University of Virginia Library

6. CHAPTER VI.

The country road to which we have alluded passed
between Holly and the village of Springdale. A
gravelled and winding lane led from it to the residence
of Mr. Fitzhurst. At the entrance of the lane
stood a cottage, or log-house of the better sort, to
whose precincts we would call the attention of our
readers. The cottage was inhabited by an old
woman, named Gammon, who was known in the
neighbourhood for miles around as Granny Gammon,
together with her grandson, Robert Gammon, a lame
boy, and a granddaughter, a cousin of the boy, named
Peggy Blossom. These two last were all that remained
out of a large progeny of the race of Granny
Gammon. She had been married twice, and had had
a very large family, but they seemed destined, both by
fate and nature, for a short life, as accident or disease
had carried them all off. Peggy Blossom was the
daughter of one of Granny Gammon's sons by her
first marriage. A short time after the birth of Peggy
her parents both died, and she was left to the charge
of her grandmother.

Robert Gammon was the descendant of the Granny
by her second marriage. His mother died in giving
him birth, and some years afterwards his father was

blown up in the explosion of a powdermill in which
he was a labourer. Robert Gammon, or Bobby
Gammon as he was generally called, was extensively
known in the neighbourhood.

In his childhood he had been remarkable for his
beauty. Now beauty of face was all that was left to
him. Bobby was very fond of horses, and as he was
a most expert horseman Mr. Paul Fitzhurst had employed
him to ride several races for him, in all of
which, except the last, Bobby was successful. It was
thought by the jockies that his skill and management
as much as the speed of the horse led to results
favourable to Mr. Fitzhurst. In the last race Bobby
rode, as he was approaching the goal the foremost
rider, the girth of his saddle broke, and he was precipitated
to the ground with great violence. By the
accident his collar bone was broken and his left leg.
Bobby was taken to his grandmother's, the physician
of the village sent for, and the broken bones set, but
after such a fashion as to leave Bobby a cripple for
life, with his right shoulder much higher than his left
one, and his left leg much shorter than its brother.
Bobby lay a long time at the point of death. He
slowly recovered, but the accident gave such a shock
to his frame that, though he grew older, he did not appear
to increase much either in size or height. The
accident happened when he was in his fourteenth
year,—he was now approaching his seventeenth. His
cousin Peggy, who was a year his elder, had watched
over his long confinement with the faithfulness of a
sister, by which she had acquired more control over
Bobby than other human being, not excepting his
grandmother.

Mr. Fitzhurst, as some remuneration to Bobby for
the injury he had received in his service, gave him a
deed for fifty acres of land, and had built on it the log
house in which Granny Gammonlived. Besides which,

he frequently sent flour or marketing to the grandmother
and her grandchildren; in fact, it might be
said that he entirely supported them. Their condition
was much better now than it had been before
Bobby's mishap.

Peggy was a great favourite at Holly; particularly
with Miss Rachellina and Fanny. She was a
good milliner, and was often sent for by the former lady
to make caps, &c., for her, when Peggy would remain
at Holly for a week or two; for Miss Rachellina
was very careful in her toilet, and had her habiliments
made under her own eye. Besides pecuniary recompense,
she frequently made presents of articles of dress,
capes, bonnets, edging to her protegé. Peggy's costliest
gifts, however, of this kind, were received from
Fanny, for Miss Rachellina had no idea of putting
notions into the girl's head above her station, by giving
her the means of extravagant display. Fanny often
thwarted her aunt's views in this respect; and Peggy
was wont to make her appearance at the meeting-house
in Springdale in an attire which created more
envy amidst her female acquaintances than even her
superior beauty—for Peggy was beautiful, and not
unconscious of it. Her form was fine, her step
springing, her cheek rosy, her eye bright, and she had
caught, with a quick spirit of imitation, a certain air
in her sojournings at Holly, from her observance and
admiration of Fanny Fitzhurst, that distinguished her
as much as her beauty. The girls of the village who
envied her were in the habit of speaking of her, tauntingly,
as “Lady Peggy.”

Peggy was an arch coquette. There was Bill
Hitt, the blacksmith, he had been suing and suffering
for years. Bill Hardy, the miller, was in the same
predicament. Though he had his Sunday suit on, scrupulously
freed from the least speck of flour, Peggy
could make his face wear its every-day hue, and turn

him as pale as one of his own meal-bags. It was
even said that the village doctor, who had a pretty
practice, was not insensible to her charms. It is a
fact that he often stopped at Granny Gammon's unsent
for, to inquire about the old woman's rheumatism,
and he prescribed for her without charge. Lawyer
Lupton, too, was known to visit Mrs. Gammon, to
make inquiries as to what she had heard in by-gone
days concerning certain landmarks, whose locality
was involved in a suit in which he asserted he was
engaged. It must have been a case of considerable
perplexity, for Mr. Lupton had frequently to repeat
his visits, in order thoroughly to understand what
would be the evidence of Mrs. Gammon should he
require her testimony. And often, when the old
woman has been doing her best at an explanation,
she was not a little offended at Mr. Lupton for suffering
himself to be drawn off entirely from the subject
by the idle conversation of Peggy.

Notwithstanding all these demonstrations against
the heart of Peggy, as the village gossips held them
to be, it could not be said that she herself had any
very decided preference. Latterly, Peggy had very
little to say to the lawyer when he visited her grandmother,
and when some one asked her the reason,
she replied:

“She didn't believe in people who could laugh
and talk with her at home, but who couldn't be the
same when they met her at other places.”

There was one John, or Jack Gordon, as he was
called, a—handsome, reckless fellow—who formerly
lived in the village, but who had left it within the last
six months, though he frequently visited it, for whom
it was thought Peggy entertained a liking. Gordon
had a dashing, daring way with him. He was a
hanger on about races; sometimes had a faro-table at
such places, and he spent much more money than he

apparently earned. His character did not stand well
with the villagers; he bore himself with a swagger
among them, but he spent his money freely, would
treat anybody, and everybody, and was not without
tact—and a power to hide his natural propensities,
where he had an object in view. Latterly, when
Jack Gordon visited Springdale he made a much more
ostentatious appearance than formerly. He dressed
with the flare and flash of a circus-rider; wore a gold
watch, with an immense chain; rode a horse that he
alleged had cost three hundred dollars, and for which
he wouldn't take five hundred, and put up at the best
tavern in the place.

We opened this chapter by conducting our reader
to the plain but comfortable domicil of Granny Gammon.
It was the evening of the husking-match.
The little family had just finished their supper.
Peggy, with a cloth caught on the end of a fork so
as to save her hands, which were delicate and fair,
was washing the cups and saucers. Her grandmother
was sitting in a high-backed, rush-bottomed, old-fashioned
chair, engaged in knitting a coarse woollen
stocking. Near her lay a large house-dog asleep,
and between the dog and Peggy sat Bobby. He
eyed the dog a moment as the animal lay upon his
side, with his large ear thrown back, and, unperceived
by his grandmother or cousin, he stepped to a broom
which stood in the corner, and extracted from it the
largest and longest straw he could find. Bobby then
resumed his seat very demurely, and amused himself
with inserting the straw into the dog's ear. The boy
seemed to derive no little amusement in beholding
the dog's efforts to rid himself of what he doubtless
considered a fly. The animal shook his head, and
twisted his ear, all to no avail. At last he uttered a
fierce growl.

“Be still, Towser!” exclaimed the old woman in

a querulous tone. What's the dog after: there's nobody
here.”

At this remark Bobby renewed his efforts to make
Towser growl louder, and in the act his grandmother
turned and observed him.

“Bobby, Bobby Gommon! its you, is it, teazing
the dog? You'll ruin him; don't you know that's the
very way to ruin a dog? Be done, you—indeed, indeed,
you'll worry me to death. Yes, you'll be the
death of me yet—and Iv'e nursed you from a baby:
you don't mind me no more 'an I was a log.”

“Granny,” said Bob, in a half expostulating, half
quizzing, tone, “I want to wake Towzer up—he must
go with me to Mr. Elwood's.”

“To Mr. Elwood's—can't you call the dog if you
want him, and not spoil him in that way, and worry
me as you do—And for what do you want to go to
Mr. Elwood's?”

“To the husking, granny.”

“To the husking! what can such a cripple and
limater as you are—and so weakly, do at a husking?”

“Granny, you needn't be always telling me I'm a
cripple, a limater as you call it—I do hate that word.
I can't help it—and don't I know it?”

“Yes, know it—and don't I know it! And didn't
I warn you agin riding races long since—didn't I—
answer me that? It's a judgment on you—this racing
is an abomination in the sight of the Lord—You'll be
punished for it worse yet, if you don't mend your
ways.”

“Granny, Granny!” remonstrated Peggy.

“Peggy, my child, hold your peace—Didn't I see
Bobby riding by here this very day on that fiery varmint
of a horse that belongs to Mr. Elwood; the worst
cretur in all the country? Yes, didn't I; He didn't
think I'd be a standing at the door—no, he thought
his poor old granny was sick in the chimley corner

and he come tearing by like mad. It was such a
sunshinyday that I crawled to the door while you
were up at the big house; and I declare I han't got
over it since. Yes, he turned his head away, and tore
by like mad; and I wouldn't ha' known him if he
hadn't a had Towser jumping after him. He wants
to have another fall, and wear us all down attending
on him. He'll come to no good, never; and he'll
ruin the dog.”

“Granny,” said Bob, “I was a riding bare back.
I'd like to know if I was ever thrown from a horse
a riding that way. It was a riding a race I was
thrown. Roanoke's saddle turned with me—broke
the girth. There's many a chap's been throwed before
me, without being hurt at all. And,” continued
Bob, with bitterness, “I think the hurt is enough,
without telling a body of it. You need not think,
Granny, that I can forget it—there's cousin Peggy's
big looking-glass there, that Jack Gordon give her, it
tells me of it all the time.”

“Robert Gommon,” exclaimed Peggy, quickly,
“I told you before to day that Jack Gordon didn't give
me that looking-glass. He was driving by here one
day in a cart, and he said he had won some things
at a raffle, and he asked me if I wouldn't take care
of the glass for him till he could call for it, as he was
afraid of breaking it.”

“You've had it here long enough to make it a gift,
any how, Cousin Peggy,” said Bob, though in a subdued
tone. “And I wonder if there's any harm in
riding, if every body don't know that Jack Gordon is
a torn down rider—he rides at all ho—”

“Bobby,” interrupted Peggy, “Granny don't care
about your riding if she didn't fear that you would
get hurt again.”

“Hurt again,” exclaimed the old grandmother;

“yes, and only think how he wears out his clothes
riding horseback!”

“Well, Granny; I reckon Mr. Fitzhurst give me
the clothes.”

“And don't I know it; and is that the reason you
should wear them out—Mr. Fitzhurst won't live forever,
and who will you get clothes from then—I had
a dream last night, and it bodes no good to nobody.”

“Granny,” said Bob, rising from his seat, and stepping
from before the glass, so that the reflection of his
person might not appear in it, “I don't care what you
say to me, so as you let me alone about being a limater.
My God! I can't help it.”

“Robert, don't you know better than to take the
Lord's name in vain! That's a sin, now that's a sin—
Mercy on me, this rheumatiz.

“Come, Towser,” said Bob, to the dog. The animal
arose, shook himself, and stood prepared to follow.
“Come along old boy, we shant see the fun.” Saying
which, and followed by the dog, Bob left the house.

“Be back, Bobby, early,” screamed the old woman
after him; but Bobby unhearing or unheading walked
on with Towser by his side. He had not proceeded
ten steps when the door opened, and Peggy called to
him. He turned with alacrity to meet her. She
closed the door after her and advanced to the fence
that lay between them.

“Bobby,” asked she, “have you seen Jack Gordon
lately.”

“No, I have not, Cousin Peggy; why?

“How the moon shines. Look at your hat—put it
back further on your head, that way (and Peggy fixed
it); why don't you brush your hair, Bobby, and keep
yourself more tidy? The ladies at the big house think
you have such a good looking face—I'm sure I mend
your clothes and make your shirts—let me turn over

that collar better—and do all I can to keep you neat—
you ha'nt seen Jack Gordon, lately.”

“No, Cousin Peggy?”

“Well, Bobby, if you see him, tell him that I say he
must come and take his glass away?”

“You ha'nt seen him neither, lately, have you,
cousin Peggy?” asked Bob, archly.

“No, no,” replied Peggy, quickly; “and I don't
want to see him—Tell him, if you see him, to come
and take his glass away.”

“I don't believe I shall see him—he's got above
husking matches—or below them, I don't know which.”

“Bobby, are you going through Holly.”

“Yes, I am—don't you hear them chaps hallowing,
now, Cousin Peggy? theyr'e going; its the nearest,
an' I want to see old Pompey.”

“Then, Bobby, if you do, just step and ask Miss
Rachellina if she will want me to-morrow. You can
bring me word as you come home. They're got a
noble, polite gentleman up there; and I do believe he's
come to court Miss Fanny.”

“Have they,” said Bob, “well I'll tell Miss Rachellina
what you say, and Jack Gordon too, if I see him.
Good night, Cousin Peggy.”

“Good night, Bobby, be back soon,” rejoined
Peggy as she turned and entered the house; while
Bob, with Towser playing round him, went whistling
on his way.