University of Virginia Library

2. II.

It is Sunday in Little-Crampton—a summer
Sunday. The old-fashioned flowers are blooming
in the old-fashioned gardens, and the last vibration
of the old rusty bell in the century-old belfry seems
dying off, and melting away in fragrance. Outside,
the village is quiet, but within the church
there is an incessant plying of fans and rustling of
dresses. The Belgraves are landed at the porch,
and Spec and Shat whirl the family carriage into
the grave-yard. The Mewkers enter with due
decorum. Adolphus drops his hymn-book into the
pew in front, as he always does. The little flatulent
organ works through the voluntary. The sleek
head of the Rev. Mr. Spat is projected toward the
audience out of the folds of his cambric handkerchief;
and after doing as much damage to the
simple and beautiful service as he can by reading
it, flourishes through the regular old Spatsonian

sermon; its tiresome repetitions and plagiarisms,
with the same old rising and falling inflections, the
same old tremulous tone toward the end, as if he
were crying; the same old recuperative method by
which he recovers his lost voice in the last sentence,
when it was all but gone; and the same old gesture
by which the audience understand that his labors
(and theirs) are over for the morning. Then the
congregation departs with the usual accompaniments
of dresses rustling, and pew-doors slamming;
and Mr. Mewker descends from the choir and sidles
up the aisle, nursing his knobs of elbows in his
skinny fingers, and congratulates the Rev. Mr.
Spat upon the excellent discourse he had delivered,
and receives the customary quid pro quo in the
shape of a compliment upon the excellent singing
in the choir. This account adjusted, Mr. Mewker
shuffles home beside the lovely widow; and Mrs.
Mewker and the small fry of members follow in
their wake.

“I have looked into the records in the county
clerk's office,” Mewker says in a whisper, to his
sister, “and the property is all right. That old
Thing, (unconscious Augusta Belgrave, rolling
home behind Spec and Shat, do you hear this?)

that old Thing, and that old fool of a book-worm
(Adolphus) can be packed off after the wedding,
and then we can arrange matters between us.
Spat understands me in this, and intends to be
hand and glove with Belgrave, so as to work upon
him. He will, he must do it, for he knows that his
remaining in this church depends upon me.” Here
Mr. Mewker was interrupted by one of the young
Mewkers, who came running up, hat in hand.
“Oh! pa, look there! see those beautiful climbing
roses growing all over that old tree!” “Jacob,”
said Mewker, catching him by the hair, and rapping
his head with his bony knuckles until the tears
came, “haven't I told you not to speak of such
trivial things on the Sabbath? How dare you
(with a repetition of raps) think of climbing roses
so soon after church? Go (with a fresh clutch in
the scalp of Mewker, Junior), go to your mother,
and when I get home I will punish you.” Mr.
Mewker resumed the whispered conversation.
“Belgrave is ruled entirely by his sister, but
between Spat and me, she can be blinded, I think.
If she should suspect, now, she would interfere, of
course, and Belgrave would not dare to disobey
her. But if we can get him committed once in
some way, he is such a coward that he would
be entirely in my power. Dear,” he said aloud to
Mrs. M., “how did you like the sermon?” Angelic,”
replies Mrs. Mewker. “That's my opinion,
too,” responds Mewker. “Angelic, angelic. Spat
is a lovely man, my dear. What is there for
dinner?”

If there were some feminine meter by which
Harriet Lasciver's soul could be measured, it
would indicate “good” pretty high up on the
scale. Yet she had listened to this after-church
discourse of her brother not only with complacency,
but with a full and unequivocal assent to all
he had proposed. So she would have listened, so
assented to anything, no matter what, proposed by
him; and all things considered, it was not surprising.
Even as continued attrition wears the angles
of the flint until it is moulded into the perfect pebbles,
so had her nature been moulded by her
brother. He had bullied her in her childhood
and in her womanhood, except when there was a
purpose in view which he could better accomplish
by fawning; and her natural good disposition, so
indurated by these opposed modes of treatment,
had become as insensible to finer emotions as her

heart was callous to its own impulses. There was
one element in his composition which at times had
cast a gloss upon his actions. It was his piety! God
help us! that any one should allude to that but
with reverence and love! Nor do I here speak of
it but as a profession, an art, or specious showing
forth of something that was not real, but professed,
in order to accomplish other ends. What profited
her own experience, when Harriet Lasciver was so
far imposed upon as to believe her brother's professions
sincere? What though all his life he had
been a crooked contriver and plotter, malicious in
his enmity, and false in his friendship; and she
knew it? Yet, as she could not reconcile it with his
affected sanctity, she could not believe it. That
wonderful power which men seldom, and women
never analyze—hypocrisy, held her entangled in
its meshes, and she was his instrument to be guided
as he chose. Every noble trait true woman possesses—pity,
tenderness, love, and high honor—
were commanded by an influence she could not
resist. Her reason, nay, her feelings were dormant,
but her faith slept securely upon her brother's
religion!

In this instance there was another consideration

—a minor one, it is true, but in justice to the
widow, it must be added. She really admired the
Captain; but that makes no great difference. A
widow must love somebody. Those delicate
tendrils of affection which put forth with the
experiences of the young wife, die not in the widow,
but survive, and must have some support. Even
if the object be unworthy or unsightly, as it happens
sometimes, still will they bind, and bloom,
and cling, and blossom around it, like honey-suckles
around a pump.