There is a deep emotional nature in the lad, which, by the time he has
reached his eighth year,--Miss Eliza having now been in the position of
mistress of the household a twelvemonth,--works itself off in explosive
tempests of feeling, with which the prim spinster has but faint
sympathy. No care could be more studious and complete than that with
which she looks after the boy's wardrobe and the ordering of his little
chamber; his supply of mittens, of stockings, and of underclothing is
always of the most ample; nay, his caprices of the table are not wholly
overlooked, and she hopes to win upon him by the dishes that are most
toothsome; but, however grateful for the moment, his boyish affections
can never make their way with any force or passionate flow through the
stately proprieties of manner with which the spinster aunt is always
hedged about.
He wanders away after school-hours to the home of the Elderkins,--Phil
and he being sworn friends, and the good mother of Phil always having
ready for him a beaming look of welcome and a tender word or two that
somehow always find their way straight to his heart. He loiters with
Larkin, too, by the great stable-yard of the inn, though it is forbidden
ground. He breaks in upon the precise woman's rule of punctuality sadly;
many a cold dish he eats sulkily,--she sitting bolt upright in her place
at the table, looking down at him with glances which are every one a
punishment. Other times he is straying in the orchard at the hour of
some home-duty, and the active spinster goes to seek him, and not
threateningly, but with an assured step and a firm grip upon the hand of
the loiterer, which he knows not whether to count a favor or a
punishment, (and she as much at a loss, so inextricably interwoven are
her notions of duty and of kindness,) leads him homeward, plying him
with stately precepts upon the sin of negligence, and with earnest story
of the dreadful fate which is sure to overtake all bad boys who do not
obey and keep "by the rules"; and she instances those poor lads who were
eaten by the bears, of whom she has read to him the story in the Old
Testament.
"Who was it they called 'bald-head,' Reuben? Elisha or Elijah?"
He, in no mood for reply, is sulkily beating off the daisies with his
feet, as she drags him on; sometimes hanging back, with impotent, yet
concealed struggle, which she--not deigning to notice--overcomes with
even sharper step, and plies him the more closely with the dire results
of badness,--has not finished her talk, indeed, when they reach the
door-step and enter. There he, fuming now with that long struggle,
fuming the more because he has concealed it, makes one violent
discharge with a great frown on his little face, "You're an ugly old
thing, and I don't like you one bit!"
Esther, good soul, within hearing of it, lifts her hands in apparent
horror, but inwardly indulges in a wicked chuckle over the boy's spirit.
But the minister has heard him, too, and gravely summons the offender
into his study.
"My son, Reuben, this is very wrong."
And the boy breaks into a sob at this stage, which is a great relief.
"My boy, you ought to love your aunt."
"Why ought I?" says he.
"Why? why? Don't you know she's very good to you, and takes excellent
care of you, and hears you say your catechism every Saturday? You ought
to love her."
"But I can't make myself love her, if I don't," says the boy.
"It is your duty to love her, Reuben; and we can all do our duty."
Even the staid clergyman enjoys the boy's discomfiture under so orthodox
a proposition. Miss Johns, however, breaks in here, having overheard the
latter part of the talk:--
"No, Benjamin, I wish no love that is given from a sense of duty. Reuben
sha'n't be forced into loving his Aunt Eliza."
And there is a subdued tone in her speech which touches the boy. But he
is not ready yet for surrender; he watches gravely her retirement, and
for an hour shows a certain preoccupation at his play; then his piping
voice is heard at the foot of the stairway,--
"Aunt Eliza! Are you there?"
"Yes, Master Reuben!"
Master! It cools somewhat his generous intent; but he is in for it; and
he climbs the stair, sidles uneasily into the chamber where she sits at
her work, stealing a swift, inquiring look into that gray eye of hers,--
"I say--Aunt Eliza--I'm sorry I said that--you know what."
And he looks up with a little of the old yearning,--the yearning he used
to feel when another sat in that place.
"Ah, that is right, Master Reuben! I hope we shall be friends, now."
Another disturbed look at her,--remembering the time when he would have
leaped into a mother's arms, after such struggle with his self-will, and
found gladness. That is gone; no swift embrace, no tender hand toying
with his hair, beguiling him from play. And he sidles out again, half
shamefaced at a surrender that has wrought so little. Loitering, and
playing with the balusters as he descends, the swift, keen voice comes
after him,--
"Don't soil the paint, Reuben!"
"I haven't."
And the swift command and as swift retort put him in his old, wicked
mood again, and he breaks out into a defiant whistle. (Over and over the
spinster has told him it was improper to whistle in-doors.) Yet, with a
lingering desire for sympathy, Reuben makes his way into his father's
study; and the minister lays down his great folio,--it is Poole's
"Annotations,"--and says,--
"Well, Reuben!"
"I told her I was sorry," says the boy; "but I don't believe she likes
me much."
"Why, my son?"
"Because she called me Master, and said it was very proper."
"But doesn't that show an interest in you?"
"I don't know what interest is."
"It's love."
"Mamma never called me Master," said Reuben.
The grave minister bites his lip, beckons his boy to him,--"Here, my
son!"--passes his arm around him, had almost drawn him to his heart,--
"There, there, Reuben; leave me now; I have my sermon to finish. I hope
you won't be disrespectful to your aunt again. Shut the door."
And the minister goes back to his work, ironly honest, mastering his
sensibilities, tearing great gaps in his heart, even as the anchorites
once fretted their bodies with hair-cloth and scourgings.
In the summer of 1828 Mr. Johns was called upon to preach a special
discourse at the Commencement exercises of the college from which he
had received his degree; and so sterlingly orthodox was his sermon, at a
crisis when some sister colleges were bolstering up certain new
theological tenets which had a strong taint of heresy, that the old
gentlemen who held rank as fellows of his college, in a burst of zeal,
bestowed upon the worthy man the title of D. D. It was not an honor he
had coveted; indeed, he coveted no human honors; yet this was more
wisely given than most: his dignity, his sobriety, his rigid, complete
adherence to all the accepted forms of religious belief made him a safe
recipient of the title.
The spinster sister, with an ill-concealed pride, was most zealous in
the bestowal of it; and before a month had passed, she had forced it
into current use throughout the world of Ashfield.
Did a neglectful neighbor speak of the good health of "Mr. Johns," the
mistress of the parsonage said,--"Why, yes, the Doctor is working very
hard, it is true; but he is quite well; the Doctor is remarkably well."
Did a younger church-sister speak in praise of some late sermon of "the
minister," Miss Eliza thanked her in a dignified way, and was sure "the
Doctor" would be most happy to hear that his efforts were appreciated.
As for Larkin and Esther, who stumbled dismally over the new title, the
spinster plied them urgently.
"Esther, my good woman, make the Doctor's tea very strong to-night."
"Larkin, the Doctor won't ride to-day; and mind, you must cut the wood
for the Doctor's fire a little shorter."