 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
THE OLD MAN'S WOOING AND HIS WIDOW.
When Mrs. John Dale returned home, at sunset, she found
that “Grandfather,” as she called uncle Dale, was not there.
All the members of the family were inquired of concerning him,
and it was at length ascertained that he had been last seen climbing
into the stage coach, but nothing further could be learned.
A week went by—ten days—two weeks—a month—when, one
evening, in the coach which took him away, in excellent health
and spirits, and dressed with more than his usual precision, Uncle
Dale returned. The two families felt as if some conspiracy
had been forming, and his reception was a little dubious, though
evidently there was an effort to seem pleased. More than ordinary
pains were taken for his satisfaction, but the politeness
was too formal, and the constraint was apparent.
When the workmen commenced repairing the cabin, no one
asked familiarly what he proposed to do; and when the children
climbed on his knees and teased about his intentions, they
were hushed and told they were quite too heavy for him.
This was not for any lack of curiosity; why should it be
so? certainly Uncle Dale had manifested no such interest for
years, as he did now in the restoration of the old house, assisting,
every day, himself, till all was complete, though for a long
time previously, he had been unused to any toil.
When it was done, he felicitated himself greatly on the cosy,
comfortable look it presented, but no one noticed or added anything
to his felicity; indeed there seemed an unconsciousness of
his movements, and even when he said it would look much
better when he should get the furniture home, there was still
the same apparent indifference.
This silence made him visibly uneasy; he was desirous of
being questioned; yet no one embraced the frequent opportunities
he gave for the purpose. In vain he said that John and
Joseph might have their big houses in welcome, and that he
would rather live in the old cabin than with either of them. At
length he became restlessly dissatisfied, sitting sometimes for
hours with his head resting on his cane, without speaking; at
other times going from John's to Joseph's, and from Joseph's
to John's, half a dozen times during the day. Neither of his
sons, however, opened the way for what he wished to communicate.
One morning as John was climbing into the wagon, with a
design of going to Clovernook on some little errand, (he always
harnessed two horses for the bringing home of six pounds of
sugar or a fresh cheese,) Uncle Dale said, in a sort of flurried
accent, “Can you spare your team to me for an hour or two to-day,
John?”
“Why, yes, I suppose so,” he answered; “but what do you
want to do?”
“Nothing much,” was the reply; “I thought of moving my
few effects out of your wife's way—that's all.”
“Humph!” said John, drawing the reins so tight that the
horses pushed the wagon back, crushing a beautiful young tree;
“where do you propose to move?”
“Into the cabin, to be sure: it's good enough for me.”
“But how do you intend to live?—not alone?”
“No, certainly not; I shall need a nurse and housekeeper,
and I have an excellent young woman engaged who will combine
both qualities.”
“The deuce you have!” exclaimed John, bringing down his
whip in a way that sent the horses briskly forward, and in a
few moments he was out of view, leaving Uncle Dale in a state
of troubled bewilderment. During the day, however, he managed
to communicate definitely his intentions; he was going to
be married, and to a pretty young woman of twenty-five. He
enlarged of course on her beauty and many amiable qualities;
but there seemed something he would fain say, which he did
not; for, many times, after speaking of an excellent trait, he
convey the idea of something connected with his proposed
marriage, not altogether pleasant to think about.
Rejuvenated as much as might be, but without hearing any
“God speed you,” he set out in the evening coach on the bridal
expedition. Then it was that the tongues so silent before,
found utterance.
Mrs. John Dale and Mrs. Joseph Dale, exchanged little visits
daily, at which a thousand comments were made, and a thousand
speculations indulged in reference to the new phase of
things. They were not only displeased, but in fact outraged.
An unwarrantably foolish thing was about to be done, and that
too, without their having been in the least degree consulted;
but all the anxiety and suspense, and gossip, must be passed
over, or left to the reader's fancy. Little preparation was
made in either house for the entertainment of the bride; Mrs.
John Dale thought probably the first visit would be to Mrs.
Joseph Dale's, and Mrs. Joseph Dale thought likely the first
visit would be to Mrs. John Dale's. So they excused themselves.
At any rate, a cup of tea and a piece of bread and
butter were all the old man wanted, and as for the young wife,
why, nobody was going to give themselves trouble for her.
Uncle Dale had been absent two or three weeks when, one
evening, as the family of John were seated around the supper
table, one of the children came breathlessly in, saying, that
grandfather had come, and brought a woman and a little girl
with him. Neither son nor son's wife went forth to relieve
him of any embarrassment; and, indeed, I think he would have
preferred to encounter a British regiment forty years before, to
facing the little party now before him, and presenting his wife
to them. There was no alternative however, and the ceremony
was gone through with awkwardly enough, and the little blue-eyed
trembling girl dropt into the most out-of-the-way place she
saw, and taking on her lap the little girl brought with her—five
years old, perhaps, with a pale face and dark mournful eyes—
she smoothed the black hair from her forehead, and remained
silent.
There was nothing of the bridish appearance in the young
her dress was a mourning one, and simply, it may be a
little old-fashionedly made. White frills about the wrists, and
fitting close to the neck, relieved the otherwise sombre effect,
for she wore no ornament but a wealth of luxuriant chestnut
hair, which, though put plainly away, lay in wavy masses along
the brow, that was white, and shaded with sorrow.
In spite of her resolved obduracy, Mrs. Dale was slightly
softened, obviously so, when the moisture gathered to the eyes
of the young wife, though she endeavored to conceal it; and
more so when the dark-eyed little girl, putting her arms around
her neck, said softly, “Mother, what makes you cry?”
A flush of crimson mounted to the face of the young mother,
and the tears, held back till then, dropped heavily one by one
on the head of the girl, who, leaning against her bosom, presently
fell asleep.
Uncle Dale turned away and said something hurriedly about
the sunset; and the children came about his knees saying,
“Who is she, grandfather?” and “What makes her cry?”
Without answering the last question, Uncle Dale said he had
brought them a new aunt; they must call her Aunt Polly: so
it soon became a natural and familiar thing to say grandfather
and Aunt Polly, for Mrs. Dale caught the instruction conveyed
to the children, and with a woman's tact said Aunt Polly too.
I remember of visiting them after they were domiciled in
the cabin; how comfortable and homelike it all was—the
bright rag carpet on the floor—the small and plain table on
which lay the Bible and hymn-book—the cupboard with its
open doors, where the china and britannia were wisely set for
show—and Uncle Dale's cushioned chair—I can see it all
before me as plainly as I see the appointments of my own
room. And Uncle Dale and Aunt Polly—I can see them, just
as they used to look—she, meek, and gentle, and devoted, for
she was of a quiet nature, and had the kindest heart I ever
knew, engaged with knitting or sewing, or in the performance
of some household duty, while Uncle Dale sat by the door, or
at the fireside, as the season might be, reading aloud from the
newspaper, or telling stories of olden times.
Aunt Polly was not mentally gifted; in truth, she could not
fathom half her husband said to her; but her reverential love
prompted the liveliest and most implicit obedience to his
wishes; and they glided smoothly, and I think happily along.
Mrs. Joseph Dale, and Mrs. John Dale, became measurably
reconciled to the new order of things, and to the young wife,
for she won upon all hearts, and though they sometimes said
she was not much like grandmother, (whom they had never
seen) they supposed they ought not to complain—and surely
there was no reason why they should do so.
But for the little girl there was no kind word; no pet
names; they had little children too, but they did not like her
to play with them. This was the felt if not the expressed
understanding, and the child wandered lonesomely about the
woods, or sat by the brookside in the sun all day, till the summer
was faded, and the autumn gone, and the winter whitening
all the hills. Then it was that, digging down through the snow
they made her a grave, and she needed no playmates nor kind
words thenceforward. When the spring came round, the violets
sprung up at her head and her feet, and quite overrun the little
yellow heap of earth that was above her, blooming and blossoming
as brightly as over the heir of a hundred kings—she
had never other monument.
In the little white-washed cabin the widowed wife yet lives,
training the roses at the windows, and keeping all things just as
“grandfather” liked to have them when he sat in the great arm
chair, telling her stories of battles and pioneer life: all things
that were his, are held sacred; the bridal dress is hung carefully
aside, and she wears it only when she visits the two graves
under the locust. But the mourning has never been changed
—never will be, I think, and the look of patient meekness she
wears still, only with more of sorrow in it. She is “Aunt
Polly” to every body, and all love and respect her.
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |