Ann Harriet found her uncle's family all that she expected. They found her a little more than they expected. Everything was done to make her comfortable. Aunt Farnsworth condoled with her niece on the loss of her money, and the receipt for Sally Lunn cake. They brought a fan to cool her, and placed a footstool for her feet. Her cousin Miranda exhibited a photograph album containing all the family likenesses, besides a number they had purchased to fill up the book, such as the Prince of Wales, McClellan, Stonewall Jackson, Beauregard, and Butler. All this comforted her greatly, and Ann Harriet was much interested, but was obliged to inquire which were fighting for the North, and which for the South—'she had heard something about it, but was not thoroughly informed,'—for, to tell the truth, the only medium for news in Peonytown was the Clarion, and the only portion of even that which Ann Harriet attended to was the deaths, marriages, and dry goods.
The remainder of the day passed quietly, and the hour for retiring approached. Before Ann Harriet's arrival, it had been arranged that she should share Miranda's bed; but it was now very evident that Ann would get very much more than her share, and it was therefore decided to give her a bed to herself. A lamp was brought, and Aunt Farnsworth escorted her to her room, and bade her good night. Ann Harriet had the usual share of curiosity which all females—even plump ones—possess; and wishing to know how a Boston street appeared in the evening, she hoisted the curtain with a vigorous jerk, and looked forth: it was not a very beautiful scene; long rows of brick houses stretched away on either side, relieved at intervals by the street lamps and loafers, which, as they appeared at a distance, reminded her of a torchlight procession she had witnessed once in Peonytown, when the Hickory Club turned out with twenty torches and a colored lantern. Having satisfied her eyes with the view, she attempted to draw down the curtain, and found that it would not move. She had pulled it up so vigorously that the cord had slipped from the wheel, and rendered the curtain immovable. By stepping on a chair she could, indeed, reach and adjust it; but the only chairs in the room were cane-seated, and seemed altogether too fragile for such a weighty lady as Ann Harriet. To add to her perplexity, the dwelling directly opposite was a boarding house, full of young men; and she noticed that one or two of them had already discovered her, and that the news was probably being communicated to all their fellow boarders, for in a very few minutes every window had two or more spectators at it, armed with opera or eye glasses, while one saucy fellow had a telescope three feet long. What to do she did not know: there was but one window in the room, and no recess into which her portly beauty could retreat. Once more she tried the curtain, giving it a forcible twitch, and this time it came down—but the whole fixture came with it, and, after striking her on the head, slid out of the window into the street, much to the amusement of the spectators opposite.
Here was a dilemma—and what would her aunt say? She had to give up all hope of excluding the gaze of her impudent neighbors. Poor damsel! She would have asked assistance of some of the family, but they had all been asleep some time, and she disliked to disturb them. Finally, she decided to extinguish her light and undress in bed—a difficult undertaking, which was, however, accomplished, with the loss of sundry strings and buttons; and Ann Harriet laid her wearied head on the pillow, and thought her troubles for that day were over. But Sleep forsakes the wretched, and her eyes would not 'stay shut.' While coaxing them to 'stay down,' she was startled by a flash of light on the wall and an explosion, then another, and then a third, accompanied by a shower of gravelly substance in her face and eyes. Miss Hobbs, as we have seen, was
'A woman naturally born to fears,'
and this sudden and inexplicable exhibition of fireworks in her chamber almost burst the strings of her night cap, by causing her curly black hair to stand on end.
The mischievous young men opposite had procured a sarbacane—vulgarly known as a 'bean-blower,'—and were shooting torpedoes into Ann Harriet's chamber. Not daring to rise to shut the window, she was wholly at their mercy; but fortunately their stock of ammunition was limited to half a dozen pellets, and in a few minutes the bombardment ceased.
About midnight Ann Harriet fell into a deep slumber, and when she awoke the broad sunshine was illuminating her chamber, while the rattling of teams along the paved streets reminded her that she was in the great metropolis of New England. She missed the green foliage and healthy perfume and bird songs of her pleasant country home: all she could see was a combination of bricks, slate, and stone; and not a green thing was visible in the street, save a few Irish servants, who were washing off the doorsteps and sidewalks. In the middle of the cobble stones lay the curtain which had fallen during the scene of the previous evening, muddy and torn, its sticks broken by the heavy wagons which had passed over it. A glance at the hostile boarding-house assured her that all was quiet there; so, after arranging her dress with studied nicety, and disposing her hair in the most enchanting style—and Ann Harriet was really neat and winsome—she descended to the breakfast room. Her cousin Gregory was the only person present—he sat by the window, reading. After the customary greeting, Ann Harriet inquired what interested him.
'I have been glancing over an article called 'Ludicrous Exaggerations,' in Leigh Hunt's Indicator,' replied Gregory, with a mischievous twinkle in his eyes.
Ann Harriet did not notice any point to this remark, but said: 'I do not remember having seen that book.'
'What have you been reading lately?' pursued Gregory.