 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
THE CLAVERELS.
The July sun was oppressively hot—no breath of air stirred
the dusty leaves, and the clouds, light and fleecy, gave no
indication of rain. There were no bird songs to cheer the hay-makers;
and as I am not writing poetry, I don't feel at liberty
to say there were, though I would fain give the persons of whom
I write all the pleasant accessories that come within the limits
of rural probability. The eldest of these persons was Mr.
Claverel, a thin, pale man, of about five-and-forty; the other
three were his sons, two of them stout young men of nineteen
and twenty-one, the other, two or three years older, and of much
thinner and slighter proportions. The younger two, David and
Oliver, were moving slowly, half-bent over the thick green
swaths which they cut as they proceeded, and Mr. Claverel
followed a little behind, pitching and tossing the ridges of grass
to facilitate its drying. His long, sandy hair, parted in front,
and combed back either way, was wet with perspiration, and
hung down his neck in half-curled slips; and, though the heat
twinkled and glimmered all about him, he wore beneath his
outer shirt an under one of red flannel always, an indispensable
article of his apparel. His vest and trowsers were of some
dark woollen material; and thick, heavy boots, and a broad-rimmed
black fur hat—for he wore no coat—completed his costume.
The sun was some two or three hours on the western
slope, and they had been at work hard, and in silence, since
noon, when Mr. Claverel, looking up, perceived that one of the
mowers was missing, and throwing down his rake, and taking
from his hat a handkerchief of red silk, dotted with little white
of hay, looked eagerly about the field, which was cut diagonally
by a deep hollow, so that a considerable portion was still out
of view. His bright-blue eyes sparkled anger as he failed to
discover the object of his search, for he was a man of quick
passions; and he called angrily, first to one and then to the
other of the sons at work, to make inquiry about the one who
was missed.
“He says his scythe is so dull he can't work,” said David,
sheltering his eyes and looking at his father, who replied—“I
guess most likely he is so dull himself he can't work. Tell him
to make his scythe sharp, if it's dull. Does he expect it will
sharpen itself?”
“I don't know, sir,” said David; “I know mine don't,” and
bending down, he resumed his task.
Mr. Claverel paused a moment, perplexed, and then adjusting
his handkerchief within his hat, so that one corner was
visible over the left eye, he set off in the direction of a stunted
walnut that grew at a short distance, in the hollow. The slope
was no sooner gained than he perceived, stretched at full length
in the shadow, and surrounded by the tall grass, the truant son.
His head was raised on one hand, and in the other he held a
stick, with which he was coiling and uncoiling a black snake,
which he seemed recently to have killed.
“Is that you, Richard?” said the father, in a tone indicative
of no very pleasant humor.
“Yes, sir,” said the idler, partly rising, for he stood in fear
of his father, and then, ashamed of having betrayed such a feeling,
sank back, and resumed his sport, when Mr. Claverel continued,
“Is this the way you expect to earn your bread?
why, you don't earn your salt!” Richard made no reply, and
his father, coming a little nearer, said, “Why are you not at
work?
He that has thriven may lie till seven;' ”
Richard answered, that he was not well; to which Mr. Claverel
you are really sick, sir, (this was a style Mr. Claverel always
used when speaking to a child with whom he was displeased),
go to the house and bring a coffee-pot of cold water to the field.
Do you think, sir, you have strength enough to do that?”
Richard said nothing, but slowly rising, proceeded to obey
his orders. A little ashamed of the deceit he had practised,
he walked very slowly, as though it was with difficulty he
could walk at all. He saw his two brothers bravely fronting
the sun, and looked very intently in an opposite direction, for
some pangs of conscience disturbed him; then as he walked on
he tried to excuse himself by saying his scythe was too dull to
admit of his mowing, and that he was not well at any rate.
He was not, however, self-deceived, and he secretly resolved that
when he should have taken the water to the field, he would
resume mowing, and work heartily till night.
He was constitutionally unfitted to labor, and really believed
himself possessed of talents, which the most unfortunate combination
of circumstances continually crushed. In fact, he had
intellectual gifts, in some sort, enough to render him dissatisfied
with the position of a mere laborer, but not enough to lift him
out of that position.
He read, in a very careless manner, such books as came in his
way, rarely appreciatively, for he had not strength and grasp
of mind sufficient to get thoroughly at the truth of things. He
had no one to encourage or sympathize with him in the least,
no one to give to his mind the bent it was capable of. True,
his mother concealed his faults as much as possible, and magnified
his little ailings, of which he affected to have a great many,
thus screening him from the work he so much despised, and
was constantly endeavoring to avoid. Nevertheless, he was
sometimes goaded by his conscience, sometimes by his father's
anger, into reluctant effort at a task, on which occasions he
never failed to curse the evil star that made him a clown and a
drudge. Mr. Claverel was an active, intelligent, pains-taking
farmer; his two younger sons, a little dull, and plodding, though
contended and industrious; but Richard, he often said, was the
millstone suspended about his neck. On the day I write of he
it should kill him, as he said to himself; not that there were
any reasonable grounds for such an unhappy fear; his appetite
was uniformly good; his sleep sound; and there was nothing
to justify such ill-boding. Nevertheless, the feeling was genuine,
and whenever there was no possibility of escape, he fell back on
that noble resolution, and said, though it killed him, he would
do it.
The old oaken bucket came up from the well dripping with
cool water, and the bright tin-pot was filled to overflowing.
He hesitated—he did not know precisely why—the heat twinkled
over the dusty stubbles in a forbidding way—the low, spreading
apple tree dropped its cool shadows on the stone pavement by
the door very pleasantly—a little way off, beneath a shed of
clapboards, his mother was baking currant pies and ginger
cakes—the strings of her cap were untied, and the towel she
wore as an apron, covered with flour—she looked very warm
and tired, but patient still; and when she saw Richard standing
by the well with his pot of water poised on the curb, she
smiled, and, coming towards him, inquired if he were sick
again.
“Not much,” said he, smiling graciously, as if it were through
much pain, for he meant that his mother should understand that
he was sick, in spite of his assertion.
“Poor boy,” she said, putting her hands on his forehead,
“you have some fever; you must sit here in the shade, for you
don't look a bit well, and are not able to go to the field.”
“But I must take this water,” suggested Richard, “for father
is angry because I stopped work; and if I don't go back again,
he'll tear the house down, for aught I know.”
However, he sat down on the chair which his mother provided,
half believing, since she had said so, that he was not very
well. A small bottle of camphor, Mrs. Claverel's infalliable
remedy for all disease, whether fevers or wounds, burns or rheumatisms,
was speedily brought, and having inhaled some of its
odor, the sick youth professed himself better; on which the
kind-hearted and mistaken woman brought forth one of the
fresh-baked pies, the delicious fragance of which tempted him
carried the water to the field.
“Oh, Dolly, what brought you here?” exclaimed Mr. Claverel,
throwing down his rake and hurrying toward his wife, who
was sweating under her burden.
Explanations followed, but the story of Richard's being sick
failed to touch the heart of Mr. Claverel; and for the first time
in his life he called his wife a foolish woman; and in a tone
that had in it less of tenderness than harshness, though he really
felt kindly, told her to go back to the house, and never come
into the harvest field again through such sunshine. Mrs. Claverel
put a pie she had brought, and her coffee-pot, into the hands
of her husband without saying a word—she was not angry,
but “her feelings were hurt.” She had been all day busily at
work; and as she went forth, tired and worn, promised herself
an over-recompense, in a consciousness of happiness conferred;
she was disappointed; and as she turned away, more than one
tear moistened the olive cheek that had long since, in the
struggle and turmoil of life, lost all its roses. She saw not the
flock of twenty lambs that started up before her from the fence
corners, and, with horns curling over their ears ran, closely
huddled together, down the dusty lane; nor yet, a little further
on, the beautiful doves, milk white and soft brown, and with
gold and purple flashing from their wings and bosoms, plump
and round, that with nodding crests walked a little way before
her, and then, as her step came too near, with a sudden whirr
and rustle, flew to the accustomed shed, and settled themselves
in a long, silent row. At the spring, near the old bridge, two
cows were drinking: another time they would have made a
gentle and comfort-speaking picture; now they were meaningless;
and passing on, over a little hill, and through a gate, and
past the tall, slender pear tree, from the cone-like top of which
the bright, shining feathers of a peacock were trailing down the
sunshine, she reached the porch, and sat down in the shadow of
the apple tree. Home was no refuge and no shelter from
sorrow; a place to toil and suffer in—that was all it seemed
just then.
Richard, with the camphor bottle in one hand, and a large
and his head leaned against the wall, reading and yawning alternately.
An old brown hen, with ruffled feathers, and a strip
of red flannel tied to her tail, (a device adopted by housewives
sometimes to break up untimely “settings,”) was picking the
crumbs from the dish which had held the pie. The young man
did not offer his mother the chair on which he sat, though no
other was near, nor notice her in any way, until she asked him
if he felt better; on which he muttered, half-inaudibly, that he
didn't know as he did. This was the truth, inasmuch as he had
not been ill at all, and he took some credit to himself for having
said so.
“What are you reading?” said Mrs. Claverel presently.
Richard made no reply, except by turning the back of the volume
toward her, thus presenting the device of a wind-mill, in
bright gilt, knowing very well that it would convey no idea to
her mind, or at least not the correct one. She made no further
inquiry, however, feeling that it was some lesson of wisdom altogether
beyond her apprehension, but arose, and went about
her household cares.
Meantime the two younger sons sat on the shady side of a
hay-stack, eating the currant pie, and drinking from the pot of
cold water, while Mr. Claverel continued vigorously pitching
the hay into long green ridges—he didn't want anything to eat.
By little and little the heat diminished, till at last the sun
rested in the topmost limb of a huge oak that threw its shadow
far across the hay-field. Mrs. Claverel was laying her cloth
for supper under the low porch, when Richard, putting down
his book with an expression of contempt, said he could write a
better one himself.
Mrs. Claverel smiled, and said, “I'll dare say! but what is
your book, son?”
Richard put his finger on the wind-mill again, saying, “I
showed you once,” and left the house, muttering something to
himself about the simple set he lived with. His father, he
knew, would shortly be at home, and he must either pretend to
have recovered and go to work, or affect to be sick and go to
bed—else put himself out of reach of the storm which sooner or
received.
Mounted on a little bay horse which he called Buckephalus,
(Bucephalus,) and the rest of the family Richard's horse, he
soon appeared before the door, and, suffering his mother to
draw a bucket of water for the pawing charger on which he sat,
said, with an air of mingled impudence and importance, “If
the old man wants to know where I am, tell him I am gone to
Jerusalem.”
To say “father,” made him appear boyish, and as though under
restraint, he fancied—hence the adoption of that elegant
title, “the old man.” This, though shocking to the feelings of
his mother, she did not reprove, partly from the blind love she
bore her son, and partly from her dread of domestic eruptions.
And up to this time, Mr. Claverel had been kept in ignorance
of half the ill-temper and ill-behavior of his eldest son.
The cloud of dust had scarcely disappeared behind the fleet
hoofs of “Buckephalus,” when Mr. Claverel, in a mood half-petulant
and half-sorrowful, entered his domicile, first, however,
having made his toilette for supper, a process consisting
simply of washing his face and hands in a large tub of water
which was standing by the well—a sort of family basin—putting
down the muslin sleeves over the red ones, which, during
the hours of labor, were always rolled back to the elbow, buttoning
his vest, and combing his hair: an example regularly
imitated by the younger sons. Richard thought all out-of-doors
too large a dressing-room, and made his personal renovations
within his own chamber.
Mrs. Claverel dispensed the fragrant tea in silence, and without
once lifting her eyes; but it was useless, the inward sorrow
had worked itself to the surface. Mr. Claverel, who understood
it all, made some unusual manifestations of tenderness.
“There, Dolly,” said he, offering her the easy chair, which
was always at “his place,” but she shook her head; whereupon
the troubled husband reached for the wand of feathers with
which she sedulously brushed away the flies, without giving
herself time to partake of the nice supper she had spread. But
Mrs. Claverel had the headache, and “didn't want a mouthful.”
he was through the hurry of harvest, he would set about finding
a “girl.” Mrs. Claverel bent her head lower and lower, as if
sipping her tea, but the kind manner and words of her husband
quite overcame her; and abruptly leaving the table, she retired
to her own chamber, where, after some natural tears, thinking, it
must be owned, a little hardly of her husband, she began to
blame circumstances, and finally only blamed herself, like the
simple-minded, kind-hearted woman she was. Having opened
the shutters and drawn the arm-chair to the table, on which lay
the newspaper and the Bible, she trimmed the lamp, and with
some further arrangements, especially with reference to the
comfort of her husband, she descended, with the most amiable
manner imaginable. Mr. Claverel was groping about in the
thickening twilight, for he could not find the lamp, in awkward
attempts to get the tea things out of the way.
“Is that you, Dolly?” he said, surprised to see her, especially
in so genial a mood, for she was actually humming—
To mansions in the skies,” &c.
“Yes, Samuel, it is me,” she said, pausing in the middle of
the stanza, and removing the tea-pot from the table to the cupboard,
while Mr. Claverel, his dejected countenance suddenly
illumined, performed a like office with the sugar-bowl, joining
in—
And wipe my weeping eyes.”
weather, of the harvest, and of the neighbors, both carefully
avoiding the subject uppermost in their thoughts.
At last Mr. Claverel said, “I wish I had apprenticed Richard
to the blacksmith's trade, long ago—`fast bind, fast find,' you
know, Dolly; where is the boy?”
Mrs. Claverel didn't say he had gone to Jerusalem, but that
she guessed likely he was gone to get some new shoes set on
his horse.
“He is a bad boy, Dolly,” said the father.
“Not so bad, but unfortunate,” said the mother; “it seems
as if he has bad luck in everything he undertakes. Poor boy,
he is not able to work, but he has such a love of books; hadn't
we better send him to college, Sammy?”
The suggestion gave rise to a considerable discussion; for
Mr. Claverel could not see it in precisely the same light in
which his wife saw it. “Richard,” he said, “did not like delving
in the sile much, and he feared he would not work in the
mental field much better.”
“But,” urged the mother, “if he can't do one thing, perhaps
he can another. I am sure we ought to give him a chance.”
Here she took from the bureau two new red flannel shirts, saying,
as she laid them in the lap of her husband, “Did you ever
see such a pretty red? But don't you think, Sammy, we ought
to do as I said about Richard?”
Mr. Claverel set great store by flannel shirts—especially red
flannel ones. He felt of the soft texture, held the garments up
admiringly, and said, “If the virtoo of red flannel was known,
there would be no need of rheumatis; `an ounce of preventive
is worth a pound of cure,' Dolly.”
“But what do you think about Richard?” said Mrs. Claverel.
“You know better than I do. Beautiful shirts, beautiful!”
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |