 | XVIII.
PARTINGS. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
18. XVIII.
PARTINGS.
Strange sensations crowded Charlotte's heart, as Corny set her
down at Mr. Jackwood's gate. The hens cackled as of old;
Rover ran out, barking, and leaped upon her dress; and the rising
generation of turkeys saluted her with a clamor of comically
juvenile voices. Then Bim cried hello, with a good-natured grin;
and Phœbe appeared, clapping her hands delightedly.
“You 've come to stop a week, I know, have n't you?” cried
the young girl. “And, only think, gran'ma is going back to
Sawney Hook, to-day, and we are all tickled to death! But
don't you tell her you 're going to stay; for it 'll make her so
mad, I don't know but she 'd give up going, just to bother us;
she 's so everlasting ugly — if I do say it!”
Mrs. Jackwood dropped her “flat” upon the kitchen table,
where she was ironing a Rigglesty cap, and met Charlotte smilingly
at the door; while the elder Abimelech, who was engaged
in tinkering the old lady's trunk on the inside (her travelling
trunk, of course), put his head out and reached over, — after
rubbing his fingers on his trousers, — to shake hands with the
visitor.
“Here 's our Cha'lotte, gran'mother!”
The old lady, bending painfully over a basin at the stove, occupied
in washing out the Good Samaritan in a little dab of suds,
looked up with a faint simper of recognition.
“O, how d'e do?” — she pulled her shawl about her neck, with
the tips of her wet fingers, as if she felt a draft of air from somewhere
in the direction of Charlotte. “Ye ben well?”
Charlotte had been quite well; and how was Mrs. Rigglesty?
“O, 't an't o' much consequence about me! Still, it 's perlite
to ask, I s'pose. I an't a bit well. I never be, late years.
Slavin' for my childern 's wore my constitution all down to nothin'.
An' sence the day I got my feet wet in that 'ere plaguy
boat, I 've ben wus 'n ever. I 've the terrible-est crickin' pain
from my left ear all the way down my shoulder to the small o'
my back; nobody knows nothin' 't all what I suffer with 't, an'
more 'n all that, I don't suppose nobody cares.”
And, dropping a silent tear in the dish of suds, she went on
squeezing the Good Samaritan, snuffing and sighing audibly.
“Gran'mother 's goin' to quit us to-day,” said Mr. Jackwood,
“an' I 'm sure I don' know how we 're goin' to git along without
her!”
“O, I shan't be missed! I 'm nothin' but a burden, seems, in
some places! I got a darter down to Sawny Hook, — that 's one
comfort, — an' if she 's half as glad to see me as other folks be to
git red on me, I shall be thankful. I got this 'ere han'some han'kerchi'f,”
— wringing out the Good Samaritan, — “to make a
present on 't to one o' the childern; but there han't neither on 'em
desarved it, an' I don't see but I shall haf to carry it back to give
to some o' Dolly's folks, arter all.”
Phœbe, in an under tone: “They 're welcome to the old
thing, for all me! For my part, I shall be glad to see the
last on 't.”
Old lady: “What 's that gal mutterin'? Come, empty out
these suds, an' gi me some rensin' water, can't ye? I want to
git the han'kerchi'f to dryin', so 's 't we won't haf to put off ironin'
on 't till the very last thing. I 'm afeard I shan't be able to
git away to-day, arter all.”
At this alarming suggestion, Phœbe sprang, with alacrity, to do
the old lady's bidding. In her haste, she bespattered Abimelech
and Corny, who were approaching the kitchen door.
“Here!” cried Bim; “that 's smart! Guess ye better look!
Firin' yer darned old suds all over a feller!”
“Bim'lech!” said Mr. Jackwood; “what 's that?”
“Wal, she might ta' care! I 'll git a hull dipper full, and fire
back, next time!”
Mr. Jackwood: “There, there, you 're a terrible injured boy!
What does Corny want?”
Corny, soberly: “I come perty nigh fergittin' my errant, arter
all. I 'd got started for hum 'fore I thought Mr. Dunbury said I
might leave the buggy, an' hitch on to your one-hoss wagin, if you
can spare 't 's well 's not. Hector 's goin' away, an' we want to
take his trunks over to town.”
“Hector going!” echoed Phœbe. “Not to stay, is he?”
“I don't s'pose he 'd take his trunks if he was comin' right back.
Mabby Charlotte knows.”
“Why, you never spoke of it, Charlotte!”
Old lady: “I should n't think community 'd mourn much!
He 's the sa'ciest young man, — an' so disagreeable! jest like his
daddy, for all the world, tho' I don't know 't he drinks.”
Mr. Jackwood: “He 's dre'ful smart, though. I alluz got
along with Hector. 'Bout the wagon, Corny, — I dono'. We
got to go over with gran'mother, some time this forenoon.”
Bim, brightly: “She might ride with Mr. Dunbury's folks.”
“I guess 't won't be wuth while for me to go at all, if it 's
goin' to make so much fuss. As for ridin' with them 'ere
Dunburys —”
And, giving the Good Samaritan a revengeful twist and shake,
the old lady hung him before the stove to dry, with an air which
sufficiently expressed her sentiments on that subject.
Mrs. Jackwood, whose wits were sharpened by the bare thought
of the old lady's being detained, proposed that Mr. Dunbury
should have the wagon, and take aboard her big trunk, in passing;
and that the old lady herself should be transported, with
her lesser baggage, in the buggy. Corny thought this arrangement
would suit “fust-rate,” and accordingly took his departure.
“I 'm real glad!” said Phœbe; “for Hector 'll have to stop,
and we can bid him good-by, can't we, Charlotte?”
The Jackwood family worked industriously. Mrs. Jackwood
assisted in packing the trunk and doing up bundles, while Phœbe
flat-ironed the Good Samaritan with a vengeance. For the first
time in his life, Bim showed a disposition to do something for the
old lady; and Rover, impressed with the spirit of the household,
her shoe.
At length all was ready; and Mrs. Rigglesty, in her black
bombazine, with her bonnet and cloak on, and her shawl about
her neck, sat cooking her feet in the stove-oven, and sipping a
cup of boiling-hot tea. A quiet glee inspired Phœbe, and Bim
manifested a naughty inclination to dance a hornpipe under the
stoop.
“I believe I 've got everything aboard,” observed Mr. Jackwood,
looking serious as possible.
“I suppose you 're in a hurry to git me off!” sighed the old
lady. “Wal, you won't be troubled with me agin very soon. Is
my luncheon in the bag? I wish there 'd ben a bit of cold ham
to go long with it; but never mind. Take this hot brick, Bim'lech.”
“Bim'lech!” said Mr. Jackwood, in a suppressed voice, “quit
your laughin'!”
“I was in hopes that lyin' pedler 'd be this way agin, 'fore I
went. If he ever does show his face here, I hope you 'll give him
a sound blessin', among ye, and git back the money he swindled
me out of, for them shoes. — There, if you han't dropped that
brick!”
Abimelech, chagrined: “I could n't help it, it 's so tarnal hot!”
Old lady: “And you 've broke it, I do declare! I might
knowed you would! You are the carelessest child —”
Mr. Jackwood: “Never mind. We 'll make this answer till
we git to the village, and take along another to heat at the
tavern.”
Old lady, moving: “O, dear, I 'm down sick! I 'm no more
fit to be trav'lin' 'n I be to fly; but I s'pose I must go. Tuck my
shawl up around my neck a little, Betsy.”
Mr. Jackwood, cheerily: “Step right up in the chair, gran'mother!
Hold the hoss, Bim'lech.”
Old lady, very desponding: “I don't, for the life of me, see
how I 'm ever goin' to git 'way up in that high buggy! O, ho,
hum! Don't le' me slip! Hold the chair, somebody! Here,
Betsy, gi' me your shoulder. Who ever see sich an awk'ard
in my back! it 's killed me! O, dear!”
Mr. Jackwood: “There you be, mother! You 'll find that an
easy seat to ride on. How 's your back now?”
“O, wal, — 't won't trouble nobody much longer, that 's some
consolation! If I only live to git to Sawney Hook, I shall have
reason to be thankful. My umbrel', Phœbe! I thought everything
was ready.”
The umbrella was at hand. Phœbe passed it up with her
good-by.
“I s'pose that means good riddance!” muttered grandmother
Rigglesty. “There han't none on ye kissed me.”
Mrs. Jackwood, to facilitate matters, gave the example; Phœbe
following with an expeditious smack.
Bim, aside to Charlotte: “I 'm darned glad I an't no taller!”
Old lady: “Come, sonny! Ye han't ben a bit good boy sence
I ben here; but I 'll kiss ye.”
Bim, reluctantly: “Can't reach up!”
Mr. Jackwood: “Come, boy, we 're waitin' for ye; git up in
the chair. Kiss your gran'mother.”
Bim stepped up; made a wry face; received a kiss; and, getting
down, with a violent scowl, scoured his lips on his sleeve as
he went to open the gate.
So the modern Eve rode out of Paradise in Mr. Dunbury's
buggy. Like our first parents, on a like occasion,
“Some natural tears she shed, but wiped them soon;”
Phœbe's ironing.
“Sick 'em, Rove!” said Bim, recklessly, as the fussy shawl
and hated bombazine passed through the gate, with the faded cotton
umbrella spread against the wind.
Rover barked; Phœbe skipped and sang; and Mrs. Jackwood's
genial face looked smiling as a landscape after a long rain. But
it was all a weary pantomime to Charlotte, whose sad eyes beheld
the departure from the kitchen window.
Scarce had the gloomy umbrella disappeared, when Mr. Dunbury
drove by with Hector.
“Why, if they han't gone and forgot gran'mother's trunk!”
And Phœbe ran out, bareheaded, screaming at the top of her
voice. This was the first intimation Mr. Dunbury had received
with regard to extra baggage, Corny having naturally forgotten
to do his errand.
“You was going without bidding anybody good-by, too!” cried
Phœbe. “Did n't ye know Charlotte was here? Wait; I 'll tell
her, — she 'll come out.”
Ah! there were two hearts that throbbed strangely, at those
words! Happy Phœbe, who knew nothing of the agony of either!
Charlotte had fled to Mrs. Jackwood's room. Her face was
bowed and hidden.
“Why!” cried Phœbe; “why don't you come? He 's waiting.”
“Say good-by for me, Phœbe. It will be the same to him.”
“How you act, Charlotte! You han't been a bit like yourself
to-day! What ails you?”
“Do leave me, good Phœbe!” pleaded Charlotte.
Phœbe complied reluctantly. By this time Mr. Dunbury, with
Bim's powerful assistance, had loaded up the old lady's trunk, and
made all ready for a start.
“She won't come,” said Phœbe. “I guess she thinks you don't
want to see her. I wish you 'd go in a minute; but I s'pose you
won't. What shall I tell her for you?”
A swelling grief in Hector's heart choked back the little message
he would have sent. Yet he shook hands with Phœbe, and smiled
upon her April tears, and expressed a kindly wish at parting; and
so rode off, outwardly calm, but with the insupportable thought
burning and aching in his soul, that the tragic curtain had fallen,
to darken henceforth between him and her he loved, forever.
| XVIII.
PARTINGS. Neighbor Jackwood | |