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