grandmother derwent had contrived to purchase implements for spinning and weaving the coarse cloth, which constituted the principal clothing of the settlers. the inhabitants gave her plenty of work, and produce from her farm supplied her household with grain and vegetables.
even the little girls, who under many circumstances would have been a burden, were in reality an assistance to her.
jane was a bright and beautiful child, with dark silky hair, pleasant eyes, and lips like the damp petals of a red rose. she was, withal, a tidy, active little maiden, and, as mrs. derwent was wont to say, “saved grandma a great many steps” by running to the spring for water, winding quills, and doing what miss sedgwick calls the “odds and ends of housework.”
jane led a pleasant life on the island. she was a frank, mirthful creature, and it suited her to paddle her canoe on the bosom of the river, or even to urge it down the current, when “grandma” wanted a piece of cloth carried to the village, or was anxious to procure tea and other delicacies for her household.
when mrs. derwent’s quill-box was full, and “the work all done up,” jane might be found clambering among the wild rocks, which frowned along the eastern shore, looking over the face of some bold precipice at her image reflected in the stream below; or, perchance, perched in the foliage of a grape-vine, with her rosy face peering out from the leaves, and her 8laugh ringing merrily from cliff to cliff, while her little hands showered down the purple clusters to her sister below.
such was jane derwent, at the age of fourteen; but poor little mary derwent! nature grew more and more cruel to her. while each year endowed her sister with new beauty and unclouded cheerfulness, she, poor delicate thing, was kept instinctively from the notice of her fellow-creatures. the inmates of that little cabin could not bear that strange eyes should gaze on her deformity—for it was this deformity which had ever made the child an object of such tender interest.
from her infancy the little girl had presented a strange mixture of the hideous and the beautiful. her oval face, with its marvellous symmetry of features, might have been the original from which dubufe drew the chaste and heavenly features of eve, in his picture of the “temptation.” the same sweetness and purity was there, but the expression was chastened and melancholy. her soft blue eyes were always sad, and almost always moist; the lashes drooped over them, an expression of languid misery. a smile seldom brightened her mouth—the same mournful expression of hopelessness sat forever on that calm, white forehead; the faint color would often die away from her cheek, but it seldom deepened there.
mary was fifteen before any person supposed her conscious of her horrible malformation, or was aware of the deep sensitiveness of her nature. the event which brought both to life occurred a few years after the death of her father. both the children had been sent to school, and her first trial came on the clearing, before the little log schoolhouse of the village. mary was chosen into the centre of the merry ring by edward clark, a bright-eyed, handsome boy, with manners bold and frank almost to carelessness.
the kind-hearted boy drew her gently into the ring, 9and joined the circle, without the laugh and joyous bound which usually accompanied his movements. there was an instinctive feeling of delicacy and tenderness towards the little girl which forbade all boisterous merriment when she was by his side. it was her turn to select a partner; she extended her hand timidly towards a boy somewhat older than herself—the son of a rich landholder in the valley; but young wintermoot drew back with an insulting laugh, and refused to stand up with the hunchback.
instantly the ring was broken up. edward clark leaped forward, and with a blow, rendered powerful by honest indignation, smote the insulter to the ground. for one moment mary looked around bewildered, as if she did not comprehend the nature of the taunt; then the blood rushed up to her face, her soft blue eyes blazed with a sudden flash of fire, the little hand was clenched, and her distorted form dilated with passion. instantly the blood flowed back upon her heart, her white lips closed over her clenched teeth, and she fell forward with her face upon the ground, as one stricken by unseen lightning.
the group gathered around her, awe-stricken and afraid. they could not comprehend this fearful burst of passion in a creature habitually so gentle and sweet-tempered. it seemed as if the insolent boy had crushed her to death with a sneer.
her brave defender knelt and raised her head to his bosom, tears of generous indignation still lingered on his burning cheek, and his form shook with scarcely abated excitement.
at length mary derwent arose with the calmness of a hushed storm upon her face, and turning to her inevitable solitude walked silently away.
there was something terrible in the look of anguish with which she left her companions, taking, as it were, a silent and eternal farewell of all the joys that belong 10to childhood. the coarse taunt of the boy had been a cruel revelation, tearing away all the tender shields and loving delusions with which home-affection had so long sheltered her. she did not know what meaning lay in the word hunchback, but felt, with a sting of unutterable shame, that it was applied to her because she was unlike other girls. that she must never be loved as they were—never hope to be one of them again.
the school-children looked on this intense passion with silent awe. even jane dared not utter the sympathy that filled her eyes with tears, or follow after her sister.
so with terror and shame at the cruel discovery at her heart, mary went away. the blood throbbed in her temples and rushed hotly through all her veins. an acute sense of wrong seized upon her, and thirsting to be alone she fled to the woods like a hunted animal, recoiling alike from her playfellows and her home.
through the thick undergrowth and over wild rocks the poor creature tore her way, struggling and panting amid the thorny brushwood, as if life and death depended upon her progress.
a striped squirrel ran along the boughs of a chestnut-tree and peered down upon her from among the long green leaves and tassel-like blossoms. a flush came to her beautiful forehead, and with a cry that seemed in itself a pang, she tore up a stone to fling at it. the squirrel started away, uttering a broken noise that fell upon her sore heart like a taunt. why did the little creature follow her? why did it bend those sharp, black eyes upon her, with its head turned so mockingly upon one side? was she never to be alone? was the cruel animal still gibing at her through the chestnut-leaves?
the squirrel darted from bough to bough, and at last ran down the trunk of the chestnut. mary followed it with eager glances till her eyes fell upon the 11root of the tree. the stone dropped from her hand, the angry color fled from her face, and stretching out her arms with a cry that perished on her lips she waited for the missionary to descend.
he came rather quickly, and the gentle serenity of his countenance was disturbed, but still a look of unutterable goodness rested upon it. when he reached mary her eyes were flooded with tears, and she trembled from head to foot. his sympathy she could endure. his very look had opened the purest fountains of her heart again. she was not altogether alone.
“crying, mary, crying?” he said, in a tone of inquiry, rather than of reproach. “who has taught you to weep?”
“oh! father, father, what can i do? where can i hide myself?” cried the poor girl, lifting her clasped hands piteously upward.
the missionary saw it all. for a moment the color left his lips, and his eyes were full of trouble to their azure depths. he sat down by her side, and drew her gently towards him.
“and this has driven you so far from home?” he said, smoothing her hair with one hand, which trembled among the golden tresses, for never had his sympathies been drawn more powerfully forth. “who has done this cruel thing, mary?”
she did not answer, but he felt a shudder pass over her frame as she made a vain effort to speak.
“was it your playfellows at school?”
“i shall never have playfellows again,” broke from the trembling lips which seemed torn apart by the desolating words; “never again, for where does another girl like me live in the world? god has made no playfellow for me!”
the missionary allowed her to weep. he knew that a world of bitterness would be carried from her bosom with those tears.
12“but god has made us for something better than playfellows to each other,” he said at last, taking her little hand in his.
she looked at him wistfully, and answered with unutterable sadness, “but i cannot be even that; i am alone!”
“no,” answered the missionary, “not alone—not alone, though you never heard another human voice—even here in the deep woods you would find something to love and help, too—never think yourself alone, mary, while any creature that god has made is near.”
“but who will love me? who will help me?” cried the girl, with a burst of anguish.
“who will love you, mary! do not i love you? does not your grandmother and sister love you?”
“but now—now that they know about this—that i am a hunchback, it will be all over.”
“but they have known it, mary, ever since you were a little child. well, well! we must not talk about it, but think how much every one at home has loved you.”
“and they knew it all—they saw it while i was blind, and loved me still,” murmured the girl, while great tears of gratitude rolled down her cheeks, “and they will love me always just the same—you promise me this?”
“always the same, mary!”
“yes, yes—i see they have loved me always, more than if i were ever so beautiful—they were sorry for me; i understand!” there was a sting of bitterness in her voice. the love which came from compassion wounded her.
“but our saviour loves his creatures most for this very reason. their imperfections and feebleness appeal like an unuttered prayer to him. it is a beautiful love, mary, that which strength gives to dependence, 13for it approaches nearest to that heavenly benevolence which the true soul always thirsts for.”
mary lifted her eyes to his face as he spoke. the unshed tears trembled like diamonds within them. she became very thoughtful, and drooped slowly downward, coloring faintly beneath his eyes, as maidens sometimes blush at their own innocent thoughts when nothing but the eye of god is upon them.
“but there is another love, my father; i have seen it at the school and in the cabins, i have watched it as i have the mountain flowers, and thought that god meant this love for me, like the rest; but when i go among other girls, no one will ever think that i am one of them—no one but edward clark, and he only feels pity-love for me; to all the rest i am a hunchback.”
a look of great trouble came upon the face of the missionary. for some moments he did not answer, and the poor girl drooped by his side. the blush faded from the snow of her forehead, and she trembled all over with vague shame of the words she had spoken. his silence seemed like a reproach to her.
“my child!”—oh! with what holy sweetness the words fell from his lips—“my child, it is true; this love must never be yours.”
“never!” echoed the pale lips of the child. “never!”
“this dream of love, give it up, mary, while it is but a dream,” added the missionary, in a firmer voice. “to many more than yourself it is a hope never, never realized. do not struggle for it—do not pine for it—god help you! child—god help us all!”
the anguish in his voice thrilled her to the soul. she bent her forehead meekly to his knee, murmuring:
“i will try to be patient—but, oh! do not look at me so mournfully.”
he laid his hands softly under her forehead, and, 14lifting her face to his gazed mournfully upon it, as if his soul were looking far away through her eyes into the dim past.
“father, believe me, i will try.”
his hands dropped downward at the sound of her voice, and his lips began to move, as if unuttered words were passing through them. mary knew that he was praying, and her face drooped reverently downward. when or how this silence broke into words she never knew, but over her soul went the burning eloquence of his voice, carried heavenward by prayer—by the wind, and the rush of the mountain stream. the very breath lay still upon her lips as she listened, and she felt more like a winged angel close to the gate of heaven than the poor deformed girl, whose soul had, a few hours before, been so full of bitterness.
