Ruth Hall, by "Fanny Fern" (NY: Mason Brothers, 1854)
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[p. 59]
CHAPTER XIV.
"This is the parlor, hey?" soliloquized old Mrs. Hall, as she seated herself on the sofa. "A few dollars laid out here, I guess."
Not so fast, my dear madam. Examine closely. Those long, white curtains, looped up so prettily from the open windows, are plain, cheap muslin; but no artist could have disposed their folds more gracefully. The chairs and sofas, also, Ruth covered with her own nimble fingers: the room has the fragrance of a green-house, to be sure; but if you examine the flowers, which are scattered so profusely round, you will find they are wild flowers, which Ruth, basket in hand, climbs many a stone fence every morning to gather; and not a country boy in the village knows their hiding-places as well as she. See how skillfully they are arranged! with what an eye to the blending of colors! How dainty is that little tulip-shaped vase, with those half opened wild-rose buds!
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see that little gilt saucer, containing only a few tiny green leaves; yet, mark their exquisite shape and finish. And there are some wood anemones; some white, with a faint blush of pink at the petals; and others blue as little Daisy's eyes; and see that velvet moss, with its gold-star blossoms!
"Must take a deal of time to gather and fix 'em," muttered the old lady.
Yes, my dear madam; but, better pay the shoe-maker's than the doctor's bill; better seek health in hunting live flowers, than ruin it by manufacturing those German worsted abortions.
You should see your son Harry, as he ushers a visitor in through the low door-way, and stands back to mark the surprised delight with which he gazes upon Ruth's little fairy room. You should see how Harry's eyes glisten, as they pass from one flower vase to another, saying, "Who but Ruth would ever have spied out that tiny little blossom?"
And little Daisy has caught the flower mania, too; and every day she must have her vase in the collection; now withdrawing a rose and replacing it with a violet, and then stepping a pace or two back and looking at it with her little head on one side, as knowingly as an artist looks at the finishing touches to a favorite picture.
But, my dear old lady, we beg pardon; we are keeping you too long from that china closet, which you are so
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anxious to inspect; hoping to find another flaw, either in crockery or cake. Not a bit! You may draw those prying fingers across the shelves till you are tired, and not a particle of dust will adhere to them. Neither cups, saucers, tumblers, nor plates, stick to your hands; the sugar-bowl is covered; the cake, in that tin pail, is fresh and light; the preserves, in those glass jars, tied down with brandy papers, are clear as amber; and the silver might serve for a looking-glass, in which you could read your own vexation.
Never mind! A great many people keep the first floor spick and span; mayhap you 'll find something wrong up stairs. Walk in; 't is the "best chamber." A gilt arrow is fastened to the wall, and pretty white lace curtains are thrown (tent fashion) over it; there is a snow-white quilt and a pair of plump, tempting pillows; the furniture and carpet are of a light cream color; and there is a vase of honeysuckle on the little light-stand. Nothing could be more faultless, you see.
Now, step into the nursery; the floor is strewed with play-things; thank God, there 's a child in the house! There is a broken doll; a torn picture-book; a little wreath of oak leaves; a dandelion chain; some willow tassels; a few acorns; a little red shoe, full of parti-colored pebbles; the wing of a little blue-bird; two little, speckled eggs, on a tuft of moss; and a little orphan chicken, nestling in a basket of cotton wool, in
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the corner. Then, there is a work-basket of Ruth's with a little dress of Daisy's, partly finished, and a dicky of Harry's, with the needle still sticking in it, which the little gypsey wife intends finishing when she comes back from her wood ramble.
The old lady begins to think she must give it up; when, luckily, her eye falls on a crouching "Venus," in the corner. Saints and angels! why, she has never been to the dress-makers! There 's a text, now! What a pity there is no appreciative audience to see the glow of indignation with which those half averted eyes regard the undraped goddess!
"Oh, Harry! is this the end of all my teachings? Well, it is all Ruth's doings--all Ruth's doings. Harry is to be pitied, not blamed;" and the old lady takes up, at length, her trumphant march for home.
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[p. 63]
CHAPTER XV.
"Hallo! what are you doing there?" exclaimed the doctor, looking over the fence at a laborer, at work in one of Harry's fields.
"Ploughing this bit o' ground, sir. Mr. Hall told me to be sure and get it finished before he came home from the city this afternoon."
"Nonsense!" replied the doctor, "I was born sometime before my son Harry; put up your plough, and lay that bit of stone wall yonder; that needs to be done first."
"I 'm thinking Masther Hall won't be afther liking it if I do, sir," said Pat; "I had my orders for the day's work before masther went to the city, sir, this morning."
"Pooh, pooh," said the old man, unchaining the horse from the plough, and turning him loose in the pasture; "young folks think old folks are fools; old folks know young folks to be so."
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Pat eyed the doctor, scratched his head, and began slowly to lay the stone wall.
"What 's that fellow doing over yonder?" said the doctor to Pat.
"Planting corn, yer honor."
"Corn? ha! ha! city farming! Good. Corn? That's just the spot for potatoes. H-a-l-l-o there! Don't plant any more corn in that spot, John; it never 'll come to anything--never."
"But, Mr. Hall?" said John, hesitatingly, leaning on his hoe-handle.
"Harry, Oh, never mind him. He has seen more ledgers than corn. Corn? Ha! that 's good. You can go cart that load of gravel up the hill. What a fortunate thing for Harry, that I am here to oversee things. This amateur farming is pretty play enough; but the way it sinks the money is more curious than profitable. I wonder, now, if that tree is grafted right. I'll take off the ligatures and see. That hedge won't grow, I 'm certain; the down-east cedars thrive the best for hedges. I may as well pull these up, and tell Harry to get some of the other kind;" and the doctor pulled them up by the roots, and threw them over the fence.
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[p. 65]
CHAPTER XVI.
"Time for papa to come," said little Daisy, seating herself on the low door-step; "the sun has crept way round to the big apple-tree;" and Daisy shook back her hair, and settling her little elbows on her knees, sat with her chin in her palms, dreamily watching the shifting clouds. A butterfly alights on a blade of grass near her: Daisy springs up, her long hair floating like a veil about her shoulders, and her tiny feet scarce bending the clover blossoms, and tiptoes carefully along in pursuit.
He 's gone, Daisy, but never mind; like many other coveted treasures, he would lose his brilliancy if caught. Daisy has found something else; she closes her hand over it, and returns to her old watch-post on the door-step. She seats herself again, and loosing her tiny hold, out creeps a great, bushy, yellow caterpillar. Daisy places him carefully on the back of her little, blue-veined hand,
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and he commences his travels up the polished arm, to the little round shoulder. When he reaches the lace sleeve, Daisy's laugh rings out like a robin's carol; then she puts him back, to retravel the same smooth road again.
"Oh, Daisy! Daisy!" said Ruth, stepping up behind her, "what an ugly playfellow; put him down, do darling; I cannot bear to see him on your arm."
"Why--God made him," said little Daisy, with sweet, upturned eyes of wonder.
"True, darling," said Ruth, in a hushed whisper, kissing the child's brow, with a strange feeling of awe. "Keep him, Daisy, dear, if you like."
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CHAPTER XVII.
"Please, sir, I 'll be afther leaving the night," said John, scraping out his hind foot, as Harry drew rein on Romeo, and halted under a large apple-tree.
"Leave?" exclaimed Harry, patting Romeo's neck; "you seemed a contented fellow enough when I left for the city this morning. Don't your wages suit? What's in the wind now? out with it, man."
John scratched his head, kicked away a pebble with the toe of his brogan, looked up, and looked down, and finally said, (lowering his voice to a confidential whisper, as he glanced in the direction of the doctor's cottage;) "It 's the ould gintleman, sir, savin' yer presence. It is not two masthers Pat would be afther having;" and Pat narrated the affair of the plough.
Harry bit his lip, and struck Romeo a little quick cut with his riding-whip. Harry was one of the most dutiful of sons, and never treated his father with disrespect;
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he had chosen a separate home, that he might be master of it; and this old annoyance in a new shape was very provoking. "Pat," said he at length, "there is only one master here; when I give you an order, you are to stick to it, till you get a different one from me. D' ye understand?"
"By the Holy Mother I 'll do it," said Pat delightedly, resuming his hoe with fresh vigor.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
"That's the fourth gig that has been tied to Harry's fence, since dinner," said the old lady. "I hope Harry's business will continue to prosper. Company, company, company. And there 's Ruth, as I live, romping round that meadow, without a bit of a bonnet. Now she 's climbing a cherry-tree. A married woman climbing a cherry-tree! Doctor, do you hear that?"
"Shoot 'em down," said the doctor, abstractedly, without lifting his eyes from the Almanac.
"Shoot who down?" said the old lady, shaking him by the shoulder. "I said that romp of a Ruth was up in a cherry-tree."
"Oh, I thought you were talking of those thievish robins stealing the cherries," said the doctor; "as to Ruth I 've given her up long ago; she never will settle down to anything. Yesterday, as I was taking a walk over Harry's farm to see if things were not all going to
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the dogs, I saw her down in the meadow yonder, with her shoes and stockings off, wading through a little brook to get at some flowers, which grew on the other side. Half an hour after she came loitering up the road, with her bonnet hanging on the back of her neck, and her apron crammed full of grasses, and herbs, and branches and all sorts of green trash. Just then the minister came along. I was glad of it. Good enough for her, thinks I to myself; she 'll blush for once. Well, what do you think she did, Mis. Hall?"
"What?" said the old lady, in a sepulchral whisper, dropping her knitting-needles and drawing her rocking-chair within kissing distance of the doctor.
"Why, she burst out a-laughing, perched herself on top of a stone wall, took a great big leaf to fan herself, and then invited the minister to sit down 'long side of her jest as easy as if her hair was n't all flying round her face like a wild Arab's."
"I give up now," said the old lady, dropping her hands in an attitude of the extremest dejection; "there 's no hope of her after that; and what is worse, it is no use talking to Harry; she 's got him so bewitched that he imagines everything she does is right. How she did it, passes me. I 'm sure she has no beauty. I 've no patience to see Harry twisting those yellow curls of hers round his fingers, and calling them 'threads of gold;' threads of fiddlesticks! She'd look a deal more proper
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like, is she 'd wear her hair smooth behind her ears, as I do."
"But your hair is false," said the literal doctor.
"Doctor," said the old lady, snapping her eyes, "I never can argue with you but you are sure to get off the track, sooner or later; there is no need of your telling all, you know. Suppose I was always alluding to your wig, how would you like it?"
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[p. 72]
CHAPTER XIX.
Winter had set it. The snow in soft, white piles, barred up the cottage door, and hung shelving over the barn-roof and fences; while every tiny twig and branch bent heavily, with its soft fleecy burthen. "Papa," was to go to the city that morning in a sleigh. Daisy had already heard the bells tinkling at the barn-door, as Pat necklaced Romeo, who stood pawing and snorting, as if it were fine fun to plough five miles of unbroken road into the city. Daisy had turned Papa's over-coat sleeves inside out, and warmed them thoroughly at the fire; she had tied on his moccasins, and had thrown his fur collar round his neck; and now she stood holding his warm cap and furred gloves, while he and mamma were saying their usual good-bye.
"Take care of that cough, Daisy," said Harry; "don't come to the door, darling, to breathe in this keen air. Kiss your hand to papa from the window;" and Harry
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scratched the frost away with his finger nails from the window-pane, that Daisy might see him start.
"Oh, how pretty!" exclaimed the child, as Pat tossed the bright, scarlet-lined buffalo robe into the sleigh, and tucked the corners snugly over his master's feet, and Romeo, inspirited by the merry tinkle of the bells and the keen frosty air, stood on his hind legs and playfully held up his fore feet; "Oh, how pretty!" Harry turned his head as he gathered the reins in his hand; his cap was crowded down so snugly over his forehead, and his fur collar turned up so closely about his chin, that only a glimpse of his dark eye and fine Roman nose was visible. One wave of the hand, and the light, feathery snow flew, on either side, from under Romeo's flying heels--and Papa was out of sight.
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CHAPTER XX.
"Why in the world, Ruth, are you wandering about there, like a ghost, in the moonlight?" said Harry, rubbing open his sleepy eyes.
"Hist, Harry! listen to Daisy's breathing; it sounds as if it came through a brazen tube. She must be ill."
"Little wife, don't torment yourself, She [sic] has only a bad cold, which, of course, appears worse at night. Her breathing is irregular, because her head is too low. Give her this pillow: there; now she 's comfortable. What a frightened little puss you are! Your hand trembles as if you had the palsy; now go to sleep; it must be near two o'clock; you 'll be sick yourself to-morrow:" and Harry, wearied out with an annoying day of business, was soon fast asleep.
Only the eye of God watches like a mother's. Ruth could not sleep. She was soon again at Daisy's side, with her fingers upn her wrist, and her eye fixed upon
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the child's face; marking every contortion of feature, noting every change of posture.
"What is it, darling?" asked her mother, as Daisy grasped her throat with both hands.
"It hurts," said the child.
Ruth glanced at Harry. He was so weary, it were a pity to wake him needlessly. Perhaps her fears were groundless, and she was over-anxious; and then, perhaps, Daisy really needed immediate medical aid.
Ruth's fears preponderated.
"Dear Harry," said she, laying her hand softly on his forehead, "do call up Pat, and send for the doctor."
"Certainly, if you think best," said Harry, springing up; "but it is a cold night for the old man to come out; and really, Ruth, Daisy has only a stuffed cold."
"Please let Pat go," said Ruth, pleadingly; "I shall feel happier, Harry."
It was a venturous undertaking to rouse Pat suddenly, as his bump of destructiveness generally woke first; and a fight seemed always with him a necessary preliminary to a better understanding of things.
"Hold! hold!" said Harry, seizing his brawny, belligerent fists; "not quite so fast man; open your eyes, and see who I am."
"Did I sthrike yer honor?" said Pat; "I hope yer 'll forgive me; but you see, I was jist born with my fists doubled up."
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"All right," said his master, laughing; "but get on your clothes as soon as possible; harness Romeo, and bring the old gentleman up here. Mrs. Hall feels very uneasy about Daisy, and wants him to prescribe for her."
"I 'll bring him back in a flash," said Pat; "but what 'll I do if he won't come?"
"Who's there? what do you want? Speak quick, if you 've anything to say, for I 'm catching the rheumatiz' in my head;" said the doctor, as he poked his bald poll out the cottage window, into the frosty night air. ["]Who are you? and what on earth do you want?"
"It 's me," said Pat.
"Who 's me?" said the Doctor.
"Botheration," growled Pat; "don't the ould owl know the voice of me?--It 's Pat Donahue; the childer is sick, and Misthress Ruth wants you to come wid me, and give her something to betther her."
"Pooh! pooh! is that all you woke me up for? The child was well enough this noon, except a slight cold. Ruth is full of notions. Go home and take that bottle, and tell her to give Daisy half a teaspoonful once in two hours; and I 'll come over in the morning. She 's always a-fussing with that child, and thinking, if she sneezes, that she is going to die. It 's a wonder if I don't die myself, routed out of a warm bed, without my wig, this time of night. There-there--go along, and mind you shut
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the gate after you. Ten to one he 'll leave it open," soliloquized the doctor, slamming down the window with a jerk. "I hate an Irishman as I do a rattlesnake. An Irishman is an incomplete biped--a human tower of Babel; he was finished up to a certain point, and there he was left.
"Mis. Hall! Mis. Hall! if you 've no objection, I should like you to stop snoring. I should like to sleep, if the village of Glenville will let me. Dear, dear, what a thing it is to be a doctor!"
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CHAPTER XXI.
"If de las' day has come, dis chil' ought to know it," said Dinah, springing to her feet and peering out, as she scratched away the frost from the window; "has de debbel broke loose? or only de horse? Any way, 'tis about de same ting;" and she glanced in the direction of the barn. "Massy sakes! dere's Pat stealing off in de night wid Romeo; no he aint neider--he 's putting him up in de barn. Where you s'pose he 's been dis time o' night? Courting p'r'aps! Well, dis chil' dunno. And dere's a bright light shining on de snow, from Massa Harry's window. Dinah can't sleep till she knows what 's to pay, dat 's a fac';" and tying a handkerchief over her woolly head, and throwing on a shawl, she tramped down stairs. "Massy sakes!" said she, stopping on the landing, as Daisy's shrill cough fell on her ear; "Massy! jes' hear dat!" and opening the chamber-door, Dinah stood staring at the child, with distended
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eye-balls, then looking from Harry to Ruth, as if she thought them both under the influence of night-mare. "For de lord's sake, Massa Harry, send for de doctor," said Dinah, clasping her hands.
"We have," said Harry, trying to coax Daisy to swallow another spoonful of the medicine, "and he said he 'd be here in the morning."
"She won't," said Dinah, in a low, hoarse whisper to Harry, as she pointed to Daisy. "Don't you know, Massa, it 's de croup! de croup; de wu'st way, Massa! Oh Lor'!"
Harry was harnessing Romeo in an instant, and on his way to the doctor's cottage. In vain he knocked, and rang, and thumped. The old man, comfortably tucked up between the blankets, was far away in the land of dreams.
"What is to be done?" said Harry; "I must tie Romeo to the post and climb in at the kitchen-window."
"Father! father!" said he, shaking the old gentleman by the shoulders, "Daisy is worse, and I want you to go right home with me."
"Don't believe it," said the old man; "you are only frightened; it[']s an awful cold night to go out."
"I know it," said Harry; "but I brought two buffaloes; hurry, father. Daisy is very sick."
The old doctor groaned; took his wig from the bed post, and put it on his head; tied a woollen muffler, with
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distressing deliberation, over his unbelieving ears, and, returning four times to tell "Mis. Hall to be sure and bolt the front door after him," climbed into the sleigh. "I shall be glad if I don't get a sick spell myself," said the doctor, "coming out this freezing night. Ruth has frightened you to death, I s'pose. Ten to one when I get up there, nothing will ail the child. Come, come, don't drive so fast; my bones are old, and I don't believe in these gay horses of yours, who never make any use of their fore-legs, except to hold them up in the air. Whoa, I say--Romeo, whoa!"
"Get out de way, Pat!" said Dinah; "your Paddy fingers are all thumbs. Here, put some more water in dat kettle dere; now stir dat mustard paste; now run quick wid dat goose-grease up to Missus, and tell her to rub de chil's troat wid it; 't aint no use, though. Oh, Lor'! dis nigger knew she would n't live, ever since she said dat 'bout de caterpillar. De Lord wants de chil', dat 's a fac'; she nebber played enough to suit Dinah."
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CHAPTER XXII.
Stamping the snow from his feet, the doctor slowly untied his woolen muffler, took off his hat, settled his wig, hung his overcoat on a nail in the entry, drew from his pocket a huge red handkerchief, and announcing his arrival by a blast, loud enough to arouse the seven sleepers, followed Harry up stairs to the sick chamber.
The strong fire-light fell upon Ruth's white figure, as she sat, pale and motionless, in the corner, with Daisy on her lap, whose laborious breathing could be distinctly heard in the next room. A dark circle had settled round the child's mouth and eyes, and its little hands hung helplessly at its side. Dinah was kneeling at the hearth, stirring a fresh mustard paste, with an air which seemed to say, "it is no use, but I must keep on doing something."
The doctor advanced, drew his spectacles from their leathern case, perched them astride the end of his nose, and gazed steadily at Daisy without speaking.
"Help her," said Ruth, imploringly.
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"Nothing to be done," said the doctor, in an unmoved tone, staring at Daisy.
"Why did n't you come afore, den?" said Dinah, springing to her feet and confronting the doctor. "Don't you see you 've murdered two of 'em?" and she pointed to Ruth, whose head had dropped upon her breast.
"I tell you, Harry, it 's no use to call another doctor," said his father, shaking off his grasp; "the child is struck with death; let her drop off quietly; what 's the use of tormenting her?"
Harry shuddered, and drew his father again to Daisy's side.
"Help her," said Ruth; "don't talk; try something."
"Well, I can put on these leeches, if you insist," said the old man, uncorking a bottle; "but I tell you, it is only tormenting the dying."
Dinah cut open the child's night dress, and bared the fair, round chest, to which the leeches clung eagerly; Daisy, meanwhile, remaining motionless, and seemingly quite insensible to the disagreeable pricking sensation they caused.
"The old other doctor is below," whispered Pat, thrusting his head in at the door.
"Bring him up," said the old gentleman.
An expression of pain passed over the young man's features as his eye fell upon the child. As yet, he had
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not become so professionally hardened, as to be able to look unmoved upon the group before him, whose imploring eyes asked vainly of him the help no mortal hand could give.
A few questions he asked to avoid being questioned himself; a few remedies he tried, to appease the mother's heart, whose mournful eyes were on him like a spell.
"Water," said Daisy, faintly, as she languidly opened her eyes.
"God be thanked," said Ruth, overcome by the sound of that blessed little voice, which she never expected to hear again, "God be thanked."
The young doctor returned no answering smile, as Ruth and Harry grasped his hand; but he walked to the little window and looked out upon the gray dawn, with a heavy sigh, as the first faint streak of light ushered in the new-born day.
Still the fire-light flashed and flickered--now upon the old doctor, who had fallen asleep in his arm chair; now upon Ruth's bowed head; now upon Daisy, who lay motionless in her mother's lap, (the deadly paleness of her countenance rendered still more fearful by the dark blood-stains on her night dress;) then upon Harry, who, kneeling at Daisy's side, and stifling his own strong heart, gazed alternately at mother and child; then upon Dinah, who, with folded arms, stood like some grim sentinel, in the shadow of the farther corner; the little
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mantle clock, meanwhile, ticking, ticking on--numbe[r]ing the passing moments with startling distinctness.
Oh, in such an hour, when wave after wave of anguish dashes over us, where are the infidel's boasted doubts, as the tortured heart cries out, instinctively, "save, Lord; or we perish!"
Slowly the night waned, and the stars paled. Up the gray east the golden sun slowly glided. One beam penetrated the little window, hovering like a halo over Daisy's sunny head. A quick, convulsive start, and with one wild cry (as the little throat filled to suffocation), the fair white arms were tossed aloft, then dropped powerless upon the bed of Death!
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CHAPTER XXIII.
"There can be no sorrow greater than this sorrow," sobbed Ruth, as the heavy sod fell on Daisy's little breast.
In after years, when bitterer cups had been drained to the dregs, Ruth remembered these, her murmuring words. Ah! mourning mother! He who seeth the end from the beginning, even in this blow "remembered mercy."
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"Your daughter-in-law is quite crushed by her affliction, I hear," said a neighbor to old Mrs. Hall.
"Yes, Mrs. Jones, I think she is," said the old lady complacently. "It has taken right hold of her."
"It died of crop, I believe," said Mrs. Jones.
"Well, they say so," said the old lady. "It is my opinion the child's death was owing to the thriftlessness of the mother. I don't mourn for it, because I believe the poor thing is better off."
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"You surprise me," said Mrs. Jones. "I always had the impression that young Mrs. Hall was a pattern mother."
"People differ," said the old lady, raising her eye-brows, compressing her lips, and looking mysteriously at the ceiling, as if she could tell a tale, were she not too charitable.
"Well, the amount of it is," said the garrulous old doctor, emerging from the corner; "the amount of it is, that the mother always thought she knew better than anybody else how to manage that child. Now, you know, Mis. Jones, I 'm a physician, and ought to know something about the laws that govern the human body, but you 'll be astonished to hear that she frequently acted directly contrary to my advice, and this is the result; that tells the whole story. However, as Mis. Hall says, the child is better off; and as to Ruth, why the Lord generally sends afflictions where they are needed;" and the doctor returned to his corner.
"It looks very lonely at the Glen since they moved away," remarked Mrs. Jones. "I suppose they don't think of coming back."
"How?" replied the doctor, re-appearing from his corner.
"I suppose your son and his wife have no idea of returning to the Glen," said Mrs. Jones.
"No--no. Ruth is one of the uneasy kind; it's com-
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ing and going--coming and going with her. She fancied everything in doors and out reminded her of Daisy, and kept wandering round, trying to be rid of herself. Now that proves she did n't make a sanctifying use of her trouble. It 's no use trying to dodge what the Lord sends. We 've just got to stand and take it; if we don't, he 'll be sending something else. Them 's my sentiments, and I consider 'em scripteral. I should n't be surprised if Harry was taken away from her;--a poor, miserable she 'd be to take care of herself, if he was. She could n't earn the salt to her porridge. Thriftless, Mis. Jones, thriftless--come of a bad stock--can't expect good fruit off a wild apple tree, at least, not without grace is grafted on; that tells the whole story."
"Well; my heart aches for her," said the kind Mrs. Jones. "Mrs. Hall is very delicately organized,--one of those persons capable of compressing the happiness or misery of a lifetime into a few moments."
"Stuff," said the doctor, "stuff; don't believe it. I 'm an example to the contrary. I 've been through everything, and just look at me;" and the doctor advanced a pace or two to give Mrs. Jones a better view of his full-blown peony face, and aldermanic proportions; "don't believe it, Mis. Jones; stuff! Fashion to be sentimental; nerves a modern invention. Ridiculous!"
"But," said the persistent Mrs. Jones, "Don't you think, doctor that--"
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"Don't think anything about it," said the doctor[.] "Don't want to hear anything about it. Have no patience with any woman who 'd let a husband sell a farm at such a sacrifice as Harry's was sold, merely because there was a remote chance she would become insane if she staid there. Now, I 've enough to do--plenty to do, but, still, I was willing to superintend that farm a little, as my doing so was such a help to Harry. Well, well; they 'll both go to the dogs, that 's the amount of it. A rolling stone gathers no moss. Harry was good for something before he married Ruth; had a mind of his won. Ruth aint the wife for him."
"He did not appear to think so," replied the obstinate Mrs. Jones. "Everybody in the village says, 'what a happy couple they are.'"
"O-o-h--my!" hissed the old lady, "did you ever, doctor? Of course, Mrs. Jones, you don't suppose Harry would be such a fool as to tell people how miserable he was; but mothers, Mrs. Jones, mothers are keen-sighted; can't throw dust in a mother's eyes."
"Nor in mine," retorted the independent Mrs. Jones, with a mock courtesy to the old lady, as she walked out the door, muttering as she went down the road, "Sally Jones will tell her the truth if nobody else will."
"Mis. Hall," said the doctor, drawing himself up so straight as to snap off his waist-band button, "this is the last time that woman ever crosses my threshold. I shall
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tell Deacon Smith that I consider her a proper subject for church discipline; she 's what the Bible calls 'a busy body in other men's matters;' a character which both you and I despise and abominate, Mis. Hall."
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CHAPTER XXIV.
The first-born! Oh, other tiny feet may trip lightly at the hearth-stone; other rosy faces may greet us round the board; with tender love we soothe their childish pains and share their childish sports; but "Benjamin is not," is written in the secret chamber of many a bereaved mother's heart, where never more the echo of a childish voice may ring out such liquid music as death hath hushed.
Spring had garlanded the earth with flowers, and Autumn had withered them with his frosty breath. Many a Summer's sun, and many a Winter's snow, had rested on Daisy's grave, since the date of our last chapter.
At the window of a large hotel in one of those seaport towns, the resort alike of the invalid and pleasure-seeker, sat Ruth; the fresh sea-breeze lifting her hair from temples thinner and paler than of yore, but stamped with a holier beauty. From the window might be seen the
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blue waters of the bay leaping to the bright sunlight; while many a vessel outward and inward bound, spread its sails, like some joyous white-winged sea bird. But Ruth was not thinking of the sapphire sky, though it were passing fair; nor of the blue sea, decked with its snowy sails; for in her lap lay a little half-worn shoe, with the impress of a tiny foot, upon which her tears were falling fast.
A little half-worn shoe! And yet no magician could conjure up such blissful visions; no artist could trace such vivid pictures; no harp of sweetest sounds could so fill the ear with music.
Eight years since the little Daisy withered! And yet, to the mother's eye, she still blossomed fair as Paradise. The soft, golden hair still waved over the blue-veined temples; the sweet, earnest eyes still beamed with their loving light; the little fragile hand was still outstretched for maternal guidance, and in the wood and by the stream they still lingered. Still, the little hymn was chanted at dawn, the little prayer lisped at dew-fall; still, that gentle breathing mingled with the happy mother's star-lit dreams.
A little, bright-eyed creature, crept to Ruth's side, and lifting a long, wavy, golden ringlet from a box on the table near her, laid it beside her own brown curls.
"Daisy 's in heaven," said little Katy, musingly. "Why do you cry, mamma? Don't you like to have God keep her for you?"
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A tear was the only answer.
"I should like to die, and have you love my curls as you do Daisy's, mother."
Ruth started, and looked at the child; the rosy flush had faded away from little Katy's cheek, and a tear stole slowly from beneath her long lashes.
Taking her upon her lap, she severed one tress of her brown hair, and laid it beside little Daisy's golden ringlet.
A bright, glad smile lit up little Katy's face, and she was just throwing her arms about her mother's neck, to express her thanks, when, stopping suddenly, she drew from her dimpled foot one little shoe, and laid it in her mother's palm.
'Mid smiles and tears Ruth complied with the mute request; and the little sister shoes lay with the twin ringlets, lovingly side by side.
Blessed childhood! the pupil and yet the teacher; half infant, half sage, and whole angel! what a desert were earth without thee!
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CHAPTER XXV.
Hotel life is about the same in every latitude. At Beach Cliff there was the usual number of vapid, fashionable mothers; dressy, brainless daughters; half-fledged wine-bibbing sons; impudent, whisker-dyed rouès; batchelors, anxious to give their bashfulness an airing; bronchial clergymen, in search of health and a text; waning virgins, languishing by candle-light; gouty uncles, dyspeptic aunts, whist-playing old ladies, flirting nursery maids and neglected children.
Then there were "hops" in the hall, and sails upon the lake; there were nine-pin alleys, and a gymnasium; there were bathing parties, and horse-back parties; there were billiard rooms, and smoking rooms; reading rooms, flirtation rooms,--room for everything but--thought.
There could be little or nothing in such an artificial atmosphere congenial with a nature like Ruth's. In all
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this motley crowd there was but one person who interested her, a Mrs. Leon, upon whose queenly figure all eyes were bent as she passed; and who received the homage paid her, with an indifference which (whether real or assumed) became her passing well. Her husband was a tall, prim, proper-looking person, who dyed his hair and whiskers every Saturday, was extremely punctilious in all points of etiquette, very particular in his stated inquiries as to his wife's and his horse's health, very fastidious in regard to the brand of his wine, and the quality of his venison; maintaining, under all circumstances, the same rigidity of feature, the same immobility of the cold, stony, gray eye, the same studied, stereotyped conventionalism of manner.
Ruth, although shunning society, found herself drawn to Mrs. Leon by an unaccountable magnetism. Little Katy, too, with that unerring instinct with which childhood selects from the crowd, an unselfish and loving nature, had already made rapid advances toward acquaintance. What road to a mother's heart so direct, as through the heart of her children? With Katy for a "medium," the two ladies soon found themselves in frequent conversation. Ruth had always shrunk from female friendship. It might be that her boarding-school experience had something to do in effecting this wholesale disgust of the commodity. Be that as it may, she had never found any woman who had not misunder-
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stood and misinterpreted her. For the common female employments and recreations, she had an unqualified disgust. Satin patchwork, the manufacture of German worsted animals, bead-netting, crochet-stitching, long discussions with milliners, dress-makers, and modistes, long forenoons spent in shopping, or leaving bits of paste-board, party-giving, party-going, prinking and coquetting, all these were her aversions. Equally with herself, Mrs. Leon seemed to despise these air bubbles. Ruth was sure that, under that faultless, marble exterior, a glowing, living, loving heart lay slumbering; waiting only the enchanter's touch to wake it into life. The more she looked into those dark eyes, the deeper seemed their depths. Ruth longed, she scarce knew why, to make her life happy. Oh, if she had a soul!
Ruth thought of Mr. Leon and shuddered.
Mrs. Leon was often subject to severe and prostrating attacks of nervous headache. On these occasions, Ruth's magnetic touch seemed to woo coy slumber, like a spell; and the fair sufferer would lie peacefully for hours, while Ruth's fingers strayed over her temples, or her musical voice, like David's harp, exorcised the demon Pain.
"You are better now," said Ruth, as Mrs. Leon slowly opened her eyes, and looked about her; "you have had such a nice sleep, I think you will be able to join us at the tea table to-night. I wish brush these long dishev-
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eled locks, and robe these dainty limbs; though, to my eye, you look lovelier just as you are. You are very beautiful, Mary. I heard a couple of young ladies discussing you, in the drawing-room, the other evening, envying your beauty and your jewels, and the magnificence of your wardrobe."
"Did they envy me my husband?" asked Mary, in a slow, measured tone.
"That would have been useless," said Ruth, averting her eyes; "but they said he denied you nothing in the way of dress, equipage, or ornament."
"Yes," said Mary; "I have all those pretty toys to satisfy my heart-cravings; they, equally with myself, are necessary appendages to Mr. Leon's establishment. Oh, Ruth!" and the tears streamed through her jeweled fingers--"love me--pity me; you who are so blessed. I too could love; that is the drop of poison in my cup. When your daughters stand at the altar, Ruth, never compel them to say words to which the heart yields no response. The chain is none the less galling, because its links are golden. God bless you, Ruth; 'tis long since I have shed such tears. You have touched the rock; forget that the waters have gushed forth."
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CHAPTER XXVI.
October had come! coy and chill in the morning, warm and winning at noon, veiling her coat of many colors in a fleecy mist at evening, yet lovely still in all her changeful moods. The gay butterflies of fashion had already spread their shriveled wings for the warmer atmosphere of the city. Harry and Ruth still lingered;--there was beauty for them in the hill-side's rainbow dyes, in the crimson barberry clusters, drooping from the wayside hedges; in the wild grape-vine that threw off its frost-bitten leaves, to tempt the rustic's hand with its purple clusters; in the piles of apples, that lay gathered in parti-colored heaps beneath the orchard trees; in the yellow ears of Indian corn, that lay scattered on the seedy floor of the breezy barn; in the festoons of dried apples, and mammoth squashes, and pumpkins, that lay ripening round the thrifty farmers' droors; and in the circling
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leaves, that came eddying down in brilliant showers on the Indian summer's soft but treacherous breath.
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"You are ill, Harry," said Ruth, laying her hand upon his forehead.
"Slightly so," replied Harry languidly; "a pain in my head, and--"
A strong ague chill prevented Harry from finishing the sentence.
Ruth, who had never witnessed an attack of this kind grew pale as his teeth chattered, and his powerful frame shook violently from head to foot.
"Have you suffered much in this way?" asked the physician who was summoned.
"I had the fever and ague very badly, some years since, at the west," said Harry. "It is an unpleasant visitor, doctor; you must rid me of it as soon as you can, for the sake of my little wife, who, though she can endure pain herself like a martyr, is an arrant little coward whenever it attacks me. Don't look so sober, Ruth, I shall be better to-morrow. I cannot afford time to be sick long, for I have a world of business on hand. I had an important appointment this very day, which it is a thousand pities to postpone; but ever mind, I shall certainly be better to-morrow."
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But Harry was not "better to-morrow;" nor the next day; nor the next; the doctor pronouncing his case to be one of decided typhus fever.
Very reluctantly the active man postponed his half formed plans, and business speculations, and allowed himself to be placed on the sick list. With a sigh of impatience, he saw his hat, and coat, and boots, put out of sight; and watched the different phials, as they came in from the apothecary; and counted the stroke of the clock, as it told the tedious hours; and marveled at the patience with which (he now recollected) Ruth bore a long bed-ridden eight-weeks' martyrdom, without a groan or complaint. But soon, other thoughts and images mixed confusedly in his brain, like the shifting colors of a kaleidoscope. He was floating--drifting--sinking--soaring, by turns;--the hot blood coursed through his veins like molten lava; his eye glared deliriously, and the hand, never raised but in blessing, fell, with fevered strength, upon the unresisting form of the loving wife.
"You must have a nurse," said the doctor to Ruth; "it is dangerous for you to watch with your husband alone. He might injure you seriously, in one of these paroxysms."
"But Harry has an unconquerable dislike to a hired nurse," said Ruth; "his reason may return at any mo-
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ment, and the sight of one will trouble him. I am not afraid," replied Ruth, between a tear and a smile.
"But you will wear yourself out; you must remember that you owe a duty to your children."
"My husband has the first claim," said Ruth, resuming her place by the bed-side; and during the long hours of day and night, regardless of the lapse of time--regardless of hunger, thirst or weariness, she glided noiselessly about the room, arranged the pillows, mixed the healing draught, or watched with a silent prayer at the sufferer's bed-side; while Harry lay tossing form side to side, his white teeth glittering through his unshorn beard, raving constantly of her prolonged absence, and imploring her in heart-rending tones to come to his side, and "bring Daisy from the Glen."
Many a friendly voice whispered at the door, "How is he?" The Irish waiters crossed themselves and stept softly through the hall, as they went on their hasty errands; and many a consultation was held among warm-hearted gentlemen friends, (who had made Harry's acquaintance at the hotel, during the pleasant summer,) to decide which should first prove their friendship by watching with him.
Ruth declined all offers to fill her place. "I will never leave him," she said; "his reason may return, and his eye seek vainly for me. No--no; I thank you all.
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Watch with me, if you will, but do not ask me to leave him."
In the still midnight, when the lids of the kind but weary watchers drooped heavily with slumber, rang mournfully in Ruth's ear the sad plaint of Gethsemane's Lord, "Could ye not watch with me one hour?" and pressing her lips to the hot and fevered hand before her, she murmured, "I will never leave thee, nor forsake thee."