In college I was the "Illustrious Lazy." In my professional studies
and avocations, I have been so hard driven, in order to make up for
four idle years, that I am wasted almost to a shadow, and fears are
entertained that I shall wholly vanish into thin air. My physician
talks gravely about my having exhausted my nervous energy, and sends
me to Ratborough, as the place of all others the most favorable for
entire intellectual repose. I am living with an old aunt, Tabitha
Flint, who was wont to rock me, and trot me, and wash my face, in my
helpless infancy, and can hardly yet be convinced that I have outgrown
such endearing assiduities in the twenty-five years that have
intervened. I let her pet me, so far as I find it convenient, and,
indeed, farther, because I feel grateful for the kind feelings of
which I am the object.
There is another personage in the household, who probably thinks that
in the exuberant kindness of my aunt I have a full average of
civility, without the least interest on her part. Do not for a moment
imagine that I am piqued at her insulting indifference of manner
towards a young man who (I beg you to believe) is not wholly without
claim to a glance of approbation now and then from a lady's eye. You
must not suppose I care at all about the matter. But as I have not
even a book allowed me to take up my thoughts, my curiosity fixes
itself strangely upon this silent, sulky, meditative little person,
who takes about as much notice of me as of the figure of Father Time
over the clock.
What can such a body have to think about the livelong day that is so
absorbing that all one's bright thoughts, and one's most whimsical
sallies, pass without notice? Should I see her once move a muscle of
her very plain, doggedly inexpressive, provokingly composed phiz, I
should jump up and cry, "Bo!" with surprise.
She vanishes several hours at a time, and I hear her humming to
herself, sometimes in one room, sometimes in another. I wish I knew
how she amuses herself, for I find self-amusement the hardest drudgery
I ever tried. I could stamp, I am so impatient of doing nothing but
lounge about; I am as snappish as a chained cur, as cross as a caged
bear. And while I gnaw my nails, and stretch, and yawn, I hear that
contented, bee-like murmur, and now and then a light, rapid step on
the stairs, or about rooms which I do not frequent. What can she find
to be so busy about, the absurd little person? how can she be so happy
in this dull house alone?
There is a piano, but as silent as she is. I do not see her wince,
though I drum upon the keys with most ingenious discords, and sing
false on purpose as loud as I can bellow. I will not ask her if she
can play; she can have no ear at all, or she would box mine in
self-defence.
There is somebody, by name Flora, who is looked for daily by
stage-coach. "Flory," says my aunt, "sings like a canary-bird, and
plays a sight,"--and _at sight_ too, it seems. This Miss Flora will be
found to possess a tongue, I hope, and the disposition to give it
exercise. I do not know certainly that Miss Etty--By the way, what is
her real name? I won't condescend to ask any question about her. But
really, I wish I knew whether it is Mehitable. Perhaps Henrietta. No,
no, that is too pretty a name; I shall call her _Little Ugly_.
Hark! I have two or three times heard a very musical laugh in the
direction of the kitchen. Heigh-ho! How can any mortal laugh in
Ratborough! Having nothing better to do, I will go and see who this
very merry personage may be. I will inquire into this gay outbreak, in
a land of stupidity. Hark, again!--how refreshing! I must and will
know what caused such a gush of mirth. Irish humor, perhaps, for Norah
is laughing, after her guttural fashion, too.--
As I popped my head into the kitchen, Little Ugly was just vanishing
at the opposite door. I could not make Norah tell me what Miss Etty
put under her arm, as she looked over her shoulder at me, and darted
out of sight. O my noisy boots! I might as well wear a bell round my
neck.
Stage-wheels are rattling up the road. Now they run upon the grass
before the door. I rush in undignified haste to the window. Shall
I--will I--go and help this long-expected Miss Flora to alight?
No,--for I see forty boxes on the coach-top. A very handsome girl,
really! I will get out a blameless dickey,--if such there be. First
impressions are important. I wish my hair was cut!
I hear my aunt coming to inform me of Flora's arrival. I shall be
hugely surprised! Humph!--will it be worth while to trouble myself
about the lop-eared dickey? Little Ugly will be amused, if I do. She
_can_ laugh, it seems. I had thought there was no fun in her mental
composition. Yet I have imagined a glimmer or so in her eyes, when she
thought I was not looking at them, and the shadow of a dimple in her
cheek now and then.
Instead of Adonizing, I will set my long locks on end, and don my
slipshod slippers. "Yes, Aunt; I hear, good lady! I will presently
arrive, to make my bow to _Little Handsome_."
* * * * *
_Journal, Sept. 23d_. Truly, the presence of Miss Flora Cooper makes
Willow Valley a new place. At least six hours are taken from the
length of the days, though I have given up my afternoon slumber, and
play chess and backgammon instead of drumming on the table or
piano. Now am I relieved from that tedious companion, my own self. I
never liked him very well; I had rather do any thing than have a sober
talk with a serious personage, who always takes me to do for not
making more of him. He scolds me, just as a stay-at-home wife lectures
a gay husband, who never returns to his better half when he finds any
thing to amuse him abroad. Good-by, old fellow; I have found better
company than your rememberings or hopings; to wit, Miss Flora Cooper,
alias Little Handsome, alias Aunt Tabby's Canary.
The first day or two after her arrival, Miss Flora pouted at me. I
was exceedingly well amused, making all the saucy speeches I could
think of, in the pure spirit of mischief, and taking no notice of her
tossing her pretty head, and turning her back upon me. Finding that
her displeasure was not producing any particular effect upon the
object of it, I imagine the indignant beauty begins to plot a
different revenge on me. "Ha, ha! Miss Flora! It is not because you
like me better than you did, that you are all smiles, and grace, and
sunshine. I shall not flatter you the more, I am determined. I am on
my guard. You shall never boast of me on your list of obsequious
admirers. No, no, Little Handsome! I am no lady's man, and never was
flirted withal in my life. I defy your smiles, as stoutly as your
frowns. I like your pretty face; yes, it is exceedingly beautiful, as
far as form and coloring go to make up the beauty of a face. And the
play of the features,--yes, very lively and pretty, only too much of
it. You should not smile so often; and I am tired of your pretty
surprise, your playful upbraidings, and the raps of your fan. I want
more repose of feature, Little Handsome. Now, what a contrast you and
sedate Miss Etty present! Ah, very good! I am glad you have given up
following Little Ugly out of the room the moment we rise from
table. You sit down to your tiny basket, and demurely take out
something that passes for work. I don't see you do much at it,
however. I give you warning that I never hold skeins to be wound, not
I. I will not read aloud; so you need not offer me that 'Sonnet to
Flora,' in manuscript, nor your pet poet in print. We will talk; it is
a comfort to have my wit appreciated, after wasting so much on my
aunt, who cannot, and Miss Etty, who will not understand. I am glad to
have a chance to speak, and to hear a human voice in answer. I like
especially to rattle on when any nonsense will do. Chat is truly
agreeable when one's brains are not severely taxed to keep it going."
_Sept. 24th_. Charming little Canary! I have spent the forenoon with
her at the piano. I like her playing when she does not attempt my
favorite tunes. It must be confessed she is apt to vary somewhat, and
not for the better always. Her singing,--Aunt Tabitha well describes
it as that of a canary; sweet and liquid, and clear, and sustained,
but all alike. Her throat is a fine instrument; I shall teach her to
use it with more expression and feeling. We will have another lesson
to-morrow.
I thought, though, there was a shadow over her face when I called it
_practising_. Etty's eyes met mine at the moment, a rare occurrence.
What was her thought? One cannot read in her immovable face.
_Evening_. I am booked for a horseback ride with Little Handsome
to-morrow morning. How did she make me offer? I did not mean to. All
country girls ride, I believe. I often see Miss Etty cantering through
the shady lanes all by herself. I saw the bars down, at the end of the
track through the wood, one day. I immediately concluded that Little
Ugly had paced off that way, that I need not see her from my window. I
put the bars up again, and lay in wait behind the bushes. Soon I heard
her approaching. I come forward as she comes near, on that rat-like
pony of hers, who holds his head down as if searching for something
lost in the road. I stand in doubt whether to laugh at her
predicament, or advance in a gentlemanly manner to remove the obstacle
I had put in her way. When lo! the absurd little nag clears it at a
bound, and skims away over the green track like a swallow, till he
vanishes under the leafy arch. I am left in a very foolish attitude,
with mouth and eyes wide open.
Now this independent young lady shall be at liberty to take care of
herself, with no officious interference of mine; I will not invite her
to join us to-morrow morning, as I intended. I wonder if any horses
are to be procured that are not rats. I hope Miss Flora knows enough
to mount her pony, for I am sure I do not know how to help her. Whew!
I hope we shall meet with no disasters! I feel certain Little Handsome
would scream like a sea-gull, pull the wrong rein, tangle her foot in
the stirrup or riding-skirt, faint, fall, break her neck--O horrors!
Will not the dear old Aunt Tabitha forbid her going?
What a well-proportioned and ladylike figure it was, now I think of
it! How gracefully she sat upon her flying Dobbin!
_Sept. 25th_. Rainy. Glad of it. Breakfast late. Miss Etty did not
appear, having been up some hours, I imagine. What for, I wonder? What
can she be about? One thing pleases me in her. If Aunt Tabitha wants
any little attention, a needle threaded, or a dropped stitch taken up,
Miss Etty quietly comes to her aid. It is so entirely a matter of
course, the old lady only smiles, but any service from Flora calls
forth an acknowledgment; it being a particular effort of good nature,
and generally the fruit of a direct appeal. Miss Etty talks more than
she did, too. While I am talking nonsense with Little Handsome, I hear
her amusing my good aunty, and I catch a few words, her utterance
having a peculiar distinctness, and the lowest tones being fine and
clear, like those of a good singer on a pianissimo strain. It is a
peculiarly ladylike articulation; was she born and bred in Ratborough,
I wonder? She never speaks while we are singing. Does she like music,
then? I asked her once, but what sort of answer is "Yes!" to such a
question? And that is all I elicited.
Music again, the forenoon occupation. Miss Flora does not like being
criticized, I find. One must not presume to set her right in the
smallest particular. Singers are proverbially irritable! I am not
certain _I_ could belong to a glee-club, and never get cross or
unreasonable. I hate to be corrected; but I hate more to be incorrect.
I could give Canary a hint or two now and then that would be
serviceable, if she would permit it. I have no right, however, to take
it upon me to instruct her, and it puts her in a pet. She laughed it
off, but I saw the mounting color and the flashing glance. I am an
impudent fellow, I suppose. Honest, to boot. I think she need not take
offence at what was intended as a friendly help. I am no flatterer, at
least. Really, I am hurt that I might not take so trifling a liberty
in behalf of my favorite song. I'll walk off as often as she sings
it. Can her temper be perfectly good? And yet, one could not expect--I
ought not to be surprised. Yet I can't help thinking, suppose--just
suppose I _had_ a right to find fault,--suppose I were a near
friend,--would she bear it then? Supposing she were my companion for
life--Humph! that startles one,--was I near thinking of it in earnest?
She is beautiful; I should be proud of her abroad. But at home,--at
home, where there should be confidence, would there not be constraint?
Must no improvement ever be suggested, because it implies
imperfection? I hope none of my friends will ever be on such terms
with me; if I am touchy like a nettle, may they grasp me hard, and
fear me not.
_Sept. 26th_. This little sheet of water in front of the house has the
greatest variety of aspects; its face is like a human face, full of
varying expressions. A slight haze made it so beautiful just before
sunset, I took my chair, and put it out of the window upon the grass,
then followed it, and sat with it tipped back against the house, close
by the window of one of those mysterious rooms where Miss Etty immures
herself. I heard the Canary say in a scolding tone, "I should think
you might oblige me; it is such a trifle to do, it is not worth
refusing. Why should you care for him!"
No answer, though I confess my ears were erected to the sharpest
attitude of listening. I was wholly oblivious of _myself_, or I should
have taken myself away, as in honor bound.
"Won't you now, Etty? I'll only ask for one of our old duets, just
one."
"No, Flora," said Little Ugly, coldly enough.
"Why not?" No answer.
"To be sure, _he_ might hear. He would find out that you are
musical. What of that? Where is the use of being _able_ to sing, to
sing only when there's nobody to listen?"
"I sing only to friends. I cannot sing, I have never sung, to persons
in whom I have no confidence."
"Afraid! What a little goose!"
"Not afraid, exactly."
"I don't comprehend, I am sure."
"I do not expect you should."
"I never did understand you."
"You never will." Silence again.
Flora tuned up, and, of all tunes, she must needs hum _my_ song. I was
on my feet in a moment to depart, when I heard the clear tones of
Etty's voice again, and stood still, with one foot advanced.
"Flora, you should sharp that third note in the last line."
Flora murdered it again, with the most atrocious, cold-blooded
cruelty. I almost mocked the sound aloud in my passion.
"I do not tell you to vex you, only I saw that Mr. Ratcliffe--"
"You need not trouble yourself about _his_ opinion."
"I knew you would not like it, if I told you of a mistake. But I
supposed you would rectify it, and I should have done you a kindness,
even against your will."
"And I to hate you for it, eh?"
"If you can."
"Indeed I cannot, Etty, for you are my very best friend. But you are a
horrid, truth-telling, formidable body. Why not let me sing on, my own
way? I don't thank you a bit. I had rather sing it wrong, than be
corrected. It hurts my pride. I think people should take my music as
they find it. If it does not please them, they are not obliged to ask
me to sing. One note wrong can surely be put up with, if the rest is
worth hearing. I shall continue to sing it as I have done, I think."
"No,--please don't!"
"If I will mend it when I think of it, will you sing a duet?"
"Yes, though it will cost me more than you know."
"Poh!" And Flora sang the song, without accompaniment. The desired
sharp rung upon my ears, and set my nerves at rest.
"Bravo! Encore!" I cried, beneath the window, and was pelted with
peach-stones.