 | Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
CHARLOTTE RYAN.
1. I.
As there is in every neighborhood a first family, so there is
a last family—a family a little behind everybody else—and in
Clovernook this family was named Ryan. They did not indeed
live very near the village, but rather on the very verge of our
neighborhood. A little dingy house, off the main road, and situated
in a hollow, was their habitation, and, though they were
intelligent, they had no ideas of the elegancies of life, and but
meagre ones, indeed, of its comforts.
Charlotte, the eldest daughter, inherited all the cleverness
of her parents, with few of their prejudices against modern improvements,
so that, now and then, her notions ran out into a
sort of flowery border along the narrow way in which she had
been taught to walk. Small opportunities had she for the indulgence
of refined or elegant tastes, but sometimes, as she brought
home the cows at night, she lingered to make a “wreath of
roses,” or to twist the crimson tops of the iron-weeds with her
long black hair; and once I remember seeing her, while she was
yet a little girl, with a row of maple leaves pinned to the bottom
of her skirt; she was pretending they were the golden
fringe of her petticoat.
Clovernook boasted of one or two select schools even at that
time, to which most of the people, who were not very poor,
contrived to send their daughters: but little Charlotte went
down the hollow, across a strip of woods, to the old schoolmaster,
who taught in a log house and in an obscure neighborhood
for the summer, and made shoes in the winter, and I suspect
he was but imperfectly skilled in either vocation, for I remember
his own head.” The girls of the “high school” were in her
eyes “privileged beyond the common run—quite on the verge
of heaven.” And no wonder she regarded them so: the ribbons
that tied their braids, were prettier than the two or three
teeth of horn comb that fastened her own hair, and her long
checked-apron compared unfavorably with their white ones.
But with this period of her life I have little to do, as the story
I am going to relate is limited to the circle of a few days, when
Charlotte had ceased to pin maple leaves on her petticoat, and
wore instead ornaments of glass and pinchbeck.
“Here is a letter for Miss Ryan: it will not be much out of
your way, if you will be so kind,” said the post-master to me
one evening, as I received my own missives, for at that time
the postmaster of Clovernook knew all the persons in the habit
of receiving letters, and as one for Miss Ryan had never been
there before, I, as well as he, naturally supposed it would be a
surprise, probably an agreeable one to her, and I therefore
gladly took charge of it, choosing instead of the dusty highway,
a path through the meadows, and close under the shadow
of the woods, which brought the home of Charlotte directly in
my way, though the duty I undertook added more than a mile
to my walk homeward. It was in the late autumn, and one of
those dry, windy, uncomfortable days which brings thought
from its wanderings to hover down about one's home; so, as
the night fell, I quickened my steps, pausing now and then to
listen to the roar down deep in the woods, which seemed like
the moan of the sea—which I had heard only in imagination
then—or to mark the cabin homes, peering out of the forest,
and calculate the amount of comfort or discomfort in them or
about; and I remember to this day some particular facts from
which inferences were drawn. Before one door, a dozen dun
and speckled pigs were feeding from a trough, and sunken in
mud knee deep, and near them, barefooted, and wearing a red
flannel shirt, stood a ragged urchin, whose shouts of delight
would have been pleasant to hear, but for the harsh, scolding
voice that half drowned them. Both the joy and the anger
caused.
“I 'll come out and settle with you, my boy, if you do n't
quit that—mind I tell you!” screamed an old woman, leaning
over the low rail fence of the door-yard, her cap-border flapping
like a flag of war, and with one foot on the ground and one in
the air, as she bent eagerly forward, gesticulating vehemently,
but chiefly in the direction of an old cat, which the boy had put
in a slender harness of twine—his own ingenious workmanship,
I suspect. He laughed heartily, in spite of the threatened settlement,
calling out in high glee, as pussy ran up a tree to
escape him, “Jementallies! how she goes it!”
“I 'll go you,” continued the monitor, “as sure as you 're
born, if you do 'nt ungear the poor sarpent before you 're a
minute older!” And so I passed out of hearing and out of
sight, and I have never since been enlightened as to the adjustment
of the pending difficulty.
It was quite night, and the candle-light streamed bright
through the dead morning-glory vines which still hung at the
window, when my rap at the door of Mr. Ryan was answered
by a loud and clear “Come in!” so earnest that it seemed
half angry.
Homely, but still home-like, was the scene that presented
itself—the hickory logs were blazing in the deep wide fire-place,
the children were seated quietly on the trundle-bed, for their
number had grown faster than that of the chairs, and talking in
an under-tone about “choosing sides” at school, and what boys
and girls were “first-rate and particular” as choosers, and what
ones were big dumb-heads: they presently changed their tone
from a low key to a sharp whisper, much more distinct, but my
entrance did not interrupt their discussion.
Mr. Ryan, wearing a coat and trowsers with patches at elbow
and knee of a dissimilar color, was seated on a low stool
in the corner, engaged in softening with melted tailow the hard
last year's shoes of the children, which had been put aside
during the summer season.
“A young winter,” he said, by way of welcoming me, and
then continued apologetically, and as though it was almost a
like drawing their feet in their feathers.”
I said the winter brought its needs, or something of that sort,
implying that we regarded things in the same way, and he
resumed and continued the mollifying process without speaking
another word.
Golden rings of dried pumpkins hung along the ceiling, bags
of dried apples and peaches, bunches of herbs, and the like, and
here and there from projections of framework, hung stockings,
by dozens, and other garments suited to the times. A limb of
bright red apples, withering in the warmth and smoke, beautified
the jamb, beneath the great “bake oven,” and such were
all the ornaments of which the room could boast, I think.
Mrs. Ryan was busy at the kneading trough, making shortcakes
for breakfast—silent mostly, and wearing a look of
severity, as though she knew her duty and did it. Only Charlotte
came forward to meet me, and smiled her welcome. The
Methodist “Advocate” lay open on the table, and some sewing
work dropped from her lap as she rose. She politely offered
me the chair with the leather bottom, and added to the sticks
on the fire, manifesting her good will and courtesy in the only
ways possible.
She had grown beautifully into womanhood, and though her
dress was neither of choice material, nor so made as to set off
her person very advantageously, it was easy to perceive that
under the hands of an artist in waists, skirts, &c., her form
would seem admirable for its contour and fine proportion,
while her face should be a signal for envy or for admiration to
youthful women and men, if she were “in society.” And she
had in some way acquired, too, quite an agreeable manner of
her own, only wanting a freedom from restraining influences to
become really graceful and captivating; and I could not help
wishing, as I looked on her, that she could find a position better
suited to her capacities and inclinations. A foolish wish.
The letter elicited expressions of surprise and curiosity from
all members of the family, except Charlotte, who suppressed
her interest for the time. “Let me see it, let me see it,” exclaimed
the children, but the stamp of the father's foot brought
on his hair, prepared to read the letter, for Charlotte did not
think of breaking the seal herself.
“It 's from down the river I reckon,” said the mother, “and
tells us all about Peter's folks.” Charlotte blushed and looked
annoyed. “I'll just bet!” said one of the boys, a bright-looking
lad of nine or ten years, “that a queen gets letters every
day; yes, and written on gold paper, likely enough,” he continued,
after a moment, and in response to himself as it were.
“I wish I was there,” said a younger sister, smiling at the
pleasant fancy, “and I'd climb away up on her throne some
time when she was gone to meeting, and steal some of her
things.”
“And you would get catched and have your head chopped
off with a great big axe,” replied the brother.
The little girl continued musingly, “I expect Charlotte's new
Sunday dress is no finer than a queen wears every day.”
“Every day!” exclaimed the mother in lofty contempt,
“she wears as good washing-day in the kitchen.” In the midst
of these speculations I took leave. A day or two afterwards, I
learned that Charlotte was gone to pass a month or two with
some relations near the city.
2. II.
These relatives were but recently established in a country
home, having belonged originally to one of the northern seaport
towns. The family embraced but three persons, the father,
whose life had in some capacity been passed mostly at sea,
and two daughters—all unfitted by education and habit for their
new position.
Of course Charlotte had heard much of her uncle, Captain
Bailey, and his daughters, and in childish simplicity supposed
them to be not only the grandest but also the most excellent
people in the world. They dwelt in her thoughts on a plane
of being so much above her, that she involuntarily looked up to
them and reverenced them as if they were of a fairer and purer
world.
Through all her childhood it had been a frequent wish that
some of uncle John's folks would come, but uncle John's folks
never came, and so she grew into womahood without being
much disenchanted. Nobody about Clovernook was at all
comparable to them in any respect, as they lived in the beautiful
region of her dreams.
Mrs. Ryan and Mrs. Bailey were sisters, who in early life
were all in all to each other. Marriage had separated them, by
distance much, by circumstances more. Mrs. Bailey went to
an establishment in town, and after a round of dissipations and
gaieties, became a small link in the chain of fashion, having
married out of, and above her previous and fit position. Mrs.
Ryan, who as a girl was the less dashing and spirited of the
two, became a farmer's wife, and with the energy and determination
which characterized her always, struck at once into the
wilderness in search of a new home.
Sad enough was the parting of the sisters, and many the
promises to write often, and to visit each other as soon as
might be; but these promises were never kept, and perhaps it
was well they never were, for far outside of the blessed oneness
of thought and feeling in which they parted, would have been
their meeting! Absence, separate interests, different ways of
life, soon did their work.
As I said, they never met, and so never knew that they had
grown apart, but each lived in the memory of the other, best
and most beautiful to the last. But though each mother taught
her children to love and reverence the good aunt that lived far
away, and whom possibly they would see some time, the young
Baileys failed to be impressed with that respect and admiration
for their country relations, which the country relations felt for
them.
After a series of successes came adverse fortune to the Baileys,
then the death of the wife and mother, and so, partly in
the hope of bettering their condition, and partly to escape mortification,
the broken and helpless family removed from their
statelier home and settled in the neighborhood of our beautiful
city in the west. For they fancied, as many other people do
who know nothing about it, that the farmer's is a sort of holiday
the harvest time; that then the labor of a day or two fills the
barn with bright sheaves and sweet hay; and that all the while,
and without any effort, cattle and sheep and horses are growing
and fattening, and plenty flowing in. A little experience sufficed
to cure the Baileys of this pleasant conceit. In truth, they
did n't go to work in the right way, with an honest determination
that compels success. Farming and housekeeping were
begun as delightful experiments, and when the novelty was lost,
they fell back into lamentations and repinings for the opulence
they had lost. Briers made sorry work with Captain Bailey's
ruffles, and the morning dew was unfavorable to the polish of
his boots; the corn did n't fall into baskets of itself, nor the
apples come home without having been first shaken from the
trees, and picked up, one by one. Weeds and burs ran over
the garden and choked the small vegetables; the cows grew
lean, and their milk dried away, to the astonishment of all parties—for
nobody suspected they were not milked regularly and
rightly, or that their wants were not attended to, and some
fearful distemper was supposed to have attacked them, as day
after day flocks of buzzards and crows were seen settling in
hollows where the poor creatures had died. But Captain Bailey's
troubles were trifles compared with the afflictions of his
daughters, who not only sighed and cried, but wished themselves
dead, a dozen times a day. The hard, yellow balls of butter,
which they fancied would be so nice, required more labor and
care in the making than they were willing to bestow; bread
was taken from the oven black and heavy; and, in fact, the
few things that were done at all were not done well, and general
weariness and dissatisfaction was the consequence.
“I wish I was in heaven!” exclaimed Miss Sally Bailey, one
day, more wrathfully than piously, turning at the same time
from the churn and hiding her eyes from the great splash of
cream that soiled the front of her lavender colored silk.
“It 's no use for us to try to live like anybody,” answered
Kate, “and we might as well give up first as last, and put on
linsey, and work, and work, and work till we die!”
And both girls sat down and bent their eyes on the floor,
which their father was; poor man, he had come in from the
field with a thorn in his hand, and with the blood oozing from
the wound, was vainly searching under chairs and tables, and
shoving his hand one way and the other across the carpet, for
the needle lost in his endeavor to perform with it a surgical
operation.
“I do wish,” he said at last, a little petulantly, “I could
ever have any body to do any thing for me.”
“I am sure I am sorry for the accident,” said one of the girls,
“if that will do you any good.”
“I do n't think it will,” was the reply; and the other sister
offered assistance, assuring her father, and as though he were
responsible for it, that she could feel nothing less than the
broomstick in her clumsy fingers, so it was useless to try to
handle a needle.
Having survived the operation, Captain Bailey, who was
really disposed to do the best he could, pinned a towel against
his vest, and took hold of the churn, saying, “Now, my dears,
I'll make the butter, while you arrange the dinner.”
“I would like to know what we are to arrange,” said
Kate, tossing her head, “there is nothing in the house that I
know of.”
“Surely there is something,” the father said, working the
dasher most energetically; “there is pork, and flour, and apples,
and cream, and butter, and potatoes, and coffee, and tea,
and sugar”—there the girls interrupted him with something
about a meal suitable for wood-choppers.
Captain Bailey was now seriously discouraged, and without
speaking again, continued to churn for two hours, but the cream
was cold and thin, and at the end of that time looked no more
likely to “come” than at first, so giving the churn a jostle to
one side, with something that sounded very like an oath, the
gentleman removed the towel which had served him for an
apron, and taking down his gun from the wall, walked hurriedly
in the direction of the woods. But he was one of those men
who are called good-hearted, and though he managed badly,
never doing either himself or anybody else any good, still,
fellow he is.” So, of course, his amiability soon returned, and
having brought down two squirrels and a wood-cock, whistling
out the hope and good-nature that were in his heart. “Well,
Sally,” he said, throwing down the game, “here is something
for dinner.”
“Very well,” she replied, but without looking up, or ceasing
from her work of rubbing chalk on the cream-spot of her
dress.
Kate, since her father's departure, had bestirred herself so
much as to pin a towel about the churn, set it one side, and fill
the tea-kettle, after which she seated herself with the last new
novel.
“Well my dear, what is the news with you?” asked the
captain, punching the fire at the same time, in an anxious way.
“The news is,” she answered, “that two chickens have
drowned themselves in a pail of dish-water, and the pig you
bought at the vendue is choked to death with a loaf of burnt
bread—when I found it, it was in the last agonies,” she continued,
laughing, “and I do n't see what we are to do.”
“An idea strikes me,” answered the father, in no wise discouraged.
“Write to your cousin—what's her name? who
lives out in Clovernook—she's a housekeeper, I'll warrant you;
write to her to come and visit you for a month or two, and initiate
you in the ways of the woods.”
“A good notion,” said Kate, throwing down her book, and
the dinner went forward better than any one had done since the
housekeeping began.
The farm selected by Captain Bailey, was east of the Queen
City—not so far, however, but that some of the spires, and it
is a city of spires, were clearly visible from its higher elevations.
Both house and grounds were seriously out of repair,
having been abandoned by the person who purchased and fitted
them up, and sold ultimately at a sacrifice. They were well
suited for the present proprietor; the spirit of broken-down
assumption reigned supreme everywhere: you might see it
perched on the leaning posts of the gateway, and peering from
under the broken mullions of the great windows. It had been
eleared, when pebbles and flowers bordered the rivulets, and
the eminence on which stood the house was terraced into green
stairs. The tall red chimneys were some of them fallen partly
down now, and the avenue leading from the gate to the hall
was lost in weeds and grass, through which only a wagon-track
was broken.
One or two trellised summer-houses stood pitching down the
hill, and here and there a rose-bush or lilac lopped aside devoid
of beauty, except the silver seives woven amongst them by the
black and yellow spiders.
3. III.
The little cart in which Charlotte Ryan rode with her father
rattled terribly; it seemed never to have made so much noise
till then; it would betray their poverty, but if her father would
only drive softly and leave the cart at the gate, it doubtless
would be supposed that they had come in a more stylish way.
Mr. Ryan, however, was a plain blunt farmer, and would have
driven his little cart up to the White House, and elbowed his
way through the Cabinet without a fear or a blush for his
home-spun dress or country breeding, if he had felt inclined to
pay his respects to the President—and why indeed should he
not? He was a yeoman, and not ashamed of being a yeoman
—what cause had he to be? But a pride of despising all innovation,
all elegance, were peculiarities that stood in his light.
So, as I said, he dashed forward at a rapid and noisy rate, feeling
much, honest man, as though the sound of his wagon wheels
would be the gladdest one his friends ever heard. Nor did he
slacken rein till the feet of his work horses struck on the pavement
before the main entrance of the house, and with their
sides panting against the wide bands of faded leather composing
their harness, stood champing the bit, and foaming as though
they had run a race.
Poor Charlotte! she could scarcely rise out of the straw in
which she was imbedded, when the hall-door opened, and Captain
Bailey, followed by his two daughters, came forward to
meet her and her father, with self-possession and well-bred cordiality.
a similar infliction on the dear uncle, making many tender inquiries
about the aunt and sweet little cousins at home; but
when Captain Bailey offered his arm, saying, “This way, my
dear,” the discomfiture of the niece was completed, and slipping
two fingers over his elbow, and at arm's length from him, she
entered the hall, trying her best not to hear her father say—
“Bless your souls, gals, I do n't want your sarvent man,” as he
went lustily to unharness his horses, just as he would have
done at home.
“We are so glad you are come,” said the cousins; “we
want you to teach us so many things;” but Charlotte felt that
though the last part of the sentence might be true, the first was
not—for we instinctively recognize the difference between formal
politeness and real heartiness. Partly because she thought she
ought to do so, and partly because her conflicting emotions
could find vent in no other way, she began to cry.
“Are you sick?” asked the girls, really concerned, for their
sense of propriety would not have allowed of such an ebulition
of feeling on any occasion, much less on one so trivial. They
could not imagine why she cried—models of propriety that
they were—unless indeed, she were in great bodily pain.
Presently Mr. Ryan, having attended to the duties of the
groom, came in, bearing in each hand a small budget, containing
presents of his choicest apples, saying as he presented them,
“These apples my daughter here helped me to gather, and we
have a hundred bushels as fine at home.”
The father was now appealed to for an explanation of Charlotte's
conduct, for she had covered her face with her hands,
and sat in an obscure corner, sobbing to herself.
“She sees so many strange, new, and fine things that she is
not used to,” he said, for he could understand her; “they
make her feel kind of bad and home-sick like. Charlotte,” he
continued, speaking as he would to a child, “wipe up your
eyes, and let's see how much better your uncle's stock is than
ours.”
Glad of any excuse to escape from the cold speculation of
the eyes that were on her, the daughter obeyed, making neither
procedure.
The sunshine soon dried up her tears, for her spirit was
healthful, and though she had given way to a brief impulse of
sorrow, it was not an expression of habitual sickliness of feeling.
Her father's repeated exclamations of surprise and contempt
for the bad culture and bad stock, helped, too, to reassure
her, and she returned at length to the house, her crushed
self-esteem built up in part, at least; but contrasts unfavorable
to herself would present themselves, in spite of efforts to keep
them down, whenever her brown hands touched the lily ones
of her cousins, or when the noise of her coarse shoes reminded
her of their delicate slippers; and when toward sunset the
horses were brought out, feeling smart, for they had had a
visitor's portion of oats, she half wished she was to go back,
especially when she remembered the contents of the little bundle
she had brought with her, containing what she considered
the choice portion of her wardrobe.
But I need not dwell longer on this phase of her experience.
In education, in knowledge of the world, in the fashionable
modes of dress, the Misses Bailey were in the advance of her,
as much as she, in good sense, natural refinement, and instinctive
perceptions of fitness, was superior to them. But unfortunately
she could see much more clearly their advantages than
her own. Falling back on the deficiencies of which she was
so painfully aware, she could not think it possible that she
possessed any advantage whatever, much less any personal
charms.
All the while the envied cousins were envious of her roseate
complexion, elasticity of movement, and black heavy braids
of hair, arranged, though they were, something ungracefully.
The books which they kept, to be admired rather than read,
afforded her much delight, and alone with these or with her
uncle, the homesick and restless feeling was sometimes almost
forgotten; for Captain Bailey was kind from the impulses of
his nature, and not because he thought it duty or policy. The
cheerful and natural aspect which things assumed under the
transforming hands of Charlotte gave him excessive delight,
and accompany him in his walks through the fields and
woods, making plans with him for the next year's culture and
improvements. In the evenings she read to him, or listened to
stories of the sea, which it gave him pleasure to relate; while
the young ladies mourned at one side of the room over their
hapless fate—wishing themselves back in their old home, or
that Mrs. so, or so, would come out to the West, and give such
parties as she used.
“But then,” said they, “there is nobody here that is anybody,”
and so the mere supposition that a fashionable lady
might come West and give parties, hops, re-unions, &c., was
but a new source of discontent.
Sometimes they recounted, partly for the pleasure of hearing
themselves, and partly to astonish and dazzle their country
cousin, the various elegant costumes they had worn, on what,
to them, were the most interesting occasions of their lives;
and after all, they were not so much to blame—it was natural
that they should pine for their native air, and for the gaieties
to which they had been accustomed. But to Charlotte, whose
notions of filial respect were almost reverent, it was a matter
of painful surprise that they never mentioned their mother, or
in any way alluded to her, except in complaints of the mourning
clothes, which compelled them to be so plain. Neither
brain nor heart of either was ample enough for a great
sorrow.
At first Charlotte had lent her aid in the management and
completion of household affairs with hearty good will, but the
more she did the more seemed to be expected of her—the ladies
could n't learn because they paid no attention to her teaching,
and took no interest in it, though never was there a more
painstaking instructor. All persons are not gifted alike, they
said, “it seems so easy for you to work.” But in what their
own gifts consisted it were hard to tell.
“Really, cousin Charlotte is quite companionable sometimes,”
said Sally, one day—laying emphasis on the word
cousin—after partaking of some of her fresh-baked pumpkin
pies.
“But it's a pity,” replied Kate, “that she only appears to
advantage in the kitchen. Now what in the world would you
do if Dr. Opdike, or Lawyer Dingley, or any of that set were
to come?”
“Why,” said Sally, laughing, “I always think it's as well to
tell the truth, when there is no particular advantage to be
gained by telling anything else, so I should simply say—`A
country cousin, whom father has taken a fancy to patronize.”'
Kate laughed, and taking with them some light romance, fit
suited to wile the way into dreamland, they retired to their
chamber.
“Suppose we steal a march on the girls,” said Captain Bailey,
entering the room where Charlotte was engaged in idle endeavors
to make her hair curl—“what say you to riding into
town?”
Charlotte hesitated, for nothing called her to town except the
search for pleasure, and she had been unaccustomed to go out of
her way for that; but directly yielding to persuasion, she was
tying on her bonnet, when the Captain, desirous of improving
her toilet, suggested that she should not wear her best hat, but
the old hack of Kate or Sally. The little straw bonnet, which
looked smart enough at the prayer meetings and “circuit
preachings” of the log school-house, became suddenly hateful,
and the plain white ribbon, crossed about the crown, only in
keeping with summer, and seventy years. Her cheeks flushed
as her trembling hands removed her favorite bonnet, and the
uncle continued—“just bring along Kate's white cashmere,
while you are about it—yours will be too warm to-day, I
think.”
The shawl which Charlotte proposed to wear was a coarse
black woolen one, which had already been worn by her mother
for twenty years, or thereabouts, and though she had never
looked so well in her life, as in the old bonnet and shawl belonging
to Kate, still she felt ill at ease, and could not suppress
a wish that she had at once declined the invitation. Captain
Bailey, who was really a kind-hearted man, exerted himself to
dissipate the cloud which weighed down her spirit, but ever
was being fulfilled—Charlotte had attained a new position.
“Now, my dear,” said the uncle, as he assisted Charlotte
out of the carriage, before the most fashionable dry-goods shop
of the city, “you must favor me by accepting a new gown and
hat, and whatever other trifles you may fancy to have.”
“Oh, no, no!” she said, blushing, but dissent was not to be
listened to—she was merely desired to select one from among
the many varieties of silks thrown on the counter.
Now the purchasing of a silk dress was in the estimation of
Charlotte, a proceeding of very grave importance, not to be
thus hastily gone into. She would consent to accept of a calico—positively
of nothing more—and on being assured by the
clerks, as they brought forward some highly colored prints,
that they were the patterns most in vogue, she selected one of
mingled red and yellow, declined to receive anything further,
and returned home, saddened and injured, rather than glad and
grateful. She could not help wishing she had remained in her
old haunts instead of going where people were ashamed of her
—and then would come the more crushing and bitter thoughts
which justified the feelings with which they regarded her; and
so, in alternate emotions of self-contempt and honest and indignant
pride, she continued to think and think—sometimes disregarding
and sometimes answering briefly and coldly the various
remarks of her kind relative. The sun had set an hour
when the white walls of his house appeared in the distance, and
as they approached nearer, it was evident from the lights and
laughter within, that the occasion with the inmates was an unusually
joyous one.
At the sound of footsteps in the hall, Kate came hurriedly
forth to communicate the intelligence of the arrival of a friend,
“Mr. Sully Dinsmore, a young author of rising eminence, and
a man whose acquaintance was worth having”—and she continued,
as her father observed—“glad to have you know him,
Charlotte”—“Of course you will like to make some change in
your toilet—the dress you have on affects your complexion
shockingly.”
Charlotte assented, not knowing how she was to improve her
possessed.
Once in the dressing room, she threw indignantly aside what
appeared to her but borrowed finery, and gave way to such
a passion of tears as never before had dimmed her beautiful
eyes.
She was disturbed at length by a light tap at the door, followed
by an inquiry of her uncle whether she were not ready
to go below. “Thank you, I do n't wish to go,” she replied,
with as much steadiness of voice as she could command; but
her sorrow betrayed itself, and the kindly entreaties which
should have soothed, only aggravated it.
“Well, my dear,” said the uncle, as if satisfied, seeing that
she was really unpresentable, “if you will come down and
make a cup of tea, you and I will have the pleasure of partaking
of it by ourselves.”
This little stratagem succeeded in part, and in the bustling
preparation of supper, the smile of resignation, if not of gaiety,
came back; for Charlotte's heart was good and pure, and her
hands quick always in the service of another. The benevolent
uncle prudently forbore any reference to guest or drawing-room
for the evening, and leading the conversation into unlooked-for
channels, only betrayed by unusual kindness of manner
a remembrance of the unhappy incidents of the day. A
practiced observer, however, might have detected the tenor of
his thoughts, in the liberal amount of cream and sugar—twice
as much as she desired—infused into the tea of the gentle niece,
whose pained heart throbbed sensitively, while her lips smiled
thanks.
4. IV.
The orange light of the coming sunrise was widening among
the eastern clouds, and the grass that had till then kept green,
stood stiff in the white frost, when the quick step of Charlotte
broke rather than bent it down, for she had risen early to milk
the spotted heifer ere any one should be astir. She tripped
gracefully along, unconscious that earnest eyes were on her,
singing snatches of rural songs, and drinking the beauty of the
the heifer shook her horns of pearly green for such
untimely rousing from the warm grassy hollow in which she
lay, but the white pine pail was soon brimming with milk.
The wind blew aside Charlotte's little hood, and with cheeks,
flushed with the air, and the exercise, gleaming through the
tangles of her black hair, she really presented a picture refreshing
to look on, especially to eyes wearied with artificial complexions
and curls. As she arose the hues deepened, and she
drew the hood quickly forward—for standing midway in the
crooked path leading from the door-yard to the cow-yard, and
shelling corn to a flock of chickens gathered about him, was
Mr. Sully Dinsmore—a rather good looking, pleasant-faced
young man of thirty or thereabout. He bowed with graceful
ease as the girl approached, and followed his salutation by
some jest about the fowl proceeding in which he had been detected,
and at the same time took from her hand the pail with
an air and manner which seemed to say he had been used to
carrying milk-pails all his life—there was nothing he liked so
well, in fact. Charlotte had no time for embarrassment—deference
was so blended with familiarity—and beside, the gentleman
apologized so sweetly and sadly for the informal introduction
he had given himself: the young lady looked so like
one—he hesitated—like his own dear wife—and he continued
with a sigh, “she sleeps now among the mountains.” He was
silent a moment, and then went on as if forcibly rallying,
“This is a delightful way to live, is it not? We always intended,
poor Florence and I, to come to the West, buy a farm,
and pass the evening of our days in quiet independence; but,”
in a more subdued tone, “I had never money enough till dear
Florence died, and since that I have cared little about my way
of life—little about life at all.”
Charlotte's sympathies were aroused. Poor man, his cheek
did look pale, and doubtless it was to dissipate his grief that
he was there; and with simple earnestness she expressed a
hope, that the bright hills and broad forests of the West might
restore something of the old healthiness of feeling in his heart.
His thanks were given with the tone and manner of one sincerely
had been fated mostly to mingle, could not appreciate his
feelings. All this required much less time than I have taken
to record it, for the gentleman made the most of the brief
walk.
At the door Captain Bailey met them, and with a look of
mingled surprise and curiosity, was beginning a formal presentation,
when Mr. Dinsmore assured him such ceremony was
quite unnecessary—each had recognized a friend in the other,
he said, and they were already progressing toward very intimate
relations. No sooner had Charlotte disappeared, with
her pail and strainer, than, abruptly changing tone and manner,
he exclaimed, “Dev'lish pretty girl—I hope she remains here
as long as I do!”
The Captain, who was displeased, affected ignorance of what
had been said, and bent his steps in rather a hurried way
toward the barn.
“Propose to fodder the stock, eh?” called out Mr. Dinsmore:
“allow me to join you—just the business I was brought
up to do.” And coming forward, he linked his arm through
that of the stout Captain, and brought him to a sudden stand-still,
saying, with the delightful enthusiasm of a voyager come
to the beautiful shore of a new country, “What a wonderful
scene—forest and meadow, and orchards and wheat-fields! why,
Captain, you are a rich man; if I owned this place I should n't
want anything beside—no other place nalf so good about here,
I suppose?—in fact, it seems to me, in all my travels, I never
saw such a farm—just enough of it—let's see, what's its extent?
Yes, I thought you must have just about that much; and, if I
had never seen it, I could have sworn it was the best farm in
the country, because I know the soundness of your judgment,
you see!”
The Captain drew himself up, and surveyed the prospect
more proudly than he had done before, saying he ought to
know something of good land, and favorable localities—he had
seen something of the world.
“Why,” answered Mr. Sully Dinsmore, as though his host
had not done half justice to himself, “I guess there is not much
been a great traveler, Captain; and you know what you see,
too,” he added in a tone acceptably insinuating.
“Yes, yes, that is true: few men know better what they
see than Captain Bailey,” and he began pointing out the various
excellencies and attractions of his place which the young
man did not seem to have observed.
“No wonder,” Mr. Dinsmore proceeded, “my vision was too
much dazzled to take all in at once; you must remember, I am
only used to rugged hills and bleak rocks, where the farmers
fasten the grain down with stones, lest being indignant at the
poor soil, it should scrabble out, you see.” This word was
coined with special reference to the Captain, who sometimes
found himself reduced to such necessities. An approving peal
of laughter rewarded his pains, and he repeated it, “Yes, the
grain would actually scrabble out but for the stones; so you
see it's natural my eyes failed to perceive all those waves of
beauty and plenty.” Where he saw the waves referred to,
only himself could have told, for the stubble land looked bleak
enough, and the November woods dark and withered to dreariness.
“Well, Captain,” he said at last, as though the scene
were a continual delight to his eyes, “it's of no use—I could
stand gazing all day—so let us fodder those fine cattle of
yours.”
With good will he entered upon the work—seizing bundles
of oats and corn-blades, and dusty hay, regardless of broad-cloths
and linen; now patting the neck of some clumsy-horned,
long-legged steer, calling to the Captain to know if he were not
of the full blood; and now, as he scattered the bushel of oats
among the little flock of thin and dirty sheep, inquiring, with
the deepest interest apparently, if they were not something superior
to the southdowns or merinos—for the wool was as fine
as could be.
The “chores” completed, they returned to the house, but
Mr. Dinsmore found so many things to admire by the way that
their progress was slow; now he paused at the gateway to remark
what nice strong posts they were—he believed they were
of cedar; and now he turned in admiration of the smoke-house
which the walls were overgrown with moss, the roof sunken,
and the door off its hinges: they seemed to him about the best
bricks he ever saw—moss would n't gather over them if they
were not solid as a rock—“what a pleasing effect it has,”
he said.
“A little out of repair,” said the Captain, “and too small—
too small! I think of enlarging,” and he attempted to urge
his companion forward.
“But,” interposed the guest, still gazing at the smoke-house,
“that is one of your few errors of judgment: I would n't have
it an inch bigger, nor an inch less; and besides, the moss is
prettier than any paint.”
“I must put up the door, at least,” interrupted the Captain.
“Ay, no sir, let me advise you to the contrary. Governor
Patterson, of New Jersey, smokes all his meat, and has for
twenty years, in a house without a door—it makes the flavor
finer—I thought it was built so on purpose—if ever I have a
farm I should make your smoke-house a model.”
This morning all the household tasks had fallen on Charlotte.
“She went to bed early,” said the cousins, “and can afford to
get up early—besides, she has no toilet to make, as we have.”
But though they gave her the trouble of delaying the breakfast,
after she had prepared it, Charlotte was amply repaid for
all, in the praises bestowed on her coffee and toast by Mr. Sully
Dinsmore. Her uncle, too, said she had never looked so pretty,
that her hair was arranged in most becoming style, and that
her dress suited her complexion.
“Really, Lotty, I am growing jealous,” said Kate, tossing
her head in a way meant to be at once irresistibly captivating,
and patronizing.
Kate had never said “Lotty” before, but seeing that Mr.
Dinsmore was not shocked with the rural cousin, she thought it
politic to make the most of her, and from that moment glided
into the most loving behavior. Lotty was a dear little creature,
in her way, quite pretty—and she was such a housekeeper!
Finally, it was concluded to make a “virtue of necessity,”
and acknowledge that they were learning to keep house
to have as few troublesome servants about as possible.
So a few days glided swiftly and pleasantly to Charlotte,
notwithstanding that most of the household labor—all its
drudgery—devolved on her. What cared she for this, while
the sunrise of a paradisal morning was glorifying the world.
Kate and Sally offered their assistance in making the new dress,
and contrived various little articles, which they said would relieve
the high colors, and have a stylish effect. These arts, to
the simple-minded country girl, were altogether novel—at
home she had never heard of “becoming dress.” She, as well
as all the girls whom she knew, had been in the habit of going
to town once or twice a year, when the butter brought the best
price, or when a load of hay or a cow was sold, and purchasing
a dress, bonnet, &c., without regard to color or fashion. A
new thing was supposed to look well, and to their unpractised
eyes always did look well.
“Come here, Lotty,” said Kate, one evening, surveying her
cousin, as she hooked the accustomed old black silk. “Just
slip off that old-womanish thing,” she continued, as Charlotte
approached—and ere the young girl was aware, the silk dress
that had been regarded with so much reverence was deprived
of both its sleeves. “Oh mercy! what will mother say?” was
her first exclamation; but Kate was in no wise affected by the
amputation she had effected, and coolly surveying her work,
said “Yes, you look a thousand dollars better.” And she
continued, as Charlotte was pinning on the large cape she had
been used to wear, “Have you the rheumatism in the shoulders,
or anything of that sort, or why do you wrap up like a
grandmother at a woods-meeting?”
Charlotte could only say, “Just because”—it was, however,
that she desired to conceal as much of her bare arms as possible;
and it was not without many entreaties and persuasions
that she was induced to appear with arms uncovered and a simple
white frill about her neck.
“What a pity,” said the cousins, as they made up the red
calico, “that she had not consulted us, and spent her money
thing!”
They regarded her in a half-pitying, half-friendly light, and,
perhaps, under the circumstances, did the best they could; for
though Charlotte had many of the instincts of refinement, she
had been accustomed to a rude way of living, and a first contact
with educated society will not rub off the crust of rusticity
which has been years in gathering.
“I have been too sensitive,” thought Charlotte, or she tried
to think so, and if her heart ever throbbed wildly against some
delicate insinuation or implied rebuke, she crushed it down
again, blaming her own awkwardness and ignorance rather than
the fine relations who had stood pre-eminent in her childish
imagination. She might not so readily have reconciled herself
to the many mortifications she endured, but for the sustaining
influence of Mr. Dinsmore's smiles and encouraging words.
Ever ready to praise, and with never a word of blame, he
would say to the other ladies, “you are looking shocking to-night,”
and they could afford to bear it—they never did look
so; but whatever Charlotte wore was in exquisite taste—at
least he said so. And yet Mr. Dinsmore was not really and
at heart a hypocrite, except indeed in the continued and ostentatious
display of private griefs. Constitutionally, he was a
flatterer, so that he could not pass the veriest mendicant without
pausing to say, “Really, you are as fine a looking old beggar-man
as I have met this many a day!” Whether he was
disinterested and desired only to confer pleasure upon others,
or whether he wished to win hearts to himself, I know not—I
only know, no opportunity of speaking gracious words ever
escaped him.
However or whatever this disposition was, Charlotte interpreted
all his speeches kindly. “She had eyes only for what
was good,” he said, and the sombre shadow of affliction in
which he stood, certainly gave him an appearance of sincerity.
When the Misses Bailey were thrown, or rather when they
threw themselves in his way, he said his delight could not be
expressed—they seemed to have the air of the mountain maids
about them that made him feel at home in their presence.
he not unfrequently said on these occasions, “I have been sacrificing
an hour to that country cousin of yours,” or, “I have
been benevolently engaged,” pointing toward Charlotte. Then
came exchanges of smiles and glances, which seemed to say,
“We understand each other perfectly—and nobody else understands
us.” One day, while thus engaged in playing the agreeable,
Charlotte having finished her dish-washing, came in, her
hands red and shining from the suds. Mr. Dinsmore smiled,
and, with meaning, added, “Do you remember where Elizabeth
tells some clodhopper, the reputed husband of Amy
Robsart, I think, that his boots well nigh overcame my Lord
of Leicester's perfumery!” and in the burst of laughter which
followed, the diplomatist rose and joined the unsuspecting girl,
saying, as he seated himself beside her, and playfully took two
of her fingers in his, “You have been using yellow soap, and
the fragrance attracted me at once—there is no perfume I like
half so well. Why, you might spend hundreds of dollars for
essential oils, and nice extracts, and after all, if I could get it, I
would prefer the aroma of common yellow soap—it's better
than that of violets.”
“I have been talking to those frivolous girls,” he continued,
after a moment, and with the manner of one who had been acting
a part and was really glad to be himself again: “rather
pretty,” in a soliloquising sort of way, “but their beauty is not
of the fresh, healthful style I admire.”
“I thought,” said Charlotte, half pettishly, “you admired them
very much!”
“Yes, as I would a butterfly,” he said, “but they have not
the thrifty and industrious habits that could ever win my serious
regard—my love;” and his earnest tone and admiring look
were more flattering than the meaning of his words. Charlotte
crushed her handkerchief with one hand and smoothed her
heavy black hair with the other, to conceal the red burning of
her cheek. Mr. Dinsmore continued, “Yes, I have been thinking
since I came here, that this is the best way in the world
to obtain health and happiness—this rural way of life, I mean.
Just see what a glorious scene presents itself!” and he drew the
and sheep, the meadow and woodland, with the enthusiasm of
a devoted practical farmer.
“Of course,” said Charlotte, “my predilections are all in favor
of the habits to which I have been used.”
“Another proof of your genuine good sense,” and Mr. Dinsmore
folded close both the little red hands of Charlotte within
his own soft white ones, but with less of gallantry than sincere
appreciation of her sweet simplicity and domestic excellencies.
And he presently went on to say, that if he ever found any
happiness again, it must be with some such dear angel as herself,
and in the healthful, inspiriting occupation of a farmer.
True, he did not say in so many simple words, “I should like
to marry you, Charlotte,” but the nameless things words cannot
interpret, said it very plainly to the uusophisticated, simple-minded,
true-hearted Charlotte. Poor man, he seemed to
her so melancholy, so shut out from sympathy, it was almost
a duty to lighten the weary load that oppressed him.
But I cannot record all the sentiment mingled in the recess
of that window. I am ignorant of some particulars; and if I
were not, such things are interesting only to lovers. But I
know a shadow swept suddenly across the sweetest light that
for Charlotte had ever brightened the world. The window, beside
which these lovers sat, if we may call them lovers, overlooked
the highway for half a mile or more; and as they sat
there it chanced that a funeral procession came winding through
the dust and under the windy trees far down the hill. It was
preceded by no hearse or other special carriage for the dead,
for in country places the coffin is usually placed in an open
wagon, and beneath a sheet, carried to the grave-yard. So,
from their elevated position, they could see, far off, the white
shape in the bottom of the wagon. Mr. Dinsmore's attentions
became suddenly abstracted from the lady beside him, and the
painful consciousness of bereavement, from which he had almost
escaped, weighed on him with tenfold violence. “Hush, hush,”
he said, in subdued and reproachful accents, as she made attempts
to talk of something besides shrouds. “Florence,” he
continued, burying his face in his hands, and as though swept
“why was I spared when you were taken, and why am
I not permitted to go voluntarily”—he abruptly broke off the
sentence, and, rising, rushed from the house. Charlotte arose,
too, her heart troubled and trembling, and followed him with
her eyes, as he staggered blindly forward to obtain a nearer
view of the procession, every now and then raising himself on
tiptoe, that he might see the coffin more distinctly.
In the suburbs of the city, and adjoining the grounds of Captain
Bailey, lay the old grave-yard termed the Potter's Field,
and across the sloping stubble land, toward this desolate place,
Charlotte bent her steps, and seated on the roots of a blasted
tree, on a hill-side, waited for the procession. Gloomy enough
was the scene, not relieved by one human figure, as perhaps
she had hoped to find it. To the South hung clouds of smoke
over crowded walls, with here and there white spires shooting
upward, and in one opening among the withered trees, she
caught a glimpse of the Ohio, and over all and through all
sounded the din of busy multitudes. In the opposite direction
were scattered farm-houses, and meadows, and orchards, with
sheep grazing and cattle pasturing, and blue cheerful columns
of smoke drifted and lifted on the wind. And just at her feet,
and dividing the two pictures, lay this strip of desolated and
desecrated ground, the Potter's Field. It was inclosed by no
fence, and troops of pigs and cows eked out a scanty sustenance
about the place. One of these starved creatures, having one
horn dangling loosely about her ear—in consequence of some
recent quarrel about the scanty grass perhaps—drew slowly
toward the hollow nearest the place where Charlotte sat, and
drank from a little grave which seemed to have been recently
opened. The soil was marshy—so much so that the slightest
pit soon filled with water. The higher ground was thickly furrowed
with rows of graves, and two or three, beside this open
one, had been made in the very bottom of the hollow. Nearer
and nearer came the funeral train. It consisted of but few persons—men,
and women, and children—the last looking fearfully
and wonderingly about, as led by the hands of their
parents they trod the narrow path between the long lines of
bearing in his arms the coffin—that of a little child; and Charlotte
shuddered to think of the cold damp bed which was waiting
for it. There seemed to be no clergyman in attendance; and
without hymn or prayer, the body that had slept always in its
mother's arms till now, was laid in the earth, and in the obscurest
and lonesomest corner of the lonesomest of all burial places, left
alone. Closer than the rest, even pressing to the edge of the
grave, was a pale woman, whose eyes looked down more earnestly
than the eyes of the others; and that it was, and not
the black ribbon crossed plainly about the straw bonnet—
which indicated the mother. Hard by, but not so near the
grave, stood a man holding in his arms a child of some two
years, very tightly, as though the grave should not get that;
and once he put his hand to his eyes; but he turned away before
the woman, and as he did so, kissed the cheek of the little
child in his arms—she thought only of the dead.
The sun sunk lower and lower, and was gone; the windy
evening came dimly out of the woods, shaking the trees and
rustling the long grass; the last lengths of light drew themselves
from the little damp heap, and presently the small grey
headstones were lost from view. And, scarcely disturbing the
stillness, the funeral people returned to their several homes—
for the way was dusty and they moved slowly—almost as
slowly as they came. There were no songs of birds in the twilight—not
even a hum of insects; the first were gone, and the
last, or such of them as still lived, were crept under fallen
leaves, and were quietly drowsing into nothingness. No snakes
slipt noiselessly along the dust-path, hollowing their slow ways.
They too were gone—some dropping into the frosty cracks
of the ground, and others, pressed flat, lay coiled under decaying
logs and loose stones. So, at such a time and in such a
place, the poor little baby was left alone, and the parents went
to their darkened cottage, the mother to try to smile upon the
child that was left, while her eyes are tearful and she sees only
the vacant cradle,—and the father to make the fire warm and
cheerful, and essay with soft words to win the heavy-hearted
wife from their common sorrow. They are poor, and have no
meal, the father will deal out to the impatient cows hay and
corn, more liberally than his garners can well afford, for to-night
he feels like doing good to everything.
Something in this way ran the thoughts of Charlotte, as
slowly and sadly she retraced her steps, trying to make herself
believe she would have felt no less lonely at any other time if
she had witnessed so mournful a scene. And in part she
deceived herself: not quite, however, for her eyes were wandering
searchingly from side to side of the path, and now and
then wistfully back, though she could scarcely distinguish the
patches of fading fennel from the thick mounds of clay. Perhaps
she fancied Mr. Sully Dinsmore still lingered among the
shadows to muse of the dead.
Nothing like justice can here be done to the variously accomplished
Sully Dinsmore. Charlotte requires no elaborate
painting; a young and pretty country girl—with a heart,
except in its credulity, like most other human hearts, yearning
and hopeful—as yet she had distilled from no keen disappointment
a bitter wisdom. Little joys and sorrows made up the
past; her present seemed portentous of great events.
“Where is Kate?” she asked one day, in the hope of learning
what she did not dare to ask; and Sally replied in a way
that she meant to be kindly, and certainly thought to be wise,
by saying, “She is in some recess, I suppose, comforting poor
Mr. Dinsmore, who seems to distribute his attentions most
liberally. It was only this morning,” she added, “that against
a lament for the dead Florence, he patched the story of his love
for me.”
Charlotte joined in the laugh, but with an ill grace, and still
more reluctantly followed when Sally led the way toward the
absentees, saying in a whisper, “Let us reconnoitre—all stratagems
fair in war, you know.”
But whether the stratagem was fair or not, it failed of the
success which Sally had expected, for they no sooner came
within hearing of voices than Mr. Dinsmore was heard descanting
in a half melancholy, half enthusiastic tone, of the superiority
of all western products. “Why, Captain Bailey,” said
of the mountains for anything I can think of—not for hardly
anything in the world!” Such childish simplicity of speech
made it difficult to think him insincere; and Charlotte, at least
did not, but was the more confirmed in her previous notions
that he was a weary, broken-hearted man, sick of the world
and pining for some solitude, “with one sweet spirit for his
minister.”
Whether Sally's good intentions sprang from envy and jealousy,
it might be difficult to decide; but Charlotte attributed
only these feelings to her, as she petulantly turned away with
the exclamation—“Pshaw! Kate has left him, and he is trying
to make father believe the moon is made of green cheese!”
From that day the cousins began to be more and more
apart; the slight disposition to please and be pleased, which
had on both sides been struggling for an existence, died, and
did not revive again.
It was perhaps a week after this little scene, and in the
mean time Mr. Dinsmore had been no unsuccessful wooer; in
truth, Charlotte began to feel a regret that she had not selected
a white instead of a red dress; all the world looked brighter
to her than it had ever done before, dreary as the season was.
The distance between the cousins and herself widened every
day; but what cared she for this, so long as Mr. Dinsmore
said they were envious, selfish, frivolous, and unable to appreciate
her. I cannot tell what sweet visions came to her heart;
but whatever they were, she found converse with them pleasanter
than friends—pleasanter than the most honeyed rhymes
poet ever syllabled. And so she kept much alone, busy with
dreams—only dreams.
5. V.
It was one of the mildest and loveliest of all the days that
make our western autumns so beautiful. The meadow sides,
indeed, were brown and flowerless; the lush weeds of summer
lopped down, black and wilted, along the white dry dust of
the roadside; the yellow mossy hearts of the fennel were faded
dry; the long, shriveled iron-weeds had given their red bushy
garments; still, the day was lovely, and all its beauties
had commended themselves with an unwonted degree of accuracy
to the eyes of Charlotte—Mr. Dinsmore had asked her to
join him in an autumn ramble and search for the last hardy
flowers. All the morning she was singing to herself,
And then I will tell thee a tale.”
It had been stipulated by Mr. Dinsmore, “so as not to excite
observation,” he said, that they should leave the house separately,
and meet at an appointed place, secure from observation.
Why a ramble in search of flowers should be clandestine,
the young lady did not pause to inquire, but she went forth at
the time appointed, with a cheek bright almost as the calico
she wore.
On the grassy slope of a hollow that ran in one direction
through a strip of partly cleared woodland, and in the other
toward an old orchard of low heavy-topped trees, she seated
herself, fronting the sun, which was not shining, but seemed
only a soft yellow spot in the thick haze that covered all the
sky. A child might have looked on it, for scarcely had it
more brightness than the moon. The air was soft and loving,
as though the autumn was wooing back the summer. The
grass was sprouting through the stubble, and only the clear
blue sky was wanting to make the time spring-like, and a bird
or two to sing of “April purposes.” It was full May-time in
the heart of Charlotte, and for a time, no bird could sing more
gaily than she, as she sat arranging and disarranging the scarlet
buds she had twined among her hair; now placing them on
one side, now on the other: now stripping off a leaf or two,
and now adding a bud or blades of grass.
So an hour was wiled away; but though it seemed long,
Charlotte thought perhaps it was not an hour after all; it could
not be, or surely Mr. Dinsmore would have joined her. The
day was very still, and she knew the time seemed longer when
there were no noises. And yet when she became aware of
sounds, for a cider-mill was creaking and grating in the edge
and lonesome.
Round and round moved the horse, but she could not hear
the crushing and grinding of the apples—only the creaking of
the mill. Two or three little boys were there, whistling and
hopping about—now riding the horse, and now bending over
the tub and imbibing cider with a straw. An old man was
moving briskly among bundles and barrels, more from a habit
of industry, it seemed, than because there was anything to do.
But, try as she would, Charlotte could not interest herself in
their movements. An uneasy sensation oppressed her—she
could not deceive herself any longer—it was time, and long
past the time appointed. At first she looked back on the way
she had come, long and earnestly; then she arose and walked
backward and forward in the path, with a quick step at first,
then more irresolutely and slowly. The yellow spot in the
clouds had sunken very low and was widening and deepening
into orange, when she resumed the old seat, folded her hands
listlessly in her lap, and looked toward the cider-mill. The
creaking was still, the horses harnessed, and barrels, and bundles
of straw, and boys, all in the wagon. The busy farmer
was making his last round, to be sure that nothing was amiss,
and this done he climbed before the barrels and bundles and
boys, cracked his whip, and drove away toward the orange
light in the clouds. Mr. Dinsmore was not coming—of that
she was confident, and anger, mortification, and disappointment,
all mingled in her bosom, producing a degree of misery
she had never before experienced.
Not till night had spread one dull leaden color all over the
sky, did she turn her steps homeward, in her thoughts bitterly
revolving all Mr. Dinsmore had said, and the much more he
had suggested. And, as she thus walked, a warm bright light
dried up the tears, and she quickened her step—she had fallen
back on that last weakness—some unforeseen, perhaps terrible
event, had detained him, and all the reproaches she had framed
were turned upon herself; she had harshly blamed him, when
it was possible, even probable, that he could not come. The
world was full of accidents, dangers, and deaths—some of these
as anxiously for her as she for him. At this thought she quickened
her steps, and was soon at the house. The parlor was
but dimly lighted, and, with a trembling and anxious heart, she
entered, and recognizing Mr. Dinsmore in one of the recesses
of the windows, she obeyed the first impulse, hurried toward
him, and parting the heavy and obscuring draperies, said, in
an earnest whisper, “Why did you not come?”
“Come—where?” he replied, indolently; and added, in a
moment, “Ay, yes, really, I forgot it.”
A half sigh reached her, and turning, she became aware that
a young and pretty lady occupied the corner of the window
opposite. No further explanation was needed.
With feelings never known before, pent in her heart, Charlotte
sought the chamber in which she was used to sleep—the
lamp was faintly burning, and the bright carpet and the snowy
counterpane and curtains, and low cushioned seats, looked very
comfortable; and as Charlotte contrasted all with the homely
garret in which she had slept at home, the contrast made it
luxury.
In her heart, she wished she had never slept any where else
but under the naked rafters of her father's house. “I should
have known better than to come,” she thought; “it is no wonder
they think the woods the best place for me.” Now, no one
had said this, but she attributed it and many such thoughts to
her rich friends, as she called them, and then set herself as
resentfully against them as though they had said they despised
her.
Her eyes turned toward the night; she was sitting very still,
with all bitter and resentful and sorrowful feelings running
through her heart, when a soft tap on the door summoned her
to answer. With a haughty step and repellant manner she
went forward; and when, opening the door, she saw before
her the pleasant-faced little lady she had seen in the window,
below, she said, very coldly, “You have mistaken the apartment,
I think,” and was turning away, when the intruder
eagerly but artlessly caught up both her hands, saying, in a
tone of mingled sweetness and heartiness, “No, I am not mistaken;
for a formal introduction, but commissioned myself to bring
you down to tea. My name,” she added, “is Louise—Louise
Herbert.”
Charlotte bowed stiffly, and saying, “You are very obliging,
but I do n't want any tea,” closed the door abruptly, and
resumed her old seat, looking out into the night as before.
“I suppose it was mere curiosity that brought her here,”
she said, by way of justifying her rudeness; “of course, she
could feel no interest in me.” And further, she even tried to
approve of herself by saying she always hated pretence, and
for a fine lady like Miss Herbert, who had evidently been
accustomed to all the refinements of wealth, to affect any liking
for a poor ignorant country girl, as she chose to call herself,
was absurd. In truth, she was glad she had shown independence
at least, and let the proud creature know she would not
cringe because of her silk dress, or white hands, or pretty face.
She did n't want anything of her—she could live without her,
and she would. And rising and pacing the room, she made
what she thought a very wise and dignified resolve. When
they were all asleep she would tie in a bundle what few things
she had, and walk home; she would not ask her uncle to take
her—she would not tell him she was going—he might find it
out the best way he could. This decision made, she undressed
and went to bed, as usual, and tried to compose herself to
sleep by thinking that she was about as ugly and ill-bred, and
unfortunate in every way, as she could be; that everybody
disliked and despised her, and that all who were connected with
her were ashamed of her. Nor was this any wonder—she was
ashamed of herself. There was one thing she could do, nevertheless,
and that she would do—go back and remain where she
belonged. Thus she lay tossing and tumbling, and frightening
the drowsy god quite from the neighborhood of her pillow,
when Kate entered, accompanied by the agreeable looking little
woman, who, being introduced, begged in a jocular way, that
she would afford her sleeping-room for only one night. “I
could not,” she added very sweetly, “give my friends the
share yours.”
Charlotte answered, coldly and concisely, that she was ready
to do anything to oblige, and placing herself close against the
wall, buried her face in the pillow, and lay stiff and straight
and still. But Miss Herbert, singularly oblivious of the young
woman's uncivil behavior, prepared for sleep,
“And lay down in her loveliness.”
“How cold you are,” she said, creeping close to her companion,
and putting her arm about her. Charlotte said nothing,
and gave a hitch, which she meant to be from, but, somehow,
it was toward the little woman. “Oh, you are quite in a
chill,” she added, giving her an embrace, and in a moment she
had hopped from the bed, and in her clean, white, night dress,
was fluttering out of the room.
“I never had such a night-gown,” thought Charlotte, “with
its ruffles and lace trimming—I never had any at all,” and she
resumed her old position, which, however, she had scarcely
gained, when the guest came fluttering back, and folding off the
counterpane, wrapt, as though she were a baby, her own nicely
warmed woollen petticoat about her feet, and having tucked
the clothing down, slipt under it and nestled Charlotte in her
arms, as before, saying, “There, is n't that better?”
“Yes—thank you,” and her voice trembled, as she yielded
to this determined kindness.
“Another night we must have an additional blanket,” said
the lady; “that is, if I succeed in keeping you from freezing
to-night,” and pressing the chilly hands of Charlotte close in
her bosom, she fell asleep. And Charlotte, thinking she would
be at home the next night, fell asleep too, and woke not till
along the counterpane ran the shadows of the red clouds of
morning.
But I am lingering, and must hasten to say, that Louise
Herbert was one of the most lovable, generous, and excellent
of women; that she had been accustomed to affluence was
true, and that she could not know the feelings of Charlotte,
who had been born and bred in comparative poverty, was not
into certain agreeing habits and ways of thinking, but her soul
was large, her heart warm, and her apprehensions quick; and
when she saw Charlotte, and heard the trembling inquiry, and
the answer of indifference, she read the little history, which to
the young girl was so much, and appreciating, so far as she
might, her sorrows, determined to win her love; for at once
her heart went out toward her—for she was unsuspicious and
unhesitating, always ready to find something good in every one.
Even Charlotte found it impossible not to love her. She
did n't know why, but she could get on a stool at her feet, lay
her head on her lap, and forget that Louise was not as poor
and humble as herself; or, if she remembered it, the silks and
plumes and jewelry worn by her, did n't make her envious or
jealous—it gave her pleasure to see Louise look pretty.
Mr. Dinsmore, after some vain attempts to coquette and
flirt with Miss Herbert, who had too much tact, or was too
indifferent to him, to pay much regard to his overtures,
departed rather abruptly, merely sending his adieus to Charlotte,
who was engaged in the kitchen at the time, and who
had been in the shade since the coming of Miss Herbert.
And after a month of eating and sleeping, talking and laughing,
baking and making and mending, Louise was joined by
her party, who had left her with her friends, the Baileys, while
they continued a ruralizing tour through the West, and Charlotte's
heart grew desolate at the thought of separation from
her. But such a misfortune was not yet to be; for before
the departure of the young lady, she persuaded the parents of
Charlotte (who could not help liking, though they regarded her
very much as they would a being from another sphere) to
allow their daughter to accompany her home.
With a heart full of curious joy, but with tears in her eyes,
Charlotte took leave of the old home that she had so despised,
and yet loved so well.
6. VI.
A year or two afterwards, changes and chances brought me
for a moment within the circle in which she moved as the
admired star. The rooms were brilliant with lights and flowers,
and gaiety and beauty, and intellect; and the lately shrinking
country girl was the cynosure of all eyes—the most envied,
the most dreaded, the most admired, the most loved.
When my attention was drawn first toward her, there were
some voices that had sounded at least through the length and
breadth of their own country, softened to the most dulcet of
tones, for her sake; and she seemed to listen indifferently, as
though her thoughts were otherwhere.
I naturally recalled the humble life she had led—my walk
to her house along the autumn woods—the letter which had
been the key opening a new life to her—and while I was thus
musing, I heard a voice which seemed not altogether unfamiliar
—so low, and soft, and oily,—“Really, Miss Herbert, I was
never so proud as to-night—that you should have remembered
me on such an occasion as this! I cannot express the honor I
feel, the obligations you have placed me under.”
And then, as if constrained to throw aside all formality, and
express himself with simple sincerity, he continued—“Why,
how in the world did you get all these great folks together! I
don't believe there is a house in the United States, except
yours, that ever held at once so many celebrities.”
Before my eye fell on him, I recognized Mr. Dinsmore, and
observed him with increasing interest as he made his way to
Miss Ryan, who appeared not to see him, till having pushed
and elbowed his way, he addressed her with the familiarity of
an old and intimate friend, and as though he were not only
delighted himself, but felt assured that she must be much more
so. But she hesitated—looked at him inquiringly—and seemed
to say by her manner, as plainly as possible, “What impudent
fellow are you—and what do you want?”
“Surely, you remember meeting with me,” the gentleman
said, a little discomfited, but in his most insinuating tone.
“When—where?” she asked, as if she would remember him
if she could.
“Don't you remember,” he said, “a month with Sulley
Dinsmore at Captain Bailey's?”
“Ah, yes,” she replied, quoting his own words on a former
occasion; “Really, I had forgotten it.”
He shrunk a head and shoulders in stature, and slipt aside
like a detected dog; and after one or two ineffectual attempts
to rally, took leave in modest and becoming silence.
An hour afterward we sat alone—Charlotte and I—in the
dim corner of a withdrawing room; and as I was congratulating
her on her new position, especially on the beauty of her appearance
that night, she buried her face in my lap, and burst into
tears; and when I tried to soothe her, but wept the more. At
length, lifting herself up, and drying her eyes, she said: “What
would mother think, if she saw me here, and thus?”—And she
scanned her gay dress, as though it were something neither
right nor proper for her to wear. “And dear little Willie and
sturdy Jonathan,” she continued: “I suppose they sleep in
their little narrow bed under the rafters yet, and I—I—would
I not feel more shame than joy if they were to come in here
to-night! Oh, I wish I had staid at home and helped mother
spin, and read the sermon to father when the weekly paper
came. His hair is getting white, is n't it?” she asked, pulling
the flowers out of her own, and throwing them on the ground.
My wish was fulfilled—Charlotte had attained the position
I had thought her so fitted to adorn; but was she happier?
In the little gain was there not much loss—the fresh young
feeling, the capacity to enjoy, the hope, the heart, which, once
gone, never come back.
I cannot trace her biography all out: since that night
of triumph and defeat, our paths have never crossed each
other.
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