 | Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall |  |
2. PART II.
THROCKMORTON HALL
1. CHAPTER I.
WE were busy in the sugar-camp; it was
early March, and the apple-tree boughs
were reddening a little, but the buds were
scarcely swollen; in the thick woods the germinating
foliage was fast shut and black; and
under the heavy layers of dead leaves the frost
glistened white. Here and there in the hollow
ground were spots of green ivy, and some
few broad wild leaves of hardy plants relieved
the dark ground of the great forest,
but nearly all was dim and sombre enough.
On a hill-side, sloping eastward, the fire was
red flame that ran upward bright flakes were
broken and, toying with the rough wind a moment,
died and fell, while drifts of mist from
the boiling sugar-water went southward, curling
like clouds, and dissolving in the clear air.
We had been an hour carrying armsful of
hickory bark, peeled from the trunks of the
big trees that grew on the next hill, and the
furnace was full of it; so it was no wonder that
the flame ran so high; we could hear the
crackling and see the light where we were, far
away on the flat top of the ascent, among the
silver-green beech boles—our hearts full of
mirth, and our aprons full of moss. What soft
golden fleeces we had! no India shawls could
have given us such pleasure as they, hanging
over our shoulders, in the twilight of that
delicious spring day. We were too large to idle
away our time like children, our parents said
sometimes; but we were children at heart, if
not in years. We strayed in those woods many
and many an hour, gathering mosses, in gold
flecces, and grey wiry sprigs. Many a time
we kept the fire bright, but this one time
Ah me! all its tints were deepened with
gathering shadows.
I can see the sunset of that day whenever I
think of it, and that is often, very often; there
were a great many little streaks of crimson,
broken off at different lengths among the western
clouds, that after a while blended together
and thinned and faded into a dull orange wave,
out of which the stars shone, one by one, more
brightly than from a clear blue heaven.
We were going toward the camp-fire, planning
the cushions we should make with our
moss, when Rosalie stopped suddenly, and
shaking back her hood, turned her face toward
the clouds, telling me we had better hurry, for
it was going to rain.
I said it was not—that I could count four or
five stars over the horizon; but stopped to listen
if there were any pattering on the leaves, for
overhead and to the eastward I suddenly perceived
that all was one blank reach of clouds.
As we stood thus still, we heard a footstep,
and the dry limbs breaking beneath it.
I know not why, unless it be that there is in
evil tidings something ominous, but my heart
sank down as though that tread had been
upon it.
For a moment all was still—
“Rosalie! Orpha!” called a voice in which
there was a meaning, of anguish, that cannot be
represented by any written words. We looked
at each other, without speaking, for we dared
not breathe our fears, and dropping our forest
treasures, ran to answer. The call was not
repeated, for our steps made a noise through
all the wide woods, as we hurried down the
slope and across the little stream, brawling
among the jutting rocks and smooth stones,
answering, “Father, we are coming!” for we
knew that it was he, and that his voice had
called us to a death-bed.
“Come, children,” he said, when he saw us,
“come with me; your poor mother wants to
see you;” and, giving a hand to each, he drew
us along very fast. He said nothing more, but
loosening his hand from mine every now and
then, drew it across his eyes.
I looked back and saw the light as it shone
would burn, and whether the rain would put
it out; heard the water dropping slowly from
where ice lingered on the shady sides of trees,
for the thaw had not ceased with the day, and
the soggy ground was not stiffening at all.
With these, and things like these, I tried to
drive from my mind the horrid image of death,
ugly even to the old, who are weary of the
struggle and torment of protracted life, but
terrible to the young, who look forward with
hope to sunrises and summers.
In vain: I could hear nothing but one low,
soft voice; and if all the birds had been
singing at once I could have heard but that
sound alone; I could only see the light that
entrenched itself in the blue eyes which had
only shone upon me in love, and if heaven
had been as full of suns as it was of clouds,
it would have been all the same.
I turned to Rosalie for comfort, but her
steadfast eyes seemed to be looking into the
mystery that was before us, and she saw not
my silent appeal.
The woods were soon behind us, and the
then we passed along the lane, bordered on
one side by the orchard, and on the other by a
wide field of meadow land; through the yard
where the cows were standing, lowing uneasily,
for they had not been milked that night;
and along by the green fence, through the little
gate;—and we were there at the door of
the old home, that could never be home any
more.
It was raining now pretty fast, and Rosalie
shook the drops from her long brown curls, for
she had walked with her head uncovered; and
we went in. A long time my mother had
been ill, so long that we had grown, used to it,
and ceased to fear that she would ever grow
worse, and till the event came upon us, thus
fearfully, we had not even dreamed that she
would die. Her slow step, and pale face, and
hollow cough, seemed a part of her maternity;
we could not separate them from her sweet
and patient ways.
We had all looked for the coming of spring
as a time when she would be better, and she
had looked for it, too, and planned the garden
we would do in the summer and the fall; and
we had thought it must be as she said.
One thing after another had been given up,
—at first the minding of household affairs;
then the sewing in the rocking-chair; and
then every thought of work; and we brought
all the books and papers that we had — they
were not many — and she amused herself with
them as she lay, hour after hour, on the
low bed by the window, over which the
sweet-brier climbed.
At length, one night, we could not sleep
for her coughing, so hard and so constant,
and in the morning she said she was tired
with the night's unrest, and would not get
up till the sun had shone awhile; but the
whole day went by, and the next, and the
next, and she was not well enough to leave
her bed; so came the morning and the evening
which were to be the last in which she
would suffer.
It was a low, unplastered chamber, where
her bed was, for the house was small, and
she had been removed from the room below,
affairs.
There was a lighted candle on the table,
and the little wheel with the flax partly spun
off the distaff was set one side, and a strong
odor of camphor pervaded the room. I was
afraid, and kept as far away from the bed as I
could. There was a fire on the hearth, and
two women were sitting before it, conversing
in low tones. I did not at first see who they
were, but when a full, deep voice from one
whom I had not observed, standing by the
window, said, “Affliction springeth not out
of the bosom of the earth,” I knew it was
the wisdom and tone of my Uncle Peter
Throckmorton, and that one of the women by
the fire-side was his wife, Aunt Sally.
“Have the children come?” asked my
mother.
“Yes they are here,” said Mrs. Perrin, “do
you want them?” and she spoke in so sweet
and soft a voice that I loved her more than
I had ever done till then.
Aunt Sally went close to her husband, as
if she looked no further than to him for aid;
Peter did. A good and loving woman she was,
but with too little reliance on herself—too
much upon Peter. Her eyes were full of
tears, and her heart seemed choking her, as
she turned toward Rosalie and me, seeming
to ask her husband what she should say or do
to comfort us.
Uncle Peter, having tried to say “afflictions
spring not from the dust,” snuffed the candle,
and taking up a newspaper, which
chanced to lie on a chair by his side, appeared
rather unconcerned in the events about him
than absorbed in the reading, while, nervous
and pale, Aunt Sally sat on a low stool at
his feet, looking wistfully on him, through her
tears.
Mrs. Perrin said not a word, but held my
mother's hand, fanning her slowly with a
great black fan.
“Oh, Peter!” sobbed Aunt Sally, after a
moment. He did not observe it, but read on.
“Oh, Peter, what shall I do?” she said, and
removing one hand from the paper, he shook
her gently, in half authoritative and half
his eyes from reading. “Oh, dear! oh,
dear! do say something to comfort me;”
said Aunt Sally, and laying her head on his
knees, she wept like a child.
“My dear Mrs. Throckmorton,” said Uncle
Peter, letting his hand fall upon her neck,
“really you must quiet yourself; you disturb
your sister, and make yourself appear very
badly. You had better take my arm and
go below stairs and eat a mouthful or two;
it will refresh you. Come, my dear, it is a
heavy time to us all, but it becomes us to sustain
our positions with Christian fortitude and
resignation;” and leaning on the arm of
stout and pompous Uncle Peter, and sobbing
all the while, Aunt Sally was led away.
On the roof the rain fell with a dreary
monotone, and the candle flame shook as the
wind came through the crevices of the wall,
and the shadows moved up and down the
room like ghosts.
“Don't cry, my little darling,” said Mrs.
Perrin, putting her arm about me and drawing
me to the bed-side; “your mother is
and bringing the low stool on which Aunt
Sally had sat, I knelt on it, and leaned over
my mother's pillow. She smiled faintly
when she saw me, but said nothing. Rosalie
stood by me, erect and calm; she had always
been prepared for whatever came, and she
was prepared for this; there were no tears in
her eyes, but her mournful and steadfast gaze
seemed to see the breaking up of heaven. I
was sixteen, and she more than a year older;
but in experience and knowledge we were
as little children. We had lived only in the
circle of a quiet and simple home; our
mother's love had been our world, and her
will our law; and while we had such a home
and such a guide, what need had we of
other society or greater knowledge?
It was a good while before my mother
spoke, but she looked on me serenely and
earnestly, as if thinking whether she could
trust me alone, and when I bent my head, hiding
my eyes again, she laid her damp and cold
hand upon it, as if she blessed me. “Go now,
my poor Orpha,” she said, at last; “go and
in the morning I shall be better.” I turned
away, for I knew that my sobbing disturbed
her, and approaching the window where my
father stood, looked out into the night. He
held me close, and I saw that his lips were
compressed to keep still the inward anguish,
and felt his arm tremble with the agony that
could not be all subdued.
“You, my child,” said my mother to
Rosalie, “you are so thoughtful, you will
know what to do when I am gone, and if I
never talk with you again, I am sure you
will leave your playing, and guide and comfort
Orpha; your judgment is clearer and
your nature less impulsive than hers; you
must keep her heart from failing, Rosie,
when I am dead.”
That last word had in it an awfulness and
terror; and, frightened child that I was, I
cried aloud.
“Orpha, Orpha,” said my mother, and putting
my arms about her neck, I kissed her
over and over, saying I could not live without
her—that she would and must get well.
Mrs. Perrin led me away, saying I must not
cry—that my mother was not so bad, but
that I would make her worse if I cried so.
I hid my face in her lap, and tried to be
still; but I could not, when I remembered
how lovingly my mother's blue eyes had
looked on me as I left her, and that, perhaps,
I should never see them any more.
“Do n't cry, my darling, do n't cry,” Mrs.
Perrin kept saying, as she unfastened my
frock, “your mother will be better in the
morning; don't cry, my dear.” This was all
she could say to me, but I was comforted.
“Be a good girl, now,” she added, as she
tucked the bed-clothes close about me, “and
go to sleep, and in the morning you shall see
your mother; I am almost sure she will be
better; I have known folks nearly as bad as
she is who got better.”
I caught upon this new hope, and asked her
if she really thought my mother would get
well, and when she said, “I think she will be
better, my dear,” I wiped my eyes and tried
to be calm. She asked me if I was comfortable,
might feel less afraid, I suppose. I could
not go to sleep, as she told me to do; I was
frightened, and often lifted my head from the
pillow to listen, and peered curiously about
the room, thinking I should see strange shapes,
or hear noises that I could not understand.
I saw nothing but the shadows moving, as
the wind blew, and mice gliding in and out
of holes, and slipping across the naked floor
without a sound.
It was an hour before Rosalie came; it
seemed a great deal longer. I knew her
footsteps at once; she trod firmly; she was
as undisturbed as if she had been trained from
infancy to walk the chambers of the dying.
I did not dare to ask what I wished to
know, but I put my arms about her, saying,
“Oh, Rosie! God help us!” She answered,
“God help us!” and that was all. I could
not understand why she did not tremble, as I
did; where she got her strength and her confidence;
I do not understand to this day. I
only felt how much stronger she was, and how
much wiser she was, than I; and, at last, with
dreamed of open graves, and of the noise of
clods falling on coffins; of funeral processions,
and of innumerable rows of head-stones; and
while I dreamed, a strange voice called to
me, and a hand touched my arm. The voice
was scarce above a whisper, and the touch
was very light, but I started, and sat upright.
There was no need of spoken words—I knew
what tidings were brought to us.
I did not cry at first; my feelings were
too deep for tears; I was come into a strange
and terribly dark world. The wind had
never moaned as it did then, and the night
had never been so long and so wild. Well
might Rosalie have said, “God help us!”
When I saw my father—when he said,
turning from us his face, that we were orphans,
—that the best and dearest friend whom we
could ever have in the world was dead—I
could restrain my grief no longer, but gave
voice to it, while Rosie sat still and tearless.
“Orpha, my little beauty,” said Uncle Peter,
“you must not cry after this fashion; you will
make yourself sick, and then who will take
died happy, and that ought to comfort you;
and the Lord knows what is best for us. `The
smoking flax will he not quench,' child.
There is a great meaning in that Scripture, and
you are big enough to study it out; and then
think, too, what the poet says:
Improve each shining hour:
And gather honey all the day,
From every opening flower.'
“Are you improving your time now, like a
bee? Well, then a bee, a little, good-for-nothing
bee, is wiser than you are. Is that
right? No, it's not right. Do you think
God made you to be of less use than a bee,
that hath a waxen cell, and labors hard to
store it well, and all that?”
I listened at first, for his presence awed me,
and looking at the ruffle of his shirt, and the
jewelled ring on his finger, and his soft brown
hair—I didn't know it was a wig—I was
for a moment still. There must be wisdom in
his words; I was sure of that; and more
giving her husband a loving look, “You must
thank your uncle for being so good to you;
many a little girl has n't any Uncle Peter to
give her good advice when her mother dies.”
I have since realized this fact, if I failed to
do so at that time.
“My dear Mrs. Throckmorton, you are
very good; you are like the sun-flower, my
love; you turn to your god when he rises,
the same look that you gave when he set.”
This was quite beyond my comprehension,
and seeing Mrs. Perrin laying the hands of
my mother across her bosom, I cried afresh.
Rosalie sat close by the bed—her hair
brushed away, and her dark eyes downcast,
but tearless; she was talking with the angels,
I think.
“Why, child of mortality,” said Uncle
Peter, seeing my tears, “do you think you
can bring the dead to life? No, you can't
raise the dead—that would be a miracle.
You can't do that, child. Well, now, if you
can't do it, what's the use of crying! That's
the way to reason; that's the way to be wise,
am. Now, Orpha, my dear, I don't pretend
that your aunt don't see me with eyes a little
partial; that is, she sees me so much, so familiarly,
that she knows the strong points of my
character, and if there be one point stronger
than another, it is Christian philosophy. I
am always resigned, little girl, to the will of
Heaven. Now, I have always been blessed
with good health, and I am judiciously thankful
for it.”
Here Aunt Sally closed her eyes—that
judiciously she did not quite understand; it
was too wonderful for her, that was all; and
Uncle Peter went on to say, that if, in
the dispensations of Providence, afflictments
should be sent upon him—such as the loss
of his dear companion, my Aunt Sarah—he
would endeavor to be resigned; he knew, in
fact, that under any afflictment he would be
patient and calm. It was bad enough to see
women and children fretting under the little
trials of life, but a man should be ashamed to
groan!
Aunt Sally put on a sort of smile—she felt
am sure, was heavy enough.
I had scarcely seen my Uncle Peter till
then, except as he called at the gate in his
coach for Aunt Sally, who came once or twice
in the year to see my mother. Their home
was a dozen miles from ours, and Uncle Peter
had no time to visit, so he said; perhaps it
was so; I am sure he had no time to visit
poor relations.
The daylight was breaking, cold and grey,
when Uncle Peter, twirling his hat over the
gold head of his cane, waked Aunt Sally from
the light sleep into which she had fallen, and
making an essay to contract his portly person
a little, desired to have his overcoat buttoned.
It was in vain; Aunt Sally could not do it;
and I think now nothing short of a horse
power could have done it; but the patient little
woman almost strained the blood from her
fingers, in endeavors to make one button and
buttonhole meet together, blaming herself all
the while for awkwardness and weakness.
“Why, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton,” said
Uncle Peter, elongating himself a little,
Peter never once thought that himself could
be at fault—that he was not too large, nor
his coat too small, were fixed facts; therefore
it followed that poor Aunt Sally was extremely
inefficient.
“I do n't know, Mr. Throckmorton,” said
Aunt Sally, with a sort of tremulous humility,
“what is the matter; I do n't seem to have
any strength.”
“Humph!” said Uncle Peter, as if he
thought that if she had not strength she
ought to have, “do n't keep me waiting; you
have made me lose more time now than I can
afford; hav' n't you got a black ribbon about
you, an inch wide, or an inch and a half, with
which to loop my coat together? Bless me,
I'm near fainting with standing so long.”
With a nervous jerk and an expression of
anguish, Aunt Sally wrenched away a portion
of her watch ribbon, and looped the overcoat
together. “That will answer, my dear,” said
Uncle Peter affably; “now get a silk cord
and attach to your watch.”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, I will,” answered
she was to get a silk cord, she did not know;
she only knew it must be done if Mr. Throckmorton
said so. Uncle Peter thought he
would ride home and try to get a little rest—
(he had slept in his chair except at intervals
when he had philosophized for my benefit) all
the night.
“Do, my dear,” said Aunt Sally, “you look
quite worn out.”
“Now, children,” he said, as he took leave,
“you must not cry when they lay your
mother in the coffin, nor when they put her in
the grave; we must all die when our time
comes; and to murmur is to complain of the
will of the Lord—it ain't nothing else under
the sun—that's just what it is; now, if you
cry, you will offend Heaven, and what is
more, you will very much displease your
Uncle Peter.”
“It is an easy thing to give advice,” said
Mrs. Perrin, “and the easier, I think, when
we do n't know what we talk about.”
“I wish you a very good morning,” said
Uncle Peter, benignantly. Mrs. Perrin was a
watch with the sick, but to whom his wisdom
was a sealed book.
How cold and cheerless that morning was,
and how long in breaking! My father sat
apart, neither weeping nor speaking, and I
saw that he could not be comforted. Rosalie
sat at the east window, waiting for the light;
and I, when free from the restraint of Uncle
Peter's presence, hid my face in my hands,
and gave freedom to my tears.
“Come here, my child,” said Mrs. Perrin.
She wiped my eyes and smoothed away my
hair, and then, putting her arm around my
waist, said, “Your mother is not dead, Orpha;
she is only gone away from suffering; if she
was back she would have to suffer again, and
die again; so we must not wish for her to
come back, but try to do all that would please
her. She would not want you to cry, but
to be good and do good—remember this,
Orpha; your mother was a good woman; try
to be like her.” The clock struck as she
talked, and pointing to it, she added, “See,
your mother has been three hours in heaven.”
I felt less fearful and less desolate near her,
and as her withered hand patted my cheek, I
fell asleep. Dear, good Mrs. Perrin!
I had understood all she said—her kind,
loving heart had spoken to mine, and her
kindness had been her interpreter. And now
Rosalie and I were more as one than we had
previously been, if that were possible—more
as one, till another love came between us.
2. CHAPTER II.
I WILL pass over the funeral, the breaking
up of our broken household, the
parting with our father, who went to visit the
home of his boyhood, far across the mountains,
and resume my narrative the day when,
with little parcels in our hands, containing
all our effects, we were helped into Uncle
Peter's coach, and, partly laughing and partly
crying, carried to his fine house to live. The
woods were budding forth now; the fire had
gone out in the sugar camp; and the cattle
and sheep went along the brooksides, nibbling
the tender and sprouting grass. “Now,
my wards,” said Uncle Peter, seeing that we
looked back, “you must not cast one glance
of sorrow toward the old house and farm;
have been accustomed to call home. No
wonder your mother died there; I should die
there too, if I had no better place to live in;
and the farm is nothing but a collection of
woods and fields badly cultivated and ineligibly
situated. Now, my wards, lay aside
prejudice and see if the old place won't
appear very ineligible.”
“I have never seen much,” answered
Rosalie, “but of all I have seen, home is
the prettiest place.”
“How ignorant you are!” said Uncle Peter;
“wait till you have seen my estate. Throckmorton
Hall I call it. Your aunt Sarah did
indeed suggest the name, but I decided it.
How do you like it, my wards? well sounding,
is n't it?”
Of course we said it was a pretty name,
for we felt that Uncle Peter wished us to say
so. He smiled graciously, and drawing down
the window directed Westley, the coachman,
to drive slow, and give his little wards a view
of “the scenergy about the Hall.” I was trying
to make a picture of it, the beautiful
aspect, said, “My little wards, I have one
request, which is, that you will hereafter
address me as Uncle Samuel Peter; that is
my name, wards, and it sounds better to the
ear than simple Peter.”
“Simple Peter, I think,” whispered Rosie
to me.
“What did you say, my ward?” asked
Uncle Samuel Peter.
“That Samuel Peter is greatly more dignified
than simply Peter,” she replied, looking
earnest and serious.
“The correctness of your judgment quite
astonishes me,” said my uncle; and he continued,
“you are far handsomer than your
sister; why, I never saw eyes so black and
sparkling; Orpha, my dear, you will be quite
overshadowed; you must try and call a little
spirit into your face.”
I was so much afraid of offending him I
did not say anything, and turning away my
face, which I felt must be very homely, tried
to keep down the emotion which his words
provoked.
“And shall we say Aunt Sarah, Uncle
Samuel Peter?” asked Rosalie; “you know
you must instruct us, we are such ignorant
little girls.”
He did not see her half arch and half sarcastic
expression, but replied gravely, “Why
yes, my wards, if you like; I say Sarah or
Mrs. Throckmorton merely in respect to my
dignity, not that it makes any difference to
her what I call her.”
“Were you ever sick, Uncle Samuel
Peter?” inquired Rosalie directly.
“No, my ward—why do you ask—you
do n't see any indications of disease, do
you?”
“No, Uncle Samuel Peter—that was why
I asked—you looked so remarkably well for
your years,” she went on.
“My years,” interrupted Uncle Peter,
“what of my years, Rose?”
“Why,” she continued, as if pursuing the
same train of thought, “you must be forty,
Uncle Samuel Peter, ain't you?”
“Yes, my darling ward, about that,” he replied,
stroking his chin.
“And you look so young!” continued
Rosalie.
“What splendid hair you have!” he said,
and put his hand through Rosie's hair, caressingly
and admiringly.
She laughed, shaking loose her curls, and
asked something about “Throckmorton Hall,”
not forgetting the entire name of Samuel
Peter. A dozen times she had said it, while
I sat bashfully in the corner, unnoticed
and unthought of. Rosie knew intuitively
how to read human nature; I did not know
then, nor why it was she said Uncle Samuel
Peter, while I said nothing. My mother
called me as fair as she, and loved me as well,
and not till I set out with our uncle did
I have a thought of how much plainer I was
than she, and how inferior in every way.
Ah me! our success in this world depends
greatly on the facility with which we can say
Uncle Samuel Peter! Peter, simply, will not
do at all.
Rosalie had a bold, independent character,
but her roguish good humor charmed you
away from the superiority she unconsciously
her arrow made you forgive the sting; and
then, she was so careless whom she wounded,
that no one felt she had taken any particular
aim. Whether she lived at the Hall or
at the old homestead was the same to her,
so far as pride and humility were concerned;
but she saw that Uncle Peter looked
down on our homestead, and so, smiling at
his weakness, she seemed to look up to the
Hall; I really thought it a much finer place
than our little farm; but this availed nothing—I
could not say Samuel Peter, half so
smoothly as she.
“No, Rosie,” said Uncle Peter, taking up
the thread of a conversation dropped some
time past, “I have never been sick; I really
wish I could be, but I never could consent to
violate the laws of health sufficiently.”
“Why, Uncle Samuel Peter!” exclaimed
Rosie. She did not say any more, but her
tone and manner implied to him wonder,
admiration, and curiosity, and a great deal
of general interest besides. I had said “Why,
Uncle Samuel!” at the same time: I forgot
Rosie was not so earnest as to forget a matter
thus important, and the consequence was
that my exclamation elicited no attention, and
our uncle said, “Because, my ward,” not
my wards, “I would like to make an example
of myself; I would like to show the world
what heroism, under affliction, is. Men are so
unworthy of the name of men, I really would
like to make an example of myself.”
“I suppose, Uncle Peter, it would be for
the benefit of the world,” replied Rosie, but
the ludicrousness of the thing was so apparent,
that the dimples deepened and deepened
until she laughed out.
“My ward! my ward,” exclaimed Uncle
Peter, “is that becoming reverence to my
years?”
“O, Uncle Samuel Peter,” answered Rosie,
“you can't make yourself seem old to me,
if you are forty,” and she ran on at once
with some inquiry about the Hall, so Uncle
Peter altogether forgot the irreverence.
“How pretty the scenery is becoming,” I
ventured to remark.
Uncle Peter said nothing, and Rosie added,
“Yes, as we come near the Hall.”
Uncle Peter smiled and repeated, “Yes,
my ward, as we come near the Hall, the
little places about here set mine off beautifully.”
“Beautifully!” echoed Rosie
“I can't fancy anything prettier than this
place,” I said; “is it yours, Uncle Peter?”
We were passing a very highly cultivated
and beautiful farm.
“Pshaw, child! how stupid you are!” he
answered? “that is not Throckmorton Hall;
a good little sort of a place, to be sure, but
not worth driving so slow for — what an ass
Westley is!”
Rosie looked the other way, and asked
indifferently who owned the place, while I
strained my eyes to see it: the yard about
the house was so pretty, with early flowers
and leafing trees, I could not help it.
“Orpha, do sit up — you will grow
crooked,” said my uncle; and turning to
Rosie, he replied to her question most complacently:
“The place is owned by an old
old creature, and in imitation of me, I
suppose, they have named the farm — they
call it Woodside;” and he could not help
laughing: it was so ludicrous that any place
should have a name except his.
Rosie laughed, too, and said, “Great men
must expect small imitators.”
“Yes, my ward,” he replied, and with so
deep and gratified a respiration that one of
his vest buttons gave way.
I could not help saying Woodside was a
sweet name.
“Respectable,” answered Uncle Peter.
“O, I do n't know,” said Rose, “it is well
enough.”
“Yes, my ward, well enough; nothing
more can be said;” and his manner indicated
that in his own estimation he had uttered a
very generous thing.
“Does the old woman you speak of live
alone?” asked Rose.
I knew not whether she had seen, though I
had, a very handsome young man seated on
the steps of the portico, reading, and at the
dog beside him.
“I believe not,” answered Uncle Peter;
“she has one or two sons; I scarcely know
them, however.”
The young man had but carelessly looked
up as we passed, and I felt that Uncle Peter's
indifference was probably reciprocated.
“We have some very good honest people
about here,” he soliloquized, “but very few with
whom one cares to be intimately associated.”
“How are you, Judge?” was an abrupt, and
coarse salutation, that caused me to turn my
head quickly. Westley had drawn up the
reins, and my uncle was glancing toward the
window, before which, seated on the ugliest
little donkey I ever beheld, was a very singular
specimen of womanhood. She was small
in stature, seeming to have been stinted, by
hard work, of the proportions which nature
would have given her, as we sometimes notice
trees, dwarfed and scrubby, in climates too
severe for them. Her hair, far from being
tastefully arranged, was mostly concealed, or
supposed to be concealed, under a thick cambric
calico sun-bonnet, smooth and clean, but otherwise
having little to recommend it. The face
beneath was a curious study; intelligent, but
exceedingly vulgar; sunburnt to a shining
brown, and with teeth nearly the same color.
Her dress, a faded but clean calico, was
tucked about her person quite too closely to
be graceful, and her bare ankles—she wore
no stockings — dangled considerably below
the bottom of her skirt. Shoes of the coarsest
and clumsiest fashion encased her feet, and
her hands seemed never to have been much
used to gloves. The bridle rein was twisted
around the saddle horn, and the donkey
guided himself, for the hands of the woman
found employment in holding fast two
children, of whom the eldest, astride the
beast, and clinging to the waist of his mother,
could not yet have seen his fifth year. This
sturdy and independent looking youth wore a
hat of black felt, greatly too large for his
head, a muslin shirt, tow trousers, and leather
suspenders. His dress consisted of these articles
alone.
“Ah, Mrs. Muggins, how do you do?” was
my uncle's reply to the woman's salutation.
“O, I do as well as I can; how is your old
woman?”
“Thank you, I left Mrs. Throckmorton very
well. Your children seem blessed with health,
madam.”
“Yes, thank Moses, they complain of good
appetites most of the time.”
“I have not had the pleasure of seeing your
children before now,” my uncle continued;
and patting the boy on the cheek he paid him
some compliment, asking if the others were
as promising.
“Well,” said Mrs. Muggins, “they are
about six of one and half a dozen of t' other,
but my old man thinks this the greatest boy
that ar' going,” and she unswathed a little
baby who helped in preserving her balance,
and who appeared to have been in this present
world but a very limited number of days.
“How old is the child?” asked our uncle,
in apparent surprise.
“As old again as half,” replied the woman;
“but do n't you think he's some? — he was so
seen head nor heels of him for the last three
days.”
“It is n't possible!” exclaimed my uncle
“Pshaw! you might as well kill me as
scare me,” replied Mrs. Muggins, evidently
wisely superior to any uneasiness on account
of the bender.
“I hope he is not habitually intemperate,”
my uncle said.
“Intemperate, your granny! he don't drink
enough to hurt him, and what's the use of a
feller never having any good of his life?”
“But the waste of money and time, to say
nothing of health?”
“It does seem so, I s'pose, the way you look
at it.”
“I believe, madam, I must say good evening,”
and uncle Peter bowed politely.
“No you don't, Major; I've got a heap to
say yet,” and Mrs. Muggins released one
hand and dexterously gave the hindmost boy
a slap across the ear, for he had been all this
time persuading his mother to ride on by a
series of blows in her back with his fist, and
naked feet, accompanied with such appeals as
“Thar, now, why don't you cut dirt?”
“Bone along with you, Rache;” and the like.
The boy “subsided” on receiving the blow,
with the modest reply of, “Well, take your
time, Miss Lucy,” and turning himself toward
the donkey's tail, set his strength lustily
against it. His smart repartee almost convulsed
the woman for a moment, but calming
herself, and peering into the coach, she said,
“Are these the young ones, Captain, you
have took for to raise?”
“I propose to have them for a time.”
“How old be you? how old be you?” she
asked, nodding first towards myself and then
toward Rose.
When we had told our respective ages, she
said we were big enough to do a beap of work,
but that one of us (I knew she meant me) had
a kind of a sheepish look — seemed skeered or
something — a good deal like granmam's boy
did when he thought she was like for to take
after him. I smiled, and she went on to say I
not be such a slow coach after all.
She then asked Uncle Peter how long our
mother was sick, and when she died, and how
the corpse looked, and if we “took it very
hard,” and if it was likely our father would
marry again, and if he did whether we children
would not find “mother” a big mouthful.
She then told us that granmam's Jim “turned
black as the chimney back before he was
buried,” and she had had her own “thoughts
about his eating some of the pizen posies that
Hen. Graham thought so dreadful much of.”
“I meant to go over to your house, Colonel,”
she continued: “I was visiting at granmam's
to-day — but a body has so much to
talk about when a body goes from home, it
seems as if the time fairly flies. I guess,
between you and me, they don't live any too
happy there — I knowed when Hal and Netty
got married they were going it blind; Netty
liked Staff, but she couldn't get him — that is
about the truth of it — and so she took up
with Hal; well, go it ye cripples — that's my
prouder and hatefuler than ever; if I was the
blackest, pizenest critter in the world, he
couldn't make himself more scarce than he
does when I go there.”
“Really, Mrs. Muggins, we shall have to
say good-bye,” said my uncle, almost with
petulance.
Mrs. Muggins replied, indignantly, “In a
horn! — I s'pose because you got the dimes
you think you are on a high horse beside of
us; but you can't cut off our legs, I guess, and
if you could wooden ones are cheap; so good-bye
to you, reverend Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Who was all them are, Rache?” asked the
elder boy, facing about.
“Oh, they think they are some punkins,”
replied the mother, in a tone so loud as to be
distinctly heard by us.
Rosalie was greatly amused by this “vision
of a lady,” as she called our meeting with Mrs.
Muggins, and Uncle Samuel Peter laughed
immoderately at the charming humor of his
ward, scarcely ceasing till we arrived at the
gate of Throckmorton Hall.
The beauty that met my gaze on descending
from the carriage did not quite bewilder me,
as I had been led to expect it would. The
house itself was large and showy, and the
grounds about it carefully and nicely kept,
but the glimpse I had taken of Woodside led
me to think it more charming. Rosie clapped
her hands, saying, “No wonder Uncle Samuel
Peter keeps young, in a place like this;” and
away she ran, up one walk and down another,
delighted as a spring bird, while I walked
silently and bashfully toward the house.
There were tears in Aunt Sally's eyes as she
met me—I thought at first because she was
so glad to see me; but with a glance and a
smile she went right past me, and throwing
her arms about Uncle Peter, embraced him as
though she had not seen him for twenty years.
“Oh, my dear, I am so glad! I was so afraid!
and has nothing happened, and do you feel
well, perfectly well, my dear?” she repeated
over and again, holding his hands and looking
in his face as a saint would look into
heaven.
“Thank you, Mrs. Throckmorton,” replied
returning her embrace; “I feel very tired,
very tired; I think I could eat a spring
chicken.”
Aunt Sally did not say tea was waiting, as
it was, but hastened to order the chicken to
be caught and dressed, and in a few moments
Westley announced that such a service had
been effected.
Aunt Sally soon brought gown and slippers,
and unknotting the ribbon of his overcoat,
helped him put them on. “I wish, my dear,
you had brought down my reading chair,
too,” said Uncle Peter; and away she went
again, but it was long before she came back.
Alas! Uncle Peter had no reading chair, and
she knew it before she set out on her fruitless
search, but so accustomed was she to making
some sort of shift to meet his wishes, that she
would have essayed to obey him if he had
told her to bring in the moon.
The husband never once thought to ask
her if she were well; of course she was; he
never knew her to be otherwise. When
she stooped to kiss me, to say I must not be
the garden, and that I should then have an
opportunity of seeing more of my good uncle,
he replied that I would not profit much by
his counsels—I was not wise enough, in short,
to understand him; he would give me to her;
but his charming ward, Rosie—where was
the dear girl? and our dignified relation was
soon rolling on the grass like a boy, while
Rosie threw flowers about him.
“You are a good girl, I hope,” Aunt Sally
said, presently, as I sat quietly in one corner,
trying to be as much out of the way as I
could, for I felt afraid and not quite welcome.
I answered that I had tried to be good, and
she looked at me inquiringly, and replied, “I
hope you are, for if Mr. Throckmorton should
dislike you what could I do? That is my
footstool you are sitting on,” she continued;
“maybe he will want it; I guess you had better
go to your own room and stay till tea-time.”
I obeyed with a heavy heart, for I felt that
it was to withdraw me from Uncle Peter's observation
that the suggestion was made. I
fell silently as the consciousness of my isolation
increased; I thought of our own quiet
home, and the meadow with the sheep by the
brookside; and the sugar camp beyond; they
seemed far prettier to me than “the Hall.”
I tried to dry my eyes after a time, and
stole to the great looking-glass with a determination
to observe myself narrowly, for I
began to think I must look very ugly, else
why should my uncle dislike me? I had said
nothing, I was sure, to offend him. The glass
was in a frame bright as gold, but surely, I
had never appeared half so plain in the little
cracked glass at home. My eyes were swollen
and my cheeks pale, and my frock, though
just like Rosalie's, it seemed to me was more
faded and less becoming.
When a servant called me to tea I thought
Aunt Sally had not sent the invitation, and so
declined to go, saying I was not hungry. My
sensitive and suspicious heart was my greatest
enemy. I did not know it.
And so inauspiciously began my life at
“Throckmorton Hall.”
3. CHAPTER III.
MANY things came under my observation
in the course of a month's residence at
Uncle Peter's, which led me to believe he was
a man of mark in the estimation of most of
his neighbors. As for my good Aunt Sally, she
had no idea that the world contained his equal.
I think she must have felt that she was blessed
above all women, and that in her prayers and
thanksgivings she was wont to say, “what
have I done for heaven that I should be my
husband's wife?” Simple minded and credulous
woman!—she thought herself incapable
of comprehending his profound wisdom and
greatness, but I am strongly inclined to suspect
what seemed wisdom and greatness to
littleness.
I made some timid overtures for the affections
of my uncle, but they were fruitless;
he was not capable of understanding a gentle
appeal; it was only the boldest demands that
he could appreciate.
My Uncle Peter, or Samuel P. I. T. Throckmorton,
for so he wrote his name, was in one
sense of the word, certainly, an extraordinary
person, standing six feet in his stockings, and
exceeding in portliness most men it was ever
my fortune to see. I do n't know why, but I
never could become familiar with his dimensions,
and each successive time I found myself
in his presence, a new button off, or another slit
in shoe or glove, impressed me with a new conviction
of his unapproachable dimensions.
Indeed, he never had vest, trousers, or coat,
quite equal to his needs; whether the fault of
his tailor, or whether he grew between the
time of the measurement for a suit and the
finishing, I do n't know, but certain it is, that
always he puffed out like a cushion through
every opening of his vestments. He was bluff
he had never the least sympathy for
the weaknesses of others.
“There is no need of sickness,” he used to
say, “if people will only take a little care.
Now I have never been sick a day in my life,
and it is all owing to my caution. I do n't
suppose I am made out of better stuff than
others, but I am prudential and abstemious.”
So Uncle Peter would declare, day after day,
greatly to the edification of Aunt Sally and
the amusement of Rose, who with hearty
laughter never failed to sanction the assertion
that he was made of no better material than
other men. But though Samuel P. I. T.
Throckmorton had never been sick, he gave
himself a degree of credit for caution which
he did not deserve. It was constitutional
ability that resisted disease, and no wise regulation
of his habits. He was accustomed to
drink a pint of whisky every day (some
persons required just that quantity, Aunt Sally
said), and to eat as much roast beef, plum-pudding,
rich sauces and condiments, as his
capacious stomach would hold; in short, to
extent. He never took exercise on foot
—that was beneath his dignity—but, even
in giving orders about “the Hall,” rode in a
sulky, only large enough to receive its
appointed burden; and when circumstances
called him abroad, dozed in a coach as plethoric
as himself. In excursions through the
farm and neighborhood he sometimes took
Rosalie with him, but never me; it seemed as
if I required more room than she, he used to
say, when Aunt Sally tremblingly suggested
that maybe I would like a ride. She could
not exactly understand how it was, but that it
was so was undeniable. Ah! that unpronounceable
Samuel Peter I.T. cost me a great
deal.
There were, by the way, one or two health
insurances which Uncle Peter scrupulously
observed. He always kept half a dozen apertures
in the crown of his hat for the admission
of air, wore a galvanized ring, which
was almost concealed by the superabundant
wealth of flesh upon his fingers; and would
never taste the milk of a black cow—to him
Sally said, that Mr. Throckmorton should
know this positively, without ever having
tasted such milk; nevertheless she classed it
with the intuitive discoveries and unquestionable
perceptions of his genius. A man of iron
constitution, and never having been exposed
to hardships, he had resisted to an unusual
degree, up to his sixtieth year, the natural
wear and tear of life; and he was never
weary of boasting that his good condition
resulted more from his intellectual and moral,
than from any physical superiority.
However much such conclusions may be
shunned by the reasoning faculties, it is true,
beyond all doubt, that most persons feel that
there is a correspondence, a harmony, a proportion
of some sort, between a man's corporeal
and incorporeal attributes. The generous
Boniface is portly, as the knave is lean.
With the first sight of Uncle Peter, completely
filling the seat of his sulky, there was an
impression that he was a superior character.
The weight of his opinion, in the neighborhood
affairs, as against that of little Jenkins,
scales in front of the tavern. If mind and
matter have a fixed relation of quantity, what
mental resources were hidden under that capacious
coat! Three Jenkinses were scarcely
equal to one Throckmorton. And the authority
of wealth is every where recognized in
the same way. How could my Uncle Peter
be so much richer than Jenkins except by his
greater wit, his sounder judgment, his more
indefectable virtue? Jenkins's garden was in
excellent condition, but it gave him but one
acre of public confidence, to Uncle Peter's
five hundred. All the people about were
seeking to be enlightened respecting Uncle
Peter's views, but the poor little saddler could
not detain the meanest voter by the button for
even a moment. My excellent aunt was not
ignorant of all these manifestations of deference;
why should not Uncle Peter be regarded
by her as a great man? He was great in person,
great in property, great in the esteem of
his neighbors, and unapproachably great in his
own conceit.
I remember, as an illustration of the importance
when a new turnpike was made, the judgment
of all inferior stockholders yielded to his, and
a bend which took in various hills and hollows,
was made, greatly to the detriment of the
general interest, merely for the sake of avoiding
Uncle Peter's barn. Everybody said it
was right to make the bend; it gave variety,
and added to the romance of the scenery.
But when the surveyor struck through the
snug little house of Solomon Delver, a man
employed by the company to break stone,
nobody thought it would be of any use to
make another bend, and Solomon had neither
wisdom nor eloquence to save his domicil
from destruction.
When the new school-master came, after a
deliberative council, which was all a sham, the
trustees laid the case before Samuel P. I. T.
Throckmorton Esquire, who had no children
to educate, and would not, one would suppose,
feel so lively an interest in educational matters
as men with families. Nevertheless his careless
decision was the law. In reality he was
the despot of a little kingdom, and great was
when it was rumored that he was ill, and had
sent fifty miles for an eminent surgeon to visit
him — a man who, in the ordinary practice of
medicine, was of little repute.
On returning from a dinner party at Squire
Thornton's, one day, Uncle Peter professed
himself somewhat indisposed, and though,
perhaps, a little exercise and abstinence would
have operated as restoratives, he was of a different
opinion, and tumbling himself into bed,
and being smothered in blankets, and having
hot bricks at his feet, sought by a liberal allowance
of confections to renew the healthy action
of his digestive organs. Aunt Sally grew
more fidgety and nervous than usual, and
having been all her life accustomed to rely
with implicit confidence on the judgment of
her husband, did so now that his indisposition
unbalanced the little sagacity he possessed
when in his best condition. It soon became
apparent, notwithstanding Uncle Peter's stoical
pretensions hitherto, that he was likely
to make an example of himself not at all in
keeping with his promises or his intentions.
Frightened and half-crazed, Aunt Sally ran
up and down stairs, bringing whatever the
sick man required, without question or hesitation
— now hot soup, and now cider or whisky,
now a mustard plaster, and now the contents
of some old bottle of medicine, originally designed
to cure no one knew what. Under this
desultory and not very scientific treatment
the patient grew worse in the course of a few
hours, and when the night came, was persuaded
into believing himself greatly worse than he
really was. Uncle Peter could not endure
even a slight headache calmly, that was past
a doubt.
“Oh, if I could only suffer for you!” Aunt
Sally kept saying; “I am used to headaches,
and it is so much harder for you, who never
felt a pain till now!”
“My dear Mrs. Throckmorton, I wish you
could,” Uncle Peter would answer, and Aunt
Sally thought he was very good to notice her
at all.
Such a groaning and moaning he made, and
Aunt Sally so often wiped her eyes, that
my sympathies were enlisted, and I feared
the great surgeon, Dr. Cutaway, was sent for.
Rose seemed not at all astonished, but read
on in some book in which she was interested,
all the time, looking up now and then, it is
true, to ask Uncle Samuel Peter how he felt.
It did him good to see her so calm, Uncle
Peter said: Mrs. Throckmorton and Orpha
did him more harm than good by their officiousness.
I went apart to cry, and Aunt
Sally followed me, to say I must not be vexed
with my poor uncle, he was so sick, that he
didn't know what he said.
In the course of the evening Uncle Peter's
punctilious politeness to his dear Mrs. Throckmorton
underwent considerable modification.
First, he addressed that amiable woman as
dear Sarah Anna — then as dear Sarah —
then he began to say simply “Sally, my
dear;” but before ten o'clock it was all “Sally
Ann! Oh, Sally Ann!” The great Mr.
Samuel P. I. T. Throckmorton was changed;
he was reduced by intense and torturing
pain to a forgetfulness of his own dignified
importance.
“What shall I do for you now?” and “What
shall I do for you now?” was the constant
appeal of the wife, though physically exhausted,
and unable to think of a new expedient
with which to amuse his mind.
“Oh, Sally Ann! I want somebody to
come. Can't you send for somebody, Sally
Ann? It seems to me every minute is an
hour. Ain't the clock wrong? Oh! what
shall I do? I'm so bad, it seems to me I
can't live from one moment to another. There,
Westley, go for Mrs. Perrin — tell her to come
as quick as she can: tell her, her friend, Mr.
Throckmorton, is dangerously ill; and be sure
to be particular and say friend. We are all
poor, frail creatures; and I feel as if I was
the friend of everybody. I have not a hard
thought laid up against anybody in the world.
Oh, Sally Ann! I wish all my friends were
here. I feel as if I wanted to ask them to
forgive me, if I have ever done them any
wrong. Oh, how differently a man looks at
things when he happens to be on his death-bed!”
Westley started at once, to say to Mrs. Perrin
Rosie slily turned away her face to conceal
the effect of such an absurd suggestion upon
her countenance.
Westley had not gone twenty yards when I
was sent after him in all haste. Uncle Peter
had changed his mind, and would have him
go first for Deacon Dole; he felt in a serious
frame of mind, and believed the deacon was
a good man, if there was such a thing in the
world.
Long before it was time for him to have
delivered the message, the querulous invalid
exclaimed, “Oh, Sally Ann! do you think that
boy will ever get back?”
“Oh, yes, my dear; it is not time yet.”
“Well, do you think the deacon will come,
Sally Ann?”
“Yes, my dear, he will surely come, if he
is at home.”
“But, Sally Ann, will he be at home?”
“Yes, it's most likely.”
“Well, then, how long will he be getting
there, Sally Ann?”
“Perhaps an hour, my dear Mr. Throckmorton.”
“That will be so long; I can't wait: I
wish he had not gone; I wish he would come
back; I wish we had sent for old Mrs. Perrin,
and not for the deacon at all; I'm afraid
he can't do me any good; do you think he
can, Sally? Do you think a deacon is likely
to do a sick man good?”
“Oh, yes, I am sure Deacon Dole will do
you good; he is a kind, sympathizing sort of
a man.”
“Oh, Sally Ann! I don't want sympathy:
what good would that do me?”
“I didn't say sympathy,” said Aunt Sally,
“I said sensible.”
“Oh, Lord! Sally, you say anything: you
don't know what you say.”
Aunt Sally freely admitted that she did not
always know what she said; but Uncle Peter
was not to be pacified: he felt so awfully bad,
how could he be?
“I wish we had sent for Mrs. Perrin,” he
resumed, after an interval of groans.
“I wish we had,” said Aunt Sally; “she is
a good nurse.”
“Sally Ann, go to the window, and the
moment you see Westley, order him to go
after Mrs. Perrin, as hard as he can drive.”
“I will, my dear.”
“Are you at the window now?”
“Yes, I am at the window.”
“Well, then, do you see him, Sally Ann?”
“No, dear Mr. Throckmorton; I wish I
did.”
“Oh, mercy! Sally, can't you hear him,
then?”
“No, dear Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Just faintly — a great way off?”
“No.”
“Oh, mercy, mercy, mercy! how soon do
you think you can hear?”
“In ten minutes, I guess.”
“Ten minutes! bless me! that is long enough
for a man to die and go to heaven.”
“Yes, Uncle Samuel Peter,” said Rosie,
“or to a less agreeable place.”
Uncle Peter left off groaning long enough
to say his ward was the wittiest young lady
hastened to add, “Oh! Sally Ann, don't you
see that boy? I wish we had sent for Mrs.
Perrin; do you think she can do any good,
Sally Ann?”
“Yes; she has been in sickness a great
deal, and she is good company, too.”
“I wish Westley would come. Do you see
him, Sally Ann? Oh, dear me! oh! my”—
“Are you in great pain, my dear Mr.
Throckmorton?”
“No, Sally Ann; but I am so sick every
way.”
“What can I do, my husband?”
“Oh, Sally Ann! I don't want you to do
anything; nothing you can do will do me
any good. Give me a drink of cold water,
and a spoonful or two of custard, and put the
quilt over me, and take the blanket off; make
me some hot tea and a piece of toast, and wet
a brown paper with vinegar, and tie it on my
head, and shake up my pillows, and put the
top one down — it's as hot as fire — and the
down one up. Ain't I fallen away a good
deal? Chafe my temples with your hands —
me the cold water, or the hot tea? I want them
both. Oh, Sally Ann! you can't do anything
for me — nothing in the world. Is that boy
coming? he has been gone a month. Oh,
why don't you make me better?”
Such were some of the demands made on
the time and temper of good and patient little
Aunt Sally. No wonder she was worn down
in the course of a few hours, and willing to
send for Deacon Dole or anybody else.
In twenty minutes after he had been despatched,.
Westley returned, bringing intelligence
that the Deacon would be there almost
as soon as himself; but Uncle Peter persisted
in sending for Mrs. Perrin — “She can ride
over on your horse, and you can walk,” he
said; “there is no time to harness the horses.
Tell her to come if she will be so good — so
very good — and pass the night with me, if I
should live all night. Be sure and say if she
will be so very good.”
“Oh Sally Ann! ain't it time for the Deacon
to be here?”
“Do you feel any worse?”
His answer was interrupted by a soft knocking
on the door; the deacon had waived all
ceremony, in view of the urgency of the case,
and entered the house without ringing. He
trod softly, as though in the presence of death,
and having wrung the hand of Aunt Sally, in
silence, approached the bedside, saying sorrowfully,
“Bad enough, Mr. Throckmorton,
ain't you?”
“Yes, Deacon Dole, I am very low.”
“A high fever, and increasing, I should say.
What have you done for him, Mrs. Throckmorton?”
The deacon shook his head; he had seen
many similar cases, and critical as this one
was (he spoke low and looked dubious), he
believed, if Mr. Throckmorton would submit
to his direction, there would be little for Dr.
Cutaway to do on his arrival. He did not
pretend but that the patient was in a most
dangerous state, and advised him to be prepared
for the worst, for human skill was often
unavailing; and though he had great confidence
in the remedies he proposed, his skill
might and probably would be baffled. So, in
fears of the patient were greatly augmented —
to such a degree, indeed, that he would have
accepted any treatment.
“Oh, Sally Ann!” he cried, “do get whatever
the good deacon wants, and let him cure
me.”
“Do n't be too sanguine, my friend,” the
deacon replied solemnly; “you are very sick
now, and it may not be in the power of earthly
medicine to do you any good.”
All the hot bricks were carried away,
all the clothing tossed off, a chair curiously
propped beneath the pillows, the brown paper,
wet with vinegar, thrown into the fire, and a
half-gallon of saltish warm water administered.
After the desired effect had been produced,
the patient found himself tremulously weak,
and felt that he was growing worse every
moment, and sent another messenger for the
surgeon, fifty miles away, though of its availing
anything there was no hope, one having been
sent six or eight hours previously.
To encourage and confirm his patient in the
increasing alarm he felt, the deacon talked
of all the sudden deaths, and all the death-bed
omens; and told how such a man had been
well at six o'clock, and a corpse at eight; how
another, from going into a cellar, when he was
in a heated state, had caught his death cold;
and with various other mournful reminiscences,
calculated to enfeeble even the bravest
courage, he followed up his first prescription.
At length Uncle Peter announced his belief
that he could not survive the night, upon
which the deacon consulted, in whispers, with
the almost frantic wife, and returning to the
bedside, groaning sympathetically, applied
cloths, wet with camphor, to the nose and
mouth of the wretched man, and sedately
waved before his face a large palm leaf fan,
as if to keep life in him as long as possible.
At this stage of affairs a little woman,
dressed in black, bustled into the room, and
in a lively, cheerful voice, inquired what
seemed to be the matter.
The deacon shook his head, and leading her
mournfully aside, communicated, in a whisper
so loud that both Aunt Sally and Uncle Peter
that the patient could not live till midnight —
if he revived, he might possibly last till morning,
but no longer.
“Hi! hi!” replied Mrs. Perrin, “do n't tell
me such scare-crow stories as that: he ain't
going to die to-night more than you be.” And
approaching the bed she was about to speak
when the deacon, resuming his charge, called
her a meddlesome old woman.
Uncle Peter really thought himself too ill
to notice her, and Aunt Sally was scarcely
mistress of her actions; so, Mrs. Perrin, taking
umbrage, as well she might, floundered out
of the room, saying “She did n't think Mr.
Throckmorton needed anything but a little
nursing — she had been up elsewhere two
nights, and was almost sick herself.”
An hour passed, during which the salt water
was freely administered, while the sick man
mingled his groans with calls on Sally Ann,
who, poor woman, sat wringing her hands and
weeping.
At the end of that time the deacon took the
responsibility of calling in Farmer Hatfield;
might be needed before morning.”
“Oh, Sally Ann! Sally Ann! can't you roast
me some potatoes, and give me some brandy
and water, I just want to see if I can swallow;
and read me a sermon, or ask the deacon to
read one.”
“Yes, dear Mr. Throckmorton;” and the
ashes were filled with potatoes, the brandy
and water mixed, and the sermon brought;
but the deacon had not got through the first
sentence when Farmer Hatfield came in.
He wore a cheerful but interested look, and
taking Uncle Peter's hand, said he was right
sick, but not dangerously so; and after a little
talk about the late damp weather, rheumatism,
&c., he grew more cheerful, spoke of the election,
the next presidency, and affairs generally.
The patient professed himself better, or, to
use his own words, he “breathed a little
easier.”
Mr. Hatfield was a man of impulses; and
upon one of them, he arose and poured the
salt and water into the fire, and said he could
concoct a medicine of a few favorite roots
effects.
“Oh, my good Mr. Hatfield, do you think it
possible for me to live?” asked the patient,
opening his eyes, and speaking with more
animation than he had before for some hours.
“Why, to be sure,” replied Mr. Hatfield.
“I will go home and bring from my garden
the things I have mentioned; meantime, you
must have a flannel shirt on, and have your
arms and face bathed with camphor: flannel
and camphor applied in time will cure almost
any disease, but, in the state you are in, you
will need a little strengthening syrup.”
And with the assurance that he would return
early in the morning, bringing the medicine,
which could not possibly do any harm, even if
it did no good, he departed; and the deacon,
shortly after, a little offended, took his leave.
Uncle Peter renewed his exclamations of “Oh
Sally Ann!” but was so exhausted physically,
and so relieved mentally, that he presently fell
asleep, and woke not until sunrise the next
morning.
Mr. Middleton was the first visitor of the
and begged to be allowed to send his own
family physician to prescribe for him, till the
arrival of the one already summoned. Delays
were dangerous, and this physician had given
perfect satisfaction to a great number of
families, for years, so that he could cordially
recommend him. “Now, my dear Mr. Throckmorton,
do allow me this pleasure,” concluded
Mr. Middleton. Uncle Peter was prevailed
upon, and so much better in consequence of
the sleep he had had, that he actually arose,
and in gown and slippers awaited the consultation;
and furthermore, he expressed a
hope that that miserable bore, Mr. Hatfield,
would not trouble him with his simples. He
was falling back on his old self-sufficiency,
when that kindhearted neighbor returned,
with a brown earthen jar of syrup, and one
of his own new red flannel shirts. Uncle
Peter thanked him civilly, and, without communicating
the fact of Mr. Middleton's visit,
or its result, managed politely to get his
honest-minded friend out of the house before
the arrival of the doctor; and well it was for
as otherwise he would have seen his precious
preparations very contemptuously tossed aside.
Aunt Sally could not be thankful enough;
she had prayed all night for her dear hus-band's
resforation, she said, but did n't suppose
it was at all probable that her prayers
had been answered; Samuel must have prayed
for himself, though she had not heard him.
Tears came into Rosalie's eyes, and putting
down her book, she kissed Aunt Sally's
withered cheek, saying she would never know
till she was asked to sit up higher, in the
better world, how good and how humble she
had been.
The doctor was formal, ostentatious, and
wise; and Uncle Peter was so much pre-possessed
in his favor, that he almost regretted
having sent for the surgeon. He inquired
minutely all the symptoms, replying, as each
was unfolded, “Oh, yes, I supposed so! precisely
as I anticipated!” and the like; and left
half-a-dozen small powders, neatly folded in
white paper, with a phial containing some liquid,
having an unpronounceable name; and
and small quantities, took his departure.
“What did he say was the matter with
you?” asked Aunt Sally.
“He did n't say,” replied Uncle Peter.
“What did he think of your pulse?”
“He did n't feel of it.”
“And your tongue?”
“He did not examine my tongue, my dear;
but he is evidently a man of great skill.”
Aunt Sally could not see in what way he
had manifested his skill; nevertheless, she had
no doubt that it was as Mr. Throckmorton
asserted.
One thing the skillful man had said which
greatly amused Uncle Peter; he had reported
to his patient how the modest and really
estimable village doctor had thrust his thumbs
into his vest pockets, on hearing that Mr.
Throckmorton was ill, and that the great Doctor
Cutaway had been sent for, and observed
that the patient might die while the surgeon
was on the way to visit him, and that unless
he had a limb to be amputated the movement
was a very unfortunate one. Mr. Middleton
with his brother of the village.
This greatly amused Uncle Peter. There
was no doubt in his mind but that the little
gentleman would like to be his physician.
Aunt Sally looked inquiringly, to ascertain
in what way it was funny; but even when it
was explained that to be physician to Mr. P.
T. Throckmorton would give standing to the
little doctor, and probably help him to more
money than he had had for months, she failed
to see it in quite the light that she felt she
ought, for the smile seemed a painful one, and
she said she wished everybody had all the
money they wanted.
“Poh! how you waste sympathy!” said
Uncle Samuel Peter.
“I suppose so,” was the meek reply of my
aunt; and there followed a silence which
her husband, feeling some compunction, perhaps,
interrupted by saying, “I really feel
quite revived; dear Mrs. Throckmorton, let
me prevail upon you to take a little rest —
you may have to sit up with me all night, you
know.”
He could not even seem to be generous, he
was so selfish; if he asked his wife to take
rest, it was after all for his own sake; but she,
dear little woman, saw it not; and, exhausted
by so much care and toil, she needed little
entreaty, and was soon fast asleep. Her
grateful rest, however, was broken before long
by the tossings and worryings of her husband.
The first effects of medicines, generally, are
not very pleasant, and the frightened patient
fancied the natural operation of the drugs, to
be an augmentation of his disease. Dear Mrs.
Throckmorton awoke as Sally Ann again, and
her anxieties and labors were renewed. Mr.
Middleton's doctor was denounced; not another
of his prescriptions would the sick man swallow;
he believed himself poisoned already;
he urged Sally Ann to bring whatever anti-dotes
she had ever heard of; and with excitement
and counteracting medicines, the symptoms,
in the course of the day, took a more
serious turn. I was very much troubled at
this turn of the matter. I was afraid of death,
and it seemed to me that Uncle Peter could
not live long. I tried to make myself useful;
whatever I did at all, and when I would have
made amends, with tears, they were an offence
also.
Meantime Rosalie glided along smoothly
and happily, most of the time discreetly
absenting herself from the sick-room. The
smell of the medicine affected her unpleasantly,
she said to Uncle Samuel Peter. Now she
was reading, in the shade of some tree, smiling
to herself; and now going through the garden
walks, pulling flowers to pieces, or mocking
the birds with her own songs. Once, when
the gardener asked her how her uncle was,
she replied, that his malady consisted chiefly
in groans, and that, consequently, his friends
suffered more from it than himself; and joined
on her song where she had broken it off. The
gardener said she was like sunshine on the
path, and he liked better to have her in the
garden, than all the birds. When I went
there, he said my red eyes would frighten the
owls, and inquired if I had seen my mother's
ghost, and so I returned to my thankless watch
again.
It was sunset when the great surgeon came.
third part of heaven's host after him. Mr.
Throckmorton's was only one of a thousand
important cases; it could not, of course, be
expected that he should give much of his
personal attention; he had snatched a moment,
as it were, and had probably risked the lives
of a dozen patients, to make the visit. He
would not flatter his patient by any hopes of
immediate recovery; the case was critical, and
would require most skillful treatment. He
saw presented not only a dangerous form of
disease, but also the action of most deleterious
nostrums. He could not, in fact, warrant a
cure at all; and, at best, the patient must
expect a long and severe illness. He could
not possibly remain above an hour. He
recommended and executed blood-letting and
blistering; and, having prepared medicines
for a week, on the supposition that each one
would act thus and so, and laid down directions
about drops and half-drops, hours and
half hours, the distinguished Doctor Cutaway
left the room, with an ostentatious sweep, and
departed.
The pretentious airs and the unmeaning
calculated to inspire confidence on the part
of his patient; but to Rosalie they were only
amusing, and I could not help a little sympathy
in her skepticism, respecting both
Uncle Peter's danger, and Doctor Cutaway's
abilities.
Of course the patient found no immediate
relief; he suffered, as the doctor predicted;
but after a thousand groans, and as many calls
upon Sally Ann, under the influence of a
powerful narcotic, fell into a partial slumber.
Rosalie sat fast asleep in an easy-chair; I
looked for the first faint streaks of day; and
Aunt Sally walked up and down the room,
wringing her hands.
Doctor Cutaway, as I said, possessed some
skill in surgery, but was not otherwise eminent,
and though his reputation served him for a
wide medical practice, it is probable that our
village doctor, so despised by Uncle Peter,
was really his superior in knowledge of
materia medica. However, it was not so
believed, and when the famous personage
was summoned, the case was supposed to be
sooner became known that he had actually
visited Mr. Samuel P. I. T. Throckmorton,
than that person was declared by all the
gossips to be nigh the gates of death, and one
and all of his neighbors came to see him, and
each one knew of some certain, speedy and safe
cure for his disease, if he would only take it.
For a day, Doctor Cutaway's prescriptions
were adhered to; then the patient began to
waver, and on the second morning his faith
was quite gone. He was “sinking every
moment,” he said, which was quite true.
Uncle Peter began to feel that everybody
was his friend again, and even when Mrs.
Rachel Muggins was announced, he smiled,
and answered—“Let the woman come up,
bless her; it is kind of her, I am sure, to come
and see me.”
“Mercy sakes, old man!” was her first exclamation,
“be you lying here on your back?
now who would have thought it, you that
have never had a sick bone in your body?”
She had left the baby at home asleep, and
just run across the fields for a minute, she
head; and to tell the truth she had not done
so for a week—her declaration no one who
saw the frizzled disorder beneath her night-cap,
could doubt. Making no further apology,
she threw aside her neckerchief and cap, and
proceeded to make some personal renovations,
such as washing her face and hands in my
Uncle Peter's convenient bowl, and cleaning
her nails with a darning needle, which she took
from one of her sleeves. After this she shook
loose her tresses, and having asked Aunt Sally
for a comb, seated herself by the bed, and
began vigorously to work, talking all the
time. She had with her the hopeful darling
who made the fourth of a donkey's load, when
we first saw her, and as she talked and combed
her hair, he stood pulling at her dress, and
teasing her. “Rache, gim me some,” he said;
“I'll bite you, if you don't—gim me some, I
say—I'm hungerry! I am. I'll tell pap, if
you don't gim me some.” He wore stout
boots and kicked at his mother by way of
enforcing each appeal.
“Andrew Jackson Muggins!” she exclaimed,
her attention, “Mother will whip you till
you hain't hide nor skin of you left, if you
do n't behave yourself. Now go and sit down,
and be pretty.”
“Shan't!” replied Andrew.
“Well, then, you know what you will get.
Just as soon as I go home I'll give you
jessie.”
The boy now cried lustily, kicking his
mother, and entreating her, by the endearing
name of Rache, to give him “some.”
“Boo, hoo, woo!” exclaimed Rachael.
“What a torment you are! I declare, a body
who has young-ones, has no peace of her life.
She's just between hawk and buzzard, as a
body may say;” and, turning to Andrew Jackson,
she said, “Shu! I'll sew up your mouth.”
But such threats inspired him with no wholesome
awe, and his cries grew turbulent.
“Bless my life, I can't make the child mind!
He has got a will that can't be broke,” said
Mrs. Muggins.
“Ding you, I knowed you could n't make
me mind,” replied the boy, and, laughing
tried the effect of coaxing.
“Now be a good boy, and mother will give
him a lump of sugar. See, he will scare all
the folks to death, and if he opens his mouth
so wide, a cat will jump into it, and then his
mother will have no little boy.”
He did not seem affected by this pathetic
appeal, but replied that he wished a cat had
jumped into her mouth before she came to Old
Throckmorton's.
“Did you ever!” exclaimed the mother,
laughing behind her hand, in a peculiar way;
“I tell you now, he is one of 'em.”
“I am that,” replied the son, and he forthwith
commenced biting at the arms of his appreciative
parent, by way of bringing her to
terms.
“What under the sun can I do to make you
afraid of me?” she said.
“Noffen,” replied Jackson. “I ain't afeard
of you, and sixteen more just like you. So
give me some.”
“Hark! hark! I hear something,” interposed
the mother, speaking almost under her
breath; and having by this device gained the
him that a black nigger man lived in Mr.
Throckmorton's chimney, and that his eyes
were as big as a bushel, and his mouth as big
as a wash tub, and that he ate up bad boys.
“Now, then, if you don't lie right down and
go to sleep, I'll call him. Come, big nigger
man! Come and eat Jackson up.”
Jackson looked askance at the fireplace, and
seeing nothing of the swarthy enemy, replied,
“You are smart, ain't you, Rache? You can't
scare me, though, ding you!”
“Will he have some cake or honey?” asked
Aunt Sally; “or is it nothing I can give him
he wants?”
“Why, the truth is,” said Mrs. Muggins,
who had been anxiously expecting some such
demonstration on the part of my aunt, “the
boy has got a considerable appetite from the
long walk we've had this morning, to say
nothing of his having had rather slim fodder
for a day or two, and he would like a little
of your nice things, and I am dreadfully
afraid he will be obstreperous till he gets
some.”
“That's the how, Rache; you may look
Andrew Jackson Muggins intimated, in a half
aside but not at all inaudible speech to his
diplomatic mother, as he heard my aunt give
directions to Jane to supply his alimentary
necessities.
Thus much accomplished, and Mr. Graham's
ancient housekeeper having at length completed
her toilet and seated herself in order for
duty beside my Uncle Peter's bed, she proceeded
with the kindly purpose which “brought
her out so early in the morning.”
“I suppose it's none of my business,” she
said, “but I'm such a fool I can't help saying
what I think, and I know a-most if you would
send for my Indian doctor he would cure you;
he has been with me in all my bad times, and
he is just as nice and modest-spoken a man as
you would wish to see. I'll say that for him.
The way I heard of him was this: I was
over to granmam's one day a long spell after I
was married; there was a full moon I know,
and I went over at night; I expected him to
come after me, but he didn't come and I went
home alone. That's the way with your married
they had when they were bachelors.” Here she
glanced significantly at Rose. “Well, I was
complaining of a pain in my wrist, it appeared
like as I had sprainted it, and granmam says
she, `why don't you send for the Indian doctor?'
`What Indian doctor?' says I. `Why,
Doctor Snakeroot,' says she. `What a funny
name!' says I, `it fairly makes a body crawl!'
`Yes,' says she, `it is funny, but not so funny
as a name I heard of when I was a girl. One
of my young acquaintances had a beau, and his
name was Fish; so she thought, and so everybody
thought; and just a week before they
were to be married, he guessed he would not
be prospered if he got married with a lie on his
mind, and so he told her his name was Crawfish!'
And granmam said the girl said she
reckoned she'd be a-backing out, for if she
didn't, he would—being he was likely to be
by nature what he was by name.
“It might seem curious to some that granmam
should recommend Doctor Snakeroot to
me, instead of her own son, but them that's
been in a house as long as I was at Woodside,
been in a house so farmilurly; and, I tell you
now, a body finds out things that a body
wouldn't think of, by being intimately into the
house of some that are called first cut.
“I've seen strange things, in my time.
Have you seen Staff Graham, girls? or Doctor
Graham, as he pretends to call himself,” she
asked, abruptly; and, on our reply that we had
not, she said she would just warn us not to fall
in love with him, for though he was mighty
good looking, and had a smile that was like an
angel's, he was as proud as old Nick, and she
had seen a good many fine ladies try to catch
him, who couldn't come it, and she thought
there would be a slender chance for the like
of us.
Rosalie replied by a disdainful smile, which
made Mrs. Muggins look a little mean, and she
went on to say, “I am such a big fool I allers
say jist what I think: thar.”
“My good friend, what about the Indian
doctor?” interrupted Uncle Peter.
“Why,” said Rachel, “he cured Jane Hill
when all the doctors had given her up, and, in
say; she sent for a preacher and made her
peace, and after that, she heard of Snakeroot,
some way or other — I don't know how it was
— and she sent right off for him — her brother
rode all night a-most; and when he got there
the very first word was, `While there is life
there is hope,' and they said he set right to
work like as if he was in earnest. He said a
good deal ailed her, but he could cure her; he
bound both her feet up in rattlesnake's grease,
and cut a live fowl in two, and clapped it
right on to her stomach; then he gave her some
bitters, made of iron rust and peach brandy, and
sheep's milk, and it was not an hour from the
time she took the first spoonful till she walked
from the bed to the fire. Oh, they say she was
just as white as a corpse. They say she took her
medicine out of a cup that was made of a bear's
ear; I don't know whether he would give it
to you that way — likely what is good for some
ain't good for others. Now, when I have my
bad times, he always tells me to eat rabbit's
meat; he mostly traps them when he is out
chopping. Jane wears the skin of a black
her stocking — no body sees it; it's a charm,
Dr. Snakeroot says. I've heard them say he
made some eat boiled bats, but I can't believe
that, no body could eat one, I don't believe.”
Uncle Peter was sure that good Mrs. Muggins
had been sent to him by some intervention
of Providence. “Oh, Sally Ann, don't
you think so?” he asked, again and again, and
as Aunt Sally could not, by any possibility,
have thought anything else, Westley was sent,
post-haste, the distance of twelve miles, and
in due time returned, accompanied by Dr.
Snakeroot, with a variety of dried roots, snake
skins, herbs, bears' ears, &c. Simples were
soon simmering in sheep's milk and the blood
of a pullet; charms were uttered; and the
miraculous course of treatment began. But
Doctor Snakeroot met with no such success as
he was reputed to have had in the case of Jane
Hill; on the contrary, the patient grew worse
and worse.
“You are killing yourself,” said Mr. Clark
Boots, a young gentleman who superintended
a boys' school in the neighborhood, delivered
societies amongst the ladies. “Just let me
take you in hand,” he said, “and you will be
a well man in the course of a few days; see
here, sir, can you do this?” and he exhibited
a variety of feats of strength, with chairs,
tables, and the like.
Uncle Peter, now too ill to offer much
opposition, said he was “willing to try anything”—some
young men might be wiser,
for aught he knew, than some old ones. One
thing was sure, he could not live long in the
state in which he was; Sally Ann and his
dear ward, and everybody who had seen him,
knew that; and, thus encouraged, Mr. Clark
Boots commenced operations. Poor Uncle
Peter was completely soused in wet sheets,
and required to drink ice-water by the quart.
“So soon as you are able to rise,” said Mr.
Clark Boots, “you must begin a series of
gymnastic exercises. First, jump over a chair,
then over two chairs — first backward and
then forward — till you are master of the
chair exercise; then jump over the table;
then place some small obstacle on the table —
so keep up brisk action till all the muscles
are brought into play, and a healthful perspiration
induced. I will myself superintend your
gymnastic discipline,” said Mr. Clark Boots,
who seemed to feel, and I believe really felt,
benevolent.
The ice water and the wet sheet soon affected
Uncle Peter very sensibly; and with an
anguish in his voice which I cannot describe
he began to call out, “Oh, Sally Ann, is the
house shaking down? I am going all to pieces!
Put forty blankets over me; I can't live this
way! Oh, Sally Ann! oh, Sally, Sally Ann!
is not there an earthquake? Look out, and
see if the earth is not gaping to swallow us up?
I never felt a house shake like this. I should
think there were a thousand elephants working
like moles under its foundations. Oh, for hot
bricks! Oh, for the comfort of a great big
fire! Sally Ann, why do n't you keep me
from shaking? Have you any of the feelings
of a woman and a wife?”
“Do n't be alarmed, my dear friend,” said
Mr. Boots, “the remedies are having precisely
but assist nature a little, by such exercises as
I have described.”
Uncle Peter was partially dressed, and
assisted out of bed; but to make a picture of
him as he appeared jumping over a chair,
defies my power. He had little strength, and
no courage to use that which he had. Even
Rosalie, who could not help seeing how
ludicrous was his appearance, began to feel
a sincere pity for him.
He was making this exhibition as well as
example of himself, when, to his relief, a new
visitor arrived, Mr. Tompkins.
“Tut, tut!” he exclaimed, resting his hands
on his hips, “if you want to drown, you had
best get into the cistern, and if you require
exercise, you had better put on your coat, and
chop awhile. Come, Mrs. Throckmorton, let's
get him in bed before he faints;” and, turning
to Mr. Clark Boots, he said, authoritatively,
“Young man, if you want anybody to jump,
you might as well jump yourself out of the
house!”
The medical reformer, who was so nearly
regulation of society, speedily followed this
advice, and Mr. Tompkins was left master of
the field. “Now, the first thing is to warm
him,” he said. Rosalie, was sent to prepare a
composition tea; I was directed to hold the
patient's mouth, to keep it from chattering;
and Aunt Sally to bring a bundle of blankets;
while Mr. Tompkins himself procured a kettle,
with a cover and spout, and set it boiling, at
the same time introducing the steam, by a
piece of house attached to the spout, into the
bed. Before long the patient began to groan
as heartily with the heat as he had before done
with the cold, and his wife was entreated to
administer something — anything for his relief.
“Never do you mind, my good woman, but
keep the kettle steaming for an hour,” said
Mr. Tompkins; “we must use our own judgments;
he do n't know what is best.” A
feeble groan was the only reply. “And that
is not all,” added Mr. Tompkins, “you must
pour down this composition, hot and strong —
no matter whether he dislikes it or not — just
hold his mouth open, and pour it down.”
“Oh, Sally Ann! my beloved spouse! I
entreat of you, as it were my last will and
testimony, to have some mercy upon me, and
as you would be dealt by, deal by me!”
There was no resisting this appeal, and with
tears in her eyes, Aunt Sally threw aside six
of the blankets, and removed the steam-pipe.
Mr. Tompkins was indignant: “When a
wife would allow her feelings to master her
judgment,” he said, “it was needless for him
to remain. The treatment he had proposed
should have been vigorously applied for two
hours, and after a cessation of five minutes,
renewed again, and so continued through the
night.” And having said this, Mr. Tompkins
bade us good evening.
“Sally Ann!” the call was very faint, “send
Westley for Mrs. Perrin; I am afraid she was
offended; I never meant to hurt the feelings
of anybody in my life; I have always wanted
to make everybody happy about me; but I
wish, Sally, I had done more good; tell
Westley to go at once, and to take the carriage
— I am sure Mrs. Perrin has a right to ride in
a carriage — she is old enough, and has worked
reviving influence of a great fan, indulged in
a train of humanizing reflections. While so
engaged, a carriage was heard at the gate, and
an old lady was seen to descend and make
her way to the main entrance.
“Those who come in coaches are no better
than those who walk,” said Uncle Peter;
“Sally, you have always been too proud; I
want you now to be particular, and pay more
attention to the poor friends who come to
visit us than to the rich ones; it was never my
disposition to seem more than I was, and we
are all sparrows of a day, as it were; but,
Sally, Ann! you, who have always been well
and strong, couldn't see with my humble
eyes. I don't blame you; no, Sally! I don't
blame anybody in the world for anything.”
Here the old lady came into the room; she
presented a strange blending of refinement
and vulgarity, both in dress and manner:
some articles of her apparel being of extreme
elegance, and in good taste, while others were
so old, tawdry, and unclean, as to be positively
offensive. Her old, rich lace, adorned a cap
handkerchief was tied at one corner to a
ragged bandana; her silken hose hung in
wrinkles, and her old unpolished shoes were
stringless and down at the heels; her bonnet
had been expensive and beautiful in its day,
but that day had been years gone; her shawl,
of camel's hair, was in excellent preservation,
as was also her dress, of velvet, trailing for a
yard behind her, except, indeed, for the
gathered dust which doubled its weight.
“My dear Mr. Throckmorton, it pains me
to see you so ill!” she began, “but I hope
you do not suffer intensely.”
“Why, yes, Mrs. Graham, God bless you!”
said Uncle Peter, “I do suffer as much as a
man can, and live; I'm glad you thought
enough of me to come and see me; how are
your two worthy sons, Henry and Stafford?”
Mrs. Graham seated herself by the bedside,
and professing herself an excellent nurse, proposed
to Aunt Sally to remain with us all
night.
The sending for Mrs. Perrin was accordingly
postponed.
“And these little darlings are your pretty
wardies, are they?” she asked; and when
informed that we were, she shook hands with
us, and talked a good deal about the unity
and love with which her family at Woodside
lived together; “we must come and visit her
and her sweet daughter-in-law, Annette; and
Hally — her dear son — would give us as many
flowers as we could carry home, and Stafford
would show us his specimens and skeletons,
and amuse us all he could, poor boy.”
When it was nine o'clock she began to
exhibit tokens of drowsiness; still she insisted
that she was an excellent watcher with the
sick, for that she had not been in the way of
sleeping more than two hours out of the
twenty-four for the last twenty years. She
would watch alone, she said, at first, but
finally she concluded it would be solitary,
and for the sake of company she would keep
the bright-eyed little darling, meaning Rosalie,
with her. I remained for Rose's sake; and
Aunt Sally, after a great deal of persuasion,
consented to lie down for an hour or two, in
the adjoining room.
“You look more ill now than your husband,”
said Mrs. Graham, “and I should
not wonder if he outlived you by many
years.”
Aunt Sally smiled, as though it was to be
hoped he would, and replied that it was
strange some persons could be so well and
strong, and yet look pale and ill, as she did,
while others could be so very sick, her husband,
for instance, and not show it at all.
“It's a mystery! a wonderful mystery!”
exclaimed Mrs. Graham, and she closed her
eyes, apparently to contemplate it.
Uncle Peter felt easier, he said, and no
doubt he did, having the weight of twenty
blankets removed; and Aunt Sally, kissing
his hand—she dared not kiss his cheek, I suppose—and
bathing his face with her tears,
retired for a little repose
We might make temporary beds, so as to
be within call, Mrs. Graham said, and she
would watch till midnight, and then take her
turn of sleep; but she did not unclose her
eyes, as she said so, and otherwise exhibited
such unmistakable fondness for the drowsy
awake.
“Yes, my children,” said Uncle Peter,
“make extemporaneous beds, and try to get a
little rest;” but not one moment did he give
us, wherein to try the promises of sleep; there
was a constant calling and groaning; nevertheless,
it disturbed not the enjoyment of
Mrs. Graham, who snored so loud as almost
to drown the sound of the sick man's complaining,
sometimes. Hour after hour lay
the old lady on the sofa, at full length, in that
forgetfulness of life which seemed to me, at
the time, to be the best gift of an indulgent
deity. To youth, especially, sleep is grateful,
and unaccustomed to watching, and with no
love, roused by fear, to aid us, I could not
help but think the long hours would never
be concluded. Rose was more self-sufficient,
and managed to laugh now and then, even at
her miseries.
“Oh, my good ward,” called Uncle Peter
every few-minutes, “do go and call up your
aunt; I want to take my leave of her now,
while I am sensible; I do n't know how long
dear!”
And Rose would glide out of the room, and
remain till Uncle Peter had fallen asleep
again, or in some new want quite forgot his
taking leave of Aunt Sally.
I thought of our own homely room where
we had slept sweetly so many nights; of the
fresh nice smelling straw of which our bed
was made; of the coverlet, bleached white
on the clover; and the birds twittering now
and then in the cherry trees, which grew close
to the open windows, playing musically with
their slender fingers against the panes on
breezy nights; of the floor, scoured white,
and the crickets that sang in the warm jamb
all the while till the breaking of day. This
seemed to me then to have been heaven
enough; and with my larger experience and,
I hope, increased wisdom, it seems so now.
If I have more knowledge, I had then more
innocence; if I have more faith in myself
now, I have less in others; if I have more
ability to do, I have less confidence in the
results of doing; if I have more to enjoy, I
better guard myself, they who were better
guardians than I are gone; and the low
homely chamber, with green rustling curtains
of leaves, will be to me a never-ending regret.
How equally, after all, the balance hangs, and
how frequently may he whom we pause to
pity have better reason to pity us.
The memory of that long watching brings
with it something of the misery I then endured.
Midnight would never come, I said.
Rose kept the candles bright, and, Uncle
Peter asleep, for the most part, after the first
hour or two. She tried hard to keep me
awake, with stories, which she had great facility
in inventing; tried to make me laugh at the
train of Mother Graham, as she called her: for
the cat had nestled upon it, and indicated her
comfort now and then by purring. At last
the clock struck twelve. Now, thought I,
Rose will call Mrs. Graham; but, no—she
said she would wait till one—though I had
better seek my pillow immediately. This I
refused to do, and with my heavy head dropping,
now one way, and now another, contrived
length, yielded to my pleading look, rather
than to her own inclination, I think, and
awoke our uncle's benevolent neighbor.
The old woman opened her eyes, after much
ado, and sitting upright for a moment said;
“My little dears, I was just about to call you,
and you have awakened yourselves—bless you
dears; well, I am glad of it for I am almost
worn out—not used to tending the sick, you
know. I waited till one o'clock, and now, my
pretty birds, you must try and keep your eyes
open till daylight—it will not be long—and I
will just lie down here and see if I can't get a
little rest!” So saying, she wrapt her feet in
her long dress, and in a minute was fast asleep.
Rosalie laughed, vexed as she was, and I had
tears, without laughter. She was quite as
much refreshed, she said, as she would have
been by a half night's sleep, and could well
afford to watch the remainder of the time.
Mrs. Graham took leave early in the morning:
she was so overcome with the watching
that in justice to herself she must seek a little
rest; she did n't suppose she should sleep;
grateful to her. She would send Stafford to
visit Uncle Peter at once; she didn't know
that personal feelings should prevent her from
recommending him as a physician; she had no
doubt but that her dear friend Mr. Throckmorton
would, in a few days, under the treatment
of Stafford, be fully restored.
Now, as Uncle Peter had slept the greater
part of the night, in consequence of not having
Aunt Sally to humor all his whims, he was
decidedly better, and, having partaken of toast
and tea, professed himself desirous of receiving
the professional services of Dr. Stafford Graham.
“If he possesses any of his mother's talents,”
said Rosalie, “I should not be surprised
at the most extraordinary results.”
For two hours Uncle Peter waited pretty
calmly, but no Dr. Graham made his appearance.
He then grew impatient, and stationed
Rose at the window to give him the earliest
tidings of the doctor's approach. She preferred
however to seek a position commanding a
wider view, as she said, and escaping from the
a corner of the grounds. Uncle Peter shortly
felt greatly worse, and Westley was sent, in all
haste, to summon Dr. Graham.
The message was promptly responded to,
and the young physician, in an extremely neat
carriage, drawn by a fine-blooded and well-groomed
horse, was shortly at Throckmorton
Hall.
He came down the walk with easy gracefulness,
stopping once to cull a flower, and once
to listen to a bird, quite forgetful, apparently,
of his patient. Rose sat on the green border
of the path by which he approached, weaving
a long chain of roses, and singing to herself,
nor did she desist from either singing or weaving
flowers as he drew near her, nor even
when he turned, and with a smile of exceeding
sweetness, gave the salutation of the morning.
To her he was simply the doctor, come
to see her Uncle Peter, and she was dependent
on herself for happiness, and not on anybody
else. She was not one to fasten herself as a
dead weight upon another, or with longing and
pining for things out of her reach to render
wine she drank water, and if she had not a fine
equipage she used her feet, and thanked heaven
that they so well answered all needful
purposes.
Doctor Stafford Graham's visit was very
brief—he had declined making it at his
mother's suggestion, he said, but had come at
the earliest moment on receiving the summons
of Uncle Peter through his man. He thought
no medical aid whatever was necessary: care
as to diet and a short drive in the open air
would insure a night's repose, and the following
morning his patient, he was sure, would
be in a condition to sanction his prescription.
He begged of Aunt Sally to feel no alarm
at all, on her husband's account, as nature
would speedily right herself with him, but
rather to direct attention to her own case; and
as he took her feverish hand in his, his tenderness
of manner and voice contrasted strangely
with his proud and almost haughty bearing
toward Uncle Peter.
I could not divert my eyes from him, as he
sat conversing with my dear aunt; so exceedingly
with a kindly smile; and yet his was hardly
the kind of beauty to inspire a quick affection,
and his carriage, though perfectly polite, was
that of the worldling, not of the Christian.
No discipline of sorrow or of dependence had
purified his ambitious and selfish nature.
I know not whether it was the nobility of
manhood, or whether it was a something which
it would be useless to try to explain, but I felt
drawn toward him, and wished, in childish
folly, that I might say or do something that
would interest him. I was glad, therefore,
when he admired the eglantine that clambered
over the window, to give him one of the
sweetest of its flowers. His smile thanked me
sufficiently, and when he said they had at
Woodside some beautiful varieties of flowers
which he would be happy to show me, if I
would give myself the trouble of going so far,
I was disconcerted, and in over anxiety to
be agreeable appeared very badly.
Uncle Peter gave himself a sudden turn in
bed, as much as to say, “I am ashamed of
you;” and Aunt Sally looked troubled, and
to her husband, though he had wrung from
her the confession that she was now and then
troubled with hemorrhage, that a cough in the
morning inconvenienced her slightly, and that
stitches in the side made her nights restless;
but all these little ailments, she was sure, were
not worth talking about, especially when Mr.
Throckmorton was so ill.
“Humph!” said Dr. Graham, and though
an expression of contempt curled his lip at
first, there was something of pity in his tone,
as he made his adieus.
I watched him from the window, for so
faultless in proportion, in air, in action, did
he seem, that it was a pleasure to look at him.
Rose had left the green border where she
sat, weaving flowers together, when he came,
and with the red wreath wound like a turban
about her black hair, was assisting the gardener
in another part of the grounds. By
accident or design the doctor turned into the
path leading near her, but without arresting
her attention. The gardener, having offered
on his own behalf a servile recognition of the
from the observation of that elegant individual
the hands of Rosalie, which were soiled with
the damp loam in which she had been adjusting
the roots of some shrubs requiring unusual
care, by stepping before her, and bending dexterously
a lilac bush so as half to hide her person.
But his helper was more ostentatious
than ashamed of her homely occupation, and
with a derisive laugh challenged his assistance
in her work, holding up her fingers as if to
display their taper proportions, and looking
the question, “Is that all?” into his astonished
eyes.
The doctor seemed to understand something
of the degree of indifference with which he
was regarded, and quickened his step, looking
meanwhile the other way; though I observed
he took an opportunity of turning toward her
again, as he drove off; but Rose had forgotten
his existence, and her own muddy hands and
red turban, and was intent only on the flower-bush
she was tending. The doctor gave his
beautiful horse a vigorous lash, whether from
vexation or habit, I know not, and was soon
him so intently, received no glance for my
trouble. When I asked Rose if “the doctor”
was not charming? she asked, “Which one?”
Dr. Snakeroot had engrossed as much of her
thoughts as our handsome neighbor.
Uncle Peter was a good deal vexed that he
had received so little attention, but his humiliating
and Christianizing fears were subdued,
and, strive as he would, he could not take himself
back to the door of death.
A dismal night set in, such as comes sometimes
in seasons of the greatest beauty; and
the gloomy time imparted a sombre feeling
to all, so that none of us were sorry when
Uncle Peter renewed his request that Mrs.
Perrin should be sent for. Westley brought
her in the coach, and her plain wrinkled face
was really like sunshine when she entered the
chamber. The wind and rain drove against
the windows, and the sick man groaned, when
a quick step trod the stairs, and the old mourning
garments rustled into his presence.
“It's a right stormy night,” said Mrs. Perrin,
removing and folding her black shawl;
placed a small basket on the table, approached
the bed, and bending over it, said:
“Here's Aunty Perrin come to see you;
won't you shake hands with her? Why, your
head is sunk down, and you don't lie good, do
you?” And she bolstered, and patted, and
turned Uncle Peter about, saying directly,
“there, isn't that better?”
Having made these comfortable arrangements,
she seated herself on the bedside, and
asked what had been done; and when informed,
expressed great wonder that the patient was
still alive.
“They sha'n't abuse him no more,' she said,
“I will just stay here and take care of him;
and he shall have some nice supper, and no
more old hot bricks and steaming kettles to
bake him or bile him to death. Aunty Perrin
will make him well.”
“Uncle Peter was soothed, and groaned a
kind of thankful and satisfied groan.
Adjusting the bedding to the proper thickness,
she bathed the face and hands of the sick
man in pure cold water, and having given him
some sewing-work she had brought with her,
talking as fast as she stitched: now of her
kicking cow, and now of the exorbitant rent
she had to pay, and then, turning from her
own domestic affairs, regaling us with a little
harmless gossip. That some people should do
such queer things, as everybody said they did,
was a matter of curious speculation to her and
to all of us. Presently, to the music of her
voice, and our pleased surprise, Uncle Peter
fell asleep, and after an hour, awoke quite
revived; he even thought he “could eat a
mouthful.”
Mrs. Perrin now brought into notice her
little basket, and removing the napkin, disclosed
a variety of delicacies that might have
tempted an appetite nicer than Uncle Peter's.
Having eaten all his stomach would bear, he
said—we thought it was all it would hold—he
fell asleep again, and did not awake till broad
daylight.
True to her promise, Mrs. Perrin remained,
nursing and watching, till Uncle Peter was
quite well, and though all his visitors took to
have always thought she deserved the largest
share of gratitude; and Uncle Peter thought
so, too, as the future proved.
4. CHAPTER IV.
UNCLE PETER was quite recovered, but
in compliment to his late severe illness he
kept his chamber most of the time, and adhered
pertinaciously to morning gown and slippers.
Poor Aunt Sally could not get over the conviction
that Mr. Throckmorton's nerves had
sustained a shock from which they would
never entirely recover; day by day she saw
him drifting unconsciously nearer and nearer
to a visionary tomb. Every now and then
I observed her making her way into some
closet, or behind some curtain, benevolently to
conceal her tears from the doomed victim.
She might have spared herself the trouble, or
have wept on her own account; good, dear
woman! it was she who was doomed — there
for him she loved so much more than herself.
“My dear ward, I think I could take a
sandwich and a glass of wine,” said Uncle
Peter, lifting his eyes toward Rose, who sat
reading, apparently oblivious of everything
but her book. I waited a moment, and seeing
that she did not avail herself of the opportunity
of serving him, hastened to do so myself.
“Thank you, Rose,” he said, when I sat
down the salver. Uncle Peter either would
not, or could not believe that I was capable
of doing him a favor.
“My ward, a little more sugar.”
I hastened to bring it, while Rose continued
to read on, undisturbed.
“Now, my dear Rosy! another spoon,” still
seeming deceived.
“Yes, Uncle Samuel Peter,” she answered,
closing her book over one of her fingers, and
leaving the room, with a sly nod at me. As
she did not return with the spoon, I presently
followed, and found her waiting me at the
foot of the staircase, with our hoods concealed
beneath her apron.
“Do let us get out of this atmosphere for a
while, if we can,” she said; “it affects me
disagreeably;” and with a nod, that said
come on, she went out. I lingered a moment,
questioning whether it was quite right to steal
away thus, and as I did so, heard Aunt Sally
struggling with a little faint cough, which she
seemed trying to suppress, lest the noise
should annoy Mr. Throckmorton. She was
coming down herself for the teaspoon. My
conscience smote me, and I stole after Rose,
who stood, archly smiling, behind a lilac bush,
and repeating to Uncle Peter, who saw her
from the window, “One lean goose upturned
a slanting eye.”
So we turned aside from the window—
strolled through the garden—then leisurely
under the apple boughs, trembling and whispering
together—crossed a green meadow,
and struck into a narrow path leading by a
long hedge, and worn deep and smooth.
“Where are you going, Rose?” I said, at
last; for skipping and singing, and tossing up
and catching her bonnet, she kept before,
while I, in silence, followed, thinking of Aunt
whether Uncle Peter would not scold
on our return.
“Where am I going? why, I do n't know
or care—any where—wherever this path
leads; I guess it will take us to some good
place—do n't you think so?”
I shook my head, for it was not in my
nature to anticipate finding a good place at
any time. We had gone a mile, or more,
Rose often stopping to admire the landscape,
which, she said, did set off the Hall beautifully,
when the path terminated in a gap, and
we found ourselves in a green, quiet lane,
bordered with cedars, and spicewood, and
gray mullen stalks, all starry with flowers.
I thought Rose would return now, but she
ran laughingly on, saying she knew we should
come to something good, and the prospect
seemed to justify her words. Away and
away the lane stretched, till it was lost in
thick woods, and not a human habitation
was visible; but when we gained a green
eminence, half a mile from the road along
which run the path and the hedge, we saw
hills, the prettiest little homestead we had
ever beheld. We could only catch glimpses
of the white walls of what seemed a very
small house, so closely grew the trees and
shrubs about it. A plump cow, with breath
smelling sweet as the clover which she ate,
lifted her head over the lane fence, as if to
give us welcome, and the chickens cackled,
dividing from our path as we approached the
porch, before which glistened bright tin pans
and all other dairy garniture. Everything
looked pleasant and cheerful; the very pinks
along the garden beds grew up in trim, thrifty
bunches, as though they were just as sweet
smelling as any other flowers, and enjoyed
just as much of the glad sunshine. The white
curtains at the open windows fluttered, as it
were with a lively satisfaction, and the birds
chirped and twittered along the low eaves, as
though they were that morning rehearsing an
opera.
Dividing away the bushes, that sometimes
hung almost across the path, Rose made her
welcome.
“Do n't Rose,” I said once or twice; “do
let us go back; what will you say?”
“Oh, I don't know,” she answered gaily;
“when I see whom I shall see, I shall be able
to tell what to say.”
“Bless my life! your faces look good to a
body; how is Aunt Sally, and Uncle Peter,
and all?”
It was a familiar voice that accosted us,
and, peering through a rose bush, we saw the
tidy little person of Mrs. Perrin, standing
beneath a cherry tree, a little apart from the
door, and making her morning's butter. We
helped her to churn—it seemed easy work—
while she sat by, chatting as fast and as lively
as the birds. When the butter making was
ended, she must pull some weeds from the
garden beds, and we assisted at this, too; then
she prepared vegetables for the dinner, and
kindled a fire, which crackled and blazed up
the chimney, as if glad to obey her will, and
when the lid of the dinner pot began to dance
apron, and hanging it over the coffee-mill, and
exchanging her plain cap for one with black
ribbons in the border, took up her sewing
work, and sat down on the shady porch, looking
as neat as though fresh from a dressing
room. The folds of the ironing were in her
dark dress, and her cap ribbon had none of
the rusty look which mourning ribbons are
apt to have. Her shoes squeaked as she
walked, and had a new look, and though
her face was wrinkled, and her hair grey,
her heart seemed as fresh and joyous as all
the smiling nature about us.
“It looks rather too shiftless,” she said, “to
see two great girls like you, big enough to
be married, sitting idle,” and she hastened to
supply us with sewing, telling us she was
particular, and it must be neat.
Rose laughed at the idea of being big
enough to be married, and said she feared
she was not wise enough to choose a husband,
though one should offer, which was not likely.
“Just let me tell you,” said Mrs. Perrin,
putting down her work, “there is no choosing
somebody in your heart that all the world
could n't buy, and that will be the right one
—no matter whether he is rich or poor—no
matter about nothing else.” And Mrs. Perrin
seemed to glide away back into the distance,
and for a moment a shadow came over her countenance;
but she presently resumed her sewing,
with a quicker stitch, if possible, saying, as a
smile struggled with the shadow, “It's of no
use for a body to be bringing up their melancholy
feelings.”
I looked at her kindly face and neat mourning
dress, with new interest. She had been
young, perhaps pretty sometime, and had had
a lover — he was gone now, and the mourning
dress linked him in our thoughts with the
grave; but in the widow's heart there was
a memory of blessedness, and this it was
which kept it young, for through the ages
of eternity the affections of some will not
grow old. Try as she would, the old lady
could not quite recover her accustomed cheerfulness,
till, with a sudden energy, she threw
down her work, and brought out the breakfast
the dishes had the effect of restoring her
spirits. “If a body don't want to get lonesome,
a body must not take time,” she said;
and I have often thought since, that she
understood the true art of life. Rust wears
away the iron that is not kept bright with use,
and the moth frets out the idle garment.
A pleasant dinner we had on the shady
porch with good Mrs. Perrin, and when it was
concluded, she asked if we would like to take
a little walk with her; she had some work to
do, which it was lonely doing alone.
We said yes, she provided herself with a
garden-knife, and we set out together, Rose
and I wondering very much what it was she
proposed to do. We struck across the fields,
going further and further from home, and
gradually nearing the woods. At last, when
we had gone nearly a mile, Mrs. Perrin said,
“Yonder, where you see the man at work—
there is where I am going.” And looking
across to the next hill, where a thin growth
of maple trees cast their dark shadows, we
saw a tall, slender young man, who wore
We could not think what our friend proposed
to do, but as we climbed the hill we saw it
was a grave-yard that we approached, and
that the young man had been cutting away.
the weeds, and tending the flowers. Hearing
our voices, he desisted and came forward,
shaking hands with Mrs. Perrin, and bowing
politely to us; she introduced us as girls
from the Hall, and before she named him,
I recognized the brother of Doctor Graham—
not so handsome, certainly, as he, but with
a strong family likeness.
I said so, and this person, whom Mrs.
Perrin called Henry, evidently felt it to be a
compliment, for with a color a little heightened,
and an almost grateful look, he at once
resumed his coat, which had previously hung
over a white marble tombstone, and smoothed
his yellow curls, as if in complasiance to
me.
“I came over to see how my grave was
looking, but you have kept all so nice, I do n't
think there is much to do;” and Mrs. Perrin
bent her steps toward a mound, a little apart
in all.
“It is the grave of her husband,” said
Henry, looking toward the woman, as she
pulled the weeds from among the flowers
about it.
“Strange, she has no headstone,” said I;
but Rose answered, “No! only she cares
where he lies, and she can find her way to
the place without such a guide.”
“Yes,” said Henry, “even through that
dark place she will find her way to him, I
hope,” and he turned away, and plucked
weeds, busily, from a little green hillock,
over which lay a marble slab, on which was
sculptured an angel, leading by the hand a
child.
Where the shadow fell most darkly on the
green earth, and the flowers seemed to flourish
most brightly, stood a simple, white stone, with
the name of “Nellie,” surrounded with a
wreath of roses.
Now and then Henry would cease work,
and say to us some pleasant thing; but there
in his face, and he stooped slightly, as though
used to some burthen.
I liked him, in part for his kindly smile,
and in part for the amiable work he was
doing. I felt that he must be good, and
that he was not happy, and wished to say or
do something for his pleasure; but, while
I meditated what it might be, Rose fell
to assisting him, and they were soon talking
cheerfully, if not gaily, together. Now and
then, however, the gloomy look came back, and
whenever it did, I observed that he turned his
eyes in the direction of the house in sight,
which I supposed to be his home.
“Well, well,” said Mrs. Perrin, wiping the
sweat from her forehead, “that will do, now,
I guess, and in another year, if I should n't be
here, some of you children will keep the weeds
down, and set a flower or two in another place,
may be.”
“Somebody has been at work there,” she
continued, looking at Henry, “and I don't
think it was Stafford;” and I remarked then,
Graham, except with such an emphasis, as
made it seem a jest.
She had boxed his ears many a time, and
how could she call him Doctor Graham, “in
good earnest.”
When the work was finished, Henry leaned
against the tombstone of “Nellie,” and seemed
loth to turn his steps homeward; at last he
said, “Won't you go with me?” but though
he had appeared anxious to be very polite
to us, I thought that he would have preferred
our answering, No.
We looked to Mrs. Perrin, and she accepted
the invitation; she had not seen Mrs. Graham
for a long while, and would like right well to
have a chat with her. Mr. Graham said his
wife would be glad of our company, but the
words struck me as without much meaning.
Mrs. Perrin talked fluently as we passed
along, clipping the top of a weed now and
then, from the mere habit of being busy.
She found something to admire every where
—now the cows in the meadow; now the
bright water-spring overflowing its stony
the valley; now some highly cultivated field
that she thought would more than pay the
labor it had cost; and now a fine tree that
would make such nice fire-wood. Only one
thing she saw to find fault with — a hedge
of willows along the brook: she could n't see
what good they did.
“Oh, they beautify the landscape,” answered
Henry.
“What do they do?” asked the old woman,
with a puzzled look.
“It is a foolish fancy of mine to leave them
there: that is all;” and falling back a little,
Henry said something to Rosalie about never
being understood, and concluded, with a sigh
which escaped him ere he was aware, and
which he attempted to make her believe was
only a mockery, “I do n't know — perhaps I
never understood myself.”
We were now coming near the house, and
Henry walked slower and slower, and looking
on the ground, became silent.
Close by our path (we were now within the
door-yard), grew a willow, its branches trailing
face peered out from the shadow they made;
and a smile of peculiar and quiet beauty expressed
more joy even than the words, “Oh,
father!” This was all the child said, and seeing
strangers, she retired within the shadow.
“It's my little girl,” said Henry, and his
face grew radiant; “come out, Nell, and let
them see you;” and he parted the boughs,
but not till he had taken his daughter's hand,
and almost forcibly led her, would she come
out; and when she did, her great brown eyes
had a beseeching, almost a tearful expression,
as she held her torn and unfastened dress together
with her hand, as if saying, “Do not
blame me—it is not my fault.”
The father tried to smooth away the curly
tangles of her abundant hair with his hand;
but it defied his skill, and with a “Never
mind, my dear,” he pinned the untidy dress
over the thin and sun-burnt shoulders of the
girl, remarking, “We will go in, and see if we
can't improve your toilet a little.”
“No, father!” said Nellie, “I will stay here.”
“Why, my child?”
“Jimmy is here, asleep,” she said.
“Oh, we will wake him up;” but Nellie
prevented her father from doing so, by pulling
his head down to hers, and whispering something
in his ear, of which I caught the meaning
sufficiently to know she had been charged
by her mother to keep the baby out of her
sight all the afternoon.
“Well, then,” said the father, letting go
her hand, as if there were no appeal, “but it
seems to me Jimmy ought not to lie on the
damp ground.”
“Mother says it won't hurt him,” answered
the little girl; “but I have spread my apron
on the grass, and I keep his head on my lap
a'most all the time.”
“Well,” he said again, and we left her
there.
I felt uncomfortable, and could not keep the
delicate and sweet-faced creature out of my
mind; she had an air, as if meekly yielding to
a hard destiny, that I had never seen on the
face of a child till then, and her unkempt hair,
bare feet, and untidy garments, attested the
negligence with which she was treated.
The doors and windows of the house stood
open, and it had a dusty and empty look,
as though the mistress were dead, or gone on a
journey. With no work-basket, no easy-chair,
no flowers, the stiff old-fashioned furniture had
the appearance of having been bought a century
before, and of having remained all that
time in the position in which it was placed
at first, without renovation, without dusting,
even. Flies darkened the windows, and frequent
holes in the faded Turkey carpet showed
an accumulation of dirt beneath which might
have been useful in the garden.
After considerable search, through kitchen,
cellar, and the premises in general, Henry
succeeded in finding a sluttish, ill-bred girl,
supposed to be a servant, whom he dispatched
in quest of Mrs. Graham.
This young woman, who answered to the
name of Jo, returned, after an absence of
unreasonable length, and informed us that the
lady would see us in her own room. In
response to Mr. Graham's direction to show
us up, she grinned, and slapped the wall with
a dish-cloth, as she led the way.
The apartments seemed pitched together,
one a little above another, and there were
many corners, and points, and turnings, so
that we could form no idea where our journey
was likely to terminate, till the brown-armed
maid suddenly wheeled about, and kicking
backward, forced a door open, when, saying
“She is in there,” she retreated, beating the
wall again with her wet and dirty napkin.
The room we entered, though Mrs. Graham's
own, presented no better aspects; it
had the same glaring, staring, dirty, and
empty air. Soiled towels, in strings, were over
the chair-backs; basins half full of water,
which seemed to have been dipped from
some stagnant pool, and pitchers with their
gilding mostly concealed under greasy accumulations,
garnished the seats and floor;
bundles of dirty clothes protruded from
beneath the bed; night-caps and old hats
hung over the pictures; spider-webs were
about the cornices and windows; dishes of
fruits and parings, soup-plates, and spoons, and
bottles of oil, and pill boxes, added to the various
confusion. The book-case was open, and its
the great chair in which Mrs. Annette Graham,
mistress of Woodside, sat, enveloped,
for the most part, in a bed blanket. Having
removed various obstacles, and dusted one of
the chairs, Mrs. Perrin seated herself, glancing
about in a way that seemed to say, “I expected
to find things bad enough, but this
surpasses the ideas I had formed even of your
slovenliness.”
Not at all discomposed was Mrs. Graham
by these astonished and reproving looks;
scarcely, indeed, did she lift her eyes from
the jeweled fingers that locked themselves
together on her lap.
She had no energy, she said, and had lost
the hope of ever regaining that she once had;
she was quite reconciled to her prison, withal,
from which she hardly expected ever to go
out again.
Her eyes looked purposeless out from their
black setting; her hair was quite gray; and
her face lifeless and inanimate.
“Do you want to read all these books?”
said Mrs. Perrin; and yielding to a natural
one, in the case, dusting them as she did so.
“No,” said Mrs. Graham, in the same impassive
tone, “I have been turning them over
a little.”
“Why, can't you find anything to do to
amuse yourself?” asked the dame, sharply.
“I am not well enough to work,” she replied,
“and I don't know anything worth
doing, if I were.”
Mrs. Perrin's look grew more compassionate;
perhaps she is really ill, she thought,
and by way of awakening her interest, if anything
could, she spoke of her children, saying
how pretty Nellie was, and how pale the baby
looked, as if he were falling away.
“I don't know as Nell is pretty; her hair
is like her father's;” answered the mother;
and there was a little more energy in this
than anything she had said.
“Well, her father has fine hair, I am sure,”
said Mrs. Perrin, emphatically; “it's just the
color John's was, when we were married.”
“It's well enough,” replied Annette, and
removing a ring from one of her fingers, idly,
some spot upon the wall.”
“Lord! have mercy,” cried Mrs. Perrin;
“is that the wedding ring?”
“I don't know; it's quite immaterial,”
she replied, and locked her fingers together,
as before. Mrs. Perrin stood still, in astonishment.
The door opened softly, and Nellie,
putting her face into the room, asked if she
might come in.
“To be sure,” said Mrs. Perrin; “I hope
you don't have to ask to come into your own
mother's room?”
“She is so sick, you know,” answered
Nellie, “I don't like to disturb her.” And,
bent with the burden of a three years old
helpless child, she came timidly in.
“Bless his little soul!” said the kind
woman; and, relieving Nellie of her little
brother, she expressed her feelings in the
most endearing caresses.
The poor child drooped his head on his
bosom quite resignedly, and indifferent, as it
appeared, to all the affection she could display
for him.
She held him erect and tried to make him
smile; but he fell back on her bosom, and
never smiled at all. “What are you doing
for him?” she asked, addressing the mother;
but her attention seemed to be following a
cloud seen far off through the window, and
she did not hear. “I say, don't you give him
no medicine, nor nothing?” she repeated, in a
louder voice.
“No, he don't need medicine; he is always
just so quiet.”
“I wish he wasn't, mother; I would rather
he played, and was more trouble,” and Nellie
pulled the hair over her eyes to hide tears
that would come into them.
“And has he never more color?” inquired
Mrs. Perrin, trying to kiss some into his
cheeks.
“I don't know; I have not noticed him
lately,” said the mother, lifting her eyes
languidly, but evincing no new interest.
“He don't seem to notice anything,” Mrs.
Perrin said, and laid the boy on the lap
of his mother. He uttered a feeble and distressed
cry, but she spoke not to quiet him,
hand, as though it sought something, but without
touching his mother's bosom, he stretched
himself across her lap, clasped his white
fingers together, and moaning to himself, fell
asleep.
“Nell,” said Mrs. Graham, at last.
The daughter, who had been standing
meekly apart, with hands locked behind her,
waiting in the hope to receive some notice,
came forward with a flush of joy in her face,
and a smile, which illuminated it as when she
said “Father.”
The mother motioned her away, as though
her animated movement disturbed her, and
said calmly, “Take this boy to your grandma,
and ask if she thinks he is ill: I have not
seen her these ten days or a fortnight.”
Nellie took him up fondly and softly, and
went away from the room meekly and quietly
as she had come into it.
Mrs. Perrin, who till now, with that housewifely
art she understood so well, had been
endeavoring to put the place in order, suddenly
desisted from the task, and taking up
as though saying “It's no use: I can't stand it
any longer;” and with the words, “Come children!”
and an abrupt “Good bye,” was gone.
I made my courtesy at the door, but the eyes
of Mrs. Graham had not followed me.
“Woodside!” exclaimed Mrs. Perrin, as
she descended the broad stair-case: “a fine
place to have a name, to be sure! I might as
well name my little house Goodside.”
“Why, yes, Mrs. Perrin, and with a good
deal more propriety,” answered Rosalie, and
laughed, as she always did, at everything,
informing the dame that she had felt on
setting out as if she was to find something
good that day, but that her discoveries had
beggared all anticipations.
Mrs. Perrin also laughed, in spite of her
momentary vexation, and tied the bonnet
strings which she had indignantly flung back
over her shoulders.
“Well,” she said, “if there is any better
place about here, suppose we try to find it.”
We were at the foot of the stairs now, and
Jo presenting herself, Mrs. Perrin asked to be
“You can go if you want to,” said the girl,
pointing in the direction of a door near by,
“but she is as cross as an old bear, and don't
want to see anybody; may be though she will
pretend to be good as honey; so, go in if
you want to; that's her den.” Our rap was
answered by a sweet “Come in.” It was not
honeyed, however, as Jo had prophesied, but
grated a little as though it had been dipped
in sugar on the instant. Madam's face took
upon itself an expression which was meant
to be one of glad surprise, and in the same
accents assured us that she had been expecting
to see something very pleasant, but not
exactly the Millenium.
Nellie was gone, with the sick baby; the
grandmother had not found it ill, I suppose,
for she was bestowing a large amount of fondness
on a cat and three kittens, which she held
in her lap.
“Sweet little retreat, this, isn't it, dears?”
she said, looking round her den admiringly.
“I have been in it these twenty years!”
I know not how to describe her or the
medley about her. She was seventy years
old now, and seemed to have been heedless
and slatternly ever since she was born; and
both herself and her sweet little retreat looked
as much worse than the younger Mrs. Graham
and her apartment, as her forty years
more of experience in habits of slovenliness
could make them. Mrs. Perrin kept her dress
tucked from contact with anything about her,
and well she might do so. We declined an
invitation, though it was in the sweetest
phrases, to take a cup of tea, and left her,
while she was telling us of what a lovely
disposition her daughter Annette was, and
how beautifully they all lived together. She
called Jo, as we were retreating, and ordered
her to show us the nursery, and the beautiful
and elegant rooms occupied by her dear
sonny, Stafford.
Sullenly that young woman proceeded to
execute this commission. The nursery demanded
our first admiration, and such a
collection of cheese crumbs, spoons, gingerbread,
rattles, cradles, broken chairs, and
carpet, I never expect to see again.
In the midst of all, brushing the flies from
the face of the baby, sat little Nellie,
meek and patient, with the child who lay
straight, just as he had done across his
mother's knees, and with his hands clasped
on his bosom just as we had seen them there.
“Don't you get tired, darling?” asked Mrs.
Perrin.
A smile illumined her face; she had not
been called darling often, perhaps; and she
answered, “No, my arms ache a little sometimes,
but I don't get much tired;” and so
we left her. We next visited the beautiful
and elegant apartments consecrated to the use
of Stafford, and here were agreeably surprised
to find order and cleanliness. How it was
created or preserved in the midst of so much
filth I know not, but it had been, for there
everything was nice and polished, shining
right in our faces and demanding astonishment
as well as admiration; pots of flowers,
geological specimens, books, writing implements,
music, and various other things, all
evinced refinement, pride and exclusiveness
on the part of their master, as plainly as
words could have done.
No particle of the spirit of disorder which
ruled other portions of the house had apparently
ever entered that door. We did not
feel at liberty to remain there long enough to
take very particular cognizance of things;
something seemed to inquire of us whether
we had any especial business there, and we
withdrew, feeling very much as if we had
been intruders.
As we passed through the yard toward the
garden, where the flowers bloomed attractively,
we saw sitting on a bench in the sunshine an
old man, silent and very thoughtful. A small
basket of fruit was beside him, in the grass,
and Mrs. Perrin, taking it up, exclaimed,
“Why, Mr. Furniss, where in the world did
you get such beautiful apples?” He had not
seemed to notice us till then, and a slow smile
broke over his face as he said, “I brought
them from home, Mrs. Perrin, in the hope that
Annette would like them, but she says she
I can do will please anybody.”
“Hi! hi! don't say that, Mr. Furniss, now
this basket of apples would please me right
well, and if you will go home with me I will
fill it up with another sort.”
The old man looked solemn again; he might
as well walk along toward town; he couldn't
do her any good that he knew of; Annette
had not come down stairs to see him, though
he had walked so far to see her; and he
continued, “Well, it's no matter; I shall soon
be out of the way; I am old and worthless.”
“So be I old,” replied Mrs. Perrin; “but I
am not worthless, nor no more be you.”
The old man smiled again; and seeing
Henry busy in the garden we went forward—
Rose and I—to join him, leaving the two elder
people to conclude their conversation at leisure.
Mr. Henry Graham showed us through the
grounds, gathering flowers for us, and explaining
many things about horticulture which we
had not known.
“But it costs you so much pains,” said
that were kept so nicely.
“Yes, but work is the best thing for me; I
must keep busy;” and with an energy that
had in it something irritable, desponding, and
nervous, he resumed his tasks, saying in an
under tone, “Thank Heaven for the consolations
of work!”
Mrs. Perrin joined us now; she had Mr.
Furniss with her; and it seemed to me that
he looked considerably younger than when I
first saw him sitting on the stone bench. Mrs.
Perrin told us that if we preferred to go home
by the nearest route our ways would be
separate; she would like to have us accompany
her, but she thought it right to tell us this,
as we did n't know the ways so well as she.
“I do n't think I do know the ways quite so
well,” said Rose, archly; and she beckoned
me to follow her.
We were soon in the woods, for Rose protested
that she felt inclined to explore the
country, and preferred to return by a circuitous
route. The dry leaves made a rustling
beneath our feet; the undergrowth was thick
get lost it would complete a day's odd adventures.
We wandered about so long, gathering
flowers, and talking of our life at Uncle
Peter's, and of the “example” he had made
of himself, at which she laughed a great deal,
that I became tired, for I was never very
strong, and we sat down on a mossy log
together.
It was cloudy, and almost twilight in the
woods, now, and I said we had better go
home; but Rose demurred; she did not believe
it would rain; she was sure it would
be a good day to us; thus far she had had
nothing to regret, except our failure to see
that exemplary young man, Doctor Graham;
and I too wished in my heart we had seen
him, for his smile lingered in my memory,
and I felt that I would like if possible to
correct the unfavorable impression which I
was sure I had left upon his mind. Not a
straw cared Rose what notions he had carried
home of her; but what was to her a jest, was
a serious matter to me.
“My sentimental sister,” she said, seeing
vainly trying to make dimples in my cheek,
“rest here a little while, and I will go and
see if I can't find a flower like one I have lost,
and then we will go home.”
I said I would wait, but she must not be
long absent; and leaning my head against a
tree listened to a bird that sung in the
branches above me; it was a quiet monotonous
song, in keeping with the silence and
the dusky shadows. Presently I was aware
that the notes grew fainter; the bird was
flying away I thought, and all was a blank
till I awoke from sleep, startled and afraid.
Rose had not returned, and the wood was
darker than when she left me.
I could not tell how long I had slept; it
might have been a great while, and firght
made me think it had been. Rose must be
lost, was my first thought; and, throwing
down my carefully gathered flowers, I started
in search of her. Now and then I called, but
only echo answered; the woods grew gloomier
every minute; it would rain presently, and I
could not tell which way I was going. If I
alarmed so much; but I did not; I was lost,
and Rose was lost; it was near night, and
raining; these were all the facts I knew. I
thought once I heard the bark of a dog, and
the laugh of Rosalie, but listening I heard
only the rustling of winds through the trees,
and the plashing of large drops of rain.
I could not restrain my tears; Rose was
nowhere to be found, and for her I cried more
than for myself. All at once I crossed a footpath—hesitated
a moment—struck into it—
and dashed forward with all my might.
The rain fell heavily now, and I could have
heard nothing but the roar in the woods if I
had listened ever so long; so, with the thunder
howling behind me, and the lightning flashing
right it my face, I hurried on and on. It
seemed to look a little lighter before me, and
lighter yet. I was not mistaken; there was a
small clearing in the woods; I saw a log house
now, and the smoke crowding its way up into
the rain. I leaped the low fence almost at a
bound, and paused beneath a shed that kept
dry a huge brick oven, and, a little more
which had probably been boiling at the commencement
of the rain, stood steaming a little
apart from the door; some chickens were
holding a social meeting under the shed, and
one cock, defying the storm, stood boldly out,
but with tail sadly out of trim, and dripping
together. He elevated his head, to atone for
the disarray of his feathers, and crowed right in
the face of the thunder, evidently confident
that he had made the loudest noise. A pig-pen
ornamented one corner of the door-yard,
and a dozen squealing inmates were either
elevated on their hind legs and enjoying the
spectacle of the storm, or putting their noses
through the cracks of their well-ventilated
habitation; and a long-legged colt, to be compensated
for the pitiless peltings he was obliged
to endure, leaned his head far over the fence
and gnawed the bark from a young apple tree.
A glance round sufficed for these observations,
and they were just completed, when a great
brindled dog placed himself, erect, in the open
door, and barked at me furiously. The noise
brought two children to the door, and a woman
Muggins.
“By the living hokeys!” she exclaimed,
“if here ain't one of the young gals from old
Pete's. Come in, little gal, you look like a
drownded rat!”
She turned me around, viewing me from
head to foot—dripping hair, muddy stockings,
garments wringing wet—and the more
she looked the more her surprise was manifest.
She had n't done justice to her subject, she
seemed to think, in her first exclamations, and
strove to make what amends she might by
new ejaculations: “Peter, the Hermit! you
look like rag-shag-and-bobtail; now I'll be
darned if you do n't! Lord, help me! I never,
since I was knee-high to a bull-frog, did see
such a sight; it's as good as to go to the
museum; Mart, look at her!” But the individual
thus addressed no sooner complied with
her request, than, apprehensive, perhaps, that
my maiden modesty would be outraged, she
retorted, “You are smart, ain't you? Now
histe yourself up the ladder with you, and let
me take these things off before she gets her
she had a daughter that just changed her
shoes: she had been used to wearing hoss-hide,
and she put on a pair of dog-skin ones.
They had a great big dog, and his name was
Rover, though they called him Rove mostly,
and one morning they found him dead, and
they allowed how't he'd been poisoned; it
appeared like they could n't give him up, and
the man that buried the dog after he was
dead, took and tanned his skin, he did, and
made a pair of shoes for Annie—that was the
girl's name—and the first time she put them
on she took cold and died, she did. She had
been used to wearing hoss-hide, she had; she
was going to a night meeting; some said she
was engaged to marry Low Dartfoot—do you
know Low Dartfoot?—any way, he took it
awful hard when she died. They said some
of them could n't bear to hear the name of the
dog afterwards; he looked almost just like
our dog, the dog did, only he was about as
big again, and his tail wasn't half as long as
Spot's is, and he was as black as he could be,
and Spot is spotted, and he had white paws,
they would be of a wolf; it was just before
we were married that she died.”
Mart, who was about half-way up the ladder,
seemed at this point overcome with admiration
at the colloquial powers displayed by his wife,
and the easy gracefulness with which she gave
me entertainment, and looking back, fondly
said, “You are one of 'em; some fellers has
got a wife that has a tongue that's fast at one
eend, but I'll be dod-blasted, your 'n is hung
in the middle and runs at both eends!”
The pleased tone, and charmed look that
accompanied it, quite took the edge off from
any severity the speech might have otherwise
possessed; and Rachel, feeling complimented,
replied, that if she knew where to find a good
kettle-maker she would have enough brass
taken out of her husband's face to make a
forty or fifty gallon one, and then he would
have enough left to stare white folks out of
countenance, he would.
“Go it, shoes!” retorted Mart; and then,
addressing me, as I supposed, he said, “If I
had her to get over again, she 'd never be got
—that's all.”
He had disappeared in the little loft, but
Rachel elevated her voice so that he might be
benefitted as well as I, while she said she had
married him chiefly to get rid of him, for there
was no other way to do it.
Such was the pleasant banter, as the parties
seemed to regard it, that passed while I
exchanged my wet garments for the dry go-to-meeting
ones, rarely, if ever, used for their
nominal purpose of Mrs. Muggins.
“How did you happen in granmam's
woods, any how?” asked my hostess.
I explained all: the visit to Mrs. Perrin,
our parting with her at Mrs. Graham's, and
ramble in the woods where Rose, as I apprehended,
was lost.
This childish fear of mine caused my friends
great amusement; and Mart put his hat on
the head of Spot, as some excuse for his laughter,
and Rachel said she was giggling at the
rain, but she shortly corrected herself, and said
it was at her own thoughts, and she was n't
thinking at all.
Aware however of my real anxiety, they subdued
their mirth, and assured me there was no
possibility of Rose being lost, and Mrs. Muggins
the old man Furniss and Mrs. Perrin would
make a match. She believed it, she said, for
she onct heard Mrs. Perrin say she was sorry
for the old man, and we all knew pity was
kin to love; and she descanted at length on the
probabilities of their happiness, asseverating
over and again, that, for her part, she would
not lay a straw in their way. Some folks, she
said, thought it was a dreadful thing for old
folks to marry, but as far as she was concerned,
she thought that when the children
were all grown up, it wasn't nobody's business.
Mr. Muggins told me not to fret while I
had a ruff over me, and said that as soon as
the rain should stop falling in pitch-forks, he
would bridle his colt and take me home, upon
which I grew more content, and became
more interested in my new acquaintances than
I had previously been. It was twilight now,
and having made a log-heap fire, Martin put
the table-cloth about his shoulders, and went
forth to milk the cow, and Mrs. Muggins,
rocking the cradle with one foot, and having
a continuation of her accumulated gossip.
“Did you see anything of his reverence,
Staff? I suppose he would like to have me
say doctor, but I won't; well, I tell you, he
is a proudy; he used to be so dreadful high
tempered, that grandman herself, was afeard
of him. I call Mrs. Graham grandman because,
you see, she raised me. Well, I don't
know as I ought to say anything, but them
that's lived in places, finds out a heap of
things that them don't know that hain't lived
in places. Now, a stranger wouldn't think,
to see grandman, that she was the awfulest
tyrant and scold that ever lived; but, I tell
you, you had better believe she is. She used
to make Jim jump before a broomstick; he's
dead, poor eretur; he was a fool—no, I
oughtn't to say that—he's dead and gone
now. Henry got him the nicest sort of a
coffin, and put flowers about him, and the
preacher said, at the grave, he had been a
blind little one, or something like that. I
thought he was a'most too flowery in his
remarks, but some liked it. Grandmam never
crazy; I told him it wasn't like as if the boy
had had good sense—oh, I forgot!—well,
I didn't say that; it's no difference what I
said; them that's been in places shouldn't
tell everything they have seen in places.
Henry is a man that sees his own trouble;
he calls his own little boy James, I always
thought, in honor of the fool; oh, I didn't
mean nothing at all—things slip off a body's
tongue sometimes;” and she shook her head, as
she continued, “Henry Graham sees trouble;
if their walls had ears they could tell things;
I foreseed them when he married his beautiful
wife; I knew we should see what we should
see. It's no use talking,” she added, after a
moment's silence, “about things that's none
of a body's business, but if two women that I
know of were where the dogs wouldn't bite
them, I wouldn't be the one to cry.” And
then, “Do you believe there is any such thing
as love?” she asked me very abruptly. On
my replying “yes,” she proceeded: “Well,
some marries and don't know what it is, and
that is the reason that some is unhappy—I
there is one wuss thing than to marry a man
you don't love;” and having waited for my
curiosity to reach its climax, she added—
“to love one you don't marry, at the same
time.” I said I hoped there were few such
cases. “I know one woman who did that,”
emphatically observed Rachel, “and her name
is Annette Graham; she was in love with
Staff, and she married the tother one. Staff
wouldn't have her, and so she bit off her nose
to spite her face: that is about my notion
of things out thar. When she first come to
Woodside, things went on ever so nice; a new
broom sweeps clean, you know; they rode
about in their carriage, and it was all `My
dear,' and `my love;' but I knowed it couldn't
last, cause there was no foundation; and after
awhile the carriage wasn't used no more, and
Annette sat all day in her room, and was sick
like; and grandmam growled all day in her
den; and Henry sent away the gardener, and
took to hoeing, mostly hisself; it appeared
like he worked to keep hisself company, for
his wife didn't speak to him week in and
all thought may be Annette would be more
natural like; but she took no more notice of
it than she would of a cat, at first; but when
the baby began to look like her father, it appeared
like she hated the sight of her, and
when she was no more than three years old,
Nellie would sit in the garden, or other place,
alone all day; it seemed like as if she had an
old head on young shoulders. Oh, she's the
best little thing!”
I had noticed her meek, patient look, and
sweet smile, and said so.
“Yes,” said Rachel, “she smiles like her
Uncle Staff, and he smiles as sweet as an
angel, though he has a divel in him as big as
an ox; and yet I don't blame him so much
sometimes, nuther; they're just like ile and
water, all of them: they won't mix. Henry,
he takes to work, and has a plainer nater,
somehow; and Annette was proud and high
flying at first, and I guess she thought somethings
would make up for others; but you
can't make a silk pus out of sow's ear, and
there ain't no use in trying; and you couldn't
had put a king's crown on his head. Oh, I
have hearn that woman say things to that man,
that she might just as well have put a knife
into his heart; this was along before the baby
was born.” She lowered her voice to a
whisper as she said these last words, and
added in a loud tone, by way of explanation to
the children, “before the doctor-man brought
little Jim to her.”
“Did the doctor man bring us to you,
Rache?” asked Jackson, his curiosity excited
by his mother's concluding observation.
“You musn't ask questions,” she answered.
“I say, Rache, if you don't tell me, I'll set
Spot onto you.”
Mrs. Muggins whispered me that she didn't
mean her children should know anything, and
she thought it better that they should believe
a whopping big lie than know anything; after
which she stated to Master Jackson, that an
old man with a blanket on his shoulders, let
him down out of the sky in a bucket, by a
rope a thousand miles long, to which the
young gentleman replied: “Yes, in a horn;”
to trace things to first causes, as all children
are; “where did tothers come from?”
“I found one of them in an old hollow
stump in the woods,” said Rachel; “and
tother, the ugliest old critter that ever lived
in the world brought to me one midnight
when the lightning was going faster than a
hoss could trot.”
“How was she ugly, Rache?” asked the
boy, enforcing his mother's attention by a
sharp blow with a stick: “tell me, Rache, tell
me; how was she ugly?”
“Oh, Lord! how you do torment a body!
She was ugly, cause she had eyes as big as
the moon; and cause her mouth was a good
deal like yourn, and cause she had a body
like a snake, and crawled, and was speckled
and spotted, only her face and hands, and they
was white.”
“Oh, mommy, wasn't she ugly!” exclaimed
the boy, frightened into something like filial
affection; “if ever she comes again, let me
see her; didn't she skeer you? I'll knock
her down with an axe, and I'll shoot her with
and I'll kill her, and I'll chuck her into the
pond,” and brandishing his stick he rushed
out to do battle with the old cow, or the hens,
or the pig-pen.
“It appears to me,” said Rachel, musingly,
“to be sure I hain't got no book learning nor
nothing, and I may be mistakend; but, it
appears like some folks are just pizen to
others, and the more they are together, the
more pizen they are. I've heard them say
that there was some things that was good in
themselves, and other things that was good to
themselves, that when they was put together
and mixed up, made rank pizen — I heard
Doctor Snakeroot say that; and onct I heard
a preacher say perty much the same thing;
and often when I've seen grandmam's folks,
I've thought of that. Grandmam, you see,
was rich in the first place, and a real gentleman
that was poor as a church mouse married
her, and brought her to Woodside; and, for
the most part, he left her there, while he
travelled about all over the world, as you may
say. I suppose he had seen almost everything
and took sick of a fever and died; and the
children seemed to take half after him and
half after her, and not to be right no way.
The youngest of 'em was a perfect fool—
powerful weak in his jints, and no better in
his head. Poor Jim! he had a mighty fine
coffin.
“Well,” Rachel continued, “whatever it
was fust, or whatever it was last, you see how
it is now; the old woman's turned bear, and
Nette has turned to stone, and Staff, they say,
is like his father; and though he seems so
proud and hateful, I've seen him try to make
of Hen, and his mother, too; but it appeared
they wouldn't be made of, and something in
him wouldn't let him make of them long;
and some times, it appeared, like he was, was
ashamed of them. Poor Henry! he has more
goodness in him than twenty Staffs; but I
don't know how it was, something ailded him,
that he couldn't be one thing nor tother.
And now, Nellie has come into this neck
of woods, and it appears like it is only to suffer;
she minds little Jim as good and motherly as
week's end to another; I've always thought
she would be took, she is so good; but, may-be,
the baby will go fust. They say he likes
cow's milk—queer, ain't it? Fool like,” concluded
the little woman, “I have been saying
what was none of my business; but them that
are in a house as I was in that house, learn a
heap of things that outsiders don't know
nothing about;” and rising, she tied the baby
to a chair with her husband's pocket handkerchief,
and shaking off the other child, told him
to scratch for hisself a time, while she began
to prepare the supper.
“That's the way!” exclaimed Martin, setting
down his milk pail: “she has been a
gabbing all this while; she gabs more, she
does, than any woman in four states. Now,
just see at her, how long she will be getting
the grub; I wish I had my courting days to
come over again.”
I can't explain by what process of interpretation,
but the inference I drew was altogether
favorable to the excellent qualities of
Mrs. Muggins; in short, that Mr. Martin Muggins
convey away Mrs. Rachel Muggins, for
any other woman in the world.
Rachel replied, that she wished to goodness
their courting days was to come over, and she
would chuck a turnip in his mouth when he
teased her to say “Yes,” for that he would
have to take “No” for an answer, that was as
sure as rolling off a log, if she had it to say
agen; which, also, being interpreted, signified
that Mrs. Rachel Muggins would be exceedingly
averse to the aforesaid barter, sale, or
conveyance.
“He is always just so funny,” said she,
when Martin had gone down to the brook to
sharpen her butcher-knife on some accommodating
stone.
“May be we would not have got along so
well, but you see we had not the first red
cent to begin with, and it was, Root, pig, or
die—that's the way him and me begun;” and
she looked proudly about her house, as though
all her ambition had been amply gratified.
Against the rough wall hung a side-saddle,
which she said was a weddin' gift from grandmam;
had made—he was so handy — held the
clothes of herself and children; a bedstead,
which she said cost five silver dollars, a table,
some chairs, and a few shelves, containing the
Bible, hymn-book, a volume of famous murder
cases, and the dishes, constituted most of the
furniture.
Martin speedily returned, and by way of
thanks, Rachel told him she thought he had
stayed to make a knife; and he replied, if I
would just see at her, now, I'd find how lazy
and good-for-nothing she was. Having thus
called my attention to the quickness and industry
of his better half, Mr. Muggins threw
himself on the bed to sleep an hour or two, as
he said, while he was waiting for the grub.
The rain had ceased falling, and the scent
of the near onion bed came on the breeze to
the open door, where lay the wet and shaggy
Spot. The baby folded itself together over
the handkerchief with which it was tied to
the chair, and was quiet; the second boy
mounted his father's foot and rode to grandmam
Graham's, that being, no doubt, the only
having made two or three dives and pitches,
gave the table a push with one foot which
landed it in the middle of the floor, rattled
down some knives forks and tea-plates, flung
up the chairs in a twinkling, snuffed the
candle with her fingers, carried the blazing
wick to the door and threw it out, and asked the
second boy, still furiously riding towards grandmam's,
to pull his father's nose, by way of
announcing that supper was ready.
I would have been glad to go home, but
they would not hear of it until I had partaken
of their fare. A substantial meal of bacon,
eggs, milk, and tea, was spread before me, to
which I should have done more justice, perhaps,
but for my uneasiness about Rose. I
feared she was wandering about the woods,
and felt that it was wicked to eat or smile
while her fate remained unsolved.
I felt but little less wretched when, at last,
Mr. Muggins took down the side-saddle from
its peg, and said he would carry me to old
Throck's in the crack of a cow's thumb. The
donkey which I had seen Mrs. Muggins ride,
led beside a stump, and, dressed in the ill-fitting
clothes of Rachel, and with my own in
a wet bundle on the saddle-horn, I rode away,
Mrs. Muggins having invited me some fifty
times to visit her again, and saying to Mr.
Muggins she hoped that was the last she
should ever see of him.
“My wife,” said Martin, “speaking very
loud, so that she might hear him, “sours all
the vinegar in the neighborhood;” and with
these parting salutations, the loving couple
separated for an hour.
A woful picture I made as we rode into the
broad light at the door of Uncle Peter's, “accoutered”
as I was, and with my red eyes
and anxious face.
A merry laugh was the greeting in reserve
for me. Rose had been home for hours, her
dress as neat and orderly as when we set out,
and her face radiant with a beauty that I had
never seen in it before. Uncle Peter said I
was very stupid to lose myself in an acre of
woodland, and Aunt Sally kissed me, when
he did not see it, and told me, in a whisper, I
myself, she thought it would be best for the
good nature of her husband; and I affected
to believe her, and obeyed.
“Mrs. Throckmorton,” I heard him say, as I
left the room, “I wish you would repeat my
order to Westley.”
“What order, my dear? I did not hear
any.”
“You astonish me, Mrs. Throckmorton: my
order about the easy-chair.”
“Oh, I believe I did hear it,” said Aunt
Sally; “did you want it brought up, my
love?”
Now, Uncle Peter had no easy-chair, nor
had he given Westley any orders about one,
and Aunt Sally knew it, nevertheless she believed
she had heard such a direction; and I
heard her feebly supporting herself along the
stair-case, and keeping down her cough, as
she went in search of the myth.
That was a lonesome night to me. Hours,
it seemed, I lay, striving with my tears, before
Rose joined me. What could she be about?
and why did she not come to tell me how she
about me? At last she came, humming to
herself, and apparently not thinking of me
at all.
“Oh, Rose!” I said, “I was so afraid you
were lost; you can't think how I have suffered.”
“Foolish child!” she said, “why, I never
had a fear about you; look at me close, now,”
and she stood at the bed-side, “and be sure
that I am Rose, and that I am not lost.” She
was merry, as she spoke, it seemed to me mockingly,
and I turned my face to the wall. She
had never called me a foolish child before,
and she had never seemed so far away from
me. I could not yet believe she was Rose, or
that she was not lost.
She saw that I was pained, but without
saying so, put her arms about me, and asked
me to tell her about my adventures, and where
I had found that queer old dress I wore home.
The words were well enough, but I could
not help thinking they had lost their common
meaning. I stifled my emotion, and related
all that had befallen me, she laughing all the
and best sister in the world.
“Does she say so,” I said to myself, “because
she really thinks so, or is it that she
would offer me some atonement?” And yet I
could accuse her of no designed inattention;
why, then, should I feel that there was anything
to atone? I could not tell, but reason
as I would, I felt that I was injured.
She said never a word, when I had concluded
my story, of the way she came home,
or of any uneasiness she had suffered on my
account.
I sighed myself asleep, at last, but awoke
again and again, frightened, and still thinking
her lost, and not even when I found her, in
reaching about the bed, could I be quite sure
it was she. I could not interpret her; I only
knew that I had never felt so alone; I only
knew that even when my arms were about
her she seemed lost.
The moon looked through the broken clouds,
now and then, and silently and fearfully I
raised myself on my pillow, and peered about
lest some strange person might be in the room.
be there, I did not know. If the dog barked,
I was awake, and if Aunt Sally coughed, ever
so faintly, I heard it. Rose, I thought was
much awake, too, though she lay quite still,
as if her thoughts were sweeter than mine. I
was glad when the morning came, but I could
not rid myself of the disagreeable impression
the previous day had left.
“What a foolish child you are!” Rose said,
when I told her of my emotion. She said
“child” again, and I counted how much I was
younger than she; it was not two years, yet
she seemed in the last day to have become a
woman, while I was still a child.
Two or three days after this we were sitting
in the shadow of a tree, near the main road,
Rose reading, and I fringing napkins for our
aunt, when Doctor Graham, who was riding
in his handsome phæton, accosted us. He
had heard of my exposure to the rain; hoped
I had not suffered; and complimented me by
saying the inquiry was superfluous. He smiled
kindly while he asked his questions, but the
smiling seemed not for me. To Rose, he paid
there was a deference in his manner, which
outweighed a thousand pretty things, though
he had said so many to me.
“And so you did n't think my flowers worth
coming for,” he remarked to her.
“Oh!” she replied, ingenuously, “I forget
all about them!”
This was not very flattering; yet so far was
he from being offended that he gave her a
look of the sweetest tenderness, and asked if
he should have the pleasure of bringing them.
Oh, no! Rosalie would not trouble him; she
would go to Woodside another day. Doctor
Graham was often in the woods with his dogs;
would she oblige him by saying when she
might be expected? She was no authority for
herself, just then: it might be that day—it
might not be for a week. If she found herself
at leisure, his carriage was quite at her
service; he only regretted that it would not
accommodate a third person — bowing to me.
I was very grateful, but had promised Aunt
Sally to fringe her napkins, and could not
have gone, though it had been twice as large.
that I could have done better.
“Tell Uncle Peter,” said Rose, “that he
must pardon my running away; I have an
opportunity of bringing him, from Woodside,
some of the fairest flowers in the world.”
And in her simple dress, ungloved hands,
and hood of blue, she was sitting beside the
proudest man in all that part of the country.
I remained in the shadow, at my task, as
long as I could see the carriage, and the feeling
that Rose was my fond sister no more, came to
me, if not so turbulently, at least as solemnly,
as when I found myself alone in the woods,
and heard the thunder muttering in the
darkness. I could not bear to stay by
myself, and returning to the house, repeated
Rose's apology to Uncle Peter.
“Bless her, what a dear girl she is!” he
replied, rubbing his hands, assured that she
was gone especially for his pleasure.
“Some has one way, and some another, of
showing a good heart,” said Aunt Sally,
meekly; “now Orpha stays at home and
helps me.”
“Poh!” said Uncle Peter.
“Well, you know if I didn't talk, I wouldn't
say anything,” replied my aunt, deprecatingly,
and as though she had been guilty of saying a
very foolish thing.
I bowed my head lower and lower over my
fringing, that Uncle Peter might not see how
much I was affected by his words, and Aunt
Sally, quietly leaving the room, beckoned me
to follow. I might, she said, if I chose, go
over to Mrs. Perrin's, and carry her a tea
cake; she had some fresh ones, and the old
lady was fond of them; “But don't say anything,”
she enjoined, “to anybody;” by which,
I understood, that I must not tell Uncle Peter
that I had taken Mrs. Perrin the cake. She,
good woman, thought it would amuse me, but
feared to do good, except by stealth, lest it
might displease her master.
“Mrs. Throckmorton!” he called.
“Yes, my love!” she replied, in her most
obedient tone.
“Just look round the house, a little, and see
if I haven't dropped my handkerchief,” exclaimed
the authoritative man.
“Yes, darling, right away.”
I dissuaded her with a motion of my hand,
and went down myself. I searched diligently,
but no handkerchief was to be found. She
was waiting at the landing, and when I had
communicated my want of success, she descended
herself, but in vain. Uncle Peter
held the lost handkerchief in his hand; but
Aunt Sally attached no blame to him; she
blamed herself for having been so stupid as
not to look about a little up stairs before going
down. The exercise and the worry brought
back the troublesome cough; but she said it
was nothing; she had always been troubled
with it more or less.
It was a lonesome walk to Mrs. Perrin's. I
missed Rosalie all the way; it seemed that
we should never be one again as we had been
when we played in the sugar camp.
My long shadow went beside me, for it was
near sun-set, but my thoughts, which had been
sombre enough, took a more cheerful color
when I saw Mrs. Perrin's windows ablaze, and
the smoke drifting from the chimney in fantastic
curls; it was as if nothing melancholy
in and out, and up and down, and it seemed
to me that she looked more youthful and
happy than I had ever seen her. She was
spreading the table in the porch, and I saw at
once that it was in holiday style, and for two.
She was “dreadfully obleeged for the teacake,”
she said; it came all in good time;
she happened to have an old friend, a very
old friend, to drink tea with her; it had not
been his intention to stay so long, she supposed,
but they had got to talking about old
times, and the first thing either of them knew,
it was sunset, and then he had said that as he
had hindered her so long; he would try and
help a little, and he was accordingly at that
very moment milking her cow for her, which
Mrs. Perrin was sure was very good of him.
Presently the old friend made his appearance,
steadily carrying the milk pail, brimming
full. The wo-begone look which I had
noticed at first, seemed to have been unsettled
in his face, and a smile was struggling for
existence there, for the visitor was none other
than Mr. Furniss, whom I had last seen carrying
him by saying he was the father of
Annette Graham, and at Woodside very often;
and when he was so near, she didn't know as
it was any harm for him to come over and see
her. But some folks, she supposed, could
make a good deal of talk about it, if they
chose.
“Why, Polly,” said Mr. Furniss, “let folks
talk, if they will: we are both of age, ain't
we?”
Mrs. Perrin seemed not very well to like
this allusion to age. “As for being so terribly
old, I have known older folks than either of us
begin life anew, as it were.” And as she said
this, she suddenly disappeared into the cellar,
with her milk pail. Mr. Furniss thought she
would, perhaps, be afraid there, alone, and so
followed her down, which I thought exceedingly
kind of him. I heard them chattering
like two magpies, but distinguished nothing
except the words Richard and Polly, which
seemed to be in frequent use.
When they came up, Mrs. Perrin told me
her friend (he was a very old friend, and came
examine some turnips which she had proposed
putting out as seedlings. She had known
Annette Graham's father for twenty years,
and it was nothing uncommon for him to do
such little favors for her. She was afraid it
might have appeared a good while to me, that
they remained away, though she supposed
they had not really been more than three
minutes.
“There is a difference in the length of
minutes, Polly,” said Mr. Furniss; “I have
not seen them so short as they have been to
day, not since I was left alone.”
“Too much of one thing is good for nothing,”
replied Mrs. Perrin, “and you and me
have both been alone more than has done any
good.”
Mr. Furniss looked at Mrs. Perrin as if she
had said a very wise thing, and the longer he
looked, the more his admiration seemed to
grow. At last he said, “Why, Polly, you
don't seem to me to have grown a day older,
these twenty years.”
“Oh, yes, I have, though I'm just as smart
look young enough to go to see the girls.”
“Why, Polly Perrin!” replied Mr. Furniss,
evidently well pleased; “I know I look older
than you, though I believe I have kept my
years pretty well. I will leave it to this little
girl here, now;” and he placed his chair close
to “Polly's” and his face so against hers, that
I wondered she didn't remove a little. I had
never been arbiter in so important a case, and
in my distrust of myself, referred them to the
looking-glass, to which, with their faces in the
same close relation they resorted.
“Mercy, Richard!” exclaimed Mrs. Perrin,
“you seem to have the feelings of a young
man, at any rate; if I had thought of such a
thing, I wouldn't have come to the looking-glass
with you,” and she returned to the porch
in a flurry, and held up one hand in quite a
girlish manner, as if saying, “Now, Richard
Furniss, repeat that, or even come one inch
nearer, if you dare.” Nobody likes that “if-you-dare”
insinuation, and Mr. Furniss was
no exception, and at once braved the prohibition
by sidling up to the widow, and remarking,
which he had been dallying, “They are
pretty, ain't they, Polly: almost like artifical
flowers?”
She had evidently never thought them so
curious and pretty till then.
“They would do to trim your cap, wouldn't
they?” and he twined the pale and delicate
sprouts among the black ribbon.
“Oh, you make me look like a bride!”
“And if you were to look like one,” replied
Richard Furniss, “you would only look like
what you might be, if you were a mind to.”
Mrs. Perrin didn't suppose there was a man
in the world that would have her.
“Why, Polly, you don't say what you
think;” and the look of real admiration which
he bestowed said very plainly that he did not
suppose there was a man in the world so great
a fool as not to marry her if he had an opportunity.
Mrs. Perrin received from his eyes
some such meaning as this, I think, for she
hastened to ask me if Rose were well, and why
she had not come with me. I explained that
she had gone to Woodside.
“Woodside! how did she happen to go
there?”
What would be impertinence in some persons,
was only the manifestation of kindly interest
in her; so I explained the whole matter.
She thought a little while with a pleased expression
on her face, and then asked how I
should like to be left to dance in the pig-pen.
I said I should not like it, for I did not
understand her meaning, till she continued:
“Yes, yes; you will lose Rose — the young
doctor will carry her off — how will you like
him for a brother, do you think?”
The mist cleared away; I understood now
why Rose had seemed so far from me; there
was something she had not confided to me;
she had gone into a new world; she was,
indeed, lost. I felt wronged and grieved, yet
did not blame her. I, too, could have loved
him, but with my life's devotion I could not
have purchased that which her carelessness
had secured — which she claimed as her right,
or stooped to receive.
I was young, and had always been a child
till my mother died; but when I left the
behind me, and when I saw Stafford
Graham my heart had stirred as it never did
before. I had longed to please him, even to
be noticed by him; and though I could not,
at the time, define my own feelings, nor
suspect, as I sat on the rustic porch with Mrs.
Perrin and her friend, why the sky looked so
black, and why the world seemed so wide and
dreary, I understood it all now.
I tried to divert my thoughts from myself,
by recalling what Rachel had said of the
“match” Mrs. Perrin would probably make.
I tried to listen to the conversation of the
ancient beau and the awakener of his memories
and emotion, as they recalled how such
an one had gone to school with them; how he
or she had lived his or her life, and was dead
long ago. Most of their mates were gone, they
said; they had grown old faster than they; and
while they did not seem to think the cutting
off of their own friends untimely, they regarded
themselves as only in the middle of
the race.
I have thought often that it is one of the
and to those we love, we never grow
old. The aged man talks of the boys that are
old men, and the husband sees in the wrinkled
face of the wife, the beauty of the girl of long
ago.
5. CHAPTER V.
I STATED at the close of the chapter about
Uncle Peter's illness and the way he made
an example of himself, that he felt more indebted
to Mrs. Perrin than to any one else for
his recovery.
Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton—for he liked to
read that name on his cards—was not ungrateful
nor unmindful, he hoped, of the excellent
qualities of his neighbor; though Mrs. Perrin's
sphere of life was not his sphere of life, she
really was an excellent woman. In view of
this complaisant recognition of a fellow-being
on the part of Uncle Peter, Westley was often
commissioned to bring the good dame to tea-drinkings
with Aunt Sally, or to invite her
which tea-drinkings and drives Mrs. Perrin
doubtless found a pleasure, the drives especially,
for they enabled her to give an old
friend a call, a very old friend, whom she had
known for twenty years and upwards: sometimes
to carry him a basket of apples, or a
pound of butter or cheese—he had done so
many kind offices for her that deserved some
return. Whether the cap trimming with the
turnip sprouts was among the kind offices I
cannot say, but incline to think that was not
forgotten.
Notwithstanding these small shows of amiability
and gratitude, Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton
felt oppressed by an indebtedness of which he
could not rid himself. He would sometimes
(and Mrs. Throckmorton remarked, that it was
generally after eating a late supper, or the
tapping of a new cask of the nice brandy
which did him so much good) awake in the
night, and groan, as if in extreme distress;
upon which occasions “Mrs. Throckmorton”
was in the habit of saying: “Peter, what is
the matter?” And it was not unfrequently
“Oh, Sally Ann! my sense of gratitude
won't let me sleep; it is as if a great
weight was oppressing me; there is a sense of
fullness that I can't give utterance to. Sally
Ann, are you asleep? Keep awake a little
while, Sally Ann, and talk cheerfully, if you
can; think of anything cheerful; I am so
weighed down, so burdened, as it were; it
would have been better if I had died, Sally
Ann; don't you think so, or don't you think
anything about me, any more? I believe you
are fast asleep. Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! I
wish I could sleep; I don't close my eyes
from one hour to another; and I dream such
ugly dreams. Sally Ann, are you asleep?”
“No, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“But what can I do?”
“Shut up your eyes, and see if you can't go
to sleep?”
“Oh, Sally Ann! you think everybody
can sleep because you can; if all your system
had been racked, as mine was, by that dreadful
spell, you would find as much difference
as there is betwixt day and night; be patient,
long.”
My aunt could not resist so pathetic an appeal,
and never failed to rub open her eyes at
this point, and ask her husband if he remembered
when they were married, and how it
rained, and she spoiled her white dress, walking
in the garden, and had to put on the sky-blue
satin, the first day; and then she would
inquire if he had not been afraid, upon that
occasion, that she would draw largely upon
his purse for her wardrobe. But the relieved
gentleman seldom got further than, “My
dear Mrs. Throckmorton, I do perfectly remember
our wedding-day, and the white dress,
and the rain, and the garden-walk.” Here he
would drowse away, and continue, “I remember;
yes—no—white dress—what did
you say? Are you asleep, Mrs. Throck-k-ock
—Sally An-n-n-n?”
Here a long, heavy respiration terminated
Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton's sense of oppression,
for an hour; and Mrs. Throckmorton,
after tucking the coverlids comfortably about
his shoulders, would succeed, by continued
wooing back lightly her interrupted sleep. It
might be that a blush would just have mantled
her cheek as in fancy she heard Peter for the
first time calling her “My dear Mrs. Throckmorton,”
when the whole bed would move to a
new paroxysm of the husband's discontent, and
the bride would awake but Sally Ann again.
“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! where am I? Sally
Ann, wake up and speak to me, and get me
out of this dreadful state!”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton; but what can I
do?”
“Why, you can't do anything as I know of.
I was so shattered by that dreadful spell, and
then the memory of Mrs. Perrin, and all she
did for me, is just like a nightmare. I wish
I had never been sick nor seen Mrs. Perrin;
sometimes I try to think she didn't do me any
good, but I know she did; she was just the
saving of me; I'd been a corpse, Sally Ann,
but for that woman; this sensible, warm being,
would have been as kneaded mud, as the poet
says; Sally Ann! ain't you going to do anything?”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton; shall I get you a
drink?”
“No, no, no, no! you can't do anything
unless you feel what I feel. How, sharper
than a serpent's tooth, it is to have a thankful
child!”
“What do you say, Mr. Throckmorton?”
“Oh, nothing; I was trying to give expression
to my feelings in the language of a sublime
and sorrowful mind; don't question my ravings
—it will make me worse. You haven't done
anything yet.”
“You said I couldn't do anything, Mr.”—
“Well, but a man don't always mean what
he says, especially when he has been broken
down, as I have. Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! I
thought, may-be, you could put your hand on
my head and stop its aching, and hold my
hands, they tremble so, and add a blanket to
the clothing, I'm all in a chill, and get up and
see what time it is, and ask me how I feel, or
some little thing like that; but it's no difference,
I couldn't stand it long any how; and
I might as well go first as last, I suppose.”
Here my aunt, weak and nervous, and a
place her thin, trembling hand on Peter's head,
and ascertain how his pulse was, and add a
blanket to the clothing, and see what was the
time, and then in tenderest accents inquire how
he felt, and if that frightful weight seemed at
all lightened.
Uncle Peter would generally be relieved at
this juncture; and upon one occasion he was
sufficiently so to relate a dream which had
disturbed him.
“Oh, Sally Ann, how you do sleep! Just
while I was talking you went to sleep; but I
hadn't the heart to wake you, and so I tried,
hour after hour, to slumber, but all in vain;
and when I did, for a minute, get the better
of this dreadful oppression, I had a dream that
was enough to make a man crazy.”
“What did you dream, Mr. Throckmorton?”
“Oh, Sally Ann! I thought I was walking
along the meadow, and I saw one of our carriage
horses eating grass; I saw him just as
plain as ever I saw anything; and all at once,
while I looked, he turned into a great big
elephant, and swung his trunk up and down,
though I am not naturally a coward, you
know, Sally Ann—nobody can accuse me of
that—I felt afraid. You know I was asleep,
Sally—if I had been awake I would not have
had a fear, but I was asleep, and I was a little
scared. I never had such a feeling in my life,
Sally Ann—not when I was awake, Sally
Ann; but you see I was asleep, half as sound
asleep as you was, it may-be, though it ain't
often that I any more than just forget myself
in the course of the night. Are you asleep
again, Sally Ann?”
“No, Mr. Throckmorton, I hear every
word.”
“Well, as I said, this astonishing elephant
shook his trunk at me, and it was as big, it
seemed to me, as the sill of my barn. Did
you ever see my barn sill, Sally Ann?”
“No, Mr. Throckmorton, I don't know as
ever I did, but I can guess.”
“No, you can't, Sally; you don't know
nothing about it if you never saw it; you
might as well have said you knew how the
reigning emperor of Russia looked, because
the trunk of that beast to, Sally Ann, that will
make you aware of its enormity?”
“Compare it to a big tree, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Well, Sally Ann, imagine a big tree with
its top all trimmed off—have you got any
imagination, Sally?”
“I don't know, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“What do you think the king looks like?”
“I think he looks like you, Peter, if you had
a gold crown on your head.”
“Why, Sally Ann, you surprise me; I had
no idea that your imagination was so brilliant.
Well, then, you can imagine the tree, denuded,
as I said.”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Well, then, imagine it swinging up and
down before your very face, and the beast
behind it big enough to have a trunk of the
diminutiveness described. Can you imagine
a beast as big as that, Sally Ann?”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Well, but have you thought how big his
feet would be?”
“Oh, as big as our carriage-house, nearly,
if the roof was off.”
“Ain't an elephant's foot an ugly thing,
Sally Ann?”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, so large an one
must be very, very ugly.”
“It was, Sally Ann; you can't fully get
the idea of it, but even as you see it, in your
mind's eye, I mean, you do n't wonder I was
a little stirred—a little moved, like?”
“No, Mr. Throckmorton, it's a wonder
you were not frightened out of your senses;
I would have been.”
“I'll dare say, Sally Ann; but women have
no nerve—none of the qualities that go to
make up a soldier. If I had been awake, and
in my meadow, and had actually seen as huge
an elephant as I have described, and with a
trunk as large as the tree you have partly
imagined: Sally Ann, are you asleep?”
“No, Mr. Throckmorton, how could I be,
and you telling about that terrible fright?”
“I was asleep, Sally Ann, you know; I
would have stood firm, all unarmed as I was,
if I had been awake; but it was in sleep, and
the big beast started at me like a battering
ram, and then I thought it discreet to fly, Sally
Ann, and set forward, or was about to set forward,
with the agility of twenty years, but it
seemed to me I couldn't run; my legs became
palsied, as it were, and refused to obey my
will, and I fell powerless, and yet I was perfectly
conscious of all the perils of my awful
situation. I tried to call, but my tongue was
like a piece of lead, and there I lay, at the
point of the bayonet, as you may say, and if it
had been to save my life I could not have
cried, nor, in fact, have stirred so much as my
little finger, and in that perilous crisis—
Can you imagine it, Sally Ann, or are you
asleep?”
“I can imagine it, Mr. Throckmorton, and
I'm not asleep.”
“Well, in that deplorable condition I lay,
and saw the beast as I have depicted, with a
trunk as big as a denuded tree, a body corresponding,
and a foot as big as our carriage
house, as you justly imagined, standing right
over me. I saw that foot uplifted—saw it
descending—and I could not so much as say,
bosom, where thy head so oft hath lain — and
instead of crushing me as I anticipated, and
as I had a right to anticipate from the circumstances,
it fell just like a feather; did you ever
have such a dream, Sally Ann? ever think
you were falling and come down just as soft
as could be?”
“Yes, I have dreamed such dreams!”
“And, Sally Ann, do you think you felt at
the moment those dreams had possession of
your mind, anything as I felt in the catastrophe
described? for though each blow of
that preponderating foot fell so softly, just like
a feather, I may say, I could not but be apprehensive
that the next would stave me in: how
could it be otherwise, Sally Ann?”
“I do n't see, Mr. Throckmorton.
“Nor I, Sally Ann! in my own mind, I
stand exempt from censure; but I fear this
recital may have lowered your estimate of
my manhood, to think that I should not have
speared the defiant creature to death, even in
a dream, Sally Ann.”
“But, Mr. Throckmorton, you had no spear.”
“No, Sally Ann, I was all unarmed; if I had
even at the risk of still further enraging the
furious animal. I did lift my arm—for at last,
after the terriblest struggles, I got a little use
of one arm. Are you asleep, Sally Ann?”
“Wide awake, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Well, I succeeded in uplifting one arm, to
fell the creature to the earth, and then—what
do you think, Sally?”
“I do n't know what to think.”
“Well, guess, Sally Ann.”
“Guess what, Mr. Throckmorton?”
“Why, guess anything: if I tell you what
to guess, it won't be guessing at all.”
“Well, Mr. Throckmorton, I guess a cow.”
“Oh, no, Sally Ann! just as I lifted my
arm to fell the extraordinary animal, it seemed
to me it was no elephant at all, but Clark
Boots, beating me, with his fist, for the rheumatism
in the heart. I couldn't strike a fellow
creature, you know, and while at that humane
employment; so I tried, once more, to run,
but he kept me still, by the asseveration that,
so surely as I attempted flight, that wretched
Doctor Tompkins would get his steaming teakettle
unresisting limbs; so I feared to fly, for I
dreaded that treatment excessively, as you
have reason to know, and—do you hear, Sally
Ann?”
“Not one word is lost, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“And, just as it came into my mind that
my last breath was gone, and that there was
no other way but that I must sleep in a coffin,
the next time I went to sleep—an unpleasant
reflection, you know, Sally Ann—I felt a
little relief, and, opening my eyes, as I thought,
I saw Doctor Snakeroot stuffing a live pullet
in the mouth of Clark Boots. Then it was
that a joyous jerk of my whole person caused
the bed on which we repose to vibrate.
Were you conscious of the movement, Sally
Ann?”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, your sudden
jump waked me?”
“Well, Sally Ann, wasn't that a dreadful
dream?”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, it was.”
“Is that all you can say to your poor husband,
and when he has just escaped from the
suffered what no money would hire me to go
through with. Oh, dear! the memory of it
seems to interrupt my regular respirations;
but if I had gone, may-be it would have been
as well!”
“Oh, my heart is too full for utterance; if
you were taken, I could not find another Mr.
Throckmorton in all the world.”
“No, Sally Ann, I don't believe you could.
I am the only one of my name that sustains
the ancient character of the Throckmortons.
Pardon me, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton; of
course, I could not breathe this to another;
but you, as I may say, are a part of myself.”
“Mr. Throckmorton, you are so kind!”
“Do n't go to sleep, Sally Ann; I am a
little nervous yet; I shall never get over that
dreadful bad spell I had; and just to think
of the things they did with me, Sally Ann!
you can't begin to know the things I suffered.”
“No, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Sally Ann, I am afraid you are going to
sleep; do n't you think its nearly daylight?
am afraid of darkness; I rather like it; it calls
up a man's bravery—Sally Ann, keep awake,
and see how pretty this deep blackness that pervades
the room, is; are you asleep, Sally Ann?”
“Mr. Throckmorton, I am not asleep.”
“Ain't there something white, Sally, in that
further corner of the room? Seems to me I
see something.”
“It's only my petticoat, hung over a chair,
Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Oh, I thought it was some such thing; I
was sure the daylight was not breaking yet;
I wasn't afraid, Sally Ann; but it would n't
be any wonder, would it, Sally, if I was afraid,
after such an awful spell of sickness? you see,
it quite unstrung me; I do n't feel that my
courage is less, but I feel it in other ways.
Do you hear, Sally Ann, what I am saying,
or do n't you hear nothing? It was a big
elephant, was n't it? and its feet, and Clark
Boots, and Doctor Snakeroot, and the dress,
and Mrs. Perrin—gratitude—Sally Ann”—
Here Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton drowsed
away again. My aunt was soon in happy unconsciousness;
Her hero-husband clutched hold of her arm,
with a power that would have broken a sleep
seven-fold deeper.
“Oh, Sally Ann! save me! save me!”
“Dear Mr. Throckmorton! I am right here.
What is the matter? I thought somebody
was killing you.”
“Oh, Sally Ann, I thought I was sick, and
that some devil of a doctor was dashing cold
water over me, so that I was drowning; and
I thought you were Mrs. Perrin, and I grabbed
at you to save me, and so I awoke. Seems to
me all the sheets are deluged with his horrid
cold bath; do n't they seem to you to be wet,
Sally Ann?”
“No, Mr. Throckmorton; it's all your fancy.”
“Oh, mercy! Oh, dear! that dreadful spell
has so shattered me! Sally Ann, you can't
keep awake, can you?”
“Why, yes, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“But you fall asleep while I am talking,
and I can only just forget myself, all I can
do; how can you sleep so, Sally Ann? I believe
you are going now.”
“No, Mr. Throckmorton; I hear you?”
“I wish there was a light, Sally Ann; it's
company, when a man is lonesome. Did you
hear me, Sally Ann?”
“Oh, yes, I hear you,” says the good woman,
and forthwith, she rises, and strikes a light.
Uncle Peter lifts himself on one elbow, and
looks about the room, screening himself from
the observation of Mrs. Throckmorton, by lifting
the coverlet between their faces. When he
has finished his survey, not omitting to peep
under the bed, he nestles close to her, and
begs that she will talk to him a little; say
something—anything—he don't care what;
and his admiring wife, her eyes fast shut,
revives, dreamingly, the happy memories of
their bridal day; repeats how the morning
was bright, and how pretty Mr. Throckmorton
said she looked; and how they walked in the
garden, and how the young husband was vexed
because that she accepted some flowers from
Colonel Mitchel, and how they sat in the
arbor, not seeing the clouds till the rain began
to fall, and so the white dress was soiled, and
she compelled to assume the blue the first day.
a memento of it.
He remembers the dress, perfectly, and,
in his joy, puts forth his hand to extinguish
the light, but concludes it may be more agreeable
to Mrs. Throckmorton, to leave the light
burning. Women are timid, and so it is suffered
to burn.
“Oh, Sally Ann!” he exclaimed, suddenly,
“there has a great thought come to me.”
“What, Mr. Throckmorton? But it is not
uncommon for you to have great thoughts.”
“You are a discerning woman, Sally Ann,
—few see as clearly as you.”
“You will spoil me with praise, Mr. Throckmorton.
But what did you think?”
“Would you be willing, Sally, that I should
convey away the blue dress?”
“Convey it where, and what for, dear? it's
never been out of the drawer, except to be
sunned (you know the moths will get into
things), since we were married, and I can't
think what you would convey it away for.”
“This was my thought, my dear Mrs.
Throckmorton; that dress, by its happy association,
prized by me beyond a ruby, by us both, I
may say; and what could so well express my
gratitude as the conveyance of this article, so
valued by us both, into the hands of the
estimable Mrs. Perrin? for we must not be
ungrateful, nor unmindful that it is to that
good woman we are indebted for all we have
enjoyed posterior to that bad spell. I, Sally
Ann, would have been a corpse, a stony,
white corpse, but for that estimable woman's
interfering prevention.”
“Mr. Throckmorton, you will break my
heart.”
“Forgive me, Sally Ann, I ought not to say
corpse; I wish I had n't said corpse; corpse is
an ugly word; I don't know an uglier word
than corpse, unless it be coffin. Ugh! it seems
to me I can see one of the long red boxes now.
Look, Sally: don't the light make the shadow
of a coffin on the wall. Oh, Sally, forgive me;
it's as bad to talk about coffins as corpses, and
I really don't know which has shocked you
the most, coffin or corpse.”
“But the blue dress, Mr. Throckmorton,”
are two reasons why I object to your arrangement;
in the first place, the dress is dear to
me, from association, and in the next place,
it would be quite useless to Mrs. Perrin.”
“Explain, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton, why
it will be estimable to you, and inestimable to
the excellent woman to whom I must make
some fitting expression of my gratitude. I
sometimes think it would be better to die
than to live under a weight of gratitude. It's
a debt we can't pay, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton.
Of all things, it seems to me that
blue dress, that so graced your youthful form,
would be the most fitting expression of my
grateful emotions. It's daylight, my dear Mrs.
Throckmorton, clear, white daylight. Surely,
you can't feel timid now, and I may as well
put the light out. I don't like a light burning
in the night: it makes me wakeful.”
“Oh, Mr. Throckmorton, don't burn a light
on my account; I don't want any light. I
thought you”—
“My dear Mrs. Throckmorton, don't say a
word; you can't, for a moment, suppose that
darkness, and so why should a light burn,
unless on your account? Ah, Mrs. Throckmorton,
own that you have a woman's weaknesses.
You rather like a light, in a dark
night, and when I am asleep, don't you, my
dear?”
Aunt Sally assented, of course, and Uncle
Peter dozed once more.
In the pleasant light of the afternoon, my
Uncle found the weight of gratitude pressing
less heavily on his bosom. He begged that
Mrs. Throckmorton would offer some “infeasible
plan,” as she had objected to his; whereupon,
that worthy woman timidly suggested
the propriety of consulting the personal inclination
of the nurse. To this he immediately
and decidedly objected. The delicacy of that
excellent woman might prevent the indication
of her wishes. He would procure a pair of
cupids, or a lap-dog to amuse her leisure
hours, or an antique vase, or something else
really elegant. Mrs. Throckmorton shook her
head. She still favored the idea of consulting
Mrs. Perrin. Not the lap-dog, nor the pair
was sure of that. So, after much deliberation,
and various propositions, it was finally determined
that Westley should be dispatched with
the best carriage to bring Mrs. Perrin to drink
tea.
In due time, she was set down at the door.
She carried in her arms a great bundle, comprising
no less than three meal bags and two
sheets. This was work for the afternoon.
Sewing was mere play, at best, she said; she
always felt as if she was doing nothing when
using her needle.
Mr. Throckmorton wore ruffles, and his diamond-pin,
in honor of the guest; and, as she
sewed up the bags, made various artful attempts
to ascertain what small addition to her
present possessions would be acceptable. A
black silk dress Mrs. Perrin already had. To
be sure, she had owned it, and occasionally
worn it, for twenty years; still it was about
as good as new, and if she had the money to
get one with, she didn't know as she should
buy a black silk dress.
“You see,” said Uncle Peter, hitching his
man, Mrs. Perrin, and to you I owe my life, I
may say, and if I could persuade you to accept
some trifle—some antique, or something or
other, of a high style of art, it would really be
another charity.”
“Grateful? nonsense! what have I done
for you? And I am sure I shouldn't know
what to do with an antique, if I had it, and it's
no use for a body to have what they don't
know the use of.”
It was fearful to be indebted to any fellow-being,
as he was. “Why, just think of it,
Mrs. Perrin,” said Uncle Peter; “I was almost
a dead man, and you came and enervated
me. I should have been in my shroud but
for you; and so I said to Mrs. Throckmorton,
last night; or, more strictly speaking, I said I
should have been a corpse but for you. I
said corpse, though, on remembering that
corpse was a word disagreeable to the ear of
Mrs. Throckmorton, and especially since my
bad spell, I amended the form of speech, and
instead of saying I should have been a corpse
but for you, I said I should have been in my
should now be a corpse, in my coffin, but for
your tender solicitude. Pardon my use of the
words corpse and coffin, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton;
I will not use the words corpse and
coffin again. And now, my excellent Mrs.
Perrin, what will you accept at my hands?”
“What nice, great bags!” she exclaimed,
holding one up admiringly. “They make a
body feel almost rich. One is to hold bran,
for my cow, and two are for flour.”
“What say you to a lap-dog? I will try to
get one, of the King Charles breed; they're
very beautiful.”
“Get along with you!” exclaimed Mrs.
Perrin; “I would as soon be caught with a
sheep on my shoulder, as with a dog on my
lap.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! what can I do?”
“Just do nothing at all for me, except to
send for me when I can do any good. Why,
I had a real pleasant visit the time I stayed
here all night.”
Mr. Throckmorton withdrew to the open air,
—he felt that he was stifling, and my aunt,
soon worked herself into the confidence of her
guest, and, without obtrusive inquisitiveness
or patronizing overtures, managed to get at
one of her long-cherished wishes. Mrs. Perrin
would really like to visit one of her children,
in a neighboring state, if she had a little spare
money.
Mrs. Throckmorton remained discreetly
silent, but resolved that the necessary funds
should be at her disposal.
Great was the joy of Uncle Peter, when he
learned that he could pay his debt of gratitude;
but the joy was of short duration, and Mrs.
Perrin had no sooner packed her black silk
dress, than an uneasy feeling took possession
of his heart. He hoped she would make her
visit a short one. To be sure, he was glad to
have her make the visit, but two things still
oppressed him: the sense of gratitude was in
nowise lightened—he was perfectly satisfied
that money could not pay for some things, and
he was still under as great obligations as ever;
and then, suppose he should get sick, and that
estimable woman be out of the neighborhood,
thought was a terror to him.
Mrs. Perrin was advised of his uneasiness,
and when she told him she should not be from
home more than two weeks, and that he looked
so well she thought it would be quite impossible
for him to get sick, if he should try, he
almost concluded it would be so, and, ashamed
of the fears he had expressed, shook hands
cordially and wished her good-bye.
But when it was certainly known that there
was no fire on Mrs. Perrin's hearth, and that
her old cow had been sent to one of the neighbors,
and that the door was locked, and the
windows dark at night, there came a change
over the spirit of Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton.
He insisted that the lamp should burn all
night. Something might happen; there was
always danger. He was more fearful for Mrs.
Throckmorton than for himself. Two or three
restless nights went by, and Westley was required
to sleep within call, in case of a sudden
and severe attack. My poor aunt! it was
little rest she had. During the day her husband
was less apprehensive, but at night-fall
whether Sally Ann thought he would be able
to rest at all. He would count on his fingers
the number of days Mrs. Perrin had been
away, and calculate the probabilities of her
returning sooner than she had proposed.
“Don't you think she will get tired, and feel
disposed to return, Sally Ann?”
Mrs. Throckmorton would assure him that
nothing was so likely as that Mrs. Perrin
would return earlier than she had intended.
There was no place like home, especially to
old people, she would say.
“May-be she has got home, now,” Uncle
Peter would suggest. “Had we not better
send Westley, Sally Ann? She may be at
home, and hurt at our want of attention;”
and so, after a week had passed since her
departure, Westley was sent regularly to her
house each night to see whether she had not
come back; and night after night, as he returned
with the intelligence that she was not
to be found, Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton felt
the probabilities of a sudden and severe attack
increasing.
He was one evening observed to take the
measurement of his breadth of shoulder and
waist very exactly, and such a measurement
he repeated nightly, afterwards, and though
he could not discover any visible diminution
of his dimensions he could not resist a belief
that he was falling away. The effect of that
bad spell, he said, remained in his system, and
he was sure that, sooner or later, he must fall
a victim to the villainous experiments practised
upon him.
And, in truth, his friends inclined to the
belief that he was not far wrong. His constitution
had really been unhinged by the contradictory
and sudden transitions of treatment
to which he was subjected.
Ten days of Mrs. Perrin's absence had been
worried through: for Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton
had not only the old weight of gratitude
to crush him, but the fear of a relapse added
thereto. It was no wonder he grew nervous.
The tenth night came. Westley returned
from his errand of inquiry—with intelligence
that Mrs. Perrin had not appeared, and Mr.
Throckmorton protested that the measure,
would then lap a hand's breadth; and, after
surveying himself in the glass, and repeatedly
questioning my aunt as to his appearance and
the probability of his becoming a corpse before
morning, the lamp was lighted, Westley
stationed at the door, in case he should be
needed, and, groaning and prophesying evil,
the miserable man retired.
It was near midnight, when Sally heard
the familiar call, “Oh dear! Oh mercy! I
knew it would be so. I am taken! Sally
Ann; I am taken! Can't you never wake,
woman? Oh, if I could sleep as you do!
Hour after hour I lie awake here, and you
asleep. Oh, Sally Ann! look at me, and see
if I ain't very sick; white as my shirt, ain't I,
Sally Ann? Yes, I know I am: there is no
need that you should tell me. Say, Sally
Ann, ain't I as white as the sheet?”
She was soon astir. “Dear Mr. Throckmorton,
what is the matter?” she said.
“Oh, Sally Ann! I am so dreadful sick; I
believe I shall be worse than I was before,
and no Mrs. Perrin to do for me. Wake
in the night. If she is at home, tell him to
bring her without loss of time; every minute
is worth its weight in gold. Oh, is he not
awake yet? He ought to be half-way there.
Call him, Sally Ann; louder! louder! louder!
Button his waistcoat for him; he'll never get
dressed. Westley! your master is almost
gone! Sally—Sally Ann—I can't hardly
speak; see if I ain't very bad; tell me what
you see; if there's any signs of immediate
dissolution? Oh, Sally Ann, you wouldn't
tell me, if you did see the fatal color on my
lips. Oh dear! Oh mercy! Oh my!”
“Where do you feel so bad? Can't you
tell me, Mr. Throckmorton?”
“Oh, it's all over; I'm sick all over, Sally
Ann; if that skillful woman was only here!
Is that boy yet there, do you think? Well,
how far do you think he has got, Sally Ann?”
“I think he is about half-way—a little
more than half-way, may-be.”
“Oh, Sally Ann! don't you think he is
further?”
“Not much further, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Oh, he must be, Sally! He has sense
enough to put spurs to his horse, hasn't he,
Sally Ann?”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Throckmorton! I Think Westley
will ride fast.”
“Oh, I wish he was back! Do you think
she will be at home, Sally Ann?”
“I am afraid not, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Oh, Sally Ann, it's cruel to say so; how
do you think I am now, Sally Ann? any
worse? But I know I am worse; it's no use
to ask you.”
I need not repeat all that Mr. P. I. T.
Throckmorton said on the memorable night
about which I am writing. Let it suffice, that
Mrs. Throckmorton was sent down stairs to
bolt and bar the doors, lest Mr. Clark Boots,
or Doctor Snakeroot, or some other of the tribe
whom the nervous man regarded as his tormentors,
should by one or another means
obtain admittance and make an end of him;
that she was sent to the window a dozen
times to ascertain if Westley were coming;
required to bring a looking-glass to the bed-side
that my calm and courageous uncle
how much he had fallen away in the last hour
of suffering; and that she was further directed
to bring the measuring string, and pass it
about the shoulders and waist of the agonized
man, and repeat, again and again, how very
ill she thought he was, and whether the attack
was not more violent than the first, and how
soon she thought Westley would come, and
what were the probabilities of Mrs. Perrin's
accompanying him, and whether she could do
any good if she did come, and if she could
do him good, how much she could do, and
how soon she could do it. All these things
and many more she was expected to do and
say in the space of half an hour.
Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton had just announced
it as his firm conviction that he
should not survive much longer, when the
servant returned. Mrs. Perrin was not with
him.
“Oh dear! Oh mercy!” he cried. “Come,
Westley, and look your last on your old
master. Don't grieve for me, Sally Ann; I
hope some other will fill my place, and be
Do n't cry, Sally Ann; we should have to part
sooner or later, and we should never be ready.
Seems to me, I heard somebody say a new
doctor had come to the village.”
“Yes, sir,” answered Westley, “there is a
new doctor, and they say he can nigh about
raise the dead.”
“Go, Westley, and bring him, quick as you
can. May be the breath of life can be kept in
me till he gets here. Sally, do you think the
breath can be kept in me till the doctor gets
here?”
“Yes, Mr. Throckmorton, I think so.”
“Do you think he can do me any good,
Sally Ann? It will be like raising the dead,
you know. Sally Ann, tell me I ain't so bad
as I think I am; but I expect I am worse
than I think I am; but, Sally Ann, tell me I
am not so bad. Ain't I awfully white, Sally
Ann? Say you do n't think I am, Sally Ann.”
Sally Ann, said she did n't think he was
very white; she did n't see, in fact, that he
was much changed at all.
But Uncle Peter, replied that it was useless
knew he must look very bad, and as white as
a corpse, and if she thought he was dying, it
would be better to say it; there was no use in
trying to deceive him. And so, do as she
would, my aunt could not please the nervous
and irritable man.
A loud and quick ringing of the bell put an
end to the disputation as to whether he were
as white as a corpse.
“Sally Ann, if that is the doctor, you must
tell him how I am; I can't speak above my
breath; I feel myself sinking every moment.
He must move very slow; I guess he is a man
of no energy. Sally Ann, tell me what you
think about his energy. Oh dear! Oh mercy!
I wish I had not sent”— The sentence was
cut short by the entrance of the doctor.
He was a slight old man, with a large head,
and thin grey hair, a mild and benevolent
countenance, and wearing a benign smile.
“This is the patient, I suppose?” he said to
Mrs. Throckmorton, waving one hand toward
the bed, but passing to another part of the
room.
“Yes, doctor, and he is very impatient. I
wish you would look at his tongue, and
examine his pulse, if you will be so kind;”
and, taking up the lamp, she moved toward
the bed, but on reaching it discovered that
the doctor remained motionless. His face was
turned from the invalid, and his hand was
pressing down his eye-lids. She observed him
with bewildered surprise, still holding the
lamp, and expecting some motion, but for
at least five minutes the doctor retained his
position. Uncle Peter, meantime, raising himself
on one elbow, assumed a look of indignation,
as well as of despair.
“Pardon me, my dear madam,” said the
doctor, at last, in a tone so gentle it was impossible
not to pardon him; “I was trying to
get an impression of my patient.”
“What does he say he is trying to get,
Sally Ann?” asked the sufferer, but my aunt
could only shake her head, dubiously.
“The patient, I think,” resumed the doctor,
“has not been ill a very great length of time;
that is the impression I get. Am I correct,
madam?”
“You are correct; it is only to-night that
he has been seriously affected.”
“Ah! I thought so. I could not see him
sick any length of time back.”
Here he closed his eyes again, and remained
silent for five minutes more, when, dropping
his hand from his eyes, he asked whether the
patient were not a slight man, like himself:
that was the impression he received.
Sally Ann informed him he was quite to the
contrary.
“Well, madam, I had two impressions,”
replied the doctor. “I first saw a stout man,
a very stout man. We can't always tell what
impression to trust, provided we get more than
one, as is often the case.”
“He must be a wonderful man,” whispered
my aunt to her uneasy lord.
“It is strange,” resumed the doctor, musingly,
“how reliable impressions are—how much
more reliable than the conclusions of reason.
The poet beautifully said, long before our
doctrine prevailed, that is, to any great extent,
—for it has in all ages had its adherents—
Man yet mistakes his way;
While meaner things, by instinct led,
Are rarely known to stray.”
“He seems to know a good deal,” whispered
my aunt, and Uncle Peter smiled, and said he
felt a little easier.
The doctor now bowed his head very low,
and, after a silence of five other minutes,
opened his eyes and illuminated the minds
of his listeners with an impression. He recognized
in his patient a middle-aged man:
that was to say, not a very young man, nor
yet a man a hundred years old. This impression
was also correct, and educed new signs
of astonishment.
“Oh dear! Oh mercy! I should like to
have you do something for me, if you are
ever going to. I can't survive this way,” said
Uncle Peter.
The doctor arose slowly, and, adjusting his
spectacles, approached the bed, where he
waved his hands slowly up and down, before
the sick man's eyes, into which he looked
steadily with his own.
“I don't want to be fanned; Oh, mercy!
I don't want to be fanned. Tell him so,
Sally Ann. I am all in a chill now; tell
him that, too, Sally Ann.”
“You hear his request,” said the meek
woman.
“My dear friend, I am not fanning, but
mesmerizing you. Don't you feel easier?”
“Oh, dear! I can't tell how I feel. Ask
Sally Ann.”
Mrs. Throckmorton thought he felt better;
upon which her husband concluded that he did
feel better.
“Feel any disposition to sleep?” asked the
doctor.
“Oh, mercy! Do you think a dying man
can sleep? No, I don't feel like sleeping;
do I, Sally Ann?”
“No, my dear Mr. Throckmorton, I think
you do not.”
“No, doctor, I knew I didn't.”
“Oh, I don't mean a natural sleep, but a
mesmeric sleep. Don't you feel a winking
of the eye-lids!”
“Sally Ann, do you think I feel any winking
think.”
“Well, Mr. Throckmorton, I think you do
a little—a very little.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! Well, I suppose
I do. But can't you do something more? I
can't live long this way.”
“Are you in a state of physical pain, sir?
Exteriorly you do not present any alarming
symptoms;” and the doctor pressed two of his
fingers on the eye-lids of my uncle for some
moments. “Now sir,” he said, “see if you
can open your eyes.”
He at once opened his eyes.
“Did you find it hard to do so? Did they
not incline to remain closed?”
“No, sir, not as I know of; they opened
themselves.”
The doctor said his patient was not impressible;
he would proceed to administer a composing
draught, after which he should, he
thought, have no difficulty in putting him to
sleep.
He now requested to have a glass of fresh
water brought, and gave particular charge
clean, and that the bearer should not on any
account touch a drop of its contents. Uncle
Peter looked anxiously at Sally Ann, but she
was mystified, and that to her was as much
as to be edified. She smiled encouragingly,
and he seemed to take heart. The water
was brought, but the doctor, after looking at
and tasting it, discovered signs of a human
touch about it, and Westley was dismissed to
refill the glass. He muttered something, as
he went, to the effect that he was bidden by
a great old fool, but no one heard him.
“Ah, that will do,” said the doctor, as the
fresh water was brought him, and taking it
in his hand he touched it with the tip of one
finger, and afterwards tasted it. He then pronounced
it a healing article, and proceeded to
administer one tea-spoonful.
Mr. Throckmorton looked at his wife, to
ascertain whether he felt any better; but she
appeared uncertain, whereupon he began to
groan. The draught was not of sufficient
power, the doctor said, and Westley was
directed to walk in a northerly direction till
north side of it, and return speedily. All this
was accomplished in the course of half an
hour. Tumblers of water from the different
sources were then mingled, and the doctor
wet the tips of two fingers in it, after which,
he added a drop or two from a small vial that
he carried in the left pocket of his waistcoat.
Another tea-spoonful was now administered,
which he had no doubt would compose his patient
in a few minutes.
“Oh, Sally Ann, do you think it will compose
me? I can't see, for the life of me, how
it will do any good to give me water to drink.
I have drank water all my life, and it don't
keep these bad spells off. Oh, dear! Oh,
mercy! can't you do something else—something
more efficient?”
“I will have you easy in a few minutes,”
said the doctor, and forthwith commenced
manipulations, but instead of quieting, they
seemed only to irritate.
“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! Oh, Sally!” were
constantly cried.
“There must be,” said the doctor, “an
I will send at once for my clairvoyant, Mrs.
Charity Seeaway.”
“Oh, do anything; do something. I can't
live long in this state.”
Another dose of the water was administered,
and Westley dispatched for the clairvoyant.
It seemed a great while to the querulous
invalid before his return, for Mrs. Charity
Seeaway lived six miles away, in another part
of the town. It would be tedious to tell all
that my aunt had to say and do in the meantime,
and all the wonderful cures the deserter
from Galen told of. It was evident that
Uncle Peter did not understand the new mode
of treatment, and was not altogether satisfied,
but in the absence of Mrs. Perrin what could
be done? Anything seemed better than a
resort to his old tormentors. It was an hour
after sunrise, when the little nervous woman
arrived.
“Ah, my dear Mrs. Seeaway,” said the
doctor, shaking her cordially by the hand;
“I am so glad you are come. We have a
eyes to rest on the patient, if you please, but
at once put yourself to sleep, and allow me to
profit by your observation of the patient's
interior.”
“Yes, sir. The initials of the patient's
name, if you please?”
“P.I.T.T.”
“Yes—that is all;” and Mrs. Charity Seeaway
sat herself down, and stared at nothing.
Presently her eyes began to wink, and
in a moment more they were fast shut, and
she breathed heavily.
“She is now in what we term the clairvoyant
state,” said the doctor, and he proceeded
to question her: “What do you discover,
my dear Mrs. Seeaway?”
She seemed to speak with difficulty, but
answered, “I see a diseased man.”
“Yes; go on.”
“I see a black spot on the left lung.”
“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy! Oh, Sally Ann!”
exclaimed Uncle Peter, “come and place your
hand on my left side; there is a dreadful pain
there.” And, lifting himself on one elbow, he
of despair.
“I see a bottle,” she continued, “I think
the diseased man I see has been in the habit
of drinking too much spirituous liquor.”
“What more, Mrs. Seeaway?”
“I see a fever, a little way in the future.
He is to have a long and severe illness.”
Uncle Peter held the hand of Sally as if life
depended on it, and the devoted wife began to
shed tears profusely.
“What do you see now?” asked the doctor.
“Nothing more.”
“Well, how far in the future can you see
this diseased man?”
“I can see him just three weeks ahead.”
“No further?”
“No, I can't see him any further.”
Uncle Peter grew actually white, and
begged that Westley might at once be sent
to bring Mrs. Perrin: not that it was likely
he should live to see her, but he would like
to have her attend his funeral, and to comfort
his beloved Sally Ann at that afflicting
time.
Westley soon departed, with directions to
make all convenient speed.
“Don't spare horses, and don't spare
money. And now look at me, my good
Westley; may-be you will never see me
again.”
Westley did look at his master, but if a
thought of not seeing him again gave him any
uneasiness, he did not manifest it.
“Calm yourselves,” said the doctor; “it does
not certainly indicate your death, that this
woman can only see you for three weeks.
You disappear at that time, but you may be
well at that time; and how can the clairvoyant
see a diseased man, when you are a
well man?”
Uncle Peter thought he breathed a little
easier, and reclined on his pillow, looking
more earnestly at heaven than he had ever
looked till then.
“Can you see any remedies for the diseased
man, my dear Mrs. Seeaway?”
“Yes; I see a bottle, filled with what seems
to be sugar of the maple tree, and I see a
quantity of the berries of the currant bush,
of the berries is added to every tablespoonful
of the sugar, and the mixture placed
in the sun for half an hour, it will become
curative to the diseased man I see.”
“What more do you see?”
“I see quantities of weak herbs, and quantities
of bitter herbs, and I am impressed to say
that if a poultice be made of the weak and
bitter herbs, and applied to the chest of the
diseased man, it will be of benefit to him. I
can now see tubercles forming in his lungs,
and three weeks is the furthest I can see him
at all.”
Here Mrs. Charity Seeaway began to tremble
and twitch, and presently she unclosed her
eyes and sat upright.
Bitter and weak herbs were procured, the
poultice made and applied, and the maple
sugar and currants placed in the sun, mixed
as the clairvoyant directed.
Through the day, my uncle thought himself
a little better, but when the evening
shadows began to steal through the windows,
he grew suddenly worse, and, an hour after
He saw no alarming symptoms. He
strove to quiet his patient by a few manipulations
and some cheerful words, but he
could not thus be solaced.
“Oh, Sally Ann!” he cried, “do get him
to do something; but I don't want that
woman to look into me. Oh, dear! Oh,
mercy! there never was a man cured who
was as bad as I am, was there? Oh, doctor,
what are you going to do? Oh, Sally Ann,
get him to do something. May-be it would
prevent this dreadful fever to take a little
blood. Oh, my!”
“Have you a pine table at hand?” asked
the doctor, of Mrs. Throckmorton.
“Oh, gracious! mercy! mercy! Is the
man about to dissect me, before I'm dead?
Oh, Sally Ann, don't let him dissect me, right
before my face and eyes. Seems to me I hear
a sound like grinding a knife. Sally Ann,
remember that I am bone of your bone. Oh,
if Mrs. Perrin, that excellent woman, was
only here! it seems to me, if I could see her
old black dress, it would do me good. Sally
doing.”
“Don't be alarmed, my dear sir,” said the
doctor, compassionately, “we only want to
see if we can get some manifestations. You
will allow us to have the table for that purpose,
surely.”
“Manifest what, do you say, sir? Sally
Ann, do you know what he means? He is a
dreadful man to me.”
Here the doctor entered into some explanation,
looking piteous and benevolent in view
of the great ignorance of his patient. The
pine table was produced, and Mrs. Throckmorton
was invited to assist in forming the
circle, which she did, looking tremblingly at
Uncle Peter.
“Is there a spirit present?” asked the doctor,
after a silent sitting of some minutes. All
listened, with heads inclined toward the table,
but no response was heard.
“I fear,” he said, “we shall not be able to
get any manifestations to-night; some cause
we can't conceive of, prevents.”
“See that?” exclaimed Mrs. Charity Seeaway,
hands.
“No,” said the doctor, “I saw nothing. I
think, though, I feel a slight vibration in the
table. Mrs. Throckmorton, do you see anything?”
“No, sir.”
“Do you feel any peculiar sensation in your
hands?”
“No, sir.”
“There! I thought I heard a rap on the
floor! Did you hear anything, Mrs. Seeaway?
Did you, Mrs. Throckmorton? There! I felt
it distinctly, then, under my right foot. It's
a bad spirit, and comes up from below.”
“There has one got hold of my hand!”
exclaimed the clairvoyant. “See that! see
that!” And, as she spoke, her hand began to
move about the table, very slowly at first, and
then with greater velocity — now at one side,
now at the other. Presently, the hand of
my amazed aunt was violently pushed off the
table.
“Excuse the spirit, madam,” said Charity;
“it means to indicate that you destroy the
without you.”
Obedient to the supposed indication, she
withdrew to the bedside, to administer such
consolation as her kind heart suggested.
Poor, dear, faithful Aunt Sally! that was
a trying time to her. It was not long before
the table began to move from side to side,
under the hands of the doctor and his clairvoyant,
and it was announced that a tipping
spirit was come.
“What has the spirit to communicate?”
was the first inquiry.
A series of tips followed, which being interpreted
meant that the spirit was the deceased
brother of Mrs. Throckmorton. But my good
aunt meekly affirmed that she never had
had a brother, upon which it was concluded
that the spirit had been misunderstood, or
that it was a bad spirit, which was not
improbable, and they proceeded to test its
truthfulness.
“Can't you rap?” was asked of the invisible
intelligence.
But the spirit indicated, by tips, that it
formed.
“Let us call a good spirit to drive it away,”
he said; “it is evidently a mischievous
spirit.” Then both cried, with great earnestness:
“Get away with you! Begone, bad
spirit! we won't talk with you. Go away,
and let a good spirit come.”
The table was in rest, and it was believed
that a good spirit was present, and had driven
out the other. It was also thought that some
more satisfactory manifestations would shortly
be obtained.
The man and woman changed positions at
the table, to produce a greater degree of harmony,
and, after sitting nearly an hour, Mrs.
Seeaway became quite confident that there
was a faint tapping under the thumb of her
left hand. The doctor thought he felt vibrations,
but he might be deceived; the groans
of the patient might produce the jar. I have
not attempted to record all the painful exclamations
uttered by the miserable man during
the progress of these manifestations. But notwithstanding
the unfavorable intervention of
long, when a conversation, something as follows,
ensued:
“Does the spirit wish to communicate?”
“Yes.” This response was, of course, rapped
out through the alphabet.
“Of what nature is the communication the
spirit wishes to make?”
“Remedial.”
“It has come to do you good, Mr. Throckmorton.”
“Can you give us a prescription?”
Here Mrs. Charity Seeaway affirmed that
the spirit said “yes,” and the doctor inclined
to the opinion that it said “no;” whereupon
the interrogatory was repeated, and both, this
time, agreed that the response was a plain
affirmative.
“We are ready to hear it,” said the doctor.
“Mrs. Seeaway, charge your memory with
every word; life may be depending on it.
Now, spirit, will you be so kind as to please
to favor us with the prescription?”
Raps, calls of the alphabet, and groans,
mingled together; but, after half an hour,
important direction: “Take one bird's egg,
and one ounce of the oil of corn, and a small
piece of the flower of mustard, and two leaves
of the mountain herb called tansy: stir together
with the forefinger of a child, not five
years old; place the mixture in the sun for
five minutes, and feed it, at intervals, and in
small quantities, to a male cat — the best shoes
of the patient being, meantime, placed on his
pillow.”
“Has the spirit anything further to suggest?”
“Yes.”
“Will the spirit be so good as to please to
tell us what to do, to make this poor sick man
well?”
“Yes, the spirit says it will,” announced
Mrs. Seeaway; “but, Mrs. Throckmorton, it
stipulates that you and the doctor shall leave
the room meanwhile. Do you object, madam?
Spirits are so particular.”
Oh, Sally Ann!” exclaimed Uncle Peter,
catching the trembling wife by her dress,
“Don't leave me! Oh, for mercy's sake,
The doctor tried, in vain, to conciliate his
patient, but he persisted in the decision that he
would not be left alone with the “unnatural
woman.”
“Won't the spirit be good enough to write
the prescription if we remain in the room?”
asked the doctor; and Mrs. Charity Seeaway
responded that, if they would cover their eyes,
the spirit consented to communicate.
This was acceded to, and the spirit proceeded
to say, a young pig must be bled,
under the right ear, between the hours of
one and two, that night, for the relief of the
patient.
“Oh, dear! Oh, mercy!” exclaimed my
querulous uncle; “it all looks to me like the
greatest foolishness in the world. I don't see
how it can do any good, to feed a cat, and
bleed a pig, and place my shoes on my pillow.
Oh, Sally Ann, can you see how it can do any
good to a dying man like me? Oh, mercy!
Oh, dear!”
“We can't,” said the doctor, “understand
Doubtless, however, there is a connection,
and you might experience almost miraculous
relief from that which, to our ordinary
apprehension, would seem foolishness.”
Mrs. Charity Seeaway here informed us
that the spirit impressed her to believe that
Mr. Throckmorton could only escape death
through spiritual agency.
What a running to and fro there was, for
the young pig, the mountain tansy, the flower
of mustard, the cat, and all the other things
thus recommended! The shoes were placed on
the pillow; the doctor soothed and encouraged,
and Mrs. Seeaway gave out her impressions;
but the patient could not discern that
he was at all relieved. My poor aunt was
scarcely able to stand up, at daybreak, but
she gathered courage from the fact that her
idolized lord was really better, though he
knew it not. The doctor said so, and Mrs.
Seeaway affirmed, in her clairvoyant state,
that the black spot had disappeared entirely
from the left lung. When the sun rose, the
doctor and his medium were permitted to
he thought; indeed, he could not tell
what made him so bad. His appetite was
better than common, and everything tasted
good to him. He was not in any pain, and
he thought he could not have much fever, or
he would know it. Still, that he was very
sick, was certain, and he often besought my
aunt, in the course of the day, to tell him
what made him so bad; but she was puzzled
no less than he, to know what caused him to
be so — she only knew he was bad. Once
or twice she closed her eyes, in forgetfulness;
but he seemed to know, instinctively, though
fast asleep, when such was the case. He was
impressed, he said, to ask for water, or for
food, as often as that faithful woman became
unconscious. She saw the sun set, with tearful
eyes; she feared that Peter would not survive
the night. She did not fear on her own account,
but blamed herself that she should get
tired or sleepy at all. “If Mr. Throckmorton
were only well!” was all she could say.
“Oh, Sally Ann! if I was well, I would not
ask for anything else. Do you think I can
arrives?”
It was the conviction of my aunt that dissolution
would not immediately take place,
but she dared not ask herself how soon she
might be deprived of her Peter.
As the time went by, he became more impressed
with the notion that he should not
live till morning. “Oh, Sally Ann!” he exclaimed,
“I might as well call executioners,
and write my will. Yes, Sally Ann, my will
and testimony.”
Uncle Peter, propped on pillows, and with
the open Bible for a desk, had written—“I,
Peter I. T. Throckmorton, being of sound
mind, and conscious of my liability to be
called”—when the lively exclamation of
“Hi! hi!” arrested his hand, and, lifting his
eyes, he saw the old black dress of Mrs.
Perrin, and Mrs. Perrin's cheerful countenance
above it.
“Oli, Sally Ann, here is the excellent
woman!” he said; “tell her how bad I am.”
“Tut! tut! tell me yourself,” replied Mrs.
Perrin. “I have rid fifty miles, to-day, to get
speaking to me;” and, putting aside the will
and testimony, she seated herself, and taking
the sick man's hand, chafed it softly, drawing
from him meantime a full account of the bad
attack he had experienced.
She shook up the pillows and straightened
the bed, administered a little brandy and
water, set the chairs about in order, brushed
the floor, and presently had a fire kindled,
though it was not cold; and, as she worked,
she talked on and on of the pleasant visit she
had had, how young her daughter looked for
her years, and what she called all her children,
what an awful pretty country she had seen,
and how powerful weak she was after the long
ride, with a thousand other items of news and
gossip, of little interest in themselves, but all
fitted to soothe the mind and induce a sense
of cheerfulness, until, going near the bed to
feel of the sick man's pulse, she found him
fast asleep. She laid her hand first on the
wrist and then on the cheek, elevating her
eyebrows slightly as she did so, and then
softly approaching my aunt whispered that
was—that he was “nervous and fidgetty, that
was all. Them merciless doctors scared him
out of his right senses, and he never will be
himself again. We must humor him a little,
Mrs. Throckmorton;” and, surprised that she
had made no reply, she peered in her face,
and lo! she was asleep too.
Mrs. Perrin left the room on tiptoe, and
directed supper enough for a dozen hungry
men to be prepared, herself assisting in the
preparation of some delicacy for Uncle Peter.
Two long hours passed before the sleepers
awoke, and, when they did, it was to the
sound of Mrs. Perrin's “'scat.”
She had discovered the cat, no matter how,
she said, but she had discovered him, and he
was making nimble leaps before her broomstick,
when Peter and Sally Ann became
conscious.
“And mercy on us!' she said, “if there
ain't your shoes on your pillow! Why,
you have been out of your head, haven't
you?”
“Tell him, my dear Mrs. Throckmorton,
Peter.
Mrs. Throckmorton smiled. He was better,
oh, so much better! It was an unmistakable
evidence of it that he didn't say “Sally Ann.”
So she related the proceedings of the spiritual
physician and the clairvoyant, and could not
avoid a smile, as Mrs. Perrin exclaimed, “I
never! if that don't beat everything!” and
when Aunt Sally pulled on the stockings of
her dear lord, he thought that, with an arm
through one of the arms of each of the women,
he might get down stairs, and eat a mouthful
or two of something nourishing.
As we were at supper, no one could have
suspected that Mr. P. I. T. Throckmorton
“was a very diseased man, with a black spot
on the left lung.”
“It beats all,” said Mrs. Perrin, “what fools
there are in the world. Now, I believe in
ghosts, and omens, and such things as that,
that have some sense in them; and a body is
sometimes foretold things, I think, in their
dreams. So, when I dream of seeing the
dead, I hear good news of the living; and a
Before I was ever married, I dreamed of seeing
my old man, just as plain as I see you now.
Another cup of tea, if you please, Mrs. Throckmorton.
Shan't I give you a bit of the breast
of this chicken?” and Uncle Peter, to whom
this was addressed, said, “Just a mouthful,”
not that he wanted it, but he thought it would
be nourishing; then his cup was refilled, only
to keep the excellent woman company; and
she resumed: “My grandfather was a man
who had no faith in ghosts; he never would
allow one of his children to say ghost, I have
heard my father say; and he often said if
there was any such thing to be seen he
wished he could see it. Well, he got to be
an old man, but he worked still on the farm,
as he always did, and one day, as he was
plowing in the field, he saw, all at once before
him, the most beautiful woman he had
ever set his eyes on. She smiled as he came
near, and said she was come for him. He
looked incredulous, and she added, `Go to the
house and ask Ruth (that was grandmother)
to put new strings in your shoes, and if she
what I say is true.' Now, grandmother would
never so much as lift grandfather's shoes from
the floor, and he had no reason to think she
would put new strings in them without speaking,
and, still doubtful, he dropped the reins
at the feet of the strange woman, and went to
the house. Grandmother was crimping the
border of a cap, a work in which she disliked
very much to be disturbed, but grandfather
no sooner said, `Ruth, put new strings in
my shoes,' than, putting down the cap, she
obeyed, smiling as she did so. Grandfather
sunk in a chair, and said, `Ruthy, you will
wear that cap at my funeral.' He then went
to the field, and there stood the horses in
the furrow, but the woman was gone. He
loosened the traces from the plow, and that
night he was taken sick, and in three days he
died.”
“That was strange,” said Aunt Sally.
“Remarkable,” said Uncle Peter.
“Yes, and I have seen some things myself,”
added Mrs. Perrin. “Before my baby died,
there were three raps on the door one night,
could just walk then; but no one was there,
and I felt right away that she would be
taken. La, me! if it ain't twelve o'clock!”
So, laughing at one superstition, they indulged
in another.
I need hardly say that a light had to burn
for Uncle Peter that night, and that Mrs.
Perrin kept within call. But, before she
retired, she asked, aside, of Rosalie and myself,
whether we had been at Woodside during
her absence, and if there had been anybody
there from town, and if we knew whether
anybody was expected.
6. CHAPTER VI.
SEPTEMBER was with us, and the grass of
the orchard was dry and brown; there had
not been rain for twelve weeks; the cattle
waded in the water, for the shadows were not so
thick and cool as they had been a while past;
the flies sung drowsily on the window pane;
and the katydids made shrill music among
the dry leaves; their good time had come.
You might almost see the dust rising up
behind the furrow, so dry were the fields,
and often the plowman rested his steers, for
it was hard work to cut through the baked
earth. Fruits were ripe, cider-presses busy,
and barns full. We had been at Uncle Peter's
since March, and Rosalie had become mistress
almost, for she had her way in everything,
while I was scarcely more at home than at
first: I had not learned to say Uncle Samuel
Peter, naturally and easily.
Aunt Sally, who had been all the summer
growing better, she said, was so feeble now
that she could not sit up all day. It was
nothing; we must not listen to her complaints;
she was foolish to make them; especially
while Uncle Peter was so much worse
than she; if he were only well, she should
soon be up again! She would not allow me
to bring her wine or fruit, or to fan her, or
perform any little office, as though she were
sick; all kindnesses must be reserved for
Uncle Peter. She lay on a sofa by an open
window, but the air was sultry and seemed
not to revive her. She wished she had a little
more strength, and could do something for
Uncle Peter; she was afraid she should never
see him well again.
“Mrs. Throckmorton,” said her husband,
throwing down the cigar he had been puffing
almost in her face, “it appears to me you
about enough, my dear. Now, if you should
go down stairs and make a plum-pudding,
it would strengthen you and elevate your
spirits;” and he reached and took from her
the fan with which she was endeavoring to
keep her poor fainting self alive. My aunt
smiled, as though he had done her a favor,
and made an effort to rise, but her strength
was not equal to her will, and she sank down
again, saying she was ashamed to be so worthless.
Uncle Peter made no reply, but seemed
to think she ought to be ashamed.
“How thin you are growing,” she said
to him, as soon as she could speak at all:
“let me feel your pulse, my dear;” and she
took his great, moist hand in her thin and dry
one; if he had had any soul or any heart, and
not been the great lump of selfishness he was,
he would have perceived how hot and transparent
that little hand was, and would have
cast himself down in meanness and abjectness
before her goodness and purity. But
my aunt, so long as she was not beaten with
stripes, utterly repudiated and denounced,
than she deserved.
“Bless my soul!” exclaimed Uncle Peter,
looking from the window, “here comes that
miserable dunce, Rachel Muggins; Mrs.
Throckmorton, do oblige me by saying you
are not in, for of course she has not presumed
to come to see me.”
“Of course, not,” said Aunt Sally, “but I
would not like to send her away when she has
come so far through the heat to see me; and
you know, Mr. Throckmorton, you received
her very kindly when she came to visit you
while you were so ill.”
“I don't know any such thing,” he replied;
“she may have been here when I was unconscious
of it; and I am surprised that you
presume to contradict me.”
Aunt Sally was frightened into submission,
and not only directed that the woman be
informed she was not in, but said to Uncle
Peter that no doubt he was quite too ill, at
the time of Mrs. Muggins's visit, to retain any
recollection of it—violating her conscience
for the sake of pleasing him.
“Goodness alive!” exclaimed Mrs. Muggins,
from the hall, “you can't come it over
me in that way; I'm half-white, and freeborn,
and I can see into the woods as far as
them that have gold specs, and Sally Throckmorton
is not gone ont; she is sick a-bed,
that's whar she is, and I have come to see
her, and I will see her; so just clap a stopper
on your jaw.” And with this expression of
her convictions and intentions, Mrs. Muggins
made her way up stairs. “I don't wonder,
old fellow,” she said, addressing Uncle Peter,
“that you told a big lie, rather than see me,
because, of course, you can't get over the
ingratitude of some in a minute; don't it beat
all the bare-facedest things you ever did see?
I was never more surprised than when I heard
it; I just told him to carry me out; you see
he's been at work chopping wood, at old
Mose Thill's; Mose gives him seventy-five
cents a cord and finds him, and he often
chucks some apples in his pockets as he is
coming home, for the young ones. You know
Miss Thill is a right nice woman, but he is
headstrong like some others; and he drinks
from his choppin' work at old Mose's, and
I'd been washing, and had the toothache
some, and didn't feel none too good: the
baby was cross and colicky, and I was flying
about like a hen with her head cut off, when
in he comes from old Mose's, and says he,
`Rache, if you'll guess the news, I'll give you
a buss:' says I, `Go long with you: none of
your humbugging about me;' and he makes
at me again, and says he, `Now, guess, old
woman.' And he was so funny, Mart was, I
couldn't help but laugh. Well, I guessed, the
first thing, that Mrs. Throck was dead — that
was the likeliest thing I could think of. And
says Mart, says he, `No you don't;' and says
I, `Then it's Hen Graham,' and the Lord
knows I hoped it was, for there is no more
comfort for him in this world than as if he
had stuck his head in a bumble-bee's nest.
`No,' says Mart, `you're tracking the wrong
rabbit.' Well, I mistrusts, right away, then,
that somebody had been yoking themselves,
and says I, `Doc and Rose are married,' and
says he, `No, it's a good deal younger folks;
and says I, `It ain't old Polly Perrin?' and I
just fairly upset the dinner pot — I was that
much took by surprise — though I had been
expecting it all along, for you know all the
fools never die.”
“Unfortunately, no,” replied Uncle Peter;
“but, do you really mean to say that Mrs.
Perrin, whom I have taken into my house,
just as if she had been my sister; who has
slept beneath my roof, and eaten at my table:
do you say that this person — woman I can't
call her — has been guilty of such base ingratitude?”
“She has coaxed old Furniss to go and live
with her, and got the preacher, I suppose, to
say it was right,” replied Rachael, striving to
look important, as the bearer of such news
had a right to do.
“Well,” said Uncle Peter, “I think there
is one thing more she had better do now —
jump into the river, or hang herself;” and he
pressed his lips together with the gold head
of his cane, and remained silent for the space
of five minutes, “Humph!”
“Well, Uncle Samuel Peter,” said Rose,
“you can't determine what to do in the
premises, can you?”
“No, my ward,” he answered, receiving
her question seriously.
“I don't see what you can do,” she repeated.
“Humph!” he said, presenting Mrs. Muggins
the fan, and entreating her to lay aside
her bonnet.
The rough little donkey was presently led
to the stable, and supplied with a double portion
of oats and hay.
It is an ill wind that blows nobody good.
“Mrs. Throckmorton,” said Uncle Peter, at
last, in a calm and collected manner, and as
one conscious of having nothing to blame
himself for, “did you hear the shocking
intelligence which our friend Mrs. Muggins
has brought?”
Aunt Sally said she had heard —
“You did?”
“Why, Mr. Throckmorton?”
“Why? can you ask why! that person
who won our esteem by pretending to goodness
— that person who has set by my bed-side
— that person whose care I would have
given more for in time of sickness than for
what half the doctors in the country could do
for me — that she should marry! Why, if
she had stolen my horse at midnight, I could
and would have forgiven her; but now she
shall never be sent for again to do for me
what she has done; I'll never call her Mrs.
Furniss; no never!” and he set down his cane
as though he had awarded her proper retribution.
“Yes,” said Rachel, “I expect that's just
what she would like — to be called Mrs.
Furniss — a pretty-looking bride she, and
after your making of her so, and all!”
“It is scarcely creditable to believe,” said
Uncle Peter, and he continued, “I suppose
what you said was no worse than the truth;
they have got together there in Mrs. Perrin's
old house; it's a mighty snug place, and they
have just made it up between them that he
in short that they would live together,
and so they have got some preacher or squire
to say they might, and that I'll just bet you
all the world, or Throckmorton Hall, if you
are a mind to say so, is the whole amount of
it.”
“I do n't doubt it,” said Rose, biting her
lip.
“Doubt it, no, who could doubt it? Mrs.
Muggins, shall I offer you wine? you look
faint.” The awful news had the effect to
warm Uncle Peter's heart towards every body
but the perpetrators of the crime, and Mrs.
Muggins and he drank wine together.
It seemed that they would never have done
dwelling on the suspicion that the offending
parties had mutually agreed to help one
another—in fact, to be married—and that
a grave, legally-authorized individual, had
actually pronounced them husband and wife.
Aunt Sally tried sincerely to discover what
was so outrageous in the transaction, but
failed, and concluded her perceptions were
growing weak, for that Mr. Throckmorton
be supposed.
“How old do you think the bride is,
colonel?” asked Rachel, brightening up under
this new patronage.
“Sixty-five, at least.”
“Lord bless you! she is more like seventy-five.
Why, as long ago as I can remember,
she was an old woman; her husband died
twenty years ago, and on his grave-stone it
says, aged fifty; and allowing that they were
both of one age, and that's most likely, she is
seventy now, and I would not wonder if she
was seventy-five. She is as smart as a cricket,
though, especially at talking.”
At this Uncle Peter laughed as much as the
grave subject would admit of, and Mrs. Muggins,
thus encouraged, continued: “I know
something she has said about you.”
“Humph!” said Uncle Peter, as though
nothing Polly Perrin could do would shock
him further, and Mrs. Muggins proceeded:
“She's a dreadful gossip, that woman is
— there is nothing happens far nor near that
she has n't something to say about it; she is
she is a dreadful gossip. She come to see me
a good deal along when Jackson was a baby,
and, I tell you, I got so tired of her gab, I
thought sometimes I'd tell her she was
meddling with what was none of her business,
and I did show her that I thought so, as plain
as I could, except by word of mouth; but
some folks can't take a hint.”
“Humph!” replied Uncle Peter, “well I
dare say; and it's a wonder she had n't-talked
you to death.”
“She would have done so, twenty times,”
said Rachel, “but that I clapt my hands to
my ears when she got to going on too bad.”
“I am enabled to state,” said Uncle Peter,
and his tone and manner indicated that it
gave him great satisfaction to be able to make
the declaration, “that there was always something
in that woman's face that I didn't
exactly like. I can't tell what it was, but
there was something, invisible as it were.”
“I know what you mean,” replied Rachel,
“it was as if she pretended to be awful good
and was n't so; well, I never did like her, to
you.”
“I thank my God,” said Uncle Peter, but
he looked as though he thanked himself, “that
my reputation can't suffer by anything that
woman can say. She can't burn up Throckmorton
Hall, and she might just as well be
quiet, and not meddle with things that do n't
concern her.” And he had not, apparently,
the remotest idea that that advice was suited
to his own condition, as he walked up and
down the room, in angry excitement.
“Did she say I was a liar?” he asked,
directly.
“No, not exactly,” replied Rachel, in a
tone which indicated that she had very nearly
said so.
“Did she say I stole?”
“Oh, do n't mind what she said,” replied
Rachel, “she ain't worth minding.”
“She shall suffer for it,” said Uncle Peter;
“I'll sue her at law. I'll catch her talking
about me.”
“Oh, she did n't say anything so very bad,”
interrupted Rachel, “she said you were not
Mrs. Throckmorton was worse than you
were.”
“Humph! that woman is ungrateful.” And
he called upon my aunt to say whether there
was not something about that woman that she
didn't exactly like.
Thus urged, Aunt Sally said she never liked
the fashion of her caps very well.
“I never liked the fashion of her face,”
said Rachel; “and her old black dress I
couldn't bear—it's about as good now as
the first day she wore it, and that was ten
years ago, to Jim's funeral. Did I ever tell
you how black he turned? just as black as
your hat, colonel, before he was buried. You
see, grandman took on, and said she couldn't
part with him, and when she came to take her
last look they had to fairly pull her away
from the coffin! Oh, it was such a fine one,
and grandmam took it so hard.”
Aunt Sally tried to raise herself from the
sofa, as if thoughts of sickness and death were
dreadful. Rachel felt, in some crude way,
that she had disturbed her, and hastened to
mam. We can keep you a week, if we want
to; you are so thin, you see.”
“If that woman,” said Uncle Peter, “ever
presumes to speak of me, again, tell her not to
speak of me; that's my wish, that she shall
not speak of me.”
“I don't like to talk against folks,” said
Rachel, “but I went there oncet, and what do
you think old Polly was doing?”
Uncle Peter couldn't tell; she might have
been coining, for all he knew.
“Well,” said Rachel, “she was sifting flour
to make bread. Now, anybody that will sift
flour to make bread! that's all I want to
know about them.”
Aunt Sally groaned aloud. Her face was
white and her lips trembling. Water was
brought; she had yet strength enough to raise
her hand and push the cup towards Uncle
Peter, and, waiting for him to drink, her eyes
closed, and she became insensible.
“Oh, Sally! Sally!” called Uncle Peter,
“she is dead! she is dead!”
“Mercy! I wouldn't touch a corpse, for
both ran out of the room.
We poor frightened children did the best
we could, and after a few minutes our dear
aunt partially revived, and insisted that she
should not be carried to her bed until her
husband's return. He might think her worse
than she was, if he should come in and see
her there; and so, with some pillows, we
made her as comfortable as she thought she
ought to be, and waited anxiously for the
presence of the fugitives, whose disappearance
we could not account for. At the end of an
hour they came, and with them good Mrs.
Perrin, or Mrs. Furniss, as we should say,
I suppose. Obedient to the first generous
impulse of their hearts, and forgetful of the
little spite which, I doubt not, is felt by some
persons whenever a marriage takes place,
they had visited her, and besought her to
come to the Hall.
The well-fed donkey was led forth presently,
and Rachel, having invited Mrs. Furniss,
a dozen times, to come and drink tea
with her, and bring the old man along—to
rode homeward.
And days passed; and no rain fell. The
clouds looked thin and dry and far away, and
fell apart, time after time, and seemed to
mingle with the dust that filled all the atmosphere.
The yet green leaves crisped and
curled up, and the garden flowers blackened,
together, like roses in a drawer; the grass
withered white; and the hungry cattle sullenly
came to the well to drink; for we could
see all the bottoms of the brooks parched by
the hot sun; the red and green crawfishes lay
dead along the pebbly courses of the brooks;
and the crows came down and had a feast.
Aunt Sally was still getting better, she
said; if it would rain, if it would only rain!
she should be quite well. And Mrs. Furniss
frequently stayed all day, and all night too.
She could stay from home better, now, than
she used to, and we were all glad that it was
so. Sometimes, Mr. Furniss himself came, and
brought ripe apples and peaches, which Aunt
Sally could not eat, but which pleased her,
when receiving kindness. She would eat them
another time, she always said, smiling; but
the time never came.
And, day by day, Uncle Peter brought a
button to the bedside to be sewed on, or a
torn glove to be mended, telling my aunt,
to comfort her, that he was slowly gaining
strength, though he had great reason to complain
of his appetite, which, indeed, the cook
had, also. Sometimes he would ask her if she
felt like riding out with him that day, for he
had the sun-set and the sun-rise to manage,
outside of the Hall, and could not have
neglected his drives about the neighborhood,
on any account. She fretted that his obligations
were so heavy that he must brave heat
and dust; and then, too, though he did not
speak of it, it pained him to be from her side.
She wished it would rain, on his account.
She didn't feel how much her own dry hands
and cheeks needed a moist atmosphere. “If
Mr. Throckmorton could only be with me
more,” she said; “but he must not neglect his
duties, and I must not complain. I am so
and it is very hard for him.”
And all these days, so dreary to me, the
cheeks of Rose had been blooming more and
more. I knew what was the cause of her
happiness, though she never spoke of it.
There was nothing to tell; she had told me
so once, and I made no further inquiries. I
saw little of Doctor Stafford Graham. His
smile was the same, when we met. I felt that
it might be sweet to others, but it had lost its
power over me. He seemed very cold—
haughty, I thought sometimes. Rosalie said
he was not so. Perhaps he was not, to
her.
One morning he inquired for Mr. Throckmorton,
instead of Rosalie, and, after a brief,
and what seemed formal interview, they drank
wine together. Uncle Peter then called Rosalie,
and kissed her, and she and her lover
walked apart, in the garden. He bent softly
toward her, and spoke with a tenderness
which her gay and independent nature had
never seemed to me to demand. Aunt Sally,
and Mrs. Furniss, and all, now talked of
she asked me what the style of her wedding-dress
should be, having never said there was
to be a wedding; and I tried to smile; for,
though she was lost to me, she was not lost to
herself.
There was something so beautiful in the
perfect happiness of my sister, and in her
confidence that it would last always, that we
all felt some little portion of her blessedness.
Old Mr. Furniss actually laughed, once or
twice; but this might have been accounted
for, in part, by the fact that he had lately
almost renewed himself, in his happiness.
The cow and the garden gave him employment.
Even Aunt Sally revived, somewhat:
her own blest wedding-day was so forcibly
brought to her mind.
“You will be well enough to witness the
marriage,” said Uncle Peter. He would not
listen to a perhaps; it must be so. And,
having laid his hand on a dry pine table, he
received an impression that Mrs. Throckmorton's
little indisposition was solely owing to a
deficiency of will. If she would exert a little
was up; she didn't know it, that was all.
From that day, she blamed herself more for
being ill than she had previously done; all
the power, all the will she had, she exerted, to
appear better than she was; she would get up
and sew a little, when Uncle Peter came into
the room, though the needle often fell from
her fingers, and her eyes grew blind.
“Have me a new cap made,” she said to
Mrs. Furniss, one day, “and let it be just like
yours; just that style, Mrs. Furniss, be very
particular about that.”
I understood that this was designed as a sort
of atonement to our neighbor for Aunt Sally's
having said she didn't like the fashion of her
caps.
The old wedding-dress was laid on the
grass, to bleach—the grass, still brown and
dry, for there had been no rain—and, under
the supervision of Mrs. Furniss and Uncle
Peter, the preparations for the wedding went
forward. Every day my aunt said she was
better, and every day her hand grew more
transparent, more like flexible pearl. She
she kept her basket by her, that my uncle
might think she was sometimes busy. “How
is the will to-day, Mrs. Throckmorton?” he
would ask, and she, with difficulty repressing
her cough, would answer, “Thank you, Mr.
Throckmorton; I am better—I shall be
dressed by Wednesday.” This was the day
appointed for Rosalie's marriage.
Now and then Mrs. Furniss, who had grown
young and active since that notable exhibition
of her ingratitude toward the master of
the Hall, would steal away to Woodside, to
inquire of the health of Mr. Henry Graham,
about which she felt an instinctive alarm; and
sometimes, when she met his brother, the
doctor, would question him very closely on
the subject; but he could not perceive the
least occasion for uneasiness, he said; “Henry
has no disease; he seems to be depressed,
indifferent to everything, that is all; if he
would summon back a little courage, he
would be well enough in a fortnight.” But
the good woman had been the nurse of the
neighborhood too long, and too observant of
when she heard that Henry Graham was
again with Nellie, out in the woods.
Wednesday came, and was almost over.
The sun had set, but no dew fell on the
parched and withered grass, and the stars
winked sultrily through the dusty haze. My
aunt's white dress, scented with roses, was
brought into her room, and she said she was
well enough to have it put on. She sat
feebly, half-reclining, on the sofa, leaning her
burning cheek upon her thin, pale hand, and
as we adjusted some few flowers in her cap,
she said, over and over, “Oh, if it would rain!
everything is so dry!”
Rose looked very beautiful. A day in the
city, with my uncle, had enabled her to select
a costume for the occasion that illustrated the
perfection of her taste, which, in everything
connected with personal appearance, was
intuitively correct. There was some sadness
in all our hearts for Aunt Sally's illness, but
my sister was, nevertheless, filled with that
still and almost divine happiness, which, in the
last hours before a longed-for bridal, if ever
in human life, has dominion over us.
I saw her when, her toilet complete, she
came into my aunt's room, and kissed her,
with tears and smiles struggling for dominion
over her sweet face. There was a noise and
a cloud of dust at the gate. I held her hand
a moment tight in mine; I could not let her
go; but she said, tremblingly, “He has
come!” There was one whose claim was
greater than mine, I felt, and let her go, and
the next moment her blushes were hid in the
bridegroom's bosom. With a smile that said
the pride and power of manhood were strong
beneath it, he looked down upon her, and put
his arm about her waist, and between her and
me.
The guests came in, and were greeted by
Uncle Peter with his customary phrase, and
more than his customary self-importance; the
minister came, and gossipped of the last ten
years' marriages in the neighborhood; and
at length the solemn service was said, and,
“forsaking all others,” my sister was the wife
of Stafford Graham.
There were lights, and flowers, and guests
in the parlor, and Aunt Sally sat upright on
the sofa, in her apartment, lamps burning
and dryer than before, waiting for Uncle
Peter to help her. She could not walk without
him, and had asked for him till she was
weary, and now sat quite still.
“My dear Mrs. Throckmorton,” he said, at
last, appearing at the door. For the first time
she did not answer him. He had not come
to help her as she had desired, and she was
gone alone. Gone where her thirst was satisfied
in the full fountain of love.
I will attempt no description of the funeral.
It had all the pomp and circumstance which
my uncle deemed appropriate for the obsequies
of Mrs. P. I. T. Throckmorton. He
sustained the office of chief mourner with
an evident consciousness of the dignity with
which it invested him. When all the melancholy
rites were done, and all the incentives
to display over, he must have felt some compunctious
visitings; but the world about him
never had reason to suspect, from his
demeanor, that he did not doubt whether she
were a gainer in being removed to Paradise
from Throckmorton Hall.
I was at Woodside, whither I had been preceded
by my sister and her husband. It was
the morning of the Sabbath, and the leaves
rattled, for there was a little wind stirring
now, and one black, heavy cloud, was low in
the west. As the day went by, the wind
strengthened, and occasional gusts swept
through the grounds, wailing and hurried, and
the cloud rose and widened until it covered
half the sky. Little Nellie, looking weary,
but patient and meek, carried the baby from
room to room—now where the elder Mrs.
Graham sat, in the midst of her incongruous
accumulations, growling discontent as the
children approached; and now where the
mother, pale and cold as a marble statue, sat
quietly in moody and hopeless reveries.
With a wave of the hand she would repel
their approach, and, then, with a flushed
countenance, that betrayed her sensitive
nature, Nellie would softly close the door,
lest her mother should be disturbed, and
slowly climb the stairs to the highest room in
the house, where she was sure of a welcome,
for there lay her sick father, the weaknesses
leaned to the side of virtue, and invested his
affection for shi children with even a touching
tenderness. There poor Nellie was called a
dear good child; her worn-out clothes were
pinned together, and a holiday dress promised
her. No wonder she went up to the lonesome
garret; but the baby, puny and weak,
grew fretful there, and her visits were short
ones.
The day passed along till near the evening,
and there was still no rain. I had been about
the garden till I was tired. It was a beautiful
place, to be sure, for Henry had watered
the flowers, and kept them fresh through all
the drought. At the foot of a shady slope I
had been sitting, for there was a pool of
water, with lilies undulating on its surface.
Over the margin of its stony basin it flowed
away, and the grass was green where it went.
Toward night I gathered some flowers that grew
there, fragrant and dewy, and seeing Nellie
ascend the stairs as I entered the house, put
them in her hand, a present for her father.
“Come with me,” she said, smiling, and I
most cheerless-looking attic that he lay, colorless
and thin. The sunshine had poured all
day on the roof. The curtainless windows were
full of spiders, working busily at their nets,
which, heavy with dust, reached along from
rafter to rafter. The mice crossed the floor
fearlessly, and a pie, with a fly-specked crust,
stood on a chair by the side of the cot-bed
whereon the miserable invalid lay, and next to
it a cup, partly filled with cold coffee, that told
something of the neglect he suffered. Accumulations
of old clothes were here and there in
musty and moth-eaten heaps, making unwholesome
the hot air; and the floor seemed not to
have been in contact with water for a lifetime.
A pile of curious shells and stones,
some stuffed birds, abused books, and a broken
violin, were in one corner. They had been
there, he said, since he moved up stairs,
though how long that had been, or for what
purpose he had moved up stairs, I could not
guess. The last winter's blankets and coverlets,
and sheets, too, apparently, were spread
over the bed, and the one pillow was too
struggled in the spider-webs overhead, and as
he turned towards us, his blue and sunken
eyes twinkled with something like pleasure.
There was not much that I could do just then.
The unsightly pie I removed, and put my
flowers in its place. Jo, at my request,
brought water, and while I bathed the
neglected patient's face and hands, she sprinkled
the floor. Clean white sheets were
brought, and fresh pillows, and at the sunset
he said he was better. I sat down by the
bedside; the baby was placed near him, and
with his hand on its head he listened, while
I expressed the regrets felt that he had
been unable to attend the marriage of Rosalie,
and my anticipations of happiness in
residing with her at Woodside, and told something
of the plans we had already thought
of for rendering the house itself as cheerful
as his taste and industry had made all the
grounds around it. His eyes brightened, and
a new interest beamed in them. Everything
had been neglected, he said, since he was ill;
but I assured him the flowers were as fresh
been over them that very hour. The enthusiasm
of his nature was awakened, and Nellie
could not help saying, “Oh, father, how much
better you are!”
He smiled upon her, and said, “Go, my
dear, and see if your mother will not come
and see me a few moments, and tell her our
new sister is here.” The answer with which
the child soon returned, that the mother did
not feel like coming, brought back the air of
melancholy depression from which he had
been aroused, but after a moment he said,
abruptly, “I wish Stafford would come up;”
and Nellie flew to find him. Her uncle was
drinking tea with Aunt Rosalie; he would
come presently; and the promise was a new
inspiration. But we waited a long time;
waited an hour; and Dr. Graham did not
come; and, then, softened as a tender-hearted
boy might be by an unkind surprise, his eyes
filled with tears, until, partially recalling the
little energy of his nature, he remarked to me,
“You are so nearly one of us, now, and
your relation to the family seems so natural
anxious to see Stafford. He will not trouble
himself to come up to this gloomy place to
see me to-night, and I have a presentiment
that when he does come it will be too late for
all I should have it in my heart to say, if he
were here. We have held this property of
Woodside together. We have not agreed,
nor yet agreed to disagree. I have worked
hard, but have not fared so well as he. All
has been wrong, in someway, and I have been
thinking we might arrange it for our mutual
benefit. I want to give him all that he can
ask; submit my will in everything to his;
and, by removing causes of distrust, see if he
cannot be won to a more fraternal regard for
me—see if we cannot really be brothers. His
marriage furnishes a suitable occasion for such
a settlement of our business. He would not,
I think, be ungenerous; for myself, I shall
have little use for anything any more; but the
claims of these dear children, and—and—all
the claims that can exist through me, I would,
to-day, submit unreservedly to his decision—
and compel him to feel, while I remain in the
that he has forgotten me.”
“He has just gone into a new world, you
know,” I said, “so it is no wonder he forgets
the old; but I will find him;” and I descended
in search of Stafford.
“A new world,” I heard him say; “who
can tell what such worlds may be!” I went
from room to room, searching for the brother,
but he was nowhere to be found, and extended
my inquisition to the garden, and up and
down the various walks, and into the beautiful
arbor, where the harvest flowers still were
fair, despite the weeks of dry heat, which had
made deserts of the open fields. It was true
that Henry feared; he had been quite forgotten;
but Stafford would go now, with Rosalie,
and he inquired if I proposed returning again
to see “the attic philosopher.” I wanted
only to gather a fresh bouquet, and as I did
so, a slight sound, like a distant footstep,
arrested my attention, and looking down the
slope, I thought I saw a human figure moving
along. The cloud was rapidly coming up the
sky, and the wind blowing. It was, in part,
I concluded, and, with my flowers, returned to
the house. Up and up we went, to the garret,
and as I opened the door, the wind blew out
my lamp.
“Well, Henry,” said Stafford, going close
to the bed, “you must forgive me,” and he
reached out his hand, but none was extended
to meet it. “Get a light,” he said, passing
his hand hurriedly and alarmedly along the
bed. The light was brought, and there lay
the baby fast asleep, and there sat little
Nellie, her head on the bedside, and fast
asleep too. “Father is better,” she had said,
and had yielded to Nature's sweet restorer,
with an unwonted look of pleasure beaming
all over her face.
Stafford bent, with the lamp in his hand,
over the uncomfortable bed, and then moved,
with an expression of anxiety, touched with
remorse, along the garret, saying, “It is not
strange that he is ill; these things must be
changed;” and to his accusing conscience,
“I never dreamed he was so badly cared for.”
And Rose said, “Oh, we have been so happy,
be so. We have been selfish in our joy;
come, I will find him;” and, directed by her
heart, she went to the parlor of Annette.
“He has not been here; pray don't disturb
me,” was all the answer here given to her
inquiries, and thence she proceeded from
room to room; and all this time there had
been an awful fear upon my heart, that I
dared not speak; but when I saw the face of
Stafford grow white, I said, I thought, as I
gathered the flowers, I had seen some one in
the garden.
The cloud had spread all over the sky now,
and the slow rain was falling. With lanterns
we went out, all together. No one spoke, but,
by one instinct, we sought the pool at the
foot of the grounds. The water was shallow,
scarce two feet deep, so that when our lights
were lowered to its surface, we could see all
it contained. The knowledge I had of the
poor man's temper and melancholy life, had
brought a fear that forbade surprise. In the
last struggle he had reached one hand up
through the lilies, as though there was something
fingers had stiffened about a stone.
When, afterward, I told Stafford of the
generous purposes for which Henry would
have seen him that fatal night, his heart was
softened, and he even shed tears.
The days brightened ere long, and gaiety
came to Woodside, with the hope of prosperous
years. I cannot yet read clearly the destinies
of Stafford and Rosalie, but the signs
are propitious, and if they are not mated as
well as married, why it is fortunate that
neither is so constituted as to die of a broken
heart.
Mrs. Annette Graham is slowly recovering,
and proposes making a long journey, in company
with her mother-in-law, for the complete
restoration of her health, and the dissipation
of her grief. Whether that venerable dame
will leave her den, is, however, somewhat
doubtful; but Woodside is less agreeable to
her than formerly; she feels that her dominion
there is broken for ever; and Rose indulges
the pleasant dream, not only of her undertaking
the journey with Annette, but that she
of her life with a dear, distant relative, of
whom she talks a great deal.
Mrs. Furniss spreads her table for two, and
finds pleasure in the addition to her housekeeping
cares. Her husband rents advantageously
his property in town, makes the cottage
his home, and declares that seeing to the
cow and the garden is just what is necessary
for his health. Rachel says she shall not rest
till grandmam and Annette have “cleared
out,” nor then, unless she believes “that'll be
the last we shall hear of 'em,” and when she
sees the handsome monument which has
already been placed above the remains of
Henry, she places her arms akimbo, and confesses
her belief that “Jordan is a hard road
to travel.”
The last time I saw Uncle Peter, he had
his hand on a pine table, in the hope of
receiving “a communication” from poor
Aunt Sally, whose shade he entreated more
tenderly than I ever knew her living self to
be. He had just received, he told me, an
“impression,” through the dear deceased,
Throckmorton Hall, and that he himself should
become his “medium.”
So my characters are all disposed of, as
well, perhaps, as their respective qualities,
and the average chances of the world, admitted,
and yet how different their histories
might have been, if all parties had been.
MATED, as well as MARRIED!
| Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall | |