of valleys, but I have an accurate knowledge of what my duty is
regarding any statement which Sophronia may make, so I promptly
assented. By the rarest good fortune, I found in the morning paper an
advertisement of a real estate agent who made a specialty of Villa
Valley property. This agent, when visited by me early in the morning,
abundantly confirmed Sophronia's intuition regarding brooks and lakes,
by asserting that his charming town possessed both, beside many other
attractions, which irresistibly drove us to Villa Valley the next day,
with a letter to the agent's resident partner.
It was a bright April morning when we started in the resident agent's
carriage, to visit a number of houses, the rent of which did not exceed
four hundred dollars.
"Drive first to the Old Stone Cottage," said Sophronia; "the very name
is enchanting."
The house itself did not support Sophronia's impression. It stood very
near the road, was a quarter of a mile from any tree or bush, had three
large and three small rooms, only one of which could be reached without
passing through two others, for the house had no hall. The woodwork
would have apparently greeted paint as a life-long stranger; the doors,
in size and clumsiness, reminded me of the gates of Gaza, as pictured in
Sunday-school books. The agent said it had once been Washington's
headquarters, and I saw no reason to doubt his word; though I timidly
asked whether tradition asserted that the Father of his Country had not
suffered a twinge of neuralgia while at Villa Valley.
"A Perfect Snuggery" did not belie its name, but in size and ventilation
forcibly suggested a chicken coop.
"Charming Swiss Cottage" seemed to be a remodeled pig-stye, from which
objectionable matter had not been removed. "The House in the Woods" was
approachable only through water half-way up to the carriage body; so we
regretfully abandoned pursuit of it.
"Silver Lake!" exclaimed Sophronia, reading from the memoranda she had
penciled from the agent's descriptive list. "_That_, I am sure, will
suit us. Don't you remember, Pierre, my presentiment about a lake at
Villa Valley?"
I remembered, by a little stretch of my imagination. But, alas! for the
uncertainty even of the presentiments of one of Nature's most
impressible children. The "lake" was a pond, perhaps twenty feet in
diameter; an antiquated boot, two or three abandoned milk cans, and a
dead cat, reposed upon its placid beach; and from a sheltered nook upon
its southerly side, an early-aroused frog appeared, inquiringly, and
uttered a cry of surprise--or, perhaps, of warning.
"Take me away?" exclaimed Sophronia, "It was a dream--a fateful dream."
"New Cottage, with all modern improvements," seemed really to justify
its title; but Sophronia declined to look farther than its outside.
"I could never be happy in that house, Pierre," said she, with emphasis;
"it looks to be entirely new."
"'Tis, ma'am," declared the agent; "the last coat of paint hasn't been
on a month."
"So I divined," replied Sophronia. "And so it is simply a lifeless mass
of boards and plaster--no loving heartthrobs ever consecrated its
walls--no tender romances have been woven under its eaves--no wistful
yearnings--no agonies of parting have made its chambers instinct with
life--no--"
"I declare!" exclaimed the agent; "excuse me for interrupting, ma'am,
but I believe I've got the very house you're looking for. How would you
like a rambling, old family homestead, a hundred years old, with quaint,
wide fireplaces, high mantels, overhanging eaves, a heavy screen of
evergreens, vines clambering over everything, a great wide hall--"
"Exquisite--charming--enchanting--paradisaical--divine!" murmured
Sophronia.
"And the rent is only three hundred dollars," continued the agent.
This latter bit of information aroused _my_ strongest sentiment, and I
begged the agent to show us the house at once.
The approach was certainly delightful. We dashed into the gloom of a
mass of spruces, pines, and arbor-vitæs, and stopped suddenly in front
of a little, low cottage, which consisted principally of additions, no
one of which was after any particular architectural order. Sophronia
gazed an instant; her face assumed an ecstatic expression which I had
not seen since the day of our engagement; she threw her arms about my
neck, her head drooped upon my bosom, and she whispered:
"My ideal!"
Then this matchless woman, intuitively realizing that the moment for
action had arrived, reassumed her natural dignity, and, with the air of
Mrs. Scott Siddons in "Elizabeth," exclaimed:
"Enough! We take it!"
"Hadn't you better examine the interior first, my love?" I suggested.
"Were the interior only that of a barn," remarked my consistent mate,
"my decision would not be affected thereby. The eternal unities are
never disunited, nor are--"
"I don't believe I've got the key with me," said the agent; "but perhaps
we can get in through one of the windows."
The agent tied his horse and disappeared behind the house. Again
Sophronia's arm encircled me, and she murmured:
"Oh, Pierre, what bliss!"
"It's a good way from the station, pet," I ventured to remark.
Sophronia's enthusiasm gave place to scorn; she withdrew her
affectionate demonstration, and replied:
"Spoken like a real man! The practical, always--the ideal, never! Once I
dreamed of the companionship of a congenial spirit, but, alas! 'A good
way from the station!' Were _I_ a man, I would, to reside in such a
bower, plod cheerily over miles of prosaic clods."
"And you'd get your shapely boots most shockingly muddy," I thought, as
the agent opened one of the front windows and invited us to enter.
"French windows, too!" exclaimed Sophronia; "oh Pierre! And see that
exquisite old mantel; it looks as if it had been carved from ebony upon
the banks of one of the Queen of the Adriatic's noiseless by-ways. And
these tiny rooms, how cozy--how like fairy land! Again I declare, we
will take it! Let us return at once to the city--how I loathe the
thought of treading its noisy thoroughfares again!--and order our
carpets and furniture."
"Are you sure you won't be lonesome here, darling?" I asked. "It is
quite a distance from any neighbors."
"A true woman is never lonesome when she can commune with Nature,"
replied Sophronia. "Besides," she continued, in a less exalted strain,
"I shall have Laura Stanley and Stella Sykes with me most of the time."
The agent drove us back to his office, spending not more than ten
minutes on the road; yet the time sufficed Sophronia to give me in
detail her idea of the combination of carpets, shades, furniture,
pictures, etc., which would be in harmony with our coming domicile.
Suddenly nature reasserted her claims, and Sophronia addressed the
agent.
"Your partner told my husband that there were a lake and two brooks at
Villa Valley. I should like to see them."
"Certainly, ma'am," replied the agent, promptly; "I'll drive you past
them as you go to the train."
Ten minutes later the lease was made out and signed. I was moved to
interrupt the agent with occasional questions, such as, "Isn't the house
damp?" "Any mosquitoes?" "Is the water good and plentiful?" "Does the
cellar extend under the whole house?" But the coldly practical nature of
these queries affected Sophronia's spirits so unpleasantly, that, out of
pure affection, I forebore. Then the agent invited us into his carriage
again, and said he would drive us to the lower depot.
"Two stations?" I inquired.
"Yes," said he; "and one's as near to your house as the other."
"_Your_ house," whispered Sophronia, turning her soulful eyes full upon
me, and inserting her delicate elbow with unnecessary force between my
not heavily covered ribs--"_your_ house! Oh, Pierre! does not the
dignity of having a house appear to you like a beautiful vision?"
"I strove for an instant to frame a reply in keeping with Sophronia's
mental condition, when an unpleasant odor saluted my nose. That
Sophronia was conscious of the same disgusting atmospheric feature, I
learned by the sound of a decided sniff. Looking about us, I saw a large
paper mill beside a stream, whose contents looked sewer-like.
"Smell the paper-mash boiling?" asked the agent. "Peculiar, isn't it?
Very healthy, though, they say."
On the opposite side of the road trickled a small gutter, full of a
reddish-brown liquid, its source seeming to be a dye-house behind us.
Just then we drove upon a bridge, which crossed a vile pool, upon the
shore of which was a rolling-mill.
"Here's the lake," said the agent; "Dellwild Lake, they call it. And
here's the brooks emptying into it, one on each side of the road."
Sophronia gasped and looked solemn. Her thoughtfulness lasted but a
moment, however; then she applied her daintily perfumed handkerchief to
her nose and whispered: "Dellwild! Charbig dabe, Pierre, dod't you thig
so?"
During the fortnight which followed, Sophronia and I visited
house-furnishing stores, carpet dealers, furniture warehouses, picture
stores, and _bric-a-brac_ shops. The agent was very kind; he sent a boy
to the house with the keys every time the express wished to deliver any
of our goods. Finally, the carpet dealer having reported the carpets
laid, Sophronia, I, and our newly engaged servant, started by rail to
Villa Valley, three double-truck loads of furniture preceding us by way
of the turnpike. I had thoughtfully ordered quite a quantity of
provisions put into the house, in advance of our arrival. Hiring a
carriage at the station, and obtaining the keys of the agent, we drove
to our residence. Sophronia, to use her own expression, 'felt as she
imagined Juno did, when first installed as mistress of the rosy summit
of the divine mount; while I, though scarcely in a mood to compare
myself with Jove, was conscious of a new and delightful sense of
manliness. The shades and curtains were in the windows, the sun shone
warmly upon them, and a bright welcome seemed to extend itself from the
whole face of the cottage. I unlocked the door and tenderly kissed my
darling under the lintel; then we stepped into the parlor. Sophronia
immediately exclaimed:
"Gracious!"
The word that escaped _my_ lips, I shrink from placing upon the printed
page. A barrel of flour, one of sugar, another of corned beef, and a
half-barrel of molasses, a box of candles, a can of kerosene oil, some
cases of canned fruits, a box of laundry soap, three wash-tubs, and a
firkin of butter--all these, and many other packages, covered the parlor
floor, and sent up a smell suggestive of an unventilated grocery. The
flour had sifted between the staves of the barrel, the molasses had
dripped somewhat, the box of soap had broken open and a single bar had
been fastened to the carpet by the seal of a boot-heel of heroic size.
Sophronia stepped into little pools of molasses, and the effect seemed
to be that the carpet rose to bestow sweet clinging kisses upon the
dainty feet of the loveliest of her sex.
"Horrible!" ejaculated Sophronia.
"And here come the trucks," said I, looking out of the window, "and the
one with the parlor furniture is in front."
Fortunately, the truckmen were good-tempered and amenable to reason,
expressed by means of currency; so we soon had the provisions moved into
the kitchen. Then the senior truckman kindly consented to dispose of an
old tarpaulin, at about twice the price of a piece of velvet carpet of
similar size, and this we spread upon the parlor floor while the
furniture should be brought in. Sophronia assumed the direction of
proceedings, but it soon became evident that she was troubled.
"The room, evidently, was not arranged for this furniture," said she.
And she spoke truthfully. We had purchased a lounge, a large
centre-table, an _etagere_, a Turkish chair, two reception chairs,
four chairs to match the lounge, a rocker or two, an elegant firescreen,
and several other articles of furniture, and there was considerable
difficulty experienced, not only in arranging them, but in getting them
into the parlor at all. Finally, the senior truckman spoke:
[Illustration: A BRIGHT WELCOME SEEMED TO EXTEND ITSELF FROM THE WHOLE
FACE OF THE COTTAGE.]
"The only way to git everythin' in, is to fix 'em the way we do at the
store--set 'em close together."
He spoke truly; and Sophronia, with a sigh, assented to such an
arrangement, suggesting that we could rearrange the furniture afterward,
and stipulating only that the lounge should be placed in the front of
the room. This done, there were three-and-a-half feet of space between
the front of the lounge and the inside of the window-casings.
We can, at least, sit upon it and lose our souls in the dying glories of
the sun upon the eternal hills, and--"Gracious, Pierre, where's the
piano to go?"
Sure enough; and the piano was already at the door. The senior truckman
cast his professional eye at the vacant space, and spoke:
"You can put it right there," said he. "There won't be no room fur the
stool to go behind it; but if you put the key-board to the front, an'
open the winder, you can stand outdoors an' play."
Sophronia eyed the senior truckman suspiciously for a moment, but not
one of his honest facial muscles moved, so Sophronia exclaimed:
"True. And how romantic!"
While the piano was being placed I became conscious of some shocking
language being used on the stairway. Looking out I saw two truckmen and
the headboard of our new bedstead inextricably mixed on the stairs.
"Why don't you go on?" I asked.
The look which one of the truckmen gave me I shall not Forget until my
dying day; the man's companion remarked that when (qualified) fools
bought furniture for such (doubly qualified) houses, they ought to have
brains enough to get things small enough to get up the (trebly
qualified) stairs.
I could not deny the logic of this statement, impious as were the
qualifying adjectives which were used thereupon. But something had to be
done; we could not put the bedstead together upon the stairway and sleep
upon it there, even were there not other articles of furniture
imperatively demanding a right of way.
"Try to get it down again," said I.
They tried, and, after one mighty effort, succeeded; they also brought
down several square yards of ceiling plaster and the entire handrail of
the stair.
"Think the ceilings of these rooms is high enough to let that bed stand
up?" asked the senior truckman.
I hastily measured the height of the ceilings, and then of the bedstead,
and found the latter nearly eighteen inches too high. Then I called
Sophronia: the bedstead was of her selection, and was an elegant sample
of fine woods and excessive ornamentation. It was a precious bit of
furniture, but time was precious, too. The senior truckman suggested
that the height of the bedstead might be reduced about two feet by the
removal of the most lofty ornament, and that a healthy man could knock
it off with his fist.
"Let it be done," said Sophronia. "What matter? A king discrowned is
still a king at heart."
The senior truckman aimed a deadly blow with a cart-rung, and the
bedstead filled its appointed place. The remaining furniture followed as
fast as could be expected; we soon gave up the idea of getting it all
into the house; but the woodhouse was spacious and easy of access, so we
stowed there important portions of three chamber sets, a gem of a
sideboard, the Turkish chair, which had been ordered for the parlor, and
the hat-rack, which the hall was too small to hold. We also deposited in
the woodhouse all the pictures, in their original packages.
At length the trucks were emptied; the senior truckman smiled sweetly as
I passed a small fee into his hand then he looked thoughtfully at the
roof of the cottage, and remarked:
"It's none of my business, I know; but I hate to see nice things
spiled. I'd watch that roof, ef I was you, the fust time it rained."
I thanked him; he drove off; I turned and accepted the invitation which
was presented by Sophronia's outstretched arms.
"Oh, Pierre!" she exclaimed; "at last we are in our own home! No
uncongenial spirits about us--no one to molest or annoy--no
unsympathetic souls to stifle our ardent passion for Nature and the work
of her free, divine hands."
A frowsy head suddenly appeared at the dining-room door, and a voice
which accompanied it remarked:
"Didn't they bring in any stove, ma'am?"
Sophronia looked inquiringly at me, and I answered:
"No!" looking very blank at the same time.
"Then how am I to make a fire to cook with?" asked the girl.
"In the range, of course," said Sophronia.
Our domestic's next remark had, at least, the effect of teaching what
was her nationality:
"An' do ye think that I'd ax fur a sthove av dhere was a range in the
house? Dhivil a bit!"
"Never mind, dear," said I soothingly; "I'm an old soldier; I'll make a
fire out of doors, and give you as nice a cup of tea and plate of hot
biscuit as you ever tasted. And I'll order a stove the first thing in
the morning."
Sophronia consented, and our domestic was appeased. Then I asked the
domestic to get some water while I should make the fire. The honest
daughter of toil was absent for many moments, and when she returned, it
was to report, with some excitement, that there was neither well nor
cistern on the premises.
Then I grew angry, and remarked, in Sophronia's hearing, that we were a
couple of fools, to take a house without first proving whether the agent
had told the truth. But Sophronia, who is a consistent optimist, rebuked
me for my want of faith in the agent.
"Pierre," said she, "it is unmanly to charge a fellow-man with
falsehood upon the word of a menial. I know that agent tells the truth,
for he has such liquid blue eyes; besides, his house is right next to
the Presbyterian Church."
Either one of these powerful arguments was sufficient to silence me, of
course; so I took the pail, and sought well and cistern myself. But if
either was on the place, it was so skillfully secreted that I could not
find the slightest outward evidence of it. Finally, to be thorough, I
paced the garden from front to rear, over lines not more than ten feet
apart, and then scrutinized the fence-corners.
While at this work, I was approached by a gentleman, who seemed to come
from a house two or three hundred yards off.
"Moved into the cottage, it seems," said he.
"Yes," I replied. "Do you know the place? The agent said there was
excellent water here, but I can't find it."
"He meant there was good water in my well, where all occupants of the
cottage have drawn water for several years. The well belonging to your
place was covered up when the road was cut through, a few years ago, and
neighbor Hubbell--well, _I_ don't say anything against him--neighbors
must be neighborly, but folks _do_ say he's too stingy to dig a new
well. That's the reason the cottage hasn't been occupied much for the
last few years. But everybody is welcome to draw from my well--come
along."
I followed the kind-hearted man, but I wished that the liquid depth of
the agent's blue eyes had a proper parallel upon the estate which he had
imposed upon me. I returned as full of wrath as my pail was of water,
when, across the fence, I saw Sophronia's face, so suffused with tender
exaltation, that admiration speedily banished ill nature.
But it was for a brief moment only, for Sophronia's finely-cut lips
parted and their owner exclaimed:
"Oh, Pierre! What a charming pastoral picture--you and the pail, and the
lawn as a background! I wish we might always have to get water from our
neighbor's, well."
We retired early, and in the delightful quiet of our rural retreat, with
the moon streaming through our chamber window, Sophronia became poetic,
and I grew too peaceful and happy even to harbor malice against the
agent. The eastern sun found his way through the hemlocks to wake us in
the morning, and the effect was so delightfully different from the
rising bell of the boarding-house, that when Sophronia indulged in some
freedom with certain of Whittier's lines, and exclaimed:
"Sad is the man who never sees
The sun shine through his hemlock trees"
I appreciated her sentiment, and expressed my regard in a, loving kiss.
Again I made a fire out of doors, boiled coffee, fried ham and eggs,
made some biscuit, begged some milk of our neighbor, and then we had a
delightful little breakfast. Then I started for the station.
"Don't forget the stove, dear," said Sophronia, as she gave me a parting
kiss; "and be sure to send a butcher, and baker, and grocer, and--"
Just then our domestic appeared and remarked:
"Arah ye may as well get another girl; the likes ai me isn't goin' to
bring wather from half-a-mile away."
Sophronia grew pale, but she lost not an atom of her saintly calmness;
she only said, half to herself:
"Poor thing! she hasn't a bit of poetry in her soul."
When I returned in the evening, I found Sophronia in tears. The stove
men had not quite completed their work, so Sophronia and her assistant
had eaten nothing but dry bread since breakfast. The girl interrupted us
to say that the stove was ready, but that she couldn't get either coal
or wood, and would I just come and see why? I descended five of the
cellar stairs, but the others were covered with water, and upon the
watery expanse about me floated the wagon-load of wood I had purchased.
The coal heap, under a window fifteen feet away, loomed up like a rugged
crag of basaltic rock. I took soundings with a stick and found the
water was rather more than two feet deep. Fortunately, there were among
my war relics a pair of boots as long as the legs of their owner, so I
drew these on and descended the stairs with shovel and coal scuttle. The
boots had not been oiled in ten years, so they found accommodation for
several quarts of water. As I strode angrily into the kitchen and set
the scuttle down with a suddenness which shook the floor, Sophronia
clapped her hands in ecstasy.
"Pierre," she exclaimed, "you look like the picture of the sturdy
retainers of the old English barons. O, I do hope that water won't go
away very soon. The rattling of the water in your boots makes your step
_so_ impressive."
I found that in spite of the hunger from which she had suffered,
Sophronia had not been idle during the day. She had coaxed the baker's
man to open the cases of pictures, and she and the domestic had carried
each picture to the room in which it was to hang. The highest ceiling in
the house was six and a half feet from the floor, whereas our smallest
picture measured three feet and a half in height. But Sophronia's
art-loving soul was not to be daunted; the pictures being too large to
hang, she had leaned them against the walls.
"It's such an original idea," said she; "and then, too, it gives each
picture such an unusual effect--don't you think so?"
I certainly did.
We spent the evening in trying to make our rooms look less like
furniture warehouses, but succeeded only partly. We agreed, too, that we
could find something for painters and kalsominers to do, for the
ceilings and walls were blotched and streaked so much that our pretty
furniture and carpets only made the plastering look more dingy. But when
again we retired, and our lights were put, and only soft moonbeams
relieved the darkness, our satisfaction with our new house filled us
with pleasant dreams, which we exchanged before sleeping. After falling
asleep, I dreamed of hearing a wonderful symphony performed by an unseen
orchestra; it seemed as if Liszt might have composed it, and as if the
score was particularly strong in trombones and drums. Then the scene
changed, and I was on a ship in a storm at sea; the gale was blowing my
hair about, and huge rain-drops occasionally struck my face. Sophronia
was by my side; but, instead of glorying with me in meeting the
storm-king in his home, she complained bitterly of the rain. The
unaccountable absence of her constitutional romanticism provoked me, and
I remonstrated so earnestly, that the effort roused me to wakefulness.
But Sophronia's complaining continued. I had scarcely realized that I
was in a cottage chamber instead of on a ship's deck, when Sophronia
exclaimed:
"Pierre, I wonder if a shower-bath hasn't been arranged just where our
bed stands? because drops of water are falling in my face once in a
while. They are lovely and cool, but they trickle off on the pillow, and
that don't feel nice."
I lit a candle, and examined the ceiling; directly over Sophronia's head
there was a heavy blotch, from the centre of which the water was
dropping.
"Another result of taking that liquid blue-eyed agent's word," I
growled, hastily moving the bed and its occupant, and setting the basin
on the floor to catch the water and save the carpet.