 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
MRS. GREY'S TWO VISITS.
WHEN we look abroad in the world, there seems no ebbing
in the great wave of humanity; and while our own hearth-light
falls on no pale cheek and no tear-dimmed eye; while the little
circle, of which we are a part, is unbroken; while the music,
sounding from heart to heart, has never been muffled by the
shroud-folds, it is not possible to conceive the aching and the
longing that come upon the soul when an accustomed smile has
darkened away, and how one little mound may throw a shadow
over the whole wide world. If there be any sorrow for which
the oil of gladness holds no chrism of healing—sorrow, making
life a blank and eternity unsubstantial, it is that which comes
over us when, for the first time in our lives, we lay back the
winding-sheet, and give our kisses, wild and passionate, to the
pale, unanswering dust. God over all, blessed forever! put
the arms of Thy loving kindness about the many children of
affliction, leaning away from the sunshine to the cold comfort
of the grave.
The winter, with its chill winds and leafless trees, shining
icicles and capricious sunshine, was gone; the blue birds were
building, and the lilacs budding through; here and there, along
the northern sides of the hills, and close under the shelter of
the fence, there was a ridge of snow, hard and sleety; and the
young lambs, their fleeces just twisting into curl, skipped about
their dams, and nibbled the tender grasses. The daffodils were
all bright by the doors of the cottages, and the flags had sent
up from the long dead grass their broad green blades; while
the housewives, their aprons full of seeds, made plans for the
new beds in the garden.
Rebecca and Ellie were in the woods gathering wild flowers;
the shutters of the school house were swung open; a new
teacher had come. “Where are you going, Billy? come back
with you; it's after school time now, and here you go with a
spade over your shoulder, as tho' you meant to dig the world
to pieces.” Billy stopped, hung down his head a little, but
said nothing; and Mrs. Martin continued, as though the total
depravity of the child compelled her to say a few words more.
“I do wonder if anybody ever had such a boy? I've tried, and
I've tried, till I've got no patience left, to make you like other
children, but it's all no use; and I'll have to tell your father,
and let him take you in hand, and see if whipping will do any
good. Didn't I tell you, as soon as you had eaten your breakfast,
and fed the pigs, and gone over to Mr. Tompkins's, and
taken home the butter-print, to go right straight to school; and
here you are with a spade over your shoulder, and I don't suppose
you know yourself what you want to do with it.” Here
she advanced to Billy, and taking him by the collar, gave him
a hearty shake, saying, “Is this the way you expect to pay
your father and me for all we have done for you? Pretty
way, isn't it? I was going to let you go to town Saturday,
and buy you a new straw hat; but now I guess you may stay
at home and carry a spade about on your shoulder; for you
don't deserve any new hat. Now go and feed the pigs, and
then go over to Mr. Tompkins's and take home the print, and
ask Mrs. Tompkins if she will exchange a setting of eggs with
mother; and don't stay an hour—mind that.”
Billy put down his spade and said that he had fed the pigs,
and been to Mr. Tompkins's; and that he was then starting to
school.
“Is it possible,” said the woman; but so far from giving him
any praise or encouragement, she added, “well, it's the first
time in your life you ever did any thing right, and I expect
it will be the last—go to school.”
Billy gave one lingering look at the spade, and departed,
thinking to himself, that if he ever grew big he would go away
off to some strange country, where his mother would never
hear of him any more.
Thus, moodily reflecting, he plodded slowly toward the
school-house; he had not, however, proceeded far, when he
was overtaken by a gentleman driving in a light carriage, and
alone. He reined in his horse, a glossy, black, and beautiful
animal, and said in a familiar, good natured way, “Won't you
get in and ride, my little friend?” Billy was not used to being
spoken to in so kind a tone; and the “Thank you” rose
naturally to his lips, as he climbed in.
All the way the strange gentleman talked to him of a great
many different things, drawing out what he had learned, and
imparting knowledge, without seeming to do so, of other things
of which he knew nothing, so that when the carriage stopped,
and he got out in front of the school-house, he felt as though he
were a boy of some importance. “I don't care,” he thought,
“whether the teacher is a good teacher or not, I shall go through
the geography and arithmetic this quarter, at any rate, for the
man said I could, and I can.”
“Bright lad, naturally, but badly trained, badly trained—
pity,” cogitated the strange gentleman, as he drove on.
Rebecca and Ellie had gathered their laps full of flowers, and,
by a mossy brookside, where the clear cold water trickled over
the blue flagstones, sat down together—one braiding her flowers
into wreaths, enraptured with their beauty, and light of heart
—the other suffering hers to wither on the ground at her side,
while, locking her hands over her knees, she gazed mutely and
steadfastly into the stream; the little birds flitted among the
boughs, only as yet fringed with verdure, filling all the woods
with song and chirp and twitter; the oxen ploughed up and
down the hills; and the bees flew hummingly out from their
hives. All day long they sat together there amid the sweet
music of nature. Gradually the sad smile brightened on the
lip of Rebecca, for Ellie did not cease her efforts to turn her
thoughts into sunny and hopeful ways. The next week they
were going to the city, where they had never been but once in
their lives, so that it was of course regarded by them as a most
important and interesting event. New dresses they were to
have, and bonnets, besides some other things which I have forgotten,
and they talked a great deal as to what styles and colors
they should go and what they should do in the new custome.
The sun was burning among the western tree-tops, when they
arose, and crossing a meadow where their way might be trailed
through the green undulations of the grass, struck into the
main road about the distance of half a mile from their home,
and directly opposite the lonesome graveyard. Attracted by
some sort of noise within it, they drew near, but their voices
silenced the movements of the person, so that they began to
think they had misapprehended what was perhaps after all but
the stirring of the leaves, and were about turning away, when,
leaning on his spade, and parting the thick briers through which
he cautiously peered, they beheld the black eyes and pale face
of Billy Martin. He was filling up the schoolmaster's grave.
Ere they reached home, a carriage passed them, the same that
had taken Billy to school in the morning, whence a gentleman,
smiling recognition, gave the salutation of the evening. Ellie,
almost trembling with confusion, dropt half her flowers, but
Rebecca said calmly, “That is the same person that we saw
coming from school,” but her thoughts flowed back to the old
time; but from the first moment of seeing him a deep interest
had been created in the mind of the younger sister, and she
continued musing as to who he was, and whether he lived in the
neighborhood, until they reached the gate.
“Come, girls,” said Mrs. Hadly, who was just coming from
the smoke-house, with a plate of fresh-cut ham, “I want you to
help me a little about supper.” “Who is at our house?” inquired
Ellie, in an eager tone, and coming close to her mother
—for to have a visitor at tea was a great event.
Mrs. Hadly said it was Mrs. Grey, and added, “What will
she think of you great girls, almost women, if she sees you
with your hands full of playthings? Throw away your flowers,
and go in and set the table.” At this moment, the vision of a
white muslin cap, profusely trimmed with black ribbon, appeared
at the window, together with a little brown withered
hand, checked with blue knotty veins, which flew briskly and
vigorously up and down—for Mrs. Grey was an industrious
woman, and never thought of sitting down, at home or abroad,
some mischief still for idle hands to do,” and often repeated it,
though her temperament was not at all poetical.
Mrs. Hadly, having got her supper “under way,” left it to
the care of the girls, and taking a pair of woollen socks, one of
many that garnished a frame attached to the ceiling, she sat
down close beside her neighbor, whose work, previously to
commencing her own, she examined. It was a child's apron,
made of bird's-eye diaper, and in a style which Mrs. Hadly had
never seen, and holding it up admiringly, she said, “Now do
tell me where you got this pretty pattern.”
“Do you like it? I thought it would look pretty for a
change, and the way I came by the pattern was this: The new
folks that have moved into the old Graham place send over to
our house a good deal for things. The very first night they got
there they sent for a number of things. Mr. Hampsted didn't
come himself, I suppose may be he was too proud, but I don't
know as I ought to say that either—likely he had something to
do at home—moving makes busy times, you know—at any
rate, he sent a black man, with good sized basket, and I
couldn't tell you what all he got! Let me see—in the first
place he wanted to buy a loaf of bread—I did think that was
queer, but I couldn't think of making any charge for that—then
he got two pounds of butter, and a ham and a dozen eggs, and
a quart of milk, and a few potaters he got of Grey, I don't
know just how many, but the strangest was, he put them right
into a white Irish linen piller-case.” And Mrs. Grey continued
to say that they must be very extravagant people, for that the
black man never asked the price of any thing till he got the
passel in his basket, and that he then took out his puss, and
paid her just what she asked, adding that for such trifling things
as bread and milk she had no heart to charge any thing.
“I didn't know,” said Mrs. Hadly, for both parties had quite
forgotten the apron pattern, “that there were new folks in the
Graham place.”
“Is it possible? They have been there four or five days,
and you not heard of it? Why, I saw Mr. Hampsted go along
here not five minutes ago—you must have seen him, gals.”
“The gentleman who just passed in the carriage, driving the
black horse?” said Ellie, “I saw him—and he lives near by, it
seems;” and though she scarcely knew why, Ellie was glad he
did live near by.
“I expect, from all accounts,” continued Mrs. Grey, “they
won't have much to do with plain farmer folks like us, for Mrs.
Hamstid, they say, keeps dressed up all the time reading
books, and don't even nuss her own baby. As I was coming
here to-day I saw her in the garden, with a bonnet on nice
enough to wear to meeting, and I noticed that her hands looked
just like snow.” And Mrs. Grey finished with an “Ah, well!
every one to their notion!” or seemed to finish so, but she presently
added, “It looks strange to me to see three gals in
one house—a chambermaid and nuss and cook, and they
say they call them all sarvents; dear me, what will the world
come to? I tell my man we shall have to make a vandue like
Mr. Smith, and go off to a new country, there are so many
town folks coming about with their man sarvents and maid
sarvents, and fine carpets and furniture.”
Poor Mrs. Grey! she was an old-fashioned woman, and her
preconceived notions would not readily yield to modern innovations.
She sighed, and by way of diverting her mind,
Mrs. Hadly said, “What did you say the name was?”
“I don't know as I can make sartain,” said Mrs. Grey, “I
understood the black man to call him Hampstead, and some
call him Hampton, but for my part I guess the name is
Hamstid.”
Rebecca went out and in, and up and down the stairs, busy
about the table, and paying little attention to this conversation.
She was thinking of the schoolmaster and of Billy Martin, who,
stealthily hidden among the briers, was filling up his grave.
But Ellie managed to hear all that was said in reference to the
strange gentleman, secretly hoping to herself that when she
should have her new dress and bonnet, she would meet him
again; “for,” she thought, “if I look better I shall act better,
and I do not want him to think me a simple rustic, as he does
now; and how can he think any thing else?”
Meanwhile, Mrs. Grey finished her apron and folded it away,
hands playfully together in the face of little Lucy Hadly—who
having come in from her playhouse in the weeds, where she
had been all day alone, paused a little way from the visitor, and
crossing her hands meekly behind her, regarded her attentively,
but not rudely—said, “Is this my little girl?” Lucy, not much
accustomed to strangers, made no reply; but with the long
lashes dropping over her eyes, and a faint crimson breaking
through her pale cheeks, stood silent.
“Can't you speak,” said her mother, “and tell Mrs. Grey
what your name is?”
“No,” said Mrs. Grey, “she can't speak—the cat has got her
tongue! Poor little girl, she hasn't got any name.”
“I am quite ashamed of you, my child,” said Mrs. Hadly,
smoothing away the golden locks which the wind had blown
into tangles. Wiping the tears with her little brown hand, the
child turned away; her lips trembled, for she was sensitively
alive to blame; and Mrs. Grey kindly drew her towards her,
patted her cheek, and said, “I told a story, didn't I? for you
have got a pretty name; and the cat hasn't got your tongue
either.” Lucy said “No;” and in proof showed her tongue to
Mrs. Grey, who answered delightedly, “That's a little lady:
I knew it!” She then unrolled the apron, and exhibited it to
Lucy, and then she tried it on by way of pleasing her, and
the large melancholy eyes of the child sparkled with pleasure,
as nestling against the bosom of the kindly woman, she regarded
herself admiringly.
I called Mrs. Grey a kindly woman—such she was, though not
always prudent; and leaning toward Mrs. Hadly, she said,
“Is Re——,” she called the rest of the name so low that
Lucy could not hear it, and added, “still moping and melancholy
about the”——. Here she called a name again, but so
low, that Lucy could not hear it any more than before.
Mrs. Hadly smiled as she answered that a child's grief was
not likely to be very durable; and though both the girls had
loved their teacher very much, she believed, it was scarcely in
the nature of things, that they should always mourn for him.
Mrs. Hadly spoke sincerely, and according to the best of her
didn't know how somebody went to see somebody after he was
dead!”
“Yes, she had liberty to do so.”
“And did you know, too, how somebody left a present for
somebody, and in that present a letter that nobody ever saw?”
“Do you allude to the Bible—of which each of the pupils
received a copy?”
“Yes, I believe it was; but each of the pupils didn't have a
letter, did they?” said Mrs. Grey.
“A few words of admonition, and farewell—nothing more.
I am sorry a different impression has gone abroad: it would
grieve Rebecca to know it.”
“Hush, hush!” said Mrs. Grey, “little folks have big ears,
sometimes;” and addressing herself to Lucy, she said, “Run
out, and show the girls what a pretty new apron you have
got.”
She then told Mrs. Hadly, that it was currently reported,
that Rebecca and the schoolmaster were engaged to be married;
that they were in the habit of meeting each other in the
woods, by the school-house; and that Rebecca went to see him
after he was dead, and wept and moaned at such a rate, that
they heard her all over the house. Now, if all this had been
true, there would have been no actual wrong in it; but not so
thought Mrs. Hadly, viewing things, as she did, through the
most severe and restricting media. Besides, the harmless liking
of the young persons had, in the mouths of village gossips,
been made to assume an exaggerated and distorted form. It is
a fault which many old, and some middle-aged persons fall into,
to regard all innocent amusements in the young as indiscreet,
and all approach toward love between the sexes as absolutely
sinful, forgetful that they themselves were ever young and giddy,
as they term it, forgetful that they ever loved and married, in all
probability, whom they chose. Into this error Mrs. Hadly had
fallen; and she resolved, that so flagrant a violation of what she
considered propriety should not go unpunished. She was a
woman of energy and decision, of severe and strict morality,
regarding the dreamy and poetic dispositions of her children as
ashamed of. Little aid by encouragement did they receive
from her in their juvenile efforts; indeed, she was scarcely
aware of their existence. An uneducated, plain, practical
woman, she had no idea of genius or its uses. More discreet
than her neighbor, she said nothing of her convictions or determination,
but for a week thereafter pondered them in her heart.
And now the elder portion of the family were at tea; the sun
was gone down, the chickens to their roost, and Ellie and
Rebecca to the cow yard, where, while filling their pails, they
talked much more gaily than usual: a little of the new neighbors,
a little of Mrs. Grey and her gossip, and a little of going
to town, and their new dresses and bonnets. While thus
engaged, Lucy, in her new apron, came timidly near, half proud,
and half ashamed. “Whose little girl is this?” said Rebecca,
pretending not to know her; “it's Mr. Johnson's little girl, I
guess; yes it is. How do you do, little Sally Johnson?”
Lucy laughed, saying, that her name was not Sally, but Lucy.
“Oh yes; I see now,” said Rebecca, reaching one arm toward
her, “it's nobody but our Lucy with a new apron on.”
“Won't you get me an apron like this when you go to
town?” and she smoothed it with her hand, regarding it with
unspeakable admiration.
Poor little girl! she never before had seen such an apron;
never possessed one in her life; but she was pleased with a
happy delusion, for Rebecca said she would get one, if mother
would let her. Sorry enough was the child when it was time
for Mrs. Grey to go home, and she must part with the apron.
A week went by, and not one word said Mrs. Hadly in
reference to the information she had received, or of the odious
light in which she regarded it. Her manner toward her children
was always reserved and chilling; there were no little
confidences; no playful words or actions ever between them;
and though the children loved her, they stood in too much awe
of her to communicate any of their hopes or fears, or joys or
sorrows.
It was Saturday morning; a light green wagon, before which
two plump and sleek sorrel horses were harnessed, stood by
their best calico gowns, and though they had no gloves, and
could scarcely keep their feet in their outgrown and rundown
shoes, they left their low chamber filled with echoes of laughter,
as they descended and climbed into their places, nestling down
in the clean fresh straw, with which it was partly filled. Half-sunken
in clover, a little way off, and wet with dew, glistened
the little white feet of Lucy, her eyes half full of sunshine and
half of tears. Her brown little hands locked together behind
her, a faint smile on her slightly parted lips, and her yellow
hair, partially curled, falling and drifting about her neck and
shoulders, she had just found courage to say, “Don't forget
the apron, will you?” as Mr. Hadly, his benevolent countenance
shadowed by his broad-rimmed hat, untied the reins from
the bough of the cherry tree.
“Stop,” said Mrs. Hadly, appearing at the door; “Rebecca
is not going to town to-day.” This she said in a calm low
tone, and as though pronouncing a sentence from which there
was no appeal. Rebecca felt it to be so, and without question
or hesitancy, obeyed, getting out of the wagon.
“I will stay, too, mother,” said Ellie, in a trembling voice.
“No, my child; go to town and get you a new dress and
bonnet: Rebecca don't deserve any.”
This was said in a tone of self-commiseration, and as though
she acted under the force of some terrible duty, and not in
accordance with her will. Mr. Hadly looked puzzled a moment,
pushed his hand through his iron-gray hair, stepped into
his place, and drove away, saying to Ellie, in a tone half sad,
half peevish, “I wonder what made your mother take such a
notion? what has your sister done that is so bad?” Lucy
sank down in the grass where she was standing, and, plucking
the long blades, plaited them listlessly together, the tears
dropping silently into her lap. But Rebecca, calm and unquestioning,
resumed her work-day dress and her accustomed labors.
All the day her thoughts were colored with saddest memories.
She had little appetite for dinner, and less for supper, but forebore
to speak of the headache with which she suffered, performing
every task which usually fell to herself and Ellie, alone.
Toward night, while she milked, she listened eagerly to the
sound of every wagon, but one after another passed by, and it
was not until the lilac by the door was full of twilight birds,
that the sorrel horses were seen coming over the hill.
Scarcely had she and Ellie been parted for a day, but the
time had seemed very long, and now that she so much felt the
need of the words and the endearments of sympathy, it is no
wonder she ran to the gate eagerly as she did. But Ellie was
not there. Aunt Jane, who lived in three rooms, and did plain
sewing, had prevailed on her to stay and have her new dress
made and her bonnet trimmed a little in the fashion, and so
return home when her father should come to market the next
week.
The moon rose round and full, filling the little chamber with
a flood of trembling golden light, checkered with the windowsash
and dotted with the leaves of the cherry tree without.
Lucy had sobbed herself to sleep in the arms of Rebecca, and
every now and then a long stifled breath disturbed the silence
that else closed round her.
Sometimes the sleepless girl pressed one hand against her
head; sometimes she turned, restlessly; and at last, wearied
out, adjusting her pillow to support her, she sat upright. Very
calmly fell the moonlight in the chamber—very still was the
world without; but neither her heart nor her head would be
lulled. She thought of Ellie, alone, and far away as the distance
that separated them seemed to her; she thought of the
schoolmaster and his solitary grave; she thought of herself;
and thought, and thought, and thought, till at last the birds
fluttered twittering from the lilac, and the pink and crimson
streaks went blushing up the whitening East, without her having
slept.
The world is full of bruised and crushed hearts and desolate
spirits; moans of sorrow creep vein-like through the sunshine,
and underlie the laughter, however gay and loud; pillows
of pain, and chambers where the soft step of sleep will
not tread, are all over the world; since the serpent folds were
among the flowers, there is no perpetual bloom; and since sin
furrowed the world with grave-mounds, and the white wings of
no solace for us any more.
Orphaned as we are, we have need to be kind to each other—
ready, with loving and helping hands and encouraging words,
for the darkness and the silence are hard by where no sweet
care can do us any good. We have constantly before us the
beautiful example of Him who went about doing good, yet
how blindly, how perversely we err! A few bitter drops may
poison the fountain of life, and the current flow sluggish and
heavy forever.
The week of Ellie's visit was over: her new bonnet was
trimmed and her dress made in pretty style, and she was glad
when she saw the sorrel horses and the green wagon with its
straw cushion before her aunt's tidy chamber. Delightedly
she ran to meet her father, and ask if all were well, but the
smile with which he met her was sad, and his voice full of
melancholy forebodings. Rebecca was very sick.
“Oh, father! is she very sick?” Ellie asked, in a tumult of
fear.
Mr. Hadly tried to assume a more cheerful tone, and, turning
away his face, said, “I hope she will be better to-night.
Get ready, Ellie, and we will drive home as fast as we can, for
she wants to see you, poor girl!” Tying on her new bonnet,
but with no pleasure now, and with her dress folded to a neat
parcel, she was soon in her place in the wagon. But Rebecca
had no new dress nor bonnet, and her own long-coveted treasures
were now worthless. All the way she tormented herself
with reproaches. If she had staid at home, or if she had gone
back!—true, she was blameless, but for that her sufferings
were not the less acute. She was impatient to be at home,
yet she dreaded to arrive there.
She saw some laborers cutting trees in the woods, and
whistling as they did so, and felt wronged almost that they
neither knew nor cared about her sorrow. Carriages of gaily
dressed people, driving toward the city, passed them, and she
looked on them reproachfully. It was noon when they
reached the school-house. The shutters and the door were open,
the new teacher in the old one's place, and the children playing
and none were dead. Lucy was waiting at the gate. There
were no tears in her large melancholy eyes, for she knew not
what death was; but she was oppressed with a vague fear, and
kept out of the house all the time. The horse and carriage of
Mr. Harmsted stood in the yard, but all within seemed
hushed—only Mrs. Grey was seen at the window sewing
something that was very white.
Both Ellie and her father forbore to ask about Rebecca of
Lucy, who, crossing her hands behind her, looked wonderingly
at the new bonnet. Mr. Hadly began to unharness his horses,
that, tired with the fast drive, neighed impatiently to be in the
stable; and Ellie stood hesitating, her new dress in one hand,
and her old bonnet in the other, when Mr. Harmsted, coming
from the house silently, touched the hands of each, and then
taking the reins from Mr. Hadly, told them, in a low sad voice
to go in. The father, brushing the tears away with the back of
his hand, but in silence, and the young girl weeping out aloud,
obeyed. Mrs. Grey, putting down her sewing—a thin muslin
cap—came forward to meet them, and relieving Ellie of the
new dress and bonnet, said, “Will you go up and see her
now?” and softly opening the door, they followed to her
chamber. The light was partly darkened away, and on the
narrow bed where she had dreamed so many bright dreams,
lay Rebecca, dreaming now no more. Ellie kissed her white
lips, but their calm smile brightened not for the pressure;
folded her hands lovingly, but they fell back heavily and cold.
Through the white gates of morning her spirit had gone where
the night never falleth. In the graveyard opposite the old playground,
is a simple head-stone, on which is graven—
Rebecca Hadly,
AGED FIFTEEN YEARS, SEVEN MONTHS, AND FIVE DAYS.
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