 | CHAPTER III. Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall |  |
3. CHAPTER III.
OUT of the noontide heats of early June
fly the birds; the shadows of Woodside
are full of them. It is a fine day for the
mowers; the broad blades of the corn curl
together, and dust goes up from the furrows
as the last plowing between the green rows is
finished. Nowhere within a dozen miles of
the great city is there a prettier farm, or one
under better culture, or yielding a handsomer
interest. The proprietor is a thrifty manager,
as a glance over the grounds will attest.
But let us suppose ourselves in the little
red market wagon, with its neat white cover
and carpeting of straw, that is just approaching,
almost within view. There is a coverlid,
blue and white, thrown over the spring seat,
bunches of mint are twisted under the hoops
of the calash; and Mr. Graham has set his hat
jauntily on one side of his head; he wears a
shirt with ruffles, too, and now and then he
urges forward the fine horse he drives, by
touching his flank with a beech switch, addressing
the animal the while as though he
were a familiar, well acquainted with the person
beside him.
Annette, for the person alluded to is no
other, turns aside to conceal her smiles, raises
the white curtain of the wagon, points to a
tall monument, the only one towering above
the briars and thistles and nameless hillocks
of a wayside graveyard, and asks who is
buried there.
“My father,” replies Mr. Graham; “he
was a proud man in his life, and the monument
is of his own design;” and he adds:
“Even in our ashes burn our wonted fires.”
Annette turns her black eyes full upon him,
and asks what was the father's name; and
when it is told her, exclaims, “Not so pretty
as yours!” and she calls over “Henry, Harry,
which shall I call you?”
“Either is sweet as you pronounce it,” he
replies, “but call me Hal.”
“And what will you call me? It will be
quite too precise, when you are teaching me
to milk, to say Miss Furniss, you know.”
“Oh, I shall call you Netty. I do n't like
the Ann.”
“No more do I; nor the Furniss either,”
says she; “I wish some one in charity would
give me a better name.”
The young man says he wishes he dare offer
his; and the crimson that blushes along his
cheek goes up from his heart. Annette Furniss
knows that right well; nevertheless, she
answers in a tone that may be either jest or
earnest, “I only wish you were not making
so pretty a speech to flatter me, Mr. Graham.”
“Mr. Graham!” repeats the young man, as
if he would say, why do n't you call me Hal?
but Netty, suddenly charmed with the prospect,
claps her hands in ecstasy, and exclaimed:
“How lovely! this is Woodside, I
know.”
The young farmer bows in silence, or rather
gives his head a backward jerk, which is his
style of bowing. Netty affects unconsciousness
of his displeasure, and artlessly tells
him she would like to live at Woodside forever.
He smiles again, and urges forward the
horse with an address of such sort as he would
make if it were his brother in the harness.
Miss Furniss relapses into silent admiration
of the meadows, woods, house, and appurtenances,
asking herself, perhaps, whether she
really would accept them with their incumbrance.
“For a minute the man talks very well;
he is not a simpleton,” thinks the girl; “no,
he is far from it;” so she accosts him familiarly,
and calls him “Hal.” Then he hangs
his long legs out of the wagon, and assumes a
swaggering air, telling of daring feats he has
accomplished, of the immense value of his
property—now using only “me” and “my”
when he speaks of the estate, and impliedly
asserting that his mother and brother are pensioners
upon him.
“I wonder if it is all his?” queries Miss
Furniss. “I can count twenty cows on the
hills yonder; and what extensive woodlands!
Timber is valuable here, I suppose, and the
house has really been stylish in its time,
and barring some little defects — every body
has his faults — this Hal is a good fellow
enough.”
A broad avenue, boardered with trees, leads
from the main road to the dwelling, a two-story
brick house, with an antique portico in
front, and a little yard, fenced separately from
the rear grounds, where extends a lower range
of buildings, edged with curious porches, at
the ends of which little rooms have been boxed
up, as if for temporary uses. About the yard
are a great many flowers, prettily disposed;
some of them rare, and of wonderful beauty.
Two partly-grown calves are running loose
among them; and on the lower step of the
portico sits a haggish-looking old woman,
holding a stick, which she strikes toward the
animals when they tread too near the flowers.
As Annette, having been assisted to alight, is
led by her companion toward this person, she
direction where the calves are not, and also
sees imperfectly some curious object leap up
from where it lay in the sun, hop round the
corner of the house, and disappear. With
an air of the most punctilious respect “Hal”
introduces Annette to his mother, and proceeds
to drive the calves toward the meadow,
the two women, meantime, disappearing within
doors.
Mrs. Graham assumes a gentle tone, and
informs Annette that she has conferred upon
a poor old lady the greatest happiness she
could possibly enjoy — she is confined to her
room, from habit, and fears her guest will be
lonesome till the return of Stafford, of whom
she is evidently proud, though she says of
Henry, whom she calls “Sonny,” that he
reads a great deal, and that his room has quite
an antiquarian air. “I have not been in it
these six years,” she adds; “I am a poor old
creature now, you see; but I will be smart
while you are here, and you will stay three
months; yes, four, or five, or six, won't you,
dear?” During all her long address she
untied Annette's bonnet, which she said was
lovely, stooped over her, patting her cheek
and shoulder in the most condescending manner
imaginable.
While she was thus engaged, one of the
side doors of the parlor was opened, stealthily,
and at a mysterious movement of the
dame's hand, closed again. It seemed to
interrupt the flow of her thought, however,
and she shortly disappeared through the same
door, having first taken up her outer skirt,
and from a dirty pocket of coarse white muslin,
tied round her waist with a string, fished up a
letter, crumpled and dirty, which she gave
Annette to amuse herself with while she
should be absent.
The girl held it at arm's length as she unfolded
it, for she could not but notice the
handful of tobacco ashes, twine, and money,
in paper and silver, together with bits of
soap, lumps of salve, and things indescribable,
which had been drawn out of that curious
receptacle with the letter.
“I want you to observe, honey,” she said,
“how affectionately and sweetly he
writes. Unity in families, my dear, is so perfectly
delightful.”
Annette did not read the affectionate missive
immediately; the old woman stood between
her and any picture her fancy might have
been disposed to draw of Stafford.
She was, perhaps, sixty: tall, unbent, and
muscular. Her hair was grizzled, but seemed
yet very thick, and was cut short on her neck,
turning over in a heavy roll against the frill
of her nightcap; for she wore a cap, which
appeared to have served for both night and
day, past many washing-days. Her complexion
was dark, her eyes grey and keen, and
all her dress slovenly in the extreme. A
black silk shawl was carelessly pinned about
her shoulders, and her frock was composed of
black worsted, soiled and patched so as quite
to obscure its original brightness, and make
doubtful even its original colors. It was tattered
and fringed at the bottom, and so short
as to reveal liberally the petticoat, which was
by no means so neat as petticoats are commonly
but a sort of moccasins instead. Her teeth
were sound, nor did she betray indeed the
slightest diminution of any of her faculties.
Her voice was affectedly and disagreeably
affectionate, and she talked incessantly, patting
and petting every body about her, and
herself too. “Is that Hal's mother?” thought
Annette, as the door closed, and the maudlin
tone changed to one of coarse and bitter anger.
She could not hear the words distinctly, but
the tone implied an offending party, in whose
situation she would not willingly be placed.
Having recovered a little from the shock
which she had really received, Annette, as I
said, unfolded the letter, at arm's length, and
shaking off a quantity of snuff sticking about
it, proceeded to read, failing however to discover
the especial sweetness or affection of its
contents. It began with “dear mother,” and
concluded with “your affectionate son, Stafford
Graham;” but aside from these formalities,
there was nothing to indicate any tender
relationship between them. The pith of the
communication was, that the writer proposed
considerable amount, and that Henry or his
mother must immediately forward a stipulated
sum for his relief. There were some directions
about the management of the farm, and
the epistle concluded as follows:
“Have that pen, usually denominated my
room, cleansed a little: see to it yourself,
mother. It must be thoroughly aired, and
refurnished sufficiently for comfort, at least;
remember these orders are imperative.”
As Annette finished the reading, she glanced
round the room, more with a view to see its
appointments than she had yet done. Some of
the furniture was elegant; a little old-fashioned,
to be sure, and arranged very carelessly;
indeed the whole aspect of things indicated
the absence of a superintendent; and dust lay
over the chairs and tables; winter curtains
darkened the windows; and cornices, picture-frames,
and mirrors were exposed to the flies,
swarms of which darkened the ceiling; but
still there were unmistakable indications of
former style and liberal expenditure.
Among the pictures were two portraits, one
handsome, and with the inimitable air aristocratic;
the other of a younger man, greatly
like the elder, a little less handsome, a little
more pretty, perhaps.
While before these portraits, wondering
who they represented, a sudden jerk upon
her arm arrested her attention, and turning
quickly she saw before her the strangest specimen
of humanity she had ever met. In years
the new-comer seemed a child, but in dress
and manner she might have been a woman of
twenty-five, or of any age, in fact, for all these
said to the contrary.
“I suppose,” she said, “that may be you
thought dinner never would be ready. I was
late with my washing to-day; come right out
now, and eat such as we have got; nothing
very inviting to a town appetite;” and she led
the way to the dining-room.
Annette detained her to inquire about the
portraits.
“That's Staff,” she said, pointing a finger
at the younger of the two; “you ain't in love
with him a'ready, be you? 'Cause if you are,
younger and prettier girls than you, that
could n't come it when they tried to get him;
he's one of 'em!”
In all her experience of womanhood, Annette
had never seen so loose-tongued a creature;
but the look with which she answered
this in no wise disconcerted her, for, placing
her fore-finger against her nose, she exclaimed,
“You can't come it!” and so she went
laughing and skipping out of the room. At
the same time Mr. Henry Graham entered, and
politely conducted his guest to the dinner.
Two or three tables had been joined into
one, and a party of harvesters were already
partaking of a plain but very substantial
meal: beef, mutton, and turnips, with milk,
apple pies, and cakes. The little woman was
very busy in carving meats and serving
the vegetables.
“Why in the world do n't granmarm
come?” she said, looking vexed and annoyed,
“every thing will be as cold as a stone—is
she going to wait and eat with”—
Hal shook his head significantly, and she
offend in a new direction.
“Here, old man and old woman,” she resumed,
placing two chairs at the head of the
table; “you may as well sit together, I reckon
you have to make a beginning sometime,” and
she laughed meaningly.
“You are one of the gals,” one of the harvesters
said, upon which she struck him a
smart blow upon the ear, retorting that he was
one of them just as much. There was to this
a general greeting of laughter.
“Boys, this lady!” said Mr. Graham, waving
his hand toward them with some dignity.
“Oh, you want to make Netty Furniss believe
you are some great things,” said the little
woman; “I can see some things if I am
nobody but Rache.”
“I wish you could see yourself as others see
you,” said the vexed young man, blushing confusedly
as he spoke.
“I do n't,” she replied, “'cause it might
make me feel bad. I'd hate to look as simple
to myself as a certain young man looked to me
market.”
All eyes were turned again to the object of
this ill-natured taunt. His sorrows were thickening,
but as yet he found ample compensation
in the smiles of Annette, who seemed to have
formed the determination to please and to be
pleased.
And so began the acquaintance of Annette
Furniss, the heartless, disappointed, and embittered
woman, with the youthful and ambitious
farmer.
Novelty, unless very unpleasant, prompts to
good nature. Woodside, in itself, was really
a charming place; and perhaps the flattering
attentions of Henry were not disagreeable.
Besides, Annette had wound up her energies
for the task of freeing herself in some way from
what seemed to her the most adverse fortune,
and charity would hope that she never once
contemplated, even for this end, a system of
positive dissimulation.
The gossiping propensity and odd assurance
of Rache amused her, and when the dinner was
concluded she began to cultivate the acquaintance
assisting in the labors of the afternoon.
They were engaged in removing the dishes,
Aunette chatting as gaily and almost as wildly
as her companion, when Henry, who had gone
into the meadow with the mowers, came in
with a quail in his hand, which he gave in
charge of the girl with many careful directions.
While sitting on her nest the poor bird had
been surprised by the men and injured in the
wing by the point of a scythe. The creature
laughed as she took charge of it, but gave
assurance that she would do all that was needful
in the matter.
“Look here, Netty,” she exclaimed, when
Henry was gone, “this is the way to cure the
thing;” and as she spoke she took it by the
head and whirled it round in rapid circles till
every bone in the neck was broken.
“Are you totally depraved?” inquired Annette,
surveying her coolly.
“Don' know what you mean,” she answered,
“but I expect like enough I am.”
“How old are you?”
“Don' know — I'm a young woman.”
“Have you a father and mother?”
“Got a mother — hain't got no father and
never had as I know of—he died or run away
or something.”
“And why don't you live with your mother?”
“ 'Cause I got a step-father, and he's ugly to
me; if he's beat me once he's beat me a hundred
times, and so I run away. And now, if
you're done asking questions I'll go and split
my oven wood—I forget to tell Hal—but it's
no difference—I can chop as fast as he can.”
So saying she went with a skip and a jump
toward a heap of wood near the kitchen door,
and selecting a dry fence rail, began to cut and
split it into slender strips, singing, as she did
so, for the pleasure of Annette, rather than herself,
as her manner indicated, one of those
senseless refrains, which were never worth the
writing, and yet have descended through numberless
generations as if a portion of the very
atmosphere of rural life. Pity mingled with
her laughter, as Annette listened and looked,
for the girl's rudness and precocity were alike
ludicrous and sorrowful. In her form and features
she appeared as if but between thirteen
and in all respects like that of an adult woman;
her hair was knotted up with a very large
comb, and arranged in puffs along the cheeks
and forehead, after the fashion of the ladies of
that time; her feet were bare, and seemed not
to have been washed lately; her sleeves rolled
far above the elbows; and a large towel, worn
as an apron, completed her costume.
“Have you lived here ever since you left
your mother?” asked Annette, when Rache
returned to the kitchen with her arms full of
the oven wood.
“No,” she answered, dashing the fuel into
the great brick oven; “I've lived at a hundred
places, if I've lived at one. You see,
when folks get ugly to me I tie up my things
and cut.”
“And do you like this place?”
“Yes, when Staff is away;” she continued,
“I do n't think his picture the prettiest thing
ever was, if some other folks do.”
“And you like Henry?” said Annette,
ashamed to betray the interest she felt in Stafford.
“Yes,” she answered, “he is good to me,
and good to every body; there ain't a brute
beast in Woodside that don't foller after him
if he goes a nigh; he's good, he is; I'll say that
for him, if a certain young lady don't think he
looks so well as Staff, and if a certain old woman
(I don't say you've seen her, and I don't
say you aven't) thinks he ain't a fine gentleman!”
Having arranged the wood, she set
fire to it, and, screwing her month to one side,
said demurely, “Granmam likes Hal, in fact,
enough sight the best.”
“So I should think,” answered Annette
ironically.
“How long're you going to stay here?” inquired
Rache, abruptly; and she proceeded,
“I ask you because a certain person don't
love visitors well enough to eat them.”
“And so you think I had best limit my
visit?”
“I didn't say so; I wouldn't say a word
against granmam for the world; as true as I
live and breathe, I meant somebody else;
somebody you don't know; I meant an old
man; no I didn't, I meant a young man.”
“Then I was mistaken,” said Annette.
“May be you think there ain't no young man
in this house but Hal; some folks have been
here a good while and didn't find out every
thing.”
“I never suspected there was not another
person in the house,” Annette replied; “I
rather thought there was, from some indications.”
“What a big fool I am,” said Rache, “babbling
secrets; but, never mind, I told a big
story; there ain't no young man in the house;
if there is he's crazy; no he ain't, he's a fool;
no, it's all a big lie; Jim wouldn't be the only
one granmam would beat with her big stick,
if she heard me run on so. I didn't mean to
say Jim, there ain't no Jim as I know of.” After
a moment's pause she went on: “You've
got a father? What kind of an old man is he?
is he rich? has he joined any meeting? live in
a big house?”
And so she gabbled, working all the while
with twice the energy and efficiency of a common
servant. The dinner dishes were rinsed
in a twinkling; then half a dozen loaves of
and cakes; and when all was completed the
oven was found to be heated; to work and to
talk very fast seemed alike natural to her.
For greater convenience, for she was far from
tall, she had made a little bench which she
moved from place to place as her duties required;
now standing on it to get her bread into
the oven, now to wash the dishes, now to see
into the closet. She had learned every thing
“of her own head,” she said, and managed all
the household affairs as she chose, for granmam
remained in her own room pretty much
with Jim: muttering the name so that Annette
only guessed what she said.
When she had set the bread and pies to bake
she brought in from the garden two mammoth
turnips, one of which she gave to Annette, and
having tipped her chair back, proceeded to
eat the other, first preparing it by scraping a
mouthful at a time with a case knife.
She knew not her age, nor her name, exclaimed
that it was Rache; nor did she care to
know. There was nothing sensitive in her nature;
she could work and earn her own living,
to any man. To excel in all departments of
housekeeping was her ambition; and that she
did every thing in the best style was her unhesitating
belief. That anybody was wiser she
had no suspicion; nor had she ever thought
whether the world was flat or round; that cabbages
and corn grew in it she knew, but the
most important fact in her brain was, that
she should be married some day, and the probability
was that it would be at no distant one.
With men and women, she conversed as though
her experiences were as large as theirs. Was
any one ill, she made him gruel; did any one
die, she helped to make the shroud; she enjoyed
the comfortable assurance that she was
equal to all occasions, and to all conditions.
Such was the real mistress of Woodside.
| CHAPTER III. Married, not mated; or, How they lived at Woodside and Throckmorton Hall | |