 | Biddy Woodhull, or, The pretty haymaker |  |
2. PART II.
`Love laughs at locksmiths.'
The memory of the hour's tete-a-tete with
the handsome young angler beneath the shadow
of the old apple-tree, was all that sweetened,
after his departure for Charleston, the
bitter cup of Biddy's domestic servitude.
At length, her amiable sister, Euphrosia,
heard of this interview, through a rustic called
Mike Moore; who witnessed it and told it
in petty jealousy. It was during a visit to a
neighbor's that the intelligence was whispered
into her ear. That Biddy should have a bean
first, and a city bean, that was not to be en
She made no delay in hastening home to vent
her rage upon the lovely victim of household
ill-humor. Biddy was sitting in the door
pearing apples for a dumpling, and was singing,
as her sister approached—
Away, from home—'
`Yes, you little jade,' cried Miss Euphrosia,
untying the strings of her bonnet and removing
it from her head with a flushed countenance;
`yes, some love to roam, miss! in
hay-fields, under apple trees, miss! with
strangers, miss! I'll put a stop to this kind of
pretty business very quick miss!'
`What's the matter, Throsia?' cried the
mother, coming out of the dairy with a roll of
butter in her hand which she was working;
`what's the jade done now?' and she cast an
angry and suspicious maternal glance towards
the silent, conscious Biddy.
`Done, mother! she has been flirting and
fooling with a young city gentleman she's got
acquainted with some how. Yes, when she
should have been making hay she was making
love! I wish,' she added, spitefully, on
reflecting how much she had herself missed,
`I wish I had never let her go to the meadow!
But who'd have thought it?'
By degrees Biddy's mother got the whole
tale from the mortified and indignant Miss
Euphrosia; when she turned full upon the
culprit, who with her blushing face half had
in the dark curls that fell around it, bent her
head over the pan of apples to hide her confusion.
She was rather angry than intimidated,
and while she feared her mother's wrath
she could not but secretly smile at her sister's
vexation and her own triumph.
`So, Jade!' cried the mother stepping up
to her and stooping so as to bring her face
upon a level with her's; `so, you have been
encouraging beaux! Pretty hay-making this;
I'll teach you how to make hay! I'll give you
beaux to be sure! What right have you to
speak to a man? What right have you to let
a man speak to you? A whole hour under the
apple tree and that old fool, my husband, snoring
away all the time, I'll wager! Oh, you
little deception piece! Oh, you trollop! Who
was the man?'
`I don't know mother,' said Biddy.
`Don't know! You shall tell! You'll get
to be no better than you should be, yet! But
I'll take care o'that! I'll make you tell who
the villian is you keep company with! Won't
tell! We'll see! Put down that apple-pan—
put it down I say and come with me to the
attic!'
Biddy obeyed and silently followed the
cross old woman to a little dark room opening
upon the roof of the old farm house.
`Now, miss!' said her mother, taking
breath, `here you shall stay shut up just one
week on bread and water! I'll cure your love
and flirts! One week shall you stay, and then
a week more if you don't let me know who it
was Mike Moore saw you billing and cooing
with under the apple-tree! Will you tell,
jade?'
`I don't know, mother,' said Biddy vexed
and weeping.
`Don't know, mother,' mocked Miss Euphrosia,
from the bottom of the stairs; `lock
her up, mamma, and let's see if it's `don't
know mother at the end of the week! There
is nothing like lock and key and bread and
water for love and obstinacy.
Finding she could get no confession from
Biddy, her mother locked her in, though not
without leaving her a large quantity of wool
for her to card before night, saying she should
have enough work to do, `if she was locked
up.'
Left alone, the youthful prisoner sat for a
long time upon the edge of the low bedstead
that nearly filled the room, and the tears trickled
silently down her bright cheek. But Biddy's
spirit was not such as readily bows to
grief. It was keenly alive to injustice and could
not endure insult or wrong. She reflected upon
her situation, and felt that she was the victim
of a species of domestic tyranny that
might last until life itself ended. She felt
she had done nothing to deserve all she daily
suffered at the hands of her mother and sisters;
and that in the present instance she was blameless.
She knew not the name of her admirer.
She had, therefore, told no falsehood. She
felt she was unjustly and wrongfully punished.
`Am I to endure this for life?' she said, her
darkeyes flashing and her cheek burning;
`no, I will be a slave no longer! I will quit
this hateful house this very night! I will go
to the city and seek employment. Other
young girls have gone there and are doing
well! Why may not I? I have to work and
slave here at home, a common drudge—I can
be placed in no worse condition in the city;
and I may, at least, find people that will be
will break my spirit! I tremble now at my
mother's or sisters' step, or the sound of their
voices. I will tremble no longer! I will run-away
and take care of myself. The day may
come when they will be glad to have the privelege
of speaking to me, much as they despise
me now! The West-Cheater stage passes the
gate at five o'clock to-morrow morning. If I
can possibly escape from this room I will be at
the gate before any one is up and take it! I
have five shillings of my own, and the fare is
only half a dollar.'
Having formed this resolution in her mind
Biddy looked round her little chamber and
collected all the scanty apparel that she could
call her own into a bundle which she hid heneath
the bed. She arranged more neatly a
pretty artificial in her Sunday hat, smoothed
out the ribbons and prepared all her travelling
costume, as it should be. Soon as she had
got all things ready for her elopement, she
sat down and began diligently to card the
wool her mother had left for her day's task,
the mean while thinking of her apple-tree
lover, and singing:
They said that he would prove
Unworthy of so rich a gem
As woman's priceless love.
`What is that caterwauling up there in the
loft, you miss,' cried the gentle Euphrosia;
`mother did'nt look you up there to sing, I
guess!'
Biddy ceased her song and continued her
carding, while her thoughts busily ran upon
the mode in which she could best effect her
escape. All at once she laid down her cards
and stepped softly to the door. The lock was
a large stout one, and the bolt went deep and
firmly into its bed. A few moments examination
convinced her she could not move it.
Shaking her little plodding head she approached
the window and softly opened it. It was
what is called a dormant window. For several
feet the steep roof descended from it to
the caves, from which it was twelve feet to
the ground. She surveyed this mode of egress
with much misgiving; to slide safely
down the roof and then descend to the ground,
was a feat she hardly dare attempt. Yet she
could see no other mode of escape, and resolved
to attempt it towards morning, if she
could find any thing by which to let herself
down from the room. After a long search for
a cord or a hank of yarn, and not being able
to find any, she was forced to give up all
thoughts of this mode of egress. Again she
approached the door and carefully examined
the lock. It promised to resist all efforts to
move it. She was ready to give up all hopes
of escape unless by the dangerous passage of
the roof, the height of which intimidated her
As her eyes wandered over the door she saw
that a screw was loose in one of the changes.
Instantly the idea occurred to her that if it
were possible to remove the hinges she might
escape at midnight through the door, and so
by stealing down stairs, softly pass out of the
house by the back door, which, as is customary
in farmer's houses, was always left on the
latch.
With an eager touch she trembling took
hold of the loosened screw. It yielded, and
a few revolutions placed it in her hand. There
were two more in the same hinge and three in
the hinge below, all five of which, on examination,
seemed to be too firmly driven to be
removed without a screw-driver. After a
moment's reflection, Biddy recollected there
was an old case-knife among some nails and
rubbish in a trunk beneath the bed. She
soon had it in her hand, and to her delight,
on trial, found that it fitted the head of the
screws. To make sure, she applied herself to
start one of them. After a little exertion it
yielded. Great was her joy at this promise of
success. The second also gave way to her
broken knife, and in a few minutes she had
loosened all five of them a single turn in their
bed.
`Now,' said she, with triumph, `all I have
to do is to take off the hinges when every
body is asleep and walk quietly out of the
house. I feel already free. What will sister,
Euphrosia, say! Oh, what will mother do!—
Sally 'll be glad, because I shall be out of the
way of offering temptation to her awkward
swert heart, John Burn!'
`What are you at here, miss?' suddenly
cried her mother, bolting into the room. `I've
been listening and hant heard a bit of carding
for ten minutes! What are you doin,' jade,
with that old knife?'
`Nothing, mother,' said Biddy, throwing it
behind the bed.
`Nothing, I'll promise you. Oh, you are
a good-for-nothing?' Here the old woman
looked at her carding. `Not two bats of wool
carded, as I'm a living woman. What have
you been doing all this while? Tell me, or
`I've been carding.'
`Carding!' repeated her mother, scornfully;
`I could do in five minutes what you
have been two whole hours at. Well, you
don't go to bed this night, nor I neither, `till
you get that wool all carded and batted, so
you know what's best for yourself!'
Here the maternal jailor was leaving the
little prison in which she had confined our
heroine, but turned back to say—
`Don't let me hear any more singing, miss,
if you do, I'll tie a handkerchief over your
mouth, and see how you'll like that' Come
now, work! I shall be in after night's milking
to see if you have done your task.'
With this parting admonition she left her
to her solitude and carding.
`Oh, how glad I am she did not get the
knife,' said Biddy, as her mother closed the
door at the stair-foot; `now I have that I don't
care how much she scolds. Oh, I wish the
night would come. Well, if I don't card this
wool, I see it will interfere with my plan of
escape, for mother 'll set up all night to make
me do it. I'll work hard and have it done
when she comes in and then she'll let me
alone 'till morning. Dear, delightful morning,
that is to give me freedom. It will then
find the bird flown from its cage.'
Biddy now set herself industriously to ply
her task. She was naturally studious, and
labor was rather a pleasure than a toil to her.
As the sun set she completed her `stint,' and
soon afterwards she received the anticipated
visit of her amiable mother. Mrs. Woodhull
looked sharply at her `bats' and then cast her
eyes round the room and looked under the
bed to see if none of the wool had been concealed
to lessen the task.
`Well, girl, you have got through, I see.
It's well for you you have. To-morrow I'll
give you so nothing else you'll not get through
quite so easy. Here, Phrosia, bring your sister
up her supper.
Biddy heard a light malicious laugh from
below and the gentle Euphrosia appeared with
a tin dipper filled with water, in one hand, and a
plate of the crust of bread held in the other.
She could hardly conceal her exultation beneath
a look of assumed compassion. Placing
them on a chair she gave the prisoner a
glance of malicious pleasure, made her a contemptuous
curtsy, and left the room. Biddy
would have cried with vexation if she had
not determined on flight from her tormentors;
as it was, she smiled quietly like one concious
of having the victory.
`There is your supper, trollop!' said her
mother, in her usual cross tone; `bread and
water, just as I promised you! It's all you'll
get 'till your week's out. Now, you go to
bed and don't let me hear any more singing.'
`No, ma'm,' said Biddy, calmly and quietly.
`You are quite cured, I see, with your being
shut up. Oh, yes, I'll bring down your
high look and proud spirit. Lovers. City
beaux! I guess you'll care 'bont 'em after a
week's living on bread and water. Now to
bed, for I'll have you got out of it bright and
early.'
With this the old woman left her and went
down stairs, from whence Biddy heard the
hateful laughter of the tender Miss Euphrosia
as she asked her mother how she relished
the bread and water.
`Yes, they may laugh to-night and I will
laugh to-morrow,' said Biddy. `This hateful
bread. They have given me what no body
can eat. If I should stay here they would
positively starve me. No one can blame me
for running away from such a home—for leaving
such an unnatural mother and sister.'
Biddy drank a little water but left the stale
crust untouched; then placing her bundle on
a chair, and her neat Sunday bonnet upon it,
and laying her old case-knife beneath her little
pillow, she threw herself upon her bed
without undressing, and was soon buried in
profound sleep. Accustomed to wake at dawn
to build all the fires, she did not fear over-sleeping
herself; on the contrary, while
asleep, she retained the consciousness of the
purpose she had in view, and this consciousness
caused her to wake just after midnight.
She instantly, but lightly, started to her feet,
and looked out of the window to learn from
the stars, which shone brightly, the hour.
Though she could discover in the east no
traces of morning, she resolved at once to effect
her escape from the house and wait by
the road-side for the stage.
Listening some time, and finding the whole
house still, she put on a neat calico dress, her
cottage hat, and best shoes, and sticking her
old green parasol through the knot of her
bundle, she took the broken knife from beneath
the pillow, and approached the door.
After pausing to be sure that all was quiet
below, she felt for the hinges, (for the room
was lighted only by the stars,) and after a few
awkward attempts, she succeeded in drawing
the first screw. In a few seconds the other
followed, and the upper hinge was liberated
from the door. Inspired by her success, to
active exertion, the fair girl stooped to draw
the three from the lower hinge, careful, the
while, to keep the door in its place, lest it
should fall upon her head, or, worse still,
upon the floor, and so betray her by the noise.
She had drawn one out, and was turning the
second, when the knife slipped from her grasp,
and fell at her feet with a sharp startling
while her heart ceased to beat! Full two
minutes she remained immoveable, listening
to learn if the noise had disturbed any one;
but all was silent. Every one slept save herself.
Again she renewed her work with more
caution, and the last screw slowly yielded to
her knife. The next moment, with a bounding
pulse, she drew it forth from its loosened
bed with her fingers.
The most difficult part was now to be
achieved. The door was made of heavy oak
plank, and she feared that in displacing it, she
might, from want of strength and light, let
it fall to the ground. She was, however, not
a girl to be checked by possible obstacles.—
Standing up, she felt for the bolt which alone
held the door, and as she did so, scarcely
could she refrain from smiling at the emphasis
with which she recollected her mother
had last turned it to secure her, as if she had
said, `Good bolt, I can safely trust you!'
Fertile in expedients, Biddy, on finding the
bolt would easily slide out from the side in
which it was so strongly imbedded, to prevent
the door falling upon her when she
should move it, drew, without noise, her bedstead
along, 'till a corner of it pressed against
the door, and served as a supporter. Having
made this cautious preparation, she took hold
of the door by the side on which the hinges
had hung, and exerting all her strength, drew
it bodily towards her. As the bolt left its
socket, the whole weight of the door was
supported an instant upon her arm, which
soon gave out, when it fell heavily over upon
the bed which her sagacity had placed to receive
it. A dead sound, not very loud, was
all the effect it produced. She paused, and
listened to see if the noise had awakened any
one, when, finding all was still as before, she
began to indulge the joyful emotions that
filled her bosom at the prospect of securely
effecting her escape.
Taking up her bundle, and feeling in her
bosom to ascertain if her little purse of five
shillings was safe, she knelt down by her bed
side, and softly and piously repeated the
`Lord's prayer,' a beautiful series of petitions
that, poor girl, she much needed to put up at
such a time. Then with a light heart and a
lighter step she crossed the prostrate door of
her little prison. Accustomed to traverse the
whole house in the dark, she found no difficulty
in reaching the narrow angular stairway
that led to the large family room below. Softly
as a kitten and with as stealthy a step, she
descended the stairs and opened the door at
its foot and entered the room below. All was
still, save the monotonous ticking of the old
clock standing in the farthest corner, and the
occasional sharp chirp of a cricket on the
hearth, where a faint gleam showed the half-buried
fire. She listened to detect any sound
from her mother's room, which was on one
side of the family room, or from her sister's
which was on the other. She could only hear
her father snoring. Gaining confidence she
stole across the wide room and laid her hand,
dark as it was, readily upon the wooden latch.
She hesitated ere she raised it, for a feeling
of loneliness and desolation came suddenly
over her. She was leaving the house of her
infancy—the roof of her child-hood, perhaps
for ever! her father, too, whom she loved,
possibly never to see him more. She felt desolate,
and her heart swelled with grief at the
cruel fate that should drive her thus young
and unprotected from the home which should
have been the natural asylum of her youth
and innocence. And whither was she to go?
For what was she to exchange her present unhappy
lot? Was she going to a happier one?
Such were the thoughts that passed through
her mind as she stood with the latch half lifted
in her fingers; but this natural emotion was
temporary. The next moment she raised the
latch and crossed the well-worn door stone
into the night air! She immediately experienced
a sensation of freedom and elasticity
of spirits. Her pulse bounded—her
feet scarce touched feet the ground as she
flew over it in the direction of the high-road,
which was half a mile distant. The meadow
where she had first seen Edward Morris, lay
in her course. As she came to the stile that
led from the domestic yard or lawn into this
field, she heard a noise behind her. She
bounded in alarm over the fence, and at the
same instant, her favorite old house-dog,
Bruin, was at her side with a fierce bark!
`Down, Bruin,' she said, in a low, authoritative
tone as the dog caught her bundle in
his glittering teeth The noble dog recognized
her voice and crouched at her feet. `Go
home, Bruin,' she cried, stamping her little
foot on the ground. The dog crouched lower
and licked the shoe that enforced her command.
`No, you shall not go with me! Poor
Bruin, I shall not see you for a long time,!
fear! Who will now pet you and feed you!
I know you will miss poor Biddy, for one I
Go back!'
The affectionate animal still kept his almost
supplicating posture at her feet. In vain
she scolded, in vain she caressed him! If
she ran forward a few yards, he would bound
joyfully by her side; and, when she stopped to
reprove him, he would crouch silently at her
feet.
`Well, then, if you will come, I cant' help
it,' she said, in a tone that conveyed to his
understanding all which the words could have
done to a human being. With a quick, short
bark of delight, he now bounded on before
her, and his very happiness rewarded her for
her condescension. Bruin was a large, noble
barn-dog, affectionate and faithful. Biddy had
petted him from a pup, and a mutual affection
had grown up between them! She now
felt happy that he was with her, for his presence
cheered the loneliness of her way. It
was her determination, however, to make him
return when she got into the stage at the gate;
and so, together, they went across the meadow,
'till Biddy reached the old apple-tree.
Here she paused, and seated herself just
where Edward had sat beside her that sultry
noon, and indulged her heart in thinking over
said to her, and in recalling his gentle smile
and the rich tones of his low-keyed voice!
She sat there full two hours, so lost in silent
reminiscences, with Bruin lying watchful at
her feet, she was wholly unconscious of the
flight of minutes. The distant rattle of wheels
along the turnpike first roused her from her
dreams of the past. On looking round she
saw that morning was already tinting the east,
and that the sun would soon be up. Blushing
herself like the roseate morn, she took up her
little bundle, and, followed by Bruin, hurried
across the meadow to the hedge which the
two young fishers had bounded over, one to
insult, the other (how dear in memory that
other!) to rescue and defend her! After she
crossed the hedge she hastened along a narrow
foot-path, by the side of the creek, towards
a wide bridge which she had to cross
before getting to the turnpike. She at length
reached the road just as the stage came in
sight.
`Now, Bruin, you will have to go back,' she
said patting him and half embracing his
shaggy neck, as if taking farewell of her favorite.
He rubbed his nose in her hand and
pressed against her affectionately.
`Yes, but you must go, as I can't pay your
fare,' she said, in half playfulness half in
in earnest, as the driver on discovering
her with the bundle by the road-side, drew
up his horses. There were but three passengers
in the stage, a farmer, an old woman,
and a young man, all of whom were asleep.
`Whoa, oah! wo! Want a passage, miss?'
asked the coachman, throwing his lines over
the back of his box and preparing to descend
from it to open the door.
`Yes, sir,' said Biddy.
`To the city?' he asked, as he closed the
door after she had got inside with her bundle.
`Yes, sir.'
`I'll take your fare, miss—fifty cents.'
Biddy searched for her little purse and
drew from it four short shillings and gave
them to him. The goodnatured driver looked
at them in a hesitating way a few seconds,
as they lay in his palm, and then shaking his
head and smiling as he gazed upon her pretty
face, said—
`Rather short, miss, but as your little purse
seems to be full as short, and you are a pretty
girl, I'll let you ride for this;' and Dick
Sherwood pocketed the four ten-cent pieces,
mounted his box, and dashed along towards
the city.
It was the first time Biddy had been in a
stage-coach, and the novelty of her situation
for awhile drew her attention from her present
object. Every thing pleased and interested
her.
At length, as the sun rose, they entered the
little village of Fordham, and her fellow passengers
awaked, at the stopping of the stage
at the inn, to change horses. Once more
started, they dashed on towards Harlem, and
traversing this town entered upon the Third
Avenue, which, for five miles, approaches the
city in a straight line, a noole and magni cent
thoroughfare! Swiftly the stage rolled over
the Macadamized Avenue, and Biddy looking
from the window, soon beheld the towers and
spires of the metropolis, while on her left was
the Sound, lively with vessels and steamers,
and its shores adorned by the beautiful country
seats of opulent merchants. As she approached
the junctlon of the Avenue with
the Bowery, she delightedly recognized the
surrounding houses and churches, for she had
twice been to the city, in the family wagon,
once with her father, two years before, and
once with her mother and sister, with marketing.
She therefore had some idea of the
place which she was entering, and whither
she had come to seek her fortune. As the
stage rattled over the pavements of the Bowery,
she turned her eyes from the bewildering
seenes that attracted her gaze, on either
crowded side-walk, to decide her thoughts on
some mode of conduct, that she might pursue
on being landed at the stage-office. She
could think, after much reflection, of no better
course to adopt, than to seek one of the
intelligence offices, of which, in common with
all other country lasses living in the neighborhood
of the city, she had heard much; and
like them, thought she had only to go there to
get employment at once. What this employment
should be, she had not decided! Vague
ideas of milliners and mantua-makers, sempstresses
and tailoresses, housemaids and childrens'
nurses, flitted through her little head;
and the stage drew suddenly up at the office
before she had determined what she should
be. She sat still, undecided and irresolute,
until the other passengers alighted. As the
coachman offered his hand for her bundle,
she said for the first time feeling the embarrassment
of her situation—
`Will you be kind enough to direct me to
an intelligence office?'
`Certainly, miss,' said Dick Sherwood,
bluffly; `so you've come up to service, then?
Too pretty a face to be trusted here unless you
have some body to look after you! Here,
you darkee,' he cried to a negro lad lounging
in the sun on a bench near by, `you know
every crook and corner in York—show this
young woman a respec'ble 'telligence office:
When you come back, come to me and I'll
give you a silver sixpence.'
`Done Boss,' said the African grinning;
`I knows firs' rate 'telligem office, up in de
wecinity ob de Battery and City Hall.'
`See then you take her to it, and make no
mistake.'
`Boss nebber know nigger make mistake
when de silver in de bargain. Come, missus,
I'll show you de way. Leff nigger car' him
bundle.'
The coachman kindly assisted her from the
stage, and struck with her innocence and
beauty, he cordially shook her by the hand,
as she left him saying—
`If as how, miss, you don't get along so
well as you expect to here in York, and want
a friend, you'll always find one here, at No.
21, that is, provided you behaves yourself vartuous;
'cause I am a family man, with a wife
and bless your sweet face! it'll be your best
friend or worst enemy, in this wicked world!
Now start, you nigger and be civil to the
young woman, or I'll—' and Dick finished the
sentence by making a significant gesture with
his doubled fist.
`I thank you, sir, for your kindness,' said
Biddy, `I hope I shall one day be able to repay
it.'
`Confound it now,' said Dick Sherwood, to
himself, angrily, `that's al'ays the way! I
can never do a little sarvice but I must be paid
for with a `thankee.' I never gets any body
in my debt for a good turn. I likes, miss, to
do a good sarvice, but I don't like to be thanked
for it. It is too much like quod for quid,
as the lawyers say. Now go and follow that
nigger, and may you get a sitivation to suit
you, for I knows you deserve a nice one.'
Biddy again thanked the kind coachman,
with a grateful glanee of her bright eyes so
long as he forbade her to do so with her
tongue, and, happy at finding even so blunt
a friend in the great lonesome city into which
she had thrown herself, tripped lightly after
the negro; yet her heart was lonely and
heavy. Every face was strange! She had
gone but a few paces, when she felt something
coldly touch her hand, for Biddy wore
no gloves. Shrinking and looking down, she
gave a scream of delight and surprise. It
was good old Bruin! He had followed the
stage all the way to town, keeping a cautious
distance behind it, and now approached her
and thrust his nose into her hand. It was
like meeting a dear old friend! She forgave
him for the happiness it gave her to see him
once more. He evinced his joy in his own
rough way, in finding he was no longer an
unwelcome companion, and sticking close to
her side, accompanied her through the long
and thronged thoroughfare, a faithful friend
and attendant. She patted him on the head
and felt that much of her loneliness and desolation
had vanished with his presence.
`Yes, good Bruin, you shall stay with me
if you wish to—it shall not be my will that
parts us,' she said to him, as he trotted along
looking up in her face and occasionly casting
a suspicious glance at the negro, between
whom and his mistress there existed some
kind of mysterious relationship, which he
could not understand. All at once as they
entered a narrow street, he bounded from her
side and smelled at the bundle carried by the
black. The next instant he tore it from his
grasp with his teeth, and brought it and
laid it at Biddy's feet.
`What are you doing, Bruin? He is carrying
my bundle for me. Don't be so rude!'
Biddy restored the bundle to the alarmed
negro, with a reproving glance at the dog,
who shrunk along beside her with an ashamed
look, 'till by a kind word she restored him
to her confidence.
`Dat big dog, mighty sharp, missus,' said
the negro who at every step glared his round
white eyes over either shoulder to see if he
was likely to be assailed again in the discharge
of his function as porter.
`He'll not hurt you,' said Biddy, smiling
at his fears.
`He hab mighty sharp teeth, missus! Yah,
yah, I tink he sensible dog—yah, yah, yah!
guess he tink nigger steal um bundle.'
`Is the intelligence office a good ways from
here?' she asked, anxious to reach it.
`Jiss roun' de firs' corner ob de secon'
street, seben doors from de nex one—gi! I
knows de place like de primmer!'
Leaving Biddy on her way to the intelligence
office, let us return to the farm-house
she had left. Just as Biddy was startled from
her pleasing reminiscences of the hour in
which Edward Morris had won her guileless
heart, by the rattling of the stage coach, Mrs
Woodhull was awaked from her sleep by a
more than usually sonorous snore from her
lord, or rather vassal, David Woodhull. It
was just the peep of day, the hour busy house-wives
love to rise and set to work! Her first
thought was of her prisoner in the attic. Hurrying
on her clothes she hastened forth from
her sleeping-room and opened the stair door.
She listened all was still.
`The jade! She sleeps sound enough for
all her bread and water! Biddy—Biddy
Woodhull,' she screamed, up the stairs. But
Biddy was being whirled along the turnpike
in a stage-coach, and could not hear her.—
`Why don't you wake up, you lazy thing,
you?' added the mother in a londer and angrier
tone. `If I come up there, I'll wake you
up, with a vengeance!' Again Mrs Woodhull
listened, and all was still. Quicker than
old women usually move, but not cross old
women, she hastened to the water pail and
filled a great pitcher with water. Softly she
crept up stairs into the dark attic and felt her
way to the door. She felt along, and felt
along, still all was vacancy!
`Where can the door be?' she almost spoke
aloud. She took another step forward, struck
her shin against it and pitched headlong upon
it. The pitcher was smashed, the water deluged
her to the skin, and her nose was broken
in the fall' The noise of this mishap, added
to her screams of fright and fury, awoke
Miss Euphrosia from a dream of a spruce
Chatham street beau who was in the act of
falling at her feet when her mother fell over
the door; awoke Miss Sally from visions of
connubial bliss with John Burn, and rcused
David Woodhull to his feet as if the house
had been on fire.
`Oh, what is the matter?' shrieked Miss
Euphrosia and Sally, flying from their room
in their night dresses.
`I am killed and murdered! Mercy, help!'
shrieked their mother, while the water from
above leaking through the floor, fell trickling
upon their faces.
`Yes, yes! she's murdered! I feel the
blood!' shrieked the delicate Euphrosia, and
she tried to faint but could not for want of
sufficient blood of her own.
`I'll soon know what's the matter, gals,'
said David, striking a light; and hastening
daughters, they soon saw how the whole affair
stood! Mrs Woodhull had got to her
feet and was wiping the blood from her nose,
while her dress dripped with water. As soon
as the light appeared she recovered her self-possession
and looked around. The door, for
which she had been feeling, instead of being
its proper place, lay upon the bed, and she
had stumbled over it as she now saw! A
glance told her that its hinges had been on
the inside, The whole truth flashed instantly
upon her ready mind.
`Where's Biddy?' she cried, looking under
the bed and in every part of the room. `She's
escaped!'
`Where, how?' cried the sisters, bewildered
with surprise. `Not by the window!'
`Window! Fools! What need of jumping
from windows with a door off its hinges,
and laid on its back to walk over, yes, and
to break one's neck over? She's got off in
the night by going down stairs! Here's the
knife I saw her have in her hand. This was
her screw-driver!'
`And she's taken her clothes and best Sunday
hat with her!' cried Miss Euphrosia, in
unalloyed astonishment.
`And her parasol, too!' exclaimed Sally,
who found no trace of it after looking about
the room.
`She shall pay for this,' said Mrs Woodhull,
compressing her thin lips with spiteful
rage. `She's gone to some o' the neighbors
with a doleful story of being locked up. I'll
lock her up and tie her too, if I catch her
again.
`Perhaps she's gone to the police-office, to
complain,' said David, whose indiguation
sometimes got the better of his fears of his
wife, and who now felt angry that Biddy
should have been locked up, of which he had
not known before; `I've hearn of parents
being put in `the Tombs,' there, for ill usage
to their children.'
This was a great and bold speech for David
and it produced the effect he Intended. Mrs
Woodhull turned pale, and so did the amiable
Miss Euphrosia.
`Well, she was obstinate and wilful,' said
Mrs Woodhull, as if excusing herself to her
alarmed conscience; `and if a mother isn't
allowed to manage her own children, I wonder
who is?'
`Well,' said the pale and guilty Miss Euphrosia,
`I'm sure sure I never treated her
bad!'
`Well, you'll hear on her agin, I reckon, in
a way you won't like,' said David, grown
bold at his success, and inwardly rejoiced that
his favorite had shown such spirit as to escape
from the tyranny which he daily witnessed,
but could not prevent.
`Now, I guess, you'd better hold, your
peace, David Woodhull,' said his wife, letting
her wrath, her fears, and shame, all fall
upon him; `if I catch you saying your soul
is your own, if Biddy should ever peach me,
I'll make this house and farm too hot to hold
you.'
With this characteristic menace, the several
inmates of the family separated to their
rooms to dress, variously affected by the extraordinary
discovery they had made. Biddy
had flown! The mild, gentle, submissive
Biddy, had run away! Mrs Woodhull had
to repeat it over a dozen times to be able to
realize a truth so astounding; and when she
did, trembled at the consequences that it
might lead to, and she repented, when too
late, that she had been so strict and tyrannical
a mother to her. Her conscience told her
that Biddy was right in flying from home;
her fears pictured to herself the escaped prisoner
making her complaint before the village
magistrate, or, what was still more to be
dreaded, the terrible New York Police.
Leaving her and her amiable daughters to
their wonders and conjectures over the mysterious
disappearance of Biddy, and trembling
at the personal consequences to themselves,
we will follow, the lovely girl to the intelligence-office,
to which we left her on her way,
escorted by Bruin and the negro.
| Biddy Woodhull, or, The pretty haymaker | |