It cannot be supposed that all these things passed unnoticed by those wakeful eyes that are ever upon the motions of such “bright, particular stars;” and as is usual in such cases, many things were known to a certainty which were not yet known to the parties themselves. The young belles and beaux whispered and tittered, and passed the original jokes and witticisms common in such cases, while the old ladies soberly took the matter in hand when they went out with their knitting to make afternoon visits, considering how much money Uncle Jaw had, how much his son would have, and what all together would come to, and whether Joseph would be a “smart man,” and Susan a good housekeeper, with all the “ifs, ands, and buts” of married life.
But the most fearful wonders and prognostics crowded around the point “what Uncle Jaw would have to say to the matter.” His lawsuit with the sisters being well understood, as there was every reason it should be, it was surmised what two such vigorous belligerents as himself and Miss Silence would say to the prospect of a matrimonial conjunction. It was also reported that Deacon Enos Dudley had a claim to the land which constituted the finest part of Susan’s portion, the loss of which would render the consent of Uncle Jaw still more doubtful. But all this while Miss Silence knew nothing of the matter, for her habit of considering and treating Susan as a child seemed to gain strength with time. Susan was always to be seen to, and watched, and instructed, and taught; and Miss Silence could not conceive that one who could not even make pickles, without her to oversee, could think of such a matter as setting up housekeeping on her own account. To be sure, she began to observe an extraordinary change in her sister; remarked that “lately Susan seemed to be getting sort o’ crazy-headed;” that she seemed not to have any “faculty” for any thing; that she had made gingerbread twice, and forgot the ginger one time, and put in mustard the other; that she shook the saltcellar out in the tablecloth, and let the cat into the pantry half a dozen times; and that when scolded for these sins of omission or commission, she had a fit of crying, and did a little worse than before. Silence was of opinion that Susan was getting to be “weakly and naarvy,” and actually concocted an unmerciful pitcher of wormwood and boneset, which she said was to keep off the “shaking weakness” that was coming over her. In vain poor Susan protested that she was well enough; Miss Silence knew better; and one evening she entertained Mr. Joseph Adams with a long statement of the case in all its bearings, and ended with demanding his opinion, as a candid listener, whether the wormwood and boneset sentence should not be executed.
Poor Susan had that very afternoon parted from a knot of young friends who had teased her most unmercifully on the score of attentions received, till she began to think the very leaves and stones were so many eyes to pry into her secret feelings; and then to have the whole case set in order before the very person, too, whom she most dreaded. “Certainly he would think she was acting like a fool; perhaps he did not mean any thing more than friendship, after all; and she would not for the world have him suppose that she cared a copper more for him than for any other friend, or that she was in love, of all things.” So she sat very busy with her knitting work, scarcely knowing what she was about, till Silence called out, —
“Why, Susan, what a piece of work you are making of that stocking heel! What in the world are you doing to it?”
Susan dropped her knitting, and making some pettish answer, escaped out of the room.
“Now, did you ever?” said Silence, laying down the seam she had been cross-stitching; “what is the matter with her, Mr. Adams?”
“Miss Susan is certainly indisposed,” replied our hero gravely. “I must get her to take your advice, Miss Silence.”
Our hero followed Susan to the front door, where she stood looking out at the moon, and begged to know what distressed her.
Of course it was “nothing,” the young lady’s usual complaint when in low spirits; and to show that she was perfectly easy, she began an unsparing attack on a white rosebush near by.
“Susan!” said Joseph, laying his hand on hers, and in a tone that made her start. She shook back her curls, and looked up to him with such an innocent, confiding face!
Ah, my good reader, you may go on with this part of the story for yourself. We are principled against unveiling the “sacred mysteries,” the “thoughts that breathe and words that burn,” in such little moonlight interviews as these. You may fancy all that followed; and we can only assure all who are doubtful, that, under judicious management, cases of this kind may be disposed of without wormwood or boneset. Our hero and heroine were called to sublunary realities by the voice of Miss Silence, who came into the passage to see what upon earth they were doing. That lady was satisfied by the representations of so friendly and learned a young man as Joseph that nothing immediately alarming was to be apprehended in the case of Susan; and she retired. From that evening Susan stepped about with a heart many pounds lighter than before.
“I’ll tell you what, Joseph,” said Uncle Jaw, “I’ll tell you what, now: I hear ’em tell that you’ve took and courted that ‘ere Susan Jones. Now, I jest want to know if it’s true.”
There was an explicitness about this mode of inquiry that took our hero quite by surprise, so that he could only reply, —
“Why, sir, supposing I had, would there be any objection to it in your mind?”
“Don’t talk to me,” said Uncle Jaw. “I jest want to know if it’s true.”
Our hero put his hands in his pockets, walked to the window, and whistled.
“‘Cause if you have,” said Uncle Jaw, “you may jest un-court as fast as you can; for ‘Squire Jones’s daughter won’t get a single cent of my money, I can tell you that.”
“Why, father, Susan Jones is not to blame for any thing that her father did; and I’m sure she is a pretty girl enough.”
“I don’t care if she is pretty. What’s that to me? I’ve got you through college, Joseph; and a hard time I’ve had of it, a-delvin’ and slavin’; and here you come, and the very first thing you do you must take and court that ‘ere ‘Squire Jones’s daughter, who was always putting himself up above me. Besides, I mean to have the law on that estate yet; and Deacon Dudley, he will have the law, too; and it will cut off the best piece of land the girl has; and when you get married, I mean you shall have something. It’s jest a trick of them gals at me; but I guess I’ll come up with ’em yet. I’m just a-goin’ down to have a ‘regular hash’ with old Silence, to let her know she can’t come round me that way.”
“Silence,” said Susan, drawing her head into the window, and looking apprehensive, “there is Mr. Adams coming here.”
“What, Joe Adams? Well, and what if he is?”
“No, no, sister, but it is his father — it is Uncle Jaw.”
“Well, s’pose ’tis, child — what scares you? S’pose I’m afraid of him? If he wants more than I gave him last time, I’ll put it on.” So saying, Miss Silence took her knitting work and marched down into the sitting room, and sat herself bolt upright in an attitude of defiance, while poor Susan, feeling her heart beat unaccountably fast, glided out of the room.
“Well, good morning, Miss Silence,” said Uncle Jaw, after having scraped his feet on the scraper, and scrubbed them on the mat nearly ten minutes, in silent deliberation.
“Morning, sir,” said Silence, abbreviating the “good.”
Uncle Jaw helped himself to a chair directly in front of the enemy, dropped his hat on the floor, and surveyed Miss Silence with a dogged air of satisfaction, like one who is sitting down to a regular, comfortable quarrel, and means to make the most of it.
Miss Silence tossed her head disdainfully, but scorned to commence hostilities.
“So, Miss Silence,” said Uncle Jaw, deliberately, “you don’t think you’ll do any thing about that ‘ere matter.”
“What matter?” said Silence, with an intonation resembling that of a roasted chestnut when it bursts from the fire.
“I really thought, Miss Silence, in that ‘ere talk I
had with you about ‘Squire Jones’s cheatin’ about that ‘ere — —”
“Mr. Adams,” said Silence, “I tell you, to begin with, I’m not a going to be sauced in this ‘ere way by you. You hain’t got common decency, nor common sense, nor common any thing else, to talk so to me about my father; I won’t bear it, I tell you.”
“Why, Miss Jones,” said Uncle Jaw, “how you talk! Well, to be sure, ‘Squire Jones is dead and gone, and it’s as well not to call it cheatin’, as I was tellin’ Deacon Enos when he was talking about that ‘ere lot — that ‘ere lot, you know, that he sold the deacon, and never let him have the deed on’t.”
“That’s a lie,” said Silence, starting on her feet; “that’s an up and down black lie! I tell you that, now, before you say another word.”
“Miss Silence, railly, you seem to be getting touchy,” said Uncle Jaw; “well, to be sure, if the deacon can let that pass, other folks can; and maybe the deacon will, because ‘Squire Jones was a church member, and the deacon is ‘mazin’ tender about bringin’ out any thing against professors; but railly, now, Miss Silence, I didn’t think you and Susan were going to work it so cunning in this here way.”
“I don’t know what you mean, and, what’s more, I don’t care,” said Silence, resuming her work, and calling back the bolt-upright dignity with which she began.
There was a pause of some moments, during which the features of Silence worked with suppressed rage, which was contemplated by Uncle Jaw with undisguised satisfaction.
“You see, I s’pose, I shouldn’t a minded your Susan’s setting out to court up my Joe, if it hadn’t a been for them things.”
“Courting your son! Mr. Adams, I should like to know what you mean by that. I’m sure nobody wants your son, though he’s a civil, likely fellow enough; yet with such an old dragon for a father, I’ll warrant he won’t get any body to court him, nor be courted by him neither.”
“Railly, Miss Silence, you ain’t hardly civil, now.”
“Civil! I should like to know who could be civil. You know, now, as well as I do, that you are saying all this out of clear, sheer ugliness; and that’s what you keep a doing all round the neighborhood.”
“Miss Silence,” said Uncle Jaw, “I don’t want no hard words with you. It’s pretty much known round the neighborhood that your Susan thinks she’ll get my Joe, and I s’pose you was thinking that perhaps it would be the best way of settling up matters; but you see, now, I took and tell’d my son I railly didn’t see as I could afford it; I took and tell’d him that young folks must have something considerable to start with; and that, if Susan lost that ‘ere piece of ground, as is likely she will, it would be cutting off quite too much of a piece; so, you see, I don’t want you to take no encouragement about that.”
“Well, I think this is pretty well!” exclaimed Silence, provoked beyond measure or endurance; “you old torment! think I don’t know what you’re at! I and Susan courting your son? I wonder if you ain’t ashamed of yourself, now! I should like to know what I or she have done, now, to get that notion into your head?”
“I didn’t s’pose you ‘spected to get him yourself,” said Uncle Jaw, “for I guess by this time you’ve pretty much gin up trying, hain’t ye? But Susan does, I’m pretty sure.”
“Here, Susan! Susan! you — come down!” called Miss Silence, in great wrath, throwing open the chamber door. “Mr. Adams wants to speak with you.” Susan, fluttering and agitated, slowly descended into the room, where she stopped, and looked hesitatingly, first at Uncle Jaw and then at her sister, who, without ceremony, proposed the subject matter of the interview as follows: —
“Now, Susan, here’s this man pretends to say that you’ve been a courting and snaring to get his son; and I just want you to tell him that you hain’t never had no thought of him, and that you won’t have, neither.”
This considerate way of announcing the subject had the effect of bringing the burning color into Susan’s face, as she stood like a convicted culprit, with her eyes bent on the floor.
Uncle Jaw, savage as he was, was always moved by female loveliness, as wild beasts are said to be mysteriously swayed by music, and looked on the beautiful, downcast face with more softening than Miss Silence, who, provoked that Susan did not immediately respond to the question, seized her by the arm, and eagerly reiterated, —
“Susan! why don’t you speak, child?”
Gathering desperate courage, Susan shook off the hand of Silence, and straightened herself up with as much dignity as some little flower lifts up its head when it has been bent down by rain drops.
“Silence,” she said, “I never would have come down if I had thought it was to hear such things as this. Mr. Adams, all I have to say to you is, that your son has sought me, and not I your son. If you wish to know any more, he can tell you better than I.”
“Well, I vow! she is a pretty gal,” said Uncle Jaw, as Susan shut the door.
This exclamation was involuntary; then recollecting himself, he picked up his hat, and saying, “Well, I guess I may as well get along hum,” he began to depart; but turning round before he shut the door, he said, “Miss Silence, if you should conclude to do any thing about that ‘ere fence, just send word over and let me know.”
Silence, without deigning any reply, marched up into Susan’s little chamber, where our heroine was treating resolution to a good fit of crying.
“Susan, I did not think you had been such a fool,” said the lady. “I do want to know, now, if you’ve railly been thinking of getting married, and to that Joe Adams of all folks!”
Poor Susan! such an interlude in all her pretty, romantic little dreams about kindred feelings and a hundred other delightful ideas, that flutter like singing birds through the fairy land of first love. Such an interlude! to be called on by gruff human voices to give up all the cherished secrets that she had trembled to whisper even to herself. She felt as if love itself had been defiled by the coarse, rough hands that had been meddling with it; so to her sister’s soothing address Susan made no answer, only to cry and sob still more bitterly than before.
Miss Silence, if she had a great stout heart, had no less a kind one, and seeing Susan take the matter so bitterly to heart, she began gradually to subside.
“Susan, you poor little fool, you,” said she, at the same time giving her a hearty slap, as expressive of earnest sympathy, “I really do feel for you; that good-for-nothing fellow has been a cheatin’ you, I do believe.”
“O, don’t talk any more about it, for mercy’s sake,” said Susan; “I am sick of the whole of it.”
“That’s you, Susan! Glad to hear you say so! I’ll stand up for you, Susan; if I catch Joe Adams coming here again with his palavering face, I’ll let him know!”
“No, no! Don’t, for mercy’s sake, say any thing to Mr. Adams — don’t!”
“Well, child, don’t claw hold of a body so! Well, at any rate, I’ll just let Joe Adams know that we hain’t nothing more to say to him.”
“But I don’t wish to say that — that is — I don’t know — indeed, sister Silence, don’t say any thing about it.”
“Why not? You ain’t such a natural, now, as to want to marry him, after all, hey?”
“I don’t know what I want, nor what I don’t want; only, Silence, do now, if you love me, do promise not to say any thing at all to Mr. Adams — don’t.”
“Well, then, I won’t,” said Silence; “but, Susan, if you railly was in love all this while, why hain’t you been and told me? Don’t you know that I’m as much as a mother to you, and you ought to have told me in the beginning?”
“I don’t know, Silence! I couldn’t — I don’t want to talk about it.”
“Well, Susan, you ain’t a bit like me,” said Silence — a remark evincing great discrimination, certainly, and with which the conversation terminated.
That very evening our friend Joseph walked down towards the dwelling of the sisters, not without some anxiety for the result, for he knew by h
is father’s satisfied appearance that war had been declared. He walked into the family room, and found nobody there but Miss Silence, who was sitting, grim as an Egyptian sphinx, stitching very vigorously on a meal bag, in which interesting employment she thought proper to be so much engaged as not to remark the entrance of our hero. To Joseph’s accustomed “Good evening, Miss Silence,” she replied merely by looking up with a cold nod, and went on with her sewing. It appeared that she had determined on a literal version of her promise not to say any thing to Mr. Adams.
Our hero, as we have before stated, was familiar with the crooks and turns of the female mind, and mentally resolved to put a bold face on the matter, and give Miss Silence no encouragement in her attempt to make him feel himself unwelcome. It was rather a frosty autumnal evening, and the fire on the hearth was decaying. Mr. Joseph bustled about most energetically, throwing down the tongs, and shovel, and bellows, while he pulled the fire to pieces, raked out ashes and brands, and then, in a twinkling, was at the woodpile, from whence he selected a massive backlog and forestick, with accompaniments, which were soon roaring and crackling in the chimney.
“There, now, that does look something like comfort,” said our hero; and drawing forward the big rocking chair, he seated himself in it, and rubbed his hands with an air of great complacency. Miss Silence looked not up, but stitched so much the faster, so that one might distinctly hear the crack of the needle and the whistle of the thread all over the apartment.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 476
