house had been the ultimate standard of comparison in all matters of
style and garniture. Their big front room, instead of being strewn with
lumps of sand, duly streaked over twice a week, was resplendent with a
carpet of red, yellow, and black stripes, while a towering pair of
long-legged brass andirons, scoured to a silvery white, gave an air of
magnificence to the chimney, which was materially increased by the tall
brass-headed shovel and tongs, which, like a decorous, starched married
couple, stood bolt upright in their places on either side. The sanctity
of the place was still further maintained by keeping the window shutters
always closed, admitting only so much light as could come in by a round
hole at the top of the shutter; and it was only on occasions of
extraordinary magnificence that the room was thrown open to profane
eyes.
Our hero was surprised, therefore, to find both the doors and windows of
this apartment open, and symptoms evident of its being in daily
occupation. The furniture still retained its massive, clumsy stiffness,
but there were various tokens that lighter fingers had been at work
there since the notable days of good Dame Jones. There was a vase of
flowers on the table, two or three books of poetry, and a little fairy
work-basket, from which peeped forth the edges of some worked ruffling;
there was a small writing desk, and last, not least, in a lady's
collection, an album, with leaves of every color of the rainbow,
containing inscriptions, in sundry strong masculine hands, "To Susan,"
indicating that other people had had their eyes open as well as Mr.
Joseph Adams. "So," said he to himself, "this quiet little beauty has
had admirers, after all;" and consequent upon this came another
question, (which was none of his concern, to be sure,) whether the
little lady were or were not engaged; and from these speculations he was
aroused by a light footstep, and anon the neat form of Susan made its
appearance.
"Good morning, Miss Jones," said he, bowing.
Now, there is something very comical in the feeling, when little boys
and girls, who have always known each other as plain Susan or Joseph,
first meet as "Mr." or "Miss" So-and-so. Each one feels half disposed,
half afraid, to return to the old familiar form, and awkwardly fettered
by the recollection that they are no longer children. Both parties had
felt this the evening before, when they met in company; but now that
they were alone together, the feeling became still stronger; and when
Susan had requested Mr. Adams to take a chair, and Mr. Adams had
inquired after Miss Susan's health, there ensued a pause, which, the
longer it continued, seemed the more difficult to break, and during
which Susan's pretty face slowly assumed an expression of the ludicrous,
till she was as near laughing as propriety would admit; and Mr. Adams,
having looked out at the window, and up at the mantel-piece, and down at
the carpet, at last looked at Susan; their eyes met; the effect was
electrical; they both smiled, and then laughed outright, after which the
whole difficulty of conversation vanished.
"Susan," said Joseph, "do you remember the old school house?"
"I thought that was what you were thinking of," said Susan; "but,
really, you have grown and altered so that I could hardly believe my
eyes last night."
"Nor I mine," said Joseph, with a glance that gave a very complimentary
turn to the expression.
Our readers may imagine that after this the conversation proceeded to
grow increasingly confidential and interesting; that from the account of
early life, each proceeded to let the other know something of
intervening history, in the course of which each discovered a number of
new and admirable traits in the other, such things being matters of very
common occurrence. In the course of the conversation Joseph discovered
that it was necessary that Susan should have two or three books then in
his possession; and as promptitude is a great matter in such cases, he
promised to bring them "to-morrow."
For some time our young friends pursued their acquaintance without a
distinct consciousness of any thing except that it was a very pleasant
thing to be together. During the long, still afternoons, they rambled
among the fading woods, now illuminated with the radiance of the dying
year, and sentimentalized and quoted poetry; and almost every evening
Joseph found some errand to bring him to the house; a book for Miss
Susan, or a bundle of roots and herbs for Miss Silence, or some
remarkably fine yarn for her to knit--attentions which retained our hero
in the good graces of the latter lady, and gained him the credit of
being "a young man that knew how to behave himself." As Susan was a
leading member in the village choir, our hero was directly attacked with
a violent passion for sacred music, which brought him punctually to the
singing school, where the young people came together to sing anthems and
fuguing tunes, and to eat apples and chestnuts.
It cannot be supposed that all these things passed unnoticed by those
wakeful eyes that are ever upon the motions of such "bright, particular
stars;" and as is usual in such cases, many things were known to a
certainty which were not yet known to the parties themselves. The young
belles and beaux whispered and tittered, and passed the original jokes
and witticisms common in such cases, while the old ladies soberly took
the matter in hand when they went out with their knitting to make
afternoon visits, considering how much money Uncle Jaw had, how much his
son would have, and what all together would come to, and whether Joseph
would be a "smart man," and Susan a good housekeeper, with all the "ifs,
ands, and buts" of married life.
But the most fearful wonders and prognostics crowded around the point
"what Uncle Jaw would have to say to the matter." His lawsuit with the
sisters being well understood, as there was every reason it should be,
it was surmised what two such vigorous belligerents as himself and Miss
Silence would say to the prospect of a matrimonial conjunction. It was
also reported that Deacon Enos Dudley had a claim to the land which
constituted the finest part of Susan's portion, the loss of which would
render the consent of Uncle Jaw still more doubtful. But all this while
Miss Silence knew nothing of the matter, for her habit of considering
and treating Susan as a child seemed to gain strength with time. Susan
was always to be seen to, and watched, and instructed, and taught; and
Miss Silence could not conceive that one who could not even make
pickles, without her to oversee, could think of such a matter as setting
up housekeeping on her own account. To be sure, she began to observe an
extraordinary change in her sister; remarked that "lately Susan seemed
to be getting sort o' crazy-headed;" that she seemed not to have any
"faculty" for any thing; that she had made gingerbread twice, and forgot
the ginger one time, and put in mustard the other; that she shook the
saltcellar out in the tablecloth, and let the cat into the pantry half a
dozen times; and that when scolded for these sins of omission or
commission, she had a fit of crying, and did a little worse than before.
Silence was of opinion that Susan was getting to be "weakly and naarvy,"
and actually concocted an unmerciful pitcher of wormwood and boneset,
which she said was to keep off the "shaking weakness" that was coming
over her. In vain poor Susan protested that she was well enough; Miss
Silence _knew better_; and one evening she entertained Mr. Joseph Adams
with a long statement of the case in all its bearings, and ended with
demanding his opinion, as a candid listener, whether the wormwood and
boneset sentence should not be executed.
Poor Susan had that very afternoon parted from a knot of young friends
who had teased her most unmercifully on the score of attentions
received, till she began to think the very leaves and stones were so
many eyes to pry into her secret feelings; and then to have the whole
case set in order before the very person, too, whom she most dreaded.
"Certainly he would think she was acting like a fool; perhaps he did not
mean any thing more than friendship, _after all_; and she would not for
the world have him suppose that she cared a copper more for him than for
any other _friend_, or that she was _in love_, of all things." So she
sat very busy with her knitting work, scarcely knowing what she was
about, till Silence called out,--
"Why, Susan, what a piece of work you are making of that stocking heel!
What in the world are you doing to it?"
Susan dropped her knitting, and making some pettish answer, escaped out
of the room.
"Now, did you ever?" said Silence, laying down the seam she had been
cross-stitching; "what _is_ the matter with her, Mr. Adams?"
"Miss Susan is certainly indisposed," replied our hero gravely. "I must
get her to take your advice, Miss Silence."
Our hero followed Susan to the front door, where she stood looking out
at the moon, and begged to know what distressed her.
Of course it was "nothing," the young lady's usual complaint when in low
spirits; and to show that she was perfectly easy, she began an unsparing
attack on a white rosebush near by.
"Susan!" said Joseph, laying his hand on hers, and in a tone that made
her start. She shook back her curls, and looked up to him with such an
innocent, confiding face!
Ah, my good reader, you may go on with this part of the story for
yourself. We are principled against unveiling the "sacred mysteries,"
the "thoughts that breathe and words that burn," in such little
moonlight interviews as these. You may fancy all that followed; and we
can only assure all who are doubtful, that, under judicious management,
cases of this kind may be disposed of without wormwood or boneset. Our
hero and heroine were called to sublunary realities by the voice of Miss
Silence, who came into the passage to see what upon earth they were
doing. That lady was satisfied by the representations of so friendly and
learned a young man as Joseph that nothing immediately alarming was to
be apprehended in the case of Susan; and she retired. From that evening
Susan stepped about with a heart many pounds lighter than before.
"I'll tell you what, Joseph," said Uncle Jaw, "I'll tell you what, now:
I hear 'em tell that you've took and courted that 'ere Susan Jones. Now,
I jest want to know if it's true."
There was an explicitness about this mode of inquiry that took our hero
quite by surprise, so that he could only reply,--
"Why, sir, supposing I had, would there be any objection to it in your
mind?"
"Don't talk to me," said Uncle Jaw. "I jest want to know if it's true."
Our hero put his hands in his pockets, walked to the window, and
whistled.
"'Cause if you have," said Uncle Jaw, "you may jest un-court as fast as
you can; for 'Squire Jones's daughter won't get a single cent of my
money, I can tell you that."
"Why, father, Susan Jones is not to blame for any thing that her father
did; and I'm sure she is a pretty girl enough."
"I don't care if she is pretty. What's that to me? I've got you through
college, Joseph; and a hard time I've had of it, a-delvin' and slavin';
and here you come, and the very first thing you do you must take and
court that 'ere 'Squire Jones's daughter, who was always putting himself
up above me. Besides, I mean to have the law on that estate yet; and
Deacon Dudley, he will have the law, too; and it will cut off the best
piece of land the girl has; and when you get married, I mean you shall
_have_ something. It's jest a trick of them gals at me; but I guess I'll
come up with 'em yet. I'm just a-goin' down to have a 'regular hash'
with old Silence, to let her know she can't come round me that way."
"Silence," said Susan, drawing her head into the window, and looking
apprehensive, "there is Mr. Adams coming here."
"What, Joe Adams? Well, and what if he is?"
"No, no, sister, but it is his father--it is Uncle Jaw."
"Well, s'pose 'tis, child--what scares you? S'pose I'm afraid of him? If
he wants more than I gave him last time, I'll put it on." So saying,
Miss Silence took her knitting work and marched down into the sitting
room, and sat herself bolt upright in an attitude of defiance, while
poor Susan, feeling her heart beat unaccountably fast, glided out of the
room.
"Well, good morning, Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, after having scraped
his feet on the scraper, and scrubbed them on the mat nearly ten
minutes, in silent deliberation.
"Morning, sir," said Silence, abbreviating the "good."
Uncle Jaw helped himself to a chair directly in front of the enemy,
dropped his hat on the floor, and surveyed Miss Silence with a dogged
air of satisfaction, like one who is sitting down to a regular,
comfortable quarrel, and means to make the most of it.
Miss Silence tossed her head disdainfully, but scorned to commence
hostilities.
"So, Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, deliberately, "you don't think
you'll do any thing about that 'ere matter."
"What matter?" said Silence, with an intonation resembling that of a
roasted chestnut when it bursts from the fire.
"I really thought, Miss Silence, in that 'ere talk I had with you about
'Squire Jones's cheatin' about that 'ere----"
"Mr. Adams," said Silence, "I tell you, to begin with, I'm not a going
to be sauced in this 'ere way by you. You hain't got common decency, nor
common sense, nor common any thing else, to talk so to me about my
father; I won't bear it, I tell you."
"Why, Miss Jones," said Uncle Jaw, "how you talk! Well, to be sure,
'Squire Jones is dead and gone, and it's as well not to call it
cheatin', as I was tellin' Deacon Enos when he was talking about that
'ere lot--that 'ere lot, you know, that he sold the deacon, and never
let him have the deed on't."
"That's a lie," said Silence, starting on her feet; "that's an up and
down black lie! I tell you that, now, before you say another word."
"Miss Silence, railly, you seem to be getting touchy," said Uncle Jaw;
"well, to be sure, if the deacon can let that pass, other folks can; and
maybe the deacon will, because 'Squire Jones was a church member, and
the deacon is 'mazin' tender about bringin' out any thing against
professors; but railly, now, Miss Silence, I didn't think you and Susan
were going to work it so cunning in this here way."
"I don't know what you mean, and, what's more, I don't care," said
Silence, resuming her work, and calling back the bolt-upright dignity
with which she began.
There was a pause of some moments, during which the features of Silence
worked with suppressed rage, which was contemplated by Uncle Jaw with
undisguised satisfaction.
"You see, I s'pose, I shouldn't a minded your Susan's setting out to
court up my Joe, if it hadn't a been for them things."
"Courting your son! Mr. Adams, I should like to know what you mean by
that. I'm sure nobody wants your son, though he's a civil, likely fellow
enough; yet with such an old dragon for a father, I'll warrant he won't
get any body to court him, nor be courted by him neither."
"Railly, Miss Silence, you ain't hardly civil, now."
"Civil! I should like to know who _could_ be civil. You know, now, as
well as I do, that you are saying all this out of clear, sheer ugliness;
and that's what you keep a doing all round the neighborhood."
"Miss Silence," said Uncle Jaw, "I don't want no hard words with you.
It's pretty much known round the neighborhood that your Susan thinks
she'll get my Joe, and I s'pose you was thinking that perhaps it would
be the best way of settling up matters; but you see, now, I took and
tell'd my son I railly didn't see as I could afford it; I took and
tell'd him that young folks must have something considerable to start
with; and that, if Susan lost that 'ere piece of ground, as is likely
she will, it would be cutting off quite too much of a piece; so, you
see, I don't want you to take no encouragement about that."
"Well, I think this is pretty well!" exclaimed Silence, provoked beyond
measure or endurance; "you old torment! think I don't know what you're
at! I and Susan courting your son? I wonder if you ain't ashamed of
yourself, now! I should like to know what I or she have done, now, to
get that notion into your head?"
"I didn't s'pose you 'spected to get him yourself," said Uncle Jaw, "for
I guess by this time you've pretty much gin up trying, hain't ye? But
Susan does, I'm pretty sure."
"Here, Susan! Susan! you--come down!" called Miss Silence, in great
wrath, throwing open the chamber door. "Mr. Adams wants to speak with
you." Susan, fluttering and agitated, slowly descended into the room,
where she stopped, and looked hesitatingly, first at Uncle Jaw and then
at her sister, who, without ceremony, proposed the subject matter of the
interview as follows:--
"Now, Susan, here's this man pretends to say that you've been a courting
and snaring to get his son; and I just want you to tell him that you
hain't never had no thought of him, and that you won't have, neither."
This considerate way of announcing the subject had the effect of
bringing the burning color into Susan's face, as she stood like a
convicted culprit, with her eyes bent on the floor.
Uncle Jaw, savage as he was, was always moved by female loveliness, as
wild beasts are said to be mysteriously swayed by music, and looked on
the beautiful, downcast face with more softening than Miss Silence, who,
provoked that Susan did not immediately respond to the question, seized
her by the arm, and eagerly reiterated,--
"Susan! why don't you speak, child?"
Gathering desperate courage, Susan shook off the hand of Silence, and
straightened herself up with as much dignity as some little flower lifts
up its head when it has been bent down by rain drops.
"Silence," she said, "I never would have come down if I had thought it
was to hear such things as this. Mr. Adams, all I have to say to you is,
that your son has sought me, and not I your son. If you wish to know any
more, he can tell you better than I."
"Well, I vow! she is a pretty gal," said Uncle Jaw, as Susan shut the
door.
This exclamation was involuntary; then recollecting himself, he picked
up his hat, and saying, "Well, I guess I may as well get along hum," he
began to depart; but turning round before he shut the door, he said,
"Miss Silence, if you should conclude to do any thing about that 'ere
fence, just send word over and let me know."
Silence, without deigning any reply, marched up into Susan's little
chamber, where our heroine was treating resolution to a good fit of
crying.
"Susan, I did not think you had been such a fool," said the lady. "I do
want to know, now, if you've railly been thinking of getting married,
and to that Joe Adams of all folks!"
Poor Susan! such an interlude in all her pretty, romantic little dreams
about kindred feelings and a hundred other delightful ideas, that
flutter like singing birds through the fairy land of first love. Such an
interlude! to be called on by gruff human voices to give up all the
cherished secrets that she had trembled to whisper even to herself. She
felt as if love itself had been defiled by the coarse, rough hands that
had been meddling with it; so to her sister's soothing address Susan
made no answer, only to cry and sob still more bitterly than before.
Miss Silence, if she had a great stout heart, had no less a kind one,
and seeing Susan take the matter so bitterly to heart, she began
gradually to subside.
"Susan, you poor little fool, you," said she, at the same time giving
her a hearty slap, as expressive of earnest sympathy, "I really do feel
for you; that good-for-nothing fellow has been a cheatin' you, I do
believe."
"O, don't talk any more about it, for mercy's sake," said Susan; "I am
sick of the whole of it."
"That's you, Susan! Glad to hear you say so! I'll stand up for you,
Susan; if I catch Joe Adams coming here again with his palavering face,
I'll let him know!"
"No, no! Don't, for mercy's sake, say any thing to Mr. Adams--don't!"
"Well, child, don't claw hold of a body so! Well, at any rate, I'll just
let Joe Adams know that we hain't nothing more to say to him."
"But I don't wish to say that--that is--I don't know--indeed, sister
Silence, don't say any thing about it."
"Why not? You ain't such a _natural_, now, as to want to marry him,
after all, hey?"
"I don't know what I want, nor what I don't want; only, Silence, do now,
if you love me, do promise not to say any thing at all to Mr.
Adams--don't."
"Well, then, I won't," said Silence; "but, Susan, if you railly was in
love all this while, why hain't you been and told me? Don't you know
that I'm as much as a mother to you, and you ought to have told me in
the beginning?"
"I don't know, Silence! I couldn't--I don't want to talk about it."
"Well, Susan, you ain't a bit like me," said Silence--a remark evincing
great discrimination, certainly, and with which the conversation
terminated.
That very evening our friend Joseph walked down towards the dwelling of
the sisters, not without some anxiety for the result, for he knew by his
father's satisfied appearance that war had been declared. He walked into
the family room, and found nobody there but Miss Silence, who was
sitting, grim as an Egyptian sphinx, stitching very vigorously on a meal
bag, in which interesting employment she thought proper to be so much
engaged as not to remark the entrance of our hero. To Joseph's
accustomed "Good evening, Miss Silence," she replied merely by looking
up with a cold nod, and went on with her sewing. It appeared that she
had determined on a literal version of her promise not to say any thing
to Mr. Adams.
Our hero, as we have before stated, was familiar with the crooks and
turns of the female mind, and mentally resolved to put a bold face on
the matter, and give Miss Silence no encouragement in her attempt to
make him feel himself unwelcome. It was rather a frosty autumnal
evening, and the fire on the hearth was decaying. Mr. Joseph bustled
about most energetically, throwing down the tongs, and shovel, and
bellows, while he pulled the fire to pieces, raked out ashes and brands,
and then, in a twinkling, was at the woodpile, from whence he selected a
massive backlog and forestick, with accompaniments, which were soon
roaring and crackling in the chimney.
"There, now, that does look something like comfort," said our hero; and
drawing forward the big rocking chair, he seated himself in it, and
rubbed his hands with an air of great complacency. Miss Silence looked
not up, but stitched so much the faster, so that one might distinctly
hear the crack of the needle and the whistle of the thread all over the
apartment.
"Have you a headache to-night, Miss Silence?"
"No!" was the gruff answer.
"Are you in a hurry about those bags?" said he, glancing at a pile of
unmade ones which lay by her side.
No reply. "Hang it all!" said our hero to himself, "I'll make her
speak."
Miss Silence's needle book and brown thread lay on a chair beside her.
Our friend helped himself to a needle and thread, and taking one of the
bags, planted himself bolt upright opposite to Miss Silence, and pinning
his work to his knee, commenced stitching at a rate fully equal to her
own.
Miss Silence looked up and fidgeted, but went on with her work faster
than before; but the faster she worked, the faster and steadier worked
our hero, all in "marvellous silence." There began to be an odd
twitching about the muscles of Miss Silence's face; our hero took no
notice, having pursed his features into an expression of unexampled
gravity, which only grew more intense as he perceived, by certain uneasy
movements, that the adversary was beginning to waver.
As they were sitting, stitching away, their needles whizzing at each
other like a couple of locomotives engaged in conversation, Susan opened
the door.
The poor child had been crying for the greater part of her spare time
during the day, and was in no very merry humor; but the moment that her
astonished eyes comprehended the scene, she burst into a fit of almost
inextinguishable merriment, while Silence laid down her needle, and
looked half amused and half angry. Our hero, however, continued his
business with inflexible perseverance, unpinning his work and moving the
seam along, and going on with increased velocity.
Poor Miss Silence was at length vanquished, and joined in the loud laugh
which seemed to convulse her sister. Whereupon our hero unpinned his
work, and folding it up, looked up at her with all the assurance of
impudence triumphant, and remarked to Susan,--
"Your sister had such a pile of these pillow cases to make, that she was
quite discouraged, and engaged me to do half a dozen of them: when I
first came in she was so busy she could not even speak to me."
"Well, if you ain't the beater for impudence!" said Miss Silence.
"The beater for _industry_--so I thought," rejoined our hero.