Margaret a tale of the real and the ideal, blight and bloom ; including sketches of a place not before described, called Mons Christ |
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| 11. | CHAPTER XI.
MARGARET GOES TO THE BAY. |
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 | CHAPTER XI.
MARGARET GOES TO THE BAY. Margaret |  |
11. CHAPTER XI.
MARGARET GOES TO THE BAY.
When all things were ready, one cool but pleasant
morning in the early part of November they took their
final start from the Widow Wright's,—Obed and Rose on
Tim, a thick-set animal of small stature, who in addition to
his load bore a pair of large panniers, stocked with the
Leech's simples and compounds; Nimrod with Margaret,
on a horse of his own, and one in the estimation of his
master, who piqued himself on being a judge of such
things, of admirable proportions and other desirable
qualities. Margaret passed her old home, now deserted
and dead, with some sensation. She descended the Delectable
Way and the Brandon Road with quite a complexity
of emotions, and came to the Burial Ground, where
they stopped to shed a silent tear on Chilion's grave.
Halting at the Widow Small's to inquire after the Master,
that gentleman himself appeared at the door in a loose
gown and skull cap, and wearing a look of seated sickness
and sorrow. He seemed quite overcome at seeing Margaret.
“Vale, vale, eternumque vale, O mihi me discipula
carior!” was all he could say, and covering his eyes
with his red bandanna handkerchief, withdrew.
The Green presented a melancholy aspect, the entire
West side was in ruins; the church lay smouldering in its
own ashes; what had been a beautiful grove, sweeping
down the acclivities on the North, was now a waste of half-devoured
trees, charred stumps, roots unearthed, lean and
suddenly set in. They entered the East Street, and made
their last call at Deacon Ramsdill's. The old man gave
Margaret a letter, superscribed “Mrs. Pamela Wiswall.”
“It's for sister Pamela,” said he; “I thought it might do
you some good. She is a good-hearted critter as ever
lived, if she is my sister. I don't know where she is now;
I havn't been to the Bay since the War, and things have
altered some since then, I suppose. She used to keep
lodgings next door to Deacon Smiley's auction room, a
little over against the Three Doves, and would be glad to
have you put up there. There are people enough there
that know her, — ask for the Widow Wizzle, and any body
will tell you where she lives. I can't blame you for wanting
to get away. When our Jessie died we thought we
should have to pull up stakes. Freelove could'nt bear to
make the bed up where she died, and I had to do it. I
guess she didn't go into the room full a month. I had to
put off Jessie's sheep; she had a cosset that used to follow
her. Freelove couldn't bear the sight of it. We are all
down, on the Green. People don't know what to do. But
old sward wants turning under once in a while, and if land
lies fallow a year or so it don't hurt. The Lord knows
what is best for us. We had preaching in the Town Hall
last Lord's Day, and I guess there wasn't a dry eye there.
Good-by, Molly, God bless you all.”
They continued on the East Street, crossed the river, and
entered the region beyond. The sun which has shone
upon all ages and countries alike, and dispenses its equal
ministrations of life, hope and joy to every suffering heart
on this many-peopled globe, shone brightly upon them; the
atmosphere was clear, fresh and invigorating; the scream
of the redhammer, the brown herbage, the denuded forest,
beyond the river before. Looking back she beheld what
had formerly been esteemed a beautiful prospect, the village,
its environs, the rising grounds beyond, and, crowning
all, the Indian's Head; but it suggested at the present
moment other feelings than those of gratification and
delight, and she was not sorry to find herself rapidly
receding from Livingston.
Touching the objects of this sudden excursion Margaret
and Rose were alike ignorant and indifferent; and they
went on only anxious to be a-going. Margaret had been
able to procure suitable clothing; she wore a black beaver
hat and dress of cambleteen. In her hair was fastened
the Indian's gift, an aigrette of white heron's feathers.
Rose had on her blue silk bonnet and a queens-stuff habit
of the same color. In Nimrod appeared the transition
from the old style to the new. He wore a round-rimmed
hat, straight-bodied coat with large pewter buttons, and a
pair of overalls buttoning from the hip to the ankle. He
was more dressed than usual, and the caprison of his
horse corresponded with the elegance of that animal; circumstances
denoting rather the weakness of Nimrod than
any pecuniary ability. Obed bore up the olden time, and
showed his respect for the memory of his father and the
purse of his mother, in his tattered cocked hat, broad
flapped drab coat, leather breeches and silver buckles. His
red hair was powdered and queued, and on his nose were
his brass-bowed bridge spectacles.
The habits of Tim, who resented all approach of strangers,
might have interrupted the sociability of the company,
or even proved hazardous to life or limb, unless Nimrod
had suggested to Obed a method of prevention, which the
latter executed by cutting squares from the sides of his hat,
the frugal youth had been slow to undertake, save that his
mother promised him a new hat on conditions of fidelity and
success in this expedition. This movement served another
end, that Nimrod had not overlooked; it startled the gloom
of Margaret and Rose, whose smiles having long been
worried by the contrast of the parties, their horses and
accoutrements, were at length provoked to open laughter,
in which neither the finesse of Nimrod nor the habitual
dignity of Obed allowed those gentlemen to join. Margaret
sometime in the course of her life had said she could
manage Tim as well as his master. To test this, Nimrod
proposed that she should touch the animal. She called
his name familiarly, as she must have often done before,
and he suffered her to lay hands upon him and stroke his
sides, with the docility of a cat. But whenever Nimrod
approached, the ears of the beast fell, his heels rose, and
the bold man was glad to retreat.
Sometimes the girls walked long distances. Again Nimrod,
who knew the whole region by heart, led them by paths
that afforded the best views of the country and the towns.
So in various ways, with a generous if not the most discreet
attention, he contrived to relieve the monotony of the ride
and move their spirits, which he said were binding, and the
renovation of which he declared was one purpose of the
journey. It was not difficult to observe that in all this Nimrod
consulted what was due to his own state of feeling also,
and the girls were sometimes obliged to recall him from
reveries into which the scenes of the last month might have
plunged one even more light-minded than himself.
As regards the region they traversed, in some of its aspects,
if any one is curious to compare former times with
the present, he might be guided in his inquiries by a passage
the same ground a short time afterwards. “Every where,”
says he, “I found school-houses ruinous and deserted; the
taverns dirty, and filled with loungers brawling about politics
and lawsuits; the people idle and lazy.”
They arrived at Hartford that evening, where Nimrod
declared he had business of express nature, and Obed was
desirous of finding a market. They left the next morning,
Obed in fine humor since he had been able to turn some
of his goods for a new hat. On the afternoon of the fourth
day, having accomplished a journey which can now be
made in almost as many hours, they arrived in the suburbs
of Boston, at a place then, and we believe now, known as
Old Cambridge. Here, if they had not intended to stop,
their course must have been arrested by a great swell of
people, whom some high excitement had drawn together.
“Ho, Nim,” cried a burly fellow in a tarpawling and
blue jacket, evidently recognizing an old acquaintance.
“Heave to, discharge your deck load, and make sail in company.
We are going to have a pull-all-together up here.”
“How fares ye, Hart?” said another. “You liked to
be late at the feast. Always expect you when any thing is
going on. Didn't see you at Plimbury Roads. Turn the
ladies in, warm your nose with Porter's flip-dog, and come.
Great stakes. Old Hyflyer himself, out of Antelope;
grandam, Earl of Godolphin's Arabian.”
“Well,” said Nimrod, “if you have got any thing here
equal to Tartar, nephew to the late Hyder Ali, and first
cousin to Tippoo Saib, I should like to be notified, that's
all.”
“My old fellow,” said one, addressing Obed, “don't you
want to see the fun? Four horses, one greased pole to
the prize. It will do your old heart good to see it.”
Nimrod, subject to a vacillation of spirit and passion for
novelty that had both checkered and vitiated his life, might
without surprise to the girls have been tempted by these
several baits, and gone off with the crowd, even if he had
anticipated nothing of the sort and had not had these very
objects in mind when he left home. However this might
be, he kept his own counsels, told the girls he should soon
be back, threw his purse to Margaret, intimating there
were pickpockets among the people, had them shown to
the parlor of the inn, and rode off. Obed also, whose
ardor was inspired by the prospect of trade, soon followed.
Margaret and Rose, left to themselves, occupied the hour
looking from the windows on the world about them. They
went into the street, walked through the college grounds,
and gazed at the buildings and the students. The day was
nearly spent, people returned from the races, the tavern rang
with their noise aud revels. But Nimrod and Obed did not
appear. The girls grew alarmed; they heard reports
from the race, including intimations of brawls and constables.
Pushing their inquiries, they learned that two strangers
had fallen in a drunken dispute, done some mischief,
and been carried to prison. They waited a while till there
could be no doubt the delinquents were Nimrod and Obed.
It seemed best, on the whole, to seek out the sister of
Deacon Ramsdill and throw themselves on a so well commended
kindness and direction in this perplexed aspect of
things; so they started at once for the city. A three miles'
walk lay before them, but the habits of Margaret and
spirit of Rose were equal to it. Night overtook them ere
they reached the bridge. The few forlorn lamps that
hovered over that structure looked like an array of
should work. The dim outline of the State House they
mistook for a mountain. As they hurried on a voice
hailed them, “Toll, Ma'ams, toll.” They avowed their
ignorance, and asked how much. “Tuppence, tuppence
a head.” While Rose was satisfying this voice, which like
death seizes upon all, Margaret asked, “Where are we
now?” “At Pest House Pint,” replied the man; rather
shuddering intelligence. Margaret asked, “Where does
the Widow Wizzle live?” “I don't know, but you can
find out up the way,” rejoined the man. They pursued
their course along Cambridge Street, through what was
little better than a morass, and scantily furnished with
lamps that shone like fireflies, in a swamp. “Can you tell
us where the Widow Wizzle lives?” said they, applying to
an old man whom they next encountered. “Go by
Lynde's Paster, down Queen's, turn Marlbro, then follow
your nose till you come to it,” he answered, and disappeared
down a cellar.
They might reasonably be expected to be bewildered.
They had anticipated finding the house of the lady in
question without difficulty. Their hearts almost sunk. At
last they stopped by a lamp-post, planting themselves
against it, as if to make a desperate sortie on the next
passer-by, which chanced to be a young man. “Can you
tell us, sir, where the Widow Wizzle lives?” said they,
the light dropping full in their faces, and revealing countenances
flushed with earnestness. “I am going partly in
that direction,” replied the man, “and if you will follow
me, I think I can set you on the right track.” They went
on some distance, by one or two turns, and through two or
three lanes, when stopping at a dark corner their guide,
saying that business drew him in another quarter, pointed
by another man, who, perceiving what they wanted, observed
that his own route lay that way, and he would lead
them to the dwelling in question. Thankfully they pressed
forwards till they came to a large house, with a deep front
yard and an ornamented fence, and pleasantly lighted.
“This,” said their escort, “is Mrs. Wiswall's;” and,
opening the gate, he departed. By a paved walk, adorned
with shrubbery and two or three terraces ascended by stone
steps, they reached the door, where they met an elderly,
motherly-looking woman, who, as soon as the girls announced
themselves and delivered the letter, greeted them
very cordially.
When they were seated in the parlor and Mrs. Wiswall
had read the letter, she said, “It is melancholy indeed.
The newspapers gave us some account of what had
happened in Livingston, but I had no idea it was so bad.
Brother Simeon seems greatly distressed. And you were
in it all, and part of it! How dismal is your situation!
I will do what I can to make you comfortable and happy.
You must feel at home with me.”
A bright fire and good cup of tea, with a soft bed and
sound sleep, carried our weary ones through the night into
the next morning, renovated in body and calmed in feeling.
To their first solicitude as to what had become of Nimrod
and Obed, their kind hostess replied, telling them not to be
troubled, and that she would despatch a servant to make
instant and all needful inquiry.
They were introduced to two young ladies, Bertha,
daughter of Mrs. Wiswall, and Avice, a boarder, who
appeared amiable and intelligent.
They had leisure to look about them, nor were there
wanting objects to engage attention. The parlor offered to
as it might to some of our readers that of antiquity and an
obsolete taste. Wainscotted walls bore fading vestiges of
that passion for royalty and blood possessed by some of our
ancestors, and the tarnished gilt of a lion's head was in
good keeping with his broken tail. Fluted pilasters
sustained on burnished capitals a heavy frieze, in which
deer sported among flowers. The ceiling was divided by
whisks of flowers, with a margin of honeysuckles. On
either side of the chimney stood marble columns once the
trunk of busts, now surmounted by vases of living herbage.
Faded French curtains festooned the windows. There
were Dutch chairs in the room, with tall backs and black
leather cushions, embroidered in red and blue tent-stitch,
and a dark oval mahogany table, with raised and chased
rim, loaded with books. In a back parlor, entered by
a broad arch, they saw a tessellated floor, and through
the windows appeared an extensive garden, with a decaying
barn, an old Turkish summer-house, and vines trained
on high walls.
“Where are the Three Doves?” inquired Margaret.
“That is gone long ago,” replied Mrs. Wiswall. “New
houses occupy its place. Boston is becoming a great city;
nothing old remains long. We have more than twenty
thousand inhabitants. Bertha, Avice, show Margaret and
Rose your books. They both call me mother, and you
shall too; that is, if you are the good girls Simeon says
you are.” “There are the Adventures of Neoptolemus,
The Fatal Connexion, and Lord Ainsworth,” said Bertha.
“You have read The Girl of Spirit?” “No,” replied
Margaret. “The Fair Maid of the Inn?” “No.” “I
think she would like the Marriage of Belfegar,” observed
Avice, “and the Curious Impertinent.” “The Loves of
Bertha. There were books enough, at all events, to serve
them either in the way of selection or perusal for a long
while.
For several days Mrs. Wiswall said she could gather no
intelligence of their friends, and our pilgrims resigned
themselves as well as they could to their lot. They spent
most of the time alone together, and for the most part in
their own chamber. Two or three gentlemen boarding
there appeared at the dinner table, but they liked their
own society better than any other, and this preference was
not molested. They watched the street and beheld ladies in
black beaver and purple tiffany dresses, and melon-shaped
cupola-crowned hats, short cloaks with hoods squabbing behind,
known as cardinals; pink satin, and yellow brocade
shoes, supported on clogs and pattens; gentlemen in Suwarrow
boots and scarlet overcoats; — and altogether Boston
seemed to them a gay place, and they thought every body in
it was happy.
“You must try and amuse your sisters,” said Mrs.
Wiswall to her daughters. “Avice, Bertha, you can show
them what there is in the city, the Museum, the Circus, or
something of the kind.”
They were taken to the Museum at the head of the
Mall, near the Almshouse, over a cabinet shop, inthe centre
of what is Park Street Church. They saw young ladies in
wax, the guillotine, the assassination of Marat, alligators, &c.,
and were regaled with the musical clocks. Their next
excursion was to the Circus in West Boston; the singular
docility of the horses, the extraordinary feats of the men,
the grotesque wit and manners of the clown, afforded them
occasion for wonder and a smile. Margaret wrote to Deacon
Ramsdill she was more happy than she could have
sister.
“I guess you must go to the Theatre to-night,” said Mrs.
Wiswall. “I don't know of what party you are. We
have a Federal house and an anti-Federal.” “We are of
no party at all,” said Rose. “It is all one to us.” “It is
just so with me,” said the lady. “How does brother Simeon
stand now?” “He thinks there is some good on both
sides,” replied Margaret. “He does not approve the excesses
of either.” “That's Sim all over,” responded Mrs.
Wiswall. “But at the Federal they have—what is it,
girls?” “Pizarro,” replied Bertha. “The Haymarket
brings out The Castle of Almunecar.” “Yes,” added the
lady, “the dungeons, and strange noises and sights.” “I
would rather see Pizarro,” said Margaret. “I prefer the
Black Castle,” said Rose. “That is it,” said Mrs. Wiswall.
“Both be suited, one go to one, the other to the
other.” “We cannot be separated, Mrs. Wiswall,” replied
Margaret. “I want to go where Rose does.”
To the Haymarket they went, near the south end of the
Mall, and were shown to a box not very remote from the
stage. The piece that had been the subject of discussion,
sombre in its scenes, terrific in its imagery, the storm at
sea, the wreck, grim towers, dark chambers, apparitions,
hollow voices, Rose declared suited her exactly. “It is
myself,” she said to Margaret. “But I suppose you see a
smooth haven, and the light of true life coming of it all.”
“It has all been in me,” replied Margaret, “only if it is
not of me, I shall be glad.” But surprise combined with
other reflections when they beheld their hostess's daughter,
Bertha, moving amid the terrors of the play. And in the
pantomine that composed the afterpiece, they again saw
her as Joan, and Avice as Columbine, along with Harlequin
of one of the gentleman boarders under the cap of
Scaramouch. But the delight mingled with a variety of
sensations this piece afforded Margaret was such she forgot
every thing else while she saw represented the parts, characters,
buffooneries, dresses and forms, that constituted a
lively part of her father's drunken vagaries, and had disclosed
to her eye the origin of a certain description of allusion
and sentiment that predominated in Master Elliman,
and which she never before understood.
They spoke to Mrs. Wiswall of seeing her daughter on
the stage. “I suppose you think it very bad,” she replied.
“O, no,” said Rose, “I only wished I was there, and that I
could plunge into the darkness with her.” “My good
brother the Deacon would probably be opposed to it.” “I
never heard him speak of it,” replied Margaret, “nor
did any one ever say any thing to me on the subject.”
“Bertha,” continued the lady, “took a passion for the
stage, and I humored her in it. There is little that she
can do, poor child; and she seems pleased with this.
Some of our gentlemen are interested there, and they help
her what they can. Avice plays with them sometimes.”
“How I wish I could join them,” said Rose. “Should
you like to?” asked the lady. “Yes, better than any
thing else.” “Bertha, here, Miss Elphiston says she
should like to have a part in the play. I am sure I would
not oppose the young lady's feelings.” “We want some
one for Lady-in-waiting to Lady Teazle, in the School for
Scandal; it is to be brought on next week,” replied
Bertha. “I don't care what it is,” said Rose; “though
I should prefer the Black Castle.” “That is to be repeated
in a fortnight, and perhaps they will give you a chance in
it,” rejoined Bertha.
Sunday came; Margaret and Rose were listening to the
chime of bells, and watching the passers-by. “I am a deal
troubled with the gout,” said Mrs. Wiswall, “and don't get
out to meeting very often. The girls were so late at
the rehearsal, they are not up yet. I suppose you keep
up the good old way in the country, and are always at
Church, and would miss it if you did not go?”
“I never went to meeting but once in my life,” said
Margaret.
“Indeed!” rejoined their hostess. “Can it be possible?
Does Simeon allow of such a thing?”
“I believe he is satisfied it would not do me much good.”
“It is not all one could wish. I have no doubt my
brother feels the evil as much as I do. Perhaps Rose
would like to go.”
“I have been to Church, and I think for the last time,”
was the answer of the unhappy girl.
“Is there not,” asked Margaret, “a Church in the city
called King's Chapel? I think I have heard of it. Mr.
Evelyn, Rose, said something to me about it. That is the
name, I believe. I have been feeling this morning as if I
should like to go there once.”
“One must be a little cautious where one goes to Church,
now-a-days,” said Mrs. Wiswall; “it is rather delicate
business. One's character is apt to suffer. I should be
sorry to have you make a misstep. Would not brother
Simeon prefer that you go—say to the Old South?”
“I am persuaded he would wish me to go wherever I
desired,” replied Margaret.
“Yes, indeed,” hummed the lady. “It is in Tremont
Street, corner of School.”
“If you would be willing to let the servant show the
way, I should like to go,” said Margaret.
“Certainly,” answered Mrs. Wiswall; “any thing you
wish while you stay here.”
Margaret conducted to the Church in question, was awed
as she entered by what presented itself to her eye as the
magnificence of the place; its massive columns, its lofty
vault, its symbols, monuments, silence, and richness, were
so different from any thing she had seen; she seemed to
have dropped into one of the palaces of her dreams. The
mysterious peals of the organ united to subdue her completely.
The people were set, when she arrived; she
walked up the centre aisle, where an elderly gentleman
opened his pew to her. Hardly was she seated when she
knelt instinctively, and wept profoundly; and not without
difficulty was she able to efface the traces or prevent the
renewal of her emotion. The prayer excited sentiments she
had never before felt, and raised the decaying energies of
her aspirations. The music tranquillized her like oil, and
penetrated her with a solemn, strange transport. The
minister, the Rev. Dr. Freeman, then in the prime of life,
had that day among a multitude of hearers whom extraneous
objects are wont to distract or long familiarity harden, one
that devoured his words and was melted by his address;
while, with manner becoming his subject, he discoursed
from the words of the prophet, “Comfort ye, comfort ye
my people.” If he had known how much good in that
single instance he was able to effect, it might have recompensed
him for any amount of laborious solicitude, and
sufficed for successive seasons of fruitless endeavor.
Margaret lingered on the closing steps of the service, and
by the singularity of her demeanor even drew the attention
of the occupants of the pew. These consisted of the elderly
gentleman, a lady who might be his wife, two young ladies,
and a young man, their daughters and son. The face of
with her first impressions of relief the night she entered the
city. “You are welcome to a seat with us,” said the head
of the party. “I thank you,” replied Margaret, and
mingled with the retiring congregation.
The next week she aided Rose in preparation for the
stage, and on the night of the representation she was allowed
to accompany her behind the scenes, where she
helped dress the Lady-in-waiting, and fortified her friend
for the delicate and novel adventure to which she was committed.
The piece was received with applause, and these
raw artists, out of the small part they enacted, contrived to
eke considerable amount of self-gratulation. The play
was repeated, and Rose bore herself so well she had the
promise of being advanced to Bertha's rôle, who was going
off in Lady Teazle.
The succeeding Sabbath, Margaret repaired again to
King's Chapel, thus exhibiting the somewhat anomalous
sight of a virtual stage-player and devout church-goer; but
she was witless of any contradiction. Admitted to the secrets
of the theatre, as we gather from her conversations
with Rose, her first impressions gradually dulled. Not to
speak of other things, she remarked that her ideas became
sadly disarranged by observing the superficiality of that on
which so much consequence depended. Pasteboard, paint,
hollowness, heartlessness, she said, were inadequate for such
an effect. “I looked into the pit; there were tears, and
smiles, and fervid passion, while one of the actresses was
fretting because her shoes pinched; Bertha, in the farce,
was down-sick with a cold, and one gentleman died in the
tragedy and was brought off drunk. The theatre seems to
me almost as bad as the church; it is all puppetry alike.”
“I know it, Margaret,” replied Rose, “but what shall
acting one's self constitutes a person such, then I am a puppet.
And that is just what I want, to get away from myself.
Yet when the Black Castle comes on I will show
you real acting.”
“Dear Rose, how sorry we are for ourselves, are we
not? But how can I consent to such methods of arousing
people's attention, and moving their affections?”
At whatever judgment Margaret might have been destined
to arrive on these subjects, she was not long in finding
new topics of speculation. Returning one night at a
late hour from the play, with Rose and their company, she
stopped to look at the effect of a bright moon on the high
tide waters that filled the bay west of the Common, a conjunction
it had not fallen to her lot before to witness, and
one that insensibly detained her while the others walked
along. “Let fly your sheets, there! the bite is after you!”
was a loud, blunt cry that startled her. “Run! run!”
Before she could collect herself, or comprehend the cause
of this sudden alarm, a hand was upon her; but no sooner
did she feel it, than it left her; and turning, she beheld a man
struggling in the grasp of another man. “Climb the rattlings,
mount the horse, there,” cried the last man, “while
I make the cull easy; you are in danger, Margaret; that's
Obed's horse; up with you.” She beheld the veritable
Tim standing close by her; she called his name, and sprang
upon his back; and directly after her mounted the man
whose voice she had heard. No sooner were they seated,
than the other man rushed forward, and laying violent
hands upon the horse attempted to stop him; the spiteful
beast flung out, and galloped away. When Margaret
recovered from the flurry of events, she recognized in the
man with whom she was riding the sailor that accosted
name was Ben Bolter; and in a dialect mongrel and
strange, he gave Margaret to understand, as well as he
could, that he was an old friend of her brother's; that
Nimrod and Obed after a short confinement were released
from prison; and the first having searched the city in vain
for her, had gone back to Livingston to see Deacon Ramsdill
about her, while the other remained both to find his
friends and sell his wares; that he himself was also on the
lookout for her; that enjoying a furlough, he had engaged
the use of Tim, who he declared was the worst craft he
ever sailed in; and finally, being at the theatre that night,
he thought he discovered her behind the curtains; and
following the matter up, he came upon her just as one,
whom he characterized as an old enemy of his, and whom
Nimrod did not like, seemed to take advantage of her
being alone to do her an injury.
Hastening forward to Mrs. Wiswall's, Margaret found
Rose standing alone at the gate. “How you have frightened
me!” exclaimed the latter; “I thought you were
with Bertha. They were telling me of a new play—I
went back after you; you must have taken another street;
I thought you were lost.”
“Have you been anchored here?” said the sailor;
“what place is this?”
“Mrs. Wiswall's,” answered Margaret.
“I guess Nimrod cast the name overboard, before he
got here,” replied the sailor. “But I don't like her build.
What flag does she sail under? What's her crew?”
“O, Margaret!” outspoke Rose, “I have suspected
something wrong. I don't like Mrs. Wiswall's face. Some
old remembered villany sleeps in it. She is not the Deacon's
sister!”
“It has seemed to me as if all was not right,” observed
Margaret.
“I wouldn't stay here,” said the sailor.
“What shall we do?” cried Rose; “whither now shall
we flee? I will never step my foot into this house again.”
“I know where a certain family lives, not far from the
Common,” said Margaret; “I am willing to go and throw
myself upon them for to-night.”
“Ben Bolter,” said Rose, “take us to sea with you.
Carry us out of the world.”
They went, however, as Margaret proposed, and reached
a house lying like Mrs. Wiswall's back from the street. It
was a late hour, and no lights were visible, but the resolution
of Rose and the confidence of Margaret led them
straightway through the yard and up the steps. The sailor
did the knocking in a manner easy enough to himself, but
such as might have wrought violence on the peace of others,
They were not kept long waiting, when the door was
opened by one whose face was now familiar to Margaret,
and which Rose might perchance remember having seen,
the young man whose father gave Margaret a seat in
church, and to whose house she now fled for refuge. They
stated their errand and their distress, in which was contained
their apology.
“Come in,” said the young man, “I will speak to my
sister; the knocking I think has saved me the trouble of
arousing her.”
They were taken into the parlor, and the young man soon
returned with his sister, whom he introduced as Anna Jones;
his name was Edward. Preliminaries were speedily settled,
and our wanderers shown to their bed. They met in the
morning with a kind reception from Mr. and Mrs. Jones, and
another daughter, Winifred. These five composed the
been reciprocated from their casual rencontre at
church, and which did not fail to extend to Rose. The ring
on Margaret's finger seemed also to announce an old
acquaintance, and served to recall the name of Mr. Evelyn,
who the Joneses said was an intimate friend of theirs,
and they expressed pleasure in seeing one of whom he had
spoken in terms of commendation.
Mr. Jones had been a prosperous India merchant, and
had perhaps reaped emolument from a field of adventure
which it is to be hoped will never again in our own or any
land be needful, laudable, or lawful — privateering. His
mansion contained many things to interest his new guests.
Among the paintings was a Christ bearing the Cross, by
Raphael, that divided Margaret's attention with a Magdalen
at Devotion; a Lady taking the Veil and Murillo's
Prodigal Son engaged Rose. They were introduced to
rooms furnished with superb mirrors, marble busts, etc.; a
Library rich in architecture, more in books; they revelled
in a Conservatory of rare flowers. What especially delighted
them was a piano played with skill and effect by Anna,
while with a strong but latent peculiarity of feeling, Margaret
listened to a guitar, the instrument of Winifred.
Edward Jones they learned was a student of Theology, in
which science he supplied them with his views. They
were also introduced to a mother of Mr. Jones, a very old
woman, who entertained them with tales of ancient time;
so two or three days wore away. One morning, Rose
cried out that Obed was coming! “There he is with his
saddle bags and new hat mounting the steps.” Margaret
sprang for the door. “Hold,” said Rose, “let us get
under the curtains, and see what he is after.” They concealed
themselves, and Obed entered.
“Don't want teu buy some of my things, I cal'late, deu
ye?”
“Be seated, sir,” said Anna, “and let me see what you
have.”
“Han't seen nothin' of Molly, have ye?”
“Molly, Molly! I have not heard of such a person.”
“I'm feered she's kilt, or pizened, run over, lost, or
drounded.”
“Is she your daughter, sir?”
“No; she's Molly, Pluck's Molly; one of the Injins,
what lives under the Head, next the Pond, and neighbor of
Marms. Nim and I brung her to the Bay, and Rose; I run
arter a shoat at the races, and caught him; I couldn't hold
him, he was so greasy, and they wouldn't let me have the
cup; they wouldn't let Nim have his beat, and we knocked
them down, and they knocked us down, and put us into
jail; and when we went back the gals was gone. This is
an orful place. One woman threw a broom at me, cause I
telled her I had something that would cure her humors.
They've kilt Molly, and drounded her under the bridge!”
“I am sorry for you. You should not have left her.”
“Marm telled me teu look arter her; she was always
good teu me, and helped me dig roots, and kept Bull off.”
“Then you want her to work for you. Can't you find
somebody else for that?”
“I dun know; she's a right smart consarn, Marm says.
When she was at home, I could always find her, if she
warn't gone into the woods. If I knowed where she was
I could find her now.”
“What would you give if I would help you find her?”
“I dun know; I've axed all the folk, and they never
seen her; and there she lives close by our house, and the
Master knows her, and she can read eeny-most as well as
up teu Tim, only me and Marm. If you would find her,
I'd let you have some flag, that is good to chaw. Don't
want to buy some of Marm's Nommernisstortumbug? I've
sold more than nine hundred boxes sen we found it out.
It'll cure yer croup, chopped hands, coughs, scalt head,
measles, small-pox, jaunders, toothache, dropsy, backache.”
“What a wonder!”
“That an't half;—hypo, wind-gall in yer horses, loss of
cud in the cows, keep the wind out of yer babies;—here is
the paper what the Master wrote about it. `Sudorific, detergent,
febrifugous, vermifugous, aromatic, antiseptic, refrigerent,
antispasmodic, cathartic, emetic,'—that is what
he says, and he knows every thing.”
“`Garrulousness,' he has down.”
“Yes; it cures that; that is the larnin'—sore tongue—
swab out yer mouth with quince core jell, I've got it in my
bags, and take a spoonful of the Nommernis when you go
teu bed.”
“`Acrasial Philogamy?' Brother Edward, what is
that?”
“That,” replied Edward, “is an incurable malady to
which young persons are subject.”
“The Master said 'twas takin', and Marm said it was an
orful complaint, she knew. Take pennyrial, pound up
sweet cicely root, and bile with henbane and half an ounce
of the Nommernis till it's done, and it 'll break the fever.”
“What is this, `Cacoethes Feminarum'?”
“That's humors. Elder blows 'll due it for 'um.”
“`Diæta et oratio est optima medicina'—diet and prayer
he says are the best medicines—what does that mean?”
“Them is the sientifikals; one of the ministers took teu
boxes of the Nommernis when he read that, he liked it so
here?”
“Nothing that will hurt you.”
“I don't like yer housen; they are full of bull-beggars
and catamounts. Marm 'll scold at me like nutcakes, if I
can't find Molly. She's kilt, they've drounded her under
the bridge!”
“What are you going to do with her?”
“Don't know; Marm han't said. They are all broke up
down there sen the murder. Marm said if Molly come teu
our house she might have the best bed. But she don't want
Pluck nor Hash; they are an orful set. I can't stay; I can
hear 'um snickerin' at me as they did up teu tother house,
and Marm wouldn't like it.”
Rose and Margaret burst from their retreat with a loud
laugh, and gave Obed a hearty greeting; which he, bemazed
and ecstacized, returned as handsomely as he knew how.
Obed confirmed the account given by the sailor, and said
Nimrod promised to return as soon as he could see Deacon
Ramsdill, and that he was looking for him every day. To
the great joy of all, the next morning Obed, with Ben Bolter,
appeared, conducting Nimrod and Deacon Ramsdill to
the house.
“This beats old Suwarrow,” said Nimrod. “You have
kept as shy as young partridges.”
“A pretty tough spell you have had of it, gals,” said the
Deacon. “But you know, Molly, you always find the chestnuts
arter a biting frost and hard wind. Some good may
come of it,—the Lord knows. I havn't no particular
business here, but Freelove thought I had better come
down, and see what was to pay. We are in a peck of
troubles at home, about the Meetin'-house and the Parson
and every thing. Some want a new Minister; they won't
Town Meetings, but there is a good deal of disorder and
some hard feeling. I count it's best for every one to paddle
his canoe his own way, and when he hasn't a way, why, let
his neighbor enjoy his, that's all. There an't no two spears
of grass alike, and you can't make all people think alike,
only I count they might live in peace together in the same
field. But Brother Hadlock wouldn't listen to me, and
when you can't do nobody any good, then you had better
let them alone. It's no use talking agin the grain. When
hens are shedding their feathers they don't lay eggs; and
one can't look for much among our folk now—so I thought
I had as good's come away. But the hotter the fire the
whiter the oven; if our fire will be of any service, the Lord
knows. I have been arter sheep through brush and ditches,
before now, gals, and I commonly found them in better feed
than their own close. Ha, ha!”
“They have found a good berth,” said Ben Bolter,
looking about the room. “But I should like to fall upon
them Algerines.”
“There has been some singular mistake or mischief at
work,” said Mr. Jones. “There must have been an error
in the name, or something of that sort, I think.”
“The old fox, weasel, or what not, I am determined to
dig it out,” said Nimrod.
“I have been to Pamela's,” said the Deacon, “and she
says she hasn't seen any thing of you; and she wants you to
go right round there.”
“We will all go together,” said Mr. Jones.
Accordingly they went to “the Widow Wizzle's,” the
sister of the Deacon, whom they found a different person in
some respects from their old acquaintance, her namesake.
Nimrod and Ben Bolter exhibited strong desire to see the
go with him; their repugnance being overborne by the
Joneses, who offered to support them in the step of revisiting
a house for which they had conceived a deep dislike.
Arriving at Mrs. Wiswall's, they found that lady in a
state of extreme agitation, and in the same room they saw
also a very aged man sitting leaning on his staff, from which
he hardly raised his face. Whatever might have been their
method of address, or the purport of this visit, they were
met by the apparation of a human being, in large black
whiskers, deathly pale, leaning on the arm of Bertha, and
emerging from the back parlor. “Raxman!” involuntarily
shuddered Rose, and fire that had long consumed her heart
flashed into her face, and retired; and she hung convulsed
on the arm of the younger Jones.
“Nope him on the costard,” said Ben Bolter.
“Keep still,” said Nimrod, “and let us see what the
fellow has to say.”
He, to whom all eyes were now turned, as if he had come
in on some such errand, thus spoke:—
“I am,” said he, “a sick and dying man. Your violence,
Ben Bolter, comes too late; the blow from the horse has
done the work. Miss Elphiston, Miss — — — Margaret,
can you forgive me. I have wished to see you to ask this
last earthly favor. It was I who led you to this house; it
was through my instigation you were detained here; it was
my wishes that regulated all behavior towards you; nor
would my mother, whom you see before you, or my sister,
have consented to such a transaction as this must appear
in your eyes, except through me. If my motives were
selfish, they were not so disgraceful to you, Miss Hart, as to
me. I cannot unfold it all now; that shall be done at
other hands. I am weak, I am dying. I have only
you I make no apology, I ask no charity, my conduct
admits of no qualification. I only crave your forgiveness;
a sheer wretch, I entreat it; at your feet I implore you to
forgive me. Your beauty, ladies, ensnared me, an uncontrolled
ambition has led me on, your virtues and your
sufferings have brought me to repentance, and not, I trust,
the fear of death alone.”
There was breathless silence, then a discordant tremor
pervaded the room; — the old man shook audibly on his
cane, the group in the centre worked with varied frenzy.
Margaret was the first to break this singular perplexity.
“I forgive you,” said she, “I forgive all your wrong to
me, whatever may have been its intention.”
“Never, never,” said Rose, “can I forgive you.”
“It is late shutting the door when the mare is stolen,”
said Deacon Ramsdill; “but when she comes back of her
own accord, you had better let her in. Besides, Rose, the
good book says, `Forgive, and ye shall be forgiven.'”
“I have forsworn that,” answered Rose.
“Don't speak so, Rose,” interceded Edward Jones. He
seems to be sincerely penitent. It would be a relief to his
last moments to have your forgiveness.”
“I cannot, I cannot!” she rejoined.
“O that Miss Elphiston would forgive my brother,”
prayed Bertha, weeping.
“You see, Mr. Jones,” said Mrs. Wiswall, addressing
the senior of the name, “the wretched mother of two
wretched children. But where is pity for her to be sought
or received? In that son and daughter you behold the
tokens of all my sins and all my sufferings. Have you,
Sir, been ignorant of my course? My vanity was allured
and my confidence betrayed by a British officer. One, in
me for a career of deception. When he left the
country and could make no further reparation for his inju
ries, he gave me the title to his estate. I followed the
American camp; I was cajoled by your own officers. I
became a runner between the two armies, when the British
held New York. And when it is his turn to speak, that
sits there,” she pointed to the old man, “he will tell you
more. I returned after the War to this house, and here I
am; my unhappy children pleading in vain for that mercy
which another's infamy might justly implore, and which
their guilty, miserable mother, the cause of all their calamities,
can never bestow. Who, Miss Elphiston, ever asked
my pardon? Who ever knelt for my forgiveness? What
dying man has flung to me the poor boon of his remorse?
By whose penitence has my own conscious load of sin been
lightened? My relentings, were they ever so great, had
been lavished on the winds; my commiserations had been
squandered on scoffs and jeers; my love, which even the
guilty sometimes feel, and it is a relief to the abandoned to
exercise, has been answered by the frowns of the honored
and the repulse of the prosperous. Here I am, freshly
awakened to a sense of my enormities, and denied the privilege
of seeing one gleam of peace fall upon the heads of
my poor children. My own guilt seems to augment, and
they are plunged into still deeper distress. Miss Margaret,
my conduct towards you must appear equivocal, suspicious,
and fraught with duplicity. But the crime belongs rather
to the means than the intent, and I have been too long familiar
with the ways of the world to haggle at the manner
when the end is desirable. I had reason to believe that my
son's purposes were honorable, however his action must forever
degrade him in your eyes. In what a world do we
pursued! Our life is but the ministration of woe and ruin
by man to man! He who rules all things for the best, permits
some to fall where others rise. Your beauty, which
princes might covet, shall bear you aloft, like the Star of
Evening, diffusing lustre about you, and cheering your own
existence. Mine sinks beyond recovery, the darkness of
disgrace adding new deformity to the waste of years; and
the lost innocence of my childhood returns to shed vengence
on my enfeebled age!”
“Ho!” hemmed Ben Bolter; “I must overhaul my coppers,
and get my head on another tack.”
“I do forgive you,” said Rose, “and may Heaven forgive
me too.”
While these scenes were transpiring among the principal
parties in the room, one might have detected Nimrod in
earnest whisper with the old man, aside: “Not now, Sir,
not now; this is enough for once; wait till we get away,
we will go to Mr. Jones's.”
The party returned to the house whence they started.
Meanwhile Mr Jones, taking Margaret by herself, said he
would open on a subject of some interest to her. He doubted
not, he added, that her good sense would receive what
he was commissioned to declare without confusion, and the
fortitude she had displayed in adverse circumstances would
not forsake her under more agreeable events. What was
coming, she might well ask, that required such a preface.
“Have you a grandfather?” he asked; she replied she knew
of none; that she supposed the parents of both her father
and mother were dead. “I have the pleasure, then,” continued
Mr. Jones, “to inform you that your grandfather is
living, and the old man we saw at Mrs. Wiswall's is he.”
He then proceeded to put her in possession of what the
Pluck and Brown Moll, that her own father and mother
died in her infancy, that she had been disowned by her
grandfather, who, nevertheless, had contributed supplies to
her comfort, and whom, in a word, she must prepare
to receive the following day.
The next morning Nimrod and Ben Bolter, accompanied
by the old man, Mr. Girardeau, came to Mr. Jones's. The
way having been prepared, little remained but for Margaret
to embrace her grandfather. The old man laid his
hand on her head, and with a voice broken by age and
husky with emotion, said, “Jane, Jane, my own Jane, my
Jane's own!” Summoning Rose, he held the girls face to
face, and said, “This is your cousin, Margaret, the grandchild
of my wife's sister; and Nimrod,” continued he, “is
not your adopted brother only, his mother is the daughter
of my only sister. Others have asked your forgiveness,
but who needs it more than I? I turned you off in helpless
infancy; I have greatly sinned against you and others
too, more than I can tell. But Nimrod and Ben Bolter
will inform you of what I cannot. Let me be forgiven, and
you shall know my wrong-doings afterwards.”
“Sit down, Sir,” said Nimrod, “and I will tell all I know
about the matter,” and he proceeded to relate his first connection
with Margaret, and his taking her to the Pond.
“'Tis all true,” added the sailor. “Nim and I were
messmates. I was there when he brought you off; I
helped stow you away; I dandled you when he was
asleep; I lowered you down when he left the sloop; you
was a good-looking cock-boat, but make a spread eagle of
me, if you havn't grown into as handsome a merchantman
as ever carried a bone in her mouth. But, blow me, if
know where you would have brought up.”
“God's hand is in it!” said Deacon Ramsdill, who came
in during these disclosures. “We read, that when the lost
one came home, they danced and made merry. And you
recollect, Molly, when they brought you up out of the
woods, the Preacher prayed before the dance begun. I
feel as if I should like to pray before we get on to the
rejoicings.” Whereupon they all joined with the Deacon,
who, in simple heartfelt manner, made thanksgiving to
Almighty God.
Leaving these persons to recapitulate details, exchange
congratulations, and make such demonstration of joy as was
natural to the hour, we must go with our readers to places
and times somewhat remote, and bring up a brief account
illustrative of events that have now been recorded.
| CHAPTER XI.
MARGARET GOES TO THE BAY. Margaret | |