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