University of Virginia Library

10. CHAPTER X.
THE DOCTOR CALLS ON ELSIE VENNER.

If that primitive physician, Chiron, M. D., appears
as a Centaur, as we look at him through
the lapse of thirty centuries, the modern country-doctor,
if he could be seen about thirty miles off,
could not be distinguished from a wheel-animalcule.
He inhabits a wheel-carriage. He thinks
of stationary dwellings as Long Tom Coffin did
of land in general; a house may be well enough
for incidental purposes, but for a “stiddy” residence
give him a “kerridge.” If he is classified
in the Linnæan scale, he must be set down thus:
Genus Homo; Species Rotifer infusorius, — the
wheel-animal of infusions.

The Dudley mansion was not a mile from the
Doctor's; but it never occurred to him to think
of walking to see any of his patients' families,
if he had any professional object in his visit.
Whenever the narrow sulky turned in at a gate,
the rustic who was digging potatoes, or hoeing
corn, or swishing through the grass with his scythe,
in wave-like crescents, or stepping short behind a
loaded wheelbarrow, or trudging lazily by the side

of the swinging, loose-throated, short-legged oxen,
rocking along the road as if they had just been
landed after a three-months' voyage, — the toiling
native, whatever he was doing, stopped and looked
up at the house the Doctor was visiting.

“Somebody sick over there t' Haynes's. Guess
th' old man's ailin' ag'in. Winder's haäf-way
open in the chamber, — shouldn' wonder 'f he
was dead and laid aout. Docterin' a'n't no use,
when y' see th' winders open like that. Wahl,
money a'n't much to speak of to th' old man
naow! He don' want but tew cents, — 'n' old
Widah Peake, she knows what he wants them
for!”

Or again, —

“Measles raound pooty thick. Briggs's folks
buried two children with 'em laäs' week. Th'
ol' Doctor, he'd h' ker'd 'em threugh. Struck in
'n' p'dooced mo't'f'cation, — so they say.”

This is only meant as a sample of the kind of
way they used to think or talk, when the narrow
sulky turned in at the gate of some house where
there was a visit to be made.

Oh, that narrow sulky! What hopes, what
fears, what comfort, what anguish, what despair,
in the roll of its coming or its parting wheels!
In the spring, when the old people get the coughs
which give them a few shakes and their lives drop
in pieces like the ashes of a burned thread which
have kept the threadlike shape until they were
stirred, — in the hot summer noons, when the

strong man comes in from the fields, like the son
of the Shunamite, crying, “My head, my head,”
— in the dying autumn days, when youth and
maiden lie fever-stricken in many a household,
still-faced, dull-eyed, dark-flushed, dry-lipped, low-muttering
in their daylight dreams, their fingers
moving singly like those of slumbering harpers, —
in the dead winter, when the white plague of the
North has caged its wasted victims, shuddering
as they think of the frozen soil which must be
quarried like rock to receive them, if their perpetual
convalescence should happen to be interfered
with by any untoward accident, — at every season,
the narrow sulky rolled round freighted with
unmeasured burdens of joy and woe.

The Doctor drove along the southern foot of
The Mountain. The “Dudley mansion” was
near the eastern edge of this declivity, where it
rose steepest, with baldest cliffs and densest
patches of overhanging wood. It seemed almost
too steep to climb, but a practised eye could see
from a distance the zigzag lines of the sheep-paths
which scaled it like miniature Alphine roads.
A few hundred feet up The Mountain's side was
a dark, deep dell, unwooded, save for a few spindling,
crazy-looking hackmatacks or native larches,
with pallid green tufts sticking out fantastically
all over them. It shelved so deeply, that, while
the hemlock-tassels were swinging on the trees
around its border, all would be still at its springy
bottom, save that perhaps a single fern would

wave slowly backward and forward like a sabre,
with a twist as of a feathered oar, — and this,
when not a breath could be felt, and every other
stem and blade were motionless. There was an
old story of one having perished here in the winter
of '86, and his body having been found in the
spring, — whence its common name of “Dead-Man's
Hollow.” Higher up there were huge
cliffs with chasms, and, it was thought, concealed
caves, where in old times they said that Tories
lay hid, — some hinted not without occasional aid
and comfort from the Dudleys then living in the
mansion-house. Still higher and farther west lay
the accursed ledge, — shunned by all, unless it
were now and then a daring youth, or a wandering
naturalist who ventured to its edge in the
hope of securing some infantile Crotalus durissus,
who had not yet cut his poison-teeth.

Long, long ago, in old Colonial times, the Honorable
Thomas Dudley, Esquire, a man of note
and name and great resources, allied by descent
to the family of “Tom Dudley,” as the early
Governor is sometimes irreverently called by our
most venerable, but still youthful antiquary, —
and to the other public Dudleys, of course, — of
all of whom he made small account, as being
himself an English gentleman, with little taste for
the splendors of provincial office, — early in the
last century, Thomas Dudley had built this mansion.
For several generations it had been dwelt
in by descendants of the same name, but soon

after the Revolution it passed by marriage into
the hands of the Venners, by whom it had ever
since been held and tenanted.

As the Doctor turned an angle in the road, all
at once the stately old house rose before him. It
was a skilfully managed effect, as it well might
be, for it was no vulgar English architect who had
planned the mansion and arranged its position
and approach. The old house rose before the
Doctor, crowning a terraced garden, flanked at the
left by an avenue of tall elms. The flower-beds
were edged with box, which diffused around it
that dreamy balsamic odor, full of ante-natal reminiscences
of a lost Paradise, dimly fragrant as
might be the bdellium of ancient Havilah, the
land compassed by the river Pison that went out
of Eden. The garden was somewhat neglected,
but not in disgrace, — and in the time of tulips
and hyacinths, of roses, of “snowballs,” of honeysuckles,
of lilacs, of syringas, it was rich with
blossoms.

From the front-windows of the mansion the
eye reached a far blue mountain-summit, — no
rounded heap, such as often shuts in a village-landscape,
but a sharp peak, clean-angled as Ascutney
from the Dartmouth green. A wide gap
through miles of woods had opened this distant
view, and showed more, perhaps, than all the labors
of the architect and the landscape-gardener
the large style of the early Dudleys.

The great stone-chimney of the mansion-house

was the centre from which all the artificial features
of the scene appeared to flow. The roofs,
the gables, the dormer-windows, the porches, the
clustered offices in the rear, all seemed to crowd
about the great chimney. To this central pillar
the paths all converged. The single poplar behind
the house, — Nature is jealous of proud
chimneys, and always loves to put a popular near
one, so that it may fling a leaf or two down its
black throat every autumn, — the one tall poplar
behind the house seemed to nod and whisper to
the grave square column, the elms to sway their
branches towards it. And when the blue smoke
rose from its summit, it seemed to be wafted
away to join the azure haze which hung around
the peak in the far distance, so that both should
bathe in a common atmosphere.

Behind the house were clumps of lilacs with a
century's growth upon them, and looking more
like trees than like shrubs. Shaded by a group
of these was the ancient well, of huge circuit,
and with a low arch opening out of its wall
about ten feet below the surface, — whether the
door of a crypt for the concealment of treasure,
or of a subterranean passage, or merely of a vault
for keeping provisions cool in hot weather, opinions
differed.

On looking at the house, it was plain that it
was built with Old-World notions of strength
and durability, and, so far as might be, with
Old-World materials. The hinges of the doors

stretched out like arms, instead of like hands, as
we make them. The bolts were massive enough
for a donjon-keep. The small window-panes
were actually inclosed in the wood of the sashes,
instead of being stuck to them with putty, as in
our modern windows. The broad staircase was
of easy ascent, and was guarded by quaintly
turned and twisted balusters. The ceilings of
the two rooms of state were moulded with medallion-portraits
and rustic figures, such as may
have been seen by many readers in the famous
old Philipse house, — Washington's headquarters,
— in the town of Yonkers. The fire-places, worthy
of the wide-throated central chimney, were
bordered by pictured tiles, some of them with
Scripture stories, some with Watteau-like figures,
— tall damsels in slim waists and with spread
enough of skirt for a modern ballroom, with bowing,
reclining, or musical swains of what everybody
calls the “conventional” sort, — that is, the
swain adapted to genteel society rather than to a
literal sheep-compelling existence.

The house was furnished, soon after it was completed,
with many heavy articles made in London
from a rare wood just then come into fashion,
not so rare now, and commonly known as
mahogany. Time had turned it very dark, and
the stately bedsteads and tall cabinets and claw-footed
chairs and tables were in keeping with the
sober dignity of the ancient mansion. The old
“hangings” were yet preserved in the chambers,

faded, but still showing their rich patterns, —
properly entitled to their name, for they were
literally hung upon flat wooden frames like trellis-work,
which again were secured to the naked
partitions.

There were portraits of different date on the
walls of the various apartments, old painted
coats-of-arms, bevel-edged mirrors, and in one
sleeping-room a glass case of wax-work flowers
and spangly symbols, with a legend signifying
that E. M. (supposed to be Elizabeth Mascarene)
wished not to be “forgot”

Poor E. M.! Poor everybody that sighs for
earthly remembrance in a planet with a core of
fire and a crust of fossils!

Such was the Dudley mansion-house, — for it
kept its ancient name in spite of the change in the
line of descent. Its spacious apartments looked
dreary and desolate; for here Dudley Venner
and his daughter dwelt by themselves, with such
servants only as their quiet mode of life required.
He almost lived in his library, the western room
on the ground-floor. Its window looked upon a
small plat of green, in the midst of which was a
single grave marked by a plain marble slab. Except
this room, and the chamber where he slept,
and the servants' wing, the rest of the house was
all Elsie's. She was always a restless, wandering

child from her early years, and would have her
little bed moved from one chamber to another, —
flitting round as the fancy took her. Sometimes
she would drag a mat and a pillow into one of
the great empty rooms, and, wrapping herself in
a shawl, coil up and go to sleep in a corner.
Nothing frightened her; the “haunted” chamber,
with the torn hangings that flapped like wings
when there was air stirring, was one of her favorite
retreats.

She had been a very hard creature to manage.
Her father could influence, but not govern her.
Old Sophy, born of a slave mother in the house,
could do more with her than anybody, knowing
her by long instinctive study. The other servants
were afraid of her. Her father had sent for governesses,
but none of them ever stayed long. She
made them nervous; one of them had a strange
fit of sickness; not one of them ever came back
to the house to see her. A young Spanish woman
who taught her dancing succeeded best with
her, for she had a passion for that exercise, and
had mastered some of the most difficult dances.

Long before this period, she had manifested
some most extraordinary singularities of taste or
instinct. The extreme sensitiveness of her father
on this point prevented any allusion to them; but
there were stories floating round, some of them
even getting into the papers, — without her name,
of course, — which were of a kind to excite intense
curiosity, if not more anxious feelings. This thing

was certain, that at the age of twelve she was
missed one night, and was found sleeping in the
open air under a tree, like a wild creature. Very
often she would wander off by day, always without
a companion, bringing home with her a nest,
a flower, or even a more questionable trophy of
her ramble, such as showed that there was no
place where she was afraid to venture. Once in
a while she had stayed out over night, in which
case the alarm was spread, and men went in
search of her, but never successfully, — so that
some said she hid herself in trees, and others that
she had found one of the old Tory caves.

Some, of course, said she was a crazy girl, and
ought to be sent to an Asylum. But old Dr.
Kittredge had shaken his head, and told them to
bear with her, and let her have her way as much
as they could, but watch her, as far as possible,
without making her suspicious of them. He visited
her now and then, under the pretext of seeing
her father on business, or of only making a
friendly call.

The Doctor fastened his horse outside the gate,
and walked up the garden-alley. He stopped
suddenly with a start. A strange sound had
jarred upon his ear. It was a sharp prolonged
rattle, continuous, but rising and falling as if in
rhythmical cadence. He moved softly towards
the open window from which the sound seemed
to proceed.

Elsie was alone in the room, dancing one of
those wild Moorish fandangos, such as a matador
hot from the Plaza de Toros of Seville or Madrid
might love to lie and gaze at. She was a figure
to look upon in silence. The dancing frenzy
must have seized upon her while she was dressing;
for she was in her bodice, bare-armed, her
hair floating unbound far below the waist of her
barred or banded skirt. She had caught up her
castanets, and rattled them as she danced with a
kind of passionate fierceness, her lithe body undulating
with flexuous grace, her diamond eyes
glittering, her round arms wreathing and unwinding,
alive and vibrant to the tips of the slender
fingers. Some passion seemed to exhaust itself
in this dancing paroxysm; for all at once she
reeled from the middle of the floor, and flung
herself, as it were in a careless coil, upon a great
tiger's-skin which was spread out in one corner
of the apartment.

The old Doctor stood motionless, looking at
her as she lay panting on the tawny, black-lined
robe of the dead monster, which stretched out
beneath her, its rude flattened outline recalling
the Terror of the Jungle as he crouched for his
fatal spring. In a few moments her head drooped
upon her arm, and her glittering eyes closed, —
she was sleeping. He stood looking at her
still, steadily, thoughtfully, tenderly. Presently
he lifted his hand to his forehead, as if recalling
some fading remembrance of other years.

“Poor Catalina!”

This was all he said. He shook his head, —
implying that his visit would be in vain to-day,
— returned to his sulky, and rode away, as if in
a dream.