 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
CONTRASTED VISITORS.
Saturday night! Who has not rejoiced when the week's
affairs were wound up, even though they may have been attended
with no unusual sorrow or solicitude. The weight of care is
lightened for a moment, and we breathe freely; there is then
less looking before and after, less sighing for what is not, than
at other times. In the city, the close of the week and the
approach of the Sabbath are more manifestly apprehended,
perhaps; but in the country, they are felt. The oxen are unyoked
and left to graze over the hills for a day; the plough, or
the work, of whatever sort it may be, stands still; a hush,
unbroken by the woodman's axe or the laborer's song, spreads
itself over all; and the solemn ringing of the village bell calls
every one to come up and worship. There is no music of
chimes, there are no cross-crowned towers, no gorgeous altars,
no elaborate rituals, nor paid choirs, to fill long, dark aisles
with unnatural trills—
To the poor flattery of the organ keys.”
sound through the woods like anthems; and the winds, the
priesthood of the air, in prophetic tones, admonish the soul, till
the sun goes down in purple fire, and over the sky's blue border
the stars come up white and cold.
Sometimes, in country places, the Sabbath is made a time
for visiting; nor is it thus profaned, for it is generally among
people whose occupations require all their attention through
the week, and who, after quietly enjoying the hospitality of
feast in the house of God. There is no ostentatious display, no
noise or bustle necessary for the entertainment, but the visitors
lend their aid in the performance of some labor of love, and so,
during their stay, make less trouble than they prevent. The
women folks, who of course sleep in the spare bed, “dainty
and lavendered,” spread it smoothly and get the whole chamber
in order before they descend, and make themselves further
useful, often, in laying the cloth and assisting about breakfast,
which is easily accomplished with the asking of an occasional
question; such as, whether to use the white-handled knives and
forks or the horn ones, the plain china or the gilt, the tin or the
britannia coffee-pot; in all of which cases the visitor knows
well enough that the white-handled knives and forks, and the
gilt china, and the britannia coffee-pot, are to be used. Meanwhile,
the men-folks inspect cribs and sheds and barn, proposing
improvements for themselves from what they see, or
suggesting improvements for their neighbor, while they give
the horses their oats, or carry the hay to the sheep, or milk a
cow, “just because they would rather do it than not”—neither
offering hindrance, nor disorganizing the usual course of things.
If it be known that Uncle John's or Aunt Mary's family, or
any other folks, are coming, the preparations are all made on
Saturday. At such times, wo to the chickens that have saucy
habits of coming into the house. With all diligence the children
search through hay-mows and straw-heaps, and sometimes
make exploring expeditions into patches of weeds, for new
hen's nests; scrubbing and dusting are done with unusual care;
a pound-cake and a pudding are baked; and toward sunset all
the family appear in their holiday gear, awaiting with smiling
countenances the crowning event, the arrival of “the company.”
Such an event was about to occur at Mr. Claverel's. The
week's work was finished; David and Oliver were breaking
their colts, Democrat and Reuben, into the mysteries of some
fantastic tricks; Mr. Claverel was reading some political essay
in the Republican, while Dolly crimped the border of her cap
with Richard's penknife; and Martha and Jane, shivering
though they were, sat close at the front gate, eager to catch the
or affecting to be so, sat in his room, seesawing on a
violin; and yet the coming of Uncle Peter was to be the beginning
of a new era in his life.
“Oh, mother, mother, look quick and see if this is not them,
just coming over the hill,” said both the girls at once. Mrs.
Claverel arose and looked from the window, saying, as she did
so, “Peter has a new horse on the near side, if it is him; but,
Sammy, hadn't you best go out and open the gate, at any
rate?”
“Call Richard to go,” he answered; but the children ran out
again, saying they could do it, for they thought that would
make it uncle Peter; and Mrs. Claverel, saying she guessed
they could do it just as well as anybody, left Richard to the enjoyment
of his violin. Anxiously, and almost tremblingly, the
children gazed; presently, the white cover and the little green
wagon were in full sight, and there, side by side, sat Uncle
Peter and Aunt Jane. Briskly the journey was concluded,
and as, having smiled and nodded to the children, they trotted
down the gravel walk, the rattling of the wheels announced
to all that they were come. Mrs. Claverel, in her
newly crimped cap and smoothly ironed dress, and with one
hand in the sock she was mending—for she was never idle—
came forth to give her welcome, attended by “Sammy,” with
the open Republican in one hand, and a Windsor chair in the
other, which he proffered, by way of a step. What a joyous
shaking of hands there was, how many kind inquiries about all
at home, from the children to Billy, the hired man—and even
the old house-dog was not forgotten. Then came the unpacking
of a variety of little presents, in packages, jars, and baskets
—for aunt Jane never came empty-handed—she always had
something that she knew Dolly would like so well! some of
her currant jelly, or dried pears, so nice in case of sickness, or
a fresh-baked loaf-cake, which she thought the children might
like because Aunt Jane made it, and not but that Dolly could
make a great deal better.
Aunt Jane was a good woman; kind deeds and words flowed
from her heart as spontaneously as water from its fountain.
life; nothing of its heartless and specious deceptions; but a disposition
to please is better than conformity to rules, and everybody
was happy in Aunt Jane's society. She was not my Aunt
Jane, any more than Uncle Dale was my Uncle Dale, nor so
much indeed; I wish she was, for she is still living, and well
stricken in years she must be, too, for, as I remember her she
was forty, I suppose—and that is a long time ago. In the
shadow of the maple, where Uncle Peter often rested from his
labors, he is now taking his last rest. He was many years
older than his wife; even at the bridal, his hair was white; but
her flirtations gave him little annoyance, as
He kept the even tenor of his way;”
“Keep the old homestead, Jenny,” he said, “and Billy to
tend the farm: he knows all my ways of doing. I don't want
any new-fangled ploughs or harrows brought into use. Go and
visit Sammy's folks once in three months, just as though I were
with you; and do not grieve, Jenny, but kiss me now, and let
me go to sleep,” and, smoothing the gray hair from his forehead,
Jenny did kiss him, as fervently as twenty years before,
and the smile that came over his features was never afterwards
disturbed. But it is not with the sad end of the journey that I
have to deal, nor much even with the living years, only as this
one visit influenced the destiny of Richard.
The sun was down, and the lamp lighted, and the table
spread for supper. Democrat and Reuben, whose stalls were
to be occupied by Uncle Peter's horses, were turned out to race
in the orchard, and the violin was mute. The rattling of the
stage coach along the turnpike arrested their attention. There
was a sudden pause, a sound of voices, then a driving forward
again; and presently there was a loud rap on the door, and, responsive
to Mr. Claverel's distinct “Come in,” a fat little woman
entered, whom, under drooping feathers and muffling furs,
it was difficult to recognise as Mrs. Bates. Mr. Claverel received
her with cold formality, Richard with blank surprise,
hospitality.
A little very urgent business had brought her, she said, as
she accepted the invitation to “take off her things.” “You
see,” she continued, seating herself by aunt Jane, “it was my
daughter that Richard Claverel here married. She made him
a good wife, if ever a woman made a good wife. I don't say
this because I am her mother, and she is my daughter; because
if I was not her mother, nor she my daughter, I could see that
she was a good wife, just as well as I can see now that she was
a good wife, and it was all from his own evil disposition that
my daughter was forced to abanding his house. I haven't the
vanity to think my daughter an angel, but I do think an angel
could not have lived with him, any more than my daughter
could live with him; but an angel, seeing his evil disposition,
would have had to abanding him, just as my daughter, seeing
his evil disposition, had to abanding him.” There is no telling
how much longer she would have gone on but for the interference
of Mr. Claverel, who, after the exclamation, “A fool's
mouth hath no drought,” requested that whatever business she
might have should be transacted with him.
Richard had made his escape, followed by Uncle Peter, who
preached him an excellent sermon from the text, “Never give
up.” At first, he said it was no use; he should always have
bad luck; that if other folks could do better, he hoped they
would—but that he couldn't. Gradually, however, he yielded
by little and little, and began to take courage and hope.
“I forgot,” said Mrs. Bates, addressing Mr. Claverel, “that
you are the governor. I suppose you would like to have me
get down on my knees, and ask you if you would please to let
me speak a word; but I can tell you, Sammy Claverel, it will
not be the Widder Bates that gets on her knees to the like of
you. No: the Widder Bates has a little too much spirit for
to get down on her knees to you, Sammy Claverel, or the like
of you, Sammy Claverel—the Widder Bates tells you that to
your face, Sammy Claverel.” Yes, our old acquaintance was a
widow now: poor Bates—when his little farm was sold, his
occupation was gone. Temptation met and overcame him.
the weakness and imbecility of the drunkard; and living awhile
a pitiable wretch, he died an outcast from the love of his own
wife and children.
“Can't the business just be put off till we have taken a little
bit of tea and eaten a mouthful or two of supper?” said Mrs.
Claverel.
But Mrs. Bates, who felt invested by her widowhood with a
sort of dignity, and loved to make allusion to her lonely and
unprotected state, replied that the Widder Bates would say
what she had to say without any supper; that she was a lone
body, but for all that, she wouldn't be beholden to her foes!
“Come and eat like a woman,” Mr. Claverel said; “you've
rid from town, and must be hungry. I don't pretend to be
your friend, but I'm not your enemy; and now that you are
in my house, you are welcome to eat, though I hope this may
be your last visit.”
Adjusting her black bonnet so as to show to good advantage
the red artificial flowers in her cap, Mrs. Bates said she hoped
it would be her last visit; that she had come to say something
that would have been very much to Mr. Claverel's advantage,
and that she would rather be to the advantage of a black slave
than to one's disadvantage; but that if he was not a mind to
have an advantage, when a lone widder had come to offer him
an advantage, to her own disadvantage, she didn't know as she
was bound to force an advantage into his hands to her own disadvantage.
Mr. Claverel said if she had made such sacrifice on his account,
he was sorry; but that if she had anything to propose
that would be to their mutual advantage, he was ready to
hear it.
“Maby you remember our black cow?” said Mrs. Bates, reseating
herself.
“She got most of her living in my paster: so I have some
reason to remember her.”
“Maby you have other reasons?”
“Only that she was an ugly old critter, that one would not
as I.”
“And you as well as she—so folks say, at any rate.”
“What of that? Would I put your cow in my paster?”
“Opinions differ—some says what you wouldn't like to
hear.”
The angry glow came into Mr. Claverel's face, as he said—
“Speak plainly, and to the point; I don't understand you.”
“I did speak to the point—the Widder Bates isn't afeard.”
“Then say out what yuo have to say.”
“I've said, as plain as words can say, that if a rich man had
a spite to a poor man, he might turn the poor man's cow into
his own meader, and let her eat herself to death, just because
he was a rich man that the law couldn't touch, and had a spite
to a poor man that the law could take up and hang if he said a
word.”
“Ay, ay, I understand,” said Mr. Claverel, for her talk was
too ludicrous to make him angry; “but if any one believed
your insinuations, I don't see that it would be much to my
advantage.”
“If I am a mind to tell it, it will be to your disadvantage;
and if I don't tell it, it will be to your advantage; but do you
suppose I am going to conceal it for nothing?”
“Do as you please; but if you think I will pay you money
to keep you from circulating falsehoods, you are mistaken. Is
this the business you came to transact?”
“I am a poor lone widder, and likely I don't begin business
the way business would be begun by a lawyer who learns his
business out of books; but I am coming, as fast as I can, to
more important business, for the black cow is dead now, poor
old critter, and whether she hooked down the bars with her
horns and got into your meader, or whether she got into your
meader without hooking down the bars with her horns to get
into your meader, makes no difference, now, seeing that she got
into your meadow some way, and died on that account, taking
as good as twenty dollars out of our pockets; but, as I said,
that is neither here nor there.”
“What is?” asked Mr. Claverel.
“Why,” said Mrs. Bates, after some hesitation, “there is a
young man boarding with me that is a lawyer, and knows about
business, and how it ort to be done. He is from one of the
cities east of the mountings, and he says that my daughter can
get a divorce as easy as to turn her hand over, he says; and he
says, he says there will be no difficulty at all in the case, he
says.”
“Well,” said Mr. Claverel; and Mrs. Bates continued: “And
the lawyer says, he says that it will be greatly to your disgrace,
he says, to have the facts brought before the public, and he says,
he says that if it was himself, he says, he would rather pay a
thousand dollars, he says, than to have it brought before the
public, he says; so I thought I would come and tell you what
he said, he said, for he said he would rather pay a thousand
dollars, he said, than to have the facts brought out, he said.”
I will not dwell longer upon the important business which,
by degrees, Mrs. Bates managed to explain. Enough that her
plan failed, and that she left the house in high anger, saying, as
she did so, that she was “convinced, now, that the black cow
had some help about getting into the meader, and that the lawyer
said, he said that there would be no difficulty in the way
of a divorce, he said.”
Though Richard kept out of hearing of the conversation, he
knew what it was, and was so humiliated that Aunt Jane should
have heard it, that he would fain have crept out of the world;
and though he had been once or twice called to supper, he delayed
to go, but remained on the porch, apparently watching
the clouds that were driving fleetly up the sky, now obscuring
the moon and stars, and now leaving their broad, full light to
stream on the world.
A storm of sorrowful passion swept him away from the coldness
and selfishness that were a part of his nature, and he
longed for an opportunity of doing or saying something kind—
something that should prove him not utterly lost. Carlo came
close and rubbed his shaggy sides against him. “Poor fellow!”
said Richard, “come in and I will give you some supper.”
“The wind blows up like snow, don't it?” said Aunt Jane,
addressing Richard, as though unconscious of his thoughts and
the clouds.”
“Are you?” said Richard. “I didn't know it was ready.”
And taking Carlo by the collar, he followed Aunt Jane into the
house, and making his supper of dry bread, which he held in
one hand, he fed the dog with the other. The table was luxuriously
spread, but he had no appetite; and after going through
the formula, he retired to his chamber, and drew out from its
dusty closet, the old brown hair trunk, and after replacing a
tack or two, and brushing it up to make it look as respectable
as possible, he carefully wrapped in a “Republican” the sign of
Dr. Claverel, and placed it in the bottom—next came the
violin, and then the various articles that made up his wardrobe
—the trunk was locked, and seating himself by the window, he
looked at the clouds and thought of the future all the long
night.
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |