Chapter VII: The Clove Road

“A little while after this Mr. Bentley went to New York; and, in a week or two, Hetty started down there on a visit to an aunt of ours in the city. She only went for two or three weeks, but, somehow, it was spring before she was ready to come home: I remember very well the daffadowndillas were out in the garden before she got back. If it hadn’t been for my wedding I don’t believe that we would have seen her so soon, for she seemed restless and homesick enough all the spring.

“I forgot to tell you that Sarah went to visit her aunt late in the winter, and came home with Hetty. She, too, was a good deal sobered down, and all her sparkling cheerfulness had died out. I couldn’t help seeing, at times, that she cried a good deal in the night, for her eyes were red, and she looked worn and tired of a mornin’, as if something lay heavy on her mind.

“I asked about Mr. Bentley, and if the gals had seen him often; but they seemed shy of the subject, and I calculated that he hadn’t been sociable in the city, as they had a right to expect he would be. Altogether every thing at home seemed to go wrong, and if it hadn’t been a busy time with me just before my wedding, I should have insisted on knowing the reason why.

“But I got married, and while my young wife was getting ready for housekeeping, I spent purty much all the time at Deacon Warner’s, so happy myself that I near about forgot the gals. Something happened, though, that troubled me a little.

“The post-office was about half way between our house and Deacon Warner’s, and one morning, when I was riding home bright and early, who should I see but our Sarah, with her white sun-bonnet and shawl on, a-going into the post-office with a letter in her hand. She came out after a minute, and, before I could ride up, turned into a footpath that gave her a short cut across the meadows.

“I always stopped at the office for letters and papers as I went along, so I rode up to the door, calling out to know if there was any thing for our folks. The post-master came to the door with a paper in his hand and a letter, which he handed to me, saying,

“‘Mr. Hart, I can’t quite make this direction out: it seems to be for New York city, but the writing isn’t clear.’

“I took the letter. It was directed to William Bentley, Esq., in Sarah’s handwriting, but I could hardly make it out; the letters seemed to have been tumbled down over the paper.

“The whole thing took me by surprise. What on ’arth could Sarah be writing to that young feller about? And why didn’t she wait and send the letter to the post-office by me, as everybody else did? While I sat puzzling over it the post-master stood a-looking at me.

“‘I reckon you can’t make it out more than I can,’ says he, laughing, and eying me sort of curious, as if he thought there was something strange about the letter. This brought me to myself.

“‘Oh, yes,’ says I, ‘it’s all plain enough: put it into the York mail and it’ll go straight. If you’ve sent any before you ought to know that.’

“It was mean to pry into Sarah’s secrets in that way, but I didn’t think of it then.

“‘No,’ says he, ‘I never sent any in that handwriting afore, and I shouldn’t a known it if Miss Sarah hadn’t brought the letter herself.’

“‘Well, she’s saved me the trouble,’ says I. ‘Good-morning,’ and off I rode.

“Just where the footpath crossed the road below our house I met Sarah, walking along with her head down, as if she was counting the dandelions in her path.

“‘Hallo, Sarah,’ says I, a-riding close to the fence just as she came up, ‘what on earth brought you out so arly in the morning?’

“She looked up with a start, and half a scream; then I saw that she had been crying, for drops hung on her eyelashes, and though she tried to laugh, it was more like sobbing.

“‘Oh, Dan, is it you?’ she said, turning round so that I needn’t see her brush the tears away. ‘It’s a beautiful morning, isn’t it? I’ve found ever so many violets by the brook up yonder, and as for dandelions, the whole meadow lot is golden with them; then the peppermint is just beginning to sprout; capital weather for whitening cloth, isn’t it? has Martha got her webs on the grass yet?’

“She spoke all in a hurry, huddling her words together, and catching breath at every stop; her eyes kept turning from one thing to another, and the color came and went in her face, as if she was half frightened to death; and so she was, poor thing!

“I felt like choking, it seemed so unnatural for Sarah to act in that way, and at last I says, ‘Sarah,’ says I, ‘what have you been writing to Mr. Bentley about? And why didn’t you keep the letter for me to carry?’

“She turned as white as new milk, and her eyes glanced on me with a wild look, as I’ve seen rabbits do when the trap was opened; but this look didn’t last long; all at once her eyes brightened up, and she turned on me in her old, saucy way.

“‘What is it to you how my letters get to the post-office,’ says she, ‘or who I write to either? One woman’s as much as you can manage, and she lives over the hill. Leave me to take care of my own business!’

“‘But what can you have to write about?’ says I, feeling my face grow hot, for it was no joke to wrastle with our Sarah when her grit was up.

“‘Well,’ says she, trying to laugh, ‘supposing I wanted him to send me a book of poems that’s just come out—is there any harm in that?’

“‘No, not if you sent the money to pay for it, and father made no objections.’

“‘Father!’ says she, and her lips turned cold and white; ‘father! what is the use in mentioning a trifle like that to him?’

“‘It isn’t a trifle if you make a secret of it, Sarah,’ says I, almost sternly.

“‘You—you won’t mention it,’ says she, coming close to the fence, and clasping her hands on the upper rail. ‘That’s a dear, good brother now, do mind your own business; scold your wife—I dare say it will do her good; but don’t concern yourself about what you will never understand; it can only make mischief.’

“‘This is very strange, Sarah,’ I was going to say, but she stopped me with a wave of her hand.

“‘There—there! I tell you, Daniel Hart, I am doing every thing for the best. You have no right to think otherwise. Let me alone—oh, let me alone!’

“She held up her clasped hands when she spoke, as a little child prays, and the tears rolled down her cheeks as I’ve seen the dew fall from a rose in the morning. I shook my head; then her face fell forward on her hands, and she began to sob.

“‘Oh, Dan, brother Dan, you are cruel to me—very, very cruel. This comes of getting married: you do not care for us now. It would be a nice thing to get your poor sister into trouble about nothing. You and your wife would enjoy it, I dare say. She put you up to it, I know that. Well, I have lost my brother, that’s all—my only brother, that never refused me any thing till now!’

“‘Sarah,’ says I, after a swaller or two—for somehow I felt the tears rising—‘Sarah, I dare say it’s all about nothing; only you want to be romantic, and have secrets, like the heroines in books; but somehow these things don’t work themselves out clear in real life. You’re young, and so full of bright whims that I sometimes feel anxious about you. It would break my heart, dear, if any harm should come to you; so don’t be mad because I ask questions—it’s all for your own good, Sarah.’

“She began to sob like a baby.

“‘I know—I know it is; but don’t say any thing more about that letter: it’s given me trouble enough without that, I’m sure.’

“I felt sorry for the poor gal, but yet it did’nt seem right to let her go on writing to a dashing young feller in secret.

“‘If it goes so agin the grain to talk with me, promise one thing, and I’ll be content: just tell sister Hetty all about it. She’s a sober, steady gal, and won’t sanction any thing that has danger in it: tell her about the letter, and I won’t interfere.’

“She looked up so earnestly into my face; at last her eyes began to sparkle, and she laughed.

“‘Hetty?’ says she; ‘you will leave it with Hetty?’

“‘Yes, I can trust Hetty; only tell her all about it, fair and square—promise that.’

“‘Oh, yes, I promise that!’ says she, laughing again, though her eyes filled with tears; ‘but you must make me a promise also.’

“‘Well, what is it?’ says I, laughing too—for I was relieved at the thought of trusting the affair with our Hetty.

“‘That you won’t mention the letter to any living soul—not even to your wife.’

“‘Well, I promise that.’

“‘Nor mother; and above all, not to father,’ she went on, earnestly.

“I thought it over a minute, and made the promise.

“‘Nor—nor to Hetty either,’ says she, looking at me as if afraid that I would refuse.

“‘Well,’ says I, ‘pledge me your sacred word of honor that you will tell Hetty every thing, and I will not mention the subject again. She will keep you straight, I’m sure of that.’

“‘I pledge my sacred word of honor,’ says she, gravely, while the tears swam in her eyes.

“‘That’s a good gal,’ says I, reaching out one hand. ‘There, now, give me a kiss, and jump on behind.’

“She sprang to the top of the fence, puckered up her lips till they glowed like an apple-blossom, and gave me an old-fashioned kiss, that went straight to the heart.

“‘There, you old darling,’ says she, throwing her shawl across the horse, springing up behind me as light as a bird, and clasping my waist with an affectionate hug, ‘there, you blessed old darling, we’re friends again; so now strike into a trot as quick as you like, but don’t tell anybody that I’ve been farther than the Spring Meadow, or they’ll torment me to death with questions.’

“I promised to keep her secret, and put the horse on his metal. He was used to carrying double, and went off like an arrow.

“Hetty stood on the stoop as we rode up, looking down the road. She turned and went into the house without speaking a word, and Sarah followed her, looking down-hearted enough. I suppose she hated to tell about the letter.

“Well, about a week after this an answer came to the letter in Bentley’s handwriting. I had told Sarah not to inquire for it, for the manner of the post-master didn’t quite please me. I was right; for when the letter came, he made a great mystery about it, and wanted to send a private message; but I cut the matter short, asked for the letter, and carried it off.

“Sarah trembled like a leaf when I gave it to her—tore it open, then put it into her bosom, blushing and turning white every instant, while Hetty stood looking at her, still as death.

“‘Remember your promise,’ says I to Sarah.

“She took the letter from her bosom, and going up to Hetty, handed it to her, though she had not read a word herself.

“‘There,’ says she, flushing red, and turning her face full on mine, ‘will that satisfy you?’

“Hetty took the letter without a word, and seemed to read it steadily, but she did not turn over the page, and after sitting still a while, got up and went into the house.

“Sarah followed her, and just as I was preparing to go away again, came to the stoop smiling, quite out of breath.

“‘There, it is all right,’ she whispered. ‘Next week Mr. Bentley will be here with his cousin—another Mr. Bentley—and then you will know what he has been writing about.’

“I felt relieved by her words, and rode over to the deacon’s happier than I had been for a week.

“I saw but little of the gals after that, for they were too busy preparing the house for visitors; every thing was at sixes and sevens——carpets taken up—curtains hung—counterpanes whitened—and ceilings whitewashed for the day that young Bentley and his cousin were expected; every thing was in order, and the old homestead looked cheerful as a spring morning. The fire-places were full of hemlock and pine-tops; and at every corner you found an old mug or pitcher crowded full of apple-blossoms, lilacs, and snow-balls, till the rooms were scented like a garden.

“The gals looked as purty as picters that afternoon, in their white muslin dresses, bowed up in front with blue ribbons; but they seemed restless and anxious, as if they didn’t know what to do with themselves.

“Toward night we all went out into the stoop—for my wife had come over, and looked as nice as any of them, if Sarah was the most beautiful—and they made a purty show, fluttering around in their white dresses, like so many pigeons waiting to be fed. At last, just as the sun was beginning to sink behind the hills, we saw a carriage coming round a curve of the turnpike, that you can see from the stoop away down the valley. It was moving along what we call the dug road, with a steep hill on one side, and a precipice below—a dangerous spot always for skittish horses, and one I never liked to travel in the night.

“Just as we saw Mr. Bentley’s carriage appear on this road, a stage-coach came over the hill, thundering along as if it had lost time. That minute the blast of a horn rung through the valley, and while it filled the air, a sharp cry from one of the gals made us all catch our breath.

“‘See! see!’ shrieked Sarah, flinging up her arms. ‘Oh, my God, have mercy!—have mercy!’

“Her wild eyes were bent on the distance: we followed them in terror. The stage was thundering down the hill; we caught one glimpse of the carriage, which went over and over down the precipice; the sharp yell of the horses came to where we stood—and then all was still. I looked around; Hetty lay cold and stiff as death on the stoop, while Sarah fell down at her side, holding on to her with both arms, and moaning as if her heart was broken.”