 | XXXI.
BROTHER AND SISTER. Neighbor Jackwood |  |
31. XXXI.
BROTHER AND SISTER.
The “Fair Nun's Complaint” remained a poetical fragment.
The young authoress felt no more inspiration for the subject,
from the memorable evening of the rhymes; and after several
unsuccessful attempts to complete the sixth stanza, she tore the
manuscript.
“Why!” exclaimed Mrs. Greenwich, “what makes you do so?
How sorry I am! They were very pretty varses, I am sure.”
“I never wrote anything so dull in my life!” exclaimed Etty.
“O, now! You need n't think so! You should have patience.
Can't you remember the varses, and write them off?”
“If I could, I would n't!”
“Why, my child, I am surprised! How can you be so
unladylike? What would your father say? Here, give me that
other piece; these go together, don't they? What word is that
torn off? I can make out all of one varse but that; and it 's
very touching, seems to me. I don't know when I 've seen such
good poetry anywhere. `The moonbeams 'neath the convent
dashing, my tears are glittering on the roof,' — those are very
beautiful words!”
“It is n't so!” cried Etty, attempting to snatch the paper.
“O!” said her mother, “I have n't matched the pieces right!
It 's the moonbeams that glitter, and the waves that dash; but I
am sure it reads well either way. Now, do you sit down and
finish it for the Green Mountain Herald; everybody will admire
it in print, and then your father will praise you.”
But Etty only took the fragments to put them into the fire.
Etty was human, although a genius. Perhaps she was all the
felt a hungering for love; and her hopes and affections had
centred in her brother, unworthy as he was. His indifference
gave her pain, without lessening her attachment; and when he
was unkind to her, she was more ready to accuse herself than
him. But the most cruel test to which her love had ever been
put was the blow with which he sent her from him that night.
When the bitter memory swelled in her heart, it seemed almost
bursting with anguish. Unfortunately, she was kept from school,
to be under her father's immediate instruction; and she had no
companions. Indeed, there was but one person whose sympathy
she much desired. That person was Charlotte Woods, whose
kindness she so gratefully remembered. But she did not know
that Robert ever went to Mr. Dunbury's now; and if he did,
there was no hope that he would take her with him. So her only
consolation was to brood silently over her grief by day, and by
night to sigh and weep upon her wretched pillow.
In this state of mind, Etty naturally preferred solitude to the
company of the family. But it was winter, and her mother would
not suffer her to sit in the cold rooms. Generally, however, there
was a fire in Robert's chamber; and, when he was absent, she used
to get permission to sit up there alone, pretending to take advantage
of the quiet, to study her lessons. She was careful that
Robert should not find her there; listening for his footsteps, and
gliding softly away at his approach. One evening, however,
having ensconced herself in a favorite position by the window,
where she could gaze at the moon, and drawn the curtains about
her in a manner completely to exclude the light of the lamp, she
gave such free rein to her fancy, that, wandering far off into the
regions of ideal hopes and sorrows, it somehow lost itself, and
passed, unconsciously, into the realm of dreams. Nature had
long been cheated of her proper repose by the young girl's melancholy;
and now she took ample revenge. Etty's head had sunk
upon her arm, and her sleep was profound. She dreamed that
Robert and Charlotte were married, and that she went to live
with them, and was very happy; the only trouble being that
their house was discovered to be a convent, and that her new
she was to be printed, for general circulation, in the Green Mountain
Herald. It was Robert who had condemned her to that
punishment, for wearing his white satin waistcoat to a sewing-circle
in the village; an offence nuns had a passion for committing,
notwithstanding the fatal consequences. Etty went to him
to plead Charlotte's cause; when he struck her so violent a blow
with the warrant he was signing, that — she awoke.
She started in terror; for the place seemed strange to her, and
she heard voices in the room. Then came the shock of consciousness:
she remembered where she was: she had been asleep, and
Robert had returned! He was not alone; he had one or two
companions; Etty could not tell at first how many. The lamp
found burning on his table did not surprise him; for often, when
he was out, Etty had left a light for him, on going to bed. But
it was now late, the oil was low, and the dim flame cast but a
feeble ray in the chamber. Added to this, was the fact that the
window where the child sat was partly concealed by the bed. In
her first tremor of affright, Etty had not the courage to discover
herself: she waited to still the fluttering of her heart, and to
gather breath and strength; and the longer she waited the more
terrible her situation became. She heard words which she knew
she ought not to hear. Robert had introduced his companion
into his chamber, at that secret hour, that even the circumstance
of their conferring together might be hidden from all the world.
And there sat the young girl, an unwilling listener to all that was
said! A glimpse she had of some great danger that hung over
one she loved added intensity to her fears. What the danger
was, she could not fully comprehend; but it appeared none the
less awful for the mystery in which it was veiled. Then the
child remembered the dream from which she awaked but now, so
seemingly absurd, yet so seemingly prophetic; and felt cold shudders
of dread creep over her, as she thought of — Charlotte!
How long the interview lasted, Etty had no means of judging.
It would have been difficult for her to believe that so much suffering
as she experienced could be compressed within the brief space
of an hour. It seemed prolonged through the whole of a long
the room; she heard them go softly down stairs, heard a door
open and close, heard her father cry out from his bed-chamber
“Who is there?” and heard Robert answer, “I am after a glass
of water.” But by this time the child stood trembling in her
own chamber: she had arrived there without knowing how: she
had never any recollection of passing from room to room. She
waited until she saw the shimmer of Robert's lamp on the landing,
and heard his door close after him; then shrank away in her
dreary room to her bed, and covered her head, shivering with
terror and cold.
Etty thought it must now be near morning. But she had long
hours yet to wait. How often she looked from beneath the clothes,
to see the glimmer of gray light on the walls! — At last, at last,
it came: the slow, reluctant dawn peeped in at the window. Her
room was on the opposite side of the house from her brother's,
looking towards the north; and, as soon as it was light enough
to see, she got up and gazed anxiously down the valley. It was
a mild winter's morning; the eaves dripped with the melting snow.
Yet the earth was white, and the road leading towards Mr. Dunbury's
house looked desolate and forbidding. How was she to
traverse it, to get to Charlotte? She dared not tell her mother
where she wished to go, lest Robert should learn of it, and guess
her purpose; and the only way seemed to be, to plan an escape
from the house, and then, on foot and alone, to travel that lonely
track to save her friend.
A plan was easily invented. Her newly-married cousins, the
Crestons, lived a little out of the village, although in an opposite
direction from that she wished to go. For some time she had
been planning to make them a visit, and she would ask permission
of the mother to go that day.
The permission was asked, and granted. But her father's sanction
was necessary to render it valid. His decision was, that,
provided she would have her lessons to recite when he came home
to dinner, she might go to her cousin's in the afternoon. Etty was
in despair; for the afternoon would be too late; and her father's
decisions were unalterable. Fortunately, her pale looks, discolored
“Daughter, are you in your usual health this morning?”
“Yes, father.” Etty's voice faltered, and her eyes fell; for
Robert had appeared, and it seemed to her that he could read her
burning secret.
“How late did you study, last night?”
“Not — very late.”
“You should n't study a minute after eight o'clock, my child,”
said the mother. “You have n't been well, these three weeks;
and I believe it 's nothing in the world but —”
“Mrs. Greenwich,” interrupted the paternal head, “I was
speaking!”
Mrs. G., with alacrity: “I hear you, Mr. Greenwich.”
The paternal head nodded approvingly, and turned to Etty.
“Daughter, when that you requested permission to visit your
cousins, it would have been your desire to go this forenoon; but,
upon hearing the paternal decision, you maintained a respectful
silence, as was befitting. Your dutiful behavior merits indulgence;
and, in consideration of your application to your books, I
have weighed the matter, and resolved to reward you with a day's
recreation.”
Etty, tremulously: “Thank you, father.”
“If Robert has nothing to do —” began the mother.
“Mrs. Greenwich,” said the paternal head, with severe deliberation,
“if it is your design to usurp the conversation, I will hold
my peace.”
“O, by no means! Go on, Mr. Greenwich! I was only going
to make the remark — never mind!”
“Son Robert,” then said the 'Squire, “you will oblige me by
carrying your sister over to your cousins' in the cutter.”
“If my sister will accept my escort,” replied Robert, bowing
deferentially, “nothing will afford me greater pleasure.”
Etty dared not raise her eyes. “I can walk, as well —”
“Daughter, since the paternal head has decided, is it fitting
that you should make remarks?”
Poor Etty could not say one word. Nothing was left her, but
which she tremblingly prayed, to favor her escape to Charlotte.
It was an hour before he was ready to accompany her. The snow
was thawing fast; in many places the road was broken by hoofs;
and he drove very slowly. Arrived in sight of their cousins', she
besought him to go no further, but to set her down, and leave her
to walk the remaining distance.
“Bless your dear heart!” he said, sarcastically, “how extremely
anxious you are to get rid of me, this morning!”
“I make you so much trouble —”
“Trouble? On the contrary, in the fond hope of giving you
pleasure,” — with a vein of mockery in his tones, — “I had concluded
to make a visit with you, and have a game of chess with
Charley's wife, after dinner.”
Etty hoped he did but jest; but when he ordered his horse to
the stable, and, entering the house with her, declared gayly that he
had come over to read Tom Moore, and to beat his fair cousin at
a game of chess, the child's heart sank, and she almost cried out
with despair, as she thought of Charlotte.
| XXXI.
BROTHER AND SISTER. Neighbor Jackwood | |