 | IV.
THE SABBATH MORNING. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
4. IV.
THE SABBATH MORNING.
It was day when the wanderer awoke. Through the window-curtain,
which looked like a white cotton apron tied by its strings
across the sash, the light of a new morning streamed into the
room.
How calm and cool it seemed! At first she felt that she could
always lie there, in such sweet peace and languor, and gaze upon
that light. But the past rushed with great waves upon her heart,
and, becoming restless with anxious thoughts, she arose silently
from the bed.
She resumed the faded calico gown Mrs. Jackwood's kindness
had furnished; it was an awkward fit, but it could not altogether
conceal the symmetry of her form. Then, standing before a little
looking-glass, she combed out her thick, black hair, and, curling it
on her fingers, looped it up in luxuriant masses, over her temples.
This done, she bathed her face in a tin basin, with water from a
broken-nosed pitcher, and, slipping the cotton curtain aside upon
its string, sat down by the window.
The storm was over; the clouds had cleared away; it was a
beautiful Sabbath morning. The low valley, through which
wound the stream, lay white-robed in silvery mists; but all the
western range of mountains was flooded with the sunrise.
When Phœbe awoke, and saw her companion sitting there with
troubled looks, she felt that she ought to console her.
“I don't believe you like it here very well; I guess you 're
homesick.”
“O, I do like it! It is so quiet, so peaceful, here!”
“I think it is a real mean old house,” responded Phœbe. “If
but, as it is, I 'm unhappy as I can be!”
“O,” said her companion, “if you could only know what it is
to be without a home —”
“Father tells me I don't know how to appreciate a home. But
I can't help it; I can't be contented here.”
“I suppose, then,” said Charlotte, with a tender smile, “you
will soon think of changing both your name and abode.”
“I won't marry a farmer, any way!” cried Phœbe. “I 've
always said that, and I 'll stick to it, if I live an old maid!”
Her pretty face and bright eyes sparkled with animation; and,
arising, the first thing she did was to look in the glass, and read
once more the charming tale of her own beauty.
“Father says he bets I 'll go through the woods and take up
with a crooked stick,” she continued, with amusing frankness.
“I don't care, — I could have my pick of 'most any of the
young fellows about here. But they an't much; they are 'most all
farmers' boys; and I 'll have a merchant or a lawyer, if anybody.”
“Phœbe,” called Mrs. Jackwood at the foot of the chamber-stairs,
— “an't you 'most ready to come down? You need n't
stay up there all day, if it is Sunday. Let her lie and sleep, if she
wants to; it 'll do her good to rest.”
So kind an allusion to herself brought the tenderest tearful
light to the wanderer's eyes.
“You need n't come down till noon, if you don't want to,” said
the lively Phœbe. “You won't care to go to meeting, I suppose.”
“Hardly,” said Charlotte, with a sad smile. “Shall you go?”
“O, yes; I would n't stay away such a day as this, I tell you!
I like to see folks when I 'm dressed up; it is silly, perhaps, but
I can't help it. I don't care for the preaching; we 've got a real
stupid minister — I don't ought to say so, though, I suppose. Are
you pious? Do you care for what I say?”
Charlotte knew not how to reply to such queer questions.
“Perhaps you belong to the church,” added Phœbe, blushing
rosy red; “I would n't like to hurt your feelings, though I must
say I 'm glad I don't belong to it! Mother has urged me and
at a stretch. But the truth of it is, I like to carry on too well;
and I an't going to settle down and put on a long face, and be
pious, yet a while! I thought I experienced religion, one time;
but I guess it did n't amount to much; there 's more fun in me
than ever. Well, I wish I was good,” — more seriously. “I
know I ought to be pious, — but it an't in me.”
Charlotte's limbs felt weak and sore; but she thought it would
be better for her to make an effort to move, and she descended the
stairs with Phœbe. They reached the kitchen just as Mr. Jackwood
was going out, with the milk-pails on his arm. He paused
to bid her good-morning; and she thanked him for his kindness
with so much tender feeling that his eyes began to glisten.
“Wal,” said he, winking, “make yourself to home; that 'll
suit me best of anything. — Come, Bim'lech,” turning to his son,
“d' ye expect I 'm goin' to do all the milkin' in futur', 'cause I
let ye off last night?”
“I 'm stiff as I can be,” muttered the boy, limping from the
corner. “I can't straighten out.”
“This comes o' goin' a-fishin'. Come, I 'll limber ye up!”
Charlotte was anxious to render Mrs. Jackwood some assistance
in her work. At the same time she confessed her ignorance of
kitchen affairs.
“Wal, I guess you 'd be about as much bother as you 're
wuth,” said Mrs. Jackwood.
“I might soon learn to do something, if you would show me.”
“La, sus, I can let ye try, if that 's all! But you 'd larn
more to look on, I should think. There 's so many little chores,
Sunday morning, I can't tell myself what 's to be done till I come
to 't.”
Charlotte proved unusually intelligent and apt.
“There 's some sense in tryin' to larn you somethin',” said
Mrs. Jackwood, encouragingly. “I 'm so partic'lar, 't gener'ly
I can't bear to have any one lift a finger in my kitchen, without
it 's Phœbe; and she sometimes tries my patience a'most to death!
As for them gre't awk'rd Irish girls, — the slouchin' critturs! — I
won't so much as have 'em 'round!”
Thus encouraged, Charlotte emptied the sour milk Mrs. Jackwood
was skimming; helped scald the pans; turned the pork
that was frying in the spider; and assisted Phœbe to set the
table.
“Wal, you 're about the handiest girl 't ever I see. I can't say
less 'n that, any way. I wonder you never did house-work before.
You take to 't nat'ral as ducks to the water! Some folks never
can see into 't, somehow; they can't so much as wipe the dishes,
say nothin' 'bout washin' 'em, without you stand over 'em every
minute o' the time, an' tell 'em how. You 've no idee how narvous
it makes me feel!”
“I 'm afraid I should draw pretty severely on your patience,
sometimes,” said Charlotte.
“ 'T would n't be to be wondered at, if you did. The best miss
it, now an' then, you know. And I have n't all the patience I
should have, or might have, I 'm sorry to say. You could put
up with a little frettin', though, I guess; it 's my natur' to fret.”
“Take my word for that!” laughed Phœbe.
“You need 't say that, now!” cried her mother. “I don't think
I 'm any gre't of a fretter, I 'm sure. I consider I 'm perty toler'ble
patient, now! You won't find many women that 'll put up
with what I have to put up with, depend upon 't. Don't say
agin I 'm a gre't fretter, if you know what 's good for yourself!”
Presently, Mr. Jackwood and Abimelech coming in, the family
sat down to breakfast.
“You don't live by eatin', I see,” the farmer said to his guest.
“You never 'll do for a farmer's darter, till you can eat pork and
johnny-cake.”
After breakfast Mr. Jackwood took down the big family Bible
from the mantel-piece, and, having adjusted a pair of blackened
steel-bowed spectacles, opened it on his knee. At the same time
Phœbe and Abimelech brought out their Testaments from the bed-room,
and, after a little dispute about “the place,” obeyed their
father, who enjoined silence. Mrs. Jackwood took her seat by the
open door, where she could keep an eye on the poultry before the
stoop, and flirt her apron at them occasionally, as they attempted
to invade the kitchen.
Scarce had the farmer begun to read, when a gallant young
turkey, taking advantage of Mrs. Jackwood's contemplative mood,
charged past her apron, and made a bold dash at the crumbs
under the table.
“Bim'lech! do help me git this critter out! We must have a
whip, and keep it for these nasty turkeys!”
Bim, with warlike resolution: “Clear the track!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Don't be ha'sh, my son! Don't throw yer
book!”
She spoke too late. The boy's Testament whizzed by the corner
of the table, and, glancing on the back of Phœbe's chair, fluttered
down into a dish of grease on the stove-hearth.
“Now you 've done it!” cried Phœbe.
Mrs. Jackwood, quivering: “I 've as good a mind to box your
ears as ever I had t' eat!”
“'T an't hurt much,” said Abimelech, grinning, as he held the
Testament up by the leaves, to let the grease drip off.
“Every Sunday mornin',” began Mrs. Jackwood, “reg'lar as
the day comes 'round, that 'ere grease-dish has to come out o' the
suller-way, an' set smutcherin' on the stove, till the shoes are all
blacked for meetin'! For my part, I 'm heartily sick on 't; an' if
I could had my way, this never 'd a' happened.”
“Come, come! don't be unreason'ble mother,” said Mr. Jackwood.
“Accidents will happen.”
“Unreasonable? If you 'd make a bizness on 't, you could set
down and warm the dish, an' grease yer shoes, an' done with 't, all
in five minutes' time. An' here that thing 's ben 'round a hull
hour, if 't has a minute! Then Bim'lech had to fling his book!
An' now he 's lettin' the grease drop all over the floor! I never
see the beat! There!”
Mrs. Jackwood gave vent to her feelings in a sharp cuff bestowed
on Abimelech's ear.
Bim, howling: “Ow — w — w — w! Quit!”
“Quit, quit!” echoed the turkey, darting behind the stove.
“Don't tell me to quit!” exclaimed Mrs. Jackwood, addressing
Bim more particularly, “you sauce-box!”
In terror of another blow, Bim dropped the book and dodged
behind Charlotte's chair.
“Come, let 's have peace, this holy Sabbath mornin'!” said Mr.
Jackwood. “Bim'lech, take yer seat, and look over with Phœbe!”
Mrs. Jackwood, endeavoring to control her feelings, but still
quivering with excitement, stooped to pick up the book.
“Grease an' all on this clean floor, mopped only yist'day!
It 's no more use moppin' an' scourin' in this house than — Gi' me
a knife, Phœbe!”
“I — gracious!” cried Bim, with a wild look, throwing up his
hands in a protective attitude about his ears.
“We 're waitin' mother,” observed Mr. Jackwood, quietly.
“You 'll have to wait till I scrape up a little of this grease,
'fore it 's trod all over the house. — Where 's that turkey?”
“He 's out o' the house,” snarled Bim, “an' I wish I was!”
“Don't talk so,” said Mr. Jackwood. “Remember, there 's a
stranger present. Now, if you 're all ready, we 'll read.”
Mrs. Jackwood resumed her station in the door-way, and, setting
the broom as a trap to be sprung upon the poultry, composed
herself to listen.
“Commence, Bim'lech,” said the farmer.
Bim'lech, sullenly: “Han't got no book!”
“I told ye to look over with Phœbe. Third varse.”
Bim mumbled over his task, as if merit consisted in the most
rapid and indistinct utterance that could be called reading.
“Bim'lech, read that 'ere last varse over ag'in, an' try to take
the sense on 't.”
“Phœbe won't le' me look on! She holds the book 'way off!”
“Anybody 'd think you wanted to eat the book up!” — and
Phœbe mischievously thrust her Testament under the boy's nose.
“Now can ye see?”
“Come! — stop! I swanny, I won't read another word!”
“Take holt o' that book, my son, an' don't le 's have any more
o' yer nonsense. This is perty work for Sunday mornin'!”
Phœbe giggling; Abimelech pouting; Mr. Jackwood looking
sternly over his glasses at the offenders; Charlotte trying to be
serious, but laughing, with her sunny eyes, in spite of herself.
Mrs. Jackwood: “Shoo! shoo!” — flirting her apron at the
turkeys. “Git away with ye!”
At length, peace restored, the reading was concluded, — an
entire chapter of the Acts having been dispensed for the edification
of the household circle. Half a chapter was the usual allowance;
but a double portion was adjudged appropriate for Sunday,
which seemed to afford more time for such devotions than weekdays
are supposed to do.
Having made a few remarks on the text, Mr. Jackwood, kneeling
over the Bible in his chair, prayed with a certain earnestness,
which bore up Charlotte's soul on wings of devotion. But the
children's hearts were untouched; it was a threadbare prayer to
them: although kneeling reverently, they occupied themselves in
whispering, pinching, and making faces at each other, all in a
quiet way, until it was concluded. Mrs. Jackwood was sufficiently
serious for the occasion; yet she could not keep her eyes
off the turkeys, nor refrain from shaking her skirts at them when
they approached the door.
The morning devotions ended, Mr. Jackwood got out his shaving
apparatus; raised a lather which made his face look like a
mighty ice-cream; honed his razor; and, perching the kitchen
looking-glass on the window-frame, stood before it, with his feet
well braced for the operation, and proceeded to take off his
“baird.” Mrs. Jackwood washed the dishes, and Charlotte
wiped them, while Phœbe and Abimelech quarrelled over their
Sunday-school lesson, which they were pretending to study together
in the bed-room.
Employment diverted Charlotte's mind; but when there was
nothing more for her to do, she became despondent. In vain she
endeavored to repay the kindness of her friends with cheerful
looks and words. The tears would start, the sighs would swell up
from the deep well of trouble in her breast.
Mr. Jackwood felt that he ought to say something to comfort
her. “You an't growin' impatient, an' thinkin' o' leavin' on us,
be ye?” he cried, coming out of the bed-room, with his Sunday
shirt on. “Of course you would n't wish to be travellin' on the
Sabbath? — Here, mother,” turning to look for his wife, — “you 'll
have to button my rizbuns, arter all. Where be ye?”
“Let me button them, if you please,” said Charlotte.
“Them don't look like farmers' wives' hands,” observed Mr.
Jackwood, submitting the wristbands; “they 're nimble enough,
though; I guess they might be made useful, don't you?”
“I should be glad to make them so, indeed!”
“Would ye, though? There 's chances enough for that, I
should think. You 'd want some lady-like occupation, though, I
s'pose.”
“I would not care much what it was,” said the girl, “if I
could see, now and then, a kind face!”
“Wal, wal!” — cheeringly, — “suthin' 'll turn up, if you put
your trust in Providence, — that 's sartin. At all events, we 'll
agree to keep ye till there does.”
“Now, father!” remonstrated Mrs. Jackwood, entering at that
moment, “don't make no rash promises, I beseech!”
“O,” said their guest, quickly, “I could not accept your kindness,
if I would! I ought,” — a heavy shade of trouble darkened
her face, — “I know I ought to go — perhaps to-day!”
“Tut, tut! that 's nonsense!” returned the hospitable farmer.
“We can keep ye for a few days, jes' 's well 's not.”
“Why do you, father?” said Mrs. Jackwood, aside. “I 've
nothin' agin the girl; an' I mus' confess she 's about the handiest
person, for one t han't ben thoroughly drilled in housework, 't ever
I see. But we don' know nothin' who she is, nor where she come
from, nor nothin' 't all about her; so it stan's us in hand to be
careful.”
Mr. Jackwood was struck with the force of the observation.
But, turning to Charlotte, and looking into those deep, earnest
eyes, his wife's argument melted before them like frost in the sun
“Wal, we 'll talk it over to-morrow. But, take my word
for 't,” — with a cheering glance at his guest, — “'t 'll all turn
out right in the end.”
In a little while Mr. Jackwood and the children went off to
meeting in the one-horse wagon, driving the old white mare — an
establishment of which Phœbe, to use her own expression, was
“ashamed as she could be.” Charlotte watched until they were
out of sight, and still sat gazing anxiously from the window, while
Mrs. Jackwood finished the Sunday morning chores.
“I 'm tired,” at length said the farmer's wife, “an' I 'm goin'
to lop down a few minutes on the bed. You can come in an' set
by me, if ye like.”
The truth is, Mrs. Jackwood wished to keep an eye on Charlotte.
“Appearances are desaitful,” she reasoned, “an' there 's
no knowin' what may happen!” With this view, she took a
newspaper, to keep herself awake when conversation failed.
“I declare!” she exclaimed, suddenly, as she read, “what a
strange thing that was happened the other day! Have you heard
about it?”
She read a few paragraphs, while the other listened breathlessly.
“There 's more about it, in fine print; but that 'pears to be the
substance. Had n't you heard nothin' of it?”
“I — I believe I heard some men talking about it, yesterday,”
faltered Charlotte; “but I did n't know where it happened. How
far is the place from here?”
“I don't know; it 's out in York State somewheres.”
Charlotte breathed again, passing her hand across her pallid
face. At the same time Mrs. Jackwood, although fully determined
not to fall asleep, closed her eyes, letting the newspaper
sink gradually upon the bed. Having favored the first advances
of an insidious temptation, and turned her face towards the sweet
garden of sleep, she ended, as mortals are prone to do, by yielding
a second step, and then a third, until, with the very best resolutions
in the world, she passed the gate of slumber, and sank down
upon a deep poppy-bed, where a troop of mischievous sprites,
called dreams, seized her, and transported her into the inmost
recesses of the enchanted garden.
Then Charlotte, with stealthy hand, took up the paper, and
glanced hurriedly over the columns. Finding the place where
Mrs. Jackwood had been reading, she went over, with burning
interest, the portions that had been omitted; then laying down
the paper, without awakening the good woman, she glided
noiselessly from the room.
| IV.
THE SABBATH MORNING. Neighbor Jackwood | |