University of Virginia Library

35. CHAPTER XXXV.

Many English families reside in our vicinity, some
of them well calculated to make their way any where;
close, penurious, grasping and indefatigable; denying
themselves all but the necessaries of life, in order to add
to their lands, and make the most of their crops; and
somewhat apt in bargaining to overreach even the wary
pumpkin-eaters, their neighbours: others to whom all
these things seem so foreign and so unsuitable, that
one cannot but wonder that the vagaries of fortune
should have sent them into so uncongenial an atmosphere.
The class last mentioned, generally live retired,
and show little inclination to mingle with their rustic
neighbours; and of course, they become at once the
objects of suspicion and dislike. The principle of
“let-a-be for let-a-be” holds not with us. Whoever exhibits

any desire for privacy is set down as “praoud,”
or something worse; no matter how inoffensive, or
even how benevolent he may be; and of all places in
the world in which to live on the shady side of public
opinion, an American back-woods settlement is the
very worst, as many of these unfortunately mistaken
emigrants have been made to feel.

The better classes of English settlers seem to have
left their own country with high-wrought notions of
the unbounded freedom to be enjoyed in this; and it
is with feelings of angry surprise that they learn after
a short residence here, that this very universal freedom
abridges their own liberty to do as they please in their
individual capacity; that the absolute democracy
which prevails in country places, imposes as heavy restraints
upon one's free-will in some particulars, as do
the over-bearing pride and haughty distinctions of the
old world in others; and after one has changed one's
whole plan of life, and crossed the wide ocean to find
a Utopia, the waking to reality is attended with feelings
of no slight bitterness. In some instances within
my knowledge these feelings of disappointment have
been so severe as to neutralize all that was good in
American life, and to produce a degree of sour discontent
which increased every real evil and went far
towards alienating the few who were kindly inclined
toward the stranger.

I ever regarded our very intelligent neighbours the
Brents, as belonging to the class who have emigrated
by mistake, they seemed so well-bred, so well-off, so
amiable and so unhappy. They lived a few miles from
us, and we saw them but seldom, far less frequently

than I could have wished, for there were few whose
society was so agreeable. Mr. Brent was a handsome,
noble-looking man of thirty or perhaps a little
more, well-read, and passionately found of literary pursuits;
no more fit to be a Michigan farmer than to
figure as President of the Texan republic; and his
wife a gentle and timid woman, very dependent and very
lovely, was as ill fitted to bear the household part of a
farmer's lot. But all this seemed well-arranged, for the
farm was managed “on shares” by a stout husbandman
and his family, tolerably honest and trustworthy
people as times go; and Mr. Brent and his pale and delicate
Catherine disposed of their hours as they thought
proper; not however without many secret and some
very audible surmises and wonderings on the part of
their immediate neighbours, which were duly reported,
devoutly believed, and invariably added to, in the
course of their diffusion in Montacute.

I might repeat what I heard at a Montacute tea-party;
I might give Mrs. Flyter's views of the probable
duration of Mr. Brent's means of living on the occasion
of having learned from Mrs. Holbrook that
Mrs. Brent did not see to the butter-making, and had
never milked a cow in her life. I might repeat Mrs.
Allerton's estimate of the cost of Mrs. Brent's dress at
meeting on a certain Sunday. But I shall only tell
what Mrs. Nippers said, for I consider her as unimpeachable
authority in such matters. Her decided and
solemn assertion was that Mrs. Brent was jealous.

“Jealous of whom?”

“Why of Mr. Brent to be sure!”

“But it is to be supposed that there is somebody else
concerned.”

“Ah yes! but I do n't know. Mrs. Barton did n't
know.”

“Oh, it was Mrs. Barton who told you then.”

Mrs. Nippers had declined giving her authority, and
Mrs. Barton was the wife of Mr. Brent's farmer. So she
coloured a little, and said that she did not wish it repeated,
as Mrs. Barton had mentioned it to her in confidence.
But since it had come out by mere chance, she did n't
know but she might just as well tell that Mrs. Barton
was sure that Mrs. Brent was jealous of somebody in
England, or somebody that was dead, she did n't know
which. She hoped that none of the ladies would mention
it.

There were some fourteen or so in company, and
they had not yet had tea. After tea the poor Brents
were completely “used up,” to borrow a phrase much
in vogue with us, and the next day I was not much
surprised at being asked by a lady who made me a three
hours' morning call beginning at nine o'clock, if I had
heard that Mr. and Mrs. Brent were going to “part.”

I declared my ignorance of any thing so terrible,
and tried to trace back the news, but it must have
passed through several able hands before it came to me.

We rode over to see the Brents that afternoon, found
them as usual, save that Mrs. Brent seemed wasting,
but she always declared herself quite well; and her
husband, whose manner towards her is that of great
tenderness, yet not exactly that of husbands in general,
a little constrained, was reading aloud to her as she lay
on the sofa. They seemed pleased to see us, and promised

an afternoon next week, to meet “a few friends,'
—that is the term, I believe,—but not Mrs. Nippers.

Among those whom I invited to partake our strawberries
and cream on the occasion, were Mr. Cathcart
and his beautiful wife, English neighbours from a little
vine-clad cottage on the hill west of our village; much
older residents than the Brents, who had not yet been
a year in our vicinity. Mrs. Cathcart is one of the
most beautiful women I have ever seen, and certainly
a very charming one in all respects, at least to me, who
do not dislike a good share of spirit and energy in a
lady. Her spouse, though far different, has his good
points, and can make himself agreeable enough when he
is in the humour; which sometimes occurs, though not
often. He is at least twenty years older than his lady,
and as ugly as she is handsome, and horribly jealous, I
say it myself, of every thing and every body which or
whom Mrs. Cathcart may chance to look at or speak
to, or take an interest in, gentle or simple, animate or inanimate.
It is really pitiable sometimes to see the poor
man grin in the effort to suppress the overboiling of his
wrath, for he is a very polite person, and generally says
the most disagreeable things with a smile.

These neighbours of ours are persons of taste—
taste in pictures, in music, in books, in flowers; and
thus far they are well mated enough. But there are certain
glances and tones which betray to the most careless
observer that there are points of difference, behind the
scenes at least; and little birds have whispered that
after Mrs. Cathcart had spent the morning in transplanting
flowers, training her honeysuckles and eglantines,
and trimming the turf seats which are tastefully

disposed round their pretty cottage, Mr. Cathcart has
been seen to come out and destroy all she had been doing;
ploughing up the neat flower-beds with his knife,
tearing down the vines, and covering the turf sofas with
gravel. And the same little birds have added, that
when Mr. Cathcart, sated with mischief, turned to go
into the house again, he found the front-door fastened,
and then the back-door fastened; and after striding
about for some time till his bald head was well nigh
fried, he was fain to crawl in at the little latticed window,
and then—but further these deponents say not.

Well! our little strawberry party was to consist of
these English neighbours and some others, and I made
due provision of the fragrant rubies, and all the et-ceteras
of a rural tea-visit. Roses of all hues blushed in
my vases — a-hem! they were not pitchers, for the
handles were broken off, — and forests of asparagus
filled the fire-place. Alice and Arthur figured in their
Sundays, little Bell had a new calico apron, and Charlie
a shining clean face; so we were all ready.

First of all came the Cathcarts, and their one only
and odd son of three years old; a child who looked as
old as his father, and walked and talked most ludicrously
like him. It did seem really a pity that the
uncommonly fine eyes of his beautiful mamma had not
descended to him; those large-pupilled grey eyes, with
their long black lashes! and her richest of complexions,
brighter in bloom and contrast than the sunniest side of
a ripe peach; and her thousand graces of face and
person. But there he was, a frightful little dwarf, just
what his father would seem, looked at through a reversed
telescope, or in a convex mirror. And Mr.

Cathcart was all smiles and politeness, and brought a
whole pocket full of literary novelties lately received
from “home.” And Mrs. Cathcart, always charming,
looked lovelier than usual, in a pale-coloured silk and
very delicate ornaments.

She was sitting at the piano, playing some brilliant
waltzes for the children, and Mr. Cathcart looking over
some New-York papers which lay on the table, when
Mrs. Brent, wan and feeble as usual, glided into the
room. I introduced her to my guests, with whom she
was evidently unacquainted, and in the next moment
Mr. Brent entered.

It needed but one glance to convince me that, to
Mrs. Cathcart at least, there was no occasion to introduce
the latest comer. She half rose from her seat,
painful blushes overspread her beautiful countenance,
and instantly subsiding left it deathly pale, while Mr.
Brent seemed equally discomposed, and Mr. Cathcart
gazed in undisguised and most angry astonishment.
I went through with the ceremony of presentation as
well as I could, awkwardly enough, and an embarrassed
pause succeeded, when in walked Mrs. Nippers and
Miss Clinch.

“Well, good folks,” said the widow, fanning herself
with a wide expanse of turkeys' feathers, which generally
hung on her arm in warm weather; “this is
what you may call toiling for pleasure. Mrs. Cathcart,
how do you manage to get out in such melting
weather? Well! I declare you do all look as if you
was overcome by the weather or something else!” and
she laughed very pleasantly at her own wit.

“Warm or cool, I believe we had better return home,

Mrs. Cathcart,” said her amiable spouse with one of
his ineffable grins. She obeyed mechanically, and
began putting her own straw bonnet on little Algernon.

“I declare,” said the agreeable Mrs. Campaspe, “I
thought—I was in hopes you were going to stay, and
we could have had such a nice sociable time;” for
Mrs. Nippers was very fond of inviting company—to
other people's houses.

“No, Madam!” said Mr. Cathcart, “we must go
instantly. Fanny, what are you doing? Can't you
tie the child's hat?”

“One word, Sir!” said Mr. Brent, whose fine countenance
had undergone a thousand changes in the few
moments which have taken so many lines in telling;
and he stepped into the garden path, with a bow
which Mr. Cathcart returned very stiffly. He followed,
however, and, in less than one minute, returned,
wished us a very good day with more than the usual
proportion of smiles—rather grinnish ones, 'tis true;
but very polite; and almost lifting his trembling wife
into the vehicle, which still stood at the gate, drove off
at a furious rate.

And how looked the pale and gentle Catherine during
this brief scene? As one who feels the death-stroke;
like a frail blighted lily.

“Your ride has been too much for you, Mrs. Brent,”
said I; “you must rest awhile;” and I drew her into

a small room adjoining the parlour, to avoid the industrious
eyes of Mrs. Nippers.

She spoke not, but her eyes thanked me, and I left
her, to receive other guests. Mrs. Nippers made a
very faint move to depart when she began to perceive
that company had been invited.

“Remain to tea, Mrs. Nippers,” I said,—could one
say less,—and she simpered, and said she was hardly
decent, but—and added in a stage-whisper, “If you
could lend me a smart cap and cape, I do n't know but
I would.” So she was ushered in due form to my
room, with unbounded choice in a very narrow circle
of caps and capes, and a pair of thin shoes, and then
clean stockings, were successively added as decided
improvements to her array. And when she made her
appearance in the state-apartments, she looked, as she
said herself, “pretty scrumptious;” but took an early
opportunity to whisper, “I did n't know where you
kept your pocket-handkerchiefs.” So Alice was despatched
for one, and the lady was complete.

Mr. Brent, with Bella in his arms, paced the garden
walk, pretending to amuse the child, but evidently agitated
and unhappy.

“Did you ever see any thing so odd?” whispered
Mrs. Nippers, darting a glance toward the garden.

But, fortunately, the person honoured by her notice
was all unconscious; and happening to observe his
wife as he passed the low window in the little west-room,
he stopped a few moments in low and earnest
conversation with her. It was not long before Mrs.
Brent appeared, and, apologizing with much grace,
said, that feeling a little better, she would prefer returning

home. I took leave of her with regretful presentiments.

In less than a week, Mrs. Nippers had more than
she could attend to. The Brents had left the country,
and Mrs. Cathcart was alarmingly ill. The unfortunate
strawberry-party so unexpectedly marred by this
rencontre, was the theme of every convention within five
miles, to speak moderately; and by the time the story
reached home again, its own mother could not have
recognized it.

A letter from Mr. Brent to say farewell and a little
more, gave us in few words the outlines of a sad story;
and while all Montacute is ringing with one of which
not the smallest particular is lacking, I am not at
liberty to disclose more of the “owre true tale,” than
the reader will already have conjectured—“a priory
'tachment.”

The way Mrs. Nippers rolls up her eyes when the
English are mentioned is certainly “a caution.”