The rejected wife

THE REJECTED WIFE.

CHAPTER I. THE FARM-HOUSE IN COMMOTION—EXPECTED GUESTS—PARLOR AND KITCHEN.

More than ninety years ago, what is now the city of Norwich was a thriving village scattered over one of the most picturesque hills in the world. Its wildness and its beauty forming a picture one might well go back a century or so to look at; for civilization is most lovely when it improves nature without enslaving and plundering it. Thus, the picturesque log-cabins, and the aspiring frame houses on their natural terraces overlooking each other,—some peeping out upon unreclaimed rocks, others embowered in trees, and all wildly irregular,—were a thousand times more attractive than the cultivation and stately wealth of the present city, which is even now among the most beautiful in our country.

There was not much inland navigation in those days; but now and then a sloop spread its white sails on the Thames below the village, while canoes and rude boats were abundant on the Yantic and the Shetucket. Along the rich valley which lies on the northwest, farms were scattered, and to a considerable extent the wilderness was cut away. The dwellings, so far as the land permitted, were gathered in close neighborhood, out of which first a scattering village, and now a city has sprung. But the cove, which sets up to the mouth of the Yantic, was surrounded by one unbroken mass of trees. Here and there the blue smoke curled up from some newly-built cabin in a clearing of the forest. The Yantic River, which plunges its wild body of waters into the head of the cove, through rocks, over precipices, and down chasms, foaming and rioting with eager haste to overtake and outleap the Shetucket in a race for the sea, had been forced to yield some of its rioting waters for the use of a grist-mill, with its slow stones that moaned over their task of a few bushels each day. Below this a saw-mill sent its hoarse music into the dash of the waters, which leaped by, shouting back a mellow defiance, that rang through the old forest-trees day and night, as they sing and laugh at the present moment.

Two log-cabins stood back in the woods. Into one the miller took his toll at night: and the other was inhabited by the man that attended the saw-mill. In those days, when two log-cabins stood within sight of each other, they were likely to constitute a village and receive a name; but with a grist-mill and saw-mill within hearing, of course this was imperative; so the miller and his neighbor held a town-meeting between themselves and baptized the beautiful spot Yanticville.

Down among the farm-houses, on the plain, stands to this day a large frame house, with a broad, gabled roof and heavy chimneys. Two or three old trees droop around it, and a substantial fence, half stone, and completed with rails, encloses it from the highway. Even now the house possesses that air of substantial comfort which is the characteristic of almost all Connecticut dwellings; but in the last century it was a very superior building indeed, and bespoke the growing prosperity which had followed the Norwich settlement from its foundation.

The ambition of every farmer in those days was to convert his log cabin into a stable, and give evidence of thrift in a frame house. Sometimes it was years before this house received its entire finish, but stood an imposing shell, with a net-work of lath on the walls waiting for plaster, while no room but the kitchen was thoroughly made comfortable.

This house was no exception to the general rule. The hoarded savings that had erected it gave out when the exterior was completed, and for years the good couple lived in a large kitchen and bedroom in winter, contenting themselves with a broader range of fine airy apartments from spring to autumn, when the unfinished state of their dwelling was rather an advantage than otherwise. They had a growing family, and so put off finishing the house till gray hairs came thick on their temples, and their only son had gone forth into the world to get his own living. There had for three months been great confusion in this house. The sound of hammers, the grating of trowels had made their harsh music; then the low, soft sweep of whitewash brushes, completed everything. Almost thirty years after its foundations were laid, Mr. Arnold’s house had received its finishing touches.

And why was all this haste after such patient waiting? Why was the good housewife so busy upon her knees, nailing down home-made carpets, or, with both arms uplifted, rolling up paper blinds at the windows? Why was that fair young girl, with meek, brown eyes, so earnest in her attendance on the mother, holding the little plate of carpet-tacks, and helping with her pretty brown hands to stretch the stubborn fabric to its place?

Why, it was the day but one before Thanksgiving, when all those members of the family who had wandered beyond that valley were to meet again under the gable-roof and have a grand holiday. That only son, of whom the mother was so proud, and a guest or two of foreign blood, who, fond of adventure, had come to see the grandeur of that New World which was soon to claim a place among nations,—were expected at the homestead.

The carpet was down in the south room, and the green and red stripes shone out splendidly. Many a long month had Mrs. Arnold and her daughter toiled at the great wheel, the dye-tub, and the loom, before the admired fabric was completed, and they both felt all the sweet consciousness of creation to its full extent. Tall, wooden chairs, with backs bent inward like a bow, and divided longitudinally with small, round bars, and seats curved like a scroll, stood primly against the white wall. A looking-glass, with a fan-like ornament of carved mahogany on each end of the frame, and surmounted at the top with a gilt eagle, gleamed grandly between the two front windows. A long, mahogany table, bright as the mirror, stood under it, with each claw-foot grasping a ball, and long, deep leaves rounded down to the floor. Opposite this was a high “chest o’ drawers,” each drawer bulging out, and sinking in like a scroll, with picturesque brass handles shining brightly up and down the front. This elaborate piece of furniture reached from the floor to the ceiling, where it ended in a carved shell,—a wondrous work of art, for which, as a piece of worldly vanity, Mrs. Arnold wished to be forgiven in her prayers, but still regarded with complacency when she observed its effect on the best room.

“There now, I think every thing is in order here,” said Mrs. Arnold, dropping the linsey-woolsey apron with which she had been polishing the table. “They might come to-day for any thing we should care. Dear me! here is a spot on the andirons,” and down she went upon her knees, rubbing the tall, brass andiron with both hands till drops of perspiration hung on her forehead.

“No, no: that is a bruise,—it will never come out,” said Hannah. “Don’t you remember when brother made it throwing his hammer, one day when he hurt his fingers cracking walnuts?”

Mrs. Arnold stopped, gazed down a moment upon the dent with gentle thoughtfulness, and arose from her knees.

“Yes,” she said, with a sigh; “I haven’t forgotten it, Hannah. Your father and I have often made it a subject of prayer; and it has set on my conscience more than once that we ought to have punished him at that time as the Scriptures point out; but, somehow, whipping never seemed the thing for your brother. It always made him fierce and sullen; and I don’t know as any punishment besides the rod is held proper for a child. One hardly knows what way to turn with a boy like that.”

“He is so brave, so handsome, mother,” said Hannah Arnold. “I don’t wonder you couldn’t find the heart to punish him. It seems like whipping a race-horse for wanting to run ahead. Won’t he be delighted when he sees what we’ve been about here?”

Mrs. Arnold looked around with gentle complacency upon her pale, sweet face.

“It is real nice,” she said. “The roses on the curtains make the room look bright as a flower-garden. Come, now, daughter, let’s go and see to the beds. Bring down the new coverlet, with blue and orange quarters, for the out-room, and then we’ll go into the kitchen and see how Dan and Hagar are getting along. It’ll be time for your father to kill the turkeys and chickens pretty soon. It won’t do to have the noise about when the company comes. Get the coverlet, Hannah, and then go tell your pa, or they will catch us nicely.”

Hannah ran up-stairs, opened a huge chest, full of homespun linen and substantial bedding, from which she took the coverlet woven in orange quarters, and came down again.

“Mother,” she said, making herself very busy spreading the coverlet under the snowy pillows, while her cheeks blushed like moss-roses, “mother, if it should snow to-morrow,—it looks like it, I think,—and the French gentleman, who is coming with brother, should fancy a sleigh-ride, what do you think of it?”

“A sleigh-ride on Thanksgiving-day!” exclaimed Mrs. Arnold, a little horrified.

The roses flushed deeper in Hannah Arnold’s cheek, and she cast a little deprecating look at her mother that melted all the prejudices down in that gentle heart in an instant.

“Well, Hannah, I don’t quite see my way clear about the sleigh-ride, if it should snow,—and it seems to me I saw flakes in the air a little while ago; but supposing you mention the matter to pa; if he doesn’t take it too hard, I won’t interfere. You can wear my muff and tippet.”

“I didn’t mean myself, mother; but the young French gentleman and his sister. You will want me to help about the dinner.”

“Never mind about the dinner. I’m capable of managing that with Hagar. We can chop the stuffing and strain the pumpkin-sauce over night, you know. There, now, I don’t believe there’s a bit of sage or summer savory in the house. What shall we do? These workmen turn every thing topsy-turvy!”

“Oh, yes there is, mother! I put up two bundles myself, and hung them on the rafters in the garret, out of the joiner’s way. Shall I run and get it?”

“Well, if you’d just as lief as not.”

Away went Hannah up into the garret, where any quantity of dried herbs hung in clusters and bundles along the naked rafters. The whole roof was ornamented with strings of fresh apples, nicely quartered, and hung up to dry side by side, with loops and rings of pumpkins, stretched along poles, and forming massive golden chains across the slope of the shingles. On a tow sheet, stretched along one end of the garret-floor, which was of loose boards, that rattled as she walked, lay a huge pile of butter-nuts. Three or four bushels of chestnuts lay in one corner, and a quantity of shag-barks was heaped away farther out of sight.

“There’ll be enough for one Thanksgiving, anyway,” thought Hannah, looking around, as she jumped down from the old chair on which she had mounted in order to reach the herbs. “Brother needn’t be afraid of our starving his friends out, I reckon.”

She ran down, with a bunch of herbs in each hand, flushed and pleased that she had remembered something which her mother deemed important.