Aunt Phillis's Cabin Part 21

"Stop, young man," said the farmer, solemnly, "you mind the old saying, 'Young people think old people fools, but old people know young people are fools.' I warn you not to try and ford that creek to-night; you might as well put your head in a lion's mouth. Havn't I been crossing it these fifty years? and aint I up to all its freaks and ways? Sometimes it is as quiet as a wearied baby, but now it is foaming and las.h.i.+ng, as a tiger after prey. You'd better disappoint Miss Ellen for one night, than to bring a whole lifetime of trouble upon her. Don't be foolhardy, now; your horse can't carry you safely over Willow's Creek this night."

"Never fear, farmer," said William. "I can take care of myself."

"May the Lord take care of you," said the farmer, as he followed the youth, das.h.i.+ng through the town on his spirited horse. "If it were not for this wagon-load, and there are so many to be clothed and fed at home, I would follow you, but I can't do it."

William rode rapidly homeward. The noonday being long pa.s.sed, the skies were clouding over, and harsh spring winds were playing through the woods.

William enjoyed such rides. Healthy, and fearing nothing, he was a stranger to a feeling of loneliness. Alternately singing an old air, and then whistling with notes as clear and musical as a flute, he at last came in sight of the creek which had been so tranquil when he crossed it in the morning. There was an old house near, where lived the people who received the toll. A man and his wife, with a large family of children, poor people's inheritance, had long made this place their home, and they were acquainted with all the persons who were in the habit of traveling this way.

William, whom they saw almost daily, was a great favorite with the children. Not only did he pay his toll, but many a penny and sixpence to the small folks besides, and he was accustomed to receive a welcome.

Now the house was shut up. It had rained frequently and heavily during the month, and the bright morning, which had tempted the children out to play, was gone, and they had gathered in the old house to amuse themselves as they could.

The bridge had been partly carried away by the freshet. Some of the beams were still swinging and swaying themselves with restless motion. The creek was swollen to a torrent. The waters dashed against its sides, in their haste to go their way. The wind, too, howled mournfully, and the old trees bent to and fro, nodding their stately heads, and rustling their branches against each other.

"Oh, Mr. William, is it you?" said the woman, opening the door. "Get off your horse, and come in and rest; you can't go home to-night."

"Yes, I can though," said William, "I have often forded the creek, and though I never saw it as it is now, yet I can get safely over it, I am sure."

"Don't talk of such things, for the Lord's sake," said Mrs. Jones. "Why, my husband could not ford the creek now, and you're a mere boy."

"No matter for that," said William. "I promised my sister to be at home to-night, and I must keep my word. See how narrow the creek is here!

Good-by, I cannot wait any longer, it is getting dark."

"Don't, try it, please don't, Mr. William," again said Mrs. Jones. All the children joined her, some entreating William, others crying out at the danger into which their favorite was rus.h.i.+ng.

"Why, you cowards," cried William, "you make more noise than the creek itself. Here's something for gingerbread." None of the children offered to pick up the money which fell among them, but looked anxiously after William, to see what he was going to do.

"Mr. William," said Mrs. Jones, "come back; look at the water a roaring and tossing, and your horse is restless already with the noise. Don't throw your life away; think of your sister."

"I'm thinking of her, good Mrs. Jones. Never fear for me," said he, looking back at her with a smile, at the same time urging his horse toward the edge of the creek, where there was a gradual descent from the hill.

As Mrs. Jones had said, the horse had already become restless, he was impatiently moving his head, prancing and striking his hoofs against the hard ground. William restrained him, as he too quickly descended the path, and it may be the young man then hesitated, as he endeavored to check him, but it was too late. The very check rendered him more impatient; springing aside from the path he dashed himself from rock to rock. William saw his danger, and with a steady hand endeavored to control the frightened animal.

This unequal contest was soon decided. The nearer the horse came to the water the more he was alarmed,--at last he sprang from the rock, and he and his rider disappeared.

"Oh, my G.o.d!" said Mrs. Jones, "he is gone. The poor boy; and there is no one to help him." She at first hid her eyes from the appalling scene, and then approached the creek and screamed as she saw the horse struggling and plunging, while William manfully tried to control him. Oh! how beat her heart, as with uplifted hands, and stayed breath, she watched for the issue--it is over now.

"Hus.h.!.+ hus.h.!.+ children," said their mother, pale as death, whose triumph she had just witnessed. "Oh! if your father had been here to have saved him--but who could have saved him? None but thou, Almighty G.o.d!" and she kneeled to pray for, she knew not what.

"Too late, too late!" yet she knelt and alternately prayed and wept.

Again she gazed into the noisy waters--but there was nothing there, and then calling her frightened and weeping children into the house, she determined to set forth alone, for a.s.sistance--for what?

Oh! how long was that night to Ellen, though she believed her brother remained at C----. She did not sleep till late, and sad the awakening.

Voices in anxious whispers fell upon her ear; pale faces and weeping eyes, were everywhere around her--within, confusion; and useless effort without.

Her uncle wept as for an only son; her aunt then felt how tenderly she had loved him, who was gone forever. The farmer, who had warned him at the tavern-door, smote his breast when he heard his sad forebodings were realized. The young and the old, the rich and the poor, a.s.sembled for days about the banks of the creek, with the hopes of recovering the body, but the young rider and his horse were never seen again. Ah! Ellen was an orphan now--father, mother, and friend had he been to her, the lost one.

Often did she lay her head on the kind breast of their old nurse, and pray for death.

As far as was in their power, her uncle and aunt soothed her in her grief.

But the only real comfort at such a time, is that from Heaven, and Ellen knew not that. How could she have reposed had she felt the protection of the Everlasting Arms!

But time, though it does not always heal, must a.s.suage the intensity of grief; the first year pa.s.sed after William's death, and Ellen felt a wish for other scenes than those where she had been accustomed to see him. She had now little to which she could look forward.

Her chief amus.e.m.e.nt was in retiring to the library, and reading old romances, with which its upper shelves were filled; this, under other circ.u.mstances, her aunt would have forbidden, but it was a relief to see Ellen interested in any thing, and she appeared not to observe her thus employing herself.

So Ellen gradually returned to the old ways; she studied a little, and a.s.sisted her industrious aunt in her numerous occupations. As of old, her aunt saw her restlessness of disposition, and Ellen felt rebellious and irritable. With what an unexpected delight, then, did she receive from her aunt's hands, the letters from Mrs. Weston, inviting her to come at once to Exeter, and then to accompany them to Was.h.i.+ngton. She, without any difficulty, obtained the necessary permission, and joyfully wrote to Mrs.

Weston, how gladly she would accept the kind invitation.

CHAPTER XIX.

There was an ancient enmity between Jupiter and Bacchus. While the former was always quiet when Phillis came to see his mistress during her life, Bacchus never went near him without his displaying symptoms of the greatest irritation; his back was invariably raised, and his claws spread out ready for an attack on the slightest provocation. Phillis found it impossible to induce the cat to remain away from Aunt Peggy's house; he would stand on the door-step, and make the most appalling noises, fly into the windows, scratch against the panes, and if any children approached him to try and coax him away, he would fly at them, sending them off in a disabled condition. Phillis was obliged to go backward and forward putting him into the house and letting him out again. This was a good deal of trouble, and his savage mood continuing, the servants were unwilling to pa.s.s him, declaring he was a good deal worse than Aunt Peggy had ever been. Finally, a superst.i.tious feeling got among them, that he was connected in some way with his dead mistress, and a thousand absurd stories were raised in consequence. Mr. Weston told Bacchus that he was so fierce that he might do some real mischief, so that he had better be caught and drowned. The catching was a matter of some moment, but Phillis seduced him into a bag by putting a piece of meat inside and then dexterously catching up the bag and drawing the string. It was impossible to hold him in, so Bacchus fastened the bag to the wheelbarrow, and after a good deal of difficulty, he got him down to the river under the bridge, and threw him in. He told Phillis when he got home, that he felt now for the first time as if Aunt Peggy was really dead, and they all might hope for a little comfort. Twenty-four hours after, however, just as the moon was rising, Bacchus was taken completely by surprise, for Jupiter pa.s.sed him with his back raised, and proceeded to the door of his old residence, commencing immediately a most vociferous demand to be admitted.

Bacchus was speechless for some moments, but at last made out to call Phillis, who came to the door to see what was the trouble. "Look thar,"

said he, "you want to make me b'lieve that aint ole Aunt Peggy's wraith--ground can't hold her, water can't hold him--why I drowned him deep--how you 'spose he got out of that bag?"

Phillis could not help laughing. "Well, I never did see the like--the cat has scratched through the bag and swam ash.o.r.e."

"I b'lieves you," said Bacchus, "and if you had throw'd him into the fire, he wouldn't a got burned; but I tell you, no cat's a gwine to get the better of me--I'll kill Jupiter, yet."

Phillis, not wanting the people aroused, got the key, and unlocked the door, Jupiter sprang in, and took up his old quarters on the hearth, where he was quiet for the night. In the morning she carried some bread and milk to him, and told Bacchus not to say any thing about his coming back to any one, and that after she came home from town, where she was going on business for Mrs. Weston, they would determine what they would do. But Bacchus secretly resolved to have the affair settled before Phillis should return, that the whole glory of having conquered an enemy should belong to him.

Phillis was going on a number of errands to L----, and she expected to be detained all day, for she understood shopping to perfection, and she went charged with all sorts of commissions; besides, she had to stop to see one or two sick old colored ladies of her acquaintance, and she told Mrs.

Weston she might as well make a day of it. Thus it was quite evening when she got home--found every thing had been well attended to, children in bed, but Bacchus among the missing, though he had promised her he would not leave the premises until her return.

Now, if there is a severe trial on this earth, it is for a wife (of any color) who rarely leaves home,--to return after a day of business and pleasure, having spent all the money she could lay her hands on, having dined with one friend and taken a dish of tea and gossiped with another--to return, hoping to see every thing as she expected, and to experience the bitter disappointment of finding her husband gone out in spite of the most solemn a.s.severations to the contrary. Who could expect a woman to preserve her composure under such circ.u.mstances?

Poor Phillis! she was in such spirits as she came home. How pretty the flowers look! She thought, after all, if I am a slave, the Lord is mighty good to me. I have a comfortable home, and a good set of children, and my old man has done so much better of late--Phillis felt really happy; and when she went in, and delivered all her parcels to the ladies, and was congratulated on her success in getting precisely the desired articles, her heart was as light as a feather. She thought she would go and see how all went on at home, and then come back to the kitchen and drink a cup of good tea, for the family had just got through with theirs.

What a disappointment, then, to find any thing going wrong. It was not that Bacchus's society was so entirely necessary to her, but the idea of his having started on another spree. The fear of his being brought home sometime to her dead, came over her with unusual force, and she actually burst into tears. She had been so very happy a few minutes before, that she could not, with her usual calmness, make the best of every thing. She forgot all about the pleasant day she had pa.s.sed; lost her wish for a cup of tea; and pa.s.sing even her pipe by, with a full heart she took her seat to rest at the door. For some time every thing seemed to go wrong with her.

All at once she found out how tired she was. Her limbs ached, and her arm hurt her, where she had carried the basket. She had a great many troubles.

She had to work hard. She had more children than anybody else to bother her; and when she thought of Bacchus she felt very angry. He might as well kill himself drinking, at once, for he was nothing but a care and disgrace to her--had always been so, and most likely would be so until they were both under the ground.

But this state of mind could not last long. A little quiet, rest, and thought had a good effect. She soon began again to look at the bright side of things, and to be ashamed of her murmuring spirit. "Sure enough he has kept very sober of late, and I can't expect him to give it up entirely, all of a sudden. I must be patient, and go on praying for him." She thought with great pity of him, and her heart being thus subdued, her mind gradually turned to other things.

She looked at Aunt Peggy's house, and wondered if the old woman was better off in another world than she was in this; but she checked the forbidden speculation. And next she thought of Jupiter, and with this recollection came another remembrance of Bacchus and his antipathy both to the mistress and her cat. All at once she recalled Bacchus's determination to kill Jupiter, and the strange ferocity the animal evinced whenever Bacchus went near him; and she got up to take the key and survey the state of things at the deserted house. There was no key to be found; and concluding some one had been after Jupiter, she no longer delayed her intention of finding out what had occurred in that direction. She found the key in the door, but every thing was silent. With some caution she opened it, remembering Jupiter's last unexpected onset; when, looking round by the dim light, she perceived him seated opposite Aunt Peggy's big chest, evidently watching it. On hearing the door open, though, he got up and raised his back, on the defensive.

Phillis, having an indefinable feeling that Bacchus was somehow or other connected with the said elevation, looked carefully round the room, but saw nothing. Gradually the chest lid opened a little way, and a sepulchral voice, issuing from it, uttered in a low tone these words:

"Phillis, gal, is that you?"

The cat looked ready to spring, and the chest lid suddenly closed again.

But while Phillis was recovering herself the lid was cautiously opened, and Bacchus's eyes glaring through the aperture. The words were repeated.