Summer had danced by--the chill wind whistled through the trees--the
nuts were dropping in showers, and the leaves rusted beneath the
traveler’s foot; the golden-rod and barberry clusters alone remained to
deck the hedges, and the striped snake crawled out on the rock to sun
himself only at midday. Widow Ford’s cottage looked lonely and desolate,
stripped of its leafy screen; but the squirrels might be seen leaping
from tree to tree as merrily as if old Jacob still sat watching them in
the door-way. Lucy moved about, sweeping, dusting, replenishing the
fire--but the silver hair glistened on her temples, and her step was
slow and weary. Now and then she would lean against the mantel, and look
at Mary--and then wander restlessly into the little bedroom--then, back
again to the mantel.
“You still think it best to consummate this marriage?” said the
clergyman to Lucy, in a low voice.
“Only that I would not leave her alone,” said Lucy, tremulously. “I
shall soon be in the church-yard by the side of Jacob. Mr. Shaw knows
all--he loves her, and wishes to make her his wife. I believe he will be
kind to her. As for Mary, poor thing, you see how it is,” and she
glanced at her daughter, who sat with locked fingers--her long lashes
sweeping her colorless cheek. One might have taken her for some
beautiful statue, with those faultless marble features, and that
motionless attitude.
Mr. Parish sighed, as he looked at Mary; but he had little time to
discuss matters, if that were his intention, for the sound of
approaching carriage-wheels announced Mr. Shaw.
“At twelve, then, to-morrow,” said he, as he took up his hat, “if you
are of the same mind, I will perform the ceremony as you desire.”
Mr. Parish walked home in a very thoughtful mood. Through his
acquaintances in the city, he had learned the history of the family. He
knew the length and breadth of the shadow which had fallen across their
hearth-stone. He saw that it was true, as Lucy had said, that her own
strength was fast failing; still it seemed to him sacrilege to bestow
Mary’s hand in marriage, when her heart was so benumbed and dead. He
would have offered her a shelter in his own house, had he been master of
it; but, unfortunately, he had married a lady who lost no opportunity to
remind him that her dowry of twenty thousand dollars was payment in full
for the total abnegation of his free will. This was not the first
occasion on which the clanking of this gentleman’s golden fetters had
sounded unmusically in his reverend ears; in truth, he would much have
preferred his liberty, even at the expense of eking out a small salary
by farming, as did the neighboring country clergy. Mrs. Parish lost no
opportunity to remind her husband that he was sold, by such pleasant
remarks as the following: That it was time _her_ house was re-painted,
or _her_ barn re-roofed, or _her_ carry-all re-cushioned. When she felt
_unusually_ hymeneal, she would say, “Mr. Parish, you can use _my_
horses to-day, if you will drive carefully.” That she invariably and
sweetly deferred to her husband’s opinion in company, was no proof of
the absence of a private conjugal understanding, that he was to consider
himself merely her echo.
Little did his brother clergymen who exchanged with him in their
thread-bare suits of black, dream of the price at which his pleasant
parsonage surroundings were purchased. Little did they dream, when they
innocently brought along their wives and babies on such occasions, the
suffering it entailed on “brother Parish.”
No, poor simple souls, they went home charmed with the hospitality of
their host and hostess, charmed with their conjugal happiness, and
marveling as they returned to their own houses, what made their rooms
seem so much smaller, and their fare so much more frugal than before.
Had they been clairvoyantly endowed, they might have seen brother
Parish, after he had smilingly bowed them down the nicely rolled gravel
walk to their wagons, return meekly to the parlor, to be reminded for
the hundredth time, by Mrs. Parish, of that twenty thousand dollar
obligation. Well might personal feelings come in, to strengthen his
ministerial scruples, lest he should join carelessly in wedlock, hands
which death only could unclasp.
* * * * *
“He oughter be ashamed of hisself marrying that poor crazed thing,
even if the old lady is willing,” said farmer Jones’ wife, as Tom Shaw’s
smiling face peered out of the carriage window, on his wedding day. “It
hardens the heart awful to live in the city; riches can’t make that poor
cretur happy; a pebble stun and a twenty dollar piece, are all one to
her. Now my daughter Louizy is no beauty; she is clumsy and freckled,
and brown as a butternut; but she is too fair in my eyes, to be sold
that way. I wish I knew what crazed that Mary Ford. Ah--here comes
parson Parish; maybe I’ll get it out of him.”
“Good day, sir--met the bridal carriage, I suppose, on the road--queer
wedding that, of Miss Mary’s. Is it true, that Squire Ford’s house took
fire, and Miss Mary lost her wits by the fright?”
“I never heard of it,” replied the parson--taking the Maltese cat in
his lap, and manipulating her slate-colored back.
Mrs. Jones _might_ have added, “Nor I either,” but nothing daunted,
she tried another question.
“Scarlet fever p’rhaps, parson? that allers leaves suthing behind it,
most commonly. My George would have been left blind, likely, if he
hadn’t been left deaf. They say it was scarlet fever that done it.”
“Do they?” asked the parson.
“Confound it,” thought Mrs. Jones; “I’m sure the man knows, for he was
very thick there at the cottage. I’ll see if my gooseberry wine won’t
loosen his tongue a little;” and she handed the minister a glass.
“Sometimes I’ve wondered, parson, what made old Ford walk round so
like an unquiet sperrit. _He_ didn’t do nothing he hadn’t oughter, did
he? It wasn’t that that crazed Miss Mary, I s’pose? That old man got up
and sat down fifty times a minute.”
“So I have heard,” answered the impenetrable parson, sipping his wine.
“She wasn’t crossed in love nor nothing, was she?” asked the
persevering querist; “that sometime plays witchwork with a woman.”
“Oh, that reminds me,” said the parson. “I hear Zekiel Jones is
engaged to your Louisa.”
“My Louizy!” screamed Mrs. Jones, walking straight into the trap; “My
Louizy engaged to Zekiel Jones! a fellow who don’t know a hoe-handle
from a hay-cutter. I guess there’ll be a tornady in this house afore
that marriage comes off. I do wish people would mind their own business,
and not meddle with what don’t consarn ’em. Now who told you that,
parson?”
“Well, I really don’t remember,” replied the minister; “but you know
it matters little, so there’s no truth in it,” and dexterously escaping
through the dust he had raised, he bowed himself down the garden walk;
while Mrs. Jones stood with her arms a-kimbo, in the doorway,
ejaculating: “Zekiel Jones and my Louizy--a fellow who goes to sleep in
the middle of the day in haying time, and a gal who can churn forty
pounds of butter a day! Gunpowder and milk! I guess so.”