 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
LYDIA HEATH AT THE SUMNERS.
The door opened at once on the ancient-looking parlor into
which Timothy Sumner introduced his young guest. Split
sticks of hickory mixed with small gnarled boughs of maple and
elm were blazing in the deep, wide fire-place, and the red light
flickered and danced on the opposite wall. On the high carved
mantel, of walnut, ticked the clock, surmounted with curious
gilt images, and its lower front ornamented with the picture of
a mansion, having a great many white columns and red windows,
before which were three very tall green trees.
On either side of the clock was a small profile cut in ink-black
paper, one of a male and the other of a female figure:
the latter supposed by the young lady to represent the departed
Mrs. Sumner, and the former to counterfeit Timothy
himself. The portion of the wall below the windows was faced
with walnut, carved like the mantel, and the doors were of the
same material, and correspondingly finished; the carpet was of a
sombre sort of check, and the other furniture of such dark and
antique paterns as are only found in old-fashioned country
houses: but the room was relieved from looking gloomy by
the pure whiteness of the ceiling and the remainder of the wall,
the pots of flowers, Jerusalem cherry-trees, and Jacob's ladders,
though they were, and the warm ruddy glow of the firelight.
The great brass andirons were polished almost to whiteness;
how they glittered and shone! Lydia Heath could see
the tiny reflection of her face in them, as she sat before the
hearth awaiting the coming of Judith and Maria, whom their
father was gone to apprise of her arrival. While thus alone,
she heard a sound as of some one stamping the snow off
room, and then joyous exclamations, “Can this be Timothy?
God bless you! have I lived to see you!” and the like. But
Timothy manifested no surprise, certainly no joy: the tones of
his voice remaining cold and calm, a little lower than was their
wont, perhaps. The new comer was shortly removed from the
room first entered, so that Lydia heard no more, and the ladies
very soon after made their appearance.
Judith, the elder, was perhaps thirty-five: tall, dark and
stout. Her eyes were very black, and her hair of the same
tone, except the silver threads, which knots of ribbon and other
furbelows could no longer conceal. Her nose was the prominent
feature of her face—the forehead and chin receding in such
way as to render it not precisely an angle, but something in
that way. Her feet and hands were larger than her figure,
large as it was, seemed to demand: so that, it may readily be
imagined, her claims to regard for personal beauty must have
been exceedingly slight. Notwithstanding this, however, there
was that in her air and manner which procured for her aristocratic
pretensions ready recognition: for Timothy Sumner, be
it known, was not only the wealthiest man in the country, but
he could trace his genealogy much farther back than most of
his neighbors, farther even, I suspect, than Mr. Middleton.
Maria, ten or twelve years younger than her sister, was in some
sort her counterpart, but in a softer way. Her hair was of a
dark brown, but without the silver streaks, and was worn in
half curls about her cheeks, which retained all the plumpness
they ever possessed, and carnation enough to show that there
was life in them, but not any more. She was not so tall nor so
stout as Judith, and altogether was more approachable and
familiar, though for her soul she would have neither talked loud
nor fast.
Mrs. Sumner had been dead for many years, but when living
had been the pattern woman of the neighborhood: a cap or dress
could scarcely be in any degree of taste if not modelled after
hers, and unless the judgment of Timothy were sadly at fault,
she had possessed more beauty and pride than all her family
combined. He had been, during her life, a faithful spouse, nor
though never so much tempted by the smiles of the ingenious
and wise widows who continually beset him.
At church he was neighbored all round by ladies whom his
friends told him were covetable matches. If he went to the
meadow to assist black Cato a little, because of the storm that
was coming up, the Widow Dartman was sure to see him from
her window, and cross the field to know if her cow had not broken
into his enclosures; and if he went to town, Mrs. Spikes would
like to go, if he would be so kind as to find room for her in his
chaise; and among his in-town acquaintances there was more
than one lady who would think it quite a charity, if Mr.
Sumner would allow her to come out to his house, just for a
day or two, to inhale the pure country air. Among this number
must be reckoned the Widow Heath. Judith and Maria
were expected to make her house their home when they came
to the city; and she would send Lydia out to pass a week with
them, that they might feel no hesitancy about it. Lydia, of
course was glad to go, though perfectly artless in the matter.
Mrs. Heath was possessed of considerable wealth, so that whatever
her motives, they were not mercenary; at least it would
not be reasonable to suppose they were. But, for some cause,
she was one of the admirers of Mr. Sumner; perhaps her heart
was yet susceptible; who knows?
Young women in the country must needs have some acquaintances
in town, else how should they ever get the fashions? so
the overtures of Mrs. Heath were cordially met, and after due
preliminaries the stage horn sounded one December afternoon
in front of Mrs. Heath's handsome mansion, and Lydia having
been told to make herself useful and agreeable, especially to
Mr. Sumner, with satchel and trunk was helped into the coach.
And now we may return to the parlor, where we left her,
seated before the great fire, with Judith and Maria. She had
been accustomed to the city all her life, but, notwithstanding, she
had always felt an instinctive love of the country, and her spirits
were now exhilarated with a wild sense of dawning freedom.
Gaily she spoke of every thing; even the snow-storm served
only to make it more cheerful within; and as she sat before the
shining brass andirons, she felt that she should like to stay
there for ever. But though she really was so happy, and
chatted in so lively a manner, a thought of the haunted chamber
obtruded on her, occasionally, and another vague dream of
a pleasanter nature. Had Mr. Timothy Sumner really a son?
if so, what was his name, and how did he look? She could not
think him like Judith; and was he old or young? but she
scarcely admitted the possibility of his being old; she rather
thought he was younger than Maria. Very glad was she to
hear the preparations for tea, in the next room; she would see
him then, she thought, and perhaps the new comer too, certainly,
if he were Uncle Jonathan, as she half suspected.
At last Dinah, the colored maid, thrust her good-natured
face within the door, and announced to Missis Judith, that tea
was in readiness. The curiosity of the young girl was all alive,
and shaking back her brown curls, and saying laughingly that
she for one, should do justice to the tea, she followed the stately
Judith, looking something like a sunbeam in the edge of a
cloud: for she was slight, fond of talking, and her face was
illumined always with inward cheerfulness. Maria, neither so
dignified nor so silent as her sister, could accommodate herself
in some measure to the volatile and gay Lydia; but the childlike
simplicity of her manner, and the mirthfulness of her
laughter and conversation were shocking in a degree, even to
her. Nevertheless, the sisters could not fail to perceive that
Lydia was really well bred, and that she belonged to an ancient
and wealthy family was past a doubt. Therefore a thousand
things were excused in her, which they would have condemned
in a daughter of Deacon Whitfield or of Mr. Troost, or Mr.
Tompkins.
Miss Judith did the honors of the table; opposite her sat her
father, precise and proud, but with such qualities that one could
not help loving him; at one side Maria took her place, and at
the other was the chair for Lydia. No other persons made their
appearance.
The man in the coach must have been mistaken, thought
Lydia; and turning to Mr. Sumner, she asked him whether he
his manner of talking of his relations and friends, as
though they were known to every body; not forgetting, in conclusion,
to tell that he stopt at “Uncle David's.” The story
of Jonathan's Hill, discretion prevented her saying any thing
about, though she mentioned incidentally that the strange
gentleman talked incessantly while they were coming up the
hill; “Jonathan's Hill, I believe they called it,” she said,
glancing around the table.
“Yes, yes, a curious sort of fellow, I know him very well,”
replied Mr. Sumner, in a more hurried manner than was his
custom; and for once, (it became thereafter quite a frequent
occurrence) the color came into the thin cheek of the elder
sister.
“I should think him perfectly honest,” continued Lydia.
“Strictly so, strictly so,” said Mr. Sumner; “and you say
he talked all the time you were coming up the hill; what did
he have to enlighten you all about?”
“Oh! I hardly know what,” Lydia replied; but though she
bent her head low, the curls could not quite cover her blushes,
so conscious was she of the falsehood she uttered. But rallying
presently, she added, “He told us in what spot his father shot
a bear, a long time ago, and a good many other things;” and
in saying this, she partly atoned, as she thought, for what she
had first stated.
All that evening she marvelled whether Mr. Sumner really
had a son; she could not understand how the man could have
been mistaken, as he seemed to know the family so well; that
he was honest, Mr. Sumner himself had told her; but if there
were such a young man, why did she not see him at tea? and
why was no mention made of him?
While she thus meditated, Maria took up a child's apron, and
began trimming it with lace. A sudden thought suggested
itself: the son and brother was married, and the apron was for
one of his children: the most natural thing in the world—why
had she not thought of it before? To make assurance doubly
sure, she said, seeming to admire the work, “You have no little
brother or sister, have you?”
Maria smiled, saying, “I have no little brother, but I have a
big one, and this is for his child.”
“Oh, yes, yes,” answered Lydia, “what a pretty pattern!”
And shortly afterwards, complaining of being tired, she went,
after the guidance of Judith, to her chamber. She did not feel
quite so happy as she had before; she could not imagine why,
and for a long while kept tossing and turning; she could never
sleep so well in a strange place. On the morrow, however, she
recovered all her cheerfulness, and ran from room to room, and
out of doors and in, like a child. She had settled the query
about the brother, and as for the strange guest, she had almost
forgotten him.
Towards evening she stole out of the parlor, and muffled in
hood and shawl, went with Dinah to see her milk the cows.
To be sure, the snow was half a foot deep, but what of that? a
path was trodden down toward the barn, and cold would only
give her red cheeks. When she found herself within the shed,
where half a dozen cows were eating hay, she felt a little
afraid, but, nevertheless, professed bravery, and laughingly told
Dinah that she should like above all things to be a farmer's wife.
Dinah was heartily pleased at this, and vowed she would
lose no time in telling master Archibald.
“And pray who is he?” asked Lydia.
“Lord bless your soul,” answered the maid, “he is the very
best one of the family, and you haven't hearn of him?”
“The best of what family?” asked Lydia.
“Why, old massa's, to be sure.” And she milked so fast
with the excitement of her subject, that the sound on the bottom
of the tin pail almost prevented her words being under
stood.
“Ah, yes,” said Lydia, “I heard Maria speak of him last
night, I think.”
“It's a wonder if you did,” said Dinah, “for they never
mention his name more than if he was of my color—case
they're ashamed of him.”
“She could not well avoid it,” said Lydia; “I asked for
whom she was making an apron that you, perhaps, saw her at
work on, and she told me it was for her brother's child.”
“He, he, he!” laughed Dinah; in fact, she could not milk
for some minutes, so convulsed was she with laughter. At
length she managed to say, “Massa Archibald have no child,
more than the man in the moon!”
“I don't understand how it is,” said Lydia; but Dinah said
she did, that the apron was for master Williams's child, that he
had several children, and lived in the village of Sumnerville,
while master Archibald was a single young man and lived at
home. “But you might be here a month and not see him,”
she added. It was natural enough that Lydia should ask why.
“Case,” answered Dinah, “they's ashamed of him; he isn't
polished like the rest of the family; he likes to work on the
farm, and don't wear gloves when he goes to meeting; and, besides
all that, he has had the small pox the last year, and that
spilt his beauty, and so they's more ashamed of him than
ever; but,” she continued, “there is no love lost, for he don't
like the ladies any better than they does him.”
“I should like to see him,” Lydia said, “but won't he eat
with us ever?”
“When the neighbor country-folks are here they ask him to
come to tea sometimes; but when there are visitors like you,
Miss, he doesn't get asked, but I look out for his comfort in the
kitchen,” and Dinah seemed to felicitate herself on that.
“I wish I could see him,” said Lydia again, thoughtfully.
“Bless your life, child,” said Dinah eagerly, “just look down
the lane; that is he with the gun and dogs.”
Lydia looked as directed, but saw little more than the outline
of the young man's figure, before she heard her name called,
and looking up saw before her Mr. Timothy Sumner, who professed
to have felt great alarm on her account, as, hastily drawing
her arm within his, he conducted her back to the house,
where she found the two young women in visible trepidation.
She had certainly been very indiscreet, so recklessly exposing
herself to the rough weather, to say nothing of the alarm she
had caused; and owning her fault like a good girl as she was,
she sat down by the fire and resigned herself to a hopeless endurance
for another evening.
After tea, whist was proposed, and as Lydia seemed to enter
she should like Archibald for a partner than Judith. On returning
to her chamber she sat down by the fire to muse about
the family in general, and Archibald in particular, but her attention
was presently arrested by voices in the next room.
The communicating door had been left ajar, and listening close,
for she thought of the haunted chamber, she could hear imperfectly
what was said, and was soon convined that the inmates
were human beings: one of them, from the full, firm tone of his
voice, in all probability Archibald himself. He seemed, however,
little more than a listener to his companion, whose cracked
and tremulous accent betokened age and infirmity. He was
evidently telling stories of his own wonderful adventures in
hunts, and camps, and fights. Satisfied that her neighbors
were not ghosts, she tried to busy herself with her own
thoughts, and at last, in recalling all Dinah had said, and imagining
realms of rural happiness, she fell asleep to the murmur
of their voices, and did not wake till the light streamed through
her window.
Two days went by, and Lydia neither saw nor heard anything
of Archibald. She scarcely ventured to leave the parlor for
a moment, least it should be thought at variance with her
friends' ideas of propriety. She dared neither skip nor dance,
nor in fact move at all, unless obvious occasion required.
When the third day came, she could endure the restraint no
longer; she had cut new patterns, and exhibited all her dresses,
that the Sumners might remodel theirs according to the latest
fashions; she had also told them of all the new styles of wearing
the hair she had heard of; and she knew no other means
by which to make herself useful or agreeable; and she felt that
she had not come near their hearts: there was a constant
restraint and formality in all their intercourse, which was alien
to her nature.
They employed themselves most of their time in embroidery
and fine needle-work, which seemed so completely to absorb
their minds, that they could scarcely converse at all, and when
they did so, it was with a cold, reserved melancholy, and with
words that betrayed only the surface of feeling.
Mr. Sumner was consequential, but with persons whom he
considered socially his equals, most genial and conversable.
He however was obliged to deny himself the pleasure of the
young women's society, in consequence of the heavy demands
on his time, being one of those persons who seem always to
have a great deal in hand, without ever doing much. It was
his habit to say, almost every night in his life, “Judith, my
dear, can't you oblige me by having breakfast a little earlier
to-morrow than usual?” At which times Judith invariably said,
“I will endeavor, sir, to do so,” whereupon the old gentleman
said, “Thank you, my dear”—and retired; and Judith, tinkling
a little hand-bell, transmitted the order to Dinah, who never
failed to laugh good humoredly on hearing the familar words.
Every pleasant day, and sometimes when it was not so pleasant,
Mr. Sumner went into the adjoining county; what he
went for, no one ever knew or questioned, it was enough that
he was going there.
Lydia was not without curiosity, and was ill satisfied with
this indefinite definition of his purposes; and so, one evening,
after the accustomed order for an early breakfast, and the announcement
that he was going to the adjoining county, she
went abruptly into the kitchen and inquired of Dinah, what on
earth it was for which Mr. Sumner made this almost daily journey;
but Dinah knew no more about it than the man in the
moon, to use her favorite expression. She recollected, that
twenty years or so before, he had owned some property there,
but that had been sold in Mrs. Sumner's time, as she distinctly
remembered that the man who bought the estate had brought
and presented to Mrs. Sumner a pair of shoes, for obligingly
and unhesitatingly signing the deed. This, she said, she could
not forget, for the shoes were never worn, and Mr. Sumner
took them from the chest, and put them in the sunshine regularly
twice every week, in memory of his wife's amiability.
Lydia had remarked, that one of the chief occupations of Mr.
Sumner, when at home, was the reviewing and packing and
unpacking of all articles that had belonged to his wife. On
an upper piazza, fronting the room she had occupied, there were
regularly displayed, dresses, faded ribbons, old caps, and bonnets,
looked so antique and odd, as to excite any one, not particularly
interested, to laughter or to pity; at least Lydia was so tempted,
as she stole a look at them one day. It was well no one saw her
but Dinah, for she not only laughed, but said she would burn
them in the fire without reservation, except, indeed, such little
mementoes as might be kept in perfect preservation. No letter
had Mrs. Sumner ever received from a fifth cousin, stating that
her husband had bought six new shirts, or was taking the famous
Indian Panacea for the chills, or from her mother giving advice
about the teething of Judith, or Maria's hooping-cough, that
was not carefully treasured, yellow and musty, and with the
ink faded to a dull brown. In these articles, and the care they
required, one of the heaviest demands on the time of Mr. Timothy
Sumner was explained; and Lydia could not help hoping,
that no chamber was worse haunted than that which held the
chests, bureaus, and wardrobes, filled with these relics.
But to return to the kitchen where Lydia was talking with
Dinah about the adjoining county, and proposing to go thither
herself on an exploring expedition. She fancied that her prim
behavior for two or three days had earned her the privilege of
a little chat in the kitchen, but she was wrong. A light tap on
the door with the thimble-finger of Judith (she wore a gold
thimble), arrested her gaiety. Some trivial excuse, I forget
what, that stately lady made for recalling her to the parlor.
“In one moment,” said Lydia, “I want to learn how to make
these cakes, which Dinah is mixing.”
She really wanted to ask Dinah whether she had communicated
her message about being a farmer's wife, and to know of
Cato, what he proposed doing with the three baskets of corn
that he had brought in and ranged against the wall; but Dinah
had only said she had a great long story to tell, and Cato, that
Mr. Archibald and he were going to have a shelling match that
night, when the tap of the thimble, a little louder than before,
put an end to the scheme she had half formed about helping to
shell the corn. Her countenance grew blank, but kindled up
with a smile as Dinah whispered, “Never mind, Miss, I've got
a plan;” and so, returning to the parlor, she renewed her instructions
Fortune favors the brave, thought she, and for a time interested
herself in the stitching, cross stitching, and double stitching of
the ladies; but as the time wore on, and Dinah failed to present
herself, she began to wish she was at home. “It is useless
to remain here longer,” she thought, “I shall never see
Archibald, and as for the rest of the family, I shall never make
friends of them;” and lighting the lamp, she said she should
return home in the morning, and retired to her chamber to
gather her effects together, so as to be in readiness for the coach.
It must not be supposed, that Lydia was in love with Archibald;
by no means; curiosity had induced an interest at first,
which was deepened by a knowledge of his peculiar situation.
Her heart was overflowing with kindness, and she fancied she
might in some way be of service to him, for she imagined him
an outcast from all the world, as well as from the love of his
sisters. If she could only ask him to come to her mother's and
get breakfast when he brought a load of hay to town, she would
be so glad. “He is good enough to eat with me, I know,” she
said, “else Dinah would not have said he was good, for she is
good;” and so, childishly musing, she refolded and placed in
her satchel such little articles as were scattered about the
table and chairs.
While she was thus engaged, Dinah presented herself, saying,
they were all shelling corn in the kitchen, and having such nice
times—wouldn't Miss Lydia just come down a little while?
“They will compel me away by some means,” she thought,
“it is of no use;” and complaining of a headache, she retired to
rest in a petulant mood, thinking what a very ugly name Archibald
is.
When Mr. Timothy Sumner came back, towards midnight,
from one of his excursions into the adjoining county, and was
informed of Lydia's proposed return to town in the morning,
he was surprised and pained; it must not be so on any account;
he was confident she had intended to stay longer, and they had
surely failed in hospitality in some way, else she had seen such
members of his family as were no credit to him. This supposition
seemed to be favored by the knowledge of Lydia's having
“Well, well, I will see to it in the morning,” he said,
and having taken a letter from his pocket and written with his
pencil various unmeaning characters on the back of it, he retired
to his chamber, muttering something about Archibald and uncle
Jonathan, to the effect that they had better live in the woods—
which were suited to them and the like. To say truth, Archibald
was very careless, both of the etiquette which his father
and sisters punctiliously observed, and of his personal appearance.
No one took any interest in him, and, therefore, he took
little in himself; but during the last few days a change had
come o'er the spirit of his dream. He had told Dinah, for the
first time in his life, that he wished her to iron his shirts a little
more particularly; he had also more than once given his boots
into Cato's hands to be blacked; he had called at the barber's,
when at the tavern, and had his whiskers trimmed in a neat
and fashionable style. All these were things he had never
done before, nor could Dinah imagine, as she herself said, what
possessed him. As he had not seen Lydia, and there was no
probability of his seeing her, it would seem that she could have
had nothing to do with the metamorphosis.
The snowbirds had scarcely hopped from the boughs in the
morning, before Lydia was dressed and in complete readiness
to depart. The parlor fire burned brightly, and seating herself
before it, she awaited a little impatiently the breakfast.
A sudden thought struck her—she would go into the kitchen
and talk with Dinah, who had been very obliging to her, and
so quicken the speed of time. “Now truly I is sorry,” said
that amiable personage, “that you are to leave us, for no such
quality as you has been in this house for many a day; but you
must come back when it gets warm and we make the garden,
and now you couldn't see master Archibald if you were to stay
ever so long.”
“And why so?” asked Lydia; “but,” she added, “I suppose
it's because he don't want to see me half so much as I do
him.”
“That he do, Miss,” said Dinah, “and last night he was
ready in his best coat to eat supper with you, when proud Miss
looked like a fright, and if she were him, she would hide away
from all humanity—meaning by that,” said Dinah, “that he
must hide away from you, and so master Archibald sat here
sad all the evening, and would not eat any supper. But the
reason you can't see him now is, that old massa sent him away
on government business this morning, and he must be in town
by this time, 'case he went to Clovernook to take the first
stage.”
“And so he is gone; well, he must be a singular sort of
genius,” said Lydia, musingly.
Dinah answered that he was, and said farther, “They say he
is like his uncle Jonathan, but I don't think so.”
“And have you seen that curious uncle?” and Lydia was
reminded of the stranger's arrival, and the wild hunting stories
she had heard one night; but before she had time to make further
inquiry, Mr. Sumner presented himself, and rubbing his
hands together in a brisk sort of way, began protesting against
the possibility of Lydia's departure; no, no, he could not hear
of it; he had planned half a dozen little excursions, which he
could not be disappointed of; not, certainly, unless she could
give good reasons for her return to the city.
Thus forced to make some plea, Lydia adopted the first that
presented itself, and said that her wardrobe had not been sufficiently
provided to warrant a longer stay, but that she should
be happy to avail herself of his hospitality another time.
“Then return to-night,” urged Mr. Sumner; this suggestion
was seconded on the appearance of the young ladies, and,
more to avoid importunity than for any intention of complying,
Lydia acceded to the request. She could not help remarking,
that no one seemed anxious to withdraw her from the kitchen;
and not only so, but they assured her she should have the whole
range of the house, and barn, too, if it pleased her.
Having settled that she should return, the little family sat
down to muffins and coffee; after which, Mr. Sumner, being
called from home by some urgent business, was obliged immediately
to make his adieus; not, however, without reiterating
receiving her assurance that he should not be disappointed.
After his departure there was not long to wait till the ticking
of the clock was drowned in the heavy rumble of the coach,
and Cato, who had been stationed at the gate, presented himself,
and taking charge of her luggage, hastened out to hold up
one hand in token of a passenger. The four horses were brought
to a sudden stand—the luggage stowed on the top, and the lady
inside; adieus waved to the ladies at the window, to Dinah, who
stood midway from the gate to the house, and to Cato, who
leaned over the fence, laughing his good will, and by way of
performing some parting feat for the especial benefit of Miss
Lydia, dislodging a cat, with one horizontal sweep of the hand,
from her comfortable position on the gate-post.
“It may be a long time before I see that old place again,”
thought Lydia, and she looked earnestly till it was hidden from
her view by a turn in the road and a clump of trees.
“The farm you view so intently,” said a full manly voice at
her side, “presents a much better appearance in the summer
time,” and turning round, her eyes half blinded with sunlight,
Lydia saw that her travelling company was only one gentleman,
of strikingly prepossessing appearance, and she fancied
she must somewhere have seen him before, or a person who
looked very much like him. His ungloved hands unmistakably
spoke him a farmer, and supposing he might live in
that neighborhood, she said, “You seem familiar with the
scenery,” to which the stranger replied simply, “Yes,” and
leaning from the window, added, “Ah, you see the place to
great disadvantage: when yonder line of forest is in full leaf,
and this orchard in blossoms, instead of snow, it presents a
sight far more pleasing.”
“Do you know the proprietor?” asked Lydia; and her fellow
passenger said that he had some sort of acquaintance with
him, adding, “You also have, as I judge.”
After some further conversation of Mr. Timothy Sumner,
during which the stranger, laughingly, asked whether she had
remarked his going into the adjoining county, he said abruptly,
“A peculiar family!”
“Do you know the young man?” Lydia inquired; “and is
he peculiar, too?”
“Well, perhaps he is,” said the stranger, “but I don't so
much dislike his peculiarities.”
“I fancy I should not,” she said; “indeed, my sympathies
were quite drawn out in his behalf.”
“And did you not see him?” and her questioner smiled as
he spoke.
She replied that she did not, repeating some things which
Dinah had told her, and concluded by saying she should like
vastly to see him, but inasmuch as he had been sent from home
that morning, and had not mingled with the rest of the family
at all during her visit, which indeed as like as not would never
be repeated, she doubted exceedingly whether she should ever
form Mr. Achibald's acquaintance. The travellers found each
other extremely interesting; the fast flying coach seemed to
give impulse to their tongues, and they conversed so familiarly
and freely as to feel astonished at themselves when their little
journey was ended.
“And so,” said the young man at parting, “you have some
curiosity to see this Archibald Sumner? I myself saw him this
morning, and he told me he should return home in this coach
to-night; you have an invitation to go back, at your option: I
will reserve a seat for you with pleasure;” and before Lydia
had time to accept or decline the civility, he had said “Good
morning,” and was off.
At the door stood Mrs. Heath, waiting to make some inquiries
as to her daughter's unexpected return, which presently slid
into inquiries about Mr. Timothy Sumner; “And who,” she
asked, “was that bumpkin who assisted you to alight?”
The color rose to Lydia's cheek as she answered that she
didn't know the gentleman; she hardly knew why, but she
unwillingly heard him characterized in this manner, was half
angry with her mother, and resolved at once to return to Mr.
Sumner's in the afternoon.
“Archibald will not know,” she said to herself, “that I am
informed he is going; nor do I go for that reason; in fact I
don't much expect he will return; Dinah said he would be
I don't know what arrangements he may have made to-day:
I must not disappoint him.” And selecting from her wardrobe
more carefully than before, and arranging her curls with
peculiar care, she awaited the coach.
In due time it presented itself, eight inside—just room for
one more. The acquaintance of the morning was there, and
had reserved beside himself a seat for Lydia: she looked at the
different passengers, and could see no one who answered her
ideas of Archibald; and, ashamed of the interest she had expressed
in the morning, she would not so much as allude to
him in any way, and was now quite as much over-reserved as
she had been over-familiar in the morning. The stranger was
certainly both handsome and agreeable, but her manner abated
not from its formality. This for no fault of his; she was angry
with herself for having talked with him so freely; for having
gone home, and then for having started back again. If Archibald
were in the coach she didn't blame his sisters for being
ashamed of him; and when it stopped at Mr. Sumner's door,
she looked curiously to see which was he. The stranger
seemed to notice it, for as he handed her out he smiled: Archibald
was not there. The third day after he arrival the ladies
were invited to a dinner party in Clovernook, but Lydia with
the thawing of the snow had caught cold, and did not feel like
going, and being by this time sufficiently at home, was permitted
to remain for half a day alone, Mr. Sumner accompanying
his daughters.
When she grew tired of reading, she went into the kitchen
and assisted Dinah about making pies.
“Just tend the baking, Miss,” said Dinah, “while I go to
the barn and ask Cato to get me three eggs;” but Lydia skipt
away herself for the eggs. The door was wide open, the snow
melting from the roof and falling in great cold masses along the
sill, and the floor covered with yellow sheaves for threshing.
Cato was not there, and hearing some one on the scaffold above,
she called out, “Is that you?” And hearing a responsive
“Yes,” she added “Come down here; you are the very man I
want.”
“At your service, Miss,” said a voice which seemed not unfamiliar,
and in the person who had slidden down by the rope,
and was dropping on one knee at her feet, Lydia recognised
the gentleman with whom she had travelled in the coach.
A year after that little incident, as the snow was one night
drifting against the windows of one of the prettiest cottages in
the whole neighborhood of Clovernook, two persons sat before
the fire talking, and seeming by their unromantic ease to be husband
and wife. “Poor old man!” said the woman, at the conclusion
of some story to which she had been listening; “and
so he gave you this nice farm and pretty cottage, and then went
back to the wilderness to die alone?”
“It was no sacrifice,” answered the young man, “he was captured
by the savages when so young, and has learned to love
their rude life so well, that civilization has no charms for him;
certainly it had none when it involved the pride that despised
him; and besides, Jonathan's Hill will perpetuate his memory
when we are forgotten.”
“I did not think you selfish before,” said his partner, the
tears coming to her eyes, and then, as if ashamed of what she
had uttered, she added, quickly, “And he knew nothing of the
phantom gun and ghost?”
“And you, too, misunderstand me,” said the young man
half-reproachfully; “I urged him to share our home, but he
would not, and as I said before, he made no sacrifice, or less
than he would, had he remained.” She dropt her head till her
curls quite concealed her blushes, and a smile, playfully malicious,
came over the handsome features of the young man, as
he added, “Well, well, if I am selfish, I am the very man you
wanted, for you told me so; else, perhaps, Lydia Heath might
never have been the wife of Archibald Sumner.”
The wife shook back her curls and smiled, as the kiss of reconciliation
was pressed on her forehead, saying, “What a
pretty name Arch. is; and if I did tell you you were the man
I wanted, blindly though it were, time has proven that I was
not mistaken.”
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |