THE MOTHER AND DAUGHTER.
A religious excitement, wherever it arises, is sure to wake a thousand
virtues into action, which, in ordinary times, sleep supinely in human
nature. Besides the prayer-meetings, anxious circles and lectures,
spinning-bees and quiltings presented themselves to the congregation.
“The servant is worthy of his hire,” was the generous opinion; and the
minister, who averaged two or three lectures or sermons a day, must not
be forgotten in his worldly stores. So blocks of patchwork were
distributed throughout each household connected with the society, from
which a sumptuous quilt was set in progress for the minister, and no
housewife set her flax-wheel aside that season without adding a few runs
of yarn for the spinning-bee which was to come off in behalf of that
good man.
If Leonard was most active in spiritual matters, his bustling wife took
up those temporal results of the revival with no inferior amount of
energy. In fact she was the heart and soul of these undertakings. Early
and late the hum of her wheel might be heard setting up a small
opposition to the rush of the falls, and her steel-sided thimble grew
brighter and brighter while constantly forcing the glittering needle
through gorgeous bits of calico, which were industriously cut into
diamonds, squares, or stars, and as industriously stitched together
again.
Amy Leonard did her share of the work,—more than her share, poor
thing,—considering how pale and ill she looked. But sometimes when her
mother’s back was turned, the tears would swell into her eyes and blind
them, till the flyers flashed before her in broken sparkles or her
needle disappeared in the mist.
All the time she never spoke of Arnold; and her mother, with unusual
reticence, avoided the young man’s name. His visits to the cabin had
taken place during her absence to evening meetings, and she looked upon
the attachment which had evidently once existed between him and her
daughter, as a feeling that had died out on the young man’s part, and
which a little time would set right with Amy. The whole subject was a
matter of self-reproach to the good woman; for she had encouraged the
intimacy between the young people with all her matchmaking skill, partly
because the Arnolds were a respectable old family, still rich enough to
hold their heads high, and partly because her kind, womanly instincts
told her how deeply the best feelings of her child had become involved.
But with all Mrs. Leonard’s worldly foresight, she was of the old
Puritan stock, and had neither charity nor countenance for sin in any
form in which it could present itself. Nay, even the suspicion of sin,
vaguely as it came, was enough to turn her heart against the young man.
Joshua Leonard had told his wife of the warning which the elder Arnold
had given with regard to his son. The anguish with which this warning
had been uttered struck conviction to Leonard’s soul. He knew how hard
it must be for a kind parent to condemn his own child; and, incoherent
as the words had been, they left a fearful impression of truth.
Leonard was a strong, powerful man; but he shrunk from any thing that
threatened to give pain to his daughter; and, with that delicacy which
makes great strength beautiful, spoke of Arnold’s warning only to his
wife. She, self-sufficient in all domestic affairs, placed herself on
the watch; and, instead of retreating as of old when the young man came
to spend the evening at her cabin, kept her place at the fireside,
diminishing in nothing her usual hospitality, but watching vigilantly
every word or glance which passed between the young people.
Then came the revival, which swept all home thoughts from her mind.
Young Arnold seemed to have dropped out of her life. She heard with
satisfaction his name connected with the French girl; and, rejoicing
that her season of vigilance was at an end, allowed herself to be swept
off in the absorbing turmoil of a revival.
All that time Benedict Arnold spent his evenings at the hearth-stone
which the father and mother had deserted, beguiling that fair young
creature into a deception which was weighing her soul to the earth.
At last he went away, and, to escape the mournful loneliness that fell
upon her, Amy sometimes attended evening meetings with her parents.
Leonard and his wife both noticed that she was generally excited and
flushed before she started to these gatherings, but came back oppressed
with a heavy sadness that nothing could mitigate or explain. They did
not observe that on several occasions she had disappeared from the
meetings for a few minutes, and, hurrying with breathless haste to the
post-office, would ask, with shrinking eyes and a voice that could
scarcely be heard, if there was no letter yet?
The answer was always a half-rebuking, half-compassionate shake of the
head, at which she would creep away and glide back into the congregation
like a ghost; but when once upon her knees, the sobs that broke through
those little hands clasped over her face were enough to melt a heart of
granite.
Then week after week went by, and Amy would go to meeting no more. The
noise confused her, she said. It was far better to stay at home and spin
yarn for the minister’s spinning-bee: it would save her mother from so
much extra work. Mrs. Leonard repeated this at the sewing-circles, when
the blocks of patchwork were brought in and sewed together in general
conclave. At first these reasons were received with expressions of
sympathy for sweet Amy Leonard’s ill-health; but, after a time, covert
glances were cast from eye to eye, and Mrs. Leonard’s maternal egotism
was received in grave silence.
This was the state of things, as I have before hinted, when the spring
time broke upon beautiful Norwich. The spinning season was well nigh
over, and the result of all those wheels, that had been hissing and
humming in nearly every dwelling within five miles of Norwich, was to
exhibit itself in a grand quilting and spinning-bee, which the minister
was notified would take place at his own dwelling on one of the
loveliest June days that ever gladdened a human heart.
The women’s share of the entertainment was complete, with the exception
of an extra baking in every household, which was to save the minister’s
wife from all demands of hospitality for the self-invited guests. They
had nothing more to accomplish. They would assemble in the afternoon to
finish the quilt, which a committee of four was appointed to fit into
the frames and mark out in a border of double herring-bone and a centre
of shell-work.
Another committee would take charge of the table set out in the long,
back kitchen which opened into an apple-orchard; and a third was to
receive the hanks of linen, tow, and woolen yarn, for which pegs were
provided all around the best chamber up-stairs. These were all feminine
arrangements, and sure to be well done, as the minister knew of old. But
the brethren of the church were not to be entirely excluded. Their
contributions, it is true, came in less ostentatiously, but in a form
quite as substantial. Many a bag of potatoes had found its way to the
minister’s cellar during the winter; to say nothing of firkins of shad
salted down on the banks of the river where they were caught; and sacks
of grain, enough to keep the ministerial family in breadstuff till the
harvest came on.
For these benevolent and scattering donations the brethren were
permitted to join in the yarn festival after the quilt was taken off,
when there was to be a grand tea-drinking, to wind up with
extemporaneous singing under the apple-trees and a short season of
prayer.
Of course, there was great excitement all over Norwich; for a festival
equal to this, either in numbers or amount of contributions, had never
been heard of in the good town before. Over thirty new converts had been
added to the congregation, and their contributions seemed a tangible
proof of stability in the holy service of the Lord. Over these new
converts there was nothing but thanksgiving and praise, which gave the
idea of a religious jubilee to the whole occasion.
But from all this rejoicing the two families in which we are most deeply
interested seemed strangely excluded. The Leonards had been invited, it
is true; but it was somewhat remarkable that Amy’s name was left out in
the invitation; and Mrs. Leonard, instead of being appointed to some
prominent place in the arrangement, had hardly been consulted. She was a
guest, at liberty to bring in her mite, of course, but that was not the
position which she had just reason to expect. The generous woman was a
good deal astonished, and seriously hurt by this slight. She, who had
been a pillar in the church so long,—who had worked night and day that
the value of her contribution should be second to none, to be put aside
without right or reason she could not understand it.
Leonard was so much accustomed to his wife’s bustle and clatter on
occasions of this kind, that he scarcely heeded her complaints, and
contented himself by advising her to do her duty, and not trouble him
about the way it was done, or how others performed theirs.
With this wholesome admonition he cast the subject from his mind. But
with Amy the case was far different. She was constantly searching her
mother’s face with those large eyes, as if there was something in this
slight from which she shrunk tremblingly away. Sometimes, when her
mother would break into the subject suddenly, the poor girl would start
and almost cry out with a pain that struck her to the heart.
Still, Mrs. Leonard was too much a woman of spirit to retreat or flag in
her purpose. She wasn’t to be driven from her duty,—not she. If the
sisters did not want her help or advice, very well: they could do
without it. Of one thing she was certain: the quilt would be a botch if
she wasn’t there to mark and roll up. As for the yarn, why that which
Amy had spun would be like cobwebs to a cable compared to any thing they
would have. Really it seemed as if the girl was spinning it out of her
own sighs, for every thread was drawn with a deep breath. When that yarn
was brought in the sisters would blush at their ingratitude, if any
blush was left in ’em. Then as for cake, she would like to see a woman
of them all who could round off a plum-cake like her; and as for
doughnuts,—oh, nonsense! they couldn’t one of ’em catch up with her
there, in a week of Sundays! Well, as Joshua said, she would do her duty
and not care about others. It was hard, but she hadn’t been a
church-member so long without knowing how to forgive.
“Mother,” said Amy, with a quiver in her voice, “perhaps it’s me.”
“You! What can this mean, Amy? You! Why no little bird in its nest was
ever so harmless as you have been, sitting here lonesome as a
whip-poor-will while your father and I have done nothing but exhort, and
pray, and run after converts; and this is what we get for it. But the
Lord knows which is right.”
Amy went close up to her mother. Every fibre of her body quivered and a
look of death was on her face. She reached out her hand and attempted to
lay it on her mother’s shoulder, but Mrs. Leonard brushed it off as if a
roseleaf annoyed her.
“There, there; don’t talk. I know my duty as a Christian, and won’t be
preached to by my own child. Just go into the next room and see if the
sponge is rising nicely. I wouldn’t have them doughnuts beat to-morrow
for any thing: that would be a cross I couldn’t take up.”
Amy turned away with a gasping breath. When her mother went into the
next room, impatient to see how her cake was rising, she found Amy
sitting on the floor by the wooden bread-bowl, with both hands clasped
in her lap, gazing hard at the opposite window.
“Why, Amy, you are getting too shiftless. Why on earth couldn’t you lift
that cloth and tell me how the dough is working? I used them new
turnpike emptins that nobody else has got, and the cakes ought to yeast
over the bowl by this time.”
But Amy sat motionless, gazing at the window. Her mother’s voice sent a
shiver over her, but it failed to unlock the agony that held her
faculties.
“Amy, why don’t you speak?”
“Mother, I can’t. I have been trying, but the words choke me.”
She spoke in a dreamy way, waving her head to and fro,—to and fro, as if
the sound of her own words was a pain which she could not shake off.
Mrs. Leonard took Amy by the arm and lifted her to her feet.
“Are you crazy, Amy Leonard?” she said, half-angrily, for the slight she
had received had rasped the good woman’s temper more than she liked to
acknowledge.
“No, mother.”
“Then what is the matter?”
“Nothing.”
“I don’t believe it. You are either a bad-tempered, provoking girl,
determined to torment your poor mother’s life out, or you’re down sick
and ought to have a doctor right off.”
“No, no: I’m well,” almost shrieked Amy; “well and strong. See; I can
lift this big bowl like nothing.”
She stooped down and lifted the bread-bowl as if it had been a handful
of feathers; and, carrying it into the next room, set it on the table
and raised the cloth of snowy linen.
“Look, mother, look,” she cried, with a hysterical laugh; “the turnpike
emptins are working famously! See: the dough is all honeycombed and
swelling up like foam! It’s time to get your pan of lard over the fire.
Where is the flour-dredge and rolling-pin? I’ll cut the cakes out while
you fry them.”
Mrs. Leonard looked at her daughter a moment in blank astonishment and
then broke into an uneasy laugh.
“Dear me, Amy, you are a strange girl. I never saw your like: one minute
moaning in the cellar, the next singing in the garret. But no wonder you
laugh; that dough beats all I ever did see. So bustle about and roll the
cakes into shape while I get the big fork and pan. I’ve saved some lard
a-purpose, sweet as a nut and white as snow. That’s right, tie on your
checked apron and roll up your sleeves. Why, Amy, how thin your arms are
getting! Dear me, there, lay down the rolling-pin! I can handle it best.
You can round the cakes after I cut them out,—that’s work for a baby.
There, now you are beginning to tremble again! Never mind; I don’t want
any help to fry a batch of doughnuts. Well, if you must do something,
just beat up the white of half a dozen eggs, and make some frosting for
the pound-cake. I want it to look like snow-crust and taste like honey.
They shan’t beat us, Amy, in any thing. I’ll show ’em.”
Amy took the work allotted to her, and directly the contents of her bowl
were creaming over with pearly foam, beaten up by a hand that trembled
like an aspen leaf; while her mother wielded her rolling-pin and shook
her dredging-box fiercely, as she remembered the slight that had been
put upon her.
The melted lard had simmered itself into silence, only hissing out a
spiteful protest as the limp bits of dough fell into it, swelling and
browning into cakes that were to excite the envy of all Norwich. Still
the good woman had continued her indignant complaints against neighbors
that could treat her so. But as the fire grew hot, and the brown nuts
rose to a mountain in the bright tin milk-pan placed on the hearth for
their reception, a certainty of triumphant success mollified her, and a
rain of Christian charity pattered through the torrent of her
resentment, as we sometimes see the brightest rain-drops dimpling the
turbid surface of a pool.
“After all, Amy, I’ll set them an example,—see if I don’t,—one that
they’ll never forget so long as the meeting-house stands. I’ll make two
big pound-cakes instead of one. The best cheese in the milk-house shall
go, if we have to scrimp ourselves a month. As for dried beef and them
doughnuts, I won’t stop to weigh or count. When I do heap coals of fire
on the sisters’ heads they shall burn lively, now I tell you. To-night
your father shall get a load of white pine tops, hemlock and prince’s
pine to dress the supper-room with. Nobody else’ll think of that, I
reckon. Then you shall go over to the swamp and get an armfull of wild
roses. The hemlock-buds is sprouting out lovely, and—yes, I’ve a’most a
mind to send that string of robins’ eggs over the looking-glass. That
would touch their feelings, for they all know how I prized them eggs.
Then, after I’ve shown them what a true Christian spirit is, I’ll say,
‘Sisters, what is the reason you put this slight on me and my daughter?
To say nothing of myself,—that ain’t of much account, perhaps,—she’s the
salt of the earth, as good and pious as the oldest church-member amongst
you,—never told even a fib in her life, or kept the least thing from her
mother. She’s—dear me, Amy, what is the matter? You’ll let that bowl
slide off your lap! Goodness, what a face! Why, child, are you dying?’”
“No, mother, no. I’m—the heat—that fire. Oh, mother, mother!”
The cry that broke through these gasping words thrilled through and
through the good woman, for it was sharp with pain.
Mrs. Leonard flung the door open with sudden affright; and, gathering up
the corners of her apron, tightened the edge and commenced fanning that
pale face with all her might.
“Are you better? Does it do any good? Wait a minute till I get the
turkey’s wing.”
“No, mother, don’t,—don’t! I wan’t to go out,—just a minute.”
“Well, go. The air will bring you to. Dear me, I wish your father would
stay about more; these fainting fits scare me a’most to death!”
Amy tried to reassure her mother by a smile; but the attempt was more
painful to look upon than tears would have been. Mrs. Leonard brought a
sun-bonnet from its nail in the next room, and tied it over the poor
quivering face, with tears in her own sunny eyes.
“Go down by the falls, Amy: the air will be cool there. Don’t mind
helping me; I shall get through nicely. This fire is awful hot; but,
law, I don’t mind it no more than nothing.”
The kind woman would have kissed the face which the bonnet protected;
but Amy turned away her head, as if dismayed by those plump lips. But
when she saw the color rush to her mother’s temples she put up her pale
mouth and met the caress; but the touch was like marble.
She went to the falls, that pale, broken-hearted girl, and sat down on
the shelf of rock which had been consecrated by her father’s prayer
months ago. There she fell into a state of apathy,—that dead stillness
of the mind which comes when no source for action presents itself. Her
eyes were fixed on the waters. The dizzy whirl of their foam made her
brain reel. She shrunk back into the shade of a great hemlock branch
that stretched over her like a banner; and, covering her eyes with both
hands, rocked to and fro in desolate silence, while the leaves whispered
over her, and the sunshine strove to penetrate the thick leaves and look
on her sorrow in vain.