 | Pictures of country life |  |
ELIZA ANDERSON.
1. CHAPTER I.
The firelight was beginning to shine brightly through the
one small window that looked towards the street—the one
small window of a barely comfortable house that once stood in
the suburb of a busy little town—busy in a little way. The
one blacksmith was exceedingly busy: the clinking of his hammer
was heard far into the night often, and on the beaten and
baked ground before his door horses were waiting for new
shoes from year's end to year's end. The storekeeper was
busy too, for he was showman and salesman, and clerk and all;
the schoolmaster was busy with his many children in the
day, and his debating schools and spelling schools at night;
the tailor was busy of course—and one man among them, who
might be seen talking with the blacksmith or the storekeeper,
or lounging on the bench in front of the tavern some time during
every day, was busiest of all; this man lived in the house
where the light was shining at the window, and his name was
George Anderson. He was always better dressed, and could
talk more smartly than most of his neighbors—it was his boast
that he could do anything as well as anybody else, and a little
boast was not without truth—he could take the blacksmith's
hammer and nail on a horseshoe as readily as the smith himself,
and, moreover, he could make the nails and beat out the
shoe, if he chose, but it was not often he chose so hard a task
—he could wrestle with the bar-keeper and get the better of
him, drink whisky with him, and in that too get the better,
for George Anderson was never seen to walk crooked or catch
at posts, as he went along. Now he would step behind the
counter, and relieve the storekeeper for an hour, and whatever
trades he assumed were sure to be to the satisfaction of everybody—he
was good-natured and welcome everywhere, for he
always brought good news. It was quite an event at the
school-house to have him come and give out the spelling lesson,
or hear the big girls parse some intricate sentence from Paradise
Lost.
The scholars were not afraid of him, and knew they could
catch flies and talk as much as they pleased if he were their
teacher, and then they felt sure he knew more than the schoolmaster
himself.
The firelight was beginning to shine so bright that you
might have seen through the naked window all that was in the
room—a bare floor, a bed, some chairs and a table were there
—a pot and a kettle steaming over the fire—a little girl sitting
in a little chair, before it, and a woman leaning on the foot of
the bed. The table-cloth was laid, but nothing to cat was on
the table.
Presently the schoolmaster was seen going that way, walking
leisurely, and with a book beneath his arm—he boards
with Mrs. Anderson, and is going home. He entered the
the book, looking hurried and flurried, and to walk towards the
more crowded part of the town very fast, stopping once at the
door of a small house much resembling Mrs. Anderson's own.
He finds the redoubtable George telling a story in the barroom
to a group of admiring listeners, and touching his arm,
whisper something, but the story telling goes on all the same.
The schoolmaster repeats the touch, and whispers more emphatically.
“Yes, directly,” says George. “Now, this moment!”
says the schoolmaster, aloud, and he tries to pull the
talker away, but not till the story is finished does he start toward
home, and then leisurely and smoking a cigar as he goes.
The schoolmaster does not return home, but solemnly makes his
way to a common not far from it, and crossing his hands behind
him, appears lost in contemplating a flock of geese swimming
in a shallow pond and squalling when he comes near.
Meantime the mistress of the little house, at the door of which
he stopped for a moment, has thrown a shawl about her shoulders
and runs without bonnet to Mrs. Anderson's house. Another
woman, spectacles in hand, and cap border flying, follows
directly, and then another, summoned by some secret and
mysterious agent, it would seem, for no messenger has been
visible.
The window that looks into the street is temporarily curtained
now with a woman's shawl—sparks are seen to fly out of
the chimney rapidly, and there is much going out and in and
whispering of neighbors about their doors and over their garden
fences—and it is not long till one of the women comes
away from Mrs. Anderson's, leading the little girl who sat by
the fire an hour ago. Her black eyes are wide open as if she
looks back towards her home wistfully and often, though the
woman seems to talk cheerfully as they go, and lifts her with a
playful jump over the rough places. Suddenly they turn aside
from the path they are in—they notice the schoolmaster pacing
up and down beside the pond, and join him, and after some embarrassed
blushes and foolish laughter on his part, they go
away together. He leads the little girl by the hand, and her
thin, white face looks up to him more confidently than to the
strange woman. They turn into a little yard, cross a dark
porch and open a side door—a glimpse is revealed of a room
full of light and children, and all is dark again.
A very good supper the strange woman prepared, of which
the little girl and the schoolmaster partook, and afterward he
lifts her on his knee, and with the other children gathered
about him, tells stories of bears and pirates and Indians till
she at last falls asleep, and then the strange woman opens a
little bed and softly covers her, and the schoolmaster is shown
to a bed in another part of the house. The morning comes,
and she goes to school with the master without having gone
home, and the day goes by as other days have gone at school
—lessons are badly recited and spelling badly spelled; and
the schoolmaster takes her hand and helps her down stairs, and
walks on the rough ground, leaving the smooth path for her,
and they pass the pond where the geese are swimming, and the
strange woman's house, and go in at home, the child still holding
the master's hand.
“Well, Lidy,” says the woman, who is there preparing the
supper, “what do you think happened when you were asleep
last night?” Lidy can't guess, and the master says he can't
suspected shrewdly. “Why,” says the strange woman, “the
prettiest little brother you ever saw in your life was brought
here, for you!” Lidy's black eyes open wide with wonder, and
she holds fast the master's hand, and looks at him inquiringly
as if she wished he would tell her whether to be glad or sorry.
He puts his arm around her and draws her close to his side,
and says something about how happy she will be, but he says
it in a misgiving tone, and smooths her hair as if it were a
piteous case. The strange woman leaves her bustling for a
moment, and whispers at the bedside there is no tea. A pale
hand puts by the curtain, and a low voice says something
about having told George, three hours past, to go to the tailor
who owes her for sewing, get the money and bring home tea
and sugar, and some other things, and she wonders he does not
come. The strange woman says she wonders too, but she
whispers to the schoolmaster that it is enough like somebody to
stay away at such a time, and she lifts the tea-kettle from the
coals, and lights the candle.
Lidy is told to sit down in her little chair, and make a good,
nice lap, which she does as well as she knows how—and the
dear little brother, about whom she is still half incredulous, is
brought, and in long flannel wrappings laid across her knees.
“Now ain't he a pretty baby though!” exclaims the strange
woman, “with his itty bitty boo eyes, and his hair des as nice
as any of 'em and ebrysing.” The latter part of the speech
was made to the wonderful baby, whom Lidy was told she
must kiss, and which she did kiss as in duty bound. The wonderful
baby scowled his forehead, clenched his fists and began to
cry. “Jolt your chair a little, sissy,” says the strange woman,
Well, 'em sant do no such a sing! no, 'en sant!” Then to the
schoolmaster, who is bending over his Latin grammar, she exhibits
one of the feet of the remarkable boy, and says she
believes in her heart, he could hardly wear the moccasin of her
little Mary who is nine months old—then she falls to kissing
one of the hands of the wonderful baby, and calls him in her
loving fondness, “a great big, good-for-nossen sugar-plum.”
Then she exhibits one of the wonderful hands, that clenches and
claws most unamiably as she does so, and informs the schoolmaster
that she believes in her heart, the hands of the wonderful
boy are as large, that very minute, as her Tommy's, and he
will be two years old the seventeenth day of next month—
then she addresses herself to the baby again, and calls his
feet “ittle footens,” and makes a feint of eating both at once.
And all this while the remarkable boy has been fretting and
frowning on the lap of his little sister, who is told she is very
much blest in having a little brother, and who supposes she is
blest, and trots him, and kisses him, and holds him up and lays
him down again, but in spite of all her little efforts he frowns
and fidgets as if she did not, and could not do half enough for
him.
By and by a slow footstep is heard, and a whistle, and directly
afterward Mr. Anderson comes in and gives the strange
woman a little parcel—briskly she measures the tea, and
briskly she fills up the teapot and rattles the cups into the
saucers; the baby is smothered in his long flannels and tucked
under the coverlet.
“Come, Casper,” says Mr. Anderson, “if you had been at
work as hard as I have, you would not want to be called twice.”
The schoolmaster lays down his grammar and asks Mr.
Anderson what he has been doing—the pale hand puts by the
curtain again, and a pale face turns eagerly to hear.
“Why, I could not begin to tell,” he says, helping himself
freely to everything that is on the table, and he proceeds to
mention some of the work. He has broken a colt, he says,
which nobody else could manage, and made him kindly, both
under the saddle and in harness—he has drawn a tooth which
the dentist could not draw, he has turned off two flour barrels
for the cooper, and driven the stage-coach seven miles and
back, besides a dozen other things, none of which was the least
profit to his family. The light goes out of the pale face that
turned so eagerly towards him, and a low voice says, “Did you
see the tailor, George?”
“Why, to be sure,” he answers, “I sewed a seam for him as
long as from here to the gate and back again.” He has not
answered her question as she expected, the hand that holds the
curtain shakes nervously, and the low voice says,
“Did he—did—did you get the tea, George?”
“Why, to be sure, and most excellent tea it is,” and as the
strange woman drains the last drop into his sixth cup, he adds,
“won't you have a cup, mother?”
He turns partly towards her as he confers upon her the honor
of this inquiry, and the low voice trembles as it says, “No,”
and the pale hand lets the curtain drop. Poor woman! perhaps
she saw the bright new waistcoat that George wore, with
its double rows of shining buttons, perhaps she saw this and
knew the way her hard earnings had gone. The schoolmaster
thinks he hears a stifled groan behind the curtain, sets his cup
of tea aside, and will not eat any more, and directly returns to
half an hour, and then recollecting that some business requires
his attention up town, pulls on his gloves, and goes out. The
schoolmaster follows shortly, and in a few minutes returns, and
gives the strange woman two small parcels, one containing
crackers and the other raisins—poor Mrs. Anderson thinks it
was George brought them, reproaches herself for having
wronged him, smiles and is blest again.
The remarkable baby cries and cries, and while the strange
woman washes the dishes and makes the house tidy, little Lidy
carries him up and down the room, and across and across the
room till her arms ache, and she sits down
“Bless me! you are not tired of your dear little brother
already?” exclaims the strange woman, and Lidy says she is
not tired—she is very glad to carry him—only her arms won't
hold him any longer.
When the house was set in order, the strange woman took
the remarkable boy, and with some talk to his “ittle boo, seepy
eyes,” managed to quiet him, and tucking him away as before,
she went home to attend her own house and little ones.
At ten o'clock Lidy had crossed the floor with her blessed
brother in her arms hundreds of times, and in a temporary lull
was fallen asleep in her chair. A rough pull at her hair caused
her to open her eyes suddenly—the baby was crying again, and
her father was come and scolding her angrily. “She had not
a bit of feeling,” he said, “and did not deserve to have such a
beautiful brother—somebody would come and take him away
if she did not take better care of him.” Directly Lidy was
pacing the floor again, and the baby crying with all his might.
“Seems to me you don't try to keep your poor little brother
mouth, and then puffing away again. He never thought of
relieving the little girl, or even of speaking any words of pity
and comfort to her—she was not born to pity or comfort from
her father—she had committed the offence of inheriting the
light of life some years prior to her brother, and from the
moment of his birth she had no consideration except with
reference to him. Even her mother, though she loved her,
gave the baby the preference—Lidy's petticoats were appropriated
for his use, and Lidy could not go to school because
her shawl must be turned into a baby blanket. Everybody
came to see the baby, and everybody said how much prettier
than his sister he was, but that she seemed to be a good little
girl, and of course she was very much delighted with her new
brother—he would be big enough one of these days to play
with her, and then she would have fine times.
Mr. Anderson was congratulated, and proud to be congratulated—he
could afford to do almost anything since a fine son
was born to him, and in higher good-humor than usual he made
barrels for the cooper and nails for the blacksmith—treated all
the town to brandy instead of whisky, and to the storekeeper
traded a very good new hat for a very bad old one!
And patiently Lidy gave up her petticoats, and patiently she
stayed away from school and worked all the day—and while her
mother sat up in bed to sew for the tailor again, she climbed
into her little chair and washed the dishes—it was all for her
pretty little brother, her mother said, and by and by he would
be big enough to work for them, and then he would buy a new
cap for mother, and new slippers for Lidy, and oh, ever so
many things.
Lidy quite forgot the sweeping and the dish washing, in the
pictures of the new things her little brother was going to buy
for her some time.
Now and then of evenings, when the baby was asleep, the
schoolmaster would take Lidy on his knee and teach her to
read, and she scarcely fell behind the children that were in
school every day, he said. Once when he was praising her,
her father said her little brother George would soon get before
her when he was big enough to go to school. “George will
never have her eyes, though,” said the schoolmaster, proudly
looking into their black, lustrous depths.
Mr. Anderson said the girl's eyes were well enough, he supposed,
for a girl's eyes, but George would never suffer in comparison
with her, and from that time the schoolmaster, whose
name was Casper Rodwick, was designated as “Old Casper,”
by the father of the remarkable boy.
2. CHAPTER II.
Years went away, and one frosty moonlight night, the same
neighbor who led little Lidy away and kept her before, was
seen hurrying across the common, again, and the schoolmaster
to come forth and go searching about the town—the storekeeper
laid down his measure, saying, “Is there any bad news,
Mr. Rodwick?” for he knew by the manner of his inquiry for
George, that poor Mrs. Anderson was dead.
The husband wore a new hat deeply shrouded with crape at
her funeral, and new gloves, and George, who was grown to be
a big, saucy boy, wore gloves too, while Eliza wore an ill-fitting
bonnet that was not her own, and no gloves at all.
From that time Mr. Anderson did not look, nor seem like
himself, people said, and it was believed he was grieving himself
to death. They did not know, and he did not know, that
he had drawn all his life from his wife—she had bought his
food and his clothes, she had held him up and kept him up, and
when the crape he wore at her funeral grew dusty and fell to
pieces, he fell to pieces with it. He called Lidy to his bedside,
one day, and told her that her brother would soon have a fine
education—she must be content to suffer some privations till
that was accomplished, and then he would repay her handsomely—he
was a noble-hearted lad, and wonderfully gifted.
Lidy must look to him for advice now, and in all things subserve
his wishes.
“Dear, dear father,” cried Lidy, “you must not die—I can
not live without you,” and with all the power that was in her,
she strove to make pleasant the sick-room. She placed her
geranium pots and myrtles where he could see them, and let
the sunshine in at the windows that he might feel how bright
the world was without—but his eyes could not see the brightness
anywhere, and at length one night Casper was called to
write his will—he had nothing to bequeath, and his will was a
record of his wishes only. Little more was written than he
had spoken to Lidy, and all was to the effect that George was
her natural and proper guardian, that he was superior to her
in wisdom, and should be so in authority, and that if ever
his daughter forgot it, he wished her to read this testimonial
of her father's will.
So they were left alone in the world, the two orphans, with
no friend but the schoolmaster. Eliza Anderson had all her
mother's energy and aptitude. She could not only sew for the
town, and dresses too, and as she was not ashamed to work she
got along with her poverty very well. George inherited all
his father's smartness, and more than all his irresolution, but as
he grew older he grew better tempered, and whatever he was
to others, was seldom unamiable to Lidy. How could he be,
indeed, unless he had been a demon?
Often when she sat with her sewing at night, she would tell
the schoolmaster what great hopes she had of George, and how
ingeniously he could turn his hand to anything. Sometimes he
would smile and sometimes he would sigh, but whatever he
said it was evident he shared none of her enthusiasm. This
rather offended Lidy, for she received any slight to George as
a personal insult, and she would sit all the evening after some
hopeful allusion to him, silent, often sullen, saying to all the
master's little efforts to please her, that she had not a friend in
the world, and it was no use ever to hope for sympathy. It
was true that from the first the master had not loved George
much—first he had taken the petticoats from his little favorite,
then her playthings, and then she began to be big enough to
work for him, and from that time it was nothing else but work
for him, and for the master's part he could see no prospect of
anything else.
One night she appeared unusually happy, and to find her own
heart company enough. Once or twice she seemed on the
point of telling something to the master, but she checked herself,
and if she said anything it was evidently not what she at
first thought. “Well, Lidy,” he said, at length, “what is it?”
and at last it came out—about George, of course. He was
going to stay away from school and work in the garden the
would learn more in half the day, after such healthful exercise,
than he had done in the whole day. She had spent more
money for the hoe, and the spade, and garden seeds, to be sure,
than she could well afford, but then it was all going to be such
an improvement to George, to say nothing of the great advantage
it would be to her?
“Don't you think it will be a good thing for us both?” and
she went on to say it was a wonderful idea, and all his own—
she had never suggested anything like it to George. Did
it not look like beginning to do in earnest? and she concluded,
“maybe, after all, you will find you were mistaken about
him!”
“And maybe not,” said the schoolmaster, cooly—“where is
the boy?”
Eliza did not know where he was, and to be avenged upon
him for the humiliating confession he obliged her to make, she
said she did not know as it was any of his business.
“Of course it is not my business, but I can't bear to see you
so imposed upon,” and he very gently took her hand as he
spoke. She withdrew it blushing; covered her face, and burst
into tears. She was not a child, and he was her friend and
schoolmaster no more. She was become a woman, and he her
interested lover.
He had been gone an hour to the little chamber adjoining
his schoolroom, where he had slept since her mother's death,
when George came.
Lidy kept her face in the dark that he might not see how
red her eyes were, for she could not explain why she had been
crying. She hardly knew herself—and in a tone of affected
produced her package of seeds.
“Call me early,” he said, “I am going to work in earnest.
I am twelve years old now, and can do as much as a man!”
Lidy promised to call him, and never once thought necessity
ought to wake him, as it did her.
She was astir an hour earlier than common the next day—
and having called George, set to digging in the garden beds
with good-will. She was determined the schoolmaster should
find the work begun when he came to breakfast. Two or three
times she left her work to call George again, and at last,
yawning and complaining, he came. “He thought he would
feel more like working after breakfast,” he said, “rising so
early made his head dizzy,” and sitting down on a bank of
grass, he buried his forehead in his handkerchief, and with one
hand pulled the rake across the loose earth which his sister had
been digging. Poor boy, she thought, a cup of coffee will do
him good, and away she flew to make it.
“Really, George,” said the schoolmaster, when he sat down
to breakfast, “you have made a fine beginning—if you keep on
this way we shall be proud of you.”
Lidy noticed that he said, we shall be proud of you, and in
her confusion she twice put sugar in his coffee, and forgot to
give sugar to George at all. He sulked and sat back from the
table, affecting to believe that his sister had deprived him of
sugar in his coffee for the sake of giving the master a double
portion. And he concluded with saying, “It's pretty treatment
after my getting up at daybreak to work for you.”
“You ought to be ashamed of yourself,” said the master,
provoked by his insolent words and sulky manner beyond silent
moreover it is for yourself you are working.” And he added
between his teeth, “if I had the management of you, I'd teach
you what pretty treatment was!”
“But you haven't the management of him, Mr. Rodwick,”
said Eliza, moving her chair further from him and nearer to
George.
“I am aware of it, Miss Anderson,” he replied, “and if you
will uphold him in his ugliness after this fashion, I must say I
should be sorry to be connected with him in any way!”
A look that was half defiance and half sneer, passed over the
face of Lidy, but she said nothing. At this moment the blacksmith
stopped at the door, to offer some seeds of an excellent
kind of cucumbers to his neighbor, whom in common with all
the village he greatly esteemed.
“You look pale, ma'am,” he said, as he laid the seeds on the
table beside her, “I'm afeard you have been working beyond
your strength;” and turning to the master, he explained how
he had seen her digging in the garden since daybreak. Her
face grew crimson, for she had not only suffered the master to
attribute the work to George, but had herself helped to deceive
him.
One glance he gave her, which to her appeared made up of
pity and contempt, and without one word went away from the
house. If her little deception had not been discovered, she
could have borne herself very proudly towards the master, but
now she was humiliated, not only in his estimation, but her
own. She was angry with him, with the blacksmith, with
George, and with herself. Yet for a good while she would not
give up even to herself, but sat sipping coffee and eating dry
the bitter tears kept rising and filling her eyes, for she would
not wipe them away. One moment she thought she did not
care for what had happened, and that she had a right to work
in the garden, and was not obliged to tell the master of it
either, as she knew of, and that if he had ever given George
credit for anything, she would not have tried to deceive him,
and at any rate, what she did was nothing to him; he had no
authority over either of them, she was glad of that. But under
all this bolstering, which she heaped up under her failing heart,
she felt sorry and ashamed, and knew that the master was in the
right, that he was a strict disciplinarian, and that in some sort he
was entitled to some authority over George, at least. He had
lived in the house with them always, had been their teacher, and
since their father's death their friend and guardian. George was
a bad, idle boy, she knew, and ran away from school when he
chose, and she knew too that he required a severe master, and
if Mr. Rodwick had softened matters a little she would not have
cared; but he was not the man to disguise plain truth—as far
as he saw he saw clearly, and made others see clearly too.
But when it was all turned over and over, Eliza was angry
with him more than with George, angry, because he knew the
truth, and angry because the truth was the truth—in some way,
his knowledge of facts made the facts, she thought.
And all the while she was turning things about, and yet not
reconciled to herself, nor to the master, nor to George, he sat
sullenly away from the table biting his finger-nails, and waiting
to be coaxed to eat.
For once there was no coaxing for him, and the breakfast
was removed without his having tasted it. Pulling his hat
him back and demanded authoritatively where he was going.
“To the tavern, to buy my breakfast.”
“No, you shall not,” she said, and forcing him to sit down
she sat by him and repeated to him the sacrifices she had all
her life made for him, “and what, after all, is the result?” she
said, “why, the more I do the more I may, and the less you
care for me?” and seeing that he was grinning in his hat, she
told him that she knew somebody who could make him mind,
thus owning to his face, like a weak, foolish, loving woman, that
she had no power over him.
“Well, Madam Rodwick,” he said, coolly, when she had
exhausted all epithets of threat and entreaty, and tenderness
and reproach, “if you have concluded your sermon I'll go and
get my breakfast.”
“You will go to work in the garden!” said the sister, “that
is what you will do!” and straight way she fell down to
entreaty, and with tears counted the money she had paid for
spade and hoe and seeds, and how illy she could afford it, and
how she had hoped, and how she still hoped that he was going
to be a good boy, a help and comfort to her.
“Well, I shan't mind old Casper, anyhow,” said the boy, at
length; and it was finally settled that he would go to work in
the garden, and that she would prepare him a nice, warm
breakfast. A few shovels of earth he moved from one place to
another, but there was really no work done, and Eliza saw
there was none done when she called him to the second breakfast.
She was completely discouraged and broken down now,
and told George so, and seeing that he heeded nothing, she
buried her face in her hands and fell to crying. She did not
she felt little courage to go to work. George would not help
her, and she was tired of working alone.
“It was too hot now, to work in the garden,” he replied,
“and too late to go to school,” and so he sauntered away, his
sister saying, as he went, “She did not know as she cared
where he went, nor what became of him.”
It was noon before she knew it, and the master came home,
and there was no dinner prepared; and the tailor called for
some promised work, and Eliza had been crying all day, and it
was not ready. He was disappointed, vexed, and said if she
could not keep her engagements he would find somebody that
would.
The master saw how it all was—that George was the beginning
of trouble, and that Eliza herself was not a little to blame,
and if he had said anything, he would have said what he thought,
but she asked for neither advice nor sympathy; and having told
her she need prepare no dinner for him, he returned to the school-house
and its duties, and as usual maintained a calm and quiet
demeanor, however much he might have been troubled at
heart.
When the school was done with, he did not return home at
once as was his custom, but opening his grammar, remained at
the window as long as he could see, and till after that.
All day George had not been seen nor heard of—and all day
Eliza had done nothing but cry and fret; but when night
came, and a messenger with it to say he was lying on the
ground, a little way out of town, drunken as he could be, she
began to see how much less to blame the schoolmoster had been
than she had tried to believe.
From her heart she wished he would come, but though suffering
most intensely she would not seek him, nor would she allow
him to know her wretchedness when he should come, so she
resolved. But all her proud resolves would not do. He came
at last in the same calm, confident way he always came, and
with some common words, meant to show that all was right,
and that he felt as usual, opened his book to await his supper,
which he saw no indication of.
“Mr. Rodwick,” she said, directly, in a voice that trembled in
spite of herself.
“Yes, what is it?” he answered, without looking from his
book.
It was very hard and very humiliating to tell him what it
was, but her love for George, and the fear that he might be
run over where he lay, overcame the last remnant of her pride,
and hiding her face, she sobbed out her sad confession and
appeal.
He did not say, “I knew it would be so,” nor “You are to
blame:” he only said, “Don't cry, Lidy—don't cry,” and putting
down his book, hurried away. In half an hour he came back,
and George with him, staggering and swearing, his clothes
soiled and his face dirty—bleeding at one side where he had
fallen against the rough ground. He would not be persuaded
to have his face washed, and his clothes brushed, nor would he
sit down or go to bed, nor do anything else, but swear that in
spite of old Casper or his old sister he would go back to the
tavern, he had enough good friends there.
Casper had returned to his book, and not till Eliza begged
him to interfere, did he speak one word, or seem to notice what
was passing, but he no sooner laid his hand on the boy, and
ceased to offer resistance, and was led away to bed without
more ado.
When the supper was eaten, Casper would have gone, but
Eliza said, “No, I want to talk about George.”
“Very well,” he said, seating himself, “what have you to
say?”
Eliza knew not what to say—she knew that she was troubled
and tormented, that George was idle enough and unpromising
enough, but that she loved him after all, and could not bear
that he should be compelled to right ways by any one but herself.
This was the amount of all she could say.
A clear, practical, common sense view of things the schoolmaster
took. He loved Eliza, and he said so, he admired all
that was good and discreet and womanly in her, and he said
so: he did not love George, and he disliked and disapproved of
her wavering and compromising course with him. He had no
great hopes of him at the best, nevertheless he could bring him
under subjection in some way, if Eliza would give him the right
to do so.
He told her what his fortunes and prospects were, without
exaggeration or depreciation; he numbered his years, every one
of them up before her, and her own, which were not half so
many, and then he said that all he was, and all he had, and all
he could do, which was not much, were hers to accept if she
would, but with the understanding that George should be subject
to his authority.
Eliza reminded him of her promise to her dead father: how
could she break that and be at peace with herself? and, moreover,
he admitted that he did not love George, and how could
schoolmaster argued that if she were willing to trust herself
with him, it was natural that she should be willing to trust the
management of her brother: and as for the sacred promise she
laid so much stress on, it was a bad promise exacted by a bad
father, and better broken than kept. And now, he concluded,
with the calmness of a third party summing up evidence, “You
have all the facts before you—look at them and decide as your
conscience dictates.”
The facts were unpleasant ones, some of them, and Eliza did
not like to look them in the face—she did not like to say definitely
what she would do nor when she would do it. When
George was older and provided for, or capable of providing
for himself, their lives should be joined and flow through all
fortune in a sentimental sunshine. All of which to the schoolmaster
was nothing but moonshine. With it he was not contented
—he wished to see the ground he stood upon, whatever it was,
and finally, when they separated, it had been agreed that whenever
George should be provided for they should be married;
and that during school hours he should be under the master's
control, and at other times Eliza's will should be his law.
Neither was satisfied with this arrangement, for both foresaw
it would result badly, in the beginning.
3. CHAPTER III.
The breakfast was a pleasant one. George had been working
in the garden for two hours, he said, and should have half
the seeds in the ground before dinner.
Eliza was greatly elated, and saw the fulfillment of her best
hopes speedily coming. She could not praise him enough, and
in accepting what seemed to her a wonderful performance,
as a matter of course.
“Don't you think, Casper,” she said, at last, determined to
force some praise from him, “that George is a pretty good boy,
after all?”
She had better not have asked it. He had simply done his
duty, Casper said, but the motive seemed to him questionable.
It was partly the result of shame, and partly an effort to buy
off punishment. As soon as George betrayed indications of any
thorough reformation, he should be glad to acknowledge it.
Pretty industriously for half a day George kept at work, and
with the assistance of Eliza, part of the seeds were got into the
ground, and when at noon he related his achievement to Casper,
she made no mention of the hand she had lent.
“Now you are to go to school,” she said, when the dinner
was past; but George replied that he was too tired, and could
not learn if he did. With much coaxing and many promises, he
was induced to set out at last: but one excuse for loitering
offered itself after another, and finally at the pond he stopped,
and having pelted the geese for an hour, he stretched himself in
the shavings before the cooper's shop, and slept away another
hour; another was passed in shaving hoop-poles and piling
staves, and then the school was dismissed, and joining the other
boys the truant went home.
With a good deal of coaxing, and hiring, and scolding, and
some wholesome fear of the master, the garden was at last
planted; but Eliza, though she tried to conceal it, had done
most of the work, and all the while George had only gone to
school when he chose.
One day he told his sister he knew a little boy who had made
dollars the last year by selling eggs, and if she would buy a
hen and a dozen chickens, oh he would be the best boy in the
world, and do everything she desired. He knew where he
could get them if he only had two dollars.
Of course Eliza gave the money. She would work a little
later every night and soon earn it, and of course she told Casper
about it, and insisted that he should see in it great speculative
ability on the part of George, but he could only see that
she had thrown away her money, and said so, which displeased
her, of course, and there was an interval of estrangement.
The seeds were soon mostly picked out of the garden beds,
and the beds scratched level with the paths, and then the
mother hen came daily home from travelling through the weeds,
or from some neighbor's garden with a broken legged chicken,
or with a diminished number, till finally she drowned herself in
trying to rescue the last one from a pail of milk, and so ended
the garden and the chicken speculation.
George now professed himself inclined to return to school.
He believed he would be a teacher after all—Eliza concluded
his strongest bent was towards learning, and he went to
school.
But his zeal soon abated—he liked work better—the cooper
would pay him four shillings per day; and packing his books
he went to work with the cooper. Eliza was telling the master
how well he was doing, when he came in with one hand
bandaged and bleeding—he had cut off two fingers!
In the course of a few months the wound was healed, but he
should never be able to work, and one day, about the middle
of the afternoon, found him in school. He soon told his sister
would be the very making of him to send him to the academy
three miles away. George would walk the distance, the exercise
would be beneficial, and she must manage some way, she
hardly knew how, to pay for it. His old hat would not do to
wear to the academy, he must have a new one—his old coat
would not do, the tailor would furnish one, and Eliza would
sew for it. At last arrangements were concluded, and he went
to the academy. He soon discovered the walk to be too long,
it so overcame him that he could not study. He knew of a
horse he could hire to ride for a trifle, and the horse was
hired and George rode to school, and Eliza worked later into
the night and earlier in the morning. She had never been so
hopeful—he would be able to teach in the academy after
a while, and all her troubles past. If he had the time for
books, he said, that was consumed in riding to and from school,
and then if he could have a room and study as the other boys
did, of evenings, he should get on twice as well. So the horse
was given up. It took almost as much to pay for riding as to
hire board, Eliza said, and George was provided with board
and lodging at the academy, and patiently she toiled on.
The days were the happiest now she had ever seen, Casper
was all kindness when the boy was out of his sight; they
would be so happy, and her toils would all be over before long
—she was telling him so, and he listening in half credulous
delight, for what lover has not some faith in his mistress, when
George, books and bundles and all, strode into the house, and a
great chilly, black shadow came in with him.
He did not like the boys at the academy, nor the teachers,
nor anything. He could not eat at his boarding-house—he was
believed he was sick, and feared he would die; but the master
neither believed the one nor feared the other, and so the old
estrangement came again.
When the youth professed himself well he went to work
with the tailor, but did not like it, and so was home for awhile;
then he went with the blacksmith, but that was too hard: then
he was home for awhile, helping her, Eliza said; then he went
into the store, grew tired and was home for awhile, helping
Eliza again.
She was discouraged now, and a good deal in debt. She
was growing old faster than years made her grow old; the
rose died in her cheek, and her eyes lost their lustre—even the
master did not praise them any more, and this made her sadder
than all.
Suddenly George formed the resolution of going to school
again. He believed “old Casper” was a pretty good teacher,
after all.
Eliza began to think she would allow Casper the right to
control him now, by becoming his wife, but he did not urge the
marriage any more. She was almost resolved to approach the
matter herself. George should be kept at school whether he
would or not—she would tell Casper so that night. She arose
with the resolution and looked towards the school-house, and
there came George, running crookedly home, his eyes blind
with tears, and holding up the crippled hand as if it had been
mutilated anew.
“The master had struck his poor hand with a rule,” he said,
“and all for laughing because he saw him kiss Sophie Swain,
and not because he did anything wrong.”
There was a quick revulsion of sympathies and resolves on
the part of Eliza. Sophie Swain was a pretty girl of sixteen,
the daughter of the richest man in town. She saw plainly
enough now why Casper said nothing about marriage, and she
thought it was too bad that he should take to abusing her
poor brother as well as herself on account of his charmer. As
long as she lived, George should not be maltreated in that way,
that he shouldn't.
All this and more, Eliza resolved she would say, and all this
and more she did say in tones of no measured mildness. Of
course she did not care how often the master kissed Sophie
Swain, nor how soon he married her, if he wanted to. She was
sure she would not stand in his way if she could, and she knew
very well that she could not; he had ceased to feel even the commonest
interest in her. But one thing she would and could do
—she would prevent him from beating poor George to death.
When she had exhausted all epithets of reproach and denunciation,
and was still from sheer prostration, the master replied
in his perfectly quiet and self-possessed way, which to Eliza
was especially provoking, that it was true as George said. He
had kissed Sophie Swain, that he could not be blind to her
beauty, and she seemed not averse to his acknowledgment of
it. He had made no love to her, and did not propose to if
Eliza would grant him the happiness of continuing his suit, or
rather if she would be reasonable and terminate it in marriage,
this he professed himself willing, nay, anxious to conclude at
once. Not only his heart but his judgment, he said, sanctioned
the proposal he had made her.
“It was true he had struck George,” he said, “but not injuriously,
and Eliza should have sense enough to know it.
It was the first time he ever used the liberty herself
bestowed on him, and he insisted that then and there their relations
should be definitely settled.”
In all he said he neither elevated nor lowered his voice in
the least. If he saw Eliza's tears, he did not seem to see
them, nor did he once touch her hand, nor move one inch towards
her, but having concluded what he had to say awaited
her answer, snapping the blade of his pen-knife backward and
forward, and not even lifting his eyes towards her.
This conduct was certainly badly calculated to make a passionate
woman reasonable.
Checking her tears in very anger, she told him he was a
strange lover. He replied that he had a strange mistress, and
besides she must remember he was not a passionate boy. Eliza
begged his pardon. She had, for the moment, forgotten that
only his judgment sanctioned his proposal to her, and that his
heart was averse to it—interested, doubtless, in a much younger
and handsomer woman.
“If you will make gratutious interpretations, you must
make them,” said the master, his lip curling slightly; “but I
have no replies for them.”
Eliza insisted that she had interpreted his words legitimately,
and that for her part she saw no reason why he should drag
his judgment in at all. To which he replied most provokingly,
that he feared his judgment had been dragged forward less
than it should have been!
There were some more words, as angry and unreasonable as
they could be on one side, and most severely reasonable and
concise on the other. When they parted, it was with the declaration,
use his judgment as he liked, for the future, it was nothing to
her. And when he asked if he might not hope for leniency,
she said, “No!”
4. CHAPTER IV.
Years ago all this happened, and what either party, or both
have suffered, only themselves know. The same house, shabbier
than it used to be, with the one uncurtained window towards
the street, is standing yet. Sometimes in the evening twilight
you will see there a plain, pale woman, with grey hair, sewing
by the last light. She does not smile, nor look as if she had
smiled for many years, or ever would again. Often three
bright, laughing children go in at the gate with parcels of
sewing, and they climb over her chair and kiss her, and wonder
why she is not gay and laughing like their mother; and when
they go away, they are sure to leave more money than she has
earned, behind them; they are Casper's children, and the
woman is Eliza Anderson.
Sometimes you will see there a ragged, wretched man, lame
in the right leg, and with one arm off at the elbow—his face
has in it a look of habitual suffering, of baffled and purposeless
suffering, as if all the world was set against him, and he could
not help it; and that is George.
Sometimes in the night, when all is dark and still, a white-haired
man leans over the broken gate, forgetting the white
wall of his own garden, and all the roses that are in it, and the
pretty children that are smiling in their dreaming: and even
the wife, gone to sleep too, in the calm, not to say indifferent
when he gets ready. He leans there a long while thinking,
not of what is, but of what might have been, and wondering
whether eternity will make whole the broken blessings of time.
That is Casper, to be sure—who else should it be?
| Pictures of country life | |