MRS. HATHERN.
She had taught a district school in a small town in Maine,—had been
preceptress in a young ladies’ seminary in Calais,—a music teacher and
organist in Portland,—and the wife and widow of Thomas Haverleigh, of
Bangor, whom she had married mostly for his money, and for the broader
field it would give her. Some years after his death she moved to Boston,
where her restless, energetic nature found full scope in the many clubs
and societies of which she became an active member. Her marriage with
Dr. Hathern was a surprise to her friends, who knew how unlike the two
were to each other. He was gentle, refined, wholly unselfish and rather
weak where decided action was necessary; she strong, determined, and
self-assured, with a will which no one could bend except her son Carl,
and he sometimes failed. There could scarcely have been two people more
unlike and possibly this dissimilarity of disposition was what attracted
each to the other until both believed they were in what the lady called
a middle-aged kind of love. In a letter to a friend she likened it to
the Indian summer, which is often more satisfactory than the fervid heat
of the real summer days. Whether it were Indian summer or June the
doctor did not stop to consider. He was infatuated and only knew that he
was supremely happy and never more so than when he reached home and was
presenting his bride to his daughters. They were nervous and
constrained, but she was wholly at her ease, while her eyes, which Jack
said saw everything, did not belie his statement. They were very large
and black and bright and took the two girls in at a glance, from their
heads to their feet, making them feel rather uncomfortable. Fanny
thought with some uneasiness of two missing buttons on her boots, while
Annie remembered a little rent in her underskirt and wondered if it were
visible.
“I am glad to see you and hope we shall be friends. Which is Fanny, and
which Annie?” Mrs. Hathern said, and her voice seemed to fill the whole
house, it was so distinct and decided, with a tone in it which some
might call an accent, but which Fan-and-Ann pronounced a brogue, when
comparing notes with regard to it.
Had she been a public speaker she could have thrown it into the farthest
corner of the largest hall, but her hearers would not have said it was a
pleasant voice. It was too self-assured and too full of a conviction
that the opinions it expressed were the only opinions worth expressing.
Like most cold impassive natures she was not at all demonstrative and
although quick to see and speak of whatever was wrong, or out of place,
she seldom praised or expressed herself pleased with anything. That she
made no comment was, she thought, a sufficient proof that she did not
disapprove. _Gush_ was especially distasteful to her, and she was glad
not to meet it in her step-daughters.
She knew they must be nervous, but they were ladylike and quiet and
received her kindly. They told her which was Fanny and which Annie,
saying laughingly, “we are better known as _Fan-and-Ann_.” One took her
satchel, the other her shawl, as they led the way into the house and
showed her to her room. Fan, who was watching her closely, saw how
rapidly her eyes traveled from one object to another, lighting finally
upon an immense spider’s web in a corner, which had probably been there
a week, as there were two or three dead flies already in it, and a
freshly captured fourth was making a loud protest against its capture.
“Can I do anything for you?” Fan asked, with a view to draw attention
from the offending web.
“No, thanks, I can get along quite well by myself,” was the reply, and
acting upon the hint the girls left her alone and went to their father,
who was seeing to the baggage, and whom they nearly knocked down as they
seized him around the neck and smothered him with kisses.
“Why—why—why; bless my soul! What’s all this whirlwind for? and crying,
too,” the Doctor said, folding them in his arms and feeling his own eyes
moisten a little.
“We didn’t half tell you how glad we are to have you home, and we don’t
mean to cry,” Fan said; “and we are not going to again; but just this
little minute I can’t help it.”
“Yes, yes; there, there,” the doctor replied, patting first one head and
then the other, “there’s nothing to cry about, I assure you, except for
joy. She’s a very remarkable woman, and the wonder is that she could
care for an old codger like me. We are going to be very happy, all of
us. She has some elegant furniture coming, which will make the old house
quite like a palace. You know you have wanted new furniture a long
time.”
“Oh, father,” Fanny cried. “We would rather have you than all the fine
furniture in the world; but we are going to be good; indeed we are.”
She was hugging him again with her arms around his neck on one side of
him, while Annie’s were on the other, when they were startled with a
call for _Sam_, which came echoing down the hall like the peal of a
clarionet, making the four clinging arms drop suddenly, while the doctor
struggled into an upright position and answered, “Yes, Matty, I am
coming.”
Mrs. Hathern had removed her bonnet and investigated the room, deciding,
with a radical woman’s quickness what changes she would make when her
furniture came; deciding, too, that the windows had not been half washed
and the window stools not at all, judging from the dust and dried leaves
upon them. Then with her umbrella she demolished the big spider’s web
and was proceeding to attack a smaller one in the vicinity of the bell
rope, which she tried with no effect, when Katy came dancing into the
room, her blue eyes showing the admiration she felt for her new mamma,
whose grey dress and steel buttons she began to finger caressingly.
“I like you,” she said and moved by an impulse she could not resist Mrs.
Hathern stooped and kissed the lovely face with something like a real
mother feeling in her heart.
But nothing could change her nature, which was to discipline and mould
whatever needed moulding and disciplining. So, when Katy, wishing to
call attention to her gift of flowers, said to her, “Have you seen my
flowers. I give ’em to you.” She answered promptly, “You mean you gave
them to me. Little girls must learn to use good grammar. Yes, I see
them; they are very pretty, but be careful or you will upset the vase
and spill the water; better run out now, while I make my toilet.”
It was not so much the words as the tone with which they were spoken,
which brought a slight shadow to Katy’s face as she started for the
door, followed by Mrs. Hathern, who looked out into the hall in time to
see the tableau at the farther end.
“Not as emotionless and impassive as I thought,” she said to herself,
understanding it perfectly, and interrupting it with her call for Sam.
She was given to the use of pet names; she had called her first husband
Tom, and knew no reason why she should not call her second Sam. At first
he rather liked it. He had been Sam when a boy, and it made him feel
young again. But when he heard it in the presence of his daughters, it
sounded differently, for he felt their disapproval of it.
“I can’t open my satchel,” she said, when he came to her. “Something is
wrong with the lock, and how can I get some hot water. I have tried the
bell three times with no response.”
In her voice there was something the doctor had not heard before, and,
like Katy, he felt a passing shadow on his spirits, but he hastened to
undo the lock of the satchel and said, apologetically: “Oh, yes, the
bell. I knew the cord was broken. I will see to it at once, and the hot
water, too. I’ll go for Phyllis to fetch it, I haven’t seen her yet.”
He found Phyllis in a mood which could not be described as angelic. She
had spent an hour or so in clearing up her kitchen; had mopped the
floor; shoved into dark corners pots, kettles, skillets and brooms, and
arrayed herself in her red flowered gown and white apron, with her
highest turban on her head. If her master had come alone, she would have
gone with his daughters to greet him, but with a new mistress it was not
to be thought of. “She reckoned she knowed her place,” she said; “whar
she was raised niggers didn’t put on no a’rs. Marster would done fotch
the new Misses to her, in course.” But as time went by and neither
mistress nor master appeared, her wrath began to wax hot and to manifest
itself in her own peculiar way.
“Whar is the use,” she reasoned, “clarin’ up an’ hidin’ things whar I
can’t find ’em, if my lady is too fine to come inter de kitchen. No,
sir! I’ll jess have ’em handy agin.”
Pots and kettles and skillets were brought from their hiding place and
set down promiscuously on the hearth. The broom and mop followed next,
and the duster was aimed at the door behind which it belonged, just
escaping contact with the doctor’s head as he appeared. He had heard
from his daughters of Phyllis’s propensity to throw things when on what
they called a rampage, and concluded she was on one now.
“Ho, Phyllis,” he said in his cheery way. “What’s up, and why haven’t
you come to welcome your new mistress?”
He offered her his hand, which Phyllis grasped firmly.
“I’se mighty glad to see you, Mas’r,” she said, “an’ I’se gwine to do my
duty, but for de dear Lord’s sake whar was de sense for a new Misses. Et
kind of upsots one to think of dem t’others what’s dead an’ gone.”
This was the first real set-back the doctor had received, and it hurt
his pride that his servant should disapprove of what seemed to him so
desirable. But in his usual kind way he soothed the old negress, who
assured him again that she meant to do her duty and _bar_ everything for
his sake and the young misseses. Filling a pitcher with hot water, which
took a few minutes to heat, she followed him to his room, where Mrs.
Hathern stood with a hint of a cloud on her face at the long delay, and
because the pitcher had a broken nose and a suspicion of pot black on
the handle. She prided herself on never losing her temper to the extent
of showing it in her voice or manner. In a quiet, determined way she
could sting with her tongue and smile while she did it. Bowing
graciously to Phyllis she said, “I thought perhaps you had forgotten the
hot water, and I have washed me in cold, but you can leave the pitcher,
and please wipe off that black spot which you probably did not see.”
Phyllis explained, as she rubbed off the pot black, that “de water
bilin’ in de tea kettle was hard as rocks and not fit for ladies to wash
in, an’ she had to blow up the fi’ to heat some soff.” Then, putting the
pitcher down with a thump she bounced out of the room. She had taken
Mrs. Hathern’s measure, and Mrs. Hathern had taken hers, and neither was
very satisfactory.
“She ain’t no mo’ like Miss Carline or Miss Nellie than I’m like Mas’r
General Lee,” she said, and there was a stormy look in her eyes when she
went in at last to wait upon the table, where Mrs. Hathern presided as
easily as if she had all her life sat in the arm-chair she was the third
to occupy.
She was a woman of theories and maxims to which she adhered rigidly.
Among these were, “Early to bed and early to rise,”—“An hour in the
morning is worth two at night,” and so forth. Accordingly, the next
morning at six o’clock she was out upon the piazza looking very cool and
handsome in her gown of lavender and white, open in front to show her
embroidered petticoat as was the fashion of the time. Everything about
her dress and person was spotless, and she impressed one with the idea
that she had just been scrubbed and ironed. Her hair was never out of
place; her collars and cuffs never soiled, or her garments crumpled or
torn. Cleanliness she held next to godliness, and shiftlessness and
untidiness next to sin. Born and reared amid the thrift and energy and
activity of New England, she had no idea of or sympathy with the
happy-go-lucky manner of living in the Hathern family, with Phyllis at
its head. Hearing no stir, and seeing no signs of life in the
dining-room, except a few flies busy with some crumbs left on the cloth
the night before, she found her way to the kitchen, where Phyllis was
very leisurely making preparations for breakfast. Later on, before
presenting herself at the table, she was intending to don her Sunday
apparel, but now, as the morning was very hot, her dress might be
described as decolleté. A faded calico skirt, which scarcely reached her
bare ankles, and a loose, thin sacque which showed all the creases and
curves of her portly figure, comprised her entire make-up as she stood
with her back to the door, stirring her batter for griddle cakes, and
all unconscious of the foe bearing down upon her.
With a warning cough Mrs. Hathern stepped across the threshold, so
startling the old negress that she dropped the egg she was about to
break into the batter.
“Oh, my Lord, how you done skeered me,” she exclaimed, lifting both
hands, in one of which was the dripping spoon. “Does you want anything,
honey?”
Phyllis was very religious, and a leader at the meetings held in some of
the freedmen’s cabins, where pandemonium usually reigned and the Lord
was entreated as if he were deaf, or asleep. She had attended one of
these the previous night, and on her way home had told a crony whom she
met how she had _rassled_ in pra’r, and had asked others to rassel, too,
that she might have grace to do her duty. As a result of her _rassling_
she was in quite a conciliatory frame of mind, and the word _honey_ came
from her involuntarily.
“I am not one of the young ladies, I am Mrs. Hathern,” the latter said,
holding up her dainty skirts as she walked around the broken egg and the
pots and kettles which Phyllis had not yet put away. “What time do you
usually have breakfast?” she asked, and Phyllis replied, “Oh, we ain’t
perticular, mos’ any time when dey gits up,—eight, nine,—sometimes
ten,—jess as happens.”
Mrs. Hathern looked aghast. Such habits as these she was not prepared
for, and she would not allow them either.
“Very well,” she said, “that may have answered in the past; for the
future we will have breakfast in the summer at seven, sharp,—and at
eight in the winter.”
In Phyllis’s astonishment the second egg, which she had brought from the
cupboard, was in danger of following its companion.
“In de Lord’s name, how’s you gwine to git de young ladies up, or
marster, either so airly. Why, it’ll take a hoss team to do it,” she
said, and Mrs. Hathern replied, “I shall see to that, and you will see
to the breakfast until my cook comes, when she will take your place.”
Phyllis bridled at once and her turban began to topple on one side. But
she remembered her duty, and asked, very respectfully, “When is she
comin’?”
“Very soon, I hope, and a housemaid with her,—both capable servants, who
are accustomed to keep everything in order. The sight of your kitchen
would drive them crazy. Do you always cook by a fireplace? Have you no
stove?”
Phyllis snorted,—a sure sign that she was forgetting her duty.
“Stove!” she repeated. “One dem squar’ black things, a burnin’ and
blisterin’ your han’s! No sir! Ole Miss Fullerton done got one before de
wah, and dat fool of a Rache buil’d de fi’ in de oven, an when de smoke
an’ de fi’ bust out, she screeched so dat Mas’r Hathern went over an’
put it out, an’ tole ’em whar to make de fi’. He’s from de norf, whar
all such truck as stoves comes from, an’ he larf fit to split his sides
when he seen de fi’ in de oven. No, sir! No stove for me!”
“Such shiftlessness!” was Mrs. Hathern’s mental comment, as she went
back to the piazza where she found her husband, and sat down to wait for
breakfast with what patience she could command and to think how she
could best change the habits of this “sozzling household.”
That was what she called it in the first letter she wrote her son,
telling him to go at once to her house and expedite the departure of
Norah and Julina. He was also to order the best range in Boston and have
it sent to her immediately, with all necessary furnishing.
“Think of a big fireplace,” she wrote, “with a crane and tin ovens and
pots and kettles and spiders and the water pail, with a gourd on the
top, all in a clutter, and a huge negress, weighing at least two
hundred, standing in the midst, with nothing on but a short petticoat
and loose sacque! That is what I found the first morning when I went to
the kitchen to see if breakfast were ready. We didn’t have it until
eight o’clock, and that was too early for Miss Fanny, who did not appear
until we were nearly through. I have ordered it for seven hereafter. I
cannot begin too soon to change the loose habits the girls have acquired
from having had so many blacks to wait upon them before the war, and
depending wholly upon Phyllis since. She almost breathes for them, and
they let her. To do her justice she looks very respectable when she
comes into the dining-room and she waits at table remarkably well. It is
a very pleasant, roomy house, with wide verandas above and below, broad
hall in the centre, with fireplace in one corner, and doors opening at
either end. But it is greatly run down,—old, faded carpets and rickety
furniture—and in the bedroom I intend for you a broken-legged bureau,
propped up on a brick. We should call this second class at the north,
but they are really among the first people in the town, and don’t seem
to know how dilapidated they are, or if they do they are too proud to
show it. I refer now to the girls. The Doctor admits that things are not
quite as they ought to be. He is a thorough gentleman, and I am more and
more convinced of the wisdom of my choice. Fanny and Annie are bright,
pretty girls, especially Fanny, who is the ruling spirit and mouth-piece
for her sister. Katy, the youngest, is a beauty, but spoiled. I do not
think she knows what restraint is, but I must restrain her, and mould
her as a child should be moulded. She will then make a splendid woman.
The twins are, I fear, beyond my control. Fanny certainly is, and there
is a fire in her black eyes I should not care to rouse. I forgot to tell
you that there is a wide lawn in front of the house, with a long avenue
leading to the street, shaded with elms and maples. The garden is full
of flower beds bordered with old-fashioned box, and there are roses and
honeysuckles and running vines everywhere. In the rear a grassy lane
leads to the woods, which at times during the war were full of soldiers,
both northern and southern. The war still broods like a plague over
Virginia, although I cannot help feeling that some of the people make it
an excuse for what is only the result of years of indolence and
indifference to anything like thrift and energy.”
Carl’s answer to this letter was prompt and characteristic. “I went to
the house,” he wrote, “meeting Julina in the street. She informed me
that Miss O’Rourke was giving a lunch to some of her friends, and had
sent her after oil for the salad. So you see, ‘when the cat’s away the
mice will play.’ Norah seemed as meek as Moses when she saw me, and if a
lunch was in progress she gave no sign of it. Perhaps Julina lied; it’s
like her. Miss O’Rourke informed me that after getting the house ready
for the new tenant, she must visit her grandmother and ‘rest up’ before
going south, and Julina will ‘rest up’ with her. So I don’t know when
you will see their ladyships. What a delightful picture you give of the
Elms. Double piazzas, wide hall, big rooms, avenues, gardens, roses and
woods, to say nothing of pots and kettles and pans and a 200-pounder,
all huddled together in the kitchen, and a bureau propped up with a
brick! I like that. It reminds me of our first visit to the sea shore,
with a cottage full of broken furniture, and so leaky that when it
rained we had to set with washtubs over our heads. What a field you have
in which to exercise your executive ability and love of change; but
don’t go to bossing little Katy, or make her sit in chairs and go to bed
without her supper, as you did me, and don’t introduce that new order of
‘early to bed and early to rise’ until I have had a chance to enjoy the
old easy-going régime you hold in so much contempt. Let the girls sleep,
if they want to. I remember how you used to snake Paul and me out of bed
at the most unearthly hours until he ran away, and I got weakly and the
doctor told you I must have all the sleep I could get. How I hated the
early bird which caught the worm, or rather the worm for getting up to
be caught. I am going to like the girls, and shall probably fall in love
with all three; that’s my way, you know. Perhaps Katy is too young.
Eight isn’t she? while the twins are eighteen. I am nearly sixteen, am
five feet ten and trying to raise a beard. Not an infant, you see.”
This letter was not altogether satisfactory to Mrs. Hathern, whose usual
smooth brow was somewhat wrinkled and whose voice and manner had an
increase of energy and decision when she went back to the posse of
negroes at work in different parts of the house. There was a great
upheaval in progress, which Annie, who was an eye-witness to it in all
its details, will describe in another chapter.