 | III.
THE FARM-HOUSE. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
3. III.
THE FARM-HOUSE.
Thoroughly drenched, the little party arrived at the farm-house.
“Why! my sakes!” cried Mrs. Jackwood, as the kitchen door
flew open, and they came in with the lashing rain, — “I never
see! Do shet the door quick, Bim'lech! Is this 'Tildy Fosdick?”
In the gloom, she mistook her husband's companion for one of
the neighbors. Mr. Jackwood corrected the error.
“La, wal! I s'pose we can keep her one night, 't any rate,”
said his wife. “Soppin' wet, an't ye? Be ye 'fraid o' ketchin'
cold?”
“No, I don't think of that,” answered the girl, shiveringly.
“Wal, come to the stove, an' warm ye;” and Mrs. Jackwood
drew up the high-backed rocking-chair. “Set here. — Phœbe,
put in some more wood. I s'pose I might let you have one o' my
ol' gowns to put on: I guess I better. You don't look very
tough. I 'll take your wet bunnit.”
Mrs. Jackwood hung the drenched article upon a peg; then,
having lighted a candle with a coal she took from the fire, she
turned once more to the stranger.
“Dear me!” — betraying a lively emotion, — “you an't stubbid,
be ye? You don't look fit to be trav'lin' in this way!
Whereabouts is yer home?”
The girl appeared to make an effort to speak.
“Don't be axin' questions, mother!” spoke up Mr. Jackwood.
“You see,” he added, considerately, in an under tone, “it hurts her
feelin's. — I shall have to git ye to speak yer name once more,
if ye please.”
“Charlotte Woods,” articulated the stranger.
“Cha'lotte Woods,” repeated the farmer, with an air of
thoughtful interest. — “Go 'way, Phœbe,” — in a whisper; “don't
stan' starin' at her! — There 's a Woods under the mountain; is
he any relation?”
The girl shook her head. She was apparently seventeen or
eighteen years of age; but her features, of delicate mould,
and of a soft, brunette complexion, bordering upon the olive,
showed traces of passion and suffering rarely seen in one so young.
Her eyes were tremulously downcast, and her slender hands
clasped across her lap in an attitude of intense emotion. The
contrast of her humble drenched attire and the yellow lamp-light
that fell upon it served to heighten the effect of the scene. It
was at once picturesque and touching. Not even the uncultivated
inmates of the Jackwood dwelling were insensible to it; and a
respectful hush followed the farmer's last question, all eyes appearing
to regard the unknown guest with mingled solicitude and
deference.
Mrs. Jackwood broke the silence. “Shall I give you that dry
gown to put on?”
“Thank you,” said the stranger, “I am quite comfortable.”
“Give her a drop o' that 'ere currant wine,” whispered the
farmer.
“Where 's all yer fish?” Mrs. Jackwood at last thought to
inquire. “The cat 'll eat 'em up, if they 're under the stoop.”
“I guess all we brought home won't hurt her, if she eats bones
an' all,” said Mr. Jackwood.
“Why, did n't ye ketch none?”
“I ketched two trout, real nice ones, an' lost 'em,” snivelled
Bim, in the corner.
“What ye cryin' about?”
“I tore my knee all open! I was runnin' on ahead, an' fell
down, right on to a great rock.”
“Wal, wal, you 'll feel better arter supper,” said his father.
“You need n't help about the chores to-night. You 've had a
perty hard time on 't, this arternoon, that 's a fact. You won't
want to go a-fishin' agin very soon, will ye?”
“I don't want to go to Wild River!” mumbled the aggrieved
Bim. “They 're the meanest fish! My fust two nibbles was
bites, then all my other bites was nibbles.”
Meanwhile supper was waiting, only the tea was to be drawn;
and Mr. Jackwood proposed that they should “set right down.”
But the stranger felt too faint to think of food.
“Wal,” said Mr. Jackwood, after a moment's reflection, “I
guess I 'll go an' milk, then, an' have the chores done up 'fore
supper. If you git ready to se' down, don't wait for me.”
He took the rattling milk-pails from the pantry, and went out
in the darkness and storm, to finish the labors of the day. He
fed the squealing pigs, and stopped their noise; gave the bleating
calves their suppers; drove the sheep out of the door-yard; and
returned, at length, to the kitchen, bearing two brimming pails of
milk — and rain-water.
He found his guest still sitting by the stove, reposing languidly
in the high-backed chair; having, in the mean time, however, put
on dry apparel, for which she was indebted to Mrs. Jackwood's
kindness.
“Wal, how d' ye find yourself arter your shower-bath?” he
inquired, cheerily. “Think ye can eat a little supper, now?
Can, hey? That 's right; turn right 'round here. Come, Phœbe,
— Bim'lech, what ye waitin' fur? Where 'll she set, mother?”
“She can set in Bim'lech's place; he 's had his supper. He
was so hungry, he could n't wait; so he took a bowl o' bread-an'-milk
in his hand.”
“I did n't eat enough! That was nothin' but a luncheon.”
“What! that great bowl o' bread-an'-milk? I wonder what
your stomach is made of!”
“Never mind; let him come to the table, if he wants to,” said
Mr. Jackwood, whose heart grew big and warm in the glow of
the homely old kitchen. “There 's plenty o' room. Fix him a
place, Phœbe. I don't see the need of anybody 's starvin' in my
house.”
Mrs. Jackwood, getting a plate: “It 's all foolishness eat'n' two
suppers, — one jest 'fore goin' to bed, too; that 's all I care
about it.”
“Bim thinks he deserves two suppers, for bringing home so
many fish!” said Phœbe.
Abimelech, exasperated: “Make her stop, father I should
think she 'd said enough about that!”
“There, there, there, children, don't quarrel! What makes ye
want to pester him so, Phœbe? You should n't mind it, my son;
you should be above sich things. There 's a plate for ye; bring
yer chair along. Hush, now.”
The farmer said grace in the stereotype phrase of years; but
an allusion to the wanderer beneath his roof, and the wind and
the rain without, — awkwardly interpolated, it is true, yet spoken
with simple earnestness, — rendered the prayer vital and touching.
“Bim kept making faces at me all the time you was asking the
blessing!” said Phœbe.
“Bim'lech, did you do that 'ere?” asked Mr. Jackwood,
solemnly.
Abimelech, with an air of innocence: “No, I did n't! There
was a 'skeeter buzzin' 'round my face, an' I squinted to scare him
away, that 's all. If she had n't ben lookin' she would n't 'a
seen me.”
Phœbe: “What a story! There an't a mosquito in the
house!”
“That 'll do! Don't le' me hear no more complaints. We 've
got plain fare,” — the farmer turned to his guest, — “but it 's
hulsome. Here 's good ho'-made bread, an' sweet butter, an'
fresh milk; some dried beef, too, if ye like; an' mother 'll give
ye a good stiff cup o' tea, to raise yer sperrits. Then there 's a
pie I 'll ventur' to recommend, bime-by.”
“Mother! I — want — a — piece — of — pie!”
“You need n't whine so like a great baby, if you do! You may
give him a piece, Phœbe.”
“Phœb' need n't be so p'tic'lar to pick out the smallest
piece! I 'll have two pieces, now, see if I don't! May n't
I, father?”
“Eat that fust, then we 'll see.”
“I want some cheese with it! Come, you need n't help me,
generous you be!”
“Bim'lech!”
“What!”
Mr. Jackwood, severely: “Le' me hear any more sich talk, an'
you 'll go right away from the table, — mind now!”
The boy muttered something in self-defence, with his mouth
full; but his father's attention was at that moment drawn to his
guest. For some time she had been vainly endeavoring to eat.
The bounty spread before her, the kindness of her new friends,
and the thought of rest and shelter while the storm raged without,
filled her heart to suffocating fulness; and, too weak to control her
emotions, but instinctively seeking to conceal them, she attempted
to rise from the table. The pallor and distress of her features,
and the strangeness of her movements, alarmed the farmer; but,
before he could speak, a sudden dizziness seized her, and she sank
insensible upon the floor.
“Marcy!” exclaimed Mrs. Jackwood, starting from the table.
“I believe she 's fainted! Hold her, father, while I bring the
camfire!”
In her agitation, mistaking the loaf of bread for the lamp, she
rushed with it into the pantry, and began to search in the dark
for the camphor, — knocking over two or three bottles in the
operation, and laying her hand on the right one at the precise
moment when it was no longer needed.
At the same time, Phœbe hastened to pour some hot water out
of the tea-kettle, with what object in view, she was never very
well able to explain. She poured it into the cullender, which
happened to be the first utensil in her reach; and the cullender,
acting like a sieve, sprinkled it in a plentiful shower upon her
foot. In consequence of this catastrophe, she was nervously occupied
in ascertaining the extent of her burns, while Mr. Jackwood
was thus left alone to support the form of the fainting girl.
“A cup o' water!” he cried, lifting her to the chair. “Don't
be scart, boy. She 'll come to, arter a little sprinklin'. Be
quick!”
Abimelech heard only “cup, sprinkle, quick,” and, actuated by
the bottles, and his sister pouring hot water, he seized the milk-cup
from the tea-tray, and spilled its contents partly in the stranger's
hair, partly in her left ear.
“Not that!” ejaculated his father. “Don't you know nothin'?
Water!”
Thereupon the boy caught up one of the empty milk-pails, and,
hastening to the sink-room, commenced pumping violently.
By this time the swooning girl began to revive. Indeed, her
consciousness had at no time been entirely lost. Her soul had
seemed sinking, sinking, like a candle let down into the dark of a
deep well; and in a still place, gleaming with a faint ray, just above
the waters of oblivion, it had waited, as it were, to be drawn up.
Mr. Jackwood's care was now to wipe away the milk which
streaked her hair, and cheek, and neck. Accidentally disarranging
her dress in the operation, he started back with an involuntary
exclamation of pain and pity. Her full throat was exposed, and
just below it, in startling contrast with her soft and gentle beauty,
appeared a sharp cut, as of a pointed blade. The wound was
evidently not so new but it might have been partially healed;
some recent hurt, however, — perhaps the fall from the chair, —
had opened it afresh, and now a fine crimson stream was traced
upon her breast.
With a quick, instinctive movement, she covered the wound
from sight.
“It 's nothing; a little hurt,” — clasping her hand over her
breast.
Mr. Jackwood was speechless with embarrassment; but the cry
which had escaped his lips, alarming the family, brought them
simultaneously to his relief. Mrs. Jackwood appeared with her
camphor-bottle, shaking it up, with her hand over the nose; Phœbe
ran up, with a shoe in one hand and the cullender in the other;
while Abimelech staggered in from the sink-room, swinging a full
pail of milky water.
“There, there, mother!” cried Mr. Jackwood, as his wife began
to bathe the patient's forehead; “that 'll do; it 'll only be unpleasant
to her.”
“'T won't do no harm,” replied the good woman, applying the
camphor to the sufferer's nose. “How do you feel now?”
“Better, — quite well,” gasped the poor girl, pushing the bottle
feebly away.
“Look at Bim!” exclaimed the excited Phœbe. “What are
you going to do with that water?”
“Father told me to!” cried Bim. “What you goin' to do with
the cullender? You need n't say nothin'!”
“Open yer eyes, if it 's as convenient as not,” suggested Mr.
Jackwood; “I want to see how you look.”
The stranger's eyes partly opened, but closed again heavily.
“My eyelids are stiff,” she said, with an expression of pain.
“Put some butter on to 'em — that 'll limber 'em,” whispered
the boy, hoarsely, in his father's ear. “Say, shall I?”
“Git away with yer nonsense!” said Mr. Jackwood, with a
threatening gesture.
Abimelech recoiled, and sat down, with a startling splash, in the
pail of water he had left standing on the floor.
“Now what?” said Mrs. Jackwood, sharply.
“Good enough for him!” exclaimed Phœbe. “He need n't
have left the water standing right there in the way. Now bellow,
great baby!”
Mr. Jackwood commanded silence. “She 's got a dre'ful bad
hurt on her breast!” he whispered to his wife; “an' I think he 'd
better have suthin' done for 't.”
“It 's not much,” said the guest. “If I can be a little while
alone —”
“Take her into your room, mother.”
Still holding her hand upon her breast, the sufferer arose, and,
with Mrs. Jackwood's assistance, reached the adjoining room.
Becoming faint again, she sat down, and, after some hesitation,
suffered the good woman to look at her wound.
“Marcy me, if 't an't a cut! It bleeds a stream! Poor thing!
— how did you git hurt so?”
“I — I — it was — an accident.”
“It looks as though you had been stabbed with a knife! Phœbe,
bring me a basin o' water, an' be quick!”
“Cold water?” cried Phœbe.
“Pour in out o' the tea-kittle jest enough to take off the chill,”
said her mother. “Don't be all night about it!”
Mrs. Jackwood hastened to a tall bureau in the corner, and took
from it some linen for the wound.
“What did ye ever have done for 't?” she asked, getting down
again beside the guest.
“I can't tell, — not much.”
“Did n't you never have no healin' plaster on 't, nor nothin?”
She moved her head feebly, with a negative sign.
“I want to know! Why did n't ye? Poor child! you must
a' suffered from it. How long sence 't was hurt?”
“O dear!” exclaimed Phœbe, in dolorous accents, approaching
behind her mother. “What is it? Don't it most kill you?” —
The basin began to tip in her hands. “It makes me dizzy to look
at it!”
“What are ye doin'?” cried her mother, looking suddenly
around, in her kneeling posture. “I never! if you an't spillin'
that water all down my back!”
“I could n't help it. I come perty near faintin'!”
“Se' down the basin, and go out and shet the door. Do ye
hear?”
Phœbe placed the basin upon a chair, and reluctantly withdrew
Having dressed the wound according to her own ideas of such
things, Mrs. Jackwood returned to the kitchen.
“How is she?” asked Phœbe.
“She 's jest lopped down on my bed for a little while. Finish
yer suppers, children; I 'll 'tend to her. I 'm goin' to have her
drink a strong cup o' tea, as soon as she gits over her faint spell.
Poor girl! she 's ever so much to be pitied!”
“She 's a downright perty-spoken girl!” said Mr. Jackwood.
“I don' know where I 've seen sich han'some manners, anywheres.
You better tell her, mother, 't seein' to-morrer 's Sunday, she might
as well make up her mind to stop over with us till Monday, if not
longer.”
The door was closed, but not latched. Charlotte Woods,
said; and a ray of almost heavenly rapture stole, thrilling and
soothing, into the troubled depths of her soul. All this time the
elements raged without, — the rain lashed the panes, the wind
whistled, the lightning winked its fiery eye ever and anon, glaring
into the chamber, — and the contrast of the storm with the peace
and comfort she had found with her new friends served to intensify
all the pure and sweet emotions that arose in her grateful heart.
When Mrs. Jackwood returned to her she found her weeping;
but her face was illumined, and her eyes glistened with a tender
light.
Mr. Jackwood and the children had, in the mean time, returned
to the table; and Phœbe amused herself by laughing at Abimelech's
pail of water. At first the boy retorted; then he became
unaccountably silent, pouting over his pie; and finally, yielding
to an irresistible fit of drowsiness, he began to nod assent to all
that was said. The unfinished pie-crust had fallen from his hand,
and his lips were still distended with the last mouthful, when his
deep breathing, growing deeper still, verged upon a snore.
“What ye doin', Phœbe?” demanded Mr. Jackwood.
“Only tickling his nose a little,” laughed Phœbe, mischievously.
At that moment Abimelech sneezed, blowing a full charge of
pie-crumbs into his bosom. Partially awakened, he half opened
his eyes, but, closing them again immediately, with a deep sigh,
he rolled over, comfortably, into his father's lap.
“Why could n't ye let the boy alone?” said Mr. Jackwood.
“You 're always up to some nonsense!”
“It does me good to plague him. That sneeze came perty
nigh taking his head off! I don't suppose he 'd have woke up if
it had.”
“I guess he 'd better be put to bed.”
“I beg of ye, father,” exclaimed Mrs. Jackwood, “don't carry
that gre't sleepy-head up-stairs in your arms! He should be
made to walk.”
“What 's the use o' wakin' him when he's fast asleep?” said
the farmer.
“I 'll carry the lamp,” said Mrs. Jackwood, — “if you will be
so foolish! I 've got to go up and fix a bed for that girl.”
Half an hour later, having drank the tea prepared for her, and
eaten a few morsels of food, Charlotte Woods took leave of the
parents, who bade her a kind and cheerful “good-night,” and
retired, with Phœbe, to her chamber.
The young girl was in a sociable mood, and wished to talk;
but the wanderer was too weary to take part in the conversation.
Her head had scarce touched the pillow, before she was asleep.
But she started strangely, and moaned, and sometimes cried aloud,
in the trouble of her dreams. Phœbe was frightened, and awoke
her.
“Where am I?”
The storm was raging again; the wind blew, the rain pattered
on the roof, the thunder rolled in the sky.
“You are with me, — don't you know?”
“O, yes!” said the wanderer, fervently.
“I was scart, and woke you up,” rejoined Phœbe. “You
was talking in your sleep.”
“Was I? — Did you hear?” cried the other, quickly. “What
did I say?”
At that moment a vivid flash, illumining the chamber, showed
her starting up with pallid looks, one arm sunk in the pillow, and
the other flung across the covering of the bed.
“I could n't make out much,” replied Phœbe. “I heard you
say, `Don't! it will kill me!' and that 's all I can remember.”
“Are you sure? — Tell me all I said!”
Phœbe could recall nothing more; and the stranger guest,
recovering from her alarm, sank again upon the pillow, and
listened to the rain on the roof until she was once more asleep.
| III.
THE FARM-HOUSE. Neighbor Jackwood | |