AUNT POLLY CARTER
But old Mother Derwent was not altogether disappointed. As if answering
the blast of her horn a female appeared on the opposite shore,
signalizing for a boat with great vigor. Mary could only see that the
woman wore a short scarlet cloak, and that the brilliant cotton
handkerchief flaunting so impatiently was large enough for a sail to any
craft on the river.
Jane had withdrawn sulkily into the bedroom. She was by no means pleased
with the efforts her grandmother was making to bring the missionary
back; in her heart she was beginning to detest the good man.
When Mary came down and saw there was no one else to answer the
stranger’s signal, she went at once to unmoor her pretty canoe, and was
soon across the river.
“Oh, is it you, my pet?” cried a cordial voice, as she neared the shore.
“I thought mebby Jane would be on hand to row me across. Is grandmarm to
hum, and how’s your sister? Purty well, I hope?”
Mary’s face brightened. The visitor was Aunt Polly from the Elm-tree
tavern on the Kingston shore, a welcome guest at any house from
Wilkesbarre to the Lackawanna gap, but a woman who seldom, left the
shelter of her own roof, and her presence so far from her home might
well be a matter of wonder.
“Why, Aunt Polly, is it you? How glad grandma will be,” said Mary,
looking up from her seat in the canoe with pleasure in her eyes.
“Yes, it’s me sure enough, safe and sound. I’ll just take the bits out
of Gineral Washington’s mouth, and let him crop a bite of grass while I
go over and say how-do-you-do to grandma. See how the old feller eyes
that thick grass with the vilets in it! There, old chap, go at it.”
As she spoke, the old maid went up to a huge farm horse, cumbered with a
saddle much too narrow for his back, which bore unmistakable evidence of
its Connecticut origin; for the horns curved in like those of a vicious
cow, and the stirrups were so short that a tall rider, like Aunt Polly,
was compelled to double her limbs up till they formed a letter A under
her calico skirt whenever General Washington had the honor of carrying
her in state upon the wonderful mechanism of that side-saddle, which was
the pride and glory of her house.
“There, now,” she said, unbuckling the throat-latch, and slipping the
bridle, bits and all, around General Washington’s stumpy neck, which she
patted with great affection. “Go in for a feed, and no mistake, Gineral;
only keep to the bank, and, mind you, don’t roll on that saddle—it
couldn’t be matched on this side the Green Mountains, I tell you, now.”
General Washington seemed to understand all this perfectly, for he gave
his great lumbering head a toss which signified plainer than words that
he understood the value of that saddle quite as well as his mistress,
and knew how to keep his peace, if it came to that, without being
lectured about it. He whinnied out his satisfaction, in answer to Aunt
Polly’s caresses, and trotted off with great dignity toward a little
rivulet on the bank, where the grass was green as emeralds, and the
violets blue as a baby’s eyes.
“There,” said Aunt Polly, looking after him as he rolled heavily along,
with the flesh quivering like a jelly under his sleek hide, “isn’t he a
picterful sight? Why, Mary dear, that hoss knows more than two-thirds of
the men in Wyoming. Now, that saddle is jest as safe on his back as if
it was hung up by the stirrup in my kitchen—he’s a wonderful critter, is
Gineral Washington.”
With her head half turned back, in proud admiration of her steed, Aunt
Polly let herself down the bank, talking all the time, and at last sat
down in the bottom of the canoe, gathering her scarlet cloak around her,
and covering her ankles decorously with the skirt of her striped dress.
Then, with a gentle dip of the oars, Mary headed her little craft for
the island.
Mother Derwent was both pleased at and annoyed by the sight of her
visitor—pleased, because Aunt Polly Carter was born in the same old
Connecticut town with herself; and annoyed, that she, the very best cook
and housekeeper in Wyoming, should find a spoiled breakfast on the
hearth—potatoes browned into chips, venison steaks with all the gravy
dried up, and the johnnycake overdone. It was a terrible humiliation,
and Mother Derwent felt as if she had been detected in some shameful act
of negligence by her old friend of the Elm-tree tavern.
“Just in time,” exclaimed Aunt Polly, taking off her cloak and untying
her bonnet; “I was afraid breakfast ’ed be over afore I got here.
Gracious goodness! Miss Derwent, don’t you see that johnnycake’s burnt
to a crisp?—here, give it to me—half cold too, dear, dear—never mind,
good soul! it might a-been worse—there, take it this way, and beat it
between both hands a trifle—oh, that tea smells something like, oh,
ha—you haven’t forgot to cook a meal of victuals yet; you and I can give
these Pennsylvanians a lesson any day, Miss Derwent.”
Grandma explained how the breakfast had been kept waiting till it was
quite spoiled; but Aunt Polly would listen to nothing of the
kind—everything was excellent, the tea drawn beautifully, and the butter
perfection. As for the preserved plums and crab-apples, she had tasted
nothing equal to them in years; they had the real Connecticut
flavor—quite put her in mind of old times.
They had all been seated at the table some minutes before Jane made her
appearance. She was still moody, and received Aunt Polly with
distrustful reserve, which the good lady did not seem to regard in the
least, but went on with her breakfast, tranquil as a summer’s day.
After they arose from the table there was a world of questions to ask,
and experiments to try. Aunt Polly took pride in exhibiting all her
accomplishments before the young girls. She sat down at the flax-wheel,
arranged the threads in the flyers, and directly the whole cabin was
filled with their hum.
“Look here, girls, and see how an old housekeeper can spin. Why, long
before I was your age I had yards and yards of homespun linen out in
father’s spring meadow, whitening for my setting out. I’ve got a great
chest full of that ’ere identical linen in my house this minute, that’s
never been used, and never will be till I’m settled for life.”
Now, as Aunt Polly was a middle-aged woman when she left Connecticut,
and had lived at the Elm-tree tavern twenty-five years, this idea of
settling for life-which, of course, comprised a husband, who might also
be landlord to that establishment—struck the young girls at once as so
improbable that they both smiled.
Aunt Polly knew nothing of this, but kept spinning on—tread, tread,
tread—now dipping her fingers in the dried shell of a mock-orange, that
hung full of water to the distaff, and daintily moistening the flax as
it ran through them—now stopping to change the thread on her flyer, and
off again—hum—hum—with a smile of self-satisfaction that was pleasant to
behold.
After this little display, the good landlady tried her hand at the loom,
where a linen web was in progress of completion; but finding the
quill-box empty, she called out with her cheerful voice for Jane to come
and wind some quills, for she was dying to try her hand at the shuttle,
if it was only to show them how things were done when she was a girl.
Jane could not altogether resist this good humor; still she came
forward, half pouting, dragged the lumbering old swifts out from under
the loom, banded her quill wheel, and soon supplied the empty shuttle,
which Aunt Polly was so impatient to use.
Now there was a clatter indeed; the treadles rose and fell with grating
moans beneath those resolute feet; the rude gearing shrieked on its
pulleys; the shuttle flew in and out, now darting into the weaver’s
right hand—now into the left, while the lathe banged away, and the old
loom trembled in all its timbers.
“That’s right—look on, girls,” cried the old maid with enthusiasm.
“It’ll be a good while, I reckon, before either of you can come up to
this; but ‘live and learn’ is a good saying. Your grandmother and I’ve
seen the time when we broke more threads with awkward throws than we
knew how to mend with two thumbs and eight fingers. Just see this
shuttle fly—isn’t it beautiful? Oh, girls, there’s nothing like
work—it keeps the body healthy, and the soul out of mischief. Wind
away, Janey, it’ll do you lots of good; we’ll keep at it till Miss
Derwent has washed up the morning dishes; an extra yard’ll help her
along wonderfully—that’s the music—keep the old wheel a-going—more
quills—more quills!”
Jane took a double handful of quills from her lap and brought them to
the loom. While Aunt Polly was putting one in her shuttle, she looked
keenly in the young girl’s face, shook her head, and went to work again
more vigorously than before. Mary saw this, and was satisfied that the
old maid had some deeper object in her visit than these experiments with
her grandmother’s wheel and loom.
But Aunt Polly went on with her work, becoming more and more excited
with every fling of the shuttle. She let out her web and rolled her
cloth-beam eight or nine times before her enthusiasm began to flag.
“There,” she said at last, laying the empty shuttle daintily upon the
cloth she had woven, and forcing herself out from the slanting seat, “if
anybody wants an evener yard of cloth than that, let them weave it, I
say. Now, Janey, come and show me your garden, and let’s see if it’s as
forward as mine. I’ve had lettuce and peppergrass up this week.”
Aunt Polly strode toward the door as she spoke, and Jane followed her.
“Now,” said the old maid, facing round as they reached the garden, “you
needn’t suppose that I took Gineral Washington from the plough, and come
up to Monockonok just to see you all. I should have waited till after
planting-time for that; but I heard something last night that worried me
more than a little, and I want to know what it means, for we
marriageable females ought to stand by each other. How comes it, Jane
Derwent, that the young men in my bar-room talk about you with their
loose tongues, and dare to drink your health in glasses of corn whiskey
which they sometimes forget to pay for?”
“Who has done this?” questioned Jane, firing up, “and if they have how
can I help it?”
“I’ll tell you how it was, Jane Derwent. Last night, nigh on to morning,
Walter Butler and young Wintermoot, with three or four other rank Tories
from the fort, came to my house, banging away at the door for us to get
up and give them something to drink. Now, I hate these young fellers
worse than pison, but one can’t keep tavern and private house at the
same time when a sign swings agin your door; any loafer has a right to
call you out of bed when he pleases. Well, they knocked and hammered
till I woke up the bar-keeper, and sent him down with orders to make
their sling weak, and get rid of them the minute he could; but, mercy on
us, gal, they had come down the river like a flock of wolves, and was
just as easy to pacify. The amount of whiskey they drank among them in
less than an hour no one would believe that hadn’t seen it. There was
nothing but a board partition between me and the bar-room; so I heard
every word they said, and considering that I was a respectable female
that might be called upon to accept an offer of marriage any day, their
conversation was not exactly what it should have been.”
“And they mentioned me—you said that?”
“Mentioned you? I should say they did—Butler, Wintermoot, and all the
rest of em. I declare it made my blood bile to hear the language they
used.”
“Will you tell me what it was, Aunt Polly—me, and no one else, for I
would not have grandma and Mary know it for the world?”
“Yes—that is what I came for. Young Wintermoot began first—teasing
Butler because he’d tried to run away with you, and had to give it up
after you’d both started, when a little hunchback and a sneak of a
minister said he mustn’t. These were his exact words. Then another set
in and wanted to drink success to the next time in bumpers of hot toddy.
Directly there was a crash of glasses and a shout, and in all the noise
I heard your name over and over. Some were laughing; some said you were
a beauty and no mistake, while Butler talked loudest, and said he was
sure to get you away from the hunchback yet, spite of all your pride and
ridiculous nonsense.”
“He said that, did he?” cried Jane, biting her lips with silent rage.
“Yes, he said that, and more, yet. When one of the fellows asked what
the pretty squaw would do, he laughed, and answered, as well as he could
for hiccuping, that after he’d got some money that he expected from Sir
John Johnson, she might go to Amsterdam, or where she could find more
fire and less water, for all he cared. Then he went on telling how he
had left her in the woods above Falling Spring, only a few hours before,
crying like a baby because he would not stay and tramp back to Seneca
Lake with her tribe.
“The young Tories received all this with bursts of laughter, joking
about his squaw wife, and telling him what a fool he was to let you go
when once a’most off. They said it was clear enough you didn’t want to
go with him, that he’d got the mitten straight out, because you liked
Edward Clark better than him, and so he had married the squaw out of
spite.
“That set him to swearing like a trooper; he said there wasn’t a word of
truth in it, that you were crazy in love with him, and would follow him
like a dog to the ends of the earth, wife or no wife, if you could only
escape from the island, and no one the wiser—more, he said that he left
you crying your eyes out that very night because he went off with the
Indian girl instead of you.”
“It was false—there was not a word of truth in it, Aunt Polly. I hope I
may drop down dead in my tracks if there was,” cried Jane, trembling
with rage and shame. “I was glad to see him go; Mary can tell you as
much.”
“Then you have seen him?” questioned Aunt Polly—“then he was on the
island last night, as he said?”
“I can’t help his coming to the island, Aunt Polly; every one comes here
who has a boat, if he pleases; but I can say nobody wanted Walter
Butler. He’s been a-visiting the Wintermoots off and on for three or
four months. I invited him and the Wintermoots to my birthday party, and
was a fool for my pains; but as for liking him, the Tory, the young
outcast, I—I——”
Here Jane burst into a torrent of angry tears. Aunt Polly began to dry
up this sorrow tenderly with her great cotton handkerchief, which seemed
large enough to block up a mill-sluice.
“Don’t cry, Janey, don’t cry, that’s a dear. There, there, I shan’t tell
anybody but yourself about the scamp’s boasting, not even Edward, though
his father is my cousin.”
“No, don’t, Aunt Polly, don’t tell him, of all people in the world.”
“Why—why, Janey dear? How red you are! Tell me, you and Edward ain’t
keeping company, nor nothing, are you?”
“Yes, we are, Aunt Polly, and have been this ever so long. He would kill
that hateful villain if he knew half that he said at your house last
night.”
“But he shan’t know it, child; you, and I, and Mary will settle that
affair amongst ourselves, to say nothing of grandma, who would be worth
us all if it came to a running scold.”
“Don’t—don’t say a word to Mary or grandma,” cried Jane, in breathless
fear; “but you have not told me all yet.”
“No, Jane; what is to come makes the old Connecticut blood bile in my
veins. I swan to man! it was all I could do to keep from jumping out of
bed, and going in amongst them, when they sot down, and made up a plot
to carry you off—them young Wintermoots was to do it, and meet Butler in
the Blue Mountains after he’d got a heap of money that he expected from
Sir John Johnson. I suppose that’s the son of Sir William Johnson, the
old reprobate who had so many Injun wives in the Mohawk Valley, as if
one wife wasn’t enough for any man in a new country where women folks
are scarce. Well, as I was a-saying, Butler told ’em to go over to the
island some night, and whistle like that—here he sent a long whistle
through the partition that made me e’en a’most start up in bed, and the
young Wintermoots practised on it like schoolboys learning their a-b-abs
till they filled the hull house like a nest of blackbirds and brown
thrashers.
“Butler told ’em that you’d spring out of bed like a hawk from its nest
the moment you heard that, and if they only flattered you a little, and
told you for earnest that he didn’t care a king’s farthing for the
Indian girl, and wasn’t married to her, only Indian fashion, you’d be
off with them, and glad enough to go.”
“He did, ha? he thinks I’ll follow him. Never mind, Aunt Polly. Let him
come—let them whistle. Oh, how I wish I was a man.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Polly, thoughtfully, “men have their privileges. It’s
something to be able to knock a chap down when he deserves it, and then,
agin, when a man’s heart is full he can speak out, and not let his
feelings curdle like sour milk in a pan. Yes, Janey, I think it would be
pleasant if some of us could be men once in a while; but human nature is
human nature, and it ain’t to be expected.”
“And this was all these wicked men said?” questioned Jane, who had lost
half this speech in her own bitter thoughts.
“Yes, for when their plot was laid, they left the house. I peeped
through the window, holding the valance close, that they could not see
my nightcap, you know, and watched them shake hands before Butler
mounted his horse. He rode off down stream, and the other fellers turned
up the road towards Wintermoot’s Fort.”
“And this was all?”
“All that belongs to you; but now I’ve a word to say to Mary; by that
time Gineral Washington will be tired of cropping vilets, I reckon, and
we’ll be jogging down stream again.”
“Mary! what can you want with Mary?—not to tell her——”
“By no manner of means, Janey. If you want anybody else to help you,
arter what I’ve told about these chaps, the truth is, you ain’t worth
helping anyhow. A gal that can’t take care of herself when once warned,
wouldn’t be kept back from ruin if a hull meeting-houseful of jest sich
angels as our precious Mary was standing in the way. No, I don’t mean to
torment that heavenly critter with any sich wickedness; but yet I’ve got
a few words to say to her, and you’ll oblige me by going to the cabin
and sending her out here at onst.”
Jane was glad to obey. This interview with the old maid had not been so
pleasant that she wished to prolong it; so she went and summoned Mary.
That gentle girl went into the garden a little anxious, for the
excitement of the last night had found its reaction, and she was ready
to tremble at the fall of a leaf.
The change that had come over Aunt Polly was a beautiful proof of the
influence of a character like that of Mary Derwent. With Jane the old
maid had been peremptory and dictatorial, feeling very little respect
for the wayward girl—she expressed none; but for Mary her heart was
filled with a world of tender reverence. She touched her daintily, as
she would have plucked a snowdrop, and spoke to her in a low, earnest
voice, such as she would have used in prayer, had she been much inclined
to devotion.
“Mary,” she said, laying one hard hand lightly on the maiden’s shoulder,
“a strange thing happened to me this morning. As Gineral Washington and
I was on our way up stream, a woman came out from the beach-woods on the
flats, and stopped right in the road, afore that knowing animal and me,
as if she wanted to say something; but she didn’t speak, and the Gineral
sort o’ shied at fust, for the red dress, all glittering with wampum,
was enough to scare any hoss.”
“Had she a scarlet dress on, a crown of feathers around her head, and a
glittering snake twisted in her hair?” inquired Mary, quickly.
“That’s her to a T. I shall never forget the sharp, red eyes of that
sarpent; a live rattlesnake couldn’t have eyed the Gineral and I more
fiercely. I waited a minute, to give the woman a chance, if she wanted
to speak, but she was searching my face with her eyes, as if she wanted
to look me through afore she opened her lips. I was a’most tempted to up
whip and ride straight over her; but the Gineral seemed to have his own
idee—not a huff would he lift. I shook the bridle like all-possessed,
and chirruped him along, as if he’d been a nussing baby; but there he
stood stock-still in the road, a-eyeing the strange woman jest as
independent as she was eyeing him and me.”
“And did she say nothing?”
“By-an’-by she spoke, and though it was afore sunrise, it seemed as if a
bust of light broke over her face, it lit up so.
“‘Can you tell me,’ she said, ‘where I can find a small island that lies
in the river about here? I have passed one or two, but there are no
houses on ’em, and the one I want has a cabin somewhere near the shore.’
“‘Maybe you want Monockonok,’ says I, ‘where old Miss Derwent lives?’
“‘Yes,’ says she, ‘that is the island and Derwent is the name. She has
two daughters, I believe.’
“‘Two granddaughters,’ says I.
“‘Granddaughters, are they? And de you know these girls?’ says she.
“‘Well, yes, I reckon so,’ says I, ‘and mighty smart gals they are.
Jane’s a beauty, without paint or whitewash, I can tell you; and as for
Mary——’ But no matter what I said about you, my dear; it wasn’t all you
deserved, but——”
“No matter—oh, there was no need of saying anything about me,” murmured
the deformed, shrinking within herself, as she always did when her
person was alluded to.
Aunt Polly paused abruptly, and began to whip a sweet-briar bush near
her with great vigor. She had but a vague idea of all the keen
sensitiveness her words had disturbed, but that was sufficient; her
rough, kind heart was troubled at the very idea of giving pain to that
gentle girl.
“Well, I only said if ever there was an angel on earth, you was one; but
I’m sorry as can be, now; I wouldn’t ’a’ said so for the world if I’d
thought you didn’t like it,” pleaded the old maid with deprecating
meekness. “You know, Mary Derwent, I always thought you was the salt of
the ’arth—that’s the worst I will say of you any how, like it or not.”
“But the woman, Aunt Polly—the strange lady with that living serpent
around her head—what did she want of Jane and me?” inquired Mary, keenly
interested in the subject. “What could she mean by inquiring about
grandmother?”
“Not knowing, can’t tell, Miss Mary. She fell to thinking, with her hand
up to her forehead—a purty hand it was, too—afore I’d done talking; at
last says she:
“‘That is the one I wish to speak with.’
“‘Which,’ says I, ‘Miss Jane?’
“‘No,’ says she, ‘the golden-haired one that you’ve been telling me
about.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘what of her, marm;? I’m just a-going over to
Monockonok, and can show you the way, if you want to see her.’
“‘No, not just now,’ says she, ‘I’ve something else to attend to first;
but if you see this girl, tell her to meet me, near sunset, at the
spring where she went so late last night—she will understand you.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘if I may be so bold, what do you want with Mary
Derwent?’
“‘I wish to speak with her,’ says she, with a wave of her hand that made
Gineral Washington back off sideways; ‘only give my message, good woman,
and here’s a guinea for you.’
“Here she took a piece of gold from her pocket, and held it out.”
“But you did not take it, Aunt Polly?”
“Didn’t take it! trust me for letting a bright golden guinea slip
through these fingers when it can be honestly come by—of course I took
it.”
Here Aunt Polly drew forth a shot-bag from her enormous pocket, untied
the towstring, and exhibited a quantity of silver and huge copper
pennies, and from among them, daintily folded in a dry maple-leaf, she
took a bright piece of gold.
“There it is, harnsome as a yaller bird,” she cried exultingly. “Look at
it, Mary—I don’t mind your holding it a minute or so in your hand. I’d
like to see any woman in Wyoming match that!”
“I never saw a golden guinea before,” said Mary, scanning the coin with
innocent curiosity. “It is very beautiful; but somehow, Aunt Polly, I
can’t help wishing you hadn’t taken it.”
“Well, if you think so,” said the old maid, eyeing the gold with a
rueful look, “if you really think so, Mary Derwent, jest give it back to
the lady when she comes. I don’t want to be mean, nor nothing,
but—but—no, give it here—I can stand a good deal, but as for giving up
money when it’s once been in my puss, that’s too much for human nature
to put up with.”
She snatched eagerly at the gold, and, with a grim smile upon her mouth,
and a flush about her eyes, hustled it back into her shot-bag, tied the
strings with a jerk, and crowded the treasure down into the depths of
her pocket, uttering only a few grim words in the energetic operation.
“There now—I’d like to see anybody strong enough to get that ’ere
money-puss out of this ’ere pocket, that’s all!”
Mary felt how impossible it was for the old maid to release her hold on
money, when she once got it in her grasp; so with a faint smile, which
made the stingy old soul flush about the eyes once more, she turned the
subject.
“At sunset, did you say, Aunt Polly?”
“Yes, at sunset to-night, and you wasn’t to fail—I promised that much.”
“Can I tell Jane or grandmother?” inquired Mary, thoughtfully.
“Not on no account. The lady—for anybody that dressed up like that, with
a pocket full of gold, must be a lady, anyhow you fix it—the lady—says
she: ‘Tell Mary Derwent to come alone,’ and, says I, ‘she shall, if my
name’s Polly Carter.’ When my word is giv, it’s giv—so you must go down
to the spring all alone, jest at sundown, Mary Derwent.”
“Yes, I’ll go,” said Mary, looking wistfully into the distance; “of
course, I’ll go.”
“That’s a good gal—I was sure you would. Now, I’ll jest say good-by to
Miss Derwent, and Gineral Washington and I will make tracks for home.”
Aunt Polly strode away up the garden, muttering to herself:
“Wal, I’ve killed two birds with one stone, and catch’d a goldfinch to
boot. That ’ere side-saddle wasn’t mounted for nothing. If vartue al’es
gets rewarded in this way, I’ll keep Gineral Washington a-going.”
These muttered thoughts brought the old maid up to the cabin, and she
called out from the threshold:
“Jane, remember what I was a-saying, now do. When will you all come and
take tea with me? Shall be proper glad to see you any time—the sooner
the better. Good-bye, Miss Derwent; good-bye all.”
Here Aunt Polly gave a comprehensive sweep of the hand, including
grandma in the house, Mary in the garden, and Jane, who stood by her on
the door-stone.
“Good-bye all. Come, Janey, set me on the other side, and I’ll speak a
good word for you to the beaus when they come to my tavern.”
Jane tied a handkerchief over her head, followed the old maid to the
cove, unmoored her canoe, and soon reached the western shore.
Aunt Polly shook her by the hand, repeated a word of grim advice, then
mounted the bank and threw out her handkerchief as a signal to Gineral
Washington.
That inestimable beast had made the best of his time, and would
willingly have stayed longer; but seeing his mistress’s gorgeous signal
fluttering in the air, like the mainsail of a schooner, he made one more
desperate crop at the rich herbage, and came trotting decorously
forward, with the foam and short grass dropping from his mouth at every
step.
Aunt Polly replaced the bit, let out an inch of the girth, to
accommodate the animal’s digestive organs, mounted a hemlock stump,
littered all round with fresh chips, and, after coaxing Gineral
Washington into the right position, seated herself grimly on the
side-saddle and rode away.