 | CHAPTER V. Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall |  |
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.
| CHAPTER V. Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall | |