The bishop's son a novel |
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| 5. | CHAPTER V.
COURTSHIP OF PETER WHITEFLOCK. |
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 | CHAPTER V.
COURTSHIP OF PETER WHITEFLOCK. The bishop's son |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
COURTSHIP OF PETER WHITEFLOCK.
O Madeline! O Martha! O Mary! O Lucinda!
Charley, Charley! Cartwright! Pete, O you,
Pete! Come here, and see what I've found!”
“What is it, Lute? What is it? Say, O say!
What is it, Luther?”
“Come and see, if you want to know; am I a-goin' to
find things, d'ye s'pose, and track 'em to their holes, and
then carry you onto my back to come and catch 'em and
have the hide?” And Luther Whiteflock mounted the hollow
butt of a fallen tree, thrust his hands deep in his pockets,
spread wide his legs, and cocked up his head. The astronomer,
when a new planet swims into his ken, would but
inadequately represent what the young discoverer felt just
then. He had only to wait, now, and the world would come
to him. How the little legs flew under the petticoats; how
the elbows worked their way through the air; how the hair
of the girls was tossed and tumbled, and how the eyes of
the boys glistened, and how their red cheeks shone! There
they were, all round their brother Luther; Madeline, and
Mary, and Martha and Lucinda, and Charles and Cartwright,
catching for breath, plying questions, tremulous with hopes,
and radiant with admiration.
Peter came up hobbling behind the rest (he was lame)
with two bright spots in his pale cheeks, and his great eyes
staring wide. “What is it, Lute?” he said, reaching
between his stronger brothers, and catching the discoverer
by the trousers-leg.
Luther kicked out his foot, and hurt Peter in the arm, so
that he cried.
“Cry-baby! calf!” sneered Luther; “run home and tell
mother, won't you?”
“I'll go and tell father; it ain't the first time you've
kicked me, and you did it a-purpose!”
“Of course I did! a-pullin' at me when I was busy. I'll
do it again, if I want to; and you may tell the old man as
much as you're a mind, if that's all!”
“Then I'll tell mother; I ain't a-goin to stand it any
longer; you seem to think I was just made to be abused!”
“Certainly, Pete, that's what I have you for!”
The little fellow could not stand this, and limped off in the
direction of the house!
“I wonder if the little fool will tell?”
“To be sure he will; and I hope mother will give it to
you.”
It was Madeline, the next younger than Peter, who said
this; all her round face on fire with indignation.
Luther slid from the log, and was up with Peter in a moment;
it was quite another thing to have his mother know
of it. She would probably give it to him as Madeline had
said; not for her love of Peter, who was by no means her
favorite, but from her love of authority.
“I didn't go for to do it, Pete. I was just in fun! Now,
don't tell, that's a good boy!”
Peter was touched by a soft word, and stopping, drew up
his sleeve; the flesh was swelling hard, and turning purple.
“I'll tell you, Pete, what's the best thing in the world for
such a bruise as that!” Luther began to be frightened.
“Why just cover it up like as if it wasn't there, and don't
mention it to nobody in the world, and laugh all the time.”
“But how is a boy to laugh? Would you laugh if you
had it, d'ye s'pose?”
“Yes I would; if you done the like, accidental, to me, I
wouldn't tell onto you; I wouldn't be so mean. I'd pretend
to be in high spirits. 'Cause, don't you see, tellin'
wouldn't do me no good, and it would do you hurt! What
good could it do me to have mother use a strap onto your
tender shoulders, or to shut you up in the garret, for half a
day? or both together? I wouldn't think of it; I'd stand
it somehow!”
Peter began to be ashamed of his less generous, less
heroic nature. “If I could only keep from showin' it,”
says he, “I wouldn't tell; but just look! it is swelled out
as big and black as what that bunch was on old Posey's
help it, you know.”
Luther was getting the upperhand; he drew himself up,
and spread wide his legs again.
“Pete, boy!” says he, “let me tell you one thing; some
things in this world is too precious for to be used common;
for instance, if you had the gold head what's onto Mr.
Lightwait's cane, would you fling it at a bull-frog in yon
pond?”
“No; if Peter had that precious treasure, he would not
fling it at a bull-frog in yonder pond.”
“Clear common sense, Pete.” And Luther slapped him
on the shoulder. “You see a stone would do as well, and
better too.”
Yes, Peter saw that.
“And you'd have your gold for bigger occasions!'
To be sure. Peter saw clearly.
“Well, then, suppose you had somethin' else as precious
as gold, and wanted to obtain another end just as common
as killin' a bull-frog, would you use this ere precious thing
for this ere ignoble purpose? D'ye foller me, boy?”
Peter was not quite sure that he did follow the philosopher,
and was silent.”
“You wouldn't, you say? Of course you wouldn't!
one case is clear as t'other; now, then, to the pint.” And
with the fingers of one hand, Luther, with much stress of
manner, laid the pint in the palm of the other hand, thus:—
“For the sake of illustration,” (he had got that of the
preacher,) “we'll suppose this bunch on your arm to be the
bull-frog; we'll suppose you want to be shet of it, — d'ye
foller me, boy? To be shet of the bull-frog is the thing
you're after, and the means that'll shet you is of secondary,
or we may say, thirdary importance; now you have got two
meanses into your power, — one's precious and one isn't;
the precious one is truth, and you could use it if you was
for to be fool enough! But are you? No, you say you ain't
— of course you ain't; you know clean things ain't made for
to be used agin onclean. You foller me, boy? Truth is the
preciousest thing what there is, and it's made for to be sot
agin occasions ekally precious; do you foller? When anything
else'll serve as well, the gineral rule of the best managers
is not to sile it by bandyin' it about! Anyhow, that's
mostly, and he knows, you bet.”
Peter hung his head and looked bewildered. “Do you
mean for me to tell a lie?” says he. And then he says he
don't like Luther Larky; “that's why I call you Lute, —
I don't like him you're named after.”
“Likin' him ain't here nor there!” says Luther, loftily;
“he's got money into his pocket; he has!”
“Yes, but he didn't get some of it honest; he sold more
sheep t'other day than he gave in onto the account he
showed father, 'cause I counted the sheep.”
“Eh! you own yourself a spy, do you?” sneered Luther;
and then he advised Peter not to meddle with Mr.
Larky's affairs, and then he got back to the main question.
“You ask if I want you for to lie!” he said. “No; I'd
scorn it! I meant what I said, for you not to knock your
bull-frog into the head with your gold! Say, for instance,
if your arm busts out o' your sleeve with swellin', so that
you are compelled to say somethin', that you fell down
and hurt yourself.”
“But I didn't,” answers Peter.
“Didn't! blast it! there you're belittlein' the truth
again! You've fell down many a time and hurt yourself,
hain't you?”
Yes, Peter had often fallen and hurt himself.
“Are you obliged to particularize the time, I'd like to
know! hey! dumbhead! One way for to get along is to
wriggle; a snake hain't got no feet, but he'll wriggle along
faster than what some beasts can that have 'em.”
“But I've got feet.”
“Yes, and they're made to stand on when you want to be
upright; but s'pose you want to go through a narrer hole?”
Peter saw one thing very clearly; he was not to tell the
truth, and he saw, too, that it would not cure him to get
his brother punished, so he pulled down his sleeve and buttoned
it, and followed him back to the seat of his great
discovery, half ashamed of having threatened to tell.
Luther was still slightly apprehensive, for when does
guilt ever feel quite safe? so he said, as they went along:
“If you don't see into reason, Pete, I'll give you the skin
of the varmint if you won't tell!”
“I don't want the skin,” says Peter, but he did want to
knees, and his head poked quite inside.
“O, Pete, I've thought of somethin'; just the thing!”
cries Luther, giving the lad a punch in the ribs.
“What is it?”
“Why, you are the one to crawl in after the varmint!
'Cause you're slim, first off, and next off, 'cause maybe the
critter'll bite you, and if he does,” (here he spoke in the
lad's ear,) “you can lay the sore arm onto that, you know.
In with you! I'll boost!”
Peter stuck his head in again. “I can't see him,” he
said. “Crawl in further; don't be afraid.” And then Luther
turned to his brothers and sisters: “Tell ye what less
do; in the first place, the varmint what's into there, is a
mink; but when Pete gets him out, less shut him up in the
smoke-house, and give out among the boys that we have got
a mountaineous mink what's escaped from a show, and
charge a quarter apiece for them to see him! he'll exhibit
good if we just call him mountaineous; the mountaineous,
double-bellied, and three-eyed mink. Golly, that'll do!
Go in, Pete, and fetch him out!”
“I can't see him.”
“Look harder!”
“What?” cried Peter; he could not hear well inside the
log, and drew out his head, his hair full of bits of the rotten
wood, and his eyes blinking.
“You can't see him?” cries Luther angrily. “Now,
can you see him?” And he knocks him on the head with
his double fist.
Peter could not see the mink any better for the knocking,
nor is it probable that he could have seen him any better,
even if he had been in verity a mountaineous, double-bellied,
three-eyed mink, which he was not.
With his hair full of chips, scaled from the rotten lining
of the log, and his face all bepowdered with dust, through
which the tears were washing channels, he set out for home,
crying pitifully, and limping more than common.
“What's the matter, my little man?” cries Samuel Dale,
overtaking the lad, for he, too, was returning home, the day
being ended, and the working done.
“Don't you see that great big star just a-top 'o that strip
'o black cloud? Well, that's little Peter's star; just see
he? he'll soon get there if he only stops a-cryin' and goes
ahead.”
But Peter cried on; he didn't feel that he was gravitating
toward the star, apparently, seeing which, Samuel caught
him around the waist, and hoisted him up to his shoulder,
calling himself Peter's horse, and running with him quite
upon the trot.
In this way he brought him to the door of the elder Peter's
cellar. “Now the old horse is going to throw his rider,”
he cries, and with that he let the boy down very softly, and
slipping into his hand a bright red apple, told him to wait
inside till he should come back.
The half hour was gone by; the strip of black cloud over
which the big star had been shining, had by this time
widened itself over half the sky, and the winds were making
lonesome noises among the full-leaved trees; the darkness
was sombre, and all the sights and sounds of nature seemed
tinged with melancholy. Such times will sometimes fall
upon the summer's high carnival of glory.
The tallow candle, with its wick a-lop, burned dimly in
one corner of the cellar; it was set in an old iron candlestick,
and the candlestick was set on the head of an oaken
barrel, containing vinegar, and beside the candlestick lay the
old Bible and hymn-book, from which Samuel was used to
read of nights. The glittering eyes of a big black cat that
was the habitual companion of Peter, shone out from under
a chest of tools, and now and then her stiffening tail was
heard making dull thrums upon the floor, if a mouse were
heard to peep. The branches, as the wind went through
them, creaked against the wall, and these were all the sounds
that came to Peter's cellar. He was sitting near the open
door, looking out into the night, his cheek drooped upon
the head of his little son, who, forgetting his tyrannical
brother, the great discoverer — forgetting all the hardships
and sorrows of his young life, was gone to sleep on his
father's shoulder. His bare, scratched legs, and brown,
hardened feet, dangled far below his trousers; one hand had
hidden itself in the bosom against which he rested, and one
was round the neck that bent above him; his face was
streaked with tears, and all his clothes were ragged, buttonless,
at loose ends generally.
The trustful abandonment of the picture was perfect, and
the expression of tender sadness in the father's face was
very touching. Samuel Dale trod softly as he came near,
and took off his hat as he passed; every manifestation of
sincere love was sacred in his eyes. He went straight to
the oaken barrel which he had converted into a sort of oratory,
by trimming it with bright field berries and green
leaves, opened the Bible and began to read to himself.
“Read out,” says Peter, directly; “I feel more'n common
like hearin' the Scripter to-night; right where you
happen to be readin', don't turn back.” It happened that
Samuel was reading in the ninth chapter of Saint Mark's
gospel, and, as Peter requested, he began at the verse he
had reached; the seventeenth: —
“And one of the multitude answered and said, Master, I
have brought unto thee my son, which hath a dumb spirit;
and wheresover he taketh him, he teareth him; and he
foameth and gnasheth with his teeth, and pineth away; and
I spoke to thy disciples that they should cast him out, and
they could not.
He answereth him, and saith, O faithless generation how
long shall I be with you? how long shall I suffer you?
Bring him unto me.
And they brought him unto him; and when he saw him,
straightway the spirit tare him; and he fell on the ground,
and wallowed, foaming.
And he asked his father, How long is it ago since this
came unto him? And he said, Of a child.
And oft-times it hath cast him into the fire, and into the
waters to destroy him: but if thou canst do anything, have
compassion on us, and help us.
Jesus saith unto him, If thou canst believe, all things are
possible to him that believeth.
And straightway the father of the child cried out, and said
with tears, Lord, I believe; help thou mine unbelief.
When Jesus saw that the people came running together,
he rebuked the foul spirit, saying unto him, Thou dumb and
deaf spirit, I charge thee, come out of him, and enter no
more into him.
And the spirit cried, and rent him sore, and came out of
him: and he was as one dead; insomuch that many said, He
is dead.”
“Read that agin,” says Peter; “it kind 'o sets me a
thinkin'.”
So Samuel read the verses over, going on to the fortieth
verse, when Peter interrupted him again. “Read that verse
over, and read it loud and slow,” he said.
Samuel read: —
“And John answered him, saying, Master, we saw one
casting out devils in thy name, and he followeth not us;
and we forbade him, because he followeth not us.
But Jesus said, Forbid him not; for there is no man which
shall do a miracle in my name, that can lightly speak evil
me.”
“Don't read no more now,” says Peter; “my mind is
ketched away, and I see the spirits of men the same as
James and John saw Moses and Elias, when they went up
into the high mountain.”
Samuel closed the book, and they read no more.
It was an hour, after this that the child lying on his father's
knees cried out in sleep: “O, father, mother won't
give me my supper! She's got visitors; the preacher and
his sister, and she won't let me come to the table. She says
I'll make 'em think of you!” Then his voice sank, and he
muttered something about Miss Lightwait's shawl being
lined with the skin of a double-bellied mink, and about his
brother Luther, who he said was unscrewing the gold head
from the preacher's cane. Then he cried out sharply, and
as if in great pain, that a hoptoad was gnawing off his arm,
and he was afraid to tell any body. “Poor little chap!”
says Peter, “he's in trouble even in his sleep; Sam, come
and see him, and tell me if you think his looks is so agin
him.”
“Why no,” says Samuel, bringing his chair close to
Peter and sitting down. “What makes you think his looks
are agin him?”
“Some thinks his looks is like mine,” Peter says.
“Well, s'pose they are! And now as he sleeps I can
see he favors you more than I knowed for.” And Samuel
lifted the dangling legs and laid them across his knees, so
the two men were holding the boy, together.
“It seems kind a hard,” Peter says, “that I couldn't be
let to have one out o' thirteen, look a little like me!” and
he takes out his jack-knife and polishing the blade on the
up and proceeds to look in it as though it were a glass.
“Sam, bring the candle close.”
Samuel brought the candle, snuffing it with his fingers
by the way, and held it close to the shining blade. “Why
don't you have a looking-glass?” he asked.
“Why don't I? that's easy asked, young man.”
Then he went on with the examination of his face, removing
the blade at intervals, and studying the face of the boy.
“Thirteen of 'em,” he said again, “and only this one that
shaders me at all. I wish I could be let to have it so in
peace.”
“But you are let; the boy looks like you, there's no
doubt about that.”
“Yes, he is let to look like me by the Almighty, but
Sam, there's them that would undo his work if they could;
and when I see how his looks go agin the boy, I a'most
wish he was all hern, like the rest.”
“You don't refer to your wife?” says Samuel. And
then he adds, “Beg your pardon, Peter, for such a
thought.”
“Wife!” echoes Peter, “I hain't heard that word, not as
applied to your mistress, since the day I was married. Say
it agin, Sam; it kind o' gets up my self-respect, like.”
“Mr. Whiteflock,” says Samuel, “I would like to have
a little plain talk with you, with your leave.”
“Mr. Whiteflock!” echoes Peter, reproachfully.
“Then I'll say Peter, if you like that better; but have I
leave to speak plain?”
“Sam, I ain't used to havin' leave asked; it puts me
out, like; you just go on.”
“Then I will begin by saying that you have got as pure
a soul and as sweet a heart in you as any man need have,
but what you lack is self-respect; you don't hold up your
head among men as you ought to, and as you have a right
to!”
“Hold on just a speck, Sam; she don't think I've got
any rights; and what she thinks, I respect, even when it's
agin me; she's a woman in a thousand, Sam!”
“But you have rights, my friend, and you ought to hold
up your head, both for your wife's sake and your own, and
also for the sake of your children.”
“For her sake, to be sure! as if I could reflect any
credit onto her! Why, it would be like as if a glow-worm
should try to shine in the face o' the sun!”
“Well, then, hold up your head for your own sake, shine
or no shine!”
“See here, Sam; you know more'n I do, but it strikes
me this way: if nobody cares whether you hold up your
head or not, it'll naterally go down!”
“But, Peter, everybody cares for you. I never heard a
word against you in my life.”
“That's too gineral, Sam; altogether too gineral. Every
man that is a man wants to be held up in particular; and
if, instead of being held up he's held down, by having a
millstone round his neck, the chances of his carrying a high
head is somewhat agin him.”
“But you haven't that, Peter; you have, on the contrary,
a wife that loves you, and children, a whole baker's dozen
of 'em.”
“Sam, you said right in one particular; you said I had a
wife on the contrary. Now, with all her excellent qualities,
she is that, eminent, and, I may say, pre-eminent.”
“But even suppose that to be the case, she loves you,
of course, all the same.”
“On what do you foud that opinion, Sam?”
Samuel hardly knew what to say, but without much hesitation,
answered, “Why, because she's married to you, to
be sure.”
“Married to me,” says Peter; “well I s'pose she is, to
some extent; but as for her entire devotion to me, unfortunately
for my perfect felicity, doubts has sometimes crep
into my bosom, on that pint, and them's the millstones at
which I hinted a while ago, metaphoric.”
“You must banish 'em!” says Samuel, promptly. “If
any sleek chap ever comes between you and the girl that
has got your heartstrings in her hand, you just try that
yourself, will ye?” Samuel blushed and remained silent
for a time, but replied after a little, “I take it for granted
that a wife loves her husband.”
“So I did, too, when I was married,” says Peter; and
then he says, “I don't say, when we was married, because,
though I married her complete, she, as I said, only married
me to some extent.”
“What do you mean?” says Samuel.
“I mean this, Sam; our marriage wasn't one o' them
kind which makes two folks into one. And now, Sam, honest
speakin', and not as though you was into a pulpit or
a-givin' evidence into a court for to get your case, do you
believe, to the best of your knowledge, that there is any
such marriage as that?”
“Most assuredly,” says Samuel.
“One more question, then. Do you believe, honest
speakin', and not as though you was into a pulpit, or
a-givin' evidence into a court to gain your cause, that I am
married in full, so to speak, that is to say, the same as married
men in gineral?”
“That's another question,” says Samuel.
“Of course: didn't I say it was another question?”
“Well, then, I suppose you're married the same as other
folks.”
“Then, Sam, I draw this conclusion: — Marriage doesn't
make a man and a woman one, but directly tother!”
“I can readily understand,” says Samuel, “how it should
bring out certain obscure qualities into bold relief.”
“Relief?” says Peter; I never seen nothing which was
relief belonging to it;” and then he says, “You began by
askin' leave o' me to speak plain, and now I ask leave for
to speak plain to you; the subject is one that ought to have
but little said about it; it's things as they stand between
me and your mistress. Maybe we're one, but I can't see it
so: I see it a way, which is the tother, but at the same
time I'm distrustful of my judgment, for I don't see no two
that does seem to be just one; in short, I don't see no marriage
that seems to me to be a marriage in full! Now what
I ask o' you is to set me right. But first of all, understand,
Sam, that I don't blame your mistress for whatever she's
done and said that wasn't into my favor; she didn't do it
and she didn't say it of her own head! She's been set agin
me, Sam, by them that their disposition wasn't good towards
me, — an unfortunate circumstance, but that's all you can
say, for 'tain't her fault, first nor last. She was perfect,
original, perfect, Sam.
“Fifteen year we've been married, that is, to some extent,
and I never spoke her name except in the way o' makin' out
a good case, but now I perpose to speak, not as though I
and as man to man, and I desire you to render solemn judgment
onto what I say, for I am going to make my will.”
“Your will, Peter? you're crazy!”
“Well, Sam, maybe I be! and that's the pint which I'm
comin' towards. Maybe my unfortunate doubts as to my
bein' married in full, has sot me crazy, and maybe ourn is as
much in full as anybody's, and that is what I want your
judgment onto.”
“I would rather not pronounce judgment as between you
and your wife; it is a delicate matter.”
“As to that, Sam, I don't think it's either delicate or
indelicate, but mind, I don't want you to stand between me
and her; there is enough between us now! I want you to
hear, simply, and simply to hear, and then I want you not
to judge between us, mind, but to judge onto the whole sitoation.
“It may be that I've steeped my thoughts into crime
when I've suspected that your mistress didn't love me in
full, because, Sam, you must have noticed one thing, — she
is the most modest of her sex! a woman in a thousan'! and
she may not have been able to make free with me! Sometimes
her modesty has carried her so far that it wouldn't
allow her to show respect for me; and if her nater could a
been understood by the harsh world, it wouldn't a been so
unfortunate, but as things looked, and as the harsh world
is, I didn't seem to be married in full, that must be owned.
“Then, too, your mistress, from the beginnin' of our life
under one ruf, had them about her that their disposition
wasn't good toward me, and what with modesty, and what
with their unfortinate influence, she never expressed that
partiality for me which she cherished, I trust, in her
bosom.
“To come to the plain truth, she done things sometimes
that must 'a' been greatly agin' her sweet nater, and this was
one of 'em. Upon an evening in the fore part of January,
the first of our livin' under one ruf, them that their disposition
wasn't good toward me, got round her by unfair means,
and put things into her mind that she never'd 'a' got of her
own head, and she got worked up so that she put her hand
onto the key o' the door, and twisted it round, leavin' me
onto the off side!”
“You don't mean to say that she locked you out o' your
own house, Peter?”
“Bless your heart, no, Sam! I didn't say she locked me
out at all. She was in her own room and I wasn't, and
havin' had things put into her mind that she wouldn't a
thought of her own head, she put her hand onto the key,
and twisted it round, leavin' me onto the off side. But I
wasn't an eye-witness, and I can't give strict evidence onto
the pint; she may have just touched the key, and then it
may have partly twisted itself like. I've heard o' chamber
doors a doin' so, besides hers.”
“What did she say for herself?” says Samuel.
“She said I took up too much room.”
“And what did you say then?”
“I didn't say nothin' in my defence; how could I? nater
was agin my case; I was big and took up room, there was
no denyin' of it; besides, it was ill-convenient for her to
talk to me through the door, and I didn't want to ill-convenience
her, so I went quietly away.
“Woman has her freaks, Sam, freaks that she's subject
to by nater, but when things comes to be put into her head in
edition, good gracious mercy!”
Here he proceeded to relate some of these freaks, premising
that they were always put into his wife's head by
them that their disposition wasn't good towards him.
“When the loaf of bread happened to be burnt on one
side,” says Peter, “as it often did happen, your mistress,
bein' drawn off from her household affairs so much by her
Christian duties, the slice which was burnt the blackest was
give to me; and if one potater was less than the others,
that was the one which was give to me; and if one slice
of steak had all the bone in it, and none o' the meat on it,
that was the slice which was give to me. She was put up
to it, Sam, and I don't blame her. I was fond o' sugar in
my coffee, and your mistress never give me none; she said
invariable that she forgot it; but them that their disposition
wasn't good toward me, their sugar was never forgot. It
looks little in a man, I know, to mention such trifles, and
many a sufferer is silent from pride, which is taken by the
shaller multitude favorable, and so things goes for things
that things isn't, in many a family; but this is a solemn
occasion, and I speak without the customary reference to
effect that pervails in married life. You'll excuse me, Sam?
Is it natral for a woman to be graceful everywhere but at
home, and disgraceful at home? And is it natral for a
woman to be a comfort to strangers, and to be uncomfortable
to her husband? Is it natral for her to give him things
which he don't like, constant, and to give him things which
he likes, inconstant?”
“Perhaps such things are natural enough,” Samuel said,
doubtless shaping his answer to please his friend, rather
than in accordance with his conscience. And then he added,
“You know in marriage, two are one, and it is quite natural
to forget one's self.”
“Then, Sam,” said Peter, all his face lighting up, “if
that is all nateral and common, and if you know it to be so,
why, we're married in full, and not to some extent; because
the aptitude o' your mistress in the way o' puttin' slights
onto me, amounts fairly to genius!”
After a moment he went on. “I s'pose it's agreeable to
the law of nater that briers should grow among roses, but
it does seem to me, Sam, that into the marriage crown they
might 'a' been put a leetle more sparse.
“Well, one day as I sot onto a log into the edge of the
medder, reflectin' onto the mystery o' the heart, and more
particular o' the heart o' woman, I concluded a conclusion,
and this is the conclusion which I concluded. Married life,
Sam, has high capacity for happiness into it; things, however,
don't allers follers capacity for things, and low happiness,
therefore, sometimes follers high capacity, because
things is as things is, and things isn't as things isn't, which
is to be regretted. Now, if things was otherwise, they'd
be otherwise, but they ain't, and things being as things is,
one percaution becomes a man, which is not to trust a
woman so far as to put his peace o' mind into her keepin',
she's whirlsome, turnin' this way and that, by natur, Sam;
but she's also wheedlesome, and this more special after a
man becomes hers, legal! I don't say this to be agin
woman; I ain't agin woman as woman; I'm only agin some
o' the ways which she has!”
“And was this crown you speak of briery from the beginning?”
says Samuel.
“From the beginnin', Sam? Lord bless you, there
wan't no beginnin' to it!”
“What I meant is this: were these slights put upon
you from the beginning?”
“And don't I tell you, Sam, there was no beginnin'; but
from the first of our livin' under one ruf, they was; that is
to say, they was outard; but what tender feelin's may have
been into the heart of her that put 'em, all the while, ain't
for me to say, because what was outard mayn't have been
inard; things was put into her mind that she wouldn't a
thought of her own head, by them that their influence was
unfavorable to me, and she isn't to be judged by common
standards.”
“No beginning, Peter! how could that have been? You
must have courted, surely.”
“Well, yes, I s'pose I may say we did; but it was all
done across a meader, Sam, clean across a meader. I was
a ploughin' with my old mare Posey; she was young then,
and beautiful.”
“Across a meadow!” says Samuel, interrupting him;
“how so?”
“Sam,” says Peter, “I'm agoin' to astonish you now
with an astonishment beyond all calculation; so gird up
your loins. And in the first place, let me ask you if you'd
take me, judgin' of me, outard, to be a romantic man?”
“Well, hardly,” says Samuel.
“No? And yet I've got a heart that's set a-flutterin'
whenever I look upon a momento connected with my courtship,
the same being a bed-blanket! Ah, Sam, I see you
begin to open your eyes, but you'll open 'em wider yet before
I'm done. I never revealed to mortal that which I now
trust to you, and I know you won't prove trustworthless.”
“Do you see that are chest in the corner?” He fumbled
in his pocket and produced an iron key, rusty and big.
“Take this and unlock that chest; now feel under the tools
in the upper corner, and you'll find another key; got it?
Well, now, unlock the till; there, what do you see now?”
“An old bed-blanket,” says Samuel.
“Take it out, Sam; there, now, unfold and spread it out;
a purty sight, ain't it? Look here, Sam, all the romance o'
my life has been wrapt up in that blanket this many a year.
Sometimes, of windy nights, I get it out, and hang it into
the winder o' the corn-crib, so't I can both see it, and hear
it flop; it makes me young agin, Sam, that does!”
“But there must be a chapter belonging to it,” says
Samuel.
“A chapter! heaven help you, man! there's a whole volume
if it could only be writ. But where's the hand, competent
to such a work? Where's the hand? It can't
be writ, Sam, and it can't be told accordin' to its merits.
If it was all painted out as I see it when I was young, it
would strike you blind; but to the courtship. Matty Hansom,
when I married her, and when we began to live under
one ruf, was the purtiest woman that ever you set eyes on;
you can well believe that, for her beauty to this day is something
wonderful. Well, Sam, I fell in love with her, and
she hild herself above me. I don't say she hadn't a right to;
I only say she did. Anyhow, I took her hand, trustin' to
the futer to win her heart; but Sam, my hopes was founded
into ignorance, for as far as my observation goes, the tendency
of love, after marriage, is backard, rather than forard!
Mind what I tell you, Sam, and if you happen to know a
young woman that is purty, and at the same time holds herself
above you, steer clear!”
Samuel winced; he was not quite sure that he didn't
know just such a young woman. And Peter went on.
“My love was ginoine, Sam, ginoine, if ever love was.
I thought the daisies wasn't white enough for Mattie to
walk on, and I thought the sunshine wasn't soft enough to
touch her lovely head! I'd 'a' built a world a-purpose for her,
if I could 'a' had my way. I couldn't sleep for dreamin' of
her, and I couldn't work for thinkin' of her. I was plowin'
that piece of land that overlooks the old man Hansom's
house, and also a narrer strip o' bottom ground that had
been set off for Matty's marriage portion, about twenty
acres in all, and was more possessed with her than common,
insomuch that when I got my field plowed one way, I turned
about, and plowed it another, and so went across and across
this way and that, just for the pleasure I had in beholdin'
the ruf under which my beloved abode. Sometimes I'd lean
on my plow and gaze at the winder where she sat sewing
her wedding-dress, and try to make believe I was plowin'
for her sake; and it would seem to me that if my fancy was
only reality, my pumpkins would grow as big as the moon,
and my bean vines twine their rings around the stars. My
passion was all pent in my heart, because Matty not only
Luther Larky. I'd been plowin' a month or more in the
same field, when one day I sees the old man Hansom cross
that bottom land o' Matty's, and make toward me. I felt
my legs grow limber all at once. “He is thy sire!” I said,
gazin' at the winder, and I run forard and took my hat off.
“How do you do, Peter?” says he, and “What'll you ask
for half a dozen of your best South Downs?” And then
he said he wanted 'em for his daughter Matty, who was
a-goin' to be married to Luther Larky. My heart came
into my throat, and I took the old man's hand, and spoke
out. “I've got the sheep,” says I, “Mr. Hansom; you
can see 'em if you're a mind to go across the holler. Just
you go home, and tell your daughter Matty, that all the
sheep I've got, and all the paster they feed on, and all I've
got, whatsomever, is hers, if she'll consent to take the same,
with an incumbrance — meanin' myself. That's the way,
Sam, I rounded up, and I've always thought it could not 'a'
been handsomer done. The old man looked pleased. “How
many on 'em is there?” “Fifty odd,” says I, “and they're
all hers as I said, with the incumbrance. You just go home,
and tell Matty this, and tell her if she sees it into a light
favorable, to signalify the same by hangin' a bed-blanket
in her chamber winder! You begin to see the romance,
now, don't you, Sam? But to proceed: “Tell Miss Matty,”
says I, “this is a momentuous thing to decide sudden, so
I'll give her time, and if she signalifies me by sundown, I
shan't consider she's took too long, and she may expect me
over, just allowin' time to shave and fix up.”
“A hundred and twenty-five acres, and fifty odd sheep,
besides other things incidental,” says the old man, speakin'
to himself like; and Luther larky hardly worth the shirt
onto his back!” and he set off walkin' fast, and never
mindin' the rheumatis in his legs.
“Mr. Hansom!” says I, for I'd thought of a last movin'
appeal: he stepped back a little, and set his foot up on a
stump; “Tell Matty,” says I, “if she doesn't signalize me
by the aforementioned time, that instead of lookin' for me
over to her house, she may look for me under the tuff
under the green tuff,” says I, “and when I'm there, and
when she's happy with another, I request that she may
sometimes bestow a thought onto me!”
“I tried to keep on plowin', but I couldn't; my legs went
down into the furrer limber as willer-wands; then I tried to
sing; my throat was dry as sand, so I stopped my critter,
right in the furrer, and to keep myself from lookin' at Matty's
winder, went and set on a stump, with my back that
way, and began to calculate the time. “Now,” says I to
myself, “the old man Hansom has got to the holler; now
he is goin' up the hill; now he has got to the gate; now
maybe he is as far as the stoop,” and I twisted right round,
for I could not set still; and as true as you're a livin' man,
Sam, there was the bed-blanket a-floppin'!”
“That's it, Sam, that's the very blanket, the blessed,
blessed article a lyin' at your feet! No man never sot eyes
onto it since that romantic hour. The old chest isn't worthy
to hold it, and I've always intended to get a mahogany
case, but she's ambitious, Sam, and my means has been
mostly took up in gratifying her elegant tastes. She was
born to shine. But where was I? O I know now; Well,
when I looked round and beheld the blanket a-floppin, words
can't picter my sensations. I seemed to see the marriage
crown o' roses, and I didn't see the briers which was hid in
it; in short, I didn't see things as things is, as what man in
love does! There was no ordinary way in which I could
express myself, so I took off one o' my shoes and throwd it
at a blackbird that was innocently a-hoppin' along into the
furrer; then I spoke right out to my mare Posey. I hid my
face agin her neck, and called her all pet names that wasn't
her true name, and havin' Matty into my thoughts, and kind
o' makin' bleve that it was her, I took hold o' Posey's ear,
and says I, `this is my little ear, isn't it?' and then says I,
answerin' myself, `yes 'tis, 'tis, 'tis!' This'll show you,
how deep I was into love.”
“I don't think I could have got to the old man Hanson's
if circumstances hadn't favored me.
“Just as I stept out o' my gate into the high road, old
Mr. Stake, the butcher, and the father o' the present incumbent,
comes a drivin' along with two live calves, and a
yearlin' shote, in his cart; he was in high spirits, for he
was a makin' money hand over fist, and had just bought the
shote he had aboard for two dollars, expectin' confident to
double his money on him; and bein' in high spirits, with
his great windfall, he asked me, `Peter,' says he, `wont
agoin' fur, though?”
“He was a delicate-constituted man, and that was the
way he had of askin' where I was agoin'.
“`Not a great way,' says I, `a matter of two miles or
so,' for I wanted to throw him off the track, and it seemed
to me as if he must know where I was agoin', and what for.
And then I said I was agoin' to Mr. Sprague's to look at
some fine lambs which he had; I had my own sheep in my
head, and I couldn't think of nothin' else to say.
“`Two-legged lambs, I guess,' says Mr. Stake, `by the
look of all them ruffles in your bosom.'
“We was passin' the old man Hansom's gate as he said
that, and I felt my face a burnin' like fire, for certain, thinks
I, he sees Matty's picter in my heart; and I put on a look
which it was meant to be a look o' surprise mingled with
regret.
“And then, says I, speakin' up brisk, `Bless me, if we
haven't passed the old man Hansom's! I never noticed it.'
You perceive, Sam, that love had made a consummate actor
of me.
“Matty sat at the winder, and I knowed she see me
a-comin' down the path, but she didn't look up nor smile,—
it was her modest way, I thought, — and I rapped at the
door, with my heart beatin' so loud she might have heard
it without my rappin', but not until I had bruised my
knuckles a good deal did she speak.
“At last she raised her eyes and looked at me, and their
light struck through me like icicles; I thought I had been
deceived, perhaps, and with trembling voice I said, `My
dear Miss Hansom, there's some misunderstanding I'm
afeared betwixt us; make me the happiest of men by the assurance
that the bed-blanket which it now flops above thy
lovely head, was intended to signalify me that you would!'
“Still she sat without a word. `Speak, I entreat thee,'
says I, and then in more moving accents, `I entreat thee to
speak! One little word,' says I, `will either nurse me into
bloom, or blight me into dust! Shall I, then, bloom,' says
I, `like a young branch, in thy smile, or shall my mortal
remainder be laid at thy feet, under the green tuff?'
“I was onto my knees now, with all my soul into my eyes,
and she lookin' at me, but her look was not level, but more
as if I was on the ground and she at a four-story winder.
“She looked like a queen, Sam, and I like some poor
suppliant for the crumbs that fell from her table. When
she spoke at last, it was to ask me how many acres my
farm contained, and how many head of cattle and sheep I
had, and then I knew that my proposal was accepted.
“Directly she told me that she had loved before, and
says I, `Don't speak of it; the heart that was his is mine.'
“And then she said they was always to be friends, she
and Luther, the best of friends, and that I was never to
interfere with the friendship.
“`Don't speak of it,' says I agin; `whatever my angel
does will be right.'
“And then she said, that being settled, there was nothin'
more to say, and I might go home; she had yet to see
Luther that night, and make known to him what was to be
and what wasn't to be.
“I was too proud to be told twice, and as I passed under
the winder, down comes the blanket a-floppin' onto my
head. I tell you I held onto it, and put it round my neck,
and hild it to its place, makin' believe like that it was
Matty Hansom's arms about me, and that it was she that
hild instead o' me.
“That's the blanket, Sam; that's the very blanket,
a-lyin' at your feet! Put your hand on it; put it agin
your face!
“And now, Sam, you know the finest piece o' romance
into all history. I loved that woman, Sam, and I love her
yet; and if she was different in her feelin's toward them
that their influence is agin me, I wouldn't give her for no
other woman in the world!
“I've thought, sometimes, when I'se been a-shapin' up a
haystack, and got it into a particular pleasin' form, now if
this was only Matty instead o' the grass o' the field! and
as I raked off one side and put it onto tother, I've thought,
now if I was only takin' this from them that their influence
is unfortunate to me, and makin' the same in my favor, I
wouldn't envy none o' the crowned heads in the world.”
“O, Sam, I haven't been without my hours of mixed pleasure!
but they've come spare, Sam, dreadful spare, specially
in my married life.
“I don't say nothin' agin marriage, Sam, but I do say
this; to depend for happiness on the smiles of a woman
for your light, on shootin' stars! It's good enough
light, Sam, but takin' one night with another, it's spare!
“And here, Sam, I want to give you a piece of advice,
and this is it, and it is this: I speak forcible, for I feel forcible
on the subject. When you're courtin' a woman, don't
say nothin' about your sheep nor your sheep paster, nuther
your hereditaments, nuther your horned nor huffed cattle; I
don't say it'll be took advantage of, Sam, but its just as well
not said; and I don't say it'll have any effect whatsomever,
but just s'pose'n it should! What's the vally of a hand,
Sam, that ain't swung into yours by the motive power of
the heart? Instead of bein' a lily in your bosom, Sam, it'll
be a thorn in your flesh.
“But if you shouldn't heed the warnin', and should after
all prefer the light of shootin' stars, spare and uncertain
which it is, and uncertain and spare, then here is another
piece of advice that I would put forcible too, and it is this,
and this is it: Keep your feelin's considerable under your own
control! Yes, Sam, keep 'em under your own control considerable.
The more you think of a woman, Sam, the less
she'll think of you! Furdermore, when you come to that
pint where you can't live without her, you'll find invariable
that she can live without you. Woman likes uncertainty,
Sam; if she doesn't know whether you'll come or not, why
she's a-dyin' to see you, but just let her be sure of you, once
for all, and ten to one but she'll go to flirtin' with another!
Otherways she'll read a novel before your face and eyes, or
go to sleep. In short, Sam, let a woman be once certain of
you, and thenceforard you're never certain of her!
“Pour down a little water and you can pump up more,
but s'pose you fill your pump full? But I'm leavin' my
story. It was Saturday that I behild the bed-blanket a-floppin'
from the winder, and a Tuesday the follerin', Matty
Hansom who had been pronounced Mrs. Whiteflock, came
to live under my ruf. Now livin' under the same ruf with
a woman, and seein' her when she ain't on her guard, as a
woman natarly is, ain't at all like seein' her across a meader,
and it ain't like seein' her when your a-courtin' her, even
though you're in the same room with her. Why? do you
ask? Well Sam, because things isn't as things was. We
was no sooner under one ruf than I see that what I had
and was to be so hild forever. Other things that I had said
was took so too. I'd said, aforehand, that I didn't expect
no dowery, and didn't want none, but I wasn't on oath, Sam,
and being which I was a courting, I colored a leetle high;
but here I was took literal too, and the twenty acres was
withhild. I'd 'a' had Matty, Sam, if she hadn't 'a' had a shoe
to her foot, but the twenty acres would'er been took by me,
grateful for all that; the gift would 'a' been a mark of respect
showed to me that would a built me up into my own
estimation like. Mark what followed. Three days we had
been under one ruff, when her father, he drives over to my
paster a lean heifer with a broke horn, which he tells me
she is to be give for Matty's sake, but that the twenty acres
isn't to be give! That disappointment I could a swallered
if the lean heifer with the broke horn hadn't 'a' been give,
but that, Sam, was an added aggravation, and an aggravation
indeed! I never got over it. The sight o' the heifer
was like pison to me, and the more that Mattie made as if
there was no cow on the place but her; so one day when I
was a-mauling rails, I took the maul and I knocked her on
the head.
“`Matty,' says I, when I first placed her under my ruff,
`this is all yours.' `Of course! To be sure,' says she. Still,
being set to find it, if there was any feeling for me in her
bosom, that was ginoine, I says, `Command me, henceforad,
my angel!' `Henceforad and forever,' says she. `All my
heart is yours, Mattie,' says I; `that you know, but its beating
for you,' says I, `is like the beating of some wild, warm
wave on a stone,' I says.
“`Let me see,' she says, and her hand begun to fumble
about my pocket. I was all of er trimble like, and, opening
wide my arms, I called her my timid dove, and told her to
come into 'em! `What a child you are,' says she, and she
turned and left me without another word.
“But what I have to tell you next, Sam, will freeze the
blood in your veins. Under pretence of feeling for my heart
she stole my money-bag, that had in it at the time a hundred
dollar note, and thirty-five dollars and sixty-two and a half
cents in hard cash! A day or two after the purse was took,
John Holt, my neighbor, had a vandue, and among other
things, a gray mare to sell. Bids run high, as they mostly
they want. I bid up to a hundred and twenty dollars on
the mare myself, which having done agin my conscience, I
held; but Luther Larkey, he set his elbows out, and set his
lages wide, and bid right ahead against men that could 'a'
bought and sold him, till the mare was run up to a hundred
and thirty-five dollars, and there she was knocked down to
him.
“`You'll give your note, I s'pose, at six months,' says
John Holt, down in the mouth like, for he knowed very well
the money from Luther was uncertain at any time, how-some-ever
futer.
“`No,' says Luther, speaking up loud; `I prefer to pay
down!' And he out with my purse and counts my money
afore my very eyes!
John Holt was a man that he was suspicious, and he examined
the note careful. `It's good,' says Larkey; `if you have
any doubts, s'pose we take the judgment of Mr. Whiteflock!'
And with that he puts the note into my hand, and having
gloated over me, counts out the thirty-five dollars in hard
cash!
“I don't say how he come by that money, Sam, I only
say she took it and he had it. Try to imagine my feelings,
Sam? I couldn't reproduce 'em in your mind, and I wont
try. Words is mockery into some cases.
“Two months Luther Larkey rid that mare about the country,
and all that time he never did one stroke of honest
work, which time, at the end of it, I was took down with a
spell of ager, and when I got up, behold ye, Luther had
been hired on the farm, as chief manager! It was the act of
friendship on her part, your mistress said, and I wasn't to
interfere. My spirit is naterally proud, Sam, and it towered
up then. I wont be under him, says I, and I wont stand to
the side of him! And then I took to the cellar! It was
taking a bold step, Sam, but I've maintained it. Looking
at things as things is, and not as they seem outerd, what is
the judgment that you pronounce on the case? Am I married
in full, or only to some extent?”
Samuel felt constrained to speak as nearly the truth as he
might, and replied that from his standpoint, the marriage
was not in full.
Peter received the verdict as a man might receive his
said, turning and apparently speaking to the air, —
“Good friends, does this judgment wrong her whom it
most nearly concerns?”
| CHAPTER V.
COURTSHIP OF PETER WHITEFLOCK. The bishop's son | |