“Oh, wanton malice! deathful sport! The incident recorded in the last chapter, resulted in benefit to two of the actors. It gave a spring to the dormant energies of Helen, and a check to the vengeance of Mittie. The winter glided imperceptibly away, and as imperceptibly vernal bloom and beauty stole over the face of nature. In the spring of the year, Miss Thusa always engaged in a very interesting process—that is, bleaching the flaxen thread which she had been spinning during the winter. She now made a permanent home at Mr. Gleason’s, and superintended the household concerns, pursuing at the same time the occupation to which she had devoted the strength and intensity of her womanhood. There was a beautiful grassy lawn extending from the southern side of the building, with a gradual slope towards the sun, whose margin was watered by the clearest, bluest, gayest little singing brook in the world. This was called Miss Thusa’s bleaching ground, and nature seemed to have laid it out for her especial use. There was the smooth, fresh, green sward, all ready for her to lay her silky brown thread upon, and there was the pure water running by, where she could fill her watering pot, morning, noon and night, and saturate the fibres exposed to the sun’s bleaching rays. And there was a thick row of blossoming lilac bushes shading the lower windows the whole breadth of the building, in which innumerable golden and azure-colored birds made their nests, and beguiled the spinster’s labors with their melodious carrolings. Helen delighted in assisting Miss Thusa in watering her thread, and watching the gradual change from brown to a One day as Helen tripped up and down the velvet sward by her side, admiring the silky white skeins spread multitudinously there, Miss Thusa, gave an oracular nod, and said she believed that was the last watering, that all they needed was one more night’s dew, one more morning sun, and then they could be twisted in little hanks ready to be dispatched in various directions. “I am proud of that thread,” said Miss Thusa, casting back a lingering look of affection and pride as she closed the gate. “It is the best I ever spun—I don’t believe there is a rough place in it from beginning to end. It was the best flax I ever had, in the first place. When I pulled it out and wound it round the distaff, it looked like ravelled silk, it was so smooth and fine. Then there’s such a powerful quantity of it. Well, it’s my winter’s work.” Poor Miss Thusa! You had better take one more look on those beautiful, silvery rings—for never more will your eyes be gladdened by their beauty! There is a worm in your gourd, a canker in your flower, a cloud floating darkly over those shining filaments. It is astonishing how wantonly the spirit of mischief sometimes revels in the bosom of childhood! What wild freaks and excursions its superabundant energies indulge in! And when mischief is led on by malice, it can work wonders in the way of destruction. It happened that Mittie had a gathering of her school companions in the latter part of the day on which we have just entered. Helen, tired of their rude sports, walked away to some quiet nook, with the orphan child. Mittie played Queen over the rest, in a truly royal style. At last, weary of singing and jumping the rope, and singing “Merry O’Jenny,” they launched into bolder amusements. They “Let us jump over and dance among Miss Thusa’s thread. It will be better than all the rest.” “No, no,” cried several, drawing back, “it would be wrong. And I’m afraid of her. I wouldn’t make her mad for all the world.” “I’ll leave the gate open, and she’ll think the calves have broken in,” cried Mittie, emboldened by the absence of her father, and feeling safety in numbers. “Cowards,” repeated she, seeing they still drew back. “Cowards!—just like Helen. I despise to see any one afraid of any thing. I hate old Madam Thusa, and every thing that belongs to her.” Vaulting over the fence, for there would have been no amusement in going through the gate, Mittie led the way to the forbidden ground, and it was not long before her companions, yielding to the influence of her bold, adventurous spirit, followed. Disdaining to cross the rustic bridge that spanned the brook, they took off their shoes and waded over its pebbly bed. They knew Miss Thusa’s room was on the opposite side of the house, and while running round it, they had heard the hum of her busy wheel, so they did not fear her watching eye. “Now,” said Mittie, catching one of the skeins with her nimble feet, and tossing it in the air; “who will play cat’s cradle with me?” The idea of playing cat’s cradle with the toes, for they had not resumed their shoes and stockings, was so original and laughable, it was received with acclamation, and wild with excitement they rushed in the midst of Miss Thusa’s treasures—and such a twist and snarl as they made was never seen before. They tied more Gordian knots than a hundred Alexanders could sever, made more tangles than Princess Graciosa in the fairy tale could untie. “What shall we do with it now?” they cried, when the “Roll it up in a ball and throw it in the brook,” said Mittie, “she’ll think some of her witches have carried it off. I’ll pay her for it,” she added, with a scornful laugh, “if she finds us out and makes a fuss. It can’t be worth more than a dollar—and I would give twice as much as that any time to spite the old thing.” So they wound up the dirty, tangled, ruined thread into a great ball, and plunged it into the stream that had so often laved the whitening filaments. Had Miss Thusa seen it sinking into the blue, sunny water, she would have felt as the mariner does when the corpse of a loved companion is let down into the burying wave. In a few moments the gate was shut, the green slope smiled in answer to the mellow smile of the setting sun, the yellow birds frightened away by the noisy groups, flew back to their nests, among the fragrant lilacs, and the stream gurgled as calmly as if no costly wreck lay within its bosom. When the last beam of the sinking sun glanced upon her distaff, turning the fibres to golden filaments, Miss Thusa paused, and the crank gave a sudden, upward jerk, as if rejoiced at the coming rest. Putting her wheel carefully in its accustomed corner, she descended the stairs, and bent her steps to the bleaching ground. She met Helen at the gate, who remembered the trysting hour. “Bless the child,” cried Miss Thusa, with a benevolent relaxation of her harsh features, “she never forgets any thing that’s to do for another. Never mind getting the watering-pot now. There’ll be a plenty of dew falling.” Taking Helen by the hand she crossed the rustic bridge; but as she approached the green, she slackened her pace and drew her spectacles over her eyes. Then taking them off and rubbing them with her silk handkerchief, she put them on again and stood still, stooping forward, and gazing like one bewildered. “Where is the thread, Miss Thusa?” exclaimed Helen, running before her, and springing on the slope. “When did you take it away?” “Take it away!” cried she. “Take it away! I never did take it away. But somebody has taken it—stolen it, carried “Poor Miss Thusa!” said Helen, in a pitying accent. She was afraid to say more—there was something so awe-inspiring in the mingled wrath and grief of Miss Thusa’s countenance. “What’s the matter?” cried a spirited voice. Louis appeared on the bridge, swinging his hat in the air, his short, thick curls waving in the breeze. “Somebody’s stolen all Miss Thusa’s thread,” exclaimed Helen, running to meet him, “her nice thread, that was just white enough to put away. Only think, Louis, how wicked!” “Oh! Miss Thusa, it can’t be stolen,” said Louis, coming to the spot where she stood, the image of indignant despair; “somebody has hidden it to tease you. I’ll help you to find it.” This seemed so natural a supposition, that Miss Thusa’s iron features relaxed a little, and she glanced round the enclosure, more in condescension than hope, surveying the boughs of the lilacs, drooping with their weight of purple blossoms, and peering at the gossamer’s web. Louis, in the meantime, turned towards the stream, now partially enveloped in the dusky shade of twilight, but there was one spot sparkling with the rosy light of sunset, and resting snugly ’mid the pebbles at the bottom, he spied a large, dingy ball. “Ah! what’s this big toad-stool, rising up in the water?” said he, seizing a pole that lay under the bridge, and sticking the end in the ball. “Why this looks as if it had been thread, Miss Thusa, but I don’t know what you will call it now?” Miss Thusa snatched the dripping ball from the pole that bent beneath its weight, turned it round several times, bringing it nearer and nearer to her eyes at each revolution, then raised it above her head, as if about to dash it on the ground; but suddenly changing her resolution, she tightened her grasp, and strode into the path leading to the house. “I know all about it now,” she cried, “I heard the children romping and trampling round the house like a drove Even Louis could scarcely keep up with her rapid strides. He trembled for the consequences of her anger, just as it was, and followed close to see if Mittie, undaunted as she was, did not shrivel in her gaze. Mittie was seated in a window, busily studying, or pretending to study, not even turning her head, though Miss Thusa’s steps resounded as if she were shod with iron. “Look round, Miss, if you please, and tell me if you know any thing of this,” cried Miss Thusa, laying her left hand on her shoulder, and bringing the ball so close to her face that her nose came in contact with it. Mittie jerked away from the hand laid upon her with no velvet pressure, without opening her lips, but the guilty blood rising to her face spoke eloquently; though she had a kind of Procrustes bed of her own, according to which she stretched or curtailed the truth, she had not the hardihood to tell an unmitigated falsehood, in the presence of her brother, too, and in the light of his truth-beaming eye. “You are always accusing me of every thing,” said she, at length. “I didn’t do it——all;” the last syllable was uttered in a low, indistinct tone. “You are a mean coward,” cried the spinster, hurling the ball across the room with such force that it rebounded against the wall. “You’re a coward with all your audacity, and do tricks you are ashamed to acknowledge. You’ve spoiled the honest earnings of the whole winter, and destroyed the beautifullest suit of thread that ever was spun by mortal woman.” “I can pay you for all I spoiled and more too,” said Mittie, sullenly. “Pay me,” repeated Miss Thusa, while the scorching fire of her eye slowly went out, leaving an expression of profound sorrow. “Can you pay me for a value you can’t even dream of? Can you pay me for the lonely thoughts that twisted themselves up with that thread, day after day, and night after night, because they had nothing else to take hold of? Can you pay me for these grooves in my fingers’ ends, made by the flax as I kept drawing it through, till it often turned “You will spin more merrily than ever,” cried Louis, soothingly, “you see if you don’t, Miss Thusa.” Miss Thusa shook her head, and though she almost suffocated herself in the effort to repress them, tears actually forced themselves into her eyes, and splashed on her cheeks. Seating herself in a low chair, she took up the corner of her apron to hide what she considered a shame and disgrace, when Helen glided near and wiped away the drops with her own handkerchief. “Bless you darling,” cried the subdued spinster—“and you will be blessed. There’s no malice, nor hard-heartedness in you. You never turned your foot upon a worm. But as for her,” continued she, pointing prophetically at Mittie, and fixing upon her her grave and gloomy eyes—“there’s no blessing in store. She don’t feel now, but if she lives to womanhood she will. The heart of stone will turn to flesh then, and every fibre it has got will learn how to quiver, as I’ve seen twisted wire do, when strong fingers pull it—I know it will. She will shed tears one of these days, and no one will wipe them off, as this little angel has done for me. I’ve done, now. I didn’t mean to say what I did, but the Lord put it in my head, and I’ve spoken according to my gift.” Mittie ran out of the room before the conclusion of the speech, unable to stand the moveless glance, that seemed to burn like heated metal into her conscience. “Come, Miss Thusa,” said Louis, amiably, desirous of turning her thoughts into a new channel, and pitying while he blamed his offending sister, for the humiliation he knew she must endure—“come and tell us a story, while you are inspired. It is so long since I have heard one! Let it be something new and exciting.” “I don’t believe I could tell you one to save my life, now,” replied Miss Thusa, her countenance lighting up with a gleam of satisfaction—“at least I couldn’t act it out.” “Never mind the acting, Miss Thusa, provided we hear the tale. Let it be a powerful one.” Miss Thusa see-sawed a moment in her low chair, to give a kind of balance to her imagination, and then began: “Once there was a maiden, who lived in a forest, a deep wild forest, in which there wasn’t so much as the sign of a path, and nobody but she could find their way in or out. How this was, I don’t know, but it was astonishing how many people got lost in those woods, where she rambled about as easy as if somebody was carrying a torch before her. Perhaps the fairies helped her—perhaps the evil spirits—I rather think the last, for though she was fair to look upon, her heart was as hard as the nether mill-stone.” Miss Thusa caught a glimpse of Mittie, on the porch, through the open doors, and she raised her voice, as she proceeded: “One night, when the moon was shining large and clear, she was wandering through the forest, all alone, when she heard a little, tender voice behind her, and turning round, she saw a young child, with its hair all loose and wet, as ’twere, calling after her. “‘I’ve lost my way,’ it cried—‘pray help me to find a path in the greenwood.’ “‘Find it by the moonlight,’ answered the maiden, ‘it shines for you, as well as for me.’ “‘But I’m little,’ cried the child, beginning to weep, ‘and my feet are all blistered with running. Take me up in your arms a little while, for you are strong, and the Saviour will give you a golden bed in Heaven to lie down on.’ “‘I want no golden bed. I had rather sleep on down than gold,’ answered the maid, and she mocked the child, and went on, putting her hands to her ears, to keep out the cries of the little one, that came through the thick trees, with a mighty piteous sound—the hard-hearted creature!” “How cruel!” said Helen, “I hope she got lost herself.” “Don’t interrupt, Helen,” said Louis, whose eyes were kindling with excitement. “You may be sure she had some punishment.” “Yes, that she did,” continued the narrator, “and I tell you it was worse than being lost, bad as that is. By-and-by “‘You have hands as well as I,’ said he, with a mocking laugh, ‘unwind it yourself, fair maiden.’ “Then she remembered what she had said to the poor little lost child, and she cried out as the child did, when she left it alone in the forest. All the time the long locks of hair seemed taking root in her heart, and drawing it every step they went. “‘Now,’ said her companion, reining up his black horse, ‘I’ll release you.’ “And unsheathing a sharp dagger, he cut the hair through and through, so that part of it fell on the ground in a black shower. Then giving her a swing, he let her fall by the way-side, and rode on hurraing by the light of the moon.” Miss Thusa paused to take breath, and wiped her spectacles, as if she had been reading with them all the time she had been talking. “Is that all?” asked Helen. “No, indeed, that cannot be the end,” said Louis. “Go on Miss Thusa. The black knight ought to be scourged for leaving her there on the ground.” “There she lay,” resumed Miss Thusa, “moaning and bewailing, for her heart’s blood was oozing out through every “‘I’m dying,’ said the maiden. ‘Oh, what would I give now for that golden bed of the Saviour, the little child promised me.’ “Just then she heard the patter of little feet among the fallen leaves, and looking up, there was the child, sure enough, right by her side, and there was something bright and shining all around its head. How it found its way out of the woods, the Lord only knows. Well, the child didn’t bear one bit of malice, for it was a holy child, and kneeling down, it took a crystal vial from its bosom, and poured balm on the bleeding heart of the maiden, and healed every wound. “‘You are a holy child,’ said the maiden, rising up, and taking the child in her arms, and pressing her close to her bosom. ‘I know it by the light around your head. I’ll love all little children for your sake, and nevermore mock the cry of sorrow or of want.’ “So they went away together into the deep woods, and one could see the moon shining on them, every now and then, through the trees, and it was a lovely sight.” There was silence for a few moments after Miss Thusa finished her legend, for never had she related any thing so impressively. “Oh, Miss Thusa,” cried Helen, “that is the prettiest story I ever heard you relate. I am glad the child was not lost, and I am glad that the maiden did not die, but was sorry for what she had done.” “Do you make up your tales yourself, Miss Thusa,” asked Louis, “or do you remember them? I cannot imagine where they all come from.” “Some are the memories of my childhood;” replied she, “and some the inventions of my own brain; and some are a little of one and a little of the other; and some are the living truth itself. I don’t always know what I am going to say myself, when I begin, but speak as the spirit moves. This shows that it is a gift—praise the Lord.” “Well, Miss Thusa, the spirit moves you to say that the little child forgave the cruel maiden, and poured balm upon “And you think an old woman should forgive likewise!” cried Miss Thusa, looking as benignantly as she could look upon the boy. “You are right, you are right, but her heart don’t bleed yet—not yet.” Mittie, believing herself unseen, had listened to the tale with an interest that chained her to the spot where she stood. She unconsciously identified herself with the cruel maiden, and in after years she remembered the long, sweeping locks of the knight, and the maiden’s bleeding heart. |