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

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 shop
The 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.