CHAPTER VIII. DOMESTIC LIFE AT THE HOMESTEAD.
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For a few weeks after Margaret's return, matters at
the homestead glided on smoothly enough, but at the end
of that time Mrs. Hamilton began to reveal her real character.
Carrie's journey had not been as beneficial as her
father had hoped it would be, and as the days grew colder,
she complained of extreme languor and a severe pain in
her side, and at last kept her room entirely, notwithstanding
the numerous hints from her step-mother, that it was
no small trouble to carry so many dishes up and down
stairs three times a day.
Mrs. Hamilton was naturally very stirring and active,
and in spite of her remarkable skill in nursing, she felt exceedingly
annoyed when any of her own family were ill.
She fancied, too, that Carrie was feigning all her bad
feelings, and that she would be much better if she exerted
herself more. Accordingly, one afternoon when
Mag was gone, she repaired to Carrie's room, giving vent
to her opinion as follows: “Carrie,” said she, (she now
dropped the dear, when Mr. Hamilton was not by,) “Carrie,
I shouldn't suppose you'd ever expect to get well, so
long as you stay moped up here all day. You ought to
come down stairs, and stir round more.”
“Oh, I should be so glad if I could,” answered Carrie.
“Could!” repeated Mrs. Hamilton; “you could if
you would. Now, it's my opinion that you complain altogether
too much, and fancy you are a great deal worse
than you really are, when all you want is exercise. A
short walk on the piazza, and a little fresh air, each morning,
would soon cure you.”
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“I know fresh air does me good,” said Carrie; “but
walking makes my side ache so hard, and makes me
cough so, that Maggie thinks I'd better not.”
Mag, quoted as authority, exasperated Mrs. Hamilton,
who replied, rather sharply, “Fudge on Mag's old-maidish
whims! I know that any one who eats as much as
you do, can't be so very weak!”
“I don't eat half you send me,” said poor Carrie, beginning
to cry at her mother's unkind remarks; “Willie
most always comes up here and eats with me.”
“For mercy's sake, mother, let the child have what she
wants to eat, for 'tisn't long she'll need it,” said Lenora,
suddenly appearing in the room.
“Lenora, go right down; you are not wanted here,”
said Mrs. Hamilton.
“Neither are you, I fancy,” was Lenora's reply, as she
coolly seated herself on the foot of Carrie's bed, while her
mother continued: “Really, Carrie, you must try and
come down to your meals, for you have no idea how
much it hinders the work, to bring them up here. Polly
isn't good for anything until she has conjured up something
extra for your breakfast, and then they break so
many dishes!”
“I'll try to come down to-morrow,” said Carrie, meekly;
and, as the door bell just then rang, Mrs. Hamilton
departed, leaving her with Lenora, whose first exclamation
was, “If I were in your place, Carrie, I wouldn't eat
anything, and die quick.”
“I don't want to die,” said Carrie; and Lenora, clapping
her hands together, replied, “Why, you poor little
innocent, who supposed you did? Nobody wants to die,
not even I, good as I am; but I should expect to, if I
had the consumption.”
“Lenora, have I got the consumption?” asked Carrie,
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fixing her eyes with mournful earnestness upon her companion,
who thoughtlessly replied: “To be sure you
have. They say one lung is entirely gone, and the other
nearly so.”
Wearily the sick girl turned upon her side; and, resting
her dimpled cheek upon her hand, she said, softly,
“Go away now, Lenora; I want to be alone.”
Lenora complied, and when Margaret returned from
the village, she found her sister lying in the same position
in which Lenora had left her, with her fair hair falling
over her face, which it hid from view.
“Are you asleep, Carrie?” said Mag; but Carrie made
no answer, and there was something so still and motionless
in her repose, that Mag went up to her, and pushing
back from her face the long silken hair, saw that she had
fainted.
The excitement of her step-mother's visit, added to the
startling news which Lenora had told her, were too much
for her weak nerves, and for a time she remained insensible.
At length, rousing herself, she looked dreamily
around, saying, “Was it a dream, Maggie—all a dream?”
“Was what a dream, love?” said Margaret, supporting
her sister's head upon her bosom.
Suddenly Carrie remembered the whole, but she resolved
not to tell of her step-mother's visit, though she
earnestly desired to know if what Lenora had told her were
true. Raising herself, so that she could see Margaret's
face, she said, “Maggie, is there no hope for me; and do
the physicians say I must die?”
“Why, what do you mean? I never knew that they
said so,” answered Mag; and then with breathless indignation
she listened, while Carrie told her what Lenora
had said. “I'll see that she doesn't get in here again,”
said Margaret. “I know she made more than half of
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that up; for, though the physicians say your lungs are
very much diseased, they have never said that you could
not recover.”
The next morning, greatly to Mag's astonishment, Carrie
insisted upon going down to breakfast.
“Why, you must not do it; you are not able,” said
Mag. But Carrie was determined; and, wrapping herself
in her thick shawl, she slowly descended the stairs,
though the cold air in the long hall made her shiver.
“Carrie, dear, you are better this morning, and there
is quite a rosy flush on your cheek,” said Mrs. Hamilton,
rising to meet her. (Mr. Hamilton, be it remembered,
was present.) But Carrie shrank instinctively from her
step-mother's advances, and took her seat by the side of
her father.
After breakfast, Mag remembered that she had an errand
in the village, and Carrie, who felt too weary to return
immediately to her room, said she would wait below
until her sister returned. Mag had been gone but a
few moments, when Mrs. Hamilton, opening the outer
door, called to Lenora, saying, “Come and take a few
turns on the piazza with Carrie. The air is bracing this
morning, and will do her good.”
Willie, who was present, cried out, “No — Carrie is
sick; she can't walk—Maggie said she couldn't,” and he
grasped his sister's hand to hold her. With a not very
gentle jerk, Mrs. Hamilton pulled him off, while Lenora,
who came bobbing and bounding into the room, took
Carrie's arm, saying, “Oh yes, I'll walk with you; shall
we have a hop, skip, or jump?”
“Don't don't!” said Carrie, holding back; “I can't
walk fast, Lenora,” and actuated by some sudden impulse
of kindness, Lenora conformed her steps to those of the
invalid. Twice they walked up and down the piazza, and
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were about turning for the third time, when Carrie,
clasping her hand over her side, exclaimed, “No, no; I
can't go again.”
Little Willie, who fancied that his sister was being
hurt, sprang toward Lenora, saying, “Leno, you mustn't
hurt Carrie. Let her go; she's sick.”
And now to the scene of action came Dame Hamilton,
and seizing her young step-son, she tore him away from
Lenora, administering, at the same time, a bit of a motherly
shake. Willie's blood was up, and in return he dealt
her blow, for which she rewarded him by another shake,
and by tying him to the table.
That Lenora was not all bad, was shown by the unselfish
affection she ever manifested for Willie, although her
untimely interference between him and her mother oftentimes
made matters worse. Thus, on the occasion of
which we have been speaking, Mrs. Hamilton had scarcely
left the room ere Lenora released Willie from his confinement,
thereby giving him the impression that his mother
alone was to blame. Fortunately, however, Margaret's
judgment was better, and though she felt justly indignant
at the cruelty practiced upon poor Carrie, she could
not uphold Willie in striking his mother. Calling him to
her room, she talked to him until he was wholly softened,
and offered, of his own accord, to go and say he was sorry,
provided Maggie would accompany him as far as the door
of the sitting-room, where his mother would probably be
found. Accordingly, Mag descended the stairs with him,
and meeting Lenora in the hall, said, “Is she in the sitting-room?”
“Is she in the sitting room?” repeated Lenora, “and
pray who may she be?” then quick as thought she
added, “Oh, yes, I know. She is in there telling HE!”
Lenora was right in her conjecture, for Mrs. Hamilton,
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greatly enraged at Willie's presumption in striking her,
and still more provoked at him for untying himself, as
she supposed he had, was laying before her husband
quite an aggravated case of assault and battery.
In the midst of her argument Willie entered the room,
with tear-stained eyes, and without noticing the presence
of his father, went directly to his mother, and burying
his face in her lap, sobbed out, “Willie is sorry he struck
you, and will never do so again, if you will forgive him.”
In a much gentler tone than she would have assumed had
not her husband been present, Mrs. Hamilton replied, “I
can forgive you for striking me, Willie, but what have you
to say about untying yourself?”
“I did n't do it,” said Willie, “Leno did that.”
“Be careful what you say,” returned Mrs. Hamilton.
“I can't believe Lenora would do so.”
Ere Willie had time to repeat his assertion, Lenora,
who all the time had been standing by the door, appeared,
saying, “you may believe him, for he has never been
whipped to make him lie. I did do it, and I would do it
again.”
“Lenora,” said Mr. Hamilton, rather sternly, “you
should not interfere in that manner. You will spoil the
child.”
It was the first time he had presumed to reprove his
step-daughter, and as there was nothing on earth which
Mrs. Hamilton so much feared as Lenora's tongue, she
dreaded the disclosures which farther remark from her
husband might call forth. So, assuming an air of great
distress, she said, “leave her to me, my dear. She is a
strange girl, as I always told you, and no one can manage
her as well as myself.” Then kissing Willie in token
of forgiveness, she left the room, drawing Lenora after
her and whispering fiercely in her ear, “how can you
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ever expect to succeed with the son, if you show off this
way before the father.”
With a mocking laugh, Lenora replied, “Pshaw! I
gave that up the first time I ever saw him, for of course
he thinks me a second edition of Mrs. Carter, minus any
improvements. But, he's mistaken; I'm not half as bad
as I seem. I'm only what you've made me.”
Mrs. Hamilton turned away, thinking that if her daughter
could so easily give up Walter Hamilton, she would
not. She was resolved upon an alliance between him and
Lenora. And who ever knew her to fail in what she
undertook!
She had wrung from her husband the confession, that
“he believed there was a sort of childish affection between
Walter and Kate Kirby, though 'twas doubtful
whether it ever amounted to anything.” She had also
learned that he was rather averse to the match, and
though Lenora had not yet been named as a substitute
for Kate, she strove, in many ways, to impress her husband
with a sense of her daughter's superior abilities, at
the same time taking pains to mortify Margaret by setting
Lenora above her.
For this, however, Margaret cared but little, and it
was only when her mother ill-treated Willie, which she
frequently did, that her spirit was fully roused.
At Mrs. Hamilton's first marriage she had been presented
with a handsome glass pitcher, which she of course
greatly prized. One day it stood upon the stand in her
room, where Willie was also playing with some spools,
which Lenora had found and arranged for him. Malta,
the pet kitten, was amusing herself by running after the
spools, and when at last Willie, becoming tired, laid them
on the stand, she sprang toward them, upsetting the
pitcher, which was broken in a dozen pieces. On hearing
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the crash, Mrs. Hamilton hastened toward the room,
where the sight of her favorite pitcher in fragments
greatly enraged her. Thinking, of course, that Willie had
done it, she rudely seized him by the arm, administered
a cuff or so, and then dragged him toward the china
closet.
As soon as Willie could regain his breath, he screamed,
“Oh, ma, don't shut me up; I'll be good; I didn't do it,
certain true; kittie knocked it off.”
“None of your lies,” said Mrs. Hamilton.” It's likely
kittie knocked it off!”
Lenora, who had seen the whole, and knew that what
Willie said was true, was about coming to the rescue,
when looking up, she saw Margaret, with dilated nostrils
and eyes flashing fire, watching the proceedings of her
step-mother.
“He's safe,” thought Lenora; “I'll let Mag fire the first
gun, and then I'll bring up the rear.”
Margaret had never known Willie to tell a lie, and had
no reason for thinking he had done so in this instance.
Besides, the blows her mother gave him exasperated her,
and she stepped forward, just as Mrs. Hamilton was about
pushing him into the closet. So engrossed was that lady
that she heard not Margaret's approach, until a firm hand
was laid upon her shoulder, while Willie was violently
wrested from her grasp, and ere she could recover from
her astonishment, she herself was pushed into the closet,
the door of which was closed and locked against her.
“Bravo, Margaret Hamilton,” cried Lenora, “I'm with
you now, if I never was before. It serves her right, for
Willie told the truth. I was sitting by and saw it all.
Keep her in there an hour, will you? It will pay her for
the many times she has shut me up for nothing.”
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Mrs. Hamilton stamped and pushed against the door,
while Lenora danced and sung at the top of her voice,
“My dear precious mother got wrathy one day,
And seized little Will by the hair;
But when in the closet she'd stow him away,
She herself was pushed headlong in there.”
At length the bolt, yielding to the continued pressure
of Mrs. Hamilton's body, broke, and out came the termagant,
foaming with rage. She dared not molest Margaret,
of whose physical powers she had just received such mortifying
proof, so she aimed a box at the ears of Lenora.
But the lithe little thing dodged it, and with one bound
cleared the table which sat in the center of the room,
landing safely on the other side; and then, shaking her
short, black curls at her mother, she said, “You didn't
come it, that time, my darling.”
Mr. Hamilton, who chanced to be absent for a few
days, was, on his return, regaled with an exaggerated
account of the proceeding, his wife ending her discourse
by saying —“If you don't do something with your upstart
daughter, I'll leave the house; yes, I will.”
Mr. Hamilton was cowardly. He was afraid of his
wife, and he was afraid of Mag. So he tried to compromise
the matter, by promising the one that he surely
would see to it, and by asking the other if she were not
ashamed. But old Polly didn't let the matter pass so
easily. She was greatly shocked at having “such shameful
carryin's on in a decent man's house.”
“'Clare for't,” said she, “I'll give marster a piece of
Polly Pepper's mind the fust time I get a lick at him.”
In the course of a few days Mr. Hamilton had occasion
to go for something into Aunt Polly's dominions. The
old lady was ready for him. “Mr. Hampleton,” said she,
“I've been waitin' to see you this long spell.”
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“To see me, Polly?” said he; “what do you want?”
“What I wants is this,” answered Polly, dropping into
a chair. “I want to know what this house is a comin' to,
with such bedivilment in it as there's been since madam
came here with that little black-headed, ugly-favored, illbegotten,
Satan-possessed, shoulder-unj'inted young-one
of her'n. It's been nothin' but a rowdedow the whole
time, and you hain't grit enough to stop it. Madam
boxes Willie, and undertakes to shet him up for a lie he
never told; Miss Margaret interferes jest as she or'to, takes
Willie away, and shets up madam; while that ill-marnered
Lenora jumps and screeches loud enough to wake the
dead. Madam busts the door down, and pitches into the
varmint, who jumps spang over a four foot table, which
Lord knows I never could have done in my spryest
days.”
“But how can I help all this?” asked Mr. Hamilton.
“Help it?” returned Polly, “You needn't have got
into the fire in the fust place. I hain't lived fifty odd
year for nothin', and though I hain't no larnin', I know
too much to heave myself away on the fust nussin' woman
that comes along.”
“Stop, Polly; you must not speak so of Mrs Hamilton,”
said Mr. Hamilton; while Polly continued: “And
I wouldn't nuther, if she could hold a candle to the t'other
one; but she can't. You'd no business to marry a second
time, even if you didn't marry a nuss; neither has any
man, who's got growd up gals, and a faithful critter like
Polly in the kitchen. Step-mothers don't often do well;
particularly them as is sot up by marryin'.”
Here Mr. Hamilton, who did not like to hear so much
truth, left the kitchen, while Aunt Polly said to herself,
“I've gin it to him good, this time.”
Lenora, who always happened to be near when she was
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talked about, had overheard the whole, and repeated it to
her mother. Accordingly, that very afternoon word
came to the kitchen that Mrs. Hamilton wished to see
Polly.
“Reckon she'll find this child ain't afeard on her,” said
Polly, as she wiped the flour from her face and repaired
to Mrs. Hamilton's room.
“Polly,” began that lady, with a very grave face, “Lenora
tells me that you have been talking very disrespectfully
to Mr. Hamilton.”
“In the name of the Lord, can't he fight his own battles?”
interrupted Polly. “I only tried to show him
that he was henpecked, and he is.”
“It isn't of him alone I would speak,” resumed Mrs.
Hamilton, with stately gravity; “you spoke insultingly
of me, and as I make it a practice never to keep a servant
after they get insolent, I have —”
“For the dear Lord's sake,” again interrupted Polly,
“I 'spect we's the fust servants you ever had.”
“Good!” said a voice from some quarter, and Mrs.
Hamilton continued: “I have sent for you to give you
twenty-four hours' warning to leave this house.”
“I shan't budge an inch until marster says so,” said
Polly. “Wonder who's the best title deed here? Warn't
I here long afore you come a nussin' t'other one?”
And Polly went back to the kitchen, secretly fearing
that Mr. Hamilton, who she knew was wholly ruled by
his wife, would say that she must go. And he did say so,
though much against his will. Lenora ran with the decision
to Aunt Polly, causing her to drop a loaf of new
bread. But the old negress chased her from the cellar
with the oven broom, and then stealing by a back stair-case
to Margaret's room, laid the case before her, acknowledging
that she was sorry, and asking her young
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mistress to intercede for her. Margaret stepped to the
head of the stairs, and calling to her father, requested
him to come for a moment to her room. This he was more
ready to do, as he had no suspicion why he was sent for,
but on seeing old Polly, he half resolved to turn back.
Margaret, however, led him into the room, and then entreated
him not to send away one who had served him so
long, and so faithfully.
Polly, too, joined in with her tears and prayers, saying,
“She was an old black fool any way, and let her tongue
get the better on her, though she didn't mean to say more
than was true, and reckoned she hadn't.”
In his heart Mr. Hamilton wished to revoke what he
had said, but dread of the explosive storm which he knew
would surely follow, made him irresolute, until Carrie
said, “Father, the first person of whom I have any definite
recollection is Aunt Polly, and I shall be so lonesome if
she goes away. For my sake let her stay, at least until I
am dead.”
This decided the matter. “She shall stay,” said Mr.
Hamilton, and Aunt Polly, highly elated, returned to the
kitchen with the news. Lenora, who seemed to be everywhere
at once, overheard it, and, bent on mischief, ran
with it to her mother. In the meantime, Mr. Hamilton
wished, yet dreaded, to go down, and finally, mentally
cursing himself for his weakness, asked Margaret to accompany
him. She was about to comply with his request,
when Mrs. Hamilton came up the stairs, furious at her
husband, whom she called “a craven coward, led by the
nose by all who chose to lead him.” Wishing to shut out
her noise, Mag closed and bolted the door, and in the
hall the modern Xantippe expended her wrath against
her husband and his offspring, while poor Mr. Hamilton
laid his face in Carrie's lap and wept. Margaret was
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trying to devise some means by which to rid herself of her
step-mother, when Lenora was heard to exclaim, “shall I
pitch her over the stairs, Mag? I will if you say so.”
Immediately Mrs. Hamilton's anger took another channel,
and turning upon her daughter, she said, “What are
you here for, you prating parrot! Didn't you tell me
what Aunt Polly said, and haven't you acted in the capacity
of reporter ever since?”
“To be sure I did,” said Lenora, poising herself on one
foot, and whirling around in circles; “but if you thought
I did it because I blamed Aunt Polly, you are mistaken.”
“What did you do it for, then?” said Mrs. Hamilton;
and Lenora, giving the finishing touch to her circles by
dropping upon the floor, answered, “I like to live in a
hurricane — so I told you what I did. Now, if you think
it will add at all to the excitement of the present occasion,
I'll get an ax for you to split the door down.”
“Oh, don't, Lenora, “screamed Carrie, from within, to
which Lenora responded, “Poor little simple chick bird,
I wouldn't harm a hair of your soft head for anything.
But there is a man in there, or one who passes for a man,
that I think would look far more respectable if he'd come
out and face the tornado. She's easy to manage when
you know how. At least, Mag and I find her so.”
Here Mr. Hamilton, ashamed of himself and emboldened,
perhaps, by Lenora's words, slipped back the bolt of the
door, and walking out, confronted his wife.
“Shall I order pistols and coffee for two?” asked Lenora,
swinging herself entirely over the bannister, and
dropping like a squirrel on the stair below.
“Is Polly going to stay in this house?” asked Mrs.
Hamilton.
“She is,” was the reply.
“Then I leave to-night,” said Mrs. Hamilton.
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“Very well, you can go,” returned the husband, growing
stronger in himself each moment.
Mrs. Hamilton turned away to her own room, where
she remained until supper time, when Lenora asked “if
she had got her chest packed, and where they should
direct their letters!” Neither Margaret nor her father
could refrain from laughter. Mrs. Hamilton, too, who
had no notion of leaving the comfortable homestead, and
who thought this as good a time to veer round as any
she would have, also joined in the laugh, saying, “What
a child you are, Lenora!”
Gradually the state of affairs at the homestead was
noised throughout the village, and numerous were the little
tea parties where none dared speak above a whisper,
to tell what they had heard, and where each and every
one were bound to the most profound secrecy, for fear
the reports might not be true. At length, however, the
story of the china closet got out, causing Sally Martin to
spend one whole day in retailing the gossip from door to
door. Many, too, suddenly remembered certain suspicious
things which they had seen in Mrs. Hamilton, who
was unanimously voted to be a bad woman, and who, of
course, began to be slighted.
The result of this was, to increase the sourness of her
disposition; and life at the homestead would have been
one continuous scene of turmoil, had not Margaret wisely
concluded to treat whatever her step-mother did with silent
contempt. Lenora, too, always seemed ready to fill
up all vacant niches, until even Mag acknowledged that
the mother would be unendurable without the daughter.
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Holmes, Mary Jane, 1825-1907 [1856], The homestead on the hillside, and other tales. (Miller, Orton & Mulligan, New York and Auburn) [word count] [eaf598T].
