Eventide
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Effie Afton >> Eventide
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"What makes you look so, dear mamma?" said Ellen; "will you not go and
see poor Dilly?"
"I shall be very glad to do so, my dear child," answered the fond mother,
"if it is possible. You know your father has often wished to remove to a
place where his skill in architecture might be employed to better
advantage, and an excellent opportunity now offers for him to dispose of
his situation here, and remove to a large city, where his services will
be in constant demand."
"And I shall never see Willie Danforth again," said Ellen, bursting into
tears.
Childhood is so simple and unaffected, ever expressing with innocent
confidence its dearest thought, and claiming sympathy! Mrs. Williams
tried long to comfort her little daughter, and at length succeeded by
holding out a prospect that she might some time return and visit her
early associates. Ned was consoled by the same prospect. But then, we
never know, when we leave a place, what changes may occur ere we revisit
its now familiar scenes. Mrs. Williams felt this truth more vividly than
her children. But few changes had marked their sunny years, and it never
occurred to their youthful minds but what Wimbledon as she was to-night
would be exactly the same should they return five or ten years hence. The
mother did not disturb this pleasant illusion, "for experience comes
quite soon enough to young hearts," she said, "and I'll not force her
unwelcome lessons upon my happy children." So Ned and Ellen, when it was
decided they should leave on the morrow, almost forgot the pangs of
departure from their rich, beautiful home, so intently were they dwelling
on the joy of returning and meeting their schoolmates and companions
after a period of separation. O, gay, light-hearted youth! What is there
in all life's after years, its gaudy pomp, its feverish flame, or
short-lived honors, that can atone for the loss of thy buoyant hopes, and
simple, trusting faith?
Sad was poor Dilly Danforth when she heard of the sudden departure of the
benevolent Williams family, and bitterly she exclaimed, "No good thing is
long vouchsafed the poor. Our poverty will only seem the darker now for
having been brightened for a transient hour."
Willie, who had returned from his walk with Ellen with severe pains in
his limbs and head, fell sick of a rheumatic fever, and suffered much for
the want of warm clothing, care and medical treatment. O, how often he
thought of Ellen! "If she were there he would not suffer thus. She would
be warmth, care, clothing and physician for him."
His mother was obliged to labor every day to procure fuel for the fire;
and to warm the great, cold room, where the piercing autumn blasts blew
through wide gaping cracks and chasms, and get a bottle of wormwood
occasionally, with which to bathe his aching limbs, was the utmost her
efforts could accomplish. With this insufficient care, 'twas no wonder
Willie grew rapidly worse. One bitter cold night Dilly sat down utterly
discouraged as she placed the last stick of wood on the fire. Her boy had
been so ill for several days she could not leave him to go to her
accustomed labor, and consequently the small pile of fuel was consumed.
What was she to do? Willie was already crying of cold, and she sat over
the expiring blaze crying because she had naught to render him
comfortable. After a while he grew silent, and, softly approaching, she
found he had sunk into a quiet slumber. Carefully covering him with the
thin, tattered blankets, she pinned a shawl over her head, and, softly
closing the door behind her, stole forth into the biting night air, and
directed a hasty tread toward Mr. Pimble's great brick mansion. A bright
light gleamed through the kitchen windows as she ascended the steps and
gave a hurried knock. Directly she heard a shuffling sound, and knew Mr.
Pimble, in his heelless slippers, was approaching. Fast beat her heart as
the door opened, and she beheld his gaunt form and unyielding features.
"What brings you here this bitter cold night, Dilly Danforth?" exclaimed
he, in a surly tone, as the furious blast rushed in his face, and nearly
extinguished the lamp he held in his skinny grasp.
She stepped inside, and he closed the door.
"'Tis the bitter cold night which brings me, Mr. Pimble," she said,
feeling she must speak quickly, for Willie was at home alone; "my boy is
sick and suffering from cold. For myself, I would not ask a favor, but
for him I entreat you to give me an armful of wood to keep him from
perishing."
"Why don't you work and buy your wood?" asked he, angered by this sudden
demand upon his charity.
"I worked as long as I could leave my child," answered Mrs. Danforth,
"and I thought maybe you would be willing to allow me something for my
work here."
"Allow you something, woman? Don't I give you the rent of that great
house for the few light chores you do for us, which really amount to
nothing? Your impudence is astonishing;" and Esq. Pimble's voice quivered
with rage, as he thus addressed the trembling woman.
Dilly stood irresolute, and Mr. Pimble was silent a few moments, when a
voice from the parlor called out, imperiously, "Pimble, I want you!"
The man roused himself and rushed to the door in such haste as to lose
both his slippers.
"What are you blabbing about out there?" Dilly heard Mrs. Pimble ask, in
an angry tone.
"Dilly Danforth has come for some wood," was the moody reply.
"And so you are giving wood to that lazy, foolish, stupid creature, are
you?"
"No, I am not. She says her boy is sick and she has no fire."
"A pretty tale, and I hope 'tis true. She'll learn by and by her sin and
folly. If she had asserted her own rights, as she should have done, and
left her drunken husband and moping boy years ago, she might have been
well off in the world by this time. But she chose like an idiot to live
with him and endure his abuses till he died, and since she has tied
herself to that foolish boy. O, I have no patience with such stupid
women! They are a disgrace to the true female race. Go and tell her to go
home and never enter my doors a-begging again."
Dilly did not wait to receive this unfeeling message, but pulled her thin
blanket around her, and stole out in the chill night air, and ran toward
home as swiftly as possible. She stumbled over something on the
threshold. It was a bundle of firewood. How came it there? She could not
tell, but seized it in her arms, ran hastily in, and approached Willie's
bed-side. He was still sleeping tranquilly, and that night a comfortable
fire, lighted by unknown generosity, blazed on the lowly hearth.
CHAPTER V.
"There is a jarring discord in my ear,
It setteth all my soul ashake with fear,
Good sir, canst drive it off?"----
OLD PLAY.
All Wimbledon was aroused one cold November morning by a direful
conglomeration of sounds;--strange, discordant shrieks, ominous groans,
a clanking, as of iron chains and fetters, a slow, heavy, elephantine
tread gradually growing on the ear, and a deep, continuous rumbling as of
earthquakes in the bowels of the earth. Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, nervous and
delicate as she was, clung fast to the neck of her liege lord when he
attempted to throw open the sash of his window, to discover the import of
this unusual disturbance of the nocturnal stillness of Wimbledon. Good
Deacon Allen, who was lying on his deaf ear, became restless, and visions
of the final retribution and doom of the wicked harassed his slumbers.
Suddenly he awoke, and dismal groans and unearthly rumblings struck his
terrified ear. "Sally! Sally!" said he, leaping from bed and giving his
sleeping spouse a vigorous shake, "why sleepest thou? arise and don thy
drab camlet and high-crowned cap, and prepare to meet thy Lord; for
behold he cometh!"
"Samuel," said the good wife but half awake, "you are prating in your
sleep. Return to your pillow and be quiet till day-break."
"You speak like a foolish virgin, Sally," returned the excited deacon.
"Do you not hear the roaring of the resurrection thunder and the wailings
of the wicked?"
"I do hear something," said Mrs. Allen, now poking her night-capped head
from beneath the blankets, and listening a moment attentively. "'Tis a
sound of heavy carts drawn by oxen over frozen ground. Ay, I guess it is
the new family, that bought out neighbor Williams, moving their goods.
Just look out the window,--our yards join,--and see if there is not a
stir there." The deacon obeyed.
"O, yes," said he, "I can distinguish several loaded teams and dusky
figures moving to and fro."
"I thought 'twas the new-comers," returned the wife, who possessed more
ready wit and shrewdness than her amiable consort, and, withal, could
hear vastly better. "You had better come to bed again, Samuel;--'tis an
hour to daylight."
"I cannot get to sleep again, I have been so disturbed," said the
husband, fidgetting round in the dark room to find his clothes.
"O, pshaw!--put your deaf ear up and you'll soon fall off," answered the
wife, drawing the covering over her head. Deacon Allen, who had a very
high opinion of his wife's good sense, concluded to follow her advice,
and the happy couple were soon enjoying as pleasant a morning snooze, as
though neither the resurrection nor the "new family" had disturbed their
slumbers.
Jenny Andrews and Amy Seaton, who slept in the room above, never heard a
sound, nor did Charlie in his cosey chamber beyond, and great was the
astonishment of the young people, on opening their casements, to behold
the long line of heavy-loaded teams drawn up in the yard of the splendid
mansion which stood next above Dea. Allen's, the former residence of Esq.
Williams. Teamsters in blue frocks were unfastening the smoking oxen from
the ponderous carts, and as the girls hurried below to impart the
intelligence of the arrival of the new family to Mrs. Allen, they heard
the voice of Mrs. Salsify Mumbles, and entering the sitting-room found
that lady laying aside her bonnet and shawl. Mary Madeline was standing
by the window gazing into the adjoining yard. Jenny and Amy had not seen
their former boarding mistress since they left her house at the close of
the summer term, several months before. But she was so elate about the
arrival of the new family that all memory of their former ill-usage
seemed to have escaped her, and she grasped the hands of both and shook
them cordially. "I am glad to see you," she exclaimed; "why have you not
called on us this fall? Mary Madeline has often said I wish Jenny and Amy
would come in, it would seem so much like old times. Here, my dear," said
she, seizing hold of the young lady's shawl and pulling her from the
window, "don't be so taken up with the new family that you can't speak to
your old friends." Mary Madeline now turned and spoke to her former
schoolmates. Then, drawing a chair close to the window, she resumed her
gaze, with her gloves and handkerchief lying unheeded on the floor and
her gay shawl dragging behind her. "O, mother! mother!" she exclaimed at
length, "there comes the family."
Mrs. Salsify, who was engaged in telling Mrs. Allen of Mr. Salsify's
prosperity, and how he was "rising in his profession," and how he
meditated adding another story to his house and putting a piazza round it
next spring, dropped all, even her snuff-box, and rushed to the window as
a large covered wagon, drawn by a span of elegant black horses, drove
rapidly into the adjoining yard. First alighted a tall man in a black
overcoat,--the master no doubt, the gazers decided,--then a tall man in a
gray overcoat, then a tall man in a brown overcoat. And the man in the
black overcoat and the man in the gray overcoat moved away, the former up
the steps of the mansion and around the terraces, trying the fastenings
of the Venetian blinds, and examining the cornices and pillars of the
porticos; the latter turned in the direction of the stables and
outhouses, while the man in the brown overcoat assisted three ladies to
alight, all grown-up women, one short and fat, the other two tall and
thin. The gazers were a little puzzled by the appearance of the new
family. As far as they could discover there was no great difference in
the respective ages of the six individuals who had alighted from the
wagon, and Mrs. Salsify Mumbles declared it as her opinion that the
family consisted of three brothers who had married three sisters for
their wives. The short, fat woman, who had a rubicund visage and
turned-up nose, and wore a broad-plaided cashmere dress, drew forth a
bunch of keys from a wicker basket that hung on her arm, and with a
pompous tread ascended the marble steps, unlocked the broad,
mahogany-panelled door, turned the massive silver knob, and, swinging it
wide, strode in, the tall ladies in blue cloaks following close behind.
Soon sashes began to be raised, blinds flew open, and the tall ladies
were seen standing on high chairs hanging curtains of rich damask and
exquisitely wrought muslin, before the deep bay windows. The three tall
men threw off their overcoats, and, with the assistance of the
blue-frocked teamsters, commenced the business of unlading the carts.
"All the furniture is bagged," said Mrs. Salsify, impatiently; "one
cannot get a glimpse to know whether 'tis walnut, or rosewood, or
mahogany. They mean to make us think 'tis pretty nice, whether 'tis or
not; but we shall find out some time, for they can't always be so shy.
Well, Mary Madeline," she added, turning to her daughter, "we may as well
go home, I guess;--there's nothing to be seen here but chairs and sofas
sewed up in canvas. I thought I would run over a few minutes, Mrs. Allen,
as I knew your windows looked right into the yard of the new comers, and
we could get a good view. Of course, we wanted to know what sort of folks
we were going to have for neighbors. I hope they'll be different from the
Williams'."
"Why?" asked Mrs. Allen, looking up from the brown patch she was engaged
in sewing on the elbow of the deacon's black satinet coat. "I only hope
they will prove as good neighbors and I will be perfectly satisfied."
"O, I don't know but what the Williams' were good enough, but they were
too exclusive, too aristocratic for me. Mrs. W. never thought Mary
Madeline fit for her Ellen to associate with."
"How do you know she thought so?" asked Mrs. Allen; "for my part, I lived
Mrs. Williams' nearest neighbor for ten years or more, and always
considered her a very kind-hearted, unassuming woman, wholly untainted
with the pride and haughtiness which too often disfigure the characters
of those who possess large store of this world's goods and move in the
upper circles."
"Well, you were more acquainted with Mrs. Williams than I was, of course;
but she was not the kind of woman to suit my taste. There's Mrs. Pimble
and Mrs. Lawson now, both rich and splendid, keep their carriages and
servants, but they are not above speaking to common people."
"I am not personally acquainted with those ladies," answered Mrs. Allen.
"They are reformers," said Mrs. Mumbles, in a reverential tone; "you
should hear their awful speeches. Daniel Webster could never equal them,
folks tell me."
"I have understood that they belonged to the fanatical class of female
lecturers that have arisen in our country within the last few years."
"O, they hold conventions everywhere, and such terrible gesticulations as
they pronounce against the tyranny and oppression of the female sex by
the monster man!" said Mrs. Salsify. "I declare I wish they would have
one of their indignation meetings here, for I think the men are getting
the upper hand among us."
"Doubtless you would join their ranks should they do so," observed Mrs.
Allen, with a quiet smile, as she arose, gave the deacon's coat a shake,
and hung it on a peg behind the door.
"Well, I don't know but I should," returned Mrs. S.; "but come, Maddie,
how we are wasting time! I declare, two carts are already unloaded, and
there goes the seminary bell. 'Tis nine o'clock." Jenny, Amy and Charlie,
ran down stairs all equipped for school, as Mrs. Mumbles and her daughter
stepped into the hall, and all went forth together. Mrs. M. repeated her
invitation for the young ladies and Charlie to visit her, and the girls
laughingly promised to do so at their first leisure. Mary Madeline went
to Edson's store on an errand, and her mother proceeded directly home.
Great was her anger to behold the back kitchen door swinging wide. She
shut it behind her with a slam, muttering some impatient exclamation
about Mr. Salsify's stupid carelessness. As she stood by the stove
warming her chilled fingers, a noise from the pantry startled her ears,
and, opening the door, she beheld the great, shaggy watch-dog, that
belonged to the store of Edson & Co., lying on his haunches with a nice
fat pullet between his paws, which he was devouring with evident relish
and gusto. He turned his head towards her, uttered a low growl, and went
on with his breakfast again. Mrs. Salsify looked up to a peg on which she
had hung six nicely-dressed chickens the night before. Alas! the last one
was between the bloody devourer's paws. She glanced toward a pot she had
left full of cream, under the shelves. It was empty; and toward her
rolling-board, where she had left a pan of rich pie-crust, with which she
was intending to cover her thanksgiving pies. All had disappeared. She
trembled with rage.
"Get out, you thievish rascal!" she exclaimed, bringing her foot
violently to the floor.
The dog sprang toward her, and, seizing the skirt of her gay-striped,
bombazine dress with his glistening ivories, rent it from the waist, flew
through the parlor window, and rushed through streets, by-lanes and
alleys, rending the flaring fabric, and dragging it through mud-holes
till it looked like some fiery-colored flag borne away by the enemy in
disgrace.
Mrs. Salsify rushed down into her husband's shop in awful plight, her
hair standing on end, and her great, green eyes almost starting from
their sockets. Mr. Salsify looked with amazement on his lady, as did also
the half-score of customers that stood around his counters. Her
saffron-colored skirt was rent in divers places, revealing the black one
she wore beneath, and the gay-striped waist she still wore was hung round
with ragged fragments of the vanished skirt.
"Lord, love us, what is the matter?" exclaimed Mr. Salsify, rushing
toward his wife.
"Edson's dog has eat up six chickens, a cream-pot, a rolling-board,
pie-crust, and all!" exclaimed Mrs. Mumbles, with a frantic air, as she
fell into her husband's outstretched arms, wholly unmindful of the
laughter her appearance and words had excited among her good man's
customers.
"Edson's dog,--how could he get into the house?" demanded Mr. Mumbles.
"I saw him out with Dick Giblet, this morning, when he was leaving
packages," said little Joe Bowles, with a mischievous leer in his black
eyes.
The husband and wife exchanged a glance. The whole truth flashed upon
them,--'twas a trick of Dick's. Mr. Salsify ordered his customers to
leave the shop, and locking the door, he led his terrified, trembling
wife up stairs, where they found Mary Madeline lying on the floor in a
fainting fit, with the fragments of her mother's skirt clenched tightly
in her cold hands.
CHAPTER VI.
"Her face was fairer than face of earth;
What was the thing to liken it to?
A lily just dipped in the summer dew?
Parian marble--snow's first fall?
Her brow was fairer than each,--than all.
And so delicate was each vein's soft blue,
'Twas not like blood that wandered through.
Rarely upon that cheek was shed,
By health or by youth, one tinge of red,
And never closest look could descry,
In shine or shade, the hue of her eye,
But, as it were made of light, it changed
With every sunbeam that over it ranged."
The midnight stars were over all the heaven, O, wildly, wildly bright!
Orion, like a flaming monarch, led up "the host of palpitating stars" to
their proud zenith, while, far in the boreal regions, danced strange,
atmospheric lights, with flitting, fantastic motions and ever-changing
forms and colors. A young girl stood in the deep recess of a large
window, with the rich, blue-wrought damask curtains wrapped closely about
her slight, fragile form, gazing intently on the splendors of the
midnight heaven. Long she stood there, and no sound broke the stillness,
save now and then a half-audible sigh. At length she said, "I cannot
endure this solitude and the depression which is stealing over me. Would
that I had a mother to love and bless me! Father is often so strange and
silent, and Rufus cannot sympathize with my feelings. I must call Sylva
to bear me company, for one of my nervous attacks is upon me, and I
cannot sleep." Softly opening a side-door, she said, in a voice scarcely
above a whisper, "Sylva, are you awake?"
"Yes," was the answer; "what is your wish, Miss Edith?"
"That you would come and sit with me a while."
"What time is it!"
"I know not; but, by the stars, it should be little after midnight."
"Return to your room, and I will soon be there with a light," answered
the one called Sylva.
The young girl did as requested, and sank down in a large arm-chair which
nearly concealed her in its soft cushions. Presently the small side-door
opened, and Sylva entered, bearing an astral lamp and a few light pieces
of kindling wood.
"O, I don't mind a fire!" said Miss Edith.
"Well, I do," answered the woman; "you would catch your death, up here
half the night with no fire."
"'Tis a cold place we are come to, isn't it Sylva?" said the young lady,
springing from her chair and wrapping an elegant cashmere dressing-gown,
lined with azure satin, round her tall, delicate figure, and then again
sinking down among the soft velvet cushions of her spacious fauteuil.
"Yes, Miss Edith, it is, indeed," answered Sylva, as she lighted a bright
fire in the polished grate. "How your father expects to rear so fragile a
bud in this bleak region I do not know."
"I have never seen him in such spirits as since we came here," returned
Edith, toying with the silken tassels of her rich robe. "You know he was
always so silent and reserved in our former home, Sylva. But sometimes I
fancy there is something unnatural in his manner. One moment he will
laugh wildly, and the next a dark frown will have gathered on his brow.
Twice he has caught me in his arms and said, 'Edith! Edith, you have a
part to play, and I rely on you to do it!' Then he would look on me so
sternly, I would burst into tears, and strive to free myself from his
embrace. What did he mean by such words, Sylva?"
"Why, that you are coming on to the stage of action, and he desires you
to be educated and accomplished in a manner to adorn the high circles in
which you will move."
"O, more than that, Sylva!" said Edith doubtfully; "he need not have
looked so stern, were that all; but still he is a kind, indulgent father
for the most part. I should not complain;" and the young girl relapsed
into thoughtful silence. The pale fire-light glowed on her delicate
features. One tiny white hand rested on the cushioned arm of the chair,
and the large, melancholy blue eyes were fixed on the glowing blaze
within the shining ebon grate. The profile was strictly Grecian in
outline, and the soft, silken hair fell in a shower of golden ripples
over her small, sloping shoulders. Her lips were vermilion red, and
disclosed two rows of tiny pearls whenever they parted with dimpling
smiles.
"Have you become acquainted with any of the village people, Sylva?" asked
the fair girl, rousing at length from her reverie.
"No, save this young Mrs. Edson, who called yesterday, I have seen no
one," returned the woman, "unless I mention that sunken-eyed washerwoman,
Dilly Danforth, as she is called."
"O, I saw her on the steps one day! What a forlorn-looking creature she
is! I think she must be very poor. Still, it seems to me there should be
no poverty in this rich, happy-appearing village. I fancy it will be a
love of a place in summer, Sylva, when all the maples and lindens are in
leaf, and the numerous gardens in flower. O, when father took me out in
the new sleighing phaeton last week, I saw a most magnificent mansion,
grander than ours, even. The grounds seemed beautifully laid out, and
over the arching gateway I read the words 'Summer Home' sculptured in the
marble. It is closed at present, but when the occupants return in the
spring, I hope I shall get to know them, for I would dearly love to visit
at so delightful a place. Father said I should become acquainted with the
family. He knows their names, and I think said he had met the gentleman
once." Edith grew quite smiling and happy as she prattled on, forming
plans and diversions for the coming summer. Sylva listened to her
innocent conversation in respectful silence, and, after a while, as the
fire burned low, and the cocks began to crow from their neighboring
perches, the sweet girl ceased to speak. She had wearied herself and
fallen asleep.
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