 | III. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West |  |
3. III.
“It was near midnight when we drew up in the broad
area of light that fell from the window of my sister's sick
chamber. The moon was high, and so bright that the stars
seemed fewer and paler than was their wont. The air had
become chilling, and the streets were almost entirely deserted,
which heightened my desolate feeling; for my friends, as I
have said, lived in the suburbs of the city, and I saw through
a row of naked trees that stood a little to the west, the
white gleam of high monuments, and low and thickly set tombstones.
Glad as I was to be separated from my strange
conductor, a dismal home-sick feeling came to trouble me
anew.
“It is a sad thing to go into a strange house where there is
sickness. We need to be strong and hopeful ourselves, in order
to bear with us any of the joy and light of consolation. This
residence of my sister was of wood, small and unpainted, and
on an obscure street, without pavement or lamps, with on the
one side an old graveyard, from which a part of the dead had
been removed and on the other a lunatic asylum, from which
feelings.
“My quick, loud rap, was presently answered by my
brother-in-law, whose highly decent and respectable appearance
contrasted strangely with the poor and scanty air of things about
him. He was one of those peculiarly organized persons who,
capable of turning his hand to almost anything, was only
goaded by the closest necessity to any sort of exertion. Of
the most amiable disposition imaginable, and affectionate to his
wife and children—proud of them indeed—he was nevertheless
so invulnerably indolent, that the common comforts of life
were often wanting to them and to himself. He was a little,
stiff, and exceedingly pompous man, both in manners and conversation,
and his `expectations' were a theme on which he
dwelt delightedly from one year's end to another. `Amandah,'
he was accustomed to say, when he saw his patient and
worn wife bending over the miserable remnant of some garment—`don't
work any more, my dear; I will get new clothes
for the children.' But his promises were the basis of small
hopes, and poor Amanda generally darned on as long as the
tallow candle gave her any light. She is one of the best and
most painstaking women in the world, and in spite of all her
many crosses and disappointments, loving and even hopeful
still. God knows whether she will ever have the little cottage
invested with vines and shrubbery which is her ambition; but
at this period everything about her was hopeless.
“The room we entered was small, with low ceiling, curtainless
windows, and naked floor. The furniture consisted of a
few common chairs, a square pine table, a cupboard in which
there was nothing to eat, and a stove in which there was no
fire. My brother-in-law kissed my forehead, said he was delighted
to see sister Elsah, that the prospect looked a little
sombre just now—glancing about the room—but that in a day
or two things would assume their usually cheerful aspect; and
as this was being said he conducted me up a narrow flight of
stairs, and into the sick chamber. My sister I found quite ill,
but not dangerously so, and the room was as barren of comfortable
appliances as the one I first entered. I soon contrived
had been carefully spread, and the hands and face of the
invalid freely bathed in cold water, she felt refreshed, and after
a little toast and some cheerful conversation, fell asleep. The
husband, wearied with the watching of previous nights, shortly
followed her example, and I was left to wile the remainder of
the night away as best I could. Hearing the tossing and turnings
of the children in the next room, I looked in to see what
disturbed their slumber. Their beds were hard matrasses, laid
flat on the floor, and the clothing, even for that early season,
was quite too scanty, eked out as it was with old shawls and
petticoats.
“There were the two black-eyed little girls, each with arms
folded lovingly about the other, but with a half scowl on her
face; near by lay their brother, an active and intelligent boy
of ten years, his hands locked tightly together above his heavy
black hair, and his lips compressed as though conscious of endurance.
Piled on the floor at the head of his bed were the two
or three dozen books that composed his library. They had
been collected from various sources, and were carefully preserved,
as appeared from the paper covers in which the most
elegantly bound were enveloped. Some of them he had received
as prizes at school, a few I had given him, and the
remainder were fruits of his labor; for sometimes on Saturdays
and other holidays, he did errands for Mr. Mackelvane, a rich
merchant and neighbor, who employed his father as clerk,
when he would condescend to be employed. A shrewd boy
and a good was my nephew Ralph. Depending over the little
library, by way of ornamenting his part of the room, I suppose,
were two or three graceful plumes of the peacock. I took the
shawl from my shoulders, and spread it over his bed as a coverlid,
wrapping it warmly about his neck. He did not wake,
but his countenance assumed a softened expression, and I was
more than repaid for my own deprivation.
“The fire was growing dim, and the light low, and hoping
to divert my thoughts from their troubled channel I took up
the evening paper, and by chance ran over the list of arrivals,
and among them was that of Mr. and Mrs. Charles H—. I
me. I knew not till then what hope I had been leaning on—
suddenly it was broken away, and I felt too weak and wretched
and helpless to stand alone. The past was a mockery and
delusion, the present a horrible chaos, and the future all a
blank. How was I, faltering and fainting with a bleeding
heart, to be a minister of strength and consolation, to speak
what I felt not, and feel what I spoke not. I was irritated by
every sound: no matter whether it were of the wind moaning
through the trees along the grave-yard, or of some belated step
on the ground below—it seemed like digging the tomb of peace.
The candle burned dim, and flickered and went out; I knew not
where to find another, and so, with no other light than that of
the dying embers, and the white sheet of moonlight that fell
across the darkness, I sat there, in solitude, with a darker sorrow
on my spirit than I had ever known before. Beyond the
desolate common, with low and mean houses scattered here
and there, burned the lamps, rose the luxurious dwellings
and shone the towers of the great and wealthy city: no light
anywhere in the world burned for me, none of those elegant
homes had any word or warmth for me—I was suddenly become
an alien from humanity. He, who had made all things
beautiful, all situations endurable, was once more near me;
the chime of the same bells smote upon our ears, but how different
the echoes it awakened. Fate links strange contrasts—
the bridal train sweeps by the slow, pale procession of death,
and the lights of the birth-chamber grow dim in an atmosphere
of woe! It seemed that the long night would never end; but
what, in the great universe of things, are our little joys or
sorrows, that the wings of time should be stayed or quickened
for them! At length the hours wore by, and the sounds of footsteps
on the pavement, first at intervals only, began to be
heard, and gradually deepened and thickened—the world was
astir, and morning was come to every one but me.
“Some little light came into my heart as the children climbed
about me, in an ecstacy of gladness. Ralph was more shy
than the little girls, and felt a hesitancy about scrutinizing my
bonnet and shawl with as much freedom as they, nor could he
felt in showing me their patchwork and dolls. He, however,
at last, half in shame and half in pride, displayed before me
not only his books, but another treasure scarcely less prized.
The most choice volumes he took from their paper envelopes
that I might see how free from any soiling they were, and be
gratified with the brightness of the bindings. I praised him for
their careful preservation, as well as for the knowledge he had
derived from them.
“While he and I were thus engaged, the little girls had constantly
interrupted us with, `Oh, come aunty, oh come down,
Ralph has got something prettier to show you.' `Never mind,'
said Ralph at last, `Aunt Elsie has seen a thousand, and prettier
ones than mine, I expect,' though he was evidently as anxious
as they, judging from the alacrity with which he ran down
stairs before me, when I said, `What is it Ralph—a dog?'
He laughed at my mistake, adding, “It is n't nothing much.”
“In one corner of the hard beaten door-yard grew a small
cherry-tree, and from its topmast bough, trailing earthward
and shining and sparkling in the light of the lately risen sun,
were the plumes of a beautiful peacock. Very proud he
looked, and as if unwilling to descend to the common earth.
`That is all,' said Ralph, pointing to the bird, but no doubt expecting
on my part a delightful surprise. I did feel pleasure,
and expressed perhaps more than I felt. `Who gave him to
you?' I asked. `No one,' he replied, `I bought him with money
Mr. Mackelvane gave me for doing errands;' and more
sorrowfully, after a moment he said, `I might have spent the
money more usefully, mother says, but I wanted something
pretty, and we had nothing that was pretty.'
“My praises of the beauty of the bright-plumed bird soon
diverted his thoughts to a more agreeable channel, and in conferring
happiness, I became at least less miserable. Mr. Dingley,
who was always going to do something, making arrangements
for some wonderful speculation, instead of actually accomplishing
anything, set out on a journey of a hundred miles, a day or
two after my arrival, taking with him most of the scanty means
the house afforded, and saying as he did so, `I should not be
trip.'
“`I should,' said Ralph, who was wise beyond his years; and
going close to his mother, he asked, in a whisper, if father had
taken all the money. She told him his father always did what
he thought was for the best, and, quieted, if not convinced, he
left the room. Presently I descended too, and found him sitting
on the doorstep of the kitchen, his eyes full of tears, and
vainly endeavoring to twist the sleeve of his roundabout in a
way that would conceal the ragged elbow. Busying myself, I
affected not to see the exhibition of sorrow, and when his eyes
were dry, said carelessly, `I see, Ralph, you have torn the
sleeve of your coat—if you will take it off I will mend it.' He
took it off, saying as he laid it in my lap, `It is not torn, aunt
Elsie, but worn out;' and while I mended it, telling him I could
make it look just as well as when new, he informed me that
Washington Mackelvane had a fine blue coat with brass buttons,
and that he laughed at his old gray one, calling him a
poor boy.
“Mrs. Dingley continued to improve, and at the end of a week
was quite well. From the time of my coming, our meals had
been growing less and less substantial, till we were finally reduced
to almost nothing, and the last cent was expended.
“Poor Ralph, whose sufferings were twice as great because I
knew it all, staid from school, and asked Mr. Mackelvane if he
could not give him something to do, but that gentleman did n't
want anything done; he next took two of his prettiest books
to the grocer, and tried to exchange them for something to eat,
but the grocer did n't want them, saying he had no time to
read; and, discouraged and almost crying, the little fellow
came back. `What shall we do, mother?' he said, in the hope
that she might have resources he knew not of; but she could
suggest nothing better than the asking Mr. Mackelvane to lend
them some money till Mr. Dingley's return. `No,' said Ralph,
resolutely, `not as long as we can help it,' and away he ran,
without giving us any intimation of his intention. When he
returned, which was in half an hour, Washington Mackelvane
was with him, and going straight to where the peacock was
movement, and bore him off in triumph, tossing Ralph
some money as he did so, as though it were of no importance
to him. Ralph came in, and placing the price of his treasure
in his mother's hand, ran up to his room, and sitting down on
the edge of his low bed, gave way to his emotion—half of vexation
at the loss of his favorite, half of joy that he was able by
any sacrifice to save his mother and sisters from a part of their
unhappiness.”
| III. Clovernook, or, Recollections of our
neighborhood in the West | |