Rose Clark Part 38

"Well, now, Mr. Howe, I am athtonithed," lisped his wife, that lady not having yet accommodated her speech to the play of her new set of teeth.

"I am thure he ith the moth elegant and refined and thivil thpoken young man I ever thaw; I never heard him thay an offenthive thing to any one in my life."

"Of course you haven't, Mrs. Howe; and that's just what I hate him for; a man who is so loaded and primed with civil speeches is always rotten at the core. I always steer clear of such a fellow," said John, forgetting the compliments to himself which he had heretofore swallowed.

"That man never sneezes without calculating the effect of it; he has the same smile and bow and obsequious manner for every body; it is his aim to be popular, and it may go down with women and softheaded men, but he don't take John Howe in. He is an oily-tongued hypocrite. That's plain Saxon, Mrs. Howe. I am astonished at you--no, I am not, either," said John, slamming himself down again into the chair.

"Mrs. Howe!"

And John wheeled his chair close up to her, "didn't you hear him the other day, when that tiresome, stupid Mrs. Frink was here, inquire so touchingly after a bad cough which he recollected she had when he met her a year ago? Did you see the effect it had on the silly old thing? I wonder she got out the door without having it widened, she was so puffed up.

"Mrs. Howe!"

And John moved up still closer, "if that man should meet our old cat in the entry after a month's absence, he'd take off his hat, and inquire after that very precocious kitten of hers he had the pleasure of seeing on the stairs when he was last here. Fact--I'm astonished at you, Mrs.

Howe," and John dumped himself down again into the chair; "the man is a jacka.s.s, a fool, a perfume-bottle on legs--faugh!

"Mrs. Howe!"

And John wheeled round again, "didn't he upset that old squirrel-eyed Miss Price, by repeating a common-place remark of hers which she made him two or three years ago, and which he had the bra.s.s to say struck him so forcibly at the time that he never forgot it? Didn't she go home in the full belief that she had up to that time been terribly underrated by her folks at home? Certainly;--now do you suppose he does all that for nothing, Mrs. Howe? No--he gets his pay out of you all by an invitation to a good dinner. He does the same here, whenever it is more convenient to stop here than down town, and then you and all the rest of these silly women become his trumpeters.

"For his fine speeches to steamboat captains, he gets a free pa.s.s in their boats; landlords of hotels, ditto; that's it, Mrs. Howe.

"I am astonished at you, Mrs. Howe.

"He gets presents of hats, presents of coats, presents of canes, presents of pictures, presents of books and stationery.

"As for the women, of course, as I said before, such flummery takes them right down--just as it did you, Mrs. Howe.

"May he be strangled in his pink and blue cravat before he comes here to another dinner.

"That's right, Jonathan, come in," said Mr. Howe, as an unpolished, but good-hearted country cousin strode over the carpet in his thick-soled boots; "that's right. You have come just in time to save me from being sick at the stomach; sit down--any where, top of the piano if you like; put your feet on that Chinese work-table, and hang your hat on that Venus. It will do me good. And give me that bit of hay sticking on your outside coat. Let us have something natural, somehow."

Mrs. Howe retired in disgust, although she was too much under the yoke to make any remonstrance, which she felt sure would be thrown _in her teeth_!

In default of any more children, Mrs. Howe, like many other ladies similarly situated, consoled herself with her dog, Consuelo.

Seating herself in what she called her "boudoir," a little room whose walls were covered with red satin paper, which Mrs. Howe imagined particularly in harmony with her rubicund complexion, she took Consuelo on her lap, and stroking his long silken ears, said: "How like Mr. Howe, to prefer that clumsy country cousin of his to the elegant Finels. There is just the same difference between them that there is between you, my lovely Consuelo, and that hideous yellow terrier of the butcher's boy. I think I may say, Consuelo, that both you and I are quite thrown away in this house," and wrapping her pet in his embroidered blanket, she laid him down in her lap to sleep.

"Jealous! ah, ha! That's it, Consuelo. That is what sets Mr. Howe so against Finels; as for his coming here for our good dinners, that is all sheer nonsense. _He_ sees plainly enough, with all his politeness to John, that I am miserably sacrificed to him. I was not aware of it myself until after I became acquainted with Mr. Finels. Finels always pays so much attention when I speak. John, on the contrary, half the time, does not seem to hear me. It is not at all uncommon for him to leave the room or to fall asleep in the middle of one of my conversations. It is very irritating to a sensible woman. Finels always remembers some little remark I have made him. I think I must have been in the habit of throwing away a great many good things on John. John has grown very stupid since I married him.

"Finels says such pretty French words; I have not the slightest idea what they mean, but doubtless there is some delicate compliment conveyed in them, if I only understood the language. I think I will study French.

Oh! that would be delightful, and then John can't understand a word dear Finels and I say;" and Mrs. Howe tied on her hat, and went in pursuit of a French grammar.

"What on earth is this?" exclaimed Mrs. Howe, as she entered the parlor two hours after, with her French bonnet and French grammar. "What on earth is this?" applying a tumbler which stood on the center-table to her nose, and tasting some remaining crumbs in a plate.

"What is it?" repeated John, puffing away, not at the chibouk, but at the old clay pipe. "What is it? Why, it is the dregs of some mola.s.ses and water Jonathan has been drinking, and those crumbs are all that remain of a loaf of brown bread, for which I sent Mary to the grocer's.

If he likes country fare he shall have it--why not, as well as your superfine Finels his olives, and sardines, and gimcracks? I pay the 'damages,' you know, Mrs. Howe;" and John's eye gave a triumphant twinkle.

"Of course, my dear--of course," replied that subjugated lady; "it is all right, my dear, and does great credit to your kindness of heart; but it is such a _very_ odd, old-fashioned taste, you know;" and applying her embroidered handkerchief to her nose, she motioned Mary to remove the remains of the homespun feast.

CHAPTER LVII.

Old Mrs. Bond had taken her station on the sunny side of her piazza.

Mrs. Bond was no sentimentalist, as I have said before. She had never read a line of poetry in her life; but she had read her Bible, and she loved to watch the glorious sun go down, and think of the golden streets of the New Jerusalem, with its gates of pearl, and walls of jasper. Many a blessed vision from that sunset-seat had she seen with her spiritual eyes; and many a sealed pa.s.sage in the Holy Book which lay upon her lap, had then, and there, and thus, been solved; and many a prayer had gone from thence swift-winged to heaven.

The Bible contains great and mighty truths which none of us may safely reject; but apart from this, no mind, how uncultivated soever, can be familiar with its glowing beauty and sublimity, without being unconsciously refined.

Oh! how many times, even to the G.o.d-forgetting, has the beauty of its imagery come home with a force and aptness which no uninspired pen, how gifted soever, could rival!

How vital and immovably lodged, though buried for years under the dust of worldliness, its wise and indisputable precepts!

How like a sun-flash they sometimes illume what else were forever mystery-shrouded!

And now the last tint of gold and crimson had faded out, and one bright star sparkled like a gem on the brow of the gray old mountain, behind which the sun had sank--bright as the Star of Bethlehem to Judea's gazing shepherds, and like them, Mrs. Bond knelt and worshiped.

Broad as the world was her Bible-creed: it embraced all nations, all colors, all sects. Whosoever did the will of G.o.d the same was her father, sister, and mother; and like the face of Moses when he came down from the mount, hers shone that evening with the reflected glory of heaven.

The traveler could not have told, as he stopped before that little brown house, and stepped on its homely piazza, _why_ he raised his hat with such an involuntary deference to the unpretending form before him; _why_ his simple "Good evening, madam," should have been so reverently spoken; but so it was; and the kind old lady's welcome to a seat by her frugal board was just as unaccountably to himself accepted.

The traveler was a tall, dark-browed man, with a face and form which must have been once pre-eminently attractive; but now, his fine dark eyes were sunken, as if grief, or sickness, perhaps both, had weighed heavily there; and his tall form seemed bent with weakness. All this his kind hostess noted, and her nicest cup of tea was prepared, and the wholesome loaf set before him, and a blessing craved over it, from lips which knew no fear of man, with Heaven in sight. Perhaps this touched a chord to which the stranger's heart vibrated, for his eyes grew moist with unshed tears, and his voice was tremulous when he addressed his hostess.

"Can you tell me, madam, how far it is to the nearest inn?"

"A weary way, sir--a matter of fifteen miles, and you so feeble. You are quite welcome to stay here, sir, till morning; and your horse will be well content in yonder pasture."

"You are very kind, madam," said the stranger, hesitatingly; then adding with a smile, "travelers who have preceded me on this road must have borne a good name."

"There is nothing here to tempt a thieving hand," said Mrs. Bond. "I seldom think at night of barring yonder door. Where one's trust is in an Almighty arm, there is little room for fear.

"I can remember when yonder broad oak was but a sapling. I was born and married here, sir; through that door my husband and child pa.s.sed to their long home. My time can not be long; but while I stay, every stone and twig in this place is dear to me."

"With pleasant memories for company, one can not be lonesome," replied the stranger.

"No--and sad ones may be made pleasant, if one only knows how," and she laid her withered hand on the Bible.

As she did so a paper fluttered out from between its leaves. "Sometimes, though," said she, as she took it up, "one's faith is sorely tried.

"This now--this letter--it was from my child. I called her my child, and yet no blood of mine ever flowed in her veins; and she called me 'mother,' because my heart warmed to her; G.o.d knows she had sore need of it, poor lamb.

"An old woman like myself may speak plain words, sir. He who was her child's father left her to weep over it alone. It was heart-breaking to see the poor young thing try to bear up, try to believe that he whom her innocent heart trusted, would turn out worthy of its love; but sometimes she would quite break down with the grief; and when she grew fretful with it, I did not chide her, because I knew her heart was chafed and sore.

"Her's was such a lovely babe; so bright, and handsome, and winsome.

_She_ was good and loving too. She had not sinned. She had been deceived and wronged. So she could not bear the taunting word, sir; and when it came, unexpectedly to us, she fled away like a hunted deer, through yonder door, till her poor strength gave out, and then we found her and the babe just like dead.

"I brought her home, and nursed her along, and thought to keep her, and make it all easy for her; but her young heart pined for _him_--she fancied, poor child, she could find him, and the world so wide--and that he would lift her pure brow in the taunting world's face, and call her 'wife;' and so she fled away in the night, no one knew whither, and left me this letter, sir. My eyes are dim--but I have no need to read it, for the words come up to me by day and by night; read it yourself, sir--mayhap in your travels, you may hear of the poor young thing--I should so like to know of her, before I die.