 | II. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
2. II.
“How glad I am you have come,” said uncle William,
when we were in the house; “but it seems kind a lonesome
for all.”
Jane was ten years older than Delia—not so pretty nor stylish,
but very good, motherly, and considerate. They had no
mother, and lived with their father in the old house where they
were brought up. Delia was about sixteen at the time of my
the village and neighborhood.
We were a small and quiet family at uncle William's. He
himself did little but tend the parlor fire, read the newspaper,
and consult the almanac and his watch, which things made up
his world. He knew all the phases of the moon, and what the
weather would be likely to be for a month in advance; he knew
what his favorite editor said, and believed it; in fact, there was
no other paper; its contents seemed designed more especially
for him than for anybody else; and to this day I can not rid
myself of the impression that uncle William's newspaper was
altogether the most excellent thing of its kind in the world.
When the sun came up, he took from beneath the parlor looking-glass,
where it hung of nights, the great silver chronometer
that had been his father's and his grandfather's, turned the key
a few times, held it to his ear, consulted the almanac, and compared
the sunrise with his time, as if to see that the sun were
punctual to its appointment. He then mended the fire, and
took up the “Republican,” and when it was read through once
he began again, more studiously to examine, and thoughtfully to
digest its most noticeable contents. It always had something
good in it, he said, and it would do him no harm to read some
of the pieces a dozen times. When the sunlight slanted through
the south window, he carefully folded the paper, and again consulted
his watch. At sunset another comparison was made of
time authorities, and the almanac again resorted to, and then
began the evening reading.
Uncle William never indulged in what is termed frivolous
conversation; the only thing in the way of fun I ever heard him
say was that the editor of his paper was a man that had a head.
But he was less morose, and far more genial, than another of
my relations, uncle Christopher, with whom he held no intercourse
whatever, but of whom I shall have something to relate
in these reminiscences of Clovernook history.
Jane had little more to say than her father. She never read,
and had never been from home; and so, of course, she was not
very wise; and as she never talked of things that did not concern
her, there was not much for her to discuss. In all ways
it more difficult to love her than they would have done had she
possessed more of the common human infirmities. Our conversation
was mostly of the weather, with which, however, she
was always contented; so that if the storm beat never so tempestuously,
I scarcely dared yawn, or say even that “I wish
it would clear off.”
I should have been happier if the house had been left in some
disorder on Delia's departure, so that we might have employed
ourselves by setting it to rights; but everything was in its
place; so we of necessity sat down by the fire, and the little we
did say was in whispers, that we might not disturb uncle William,
who forever sat by, reading in a monotonous mutter,
neither aloud nor in silence. Sometimes he would invite me
to read, for the benefit of himself, who had read it twenty times
previously, Jane, who did n't care a straw for reading, and the
sixteen cats that dozed about the hearth, some “piece” which
he thought of remarkable interest or beauty.
“Will Delia be gone long?” I inquired after my arrival; for
I had previously learned that she was gone two or three hundred
miles from Elm Ridge, to a small city which I had never known
uncle William's folks to visit, and I was curious to know the
why and wherefore. Jane stitched a little faster, I thought;
the twilight was deepening so much that I could not have seen
to stitch at all; but she only answered that her sister's stay
was uncertain.
“I did n't know you had friends there,” I said, for I did not
like to ask more directly.
“Did n't you?” answered Jane, stitching as before.
I was not discouraged, and remembering what the rosy-cheeked
woman had said about Delia's having left her heart behind
her, I continued, “She has grown very pretty since I saw
her; she must be very much admired.”
“Our preacher's wife gave her a book,” she said, “at Christmas,
and our singing master—old Mr. White—offered to teach
her for nothing.” And these were all the evidences of the
admiration she received which Propriety Jane thought fit to
disclose for me.
“Who lives opposite?” I asked; for the house looked so
cheerful, with its lights moving about, the chimneys sending
up their blue smoke, and the bustling in and out of doors, that
I could not help wishing myself there, since not a candle was
lighted in our house, and there was no supper in preparation,
nor any cheerful talk to enliven the time.
“Mr. Widdleton's folks,” replied Jane, and rising from her
chair, she stood close against the window, that she might see to
stitch a little longer.
“What sort of people are they?”
“Oh, very nice people.”
“It must have been Mrs. Widdleton with whom I came up
in the coach: a rosy-cheeked, good-natured woman, who seems
fond of talking.”
“Yes, it was she.”
“Well,” said I, “she bought a new teapot, with a variety of
other things, as she was good enough to inform us all.”
Jane made no reply whatever, nor by smile or gesture indicated
that Mrs. Widdleton had been communicative in any
unusual degree.
The snow was falling dismally, the fire was low, and the
coming on of night seemed gloomy enough. Uncle William
was splitting pine boards into kindling, and though all day I
had wished he would afford us by his absence a little opportunity
for conversation, I now heartily wished he would return,
and tell us when the moon would change.
As I listened to the winds, and wondered what kept my uncle
and cousin alive, there was a low and what seemed to me a
very timid rap at the door. Jane opened it; and though her
tone evinced neither surprise nor pleasure, it was not uncivil,
as she received the visitor. He seemed—for he was a young
man—not to feel at liberty to sit down, though Jane invited
him so to do; but, having made some commonplace observations
relative to the weather, he inquired whether Miss Delia
were at home.
“No,” answered Jane; and she gave no intimation as to
where her sister was gone, or when she would return, or
whether she would ever do so.
“I will then bid you good evening,” he said, “and do myself
the pleasure of calling again.”
When he was gone, Jane left the room, having made no
reply to the young gentleman's intimation.
On his entrance, I had stirred the coals to make a little light,
but it was so faint that I saw him but imperfectly, though with
enough distinctness to warrant me in believing him a very
handsome man, of not more than twenty-two or three years of
age. Besides, his voice was so soft and musical as, together
with his fair looks, to leave a most agreeable impression. Who
he was or whence he came I could not know, but somehow I
was interested in him, and pressing my face to the window,
looked eagerly through the snow to see in what direction he
went. At the gate he paused, thrust his hands into his pockets,
and seemed to muse for a moment, looking one way and then
another, as if in doubt what to do; but presently he lighted a
cigar with a match, and, turning in the direction of a tavern,
was quickly lost from my observation.
“Who was that young person?” I asked, when Jane returned
to the parlor.
“Edward Courtney.”
“Does he live in the village?”
“No.”
“I noticed that he went in that direction.”
Jane lighted the candle and took up her work.
“Very handsome, is n't he?” I said.
“Yes.”
“What is his occupation?”
“His father, with whom he lives, is a farmer, but lately come
to our neighborhood.”
“Well, I wish he had passed the evening with us, and not
been so exclusively devoted to Miss Delia.”
Jane said nothing, and I inquired when he would be likely to
come again.
“I do n't know.”
“Really, Jane,” I said, “you are provoking; for once in
your life tell me something I wish to find out. What is it, that
his name is Edward Courtney, and that his father is a farmer;
about him, and why do you not like him? for I am sure you do
not.”
“Why, yes, I like him well enough,” she answered; “but I
know nothing about him to tell; he is rather a wild young
man, I think.”
“What wild thing has he done?”
“Oh, I do n't know: I do n't know as he is wild.'
And holding out one foot, she asked me how I liked her
shoes, saying they were made out of dog-skin; she thought they
were as pretty as morocco, and her father said he thought they
would last all winter.
“S'cat!” exclaimed uncle William, at this moment making
his way through a dozen of the feline tribe; and having mended
the fire, he said he believed the moon quartered that night, and
proceeded to examine the almanac.
To me the evening seemed setting in very lonesomely, and it
was a most agreeable surprise when one of Mrs. Widdleton's
children came in to ask cousin Jane and myself to pass it with
her. To my disappointment, however, Jane did not feel like
going; she was afraid of getting the toothache, and believed
she could not go very well.
“You go, any how,” said the boy who had asked us; “Mother
says if you ain't acquainted, come and get acquainted.”
I hesitated, for it seemed awkward to go alone into a stranger's
house, but the urgency of the lad and my own inclination
prevailed; and I was already aware that the social customs of
Elm Ridge were not trammeled by oppressive conventional
restrictions.
On my arrival, I saw, to my surprise, the whiskered gentleman
whom I have mentioned as the companion of the pale lady
in the coach.
“Really, madam,” he said, “I do hope, if it will not be a
serious inconvenience, that I can prevail upon you—not so
much on my own account as for my wife's sake. She is pious,
and does n't like being at the hotel, where Sunday is pretty
nearly as good as any other day.”
“And are you not pious?” asked Mrs. Widdleton, looking
at him in innocent astonishment.
He smiled and shook his head, but made no other answer.
“Well, I do n't know what to say. I liked the little
woman”—
“Yes, I like her too,” interrupted the man, with a peculiar
smile, intended perhaps as an expression of humor.
“Did you ever!” exclaimed Mrs. Widdleton, and she went
on to say that she feared their plain way of living would not
suit a fine lady, who had been used to servants, and like
enough never had to wet her hands. She would see what
Abner thought.
“By all means.”
And the gentleman seated himself, and caressed one leg,
while she withdrew, for a consultation, to the kitchen, where a
hammering seemed to indicate the going forward of some active
business.
“Just have it your own way, mother,” I heard him say. “If
you are a mind to do more and have more, why you can; but
seems to me you have enough to do; though I do n't care. Do
just as you please; but I hate to have you make a slave of
yourself, mother.”
“Well, Abner,” she answered, “one or two more in the
family do n't seem to make much difference; and if they are
not suited, why they can find another place, may be.”
When the gentleman had taken leave, which he did very
politely, Mrs. Widdleton informed me that his name was Hevelyn;
that he was a southern man, lately married, and had come
north for the sake of his wife's health. This she had learned
during her late interview with him. She also informed me she
was going to board them awhile; that she wanted to get a few
things for Liddy, more than she could spare the money to buy
—not that Abner would be unwilling to give it to her, but then
he had so many uses for his money.
Mrs. Widdleton was one of those bustling, active women,
who never seem in their right sphere except with hands full and
overflowing. Everybody was active about her—Mr. Widdleton
mending her washing-tub, Liddy making a new gown, one
for what she did during the evening in the way of mending and
making, I can not recount it, but the cradle was heaped, and so
were all the chairs about her, with the work she did. We had
cakes, and apples, and cider, and nuts, besides a constant flow
of talking, in which Mr. Widdleton, having finished his tub,
participated. I felt, I remember, a wish that everybody might
be just as contented as they, and have just as bright a fire.
But Mrs. Widdleton—ah me, I do n't like to write that
“but”—was a little given to talking of things that did not concern
her, as well as of things that did; and when the children
were gone to bed, and while Abner had ground the coffee for
breakfast—“he is so handy about the house,” said Mrs. Widdleton—we
drew close to the embers, and the good woman
glided naturally from her own tea-set to the tea-sets of her
neighbors, and thence the transition to her neighbors themselves
was almost imperceptible. A number of interesting
little family affairs came to my knowledge that night; but
I will not attempt a report of all her disclosures—only of some
intimations that more immediately interested me. Uncle William
and Jane had put their heads together, she said, and sent
off Delia, the dear knows where, to prevent her keeping the
company of Edward Courtney; and for her part she thought,
though she did n't want to say anything one way or the other,
and it was very seldom she did speak at all, that Delia or any
other girl might go further and fare worse, for Edward Courtney
was just as nice a young man, apparently, as ever she set
eyes on, and she would just as soon a daughter of hers married
him as to marry some persons that some persons thought a
good deal better, or to live at home till she was forty years
old, and nurse the cats. Jane, she confessed, was just as good
a girl as ever was, and uncle William was just as good a man
as ever was, but they would think it very hard to be made to
marry somebody they did n't like; and, for her part, she
thought it was just as bad to be kept from marrying whom you
did like. “It 's one thing to marry,” said Mrs. Widdleton,
“and another thing to love the man you marry; and, for my
always averse to match-making, but I have a great mind as ever
I had in my life”—she suddenly paused, and added, “No, I
do n't know as I will, either; but I hate to see folks as cool as
a cucumber about such things, and think nobody has any feeling
more than themselves. Poor Delia! Yes, I have the
greatest mind—no—I do n't know as I will—I might reflect on
myself if it did n't all come out right.” And she vigorously
trotted her baby, long after he was asleep; and I have always
thought that then and there she settled the knotty point, for she
said at last, with a smile, that if she should tell Edward where
Delia was, it would n't be telling him to go there and marry
her; but even if she should give him a piece of her mind to that
effect, she did n't know as they could take her up and hang her.
Before I returned to uncle William's that night, she concluded
she would call on Mrs. Courtney in a day or two; she wanted
to borrow a dress pattern of her; perhaps she would see Edward,
and perhaps not; and she did n't know as she would say
anything about Delia if she did see him; it was the pattern she
wanted. But notwithstanding this conclusion, I felt assured
that she would give Edward the “piece of her mind” with
which she had first proposed to endow him.
The following day I related to Jane the incidents of the evening:
how Mr. Widdleton had mended a tub, and his wife had
darned and mended; in fact, whatever had been done or said
that could interest her, not omitting the conversation about
Edward and Delia—for I was determined to find out something
in reference to the affair, as I persuaded myself I had a perfect
right to do, considering our relationship; and Delia's pale face
haunted me; her supplicating appeal for permission to remain
at home I felt assured was not on my account; I saw pots
of her flowers standing about, dying from neglect, and I could
not help thinking her thoughts had been otherwhere. So, as
I said, I told Jane that Mrs. Widdleton thought Delia and
Edward would make a fine match, and that she was sorry it
was likely not to take place; for I did not choose to repeat
her precise words. My very proper cousin colored slightly,
qualities, she would be a busybody. This was the only reproach
of any one I ever heard from her. I confess to greater
imperfection; the affairs of other people interest me, and I
am apt sometimes to say what I think of their conduct and
character.
I used to take my seat at the window, and there being
neither conversation nor reading within, I naturally looked out
for amusement, and found it in the movements of our neighbors;
for humanity is more to us than everything else, as those
who have passed a winter in an isolated country place can very
easily believe. The evening after this visit, I saw a light in the
front chamber of Mr. Widdleton's house, where I had never
seen a light before, and supposed the Hevelyns were there.
The following morning I saw Mrs. Widdleton set out, bright
and early, in the direction of Mr. Courtney's house. She
walked against the north wind with a straightforward and energetic
step, and I wondered whether there were any purpose in
her movements that did not concern the pattern. It was nearly
noon when she returned, accompanied by young Mr. Courtney.
They paused at the gate, and seemed in earnest conversation
for a long time. Liddy came to the door and looked earnestly
toward her mother several times; the baby was fretting, I
knew; but as often as they seemed about to separate they drew
nearer again, till it seemed their conversation would never have
an end. Seated on the outside of the evening coach that day I
noticed a young man who, I thought, resembled Courtney, and
I was the more convinced of its being him from the graceful
way in which he recognized Mrs. Widdleton, as he passed. A
red scarf about his neck concealed, in part, his face, so that I
could not be positive it was he. “But if it is,” thought I,
“he may have a thousand objects in view besides Delia. I
have no right to think anything about it.” Still I did think
about it.
Often in the courses of the days I saw Mrs. Hevelyn, wrapt
in a shawl which seemed of a very rich and costly pattern,
standing or sitting by the chamber window. Sometimes I observed
sadness and dejection. Occasionally when the sun shone in the
middle of the day, she walked about the yard, examined the
dead flowers, and looked up and down the lonesome road, returning
again to the house with a languid and heavy step.
When the evening coach came rattling over the near hill, I saw
her either raise the sash or step out into the yard, and watch it
eagerly, as though in expectation of some one; and when it
passed she would sometimes return with her handkerchief to
her eyes, and sometimes, sinking at once on the frozen ground,
sit, as though powerless to go in, for an hour or more. One
sunshiny day I went out into the yard to see if the flags were
sprouting or the daffodils coming through the grass, for I had
seen a blue-bird twittering in the lilac and picking its feathers
that morning. “How d' you do?” called a voice that seemed
not altogether unfamiliar, and looking up, I saw Mrs. Widdleton
leaning over her yard-fence, with the evident intention of
having a little chat.
“What is the news,” she asked, “at your house?”
“Oh nothing; what is the news with you?”
“How does uncle William (for she called Mr. Peters uncle
William when she spoke to me of him) seem to take it?”
“Take what?” said I.
“Why, about Edward and Delia.”
“And what about them?”
“Why, they say he 's gone off to B—.” Here she lowered
her voice, and, saying that walls had ears sometimes,
crossed from her yard-fence to ours. “He 's gone off to
B—,” she continued, “and they say it 's to get married.”
“Is it possible!”
“Yes; and old Mr. Courtney is going back to the city to
live, and they say Edward and Delia are going right into the
old house; and from the way things seem to begin and go on,
I think they will do well.”
I said I thought so too, though what things she had seen
beginning and going on I was not in the least advised, however
shrewdly I might guess.
If they should be married, and come and live in the old place,
and do right well, as she hoped and believed they would, she
thought Miss Jane and “uncle William” would be ashamed of
themselves.
| II. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |