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