 | Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall |  |
1. PART I.
WOODSIDE.
1. CHAPTER I.
IN the loveliest city of the West stands an
old and curiously-fashioned house, in the
centre of an acre of ground, perhaps, and so
thickly surrounded with trees as to prevent
the most observant passer-by from obtaining
a very correct notion of its architecture or
dimensions. Nevertheless, half-hidden as it
is, there is something about the place that
commands attention, and whoever looks at it
once is likely to look again.
In the course of every day many quick
steps are slackened as the sombre shadows of
its trees fall across the road; many are the
fence which encloses the grounds; and many
the fruitless questions concerning its inhabitants
and ownership.
“Humph!” says the speculator; “what a
waste of capital is here!” and, bobbing his
head up and down, and over, and between
the palings, he divides and subdivides and
parcels the lot into many lots, and so hurries
towards some thoroughfare, summing up on
the ends of his fingers the entire valuation.
When the sunset shines through the gnarled
and mossy boughs that swing against the
steep gables, the maiden and the lover pause,
thinking how pleasant it would be to sit on
the grassy knoll beneath the low-spreading
apple-tree and watch the motes dancing
among the column-like lights, slanting and
beaming down the openings.
The poet, “crazed with care,” and very
possibly “crossed in hopeless love,” gliding at
twilight toward the more secluded quarter of
the town, stops as he sees the black shadows
crouching among the tangled shrubberies,
half-expecting to behold a ghost whitening
come out as he stands before the padlocked
gate, musing some rhyme of murders done,
of hopes broken, or of hearts withered; and
as he so muses he looks a fit inhabitant of the
place, for the moonlight raining along the
moss of the roof, and the winds stirring
through the bushy tree-tops, seem his properest
companions. Roughly he shakes the iron
stanchions of the gate as the shadows beckon
and the winds call to him, but it will not yield,
and the group of boys and girls from the assembling
school, who have been standing a
little way off, thinking what a pretty place
for hunting the glove the great door-yard
would be, hastily gather up hoops and balls
and run from the madman as fast as they can.
Sometimes, among the cobwebs that hang
at the windows, the thin sallow face of an old
man may be seen, and once in a while, feeling
his way with a wooden staff, he bends along
the narrow and crooked path, over which the
grass has quite grown together here and there,
though tiny spots of gravel, at wide distances,
attest that it was once a broad avenue; slowly
padlock, and goes toward an old but substantial
and better kept house than his own, where
lives a rich miserly man, using and abusing,
and augmenting, and squandering the wealth
which in truth belongs to his mother—a poor
half-crazed old woman, whom he keeps imprisoned
in his garret, scantily fed and clothed,
as report says, and suffered to see no visitors,
except the old man just described, who
once or twice in the year, perhaps, is permitted
to pass an hour or more with the almost imbecile
prisoner whom he remembers as a gay-hearted
and pretty young woman, and with
those black glittering eyes of his, he can see,
even now, traces of lost beauty beneath the
grey locks that straggle down from her dishevelled
nightcap. In their youth they were
friends and neighbors, and so indeed they are
still, but while the intellect of the old man
is as clear as it ever was, that of the woman
seems to have gathered mildew, and to shine
out only now and then imperfectly through its
mouldy crust. He calls her “Lizy,” yet, when
he takes her withered hand, and in his own
veins forking and zigzaging from the knuckles
to the wrist, crushes them in the heartiness
of his grasp, till the purple spreads to the
finger-ends. And she, with what seems a
mocking echo of the joyish tones of fifty years
ago, addresses her friend as “Dicky,” and half
pettishly accuses him of forgetfulness of old
friendship. But not so: Richard Furniss visits
the woman as often as he dares, for he is a
humble man, and shrinks from contact with
humanity, really believing himself undeserving
of any notice or regard from the world
from which he has withdrawn himself.
With Richard Furniss alone, however, as he
lived in the desolate old house I have written
of, only now and then creeping out into the sun,
has our story much to do. The man is slightly
changed since the sunrise of a bright May
morning slanted through his curtainless window
eight or ten years ago. His iron-grey
hair hangs lower on his shoulders—for no one
trims it now—and the weight of these additional
years has bent him earthward somewhat
more, perhaps, though his black eyes glitter
slips about his possessions as though unworthy
of them, just as he was wont. On the steep
gables the mosses are thicker and greener now
than then, the tree-tops a little heavier, and
the general air of neglect more immediately
obvious, but the casual observer would see not
much alteration in either man or dwelling since
that May morning. And beautiful exceedingly
was the opening day, the very breathing of the
cool air a luxury. With the first stir and hum
of the great city the windows of the old house
were thrown up, the blue smoke went curling
away from the low kitchen chimney, while in
and out the others dipped and rose the swallows,
speckling the air about the roof with
their grey bosoms and black wings. On the
tops of the dormer-windows sat rows of plump
pigeons, waiting for the sunrise, and close
against the double outer door lay a great
watch-dog, his head between his fore paws,
and his hungry-looking eyes wide open.
“Surly, Surly!” called a sweet voice from
the window above, as the dog rose and growled,
shaking the chain that was attached to
his freedom was sometimes restricted, though
at the time mentioned it hung loose and dragged
after him as he advanced a few steps down
the gravelled walk, his growl softening to a
whine, and the first belligerent aspect changing
to one of welcome.
“There, Annette!” said the voice again,
“how late we are this morning! father will
scold. Oh, I am sorry I slept so long, for see,
the man who brings our butter is waiting at
the gate, and I can't go to unlock it these ten
minutes—just see my hair!” and she smoothed
the heavy brown waves which had fallen
in careless grace about her neck and shoulders,
turning anxiously, the while, from the
window to the bed, the pillow of which was
still pressed by a fairer cheek than her own.
A merry ringing laugh was the only answer the
distressed questioner at first received, and not
till she had repeated the exclamation, “Oh! I
am so sorry!” did the person addressed as Annette
lift herself on her elbow and look steadily
from the window. An arch smile curved
her thin lips as she did so, and through the
blushed along her cheek, as she said hurriedly
and in an under tone, “Nelly, dear, run down
and open the gate, never mind your hair, it
really makes you look charming, falling negligently
as it does.” And seeing that the girl
hesitated, at the same time adjusting the open
morning gown with some precision, she added
impatiently, “Never mind, Nell, the fellow
will be tired to death, and father too, will be
terribly vexed; there's my shawl, just throw
it round your shoulders and never mind!”
“Oh! must I go this way?” and she pushed
away her fallen hair, thrust her little bare feet
into a pair of slippers, and gathering the shawl
her sister had mentioned about her throat, descended
the stairs without more ado.
No sooner was she gone than Annette, who
had till then lingered indolently with her pillow,
dashed aside the counterpane and hastening
to the window called, “Nell! ask the
young man to come in, and be sure you don't
allow him to go away until I come down: I
have an especial and important object in
view.”
There was a puzzled and inquiring expression
in the face of Nelly for a moment, but
simply nodding assent, she took up the chain
which Surly was dragging after him, and
skipped down the walk by his side, calling
him “poor fellow” and “pretty Surly,” as she
went; though only his mistress could have
discovered his beauty, for surely so long-legged,
slabsided and altogether graceless a
creature never tended another door. But,
“poor fellow,” as the girl might well call him,
he could not help his natural defects, nor the
scanty feeding that had flattened him to his
present narrow dimensions.
“Why, Surly, old fellow, good morning.”
And the young man who had been so long
standing before the gate, sat down from his
arm the basket covered with dewy leaves, and
reaching through the bars took the paw of the
dog in his large clumsy hand and shook it
heartily, without as yet having given any
salutation at all to the young woman.
“Really, Mr. Graham,” she began, holding
her shawl together with one hand, while she
“really, I am quite ashamed.”
“Not at all, Miss,” he interrupted, before she
proceeded further with an apology, “I would
as lives stand here as not: is your father well,
Miss?”
By this time the gate was open and Mr.
Graham, taking up his basket, followed, rather
than accompanied, Nelly into the house.
“Well, father, you have a nice fire for me,”
she said, “and I shall be very smart to make
up for lost time. Have you forgotten Mr.
Graham?” she added, seeing that he did not
notice the young man who stood blushing and
stepping with one foot and the other in painful
embarrassment.
A dry nod and an unsmiling glance were
the only results of this appeal, and the young
man, aware of the dubious welcome, hastened
to pull the green leaves from his basket and
take thence the golden rolls of butter which
it was his weekly errand to bring.
“Seems to me, Nell,” said the old man, poking
in the ashes with his cane, “that you use
he added after a moment, “your mother did n't
do so, that's all;” and he resumed his poking
in the ashes.
“I am afraid father will never be able to
teach me the economy which it is perhaps
needful for me to practise,” said Nelly, blushing
confusedly that he should have betrayed
so calculating a spirit, and taking as much
blame to herself as she could, that the less
might attach to him.
“What's that?” resumed the old man in a
voice somewhat mollified, as he saw the farmer
take from his basket a piece of meat which he
had brought from home.
“A morsel for Surly,” answered Graham,
and he continued, apologetically, though he
knew the dog was half starved, “I thought it
better than your city veal.”
Richard Furniss moved uneasily, and looked
wistfully after the young farmer, as he withdrew,
carrying his basket, and the hungry dog
the gift which was to propitiate his friendship
as well as satisfy his appetite. He turned now
from the fire-place, to assist in preparations for
worn-out coffee-mill close together with one
hand and between his knees, with the other
turned the crank until the grains were ground,
and then set the scant drawing to boil in a tin
coffee-pot which had neither lid nor handle,
and was proceeding to set the table, when his
daughters entered the room — having been
engaged longer than they were accustomed to
be with their toilets. “Humph,” he said,
eyeing them with severity, “you are not
much like your mother; she would have
been at work while you have been decking
yourselves off with furbelows.” And he
added with what seemed real emotion: “I
wish, girls, you would not dress so fine.”
“There, father!” said Nelly, taking the
table-cloth from his tremulous hands, and
sighing, as she arranged the cracked and
broken ware so as to conceal the rents and
patches.
“A most singular old gentleman!” exclaimed
Annette, laughing, as, half blind with
tears, the father stumbled out of the house.
“Oh, Netty, Netty!” said Nelly; and she
looking into the fire.
“Why, my fair sister, have I shocked you?”
resumed the young beauty, laying her hand
on the arm of her sister in mock tenderness; “I
spoke no treason; I simply said our honored
father was a `strange gentleman,' and I repeat
it. Would to heaven,” she continued more
earnestly, “I had not a drop of the Furniss
blood in my veins.”
“Oh! Netty, Netty!” reiterated the sister;
and, unlocking her hands, she went quietly
about her work again.
“I understand your reproof; perhaps I
deserve it,” spoke Annette, in a cold calm
tone, that indicated no self-condemnation;
“but, Nell, good and pure as you are, you
must feel sometimes that you are cursed with
a curse.”
There was no reply, and she continued: “I
felt it, when I was young, and—no, not as
good as you, but better than I am now.”
“Do not call me good; if you saw my
heart—if you knew what my thoughts are,
often, you would draw yourself away from me
to confess it, but I sometimes reproach not
only the living, but the dead;” and her lip
trembled, as she spoke.
“Wickedness, as I understand it,” replied
Annette, “is the deliberate and premeditated
working of evil — not any honest rebellion
against unnatural constraint. The lark sings,
because of the gift God has given it; if it were
mewed up with the owl, it would pine and
die. What business has the lamb in the eyry
of the eagle? And if any circumstance, or
combination of circumstances, place it there, I
hold that it is not bound to remain in the position,
either to be preyed upon, or scorched to
death in the sun, if by any means it can possibly
let itself down.”
Nelly shook her head slowly and sadly.
“Talk as you may, but you cannot cease all
self-sacrifice, and be satisfied. You cannot
turn aside from the path which those who love
you have marked out for you, with a consciousness
of rectitude. I cannot.”
“I live,” replied Annettee, “but for the
simple sense of living; I have small reason to
gratitude to my parents; it was not for my
pleasure they brought me here. I have grown
to womanhood because my constitution has
resisted the wear and tear to which it has been
wrongfully subjected, and not because of any
fostering care bestowed on me. I am warpt
from the first goodness and purity of my
nature; my life has been forcibly turned
from its bent; when I would have gone up,
I was pressed down; when I pined for knowledge,
I was kept ignorant: and now,” she
added,
Will o'ersweep them with my sands!”
“All this, Netty, will not avail to bring you
peace.”
“Then you think I am bound to surrender
all my hopes and inclinations to the will of
one to whom I owe nothing; to take up a
cross that must shortly crush me into the
grave. No, you may do this if you choose,
but from this day I am bound to live after my
own fashion.”
“Well,” replied Nelly; and the simple
would try to consecrate herself to duty.
There was a long silence; then Annette fell
to singing, as if so happy in her late resolve
that she could not help exultation. Presently,
however, she said, abruptly, as she caught a
glimpse of the form of the young farmer reapproaching
the door of the kitchen, along the
grounds: “Nell, how would you like Henry
Graham for a brother? — I am resolved to
marry him.”
“Marry Henry Graham! What do you
mean?”
“Precisely what I say.”
“Why, you have scarcely spoken to him —
when did he ask you?”
“Ah, my dear sister,” said Annette, laughing,
“you are much younger than I am.
True, I have scarcely spoken with him, and I
don't suppose he ever thought of marrying
me; but new influences produce new feelings:
perhaps he will ask me.”
“Hush!” and Nelly lifted up her hand and
smiled, as she said, “Shall I invite him to sit
in the parlor?”
“Oh, no, it would only disconcert him,
and hinder the progress of our acquaintance;
besides, our preparation of breakfast will serve
to entertain him.”
“Ah, Mr. Graham!” and Annette shook
hands with him, in her most cordial and
winning manner; “I hope I have not
detained you against any pressing call upon
your time.”
“Oh, no, Miss; I am very glad if I can
serve you in any way; any commands of
yours would flatter me.”
He blushed as he spoke, and rapidly changed
his market-basket from one hand to the
other.
Annette busied herself about the table till
he recovered from the confusion into which
this effort at politeness had thrown him, and
then artfully led the conversation into channels
calculated to place him at ease.
For the time she seemed to forget that their
slight acquaintance should impose any limits
to the subjects or familiarity of their discussion,
and asked him a great many direct questions,
as how far he lived from the city, how
whether he was not prospectively rich.
By this, and the preparation of breakfast,
Mr. Henry Graham was placed as much at his
ease as it was or is possible for an inferior
creature to be with a superior one; for though
two, so differing, may sometimes stand on the
same elevation, and may seem to be not altogether
ill-matched, the lower cannot escape
the consciousness that the higher can overmaster
and crush and annihilate as he will.
The question whether Mr. Graham was not
likely to be the possessor of wealth, drew out
the information that his brother Stafford, a
surgeon then in the army, shared with him
his prospects.
“Older or younger than you?” asked Annette,
carelessly, and in an undertone adding,
“Stafford: what a pretty name!”
The young man colored and did not at once
reply, evincing clearly enough, to the quick
eyes of Annette, that he was nettled by the
greater interest she betrayed in Stafford.
“Have you been separated long?” she resumed,
as if not observing his silence.
“Three years,” he answered, glancing at the
window, and adding something about the
beauty of the day.
“Lovely, is n't it? Do you expect your
brother home soon?”
“We are not in correspondence. My
mother, I believe, receives letters from him
sometimes.”
“Not in correspondence!”
“No, we are not firends;” and Mr. Graham
compressed his lips, and betrayed in him manner
a positive unwillingness to pursue the conversation.
“Shall I call father to breakfast?” asked
Nelly, interrupting a silence that even to
Annette was embarrassing; and without waiting
a reply she withdrew upon the errand
thus suggested.
The house was situated about the middle of
the grounds, in the rear of which the trees
grew thicker than elsewhere; and toward a
clump of elms whose pendulous boughs hung
low, the girl bent her steps, looking unusually
sad and thoughtful.
“Come, father,” she said, speaking more
and lilacs that hedged in a solitary grave, she
found him, where she expected, sitting by
the head-stone, a low pillar of marble.
In a few moments the family and their guest
are seated together at their meagre breakfast.
Richard Furniss is at an inconvenient
distance from the table, holding a crust in one
hand, from which he occasionally breaks a
small piece, and deliberately places it within
his lips. When he is offered a fresh slice, he
shakes his head mournfully and replies, “It is
no matter about me.” His dress is old and
shabby, and seems to have been carelessly
put on; his countenance evinces unrest and
melancholy, and his whole bearing a mingling
of diffidence and ill-humor. Henry Graham
looks as if not more than twenty, though he is
certainly twenty-five; he is slender and tall,
with a roseate complexion, and little twinkling
blue eyes. He reminds one, in his manner,
of a stray animal amid a new flock, not
quite assured of his position. His hair is thin
and long, in color a sandy yellow; his beard
is red; and in his habitual awkwardness there
of gentlemanly blood, his father having
been a man of elegant breeding and scholarly
attainments. Of his mother we shall have
occasion to speak hereafter. Annette is rather
above the ordinary height of women: a brunette,
with eyes and hair black as the night.
The expression of the eyes is commonly soft,
but when aroused by passion, they have something
of the glitter that makes one distrustful,
almost afraid. She is not stout, nor yet very
thin; her countenance, in repose, is quietly sad,
and her whole manner subdued; yet you feel
when you have once conversed with her, that
somewhere in her nature there is pride, ambition,
and smothered energy and purpose. One
hour her smile wins you, and you can tell her
your simplest joys and sorrows; say you love
her, perhaps; but the next there is a sea of
ice between you, and this without her speaking
an unkind word, or having withdrawn one
beam of her unfaltering smile. She is no
longer young, as her conversation has already
revealed, but she is as handsome, perhaps, as
she ever was; something from the fullness of
may be missed, but in the higher expression
of beauty she is a gainer by her years.
Mr. Furniss declines the second cup of coffee,
a beverage of which he is exceedingly
fond; he does not know that it would make
him live any longer, he says; but in fact he
thinks himself unworthy of having more, and
feels that he is saving a little in refusing
it. Sometimes Annette would have pressed it
upon him: not so to-day.
When Mr. Graham invites him to visit
Woodside, his country place, he shakes his
head sorrowfully, replying that he seldom
goes from home; nobody wishes to see him;
and so, with moisture in his eyes, he withdraws
from the house, and is presently sitting by
the lonely grave again.
How we cling to the dust, frail and fading
and perishing as it is! She who sleeps in that
narrow and obscure grave has, for him, drawn
down after her all the stars of heaven. Poor
old man! blame him not too hastily; there
went out the love that made him forget his
grey hairs; there he first learned how far
it; and he has no strength and no courage to
retrace his steps.
Through adversity some persons become
pure, and, as it were, kiss the hand that chastises;
others go wandering and wailing like
echoes out of ruins; and others lift their eyes
in reproof when the cloud comes over them,
not against God, as they say, but Fate.
2. CHAPTER II.
“WELL, Nelly, what are you thinking
of?” asked Annette Furniss, as the
sisters sat together in their scantily-furnished
chamber, a week after the scene described in
the preceding chapter. The evening was deepening,
and she closed the volume from which
she had been reading,—one of those exhibitions
of shallow but plausible skepticism with
which the weak and the perverse seek so frequently
to lull the stings of conscience,—and
as she moved listlessly from the window to the
bedside, to bury her face in the pillows,
repeated, “I say, what are you thinking of?
Why don't you speak?”
“Oh, I don't know,” answered the girl,
who remained at the window, one cheek resting
between the western clouds, and Surly, who
lay below.
“Do say something,” said Annette, petulantly;
“do, for charity's sake; I can't endure
my own thoughts any longer.”
“Come and sit by me: there was never a
sweeter sunset;” and the placid expression of
Nelly's face contrasted strangely with the
worn and restless appearance of Annette's, as,
suddenly sitting upright, she gazed upon her
fixedly. In a moment the troubled air grew
sorrowful, and she said reproachfully, but not
bitterly, “And so you have nothing to say to
me; well!”
“Netty, my dear sister!” and Nelly stooped
and kissed her, “I don't know what to say
that will comfort you;” and, more playfully,
she continued, “the patient cannot expect a
cure so long as she conceals her real disease
from the physician. And Netty, you know
that you have lately withdrawn the little confidence
you ever gave me, and when we talk
I feel that it is across some great gulf.”
Tears gathered slowly to the eyes of Annette,
for she did not wipe them; and Nelly felt
them on her face when, laying her head on
her sister's knees, she said, “I do not blame
you if you cannot mate yourself with me, you
are so much older and wiser than I;” and,
after a slight pause, listening toward the
adjoining chamber, “What's that?”
Annette turned her head in the direction
indicated, and said in her cold and calm tone,
“ 'Tis father, counting his money.”
There was a long silence, interrupted only
by the clinking of the silver. At length Annette,
placing her hand on the head of her
sister, said, “Nelly, you think me a strange
creature, and so I am, neither fit to live nor
die; but if you knew the influences that have
made me so! Oh, Nelly, you do know some
of them, but you do not know all the hardships,
and trials, and wrongs, and slights, that
have at last crushed out the little good that
was long ago in my nature; you know how
hard your life has been, but I have lived longer,
twelve years longer than you, and my
childhood and girlhood have left scarcely a
were never what is termed poor; nevertheless,
I have suffered from hunger, and cold, and
nakedness.”
“Ah, Netty,” answered the sister, “do you
not fancy the deprivations incident to real
poverty?”
“No, I have slept in a garret so open that
the snows and winds blew over me, and all
the while worked like a bought slave. I have
thirsted for knowledge, and education has
been denied me; I have wished for society,
and am shut out from it by my ignorance and
ill-breeding, even more than by all other present
restraints. If these things had been or
were from necessity, I would not complain;
but to be mewed up in a ruin, and waste, and
die here, and for no earthly good”—
She stopped suddenly, pushed her hair from
her forehead, and, after a moment, resumed:
“The great blight of my life, Nelly, I have
not spoken of.”
Her sister looked as if startled with a new
apprehension.
“Oh, 't is nothing,” she went on, smiling,
could have chosen my own path of life, it
would not have been. Never mind, I do not
like to talk about it. But, never be so foolish
as to believe, no matter upon what grounds
that any man whose birth and education are
superior to yours, will marry you. Never,
Nelly, suffer yourself to be so deluded.”
She arose and walked to and fro in the
chamber, and Nelly recalled as she did so the
summer twilights, long past, when her gay
laugh rang out from among the flowers that
she had planted and tended with such care
(there were no flowers planted now), and when
she sat on the mossy door-step in the deeper
evening, more quietly, but not less happy,
speaking sometimes very low and tenderly in
answer to a voice as low and tender as her
own. This was all long ago, when Nelly was
a child, but she could remember that Annette
was gentle, and loving, and hopeful, that she
often kissed her, and talked to her of the
goodness and happiness and beauty that were
in the world.
“And for the desertion, Netty,” she said, at
because they did not educate you to be the
wife of the man you loved; but that he ever
loved you is impossible, else he would not
have left you. Turn your reproaches where
they belong, and you will have gained in love
and respect for our father; he is an old man
now, and his grey hairs are very close to the
grave.”
“Yes, he is an old man, a miserly, miserable
old man! You are shocked, but truth is
truth, whether spoken of man or angel, and
truth is truth if not spoken at all. Yet I do
love my father, and pity him; but he will
not allow me to make him happy; he has
warped me from my bent as much as he
could; and now our natures are antagonistic,
and we were better apart than together.”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean that I have suffered, and struggled,
and starved here, as long as I can, and
if I can't free myself in one way I will in
another: by marrying Henry Graham, for
instance.”
Nelly smiled. “I know your pride and
an alliance.”
“Pride and ambition!” repeated Annette,
“I have no use for such words; look at me,”
and she turned toward her sister: “old, hopeless,
friendless, and heartless. I once had
dreams, indeed, but they were dreams. I am
learning to see things as they are. What
good will come to me in this old rookery? I
suppose I shall grow uglier, and older, and
bitterer, if that were possible. Look around,”
she said, enumerating some of the weightiest
names with which they were both familiar,
“will any of these people admit us to their
society on terms of equality? And why not?
God has endowed us as richly as them, and
more so; we are entitled by our wealth to their
position; but by vulgar habits and total ignorance
of the usages of cultivated men and
women we are exiled from them. What is
the use of hope?”
“I do not see as you do, my dear sister,”
said Nelly, and she proceeded to soften the
hard and naked truths before her, as only with
the mists that go up from a fountain of love
our parents came here, as pioneers, they had
little but their hands and their hearts to
encourage them; a hard task they proposed
to themselves, and earnestly they wrought for
its accomplishment; no economy was too
rigid, no labor too severe, sustained and
encouraged as they were by the expectation
of one day surrounding themselves and us
with the elegances and refinements of life.
They did not see nor know that our natures
differed from theirs, and that the severe
schooling they gave us must embitter all our
years. Think of it, Netty; think of our
poor mother, pale, and patient, and hopeful,
more for us than for herself, making plans for
coming good even on her death-bed, and
going from us without having reaped any of
the pleasures that should reward a life of toil.
If she had lived we might have seen better
days. As it is, let us make the most of our
scanty means of enjoyment; life is short, let
us not embitter it more than we must.”
And differently as the sisters had spoken,
each had said the truth. On the death of his
Mr. Furniss lost all care for everything; the
bright day he had looked forward to became
suddenly black; the joy almost within
his grasp was snatched away, and after
the first passionate flow of tender grief, only
bitterness mingled with his tears. The house,
unfinished at the loved one's death, was never
completed; the room in which the corpse was
laid was never furnished; and from the day
of her burial all previous accumulations shrunk
and wasted toward ruin.
The father saw the daughters unlike the
mother, and was displeased; naturally they
turned toward the gaieties of society, while
she had loved only her home; but I need not
enlarge: enough that, kept together by the
force of outward circumstances, they grew
further and further apart, till the house was
divided against itself, and the wretched monotony
forced upon the sisters was fretting out
the life of the one and the amiability of the
other. So, one thinking of new sacrifices
and new endeavors, and the other of better
fortune to be attained in some way—she
late into the night.
“How hot your head is!” Annette said at
last, feeling Nelly's forehead burn against her
shoulder. She tried to choke back the short
dry cough, and smile. Annette softly closed
the window, and the sisters retired for the
night.
3. CHAPTER III.
OUT of the noontide heats of early June
fly the birds; the shadows of Woodside
are full of them. It is a fine day for the
mowers; the broad blades of the corn curl
together, and dust goes up from the furrows
as the last plowing between the green rows is
finished. Nowhere within a dozen miles of
the great city is there a prettier farm, or one
under better culture, or yielding a handsomer
interest. The proprietor is a thrifty manager,
as a glance over the grounds will attest.
But let us suppose ourselves in the little
red market wagon, with its neat white cover
and carpeting of straw, that is just approaching,
almost within view. There is a coverlid,
blue and white, thrown over the spring seat,
bunches of mint are twisted under the hoops
of the calash; and Mr. Graham has set his hat
jauntily on one side of his head; he wears a
shirt with ruffles, too, and now and then he
urges forward the fine horse he drives, by
touching his flank with a beech switch, addressing
the animal the while as though he
were a familiar, well acquainted with the person
beside him.
Annette, for the person alluded to is no
other, turns aside to conceal her smiles, raises
the white curtain of the wagon, points to a
tall monument, the only one towering above
the briars and thistles and nameless hillocks
of a wayside graveyard, and asks who is
buried there.
“My father,” replies Mr. Graham; “he
was a proud man in his life, and the monument
is of his own design;” and he adds:
“Even in our ashes burn our wonted fires.”
Annette turns her black eyes full upon him,
and asks what was the father's name; and
when it is told her, exclaims, “Not so pretty
as yours!” and she calls over “Henry, Harry,
which shall I call you?”
“Either is sweet as you pronounce it,” he
replies, “but call me Hal.”
“And what will you call me? It will be
quite too precise, when you are teaching me
to milk, to say Miss Furniss, you know.”
“Oh, I shall call you Netty. I do n't like
the Ann.”
“No more do I; nor the Furniss either,”
says she; “I wish some one in charity would
give me a better name.”
The young man says he wishes he dare offer
his; and the crimson that blushes along his
cheek goes up from his heart. Annette Furniss
knows that right well; nevertheless, she
answers in a tone that may be either jest or
earnest, “I only wish you were not making
so pretty a speech to flatter me, Mr. Graham.”
“Mr. Graham!” repeats the young man, as
if he would say, why do n't you call me Hal?
but Netty, suddenly charmed with the prospect,
claps her hands in ecstasy, and exclaimed:
“How lovely! this is Woodside, I
know.”
The young farmer bows in silence, or rather
gives his head a backward jerk, which is his
style of bowing. Netty affects unconsciousness
of his displeasure, and artlessly tells
him she would like to live at Woodside forever.
He smiles again, and urges forward the
horse with an address of such sort as he would
make if it were his brother in the harness.
Miss Furniss relapses into silent admiration
of the meadows, woods, house, and appurtenances,
asking herself, perhaps, whether she
really would accept them with their incumbrance.
“For a minute the man talks very well;
he is not a simpleton,” thinks the girl; “no,
he is far from it;” so she accosts him familiarly,
and calls him “Hal.” Then he hangs
his long legs out of the wagon, and assumes a
swaggering air, telling of daring feats he has
accomplished, of the immense value of his
property—now using only “me” and “my”
when he speaks of the estate, and impliedly
asserting that his mother and brother are pensioners
upon him.
“I wonder if it is all his?” queries Miss
Furniss. “I can count twenty cows on the
hills yonder; and what extensive woodlands!
Timber is valuable here, I suppose, and the
house has really been stylish in its time,
and barring some little defects — every body
has his faults — this Hal is a good fellow
enough.”
A broad avenue, boardered with trees, leads
from the main road to the dwelling, a two-story
brick house, with an antique portico in
front, and a little yard, fenced separately from
the rear grounds, where extends a lower range
of buildings, edged with curious porches, at
the ends of which little rooms have been boxed
up, as if for temporary uses. About the yard
are a great many flowers, prettily disposed;
some of them rare, and of wonderful beauty.
Two partly-grown calves are running loose
among them; and on the lower step of the
portico sits a haggish-looking old woman,
holding a stick, which she strikes toward the
animals when they tread too near the flowers.
As Annette, having been assisted to alight, is
led by her companion toward this person, she
direction where the calves are not, and also
sees imperfectly some curious object leap up
from where it lay in the sun, hop round the
corner of the house, and disappear. With
an air of the most punctilious respect “Hal”
introduces Annette to his mother, and proceeds
to drive the calves toward the meadow,
the two women, meantime, disappearing within
doors.
Mrs. Graham assumes a gentle tone, and
informs Annette that she has conferred upon
a poor old lady the greatest happiness she
could possibly enjoy — she is confined to her
room, from habit, and fears her guest will be
lonesome till the return of Stafford, of whom
she is evidently proud, though she says of
Henry, whom she calls “Sonny,” that he
reads a great deal, and that his room has quite
an antiquarian air. “I have not been in it
these six years,” she adds; “I am a poor old
creature now, you see; but I will be smart
while you are here, and you will stay three
months; yes, four, or five, or six, won't you,
dear?” During all her long address she
untied Annette's bonnet, which she said was
lovely, stooped over her, patting her cheek
and shoulder in the most condescending manner
imaginable.
While she was thus engaged, one of the
side doors of the parlor was opened, stealthily,
and at a mysterious movement of the
dame's hand, closed again. It seemed to
interrupt the flow of her thought, however,
and she shortly disappeared through the same
door, having first taken up her outer skirt,
and from a dirty pocket of coarse white muslin,
tied round her waist with a string, fished up a
letter, crumpled and dirty, which she gave
Annette to amuse herself with while she
should be absent.
The girl held it at arm's length as she unfolded
it, for she could not but notice the
handful of tobacco ashes, twine, and money,
in paper and silver, together with bits of
soap, lumps of salve, and things indescribable,
which had been drawn out of that curious
receptacle with the letter.
“I want you to observe, honey,” she said,
“how affectionately and sweetly he
writes. Unity in families, my dear, is so perfectly
delightful.”
Annette did not read the affectionate missive
immediately; the old woman stood between
her and any picture her fancy might have
been disposed to draw of Stafford.
She was, perhaps, sixty: tall, unbent, and
muscular. Her hair was grizzled, but seemed
yet very thick, and was cut short on her neck,
turning over in a heavy roll against the frill
of her nightcap; for she wore a cap, which
appeared to have served for both night and
day, past many washing-days. Her complexion
was dark, her eyes grey and keen, and
all her dress slovenly in the extreme. A
black silk shawl was carelessly pinned about
her shoulders, and her frock was composed of
black worsted, soiled and patched so as quite
to obscure its original brightness, and make
doubtful even its original colors. It was tattered
and fringed at the bottom, and so short
as to reveal liberally the petticoat, which was
by no means so neat as petticoats are commonly
but a sort of moccasins instead. Her teeth
were sound, nor did she betray indeed the
slightest diminution of any of her faculties.
Her voice was affectedly and disagreeably
affectionate, and she talked incessantly, patting
and petting every body about her, and
herself too. “Is that Hal's mother?” thought
Annette, as the door closed, and the maudlin
tone changed to one of coarse and bitter anger.
She could not hear the words distinctly, but
the tone implied an offending party, in whose
situation she would not willingly be placed.
Having recovered a little from the shock
which she had really received, Annette, as I
said, unfolded the letter, at arm's length, and
shaking off a quantity of snuff sticking about
it, proceeded to read, failing however to discover
the especial sweetness or affection of its
contents. It began with “dear mother,” and
concluded with “your affectionate son, Stafford
Graham;” but aside from these formalities,
there was nothing to indicate any tender
relationship between them. The pith of the
communication was, that the writer proposed
considerable amount, and that Henry or his
mother must immediately forward a stipulated
sum for his relief. There were some directions
about the management of the farm, and
the epistle concluded as follows:
“Have that pen, usually denominated my
room, cleansed a little: see to it yourself,
mother. It must be thoroughly aired, and
refurnished sufficiently for comfort, at least;
remember these orders are imperative.”
As Annette finished the reading, she glanced
round the room, more with a view to see its
appointments than she had yet done. Some of
the furniture was elegant; a little old-fashioned,
to be sure, and arranged very carelessly;
indeed the whole aspect of things indicated
the absence of a superintendent; and dust lay
over the chairs and tables; winter curtains
darkened the windows; and cornices, picture-frames,
and mirrors were exposed to the flies,
swarms of which darkened the ceiling; but
still there were unmistakable indications of
former style and liberal expenditure.
Among the pictures were two portraits, one
handsome, and with the inimitable air aristocratic;
the other of a younger man, greatly
like the elder, a little less handsome, a little
more pretty, perhaps.
While before these portraits, wondering
who they represented, a sudden jerk upon
her arm arrested her attention, and turning
quickly she saw before her the strangest specimen
of humanity she had ever met. In years
the new-comer seemed a child, but in dress
and manner she might have been a woman of
twenty-five, or of any age, in fact, for all these
said to the contrary.
“I suppose,” she said, “that may be you
thought dinner never would be ready. I was
late with my washing to-day; come right out
now, and eat such as we have got; nothing
very inviting to a town appetite;” and she led
the way to the dining-room.
Annette detained her to inquire about the
portraits.
“That's Staff,” she said, pointing a finger
at the younger of the two; “you ain't in love
with him a'ready, be you? 'Cause if you are,
younger and prettier girls than you, that
could n't come it when they tried to get him;
he's one of 'em!”
In all her experience of womanhood, Annette
had never seen so loose-tongued a creature;
but the look with which she answered
this in no wise disconcerted her, for, placing
her fore-finger against her nose, she exclaimed,
“You can't come it!” and so she went
laughing and skipping out of the room. At
the same time Mr. Henry Graham entered, and
politely conducted his guest to the dinner.
Two or three tables had been joined into
one, and a party of harvesters were already
partaking of a plain but very substantial
meal: beef, mutton, and turnips, with milk,
apple pies, and cakes. The little woman was
very busy in carving meats and serving
the vegetables.
“Why in the world do n't granmarm
come?” she said, looking vexed and annoyed,
“every thing will be as cold as a stone—is
she going to wait and eat with”—
Hal shook his head significantly, and she
offend in a new direction.
“Here, old man and old woman,” she resumed,
placing two chairs at the head of the
table; “you may as well sit together, I reckon
you have to make a beginning sometime,” and
she laughed meaningly.
“You are one of the gals,” one of the harvesters
said, upon which she struck him a
smart blow upon the ear, retorting that he was
one of them just as much. There was to this
a general greeting of laughter.
“Boys, this lady!” said Mr. Graham, waving
his hand toward them with some dignity.
“Oh, you want to make Netty Furniss believe
you are some great things,” said the little
woman; “I can see some things if I am
nobody but Rache.”
“I wish you could see yourself as others see
you,” said the vexed young man, blushing confusedly
as he spoke.
“I do n't,” she replied, “'cause it might
make me feel bad. I'd hate to look as simple
to myself as a certain young man looked to me
market.”
All eyes were turned again to the object of
this ill-natured taunt. His sorrows were thickening,
but as yet he found ample compensation
in the smiles of Annette, who seemed to have
formed the determination to please and to be
pleased.
And so began the acquaintance of Annette
Furniss, the heartless, disappointed, and embittered
woman, with the youthful and ambitious
farmer.
Novelty, unless very unpleasant, prompts to
good nature. Woodside, in itself, was really
a charming place; and perhaps the flattering
attentions of Henry were not disagreeable.
Besides, Annette had wound up her energies
for the task of freeing herself in some way from
what seemed to her the most adverse fortune,
and charity would hope that she never once
contemplated, even for this end, a system of
positive dissimulation.
The gossiping propensity and odd assurance
of Rache amused her, and when the dinner was
concluded she began to cultivate the acquaintance
assisting in the labors of the afternoon.
They were engaged in removing the dishes,
Aunette chatting as gaily and almost as wildly
as her companion, when Henry, who had gone
into the meadow with the mowers, came in
with a quail in his hand, which he gave in
charge of the girl with many careful directions.
While sitting on her nest the poor bird had
been surprised by the men and injured in the
wing by the point of a scythe. The creature
laughed as she took charge of it, but gave
assurance that she would do all that was needful
in the matter.
“Look here, Netty,” she exclaimed, when
Henry was gone, “this is the way to cure the
thing;” and as she spoke she took it by the
head and whirled it round in rapid circles till
every bone in the neck was broken.
“Are you totally depraved?” inquired Annette,
surveying her coolly.
“Don' know what you mean,” she answered,
“but I expect like enough I am.”
“How old are you?”
“Don' know — I'm a young woman.”
“Have you a father and mother?”
“Got a mother — hain't got no father and
never had as I know of—he died or run away
or something.”
“And why don't you live with your mother?”
“ 'Cause I got a step-father, and he's ugly to
me; if he's beat me once he's beat me a hundred
times, and so I run away. And now, if
you're done asking questions I'll go and split
my oven wood—I forget to tell Hal—but it's
no difference—I can chop as fast as he can.”
So saying she went with a skip and a jump
toward a heap of wood near the kitchen door,
and selecting a dry fence rail, began to cut and
split it into slender strips, singing, as she did
so, for the pleasure of Annette, rather than herself,
as her manner indicated, one of those
senseless refrains, which were never worth the
writing, and yet have descended through numberless
generations as if a portion of the very
atmosphere of rural life. Pity mingled with
her laughter, as Annette listened and looked,
for the girl's rudness and precocity were alike
ludicrous and sorrowful. In her form and features
she appeared as if but between thirteen
and in all respects like that of an adult woman;
her hair was knotted up with a very large
comb, and arranged in puffs along the cheeks
and forehead, after the fashion of the ladies of
that time; her feet were bare, and seemed not
to have been washed lately; her sleeves rolled
far above the elbows; and a large towel, worn
as an apron, completed her costume.
“Have you lived here ever since you left
your mother?” asked Annette, when Rache
returned to the kitchen with her arms full of
the oven wood.
“No,” she answered, dashing the fuel into
the great brick oven; “I've lived at a hundred
places, if I've lived at one. You see,
when folks get ugly to me I tie up my things
and cut.”
“And do you like this place?”
“Yes, when Staff is away;” she continued,
“I do n't think his picture the prettiest thing
ever was, if some other folks do.”
“And you like Henry?” said Annette,
ashamed to betray the interest she felt in Stafford.
“Yes,” she answered, “he is good to me,
and good to every body; there ain't a brute
beast in Woodside that don't foller after him
if he goes a nigh; he's good, he is; I'll say that
for him, if a certain young lady don't think he
looks so well as Staff, and if a certain old woman
(I don't say you've seen her, and I don't
say you aven't) thinks he ain't a fine gentleman!”
Having arranged the wood, she set
fire to it, and, screwing her month to one side,
said demurely, “Granmam likes Hal, in fact,
enough sight the best.”
“So I should think,” answered Annette
ironically.
“How long're you going to stay here?” inquired
Rache, abruptly; and she proceeded,
“I ask you because a certain person don't
love visitors well enough to eat them.”
“And so you think I had best limit my
visit?”
“I didn't say so; I wouldn't say a word
against granmam for the world; as true as I
live and breathe, I meant somebody else;
somebody you don't know; I meant an old
man; no I didn't, I meant a young man.”
“Then I was mistaken,” said Annette.
“May be you think there ain't no young man
in this house but Hal; some folks have been
here a good while and didn't find out every
thing.”
“I never suspected there was not another
person in the house,” Annette replied; “I
rather thought there was, from some indications.”
“What a big fool I am,” said Rache, “babbling
secrets; but, never mind, I told a big
story; there ain't no young man in the house;
if there is he's crazy; no he ain't, he's a fool;
no, it's all a big lie; Jim wouldn't be the only
one granmam would beat with her big stick,
if she heard me run on so. I didn't mean to
say Jim, there ain't no Jim as I know of.” After
a moment's pause she went on: “You've
got a father? What kind of an old man is he?
is he rich? has he joined any meeting? live in
a big house?”
And so she gabbled, working all the while
with twice the energy and efficiency of a common
servant. The dinner dishes were rinsed
in a twinkling; then half a dozen loaves of
and cakes; and when all was completed the
oven was found to be heated; to work and to
talk very fast seemed alike natural to her.
For greater convenience, for she was far from
tall, she had made a little bench which she
moved from place to place as her duties required;
now standing on it to get her bread into
the oven, now to wash the dishes, now to see
into the closet. She had learned every thing
“of her own head,” she said, and managed all
the household affairs as she chose, for granmam
remained in her own room pretty much
with Jim: muttering the name so that Annette
only guessed what she said.
When she had set the bread and pies to bake
she brought in from the garden two mammoth
turnips, one of which she gave to Annette, and
having tipped her chair back, proceeded to
eat the other, first preparing it by scraping a
mouthful at a time with a case knife.
She knew not her age, nor her name, exclaimed
that it was Rache; nor did she care to
know. There was nothing sensitive in her nature;
she could work and earn her own living,
to any man. To excel in all departments of
housekeeping was her ambition; and that she
did every thing in the best style was her unhesitating
belief. That anybody was wiser she
had no suspicion; nor had she ever thought
whether the world was flat or round; that cabbages
and corn grew in it she knew, but the
most important fact in her brain was, that
she should be married some day, and the probability
was that it would be at no distant one.
With men and women, she conversed as though
her experiences were as large as theirs. Was
any one ill, she made him gruel; did any one
die, she helped to make the shroud; she enjoyed
the comfortable assurance that she was
equal to all occasions, and to all conditions.
Such was the real mistress of Woodside.
4. CHAPTER IV.
And now Henry Graham is very happy.
The days were never so full of sunshine
for him. He is up with the larks in the morning,
and singing as gaily as they. In all respects,
indeed, he is improving; there is a refining
influence in the atmosphere of Woodside
now that was never in it before. He does not
repeat his old and familiar slang phrases so
habitually; he is not aware of dropping them,
perhaps, but in conversing with Annette he
finds no uses for them. The blue trowsers he
used to wear about home, with grey patches over
the knees, hang from a peg in the stable, and
those formerly appropriated to Sundays and
market days are in every-day requisition. The
weather-beaten straw hat has kindled one of
rim and black ribbon, is substituted. He spends
more time among the flowers than formerly,
giving the sickle and the plow into other hands.
In air and feature he seems improving, too:
in the shadow of the broad rim, and the flowers,
the bronze is softening on his cheek; the
beard that used to look crisped and scorched,
as it were, and faded, too, carefully kept now,
assumes a richer dye, and curls full and gracefully.
“Really Hal,” says Annette one evening, as
he approaches where she sits, reading, under the
low apple tree boughs, “Really Hal, you do resemble
your brother a great deal more than I
at first supposed.” The smile that illuminated
the young man's face increased the resemblance,
for it was, perhaps, the smile, more
than any regularity or grace of feature, that
made the picture of Stafford beautiful.
“You are very kind, but my brother has
greatly the advantage of me, in every way.”
He looked down and his pleased expression
vanished as he spoke.
“By the way,” said Annette, coquettishly
thrown aside, “why don't you have your
picture painted?”
“Because,” he replied, still bending his eyes
on the grass, “I should not value it myself,
and no one else would, I am sure.”
“Remember what a treasure it would be to
your friends, if by any chance you were separated.”
“Humph!” was his only answer.
“You are not amiable to-night;” and she
put on a half-offended air, and became suddenly
enamored of the prospect that presented
itself in the direction opposite.
She had invariably succeeded in pleasing
before, when she had exerted her powers, and
now was really vexed.
Both were silent for a time, but a woman is
usually the first to break silence under such
circumstances, and Annette said, at length, in
a careless tone: “What day will you be going
to market?”
He mentioned the day, simply; and if he
understood the intimation that Annette would
return home with him, he did not betray it.
position; since coming to Woodside, Annette
had completed the conquest over him previously
begun, but whether the feelings she
had inspired were reciprocated at all, and if
so, how far, was extremely questionable.
One day she would rake hay in the meadow
with him, and enter with playful seriousness
into all his plans for the future cultivation and
improvement of Woodside; or talk of the next
month and next year as though her interests
were identified with his; but all the while
keep herself involved in a mist; and try as he
would, he could not see precisely where to
find her. Once or twice he had essayed to
strip off this obscuration, but with each endeavor
she either “made herself into thin air
and vanished,” or stood out distinctly visible
and impenetrable as a statue.
“I belong to myself and you belong to me,”
seemed, whether it were so or not, to be the
thought which governed all her wayward
policy toward the conquered and anxious
swain. But to-night the business of lovemaking,
which had hitherto been carried on
a more serious aspect. Henry had unconsciously
adopted a manner best calculated to
bring his mistress to terms.
“Perhaps, after all,” she thought, as she
sat in silent meditation, “he has been as little
sincere as myself.” But while she was revolving
some little stroke of art by which to lessen
the distance between them, she saw herself
suddenly deserted.
A party of rustic girls was entering the
gate, and he was gone to meet them. They
seemed in high spirits, but their mingled
voices and laughter came gratingly on the
nerves of Annette, and the more so, perhaps,
that one of them, a rosy-cheeked, curly-haired
creature, of not more than sixteen, seemed to
command the especial notice of Henry; while
that she looked pretty in her rustic dress and
simple white hood, there was no denying.
They had been sauntering among the flowers
fifteen or twenty minutes, when Rache, having
got through with the milking, joined the little
party—her sleeves rolled up as usual, and
her skirt pinned over her petticoat and hanging
with each of the girls, saying, as she did so,
“I am well, I thank you—how do you do
yourself?”
Afterward she asked of affairs at home, saying
to one, “I understand your father is very
sick: what doctor does he have?”
“Oh dear me, suz!” she exclaimed, on
hearing the name of the attending physician,
“do tell your father if he wants to die to take
poison at once. I meant to have gone to see
him, but I have so many cares and duties at
home.”
Of another she inquired the age of the
baby; how much it weighed, and what name
was talked of. “I understand it has a dreadful
deformed foot,” she said, “and that the
doctor has put it in some kind of a machine
which he screws up tighter every day, and
that the little thing cries with all its might
whenever its foot is touched. Poor innocent!
just to think how it suffers when it cries till it
gets black and blue in the face.”
To another, with the same thoughtless,
and impudent familiarity, “I understand your
from making money where he has been, he is
back worse than nothing. I hear he looks
dreadful bad too, and coughs like he had the
consumption.”
It was ludicrous to see her, with a hand set
upon either hip, conversing in such fashion,
and with a careworn expression on her face so
unsuited to her years.
“We are going to a debating society to-night,”
said Henry, making his most polite
bow, as with the young women he approached
his capricious and uncertain charmer; “shall
we have the pleasure of your company, Miss
Furniss?”
Miss Furniss felt like replying, “Thank you,
Mr. Graham; you do me more honor than I
desire.”
She did not so reply, however, but accepted
the invitation as courteously as if it were with
the greatest delight. But in vain she twisted
flowers among her hair and tried to be gay.
No woman likes to see another taking from
her the attentions she has been accustomed to
and prettier than herself; and Annette could
not quite reconcile her fancy to the society of
Rache, with whom she was coupled, while
Mr. Graham offered his arm to a fair damsel
in a white hood.
The little woman looked odd enough on the
way to the debating society. She had devoted
five minutes to the making of her toilet; and
wore now a pair of coarse shoes on her feet,
and on her head a yellow bandana handkerchief.
She had rolled down her sleeves, and
tied on a long, narrow, black silk apron, the
property of her “granmam,” as she called
Mrs. Graham. This last article was the part
of her apparelling that she was particularly
proud of; she repeatedly caught it up and
shook it smartly (for it fell greatly below her
skirt), reiterating each time, “How silk does
catch the dust!”
Once or twice she rallied Annette about her
depressed spirits, asking whether the cat had
got her tongue; what made her talk so much;
and the like. To all of which that somewhat
not especially silent, as she knew of, and that
she was sure she felt very well.
The twilight grew darker and darker, and
here and there a white star trembled overhead,
as the party entered a field of woodland, so
narrow as to be readily seen through. The
way, previously dusty, became damp, for the
branches of the trees interlocked above; grapevine
swings depended from some of them; and
small pens of sticks here and there, called
playhouses by the children, indicated proximity
to a schoolhouse.
It was a small, square building of hewn
logs, with the low boughs of maple blowing
against the windows. About the door the
ground was beaten smooth and hard, by
the treading of many feet, and across some
of the fallen logs slabs were balanced, that
told of the charming play of see-saw. But
all the attraction to-night was within doors,
and many were the groups of girls and boys
who suddenly appeared, as if just risen up
out of the woods.
There were no shouts, no laughter, but a
the coming on of a great affair. Most of the
members of the society were already assembled,
and conversation in undertones was
going on. There were old farmers and young
farmers, mechanics and day laborers, of various
ages and conditions. A rusty stove occupied
the middle of the floor, and seated upon
it, when our party made their entrance, was
a lad of eighteen, perhaps, thick-set, with a
round freckled face, and bold black eyes.
Trowsers and shirt composed all his dress, and
in one hand he held an old straw hat, with
part of the rim torn away. Altogether he
was quite as noticeable a figure as the schoolmaster
himself, a smiling old man, whose grey
queue was tied with a fresh black ribbon, and
whose carefully-brushed, thread-bare suit told
the poor gentleman looking his best. He paid
his respects to Graham and his friends with
graceful urbanity, offered them the best seats,
and hoped the evening would afford them
some compensation for their trouble in coming.
He wore no goose quill in his hair as a badge
of his profession; his hands were white, with
and preservation of which betrayed the direction
of his vanity.
“Stop a minute,” spoke Rache, as he was
about retiring; “I want to know how you sell
horn; I see you have a sign out; if you'll just
cut them ere off,” she said, taking his hand
familiarly, “I'll send a two bushel basket
to-morrow and get them.” And she folded
her long silk apron into a fan, which she
flirted violently, adding, “What a good air
silk does make!”
There was some laughter, here and there
an indication of surprise or displeasure at the
creature's impudence, and a general confusion,
which presently subsided, and the school-master
was discovered in earnest examination
of the contents of his desk, and Rache,
with her apron spread smoothly down, fanning
herself with the torn hat beforementioned,
and the youth with the scant dress no
longer sitting, but standing in evident ecstasy
of admiration—his head, as it were, involuntarily
reaching toward the bold face of Mrs.
there was no doubt about that.
“The house will now please come to order,”
said the president, taking the schoolmaster's
chair.
Then followed considerable discussion about
congressional and parliamentary rules, in the
midst of which the boys, hitherto whispering
about the door, made their entrance: two, and
three, and half a dozen, at a time.
During this preliminary debate, also, the
youth with the black eyes made himself useful
by snuffing the candles, a process requiring
some sleight of hand, the fingers being used as
snuffers, and all-out-of-doors as a tray. The
inkstands of those days were mostly earthen
or pewter jugs, and were made on occasions
of this kind to serve as candlesticks. An
opportunity was offered Rache to pay back
some of the admiration he had bestowed
on her. “Now be careful,” she said, as he
took up the inky candlestick nearest her:
“silk burns so easy.”
The expression of the interesting young person's
by such notice, and his gratitude was evinced
by an amiable smile and a familiar wink.
She evidently understood him, for she prosecuted
the acquaintance by asking how he
hurt his fingers, one or two of which appeared
to be in bandages, and by recommending
a poultice of flaxseed and honey,
which, she said, had cured a certain friend of
hers, after the doctors had given him up.
Meantime the interesting discussion of the
parliamentary rules was waived, and the regular
exercises of the evening opened by announcing
the question for debate: “Ought
women to be allowed the right of suffrage?”
A great excitement pervaded the house when
it was read, during which two or three persons
took the floor and began speaking at
once.
There was a cry of “Order!”
“The question is absurd,” said one, an old
man, with thin grey hair, parted and combed
back from either temple, like a girl's; “I am
surprised that gentlemen will admit”—
Here his voice was drowned by the sharp
much the shape and size of a yearling heifer's.
“I cannot express my pleasure,” he said, “in
being permitted to raise my voice in favor of
the feeble and the downtrodden, and the
beautiful.” Here he bowed toward the ladies,
and then resumed: “Man, Mr. President, is a
tyrant.”
Cries of “Order,” and “Sit down,” completely
overpowered both disputants.
A controversy as to who had rightful possession
of the floor followed, and it was finally
voted that both gentlemen should take their
seats.
“Has no member of this society any argument,
pro or con, on this soul-stirring topic?”
asked the presiding officer.
“Mr. President,” said a smooth-faced, yellow-haired
person, blushing with embarrassment,
“wholly unprepared as I am, and
unaccustomed as I am to public speaking, I
must beg your indulgence for the few brief
remarks I have to make. When the Creator,
sir, had finished this little world, sir, in his
usual elegant and delicate style, sir, he made
you know; and what did man do there, sir,
surrounded with gorgeous flowers and delicious
fruit, as he was, sir, and dressed in gold
and purple, sir, like a king upon his throne?
Why, sir, he—he—he” (here the eloquent
young man dropped his voice), “he was kind
o' lonesome, sir! and therefore,” elevating
his tone, “woman was created; yes, sir, created,
sir, out of his ribs, sir; and does n't that
prove that she is as good as he is? And now,
sir, that man, with his blind, brute instincts,
should deny her the right of suffrage, the
glorious right for which our revolutionary
sires fought and bled, seems to me, sir, a
wicked, wicked sin.”
He paused, wiped the perspiration from his
face, and resumed in a plaintive and pleading
tone, extending one hand in the most graceful
manner imaginable toward the ladies:
“Look upon her, gentlemen, and let your
stony hearts be melted; how eloquent is her
persuasive smile! how dignified and charming
her every motion! the eyes of the gazelle are
dim compared with hers, and the nightingale's
gentlemen, gentlemen! when you next rally
round the polls, make her your guiding star,
and as you avail yourselves of the inestimable
privilege of self-government, `look through
nature up to nature's God.' With these few
hasty remarks, Mr. President, I submit the
subject into abler hands;” and he sat down,
quite exhausted.
Up rose a tall, dark youth, with bushy black
hair, and a nose like the beak of an eagle, in
another part of the room, and exclaimed,
“Mr. President, imagine your mother, sir, on
the stump!” he spoke in an irreverent tone, his
head bent forward, and his keen grey eyes
fixed on the distinguished personage he addressed:
“just imagine her babbling forth her
political notions to the populace! There is no
man, sir” (here he placed his hand where his
beard should have been) “who has a higher
regard for woman than myself, and it is that I
honor and esteem and love her, that I would
save her from the corrupt influence of that
public career which is associated with the
ballot-box. Heaven hide from us the day”
bright eyes shall be intoxicated with the
applause of partisan assemblages! In her
proper sphere, the heart of man is ever ready
to do her homage, but outside of that, her
name becomes a by-word. No, sir, I would not
wrong woman by extending to her the right
of suffrage, nor would I defraud man of his
proper sovereignty. Look at the burning
plains of Mexico, all white with the bones of
men as good and as brave, Mr. President, as
the best and bravest—as you, or myself! The
heart aches, and the eye grows dim, to think
of the bleeding remnant of our soldiery reveling
in the halls of the Montezumas! Methinks
I can almost hear the dogs howling through
the everglades of Florida, and see the poor
fugitives making their last agonizing endeavors
to escape from the fangs of the bloodhounds!
These are glorious and terrible
reflections, Mr. President, and when I see
gentlemen, right in the face of them, drawing
woman from her peaceful seclusion into the
vortex of the polls, and all the sanguinary”—
“The gentleman is personal,” said the young
inhabitant of the farmyard, half rising.
“Order!” “Order!” called many voices.
“Mr. Brown has the floor,” said the president;
and Mr. Brown, lifting both hands over
his head, exclaimed, “Oh, judgment, thou
hast fled to brutish beasts, and men have lost
their reason!” And so he sat down, concentrating
all his remaining logic and eloquence
in a look of his grey eyes, which was thrown
upon the young Cicero with the broad forehead.
“I rise, Mr. President,” spoke a meek and
smooth-haired man, with a thin feeble voice,
his hands thrust in his trowsers pockets, and
his eyes on the floor: “I rise to say I perfectly
coincide with the sentiments of my friend Mr.
Brown, who has just spoken with such distinguished
ability;” and with this expression of
his views he resigned the floor to an “abler
speaker.”
Then up rose a stately, staid-looking gentleman,
with a white face, grey hair, and a
fringe of snow-white beard round a pointed
chin — slowly rose and slowly balanced himself
him—and proceeded with his well-considered
speech: “Mr. President, ladies and gentlemen—in
my humble view, though there has
been some flourishing of arms, some flashing
in the pan, as it were, there has been a total
deficiency of execution, as yet. This debating
society, sir, is capable of giving us something
like argument; it has not done so, as yet. I
have no skill to enforce my ideas, but to my
old-fashioned eyes my wife looks better putting
the house in order than she would depositing
a vote in the ballot-box. I don't want, gentlemen,
to make myself conspicuous here to-night,
and therefore simply repeat that I have
heard no arguments, as yet. Mr. President, I
think woman's spear is at home.”
Another speaker took the floor. He was a
plethoric person, having short legs, a small
head set down between his shoulders, and little
feet, which, standing or sitting, he kept close
together; each part of him seemed lost in
some other part, so that he appeared like an
oval substance of some sort, with one end or
one side on the floor. “He didn't know,” he
expected; for himself, he thought there had
at least been some pretty sharp skirmishing.
He had not heard the argument of his friend,
the first speaker, answered to his satisfaction.
No gentleman in the negative had dared to
touch that bold and beautiful illustration of
the garding; did any gentleman suppose that
that crowning piece of excellence, our mother
Eve, was thrust away from the ballot-box, and
Cain, the unfeeling murderer, permitted to
vote?” The slight elevation which had been
seen in that part of the room whence his voice
seemed to come, suddenly disappeared.
But the remainder of the high reasoning and
impressive oratory called forth that night by
the great question, must be imagined. Suffice
it that the candles were burnt down to the ink
before a motion for adjournment was made.
Henry and Annette had, during the combat,
exchanged whispers once or twice, with accompanying
smiles which indicated amicable relations.
Yet it is probable each felt still the
distance between them, and the necessity of
bridging it over in some way; and as they
Graham offered his arm — a favor which Miss
Furniss accepted with gracious acknowledgments.
She was not unaware, however, that
the little lady in the white hood shared the
gentleman's courtesy, and monopolized his
conversation. All ill humor presently melted
away, however, before the momentary excitement
produced by an exemplification of the
new condition of things proposed by the
reformers of society. As the party emerged
from the schoolhouse, Rache, who had kept
her eyes upon the youth who had filled the
useful office of snuffer of the candles, approached
him, and laying her hand authoritatively
upon his own, said, “I must see you
home, or you must see me home; and you'd
better see me home.”
“I hain't no objections, seeing you want
me to,” he said; and, summoning all the bravery
of his nature, “I won't do nothing else.”
The twain fell a little in the rear, but their
conversation was still overheard.
“What may your name be?” inquired
Rache.
“Martin Muggins,” was answered; “but
Mart, for short.”
“Well, I'll call you Mart.”
“Do n't you think the ladies had the best
of it?” inquired Mart.
“I did that. What did you think, Mr.
Muggins?”
“You said you would call me Mart.”
“Well, then, Mart?”
“I'm on your side, of course. I had a
notion to git up and give them fellers Jessie.”
“Why didn't you, Mart Muggins?”
“Of course I could come it over them;
but, Rache, do n't you wish you had the right
of sufferage?”
“I do n't wish nothin' else.”
“You 're one of 'em; s'pose we walk faster
and keep the grass from growing under our
trotters.”
“I'm agreed.”
“What do you say?”
“Nothin, nothin; I did n't say nothin,”
and checking the speed of the youth, she said,
“Mr. Muggins, I 'll make you acquainted
with Mr. and Mrs. Graham.”
Then, breaking into boisterous laughter, the
couple quickened their pace, and were soon
out of view.
Rache and her protégé, or beau, afforded
a subject of conversation and fun to the party
for the remainder of their walk.
5. CHAPTER V.
THE night was still and bright and beautiful;
the white harvest moon threw the
shadows of the grapevines against the wall
and over the mossy steps, where, sitting alone,
were Henry Graham and Annette Furniss.
There is always a soothing and softening influence
in the calm of a summer night. The
young people were alone, and the making up
of a quarrel is rarely an unfavorable opportunity
for the making of love. Nevertheless
they talked of the debating society, of the full
moon, of the cattle lying in picturesque groups
about the meadow, and seemed to regard all
these matters with a great deal of interest.
“After all,” said Henry, taking the hand of
Annette in his own, “the scene would lose its
main charm if you were away.”
“You are very kind,” she replied; “of
course the lady who is present is the most
fascinating; she of the white hood made the
twilight quite delicious, I fancy.”
Henry answered just as she had expected
him to answer, that no one could make fair
the twilight or the night or the day, except
herself.
“How did it chance that you took so much
trouble to adorn the grounds here with fruits
and flowers? you did not know me, and could
have had no idea of giving me pleasure by
such pains.” She spoke gaily, making some
slight show of withdrawing the imprisoned
hand, which was but the more firmly retained
as he answered, “True, I did not know you,
but we all have an ideal which governs us till
the real ruler makes her appearance; and you
have taken the place of mine.”
The voice trembled that said this; there
was unsteadiness in the arm that encircled
the waist of the girl, and a real tenderness in
touched, and only touched, her forehead.
“My dear Hal,” she said gaily, at the same
time disengaging herself and rising, “you play
the lover admirably; but it grows late, so
some other time—
And there you shall tell me the tale.' ”
from her hand, and was gone.
She had resumed her old position. That she
belonged to herself, and that Henry belonged
to her, was perfectly evident. A further confession
would, perhaps, not have displeased her,
but for a secret hope she chose still to cherish.
“Hal is very good, and I like him,” she may
have mused, as she drowsed into sleep, “but
he is not Staff: and yet, `a bird in the hand!' ”
And Henry listlessly sat on the mossy steps,
his head dropped against his bosom, and
his eyes on the ground. The black shadows
of the grape-leaves were forgotten, and the
distant groups of cattle, lying in the soft
waves of the moonlight, or in the shadows of
recalled visions of romance, or what he had
read of fairy-land.
The most tormenting of all passions was at
work in the heart of the ambitious dreamer,
and “fears, and hopes that kindle fears,”
started out of every new thought. That Annette
was intellectually his superior he felt;
that she did not dislike him he knew; but
that she either avoided all conversation of
love, or talked of it only in a jesting tone,
was a fact full of painful significance, from
which nothing could divert his memory.
Then, too, vexing him more than anything
else, there was the anticipation of a formidable
rival; for it is the weakness of all lovers to
suppose every one must see with their eyes
the being by whom they are enchanted. The
long night wore away in desultory reveries,
and white breaks along the eastern clouds told
of the morning, before he rose from the seat
where she had left him. There was but one
hour for sleep; nevertheless, his dreams drew
themselves out into years; he had gone over
the sea and traversed many countries, sometimes
the object of his worship, when suddenly he
found himself surrounded with armed men —
saw a dungeon before him — and Stafford
leading the way toward it. Making a desperate
effort to escape, he awoke; a sheet of
bright light stretched across the floor; the sun
was an hour high.
He raised the window and looked out to
assure himself that he was really safe, and at
home. A travelling carriage was at the door,
and there seemed some unusual stir about the
kitchen. He felt the truth; Stafford had
arrived.
As the unsceptered Saturn bowed his head
and listened to the Earth, his ancient mother,
for some remaining comfort, so he looked
down, saw the flowers, all fresh with the
morning dew, and, cutting the rarest and most
beautiful specimens, with a reckless disregard
of their value and the pains they had cost,
the elder brother, looking haughtier and handsomer
than ever. That the bouquet was designed
for Annette he knew instinctively, and
with this consciousness came a sense of despair;
a result of shame as of conviction of his
inferiority. He remembered all the boasts he
had made to Annette of his feeling of indifference
in regard to Stafford, and of the awe in
which his brother lived when at home; and
he knew in his heart that it was he who feared
Stafford, and not Stafford who feared him.
He almost wished he was dead; quite wished
his rival were in the ends of the earth; wished
that he had never seen Annette, or that he
were not so much a fool as to love her, while
she loved not him; and at last, having made
a thousand conflicting wishes and resolves, he
took from the shelf a well-worn volume of
Byron, placed it under his arm, and left
the house, unobserved by any one but
Rache.
That amiable young woman was drawing
water from the well, by means of an old-fashioned
sweep, and presented a most comical
appearance as she pulled it down, not by
any steady process, but by a succession of
jumps into the air.
“Oh, Hal!” she exclaimed, “come here; I
will make you as happy as a king.”
Henry smiled, laid his book on the flat stone
at the well-side, and drew up the water, while
the girl stood twirling a ring, in which a red
stone was set, and which she had never before
been known to wear. He rallied her upon
the possession of such a jewel, and asked how
she came by it.
“Oh, it was gave to me,” she replied; “not
by any one I saw last night. No, nobody
gave it to me; I stole it from my mother's
finger once when she was asleep.”
“I understand; but what were you to tell
me?”
She laughed out, clapped her hands, and
pointed across the dooryard.
Henry looked and saw Annette, who was an
early riser, with a lovely bouquet in her hand,
and listening to Stafford as he pointed out the
extent of the grounds.
That individual recognized his brother,
with a graceful wave of his hand, and a
bow, but without the slightest interruption of
his conversation, or any betrayal of emotion.
It can only be guessed what a mingling of
bitterness and sadness there was in the heart
of the young man, as, taking up the volume
of his favorite poet, he bent his steps toward
the deepest and most secluded groves of
Woodside—soothing his despair with the reflection
that Annette would be pained to see
him going away under the influence of such
melancholy emotions. But he deluded himself;
she did not think of him at all.
Rache had no assistance about the breakfast
this morning, as she had had sometimes previously;
but she consoled herself, partly with
the thought that Stafford would see all her
smartness, and partly with the consideration
that she could get along just as well without
Miss Netty, and a good deal better. Stimulated
a little by ambition, and more perhaps
by the hope of becoming a housekeeper in
her own right, before long, she brought the
short-cakes and coffee to the table in advance
of the usual time.
“Why, Rache, you are a real treasure,”
said Stafford, patronizingly, as he seated himself
at the table; “I do n't know how we
have a prospect of doing.”
She received the civility and banter with a
strange grimace, after which she said she was
a whole team and no mistake, and at the same
time exhibited the new ring.
“Ah, that is genuine paste,” said Stafford,
looking at the great red glass; “where did
you get so valuable a jewel?”
“How long are your ears, to ask such a
question? but being as you are impudent
enough to ask, I'll tell: we went to debating
school last night, and they would n't let me
walk with them coming home; so I went
ahead and found this in a mud-hole: I think I
see it shining;” then changing her laughing
to a more demure expression, she said, “I told
a story: it was gave to me by my father on
his death-bed; oh! they say he died the hardest!
dear me!”
“I am afraid you will be like him in that
respect,” remarked Stafford, smiling in spite
of the grimness of his prophecy.
There was a sound of approaching steps,
and, quicker than an eye could be turned toward
Staffy! my darling itty, bitty baby! have
you come back to make your old mammy
glad?” and Mrs. Graham threw her arms
about her son, and embraced him, repeating
all her endearing expletives of delight.
“Good heavens, mother!” he said, pushing
her off, “have you no sense of propriety?”
“Now mamma's little boy would n't be
naughty,” she said, squeezing him in her arms
again: “Netty, precious little honey that she
is, knows I doat on you, but I never told her
that I hoped she'd be your little wify, some
time, did I, Netty?” and she patted the girl
on the cheek, and looked in her face most
affectionately.
Annette colored and said, “Certainly not.”
“Mother,” and Stafford spoke coldly and
authoritatively, “I am ashamed of you; that
you cannot be a lady is certain, but surely
you can be more of a woman, if you try.”
“Just hear how he talks to his old mammy,”
she said, turning her head half aside, and
speaking as if to invisible attendant witches,
who had power to avenge so striking and
duty.
“Do n't mind him, granmam; he 's a great
proud good-for-nothing, and that 's just what
he is,” said Rache.
So began the first breakfast.
Mrs. Graham seemed not at all disconcerted
after a moment or two, by the arrogant and
assuming behavior of her son, but kept all
the while laughing and munching, and now
and then uttering exclamations of delight
about the re-union of her family.
“Scarcely a re-union,” said Stafford, at
length; “where is Hal?”
“Just as if you cared!” interposed Rache.
Stafford made no reply, and Mrs. Graham
said he was no doubt overcome by his feelings,
and would join them at dinner.
“And James, too, I have not seen him,”
continued Stafford.
The old woman munched on, affecting not
to hear.
“Is he under treatment now?” asked Stafford.
“Staffy, my boy, excuse me if I do n't wait.
since Netty came; she knows what a poor old
woman I am, and knows my ways; everybody
has their ways;” and with her most
mincing manner Mrs. Graham departed.
“You asked about Jim,” said Rache; “he
ain't under no treatment but granmam's that
I know of. I saw him hopping under her
stick, just when you were cutting Hal's flowers
for Netty, like a hen with her head cut off.”
And she continued, placing her mouth close
to Stafford's ear, “A certain young woman,
whose name begins with N, do n't know there
is any Jim.” And, regardless of the reproving
look she received, she talked on at random,
rising as soon as she finished her meal,
and at once removing the dishes, saying as she
did so, “Do you want any more of this, or this?”
“I wish Hal was here,” said Stafford, as he
rose from the table; “go and tell him I want
him, Rache.”
“Who was your negro waiter last year?”
she answered, pursing up her lips; and after
a moment, repenting, “What do you want
with him?”
“To carry my trunks up,” replied Dr.
Graham.
“Up where?”
“To my room.”
“It's more than I know where your room
is; Hal has the best room, and he says he
shall keep it.”
“What a cursed old house this is,” muttered
Stafford; “excuse me, Miss Furniss,”
and he followed his mother into her apartment.
“Well, Netty, what do you think of Staff
now?” asked Rache, when he was gone; and
she went on to say that for her part she
thought him as proud as Lucifer, and that
Hal and his mother both feared him; but
thank her stars! she was not afraid of any
man.
Whatever Annette thought, she did not
choose to say, but evidently she desired to
please her new acquaintance, and when he
emerged from his mother's closet and invited
her to walk, she declined on the pretext that
she had promised Rache to assist a little about
the house that day.
“You will get small thanks from Mr. Staff,”
whispered Rache, “if you work all day to
make his room nice.”
Brushes, brooms, and dust-pans were brought
into requisition, and presently Mrs. Graham
appeared, saying that to please her dear sonny,
and for a funny frolic, she proposed to renovate
her own room a little.
“Oh, I am glad,” said Rache, clapping her
hands, “it's fun to get into granmam's curiosity
shop;” and, taking Annette by her
sleeve, she drew her along.
“Yes, darling, go and see my antiquities;
and my little pet, too; I never told you about
my little pet.”
Perhaps Annette desired to make herself
useful, but she wished, also, to gratify a little
harmless curiosity as to the creature Mrs.
Graham kept with her in her room, for she
had often heard voices there, and once or twice
caught glimpses of something not wholly unlike
a member of the human family.
Granmam, as Rache called her, passed
almost all the time within the compass of four
narrow walls, doing nothing that ever made
and slept there, and since coming to Woodside,
Annette had now seen and spoken to her
for but the second time. On entering the
room the first object that arrested her attention
was a deformed child, nine or ten years
old, perhaps. He sat upon a stool, in the
corner, netting some coarse white yarn. His
face was intelligent, but marked with scars,
and his back was bent as if it had been
broken. He laughed out on seeing Annette,
and manifested his joy in other childish ways.
He had rarely seen a human face, except the
ugly one of his grandmother.
“Well, Jim,” said Rache, roughly, lifting
him into an upright position, “do you know
that me and this young woman have come to
take you and put you in prison?”
The boy smiled incredulously, and said he
thought he was in prison now; but when she
took from her pocket a piece of twine and
began to tie his hands, he turned beseechingly
to Annette, not daring to speak. Just
then Stafford came in, and pushing Rache
aside, told the frightened child he was not to
of Woodside, and pull flowers; that he was to
eat with the family, and give his wooden bowl
to the cats, and wear trowsers and a coat like
other boys, and grow up to be a man one of
these days. The little fellow was quite overcome,
and burying his face in the skirt of his
long woolen frock (for he was dressed more
like a girl than a boy), cried piteously of joy
and surprise.
But Stafford gave him his knife, and drying
his tears, the little creature went out into the
sun, happier than he had ever been in his life.
He was the grandchild of Mrs. Graham, subject
from his birth to fits, in one of which he
had fallen in the fire and been burned so that
his face was badly scarred. On the death of
his parents he fell into the hands of his grandmother,
and had fared but hardly; never
having any care or training but such as were
dispensed by the rod; for with all her pretence
of love, the old woman was tyrannical in the
extreme, and since her children had grown
away from her authority, little James had
been the recipient of all her cruelty. He
as he was, and dressed in a costume so inappropriate;
but his eyes evinced a quick intelligence
that belied the impression at first
received from his appearance. He said little,
and seemed commonly inclined to be alone.
He knew nothing except what his grandmother
had told him, and had seen nothing
except the meadow and the woods, and the
corn-fields fronting her windows.
No wonder he laughed when he was permitted
to go freely into the sun and pick
flowers, and twine up slender ropes of grass
with which to lead the calves about the pleasant
meadows.
“Mercy on us! how shall we begin?” exclaimed
Annette, looking about her in despair.
At home the housekeeping had not been very
thorough, but “granmam's room” was in
advance of her experiences. In one corner
there was a loom, which, in her girlhood, had
been of value to Mrs. Graham, but which for
long years had been unused. Over the beams
of this piece of furniture were hung her various
cast-off and extra-fine garments, from the
mourning gown worn for her deceased husband;
and here, too, were dozens of hose,
worn past all mending, remnants of flannel
that had been petticoats, and numberless
other articles belonging to female apparel.
High over all, as it was never used, hung a
calico sun-bonnet belonging to James, whom
Mrs. Graham called her little darling, now
that she had been induced to speak of him at
all.
In another corner was a bed, covered with
a patchwork counterpane and sheets, not too
clean, and under and about the pillows, and
at the foot, and under the sides of the bed,
were pocket handkerchiefs and aprons and
night-caps, all, as Rache said, black as dust-rags.
But beneath it the collection of feathers
and dirt was frightful; indeed granmam
explained, by way of apology, that she pretty
generally swept the little litter about her room
under the bed: it saved the trouble of opening
the door. And here, covered with such
accumulations, and edged with mildew, was a
wooden bowl, out of which the child ate his
the wall, with bunches of herbs and seed corn,
bags of dried fruits, which nobody had opened
for years, and, depending from pegs, or stuck
in cracks here and there, were bright feathers
of birds, skins of moles and squirrels, and
other curious things, which Henry had presented
to the child from time to time. Against
one of the windows, and constituting all the
curtain it had, suspended by its silver stirrup,
was a side saddle, which in its day had been
very stylish. The carpet was threadbare, and
so faded and dirty that one color was scarcely
distinguishable from another; nevertheless,
the dust beneath it made it softer than a new
one, granmam said. Pipes, tobacco, bits of
paper, broken crackers, half-eaten slices of
bread, lumps of chalk, balls of beeswax, dirty
spools of silk and twine, a heavy gold watch
that had belonged to her deceased husband,
several pair of spectacles, and other things
“too numerous to mention,” were heaped
together on the mantelpiece, and overhung
with canopies of spiders' webs.
But the cupboards presented a yet more
and miscellaneous never, perhaps,
challenged human observation. A cat and
three kittens reposed comfortably in the lower
part, on a cushion covered with brocade,
from which it might be inferred that a stylish
dress of this material had sometime been in
Mrs. Graham's possession, though cast aside
now, with other attractions of her youth. On
the topmost shelf, a ten-years-old bonnet
extended its immeasurable front; while elsewhere
were heaped gloves, stiff and faded
with the damps of many seasons; hair-brushes,
with all the spoils gathered in a long service;
combs, with teeth and without, in every variety
known during a quarter of a century;
yellow laces and faded ribbons; remnants of
old calicoes, preserved as if for possible but
most improbable patchwork, and whatever
else the careless, lazy, and selfish creature
had found opportunity of hoarding from poverty
or time, to gloat upon in the years she
should devote to memory and repentance,
with such good works as have most potency
in opening the gate of heaven.
Now and then, as Rache unfolded and shook
vigorously some article or other, a bank-note
floated slantwise to the carpet; or money, in
silver and gold, rattled noisily down: so closely
related sometimes are the apparently incompatible
habits of miserly thrift and carelessness.
“Oh, dingnation take it!” exclaimed Rache,
turning to Annette with an expression of despair
in her face, and scraping together on the
floor at the same time a quantity of shelled
corn, bits of finely gnawed linen and paper,
and broken cobs, among which for a long time
the mice had luxuriated undisturbed.
The room was by this time in as complete
disorder as it was possible to render it, but
when grandma'm assured her assistants that
she would shortly have it beautiful, they were
quite willing to leave all to her management,
confident that of dust and rubbish they had
insured the removal of at least half a year's
accumulations. Other parts of the house now
demanded their invasion. The presence of
Stafford was a signal of general internal revolution.
Rache was directed to remove Henry's things
up another pair of stairs; that is, to prepare a
cot-bed for him, and to make the room he had
occupied as nice as could be, for the new master.
“And you, dear,” said the old woman, patting
the cheek of Annette with her skinny
hand, “go and find my little pet Jimmy, I
want him to carry out the ashes; do n't you
think Staffy said there was enough to bury me
in?”
Annette smiled to see how the fire-place was
heaped full, and the hearth quite overspread,
as she went in search of James, but without
any intention of fulfilling her commission. The
cripple child started as he saw her and crouched
under the flowers, among which he had been
sitting; but when she spoke kindly, he looked
up, and begged that she would not strike him,
saying he would go back and do whatever
grandma'm wished.
“And do you like to work for grandma'm?”
asked Annette.
“I do n't know,” he said; “I expect I like it
well enough, if she would n't whip me.”
“And what do you do for her?”
“Tie up her shoes and wash her night-caps,
and roast the potatoes, and wash the dishes, all
but my bowl, and that I do n't wash without I
please.”
“But why do n't your grandma'm eat with
the family?”
“Her own room is best, she says; that's all
I know.”
“Do you like her?”
“I expect so, when she ain't cross.”
“Do you like any one else?”
“Yes, uncle.”
“What makes you like him?”
“ 'Cause he's good to me, and gives me
things; and once he said if it was n't for granma'm
he'd tear this old frock into ribbons.”
“And don't you like uncle Staff?”
“No, I expect I do n't.”
“Why? he was good to you this morning.”
“Yes, but that was n't 'cause he liked me, it
was just to be against granma'm. But uncle
Hal comes at night, when its cold, and brings
me kivers from his bed.”
The flowers blew against his face, and as he
told of the goodness of his uncle Hal, the
Annette felt affection mingling with pity as
she gazed on him.
“Shall I kiss you before I go?” she asked,
as Rache, looking from an upper window,
called to her.
“Oh no,” said the boy, hiding his face in
the woolen frock he wore; “I hav' n't done
nothing.”
“Poor child!” said Annette, “putting her
arm around him and kissing him, “did no one
ever kiss you before?”
“Not that way,” he said, the tears gathering
to his eyes; and looking back, she saw his
head over the tops of the flowers, and heard
him say she was a great deal prettier than
either Rache or grandma'm.
Henry's room was more cleanly than his
mother's, but in other respects was quite as
curious. Books of poems, stones of strange
shapes and bright colors, live birds and dead
insects, snakes in liquor, pots of flowers, and
human skulls, the property of Dr. Stafford,
were mingled together; the carpet lay loosely
on the floor, without being tacked down; and
everywhere but in its proper places.
Rache was busy carrying the flowers into
the room where she had arranged the cot-bed,
when Stafford presented himself, and said it
was his pleasure to have them left where they
were. Henry had taken good care of them
while he had been away, and he would give
him a slip or two if he desired.
Some of the oldest furniture was then taken
out, and newer brought in its stead. Even
Mrs. Graham's room lost a rocking-chair, and
the parlor some pictures and a sofa, in the
preparation of Stafford's chamber. Henry's
slippers and some other articles of personal
comfort were appropriated by him without the
least scruple, and as if he conferred a favor by
making use of them.
Though to Annette his manner was gracious
and smiling, she could have seen plainly
enough, if she would, that his real disposition
was selfish, tyrannical, and haughty.
“Just come and see how nicely old granma'm
has fixed up her room,” presently called
Mrs. Graham; and Rache and Annette descended;
was content with the picture of fancy.
In what way the disposition of things had
been improved it was impossible to tell, as
they appeared to have been replaced in greater
disorder than before. True, there had been a
removal of a portion of the rubbish and the
dirt, but of odds and ends, worn out garments,
and every species of riff-raff that one might
dream of seeing in a witch's cell, there remained
still more than sufficient to crowd each
shelf, and corner, and all the floor, under the
bed and about it; and if Annette had been
addicted to such quotations, she would have
exclaimed, as she looked in the door where
the old woman stood with her cap and every
part of her dress browned with the settling
dust they had disturbed, and a purring cat,
with tail erect, marshaling a litter of kittens at
her feet, “Surely, `chaos has come again.' ”
The sun had been gone down an hour, and
the family sat at the tea-table, when Henry,
whom no one had missed or inquired for,
returned; an expression of deep, profound
poems still beneath his arm.
“Just take one of those trunks with you,”
said Stafford, as he passed through the tea
room on the way to his own; and this was the
first time he had spoken to him since his coming
home. Henry made no reply, but took up
the trunk as directed and set it down where
Stafford had expected. For a few minutes he
busied himself in removing such books as he
especially valued to his upper chamber; and
if he felt displeasure, he manifested none.
When he returned, no one except Rache noticed
him or made room for him at the table.
In truth, both Mrs. Graham and Annette were
too much absorbed in Stafford's narration of
the wonderful exploits he had performed, to
think of any thing else. All the dangers he
had ever known, and perhaps some he had not
known, were crowded into half an hour, and
when he had as amply as possible set forth his
courage, he fell back on his professional dignity,
and, unlocking a polished rosewood case,
examined and displayed the various surgical
with his fingers, and rubbing them with his
pocket handkerchief.
“There,” said Rache, laughing, as she surveyed
him with impudent coolness, “I think
Annette has seen them all; you may as well
put 'em back in your little bureau, or whatever
you call it.”
The blush grew crimson in his cheek, as
Henry's ill-suppressed smiles evinced the exultation
he felt at this more rude than unjust
reproof of his vanity; but his reply, whatever
it would have been, was cut short, for Rache
suddenly sprang from the table, catching one
foot in the skirts of Annette, and upsetting a
footstool in her way, as two or three vigorous
strokes of the axe at the wood-pile expressed
to her ears a peculiar and alarming meaning.
“Lord-a-marcy!” said Mrs. Graham, “is it
my little pet? I'd quite forgot him.”
“No, it is not,” answered Rache, “it's a
great big nigger man; it ain't nobody; the
axe is just chopping of its own accord.”
“I guess it's somebody that gave somebody
a ring last night,” said Annette, laughing.
“Well, it is,” replied Rache, skipping out
into the moonlight; and, seated on the log, the
new acquaintances remained in happy conversation
for an hour.
Having drank a cup of tea, Henry took in
his arms the huge trunk that remained,—partly
by way of exhibiting his strength, perhaps,—
and carried it away.
“I wish my brother were not a fool,” said
Stafford, following him with a look of contempt;
“and that reminds me of Jim—poor
deformed little wretch—has nobody gone to
see after him?”
Now there was no one to go, as he well
knew, his mother having gone to her own
room, and Henry up stairs.
Affecting the greatest concern for the child,
and manifesting a deal of displeasure at the
indifference of his mother and Henry, he called
to the latter and directed him, if he had a
spark of humanity in him, to make some search
for his poor deformed nephew. This done, he
seated himself composedly and proposed a
game with cards.
An hour elapsed, and they were deep in the
the room crying so loud that she might have
been heard half a mile away, followed by
Henry, bearing in his arms little James, white
and cold. In one stiffened hand he held some
flowers, and his hair and woolen frock hung
heavy with the dew.
“Died in a fit, I suppose,” said Stafford;
“carry him away; and Rache, do n't, for heaven's
sake, scare the owls. Miss Furniss, what
is the trump? or shall we give it up? This
disagreeable affair, I think, might have happened
some other time.”
Annette turned her eyes from Stafford to
Henry, and saw his lips quiver, and tears on
his cheeks; saw him stoop and kiss the rigid
face of the dead boy; and, throwing down her
cards, arose and followed him. They laid him
on the bed, and Henry combed smooth his
hair, untied his woolen dress, and wrapped
him in a white sheet, performing all the sudden
and sad duties of the occasion with an
unaffected melancholy, which even overcame
for the time his consciousness of the inhumanity
of the rest of the family.
“He is better off,” said the old woman,
drawing her roasted potatoes from the fire; “we
ought not to wish him back;” and seating herself
on an old trunk in the corner, she munched
her food, saying she had nothing to reproach
herself for, as she knew of; she had always
done her duty.
“Yes, granmam, and more too,” interrupted
Rache, slipping a rod from beneath the bed-clothes,
and breaking it spitefully to pieces.
“Poor Jim!” she said, as she drew tenderly
over his stiffened feet a pair of warm wool
stockings that she had knitted for herself, “I
wish I had not been so ugly to him, but I never
felt how I loved him till he was dead as a
door nail, that I did n't. Hal,” she continued,
“you'll put something pretty on his grave-stone,
and don't write his name what he was
always called, `Jim Graham,' but write it
`James,' and let him for once be made of, a
little.
6. CHAPTER VI.
THE funeral day was lonesome enough at
Woodside, not that the poor little boy was
much missed; how could he be? but the coffin
and the shroud, and the solemnity of burial,
even when the meanest or the lowliest dies,
leave mournful impressions on the hearts of
all whom chance or necessity compels to see
them.
There was no regular funeral service, but
the coffin was placed in the parlor, by the open
window, and a “reverend good old man” read
a chapter from the Bible, and prayed fervently
that, in the morning of the resurrection, the
crooked branch might be made straight.
Mrs. Graham said it was “such a dreadful
thing to take leave of the corpse” she felt
own room and roasted her potatoes, as usual.
“I always did hate a funeral,” said Stafford,
“but how the devil will it look if I am absent!”
So, at the latest moment, he presented himself,
dressed precisely, and with a becomingly serious
air.
A few women of the neighborhood came in,
some with babies in their arms, to whom, as
they saw the coffin, they said, softly, that a
poor little boy was dead, and to be buried in
the ground, and never seen any more.
Many men were at work mending the road
that day, and, as they came opposite the house,
Rache seated herself conspicuously at the window
and cried, in the hope of attracting their
attention; nor was her behavior altogether
hypocrisy; she did but what she thought her
duty.
Hearses were not in use in the country at
that time, and the wagon in which Henry
went to market served for carrying the dead to
the grave.
Stafford, pushing his brother aside, assisted
Annette into the family carriage, and seated
means of conveyance he could.
A few men and boys followed, some on foot
and three or four on horseback, and the procession
moved slowly forward.
It was on a hill of the Woodside farm, half
covered with trees, and half lying open to the
sun, that the child's grave was made, and none
but the tears of Rache fell over the clods that
covered him.
Mrs. Graham often talked about her little
pet and said he was all the comfort poor old
grandma'm had; but Rache insisted that “the
old woman did not take it hard at all.”
Some weeks passed, and Miss Furniss still
remained at Woodside; and all went on as
monotonously, but discordantly, as in such a
family might have been anticipated. Henry
Graham was busy with harvests and markets,
but when at the house, whatever his demeanor,
evidently not altogether master of that passion
which had seemed so hopeless since Stafford
Graham's return. And Stafford Graham—
daily repeated himself—re-performed the character
in which Annette had first seen him, with
yet was strangely under his influence, not so
much on account of any fascination which he
exercised, as in consequence of her own experiments
upon his temper, which had involved
her in meshes meant only for his subjection to
her will.
“I tell you, Netty, it's all lost time,” said
the ever-meddling little housekeeper, springing
as it were out of the ground, for she always
appeared when and where you least expected
her; “Staff likes to talk with you well enough,
but I've seen him talk before, and he won't
marry you more than he will me, for all you
stick flowers in your hair and try to look
pretty.”
“Really, Rache, you don't understand your
position,” answered Annette, not a little displeased.
“Well, I understand yours;” and making a
sudden jump, as if to catch something, she
exclaimed, “there he goes! with his great big
eyes; oh, I could cut his ears off! He ain't
no more a doctor than you be,” she continued;
“I guess I've cooked mutton for him, and I
most—twice as much as Henry—twice as
much!”
Annette could not forbear smiling at a
conclusion thus drawn, even though some of
Rachel's suggestions had stung her a little.
“Just look how straightly he walks, as if he
did n't see us; he thinks he'll make us feel
bad, gracious sakes help him, as if any body
cared for Stafford Graham!”
And gathering her hands full of poppies and
marigolds, she retreated toward the kitchen,
singing to a tune of her own,
“She braided a wreath for her silken hair.”
“She was right about his seeing us,” thought
Annette, as she observed Stafford slowly walking
among the distant trees as though unconscious
of every thing but himself in the world.
“If he thinks to pique me, he is mistaken.”
And rising, she turned into a path leading
through the rear grounds and presently joined
Henry, who with his dogs and gun was
returning home from a fowling excursion. It
was in the evening twilight, and the barn-yard
dividing it from the dooryard, the hunter seated
himself, and throwing his game at his feet,
smiled to Annette his invitation to a place
beside him.
A pair of beautiful white oxen drew near
and struck their horns against the stile; the
cows gathered gently around, for they had
been used to his caresses and feeding; and the
dogs now laid their heads on his knees, and
now snuffed about his feet; he had never
looked so well as with such surroundings, sitting
in the twilight, his face aglow, and his
hair blowing loose in the wind.
After a few commonplaces, the conversation
turned upon Stafford, of whom both were
thinking.
“He is my brother,” said Henry, “and consequently,
I must suffer his impositions, I suppose;
but I scarcely dare speak to him, lest I
should, before I know it, say what I think.
Pity he has n't sufficient ability to take care
of himself,” he continued, as if all his own toil
and subserviency were induced only by a generous
sympathy.
A footstep was heard, and Stafford was seen
approaching, but apparently without observing
them.
“There he comes!” said Henry; “do for
heaven's sake, Miss Furniss, remain with me,
so I may not address or treat him as I ought
not. I am afraid to trust myself with him
alone.”
Annette seated herself near him, though she
was perfectly aware that he only feared Stafford,
and wished to be shielded from him.
But though complying with his wishes, motives
far different from any which might be
suggested by his interests influenced her.
She would seem as indifferent to the young
surgeon as he would to her. She spoke to
Henry in a low tone, as if their conversation
were specially confidential; and as she became
aware of Stafford's near approach, took from
her hair a flower which he that morning had
given her, pulled it carelessly to pieces and
threw it on the ground.
“So, Miss Annette, you prize my flower
lightly. Nay, then I am indeed unblest.” And
with this sentimental jest he seated himself
about the slighted gift. She folded her
hands tightly together and conversed with
Henry, with well affected delight. She spoke
of the many pleasant times they had had
together—walking in the moonlight, or making
hay. But Stafford whistled to the dogs,
and played with them, now and then offering
some observation quite foreign to the subject
which appeared to occupy her thoughts.
At length she said, turning her black lustrous
eyes upon him, “I am taking leave of
Woodside to-night.”
“Ah, ha!” he replied, in the lively tone in
which he had previously been speaking, “do
you leave us so soon? I am sorry.”
One of the dogs had taken a bird and, holding
it in his mouth, playfully offered it him.
He had not noticed them before, and, turning
to Henry, made some severe remarks on this
unnecessary cruelty, saying there would not
be a bird left in Woodside another year.
The face of Henry grew scarlet, and his
voice was unsteady, as he said something about
having killed them for a sick lady; and
away.
“I hope you despise fowling and fowlers?”
said Stafford, resuming the conversation.
“No,” answered Annette, who would have
disagreed with him on any subject; “I like
both, and am sorry I leave Woodside as the
season for shooting begins.”
“Then, you are really going,” he said, looking
in another direction.
“Yes, Dr. Graham, I am really going—I
think it's time I'd gone.”
“Of course you know your own affairs best,
and why it is time for you to go home,” he
said, twirling his watch-chain as if in the highest
spirits, and looking from her as before,
“but I wish you were going to remain here as
long as I: who the deuce shall I find to talk
to when you are away?”
“I do n't know,” she answered drily; “I
hope some one.” She certainly expected her
announcement to make a more serious impression.
“I guess we shall lose Rache, too,” he said,
laughing, “just look there!” At another time
one arm resting on the shirt-sleeve of Martin,
and a wreath of poppies and marigolds about
her head, came the little woman, treading
down the burrs with her bare feet, apparently
without any inconvenience.
“It's only a little word,” said the ambitious
young man, “but it would make a big heap of
happiness for this child; come, Rache, won't
you say just that one little word?”
They walked close in the shadow of the bean-vines,
and Rache, for once, seemed demure and
particularly intent on treading down the burrs.
“As true as I live and breathe the breath
of life,” urged the lover, holding the hand of
Rache in his, “I kind-a have a feeling for you
that I never afore had for a young lady of your
sex—and if you'll just say it!”
Rache made a sudden movement, indicative
of fright or pain.
“Oh, thunderation!” exclaimed Martin,
clasping his arm around her, “did you see a
snake, or tread in a bumble-bee's nest?”
What she said was inaudible, but she probably
indicated that a party was within hearing,
of the bean-vines into the open light,
talking very loudly and distinctly as they
passed on.
“He is, as I was saying when we stood there
in the wines,” said Mart, “the closest man I
ever worked for — mean enough to steal the
coppers off the eyes of a dead man.”
“It's hardly creditable to believe,” said
Rache, “and I thought, when you told me,
coming along just now, that such clos't men
ought to be scarce as hen teeth.”
“You do beat all for jokes,” said Martin;
“I'd like to have you show me a hen tooth.”
“Oh, I ain't no ways funny,” answered the
girl, and passing over the stile they entered
the milk yard; and Rache, having shown the
heifer, which she said, maybe some time would
be her cow—if she was ever married and ever
wanted a cow, but she didn't expect she ever
would be—they passed on their way to visit
some more secluded place for wooing.
“Can't we get another glimpse?” said Stafford,
climbing to the top of the stile, in high
glee.
“Poor simple children,” said Annette, as
though she pitied any body who condescended
to love and marry; “I am sure I see nothing
to laugh at.”
“Ah, Annette,” returned Stafford, still good
humoredly, “I am quite too frivolous for you
to-night; I regret my inability to interest you,”
and kissing his hand to her, he whistled his
dogs and set off for a moonlight ramble.
For half an hour Miss Annette continued to
sit where he left her, sometimes more than half
disposed to tears, and sometimes reproaching
herself for having let go the bird in the hand
and found none in the bush; for she felt that
Henry had of late grown strangely indifferent
to her flirtation with Stafford. Often in the
evenings he was from home, and sometimes
she had seen him taking flowers; but till now
she had not seriously construed his intentions.
He had grown melancholy and thoughtful, too,
and given much of his time to the improvement
of the grave-yard where the deformed
child was buried; set it thick with trees;
planted roses against the wall of stone that
enclosed it; and cut the turf smooth: in this
late his absences from home were frequent and
prolonged, and a general impression prevailed
that he was going to be married, though
none could tell of the object of his affections.
Week after week Annette found excuses to
remain, notwithstanding the intention she had
expressed of going home, and the season was
worn into the middle of August.
One hot Saturday morning Rache announced
her purpose of going to town, saying to “granma'm”
she would like to have a little bit of
money, if she had it, but, if not, it made no
difference: she didn't suppose she should buy
any thing.
“La, child!” replied the old woman, “what
put that into your head?” and climbing upon a
chair, she took from one of the old bonnets on
the upper shelf a handful of bank notes, and
saying she guessed she had paid her some time
along in March, counted the money, a dollar
and a quarter for each week, until August;
and without further comment, seated herself
and took up her netting, which was never
finished, and would have been useless if it had
caprices, and her children treating her with
indifference, she had grown taciturn, and lived
in reverie and vague speculation.
Rache was soon smartly dressed and set out
on a brisk walk, stating that she was going to
town with a neighbor, who was to carry a calf
to market, and who could as well take two as
one.
At night-fall she returned, bringing with
her only a calico dress and some shoes, having
kept the rest of her money, she said, for some
time of need. The following day she did the
washing, and went through with her ordinary
labors all the while for a month. Martin still
visited her, but was grown bold enough to
walk into the kitchen.
“Well, Rache,” said Stafford, on the occasion
of one of these visits, “when are you going
to get married?”
“Next day after never,” she answered.
Martin overheard the question, and remarked
that “there was one woman in the world
that could keep a secret,” and concluded with,
“Rache, you may tell it if you want to.”
“There!” she cried, “you've untied the
bag, so you may as well let the cat out.”
“Ay, Mart, I see it,” observed Stafford,
“you've taken this woman to wife! Come,
isn't it so?”
“About a month ago,” said Martin, biting
his nails and looking down, “a young man
and woman from the South went to town and
stopped at the 'Squire's and got tied, and I
expect like enough it was me and Rache; we
are big enough fools to do it, I reckon.”
Much merriment followed this announcement,
and before it subsided, Henry, who had
been absent all the previous night, came in,
looking very grave; but he spoke kindly, even
to Stafford, who rallied him on his funereal
visage, and having given a letter into the hand
of Annette, retired, apparently in deep emotion.
The missive was from Nelly Furniss,
who had been slowly failing and fading all the
summer, and who was now, as she said, near
the end of her little and troubled journey.
She had not told Annette, in any of her notes
or messages, or at their two or three brief
meetings, during the summer, how frail she
and do no good; but now she was unable to
tend the house any more, and Annette would
have to come home. It would not be long
before she would be free to go back to the
sunshine. She was resigned, glad to go—
only for her poor father's sake. What would
become of him? Who would comfort him?
And so the letter closed.
“Don't grieve, honey, this is a world of trouble,”
remarked Mrs. Graham to Annette, when
she heard of the sister's illness; “We must
make the best of the comforts that are left;”
and she offered Annette a roast potato, from
which she had brushed the ashes with her
pocket-handkerchief.
The morning came up warm and cloudy,
and the winds seemed prophesying storms as
they swept along the faded woods. The summer
flowers were nearly all gone; only a few
of the hardier sorts remaining in bloom. The
grain was all gathered in, and the ripe fruits
and the brown nuts were dropping from the
trees.
At a very early hour the little market-wagon
best attire, and had arranged a present of
fruits and flowers for Nelly. Annette was
really going home.
“They say your sister has made her peace,”
said Rache, giving a bunch of herbs and dried
bark into the hand of Annette, “but she may
get well for all that: while there's life there's
hope.” So she gave directions for making the
herbs into teas, which she had no doubt would
strengthen her; they were the prescription of
an Indian doctor, and she once knew a man,
who was in the last stage of consumption,
cured in five weeks' time, so that he harvested
a field of wheat in a single day. “As soon as
she gets a little strength,” she continued, “tell
her to come here and help gather the apples
and potatoes—it will do her good and brace
her up, like. Give her my respects, and tell
her she is welcome to the hospitalities of this
neck of woods.”
And having shaken hands and said farewell,
Mrs. Martin Muggins returned to her kitchen,
her night-cap (for since her marriage she had
taken to wearing one all day) blowing in the
wind, and her hands resting on her hips.
The leave-taking had been rather tedious,
but Annette had humored her loquacity, in the
hope of obtaining, meantime, another glimpse
of Stafford, whom she had not seen, as he was
still in his room at breakfast time.
“All ready?” asked Henry, tightening the
reins. Annette gave one more glance towards
the house and saw, and for the last time for
many years, the object her eyes were in search
of. He was standing in a distant part of the
grounds, playing with and tantalizing one of
the dogs, by alternately caressing him, and
holding above his reach a sandwich. Seeing
Annette, he removed his hat and bowed, cried
“good morning,” and again resumed his occupation,
before her eyes were turned from him.
The dust was moist with the damp autumnal
atmosphere, and the yellow and red leaves
rained in their faces as they drove through the
woods that grew about the schoolhouse, where
was held the memorable debate upon the rights
of women.
The old schoolmaster, with his grey hair in
a queue, stood at the open window watching
a group of boys and girls at play on the
smoothly-trodden clay beneath. One of the
passers, suddenly seized the bonnet from the
head of a little girl and threw it into a tree-top.
There was a general shout, while the
robbed child amused her heartless mates with
exhibitions of her fright.
“Boys, boys!” exclaimed the schoolmaster,
tapping on the sash with his penknife, and with
a handkerchief covering his mouth to hide a
smile. Every little incident, as they went forward,
impressed itself on the mind of Annette.
She saw and remembered every thing, even to
the boy who trotted by them on the long-tailed
colt, and the bright-headed bird pecking
the trunk of a decayed tree.
“What are your thoughts about?” she asked,
at length, turning to her companion and seeing
that he was disposed to be silent and serious.
“Of Nelly,” he answered, simply: “she is
an angel!”
“Yes, I wish I was as good;” and Annette
for the moment seemed to feel what she said.
“I wish you were,” he replied, and both
relapsed into silence, which neither broke
again till they reached the lonely old house
was fastened with a chain and padlock, and
guarded by Surly, more attenuated than ever.
He did not wag his tail nor lift his head when
the familiar step went by, but seemed as if
infected with some gloom that filled the air.
They applied to the rear door for admission,
and finding it locked, Annette called the name
of Nelly, but no answer came; and as they
listened, they heard a sound as of some one
digging in the earth, and turning in the direction
of the noise, saw Mr. Furniss shaping
anew the mound above the grave of his wife.
It was a cariously sombre picture; Henry,
looking pityingly and tenderly, as he stood a
little way off, holding the present of fruits and
flowers he had brought; the old man, leaning
on his spade, with tears running down his
wrinkled cheeks, as he told Annette the story
of her sister's suffering and death; while she
sat on the low headstone of her mother, her
face composed to awful calmness, her eyes
tearless, and her hands tightly interlocked.
That expression of settled and passionless sorrow
never passed entirely away. There is
but more settled wretchedness could hardly be
found.
Up from the bottom of the grave of injured
love come reproaches more awful than the
terriblest curses of a living foe, and the faint
light of a last smile shows us our wrong life
more plainly than we could see it by any other
light. Perhaps her errors passed before her
then; perhaps she remembered the selfish aims
and pleasures she had been pursuing, willfully
forgetful of the self-sacrificing friend who was
pining and dying alone. But, whether it were
so or not, it seemed, as she sat there on the
headstone, upright and untrembling, that to
baffle the sharp thorns of conscience she had
turned her heart into stone.
“Poor Nelly,” said the father; “it don't
seem as if she was dead. I look toward the
house, and think I shall see her coming to me
here just as she used, or setting under that old
tree there, with Surly beside her, licking her
hands and looking up into her face. She was
so good, Netty, she was so good.” And he
went on to tell how she had grown weak from
when it was warm, she would get better if the
weather were cooler; and when it grew cool,
that the summer would quite restore her.
When her cough grew worse, it was a little
additional cold; if it were not for that she
would soon get strength; she was so cheerful
and so happy, he did not know nor think how
ill she was, for she had gone about, tending
the house as usual, till the day before she died.
She had never wanted anything, that he knew
of, which she didn't have; she never said she
did; yes—once she had asked for wine; “I
knew then,” said the old man, “that she didn't
know what she wanted; knew it would do no
good; I don't know why I didn't get it; but
I didn't. I wish I had.”
Yet even in the bitterness of this reflection
he forgot he had still a living daughter, to
whom he might minister if he would.
“And did she never ask for me?” said Annette;
“Mr. Graham, who saw her every
week, never told me she was so ill; but why
seek to shield myself! I knew it—I saw her
doom when I left her!”
“She thought you were happy,” answered
the young man, “and forbade my disclosing
the real state of her health, and though I have
been with her much of late, for it was to her,
I used to bring the flowers, I was myself
deceived, and not till yesterday was I aware
that her death was at hand.”
Annette lifted her eyes, and for a moment
they rested on Henry with something like
admiration, but presently they dropped again,
listless, and as heavy as before.
“Oh, she often talked of you,” the father
remarked, “but she said you wrote how beautiful
Woodside was, and how happy you were,
and so we must do without you; and when
she died, she wanted to be carried there and
buried on the hill in the sunshine which you
told her of.”
“And that is why you planted it so prettily,”
said Annette, looking almost tenderly
upon Henry.
“It was only yesterday,” resumed the father,
“she told me she could not get well.”
The lip of the daughter trembled, as he went
prepared the morning breakfast, thoughtful
for his wants when she should no longer be
there to tend them; how she had fed Surly
and caressed him, fed her bird and hung its
cage where the morning light would come to
it, and how then she had parted and combed
smooth her hair, asking him if it would do,
and dressed herself in white. “She wished
me,” he said, “to draw her bed close to the
window that she might see the stars.” About
midnight she work from the sleep into which
she had fallen, and when he asked if she
wanted anything, she said no, she should
never want anything more; and being tired
of watching he fell asleep, and in the morning
when he called her, she did not answer again.
Annette arose and with a firm step passed
to the chamber which they so long had occupied
together.
The cloudy day fell through the half-closed
window, and the bird lacking its morning
meal, chirruped restlessly; there was no other
sound, for the hush was not broken by a single
lay the still white clay that had lately been
beautified with life and warm with love.
She lifted the cold hands and kissed them,
and stooped and kissed the forehead, but
though her bosom shook, her eyes were dry.
One long silken tress that had been clipt from
the others, hung softly over the pillow. Annette
knew it was for her, and as she took it
up the first tears she had shed dropped large
and heavy, and one low and anguished cry of
“Nelly, Nelly!” broke the silence with its
vain appeal.
Very gently Henry led her aside, and scattered
over the corpse and about the bed his
present of autumn flowers.
“Henry, you are very good,” said Annette,
turning towards him, and looking fixedly and
kindly upon him, “and I have been very blind
and very bad; forgive me that I have been
so, and may God forgive me, too. Leave me
now; hereafter I may thank you more as you
deserve, for all your kindness to her and to
me.” She spoke in a steady and almost cold
of a superior.
“Netty,” exclaimed Henry, “I cannot go,
now when you need a friend so much: I cannot
leave you! We will take Nelly to Woodside,
and tend her grave together. Shall it
not be so?”
“I am unworthy of your affection—of the
affection of any one,” answered Annette,
“and I have no love for any living being.
Will you take me as I am? I shall be a
heavy burden.”
“Then, you are mine at last! and your heart
may find in my devotion a solace for even
this misfortune. It is not unfit that the solemnity
of a betrothal should be in a presence so
sacred as this. May that gentle sister's spirit
watch over us!” As he supported her he felt
not that she rested like a dead weight upon
his bosom—saw not that no faintest blush met
the kiss he gave her.
And Helen Graham had a fine funeral, with
a dozen empty carriages in the train—for Annette
would have it so—and behind all, droopingly,
he had gnawed apart to get his freedom,
went Surly. When the grave of his young
mistress was made, he could not be persuaded
away, and there one day, the withered leaves
drifting over him, they found him dead.
And the homestead of Woodside was made
bright with fresh paint, new avenues were
planned and planted, a hired servant drove
the wagon to market, and Mr. and Mrs. Graham
rode in a coach.
Rache and Mart began housekeeping for
themselves, in a log cabin, in the midst of
fifty acres of wild woods: Mrs. Graham, senior,
adding to the cow and the feather bed and
the bureau (the usual portion of a country girl),
the side-saddle with the silver stirrups, which
has been mentioned as adorning the window
of her chamber.
“Their stuck-up way of living looks very
fine,” said Rache, as she struck across the
fields toward her new home, with a small
looking-glass in her arms; “but this child has
her own thoughts about the happiness they
are going to find—and no mistake about it.”
Here, for a while, we leave the persons who
have thus far appeared in our little drama, to
see what sort of life is led at the neighboring
mansion of Throckmorton Hall.
| Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall | |