Rensselaer Union, Volume 7, Number 6, Rensselaer, Jasper County, 29 October 1874 — ALL A MISTAKE. [ARTICLE]

ALL A MISTAKE.

BY L. H. FOOTE

Mbs. Alvohd said “it was a shame.” Mrs. Denton wondered how she dared thus to impose upon people, while a score of mesdames and half a score of Mr. dames, gratified at somebody’s version of something that did not happen, rolled the tit-bit under and off their tongues with the gusto of gourmands. It all happened in the quiet little town of Carlton, where the people mean to be, and are, good and kind as the world goes; but somehow mistakes will occur, and human nature is prone to accept the wrong version of. things, and then it is so pleasant to “ Put horns on the heads of our friends. Put intrigues in the heads of their wives.” “To think,” said Mrs. Denton, “ that FanßyHoward,the-daughter_Ql .axon.-., victed felon, should come here to teach our children and put on such airs! I never liked the girl; I always thought there was something wrong about her. The brand of shame is plainly to be seen behind her smiling face.” Mrs. Denton’s ideas of right and wrong hinged entirely upon what Mrs. Smith, Mrs. Tracy and Mrs. Williams might think, and that social conclave had already convened and decided. “As for me,” said Mrs. Smith, “I shall never speak to her again. I shall take Benny from the school at once, and 1 think we should ignore her entirely.” Mrs. Smith was the wife of that very important functionary, the village justice. The counterpart of her phlegmatic husband, she was tall and angular, sharp in feature and sharp in tongue. Her house in the outskirts of the city was the rendezvous of that female —I had almost said feline—inquest which seems to pertain to small communities. God, in His goodness, had given her one child —the aforesaid Benny—as if thereby to soften the asperities of her nature. What she might have been without the gift we can only conjecture. It is therefore impossible to estimate just what part Benny had played in the softening process. Twelve months prior to the matters related Fanny Howard had come to the village of Carlton, in answer to an advertisement for a school-teacher, bringing letters and commendations which had secured for her the place sought. For one year Fanny had taught the school with much satisfaction; her sweet face and gentle ways had won the hearts of the children, while her zeal and conscientious discharge of duties had won the approbation of the parents. As the last quarter was drawing to a close, a stranger, staying for a night at the inn, had seen the school-mistress on the street, and upon being informed who she was had replied: “I thought I was not mistaken; I have seen her before; her father is in the State’s prison at N Upon all the invisible wires of social intercourse the news flew ; the very birds of the air seemed to whisper it; that concentrated battery of pent-up country life expended its force in circulating the fact. As Fanny passed, inquisitive groups gathered at the street corners, the women watched her from the windows, the children even, silent and shy, seemed to avoid her. “ What can all this mean?” said Fanny, her eyes filling with unshed tears, and the specter of pain haunting her faces “Oh, that Mrs. Carlton was here; she would not desert me.” Mrs. Carlton was the widow of the late Col., Henry Carlton, after whom the town had been named. The Carlton estate extended for ten miles in every direction; its broad acres stretched from mountain to mountain, embracing the entire valley; its flocks and herds fed upon a hundred hills. The family mansion was situated two miles from the town, in the midst of charming grounds, beautifully planted and laid out. It was a plain, substantial, comfortable home, with broad porches, wide halls and ample rooms, wonderfully suggestive of hospitality! From the first Mrs. Carlton had taken to Fanny; frequent invitations had been extended for her to pass the weekly holidays aU“The Grange”—as the place was called—while Harry, the only son and heir, a stout, manly young fellow of twenty-five, helped amazingly to make the hours pass pleasantly; there were walks and drives and dinners and croquet parties under the trees and music and dancing in the moonlight. Now, alas! Mrs. Carlton and Harry were absent and our heroine, depressed by the weight of an intangible something, wearily bore the new burden. • : It was the last day of the term; on the following Monday, the Ist of May, was to be held the annual picnic, an old country fete revived by Col. Carlton for his people, as he was wont to call them. Delightful grounds in the hills, two miles away, had been set apart for thia purpose; there were groves of trees, plats of greensward and charming bits of scenery ; a mountain stream came tumbling down from the hills in a succession o c waterfalls, forming at base a tiny lake, where'* the ferns and the flowers seemed most to luxuriate. The May-day sun broke bright and clear, as it always does in this Arcadia, tinging the mountain peaks with crimson and filling the valley with yellow amoer. There was an early and unwonted stir m the village and farm-houses;

troops of merry children were congregated in the streets and lanes, happy a# the birds which gave them, greeting. Vehicles of all descriptions were to be seen wending their way to the grounds. Tables had been spread, booths had been constructed, a May-pole garlanded with flowers had been erected. There was to be a dinner, a poem, songs and dancing, and some one was to be crowned “ Queen of the May.” The farmers for miles around the countryside had come with their wives and their little ones; the parson and the deacon, the lawyer and the doctor, were there; there was Steve, the blacksmith, his face washed white for the occasion; Briggs, the landlord of the “Golden Swan," with the proverbial rotundity; Tony, the shoemaker, with his halfdozen chffdren PuLat the toes, as usual; Uncle Billy Rogers, who had crossed the plains with Col. Carlton in ’46, and, as he said, “was raised in the same town andknow’dall the Colonel’s kinsfolk.” Uncle Billy’s talk always opened or closed with some allusion to his departed friend. Tom Brown, the stage-driver, had taken a day ofl to be present. With just the proper amount of dash he drove six horses on to the grounds, dressed in characteris|ic garb—Mexican sombrero , immaculate shirt, red sash, high-heeled, close-fitting boots drawn over his pantaloons. After a slight excess of anxiety in the proper disposition of his team, with the indescribable, insouciant air of his calling he lounged over to where mine host of the Golden Swan was standing, gave a scarcely perceptible noduf recognition to Uncle Billy and Tony, and remarked, patronizingly: “I say, Briggs, what’s all this yere talk ’bout the schoolmarm? I don’t see that she’s to blame; she seems to be a klmMispositioned critter,-and-has-allersf done her work well. As for me, I’m blamed if I don’t think she’s got good blood in her —thin in the nostril, wide between the eyes, clean limbed ; you bet your life there’s no mustang in her.” “Yes, Tom,” said Briggs, “ but you know women are women, and naturally hate each other. If they catch one of their own sex out alone, without at>rotector, they all go for her; and thi#girl seems to be in that fix just now.” “ Oh, Tom,” with a half-defined side motion of the head, at the same time pointing mysteriously to his pocket. As Tom would have said, “ A wink to a blind man is sufficient," and the three —that is, Briggs, Tom and the flask — went quietly into the shadow of the trees. Uncle Billy looked querulously after the departing worthies, and said sadly o Tony: “The Colonel wouldn’t ’a done that.” The servants had erected the Carlton tent, but did not know if their mistress would return in time to be present at the festivities. During the earlier part of the day Fanny sat alone, or wandered about the grounds, meeting cold looks and averted faces from some; from others that peculiar recognition so fraught with meaning. Again and again she wished herself far away, and only remained hoping by chance to meet Mrs. Carlton. After the ceremonies had concluded, just as she had determined to leave the grounds and go across the fields to her ownrhome, Apparently by accident she happened upon Tom Brown. The stage-driver, who had never spoken to Fanny, touched his hat—a remarkable exhibition of politeness for him—and said: “ I beg pardon, miss; I’m a plain man, and can’t say what I want to, but if you should need anybody to speak a word for you, or to take your part, Tom Brown knows how to do it.” Fanny comprehended the blunt sincer ity of the man, and as she thanked him the tears which had been all day in her eyes dropped upon her cheeks. From that moment Tom was her slave. He followed her at a respectful and unobserved distance; for her sake he would have charged and routed the whole camp. Many a high-born lady has had a less faithful and puissant knight. This incident served to lift the load from Fanny's heart. She wandered down by the tiny lake, and for the moment was happy. Near at hand several children were at play, their parents and the elder ones being elsewhere occupied. She heard a splash, a scream, and saw little Benny struggling in the water. Springing forward, with rare presence of mind she leaped upon a rock, seized the as he was sinking, brought him to the shore, pacified him, and taking him by the hand led him forward to find his mother. At a distance was a group of ladies and among them Mrs. Smith. As Fanny approached, the circle she encountered the frigid stare of Mrs. Smith, who said with metallic voice—all eyes being riveted upon the two —“ Benny, come to me; Ido not wish you to associate with thieves and murderers.” Not far away, with his hat over his face, stood the stage-driver, as if waiting the word of command*; but nearest-at hand was another knight, HarrjrCarlton, who with his mothejr had just arrived upon the grounds and had been near enough to overhear the words. Stepping forward, he said to Fanny, who stood pale and tremblihg: — J!- Do not remain here to be insulted by these people. My mother would like to Speak with you.” And taking her upon his arm he escorted her to the tent which had been prepared for them. One standing near at hand would have heard words of explanation, interrupted by broken sobs on the part of Fanny, with kind and gentle soothings by Mrs. Carlton; w,oiild have seen Harry start up with a haughty, unorthodox word on the end of his tongue, saying he would find out what all this meant, and after a short absence would have seen him returning, his hand clenched, and his big, burly frame bristling all over with indignation ; would have heard animated conversation for a moment in the tent, followed by subdued laughter. Shortly thereafter the family carriage was ordered, and Harry and Mrs. Carlton, accompanied by Fanny, left the grounds.

The month of vacation was nearly ended; Fanny had disappeared; the Carlton mansion was closed, and occupied only by servants. Harry and his mother were, some said, in the city; some said at the seaside: Upon the last day of the school vacation, after the arrival of the mail, an unwonted something seemed to ruffle the surface of affairs in the quiet town. Curiosity was upon tiptoe, and wonder was looking out of open eyes into open eyes. Mine plethoric host of the inn, dressed as was his wont of a summer afternoon, in shirt, pantaloons, and slippers, from his seat on the table wiped the perspiration from his rubicund face, and read to his thirsty satellites from the Yerba Buena Tribune , as follows: “ Married, at Grace Church, in this city; : by the Rev. Dr. Peters, Harry Carlton to Miss Fanny Howard, daughter of Maj. William Howard, formerly of the United States Army, now Warden at the State Prison at N .” The landlord laughed. Tom Brow 4 threw his favorite hat upon the floor and, jumping upon it, said: “Do you call that a mustang?” “The gal’s a Carlton, anyhow,” said Uncle Billy, complacently; while Tony glanced wistfully at the row of decanters and wondered if the occasion would not suggest an invitation to imbibe. A new school-mistress has been engaged at Carlton, and in some mysterious way Tom Brown has become sole proprietor of the stage line. At the last stated inquest Mrs. Smith was heard to say, consolingly, to Mrs. Tracy r “lam so glad it was a mistake; I always liked Fanny.” —Sacramento Union.