Pownsey and myself set out to walk on the road, in the latter part of
the afternoon. When we came home, I found that the washing-stand had
been removed from my room, and the basin and pitcher placed in the
corner on a little triangular shelf that had formerly held a flower-pot.
The mirror was also gone, and I found as a substitute a little
half-dollar Dutch glass in a narrow red frame. The two best chairs were
also missing, one chair only being left, and that a broken one; and a
heavy patch-work quilt had taken the place of the white dimity
bed-cover. I learnt that these articles had been abstracted to furnish a
chamber that was as yet disengaged, and which they were to decorate by
way of enticing a new-comer. Next morning, after my room had been put in
order, I perceived that the mattrass had been exchanged for a
feather-bed, and on inquiring the reason of Mrs. Netherby she told me,
with much sweetness, that it had been taken for two southern ladies that
were expected in the afternoon, and who, being southern, could not
possibly sleep on anything but a mattrass, and that she was sorry to
cause me any inconvenience, but it would be a great disadvantage to
_her_ if they declined coming.
In short, almost every day something disappeared from my room to assist
in fitting up apartments for strangers; the same articles being
afterwards transferred to others that were still unoccupied. But what
else was to be done, when Mrs. Netherby mildly represented the
impossibility of getting things at a short notice from town?
My time passed very monotonously. The stock of books I had brought with
me was too soon exhausted, and I had no sewing of sufficient importance
to interest my attention. The nonsense of Mrs. Pownsey became very
tiresome, and the other ladies were mere automatons. The children were
taken sick (as children generally are at country lodgings), and fretted
and cried all the time. I longed for the society of my friends in the
city, and for the unceremonious visits that are so pleasant in summer
evenings.
After a trial of two weeks, during which I vainly hoped that custom
would reconcile me to much that had annoyed me at first, I determined to
return to Philadelphia; in the full persuasion that this would be my
last essay at boarding out of town.
On the day before my departure, we were all attracted to the
front-garden, to see a company of city volunteers, who were marching to
a certain field where they were to practise shooting at a target. While
we were lingering to catch the last glimpse of them as long as they
remained in sight, the cook came to Mrs. Netherby (who was affectedly
smelling the leaves of a dusty geranium), and informed her that though
she had collected all the cold meat in the house, there was still not
enough to fill the pie that was to be a part of the dinner.[85] "Oh!
then," replied Mrs. Netherby, with perfect sang-froid, and in her usual
soft voice, "put Phebe on the top of it--put Phebe on the top." "Do you
mean," said the cook, "that I am to kill the pigeon to help out with?"
"Certainly," rejoined Mrs. Netherby, "put Phebe in the pie."
[Footnote 85: Fact.]
There was a general exclamation from all present, except from the
automaton young lady and her mamma; and the children who were looking
out of the front windows were loud in lamentations for the poor pigeon,
who, in truth, had constituted their only innocent amusement. For my
part, I could not forbear openly expressing my surprise that Mrs.
Netherby should think for a moment of devoting her pet pigeon to such a
purpose, and I earnestly deprecated its impending fate.
Mrs. Netherby reddened, and forgetting her usual mildness, her eyes
assumed a very cat-like expression as she replied to me in a loud sharp
voice. "Upon my word, miss, this is very strange. Really, you astonish
me. This is something quite new. I am not at all accustomed to having
the ladies of my family to meddle in my private affairs. Really, miss,
it is excessively odd that you should presume to dictate to me about
the disposal of my own property. I have some exquisite veal-cutlets and
some delicious calves-feet, but the pie is wanted for a centre dish. I
am always, as you know, particular in giving my table a handsome
set-out."
In vain we protested our willingness to dine without the centre dish,
rather than the pigeon, whom we regarded in the light of an intimate
acquaintance, should be killed to furnish it, all declaring that nothing
could induce us to taste a mouthful of poor Phebe. Mrs. Netherby,
obstinately bent on carrying her point (as is generally the case with
women who profess an extra portion of sweetness), heard us unmoved, only
replying, "Certainly, miss, you cannot deny that the bird is mine, and
that I have a right to do as I please with my own property. Phillis, put
Phebe in the pie!"
The cook grinned, and stood irresolute; when suddenly Bingham the waiter
stepped up with Phebe in his hands, and calling to a black boy of his
acquaintance, who lived in the neighbourhood, and was passing at the
moment: "Here, Harrison," said he, "are you going to town?" "Yes,"
replied the boy, "I am going there of an errand." "Then take this here
pigeon with you," said Bingham, "and give it as a gift from me to your
sister Louisa. You need not tell her to take good care of it. I know
she'll affection it for my sake. There, take it, and run." So saying, he
handed the pigeon over the fence to the boy, who ran off with it
immediately, and Bingham coolly returned to the kitchen, whistling as he
went.
"Well, if I ever saw the like!" exclaimed Mrs. Netherby. "But Bingham
will always have his way; he's really a strange fellow." Then, looking
foolish and subdued, she walked into the house. I could not help
laughing, and was glad that the life of the poor pigeon had been saved
on any terms, though sorry to find that Mrs. Netherby, after all, had
not the redeeming quality I ascribed to her.
To conclude,--I have no doubt that summer establishments may be found
which are in many respects more agreeable than the one I have attempted
to describe. But it has not been my good fortune, or that of my friends
who have adopted this plan of getting through the warm weather, to meet
with any country lodgings (of course, I have no reference to decided
farm-houses), in which the comparison was not decidedly in favour of the
superior advantages of remaining in a commodious mansion in the city,
surrounded with the comforts of home, and "with all the appliances, and
means to boot," which only a large town can furnish.
CONSTANCE ALLERTON;
OR,
THE MOURNING SUITS.
"But I have that within which passeth show."--SHAKSPEARE.
Mr. Allerton, a merchant of Philadelphia, had for some years been doing
business to considerable advantage, when a sudden check was put to his
prosperity by the unexpected failure of a house for which he had
endorsed to a very large amount. There was no alternative but to
surrender everything to his creditors; and this he did literally and
conscientiously. He brought down his mind to his circumstances; and as,
at that juncture, the precarious state of the times did not authorize
any hope of success if he recommenced business (as he might have done)
upon borrowed capital, he gladly availed himself of a vacant clerkship
in one of the principal banks of the city.
His salary, however, would have been scarcely adequate to the support of
his family, had he not added something to his little stipend by
employing his leisure hours in keeping the books of a merchant. He
removed with his wife and children to a small house in a remote part of
the city; and they would, with all his exertions, have been obliged to
live in the constant exercise of the most painful economy, had it not
been for the aid they derived from his sister Constance Allerton. Since
the death of her parents, this young lady had resided at New Bedford
with her maternal aunt, Mrs. Ilford, a quakeress, who left her a legacy
of ten thousand dollars.
After the demise of her aunt, Miss Allerton took lodgings at a private
house in New Bedford; but on hearing of her brother's misfortunes, she
wrote to know if it would be agreeable to him and to his family for her
to remove to Philadelphia, and to live with them--supposing that the sum
she would pay for her accommodation might, in their present
difficulties, prove a welcome addition to their income. This proposal
was joyfully acceded to, as Constance was much beloved by every member
of her brother's family, and had kept up a continual intercourse with
them by frequent letters, and by an annual visit of a few weeks to
Philadelphia.
At this period, Constance Allerton had just completed her twenty-third
year. She had a beautiful face, a fine graceful figure, and a highly
cultivated mind. With warm feelings and deep sensibility, she possessed
much energy of character--a qualification which, when called forth by
circumstances, is often found to be as useful in a woman as in a man.
Affectionate, generous, and totally devoid of all selfish
considerations, Constance had nothing so much at heart as the comfort
and happiness of her brother's family; and to become an inmate of their
house was as gratifying to her as it was to them. She furnished her own
apartment, and shared it with little Louisa, the youngest of her three
nieces, a lovely child about ten years old. She insisted on paying the
quarter bills of her nephew Frederic Allerton, and volunteered to
complete the education of his sisters, who were delighted to receive
their daily lessons from an instructress so kind, so sensible, and so
competent. Exclusive of these arrangements, she bestowed on them many
little presents, which were always well-timed and judiciously selected;
though, to enable her to purchase these gifts, she was obliged, with her
limited income of six hundred dollars, to deny herself many
gratifications, and, indeed, conveniences, to which she had hitherto
been accustomed, and the want of which she now passed over with a
cheerfulness and delicacy which was duly appreciated by the objects of
her kindness.
In this manner the family had been living about a twelvemonth, when Mr.
Allerton was suddenly attacked by a violent and dangerous illness, which
was soon accompanied by delirium; and in a few days it brought him to
the brink of the grave.
His disease baffled the skill of an excellent physician; and the
unremitting cares of his wife and sister could only effect a slight
alleviation of his sufferings. He expired on the fifth day, without
recovering his senses, and totally unconscious of the presence of the
heart-struck mourners that were weeping round his bed.
When Mr. Allerton's last breath had departed, his wife was conveyed from
the room in a fainting-fit. Constance endeavoured to repress her own
feelings, till she had rendered the necessary assistance to Mrs.
Allerton, and till she had somewhat calmed the agony of the children.
She then retired to her own apartment, and gave vent to a burst of
grief, such as can only be felt by those in whose minds and hearts there
is a union of sense and sensibility. With the weak and frivolous, sorrow
is rarely either acute or lasting.
The immortal soul of Mr. Allerton had departed from its earthly
tenement, and it was now necessary to think of the painful details that
belonged to the disposal of his inanimate corpse. As soon as Constance
could command sufficient courage to allow her mind to dwell on this
subject, she went down to send a servant for Mr. Denman (an old friend
of the family), whom she knew Mrs. Allerton would wish to take charge of
the funeral. At the foot of the stairs, she met the physician, who, by
her pale cheeks, and by the tears that streamed from her eyes at sight
of him, saw that all was over. He pressed her hand in sympathy; and,
perceiving that she was unable to answer his questions, he bowed and
left the house.
In a short time, Mr. Denman arrived; and Mrs. Allerton declaring herself
incompetent to the task, Constance saw the gentleman, and requested him
to make every necessary arrangement for a plain but respectable funeral.
At such times, how every little circumstance seems to add a new pang to
the agonized feelings of the bereaved family! The closing of the
window-shutters, the arrival of the woman whose gloomy business it is to
prepare the corpse for interment, the undertaker coming to take measure
for the coffin, the removal of the bedding on which the deceased has
expired, the gliding step, the half-whispered directions--all these sad
indications that death is in the house, fail not, however quietly and
carefully managed, to reach the ears and hearts of the afflicted
relatives, assisted by the intuitive knowledge of what is so well
understood to be passing at these melancholy moments.
In the evening, after Louisa had cried herself to sleep, Constance
repaired to the apartment of her sister-in-law, whom, about an hour
before, she had left exhausted and passive. Mrs. Allerton was extended
on the bed, pale and silent; her daughters, Isabella and Helen, were in
tears beside her; and Frederick had retired to his room.
In the fauteuil, near the head of the bed, sat Mrs. Bladen, who, in the
days of their prosperity, had been the next door neighbour of the
Allerton family, and who still continued to favour them with frequent
visits. She was one of those busy people who seem almost to verify the
justly-censured maxim of Rochefoucault, that "in the misfortunes of our
best friends, there is always something which is pleasing to us."
True it was that Mrs. Bladen, being a woman of great leisure, and of a
disposition extremely officious, devoted most of her time and attention
to the concerns of others; and any circumstances that prevented her
associates from acting immediately for themselves, of course threw open
a wider field for her interference.
"And now, my dear friends," said Mrs. Bladen, squeezing Mrs. Allerton's
hand, and looking at Constance, who seated herself in an opposite chair,
"as the funeral is to take place on Thursday, you know there is no time
to be lost. What have you fixed on respecting your mourning? I will
cheerfully attend to it for you, and bespeak everything necessary."
At the words "funeral" and "mourning," tears gushed again from the eyes
of the distressed family; and neither Mrs. Allerton nor Constance could
command themselves sufficiently to reply.
"Come, my dear creatures," continued Mrs. Bladen, "you must really make
an effort to compose yourselves. Just try to be calm for a few minutes,
till we have settled this business. Tell me what I shall order for you.
However, there is but one rule on these occasions--crape and bombazine,
and everything of the best. Nothing, you know, is more disreputable than
mean mourning."
"I fear, then," replied Mrs. Allerton, "that our mourning attire must be
mean enough. The situation in which we are left will not allow us to go
to any unnecessary expense in that, or in anything else. We had but
little to live upon--we could lay by nothing. We have nothing
beforehand: we did not--we could not apprehend that this dreadful event
was so near. And you know that his salary--that Mr. Allerton's
salary--of course, expires with him."
"So I suppose, my dear friend," answered Mrs. Bladen; "but you know you
_must_ have mourning; and as the funeral takes place so soon, there will
be little enough time to order it and have it made."
"We will borrow dresses to wear at the--to wear on Thursday," said Mrs.
Allerton.
"And of whom will you borrow?"
"I do not know. I have not yet thought."
"The Liscom family are in black," observed Isabella; "no doubt they
would lend us dresses."
"Oh! none of their things will fit you at all," exclaimed Mrs. Bladen.
"None of the Liscoms have the least resemblance to any of you, either in
height or figure. You would look perfectly ridiculous in _their_
things."
"Then there are Mrs. Patterson and her daughters," said Helen.
"The Pattersons," replied Mrs. Bladen, "are just going to leave off
black; and nothing that _they_ have looks either new or fresh. You know
how soon black becomes rusty. You certainly would feel very much
mortified if you had to make a shabby appearance at Mr. Allerton's
funeral. Besides, nobody now wears borrowed mourning--it can always be
detected in a moment. No--with a little exertion--and I repeat that I am
willing to do all in my power--there is time enough to provide the whole
family with genteel and proper mourning suits. And as you _must_ get
them at last, it is certainly much better to have them at first, so as
to appear handsomely at the funeral."
"Oh!" exclaimed Mrs. Allerton, sighing, "at such a time, what
consequence can we possibly attach to our external appearance? How can
we for a moment think of it?"
"To be sure, my dear friend," said Mrs. Bladen, kissing her, "you have
had a very severe loss--very severe, indeed. It is really quite
irreparable; and I can sincerely sympathize in your feelings. Certainly
everybody ought to feel on these occasions; but you know it is
impossible to devote every moment between this and the funeral to tears
and sobs. One cannot be crying all the time--nobody ever does. And, as
to the mourning, that is of course indispensable, and a thing that
_must_ be."
Mrs. Allerton wept bitterly. "Indeed, indeed!" said she, "I cannot
discuss it now."
"And if it is not settled to-night," resumed Mrs. Bladen, "there will
be hardly time to-morrow to talk it over, and get the things, and send
to the mantua-maker's and milliner's. You had better get it off your
mind at once. Suppose you leave it entirely to me. I attended to all the
mourning for the Liscoms, and the Weldons, and the Nortons. It is a
business I am quite used to. I pique myself on being rather clever at
it."
"I will, then, trust to your judgment," replied Mrs. Allerton, anxious
to get rid of the subject, and of the light frivolous prattle of her
_soi-disant_ dear friend. "Be kind enough to undertake it, and procure
for us whatever you think suitable--only let it not be too expensive."
"As to that," answered Mrs. Bladen, "crape is crape, and bombazine is
bombazine; and as everybody likes to have these articles of good
quality, nothing otherwise is now imported for mourning. With regard to
Frederick's black suit, Mr. Watson will send to take his measure, and
there will be no further difficulty about it. Let me see--there must be
bombazine for five dresses: that is, for yourself, three daughters, and
Miss Allerton."
"Not for me," said Constance, taking her handkerchief from her eyes. "I
shall not get a bombazine."
"My dear creature!" cried Mrs. Bladen; "not get a bombazine! You
astonish me! What else can you possibly have? Black gingham or black
chintz is only fit for wrappers; and black silk is no mourning at all."
"I shall wear no mourning," replied Constance, with a deep sigh.
"Not wear mourning!" ejaculated Mrs. Bladen. "What, no mourning at all!
Not wear mourning for your own brother! Now you do indeed surprise me."
Mrs. Allerton and her daughters were also surprised; and they withdrew
their handkerchiefs from their eyes, and gazed on Constance, as if
scarcely believing that they had understood her rightly.
"I have considered it well," resumed Miss Allerton; "and I have come to
a conclusion to make no change in my dress. In short, to wear no
mourning, even for my brother--well as I have loved him, and deeply as I
feel his loss."
"This is very strange," said Mrs. Allerton.
"Excuse me, Miss Constance," said Mrs. Bladen, "but have you no respect
for his memory? He was certainly an excellent man."
"Respect for his memory!" exclaimed Constance, bursting into tears.
"Yes! I indeed respect his memory! And were he still living, there is
nothing on earth I would not cheerfully do for him, if I thought it
would contribute to his happiness or comfort. But he is now in a land
where all the forms and ceremonies of this world are of no avail; and
where everything that speaks to the senses only, must appear like the
mimic trappings of a theatre. With him, all is now awful reality. To the
decaying inhabitant of the narrow and gloomy grave, or to the
disembodied spirit that has ascended to its Father in heaven, of what
consequence is the colour that distinguishes the dress of those whose
mourning is deep in the heart? What to him is the livery that fashion
has assigned to grief, when he knows how intense is the feeling itself,
in the sorrowing bosoms of the family that loved him so well?"
"All this is very true," remarked Mrs. Bladen; "but still, custom is
everything, or fashion, as you are pleased to call it. You know you are
not a Quaker; and therefore I do not see how you can possibly venture to
go without mourning on such an occasion as this. Surely, you would not
set the usages of the world at defiance?"
"I would not," replied Constance, "in things of minor importance; but on
this subject I believe I can be firm."
"Of course," said Mrs. Bladen, "you will not go to the funeral without
mourning."
"I cannot go to the funeral at all," answered Constance.
"Not go to the funeral!" exclaimed Mrs. Allerton. "Dear Constance, you
amaze me!"
"I hope," observed Mrs. Bladen, looking very serious, "there can be no
reason to doubt Miss Allerton's affection for her brother?"
"Oh! no! no! no!" cried the two girls indignantly. "If you had only
seen," said Isabella, "how she nursed my dear father in his illness--how
she was with him day and night."
"And how much she always loved him," said Helen.
"My dear kind sister," said Mrs. Allerton, taking the hand of Constance,
"I hope I shall never again see you distressed by such an intimation."
Mrs. Bladen reddened, looked down, and attentively examined the
embroidered corners of her pocket handkerchief. There was a silence of a
few moments, till Constance, making an effort to speak with composure,
proceeded to explain herself.
"My brother," said she, "has finished his mortal existence. No human
power, no human love, can aid him or soothe him now; and we will
endeavour to submit with resignation to the will of Omnipotence. I
hope--I trust we shall be able to do so; but the shock is yet too
recent, and we cannot at once subdue the feelings of nature. It is
dreadful to see the lifeless remains of one we have long and dearly
loved, removed from our sight for ever, and consigned to the darkness
and loneliness of the grave. For my part, on this sad occasion I feel an
utter repugnance to the idea of becoming an object of curiosity to the
spectators that gaze from the windows, and to the vulgar and noisy crowd
that assembles about a burying-ground when an interment is to take
place. I cannot expose my tears, my deep affliction, to the comments of
the multitude; and I cannot have my feelings outraged by perhaps
overhearing their coarse remarks. I may be too fastidious--I may be
wrong; but to be present at the funeral of my brother is an effort I
cannot resolve to make. And, moreover--"
Here her voice for a few moments became inarticulate, and her sister and
nieces sobbed audibly.
"And then," she continued, "I cannot stand beside that open grave--I
cannot see the coffin let down into it, and the earth thrown upon the
lid till it is covered up for ever. I cannot--indeed I cannot. In the
seclusion of my own apartment I shall, of course, know that all this is
going on, and I shall suffer most acutely; but there will be no
strangers to witness my sufferings. It is a dreadful custom, that of
females attending the funerals of their nearest relatives. I wish it
were abolished throughout our country, as it is in many parts of
Europe."
"But you know," said Mrs. Bladen, "that it is almost universal in
Philadelphia; and, 'when we are in Rome we must do as Rome does.'
Besides which, it is certainly our duty always to see our friends and
relatives laid in the grave."
"Not when we are assured," replied Constance, "that the melancholy
office can be properly performed without our presence or assistance.
Duty requires of us no sacrifice by which neither the living nor the
dead can be benefited. But I have said enough; and I cannot be present
at my brother's funeral."
She then rose and left the room, unable any longer to sustain a
conversation so painful to her.