 | Western clearings |  |
THE BEE-TREE.
Among the various settlers of the wide West, there is no class
which exhibits more striking peculiarities than that which, in
spite of hard work, honesty, and sobriety, still continues hopelessly
poor. None find more difficulty in the solution of the
enigma presented by this state of things, than the sufferers themselves;
and it is with some bitterness of spirit that they come at
last to the conclusion, that the difference between their own condition
and that of their prosperous neighbours, is entirely owing
to their own “bad luck;” while the prosperous neighbours look
musingly at the ragged children and squalid wife, and regret that
the head of the house “ha'n't no faculty.” Perhaps neither view
is quite correct.
In the very last place one would have selected for a dwelling,
—in the centre of a wide expanse of low, marshy land,—on a
swelling knoll, which looks like an island,—stands the forlorn
dwelling of my good friend, Silas Ashburn, one of the most
conspicuous victims of the “bad luck” alluded to. Silas was
among the earliest settlers of our part of the country, and had
half a county to choose from when he “located” in the swamp,
—half a county of as beautiful dale and upland as can be found
in the vicinity of the great lakes. But he says there is “the very
first-rate of pasturing” for his cows, (and well there may be, on
forty acres of wet grass!) and as for the agues which have nearly
made skeletons of himself and his family, his opinion is that it
would not have made a bit of difference if he had settled on the
highest land in Michigan, since “every body knows if you've got
to have the ague, why you've got to, and all the high land and
dry land, and Queen Ann[1]
in the world wouldn't make no odds.”
Silas does not get rich, nor even comfortably well off, although
he works, as he says, “like a tiger.” This he thinks is because
“rich folks ain't willing poor folks should live,” and because he,
in particular, always has such bad luck. Why shouldn't he
make money? Why should he not have a farm as well stocked,
a house as well supplied, and a family as well clothed and cared
for in all respects, as his old neighbour John Dean, who came
with him from “York State?” Dean has never speculated, nor
hunted, nor fished, nor found honey, nor sent his family to pick
berries for sale. All these has Silas done, and more. His family
have worked hard; they have worn their old clothes till they well
nigh dropped off; many a day, nay, month, has passed, seeing
potatoes almost their sole sustenance; and all this time Dean's
family had plenty of every thing they wanted, and Dean just
jogged on, as easy as could be; hardly ever stirring from home,
except on 'lection days; wasting a great deal of time, too, (so
Silas thinks,) “helping the women folks.” “But some people
get all the luck.”
These and similar reflections seem to be scarcely ever absent
from the mind of Silas Ashburn, producing any but favourable
results upon his character and temper. He cannot be brought to
believe that Dean has made more money by splitting rails in the
winter than his more enterprising neighbour by hunting deer,
skilful and successful as he is. He will not notice that Dean
often buys his venison for half the money he has earned while
Silas was hunting it. He has never observed, that while his own
sallow helpmate goes barefoot and bonnetless to the brush-heap to
fill her ragged apron with miserable fuel, the cold wind careering
through her scanty covering, Mrs. Dean sits by a good fire, amply
provided by her careful husband, patching for the twentieth time
his great overcoat; and that by the time his Betsey has kindled
her poor blaze, and sits cowering over it, shaking with ague,
Mrs. Dean, with well-swept hearth, is busied in preparing her
husband's comfortable supper.
These things Silas does not and will not see; and he ever
resents fiercely any hint, however kindly and cautiously given,
that the steady exercise of his own ability for labour, and a little
more thrift on the part of his wife, would soon set all things right.
sleep half the next day, and feels good for nothing the day after,
it is impossible to convince him that the “varmint” had better
been left to cumber the ground, and the two or three dollars
that the expedition cost him been bestowed in the purchase of a
blanket.
“A blanket!” he would exclaim angrily; “don't be puttin'
sich uppish notions into my folks' heads! Let 'em make comfortables
out o' their old gowns, and if that don't do, let 'em
sleep in their day-clothes, as I do! Nobody needn't suffer with a
great fire to sleep by.”
The children of this house are just what one would expect
from such training. Labouring beyond their strength at such
times as it suits their father to work, they have nevertheless
abundant opportunity for idleness; and as the mother scarcely
attempts to control them, they usually lounge listlessly by the
fireside, or bask in the sunshine, when Ashburn is absent; and
as a natural consequence of this irregular mode of life, the whole
family are frequently prostrate with agues, suffering every variety
of wretchedness, while there is perhaps no other case of disease
in the neighbourhood. Then comes the two-fold evil of a long
period of inactivity, and a proportionately long doctor's bill; and
as Silas is strictly honest, and means to wrong no man of his due,
the scanty comforts of the convalescents are cut down to almost
nothing, and their recovery sadly delayed, that the heavy expenses
of illness may be provided for. This is some of poor Ashburn's
“bad luck.”
One of the greatest temptations to our friend Silas, and to most
of his class, is a bee-hunt. Neither deer, nor 'coons, nor prairie-hens,
nor even bears, prove half as powerful enemies to any thing
like regular business, as do these little thrifty vagrants of the
forest. The slightest hint of a bee-tree will entice Silas Ashburn
and his sons from the most profitable job of the season, even
though the defection is sure to result in entire loss of the offered
advantage; and if the hunt prove successful, the luscious spoil is
generally too tempting to allow of any care for the future, so long
as the “sweet'nin” can be persuaded to last. “It costs nothing,”
will poor Mrs. Ashburn observe, “let 'em enjoy it. It isn't often
might lead to a different conclusion; but the Ashburns are no
calculators.
It was on one of the lovely mornings of our ever lovely autumn,
so early that the sun had scarcely touched the tops of the still
verdant forest, that Silas Ashburn and his eldest son sallied forth
for a day's chopping on the newly-purchased land of a rich
settler, who had been but a few months among us. The tall form
of the father, lean and gaunt as the very image of Famine,
derived little grace from the rags which streamed from the elbows
of his almost sleeveless coat, or flapped round the tops of his
heavy boots, as he strode across the long causeway that formed
the communication from his house to the dry land. Poor Joe's
costume showed, if possible, a still greater need of the aid of that
useful implement, the needle. His mother is one who thinks
little of the ancient proverb which commends the stitch in time;
and the clothing under her care sometimes falls in pieces, seam
by seam, for want of the occasional aid is rendered more especially
necessary by the slightness of the original sewing; so
that the brisk breeze of the morning gave the poor boy no faint
resemblance to a tall young aspen,
“With all its leaves fast fluttering, all at once.”
The little conversation which passed between the father and
son was such as necessarily makes up much of the talk of the
poor,—turning on the difficulties and disappointments of life, and
the expedients by which there may seem some slight hope of
eluding these disagreeables.
“If we hadn't had sich bad luck this summer,” said Mr. Ashburn,
“losing that heifer, and the pony, and them three hogs,—
all in that plaguy spring-hole, too,—I thought to have bought that
timbered forty of Dean. It would have squared out my farm jist
about right.”
“The pony didn't die in the spring-hole, father,” said Joe.
“No, he did not, but he got his death there, for all. He never
stopped shiverin' from the time he fell in. You thought he had
the agur, but I know'd well enough what ailded him; but I wasn't
a goin' to let Dean know, because he'd ha' thought himself so
If the agur could kill, Joe, we'd all ha' been dead long ago.”
Joe sighed,—a sigh of assent. They walked on musingly.
“This is going to be a good job of Keene's,” continued Mr.
Ashburn, turning to a brighter theme, as they crossed the road
and struck into the “timbered land,” on their way to the scene
of the day's operations. “He has bought three eighties, all lying
close together, and he'll want as much as one forty cleared
right off; and I've a good notion to take the fencin' of it as well
as the choppin'. He's got plenty of money, and they say he
don't shave quite so close as some. But I tell you, Joe, if I do
take the job, you must turn to like a catamount, for I ain't a-going
to make a nigger o' myself, and let my children do nothing
but eat.”
“Well, father,” responded Joe, whose pale face gave token of
any thing but high living, “I'll do what I can; but you know I
never work two days at choppin' but what I have the agur like
sixty,—and a feller can't work when he's got the agur.”
“Not while the fit's on, to be sure,” said the father; “but I've
worked many an afternoon after my fit was over, when my head
felt as big as a half-bushel, and my hands would ha' sizzed if I'd
put 'em in water. Poor folks has got to work—but, Joe! if
there isn't bees, by golley! I wonder if any body's been a
baitin' for 'em? Stop! hush! watch which way they go!”
And with breathless interest—forgetful of all troubles, past,
present, and future—they paused to observe the capricious
wheelings and flittings of the little cluster, as they tried every
flower on which the sun shone, or returned again and again to
such as suited best their discriminating taste. At length, after a
weary while, one suddenly rose into the air with a loud whizz,
and after balancing a moment on a level with the tree-tops, darted
off, like a well-sent arrow, toward the east, followed instantly
by the whole busy company, till not a loiterer remained.
“Well! if this isn't luck!” exclaimed Ashburn, exultingly;
“they make right for Keene's land! We'll have 'em! go ahead,
Joe, and keep your eye on 'em!”
Joe obeyed so well in both points, that he not only outran his
father, but very soon turned a summerset over a gnarled root or
one side of his face, and what remained of his jacket sleeve,
while his father, not quite so heedless, escaped falling, but tore
his boot almost off with what he called “a contwisted stub of the
toe.”
But these were trifling inconveniences, and only taught them
to use a little more caution in their eagerness. They followed on,
unweariedly; crossed several fences, and threaded much of Mr.
Keene's tract of forest-land, scanning with practised eye every
decayed tree, whether standing or prostrate, until at length, in the
side of a gigantic but leafless oak, they espied, some forty feet
from the ground, the “sweet home” of the immense swarm
whose scouts had betrayed their hiding-place.
“The Indians have been here;” said Ashburn; “you see
they've felled this saplin' agin the bee-tree, so as they could
climb up to the hole; but the red devils have been disturbed
afore they had time to dig it out. If they'd had axes to cut down
the big tree, they wouldn't have left a smitchin o' honey, they're
such tarnal thieves!”
Mr. Ashburn's ideas of morality were much shocked at the
thought of the dishonesty of the Indians, who, as is well known,
have no rights of any kind; but considering himself as first
finder, the lawful proprietor of this much-coveted treasure, gained
too without the trouble of a protracted search, or the usual
amount of baiting, and burning of honeycombs, he lost no time
in taking possession after the established mode.
To cut his initials with his axe on the trunk of the bee-tree,
and to make blazes on several of the trees he had passed, to serve
as way-marks to the fortunate spot, detained him but few minutes;
and with many a cautious noting of the surrounding localities,
and many a charge to Joe “not to say nothing to nobody,”
Silas turned his steps homeward, musing on the important fact
that he had had good luck for once, and planning important business
quite foreign to the day's chopping.
Now it so happened that Mr. Keene, who is a restless old gentleman,
and, moreover, quite green in the dignity of a land-holder,
thought proper to turn his horse's head, for this particular morning
ride, directly towards these same “three eighties,” on which
work of clearing. Mr. Keene is low of stature, rather globular
in contour, and exceedingly parrot-nosed; wearing, moreover, a
face red enough to lead one to suppose he had made his money
as a dealer in claret; but, in truth, one of the kindest of men, in
spite of a little quickness of temper. He is profoundly versed in
the art and mystery of store-keeping, and as profoundly ignorant
of all that must sooner or later be learned by every resident landowner
of the western country.
Thus much being premised, we shall hardly wonder that our
good old friend felt exceedingly aggrieved at meeting Silas Ashburn
and the “lang-legged chiel” Joe, (who has grown longer
with every shake of ague,) on the way from his tract, instead of
to it.
“What in the world's the matter now!” began Mr. Keene, rather
testily. “Are you never going to begin that work?”
“I don't know but I shall;” was the cool reply of Ashburn; “I
can't begin it to-day, though.”
“And why not, pray, when I've been so long waiting?”
“Because, I've got something else that must be done first.
You don't think your work is all the work there is in the world,
do you?”
Mr. Keene was almost too agnry to reply, but he made an
effort to say, “When am I to expect you, then?”
“Why, I guess we'll come on in a day or two, and then I'll
bring both the boys.”
So saying, and not dreaming of having been guilty of an
incivility, Mr. Ashburn passed on, intent only on his bee-tree.
Mr. Keene could not help looking after the ragged pair for a
moment, and he muttered angrily as he turned away, “Aye!
pride and beggary go together in this confounded new country!
You feel very independent, no doubt, but I'll try if I can't find
somebody that wants money.”
And Mr. Keene's pony, as if sympathizing with his master's
vexation, started off at a sharp, passionate trot, which he has
learned, no doubt, under the habitual influence of the spicy temper
of his rider.
To find labourers who wanted money, or who would own that
have been so little accustomed to value household comforts,
that the opportunity to obtain them presents but feeble incitement
to that continuous industry which is usually expected of one
who works in the employ of another. However, it happened
in this case that Mr. Keene's star was in the ascendant, and the
woods resounded, ere long, under the sturdy strokes of several
choppers.
The Ashburns, in the mean time, set themselves busily at work
to make due preparations for the expedition which they had
planned for the following night. They felt, as does every one
who finds a bee-tree in this region, that the prize was their own
—that nobody else had the slightest claim to its rich stores; yet
the gathering in of the spoils was to be performed, according to
the invariable custom where the country is much settled, in the
silence of night, and with every precaution of secrecy. This
seems inconsistent, yet such is the fact.
The remainder of the “lucky” day and the whole of the succeeding
one, passed in scooping troughs for the reception of the
honey,—tedious work at best, but unusually so in this instance,
because several of the family were prostrate with the ague.
Ashburn's anxiety lest some of his customary bad luck should
intervene between discovery and possession, made him more
impatient and harsh than usual; and the interior of that comfortless
cabin would have presented to a chance visiter, who knew
not of the golden hopes which cheered its inmates, an aspect of
unmitigated wretchedness. Mrs. Ashburn sat almost in the fire,
with a tattered hood on her head and the relics of a bed-quilt
wrapped about her person; while the emaciated limbs of the baby
on her lap,—two years old, yet unweaned,—seemed almost to
reach the floor, so preternaturally were they lengthened by the
stretches of a four months' ague. Two of the boys lay in the
trundle-bed, which was drawn as near to the fire as possible; and
every spare article of clothing that the house afforded was thrown
over them, in the vain attempt to warm their shivering frames.
“Stop your whimperin', can't ye!” said Ashburn, as he hewed
away with hatchet and jack-knife; “you'll be hot enough before
verified.
Two nights had passed before the preparations were completed.
Ashburn and such of his boys as could work, had laboured indefatigably
at the troughs, and Mrs. Ashburn had thrown away the
milk, and the few other stores which cumbered her small supply
of household utensils, to free as many as possible for the
grand occasion. This third day had been “well day” to most of
the invalids, and after the moon had risen to light them through
the dense wood, the family set off, in high spirits, on their long,
dewy walk. They had passed the causeway, and were turning
from the highway into the skirts of the forest, when they were
accosted by a stranger, a young man in a hunter's dress, evidently
a traveller, and one who knew nothing of the place or its inhabitants,
as Mr. Ashburn ascertained, to his entire satisfaction, by
the usual number of queries. The stranger, a handsome youth
of one or two and twenty, had that frank, joyous air which takes
so well with us Wolverines; and after he had fully satisfied our
bee-hunter's curiosity, he seemed disposed to ask some questions
in his turn. One of the first of these related to the moving cause
of the procession and their voluminous display of containers.
“Why, we're goin' straight to a bee-tree that I lit upon two or
three days ago, and if you've a mind to, you may go 'long, and
welcome. It's a real peeler, I tell ye! There's a hundred and
fifty weight of honey in it, if there's a pound.”
The young traveller waited no second invitation. His light
knapsack was but small incumbrance, and he took upon himself
the weight of several troughs, that seemed too heavy for the
weaker members of the expedition. They walked on at a rapid
and steady pace for a good half hour, over paths which were none
of the smoothest, and only here and there lighted by the moonbeams.
The mother and children were but ill fitted for the
exertion, but Aladdin, on his midnight way to the wondrous
vault of treasure, would as soon have thought of complaining of
fatigue.
Who then shall describe the astonishment, the almost breathless
rage of Silas Ashburn,—the bitter disappointment of the rest,—
when they found, instead of the bee-tree, a great gap in the dense
the immense oak that had contained their prize? The poor
children, fainting with toil now that the stimulus was gone, threw
themselves on the ground; and Mrs. Ashburn, seating her wasted
form on a huge branch, burst into tears.
“It's all one!” exclaimed Ashburn, when at length he could
find words; “it's all alike! this is just my luck! It ain't none
of my neighbours, work, though! They know better than to be
so mean! It's the rich! Them that begrudges the poor man the
breath of life!” And he cursed bitterly and with clenched teeth,
whoever had robbed him of his right.
“Don't cry, Betsey,” he continued; “let's go home. I'll find
out who has done this, and I'll let 'em know there's law for the
poor man as well as the rich. Come along, young 'uns, and stop
your blubberin', and let them splinters alone!” The poor little
things were trying to gather up some of the fragments to which
the honey still adhered, but their father was too angry to be kind.
“Was the tree on your own land?” now inquired the young
stranger, who had stood by in sympathizing silence during this
scene.
“No! but that don't make any difference. The man that
found it first, and marked it, had a right to it afore the President
of the United States, and that I'll let 'em know, if it costs me my
farm. It's on old Keene's land, and I shouldn't wonder if the
old miser had done it himself,—but I'll let him know what's the
law in Michigan!”
“Mr. Keene a miser!” exclaimed the young stranger, rather
hastily.
“Why, what do you know about him?”
“O! nothing!—that is, nothing very particular—but I have
heard him well spoken of. What I was going to say was, that I
fear you will not find the law able to do any thing for you. If
the tree was on another person's property—”
“Property! that's just so much as you know about it!” replied
Ashburn, angrily. “I tell ye I know the law well enough, and
I know the honey was mine—and old Keene shall know it too, if
he's the man that stole it.”
The stranger politely forbore further reply, and the whole
when the young stranger left them with a kindly “good night!”
It was soon after an early breakfast on the morning which
succeeded poor Ashburn's disappointment, that Mr. Keene, attended
by his lovely orphan niece, Clarissa Bensley, was engaged
in his little court-yard, tending with paternal care the brilliant
array of autumnal flowers which graced its narrow limits. Beds
in size and shape nearly resembling patty-pans, were filled to
overflowing with dahlias, china-asters and marigolds, while the
walks which surrounded them, daily “swept with a woman's
neatness,” set off to the best advantage these resplendent children
of Flora. A vine-hung porch, that opened upon the miniature
Paradise, was lined with bird-cages of all sizes, and on a yard-square
grass-plot stood the tin cage of a squirrel, almost too fat to
be lively.
Mr. Keene was childless, and consoled himself as childless
people are apt to do if they are wise, by taking into favour, in
addition to his destitute niece, as many troublesome pets as he
could procure. His wife, less philosophical, expended her superfluous
energies upon a multiplication of household cares which
her ingenuity alone could have devised within a domain like a
nut-shell. Such rubbing and polishing—such arranging and rearranging
of useless nick-nacks, had never yet been known in
these utilitarian regions. And, what seemed amusing enough,
Mrs. Keene, whose time passed in laborious nothings, often reproved
her lawful lord very sharply for wasting his precious
hours upon birds and flowers, squirrels and guinea-pigs, to say
nothing of the turkeys and the magnificent peacock, which
screamed at least half of every night, so that his master was fain
to lock him up in an outhouse, for fear the neighbours should kill
him in revenge for the murder of their sleep. These forms of
solace Mrs. Keene often condemned as “really ridie'lous,” yet
she cleaned the bird-cages with indefatigable punctuality, and
seemed never happier than when polishing with anxious care the
bars of the squirrel's tread-mill. But there was one never-dying
subject of debate between this worthy couple,—the company and
services of the fair Clarissa, who was equally the darling of both,
attention of either. How the maiden, light-footed as she was,
ever contrived to satisfy both uncle and aunt, seemed really mysterious.
It was, “Mr. Keene, don't keep Clary wasting her time
there when I've so much to do!”—or, on the other hand, “My
dear! do send Clary out to help me a little! I'm sure she's been
stewing there long enough!” And Clary, though she could not
perhaps be in two places at once, certainly accomplished as much
as if she could.
On the morning of which we speak, the young lady, having
risen very early, and brushed and polished to her aunt's content,
was now busily engaged in performing the various behests of her
uncle, a service much more to her taste. She was as completely
at home among birds and flowers as a poet or a Peri; and not
Ariel himself, (of whom I dare say she had never heard,) accomplished
with more grace his gentle spiriting. After all was
“perform'd to point,”—when no dahlia remained unsupported,—
no cluster of many-hued asters without its neat hoop,—when no
intrusive weed could be discerned, even through Mr. Keene's
spectacles,—Clarissa took the opportunity to ask if she might take
the pony for a ride.
“To see those poor Ashburns, uncle.”
“They're a lazy, impudent set, Clary.”
“But they are all sick, uncle; almost every one of the family
down with ague. Do let me go and carry them something. I
hear they are completely destitute of comforts.”
“And so they ought to be, my dear,” said Mr. Keene, who
could not forget what he considered Ashburn's impertinence.
But his habitual kindness prevailed, and he concluded his remonstrance
(after giving voice to some few remarks which would
not have gratified the Ashburns particularly,) by saddling the
pony himself, arranging Clarissa's riding-dress with all the assiduity
of a gallant cavalier, and giving into her hand, with her neat
silver-mounted whip, a little basket, well crammed by his wife's
kind care with delicacies for the invalids. No wonder that he
looked after her with pride as she rode off! There are few prettier
girls than the bright-eyed Clarissa.
When the pony reached the log-causeway,—just where the
thick copse of witch-hazel skirts Mr. Ashburn's moist domain,—
some unexpected occurrence is said to have startled, not the sober
pony, but his very sensitive rider; and it has been asserted that
the pony stirred not from the said hazel screen for a longer time
than it would take to count a hundred, very deliberately. What
faith is to be attached to this rumour, the historian ventures not
to determine. It may be relied on as a fact, however, that a
strong arm led the pony over the slippery corduroy, but no further;
for Clarissa Bensley cantered alone up the green slope
which leads to Mr. Ashburn's door.
“How are you this morning, Mrs. Ashburn?” asked the young
visitant as she entered the wretched den, her little basket on her arm,
her sweet face all flushed, and her eyes more than half-suffused
with tears,—the effect of the keen morning wind, we suppose.
“Law sakes alive!” was the reply, “I ain't no how. I'm
clear tuckered out with these young 'uns. They've had the agur
already this morning, and they're as cross as bear-cubs.”
“Ma!” screamed one, as if in confirmation of the maternal
remark, “I want some tea!”
“Tea! I ha'n't got no tea, and you know that well enough!”
“Well, give me a piece o' sweetcake then, and a pickle.”
“The sweetcake was gone long ago, and I ha'n't nothing to
make more—so shut your head!” And as Clarissa whispered
to the poor pallid child that she would bring him some if he would
be a good boy and not tease his mother, Mrs. Ashburn produced,
from a barrel of similar delicacies, a yellow cucumber, something
less than a foot long, “pickled” in whiskey and water—
and this the child began devouring eagerly.
Miss Bensley now set out upon the table the varied contents of
her basket. “This honey,” she said, showing some as limpid as
water, “was found a day or two ago in uncle's woods—wild honey
—isn't it beautiful?”
Mrs. Ashburn fixed her eyes on it without speaking, but her
husband, who just then came in, did not command himself so far.
“Where did you say you got that honey?” he asked.
“In our woods,” repeated Clarissa; “I never saw such quantities;
and a good deal of it as clear and beautiful as this.”
“I thought as much!” said Ashburn angrily; “and now,
Clary Bensley,” he added, “you'll just take that cursed honey
back to your uncle, and tell him to keep it, and eat it, and I hope
it will choke him! and if I live, I'll make him rue the day he
ever touched it.”
Miss Bensley gazed on him, lost in astonishment. She could
think of nothing but that he must have gone suddenly mad, and
this idea made her instinctively hasten her steps toward the pony.
“Well! if you won't take it, I'll send it after ye!” cried Ashburn,
who had lashed himself into a rage; and he hurled the
little jar, with all the force of his powerful arm, far down the path
by which Clarissa was about to depart, while his poor wife tried
to restrain him with a piteous “Oh, father! don't! don't!”
Then, recollecting himself a little,—for he is far from being
habitually brutal,—he made an awkward apology to the frightened
girl.
“I ha'n't nothing agin you, Miss Bensley; you've always been
kind to me and mine; but that old devil of an uncle of yours,
that can't bear to let a poor man live,—I'll larn him who he's got
to deal with! Tell him to look out, for he'll have reason!”
He held the pony while Clarissa mounted, as if to atone for his
rudeness to herself; but he ceased not to repeat his denunciations
against Mr. Keene as long as she was within hearing. As she
paced over the logs, Ashburn, his rage much cooled by this ebullition,
stood looking after her.
“I swan!” he exclaimed; “if there ain't that very feller that
went with us to the bee-tree, leading Clary Bensley's horse over
the cross-way!”
Clarissa felt obliged to repeat to her uncle the rude threats
which had so much terrified her; and it needed but this to confirm
Mr. Keene's suspicious dislike of Ashburn, whom he had
already learned to regard as one of the worst specimens of western
character that had yet crossed his path. He had often felt
the vexations of his new position to be almost intolerable, and was
disposed to imagine himself the predestined victim of all the ill-will
happened, about this particular time, that he had been
more than usually visited with disasters which are too common
in a new country to be much regarded by those who know what
they mean. His fences had been thrown down, his corn-field
robbed, and even the lodging-place of the peacock forcibly attempted.
But from the moment he discovered that Ashburn had
a grudge against him, he thought neither of unruly oxen, mischievous
boys, nor exasperated neighbours, but concluded that the
one unlucky house in the swamp was the ever-welling fountain
of all this bitterness. He had not yet been long enough among
us to discern how much our “bark is waur than our bite.”
And, more unfortunate still, from the date of this unlucky
morning call, (I have long considered morning calls particularly
unlucky), the fair Clarissa seemed to have lost all her sprightliness.
She shunned her usual haunts, or if she took a walk, or a
short ride, she was sure to return sadder than she went. Her
uncle noted the change immediately, but forbore to question her,
though he pointed out the symptoms to his more obtuse lady, with
a request that she would “find out what Clary wanted.” In the
performance of this delicate duty, Mrs. Keene fortunately limited
herself to the subjects of health and new clothes,—so that Clarissa,
though at first a little fluttered, answered very satisfactorily without
stretching her conscience.
“Perhaps it's young company, my dear,” continued the good
woman; “to be sure there's not much of that as yet; but you
never seemed to care for it when we lived at L—. You used
to sit as contented over your work or your book, in the long evenings,
with nobody but your uncle and me, and Charles Darwin,
—why can't you now?”
“So I can, dear aunt,” said Clarissa; and she spoke the truth
so warmly that her aunt was quite satisfied.
It was on a very raw and gusty evening, not long after the
occurrences we have noted, that Mr. Keene, with his handkerchief
carefully wrapped round his chin, sallied forth after dark,
on an expedition to the post-office. He was thinking how vexatious
it was—how like every thing else in this disorganized, or
be obliged to arrive at regular hours, and those early enough to
allow of one's getting one's letters before dark. As he proceeded
he became aware of the approach of two persons, and though it
was too dark to distinguish faces, he heard distinctly the dreaded
tones of Silas Ashburn.
“No! I found you were right enough there! I couldn't get
at him that way; but I'll pay him for it yet!”
He lost the reply of the other party in this iniquitous scheme,
in the rushing of the wild wind which hurried him on his course;
but he had heard enough! He made out to reach the office, and
receiving his paper, and hastening desperately homeward, had
scarcely spirits even to read the price-current, (though he did
mechanically glance at that corner of the “Trumpet of Commerce,”)
before he retired to bed in meditative sadness; feeling
quite unable to await the striking of nine on the kitchen clock,
which, in all ordinary circumstances, “toll'd the hour for retiring.”
It is really surprising the propensity which young people have
for sitting up late! Here was Clarissa Bensley, who was so busy
all day that one would have thought she might be glad to retire
with the chickens,—here she was, sitting in her aunt's great
rocking-chair by the remains of the kitchen fire, at almost ten
o'clock at night! And such a night too! The very roaring of
the wind was enough to have affrighted a stouter heart than hers,
yet she scarcely seemed even to hear it! And how lonely she
must have been! Mr. and Mrs. Keene had been gone an hour,
and in all the range of bird-cages that lined the room, not a feather
was stirring, unless it might have been the green eyebrow of
an old parrot, who was slily watching the fireside with one optic,
while the other pretended to be fast asleep. And what was old
Poll watching? We shall be obliged to tell tales.
There was another chair besides the great rocking-chair,—a
high-backed chair of the olden time; and this second chair was
drawn up quite near the first, and on the back of the tall antiquity
leaned a young gentleman. This must account for Clary's
knowingly.
“I will wait no longer,” said the stranger, in a low, but very
decided tone; (and as he speaks, we recognise the voice of the
young hunter.) “You are too timid, Clarissa, and you don't do
your uncle justice. To be sure he was most unreasonably angry
when we parted, and I am ashamed to think that I was angry
too. To-morrow I will see him and tell him so; and I shall tell
him too, little trembler, that I have you on my side; and we shall
see if together we cannot persuade him to forget and forgive.”
This, and much more that we shall not betray, was said by the
tall young gentleman, who, now that his cap was off, showed
brow and eyes such as are apt to go a good way in convincing
young ladies; while Miss Bensley seemed partly to acquiesce,
and partly to cling to her previous fears of her uncle's resentment
against his former protégé, which, first excited by some
trifling offence, had been rendered serious by the pride of the
young man and the pepperiness of the old one.
When the moment came which Clarissa insisted should be the
very last of the stranger's stay, some difficulty occurred in unbolting
the kitchen door, and Miss Bensley proceeded with her
guest through an open passage-way to the front part of the
house, when she undid the front door, and dismissed him with a
strict charge to tie up the gate just as he found it, lest some unlucky
chance should realize Mr. Keene's fears of nocturnal invasion.
And we must leave our perplexed heroine standing, in
meditative mood, candle in hand, in the very centre of the little
parlour, which served both for entrance-hall and salon.
We have seen that Mr. Keene's nerves had received a terrible
shock on this fated evening, and it is certain that for a man of
sober imagination, his dreams were terrific. He saw Ashburn, covered
from crown to sole with a buzzing shroud of bees, trampling
on his flower-beds, tearing up his honey-suckles root and branch,
and letting his canaries and Java sparrows out of their cages;
and, as his eyes recoiled from this horrible scene, they encountered
the shambling form of Joe, who, besides aiding and abetting
toward the sanctuary of the pea-fowls.
He awoke with a cry of horror, and found his bed-room full of
smoke. Starting up in agonized alarm, he awoke Mrs. Keene,
and half-dressed, by the red light which glimmered around them,
they rushed together to Clarissa's chamber. It was empty. To
find the stairs was the next thought, but at the very top they met
the dreaded bee-finder armed with a prodigious club!
“Oh mercy! don't murder us!” shrieked Mrs. Keene, falling
on her knees; while her husband, whose capsicum was completely
roused, began pummelling Ashburn as high as he could
reach, bestowing on him at the same time, in no very choice
terms, his candid opinion as to the propriety of setting people's
houses on fire, by way of revenge.
“Why, you're both as crazy as loons!” was Mr. Ashburn's
polite exclamation, as he held off Mr. Keene at arm's length. “I
was comin' up o' purpose to tell you that you needn't be frightened.
It's only the ruff o' the shanty there,—the kitchen, as you
call it.”
“And what have you done with Clarissa?”—“Ay! where's
my niece?” cried the distracted pair.
“Where is she? why, down stairs to be sure, takin' care o'
the traps they throw'd out o' the shanty. I was out a 'coon-hunting,
and see the light, but I was so far off that they'd got it pretty
well down before I got here. That 'ere young spark o' Clary's
worked like a beaver, I tell ye!”
It must not be supposed that one half of Ashburn's hasty explanation
“penetrated the interior” of his hearers' heads. They
took in the idea of Clary's safety, but as for the rest, they concluded
it only an effort to mystify them as to the real cause of
the disaster.
“You need not attempt,” solemnly began Mr. Keene, “you
need not think to make me believe, that you are not the man that
set my house on fire. I know your revengeful temper; I have
heard of your threats, and you shall answer for all, sir! before
you're a day older!”
Ashburn seemed struck dumb, between his involuntary respect
for Mr. Keene's age and character, and the contemptuous anger
he after a pause; “but here comes Clary; she's got common
sense; ask her how the fire happened.”
“It's all over now, uncle,” she exclaimed, almost breathless;
“it has not done so very much damage.”
“Damage!” said Mrs. Keene, dolefully; “we shall never get
things clean again while the world stands!”
“And where are my birds?” inquired the old gentleman.
“All safe—quite safe; we moved them into the parlour.”
“We! who, pray?”
“Oh! the neighbours came, you know, uncle; and—Mr.
Ashburn—”
“Give the devil his due,” interposed Ashburn; “you know
very well that the whole concern would have gone if it hadn't
been for that young feller.”
“What young fellow? where?”
“Why here,” said Silas, pulling forward our young stranger;
“this here chap.”
“Young man,” began Mr. Keene,—but at the moment, up
came somebody with a light, and while Clarissa retreated behind
Mr. Ashburn, the stranger was recognised by her aunt and uncle
as Charles Darwin.
“Charles! what on earth brought you here?”
“Ask Clary,” said Ashburn, with grim jocoseness.
Mr. Keene turned mechanically to obey, but Clarissa had disappeared.
“Well! I guess I can tell you something about it, if nobody
else won't,” said Ashburn; “I'm something of a Yankee, and
it's my notion that there was some sparkin' a goin' on in your
kitchen, and that somehow or other the young folks managed to
set it a-fire.”
The old folks looked more puzzled than ever. “Do speak,
Charles,” said Mr. Keene; “what does it all mean? Did you
set my house on fire?”
“I'm afraid I must have had some hand in it, sir,” said
Charles, whose self-possession seemed quite to have deserted him.
“You!” exclaimed Mr. Keene; “and I've been laying it to
this man!”
“Yes! you know'd I owed you a spite, on account o' that
plaguy bee-tree,” said Ashburn; “a guilty conscience needs no
accuser. But you was much mistaken if you thought I was sich
a bloody-minded villain as to burn your gimcrackery for that!
If I could have paid you for it, fair and even, I'd ha' done it with
all my heart and soul. But I don't set men's houses a-fire when
I get mad at 'em.”
“But you threatened vengeance,” said Mr. Keene.
“So I did, but that was when I expected to get it by law,
though; and this here young man knows that, if he'd only
speak.”
Thus adjured, Charles did speak, and so much to the purpose
that it did not take many minutes to convince Mr. Keene that
Ashburn's evil-mindedness was bounded by the limits of the law,
that precious privilege of the Wolverine. But there was still the
mystery of Charles's apparition, and in order to its full unravelment,
the blushing Clarissa had to be enticed from her hiding-place,
and brought to confession. And then it was made clear
that she, with all her innocent looks, was the moving cause of
the mighty mischief. She it was who encouraged Charles to believe
that her uncle's anger would not last for ever; and this had
led Charles to venture into the neighbourhood; and it was while
consulting together, (on this particular point, of course,) that
they managed to set the kitchen curtain on fire, and then—the
reader knows the rest.
These things occupied some time in explaining,—but they
were at length, by the aid of words and more eloquent blushes,
made so clear, that Mr. Keene concluded, not only to new roof
the kitchen, but to add a very pretty wing to one side of the house.
And at the present time, the steps of Charles Darwin, when he
returns from a surveying tour, seek the little gate as naturally as
if he had never lived any where else. And the sweet face of
Clarissa is always there, ready to welcome him, though she still
finds plenty of time to keep in order the complicated affairs of
both uncle and aunt.
And how goes life with our friends the Ashburns? Mr. Keene
has done his very best to atone for his injurious estimate of Wolverine
honour, by giving constant employment to Ashburn and his
concession all he could do would avail nothing. And Mrs. Keene
and Clarissa have been unwearied in their kind attentions to the
family, supplying them with so many comforts that most of them
have got rid of the ague, in spite of themselves. The house has
assumed so cheerful an appearance that I could scarcely recognise
it for the same squalid den it had often made my heart ache
to look upon. As I was returning from my last visit there, I encountered
Mr. Ashburn, and remarked to him how very comfortable
they seemed.
“Yes,” he replied; “I've had pretty good luck lately; but
I'm a goin' to pull up stakes and move to Wisconsin. I think I
can do better, further West.”
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