 | CHAPTER XLIII. Forest life |  |
43. CHAPTER XLIII.
The virtues linked are in lovely wize.
Spenser.
Time wore on thus—Mr. Parshalls skimming
the cream of life, such as it was, and leaving only
a sky-blue remainder for his devoted wife, who
always excused all his exactions on the ground of
his being “so fleshy;” Henry Parshalls bearing
his enforced change of condition with little attempt
at cheerfulness, and his pretty Mary generally in
either extravagant spirits or equally extravagant
depression, but through all evincing a scarce disguised
contempt for her mother-in-law, and gradually
withdrawing little Alfred from her as much
as possible.
This was any thing but happiness, and the careworn
countenance of Aunty Parshalls showed how
deeply she felt that heaviness which weighs at a
mother's heart—and such a heart!—when she
sees things “going wrong” among her dear ones.
There was a gleam of something like joy when
Mary gave birth to a little daughter, but this was soon
overclouded by the extreme illness of the mother
and the subsequent death of the child. When
Mrs. Henry Parshalls had recovered so far as to be
unhappy aspect, for her variableness and her angry
grief for the loss of her infant approached the tone
of insanity; and after some months had elapsed in
this way, her husband looked like a broken-down
man, and scarcely made an effort towards securing
the means of life. Here again the burden fell on
the much-enduring mother, who found time, even
from her husband's service, to labor for her son's
family, and who also found means, in spite of penury,
to contribute many a little comfort to that
gloomy and desolate household. Yet never did
these efforts and sacrifices succeed in winning, in
the smallest degree, the regard of the wayward
Mary. She evinced ever the same scorn and
hatred of her mother-in-law's coarse appearance
and rude habits, wilfully closing her eyes to traits
of character which could have derived no real lustre
from any station on earth.
But there was yet a shade to be added to this
unhappy picture. Little Alfred, who before the
birth of the baby had been the darling of the young
wife, had for some time been observed to call forth
her irritable feelings more than any other object.
When she was in her seasons of wild and flighty
spirits she would sometimes play with him as before;
but when the tide turned, as it was sure to
do, the unnatural flashing of her dark eyes turned
first upon him, and the innocent creature, feeling
the malign influence, would hide himself from her,
whisper to her that mother was very naughty.
It is not to be supposed that these things passed
unnoticed by those most interested. Even the old
man was aroused to a suspicion that Mary was
“going crazy,” and his wife spent her days and
nights in the most painful anxiety lest some dreadful
catastrophe should yet prove the correctness of the
idea; especially as Henry, with a pride which was
part of his very existence, treated his mother's
anguished hints and cautions with scorn and derision,
though in his secret heart he felt convinced
that some sad change had taken place in his unhappy
wife. He even requested his mother not to
come to his house, telling her that it was only her
odd ways that irritated Mary!
If any thing was yet lacking to complete the
crushing of poor Aunty it was a stroke like
this. To know that her presence was tolerated
only because it was needed, had been killing enough
to a heart overflowing with affection; but to find
herself excluded as a thing to shudder at! And
that dear boy over whom her old heart yearned so
fondly—was he to be left to the mercy of a
mother who was all but a maniac, and who would
doubtless teach him to hate his grandmother, if
she taught him any thing! She could only go
away and pray that “yet worse things” might be
spared her.
It was with all this load at her heart, and the
old eyes, that Mrs. Parshalls, in the weary round
of her daily labors, ascended the hill of which
mention has been made; her steps tottering beneath
the weight of the dish-kettle, which she scarcely
used to think of while little Alfred trotted by her
side. Arrived at the top, her eye wandered mechanically
around the various fields in the neighborhood—the
watching of unruly or straying cattle
being, as we said before, a part of her imposed duty.
At this moment she saw Mary, holding little Alfred
by the hand, come out of her house and walk
hurriedly towards a wood which lay at some little
distance, west of the village. The mother's heart
died within her. She felt—who has not felt?—
that dread presentiment of evil whose agony can
scarcely be exceeded by the occurrence of all we
fear. She hesitated but for a moment, and then,
with all the speed her trembling limbs could master,
hastened to the wood by another path.
Fears that had haunted her for months past led
her at once to a deep hollow at some distance from
the road, where was a small circular pond without
any apparent outlet—one of those deposits of
water called in this country, cat-holes—completely
imbedded in hills and shaded by great overhanging
trees.
Those fears, the result of perceptions rendered
acute by a mother's anxious love, had not deceived
her. Before she could reach the spot she heard the
mother!” and Mary's voice replying, “You
shall not live, little wretch, when my own baby is
dead and buried!” then struggles and blows, and
then a plunge into the still waters.
With a piercing shriek she sprang forward, and at
the sound the unhappy Mary, clasping her hands
above her head, threw herself into the pond, before
Mrs. Parshalls had gained the bank.
To rush down, to plunge into the slimy waters,
and to draw to land both the victims, was the work
of only as much time as would have served a
strong man to do the same. The little boy was
able to stand, at once, but poor Mary was entirely
insensible, and Mrs. Parshalls, knowing it would
be in vain to call for help from that remote recess,
bore her in her arms to the top of the bank, the
child following, and thence, often resting on her
weary way, succeeded in carrying her to the road-side,
where assistance was easily found.
Long did this death-like swoon hold the unfortunate
creature; so long that almost all hope was
exhausted but Aunty's. She ceased not for a moment
to chafe the helpless limbs, and to try all
her simple restoratives in succession, till at length
returning life rewarded her efforts, though the
stupor was still so heavy that it seemed as if no
ray of reason would ever be rekindled. The physician,
when questioned by the wretched husband,
declined giving a present opinion, but recommended
to Mrs. Parshalls.
It was midnight in that sad chamber, and the
dim light of a shaded candle scarcely reached the
bed, when Mary, after some uneasy sighs and
restless movements, suddenly started up, drew her
hands across her brow, and looked around her as
if bewildered.
“Where am I? where is Alfred? Am I in this
weary world yet!” then seeing her faithful
nurse at the bedside, she screamed, and covered
her eyes with her hands.
“You here! go away! go away!” she exclaimed,
in extreme agitation; then seeming gradually to
recover her recollection, she asked again for Alfred.
“He is in his little bed asleep, my darling,”
said Mrs. Parshalls; “lie down like a good girl
now, and you shall see him in the morning.”
“Asleep, is he? are you sure he is only asleep?
oh mother, I was so afraid—but I have been in a
dream—oh! is it all a dream?” she asked
almost gasping.
“You have been asleep a long time,” said the
good woman with the utmost tenderness; “but you
are ill, my dear Mary, and you must try to be very
quiet. Alfred is quite well.”
Mary gazed intently at the old woman, as if in
deep thought, and then began searching in her
bosom as if for something lost.
“I am undressed—who undressed me? you?
asked in the wildest tone.
“Here, Mary,” said Mrs. Parshalls, approaching
the bedside with a mournful air—“this is the box,
and I took it from your bosom. You don't want
it again, dear?”
“Give it me! give it me! do you know
what—”
“Hush, hush, my dear; do not be so violent.”
“But do you know—tell me! did you open it?
ah! you do! you know what is in it, and you
have told Henry! Say! tell me! you have told
him, haven't you? You went right to him and
told him what a poor creature his wife was—an
opium-eater.”
“Mary, my dear daughter,” said the kind soul,
sobbing ready to break her heart, “you don't know
your old mother! You see me a poor rough humly
old woman, and you think I'm all through alike.
I never told Henry, nor I never shall tell any living
soul. But oh! my darling, how can you—”
But she could not finish, for Mary, struck at once
with shame and remorse, burst into tears, and threw
her white arms round poor Aunty's bony neck, and
kissed again and again the withered bosom.
“Oh mother! true mother! I see all now!
You have been my guardian angel! I remember
all that has happened! And you have not told
Henry? but I will tell him myself! He shall know
all my weakness, my wickedness;—he little thinks
me before my baby was born were the beginning
of all our misery! I never tasted it before, mother,
but the relief—the delight—which followed the
use of those fatal doses were my ruin! I have paid
dearly for all since! But now—after this awful
day—you will let me live with you, won't you,
mother? You will take care of me, you will
watch me, for fear—dear, dear mother, you shall
be always my guardian angel!”
Mrs. Parshalls tried in vain to check the gush of
Mary's awakened sensibilities. She told her she
must look higher than to a poor woman of the dust
for guardianship. She tried by every love-taught
art to quiet the agitated spirits of her charge, and at
last had the satisfaction of seeing her fall into a
sweet sleep, holding to the very last one of those
poor, worn out, shapeless hands which she had often
looked on with such contempt and aversion.
Mary's new life dates from this awful crisis.
Every day has improved her, and though the vehemence
of her gratitude to her husband's mother
faded with the unnatural excitement which attended
its birth, the sentiment remains in undiminished
force, and is exhibited in a thousand tender cares
and dutiful offices. And as such feelings are happily
contagious, we need not marvel that Henry's
character seems to have undergone some sympathetic
change, and to partake something of the
warmth which appears so lovely in his young wife.
As for father Parshalls, I fear he is too old to
learn. The last time I saw his “old woman,” she
was on the top of the hill again, and by way of
adding to her height, already passing that of women,
she had turned the dish-kettle upside down, and
was standing on it, a skeleton statue scantily draperied—looking
round the landscape with a
searching glance.
“I do wonder,” she said, “what has become of
that heifer critter! If my old man comes home
afore I find her, I shall get an awful talkin' to!”
Talk of the Venus! The statue that enchants
the world is not half so respectable as Aunty Parshalls
standing on her dish-kettle!
| CHAPTER XLIII. Forest life | |