 | VI.
GRANDMOTHER RIGGLESTY. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
6. VI.
GRANDMOTHER RIGGLESTY.
A rheumatic old lady, in a brown bonnet and a faded bombazine
dress, with a fussy shawl about her neck, arrived at the
Excelsior House in the afternoon stage. Alighting with difficulty,
with her arms full of bundles, she gathered herself up on the step,
sneezed twice, and scrutinized the crowd of loungers with an
inquisitive scowl.
“Is anybody here knows Bim'lech Jackwood?” she inquired,
wrapping the fussy shawl more closely about her neck. “An' has
anybody seen him, this arternoon?”
Everybody appeared to know Mr. Abimelech Jackwood, but
nobody appeared to have seen him that afternoon.
“It 's the strangest thing! Here I wrote to Bim'lech's folks
more 'n a week ago — There, Mister — you driver! I knowed
that ban'box would git jammed, an' I telled ye so. It 's so
strange, folks can't be a little mite keerful! Don't tear that
trunk all to, pieces now, gitt'n on 't down! I wish you 'd hand
me that pa'cel I dropped 'fore it gits trod on. — That 's the wust
stage! I shan't git over it in my j'ints — I do'no' when!”
“Supper, ma'am?”
“No, I guess not; I 've got some lunch in my bag. I s'pose,”
— the old lady smiled persuasively, — “if Bim'lech's folks don't
come perty soon, you can jest gi' me a cup o' tea in my hand, can't
ye, without much charge? I don't keer for milk an' sugar.”
She sat down on her baggage, while, at her request, the landlord
sent across the way, and ascertained that a letter, post-marked
Sawney Hook, and addressed to Abimelech Jackwood, had
lain in the post-office several days.
“And it 's there yit!” exclaimed the old lady. “Did ever
anything in this world happen jest like that! Send a letter to say
you 're comin' — pay the postage on 't, too — I 'm provoked! You
don' know nobody 't 's goin' right by Bim'lech's, do ye, 't I can
ride with 's well 's not? I don't re'ly feel 's tho' 't I could
afford to hire a wagon a-puppus.”
It chanced that one of Mr. Jackwood's neighbors was about
starting for home, and could carry her directly to his house.
But, on being introduced, the neighbor said, evasively, that he had
come to the village on a “buck-board,” and could not, conveniently,
carry so much baggage.
“I 'll leave the bulk on 't for Bim'lech, then, an' take jest these
'ere bundles in my lap. I wonder who it was invented buck-boards,
— spring-boards, they call 'em to Sawney Hook. I never
could like 'em. Jest a long teeterin' board, from the fore ex to
the hind ex, with nothin' but a seat in the middle, — not a bit of
a box, nor no nothin' but the fills an' wheels!”
Unsocial neighbor: “You 're not obliged to ride on one.”
“O, I don't find no fault, no way! I look upon 't as a lucky
chance!” — in a conciliatory tone. “Bim'lech Jackwood is a
son-in-law of mine. His wife, Betsy Rigglesty that was, is my
darter. Don't ye think I can take this ban'box along, an' hold it
'tween our feet? I 'm 'most afraid to leave it. — O, wait a minute,
sir! my umbrel'! I shall want it to keep the wind off 'm my neck,
ridin'. Landlord,” whispering mysteriously, “see here a minute!
Is that 'ere a drinkin' man? He 's very red-faced, an' I am sartin
I smelt his breath.”
“He 's an Englishman,” said the landlord, “but a perfect
gentleman, you 'll find him.”
“It can't be Mr. Dunbury, can it? Laws sakes! I should n't
'a knowed him, — tho', to tell the truth, I never see him more 'n
two times 't I know on. I wish you 'd jest tuck my shawl up
around my bunnit a little, so the wind shan't strike to my back.
Now, if you 'll hand me this 'ere bag arter I git into that hateful
spring-board —”
A minute later, with her bundles in her lap, and her faded blue
cotton umbrella, of huge dimensions, spread over her left shoulder,
with the unsocial neighbor.
“This is Mr. Dunbury, I believe?” — talking loud, to make
herself heard under the umbrella.
The unsocial neighbor heartily wished, just then, that it was n't
Mr. Dunbury. Although a man of fallen fortunes, much of the
haughty Englishman's pride — now grown sensitive and sore —
adhered to him in his depressed condition; and he experienced a
sort of inward fury at the thought that he, a Dunbury, should
ever be placed in so ridiculous a position. He acknowledged his
identity, however, in a forbidding growl.
“Mebby ye don't remember me?” shouted the old lady under
her fortification. “I ben up here to visit my relations three
times in my life; an' I recollect the Dunburys. How 's Mis'
Dunbury? Does she have the spine now? or was it Mis' Wing
had a spine in her back? I 'most forgit. There! I declare
for 't!”
The old lady, struggling to arrange her umbrella, so as to defend
herself at all points from the fresh air, sadly to the annoyance
of the irritable Englishman, whose face and eyes were endangered,
had brought affairs to a pleasant crisis, by quietly knocking off his
hat.
“Le' me git off 'n git it,” she proposed. “Shan't I? If
you 'll jest hold my umbrel' an' bundles —”
“Sit still!” muttered her companion, jumping to the ground.
There were plenty of spectators to witness his discomfiture; and,
to make matters as bad as possible, the old lady raised her voice
to a shrill pitch, as he went back to recover his property.
“You see, if 't had been anything but a spring-board, — if
there 'd been any sort or kind of a box to the wagon, — your hat
would 'a fell into it, an' you would n't had to git out.”
The neighbor made no reply, but, taking his property out of the
dirt, with flushed dignity, put it upon his head, stalked back to the
vehicle, and drove on in silent rage. As he did not speak again,
until, arrived at Mr. Jackwood's house, he made haste to set her
down at the gate, she considered herself shamefully treated.
“I much obleeged for your very kind politeness!” she remarked,
trouble?”
The Englishman's sense of the humorous getting the better of his
mortification, he told her gravely that he would consider fourpence
a fair compensation.
“I declare,” she stammered, looking blank and perplexed, “I
hardly expected ye 'd make a charge on 't — but I 'm sure,” — she
fumbled in her purse, — “if three cents would be an object. — Git
out! you nasty thing!” — to Rover, who ran out, barking, and
leaped upon her dress. — “Strange to me people will keep a
yelpin' cur!”
Mr. Dunbury drove away whilst she was still fumbling for the
change.
“Good riddance!” she muttered; “I should have begrudged
him the fust cent; for he 's a drinkin' man, and I 'd know 't would
go straight for liquor. Is this Phœbe?”
“You 're my gran'mother Rigglesty, an't you?” cried the
delighted Phœbe, springing to kiss her venerable relation.
“My sakes! how you have growed, child!” A smile thawed
the old lady's hard visage a little on the surface, like spring sunshine
on frozen ground. “How 's mother an' Bim'lech? — Git
out, you sir!” — to Rover, with a kick, — “tearin' that 'ere
ban'box to pieces! There!”
“Ki-yi! ki-yi!” yelped the dog.
“Pups is the hatefulest critturs! an' I detest a yaller pup
above all! Take in that 'ere ban'box, dear. That grouty Englishman
had to throw it right down by the gate, as if 't wan't
nothin' more 'n a chunk. He 's the sourest, disagreeable-est man!
Phaugh!” — with a gesture of disgust, — “how his breath
smelt!”
“Why did n't ye write to let us know you was comin'?” cried
Mrs. Jackwood. “You thought you 'd take us by surprise, hey?”
“Why did n't I write?” echoed the old lady. “Don't none o'
your folks ever go to the post-office, I wonder? Bim'lech was
allus jes so slack, and allus will be, to the day of his death, fu 's
I know! I wrote you a week ago yis'day, an' the letter 's in the
office up here now.”
“Mother, let Bim go right down and get it,” cried the mortified
Phœbe.
“It 'll do a sight o' good to send for 't now! Bim'lech may
tackle up an' go for my things, though, as soon as ye please. Do
shet the door arter ye!” to Phœbe, who ran out to call her father.
“I 'm in a perty state to set in a draft of air! You 'll have to
larn to shet doors arter ye, if I stay here.”
Seated in the rocking-chair, in the kitchen, the old lady took an
unfinished stocking from her bag, and began to knit industriously.
Presently she paused, ceased rocking, closed her eyes and opened
her mouth, scowling and drawing in her breath, as if to provoke a
sneeze. Having succeeded in getting off a powerful double sternutation,
she hastened to huddle herself into the corner, looking
peevishly about the room.
“I 'm ketchin' cold, sure as this world! I ben feelin' a draft
on my neck ever sence I sot down; but I could n't tell, for the
life o' me, where 't come from. I allus telled Bim'lech this was
the wust, wind-leakiest house 't could possibly be contrived; but
there 's never ben the fust thought o' repairs done on 't, I warrant,
sence I was here: Bim'lech 's so shif'liss!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “O, wal, mother, we have to git along the
best we can, ye know. We can't afford extravagance.”
Old lady: “But you might be decent and comf'table, 't all
events. Bim'lech was allus fussin' 'bout suthin' 't wan't o' no
arthly kind o' use, while things 't ought to be 'tended to all went
to loose ends. If you was right smart, and had your say 'bout
things as you 'd ought to have, things 'u'd look a little different
round here, I tell ye!”
These remarks were interrupted by Phœbe and Bim, who came
running a race to the house, followed, more soberly, by their father.
“Dear me! how rude ye be, childern!” cried the old lady,
with a painful contortion of face. “You 're enough to take one's
head off!”
“Pheeb tickled my back, through the hole in my shirt, with a
darned old pigweed!” cried Bim; “and I 'm goin' to pay her!”
“O! what a voice!” ejaculated the old lady, with a tortured
expression. “It goes through me jest like a knife!”
“Bim'lech, this is your gran'mother,” said Mrs. Jackwood.
“I know it,” replied Bim, showing his teeth with a good-natured
grin.
“Why don't you speak to her, an' not be so boisterous?”
“I d'n' know what to say,” said the boy, lowering his voice,
and looking sheepish.
“Can't ye gi' me a sweet kiss, now?” asked the old lady, laying
her knitting on her lap; “Phœbe did.”
Abimelech, giggling: “I do' wanter!”
Old lady: “You d'n' know what I got for ye in my chist!
Mebby it 's a jack-knife, now, — who knows?”
The boy was almost persuaded; but, somehow, he could not
discover anywhere on the old lady's face a spot smooth enough to
kiss, except the tip of her nose; so he concluded not to indulge.
He afterwards had no occasion to regret his self-denial, the reputed
jack-knife in the old lady's chest turning out to be a
complete hoax.
Old lady, resentfully: “Wal, you 're a notty boy, — an' notty
boys don't git no presents. — How do you do, Bim'lech?” reaching
out her hand to Mr. Jackwood.
Mr. Jackwood greeted her heartily; and how was she herself?
“O, I an't a bit well,” — releasing his hand immediately, and
resuming her knitting. “An' more 'n all that I never expect to
be. My constitution 's all broke to pieces. I 've a dre'ful
rheumatiz. An' what 's wus 'n all, there 's nobody in this
world 't has the least mite o' charity for me, or pity on my sufferin's.”
Taking from her bag a cotton handkerchief, embellished with a
print of the Good Samaritan, she wiped her eyes on it, and put it
back again. Then, observing that everybody was very much distressed,
she assumed an air of grim satisfaction over her knitting.
“Wal, wal, gran'mother,” said Mr. Jackwood, sympathetically,
“you 'll have your reward; if not here, herearter.”
“I 've giv' up expectin' anything in this life,” she whimpered,
pulling out the Good Samaritan again. “Here I 've slaved an'
slaved, all my days, an' brought up a large family of children, an'
'em all a good settin' out when they got married — an' that 's all
the thanks I git for 't!”
“O, no, no, mother!” cried Mr. Jackwood, cheerily.
The old lady pursued her knitting, while the tears ran ostentatiously
down her cheeks.
“I han't a child in the world, but that wishes me out o' the
way, — for I an't nothin' but a burden now to nobody!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Don't, mother, talk so, an' give way to your
feelin's!”
Old lady: “O, wal, if I distress people, I s'pose I mus' n't.
It 's the duty of ol' people to give up, when they 've wore themselves
out in doin' for their children; it 's a sin to speak on 't, or
complain. O, wal,” — drying her eyes on the Good Samaritan, —
“I 'll be more keerful in futur'.”
Finding the scene too painful, Mr. Jackwood went out to harness
the horse, in order to go for the old lady's baggage.
“I 'm real sorry she 's come here to stop,” said Bim. “We
can't have no fun while she 's around.”
Mr. Jackwood: “Hush up! You mus' n't talk so. It 's your
duty to love her, an' make things pleasant for her.”
Abimelech: “How can a feller? — Say, Pheeb!” — to his
sister, who ran out to speak for some “best green tea” from the
grocery, for the old lady's use — “how do you like her?”
Phœbe, in a disappointed tone: “I was in hopes she 'd be real
good and cosey! I could done anything for her, if she was like
Bertha Wing's gran'mother — but I don't like her a bit; so,
there!”
“Tut, tut!” said Mr. Jackwood.
The old lady had by this time discovered a strange face through
the half-open door of the adjoining room.
“Who is that crittur?” she demanded. “What 's her name?
What 's she here for?”
“Her name is Charlotte Woods,” whispered Mrs. Jackwood,
closing the door. “She was travellin', an' lost her way, somehow,
when father found her and brought her home.”
“Fiddle-stick's eend! That 's jest like you 'n' Bim'lech, now,
about her?”
Mrs. Jackwood only knew that Charlotte had proved herself
honest, and “willin' to do.” Besides, she appeared to have undergone
so many trials and hardships, that they — the Jackwoods,
not the trials and hardships — were “re'ly gittin' quite attached
to her.”
“Hum-drum!” ejaculated grandmother Rigglesty. “Them 's
your notions! Bring the crittur' out here, and le' me look at her!”
Charlotte had been found to possess a skill in ornamental needle-work;
and she was now busily engaged on some nice sewing
for Phœbe, which, in her ardor to do something to gratify her
friends, she was unwilling to leave until finished; but, on being
informed of the old lady's desire for an introduction, she put her
work aside, and arose to accompany Mrs. Jackwood.
“You must be prepared to put up with her odd notions. You 'll
do that for my sake.”
“What would I not do for your sake?” said Charlotte. “You
have been so kind to me!”
“O, wal, I mean to do as I 'd be done by,” replied Mrs. Jackwood,
with suffused features. “The best miss it sometimes; I
know I do; — an' we must have charity one for another. I hope
you 'll have charity for her; she 's got well along in years, an'
there 's no denyin' but she 's had a many things to try her. Le'
me take your work along: that 'll please her.”
Charlotte herself, one would have thought, must please the
most fastidious of grandmothers. Mrs. Rigglesty, however, regarded
her only with a scrutinizing scowl. The girl's countenance
fell: a phenomenon the old lady construed at once into a
demonstration of guilt. Then she asked a number of sharp, hard
questions, which Charlotte could not answer without embarrassment:
another indication that she was a deceitful character.
Phœbe thought to give matters a pleasant turn, by calling attention
to the needle-work.
“Heugh!” grunted the old lady; “that 's a fine way to waste
one's time! Time 's money; did ye know it, child? Say! did
ye know it?” — with a disagreeable look at Charlotte.
“It is sometimes better than money, I think,” replied Charlotte.
“Better 'n money?” echoed grandmother Rigglesty. You
would have thought her some amazed and indignant female inquisitor,
examining a fair heretic. “Better 'n money? What
on 'arth d' ye mean by that?”
The timid girl shrank from making any reply; but, being
pressed, she drew herself up, with a grace and dignity which delighted
Phœbe, and answered, modestly, that, while she thought
time should not be wasted, she deemed it too precious to be coined
up, every hour and minute, into gold.
“And what would ye do with 't? Le' me look!” The old
lady snatched the collar from Phœbe's hand. “O, I see!” — sarcastically.
“This is very fancical! But what does the Scriptur's
say 'bout vanities? You 'd better 'nough on 't be to work on
suthin' useful.”
Charlotte had no word to offer; but, with a swelling heart and
quivering lip, she took her work, and quietly withdrew.
“You may depend on 't,” exclaimed the old lady, “she 's a
dangerous person to have round. I should a' had my suspicions
on her, see her where I would. That guilty look — that guilty
look!” — with a grimace. “Don't tell me 'bout that gal's honesty!”
“I think she 's a perfect beauty!” cried Phœbe.
“Beauty, skin deep!” sneered grandmother Rigglesty. “Gals
of her character gene'lly have 'nough o' that. But, if your mother
knows what is good for you, miss, she 'll send the crittur' away
from here, mighty quick!”
“Mother won't send her away — I don't believe!” said Phœbe,
in an under-tone.
“What 's that?” demanded the old lady. “Don't handle
them dishes so keerliss; you 'll break 'em, next you know! —
What 's that you 're mutterin'?”
“I 'll handle the dishes just as carelessly as I please!” declared
Phœbe, in the same indistinct utterance.
“You want me to train ye a little while, miss! I 'd larn ye
to mutter when you 're spoke to!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Phœbe!”
Phœbe, pouting: “I don't care! I 'd take Charlotte's part,
if all the world was ag'inst her!”
Old lady, whimpering: “Wal, wal! I expect sich treatment,
an' I must put up with 't! I see I an't wanted here!” — more
tears, and the Good Samaritan again; — “my own darter's darter
sasses me to my face! Wal, wal! I 'm an ol' woman, an'
't an't no matter!”
Mrs. Jackwood reproved Phœbe severely; and the girl herself,
touched with compunctions, declared that she did not intend to
hurt anybody's feelings, and asked to be forgiven. This was a
triumph, upon the strength of which the old lady and the Good
Samaritan enjoyed a most confidential and tearful season, until
Mr. Jackwood and Bim entered with the baggage, and the family
sat down to supper.
At the table, Mrs. Rigglesty manifested a healthful resentment
of insults, by refusing to accept any food at the hands of the
unforgiven Phœbe, and waiting, with an injured expression, to be
served by either Mr. Jackwood or Betsy. To add still further to
the general comfort, she significantly hitched her chair away from
Charlotte's, and gathered up the skirts of her bombazine with virtuous
care, as if to avoid all contact or compromise with so questionable
a person.
It was the first time Charlotte had been present at an unsocial
meal in Mr. Jackwood's house. Her heart was full; she could
not eat; for already she saw that her evil genius — if such things
are — had reäppeared, after a brief respite, in the form of a grim
old grandmother, who would not rest until she was once more
driven forth into the shelterless and stormy wastes of life.
“What a queer dream I had!” said Phœbe, as she awoke, on
the following morning. “I thought gran'mother was an elephant,
with a long stocking over her nose for a trunk, and Bim
rode into meeting on her back! Was n't it funny?”
Charlotte smiled wearily.
“Why, what 's the matter? How pale you look! Are you
sick?”
“No,” replied Charlotte; “but I have not slept well.”
“It 's all owing to granny — I don't care if I do call her
granny!” exclaimed Phœbe. “But you need n't let her worry
you a bit. What if she did say she was going to stay here all
summer? I 'll fix it so 'st she won't want to stop a week. I 'll
do everything I can to plague her!”
“No, no, Phœbe,” answered Charlotte. “Be kind to her, —
and I will endeavor to be patient, — and perhaps all will be
well.”
Even while she spoke, that vague presentiment of coming
trouble, which had gathered like a cloud over her heart, darkened
more and more, and she could see no light beyond.
They had grandmother Rigglesty again for breakfast.
“O dear!” sighed the old lady, declining into the rocking-chair,
“I don't think I shall burden anybody much longer!
Them that 's so anxious to git red o' me 'll have their wish soon
enough, at this rate. Jest look at my tongue, Betsy; did ye ever
see sich a tongue, in all your life? I had a dreadful nightmare,
last night. Did n't anybody hear me groan? Wal, it 's a blessin'
to sleep sound, 'specially when an ol' person like me, that an't o'
no arthly 'count to nobody, is in distress. 'T would n't be wuth
while to disturb young folks, though it might save my life jest to
pull my little finger, when I have them horrid nightmares. Wal,
it is to be expected 't every smooth-spoken crittur 't comes along,”
— turning her back to Charlotte, — “will have attention paid
'em, while a poor ol' body, that 's slaved the life out of her for her
children, — wal, no matter!”
Observing that her complaints had produced their legitimate
effect, in making all around her unhappy, Mrs. Rigglesty found it
necessary to send to the spare bed-room for the Good Samaritan,
whom she had left rolled up under her pillow. That ancient
comforter being brought, she communed with him over her plate,
until everybody's appetite appeared reduced to the same low condition
with her own. Rallying a little at this, she made a feeble
attempt upon the breakfast, but declared that even the tea had a
disagreeable taste.
“O, wal, I may as well give up eatin' entirely. Folks don't
turns my stomach.”
As she sat back in her chair, sighing, and stirring her tea with
a desolate expression, Phœbe left the table, and stood pouting at
the kitchen door.
“I can't have that air blowin' on to me!” cried Mrs. Rigglesty.
“My shawl is off my shoulders, too! I 'm all over
aches, a' ready, from the sole o' my head to the crown o' my foot!
Sich a pain all through the back o' my neck as I woke up with this
mornin'! nobody can never know nothin' 't all 'bout it! I can
twist my head so,” — she turned it towards her right shoulder, —
“but,” — turning it in the same way towards her left, — “I can't
twist it so, for the life o' me. An' every time I move it I have to
scream right out, as if you 'd cut me with a knife! Ou!”
Thereupon Bim laughed till he choked, and rushed headlong
from the table, with the milk he had been drinking running out
of his nose.
Thus a change comes over Mr. Jackwood's house.
Charlotte is not the only sufferer, though the greatest. From
the elder Jackwood down to the hopeful Bim, all are subject to
the sway of the despotic grandmother. With the Good Samaritan
for her prime minister, she reigns supreme, — her knitting-work
her sceptre, the rocking-chair her throne. Phœbe dares
but whisper sedition, while not even Bim has courage openly to
rebel.
Grandmother Rigglesty has early declared her intention to
revolutionize things a little. The first article in her code is —
work. She cannot endure aught that savors of idleness. Even
the senior Jackwood she spurs to a more rigid economy of time.
The long noonings he so much enjoys fill her with amazement
and distress. So much precious time wasted! such carelessness
of worldly gain! 't would be enough, she says, to try the
patience of Job. She cannot, it is true, order Mr. Jackwood to
go about his business in so many words; but she can whip the
father over the convenient shoulders of the son. So, after dinner,
Bim — to use his own expression — “has to take it.”
“Sonny,” calls grandmother Rigglesty from her throne.
“What?” snarls Bim, who hates to be called sonny.
“W-h-a-t? Is that the way to answer? You han't had me
to larn ye manners, or ye would n't speak so! What! — Come
here, an' you 'll know what!”
Bim, who is engaged in putting together the frame of a
small wagon, under the stoop, kicks off one of the wheels vindictively,
and comes forward, with fiery looks, to learn his sentence.
Old lady, coaxingly: “Don't ye want to hold this yarn for me
to wind? — that 's a good boy!”
Abimelech, scowling fiercely: “I knowed there 'd be suthin'
for me to do!”
“Wal, you be an abused child, I must say for 't! You wan't
born to work, was ye?”
“No, by darn, I wan't! And I an't goin' to work every
minute o' the time, if I haf to run away!”
“Does your father hear that?”
Mr. Jackwood, tipped back in his chair by the door, enjoying
a comfortable smoke, perceives that he is expected to interfere.
“Bim'lech!” — in a warning tone, — “don't le' me hear no
more o' that!”
Old lady: “It does a great deal o' good to correct a child that
way! A child o' mine would n't a' got off so easy!”
Mr. Jackwood, with a transparent frown: “Be a good boy,
now, or I shall take ye in hand.”
The old lady, sneezing, adjusts the yarn to the boy's hand.
Abimelech, submitting with a bad grace: “Wind fast, any way!”
Old lady: “You need n't be so uppish 'bout it! 'T won't hurt
ye to hold yarn a little while.”
“Father takes a noonin', and why can't I?”
“If he does, I don't! I never think of sich a thing. I never
brought up my children to sich lazy habits, nuther.” — Mr. Jackwood
winces. — “Han't your father nothin' in the world for you
to do?”
“I should think so! There an't a boy nowheres round here
has to tug it so hard as I do. I 'm gittin' round-shouldered
a'ready.”
“What 'll ye be when you 've done as much work as I have?
— There! you've held the yarn, an' it han't quite killed ye, arter
all the fuss! Don't go to putterin' with that waggin now!
You 'd better go 'n' finish the fence you was to work on this forenoon.”
Abimelech, drawing Rover's tail through the centre of a
wagon-wheel: “I can't do nothin' to the fence without father.”
Old lady, losing patience: “Do see that boy! I wish the
dog 'u'd bit him! — I should think your father — How I do
detest shif'lissness! Go 'n' split some wood!”
Abimelech, grumbling: “The axe 's out in the lot, an' I an't
goin' to split wood for a noonin' for nobody!”
Old lady, exasperated: “O, dear! was ever so ugly a young-one!”
Mr. Jackwood, sitting uneasily in his chair: “Bim'lech! what
ye 'bout?”
Abimelech, sharply: “Nothin'!”
Phœbe: “He 's trying to make an axletree of Rover's tail; —
that 's all. Tie a knot in it, Bim, then the wheel won't come
off.”
Old lady: “Do hold yer tongue, an' tend to them dishes!
Sich children! If I was in yer mother's place, I 'd cuff yer
ears, both on ye! Now, what 's the matter with you, I 'd like to
know!” — to Charlotte. “If yer mind was in yer work, as
it ought to be, you would n't set there drawin' long breaths! I
wish I could have my way in this family! Things 'u'd go a little
different, I guess!”
Mr. Jackwood, knocking the ashes out of his pipe: “Come,
Bim'lech, are ye ready?”
Bim, furiously: “What?”
Mr. Jackwood: “It 's time to go to work. I guess we 'll take
some fire out in the lot, an' see if that 'ere stump 'll burn this
arternoon.”
Abimelech: “That 's jest the way! Con—demn it all!” bashing
the wagon against the cheese-press. “There! I 've broken it!
and I 'm glad on 't. I can 't have a minute to myself!”
Such scenes are of daily occurrence. The old lady displays a
reformatory spirit. The sink-pump is so noisy that it “jumps
right through her bones,” when any one goes to it for water. The
pig-pen is too far from the house, the stables too near. The
stove-oven is the “wust thing” to bake short-cake in ever
invented. Then, there are those “plaguy turkeys and chickens,”
dodging into the kitchen a hundred times a day! A still greater
annoyance is the dog Rover. Him she neglects no opportunity
to cuff or kick. When he is lying quietly under the stove, she
puncheth him with the broom-handle, she pincheth him with the
tongs. And when all these subjects of complaint are exhausted
for the day, she falls back upon her lame shoulder, pities herself
to tears, and has recourse to the Good Samaritan.
By some subtle logic of her own, not demonstrable to common
minds, the old lady connects all these afflicting circumstances
with Charlotte, as their centre and source. “Things would go
very different, if 't want for that upstart!” says grandmother
Rigglesty. Whatever the evil complained of, — the poultry, the
pump, the dog, or the laziness of Bim and the elder Jackwood, —
her suspicious glances single out Charlotte as somehow guilty and
responsible. Even her rheumatism, of twenty years' standing,
seems mysteriously related to the same sinister cause.
This treatment is insufferable. It leaves Charlotte no moment
of peace. She feels impelled to leave her kind friends, to whom
she perceives that her presence brings only discomfort and distress.
But Phœbe clings to her with all the vehemence of a
girlish attachment; and Mr. and Mrs. Jackwood, out of the
sympathy of their hearts, afford her what consolation and encouragement
they can.
Thus a week goes by; when one day there comes a crisis. Under
pretence of making a critical investigation of Betsy's cheeses,
the old lady muffles herself in her shawl, ascends the chamber
stairs with painful steps, and, having taken care to divert suspicion
from her real purpose by sneezing loudly five or six times,
and rattling the empty boards on the shelves, in the cheese-room,
glides softly and stealthily into the girls' bed-chamber.
Grandmother Rigglesty is possessed of an inquiring turn of
incidental to rummaging other people's boxes and drawers;
and it is this praiseworthy interest in her neighbors' affairs that
attracts her eager fingers to Phœbe's letter-box, then to the
bureau and closet. With what vivid enjoyment she scrutinizes
every garment, trinket, and silly school-girl note! But, like all
earthly pleasures, this of ransacking is transient and unsatisfactory.
Arrived at the furthest obscure corner of the clothes-room,
she is ready to weep like Alexander when he had no more
worlds to conquer. She turns, and in the dark hits her head
against the low roof. Incensed, she peers around, as if to see
what audacious rafter inflicted the knock. Ha! what 's this?
Something carefully folded and put away over the beam. She
drags it out; she holds it up to the light; she turns it over, and
around, and inside out.
“Sakes alive!” grumbles grandmother Rigglesty, “what 's
here? An ol' merino, sure 's I live! Betsy never had sich a
gown!” Turning it again. “It can't be Phœbe's.” Still
another turn. “It” — the old lady's features contract — “it 's
that crittur's!”
With renewed curiosity, sharpened by malice, she searches for
pockets; and, finding one, explores it eagerly.
“What on 'arth!” — drawing forth her hand. A small package
is brought to the light, and she makes haste to undo it. — “An
ol' woman's cap!” splutters grandmother Rigglesty; “gray
hair!” — still greater astonishment, — “and spectacles! —
Marcy on me! It all comes to me as clear as day! cap, spectacles,
an' all!”
Without pausing to reflect that she is about to expose her own
dishonest intermeddling, down stairs she hurries, and, bursting
into the kitchen, displays her trophies.
Mrs. Jackwood, taking a custard-pie from the oven, drops it
upon the nearest chair, and regards her mother with amazement.
The latter, in her excitement, has placed the spectacles on her
own nose, where they tremble with the agitation which shakes her
unstrung nerves.
“W-w-w-where is that hussy?” — brandishing the cap and
I t-t-t-tell ye!”
“What 's the matter?” cries Mrs. Jackwood.
Charlotte sits dreamily plying her needle by the window, when,
aroused by the sudden burst of the storm, she looks up, and perceives
at a glance what has occurred. The color leaves her cheek,
but, without a word, she bows her head over her work, and waits
patiently for the commotion to pass.
“Matter!” echoes grandmother Rigglesty. “Look at this
'ere gown!”
“I 've seen it before,” observed Mrs. Jackwood, — “han't I?
Why, it 's Charlotte's.”
“I seen it 'fore you ever did!” cries grandmother Rigglesty.
“A stragglin' woman stopped to Jacob's, down to Sawney Hook;
an' she wore this very same gown, an' spectacles, an' false hair,
I can take my oath! I was sick a-bed, or she would n't a' got
off as she did. I knowed she was an impostor, the minute I set
eyes on her; but Jacob would n't hear to 't; an' now it all turns
out jest as I said. 'T was this crittur! Look up, here; how
green ye look!” — as if the phenomenon were Charlotte's fault,
and not that of the colored glasses. “What ye got to say for
yerself, hey?”
Slowly Charlotte raises her head, and puts back her dark hair
from her face. All pale, and cold, and self-subdued, with a thrilling
beauty in her aspect, she fixes her eyes upon the angry dame.
“I can make no explanations,” — she speaks gently, but there
is a quick quiver of passion in her lip, — “only to those who have
trusted me,” tears rush to her eyes as she turns to Phœbe
and her mother, “I would say this, from a true and grateful
heart — that I have not willingly deceived; but it is my misfortunes
that have brought me here, and made me what I am.”
Phœbe, vehemently: “I believe you; I believe every word
you say!” throwing her arms about Charlotte's neck. “And I
wish folks would let you alone, and mind their own business!”
Mrs. Jackwood, agitated: “Phœbe! Phœbe!”
Grandmother Rigglesty: “You — you — you sassy thing!”
Phœbe: “I don't care! I 'll stand up for Charlotte with my
to be Christians, were half as good as she is!”
The old lady infuriate; Mrs. Jackwood, fluttering, tries to make
peace; while Charlotte, touched by Phœbe's devotion, clasps her
in her arms, and weeps upon her shoulder.
The arrival of Mr. Jackwood, with Bim and the dog, is opportune.
He is just in time to support the old lady, who totters
backward in a fit, the moment she perceives somebody near to
catch her. The fit is generally supposed to be feigned. At all
events, either from habit or otherwise, that remarkable woman
finds it in her way to bestow a kick upon Rover, who, forgetting
his usual precaution, in the general excitement, approaches his
enemy just as the elder Abimelech eases her down upon a chair.
Younger Abimelech, through his teeth: “Bite her, Rove!”
Rover, holding up one foot: “Ki-yi! ki-yi!”
Mrs. Jackwood, running for the camphor, and stumbling over
the dog: “Git out! I never!”
Grandmother Rigglesty, starting up wildly: “What am I settin'
on? Marcy sakes! if 't an't that bilin' custard!”
Mr. Jackwood, astounded: “If that don't beat all!”
Mrs. Jackwood: “Strange you could n't see that pie, father!”
The old lady totters towards the bed-room, dripping custard by
the way.
Mrs. Jackwood: “Don't se' down, mother! I 'll bring a towel.”
Bim, doubling up with mirth: “Goodie, goodie!” — possibly
alluding to the pie.
Mr. Jackwood folds his hands behind him, and regards the consequences
of the disaster with a look of consternation. Rover
licks the spatters of custard from the floor and chair, and, timidly
approaching the mass which was a pie, — now a crushed and smoking
ruin, — snuffs and dodges as it burns his nose. Bim sprawls
upon the floor, screaming with excessive laughter.
Phœbe, excited: “I 'm glad of it! She might let Charlotte
alone!”
Mr. Jackwood: “Don't speak so!”
Phœbe: “I don't care, she 's no business to! If she had n't
been meddling with what did n't belong to her, she would n't have
I 'd like to know?”
“Never mind,” says Mr. Jackwood, approaching Charlotte;
“I 'll make it all right; I 'll stand by ye!”
“Good Mr. Jackwood! But I have brought you trouble
enough already. Let me go now; — I cannot stay here any
longer.”
Mr. Jackwood, remonstrating, is interrupted by a knock at the
front door. Rover growls. Bim runs to admit the visitor. Phœbe
bustles about to destroy all traces of the custard catastrophe.
Charlotte dries her eyes. Enter Mr. Dunbury.
Mr. Jackwood, cordially: “Good-arternoon, neighbor. Take
a cheer. Git out, dog!”
Rover, leaping good-naturedly upon the proud Englishman's
trousers, prints them with custard.
Phœbe, flurried: “Put him out doors, Bim!” — meaning
Rover, not Mr. Dunbury. “He 's had his feet in the pie.”
Mr. Dunbury, very red: “Don't mind; no damage done.”
His eyes rest upon Charlotte, bending over her work. Phœbe,
who likes to introduce people, introduces her friend. The Englishman
regards the fair stranger with surprise. Something in
her face or manner commands his respect. He rises politely, yet
not without some embarrassment at meeting one of her appearance
so unexpectedly, and, resuming his seat, instinctively places his
hat over a hole in his left knee.
At this juncture, grandmother Rigglesty, curious to learn who
has come, enters and stands with her back towards the stove. Recognizing
an old acquaintance, she says “How de do?” with an
air of resentment, designed to impress him with the fact that she
possesses a memory of wrongs.
Mrs. Jackwood, anxious to divert attention from the old lady:
“How is Mrs. Dunbury to-day?”
Mr. Dunbury: “She 's very low, again. She will be better
soon, however, I hope, for we expect Hector —”
Phœbe, with a start and a blush: “Hector! Is he coming
home?”
Mr. Dunbury: “He has written that he will be here to-night.
borrow your wagon to bring him down from the village.”
Mr. Jackwood: “Sartin, neighbor Dunbury; anything I 've
got, you 're welcome to.”
Charlotte, suffering greatly, and feeling ill at ease in the Englishman's
presence, escapes to her chamber, followed by Phœbe.
“Only think, Charlotte!” cries the young girl, animated,
“Hector Dunbury is coming to-night! He will go right by here.
We 'll be on the look-out, and see him.”
Charlotte, tenderly: “I would like to see your hero; — yet,”
— with a sad intonation, — “he is nothing to me. Nobody is
anything to me now, but you, Phœbe. And you, dear Phœbe!
— I must leave you soon!”
Phœbe, with a frightened air: “What do you mean? You
an't going!”
“Yes, dear child, I shall go! You must not oppose me,
now!”
Phœbe, frantically, at the head of the stairs: “Mother! mother!
— You shan't, you shan't stir out of this house to-night! We
won't let you!”
“Phœbe, dear Phœbe!”
Mrs. Jackwood, appearing presently, finds the two locked in a
close embrace.
“Mother, she says she is going! Shall she? Tell father! —
He won't let her, I know.”
Mrs. Jackwood offers sober counsel to dissuade Charlotte from
her purpose. Meanwhile, the excited Phœbe runs out, alarms
the elder Abimelech, and brings him to the chamber.
For once in his life, Mr. Jackwood's quiet spirit is roused. He
declares that, before he will see Charlotte leave his roof, he will
give the old lady her “walking-ticket,” and ship her off to Sawney
Hook by the morning stage, without any remorse whatever.
“We 've had enough of her pesky notions!” cries Mr. Abimelech
Jackwood; and puts his foot down.
Charlotte is more and more distressed. No, no! he must not
do that, she insists; and, to pacify her friends, she promises to
reconsider her resolution, and remain with them until morning.
But reflection only confirms her in the thought that it is her
duty to go. Let what will betide, she cannot, — she, who has no
claim upon her too kind friends, — she cannot be the cause of
sending away from her own daughter's house even so unworthy
and unwelcome a guest as grandmother Rigglesty.
No, she herself must go, — and quietly, too, to make the pain
of parting all her own. Accordingly, after passing a sleepless
night, she rises in the still of the morning, dresses herself by the
moonlight that lies so calmly in the chamber, imprints a kiss on
Phœbe's lips, and drops a tear upon her cheek, without awaking
her, and goes forth noiselessly from the house. She wears the
garments given her by her friends, carrying her own in a small
bundle; and, thus equipped to battle with the world, she sets out
upon her journey amid a silence so solemn that there is something
strange and awful in the sound of her own light tread upon
the soft dust of the road.
| VI.
GRANDMOTHER RIGGLESTY. Neighbor Jackwood | |