 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
A WINTER'S CHANGES.
The next day Ellie and Zoe talked much of the past evening.
The younger sister had been delighted, even though she had
found no one but herself in a white dress; and she could not
help thinking that Ellie might have been as happy as she, if she
had not permitted her foolish sensitiveness to stand in the way;
and undoubtedly this was true, in part, yet it was Ellie's misfortune,
and not her fault. And of all situations, I can conceive
of none so really comfortless, as that of a superior intellect,
weighed down with petty oppressions which, in the first place,
hinder its development, and, when through years of unaided
and half-thwarted endeavor, it comes in some sort to the light,
hedge it round with circumstances that prevent its recognition.
The bright fountain may be away down in the earth; but
who sees it under the brown clay and the heaps of stones and
the weeds that grow thick above it? Who values the gold in
the rough ore as much as in the exquisitely wrought jewel?
But where talent, or even genius, is invested with any peculiar
and decided awkwardness or ungainliness, it seems most hopeless
of all: the beholder may be conscious of its presence, but
he will not reverence it; or one may even have intercourse with
another, greatly his superior, for years, and never once suspect
there is any preëminence; because the possessor of the finest
intelligence acts not himself, but as he conceives circumstances
require him to act; else the appointments of his neighbor's
house, or the affable flow of his conversation, confuse or restrain
him, till his thoughts find no words in which to clothe
themselves.
Many a distinguished author, but for the publication of his
for the want of mere verbal facility, pass life in obscurity.
There were several women in Clovernook, at the time I write
of, who looked pretty, and conversed with sprightliness, and
were called by everybody brilliant; but Ellie Hadly, plain,
obscure, and depreciated, had in her soul creative energies
which entitled her to be regarded as of a more elevated order
in nature.
Drinking in the light of the sunset, running over the hills
with the winds, or joining in the wild chorus of the birds, were
the sources of her sweetest enjoyment, unless a rarer felicity
was in the indulgence of her own thought and feeling, or in the
companionship of bards among their dwelling-places in the
mystical realm of dreams. Sometimes, too, hidden away in
some velvety hollow, where the tinkling of the water chimed to
the melody of her heart, she talked all day with the muses, and
laying her cheek close against the fragrant earth, was lifted in
rapt visions away from the smoke and turbulence that are in
the world. The blue walls of air, that other times divided her
from dreamland, crumbled down, till, though she saw not the
flowers that grew about her, nor the verdurous boughs that
shadowed her couch, she felt that the frosts of time had no
power upon either. What were the daffodils in the hands of
spring? what were the plenteous billows of the harvest, or the
mists that wrap like golden fleeces the hills of autumn, were
it not for the imaginations that come into our hearts, making
them beautiful and glorious?
A week or two went by; Zoe, unusually happy and cheerful;
and Ellie maintaining the settled calmness which, if not despair,
is hopelessness. The young “reformer” had found Clovernook an
exceedingly attractive place; and since first meeting the sisters,
at the house of Colonel Parks, had more than once edified them
with his orations of the “good time coming;” and whether it
were the anticipation of a universal jubilee, or little glimpses of
a lesser paradise, revealed by the light of smiles and glances, I
know not, but Zoe had never seemed so joyous or so hopeful.
And besides, she saw many things that might be made available,
and without any visible enlargement of means—the style
improvement.
“Oh, Ellie,” she said one day, approaching the white pine
table, on which her sister was moulding bread, “I have made a
plan!” “What is it?” Ellie asked, quietly smiling at the
enthusiasm she did not share; and adding after a moment,
“you have grown utopian lately.”
Zoe, after a little blushing and stammering, replied that she
believed her plan was feasible, and proceeded to explain that
she had been thinking Ellie was wise enough to teach a school;
and that as the school house was vacant, there was a fine opportunity
of her talents being made useful to others, and profitable
to themselves.
“I have not sufficient education,” Ellie suggested, “or if I
have, it is not of the kind requisite for such employment; the
little I know has been gleaned from chance sources; I know
nothing thoroughly, and I doubt if my superficial acquirements
could be turned to the least account in this way.”
But Zoe continued her encouragement, and after some days
hesitation, Ellie finally resolved that she would try; and night
after night, by the light of a candle, she sat at the work-table,
reviewing geographies, grammars, and spelling-books; and
though her father asked her repeatedly, why she was thus
wasting her time, she persevered, and when this discipline
was accomplished, there remained two terrible ordeals to go
through—the acquisition of a certificate from some authority in
the city, whom she was afraid to see; and the subsequent visiting
of the school directors for their approval and concurrence.
For this last terror, she had slight encouragement in an evening
dialogue at home.
“Do you know who are the school directors, father?” she
said, carelessly, as she poured the tea.
“Why, yes,” answered Mr. Hadly, “one of them is our
neighbor, Mr. Harmstead, who pays more attention to the
flowers in his garden, I think, than to the education of the village
children.”
“I thought Mr. Harmstead had done as much for the neighbor
spoken in his praise, she would probably have been silent.
“Oh, he is a good man enough, for aught I know,” said
Mr. Hadly, “and he gave me some vines, and one or two
trees that he had brought from France, but he talks so fast I
can hardly understand him, and then he has so much fine company,
and one thing and another, lately.”
How these things militated against the gentleman, it would
have been hard for Mr. Hadly to define; nevertheless, they
were sufficient for his prejudices to rest on.
“But who are the other directors?” asked Ellie.
“Mr. Peters and Mr. Jameson—but how does the school
interest you?”
Ellie said she had thought of teaching it herself; for she
would not have dared to take a step of so much importance
without her father's consent; however she was pretty sure of
obtaining that for any step she might propose that was honest,
and by which money was to be obtained. As for the capacities
of his daughter, Mr. Hadly had no doubt but that they
were sufficient for the writing of a commentary on the Bible;
how she had ever learned so much he didn't know; nevertheless
he supposed there was not much but that she either knew
or was entitled to know. And so Ellie was not surprised when
he said, “It's a good idea—you will make money enough by
springtime to buy a cow or two, perhaps;” and then, with
increased earnestness, he added, “don't get a speckled one,
Ellie, nor one without horns;” and with more zest than usual,
he partook of the supper. Ellie's hopes were a little dampened;
she had already resolved on a very different appropriation; and
in visions, she had seen long coveted books range themselves
before her.
A few more days, and the first dreaded ordeal was over; she
had trembled with fearful apprehensions, but her efforts thus far
were successful; and the certificate was brought home, and
deposited for safe keeping between the leaves of the great Bible.
“I will call on Mr. Peters and Mr. Jameson,” said Ellie,
“and perhaps it will not be necessary to call on Mr. Harmstead
at all;” and so, one dusty morning, her shawl wrapt
in quest of additional authorities. Mr. Peters's was nearest,
and thither she first bent her steps; but that person was on the
corner of his farm fartherest from the house, ploughing his
wheat-field. Mrs. Peters, who was fond of stating particulars,
said the ground had not been broken up for seven years; but
that it then produced corn higher than her son John's head,
when he had one of these dreadful high-crowned hats on; and
that the pumpkins which grew among it, without any care at
all, were so big that one of them would have made a hundred
pies. Mr. Peters, she added, was ploughing with colts. Thus
edified, and having received directions what fields to cross, to
avoid stubble, and where were the best places to climb the
fences, Ellie pursued her way.
Arrived at last within speaking distance, Mr. Peters reined
in his colts, and turning round in the furrow, leaned against the
plough to give her audience.
After a few minutes conversation, Ellie understood that Mr.
Peters, who had no children, had no interest in the school, and
did not wish to be consulted. He said, however, he thought
she would find no difficulty; the children were mostly small,
and so ignorant that a woman could teach them well enough,
for the rich folks would not patronize the district school; he
would advise her to apply to Mr. Jameson, who was fond of
business, and had half a dozen young ones; and he concluded
by telling her that his colts did't like to stand.
In the newly turned furrow, Ellie crossed the field behind him
in the direction of Mr. Jameson's.
He was a man of wealth, but lived in a primitive sort of
way—his house and every thing about it being a century behind
the age. The narrow and old fashioned skirts of the children
were seen flying toward the house as Ellie came in view;
they were not used to seeing strangers, though if Ellie's dress
shawl had been less bright, and if a handkerchief had been tied
on her head in place of a bonnet, their fright would not have
been so great. Six dogs, from beneath sheds and out of unseen
places, ran toward her, raising an outcry and discordant chorus,
and an old hen with an untimely brood flew against her, beating
a dilapidated volume in one hand, and a slender switch in the
other, came hurriedly to her rescue, opening a path between
the dogs, and seizing the enraged hen by a quick and courageous
movement of his other hand.
Mr. Jameson employed his leisure time in reading law, and
the book he held was perhaps a volume of Blackstone or a collection
of forms. He was more interested in the school than
Mr. Peters, but he felt some hesitation about employing a woman;
winter was coming, there would be a number of big boys
to go, and he feared she could not get along. However, he was
only one of three trustees; he would call a meeting in the
school-house the next week, and after a consultation had been
held, advise her of the result. And with this rather slight encouragement,
Ellie returned home.
A week went by, and the evening after the school-house had
been warmed and lighted for the meeting of the trustees, as the
girls sat in the parlor talking of the probable result, they were
surprised by the entrance of Mr. Harmstead: but how different
his manner to-night from that he maintained a week or two
previously at Colonel Parks's. The reserve and formality
which had then impressed Ellie with a consciousness of the vast
distance between them, were all gone, and the equality he now
acknowledged, and the cordial interest he seemed to feel in their
plan, relieved them of the ungrateful embarrassment which had
previously involved their intercourse, so that each was more
pleased than ever with the other. Mr. Harmstead appeared to
be agreeably surprised; he had made a discovery, as it were;
he had found in his unpretending and retiring neighbor not only
an equal but in many respects a superior.
The following Monday morning Ellie began the school. Fifteen
or twenty as rude and unpromising urchins as one could
well imagine, assembled, with all varieties of books, and each
desirous of selecting his own studies, and pursuing them according
to his own inclinations. But over the little troubles and
vexations I must not linger—the duties she undertook were
easy to her, and daily grew more pleasant as she proceeded.
The window by her desk looked out on Willowdale, and
sometimes he visited the school—for the interest he felt in the
children ostensibly, but it was an interest of sudden growth,
and one that had certainly never been so evinced before. Sometimes
these visits lasted till the school was dismissed, and then
Mr. Harmstead would walk home with Ellie; at first only to
the gate—but occasionally it was cold, and he would go in for
a few minutes' chat with Zoe, and the warmth of the great
wood fire; and gradually the few minutes were protracted to
hours.
In the eyes of Ellie the world assumed a new aspect; there
is no need that I should explain the reason; but the hope which
gleamed before her eyes was wavering and uncertain, sometimes
all brightness and beauty, and then dim and almost blotted
out. Mr. Harmstead came often to the school, I said—
often to the home of Mr. Hadly—and at length, though he
talked not of love, his manner was no longer that of an ordinary
friend. But he said little that was definite. Now he and
Ellie were to have a cottage somewhere, and Ellie's tastes
with regard to style of architecture and size were consulted,
and Zoe was laughingly asked how she could get along without
them. Then, again, Ellie was a mere child in his estimation,
and he assumed a patronizing and fatherly tone, saying, “If you
were my daughter, dear Ellie,” and the like. Then perhaps a
week or two weeks would go by, in which he would come neither
to the school nor the house, passing both as though utterly
unconscious of their neighborhood.
At such times, the school hours were monotonous and weary;
yet the necessity to think of the children's lessons kept them
from the utter dreariness with which they dragged from twilight
into the deep night at home. In such evenings, the sisters
would sit in the firelight, silent, but impatient of every sound
not made by the expected foot-fall, till it grew too late to listen
or to hope. Then they would repeat the last night's conversation,
and finally, saying something must have occurred to prevent
his coming—that he would surely happen another time,
gather hope out of despair, and falling asleep to the song of
the cricket, awake to new watches and new disappointments.
crept upon the boughs, there came new troubles and regrets.
One evening, late in March, as they sat together in their
accustomed places, a few smouldering branches on the hearth,
and the window a little raised for admission of fresh air—for it
was growing warm, though fire might scarcely be dispensed
with—a step was heard on the threshold. A quick interchange
of glances, a thrill, and then surprise and a sinking of the
heart—the visitor was Mr. William Martin.
Zoe, less disappointed and of more natural gaiety, tried to
seem pleased, but Ellie made no such pretence or effort, and
retiring to the window, looked out on the gloomy settling down
of night. Weeks had elapsed since she had met Mr. Harmstead,
or since he had evinced the slightest recollection of her,
for she had often seen him pass the house, and sometimes
encountered his glances, as cold as he would have bestowed on
any other acquaintance, in whom he neither had nor wished to
have a particular interest.
Dismal looked the world before her: the clouds, with torn
edges, flew fast across the sky, and now and then the half moon
shed a melancholy light along the naked landscape. The rain
had been falling for several days, and through the soaked
valleys slender stalks were beginning to push their way. Close
under the window, the broad leaves of the flags and spikes of
daffodils, and the pale pink shoots of the sweetbrier, were
visible, and along the ridges that stretched away to the woods
the wheat was growing green. The world is bright or sorrowful
according to the temper in which we view it, and had the
sun hung in the blue middle heavens of June, the hours would
have seemed to Ellie no less sad.
Wrapped away in her own thoughts, she heard not at first
anything that was said. At length Mr. William asked her if
she had heard the news, and receiving a negative answer, informed
her that Mr. Harmstead had sold his farm, and was
shortly to return to his native city—as rumor said, to be married.
Ellie saw now how much of the light of hope had been
shining round her. The intruding visitor had innocently made
might never again see him. How interminable the hours he
stayed! but he went at last, and her choking thoughts found
utterance.
Zoe spoke more sanguinely than she felt. It was not reasonable
to suppose Mr. Harmstead had so suddenly disposed of
Willowdale; and if that were true, he might neither be going
to leave Clovernook nor to be married—for have not all his
actions betrayed a love for you?
“But he never said he loved me,” Ellie answered, hoping
still for comfort.
“What are words?”
“Witnesses—only witnesses.”
And how many contracts the most real have been broken,
because there were no witnesses of them!
| Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |