"Oh, wanton malice! deathful sport!
Could ye not spare my all?
But mark my words, on thy cold heart
A fiery doom will fall."
The incident recorded in the last chapter, resulted in benefit to two of
the actors. It gave a spring to the dormant energies of Helen, and a
check to the vengeance of Mittie.
The winter glided imperceptibly away, and as imperceptibly vernal bloom
and beauty stole over the face of nature.
In the spring of the year, Miss Thusa always engaged in a very
interesting process--that is, bleaching the flaxen thread which she had
been spinning during the winter. She now made a permanent home at Mr.
Gleason's, and superintended the household concerns, pursuing at the
same time the occupation to which she had devoted the strength and
intensity of her womanhood.
There was a beautiful grassy lawn extending from the southern side of
the building, with a gradual slope towards the sun, whose margin was
watered by the clearest, bluest, gayest little singing brook in the
world. This was called Miss Thusa's bleaching ground, and nature seemed
to have laid it out for her especial use. There was the smooth, fresh,
green sward, all ready for her to lay her silky brown thread upon, and
there was the pure water running by, where she could fill her watering
pot, morning, noon and night, and saturate the fibres exposed to the
sun's bleaching rays. And there was a thick row of blossoming lilac
bushes shading the lower windows the whole breadth of the building, in
which innumerable golden and azure-colored birds made their nests, and
beguiled the spinster's labors with their melodious carrolings.
Helen delighted in assisting Miss Thusa in watering her thread, and
watching the gradual change from brown to a pale brown, and then to a
silver gray, melting away into snowy whiteness, like the bright brown
locks of youth, fading away into the dim hoariness of age. When weary of
dipping water from the wimpling brook, she would sit under the lilac
bushes, and look at Miss Thusa's sybilline figure, moving slowly over
the grass, swaying the watering-pot up and down in her right hand,
scattering ten thousand liquid diamonds as she moved. Sometimes the
rainbows followed her steps, and Helen thought it was a glorious sight.
One day as Helen tripped up and down the velvet sward by her side,
admiring the silky white skeins spread multitudinously there, Miss
Thusa, gave an oracular nod, and said she believed that was the last
watering, that all they needed was one more night's dew, one more
morning sun, and then they could be twisted in little hanks ready to be
dispatched in various directions.
"I am proud of that thread," said Miss Thusa, casting back a lingering
look of affection and pride as she closed the gate. "It is the best I
ever spun--I don't believe there is a rough place in it from beginning
to end. It was the best flax I ever had, in the first place. When I
pulled it out and wound it round the distaff, it looked like ravelled
silk, it was so smooth and fine. Then there's such a powerful quantity
of it. Well, it's my winter's work."
Poor Miss Thusa! You had better take one more look on those beautiful,
silvery rings--for never more will your eyes be gladdened by their
beauty! There is a worm in your gourd, a canker in your flower, a cloud
floating darkly over those shining filaments.
It is astonishing how wantonly the spirit of mischief sometimes revels
in the bosom of childhood! What wild freaks and excursions its
superabundant energies indulge in! And when mischief is led on by
malice, it can work wonders in the way of destruction.
It happened that Mittie had a gathering of her school companions in the
latter part of the day on which we have just entered. Helen, tired of
their rude sports, walked away to some quiet nook, with the orphan
child. Mittie played Queen over the rest, in a truly royal style. At
last, weary of singing and jumping the rope, and singing "Merry
O'Jenny," they launched into bolder amusements. They ran over the
flower-beds, leaping from bed to bed, trampling down many a fair, vernal
bud, and then trying their gymnastics by climbing the fences and the low
trees. A white railing divided Miss Thusa's bleaching ground, with its
winding rill, from the garden, and as they peeped at the white thread
shining on the grass, thinking the flaming sword of Miss Thusa's anger
guarded that enclosure, Mittie suddenly exclaimed:
"Let us jump over and dance among Miss Thusa's thread. It will be better
than all the rest."
"No, no," cried several, drawing back, "it would be wrong. And I'm
afraid of her. I wouldn't make her mad for all the world."
"I'll leave the gate open, and she'll think the calves have broken in,"
cried Mittie, emboldened by the absence of her father, and feeling
safety in numbers. "Cowards," repeated she, seeing they still drew back.
"Cowards!--just like Helen. I despise to see any one afraid of any
thing. I hate old Madam Thusa, and every thing that belongs to her."
Vaulting over the fence, for there would have been no amusement in going
through the gate, Mittie led the way to the forbidden ground, and it was
not long before her companions, yielding to the influence of her bold,
adventurous spirit, followed. Disdaining to cross the rustic bridge that
spanned the brook, they took off their shoes and waded over its pebbly
bed. They knew Miss Thusa's room was on the opposite side of the house,
and while running round it, they had heard the hum of her busy wheel, so
they did not fear her watching eye.
"Now," said Mittie, catching one of the skeins with her nimble feet, and
tossing it in the air; "who will play cat's cradle with me?"
The idea of playing cat's cradle with the toes, for they had not resumed
their shoes and stockings, was so original and laughable, it was
received with acclamation, and wild with excitement they rushed in the
midst of Miss Thusa's treasures--and such a twist and snarl as they made
was never seen before. They tied more Gordian knots than a hundred
Alexanders could sever, made more tangles than Princess Graciosa in the
fairy tale could untie.
"What shall we do with it now?" they cried, when the novelty of the
occupation wore off, and conscience began to give them a few remorseful
twinges.
"Roll it up in a ball and throw it in the brook," said Mittie, "she'll
think some of her witches have carried it off. I'll pay her for it," she
added, with a scornful laugh, "if she finds us out and makes a fuss. It
can't be worth more than a dollar--and I would give twice as much as
that any time to spite the old thing."
So they wound up the dirty, tangled, ruined thread into a great ball,
and plunged it into the stream that had so often laved the whitening
filaments. Had Miss Thusa seen it sinking into the blue, sunny water,
she would have felt as the mariner does when the corpse of a loved
companion is let down into the burying wave.
In a few moments the gate was shut, the green slope smiled in answer to
the mellow smile of the setting sun, the yellow birds frightened away by
the noisy groups, flew back to their nests, among the fragrant lilacs,
and the stream gurgled as calmly as if no costly wreck lay within its
bosom.
When the last beam of the sinking sun glanced upon her distaff, turning
the fibres to golden filaments, Miss Thusa paused, and the crank gave a
sudden, upward jerk, as if rejoiced at the coming rest. Putting her
wheel carefully in its accustomed corner, she descended the stairs, and
bent her steps to the bleaching ground. She met Helen at the gate, who
remembered the trysting hour.
"Bless the child," cried Miss Thusa, with a benevolent relaxation of her
harsh features, "she never forgets any thing that's to do for another.
Never mind getting the watering-pot now. There'll be a plenty of dew
falling."
Taking Helen by the hand she crossed the rustic bridge; but as she
approached the green, she slackened her pace and drew her spectacles
over her eyes. Then taking them off and rubbing them with her silk
handkerchief, she put them on again and stood still, stooping forward,
and gazing like one bewildered.
"Where is the thread, Miss Thusa?" exclaimed Helen, running before her,
and springing on the slope. "When did you take it away?"
"Take it away!" cried she. "Take it away! I never _did_ take it away.
But _somebody_ has taken it--stolen it, carried it off, every skein of
it--not a piece left the length of my finger, my finger nail. The vile
thieves!--all my winter's labor--six long months' work--dead and buried!
for all me--"
"Poor Miss Thusa!" said Helen, in a pitying accent. She was afraid to
say more--there was something so awe-inspiring in the mingled wrath and
grief of Miss Thusa's countenance.
"What's the matter?" cried a spirited voice. Louis appeared on the
bridge, swinging his hat in the air, his short, thick curls waving in
the breeze.
"Somebody's stolen all Miss Thusa's thread," exclaimed Helen, running to
meet him, "her nice thread, that was just white enough to put away. Only
think, Louis, how wicked!"
"Oh! Miss Thusa, it can't be stolen," said Louis, coming to the spot
where she stood, the image of indignant despair; "somebody has hidden it
to tease you. I'll help you to find it."
This seemed so natural a supposition, that Miss Thusa's iron features
relaxed a little, and she glanced round the enclosure, more in
condescension than hope, surveying the boughs of the lilacs, drooping
with their weight of purple blossoms, and peering at the gossamer's web.
Louis, in the meantime, turned towards the stream, now partially
enveloped in the dusky shade of twilight, but there was one spot
sparkling with the rosy light of sunset, and resting snugly 'mid the
pebbles at the bottom, he spied a large, dingy ball.
"Ah! what's this big toad-stool, rising up in the water?" said he,
seizing a pole that lay under the bridge, and sticking the end in the
ball. "Why this looks as if it had been thread, Miss Thusa, but I don't
know what you will call it now?"
Miss Thusa snatched the dripping ball from the pole that bent beneath
its weight, turned it round several times, bringing it nearer and nearer
to her eyes at each revolution, then raised it above her head, as if
about to dash it on the ground; but suddenly changing her resolution,
she tightened her grasp, and strode into the path leading to the house.
"I know all about it now," she cried, "I heard the children romping and
trampling round the house like a drove of wild colts, with Mittie at
their head; it is she that has done it, and if I don't punish her, it
will be because the Lord Almighty does it for me."
Even Louis could scarcely keep up with her rapid strides. He trembled
for the consequences of her anger, just as it was, and followed close to
see if Mittie, undaunted as she was, did not shrivel in her gaze.
Mittie was seated in a window, busily studying, or pretending to study,
not even turning her head, though Miss Thusa's steps resounded as if she
were shod with iron.
"Look round, Miss, if you please, and tell me if you know any thing of
this," cried Miss Thusa, laying her left hand on her shoulder, and
bringing the ball so close to her face that her nose came in contact
with it.
Mittie jerked away from the hand laid upon her with no velvet pressure,
without opening her lips, but the guilty blood rising to her face spoke
eloquently; though she had a kind of Procrustes bed of her own,
according to which she stretched or curtailed the truth, she had not the
hardihood to tell an unmitigated falsehood, in the presence of her
brother, too, and in the light of his truth-beaming eye.
"You are always accusing _me_ of every thing," said she, at length. "I
didn't do it----all;" the last syllable was uttered in a low, indistinct
tone.
"You are a mean coward," cried the spinster, hurling the ball across the
room with such force that it rebounded against the wall. "You're a
coward with all your audacity, and do tricks you are ashamed to
acknowledge. You've spoiled the honest earnings of the whole winter, and
destroyed the beautifullest suit of thread that ever was spun by mortal
woman."
"I can pay you for all I spoiled and more too," said Mittie, sullenly.
"Pay me," repeated Miss Thusa, while the scorching fire of her eye
slowly went out, leaving an expression of profound sorrow. "Can you pay
me for a value you can't even dream of? Can you pay me for the lonely
thoughts that twisted themselves up with that thread, day after day, and
night after night, because they had nothing else to take hold of? Can
you pay me for these grooves in my fingers' ends, made by the flax as I
kept drawing it through, till it often turned red with my blood? No,
no, that thread was as dear to me as my own heart strings--for they were
twined all about it; it was like something living to me--and I loved it
in the same way as I do little Helen. I shall never, never spin any
more."
"You will spin more merrily than ever," cried Louis, soothingly, "you
see if you don't, Miss Thusa."
Miss Thusa shook her head, and though she almost suffocated herself in
the effort to repress them, tears actually forced themselves into her
eyes, and splashed on her cheeks. Seating herself in a low chair, she
took up the corner of her apron to hide what she considered a shame and
disgrace, when Helen glided near and wiped away the drops with her own
handkerchief.
"Bless you darling," cried the subdued spinster--"and you will be
blessed. There's no malice, nor hard-heartedness in _you_. _You_ never
turned your foot upon a worm. But as for her," continued she, pointing
prophetically at Mittie, and fixing upon her her grave and gloomy
eyes--"there's no blessing in store. She don't feel now, but if she
lives to womanhood she _will_. The heart of stone will turn to flesh
then, and every fibre it has got will learn how to quiver, as I've seen
twisted wire do, when strong fingers pull it--_I know it will_. She will
shed tears one of these days, and no one will wipe them off, as this
little angel has done for me. I've done, now. I didn't mean to say what
I did, but the Lord put it in my head, and I've spoken according to my
gift."
Mittie ran out of the room before the conclusion of the speech, unable
to stand the moveless glance, that seemed to burn like heated metal into
her conscience.
"Come, Miss Thusa," said Louis, amiably, desirous of turning her
thoughts into a new channel, and pitying while he blamed his offending
sister, for the humiliation he knew she must endure--"come and tell us a
story, while you are inspired. It is so long since I have heard one! Let
it be something new and exciting."
"I don't believe I could tell you one to save my life, now," replied
Miss Thusa, her countenance lighting up with a gleam of
satisfaction--"at least I couldn't act it out."
"Never mind the acting, Miss Thusa, provided we hear the tale. Let it be
a _powerful_ one."
"Don't tell the _worm-eaten traveler_," whispered Helen. "I never want
to hear that again."
Miss Thusa see-sawed a moment in her low chair, to give a kind of
balance to her imagination, and then began:
"Once there was a maiden, who lived in a forest, a deep wild forest, in
which there wasn't so much as the sign of a path, and nobody but she
could find their way in or out. How this was, I don't know, but it was
astonishing how many people got lost in those woods, where she rambled
about as easy as if somebody was carrying a torch before her. Perhaps
the fairies helped her--perhaps the evil spirits--I rather think the
last, for though she was fair to look upon, her heart was as hard as the
nether mill-stone."
Miss Thusa caught a glimpse of Mittie, on the porch, through the open
doors, and she raised her voice, as she proceeded:
"One night, when the moon was shining large and clear, she was wandering
through the forest, all alone, when she heard a little, tender voice
behind her, and turning round, she saw a young child, with its hair all
loose and wet, as 'twere, calling after her.
"'I've lost my way,' it cried--'pray help me to find a path in the
greenwood.'
"'Find it by the moonlight,' answered the maiden, 'it shines for you, as
well as for me.'
"'But I'm little,' cried the child, beginning to weep, 'and my feet are
all blistered with running. Take me up in your arms a little while, for
you are strong, and the Saviour will give you a golden bed in Heaven to
lie down on.'
"'I want no golden bed. I had rather sleep on down than gold,' answered
the maid, and she mocked the child, and went on, putting her hands to
her ears, to keep out the cries of the little one, that came through the
thick trees, with a mighty piteous sound--the hard-hearted creature!"
"How cruel!" said Helen, "I hope she got lost herself."
"Don't interrupt, Helen," said Louis, whose eyes were kindling with
excitement. "You may be sure she had some punishment."
"Yes, that she did," continued the narrator, "and I tell you it was
worse than being lost, bad as that is. By-and-by she came out of the
forest, into a smooth road, and a horseman galloped to meet her, that
would have scared anybody else in the world but her. Not that he was so
ugly, but he was dressed all in black, and he had such a powerful head
of black hair, that hung all about him like a cloak, and mixed up with
the horse's flowing mane, and that was black too, and so was his horse,
and so were his eyes, but his forehead was as white as snow, and his
cheeks were fair and ruddy. He rode right up to the young maiden, and
reaching down, swung his arm round her, and put her up before him on the
saddle, and away they rode, as swift as a weaver's shuttle. I don't
believe a horse ever went so fast before. Every little stone his hoofs
struck, would blaze up, just for a second, making stars all along the
road. As they flew on, his long black hair got twisted all around her,
and every time the wind blew, it grew tighter and tighter, till she
could scarcely breathe, and she prayed him to stop, and unwind his long
black hair, before it reached her throat, for as sure as she was alive
then, it would strangle her.
"'You have hands as well as I,' said he, with a mocking laugh, 'unwind
it yourself, fair maiden.'
"Then she remembered what she had said to the poor little lost child,
and she cried out as the child did, when she left it alone in the
forest. All the time the long locks of hair seemed taking root in her
heart, and drawing it every step they went.
"'Now,' said her companion, reining up his black horse, 'I'll release
you.'
"And unsheathing a sharp dagger, he cut the hair through and through, so
that part of it fell on the ground in a black shower. Then giving her a
swing, he let her fall by the way-side, and rode on hurraing by the
light of the moon."
Miss Thusa paused to take breath, and wiped her spectacles, as if she
had been reading with them all the time she had been talking.
"Is that all?" asked Helen.
"No, indeed, that cannot be the end," said Louis. "Go on Miss Thusa. The
black knight ought to be scourged for leaving her there on the ground."
"There she lay," resumed Miss Thusa, "moaning and bewailing, for her
heart's blood was oozing out through every wound his dagger had made,
for I told you his locks had taken root in her heart, and he cut the
cords when he slashed about among his own long, black hair.
"'I'm dying,' said the maiden. 'Oh, what would I give now for that
golden bed of the Saviour, the little child promised me.'
"Just then she heard the patter of little feet among the fallen leaves,
and looking up, there was the child, sure enough, right by her side, and
there was something bright and shining all around its head. How it found
its way out of the woods, the Lord only knows. Well, the child didn't
bear one bit of malice, for it was a holy child, and kneeling down, it
took a crystal vial from its bosom, and poured balm on the bleeding
heart of the maiden, and healed every wound.
"'You are a holy child,' said the maiden, rising up, and taking the
child in her arms, and pressing her close to her bosom. 'I know it by
the light around your head. I'll love all little children for your sake,
and nevermore mock the cry of sorrow or of want.'
"So they went away together into the deep woods, and one could see the
moon shining on them, every now and then, through the trees, and it was
a lovely sight."
There was silence for a few moments after Miss Thusa finished her
legend, for never had she related any thing so impressively.
"Oh, Miss Thusa," cried Helen, "that is the prettiest story I ever heard
you relate. I am glad the child was not lost, and I am glad that the
maiden did not die, but was sorry for what she had done."
"Do you make up your tales yourself, Miss Thusa," asked Louis, "or do
you remember them? I cannot imagine where they all come from."
"Some are the memories of my childhood;" replied she, "and some the
inventions of my own brain; and some are a little of one and a little of
the other; and some are the living truth itself. I don't always know
what I am going to say myself, when I begin, but speak as the spirit
moves. This shows that it is a gift--praise the Lord."
"Well, Miss Thusa, the spirit moves you to say that the little child
forgave the cruel maiden, and poured balm upon her bleeding heart,"
said Louis, with one of his own winning smiles.
"And you think an old woman should forgive likewise!" cried Miss Thusa,
looking as benignantly as she _could_ look upon the boy. "You are right,
you are right, but her heart don't bleed yet--_not yet_."
Mittie, believing herself unseen, had listened to the tale with an
interest that chained her to the spot where she stood. She unconsciously
identified herself with the cruel maiden, and in after years she
remembered the long, sweeping locks of the knight, and the maiden's
bleeding heart.
PART SECOND.