However the case may be, the brother and sister lived together in much harmony; the fraternal tie being strengthened by bonds of principal and interest. Still they were far from being agreeable neighbors to the family at the larger house, whose quiet they succeeded in disturbing almost daily. Madam kept herself as much aloof from them as she could, consistently with her nature, which was kindly disposed to every creature that breathed, and led her to do them all the good in her power. Of this they availed themselves to their no small profit. They levied contributions, under the name of loans, upon her larder, her flour-barrel, and her meat-tub; seldom replenishing their own scanty stock of provisions, until a supply from her store-room had served them a week. The kitchen utensils were in constant requisition. The servants sometimes took upon them to resist these exactions, when such a clamor would be raised, as to throw poor madam into hysterics; in terror of which and in mercy to his own ears, her good spouse was fain to give orders that Jemmy and Nanny should have whatever they asked for, without contention or debate.
This was to the unbounded indignation of Aunt Vi’let; a sable-complexioned dame, who ruled in the kitchen with despotic sway, and held old Scipio, her niece Flora, and Peter the footboy, in wholesome subjection; often extending her dominion to the parlor, where she found no difficulty in overawing madam; and even Mr. Fayerweather, though he sometimes proved refractory, as in the above instance, yet he generally found it his safest course to submit in silence to Aunt Vi’let.
If there was a being in the world, toward whom Vi’let bore a decided antipathy, that being was Nanny Boynton. This antipathy was partly caused by the conviction that the latter was addicted to witchcraft; a belief in which, not being yet wholly dispelled from the minds of the ignorant and uneducated in Salem. In Vi’let it existed in as full force as any of the articles of her religious creed; it might, indeed, be said to be one of them—and her feelings toward Nanny were governed by it accordingly; imputing to her agency every untoward event which occurred in the family generally, but more particularly her own private mishaps, her ailments and vexations. No fear, however, found a place in her feelings toward her enemy; for had the latter attacked her, backed by him of the cloven foot, in bodily shape, she was of a temper and spirit to hold her ground and berate the foul fiend to his face; and if he had not fairly turned and fled, panic-struck at the torrent of abuse accompanying her adjurations, he had proved himself, indeed, a brave spirit.
The brawls and disturbances occasioned by the hostility of these two high-spirited maidens—for Vi’let too had forsworn matrimony—rendered it the first object of Mr. Fayerweather’s wishes to remove the Boyntons; and he endeavored to prevail upon them to relinquish their claim for a reasonable compensation; but for many years in vain, their residence in his neighborhood was much too profitable and convenient for them to be easily induced to change it.
George Fayerweather, the elder of Mr. Fayerweather’s two sons, being the hero of this legend, it may be as well to give some account of his boyhood, especially of those events and associations that had some share in the formation of his character. Though in strength and frame a young giant, he had delicate, handsome features, and a complexion which seemed to defy the effect of sun or wind, rosy cheeks, and long, curling, golden hair. He resembled his mother very much; and madam could not always avoid betraying her fond pride in this living image of herself, as she smoothed his hair, and turning each golden lock over her finger, formed it into ringlets round his blooming face and ivory throat, after her daily operations of washing and dressing him. These offices she took upon herself until he was eleven years old, and there is no knowing how much longer she might have chosen to perform them, if his father had not interfered—“Finding,” as he said, “the boy was in danger of becoming a conceited, effeminate coxcomb—which no son of his should be.”
One morning Mr. Fayerweather was reading in a small apartment, which opened out of the sitting-room, formerly used by him as a counting-room, and still retaining the name, though it might have been dignified with the title of library, being lined with book-shelves well filled. The door was half open, and hearing some one enter the sitting-room, he looked up and saw his son, who had just undergone the above-mentioned dressing operations under his mother’s hands. The boy, not perceiving his father, went up to the large looking-glass which hung over the marble slab, where he stood apparently admiring himself, while he took a handful of sugar-plums from his pocket, and putting them into his mouth, ate as he gazed.
Mr. Fayerweather, with difficulty restraining his indignation, left the room quietly by another door, which opened at the foot of the stairs, up which he went. He descended quickly, bringing a silk gown of his wife’s on his arm, and a lace cap in his hand, and softly approached George, who was still absorbed in the contemplation of his own image. Seizing the boy, who, paralyzed with shame, could make no resistance, he stripped off his upper garment, and put the gown and cap on him; then taking him on his knee, he began to trot and dandle him, singing, “High diddle diddle.” George’s rage obtained the mastery; he struggled and kicked with the strength of a half-grown Hercules, and at length freeing himself from his father, he stripped off the gown and stamped upon it—madam’s very blue-watered tabby! then catching a glance at himself in the glass, and seeing the cap on his head, he tore it in two, and flying up to the glass, with one blow of his fist, broke it into a thousand pieces. The tempest now subsided in a torrent of tears, and the poor boy ran off to hide his shame.
His father, when he saw the result of his experiment, almost repented having carried it so far. He did not think of the value of the glass, though he had sent “home” for it, at the cost of fifty guineas; and in its elaborately carved and gilded frame, it was the pride of all “Paved street”; nor madam’s blue-watered tabby, though it was her fourth best—indeed, she rather preferred it to her Pompadour lustring, having an idea that Mr. Fayerweather thought it becoming to her complexion—the value of these twice-told he would have thought well-bestowed if they cured George of his girlish vanity, and called forth in him a manly spirit; but he regretted having outraged the feelings of his son. He, however, courageously repressed the yearning which he felt to go and soothe the boy and do away the effect of his severe lesson by sweetmeats and caresses. He very sensibly left George to himself for a while.
Madam was out at this juncture. I pass over her lamentations, on her return, at the injury done to her favorite gown and cap, and the still louder ones which escaped her at the sight of the broken looking-glass; suffice it to say, that Mr. Fayerweather promised her a green damask to replace her outraged tabby, and to send home for a pair of glasses by the next vessel. George did not make his appearance at dinner, but his father manfully resisted his inclination to seek for him, and succeeded in keeping down madam’s hysterics, by diverting her mind with some news which he told her relating to the king and queen. He did not, however, prevent her from heaping up a plate with every dainty the house afforded, and giving it to Scipio, with a charge “not to leave till he had found the child, and made him eat his dinner.”
Tea-time came, and no George took his accustomed seat, as near his mother’s apron-strings as possible. On the door being opened, however, which led into the passage between the sitting-room and kitchen, his voice was heard in pretty loud and determined tones, and Vi’let expostulating with him; which somewhat allayed madam’s fears that her pet had run away and jumped into the river, or had cried himself sick. The tea-things were cleared away, but he did not appear. Amy, who had presided at the tea-table, went to the window and looked out, thinking her uncle had been almost too hard upon poor George.