CHAPTER XIVAUNT POLLY CARTER
But old Mother Derwent was not altogether disappointed. As if answering the blast of her horn a female appeared on the opposite shore, signalizing for a boat with great vigor. Mary could only see that the woman wore a short scarlet cloak, and that the brilliant cotton handkerchief flaunting so impatiently was large enough for a sail to any craft on the river.
Jane had withdrawn sulkily into the bedroom. She was by no means pleased with the efforts her grandmother was making to bring the missionary back; in her heart she was beginning to detest the good man.
When Mary came down and saw there was no one else to answer the stranger’s signal, she went at once to unmoor her pretty canoe, and was soon across the river.
“Oh, is it you, my pet?” cried a cordial voice, as she neared the shore. “I thought mebby Jane would be on hand to row me across. Is grandmarm to hum, and how’s your sister? Purty well, I hope?”
Mary’s face brightened. The visitor was Aunt Polly from the Elm-tree tavern on the Kingston shore, a welcome guest at any house from Wilkesbarre to the Lackawanna gap, but a woman who seldom, left the shelter of her own roof, and her presence so far from her home might well be a matter of wonder.
“Why, Aunt Polly, is it you? How glad grandma will be,” said Mary, looking up from her seat in the canoe with pleasure in her eyes.
“Yes, it’s me sure enough, safe and sound. I’ll justtake the bits out of Gineral Washington’s mouth, and let him crop a bite of grass while I go over and say how-do-you-do to grandma. See how the old feller eyes that thick grass with the vilets in it! There, old chap, go at it.”
As she spoke, the old maid went up to a huge farm horse, cumbered with a saddle much too narrow for his back, which bore unmistakable evidence of its Connecticut origin; for the horns curved in like those of a vicious cow, and the stirrups were so short that a tall rider, like Aunt Polly, was compelled to double her limbs up till they formed a letter A under her calico skirt whenever General Washington had the honor of carrying her in state upon the wonderful mechanism of that side-saddle, which was the pride and glory of her house.
“There, now,” she said, unbuckling the throat-latch, and slipping the bridle, bits and all, around General Washington’s stumpy neck, which she patted with great affection. “Go in for a feed, and no mistake, Gineral; only keep to the bank, and, mind you, don’t roll on that saddle—it couldn’t be matched on this side the Green Mountains, I tell you, now.”
General Washington seemed to understand all this perfectly, for he gave his great lumbering head a toss which signified plainer than words that he understood the value of that saddle quite as well as his mistress, and knew how to keep his peace, if it came to that, without being lectured about it. He whinnied out his satisfaction, in answer to Aunt Polly’s caresses, and trotted off with great dignity toward a little rivulet on the bank, where the grass was green as emeralds, and the violets blue as a baby’s eyes.
“There,” said Aunt Polly, looking after him as he rolled heavily along, with the flesh quivering like a jelly under his sleek hide, “isn’t he a picterful sight? Why, Mary dear, that hoss knows more than two-thirdsof the men in Wyoming. Now, that saddle is jest as safe on his back as if it was hung up by the stirrup in my kitchen—he’s a wonderful critter, is Gineral Washington.”
With her head half turned back, in proud admiration of her steed, Aunt Polly let herself down the bank, talking all the time, and at last sat down in the bottom of the canoe, gathering her scarlet cloak around her, and covering her ankles decorously with the skirt of her striped dress. Then, with a gentle dip of the oars, Mary headed her little craft for the island.
Mother Derwent was both pleased at and annoyed by the sight of her visitor—pleased, because Aunt Polly Carter was born in the same old Connecticut town with herself; and annoyed, that she, the very best cook and housekeeper in Wyoming, should find a spoiled breakfast on the hearth—potatoes browned into chips, venison steaks with all the gravy dried up, and the johnnycake overdone. It was a terrible humiliation, and Mother Derwent felt as if she had been detected in some shameful act of negligence by her old friend of the Elm-tree tavern.
“Just in time,” exclaimed Aunt Polly, taking off her cloak and untying her bonnet; “I was afraid breakfast ’ed be over afore I got here. Gracious goodness! Miss Derwent, don’t you see that johnnycake’s burnt to a crisp?—here, give it to me—half cold too, dear, dear—never mind, good soul! it might a-been worse—there, take it this way, and beat it between both hands a trifle—oh, that tea smells something like, oh, ha—you haven’t forgot to cook a meal of victuals yet; you and I can give these Pennsylvanians a lesson any day, Miss Derwent.”
Grandma explained how the breakfast had been kept waiting till it was quite spoiled; but Aunt Polly would listen to nothing of the kind—everything was excellent, the tea drawn beautifully, and the butter perfection.As for the preserved plums and crab-apples, she had tasted nothing equal to them in years; they had the real Connecticut flavor—quite put her in mind of old times.
They had all been seated at the table some minutes before Jane made her appearance. She was still moody, and received Aunt Polly with distrustful reserve, which the good lady did not seem to regard in the least, but went on with her breakfast, tranquil as a summer’s day.
After they arose from the table there was a world of questions to ask, and experiments to try. Aunt Polly took pride in exhibiting all her accomplishments before the young girls. She sat down at the flax-wheel, arranged the threads in the flyers, and directly the whole cabin was filled with their hum.
“Look here, girls, and see how an old housekeeper can spin. Why, long before I was your age I had yards and yards of homespun linen out in father’s spring meadow, whitening for my setting out. I’ve got a great chest full of that ’ere identical linen in my house this minute, that’s never been used, and never will be till I’m settled for life.”
Now, as Aunt Polly was a middle-aged woman when she left Connecticut, and had lived at the Elm-tree tavern twenty-five years, this idea of settling for life-which, of course, comprised a husband, who might also be landlord to that establishment—struck the young girls at once as so improbable that they both smiled.
Aunt Polly knew nothing of this, but kept spinning on—tread, tread, tread—now dipping her fingers in the dried shell of a mock-orange, that hung full of water to the distaff, and daintily moistening the flax as it ran through them—now stopping to change the thread on her flyer, and off again—hum—hum—with a smile of self-satisfaction that was pleasant to behold.
After this little display, the good landlady tried herhand at the loom, where a linen web was in progress of completion; but finding the quill-box empty, she called out with her cheerful voice for Jane to come and wind some quills, for she was dying to try her hand at the shuttle, if it was only to show them how things were done when she was a girl.
Jane could not altogether resist this good humor; still she came forward, half pouting, dragged the lumbering old swifts out from under the loom, banded her quill wheel, and soon supplied the empty shuttle, which Aunt Polly was so impatient to use.
Now there was a clatter indeed; the treadles rose and fell with grating moans beneath those resolute feet; the rude gearing shrieked on its pulleys; the shuttle flew in and out, now darting into the weaver’s right hand—now into the left, while the lathe banged away, and the old loom trembled in all its timbers.
“That’s right—look on, girls,” cried the old maid with enthusiasm. “It’ll be a good while, I reckon, before either of you can come up to this; but ‘live and learn’ is a good saying. Your grandmother and I’ve seen the time when we broke more threads with awkward throws than we knew how to mend with two thumbs and eight fingers. Just see this shuttle fly—isn’t it beautiful? Oh, girls, there’s nothing like work—it keeps the body healthy, and the soul out of mischief. Wind away, Janey, it’ll do you lots of good; we’ll keep at it till Miss Derwent has washed up the morning dishes; an extra yard’ll help her along wonderfully—that’s the music—keep the old wheel a-going—more quills—more quills!”
Jane took a double handful of quills from her lap and brought them to the loom. While Aunt Polly was putting one in her shuttle, she looked keenly in the young girl’s face, shook her head, and went to work again more vigorously than before. Mary saw this, and was satisfied that the old maid had some deeper objectin her visit than these experiments with her grandmother’s wheel and loom.
But Aunt Polly went on with her work, becoming more and more excited with every fling of the shuttle. She let out her web and rolled her cloth-beam eight or nine times before her enthusiasm began to flag.
“There,” she said at last, laying the empty shuttle daintily upon the cloth she had woven, and forcing herself out from the slanting seat, “if anybody wants an evener yard of cloth than that, let them weave it, I say. Now, Janey, come and show me your garden, and let’s see if it’s as forward as mine. I’ve had lettuce and peppergrass up this week.”
Aunt Polly strode toward the door as she spoke, and Jane followed her.
“Now,” said the old maid, facing round as they reached the garden, “you needn’t suppose that I took Gineral Washington from the plough, and come up to Monockonok just to see you all. I should have waited till after planting-time for that; but I heard something last night that worried me more than a little, and I want to know what it means, for we marriageable females ought to stand by each other. How comes it, Jane Derwent, that the young men in my bar-room talk about you with their loose tongues, and dare to drink your health in glasses of corn whiskey which they sometimes forget to pay for?”
“Who has done this?” questioned Jane, firing up, “and if they have how can I help it?”
“I’ll tell you how it was, Jane Derwent. Last night, nigh on to morning, Walter Butler and young Wintermoot, with three or four other rank Tories from the fort, came to my house, banging away at the door for us to get up and give them something to drink. Now, I hate these young fellers worse than pison, but one can’t keep tavern and private house at the same time when a sign swings agin your door; any loafer has a right tocall you out of bed when he pleases. Well, they knocked and hammered till I woke up the bar-keeper, and sent him down with orders to make their sling weak, and get rid of them the minute he could; but, mercy on us, gal, they had come down the river like a flock of wolves, and was just as easy to pacify. The amount of whiskey they drank among them in less than an hour no one would believe that hadn’t seen it. There was nothing but a board partition between me and the bar-room; so I heard every word they said, and considering that I was a respectable female that might be called upon to accept an offer of marriage any day, their conversation was not exactly what it should have been.”
“And they mentioned me—you said that?”
“Mentioned you? I should say they did—Butler, Wintermoot, and all the rest of em. I declare it made my blood bile to hear the language they used.”
“Will you tell me what it was, Aunt Polly—me, and no one else, for I would not have grandma and Mary know it for the world?”
“Yes—that is what I came for. Young Wintermoot began first—teasing Butler because he’d tried to run away with you, and had to give it up after you’d both started, when a little hunchback and a sneak of a minister said he mustn’t. These were his exact words. Then another set in and wanted to drink success to the next time in bumpers of hot toddy. Directly there was a crash of glasses and a shout, and in all the noise I heard your name over and over. Some were laughing; some said you were a beauty and no mistake, while Butler talked loudest, and said he was sure to get you away from the hunchback yet, spite of all your pride and ridiculous nonsense.”
“He said that, did he?” cried Jane, biting her lips with silent rage.
“Yes, he said that, and more, yet. When one of thefellows asked what the pretty squaw would do, he laughed, and answered, as well as he could for hiccuping, that after he’d got some money that he expected from Sir John Johnson, she might go to Amsterdam, or where she could find more fire and less water, for all he cared. Then he went on telling how he had left her in the woods above Falling Spring, only a few hours before, crying like a baby because he would not stay and tramp back to Seneca Lake with her tribe.
“The young Tories received all this with bursts of laughter, joking about his squaw wife, and telling him what a fool he was to let you go when once a’most off. They said it was clear enough you didn’t want to go with him, that he’d got the mitten straight out, because you liked Edward Clark better than him, and so he had married the squaw out of spite.
“That set him to swearing like a trooper; he said there wasn’t a word of truth in it, that you were crazy in love with him, and would follow him like a dog to the ends of the earth, wife or no wife, if you could only escape from the island, and no one the wiser—more, he said that he left you crying your eyes out that very night because he went off with the Indian girl instead of you.”
“It was false—there was not a word of truth in it, Aunt Polly. I hope I may drop down dead in my tracks if there was,” cried Jane, trembling with rage and shame. “I was glad to see him go; Mary can tell you as much.”
“Then you have seen him?” questioned Aunt Polly—“then he was on the island last night, as he said?”
“I can’t help his coming to the island, Aunt Polly; every one comes here who has a boat, if he pleases; but I can say nobody wanted Walter Butler. He’s been a-visiting the Wintermoots off and on for three or four months. I invited him and the Wintermoots to mybirthday party, and was a fool for my pains; but as for liking him, the Tory, the young outcast, I—I——”
Here Jane burst into a torrent of angry tears. Aunt Polly began to dry up this sorrow tenderly with her great cotton handkerchief, which seemed large enough to block up a mill-sluice.
“Don’t cry, Janey, don’t cry, that’s a dear. There, there, I shan’t tell anybody but yourself about the scamp’s boasting, not even Edward, though his father is my cousin.”
“No, don’t, Aunt Polly, don’t tell him, of all people in the world.”
“Why—why, Janey dear? How red you are! Tell me, you and Edward ain’t keeping company, nor nothing, are you?”
“Yes, we are, Aunt Polly, and have been this ever so long. He would kill that hateful villain if he knew half that he said at your house last night.”
“But he shan’t know it, child; you, and I, and Mary will settle that affair amongst ourselves, to say nothing of grandma, who would be worth us all if it came to a running scold.”
“Don’t—don’t say a word to Mary or grandma,” cried Jane, in breathless fear; “but you have not told me all yet.”
“No, Jane; what is to come makes the old Connecticut blood bile in my veins. I swan to man! it was all I could do to keep from jumping out of bed, and going in amongst them, when they sot down, and made up a plot to carry you off—them young Wintermoots was to do it, and meet Butler in the Blue Mountains after he’d got a heap of money that he expected from Sir John Johnson. I suppose that’s the son of Sir William Johnson, the old reprobate who had so many Injun wives in the Mohawk Valley, as if one wife wasn’t enough for any man in a new country where women folks are scarce. Well, as I was a-saying, Butler told’em to go over to the island some night, and whistle like that—here he sent a long whistle through the partition that made me e’en a’most start up in bed, and the young Wintermoots practised on it like schoolboys learning their a-b-abs till they filled the hull house like a nest of blackbirds and brown thrashers.
“Butler told ’em that you’d spring out of bed like a hawk from its nest the moment you heard that, and if they only flattered you a little, and told you for earnest that he didn’t care a king’s farthing for the Indian girl, and wasn’t married to her, only Indian fashion, you’d be off with them, and glad enough to go.”
“He did, ha? he thinks I’ll follow him. Never mind, Aunt Polly. Let him come—let them whistle. Oh, how I wish I was a man.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Polly, thoughtfully, “men have their privileges. It’s something to be able to knock a chap down when he deserves it, and then, agin, when a man’s heart is full he can speak out, and not let his feelings curdle like sour milk in a pan. Yes, Janey, I think it would be pleasant if some of us could be men once in a while; but human nature is human nature, and it ain’t to be expected.”
“And this was all these wicked men said?” questioned Jane, who had lost half this speech in her own bitter thoughts.
“Yes, for when their plot was laid, they left the house. I peeped through the window, holding the valance close, that they could not see my nightcap, you know, and watched them shake hands before Butler mounted his horse. He rode off down stream, and the other fellers turned up the road towards Wintermoot’s Fort.”
“And this was all?”
“All that belongs to you; but now I’ve a word to say to Mary; by that time Gineral Washington will be tiredof cropping vilets, I reckon, and we’ll be jogging down stream again.”
“Mary! what can you want with Mary?—not to tell her——”
“By no manner of means, Janey. If you want anybody else to help you, arter what I’ve told about these chaps, the truth is, you ain’t worth helping anyhow. A gal that can’t take care of herself when once warned, wouldn’t be kept back from ruin if a hull meeting-houseful of jest sich angels as our precious Mary was standing in the way. No, I don’t mean to torment that heavenly critter with any sich wickedness; but yet I’ve got a few words to say to her, and you’ll oblige me by going to the cabin and sending her out here at onst.”
Jane was glad to obey. This interview with the old maid had not been so pleasant that she wished to prolong it; so she went and summoned Mary.
That gentle girl went into the garden a little anxious, for the excitement of the last night had found its reaction, and she was ready to tremble at the fall of a leaf.
The change that had come over Aunt Polly was a beautiful proof of the influence of a character like that of Mary Derwent. With Jane the old maid had been peremptory and dictatorial, feeling very little respect for the wayward girl—she expressed none; but for Mary her heart was filled with a world of tender reverence. She touched her daintily, as she would have plucked a snowdrop, and spoke to her in a low, earnest voice, such as she would have used in prayer, had she been much inclined to devotion.
“Mary,” she said, laying one hard hand lightly on the maiden’s shoulder, “a strange thing happened to me this morning. As Gineral Washington and I was on our way up stream, a woman came out from the beach-woods on the flats, and stopped right in the road,afore that knowing animal and me, as if she wanted to say something; but she didn’t speak, and the Gineral sort o’ shied at fust, for the red dress, all glittering with wampum, was enough to scare any hoss.”
“Had she a scarlet dress on, a crown of feathers around her head, and a glittering snake twisted in her hair?” inquired Mary, quickly.
“That’s her to a T. I shall never forget the sharp, red eyes of that sarpent; a live rattlesnake couldn’t have eyed the Gineral and I more fiercely. I waited a minute, to give the woman a chance, if she wanted to speak, but she was searching my face with her eyes, as if she wanted to look me through afore she opened her lips. I was a’most tempted to up whip and ride straight over her; but the Gineral seemed to have his own idee—not a huff would he lift. I shook the bridle like all-possessed, and chirruped him along, as if he’d been a nussing baby; but there he stood stock-still in the road, a-eyeing the strange woman jest as independent as she was eyeing him and me.”
“And did she say nothing?”
“By-an’-by she spoke, and though it was afore sunrise, it seemed as if a bust of light broke over her face, it lit up so.
“‘Can you tell me,’ she said, ‘where I can find a small island that lies in the river about here? I have passed one or two, but there are no houses on ’em, and the one I want has a cabin somewhere near the shore.’
“‘Maybe you want Monockonok,’ says I, ‘where old Miss Derwent lives?’
“‘Yes,’ says she, ‘that is the island and Derwent is the name. She has two daughters, I believe.’
“‘Two granddaughters,’ says I.
“‘Granddaughters, are they? And de you know these girls?’ says she.
“‘Well, yes, I reckon so,’ says I, ‘and mighty smart gals they are. Jane’s a beauty, without paint or whitewash,I can tell you; and as for Mary——’ But no matter what I said about you, my dear; it wasn’t all you deserved, but——”
“No matter—oh, there was no need of saying anything about me,” murmured the deformed, shrinking within herself, as she always did when her person was alluded to.
Aunt Polly paused abruptly, and began to whip a sweet-briar bush near her with great vigor. She had but a vague idea of all the keen sensitiveness her words had disturbed, but that was sufficient; her rough, kind heart was troubled at the very idea of giving pain to that gentle girl.
“Well, I only said if ever there was an angel on earth, you was one; but I’m sorry as can be, now; I wouldn’t ’a’ said so for the world if I’d thought you didn’t like it,” pleaded the old maid with deprecating meekness. “You know, Mary Derwent, I always thought you was the salt of the ’arth—that’s the worst I will say of you any how, like it or not.”
“But the woman, Aunt Polly—the strange lady with that living serpent around her head—what did she want of Jane and me?” inquired Mary, keenly interested in the subject. “What could she mean by inquiring about grandmother?”
“Not knowing, can’t tell, Miss Mary. She fell to thinking, with her hand up to her forehead—a purty hand it was, too—afore I’d done talking; at last says she:
“‘That is the one I wish to speak with.’
“‘Which,’ says I, ‘Miss Jane?’
“‘No,’ says she, ‘the golden-haired one that you’ve been telling me about.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘what of her, marm;? I’m just a-going over to Monockonok, and can show you the way, if you want to see her.’
“‘No, not just now,’ says she, ‘I’ve something elseto attend to first; but if you see this girl, tell her to meet me, near sunset, at the spring where she went so late last night—she will understand you.’
“‘Well,’ says I, ‘if I may be so bold, what do you want with Mary Derwent?’
“‘I wish to speak with her,’ says she, with a wave of her hand that made Gineral Washington back off sideways; ‘only give my message, good woman, and here’s a guinea for you.’
“Here she took a piece of gold from her pocket, and held it out.”
“But you did not take it, Aunt Polly?”
“Didn’t take it! trust me for letting a bright golden guinea slip through these fingers when it can be honestly come by—of course I took it.”
Here Aunt Polly drew forth a shot-bag from her enormous pocket, untied the towstring, and exhibited a quantity of silver and huge copper pennies, and from among them, daintily folded in a dry maple-leaf, she took a bright piece of gold.
“There it is, harnsome as a yaller bird,” she cried exultingly. “Look at it, Mary—I don’t mind your holding it a minute or so in your hand. I’d like to see any woman in Wyoming match that!”
“I never saw a golden guinea before,” said Mary, scanning the coin with innocent curiosity. “It is very beautiful; but somehow, Aunt Polly, I can’t help wishing you hadn’t taken it.”
“Well, if you think so,” said the old maid, eyeing the gold with a rueful look, “if you really think so, Mary Derwent, jest give it back to the lady when she comes. I don’t want to be mean, nor nothing, but—but—no, give it here—I can stand a good deal, but as for giving up money when it’s once been in my puss, that’s too much for human nature to put up with.”
She snatched eagerly at the gold, and, with a grim smile upon her mouth, and a flush about her eyes,hustled it back into her shot-bag, tied the strings with a jerk, and crowded the treasure down into the depths of her pocket, uttering only a few grim words in the energetic operation.
“There now—I’d like to see anybody strong enough to get that ’ere money-puss out of this ’ere pocket, that’s all!”
Mary felt how impossible it was for the old maid to release her hold on money, when she once got it in her grasp; so with a faint smile, which made the stingy old soul flush about the eyes once more, she turned the subject.
“At sunset, did you say, Aunt Polly?”
“Yes, at sunset to-night, and you wasn’t to fail—I promised that much.”
“Can I tell Jane or grandmother?” inquired Mary, thoughtfully.
“Not on no account. The lady—for anybody that dressed up like that, with a pocket full of gold, must be a lady, anyhow you fix it—the lady—says she: ‘Tell Mary Derwent to come alone,’ and, says I, ‘she shall, if my name’s Polly Carter.’ When my word is giv, it’s giv—so you must go down to the spring all alone, jest at sundown, Mary Derwent.”
“Yes, I’ll go,” said Mary, looking wistfully into the distance; “of course, I’ll go.”
“That’s a good gal—I was sure you would. Now, I’ll jest say good-by to Miss Derwent, and Gineral Washington and I will make tracks for home.”
Aunt Polly strode away up the garden, muttering to herself:
“Wal, I’ve killed two birds with one stone, and catch’d a goldfinch to boot. That ’ere side-saddle wasn’t mounted for nothing. If vartue al’es gets rewarded in this way, I’ll keep Gineral Washington a-going.”
These muttered thoughts brought the old maid up to the cabin, and she called out from the threshold:
“Jane, remember what I was a-saying, now do. When will you all come and take tea with me? Shall be proper glad to see you any time—the sooner the better. Good-bye, Miss Derwent; good-bye all.”
Here Aunt Polly gave a comprehensive sweep of the hand, including grandma in the house, Mary in the garden, and Jane, who stood by her on the door-stone.
“Good-bye all. Come, Janey, set me on the other side, and I’ll speak a good word for you to the beaus when they come to my tavern.”
Jane tied a handkerchief over her head, followed the old maid to the cove, unmoored her canoe, and soon reached the western shore.
Aunt Polly shook her by the hand, repeated a word of grim advice, then mounted the bank and threw out her handkerchief as a signal to Gineral Washington.
That inestimable beast had made the best of his time, and would willingly have stayed longer; but seeing his mistress’s gorgeous signal fluttering in the air, like the mainsail of a schooner, he made one more desperate crop at the rich herbage, and came trotting decorously forward, with the foam and short grass dropping from his mouth at every step.
Aunt Polly replaced the bit, let out an inch of the girth, to accommodate the animal’s digestive organs, mounted a hemlock stump, littered all round with fresh chips, and, after coaxing Gineral Washington into the right position, seated herself grimly on the side-saddle and rode away.