Chapter XXIV: Domestic Arrangements

“They grow in the world’s approving eyes,
In friendship’s smile and home’s caress:
Collecting all the heart’s sweet ties
Into one knot of happiness.”—_Moore._

The next morning, after breakfast, while sitting alone in her cabin, engaged, as usual, in needlework, Rosalie received a call from her kind neighbour, Mrs. Attridge, whom she found to be the wife of the worthy proprietor of the neighbouring lead-smelting furnace. “Fat, fair, and forty,” with a fund of good nature and good humour, in easy circumstances, and with much experience in Western life, this lady proved an invaluable acquisition to Rosalie in the era of her cabin trials. Her frank, gay, and homely manner invited confidence. She pressed upon her young neighbour the freedom of her garden and her dairy, for as long as the latter chose to avail herself of the privilege, or until she should have cows and a garden of her own—telling her that it was the custom of the settlers to accommodate each other in that way, and that she herself, in the first year of her residence here, had been indebted to a neighbour for her milk and vegetables. Talking of vegetables, led to the subject of “Billy,” whom Mrs. Attridge laughingly averred to be a vegetable himself, for verdancy. Billy, she said, was a native of Holland, brought over to America in his infancy, and left a destitute orphan, whom her mother had taken and brought up, but whose peculiarity of disposition and simplicity of character was such as fitted him only for house-work. She said that, on the death of his first mistress, Billy had attached himself to the fortunes of herself and husband, and had accompanied them to the West, and had been their only house servant ever since—cooking, cleaning, washing, and ironing, as well as any woman could.

Rosalie was amused, cheered, and comforted, by Mrs. Attridge’s lively conversation and kind sympathy—yet during the lady’s visit, a case that had troubled the youthful wife for several days still weighed upon her spirits and cast its gloom over her countenance, and refused to be shaken off.

Mrs. Attridge, with a housekeeper’s sympathy and a woman’s tact, divined the cause, and with rude but kind promptitude drew the trouble out to light, by suddenly asking—

“What do you intend to do about your _washing_, my dear?—for it is all nonsense to suppose that you could wash.”

“It is, indeed,” said Rosalie; “and that is just what disturbs me so. I can manage to keep our cabin tidy, and dress our little meals; but I cannot wash—indeed, I cannot. I attempted to do so, but, after having exhausted all my strength, and made myself almost ill, I failed. And when I know that every pioneer housekeeper needs to be competent to the performance of _all_ her domestic duties, I feel thoroughly ashamed of my helplessness in some respects. And when I see my husband so patient and cheerful under domestic annoyances that no day-labourer with an efficient helpmate ever has to suffer—oh! you know I must feel so cruelly disappointed in myself.”

Mrs. Attridge made no comment, but looked upon her young neighbour with a considerate, fond, protective expression on her honest countenance. And after a few minutes, Rosalie spoke again—

“Can you advise me what to do, Mrs. Attridge? for I have resolved that, in our present circumstances, my husband shall be put to no expense for these matters.”

“Oh! pshaw! you can never do it; and some other plan must be thought of,” said the visitor, reflectively.

“Yes, it is real incapacity on my part—a want of the requisite physical strength. I am not constitutionally weak; but the muscles of my arms and chest have never been trained to great or continued exertion, and strengthened by that process—more is the pity! Look at my wrists.”

And Rosalie, smilingly, tearfully, held out two delicate, fair, tapering arms. And Mrs. Attridge took and held them affectionately, while she said—

“I know—I know it would be useless and cruel to expect hard work of you; and yet the expense oughtn’t to come on _him_, neither, just now. I have been thinking, since I sat here, of an Irish family of the name of Malony, who live in a shanty about a quarter of a mile from this, on my road home. The man works at our furnace, and the woman washes for bachelors. Now, although they are thriving, she and her family are always ragged, because she is as ignorant as a savage of the use of a needle; and, besides, she says she hasn’t time to sew. Now,” said Mrs. Attridge, half laughingly, as she arose to depart, “suppose you were to barter work with Judy Malony, and pay her for washing by making up clothing for her children? At any rate, I will call and see Judy on my way home, and send her over to you.”

Rosalie cordially thanked her kind friend, and held her hand, and felt unwilling to allow her to depart.

“I shall send Billy over with more fresh milk this evening. And you must not mind his _grumbling_—he grumbles at me and Mr. Attridge all day long sometimes, and won’t allow us to touch a thing in the garden till he thinks proper, without a _deal_ of grumbling.”

Mrs. Attridge, after promising Rosalie to walk over and see her often, and spend whole days whenever it was possible, took leave, and departed.

That evening Mark Sutherland returned home sooner than usual. His countenance was cheerful with good news, and he threw into Rosalie’s lap a packet of letters and papers from home—the first that had been received since their separation from their friends.

There was a letter from Colonel Ashley, full of kind wishes, and something more substantial in the shape of a cheque on the St. Louis bank, for his niece. He informed them that he was again alone—that his son, St. Gerald, having lost his election, had, under the disappointment, yielded to the wishes of his wife, and taken her to her Southern home; and that he expected his own eldest daughter, now a widow, to return and take the direction of his household.

There was also a letter from Valeria to Rose, and one from Lincoln to Mark.

By these letters they learned that Mr. and Mrs. Lauderdale had joined the Ashleys at Cashmere, and remained the guests of Clement Sutherland for a month before proceeding to their own home in Louisiana.

Valeria wrote that the Valley of the Pearl was still the loveliest vale on earth, and Cashmere the brightest gem on its bosom; but that the envied master of this Eden was more sullen, morose, and unhappy than ever—that it was rumoured his affairs were not as prosperous as before—that he had engaged in ruinous speculations—that Mr. St. Gerald Ashley, since losing his election, had lost his good temper and amiability, and sought more consolation from his “generous wine” than from his unloving wife—that all these circumstances weighed heavily upon the health and spirits of the beautiful India, who had changed sadly within the last few months. The kind-hearted but volatile Valeria touched lightly and reluctantly upon these unhappy circumstances, and seemed always divided between her spirit of communicativeness and her scruples of conscience.

Mark Sutherland and Rosalie read with regret, and turned from the sad contemplation with a sense of relief to rest gladly upon the image of Valeria and Lincoln Lauderdale, now happily settled upon their beautiful estate of Fairplains, in Louisiana. Withal this was a happy evening to the young cottagers—a festival of gladness, such as can be fully enjoyed only by exiles, feasting upon long-desired letters from home.

The next day Rosalie was somewhat surprised to receive a visit from Judy, and very well satisfied to effect with her an arrangement by which Judy was to do all the washing and ironing for Rosalie, who was to repay her by making up frocks and aprons for her children. And so, before the end of the first week of housekeeping, Rosalie’s domestic circumstances were providentially arranged in all the order and comfort consistent with log-cabin life.

It would seem a lonely life she led now, yet Rosalie found it not so. The solitude was peopled with her multitudinous rich affections, high purposes, and bright hopes of the future. Through the day she sang at her active household work, or fell into pleasing reverie over her needle. In the afternoon, when Mark returned, they partook of an early supper, rested, and then took a pleasant woodland walk, or occupied the evening hours with a book.

On the first Sabbath Mrs. Attridge called in her carryall to offer the young couple the two vacant seats to church; a favour which, after some little hesitation and reflection, they frankly and gratefully accepted. And, afterwards, Mark Sutherland was much pleased when it fell in the way of his profession to do Mr. Attridge a gratuitous service—a favour which it was rather difficult to make honest Paul Attridge accept, who answered to all Mr. Sutherland’s grateful acknowledgments and expostulations,

“That neighbours should be neighbours, but that professional men should be paid for their services.”

As passed the week, so passed the autumn, bringing little change in the circumstances of our young friends. Mr. Sutherland gained admittance to the bar; but as yet his professional duties were confined exclusively to office business, the drawing up of deeds, bonds, mortgages, &c. And this was not profitable. Indeed, many of his best-meaning neighbours strongly advised him to take up government land, and turn his attention to agriculture. But this Rosalie opposed with all her might, encouraging him to be constant to his profession as he was to his wife—“for better for worse, for richer for poorer.” She alone, suppressing all complaint and concealing all her personal privations, continued to cheer and strengthen the struggler. She alone had an invincible faith in his future—his future of greatness and wide usefulness.

Autumn waned, and the severe winter of those latitudes approached. Early in December a heavy fall of snow covered the ground two or three feet in depth, rendering the road almost impassable between Wolf’s Grove and Shelton, and nearly blockading our friends in their log cabin. It was with the greatest difficulty that Mark Sutherland performed the three miles’ journey from his home to his office, and Rosalie was a close prisoner in her house.

The snow lay on the ground several weeks, during which time the hardships and privations of the young couple were so numerous and so great as to determine them to seize the earliest opportunity of removing into town; and Mark accordingly sought a house in Shelton. And having found one vacated by a family about to emigrate to Arkansas, he rented it at once, and availed himself of the first favourable change in the weather to remove to town and take possession of it.

Their removal took place the first of January. A return to the society of her fellow-beings produced a very happy change in the spirit of Rosalie. Patient, cheerful, and hopeful, she had been before; but now, the sight of people about her—all active, lively, energetic, each engaged in the pursuit of some calling, whose object was at once the benefit of his individual self and the community—this gave strong impetus to her enterprise, and suggested many plans of usefulness and improvement.

Considerable and thriving as was the town of Shelton, no newspaper had as yet been published there. Rosalie spoke of this to her husband. Could he not create a sphere of influence and usefulness in that way? Could he not edit an independent newspaper?

It took money to set up a journal, and he had no money, Mark answered.

Could he not interest the small capitalists and business men of the village in this enterprise?

Mark replied, that to edit a paper required time, and that his office business, though not enough to support them comfortably, was quite enough to spoil his leisure for any other employment.

In fact, our friend was in a state of depression and discouragement, from which it required all the faith and hope that was in Rosalie to arouse him. She said that she would help him, both in the law office and with the paper. She begged him to try her—her “good will was to it,” and she had more leisure than she could profitably employ at present.

In brief, Rosalie effected her purpose. Mark Sutherland prevailed upon the principal men of the village to unite in establishing a free paper; and, as a natural result, they appointed Mr. Sutherland the editor. Rosalie rendered efficient though unseen aid. Nor did the enterprising spirit of the girl pause here. There was no good school in Shelton. The want of one was greatly felt. Rosalie proposed to Mark that she should open one. Mark at first opposed the plan—it would be too much for her. But Rosalie found her greatest health of mind and body in her greatest activity and usefulness. The girl’s school was established by her single enterprise. And it grew and prospered.