 | I. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
1. I.
Some years ago there lived in Clovernook a family of the
name of Trowbridge—very worthy people, but not without
some of the infirmities which belong to human nature. There
was scarcely a woman about the village better known than
Mrs. Trowbridge, though I have not before had occasion to
mention her. And she was as well liked as she was well
known—every body saying, What a dear good woman she is!
and I among the rest. I had often said I would like to live
with her, for she seemed the most amiable and agreeable person
in the world. It was always a good day when she made
us a visit. She laughed, when asking if we were well, and
laughed when saying she herself was well. She laughed if a
common friend were married, and laughed if a common friend
were dead; she laughed if her baby was getting teeth, and
laughed if her baby was not getting teeth; if her new dress
was right pretty she laughed, if it was right ugly she laughed
all the same. When she came, she laughed heartily, and when
she went she laughed heartily—it was the way she made herself
agreeable.
Many a time I had said I should like to live with Mrs. Trowbridge,
for she never had anything to fret or worry about, and
I liked best of all things an atmosphere of rest. I was delighted
therefore when some changes going on in our old homestead
led to a decision that I should for a while reside in her
family.
But good Mrs. Trowbridge is not to be so much the heroine
of this chapter as Molly Root, a relation of her husband.
Molly had been driven about the world, poor and homeless,
until lodged, at last, in what most of us thought the very bosom
woman in our society.
For the first two days after my domestication, I was relieved
of all suspicion of the real state of things, by one continual
flow of laughter. My occupancy of the best room in the house,
and of the warmest place at the table, were apparently the
most agreeable things that had ever befallen the good Mrs.
Trowbridge.
She was a good housekeeper and cook, when she chose to
exercise her abilities in that way, but I soon learned that it
was only for visitors that she put those admirable accomplishments
in requisition, and that for the most part the household
duties fell to the girls, Molly, and Catharine, whom they called
Kate—her eldest daughter. When I took my first breakfast,
she said she was afraid I could not eat their breakfast, and she
laughed very much; at dinner she said the same thing, and
laughed again; at supper she repeated the remark and the
laughter; and all these meals were ample and excellent. As
they diminished in these respects, the laughter and apologies
diminished too.
My fire was burning brightly and mingling its red shadows
with the sunset that slanted through the west window—the
wind blew the black wintry boughs against the wall, and now
and then a snowflake dropt, silently enhancing the in-door comfort,
as I sat rocking to and fro, taking soundings as it were of
the sea of love, on which I had lately embarked.
All the past week had seen “the girls” busy and cheerful,
up with the dawn, and going through all the duties of the
day with as much interest and earnestness as though each had
been mistress of the family. When the housework was done
they sat down to their sewing—Molly sometimes withdrawing
to the privacy of her own apartment, an upper chamber,
wherein were deposited the accumulations and inheritances of
her life: to-wit, an old old-fashioned bedstead and feather bed,
a home-made carpet, four or five crippled chairs, an ancient-looking
bureau, which contained the wardrobe of her long-deceased
and respected grandmother, from her yellow silk wedding
dress to the cambric night-cap in which she died; with
gridirons, knives and forks, teapots, and the like; and there
was bed-clothing deposited in stacks and heaps of all sizes,
spinning-wheels and reels, a side-saddle, and various other articles
no less curious than numerous. There, as I said, Molly
occasionally retired, to collect her thoughts, or open her bandboxes,
perhaps, or bureau drawers—as what woman does not,
two or three times in the course of every week, merely to see
how things are getting on.
She had gone to this museum on the aforesaid evening, and
had been followed, as she usually was, first by Kate with the
baby in her arms, next by Hiram, the oldest boy, with a piece
of bread and butter, and then by Alexander Pope, also with a
similar portion of his evening meal. This last-mentioned son
was denominated by the family the preacher, in consequence
of an almost miraculous gift of “speaking pieces,” which he
was supposed to possess.
From the hasty shutting and opening of drawers, I inferred
that Miss Molly was making her toilet, for it was Sunday evening,
and girls in the country do not always dress for dinner;
on the contrary they sometimes delay that duty till after the
evening milking.
The creaking of the gate diverted my attention, both from
Molly and the conclusion at which I had just arrived, that we
may visit and be visited a good while, and not learn much of
each other; and looking out, I saw riding towards the house—
for he had unlatched the gate without dismounting—a rosy-faced
young man, whose chin dropt on his bosom, perhaps to
keep it warm. His boots were spurred, and the little sorrel
horse he bestrode capered and curvetted to the touch of his
heels in a way that was ludicrous to witness; and the more,
as the strong wind drifted the mane and tail of the animal
strongly in the direction in which he was going. There was a
general rushing down stairs—Kate and the baby first, and the
two boys, with their bread and butter, following.
“Oh mother, mother, mother! somebody is coming to our
house—somebody with a black coat on, somebody on a sorrel
horse!”
“Mother, make them hush,” said Kate. “I know who it is;
it's Will Pell, and he is coming to see Molly.”
“Why, Kate, do say Mr. Pell,” replied Mrs. Trowbridge;
and she added, “I wonder what there is you do n't know?”
“Not much of anything,” answered the girl, complacently.
Meantime the two boys kept watch at the window, and
reported the progress made by Mr. Pell in his preparations to
come in. “Now he is hitching his horse,” they said; “Now he
is coming this way;” “Now he is brushing his boots with his
handkerchief;” “Now he is pulling down his waistcoat;”
“Now he is going to rap.”
“I see, he 's got the crape off, already,” said Kate, “and it 's
just a year and two months and three days since his wife died:
it was Sunday, about two hours before this very time, that she
was buried.”
“What a girl you are!” interposed the mother—“I wonder
if you could n't tell how many dresses she had.”
“Yes,” said Kate; “she had her white wedding dress, and
she had an old black silk dress, and she had a blue gingham
dress that she had only worn twice—once a visiting at Mrs.
Whitfield's, and once at meeting; and she had a”— Here
the catalogue was interrupted by the rapping of Mr. Pell.
Kate was a curious combination of shrewdness and vulgarity,
of wisdom in little things, and pertinacity of opinion. She
was about fourteen years of age, ill-shapen and unshapen—
partly grown and partly growing. Her eyes, sparkling and
intelligent, were black as the night, and her hair, of the same
dye, was combed so low over her forehead and cheeks that they
were always in part concealed. Her shoulders were bent
down, for that when not engaged in some household drudgery,
she was doomed to carry the baby about—it was her relaxation,
her amusement. Molly Root was a quiet little woman,
who for a considerable number of years had looked pretty
much as she did then: I do not know precisely how old she
was, but everybody told her she looked young; and when one
begins to receive compliments of that sort they are to be understood
as delicate intimations that they have once been a
good deal younger than they are at present. In dress she was
Her manner, to speak truth, was what is called affected, so was
her conversation—faults which arose from a desire on her part
to appear well. She was amiable and good in all ways; the
everlasting smile on her face did not belie her heart. In person
she was short—chubby, as we say; her arms were short, her
neck was short, and her face was short—her forehead being the
largest part of it. Her eyes were of a pale blue, gentle, but
dull, with scarce an arrow to be shot at any one, however exciting
the emergency. Her hair was of a soft brown, and was
worn in part in a small knot on the back of her neck, and in
part so drawn across the forehead and turned toward the ears
as to make an oblong square. She had from time to time received
offers, as perhaps most young women do, and every
body wondered why she did not get married. At length that
happy event was brought about, and then everybody wondered
why Molly did get married: “She had such a nice home—just
like her own father's house—and Mrs. Trowbridge is so good-natured,
anybody could live with her.” It was my peculiar
fortune to learn, both why Molly did not get married and why
she did.
When any especial good luck occurs to our fellow creatures
we are apt to balance it with their little faults and infirmities.
Now Mr. Pell was rich; that he had come to see Molly there
could be no doubt—Kate said he had, and Kate knew; and besides,
Molly had put on her best gown, and an extra smile, and
straws show which way the wind blows. On the strength of
these considerations Mrs. Trowbridge came presently into my
room. She held up one finger by way of keeping down the
exclamation she evidently expected, as she announced in a
whisper that Will Pell was in the other room. “Indeed!”
said I, for I felt that it would be a pity to disappoint her altogether,
by evincing no surprise.
“Yes, and he is all fixed up, ever so fine spurs on his boots,
and a gold chain, as big as Samuel's log-chain, hanging out of
his pocket; and he says to Molly, says he, `I'm pretty well I
thank you,' when she had not asked him a blessed word about
it; and for my part I think such things mean something.”
“That was funny,” I said.
“Yes, and Samuel saw how confused he was too: he could
hardly keep his face straight.”
Samuel was Mr. Trowbridge; and I may say here, that for
the most part he kept his face very straight. But of this hereafter.
“I do n't pretend to be a prophet,” she went on, “but this
day a twelve-month they will be married—mark my words!”
“I do n't see how you are to get along,” I said.
“I am very willing to try!” she answered, in a way to indicate
that Molly's services were of very little importance.
“She seems very industrious, and so motherly to the children.”
“Sometimes,” said Mrs. Trowbridge; “you see we give her
a home. She has the best room in the house, and does what
she pleases and when she pleases, and nothing if she pleases.
If she takes a notion, she goes away for weeks at a time—and
right in the busiest time, as like as any way.”
Here the children, provided with fresh slices of bread and
butter, came after their mother. “Molly pushed me off,” said
one; “I do n't care for old Molly,” cried another. “Well,”
said the injured mother, “she is dressed too fine for you to
touch her—I would n't go near her again for a week.” And
she put her arm about the little fellow's neck and kissed him.
Presently she said, “If a certain person that you know should
tie herself up with a certain other person, what should you
think of it?”
“Who, mother—who is going to be tied up?” said the
children.
“Oh, I do n't know—the man in the moon,” she replied. Of
course I did not think much about it, and she proceeded to say,
if it was going to be, she hoped it would be soon—that was
all: that some folks drove others out of their own house, and
that she felt as if she did n't know where to put her head.
“Why mother! Where do you want to put your head?”
asked the boys.
“Oh, I do n't know: in a bumble-bee's nest, may be.” And
after a pause—“If Miss you-know-who were to jump into a
would n't it?”
“Who is Miss you-know-who?” asked the children, “and
what is she going to jump into a feather-bed for? Is it our
bed, mother?—say!”
“Little folks must not have big ears,” she replied; “do run
away and play; go, get your father's knife, and cut sticks in
the kitchen; I saw some pretty shingles there—go and cut
them up.”
Away they ran, at this inducement, and Mrs. Trowbridge
was enabled to drop the disguise and speak plainly again.
There is no need to repeat all she said: Molly was not perfect,
of course; Mrs. Trowbridge and her children were; consequently
every unpleasant occurrence in the family was attributable
to but one person. She did not say this precisely, but
such was a necessary inference from what she did say. Just
then, for instance, Molly and her beau were in the way of getting
tea. What should she do? She believed she would not
have any tea.
I obviated the difficulty by inviting the lovers into my room;
and Mrs. Trowbridge no sooner found herself in the presence
of Mr. Pell than she resumed her laughter, suspended during
the confidential conference with me. As I have said, it was
her way of entertaining people, and making herself agreeable.
Mr. Pell, as the reader is informed, was a widower—an exceedingly
active and sprightly man, and his natural vivacity
was heightened, no doubt, by the general complaisance of the
ladies and the prosperous state of his affairs.
“Don't you think,” said Molly, dropping her head on one
shoulder, in her best style, and addressing me—“dont you
think it has been communicated to me that Mr. Pell is going
to take a partner for life?” She liked to use good words.
“Pray, who is the happy lady?” I asked.
“Oh, yes, yes, yes, yes, yes! tell us that!” said Mr. Pell,
making two series of little taps, the one on the carpet with his
foot, and the other on the table with his hand.
“Oh, a little bird told me—a dear little bird!” And the
cheek of Molly almost touched her shoulder.
“A love-bird, was n't it?” And Mr. Pell gave her cheek a
light brush with the finger tips of his glove.
“Oh dear, that is too bad!”
“Did you mean that `oh dear' for me?” asked Mr. Pell,
laughing and hitching his chair toward her.
“You provoking fellow!” she replied, tapping his ear with
her fan.
“Miss Molly, Miss Molly, Miss Molly!” he exclaimed, putting
his hand to his ear, as if it were stung—“have you such a
temper?”
“The sky is all obscured—I apprehend a tempestuous night,”
Molly observed, and turned her eyes away.
“Just see! She can't look at me because she feels so
guilty—temper, temper, temper! Oh dear, dear, dear! I
should dread to have such a wife!”
“I am just going to run away!” answered Molly—her head
reclining lower than before: but she made no attempt to execute
her threat.
“I do n't think I shall let you,” said Mr. Pell, hitching
his chair still closer, and taking her hand as if forcibly to
detain her.
“Oh you naughty man! Let me go. Please let me go.”
“No. No, no, no, no, no, no, no!”
“Well then, give me my hand.”
“No, no. I'll keep it, I'll keep it, I'll keep it, for always
and ever, and ever and ever!”
“Oh, bad Mr. Pell, what shall I do without a hand?”
“I'll give you mine, I 'll give you mine, I 'll give you mine;
how will that do? how will that do? how will it do, do, do?”
“Oh, your wit is inexhaustible!”
“You flatter me, I have no wit—not a bit, not a bit, not a
bit! It's you that are witty and pretty, and pretty and witty.”
“I wish I could speak charmingly like you.”
“Oh, Miss Molly, Miss Polly Molly, you have charming
speech and charming cheeks, and in both respects I am only an
admirer; an admirer of your cheeks and speech.”
During this conversation, he had kept a constant hitching
and rocking about, striking his feet together, curling and uncurling
state of mind: and perceiving his condition, I excused myself,
on a pretence of assisting Mrs. Trowbridge. To my surprise, I
saw no preparations for tea, but instead, she and Samuel, seated
in opposite corners of the fireplace, watching the fading of the
embers with the greatest apparent interest. She was smiling a
slow smile, as Mrs. Browning says, but nevertheless it was a
smile that I could see through. She had expected Molly to
attend to the tea, as usual; Molly had not proposed so to do:
she had made the necessary preparations during the day, and
naturally enough supposed she could be excused from service
in the evening. Kate was carrying the baby about, and computing
the probable cost of Mr. Pell's boots, coat, and hat, and
the two boys lay folded up and asleep on the carpet, having, in
consequence of not receiving any of the pound-cake which Molly
had baked the day previous, cried themselves into forgetfulness
of their misfortune.
Mr. Trowbridge never said much in his wife's presence; if
he had done so, he would not have had much said in return;
her pleasant things were for others. She was not a scold—her
sins were rather of omission of speech, when alone with her
spouse, or with but her home audience, than commission. No
matter what he had done or what he had failed to do, her reply
was always a fretful and querulous “well.” He might chop
wood all day in the snow, and she never thought to have the
fire warmer when he should come in half frozen; and if he said,
“you have let the fire get low,” or anything of that sort, she
would merely answer “well.” If she baked buckwheat cakes,
though her husband—the uncivilized creature—could not eat
them, she never put any other bread on the table. If Kate
said, “I think you are smart, mother: you know father don't
like these,” she only answered “well!” Poor man, a cup of
weak tea has served him for supper many a time, after a hard
day's work. If his coat grew old-fashioned, he had to wear it
so, for Mrs. Trowbridge only said “well,” fancying, as it
seemed, that her gowns were many enough and bright enough
to cover all deficiencies in both their wardrobes. From his
youth till he was far beyond middle age, he had been industrious
acquired anything beyond the necessities of the day, and he
moved about from place to place, always hoping to improve
the state of his affairs, but never doing so.
On this evening I remember that he seemed unusually sensible
of his condition, and that his wife said “well” an unusual
number of times.
The hours went slowly by till nine o'clock; the cat lay on
the hearth seemingly very comfortable, and she was the only
one that was so. Mr. Trowbridge was looking in the fire, and
Mrs. Trowbridge was looking in the fire, and I was looking at
them, when Molly, opening the door, inquired whether we were
to have any supper.
“Sure enough,” said Mrs. Trowbridge, “are we to have
any?”
Molly understood the reproof, and said she would have prepared
tea as she always did, but that the children had destroyed
her kindling, and she thought whoever allowed the mischief
might repair it. In an under-tone she said something further,
about being excused once in her life, and withdrew rather petulantly.
| I. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |