MOUNT SUNSET HALL.
"A jolly place, 'twas said, in days of old."--WORDSWORTH.
The jingle of the approaching sleigh-bells, which had frightened Dr.
Wiseman from the beach, had been unheard by the drunken nurse; but ten
minutes after she had left, a sleigh came slowly along the narrow,
slippery path.
It contained but two persons. One was an elderly woman, wrapped and
muffled in furs. A round, rosy, cheery face beamed out from a black
velvet bonnet, and two small, twinkling, merry gray eyes, lit up the
pleasantest countenance in the world.
Her companion, who sat in the driver's seat, was a tall, jolly-looking
darkey, with a pair of huge, rolling eyes, looking like a couple of
snow-drifts in a black ground. A towering fur cap ornamented the place
where the "wool ought to grow," and was the only portion of this son of
darkness which could be discovered for his voluminous wrappings.
The path was wet, slippery, and dangerous in the extreme. The horses
were restive, and a single false step would have overturned them into
the water.
"Missus Scour, if you please, missus, you'd better git out," said the
negro, reining in the horses, in evident alarm; "this yer's the wussest
road I'se ever trabeled. These wishious brutes 'll spill me and you, and
the sleigh, and then the Lor only knows what'll ever become of us."
"Do you think there's any danger, Jupiter?" said Mrs. Gower (for such
was the name her sable attendant had transformed into _Scour_), in a
voice of alarm.
"This road's sort o' 'spicious anyhow," replied Jupiter. "I'd 'vise you,
Missus Scour, mum, to get out and walk till we is past this yer beach.
'Sides the snow, this yer funnelly beach is full o' holes, an' if we got
upsot inter one of 'em, ole marse might whistle for you and me, and the
sleigh arter that!"
With much difficulty, and with any amount of whoaing, Jupiter managed to
stop the sleigh, and assisted stout Mrs. Gower to alight. This was no
easy job, for that worthy lady was rather unwieldy, and panted like a
stranded porpoise, as she slowly plunged through the wet snow-drifts.
Suddenly, above the jingling sleigh-bells, the wail of an infant met her
ear. She paused in amazement, and looked around. Again she heard
it--this time seemingly at her feet. She looked down and beheld a small,
dark bundle, lying amid the deep snow.
Once more the piteous cry met her ear, and stooping down, she raised the
little dark object in her arms.
Unfolding the shawl, she beheld the infant whose cries had first
arrested her ear.
"Good heavens! a baby exposed to this weather--left here to perish!"
exclaimed good Mrs. Gower, in horror. "Poor little thing, it's half
frozen. Who could have done so unnatural a deed?"
"Laws! Missus Scour, what ye got dar?" inquired Jupiter.
"A baby, Jupe! A poor little helpless infant whom some unnatural wretch
has left here to die!" exclaimed Mrs. Gower, with more indignation than
she had ever before felt in her life.
"Good Lor! so 'tis! What you gwine to do wid it, Missus Scour, mum?"
"Do with it?" said Mrs. Gower, looking at him in surprise. "Why, take it
with me, of course. You wouldn't have me leave the poor infant here to
perish, would you?"
"'Deed, Missus Scour, I wouldn't bring it 'long ef I was you. Jes'
'flect how tarin' mad ole marse 'll be 'bout it. Don't never want to see
no babies roun'. Deed, honey, you'd better take my 'vice an' leave it
whar it was," said Jupiter.
"What? Leave it here to die. I'm ashamed of you, Jupiter," said the old
lady, rebukingly.
"But Lor! Missus Scour! ole marse 'll trow it out de winder fust thing.
Shouldn't be s'prised, nudder, ef he'd wollop me for bringing it. Jes'
'flect upon it, Missus Scour, nobody can't put no 'pendence onto him, de
forsooken ole sinner. Trowed his 'fernal ole stick at me, t'other day,
and like to knock my brains out, jes' for nothin' at all. 'Deed, honey,
I wouldn't try sich a 'sperriment, no how."
"Now, Jupiter, you needn't say another word. My mind's made up, and I'm
going to keep this child, let 'ole marse' rage as he will. I'm just as
sure as I can be, that the Lord sent it to me, to-night, as a Christmas
gift, in place of my poor, dear Aurora, that he took to heaven," said
good Mrs. Gower, folding the wailing infant closer still to her warm,
motherly bosom.
"Sartin, missus, in course you knows best, but ef you'd only 'flect.
'Pears to me, ole marse 'll tar roun worser dan ever, when he sees it,
and discharge you in you 'sponsible ole age o' life 'count of it."
"And if he _does_ discharge me, Jupiter, after twenty years' service, I
have enough to support myself and this little one to the end of my life,
thank the Lord!" said Mrs. Gower, her honest, ruddy face all aglow with
generous enthusiasm.
"Well, I s'pose 'taint no sorter use talking," said Jupiter, with a
sigh, as he gathered up the reins; "but ef anything happens, jes 'member
I 'vised you of it 'forehand. Here we is on de road now, so you'd better
get in ef you's agoin' to take de little 'un wid you."
With considerable squeezing, and much panting, and some groaning, good
Mrs. Gower was assisted into the sleigh, and muffled up in the buffalo
robes.
Wrapping the child in her warm, fur-lined mantle, to protect it from the
chill night air, they sped merrily along over the hard, frozen ground.
Christmas morning dawned bright, sunshiny, and warm. The occupants of
the sleigh had long since left the city behind them, and were now
driving along the more open country. The keen, frosty air deepened the
rosy glow on Mrs. Gower's good-humored face. Warmly protected from the
cold, the baby lay sleeping sweetly in her arms, and even Jupiter's
sable face relaxed into a grin as he whistled "Coal Black Rose."
The sun was about three hours high when they drew up before a solitary
inn. And here Jupiter assisted Mrs. Gower into the house, while he
himself looked after his horses.
Mrs. Gower was shown by the hostess into the parlor, where a huge
wood-fire roared up the wide chimney. Removing the large shawl that
enveloped it, Mrs. Gower turned for the first time to examine her prize.
It did not differ much from other babies, save in being the tiniest
little creature that ever was seen; with small, pretty features, and an
unusual profusion of brown hair. As it awoke, it disclosed a pair of
large blue eyes--rather vacant-looking, it must be confessed--and
immediately set up a most vigorous squealing. Small as it was, it
evidently possessed lungs that would not have disgraced a newsboy, and
seemed bent upon fully exercising them; for in spite of Mrs. Gower's
cooing and kissing, it cried and screamed "and would not be comforted."
"Poor little dear, it's so hungry," said the good old lady, rocking it
gently. "What a pretty little darling it is. I'm _sure_ it looks like
little Aurora!"
"What is the matter with baby?" inquired the hostess, at this moment
entering.
"It's hungry, poor thing. Bring in some warm milk, please," replied Mrs.
Gower.
The milk was brought, and baby, like a sensible child, as it doubtless
was, did ample justice to it. Then rolling it up in the shawl, Mrs.
Gower placed it in the rocking-chair, and left it to its own
reflections, while she sat down to a comfortable breakfast of fragrant
coffee, hot rolls, and fried ham.
When breakfast was over Jupiter brought round the horses and sleigh, and
Mrs. Gower entered, holding her prize, and they drove off.
It was noon when they reached the end of their long journey, and entered
the little village of St. Mark's. Sloping upward from the bay on one
side, and encircled by a dense primeval forest on the other, the village
stood. St. Mark's was a great place in the eyes of its inhabitants, and
considered by them the only spot on the globe fit for rational beings to
live in. It was rather an unpretending-looking place, though, to
strangers, who sometimes came from the city to spend the hot summer
months there, in preference to any fashionable watering-place. It
contained a church, a school-house, a lecture-room, a post-office, and
an inn.
But the principal building, and pride of the village, was Mount Sunset
Hall. It stood upon a sloping eminence, which the villagers dignified
with the title of hill, but which in reality was no such thing. The hall
itself was a large, quaint, old mansion of gray stone, built in the
Elizabethan style, with high turrets, peaked gables, and long, high
windows. It was finely situated, commanding on one side a view of the
entire village and the bay, and on the other the dark pine forest and
far-spreading hills beyond. A carriage-path wound up toward the front,
through an avenue of magnificent horse chestnuts, now bare and leafless.
A wide porch, on which the sun seemed always shining, led into a long,
high hall, flanked on each side by doors, opening into the separate
apartments. A wide staircase of dark polished oak led to the upper
chambers of the old mansion.
The owner of Sunset Hall was Squire Erliston, the one great man of the
village, the supreme autocrat of St. Mark's. The squire was a rough,
gruff, choleric old bear, before whom children and poultry and other
inferior animals quaked in terror. He had been once given to high living
and riotous excesses, and Sunset Hall had then been a place of
drunkenness and debauchery. But these excesses at last brought on a
dangerous disease, and for a long time his life was despaired of; then
the squire awoke to a sense of his situation, took a "pious streak"--as
he called it himself--and registered a vow, that if it pleased
Providence not to deprive the world in general, and St. Marks in
particular, of so valuable an ornament as himself, he would eschew all
his evil deeds and meditate seriously on his latter end. Whether his
prayer was heard or not I cannot undertake to say; but certain it is the
squire recovered; and, casting over in his mind the ways and means by
which he could best do penance for his past sins, he resolved to go
through a course of Solomon's Proverbs, and--get married. Deeming it
best to make the greatest sacrifice first, he got married; and, after
the honeymoon was past, surprised his wife one day by taking down the
huge family Bible left him by his father, and reading the first chapter.
This he continued for a week--yawning fearfully all the time; but after
that he resolved to make his wife read them aloud to him, and thereby
save him the trouble.
"For," said the squire sagely, "what's the use of having a wife if she
can't make herself useful. 'A good wife's a crown to her husband,' as
Solomon says."
So Mrs. Erliston was commanded each morning to read one of the chapters
by way of morning prayers. The squire would stretch himself on a lounge,
light a cigar, lay his head on her lap, and prepare to listen. But
before the conclusion of the third verse Squire Erliston and his good
resolutions would be as sound as one of the Seven Sleepers.
When his meek little wife would hint at this, her worthy liege lord
would fly into a passion, and indignantly deny the assertion. _He_
asleep, indeed! Preposterous!--he had heard every word! And, in proof of
it, he vociferated every text he could remember, and insisted upon
making Solomon the author of them all. This habit he had retained
through life--often to the great amusement of his friends--setting the
most absurd phrases down to the charge of the Wise Monarch. His wife
died, leaving him with two daughters; the fate of the eldest, Esther, is
already known to the reader.
Up the carriage-road, in front, the sleigh containing our travelers
drove. Good Mrs. Gower--who for many years had been Squire Erliston's
housekeeper--alighted, and, passing through the long hall, entered a
cheerful-looking apartment known as the "housekeeper's room."
Seating herself in an elbow-chair to recover her breath, Mrs. Gower laid
the baby in her bed, and rang the bell. The summons was answered by a
tidy little darkey, who rushed in all of a flutter.
"Laws! Missus Scour, I's 'stonished, I is! Whar's de young 'un! Jupe say
you fotch one from the city."
"So I did; there it is on the bed."
"Sakes alive, ain't it a mite of a critter! Gemini! what'll old marse
say? Can't abide babies no how! 'spect he neber was a baby hisself!"
"Totty, you mustn't speak that way of your master. Remember, it's not
respectful," said Mrs. Gower, rebukingly.
"Oh, I'll 'member of it--'specially when I's near him, and he's got a
stick in his hand," said Totty, turning again to the baby, and eying it
as one might some natural curiosity. "Good Lor! ain't it a funny little
critter? What's its name, Miss Scour?"
"I intend calling it Aurora, after my poor little daughter," replied
Mrs. Gower, tears filling her eyes.
"_Roarer!_ Laws! ain't it funny? Heigh! dar's de bell. 'Spect it's for
me," said Totty, running off.
In a few moments she reappeared; and, shoving her curly head and ebony
phiz through the door, announced, in pompous tones, "dat marse wanted de
honor ob a few moments' private specification wid Missus Scour in de
parlor."
"Very well, Totty; stay in here and mind the baby until I come back,"
said Mrs. Gower, rising to obey.
Totty, nothing loth, seated herself by the bed and resumed the scrutiny
of the baby. Whether that young lady remarked the impertinent stare of
the darkey or not, it would be hard to say; for, having bent her whole
heart and soul on the desperate and rather cannibal-like task of
devouring her own little fists, she treated Totty with silent contempt.
Meantime, Mrs. Gower, with a look of firm determination, but with a
heart which, it must be owned, throbbed faster than usual, approached
the room wherein sat the lord and master of Sunset Hall. A gruff voice
shouted: "Come in!" in reply to her "tapping at the chamber-door;" and
good Mrs. Gower, in fear and trembling, entered the awful presence.
In a large easy-chair in the middle of the floor--his feet supported by
a high ottoman--reclined Squire Erliston. He was evidently about fifty
years of age, below the middle size, stout and squarely built, and of
ponderous proportions. His countenance was fat, purple, and bloated, as
if from high living and strong drink; and his short, thick, bull-like
neck could not fail to bring before the mind of the beholder most
unpleasant ideas of apoplexy. His little, round, popping eyes seemed in
danger of starting from their sockets; while the firm compression of his
square mouth betokened an unusual degree of obstinacy.
"Good-morning, Mrs. Gower. Fine day, this! Got home, I see. Shut the
door!--shut the door!--draughts always bring on the gout; so beware of
'em. Don't run into danger, or you'll perish in it, as Solomon says.
There! sit down, sit down, sit down!"
Repeating this request a very unnecessary number of times--for worthy
Mrs. Gower had immediately taken a seat on entering--Squire Erliston
adjusted his spectacles carefully on the bridge of his nose, and glanced
severely at his housekeeper over the top of them. That good lady sat
with her eyes fixed upon the carpet--her hands folded demurely in her
lap--the very personification of mingled dignity and good-nature.
"Hem! madam," began the squire.
"Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Gower, meekly.
"Jupe tells me--that is, he told me--I mean, ma'am, the short and long
of it is, you've brought a baby home with you--eh?"
"Yes, sir," replied the housekeeper.
"And how dare you, ma'am--how _dare_ you bring such a thing here?"
roared the squire, in a rage. "Don't you know I detest the whole
persuasion under twelve years of age? Yes, ma'am! you know it; and yet
you went and brought one here. 'The way of the transgressor is hard,' as
Solomon says; and I'll make it confoundedly hard for you if you don't
pitch the squalling brat this minute out of the window! D'ye hear that?"
"Yes, sir," replied Mrs. Gower, quietly.
"And why the deuce don't you go and do it, then--eh?"
"Because, Squire Erliston, I am resolved to keep the child," said Mrs.
Gower, firmly.
"What! _what!_ WHAT!" exclaimed the squire, speechless with mingled rage
and astonishment at the audacious reply.
"Yes, sir," reiterated Mrs. Gower, resolutely. "I consider that child
sent to me by Heaven, and I cannot part with it."
"Fudge! stuff! fiddlesticks! Sent to you by heaven, indeed! S'pose
heaven ever dropped a young one on the beach? Likely story!"
"Well, I consider it the same thing. Some one left it on the beach, and
heaven destined me to save it."
"Nonsense! no such thing! 'twas that stupid rascal, Jupe, making you get
out. I'll horsewhip him within an inch of his life for it!" roared the
old man, in a passion.
"I beg you will do no such thing, sir. It was no fault of Jupiter's. If
you insist on its quitting the house, there remains but one course for
me."
"Confound it, ma'am! you'd make a saint swear, as Solomon says. Pray
tell me what _is_ that course you speak of?"
"I must leave with it."
"What?" exclaimed the squire, perfectly aghast with amazement.
"I must leave with it!" repeated Mrs. Gower, rising from her seat, and
speaking quietly, but firmly.
"Sit down, ma'am--sit down, sit down! Oh, Lord! let me catch my breath!
Leave with it! Just say that over again, will you? I don't think I heard
right."
"Your ears have not deceived you, Squire Erliston. I repeat it, if that
child leaves, I leave, too!"
You should have seen Squire Erliston then, as he sat bolt upright, his
little round eyes ready to pop from their sockets with consternation,
staring at good Mrs. Gower much like a huge turkey gobbler. That good
lady stood complacently waiting, with her hand on the handle of the
door, for what was to come next.
She had not to long wait; for such a storm of rage burst upon her
devoted head, that anybody else would have fled in dismay. But she,
"good, easy soul," was quite accustomed to that sort of thing, and stood
gazing upon him as serenely as a well-fed Biddy might on an enraged
barn-yard chanticleer. And still the storm of abuse raged, interspersed
with numerous quotations from Solomon--by way, doubtless, of impressing
her that his wrath was righteous. And still Mrs. Gower stood serene and
unruffled by his terrible denunciations, looking as placid as a mountain
lake sleeping in the sunlight.
"Well, ma'am, well; what do you think of your conduct _now_?" exclaimed
the squire, when the violence of his rage was somewhat exhausted.
"Just what I did before, sir."
"And what was that, eh?--what was that?"
"That I have done right, sir; and that I will keep the child!"
"_You will?_" thundered the squire, in an awful voice.
"Yes, sir!" replied Mrs. Gower, slightly appalled by his terrible look,
but never flinching in her determination.
"You--you--you--abominable--female, you!" stammered the squire, unable
to speak calmly, from rage. Then he added: "Well, well! I won't get
excited--no, ma'am. You can keep the brat, ma'am! But mind you, if it
ever comes across me, I'll wring its neck for it as I would a
chicken's!"
"Then I _may_ keep the little darling?" said good Mrs. Gower,
gratefully. "I am sure I am much obliged, and----"
"There! there! there! Hold your tongue, ma'am! Don't let me hear another
word about it--the pest! the plague! Be off with you now, and send up
dinner. Let the turkey be overdone, or the pudding burned, at your
peril! 'Better a stalled ox with quietness, than a dry morsel,' as
Solomon says. Hurry up there, and ring for Lizzie!"
Mrs. Gower hastened from the room, chuckling at having got over the
difficulty so easily. And from that day forth, little Aurora, as her
kind benefactress called her, was domesticated at Mount Sunset Hall.