 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
THE FOOLISH MARRIAGE.
The first of November came round; the long dismal rains of
the autumn were over; along the brooks, and from their grassy
beds on the hillsides, the flowers, pale pansies, and crimson flox,
and blue-bells, were beaten down and gone; that lonesome
time of fading and falling was passed; the cold north breeze had
blown off the melancholy haze in which the blue basement of
the skies had buried itself all through October, and the atmosphere
was clear and chill.
Mr. Claverel's barns were full of new hay, and golden bundles
of wheat, and white sheaves of rye, and about the doors great
spotted oxen, and sleek brown heifers, and frisky calves with
sprouting horns, were treading knee deep in the fresh and fragrant
straw. It was a goodly sight—evidence of content and
abundance. The corn and the orchard fruits were also gathered,
and a reign of smiling plenty blest all the toilers.
But within doors, though the hearth blazed brightly, it was
quiet, very quiet, almost sad. Mr. Claverel sat in the house
for the most part, reading the Bible or the newspapers; and
though from the latter he sometimes read to Dolly an item of
news, or a recipe for making a pie or a pudding—for she, uneducated
and simple-minded woman, cared little for the theological
disputations and political flourishes in which her husband took
great interest—she usually kept silently about her work, mending
and making, or putting the house in order, or preparing
dinner or supper, in her industrious and frugal way; and her
step was not so light as it used to be, and she spoke less often
and less hopefully of the future. She was learning the great
lesson, the deceitfulness of earthly hopes, and that “sorrow's
boy had not fulfilled the prophecies in which her maternal
heart once rejoiced; and no wonder she was sad, poor
woman.
David and Oliver, bringing dusty slates and mouldy school
books out of the closets, in which they had been for nine
months stored, had commenced, for three months, their studies
in the district school, where Martha and Jane were kept the
year round, save when a heavy storm of rain or snow prevented
their going; for the school was a mile from home, and they
had neither cloaks nor overshoes—not they.
One cloudy and gusty day, when the crickets chirped to the
rattle of the windows, Mr. Claverel drew shiveringly to the fire,
saying, as he did so, “I am afraid, Dolly, I am going to have
a spell of the ague, for the chills run over and over me, and I
can't seem to get warm, though I've got on two of my red flannel
shirts to-day;” and Mrs. Claverel said, as she gave him the camphor,
and put a blanket over his shoulders, that she had felt all
day as though something was going to happen—when a heavy
stamping and a lighter sort of shuffling arrested their attention.
But let me go back a little. Rumor for once had been
rightly advised; and after a little flirtation and a little youthful
sentiment, in which each fancied the other to be the one above
all others with whom to find sympathy and love, Richard
Claverel and Sally Bates had been pronounced “husband and
wife.” A week or two of enchantment, a week or two of cool
commonplace, and then came moody discontent, with interludes
of ungenerous allusion, and then sharp words and outright
quarrels.
Richard had been deceived in Sally, and Sally had been
deceived in Richard. The miracle of sweetness and softness
and beauty was proven an idler and a gossip, that loved nothing
so much as money, and the handsome and prospectively well-to-do
doctor turned out the most thriftless and ill-tempered
wretch in the world. Truth is, both were right and both were
wrong, as is usual in such cases; they had followed a blind
and hasty impulse, and bitter reflection came after, with a
long train of evils that would have been pointed out in advance,
had thought that Mr. Claverel, whom every body called a
rich man, would provide the means of living till the Doctor
should acquire his profession, but in this she was mistaken.
True, the land of Mr. Claverel was worth a good deal of
money, but the interest it yielded was a bare living, and this at
the price of hard work. He had never more than five dollars
in his pocket, for, as Mrs. Claverel said, he was a good provider,
and the sugar and the coffee and the thousand other little
things demanded every day, drew out almost all the funds
which the sale of a steer or a colt, now and then, or a load of
hay, or a few bushels of oats, brought in. Besides, David and
Oliver, who were steady and industrious, must have new coats
and boots every few days, as Mr. Claverel expressed it, with a
trifle occasionally for their own private uses; and Martha and
Jane, too, must have new bonnets and dresses, for Mrs. Claverel
wanted them to look a little like other folks, and she was sure
Deacon White's daughters had two dresses to their one; so it
was no wonder, in view of the income and the demand, that
Mr. Claverel was always a little behindhand.
He was not, however, much disposed, even if he had possessed
the means, to assist Richard any farther. He had, he said,
given him his time these five years, besides boarding and clothing
him; then, too, he had given him a horse, and money, twice
as much and twice as often as he had the other children; so it
was no marvel, especially in view of the farther offence Richard
had given, by marrying without his advice or consent, one
against whom he had violent prejudices, that he closed the doors
of his heart against him. In vain Mrs. Claverel urged that he
had never seen nor spoken with the young bride; that she might
be a pattern of perfection, and help Richard get along in the
world, instead of being any detriment, if she only had a little advice
and encouragement. Mr. Claverel only said he didn't
want to see her; he knew the family to be illiterate and vulgar;
he didn't suppose Joe Bates knew John Calvin from the
President of the United States; and, 't was likely, the daughter
knew less—that she was a silly, ill-bred gad-about, whom he
should assist by teaching her to help herself.
In getting a wife, Richard had thought little of how she was
to be supported; that he should be married was a fixed fact,
but the unpleasant necessities that would follow, he kept in the
dim distance; and, further than that, he could sell his Bucephalus,
and so manage to live for a while, at any rate. This had
been done, and this gusty day I spoke of came after the last
penny had been spent.
Since his marriage, Richard had professed to be still pursuing
his studies, sitting for the most part with his feet on the window
sill or the table, in the little dusty office of Dr. Hilton; but sometimes
varying the monotony by selling a box of pills or a phial
of paregoric, and sometimes by making a professional call with
his teacher in cases of croupy children, or slight burns or fevers.
Sometimes his meals were taken at his wife's father's, sometimes
in his mother's pantry, and sometimes at the hotel, where
they were never paid for. Sally still remained at home, because
Richard could in no way provide for her, in fact, but
“because mother could not think of parting with her,” as she
said. Her white shoes were quite worn out, and her white veil
considerably soiled. Her father had once or twice renewed her
dresses, and began to think it was time she should look to her
husband. For several days he had not been to see her—why,
she neither thought nor cared much, only that she wanted
shoes, and knew she must present her claims. She could
scarcely step out of doors any more—a state of things she was
not at all accustomed to. And yet the doctor came not. What
must she do? “Why, go at once and ask your husband,” said
her mother; “it is time he should begin to provide.” So
thought Sally, as well she might; and so, in her white slippers,
down at the heel and out at the toe, and with the wind blowing
her skirts in no very graceful fashion, she set out.
On arrival at the office, she found Dr. Claverel slipshod, and
in a threadbare and greasy coat, sitting with his hat drawn over
his eyes close by a red hot stove, unbosoming his sorrows to
the hostler of the hotel—a negro boy, of fourteen years of age.
The acquaintance had begun in the Doctor's more prosperous
days, when the lad had been employed as a groom for Bucephalus;
and though those days were gone, they still occasionally
fond of horses,) on terms of social equality. The extreme heat
of the stove had caused the door to be opened, so that Sally entered
without interrupting the conversation.
“Why doesn't you run away from her? I wound, if I had
such a wife,” she heard the boy say.
“Where in Heaven's name shall I run to?” replied the Doctor,
balancing a bottle of castor oil on two fingers. “I was a
fool—I've been a fool all my life!”
Sally, who had some, vague idea that the conversation might
refer to her, though she was by no means certain, exclaimed, in
no very mild tone, “I am glad you have found it out—everybody
else has known it a long time.”
“Found out what?” said Richard, without evincing any surprise.
“Why, that you are a fool. You are not fit to have a wife
—that's what you are not fit for.”
“I only wish you had found it out a little sooner,” said
Richard.
“I wish so as much as you can,” replied Sally; “I never saw
the time before when I hadn't a pair of shoes to put on my feet
—just look at this;” and she presented her shoes conspicuously
to view. Richard said nothing, and she continued,—“Do you
expect me to go barefoot, or do you wish me to take in washing?”
“Just as you please; your mother is a good washerwoman,
and might easily initiate you in the mysteries of her profession,
I should think.”
“That is a pretty way to talk to your own wife. I am sure
I have tried to do the best I could—I wish I was dead, where I
wouldn't trouble you any more,” and the young wife began
to cry. Richard was sorry he had spoken in this way; he had
some conscience; nor had the young woman yet lost all her
power. So, after sitting in uneasy silence for a while, he said,
“I don't know what to do, Sally, more than you do; I have no
money, and no means of getting any.”
Sally made no answer, and he continued, “Can you suggest
anything?”
Upon which she sobbed out, pausing at every word, “They
don't want us at home any more, I am sure; and if we could
only get a little house somewhere, and live by ourselves, I
should be so glad.”
“It's no use talking about a house to a man that can't get
shoes!”
“Suppose, then, we go to your father's for a while?”
“What for—to be turned out of doors?”
“No! we will not be turned out. I can help your mother,
and you, too, can earn your board, beside studying as much as
you do now; and when they get tired of us, your father can
help us, as he ought to, and we can begin to live by ourselves.
Something may happen to our advantage—who knows?”
Richard thought all this reasonable, but felt a terrible hesitancy
about carrying it out. If his father were only from home
—but to present himself before him, and, worse still, his wife,
was what he could not sumon courage to do. However, he
saw no alternative, and was reluctantly dragged into obedience
to the suggestion. A dejected, pitiful sort of appearance they
made: Richard in shabby black gentility, and Sally in the
faded bridal gear—a rose-tinted silk, and the remnant of white
satin slippers.
Very glad was Mrs. Bates to see them set out, for she was
tired of “slaving for such a great family;” and over and again
she advised the young people to make themselves very useful—
that it might be to their advantage, &c.
Poor Richard—he felt very much like a despised outcast, going
back to the home whence he had been rightfully ejected, for
charity. In vain he tried to persuade himself that it was fate,
that all struggles were useless, and that he might as well submit
with a martyr's resignation. It would not do; humility
and pride and discontent and shame were warring in his bosom;
malignant and evil thoughts were in his heart.
On the way they met a poor boy whose mother was sick; he
was miserably clad, looked dejected, and wore his arm in a
sling; he hesitated, looked timidly and inquiringly at Richard,
who at first seemed not to notice him, and then, pausing, said,
you!”
“Is Dr. Hilton at home?” said the boy.
“No; and if he were, he could not do your mother any
good. You had best go back as fast as you can, for most likely
she will be dead before you get home.”
The child was almost crying, as he said—“Mother wanted
me to go more for myself than for her—you see how I have
hurt myself!” and he presented his hand.
Richard loosened the bandage, and, examining it for a moment,
said, “It will have to be amputated before two days,
and then you will never be good for anything. You had better
be dead; a poor orphan with one hand: why, you will starve to
death.”
The boy cried outright at this; for, though he didn't know
what amputated meant, he had a vague idea that it was something
fearful, and he knew what starving to death was.
Richard continued: “What business had you to hurt your
hand in this way? I suppose you were doing some mischief,
something for which you ought to be sent to the State's prison
for life.”
“No, I was doing no harm,” said the boy, “only trying to
make a fire; but the log was too big for me; and when I had
got one end on the door-step, the other slipped off on to my
hand, and crushed it as you see.”
“Well,” said Richard, “I knew it was something you had no
right to do. Poor folks ought not to have fires; they ought to
freeze to death, don't you know that, boy?”
“The Doctor is only in fun, little boy,” said Sally, kindly,
for she was a woman; “your mother will get well, and your
hand, too; and you ought not to freeze to death, any more than
other folks; but you had best go on, and leave word for Doctor
Hilton to call at your mother's as soon as he comes home”
—advice which the little fellow, half-smiling and half-sobbing,
obeyed.
“Why did you talk so to that poor little boy?” asked Mrs.
Claverel, as they walked on.
“Because,” said Richard, “my heart is full of bitterness, and
than to think, and I can't help my thoughts—may be you can
do better.”
He was interrupted by a footstep. An old man walking as
hurriedly as his age and feebleness would permit, passed them,
leaning on a thorny staff. With that freedom which is customary
in some parts of the country, he spoke to the young people.
There was something gracious in his aspect, as though the way
he had come was beset with pitfalls, and youth needed warning
as well as encouragement. An indescribable sneer came over
the countenance of Richard, as he said, “If I were you, old
gray-headed man, I would cease to play such tricks; but perhaps
'tis your vocation, and why should I meddle with you, so
near the grave? hoble on, hobble on, sir—how can your feeble
sinews master fate? I am young—in the vigor of manhood,
they tell me, and yet no match for the demon.” The
old man, probably thinking the youth demented, looked pityingly
on him a moment, and then went forward in silence.
The remainder of the walk was accomplished without any interchange
of words. Arrived at the door, Richard tried to act
like a consciously welcome guest, but his perturbation betrayed
itself; and as for Sally, her heart misgave her when she met
the cold, unsmiling greeting of her father-in-law, nor could the
kind efforts of Mrs. Claverel to make all smooth, dispel the sorrowful
homesick feeling that came over her. Each tried to act
as it was wished to feel, but the constraint would not be thawed
away, and the first afternoon passed uncomforably enough.
Mr. Claverel read, or affected to read; the women kept up
some sort of talk, but it was on the surface; their ungenial natures
would not sympathize, and Richard, finding some sort of
relief in employment, and willing to escape from his father's
presence, set about cutting wood—an employment never before
tasteful to him; and it was not till tea time that he presented
himself, tired and chilled with the unusual exposure.
“The wind blows like snow,” said Mr. Claverel, going to the
window. “You had best get tea a little earlier than common,
Dolly, or the Doctor and his lady will have a dark walk home.”
This was purposely said to humiliate them, for he had no
nor the next, nor the next; and it may readily be imagined that
affairs beginning so ill did not end well.
So far from being any help, the young people were a continual
source of discomfort and trouble. Mrs. Claverel soon
grew tired of trying to make matters pleasant, since all her
efforts were unavailing; and so they went from bad to worse.
At last they became very weary of each other, both the young
people and the old; and one morning, after some unusual dissatisfaction,
Sally put on her white bonnet, and went to her
mother.
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |