His mother would probably have passed a very melancholy day, it being the first time her son had been out of her sight, with the prospect of being absent longer than a few hours; but her husband taking occasion to intimate that his counting-room wanted a thorough cleaning, and his book-shelves putting in order—a task she always superintended herself, aided by her niece—he hinting, moreover, that he should be glad of their assistance in making out a catalogue of the books, which had long been needed, ample employment was afforded to all three, to keep George from their thoughts.
It was now about the middle of June. The summer had so far been dry and dusty, and every thing appeared languishing for want of rain. At length Dame Nature, like a notable housewife, began to feel her temper rise at the dirt and disorder of every thing belonging to her. She rated her house-maids soundly—“Idle hussies! that did nothing but loiter and sleep night and day; they had not done a stroke of work to tell since the March cleaning; they did not even earn the breath they drew! There were her beautiful grassy carpets, not three months old, an inch thick with dust; their flowers were all faded and their turf dried up and withered. Her windows! not a star could shine through them; and as for the curtains, they were of such a color, it would puzzle a philosopher to tell what they were made of. Her crystal and once clear fountains were unfilled, and the bright surface of their mirrors covered with green slime. She was actually ashamed the sun should look upon such a scene of neglect! The slothful, lazy jades had better bestir themselves, for not one of them should get into their beds till every hole and corner was cleaned, and put into thorough order; or she would know the reason why!”
The elements roused from their lethargy, and chafed by their imperious mistress, sighed and muttered—the clouds huddled together scowling, and sending forth a low murmur of discontent, dropped a few angry tears. The winds brandished their besoms, and with one sweep made dust, leaves and branches, and even small trees, scuttle-doors and hen-coops all fly before them. It was an unlucky day for ancient buildings! The roof of one respectable old barn, whose shingles had for some time been moving up and down like feathers on a fowl’s back, was at length seen sailing with great dignity across the street, to the manifold terror of two old women who kept a huckster’s shop there; but whose premises, however, escaped uninjured, it alighting very considerately on the field behind their house. The winds having performed these feats, rested awhile to take breath. The lightnings now flashed and the thunders roared; the clouds dashed from their brimming pails the torrents, which rolling over hills and valleys and through streets and lanes, formed rivers in the gutters, and carried all before them, which the winds had scattered in their way, into the sea.
In the afternoon of this day, two hours before sunset but after tea, Madam Fayerweather and her niece took their accustomed seat at a pleasant window in a small apartment which served as a kind of ante-room to madam’s own chamber. On one side a door opened at right angles with the head of the front stairs, and from which a long passage led through this story. Facing this door was the one which opened at the head of the back stairs; while a third, opposite the window, led into madam’s chamber. Vi’let was seated at the kitchen-door, directly beneath the window, solacing herself with her pipe; while Tabby winked and purred at her side.
Jemmy Boynton’s kitchen and wood-shed, at the distance of some rods, were nearly hidden from sight by a hedge of tall lilacs and rose-bushes bounding Mr. Fayerweather’s premises on this side, the view took in gardens, orchards and fields extending to the North river, (a small inlet from the sea so called,) the whole space of which is now covered with streets and houses.
Amy was reading to her aunt, who, with a large basket of fragments of silk of various colors at her side, was deeply engaged in an elaborate piece of work, concerning which she affected a great mystery, keeping its purpose and destination a profound secret. Both aunt and niece were so much engrossed by the subject of the book—it was Clarissa Harlow, which had lately been received from England—that the darkening sky and rising wind had escaped their notice. A loud scream from Vi’let aroused their attention.
“O! the massiful s’us! there’s the old witch flying away at last! Land’s sake alive! O-h-h-h!”
They both looked out, and behold! there was Nanny Boynton in good earnest—at least so their terrors made them believe—high in air, her red cloak fluttering, amidst a cloud of dust, shingles, staves of old tubs, broomsticks, etc. etc.
She directed her course south, and was soon lost to view, while the dismay of madam and Amy deprived them of the power of utterance. At length, on Amy’s turning her eyes to the spot whence she supposed the whirlwind had caught up their ill-fated neighbor, what met her sight but the object of their terrors herself, on firm ground, but despoiled of cloak, ’kerchief and cap; her lean and bony arms bare and extended, and each separate hair of her gray locks on end; giving her much the appearance of one of the weird sisters in the midst of an incantation.
The aunt and niece were expressing their relief at Nanny’s escape from being carried off bodily, when the recollection of her son, exposed on the water to the fury of a hurricane, now darted into the mind of the former. She shrieked out: