If that primitive physician, Chiron, M. D., appears as a Centaur, as
we look at him through the lapse of thirty centuries, the modern
country-doctor, if he could be seen about thirty miles off, could not be
distinguished from a wheel-animalcule. He inhabits a wheel-carriage.
He thinks of stationary dwellings as Long Tom Coffin did of land in
general; a house may be well enough for incidental purposes, but for
a “stiddy” residence give him a “kerridge.” If he is classified in the
Linnaean scale, he must be set down thus: Genus Homo; Species Rotifer
infusorius, the wheel-animal of infusions.
The Dudley mansion was not a mile from the Doctor's; but it never
occurred to him to think of walking to see any of his patients'
families, if he had any professional object in his visit. Whenever the
narrow sulky turned in at a gate, the rustic who was digging potatoes,
or hoeing corn, or swishing through the grass with his scythe, in
wave-like crescents, or stepping short behind a loaded wheelbarrow,
or trudging lazily by the side of the swinging, loose-throated,
short-legged oxen, rocking along the road as if they had just been
landed after a three-months' voyage, the toiling native, whatever he was
doing, stopped and looked up at the house the Doctor was visiting.
“Somebody sick over there t' Haynes's. Guess th' old man's ailin' ag'in.
Winder's half-way open in the chamber,--should n' wonder 'f he was dead
and laid aout. Docterin' a'n't no use, when y' see th' winders open like
that. Wahl, money a'n't much to speak of to th' old man naow! He don'
want but tew cents,--'n' old Widah Peake, she knows what he wants them
for!”
Or again,--
“Measles raound pooty thick. Briggs's folks buried two children with
'em lass' week. Th' of Doctor, he'd h' ker'd 'em threugh. Struck in 'n'
p'dooced mo't'f'cation,--so they say.”
This is only meant as a sample of the kind of way they used to think or
talk, when the narrow sulky turned in at the gate of some house where
there was a visit to be made.
Oh, that narrow sulky! What hopes, what fears, what comfort, what
anguish, what despair, in the roll of its coming or its parting wheels!
In the spring, when the old people get the coughs which give them a few
shakes and their lives drop in pieces like the ashes of a burned thread
which have kept the threadlike shape until they were stirred,--in the
hot summer noons, when the strong man comes in from the fields, like the
son of the Shunamite, crying, “My head, my head,”--in the dying autumn
days, when youth and maiden lie fever-stricken in many a household,
still-faced, dull-eyed, dark-flushed, dry-lipped, low-muttering in their
daylight dreams, their fingers moving singly like those of slumbering
harpers,--in the dead winter, when the white plague of the North has
caged its wasted victims, shuddering as they think of the frozen soil
which must be quarried like rock to receive them, if their perpetual
convalescence should happen to be interfered with by any untoward
accident,--at every season, the narrow sulky rolled round freighted with
unmeasured burdens of joy and woe.
The Doctor drove along the southern foot of The Mountain. The “Dudley
Mansion” was near the eastern edge of this declivity, where it rose
steepest, with baldest cliffs and densest patches of overhanging wood.
It seemed almost too steep to climb, but a practised eye could see from
a distance the zigzag lines of the sheep-paths which scaled it like
miniature Alpine roads. A few hundred feet up The Mountain's side was
a dark deep dell, unwooded, save for a few spindling, crazy-looking
hackmatacks or native larches, with pallid green tufts sticking out
fantastically all over them. It shelved so deeply, that, while the
hemlock-tassels were swinging on the trees around its border, all would
be still at its springy bottom, save that perhaps a single fern would
wave slowly backward and forward like a sabre with a twist as of a
feathered oar,--and this when not a breath could be felt, and every
other stem and blade were motionless. There was an old story of one
having perished here in the winter of '86, and his body having been
found in the spring,--whence its common name of “Dead-Man's Hollow.”
Higher up there were huge cliffs with chasms, and, it was thought,
concealed caves, where in old times they said that Tories lay hid,--some
hinted not without occasional aid and comfort from the Dudleys then
living in the mansion-house. Still higher and farther west lay the
accursed ledge,--shunned by all, unless it were now and then a daring
youth, or a wandering naturalist who ventured to its edge in the hope
of securing some infantile Crotalus durissus, who had not yet cut his
poison teeth.
Long, long ago, in old Colonial times, the Honorable Thomas Dudley,
Esquire, a man of note and name and great resources, allied by descent
to the family of “Tom Dudley,” as the early Governor is sometimes
irreverently called by our most venerable, but still youthful
antiquary,--and to the other public Dudleys, of course,--of all of
whom he made small account, as being himself an English gentleman, with
little taste for the splendors of provincial office, early in the last
century, Thomas Dudley had built this mansion. For several generations
it had been dwelt in by descendants of the same name, but soon after the
Revolution it passed by marriage into the hands of the Venners, by whom
it had ever since been held and tenanted.
As the doctor turned an angle in the road, all at once the stately old
house rose before him. It was a skilfully managed effect, as it well
might be, for it was no vulgar English architect who had planned the
mansion and arranged its position and approach. The old house rose
before the Doctor, crowning a terraced garden, flanked at the left by an
avenue of tall elms. The flower-beds were edged with box, which diffused
around it that dreamy balsamic odor, full of ante-natal reminiscences
of a lost Paradise, dimly fragrant as might be the bdellium of ancient
Havilah, the land compassed by the river Pison that went out of Eden.
The garden was somewhat neglected, but not in disgrace,--and in the time
of tulips and hyacinths, of roses, of “snowballs,” of honeysuckles, of
lilacs, of syringas, it was rich with blossoms.
From the front-windows of the mansion the eye reached a far
blue mountain-summit,--no rounded heap, such as often shuts in a
village-landscape, but a sharp peak, clean-angled as Ascutney from
the Dartmouth green. A wide gap through miles of woods had opened this
distant view, and showed more, perhaps, than all the labors of the
architect and the landscape-gardener the large style of the early
Dudleys.
The great stone-chimney of the mansion-house was the centre from which
all the artificial features of the scene appeared to flow. The roofs,
the gables, the dormer-windows, the porches, the clustered offices in
the rear, all seemed to crowd about the great chimney. To this
central pillar the paths all converged. The single poplar behind the
house,--Nature is jealous of proud chimneys, and always loves to put
a poplar near one, so that it may fling a leaf or two down its black
throat every autumn,--the one tall poplar behind the house seemed to nod
and whisper to the grave square column, the elms to sway their branches
towards it. And when the blue smoke rose from its summit, it seemed to
be wafted away to join the azure haze which hung around the peak in the
far distance, so that both should bathe in a common atmosphere.
Behind the house were clumps of lilacs with a century's growth upon
them, and looking more like trees than like shrubs. Shaded by a group of
these was the ancient well, of huge circuit, and with a low arch opening
out of its wall about ten feet below the surface,--whether the door of a
crypt for the concealment of treasure, or of a subterranean passage, or
merely of a vault for keeping provisions cool in hot weather, opinions
differed.
On looking at the house, it was plain that it was built with Old-World
notions of strength and durability, and, so far as might be, with
Old-World materials. The hinges of the doors stretched out like arms,
instead of like hands, as we make them. The bolts were massive enough
for a donjon-keep. The small window-panes were actually inclosed in the
wood of the sashes instead of being stuck to them with putty, as in our
modern windows. The broad staircase was of easy ascent, and was guarded
by quaintly turned and twisted balusters. The ceilings of the two rooms
of state were moulded with medallion-portraits and rustic figures,
such as may have been seen by many readers in the famous old Philipse
house,--Washington's head-quarters,--in the town of Yorkers. The
fire-places, worthy of the wide-throated central chimney, were bordered
by pictured tiles, some of them with Scripture stories, some with
Watteau-like figures,--tall damsels in slim waists and with spread
enough of skirt for a modern ballroom, with bowing, reclining, or
musical swains of what everybody calls the “conventional” sort,--that
is, the swain adapted to genteel society rather than to a literal
sheep-compelling existence.
The house was furnished, soon after it was completed, with many heavy
articles made in London from a rare wood just then come into fashion,
not so rare now, and commonly known as mahogany. Time had turned it very
dark, and the stately bedsteads and tall cabinets and claw-footed
chairs and tables were in keeping with the sober dignity of the ancient
mansion. The old “hangings” were yet preserved in the chambers, faded,
but still showing their rich patterns,--properly entitled to their name,
for they were literally hung upon flat wooden frames like trellis-work,
which again were secured to the naked partitions.
There were portraits of different date on the walls of the various
apartments, old painted coats-of-arms, bevel-edged mirrors, and in one
sleeping-room a glass case of wax-work flowers and spangly symbols,
with a legend signifying that E. M. (supposed to be Elizabeth Mascarene)
wished not to be “forgot”.
“When I am dead and lay'd in dust
And all my bones are”--
Poor E. M.! Poor everybody that sighs for earthly remembrance in a
planet with a core of fire and a crust of fossils!
Such was the Dudley mansion-house,--for it kept its ancient name in
spite of the change in the line of descent. Its spacious apartments
looked dreary and desolate; for here Dudley Venner and his daughter
dwelt by themselves, with such servants only as their quiet mode of
life required. He almost lived in his library, the western room on the
ground-floor. Its window looked upon a small plat of green, in the midst
of which was a single grave marked by a plain marble slab. Except this
room, and the chamber where he slept, and the servants' wing, the rest
of the house was all Elsie's. She was always a restless, wandering
child from her early years, and would have her little bed moved from one
chamber to another,--flitting round as the fancy took her. Sometimes she
would drag a mat and a pillow into one of the great empty rooms, and,
wrapping herself in a shawl, coil up and go to sleep in a corner.
Nothing frightened her; the “haunted” chamber, with the torn hangings
that flapped like wings when there was air stirring, was one of her
favorite retreats. She had been a very hard creature to manage. Her
father could influence, but not govern her. Old Sophy, born of a slave
mother in the house, could do more with her than anybody, knowing her
by long instinctive study. The other servants were afraid of her. Her
father had sent for governesses, but none of them ever stayed long. She
made them nervous; one of them had a strange fit of sickness; not one of
them ever came back to the house to see her. A young Spanish woman who
taught her dancing succeeded best with her, for she had a passion for
that exercise, and had mastered some of the most difficult dances.
Long before this period, she had manifested some most extraordinary
singularities of taste or instinct. The extreme sensitiveness of her
father on this point prevented any allusion to them; but there
were stories floating round, some of them even getting into the
papers,--without her name, of course,--which were of a kind to excite
intense curiosity, if not more anxious feelings. This thing was certain,
that at the age of twelve she was missed one night, and was found
sleeping in the open air under a tree, like a wild creature. Very often
she would wander off by day, always without a companion, bringing home
with her a nest, a flower, or even a more questionable trophy of her
ramble, such as showed that there was no place where she was afraid to
venture. Once in a while she had stayed out over night, in which
case the alarm was spread, and men went in search of her, but never
successfully,--so--that some said she hid herself in trees, and others
that she had found one of the old Tory caves.
Some, of course, said she was a crazy girl, and ought to be sent to an
Asylum. But old Dr. Kittredge had shaken his head, and told them to bear
with her, and let her have her way as much as they could, but watch her,
as far as possible, without making her suspicious of them. He visited
her now and then, under the pretext of seeing her father on business, or
of only making a friendly call.
The Doctor fastened his horse outside the gate, and walked up the
garden-alley. He stopped suddenly with a start. A strange sound had
jarred upon his ear. It was a sharp prolonged rattle, continuous, but
rising and falling as if in rhythmical cadence. He moved softly towards
the open window from which the sound seemed to proceed.
Elsie was alone in the room, dancing one of those wild Moorish
fandangos, such as a matador hot from the Plaza de Toros of Seville or
Madrid might love to lie and gaze at. She was a figure to look upon
in silence. The dancing frenzy must have seized upon her while she
was dressing; for she was in her bodice, bare-armed, her hair floating
unbound far below the waist of her barred or banded skirt. She had
caught up her castanets, and rattled them as she danced with a kind of
passionate fierceness, her lithe body undulating with flexuous grace,
her diamond eyes glittering, her round arms wreathing and unwinding,
alive and vibrant to the tips of the slender fingers. Some passion
seemed to exhaust itself in this dancing paroxysm; for all at once she
reeled from the middle of the floor, and flung herself, as it were in
a careless coil, upon a great tiger's-skin which was spread out in one
corner of the apartment.
The old Doctor stood motionless, looking at her as she lay panting on
the tawny, black-lined robe of the dead monster which stretched out
beneath her, its rude flattened outline recalling the Terror of the
Jungle as he crouched for his fatal spring. In a few moments her head
drooped upon her arm, and her glittering eyes closed,--she was sleeping.
He stood looking at her still, steadily, thoughtfully, tenderly.
Presently he lifted his hand to his forehead, as if recalling some
fading remembrance of other years.
“Poor Catalina!”
This was all he said. He shook his head,--implying that his visit would
be in vain to-day,--returned to his sulky, and rode away, as if in a
dream.