THE BRIDE.
Mary Erskine was an orphan. Her mother died when she was about twelve
years old. Her father had died long before, and after her father's
death her mother was very poor, and lived in so secluded and solitary
a place, that Mary had no opportunity then to go to school. She
began to work too as soon as she was able to do any thing, and it was
necessary from that day forward for her to work all the time; and this
would have prevented her from going to school, if there had been one
near. Thus when her mother died, although she was an intelligent and
very sensible girl, she could neither read nor write a word. She told
Mrs. Bell the day that she went to live with her, that she did not
even know any of the letters, except the round one and the crooked
one. The round one she said she _always_ knew, and as for S she
learned that, because it stood for Erskine. This shows how little she
knew about spelling.
Mrs. Bell wanted Mary Erskine to help her in taking care of her own
daughter Mary, who was then an infant. As both the girls were named
Mary, the people of the family and the neighbors gradually fell
into the habit of calling each of them by her full name, in order to
distinguish them from each other. Thus the baby was never called Mary,
but always Mary Bell, and the little nursery maid was always known as
Mary Erskine.
Mary Erskine became a great favorite at Mrs. Bell's. She was of a
very light-hearted and joyous disposition, always contented and happy,
singing like a nightingale at her work all the day long, when she
was alone, and cheering and enlivening all around her by her buoyant
spirits when she was in company. When Mary Bell became old enough to
run about and play, Mary Erskine became her playmate and companion,
as well as her protector. There was no distinction of rank to separate
them. If Mary Bell had been as old as Mary Erskine and had had a
younger sister, her duties in the household would have been exactly
the same as Mary Erskine's were. In fact, Mary Erskine's position was
altogether that of an older sister, and strangers visiting, the family
would have supposed that the two girls were really sisters, had they
not both been named Mary.
Mary Erskine was about twelve years older than Mary Bell, so that when
Mary Bell began to go to school, which was when she was about five
years old, Mary Erskine was about seventeen. Mrs. Bell had proposed,
when Mary Erskine first came to her house, that she would go to school
and learn to read and write; but Mary had been very much disinclined
to do so. In connection with the amiableness and gentleness of her
character and her natural good sense, she had a great deal of pride
and independence of spirit; and she was very unwilling to go to
school--being, as she was, almost in her teens--and begin there to
learn her letters with the little children. Mrs. Bell ought to have
required her to go, notwithstanding her reluctance, or else to have
made some other proper arrangement for teaching her to read and write.
Mrs. Bell was aware of this in fact, and frequently resolved that she
would do so. But she postponed the performance of her resolution from
month to month and year to year, and finally it was not performed at
all. Mary Erskine was so very useful at home, that a convenient time
for sparing her never came. And then besides she was so kind, and so
tractable, and so intent upon complying with all Mrs. Bell's wishes,
in every respect, that Mrs. Bell was extremely averse to require any
thing of her, which would mortify her, or give her pain.
When Mary Erskine was about eighteen years old, she was walking home
one evening from the village, where she had been to do some shopping
for Mrs. Bell, and as she came to a solitary part of the road after
having left the last house which belonged to the village, she saw a
young man coming out of the woods at a little distance before her. She
recognized him, immediately, as a young man whom she called Albert,
who had often been employed by Mrs. Bell, at work about the farm and
garden. Albert was a very sedate and industrious young man, of frank
and open and manly countenance, and of an erect and athletic form.
Mary Erskine liked Albert very well, and yet the first impulse was,
when she saw him coming, to cross over to the other side of the road,
and thus pass him at a little distance. She did in fact take one or
two steps in that direction, but thinking almost immediately that it
would be foolish to do so, she returned to the same side of the road
and walked on. Albert walked slowly along towards Mary Erskine, until
at length they met.
"Good evening, Mary Erskine," said Albert.
"Good evening, Albert," said Mary Erskine.
Albert turned and began to walk along slowly, by Mary Erskine's side.
"I have been waiting here for you more than two hours," said Albert.
"Have you?" said Mary Erskine. Her heart began to beat, and she was
afraid to say any thing more, for fear that her voice would tremble,
"Yes," said Albert. "I saw you go to the village, and I wanted to
speak to you when you came back."
Mary Erskine walked along, but did not speak.
"And I have been waiting and watching two months for you to go to the
village," continued Albert.
"I have not been much to the village, lately," said Mary.
Here there was a pause of a few minutes, when Albert said again,
"Have you any objection to my walking along with you here a little
way, Mary?"
"No," said Mary, "not at all."
"Mary," said Albert, after another short pause, "I have got a hundred
dollars and my axe,--and this right arm. I am thinking of buying a
lot of land, about a mile beyond Kater's corner. If I will do it, and
build a small house of one room there, will you come and be my wife?
It will have to be a _log_ house at first."
Mary Erskine related subsequently to Mary Bell what took place at this
interview, thus far, but she would never tell the rest.
It was evident, however, that Mary Erskine was inclined to accept this
proposal, from a conversation which took place between her and Mrs.
Bell the next evening. It was after tea. The sun had gone down,
and the evening was beautiful. Mrs. Bell was sitting in a low
rocking-chair, on a little covered platform, near the door, which they
called the stoop. There were two seats, one on each side of the stoop,
and there was a vine climbing over it. Mrs. Bell was knitting. Mary
Bell, who was then about six years old, was playing about the yard,
watching the butterflies, and gathering flowers.
"You may stay here and play a little while," said Mary Erskine to Mary
Bell. "I am going to talk with your mother a little; but I shall be
back again pretty soon."
Mary Erskine accordingly went to the stoop where Mrs. Bell was
sitting, and took a seat upon the bench at the side of Mrs. Bell,
though rather behind than before her. There was a railing along
behind the seat, at the edge of the stoop and a large white rose-bush,
covered with roses, upon the other side.
Mrs. Bell perceived from Mary Erskine's air and manner that she
had something to say to her, so after remarking that it was a very
pleasant evening, she went on knitting, waiting for Mary Erskine to
begin.
"Mrs. Bell," said Mary.
"Well," said Mrs. Bell.
The trouble was that Mary Erskine did not know exactly _how_ to
begin.
She paused a moment longer and then making a great effort she said,
"Albert wants me to go and live with him."
"Does he?" said Mrs. Bell. "And where does he want you to go and
live?"
"He is thinking of buying a farm," said Mary Erskine.
"Where?" said Mrs. Bell.
"I believe the land is about a mile from Kater's corner."
Mrs. Bell was silent for a few minutes. She was pondering the thought
now for the first time fairly before her mind, that the little
helpless orphan child that she had taken under her care so many years
ago, had really grown to be a woman, and must soon, if not then, begin
to form her own independent plans of life. She looked at little Mary
Bell too, playing upon the grass, and wondered what she would do when
Mary Erskine was gone.
After a short pause spent in reflections like these, Mrs. Bell resumed
the conversation by saying,
"Well, Mary,--and what do you think of the plan?"
"Why--I don't know," said Mary Erskine, timidly and doubtfully.
"You are very young," said Mrs. Bell.
"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I always was very young. I was very young
when my father died; and afterwards, when my mother died, I was very
young to be left all alone, and to go out to work and earn my living.
And now I am very young, I know. But then I am eighteen."
"Are you eighteen?" asked Mrs. Bell.
"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "I was eighteen the day before yesterday."
"It is a lonesome place,--out beyond Kater's Corner," said Mrs. Bell,
after another pause.
"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but I am not afraid of lonesomeness. I
never cared about seeing a great many people."
"And you will have to work very hard," continued Mrs. Bell.
"I know that," replied Mary; "but then I am not afraid of work any
more than I am of lonesomeness. I began to work when I was five years
old, and I have worked ever since,--and I like it."
"Then, besides," said Mrs. Bell, "I don't know what I shall do with
_my_ Mary when you have gone away. You have had the care of her
ever since she was born."
Mary Erskine did not reply to this. She turned her head away farther
and farther from Mrs. Bell, looking over the railing of the stoop
toward the white roses. In a minute or two she got up suddenly from
her seat, and still keeping her face averted from Mrs. Bell, she went
in by the stoop door into the house, and disappeared. In about ten
minutes she came round the corner of the house, at the place where
Mary Bell was playing, and with a radiant and happy face, and tones
as joyous as ever, she told her little charge that they would have one
game of hide and go seek, in the asparagus, and that then it would be
time for her to go to bed.
Two days after this, Albert closed the bargain for his land, and began
his work upon it. The farm, or rather the lot, for the farm was yet
to be made, consisted of a hundred and sixty acres of land, all in
forest. A great deal of the land was mountainous and rocky, fit only
for woodland and pasturage. There were, however, a great many fertile
vales and dells, and at one place along the bank of a stream, there
was a broad tract which Albert thought would make, when the trees
were felled and it was brought into grass, a "beautiful piece of
intervale."
Albert commenced his operations by felling several acres of trees, on
a part of his lot which was nearest the corner. A road, which had been
laid out through the woods, led across his land near this place. The
trees and bushes had been cut away so as to open a space wide enough
for a sled road in winter. In summer there was nothing but a wild
path, winding among rocks, stumps, trunks of fallen trees, and other
forest obstructions. A person on foot could get along very well, and
even a horse with a rider upon his back, but there was no chance for
any thing on wheels. Albert said that it would not be possible to get
even a wheelbarrow in.
Albert, however, took great pleasure in going back and forth over this
road, morning and evening, with his axe upon his shoulder, and a pack
upon his back containing his dinner, while felling his trees. When
they were all down, he left them for some weeks drying in the sun, and
then set them on fire. He chose for the burning, the afternoon of a
hot and sultry day, when a fresh breeze was blowing from the west,
which he knew would fan the flames and increase the conflagration. It
was important to do this, as the amount of subsequent labor which he
would have to perform, would depend upon how completely the trees were
consumed. His fire succeeded beyond his most sanguine expectations,
and the next day he brought Mary Erskine in to see what a "splendid
burn" he had had, and to choose a spot for the log house which he was
going to build for her.
Mary Erskine was extremely pleased with the appearance of Albert's
clearing. The area which had been opened ascended a little from the
road, and presented a gently undulating surface, which Mary Erskine
thought would make very beautiful fields. It was now, however, one
vast expanse of blackened and smoking ruins.
Albert conducted Mary Erskine and Mary Bell--for Mary Bell had come in
with them to see the fire,--to a little eminence from which they could
survey the whole scene.
"Look," said he, "is not that beautiful? Did you ever see a better
burn?"
"I don't know much about burns," said Mary Erskine, "but I can see
that it will be a beautiful place for a farm. Why we can see the
pond," she added, pointing toward the south.
This was true. The falling of the trees had opened up a fine view of
the pond, which was distant about a mile from the clearing. There
was a broad stream which flowed swiftly over a gravelly bed along the
lower part of the ground, and a wild brook which came tumbling down
from the mountains, and then, after running across the road, fell into
the larger stream, not far from the corner of the farm. The brook and
the stream formed two sides of the clearing. Beyond them, and along
the other two sides of the clearing, the tall trees of those parts of
the forest which had not been disturbed, rose like a wall and hemmed
the opening closely in.
Albert and Mary Erskine walked along the road through the whole length
of the clearing, looking out for the best place to build their house.
"Perhaps it will be lonesome here this winter, Mary," said Albert. "I
don't know but that you would rather wait till next spring."
Mary Erskine hesitated about her reply. She did, in fact, wish to
come to her new home that fall, and she thought it was proper that
she should express the cordial interest which she felt in Albert's
plans;--but, then, on the other hand, she did not like to say any
thing which might seem to indicate a wish on her part to hasten the
time of their marriage. So she said doubtfully,--"I don't know;--I
don't think that it would be lonesome."
"What do you mean, Albert," said Mary Bell, "about Mary Erskine's
coming to live here? She can't come and live here, among all these
black stumps and logs."
Albert and Mary Erskine were too intent upon their own thoughts and
plans to pay any attention to Mary Bell's questions. So they walked
along without answering her.
"What could we have to _do_ this fall and winter?" asked Mary
Erskine. She wished to ascertain whether she could do any good by
coming at once, or whether it would be better, for Albert's plans, to
wait until the spring.
"Oh there will be plenty to do," said Albert. "I shall have to work a
great deal, while the ground continues open, in clearing up the land,
and getting it ready for sowing in the spring; and it will be a great
deal better for me to live here, in order to save my traveling back
and forth, so far, every night and morning. Then this winter I shall
have my tools to make,--and to finish the inside of the house, and
make the furniture; and if you have any leisure time you can spin.
But after all it will not be very comfortable for you, and perhaps you
would rather wait until spring."
"No," said Mary Erskine. "I would rather come this fall."
"Well," rejoined Albert, speaking in a tone of great satisfaction.
"Then I will get the house up next week, and we will be married very
soon after."
There were very few young men whose prospects in commencing life were
so fair and favorable as those of Albert. In the first place, he was
not obliged to incur any debt on account of his land, as most young
farmers necessarily do. His land was one dollar an acre. He had one
hundred dollars of his own, and enough besides to buy a winter stock
of provisions for his house. He had expected to have gone in debt for
the sixty dollars, the whole price of the land being one hundred and
sixty; but to his great surprise and pleasure Mary Erskine told him,
as they were coming home from seeing the land after the burn, that she
had seventy-five dollars of her own, besides interest; and that she
should like to have sixty dollars of that sum go toward paying for
the land. The fifteen dollars that would be left, she said, would be
enough to buy the furniture.
"I don't think that will be quite enough," said Albert.
"Yes," said Mary Erskine. "We shall not want a great deal. We shall
want a table and two chairs, and some things to cook with."
"And a bed," said Albert.
"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but I can make that myself. The cloth will
not cost much, and you can get some straw for me. Next summer we can
keep some geese, and so have a feather bed some day."
"We shall want some knives and forks, and plates," said Albert.
"Yes," said Mary Erskine, "but they will not cost much. I think
fifteen dollars will get us all we need. Besides there is more than
fifteen dollars, for there is the interest."
The money had been put out at interest in the village.
"Well," said Albert, "and I can make the rest of the furniture that
we shall need, this winter. I shall have a shop near the house. I have
got the tools already."
Thus all was arranged. Albert built his house on the spot which Mary
Erskine thought would be the most pleasant for it, the week after her
visit to the land. Three young men from the neighborhood assisted him,
as is usual in such cases, on the understanding that Albert was to
help each of them as many days about their work as they worked
for him. This plan is often adopted by farmers in doing work which
absolutely requires several men at a time, as for example, the raising
of heavy logs one upon another to form the walls of a house. In order
to obtain logs for the building Albert and his helpers cut down fresh
trees from the forest, as the blackened and half-burned trunks, which
lay about his clearing, were of course unsuitable for such a work.
They selected the tallest and straightest trees, and after felling
them and cutting them to the proper length, they hauled them to
the spot by means of oxen. The ground served for a floor, and the
fire-place was made of stones. The roof was formed of sheets of
hemlock bark, laid, like slates upon rafters made of the stems of
slender trees. Albert promised Mary Erskine that, as soon as the snow
came, in the winter, to make a road, so that he could get through the
woods with a load of boards upon a sled, he would make her a floor.
From this time forward, although Mary Erskine was more diligent and
faithful than ever in performing all her duties at Mrs. Bell's, her
imagination was incessantly occupied with pictures and images of the
new scenes into which she was about to be ushered as the mistress of
her own independent household and home. She made out lists, mentally,
for she could not write, of the articles which it would be best to
purchase. She formed and matured in her own mind all her house-keeping
plans. She pictured to herself the scene which the interior of her
dwelling would present in cold and stormy winter evenings, while she
was knitting at one side of the fire, and Albert was busy at some
ingenious workmanship, on the other; or thought of the beautiful
prospect which she should enjoy in the spring and summer following;
when fields of waving grain, rich with promises of plenty and of
wealth, would extend in every direction around her dwelling. She
cherished, in a word, the brightest anticipations of happiness.
[Illustration: THE LOG HOUSE.]
The house at length was finished. The necessary furniture which Albert
contrived in some way to get moved to it, was put in; and early in
August Mary Erskine was married. She was married in the morning, and a
party of the villagers escorted her on horseback to her new home.