 | CHAPTER I. Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall |  |
1. CHAPTER I.
IN the loveliest city of the West stands an
old and curiously-fashioned house, in the
centre of an acre of ground, perhaps, and so
thickly surrounded with trees as to prevent
the most observant passer-by from obtaining
a very correct notion of its architecture or
dimensions. Nevertheless, half-hidden as it
is, there is something about the place that
commands attention, and whoever looks at it
once is likely to look again.
In the course of every day many quick
steps are slackened as the sombre shadows of
its trees fall across the road; many are the
fence which encloses the grounds; and many
the fruitless questions concerning its inhabitants
and ownership.
“Humph!” says the speculator; “what a
waste of capital is here!” and, bobbing his
head up and down, and over, and between
the palings, he divides and subdivides and
parcels the lot into many lots, and so hurries
towards some thoroughfare, summing up on
the ends of his fingers the entire valuation.
When the sunset shines through the gnarled
and mossy boughs that swing against the
steep gables, the maiden and the lover pause,
thinking how pleasant it would be to sit on
the grassy knoll beneath the low-spreading
apple-tree and watch the motes dancing
among the column-like lights, slanting and
beaming down the openings.
The poet, “crazed with care,” and very
possibly “crossed in hopeless love,” gliding at
twilight toward the more secluded quarter of
the town, stops as he sees the black shadows
crouching among the tangled shrubberies,
half-expecting to behold a ghost whitening
come out as he stands before the padlocked
gate, musing some rhyme of murders done,
of hopes broken, or of hearts withered; and
as he so muses he looks a fit inhabitant of the
place, for the moonlight raining along the
moss of the roof, and the winds stirring
through the bushy tree-tops, seem his properest
companions. Roughly he shakes the iron
stanchions of the gate as the shadows beckon
and the winds call to him, but it will not yield,
and the group of boys and girls from the assembling
school, who have been standing a
little way off, thinking what a pretty place
for hunting the glove the great door-yard
would be, hastily gather up hoops and balls
and run from the madman as fast as they can.
Sometimes, among the cobwebs that hang
at the windows, the thin sallow face of an old
man may be seen, and once in a while, feeling
his way with a wooden staff, he bends along
the narrow and crooked path, over which the
grass has quite grown together here and there,
though tiny spots of gravel, at wide distances,
attest that it was once a broad avenue; slowly
padlock, and goes toward an old but substantial
and better kept house than his own, where
lives a rich miserly man, using and abusing,
and augmenting, and squandering the wealth
which in truth belongs to his mother—a poor
half-crazed old woman, whom he keeps imprisoned
in his garret, scantily fed and clothed,
as report says, and suffered to see no visitors,
except the old man just described, who
once or twice in the year, perhaps, is permitted
to pass an hour or more with the almost imbecile
prisoner whom he remembers as a gay-hearted
and pretty young woman, and with
those black glittering eyes of his, he can see,
even now, traces of lost beauty beneath the
grey locks that straggle down from her dishevelled
nightcap. In their youth they were
friends and neighbors, and so indeed they are
still, but while the intellect of the old man
is as clear as it ever was, that of the woman
seems to have gathered mildew, and to shine
out only now and then imperfectly through its
mouldy crust. He calls her “Lizy,” yet, when
he takes her withered hand, and in his own
veins forking and zigzaging from the knuckles
to the wrist, crushes them in the heartiness
of his grasp, till the purple spreads to the
finger-ends. And she, with what seems a
mocking echo of the joyish tones of fifty years
ago, addresses her friend as “Dicky,” and half
pettishly accuses him of forgetfulness of old
friendship. But not so: Richard Furniss visits
the woman as often as he dares, for he is a
humble man, and shrinks from contact with
humanity, really believing himself undeserving
of any notice or regard from the world
from which he has withdrawn himself.
With Richard Furniss alone, however, as he
lived in the desolate old house I have written
of, only now and then creeping out into the sun,
has our story much to do. The man is slightly
changed since the sunrise of a bright May
morning slanted through his curtainless window
eight or ten years ago. His iron-grey
hair hangs lower on his shoulders—for no one
trims it now—and the weight of these additional
years has bent him earthward somewhat
more, perhaps, though his black eyes glitter
slips about his possessions as though unworthy
of them, just as he was wont. On the steep
gables the mosses are thicker and greener now
than then, the tree-tops a little heavier, and
the general air of neglect more immediately
obvious, but the casual observer would see not
much alteration in either man or dwelling since
that May morning. And beautiful exceedingly
was the opening day, the very breathing of the
cool air a luxury. With the first stir and hum
of the great city the windows of the old house
were thrown up, the blue smoke went curling
away from the low kitchen chimney, while in
and out the others dipped and rose the swallows,
speckling the air about the roof with
their grey bosoms and black wings. On the
tops of the dormer-windows sat rows of plump
pigeons, waiting for the sunrise, and close
against the double outer door lay a great
watch-dog, his head between his fore paws,
and his hungry-looking eyes wide open.
“Surly, Surly!” called a sweet voice from
the window above, as the dog rose and growled,
shaking the chain that was attached to
his freedom was sometimes restricted, though
at the time mentioned it hung loose and dragged
after him as he advanced a few steps down
the gravelled walk, his growl softening to a
whine, and the first belligerent aspect changing
to one of welcome.
“There, Annette!” said the voice again,
“how late we are this morning! father will
scold. Oh, I am sorry I slept so long, for see,
the man who brings our butter is waiting at
the gate, and I can't go to unlock it these ten
minutes—just see my hair!” and she smoothed
the heavy brown waves which had fallen
in careless grace about her neck and shoulders,
turning anxiously, the while, from the
window to the bed, the pillow of which was
still pressed by a fairer cheek than her own.
A merry ringing laugh was the only answer the
distressed questioner at first received, and not
till she had repeated the exclamation, “Oh! I
am so sorry!” did the person addressed as Annette
lift herself on her elbow and look steadily
from the window. An arch smile curved
her thin lips as she did so, and through the
blushed along her cheek, as she said hurriedly
and in an under tone, “Nelly, dear, run down
and open the gate, never mind your hair, it
really makes you look charming, falling negligently
as it does.” And seeing that the girl
hesitated, at the same time adjusting the open
morning gown with some precision, she added
impatiently, “Never mind, Nell, the fellow
will be tired to death, and father too, will be
terribly vexed; there's my shawl, just throw
it round your shoulders and never mind!”
“Oh! must I go this way?” and she pushed
away her fallen hair, thrust her little bare feet
into a pair of slippers, and gathering the shawl
her sister had mentioned about her throat, descended
the stairs without more ado.
No sooner was she gone than Annette, who
had till then lingered indolently with her pillow,
dashed aside the counterpane and hastening
to the window called, “Nell! ask the
young man to come in, and be sure you don't
allow him to go away until I come down: I
have an especial and important object in
view.”
There was a puzzled and inquiring expression
in the face of Nelly for a moment, but
simply nodding assent, she took up the chain
which Surly was dragging after him, and
skipped down the walk by his side, calling
him “poor fellow” and “pretty Surly,” as she
went; though only his mistress could have
discovered his beauty, for surely so long-legged,
slabsided and altogether graceless a
creature never tended another door. But,
“poor fellow,” as the girl might well call him,
he could not help his natural defects, nor the
scanty feeding that had flattened him to his
present narrow dimensions.
“Why, Surly, old fellow, good morning.”
And the young man who had been so long
standing before the gate, sat down from his
arm the basket covered with dewy leaves, and
reaching through the bars took the paw of the
dog in his large clumsy hand and shook it
heartily, without as yet having given any
salutation at all to the young woman.
“Really, Mr. Graham,” she began, holding
her shawl together with one hand, while she
“really, I am quite ashamed.”
“Not at all, Miss,” he interrupted, before she
proceeded further with an apology, “I would
as lives stand here as not: is your father well,
Miss?”
By this time the gate was open and Mr.
Graham, taking up his basket, followed, rather
than accompanied, Nelly into the house.
“Well, father, you have a nice fire for me,”
she said, “and I shall be very smart to make
up for lost time. Have you forgotten Mr.
Graham?” she added, seeing that he did not
notice the young man who stood blushing and
stepping with one foot and the other in painful
embarrassment.
A dry nod and an unsmiling glance were
the only results of this appeal, and the young
man, aware of the dubious welcome, hastened
to pull the green leaves from his basket and
take thence the golden rolls of butter which
it was his weekly errand to bring.
“Seems to me, Nell,” said the old man, poking
in the ashes with his cane, “that you use
he added after a moment, “your mother did n't
do so, that's all;” and he resumed his poking
in the ashes.
“I am afraid father will never be able to
teach me the economy which it is perhaps
needful for me to practise,” said Nelly, blushing
confusedly that he should have betrayed
so calculating a spirit, and taking as much
blame to herself as she could, that the less
might attach to him.
“What's that?” resumed the old man in a
voice somewhat mollified, as he saw the farmer
take from his basket a piece of meat which he
had brought from home.
“A morsel for Surly,” answered Graham,
and he continued, apologetically, though he
knew the dog was half starved, “I thought it
better than your city veal.”
Richard Furniss moved uneasily, and looked
wistfully after the young farmer, as he withdrew,
carrying his basket, and the hungry dog
the gift which was to propitiate his friendship
as well as satisfy his appetite. He turned now
from the fire-place, to assist in preparations for
worn-out coffee-mill close together with one
hand and between his knees, with the other
turned the crank until the grains were ground,
and then set the scant drawing to boil in a tin
coffee-pot which had neither lid nor handle,
and was proceeding to set the table, when his
daughters entered the room — having been
engaged longer than they were accustomed to
be with their toilets. “Humph,” he said,
eyeing them with severity, “you are not
much like your mother; she would have
been at work while you have been decking
yourselves off with furbelows.” And he
added with what seemed real emotion: “I
wish, girls, you would not dress so fine.”
“There, father!” said Nelly, taking the
table-cloth from his tremulous hands, and
sighing, as she arranged the cracked and
broken ware so as to conceal the rents and
patches.
“A most singular old gentleman!” exclaimed
Annette, laughing, as, half blind with
tears, the father stumbled out of the house.
“Oh, Netty, Netty!” said Nelly; and she
looking into the fire.
“Why, my fair sister, have I shocked you?”
resumed the young beauty, laying her hand
on the arm of her sister in mock tenderness; “I
spoke no treason; I simply said our honored
father was a `strange gentleman,' and I repeat
it. Would to heaven,” she continued more
earnestly, “I had not a drop of the Furniss
blood in my veins.”
“Oh! Netty, Netty!” reiterated the sister;
and, unlocking her hands, she went quietly
about her work again.
“I understand your reproof; perhaps I
deserve it,” spoke Annette, in a cold calm
tone, that indicated no self-condemnation;
“but, Nell, good and pure as you are, you
must feel sometimes that you are cursed with
a curse.”
There was no reply, and she continued: “I
felt it, when I was young, and—no, not as
good as you, but better than I am now.”
“Do not call me good; if you saw my
heart—if you knew what my thoughts are,
often, you would draw yourself away from me
to confess it, but I sometimes reproach not
only the living, but the dead;” and her lip
trembled, as she spoke.
“Wickedness, as I understand it,” replied
Annette, “is the deliberate and premeditated
working of evil — not any honest rebellion
against unnatural constraint. The lark sings,
because of the gift God has given it; if it were
mewed up with the owl, it would pine and
die. What business has the lamb in the eyry
of the eagle? And if any circumstance, or
combination of circumstances, place it there, I
hold that it is not bound to remain in the position,
either to be preyed upon, or scorched to
death in the sun, if by any means it can possibly
let itself down.”
Nelly shook her head slowly and sadly.
“Talk as you may, but you cannot cease all
self-sacrifice, and be satisfied. You cannot
turn aside from the path which those who love
you have marked out for you, with a consciousness
of rectitude. I cannot.”
“I live,” replied Annettee, “but for the
simple sense of living; I have small reason to
gratitude to my parents; it was not for my
pleasure they brought me here. I have grown
to womanhood because my constitution has
resisted the wear and tear to which it has been
wrongfully subjected, and not because of any
fostering care bestowed on me. I am warpt
from the first goodness and purity of my
nature; my life has been forcibly turned
from its bent; when I would have gone up,
I was pressed down; when I pined for knowledge,
I was kept ignorant: and now,” she
added,
Will o'ersweep them with my sands!”
“All this, Netty, will not avail to bring you
peace.”
“Then you think I am bound to surrender
all my hopes and inclinations to the will of
one to whom I owe nothing; to take up a
cross that must shortly crush me into the
grave. No, you may do this if you choose,
but from this day I am bound to live after my
own fashion.”
“Well,” replied Nelly; and the simple
would try to consecrate herself to duty.
There was a long silence; then Annette fell
to singing, as if so happy in her late resolve
that she could not help exultation. Presently,
however, she said, abruptly, as she caught a
glimpse of the form of the young farmer reapproaching
the door of the kitchen, along the
grounds: “Nell, how would you like Henry
Graham for a brother? — I am resolved to
marry him.”
“Marry Henry Graham! What do you
mean?”
“Precisely what I say.”
“Why, you have scarcely spoken to him —
when did he ask you?”
“Ah, my dear sister,” said Annette, laughing,
“you are much younger than I am.
True, I have scarcely spoken with him, and I
don't suppose he ever thought of marrying
me; but new influences produce new feelings:
perhaps he will ask me.”
“Hush!” and Nelly lifted up her hand and
smiled, as she said, “Shall I invite him to sit
in the parlor?”
“Oh, no, it would only disconcert him,
and hinder the progress of our acquaintance;
besides, our preparation of breakfast will serve
to entertain him.”
“Ah, Mr. Graham!” and Annette shook
hands with him, in her most cordial and
winning manner; “I hope I have not
detained you against any pressing call upon
your time.”
“Oh, no, Miss; I am very glad if I can
serve you in any way; any commands of
yours would flatter me.”
He blushed as he spoke, and rapidly changed
his market-basket from one hand to the
other.
Annette busied herself about the table till
he recovered from the confusion into which
this effort at politeness had thrown him, and
then artfully led the conversation into channels
calculated to place him at ease.
For the time she seemed to forget that their
slight acquaintance should impose any limits
to the subjects or familiarity of their discussion,
and asked him a great many direct questions,
as how far he lived from the city, how
whether he was not prospectively rich.
By this, and the preparation of breakfast,
Mr. Henry Graham was placed as much at his
ease as it was or is possible for an inferior
creature to be with a superior one; for though
two, so differing, may sometimes stand on the
same elevation, and may seem to be not altogether
ill-matched, the lower cannot escape
the consciousness that the higher can overmaster
and crush and annihilate as he will.
The question whether Mr. Graham was not
likely to be the possessor of wealth, drew out
the information that his brother Stafford, a
surgeon then in the army, shared with him
his prospects.
“Older or younger than you?” asked Annette,
carelessly, and in an undertone adding,
“Stafford: what a pretty name!”
The young man colored and did not at once
reply, evincing clearly enough, to the quick
eyes of Annette, that he was nettled by the
greater interest she betrayed in Stafford.
“Have you been separated long?” she resumed,
as if not observing his silence.
“Three years,” he answered, glancing at the
window, and adding something about the
beauty of the day.
“Lovely, is n't it? Do you expect your
brother home soon?”
“We are not in correspondence. My
mother, I believe, receives letters from him
sometimes.”
“Not in correspondence!”
“No, we are not firends;” and Mr. Graham
compressed his lips, and betrayed in him manner
a positive unwillingness to pursue the conversation.
“Shall I call father to breakfast?” asked
Nelly, interrupting a silence that even to
Annette was embarrassing; and without waiting
a reply she withdrew upon the errand
thus suggested.
The house was situated about the middle of
the grounds, in the rear of which the trees
grew thicker than elsewhere; and toward a
clump of elms whose pendulous boughs hung
low, the girl bent her steps, looking unusually
sad and thoughtful.
“Come, father,” she said, speaking more
and lilacs that hedged in a solitary grave, she
found him, where she expected, sitting by
the head-stone, a low pillar of marble.
In a few moments the family and their guest
are seated together at their meagre breakfast.
Richard Furniss is at an inconvenient
distance from the table, holding a crust in one
hand, from which he occasionally breaks a
small piece, and deliberately places it within
his lips. When he is offered a fresh slice, he
shakes his head mournfully and replies, “It is
no matter about me.” His dress is old and
shabby, and seems to have been carelessly
put on; his countenance evinces unrest and
melancholy, and his whole bearing a mingling
of diffidence and ill-humor. Henry Graham
looks as if not more than twenty, though he is
certainly twenty-five; he is slender and tall,
with a roseate complexion, and little twinkling
blue eyes. He reminds one, in his manner,
of a stray animal amid a new flock, not
quite assured of his position. His hair is thin
and long, in color a sandy yellow; his beard
is red; and in his habitual awkwardness there
of gentlemanly blood, his father having
been a man of elegant breeding and scholarly
attainments. Of his mother we shall have
occasion to speak hereafter. Annette is rather
above the ordinary height of women: a brunette,
with eyes and hair black as the night.
The expression of the eyes is commonly soft,
but when aroused by passion, they have something
of the glitter that makes one distrustful,
almost afraid. She is not stout, nor yet very
thin; her countenance, in repose, is quietly sad,
and her whole manner subdued; yet you feel
when you have once conversed with her, that
somewhere in her nature there is pride, ambition,
and smothered energy and purpose. One
hour her smile wins you, and you can tell her
your simplest joys and sorrows; say you love
her, perhaps; but the next there is a sea of
ice between you, and this without her speaking
an unkind word, or having withdrawn one
beam of her unfaltering smile. She is no
longer young, as her conversation has already
revealed, but she is as handsome, perhaps, as
she ever was; something from the fullness of
may be missed, but in the higher expression
of beauty she is a gainer by her years.
Mr. Furniss declines the second cup of coffee,
a beverage of which he is exceedingly
fond; he does not know that it would make
him live any longer, he says; but in fact he
thinks himself unworthy of having more, and
feels that he is saving a little in refusing
it. Sometimes Annette would have pressed it
upon him: not so to-day.
When Mr. Graham invites him to visit
Woodside, his country place, he shakes his
head sorrowfully, replying that he seldom
goes from home; nobody wishes to see him;
and so, with moisture in his eyes, he withdraws
from the house, and is presently sitting by
the lonely grave again.
How we cling to the dust, frail and fading
and perishing as it is! She who sleeps in that
narrow and obscure grave has, for him, drawn
down after her all the stars of heaven. Poor
old man! blame him not too hastily; there
went out the love that made him forget his
grey hairs; there he first learned how far
it; and he has no strength and no courage to
retrace his steps.
Through adversity some persons become
pure, and, as it were, kiss the hand that chastises;
others go wandering and wailing like
echoes out of ruins; and others lift their eyes
in reproof when the cloud comes over them,
not against God, as they say, but Fate.
| CHAPTER I. Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall | |