 | II. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
2. II.
The days seemed longer and the tasks heavier, now that
Willard came not at sunset from the field; and somehow or
other the walks through the orchard and the grove lost their
charm; but what with work and hope, the time went by, and
the day of the expected letter arrived. With the earliest dawn,
and long ere the harmless fires of sunrise ran along the faded
summits of the hills, Linney was astir. The wood seemed to
kindle of itself, and when she brought in her pail of milk, the
kettle was singing about coffee. All day she watched the
clouds with unusual interest; and once or twice walked to the
road, and looked anxiously in the direction of the post-office;
and when toward evening she saw the deep gray dust dimpled
with heavy drops of rain, her heart misgave her sadly. As
many clouds were white, however, as black, and as they chased
each other swiftly by, the sun shone through now and then, and
and grass, so the girl took hope again.
Before the dinner hour, the house was set in order; the
Saturday's work was done; and Linney, long in advance of
the coming of the coach which should bring the mail, made
preparations for her walk, and seated herself at the window to
watch for the distant cloud of dust that would indicate its
approach. It seemed as if the sun would never set; but when
it did, still the coach did not come. “It is always the way,”
said Linney; “I might have known it would not be here till
midnight;” and, going to her own room, she unfolded the Bible
from its careful envelop, and gazed earnestly for a few minutes
on the name written there, and kissed it, for the dear hand that
had traced it; then, closing the volume, resumed her watching.
At last, the heads of the gray horses were seen coming over
the hill; in a moment her little cottage-bonnet was on, and her
gray shawl wrapped about her, and, with a beating heart and
quick step, she was on her way toward the Clovernook post-office.
“I know there will be no letter for me,” she said, to
strengthen herself against disappointment, as she drew near
the grocery—in one corner of which, on a few shelves, the letters
and papers that found their way to our neighborhood, were
kept.
Her heart beat eagerly as the post-master slipped letter after
letter through his hands; but at last her eyes fell on the long-expected
treasure; it was from Willard; and there was another
for Mr. Hulbert, from Willard, too, but Linney looked not so
anxiously on that. I need not repeat the contents of either—
they may readily be guessed. The one to his parents related
chiefly to the neighborhood and its inhabitants, the teachers and
students, his own prospects and hopes for the future, with an
earnest wish that he might repay them for all they had done
and were doing for him. But to Linney he did not write of
these things, nor of other things or persons, but as though they
themselves and their hopes made up all the world.
And so Linney performed her tasks, with renewed energy,
and knitted with fresh courage, even when not occupied with the
she would earn a new dress and hat by the time Willard could
come home; and what a pleasant surprise they would be to
him! A sweet vision it was, that made beautiful many an
evening, as she sat by the stone-hearth of the old homestead.
At her feet chirped the crickets, before her blazed the logs, and
beside her good Mrs. Hulbert talked of the sickness and deaths
and merry-makings of the neighborhood, and made occasional
observations on the condition of the weather, which was one of
her favorite subjects. “Twenty years ago,” she was apt to say,
“we had an early fall; the apples froze on the trees, and the late
turnips were not worth a cent.” Every day and every week she
compared or contrasted with some other day or week, five, ten, or
twenty years agone. So, Linney was no longer interested in
any of the warm spells that had ever thawed the frosts of
January and brought forward the untimely fruit, nor in the
great freshets that had swept off fences and bridges, and
drowned a lamb or two, perhaps, nor yet in the wicked frosts
that blackened the peach blossoms and wilted the young cucumber
vines, some time long ago.
The winter evenings, as I have said, must have been tedious,
but for the bright dream of Linney. It was only a dream;
and the boughs were bare of the roses, the next summer, that
she kept blooming about her all the winter.
In the evenings when the village gossip had been discussed,
the business of the farm reviewed, and the weather considered,
Mrs. Hulbert never failed, as she arose to wind the clock, to
speak of Willard; and then, at least, Linney was an attentive
listener. “I wish he was here, poor boy,” she was apt to say,
as though he suffered continual privation, while enjoying books
and pleasant society and good dinners, and she fared frugally
and worked hard. Any one else could see that there was at
least a partnership of sacrifice in this separation; but how
should Mrs. Hulbert? She was Willard's mother.
And night after night the crickets hopped across the hearth
familiarly, and told their old story; and Linney worked by
the firelight, and thought and dreamed. And this was the
crowning of her visions—a little white cottage, with blue morning-glories
veiling the windows, a cool, deep well at the door, herself
making tea there, and sometimes parting away the vines, to
see, across the fields, if Willard was coming from his fields;
forever, in her most ambitious musings, Willard was but a
farmer, looking and talking just as he did when they parted,
and not a man of books and leisure; she could not fancy how
anything could change him; she knew she did not wish him to
be different. Sometimes she found recreation in fancies of
what would be in his next letter; for she soon grew so familiar
with the contents of the first one, that there was no need to
remove it any more from the lids of the Bible. At length the
time came round again; and now the road was frozen, and the
trees were all bare. The stage-coach did not arrive till after
nightfall; but Linney would not stay away. All the day she
had been singing at her work, so blithely, that Mrs. Hulbert
more than once said, “I have not seen you so gay since Willard
left us—poor boy!”
Linney did not feel the frozen ground beneath her feet as she
walked, nor the bitter air as it blew against her face and bosom.
She went fast, and was soon at the end of her little journey.
About the red-hot stove were gathered a dozen men, chewing
and smoking, and debating their various and trifling interests
in tones as loud and earnest as though they were discussing the
affairs of the nation. With eyes modestly downcast from the
earthen jars and shining delf and gay prints that adorned the
shop, she made her way to the corner occupied by the post-master,
and received a letter. Of course, it was from Willard,
and she retired without so much as glancing at it; nor did she
do so till she was passing the tavern lamp, a quarter of a mile,
perhaps, on her way homeward. What was her surprise, her
disappointment, on seeing, that though it was indeed from Willard,
it was not for her, but for his father. For a moment all
was blank and chill; but hope will flutter long before it dies,
and in a moment she had turned and was retracing her steps:
there must be a letter for her, which had been overlooked.
She did not go back, however, without hesitancy and shame,
for in her childish simplicity she fancied all would know the
look again, sir!” she said, and her voice was tremulous; “I
expected a letter for myself to-night!”
The man turned the letters hastily, very carelessly, she
thought, and said, as he replaced them, “We do n't always get
all we expect, as you will find, if you live long enough.”
When she reached the door, tears blinded her eyes so much
that she did not see who the gentleman was who passed in at
the same moment, but she knew the light and elegant carriage,
and the sleek and proud animal that stamped on the hard ground
so impatiently. She had only proceeded a short distance, when
the sound of approaching wheels and the snorting of a horse,
admonished her to turn aside. “I suppose he would run over
me if I did not,” she thought, and though she continued, “I
would not much care if he did,” she approached the edge of the
road, and as she did so, a low, kindly voice gave her the salutation
of the evening, the impatient Brock curved his neck to the
tightening rein, and George Welden was offering his hand to
assist her into his carriage.
“Thank you, Mr. Welden,” she replied, coldly, “but I prefer
walking.”
“Will you not oblige me by accepting part of the seat?”
he said, deferentially and earnestly; “I am going directly by
your house.”
She could no longer decline without rudeness, and so complied,
but rather ungraciously. She could not but feel her
prejudices against Mr. Welden melting under the warmth of
his real kindness; and as he carefully wrapt the buffalo robe
about her feet, and drove slowly, lest she might be timid about
fast driving, she wished in her heart that Willard could see her;
and though she did not care a straw about riding in George
Welden's carriage, he would be piqued, she knew. When Mr.
Welden spoke of him, it was so kindly and generously, that
she could not but remember how differently he had always
spoken of him.
Warm and red shone the lights through the homestead windows;
the supper table was spread, and Mrs. Hulbert was
bustling about, that all might be nice when Linney returned.
Mr. Hulbert put on his spectacles, snuffed the candle, and
opened the letter, though the wife declared she could not have
the biscuits wait another minute, in proof of which she continued,
“Fill the tea, Malinda.” The girl's face glowed as she
obeyed, for not twice before, in as many years, had the good
woman called her Malinda, and it troubled the fountain that
pride had well nigh stilled. In a moment, Mrs. Hulbert had
added a dish of preserves to the previous preparations, and
Mr. Welden was disburthening himself of furs and over-coats,
in compliance with an invitation to join the family at the
table.
“Come, come, father,” said Mrs. Hulbert, as the rest were
seated; but he only snuffed the candle, and resumed his attention
to the letter. “Well, if you will read,” she continued,
with some asperity in her tone, “do tell us whether he is dead
or alive.”
Mr. Hulbert placed the candle between himself and the
letter, and read aloud, spelling his way, and pausing between
every word: “Be so kind as to present my dutiful regards to
my mother; and say to Linney, dear girl, that I have so many
calls on my time for the few leisure moments I get from study,
that I could not write her this month, though I very much
wished to do so. I shall hope to hear from her as usual; and
ask her, if you please, to tell me if she devotes much time to
the book I gave her.” “And that is all,” said Mr. Hulbert,
looking proud and pleased, “he says to you women folks”—
“Tut, tut,” answered the wife, “that is enough, without it
was better.”
Linney's face grew damp and pale, and George Welden bit
his lip, and made some observation, not at all pertinent, about
shooting, of which he was very fond. The efforts to rally were
ineffectual, all round; and after some awkward and constrained
conversation on commonplace subjects, Mr. Welden took leave,
saying to Linney as he did so, “You are fond of game, you say?”
“Yes,” she answered, though she had not previously said
anything to suggest his question.
And e added, “I will have pleasure in presenting the first
brace of woodcocks I can bring down.”
Linney thanked him formally, and, as though she expected
the polite offer to be forgotten before he reached home. He
prefaced his “Good evening” with a smile, that seemed to say,
“You are incredulous, but I shall remember my promise.”
“I thought,” said Mrs. Hulbert, when he was gone, “that
young Welden was a common simpleton!”
“What made you think that?” answered Linney, looking as
though the matron had been grievously mistaken.
“Oh, I don't know what made me think so;” and in a moment
she added, “Yes I do, too: what made me say that? It
was because Willard always called him `pumpkin-head,' and
all such names.”
“Humph!” said Linney, “I should be sorry to see through
his eyes.”
Mrs. Hulbert rose, stirred the fire, and wound the clock;
this was the hour she had always said something kindly about
Willard; now she simply remarked, “I wish he had staid at
home;” and, seating herself, she took up her apron, as if to
screen her eyes from the fire; but Linney saw that her heart
was sad, and came involuntarily toward her, then hesitated, and
said, as if unaware of her emotion, “Don't get up in the morning
till I call you.” And so they parted for the night, each
feeling as she had never felt before.
It was difficult for the girl to resist the temptation of reopening
the old letter, before she retired, though she said,
repeatedly, “If Willard is inclined to be such a fool, I don't
care—I can live without him—and he is not the only man who
has been to college, either.”
And with such strengthening of her weakness, she sought her
bed, with as much alacrity as if there had been no heaviness on
her heart; but sleep would not be wooed in this brave way,
and there had only been an occasional restless forgetfulness,
when the cold, gray morning glanced through the window.
Mrs. Hulbert was already briskly astir. “I wonder,” she
said, as she turned the smoking ham,—“I wonder how it would
do to brile woodcocks?” Linney answered that she guessed it
would do well enough, but that she did n't suppose they would
ever have any to be cooked. And so they were friends again.
The irritation and pride which she at first leaned on, gradually
gave way, and she found herself more dependent on habitual
hopes and habits of feeling than she at first imagined. In
musing of him, she was apt to forget that he had not written
to her; or, if she remembered it, it was to think very leniently
of the omission. What did she know about the life he led, or
the tasks and duties required of him? He would have written
if he had found opportunity—of course he would. And in this
mood she one day indited for him a long and kind letter, communicating
all the trivial gossip of the neighborhood, and concluding
with, “You will be glad to hear from me, I know,
though you have not written me as you promised.”
Credulous child! she had quite forgotten the familiar way in
which he had called her “dear girl,” in the letter to his father,
and his careless mention of the bible, as though the giving of
it were not the precious secret she herself had always felt it
to be.
The nicest stockings she had knitted were taken from the
bundle designed for the purchase of a new dress, and placed in
the wardrobe of Willard's room. He had been away three
months; surely he would write to her soon; and in two more,
at farthest, she would see him.
| II. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |