“OUT WEST.”
What a train of conflicting ideas do those two words oftentimes awaken,
bringing up visions of _log cabins_, ladder stairs, _wooden latches_,
fried hominy and maple sugar, to say nothing of the hobgoblins in the
shape of bears, rattlesnakes, wolves, and “folks who don’t know
anything;” the latter being universally considered the “staple
production” of every place bearing the name of “out West.” Even western
New York, with her hundreds of large and flourishing villages, her well
cultivated farms, her numerous schools, her educated, intelligent
people, and her vast wealth, is looked upon with distrust by some of her
eastern neighbors, because, forsooth, her boundaries lie farther towards
the setting sun, and because she once bore the title of “way out west in
the Genesees.”
Of course I speak only from observation and personal experience; for at
Meadow Brook, ten years ago, many fears were expressed lest Anna should
miss the society to which she had been accustomed; and when after the
sale of the homestead, she wrote, asking me to come and live with her, I
hesitated, for to me it seemed much like burying myself from the world,
particularly as she chanced to mention that the schoolhouse was a _log_
one, and that there were in the neighborhood several buildings of the
same material. Never having seen anything of the kind, I could not then
understand that there is often in a log house far more comfort and
genuine happiness than in the stateliest mansion which graces Fifth
Avenue or Beacon street; and that the owners of said dwellings are
frequently worth their thousands, and only wait for a convenient
opportunity to build a more commodious and imposing residence.
At last, after many consultations with my parents, I concluded to go,
and about the middle of November I again bade adieu to Meadow Brook; and
in company with a friend of my father, who was going West, I started for
Rockland, N. Y., which is in the western part of Ontario county, and
about fourteen miles from Canandaigua, at which place Herbert was to
meet me. I had never before been west of Springfield, and when about
sunset I looked out upon the delightful prospect around Albany, I felt a
thrill of delight mingled with a feeling of pain, for I began to have a
vague impression that possibly Massachusetts, with all her boasted
privileges, could not outrival the Empire State. It was dark, and the
night lamps were already lighted when we entered the cars at Albany; for
we were to ride all night. In front of us was an unoccupied seat, which
I turned towards me for the better accommodation of my band-box, which
contained my new bonnet; and I was about settling myself for a nap, when
a gentleman and lady came in, the latter of whom stopping near us, said,
“Here, Richard, is a vacant seat. These folks can’t of course expect to
monopolize two;” at the same time she commenced turning the seat back,
to the great peril of my bonnet, which, as it was made in Boston, I
confidently expected would be the envy and fashion of all Rockland!
I was sitting with my hand over my eyes, but at the sound of that voice
I started, and, looking up, saw before me Ada Montrose, and with her the
“dark gentleman” who had so much interested me at the theatre. Instantly
throwing my veil over my face, for I had no wish to be recognized, I
watched him with a feeling akin to jealousy, while he attended to the
comfort of his companion, who demeaned herself towards him much as she
had done towards Herbert Langley. All thoughts of sleep had left me, and
throughout the entire night I was awake, speculating upon the probable
relation in which he stood to her: and once when it suddenly occurred to
me that possibly they were married, the tears actually started to my
eyes.
As the hours sped on, he said to her a few low spoken words, whereupon
she laid her head upon his shoulder, as if that were its natural
resting-place, while he threw his arm around her, bidding her “sleep if
she could.” Of course she was his wife, I said, and with much of
bitterness at my heart, I turned away and watched the slowly-moving
lights of the canal-boats, discernible on the opposite side of the
Mohawk, along whose banks we were passing. Whether Ada liked her pillow
or not, she clung to it pertinaciously until it seemed to me that her
neck must snap asunder, while with a martyr’s patience he supported her,
dozing occasionally himself, and bending his head so low that his glossy
black hair occasionally touched the white brow of the sleeping girl.
“Bride and groom,” I heard a rough-looking man mutter, as he passed them
in quest of a seat, and as this confirmed my fears, I again turned
towards the window, which I opened, so that the night-air might cool my
burning cheeks.
That night I made up my mind to be an “old maid.” Nobody would ever want
me I knew, I was so homely; and with calm resignation I thought how much
good I would do in the world, and how I would honor the sisterhood! Very
slowly the morning light came struggling in through the dirty windows,
rousing the weary passengers, who, rubbing their red-rimmed eyes, looked
around to see who their companions were. It was nearly noon when we
reached Canandaigua, and so carefully had I kept my face hidden from
view that Ada had no suspicion whatever of my presence. At Canandaigua I
took leave of my companion, and stepping out upon the platform in front
of the dépôt, looked anxiously around for Herbert, but he was not there.
Thinking he would soon be there, I found my way to the public parlor,
which for few moments I occupied alone. I had just removed my dusty
bonnet, and was brushing my tangled hair, when the door opened, and I
stood face to face with Ada Montrose, who started back, and for a moment
evidently debated the propriety of recognizing me. Thinking she might do
just as she pleased, I simply nodded, as I would to any stranger, and
went on with my toilet, while throwing herself upon the sofa, she
exclaimed, “Dear me, how tired I am! Do you live here?”
“Of course not,” I answered; “I am on my way to visit my sister Anna,
whom you perhaps remember.”
She turned very red, and replied by asking if I were in the train which
had just passed.
“Yes,” I answered; “I occupied the seat directly behind you and—your
_husband_—is it not?”
I felt that I must know the truth, and hence the rather impertinent
question, which, however, did not seem to displease her in the least.
Affecting to be a little embarrassed, she said, “Not my husband—yet. He
came on to Boston to accompany me home, and wishing to see a friend of
his, who lives here, we have stopped over one train.”
I know not why it was, but her words gave me comfort; while at the same
time the state of single-blessedness appeared to me far less attractive
than it had a few hours before! I was on the point of asking her about
my aunt, when the door again opened and there stood before us a
slovenly-looking man, attired in a slouched hat, muddy pantaloons, grey
coat, and huge cow-hide boots. So complete was the metamorphosis that
neither of us recognized him, until he had exclaimed, as his eye fell
upon Ada, “Good Heavens, Ade! How came you here?” Then we knew it was
Herbert Langley!
So astonished was I that it was some time ere I found voice to return
his rather noisy greeting. Try as he would, he could not conceal the
fact that he was rather disconcerted at being seen by Ada in such a
plight, and after a little he stammered out an apology, saying he was a
_farmer_ now, and lived in the country, and of course could not be
expected to dress as he used in the city. This, I knew, was no excuse,
and I trembled lest he might be changed in more points than one.
“How is your wife, Mrs. Langley?” asked Ada, in a mocking, deferential
tone.
Instantly the whole expression of Herbert’s face was changed, and there
was a look of tenderness and pride in his eyes as he advanced towards
Ada, and whispered in her ear something which I did not understand.
Whatever it was, it made her blush, as she replied rather sneeringly,
“Of course I congratulate you.”
It has always been my misfortune to be rather stupid in some matters,
and I had not the least idea what either of them meant, or why Herbert
was to be congratulated. Possibly I might have asked an explanation, but
just then the town clock struck the hour of one, and turning towards me,
he said, it was time we were on our way, for the fall rains had made the
roads almost impassable, and he was afraid we should not reach home
before dark. “So put on your things quick,” he added. “The _carriage_ is
all ready.”
This last he said laughingly, for the carriage proved to be a long
lumber wagon, such as is seldom found in Massachusetts, or at least, _I_
had never seen one like it before, and it became a serious question in
my mind as to _how_ I was expected to enter it, there being no possible
way of doing so, save by climbing over the _wheels_, which were reeking
with mud. Herbert seemed to enjoy my embarrassment, for he asked me if
“I didn’t think I could step from the ground into the box,” a distance
of several feet? I was soon relieved from my difficulty by the porter,
who placed before me some wooden steps, on which I mounted safely, and
seated myself in the large arm-chair, which, with its warm
buffalo-robes, was really more comfortable than the old-fashioned
one-horse wagons of New England, though I did not think so then; and
when the spirited horses, at a crack from Herbert’s whip, sprang
forward, while I, losing my balance, pitched over backward, I began to
cry, wishing in my heart that I was back in Meadow Brook.
It was a cold, raw, autumnal day. The roads, as Herbert had said, were
horrible; and as we ploughed through the thick mud, which, in some
places was up to the wheel hubs, I took, I believe, my first lesson in
genuine home-sickness, which, in my opinion, is about as hard to bear as
love-sickness! Indeed, I think they _feel_ much alike—the latter being,
perhaps, a very little the worse of the two! It was in vain that Herbert
pointed out to me the many handsome farmhouses which we passed,
expatiating upon the richness and fertility of the soil, and telling me
how greatly superior in everything New York was to New England. I
scarcely heard him, for even though in all Massachusetts there was
naught save the rocky hills, and sterile plains, it was _my home_, and
from that spot the heart cannot easily be weaned.
Rockland is a large, wealthy town, embracing within its limits more than
the prescribed rule of six miles square, while scattered through it are
two or three little villages, each bearing a distinct name, by which
they are known abroad. First, there was Laurel Hill, famed as the
residence of certain families who were styled _proud_ and
_aristocratic_—to say nothing of their being _Episcopalians_, which last
fact was by some regarded as the main cause of their haughtiness. Next
came the “Centre,” with its group of red houses, and its single spire,
so tall, so straight, and so square, that it scarce needed the lettering
over the entrance to tell to the stranger that _Presbyterians_ worshiped
there. Lastly came Flattville, by far the largest village in Rockland,
and the home of all the _isms_ in the known world. To the south of
Flattville is a small lake, renowned for its quiet beauty, and the
picturesque wildness of its shores. Bounded on three sides by high
hills, its waters sleep calmly in the sunlight of summer, or dash
angrily upon the sandy beach, when moved by the chill breath of winter.
On the brow of one of the high hills which overlook the Honeoye, and so
near to it that the sweep of the waves can be distinctly heard in a
clear, still night, stood the home of my sister. It was a huge, wooden
building, containing rooms innumerable, while even the basement was
large enough to accommodate one or more families. Being the first frame
house erected in the town, it was of course looked upon with
considerable interest, and as if to make it still more notorious, it
bore the reputation of being _haunted_, and by some of the neighbors was
called the “Haunted Castle.”
Years before, when the country was new, it was a sort of public-house,
and a young girl was said to have been murdered there, and buried in the
cellar, from whence she was afterwards removed and thrown into the lake.
For the truth of this story there was no proof, save the fact, that in
the dark cellar there was a slight excavation, supposed to have been the
grave of the ill-fated lady. All this Herbert very kindly told me, as we
rode leisurely along, saying, when I asked if he believed it, “Believe
it! No! Of course not. To be sure, it’s the squeakiest old rattle-trap
of a house that I ever saw; and were I at all superstitious, I could
readily believe it haunted, particularly when the wind blows hard. But
you are not frightened; are you?” he asked, looking in my face, which
was very pale.
I hold that there is in every human breast a dread of the supernatural,
and though I do not by any means believe in ghosts, I would certainly
prefer not to live in a house where they are supposed to dwell. Still, I
dared not tell Herbert so, and, consequently, I only laughed at the idea
of a haunted house, saying, it was very romantic. It was after sunset
when we at last turned into the long avenue, shaded on either side by
forest maples, which the first proprietor of the place had suffered to
remain; and as my eye fell upon the large, dark building, which Herbert
said was his house, I involuntarily shuddered, for to me it seemed the
very spot of all others which goblins would choose for their nightly
revels. The wind was blowing from the west, and as I followed Herbert up
to the door, my ear caught a dull, moaning sound, which caused me to
quicken my footsteps, while I asked, in some trepidation, what it was.
“That? Oh, that’s the roar of the lake. Don’t you see how near it is to
us, directly at the foot of the hill?” and he pointed out to me the
broad sheet of water, just discernible in the gathering darkness.
A sudden gust of wind swept past me, and again I caught the low murmur.
There was something human in the tone, and though for three years I
almost daily heard that sound, I could never fully rid myself of the
impression that it was the spirit of the murdered maiden which thus, to
the swelling waves, complained of the crime long unpunished.
“Come this way, Rose,” said Herbert, as I entered the narrow “entry” so
common in old-fashioned houses; and following him, I was soon ushered
into a large square room, where a bright wood fire was blazing, casting
a somewhat cheerful aspect over the sombre, wainscoted walls of ancient
make.
In one corner of the room was a bed, and on it lay Anna, who, the moment
she saw me, uttered a cry of joy.
“Have you told her?” she asked of Herbert, when the first pleasure of
our meeting was over.
He replied in the negative, whereupon she brought up from under a pile
of pillows, coverlets, blankets and sheets, a little tiny, red-faced,
wrinkled thing, to which she said I was _Aunt_! I knew, then, why Ada
congratulated Herbert, and mentally chiding myself for my stupidity, I
took the bundle of cambric and flannel in my arms, while Anna said, “We
call him Jamie Lee, and we think he looks like you. Isn’t he a beauty?”
He _did_ look like me, and knowing that, I wondered at Anna’s question;
but where is the young mother who thinks her first born baby
homely?—though his nose be flat—his forehead low—and his mouth extend
from ear to ear! Not Anna, most certainly. He was _her_ baby and
Herbert’s, and to her partial eyes he was beautiful, even though he did
resemble _me_, whom but one person had ever called pretty. As for
myself, I hardly knew whether to be pleased with my new relative or not.
Babies, particularly little tiny ones, had never been my special
delight, but on this occasion, feeling that some demonstration was
expected from me, I kissed my little nephew, who returned my greeting
with a wry face, and an outcry so loud that Anna, in great alarm lest he
was “going into a fit,” summoned from the kitchen, where she was
enjoying a _quiet smoke_, Aunty Matson, who boasted of having washed and
dressed two hundred and fifty babies, and who confidently expected to do
the same service for two hundred and fifty more ere her life’s sun was
set.
Wearied with my ride, I asked permission to retire early; whereupon Dame
Matson volunteered to show me the way to my room. Up the narrow stairs,
which creaked at every step, and on through one gloomy room after
another, she led me until, at last, we came to a chamber, lighter and
more airy, which, she said, my sister had papered, painted, and fitted
up for me; adding, as she set the candle upon the table and closed the
window, “You ain’t afraid of _spooks_ nor nothin’?”
“_Spooks_” was to me a new word, and in some surprise I asked what she
meant.
“Now, du tell,” she replied, seating herself upon the foot of the bed.
“Now, du tell a body where you was brought up, that you don’t know what
a _spook_ is! Why, it’s a _sperrit_—a ghost—and this house, they say, is
full on ’em. But I don’t b’lieve a word on’t. S’posin’ a gal was
murdered near forty years ago, ’tain’t likely she haunts the place yet,
and then, too, she warn’t none of the best of girls, I guess, from what
I’ve heard my mother say.”
The wind was blowing hard, and as Dame Matson uttered these last words,
the door, which she had left ajar, came together with a bang, while from
the lake I heard again the wailing cry, which, this time, had in it an
angry tone, as if the maiden were indignant at the wrong done her by the
old dame, whose eyes seemed to expand and grow blacker at the sound.
Overcome as I was with fatigue, I could not sleep; and for hours I lay
awake, listening to the rain as it fell upon the roof, and to the
howling wind, which, indeed, produced the most unearthly noises I had
ever heard. At last, however, nature could no longer endure, and I fell
into a deep slumber, from which I did not awake until the sun was high
up in the heavens, and preparations were going forward in the kitchen
for dinner, which was served exactly at twelve. Greatly refreshed, I was
ready to laugh at my fears of the night previous; and with childish joy,
I explored every nook and corner of the old castle; finding many a
rathole, which threw some light on the sounds over my head, which I had
likened to the trampling of horses.
It took but a few days for me to discover that Herbert was exceedingly
popular at Breeze Hill, as the neighborhood in which he lived was
called. His free, social manners had won for him many friends, and made
him almost too much of a favorite. At least, I used to think so, during
the long winter evenings, when Anna sat with her baby upon her lap,
listening for the footsteps of her husband, who, at some neighbor’s
fireside, was cracking the merry joke, and quaffing the sparkling cider;
which, at Breeze Hill, was considered essential to hospitality.
Gradually, too, as the winter wore on, my sister’s eye took the anxious
expression I had so often seen in my Aunt Charlotte; and sometimes, when
he stayed from her longer than usual, she would steal down to the foot
of the long Avenue, and there, alone, would wait and listen for her
husband’s coming; while the spirit from the lake would whisper sadly in
her ear of the darkness and desolation hovering near. And all this time
Herbert professed to be strictly temperate; and when, about the middle
of March, a travelling lecturer held forth in the old log schoolhouse,
thundering his anathemas against the use of all spirituous liquors,
Herbert was the most zealous of all his listeners, and at the close of
the lecture, arose himself and addressed the assembly, pouring out such
a tide of eloquence as astonished the audience, who rent the air with
shouts of “Langley forever!”
Knowing this, I was greatly surprised, after our return home, to see the
young orator go up to the sideboard and drink off, at one draught, a
goblet of the _porter_ which had been ordered for Anna! _She_ saw it,
too, and for an instant her face was pressed against that of her
sleeping boy; and when next the lamp-light fell upon it, I saw there
traces of tears, while a faint smile played around her mouth, as she
said, “I am afraid, Herbert, your audience would hardly think your
theory and practice agree, could they see you now.”
The words were ill-timed; for they awoke the young man’s resentment, and
with a flushed brow he retorted angrily, that “if porter were good for
her, it was for him; he saw no difference between a drinking woman and a
drinking man; except, indeed, that the former was the most despicable.”
The next morning, the bottles of porter were gone from the sideboard;
but out in the orchard, where the grass of an early spring was just
starting into life, they lay shattered in a hundred pieces. Would, oh,
would that she, the wife of little more than a year, could thus easily
have broken the habits of him she loved better than her life. But it
could not be; and all through the bright spring days she drooped, and
faded, and struggled hard to keep from me the fatal truth; and when the
warm breath of summer was over all the land; when the robins’ song was
heard in the maple trees; and the roses blossomed by the open door, they
brought no gladness to her heart; no love-light to her eye, save when
she looked upon her baby; now a playful, handsome child, the pet and
idol of the house.
At last, Aunt Charlotte wrote to me, asking to be assured of her son’s
safety; and then poor Anna begged me not to tell that the wine-cup was
his companion at morn; his solace at noon, and his comfort at night.
Yielding to her entreaties, I answered evasively; and thus the shock,
when it came to that mother’s heart, was harder far to bear, from the
perfect security she had felt. At Meadow Brook, too, they little dreamed
how their absent daughter wept and prayed over her fallen husband, who,
day after day, made rapid strides down the road to death; for, on her
bended knees, Anna implored me to keep her shame a secret yet a little
longer; and with this request I also complied, doing whatever I could to
smooth the thorny pathway she was treading.