Jim of Hellas, or In Durance Vile; The Troubling of Bethesda Pool

But the guests were here! They had been gathering for some time in the cloak-room, and now one couple had been bold enough to make the first break, and the narrow staircase was crowded with maids and matrons, sons and fathers, all in their best. Every eye glistened with eager curiosity, every mouth was open to whisper in the next ear at anything singular that should meet the eye when they came into their hostess's presence; but lo and behold! there stood Bethesda Pool, looking as if she had a party every week of her life, and had nothing in the world to do but stand there and look fine.

Very stately was the courtesy with which Miss Bethesda greeted her guests. She was pleased to see them; hoped they would enjoy themselves, and make themselves as much to home as if they was to home! This was generally the extent of her conversation with any one group of eager neighbours, before turning to welcome the next. But presently the colour deepened a little in her still fresh cheek, and her eyes grew brighter; for, coming up the ballroom, she saw the stalwart form of Buckstone Bradford, with pretty Nan beside him, looking like roses and milk in her white dress. "Knew he'd come!" Miss Bethesda said to herself; and immediately discovered, by the flutter at her heart, that she had not known, but only hoped it.

Truth to tell, Mr. Bradford had had a dozen minds about coming to Bethesda Pool's party. He had never forgiven her for her treatment of him twenty years before; his heart was of firm and tenacious fibre, and retained the impression of affections and of injuries more than many a softer organ. He considered Bethesda still the finest-looking woman in the neighbourhood, and would have snorted with contempt if anyone had told him that his daughter Nan, with her pink-and-white prettiness, was fairer than ever his old sweetheart had been. But admiring was not forgiving, and nothing would have brought Buckstone out to-night save the dread of "goings-on" on the part of his girl and that good-for-nothing Newell fellow.

There was something in the air, – Buckstone did not know what it was, – something that made him uneasy. Nan had been so meek the last time he scolded her, never once standing up for her favourite, as she was wont to do; she had been so affectionate, and, – well, she was always a good girl when she wasn't making a fool of herself about a noodle; but there was more than usual, her father thought. He didn't dare to let her go alone to the party; there was the plain truth of it; he was afraid, he knew not of what. So he had had his hair cut, and had taken out and brushed his wedding coat, not without angry and defiant thoughts of her who should have stood up with him when he wore it; and, briefly, here he was, standing before Bethesda Pool, grim and forbidding, but still a fine-looking man, his hostess thought, and towering head and shoulders above everyone else in the room.

"Good evening, Mr. Bradford! pleased to see you!"

"Your servant, Miss Pool!" and it was over, and the mist began to clear from Miss Bethesda's eyes, as she turned aside to ask the fiddler if he was ready. The fiddler was ready, of course. He had been tuning his fiddle for the last fifteen minutes, and his fingers were itching to begin. Was he not a pupil of old Jacques de Arthenay, the famous fiddler of the last generation? And had he not been shelved for the past ten years, just because folks were fools enough to prefer an organ and a cornet to the only instrument ordained of Heaven to make people dance! So with right good-will he mounted the stool in the corner, and struck up the "Lady of the Lake."

How many years it was since that hall had rung to the sound of a fiddle! Probably no one present knew; but many, and especially the older ones, or those who were cast in a sentimental mould, felt that there was something ghostly in this first dance. People were a little timid, perhaps; and their hostess, standing silent and stately in her stiff brocade, was not the one to set them at their ease. It seemed to Miss Selina Leaf as if, when the dancers took their places in the two long lines, she heard the rustle of many gowns that were not seen in the room; as if old, forgotten perfumes were wafted through the air, and soft, subdued voices whispered courtly greetings at her side. She was "littery," Miss Selina, and had written many "sweet things" for the county weekly.

But the "Lady of the Lake" is a robust and inspiring dance, and soon banished all shadowy or sentimental thoughts from the minds of the dancers. "Down the middle!" "Sashy to partners!" "Turn the same!" "Eight hands round!"

Soon eyes were sparkling and cheeks glowing like flame, and the young feet went flying up and down the long, low room, as young feet will fly when the fiddle sounds and the blood courses freely through the veins.

Miss Bethesda Pool looked on with bright eyes, her foot (she had the prettiest foot in the room, and knew it) tapping in time to the music. She had refused several invitations to dance, without a word, simply a sniff of denial; but it was good to see a dance again.

Will Newell was there, dancing with his cousin, the pasty-faced girl, who would have money when her grandfather died: dancing dutifully, as if the cousin were the only girl in the room, and not so much as glancing toward where Nan Bradford, more rosy than ever, was footing it lightly as a fairy, opposite young Jacob Flynt.

Jacob was her father's choice for her, as everybody knew; and it was no wonder that Buckstone Bradford looked cheerful and contented as he leaned against the wall with folded arms, watching the dancers.

Yes, Buckstone was contented for the moment; things were going just as he wished to see them; and yet – so ungrateful a creature is man – he could not help suspecting even his own satisfaction. What made Nan so happy? When had anyone seen her look like this before when she had to dance with Jacob Flynt? Was this duty or – or what?

The "Lady of the Lake" was followed by the "Portland Fancy;" that by the splendid romp of the "Tempest."

Ah! these were dances! Happy the neighbourhood where the real dances, the wreathing, linked garlands of grace and lightness and youth, still form part of a ball! The waltz is pretty enough, when well done; but who has not tired of the endless whirl of revolving couples, dual teetotums, spinning round and round, till sight and brain are dizzy alike? You shall not find, in painting or sculpture, any showing forth of waltz or polka as Nature's expression of joy and motion. But what Greek vase or tablet, what glowing canvas of Giorgione, or Veronese, but might be glad to catch the rhythmic swing of the "Tempest," as the long line wavers to and fro, and the bold dancers in the middle sweep down the hall and back again, – to catch and fix it in immortal lines of carving or of colour?

"Gents choose partners for 'Pop goes the Weasel!'"

There had been an intermission, during which the hall had hummed like a hive of vari-coloured bees. People were thoroughly at ease now, and speech flowed freely, as the couples promenaded up and down.

"A festive occasion, truly, Mr. Bumpus!" said Miss Selina Leaf, with gentle dignity.

"Bustin'! bustin'!" replied Mr. Bumpus, with effusion. "Haven't seen such goin's on in the village, I d'no when! Does a person good to limber out the j'ints once in a while; dancin's better than bar's grease any day in the week! Haw! haw!"

Miss Selina considered this remark vulgar, and bridled gently, but made no reply.

"Surprisin' thing, too," Mr. Bumpus went on. "Bethesdy Pool – now, you'd ha' said her dancin' days were over, if anyone had ha' asked you, wouldn't you, – same as yours and mine?"

Miss Selina winced again, and looked toward a seat, but the bold Bumpus went on, unconscious.

"We'd ha' said that, surely, – you and me; yet there she is, looking most as young as the girls, I do maintain. Don't know as there's any manner of use in gettin' old before you're obleeged ter; never enj'yed a 'Lady of the Lake' more than I did that one with you, ma'am. What's that? 'Pop goes the Weasel?' Now you don't mean to say! Why, I haint danced 'Pop goes the Weasel!' since my Maria was a baby, and look at her dancin' it with her husband! Reckon I must look up my woman and dance this with her, or she'll be castin' up at you, Miss Selina; so if you'll excuse me! – " and the good man bustled off, leaving Miss Selina rigid with indignation.

"Pop goes the Weasel!" It was an old dance, and had not been seen in the village for years. Indeed, many of the lads and lasses had never seen it, and looked about them at a loss, as the lively strains struck up, notes whose shrill gayety made even the "Tempest" seem quiet by comparison. But the older men and women cast glances at each other, half-shy, half-pleased. This was renewing old times with a vengeance! Many a husband followed the example of Israel Bumpus, and led out the choice of his youth, flattering himself that she "stood it as well as any of 'em," while mature spinsters settled themselves elaborately in their seats, with an air of never having heard of the old-fashioned dance, – unless some one came to ask them for it, in which case memory became suddenly refreshed, and they stood up with right good-will.

Now it happened that in happier days this had been the favourite dance of Miss Bethesda Pool, and that her favourite partner in it had been Buckstone Bradford. She could not keep back a start when the well-known air was played with all its old fire; and for the life of her, it seemed, she could not help looking across the hall at Buckstone, where he stood, leaning stiffly against the wall. He was looking at her, of course: somehow, she knew he would be. Their eyes met; and perhaps neither of them knew exactly what happened next. Before Mr. Bradford had time to collect his thoughts, he found himself bowing his stiff back before Bethesda Pool. "My dance, I believe!" he said, shortly; and though Miss Bethesda knew it was nothing of the kind, she could not find breath to say so. She looked up, she looked down; and the next moment, to the amazement of everybody, the two old sweethearts took their places at the head of the line.

Now Will Newell had been growing uneasy during the last half-hour. He had hardly had a chance to speak to Nan, yet had managed to make her understand that all was ready, and that when he gave the word she was to take her life in her hand and fly with him. But when could he give the word? Bradford's eyes had hardly left his daughter's figure all the evening; he followed her up and down the lines of dancers, frowning heavily if Will happened to be near her in the dance, stolidly content if her neighbour were young Jacob Flynt. What was Will to do? The horse would be getting uneasy, and the moon would be setting before long. He must get rid of old Bradford, somehow!

Suddenly, hardly able to believe his eyes, he saw his tormentor fairly turn his back on Nan: saw him cross the room, saw him bend before Miss Bethesda, saw him standing up to dance. Now! now was the chance! In an instant Will had forced his way before Jacob Flynt, who was just about to lead Nan out for the dance. "You're engaged to me for this, you know, Nan," said this unblushing young fellow; and he drew her arm under his with a quick, masterful gesture. "But – but – but she promised me!" cried poor Jacob, who stammered a little.

"Oh, go to Tinkham!" said Will, alluding disrespectfully to the next township; and he led off his trembling Nan in triumph.

"All around the cobbler's shopThe monkey chased the weasel;That's the way the money goes, —Pop! goes the weasel!"

The fiddle says "Pop!" as plainly as the ridiculous doggerel; and at the word, two of the three who have been swinging round together lift their arms, and the third goes "pop!" under and rises to confront the next couple: more tiptoe swaying, balancing to this one, chassez-ing to that one; then three hands round, and "pop!" goes the weasel again; and so on down the whole room, in the prettiest, merriest, most enchanting dance of them all. But this is engrossing, I would have you know. When one is popping every third minute, and balancing and swinging during the other two, it is difficult, it is impossible, to keep a sharp lookout on two persons who are popping at the other end of the dance. Half of Buckstone Bradford, the worst half, was having a sad time of it, trying to see over his shoulder and behind his back; but the other half, the one that had asked Miss Bethesda to dance, ah! that half was enjoying itself as it had not done for years. How she danced! as pat to the music as fiddle to bow! How small her hand looked, just as it used to look, lying in his big brown palm! How – now, where in time were those pesky young ones?

For lo! a thing had happened. At the last triumphant "pop!" of the weasel, there had been another pop through the little door at the farther end of the hall; and by this time, Miss Bethesda calculated, Will and Nan must have reached the foot of the back stairs, and be flying across the kitchen on their way to the outer door and safety. She drew a long breath, and turned to her companion, trying to keep the light of triumph out of her eyes. Bradford had stopped short, setting the dancers all astray; he looked around the room, seeking the delinquents; his heavy brows met, his face grew scarlet. Yes, Miss Bethesda knew he would be proper mad! But now he turned, and fixed his eyes on her with relentless scrutiny; another moment, and with a roar like a wild animal, he darted in pursuit.

The fiddler, who had learned more things than fiddling from old De Arthenay, put out his foot, hoping to trip up the angry man; but, heavy as he was, Bradford leaped aside like a deer, and the next instant he was in the outer hall, and Bethesda Pool after him.

"Buckstone," she cried, "wait just a minute, and I'll tell you!"

But he turned on her savagely.

"I'll see to you afterwards, Bethesda Pool!" he cried, furiously. "You won't make me lose time, I can tell you! Think I don't remember the old short cut? Stand out of the way, or I shall do ye a hurt, and I don't want to do that!"

"Buckstone!" cried Miss Bethesda again; but this time the big man, without another word, lifted her away from the doorway in which she had placed herself, and rushed on.

"He's forgotten," said Miss Bethesda to herself; "he's forgotten, and I didn't tell him. He might – " she caught her breath, for there came the sound of a crash, and then a heavy fall. "Lord, forgive me!" she cried. "He's found it, sure enough, and like t' ha' killed himself."

"It" meant the old trap-door in the room that was formerly used by the Freemasons. Many and many a time had she and Buckstone explored it in childish days, and played prisoner under it, and come up through it in all manner of costume and disguise. He ought to have known the room as well as he knew his own hand. Was it her fault that he had forgotten, in his blind rage? But – but she had seen him rush into the room, and she had not warned him.

"Buckstone, be you hurt?" she cried, leaning over the dark hole in the floor. She listened, and heard strange sounds from below, – grunts and groans, mingled with unscriptural language.

She drew a long breath. "I knew 'twasn't deep enough to hurt him real bad," she said. "Provided he can cuss, I guess he's all right."

She listened again, inclining her ear this time toward the outer door, and she heard the clear jingle of sleigh-bells and the swish of a sleigh, as it swept out of the yard and away over the snowy road. Again Miss Bethesda breathed deep. "That's a good hearin'," she murmured; "but I am sorry for Buckstone!

"Be you hurt?" she asked again, bending once more over the hole.

"I'll let you know whether I'm hurt or not!" muttered Buckstone from below. "Once let me get out of this, and I'll be even with you, Bethesda Pool!"

"Will!" said Miss Bethesda, in her calmest tone. "Well, I must be going, Mr. Bradford. I'll send Iry to help you out. I am surprised, though, at you forgettin', after as many times as you've ben down that hole!"

Mr. Bradford's reply did little credit to him as a church-member, and Miss Bethesda, after calling her man and giving him certain directions, returned to her guests in the dancing-hall.

People were looking for her with some curiosity. The news of Will's departure with Nan had spread, and when they saw Buckstone Bradford rush from the room, followed closely by their hostess, there was a good deal of suppressed excitement, but no one dared to follow; you might take liberties with some folks, but Bethesda Pool was not one of them. And, after all, she and Buck Bradford knew each other like two old shoes, if they hadn't spoken for fifteen years; and what they – the guests – were here for was a good time, so when the fiddler struck up the "Chorus Jig," most of the dancers took the floor, leaving only a few of the most curious to watch the door, and speculate what was going on behind it. But now the little door opened, and here was Miss Pool again, calm and unruffled, folding her mitted hands, and looking as if she had never heard of such a thing as a runaway couple.

"Why, Bethesdy!" said Mrs. Minchin, taking the freedom of an old schoolmate, "we thought you was lost, for sure, goin' off with Mr. Bradford that way!"

"Did!" replied Miss Bethesda. "Please take your partners to go down to supper!"

The guests, with one exception, were gone. The lights were out in the long ballroom, and the old clock resumed its solitary sway, thankful that the noisy scraping of the fiddle was over. As Miss Bethesda closed the door behind her the clock struck two, and softly, timidly, stole forth the notes of the fairy waltz, as elves, waiting for their forest revels, might steal from their hiding-places when the clumsy foot of man has ceased to echo in their sacred green places. "La-la-la, la-lira-la!" and who could tell what gentle ghosts were now gliding forward in the dance?

But Miss Bethesda never thought of ghosts. She had to lay a spirit, it was true, but there was little of ghostly about it.

Perhaps she felt some trepidation at the thought of what was before her, and as she listened to Iry's muttered words concerning the mental status of the one guest remaining in the Inn. But she gave no sign, only told Iry to go to bed, and leave his door open, in case she should want to call him.

She took a tray, and covering it with one of her finest napkins, proceeded to lay out a dainty supper, such as she well knew how to prepare. What had Buckstone liked best, in the old times? She guessed a little of that lobster salad would be about right, and half-a-dozen rolls, feathery and unsubstantial as baked morning cloud; then a whip, – he always liked a tall whip, with raspberry jam at the bottom! and a slice of plum-cake, and, – well, a glass of cherry-brandy might do no harm, if they were both temperance folks. He'd be some tired, likely, raging and routing round the way he had been, from what Iry said. And so Miss Bethesda, like the bold woman she was, unlocked the sitting-room door, and entered the lion's den.

She expected a rush, and held her tray firmly; but no rush came. The lion was sitting huddled up in a great chair, with his foot on another chair before him. At first Miss Bethesda thought he was asleep; but catching the sombre glare of his dark eyes, she set the tray down carefully, and faced her guest with folded hands and apparent composure.

"How are you feeling, Mr. Bradford?" she asked, seeing, with some compunction, how pale he was.

"My leg is broke!" was the grim reply, "and I'm injured some inside, most probably bleeding; but otherwise I'm well, Miss Pool, and much obleeged to you!"

"You're welcome!" said Bethesda, with a flash; and then she went down on her knees, and manipulated him skilfully.

"Your leg isn't broke!" she announced, cheerfully; "but you have got a leetle sprain into your ankle, Buck, – I should say Mr. Bradford, – and it's some considerable swoll up. You'd better let me bathe it for ye, and then have a bit of supper, and then you can lay right down on the l'unge here, and rest ye till morning. You'll be all right by then, I calc'late, and able to git you home, – with a stick!"

The last thrust was pure malice, and the big man winced; but not altogether at thought of the stick or the sprained ankle.

"I've got no home," he said; "thanks to you, Bethesda Pool! You've seen that my girl got off safe with that good-for-nothin' feller, and that's the last of any home for me! I hope it's done ye good!"

"It has so!" replied Miss Bethesda, rubbing the ankle briskly with her favourite liniment. "A sight o' good it's done me, Mr. Bradford, and I hope 'twill do you good, too, some day!"

"May I ask," Buckstone continued, grimly, glowering down on the little woman, as she knelt beside him, "why you felt called to make or meddle in my affairs, Miss Bethesda Pool?"

"You may!" said Miss Bethesda, looking up with fire in her eye. "Your girl, pretty creetur, come cryin' to me the other day, and told me all about how you was treating her, Buckstone Bradford; and 'twas a shame, and you know it was! There's nothing in this world against Will Newell, well you know! He's a church-member, and he's well thought of by all that's acquainted with him. You didn't like his father, because you thought I, – because you thought things about him that there was no occasion for thinking, and he killed in the war afterwards and all; and that's all the reason, save and except that you are a greedy grab-all, Buckstone Bradford, and don't want your girl to do anything all her days 'cept wait on you! That's the living truth, and you know it as well as I do! Hurt ye, did I? Well, I'm sorry for that, but if I could hurt your mind instead of your ankle, I should be pleased to death! I can speak when I've a mind to, if they do call me a dummy; and I'm speaking to you now, Buckstone, and don't you forget it! You've been acting mean and selfish and greedy, and every right-thinking person in this village is disgusted with you, clean through to the ground! So, now! And I helped them children off for pure pleasure, so I did, and for love of seeing young things happy, if I aint ben happy myself! Not that that's here or there. I planned this party for it, and laid out consid'able money, and set every tongue in the village clacking till they e'enamost dropped off, and a mighty good thing, too, if they had! and I sent for Will Newell, and showed him where he could hitch his hoss, and how he could git his girl off the quickest and the safest. You was pretty spry, Buckstone, but you wouldn't ha' caught 'em, even if you hadn't – if you hadn't have fell down the Tumplety Hole. And – and that's what I did, and glad clean through to my back-comb that I done it, and would do it again the fust time I got a chance!"

Miss Bethesda paused for breath, and bound up the lame ankle, wrapping it in fold on fold of cool linen. She expected thunders of reply, but Buckstone Bradford was silent.

There was a long pause, during which the coals tinkled in the grate and the frost cracked and snapped outside.

At length, – "The Tumplety Hole!" he said, musingly. "Yes, that was it! I was trying to think what we used to call it, and I couldn't bring the name to mind. The Tumplety Hole, sure enough! And you come up through it, one day, dressed in a white gown with silver trimmin's, – "

"That I found in the old trunk up garret!" put in Miss Bethesda.

"And flowers in your hair!" Bradford went on. "I thought you looked the slickest of anything I ever saw, then, Bethesda; and – well, I don't know but I think so still."

"Foolishness!" said Miss Bethesda, rising and wiping her hands. "Have a bit o' supper, now, Buckstone, do!"

"No, I couldn't eat," said the big man, drawing his hand slowly across his brow. "I couldn't eat your victuals, Bethesda, and have you thinkin' of me the way you – you said. It's all true, it seems born in on me to feel. I've done a good bit o' thinkin', sittin' here alone. I never realized it before, but the fact seems to be that I've been a hog, and bein' so, I can't sit down with no lady and eat her victuals, you see."

"Foolishness!" said Miss Bethesda again, looking rather discomposed. "You mustn't think too much of what I said, Buckstone. Mebbe I spoke too hash – "

"Oh, you spoke out!" said the man. "Needn't ever anybody tell me that Bethesda Pool can't open her head. When them waters is troubled, there's no mistake about their movin'; I knowed that before. You spoke out once before to me, Bethesda, and the sound of it stays with me yet. There! I guess I'll be goin'. You said you'd lend me a stick, did ye?"