 | CHAPTER V.
MRS. JANET BLODGETT. Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond |  |
5. CHAPTER V.
MRS. JANET BLODGETT.
It was a chilly, rainy afternoon toward the latter part
of August. John was gone, the doctor was cross, and
Hannah was cross. Nellie, too, was unusually irritable,
and venting her spite upon Hannah because there was
nothing for dinner fit to eat, and upon Maude because the
house was so desolate and dark, she crept away up stairs,
and wrapping a shawl round her, sat down to a novel,
pausing occasionally to frown at the rain which beat at
the windows, or the wind as it roared dismally through
the trees. While thus employed, she heard the sound of
wheels, and looking up, saw standing before their gate a
muddy wagon, from which a little, dumpy figure in black
was alighting, carefully holding up her alpaca dress, and
carrying in one hand a small box which seemed to be full
of flowers.
“She must have come to stay a long time,” thought
Nellie, as she saw the piles of baggage which the driver
was depositing upon the stoop. “Who can it be?” she
continued, as she recalled all her aunts and cousins, and
found that none of them answered the description of this
woman, who knocked loudly at the door, and then walked
in to shelter herself from the storm.
“Forlornity!” Nellie heard her exclaim, as she left the
chamber in answer to the summons. “Forlornity! No
table, no hat-stand, no nothin', and the digiest old ile-cloth!
added, dropping a curtesy to Nellie, who now stood on
the stairs, with her finger between the pages of her book,
so as not to lose the place. “I guess I've made a mistake,”
said the woman; “is this Dr. Canady's?”
“It is,” answered Nellie, and the stranger continued,
“Dr. Canady who married the widder Remington?”
“The same,” returned Nellie, thinking how unmercifully
she would tease Maude should this prove to be any of her
relations.
“And who be you?” asked the stranger, feeling a little
piqued at the coldness of her reception.
“I am Miss Helen—Dr. Kennedy's daughter,” answered
the young lady, assuming an air of dignity, which
was not at all diminished by the very expressive “Mortal!”
which dropped from the woman's lips.
“Can I do any thing for you?” asked Nellie, and the
stranger answered: “Yes, go and call Maude, but don't
tell her who I am.”
She forgot that Nellie did not herself know who she
was, and sitting down upon her trunk, she waited while
Nellie hurried to the kitchen, where, over a smoky fire,
Maude was trying in vain to make a bit of nicely browned
toast for her mother, who had expressed a wish for some
thing good to eat.
“Here, Maude,” called out Nellie, “your grandmother
or aunt has come, I guess, and wants to see you in the
hall.”
“It's Janet,—it's Janet, I know,” screamed Maude, and
leaving her slice of bread to burn and blacken before the
fire, she hurried away, while Nellie who had heard nothing
of the letter sent the week before, wondered much
could be.”
With a cry of delight, Maude wound her arms around
the neck of her old nurse, whom she knew in a moment,
though Janet had more difficulty in recognizing the little
girl of other years, in the womanly looking maiden before
her.
“It beats all, how you've changed,” she said, “though
your eyes and hair are the same,” and she passed her
hand caressingly over the short glossy curls. Then looking
intently in Maude's face she continued. “You've
grown handsome, child.”
“No, no, not handsome, Janet; Nellie is the beauty of
the house,” and Maude shook her head mournfully, for on
the subject of beauty, she was a little sensitive, her sister
always pronouncing her “a fright,” and manifesting a
most unamiable spirit if any one complimented her in the
least.
“What, that yaller haired, white face chit, who went
for you?” rejoined Janet. “No such thing; but tell me
now of your marm. How sick is she, and what of the
little boy? Is he much deformed?”
“Come in here,” said Maude, leading the way into the
parlor, and drawing a chair close to Janet, she told all she
deemed it necessary to tell.
But the quick-witted Janet knew there was something
more, and casting a scornful glance around the room, she
said: “You are a good girl, Maude; but you can't deceive
an old girl like me. I knew, by the tremblin' way
you writ, that somethin' was wrong, and started the first
blessed morning after gettin' your letter. I was calculating
to come pretty soon, any way, and had all my arrangements
mebby—for I 'm a widder now,” and she heaved a few
sighs to the memory of Mr. Joel Blodgett, who, she said,
“had been dead a year,” adding, in a whisper, “but there's
one consolation—he willed me all his property,” and she
drew from her belt a huge silver time-piece, which she was
in the habit of consulting quite often, by way of showing
that “she could carry a watch as well as the next one.”
After a little her mind came back from her lamented
husband, and she gave Maude a most minute account of
her tedious ride in a lumber-wagon from Canandaigua to
Laurel Hill, for the stage had left when she reached the
depot, and she was in too great a hurry to remain at the
hotel until the next morning.
“But what of that doctor—do you like him?” she said
at last, and Maude answered: “Never mind him now;
let us see mother first, or rather let me see to her dinner,”
and she arose to leave the room.
“You don't like him,” continued Janet, “and I knew
you wouldn't; but your poor mother, I pity her. Didn't
you say you was gettin' her something to eat? She's had
a good time waitin', but I'll make amends by seein' to her
dinner, myself,” and spite of Maude's endeavors to keep
her back, she followed on into the disorderly kitchen,
from which Nellie had disappeared, and where old Hannah
sat smoking her pipe as leisurely as if on the table there
were not piles of unwashed dishes, to say nothing of the
unswept floor and dirty hearth.
“What a hole!” was Janet's involuntary exclamation,
to which Hannah responded a most contemptuous “umph,”
and thus was the war-cry raised on either side. “What
was you goin' to git for your mother?” asked Janet, without
in dignified silence.
“Toast and tea,” answered Maude, and casting a deprecating
glance at the fire, Janet continued: “You can't
make any toast fit for a heathen to eat by that fire. Aint
there any dry wood—kindlin' nor nothin'?” and she walked
into the wood-shed, where, spying a pine board, she seized
the axe, and was about to commence operations, when
Hannah called out: “Ole Marster'll be in yer har, if you
tache that.”
“I aint afraid of your old marster,” answered Janet,
and in a moment, the board which Dr. Kennedy would
not suffer John to use, because he might want it for something,
was crackling on the fire.
The hearth was swept, the tea-kettle hung in the blaze,
and then, with a look of perfect delight, Janet sat down
to make the toast, fixing it just as she knew Matty liked
it best.
“Biled eggs will be good for her digester, and if I only
had one dropped in water,” she said, and quick as thought
Maude brought her one, while Hannah growled again,
“Ole marster'll raise de ruff, case he put 'em away to sell.”
“Ole marster be hanged!” muttered Janet, breaking
not one but three into the water, for her own stomach began
to clamor for food.
Every thing was ready at last; a clean towel covered
the server, the fragrant black tea was made, the boiled
egg was laid upon the toast, and then Janet said, “She
ought to have a rellish—preserves, jelly, baked-apple, or
somethin',” and she opened a cupboard door, while Hannah,
springing to her feet, exclaimed, “Quit dat; thar
aint no sich truck in dis house.”
But Janet's sharp eye had discovered behind a pile of
papers, rags, and dried herbs, a tumbler of currant jelly,
which Hannah had secretly made and hidden away for her
own private eating. Hannah's first impulse was to snatch
the jelly from Janet's hand, but feeling intuitively that in
the resolute Scotchwoman she had a mistress, and fearing
lest Maude should betray her to the doctor, she exclaimed,
“If that aint the very stuff Miss Ruggles sent in for Miss
Matty! I forgot it till this blessed minit!” and shutting
the cupboard door, she stood with her back against
it lest Janet should discover sundry other delicacies hidden
away for a like purpose.
“Mother has not had a feast like this—and she'll enjoy
it so much,” said Maude, as she started up the stairs followed
by Janet, who, ere they reached the chamber, suddenly
stopped, saying, “I tell you what 'tis, if she knows
I'm here she won't eat a mou'ful, so you say nothin', and
when she's through I'll come.”
This seemed reasonable to Maude, who, leaving Janet
to look through a crevice in the door, entered alone into
her mother's presence. Mrs. Kennedy had waited long
for Maude, and at last, weary with listening to the rain,
which made her feel so desolate and sad, she fell asleep,
as little Louis at her side had done before her; but
Maude's cheering voice awoke her.
“Look, mother,” she cried, “see the nice dinner!” and
her own eyes fairly danced as she placed the tray upon
the table before her mother, who, scarcely less pleased,
exclaimed, “A boiled egg—and jelly, too!—I've wanted
them both so much. How did it happen?”
“Eat first, and then I'll tell you,” answered Maude, propping
her up with pillows, and setting the server in her lap.
“It tastes like old times—like Janet,” said the invalid,
and from the room without, where Janet watched, there
came a faint, choking sound, which Matty thought was
the wind, and which Maude knew was Janet.
Through the door she had caught sight of her mistress,
whose white, wasted face wrung from her that cry. Stuffing
her handkerchief into her mouth, she waited until toast,
tea, egg, and all had disappeared, then, with the exclamation,
“She's et 'em all up slick and clean,” she walked
into the room.
It would be impossible to describe that meeting, when
the poor sick woman bowed her weary head upon the
motherly bosom of her faithful domestic, weeping most
piteously while Janet folded her lovingly in her arms,
saying to her soothingly, “Nay, now, Mattie darling—
nay, my bonnie bird—take it easy like—take it easy, and
you'll feel all the better.”
“You wont leave me, will you?” sobbed Mattie, feeling
that it would not be hard to die with Janet standing
near.
“No, honey, no,” answered Janet, “I'll stay till one or
t'other of us is carried down the walk and across the common,
where them gravestones is standin', which I noticed
when I drove up.”
“It will be me, Janet. It will be me,” said Mattie.
“They will bury me beneath the willows, for the other
one is lying there, oh, so peacefully.”
Louis was by this time awake, and taking him upon
her lap, Janet laughed and cried alternately, mentally
resolving that so long as she should live, she would befriend
the little helpless boy, whose face, she said, “was
far winsomer than any she had ever seen.”
Then followed many mutual inquiries, during which
Mattie learned that Janet was a widow, and had really
come to stay if necessary.
“I'm able now to live as I please, for I've got property,”
said Janet, again consulting the silver watch, as she
usually did when speaking of her husband's will.
Many questions, too, did Mattie ask concerning her
former home—her friends—her flowers—and Harry's
grave; “was it well kept now, or was it overrun with
weeds?”
To this last question Janet did not reply directly, but
making some excuse for leaving the room, she soon returned,
bearing in one hand a box in which a small rose-bush
was growing. In the other hand she held a beautiful
bouquet, which having been kept moist, looked almost
as fresh as when it was first gathered. This she gave to
Mattie, saying, “They grew on Harry's grave. I picked
'em myself yesterday morning before I left; and this,”
pointing to the rose-bush, “is a root I took from there
last spring on purpose for you, for I meant to visit you
this fall.”
Need we say those flowers were dearer to Mattie than
the wealth of the Indies would have been! They had
blossomed on Harry's grave—his dust had added to them
life, and as if they were indeed a part of him, she hugged
them to her heart—kissing them through her tears and
blessing Janet for the priceless gift.
“Don't tell him, though,” she whispered, and a deep
flush mounted to her cheek, as on the stairs she heard a
heavy footstep, and knew that Dr. Kennedy was coming!
He had been in the kitchen, demanding of Hannah,
“Whose is all that baggage in the hall?” and Hannah,
“Some low lived truck or other that they called `Janet,'
and a body'd s'pose she owned the house, the way she
went on, splittin' up yer board for kindlin', makin' Missus'
toast swim in butter, and a bilin' three of them eggs you
laid away to sell. If she stays here, this nigger wont—
that's my 'pinion,” and feeling greatly injured she left the
kitchen, while Dr. Kennedy, with a dark, moody look
upon his face, started for the sick room.
He knew very well who his visitor was, and when his
wife said, “Husband, this is my faithful Janet, or rather
Mrs. Blodgett now. Wasn't it kind in her to come so far
to see me?” he merely nodded coolly to Mrs. Blodgett,
who nodded as coolly in return, then turning to his wife,
he said, “You seem excited, my dear, and this ought not
to be. 'Tis a maxim of mine that company is injurious to
sick people. What do you think, Mrs. Blodgett?”
Mrs. Blodgett didn't think any thing save that he was
a most disagreeable man, and as she could not say this in
his presence, she made no particular answer. Glancing
toward the empty plate which stood upon the table, he
continued, “Hannah tells me, my dear, that you have
eaten three boiled eggs. I wonder at your want of discretion,
when you know how indigestible they are,” and
his eye rested reprovingly on Janet, who now found her
tongue, and starting up, exclaimed, “One biled egg wont
hurt any body's digester, if it's ever so much out of kilter
—but the jade lied. Two of them eggs I cooked for myself,
and I'll warrant she's guzzled 'em down before this
Any way, I'll go and see,” and she arose to leave the
room.
Just as she reached the door, the doctor called after
in the lower hall, which I presume are yours. Will you
have them left there, or shall I bring them up to your
chamber? You will stay all night with us, of course!”
For an instant Janet's face was crimson, but forcing
down her wrath for Mattie's sake, she answered, “I shall
probably stay as long as that,” and slamming together
the door she went down stairs, while Mattie said, sadly,
“Oh, husband, how could you thus insult her when you
knew she had come to stay awhile at least, and that her
presence would do me so much good?”
“How should I know she had come to stay, when I've
heard nothing about it,” was the doctor's reply; and then
in no mild terms he gave his opinion of the lady—said
opinion being based on what old Hannah had told him.
There were tears in Mattie's eyes, and they dropped
from her long eye-lashes, as, taking the doctor's hand, she
said: “Husband, you know that I'm going to die—that
ere the snow is falling you will be a second time alone.
And you surely will not refuse me when I ask that Janet
shall stay until the last. When I am gone you will, perhaps,
be happier in the remembrance that you granted me
one request.”
There was something in the tone of her voice far more
convincing than her words, and when she added, “She
does not expect wages, for she has money of her own,”
Dr. Kennedy yielded the point, prophesying the while that
there would be trouble with Hannah.
Meantime, Mrs. Blodgett had wended her way to the
kitchen, meeting in the way with Nellie, around whose
mouth there was a substance greatly resembling the yolk
of an egg! Thus prepared for the worst, Janet was not
been disposed of by both the young lady and Hannah,
the latter of whom was too busy with her dishes to turn
her head, or in any way acknowledge the presence of a
second person.
“Joel Blodgett's widow ought to be above havin' words
with a nigger,” was Janet's mental comment as she contented
herself with a slice of bread and a cup of tea,
which, by this time, was of quite a reddish hue.
Her hunger being satisfied, she began to feel more
amiably disposed toward the old negress, whose dishes
she offered to wipe. This kindness was duly appreciated
by Hannah, and that night, in speaking of Janet to her
son, she pronounced her “not quite so onery a white
woman as she at first took her to be.”
As the days wore on, Janet's presence in the family was
felt in various ways. To Mattie, it brought a greater degree
of happiness than she had experienced since she left
her New England home, while even the doctor acknowledged
an increased degree of comfort in his household,
though not willing at first to attribute it to its proper
source. He did not like Janet; her ideas were too extravagant
for him, and on several different occasions he
hinted quite strongly that she was not wanted there; but
Janet was perfectly invincible to hints, and when, at one
time, he embodied them in language that could not be
misunderstood, telling her, “'twas a maxim of his, that if
a person had a home of their own they had better stay
there;” she promptly replied, that “'twas a maxim of
hers to stay where she pleased, particularly as she was a
woman of property,” and so, as she pleased to stay there,
she staid!
It took but a short time for her to understand the Doctor,
and to say that she disliked him, would but feebly
express the feeling of aversion with which she regarded
him. Not a word, however, would Mattie admit, of past
or present unkindness—neither was it necessary that she
should, for Janet saw it all—saw how “old maxim,” as she
called him, had worried her life away, and while cherishing
for him a sentiment of hatred, she strove to comfort
her young mistress, who grew weaker and weaker every
day, until at last the husband himself, aroused to a sense
of her danger, strove by little acts of kindness unusual in
him to make amends for years of wrong. Experience is
a thorough teacher, and he shrunk from the bitter memories
which spring from the grave of a neglected wife, and
he would rather that Mattie, when she died, should not
turn away from him, shuddering at his touch, and asking
him to take his hand from off her brow, just as one brown-haired
woman had done. This feeling of his was appreciated
by Janet, who in proportion as he became tender
toward Mattie, was respectful to him, until at last there
came to be a tolerably good understanding between them,
and she was suffered in most matters, to have her own
way.
With John she was a special favorite, and through his
instrumentality open hostilities were prevented between
herself and his mother, until the latter missed another
cup of jelly from its new hiding-place. Then, indeed, the
indignant African announced her intention of going at
once to “Miss Ruggles's,” who had offered her “twelve
shillings a week, and a heap of leisure.”
“Let her go,” said John, who knew Mrs. Ruggles to
be a fashionable woman, the mother of nine children,
be glad to come back,” and the sequel proved he was
right, for just as it was beginning to grow light on the
second day of her absence, some one rapped at his window,
and a half-crying voice whispered, “Let me in, John; I've
been out to sarvice enough.”
John complied with the request, and when Janet came
down to the kitchen, how was she surprised at finding
Hannah there, leisurely grinding her coffee, with an innocent
look upon her sable face as if nothing had ever happened.
John's raillery, however, loosened her tongue at
last, and very minutely she detailed her grievances. “She
had done a two week's washing, besides all the work, and
the whole of them young ones under her feet into the bargain.
Then at night, when she hoped for a little rest,
Mrs. Ruggles had gone off to a party and staid till midnight,
leaving her with that squallin' brat; but never you
mind,” said she, “I poured a little paregol down its
throat, or my name ain't Hannah,” and with a sigh of
relief at her escape from “Miss Ruggles,” she finished
her story and resumed her accustomed duties, which for
many weeks she faithfully performed, finding but little
fault with the frequent suggestions of Mrs. Janet Blodgett,
whose rule in the household was for the time being,
firmly established.
| CHAPTER V.
MRS. JANET BLODGETT. Cousin Maude ; and, Rosamond | |