COUSIN WILL.
If so far as the golden Californian land this book of mine shall reach,
it may, perchance, fall into the hands of some who, from their number,
can select the veritable hero, the “Cousin Will” of my story. If so, I
would ask them to think as leniently as possible of his faults, herein
recorded, for the moustached Will of California, whose generous conduct
wins the love of all, is hardly the same wild, mischievous boy, who once
kept our home in a perpetual state of excitement.
The tears were scarcely yet dried, which he had shed over his mother’s
coffin, when he came to us, and in one corner of his green, oval trunk,
there lay a tress of soft brown hair, which he had severed from that
mother’s head. He was the son of my mother’s only sister, who, on her
death-bed had committed him to the guardianship of my father, asking him
to deal gently with her wayward boy, for beneath his faulty exterior
there lay a mine of excellence, which naught save words of love could
fathom.
Without meaning to be so, perhaps, my father was a stern reserved man,
never seeking the confidence of his children whose real characters he
did not understand. It is true he loved us—provided for all our wants,
and, as far as possible, strove to make us what the children of a New
England Presbyterian deacon ought to be; but he seldom petted us, and if
Carrie, with her sunny face and chestnut curls, sometimes stole up
behind him and twined her chubby arms around his neck, he seemed ashamed
to return her caress unless they were alone. Brother Charlie he looked
upon as almost incorrigible, but if he found it hard to cope with his
bold, fun-loving spirit, it was tenfold more difficult for him to tame
the mischievous Will, whom scarcely any one could manage, but who,
strange to say, was a general favorite.
It was night when he reached Meadow Brook, and I was in bed, but through
the closed doors I caught the sound of his voice, and in an instant I
experienced a sensation of delight, as if in him I should find a kindred
spirit. I could not wait until morning before I saw him, and, rising
softly, I groped my way down the dark stairway to a knot-hole, which had
more than once done me service when sent from the room while my mother
and her company told something I was not to hear! He was sitting so that
the light of the lamp fell full upon his face, which, with its high,
white brow, hazel eyes, and mass of wavy hair, seemed to me the most
beautiful I had ever seen. Involuntarily I thought of my own plain
features, and saying to myself, “He’ll never like me, never,” I crept
back to bed, wondering if it were true that homely little girls made
sometimes handsome women.
The next morning, wishing to produce as favorable an impression as
possible, I was an unusually long time making my toilet—trying on one
dress after another, and finally deciding upon a _white cambric_ I never
wore except to church, or on some similar occasion. Giving an extra
brush to my hair, which had grown out darker and so very curly that
Charley called me “Snarly-pate,” I started for the breakfast-room, where
the family were already assembled.
“What upon earth has the child got on?” was grandma’s exclamation as she
looked at me, both over and under her glasses, while mother bade me “go
straight back and change my dress,” asking “why I had put on my very
best?”
“Settin’ her cap for _Bill_, I guess,” suggested Charlie, who, boy-like,
was already on terms of great intimacy with his cousin.
More angry than grieved, I went back to my room, where I pouted for half
an hour or more. Then, selecting the worst looking dress I had, I again
descended to the dining-room where Charlie presented me to Will, telling
him at the same time “to spare all comments on my appearance, as it made
me madder than a March hare to be called ugly.”
“I don’t think she’s ugly. Anyway _I_ like her looks,” said Will,
smiling down upon me with those eyes which have since made many a heart
beat as mine did then, for ’twas the first compliment of the kind I had
ever received.
Will had always lived in the city, and now, anxious to see the lions of
the country at once, he proposed to Charlie a ramble over the farm,
inviting me to accompany them, which I did willingly, notwithstanding
that Charlie muttered something about “not wanting a _gal_ stuck along.”
In the pasture we came across “old Sorrel,” whom Will said he would ride
as they did in a circus, if Charlie would only catch him. This was an
easy task, for Sorrel, suspecting no evil, came up to us quite readily,
when Will, leaping upon his back, commenced whooping and hallooing so
loudly that Sorrel’s mettle was up, and for nearly an hour he ran quite
as fast as his rider could wish. But circus riding was not Sorrel’s
forte, and he probably grew dizzy, for he at length stumbled and fell,
injuring his fore foot in some way, so that, to our dismay, we found he
was unable to walk without a great effort.
“_Je-mi-my!_ Won’t the old gentleman rare!” said Charlie, who was never
very choice of his language.
Will, on the contrary, seemed more concerned for the horse, bringing
water in his hat, and bathing the fast-swelling limb of the poor animal,
who appeared to be grateful for the kindness. Charlie proposed that we
should keep it a secret, but to this Will would not listen, and in a
plain, straightforward way he confessed what he had done, and father,
who saw that Sorrel was temporarily injured, forgave him, for he could
not resist the pleading of Will’s dark eyes.
This was his first day’s adventure—the next one was a little different.
Finding a cow in the lane, he tried the experiment of milking,
succeeding so well that when at night Sally came in with her half filled
pail, she declared that “Line-back was drying up, for she’d only given a
drop or so.” For this and numerous other misdemeanors Will also received
absolution, but when on the second Sabbath after his arrival he and
Charlie both were missed from church, whither they had started a full
half hour before the rest of our family, father grew fidgety, holding
his hymn book wrong side up, and sitting, instead of standing, during
the prayer, a thing he was never known to do before. He was very strict
in the observance of the fourth commandment, as indeed were most of the
citizens of Meadow Brook, it being an almost State Prison offence to
stay away from church on the Sabbath, or speak above a whisper until
after sunset.
By the way, I think it a mistake, this converting the Sabbath into a day
so much to be dreaded by the youthful, fun-loving members of the family,
who are not yet old enough to see the propriety of having in reserve a
Sunday face, as well as a Sunday gown. I would not have that sacred day
profaned, but I would have it divested of that gloom with which it is
too often associated in the child’s mind. I would have everything
connected with it as cheerful and pleasant as possible, and in these
days of Sabbath schools and Sabbath school-books, it seems an easy
matter to make it “The day of all the week the best.” I well remember
one rainy Sunday, when the whole family were obliged to remain at home,
the younger ones reciting the Catechism to grandma, committing to memory
and repeating to mother ten verses of the fifth chapter of Matthew, and
then being compelled to sit up stiff and straight while father read to
us a long metaphysical sermon, which he interspersed and lengthened out
with remarks of his own, among which was the consoling one that “Heaven
was one eternal Sabbath.”
This was too much for Charlie, whose mind, instead of dwelling on the
words of the good divine, was sadly wandering towards a nest of young
white _pigs_, only that morning born. Turning towards me with a most
rueful face, he whispered, “Darned if I’ll go there. I’ll run away
first.”
Of course I laughed aloud—how could I help it; and on my saying that
“Charlie made me,” we were both ordered from the room in disgrace, which
latter we bore manfully—Charlie going straight to his pigs, while I
stole up garret to a big candle-box, where, on one of my old dresses,
lay sleeping six beautiful _kittens_.
But I am wandering from my subject, which was the time when Will and
Charlie were missing from church, and when, to his utter astonishment,
father learned that they had gone to the consecration of a Roman
Catholic church, which had recently been erected a little out of the
village, on an eminence, where its white cross could be seen from every
point.
Against the Catholics as a religious denomination my father was
prejudiced, and when he ascertained that his son, born of orthodox
parents, and baptized in the orthodox faith, had not only run away to
their church, but had also paid twenty-five cents, the price of
admission, he was a good deal excited, and for a deacon showed
considerable temper. It was, of course, Will’s doings, he having coaxed
Charlie to go by telling him of the wonderful sights there were to be
seen.
At a late hour they came home, loitering around the barn a long time
before they ventured into the presence of my father, whom my grandmother
had somewhat appeased by telling him that “boys must sow their wild oats
sometime, and it wasn’t best to be too strict with ’em, for it only made
’em act worse,” adding that “the Catholics were not the worst folks in
the world, and they had just as much right to their form of worship as
we had to ours.” This in a measure mollified him, and consequently the
two boys only received a long lecture, and were debarred the privilege
of going to the village, except on Sundays, for three weeks, a
punishment which annoyed Will exceedingly. But nothing could subdue him,
and the moment the three weeks had expired he was as ready for mischief
as ever. For a long time the coming of a Circus had been heralded by
flaming handbills in red and yellow, one of which Will plastered onto
our great barn door, from which conspicuous post it was removed by my
father, who conscientiously turned his back upon men and women riding on
their heads, declaring it an outrage upon all rules of propriety, and
denouncing circuses and circus-going people as utterly low and vulgar.
Thus from my earliest remembrance had I been taught, and still my heart
would throb faster, whenever, with the beat of the drum and the sound of
the bugle, the long procession swept past our door, and more than once
had I stolen to the top of the hill, whence could be seen the floating
banner and swaying canvas, watching from afar the evil I dared not
approach.
Great, then, was my surprise, when, on the morning of the eventful day,
Will suggested that Charlie, John, Lizzie, and I should run away in the
evening and visit the “doings,” as he called it. I was shocked that he
should propose _my_ going to such a place. “It was low and vulgar,” I
told him, “and no one went there but loafers and rowdies.”
But he assured me that I was mistaken, saying that “some of our most
respectable people attended;” and then he wondered “how I was ever to
know anything unless I once in a while went to a circus, or a theatre,
or something. It was perfectly ridiculous,” he said, “for father to keep
us so cooped up at home. Nobody else did so. There was Lawyer Smith’s
daughter, and Judge Brown’s niece in Albany, who always went, and if it
didn’t hurt them, it wouldn’t me.”
Thus Will reasoned, persuading me at last; and just at dark, Lizzie and
I, on pretence of going to bed early, went to our room, dressed
ourselves in our best, I donning the white cambric, which I had worn on
the first day of Will’s arrival, and then when we were ready, got out
upon the roof of the woodshed, which came up under our window,
descending thence by means of a ladder which Will and Charlie brought
from the barn. I had the utmost confidence in Will, and yet as I drew
near the tent, and saw the rabble, whose appearance fully equalled my
father’s description, I wished myself away. Just then the band inside
struck up, and giving my fears to the winds, I pressed forward, once
involuntarily turning my head aside, as I heard a man near the door
exclaim, “Deacon Lee’s children, as I live! Is the world coming an end?”
Instantly my face flushed, for I felt that injustice was done to my
father, and my first impulse was to exonerate him from all blame by
explaining that we had run away; but ere I could do so Will pulled me
along, and in a moment we were in the close, heated atmosphere of the
vast arena, where were congregated more than a thousand people, of all
ages and conditions. I was confounded, for it seemed to me that each and
every one was pointing towards us the finger of scorn, and never since
have I felt so wholly degraded and ashamed as I did at the moment of my
first entrance to a circus!
We had been but a short time seated, when Will, who had divined my
feelings, nudged my elbow, and pointing towards a group just entering,
said, “See, there’s ’Squire Talbot, his wife and daughter, Dr. Griffin,
and lots more of Meadow Brook aristocracy. Now, ain’t you glad you
came?”
It was as he said, and as I saw the above mentioned individuals, some of
them professors of religion, and all of them people of the first
standing in town, I can scarcely tell how I felt. It was a sensation of
mingled pleasure, bewilderment, and perplexity. Could it be that, after
all, my father was wrong, that he was too strict with us, debarring us
from innocent amusements, for if it were proper for members of the
church to frequent such places, why was it not for me? _Now_, I can
answer promptly that my father was right, wholly right, but I was
puzzled then, and gradually I began to care less for being there, and to
have less fear of what father would say when he found it out. I was
growing very brave, entrenching myself behind the bad example of those
who little suspected the harm their presence was doing. Father did not
know the ways of the world, I thought, but after being enlightened by
me, I was sure he would become a convert at once, and possibly at the
next circus he would be in attendance, but from this last idea I
involuntarily shrank, thinking I could never respect him again, were he
guilty of such a thing.
I enjoyed it vastly, all except the riding of the girl, who I fancied
had on her little sister’s dress, and when _she_ came out I looked for a
place where to hide my head; but hearing the spectators cheer louder
than ever, I cast furtive glances at those around me, discovering to my
amazement that they seemed more delighted with her than with anything
else; while, to crown all, I heard Will telling a young man, that “she
was a splendid rider, that he never saw but one who could beat her, and
that was a girl in Albany.” Then turning to Lizzie, he asked if she
would not like to ride in that way?
With an involuntary shudder I threw my arm around my sister, as if to
protect her from what I felt would be worse than a thousand deaths.
Gradually there was dawning upon my mind the suspicion that a circus
after all was not exactly the school for pure young girls, and I felt
that not all the wealth of the Indies could tempt me to fill the post
that that rider did. Towards the other actors I was more lenient,
thinking that if ever I joined the circus, I should surely be _the
clown_, whose witty speeches amused me greatly, for I did not then know
that they were all made up beforehand, and that what he said to us
to-day he would say to others on the morrow. Mlle. Glaraine was just
finishing up her performance by riding around the circle without other
support than the poising of one foot on a man’s shoulder, when who
should appear but _our father_!
He had missed Will and Charlie from family prayers, and had traced them
as far as the pavilion, where the fee-receiver demanded a quarter ere he
would allow him to enter. It was in vain that father tried to explain
matters, saying, “he never attended a circus in his life, and what was
more never should; he’d only come for two boys who had run away.”
The doorkeeper was incorrigible; “he’d seen just as honest looking men,”
he said, “who were the greatest cheats in the world, and if father
wanted to go in, he could do so by paying the usual fee; if not, he must
budge.”
Finding there was no alternative, father yielded, and then made his way
into the tent, scanning with his keen grey eyes the sea of faces until
he singled out Charlie, who was so absorbed in stamping and hallooing at
Mlle. Glaraine’s leaping through a hoop, that he never dreamed of
father’s presence until a rough hand was laid upon his shoulder, and a
stern voice demanded of him why he was there?
Perfectly thunderstruck, Charlie started to his feet with the
exclamation of “_Je-ru-sa-lem!_” but before he could make any
explanation father discovered Lizzie and me. ’Twas the first suspicion
he had of _our_ being there, and now, when he saw us, he turned pale,
and reeled as if smitten by a heavy blow. Had he felled me to the earth
it would have hurt me less than did the expression of his face and the
tones of his voice, as he said, “You, too, Rosa! I never thought you
would thus deceive me.”
I began to cry aloud; so did Lizzie, and in this way we made our exit
from the circus, followed by Charlie, John, and Will, the latter of
whom, the moment we were in the open air, began to take the blame all to
himself, saying, as was very true, that we never would have thought of
going but for him, and suggesting that he alone should be punished, as
he was the one most in fault. I thought this was very magnanimous in
Will, and I looked up in father’s face to see how it affected him, but
the moonlight was obscure, and I could discover nothing, though the hand
that held mine trembled violently. I presume he thought that in this
case corporal punishment would be of no avail, for we received none, but
in various ways were we made to feel that we had lost the confidence of
the family. For four long weeks we were each night locked into our
rooms, while for the same length of time we were kept from school,
Lizzie and I reciting our lessons to our mother, while Will, Charlie,
and John, to use their own words, “worked from morning until night, like
niggers.”
But the worst part of it all was the temporary disgrace which our act of
disobedience brought upon father. A half drunken fellow, who saw him
enter the tent, and who knew that we were there, hurried away to the
village with the startling intelligence that “Deacon Lee and all his
family were at the circus.”
The news spread like wildfire, gathering strength in its progress, until
by the time it reached us it was a current report that not only was
father at the circus, but _grandma_ too! This was more than the old lady
could bear. Sixty-nine years had she lived without ever having had a
word breathed against her morals, and now, just as her life’s sun was
setting, to have such a thing laid to her charge was too much, and she
actually worried herself into a fever, which confined her to the house
for several weeks.
After this adventure it became a serious question in father’s mind as to
what he should do with Will, who kept our heretofore quiet household in
a state of perpetual excitement. Nothing seemed to have the least effect
upon him save the mention of his mother, and that for the time being
would subdue him, but when temptation came, he invariably yielded, and
Charlie, who was an apt scholar, was pretty sure to follow where his
wild, dashing cousin led. There was scarcely any boyish vice to which
Will was not more or less addicted, and “Deacon Lee’s sons,” who had
often been held up as patterns for their companions, began soon to prove
the old adage true, that “evil communications corrupt good manners.”
John learned to handle an _oath_ quite fluently, while Charlie was one
Sunday morning discovered playing _euchre_ with Will on the hay loft,
where they kept their cards hidden. But all this was nothing compared to
the night when both the boys were brought home so intoxicated that
neither of them was able to stand alone or speak! They had been to a
“raising,” where the brandy bottle circulated freely, Will, as a matter
of course, drinking from the beginning. Charlie, however, hesitated
until they taunted him with “being afraid of the old deacon,” daring him
“to drink and be a _man_.” Then he yielded, and with fiendish pleasure
the crowd gathered around, urging him on, until he was undeniably drunk;
after which they chuckled with delight as they wondered what the “blue
Presbyterian” would say. We were sitting down to supper when they
brought him home, and the moment mother saw him, she darted forward,
exclaiming, “Is he dead? Tell me, is my boy dead?”
“Yes, _dead—drunk_,” answered the man, with a cold, ironical sneer at
her distress.
_He_ was used to it, for of five noble sons who once called him their
father, four slept in a drunkard’s grave, and the fifth had far better
have been there than the wreck he was. My father had risen from his
seat, but at the words “he is drunk,” he dropped upon the floor as if
scathed with the lightning’s stroke. You who think it a light matter—the
holding of the wine-cup to the lips of your neighbor’s child—you should
have seen my father that night, as moan after moan of anguish came from
his pale lips, while the great drops of perspiration stood thickly upon
his forehead and about his mouth. The effect it had upon him was
terrible; crushing him to the earth, and weaving in among his hitherto
brown locks more than one thread of silver. Once when Charlie was with
me, I heard him in the barn, praying that the promise of a covenant God
might be remembered towards him, and that his son might yet be saved.
Charlie’s feelings were touched, and dropping on his knees at my side he
made a solemn vow that never again should ardent spirits of any kind
pass his lips; and God, who heard that vow mingled with my father’s
prayer, registered it in Heaven, and from that day to this, amid all the
temptations which come to early manhood, it has been unbroken.
Not thus easily could Will be reached. His was the sorrow of a day,
which passed away with the coming of to-morrow’s sun, and after a long
consultation, it was decided that he should go to sea, and the next
merchantman bound for the East Indies, which sailed from Boston, bore on
its deck, as a common sailor, our cousin Will, who went from us
reluctantly, for to him there was naught but terror, toil, and fear in
“a life on the ocean wave.” But there was no other way to save him, they
said, and so with bitter grief at our hearts, we bade adieu to the
wayward boy, praying that God would give the winds and waves charge
concerning him, and that no danger might befall him when afar on the
rolling billow.