 | Pictures of country life |  |
UNCLE JOHN'S STORY.
“Halloo the house!”
“Halloo! Who is there?”
It was about eight o'clock of a March evening, a good many
years ago, that I sat in the chimney corner at my grandfather's
house, watching the smoldering logs, and listening to the rain,
which had been pouring and pouring for three long days. The
meadows were soaked, the creeks swollen, and pools of water
standing everywhere.
I was lonesome and homesick, for I was away from home
for the first time in my life; and though it was at my grandfather's
house, I received none of those privileges and petting
attentions that children are now a-days accustomed to expect
from grandparents.
The ancient homestead was one of the most retired and
altogether unattractive that ever resisted the peltings of a
March storm. Indeed, it would be difficult to imagine a less
enjoyable situation for a young woman of twelve years old, or
thereabouts, to be placed in. Too young to appreciate the
sage and solemn doctrine that made up the discourse of the old
people, and too thoughtless to press reason into my service,
there was little for me to do, but suffer and be still.
If I looked through the small window-panes, down which the
rain was pouring in streams, I could see nothing but a circle
of woods, if my eyes wandered beyond the patch of cleared
land that held the house and barn and mill, the main road
being quite out of view. If I had been a few years older, I
might have found the sunshiny face of Cyrus Hall, who was my
grandfather's hired man, genial as the sunshine itself; but as it
was, though I received alleviation, even comfort from his kindnesses,
I was far from that state of beatitude which bringeth
utter forgetfulness of clouds. He had told me over and over
that it would stop raining in a day or two, and that the wet
cornstalks which lay between the wood and the mill would in a
single day get dry enough to burn; and then he would gather
them up in heaps and burn them after nightfall, and have—oh,
such fun! But he found it hard to make me believe, in my then
state of mind, that the sun would ever shine again, or that the
cornstalks would ever be dry enough to burn, and if they should
be, grandfather would not allow us to burn them, I argued, for
my mood of mind inclined me to augment my sorrows.
To the best of my knowledge and belief, my ancient grandmother
would continue to knit at the stocking she was busy
with till the day of doom, and that my grandfather would ever
close the big Bible from which he was reading, and speak or
smile again, I had not the remotest idea. The very cat
stretched across the hearth, seemed to me indicative of final
repose. No wonder the tears would start now and then.
There was one candle burning, and besides a little glow from
the fire there was no other light, except what Cyrus's eyes
made, and they were as bright as they could be with hope and
good humor. He was about twenty years old, red-cheeked,
contrasted strikingly with the severe gravity of my white-headed
grandfather.
Now and then, the cattle in the sheds lowed uneasily, for
they, too, were tired of the rain; or one of the work-horses
put his head out of the window of his stable and neighed, and
except these, there was no sound but that of the rain on the
roof, and the ticking of the clock; for Cyrus talked in whispers
as a single word spoken above the breath, while my grandfather
was reading, would have been an awful breach of family
discipline. He had exhibited whatever he possessed that
could amuse me—from the picture-book presented by his schoolmaster,
with “Reward of merit” written on the fly-leaf in
flourishing characters, to a late purchase of a silk pocket-handkerchief
and razor; and at the time our story opens, was telling
me the history of his life—partly, perhaps, for the want of
a better listener. His father was a wood-chopper, who rented
a cabin, and moved from one place to another, as opportunities
of work offered inducements; at nine years old, he himself
had been compelled to earn his own living, and in his tossing
about the pendant world, had gained all the knowledge he was
possessed of.
There fell a shadow across his face towards the close of his
story, such as I had never seen it wear before, and when I
asked him what the matter was, he answered “nothing,” and
then said he was thinking of something I could not understand.
I said I would try, and then he told me that he knew a young
woman once, not much bigger than I, whom he liked better
than he ever liked any one else, but that she was rich and
himself poor, so he had come away from the neighborhood
more.
Suddenly he ceased his narrative—my grandmother let fall
her knitting work, and my grandfather, closing the old Bible,
walked straight out into the rain, and responded—
“Halloo! Who is there?” to the “Halloo the house!”
recorded in the opening of this chapter. The wonder who
could be coming at that time of night, and in so terrible a
storm, held us all breathless.
“Cyrus, bring out the lantern—quick!” called my grandfather,
and in a moment, without hat or coat, Cyrus was in
the yard, the lantern glimmering before him.
How much I wished to ask my grandmother who she thought
was coming, but to ask direct questions was not among my
privileges, so I contented my curiosity as well as I could by
listening towards the open door through which the rain was
driving freely. The door-yard gate creaked on its hinges, and
then came a noise like a team drawing a wagon that cut its
slow way heavily through the soaked earth.
“Whoa!” was heard next, and the team stood still right
against the blue stones at the door.
“Take my hand, Uncle John, and step here!” I heard a
voice that was all music and melody say, and presently a
young woman, muffled in a shawl and hood, came into the
house, leading by the hand a grey-haired man with a very pale
face.
“Bring your lantern this way, Cyrus,” called my grandfather,
as he saw them feeling their way through the dark, but
no Cyrus appeared, and presently, his white hair clinging to his
head, and accompanied by a boy of some fourteen years, he
saying, “Here are some travellers come to stay all night with
us—the bridge is swept from Bear Creek, and they can get no
further at present.”
“We are very sorry it happened so,” said the pale man,
“but you must not allow us to make you more trouble than is
necessary—myself and Thomas can lie on the floor before the
fire, but Nanny here is sickly, poor child, and if you could give
her a bed, why, we will do as much for somebody some time, if
not for you.”
He put his arm around the waist of the girl, as he spoke,
and I saw that she was trembling—almost crying.
“You are wet, poor Nanny,” he said, untying her hood, and
passing his hand tenderly along her hair.
She evidently made a strong effort to recover herself, and
answered in a tone of assumed cheerfulness—
“I shall do well enough, Uncle John, but you will be sick
I am afraid;” and she placed a chair for him, saying apologetically
as he felt about awkwardly to find it—“My uncle is
blind, and I bespeak the spare bed for him.”
“I guess,” said my grandmother, “we can give you all beds,
and something a little comforting besides.” And relieving
Nanny of her wet shawl and hood, she hastened to put on the
tea-kettle.
My grandfather, meantime, was brightening up the fire, and
entertaining Thomas with an account of the damage done in
the neighborhood by the rain.
Nanny was pretty, but her blue eyes had, I thought, a
bewildered and frightened look, and she almost clung to the
hand of Uncle John as it lay in her lap.
“There was another one who came out and assisted us in,”
said the blind man, directly, as he listened to the different
voices—“where is he, Nanny?”
The girl's face flushed red as fire, and she answered nothing.
“That was Cyrus, my hired man,” replied my grandfather,
speaking very loud, as if a blind man was necessarily deaf too,
“and he is feeding your horses.”
“I wonder he don't come in,” he added, speaking to himself.
Nanny's face had grown white now, and she leaned against
Uncle John's shoulder, saying, in answer to his inquiries, that
the fire made her feel faint, she believed. My grandmother
proposed all the cordials at her command, but Nanny steadily
refused, saying she would be better directly. She gave no
signs of being better, however, and when it was proposed that
she should lie down till supper was ready, she acceded with
an eager thankfulness, and was led away to the tiny bedroom
where my grandmother kept her silver spoons, and extra china,
in a corner cupboard.
My services were brought into requisition in the arrangement
of the supper-table, and on going to the corner cupboard for
the spoons, I perceived that Nanny had turned her face from
the light and was evidently crying.
I forgot my own homesickness in my anxiety to do or say
something that might comfort her, but I was bashful, and only
dared to shade the light and walk on tiptoe by way of manifesting
my interest. At last we had the supper prepared,
toast and tea and honey, and I know not what all besides, and
my grandmother set the tea to draw in the best china teapot,
and the puffing tea-kettle close by it, and we ranged ourselves
round the fire to wait for Cyrus to come in.
All eyes turned to the blind man—my grandmother sighed
heavily, and there fell a sympathetic silence over the group.
“I see how it is,” said Uncle John, smiling, “but there is
no need that you should pity me; and if you have any pity to
spare I entreat that you will give it to my little niece, Nanny,
for whose sake, in fact, we are on our travels, more than for
anything else. We hoped it would divert her mind from an
unhappy memory, but it seemed to-night as if the old feeling
mastered her again—I knew it by her trembling voice and
hand.”
“Poor dear child!” said my grandmother, with a woman's
quick sympathy—“I'll go straight and carry her a cup of tea
—I hope she did not catch cold;” and she had Nanny's little
feet in her hands, almost while she spoke. She presently
returned, saying with a cheerful manner, and addressing herself
particularly to Thomas, that his sister seemed to be sleeping
very sweetly.
I have suspected since that the sweet sleep was all an affectation.
“How did it happen that you lost your eyes?” asked my
grandfather, perhaps more to arouse the blind man from the
revery into which he had fallen, than from curiosity.
“Tell them all about it, Uncle John,” said Thomas, speaking
for the first time, and blushing with embarrassment, “it's
good as a sermon.”
“Oh, it's no story at all,” replied Uncle John; but we all
said, “tell us about it, at any rate;” and having listened for a
moment at the door to see whether Nanny were still asleep, he
began:
“I may begin by saying, so as to prevent further waste of
with lamentations about my blindness. My parents
were wealthy, and I, a fondly-expected son, so you can perhaps
imagine the suffering occasioned by what they termed my misfortune;
it was the first great sorrow of their lives, and my
own happiness was constantly diminished by the knowledge
that I was a heavy burden to their hands. Sometimes hearing
the merriment in the parlor, I would feel my way along the
walls and by the furniture till I would touch my mother's
knees; but it seemed as if a great melancholy shadow fell over
them all at my entrance, and the voices were subdued, and the
laughter hushed; so I learned by degrees to live much alone,
and it is astonishing within how small a compass we can find
enjoyment enough. I was naturally of a happy and contented
disposition, and in sitting in the sunshine often experienced
more delight than my playmates seemed to find in their greater
privileges.
“I learned to read, and what with my books and my play
made myself so happy that my parents felt their burden lighter,
and finally, as they became used to my condition, I believe I
really afforded them a good deal of comfort. I was always,
however, called poor unfortunate little John, and to the end of
their days they held frequent consultations concerning operations,
which my mother could never quite consent to, and of
famous opticians who had made the blind to see.
“I did not feel the loss they lamented so much, and could run
up and down the stairs, from room to room, and about the door-yard
as readily as any one. I could distinguish everybody I
knew by their step—all the colors I had fixed in my mind,
which was stored, too, with pictures of all my friends. My
of them. Not for the world would I have had the sweet
impression I still retain of their faces, unsettled.
“I was forty years old when I went to live with my brother
Moses, and then came a new torture in the shape of new sympathy.
It was all `poor Uncle John,' now, as it had been
`poor little John' when I was a boy. Only Nanny, dear little
girl, never mourned over me—I wish I never had over her; she
used to climb on my knees and read stories by the hour, and
sing songs for me, and tell me how everything looked that I
could not see, and laugh and clap her hands at the odd fancies
I had formed. She was full of frolic and fun, and made the
house gay with her chattering from morning till night—poor
Nanny!
“When they told me she was fifteen years old, I could not
believe it, for to me she was a pet and plaything, and try as I
would I could not make her a woman. About this time my
brother Moses, who was beginning to grow feeble, hired a young
man to assist in the farm-work, Thomas being then at school.
He often talked of his poverty, and told us stories of the hard
times he had seen; but he was hopeful and genial, almost making
a jest of his misfortunes—then, too, he was so industrious
and obliging that we all learned to love him. As for myself I
liked him none the less on account of his poverty—I could not
feel any difference, and as I could not see any, why it made no
difference to me whether he were poor or rich.
“One frosty evening Nanny was sitting on my knee, singing
one of my favorite songs, when `Cy,' as we always called him,
came in from the field and sat down by the fire.
“`Dear me, Uncle John!' exclaimed Nanny, breaking off her
`Cold! No,' replied Cyrus, `I have seen the time I had no
shoes—did I never tell you about my first pair?—I was ten
years old when I got them, and earned the money to buy them
myself.' `Pray tell me all about it,' said Nanny, and she
was off my knee and sitting beside the young farmer, in a
twinkling. I don't remember what the particulars were, and
no matter—enough that Nanny found them interesting; and
not long after this when I missed a ring I had put on her
finger, and inquired what she had done with it, she replied
artlessly that she had given it to Cyrus!
“So it came about that I liked the young man less and less,
and Nanny liked him more and more—indeed she was never
weary of praising him.
“My brother, who was growing feebler all the time, seeing
that his end approached, became doubly anxious that my eyes
should be operated upon. If he could leave me guardian of his
children he would die happy, he said. How little we under
stand what we ask for.
“As if in answer to his wishes, there came into the neighborhood
a great oculist, and partly to soothe my dying brother,
and partly to realize the heaven I had been taught to believe I
should find if I but had my sight, I submitted my blind organs
to his operative skill, and to the astonishment and joy of every
one, I was made to see!
“Bequeathing me the care of his children, Moses died happy,
and more than happy.
“But whatever pleasure my new sense gave to others, it was
only a source of discomfort to me. It was quite superfluous,
and I could do nothing with it. It clashed with all my previous
could not distinguish, except by the old method of passing my
hand over them; of distances I could form no idea, and I fell
down continually if I undertook to walk, so when I desired to
go from one place to another I was obliged to close my eyes
and feel my way as I used to. In fact, I had no pleasure, so
continually was I running into the fire or the water, or against
the wall, except in bandaging my eyes and making believe I
was blind again.
“My friends I did not know, and strange to say, did not like
as my new sense revealed them. I became dissatisfied with
myself, and with everything; irritable, and ultimately, I think,
not far from insane. Is it any wonder if Nanny became more
and more alienated from me, and more and more attached to
Cyrus?
“Glad of any pretext, I argued if his motives were honorable
it was necessary he should he more explicit, for with all his
demonstrations, he had never said he loved Nanny, as she
owned, and never asked her to marry him. Besides, I said it
was a scandal that she, who was an heiress, should marry her
father's hired man! Poor Nanny could only hide her face and
cry; and the end of it was the dismissal of Cyrus upon some
false pretext and the breaking of Nanny's heart.
“When he had been away six months you would not have
known her for the same girl—there was no singing, and no
story-telling any more, but only moping and sighing from morning
till night. I settled all my fortune upon her, but she never
smiled half so brightly as I had seen her when Cyrus but gave
her his hand.
“I sent for the physicians whose skill recommended them,
and paler, until she became the sickly and unstable creature
you saw to-night. I was glad when I found the darkness
spreading over my eyes again, and hiding from me her reproachful
face.
“My friends besought me to have recourse to the oculist
anew, but I steadily persevered in my refusal, and joyfully went
back into blindness, and gradually my confused brain became
clear and quiet again.
“We hoped the little journey we are taking might make
Nanny better, but unless we hear tidings from Cyrus, I think
we shall make her a bed by her father before long.” He
groaned and covered his face, as he finished the story.
“I wonder where my Cyrus lived before he came to work
for me?” said my grandfather, rising and stirring the fire.
“He lived with Uncle John, and loved Nanny, though he
never dared to tell her so,” answered Cyrus, as he came forward
and grasped the blind man by the hand.
He had come in in the middle of Uncle John's story, and seating
himself quietly in the corner, had remained there till its
conclusion, unobserved.
So much merry noise as there was in my grandfather's house
had never been heard there till that night. I think only for a
moment was there silence—when, having placed the teapot on
the table, my grandmother went to bring Nanny out to
supper.
And such rosy cheeks were never seen as she and Cyrus presented
when they shook hands, just as if they had not seen and
recognized each other when they met in the door-yard.
What a pleasant supper we had, and what a happy time we
when grandmother said she would give her spare bed to
Thomas and Uncle John, for she was quite sure Nanny could
sit up all night, well enough!
The following morning the sun was shining brightly, as
Cyrus had predicted—the strangers remained at my grandfather's
all day, Thomas assisting Cyrus to rake the cornstalks
into heaps, and when night came, Nanny and I went out to
the field and helped to burn them. Why should I linger?—
everybody who has ever loved, guesses the end of the story,
and those who have not, will feel no interest in hearing.
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