 | VII.
THE DUNBURYS. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
7. VII.
THE DUNBURYS.
A faint whisper, and the feeble fluttering of a white hand on
the pillow, called Bertha Wing to the bedside of her friend.
“I thought I heard a wagon, — there, is not that my son's
voice?”
Miss Wing had heard nothing; and the invalid sunk at once
into despondency. At her request, — and mayhap to relieve her
own anxious feelings, — Bertha resorted to the porch, and listened
under the vines. Hearing no sound of wheels, she walked out
beneath the trees, and looked up the road. Still no Hector.
It was now dusk. The evening was calm and clear. Over the
western range of mountains the star of Love burned with a pale
flame in the silvery sky, while in the east the yellow moon, half-risen,
shone like a wide, luminous tent pitched behind the hills.
Bertha saw the star, and the moon, and the shadows in the
valley all around, and the fair vault of over-arching blue; and
she gazed on all this beauty, until, no longer able to control her
woman's heart, which had been disciplined to suffer and be still
through long years, she leaned her forehead against one of the
maples by the fence, and wept.
But she hastened to check her tears. She looked up and smiled,
and said, “I will be strong!” At that instant, beneath the heaped-up
foliage that towered above her, a bat flitted in zig-zag course
athwart the gloom. It startled her, for she was looking for some
fair omen whence to gather hope; and her eyes followed it with
a sort of fascination, when, as it disappeared in the dusk, she
beheld, in the direction of its angular flight, the figure of a
man.
Her first impulse was to escape; but, on reaching the porch, she
turned again, and met the visitor at the gate. It was Mr. Rukely,
the minister. He greeted her with marked tenderness of manner,
and inquired for Mrs. Dunbury.
“Nothing but the hope of seeing Hector seems to sustain her,”
answered Bertha, with a slight tremor in her tone.
“Is Hector coming?” asked the visitor, surprised.
“Yes; he wrote that he would be here to-night,” — Miss Wing
dropped her eyes. “I think it will be well for his mother; she
pines for him, as if he were her life.”
Mr. Rukely looked troubled; but she invited him to go in,
and, passing under the porch, with her hand in his, the cloud
cleared from his brow; — yet could he not perceive that she
shrank from him instinctively; that while her understanding and
her will were the two open arms that welcomed him, there was
something deeper and stronger in her nature, that repelled him?
Bertha took shame to herself that it was so. She sat by and
heard him talk to her invalid friend, and each noble word that
fell from his lips dropped like fire upon her rebellious heart.
When he went away, she accompanied him to the porch, and
pressed his hand with strange earnestness at parting.
“Forgive me! forgive me!” she said, in deep humility.
“Forgive?” repeated Mr. Rukely, with a benevolent smile.
“For what?”
Bertha: “Why is it that I could never appreciate you?
Surely, surely, if I loved only the good and the true, my natural
heart would never have rebelled, when reason said, `Love!'”
Mr. Rukely, with hopeful interest: “Does it rebel now?”
Bertha, very faintly: “No, not now.”
But Bertha could not look up, to return his cordial “good-night;”
and when she raised her eyes, he had passed the gate.
Then again, as before, the ominous bat flitted athwart the gloom,
and disappeared, flapping around the minister's black hat.
Bertha returned to the bedside of her friend, and buried her
face in the pillows.
“What is it, my poor girl?” asked Mrs. Dunbury. “Let me
know all your grief.”
Bertha sobbed. — “Has God forsaken me? Can He withhold
His light and strength from one whose only prayer is to serve
Him aright? I sometimes think so; else why, in all my struggles
—”
She checked herself. She had spoken wildly; she was afraid
she had blasphemed. Unwilling to impose her burdens on her
friend, she arose, and endeavored to forget her sorrows in offices of
charity.
Mrs. Dunbury had been sustained by an interest in the girl's
sufferings; but now, when the conversation turned upon her own
condition, she sank at once. Hector would not come; all hope
of recovering was past; and she assured Miss Wing, with pathetic
earnestness, that she had but a few minutes to live.
Bertha was not much alarmed; yet, pencil in hand, she sat
down, with a serious face, to receive the mother's dying words to
her son.
Mrs. Dunbury was an English woman, of strong natural intelligence
and fine sensibilities, ripened by culture in early life; and
misfortune and ill-health had not so far impaired her intellect, but
her dying message evinced all the richness and grace of expression
of her happiest days. Unfortunately, it was never completed.
Not that her spirit departed, but that Hector arrived.
Bertha Wing dropped her pencil, and stood up, pale, and trembling
in every nerve, as if she had seen an apparition; while Mrs.
Dunbury, who had just composed herself to die comfortably, started
up in bed, and cried out with joy. How different that cry from
the late dying whisper!
“Well, mother, you are glad to see the prodigal!” said Hector,
in a voice full of tenderness and cheer, when she had clung
spasmodically to his neck for some seconds. “Ah, Bertha! is
that you?”
Bertha's conscious face became suddenly very red, and there
was a slight trill of agitation in her voice, as she returned the
greeting.
“If mother would let go my hand, I would kiss you, Bertha!
But, upon my word, I can't get away! — How strong you are,
mother! Sick? — I don't believe it! Your pulse — as good a
All you need is a little stimulus.”
Mrs. Dunbury, shaking her head: “O, but I have tried tonics
faithfully!”
Hector snapped his fingers: “So much for your tonics! This
is what I mean,” — pressing her hand to his heart, — “sympathy,
sympathy! Confess to me that this is what you have wanted.”
“I know it is — I know it! You make me a different being!
Dear boy! how my heart has yearned for you! You are my
only hope and stay! Your father — your father!” — the invalid's
voice faltered, — “he needs you, too, my son. Promise me
now — this night — that you will not leave us again.”
At mention of his father, Hector's head sank upon his breast;
but, recovering himself, he looked up, pressing the invalid's hand.
“O, I shall not leave you in a hurry, mother! I am glad to
feel once more the peaceful influences of my old home. The
woods, and streams, and mountains, and all the haunts of this
most beautiful and tranquil of green valleys, will inspire me; and
it seems as though I could spend years of happy quiet beneath
this dear old roof: but the good Divinity that shapes our ends
leads me by such unexpected paths, and flings open before me so
many golden gates of surprise, that I dare make no definite plans
for the future. I can promise nothing.”
Hector turned his fine eyes up with a look of aspiration, which
thrilled his mother. At that moment, the shrill old clock rang in
the adjoining room. Hector started.
“The same venerable time-piece, my boy! How many hours
I have counted by that clock, in your absence, when every stroke
has rolled an almost insupportable burden on my soul! — But I
must not forget my drops. Bertha ran into the other room: will
you speak to her?”
“Perhaps I can administer to you myself. Where are your
drops?” — Hector turned to the vials and cups on the table. —
“Merciful — mother! what 's all this?”
“Those are my medicines. I have been obliged to resort to
quite a variety.”
Hector looked horrified: “Medicines! variety! death and destruction!”
“You frighten me, Hector. Don't, my son! Why do you
look so strangely?”
“Because I am exceeding wroth! O, what a native power you
must have, to admit so many deadly enemies into the citadel of
your constitution, and hold out against them all! Look you,
dear mother, — I aspire to be your medical adviser for a few
days. Will you accept me?”
Such was Mrs. Dunbury's confidence in Hector, that she acceded
at once to his proposal.
“And you engage to follow my directions?”
“Willingly, — for I am sure my wise and generous son can do
no wrong.”
At that moment, there was a crash.
Hector, with a queer expression: “Cannot, eh? Look there!”
“Why, what have you done?”
“Nothing, — only upset the table a little.”
“And the vials?”
“Are smashed, mother! I 'll tell you how it happened. I
thought I would give you a tune in place of a powder; and, seeing
the flute on the book-case, I reached up — the table was in
the way — I placed my knee gently and adroitly on the leaf, and
— the result!”
Hector's good-nature was irresistible.
“He was careful to put the lamp on the mantel-piece!” said
his mother to the dismayed Bertha. “So, we won't weep over the
catastrophe. Call Bridget; she will clear away the ruins.”
Bridget, getting on her knees: “It 's ahl on the ile-cloth,
Mrs. Dunbury. It did n't go a speck on the carpet.”
Hector, going: “I see the table is waiting, out there; and I
have the appetite of a lion! The stage broke down under the
mountain, we were delayed three hours in a supperless wilderness,
and I 've been the ill-tempered man you see me ever
since. Nothing but toast and tea will cure me. Come, Bertha.”
After supper, Mrs. Dunbury called Miss Wing to her side, and
astonished her.
“I believe,” said she, “I will sit up a little while, and have my
bed made.”
Bertha, doubting her senses: “Sit up!”
Hector, advancing: “Why not?”
Bertha: “She has not sat in a chair for five days!”
Hector, dogmatically: “Can't help it! Let her sit up half an
hour.”
And she, who was so lately engaged in dictating dying messages,
was straightway assisted to a chair.
Meantime Hector, retiring to the sitting-room, and seating himself
at his mother's seraphine, near the open door, played “Sweet
Home” with exquisite tenderness of expression.
Bertha ran to him in haste: “She is crying! I am afraid” —
in a hurried whisper — “the music will weaken and depress her.”
Hector, striking up a plaintive Scotch air: “Have you no confidence
in the new physician? Look you, Bertha! if our patient
asks for medicine, tell her Dr. Hector has not prescribed any.
And if you know of any drugs, fluid, herb, or powder, — allopathic,
homœopathic, botanic, — harbored or concealed in this
house, gather them up with affectionate care, and place them
on the table convenient for being tipped over. Some accidents
can happen as well as others!”
With Hector's eyes upon her, with his lips so near her face, a
strange trouble held poor Bertha as by a spell.
“I am afraid,” she answered, mechanically, “that your treatment
will kill her.”
“Then let us take care that she dies a happy death!”
Hector struck into an inspiring melody, full of laughter and
tears, which ran somehow into the grand movement of a spirited
march. He had not ended when, at a cry of alarm from Bertha,
he looked up, and saw his mother, dressed all in white, approaching,
with uplifted hand, like a somnambule. Nothing disconcerted,
he fixed his eyes upon her bright, dilating orbs, and poured
all the fire and energy of his soul into the concluding strains.
The invalid's hand sank slowly, a smile flitted over her pale
face, and she tottered forward. Hector caught her in his arms.
A few minutes later, Bertha Wing, in the bed-chamber, heard
a well-known touch: it was not Hector's: yet she could scarce
with all the grace and softness of her better days!
“Here, Bertha!” cried the joyous Hector, when his mother
had finished; “you may take our patient now, and put her to bed.”
Late that night, when all was still in the house, Hector left his
chamber, and went forth into the open air. The full moon was
shining through the door-yard trees. In her calm light the
dusky mountain slept, like a monster, with vast head and lofty
shoulder traced upon the back-ground of the sky. The valley
was still and cool. Willow clumps and shaggy elm-trees, dimly
seen, marked the winding course of the creek. Towards this he
wandered away in the silent night.
But the old path, by which he used to stray, was overgrown.
And the sloping turf beneath the butternut-tree, whereon he used
to lie in the hot midsummer noons, and listen to the purling water
and the humming bees, — the dear old turf was gone; the freshet
floods had lapped it away; and in its place appeared an abrupt
bank, covered with high grass.
The water that night sang the same old tune, but with a sadder,
deeper meaning than of yore. Hector wept as he listened; for in
that plaintive ripple what voices spoke to him out of the past!
Rousing himself from these dreams, he was returning to his
chamber, when, as he approached the porch, he heard a fluttering
among the leaves, and saw a figure start up from the bench.
“Don't be afraid, Bertha; it is I.”
“How you frightened me! I thought you asleep and dreaming,
by this time.”
“I have been dreaming, but not asleep, Bertha. O, dreams,
dreams! what would life be without them?”
“It would be better and happier,” said Miss Wing.
“That was spoken with a sigh, Bertha. Your dreams have
been false, then, and you regret them?”
“I do not regret them, for they have taught me useful lessons.
But I am awake now, and shall dream no more.”
“Shake off this illusion of existence, then, for all who live are
dreamers. Come, Bertha, sit down, and tell me your heart's history.
me?”
Bertha, confusedly: “Yes, I am.”
“Once there was a flower, and it was afraid of the rain. Do
you dislike me? I think you did not in old times, — did you?”
“O, no! But you have been so long away —”
“I have become as a stranger! But it should not be so. I
have always cherished a tender remembrance of you. When I
was a boy, you recollect, I fancied myself in love with little Bertha
Wing. People laughed at me, because you were older than
I! Well, that is all past; and I have outgrown I don't know
how many loves since! I 'm a fickle wretch, Bertha! — How you
shiver! Are you cold?”
Bertha, in a strange tone: “The air is chill. Let me go in.”
Hector, kindly: “Go in, good Bertha. But give me that kiss
you owe me. My mother held me, you know, and I could not
claim the right of an old friend. — What! so shy?”
Bertha, escaping: “Another time. Not now, — don't, Hector!”
He loosed his hold, and the next moment stood alone under the
porch.
“I declare,” thought he, as he bit his lip, — perhaps it itched
a little, — “that girl is in love! Some rogue has been trifling
with her. Poor Bertha!”
Hector sighed; retired to his room; went to bed; remained as
broad awake as an owl for three mortal hours; then, lapsing
lightly into oblivion, slept till the crowing of the cock. Unable
to close his eyes again, he turned his face to the window, and lay
watching the brightening of the east through a notch in the mountains.
First a few gray streaks; then a ruddy glow; and at
last up came the sun, like a great fiery spider, on his web of
beams.
Up got Hector, also, pulled on his clothes, and, stepping out
upon the balcony over the porch, inflated his lungs in the fresh
morning air. Then he went down stairs, and, learning from Bertha
that his mother was awake, hastened to her chamber. He
found her shedding tears.
“What now?” he cried. “I just met Bertha, with a pair of
red eyes, in the hall.”
“She thinks her services are no longer required here, and she
is going away. I am better, she says, — and you are here now
to comfort me —”
“But this is absurd! Ho, Bertha Wing! Come here, you
trembling culprit! Do you think you are going to leave us so?”
Bertha: “I should be glad to stay, — but — it will be better
—”
She hesitated, blushed, and dropped her eyes before Hector's
piercing look. Yet she was firm. Neither his persuasive eloquence
nor Mrs. Dunbury's tears could move her.
It was a sudden and unaccountable resolution on her part. Ah,
nobody knew what pain, what prayers and tears, it had cost her!
Had Hector guessed her secret, would he have opposed her?
After breakfast, Bertha, looking unusually pale, but with a
small hectic spot on either cheek, quietly withdrew, put her
things carefully together, and took leave of her friends.
“Who would have thought so quiet a body as you could have
such an iron will?” cried Hector.
“When my duty is clear,” said Bertha, — “but even then I
am too easily influenced.”
“By those who can command you, — not by me, at all! — Well,
good-by, mother! Expect me back in an hour or two, and Bertha
with me. I shall learn if she is wanted at home; and, if it 's
as I suppose, we 'll only take a pleasant ride up the hill, and
return to dinner.”
Bertha's home was high up on the mountain side. It was a
beautiful drive up there, that bright summer morning. A little
beyond Wild River, the mountain road branched out from the
highway, crossed the valley, and wound its snake-like course up
the steep terraces and slopes of the western hills. The day was
warm; the sunshine painted road and field; and often, toiling up
the difficult ascent, the young man stopped his panting horse in
some quiet dell, to let him breathe under the cool shade of road-side
trees.
The glory of the morning, and the beauty of the scenery, inspired
Hector; a full joy flowed out of his soul, rippling and
sparkling in words, and bathing his fine face.
Bertha all the while held strongly upon the reins of her will;
she made herself outwardly cold and stony; but, in spite of all, a
sweet intoxication stole over her. She was glad when the pain of
separation came, and Hector helped her down at her father's house.
It was a small wooden house, with a garden on the lower side,
an orchard in the rear, with fields beyond, and the thick billowy
foliage of green woods further up the mountain. A little gate
opened upon a little path which led through a neat little yard to
the door. Bertha and her friend were half-way in the enclosure,
when an old lady came out to greet them.
“Why, Bertha, is that you?” she cried, shading her eyes with
her fore-arm. “And if there an't Hector Dunbury! Who ever
expected to see you! Did you jest rain down?”
“I just reined up,” replied Hector, shaking hands with the
delighted old lady.
Bertha led the way to her grandmother's room, — a small, comfortable
apartment, plainly furnished, with a bed on one side.
Perceiving some one on the bed, she looked inquiringly at the
old lady.
“Don't speak loud,” said the latter; “'t would be a pity to
wake her, — she seemed so tired and troubled, when she laid
down!”
“Who is it?”
“A poor gal, that 'pears to be travellin' a-foot an' alone, poor
thing! She was goin' over the mountain, an' stopped for a drink
o' water; but she looked so pitiful, 't I went right to work an'
made her a cup o' tea, an' some toast, an' gin her my bed to lay
down on an' rest her, arter she 'd e't a mouthful. Poor thing!
She dropped asleep, jest like a child. She must a' had a hard
ja'nt this mornin'!”
Hector sat down in the door, and broached the subject of Bertha's
return; Bertha, meanwhile, laying off her bonnet and shawl
with an air of gentle firmness, which sufficiently expressed her
intention to remain where she was.
“I tell ye what,” said the old lady, “I 'm dre'ful lonesome,
days, when she 's away, — Susan an't so good as a pair o' tongs
for comp'ny, — an' I guess you can git one o' Sam Fosdick's darters;
rate, you drive up on the hill; an' if they an't willin' to go, n'ary
one on 'em, pr'aps Bertha will. We 'll talk it over an' see, time
you come along back.”
This was certainly a fair proposition; and Hector, jumping into
the buggy, drove up to the dilapidated old house where Sam Fos
dick's daughters lived. He found them all at home, — three tall,
strong girls, yawning away the morning over a little work. They
were slovenly dressed, not expecting company; and his sudden
appearance created a decided sensation. Without much ceremony
he made known his errand.
“I don' know,” whined Mrs. Fosdick, a shrivelled, sour-faced,
discontented woman, who sat picking over a dish of wormy
peas, in the corner. “We an't so poor 't our gals are obleeged to
go out to work; but it 's jest as they can agree. What do you
say, 'Livia?”
Olivia, with a toss of her frizzled head: “I don't think I should
be able to go. 'Patra can, if she 's a mind to.”
Cleopatra, hiding her naked feet under her chair: “I 've no
disposition, thank you, Miss Olivia! 'Tildy may, if she likes.”
Matilda, simpering: “I have n't 'tended two terms at Kiltney,
jest to learn that housework is my sphere!”
Hector, retreating: “Certainly not! You will pardon my
presumption. Bridget does the housework, and the most mother
wants is a companion —”
Olivia, condescending: “O, if that is the case —”
Cleopatra, interrupting her: “You an't going to change your
mind, I hope, jest as I 've concluded to go.”
Matilda: “You both refused once; and now, if anybody goes,
I think it ought to be me, — had n't it, ma?”
Mrs. Fosdick: “'Tildy is very accomplished, and if it 's a companion
your mother wants —”
Matilda, unpinning her curl-papers: “'T won't take me ten
minutes to git ready! Why can't you help me, 'Patra?”
Cleopatra, independently, with several toes peeping from under
her dress: “I 'm nobody's waiter, I 'd have you know, miss!”
Matilda: “I don't care, 'Livia will!”
Olivia, mockingly: “I don't care, 'Livia won't!”
Hector, with exemplary self-denial: “Excuse me, Miss Matilda,
but I am really afraid you are making too great a sacrifice of
feeling, and I am unwilling to remove you out of your sphere.”
He took leave politely. 'Tilda looked blank, 'Patra chuckled,
'Livia tossed her frizzled head again; and during the remainder
of the forenoon, the three poor-and-proud sisters quarrelled sharply
about the nice little apple of discord which had been dropped
among them, and snatched away again before either could seize it.
Diverted by the adventure, Hector returned to the other house.
He was met by old Mrs. Wing at the gate.
“I did n't much think you 'd git one on 'em,” said she, “for
they are pesky proud critturs, always for everlastin' settin' up for
ladies!”
“Whose horse is that under the shed?” asked Hector.
“It 's Mr. Rukely's; he called at your father's, jest arter you
left, and follered right along up the hill.”
“Mr. Rukely,” — Hector scratched his ear, — “Mr. Rukely,
Mr. Rukely! Are he and Bertha pretty good friends?”
“Dear me!” whispered the old lady, all smiles; “did n't you
know it? They 're engaged. They 're in the parlor now.”
“Phew-ew!” whistled Hector. “But who is that in your
room?”
“It 's the gal 't you seen lyin' on the bed. An' I was goin' to
tell ye, if your mother wants a nice, perty body to wait on her,
she can't do better, I think, than to take her. She turns out to
be a gal that 's ben livin' to Mr. Jackwood's.”
“I wonder if she 's the person father saw there last evening!”
exclaimed Hector.
He paused at the door, struck with sudden surprise. Notwithstanding
his father's favorable report of Charlotte, he was altogether
unprepared to see so peculiar and striking a countenance.
The subdued passion and spiritual beauty of her face told her
heart's history. The intuitive Hector felt a strange influence steal
over him; and all her sorrows, the depth, the sweetness of her
spirit, seemed revealed to him.
On her part, she did not venture to return his earnest gaze.
to reöpen suddenly, at her very feet, the dizzy gulf from which
she had fled. She stole an anxious glance at his face; and instantly
the blood rushed suffocatingly upon her heart, the room
grew misty, and her head sank upon the bed near which she sat.
“You are so tired, poor child!” cried Mrs. Wing. “Le' me
give you a little currant wine.”
She brought a bottle from her closet, poured a few spoonfuls of
the liquid into a tumbler, and supported Charlotte's head while
she drank.
“You are very kind!” said the girl. “I am better now, —
thank you.”
Hector, with instinctive delicacy of feeling, had walked to the
open door, and now stood with folded arms, gazing out upon the
fair mountain scenery. This was a relief to Charlotte; she made
a strong effort to control herself, and appear calm; yet when he
turned again, her spirit was all weak and tremulous, like a reed
bending under the weight of a bird.
Hector, however, betrayed no sign of recognition. Hoping, but
trembling still, Charlotte breathed an inward prayer that the
old lady's proposal in her favor might be at once rejected. Hector
was but too eager to accept it. Then she endeavored, falteringly,
to excuse herself; but he would not consent to release her,
and she saw no way left but to accompany him.
Meanwhile, in the parlor, the conscientious Bertha confessed
herself, in deep contrition of heart, to her indulgent friend.
Mr. Rukely was somewhat disturbed. But he was none of your
wild and capricious lovers. His passion lay tamely at the feet of
his understanding, like an obedient spaniel, that never snapped or
snarled. He pressed Bertha in his arms, and for the first time in
his life, affianced though they were, kissed her — on the forehead.
A cold revulsion of feeling made the unhappy girl shudder in
his embrace. O, how wicked she thought herself, because her
heart was stronger than her will! But down she crushed that
heart again, resolved anew to love what her judgment pronounced
worthy.
“It is a great relief,” she said, “to have told you this; and
you are so kind! I thought it would separate us forever!”
“No, Bertha,” repeated the other, “it makes me love you the
more. I respect your truth. You have fled from temptation; you
have shut your eyes and your ears against it; it is the only way.”
“The worst is passed,” she said. “I conquered my love for
him once; why it returned upon me with such power, I cannot
tell; but I have shut it out again, and forever.”
She walked mechanically to the window. Hector was helping
Charlotte into the buggy. He seemed to hold her hand with a
lingering pressure; his features beamed with satisfaction; he
looked the very picture of manly grace. A quick, sharp pain
shot through Bertha's heart as she gazed, and she turned away,
stifling a cry of anguish, and shutting out the sight with her
hands.
| VII.
THE DUNBURYS. Neighbor Jackwood | |