 | IV. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
4. IV.
The following spring, Mr. Moore, who had never forgiven
his daughter, died suddenly, and without any will, and Mrs.
Robinson became heir to some eight or ten thousand dollars.
The humble home in the country, in which they had taken so
much interest, and where they had really had much of happiness,
lost its attractions. Carpets were torn up, and curtains
down, and, with beds, chairs, and tables, disposed of in summary
order. The old things were no longer of use. Necessary
preparations were soon effected, and early one April
morning the fires were put out, the doors locked, and the farm
house left alone.
A handsome house was rented in town, stylish furniture
bought, and half a dozen servants employed, for with the
renewal of old associations and ampler means, more than the
old indolence and extravagance were indulged.
For three years, owing partly to chances which I need not
explain, I saw nothing of the Robinsons. At the close of that
period, I chanced to be in their neighborhood, and, with some
mingling of curiosity among kindly remembrances, sought
them out.
The exterior of their dwelling had an humble, even a dingy
and comfortless appearance. Perhaps, thought I, reports have
spoken falsely, but as the door was opened, by a slatternly
black girl, the faded remnants of better times which met my
eyes spoke for themselves. I was scarcely seated when a
child of some four years presented herself, with dress and face
indicating a scarcity of water, and looking at me with more
sauciness than curiosity, asked me bluntly how long I meant
to stay at their house. I confess to the weakness of being
disconcerted by such questions from children, and before I had
time fully to recover, a boy, who might have been two years
younger, and whose white trousers, red jacket, and milky face,
indicated a similar want of motherly attention, entered the
room, and taking the remnant of a cigar from his mouth, threw
his cap against me with as much force as he was master of, by
a broken cupid that graced a “windowed niche,” challenged
my admiration of his boots. The little girl, probably wishing
me to know she was not without accomplishments, opened a
piano, and began drumming on the keys, when, the noise
drowning the boy's voice, a lively quarrel ensued, and blows
were exchanged with wonderful rapidity.
“A'n't you ashamed?” said the girl, relenting first, and
looking at me.
“No,” replied the boy, “I do n't care for her. Ma said
she did n't want to see her; and pa was gone with all the
money, and there was nothing for supper but half a mackerel
and two ginger cakes. And,” he added, “I am going
to eat both of them.”
Mrs. Robinson, as she descended, caught the whole or a part
of this little piece of conversation, and, calling the black girl
from the kitchen, ordered her to bring “them two little
plagues out of the parlor by main force.” Dinah blustered
in, feeling all the dignity of her commission, and dragged them
out, as directed, in spite of the triple remonstrances of feet,
hands, and voices.
As Mrs. Robinson drew them up stairs by a series of quick
jerks, she told them, in a voice neither low nor soft, that she
had a sharp knife in her pocket, and that if she ever heard
them talk so again, she would cut off their ears; that for the
present, she should shut them up in her room, and if they
quarreled, or made a bit of noise, a big negro who was in the
chimney would come down and eat them up. But the last and
awfulest terror she brought to bear on them, was an intimation
that she would tell their father.
She presently entered the parlor, with an infant in her arms;
and if I had not been in some measure prepared for a metamorphosis,
I must have betrayed my surprise at her altered
appearance. There was no vestige of beauty remaining; even
the expression of her countenance was changed, and she looked
the picture of sullen, hard, and dissatisfied endurance. Her
pale hair had become thin, and was neither arranged with
taste nor care; her eyes were dull and sunken; her nose, always
once really beautiful, were blackened and decaying. The dress
she wore had formerly been pretty and expensive silk, and was
still set off with flounces, buttons, and ribbons, which brought
out the faded colors, grease-spots, and tatters, in bold relief.
The tidy chintz, and the loving and trusting heart she had,
when I first saw her in the old house, were both gone.
They had made many moves and removes during three
years; and Mrs. Robinson took occasion to tell me of the
many fine things she had had, of the places she had visited,
&c., so that I could easily fill up the history. Her husband
was gone to the races—had a heavy bet on “Lady Devereaux,”
and if she won, Mrs. Robinson was to have a new bracelet
and satin dress!
“John is very much changed,” said the wife; “the children
are as much afraid of him as they are of death, and I am glad
of it, for I could not get along with them when he is away,
unless I frightened them by threats that I would tell their father
on his return. You know,” she continued, “he used to have
Helen in his arms half the time when she was a baby, but
now he never touches one of the children unless it is to beat
them. However, he is never home now-a-days.”
“He must have changed,” I said, “for when you lived in
the country he was always at home.”
“Oh, yes; but we were just married then!” replied the
wife.
How much that sentence revealed! and I have thought often
since, that if men and women would continue to practice the
forbearance, the kindness, the politeness, and little acts that
first won love, the sunshine of happiness need never be
dimmed.
In this case, however, the neglect of these things was not
the only misfortune. There are people to whom money is an
evil, people who will only learn industry, and moderation,
and the best humanities, in the school of necessity. They who
sit down and sigh for wealth, who have youth and health, and
God's fair world before them, though never so penniless, are
unworthy of wealth, and to such adversity is a good thing.
| IV. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |