CHAPTER IV.
`No crown of gold was e'er so fair
As the amber richness of her hair.'
`Ne'er was woman yet this side of seventy,
Who did not think she had some charm of twenty.'
When the young student reached the Inn farther down the village
street, he asked to be shown to a room; and ordering pen
and writing paper, he gave instructions to the polite host of the
`White Horse' to have any one who should call for him to be sent
to his chamber. He then locked his door and sat down at a table
to write. The curtain of the low window was partly drawn and
the light fell upon his face and person. He was a young man
about twenty-five, with an agreeable figure, and was well dressed in
a plain suit of black. His hair was soft and of a dark brown hue
and carelessly shaded a fair high forehead, the seat of intellect and
of thought. His face was handsome, and expressive with
intelligence and feeling. His eyes were dark and thoughful, and
shaded with long lashes like those of a woman; yet they were
full of a proud fire that indicated a manly mind. On his hand, in
which rested his cheek, and which was half-buried in his wavy
locks for a moment, glittered a signet ring of great beauty. His
mouth and chin were finely formed; nay, his profile was faultless
as it was visible, turned to the light, while he sat with his pen in
his hand, deliberating before writing. At length, with a glowing
cheek and a look of animation lighting his fine countenance, he
commenced writing.
Village of Hillside, Sept. 7, 1843.
My dear Mother:
I have at last seen the ideal of all that my most glowing fancy
has pictured, woman! I have within the half hour, beheld the realization
of all the beautiful creations of my imagination, when I
have loved to conceive in my thoughts, the beautiful, the true and
the good in one! Such a face as has ever appeared in my happiest
dreams of boyhood, when forms of love and beauty would float
around me; and when I heard her speak the tones were familiar,
like the voices of the beautiful ones who have spoken to me in my
hours of fancy! But you are full of curiosity to know who I have
seen! That I cannot tell, for her history is a mystery. She is an
orphan. I saw her in the yard of the Inn in this village, as I alighted
from my horse! Her beauty and grace, had an effect upon me
that was irresistible! You well know, dear, good mother, that I am
not susceptible, and that few females have drawn from me expressions
of admiration! you know I am not easily impressable by
mere female loveliness.' She was conveying a burden, all too
weighty for her strength, and I tendered my assistance, which she
thanked me for with a sweet, yet timid, gratitude that went to my
heart. Her mistress, the hostess, observed the act and my sympathy,
and poured upon me a torrent of invectives, saying the cruel task
was imposed upon the maiden by her orders! She was a virago,
and I saw was a tyrant. My heart bled for the young girl; and
of one near by I inquired her history. He told me that her parents
had arrived from England during the cholera season, and had died
in the village; when the landlord of the Inn, now dead, had adopted
her; but that since his decease the widow had made a servant
of her. He said the parents were evidently very genteel people,
but that no one knew their names, and that the child only went by
that of `Fanny.'
You know enough of me, dear mother, to be aware that such a
case would deeply enlist my feelings, even were there no beauty
of person. But, united as it is with the most exquisite loveliness,
and that loveliness, the just personification of my own creations of
the beautiful, I need not tell you how much I became interested in
her fate. In a word, when satisfied that she was the victim of
domestic tyranny, and subjected to the most degrading servitude,
and having learned that she was as modest as she was lovely, and
by her sweet deportment commanded the respect even of the base
and designing, I resolved not to go on my journey until I had
spoken with her. For this purpose I engaged the worthy, simple
man who had given me the information about her, to convey to her
a note; for the expression of gratitude, she gave me for my assistance,
while it was mingled with fear of the displeasure of her mistress,
gave me confidence that she would not refuse; for, poor child,
the voice of friendship and kindness seldom fell upon her heart.
This is what I wrote:
`The writer is actuated by no improper motives: or idle curiosity.
He sees you are unhappy and in a condition evidently beneath
your birth. It was his happiness to offer you a trivial service to-day
and from what he then witnessed he is prompted to make
further proffer of his friendship and assistance! Your history is
known to him, and it would afford him no little gratification to be
the instrument of releasing you from a cruel tyranny and contributing
to your happiness so far as may lie in his power. The object
of this note is to beg you will give him an opportunity of speaking
with you a few moments alone! Do not be alarmed at this proposition.
It is made in kindness, and prompted by sympathy. There
is a path from the garden of the Inn leading to the river-side. The
moon will rise at ten o'clock, when I will be at the end of the walk
and remain there till midnight in the hope (pray do not disappoint
it!) of seeing you!'
You will smile, and, I fear, shake your head, dear mother, and
say I have done a very imprudent thing! I have severely examined
my motives of action, and feel that I am doing right! you need
not fear for my principles, thanks to your teaching, and ever-guarding
love, good mother; nor apprehend that I shall involve myself in
an affair of the heart with any one who may prove unworthy of me!
Ever your attached son,
Gardner Sears.
P. S.—I shall be in Boston to-morrow, when you will hear from
me again.'
The young man then folded and sealed his letter, and despatching
it to the Post Office, walked up and down his room, waiting
for the appearance of his coadjutor, Tony Taft.
Tony had left his shop soon after the departure of the young man,
with the note stuck secretly in his sleeve. He had never before
had such a dangerous business on his hands; for the little barber
stood in mortal terror of the widow. Nevertheless he had determined
in his mind to carry out the matter as became him, and safely
placed the missile in the hands of the `pretty Fanny.' His shop
being at the opposite corner of the Inn yard, he found himself on
its piazza before he had fully collected his agitated wits. A glimpse
through the window of the widow crossing the bar-room floor,
nearly unnerved him, for he imagined she inflicted upon him a look
of more than usual unamiability.
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`Hones and razors! the widder looks more than common cross.'
he said to himself, hesitating at the step; I bet a shave she guesses
I'm af'er some'at' for she looked right through me! well, I'll not
be frightened at a women's eye if 'tis sharper than a patent razor!
sixteen shaves an t got every day in the shape of a round dollar, and
as so the young gent seems to be flush and easy, I'll go ahead and
see Fanny. I wish I drinked as Snip does and then the old
woman would'nt give me such vinegar cross looks, when she sees
me here! I'll take a glass o'some'at and that 'll be a kind o'opening
for to go upon! Perhaps Fanny will be at the bar! Let me see,
what shall I take? Brandy is strong and rum is strong, and all
liquors is strong, and I cant go em! Blocks an' vigs—I have it.
I'll call for a tumbler o'small ginger beer—the ginger 'll make me
fiery, and set my blood up and I shant fear the widder nor the
devil!'
With this desperate intention, the stout little barber entered the
Inn and scraped along with his peculiar shuffling gait, into the
bar-room. This was an apartment with two windows glazed with
seven-by-nine panes of glass, looking towards the street, and a
third facing the inn-yard. They were half-shaded by dark-blue
paper window curtains, rolled up so as to let the light in from the
two lower panes, tied with red tape. Seven or eight white oak
chairs with flag bottoms, the work of little Johnny Stringer, were
stiffly ranged around the walls; and between the two windows stood
a pine table beneath a looking glass, that made hideous visaged
monsters of all travelers who ventured to peep into it. The floor
was nicely sanded, for Dame Power was a notable neat body. As
ornaments to the walls, were black paper profiles of Captain Ben,
and sundry aunts and couzins, and a `mourning piece,' so called;
and doubtless with truth, for it was a very mournful affair, with a
sheep looking like a lean white cat, represented sitting upon a
great spot of gamboge for grass; a woman nine feet tall with one
arm five feet long and the other but two and a half feet in length,
leaning over what was doubtless intended for a tomb with a weeping
willow bonding over it, but which was more like a huge flower
pot under a heavy shower of green paint. An inscription showed
that all this was the handy work of Dame Power in her maiden
days. Opposite the two windows was `the bar.' This was a short
red counter in the shape of a half-moon with a shelf behind containing
decanters and glasses. Beneath this shelf was a low sliding
door which communicated with the kitchen, so that the Dame
could at any time hear any one coming in, and hasten to wait upon
them.
This was the room in which Tony Taft found himself. The
widow heard his step and he at the same time heard her voice
scolding Fanny, which she kept up as she dodged under the shelf
and made her appearance in the bar.
`Well, Mr. Taft,' she said coldly, for Dame Power loved none
who brought no pennies to her drawer; `are all the men in Hillside
clean shaven that you leave your shop at four o'clock to bring
folks away from their work?'
`I comed in, good widder,' answered Tony smiling, and looking
blandly, `to ask you to sell me some'at to drink!'
`To drink, Mr. Taft!' exclaimed the widow staring at him with
her hard eyes! `what is come to town now, that you have got heart
to take a dram?'
`I've got a brave heart, and I always had, widder, as else I
could'nt handle as boldly as I does sharp razors, and strap 'em on
my hands as I does like lightning, sometimes when I gets my ambition
up to give the judge or the squire a clean shave for Sunday.
I have got a heart and a stout 'un, widder, but I don't al'ays let
folks know it; for true valorousness lieth in modesty.'
`Well, I am glad to see thy bravery shown forth for once, Mr.
Taft. What will you take to drink?—nice Cogniac, Jamaica, and
West India, all the best!'
`Why, widder, I must begin kindly and not overdo the thing
the first time,' replied the barber, surveying with misgiving the
dazzling decanters which she placed on the counter.
`Well, here is good whisky—that would'nt hurt a sucking baby.'
`So I've hearn, that out west they wean babies on whiskey.
But I b'leive this time widder,' added Tony very resolutely and
with a certain desperation, `I'll try a small touch o' your ginger
small pop.'
“Small pop! small beer, you mean, man,' said Dame Power,
laughing; `well, if you will take this you shall have it! but you
must call for ginger pop next time Mr. Taft. We doe'snt keep
such a article as ginger small pop.'
`Well, I was mistaken then. Full it right chock widder, for I
mean to go the entire figur' this time, and no mistake, if I never
drink again! Razors! what a pop that was! I thought I vos shot;
and if the stopper hant druv smack agen that white cat in the tomb
stone pictur and tuck her head off!'
`Cat! white cat—I'd have you to know, Tony Taft, that that is
a innocent lamb and I did it myself! It shows your ignorance of
fine arts and proves you are a simpleton. The cork an't hurt it
much, and a little paste on the back side 'll make it whole again!'
`I beg pardon, widder Power,' said Tony deprecatingly, `I am
ignorant of such arts; but a pictur is one thing and natur' is another!
now if I had heard that white cat—'
`Cat?'
`Sheep I mean, widder—I begs a thousand pardons—`if I had
heard that sheep `bla' when the cork struck it I'd ha' know'd sure
what it was coz it would ha' been natur' speaking; but as I hearn
nothing I tuck it to be a cat, coz you see it looks so mortal like
one—vhenever I sees a cat agen I shall think of little lambs! now,
don't be angry, widder, 'stakes is made by the best o' people; as
sometimes I have shaved only one side of a customer's face, thinking
I had shaved the whole. This is right prime pop, widder!
How it makes a fellar's nose tingle—Its' got into my eyes and
makes you look tea years younger a'ready.'
`You are a foolish man, and there's no use being vexed with
you, Mr. Taft,' said the widow, letting her anger evaporate in a
blush and smile.
`You are a hand'som woman and there's no use denying it,
Mistress Power,' answered Tony stoutly, and ogling her.
`The ginger pop has, I believe, got into your thin brain, man,
and fuddled it,' said the widow.
`I feels desp'rate, tha't's poz.'
`I dont know what spirits would do with you, Mr. Taft.'
`There'd be no holdin me in. I should kiss somebody or fight.'
`Why, Mr. Taft.'
`I would, widder. I feel it in me. Give me another tumbler
half full o' the ginger. I an't had enough. Hones and razor
straps. lather and beards. Send Fanny here and I'll make love
to her.'
`I do believe you are drunk on the pop, fool. What put that
girl into your head.'
`Coz, she is so darn'd handsome, like you, widder. I must fall
in love with somebody, and I cant with you, coz Master Tobitt's
in that chair; so—'
`No such nonsense now, Mr. Taft. I never heard the like. If
I catch you speaking a word to Fan I'll not let you hear the last
of it. You shant have any more pop. Pay for this. Five cents.'
`Five cents. Who cares;' said Tony, turning pale at the amount,
yet boldly laying down the dollar Gardner Sears had given him.
`You are rich, Mr. Taft,' said the widow, on whose face the
sight of money coming towards her, always brought a smile; `you
may drink as much as you are a mind to, but you must not talk
as you have just done. You may make love to me as much as
you choose, but not to my domestic. There's your change.'
The presence of the dollar before his eyes, restored Tony Taft
to the recollection of his object in coming into the Inn: for the
fumes of the ginger pop had really affected his unaccustomed
brain, and made him tipsy for a short time, so as to banish his purpose
from his mind. He now began to turn over in his mind, how
he should get the note, in his sleeve, to Fanny. He saw her
through the sliding door behind the bar, at work in the kitchen,
and there seemed to him no way of fulfilling his mission without
detection from the sharp eye of the widow, who he feared would
read his thoughts. Tony's wits, however, had been brightened by
his potations, and his invention was sharper than usual. A lucky
thought, as he conceived it to be, flashed, or rather, considering its
origin, `popped' into his head. While the widow was putting
away the glass and bottle, and wiping the bar counter, his attention
had been arrested by Fanny's abundant hair, which though
she had attempted to put it up under an old brown handkerchief,
yet half of it escaped, and hung about her neck and shoulders in
the wildest luxuriance. The thought in Tony's mind was matured
by the knowledge of the widow's avarice. He stood a little
back from the bar, from where he could plainly see Fanny making
bread at a table in the kitchen, and stood so intently and purposely
observing her, that he drew the eye of the bustling landlady.
`What are your eyes doing there, Tony Taft, peeping at my
girls?' asked the virago: `I should think it was quite time your
shop wanted you.'
`I was not looking at Fanny, widder, without a business, a object,
' answered Tony with a look of importance, and cooly returning
the ireful glance of Dame Power.
`What business can you have with any body in my kitchen?'
she demanded, closing to the little door and hiding Fanny from
the barber's eyes.'
`I'll tell you, but let it be between ourselves, widder;' said Tony
approaching the bar, and leaning over it and speaking in a confidential
tone.
`Well,' answered the Dame, her curiosity aroused by his manner.
`You know I'm a barber, and makes ladies' curls;' observed
Tony in a very mysterious voice.
`Yes,' answered the widow eagerly.
`Fanny has just the hair for my purpose. Do you understand
me?'
`Not hardly.'
`It is the prettiest hair I ever saw, and is too pretty for a girl in
her place.'
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`So I have thought, Mr. Taft,' said the widow, who had got but
a half formed notion of what Tony was coming at.
`It will make fifty pairs of curls;' said Tony in a low voice.
`Now I understand you,' answered the dame; `but do you
think you are going to get me to give it to you. If it is worth
any thing it is worth something in Boston, and I ll be paid for it.'
`So you shall widder,' answered Tony impressively; `it does her
no good and only serves as a tem'tation and a vanity.'
`So I have thought before to day, and was only yesterday thinking
I'd have it cut off. And now I can get any money by it I'll
have it off: for she has cost us enough, and if I should sell her, it
would be no more than getting my dues.'
`You have done good service to her, widder, that's true.'
`And she no kith nor kin of mine.'
`Nor of no body's else. Well I'll give you,—let me see—I can
afford to pay five cents a curl. I dont get more than two shillin's
for a bunch of four, when they'er all wove and set. Its handsome
hair as ever natur' made, but you can't get no more for it in Boston,
widder; besides you'd have to get a city barber here to clip
it.'
`Hush! dont speak so loud. I could do that myself.'
`No, it must be clipped just so long, and in just such a way.
I'll give you five cents.'
`There must be a most a hundred curls,' answered the widow, her
avaricious eye lighting up. `Let me add. That would come to
five dollars. Its a bargain, Mr. Taft!'
`But I would like to count the curls and know just how much
I've got to pay, for money's scarce now, and I may have to borry
some.'
`Well, you shall have an opportunity, by and by,' answered
Dame Power, so full of the idea of making five dollars by the sale
of Fanny's beautiful locks that she quite forgot she had forbidden
Mr. Taft to speak to her victim.
`There's no time so good as the present, widder `said Tony
exhilerated at the probable success of his scheme; though we are
not sure that it is not more than a `scheme,' and that the barber,
in something like a feeling between covetousness, for the hair to
make into curls, and a disposition to mar the beauty he could not
possess, for the sake of revenge upon his rival, meant to carry
out his object. `But will Fanny consent?' he asked doubtingly.
`Consent!' repeated the widow with a look of surprise. `Who
is to ask her, I want to know? What I say she does, and that's
an end on't. You go through that door into my little sanctus
Mr. Taft, and I'll soon have her in there. Five dollars. That is
not to be had every day by a lone woman; and the girl will be
more humble after it. I've seen her taking care of her hair Sunday's,
and felt as I could pull it out of her head. What has she
to do with such long hair? There's my Jane, as old as she is,
and her hair an't a foot long. Set me up with her. Go in there,
and I'll be in in a jiffy.'
Tony opened the door by the side of the bar, and entered a little
carpeted room a step lower down than the bar, which the widow
called her `Sanctus.' It was a sung affair with a chintz covered
sofa on one side, and two rocking-chairs, a high mantle piece, ornamented
with a china-parrot, two plated candle-sticks, three little
painted crockery flower vases, and two conch-shells. The
walls were adorned with colored engravines of a sentimental
turn, and portrait's of `General Warren,' and of Washington, and
of Frederick the Great; besides a likeness in fresh oils of the
widow, lately done at the expence of, and presented to her by,
Domine Tobitt, as a card, stuck in a corner of the yellow painted
frame, told all persons who cared to read it. There was a pleasant,
subdued light in the room, transmitted through chintz curtains
closely drawn; for this was the widow's courting room, and
she loved this dreamy light.
Tony looked round the `sanctus' for a chair, but seeing none but
the two nice quilted rocking chairs and the sofa, he felt diffident
about occupying either of them without a special invitation from
the widow. This lady had disappeared from the bar as Tony entered
the room, and going up to Fanny, who was preparing biscuits for
tea, she said sharply:
`Why don't you keep your hair up under the handkerchief, Miss,
when you are making bread?'
`It fell out while I was kneading the dough, and I couldn't put
it up with my fingers in the batter,' answered Fanny gently.
`There is a hair on the tray now, you dirty jade,' cried the widow,
adroitly throwing one, from her own side curls, into the wooden
dish.
`Indeed, Mrs. Power, that is not my hair, for it is fairer than
mine,' answered Fanny quietly, yet pale and timid.
`Do you dare to contradict me? You are getting too impudent,
huzzy. I will send you to the poor house yet, for you have no
claim on me. I shouldn't wonder if you were even honestly born,
for nobody knows any thing about you. Don't open your mouth
to me, now. I'll have none of your `Mrs. Power.' You shall
have your hair cut off, and that I have made up my mind to. I
won't have a girl in my kitchen with such long curls, for nothing'll
be fit to eat soon. So, come, you must make up your mind to have
your hair cut or—'
`Oh, I will try and keep it underneath the handkerchief, Mrs.
Power,' cried Fanny, the tears forcing themselves into her eyes;
`but the handkerchief is so small.'
`I did not mean to say or keep it up, but, or go to the poor
house. One or the other you shall do this very hour.'
`Oh, do not compel me to part with my hair, dear Mrs. Power.
Indeed that was not mine. I am very careful; I will not let
a single tress escape again. Do forgive me this time. My hair!
oh, it would make me miserable to lose it! It is my only comfort!
'
`Pride and poverty! What have you to do with fine hair? Cut
off it shall be. Taft is in the other room, and it shall be done before
them biscuit go into the oven. Come.
The poor girl threw herself at the woman's feet and clasped her
knees in eloquent distress. She sobbed, and could not speak.
`Get up, girl; none of this make believe. What are you, that
you should have a will of your own? You are altogether too pretty
for a servant, and the loss of your hair will do you good. So wipe
your fingers and come with me!'
The beautiful orphan silently rose to her feet, and with a pale
countenance and a convulsed heaving of her bosom, followed the
widow into the room where Tony Taft was, and from which he
had overheard enough to understand the scene between them; and
as they entered he came to the magnanimous resolution that he
would cut off the widow's head before he touched a lock of Fanny's
bright hair. Like a victim, as she truly was, the poor girl
followed her mistress into the little parlor, and stood before Tony,
now a terrible monster in her eyes, (and feeling so in his own)
with her hands crossed before her, and her eyes cast down to the
carpet. He thought she looked more like the `Lowell Belle' than
ever, and he repented himself in his heart that he should have been
accessory to her beautiful grief; for Tony saw tears on her cheek,
and the agitation of her lovely form did not escape his attention.
`Sit there!' said the widow, pointing to the rocking chair with
a look and tone of authority. `Are you ready, Mr. Taft?'
Tony was now in the greatest strait for the exercise of his shallow
wits in which he had ever found himself. He was resolute in
his determination not to clip a tress; yet he was so to manage as
neither to offend the widow nor lose the opportunity of giving the
note to Fanny. He was puzzled; and the more he cogitated the
more difficult his position became. He felt tempted to settle the
perplexing affair by at once quitting the `sanctus' and the inn, and
seeking safety in his shop; but the idea of the dame's fierce displeasure
checked this impulse.
`Take off your handkerchief,' commanded the widow.
Fanny obeyed, and the cloud of rich chestnut hair that fell
around her shoulders like a veil of glory, drew from Tony an exclamation
of professional delight. This sight made her still more
envious of this fair ornament of her victim's person, and strengthened
her determination to deprive her of it; and noting his admiration,
she whispered aside to him:
`It is worth full ten dollars, every cent of it.'
Tony nodded acquiescence, and was approaching Fanny, when
the poor girl, as if this was her last hope, for what woman, however
humble her sphere, loves not to cherish with modest pride, her
own bright hair?—springing forward, caught him by both hands,
and said with touching eloquence:
`Oh, Mr. Taft, you have always been kind; do not be guilty of
so cruel a deed.'
`D—n if I can stan' this, widder,' said Tony looking at the
hostess, whose face was growing black with passion at the resistance
of Fanny. `I wouldn't cut it off, if I was you.'
`It shall be cut off, and close to her head too, if I have to do it
myself. I guess there is no law again a mother's cuttin' her girl's
hair.'
`But you an't her mother, widder,' answered Tony stoutly.
`Don't talk to me! Take your shears and cut it, accordin' to
the bargain. It shall be cut if I have to throw the curls to the
hogs instead of sellin' 'em.'
`And have you both been so unfeeling as to bargain together
for the sale of my hair?' exclaimed Fanny with a quick colour
flashing into her pale cheek. `Then I will not part with it.'
`Not!' cried or rather screeched the widow in the astonishment
of her indignation, her excitement not a little heightened by the
knowledge of her intentions betrayed to her victim; and going up
to her she caught her by the shoulders and forced her into the
chair. `Now, Mr. Taft, give me your scissors, and I will do it.'
`I haven't brought them in with me,' answered the barber between
fear and rage at seeing Fanny treated so.
`Then I'll soon find a pair of my own. Stir from that chair,
Miss, till I come down stairs and I'll make you repent it to the last
day you have to live.'
With this threat the virago opened a door upon a dark stair-way
leading from the sanctus to her chamber above, and went up as
fast as she could make her bulky person ascend, to bring a pair of
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scissors. Tony listened till he heard her quick foot fall on the floor
overhead, and then in a hurried whisper said:
`Miss Fanny, I'm your friend. Don't fear Tony Taft! The
she-devil shant touch your hair if I can help it. Don't thank me.
There!' he added eagerly, `take that!' and he thrust the note into
her very bosom. `Hide it and read it the first chance. It was
given me by the young doctor that helped you with the tub. He
is your friend, Fanny, and no mistake. Tuck it down out o' the
way. That's safe. There she comes again! I wish she'd tumble
down and break her neck. Hush! don't fear. You have Tony
Taft to stand by you.'
The flat foot and skirt of the widow were now visible on the
stairs descending, and Fanny dried her tears, with she knew not
what hope of good at her heart, while Tony with two enormous
strides, placed himself at the farthest part of the room, and was
standing, when she entered, surveying her portrait with very evident
admiration.
`Very like, widder! The complect is just yours—lilly and rosebud!
I al'ays admired your 'plexion, and said 'twas natural as the
red and white paint on a London wax doll.'
Who shall say that Tony Taft was not a diplomatist? The
widow came down the stairs holding in her hand a huge pair of
cloth shears, gaping destruction to Fanny's locks; but the attitude
of admiration assumed by Tony, and the `soft sodder' in his
speech, had their effect upon the heart of the woman. Her countenance
humanized.
`Yes, they used to tell me my complexion was fair once, but
time makes great changes in beauty, Mr. Taft.'
`But not in yours, widder. Now I should say, if I'd never seen
this portrait afore, it was tuck for a nice young lady of—of—nineteen!
'
`Oh, you flatter, Mr. Taft.'
`No—razors and rasps if I do! And if I'd not known you was
a widder, and I'd seen you in Bosting in the street,' (here he looked
tenderly at the mollified dame,) `I'd ha' sworn you was not a
year over twenty, and young lookin' at that. Now see that red in
the cheek,' he exclaimed, turning rapturously to the portrait; `see
how bright and shiny the eye is in the pictur! 'Tis a beauty, widder,
and no mistake. Well, them is mighty shears; why I could
cut off a man's head with 'em.' They are too big, and'll crisp and
snaggle the hair. I'll take the job myself, for I know I can argy
Fanny into consentin'. I'll have my scissors ground, and you
bring her into the shop some evenin' when nobody's there, and I'll
do it in proper style. I'll stick to my bargain, widder. But you'll
have to wait a while for the pay,' he said whispering to her.
`Not a day,' she answered positively.
`Then the job must wait, widder, till I can get the money.'
`Then it shall wait, before I'll trust, Mr. Taft.'
`Well, each day'll make the hair better. Now don't you go for
to spoil my job by clipping it yourself, widder,' continued Tony in
the same under tone, `for the hair is mine, and there's half a dollar
in hand, as clench money. I'll let you know when I get ready
to cut it and pay you the other four and a half.'
The widow took the money which Tony, well knowing the
`young doctor' would remunerate him doubly, had so liberally advanced:
and although she would gladly have had Fanny's locks
then shorn, yet the certainty of her soon having it done to personal
profit rendered her willing to forego the present pleasure of
doing it herself.
`Go to the kitchen,' she now said sharply to Fanny; `but don't
think you are to get off altogether with your love-locks, minx.—
You may make up your mind to lose them first or last, for off they
come, and that ere many days pass over your head.'
Fanny cast a grateful look at Tony, to whose interference she
attributed her escape, and with a lighter heart left the room. The
widow was disposed to be in quite an agreeable humor with Tony,
whom she drew again to the subject of the portrait, which he was
not behind hand in bepraising till she finally let him off with a
laugh, and `oh, you naughty flatterer!' as he got down through the
gamut of its youthfulness to ten years of age, swearing `by his
beard,' of which he had not three hairs, that it verily looked no
older.
Ingraham, J. H. (Joseph Holt), 1809-1860 [1843], Fanny H------, or, The hunchback and the roue (Edward P. Williams, Boston) [word count] [eaf162].
