University of Virginia Library

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.

The young women not only kissed her, but imposed
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

excuse nor apology for the abrupt and somewhat inquisitive
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 then when her work was done, she would tie on her sun-bonnet,
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

and anon she turned aside to wipe the tears away. My wish
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

appearance, inasmuch as she then wore the best clothes she
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.