A NEW ENGLAND CACTUS, AND OTHER TALES.* THE " New
England Cactus "is another happy example of the art with which the women of the United States tell short
stories. The "Pseudonym Library" openly announces that the name chosen for the author is a false name, and that being so, we may fairly assume that the name "Frank Pope Humphrey " is, in a sense, truer to the profession of the series if it be the pseudonym of a woman, than if it be the pseudonym of a man. As the series professes on its very surface to mis- lead, we may say that it misleads less if it announces a false sex as well as a false name, than if it only announces a false name. At all events, we feel no doubt at all that " Frank Pope Humphrey" is the pseudonym not of a man but of a.
woman. Only a woman, we think, could have written " A New England Cactus," which is much the best tale in the little volume, and, indeed, so good that it might have been credited, without exciting our incredulity, to that accom- plished authoress who wrote " A Far-Away Melody" and "A Humble Romance ; " we mean Miss Mary E. Wilkins. The other stories are not so good, though they are all skilful, and more than one of them betrays the same kind, though not the same degree of pathetic power which gives its remarkable beauty to " A New England Cactus." The second-best of these
tales, "A Middle-Aged Comedy," is remarkable for its humour. In it, a New England spinster of about forty, who has more life in her than her very quiet and solitary avocations at home can find any expression for, determines one March day to renew the delight of her early days in what is now called "tobogganing,"—in other words, sliding down-hill on a small sleigh on which she hopes to enjoy herself in strict seclusion:— "How she should like to try it once more, to see how it would seem to slide downhill again She went into the wood-house and took down the sled. Then she pinned a small shawl on her head and stepped out. She looked furtively around. No one was in sight. In fact there was not likely to be at that hour of the day.
111 Pseudorym Library : A New England Cactus, and other Tales.
Frank She climbed the fence. It was but a little way, for the spruce wood which grew thickly on either side the timber slide reached almost to her garden. She sat down upon the sled, tucked in her skirts carefully, and started pushing herself along at first with her feet. And now by what chance was it, through what crooked coincidence, I ask, that Mr. Harding should have been proceeding at exactly that time, by a little-frequented path that crossed the timber slide, on his way to the neighbouring hamlet of Hard Scrabble? And furthermore, why did he arrive at precisely the right moment to collide with the sled ? Why not a little earlier
or a little later 9 Just as Sarianna had completed about a third of the way, and was going with all steam on, so to speak, Mr. Harding stepped out from the wood, the sled struck him, took him off his feet and seated him squarely in Sarianna's lap, after which fashion they completed the run. So swift was the descent, there was no time to speak. The sled struck a snowdrift at the foot of the slide and they were thrown into it. Mr. Harding was on his feet in an instant, and helped Sarianna upon hers. Had he followed his first impulse, he would have laughed. But he caught sight of her dismayed countenance and controlled himself. He knew Sarianna, of course ; knew her as well as any of his parishioners, whom he was constantly meeting at tea-drinkings, sewing-circles, and church meetings. He had called at the nautical cottage more than once, and been entertained in its best room. But their intercourse hitherto had been of a decorous order. Nothing so unprecedented as this, or anything approaching to it, had occurred; and Sarianna was overwhelmed with confusion. Though she did not know it, she was looking her best. The small shawl had become unpinned, and had fallen off half-way down the slide, and her brown hair had been frizzed by that admirable artist, the wind, in most becoming fashion. A fine colour tinged her ordinarily somewhat pale cheeks, and her confusion did not render her less interesting. She tried to speak, but her tongue refused to articulate. Pitying her embarrassment, Mr. Harding made a grave apology for his inopportune appearance, and disap- peared in the wood towards Hard Scrabble. Sarianna, pulling the sled after her, climbed the slide, picking up her shawl of shepherd's plaid by the way. She re-climbed the fence and re- hung the sled. A man in her condition of mind would have re- lieved his feelings by a little mild swearing. But being a woman, she was denied that outlet for her emotions. And so she sat down and brooded over the affair till she went into a species of hysteria, alternately shedding tears and laughing wildly. For Sarianna was not deficient in a sense of the ludicrous. I'm thankful nobody saw us I' was her fervent summing-up. Mr. Harding, on his way to Hard Scrabble, indulged in interjectory explosions of laughter, also exclaiming fervently at intervals, Good heavens ! if anybody had seen us ! ' Neither of the two innocents suspected that a pair of eyes had witnessed the whole ; not quite the whole, however, for Kenelm did not catch sight of them till after the collision."
The result to "the two innocents" of the misleading piece of scandal which Kenelm had it in his power to retail, a power which he did not fail to exert, may be imagined ; but the excite- ment which the scandal caused in Christmas Cove cannot be fully realised without knowing how very popular this middle- aged clergyman had become, and how great a shock it was to the whole village to conceive that either he or Sarianna, and still more both he and Sarianna, had misconducted themselves by sliding down-hill with the gentleman sitting in the lady's lap. The deacon is commissioned by the Church to interview the pastor on the subject ; but Mr. Harding does not give him the chance of demanding an explanation, breaking off the interview with great promptitude before the deacon has been able to get to the point. In the meantime, Mr. Harding has chosen a confidant amongst his congregation with much judgment, and we must give our readers the spirited account of the interview :—
" Mrs. Adams looked reproachfully at him as they shook hands. Oh, Mr. Hardin' ! ' was all she said.—' It can't be possible, Mrs. Adams, that you believe all those wretched things that are being said about Sarianna Durfee and myself !' remonstrated Mr. Harding.= But you don't deny you was slidin' downhill together, settin' in her lap ? Kenelm said he see you, and Kenelm, if he is a dretful gossip, tells the truth.'—Mr. Harding laughed. It's true enough,' he said, but why has it never occurred to these good people that it was a sheer accident ? '= Accident! ' ejacu- lated Mrs. Adams, with more than a touch of incredulity in her voice. I don't see how that can be. Folks don't slide downhill settin' in each other's laps by accident.'—' Listen, and you shall see,' and Mr. Harding told the whole story.—' Well I never !' exclaimed Mrs. Adams. 'What on earth could's' possessed Sarianny to take to slidin' downhill at her age ! Why she's forty if she's a day, Mr. Hardin' ! And to think you should 'a' come along jest in the very nick o' time ! ' And struck with the ludicrousness of the situation, Mrs. Adams leaned back in her great rocking-chair and laughed till the tears bowled down over her round, red cheeks. Well, that does beat all natur' !' she gasped out at last, wiping off the tears with her apron. Won't Josiah split himself when he hears on't ! And to think you should 'a' happened along jest then ! Well, it's my guess Sarianny won't take to slidin' downhill again in a hurry ! ' And Mrs. Adams yielded a second time to her sense of the ludicrous, and went off into fresh con- vulsions, fairly losing her breath, and growing so purple in the face, Mr. Harding experienced a momentary fear of apoplexy ensuing."
Of course Mrs. Adams diffuses the true story as promptly as Kenelm had diffused the misleading tail-end of the story, and this terrible New England scandal comes to a happy ending ; but the whole must be read to appreciate the humour of the writer. It is easier to give a specimen of the author's humour than of her pathos, of which the first tale in the little volume is much the most effective illustra- tion. It is a kind of pathos which is all the more effective for its extreme reserve, for the carefully subdued character which gives it all its depth and intensity. There is a sort of pathos,—of which we may cite Dickens's as the most telling type,—which is ostentatious pathos. It is the kind of pathos which the actors describe as represented by " tears in the voice." The New England pathos is of an exactly opposite kind. It is perfectly calm and tranquil, but all the more piercing for its self-restraint. We could hardly find anywhere a more perfect example of it than in the exquisite story called "A New England Cactus," which we will not spoil by breaking off a fragment of it by way of specimen. It is a story which should be read as a whole, and which, if read as a whole, will hardly be forgotten.
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