainly he was not of the innkeeper’s immediate family, and the auctioneer could give no further intelligence than that he was a young man doing business in the city. The law was satisfied, the young scapegrace lost his homestead, another of the same name succeeded to the property, and the neighbors scattered to their houses.
II.
Alden Holcroft was a banker’s clerk. He had no father or mother, brother or sister, and there were none who would have ventured to call him more than acquaintance. For years he had been at his desk promptly every working morning, and had discharged his duties with precision. With that all connection with his associates ended, and though his lodging-place was known to his superiors, his life outside of banking hours was entirely unknown to them. The salary which he received had been increased from time to time, and punctually drawn, but Holcroft never seemed either to lack money or to have it. He was indeed so silent and retiring that his fellow-clerks, after ineffectual attempts at penetrating his reserve, accepted him as they would the ink bottle or blotter,—a necessary part of the office furniture, and that was all.
It was shortly after the auction sale of Holcroft’s Tavern that a letter was received by the firm of Goodhue, Son & Co. through the mail, which ran as follows: —
GENTLEMEN, - I beg to ask the favor of being permitted hereafter to come to the office at half after nine on Monday morning of each week instead of at nine o’clock, as has been customary with me for the past fifteen years. Respectfully yours.
ALDEN HOLCROFT.
A city postage stamp was inclosed for prepayment of the reply.
“ That Holcroft is an odd stick,” said Mr. Goodhue to his son, handing him the letter. “ Who but he would have taken such a formal, roundabout way of asking a favor, when he is only thirty feet away from us all day? And see! the only approach to a justification in his request is in the intimation that he has been uniformly punctual for fifteen years. Write him a note, Theodore, put the two-cent stamp on, and drop it in the nearest box. I would n’t offend his sense of propriety.” A keener sense, however, than that of propriety was touched in Holcroft when he received the permission. " A single word of praise might have been given,”said the solitary man to himself. “ They might have known what it cost me to write that note. Theodore Goodhue finds no difficulty in saying a friendly word to others; why could he not say it to me? ” It was the inconsistent yet natural expression of a man who had fenced himself in with reserve, not because he hated his fellows, but because he was afraid of them. Behind that fence all manner of dumb show went on, so real to the man himself that he sometimes forgot how impenetrable he was to others. To be shy is not always to be unlovable, but it is very apt to be unloved.
The routine of office hours was the least part of Holcroft’s life, though it was the most conspicuous. It was then that he was visible, and the side which he showed to the small world upon which his little light shone was that of a perfectly methodical, impassive fellow, who blushed when he was spoken to, and answered in a low tone; whose handwriting was regular and exquisitely delicate, entirely free from ornate flourishes; whose manners were so unobtrusive that it was quite impossible for his fellows to characterize them at all; and who did his part of the work with unfailing accuracy. He had been discovered now and then at concerts and plays, but only by those who chanced to pass by the most obscure corner of the hall or theatre, and when in the street he always seemed to court disguise by the hat which he pulled down over his face. His quick gait appeared curiously out of keeping with his ordinary quiet, but it was explained, by those who took the trouble to account for it, on the theory that he was hurrying to a hiding-place.
As a matter of fact, Holcroft led a much more out-of-door life than his acquaintances suspected, for his course and theirs lay in different directions. If it had chanced that any of his fellowclerks had a fancy — which none of them had—for old books, or odd musical instruments, or rare prints, or antique furniture, they would probably have stumbled upon their shy companion in some one of the dingy recesses where old things bestow themselves before they are dragged out into the glare of fashion. Still, dealers in old things were scarcely a step nearer to a knowledge of this buyer, and the fancy which he showed would tell nothing more than that he was possessed of a certain refinement of taste and education. That he had, and in the exercise of it came much of the pleasure of his life; yet it would have been a barren existence after all which was divided into the two hemispheres of toil at the desk and solitary delight in art, even where, as in the case of Holcroft, there was some little power of creation in art, the faculty of drawing and coloring, the knowledge and use of harmony in music, the power to set down his thoughts in orderly form. Gifts like these create as well as satisfy wants.
To get at the secret of this man, we must be told what he himself never breathed to others: he was in love. Did he not then confess his love to the one who drew him? No, for there was no such person who could receive his passionate expression. He could scarcely be said to be in love with his own ideal; for there was a certain solidity of sense in him which forbade such ghostly and empty love-making. He had no ideal, he was waiting for that to be projected from the real, and meanwhile, in the activity of his passion, he was compelled to feed his flame from very combustible material. When Theodore Goodhue discovered him, one evening, shrinking into the corner of the concert-room, that easy-going young man would have laughed at frequent intervals had he once known that Holcroft was for the time in love with the beautiful singer on the stage; but he never would have known it, for the lover made no sign to his mistress, least of all to his employer. It could hardly be, one would think, a very satisfying devotion which could be contented with love at such long range; but the simple truth is that Holcroft, shrinking from what Brockden Brown calls “ the awfulness of flowing muslin,” had positively no acquaintance in society, and was compelled to let his eyes seek and his feelings run out to those whom he could gaze upon at a distance with unabashed glances. He shared, in common with the audience about him, the privilege of looking steadfastly upon the beautiful creature who came gracefully forward; his own attention could not possibly be construed into any marked devotion, and it was equally true that he could not fairly claim any individual response from the singer. But she sang, and with a lover’s right he made song and voice interpretative of her nature. She sang ballads in a deep contralto, and there is something in such a voice which seems peculiarly sincere. Night after night, therefore, Holcroft waited upon this lady’s appearance, and suffered his fancy to follow her when his own feet carried him no whit nearer. Once, indeed, lingering after the concert, he caught sight of her entering her carriage, and enjoyed a new delight in the transformation into something domestic and homely which the cloak thrown about her produced.
Yet such a Barmecide feast of love scarcely leaves a full heart behind, and Holcroft bitterly reproached himself at times that with his passionate longing for a wife, and his entire willingness to be loved by some beautiful girl, he seemed never to be any nearer the end. Moreover, while no suspicion rested in his mind upon this or that beautiful singer or actress whom he in turn heard or saw, the possibility of taking any step toward personal acquaintance caused a rush of feeling through his mind at the horrible publicity of such a love the moment it began to be formal. He could love her, but if she really began to love him, and yet sang night after night before all those men, — nay, that she had already so sung, even if never thereafter, — this shattered at once any faint resolve for turning his romance into fact.
He had noticed in the papers advertisements of the sale of the Holcroft Tavern, and the name attracted him. He visited it stealthily one afternoon, peeping in at the windows and getting such knowledge of the interior as he could from the outside. He knew nothing of the owner or his family, and felt no inclination to identify himself with the succession. He was satisfied to learn that the young scapegrace who held the title was the last of his family, and was not likely to interfere with any new owner. The project of buying such a place had long been in his mind. For one thing, his acquisitions had begun to accumulate beyond the capacity of his lodgings, and he had been obliged to store some of his furniture and books; a grievance to him, since it was not possession but use that pleased him. The opportunity now was excellent of owning a house near enough to the city to permit him to visit it occasionally, until he could live there permanently, while far enough away to remove him from fear of intrusion or observation. In effect, no counterfeiter plotting devices could have taken more pains to conceal himself than did this shy man, whose outward motive seemed to be to make himself a home, and whose secret hope was that with a house made perfectly ready, the visitant whom he longed for would enter the open door, take her seat by the fireside, and remain near to bless him.
Indeed, the buying and renewing of Holcroft’s Tavern seemed to the young man so positive a step toward his marriage that for a time he was perfectly happy in his plans and work; it was so far an outward fulfillment of his purpose that the other and really more essential matter gave him now little concern. The lack of confidence in himself from which he had so frequently suffered was less painfully present, and he set about making the house ready for his wife in a cheerful spirit which partially recompensed him for her delay in coming. It might be questioned by some whether a man so ignorant of the companionship of women could properly appreciate the peculiar wants which such might be supposed to have. But Holcroft had in his own nature a certain femininity which was almost an added sense. Moreover, he was a careful reader, and a very close observer, He had not visited picture galleries, or studied prints, or narrowly examined furniture and all the trappings of a household, without detecting the fitness of this or that to the wants of a refined woman. Besides, he trusted very wisely in his own artistic nature that such arrangements as he might make in the old tavern would cause at least those agreeable effects which render a house, when one enters it, hospitable and cheerful. Had he been a confirmed bachelor with an eye only to his own comfort, his dispositions would have been awkward and uncouth the moment a woman entered. But he was not an old bachelor; he was an ardent lover who saw everything through the eyes of his mistress, so that he was constantly asking himself how she would like this and that.
Shortly after his purchase of the tavcrn, having secured a perfect title, he began his weekly visits. The railroad carried him in an hour and a half to the village, and a walk of a mile brought him to his house. He would carry with him a basket of provisions sufficient for his stay, and make his way at once to his property. It was in September when he began his visits. The Saturdays and Sundays, by some happy fortune, were invariably bright, sunny days, and the old place at once gave him such a welcome as a rambling house with capacious fire-places could give him during autumn days, when the changing foliage of his trees paid him at once a rich rental on his ownership. Sometimes he would be obliged to hire a wagon at the village to carry the furniture and effects which, from time to time, he sent up from the city, but he never invited any one to help him. It was entire satisfaction to close the door behind him, build a fire in one of the great chimneys, and set to work upon the interior of his house. The week through he planned, and when Saturday came he was ready at once to put his plans into execution. One room at present he used as a storeroom for his furniture, the last room to be touched; but upon the others he began at once to exercise his skill. Added to his artistic taste was a considerable knowledge of the artisanship which makes so solid an accompaniment to art. He was an unusually good carpenter, and what he lacked of special knowledge he made up for by taking lessons during the week of an acquaintance. He was a good mason, and he set himself to learn the art of stair-building; for the changes which he designed included some very considerable alteration of the old plan of the house, and he had especially set his heart on a great hall and a grand staircase.
It will readily be seen that a day or two of work in a week, by one man, would not go very far or fast. But Holcroft was in no hurry. Occasionally, when all his ingenious contrivances of help failed, and he needed a man, he brought an assistant from the city, and sent him back the same day; for it was part of his sentiment that no one should really occupy the house, except himself, until he should bring his wife into it. He worked thus through the fall and winter and spring, and when his fortnight’s vacation came in the summer he arranged to have a young man come daily from the city to help him, so that at the end of the season he had really gone far toward making the house assume inside the form and arrangement which he had planned; but he had plenty of work before him yet. The house which had been wont to entertain a dozen guests had been so rearranged by its new owner that with its large halls and rooms it would do little more than give space for himself, his wife, and their fancies.
III.
It was not long before the regular movements of the stranger attracted the attention of the villagers, and it was easily surmised that he was the Alden Holcroft who had bought the old tavern. But the people had a lazy curiosity; the few advances made by one and another failing to elicit anything, he was looked upon simply as an odd stick, and left to himself. He managed to keep an entire independence of his neighbors, and it was nearly two years after he had taken possession of his house before he formed even the most trivial association with them. He had then completed the more important changes, and was mainly occupied with lighter matters of decoration and furnishing. There were therefore idler moments than he had known, and something of the old restlessness came back, repressed as it had been by his occupation. One Sunday morning, tasting the fresh life of a June day, he locked the door upon the outside, and walked along a road which he had occasionally taken on his way to or from the railway station, less direct than the customary road. It passed through a small settlement of the people known as Shakers, who had established themselves upon the slope of a hill which overlooked the river valley. Their houses and barns and outhouses had the air of keeping up a continual conflict with nature, as if a strong resolution was maintained not to suffer them to harmonize with the landscape. A prodigious barn, long unpainted, and by the lapse of time subdued to a russet hue, which diminished its proportions and made it look almost as if it had grown through generations, like the trees about it, had recently been clapboarded and painted white; so that now it put nature out, and shone in the midst of the greenery with a blank immensity which was the very triumph of ungovernable order. In this settlement Holcroft was always reminded of monasteries in their prime: the gardens were so rich; the slow-moving men, with their broad hats and sombre garments, led so monotonous and regular a life; the bell tolled at intervals; and he could fancy the brothers, with their few books of devotion and their petty duties, mingling religion and worldly comfort by that subtle combination which produced almost a new order of life. Only the Yankee thrift and barrenness of æsthetic predilection gave to the whole a hopelessly modern look, as if by no lapse of time could the buildings and family ever become picturesque.
It is true, the comparison with a monastery failed again in an important point: that the family held a goodly number of sisters, young and old; for their faces were at the windows, — there always seemed to be one or two whose business was to keep watch of passers-by,—and figures of women could be seen moving about between the houses and through the fields. The poke-bonnets which they wore reduced them all to one undistinguishable age and condition, and they seemed to Holcroft, when he casually passed them, scarcely more human than the stacks of beans which he saw in their fields in autumn. Once, crossing a cornfield in the early summer, he had come upon a scarecrow made with grim pleasantry out of the ordinary dress of a Shaker sister. It is true, they could hardly be supposed to have any other clothes to put to such a use, but the sight gave him a queer start, as if he had come upon one gone to seed; and he wondered besides if the crows would really be afraid of anything so harmless and patient.
As he drew near the village this morning he heard the toll of a bell, and was surprised by the sight of a procession crossing the road from one of the houses to the plain meeting-house opposite. He stopped in admiration. Two and two the women walked, carrying music-books in their hands, and dressed now in quietcolored, delicate gowns which hung in straight folds, but were rendered singularly beautiful by the addition of the soft silk handkerchief about the neck; while the head was inclosed in a snug cap, which could not be called lovely in itself, yet had an undeniable harmony with the rest of the dress. The placid manners and quiet dignity of the little procession moving under the blue sky brought a singular sense of quiet to him, and as they entered the meeting-house he suddenly resolved to follow them and see what their service was like. Some wagons and carriages stood near by, and strangers — world’s people — were moving into the little building. He followed through the men’s door and seated himself upon one of the benches set apart for outsiders. The whole company of men and women were standing in opposite rows and singing, a few holding musicbooks, but most familiar with music and words. The hymn sung was introductory to the service, which began with the reading of a chapter from the New Testament by one of the elders. The chief part of the service, however, was in the combined music and marching, or dancing, as it might sometimes be called. By some understanding, the company quietly formed, eight young men and women occupying the centre of the room in an oval figure, the remainder disposed in two circles outside the smaller one; this small circle was stationary, and seemed to form a choir; the song was started by it, and the two circles began moving round it, the inner in an opposite direction to that taken by the outer. The choir members held their hands before them with uplifted palms, and gently let them rise and fall to the cadences of the music. So also did the two circles of marchers, and the singing was carried on not only by the choir, but by so many of the marchers as were possessed of musical powers; while those who could not sing moved their lips with the words of the song and seemed thus to share in the singing. When the song was ended, the double procession stopped, each member in place, and all, choir and marchers, swept their hands downward and by a gesture appeared to arrest the music. Then, after a pause, either new singing with a resumption of the marching would begin, or some one would speak a few words of thanksgiving or exhortation.
It was the first time that Holcroft had ever been within the Shaker meeting-house, and he was surprised into a spirit of reverence. Whatever of the grotesque had been associated with the service in his mind, from the descriptions he had heard, disappeared in the actual presence of these sincere men and women. It is true that now and then he had to repress a smile, as some peculiar earnestness of expression turned its odd side toward him, and he thought also that he detected certain sleepy and perfunctory movements on the part of some, as if their minds were on some remote occupation, perchance the gathering of roses for the distilled rose-water to be made shortly, or some like innocent occupation in their unexciting life; but the congregation doubtless had its range of devotion, like other congregations. The main effect was of a simple-minded and single - hearted people, who threw into this service a fervor which expressed the ideal of their life. To be neat and practical was not the whole of their religion; for them also were aspirations and anticipations; and sometimes, as they marched to the singing of a hymn which spoke of them as pilgrims on their way to a heavenly home, their faces were turned up with an eager, joyous look, their feet seemed only to touch the floor, and their hands pushed back the sordid world with an energetic gesture. It was at such times that Holcroft was thrilled with a sympathetic emotion. The rude singing and the quick movements of the marchers blended harmoniously, and his soul was fanned as it were by a breath from some distant sea. There were, besides, other times when the gestures, changing their meaning with the varying hymn, swept the world away and brought back heavenly presences, and the refrain was repeated again and again, so that the meaning was driven in upon one with renewed waves of feeling; and finally, by a sudden movement, the inner circle of singers was itself transformed into a moving circle, making three rings of worshipers, passing and repassing each other with rhythmic tread, and singing joyfully a triumphant song. Holcroft half closed his eyes, and the moving bodies before him seemed almost resolved into a cloud of witnesses, wavering under a divine power which swept it backward and forward across the heavenly field.
There was doubtless in Holcroft a sensitiveness to subtle influences which made him easily affected by the spectacle. It was the visible and frank manifestation of emotions which he shared with others, but was rarely permitted to witness, because in most cases one needs first to express like emotions, and Holcroft by his constitutional shyness was prevented from soliciting or sharing in any exhibition of feeling. Besides, the humorous was not strongly developed in him, and very simple sentiment, from his long brooding in solitude, had come to have an elemental force likely to be overlooked by persons more familiar with the process of expression and repression. In the scene before him he thought he was looking into depths of the human heart, just as in hearing a few chords of music he might believe himself listening to spheral harmonies. Perhaps it was because he was so sympathetic and responsive that the faces of the men and women were hallowed by a light not ordinarily seen by him. Be this as it may, it is certain that his eye rested with peculiar reverence upon one of the worshipers who was in the outer circle, and in face, manner, and dress seemed to hold and give forth the perfume, as it were, of the religious ceremony. There were all ages present, from young children to old men and women; but the beauty of devotion never appears so fair as when residing in a girl who is heiress to all that the world can give, yet reaches upward for more enduring delights.
As the circles moved round the room, Holcroft had caught sight of a maiden, dressed, like others of her age, in a fabric which was neither clear white nor gray, but of a soft pearly tint, which symbolized the innocence of youth and the ripening wisdom of older years. Her dark hair was closely confined beneath the stiff cap which all wore, but in the dance a single lock had escaped, unknown to the wearer, and peeped forth in a half-timid, half-daring manner. A snow-white kerchief was folded over her shoulders and bosom, and her carriage was so erect, her movements so lithe, that as she came stepping lightly forward, her little hands rising and falling before her, or moving tremulously at her side, she seemed the soul of the whole body, pulsating visibly there before the reverent Holcroft. Once, in a pause of the dance, she stood directly before him, and he found it impossible to raise his eyes to her face, while a deep blush spread over his own. But when the dance began again, his eyes followed her, as she passed beyond and then returned, still with the sweet grace and unconscious purity which made the whole worship centre in her.
The dancing ceased finally, and the worshipers took their places on the wooden benches, which had been placed on one side. There were addresses made by one and another, passages from book, pamphlet, or paper were read, and then they all rose to sing, once more; this over, an elder came forward, added a few words, and said, “ The meeting is closed,”when the outside attendants took their leave and stood in knots by the meeting-house, watching the Shakers as they came out after them and passed into the several houses where they belonged. Holcroft, standing apart, watched for the young girl who had so attracted him, and saw her cross the road and enter one of the houses of the community. Then he turned and walked toward his own house.
IV.
The vision which he had had this Sunday morning came, like many such, to shatter a fabric which he had long been constructing. The solitary life which he had led, with its fancies made solid and its careful foundation of possibilities, was suddenly invaded by an enemy which disclosed its shining metal as only fool’s gold after all. When he turned the key in his door and entered what had hitherto seemed his castle, he could think of nothing but opening the gate of a tomb and locking himself within. The unreality of his life stared him in the face. “ For what have I been building this house of cards? ” he cried to himself, as he looked about upon all the contrivances and decoration which his ingenuity and art had devised. “ What a mockery is this! How complacently I have been setting my house in order, with all its frippery of earthly taste, when so near me move people who have shattered all these walls that separate us from the divine! I have deluded myself with the notion that I had but to build my nest and the bird would fly to it, when I find the bird to be a bird-of-paradise, that makes its nest in the clouds if anywhere.”
There is in despair sometimes an energetic force which is quite as available as the stimulus which hope gives, and Alden Holcroft, amid the ruins of his fancies, was by no means disposed to sit down in a listless acquiescence in the inevitable. Every Sunday found him at Shaker meeting, fascinated by the spell which the worship cast over him, and still, as at first, seeing in the graceful girl the very spirit of the society and its aims. He began, also, to listen attentively to expositions of the Shaker life which fell from the lips of the speakers. There was one venerable elder, called Elder Isaiah, who by tacit consent was the exponent of the Shakers’ creed to the company of world’s people who occupied the benches in front. Every Sunday, toward the close of the service, Elder Isaiah came forward and made a short, vigorous address, intended to illustrate some phase of belief, or to attack some conventional doctrine of the world. He had a precision of speech which made whatever he said doubly forcible. Every blow which his brain gave served to cleave the subject before him, as if he were driving a wedge. His logic, lightened by shrewd, witty sayings, had a certain force by the confines in which it was asserted. He had a pitiless way of driving an imaginary opponent down a narrow path, keeping close at his heels all the while, all the while deriving his own power from a broad, universal philosophy behind him. He never undertook to set forth the whole Shaker life in one address, but his series of addresses was evidently intended to cover the field of Shaker views. Thus it was that, as the summer wore on, Holcroft came to hear, one by one, the tenets of Shakerism set forth with a decision and temperate force which went far toward justifying them.
It was not any single article of the Shaker creed which attracted Holcroft. He might perhaps have answered each in turn; but the general spirit of the life that seemed possible in this isolated society had an elevation, and a grandeur, even, which moved him in a degree unaccountable except as one considered how solitarily he had lived, and how unreal and fantastic were the objects of his ambition. “What is there in my life,” he exclaimed, “to compare with this ideal life? Could there be anything more selfish than this isolation which I have been peopling simply with the shapes of what I hoped some day to enjoy more positively? I have built my house for myself and some Eve to be fashioned out of me when I am in a deep sleep, and all my devotion to this unseen woman is but a tribute to my own pride of choice and possession. The best woman, it seems, is good enough for me, and I am preparing for her a solitude in which she shall find only me. The doors of my house of entertainment are to be opened only to her, and to be shut behind her. But these Shakers ask simply that they may work for one another, and expel from themselves everything that looks like individual possession. Elder Isaiah claims that their society is the true and lineal descendant of the Christian church of the first generation, when no man called anything his own. I have carefully studied to have what I cared for exclusively my own, and to shut out the remainder of the world. Their society, set down here in the country, is not hedged apart from the world, but is an open home to any who choose to enter. Their invitation is as broad as that of the kingdom of heaven.” It was after such reflections that he would enter his house and try to engage himself with book, or pencil, or music. Once and again these friends would draw him back into his familiar world, but they could not withdraw him from the attraction of the Shaker meeting.
His constant attendance there had been marked by the brethren and sisters, but he had so evidently avoided intercourse that no one was moved to speak with him. His name was known, and his occupation of Holcroft’s Tavern, but the silence of his surroundings had not been disturbed by anything more than the idlest rumors of the villagers. One Sunday, Elder Isaiah came forward as usual, and placing his hands together with a familiar gesture began what at first might more properly be called a meditation than an address: —
“Jesus Christ said that if any man would be great among you he should be your servant. The law of service is the law of supremacy. If I use my neighbor for my personal ends I degrade him, but I degrade myself still more. I show that I am not free; that I am the slave of my ambition, my appetite, my propensities. He is free who has learned to govern his propensities. The rich man has a propensity for property, and he gets it from the poor. The more he gets, the more he wants; and as the poor man grows poorer, the rich man grows richer and more and more unable to do without his riches. His wants are increased, and they increase faster than he can supply them. He becomes a slave to his avaricious desires, and sinks lower and lower. The politician has a propensity for power, and he gets it by using men; he makes them serve him while he professes to serve them; he never gives anything except for a greater return. Every step he takes toward power brings him more under the control of other men; he binds himself by obligations, and when he gets supreme authority he finds that he has lost the right to call his soul his own, and he can do nothing without reference to meaner men. The selfish man has a propensity to gratify himself, and he seeks his end by shutting out everybody else from the participation of his pleasure. He will end by being himself shut out from the kingdom of heaven, an outcast who, seeking to gratify himself alone, finds that he has none of the things which he thought he had; that he has become a paralytic, unable to use the power that had been given him. The people called Shakers have set themselves a higher law, the law of service, and they have found that it has made them great by lifting them above the meaner desires that lead men captive. Are you rich ? Come to us and learn that no man is rich till he calls nothing his own. Are you a politician? Come to us and learn that no man is exalted until he has made himself a servant of all. Are you selfish? Do you look for your pleasure in those things that minister to your ease, to your intellectual gratification; yea, to your love of family, of wife, and of children? Let me tell you that no man is worthy of the society of the head man of the race, Jesus Christ, who does not leave father and mother and wife and children to live as Christ lived, who called no man father and no man brother after the flesh; who did not marry, but loved all women with the pure love of a brother for his sisters. Come out and be ye separate from the world; crucify your lusts, conquer your propensities, and come up into the higher manhood, where all are equal, and every one loves his neighbor as himself, instead of loving his neighbor for the sake of himself.”
There was nothing very new in these words, but as Elder Isaiah went on, his pointed hands were extended to where Adden Holcroft sat, and his voice was penetrated with a persuasion which in after-moments he was fain to believe was the direct result of an inspiring power. Be this as it may, when he ended he was suddenly moved to add,—
“If any one here present sees fit to address the meeting, the opportunity is given.” His eyes were still upon Holcroft, and Holcroft, who had been looking steadily at him, rose at the word, as by a sudden impulse, and broke into hasty, scarce premeditated speech.
“ I have sat here many Sundays, and I will say a word. I am a stranger to you. I am not a Shaker. I never spoke to a Shaker. I know nothing of you except what I have heard here, but a man testifies out of the fullness of his heart, and I believe what you say. There must be something better than the life I lead, and I think you have it.” Here he sat down abruptly. The Shakers were taken by surprise, but a murmur followed his speech. “ Yea, we have,” “Yea, we have,” came from one and another, accustomed in such fashion to approve and certify the testimony of their own brethren. The meeting broke up shortly afterward, and Holcroft, who under a transitory excitement had spoken to a company, though he could not have been induced to speak to a person, left the room hastily. He had gone but a little way, when he heard steps behind him. Elder Isaiah advanced to his side.
“Friend Holeroft,” said he, “will you let me have a word with you? It is an unusual thing to hear strangers speak in our meeting, but I was interested in hearing you. There was truth in what you said.” Holcroft stood with his hat drawn down and his foot searching the earth. Elder Isaiah went on, “ I do not want to obtrude myself, but I would gladly have a few words with you. If you do not mind I will come up to see you this evening.” The young man assented, more anxious to get away from this interview than to avoid another. As he looked up, he perceived the young woman who had attracted his attention standing not far off, and evidently waiting for Elder Isaiah. The old man turned from his companion and walked away with her. Holcroft himself hardly knew whether or not to welcome the elder, yet the sudden plunge which, without premeditation, he had taken in the morning had thrown him into an excited state, and mingled with the crowd of thoughts that confused his mind was the possibility of being brought into some contact of knowledge with the girl whose hands, as they moved in the Shaker dance, seemed always beckoning him toward the devoted circle.
When, therefore, the early evening came, and he sat on his doorstep and saw the figure of the elder coming toward him out of the woods, he was for a moment disappointed at seeing him alone, although he was aware it could be but a childish hope that would suppose the old man to be accompanied by the girl; yet it is the improbable that seems easiest to recluses and dreamers. Elder Isaiah bowed to the young man, who made room for him on the doorstep. For a moment neither of them spoke; then Holcroft asked, with the abruptness of a person who speaks the last of a long series of words which his mind only has uttered, “ Elder Isaiah, how did you come to be a Shaker? ”
“If I were to answer you in the fewest words,” he replied, “I should say that one day I saw the light, and have ever since lived in it; but I know you wish to learn something of what people call the practical side of Shaker living. Well, now, let me tell you that with the people called Shakers the law of their being is to cease to do evil; every man has in him a higher and a lower nature, and it is our life to crucify the lower nature. I was brought up in a Christian community and learned many excellent things, but I was always taught by example that the rules which Christ gave were to be obeyed up to a certain point, that is, just so far as the people around one had tacitly agreed it was well to go; and then, if one obeyed beyond that point, he was a fanatic, and very likely would be called an atheist and a disturber of the church. Well, now, I found that Christianity had only partly reclaimed the world, and for the rest had been itself perverted by the world; and I could not see that the church was much more than the world put into a meeting - house once a week. Then I looked about, and I saw a society of men and women who were trying to live just as the Christians did when Jesus was taken away from them. They were not wise beyond their years, and they did not say, The Pentecostal church was an accident, and cannot be repeated now; they said, If the form in which the church was cast, when it first came from the hand of God was good, then that form is not to be despised; and the closer we copy the form, while we try to keep the spirit, the more sure we shall be to keep the spirit. Well, I saw there were no rich people in this community, and there were no poor people, while in the world outside the chief misery sprang from there being rich and poor; that seemed to be a good thing. Then I saw that this community was one family, made up of brethren and sisters; and as I studied the words of Jesus Christ I saw that he came to establish a new order of things on earth; that as the first man was the beginning of the generations, so Jesus Christ was the end of the generations; and that in the kingdom of heaven there was to be neither marrying nor giving in marriage, but all were to be as the angels of God.”
“ You could not have wished to marry,” broke in Holcroft, earnestly.
“ Nay, but I was married, and we had a little girl. She is grown now. It was she whom you saw with me this noon. I never loved her who was my wife more than when we entered the Shaker family and became brother and sister. It was a cross for us to take up, but she bore it, and though we lived in different houses and saw each other only now and then, we were both far happier than when we led a selfish life just for each other. She is dead now, and Ruth has grown up. She does not call me father, and I do not call her daughter, — call no man father after the flesh, — but she loves the principles that I love, and we both work together in the house or the field, and have many words with each other. She is a good girl. ”
“And does she never go outside?” asked Holcroft, who seized his opportunity to learn more of her under cover of his general interest.
“ Nay; she is content with our people. Once she went away to visit one of her mother’s sisters, but she came back gladly. The world was no place for her; it frightened her with its wickedness. Do not misconceive me, Friend Holcroft; the Shakers have to contend against evil just as the world does, and it is very curious to see how the great movements of history are repeated in our little community. But we have a safeguard against evil which the world does not have. Here one is safer, where all are banded together to resist evil.”
“ Yet people sometimes leave your community, just as people enter it.”
“Yea, they leave us. They go to their own. We do not seek to restrain them; but you must judge of a tree by its fruits, and not by the dead branches that now and then are broken off and cast upon the ground.”
There was silence for a few moments, broken by Holcroft, saying: —
“ If I, now, were to join you, I should not give up much of the world, since I have no near relations, and I live alone. ”
“ Nay,” said the old man, looking keenly at him; “ a man’s world is not always in the family he belongs to, nor even in the things he possesses. When you give up the world, you will be giving up what has hitherto been your most secret wish, your darling desire, whatever that maybe.” Holcroft rose and walked hastily into the road and back again. “ I would not deceive you,” continued the elder. “ It is no light thing to join us. We welcome all who come, but no one can bring with him all that he has; he must leave much behind.”
“ Let us say,” said the young man, standing before him, “that I am a musician. Must my music be left behind? ”
“ Nay; we make much of music, and we are constantly adding new songs and tunes to our collection.” A smile crept across Alden’s face, as he momentarily contrasted the music that he was wont to play with the Shaker melodies that so remorselessly tormented him by their commonplace jingle when he was at his daily work.
“ But say I am an artist, or that I love reading. ”
“ We are plain people,” said the elder, gravely. “ What is more than yea or nay cometh of evil, and it will be a long while before the earth has been reclaimed and made to blossom. When that is brought to pass, it will be time to think of the arts. Now, our work is manifest, and we cannot escape it.” Holcroft hesitated before asking his next question.
“ These things may after all be outside of one’s real life. I am a young man. Say I am in love. Shall I then renounce the girl whom I love? ” The tremor of his voice easily justified Elder Isaiah in accepting the question as covering the fundamental fact in Holcroft’s life.
“ There was a rich young man,” he replied, slowly, “ who once went to Jesus Christ and wanted to know what he should do to gain the kingdom of heaven. He was told to sell all that he had and give to the poor; and we are told that he went away sorrowing. Every young man is ripe for the kingdom of heaven except in some one particular. The test of his sincerity lies in his willingness to sacrifice just that one thing. I will not press the matter with you, but be assured of this, that if you wish to join the people called Shakers, you must first ask yourself, not whether you are willing to give up this or that thing for which you do not much care, but whether you will give up the one thing for which you care greatly; and you may know this, that the principles of the Shaker life do not require a man to give up anything except that which is indissolubly connected with his lower nature. Now I must go. I shall he glad to see you any day at our house, and I will come here to see you if you wish me to. Kindly farewell.”
Elder Isaiah gave his hand to the young man, took his stick, and walked away. He had drawn his bow and shot his shaft. More he did not purpose doing, for he was firm in his confidence that the principles of the Shaker life needed only to be stated to minds capable of receiving them; and were idle words, which it was folly to heap up, to such as had no interior sense of their reasonableness.
V.
To Alden Holcroft the question of becoming a Shaker was not simply that of intimate association with a girl whom by the very association he was forbidden to marry; he was so far master of his own mind as to be able to consider the wider relations of the society at which he was looking; yet the parting words of Elder Isaiah were prophetic in this, that they disclosed to the young man a test of his entire interest in the subject; and he honestly admitted to himself that, were Ruth eliminated from the problem, it would be easy for him to solve it by continuing in his present mode of life. But Ruth was not out of the problem, and he dared to fancy to himself a life in the community, where he might silently, after his wont, rejoice in the presence of a girl who could not walk before him without making him thrill with pleasure. The conception had in it a certain refinement which seemed to make an illusion a permanent and bright reality. Others had sought this life for the refuge which it gave from disturbing influences in the world; why should not he enter it to find a spiritual fulfillment of dreams which had so far never been satisfied ?
He continued his attendance at Shaker meeting week by week, and though he said nothing more he knew that he had in a measure marked himself before the little community. He did not solicit nor receive attention from the members. Elder Isaiah bowed to him when they met, but offered no speech. Yet Holcroft was aware of a curious glancing and attention of which he was the recipient; aware too, in time, of an equally positive fact, that he never received a look from Ruth, and that she alone of all the members seemed ignorant of his presence. He could not help observing this, because his own attention was always fixed upon her, under such cover of discretion as he was moved to employ. One day, a holiday in the city, when he was standing in the doorway of his house of entertainment, he discovered a wagon-load of Shaker girls, accompanied by one of the elders, driving along the road on a berrying excursion. They were singing some of their melodies, and having such discreet fun as could bubble from the unrepressible parts of their natures. As they passed his door he retreated, but not before the elder and his company had bowed to him, one only keeping her head turned away. That it was Ruth he knew by certain signs, easily conveyed to him who had possessed himself of all the lines of her form and face; and her avoidance, in the light of his Sunday experience, struck upon him with a force which, for the moment, was painful in its disclosure.
Could it be, he asked himself, that this girl had come to look upon him with different eyes from what the rest did; that she was in any way affected in her consciousness by the steadfast gaze which his mind, rather than his eyes, had bent upon her? In the solitude of his life, noticing many times the superfluousness of speech, he had come to believe with confidence in the power of one person to communicate with another without spoken or written words; and as he stepped back into his empty house there rushed across his mind the belief that something of his constancy had become known to Ruth. For a moment there was mingled with this a feeling of regret, as if she had thereby stepped down from the place in which he had been regarding her; but this momentary regret was followed by an overwhelming desire to see her, to speak with her, to possess her. All the fine dreams of a brotherly intercourse under the protection of Shaker order were dissipated by the substantial image of a closer union, and the possibilities of a Shaker life fled before the possibility of a life with Ruth.
When the movements of action are anticipated and imitated in thought, the consummation is more rapid, and the changes are not so much surprises as quick developments. Within a short space of time Holcroft had performed several revolutions in his mind, and since his action lay largely in that arena, it was a natural exaggeration for him to believe himself much nearer the accomplishment of his purpose than a strict interpretation of the facts would warrant. He was always a little ahead of fact in any ardent pursuit like this. At all events, he was in a mood to magnify the smallest sign or incident. Shy as he was, the force of his desires had a momentum which comes from a long and silent gathering, able to break down any ordinary barriers. His shyness and his sensitiveness had always heretofore forbidden him to move from behind the intrenchment in which he lived, but never before had his nature been met and fairly subdued by a stronger force. Now a Shaker maiden had only moved before him week after week, and he knew that for the first time he had seen a woman; she had turned her eyes away from him, and he was ready to believe that a woman had seen him.
He took his hat, and, closing the door behind him, walked down the road in the direction taken by the party. He had no definite plan in his mind; he scarcely allowed himself to question what he should do, what he should say. In his eagerness he could not scheme; with a consciousness of his weakness he dared not deliberate. He simply gave himself to the controlling impulse which had urged him to follow Ruth. As he went down the road, he recalled the old slate quarry, which had outlived the turnpike that once drove through it, and remembered that from the top of a little ledge there one could get a pretty wide survey of the fields about. He entered the overgrown road that led to it, and crossing a little brook found himself soon among the loose chips which marked the beginning of the quarry; he climbed the side of the old ledge, past the little pool that reflected it, stood on the summit, and looked about him. His eye soon caught sight of the party engaged in stripping the blackberry vines. They were scattered in little groups or singly, and by herself was Ruth, somewhat apart from the others. He followed the lead of his impulse, still strong enough to master his habitual reserve, and as if fearing to be overtaken by prudence almost ran to where she stooped. He came upon her without passing her companion, and a clump of bushes sheltered them from immediate observation. She heard his footfall, and without looking up said, “ Miranda, it is as I told you; the vines here have scarcely any thorns.’’
It was the first time that he had heard her speak, and wondering at the music of her voice he forgot for a moment the coming discovery; but she, getting no response, looked up, and saw standing by her the grave, brown-bearded man whom she had seen at the meetings and whom she had heard the brethren discuss.
“I thought it was Sister Miranda,” she said faintly, turning again to her berries, her face hidden by the Shaker bonnet which she wore.
“ It is Alden Holcroft,” said he, making a rude sort of introduction of himself. “ You heard him speak once in your meeting. Elder Isaiah came to see me afterward, and I talked with him. I live in the old Holcroft Tavern. I have been making it over to live in. But I am not satisfied. It is a selfish life, after all. One may be selfish when he fancies he has very high ideals. If the secret of a perfect life could be found it would not he in solitude, I am sure.” At this point voices were heard from the other side of the bush, and Ruth’s name was called. A sudden sense of the embarrassment which would come upon her took hold of Alden, and he spoke out, “ Ruth Hanway is here.”
He himself stepped forward and confronted two or three girls, who looked in astonishment at him and retreated a step; but Ruth herself came from behind the bush and accosted one of them, whose face had more laughter in it than the others. “I called you, Miranda; did you not hear me? ”
“Nay; I was busy picking berries,” said the girl, with a roguish look.
To Alden Holcroft Miranda was the image of the laughing girlhood of which he was in mortal terror. All the shyness of the man returned with a rush which covered him with confusion, and without another word he turned and strode across the fields toward his house.
“Look, Ruth, how fast he goes!” said Miranda. “ He is afraid of me. What was he saying to you? I wish I had heard you call, and had come up behind the bush in time to catch some of his words.”
“ Will he be a Shaker? ” asked one of the other girls.
“Yea,” said Miranda, who took it upon her to answer. “ He will be a Shaker, so as to pick berries with Ruth here.”
“For shame, Miranda!” said the young girl, indignantly. “You heard him in the meeting, and you know he is an honest man. He needs the light.”
“ And he comes to you for it,” pursued Miranda, mischievously. Ruth was silent, and refused to talk further with her companions.
When they had finished their task and were jogging home again, they drew near the Holcroft Tavern, and Miranda, who sat next to Ruth, whispered, —
“Look, Ruth! here is his house, and I think I see him behind the window.” But Ruth turned the other way, vexed at her companion, yet curious to look again at the house of which the owner had spoken to her. “ There are red curtains to the window,” continued Miranda. “What a queer idea! I should think they would fade. There! he has left the window, and the door is open.” By a sudden impulse Ruth turned and looked at the house. The hall door stood open, and the light which came from an opening at the farther end revealed, in a shadowy way, the rich cabinets and stately stairway which one entering the house would first notice as characterizing the interior. Pictures hung upon the walls, and sculptured basreliefs projected from the surface. It was a glimpse only, and Holcroft himself did not cross her vision, but she turned back with a shrinking sense of having rudely forced her way into the house.
“ What a queer place! ” said Miranda, still chattering. “ I 'd like to go in there. But what a place to take care of! My! there’s more than one girl could look after. Did you see the staircase? It was wide enough for an oxteam to go up. I should n’t wonder if Sister Abigail could go straight up; she has to go sideways, ’most, in our house. I ’ve a mind to get Isaac to sell him some melons, and then he ’ll come back and tell us all about the house. If you’d go, Ruth, he ’d welcome you.”
“ Hush! ” said Ruth, indignantly.
“ Oh, you need n’t be so mighty about it. Of course, I meant you should go with Elder Isaiah, next time he goes.”
Horace E. Scudder.