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The Pearl Of Orr's Island
By
Harriet Beecher Stowe
A
Story of the Coast of Maine
Contents
CHAPTER
III - THE BAPTISM AND THE BURIAL.
CHAPTER
IV - AUNT ROXY AND AUNT RUEY
CHAPTER
VIII - THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN
CHAPTER
XI - LITTLE ADVENTURERS
CHAPTER
XIV - THE ENCHANTED ISLAND
CHAPTER
XVI - THE NATURAL AND THE SPIRITUAL.
CHAPTER
XXII - A FRIEND IN NEED
CHAPTER
XXIII - THE BEGINNING OF THE STORY.
CHAPTER
XXIV - DESIRES AND DREAMS
CHAPTER
XXX - THE LAUNCH OF THE ARIEL
CHAPTER
XXXI - GREEK MEETS GREEK
CHAPTER
XXXIII - AT A QUILTING
CHAPTER
XXXV - THE TOOTHACRE COTTAGE
CHAPTER
XXXVI - THE SHADOW OF DEATH
CHAPTER
XXXIX - THE LAND OF BEULAH
CHAPTER
XLIV - FOUR YEARS AFTER
The publication of Uncle Tom's Cabi=
n,
though much more than an incident in an author's career, seems to have
determined Mrs. Stowe more surely in her purpose to devote herself to
literature. During the summer following its appearance, she was in
"I seem to h=
ave
so much to fill my time, and yet there is my
It was not, howev=
er,
until eight years later, after The Minister's Wooing had been published and
Agnes of Sorrento was well begun, that she took up her old story in earnest=
and
set about making it into a short serial. It would seem that her first inten=
tion
was to confine herself to a sketch of the childhood of her chief characters,
with a view to delineating the influences at work upon them; but, as she he=
rself
expressed it, "Out of the simple history of the little
On the road to the Kennebec, below =
the
town of
By his side sat a=
young
woman of two-and-twenty, of a marked and peculiar personal appearance. Her =
hair
was black, and smoothly parted on a broad forehead, to which a pair of penc=
iled
dark eyebrows gave a striking and definite outline. Beneath, lay a pair of
large black eyes, remarkable for tremulous expression of melancholy and
timidity. The cheek was white and bloodless as a snowberry, though with the
clear and perfect oval of good health; the mouth was delicately formed, wit=
h a certain
sad quiet in its lines, which indicated a habitually repressed and sensitive
nature.
The dress of this
young person, as often happens in
The scenery of the
road along which the two were riding was wild and bare. Only savins and
mulleins, with their dark pyramids or white spires of velvet leaves, divers=
ified
the sandy wayside; but out at sea was a wide sweep of blue, reaching far to=
the
open ocean, which lay rolling, tossing, and breaking into white caps of foa=
m in
the bright sunshine. For two or three days a northeast storm had been ragin=
g,
and the sea was in all the commotion which such a general upturning creates=
.
The two travelers
reached a point of elevated land, where they paused a moment, and the man d=
rew
up the jogging, stiff-jointed old farm-horse, and raised himself upon his f=
eet
to look out at the prospect.
There might be se=
en
in the distance the blue
Where the spectat=
ors
of this scene were sitting, they could see in the distance a ship borne with
tremendous force by the rising tide into the mouth of the river, and
encountering a northwest wind which had succeeded the gale, as northwest wi=
nds
often do on this coast. The ship, from what might be observed in the distan=
ce,
seemed struggling to make the wider channel, but was constantly driven off =
by
the baffling force of the wind.
"There she i=
s,
Naomi," said the old fisherman, eagerly, to his companion, "coming
right in." The young woman was one of the sort that never start, and n=
ever
exclaim, but with all deeper emotions grow still. The color slowly mounted =
into
her cheek, her lips parted, and her eyes dilated with a wide, bright
expression; her breathing came in thick gasps, but she said nothing.
The old fisherman
stood up in the wagon, his coarse, butternut-colored coat-flaps fluttering =
and
snapping in the breeze, while his interest seemed to be so intense in the
efforts of the ship that he made involuntary and eager movements as if to
direct her course. A moment passed, and his keen, practiced eye discovered a
change in her movements, for he cried out involuntarily,--
"Don't take =
the
narrow channel to-day!" and a moment after, "O Lord! O Lord! have
mercy,--there they go! Look! look! look!"
And, in fact, the
ship rose on a great wave clear out of the water, and the next second seeme=
d to
leap with a desperate plunge into the narrow passage; for a moment there wa=
s a
shivering of the masts and the rigging, and she went down and was gone.
"They're spl=
it
to pieces!" cried the fisherman. "Oh, my poor girl--my poor
girl--they're gone! O Lord, have mercy!"
The woman lifted =
up
no voice, but, as one who has been shot through the heart falls with no cry,
she fell back,--a mist rose up over her great mournful eyes,--she had faint=
ed.
The story of this
wreck of a home-bound ship just entering the harbor is yet told in many a
family on this coast. A few hours after, the unfortunate crew were washed
ashore in all the joyous holiday rig in which they had attired themselves t=
hat
morning to go to their sisters, wives, and mothers.
This is the first
scene in our story.
Down near the end of Orr's Island, =
facing
the open ocean, stands a brown house of the kind that the natives call
"lean-to," or "linter,"--one of those large, comfortable
structures, barren in the ideal, but rich in the practical, which the
workingman of New England can always command. The waters of the ocean came =
up
within a rod of this house, and the sound of its moaning waves was even now
filling the clear autumn starlight. Evidently something was going on within,
for candles fluttered and winked from window to window, like fireflies in a
dark meadow, and sounds as of quick footsteps, and the flutter of brushing =
garments,
might be heard.
Something unusual=
is
certainly going on within the dwelling of Zephaniah Pennel to-night.
Let us enter the =
dark
front-door. We feel our way to the right, where a solitary ray of light com=
es
from the chink of a half-opened door. Here is the front room of the house, =
set
apart as its place of especial social hilarity and sanctity,--the "best
room," with its low studded walls, white dimity window-curtains, rag
carpet, and polished wood chairs. It is now lit by the dim gleam of a solit=
ary
tallow candle, which seems in the gloom to make only a feeble circle of lig=
ht
around itself, leaving all the rest of the apartment in shadow.
In the centre of =
the
room, stretched upon a table, and covered partially by a sea-cloak, lies the
body of a man of twenty-five,--lies, too, evidently as one of whom it is
written, "He shall return to his house no more, neither shall his place
know him any more." A splendid manhood has suddenly been called to for=
sake
that lifeless form, leaving it, like a deserted palace, beautiful in its
desolation. The hair, dripping with the salt wave, curled in glossy abundan=
ce
on the finely-formed head; the flat, broad brow; the closed eye, with its l=
ong
black lashes; the firm, manly mouth; the strongly-moulded chin,--all, all w=
ere
sealed with that seal which is never to be broken till the great resurrecti=
on
day.
He was lying in a
full suit of broadcloth, with a white vest and smart blue neck-tie, fastened
with a pin, in which was some braided hair under a crystal. All his clothin=
g,
as well as his hair, was saturated with sea-water, which trickled from time=
to
time, and struck with a leaden and dropping sound into a sullen pool which =
lay
under the table.
This was the body=
of
James Lincoln, ship-master of the brig Flying Scud, who that morning had
dressed himself gayly in his state-room to go on shore and meet his
wife,--singing and jesting as he did so.
This is all that =
you
have to learn in the room below; but as we stand there, we hear a trampling=
of
feet in the apartment above,--the quick yet careful opening and shutting of
doors,--and voices come and go about the house, and whisper consultations on
the stairs. Now comes the roll of wheels, and the Doctor's gig drives up to=
the
door; and, as he goes creaking up with his heavy boots, we will follow and =
gain
admission to the dimly-lighted chamber.
Two gossips are
sitting in earnest, whispering conversation over a small bundle done up in =
an
old flannel petticoat. To them the doctor is about to address himself cheer=
ily,
but is repelled by sundry signs and sounds which warn him not to speak.
Moderating his heavy boots as well as he is able to a pace of quiet, he
advances for a moment, and the petticoat is unfolded for him to glance at i=
ts
contents; while a low, eager, whispered conversation, attended with much
head-shaking, warns him that his first duty is with somebody behind the che=
cked
curtains of a bed in the farther corner of the room. He steps on tiptoe, and
draws the curtain; and there, with closed eye, and cheek as white as wintry
snow, lies the same face over which passed the shadow of death when that il=
l-fated
ship went down.
This woman was wi=
fe
to him who lies below, and within the hour has been made mother to a frail
little human existence, which the storm of a great anguish has driven untim=
ely
on the shores of life,--a precious pearl cast up from the past eternity upon
the wet, wave-ribbed sand of the present. Now, weary with her moanings, and
beaten out with the wrench of a double anguish, she lies with closed eyes in
that passive apathy which precedes deeper shadows and longer rest.
Over against her,=
on
the other side of the bed, sits an aged woman in an attitude of deep deject=
ion,
and the old man we saw with her in the morning is standing with an anxious,
awestruck face at the foot of the bed.
The doctor feels =
the
pulse of the woman, or rather lays an inquiring finger where the slightest
thread of vital current is scarcely throbbing, and shakes his head mournful=
ly.
The touch of his hand rouses her,--her large wild, melancholy eyes fix
themselves on him with an inquiring glance, then she shivers and moans,--
"Oh, Doctor,
Doctor!--Jamie, Jamie!"
"Come,
come!" said the doctor, "cheer up, my girl, you've got a fine lit=
tle
daughter,--the Lord mingles mercies with his afflictions."
Her eyes closed, =
her
head moved with a mournful but decided dissent.
A moment after she
spoke in the sad old words of the Hebrew Scripture,--
"Call her not
Naomi; call her Mara, for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me.&qu=
ot;
And as she spoke,
there passed over her face the sharp frost of the last winter; but even as =
it
passed there broke out a smile, as if a flower had been thrown down from
Paradise, and she said,--
"Not my will=
, but
thy will," and so was gone.
Aunt Roxy and Aunt
Ruey were soon left alone in the chamber of death.
"She'll make=
a
beautiful corpse," said Aunt Roxy, surveying the still, white form
contemplatively, with her head in an artistic attitude.
"She was a p=
retty
girl," said Aunt Ruey; "dear me, what a Providence! I 'member the
wedd'n down in that lower room, and what a handsome couple they were."=
"They were
lovely and pleasant in their lives, and in their deaths they were not
divided," said Aunt Roxy, sententiously.
"What was it=
she
said, did ye hear?" said Aunt Ruey.
"She called =
the
baby 'Mary.'"
"Ah! sure
enough, her mother's name afore her. What a still, softly-spoken thing she
always was!"
"A pity the =
poor
baby didn't go with her," said Aunt Roxy; "seven-months' children=
are
so hard to raise."
"'Tis a
pity," said the other.
But babies will l=
ive,
and all the more when everybody says that it is a pity they should. Life go=
es
on as inexorably in this world as death. It was ordered by THE WILL above t=
hat
out of these two graves should spring one frail, trembling autumn flower,--=
the
"Mara" whose poor little roots first struck deep in the salt, bit=
ter
waters of our mortal life.
CHAPTER III - THE BAPTISM=
AND
THE BURIAL
Now, I cannot think of anything mor=
e unlikely
and uninteresting to make a story of than that old brown "linter"
house of Captain Zephaniah Pennel, down on the south end of Orr's Island.
Zephaniah and Mary
Pennel, like Zacharias and Elizabeth, are a pair of worthy, God-fearing peo=
ple,
walking in all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord blameless; but t=
hat
is no great recommendation to a world gaping for sensation and calling for
something stimulating. This worthy couple never read anything but the Bible,
the "Missionary Herald," and the "Christian Mirror,"--n=
ever
went anywhere except in the round of daily business. He owned a fishing-sma=
ck,
in which he labored after the apostolic fashion; and she washed, and ironed,
and scrubbed, and brewed, and baked, in her contented round, week in and ou=
t.
The only recreation they ever enjoyed was the going once a week, in good
weather, to a prayer-meeting in a little old brown school-house, about a mi=
le from
their dwelling; and making a weekly excursion every Sunday, in their fishing
craft, to the church opposite, on Harpswell Neck.
To be sure, Zepha=
niah
had read many wide leaves of God's great book of Nature, for, like most Mai=
ne
sea-captains, he had been wherever ship can go,--to all usual and unusual
ports. His hard, shrewd, weather-beaten visage had been seen looking over t=
he
railings of his brig in the port of Genoa, swept round by its splendid cres=
cent
of palaces and its snow-crested Apennines. It had looked out in the Lagoons=
of
Venice at that wavy floor which in evening seems a sea of glass mingled with
fire, and out of which rise temples, and palaces, and churches, and distant=
silvery
Alps, like so many fabrics of dreamland. He had been through the Skagerrack=
and
Cattegat,--into the Baltic, and away round to Archangel, and there chewed a=
bit
of chip, and considered and calculated what bargains it was best to make. He
had walked the streets of Calcutta in his shirt-sleeves, with his best Sund=
ay
vest, backed with black glazed cambric, which six months before came from t=
he
hands of Miss Roxy, and was pronounced by her to be as good as any tailor c=
ould
make; and in all these places he was just Zephaniah Pennel,--a chip of old =
Maine,--thrifty,
careful, shrewd, honest, God-fearing, and carrying an instinctive knowledge=
of
men and things under a face of rustic simplicity.
It was once,
returning from one of his voyages, that he found his wife with a black-eyed,
curly-headed little creature, who called him papa, and climbed on his knee,
nestled under his coat, rifled his pockets, and woke him every morning by
pulling open his eyes with little fingers, and jabbering unintelligible
dialects in his ears.
"We will call
this child Naomi, wife," he said, after consulting his old Bible;
"for that means pleasant, and I'm sure I never see anything beat her f=
or
pleasantness. I never knew as children was so engagin'!"
It was to be rema=
rked
that Zephaniah after this made shorter and shorter voyages, being somehow
conscious of a string around his heart which pulled him harder and harder, =
till
one Sunday, when the little Naomi was five years old, he said to his wife,-=
-
"I hope I ai=
n't
a-pervertin' Scriptur' nor nuthin', but I can't help thinkin' of one passag=
e,
'The kingdom of heaven is like a merchantman seeking goodly pearls, and whe=
n he
hath found one pearl of great price, for joy thereof he goeth and selleth a=
ll
that he hath, and buyeth that pearl.' Well, Mary, I've been and sold my brig
last week," he said, folding his daughter's little quiet head under his
coat, "'cause it seems to me the Lord's given us this pearl of great
price, and it's enough for us. I don't want to be rambling round the world
after riches. We'll have a little farm down on Orr's Island, and I'll have a
little fishing-smack, and we'll live and be happy together."
And so Mary, who =
in
those days was a pretty young married woman, felt herself rich and happy,--=
no
duchess richer or happier. The two contentedly delved and toiled, and the
little Naomi was their princess. The wise men of the East at the feet of an
infant, offering gifts, gold, frankincense, and myrrh, is just a parable of
what goes on in every house where there is a young child. All the hard and =
the
harsh, and the common and the disagreeable, is for the parents,--all the br=
ight
and beautiful for their child.
When the
fishing-smack went to Portland to sell mackerel, there came home in Zephani=
ah's
fishy coat pocket strings of coral beads, tiny gaiter boots, brilliant silks
and ribbons for the little fairy princess,--his Pearl of the Island; and
sometimes, when a stray party from the neighboring town of Brunswick came d=
own
to explore the romantic scenery of the solitary island, they would be start=
led
by the apparition of this still, graceful, dark-eyed child exquisitely dres=
sed
in the best and brightest that the shops of a neighboring city could afford=
,--sitting
like some tropical bird on a lonely rock, where the sea came dashing up into
the edges of arbor vitæ, or tripping along the wet sands for shells a=
nd
seaweed.
Many children wou=
ld
have been spoiled by such unlimited indulgence; but there are natures sent =
down
into this harsh world so timorous, and sensitive, and helpless in themselve=
s,
that the utmost stretch of indulgence and kindness is needed for their
development,--like plants which the warmest shelf of the green-house and the
most careful watch of the gardener alone can bring into flower. The pale ch=
ild,
with her large, lustrous, dark eyes, and sensitive organization, was nursed=
and
brooded into a beautiful womanhood, and then found a protector in a high-sp=
irited,
manly young ship-master, and she became his wife.
And now we see in=
the
best room--the walls lined with serious faces--men, women, and children, th=
at
have come to pay the last tribute of sympathy to the living and the dead. T=
he
house looked so utterly alone and solitary in that wild, sea-girt island, t=
hat
one would have as soon expected the sea-waves to rise and walk in, as so ma=
ny
neighbors; but they had come from neighboring points, crossing the glassy s=
ea
in their little crafts, whose white sails looked like millers' wings, or wa=
lking
miles from distant parts of the island.
Some writer calls=
a
funeral one of the amusements of a New England population. Must we call it =
an
amusement to go and see the acted despair of Medea? or the dying agonies of
poor Adrienne Lecouvreur? It is something of the same awful interest in lif=
e's
tragedy, which makes an untaught and primitive people gather to a funeral,-=
-a
tragedy where there is no acting,--and one which each one feels must come at
some time to his own dwelling.
Be that as it may,
here was a roomful. Not only Aunt Roxy and Aunt Ruey, who by a prescriptive
right presided over all the births, deaths, and marriages of the neighborho=
od,
but there was Captain Kittridge, a long, dry, weather-beaten old sea-captai=
n,
who sat as if tied in a double bow-knot, with his little fussy old wife, wi=
th a
great Leghorn bonnet, and eyes like black glass beads shining through in the
bows of her horn spectacles, and her hymn-book in her hand ready to lead the
psalm. There were aunts, uncles, cousins, and brethren of the deceased; and=
in
the midst stood two coffins, where the two united in death lay sleeping ten=
derly,
as those to whom rest is good. All was still as death, except a chance whis=
per
from some busy neighbor, or a creak of an old lady's great black fan, or the
fizz of a fly down the window-pane, and then a stifled sound of deep-drawn
breath and weeping from under a cloud of heavy black crape veils, that were
together in the group which country-people call the mourners.
A gleam of autumn
sunlight streamed through the white curtains, and fell on a silver baptismal
vase that stood on the mother's coffin, as the minister rose and said,
"The ordinance of baptism will now be administered." A few moments
more, and on a baby brow had fallen a few drops of water, and the little
pilgrim of a new life had been called Mara in the name of the Father, Son, =
and
Holy Ghost,--the minister slowly repeating thereafter those beautiful words=
of
Holy Writ, "A father of the fatherless is God in his holy
habitation,"--as if the baptism of that bereaved one had been a solemn
adoption into the infinite heart of the Lord.
With something of=
the
quaint pathos which distinguishes the primitive and Biblical people of that
lonely shore, the minister read the passage in Ruth from which the name of =
the
little stranger was drawn, and which describes the return of the bereaved N=
aomi
to her native land. His voice trembled, and there were tears in many eyes a=
s he
read, "And it came to pass as she came to Bethlehem, all the city was =
moved
about them; and they said, Is this Naomi? And she said unto them, Call me n=
ot
Naomi; call me Mara; for the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me. I w=
ent out
full, and the Lord hath brought me home again empty: why then call ye me Na=
omi,
seeing the Lord hath testified against me, and the Almighty hath afflicted
me?"
Deep, heavy sobs =
from
the mourners were for a few moments the only answer to these sad words, till
the minister raised the old funeral psalm of New England,--
"Why do we mourn =
departing
friends, Or sh=
ake at
Death's alarms? 'Tis but the voic=
e that
Jesus sends To ca=
ll
them to his arms.
"Are we not tendi=
ng
upward too, As fa=
st as
time can move? And should we wis=
h the
hours more slow That =
bear
us to our love?"
The words rose in=
old
"China,"--that strange, wild warble, whose quaintly blended harmo=
nies
might have been learned of moaning seas or wailing winds, so strange and gr=
and
they rose, full of that intense pathos which rises over every defect of exe=
cution;
and as they sung, Zephaniah Pennel straightened his tall form, before bowed=
on
his hands, and looked heavenward, his cheeks wet with tears, but something
sublime and immortal shining upward through his blue eyes; and at the last
verse he came forward involuntarily, and stood by his dead, and his voice r=
ose over
all the others as he sung,--
"Then let the las=
t loud
trumpet sound, And b=
id the
dead arise! Awake, ye nations=
under
ground! Ye sa=
ints,
ascend the skies!"
The sunbeam throu=
gh
the window-curtain fell on his silver hair, and they that looked beheld his
face as it were the face of an angel; he had gotten a sight of the city who=
se
foundation is jasper, and whose every gate is a separate pearl.
CHAPTER IV - AUNT ROXY AN=
D AUNT
RUEY
The sea lay like an unbroken mirror=
all
around the pine-girt, lonely shores of Orr's Island. Tall, kingly spruces w=
ore
their regal crowns of cones high in air, sparkling with diamonds of clear
exuded gum; vast old hemlocks of primeval growth stood darkling in their fo=
rest
shadows, their branches hung with long hoary moss; while feathery larches,
turned to brilliant gold by autumn frosts, lighted up the darker shadows of=
the
evergreens. It was one of those hazy, calm, dissolving days of Indian summe=
r,
when everything is so quiet that the faintest kiss of the wave on the beach=
can
be heard, and white clouds seem to faint into the blue of the sky, and soft
swathing bands of violet vapor make all earth look dreamy, and give to the
sharp, clear-cut outlines of the northern landscape all those mysteries of
light and shade which impart such tenderness to Italian scenery.
The funeral was o=
ver;
the tread of many feet, bearing the heavy burden of two broken lives, had b=
een
to the lonely graveyard, and had come back again,--each footstep lighter and
more unconstrained as each one went his way from the great old tragedy of D=
eath
to the common cheerful walks of Life.
The solemn black
clock stood swaying with its eternal "tick-tock, tick-tock," in t=
he
kitchen of the brown house on Orr's Island. There was there that sense of a
stillness that can be felt,--such as settles down on a dwelling when any of=
its
inmates have passed through its doors for the last time, to go whence they
shall not return. The best room was shut up and darkened, with only so much
light as could fall through a little heart-shaped hole in the
window-shutter,--for except on solemn visits, or prayer meetings, or weddin=
gs,
or funerals, that room formed no part of the daily family scenery.
The kitchen was c=
lean
and ample, with a great open fireplace and wide stone hearth, and oven on o=
ne
side, and rows of old-fashioned splint-bottomed chairs against the wall. A
table scoured to snowy whiteness, and a little work-stand whereon lay the
Bible, the "Missionary Herald" and the "Weekly Christian
Mirror," before named, formed the principal furniture. One feature,
however, must not be forgotten,--a great sea-chest, which had been the
companion of Zephaniah through all the countries of the earth. Old, and bat=
tered,
and unsightly it looked, yet report said that there was good store within of
that which men for the most part respect more than anything else; and, inde=
ed,
it proved often when a deed of grace was to be done,--when a woman was sudd=
enly
made a widow in a coast gale, or a fishing-smack was run down in the fogs o=
ff
the banks, leaving in some neighboring cottage a family of orphans,--in all
such cases, the opening of this sea-chest was an event of good omen to the
bereaved; for Zephaniah had a large heart and a large hand, and was apt to =
take
it out full of silver dollars when once it went in. So the ark of the coven=
ant
could not have been looked on with more reverence than the neighbors usually
showed to Captain Pennel's sea-chest.
The afternoon sun=
is
shining in a square of light through the open kitchen-door, whence one drea=
mily
disposed might look far out to sea, and behold ships coming and going in ev=
ery
variety of shape and size.
But Aunt Roxy and
Aunt Ruey, who for the present were sole occupants of the premises, were not
people of the dreamy kind, and consequently were not gazing off to sea, but
attending to very terrestrial matters that in all cases somebody must attend
to. The afternoon was warm and balmy, but a few smouldering sticks were kep=
t in
the great chimney, and thrust deep into the embers was a mongrel species of
snub-nosed tea-pot, which fumed strongly of catnip-tea, a little of which
gracious beverage Miss Roxy was preparing in an old-fashioned cracked India
china tea-cup, tasting it as she did so with the air of a connoisseur.
Apparently this w=
as
for the benefit of a small something in long white clothes, that lay face
downward under a little blanket of very blue new flannel, and which somethi=
ng
Aunt Roxy, when not otherwise engaged, constantly patted with a gentle tatt=
oo,
in tune to the steady trot of her knee. All babies knew Miss Roxy's tattoo =
on
their backs, and never thought of taking it in ill part. On the contrary, it
had a vital and mesmeric effect of sovereign force against colic, and all o=
ther
disturbers of the nursery; and never was infant known so pressed with those
internal troubles which infants cry about, as not speedily to give over and
sink to slumber at this soothing appliance.
At a little dista=
nce
sat Aunt Ruey, with a quantity of black crape strewed on two chairs about h=
er,
very busily employed in getting up a mourning-bonnet, at which she snipped,=
and
clipped, and worked, zealously singing, in a high cracked voice, from time =
to
time, certain verses of a funeral psalm.
Miss Roxy and Miss
Ruey Toothacre were two brisk old bodies of the feminine gender and singular
number, well known in all the region of Harpswell Neck and Middle Bay, and =
such
was their fame that it had even reached the town of Brunswick, eighteen mil=
es
away.
They were of that
class of females who might be denominated, in the Old Testament language,
"cunning women,"--that is, gifted with an infinite diversity of
practical "faculty," which made them an essential requisite in ev=
ery
family for miles and miles around. It was impossible to say what they could=
not
do: they could make dresses, and make shirts and vests and pantaloons, and =
cut
out boys' jackets, and braid straw, and bleach and trim bonnets, and cook a=
nd
wash, and iron and mend, could upholster and quilt, could nurse all kinds of
sicknesses, and in default of a doctor, who was often miles away, were supp=
osed
to be infallible medical oracles. Many a human being had been ushered into =
life
under their auspices,--trotted, chirruped in babyhood on their knees, cloth=
ed by
their handiwork in garments gradually enlarging from year to year, watched =
by
them in the last sickness, and finally arrayed for the long repose by their
hands.
These universally
useful persons receive among us the title of "aunt" by a sort of
general consent, showing the strong ties of relationship which bind them to=
the
whole human family. They are nobody's aunts in particular, but aunts to hum=
an
nature generally. The idea of restricting their usefulness to any one famil=
y,
would strike dismay through a whole community. Nobody would be so unprincip=
led
as to think of such a thing as having their services more than a week or tw=
o at
most. Your country factotum knows better than anybody else how absurd it wo=
uld
be
"To give to a par=
t what
was meant for mankind."
Nobody knew very =
well
the ages of these useful sisters. In that cold, clear, severe climate of the
North, the roots of human existence are hard to strike; but, if once people=
do
take to living, they come in time to a place where they seem never to grow =
any
older, but can always be found, like last year's mullein stalks, upright, d=
ry,
and seedy, warranted to last for any length of time.
Miss Roxy Toothac=
re,
who sits trotting the baby, is a tall, thin, angular woman, with sharp black
eyes, and hair once black, but now well streaked with gray. These ravages of
time, however, were concealed by an ample mohair frisette of glossy blackne=
ss
woven on each side into a heap of stiff little curls, which pushed up her c=
ap
border in rather a bristling and decisive way. In all her movements and
personal habits, even to her tone of voice and manner of speaking, Miss Roxy
was vigorous, spicy, and decided. Her mind on all subjects was made up, and=
she
spoke generally as one having authority; and who should, if she should not?=
Was
she not a sort of priestess and sibyl in all the most awful straits and
mysteries of life? How many births, and weddings, and deaths had come and g=
one
under her jurisdiction! And amid weeping or rejoicing, was not Miss Roxy st=
ill
the master-spirit,--consulted, referred to by all?--was not her word law and
precedent? Her younger sister, Miss Ruey, a pliant, cozy, easy-to-be-entrea=
ted
personage, plump and cushiony, revolved around her as a humble satellite. M=
iss
Roxy looked on Miss Ruey as quite a frisky young thing, though under her am=
ple
frisette of carroty hair her head might be seen white with the same snow th=
at
had powdered that of her sister. Aunt Ruey had a face much resembling the k=
ind
of one you may see, reader, by looking at yourself in the convex side of a
silver milk-pitcher. If you try the experiment, this description will need =
no
further amplification.
The two almost al=
ways
went together, for the variety of talent comprised in their stock could alw=
ays
find employment in the varying wants of a family. While one nursed the sick,
the other made clothes for the well; and thus they were always chippering a=
nd
chatting to each other, like a pair of antiquated house-sparrows, retailing
over harmless gossips, and moralizing in that gentle jogtrot which befits
serious old women. In fact, they had talked over everything in Nature, and =
said
everything they could think of to each other so often, that the opinions of=
one
were as like those of the other as two sides of a pea-pod. But as often hap=
pens
in cases of the sort, this was not because the two were in all respects exa=
ctly
alike, but because the stronger one had mesmerized the weaker into consent.=
Miss Roxy was the
master-spirit of the two, and, like the great coining machine of a mint, ca=
me
down with her own sharp, heavy stamp on every opinion her sister put out. S=
he
was matter-of-fact, positive, and declarative to the highest degree, while =
her
sister was naturally inclined to the elegiac and the pathetic, indulging he=
rself
in sentimental poetry, and keeping a store thereof in her thread-case, which
she had cut from the "Christian Mirror." Miss Roxy sometimes, in =
her
brusque way, popped out observations on life and things, with a droll, hard
quaintness that took one's breath a little, yet never failed to have a sharp
crystallization of truth,--frosty though it were. She was one of those
sensible, practical creatures who tear every veil, and lay their fingers on
every spot in pure business-like good-will; and if we shiver at them at tim=
es,
as at the first plunge of a cold bath, we confess to an invigorating power =
in
them after all.
"Well,
now," said Miss Roxy, giving a decisive push to the tea-pot, which bur=
ied
it yet deeper in the embers, "ain't it all a strange kind o' providence
that this 'ere little thing is left behind so; and then their callin' on he=
r by
such a strange, mournful kind of name,--Mara. I thought sure as could be 't=
was
Mary, till the minister read the passage from Scriptur'. Seems to me it's k=
ind
o' odd. I'd call it Maria, or I'd put an Ann on to it. Mara-ann, now, would=
n't
sound so strange."
"It's a
Scriptur' name, sister," said Aunt Ruey, "and that ought to be en=
ough
for us."
"Well, I don=
't
know," said Aunt Roxy. "Now there was Miss Jones down on Mure P'i=
nt
called her twins Tiglath-Pileser and Shalmaneser,--Scriptur' names both, bu=
t I
never liked 'em. The boys used to call 'em, Tiggy and Shally, so no mortal
could guess they was Scriptur'."
"Well,"
said Aunt Ruey, drawing a sigh which caused her plump proportions to be
agitated in gentle waves, "'tain't much matter, after all, what they c=
all
the little thing, for 'tain't 'tall likely it's goin' to live,--cried and
worried all night, and kep' a-suckin' my cheek and my night-gown, poor litt=
le
thing! This 'ere's a baby that won't get along without its mother. What Mis'
Pennel's a-goin' to do with it when we is gone, I'm sure I don't know. It c=
omes
kind o' hard on old people to be broke o' their rest. If it's goin' to be
called home, it's a pity, as I said, it didn't go with its mother"--
"And save the
expense of another funeral," said Aunt Roxy. "Now when Mis' Penne=
l's
sister asked her what she was going to do with Naomi's clothes, I couldn't =
help
wonderin' when she said she should keep 'em for the child."
"She had a s=
ight
of things, Naomi did," said Aunt Ruey. "Nothin' was never too much
for her. I don't believe that Cap'n Pennel ever went to Bath or Portland
without havin' it in his mind to bring Naomi somethin'."
"Yes, and she
had a faculty of puttin' of 'em on," said Miss Roxy, with a decisive s=
hake
of the head. "Naomi was a still girl, but her faculty was uncommon; an=
d I
tell you, Ruey, 'tain't everybody hes faculty as hes things."
"The poor
Cap'n," said Miss Ruey, "he seemed greatly supported at the funer=
al,
but he's dreadful broke down since. I went into Naomi's room this morning, =
and
there the old man was a-sittin' by her bed, and he had a pair of her shoes =
in
his hand,--you know what a leetle bit of a foot she had. I never saw nothin'
look so kind o' solitary as that poor old man did!"
"Well,"
said Miss Roxy, "she was a master-hand for keepin' things, Naomi was; =
her
drawers is just a sight; she's got all the little presents and things they =
ever
give her since she was a baby, in one drawer. There's a little pair of red
shoes there that she had when she wa'n't more'n five year old. You 'member,
Ruey, the Cap'n brought 'em over from Portland when we was to the house
a-makin' Mis' Pennel's figured black silk that he brought from Calcutty. You
'member they cost just five and sixpence; but, law! the Cap'n he never grud=
ged
the money when 'twas for Naomi. And so she's got all her husband's keepsakes
and things just as nice as when he give 'em to her."
"It's real
affectin'," said Miss Ruey, "I can't all the while help a-thinkin=
' of
the Psalm,--
"'So fades the lo=
vely
blooming flower,-- Frail, smiling so=
lace
of an hour; So
quick our transient comforts fly, And pleasure only
blooms to die.'"
"Yes," =
said
Miss Roxy; "and, Ruey, I was a-thinkin' whether or no it wa'n't best to
pack away them things, 'cause Naomi hadn't fixed no baby drawers, and we se=
em
to want some."
"I was kind =
o'
hintin' that to Mis' Pennel this morning," said Ruey, "but she ca=
n't
seem to want to have 'em touched."
"Well, we may
just as well come to such things first as last," said Aunt Roxy;
"'cause if the Lord takes our friends, he does take 'em; and we can't =
lose
'em and have 'em too, and we may as well give right up at first, and done w=
ith
it, that they are gone, and we've got to do without 'em, and not to be hang=
in'
on to keep things just as they was."
"So I was
a-tellin' Mis' Pennel," said Miss Ruey, "but she'll come to it by=
and
by. I wish the baby might live, and kind o' grow up into her mother's
place."
"Well,"
said Miss Roxy, "I wish it might, but there'd be a sight o' trouble
fetchin' on it up. Folks can do pretty well with children when they're young
and spry, if they do get 'em up nights; but come to grandchildren, it's pre=
tty
tough."
"I'm a-think=
in',
sister," said Miss Ruey, taking off her spectacles and rubbing her nose
thoughtfully, "whether or no cow's milk ain't goin' to be too hearty f=
or
it, it's such a pindlin' little thing. Now, Mis' Badger she brought up a
seven-months' child, and she told me she gave it nothin' but these 'ere lit=
tle
seed cookies, wet in water, and it throve nicely,--and the seed is good for
wind."
"Oh, don't t=
ell
me none of Mis' Badger's stories," said Miss Roxy, "I don't belie=
ve
in 'em. Cows is the Lord's ordinances for bringing up babies that's lost th=
eir
mothers; it stands to reason they should be,--and babies that can't eat mil=
k,
why they can't be fetched up; but babies can eat milk, and this un will if =
it
lives, and if it can't it won't live." So saying, Miss Roxy drummed aw=
ay
on the little back of the party in question, authoritatively, as if to poun=
d in
a wholesome conviction at the outset.
"I hope,&quo=
t;
said Miss Ruey, holding up a strip of black crape, and looking through it f=
rom
end to end so as to test its capabilities, "I hope the Cap'n and Mis'
Pennel'll get some support at the prayer-meetin' this afternoon."
"It's the ri=
ght
place to go to," said Miss Roxy, with decision.
"Mis' Pennel
said this mornin' that she was just beat out tryin' to submit; and the more=
she
said, 'Thy will be done,' the more she didn't seem to feel it."
"Them's comm=
on
feelin's among mourners, Ruey. These 'ere forty years that I've been round
nussin', and layin'-out, and tendin' funerals, I've watched people's exerci=
ses.
People's sometimes supported wonderfully just at the time, and maybe at the
funeral; but the three or four weeks after, most everybody, if they's to say
what they feel, is unreconciled."
"The Cap'n, =
he
don't say nothin'," said Miss Ruey.
"No, he don'=
t,
but he looks it in his eyes," said Miss Roxy; "he's one of the ki=
nd
o' mourners as takes it deep; that kind don't cry; it's a kind o' dry, deep
pain; them's the worst to get over it,--sometimes they just says nothin', a=
nd
in about six months they send for you to nuss 'em in consumption or somethi=
n'.
Now, Mis' Pennel, she can cry and she can talk,--well, she'll get over it; =
but
he won't get no support unless the Lord reaches right down and lifts him up
over the world. I've seen that happen sometimes, and I tell you, Ruey, that
sort makes powerful Christians."
At that moment the
old pair entered the door. Zephaniah Pennel came and stood quietly by the
pillow where the little form was laid, and lifted a corner of the blanket. =
The
tiny head was turned to one side, showing the soft, warm cheek, and the lit=
tle
hand was holding tightly a morsel of the flannel blanket. He stood swallowi=
ng
hard for a few moments. At last he said, with deep humility, to the wise and
mighty woman who held her, "I'll tell you what it is, Miss Roxy, I'll =
give
all there is in my old chest yonder if you'll only make her--live."
It did live. The little life, so fr=
ail,
so unprofitable in every mere material view, so precious in the eyes of lov=
e,
expanded and flowered at last into fair childhood. Not without much watching
and weariness. Many a night the old fisherman walked the floor with the lit=
tle
thing in his arms, talking to it that jargon of tender nonsense which fairi=
es
bring as love-gifts to all who tend a cradle. Many a day the good little ol=
d grandmother
called the aid of gossips about her, trying various experiments of catnip, =
and
sweet fern, and bayberry, and other teas of rustic reputation for baby
frailties.
At the end of thr= ee years, the two graves in the lonely graveyard were sodded and cemented down= by smooth velvet turf, and playing round the door of the brown houses was a slender child, with ways and manners so still and singular as often to remi= nd the neighbors that she was not like other children,--a bud of hope and joy,--but the outcome of a great sorrow,--a pearl washed ashore by a mighty, uprooting tempest. They that looked at her remembered that her father's eye= had never beheld her, and her baptismal cup had rested on her mother's coffin.<= o:p>
She was small of
stature, beyond the wont of children of her age, and moulded with a fine wa=
xen
delicacy that won admiration from all eyes. Her hair was curly and golden, =
but
her eyes were dark like her mother's, and the lids drooped over them in that
manner which gives a peculiar expression of dreamy wistfulness. Every one o=
f us
must remember eyes that have a strange, peculiar expression of pathos and
desire, as if the spirit that looked out of them were pressed with vague
remembrances of a past, or but dimly comprehended the mystery of its present
life. Even when the baby lay in its cradle, and its dark, inquiring eyes wo=
uld follow
now one object and now another, the gossips would say the child was longing=
for
something, and Miss Roxy would still further venture to predict that that c=
hild
always would long and never would know exactly what she was after.
That dignitary si=
ts
at this minute enthroned in the kitchen corner, looking majestically over t=
he
press-board on her knee, where she is pressing the next year's Sunday vest =
of
Zephaniah Pennel. As she makes her heavy tailor's goose squeak on the work,=
her
eyes follow the little delicate fairy form which trips about the kitchen,
busily and silently arranging a little grotto of gold and silver shells and
seaweed. The child sings to herself as she works in a low chant, like the
prattle of a brook, but ever and anon she rests her little arms on a chair =
and looks
through the open kitchen-door far, far off where the horizon line of the bl=
ue
sea dissolves in the blue sky.
"See that ch=
ild
now, Roxy," said Miss Ruey, who sat stitching beside her; "do loo=
k at
her eyes. She's as handsome as a pictur', but 't ain't an ordinary look she=
has
neither; she seems a contented little thing; but what makes her eyes always
look so kind o' wishful?"
"Wa'n't her =
mother
always a-longin' and a-lookin' to sea, and watchin' the ships, afore she was
born?" said Miss Roxy; "and didn't her heart break afore she was
born? Babies like that is marked always. They don't know what ails 'em, nor
nobody."
"It's her mo=
ther
she's after," said Miss Ruey.
"The Lord on=
ly
knows," said Miss Roxy; "but them kind o' children always seem
homesick to go back where they come from. They're mostly grave and old-fash=
ioned
like this 'un. If they gets past seven years, why they live; but it's alway=
s in
'em to long; they don't seem to be really unhappy neither, but if anything's
ever the matter with 'em, it seems a great deal easier for 'em to die than =
to
live. Some say it's the mothers longin' after 'em makes 'em feel so, and so=
me
say it's them longin' after their mothers; but dear knows, Ruey, what anyth=
ing
is or what makes anything. Children's mysterious, that's my mind."
"Mara,
dear," said Miss Ruey, interrupting the child's steady lookout, "=
what
you thinking of?"
"Me want
somefin'," said the little one.
"That's what
she's always sayin'," said Miss Roxy.
"Me want
somebody to pay wis'," continued the little one.
"Want somebo=
dy
to play with," said old Dame Pennel, as she came in from the back-room
with her hands yet floury with kneading bread; "sure enough, she does.=
Our
house stands in such a lonesome place, and there ain't any children. But I
never saw such a quiet little thing--always still and always busy."
"I'll take h=
er
down with me to Cap'n Kittridge's," said Miss Roxy, "and let her =
play
with their little girl; she'll chirk her up, I'll warrant. She's a regular
little witch, Sally is, but she'll chirk her up. It ain't good for children=
to
be so still and old-fashioned; children ought to be children. Sally takes to
Mara just 'cause she's so different."
"Well, now, =
you
may," said Dame Pennel; "to be sure he can't bear her out of his
sight a minute after he comes in; but after all, old folks can't be company=
for
children."
Accordingly, that
afternoon, the little Mara was arrayed in a little blue flounced dress, whi=
ch
stood out like a balloon, made by Miss Roxy in first-rate style, from a Fre=
nch
fashion-plate; her golden hair was twined in manifold curls by Dame Pennel,
who, restricted in her ideas of ornamentation, spared, nevertheless, neither
time nor money to enhance the charms of this single ornament to her dwellin=
g.
Mara was her picture-gallery, who gave her in the twenty-four hours as many
Murillos or Greuzes as a lover of art could desire; and as she tied over th=
e child's
golden curls a little flat hat, and saw her go dancing off along the sea-sa=
nds,
holding to Miss Roxy's bony finger, she felt she had in her what galleries =
of
pictures could not buy.
It was a good mil=
e to
the one story, gambrel-roofed cottage where lived Captain Kittridge,--the l=
ong,
lean, brown man, with his good wife of the great Leghorn bonnet, round, bla=
ck
bead eyes, and psalm-book, whom we told you of at the funeral. The Captain,
too, had followed the sea in his early life, but being not, as he expressed=
it,
"very rugged," in time changed his ship for a tight little cottag=
e on
the seashore, and devoted himself to boat-building, which he found sufficie=
ntly
lucrative to furnish his brown cottage with all that his wife's heart desir=
ed, besides
extra money for knick-knacks when she chose to go up to Brunswick or over to
Portland to shop.
The Captain himse=
lf
was a welcome guest at all the firesides round, being a chatty body, and
disposed to make the most of his foreign experiences, in which he took the
usual advantages of a traveler. In fact, it was said, whether slanderously =
or
not, that the Captain's yarns were spun to order; and as, when pressed to
relate his foreign adventures, he always responded with, "What would y=
ou
like to hear?" it was thought that he fabricated his article to suit h=
is
market. In short, there was no species of experience, finny, fishy, or
aquatic,--no legend of strange and unaccountable incident of fire or flood,=
--no
romance of foreign scenery and productions, to which his tongue was not
competent, when he had once seated himself in a double bow-knot at a neighb=
or's
evening fireside.
His good wife, a
sharp-eyed, literal body, and a vigorous church-member, felt some concern of
conscience on the score of these narrations; for, being their constant audi=
tor,
she, better than any one else, could perceive the variations and discrepanc=
ies
of text which showed their mythical character, and oftentimes her black eyes
would snap and her knitting-needles rattle with an admonitory vigor as he w=
ent
on, and sometimes she would unmercifully come in at the end of a narrative =
with,--
"Well, now, =
the
Cap'n's told them ar stories till he begins to b'lieve 'em himself, I
think."
But works of fict=
ion,
as we all know, if only well gotten up, have always their advantages in the
hearts of listeners over plain, homely truth; and so Captain Kittridge's ya=
rns
were marketable fireside commodities still, despite the skepticisms which
attended them.
The afternoon
sunbeams at this moment are painting the gambrel-roof with a golden brown. =
It
is September again, as it was three years ago when our story commenced, and=
the
sea and sky are purple and amethystine with its Italian haziness of atmosph=
ere.
The brown house
stands on a little knoll, about a hundred yards from the open ocean. Behind=
it
rises a ledge of rocks, where cedars and hemlocks make deep shadows into wh=
ich
the sun shoots golden shafts of light, illuminating the scarlet feathers of=
the
sumach, which throw themselves jauntily forth from the crevices; while down
below, in deep, damp, mossy recesses, rise ferns which autumn has just begu=
n to
tinge with yellow and brown. The little knoll where the cottage stood had on
its right hand a tiny bay, where the ocean water made up amid picturesque r=
ocks--shaggy
and solemn. Here trees of the primeval forest, grand and lordly, looked down
silently into the waters which ebbed and flowed daily into this little pool.
Every variety of those beautiful evergreens which feather the coast of Main=
e,
and dip their wings in the very spray of its ocean foam, found here a
representative. There were aspiring black spruces, crowned on the very top =
with
heavy coronets of cones; there were balsamic firs, whose young buds breathe=
the
scent of strawberries; there were cedars, black as midnight clouds, and whi=
te pines
with their swaying plumage of needle-like leaves, strewing the ground benea=
th
with a golden, fragrant matting; and there were the gigantic, wide-winged
hemlocks, hundreds of years old, and with long, swaying, gray beards of mos=
s,
looking white and ghostly under the deep shadows of their boughs. And benea=
th,
creeping round trunk and matting over stones, were many and many of those w=
ild,
beautiful things which embellish the shadows of these northern forests. Lon=
g,
feathery wreaths of what are called ground-pines ran here and there in litt=
le
ruffles of green, and the prince's pine raised its oriental feather, with a
mimic cone on the top, as if it conceived itself to be a grown-up tree. Who=
le patches
of partridge-berry wove their evergreen matting, dotted plentifully with
brilliant scarlet berries. Here and there, the rocks were covered with a
curiously inwoven tapestry of moss, overshot with the exquisite vine of the
Linnea borealis, which in early spring rings its two fairy bells on the end=
of every
spray; while elsewhere the wrinkled leaves of the mayflower wove themselves
through and through deep beds of moss, meditating silently thoughts of the
thousand little cups of pink shell which they had it in hand to make when t=
he
time of miracles should come round next spring.
Nothing, in short,
could be more quaintly fresh, wild, and beautiful than the surroundings of =
this
little cove which Captain Kittridge had thought fit to dedicate to his
boat-building operations,--where he had set up his tar-kettle between two g=
reat
rocks above the highest tide-mark, and where, at the present moment, he had=
a
boat upon the stocks.
Mrs. Kittridge, at
this hour, was sitting in her clean kitchen, very busily engaged in ripping=
up
a silk dress, which Miss Roxy had engaged to come and make into a new one; =
and,
as she ripped, she cast now and then an eye at the face of a tall, black cl=
ock,
whose solemn tick-tock was the only sound that could be heard in the kitche=
n.
By her side, on a=
low
stool, sat a vigorous, healthy girl of six years, whose employment evidently
did not please her, for her well-marked black eyebrows were bent in a frown,
and her large black eyes looked surly and wrathful, and one versed in
children's grievances could easily see what the matter was,--she was turnin=
g a
sheet! Perhaps, happy young female reader, you don't know what that is,--mo=
st
likely not; for in these degenerate days the strait and narrow ways of
self-denial, formerly thought so wholesome for little feet, are quite
grass-grown with neglect. Childhood nowadays is unceasingly fêted and
caressed, the principal difficulty of the grown people seeming to be to
discover what the little dears want,--a thing not always clear to the little
dears themselves. But in old times, turning sheets was thought a most espec=
ial and
wholesome discipline for young girls; in the first place, because it took o=
ff
the hands of their betters a very uninteresting and monotonous labor; and in
the second place, because it was such a long, straight, unending turnpike, =
that
the youthful travelers, once started thereupon, could go on indefinitely,
without requiring guidance and direction of their elders. For these reasons,
also, the task was held in special detestation by children in direct propor=
tion
to their amount of life, and their ingenuity and love of variety. A dull ch=
ild
took it tolerably well; but to a lively, energetic one, it was a perfect
torture.
"I don't see=
the
use of sewing up sheets one side, and ripping up the other," at last s=
aid
Sally, breaking the monotonous tick-tock of the clock by an observation whi=
ch
has probably occurred to every child in similar circumstances.
"Sally
Kittridge, if you say another word about that ar sheet, I'll whip you,"
was the very explicit rejoinder; and there was a snap of Mrs. Kittridge's b=
lack
eyes, that seemed to make it likely that she would keep her word. It was
answered by another snap from the six-year-old eyes, as Sally comforted her=
self
with thinking that when she was a woman she'd speak her mind out in pay for=
all
this.
At this moment a
burst of silvery child-laughter rang out, and there appeared in the doorway,
illuminated by the afternoon sunbeams, the vision of Miss Roxy's tall, lank
figure, with the little golden-haired, blue-robed fairy, hanging like a gay
butterfly upon the tip of a thorn-bush. Sally dropped the sheet and clapped=
her
hands, unnoticed by her mother, who rose to pay her respects to the
"cunning woman" of the neighborhood.
"Well, now, =
Miss
Roxy, I was 'mazin' afraid you wer'n't a-comin'. I'd just been an' got my s=
ilk
ripped up, and didn't know how to get a step farther without you."
"Well, I was
finishin' up Cap'n Pennel's best pantaloons," said Miss Roxy; "and
I've got 'em along so, Ruey can go on with 'em; and I told Mis' Pennel I mu=
st
come to you, if 'twas only for a day; and I fetched the little girl down,
'cause the little thing's so kind o' lonesome like. I thought Sally could p=
lay
with her, and chirk her up a little."
"Well,
Sally," said Mrs. Kittridge, "stick in your needle, fold up your =
sheet,
put your thimble in your work-pocket, and then you may take the little Mara
down to the cove to play; but be sure you don't let her go near the tar, nor
wet her shoes. D'ye hear?"
"Yes,
ma'am," said Sally, who had sprung up in light and radiance, like a
translated creature, at this unexpected turn of fortune, and performed the
welcome orders with a celerity which showed how agreeable they were; and th=
en,
stooping and catching the little one in her arms, disappeared through the d=
oor,
with the golden curls fluttering over her own crow-black hair.
The fact was, that
Sally, at that moment, was as happy as human creature could be, with a keen=
ness
of happiness that children who have never been made to turn sheets of a bri=
ght
afternoon can never realize. The sun was yet an hour high, as she saw, by t=
he
flash of her shrewd, time-keeping eye, and she could bear her little prize =
down
to the cove, and collect unknown quantities of gold and silver shells, and
starfish, and salad-dish shells, and white pebbles for her, besides quantit=
ies
of well turned shavings, brown and white, from the pile which constantly wa=
s falling
under her father's joiner's bench, and with which she would make long
extemporaneous tresses, so that they might play at being mermaids, like tho=
se
that she had heard her father tell about in some of his sea-stories.
"Now, railly,
Sally, what you got there?" said Captain Kittridge, as he stood in his
shirt-sleeves peering over his joiner's bench, to watch the little one whom
Sally had dumped down into a nest of clean white shavings. "Wal', wal'=
, I
should think you'd a-stolen the big doll I see in a shop-window the last ti=
me I
was to Portland. So this is Pennel's little girl?--poor child!"
"Yes, father,
and we want some nice shavings."
"Stay a bit,
I'll make ye a few a-purpose," said the old man, reaching his long, bo=
ny
arm, with the greatest ease, to the farther part of his bench, and bringing=
up
a board, from which he proceeded to roll off shavings in fine satin rings,
which perfectly delighted the hearts of the children, and made them dance w=
ith
glee; and, truth to say, reader, there are coarser and homelier things in t=
he
world than a well turned shaving.
"There, go
now," he said, when both of them stood with both hands full; "go =
now
and play; and mind you don't let the baby wet her feet, Sally; them shoes o'
hern must have cost five-and-sixpence at the very least."
That sunny hour
before sundown seemed as long to Sally as the whole seam of the sheet; for
childhood's joys are all pure gold; and as she ran up and down the white sa=
nds,
shouting at every shell she found, or darted up into the overhanging forest=
for
checkerberries and ground-pine, all the sorrows of the morning came no more
into her remembrance.
The little Mara h=
ad
one of those sensitive, excitable natures, on which every external influence
acts with immediate power. Stimulated by the society of her energetic, buoy=
ant
little neighbor, she no longer seemed wishful or pensive, but kindled into a
perfect flame of wild delight, and gamboled about the shore like a blue and
gold-winged fly; while her bursts of laughter made the squirrels and blue j=
ays
look out inquisitively from their fastnesses in the old evergreens. Gradual=
ly
the sunbeams faded from the pines, and the waves of the tide in the little =
cove
came in, solemnly tinted with purple, flaked with orange and crimson, borne=
in
from a great rippling sea of fire, into which the sun had just sunk.
"Mercy on
us--them children!" said Miss Roxy.
"He's bringi=
n'
'em along," said Mrs. Kittridge, as she looked out of the window and s=
aw
the tall, lank form of the Captain, with one child seated on either shoulde=
r,
and holding on by his head.
The two children =
were
both in the highest state of excitement, but never was there a more marked
contrast of nature. The one seemed a perfect type of well-developed childish
health and vigor, good solid flesh and bones, with glowing skin, brilliant
eyes, shining teeth, well-knit, supple limbs,--vigorously and healthily
beautiful; while the other appeared one of those aerial mixtures of cloud a=
nd
fire, whose radiance seems scarcely earthly. A physiologist, looking at the
child, would shake his head, seeing one of those perilous organizations, all
nerve and brain, which come to life under the clear, stimulating skies of A=
merica,
and, burning with the intensity of lighted phosphorus, waste themselves too
early.
The little Mara
seemed like a fairy sprite, possessed with a wild spirit of glee. She laugh=
ed
and clapped her hands incessantly, and when set down on the kitchen-floor s=
pun
round like a little elf; and that night it was late and long before her wid=
e,
wakeful eyes could be veiled in sleep.
"Company jist
sets this 'ere child crazy," said Miss Roxy; "it's jist her lonely
way of livin'; a pity Mis' Pennel hadn't another child to keep company along
with her."
"Mis' Pennel
oughter be trainin' of her up to work," said Mrs. Kittridge. "Sal=
ly
could oversew and hem when she wa'n't more'n three years old; nothin'
straightens out children like work. Mis' Pennel she just keeps that ar chil=
d to
look at."
"All children
ain't alike, Mis' Kittridge," said Miss Roxy, sententiously. "This
'un ain't like your Sally. 'A hen and a bumble-bee can't be fetched up alik=
e,
fix it how you will!'"
Zephaniah Pennel came back to his h=
ouse
in the evening, after Miss Roxy had taken the little Mara away. He looked f=
or
the flowery face and golden hair as he came towards the door, and put his h=
and
in his vest-pocket, where he had deposited a small store of very choice she=
lls and
sea curiosities, thinking of the widening of those dark, soft eyes when he
should present them.
"Where's
Mara?" was the first inquiry after he had crossed the threshold.
"Why, Roxy's
been an' taken her down to Cap'n Kittridge's to spend the night," said
Miss Ruey. "Roxy's gone to help Mis' Kittridge to turn her spotted gray
and black silk. We was talking this mornin' whether 'no 't would turn, 'cau=
se I
thought the spot was overshot, and wouldn't make up on the wrong side; but =
Roxy
she says it's one of them ar Calcutty silks that has two sides to 'em, like=
the
one you bought Miss Pennel, that we made up for her, you know;" and Mi=
ss
Ruey arose and gave a finishing snap to the Sunday pantaloons, which she had
been left to "finish off,"--which snap said, as plainly as words
could say that there was a good job disposed of.
Zephaniah stood
looking as helpless as animals of the male kind generally do when appealed =
to
with such prolixity on feminine details; in reply to it all, only he asked =
meekly,--
"Where's
Mary?"
"Mis' Pennel?
Why, she's up chamber. She'll be down in a minute, she said; she thought sh=
e'd
have time afore supper to get to the bottom of the big chist, and see if th=
at
'ere vest pattern ain't there, and them sticks o' twist for the button-hole=
s,
'cause Roxy she says she never see nothin' so rotten as that 'ere twist we'=
ve
been a-workin' with, that Mis' Pennel got over to Portland; it's a clear ch=
eat,
and Mis' Pennel she give more'n half a cent a stick more for 't than what R=
oxy
got for her up to Brunswick; so you see these 'ere Portland stores charge u=
p, and
their things want lookin' after."
Here Mrs. Pennel
entered the room, "the Captain" addressing her eagerly,--
"How came yo=
u to
let Aunt Roxy take Mara off so far, and be gone so long?"
"Why, law me,
Captain Pennel! the little thing seems kind o' lonesome. Chil'en want chil'=
en;
Miss Roxy says she's altogether too sort o' still and old-fashioned, and mu=
st
have child's company to chirk her up, and so she took her down to play with
Sally Kittridge; there's no manner of danger or harm in it, and she'll be b=
ack
to-morrow afternoon, and Mara will have a real good time."
"Wal', now,
really," said the good man, "but it's 'mazin' lonesome."
"Cap'n Penne=
l,
you're gettin' to make an idol of that 'ere child," said Miss Ruey.
"We have to watch our hearts. It minds me of the hymn,--
"'The fondness of=
a
creature's love, How s=
trong
it strikes the sense,-- Thither the warm
affections move, Nor c=
an we
call them hence.'"
Miss Ruey's mode =
of
getting off poetry, in a sort of high-pitched canter, with a strong thump on
every accented syllable, might have provoked a smile in more sophisticated
society, but Zephaniah listened to her with deep gravity, and answered,--
"I'm 'fraid =
there's
truth in what you say, Aunt Ruey. When her mother was called away, I thought
that was a warning I never should forget; but now I seem to be like Jonah,-=
-I'm
restin' in the shadow of my gourd, and my heart is glad because of it. I ki=
nd
o' trembled at the prayer meetin' when we was a-singin',--
"'The dearest ido=
l I
have known, Whate=
'er
that idol be, Help me to tear i=
t from
Thy throne, And w=
orship
only Thee.'"
"Yes," =
said
Miss Ruey, "Roxy says if the Lord should take us up short on our praye=
rs,
it would make sad work with us sometimes."
"Somehow,&qu=
ot;
said Mrs. Pennel, "it seems to me just her mother over again. She don't
look like her. I think her hair and complexion comes from the Badger blood;=
my
mother had that sort o' hair and skin,--but then she has ways like Naomi,--=
and
it seems as if the Lord had kind o' given Naomi back to us; so I hope she's
goin' to be spared to us."
Mrs. Pennel had o=
ne
of those natures--gentle, trustful, and hopeful, because not very deep; she=
was
one of the little children of the world whose faith rests on child-like
ignorance, and who know not the deeper needs of deeper natures; such see on=
ly
the sunshine and forget the storm.
This conversation=
had
been going on to the accompaniment of a clatter of plates and spoons and
dishes, and the fizzling of sausages, prefacing the evening meal, to which =
all
now sat down after a lengthened grace from Zephaniah.
"There's a
tremendous gale a-brewin'," he said, as they sat at table. "I not=
iced
the clouds to-night as I was comin' home, and somehow I felt kind o' as if I
wanted all our folks snug in-doors."
"Why, law,
husband, Cap'n Kittridge's house is as good as ours, if it does blow. You n=
ever
can seem to remember that houses don't run aground or strike on rocks in st=
orms."
"The Cap'n p=
uts
me in mind of old Cap'n Jeduth Scranton," said Miss Ruey, "that b=
uilt
that queer house down by Middle Bay. The Cap'n he would insist on havin' on=
't
jist like a ship, and the closet-shelves had holes for the tumblers and dis=
hes,
and he had all his tables and chairs battened down, and so when it came a g=
ale,
they say the old Cap'n used to sit in his chair and hold on to hear the wind
blow."
"Well, I tell
you," said Captain, "those that has followed the seas hears the w=
ind
with different ears from lands-people. When you lie with only a plank betwe=
en
you and eternity, and hear the voice of the Lord on the waters, it don't so=
und
as it does on shore."
And in truth, as =
they
were speaking, a fitful gust swept by the house, wailing and screaming and
rattling the windows, and after it came the heavy, hollow moan of the surf =
on
the beach, like the wild, angry howl of some savage animal just beginning t=
o be
lashed into fury.
"Sure enough,
the wind is rising," said Miss Ruey, getting up from the table, and
flattening her snub nose against the window-pane. "Dear me, how dark it
is! Mercy on us, how the waves come in!--all of a sheet of foam. I pity the
ships that's comin' on coast such a night."
The storm seemed =
to
have burst out with a sudden fury, as if myriads of howling demons had all =
at
once been loosened in the air. Now they piped and whistled with eldritch
screech round the corners of the house--now they thundered down the
chimney--and now they shook the door and rattled the casement--and anon
mustering their forces with wild ado, seemed to career over the house, and =
sail
high up into the murky air. The dash of the rising tide came with successive
crash upon crash like the discharge of heavy artillery, seeming to shake the
very house, and the spray borne by the wind dashed whizzing against the
window-panes.
Zephaniah, rising
from supper, drew up the little stand that had the family Bible on it, and =
the
three old time-worn people sat themselves as seriously down to evening wors=
hip
as if they had been an extensive congregation. They raised the old psalm-tu=
ne
which our fathers called "Complaint," and the cracked, wavering
voices of the women, with the deep, rough bass of the old sea-captain, rose=
in
the uproar of the storm with a ghostly, strange wildness, like the scream of
the curlew or the wailing of the wind:--
"Spare us, O Lord,
aloud we pray, Nor l=
et our
sun go down at noon: Thy years are an
eternal day, And m=
ust
thy children die so soon!"
Miss Ruey valued
herself on singing a certain weird and exalted part which in ancient days u=
sed
to be called counter, and which wailed and gyrated in unimaginable heights =
of
the scale, much as you may hear a shrill, fine-voiced wind over a chimney-t=
op;
but altogether, the deep and earnest gravity with which the three filled up=
the
pauses in the storm with their quaint minor key, had something singularly
impressive. When the singing was over, Zephaniah read to the accompaniment =
of
wind and sea, the words of poetry made on old Hebrew shores, in the dim, gr=
ay dawn
of the world:--
"The voice of
the Lord is upon the waters; the God of glory thundereth; the Lord is upon =
many
waters. The voice of the Lord shaketh the wilderness; the Lord shaketh the
wilderness of Kadesh. The Lord sitteth upon the floods, yea, the Lord sitte=
th
King forever. The Lord will give strength to his people; yea, the Lord will
bless his people with peace."
How natural and
home-born sounded this old piece of Oriental poetry in the ears of the thre=
e!
The wilderness of Kadesh, with its great cedars, was doubtless Orr's Island,
where even now the goodly fellowship of black-winged trees were groaning and
swaying, and creaking as the breath of the Lord passed over them.
And the three old
people kneeling by their smouldering fireside, amid the general uproar,
Zephaniah began in the words of a prayer which Moses the man of God made lo=
ng
ago under the shadows of Egyptian pyramids: "Lord, thou hast been our
dwelling-place in all generations. Before the mountains were brought forth,=
or
ever thou hadst formed the earth and the world, even from everlasting to
everlasting, thou art God."
We hear sometimes=
in
these days that the Bible is no more inspired of God than many other books =
of
historic and poetic merit. It is a fact, however, that the Bible answers a
strange and wholly exceptional purpose by thousands of firesides on all sho=
res
of the earth; and, till some other book can be found to do the same thing, =
it
will not be surprising if a belief of its Divine origin be one of the ineff=
aceable
ideas of the popular mind. It will be a long while before a translation from
Homer or a chapter in the Koran, or any of the beauties of Shakespeare, wil=
l be
read in a stormy night on Orr's Island with the same sense of a Divine pres=
ence
as the Psalms of David, or the prayer of Moses, the man of God.
Boom! boom!
"What's that?" said Zephaniah, starting, as they rose up from pra=
yer.
"Hark! again, that's a gun,--there's a ship in distress."
"Poor
souls," said Miss Ruey; "it's an awful night!"
The captain began=
to
put on his sea-coat.
"You ain't
a-goin' out?" said his wife.
"I must go o=
ut
along the beach a spell, and see if I can hear any more of that ship."=
"Mercy on us;
the wind'll blow you over!" said Aunt Ruey.
"I rayther t=
hink
I've stood wind before in my day," said Zephaniah, a grim smile steali=
ng
over his weather-beaten cheeks. In fact, the man felt a sort of secret
relationship to the storm, as if it were in some manner a family connection=
--a
wild, roystering cousin, who drew him out by a rough attraction of comrades=
hip.
"Well, at any
rate," said Mrs. Pennel, producing a large tin lantern perforated with
many holes, in which she placed a tallow candle, "take this with you, =
and
don't stay out long."
The kitchen door
opened, and the first gust of wind took off the old man's hat and nearly bl=
ew
him prostrate. He came back and shut the door. "I ought to have known
better," he said, knotting his pocket-handkerchief over his head, after
which he waited for a momentary lull, and went out into the storm.
Miss Ruey looked
through the window-pane, and saw the light go twinkling far down into the
gloom, and ever and anon came the mournful boom of distant guns.
"Certainly t=
here
is a ship in trouble somewhere," she said.
"He never ca= n be easy when he hears these guns," said Mrs. Pennel; "but what can he do, or anybody, in such a storm, the wind blowing right on to shore?"<= o:p>
"I shouldn't
wonder if Cap'n Kittridge should be out on the beach, too," said Miss
Ruey; "but laws, he ain't much more than one of these 'ere old grassho=
ppers
you see after frost comes. Well, any way, there ain't much help in man if a
ship comes ashore in such a gale as this, such a dark night too."
"It's kind o'
lonesome to have poor little Mara away such a night as this is," said =
Mrs.
Pennel; "but who would a-thought it this afternoon, when Aunt Roxy took
her?"
"I 'member my
grandmother had a silver cream-pitcher that come ashore in a storm on Mare
P'int," said Miss Ruey, as she sat trotting her knitting-needles.
"Grand'ther found it, half full of sand, under a knot of seaweed way u=
p on
the beach. It had a coat of arms on it,--might have belonged to some grand
family, that pitcher; in the Toothacre family yet."
"I remember =
when
I was a girl," said Mrs. Pennel, "seeing the hull of a ship that =
went
on Eagle Island; it run way up in a sort of gully between two rocks, and lay
there years. They split pieces off it sometimes to make fires, when they wa=
nted
to make a chowder down on the beach."
"My aunt, Lo=
is
Toothacre, that lives down by Middle Bay," said Miss Ruey, "used =
to
tell about a dreadful blow they had once in time of the equinoctial storm; =
and
what was remarkable, she insisted that she heard a baby cryin' out in the
storm,--she heard it just as plain as could be."
"Laws a-merc=
y,"
said Mrs. Pennel, nervously, "it was nothing but the wind,--it always
screeches like a child crying; or maybe it was the seals; seals will cry ju=
st
like babes."
"So they told
her; but no,--she insisted she knew the difference,--it was a baby. Well, w=
hat
do you think, when the storm cleared off, they found a baby's cradle washed
ashore sure enough!"
"But they di=
dn't
find any baby," said Mrs. Pennel, nervously.
"No; they
searched the beach far and near, and that cradle was all they found. Aunt L=
ois
took it in--it was a very good cradle, and she took it to use, but every ti=
me
there came up a gale, that ar cradle would rock, rock, jist as if somebody =
was
a-sittin' by it; and you could stand across the room and see there wa'n't
nobody there."
"You make me=
all
of a shiver," said Mrs. Pennel.
This, of course, =
was
just what Miss Ruey intended, and she went on:--
"Wal', you s=
ee
they kind o' got used to it; they found there wa'n't no harm come of its
rockin', and so they didn't mind; but Aunt Lois had a sister Cerinthy that =
was
a weakly girl, and had the janders. Cerinthy was one of the sort that's born
with veils over their faces, and can see sperits; and one time Cerinthy was
a-visitin' Lois after her second baby was born, and there came up a blow, a=
nd
Cerinthy comes out of the keepin'-room, where the cradle was a-standin', and
says, 'Sister,' says she, 'who's that woman sittin' rockin' the cradle?' and
Aunt Lois says she, 'Why, there ain't nobody. That ar cradle always will ro=
ck
in a gale, but I've got used to it, and don't mind it.' 'Well,' says Cerint=
hy,
'jist as true as you live, I just saw a woman with a silk gown on, and long
black hair a-hangin' down, and her face was pale as a sheet, sittin' rockin'
that ar cradle, and she looked round at me with her great black eyes kind o'
mournful and wishful, and then she stooped down over the cradle.' 'Well,' s=
ays
Lois, 'I ain't goin' to have no such doin's in my house,' and she went righ=
t in
and took up the baby, and the very next day she jist had the cradle split up
for kindlin'; and that night, if you'll believe, when they was a-burnin' of=
it,
they heard, jist as plain as could be, a baby scream, scream, screamin' rou=
nd
the house; but after that they never heard it no more."
"I don't like
such stories," said Dame Pennel, "'specially to-night, when Mara's
away. I shall get to hearing all sorts of noises in the wind. I wonder when
Cap'n Pennel will be back."
And the good woman
put more wood on the fire, and as the tongues of flame streamed up high and
clear, she approached her face to the window-pane and started back with hal=
f a
scream, as a pale, anxious visage with sad dark eyes seemed to approach her=
. It
took a moment or two for her to discover that she had seen only the reflect=
ion
of her own anxious, excited face, the pitchy blackness without having conve=
rted
the window into a sort of dark mirror.
Miss Ruey meanwhi=
le
began solacing herself by singing, in her chimney-corner, a very favorite
sacred melody, which contrasted oddly enough with the driving storm and how=
ling
sea:--
"Haste, my belove=
d,
haste away, Cut
short the hours of thy delay; Fly like the boun=
ding
hart or roe, Over
the hills where spices grow."
The tune was call=
ed
"Invitation,"--one of those profusely florid in runs, and trills,=
and
quavers, which delighted the ears of a former generation; and Miss Ruey,
innocently unconscious of the effect of old age on her voice, ran them up a=
nd
down, and out and in, in a way that would have made a laugh, had there been
anybody there to notice or to laugh.
"I remember
singin' that ar to Mary Jane Wilson the very night she died," said Aunt
Ruey, stopping. "She wanted me to sing to her, and it was jist between=
two
and three in the mornin'; there was jist the least red streak of daylight, =
and
I opened the window and sat there and sung, and when I come to 'over the hi=
lls
where spices grow,' I looked round and there was a change in Mary Jane, and=
I
went to the bed, and says she very bright, 'Aunt Ruey, the Beloved has come=
,'
and she was gone afore I could raise her up on her pillow. I always think of
Mary Jane at them words; if ever there was a broken-hearted crittur took ho=
me,
it was her."
At this moment Mr=
s.
Pennel caught sight through the window of the gleam of the returning lanter=
n,
and in a moment Captain Pennel entered, dripping with rain and spray.
"Why, Cap'n!
you're e'en a'most drowned," said Aunt Ruey.
"How long ha=
ve
you been gone? You must have been a great ways," said Mrs. Pennel.
"Yes, I have
been down to Cap'n Kittridge's. I met Kittridge out on the beach. We heard =
the
guns plain enough, but couldn't see anything. I went on down to Kittridge's=
to
get a look at little Mara."
"Well, she's=
all
well enough?" said Mrs. Pennel, anxiously.
"Oh, yes, we=
ll
enough. Miss Roxy showed her to me in the trundle-bed, 'long with Sally. The
little thing was lying smiling in her sleep, with her cheek right up against
Sally's. I took comfort looking at her. I couldn't help thinking: 'So he gi=
veth
his beloved sleep!'"
During the night and storm, the lit=
tle
Mara had lain sleeping as quietly as if the cruel sea, that had made her an
orphan from her birth, were her kind-tempered old grandfather singing her to
sleep, as he often did,--with a somewhat hoarse voice truly, but with ever =
an
undertone of protecting love. But toward daybreak, there came very clear and
bright into her childish mind a dream, having that vivid distinctness which=
often
characterizes the dreams of early childhood.
She thought she s=
aw
before her the little cove where she and Sally had been playing the day bef=
ore,
with its broad sparkling white beach of sand curving round its blue sea-mir=
ror,
and studded thickly with gold and silver shells. She saw the boat of Captain
Kittridge upon the stocks, and his tar-kettle with the smouldering fires
flickering under it; but, as often happens in dreams, a certain rainbow
vividness and clearness invested everything, and she and Sally were jumping=
for
joy at the beautiful things they found on the beach.
Suddenly, there s=
tood
before them a woman, dressed in a long white garment. She was very pale, wi=
th
sweet, serious dark eyes, and she led by the hand a black-eyed boy, who see=
med
to be crying and looking about as for something lost. She dreamed that she
stood still, and the woman came toward her, looking at her with sweet, sad
eyes, till the child seemed to feel them in every fibre of her frame. The w=
oman
laid her hand on her head as if in blessing, and then put the boy's hand in
hers, and said, "Take him, Mara, he is a playmate for you;" and w=
ith
that the little boy's face flashed out into a merry laugh. The woman faded
away, and the three children remained playing together, gathering shells an=
d pebbles
of a wonderful brightness. So vivid was this vision, that the little one aw=
oke
laughing with pleasure, and searched under her pillows for the strange and
beautiful things that she had been gathering in dreamland.
"What's Mara
looking after?" said Sally, sitting up in her trundle-bed, and speakin=
g in
the patronizing motherly tone she commonly used to her little playmate.
"All gone, p=
itty
boy--all gone!" said the child, looking round regretfully, and shaking=
her
golden head; "pitty lady all gone!"
"How queer s=
he
talks!" said Sally, who had awakened with the project of building a sh=
eet-house
with her fairy neighbor, and was beginning to loosen the upper sheet and
dispose the pillows with a view to this species of architecture. "Come,
Mara, let's make a pretty house!" she said.
"Pitty boy o=
ut
dere--out dere!" said the little one, pointing to the window, with a
deeper expression than ever of wishfulness in her eyes.
"Come, Sally
Kittridge, get up this minute!" said the voice of her mother, entering=
the
door at this moment; "and here, put these clothes on to Mara, the child
mustn't run round in her best; it's strange, now, Mary Pennel never thinks =
of
such things."
Sally, who was of=
an
efficient temperament, was preparing energetically to second these commands=
of
her mother, and endue her little neighbor with a coarse brown stuff dress,
somewhat faded and patched, which she herself had outgrown when of Mara's a=
ge;
with shoes, which had been coarsely made to begin with, and very much batte=
red
by time; but, quite to her surprise, the child, generally so passive and
tractable, opposed a most unexpected and desperate resistance to this
operation. She began to cry and to sob and shake her curly head, throwing h=
er
tiny hands out in a wild species of freakish opposition, which had,
notwithstanding, a quaint and singular grace about it, while she stated her
objections in all the little English at her command.
"Mara don't
want--Mara want pitty boo des--and pitty shoes."
"Why, was ev=
er
anything like it?" said Mrs. Kittridge to Miss Roxy, as they both were
drawn to the door by the outcry; "here's this child won't have decent
every-day clothes put on her,--she must be kept dressed up like a princess.
Now, that ar's French calico!" said Mrs. Kittridge, holding up the
controverted blue dress, "and that ar never cost a cent under
five-and-sixpence a yard; it takes a yard and a half to make it, and it must
have been a good day's work to make it up; call that three-and-sixpence mor=
e,
and with them pearl buttons and thread and all, that ar dress never cost le=
ss
than a dollar and seventy-five, and here she's goin' to run out every day in
it!"
"Well,
well!" said Miss Roxy, who had taken the sobbing fair one in her lap,
"you know, Mis' Kittridge, this 'ere's a kind o' pet lamb, an old-folk=
s'
darling, and things be with her as they be, and we can't make her over, and
she's such a nervous little thing we mustn't cross her." Saying which,=
she
proceeded to dress the child in her own clothes.
"If you had a
good large checked apron, I wouldn't mind putting that on her!" added =
Miss
Roxy, after she had arrayed the child.
"Here's
one," said Mrs. Kittridge; "that may save her clothes some."=
Miss Roxy began to
put on the wholesome garment; but, rather to her mortification, the little
fairy began to weep again in a most heart-broken manner.
"Don't want
che't apon."
"Why don't M=
ara
want nice checked apron?" said Miss Roxy, in that extra cheerful tone =
by
which children are to be made to believe they have mistaken their own mind.=
"Don't want
it!" with a decided wave of the little hand; "I's too pitty to we=
ar
che't apon."
"Well!
well!" said Mrs. Kittridge, rolling up her eyes, "did I ever! no,=
I
never did. If there ain't depraved natur' a-comin' out early. Well, if she =
says
she's pretty now, what'll it be when she's fifteen?"
"She'll lear=
n to
tell a lie about it by that time," said Miss Roxy, "and say she
thinks she's horrid. The child is pretty, and the truth comes uppermost with
her now."
"Haw! haw!
haw!" burst with a great crash from Captain Kittridge, who had come in
behind, and stood silently listening during this conversation; "that's
musical now; come here, my little maid, you are too pretty for checked apro=
ns,
and no mistake;" and seizing the child in his long arms, he tossed her=
up
like a butterfly, while her sunny curls shone in the morning light.
"There's one
comfort about the child, Miss Kittridge," said Aunt Roxy: "she's =
one
of them that dirt won't stick to. I never knew her to stain or tear her
clothes,--she always come in jist so nice."
"She ain't m=
uch
like Sally, then!" said Mrs. Kittridge. "That girl'll run through
more clothes! Only last week she walked the crown out of my old black straw
bonnet, and left it hanging on the top of a blackberry-bush."
"Wal',
wal'," said Captain Kittridge, "as to dressin' this 'ere child,--=
why,
ef Pennel's a mind to dress her in cloth of gold, it's none of our business!
He's rich enough for all he wants to do, and so let's eat our breakfast and
mind our own business."
After breakfast
Captain Kittridge took the two children down to the cove, to investigate the
state of his boat and tar-kettle, set high above the highest tide-mark. The=
sun
had risen gloriously, the sky was of an intense, vivid blue, and only great
snowy islands of clouds, lying in silver banks on the horizon, showed vesti=
ges
of last night's storm. The whole wide sea was one glorious scene of forming=
and
dissolving mountains of blue and purple, breaking at the crest into brillia=
nt silver.
All round the island the waves were constantly leaping and springing into j=
ets
and columns of brilliant foam, throwing themselves high up, in silvery
cataracts, into the very arms of the solemn evergreen forests which overhung
the shore.
The sands of the
little cove seemed harder and whiter than ever, and were thickly bestrewn w=
ith
the shells and seaweed which the upturnings of the night had brought in. Th=
ere
lay what might have been fringes and fragments of sea-gods' vestures,--blue,
crimson, purple, and orange seaweeds, wreathed in tangled ropes of kelp and
sea-grass, or lying separately scattered on the sands. The children ran wil=
dly,
shouting as they began gathering sea-treasures; and Sally, with the air of =
an experienced
hand in the business, untwisted the coils of rosy seaweed, from which every
moment she disengaged some new treasure, in some rarer shell or smoother pe=
bble.
Suddenly, the chi=
ld
shook out something from a knotted mass of sea-grass, which she held up wit=
h a
perfect shriek of delight. It was a bracelet of hair, fastened by a brillia=
nt
clasp of green, sparkling stones, such as she had never seen before. She re=
doubled
her cries of delight, as she saw it sparkle between her and the sun, calling
upon her father.
"Father! fat=
her!
do come here, and see what I've found!"
He came quickly, =
and
took the bracelet from the child's hand; but, at the same moment, looking o=
ver
her head, he caught sight of an object partially concealed behind a project=
ing
rock. He took a step forward, and uttered an exclamation,--
"Well, well!
sure enough! poor things!"
There lay, bedded=
in
sand and seaweed, a woman with a little boy clasped in her arms! Both had b=
een
carefully lashed to a spar, but the child was held to the bosom of the woma=
n,
with a pressure closer than any knot that mortal hands could tie. Both were
deep sunk in the sand, into which had streamed the woman's long, dark hair,
which sparkled with glittering morsels of sand and pebbles, and with those
tiny, brilliant, yellow shells which are so numerous on that shore.
The woman was both
young and beautiful. The forehead, damp with ocean-spray, was like sculptur=
ed
marble,--the eyebrows dark and decided in their outline; but the long, heav=
y,
black fringes had shut down, as a solemn curtain, over all the history of
mortal joy or sorrow that those eyes had looked upon. A wedding-ring gleame=
d on
the marble hand; but the sea had divorced all human ties, and taken her as a
bride to itself. And, in truth, it seemed to have made to her a worthy bed,=
for
she was all folded and inwreathed in sand and shells and seaweeds, and a gr=
eat,
weird-looking leaf of kelp, some yards in length, lay twined around her lik=
e a
shroud. The child that lay in her bosom had hair, and face, and eyelashes l=
ike
her own, and his little hands were holding tightly a portion of the black d=
ress
which she wore.
"Cold,--cold=
,--stone
dead!" was the muttered exclamation of the old seaman, as he bent over=
the
woman.
"She must ha=
ve
struck her head there," he mused, as he laid his finger on a dark, bru=
ised
spot on her temple. He laid his hand on the child's heart, and put one fing=
er
under the arm to see if there was any lingering vital heat, and then hastily
cut the lashings that bound the pair to the spar, and with difficulty
disengaged the child from the cold clasp in which dying love had bound him =
to a
heart which should beat no more with mortal joy or sorrow.
Sally, after the
first moment, had run screaming toward the house, with all a child's forward
eagerness, to be the bearer of news; but the little Mara stood, looking
anxiously, with a wishful earnestness of face.
"Pitty
boy,--pitty boy,--come!" she said often; but the old man was so busy, =
he
scarcely regarded her.
"Now, Cap'n
Kittridge, do tell!" said Miss Roxy, meeting him in all haste, with a
cap-border stiff in air, while Dame Kittridge exclaimed,--
"Now, you do=
n't!
Well, well! didn't I say that was a ship last night? And what a solemnizing
thought it was that souls might be goin' into eternity!"
"We must have
blankets and hot bottles, right away," said Miss Roxy, who always took=
the
earthly view of matters, and who was, in her own person, a personified huma=
ne
society. "Miss Kittridge, you jist dip out your dishwater into the
smallest tub, and we'll put him in. Stand away, Mara! Sally, you take her o=
ut
of the way! We'll fetch this child to, perhaps. I've fetched 'em to, when
they's seemed to be dead as door-nails!"
"Cap'n
Kittridge, you're sure the woman's dead?"
"Laws, yes; =
she
had a blow right on her temple here. There's no bringing her to till the
resurrection."
"Well, then,=
you
jist go and get Cap'n Pennel to come down and help you, and get the body in=
to
the house, and we'll attend to layin' it out by and by. Tell Ruey to come
down."
Aunt Roxy issued =
her
orders with all the military vigor and precision of a general in case of a
sudden attack. It was her habit. Sickness and death were her opportunities;=
where
they were, she felt herself at home, and she addressed herself to the task
before her with undoubting faith.
Before many hours=
a
pair of large, dark eyes slowly emerged from under the black-fringed lids of
the little drowned boy,--they rolled dreamily round for a moment, and dropp=
ed
again in heavy languor.
The little Mara h=
ad,
with the quiet persistence which formed a trait in her baby character, drag=
ged
stools and chairs to the back of the bed, which she at last succeeded in
scaling, and sat opposite to where the child lay, grave and still, watching
with intense earnestness the process that was going on. At the moment when =
the
eyes had opened, she stretched forth her little arms, and said, eagerly,
"Pitty boy, come,"--and then, as they closed again, she dropped h=
er
hands with a sigh of disappointment. Yet, before night, the little stranger=
sat
up in bed, and laughed with pleasure at the treasures of shells and pebbles=
which
the children spread out on the bed before him.
He was a vigorous,
well-made, handsome child, with brilliant eyes and teeth, but the few words
that he spoke were in a language unknown to most present. Captain Kittridge
declared it to be Spanish, and that a call which he most passionately and o=
ften
repeated was for his mother. But he was of that happy age when sorrow can be
easily effaced, and the efforts of the children called forth joyous smiles.
When his playthings did not go to his liking, he showed sparkles of a fiery,
irascible spirit.
The little Mara
seemed to appropriate him in feminine fashion, as a chosen idol and graven
image. She gave him at once all her slender stock of infantine treasures, a=
nd
seemed to watch with an ecstatic devotion his every movement,--often repeat=
ing,
as she looked delightedly around, "Pitty boy, come."
She had no words =
to
explain the strange dream of the morning; it lay in her, struggling for
expression, and giving her an interest in the new-comer as in something
belonging to herself. Whence it came,--whence come multitudes like it, which
spring up as strange, enchanted flowers, every now and then in the dull,
material pathway of life,--who knows? It may be that our present faculties =
have
among them a rudimentary one, like the germs of wings in the chrysalis, by
which the spiritual world becomes sometimes an object of perception; there =
may
be natures in which the walls of the material are so fine and translucent t=
hat
the spiritual is seen through them as through a glass darkly. It may be, to=
o,
that the love which is stronger than death has a power sometimes to make it=
self
heard and felt through the walls of our mortality, when it would plead for =
the
defenseless ones it has left behind. All these things may be,--who knows?
*
"There,"
said Miss Roxy, coming out of the keeping-room at sunset; "I wouldn't =
ask
to see a better-lookin' corpse. That ar woman was a sight to behold this
morning. I guess I shook a double handful of stones and them little shells =
out
of her hair,--now she reely looks beautiful. Captain Kittridge has made a
coffin out o' some cedar-boards he happened to have, and I lined it with
bleached cotton, and stuffed the pillow nice and full, and when we come to =
get
her in, she reely will look lovely."
"I s'pose, M=
is'
Kittridge, you'll have the funeral to-morrow,--it's Sunday."
"Why, yes, A=
unt
Roxy,--I think everybody must want to improve such a dispensation. Have you
took little Mara in to look at the corpse?"
"Well, no,&q=
uot;
said Miss Roxy; "Mis' Pennel's gettin' ready to take her home."
"I think it'=
s an
opportunity we ought to improve," said Mrs. Kittridge, "to learn
children what death is. I think we can't begin to solemnize their minds too
young."
At this moment Sa=
lly
and the little Mara entered the room.
"Come here,
children," said Mrs. Kittridge, taking a hand of either one, and leadi=
ng
them to the closed door of the keeping-room; "I've got somethin' to sh=
ow
you."
The room looked
ghostly and dim,--the rays of light fell through the closed shutter on an
object mysteriously muffled in a white sheet.
Sally's bright fa=
ce
expressed only the vague curiosity of a child to see something new; but the
little Mara resisted and hung back with all her force, so that Mrs. Kittrid=
ge
was obliged to take her up and hold her.
She folded back t=
he
sheet from the chill and wintry form which lay so icily, lonely, and cold.
Sally walked around it, and gratified her curiosity by seeing it from every
point of view, and laying her warm, busy hand on the lifeless and cold one;=
but
Mara clung to Mrs. Kittridge, with eyes that expressed a distressed
astonishment. The good woman stooped over and placed the child's little hand
for a moment on the icy forehead. The little one gave a piercing scream, and
struggled to get away; and as soon as she was put down, she ran and hid her=
face
in Aunt Roxy's dress, sobbing bitterly.
"That child'=
ll
grow up to follow vanity," said Mrs. Kittridge; "her little head =
is
full of dress now, and she hates anything serious,--it's easy to see
that."
The little Mara h=
ad
no words to tell what a strange, distressful chill had passed up her arm and
through her brain, as she felt that icy cold of death,--that cold so differ=
ent
from all others. It was an impression of fear and pain that lasted weeks and
months, so that she would start out of sleep and cry with a terror which she
had not yet a sufficiency of language to describe.
"You seem to
forget, Mis' Kittridge, that this 'ere child ain't rugged like our Sally,&q=
uot;
said Aunt Roxy, as she raised the little Mara in her arms. "She was a
seven-months' baby, and hard to raise at all, and a shivery, scary little
creature."
"Well, then,=
she
ought to be hardened," said Dame Kittridge. "But Mary Pennel never
had no sort of idea of bringin' up children; 'twas jist so with Naomi,--the
girl never had no sort o' resolution, and she just died for want o'
resolution,--that's what came of it. I tell ye, children's got to learn to =
take
the world as it is; and 'tain't no use bringin' on 'em up too tender. Teach=
'em
to begin as they've got to go out,--that's my maxim."
"Mis' Kittri=
dge,"
said Aunt Roxy, "there's reason in all things, and there's difference =
in
children. 'What's one's meat's another's pison.' You couldn't fetch up Mis'
Pennel's children, and she couldn't fetch up your'n,--so let's say no more
'bout it."
"I'm always
a-tellin' my wife that ar," said Captain Kittridge; "she's always
wantin' to make everybody over after her pattern."
"Cap'n
Kittridge, I don't think you need to speak," resumed his wife. "W=
hen
such a loud providence is a-knockin' at your door, I think you'd better be
a-searchin' your own heart,--here it is the eleventh hour, and you hain't c=
ome
into the Lord's vineyard yet."
"Oh! come, c=
ome,
Mis' Kittridge, don't twit a feller afore folks," said the Captain.
"I'm goin' over to Harpswell Neck this blessed minute after the minist=
er
to 'tend the funeral,--so we'll let him preach."
CHAPTER VIII - THE SEEN A=
ND
THE UNSEEN
Life on any shore is a dull affair,=
--ever
degenerating into commonplace; and this may account for the eagerness with
which even a great calamity is sometimes accepted in a neighborhood, as
affording wherewithal to stir the deeper feelings of our nature. Thus, thou=
gh
Mrs. Kittridge was by no means a hard-hearted woman, and would not for the
world have had a ship wrecked on her particular account, yet since a ship h=
ad
been wrecked and a body floated ashore at her very door, as it were, it aff=
orded
her no inconsiderable satisfaction to dwell on the details and to arrange f=
or
the funeral.
It was something =
to
talk about and to think of, and likely to furnish subject-matter for talk f=
or
years to come when she should go out to tea with any of her acquaintances w=
ho
lived at Middle Bay, or Maquoit, or Harpswell Neck. For although in those
days,--the number of light-houses being much smaller than it is now,--it wa=
s no
uncommon thing for ships to be driven on shore in storms, yet this incident=
had
undeniably more that was stirring and romantic in it than any within the me=
mory
of any tea-table gossip in the vicinity. Mrs. Kittridge, therefore, looked =
forward
to the funeral services on Sunday afternoon as to a species of solemn
fête, which imparted a sort of consequence to her dwelling and hersel=
f.
Notice of it was to be given out in "meeting" after service, and =
she
might expect both keeping-room and kitchen to be full. Mrs. Pennel had offe=
red
to do her share of Christian and neighborly kindness, in taking home to her=
own
dwelling the little boy. In fact, it became necessary to do so in order to
appease the feelings of the little Mara, who clung to the new acquisition w=
ith
most devoted fondness, and wept bitterly when he was separated from her even
for a few moments. Therefore, in the afternoon of the day when the body was
found, Mrs. Pennel, who had come down to assist, went back in company with =
Aunt
Ruey and the two children.
The September eve=
ning
set in brisk and chill, and the cheerful fire that snapped and roared up the
ample chimney of Captain Kittridge's kitchen was a pleasing feature. The da=
ys
of our story were before the advent of those sullen gnomes, the
"air-tights," or even those more sociable and cheery domestic gen=
ii,
the cooking-stoves. They were the days of the genial open kitchen-fire, with
the crane, the pot-hooks, and trammels,--where hissed and boiled the social
tea-kettle, where steamed the huge dinner-pot, in whose ample depths beets,
carrots, potatoes, and turnips boiled in jolly sociability with the pork or
corned beef which they were destined to flank at the coming meal.
On the present
evening, Miss Roxy sat bolt upright, as was her wont, in one corner of the
fireplace, with her spectacles on her nose, and an unwonted show of candles=
on
the little stand beside her, having resumed the task of the silk dress which
had been for a season interrupted. Mrs. Kittridge, with her spectacles also
mounted, was carefully and warily "running-up breadths," stopping
every few minutes to examine her work, and to inquire submissively of Miss =
Roxy
if "it will do?"
Captain Kittridge=
sat
in the other corner busily whittling on a little boat which he was shaping =
to
please Sally, who sat on a low stool by his side with her knitting, evident=
ly
more intent on what her father was producing than on the evening task of
"ten bouts," which her mother exacted before she could freely give
her mind to anything on her own account. As Sally was rigorously sent to bed
exactly at eight o'clock, it became her to be diligent if she wished to do
anything for her own amusement before that hour.
And in the next r=
oom,
cold and still, was lying that faded image of youth and beauty which the sea
had so strangely given up. Without a name, without a history, without a sin=
gle
accompaniment from which her past could even be surmised,--there she lay,
sealed in eternal silence.
"It's
strange," said Captain Kittridge, as he whittled away,--"it's ver=
y strange
we don't find anything more of that ar ship. I've been all up and down the
beach a-lookin'. There was a spar and some broken bits of boards and timbers
come ashore down on the beach, but nothin' to speak of."
"It won't be
known till the sea gives up its dead," said Miss Roxy, shaking her head
solemnly, "and there'll be a great givin' up then, I'm a-thinkin'.&quo=
t;
"Yes,
indeed," said Mrs. Kittridge, with an emphatic nod.
"Father,&quo=
t;
said Sally, "how many, many things there must be at the bottom of the
sea,--so many ships are sunk with all their fine things on board. Why don't
people contrive some way to go down and get them?"
"They do,
child," said Captain Kittridge; "they have diving-bells, and men =
go
down in 'em with caps over their faces, and long tubes to get the air throu=
gh,
and they walk about on the bottom of the ocean."
"Did you eve=
r go
down in one, father?"
"Why, yes,
child, to be sure; and strange enough it was, to be sure. There you could s=
ee
great big sea critters, with ever so many eyes and long arms, swimming righ=
t up
to catch you, and all you could do would be to muddy the water on the botto=
m,
so they couldn't see you."
"I never hea=
rd
of that, Cap'n Kittridge," said his wife, drawing herself up with a
reproving coolness.
"Wal', Mis'
Kittridge, you hain't heard of everything that ever happened," said the
Captain, imperturbably, "though you do know a sight."
"And how does
the bottom of the ocean look, father?" said Sally.
"Laws, child,
why trees and bushes grow there, just as they do on land; and great
plants,--blue and purple and green and yellow, and lots of great pearls lie
round. I've seen 'em big as chippin'-birds' eggs."
"Cap'n
Kittridge!" said his wife.
"I have, and=
big
as robins' eggs, too, but them was off the coast of Ceylon and Malabar, and=
way
round the Equator," said the Captain, prudently resolved to throw his
romance to a sufficient distance.
"It's a pity=
you
didn't get a few of them pearls," said his wife, with an indignant
appearance of scorn.
"I did get l=
ots
on 'em, and traded 'em off to the Nabobs in the interior for Cashmere shawls
and India silks and sich," said the Captain, composedly; "and bro=
ught
'em home and sold 'em at a good figure, too."
"Oh,
father!" said Sally, earnestly, "I wish you had saved just one or=
two
for us."
"Laws, child=
, I
wish now I had," said the Captain, good-naturedly. "Why, when I w=
as
in India, I went up to Lucknow, and Benares, and round, and saw all the Nab=
obs
and Biggums,--why, they don't make no more of gold and silver and precious
stones than we do of the shells we find on the beach. Why, I've seen one of
them fellers with a diamond in his turban as big as my fist."
"Cap'n
Kittridge, what are you telling?" said his wife once more.
"Fact,--as b=
ig
as my fist," said the Captain, obdurately; "and all the clothes he
wore was jist a stiff crust of pearls and precious stones. I tell you, he
looked like something in the Revelations,--a real New Jerusalem look he
had."
"I call that=
ar
talk wicked, Cap'n Kittridge, usin' Scriptur' that ar way," said his w=
ife.
"Why, don't =
it
tell about all sorts of gold and precious stones in the Revelations?" =
said
the Captain; "that's all I meant. Them ar countries off in Asia ain't =
like
our'n,--stands to reason they shouldn't be; them's Scripture countries, and
everything is different there."
"Father, did=
n't
you ever get any of those splendid things?" said Sally.
"Laws, yes,
child. Why, I had a great green ring, an emerald, that one of the princes g=
iv'
me, and ever so many pearls and diamonds. I used to go with 'em rattlin' lo=
ose
in my vest pocket. I was young and gay in them days, and thought of bringin=
' of
'em home for the gals, but somehow I always got opportunities for swappin' =
of
'em off for goods and sich. That ar shawl your mother keeps in her camfire
chist was what I got for one on 'em."
"Well,
well," said Mrs. Kittridge, "there's never any catchin' you, 'cau=
se
you've been where we haven't."
"You've caug=
ht
me once, and that ought'r do," said the Captain, with unruffled
good-nature. "I tell you, Sally, your mother was the handsomest gal in
Harpswell in them days."
"I should th=
ink
you was too old for such nonsense, Cap'n," said Mrs. Kittridge, with a
toss of her head, and a voice that sounded far less inexorable than her for=
mer
admonition. In fact, though the old Captain was as unmanageable under his
wife's fireside régime as any brisk old cricket that skipped and sang
around the hearth, and though he hopped over all moral boundaries with a
cheerful alertness of conscience that was quite discouraging, still there w=
as
no resisting the spell of his inexhaustible good-nature.
By this time he h=
ad
finished the little boat, and to Sally's great delight, began sailing it for
her in a pail of water.
"I wonder,&q=
uot;
said Mrs. Kittridge, "what's to be done with that ar child. I suppose =
the
selectmen will take care on't; it'll be brought up by the town."
"I shouldn't wonder," said Miss Roxy, "if Cap'n Pennel should adopt it."<= o:p>
"You don't t=
hink
so," said Mrs. Kittridge. "'Twould be taking a great care and exp=
ense
on their hands at their time of life."
"I wouldn't =
want
no better fun than to bring up that little shaver,"
said Captain
Kittridge; "he's a bright un, I promise you."
"You, Cap'n
Kittridge! I wonder you can talk so," said his wife. "It's an awf=
ul
responsibility, and I wonder you don't think whether or no you're fit for
it."
"Why, down h=
ere
on the shore, I'd as lives undertake a boy as a Newfoundland pup," said
the Captain. "Plenty in the sea to eat, drink, and wear. That ar young=
un
may be the staff of their old age yet."
"You see,&qu=
ot;
said Miss Roxy, "I think they'll adopt it to be company for little Mar=
a;
they're bound up in her, and the little thing pines bein' alone."
"Well, they =
make
a real graven image of that ar child," said Mrs. Kittridge, "and
fairly bow down to her and worship her."
"Well, it's
natural," said Miss Roxy. "Besides, the little thing is cunnin';
she's about the cunnin'est little crittur that I ever saw, and has such
enticin' ways."
The fact was, as =
the
reader may perceive, that Miss Roxy had been thawed into an unusual attachm=
ent
for the little Mara, and this affection was beginning to spread a warming
element though her whole being. It was as if a rough granite rock had sudde=
nly
awakened to a passionate consciousness of the beauty of some fluttering whi=
te
anemone that nestled in its cleft, and felt warm thrills running through all
its veins at every tender motion and shadow. A word spoken against the litt=
le
one seemed to rouse her combativeness. Nor did Dame Kittridge bear the child
the slightest ill-will, but she was one of those naturally care-taking peop=
le
whom Providence seems to design to perform the picket duties for the rest of
society, and who, therefore, challenge everybody and everything to stand and
give an account of themselves. Miss Roxy herself belonged to this class, but
sometimes found herself so stoutly overhauled by the guns of Mrs. Kittridge=
's
battery, that she could only stand modestly on the defensive.
One of Mrs.
Kittridge's favorite hobbies was education, or, as she phrased it, the
"fetchin' up" of children, which she held should be performed to =
the
letter of the old stiff rule. In this manner she had already trained up six
sons, who were all following their fortunes upon the seas, and, on this acc=
ount,
she had no small conceit of her abilities; and when she thought she discern=
ed a
lamb being left to frisk heedlessly out of bounds, her zeal was stirred to
bring it under proper sheepfold regulations.
"Come, Sally,
it's eight o'clock," said the good woman.
Sally's dark brows
lowered over her large, black eyes, and she gave an appealing look to her
father.
"Law, mother,
let the child sit up a quarter of an hour later, jist for once."
"Cap'n
Kittridge, if I was to hear to you, there'd never be no rule in this house.
Sally, you go 'long this minute, and be sure you put your knittin' away in =
its
place."
The Captain gave a
humorous nod of submissive good-nature to his daughter as she went out. In
fact, putting Sally to bed was taking away his plaything, and leaving him
nothing to do but study faces in the coals, or watch the fleeting sparks wh=
ich
chased each other in flocks up the sooty back of the chimney.
It was Saturday
night, and the morrow was Sunday,--never a very pleasant prospect to the po=
or
Captain, who, having, unfortunately, no spiritual tastes, found it very
difficult to get through the day in compliance with his wife's views of
propriety, for he, alas! soared no higher in his aims.
"I b'lieve, = on the hull, Polly, I'll go to bed, too," said he, suddenly starting up.<= o:p>
"Well, fathe=
r,
your clean shirt is in the right-hand corner of the upper drawer, and your
Sunday clothes on the back of the chair by the bed."
The fact was that=
the
Captain promised himself the pleasure of a long conversation with Sally, who
nestled in the trundle-bed under the paternal couch, to whom he could relate
long, many-colored yarns, without the danger of interruption from her mothe=
r's
sharp, truth-seeking voice.
A moralist might,
perhaps, be puzzled exactly what account to make of the Captain's dispositi=
on
to romancing and embroidery. In all real, matter-of-fact transactions, as
between man and man, his word was as good as another's, and he was held to =
be
honest and just in his dealings. It was only when he mounted the stilts of
foreign travel that his paces became so enormous. Perhaps, after all, a rude
poetic and artistic faculty possessed the man. He might have been a humbler
phase of the "mute, inglorious Milton." Perhaps his narrations
required the privileges and allowances due to the inventive arts generally.
Certain it was that, in common with other artists, he required an atmospher=
e of
sympathy and confidence in which to develop himself fully; and, when left a=
lone
with children, his mind ran such riot, that the bounds between the real and
unreal became foggier than the banks of Newfoundland.
The two women sat=
up,
and the night wore on apace, while they kept together that customary vigil
which it was thought necessary to hold over the lifeless casket from which =
an immortal
jewel had recently been withdrawn.
"I re'lly did
hope," said Mrs. Kittridge, mournfully, "that this 'ere solemn
Providence would have been sent home to the Cap'n's mind; but he seems jist=
as
light and triflin' as ever."
"There don't
nobody see these 'ere things unless they's effectually called," said M=
iss
Roxy, "and the Cap'n's time ain't come."
"It's gettin=
' to
be t'ward the eleventh hour," said Mrs. Kittridge, "as I was
a-tellin' him this afternoon."
"Well,"
said Miss Roxy, "you know
"'While the lamp =
holds
out to burn, The
vilest sinner may return.'"
"Yes, I know
that," said Mrs. Kittridge, rising and taking up the candle. "Don=
't
you think, Aunt Roxy, we may as well give a look in there at the corpse?&qu=
ot;
It was past midni=
ght
as they went together into the keeping-room. All was so still that the clas=
h of
the rising tide and the ticking of the clock assumed that solemn and mournf=
ul
distinctness which even tones less impressive take on in the night-watches.
Miss Roxy went mechanically through with certain arrangements of the white
drapery around the cold sleeper, and uncovering the face and bust for a mom=
ent,
looked critically at the still, unconscious countenance.
"Not one thi=
ng
to let us know who or what she is," she said; "that boy, if he li=
ves,
would give a good deal to know, some day."
"What is it
one's duty to do about this bracelet?" said Mrs. Kittridge, taking fro=
m a
drawer the article in question, which had been found on the beach in the
morning.
"Well, I s'p=
ose
it belongs to the child, whatever it's worth," said Miss Roxy.
"Then if the
Pennels conclude to take him, I may as well give it to them," said Mrs.
Kittridge, laying it back in the drawer.
Miss Roxy folded =
the
cloth back over the face, and the two went out into the kitchen. The fire h=
ad
sunk low--the crickets were chirruping gleefully. Mrs. Kittridge added more
wood, and put on the tea-kettle that their watching might be refreshed by t=
he
aid of its talkative and inspiring beverage. The two solemn, hard-visaged w=
omen
drew up to each other by the fire, and insensibly their very voices assumed=
a
tone of drowsy and confidential mystery.
"If this 'ere
poor woman was hopefully pious, and could see what was goin' on here,"
said Mrs. Kittridge, "it would seem to be a comfort to her that her ch=
ild
has fallen into such good hands. It seems a'most a pity she couldn't know
it."
"How do you =
know
she don't?" said Miss Roxy, brusquely.
"Why, you kn=
ow
the hymn," said Mrs. Kittridge, quoting those somewhat saddusaical lin=
es
from the popular psalm-book:--
"'The living know=
that
they must die, But all the dead
forgotten lie-- Their memory and =
their
senses gone, Alike unknowing a=
nd
unknown.'"
"Well, I don=
't
know 'bout that," said Miss Roxy, flavoring her cup of tea; "hymn=
-book
ain't Scriptur', and I'm pretty sure that ar ain't true always;" and s=
he
nodded her head as if she could say more if she chose.
Now Miss Roxy's
reputation of vast experience in all the facts relating to those last fatef=
ul
hours, which are the only certain event in every human existence, caused he=
r to
be regarded as a sort of Delphic oracle in such matters, and therefore Mrs.
Kittridge, not without a share of the latent superstition to which each hum=
an
heart must confess at some hours, drew confidentially near to Miss Roxy, and
asked if she had anything particular on her mind.
"Well, Mis'
Kittridge," said Miss Roxy, "I ain't one of the sort as likes to =
make
a talk of what I've seen, but mebbe if I was, I've seen some things as
remarkable as anybody. I tell you, Mis' Kittridge, folks don't tend the sick
and dyin' bed year in and out, at all hours, day and night, and not see some
remarkable things; that's my opinion."
"Well, Miss
Roxy, did you ever see a sperit?"
"I won't say=
as
I have, and I won't say as I haven't," said Miss Roxy; "only as I
have seen some remarkable things."
There was a pause=
, in
which Mrs. Kittridge stirred her tea, looking intensely curious, while the =
old
kitchen-clock seemed to tick with one of those fits of loud insistence whic=
h seem
to take clocks at times when all is still, as if they had something that th=
ey
were getting ready to say pretty soon, if nobody else spoke.
But Miss Roxy
evidently had something to say, and so she began:--
"Mis' Kittri=
dge,
this 'ere's a very particular subject to be talkin' of. I've had opportunit=
ies
to observe that most haven't, and I don't care if I jist say to you, that I=
'm
pretty sure spirits that has left the body do come to their friends
sometimes."
The clock ticked =
with
still more empressement, and Mrs. Kittridge glared through the horn bows of=
her
glasses with eyes of eager curiosity.
"Now, you
remember Cap'n Titcomb's wife, that died fifteen years ago when her husband=
had
gone to Archangel; and you remember that he took her son John out with him-=
-and
of all her boys, John was the one she was particular sot on."
"Yes, and Jo=
hn
died at Archangel; I remember that."
"Jes' so,&qu=
ot;
said Miss Roxy, laying her hand on Mrs. Kittridge's; "he died at Archa=
ngel
the very day his mother died, and jist the hour, for the Cap'n had it down =
in
his log-book."
"You don't s=
ay
so!"
"Yes, I do.
Well, now," said Miss Roxy, sinking her voice, "this 'ere was
remarkable. Mis' Titcomb was one of the fearful sort, tho' one of the best
women that ever lived. Our minister used to call her 'Mis' Muchafraid'--you
know, in the 'Pilgrim's Progress'--but he was satisfied with her evidences,=
and
told her so; she used to say she was 'afraid of the dark valley,' and she t=
old
our minister so when he went out, that ar last day he called; and his last
words, as he stood with his hand on the knob of the door, was 'Mis' Titcomb,
the Lord will find ways to bring you thro' the dark valley.' Well, she sunk
away about three o'clock in the morning. I remember the time, 'cause the
Cap'n's chronometer watch that he left with her lay on the stand for her to
take her drops by. I heard her kind o' restless, and I went up, and I saw s=
he
was struck with death, and she looked sort o' anxious and distressed.
"'Oh, Aunt
Roxy,' says she, 'it's so dark, who will go with me?' and in a minute her w=
hole
face brightened up, and says she, 'John is going with me,' and she jist gave
the least little sigh and never breathed no more--she jist died as easy as a
bird. I told our minister of it next morning, and he asked if I'd made a no=
te
of the hour, and I told him I had, and says he, 'You did right, Aunt
Roxy.'"
"What did he
seem to think of it?"
"Well, he di=
dn't
seem inclined to speak freely. 'Miss Roxy,' says he, 'all natur's in the Lo=
rd's
hands, and there's no saying why he uses this or that; them that's strong
enough to go by faith, he lets 'em, but there's no saying what he won't do =
for
the weak ones.'"
"Wa'n't the
Cap'n overcome when you told him?" said Mrs. Kittridge.
"Indeed he w=
as;
he was jist as white as a sheet."
Miss Roxy now
proceeded to pour out another cup of tea, and having mixed and flavored it,=
she
looked in a weird and sibylline manner across it, and inquired,--
"Mis' Kittri=
dge,
do you remember that ar Mr. Wadkins that come to Brunswick twenty years ago=
, in
President Averill's days?"
"Yes, I reme=
mber
the pale, thin, long-nosed gentleman that used to sit in President Averill's
pew at church. Nobody knew who he was, or where he came from. The college
students used to call him Thaddeus of Warsaw. Nobody knew who he was but the
President, 'cause he could speak all the foreign tongues--one about as well=
as
another; but the President he knew his story, and said he was a good man, a=
nd
he used to stay to the sacrament regular, I remember."
"Yes," =
said
Miss Roxy, "he used to live in a room all alone, and keep himself. Fol=
ks
said he was quite a gentleman, too, and fond of reading."
"I heard Cap=
'n
Atkins tell," said Mrs. Kittridge, "how they came to take him up =
on
the shores of Holland. You see, when he was somewhere in a port in Denmark,
some men come to him and offered him a pretty good sum of money if he'd be =
at
such a place on the coast of Holland on such a day, and take whoever should
come. So the Cap'n he went, and sure enough on that day there come a troop =
of
men on horseback down to the beach with this man, and they all bid him good=
-by,
and seemed to make much of him, but he never told 'em nothin' on board ship,
only he seemed kind o' sad and pinin'."
"Well,"
said Miss Roxy; "Ruey and I we took care o' that man in his last sickn=
ess,
and we watched with him the night he died, and there was something quite
remarkable."
"Do tell
now," said Mrs. Kittridge.
"Well, you
see," said Miss Roxy, "he'd been low and poorly all day, kind o'
tossin' and restless, and a little light-headed, and the Doctor said he tho=
ught
he wouldn't last till morning, and so Ruey and I we set up with him, and
between twelve and one Ruey said she thought she'd jist lop down a few minu=
tes
on the old sofa at the foot of the bed, and I made me a cup of tea like as =
I'm
a-doin' now, and set with my back to him."
"Well?"
said Mrs. Kittridge, eagerly.
"Well, you s=
ee
he kept a-tossin' and throwin' off the clothes, and I kept a-gettin' up to
straighten 'em; and once he threw out his arms, and something bright fell o=
ut
on to the pillow, and I went and looked, and it was a likeness that he wore=
by
a ribbon round his neck. It was a woman--a real handsome one--and she had o=
n a
low-necked black dress, of the cut they used to call Marie Louise, and she =
had
a string of pearls round her neck, and her hair curled with pearls in it, a=
nd
very wide blue eyes. Well, you see, I didn't look but a minute before he se=
emed
to wake up, and he caught at it and hid it in his clothes. Well, I went and=
sat
down, and I grew kind o' sleepy over the fire; but pretty soon I heard him
speak out very clear, and kind o' surprised, in a tongue I didn't understan=
d,
and I looked round."
Miss Roxy here ma=
de a
pause, and put another lump of sugar into her tea.
"Well?"
said Mrs. Kittridge, ready to burst with curiosity.
"Well, now, I
don't like to tell about these 'ere things, and you mustn't never speak abo=
ut
it; but as sure as you live, Polly Kittridge, I see that ar very woman stan=
din'
at the back of the bed, right in the partin' of the curtains, jist as she
looked in the pictur'--blue eyes and curly hair and pearls on her neck, and
black dress."
"What did you
do?" said Mrs. Kittridge.
"Do? Why, I =
jist
held my breath and looked, and in a minute it kind o' faded away, and I got=
up
and went to the bed, but the man was gone. He lay there with the pleasantest
smile on his face that ever you see; and I woke up Ruey, and told her about
it."
Mrs. Kittridge dr=
ew a
long breath. "What do you think it was?"
"Well,"
said Miss Roxy, "I know what I think, but I don't think best to tell. I
told Doctor Meritts, and he said there were more things in heaven and earth
than folks knew about--and so I think."
*
Meanwhile, on this
same evening, the little Mara frisked like a household fairy round the hear=
th
of Zephaniah Pennel.
The boy was a
strong-limbed, merry-hearted little urchin, and did full justice to the
abundant hospitalities of Mrs. Pennel's tea-table; and after supper little =
Mara
employed herself in bringing apronful after apronful of her choicest treasu=
res,
and laying them down at his feet. His great black eyes flashed with pleasur=
e,
and he gamboled about the hearth with his new playmate in perfect
forgetfulness, apparently, of all the past night of fear and anguish.
When the great fa=
mily
Bible was brought out for prayers, and little Mara composed herself on a low
stool by her grandmother's side, he, however, did not conduct himself as a =
babe
of grace. He resisted all Miss Ruey's efforts to make him sit down beside h=
er,
and stood staring with his great, black, irreverent eyes during the
Bible-reading, and laughed out in the most inappropriate manner when the
psalm-singing began, and seemed disposed to mingle incoherent remarks of his
own even in the prayers.
"This is a
pretty self-willed youngster," said Miss Ruey, as they rose from the
exercises, "and I shouldn't think he'd been used to religious privileg=
es."
"Perhaps
not," said Zephaniah Pennel; "but who can say but what this provi=
dence
is a message of the Lord to us--such as Pharaoh's daughter sent about Moses,
'Take this child, and bring him up for me'?"
"I'd like to
take him, if I thought I was capable," said Mrs. Pennel, timidly. &quo=
t;It
seems a real providence to give Mara some company; the poor child pines so =
for
want of it."
"Well, then,
Mary, if you say so, we will bring him up with our little Mara," said
Zephaniah, drawing the child toward him. "May the Lord bless him!"=
; he
added, laying his great brown hands on the shining black curls of the child=
.
Sunday morning rose clear and brigh= t on Harpswell Bay. The whole sea was a waveless, blue looking-glass, streaked w= ith bands of white, and flecked with sailing cloud-shadows from the skies above. Orr's Island, with its blue-black spruces, its silver firs, its golden larc= hes, its scarlet sumachs, lay on the bosom of the deep like a great many-colored= gem on an enchanted mirror. A vague, dreamlike sense of rest and Sabbath stilln= ess seemed to brood in the air. The very spruce-trees seemed to know that it was Sunday, and to point solemnly upward with their dusky fingers; and the small tide-waves that chased each other up on the shelly beach, or broke against projecting rocks, seemed to do it with a chastened decorum, as if each blue-haired wave whispered to his brother, "Be still--be still."<= o:p>
Yes, Sunday it was
along all the beautiful shores of Maine--netted in green and azure by its
thousand islands, all glorious with their majestic pines, all musical and
silvery with the caresses of the sea-waves, that loved to wander and lose
themselves in their numberless shelly coves and tiny beaches among their ce=
dar
shadows.
Not merely as a
burdensome restraint, or a weary endurance, came the shadow of that Puritan
Sabbath. It brought with it all the sweetness that belongs to rest, all the
sacredness that hallows home, all the memories of patient thrift, of sober
order, of chastened yet intense family feeling, of calmness, purity, and
self-respecting dignity which distinguish the Puritan household. It seemed a
solemn pause in all the sights and sounds of earth. And he whose moral natu=
re
was not yet enough developed to fill the blank with visions of heaven was y=
et
wholesomely instructed by his weariness into the secret of his own spiritua=
l poverty.
Zephaniah Pennel,=
in
his best Sunday clothes, with his hard visage glowing with a sort of interi=
or
tenderness, ministered this morning at his family-altar--one of those thous=
and
priests of God's ordaining that tend the sacred fire in as many families of=
New
England. He had risen with the morning star and been forth to meditate, and
came in with his mind softened and glowing. The trance-like calm of earth a=
nd
sea found a solemn answer with him, as he read what a poet wrote by the
sea-shores of the Mediterranean, ages ago: "Bless the Lord, O my soul.=
O
Lord my God, thou art very great; thou art clothed with honor and majesty. =
Who coverest
thyself with light as with a garment: who stretchest out the heavens like a
curtain: who layeth the beams of his chambers in the waters: who maketh the
clouds his chariot: who walketh upon the wings of the wind. The trees of the
Lord are full of sap; the cedars of Lebanon, which he hath planted; where t=
he
birds make their nests; as for the stork, the fir-trees are her house. O Lo=
rd,
how manifold are thy works! in wisdom hast thou made them all."
Ages ago the ceda=
rs
that the poet saw have rotted into dust, and from their cones have risen
generations of others, wide-winged and grand. But the words of that poet ha=
ve
been wafted like seed to our days, and sprung up in flowers of trust and fa=
ith
in a thousand households.
"Well,
now," said Miss Ruey, when the morning rite was over, "Mis' Penne=
l, I
s'pose you and the Cap'n will be wantin' to go to the meetin', so don't you=
gin
yourse'ves a mite of trouble about the children, for I'll stay at home with
'em. The little feller was starty and fretful in his sleep last night, and
didn't seem to be quite well."
"No wonder, =
poor
dear," said Mrs. Pennel; "it's a wonder children can forget as th=
ey
do."
"Yes," =
said
Miss Ruey; "you know them lines in the 'English Reader,'--
'Gay hope is theirs by=
fancy
led, Least
pleasing when possessed; The tear forgot a=
s soon
as shed, The
sunshine of the breast.'
Them lines all'ys
seemed to me affectin'."
Miss Ruey's senti=
ment
was here interrupted by a loud cry from the bedroom, and something between a
sneeze and a howl.
"Massy! what=
is
that ar young un up to!" she exclaimed, rushing into the adjoining
bedroom.
There stood the y=
oung
Master Hopeful of our story, with streaming eyes and much-bedaubed face, ha=
ving
just, after much labor, succeeded in making Miss Ruey's snuff-box fly open,
which he did with such force as to send the contents in a perfect cloud into
eyes, nose, and mouth. The scene of struggling and confusion that ensued ca=
nnot
be described. The washings, and wipings, and sobbings, and exhortings, and =
the
sympathetic sobs of the little Mara, formed a small tempest for the time be=
ing
that was rather appalling.
"Well, this
'ere's a youngster that's a-goin' to make work," said Miss Ruey, when =
all
things were tolerably restored. "Seems to make himself at home first
thing."
"Poor little
dear," said Mrs. Pennel, in the excess of loving-kindness, "I hop=
e he
will; he's welcome, I'm sure."
"Not to my
snuff-box," said Miss Ruey, who had felt herself attacked in a very te=
nder
point.
"He's got the
notion of lookin' into things pretty early," said Captain Pennel, with=
an
indulgent smile.
"Well, Aunt Ruey," said Mrs. Pennel, when this disturbance was somewhat abated, "I feel kind o' sorry to deprive you of your privileges to-day."<= o:p>
"Oh! never m=
ind
me," said Miss Ruey, briskly. "I've got the big Bible, and I can =
sing
a hymn or two by myself. My voice ain't quite what it used to be, but then I
get a good deal of pleasure out of it." Aunt Ruey, it must be known, h=
ad
in her youth been one of the foremost leaders in the "singers'
seats," and now was in the habit of speaking of herself much as a reti=
red
prima donna might, whose past successes were yet in the minds of her
generation.
After giving a lo=
ok
out of the window, to see that the children were within sight, she opened t=
he
big Bible at the story of the ten plagues of Egypt, and adjusting her horn
spectacles with a sort of sideway twist on her little pug nose, she seemed
intent on her Sunday duties. A moment after she looked up and said, "I
don't know but I must send a message by you over to Mis' Deacon Badger, abo=
ut a
worldly matter, if 'tis Sunday; but I've been thinkin', Mis' Pennel, that
there'll have to be clothes made up for this 'ere child next week, and so
perhaps Roxy and I had better stop here a day or two longer, and you tell M=
is'
Badger that we'll come to her a Wednesday, and so she'll have time to have =
that
new press-board done,--the old one used to pester me so."
"Well, I'll
remember," said Mrs. Pennel.
"It seems a'=
most
impossible to prevent one's thoughts wanderin' Sundays," said Aunt Rue=
y;
"but I couldn't help a-thinkin' I could get such a nice pair o' trouse=
rs
out of them old Sunday ones of the Cap'n's in the garret. I was a-lookin' at
'em last Thursday, and thinkin' what a pity 'twas you hadn't nobody to cut =
down
for; but this 'ere young un's going to be such a tearer, he'll want somethi=
n'
real stout; but I'll try and put it out of my mind till Monday. Mis' Pennel,
you'll be sure to ask Mis' Titcomb how Harriet's toothache is, and whether =
them
drops cured her that I gin her last Sunday; and ef you'll jist look in a mi=
nute
at Major Broad's, and tell 'em to use bayberry wax for his blister, it's so
healin'; and do jist ask if Sally's baby's eye-tooth has come through
yet."
"Well, Aunt
Ruey, I'll try to remember all," said Mrs. Pennel, as she stood at the
glass in her bedroom, carefully adjusting the respectable black silk shawl =
over
her shoulders, and tying her neat bonnet-strings.
"I s'pose,&q=
uot;
said Aunt Ruey, "that the notice of the funeral'll be gin out after
sermon."
"Yes, I think
so," said Mrs. Pennel.
"It's another
loud call," said Miss Ruey, "and I hope it will turn the young pe=
ople
from their thoughts of dress and vanity,--there's Mary Jane Sanborn was all
took up with gettin' feathers and velvet for her fall bonnet. I don't think=
I
shall get no bonnet this year till snow comes. My bonnet's respectable enou=
gh,--don't
you think so?"
"Certainly, =
Aunt
Ruey, it looks very well."
"Well, I'll =
have
the pork and beans and brown-bread all hot on table agin you come back,&quo=
t;
said Miss Ruey, "and then after dinner we'll all go down to the funeral
together. Mis' Pennel, there's one thing on my mind,--what you goin' to call
this 'ere boy?"
"Father and =
I've
been thinkin' that over," said Mrs. Pennel.
"Wouldn't th=
ink
of giv'n him the Cap'n's name?" said Aunt Ruey.
"He must hav=
e a
name of his own," said Captain Pennel. "Come here, sonny," he
called to the child, who was playing just beside the door.
The child lowered=
his
head, shook down his long black curls, and looked through them as elfishly =
as a
Skye terrier, but showed no inclination to come.
"One thing he
hasn't learned, evidently," said Captain Pennel, "and that is to
mind."
"Here!"=
he
said, turning to the boy with a little of the tone he had used of old on the
quarter-deck, and taking his small hand firmly.
The child
surrendered, and let the good man lift him on his knee and stroke aside the
clustering curls; the boy then looked fixedly at him with his great gloomy
black eyes, his little firm-set mouth and bridled chin,--a perfect little
miniature of proud manliness.
"What's your
name, little boy?"
The great eyes
continued looking in the same solemn quiet.
"Law, he don=
't
understand a word," said Zephaniah, putting his hand kindly on the chi=
ld's
head; "our tongue is all strange to him. Kittridge says he's a Spanish
child; may be from the West Indies; but nobody knows,--we never shall know =
his
name."
"Well, I dare
say it was some Popish nonsense or other," said Aunt Ruey; "and n=
ow
he's come to a land of Christian privileges, we ought to give him a good
Scripture name, and start him well in the world."
"Let's call =
him
Moses," said Zephaniah, "because we drew him out of the water.&qu=
ot;
"Now, did I
ever!" said Miss Ruey; "there's something in the Bible to fit
everything, ain't there?"
"I like Mose=
s,
because I had a brother of that name," said Mrs. Pennel.
The child had slid
down from his protector's knee, and stood looking from one to the other gra=
vely
while this discussion was going on. What change of destiny was then going on
for him in this simple formula of adoption, none could tell; but, surely, n=
ever
orphan stranded on a foreign shore found home with hearts more true and lov=
ing.
"Well, wife,=
I
suppose we must be goin'," said Zephaniah.
About a stone's t=
hrow
from the open door, the little fishing-craft lay courtesying daintily on the
small tide-waves that came licking up the white pebbly shore. Mrs. Pennel
seated herself in the end of the boat, and a pretty placid picture she was,
with her smooth, parted hair, her modest, cool, drab bonnet, and her bright
hazel eyes, in which was the Sabbath calm of a loving and tender heart.
Zephaniah loosed the sail, and the two children stood on the beach and saw =
them
go off. A pleasant little wind carried them away, and back on the breeze ca=
me
the sound of Zephaniah's Sunday-morning psalm:--
"Lord, in the mor=
ning
thou shalt hear My vo=
ice
ascending high; To thee will I di=
rect
my prayer, To th=
ee
lift up mine eye.
"Unto thy house w=
ill I
resort. To ta=
ste
thy mercies there; I will frequent t=
hy
holy court, And w=
orship
in thy fear."
The surface of the
glassy bay was dotted here and there with the white sails of other little c=
raft
bound for the same point and for the same purpose. It was as pleasant a sig=
ht
as one might wish to see.
Left in charge of=
the
house, Miss Ruey drew a long breath, took a consoling pinch of snuff, sang
"Bridgewater" in an uncommonly high key, and then began reading in
the prophecies. With her good head full of the "daughter of Zion"=
and
the house of Israel and Judah, she was recalled to terrestrial things by lo=
ud
screams from the barn, accompanied by a general flutter and cackling among =
the
hens.
Away plodded the =
good
soul, and opening the barn-door saw the little boy perched on the top of the
hay-mow, screaming and shrieking,--his face the picture of dismay,--while p=
oor
little Mara's cries came in a more muffled manner from some unexplored lower
region. In fact, she was found to have slipped through a hole in the hay-mow
into the nest of a very domestic sitting-hen, whose clamors at the invasion=
of
her family privacy added no little to the general confusion.
The little prince=
ss,
whose nicety as to her dress and sensitiveness as to anything unpleasant ab=
out
her pretty person we have seen, was lifted up streaming with tears and brok=
en
eggs, but otherwise not seriously injured, having fallen on the very
substantial substratum of hay which Dame Poulet had selected as the foundat=
ion
of her domestic hopes.
"Well, now, =
did
I ever!" said Miss Ruey, when she had ascertained that no bones were
broken; "if that ar young un isn't a limb! I declare for't I pity Mis'
Pennel,--she don't know what she's undertook. How upon 'arth the critter
managed to get Mara on to the hay, I'm sure I can't tell,--that ar little t=
hing
never got into no such scrapes before."
Far from seeming
impressed with any wholesome remorse of conscience, the little culprit frow=
ned
fierce defiance at Miss Ruey, when, after having repaired the damages of li=
ttle
Mara's toilet, she essayed the good old plan of shutting him into the close=
t.
He fought and struggled so fiercely that Aunt Ruey's carroty frisette came =
off
in the skirmish, and her head-gear, always rather original, assumed an aspe=
ct
verging on the supernatural. Miss Ruey thought of Philistines and Moabites,=
and
all the other terrible people she had been reading about that morning, and =
came
as near getting into a passion with the little elf as so good-humored and
Christian an old body could possibly do. Human virtue is frail, and every o=
ne
has some vulnerable point. The old Roman senator could not control himself =
when
his beard was invaded, and the like sensitiveness resides in an old woman's
cap; and when young master irreverently clawed off her Sunday best, Aunt Ru=
ey,
in her confusion of mind, administered a sound cuff on either ear.
Little Mara, who =
had
screamed loudly through the whole scene, now conceiving that her precious
new-found treasure was endangered, flew at poor Miss Ruey with both little
hands; and throwing her arms round her "boy," as she constantly
called him, she drew him backward, and looked defiance at the common enemy.
Miss Ruey was dumb-struck.
"I declare
for't, I b'lieve he's bewitched her," she said, stupefied, having never
seen anything like the martial expression which now gleamed from those soft
brown eyes. "Why, Mara dear,--putty little Mara."
But Mara was busy
wiping away the angry tears that stood on the hot, glowing cheeks of the bo=
y,
and offering her little rosebud of a mouth to kiss him, as she stood on tip=
toe.
"Poor boy,--=
no
kie,--Mara's boy," she said; "Mara love boy;" and then givin=
g an
angry glance at Aunt Ruey, who sat much disheartened and confused, she stru=
ck
out her little pearly hand, and cried, "Go way,--go way, naughty!"=
;
The child jabbered
unintelligibly and earnestly to Mara, and she seemed to have the air of bei=
ng
perfectly satisfied with his view of the case, and both regarded Miss Ruey =
with
frowning looks. Under these peculiar circumstances, the good soul began to
bethink her of some mode of compromise, and going to the closet took out a
couple of slices of cake, which she offered to the little rebels with
pacificatory words.
Mara was appeased=
at
once, and ran to Aunt Ruey; but the boy struck the cake out of her hand, and
looked at her with steady defiance. The little one picked it up, and with m=
uch
chippering and many little feminine manoeuvres, at last succeeded in making=
him
taste it, after which appetite got the better of his valorous resolutions,-=
-he
ate and was comforted; and after a little time, the three were on the best
possible footing. And Miss Ruey having smoothed her hair, and arranged her =
frisette
and cap, began to reflect upon herself as the cause of the whole disturbanc=
e.
If she had not let them run while she indulged in reading and singing, this
would not have happened. So the toilful good soul kept them at her knee for=
the
next hour or two, while they looked through all the pictures in the old fam=
ily
Bible.
*
The evening of th=
at
day witnessed a crowded funeral in the small rooms of Captain Kittridge. Mr=
s.
Kittridge was in her glory. Solemn and lugubrious to the last degree, she
supplied in her own proper person the want of the whole corps of mourners, =
who
generally attract sympathy on such occasions. But what drew artless pity fr=
om
all was the unconscious orphan, who came in, led by Mrs. Pennel by the one
hand, and with the little Mara by the other.
The simple rite of
baptism administered to the wondering little creature so strongly recalled =
that
other scene three years before, that Mrs. Pennel hid her face in her
handkerchief, and Zephaniah's firm hand shook a little as he took the boy to
offer him to the rite. The child received the ceremony with a look of grave
surprise, put up his hand quickly and wiped the holy drops from his brow, a=
s if
they annoyed him; and shrinking back, seized hold of the gown of Mrs. Penne=
l.
His great beauty, and, still more, the air of haughty, defiant firmness with
which he regarded the company, drew all eyes, and many were the whispered c=
omments.
"Pennel'll h=
ave
his hands full with that ar chap," said Captain Kittridge to Miss Roxy=
.
Mrs. Kittridge da=
rted
an admonitory glance at her husband, to remind him that she was looking at =
him,
and immediately he collapsed into solemnity.
The evening sunbe=
ams
slanted over the blackberry bushes and mullein stalks of the graveyard, when
the lonely voyager was lowered to the rest from which she should not rise t=
ill
the heavens be no more. As the purple sea at that hour retained no trace of=
the
ships that had furrowed its waves, so of this mortal traveler no trace
remained, not even in that infant soul that was to her so passionately dear=
.
CHAPTER X - THE MINISTER<=
/span>
Mrs. Kittridge's advantages and immunities resulting from the shipwreck were not yet at an end. Not only had one of the most "solemn providences" known within the memory of t= he neighborhood fallen out at her door,--not only had the most interesting fun= eral that had occurred for three or four years taken place in her parlor, but she was still further to be distinguished in having the minister to tea after t= he performances were all over. To this end she had risen early, and taken down her best chi= na tea-cups, which had been marked with her and her husband's joint initials in Canton, and which only came forth on high and solemn occasions. In view of = this probable distinction, on Saturday, immediately after the discovery of the calamity, Mrs. Kittridge had found time to rush to her kitchen, and make up= a loaf of pound-cake and some doughnuts, that the great occasion which she foresaw might not find her below her reputation as a forehanded housewife.<= o:p>
It was a fine gol=
den
hour when the minister and funeral train turned away from the grave. Unlike
other funerals, there was no draught on the sympathies in favor of mourners=
--no
wife, or husband, or parent, left a heart in that grave; and so when the ri=
tes
were all over, they turned with the more cheerfulness back into life, from =
the
contrast of its freshness with those shadows into which, for the hour, they=
had
been gazing.
The Rev. Theophil=
us Sewell
was one of the few ministers who preserved the costume of a former generati=
on,
with something of that imposing dignity with which, in earlier times, the
habits of the clergy were invested. He was tall and majestic in stature, and
carried to advantage the powdered wig and three-cornered hat, the broad-ski=
rted
coat, knee-breeches, high shoes, and plated buckles of the ancient costume.=
There
was just a sufficient degree of the formality of olden times to give a cert=
ain
quaintness to all he said and did. He was a man of a considerable degree of
talent, force, and originality, and in fact had been held in his day to be =
one
of the most promising graduates of Harvard University. But, being a good ma=
n,
he had proposed to himself no higher ambition than to succeed to the pulpit=
of
his father in Harpswell.
His parish includ=
ed
not only a somewhat scattered seafaring population on the mainland, but also
the care of several islands. Like many other of the New England clergy of t=
hose
times, he united in himself numerous different offices for the benefit of t=
he
people whom he served. As there was neither lawyer nor physician in the tow=
n,
he had acquired by his reading, and still more by his experience, enough
knowledge in both these departments to enable him to administer to the ordi=
nary
wants of a very healthy and peaceable people.
It was said that =
most
of the deeds and legal conveyances in his parish were in his handwriting, a=
nd
in the medical line his authority was only rivaled by that of Miss Roxy, who
claimed a very obvious advantage over him in a certain class of cases, from=
the
fact of her being a woman, which was still further increased by the
circumstance that the good man had retained steadfastly his bachelor estate.
"So, of course," Miss Roxy used to say, "poor man! what coul=
d he
know about a woman, you know?"
This state of
bachelorhood gave occasion to much surmising; but when spoken to about it, =
he
was accustomed to remark with gallantry, that he should have too much regard
for any lady whom he could think of as a wife, to ask her to share his
straitened circumstances. His income, indeed, consisted of only about two
hundred dollars a year; but upon this he and a very brisk, cheerful maiden
sister contrived to keep up a thrifty and comfortable establishment, in whi=
ch
everything appeared to be pervaded by a spirit of quaint cheerfulness.
In fact, the man
might be seen to be an original in his way, and all the springs of his life
were kept oiled by a quiet humor, which sometimes broke out in playful
sparkles, despite the gravity of the pulpit and the awfulness of the cocked
hat. He had a placid way of amusing himself with the quaint and picturesque
side of life, as it appeared in all his visitings among a very primitive, y=
et
very shrewd-minded people.
There are those
people who possess a peculiar faculty of mingling in the affairs of this li=
fe
as spectators as well as actors. It does not, of course, suppose any coldne=
ss
of nature or want of human interest or sympathy--nay, it often exists most
completely with people of the tenderest human feeling. It rather seems to b=
e a
kind of distinct faculty working harmoniously with all the others; but he w=
ho
possesses it needs never to be at a loss for interest or amusement; he is
always a spectator at a tragedy or comedy, and sees in real life a humor an=
d a pathos
beyond anything he can find shadowed in books.
Mr. Sewell someti=
mes,
in his pastoral visitations, took a quiet pleasure in playing upon these si=
mple
minds, and amusing himself with the odd harmonies and singular resolutions =
of
chords which started out under his fingers. Surely he had a right to someth=
ing
in addition to his limited salary, and this innocent, unsuspected entertain=
ment
helped to make up the balance for his many labors.
His sister was on=
e of
the best-hearted and most unsuspicious of the class of female idolaters, and
worshiped her brother with the most undoubting faith and devotion--wholly
ignorant of the constant amusement she gave him by a thousand little femini=
ne
peculiarities, which struck him with a continual sense of oddity. It was
infinitely diverting to him to see the solemnity of her interest in his shi=
rts
and stockings, and Sunday clothes, and to listen to the subtle distinctions
which she would draw between best and second-best, and every-day; to receive
her somewhat prolix admonition how he was to demean himself in respect of t=
he
wearing of each one; for Miss Emily Sewell was a gentlewoman, and held rigi=
dly
to various traditions of gentility which had been handed down in the Sewell
family, and which afforded her brother too much quiet amusement to be
disturbed. He would not have overthrown one of her quiddities for the world=
; it
would be taking away a part of his capital in existence.
Miss Emily was a
trim, genteel little person, with dancing black eyes, and cheeks which had =
the
roses of youth well dried into them. It was easy to see that she had been q=
uite
pretty in her days; and her neat figure, her brisk little vivacious ways, h=
er
unceasing good-nature and kindness of heart, still made her an object both =
of
admiration and interest in the parish. She was great in drying herbs and
preparing recipes; in knitting and sewing, and cutting and contriving; in
saving every possible snip and chip either of food or clothing; and no less=
liberal
was she in bestowing advice and aid in the parish, where she moved about wi=
th
all the sense of consequence which her brother's position warranted.
The fact of his
bachelorhood caused his relations to the female part of his flock to be even
more shrouded in sacredness and mystery than is commonly the case with the
great man of the parish; but Miss Emily delighted to act as interpreter. She
was charmed to serve out to the willing ears of his parish from time to time
such scraps of information as regarded his life, habits, and opinions as mi=
ght
gratify their ever new curiosity. Instructed by her, all the good wives knew
the difference between his very best long silk stocking and his second best,
and how carefully the first had to be kept under lock and key, where he cou=
ld not
get at them; for he was understood, good as he was, to have concealed in him
all the thriftless and pernicious inconsiderateness of the male nature, rea=
dy
at any moment to break out into unheard-of improprieties. But the good man
submitted himself to Miss Emily's rule, and suffered himself to be led abou=
t by
her with an air of half whimsical consciousness.
Mrs. Kittridge th=
at
day had felt the full delicacy of the compliment when she ascertained by a
hasty glance, before the first prayer, that the good man had been brought o=
ut
to her funeral in all his very best things, not excepting the long silk
stockings, for she knew the second-best pair by means of a certain skillful
darn which Miss Emily had once shown her, which commemorated the spot where=
a
hole had been. The absence of this darn struck to Mrs. Kittridge's heart at
once as a delicate attention.
"Mis'
Simpkins," said Mrs. Kittridge to her pastor, as they were seated at t=
he
tea-table, "told me that she wished when you were going home that you
would call in to see Mary Jane; she couldn't come out to the funeral on acc=
ount
of a dreffle sore throat. I was tellin' on her to gargle it with
blackberry-root tea--don't you think that is a good gargle, Mr. Sewell?&quo=
t;
"Yes, I thin=
k it
a very good gargle," replied the minister, gravely.
"Ma'sh rosem=
ary
is the gargle that I always use," said Miss Roxy; "it cleans out =
your
throat so."
"Marsh rosem=
ary
is a very excellent gargle," said Mr. Sewell.
"Why, brothe=
r,
don't you think that rose leaves and vitriol is a good gargle?" said
little Miss Emily; "I always thought that you liked rose leaves and
vitriol for a gargle."
"So I do,&qu=
ot;
said the imperturbable Mr. Sewell, drinking his tea with the air of a sphin=
x.
"Well, now,
you'll have to tell which on 'em will be most likely to cure Mary Jane,&quo=
t;
said Captain Kittridge, "or there'll be a pullin' of caps, I'm thinkin=
';
or else the poor girl will have to drink them all, which is generally the
way."
"There won't=
any
of them cure Mary Jane's throat," said the minister, quietly.
"Why,
brother!" "Why, Mr. Sewell!" "Why, you don't!" bur=
st
in different tones from each of the women.
"I thought y=
ou
said that blackberry-root tea was good," said Mrs. Kittridge.
"I understood
that you 'proved of ma'sh rosemary," said Miss Roxy, touched in her
professional pride.
"And I am su=
re,
brother, that I have heard you say, often and often, that there wasn't a be=
tter
gargle than rose leaves and vitriol," said Miss Emily.
"You are qui=
te
right, ladies, all of you. I think these are all good gargles--excellent
ones."
"But I thoug=
ht
you said that they didn't do any good?" said all the ladies in a breat=
h.
"No, they
don't--not the least in the world," said Mr. Sewell; "but they are
all excellent gargles, and as long as people must have gargles, I think one=
is
about as good as another."
"Now you have
got it," said Captain Kittridge.
"Brother, yo=
u do
say the strangest things," said Miss Emily.
"Well, I must
say," said Miss Roxy, "it is a new idea to me, long as I've been
nussin', and I nussed through one season of scarlet fever when sometimes th=
ere
was five died in one house; and if ma'sh rosemary didn't do good then, I sh=
ould
like to know what did."
"So would a =
good
many others," said the minister.
"Law, now, M=
iss
Roxy, you mus'n't mind him. Do you know that I believe he says these sort of
things just to hear us talk? Of course he wouldn't think of puttin' his
experience against yours."
"But, Mis'
Kittridge," said Miss Emily, with a view of summoning a less controver=
ted
subject, "what a beautiful little boy that was, and what a striking
providence that brought him into such a good family!"
"Yes," =
said
Mrs. Kittridge; "but I'm sure I don't see what Mary Pennel is goin' to=
do
with that boy, for she ain't got no more government than a twisted
tow-string."
"Oh, the Cap=
'n,
he'll lend a hand," said Miss Roxy, "it won't be easy gettin' rou=
n'
him; Cap'n bears a pretty steady hand when he sets out to drive."
"Well,"
said Miss Emily, "I do think that bringin' up children is the most awf=
ul
responsibility, and I always wonder when I hear that any one dares to under=
take
it."
"It requires=
a
great deal of resolution, certainly," said Mrs. Kittridge; "I'm s=
ure
I used to get a'most discouraged when my boys was young: they was a reg'lar=
set
of wild ass's colts," she added, not perceiving the reflection on their
paternity.
But the countenan=
ce
of Mr. Sewell was all aglow with merriment, which did not break into a smil=
e.
"Wal', Mis'
Kittridge," said the Captain, "strikes me that you're gettin'
pussonal."
"No, I ain't
neither," said the literal Mrs. Kittridge, ignorant of the cause of the
amusement which she saw around her; "but you wa'n't no help to me, you
know; you was always off to sea, and the whole wear and tear on't came on
me."
"Well, well,=
Polly,
all's well that ends well; don't you think so, Mr. Sewell?"
"I haven't m=
uch
experience in these matters," said Mr. Sewell, politely.
"No, indeed,
that's what he hasn't, for he never will have a child round the house that =
he
don't turn everything topsy-turvy for them," said Miss Emily.
"But I was g=
oing
to remark," said Mr. Sewell, "that a friend of mine said once, th=
at
the woman that had brought up six boys deserved a seat among the martyrs; a=
nd
that is rather my opinion."
"Wal', Polly=
, if
you git up there, I hope you'll keep a seat for me."
"Cap'n
Kittridge, what levity!" said his wife.
"I didn't be=
gin
it, anyhow," said the Captain.
Miss Emily
interposed, and led the conversation back to the subject. "What a pity=
it
is," she said, "that this poor child's family can never know anyt=
hing
about him. There may be those who would give all the world to know what has
become of him; and when he comes to grow up, how sad he will feel to have no
father and mother!"
"Sister,&quo=
t;
said Mr. Sewell, "you cannot think that a child brought up by Captain
Pennel and his wife would ever feel as without father and mother."
"Why, no,
brother, to be sure not. There's no doubt he will have everything done for =
him
that a child could. But then it's a loss to lose one's real home."
"It may be a
gracious deliverance," said Mr. Sewell--"who knows? We may as well
take a cheerful view, and think that some kind wave has drifted the child a=
way
from an unfortunate destiny to a family where we are quite sure he will be
brought up industriously and soberly, and in the fear of God."
"Well, I nev=
er
thought of that," said Miss Roxy.
Miss Emily, looki=
ng
at her brother, saw that he was speaking with a suppressed vehemence, as if
some inner fountain of recollection at the moment were disturbed. But Miss
Emily knew no more of the deeper parts of her brother's nature than a little
bird that dips its beak into the sunny waters of some spring knows of its
depths of coldness and shadow.
"Mis' Pennel=
was
a-sayin' to me," said Mrs. Kittridge, "that I should ask you what=
was
to be done about the bracelet they found. We don't know whether 'tis real g=
old
and precious stones, or only glass and pinchbeck. Cap'n Kittridge he thinks
it's real; and if 'tis, why then the question is, whether or no to try to s=
ell
it, or keep it for the boy agin he grows up. It may help find out who and w=
hat
he is."
"And why sho=
uld
he want to find out?" said Mr. Sewell. "Why should he not grow up=
and
think himself the son of Captain and Mrs. Pennel? What better lot could a b=
oy
be born to?"
"That may be,
brother, but it can't be kept from him. Everybody knows how he was found, a=
nd
you may be sure every bird of the air will tell him, and he'll grow up rest=
less
and wanting to know. Mis' Kittridge, have you got the bracelet handy?"=
The fact was, lit=
tle
Miss Emily was just dying with curiosity to set her dancing black eyes upon=
it.
"Here it
is," said Mrs. Kittridge, taking it from a drawer.
It was a bracelet=
of
hair, of some curious foreign workmanship. A green enameled serpent, studded
thickly with emeralds and with eyes of ruby, was curled around the clasp. A
crystal plate covered a wide flat braid of hair, on which the letters
"D.M." were curiously embroidered in a cipher of seed pearls. The
whole was in style and workmanship quite different from any jewelry which
ordinarily meets one's eye.
But what was
remarkable was the expression in Mr. Sewell's face when this bracelet was p=
ut
into his hand. Miss Emily had risen from table and brought it to him, leani=
ng
over him as she did so, and he turned his head a little to hold it in the l=
ight
from the window, so that only she remarked the sudden expression of blank
surprise and startled recognition which fell upon it. He seemed like a man =
who
chokes down an exclamation; and rising hastily, he took the bracelet to the
window, and standing with his back to the company, seemed to examine it with
the minutest interest. After a few moments he turned and said, in a very co=
mposed
tone, as if the subject were of no particular interest,--
"It is a
singular article, so far as workmanship is concerned. The value of the gems=
in
themselves is not great enough to make it worth while to sell it. It will be
worth more as a curiosity than anything else. It will doubtless be an
interesting relic to keep for the boy when he grows up."
"Well, Mr.
Sewell, you keep it," said Mrs. Kittridge; "the Pennels told me to
give it into your care."
"I shall com=
mit
it to Emily here; women have a native sympathy with anything in the jewelry
line. She'll be sure to lay it up so securely that she won't even know wher=
e it
is herself."
"Brother!&qu=
ot;
"Come,
Emily," said Mr. Sewell, "your hens will all go to roost on the w=
rong
perch if you are not at home to see to them; so, if the Captain will set us
across to Harpswell, I think we may as well be going."
"Why, what's
your hurry?" said Mrs. Kittridge.
"Well,"
said Mr. Sewell, "firstly, there's the hens; secondly, the pigs; and
lastly, the cow. Besides I shouldn't wonder if some of Emily's admirers sho=
uld
call on her this evening,--never any saying when Captain Broad may come
in."
"Now, brothe=
r,
you are too bad," said Miss Emily, as she bustled about her bonnet and
shawl. "Now, that's all made up out of whole cloth. Captain Broad call=
ed
last week a Monday, to talk to you about the pews, and hardly spoke a word =
to
me. You oughtn't to say such things, 'cause it raises reports."
"Ah, well, t=
hen,
I won't again," said her brother. "I believe, after all, it was
Captain Badger that called twice."
"Brother!&qu=
ot;
"And left yo=
u a
basket of apples the second time."
"Brother, you
know he only called to get some of my hoarhound for Mehitable's cough."=
;
"Oh, yes, I
remember."
"If you don't
take care," said Miss Emily, "I'll tell where you call."
"Come, Miss
Emily, you must not mind him," said Miss Roxy; "we all know his
ways."
And now took place
the grand leave-taking, which consisted first of the three women's standing=
in
a knot and all talking at once, as if their very lives depended upon saying
everything they could possibly think of before they separated, while Mr. Se=
well
and Captain Kittridge stood patiently waiting with the resigned air which t=
he
male sex commonly assume on such occasions; and when, after two or three
"Come, Emily's," the group broke up only to form again on the doo=
r-step,
where they were at it harder than ever, and a third occasion of the same so=
rt
took place at the bottom of the steps, Mr. Sewell was at last obliged by ma=
in
force to drag his sister away in the middle of a sentence.
Miss Emily watched
her brother shrewdly all the way home, but all traces of any uncommon feeli=
ng
had passed away; and yet, with the restlessness of female curiosity, she fe=
lt
quite sure that she had laid hold of the end of some skein of mystery, could
she only find skill enough to unwind it.
She took up the
bracelet, and held it in the fading evening light, and broke into various
observations with regard to the singularity of the workmanship. Her brother
seemed entirely absorbed in talking with Captain Kittridge about the brig A=
nna
Maria, which was going to be launched from Pennel's wharf next Wednesday. B=
ut
she, therefore, internally resolved to lie in wait for the secret in that
confidential hour which usually preceded going to bed. Therefore, as soon as
she had arrived at their quiet dwelling, she put in operation the most sedu=
cing
little fire that ever crackled and snapped in a chimney, well knowing that
nothing was more calculated to throw light into any hidden or concealed cha=
mber
of the soul than that enlivening blaze, which danced so merrily on her
well-polished andirons, and made the old chintz sofa and the time-worn
furniture so rich in remembrances of family comfort.
She then proceede=
d to
divest her brother of his wig and his dress-coat, and to induct him into the
flowing ease of a study-gown, crowning his well-shaven head with a black ca=
p,
and placing his slippers before the corner of a sofa nearest the fire. She
observed him with satisfaction sliding into his seat, and then she trotted =
to a
closet with a glass door in the corner of the room, and took down an old,
quaintly-shaped silver cup, which had been an heirloom in their family, and=
was
the only piece of plate which their modern domestic establishment could boa=
st; and
with this, down cellar she tripped, her little heels tapping lightly on each
stair, and the hum of a song coming back after her as she sought the
cider-barrel. Up again she came, and set the silver cup, with its clear amb=
er
contents, down by the fire, and then busied herself in making just the
crispest, nicest square of toast to be eaten with it; for Miss Emily had
conceived the idea that some little ceremony of this sort was absolutely
necessary to do away all possible ill effects from a day's labor, and secur=
e an
uninterrupted night's repose. Having done all this, she took her knitting-w=
ork,
and stationed herself just opposite to her brother.
It was fortunate =
for
Miss Emily that the era of daily journals had not yet arisen upon the earth,
because if it had, after all her care and pains, her brother would probably
have taken up the evening paper, and holding it between his face and her, h=
ave
read an hour or so in silence; but Mr. Sewell had not this resort. He knew
perfectly well that he had excited his sister's curiosity on a subject wher=
e he
could not gratify it, and therefore he took refuge in a kind of mild,
abstracted air of quietude which bid defiance to all her little suggestions=
.
After in vain try=
ing
every indirect form, Miss Emily approached the subject more pointedly. &quo=
t;I
thought that you looked very much interested in that poor woman to-day.&quo=
t;
"She had an
interesting face," said her brother, dryly.
"Was it like
anybody that you ever saw?" said Miss Emily.
Her brother did n=
ot
seem to hear her, but, taking the tongs, picked up the two ends of a stick =
that
had just fallen apart, and arranged them so as to make a new blaze.
Miss Emily was
obliged to repeat her question, whereat he started as one awakened out of a
dream, and said,--
"Why, yes, he
didn't know but she did; there were a good many women with black eyes and b=
lack
hair,--Mrs. Kittridge, for instance."
"Why, I don't
think that she looked like Mrs. Kittridge in the least," said Miss Emi=
ly,
warmly.
"Oh, well! I
didn't say she did," said her brother, looking drowsily at his watch;
"why, Emily, it's getting rather late."
"What made y=
ou
look so when I showed you that bracelet?" said Miss Emily, determined =
now
to push the war to the heart of the enemy's country.
"Look how?&q=
uot;
said her brother, leisurely moistening a bit of toast in his cider.
"Why, I never
saw anybody look more wild and astonished than you did for a minute or
two."
"I did, did
I?" said her brother, in the same indifferent tone. "My dear chil=
d,
what an active imagination you have. Did you ever look through a prism,
Emily?"
"Why, no, Th=
eophilus;
what do you mean?"
"Well, if you
should, you would see everybody and everything with a nice little bordering=
of
rainbow around them; now the rainbow isn't on the things, but in the
prism."
"Well, what's
that to the purpose?" said Miss Emily, rather bewildered.
"Why, just t=
his:
you women are so nervous and excitable, that you are very apt to see your
friends and the world in general with some coloring just as unreal. I am so=
rry
for you, childie, but really I can't help you to get up a romance out of th=
is
bracelet. Well, good-night, Emily; take good care of yourself and go to
bed;" and Mr. Sewell went to his room, leaving poor Miss Emily almost
persuaded out of the sight of her own eyes.
CHAPTER XI - LITTLE
ADVENTURERS
The little boy who had been added t=
o the
family of Zephaniah Pennel and his wife soon became a source of grave
solicitude to that mild and long-suffering woman. For, as the reader may ha=
ve
seen, he was a resolute, self-willed little elf, and whatever his former li=
fe
may have been, it was quite evident that these traits had been developed
without any restraint.
Mrs. Pennel, whose
whole domestic experience had consisted in rearing one very sensitive and t=
imid
daughter, who needed for her development only an extreme of tenderness, and
whose conscientiousness was a law unto herself, stood utterly confounded be=
fore
the turbulent little spirit to which her loving-kindness had opened so read=
y an
asylum, and she soon discovered that it is one thing to take a human being =
to
bring up, and another to know what to do with it after it is taken.
The child had the
instinctive awe of Zephaniah which his manly nature and habits of command w=
ere
fitted to inspire, so that morning and evening, when he was at home, he was
demure enough; but while the good man was away all day, and sometimes on
fishing excursions which often lasted a week, there was a chronic state of
domestic warfare--a succession of skirmishes, pitched battles, long treatie=
s,
with divers articles of capitulation, ending, as treaties are apt to do, in
open rupture on the first convenient opportunity.
Mrs. Pennel somet=
imes
reflected with herself mournfully, and with many self-disparaging sighs, wh=
at
was the reason that young master somehow contrived to keep her far more in =
awe
of him than he was of her. Was she not evidently, as yet at least, bigger a=
nd
stronger than he, able to hold his rebellious little hands, to lift and car=
ry
him, and to shut him up, if so she willed, in a dark closet, and even to
administer to him that discipline of the birch which Mrs. Kittridge often a=
nd
forcibly recommended as the great secret of her family prosperity? Was it n=
ot
her duty, as everybody told her, to break his will while he was young?--a d=
uty
which hung like a millstone round the peaceable creature's neck, and weighed
her down with a distressing sense of responsibility.
Now, Mrs. Pennel =
was
one of the people to whom self-sacrifice is constitutionally so much a natu=
re,
that self-denial for her must have consisted in standing up for her own rig=
hts,
or having her own way when it crossed the will and pleasure of any one arou=
nd
her. All she wanted of a child, or in fact of any human creature, was somet=
hing
to love and serve. We leave it entirely to theologians to reconcile such fa=
cts
with the theory of total depravity; but it is a fact that there are a consi=
derable
number of women of this class. Their life would flow on very naturally if it
might consist only in giving, never in withholding--only in praise, never in
blame--only in acquiescence, never in conflict; and the chief comfort of su=
ch
women in religion is that it gives them at last an object for love without
criticism, and for whom the utmost degree of self-abandonment is not idolat=
ry,
but worship.
Mrs. Pennel would
gladly have placed herself and all she possessed at the disposition of the
children; they might have broken her china, dug in the garden with her silv=
er
spoons, made turf alleys in her best room, drummed on her mahogany tea-tabl=
e,
filled her muslin drawer with their choicest shells and seaweed; only Mrs.
Pennel knew that such kindness was no kindness, and that in the dreadful wo=
rd
responsibility, familiar to every New England mother's ear, there lay an aw=
ful
summons to deny and to conflict where she could so much easier have concede=
d.
She saw that the
tyrant little will would reign without mercy, if it reigned at all; and ever
present with her was the uneasy sense that it was her duty to bring this
erratic little comet within the laws of a well-ordered solar system,--a tas=
k to
which she felt about as competent as to make a new ring for Saturn. Then, t=
oo,
there was a secret feeling, if the truth must be told, of what Mrs. Kittrid=
ge
would think about it; for duty is never more formidable than when she gets =
on
the cap and gown of a neighbor; and Mrs. Kittridge, with her resolute voice=
and
declamatory family government, had always been a secret source of uneasines=
s to
poor Mrs. Pennel, who was one of those sensitive souls who can feel for a m=
ile
or more the sphere of a stronger neighbor. During all the years that they h=
ad
lived side by side, there had been this shadowy, unconfessed feeling on the
part of poor Mrs. Pennel, that Mrs. Kittridge thought her deficient in her
favorite virtue of "resolution," as, in fact, in her inmost soul =
she
knew she was;--but who wants to have one's weak places looked into by the s=
harp
eyes of a neighbor who is strong precisely where we are weak? The trouble t=
hat
one neighbor may give to another, simply by living within a mile of one, is
incredible; but until this new accession to her family, Mrs. Pennel had alw=
ays
been able to comfort herself with the idea that the child under her particu=
lar
training was as well-behaved as any of those of her more demonstrative frie=
nd.
But now, all this consolation had been put to flight; she could not meet Mr=
s.
Kittridge without most humiliating recollections.
On Sundays, when
those sharp black eyes gleamed upon her through the rails of the neighboring
pew, her very soul shrank within her, as she recollected all the compromises
and defeats of the week before. It seemed to her that Mrs. Kittridge saw it
all,--how she had ingloriously bought peace with gingerbread, instead of
maintaining it by rightful authority,--how young master had sat up till nine
o'clock on divers occasions, and even kept little Mara up for his lordly
pleasure.
How she trembled =
at
every movement of the child in the pew, dreading some patent and open
impropriety which should bring scandal on her government! This was the more=
to
be feared, as the first effort to initiate the youthful neophyte in the
decorums of the sanctuary had proved anything but a success,--insomuch that
Zephaniah Pennel had been obliged to carry him out from the church; therefo=
re,
poor Mrs. Pennel was thankful every Sunday when she got her little charge h=
ome
without any distinct scandal and breach of the peace.
But, after all, he
was such a handsome and engaging little wretch, attracting all eyes whereve=
r he
went, and so full of saucy drolleries, that it seemed to Mrs. Pennel that
everything and everybody conspired to help her spoil him. There are two cla=
sses
of human beings in this world: one class seem made to give love, and the ot=
her
to take it. Now Mrs. Pennel and Mara belonged to the first class, and little
Master Moses to the latter.
It was, perhaps, =
of
service to the little girl to give to her delicate, shrinking, highly nervo=
us
organization the constant support of a companion so courageous, so richly
blooded, and highly vitalized as the boy seemed to be. There was a fervid,
tropical richness in his air that gave one a sense of warmth in looking at =
him,
and made his Oriental name seem in good-keeping. He seemed an exotic that m=
ight
have waked up under fervid Egyptian suns, and been found cradled among the
lotus blossoms of old Nile; and the fair golden-haired girl seemed to be
gladdened by his companionship, as if he supplied an element of vital warmt=
h to
her being. She seemed to incline toward him as naturally as a needle to a m=
agnet.
The child's quick=
ness
of ear and the facility with which he picked up English were marvelous to
observe. Evidently, he had been somewhat accustomed to the sound of it befo=
re,
for there dropped out of his vocabulary, after he began to speak, phrases w=
hich
would seem to betoken a longer familiarity with its idioms than could be
equally accounted for by his present experience. Though the English evident=
ly
was not his native language, there had yet apparently been some effort to t=
each
it to him, although the terror and confusion of the shipwreck seemed at fir=
st
to have washed every former impression from his mind.
But whenever any
attempt was made to draw him to speak of the past, of his mother, or of whe=
re
he came from, his brow lowered gloomily, and he assumed that kind of moody,
impenetrable gravity, which children at times will so strangely put on, and
which baffle all attempts to look within them. Zephaniah Pennel used to cal=
l it
putting up his dead-lights. Perhaps it was the dreadful association of agony
and terror connected with the shipwreck, that thus confused and darkened the
mirror of his mind the moment it was turned backward; but it was thought wi=
sest
by his new friends to avoid that class of subjects altogether--indeed, it w=
as
their wish that he might forget the past entirely, and remember them as his=
only
parents.
Miss Roxy and Miss
Ruey came duly, as appointed, to initiate the young pilgrim into the
habiliments of a Yankee boy, endeavoring, at the same time, to drop into his
mind such seeds of moral wisdom as might make the internal economy in time =
correspond
to the exterior. But Miss Roxy declared that "of all the children that
ever she see, he beat all for finding out new mischief,--the moment you'd m=
ake
him understand he mustn't do one thing, he was right at another."
One of his exploi=
ts,
however, had very nearly been the means of cutting short the materials of o=
ur
story in the outset.
It was a warm, su=
nny
afternoon, and the three women, being busy together with their stitching, h=
ad
tied a sun-bonnet on little Mara, and turned the two loose upon the beach to
pick up shells. All was serene, and quiet, and retired, and no possible dan=
ger
could be apprehended. So up and down they trotted, till the spirit of adven=
ture
which ever burned in the breast of little Moses caught sight of a small can=
oe
which had been moored just under the shadow of a cedar-covered rock. Forthw=
ith
he persuaded his little neighbor to go into it, and for a while they made t=
hemselves
very gay, rocking it from side to side.
The tide was going
out, and each retreating wave washed the boat up and down, till it came into
the boy's curly head how beautiful it would be to sail out as he had seen m=
en
do,--and so, with much puffing and earnest tugging of his little brown hand=
s,
the boat at last was loosed from her moorings and pushed out on the tide, w=
hen
both children laughed gayly to find themselves swinging and balancing on the
amber surface, and watching the rings and sparkles of sunshine and the white
pebbles below. Little Moses was glorious,--his adventures had begun,--and w=
ith
a fairy-princess in his boat, he was going to stretch away to some of the i=
slands
of dreamland. He persuaded Mara to give him her pink sun-bonnet, which he
placed for a pennon on a stick at the end of the boat, while he made a vehe=
ment
dashing with another, first on one side of the boat and then on the
other,--spattering the water in diamond showers, to the infinite amusement =
of
the little maiden.
Meanwhile the tide
waves danced them out and still outward, and as they went farther and farth=
er
from shore, the more glorious felt the boy. He had got Mara all to himself,=
and
was going away with her from all grown people, who wouldn't let children do=
as
they pleased,--who made them sit still in prayer-time, and took them to
meeting, and kept so many things which they must not touch, or open, or play
with. Two white sea-gulls came flying toward the children, and they stretch=
ed
their little arms in welcome, nothing doubting but these fair creatures were
coming at once to take passage with them for fairy-land. But the birds only
dived and shifted and veered, turning their silvery sides toward the sun, a=
nd careering
in circles round the children. A brisk little breeze, that came hurrying do=
wn
from the land, seemed disposed to favor their unsubstantial enterprise,--for
your winds, being a fanciful, uncertain tribe of people, are always for fal=
ling
in with anything that is contrary to common sense. So the wind trolled them
merrily along, nothing doubting that there might be time, if they hurried, =
to
land their boat on the shore of some of the low-banked red clouds that lay =
in the
sunset, where they could pick up shells,--blue and pink and purple,--enough=
to
make them rich for life. The children were all excitement at the rapidity w=
ith
which their little bark danced and rocked, as it floated outward to the bro=
ad,
open ocean; at the blue, freshening waves, at the silver-glancing gulls, at=
the
floating, white-winged ships, and at vague expectations of going rapidly so=
mewhere,
to something more beautiful still. And what is the happiness of the brighte=
st
hours of grown people more than this?
"Roxy," said Aunt Ruey innocently, "seems to me I haven't heard nothin' o' them children lately. They're so still, I'm 'fraid there's some mischief."<= o:p>
"Well, Ruey,=
you
jist go and give a look at 'em," said Miss Roxy. "I declare, that
boy! I never know what he will do next; but there didn't seem to be nothin'=
to
get into out there but the sea, and the beach is so shelving, a body can't =
well
fall into that."
Alas! good Miss R=
oxy,
the children are at this moment tilting up and down on the waves, half a mi=
le
out to sea, as airily happy as the sea-gulls; and little Moses now thinks, =
with
glorious scorn, of you and your press-board, as of grim shadows of restraint
and bondage that shall never darken his free life more.
Both Miss Roxy and
Mrs. Pennel were, however, startled into a paroxysm of alarm when poor Miss
Ruey came screaming, as she entered the door,--
"As sure as
you're alive, them chil'en are off in the boat,--they're out to sea, sure as
I'm alive! What shall we do? The boat'll upset, and the sharks'll get
'em."
Miss Roxy ran to =
the
window, and saw dancing and courtesying on the blue waves the little pinnac=
e,
with its fanciful pink pennon fluttered gayly by the indiscreet and flatter=
ing
wind.
Poor Mrs. Pennel =
ran
to the shore, and stretched her arms wildly, as if she would have followed =
them
across the treacherous blue floor that heaved and sparkled between them.
"Oh, Mara, M=
ara!
Oh, my poor little girl! Oh, poor children!"
"Well, if ev=
er I
see such a young un as that," soliloquized Miss Roxy from the
chamber-window; "there they be, dancin' and giggitin' about; they'll h=
ave
the boat upset in a minit, and the sharks are waitin' for 'em, no doubt. I
b'lieve that ar young un's helped by the Evil One,--not a boat round, else =
I'd
push off after 'em. Well, I don't see but we must trust in the Lord,--there
don't seem to be much else to trust to," said the spinster, as she drew
her head in grimly.
To say the truth,
there was some reason for the terror of these most fearful suggestions; for=
not
far from the place where the children embarked was Zephaniah's fish-drying
ground, and multitudes of sharks came up with every rising tide, allured by=
the
offal that was here constantly thrown into the sea. Two of these prowlers,
outward-bound from their quest, were even now assiduously attending the lit=
tle
boat, and the children derived no small amusement from watching their motio=
ns in
the pellucid water,--the boy occasionally almost upsetting the boat by valo=
rous
plunges at them with his stick. It was the most exhilarating and piquant
entertainment he had found for many a day; and little Mara laughed in choru=
s at
every lunge that he made.
What would have b=
een
the end of it all, it is difficult to say, had not some mortal power interf=
ered
before they had sailed finally away into the sunset. But it so happened, on
this very afternoon, Rev. Mr. Sewell was out in a boat, busy in the very
apostolic employment of catching fish, and looking up from one of the
contemplative pauses which his occupation induced, he rubbed his eyes at the
apparition which presented itself. A tiny little shell of a boat came drift=
ing
toward him, in which was a black-eyed boy, with cheeks like a pomegranate a=
nd
lustrous tendrils of silky dark hair, and a little golden-haired girl, whit=
e as
a water-lily, and looking ethereal enough to have risen out of the sea-foam.
Both were in the very sparkle and effervescence of that fanciful glee which
bubbles up from the golden, untried fountains of early childhood. Mr. Sewel=
l,
at a glance, comprehended the whole, and at once overhauling the tiny craft=
, he
broke the spell of fairy-land, and constrained the little people to return =
to
the confines, dull and dreary, of real and actual life.
Neither of them h=
ad
known a doubt or a fear in that joyous trance of forbidden pleasure which
shadowed with so many fears the wiser and more far-seeing heads and hearts =
of
the grown people; nor was there enough language yet in common between the t=
wo
classes to make the little ones comprehend the risk they had run. Perhaps s=
o do
our elder brothers, in our Father's house, look anxiously out when we are
sailing gayly over life's sea,--over unknown depths,--amid threatening
monsters,--but want words to tell us why what seems so bright is so dangero=
us.
Duty herself could
not have worn a more rigid aspect than Miss Roxy, as she stood on the beach,
press-board in hand; for she had forgotten to lay it down in the eagerness =
of
her anxiety. She essayed to lay hold of the little hand of Moses to pull him
from the boat, but he drew back, and, looking at her with a world of defian=
ce
in his great eyes, jumped magnanimously upon the beach. The spirit of Sir
Francis Drake and of Christopher Columbus was swelling in his little body, =
and
was he to be brought under by a dry-visaged woman with a press-board? In fa=
ct, nothing
is more ludicrous about the escapades of children than the utter insensibil=
ity
they feel to the dangers they have run, and the light esteem in which they =
hold
the deep tragedy they create.
That night, when
Zephaniah, in his evening exercise, poured forth most fervent thanksgivings=
for
the deliverance, while Mrs. Pennel was sobbing in her handkerchief, Miss Ro=
xy
was much scandalized by seeing the young cause of all the disturbance sitti=
ng
upon his heels, regarding the emotion of the kneeling party with his wide
bright eyes, without a wink of compunction.
"Well, for h=
er
part," she said, "she hoped Cap'n Pennel would be blessed in taki=
n'
that ar boy; but she was sure she didn't see much that looked like it
now."
*
The Rev. Mr. Sewe=
ll
fished no more that day, for the draught from fairy-land with which he had
filled his boat brought up many thoughts into his mind, which he pondered
anxiously.
"Strange way=
s of
God," he thought, "that should send to my door this child, and sh=
ould
wash upon the beach the only sign by which he could be identified. To what =
end
or purpose? Hath the Lord a will in this matter, and what is it?"
So he thought as =
he slowly
rowed homeward, and so did his thoughts work upon him that half way across =
the
bay to Harpswell he slackened his oar without knowing it, and the boat lay
drifting on the purple and gold-tinted mirror, like a speck between two
eternities. Under such circumstances, even heads that have worn the clerical
wig for years at times get a little dizzy and dreamy. Perhaps it was becaus=
e of
the impression made upon him by the sudden apparition of those great dark e=
yes
and sable curls, that he now thought of the boy that he had found floating =
that
afternoon, looking as if some tropical flower had been washed landward by a
monsoon; and as the boat rocked and tilted, and the minister gazed dreamily
downward into the wavering rings of purple, orange, and gold which spread o=
ut
and out from it, gradually it seemed to him that a face much like the child=
's
formed itself in the waters; but it was the face of a girl, young and radia=
ntly
beautiful, yet with those same eyes and curls,--he saw her distinctly, with=
her
thousand rings of silky hair, bound with strings of pearls and clasped with=
strange
gems, and she raised one arm imploringly to him, and on the wrist he saw the
bracelet embroidered with seed pearls, and the letters D.M. "Ah,
Dolores," he said, "well wert thou called so. Poor Dolores! I can=
not
help thee."
"What am I
dreaming of?" said the Rev. Mr. Sewell. "It is my Thursday evening
lecture on Justification, and Emily has got tea ready, and here I am catchi=
ng
cold out on the bay."
CHAPTER XII - SEA TALES=
span>
Mr. Sewell, as the reader may perha=
ps
have inferred, was of a nature profoundly secretive. It was in most things
quite as pleasant for him to keep matters to himself, as it was to Miss Emi=
ly
to tell them to somebody else. She resembled more than anything one of those
trotting, chattering little brooks that enliven the "back lot" of
many a New England home, while he was like one of those wells you shall
sometimes see by a deserted homestead, so long unused that ferns and lichen=
s feather
every stone down to the dark, cool water.
Dear to him was t=
he
stillness and coolness of inner thoughts with which no stranger intermeddle=
s;
dear to him every pendent fern-leaf of memory, every dripping moss of old
recollection; and though the waters of his soul came up healthy and refresh=
ing
enough when one really must have them, yet one had to go armed with bucket =
and
line and draw them up,--they never flowed. One of his favorite maxims was, =
that
the only way to keep a secret was never to let any one suspect that you have
one. And as he had one now, he had, as you have seen, done his best to baff=
le and
put to sleep the feminine curiosity of his sister.
He rather wanted =
to
tell her, too, for he was a good-natured brother, and would have liked to h=
ave
given her the amount of pleasure the confidence would have produced; but th=
en
he reflected with dismay on the number of women in his parish with whom Miss
Emily was on tea-drinking terms,--he thought of the wondrous solvent powers=
of
that beverage in whose amber depths so many resolutions yea, and solemn vow=
s,
of utter silence have been dissolved like Cleopatra's pearls. He knew that =
an infusion
of his secret would steam up from every cup of tea Emily should drink for s=
ix
months to come, till gradually every particle would be dissolved and float =
in
the air of common fame. No; it would not do.
You would have
thought, however, that something was the matter with Mr. Sewell, had you se=
en
him after he retired for the night, after he had so very indifferently
dismissed the subject of Miss Emily's inquiries. For instead of retiring
quietly to bed, as had been his habit for years at that hour, he locked his
door, and then unlocked a desk of private papers, and emptied certain
pigeon-holes of their contents, and for an hour or two sat unfolding and
looking over old letters and papers; and when all this was done, he pushed =
them
from him, and sat for a long time buried in thoughts which went down very, =
very
deep into that dark and mossy well of which we have spoken.
Then he took a pen
and wrote a letter, and addressed it to a direction for which he had search=
ed
through many piles of paper, and having done so, seemed to ponder, uncertai=
nly,
whether to send it or not. The Harpswell post-office was kept in Mr. Silas
Perrit's store, and the letters were every one of them carefully and curiou=
sly
investigated by all the gossips of the village, and as this was addressed to
St. Augustine in Florida, he foresaw that before Sunday the news would be i=
n every
mouth in the parish that the minister had written to so and so in Florida,
"and what do you s'pose it's about?"
"No, no,&quo=
t;
he said to himself, "that will never do; but at all events there is no
hurry," and he put back the papers in order, put the letter with them,=
and
locking his desk, looked at his watch and found it to be two o'clock, and s=
o he
went to bed to think the matter over.
Now, there may be
some reader so simple as to feel a portion of Miss Emily's curiosity. But, =
my
friend, restrain it, for Mr. Sewell will certainly, as we foresee, become l=
ess
rather than more communicative on this subject, as he thinks upon it.
Nevertheless, whatever it be that he knows or suspects, it is something whi=
ch
leads him to contemplate with more than usual interest this little mortal w=
aif
that has so strangely come ashore in his parish. He mentally resolves to st=
udy
the child as minutely as possible, without betraying that he has any partic=
ular
reason for being interested in him.
Therefore, in the
latter part of this mild November afternoon, which he has devoted to pastor=
al
visiting, about two months after the funeral, he steps into his little
sail-boat, and stretches away for the shores of Orr's Island. He knows the =
sun
will be down before he reaches there; but he sees, in the opposite horizon,=
the
spectral, shadowy moon, only waiting for daylight to be gone to come out, c=
alm
and radiant, like a saintly friend neglected in the flush of prosperity, who
waits patiently to enliven our hours of darkness.
As his boat-keel
grazed the sands on the other side, a shout of laughter came upon his oar f=
rom
behind a cedar-covered rock, and soon emerged Captain Kittridge, as long and
lean and brown as the Ancient Mariner, carrying little Mara on one shoulder,
while Sally and little Moses Pennel trotted on before.
It was difficult =
to say
who in this whole group was in the highest spirits. The fact was that Mrs.
Kittridge had gone to a tea-drinking over at Maquoit, and left the Captain =
as
housekeeper and general overseer; and little Mara and Moses and Sally had b=
een
gloriously keeping holiday with him down by the boat-cove, where, to say the
truth, few shavings were made, except those necessary to adorn the children=
's heads
with flowing suits of curls of a most extraordinary effect. The aprons of a=
ll
of them were full of these most unsubstantial specimens of woody treasure,
which hung out in long festoons, looking of a yellow transparency in the
evening light. But the delight of the children in their acquisitions was on=
ly
equaled by that of grown-up people in possessions equally fanciful in value=
.
The mirth of the
little party, however, came to a sudden pause as they met the minister. Mara
clung tight to the Captain's neck, and looked out slyly under her curls. But
the little Moses made a step forward, and fixed his bold, dark, inquisitive
eyes upon him. The fact was, that the minister had been impressed upon the =
boy,
in his few visits to the "meeting," as such a grand and mysterious
reason for good behavior, that he seemed resolved to embrace the first
opportunity to study him close at hand.
"Well, my li=
ttle
man," said Mr. Sewell, with an affability which he could readily assume
with children, "you seem to like to look at me."
"I do like to
look at you," said the boy gravely, continuing to fix his great black =
eyes
upon him.
"I see you d=
o,
my little fellow."
"Are you the
Lord?" said the child, solemnly.
"Am I
what?"
"The Lord,&q=
uot;
said the boy.
"No, indeed,=
my
lad," said Mr. Sewell, smiling. "Why, what put that into your lit=
tle
head?"
"I thought y=
ou
were," said the boy, still continuing to study the pastor with attenti=
on.
"Miss Roxy said so."
"It's curious
what notions chil'en will get in their heads," said Captain Kittridge.
"They put this and that together and think it over, and come out with =
such
queer things."
"But," =
said
the minister, "I have brought something for you all;" saying whic=
h he
drew from his pocket three little bright-cheeked apples, and gave one to ea=
ch
child; and then taking the hand of the little Moses in his own, he walked w=
ith
him toward the house-door.
Mrs. Pennel was
sitting in her clean kitchen, busily spinning at the little wheel, and rose
flushed with pleasure at the honor that was done her.
"Pray, walk =
in,
Mr. Sewell," she said, rising, and leading the way toward the penetral=
ia
of the best room.
"Now, Mrs. P=
ennel,
I am come here for a good sit-down by your kitchen-fire, this evening,"
said Mr. Sewell. "Emily has gone out to sit with old Mrs. Broad, who is
laid up with the rheumatism, and so I am turned loose to pick up my living =
on
the parish, and you must give me a seat for a while in your kitchen corner.
Best rooms are always cold."
"The ministe=
r's
right," said Captain Kittridge. "When rooms ain't much set in, fo=
lks
never feel so kind o' natural in 'em. So you jist let me put on a good back=
-log
and forestick, and build up a fire to tell stories by this evening. My wife=
's
gone out to tea, too," he said, with an elastic skip.
And in a few mome=
nts
the Captain had produced in the great cavernous chimney a foundation for a =
fire
that promised breadth, solidity, and continuance. A great back-log, embroid=
ered
here and there with tufts of green or grayish moss, was first flung into the
capacious arms of the fireplace, and a smaller log placed above it. "N=
ow,
all you young uns go out and bring in chips," said the Captain.
"There's capital ones out to the wood-pile."
Mr. Sewell was
pleased to see the flash that came from the eyes of little Moses at this or=
der,
how energetically he ran before the others, and came with glowing cheeks and
distended arms, throwing down great white chips with their green mossy bark,
scattering tufts on the floor. "Good," said he softly to himself,=
as
he leaned on the top of his gold-headed cane; "there's energy, ambitio=
n,
muscle;" and he nodded his head once or twice to some internal decisio=
n.
"There!"
said the Captain, rising out of a perfect whirlwind of chips and pine kindl=
ings
with which in his zeal he had bestrown the wide, black stone hearth, and
pointing to the tongues of flame that were leaping and blazing up through t=
he
crevices of the dry pine wood which he had intermingled plentifully with the
more substantial fuel,--"there, Mis' Pennel, ain't I a master-hand at a
fire? But I'm really sorry I've dirtied your floor," he said, as he
brushed down his pantaloons, which were covered with bits of grizzly moss, =
and
looked on the surrounding desolations; "give me a broom, I can sweep up
now as well as any woman."
"Oh, never
mind," said Mrs. Pennel, laughing, "I'll sweep up."
"Well, now, =
Mis'
Pennel, you're one of the women that don't get put out easy; ain't ye?"
said the Captain, still contemplating his fire with a proud and watchful ey=
e.
"Law me!&quo=
t;
he exclaimed, glancing through the window, "there's the Cap'n a-comin'.
I'm jist goin' to give a look at what he's brought in. Come, chil'en,"=
and
the Captain disappeared with all three of the children at his heels, to go =
down
to examine the treasures of the fishing-smack.
Mr. Sewell seated
himself cozily in the chimney corner and sank into a state of half-dreamy
reverie; his eyes fixed on the fairest sight one can see of a frosty autumn
twilight--a crackling wood-fire.
Mrs. Pennel moved
soft-footed to and fro, arraying her tea-table in her own finest and pure
damask, and bringing from hidden stores her best china and newest silver, h=
er
choicest sweetmeats and cake--whatever was fairest and nicest in her house-=
-to
honor her unexpected guest.
Mr. Sewell's eyes
followed her occasionally about the room, with an expression of pleased and
curious satisfaction. He was taking it all in as an artistic picture--that
simple, kindly hearth, with its mossy logs, yet steaming with the moisture =
of
the wild woods; the table so neat, so cheery with its many little delicacie=
s,
and refinements of appointment, and its ample varieties to tempt the appeti=
te;
and then the Captain coming in, yet fresh and hungry from his afternoon's t=
oil,
with the children trotting before him.
"And this is=
the
inheritance he comes into," he murmured; "healthy--wholesome--che=
erful--secure:
how much better than hot, stifling luxury!"
Here the minister=
's
meditations were interrupted by the entrance of all the children, joyful and
loquacious. Little Moses held up a string of mackerel, with their graceful
bodies and elegantly cut fins.
"Just a spec=
imen
of the best, Mary," said Captain Pennel. "I thought I'd bring 'em=
for
Miss Emily."
"Miss Emily =
will
be a thousand times obliged to you," said Mr. Sewell, rising up.
As to Mara and Sa=
lly,
they were reveling in apronfuls of shells and seaweed, which they bustled i=
nto
the other room to bestow in their spacious baby-house.
And now, after due
time for Zephaniah to assume a land toilet, all sat down to the evening mea=
l.
After supper was
over, the Captain was besieged by the children. Little Mara mounted first i=
nto
his lap, and nestled herself quietly under his coat--Moses and Sally stood =
at
each knee.
"Come,
now," said Moses, "you said you would tell us about the mermen to=
-night."
"Yes, and the
mermaids," said Sally. "Tell them all you told me the other night=
in
the trundle-bed."
Sally valued hers=
elf
no little on the score of the Captain's talent as a romancer.
"You see,
Moses," she said, volubly, "father saw mermen and mermaids a plen=
ty
of them in the West Indies."
"Oh, never m=
ind
about 'em now," said Captain Kittridge, looking at Mr. Sewell's corner=
.
"Why not,
father? mother isn't here," said Sally, innocently.
A smile passed ro=
und
the faces of the company, and Mr. Sewell said, "Come, Captain, no mode=
sty;
we all know you have as good a faculty for telling a story as for making a
fire."
"Do tell me =
what
mermen are," said Moses.
"Wal',"
said the Captain, sinking his voice confidentially, and hitching his chair a
little around, "mermen and maids is a kind o' people that have their w=
orld
jist like our'n, only it's down in the bottom of the sea, 'cause the bottom=
of
the sea has its mountains and its valleys, and its trees and its bushes, an=
d it
stands to reason there should be people there too."
Moses opened his
broad black eyes wider than usual, and looked absorbed attention.
"Tell 'em ab=
out
how you saw 'em," said Sally.
"Wal',
yes," said Captain Kittridge; "once when I was to the Bahamas,--it
was one Sunday morning in June, the first Sunday in the month,--we cast anc=
hor
pretty nigh a reef of coral, and I was jist a-sittin' down to read my Bible,
when up comes a merman over the side of the ship, all dressed as fine as any
old beau that ever ye see, with cocked hat and silk stockings, and
shoe-buckles, and his clothes were sea-green, and his shoe-buckles shone li=
ke
diamonds."
"Do you supp=
ose
they were diamonds, really?" said Sally.
"Wal', child=
, I
didn't ask him, but I shouldn't be surprised, from all I know of their ways=
, if
they was," said the Captain, who had now got so wholly into the spirit=
of
his fiction that he no longer felt embarrassed by the minister's presence, =
nor
saw the look of amusement with which he was listening to him in his
chimney-corner. "But, as I was sayin', he came up to me, and made the
politest bow that ever ye see, and says he, 'Cap'n Kittridge, I presume,' a=
nd
says I, 'Yes, sir.' 'I'm sorry to interrupt your reading,' says he; and say=
s I,
'Oh, no matter, sir.' 'But,' says he, 'if you would only be so good as to m=
ove
your anchor. You've cast anchor right before my front-door, and my wife and=
family
can't get out to go to meetin'.'"
"Why, do the=
y go
to meeting in the bottom of the sea?" said Moses.
"Law, bless =
you
sonny, yes. Why, Sunday morning, when the sea was all still, I used to hear=
the
bass-viol a-soundin' down under the waters, jist as plain as could be,--and
psalms and preachin'. I've reason to think there's as many hopefully pious
mermaids as there be folks," said the Captain.
"But," =
said
Moses, "you said the anchor was before the front-door, so the family
couldn't get out,--how did the merman get out?"
"Oh! he got =
out
of the scuttle on the roof," said the Captain, promptly.
"And did you
move your anchor?" said Moses.
"Why, child,
yes, to be sure I did; he was such a gentleman I wanted to oblige him,--it
shows you how important it is always to be polite," said the Captain, =
by
way of giving a moral turn to his narrative.
Mr. Sewell, during
the progress of this story, examined the Captain with eyes of amused curios=
ity.
His countenance was as fixed and steady, and his whole manner of reciting as
matter-of-fact and collected, as if he were relating some of the every-day
affairs of his boat-building.
"Wal',
Sally," said the Captain, rising, after his yarn had proceeded for an
indefinite length in this manner, "you and I must be goin'. I promised
your ma you shouldn't be up late, and we have a long walk home,--besides it=
's
time these little folks was in bed."
The children all
clung round the Captain, and could hardly be persuaded to let him go.
When he was gone,
Mrs. Pennel took the little ones to their nest in an adjoining room.
Mr. Sewell approa=
ched
his chair to that of Captain Pennel, and began talking to him in a tone of
voice so low, that we have never been able to make out exactly what he was
saying. Whatever it might be, however, it seemed to give rise to an anxious
consultation. "I did not think it advisable to tell any one this but
yourself, Captain Pennel. It is for you to decide, in view of the probabili=
ties
I have told you, what you will do."
"Well,"
said Zephaniah, "since you leave it to me, I say, let us keep him. It
certainly seems a marked providence that he has been thrown upon us as he h=
as,
and the Lord seemed to prepare a way for him in our hearts. I am well able =
to
afford it, and Mis' Pennel, she agrees to it, and on the whole I don't thin=
k we'd
best go back on our steps; besides, our little Mara has thrived since he ca=
me
under our roof. He is, to be sure, kind o' masterful, and I shall have to t=
ake
him off Mis' Pennel's hands before long, and put him into the sloop. But, a=
fter
all, there seems to be the makin' of a man in him, and when we are called a=
way,
why he'll be as a brother to poor little Mara. Yes, I think it's best as 't=
is."
The minister, as =
he
flitted across the bay by moonlight, felt relieved of a burden. His secret =
was
locked up as safe in the breast of Zephaniah Pennel as it could be in his o=
wn.
CHAPTER XIII - BOY AND GI=
RL
Zephaniah Pennel was what might be =
called
a Hebrew of the Hebrews.
New England, in h=
er
earlier days, founding her institutions on the Hebrew Scriptures, bred bett=
er
Jews than Moses could, because she read Moses with the amendments of Christ=
.
The state of soci=
ety
in some of the districts of Maine, in these days, much resembled in its spi=
rit
that which Moses labored to produce in ruder ages. It was entirely democrat=
ic,
simple, grave, hearty, and sincere,--solemn and religious in its daily tone,
and yet, as to all material good, full of wholesome thrift and prosperity.
Perhaps, taking the average mass of the people, a more healthful and desira=
ble
state of society never existed. Its better specimens had a simple Doric
grandeur unsurpassed in any age. The bringing up a child in this state of
society was a far more simple enterprise than in our modern times, when the=
factious
wants and aspirations are so much more developed.
Zephaniah Pennel =
was
as high as anybody in the land. He owned not only the neat little schooner,
"Brilliant," with divers small fishing-boats, but also a snug far=
m,
adjoining the brown house, together with some fresh, juicy pasture-lots on =
neighboring
islands, where he raised mutton, unsurpassed even by the English South-down,
and wool, which furnished homespun to clothe his family on all every-day
occasions.
Mrs. Pennel, to be
sure, had silks and satins, and flowered India chintz, and even a Cashmere
shawl, the fruits of some of her husband's earlier voyages, which were,
however, carefully stowed away for occasions so high and mighty, that they
seldom saw the light. Not to wear best things every day was a maxim of New
England thrift as little disputed as any verse of the catechism; and so Mrs.
Pennel found the stuff gown of her own dyeing and spinning so respectable f=
or
most purposes, that it figured even in the meeting-house itself, except on =
the
very finest of Sundays, when heaven and earth seemed alike propitious. A pe=
rson
can well afford to wear homespun stuff to meeting, who is buoyed up by a se=
cret
consciousness of an abundance of fine things that could be worn, if one wer=
e so
disposed, and everybody respected Mrs. Pennel's homespun the more, because =
they
thought of the things she didn't wear.
As to advantages =
of
education, the island, like all other New England districts, had its common
school, where one got the key of knowledge,--for having learned to read, wr=
ite,
and cipher, the young fellow of those regions commonly regarded himself as =
in
possession of all that a man needs, to help himself to any further acquisit=
ions
he might desire. The boys then made fishing voyages to the Banks, and those=
who
were so disposed took their books with them. If a boy did not wish to be bo=
red
with study, there was nobody to force him; but if a bright one saw visions =
of
future success in life lying through the avenues of knowledge, he found man=
y a
leisure hour to pore over his books, and work out the problems of navigation
directly over the element they were meant to control.
Four years having
glided by since the commencement of our story, we find in the brown house of
Zephaniah Pennel a tall, well-knit, handsome boy of ten years, who knows no
fear of wind or sea; who can set you over from Orr's Island to Harpswell,
either in sail or row-boat, he thinks, as well as any man living; who knows
every rope of the schooner Brilliant, and fancies he could command it as we=
ll
as "father" himself; and is supporting himself this spring, during
the tamer drudgeries of driving plough, and dropping potatoes, with the
glorious vision of being taken this year on the annual trip to "the
Banks," which comes on after planting. He reads fluently,--witness the
"Robinson Crusoe," which never departs from under his pillow, and
Goldsmith's "History of Greece and Rome," which good Mr. Sewell h=
as
lent him,--and he often brings shrewd criticisms on the character and cours=
e of
Romulus or Alexander into the common current of every-day life, in a way th=
at
brings a smile over the grave face of Zephaniah, and makes Mrs. Pennel think
the boy certainly ought to be sent to college.
As for Mara, she =
is
now a child of seven, still adorned with long golden curls, still looking
dreamily out of soft hazel eyes into some unknown future not her own. She h=
as
no dreams for herself--they are all for Moses. For his sake she has learned=
all
the womanly little accomplishments which Mrs. Kittridge has dragooned into
Sally. She knits his mittens and his stockings, and hems his
pocket-handkerchiefs, and aspires to make his shirts all herself. Whatever =
book
Moses reads, forthwith she aspires to read too, and though three years youn=
ger,
reads with a far more precocious insight.
Her little form is
slight and frail, and her cheek has a clear transparent brilliancy quite
different from the rounded one of the boy; she looks not exactly in ill hea=
lth,
but has that sort of transparent appearance which one fancies might be an
attribute of fairies and sylphs. All her outward senses are finer and more
acute than his, and finer and more delicate all the attributes of her mind.
Those who contend against giving woman the same education as man do it on t=
he ground
that it would make the woman unfeminine, as if Nature had done her work so
slightly that it could be so easily raveled and knit over. In fact, there i=
s a
masculine and a feminine element in all knowledge, and a man and a woman pu=
t to
the same study extract only what their nature fits them to see, so that
knowledge can be fully orbed only when the two unite in the search and share
the spoils.
When Moses was fu=
ll
of Romulus and Numa, Mara pondered the story of the nymph Egeria--sweet
parable, in which lies all we have been saying. Her trust in him was boundl=
ess.
He was a constant hero in her eyes, and in her he found a steadfast believe=
r as
to all possible feats and exploits to which he felt himself competent, for =
the
boy often had privately assured her that he could command the Brilliant as =
well
as father himself.
Spring had already
come, loosing the chains of ice in all the bays and coves round Harpswell,
Orr's Island, Maquoit, and Middle Bay. The magnificent spruces stood forth =
in
their gala-dresses, tipped on every point with vivid emerald; the silver fi=
rs
exuded from their tender shoots the fragrance of ripe pineapple; the white
pines shot forth long weird fingers at the end of their fringy boughs; and =
even
every little mimic evergreen in the shadows at their feet was made beautifu=
l by
the addition of a vivid border of green on the sombre coloring of its last =
year's
leaves. Arbutus, fragrant with its clean, wholesome odors, gave forth its
thousand dewy pink blossoms, and the trailing Linnea borealis hung its pend=
ent
twin bells round every mossy stump and old rock damp with green forest moul=
d.
The green and vermilion matting of the partridge-berry was impearled with w=
hite
velvet blossoms, the checkerberry hung forth a translucent bell under its
varnished green leaf, and a thousand more fairy bells, white or red, hung o=
n blueberry
and huckleberry bushes. The little Pearl of Orr's Island had wandered many =
an
hour gathering bouquets of all these, to fill the brown house with sweetness
when her grandfather and Moses should come in from work.
The love of flowe=
rs
seemed to be one of her earliest characteristics, and the young spring flow=
ers
of New England, in their airy delicacy and fragility, were much like hersel=
f;
and so strong seemed the affinity between them, that not only Mrs. Pennel's
best India china vases on the keeping-room mantel were filled, but here sto=
od a
tumbler of scarlet rock columbine, and there a bowl of blue and white viole=
ts,
and in another place a saucer of shell-tinted crowfoot, blue liverwort, and=
white
anemone, so that Zephaniah Pennel was wont to say there wasn't a drink of w=
ater
to be got, for Mara's flowers; but he always said it with a smile that made=
his
weather-beaten, hard features look like a rock lit up by a sunbeam. Little =
Mara
was the pearl of the old seaman's life, every finer particle of his nature =
came
out in her concentrated and polished, and he often wondered at a creature so
ethereal belonging to him--as if down on some shaggy sea-green rock an old
pearl oyster should muse and marvel on the strange silvery mystery of beauty
that was growing in the silence of his heart.
But May has passe=
d;
the arbutus and the Linnea are gone from the woods, and the pine tips have
grown into young shoots, which wilt at noon under a direct reflection from =
sun
and sea, and the blue sky has that metallic clearness and brilliancy which
distinguishes those regions, and the planting is at last over, and this very
morning Moses is to set off in the Brilliant for his first voyage to the Ba=
nks.
Glorious knight he! the world all before him, and the blood of ten years ra=
cing
and throbbing in his veins as he talks knowingly of hooks, and sinkers, and
bait, and lines, and wears proudly the red flannel shirt which Mara had jus=
t finished
for him.
"How I do wi=
sh I
were going with you!" she says. "I could do something, couldn't
I--take care of your hooks, or something?"
"Pooh!"
said Moses, sublimely regarding her while he settled the collar of his shir=
t,
"you're a girl; and what can girls do at sea? you never like to catch
fish--it always makes you cry to see 'em flop."
"Oh, yes, po=
or
fish!" said Mara, perplexed between her sympathy for the fish and her
desire for the glory of her hero, which must be founded on their pain; &quo=
t;I
can't help feeling sorry when they gasp so."
"Well, and w=
hat
do you suppose you would do when the men are pulling up twenty and forty
pounder?" said Moses, striding sublimely. "Why, they flop so, the=
y'd
knock you over in a minute."
"Do they? Oh,
Moses, do be careful. What if they should hurt you?"
"Hurt me!&qu=
ot;
said Moses, laughing; "that's a good one. I'd like to see a fish that
could hurt me."
"Do hear that
boy talk!" said Mrs. Pennel to her husband, as they stood within their
chamber-door.
"Yes, yes,&q=
uot;
said Captain Pennel, smiling; "he's full of the matter. I believe he'd
take the command of the schooner this morning, if I'd let him."
The Brilliant lay=
all
this while courtesying on the waves, which kissed and whispered to the litt=
le
coquettish craft. A fairer June morning had not risen on the shores that we=
ek;
the blue mirror of the ocean was all dotted over with the tiny white sails =
of
fishing-craft bound on the same errand, and the breeze that was just crispi=
ng
the waters had the very spirit of energy and adventure in it.
Everything and
everybody was now on board, and she began to spread her fair wings, and slo=
wly
and gracefully to retreat from the shore. Little Moses stood on the deck, h=
is
black curls blowing in the wind, and his large eyes dancing with
excitement,--his clear olive complexion and glowing cheeks well set off by =
his
red shirt.
Mrs. Pennel stood
with Mara on the shore to see them go. The fair little golden-haired Ariadne
shaded her eyes with one arm, and stretched the other after her Theseus, ti=
ll
the vessel grew smaller, and finally seemed to melt away into the eternal b=
lue.
Many be the wives and lovers that have watched those little fishing-craft as
they went gayly out like this, but have waited long--too long--and seen them
again no more. In night and fog they have gone down under the keel of some
ocean packet or Indiaman, and sunk with brave hearts and hands, like a bubb=
le
in the mighty waters. Yet Mrs. Pennel did not turn back to her house in app=
rehension
of this. Her husband had made so many voyages, and always returned safely, =
that
she confidently expected before long to see them home again.
The next Sunday t=
he
seat of Zephaniah Pennel was vacant in church. According to custom, a note =
was
put up asking prayers for his safe return, and then everybody knew that he =
was
gone to the Banks; and as the roguish, handsome face of Moses was also miss=
ing,
Miss Roxy whispered to Miss Ruey, "There! Captain Pennel's took Moses =
on
his first voyage. We must contrive to call round on Mis' Pennel afore long.
She'll be lonesome."
Sunday evening Mr=
s.
Pennel was sitting pensively with little Mara by the kitchen hearth, where =
they
had been boiling the tea-kettle for their solitary meal. They heard a brisk
step without, and soon Captain and Mrs. Kittridge made their appearance.
"Good evenin=
g,
Mis' Pennel," said the Captain; "I's a-tellin' my good woman we m=
ust
come down and see how you's a-getting along. It's raly a work of necessity =
and
mercy proper for the Lord's day. Rather lonesome, now the Captain's gone, a=
in't
ye? Took little Moses, too, I see. Wasn't at meetin' to-day, so I says, Mis'
Kittridge, we'll just step down and chirk 'em up a little."
"I didn't re=
ally
know how to come," said Mrs. Kittridge, as she allowed Mrs. Pennel to =
take
her bonnet; "but Aunt Roxy's to our house now, and she said she'd see =
to
Sally. So you've let the boy go to the Banks? He's young, ain't he, for
that?"
"Not a bit of
it," said Captain Kittridge. "Why, I was off to the Banks long af=
ore
I was his age, and a capital time we had of it, too. Golly! how them fish d=
id
bite! We stood up to our knees in fish before we'd fished half an hour.&quo=
t;
Mara, who had alw=
ays
a shy affinity for the Captain, now drew towards him and climbed on his kne=
e.
"Did the wind blow very hard?" she said.
"What, my li=
ttle
maid?"
"Does the wi=
nd
blow at the Banks?"
"Why, yes, my
little girl, that it does, sometimes; but then there ain't the least danger.
Our craft ride out storms like live creatures. I've stood it out in gales t=
hat
was tight enough, I'm sure. 'Member once I turned in 'tween twelve and one,=
and
hadn't more'n got asleep, afore I came clump out of my berth, and found
everything upside down. And 'stead of goin' upstairs to get on deck, I had =
to
go right down. Fact was, that 'ere vessel jist turned clean over in the wat=
er,
and come right side up like a duck."
"Well, now,
Cap'n, I wouldn't be tellin' such a story as that," said his helpmeet.=
"Why, Polly,
what do you know about it? you never was to sea. We did turn clear over, fo=
r I
'member I saw a bunch of seaweed big as a peck measure stickin' top of the =
mast
next day. Jist shows how safe them ar little fishing craft is,--for all they
look like an egg-shell on the mighty deep, as Parson Sewell calls it."=
"I was very =
much
pleased with Mr. Sewell's exercise in prayer this morning," said Mrs.
Kittridge; "it must have been a comfort to you, Mis' Pennel."
"It was, to =
be
sure," said Mrs. Pennel.
"Puts me in =
mind
of poor Mary Jane Simpson. Her husband went out, you know, last June, and
hain't been heard of since. Mary Jane don't really know whether to put on
mourning or not."
"Law! I don't
think Mary Jane need give up yet," said the Captain. "'Member one
year I was out, we got blowed clear up to Baffin's Bay, and got shut up in =
the
ice, and had to go ashore and live jist as we could among them Esquimaux.
Didn't get home for a year. Old folks had clean giv' us up. Don't need never
despair of folks gone to sea, for they's sure to turn up, first or last.&qu=
ot;
"But I
hope," said Mara, apprehensively, "that grandpapa won't get blown=
up
to Baffin's Bay. I've seen that on his chart,--it's a good ways."
"And then
there's them 'ere icebergs," said Mrs. Kittridge; "I'm always 'fr=
aid
of running into them in the fog."
"Law!" =
said
Captain Kittridge, "I've met 'em bigger than all the colleges up to
Brunswick,--great white bears on 'em,--hungry as Time in the Primer. Once we
came kersmash on to one of 'em, and if the Flying Betsey hadn't been made of
whalebone and injer-rubber, she'd a-been stove all to pieces. Them white be=
ars,
they was so hungry, that they stood there with the water jist runnin' out of
their chops in a perfect stream."
"Oh, dear,
dear," said Mara, with wide round eyes, "what will Moses do if th=
ey
get on the icebergs?"
"Yes," =
said
Mrs. Kittridge, looking solemnly at the child through the black bows of her
spectacles, "we can truly say:--
"'Dangers stand t=
hick
through all the ground, =
To
push us to the tomb,'
as the hymn-book
says."
The kind-hearted
Captain, feeling the fluttering heart of little Mara, and seeing the tears
start in her eyes, addressed himself forthwith to consolation. "Oh, ne=
ver
you mind, Mara," he said, "there won't nothing hurt 'em. Look at =
me.
Why, I've been everywhere on the face of the earth. I've been on icebergs, =
and
among white bears and Indians, and seen storms that would blow the very hair
off your head, and here I am, dry and tight as ever. You'll see 'em back be=
fore
long."
The cheerful laugh
with which the Captain was wont to chorus his sentences sounded like the
crackling of dry pine wood on the social hearth. One would hardly hear it
without being lightened in heart; and little Mara gazed at his long, dry, r=
opy
figure, and wrinkled thin face, as a sort of monument of hope; and his
uproarious laugh, which Mrs. Kittridge sometimes ungraciously compared to
"the crackling of thorns under a pot," seemed to her the most
delightful thing in the world.
"Mary Jane w=
as
a-tellin' me," resumed Mrs. Kittridge, "that when her husband had
been out a month, she dreamed she see him, and three other men, a-floatin' =
on
an iceberg."
"Laws,"
said Captain Kittridge, "that's jist what my old mother dreamed about =
me,
and 'twas true enough, too, till we got off the ice on to the shore up in t=
he
Esquimaux territory, as I was a-tellin'. So you tell Mary Jane she needn't =
look
out for a second husband yet, for that ar dream's a sartin sign he'll be
back."
"Cap'n
Kittridge!" said his helpmeet, drawing herself up, and giving him an
austere glance over her spectacles; "how often must I tell you that th=
ere
is subjects which shouldn't be treated with levity?"
"Who's been
a-treatin' of 'em with levity?" said the Captain. "I'm sure I ain=
't.
Mary Jane's good-lookin', and there's plenty of young fellows as sees it as
well as me. I declare, she looked as pretty as any young gal when she ris u=
p in
the singers' seats to-day. Put me in mind of you, Polly, when I first come =
home
from the Injies."
"Oh, come no=
w,
Cap'n Kittridge! we're gettin' too old for that sort o' talk."
"We ain't too
old, be we, Mara?" said the Captain, trotting the little girl gayly on=
his
knee; "and we ain't afraid of icebergs and no sich, be we? I tell you
they's a fine sight of a bright day; they has millions of steeples, all whi=
te
and glistering, like the New Jerusalem, and the white bears have capital ti=
mes
trampin' round on 'em. Wouldn't little Mara like a great, nice white bear to
ride on, with his white fur, so soft and warm, and a saddle made of pearls,=
and
a gold bridle?"
"You haven't
seen any little girls ride so," said Mara, doubtfully.
"I shouldn't
wonder if I had; but you see, Mis' Kittridge there, she won't let me tell a=
ll I
know," said the Captain, sinking his voice to a confidential tone;
"you jist wait till we get alone."
"But, you are
sure," said Mara, confidingly, in return, "that white bears will =
be
kind to Moses?"
"Lord bless =
you,
yes, child, the kindest critturs in the world they be, if you only get the
right side of 'em," said the Captain.
"Oh, yes!
because," said Mara, "I know how good a wolf was to Romulus and R=
emus
once, and nursed them when they were cast out to die. I read that in the Ro=
man
history."
"Jist so,&qu=
ot;
said the Captain, enchanted at this historic confirmation of his apocrypha.=
"And so,&quo=
t;
said Mara, "if Moses should happen to get on an iceberg, a bear might =
take
care of him, you know."
"Jist so, ji=
st
so," said the Captain; "so don't you worry your little curly head=
one
bit. Some time when you come down to see Sally, we'll go down to the cove, =
and
I'll tell you lots of stories about chil'en that have been fetched up by wh=
ite
bears, jist like Romulus and what's his name there."
"Come, Mis' =
Kittridge,"
added the cheery Captain; "you and I mustn't be keepin' the folks up t=
ill
nine o'clock."
"Well now,&q=
uot;
said Mrs. Kittridge, in a doleful tone, as she began to put on her bonnet,
"Mis' Pennel, you must keep up your spirits--it's one's duty to take
cheerful views of things. I'm sure many's the night, when the Captain's been
gone to sea, I've laid and shook in my bed, hearin' the wind blow, and thin=
king
what if I should be left a lone widow."
"There'd a-b=
een
a dozen fellows a-wanting to get you in six months, Polly," interposed=
the
Captain. "Well, good-night, Mis' Pennel; there'll be a splendid haul of
fish at the Banks this year, or there's no truth in signs. Come, my little
Mara, got a kiss for the dry old daddy? That's my good girl. Well, good nig=
ht,
and the Lord bless you."
And so the cheery
Captain took up his line of march homeward, leaving little Mara's head full=
of
dazzling visions of the land of romance to which Moses had gone. She was ye=
t on
that shadowy boundary between the dreamland of childhood and the real land =
of
life; so all things looked to her quite possible; and gentle white bears, w=
ith
warm, soft fur and pearl and gold saddles, walked through her dreams, and t=
he
victorious curls of Moses appeared, with his bright eyes and cheeks, over g=
littering
pinnacles of frost in the ice-land.
CHAPTER XIV - THE ENCHANT=
ED
ISLAND
June and July passed, and the lonel=
y two
lived a quiet life in the brown house. Everything was so still and fair--no
sound but the coming and going tide, and the swaying wind among the pine-tr=
ees,
and the tick of the clock, and the whirr of the little wheel as Mrs. Pennel=
sat
spinning in her door in the mild weather. Mara read the Roman history throu=
gh again,
and began it a third time, and read over and over again the stories and
prophecies that pleased her in the Bible, and pondered the wood-cuts and te=
xts
in a very old edition of Æsop's Fables; and as she wandered in the wo=
ods,
picking fragrant bayberries and gathering hemlock, checkerberry, and sassaf=
ras
to put in the beer which her grandmother brewed, she mused on the things th=
at
she read till her little mind became a tabernacle of solemn, quaint, dreamy
forms, where old Judean kings and prophets, and Roman senators and warriors,
marched in and out in shadowy rounds. She invented long dramas and
conversations in which they performed imaginary parts, and it would not have
appeared to the child in the least degree surprising either to have met an
angel in the woods, or to have formed an intimacy with some talking wolf or=
bear,
such as she read of in Æsop's Fables.
One day, as she w=
as
exploring the garret, she found in an old barrel of cast-off rubbish a bit =
of
reading which she begged of her grandmother for her own. It was the play of=
the
"Tempest," torn from an old edition of Shakespeare, and was in th=
at
delightfully fragmentary condition which most particularly pleases children,
because they conceive a mutilated treasure thus found to be more especially
their own property--something like a rare wild-flower or sea-shell. The
pleasure which thoughtful and imaginative children sometimes take in reading
that which they do not and cannot fully comprehend is one of the most commo=
n and
curious phenomena of childhood.
And so little Mara
would lie for hours stretched out on the pebbly beach, with the broad open
ocean before her and the whispering pines and hemlocks behind her, and pore
over this poem, from which she collected dim, delightful images of a lonely
island, an old enchanter, a beautiful girl, and a spirit not quite like tho=
se
in the Bible, but a very probable one to her mode of thinking. As for old
Caliban, she fancied him with a face much like that of a huge skate-fish she
had once seen drawn ashore in one of her grandfather's nets; and then there=
was
the beautiful young Prince Ferdinand, much like what Moses would be when he=
was
grown up--and how glad she would be to pile up his wood for him, if any old
enchanter should set him to work!
One attribute of =
the
child was a peculiar shamefacedness and shyness about her inner thoughts, a=
nd
therefore the wonder that this new treasure excited, the host of surmises a=
nd
dreams to which it gave rise, were never mentioned to anybody. That it was =
all
of it as much authentic fact as the Roman history, she did not doubt, but
whether it had happened on Orr's Island or some of the neighboring ones, she
had not exactly made up her mind. She resolved at her earliest leisure to c=
onsult
Captain Kittridge on the subject, wisely considering that it much resembled
some of his fishy and aquatic experiences.
Some of the little
songs fixed themselves in her memory, and she would hum them as she wandere=
d up
and down the beach.
"Come unto these =
yellow
sands, And t=
hen
take hands; Courtsied when yo=
u have
and kissed The w=
ild
waves whist, Foot
it featly here and there; And, sweet sprite=
s, the
burthen bear."
And another which
pleased her still more:--
"Full fathom five=
thy
father lies; Of his
bones are coral made, Those are pearls =
that
were his eyes: Nothi=
ng of
him that can fade But doth suffer a
sea-change =
Into
something rich and strange; Sea-nymphs hourly=
ring
his knell: =
Hark,
now I hear them--ding-dong, bell."
These words she
pondered very long, gravely revolving in her little head whether they descr=
ibed
the usual course of things in the mysterious under-world that lay beneath t=
hat
blue spangled floor of the sea; whether everybody's eyes changed to pearl, =
and
their bones to coral, if they sunk down there; and whether the sea-nymphs s=
poken
of were the same as the mermaids that Captain Kittridge had told of. Had he=
not
said that the bell rung for church of a Sunday morning down under the water=
s?
Mara vividly
remembered the scene on the sea-beach, the finding of little Moses and his =
mother,
the dream of the pale lady that seemed to bring him to her; and not one of =
the
conversations that had transpired before her among different gossips had be=
en
lost on her quiet, listening little ears. These pale, still children that p=
lay
without making any noise are deep wells into which drop many things which l=
ie
long and quietly on the bottom, and come up in after years whole and new, w=
hen everybody
else has forgotten them.
So she had heard
surmises as to the remaining crew of that unfortunate ship, where, perhaps,
Moses had a father. And sometimes she wondered if he were lying fathoms deep
with sea-nymphs ringing his knell, and whether Moses ever thought about him;
and yet she could no more have asked him a question about it than if she had
been born dumb. She decided that she should never show him this poetry--it
might make him feel unhappy.
One bright aftern=
oon,
when the sea lay all dead asleep, and the long, steady respiration of its t=
ides
scarcely disturbed the glassy tranquillity of its bosom, Mrs. Pennel sat at=
her
kitchen-door spinning, when Captain Kittridge appeared.
"Good aftern=
oon,
Mis' Pennel; how ye gettin' along?"
"Oh, pretty
well, Captain; won't you walk in and have a glass of beer?"
"Well, thank
you," said the Captain, raising his hat and wiping his forehead, "=
;I
be pretty dry, it's a fact."
Mrs. Pennel haste=
ned
to a cask which was kept standing in a corner of the kitchen, and drew from
thence a mug of her own home-brewed, fragrant with the smell of juniper,
hemlock, and wintergreen, which she presented to the Captain, who sat down =
in
the doorway and discussed it in leisurely sips.
"Wal', s'pose
it's most time to be lookin' for 'em home, ain't it?" he said.
"I am lookin'
every day," said Mrs. Pennel, involuntarily glancing upward at the sea=
.
At the word appea=
red
the vision of little Mara, who rose up like a spirit from a dusky corner, w=
here
she had been stooping over her reading.
"Why, little
Mara," said the Captain, "you ris up like a ghost all of a sudden=
. I
thought you's out to play. I come down a-purpose arter you. Mis' Kittridge =
has
gone shoppin' up to Brunswick, and left Sally a 'stent' to do; and I promis=
ed
her if she'd clap to and do it quick, I'd go up and fetch you down, and we'd
have a play in the cove."
Mara's eyes brigh=
tened,
as they always did at this prospect, and Mrs. Pennel said, "Well, I'm =
glad
to have the child go; she seems so kind o' still and lonesome since Moses w=
ent
away; really one feels as if that boy took all the noise there was with him=
. I
get tired myself sometimes hearing the clock tick. Mara, when she's alone,
takes to her book more than's good for a child."
"She does, d=
oes
she? Well, we'll see about that. Come, little Mara, get on your sun-bonnet.
Sally's sewin' fast as ever she can, and we're goin' to dig some clams, and
make a fire, and have a chowder; that'll be nice, won't it? Don't you want =
to
come, too, Mis' Pennel?"
"Oh, thank y=
ou,
Captain, but I've got so many things on hand to do afore they come home, I
don't really think I can. I'll trust Mara to you any day."
Mara had run into=
her
own little room and secured her precious fragment of treasure, which she
wrapped up carefully in her handkerchief, resolving to enlighten Sally with=
the
story, and to consult the Captain on any nice points of criticism. Arrived =
at
the cove, they found Sally already there in advance of them, clapping her h=
ands
and dancing in a manner which made her black elf-locks fly like those of a
distracted creature.
"Now,
Sally," said the Captain, imitating, in a humble way, his wife's manne=
r,
"are you sure you've finished your work well?"
"Yes, father,
every stitch on't."
"And stuck in
your needle, and folded it up, and put it in the drawer, and put away your
thimble, and shet the drawer, and all the rest on't?" said the Captain=
.
"Yes,
father," said Sally, gleefully, "I've done everything I could thi=
nk
of."
"'Cause you =
know
your ma'll be arter ye, if you don't leave everything straight."
"Oh, never y=
ou
fear, father, I've done it all half an hour ago, and I've found the most ca=
pital
bed of clams just round the point here; and you take care of Mara there, and
make up a fire while I dig 'em. If she comes, she'll be sure to wet her sho=
es,
or spoil her frock, or something."
"Wal', she l=
ikes
no better fun now," said the Captain, watching Sally, as she disappear=
ed
round the rock with a bright tin pan.
He then proceeded=
to
construct an extemporary fireplace of loose stones, and to put together chi=
ps
and shavings for the fire,--in which work little Mara eagerly assisted; but=
the
fire was crackling and burning cheerily long before Sally appeared with her
clams, and so the Captain, with a pile of hemlock boughs by his side, sat o=
n a
stone feeding the fire leisurely from time to time with crackling boughs. N=
ow
was the time for Mara to make her inquiries; her heart beat, she knew not w=
hy,
for she was full of those little timidities and shames that so often embarr=
ass
children in their attempts to get at the meanings of things in this great
world, where they are such ignorant spectators.
"Captain
Kittridge," she said at last, "do the mermaids toll any bells for
people when they are drowned?"
Now the Captain h=
ad
never been known to indicate the least ignorance on any subject in heaven or
earth, which any one wished his opinion on; he therefore leisurely poked
another great crackling bough of green hemlock into the fire, and, Yankee-l=
ike,
answered one question by asking another.
"What put th=
at
into your curly pate?" he said.
"A book I've
been reading says they do,--that is, sea-nymphs do. Ain't sea-nymphs and
mermaids the same thing?"
"Wal', I gue=
ss
they be, pretty much," said the Captain, rubbing down his pantaloons;
"yes, they be," he added, after reflection.
"And when pe=
ople
are drowned, how long does it take for their bones to turn into coral, and
their eyes into pearl?" said little Mara.
"Well, that
depends upon circumstances," said the Captain, who wasn't going to be
posed; "but let me jist see your book you've been reading these things=
out
of."
"I found it =
in a
barrel up garret, and grandma gave it to me," said Mara, unrolling her
handkerchief; "it's a beautiful book,--it tells about an island, and t=
here
was an old enchanter lived on it, and he had one daughter, and there was a
spirit they called Ariel, whom a wicked old witch fastened in a split of a
pine-tree, till the enchanter got him out. He was a beautiful spirit, and r=
ode
in the curled clouds and hung in flowers,--because he could make himself bi=
g or
little, you see."
"Ah, yes, I =
see,
to be sure," said the Captain, nodding his head.
"Well, that
about sea-nymphs ringing his knell is here," Mara added, beginning to =
read
the passage with wide, dilated eyes and great emphasis. "You see,"
she went on speaking very fast, "this enchanter had been a prince, and=
a
wicked brother had contrived to send him to sea with his poor little daught=
er,
in a ship so leaky that the very rats had left it."
"Bad business
that!" said the Captain, attentively.
"Well,"
said Mara, "they got cast ashore on this desolate island, where they l=
ived
together. But once, when a ship was going by on the sea that had his wicked
brother and his son--a real good, handsome young prince--in it, why then he
made a storm by magic arts."
"Jist so,&qu=
ot;
said the Captain; "that's been often done, to my sartin knowledge.&quo=
t;
"And he made=
the
ship be wrecked, and all the people thrown ashore, but there wasn't any of =
'em
drowned, and this handsome prince heard Ariel singing this song about his
father, and it made him think he was dead."
"Well, what
became of 'em?" interposed Sally, who had come up with her pan of clam=
s in
time to hear this story, to which she had listened with breathless interest=
.
"Oh, the
beautiful young prince married the beautiful young lady," said Mara.
"Wal',"
said the Captain, who by this time had found his soundings; "that you'=
ve
been a-tellin' is what they call a play, and I've seen 'em act it at a thea=
tre,
when I was to Liverpool once. I know all about it. Shakespeare wrote it, and
he's a great English poet."
"But did it =
ever
happen?" said Mara, trembling between hope and fear. "Is it like =
the
Bible and Roman history?"
"Why, no,&qu=
ot;
said Captain Kittridge, "not exactly; but things jist like it, you kno=
w.
Mermaids and sich is common in foreign parts, and they has funerals for dro=
wned
sailors. 'Member once when we was sailing near the Bermudas by a reef where=
the
Lively Fanny went down, and I heard a kind o' ding-dongin',--and the waters
there is clear as the sky,--and I looked down and see the coral all a-growi=
n',
and the sea-plants a-wavin' as handsome as a pictur', and the mermaids they=
was
a-singin'. It was beautiful; they sung kind o' mournful; and Jack Hubbard, =
he
would have it they was a-singin' for the poor fellows that was a-lyin' there
round under the seaweed."
"But," =
said
Mara, "did you ever see an enchanter that could make storms?"
"Wal', there=
be
witches and conjurers that make storms. 'Member once when we was crossin' t=
he
line, about twelve o'clock at night, there was an old man with a long white
beard that shone like silver, came and stood at the masthead, and he had a
pitchfork in one hand, and a lantern in the other, and there was great ball=
s of
fire as big as my fist came out all round in the rigging. And I'll tell you=
if
we didn't get a blow that ar night! I thought to my soul we should all go to
the bottom."
"Why," =
said
Mara, her eyes staring with excitement, "that was just like this
shipwreck; and 'twas Ariel made those balls of fire; he says so; he said he
'flamed amazement' all over the ship."
"I've heard =
Miss
Roxy tell about witches that made storms," said Sally.
The Captain leisu=
rely
proceeded to open the clams, separating from the shells the contents, which=
he
threw into a pan, meanwhile placing a black pot over the fire in which he h=
ad
previously arranged certain slices of salt pork, which soon began frizzling=
in
the heat.
"Now, Sally,=
you
peel them potatoes, and mind you slice 'em thin," he said, and Sally s=
oon
was busy with her work.
"Yes," =
said
the Captain, going on with his part of the arrangement, "there was old
Polly Twitchell, that lived in that ar old tumble-down house on Mure P'int;
people used to say she brewed storms, and went to sea in a sieve."
"Went in a
sieve!" said both children; "why a sieve wouldn't swim!"
"No more it
wouldn't, in any Christian way," said the Captain; "but that was =
to
show what a great witch she was."
"But this wa=
s a
good enchanter," said Mara, "and he did it all by a book and a
rod."
"Yes, yes,&q=
uot;
said the Captain; "that ar's the gen'l way magicians do, ever since
Moses's time in Egypt. 'Member once I was to Alexandria, in Egypt, and I sa=
w a
magician there that could jist see everything you ever did in your life in a
drop of ink that he held in his hand."
"He could,
father!"
"To be sure =
he
could! told me all about the old folks at home; and described our house as
natural as if he'd a-been there. He used to carry snakes round with him,--a
kind so p'ison that it was certain death to have 'em bite you; but he played
with 'em as if they was kittens."
"Well,"
said Mara, "my enchanter was a king; and when he got through all he
wanted, and got his daughter married to the beautiful young prince, he said=
he
would break his staff, and deeper than plummet sounded he would bury his
book."
"It was pret=
ty
much the best thing he could do," said the Captain, "because the
Bible is agin such things."
"Is it?"
said Mara; "why, he was a real good man."
"Oh, well, y=
ou
know, we all on us does what ain't quite right sometimes, when we gets push=
ed
up," said the Captain, who now began arranging the clams and sliced po=
tatoes
in alternate layers with sea-biscuit, strewing in salt and pepper as he went
on; and, in a few moments, a smell, fragrant to hungry senses, began to ste=
am
upward, and Sally began washing and preparing some mammoth clam-shells, to
serve as ladles and plates for the future chowder.
Mara, who sat with
her morsel of a book in her lap, seemed deeply pondering the past conversat=
ion.
At last she said, "What did you mean by saying you'd seen 'em act that=
at
a theatre?"
"Why, they m=
ake
it all seem real; and they have a shipwreck, and you see it all jist right
afore your eyes."
"And the
Enchanter, and Ariel, and Caliban, and all?" said Mara.
"Yes, all
on't,--plain as printing."
"Why, that i=
s by
magic, ain't it?" said Mara.
"No; they hes
ways to jist make it up; but,"--added the Captain, "Sally, you
needn't say nothin' to your ma 'bout the theatre, 'cause she wouldn't think=
I's
fit to go to meetin' for six months arter, if she heard on't."
"Why, ain't
theatres good?" said Sally.
"Wal', there=
's a
middlin' sight o' bad things in 'em," said the Captain, "that I m=
ust
say; but as long as folks is folks, why, they will be folksy;--but there's
never any makin' women folk understand about them ar things."
"I am sorry =
they
are bad," said Mara; "I want to see them."
"Wal',
wal'," said the Captain, "on the hull I've seen real things a good
deal more wonderful than all their shows, and they hain't no make-b'lieve to
'em; but theatres is takin' arter all. But, Sally, mind you don't say nothi=
n'
to Mis' Kittridge."
A few moments more
and all discussion was lost in preparations for the meal, and each one,
receiving a portion of the savory stew in a large shell, made a spoon of a
small cockle, and with some slices of bread and butter, the evening meal we=
nt
off merrily. The sun was sloping toward the ocean; the wide blue floor was
bedropped here and there with rosy shadows of sailing clouds. Suddenly the
Captain sprang up, calling out,--
"Sure as I'm
alive, there they be!"
"Who?"
exclaimed the children.
"Why, Captain
Pennel and Moses; don't you see?"
And, in fact, on =
the
outer circle of the horizon came drifting a line of small white-breasted
vessels, looking like so many doves.
"Them's
'em," said the Captain, while Mara danced for joy.
"How soon wi=
ll
they be here?"
"Afore
long," said the Captain; "so, Mara, I guess you'll want to be get=
ting
hum."
CHAPTER XV - THE HOME COM=
ING
Mrs. Pennel, too, had seen the whit=
e,
dove-like cloud on the horizon, and had hurried to make biscuits, and condu=
ct
other culinary preparations which should welcome the wanderers home.
The sun was just
dipping into the great blue sea--a round ball of fire--and sending long,
slanting tracks of light across the top of each wave, when a boat was moore=
d at
the beach, and the minister sprang out,--not in his suit of ceremony, but
attired in fisherman's garb.
"Good aftern= oon, Mrs. Pennel," he said. "I was out fishing, and I thought I saw yo= ur husband's schooner in the distance. I thought I'd come and tell you."<= o:p>
"Thank you, =
Mr.
Sewell. I thought I saw it, but I was not certain. Do come in; the Captain
would be delighted to see you here."
"We miss your
husband in our meetings," said Mr. Sewell; "it will be good news =
for
us all when he comes home; he is one of those I depend on to help me
preach."
"I'm sure you
don't preach to anybody who enjoys it more," said Mrs. Pennel. "He
often tells me that the greatest trouble about his voyages to the Banks is =
that
he loses so many sanctuary privileges; though he always keeps Sunday on his
ship, and reads and sings his psalms; but, he says, after all, there's noth=
ing
like going to Mount Zion."
"And little
Moses has gone on his first voyage?" said the minister.
"Yes, indeed;
the child has been teasing to go for more than a year. Finally the Cap'n to=
ld
him if he'd be faithful in the ploughing and planting, he should go. You se=
e,
he's rather unsteady, and apt to be off after other things,--very different
from Mara. Whatever you give her to do, she always keeps at it till it's
done."
"And pray, w=
here
is the little lady?" said the minister; "is she gone?"
"Well, Cap'n
Kittridge came in this afternoon to take her down to see Sally. The Cap'n's
always so fond of Mara, and she has always taken to him ever since she was a
baby."
"The Captain=
is
a curious creature," said the minister, smiling.
Mrs. Pennel smiled
also; and it is to be remarked that nobody ever mentioned the poor Captain's
name without the same curious smile.
"The Cap'n i=
s a
good-hearted, obliging creature," said Mrs. Pennel, "and a
master-hand for telling stories to the children."
"Yes, a perf=
ect
'Arabian Nights' Entertainment,'" said Mr. Sewell.
"Well, I rea=
lly
believe the Cap'n believes his own stories," said Mrs. Pennel; "he
always seems to, and certainly a more obliging man and a kinder neighbor co=
uldn't
be. He has been in and out almost every day since I've been alone, to see i=
f I
wanted anything. He would insist on chopping wood and splitting kindlings f=
or
me, though I told him the Cap'n and Moses had left a plenty to last till th=
ey
came home."
At this moment the
subject of their conversation appeared striding along the beach, with a lar=
ge,
red lobster in one hand, while with the other he held little Mara upon his
shoulder, she the while clapping her hands and singing merrily, as she saw =
the
Brilliant out on the open blue sea, its white sails looking of a rosy purpl=
e in
the evening light, careering gayly homeward.
"There is
Captain Kittridge this very minute," said Mrs. Pennel, setting down a
tea-cup she had been wiping, and going to the door.
"Good evenin=
g,
Mis' Pennel," said the Captain. "I s'pose you see your folks are
comin'. I brought down one of these 'ere ready b'iled, 'cause I thought it
might make out your supper."
"Thank you,
Captain; you must stay and take some with us."
"Wal', me and
the children have pooty much done our supper," said the Captain. "=
;We
made a real fust-rate chowder down there to the cove; but I'll jist stay and
see what the Cap'n's luck is. Massy!" he added, as he looked in at the
door, "if you hain't got the minister there! Wal', now, I come jist as=
I
be," he added, with a glance down at his clothes.
"Never mind,
Captain," said Mr. Sewell; "I'm in my fishing-clothes, so we're
even."
As to little Mara,
she had run down to the beach, and stood so near the sea, that every dash of
the tide-wave forced her little feet to tread an inch backward, stretching =
out
her hands eagerly toward the schooner, which was standing straight toward t=
he
small wharf, not far from their door. Already she could see on deck figures
moving about, and her sharp little eyes made out a small personage in a red
shirt that was among the most active. Soon all the figures grew distinct, a=
nd
she could see her grandfather's gray head, and alert, active form, and could
see, by the signs he made, that he had perceived the little blowy figure th=
at
stood, with hair streaming in the wind, like some flower bent seaward.
And now they are =
come
nearer, and Moses shouts and dances on the deck, and the Captain and Mrs.
Pennel come running from the house down to the shore, and a few minutes mor=
e,
and all are landed safe and sound, and little Mara is carried up to the hou=
se
in her grandfather's arms, while Captain Kittridge stops to have a few mome=
nts'
gossip with Ben Halliday and Tom Scranton before they go to their own
resting-places.
Meanwhile Moses l=
oses
not a moment in boasting of his heroic exploits to Mara.
"Oh, Mara!
you've no idea what times we've had! I can fish equal to any of 'em, and I =
can
take in sail and tend the helm like anything, and I know all the names of
everything; and you ought to have seen us catch fish! Why, they bit just as
fast as we could throw; and it was just throw and bite,--throw and bite,--t=
hrow
and bite; and my hands got blistered pulling in, but I didn't mind it,--I w=
as
determined no one should beat me."
"Oh! did you
blister your hands?" said Mara, pitifully.
"Oh, to be s=
ure!
Now, you girls think that's a dreadful thing, but we men don't mind it. My
hands are getting so hard, you've no idea. And, Mara, we caught a great
shark."
"A shark!--o=
h,
how dreadful! Isn't he dangerous?"
"Dangerous! I
guess not. We served him out, I tell you. He'll never eat any more people, I
tell you, the old wretch!"
"But, poor
shark, it isn't his fault that he eats people. He was made so," said M=
ara,
unconsciously touching a deep theological mystery.
"Well, I don=
't
know but he was," said Moses; "but sharks that we catch never eat=
any
more, I'll bet you."
"Oh, Moses, =
did
you see any icebergs?"
"Icebergs! y=
es;
we passed right by one,--a real grand one."
"Were there =
any
bears on it?"
"Bears! No; =
we
didn't see any."
"Captain
Kittridge says there are white bears live on 'em."
"Oh, Captain
Kittridge," said Moses, with a toss of superb contempt; "if you're
going to believe all he says, you've got your hands full."
"Why, Moses,=
you
don't think he tells lies?" said Mara, the tears actually starting in =
her
eyes. "I think he is real good, and tells nothing but the truth."=
"Well, well,=
you
are young yet," said Moses, turning away with an air of easy grandeur,
"and only a girl besides," he added.
Mara was nettled =
at
this speech. First, it pained her to have her child's faith shaken in anyth=
ing,
and particularly in her good old friend, the Captain; and next, she felt, w=
ith
more force than ever she did before, the continual disparaging tone in which
Moses spoke of her girlhood.
"I'm sure,&q=
uot;
she said to herself, "he oughtn't to feel so about girls and women. Th=
ere
was Deborah was a prophetess, and judged Israel; and there was Egeria,--she
taught Numa Pompilius all his wisdom."
But it was not the
little maiden's way to speak when anything thwarted or hurt her, but rather=
to
fold all her feelings and thoughts inward, as some insects, with fine gauzy
wings, draw them under a coat of horny concealment. Somehow, there was a
shivering sense of disappointment in all this meeting with Moses. She had d=
welt
upon it, and fancied so much, and had so many things to say to him; and he =
had
come home so self-absorbed and glorious, and seemed to have had so little n=
eed
of or thought for her, that she felt a cold, sad sinking at her heart; and =
walking
away very still and white, sat down demurely by her grandfather's knee.
"Well, so my
little girl is glad grandfather's come," he said, lifting her fondly in
his arms, and putting her golden head under his coat, as he had been wont t=
o do
from infancy; "grandpa thought a great deal about his little Mara.&quo=
t;
The small heart
swelled against his. Kind, faithful old grandpa! how much more he thought a=
bout
her than Moses; and yet she had thought so much of Moses. And there he sat,
this same ungrateful Moses, bright-eyed and rosy-cheeked, full of talk and
gayety, full of energy and vigor, as ignorant as possible of the wound he h=
ad
given to the little loving heart that was silently brooding under her
grandfather's butternut-colored sea-coat. Not only was he ignorant, but he =
had
not even those conditions within himself which made knowledge possible. All=
that
there was developed of him, at present, was a fund of energy, self-esteem,
hope, courage, and daring, the love of action, life, and adventure; his life
was in the outward and present, not in the inward and reflective; he was a =
true
ten-year old boy, in its healthiest and most animal perfection. What she wa=
s,
the small pearl with the golden hair, with her frail and high-strung
organization, her sensitive nerves, her half-spiritual fibres, her ponderin=
gs,
and marvels, and dreams, her power of love, and yearning for self-devotion,=
our
readers may, perhaps, have seen. But if ever two children, or two grown peo=
ple,
thus organized, are thrown into intimate relations, it follows, from the ve=
ry laws
of their being, that one must hurt the other, simply by being itself; one m=
ust
always hunger for what the other has not to give.
It was a merry me=
al,
however, when they all sat down to the tea-table once more, and Mara by her
grandfather's side, who often stopped what he was saying to stroke her head
fondly. Moses bore a more prominent part in the conversation than he had be=
en
wont to do before this voyage, and all seemed to listen to him with a kind =
of
indulgence elders often accord to a handsome, manly boy, in the first flush=
of
some successful enterprise. That ignorant confidence in one's self and one's
future, which comes in life's first dawn, has a sort of mournful charm in e=
xperienced
eyes, who know how much it all amounts to.
Gradually, little
Mara quieted herself with listening to and admiring him. It is not comforta=
ble
to have any heart-quarrel with one's cherished idol, and everything of the
feminine nature, therefore, can speedily find fifty good reasons for seeing
one's self in the wrong and one's graven image in the right; and little Mara
soon had said to herself, without words, that, of course, Moses couldn't be
expected to think as much of her as she of him. He was handsomer, cleverer,=
and
had a thousand other things to do and to think of--he was a boy, in short, =
and
going to be a glorious man and sail all over the world, while she could only
hem handkerchiefs and knit stockings, and sit at home and wait for him to c=
ome
back. This was about the résumé of life as it appeared to the
little one, who went on from the moment worshiping her image with more
undivided idolatry than ever, hoping that by and by he would think more of =
her.
Mr. Sewell appear=
ed to
study Moses carefully and thoughtfully, and encouraged the wild, gleeful
frankness which he had brought home from his first voyage, as a knowing joc=
key
tries the paces of a high-mettled colt.
"Did you get=
any
time to read?" he interposed once, when the boy stopped in his account=
of
their adventures.
"No, sir,&qu=
ot;
said Moses; "at least," he added, blushing very deeply, "I d=
idn't
feel like reading. I had so much to do, and there was so much to see."=
"It's all ne=
w to
him now," said Captain Pennel; "but when he comes to being, as I'=
ve
been, day after day, with nothing but sea and sky, he'll be glad of a book,
just to break the sameness."
"Laws,
yes," said Captain Kittridge; "sailor's life ain't all apple-pie,=
as
it seems when a boy first goes on a summer trip with his daddy--not by no
manner o' means."
"But," =
said
Mara, blushing and looking very eagerly at Mr. Sewell, "Moses has read=
a
great deal. He read the Roman and the Grecian history through before he went
away, and knows all about them."
"Indeed!&quo=
t;
said Mr. Sewell, turning with an amused look towards the tiny little champi=
on;
"do you read them, too, my little maid?"
"Yes,
indeed," said Mara, her eyes kindling; "I have read them a great =
deal
since Moses went away--them and the Bible."
Mara did not dare=
to
name her new-found treasure--there was something so mysterious about that, =
that
she could not venture to produce it, except on the score of extreme intimac=
y.
"Come, sit by
me, little Mara," said the minister, putting out his hand; "you a=
nd I
must be friends, I see."
Mr. Sewell had a
certain something of mesmeric power in his eyes which children seldom resis=
ted;
and with a shrinking movement, as if both attracted and repelled, the little
girl got upon his knee.
"So you like=
the
Bible and Roman history?" he said to her, making a little aside for he=
r,
while a brisk conversation was going on between Captain Kittridge and Capta=
in
Pennel on the fishing bounty for the year.
"Yes, sir,&q=
uot;
said Mara, blushing in a very guilty way.
"And which do
you like the best?"
"I don't kno=
w,
sir; I sometimes think it is the one, and sometimes the other."
"Well, what
pleases you in the Roman history?"
"Oh, I like =
that
about Quintus Curtius."
"Quintus
Curtius?" said Mr. Sewell, pretending not to remember.
"Oh, don't y=
ou remember
him? why, there was a great gulf opened in the Forum, and the Augurs said t=
hat
the country would not be saved unless some one would offer himself up for i=
t,
and so he jumped right in, all on horseback. I think that was grand. I shou=
ld
like to have done that," said little Mara, her eyes blazing out with a
kind of starry light which they had when she was excited.
"And how wou=
ld
you have liked it, if you had been a Roman girl, and Moses were Quintus
Curtius? would you like to have him give himself up for the good of the
country?"
"Oh, no,
no!" said Mara, instinctively shuddering.
"Don't you t=
hink
it would be very grand of him?"
"Oh, yes,
sir."
"And shouldn=
't
we wish our friends to do what is brave and grand?"
"Yes, sir; b=
ut
then," she added, "it would be so dreadful never to see him any
more," and a large tear rolled from the great soft eyes and fell on the
minister's hand.
"Come,
come," thought Mr. Sewell, "this sort of experimenting is too bad=
--too
much nerve here, too much solitude, too much pine-whispering and sea-dashing
are going to the making up of this little piece of workmanship."
"Tell me,&qu=
ot;
he said, motioning Moses to sit by him, "how you like the Roman
history."
"I like it
first-rate," said Moses. "The Romans were such smashers, and beat
everybody; nobody could stand against them; and I like Alexander, too--I th=
ink
he was splendid."
"True boy,&q=
uot;
said Mr. Sewell to himself, "unreflecting brother of the wind and the =
sea,
and all that is vigorous and active--no precocious development of the moral
here."
"Now you have
come," said Mr. Sewell, "I will lend you another book."
"Thank you, =
sir;
I love to read them when I'm at home--it's so still here. I should be dull =
if I
didn't."
Mara's eyes looked
eagerly attentive. Mr. Sewell noticed their hungry look when a book was spo=
ken
of.
"And you must
read it, too, my little girl," he said.
"Thank you,
sir," said Mara; "I always want to read everything Moses does.&qu=
ot;
"What book is
it?" said Moses.
"It is called
Plutarch's 'Lives,'" said the minister; "it has more particular
accounts of the men you read about in history."
"Are there a=
ny
lives of women?" said Mara.
"No, my
dear," said Mr. Sewell; "in the old times, women did not get their
lives written, though I don't doubt many of them were much better worth wri=
ting
than the men's."
"I should li=
ke
to be a great general," said Moses, with a toss of his head.
"The way to =
be
great lies through books, now, and not through battles," said the
minister; "there is more done with pens than swords; so, if you want t=
o do
anything, you must read and study."
"Do you thin=
k of
giving this boy a liberal education?" said Mr. Sewell some time later =
in
the evening, after Moses and Mara were gone to bed.
"Depends on =
the
boy," said Zephaniah. "I've been up to Brunswick, and seen the
fellows there in the college. With a good many of 'em, going to college see=
ms
to be just nothing but a sort of ceremony; they go because they're sent, and
don't learn anything more'n they can help. That's what I call waste of time=
and
money."
"But don't y=
ou
think Moses shows some taste for reading and study?"
"Pretty well,
pretty well!" said Zephaniah; "jist keep him a little hungry; not=
let
him get all he wants, you see, and he'll bite the sharper. If I want to cat=
ch
cod, I don't begin with flingin' over a barrel o' bait. So with the boys, j=
ist
bait 'em with a book here and a book there, and kind o' let 'em feel their =
own
way, and then, if nothin' will do but a fellow must go to college, give in =
to
him--that'd be my way."
"And a very =
good
one, too!" said Mr. Sewell. "I'll see if I can't bait my hook, so=
as
to make Moses take after Latin this winter. I shall have plenty of time to
teach him."
"Now, there's
Mara!" said the Captain, his face becoming phosphorescent with a sort =
of
mild radiance of pleasure as it usually was when he spoke of her; "she=
's
real sharp set after books; she's ready to fly out of her little skin at the
sight of one."
"That child
thinks too much, and feels too much, and knows too much for her years!"
said Mr. Sewell. "If she were a boy, and you would take her away
cod-fishing, as you have Moses, the sea-winds would blow away some of the
thinking, and her little body would grow stout, and her mind less delicate =
and
sensitive. But she's a woman," he said, with a sigh, "and they are
all alike. We can't do much for them, but let them come up as they will and
make the best of it."
CHAPTER XVI - THE NATURAL=
AND
THE SPIRITUAL
"Emily," said Mr. Sewell,
"did you ever take much notice of that little Mara Lincoln?"
"No, brother;
why?"
"Because I t=
hink
her a very uncommon child."
"She is a pr=
etty
little creature," said Miss Emily, "but that is all I know;
modest--blushing to her eyes when a stranger speaks to her."
"She has
wonderful eyes," said Mr. Sewell; "when she gets excited, they gr=
ow
so large and so bright, it seems almost unnatural."
"Dear me! has
she?" said Miss Emily, in a tone of one who had been called upon to do
something about it. "Well?" she added, inquiringly.
"That little
thing is only seven years old," said Mr. Sewell; "and she is thin=
king
and feeling herself all into mere spirit--brain and nerves all active, and =
her
little body so frail. She reads incessantly, and thinks over and over what =
she
reads."
"Well?"
said Miss Emily, winding very swiftly on a skein of black silk, and giving a
little twitch, every now and then, to a knot to make it subservient.
It was commonly t=
he
way when Mr. Sewell began to talk with Miss Emily, that she constantly answ=
ered
him with the manner of one who expects some immediate, practical propositio=
n to
flow from every train of thought. Now Mr. Sewell was one of the reflecting =
kind
of men, whose thoughts have a thousand meandering paths, that lead nowhere =
in
particular. His sister's brisk little "Well's?" and "Ah's!&q=
uot;
and "Indeed's!" were sometimes the least bit in the world annoyin=
g.
"What is to =
be
done?" said Miss Emily; "shall we speak to Mrs. Pennel?"
"Mrs. Pennel
would know nothing about her."
"How strange=
ly
you talk!--who should, if she doesn't?"
"I mean, she
wouldn't understand the dangers of her case."
"Dangers! Do=
you
think she has any disease? She seems to be a healthy child enough, I'm sure.
She has a lovely color in her cheeks."
Mr. Sewell seemed
suddenly to become immersed in a book he was reading.
"There
now," said Miss Emily, with a little tone of pique, "that's the w=
ay
you always do. You begin to talk with me, and just as I get interested in t=
he
conversation, you take up a book. It's too bad."
"Emily,"
said Mr. Sewell, laying down his book, "I think I shall begin to give
Moses Pennel Latin lessons this winter."
"Why, what do
you undertake that for?" said Miss Emily. "You have enough to do
without that, I'm sure."
"He is an
uncommonly bright boy, and he interests me."
"Now, brothe=
r,
you needn't tell me; there is some mystery about the interest you take in t=
hat
child, you know there is."
"I am fond of
children," said Mr. Sewell, dryly.
"Well, but y=
ou
don't take as much interest in other boys. I never heard of your teaching a=
ny
of them Latin before."
"Well, Emily=
, he
is an uncommonly interesting child, and the providential circumstances under
which he came into our neighborhood"--
"Providential
fiddlesticks!" said Miss Emily, with heightened color, "I believe=
you
knew that boy's mother."
This sudden thrus=
t brought
a vivid color into Mr. Sewell's cheeks. To be interrupted so unceremoniousl=
y,
in the midst of so very proper and ministerial a remark, was rather provoki=
ng,
and he answered, with some asperity,--
"And suppose=
I
had, Emily, and supposing there were any painful subject connected with this
past event, you might have sufficient forbearance not to try to make me spe=
ak
on what I do not wish to talk of."
Mr. Sewell was on=
e of
your gentle, dignified men, from whom Heaven deliver an inquisitive female
friend! If such people would only get angry, and blow some unbecoming blast,
one might make something of them; but speaking, as they always do, from the
serene heights of immaculate propriety, one gets in the wrong before one kn=
ows
it, and has nothing for it but to beg pardon. Miss Emily had, however, a
feminine resource: she began to cry--wisely confining herself to the simple
eloquence of tears and sobs. Mr. Sewell sat as awkwardly as if he had trodd=
en
on a kitten's toe, or brushed down a china cup, feeling as if he were a gre=
at,
horrid, clumsy boor, and his poor little sister a martyr.
"Come,
Emily," he said, in a softer tone, when the sobs subsided a little.
But Emily didn't
"come," but went at it with a fresh burst. Mr. Sewell had a vision
like that which drowning men are said to have, in which all Miss Emily's
sisterly devotions, stocking-darnings, account-keepings, nursings and tendi=
ngs,
and infinite self-sacrifices, rose up before him: and there she was--crying=
!
"I'm sorry I
spoke harshly, Emily. Come, come; that's a good girl."
"I'm a silly
fool," said Miss Emily, lifting her head, and wiping the tears from her
merry little eyes, as she went on winding her silk.
"Perhaps he =
will
tell me now," she thought, as she wound.
But he didn't.
"What I was =
going
to say, Emily," said her brother, "was, that I thought it would b=
e a
good plan for little Mara to come sometimes with Moses; and then, by observ=
ing
her more particularly, you might be of use to her; her little, active mind
needs good practical guidance like yours."
Mr. Sewell spoke =
in a
gentle, flattering tone, and Miss Emily was flattered; but she soon saw that
she had gained nothing by the whole breeze, except a little kind of dread,
which made her inwardly resolve never to touch the knocker of his fortress
again. But she entered into her brother's scheme with the facile alacrity w=
ith
which she usually seconded any schemes of his proposing.
"I might tea=
ch
her painting and embroidery," said Miss Emily, glancing, with a satisf=
ied
air, at a framed piece of her own work which hung over the mantelpiece,
revealing the state of the fine arts in this country, as exhibited in the
performances of well-instructed young ladies of that period. Miss Emily had
performed it under the tuition of a celebrated teacher of female
accomplishments. It represented a white marble obelisk, which an inscriptio=
n,
in legible India ink letters, stated to be "Sacred to the memory of
Theophilus Sewell," etc. This obelisk stood in the midst of a ground m=
ade
very green by an embroidery of different shades of chenille and silk, and w=
as
overshadowed by an embroidered weeping-willow. Leaning on it, with her face
concealed in a plentiful flow of white handkerchief, was a female figure in
deep mourning, designed to represent the desolate widow. A young girl, in a
very black dress, knelt in front of it, and a very lugubrious-looking young
man, standing bolt upright on the other side, seemed to hold in his hand on=
e end
of a wreath of roses, which the girl was presenting, as an appropriate deco=
ration
for the tomb. The girl and gentleman were, of course, the young Theophilus =
and
Miss Emily, and the appalling grief conveyed by the expression of their fac=
es
was a triumph of the pictorial art.
Miss Emily had in=
her
bedroom a similar funeral trophy, sacred to the memory of her deceased
mother,--besides which there were, framed and glazed, in the little
sitting-room, two embroidered shepherdesses standing with rueful faces, in
charge of certain animals of an uncertain breed between sheep and pigs. The=
poor
little soul had mentally resolved to make Mara the heiress of all the skill=
and
knowledge of the arts by which she had been enabled to consummate these
marvels.
"She is
naturally a lady-like little thing," she said to herself, "and if=
I
know anything of accomplishments, she shall have them."
Just about the ti=
me
that Miss Emily came to this resolution, had she been clairvoyant, she might
have seen Mara sitting very quietly, busy in the solitude of her own room w=
ith
a little sprig of partridge-berry before her, whose round green leaves and
brilliant scarlet berries she had been for hours trying to imitate, as appe=
ared
from the scattered sketches and fragments around her. In fact, before Zepha=
niah
started on his spring fishing, he had caught her one day very busy at work =
of
the same kind, with bits of charcoal, and some colors compounded out of wil=
d berries;
and so out of his capacious pocket, after his return, he drew a little box =
of
water-colors and a lead-pencil and square of India-rubber, which he had bou=
ght
for her in Portland on his way home.
Hour after hour t=
he
child works, so still, so fervent, so earnest,--going over and over, time a=
fter
time, her simple, ignorant methods to make it "look like," and
stopping, at times, to give the true artist's sigh, as the little green and
scarlet fragment lies there hopelessly, unapproachably perfect. Ignorantly =
to
herself, the hands of the little pilgrim are knocking at the very door where
Giotto and Cimabue knocked in the innocent child-life of Italian art.
"Why won't it
look round?" she said to Moses, who had come in behind her.
"Why, Mara, =
did
you do these?" said Moses, astonished; "why, how well they are do=
ne!
I should know in a minute what they were meant for."
Mara flushed up at
being praised by Moses, but heaved a deep sigh as she looked back.
"It's so pre=
tty,
that sprig," she said; "if I only could make it just like"--=
"Why, nobody
expects that," said Moses, "it's like enough, if people only know
what you mean it for. But come, now, get your bonnet, and come with me in t=
he
boat. Captain Kittridge has just brought down our new one, and I'm going to
take you over to Eagle Island, and we'll take our dinner and stay all day;
mother says so."
"Oh, how
nice!" said the little girl, running cheerfully for her sun-bonnet.
At the house-door
they met Mrs. Pennel, with a little closely covered tin pail.
"Here's your
dinner, children; and, Moses, mind and take good care of her."
"Never fear =
me
mother, I've been to the Banks; there wasn't a man there could manage a boat
better than I could."
"Yes,
grandmother," said Mara, "you ought to see how strong his arms ar=
e; I
believe he will be like Samson one of these days if he keeps on."
So away they went=
. It
was a glorious August forenoon, and the sombre spruces and shaggy hemlocks =
that
dipped and rippled in the waters were penetrated to their deepest recesses =
with
the clear brilliancy of the sky,--a true northern sky, without a cloud, wit=
hout
even a softening haze, defining every outline, revealing every minute point,
cutting with sharp decision the form of every promontory and rock, and dist=
ant island.
The blue of the s=
ea
and the blue of the sky were so much the same, that when the children had r=
owed
far out, the little boat seemed to float midway, poised in the centre of an
azure sphere, with a firmament above and a firmament below. Mara leaned
dreamily over the side of the boat, and drew her little hands through the
waters as they rippled along to the swift oars' strokes, and she saw as the
waves broke, and divided and shivered around the boat, a hundred little fac=
es,
with brown eyes and golden hair, gleaming up through the water, and dancing
away over rippling waves, and thought that so the sea-nymphs might look who
came up from the coral caves when they ring the knell of drowned people. Mo=
ses
sat opposite to her, with his coat off, and his heavy black curls more wavy=
and
glossy than ever, as the exercise made them damp with perspiration.
Eagle Island lay =
on
the blue sea, a tangled thicket of evergreens,--white pine, spruce, arbor
vitæ, and fragrant silver firs. A little strip of white beach bound i=
t,
like a silver setting to a gem. And there Moses at length moored his boat, =
and
the children landed. The island was wholly solitary, and there is something=
to
children quite delightful in feeling that they have a little lonely world a=
ll
to themselves. Childhood is itself such an enchanted island, separated by m=
ysterious
depths from the mainland of nature, life, and reality.
Moses had subside=
d a
little from the glorious heights on which he seemed to be in the first flus=
h of
his return, and he and Mara, in consequence, were the friends of old time. =
It
is true he thought himself quite a man, but the manhood of a boy is only a =
tiny
masquerade,--a fantastic, dreamy prevision of real manhood. It was curious =
that
Mara, who was by all odds the most precociously developed of the two, never=
thought
of asserting herself a woman; in fact, she seldom thought of herself at all,
but dreamed and pondered of almost everything else.
"I declare,&=
quot;
said Moses, looking up into a thick-branched, rugged old hemlock, which sto=
od
all shaggy, with heavy beards of gray moss drooping from its branches,
"there's an eagle's nest up there; I mean to go and see." And up =
he
went into the gloomy embrace of the old tree, crackling the dead branches,
wrenching off handfuls of gray moss, rising higher and higher, every once i=
n a
while turning and showing to Mara his glowing face and curly hair through a
dusky green frame of boughs, and then mounting again. "I'm coming to
it," he kept exclaiming.
Meanwhile his
proceedings seemed to create a sensation among the feathered house-keepers,=
one
of whom rose and sailed screaming away into the air. In a moment after there
was a swoop of wings, and two eagles returned and began flapping and scream=
ing
about the head of the boy.
Mara, who stood at
the foot of the tree, could not see clearly what was going on, for the
thickness of the boughs; she only heard a great commotion and rattling of t=
he
branches, the scream of the birds, and the swooping of their wings, and Mos=
es's
valorous exclamations, as he seemed to be laying about him with a branch wh=
ich
he had broken off.
At last he descen=
ded
victorious, with the eggs in his pocket. Mara stood at the foot of the tree,
with her sun-bonnet blown back, her hair streaming, and her little arms
upstretched, as if to catch him if he fell.
"Oh, I was so
afraid!" she said, as he set foot on the ground.
"Afraid? Poo=
h!
Who's afraid? Why, you might know the old eagles couldn't beat me."
"Ah, well, I
know how strong you are; but, you know, I couldn't help it. But the poor
birds,--do hear 'em scream. Moses, don't you suppose they feel bad?"
"No, they're
only mad, to think they couldn't beat me. I beat them just as the Romans us=
ed
to beat folks,--I played their nest was a city, and I spoiled it."
"I shouldn't
want to spoil cities!" said Mara.
"That's 'cau=
se
you are a girl,--I'm a man, and men always like war; I've taken one city th=
is
afternoon, and mean to take a great many more."
"But, Moses,=
do
you think war is right?"
"Right? why,
yes, to be sure; if it ain't, it's a pity; for it's all that has ever been =
done
in this world. In the Bible, or out, certainly it's right. I wish I had a g=
un
now, I'd stop those old eagles' screeching."
"But, Moses,=
we
shouldn't want any one to come and steal all our things, and then shoot
us."
"How long yo=
u do
think about things!" said Moses, impatient at her pertinacity. "I=
am
older than you, and when I tell you a thing's right, you ought to believe i=
t. Besides,
don't you take hens' eggs every day, in the barn? How do you suppose the he=
ns
like that?"
This was a
home-thrust, and for the moment threw the little casuist off the track. She
carefully folded up the idea, and laid it away on the inner shelves of her =
mind
till she could think more about it. Pliable as she was to all outward
appearances, the child had her own still, interior world, where all her lit=
tle
notions and opinions stood up crisp and fresh, like flowers that grow in co=
ol,
shady places. If anybody too rudely assailed a thought or suggestion she put
forth, she drew it back again into this quiet inner chamber, and went on.
Reader, there are some women of this habit; and there is no independence and
pertinacity of opinion like that of these seemingly soft, quiet creatures, =
whom
it is so easy to silence, and so difficult to convince. Mara, little and un=
formed
as she yet was, belonged to the race of those spirits to whom is deputed the
office of the angel in the Apocalypse, to whom was given the golden rod whi=
ch
measured the New Jerusalem. Infant though she was, she had ever in her hands
that invisible measuring-rod, which she was laying to the foundations of all
actions and thoughts. There may, perhaps, come a time when the saucy boy, w=
ho
now steps so superbly, and predominates so proudly in virtue of his physical
strength and daring, will learn to tremble at the golden measuring-rod, hel=
d in
the hand of a woman.
"Howbeit, th=
at
is not first which is spiritual, but that which is natural." Moses is =
the
type of the first unreflecting stage of development, in which are only the
out-reachings of active faculties, the aspirations that tend toward manly
accomplishments. Seldom do we meet sensitiveness of conscience or
discriminating reflection as the indigenous growth of a very vigorous physi=
cal
development. Your true healthy boy has the breezy, hearty virtues of a
Newfoundland dog, the wild fullness of life of the young race-colt. Sentime=
nt,
sensibility, delicate perceptions, spiritual aspirations, are plants of lat=
er
growth.
But there are, bo=
th
of men and women, beings born into this world in whom from childhood the
spiritual and the reflective predominate over the physical. In relation to
other human beings, they seem to be organized much as birds are in relation=
to
other animals. They are the artists, the poets, the unconscious seers, to w=
hom
the purer truths of spiritual instruction are open. Surveying man merely as=
an
animal, these sensitively organized beings, with their feebler physical pow=
ers,
are imperfect specimens of life. Looking from the spiritual side, they seem=
to
have a noble strength, a divine force. The types of this latter class are m=
ore
commonly among women than among men. Multitudes of them pass away in earlier
years, and leave behind in many hearts the anxious wonder, why they came so
fair only to mock the love they kindled. They who live to maturity are the
priests and priestesses of the spiritual life, ordained of God to keep the
balance between the rude but absolute necessities of physical life and the
higher sphere to which that must at length give place.
Moses felt elevated some inches in =
the
world by the gift of a new Latin grammar, which had been bought for him in
Brunswick. It was a step upward in life; no graduate from a college ever fe=
lt
more ennobled.
"Wal', now, I
tell ye, Moses Pennel," said Miss Roxy, who, with her press-board and =
big
flat-iron, was making her autumn sojourn in the brown house, "I tell ye
Latin ain't just what you think 'tis, steppin' round so crank; you must
remember what the king of Israel said to Benhadad, king of Syria."
"I don't
remember; what did he say?"
"I
remember," said the soft voice of Mara; "he said, 'Let not him th=
at putteth
on the harness boast as him that putteth it off.'"
"Good for yo=
u,
Mara," said Miss Roxy; "if some other folks read their Bibles as =
much
as you do, they'd know more."
Between Moses and
Miss Roxy there had always been a state of sub-acute warfare since the days=
of
his first arrival, she regarding him as an unhopeful interloper, and he
regarding her as a grim-visaged, interfering gnome, whom he disliked with a=
ll
the intense, unreasoning antipathy of childhood.
"I hate that=
old
woman," he said to Mara, as he flung out of the door.
"Why, Moses,=
what
for?" said Mara, who never could comprehend hating anybody.
"I do hate h=
er,
and Aunt Ruey, too. They are two old scratching cats; they hate me, and I h=
ate
them; they're always trying to bring me down, and I won't be brought
down."
Mara had sufficie=
nt instinctive
insight into the feminine rôle in the domestic concert not to adventu=
re a
direct argument just now in favor of her friends, and therefore she proposed
that they should sit down together under a cedar hard by, and look over the
first lesson.
"Miss Emily
invited me to go over with you," she said, "and I should like so =
much
to hear you recite."
Moses thought this
very proper, as would any other male person, young or old, who has been
habitually admired by any other female one. He did not doubt that, as in
fishing and rowing, and all other things he had undertaken as yet, he should
win himself distinguished honors.
"See here,&q=
uot;
he said; "Mr. Sewell told me I might go as far as I liked, and I mean =
to
take all the declensions to begin with; there's five of 'em, and I shall le=
arn
them for the first lesson; then I shall take the adjectives next, and next =
the
verbs, and so in a fortnight get into reading."
Mara heaved a sor=
t of
sigh. She wished she had been invited to share this glorious race; but she =
looked
on admiring when Moses read, in a loud voice, "Penna, pennæ,
pennæ, pennam," etc.
"There now, I
believe I've got it," he said, handing Mara the book; and he was perfe=
ctly
astonished to find that, with the book withdrawn, he boggled, and blundered=
, and
stumbled ingloriously. In vain Mara softly prompted, and looked at him with
pitiful eyes as he grew red in the face with his efforts to remember.
"Confound it
all!" he said, with an angry flush, snatching back the book; "it's
more trouble than it's worth."
Again he began the
repetition, saying it very loud and plain; he said it over and over till his
mind wandered far out to sea, and while his tongue repeated "penna,
pennæ," he was counting the white sails of the fishing-smacks, a=
nd
thinking of pulling up codfish at the Banks.
"There now,
Mara, try me," he said, and handed her the book again; "I'm sure I
must know it now."
But, alas! with t=
he
book the sounds glided away; and "penna" and "pennam" a=
nd
"pennis" and "pennæ" were confusedly and indiscri=
minately
mingled. He thought it must be Mara's fault; she didn't read right, or she =
told
him just as he was going to say it, or she didn't tell him right; or was he=
a
fool? or had he lost his senses?
That first declen=
sion
has been a valley of humiliation to many a sturdy boy--to many a bright one,
too; and often it is, that the more full of thought and vigor the mind is, =
the
more difficult it is to narrow it down to the single dry issue of learning
those sounds. Heinrich Heine said the Romans would never have found time to
conquer the world, if they had had to learn their own language; but that,
luckily for them, they were born into the knowledge of what nouns form their
accusatives in "um."
Long before Moses=
had
learned the first declension, Mara knew it by heart; for her intense anxiety
for him, and the eagerness and zeal with which she listened for each
termination, fixed them in her mind. Besides, she was naturally of a more q=
uiet
and scholar-like turn than he,--more intellectually developed. Moses began =
to
think, before that memorable day was through, that there was some sense in =
Aunt
Roxy's quotation of the saying of the King of Israel, and materially to ret=
rench
his expectations as to the time it might take to master the grammar; but st=
ill,
his pride and will were both committed, and he worked away in this new sort=
of
labor with energy.
It was a fine, fr=
osty
November morning, when he rowed Mara across the bay in a little boat to rec=
ite
his first lesson to Mr. Sewell.
Miss Emily had
provided a plate of seed-cake, otherwise called cookies, for the children, =
as
was a kindly custom of old times, when the little people were expected. Miss
Emily had a dim idea that she was to do something for Mara in her own
department, while Moses was reciting his lesson; and therefore producing a
large sampler, displaying every form and variety of marking-stitch, she beg=
an
questioning the little girl, in a low tone, as to her proficiency in that
useful accomplishment.
Presently, howeve=
r,
she discovered that the child was restless and uneasy, and that she answered
without knowing what she was saying. The fact was that she was listening, w=
ith
her whole soul in her eyes, and feeling through all her nerves, every word
Moses was saying. She knew all the critical places, where he was likely to =
go
wrong; and when at last, in one place, he gave the wrong termination, she
involuntarily called out the right one, starting up and turning towards the=
m.
In a moment she blushed deeply, seeing Mr. Sewell and Miss Emily both looki=
ng at
her with surprise.
"Come here,
pussy," said Mr. Sewell, stretching out his hand to her. "Can you=
say
this?"
"I believe I
could, sir."
"Well, try
it."
She went through
without missing a word. Mr. Sewell then, for curiosity, heard her repeat all
the other forms of the lesson. She had them perfectly.
"Very well, =
my
little girl," he said, "have you been studying, too?"
"I heard Mos=
es
say them so often," said Mara, in an apologetic manner, "I couldn=
't
help learning them."
"Would you l=
ike
to recite with Moses every day?"
"Oh, yes, si=
r,
so much."
"Well, you
shall. It is better for him to have company."
Mara's face
brightened, and Miss Emily looked with a puzzled air at her brother.
"So," s=
he
said, when the children had gone home, "I thought you wanted me to take
Mara under my care. I was going to begin and teach her some marking stitche=
s,
and you put her up to studying Latin. I don't understand you."
"Well, Emily,
the fact is, the child has a natural turn for study, that no child of her a=
ge
ought to have; and I have done just as people always will with such childre=
n;
there's no sense in it, but I wanted to do it. You can teach her marking and
embroidery all the same; it would break her little heart, now, if I were to
turn her back."
"I do not se=
e of
what use Latin can be to a woman."
"Of what use=
is
embroidery?"
"Why, that i=
s an
accomplishment."
"Ah,
indeed!" said Mr. Sewell, contemplating the weeping willow and tombsto=
ne
trophy with a singular expression, which it was lucky for Miss Emily's peace
she did not understand. The fact was, that Mr. Sewell had, at one period of=
his
life, had an opportunity of studying and observing minutely some really fine
works of art, and the remembrance of them sometimes rose up to his mind, in=
the
presence of the chefs-d'oeuvre on which his sister rested with so much
complacency. It was a part of his quiet interior store of amusement to look=
at
these bits of Byzantine embroidery round the room, which affected him always
with a subtle sense of drollery.
"You see,
brother," said Miss Emily, "it is far better for women to be acco=
mplished
than learned."
"You are qui=
te
right in the main," said Mr. Sewell, "only you must let me have my
own way just for once. One can't be consistent always."
So another Latin
grammar was bought, and Moses began to feel a secret respect for his little
companion, that he had never done before, when he saw how easily she walked
through the labyrinths which at first so confused him. Before this, the
comparison had been wholly in points where superiority arose from physical
daring and vigor; now he became aware of the existence of another kind of
strength with which he had not measured himself. Mara's opinion in their mu=
tual
studies began to assume a value in his eyes that her opinions on other subj=
ects
had never done, and she saw and felt, with a secret gratification, that she=
was
becoming more to him through their mutual pursuit. To say the truth, it
required this fellowship to inspire Moses with the patience and perseveranc=
e necessary
for this species of acquisition. His active, daring temperament little incl=
ined
him to patient, quiet study. For anything that could be done by two hands, =
he
was always ready; but to hold hands still and work silently in the inner fo=
rces
was to him a species of undertaking that seemed against his very nature; but
then he would do it--he would not disgrace himself before Mr. Sewell, and l=
et a
girl younger than himself outdo him.
But the thing, af=
ter
all, that absorbed more of Moses's thoughts than all his lessons was the
building and rigging of a small schooner, at which he worked assiduously in=
all
his leisure moments. He had dozens of blocks of wood, into which he had cut
anchor moulds; and the melting of lead, the running and shaping of anchors,=
the
whittling of masts and spars took up many an hour. Mara entered into all th=
ose
things readily, and was too happy to make herself useful in hemming the sai=
ls.
When the schooner=
was
finished, they built some ways down by the sea, and invited Sally Kittridge
over to see it launched.
"There!"=
; he
said, when the little thing skimmed down prosperously into the sea and floa=
ted
gayly on the waters, "when I'm a man, I'll have a big ship; I'll build
her, and launch her, and command her, all myself; and I'll give you and Sal=
ly
both a passage in it, and we'll go off to the East Indies--we'll sail round=
the
world!"
None of the three
doubted the feasibility of this scheme; the little vessel they had just
launched seemed the visible prophecy of such a future; and how pleasant it
would be to sail off, with the world all before them, and winds ready to bl=
ow
them to any port they might wish!
The three children
arranged some bread and cheese and doughnuts on a rock on the shore, to
represent the collation that was usually spread in those parts at a ship
launch, and felt quite like grown people--acting life beforehand in that so=
rt
of shadowy pantomime which so delights little people. Happy, happy days--wh=
en
ships can be made with a jack-knife and anchors run in pine blocks, and thr=
ee
children together can launch a schooner, and the voyage of the world can al=
l be
made in one sunny Saturday afternoon!
"Mother says=
you
are going to college," said Sally to Moses.
"Not I,
indeed," said Moses; "as soon as I get old enough, I'm going up to
Umbagog among the lumberers, and I'm going to cut real, splendid timber for=
my
ship, and I'm going to get it on the stocks, and have it built to suit
myself."
"What will y=
ou
call her?" said Sally.
"I haven't
thought of that," said Moses.
"Call her the
Ariel," said Mara.
"What! after=
the
spirit you were telling us about?" said Sally.
"Ariel is a
pretty name," said Moses. "But what is that about a spirit?"=
"Why," =
said
Sally, "Mara read us a story about a ship that was wrecked, and a spir=
it
called Ariel, that sang a song about the drowned mariners."
Mara gave a shy,
apprehensive glance at Moses, to see if this allusion called up any painful
recollections.
No; instead of th=
is,
he was following the motions of his little schooner on the waters with the
briskest and most unconcerned air in the world.
"Why didn't =
you
ever show me that story, Mara?" said Moses.
Mara colored and
hesitated; the real reason she dared not say.
"Why, she re=
ad
it to father and me down by the cove," said Sally, "the afternoon
that you came home from the Banks; I remember how we saw you coming in; don=
't
you, Mara?"
"What have y=
ou
done with it?" said Moses.
"I've got it=
at
home," said Mara, in a faint voice; "I'll show it to you, if you =
want
to see it; there are such beautiful things in it."
That evening, as
Moses sat busy, making some alterations in his darling schooner, Mara produ=
ced
her treasure, and read and explained to him the story. He listened with
interest, though without any of the extreme feeling which Mara had thought
possible, and even interrupted her once in the middle of the celebrated--
"Full fathom five=
thy
father lies,"
by asking her to =
hold
up the mast a minute, while he drove in a peg to make it rake a little more=
. He
was, evidently, thinking of no drowned father, and dreaming of no possible
sea-caves, but acutely busy in fashioning a present reality; and yet he lik=
ed
to hear Mara read, and, when she had done, told her that he thought it was a
pretty--quite a pretty story, with such a total absence of recognition that=
the
story had any affinities with his own history, that Mara was quite astonish=
ed.
She lay and thoug=
ht
about him hours, that night, after she had gone to bed; and he lay and thou=
ght
about a new way of disposing a pulley for raising a sail, which he determin=
ed
to try the effect of early in the morning.
What was the abso=
lute
truth in regard to the boy? Had he forgotten the scenes of his early life, =
the
strange catastrophe that cast him into his present circumstances? To this we
answer that all the efforts of Nature, during the early years of a healthy
childhood, are bent on effacing and obliterating painful impressions, wiping
out from each day the sorrows of the last, as the daily tide effaces the
furrows on the seashore. The child that broods, day after day, over some fi=
xed
idea, is so far forth not a healthy one. It is Nature's way to make first a
healthy animal, and then develop in it gradually higher faculties. We have =
seen
our two children unequally matched hitherto, because unequally developed. T=
here
will come a time, by and by in the history of the boy, when the haze of dre=
amy
curiosity will steam up likewise from his mind, and vague yearnings, and
questionings, and longings possess and trouble him, but it must be some yea=
rs
hence.
*
Here for a season=
we
leave both our child friends, and when ten years have passed over their
heads,--when Moses shall be twenty, and Mara seventeen,--we will return aga=
in
to tell their story, for then there will be one to tell. Let us suppose in =
the
interval, how Moses and Mara read Virgil with the minister, and how Mara wo=
rks
a shepherdess with Miss Emily, which astonishes the neighborhood,--but how =
by
herself she learns, after divers trials, to paint partridge, and checkerber=
ry,
and trailing arbutus,--how Moses makes better and better ships, and Sally g=
rows
up a handsome girl, and goes up to Brunswick to the high school,--how Capta=
in
Kittridge tells stories, and Miss Roxy and Miss Ruey nurse and cut and make=
and
mend for the still rising generation,--how there are quiltings and
tea-drinkings and prayer meetings and Sunday sermons,--how Zephaniah and Ma=
ry
Pennel grow old gradually and graciously, as the sun rises and sets, and the
eternal silver tide rises and falls around our little gem, Orr's Island.
"Now, where's Sally Kittridge!
There's the clock striking five, and nobody to set the table. Sally, I say!
Sally!"
"Why, Mis'
Kittridge," said the Captain, "Sally's gone out more'n an hour ag=
o,
and I expect she's gone down to Pennel's to see Mara; 'cause, you know, she
come home from Portland to-day."
"Well, if sh=
e's
come home, I s'pose I may as well give up havin' any good of Sally, for that
girl fairly bows down to Mara Lincoln and worships her."
"Well, good
reason," said the Captain. "There ain't a puttier creature breath=
in'.
I'm a'most a mind to worship her myself."
"Captain
Kittridge, you ought to be ashamed of yourself, at your age, talking as you
do."
"Why, laws,
mother, I don't feel my age," said the frisky Captain, giving a sort of
skip. "It don't seem more'n yesterday since you and I was a-courtin',
Polly. What a life you did lead me in them days! I think you kep' me on the
anxious seat a pretty middlin' spell."
"I do wish y=
ou
wouldn't talk so. You ought to be ashamed to be triflin' round as you do. C=
ome,
now, can't you jest tramp over to Pennel's and tell Sally I want her?"=
"Not I, moth=
er.
There ain't but two gals in two miles square here, and I ain't a-goin' to be
the feller to shoo 'em apart. What's the use of bein' gals, and young, and
putty, if they can't get together and talk about their new gownds and the
fellers? That ar's what gals is for."
"I do wish y=
ou
wouldn't talk in that way before Sally, father, for her head is full of all
sorts of vanity now; and as to Mara, I never did see a more slack-twisted,
flimsy thing than she's grown up to be. Now Sally's learnt to do something,
thanks to me. She can brew, and she can make bread and cake and pickles, and
spin, and cut, and make. But as to Mara, what does she do? Why, she paints
pictur's. Mis' Pennel was a-showin' on me a blue-jay she painted, and I was
a-thinkin' whether she could brile a bird fit to be eat if she tried; and s=
he
don't know the price of nothin'," continued Mrs. Kittridge, with waste=
ful
profusion of negatives.
"Well,"
said the Captain, "the Lord makes some things jist to be looked at. Th=
eir
work is to be putty, and that ar's Mara's sphere. It never seemed to me she=
was
cut out for hard work; but she's got sweet ways and kind words for everybod=
y,
and it's as good as a psalm to look at her."
"And what so=
rt
of a wife'll she make, Captain Kittridge?"
"A real swee=
t,
putty one," said the Captain, persistently.
"Well, as to
beauty, I'd rather have our Sally any day," said Mrs. Kittridge; "=
;and
she looks strong and hearty, and seems to be good for use."
"So she is, =
so
she is," said the Captain, with fatherly pride. "Sally's the very
image of her ma at her age--black eyes, black hair, tall and trim as a
spruce-tree, and steps off as if she had springs in her heels. I tell you, =
the
feller'll have to be spry that catches her. There's two or three of 'em at =
it,
I see; but Sally won't have nothin' to say to 'em. I hope she won't, yet
awhile."
"Sally is a =
girl
that has as good an eddication as money can give," said Mrs. Kittridge.
"If I'd a-had her advantages at her age, I should a-been a great deal
more'n I am. But we ha'n't spared nothin' for Sally; and when nothin' would=
do
but Mara must be sent to Miss Plucher's school over in Portland, why, I sent
Sally too--for all she's our seventh child, and Pennel hasn't but the
one."
"You forget
Moses," said the Captain.
"Well, he's
settin' up on his own account, I guess. They did talk o' giving him college
eddication; but he was so unstiddy, there weren't no use in trying. A real =
wild
ass's colt he was."
"Wal', wal',
Moses was in the right on't. He took the cross-lot track into life," s=
aid
the Captain. "Colleges is well enough for your smooth, straight-grained
lumber, for gen'ral buildin'; but come to fellers that's got knots, and
streaks, and cross-grains, like Moses Pennel, and the best way is to let 'em
eddicate 'emselves, as he's a-doin'. He's cut out for the sea, plain enough,
and he'd better be up to Umbagog, cuttin' timber for his ship, than havin' =
rows
with tutors, and blowin' the roof off the colleges, as one o' them 'ere kin=
d o'
fellers is apt to when he don't have work to use up his steam. Why, mother,
there's more gas got up in them Brunswick buildin's, from young men that are
spilin' for hard work, than you could shake a stick at! But Mis' Pennel tol=
d me
yesterday she was 'spectin' Moses home to-day."
"Oho! that's=
at
the bottom of Sally's bein' up there," said Mrs. Kittridge.
"Mis'
Kittridge," said the Captain, "I take it you ain't the woman as w=
ould
expect a daughter of your bringin' up to be a-runnin' after any young chap,=
be
he who he may," said the Captain.
Mrs. Kittridge for once was fairly silenced by this home-thrust; nevertheless, she did not the less think it quite possible, from all that she knew of Sally; for although that young lady professed great hardness of heart and contempt for all the young male generation of her acquaintance, yet she had evidently a turn for observing their ways--probably purely in the way of philosophical inquiry.<= o:p>
In fact, at this very moment our
scene-shifter changes the picture. Away rolls the image of Mrs. Kittridge's
kitchen, with its sanded floor, its scoured rows of bright pewter platters,=
its
great, deep fireplace, with wide stone hearth, its little looking-glass wit=
h a
bit of asparagus bush, like a green mist, over it. Exeunt the image of Mrs.
Kittridge, with her hands floury from the bread she has been moulding, and =
the
dry, ropy, lean Captain, who has been sitting tilting back in a splint-bott=
omed
chair,--and the next scene comes rolling in. It is a chamber in the house of
Zephaniah Pennel, whose windows present a blue panorama of sea and sky. Thr=
ough
two windows you look forth into the blue belt of Harpswell Bay, bordered on=
the
farther edge by Harpswell Neck, dotted here and there with houses, among wh=
ich
rises the little white meeting-house, like a mother-bird among a flock of
chickens. The third window, on the other side of the room, looks far out to
sea, where only a group of low, rocky islands interrupts the clear sweep of=
the
horizon line, with its blue infinitude of distance.
The furniture of =
this
room, though of the barest and most frigid simplicity, is yet relieved by m=
any
of those touches of taste and fancy which the indwelling of a person of
sensibility and imagination will shed off upon the physical surroundings. T=
he
bed was draped with a white spread, embroidered with a kind of knotted trac=
ery,
the working of which was considered among the female accomplishments of tho=
se
days, and over the head of it was a painting of a bunch of crimson and white
trillium, executed with a fidelity to Nature that showed the most delicate
gifts of observation. Over the mantelpiece hung a painting of the Bay of Ge=
noa,
which had accidentally found a voyage home in Zephaniah Pennel's sea-chest,=
and
which skillful fingers had surrounded with a frame curiously wrought of moss
and sea-shells. Two vases of India china stood on the mantel, filled with
spring flowers, crowfoot, anemones, and liverwort, with drooping bells of t=
he
twin-flower. The looking-glass that hung over the table in one corner of the
room was fancifully webbed with long, drooping festoons of that gray moss w=
hich
hangs in such graceful wreaths from the boughs of the pines in the deep for=
est
shadows of Orr's Island. On the table below was a collection of books: a wh=
ole set
of Shakespeare which Zephaniah Pennel had bought of a Portland bookseller; a
selection, in prose and verse, from the best classic writers, presented to =
Mara
Lincoln, the fly-leaf said, by her sincere friend, Theophilus Sewell; a Vir=
gil,
much thumbed, with an old, worn cover, which, however, some adroit fingers =
had
concealed under a coating of delicately marbled paper;--there was a Latin
dictionary, a set of Plutarch's Lives, the Mysteries of Udolpho, and Sir
Charles Grandison, together with Edwards on the Affections, and Boston's
Fourfold State;--there was an inkstand, curiously contrived from a sea-shel=
l, with
pens and paper in that phase of arrangement which betokened frequency of us=
e;
and, lastly, a little work-basket, containing a long strip of curious and
delicate embroidery, in which the needle yet hanging showed that the work w=
as
in progress.
By a table at the
sea-looking window sits our little Mara, now grown to the maturity of eight=
een
summers, but retaining still unmistakable signs of identity with the little
golden-haired, dreamy, excitable, fanciful "Pearl" of Orr's Islan=
d.
She is not quite =
of a
middle height, with something beautiful and child-like about the moulding of
her delicate form. We still see those sad, wistful, hazel eyes, over which =
the
lids droop with a dreamy languor, and whose dark lustre contrasts singularly
with the golden hue of the abundant hair which waves in a thousand rippling
undulations around her face. The impression she produces is not that of
paleness, though there is no color in her cheek; but her complexion has
everywhere that delicate pink tinting which one sees in healthy infants, and
with the least emotion brightens into a fluttering bloom. Such a bloom is o=
n her
cheek at this moment, as she is working away, copying a bunch of scarlet
rock-columbine which is in a wine-glass of water before her; every few mome=
nts
stopping and holding her work at a distance, to contemplate its effect. At =
this
moment there steps behind her chair a tall, lithe figure, a face with a rich
Spanish complexion, large black eyes, glowing cheeks, marked eyebrows, and
lustrous black hair arranged in shining braids around her head. It is our o=
ld
friend, Sally Kittridge, whom common fame calls the handsomest girl of all =
the
region round Harpswell, Maquoit, and Orr's Island. In truth, a wholesome, r=
uddy,
blooming creature she was, the sight of whom cheered and warmed one like a =
good
fire in December; and she seemed to have enough and to spare of the warmest
gifts of vitality and joyous animal life. She had a well-formed mouth, but
rather large, and a frank laugh which showed all her teeth sound--and a
fortunate sight it was, considering that they were white and even as pearls;
and the hand that she laid upon Mara's at this moment, though twice as larg=
e as
that of the little artist, was yet in harmony with her vigorous, finely
developed figure.
"Mara
Lincoln," she said, "you are a witch, a perfect little witch, at =
painting.
How you can make things look so like, I don't see. Now, I could paint the
things we painted at Miss Plucher's; but then, dear me! they didn't look at=
all
like flowers. One needed to write under them what they were made for."=
"Does this l=
ook
like to you, Sally?" said Mara. "I wish it would to me. Just see =
what
a beautiful clear color that flower is. All I can do, I can't make one like=
it.
My scarlet and yellows sink dead into the paper."
"Why, I think
your flowers are wonderful! You are a real genius, that's what you are! I am
only a common girl; I can't do things as you can."
"You can do
things a thousand times more useful, Sally. I don't pretend to compare with=
you
in the useful arts, and I am only a bungler in ornamental ones. Sally, I fe=
el
like a useless little creature. If I could go round as you can, and do
business, and make bargains, and push ahead in the world, I should feel tha=
t I
was good for something; but somehow I can't."
"To be sure =
you
can't," said Sally, laughing. "I should like to see you try it.&q=
uot;
"Now,"
pursued Mara, in a tone of lamentation, "I could no more get into a
carriage and drive to Brunswick as you can, than I could fly. I can't drive,
Sally--something is the matter with me; and the horses always know it the
minute I take the reins; they always twitch their ears and stare round into=
the
chaise at me, as much as to say, 'What! you there?' and I feel sure they ne=
ver
will mind me. And then how you can make those wonderful bargains you do, I
can't see!--you talk up to the clerks and the men, and somehow you talk
everybody round; but as for me, if I only open my mouth in the humblest way=
to
dispute the price, everybody puts me down. I always tremble when I go into a
store, and people talk to me just as if I was a little girl, and once or tw=
ice
they have made me buy things that I knew I didn't want, just because they w=
ill
talk me down."
"Oh, Mara,
Mara," said Sally, laughing till the tears rolled down her cheeks,
"what do you ever go a-shopping for?--of course you ought always to se=
nd
me. Why, look at this dress--real India chintz; do you know I made old
Pennywhistle's clerk up in Brunswick give it to me just for the price of co=
mmon
cotton? You see there was a yard of it had got faded by lying in the
shop-window, and there were one or two holes and imperfections in it, and y=
ou
ought to have heard the talk I made! I abused it to right and left, and
actually at last I brought the poor wretch to believe that he ought to be
grateful to me for taking it off his hands. Well, you see the dress I've ma=
de
of it. The imperfections didn't hurt it the least in the world as I managed
it,--and the faded breadth makes a good apron, so you see. And just so I got
that red spotted flannel dress I wore last winter. It was moth-eaten in one=
or two
places, and I made them let me have it at half-price;--made exactly as good=
a
dress. But after all, Mara, I can't trim a bonnet as you can, and I can't c=
ome
up to your embroidery, nor your lace-work, nor I can't draw and paint as you
can, and I can't sing like you; and then as to all those things you talk wi=
th
Mr. Sewell about, why they're beyond my depth,--that's all I've got to say.
Now, you are made to have poetry written to you, and all that kind of thing=
one
reads of in novels. Nobody would ever think of writing poetry to me, now, or
sending me flowers and rings, and such things. If a fellow likes me, he giv=
es
me a quince, or a big apple; but, then, Mara, there ain't any fellows round=
here
that are fit to speak to."
"I'm sure,
Sally, there always is a train following you everywhere, at singing-school =
and
Thursday lecture."
"Yes--but wh=
at
do I care for 'em?" said Sally, with a toss of her head. "Why they
follow me, I don't see. I don't do anything to make 'em, and I tell 'em all
that they tire me to death; and still they will hang round. What is the rea=
son,
do you suppose?"
"What can it
be?" said Mara, with a quiet kind of arch drollery which suffused her
face, as she bent over her painting.
"Well, you k=
now
I can't bear fellows--I think they are hateful."
"What! even =
Tom
Hiers?" said Mara, continuing her painting.
"Tom Hiers! =
Do
you suppose I care for him? He would insist on waiting on me round all last
winter, taking me over in his boat to Portland, and up in his sleigh to
Brunswick; but I didn't care for him."
"Well, there=
's
Jimmy Wilson, up at Brunswick."
"What! that
little snip of a clerk! You don't suppose I care for him, do you?--only he
almost runs his head off following me round when I go up there shopping; he=
's
nothing but a little dressed-up yard-stick! I never saw a fellow yet that I=
'd
cross the street to have another look at. By the by, Mara, Miss Roxy told me
Sunday that Moses was coming down from Umbagog this week."
"Yes, he
is," said Mara; "we are looking for him every day."
"You must wa=
nt
to see him. How long is it since you saw him?"
"It is three
years," said Mara. "I scarcely know what he is like now. I was
visiting in Boston when he came home from his three-years' voyage, and he w=
as
gone into the lumbering country when I came back. He seems almost a strange=
r to
me."
"He's pretty
good-looking," said Sally. "I saw him on Sunday when he was here,=
but
he was off on Monday, and never called on old friends. Does he write to you
often?"
"Not very,&q=
uot;
said Mara; "in fact, almost never; and when he does, there is so littl=
e in
his letters."
"Well, I tell
you, Mara, you must not expect fellows to write as girls can. They don't do=
it.
Now, our boys, when they write home, they tell the latitude and longitude, =
and
soil and productions, and such things. But if you or I were only there, don=
't
you think we should find something more to say? Of course we should,--fifty
thousand little things that they never think of."
Mara made no repl=
y to
this, but went on very intently with her painting. A close observer might h=
ave
noticed a suppressed sigh that seemed to retreat far down into her heart. S=
ally
did not notice it.
What was in that
sigh? It was the sigh of a long, deep, inner history, unwritten and
untold--such as are transpiring daily by thousands, and of which we take no
heed.
We have introduced Mara to our read=
ers as
she appears in her seventeenth year, at the time when she is expecting the
return of Moses as a young man of twenty; but we cannot do justice to the
feelings which are roused in her heart by this expectation, without giving a
chapter or two to tracing the history of Moses since we left him as a boy
commencing the study of the Latin grammar with Mr. Sewell. The reader must =
see
the forces that acted upon his early development, and what they have made o=
f him.
It is common for
people who write treatises on education to give forth their rules and theor=
ies
with a self-satisfied air, as if a human being were a thing to be made up, =
like
a batch of bread, out of a given number of materials combined by an infalli=
ble
recipe. Take your child, and do thus and so for a given number of years, an=
d he
comes out a thoroughly educated individual.
But in fact,
education is in many cases nothing more than a blind struggle of parents and
guardians with the evolutions of some strong, predetermined character,
individual, obstinate, unreceptive, and seeking by an inevitable law of its
being to develop itself and gain free expression in its own way. Captain
Kittridge's confidence that he would as soon undertake a boy as a Newfoundl=
and
pup, is good for those whose idea of what is to be done for a human being a=
re
only what would be done for a dog, namely, give food, shelter, and world-ro=
om,
and leave each to act out his own nature without let or hindrance.
But everybody tak=
es
an embryo human being with some plan of one's own what it shall do or be. T=
he
child's future shall shape out some darling purpose or plan, and fulfill so=
me
long unfulfilled expectation of the parent. And thus, though the wind of ev=
ery
generation sweeps its hopes and plans like forest-leaves, none are whirled =
and
tossed with more piteous moans than those which come out green and fresh to
shade the happy spring-time of the cradle. For the temperaments of children=
are
often as oddly unsuited to parents as if capricious fairies had been filling
cradles with changelings.
A meek member of =
the
Peace Society, a tender, devout, poetical clergyman, receives an heir from
heaven, and straightway devotes him to the Christian ministry. But lo! the =
boy
proves a young war-horse, neighing for battle, burning for gunpowder and gu=
ns,
for bowie-knives and revolvers, and for every form and expression of physic=
al
force;--he might make a splendid trapper, an energetic sea-captain, a bold,
daring military man, but his whole boyhood is full of rebukes and disciplin=
es for
sins which are only the blind effort of the creature to express a nature wh=
ich
his parent does not and cannot understand. So again, the son that was to ha=
ve
upheld the old, proud merchant's time-honored firm, that should have been
mighty in ledgers and great upon 'Change, breaks his father's heart by an
unintelligible fancy for weaving poems and romances. A father of literary
aspirations, balked of privileges of early education, bends over the cradle=
of
his son with but one idea. This child shall have the full advantages of reg=
ular
college-training; and so for years he battles with a boy abhorring study, a=
nd
fitted only for a life of out-door energy and bold adventure,--on whom Latin
forms and Greek quantities fall and melt aimless and useless, as snow-flake=
s on
the hide of a buffalo. Then the secret agonies,--the long years of sorrowful
watchings of those gentler nurses of humanity who receive the infant into t=
heir
bosom out of the void unknown, and strive to read its horoscope through the
mists of their prayers and tears!--what perplexities,--what confusion!
Especially is this so in a community where the moral and religious sense is=
so
cultivated as in New England, and frail, trembling, self-distrustful mothers
are told that the shaping and ordering not only of this present life, but o=
f an
immortal destiny, is in their hands.
On the whole, tho=
se
who succeed best in the rearing of children are the tolerant and easy perso=
ns
who instinctively follow nature and accept without much inquiry whatever she
sends; or that far smaller class, wise to discern spirits and apt to adopt
means to their culture and development, who can prudently and carefully tra=
in
every nature according to its true and characteristic ideal.
Zephaniah Pennel =
was
a shrewd old Yankee, whose instincts taught him from the first, that the wa=
if
that had been so mysteriously washed out of the gloom of the sea into his
family, was of some different class and lineage from that which might have
filled a cradle of his own, and of a nature which he could not perfectly
understand. So he prudently watched and waited, only using restraint enough=
to
keep the boy anchored in society, and letting him otherwise grow up in the
solitary freedom of his lonely seafaring life.
The boy was from
childhood, although singularly attractive, of a moody, fitful, unrestful
nature,--eager, earnest, but unsteady,--with varying phases of imprudent
frankness and of the most stubborn and unfathomable secretiveness. He was a
creature of unreasoning antipathies and attractions. As Zephaniah Pennel sa=
id
of him, he was as full of hitches as an old bureau drawer. His peculiar bea=
uty,
and a certain electrical power of attraction, seemed to form a constant cir=
cle
of protection and forgiveness around him in the home of his foster-parents;=
and
great as was the anxiety and pain which he often gave them, they somehow ne=
ver felt
the charge of him as a weariness.
We left him a boy
beginning Latin with Mr. Sewell in company with the little Mara. This
arrangement progressed prosperously for a time, and the good clergyman, all
whose ideas of education ran through the halls of a college, began to have
hopes of turning out a choice scholar. But when the boy's ship of life came
into the breakers of that narrow and intricate channel which divides boyhood
from manhood, the difficulties that had always attended his guidance and
management wore an intensified form. How much family happiness is wrecked j=
ust
then and there! How many mothers' and sisters' hearts are broken in the wild
and confused tossings and tearings of that stormy transition! A whole new
nature is blindly upheaving itself, with cravings and clamorings, which nei=
ther
the boy himself nor often surrounding friends understand.
A shrewd observer=
has
significantly characterized the period as the time when the boy wishes he w=
ere
dead, and everybody else wishes so too. The wretched, half-fledged,
half-conscious, anomalous creature has all the desires of the man, and none=
of
the rights; has a double and triple share of nervous edge and intensity in
every part of his nature, and no definitely perceived objects on which to
bestow it,--and, of course, all sorts of unreasonable moods and phases are =
the
result.
One of the most
common signs of this period, in some natures, is the love of contradiction =
and
opposition,--a blind desire to go contrary to everything that is commonly
received among the older people. The boy disparages the minister, quizzes t=
he
deacon, thinks the school-master an ass, and doesn't believe in the Bible, =
and
seems to be rather pleased than otherwise with the shock and flutter that a=
ll
these announcements create among peaceably disposed grown people. No
respectable hen that ever hatched out a brood of ducks was more puzzled wha=
t to
do with them than was poor Mrs. Pennel when her adopted nursling came into =
this
state. Was he a boy? an immortal soul? a reasonable human being? or only a
handsome goblin sent to torment her?
"What shall =
we
do with him, father?" said she, one Sunday, to Zephaniah, as he stood
shaving before the little looking-glass in their bedroom. "He can't be
governed like a child, and he won't govern himself like a man."
Zephaniah stopped=
and
strapped his razor reflectively.
"We must cast
out anchor and wait for day," he answered. "Prayer is a long rope
with a strong hold."
It was just at th=
is
critical period of life that Moses Pennel was drawn into associations which
awoke the alarm of all his friends, and from which the characteristic
willfulness of his nature made it difficult to attempt to extricate him.
In order that our
readers may fully understand this part of our history, we must give some few
particulars as to the peculiar scenery of Orr's Island and the state of the
country at this time.
The coast of Main=
e,
as we have elsewhere said, is remarkable for a singular interpenetration of=
the
sea with the land, forming amid its dense primeval forests secluded bays,
narrow and deep, into which vessels might float with the tide, and where th=
ey
might nestle unseen and unsuspected amid the dense shadows of the overhangi=
ng
forest.
At this time there
was a very brisk business done all along the coast of Maine in the way of
smuggling. Small vessels, lightly built and swift of sail, would run up into
these sylvan fastnesses, and there make their deposits and transact their
business so as entirely to elude the vigilance of government officers.
It may seem stran=
ge
that practices of this kind should ever have obtained a strong foothold in a
community peculiar for its rigid morality and its orderly submission to law;
but in this case, as in many others, contempt of law grew out of weak and
unworthy legislation. The celebrated embargo of Jefferson stopped at once t=
he
whole trade of New England, and condemned her thousand ships to rot at the
wharves, and caused the ruin of thousands of families.
The merchants of =
the
country regarded this as a flagrant, high-handed piece of injustice, expres=
sly
designed to cripple New England commerce, and evasions of this unjust law f=
ound
everywhere a degree of sympathy, even in the breasts of well-disposed and
conscientious people. In resistance to the law, vessels were constantly fit=
ted
out which ran upon trading voyages to the West Indies and other places; and
although the practice was punishable as smuggling, yet it found extensive
connivance. From this beginning smuggling of all kinds gradually grew up in=
the
community, and gained such a foothold that even after the repeal of the emb=
argo
it still continued to be extensively practiced. Secret depositories of
contraband goods still existed in many of the lonely haunts of islands off =
the
coast of Maine. Hid in deep forest shadows, visited only in the darkness of=
the
night, were these illegal stores of merchandise. And from these secluded
resorts they found their way, no one knew or cared to say how, into houses =
for
miles around.
There was no doubt
that the practice, like all other illegal ones, was demoralizing to the
community, and particularly fatal to the character of that class of bold,
enterprising young men who would be most likely to be drawn into it.
Zephaniah Pennel,=
who
was made of a kind of straight-grained, uncompromising oaken timber such as
built the Mayflower of old, had always borne his testimony at home and abro=
ad
against any violations of the laws of the land, however veiled under the
pretext of righting a wrong or resisting an injustice, and had done what he
could in his neighborhood to enable government officers to detect and break=
up
these unlawful depositories. This exposed him particularly to the hatred an=
d ill-will
of the operators concerned in such affairs, and a plot was laid by a few of=
the
most daring and determined of them to establish one of their depositories on
Orr's Island, and to implicate the family of Pennel himself in the trade. T=
his
would accomplish two purposes, as they hoped,--it would be a mortification =
and
defeat to him,--a revenge which they coveted; and it would, they thought,
insure his silence and complicity for the strongest reasons.
The situation and
characteristics of Orr's Island peculiarly fitted it for the carrying out o=
f a
scheme of this kind, and for this purpose we must try to give our readers a
more definite idea of it.
The traveler who
wants a ride through scenery of more varied and singular beauty than can
ordinarily be found on the shores of any land whatever, should start some f=
ine
clear day along the clean sandy road, ribboned with strips of green grass, =
that
leads through the flat pitch-pine forests of Brunswick toward the sea. As he
approaches the salt water, a succession of the most beautiful and picturesq=
ue
lakes seems to be lying softly cradled in the arms of wild, rocky forest sh=
ores,
whose outlines are ever changing with the windings of the road.
At a distance of
about six or eight miles from Brunswick he crosses an arm of the sea, and c=
omes
upon the first of the interlacing group of islands which beautifies the sho=
re.
A ride across this island is a constant succession of pictures, whose wild =
and solitary
beauty entirely distances all power of description. The magnificence of the
evergreen forests,--their peculiar air of sombre stillness,--the rich inter=
mingling
ever and anon of groves of birch, beech, and oak, in picturesque knots and
tufts, as if set for effect by some skillful landscape-gardener,--produce a
sort of strange dreamy wonder; while the sea, breaking forth both on the ri=
ght
hand and the left of the road into the most romantic glimpses, seems to fla=
sh
and glitter like some strange gem which every moment shows itself through t=
he
framework of a new setting. Here and there little secluded coves push in fr=
om
the sea, around which lie soft tracts of green meadow-land, hemmed in and
guarded by rocky pine-crowned ridges. In such sheltered spots may be seen n=
eat white
houses, nestling like sheltered doves in the beautiful solitude.
When one has ridd=
en
nearly to the end of Great Island, which is about four miles across, he sees
rising before him, from the sea, a bold romantic point of land, uplifting a
crown of rich evergreen and forest trees over shores of perpendicular rock.
This is Orr's Island.
It was not an easy
matter in the days of our past experience to guide a horse and carriage down
the steep, wild shores of Great Island to the long bridge that connects it =
with
Orr's. The sense of wild seclusion reaches here the highest degree; and one
crosses the bridge with a feeling as if genii might have built it, and one
might be going over it to fairy-land. From the bridge the path rises on to =
a high
granite ridge, which runs from one end of the island to the other, and has =
been
called the Devil's Back, with that superstitious generosity which seems to =
have
abandoned all romantic places to so undeserving an owner.
By the side of th=
is
ridge of granite is a deep, narrow chasm, running a mile and a half or two
miles parallel with the road, and veiled by the darkest and most solemn sha=
dows
of the primeval forest. Here scream the jays and the eagles, and fish-hawks
make their nests undisturbed; and the tide rises and falls under black bran=
ches
of evergreen, from which depend long, light festoons of delicate gray moss.=
The
darkness of the forest is relieved by the delicate foliage and the silvery
trunks of the great white birches, which the solitude of centuries has allo=
wed
to grow in this spot to a height and size seldom attained elsewhere.
It was this narro=
w,
rocky cove that had been chosen by the smuggler Atkinson and his accomplice=
s as
a safe and secluded resort for their operations. He was a seafaring man of
Bath, one of that class who always prefer uncertain and doubtful courses to
those which are safe and reputable. He was possessed of many of those traits
calculated to make him a hero in the eyes of young men; was dashing, free, =
and
frank in his manners, with a fund of humor and an abundance of ready anecdo=
te
which made his society fascinating; but he concealed beneath all these attr=
actions
a character of hard, grasping, unscrupulous selfishness, and an utter
destitution of moral principle.
Moses, now in his
sixteenth year, and supposed to be in a general way doing well, under the c=
are
of the minister, was left free to come and go at his own pleasure, unwatche=
d by
Zephaniah, whose fishing operations often took him for weeks from home.
Atkinson hung about the boy's path, engaging him first in fishing or hunting
enterprises; plied him with choice preparations of liquor, with which he wo=
uld
enhance the hilarity of their expeditions; and finally worked on his love of
adventure and that impatient restlessness incident to his period of life to
draw him fully into his schemes. Moses lost all interest in his lessons, of=
ten neglecting
them for days at a time--accounting for his negligence by excuses which were
far from satisfactory. When Mara would expostulate with him about this, he
would break out upon her with a fierce irritation. Was he always going to be
tied to a girl's apron-string? He was tired of study, and tired of old Sewe=
ll,
whom he declared an old granny in a white wig, who knew nothing of the worl=
d.
He wasn't going to college--it was altogether too slow for him--he was goin=
g to
see life and push ahead for himself.
Mara's life during
this time was intensely wearing. A frail, slender, delicate girl of thirtee=
n,
she carried a heart prematurely old with the most distressing responsibilit=
y of
mature life. Her love for Moses had always had in it a large admixture of t=
hat
maternal and care-taking element which, in some shape or other, qualities t=
he
affection of woman to man. Ever since that dream of babyhood, when the visi=
on
of a pale mother had led the beautiful boy to her arms, Mara had accepted h=
im
as something exclusively her own, with an intensity of ownership that seemed
almost to merge her personal identity with his. She felt, and saw, and enjo=
yed,
and suffered in him, and yet was conscious of a higher nature in herself, by
which unwillingly he was often judged and condemned. His faults affected her
with a kind of guilty pain, as if they were her own; his sins were borne
bleeding in her heart in silence, and with a jealous watchfulness to hide t=
hem
from every eye but hers. She busied herself day and night interceding and
making excuses for him, first to her own sensitive moral nature, and then w=
ith
everybody around, for with one or another he was coming into constant
collision. She felt at this time a fearful load of suspicion, which she dar=
ed
not express to a human being.
Up to this period=
she
had always been the only confidant of Moses, who poured into her ear without
reserve all the good and the evil of his nature, and who loved her with all=
the
intensity with which he was capable of loving anything. Nothing so much sho=
ws
what a human being is in moral advancement as the quality of his love. Moses
Pennel's love was egotistic, exacting, tyrannical, and capricious--sometimes
venting itself in expressions of a passionate fondness, which had a savor o=
f protecting
generosity in them, and then receding to the icy pole of surly petulance. F=
or
all that, there was no resisting the magnetic attraction with which in his
amiable moods he drew those whom he liked to himself.
Such people are n=
ot
very wholesome companions for those who are sensitively organized and
predisposed to self-sacrificing love. They keep the heart in a perpetual fr=
eeze
and thaw, which, like the American northern climate, is so particularly fat=
al
to plants of a delicate habit. They could live through the hot summer and t=
he
cold winter, but they cannot endure the three or four months when it freezes
one day and melts the next,--when all the buds are started out by a week of
genial sunshine, and then frozen for a fortnight. These fitful persons are =
of all
others most engrossing, because you are always sure in their good moods that
they are just going to be angels,--an expectation which no number of
disappointments seems finally to do away. Mara believed in Moses's future as
she did in her own existence. He was going to do something great and
good,--that she was certain of. He would be a splendid man! Nobody, she
thought, knew him as she did; nobody could know how good and generous he was
sometimes, and how frankly he would confess his faults, and what noble
aspirations he had!
But there was no
concealing from her watchful sense that Moses was beginning to have secrets
from her. He was cloudy and murky; and at some of the most harmless inquiri=
es
in the world, would flash out with a sudden temper, as if she had touched s=
ome
sore spot. Her bedroom was opposite to his; and she became quite sure that
night after night, while she lay thinking of him, she heard him steal down =
out
of the house between two and three o'clock, and not return till a little be=
fore
day-dawn. Where he went, and with whom, and what he was doing, was to her an
awful mystery,--and it was one she dared not share with a human being. If s=
he
told her kind old grandfather, she feared that any inquiry from him would o=
nly
light as a spark on that inflammable spirit of pride and insubordination th=
at
was rising within him, and bring on an instantaneous explosion. Mr. Sewell's
influence she could hope little more from; and as to poor Mrs. Pennel, such
communications would only weary and distress her, without doing any manner =
of
good. There was, therefore, only that one unfailing Confidant--the Invisible
Friend to whom the solitary child could pour out her heart, and whose
inspirations of comfort and guidance never fail to come again in return to =
true
souls.
One moonlight nig=
ht,
as she lay thus praying, her senses, sharpened by watching, discerned a sou=
nd
of steps treading under her window, and then a low whistle. Her heart beat
violently, and she soon heard the door of Moses's room open, and then the o=
ld
chamber-stairs gave forth those inconsiderate creaks and snaps that garrulo=
us
old stairs always will when anybody is desirous of making them accomplices =
in a
night-secret. Mara rose, and undrawing her curtain, saw three men standing
before the house, and saw Moses come out and join them. Quick as thought she
threw on her clothes and wrapping her little form in a dark cloak, with a h=
ood,
followed them out. She kept at a safe distance behind them,--so far back as
just to keep them in sight. They never looked back, and seemed to say but
little till they approached the edge of that deep belt of forest which shro=
uds
so large a portion of the island. She hurried along, now nearer to them lest
they should be lost to view in the deep shadows, while they went on crackli=
ng
and plunging through the dense underbrush.
It was well for Mara that so much o=
f her
life had been passed in wild forest rambles. She looked frail as the rays of
moonbeam which slid down the old white-bearded hemlocks, but her limbs were
agile and supple as steel; and while the party went crashing on before, she
followed with such lightness that the slight sound of her movements was
entirely lost in the heavy crackling plunges of the party. Her little heart=
was
beating fast and hard; but could any one have seen her face, as it now and =
then
came into a spot of moonshine, they might have seen it fixed in a deadly ex=
pression
of resolve and determination. She was going after him--no matter where; she=
was
resolved to know who and what it was that was leading him away, as her heart
told her, to no good. Deeper and deeper into the shadows of the forest they
went, and the child easily kept up with them.
Mara had often
rambled for whole solitary days in this lonely wood, and knew all its rocks=
and
dells the whole three miles to the long bridge at the other end of the isla=
nd.
But she had never before seen it under the solemn stillness of midnight
moonlight, which gives to the most familiar objects such a strange, ghostly
charm. After they had gone a mile into the forest, she could see through the
black spruces silver gleams of the sea, and hear, amid the whirr and sway o=
f the
pine-tops, the dash of the ever restless tide which pushed up the long cove=
. It
was at the full, as she could discern with a rapid glance of her practiced =
eye,
expertly versed in the knowledge of every change of the solitary nature aro=
und.
And now the party
began to plunge straight down the rocky ledge of the Devil's Back, on which
they had been walking hitherto, into the deep ravine where lay the cove. It=
was
a scrambling, precipitous way, over perpendicular walls of rock, whose crev=
ices
furnished anchoring-places for grand old hemlocks or silver-birches, and wh=
ose
rough sides, leathery with black flaps of lichen, were all tangled and
interlaced with thick netted bushes. The men plunged down laughing, shoutin=
g,
and swearing at their occasional missteps, and silently as moonbeam or this=
tledown
the light-footed shadow went down after them.
She suddenly paus=
ed
behind a pile of rock, as, through an opening between two great spruces, the
sea gleamed out like a sheet of looking-glass set in a black frame. And here
the child saw a small vessel swinging at anchor, with the moonlight full on=
its
slack sails, and she could hear the gentle gurgle and lick of the green-ton=
gued
waves as they dashed under it toward the rocky shore.
Mara stopped with=
a
beating heart as she saw the company making for the schooner. The tide is h=
igh;
will they go on board and sail away with him where she cannot follow? What
could she do? In an ecstasy of fear she kneeled down and asked God not to l=
et
him go,--to give her at least one more chance to save him.
For the pure and
pious child had heard enough of the words of these men, as she walked behind
them, to fill her with horror. She had never before heard an oath, but there
came back from these men coarse, brutal tones and words of blasphemy that f=
roze
her blood with horror. And Moses was going with them! She felt somehow as if
they must be a company of fiends bearing him to his ruin.
For some time she
kneeled there watching behind the rock, while Moses and his companions went=
on
board the little schooner. She had no feeling of horror at the loneliness of
her own situation, for her solitary life had made every woodland thing dear=
and
familiar to her. She was cowering down, on a loose, spongy bed of moss, whi=
ch
was all threaded through and through with the green vines and pale pink
blossoms of the mayflower, and she felt its fragrant breath streaming up in=
the
moist moonlight. As she leaned forward to look through a rocky crevice, her
arms rested on a bed of that brittle white moss she had often gathered with=
so
much admiration, and a scarlet rock-columbine, such as she loved to paint,
brushed her cheek,--and all these mute fair things seemed to strive to keep=
her
company in her chill suspense of watchfulness. Two whippoorwills, from a cl=
ump
of silvery birches, kept calling to each other in melancholy iteration, whi=
le
she stayed there still listening, and knowing by an occasional sound of
laughing, or the explosion of some oath, that the men were not yet gone. At
last they all appeared again, and came to a cleared place among the dry lea=
ves,
quite near to the rock where she was concealed, and kindled a fire which th=
ey kept
snapping and crackling by a constant supply of green resinous hemlock branc=
hes.
The red flame dan=
ced
and leaped through the green fuel, and leaping upward in tongues of flame, =
cast
ruddy bronze reflections on the old pine-trees with their long branches wav=
ing
with boards of white moss,--and by the firelight Mara could see two men in
sailor's dress with pistols in their belts, and the man Atkinson, whom she =
had recollected
as having seen once or twice at her grandfather's. She remembered how she h=
ad
always shrunk from him with a strange instinctive dislike, half fear, half
disgust, when he had addressed her with that kind of free admiration which =
men
of his class often feel themselves at liberty to express to a pretty girl of
her early age. He was a man that might have been handsome, had it not been =
for
a certain strange expression of covert wickedness. It was as if some vile e=
vil
spirit, walking, as the Scriptures say, through dry places, had lighted on =
a comely
man's body, in which he had set up housekeeping, making it look like a fair
house abused by an unclean owner.
As Mara watched h=
is
demeanor with Moses, she could think only of a loathsome black snake that s=
he
had once seen in those solitary rocks;--she felt as if his handsome but evil
eye were charming him with an evil charm to his destruction.
"Well, Mo, my
boy," she heard him say,--slapping Moses on the shoulder,--"this =
is
something like. We'll have a 'tempus,' as the college fellows say,--put down
the clams to roast, and I'll mix the punch," he said, setting over the
fire a tea-kettle which they brought from the ship.
After their
preparations were finished, all sat down to eat and drink. Mara listened wi=
th
anxiety and horror to a conversation such as she never heard or conceived
before. It is not often that women hear men talk in the undisguised manner
which they use among themselves; but the conversation of men of unprincipled
lives, and low, brutal habits, unchecked by the presence of respectable fem=
ale
society, might well convey to the horror-struck child a feeling as if she w=
ere
listening at the mouth of hell. Almost every word was preceded or emphasize=
d by
an oath; and what struck with a death chill to her heart was, that Moses sw=
ore
too, and seemed to show that desperate anxiety to seem au fait in the langu=
age
of wickedness, which boys often do at that age, when they fancy that to be
ignorant of vice is a mark of disgraceful greenness. Moses evidently was be=
nt
on showing that he was not green,--ignorant of the pure ear to which every =
such
word came like the blast of death.
He drank a great
deal, too, and the mirth among them grew furious and terrific. Mara, horrif=
ied
and shocked as she was, did not, however, lose that intense and alert prese=
nce
of mind, natural to persons in whom there is moral strength, however delica=
te
be their physical frame. She felt at once that these men were playing upon
Moses; that they had an object in view; that they were flattering and cajol=
ing
him, and leading him to drink, that they might work out some fiendish purpo=
se
of their own. The man called Atkinson related story after story of wild adv=
enture,
in which sudden fortunes had been made by men who, he said, were not afraid=
to
take "the short cut across lots." He told of piratical adventures=
in
the West Indies,--of the fun of chasing and overhauling ships,--and gave
dazzling accounts of the treasures found on board. It was observable that a=
ll
these stories were told on the line between joke and earnest,--as frolics, =
as
specimens of good fun, and seeing life, etc.
At last came a
suggestion,--What if they should start off together some fine day, "ju=
st
for a spree," and try a cruise in the West Indies, to see what they co=
uld
pick up? They had arms, and a gang of fine, whole-souled fellows. Moses had
been tied to Ma'am Pennel's apron-string long enough. And "hark ye,&qu=
ot;
said one of them, "Moses, they say old Pennel has lots of dollars in t=
hat old
sea-chest of his'n. It would be a kindness to him to invest them for him in=
an
adventure."
Moses answered wi=
th a
streak of the boy innocence which often remains under the tramping of evil =
men,
like ribbons of green turf in the middle of roads:--
"You don't k=
now
Father Pennel,--why, he'd no more come into it than"--
A perfect roar of
laughter cut short this declaration, and Atkinson, slapping Moses on the ba=
ck,
said,--
"By ----, Mo!
you are the jolliest green dog! I shall die a-laughing of your innocence so=
me
day. Why, my boy, can't you see? Pennel's money can be invested without ask=
ing
him."
"Why, he kee=
ps
it locked," said Moses.
"And supposi=
ng
you pick the lock?"
"Not I,
indeed," said Moses, making a sudden movement to rise.
Mara almost screa=
med
in her ecstasy, but she had sense enough to hold her breath.
"Ho! see him
now," said Atkinson, lying back, and holding his sides while he laughe=
d,
and rolled over; "you can get off anything on that muff,--any hoax in =
the
world,--he's so soft! Come, come, my dear boy, sit down. I was only seeing =
how
wide I could make you open those great black eyes of your'n,--that's all.&q=
uot;
"You'd better
take care how you joke with me," said Moses, with that look of gloomy
determination which Mara was quite familiar with of old. It was the rallying
effort of a boy who had abandoned the first outworks of virtue to make a st=
and
for the citadel. And Atkinson, like a prudent besieger after a repulse,
returned to lie on his arms.
He began talking
volubly on other subjects, telling stories, and singing songs, and pressing
Moses to drink.
Mara was comforte=
d to
see that he declined drinking,--that he looked gloomy and thoughtful, in sp=
ite
of the jokes of his companions; but she trembled to see, by the following
conversation, how Atkinson was skillfully and prudently making apparent to
Moses the extent to which he had him in his power. He seemed to Mara like an
ugly spider skillfully weaving his web around a fly. She felt cold and fain=
t;
but within her there was a heroic strength.
She was not going=
to
faint; she would make herself bear up. She was going to do something to get
Moses out of this snare,--but what? At last they rose.
"It is past
three o'clock," she heard one of them say.
"I say,
Mo," said Atkinson, "you must make tracks for home, or you won't =
be
in bed when Mother Pennel calls you."
The men all laugh=
ed
at this joke, as they turned to go on board the schooner.
When they were go=
ne,
Moses threw himself down and hid his face in his hands. He knew not what
pitying little face was looking down upon him from the hemlock shadows, what
brave little heart was determined to save him. He was in one of those great
crises of agony that boys pass through when they first awake from the fun a=
nd
frolic of unlawful enterprises to find themselves sold under sin, and feel =
the
terrible logic of evil which constrains them to pass from the less to great=
er
crime. He felt that he was in the power of bad, unprincipled, heartless men,
who, if he refused to do their bidding, had the power to expose him. All he=
had
been doing would come out. His kind old foster-parents would know it. Mara
would know it. Mr. Sewell and Miss Emily would know the secrets of his life
that past month. He felt as if they were all looking at him now. He had
disgraced himself,--had sunk below his education,--had been false to all his
better knowledge and the past expectations of his friends, living a mean,
miserable, dishonorable life,--and now the ground was fast sliding from und=
er
him, and the next plunge might be down a precipice from which there would b=
e no
return. What he had done up to this hour had been done in the roystering,
inconsiderate gamesomeness of boyhood. It had been represented to himself o=
nly
as "sowing wild oats," "having steep times," "seei=
ng a
little of life," and so on; but this night he had had propositions of
piracy and robbery made to him, and he had not dared to knock down the man =
that
made them,--had not dared at once to break away from his company. He must m=
eet
him again,--must go on with him, or--he groaned in agony at the thought.
It was a strong
indication of that repressed, considerate habit of mind which love had wrou=
ght
in the child, that when Mara heard the boy's sobs rising in the stillness, =
she
did not, as she wished to, rush out and throw her arms around his neck and =
try
to comfort him.
But she felt
instinctively that she must not do this. She must not let him know that she=
had
discovered his secret by stealing after him thus in the night shadows. She =
knew
how nervously he had resented even the compassionate glances she had cast u=
pon
him in his restless, turbid intervals during the past few weeks, and the
fierceness with which he had replied to a few timid inquiries. No,--though =
her
heart was breaking for him, it was a shrewd, wise little heart, and resolved
not to spoil all by yielding to its first untaught impulses. She repressed
herself as the mother does who refrains from crying out when she sees her u=
nconscious
little one on the verge of a precipice.
When Moses rose a=
nd
moodily began walking homeward, she followed at a distance. She could now k=
eep
farther off, for she knew the way through every part of the forest, and she
only wanted to keep within sound of his footsteps to make sure that he was
going home. When he emerged from the forest into the open moonlight, she sat
down in its shadows and watched him as he walked over the open distance bet=
ween
her and the house. He went in; and then she waited a little longer for him =
to
be quite retired. She thought he would throw himself on the bed, and then s=
he
could steal in after him. So she sat there quite in the shadows.
The grand full mo=
on
was riding high and calm in the purple sky, and Harpswell Bay on the one ha=
nd,
and the wide, open ocean on the other, lay all in a silver shimmer of light.
There was not a sound save the plash of the tide, now beginning to go out, =
and
rolling and rattling the pebbles up and down as it came and went, and once =
in a
while the distant, mournful intoning of the whippoorwill. There were silent
lonely ships, sailing slowly to and fro far out to sea, turning their fair =
wings
now into bright light and now into shadow, as they moved over the glassy
stillness. Mara could see all the houses on Harpswell Neck and the white ch=
urch
as clear as in the daylight. It seemed to her some strange, unearthly dream=
.
As she sat there,=
she
thought over her whole little life, all full of one thought, one purpose, o=
ne
love, one prayer, for this being so strangely given to her out of that sile=
nt
sea, which lay so like a still eternity around her,--and she revolved again
what meant the vision of her childhood. Did it not mean that she was to wat=
ch
over him and save him from some dreadful danger? That poor mother was lying=
now
silent and peaceful under the turf in the little graveyard not far off, and=
she
must care for her boy.
A strong motherly
feeling swelled out the girl's heart,--she felt that she must, she would,
somehow save that treasure which had so mysteriously been committed to her.=
So,
when she thought she had given time enough for Moses to be quietly asleep in
his room, she arose and ran with quick footsteps across the moonlit plain to
the house.
The front-door was
standing wide open, as was always the innocent fashion in these regions, wi=
th a
half-angle of moonlight and shadow lying within its dusky depths. Mara list=
ened
a moment,--no sound: he had gone to bed then. "Poor boy," she sai=
d,
"I hope he is asleep; how he must feel, poor fellow! It's all the faul=
t of
those dreadful men!" said the little dark shadow to herself, as she st=
ole
up the stairs past his room as guiltily as if she were the sinner. Once the
stairs creaked, and her heart was in her mouth, but she gained her room and
shut and bolted the door. She kneeled down by her little white bed, and tha=
nked
God that she had come in safe, and then prayed him to teach her what to do =
next.
She felt chilly and shivering, and crept into bed, and lay with her great s=
oft
brown eyes wide open, intently thinking what she should do.
Should she tell h=
er
grandfather? Something instinctively said No; that the first word from him
which showed Moses he was detected would at once send him off with those wi=
cked
men. "He would never, never bear to have this known," she said. M=
r.
Sewell?--ah, that was worse. She herself shrank from letting him know what
Moses had been doing; she could not bear to lower him so much in his eyes. =
He
could not make allowances, she thought. He is good, to be sure, but he is so
old and grave, and doesn't know how much Moses has been tempted by these
dreadful men; and then perhaps he would tell Miss Emily, and they never wou=
ld
want Moses to come there any more.
"What shall I
do?" she said to herself. "I must get somebody to help me or tell=
me
what to do. I can't tell grandmamma; it would only make her ill, and she wo=
uldn't
know what to do any more than I. Ah, I know what I will do,--I'll tell Capt=
ain
Kittridge; he was always so kind to me; and he has been to sea and seen all
sorts of men, and Moses won't care so much perhaps to have him know, because
the Captain is such a funny man, and don't take everything so seriously. Ye=
s,
that's it. I'll go right down to the cove in the morning. God will bring me
through, I know He will;" and the little weary head fell back on the
pillow asleep. And as she slept, a smile settled over her face, perhaps a
reflection from the face of her good angel, who always beholdeth the face of
our Father in Heaven.
CHAPTER XXII - A FRIEND IN
NEED
Mara was so wearied with her night =
walk
and the agitation she had been through, that once asleep she slept long aft=
er
the early breakfast hour of the family. She was surprised on awaking to hear
the slow old clock downstairs striking eight. She hastily jumped up and loo=
ked
around with a confused wonder, and then slowly the events of the past night=
came
back upon her like a remembered dream. She dressed herself quickly, and went
down to find the breakfast things all washed and put away, and Mrs. Pennel
spinning.
"Why, dear
heart," said the old lady, "how came you to sleep so?--I spoke to=
you
twice, but I could not make you hear."
"Has Moses b=
een
down, grandma?" said Mara, intent on the sole thought in her heart.
"Why, yes, d=
ear,
long ago,--and cross enough he was; that boy does get to be a trial,--but c=
ome,
dear, I've saved some hot cakes for you,--sit down now and eat your
breakfast."
Mara made a feint=
of
eating what her grandmother with fond officiousness would put before her, a=
nd
then rising up she put on her sun-bonnet and started down toward the cove to
find her old friend.
The queer, dry, l=
ean old
Captain had been to her all her life like a faithful kobold or brownie, an
unquestioning servant of all her gentle biddings. She dared tell him anythi=
ng
without diffidence or shamefacedness; and she felt that in this trial of her
life he might have in his sea-receptacle some odd old amulet or spell that
should be of power to help her. Instinctively she avoided the house, lest S=
ally
should see and fly out and seize her. She took a narrow path through the ce=
dars
down to the little boat cove where the old Captain worked so merrily ten ye=
ars
ago, in the beginning of our story, and where she found him now, with his c=
oat
off, busily planing a board.
"Wal', now,-=
-if
this 'ere don't beat all!" he said, looking up and seeing her; "w=
hy,
you're looking after Sally, I s'pose? She's up to the house."
"No, Captain
Kittridge, I'm come to see you."
"You be?&quo=
t;
said the Captain, "I swow! if I ain't a lucky feller. But what's the
matter?" he said, suddenly observing her pale face and the tears in her
eyes. "Hain't nothin' bad happened,--hes there?"
"Oh! Captain
Kittridge, something dreadful; and nobody but you can help me."
"Want to kno=
w,
now!" said the Captain, with a grave face. "Well, come here, now,=
and
sit down, and tell me all about it. Don't you cry, there's a good girl! Don=
't,
now."
Mara began her st=
ory,
and went through with it in a rapid and agitated manner; and the good Capta=
in
listened in a fidgety state of interest, occasionally relieving his mind by
interjecting "Do tell, now!" "I swan,--if that ar ain't too
bad."
"That ar's
rediculous conduct in Atkinson. He ought to be talked to," said the
Captain, when she had finished, and then he whistled and put a shaving in h=
is
mouth, which he chewed reflectively.
"Don't you b=
e a
mite worried, Mara," he said. "You did a great deal better to com=
e to
me than to go to Mr. Sewell or your grand'ther either; 'cause you see these
'ere wild chaps they'll take things from me they wouldn't from a church-mem=
ber
or a minister. Folks mustn't pull 'em up with too short a rein,--they must =
kind
o' flatter 'em off. But that ar Atkinson's too rediculous for anything; and=
if
he don't mind, I'll serve him out. I know a thing or two about him that I s=
hall
shake over his head if he don't behave. Now I don't think so much of smuggl=
in'
as some folks," said the Captain, lowering his voice to a confidential
tone. "I reely don't, now; but come to goin' off piratin',--and tryin'=
to
put a young boy up to robbin' his best friends,--why, there ain't no kind o=
' sense
in that. It's p'ison mean of Atkinson. I shall tell him so, and I shall tal=
k to
Moses."
"Oh! I'm afr=
aid
to have you," said Mara, apprehensively.
"Why,
chickabiddy," said the old Captain, "you don't understand me. I a=
in't
goin' at him with no sermons,--I shall jest talk to him this way: Look here
now, Moses, I shall say, there's Badger's ship goin' to sail in a fortnight=
for
China, and they want likely fellers aboard, and I've got a hundred dollars =
that
I'd like to send on a venture; if you'll take it and go, why, we'll share t=
he
profits. I shall talk like that, you know. Mebbe I sha'n't let him know wha=
t I
know, and mebbe I shall; jest tip him a wink, you know; it depends on
circumstances. But bless you, child, these 'ere fellers ain't none of 'em
'fraid o' me, you see, 'cause they know I know the ropes."
"And can you
make that horrid man let him alone?" said Mara, fearfully.
"Calculate I
can. 'Spect if I's to tell Atkinson a few things I know, he'd be for bein'
scase in our parts. Now, you see, I hain't minded doin' a small bit o' trade
now and then with them ar fellers myself; but this 'ere," said the
Captain, stopping and looking extremely disgusted, "why, it's
contemptible, it's rediculous!"
"Do you think
I'd better tell grandpapa?" said Mara.
"Don't worry
your little head. I'll step up and have a talk with Pennel, this evening. He
knows as well as I that there is times when chaps must be seen to, and no
remarks made. Pennel knows that ar. Why, now, Mis' Kittridge thinks our boys
turned out so well all along of her bringin' up, and I let her think so; ke=
eps
her sort o' in spirits, you see. But Lord bless ye, child, there's been tim=
es
with Job, and Sam, and Pass, and Dass, and Dile, and all on 'em finally, wh=
en,
if I hadn't jest pulled a rope here and turned a screw there, and said noth=
in'
to nobody, they'd a-been all gone to smash. I never told Mis' Kittridge non=
e o'
their didos; bless you, 'twouldn't been o' no use. I never told them, neith=
er;
but I jest kind o' worked 'em off, you know; and they's all putty 'spectable
men now, as men go, you know; not like Parson Sewell, but good, honest mates
and ship-masters,--kind o' middlin' people, you know. It takes a good many =
o'
sich to make up a world, d'ye see."
"But oh, Cap=
tain
Kittridge, did any of them use to swear?" said Mara, in a faltering vo=
ice.
"Wal', they =
did,
consid'able," said the Captain;--then seeing the trembling of Mara's l=
ip,
he added,--
"Ef you could
a-found this 'ere out any other way, it's most a pity you'd a-heard him; 'c=
ause
he wouldn't never have let out afore you. It don't do for gals to hear the
fellers talk when they's alone, 'cause fellers,--wal', you see, fellers wil=
l be
fellers, partic'larly when they're young. Some on 'em, they never gits over=
it
all their lives finally."
"But oh! Cap=
tain
Kittridge, that talk last night was so dreadfully wicked! and Moses!--oh, it
was dreadful to hear him!"
"Wal', yes, =
it
was," said the Captain, consolingly; "but don't you cry, and don't
you break your little heart. I expect he'll come all right, and jine the ch=
urch
one of these days; 'cause there's old Pennel, he prays,--fact now, I think
there's consid'able in some people's prayers, and he's one of the sort. And=
you
pray, too; and I'm quite sure the good Lord must hear you. I declare someti=
mes
I wish you'd jest say a good word to Him for me; I should like to get the h=
ang
o' things a little better than I do, somehow, I reely should. I've gi'n up
swearing years ago. Mis' Kittridge, she broke me o' that, and now I don't n=
ever
go further than 'I vum' or 'I swow,' or somethin' o' that sort; but you see=
I'm
old;--Moses is young; but then he's got eddication and friends, and he'll c=
ome
all right. Now you jest see ef he don't!"
This miscellaneous
budget of personal experiences and friendly consolation which the good Capt=
ain
conveyed to Mara may possibly make you laugh, my reader, but the good, ropy
brown man was doing his best to console his little friend; and as Mara look=
ed
at him he was almost glorified in her eyes--he had power to save Moses, and=
he
would do it. She went home to dinner that day with her heart considerably
lightened. She refrained, in a guilty way, from even looking at Moses, who =
was gloomy
and moody.
Mara had from nat=
ure
a good endowment of that kind of innocent hypocrisy which is needed as a st=
aple
in the lives of women who bridge a thousand awful chasms with smiling,
unconscious looks, and walk, singing and scattering flowers, over abysses of
fear, while their hearts are dying within them.
She talked more
volubly than was her wont with Mrs. Pennel, and with her old grandfather; s=
he
laughed and seemed in more than usual spirits, and only once did she look up
and catch the gloomy eye of Moses. It had that murky, troubled look that one
may see in the eye of a boy when those evil waters which cast up mire and d=
irt
have once been stirred in his soul. They fell under her clear glance, and he
made a rapid, impatient movement, as if it hurt him to be looked at. The ev=
il
spirit in boy or man cannot bear the "touch of celestial temper;"=
and
the sensitiveness to eyebeams is one of the earliest signs of conscious, in=
ward
guilt.
Mara was relieved=
, as
he flung out of the house after dinner, to see the long, dry figure of Capt=
ain
Kittridge coming up and seizing Moses by the button. From the window she saw
the Captain assuming a confidential air with him; and when they had talked
together a few moments, she saw Moses going with great readiness after him =
down
the road to his house.
In less than a
fortnight, it was settled Moses was to sail for China, and Mara was deep in=
the
preparations for his outfit. Once she would have felt this departure as the
most dreadful trial of her life. Now it seemed to her a deliverance for him,
and she worked with a cheerful alacrity, which seemed to Moses more than was
proper, considering he was going away.
For Moses, like m=
any
others of his sex, boy or man, had quietly settled in his own mind that the
whole love of Mara's heart was to be his, to have and to hold, to use and to
draw on, when and as he liked. He reckoned on it as a sort of inexhaustible,
uncounted treasure that was his own peculiar right and property, and theref=
ore
he felt abused at what he supposed was a disclosure of some deficiency on h=
er
part.
"You seem to=
be
very glad to be rid of me," he said to her in a bitter tone one day, as
she was earnestly busy in her preparations.
Now the fact was,
that Moses had been assiduously making himself disagreeable to Mara for the
fortnight past, by all sorts of unkind sayings and doings; and he knew it t=
oo;
yet he felt a right to feel very much abused at the thought that she could
possibly want him to be going. If she had been utterly desolate about it, a=
nd
torn her hair and sobbed and wailed, he would have asked what she could be
crying about, and begged not to be bored with scenes; but as it was, this
cheerful composure was quite unfeeling.
Now pray don't
suppose Moses to be a monster of an uncommon species. We take him to be an
average specimen of a boy of a certain kind of temperament in the transition
period of life. Everything is chaos within; the flesh lusteth against the
spirit, and the spirit against the flesh, and "light and darkness, and
mind and dust, and passion and pure thoughts, mingle and contend," wit=
hout
end or order. He wondered at himself sometimes that he could say such cruel=
things
as he did to his faithful little friend--to one whom, after all, he did love
and trust before all other human beings.
There is no saying
why it is that a man or a boy, not radically destitute of generous
comprehensions, will often cruelly torture and tyrannize over a woman whom =
he
both loves and reveres, who stands in his soul in his best hours as the very
impersonation of all that is good and beautiful. It is as if some evil spir=
it
at times possessed him, and compelled him to utter words which were felt at=
the
moment to be mean and hateful. Moses often wondered at himself, as he lay a=
wake
nights, how he could have said and done the things he had, and felt miserab=
ly resolved
to make it up somehow before he went away; but he did not.
He could not say,
"Mara, I have done wrong," though he every day meant to do it, and
sometimes sat an hour in her presence, feeling murky and stony, as if posse=
ssed
by a dumb spirit; then he would get up and fling stormily out of the house.=
Poor Mara wondere=
d if
he really would go without one kind word. She thought of all the years they=
had
been together, and how he had been her only thought and love. What had beco=
me
of her brother?--the Moses that once she used to know--frank, careless, not
ill-tempered, and who sometimes seemed to love her and think she was the be=
st
little girl in the world? Where was he gone to--this friend and brother of =
her childhood,
and would he never come back?
At last came the
evening before his parting; the sea-chest was all made up and packed; and
Mara's fingers had been busy with everything, from more substantial garments
down to all those little comforts and nameless conveniences that only a wom=
an
knows how to improvise. Mara thought certainly she should get a few kind wo=
rds,
as Moses looked it over. But he only said, "All right;" and then
added that "there was a button off one of the shirts." Mara's busy
fingers quickly replaced it, and Moses was annoyed at the tear that fell on=
the
button. What was she crying for now? He knew very well, but he felt stubborn
and cruel. Afterwards he lay awake many a night in his berth, and acted this
last scene over differently. He took Mara in his arms and kissed her; he to=
ld
her she was his best friend, his good angel, and that he was not worthy to =
kiss
the hem of her garment; but the next day, when he thought of writing a lett=
er
to her, he didn't, and the good mood passed away. Boys do not acquire an ea=
se
of expression in letter-writing as early as girls, and a voyage to China
furnished opportunities few and far between of sending letters.
Now and then, thr=
ough
some sailing ship, came missives which seemed to Mara altogether colder and
more unsatisfactory than they would have done could she have appreciated the
difference between a boy and a girl in power of epistolary expression; for =
the
power of really representing one's heart on paper, which is one of the first
spring flowers of early womanhood, is the latest blossom on the slow-growing
tree of manhood. To do Moses justice, these seeming cold letters were often
written with a choking lump in his throat, caused by thinking over his many
sins against his little good angel; but then that past account was so long,=
and
had so much that it pained him to think of, that he dashed it all off in the
shortest fashion, and said to himself, "One of these days when I see h=
er
I'll make it all up."
No man--especially
one that is living a rough, busy, out-of-doors life--can form the slightest
conception of that veiled and secluded life which exists in the heart of a
sensitive woman, whose sphere is narrow, whose external diversions are few,=
and
whose mind, therefore, acts by a continual introversion upon itself. They k=
now
nothing how their careless words and actions are pondered and turned again =
in
weary, quiet hours of fruitless questioning. What did he mean by this? and =
what
did he intend by that?--while he, the careless buffalo, meant nothing, or h=
as forgotten
what it was, if he did. Man's utter ignorance of woman's nature is a cause =
of a
great deal of unsuspected cruelty which he practices toward her.
Mara found one or=
two
opportunities of writing to Moses; but her letters were timid and constrain=
ed
by a sort of frosty, discouraged sense of loneliness; and Moses, though he =
knew
he had no earthly right to expect this to be otherwise, took upon him to fe=
el
as an abused individual, whom nobody loved--whose way in the world was dest=
ined
to be lonely and desolate. So when, at the end of three years, he arrived
suddenly at Brunswick in the beginning of winter, and came, all burning wit=
h impatience,
to the home at Orr's Island, and found that Mara had gone to Boston on a vi=
sit,
he resented it as a personal slight.
He might have
inquired why she should expect him, and whether her whole life was to be sp=
ent
in looking out of the window to watch for him. He might have remembered tha=
t he
had warned her of his approach by no letter. But no. "Mara didn't care=
for
him--she had forgotten all about him--she was having a good time in Boston,
just as likely as not with some train of admirers, and he had been tossing =
on
the stormy ocean, and she had thought nothing of it." How many things =
he
had meant to say! He had never felt so good and so affectionate. He would h=
ave
confessed all the sins of his life to her, and asked her pardon--and she wa=
sn't
there!
Mrs. Pennel sugge=
sted
that he might go to Boston after her.
No, he was not go=
ing
to do that. He would not intrude on her pleasures with the memory of a roug=
h,
hard-working sailor. He was alone in the world, and had his own way to make,
and so best go at once up among lumbermen, and cut the timber for the ship =
that
was to carry Cæsar and his fortunes.
When Mara was
informed by a letter from Mrs. Pennel, expressed in the few brief words in
which that good woman generally embodied her epistolary communications, that
Moses had been at home, and gone to Umbagog without seeing her, she felt at=
her
heart only a little closer stricture of cold, quiet pain, which had become a
habit of her inner life.
"He did not =
love
her--he was cold and selfish," said the inner voice. And faintly she
pleaded, in answer, "He is a man--he has seen the world--and has so mu=
ch
to do and think of, no wonder."
In fact, during t=
he
last three years that had parted them, the great change of life had been
consummated in both. They had parted boy and girl; they would meet man and
woman. The time of this meeting had been announced.
And all this is t=
he
history of that sigh, so very quiet that Sally Kittridge never checked the
rattling flow of her conversation to observe it.
CHAPTER XXIII - THE BEGIN=
NING
OF THE STORY
We have in the last three chapters
brought up the history of our characters to the time when our story opens, =
when
Mara and Sally Kittridge were discussing the expected return of Moses. Sally
was persuaded by Mara to stay and spend the night with her, and did so with=
out
much fear of what her mother would say when she returned; for though Mrs.
Kittridge still made bustling demonstrations of authority, it was quite evi=
dent
to every one that the handsome grown-up girl had got the sceptre into her o=
wn
hands, and was reigning in the full confidence of being, in one way or anot=
her,
able to bring her mother into all her views.
So Sally stayed--=
to
have one of those long night-talks in which girls delight, in the course of
which all sorts of intimacies and confidences, that shun the daylight, open
like the night-blooming cereus in strange successions. One often wonders by
daylight at the things one says very naturally in the dark.
So the two girls
talked about Moses, and Sally dilated upon his handsome, manly air the one
Sunday that he had appeared in Harpswell meeting-house.
"He didn't k=
now
me at all, if you'll believe it," said Sally. "I was standing with
father when he came out, and he shook hands with him, and looked at me as if
I'd been an entire stranger."
"I'm not in = the least surprised," said Mara; "you're grown so and altered."<= o:p>
"Well, now,
you'd hardly know him, Mara," said Sally. "He is a man--a real ma=
n;
everything about him is different; he holds up his head in such a proud way.
Well, he always did that when he was a boy; but when he speaks, he has such=
a
deep voice! How boys do alter in a year or two!"
"Do you thin=
k I
have altered much, Sally?" said Mara; "at least, do you think he
would think so?"
"Why, Mara, =
you and
I have been together so much, I can't tell. We don't notice what goes on be=
fore
us every day. I really should like to see what Moses Pennel will think when=
he
sees you. At any rate, he can't order you about with such a grand air as he
used to when you were younger."
"I think
sometimes he has quite forgotten about me," said Mara.
"Well, if I =
were
you, I should put him in mind of myself by one or two little ways," sa=
id
Sally. "I'd plague him and tease him. I'd lead him such a life that he
couldn't forget me,--that's what I would."
"I don't dou=
bt
you would, Sally; and he might like you all the better for it. But you know
that sort of thing isn't my way. People must act in character."
"Do you know,
Mara," said Sally, "I always thought Moses was hateful in his
treatment of you? Now I'd no more marry that fellow than I'd walk into the
fire; but it would be a just punishment for his sins to have to marry me!
Wouldn't I serve him out, though!"
With which threat=
of
vengeance on her mind Sally Kittridge fell asleep, while Mara lay awake
pondering,--wondering if Moses would come to-morrow, and what he would be l=
ike
if he did come.
The next morning = as the two girls were wiping breakfast dishes in a room adjoining the kitchen,= a step was heard on the kitchen-floor, and the first that Mara knew she found herself lifted from the floor in the arms of a tall dark-eyed young man, who was kissing her just as if he had a right to. She knew it must be Moses, bu= t it seemed strange as a dream, for all she had tried to imagine it beforehand.<= o:p>
He kissed her over
and over, and then holding her off at arm's length, said, "Why, Mara, =
you
have grown to be a beauty!"
"And what was
she, I'd like to know, when you went away, Mr. Moses?" said Sally, who
could not long keep out of a conversation. "She was handsome when you =
were
only a great ugly boy."
"Thank you, =
Miss
Sally!" said Moses, making a profound bow.
"Thank me for
what?" said Sally, with a toss.
"For your
intimation that I am a handsome young man now," said Moses, sitting wi=
th
his arm around Mara, and her hand in his.
And in truth he w=
as
as handsome now for a man as he was in the promise of his early childhood. =
All
the oafishness and surly awkwardness of the half-boy period was gone. His g=
reat
black eyes were clear and confident: his dark hair clustering in short curls
round his well-shaped head; his black lashes, and fine form, and a certain
confident ease of manner, set him off to the greatest advantage.
Mara felt a pecul=
iar
dreamy sense of strangeness at this brother who was not a brother,--this Mo=
ses
so different from the one she had known. The very tone of his voice, which =
when
he left had the uncertain cracked notes which indicate the unformed man, we=
re
now mellowed and settled. Mara regarded him shyly as he talked, blushed
uneasily, and drew away from his arm around her, as if this handsome,
self-confident young man were being too familiar. In fact, she made apology=
to
go out into the other room to call Mrs. Pennel.
Moses looked after
her as she went with admiration. "What a little woman she has grown!&q=
uot;
he said, naïvely.
"And what did
you expect she would grow?" said Sally. "You didn't expect to find
her a girl in short clothes, did you?"
"Not exactly,
Miss Sally," said Moses, turning his attention to her; "and some
other people are changed too."
"Like
enough," said Sally, carelessly. "I should think so, since somebo=
dy
never spoke a word to one the Sunday he was at meeting."
"Oh, you
remember that, do you? On my word, Sally"--
"Miss Kittri=
dge,
if you please, sir," said Sally, turning round with the air of an empr=
ess.
"Well, then,
Miss Kittridge," said Moses, making a bow; "now let me finish my
sentence. I never dreamed who you were."
"Complimenta=
ry,"
said Sally, pouting.
"Well, hear =
me
through," said Moses; "you had grown so handsome, Miss Kittridge.=
"
"Oh! that
indeed! I suppose you mean to say I was a fright when you left?"
"Not at all-=
-not
at all," said Moses; "but handsome things may grow handsomer, you
know."
"I don't like
flattery," said Sally.
"I never fla=
tter,
Miss Kittridge," said Moses.
Our young gentlem=
an
and young lady of Orr's Island went through with this customary little lie =
of
civilized society with as much gravity as if they were practicing in the co=
urt
of Versailles,--she looking out from the corner of her eye to watch the eff=
ect
of her words, and he laying his hand on his heart in the most edifying grav=
ity.
They perfectly understood one another.
But, says the rea=
der,
seems to me Sally Kittridge does all the talking! So she does,--so she alwa=
ys
will,--for it is her nature to be bright, noisy, and restless; and one of t=
hese
girls always overcrows a timid and thoughtful one, and makes her, for the t=
ime,
seem dim and faded, as does rose color when put beside scarlet.
Sally was a born
coquette. It was as natural for her to want to flirt with every man she saw=
, as
for a kitten to scamper after a pin-ball. Does the kitten care a fig for the
pin-ball, or the dry leaves, which she whisks, and frisks, and boxes, and p=
ats,
and races round and round after? No; it's nothing but kittenhood; every hai=
r of
her fur is alive with it. Her sleepy green eyes, when she pretends to be
dozing, are full of it; and though she looks wise a moment, and seems resol=
ved
to be a discreet young cat, let but a leaf sway--off she goes again, with a=
frisk
and a rap. So, though Sally had scolded and flounced about Moses's inattent=
ion
to Mara in advance, she contrived even in this first interview to keep him
talking with nobody but herself;--not because she wanted to draw him from M=
ara,
or meant to; not because she cared a pin for him; but because it was her
nature, as a frisky young cat. And Moses let himself be drawn, between
bantering and contradicting, and jest and earnest, at some moments almost to
forget that Mara was in the room.
She took her sewi=
ng
and sat with a pleased smile, sometimes breaking into the lively flow of
conversation, or eagerly appealed to by both parties to settle some rising
quarrel.
Once, as they were
talking, Moses looked up and saw Mara's head, as a stray sunbeam falling up=
on
the golden hair seemed to make a halo around her face. Her large eyes were
fixed upon him with an expression so intense and penetrative, that he felt a
sort of wincing uneasiness. "What makes you look at me so, Mara?"=
he
said, suddenly.
A bright flush ca=
me
in her cheek as she answered, "I didn't know I was looking. It all see=
ms
so strange to me. I am trying to make out who and what you are."
"It's not be=
st
to look too deep," Moses said, laughing, but with a slight shade of
uneasiness.
When Sally, late =
in
the afternoon, declared that she must go home, she couldn't stay another
minute, Moses rose to go with her.
"What are you
getting up for?" she said to Moses, as he took his hat.
"To go home =
with
you, to be sure."
"Nobody aske=
d you
to," said Sally.
"I'm accusto=
med
to asking myself," said Moses.
"Well, I sup=
pose
I must have you along," said Sally. "Father will be glad to see y=
ou,
of course."
"You'll be b=
ack
to tea, Moses," said Mara, "will you not? Grandfather will be hom=
e,
and want to see you."
"Oh, I shall=
be
right back," said Moses, "I have a little business to settle with
Captain Kittridge."
But Moses, howeve=
r,
did stay at tea with Mrs. Kittridge, who looked graciously at him through t=
he
bows of her black horn spectacles, having heard her liege lord observe that
Moses was a smart chap, and had done pretty well in a money way.
How came he to st=
ay?
Sally told him every other minute to go; and then when he had got fairly ou=
t of
the door, called him back to tell him that there was something she had heard
about him. And Moses of course came back; wanted to know what it was; and
couldn't be told, it was a secret; and then he would be ordered off, and
reminded that he promised to go straight home; and then when he got a little
farther off she called after him a second time, to tell him that he would be
very much surprised if he knew how she found it out, etc., etc.,--till at l=
ast
tea being ready, there was no reason why he shouldn't have a cup. And so it=
was
sober moonrise before Moses found himself going home.
"Hang that
girl!" he said to himself; "don't she know what she's about, thou=
gh?"
There our hero was
mistaken. Sally never did know what she was about,--had no plan or purpose =
more
than a blackbird; and when Moses was gone laughed to think how many times s=
he
had made him come back.
"Now, confou=
nd
it all," said Moses, "I care more for our little Mara than a doze=
n of
her; and what have I been fooling all this time for?--now Mara will think I
don't love her."
And, in fact, our
young gentleman rather set his heart on the sensation he was going to make =
when
he got home. It is flattering, after all, to feel one's power over a
susceptible nature; and Moses, remembering how entirely and devotedly Mara =
had
loved him all through childhood, never doubted but he was the sole possesso=
r of
uncounted treasure in her heart, which he could develop at his leisure and =
use
as he pleased. He did not calculate for one force which had grown up in the
meanwhile between them,--and that was the power of womanhood. He did not kn=
ow
the intensity of that kind of pride, which is the very life of the female n=
ature,
and which is most vivid and vigorous in the most timid and retiring.
Our little Mara w=
as
tender, self-devoting, humble, and religious, but she was woman after all to
the tips of her fingers,--quick to feel slights, and determined with the
intensest determination, that no man should wrest from her one of those few
humble rights and privileges, which Nature allows to woman. Something swell=
ed
and trembled in her when she felt the confident pressure of that bold arm
around her waist,--like the instinct of a wild bird to fly. Something in the
deep, manly voice, the determined, self-confident air, aroused a vague feel=
ing
of defiance and resistance in her which she could scarcely explain to herse=
lf.
Was he to assume a right to her in this way without even asking? When he did
not come to tea nor long after, and Mrs. Pennel and her grandfather wondere=
d,
she laughed, and said gayly,--
"Oh, he knows
he'll have time enough to see me. Sally seems more like a stranger."
But when Moses ca=
me
home after moonrise, determined to go and console Mara for his absence, he =
was
surprised to hear the sound of a rapid and pleasant conversation, in which a
masculine and feminine voice were intermingled in a lively duet. Coming a
little nearer, he saw Mara sitting knitting in the doorway, and a very
good-looking young man seated on a stone at her feet, with his straw hat fl=
ung
on the ground, while he was looking up into her face, as young men often do
into pretty faces seen by moonlight. Mara rose and introduced Mr. Adams of
Boston to Mr. Moses Pennel.
Moses measured the
young man with his eye as if he could have shot him with a good will. And h=
is
temper was not at all bettered as he observed that he had the easy air of a=
man
of fashion and culture, and learned by a few moments of the succeeding
conversation, that the acquaintance had commenced during Mara's winter visi=
t to
Boston.
"I was stayi=
ng a
day or two at Mr. Sewell's," he said, carelessly, "and the night =
was
so fine I couldn't resist the temptation to row over."
It was now Moses's
turn to listen to a conversation in which he could bear little part, it bei=
ng
about persons and places and things unfamiliar to him; and though he could =
give
no earthly reason why the conversation was not the most proper in the
world,--yet he found that it made him angry.
In the pauses, Ma=
ra
inquired, prettily, how he found the Kittridges, and reproved him playfully=
for
staying, in despite of his promise to come home. Moses answered with an eff=
ort
to appear easy and playful, that there was no reason, it appeared, to hurry=
on
her account, since she had been so pleasantly engaged.
"That is
true," said Mara, quietly; "but then grandpapa and grandmamma exp=
ected
you, and they have gone to bed, as you know they always do after tea."=
"They'll keep
till morning, I suppose," said Moses, rather gruffly.
"Oh yes; but
then as you had been gone two or three months, naturally they wanted to see=
a
little of you at first."
The stranger now
joined in the conversation, and began talking with Moses about his experien=
ces
in foreign parts, in a manner which showed a man of sense and breeding. Mos=
es
had a jealous fear of people of breeding,--an apprehension lest they should
look down on one whose life had been laid out of the course of their
conventional ideas; and therefore, though he had sufficient ability and vig=
or
of mind to acquit himself to advantage in this conversation, it gave him all
the while a secret uneasiness. After a few moments, he rose up moodily, and
saying that he was very much fatigued, he went into the house to retire.
Mr. Adams rose to=
go
also, and Moses might have felt in a more Christian frame of mind, had he
listened to the last words of the conversation between him and Mara.
"Do you rema=
in
long in Harpswell?" she asked.
"That depend=
s on
circumstances," he replied. "If I do, may I be permitted to visit
you?"
"As a
friend--yes," said Mara; "I shall always be happy to see you.&quo=
t;
"No more?&qu=
ot;
"No more,&qu=
ot;
replied Mara.
"I had
hoped," he said, "that you would reconsider."
"It is
impossible," said she; and soft voices can pronounce that word, imposs=
ible,
in a very fateful and decisive manner.
"Well, God b=
less
you, then, Miss Lincoln," he said, and was gone.
Mara stood in the
doorway and saw him loosen his boat from its moorings and float off in the
moonlight, with a long train of silver sparkles behind.
A moment after Mo=
ses
was looking gloomily over her shoulder.
"Who is that
puppy?" he said.
"He is not a
puppy, but a very fine young man," said Mara.
"Well, that =
very
fine young man, then?"
"I thought I
told you. He is a Mr. Adams of Boston, and a distant connection of the Sewe=
lls.
I met him when I was visiting at Judge Sewell's in Boston."
"You seemed =
to
be having a very pleasant time together?"
"We were,&qu=
ot;
said Mara, quietly.
"It's a pity=
I
came home as I did. I'm sorry I interrupted you," said Moses, with a
sarcastic laugh.
"You didn't
interrupt us; he had been here almost two hours."
Now Mara saw plai=
nly
enough that Moses was displeased and hurt, and had it been in the days of h=
er
fourteenth summer, she would have thrown her arms around his neck, and said,
"Moses, I don't care a fig for that man, and I love you better than all
the world." But this the young lady of eighteen would not do; so she
wished him good-night very prettily, and pretended not to see anything about
it.
Mara was as near
being a saint as human dust ever is; but--she was a woman saint; and theref=
ore
may be excused for a little gentle vindictiveness. She was, in a merciful w=
ay,
rather glad that Moses had gone to bed dissatisfied, and rather glad that he
did not know what she might have told him--quite resolved that he should not
know at present. Was he to know that she liked nobody so much as him? Not h=
e,
unless he loved her more than all the world, and said so first. Mara was
resolved upon that. He might go where he liked--flirt with whom he liked--c=
ome back
as late as he pleased; never would she, by word or look, give him reason to
think she cared.
CHAPTER XXIV - DESIRES AND
DREAMS
Moses passed rather a restless and =
uneasy
night on his return to the home-roof which had sheltered his childhood. All=
his
life past, and all his life expected, seemed to boil and seethe and ferment=
in
his thoughts, and to go round and round in never-ceasing circles before him=
.
Moses was par
excellence proud, ambitious, and willful. These words, generally supposed to
describe positive vices of the mind, in fact are only the overaction of cer=
tain
very valuable portions of our nature, since one can conceive all three to r=
aise
a man immensely in the scale of moral being, simply by being applied to rig=
ht
objects. He who is too proud even to admit a mean thought--who is ambitious
only of ideal excellence--who has an inflexible will only in the pursuit of
truth and righteousness--may be a saint and a hero.
But Moses was nei=
ther
a saint nor a hero, but an undeveloped chaotic young man, whose pride made =
him
sensitive and restless; whose ambition was fixed on wealth and worldly succ=
ess;
whose willfulness was for the most part a blind determination to compass his
own points, with the leave of Providence or without. There was no God in his
estimate of life--and a sort of secret unsuspected determination at the bot=
tom
of his heart that there should be none. He feared religion, from a suspicion
which he entertained that it might hamper some of his future schemes. He did
not wish to put himself under its rules, lest he might find them in some fu=
ture
time inconveniently strict.
With such
determinations and feelings, the Bible--necessarily an excessively
uninteresting book to him--he never read, and satisfied himself with
determining in a general way that it was not worth reading, and, as was the
custom with many young men in America at that period, announced himself as a
skeptic, and seemed to value himself not a little on the distinction. Pride=
in
skepticism is a peculiar distinction of young men. It takes years and matur=
ity
to make the discovery that the power of faith is nobler than the power of
doubt; and that there is a celestial wisdom in the ingenuous propensity to
trust, which belongs to honest and noble natures. Elderly skeptics generally
regard their unbelief as a misfortune.
Not that Moses wa=
s,
after all, without "the angel in him." He had a good deal of the
susceptibility to poetic feeling, the power of vague and dreamy aspiration,=
the
longing after the good and beautiful, which is God's witness in the soul. A
noble sentiment in poetry, a fine scene in nature, had power to bring tears=
in
his great dark eyes, and he had, under the influence of such things, brief
inspired moments in which he vaguely longed to do, or be, something grand or
noble. But this, however, was something apart from the real purpose of his
life,--a sort of voice crying in the wilderness,--to which he gave little h=
eed.
Practically, he was determined with all his might, to have a good time in t=
his
life, whatever another might be,--if there were one; and that he would do i=
t by
the strength of his right arm. Wealth he saw to be the lamp of Aladdin, whi=
ch
commanded all other things. And the pursuit of wealth was therefore the fir=
st
step in his programme.
As for plans of t=
he
heart and domestic life, Moses was one of that very common class who had mo=
re
desire to be loved than power of loving. His cravings and dreams were not f=
or
somebody to be devoted to, but for somebody who should be devoted to him. A=
nd,
like most people who possess this characteristic, he mistook it for an affe=
ctionate
disposition.
Now the chief
treasure of his heart had always been his little sister Mara, chiefly from =
his
conviction that he was the one absorbing thought and love of her heart. He =
had
never figured life to himself otherwise than with Mara at his side, his
unquestioning, devoted friend. Of course he and his plans, his ways and wan=
ts,
would always be in the future, as they always had been, her sole thought. T=
hese
sleeping partnerships in the interchange of affection, which support one's
heart with a basis of uncounted wealth, and leave one free to come and go, =
and
buy and sell, without exaction or interference, are a convenience certainly,
and the loss of them in any way is like the sudden breaking of a bank in wh=
ich all
one's deposits are laid.
It had never occu=
rred
to Moses how or in what capacity he should always stand banker to the whole
wealth of love that there was in Mara's heart, and what provision he should
make on his part for returning this incalculable debt. But the interview of
this evening had raised a new thought in his mind. Mara, as he saw that day,
was no longer a little girl in a pink sun-bonnet. She was a woman,--a little
one, it is true, but every inch a woman,--and a woman invested with a singu=
lar
poetic charm of appearance, which, more than beauty, has the power of awake=
ning
feeling in the other sex.
He felt in himsel=
f,
in the experience of that one day, that there was something subtle and veil=
ed
about her, which set the imagination at work; that the wistful, plaintive
expression of her dark eyes, and a thousand little shy and tremulous moveme=
nts
of her face, affected him more than the most brilliant of Sally Kittridge's
sprightly sallies. Yes, there would be people falling in love with her fast
enough, he thought even here, where she is as secluded as a pearl in an oys=
ter-shell,--it
seems means were found to come after her,--and then all the love of her hea=
rt,
that priceless love, would go to another.
Mara would be
absorbed in some one else, would love some one else, as he knew she could, =
with
heart and soul and mind and strength. When he thought of this, it affected =
him
much as it would if one were turned out of a warm, smiling apartment into a
bleak December storm. What should he do, if that treasure which he had taken
most for granted in all his valuations of life should suddenly be found to
belong to another? Who was this fellow that seemed so free to visit her, and
what had passed between them? Was Mara in love with him, or going to be? Th=
ere
is no saying how the consideration of this question enhanced in our hero's =
opinion
both her beauty and all her other good qualities.
Such a brave litt=
le
heart! such a good, clear little head! and such a pretty hand and foot! She=
was
always so cheerful, so unselfish, so devoted! When had he ever seen her ang=
ry,
except when she had taken up some childish quarrel of his, and fought for h=
im
like a little Spartan? Then she was pious, too. She was born religious, tho=
ught
our hero, who, in common with many men professing skepticism for their own =
particular
part, set a great value on religion in that unknown future person whom they=
are
fond of designating in advance as "my wife." Yes, Moses meant his
wife should be pious, and pray for him, while he did as he pleased.
"Now there's
that witch of a Sally Kittridge," he said to himself; "I wouldn't
have such a girl for a wife. Nothing to her but foam and frisk,--no heart m=
ore
than a bobolink! But isn't she amusing? By George! isn't she, though?"=
"But,"
thought Moses, "it's time I settled this matter who is to be my wife. I
won't marry till I'm rich,--that's flat. My wife isn't to rub and grub. So =
at
it I must go to raise the wind. I wonder if old Sewell really does know
anything about my parents. Miss Emily would have it that there was some mys=
tery
that he had the key of; but I never could get any thing from him. He always=
put
me off in such a smooth way that I couldn't tell whether he did or he didn'=
t.
But, now, supposing I have relatives, family connections, then who knows but
what there may be property coming to me? That's an idea worth looking after,
surely."
There's no saying
with what vividness ideas and images go through one's wakeful brain when the
midnight moon is making an exact shadow of your window-sash, with panes of
light, on your chamber-floor. How vividly we all have loved and hated and
planned and hoped and feared and desired and dreamed, as we tossed and turn=
ed
to and fro upon such watchful, still nights. In the stillness, the tide upon
one side of the Island replied to the dash on the other side in unbroken
symphony, and Moses began to remember all the stories gossips had told him =
of
how he had floated ashore there, like a fragment of tropical seaweed borne
landward by a great gale. He positively wondered at himself that he had nev=
er thought
of it more, and the more he meditated, the more mysterious and inexplicable=
he
felt. Then he had heard Miss Roxy once speaking something about a bracelet,=
he
was sure he had; but afterwards it was hushed up, and no one seemed to know
anything about it when he inquired. But in those days he was a boy,--he was
nobody,--now he was a young man. He could go to Mr. Sewell, and demand as h=
is
right a fair answer to any questions he might ask. If he found, as was quite
likely, that there was nothing to be known, his mind would be thus far
settled,--he should trust only to his own resources.
So far as the sta=
te
of the young man's finances were concerned, it would be considered in those
simple times and regions an auspicious beginning of life. The sum intrusted=
to
him by Captain Kittridge had been more than doubled by the liberality of
Zephaniah Pennel, and Moses had traded upon it in foreign parts with a skill
and energy that brought a very fair return, and gave him, in the eyes of the
shrewd, thrifty neighbors, the prestige of a young man who was marked for
success in the world.
He had already fo=
rmed
an advantageous arrangement with his grandfather and Captain Kittridge, by
which a ship was to be built, which he should command, and thus the old
Saturday afternoon dream of their childhood be fulfilled. As he thought of =
it,
there arose in his mind a picture of Mara, with her golden hair and plainti=
ve
eyes and little white hands, reigning as a fairy queen in the captain's cab=
in,
with a sort of wish to carry her off and make sure that no one else ever sh=
ould
get her from him.
But these midnight
dreams were all sobered down by the plain matter-of-fact beams of the morni=
ng
sun, and nothing remained of immediate definite purpose except the resolve,
which came strongly upon Moses as he looked across the blue band of Harpswe=
ll
Bay, that he would go that morning and have a talk with Mr. Sewell.
CHAPTER XXV - MISS EMILY<=
/span>
Miss Roxy Toothache was seated by t=
he
window of the little keeping-room where Miss Emily Sewell sat on every-day
occasions. Around her were the insignia of her power and sway. Her big tail=
or's
goose was heating between Miss Emily's bright brass fire-irons; her great
pin-cushion was by her side, bristling with pins of all sizes, and with bro=
ken
needles thriftily made into pins by heads of red sealing-wax, and with need=
les threaded
with all varieties of cotton, silk, and linen; her scissors hung martially =
by
her side; her black bombazette work-apron was on; and the expression of her
iron features was that of deep responsibility, for she was making the minis=
ter
a new Sunday vest!
The good soul loo=
ks
not a day older than when we left her, ten years ago. Like the gray,
weather-beaten rocks of her native shore, her strong features had an
unchangeable identity beyond that of anything fair and blooming. There was =
of
course no chance for a gray streak in her stiff, uncompromising mohair
frisette, which still pushed up her cap-border bristlingly as of old, and t=
he
clear, high winds and bracing atmosphere of that rough coast kept her in an
admirable state of preservation.
Miss Emily had now
and then a white hair among her soft, pretty brown ones, and looked a little
thinner; but the round, bright spot of bloom on each cheek was there just a=
s of
yore,--and just as of yore she was thinking of her brother, and filling her
little head with endless calculations to keep him looking fresh and
respectable, and his housekeeping comfortable and easy, on very limited mea=
ns.
She was now officiously and anxiously attending on Miss Roxy, who was in the
midst of the responsible operation which should conduce greatly to this end=
.
"Does that t=
wist
work well?" she said, nervously; "because I believe I've got some
other upstairs in my India box."
Miss Roxy surveyed
the article; bit a fragment off, as if she meant to taste it; threaded a ne=
edle
and made a few cabalistical stitches; and then pronounced, ex cathedrâ=
;,
that it would do. Miss Emily gave a sigh of relief. After buttons and tapes=
and
linings, and various other items had been also discussed, the conversation
began to flow into general channels.
"Did you know
Moses Pennel had got home from Umbagog?" said Miss Roxy.
"Yes. Captain
Kittridge told brother so this morning. I wonder he doesn't call over to see
us."
"Your brother
took a sight of interest in that boy," said Miss Roxy. "I was say=
ing
to Ruey, this morning, that if Moses Pennel ever did turn out well, he ough=
t to
have a large share of the credit."
"Brother alw=
ays
did feel a peculiar interest in him; it was such a strange providence that
seemed to cast in his lot among us," said Miss Emily.
"As sure as =
you
live, there he is a-coming to the front door," said Miss Roxy.
"Dear me,&qu=
ot;
said Miss Emily, "and here I have on this old faded chintz. Just so su=
re
as one puts on any old rag, and thinks nobody will come, company is sure to
call."
"Law, I'm su=
re I
shouldn't think of calling him company," said Miss Roxy.
A rap at the door=
put
an end to this conversation, and very soon Miss Emily introduced our hero i=
nto
the little sitting-room, in the midst of a perfect stream of apologies rela=
ting
to her old dress and the littered condition of the sitting-room, for Miss E=
mily
held to the doctrine of those who consider any sign of human occupation and=
existence
in a room as being disorder--however reputable and respectable be the cause=
of
it.
"Well,
really," she said, after she had seated Moses by the fire, "how t=
ime
does pass, to be sure; it don't seem more than yesterday since you used to =
come
with your Latin books, and now here you are a grown man! I must run and tell
Mr. Sewell. He will be so glad to see you."
Mr. Sewell soon
appeared from his study in morning-gown and slippers, and seemed heartily
responsive to the proposition which Moses soon made to him to have some pri=
vate
conversation with him in his study.
"I
declare," said Miss Emily, as soon as the study-door had closed upon h=
er
brother and Moses, "what a handsome young man he is! and what a beauti=
ful
way he has with him!--so deferential! A great many young men nowadays seem =
to think
nothing of their minister; but he comes to seek advice. Very proper. It isn=
't
every young man that appreciates the privilege of having elderly friends. I
declare, what a beautiful couple he and Mara Lincoln would make! Don't
Providence seem in a peculiar way to have designed them for each other?&quo=
t;
"I hope
not," said Miss Roxy, with her grimmest expression.
"You don't! =
Why
not?"
"I never lik=
ed
him," said Miss Roxy, who had possessed herself of her great heavy goo=
se,
and was now thumping and squeaking it emphatically on the press-board.
"She's a thousand times too good for Moses Pennel,"--thump. "=
;I
ne'er had no faith in him,"--thump. "He's dreffle unstiddy,"=
--thump.
"He's handsome, but he knows it,"--thump. "He won't never lo=
ve
nobody so much as he does himself,"--thump, fortissimo con spirito.
"Well, really
now, Miss Roxy, you mustn't always remember the sins of his youth. Boys must
sow their wild oats. He was unsteady for a while, but now everybody says he=
's
doing well; and as to his knowing he's handsome, and all that, I don't see =
as
he does. See how polite and deferential he was to us all, this morning; and=
he
spoke so handsomely to you."
"I don't want
none of his politeness," said Miss Roxy, inexorably; "and as to M=
ara
Lincoln, she might have better than him any day. Miss Badger was a-tellin'
Captain Brown, Sunday noon, that she was very much admired in Boston."=
"So she
was," said Miss Emily, bridling. "I never reveal secrets, or I mi=
ght
tell something,--but there has been a young man,--but I promised not to spe=
ak
of it, and I sha'n't."
"If you mean=
Mr.
Adams," said Miss Roxy, "you needn't worry about keepin' that sec=
ret,
'cause that ar was all talked over atween meetin's a-Sunday noon; for Mis'
Kittridge she used to know his aunt Jerushy, her that married Solomon Peter=
s,
and Mis' Captain Badger she says that he has a very good property, and is a
professor in the Old South church in Boston."
"Dear me,&qu=
ot;
said Miss Emily, "how things do get about!"
"People will
talk, there ain't no use trying to help it," said Miss Roxy; "but
it's strongly borne in on my mind that it ain't Adams, nor 't ain't Moses
Pennel that's to marry her. I've had peculiar exercises of mind about that =
ar
child,--well I have;" and Miss Roxy pulled a large spotted bandanna
handkerchief out of her pocket, and blew her nose like a trumpet, and then
wiped the withered corners of her eyes, which were humid as some old Orr's
Island rock wet with sea-spray.
Miss Emily had a
secret love of romancing. It was one of the recreations of her quiet,
monotonous life to build air-castles, which she furnished regardless of
expense, and in which she set up at housekeeping her various friends and
acquaintances, and she had always been bent on weaving a romance on the his=
tory
of Mara and Moses Pennel. The good little body had done her best to second =
Mr.
Sewell's attempts toward the education of the children. It was little busy =
Miss
Emily who persuaded honest Zephaniah and Mary Pennel that talents such as
Mara's ought to be cultivated, and that ended in sending her to Miss Pluche=
r's school
in Portland. There her artistic faculties were trained into creating funere=
al
monuments out of chenille embroidery, fully equal to Miss Emily's own; also=
to
painting landscapes, in which the ground and all the trees were one unvaryi=
ng
tint of blue-green; and also to creating flowers of a new and particular
construction, which, as Sally Kittridge remarked, were pretty, but did not =
look
like anything in heaven or earth. Mara had obediently and patiently done all
these things; and solaced herself with copying flowers and birds and landsc=
apes
as near as possible like nature, as a recreation from these more dignified
toils.
Miss Emily also h=
ad
been the means of getting Mara invited to Boston, where she saw some really
polished society, and gained as much knowledge of the forms of artificial l=
ife
as a nature so wholly and strongly individual could obtain. So little Miss
Emily regarded Mara as her godchild, and was intent on finishing her up int=
o a
romance in real life, of which a handsome young man, who had been washed as=
hore
in a shipwreck, should be the hero.
What would she ha=
ve
said could she have heard the conversation that was passing in her brother's
study? Little could she dream that the mystery, about which she had timidly
nibbled for years, was now about to be unrolled;--but it was even so. But, =
upon
what she does not see, good reader, you and I, following invisibly on tipto=
e,
will make our observations.
When Moses was fi=
rst
ushered into Mr. Sewell's study, and found himself quite alone, with the do=
or
shut, his heart beat so that he fancied the good man must hear it. He knew =
well
what he wanted and meant to say, but he found in himself all that shrinking=
and
nervous repugnance which always attends the proposing of any decisive quest=
ion.
"I thought it
proper," he began, "that I should call and express my sense of
obligation to you, sir, for all the kindness you showed me when a boy. I'm
afraid in those thoughtless days I did not seem to appreciate it so much as=
I
do now."
As Moses said thi=
s,
the color rose in his cheeks, and his fine eyes grew moist with a sort of
subdued feeling that made his face for the moment more than usually beautif=
ul.
Mr. Sewell looked=
at
him with an expression of peculiar interest, which seemed to have something
almost of pain in it, and answered with a degree of feeling more than he
commonly showed,--
"It has been=
a
pleasure to me to do anything I could for you, my young friend. I only wish=
it
could have been more. I congratulate you on your present prospects in life.=
You
have perfect health; you have energy and enterprise; you are courageous and
self-reliant, and, I trust, your habits are pure and virtuous. It only rema=
ins
that you add to all this that fear of the Lord which is the beginning of
wisdom."
Moses bowed his h=
ead
respectfully, and then sat silent a moment, as if he were looking through s=
ome
cloud where he vainly tried to discover objects.
Mr. Sewell contin=
ued,
gravely,--
"You have the
greatest reason to bless the kind Providence which has cast your lot in suc=
h a
family, in such a community. I have had some means in my youth of comparing
other parts of the country with our New England, and it is my opinion that a
young man could not ask a better introduction into life than the wholesome
nurture of a Christian family in our favored land."
"Mr.
Sewell," said Moses, raising his head, and suddenly looking him straig=
ht
in the eyes, "do you know anything of my family?"
The question was =
so
point-blank and sudden, that for a moment Mr. Sewell made a sort of motion =
as
if he dodged a pistol-shot, and then his face assumed an expression of grave
thoughtfulness, while Moses drew a long breath. It was out,--the question h=
ad
been asked.
"My son,&quo=
t;
replied Mr. Sewell, "it has always been my intention, when you had arr=
ived
at years of discretion, to make you acquainted with all that I know or susp=
ect
in regard to your life. I trust that when I tell you all I do know, you will
see that I have acted for the best in the matter. It has been my study and =
my
prayer to do so."
Mr. Sewell then r=
ose,
and unlocking the cabinet, of which we have before made mention, in his
apartment, drew forth a very yellow and time-worn package of papers, which =
he
untied. From these he selected one which enveloped an old-fashioned miniatu=
re
case.
"I am going =
to
show you," he said, "what only you and my God know that I possess=
. I
have not looked at it now for ten years, but I have no doubt that it is the
likeness of your mother."
Moses took it in =
his
hand, and for a few moments there came a mist over his eyes,--he could not =
see
clearly. He walked to the window as if needing a clearer light.
What he saw was a
painting of a beautiful young girl, with large melancholy eyes, and a
clustering abundance of black, curly hair. The face was of a beautiful, cle=
ar
oval, with that warm brunette tint in which the Italian painters delight. T=
he
black eyebrows were strongly and clearly defined, and there was in the face=
an
indescribable expression of childish innocence and shyness, mingled with a =
kind
of confiding frankness, that gave the picture the charm which sometimes fix=
es
itself in faces for which we involuntarily make a history. She was represen=
ted
as simply attired in a white muslin, made low in the neck, and the hands and
arms were singularly beautiful. The picture, as Moses looked at it, seemed =
to
stand smiling at him with a childish grace,--a tender, ignorant innocence w=
hich
affected him deeply.
"My young
friend," said Mr. Sewell, "I have written all that I know of the
original of this picture, and the reasons I have for thinking her your moth=
er.
"You will fi=
nd
it all in this paper, which, if I had been providentially removed, was to h=
ave
been given you in your twenty-first year. You will see in the delicate natu=
re
of the narrative that it could not properly have been imparted to you till =
you
had arrived at years of understanding. I trust when you know all that you w=
ill
be satisfied with the course I have pursued. You will read it at your leisu=
re,
and after reading I shall be happy to see you again."
Moses took the
package, and after exchanging salutations with Mr. Sewell, hastily left the
house and sought his boat.
When one has sudd=
enly
come into possession of a letter or paper in which is known to be hidden the
solution of some long-pondered secret, of the decision of fate with regard =
to
some long-cherished desire, who has not been conscious of a sort of pain,--=
an
unwillingness at once to know what is therein? We turn the letter again and
again, we lay it by and return to it, and defer from moment to moment the
opening of it. So Moses did not sit down in the first retired spot to ponder
the paper. He put it in the breast pocket of his coat, and then, taking up =
his
oars, rowed across the bay. He did not land at the house, but passed around=
the
south point of the Island, and rowed up the other side to seek a solitary
retreat in the rocks, which had always been a favorite with him in his early
days.
The shores of the
Island, as we have said, are a precipitous wall of rock, whose long, ribbed
ledges extend far out into the sea. At high tide these ledges are covered w=
ith
the smooth blue sea quite up to the precipitous shore. There was a place,
however, where the rocky shore shelved over, forming between two ledges a s=
ort
of grotto, whose smooth floor of shells and many-colored pebbles was never =
wet
by the rising tide. It had been the delight of Moses when a boy, to come he=
re
and watch the gradual rise of the tide till the grotto was entirely cut off=
from
all approach, and then to look out in a sort of hermit-like security over t=
he
open ocean that stretched before him. Many an hour he had sat there and dre=
amed
of all the possible fortunes that might be found for him when he should lau=
nch
away into that blue smiling futurity.
It was now about
half-tide, and Moses left his boat and made his way over the ledge of rocks
toward his retreat. They were all shaggy and slippery with yellow seaweeds,
with here and there among them wide crystal pools, where purple and lilac a=
nd
green mosses unfolded their delicate threads, and thousands of curious litt=
le
shell-fish were tranquilly pursuing their quiet life. The rocks where the
pellucid water lay were in some places crusted with barnacles, which were
opening and shutting the little white scaly doors of their tiny houses, and
drawing in and out those delicate pink plumes which seem to be their nerves=
of enjoyment.
Moses and Mara had rambled and played here many hours of their childhood,
amusing themselves with catching crabs and young lobsters and various little
fish for these rocky aquariums, and then studying at their leisure their
various ways. Now he had come hither a man, to learn the secret of his life=
.
Moses stretched
himself down on the clean pebbly shore of the grotto, and drew forth Mr.
Sewell's letter.
Mr. Sewell's letter ran as follows:=
--
MY DEAR YOUNG
FRIEND,--It has always been my intention when you arrived at years of matur=
ity
to acquaint you with some circumstances which have given me reason to
conjecture your true parentage, and to let you know what steps I have taken=
to
satisfy my own mind in relation to these conjectures. In order to do this, =
it
will be necessary for me to go back to the earlier years of my life, and gi=
ve
you the history of some incidents which are known to none of my most intima=
te
friends. I trust I may rely on your honor that they will ever remain as sec=
rets
with you.
I graduated from
Harvard University in ----. At the time I was suffering somewhat from an
affection of the lungs, which occasioned great alarm to my mother, many of
whose family had died of consumption. In order to allay her uneasiness, and
also for the purpose of raising funds for the pursuit of my professional
studies, I accepted a position as tutor in the family of a wealthy gentlema=
n at
St. Augustine, in Florida.
I cannot do justi=
ce
to myself,--to the motives which actuated me in the events which took place=
in
this family, without speaking with the most undisguised freedom of the
character of all the parties with whom I was connected.
Don José
Mendoza was a Spanish gentleman of large property, who had emigrated from t=
he
Spanish West Indies to Florida, bringing with him an only daughter, who had
been left an orphan by the death of her mother at a very early age. He brou=
ght
to this country a large number of slaves;--and shortly after his arrival,
married an American lady: a widow with three children. By her he had four o=
ther
children. And thus it will appear that the family was made up of such a var=
iety
of elements as only the most judicious care could harmonize. But the charac=
ter
of the father and mother was such that judicious care was a thing not to be=
expected
of either.
Don José w=
as
extremely ignorant and proud, and had lived a life of the grossest dissipat=
ion.
Habits of absolute authority in the midst of a community of a very low moral
standard had produced in him all the worst vices of despots. He was cruel,
overbearing, and dreadfully passionate. His wife was a woman who had
pretensions to beauty, and at times could make herself agreeable, and even
fascinating, but she was possessed of a temper quite as violent and ungover=
ned
as his own.
Imagine now two
classes of slaves, the one belonging to the mistress, and the other brought
into the country by the master, and each animated by a party spirit and
jealousy;--imagine children of different marriages, inheriting from their
parents violent tempers and stubborn wills, flattered and fawned on by slav=
es,
and alternately petted or stormed at, now by this parent and now by that, a=
nd
you will have some idea of the task which I undertook in being tutor in this
family.
I was young and
fearless in those days, as you are now, and the difficulties of the positio=
n,
instead of exciting apprehension, only awakened the spirit of enterprise and
adventure.
The whole
arrangements of the household, to me fresh from the simplicity and order of=
New
England, had a singular and wild sort of novelty which was attractive rather
than otherwise. I was well recommended in the family by an influential and
wealthy gentleman of Boston, who represented my family, as indeed it was, as
among the oldest and most respectable of Boston, and spoke in such terms of=
me,
personally, as I should not have ventured to use in relation to myself. Whe=
n I
arrived, I found that two or three tutors, who had endeavored to bear rule =
in
this tempestuous family, had thrown up the command after a short trial, and=
that
the parents felt some little apprehension of not being able to secure the
services of another,--a circumstance which I did not fail to improve in mak=
ing
my preliminary arrangements. I assumed an air of grave hauteur, was very
exacting in all my requisitions and stipulations, and would give no promise=
of
doing more than to give the situation a temporary trial. I put on an air of
supreme indifference as to my continuance, and acted in fact rather on the
assumption that I should confer a favor by remaining.
In this way I
succeeded in obtaining at the outset a position of more respect and deferen=
ce
than had been enjoyed by any of my predecessors. I had a fine apartment, a
servant exclusively devoted to me, a horse for riding, and saw myself treat=
ed
among the servants as a person of consideration and distinction.
Don José a=
nd
his wife both had in fact a very strong desire to retain my services, when
after the trial of a week or two, it was found that I really could make the=
ir
discordant and turbulent children to some extent obedient and studious duri=
ng
certain portions of the day; and in fact I soon acquired in the whole family
that ascendancy which a well-bred person who respects himself, and can keep=
his
temper, must have over passionate and undisciplined natures.
I became the
receptacle of the complaints of all, and a sort of confidential adviser. Don
José imparted to me with more frankness than good taste his chagrins
with regard to his wife's indolence, ill-temper, and bad management, and his
wife in turn omitted no opportunity to vent complaints against her husband =
for
similar reasons. I endeavored, to the best of my ability, to act a friendly
part by both. It never was in my nature to see anything that needed to be d=
one
without trying to do it, and it was impossible to work at all without becom=
ing so
interested in my work as to do far more than I had agreed to do. I assisted=
Don
José about many of his affairs; brought his neglected accounts into
order; and suggested from time to time arrangements which relieved the
difficulties which had been brought on by disorder and neglect. In fact, I
became, as he said, quite a necessary of life to him.
In regard to the
children, I had a more difficult task. The children of Don José by h=
is
present wife had been systematically stimulated by the negroes into a chron=
ic
habit of dislike and jealousy toward her children by a former husband. On t=
he
slightest pretext, they were constantly running to their father with
complaints; and as the mother warmly espoused the cause of her first childr=
en,
criminations and recriminations often convulsed the whole family.
In ill-regulated
families in that region, the care of the children is from the first in the
hands of half-barbarized negroes, whose power of moulding and assimilating
childish minds is peculiar, so that the teacher has to contend constantly w=
ith
a savage element in the children which seems to have been drawn in with the
mother's milk. It is, in a modified way, something the same result as if the
child had formed its manners in Dahomey or on the coast of Guinea. In the
fierce quarrels which were carried on between the children of this family, I
had frequent occasion to observe this strange, savage element, which someti=
mes
led to expressions and actions which would seem incredible in civilized
society.
The three childre=
n by
Madame Mendoza's former husband were two girls of sixteen and eighteen and a
boy of fourteen. The four children of the second marriage consisted of three
boys and a daughter,--the eldest being not more than thirteen.
The natural capac=
ity
of all the children was good, although, from self-will and indolence, they =
had
grown up in a degree of ignorance which could not have been tolerated excep=
t in
a family living an isolated plantation life in the midst of barbarized
dependents. Savage and untaught and passionate as they were, the work of
teaching them was not without its interest to me. A power of control was wi=
th
me a natural gift; and then that command of temper which is the common
attribute of well-trained persons in the Northern states, was something so
singular in this family as to invest its possessor with a certain awe; and =
my calm,
energetic voice, and determined manner, often acted as a charm on their sto=
rmy
natures.
But there was one
member of the family of whom I have not yet spoken,--and yet all this lette=
r is
about her,--the daughter of Don José by his first marriage. Poor
Dolores! poor child! God grant she may have entered into his rest!
I need not descri=
be
her. You have seen her picture. And in the wild, rude, discordant family, s=
he
always reminded me of the words, "a lily among thorns." She was in
her nature unlike all the rest, and, I may say, unlike any one I ever saw. =
She
seemed to live a lonely kind of life in this disorderly household, often ma=
rked
out as the object of the spites and petty tyrannies of both parties. She was
regarded with bitter hatred and jealousy by Madame Mendoza, who was sure to
visit her with unsparing bitterness and cruelty after the occasional
demonstrations of fondness she received from her father. Her exquisite beau=
ty
and the gentle softness of her manners made her such a contrast to her sist=
ers as
constantly excited their ill-will. Unlike them all, she was fastidiously ne=
at
in her personal habits, and orderly in all the little arrangements of life.=
She seemed to me =
in
this family to be like some shy, beautiful pet creature in the hands of rud=
e,
unappreciated owners, hunted from quarter to quarter, and finding rest only=
by
stealth. Yet she seemed to have no perception of the harshness and cruelty =
with
which she was treated. She had grown up with it; it was the habit of her li=
fe
to study peaceable methods of averting or avoiding the various inconvenienc=
es
and annoyances of her lot, and secure to herself a little quiet.
It not unfrequent=
ly
happened, amid the cabals and storms which shook the family, that one party=
or
the other took up and patronized Dolores for a while, more, as it would app=
ear,
out of hatred for the other than any real love to her. At such times it was
really affecting to see with what warmth the poor child would receive these
equivocal demonstrations of good-will--the nearest approaches to affection
which she had ever known--and the bitterness with which she would mourn when
they were capriciously withdrawn again. With a heart full of affection, she=
reminded
me of some delicate, climbing plant trying vainly to ascend the slippery si=
de
of an inhospitable wall, and throwing its neglected tendrils around every w=
eed
for support.
Her only fast,
unfailing friend was her old negro nurse, or Mammy, as the children called =
her.
This old creature, with the cunning and subtlety which had grown up from ye=
ars
of servitude, watched and waited upon the interests of her little mistress,=
and
contrived to carry many points for her in the confused household. Her young
mistress was her one thought and purpose in living. She would have gone thr=
ough
fire and water to serve her; and this faithful, devoted heart, blind and ig=
norant
though it were, was the only unfailing refuge and solace of the poor hunted
child.
Dolores, of cours=
e,
became my pupil among the rest. Like the others, she had suffered by the
neglect and interruptions in the education of the family, but she was
intelligent and docile, and learned with a surprising rapidity. It was not
astonishing that she should soon have formed an enthusiastic attachment to =
me,
as I was the only intelligent, cultivated person she had ever seen, and tre=
ated
her with unvarying consideration and delicacy. The poor thing had been so
accustomed to barbarous words and manners that simple politeness and the us=
ages
of good society seemed to her cause for the most boundless gratitude.
It is due to myse=
lf,
in view of what follows, to say that I was from the first aware of the very
obvious danger which lay in my path in finding myself brought into close and
daily relations with a young creature so confiding, so attractive, and so
singularly circumstanced. I knew that it would be in the highest degree
dishonorable to make the slightest advances toward gaining from her that ki=
nd
of affection which might interfere with her happiness in such future relati=
ons
as her father might arrange for her. According to the European fashion, I k=
now
that Dolores was in her father's hands, to be disposed of for life accordin=
g to
his pleasure, as absolutely as if she had been one of his slaves. I had eve=
ry
reason to think that his plans on this subject were matured, and only waited
for a little more teaching and training on my part, and her fuller developm=
ent
in womanhood, to be announced to her.
In looking back o=
ver
the past, therefore, I have not to reproach myself with any dishonest and
dishonorable breach of trust; for I was from the first upon my guard, and so
much so that even the jealousy my other scholars never accused me of
partiality. I was not in the habit of giving very warm praise, and was in my
general management anxious rather to be just than conciliatory, knowing that
with the kind of spirits I had to deal with, firmness and justice went fart=
her
than anything else. If I approved Dolores oftener than the rest, it was see=
n to
be because she never failed in a duty; if I spent more time with her lesson=
s,
it was because her enthusiasm for study led her to learn longer ones and st=
udy
more things; but I am sure there was never a look or a word toward her that
went beyond the proprieties of my position.
But yet I could n=
ot so
well guard my heart. I was young and full of feeling. She was beautiful; and
more than that, there was something in her Spanish nature at once so warm a=
nd
simple, so artless and yet so unconsciously poetic, that her presence was a
continual charm. How well I remember her now,--all her little ways,--the
movements of her pretty little hands,--the expression of her changeful face=
as
she recited to me,--the grave, rapt earnestness with which she listened to =
all
my instructions!
I had not been wi=
th
her many weeks before I felt conscious that it was her presence that charmed
the whole house, and made the otherwise perplexing and distasteful details =
of
my situation agreeable. I had a dim perception that this growing passion wa=
s a
dangerous thing for myself; but was it a reason, I asked, why I should
relinquish a position in which I felt that I was useful, and when I could do
for this lovely child what no one else could do? I call her a child,--she
always impressed me as such,--though she was in her sixteenth year and had =
the early
womanly development of Southern climates. She seemed to me like something f=
rail
and precious, needing to be guarded and cared for; and when reason told me =
that
I risked my own happiness in holding my position, love argued on the other =
hand
that I was her only friend, and that I should be willing to risk something
myself for the sake of protecting and shielding her. For there was no doubt
that my presence in the family was a restraint upon the passions which form=
erly
vented themselves so recklessly on her, and established a sort of order in =
which
she found more peace than she had ever known before.
For a long time in
our intercourse I was in the habit of looking on myself as the only party in
danger. It did not occur to me that this heart, so beautiful and so lonely,
might, in the want of all natural and appropriate objects of attachment, fa=
sten
itself on me unsolicited, from the mere necessity of loving. She seemed to =
me
so much too beautiful, too perfect, to belong to a lot in life like mine, t=
hat
I could not suppose it possible this could occur without the most blamewort=
hy solicitation
on my part; and it is the saddest and most affecting proof to me how this p=
oor
child had been starved for sympathy and love, that she should have repaid s=
uch
cold services as mine with such an entire devotion. At first her feelings w=
ere
expressed openly toward me, with the dutiful air of a good child. She placed
flowers on my desk in the morning, and made quaint little nosegays in the
Spanish fashion, which she gave me, and busied her leisure with various
ingenious little knick-knacks of fancy work, which she brought me. I treated
them all as the offerings of a child while with her, but I kept them sacred=
ly
in my own room. To tell the truth, I have some of the poor little things no=
w.
But after a while=
I
could not help seeing how she loved me; and then I felt as if I ought to go;
but how could I? The pain to myself I could have borne; but how could I lea=
ve
her to all the misery of her bleak, ungenial position? She, poor thing, was=
so
unconscious of what I knew,--for I was made clear-sighted by love. I tried =
the
more strictly to keep to the path I had marked out for myself, but I fear I=
did
not always do it; in fact, many things seemed to conspire to throw us toget=
her.
The sisters, who were sometimes invited out to visit on neighboring estates,
were glad enough to dispense with the presence and attractions of Dolores, =
and
so she was frequently left at home to study with me in their absence. As to=
Don
José, although he always treated me with civility, yet he had such an
ingrained and deep-rooted idea of his own superiority of position, that I
suppose he would as soon have imagined the possibility of his daughter's
falling in love with one of his horses. I was a great convenience to him. I=
had
a knack of governing and carrying points in his family that it had always
troubled and fatigued him to endeavor to arrange,--and that was all. So tha=
t my
intercourse with Dolores was as free and unwatched, and gave me as many opp=
ortunities
of enjoying her undisturbed society, as heart could desire.
At last came the
crisis, however. After breakfast one morning, Don José called Dolores
into his library and announced to her that he had concluded for her a treat=
y of
marriage, and expected her husband to arrive in a few days. He expected that
this news would be received by her with the glee with which a young girl he=
ars
of a new dress or of a ball-ticket, and was quite confounded at the grave a=
nd
mournful silence in which she received it. She said no word, made no
opposition, but went out from the room and shut herself up in her own
apartment, and spent the day in tears and sobs.
Don José, =
who
had rather a greater regard for Dolores than for any creature living, and w=
ho
had confidently expected to give great delight by the news he had imparted,=
was
quite confounded by this turn of things. If there had been one word of eith=
er
expostulation or argument, he would have blazed and stormed in a fury of
passion; but as it was, this broken-hearted submission, though vexatious, w=
as
perplexing. He sent for me, and opened his mind, and begged me to talk with
Dolores and show her the advantages of the alliance, which the poor foolish=
child,
he said, did not seem to comprehend. The man was immensely rich, and had a
splendid estate in Cuba. It was a most desirable thing.
I ventured to inq=
uire
whether his person and manners were such as would be pleasing to a young gi=
rl,
and could gather only that he was a man of about fifty, who had been most of
his life in the military service, and was now desirous of making an
establishment for the repose of his latter days, at the head of which he wo=
uld
place a handsome and tractable woman, and do well by her.
I represented tha=
t it
would perhaps be safer to say no more on the subject until Dolores had seen
him, and to this he agreed. Madame Mendoza was very zealous in the affair, =
for
the sake of getting clear of the presence of Dolores in the family, and her
sisters laughed at her for her dejected appearance. They only wished, they
said, that so much luck might happen to them. For myself, I endeavored to t=
ake
as little notice as possible of the affair, though what I felt may be
conjectured. I knew,--I was perfectly certain,--that Dolores loved me as I
loved her. I knew that she had one of those simple and unworldly natures wh=
ich wealth
and splendor could not satisfy, and whose life would lie entirely in her
affections. Sometimes I violently debated with myself whether honor require=
d me
to sacrifice her happiness as well as my own, and I felt the strongest
temptation to ask her to be my wife and fly with me to the Northern states,
where I did not doubt my ability to make for her a humble and happy home.
But the sense of
honor is often stronger than all reasoning, and I felt that such a course w=
ould
be the betrayal of a trust; and I determined at least to command myself til=
l I
should see the character of the man who was destined to be her husband.
Meanwhile the who=
le
manner of Dolores was changed. She maintained a stony, gloomy silence,
performed all her duties in a listless way, and occasionally, when I commen=
ted
on anything in her lessons or exercises, would break into little flashes of
petulance, most strange and unnatural in her. Sometimes I could feel that s=
he
was looking at me earnestly, but if I turned my eyes toward her, hers were
instantly averted; but there was in her eyes a peculiar expression at times,
such as I have seen in the eye of a hunted animal when it turned at bay,--a
sort of desperate resistance,--which, taken in connection with her fragile =
form
and lovely face, produced a mournful impression.
One morning I fou=
nd
Dolores sitting alone in the schoolroom, leaning her head on her arms. She =
had
on her wrist a bracelet of peculiar workmanship, which she always wore,--the
bracelet which was afterwards the means of confirming her identity. She sat
thus some moments in silence, and then she raised her head and began turning
this bracelet round and round upon her arm, while she looked fixedly before
her. At last she spoke abruptly, and said,--
"Did I ever =
tell
you that this was my mother's hair? It is my mother's hair,--and she was the
only one that ever loved me; except poor old Mammy, nobody else loves
me,--nobody ever will."
"My dear Miss
Dolores," I began.
"Don't call =
me
dear," she said; "you don't care for me,--nobody does,--papa does=
n't,
and I always loved him; everybody in the house wants to get rid of me, whet=
her
I like to go or not. I have always tried to be good and do all you wanted, =
and
I should think you might care for me a little, but you don't."
"Dolores,&qu=
ot;
I said, "I do care for you more than I do for any one in the world; I =
love
you more than my own soul."
These were the ve=
ry
words I never meant to say, but somehow they seemed to utter themselves aga=
inst
my will. She looked at me for a moment as if she could not believe her hear=
ing,
and then the blood flushed her face, and she laid her head down on her arms=
.
At this moment Ma=
dame
Mendoza and the other girls came into the room in a clamor of admiration ab=
out
a diamond bracelet which had just arrived as a present from her future husb=
and.
It was a splendid thing, and had for its clasp his miniature, surrounded by=
the
largest brilliants.
The enthusiasm of=
the
party even at this moment could not say anything in favor of the beauty of =
this
miniature, which, though painted on ivory, gave the impression of a
coarse-featured man, with a scar across one eye.
"No matter f=
or
the beauty," said one of the girls, "so long as it is set with su=
ch
diamonds."
"Come,
Dolores," said another, giving her the present, "pull off that old
hair bracelet, and try this on."
Dolores threw the
diamond bracelet from her with a vehemence so unlike her gentle self as to
startle every one.
"I shall not
take off my mother's bracelet for a gift from a man I never knew," she
said. "I hate diamonds. I wish those who like such things might have
them."
"Was ever
anything so odd?" said Madame Mendoza.
"Dolores alw=
ays
was odd," said another of the girls; "nobody ever could tell what=
she
would like."
CHAPTER XXVII - HIDDEN TH=
INGS
The next day Señor Don Guzma=
n de
Cardona arrived, and the whole house was in a commotion of excitement. There
was to be no school, and everything was bustle and confusion. I passed my t=
ime
in my own room in reflecting severely upon myself for the imprudent words by
which I had thrown one more difficulty in the way of this poor harassed chi=
ld.
Dolores this day
seemed perfectly passive in the hands of her mother and sisters, who appear=
ed
disposed to show her great attention. She allowed them to array her in her =
most
becoming dress, and made no objection to anything except removing the brace=
let
from her arm. "Nobody's gifts should take the place of her mother's,&q=
uot;
she said, and they were obliged to be content with her wearing of the diamo=
nd
bracelet on the other arm.
Don Guzman was a
large, plethoric man, with coarse features and heavy gait. Besides the scar=
I
have spoken of, his face was adorned here and there with pimples, which were
not set down in the miniature. In the course of the first hour's study, I s=
aw
him to be a man of much the same stamp as Dolores's father--sensual,
tyrannical, passionate. He seemed in his own way to be much struck with the
beauty of his intended wife, and was not wanting in efforts to please her. =
All
that I could see in her was the settled, passive paleness of despair. She
played, sang, exhibited her embroidery and painting, at the command of Mada=
me
Mendoza, with the air of an automaton; and Don Guzman remarked to her fathe=
r on
the passive obedience as a proper and hopeful trait. Once only when he, in
presenting her a flower, took the liberty of kissing her cheek, did I obser=
ve
the flashing of her eye and a movement of disgust and impatience, that she
seemed scarcely able to restrain.
The marriage was
announced to take place the next week, and a holiday was declared through t=
he
house. Nothing was talked of or discussed but the corbeille de mariage which
the bridegroom had brought--the dresses, laces, sets of jewels, and cashmere
shawls. Dolores never had been treated with such attention by the family in=
her
life. She rose immeasurably in the eyes of all as the future possessor of s=
uch
wealth and such an establishment as awaited her. Madame Mendoza had visions=
of future
visits in Cuba rising before her mind, and overwhelmed her daughter-in-law =
with
flatteries and caresses, which she received in the same passive silence as =
she
did everything else.
For my own part, I
tried to keep entirely by myself. I remained in my room reading, and took my
daily rides, accompanied by my servant--seeing Dolores only at mealtimes, w=
hen
I scarcely ventured to look at her. One night, however, as I was walking
through a lonely part of the garden, Dolores suddenly stepped out from the
shrubbery and stood before me. It was bright moonlight, by which her face a=
nd
person were distinctly shown. How well I remember her as she looked then! S=
he
was dressed in white muslin, as she was fond of being, but it had been torn=
and
disordered by the haste with which she had come through the shrubbery. Her =
face
was fearfully pale, and her great, dark eyes had an unnatural brightness. S=
he
laid hold on my arm.
"Look
here," she said, "I saw you and came down to speak with you."=
;
She panted and
trembled, so that for some moments she could not speak another word. "I
want to ask you," she gasped, after a pause, "whether I heard you
right? Did you say"--
"Yes, Dolore=
s,
you did. I did say what I had no right to say, like a dishonorable man.&quo=
t;
"But is it t=
rue?
Are you sure it is true?" she said, scarcely seeming to hear my words.=
"God knows it
is," said I despairingly.
"Then why do=
n't
you save me? Why do you let them sell me to this dreadful man? He don't love
me--he never will. Can't you take me away?"
"Dolores, I =
am a
poor man. I cannot give you any of these splendors your father desires for
you."
"Do you thin=
k I
care for them? I love you more than all the world together. And if you do
really love me, why should we not be happy with each other?"
"Dolores,&qu=
ot;
I said, with a last effort to keep calm, "I am much older than you, and
know the world, and ought not to take advantage of your simplicity. You have
been so accustomed to abundant wealth and all it can give, that you cannot =
form
an idea of what the hardships and discomforts of marrying a poor man would =
be.
You are unused to having the least care, or making the least exertion for
yourself. All the world would say that I acted a very dishonorable part to =
take
you from a position which offers you wealth, splendor, and ease, to one of =
comparative
hardship. Perhaps some day you would think so yourself."
While I was speak=
ing,
Dolores turned me toward the moonlight, and fixed her great dark eyes
piercingly upon me, as if she wanted to read my soul. "Is that all?&qu=
ot;
she said; "is that the only reason?"
"I do not
understand you," said I.
She gave me such a
desolate look, and answered in a tone of utter dejection, "Oh, I didn't
know, but perhaps you might not want me. All the rest are so glad to sell m=
e to
anybody that will take me. But you really do love me, don't you?" she
added, laying her hand on mine.
What answer I mad=
e I
cannot say. I only know that every vestige of what is called reason and com=
mon
sense left me at that moment, and that there followed an hour of delirium in
which I--we both were very happy--we forgot everything but each other, and =
we
arranged all our plans for flight. There was fortunately a ship lying in the
harbor of St. Augustine, the captain of which was known to me. In course of=
a
day or two passage was taken, and my effects transported on board. Nobody s=
eemed
to suspect us. Everything went on quietly up to the day before that appoint=
ed
for sailing. I took my usual rides, and did everything as much as possible =
in
my ordinary way, to disarm suspicion, and none seemed to exist. The needed
preparations went gayly forward. On the day I mentioned, when I had ridden =
some
distance from the house, a messenger came post-haste after me. It was a boy=
who
belonged specially to Dolores. He gave me a little hurried note. I copy it:=
--
"Papa has found a=
ll
out, and it is dreadful. No one else knows, and he means to kill =
you
when you come back. Do, if you love me, hurry and get on board =
the
ship. I shall never get over it, if evil comes on you for my sak=
e. I
shall let them do what they please with me, if God will only sav=
e you.
I will try to be good. Perhaps if I bear my trials well, h=
e will
let me die soon. That is all I ask. I love you, and always s=
hall,
to death and after.
DOLORES."
There was the end=
of
it all. I escaped on the ship. I read the marriage in the paper. Incidental=
ly I
afterwards heard of her as living in Cuba, but I never saw her again till I=
saw
her in her coffin. Sorrow and death had changed her so much that at first t=
he
sight of her awakened only a vague, painful remembrance. The sight of the h=
air
bracelet which I had seen on her arm brought all back, and I felt sure that=
my
poor Dolores had strangely come to sleep her last sleep near me.
Immediately after=
I
became satisfied who you were, I felt a painful degree of responsibility for
the knowledge. I wrote at once to a friend of mine in the neighborhood of S=
t.
Augustine, to find out any particulars of the Mendoza family. I learned that
its history had been like that of many others in that region. Don Jos&eacut=
e;
had died in a bilious fever, brought on by excessive dissipation, and at his
death the estate was found to be so incumbered that the whole was sold at
auction. The slaves were scattered hither and thither to different owners, =
and
Madame Mendoza, with her children and remains of fortune, had gone to live =
in New
Orleans.
Of Dolores he had
heard but once since her marriage. A friend had visited Don Guzman's estate=
s in
Cuba. He was living in great splendor, but bore the character of a hard, cr=
uel,
tyrannical master, and an overbearing man. His wife was spoken of as being =
in
very delicate health,--avoiding society and devoting herself to religion.
I would here take
occasion to say that it was understood when I went into the family of Don
José, that I should not in any way interfere with the religious fait=
h of
the children, the family being understood to belong to the Roman Catholic
Church. There was so little like religion of any kind in the family, that t=
he
idea of their belonging to any faith savored something of the ludicrous. In=
the
case of poor Dolores, however, it was different. The earnestness of her nat=
ure
would always have made any religious form a reality to her. In her case I w=
as
glad to remember that the Romish Church, amid many corruptions, preserves a=
ll the
essential beliefs necessary for our salvation, and that many holy souls have
gone to heaven through its doors. I therefore was only careful to direct her
principal attention to the more spiritual parts of her own faith, and to dw=
ell
on the great themes which all Christian people hold in common.
Many of my persua=
sion
would not have felt free to do this, but my liberty of conscience in this
respect was perfect. I have seen that if you break the cup out of which a s=
oul
has been used to take the wine of the gospel, you often spill the very wine
itself. And after all, these forms are but shadows of which the substance is
Christ.
I am free to say,
therefore, that the thought that your poor mother was devoting herself earn=
estly
to religion, although after the forms of a church with which I differ, was =
to
me a source of great consolation, because I knew that in that way alone cou=
ld a
soul like hers find peace.
I have never rest=
ed
from my efforts to obtain more information. A short time before the incident
which cast you upon our shore, I conversed with a sea-captain who had retur=
ned
from Cuba. He stated that there had been an attempt at insurrection among t=
he
slaves of Don Guzman, in which a large part of the buildings and out-houses=
of
the estate had been consumed by fire. On subsequent inquiry I learned that =
Don
Guzman had sold his estates and embarked for Boston with his wife and famil=
y,
and that nothing had subsequently been heard of him.
Thus, my young
friend, I have told you all that I know of those singular circumstances whi=
ch
have cast your lot on our shores. I do not expect at your time of life you =
will
take the same view of this event that I do. You may possibly--very probably
will--consider it a loss not to have been brought up as you might have been=
in
the splendid establishment of Don Guzman, and found yourself heir to wealth=
and
pleasure without labor or exertion. Yet I am quite sure in that case that y=
our
value as a human being would have been immeasurably less. I think I have se=
en
in you the elements of passions, which luxury and idleness and the too early
possession of irresponsible power, might have developed with fatal results.=
You
have simply to reflect whether you would rather be an energetic, intelligen=
t,
self-controlled man, capable of guiding the affairs of life and of acquiring
its prizes,--or to be the reverse of all this, with its prizes bought for y=
ou
by the wealth of parents. I hope mature reflection will teach you to regard
with gratitude that disposition of the All-Wise, which cast your lot as it =
has
been cast.
Let me ask one th=
ing
in closing. I have written for you here many things most painful for me to
remember, because I wanted you to love and honor the memory of your mother.=
I
wanted that her memory should have something such a charm for you as it has=
for
me. With me, her image has always stood between me and all other women; but=
I
have never even intimated to a living being that such a passage in my histo=
ry
ever occurred,--no, not even to my sister, who is nearer to me than any oth=
er earthly
creature.
In some respects =
I am
a singular person in my habits, and having once written this, you will pard=
on
me if I observe that it will never be agreeable to me to have the subject n=
amed
between us. Look upon me always as a friend, who would regard nothing as a
hardship by which he might serve the son of one so dear.
I have hesitated
whether I ought to add one circumstance more. I think I will do so, trustin=
g to
your good sense not to give it any undue weight.
I have never ceas=
ed
making inquiries in Cuba, as I found opportunity, in regard to your father's
property, and late investigations have led me to the conclusion that he lef=
t a
considerable sum of money in the hands of a notary, whose address I have, w=
hich,
if your identity could be proved, would come in course of law to you. I have
written an account of all the circumstances which, in my view, identify you=
as
the son of Don Guzman de Cardona, and had them properly attested in legal f=
orm.
This, together wi=
th
your mother's picture and the bracelet, I recommend you to take on your next
voyage, and to see what may result from the attempt. How considerable the s=
um
may be which will result from this, I cannot say, but as Don Guzman's fortu=
ne
was very large, I am in hopes it may prove something worth attention.
At any time you m=
ay
wish to call, I will have all these things ready for you.
I am, with warm regard=
, =
Your
sincere friend, =
THEOPHIL=
US
SEWELL.
When Moses had
finished reading this letter, he laid it down on the pebbles beside him, an=
d,
leaning back against a rock, looked moodily out to sea. The tide had washed
quite up to within a short distance of his feet, completely isolating the
little grotto where he sat from all the surrounding scenery, and before him,
passing and repassing on the blue bright solitude of the sea, were silent
ships, going on their wondrous pathless ways to unknown lands. The letter h=
ad
stirred all within him that was dreamy and poetic: he felt somehow like a l=
eaf
torn from a romance, and blown strangely into the hollow of those rocks.
Something too of ambition and pride stirred within him. He had been born an
heir of wealth and power, little as they had done for the happiness of his =
poor
mother; and when he thought he might have had these two wild horses which h=
ave
run away with so many young men, he felt, as young men all do, an impetuous
desire for their possession, and he thought as so many do, "Give them =
to
me, and I'll risk my character,--I'll risk my happiness."
The letter opened=
a
future before him which was something to speculate upon, even though his re=
ason
told him it was uncertain, and he lay there dreamily piling one air-castle =
on
another,--unsubstantial as the great islands of white cloud that sailed thr=
ough
the sky and dropped their shadows in the blue sea.
It was late in the
afternoon when he bethought him he must return home, and so climbing from r=
ock
to rock he swung himself upward on to the island, and sought the brown cott=
age.
As he passed by the open window he caught a glimpse of Mara sewing. He walk=
ed
softly up to look in without her seeing him. She was sitting with the vario=
us
articles of his wardrobe around her, quietly and deftly mending his linen,
singing soft snatches of an old psalm-tune.
She seemed to have
resumed quite naturally that quiet care of him and his, which she had in all
the earlier years of their life. He noticed again her little hands,--they
seemed a sort of wonder to him. Why had he never seen, when a boy, how pret=
ty
they were? And she had such dainty little ways of taking up and putting down
things as she measured and clipped; it seemed so pleasant to have her handl=
ing
his things; it was as if a good fairy were touching them, whose touch broug=
ht
back peace. But then, he thought, by and by she will do all this for some o=
ne
else. The thought made him angry. He really felt abused in anticipation. Sh=
e was
doing all this for him just in sisterly kindness, and likely as not thinkin=
g of
somebody else whom she loved better all the time. It is astonishing how cool
and dignified this consideration made our hero as he faced up to the window=
. He
was, after all, in hopes she might blush, and look agitated at seeing him
suddenly; but she did not. The foolish boy did not know the quick wits of a
girl, and that all the while that he had supposed himself so sly, and been
holding his breath to observe, Mara had been perfectly cognizant of his
presence, and had been schooling herself to look as unconscious and natural=
as
possible. So she did,--only saying,--
"Oh, Moses, =
is
that you? Where have you been all day?"
"Oh, I went =
over
to see Parson Sewell, and get my pastoral lecture, you know."
"And did you
stay to dinner?"
"No; I came =
home
and went rambling round the rocks, and got into our old cave, and never knew
how the time passed."
"Why, then
you've had no dinner, poor boy," said Mara, rising suddenly. "Com=
e in
quick, you must be fed, or you'll get dangerous and eat somebody."
"No, no, don=
't
get anything," said Moses, "it's almost supper-time, and I'm not
hungry."
And Moses threw
himself into a chair, and began abstractedly snipping a piece of tape with
Mara's very best scissors.
"If you plea=
se,
sir, don't demolish that; I was going to stay one of your collars with
it," said Mara.
"Oh, hang it,
I'm always in mischief among girls' things," said Moses, putting down =
the
scissors and picking up a bit of white wax, which with equal unconsciousnes=
s,
he began kneading in his hands, while he was dreaming over the strange cont=
ents
of the morning's letter.
"I hope Mr.
Sewell didn't say anything to make you look so very gloomy," said Mara=
.
"Mr.
Sewell?" said Moses, starting; "no, he didn't; in fact, I had a p=
leasant
call there; and there was that confounded old sphinx of a Miss Roxy there. =
Why
don't she die? She must be somewhere near a hundred years old by this
time."
"Never thoug=
ht
to ask her why she didn't die," said Mara; "but I presume she has=
the
best of reasons for living."
"Yes, that's
so," said Moses; "every old toadstool, and burdock, and mullein l=
ives
and thrives and lasts; no danger of their dying."
"You seem to=
be
in a charitable frame of mind," said Mara.
"Confound it
all! I hate this world. If I could have my own way now,--if I could have ju=
st
what I wanted, and do just as I please exactly, I might make a pretty good
thing of it."
"And pray wh=
at
would you have?" said Mara.
"Well, in the
first place, riches."
"In the first
place?"
"Yes, in the
first place, I say; for money buys everything else."
"Well, suppo=
sing
so," said Mara, "for argument's sake, what would you buy with
it?"
"Position in
society, respect, consideration,--and I'd have a splendid place, with
everything elegant. I have ideas enough, only give me the means. And then I=
'd
have a wife, of course."
"And how much
would you pay for her?" said Mara, looking quite cool.
"I'd buy her
with all the rest,--a girl that wouldn't look at me as I am,--would take me=
for
all the rest, you know,--that's the way of the world."
"It is, is
it?" said Mara. "I don't understand such matters much."
"Yes; it's t=
he
way with all you girls," said Moses; "it's the way you'll marry w=
hen
you do."
"Don't be so
fierce about it. I haven't done it yet," said Mara; "but now, rea=
lly,
I must go and set the supper-table when I have put these things
away,"--and Mara gathered an armful of things together, and tripped
singing upstairs, and arranged them in the drawer of Moses's room. "Wi=
ll
his wife like to do all these little things for him as I do?" she thou=
ght.
"It's natural I should. I grew up with him, and love him, just as if he
were my own brother,--he is all the brother I ever had. I love him more than
anything else in the world, and this wife he talks about could do no
more."
"She don't c=
are
a pin about me," thought Moses; "it's only a habit she has got, a=
nd
her strict notions of duty, that's all. She is housewifely in her instincts,
and seizes all neglected linen and garments as her lawful prey,--she would =
do
it just the same for her grandfather;" and Moses drummed moodily on the
window-pane.
CHAPTER XXVIII - A COQUET=
TE
The timbers of the ship which was to
carry the fortunes of our hero were laid by the side of Middle Bay, and all
these romantic shores could hardly present a lovelier scene. This beautiful
sheet of water separates Harpswell from a portion of Brunswick. Its shores =
are
rocky and pine-crowned, and display the most picturesque variety of outline.
Eagle Island, Shelter Island, and one or two smaller ones, lie on the glass=
y surface
like soft clouds of green foliage pierced through by the steel-blue tops of
arrowy pine-trees.
There were a good=
ly
number of shareholders in the projected vessel; some among the most substan=
tial
men in the vicinity. Zephaniah Pennel had invested there quite a solid sum,=
as
had also our friend Captain Kittridge. Moses had placed therein the proceed=
s of
his recent voyage, which enabled him to buy a certain number of shares, and=
he
secretly revolved in his mind whether the sum of money left by his father m=
ight
not enable him to buy the whole ship. Then a few prosperous voyages, and his
fortune was made!
He went into the
business of building the new vessel with all the enthusiasm with which he u=
sed,
when a boy, to plan ships and mould anchors. Every day he was off at early =
dawn
in his working-clothes, and labored steadily among the men till evening. No
matter how early he rose, however, he always found that a good fairy had be=
en
before him and prepared his dinner, daintily sometimes adding thereto a
fragrant little bunch of flowers. But when his boat returned home at evenin=
g,
he no longer saw her as in the days of girlhood waiting far out on the fart=
hest
point of rock for his return. Not that she did not watch for it and run out
many times toward sunset; but the moment she had made out that it was surely
he, she would run back into the house, and very likely find an errand in her
own room, where she would be so deeply engaged that it would be necessary f=
or
him to call her down before she could make her appearance. Then she came
smiling, chatty, always gracious, and ready to go or to come as he
requested,--the very cheerfulest of household fairies,--but yet for all that
there was a cobweb invisible barrier around her that for some reason or oth=
er
he could not break over. It vexed and perplexed him, and day after day he d=
etermined
to whistle it down,--ride over it rough-shod,--and be as free as he chose w=
ith
this apparently soft, unresistant, airy being, who seemed so accessible. Why
shouldn't he kiss her when he chose, and sit with his arm around her waist,=
and
draw her familiarly upon his knee,--this little child-woman, who was as a
sister to him? Why, to be sure? Had she ever frowned or scolded as Sally
Kittridge did when he attempted to pass the air-line that divides man from
womanhood? Not at all. She had neither blushed nor laughed, nor ran away. I=
f he
kissed her, she took it with the most matter-of-fact composure; if he passe=
d his
arm around her, she let it remain with unmoved calmness; and so somehow he =
did
these things less and less, and wondered why.
The fact is, our =
hero
had begun an experiment with his little friend that we would never advise a
young man to try on one of these intense, quiet, soft-seeming women, whose
whole life is inward. He had determined to find out whether she loved him b=
efore
he committed himself to her; and the strength of a whole book of martyrs is=
in
women to endure and to bear without flinching before they will surrender the
gate of this citadel of silence. Moreover, our hero had begun his siege wit=
h precisely
the worst weapons.
For on the night =
that
he returned and found Mara conversing with a stranger, the suspicion arose =
in
his mind that somehow Mara might be particularly interested in him, and ins=
tead
of asking her, which anybody might consider the most feasible step in the c=
ase,
he asked Sally Kittridge.
Sally's inborn,
inherent love of teasing was up in a moment. Did she know anything of that =
Mr.
Adams? Of course she did,--a young lawyer of one of the best Boston
families,--a splendid fellow; she wished any such luck might happen to her!=
Was
Mara engaged to him? What would he give to know? Why didn't he ask Mara? Di=
d he
expect her to reveal her friend's secrets? Well, she shouldn't,--report said
Mr. Adams was well-to-do in the world, and had expectations from an uncle,-=
-and
didn't Moses think he was interesting in conversation? Everybody said what a
conquest it was for an Orr's Island girl, etc., etc. And Sally said the rest
with many a malicious toss and wink and sly twinkle of the dimples of her c=
heek,
which might mean more or less, as a young man of imaginative temperament was
disposed to view it. Now this was all done in pure simple love of teasing. =
We
incline to think phrenologists have as yet been very incomplete in their
classification of faculties, or they would have appointed a separate organ =
for
this propensity of human nature. Certain persons, often the most kind-heart=
ed
in the world, and who would not give pain in any serious matter, seem to ha=
ve
an insatiable appetite for those small annoyances we commonly denominate
teasing,--and Sally was one of this number.
She diverted hers=
elf
infinitely in playing upon the excitability of Moses,--in awaking his
curiosity, and baffling it, and tormenting him with a whole phantasmagoria =
of
suggestions and assertions, which played along so near the line of probabil=
ity,
that one could never tell which might be fancy and which might be fact.
Moses therefore
pursued the line of tactics for such cases made and provided, and strove to
awaken jealousy in Mara by paying marked and violent attentions to Sally. He
went there evening after evening, leaving Mara to sit alone at home. He made
secrets with her, and alluded to them before Mara. He proposed calling his =
new
vessel the Sally Kittridge; but whether all these things made Mara jealous =
or
not, he could never determine. Mara had no peculiar gift for acting, except=
in this
one point; but here all the vitality of nature rallied to her support, and
enabled her to preserve an air of the most unperceiving serenity. If she sh=
ed
any tears when she spent a long, lonesome evening, she was quite particular=
to
be looking in a very placid frame when Moses returned, and to give such an
account of the books, or the work, or paintings which had interested her, t=
hat
Moses was sure to be vexed. Never were her inquiries for Sally more
cordial,--never did she seem inspired by a more ardent affection for her.
Whatever may have
been the result of this state of things in regard to Mara, it is certain th=
at
Moses succeeded in convincing the common fame of that district that he and
Sally were destined for each other, and the thing was regularly discussed at
quilting frolics and tea-drinkings around, much to Miss Emily's disgust and
Aunt Roxy's grave satisfaction, who declared that "Mara was altogether=
too
good for Moses Pennel, but Sally Kittridge would make him stand
round,"--by which expression she was understood to intimate that Sally=
had
in her the rudiments of the same kind of domestic discipline which had oper=
ated
so favorably in the case of Captain Kittridge.
These things, of
course, had come to Mara's ears. She had overheard the discussions on Sunday
noons as the people between meetings sat over their doughnuts and cheese, a=
nd
analyzed their neighbors' affairs, and she seemed to smile at them all. Sal=
ly
only laughed, and declared that it was no such thing; that she would no more
marry Moses Pennel, or any other fellow, than she would put her head into t=
he
fire. What did she want of any of them? She knew too much to get married,--=
that
she did. She was going to have her liberty for one while yet to come, etc.,
etc.; but all these assertions were of course supposed to mean nothing but =
the usual
declarations in such cases. Mara among the rest thought it quite likely that
this thing was yet to be.
So she struggled =
and
tried to reason down a pain which constantly ached in her heart when she
thought of this. She ought to have foreseen that it must some time end in t=
his
way. Of course she must have known that Moses would some time choose a wife;
and how fortunate that, instead of a stranger, he had chosen her most intim=
ate
friend. Sally was careless and thoughtless, to be sure, but she had a good
generous heart at the bottom, and she hoped she would love Moses at least as
well as she did, and then she would always live with them, and think of any
little things that Sally might forget.
After all, Sally =
was
so much more capable and efficient a person than herself,--so much more
bustling and energetic, she would make altogether a better housekeeper, and
doubtless a better wife for Moses. But then it was so hard that he did not =
tell
her about it. Was she not his sister?--his confidant for all his
childhood?--and why should he shut up his heart from her now? But then she =
must
guard herself from being jealous,--that would be mean and wicked. So Mara, =
in
her zeal of self-discipline, pushed on matters; invited Sally to tea to meet
Moses; and when she came, left them alone together while she busied herself=
in hospitable
cares. She sent Moses with errands and commissions to Sally, which he was s=
ure
to improve into protracted visits; and in short, no young match-maker ever
showed more good-will to forward the union of two chosen friends than Mara
showed to unite Moses and Sally.
So the flirtation
went on all summer, like a ship under full sail, with prosperous breezes; a=
nd
Mara, in the many hours that her two best friends were together, tried
heroically to persuade herself that she was not unhappy. She said to herself
constantly that she never had loved Moses other than as a brother, and repe=
ated
and dwelt upon the fact to her own mind with a pertinacity which might have=
led
her to suspect the reality of the fact, had she had experience enough to lo=
ok
closer. True, it was rather lonely, she said, but that she was used to,--she
always had been and always should be. Nobody would ever love her in return =
as she
loved; which sentence she did not analyze very closely, or she might have
remembered Mr. Adams and one or two others, who had professed more for her =
than
she had found herself able to return. That general proposition about nobody=
is
commonly found, if sifted to the bottom, to have specific relation to someb=
ody
whose name never appears in the record.
Nobody could have
conjectured from Mara's calm, gentle cheerfulness of demeanor, that any sor=
row
lay at the bottom of her heart; she would not have owned it to herself.
There are griefs
which grow with years, which have no marked beginnings,--no especial dates;
they are not events, but slow perceptions of disappointment, which bear dow=
n on
the heart with a constant and equable pressure like the weight of the
atmosphere, and these things are never named or counted in words among life=
's
sorrows; yet through them, as through an unsuspected inward wound, life,
energy, and vigor slowly bleed away, and the persons, never owning even to =
themselves
the weight of the pressure,--standing, to all appearance, fair and cheerful,
are still undermined with a secret wear of this inner current, and ready to
fall with the first external pressure.
There are persons
often brought into near contact by the relations of life, and bound to each
other by a love so close, that they are perfectly indispensable to each oth=
er,
who yet act upon each other as a file upon a diamond, by a slow and gradual
friction, the pain of which is so equable, so constantly diffused through l=
ife,
as scarcely ever at any time to force itself upon the mind as a reality.
Such had been the
history of the affection of Mara for Moses. It had been a deep, inward,
concentrated passion that had almost absorbed self-consciousness, and made =
her
keenly alive to all the moody, restless, passionate changes of his nature; =
it
had brought with it that craving for sympathy and return which such love ev=
er
will, and yet it was fixed upon a nature so different and so uncomprehending
that the action had for years been one of pain more than pleasure. Even now,
when she had him at home with her and busied herself with constant cares fo=
r him,
there was a sort of disturbing, unquiet element in the history of every day.
The longing for him to come home at night,--the wish that he would stay with
her,--the uncertainty whether he would or would not go and spend the evening
with Sally,--the musing during the day over all that he had done and said t=
he
day before, were a constant interior excitement. For Moses, besides being in
his moods quite variable and changeable, had also a good deal of the dramat=
ic
element in him, and put on sundry appearances in the way of experiment.
He would feign to
have quarreled with Sally, that he might detect whether Mara would betray s=
ome
gladness; but she only evinced concern and a desire to make up the difficul=
ty.
He would discuss her character and her fitness to make a man happy in matri=
mony
in the style that young gentlemen use who think their happiness a point of
great consequence in the creation; and Mara, always cool, and firm, and sen=
sible,
would talk with him in the most maternal style possible, and caution him
against trifling with her affections. Then again he would be lavish in his
praise of Sally's beauty, vivacity, and energy, and Mara would join with the
most apparently unaffected delight. Sometimes he ventured, on the other sid=
e,
to rally her on some future husband, and predict the days when all the
attentions which she was daily bestowing on him would be for another; and h=
ere,
as everywhere else, he found his little Sphinx perfectly inscrutable. Insti=
nct
teaches the grass-bird, who hides her eggs under long meadow grass, to creep
timidly yards from the nest, and then fly up boldly in the wrong place; and=
a
like instinct teaches shy girls all kinds of unconscious stratagems when the
one secret of their life is approached. They may be as truthful in all othe=
r things
as the strictest Puritan, but here they deceive by an infallible necessity.=
And
meanwhile, where was Sally Kittridge in all this matter? Was her heart in t=
he
least touched by the black eyes and long lashes? Who can say? Had she a hea=
rt?
Well, Sally was a good girl. When one got sufficiently far down through the
foam and froth of the surface to find what was in the depths of her nature,
there was abundance there of good womanly feeling, generous and strong, if =
one
could but get at it.
She was the best =
and
brightest of daughters to the old Captain, whose accounts she kept, whose
clothes she mended, whose dinner she often dressed and carried to him, from
loving choice; and Mrs. Kittridge regarded her housewifely accomplishments =
with
pride, though she never spoke to her otherwise than in words of criticism a=
nd rebuke,
as in her view an honest mother should who means to keep a flourishing spri=
g of
a daughter within limits of a proper humility.
But as for any
sentiment or love toward any person of the other sex, Sally, as yet, had it
not. Her numerous admirers were only so many subjects for the exercise of h=
er
dear delight of teasing, and Moses Pennel, the last and most considerable,
differed from the rest only in the fact that he was a match for her in this
redoubtable art and science, and this made the game she was playing with him
altogether more stimulating than that she had carried on with any other of =
her
admirers. For Moses could sulk and storm for effect, and clear off as brigh=
t as
Harpswell Bay after a thunder-storm--for effect also. Moses could play jeal=
ous,
and make believe all those thousand-and-one shadowy nothings that coquettes,
male and female, get up to carry their points with; and so their quarrels a=
nd
their makings-up were as manifold as the sea-breezes that ruffled the ocean
before the Captain's door.
There is but one
danger in play of this kind, and that is, that deep down in the breast of e=
very
slippery, frothy, elfish Undine sleeps the germ of an unawakened soul, which
suddenly, in the course of some such trafficking with the outward shows and
seemings of affection, may wake up and make of the teasing, tricksy elf a s=
ad
and earnest woman--a creature of loves and self-denials and faithfulness un=
to
death--in short, something altogether too good, too sacred to be trifled wi=
th;
and when a man enters the game protected by a previous attachment which abs=
orbs
all his nature, and the woman awakes in all her depth and strength to feel =
the
real meaning of love and life, she finds that she has played with one stron=
ger
than she, at a terrible disadvantage.
Is this mine lying
dark and evil under the saucy little feet of our Sally? Well, we should not=
of
course be surprised some day to find it so.
October is come, and among the black
glooms of the pine forests flare out the scarlet branches of the rock-maple,
and the beech-groves are all arrayed in gold, through which the sunlight
streams in subdued richness. October is come with long, bright, hazy days,
swathing in purple mists the rainbow brightness of the forests, and blending
the otherwise gaudy and flaunting colors into wondrous harmonies of splendo=
r.
And Moses Pennel's ship is all built and ready, waiting only a favorable day
for her launching.
And just at this
moment Moses is sauntering home from Captain Kittridge's in company with Sa=
lly,
for Mara has sent him to bring her to tea with them. Moses is in high spiri=
ts;
everything has succeeded to his wishes; and as the two walk along the high,
bold, rocky shore, his eye glances out to the open ocean, where the sun is
setting, and the fresh wind blowing, and the white sails flying, and already
fancies himself a sea-king, commanding his own place, and going from land to
land.
"There hasn't
been a more beautiful ship built here these twenty years," he says, in
triumph.
"Oho, Mr.
Conceit," said Sally, "that's only because it's yours now--your g=
eese
are all swans. I wish you could have seen the Typhoon, that Ben Drummond sa=
iled
in--a real handsome fellow he was. What a pity there aren't more like
him!"
"I don't ent=
er
on the merits of Ben Drummond's beauty," said Moses; "but I don't
believe the Typhoon was one whit superior to our ship. Besides, Miss Sally,=
I
thought you were going to take it under your especial patronage, and let me
honor it with your name."
"How absurd = you always will be talking about that--why don't you call it after Mara?"<= o:p>
"After
Mara?" said Moses. "I don't want to--it wouldn't be appropriate--=
one
wants a different kind of girl to name a ship after--something bold and bri=
ght
and dashing!"
"Thank you, =
sir,
but I prefer not to have my bold and dashing qualities immortalized in this
way," said Sally; "besides, sir, how do I know that you wouldn't =
run
me on a rock the very first thing? When I give my name to a ship, it must h=
ave
an experienced commander," she added, maliciously, for she knew that M=
oses
was specially vulnerable on this point.
"As you
please," said Moses, with heightened color. "Allow me to remark t=
hat
he who shall ever undertake to command the 'Sally Kittridge' will have need=
of
all his experience--and then, perhaps, not be able to know the ways of the
craft."
"See him
now," said Sally, with a malicious laugh; "we are getting wrathy,=
are
we?"
"Not I,"
said Moses; "it would cost altogether too much exertion to get angry at
every teasing thing you choose to say, Miss Sally. By and by I shall be gon=
e,
and then won't your conscience trouble you?"
"My conscien=
ce
is all easy, so far as you are concerned, sir; your self-esteem is too
deep-rooted to suffer much from my poor little nips--they produce no more
impression than a cat-bird pecking at the cones of that spruce-tree yonder.=
Now
don't you put your hand where your heart is supposed to be--there's nobody =
at
home there, you know. There's Mara coming to meet us;" and Sally bound=
ed
forward to meet Mara with all those demonstrations of extreme delight which
young girls are fond of showering on each other.
"It's such a
beautiful evening," said Mara, "and we are all in such good spiri=
ts
about Moses's ship, and I told him you must come down and hold counsel with=
us
as to what was to be done about the launching; and the name, you know, that=
is
to be decided on--are you going to let it be called after you?"
"Not I, inde=
ed.
I should always be reading in the papers of horrible accidents that had
happened to the 'Sally Kittridge.'"
"Sally has so
set her heart on my being unlucky," said Moses, "that I believe i=
f I
make a prosperous voyage, the disappointment would injure her health."=
"She doesn't
mean what she says," said Mara; "but I think there are some objec=
tions
in a young lady's name being given to a ship."
"Then I supp=
ose,
Mara," said Moses, "that you would not have yours either?"
"I would be =
glad
to accommodate you in anything but that," said Mara, quietly; but she
added, "Why need the ship be named for anybody? A ship is such a
beautiful, graceful thing, it should have a fancy name."
"Well, sugge=
st
one," said Moses.
"Don't you
remember," said Mara, "one Saturday afternoon, when you and Sally=
and
I launched your little ship down in the cove after you had come from your f=
irst
voyage at the Banks?"
"I do,"
said Sally. "We called that the Ariel, Mara, after that old torn play =
you
were so fond of. That's a pretty name for a ship."
"Why not take
that?" said Mara.
"I bow to the
decree," said Moses. "The Ariel it shall be."
"Yes; and you
remember," said Sally, "Mr. Moses here promised at that time that=
he
would build a ship, and take us two round the world with him."
Moses's eyes fell
upon Mara as Sally said these words with a sort of sudden earnestness of ex=
pression
which struck her. He was really feeling very much about something, under all
the bantering disguise of his demeanor, she said to herself. Could it be th=
at
he felt unhappy about his prospects with Sally? That careless liveliness of
hers might wound him perhaps now, when he felt that he was soon to leave he=
r.
Mara was conscious
herself of a deep undercurrent of sadness as the time approached for the sh=
ip
to sail that should carry Moses from her, and she could not but think some =
such
feeling must possess her mind. In vain she looked into Sally's great Spanish
eyes for any signs of a lurking softness or tenderness concealed under her
sparkling vivacity. Sally's eyes were admirable windows of exactly the right
size and color for an earnest, tender spirit to look out of, but just now t=
here
was nobody at the casement but a slippery elf peering out in tricksy defian=
ce.
When the three
arrived at the house, tea was waiting on the table for them. Mara fancied t=
hat
Moses looked sad and preoccupied as they sat down to the tea-table, which M=
rs.
Pennel had set forth festively, with the best china and the finest tableclo=
th
and the choicest sweetmeats. In fact, Moses did feel that sort of tumult and
upheaving of the soul which a young man experiences when the great crisis c=
omes
which is to plunge him into the struggles of manhood. It is a time when he
wants sympathy and is grated upon by uncomprehending merriment, and therefo=
re
his answers to Sally grew brief and even harsh at times, and Mara sometimes=
perceived
him looking at herself with a singular fixedness of expression, though he
withdrew his eyes whenever she turned hers to look on him. Like many another
little woman, she had fixed a theory about her friends, into which she was
steadily interweaving all the facts she saw. Sally must love Moses, because=
she
had known her from childhood as a good and affectionate girl, and it was
impossible that she could have been going on with Moses as she had for the =
last
six months without loving him. She must evidently have seen that he cared f=
or
her; and in how many ways had she shown that she liked his society and him!=
But
then evidently she did not understand him, and Mara felt a little womanly s=
elf-pluming
on the thought that she knew him so much better. She was resolved that she
would talk with Sally about it, and show her that she was disappointing Mos=
es
and hurting his feelings. Yes, she said to herself, Sally has a kind heart,=
and
her coquettish desire to conceal from him the extent of her affection ought=
now
to give way to the outspoken tenderness of real love.
So Mara pressed S=
ally
with the old-times request to stay and sleep with her; for these two, the o=
nly
young girls in so lonely a neighborhood, had no means of excitement or
dissipation beyond this occasional sleeping together--by which is meant, of
course, lying awake all night talking.
When they were al=
one
together in their chamber, Sally let down her long black hair, and stood wi=
th
her back to Mara brushing it. Mara sat looking out of the window, where the
moon was making a wide sheet of silver-sparkling water. Everything was so q=
uiet
that the restless dash of the tide could be plainly heard. Sally was rattli=
ng
away with her usual gayety.
"And so the
launching is to come off next Thursday. What shall you wear?"
"I'm sure I
haven't thought," said Mara.
"Well, I sha=
ll
try and finish my blue merino for the occasion. What fun it will be! I never
was on a ship when it was launched, and I think it will be something perfec=
tly
splendid!"
"But doesn't=
it
sometimes seem sad to think that after all this Moses will leave us to be g=
one
so long?"
"What do I
care?" said Sally, tossing back her long hair as she brushed it, and t=
hen
stopping to examine one of her eyelashes.
"Sally dear,=
you
often speak in that way," said Mara, "but really and seriously, y=
ou
do yourself great injustice. You could not certainly have been going on as =
you
have these six months past with a man you did not care for."
"Well, I do =
care
for him, 'sort o','" said Sally; "but is that any reason I should
break my heart for his going?--that's too much for any man."
"But, Sally,=
you
must know that Moses loves you."
"I'm not so
sure," said Sally, freakishly tossing her head and laughing.
"If he did
not," said Mara, "why has he sought you so much, and taken every
opportunity to be with you? I'm sure I've been left here alone hour after h=
our,
when my only comfort was that it was because my two best friends loved each
other, as I know they must some time love some one better than they do
me."
The most practiced
self-control must fail some time, and Mara's voice faltered on these last
words, and she put her hands over her eyes. Sally turned quickly and looked=
at
her, then giving her hair a sudden fold round her shoulders, and running to=
her
friend, she kneeled down on the floor by her, and put her arms round her wa=
ist,
and looked up into her face with an air of more gravity than she commonly u=
sed.
"Now, Mara, =
what
a wicked, inconsistent fool I have been! Did you feel lonesome?--did you ca=
re?
I ought to have seen that; but I'm selfish, I love admiration, and I love to
have some one to flatter me, and run after me; and so I've been going on an=
d on
in this silly way. But I didn't know you cared--indeed, I didn't--you are s=
uch
a deep little thing. Nobody can ever tell what you feel. I never shall forg=
ive
myself, if you have been lonesome, for you are worth five hundred times as =
much
as I am. You really do love Moses. I don't."
"I do love h=
im
as a dear brother," said Mara.
"Dear
fiddlestick," said Sally. "Love is love; and when a person loves =
all
she can, it isn't much use to talk so. I've been a wicked sinner, that I ha=
ve.
Love? Do you suppose I would bear with Moses Pennel all his ins and outs and
ups and downs, and be always putting him before myself in everything, as you
do? No, I couldn't; I haven't it in me; but you have. He's a sinner, too, a=
nd
deserves to get me for a wife. But, Mara, I have tormented him well--there's
some comfort in that."
"It's no com=
fort
to me," said Mara. "I see his heart is set on you--the happiness =
of
his life depends on you--and that he is pained and hurt when you give him o=
nly
cold, trifling words when he needs real true love. It is a serious thing, d=
ear,
to have a strong man set his whole heart on you. It will do him a great goo=
d or
a great evil, and you ought not to make light of it."
"Oh, pshaw,
Mara, you don't know these fellows; they are only playing games with us. If
they once catch us, they have no mercy; and for one here's a child that isn=
't
going to be caught. I can see plain enough that Moses Pennel has been tryin=
g to
get me in love with him, but he doesn't love me. No, he doesn't," said
Sally, reflectively. "He only wants to make a conquest of me, and I'm =
just
the same. I want to make a conquest of him,--at least I have been wanting
to,--but now I see it's a false, wicked kind of way to do as we've been
doing."
"And is it
really possible, Sally, that you don't love him?" said Mara, her large,
serious eyes looking into Sally's. "What! be with him so much,--seem to
like him so much,--look at him as I have seen you do,--and not love him!&qu=
ot;
"I can't hel=
p my
eyes; they will look so," said Sally, hiding her face in Mara's lap wi=
th a
sort of coquettish consciousness. "I tell you I've been silly and wick=
ed;
but he's just the same exactly."
"And you have
worn his ring all summer?"
"Yes, and he=
has
worn mine; and I have a lock of his hair, and he has a lock of mine; yet I
don't believe he cares for them a bit. Oh, his heart is safe enough. If he =
has
any, it isn't with me: that I know."
"But if you
found it were, Sally? Suppose you found that, after all, you were the one l=
ove
and hope of his life; that all he was doing and thinking was for you; that =
he
was laboring, and toiling, and leaving home, so that he might some day offer
you a heart and home, and be your best friend for life? Perhaps he dares not
tell you how he really does feel."
"It's no such
thing! it's no such thing!" said Sally, lifting up her head, with her =
eyes
full of tears, which she dashed angrily away. "What am I crying for? I
hate him. I'm glad he's going away. Lately it has been such a trouble to me=
to
have things go on so. I'm really getting to dislike him. You are the one he
ought to love. Perhaps all this time you are the one he does love," sa=
id
Sally, with a sudden energy, as if a new thought had dawned in her mind.
"Oh, no; he =
does
not even love me as he once did, when we were children," said Mara.
"He is so shut up in himself, so reserved, I know nothing about what
passes in his heart."
"No more does
anybody," said Sally. "Moses Pennel isn't one that says and does
things straightforward because he feels so; but he says and does them to see
what you will do. That's his way. Nobody knows why he has been going on wit=
h me
as he has. He has had his own reasons, doubtless, as I have had mine."=
"He has admi=
red
you very much, Sally," said Mara, "and praised you to me very war=
mly.
He thinks you are so handsome. I could tell you ever so many things he has =
said
about you. He knows as I do that you are a more enterprising, practical sor=
t of
body than I am, too. Everybody thinks you are engaged. I have heard it spok=
en
of everywhere."
"Everybody is
mistaken, then, as usual," said Sally. "Perhaps Aunt Roxy was in =
the
right of it when she said that Moses would never be in love with anybody but
himself."
"Aunt Roxy h=
as
always been prejudiced and unjust to Moses," said Mara, her cheeks
flushing. "She never liked him from a child, and she never can be made=
to
see anything good in him. I know that he has a deep heart,--a nature that
craves affection and sympathy; and it is only because he is so sensitive th=
at
he is so reserved and conceals his feelings so much. He has a noble, kind
heart, and I believe he truly loves you, Sally; it must be so."
Sally rose from t=
he
floor and went on arranging her hair without speaking. Something seemed to
disturb her mind. She bit her lip, and threw down the brush and comb violen=
tly.
In the clear depths of the little square of looking-glass a face looked into
hers, whose eyes were perturbed as if with the shadows of some coming inward
storm; the black brows were knit, and the lips quivered. She drew a long br=
eath
and burst out into a loud laugh.
"What are you
laughing at now?" said Mara, who stood in her white night-dress by the
window, with her hair falling in golden waves about her face.
"Oh, because
these fellows are so funny," said Sally; "it's such fun to see th=
eir
actions. Come now," she added, turning to Mara, "don't look so gr=
ave
and sanctified. It's better to laugh than cry about things, any time. It's a
great deal better to be made hard-hearted like me, and not care for anybody,
than to be like you, for instance. The idea of any one's being in love is t=
he
drollest thing to me. I haven't the least idea how it feels. I wonder if I =
ever
shall be in love!"
"It will com=
e to
you in its time, Sally."
"Oh, yes,--I
suppose like the chicken-pox or the whooping cough," said Sally; "=
;one
of the things to be gone through with, and rather disagreeable while it
lasts,--so I hope to put it off as long as possible."
"Well,
come," said Mara, "we must not sit up all night."
After the two gir=
ls
were nestled into bed and the light out, instead of the brisk chatter there
fell a great silence between them. The full round moon cast the reflection =
of
the window on the white bed, and the ever restless moan of the sea became m=
ore
audible in the fixed stillness. The two faces, both young and fair, yet so
different in their expression, lay each still on its pillow,--their wide-op=
en
eyes gleaming out in the shadow like mystical gems. Each was breathing soft=
ly,
as if afraid of disturbing the other. At last Sally gave an impatient movem=
ent.
"How lonesome
the sea sounds in the night," she said. "I wish it would ever be
still."
"I like to h=
ear
it," said Mara. "When I was in Boston, for a while I thought I co=
uld
not sleep, I used to miss it so much."
There was another
silence, which lasted so long that each girl thought the other asleep, and
moved softly, but at a restless movement from Sally, Mara spoke again.
"Sally,--you
asleep?"
"No,--I thou=
ght
you were."
"I wanted to=
ask
you," said Mara, "did Moses ever say anything to you about me?--y=
ou
know I told you how much he said about you."
"Yes; he ask=
ed
me once if you were engaged to Mr. Adams."
"And what did
you tell him?" said Mara, with increasing interest.
"Well, I only
plagued him. I sometimes made him think you were, and sometimes that you we=
re
not; and then again, that there was a deep mystery in hand. But I praised a=
nd
glorified Mr. Adams, and told him what a splendid match it would be, and pu=
t on
any little bits of embroidery here and there that I could lay hands on. I u=
sed
to make him sulky and gloomy for a whole evening sometimes. In that way it =
was
one of the best weapons I had."
"Sally, what
does make you love to tease people so?" said Mara.
"Why, you kn=
ow
the hymn says,--
'Let dogs delight to b=
ark
and bite, For G=
od
hath made them so; Let bears and lio=
ns
growl and fight, For '=
tis
their nature too.'
That's all the
account I can give of it."
"But," =
said
Mara, "I never can rest easy a moment when I see I am making a person
uncomfortable."
"Well, I don=
't
tease anybody but the men. I don't tease father or mother or you,--but men =
are
fair game; they are such thumby, blundering creatures, and we can confuse t=
hem
so."
"Take care,
Sally, it's playing with edge tools; you may lose your heart some day in th=
is
kind of game."
"Never you
fear," said Sally; "but aren't you sleepy?--let's go to sleep.&qu=
ot;
Both girls turned
their faces resolutely in opposite directions, and remained for an hour with
their large eyes looking out into the moonlit chamber, like the fixed stars
over Harpswell Bay. At last sleep drew softly down the fringy curtains.
CHAPTER XXX - THE LAUNCH =
OF
THE ARIEL
In the plain, simple regions we are
describing,--where the sea is the great avenue of active life, and the pine
forests are the great source of wealth,--ship-building is an engrossing
interest, and there is no fête that calls forth the community like the
launching of a vessel. And no wonder; for what is there belonging to this
workaday world of ours that has such a never-failing fund of poetry and gra=
ce
as a ship? A ship is a beauty and a mystery wherever we see it: its white w=
ings
touch the regions of the unknown and the imaginative; they seem to us full =
of
the odors of quaint, strange, foreign shores, where life, we fondly dream, =
moves
in brighter currents than the muddy, tranquil tides of every day.
Who that sees one
bound outward, with her white breasts swelling and heaving, as if with a
reaching expectancy, does not feel his own heart swell with a longing impul=
se
to go with her to the far-off shores? Even at dingy, crowded wharves, amid =
the
stir and tumult of great cities, the coming in of a ship is an event that n=
ever
can lose its interest. But on these romantic shores of Maine, where all is =
so
wild and still, and the blue sea lies embraced in the arms of dark, solitary
forests, the sudden incoming of a ship from a distant voyage is a sort of
romance. Who that has stood by the blue waters of Middle Bay, engirdled as =
it
is by soft slopes of green farming land, interchanged here and there with h=
eavy
billows of forest-trees, or rocky, pine-crowned promontories, has not felt =
that
sense of seclusion and solitude which is so delightful? And then what a won=
der!
There comes a ship from China, drifting in like a white cloud,--the gallant
creature! how the waters hiss and foam before her! with what a great free,
generous plash she throws out her anchors, as if she said a cheerful "=
Well
done!" to some glorious work accomplished! The very life and spirit of
strange romantic lands come with her; suggestions of sandal-wood and spice
breathe through the pine-woods; she is an oriental queen, with hands full of
mystical gifts; "all her garments smell of myrrh and cassia, out of the
ivory palaces, whereby they have made her glad." No wonder men have lo=
ved
ships like birds, and that there have been found brave, rough hearts that in
fatal wrecks chose rather to go down with their ocean love than to leave he=
r in
the last throes of her death-agony.
A ship-building, a
ship-sailing community has an unconscious poetry ever underlying its existe=
nce.
Exotic ideas from foreign lands relieve the trite monotony of life; the
ship-owner lives in communion with the whole world, and is less likely to f=
all
into the petty commonplaces that infest the routine of inland life.
Never arose a cle=
arer
or lovelier October morning than that which was to start the Ariel on her
watery pilgrimage. Moses had risen while the stars were yet twinkling over
their own images in Middle Bay, to go down and see that everything was righ=
t;
and in all the houses that we know in the vicinity, everybody woke with the=
one
thought of being ready to go to the launching.
Mrs. Pennel and M= ara were also up by starlight, busy over the provisions for the ample cold collation that was to be spread in a barn adjoining the scene,--the materia= ls for which they were packing into baskets covered with nice clean linen clot= hs, ready for the little sail-boat which lay within a stone's throw of the door= in the brightening dawn, her white sails looking rosy in the advancing light.<= o:p>
It had been agreed
that the Pennels and the Kittridges should cross together in this boat with
their contributions of good cheer.
The Kittridges, t=
oo,
had been astir with the dawn, intent on their quota of the festive
preparations, in which Dame Kittridge's housewifely reputation was
involved,--for it had been a disputed point in the neighborhood whether she=
or
Mrs. Pennel made the best doughnuts; and of course, with this fact before h=
er
mind, her efforts in this line had been all but superhuman.
The Captain skipp=
ed
in and out in high feather,--occasionally pinching Sally's cheek, and askin=
g if
she were going as captain or mate upon the vessel after it was launched, for
which he got in return a fillip of his sleeve or a sly twitch of his
coat-tails, for Sally and her old father were on romping terms with each ot=
her
from early childhood, a thing which drew frequent lectures from the always
exhorting Mrs. Kittridge.
"Such
levity!" she said, as she saw Sally in full chase after his retreating
figure, in order to be revenged for some sly allusions he had whispered in =
her
ear.
"Sally
Kittridge! Sally Kittridge!" she called, "come back this minute. =
What
are you about? I should think your father was old enough to know better.&qu=
ot;
"Lawful sake=
s,
Polly, it kind o' renews one's youth to get a new ship done," said the
Captain, skipping in at another door. "Sort o' puts me in mind o' that=
I went
out cap'en in when I was jist beginning to court you, as somebody else is
courtin' our Sally here."
"Now,
father," said Sally, threateningly, "what did I tell you?"
"It's really
lemancholy," said the Captain, "to think how it does distress gal=
s to
talk to 'em 'bout the fellers, when they ain't thinkin' o' nothin' else all=
the
time. They can't even laugh without sayin' he-he-he!"
"Now, father,
you know I've told you five hundred times that I don't care a cent for Moses
Pennel,--that he's a hateful creature," said Sally, looking very red a=
nd
determined.
"Yes, yes,&q=
uot;
said the Captain, "I take that ar's the reason you've ben a-wearin' the
ring he gin you and them ribbins you've got on your neck this blessed minut=
e,
and why you've giggled off to singin'-school, and Lord knows where with him=
all
summer,--that ar's clear now."
"But,
father," said Sally, getting redder and more earnest, "I don't ca=
re
for him really, and I've told him so. I keep telling him so, and he will run
after me."
"Haw! haw!&q=
uot;
laughed the Captain; "he will, will he? Jist so, Sally; that ar's jist=
the
way your ma there talked to me, and it kind o' 'couraged me along. I knew t=
hat
gals always has to be read back'ard jist like the writin' in the Barbary
States."
"Captain
Kittridge, will you stop such ridiculous talk?" said his helpmeet;
"and jist carry this 'ere basket of cold chicken down to the landin' a=
gin
the Pennels come round in the boat; and you must step spry, for there's two
more baskets a-comin'."
The Captain
shouldered the basket and walked toward the sea with it, and Sally retired =
to
her own little room to hold a farewell consultation with her mirror before =
she
went.
You will perhaps
think from the conversation that you heard the other night, that Sally now =
will
cease all thought of coquettish allurement in her acquaintance with Moses, =
and
cause him to see by an immediate and marked change her entire indifference.
Probably, as she stands thoughtfully before her mirror, she is meditating on
the propriety of laying aside the ribbons he gave her--perhaps she will alt=
er
that arrangement of her hair which is one that he himself particularly dict=
ated
as most becoming to the character of her face. She opens a little drawer, w=
hich
looks like a flower garden, all full of little knots of pink and blue and r=
ed,
and various fancies of the toilet, and looks into it reflectively. She loos=
es
the ribbon from her hair and chooses another,--but Moses gave her that too,=
and
said, she remembers, that when she wore that "he should know she had b=
een
thinking of him." Sally is Sally yet--as full of sly dashes of coquetr=
y as
a tulip is of streaks.
"There's no
reason I should make myself look like a fright because I don't care for
him," she says; "besides, after all that he has said, he ought to=
say
more,--he ought at least to give me a chance to say no,--he shall, too,&quo=
t;
said the gypsy, winking at the bright, elfish face in the glass.
"Sally
Kittridge, Sally Kittridge," called her mother, "how long will you
stay prinkin'?--come down this minute."
"Law now,
mother," said the Captain, "gals must prink afore such times; it'=
s as
natural as for hens to dress their feathers afore a thunder-storm."
Sally at last
appeared, all in a flutter of ribbons and scarfs, whose bright, high colors
assorted well with the ultramarine blue of her dress, and the vivid pomegra=
nate
hue of her cheeks. The boat with its white sails flapping was balancing and
courtesying up and down on the waters, and in the stern sat Mara; her shini=
ng
white straw hat trimmed with blue ribbons set off her golden hair and pink
shell complexion. The dark, even penciling of her eyebrows, and the beauty =
of
the brow above, the brown translucent clearness of her thoughtful eyes, made
her face striking even with its extreme delicacy of tone. She was unusually=
animated
and excited, and her cheeks had a rich bloom of that pure deep rose-color w=
hich
flushes up in fair complexions under excitement, and her eyes had a kind of
intense expression, for which they had always been remarkable. All the deep
secluded yearning of repressed nature was looking out of them, giving that
pathos which every one has felt at times in the silence of eyes.
"Now bless t=
hat
ar gal," said the Captain, when he saw her. "Our Sally here's
handsome, but she's got the real New-Jerusalem look, she has--like them in =
the
Revelations that wears the fine linen, clean and white."
"Bless you,
Captain Kittridge! don't be a-makin' a fool of yourself about no girl at yo=
ur
time o' life," said Mrs. Kittridge, speaking under her breath in a
nipping, energetic tone, for they were coming too near the boat to speak ve=
ry
loud.
"Good mornin=
',
Mis' Pennel; we've got a good day, and a mercy it is so. 'Member when we
launched the North Star, that it rained guns all the mornin', and the water=
got
into the baskets when we was a-fetchin' the things over, and made a sight o'
pester."
"Yes," =
said
Mrs. Pennel, with an air of placid satisfaction, "everything seems to =
be
going right about this vessel."
Mrs. Kittridge and
Sally were soon accommodated with seats, and Zephaniah Pennel and the Capta=
in
began trimming sail. The day was one of those perfect gems of days which ar=
e to
be found only in the jewel-casket of October, a day neither hot nor cold, w=
ith
an air so clear that every distant pine-tree top stood out in vivid
separateness, and every woody point and rocky island seemed cut out in
crystalline clearness against the sky. There was so brisk a breeze that the
boat slanted quite to the water's edge on one side, and Mara leaned over an=
d pensively
drew her little pearly hand through the water, and thought of the days when=
she
and Moses took this sail together--she in her pink sun-bonnet, and he in his
round straw hat, with a tin dinner-pail between them; and now, to-day the s=
hip
of her childish dreams was to be launched. That launching was something she
regarded almost with superstitious awe. The ship, built on one element, but
designed to have its life in another, seemed an image of the soul, framed a=
nd
fashioned with many a weary hammer-stroke in this life, but finding its tru=
e element
only when it sails out into the ocean of eternity. Such was her thought as =
she
looked down the clear, translucent depths; but would it have been of any us=
e to
try to utter it to anybody?--to Sally Kittridge, for example, who sat all i=
n a
cheerful rustle of bright ribbons beside her, and who would have shown her
white teeth all round at such a suggestion, and said, "Now, Mara, who =
but
you would have thought of that?"
But there are sou=
ls
sent into this world who seem to have always mysterious affinities for the
invisible and the unknown--who see the face of everything beautiful through=
a
thin veil of mystery and sadness. The Germans call this yearning of spirit
home-sickness--the dim remembrances of a spirit once affiliated to some hig=
her
sphere, of whose lost brightness all things fair are the vague reminders. As
Mara looked pensively into the water, it seemed to her that every incident =
of
life came up out of its depths to meet her. Her own face reflected in a wav=
ering
image, sometimes shaped itself to her gaze in the likeness of the pale lady=
of
her childhood, who seemed to look up at her from the waters with dark,
mysterious eyes of tender longing. Once or twice this dreamy effect grew so
vivid that she shivered, and drawing herself up from the water, tried to ta=
ke
an interest in a very minute account which Mrs. Kittridge was giving of the=
way
to make corn-fritters which should taste exactly like oysters. The closing
direction about the quantity of mace Mrs. Kittridge felt was too sacred for
common ears, and therefore whispered it into Mrs. Pennel's bonnet with a
knowing nod and a look from her black spectacles which would not have been =
bad
for a priestess of Dodona in giving out an oracle. In this secret direction
about the mace lay the whole mystery of corn-oysters; and who can say what =
consequences
might ensue from casting it in an unguarded manner before the world?
And now the boat
which has rounded Harpswell Point is skimming across to the head of Middle =
Bay,
where the new ship can distinctly be discerned standing upon her ways, while
moving clusters of people were walking up and down her decks or lining the
shore in the vicinity. All sorts of gossiping and neighborly chit-chat is b=
eing
interchanged in the little world assembling there.
"I hain't se=
en
the Pennels nor the Kittridges yet," said Aunt Ruey, whose little
roly-poly figure was made illustrious in her best cinnamon-colored dyed sil=
k.
"There's Moses Pennel a-goin' up that ar ladder. Dear me, what a beaut=
iful
feller he is! it's a pity he ain't a-goin' to marry Mara Lincoln, after
all."
"Ruey, do hu=
sh
up," said Miss Roxy, frowning sternly down from under the shadow of a
preternatural black straw bonnet, trimmed with huge bows of black ribbon, w=
hich
head-piece sat above her curls like a helmet. "Don't be a-gettin'
sentimental, Ruey, whatever else you get--and talkin' like Miss Emily Sewell
about match-makin'; I can't stand it; it rises on my stomach, such talk doe=
s.
As to that ar Moses Pennel, folks ain't so certain as they thinks what he'll
do. Sally Kittridge may think he's a-goin' to have her, because he's been
a-foolin' round with her all summer, and Sally Kittridge may jist find she's
mistaken, that's all."
"Yes," =
said
Miss Ruey, "I 'member when I was a girl my old aunt, Jerushy Hopkins, =
used
to be always a-dwellin' on this Scripture, and I've been havin' it brought =
up
to me this mornin': 'There are three things which are too wonderful for me,
yea, four, which I know not: the way of an eagle in the air, the way of a
serpent upon a rock, the way of a ship in the sea, and the way of a man wit=
h a
maid.' She used to say it as a kind o' caution to me when she used to think
Abram Peters was bein' attentive to me. I've often reflected what a massy it
was that ar never come to nothin', for he's a poor drunken critter now.&quo=
t;
"Well, for my
part," said Miss Roxy, fixing her eyes critically on the boat that was
just at the landing, "I should say the ways of a maid with a man was f=
ull
as particular as any of the rest of 'em. Do look at Sally Kittridge now.
There's Tom Hiers a-helpin' her out of the boat; and did you see the look s=
he
gin Moses Pennel as she went by him? Wal', Moses has got Mara on his arm
anyhow; there's a gal worth six-and-twenty of the other. Do see them ribbins
and scarfs, and the furbelows, and the way that ar Sally Kittridge handles =
her
eyes. She's one that one feller ain't never enough for."
Mara's heart beat
fast when the boat touched the shore, and Moses and one or two other young =
men
came to assist in their landing. Never had he looked more beautiful than at
this moment, when flushed with excitement and satisfaction he stood on the
shore, his straw hat off, and his black curls blowing in the sea-breeze. He
looked at Sally with a look of frank admiration as she stood there dropping=
her
long black lashes over her bright cheeks, and coquettishly looking out from
under them, but she stepped forward with a little energy of movement, and t=
ook
the offered hand of Tom Hiers, who was gazing at her too with undisguised
rapture, and Moses, stepping into the boat, helped Mrs. Pennel on shore, and
then took Mara on his arm, looking her over as he did so with a glance far =
less
assured and direct than he had given to Sally.
"You won't be
afraid to climb the ladders, Mara?" said he.
"Not if you =
help
me," she said.
Sally and Tom Hie=
rs
had already walked on toward the vessel, she ostentatiously chatting and
laughing with him. Moses's brow clouded a little, and Mara noticed it. Moses
thought he did not care for Sally; he knew that the little hand that was now
lying on his arm was the one he wanted, and yet he felt vexed when he saw S=
ally
walk off triumphantly with another. It was the dog-in-the-manger feeling wh=
ich
possesses coquettes of both sexes. Sally, on all former occasions, had show=
n a marked
preference for him, and professed supreme indifference to Tom Hiers.
"It's all we= ll enough," he said to himself, and he helped Mara up the ladders with the greatest deference and tenderness. "This little woman is worth ten such girls as Sally, if one only could get her heart. Here we are on our ship, Mara," he said, as he lifted her over the last barrier and set her dow= n on the deck. "Look over there, do you see Eagle Island? Did you dream whe= n we used to go over there and spend the day that you ever would be on my ship, = as you are to-day? You won't be afraid, will you, when the ship starts?"<= o:p>
"I am too mu=
ch
of a sea-girl to fear on anything that sails in water," said Mara with
enthusiasm. "What a splendid ship! how nicely it all looks!"
"Come, let me
take you over it," said Moses, "and show you my cabin."
Meanwhile the
graceful little vessel was the subject of various comments by the crowd of
spectators below, and the clatter of workmen's hammers busy in some of the =
last
preparations could yet be heard like a shower of hail-stones under her.
"I hope the =
ways
are well greased," said old Captain Eldritch. "'Member how the Jo=
hn
Peters stuck in her ways for want of their being greased?"
"Don't you
remember the Grand Turk, that keeled over five minutes after she was
launched?" said the quavering voice of Miss Ruey; "there was jist
such a company of thoughtless young creatures aboard as there is now."=
"Well, there
wasn't nobody hurt," said Captain Kittridge. "If Mis' Kittridge w=
ould
let me, I'd be glad to go aboard this 'ere, and be launched with 'em."=
"I tell the
Cap'n he's too old to be climbin' round and mixin' with young folks'
frolics," said Mrs. Kittridge.
"I suppose,
Cap'n Pennel, you've seen that the ways is all right," said Captain Br=
oad,
returning to the old subject.
"Oh yes, it's
all done as well as hands can do it," said Zephaniah. "Moses has =
been
here since starlight this morning, and Moses has pretty good faculty about =
such
matters."
"Where's Mr.
Sewell and Miss Emily?" said Miss Ruey. "Oh, there they are over =
on
that pile of rocks; they get a pretty fair view there."
Mr. Sewell and Mi=
ss
Emily were sitting under a cedar-tree, with two or three others, on a
projecting point whence they could have a clear view of the launching. They=
were
so near that they could distinguish clearly the figures on deck, and see Mo=
ses
standing with his hat off, the wind blowing his curls back, talking earnest=
ly
to the golden-haired little woman on his arm.
"It is a lau=
nch
into life for him," said Mr. Sewell, with suppressed feeling.
"Yes, and he=
has
Mara on his arm," said Miss Emily; "that's as it should be. Who is
that that Sally Kittridge is flirting with now? Oh, Tom Hiers. Well! he's g=
ood
enough for her. Why don't she take him?" said Miss Emily, in her zeal
jogging her brother's elbow.
"I'm sure,
Emily, I don't know," said Mr. Sewell dryly; "perhaps he won't be
taken."
"Don't you t=
hink
Moses looks handsome?" said Miss Emily. "I declare there is somet=
hing
quite romantic and Spanish about him; don't you think so, Theophilus?"=
"Yes, I think
so," said her brother, quietly looking, externally, the meekest and mo=
st
matter-of-fact of persons, but deep within him a voice sighed, "Poor
Dolores, be comforted, your boy is beautiful and prosperous!"
"There, ther=
e!"
said Miss Emily, "I believe she is starting."
All eyes of the c=
rowd
were now fixed on the ship; the sound of hammers stopped; the workmen were =
seen
flying in every direction to gain good positions to see her go,--that sight=
so
often seen on those shores, yet to which use cannot dull the most insensibl=
e.
First came a slig=
ht,
almost imperceptible, movement, then a swift exultant rush, a dash into the
hissing water, and the air was rent with hurrahs as the beautiful ship went
floating far out on the blue seas, where her fairer life was henceforth to =
be.
Mara was leaning =
on
Moses's arm at the instant the ship began to move, but in the moment of the
last dizzy rush she felt his arm go tightly round her, holding her so close
that she could hear the beating of his heart.
"Hurrah!&quo=
t;
he said, letting go his hold the moment the ship floated free, and swinging=
his
hat in answer to the hats, scarfs, and handkerchiefs, which fluttered from =
the
crowd on the shore. His eyes sparkled with a proud light as he stretched
himself upward, raising his head and throwing back his shoulders with a
triumphant movement. He looked like a young sea-king just crowned; and the =
fact
is the less wonderful, therefore, that Mara felt her heart throb as she loo=
ked
at him, and that a treacherous throb of the same nature shook the breezy
ribbons fluttering over the careless heart of Sally. A handsome young sea-c=
aptain,
treading the deck of his own vessel, is, in his time and place, a prince.
Moses looked
haughtily across at Sally, and then passed a half-laughing defiant flash of
eyes between them. He looked at Mara, who could certainly not have known wh=
at
was in her eyes at the moment,--an expression that made his heart give a gr=
eat
throb, and wonder if he saw aright: but it was gone a moment after, as all
gathered around in a knot exchanging congratulations on the fortunate way in
which the affair had gone off. Then came the launching in boats to go back =
to
the collation on shore, where were high merry-makings for the space of one =
or
two hours: and thus was fulfilled the first part of Moses Pennel's Saturday=
afternoon
prediction.
CHAPTER XXXI - GREEK MEETS
GREEK
Moses was now within a day or two o=
f the
time of his sailing, and yet the distance between him and Mara seemed great=
er
than ever. It is astonishing, when two people are once started on a wrong
understanding with each other, how near they may live, how intimate they may
be, how many things they may have in common, how many words they may speak,=
how
closely they may seem to simulate intimacy, confidence, friendship, while y=
et
there lies a gulf between them that neither crosses,--a reserve that neither
explores.
Like most shy gir=
ls,
Mara became more shy the more really she understood the nature of her own
feelings. The conversation with Sally had opened her eyes to the secret of =
her
own heart, and she had a guilty feeling as if what she had discovered must =
be
discovered by every one else. Yes, it was clear she loved Moses in a way th=
at
made him, she thought, more necessary to her happiness than she could ever =
be
to his,--in a way that made it impossible to think of him as wholly and for
life devoted to another, without a constant inner conflict. In vain had been
all her little stratagems practiced upon herself the whole summer long, to
prove to herself that she was glad that the choice had fallen upon Sally. S=
he saw
clearly enough now that she was not glad,--that there was no woman or girl
living, however dear, who could come for life between him and her, without
casting on her heart the shuddering sorrow of a dim eclipse.
But now the truth=
was
plain to herself, her whole force was directed toward the keeping of her
secret. "I may suffer," she thought, "but I will have streng=
th
not to be silly and weak. Nobody shall know,--nobody shall dream it,--and in
the long, long time that he is away, I shall have strength given me to
overcome."
So Mara put on her
most cheerful and matter-of-fact kind of face, and plunged into the making =
of
shirts and knitting of stockings, and talked of the coming voyage with such=
a
total absence of any concern, that Moses began to think, after all, there c=
ould
be no depth to her feelings, or that the deeper ones were all absorbed by s=
ome
one else.
"You really =
seem
to enjoy the prospect of my going away," said he to her, one morning, =
as
she was energetically busying herself with her preparations.
"Well, of
course; you know your career must begin. You must make your fortune; and it=
is
pleasant to think how favorably everything is shaping for you."
"One likes, =
however,
to be a little regretted," said Moses, in a tone of pique.
"A little
regretted!" Mara's heart beat at these words, but her hypocrisy was we=
ll
practiced. She put down the rebellious throb, and assuming a look of open,
sisterly friendliness, said, quite naturally, "Why, we shall all miss =
you,
of course."
"Of
course," said Moses,--"one would be glad to be missed some other =
way than
of course."
"Oh, as to t=
hat,
make yourself easy," said Mara. "We shall all be dull enough when=
you
are gone to content the most exacting." Still she spoke, not stopping =
her
stitching, and raising her soft brown eyes with a frank, open look into
Moses's--no tremor, not even of an eyelid.
"You men must
have everything," she continued, gayly, "the enterprise, the
adventure, the novelty, the pleasure of feeling that you are something, and=
can
do something in the world; and besides all this, you want the satisfaction =
of
knowing that we women are following in chains behind your triumphal car!&qu=
ot;
There was a dash =
of
bitterness in this, which was a rare ingredient in Mara's conversation.
Moses took the wo=
rd.
"And you women sit easy at home, sewing and singing, and forming roman=
tic
pictures of our life as like its homely reality as romances generally are to
reality; and while we are off in the hard struggle for position and the mea=
ns
of life, you hold your hearts ready for the first rich man that offers a
fortune ready made."
"The
first!" said Mara. "Oh, you naughty! sometimes we try two or thre=
e."
"Well, then,=
I
suppose this is from one of them," said Moses, flapping down a letter =
from
Boston, directed in a masculine hand, which he had got at the post-office t=
hat
morning.
Now Mara knew that
this letter was nothing in particular, but she was taken by surprise, and h=
er
skin was delicate as peach-blossom, and so she could not help a sudden blus=
h,
which rose even to her golden hair, vexed as she was to feel it coming. She=
put
the letter quietly in her pocket, and for a moment seemed too discomposed to
answer.
"You do well=
to
keep your own counsel," said Moses. "No friend so near as one's s=
elf,
is a good maxim. One does not expect young girls to learn it so early, but =
it
seems they do."
"And why
shouldn't they as well as young men?" said Mara. "Confidence bege=
ts
confidence, they say."
"I have no
ambition to play confidant," said Moses; "although as one who sta=
nds
to you in the relation of older brother and guardian, and just on the verge=
of
a long voyage, I might be supposed anxious to know."
"And I have =
no
ambition to be confidant," said Mara, all her spirit sparkling in her
eyes; "although when one stands to you in the relation of an only sist=
er,
I might be supposed perhaps to feel some interest to be in your
confidence."
The words "o=
lder
brother" and "only sister" grated on the ears of both the
combatants as a decisive sentence. Mara never looked so pretty in her life,=
for
the whole force of her being was awake, glowing and watchful, to guard pass=
age,
door, and window of her soul, that no treacherous hint might escape. Had he=
not
just reminded her that he was only an older brother? and what would he thin=
k if
he knew the truth?--and Moses thought the words only sister unequivocal dec=
laration
of how the matter stood in her view, and so he rose, and saying, "I wo=
n't
detain you longer from your letter," took his hat and went out.
"Are you goi=
ng
down to Sally's?" said Mara, coming to the door and looking out after =
him.
"Yes."<= o:p>
"Well, ask h=
er
to come home with you and spend the evening. I have ever so many things to =
tell
her."
"I will,&quo=
t;
said Moses, as he lounged away.
"The thing is
clear enough," said Moses to himself. "Why should I make a fool of
myself any further? What possesses us men always to set our hearts precisel=
y on
what isn't to be had? There's Sally Kittridge likes me; I can see that plai=
nly
enough, for all her mincing; and why couldn't I have had the sense to fall =
in
love with her? She will make a splendid, showy woman. She has talent and ta=
ct
enough to rise to any position I may rise to, let me rise as high as I will.
She will always have skill and energy in the conduct of life; and when all =
the
froth and foam of youth has subsided, she will make a noble woman. Why, the=
n,
do I cling to this fancy? I feel that this little flossy cloud, this delica=
te, quiet
little puff of thistledown, on which I have set my heart, is the only thing=
for
me, and that without her my life will always be incomplete. I remember all =
our
early life. It was she who sought me, and ran after me, and where has all t=
hat
love gone to? Gone to this fellow; that's plain enough. When a girl like he=
r is
so comfortably cool and easy, it's because her heart is off somewhere
else."
This conversation
took place about four o'clock in as fine an October afternoon as you could =
wish
to see. The sun, sloping westward, turned to gold the thousand blue scales =
of
the ever-heaving sea, and soft, pine-scented winds were breathing everywhere
through the forests, waving the long, swaying films of heavy moss, and
twinkling the leaves of the silver birches that fluttered through the leafy
gloom. The moon, already in the sky, gave promise of a fine moonlight night;
and the wild and lonely stillness of the island, and the thoughts of leavin=
g in
a few days, all conspired to foster the restless excitement in our hero's m=
ind into
a kind of romantic unrest.
Now, in some such
states, a man disappointed in one woman will turn to another, because, in a
certain way and measure, her presence stills the craving and fills the void=
. It
is a sort of supposititious courtship,--a saying to one woman, who is
sympathetic and receptive, the words of longing and love that another will =
not
receive. To be sure it is a game unworthy of any true man,--a piece of shee=
r,
reckless, inconsiderate selfishness. But men do it, as they do many other
unworthy things, from the mere promptings of present impulse, and let
consequences take care of themselves. Moses met Sally that afternoon in just
the frame to play the lover in this hypothetical, supposititious way, with
words and looks and tones that came from feelings given to another. And as =
to
Sally? Well, for once, Greek met Greek; for although Sally, as we showed he=
r, was
a girl of generous impulses, she was yet in no danger of immediate translat=
ion
on account of superhuman goodness. In short, Sally had made up her mind that
Moses should give her a chance to say that precious and golden No, which sh=
ould
enable her to count him as one of her captives,--and then he might go where=
he
liked for all her.
So said the wicked
elf, as she looked into her own great eyes in the little square of mirror
shaded by a misty asparagus bush; and to this end there were various braidi=
ngs
and adornings of the lustrous black hair, and coquettish earrings were moun=
ted
that hung glancing and twinkling just by the smooth outline of her glowing
cheek,--and then Sally looked at herself in a friendly way of approbation, =
and
nodded at the bright dimpled shadow with a look of secret understanding. The
real Sally and the Sally of the looking-glass were on admirable terms with =
each
other, and both of one mind about the plan of campaign against the common
enemy. Sally thought of him as he stood kingly and triumphant on the deck of
his vessel, his great black eyes flashing confident glances into hers, and =
she
felt a rebellious rustle of all her plumage. "No, sir," she said =
to
herself, "you don't do it. You shall never find me among your
slaves,"--"that you know of," added a doubtful voice within =
her.
"Never to your knowledge," she said, as she turned away. "I
wonder if he will come here this evening," she said, as she began to w=
ork
upon a pillow-case,--one of a set which Mrs. Kittridge had confided to her =
nimble
fingers. The seam was long, straight, and monotonous, and Sally was restless
and fidgety; her thread would catch in knots, and when she tried to loosen =
it,
would break, and the needle had to be threaded over. Somehow the work was
terribly irksome to her, and the house looked so still and dim and lonesome,
and the tick-tock of the kitchen-clock was insufferable, and Sally let her =
work
fall in her lap and looked out of the open window, far to the open ocean, w=
here
a fresh breeze was blowing toward her, and her eyes grew deep and dreamy
following the gliding ship sails. Sally was getting romantic. Had she been
reading novels? Novels! What can a pretty woman find in a novel equal to th=
e romance
that is all the while weaving and unweaving about her, and of which no human
foresight can tell her the catastrophe? It is novels that give false views =
of
life. Is there not an eternal novel, with all these false, cheating views,
written in the breast of every beautiful and attractive girl whose witcheri=
es
make every man that comes near her talk like a fool? Like a sovereign princ=
ess,
she never hears the truth, unless it be from the one manly man in a thousan=
d,
who understands both himself and her. From all the rest she hears only
flatteries more or less ingenious, according to the ability of the framer.
Compare, for instance, what Tom Brown says to little Seraphina at the party
to-night, with what Tom Brown sober says to sober sister Maria about her to=
-morrow.
Tom remembers that he was a fool last night, and knows what he thinks and
always has thought to-day; but pretty Seraphina thinks he adores her, so th=
at
no matter what she does he will never see a flaw, she is sure of that,--poor
little puss! She does not know that philosophic Tom looks at her as he does=
at
a glass of champagne, or a dose of exhilarating gas, and calculates how muc=
h it
will do for him to take of the stimulus without interfering with his seriou=
s and
settled plans of life, which, of course, he doesn't mean to give up for her.
The one-thousand-and-first man in creation is he that can feel the fascinat=
ion
but will not flatter, and that tries to tell to the little tyrant the rare =
word
of truth that may save her; he is, as we say, the one-thousand-and-first. W=
ell,
as Sally sat with her great dark eyes dreamily following the ship, she ment=
ally
thought over all the compliments Moses had paid her, expressed or understoo=
d,
and those of all her other admirers, who had built up a sort of cloud-world
around her, so that her little feet never rested on the soil of reality. Sa=
lly was
shrewd and keen, and had a native mother-wit in the discernment of spirits,
that made her feel that somehow this was all false coin; but still she coun=
ted
it over, and it looked so pretty and bright that she sighed to think it was=
not
real.
"If it only =
had
been," she thought; "if there were only any truth to the creature=
; he
is so handsome,--it's a pity. But I do believe in his secret heart he is in
love with Mara; he is in love with some one, I know. I have seen looks that
must come from something real; but they were not for me. I have a kind of p=
ower
over him, though," she said, resuming her old wicked look, "and I=
'll
puzzle him a little, and torment him. He shall find his match in me," =
and
Sally nodded to a cat-bird that sat perched on a pine-tree, as if she had a
secret understanding with him, and the cat-bird went off into a perfect rou=
lade
of imitations of all that was going on in the late bird-operas of the seaso=
n.
Sally was roused =
from
her revery by a spray of goldenrod that was thrown into her lap by an invis=
ible
hand, and Moses soon appeared at the window.
"There's a p=
lume
that would be becoming to your hair," he said; "stay, let me arra=
nge
it."
"No, no; you=
'll
tumble my hair,--what can you know of such things?"
Moses held the sp=
ray
aloft, and leaned toward her with a sort of quiet, determined insistence.
"By your lea=
ve,
fair lady," he said, wreathing it in her hair, and then drawing back a
little, he looked at her with so much admiration that Sally felt herself bl=
ush.
"Come, now, I
dare say you've made a fright of me," she said, rising and instinctive=
ly
turning to the looking-glass; but she had too much coquetry not to see how
admirably the golden plume suited her black hair, and the brilliant eyes and
cheeks; she turned to Moses again, and courtesied, saying "Thank you,
sir," dropping her eyelashes with a mock humility.
"Come,
now," said Moses; "I am sent after you to come and spend the even=
ing;
let's walk along the seashore, and get there by degrees."
And so they set o=
ut;
but the path was circuitous, for Moses was always stopping, now at this poi=
nt
and now at that, and enacting some of those thousand little by-plays which a
man can get up with a pretty woman. They searched for smooth pebbles where =
the
waves had left them,--many-colored, pink and crimson and yellow and brown, =
all
smooth and rounded by the eternal tossings of the old sea that had made pla=
ythings
of them for centuries, and with every pebble given and taken were things sa=
id
which should have meant more and more, had the play been earnest. Had Moses=
any
idea of offering himself to Sally? No; but he was in one of those fluctuati=
ng,
unresisting moods of mind in which he was willing to lie like a chip on the
tide of present emotion, and let it rise and fall and dash him when it like=
d;
and Sally never had seemed more beautiful and attractive to him than that
afternoon, because there was a shade of reality and depth about her that he=
had
never seen before.
"Come on, and
let me show you my hermitage," said Moses, guiding her along the slipp=
ery
projecting rocks, all covered with yellow tresses of seaweed. Sally often
slipped on this treacherous footing, and Moses was obliged to hold her up, =
and
instinctively he threw a meaning into his manner so much more than ever he =
had
before, that by the time they had gained the little cove both were really
agitated and excited. He felt that temporary delirium which is often the me=
smeric
effect of a strong womanly presence, and she felt that agitation which every
woman must when a determined hand is striking on the great vital chord of h=
er being.
When they had stepped round the last point of rock they found themselves dr=
iven
by the advancing tide up into the little lonely grotto,--and there they were
with no lookout but the wide blue sea, all spread out in rose and gold under
the twilight skies, with a silver moon looking down upon them.
"Sally,"
said Moses, in a low, earnest whisper, "you love me,--do you not?"
and he tried to pass his arm around her.
She turned and
flashed at him a look of mingled terror and defiance, and struck out her ha=
nds
at him; then impetuously turning away and retreating to the other end of the
grotto, she sat down on a rock and began to cry.
Moses came toward
her, and kneeling, tried to take her hand. She raised her head angrily, and
again repulsed him.
"Go!" s=
he
said. "What right had you to say that? What right had you even to think
it?"
"Sally, you =
do love
me. It cannot but be. You are a woman; you could not have been with me as we
have and not feel more than friendship."
"Oh, you
men!--your conceit passes understanding," said Sally. "You think =
we
are born to be your bond slaves,--but for once you are mistaken, sir. I don=
't
love you; and what's more, you don't love me,--you know you don't; you know
that you love somebody else. You love Mara,--you know you do; there's no tr=
uth
in you," she said, rising indignantly.
Moses felt himself
color. There was an embarrassed pause, and then he answered,--
"Sally, why
should I love Mara? Her heart is all given to another,--you yourself know
it."
"I don't kno=
w it
either," said Sally; "I know it isn't so."
"But you gav=
e me
to understand so."
"Well, sir, =
you
put prying questions about what you ought to have asked her, and so what wa=
s I
to do? Besides, I did want to show you how much better Mara could do than to
take you; besides, I didn't know till lately. I never thought she could care
much for any man more than I could."
"And you thi=
nk
she loves me?" said Moses, eagerly, a flash of joy illuminating his fa=
ce;
"do you, really?"
"There you
are," said Sally; "it's a shame I have let you know! Yes, Moses
Pennel, she loves you like an angel, as none of you men deserve to be
loved,--as you in particular don't."
Moses sat down on=
a
point of rock, and looked on the ground discountenanced. Sally stood up glo=
wing
and triumphant, as if she had her foot on the neck of her oppressor and mea=
nt
to make the most of it.
"Now what do=
you
think of yourself for all this summer's work?--for what you have just said,
asking me if I didn't love you? Supposing, now, I had done as other girls
would, played the fool and blushed, and said yes? Why, to-morrow you would =
have
been thinking how to be rid of me! I shall save you all that trouble,
sir."
"Sally, I ow=
n I
have been acting like a fool," said Moses, humbly.
"You have do=
ne
more than that,--you have acted wickedly," said Sally.
"And am I the
only one to blame?" said Moses, lifting his head with a show of
resistance.
"Listen,
sir!" said Sally, energetically; "I have played the fool and acted
wrong too, but there is just this difference between you and me: you had
nothing to lose, and I a great deal; your heart, such as it was, was safely
disposed of. But supposing you had won mine, what would you have done with =
it?
That was the last thing you considered."
"Go on, Sall=
y,
don't spare; I'm a vile dog, unworthy of either of you," said Moses.
Sally looked down=
on
her handsome penitent with some relenting, as he sat quite dejected, his st=
rong
arms drooping, and his long eyelashes cast down.
"I'll be fri=
ends
with you," she said, "because, after all, I'm not so very much be=
tter
than you. We have both done wrong, and made dear Mara very unhappy. But aft=
er
all, I was not so much to blame as you; because, if there had been any real=
ity
in your love, I could have paid it honestly. I had a heart to give,--I have=
it
now, and hope long to keep it," said Sally.
"Sally, you =
are
a right noble girl. I never knew what you were till now," said Moses,
looking at her with admiration.
"It's the fi=
rst
time for all these six months that we have either of us spoken a word of tr=
uth
or sense to each other. I never did anything but trifle with you, and you t=
he
same. Now we've come to some plain dry land, we may walk on and be friends.=
So
now help me up these rocks, and I will go home."
"And you'll =
not
come home with me?"
"Of course n=
ot.
I think you may now go home and have one talk with Mara without
witnesses."
CHAPTER XXXII - THE BETRO=
THAL
Moses walked slowly home from his
interview with Sally, in a sort of maze of confused thought. In general, men
understand women only from the outside, and judge them with about as much r=
eal
comprehension as an eagle might judge a canary-bird. The difficulty of real
understanding intensifies in proportion as the man is distinctively manly, =
and
the woman womanly. There are men with a large infusion of the feminine elem=
ent
in their composition who read the female nature with more understanding than
commonly falls to the lot of men; but in general, when a man passes beyond =
the
mere outside artifices and unrealities which lie between the two sexes, and
really touches his finger to any vital chord in the heart of a fair neighbo=
r,
he is astonished at the quality of the vibration.
"I could not
have dreamed there was so much in her," thought Moses, as he turned aw=
ay
from Sally Kittridge. He felt humbled as well as astonished by the moral
lecture which this frisky elf with whom he had all summer been amusing hims=
elf,
preached to him from the depths of a real woman's heart. What she said of
Mara's loving him filled his eyes with remorseful tears,--and for the momen=
t he
asked himself whether this restless, jealous, exacting desire which he felt=
to
appropriate her whole life and heart to himself were as really worthy of the
name of love as the generous self-devotion with which she had, all her life=
, made
all his interests her own.
Was he to go to h=
er
now and tell her that he loved her, and therefore he had teased and vexed
her,--therefore he had seemed to prefer another before her,--therefore he h=
ad
practiced and experimented upon her nature? A suspicion rather stole upon h=
im
that love which expresses itself principally in making exactions and giving
pain is not exactly worthy of the name. And yet he had been secretly angry =
with
her all summer for being the very reverse of this; for her apparent cheerfu=
l willingness
to see him happy with another; for the absence of all signs of jealousy,--a=
ll desire
of exclusive appropriation. It showed, he said to himself, that there was no
love; and now when it dawned on him that this might be the very heroism of
self-devotion, he asked himself which was best worthy to be called love.
"She did love
him, then!" The thought blazed up through the smouldering embers of
thought in his heart like a tongue of flame. She loved him! He felt a sort =
of
triumph in it, for he was sure Sally must know, they were so intimate. Well=
, he
would go to her, and tell her all, confess all his sins, and be forgiven.
When he came back=
to
the house, all was still evening. The moon, which was playing brightly on t=
he
distant sea, left one side of the brown house in shadow. Moses saw a light
gleaming behind the curtain in the little room on the lower floor, which had
been his peculiar sanctum during the summer past. He had made a sort of lib=
rary
of it, keeping there his books and papers. Upon the white curtain flitted, =
from
time to time, a delicate, busy shadow; now it rose and now it stooped, and =
then
it rose again--grew dim and vanished, and then came out again. His heart be=
at
quick.
Mara was in his r=
oom,
busy, as she always had been before his departures, in cares for him. How m=
any
things had she made for him, and done and arranged for him, all his life lo=
ng!
things which he had taken as much as a matter of course as the shining of t=
hat
moon. His thought went back to the times of his first going to sea,--he a
rough, chaotic boy, sensitive and surly, and she the ever thoughtful good a=
ngel
of a little girl, whose loving-kindness he had felt free to use and to abus=
e. He
remembered that he made her cry there when he should have spoken lovingly a=
nd
gratefully to her, and that the words of acknowledgment that ought to have =
been
spoken, never had been said,--remained unsaid to that hour. He stooped low,=
and
came quite close to the muslin curtain. All was bright in the room, and sha=
dowy
without; he could see her movements as through a thin white haze. She was
packing his sea-chest; his things were lying about her, folded or rolled
nicely. Now he saw her on her knees writing something with a pencil in a bo=
ok,
and then she enveloped it very carefully in silk paper, and tied it trimly,=
and
hid it away at the bottom of the chest. Then she remained a moment kneeling=
at
the chest, her head resting in her hands. A sort of strange, sacred feeling
came over him as he heard a low murmur, and knew that she felt a Presence t=
hat
he never felt or acknowledged. He felt somehow that he was doing her a wrong
thus to be prying upon moments when she thought herself alone with God; a s=
ort
of vague remorse filled him; he felt as if she were too good for him. He tu=
rned
away, and entering the front door of the house, stepped noiselessly along a=
nd
lifted the latch of the door. He heard a rustle as of one rising hastily as=
he
opened it and stood before Mara. He had made up his mind what to say; but w=
hen
she stood there before him, with her surprised, inquiring eyes, he felt con=
fused.
"What, home =
so
soon?" she said.
"You did not
expect me, then?"
"Of course
not,--not for these two hours; so," she said, looking about, "I f=
ound
some mischief to do among your things. If you had waited as long as I expec=
ted,
they would all have been quite right again, and you would never have known.=
"
Moses sat down and
drew her toward him, as if he were going to say something, and then stopped=
and
began confusedly playing with her work-box.
"Now, please
don't," said she, archly. "You know what a little old maid I am a=
bout
my things!"
"Mara,"=
said
Moses, "people have asked you to marry them, have they not?"
"People aske=
d me
to marry them!" said Mara. "I hope not. What an odd question!&quo=
t;
"You know wh=
at I
mean," said Moses; "you have had offers of marriage--from Mr. Ada=
ms,
for example."
"And what if=
I
have?"
"You did not
accept him, Mara?" said Moses.
"No, I did
not."
"And yet he =
was
a fine man, I am told, and well fitted to make you happy."
"I believe he
was," said Mara, quietly.
"And why were
you so foolish?"
Mara was fretted =
at
this question. She supposed Moses had come to tell her of his engagement to
Sally, and that this was a kind of preface, and she answered,--
"I don't know
why you call it foolish. I was a true friend to Mr. Adams. I saw intellectu=
ally
that he might have the power of making any reasonable woman happy. I think =
now
that the woman will be fortunate who becomes his wife; but I did not wish to
marry him."
"Is there
anybody you prefer to him, Mara?" said Moses.
She started up wi=
th
glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.
"You have no
right to ask me that, though you are my brother."
"I am not yo=
ur
brother, Mara," said Moses, rising and going toward her, "and tha=
t is
why I ask you. I feel I have a right to ask you."
"I do not
understand you," she said, faintly.
"I can speak
plainer, then. I wish to put in my poor venture. I love you, Mara--not as a
brother. I wish you to be my wife, if you will."
While Moses was
saying these words, Mara felt a sort of whirling in her head, and it grew d=
ark
before her eyes; but she had a strong, firm will, and she mastered herself =
and
answered, after a moment, in a quiet, sorrowful tone, "How can I belie=
ve
this, Moses? If it is true, why have you done as you have this summer?"=
;
"Because I w=
as a
fool, Mara,--because I was jealous of Mr. Adams,--because I somehow hoped,
after all, that you either loved me or that I might make you think more of =
me
through jealousy of another. They say that love always is shown by
jealousy."
"Not true lo=
ve,
I should think," said Mara. "How could you do so?--it was cruel to
her,--cruel to me."
"I admit
it,--anything, everything you can say. I have acted like a fool and a knave=
, if
you will; but after all, Mara, I do love you. I know I am not worthy of
you--never was--never can be; you are in all things a true, noble woman, an=
d I
have been unmanly."
It is not to be
supposed that all this was spoken without accompaniments of looks, movement=
s,
and expressions of face such as we cannot give, but such as doubled their p=
ower
to the parties concerned; and the "I love you" had its usual
conclusive force as argument, apology, promise,--covering, like charity, a
multitude of sins.
Half an hour afte=
r,
you might have seen a youth and a maiden coming together out of the door of=
the
brown house, and walking arm in arm toward the sea-beach.
It was one of tho=
se
wonderfully clear moonlight evenings, when the ocean, like a great reflecti=
ng
mirror, seems to double the brightness of the sky,--and its vast expanse lay
all around them in its stillness, like an eternity of waveless peace. Mara
remembered that time in her girlhood when she had followed Moses into the w=
oods
on just such a night,--how she had sat there under the shadows of the trees,
and looked over to Harpswell and noticed the white houses and the
meeting-house, all so bright and clear in the moonlight, and then off again=
on
the other side of the island where silent ships were coming and going in th=
e mysterious
stillness. They were talking together now with that outflowing fullness whi=
ch
comes when the seal of some great reserve has just been broken,--going back
over their lives from day to day, bringing up incidents of childhood, and
turning them gleefully like two children.
And then Moses had
all the story of his life to relate, and to tell Mara all he had learned of=
his
mother,--going over with all the narrative contained in Mr. Sewell's letter=
.
"You see, Ma=
ra,
that it was intended that you should be my fate," he ended; "so t=
he
winds and waves took me up and carried me to the lonely island where the ma=
gic
princess dwelt."
"You are Pri=
nce
Ferdinand," said Mara.
"And you are
Miranda," said he.
"Ah!" s=
he
said with fervor, "how plainly we can see that our heavenly Father has
been guiding our way! How good He is,--and how we must try to live for
Him,--both of us."
A sort of cloud
passed over Moses's brow. He looked embarrassed, and there was a pause betw=
een
them, and then he turned the conversation.
Mara felt pained;=
it
was like a sudden discord; such thoughts and feelings were the very breath =
of
her life; she could not speak in perfect confidence and unreserve, as she t=
hen
spoke, without uttering them; and her finely organized nature felt a sort of
electric consciousness of repulsion and dissent. She grew abstracted, and t=
hey walked
on in silence.
"I see now,
Mara, I have pained you," said Moses, "but there are a class of
feelings that you have that I have not and cannot have. No, I cannot feign
anything. I can understand what religion is in you, I can admire its result=
s. I
can be happy, if it gives you any comfort; but people are differently
constituted. I never can feel as you do."
"Oh, don't s=
ay
never," said Mara, with an intensity that nearly startled him; "it
has been the one prayer, the one hope, of my life, that you might have these
comforts,--this peace."
"I need no
comfort or peace except what I shall find in you," said Moses, drawing=
her
to himself, and looking admiringly at her; "but pray for me still. I
always thought that my wife must be one of the sort of women who pray."=
;
"And why?&qu=
ot;
said Mara, in surprise.
"Because I n=
eed
to be loved a great deal, and it is only that kind who pray who know how to
love really. If you had not prayed for me all this time, you never would ha=
ve
loved me in spite of all my faults, as you did, and do, and will, as I know=
you
will," he said, folding her in his arms, and in his secret heart he sa=
id,
"Some of this intensity, this devotion, which went upward to heaven, w=
ill
be mine one day. She will worship me."
"The fact is,
Mara," he said, "I am a child of this world. I have no sympathy w=
ith
things not seen. You are a half-spiritual creature,--a child of air; and but
for the great woman's heart in you, I should feel that you were something
uncanny and unnatural. I am selfish, I know; I frankly admit, I never disgu=
ised
it; but I love your religion because it makes you love me. It is an inciden=
t to
that loving, trusting nature which makes you all and wholly mine, as I want=
you
to be. I want you all and wholly; every thought, every feeling,--the whole
strength of your being. I don't care if I say it: I would not wish to be se=
cond
in your heart even to God himself!"
"Oh,
Moses!" said Mara, almost starting away from him, "such words are=
dreadful;
they will surely bring evil upon us."
"I only brea=
thed
out my nature, as you did yours. Why should you love an unseen and distant
Being more than you do one whom you can feel and see, who holds you in his
arms, whose heart beats like your own?"
"Moses,"
said Mara, stopping and looking at him in the clear moonlight, "God has
always been to me not so much like a father as like a dear and tender mothe=
r.
Perhaps it was because I was a poor orphan, and my father and mother died a=
t my
birth, that He has been so loving to me. I never remember the time when I d=
id
not feel His presence in my joys and my sorrows. I never had a thought of j=
oy
and sorrow that I could not say to Him. I never woke in the night that I did
not feel that He was loving and watching me, and that I loved Him in return.
Oh, how many, many things I have said to Him about you! My heart would have
broken years ago, had it not been for Him; because, though you did not know=
it,
you often seemed unkind; you hurt me very often when you did not mean to. H=
is
love is so much a part of my life that I cannot conceive of life without it=
. It
is the very air I breathe."
Moses stood still=
a
moment, for Mara spoke with a fervor that affected him; then he drew her to=
his
heart, and said,--
"Oh, what co=
uld
ever make you love me?"
"He sent you=
and
gave you to me," she answered, "to be mine in time and eternity.&=
quot;
The words were sp=
oken
in a kind of enthusiasm so different from the usual reserve of Mara, that t=
hey
seemed like a prophecy. That night, for the first time in her life, had she
broken the reserve which was her very nature, and spoken of that which was =
the
intimate and hidden history of her soul.
CHAPTER XXXIII - AT A
QUILTING
"And so," said Mrs. Capta=
in
Badger to Miss Roxy Toothacre, "it seems that Moses Pennel ain't going=
to
have Sally Kittridge after all,--he's engaged to Mara Lincoln."
"More shame =
for
him," said Miss Roxy, with a frown that made her mohair curls look rea=
lly
tremendous.
Miss Roxy and Mrs.
Badger were the advance party at a quilting, to be holden at the house of M=
r.
Sewell, and had come at one o'clock to do the marking upon the quilt, which=
was
to be filled up by the busy fingers of all the women in the parish. Said qu=
ilt
was to have a bordering of a pattern commonly denominated in those parts
clam-shell, and this Miss Roxy was diligently marking with indigo.
"What makes =
you say
so, now?" said Mrs. Badger, a fat, comfortable, motherly matron, who
always patronized the last matrimonial venture that put forth among the you=
ng
people.
"What busine=
ss
had he to flirt and gallivant all summer with Sally Kittridge, and make
everybody think he was going to have her, and then turn round to Mara Linco=
ln
at the last minute? I wish I'd been in Mara's place."
In Miss Roxy's
martial enthusiasm, she gave a sudden poke to her frisette, giving to it a
diagonal bristle which extremely increased its usually severe expression; a=
nd
any one contemplating her at the moment would have thought that for Moses
Pennel, or any other young man, to come with tender propositions in that
direction would have been indeed a venturesome enterprise.
"I tell you =
what
'tis, Mis' Badger," she said, "I've known Mara since she was born=
,--I
may say I fetched her up myself, for if I hadn't trotted and tended her them
first four weeks of her life, Mis' Pennel'd never have got her through; and
I've watched her every year since; and havin' Moses Pennel is the only silly
thing I ever knew her to do; but you never can tell what a girl will do whe=
n it
comes to marryin',--never!"
"But he's a =
real
stirrin', likely young man, and captain of a fine ship," said Mrs. Bad=
ger.
"Don't care =
if
he's captain of twenty ships," said Miss Roxy, obdurately; "he ai=
n't
a professor of religion, and I believe he's an infidel, and she's one of the
Lord's people."
"Well,"
said Mrs. Badger, "you know the unbelievin' husband shall be sanctifie=
d by
the believin' wife."
"Much
sanctifyin' he'll get," said Miss Roxy, contemptuously. "I don't =
believe
he loves her any more than fancy; she's the last plaything, and when he's g=
ot
her, he'll be tired of her, as he always was with anything he got ever sinc=
e. I
tell you, Moses Pennel is all for pride and ambition and the world; and his
wife, when he gets used to her, 'll be only a circumstance,--that's all.&qu=
ot;
"Come, now, =
Miss
Roxy," said Miss Emily, who in her best silk and smoothly-brushed hair=
had
just come in, "we must not let you talk so. Moses Pennel has had long
talks with brother, and he thinks him in a very hopeful way, and we are all
delighted; and as to Mara, she is as fresh and happy as a little rose."=
;
"So I tell
Roxy," said Miss Ruey, who had been absent from the room to hold priva=
te
consultations with Miss Emily concerning the biscuits and sponge-cake for t=
ea,
and who now sat down to the quilt and began to unroll a capacious and very =
limp
calico thread-case; and placing her spectacles awry on her little pug nose,=
she
began a series of ingenious dodges with her thread, designed to hit the eye=
of
her needle.
"The old
folks," she continued, "are e'en a'most tickled to pieces,--'cause
they think it'll jist be the salvation of him to get Mara."
"I ain't one=
of
the sort that wants to be a-usin' up girls for the salvation of fellers,&qu=
ot;
said Miss Roxy, severely. "Ever since he nearly like to have got her e=
at
up by sharks, by giggiting her off in the boat out to sea when she wa'n't
more'n three years old, I always have thought he was a misfortin' in that
family, and I think so now."
Here broke in Mrs.
Eaton, a thrifty energetic widow of a deceased sea-captain, who had been le=
ft
with a tidy little fortune which commanded the respect of the neighborhood.
Mrs. Eaton had entered silently during the discussion, but of course had co=
me,
as every other woman had that afternoon, with views to be expressed upon the
subject.
"For my
part," she said, as she stuck a decisive needle into the first clam-sh=
ell
pattern, "I ain't so sure that all the advantage in this match is on M=
oses
Pennel's part. Mara Lincoln is a good little thing, but she ain't fitted to
help a man along,--she'll always be wantin' somebody to help her. Why, I
'member goin' a voyage with Cap'n Eaton, when I saved the ship, if anybody
did,--it was allowed on all hands. Cap'n Eaton wasn't hearty at that time, =
he
was jist gettin' up from a fever,--it was when Marthy Ann was a baby, and I
jist took her and went to sea and took care of him. I used to work the long=
itude
for him and help him lay the ship's course when his head was bad,--and when=
we
came on the coast, we were kept out of harbor beatin' about nearly three we=
eks,
and all the ship's tacklin' was stiff with ice, and I tell you the men never
would have stood it through and got the ship in, if it hadn't been for me. I
kept their mittens and stockings all the while a-dryin' at my stove in the
cabin, and hot coffee all the while a-boilin' for 'em, or I believe they'd
a-frozen their hands and feet, and never been able to work the ship in. Tha=
t's
the way I did. Now Sally Kittridge is a great deal more like that than
Mara."
"There's no
doubt that Sally is smart," said Mrs. Badger, "but then it ain't
every one can do like you, Mrs. Eaton."
"Oh no, oh
no," was murmured from mouth to mouth; "Mrs. Eaton mustn't think
she's any rule for others,--everybody knows she can do more than most
people;" whereat the pacified Mrs. Eaton said "she didn't know as=
it
was anything remarkable,--it showed what anybody might do, if they'd only t=
ry
and have resolution; but that Mara never had been brought up to have
resolution, and her mother never had resolution before her, it wasn't in an=
y of
Mary Pennel's family; she knew their grandmother and all their aunts, and t=
hey
were all a weakly set, and not fitted to get along in life,--they were a ki=
nd
of people that somehow didn't seem to know how to take hold of things."=
;
At this moment the
consultation was hushed up by the entrance of Sally Kittridge and Mara,
evidently on the closest terms of intimacy, and more than usually demonstra=
tive
and affectionate; they would sit together and use each other's needles,
scissors, thread, and thimbles interchangeably, as if anxious to express ev=
ery
minute the most overflowing confidence. Sly winks and didactic nods were
covertly exchanged among the elderly people, and when Mrs. Kittridge entered
with more than usual airs of impressive solemnity, several of these were co=
vertly
directed toward her, as a matron whose views in life must have been conside=
rably
darkened by the recent event.
Mrs. Kittridge,
however, found an opportunity to whisper under her breath to Miss Ruey what=
a
relief to her it was that the affair had taken such a turn. She had felt un=
easy
all summer for fear of what might come. Sally was so thoughtless and worldl=
y,
she felt afraid that he would lead her astray. She didn't see, for her part,
how a professor of religion like Mara could make up her mind to such an
unsettled kind of fellow, even if he did seem to be rich and well-to-do. But
then she had done looking for consistency; and she sighed and vigorously
applied herself to quilting like one who has done with the world.
In return, Miss R=
uey
sighed and took snuff, and related for the hundredth time to Mrs. Kittridge=
the
great escape she once had from the addresses of Abraham Peters, who had tur=
ned
out a "poor drunken creetur." But then it was only natural that M=
ara
should be interested in Moses; and the good soul went off into her favorite
verse:--
"The fondness of a
creature's love, How s=
trong
it strikes the sense! Thither the warm
affections move, Nor c=
an we
drive them thence."
In fact, Miss Rue=
y's
sentimental vein was in quite a gushing state, for she more than once extra=
cted
from the dark corners of the limp calico thread-case we have spoken of cert=
ain
long-treasured morceaux of newspaper poetry, of a tender and sentimental ca=
st,
which she had laid up with true Yankee economy, in case any one should ever=
be
in a situation to need them. They related principally to the union of kindr=
ed hearts,
and the joys of reciprocated feeling and the pains of absence. Good Miss Ru=
ey
occasionally passed these to Mara, with glances full of meaning, which caus=
ed
the poor old thing to resemble a sentimental goblin, keeping Sally Kittridg=
e in
a perfect hysterical tempest of suppressed laughter, and making it difficult
for Mara to preserve the decencies of life toward her well-intending old
friend. The trouble with poor Miss Ruey was that, while her body had grown =
old
and crazy, her soul was just as juvenile as ever,--and a simple, juvenile s=
oul disporting
itself in a crazy, battered old body, is at great disadvantage. It was lucky
for her, however, that she lived in the most sacred unconsciousness of the
ludicrous effect of her little indulgences, and the pleasure she took in th=
em
was certainly of the most harmless kind. The world would be a far better and
more enjoyable place than it is, if all people who are old and uncomely cou=
ld
find amusement as innocent and Christian-like as Miss Ruey's inoffensive
thread-case collection of sentimental truisms.
This quilting of
which we speak was a solemn, festive occasion of the parish, held a week af=
ter
Moses had sailed away; and so piquant a morsel as a recent engagement could
not, of course, fail to be served up for the company in every variety of
garnishing which individual tastes might suggest.
It became an
ascertained fact, however, in the course of the evening festivities, that t=
he
minister was serenely approbative of the event; that Captain Kittridge was =
at
length brought to a sense of the errors of his way in supposing that Sally =
had
ever cared a pin for Moses more than as a mutual friend and confidant; and =
the
great affair was settled without more ripples of discomposure than usually =
attend
similar announcements in more refined society.
CHAPTER XXXIV - FRIENDS=
span>
The quilting broke up at the primit=
ive
hour of nine o'clock, at which, in early New England days, all social
gatherings always dispersed. Captain Kittridge rowed his helpmeet, with Mara
and Sally, across the Bay to the island.
"Come and st=
ay
with me to-night, Sally," said Mara.
"I think Sal=
ly
had best be at home," said Mrs. Kittridge. "There's no sense in g=
irls
talking all night."
"There ain't
sense in nothin' else, mother," said the Captain. "Next to sparki=
n',
which is the Christianist thing I knows on, comes gals' talks 'bout their
sparks; they's as natural as crowsfoot and red columbines in the spring, and
spring don't come but once a year neither,--and so let 'em take the comfort
on't. I warrant now, Polly, you've laid awake nights and talked about me.&q=
uot;
"We've all b=
een
foolish once," said Mrs. Kittridge.
"Well, mothe=
r,
we want to be foolish too," said Sally.
"Well, you a=
nd
your father are too much for me," said Mrs. Kittridge, plaintively;
"you always get your own way."
"How lucky t=
hat
my way is always a good one!" said Sally.
"Well, you k=
now,
Sally, you are going to make the beer to-morrow," still objected her
mother.
"Oh, yes; th=
at's
another reason," said Sally. "Mara and I shall come home through =
the
woods in the morning, and we can get whole apronfuls of
young wintergreen,
and besides, I know where there's a lot of sassafras root. We'll dig it, wo=
n't
we, Mara?"
"Yes; and I'=
ll
come down and help you brew," said Mara. "Don't you remember the =
beer
I made when Moses came home?"
"Yes, yes, I
remember," said the Captain, "you sent us a couple of bottles.&qu=
ot;
"We can make
better yet now," said Mara. "The wintergreen is young, and the gr=
een
tips on the spruce boughs are so full of strength. Everything is lively and
sunny now."
"Yes, yes,&q=
uot;
said the Captain, "and I 'spect I know why things do look pretty livel=
y to
some folks, don't they?"
"I don't know
what sort of work you'll make of the beer among you," said Mrs. Kittri=
dge;
"but you must have it your own way."
Mrs. Kittridge, w=
ho
never did anything else among her tea-drinking acquaintances but laud and
magnify Sally's good traits and domestic acquirements, felt constantly boun=
d to
keep up a faint show of controversy and authority in her dealings with
her,--the fading remains of the strict government of her childhood; but it =
was,
nevertheless, very perfectly understood, in a general way, that Sally was t=
o do
as she pleased; and so, when the boat came to shore, she took the arm of Ma=
ra and
started up toward the brown house.
The air was soft =
and
balmy, and though the moon by which the troth of Mara and Moses had been
plighted had waned into the latest hours of the night, still a thousand sta=
rs
were lying in twinkling brightness, reflected from the undulating waves all
around them, and the tide, as it rose and fell, made a sound as gentle and =
soft
as the respiration of a peaceful sleeper.
"Well,
Mara," said Sally, after an interval of silence, "all has come out
right. You see that it was you whom he loved. What a lucky thing for me tha=
t I
am made so heartless, or I might not be as glad as I am."
"You are not
heartless, Sally," said Mara; "it's the enchanted princess asleep;
the right one hasn't come to waken her."
"Maybe so,&q=
uot;
said Sally, with her old light laugh. "If I only were sure he would ma=
ke
you happy now,--half as happy as you deserve,--I'd forgive him his share of
this summer's mischief. The fault was just half mine, you see, for I witched
with him. I confess it. I have my own little spider-webs for these great lo=
rdly
flies, and I like to hear them buzz."
"Take care,
Sally; never do it again, or the spider-web may get round you," said M=
ara.
"Never fear
me," said Sally. "But, Mara, I wish I felt sure that Moses could =
make
you happy. Do you really, now, when you think seriously, feel as if he
would?"
"I never tho=
ught
seriously about it," said Mara; "but I know he needs me; that I c=
an
do for him what no one else can. I have always felt all my life that he was=
to
be mine; that he was sent to me, ordained for me to care for and to love.&q=
uot;
"You are well
mated," said Sally. "He wants to be loved very much, and you want=
to
love. There's the active and passive voice, as they used to say at Miss
Plucher's. But yet in your natures you are opposite as any two could well
be."
Mara felt that th=
ere
was in these chance words of Sally more than she perceived. No one could fe=
el
as intensely as she could that the mind and heart so dear to her were yet, =
as
to all that was most vital and real in her inner life, unsympathizing. To h=
er
the spiritual world was a reality; God an ever-present consciousness; and t=
he
line of this present life seemed so to melt and lose itself in the anticipa=
tion
of a future and brighter one, that it was impossible for her to speak
intimately and not unconsciously to betray the fact. To him there was only =
the
life of this world: there was no present God; and from all thought of a fut=
ure life
he shrank with a shuddering aversion, as from something ghastly and unnatur=
al.
She had realized this difference more in the few days that followed her
betrothal than all her life before, for now first the barrier of mutual
constraint and misunderstanding having melted away, each spoke with an aban=
don
and unreserve which made the acquaintance
more vitally inti=
mate
than ever it had been before. It was then that Mara felt that while her
sympathies could follow him through all his plans and interests, there was a
whole world of thought and feeling in her heart where his could not follow =
her;
and she asked herself, Would it be so always? Must she walk at his side for=
ever
repressing the utterance of that which was most sacred and intimate, living=
in
a nominal and external communion only? How could it be that what was so lov=
ely
and clear in its reality to her, that which was to her as life-blood, that
which was the vital air in which she lived and moved and had her being, cou=
ld
be absolutely nothing to him? Was it really possible, as he said, that God =
had
no existence for him except in a nominal cold belief; that the spiritual wo=
rld
was to him only a land of pale shades and doubtful glooms, from which he sh=
rank
with dread, and the least allusion to which was distasteful? and would this
always be so? and if so, could she be happy?
But Mara said the
truth in saying that the question of personal happiness never entered her
thoughts. She loved Moses in a way that made it necessary to her happiness =
to
devote herself to him, to watch over and care for him; and though she knew =
not
how, she felt a sort of presentiment that it was through her that he must be
brought into sympathy with a spiritual and immortal life.
All this passed
through Mara's mind in the reverie into which Sally's last words threw her,=
as
she sat on the door-sill and looked off into the starry distance and heard =
the
weird murmur of the sea.
"How lonesome
the sea at night always is," said Sally. "I declare, Mara, I don't
wonder you miss that creature, for, to tell the truth, I do a little bit. It
was something, you know, to have somebody to come in, and to joke with, and=
to
say how he liked one's hair and one's ribbons, and all that. I quite got up=
a
friendship for Moses, so that I can feel how dull you must be;" and Sa=
lly
gave a half sigh, and then whistled a tune as adroitly as a blackbird.
"Yes," =
said
Mara, "we two girls down on this lonely island need some one to connec=
t us
with the great world; and he was so full of life, and so certain and confid=
ent,
he seemed to open a way before one out into life."
"Well, of
course, while he is gone there will be plenty to do getting ready to be
married," said Sally. "By the by, when I was over to Portland the
other day, Maria Potter showed me a new pattern for a bed-quilt, the sweete=
st
thing you can imagine,--it is called the morning star. There is a great sta=
r in
the centre, and little stars all around,--white on a blue ground. I mean to
begin one for you."
"I am going =
to
begin spinning some very fine flax next week," said Mara; "and ha=
ve I
shown you the new pattern I drew for a counterpane? it is to be
morning-glories, leaves and flowers, you know,--a pretty idea, isn't it?&qu=
ot;
And so, the
conversation falling from the region of the sentimental to the practical, t=
he
two girls went in and spent an hour in discussions so purely feminine that =
we
will not enlighten the reader further therewith. Sally seemed to be investi=
ng
all her energies in the preparation of the wedding outfit of her friend, ab=
out
which she talked with a constant and restless activity, and for which she
formed a thousand plans, and projected shopping tours to Portland, Brunswic=
k,
and even to Boston,--this last being about as far off a venture at that tim=
e as
Paris now seems to a Boston belle.
"When you are
married," said Sally, "you'll have to take me to live with you; t=
hat
creature sha'n't have you all to himself. I hate men, they are so
exorbitant,--they spoil all our playmates; and what shall I do when you are
gone?"
"You will go
with Mr.--what's his name?" said Mara.
"Pshaw, I do=
n't
know him. I shall be an old maid," said Sally; "and really there
isn't much harm in that, if one could have company,--if somebody or other
wouldn't marry all one's friends,--that's lonesome," she said, winking=
a
tear out of her black eyes and laughing. "If I were only a young fellow
now, Mara, I'd have you myself, and that would be just the thing; and I'd s=
hoot
Moses, if he said a word; and I'd have money, and I'd have honors, and I'd
carry you off to Europe, and take you to Paris and Rome, and nobody knows
where; and we'd live in peace, as the story-books say."
"Come, Sally,
how wild you are talking," said Mara, "and the clock has just str=
uck
one; let's try to go to sleep."
Sally put her fac=
e to
Mara's and kissed her, and Mara felt a moist spot on her cheek,--could it b=
e a
tear?
CHAPTER XXXV - THE TOOTHA=
CRE
COTTAGE
Aunt Roxy and Aunt Ruey Toothacre l=
ived
in a little one-story gambrel-roofed cottage, on the side of Harpswell Bay,
just at the head of the long cove which we have already described. The wind=
ows
on two sides commanded the beautiful bay and the opposite shores, and on th=
e other
they looked out into the dense forest, through whose deep shadows of white
birch and pine the silver rise and fall of the sea daily revealed itself.
The house itself =
was
a miracle of neatness within, for the two thrifty sisters were worshipers of
soap and sand, and these two tutelary deities had kept every board of the
house-floor white and smooth, and also every table and bench and tub of
household use. There was a sacred care over each article, however small and
insignificant, which composed their slender household stock. The loss or
breakage of one of them would have made a visible crack in the hearts of the
worthy sisters,--for every plate, knife, fork, spoon, cup, or glass was as
intimate with them, as instinct with home feeling, as if it had a soul; each
defect or spot had its history, and a cracked dish or article of furniture
received as tender and considerate medical treatment as if it were capable =
of understanding
and feeling the attention.
It was now a warm,
spicy day in June,--one of those which bring out the pineapple fragrance fr=
om
the fir-shoots, and cause the spruce and hemlocks to exude a warm, resinous
perfume. The two sisters, for a wonder, were having a day to themselves, fr=
ee
from the numerous calls of the vicinity for twelve miles round. The room in
which they were sitting was bestrewn with fragments of dresses and bonnets,
which were being torn to pieces in a most wholesale way, with a view to a
general rejuvenescence. A person of unsympathetic temperament, and disposed=
to take
sarcastic views of life, might perhaps wonder what possible object these two
battered and weather-beaten old bodies proposed to themselves in this
process,--whether Miss Roxy's gaunt black-straw helmet, which she had worn
defiantly all winter, was likely to receive much lustre from being pressed =
over
and trimmed with an old green ribbon which that energetic female had colored
black by a domestic recipe; and whether Miss Roxy's rusty bombazette would
really seem to the world any fresher for being ripped, and washed, and turn=
ed,
for the second or third time, and made over with every breadth in a differe=
nt
situation. Probably after a week of efficient labor, busily expended in
bleaching, dyeing, pressing, sewing, and ripping, an unenlightened spectato=
r,
seeing them come into the meeting-house, would simply think, "There are
those two old frights with the same old things on they have worn these fift=
y years."
Happily the weird sisters were contentedly ignorant of any such remarks, fo=
r no
duchesses could have enjoyed a more quiet belief in their own social positi=
on,
and their semi-annual spring and fall rehabilitation was therefore entered =
into
with the most simple-hearted satisfaction.
"I'm a-think=
in',
Roxy," said Aunt Ruey, considerately turning and turning on her hand an
old straw bonnet, on which were streaked all the marks of the former trimmi=
ng
in lighter lines, which revealed too clearly the effects of wind and
weather,--"I'm a-thinkin' whether or no this 'ere mightn't as well be =
dyed
and done with it as try to bleach it out. I've had it ten years last May, a=
nd
it's kind o' losin' its freshness, you know. I don't believe these 'ere str=
eaks
will bleach out."
"Never mind,
Ruey," said Miss Roxy, authoritatively, "I'm goin' to do Mis'
Badger's leg'orn, and it won't cost nothin'; so hang your'n in the barrel a=
long
with it,--the same smoke'll do 'em both. Mis' Badger she finds the brimston=
e,
and next fall you can put it in the dye when we do the yarn."
"That ar str=
aw
is a beautiful straw!" said Miss Ruey, in a plaintive tone, tenderly
examining the battered old head-piece,--"I braided every stroke on it
myself, and I don't know as I could do it ag'in. My fingers ain't quite so
limber as they was! I don't think I shall put green ribbon on it ag'in; 'ca=
use
green is such a color to ruin, if a body gets caught out in a shower! There=
's
these green streaks come that day I left my amberil at Captain Broad's, and
went to meetin'. Mis' Broad she says to me, 'Aunt Ruey, it won't rain.' And
says I to her, 'Well, Mis' Broad, I'll try it; though I never did leave my
amberil at home but what it rained.' And so I went, and sure enough it rain=
ed
cats and dogs, and streaked my bonnet all up; and them ar streaks won't ble=
ach
out, I'm feared."
"How long is=
it
Mis' Badger has had that ar leg'orn?"
"Why, you kn=
ow,
the Cap'n he brought it home when he came from his voyage from Marseilles. =
That
ar was when Phebe Ann was born, and she's fifteen year old. It was a most
elegant thing when he brought it; but I think it kind o' led Mis' Badger on=
to
extravagant ways,--for gettin' new trimmin' spring and fall so uses up mone=
y as
fast as new bonnets; but Mis' Badger's got the money, and she's got a right=
to
use it if she pleases; but if I'd a-had new trimmin's spring and fall, I
shouldn't a-put away what I have in the bank."
"Have you se=
en
the straw Sally Kittridge is braidin' for Mara Lincoln's weddin' bonnet?&qu=
ot;
said Miss Ruey. "It's jist the finest thing ever you did see,--and the
whitest. I was a-tellin' Sally that I could do as well once myself, but my
mantle was a-fallin' on her. Sally don't seem to act a bit like a disap'int=
ed
gal. She is as chipper as she can be about Mara's weddin', and seems like s=
he
couldn't do too much. But laws, everybody seems to want to be a-doin' for h=
er.
Miss Emily was a-showin' me a fine double damask tablecloth that she was go=
in'
to give her; and Mis' Pennel, she's been a-spinnin' and layin' up sheets and
towels and tablecloths all her life,--and then she has all Naomi's things. =
Mis'
Pennel was talkin' to me the other day about bleachin' 'em out 'cause they'd
got yellow a-lyin'. I kind o' felt as if 'twas unlucky to be a-fittin' out a
bride with her dead mother's things, but I didn't like to say nothin'."=
;
"Ruey," said Miss Roxy impressively, "I hain't never had but jist one mind abo= ut Mara Lincoln's weddin',--it's to be,--but it won't be the way people think.= I hain't nussed and watched and sot up nights sixty years for nothin'. I can = see beyond what most folks can,--her weddin' garments is bought and paid for, a= nd she'll wear 'em, but she won't be Moses Pennel's wife,--now you see."<= o:p>
"Why, whose =
wife
will she be then?" said Miss Ruey; "'cause that ar Mr. Adams is
married. I saw it in the paper last week when I was up to Mis' Badger's.&qu=
ot;
Miss Roxy shut her
lips with oracular sternness and went on with her sewing.
"Who's that
comin' in the back door?" said Miss Ruey, as the sound of a footstep f=
ell
upon her ear. "Bless me," she added, as she started up to look,
"if folks ain't always nearest when you're talkin' about 'em. Why, Mar=
a;
you come down here and catched us in all our dirt! Well now, we're glad to =
see
you, if we be," said Miss Ruey.
CHAPTER XXXVI - THE SHADO=
W OF
DEATH
It was in truth Mara herself who ca=
me and
stood in the doorway. She appeared overwearied with her walk, for her cheeks
had a vivid brightness unlike their usual tender pink. Her eyes had, too, a=
brilliancy
almost painful to look upon. They seemed like ardent fires, in which the li=
fe
was slowly burning away.
"Sit down, s=
it
down, little Mara," said Aunt Ruey. "Why, how like a picture you =
look
this mornin',--one needn't ask you how you do,--it's plain enough that you =
are
pretty well."
"Yes, I am, =
Aunt
Ruey," she answered, sinking into a chair; "only it is warm to-da=
y,
and the sun is so hot, that's all, I believe; but I am very tired."
"So you are =
now,
poor thing," said Miss Ruey. "Roxy, where's my turkey-feather fan?
Oh, here 'tis; there, take it, and fan you, child; and maybe you'll have a
glass of our spruce beer?"
"Thank you, =
Aunt
Roxy. I brought you some young wintergreen," said Mara, unrolling from=
her
handkerchief a small knot of those fragrant leaves, which were wilted by the
heat.
"Thank you, =
I'm
sure," said Miss Ruey, in delight; "you always fetch something,
Mara,--always would, ever since you could toddle. Roxy and I was jist talki=
n'
about your weddin'. I s'pose you're gettin' things well along down to your
house. Well, here's the beer. I don't hardly know whether you'll think it
worked enough, though. I set it Saturday afternoon, for all Mis' Twitchell =
said
it was wicked for beer to work Sundays," said Miss Ruey, with a feeble
cackle at her own joke.
"Thank you, =
Aunt
Ruey; it is excellent, as your things always are. I was very thirsty."=
"I s'pose you
hear from Moses pretty often now," said Aunt Ruey. "How kind o'
providential it happened about his getting that property; he'll be a rich m=
an
now; and Mara, you'll come to grandeur, won't you? Well, I don't know anybo=
dy
deserves it more,--I r'ally don't. Mis' Badger was a-sayin' so a-Sunday, and
Cap'n Kittridge and all on 'em. I s'pose though we've got to lose you,--you=
'll
be goin' off to Boston, or New York, or somewhere."
"We can't te=
ll
what may happen, Aunt Ruey," said Mara, and there was a slight tremor =
in
her voice as she spoke.
Miss Roxy, who be=
yond
the first salutations had taken no part in this conversation, had from time=
to
time regarded Mara over the tops of her spectacles with looks of grave
apprehension; and Mara, looking up, now encountered one of these glances.
"Have you ta=
ken
the dock and dandelion tea I told you about?" said the wise woman, rat=
her
abruptly.
"Yes, Aunt R=
oxy,
I have taken them faithfully for two weeks past."
"And do they
seem to set you up any?" said Miss Roxy.
"No, I don't
think they do. Grandma thinks I'm better, and grandpa, and I let them think=
so;
but Miss Roxy, can't you think of something else?"
Miss Roxy laid as=
ide
the straw bonnet which she was ripping, and motioned Mara into the outer
room,--the sink-room, as the sisters called it. It was the scullery of their
little establishment,--the place where all dish-washing and clothes-washing=
was
generally performed,--but the boards of the floor were white as snow, and t=
he
place had the odor of neatness. The open door looked out pleasantly into the
deep forest, where the waters of the cove, now at high tide, could be seen
glittering through the trees. Soft moving spots of sunlight fell, checkering
the feathery ferns and small piney tribes of evergreen which ran in rufflin=
g wreaths
of green through the dry, brown matting of fallen pine needles. Birds were
singing and calling to each other merrily from the green shadows of the
forest,--everything had a sylvan fullness and freshness of life. There are
moods of mind when the sight of the bloom and freshness of nature affects us
painfully, like the want of sympathy in a dear friend. Mara had been all her
days a child of the woods; her delicate life had grown up in them like one =
of
their own cool shaded flowers; and there was not a moss, not a fern, not an
upspringing thing that waved a leaf or threw forth a flower-bell, that was =
not
a well-known friend to her; she had watched for years its haunts, known the
time of its coming and its going, studied its shy and veiled habits, and
interwoven with its life each year a portion of her own; and now she looked=
out
into the old mossy woods, with their wavering spots of sun and shadow, with=
a
yearning pain, as if she wanted help or sympathy to come from their silent
recesses.
She sat down on t=
he
clean, scoured door-sill, and took off her straw hat. Her golden-brown hair=
was
moist with the damps of fatigue, which made it curl and wave in darker litt=
le
rings about her forehead; her eyes,--those longing, wistful eyes,--had a de=
eper
pathos of sadness than ever they had worn before; and her delicate lips
trembled with some strong suppressed emotion.
"Aunt
Roxy," she said suddenly, "I must speak to somebody. I can't go on
and keep up without telling some one, and it had better be you, because you
have skill and experience, and can help me if anybody can. I've been going =
on
for six months now, taking this and taking that, and trying to get better, =
but
it's of no use. Aunt Roxy, I feel my life going,--going just as steadily an=
d as
quietly every day as the sand goes out of your hour-glass. I want to live,-=
-oh,
I never wanted to live so much, and I can't,--oh, I know I can't. Can I
now,--do you think I can?"
Mara looked imploringly at Miss Roxy. The hard-visaged woman sat down on the wash-bench, and, covering her worn, stony visage with her checked apron, sobbed aloud.<= o:p>
Mara was confound=
ed.
This implacably withered, sensible, dry woman, beneficently impassive in
sickness and sorrow, weeping!--it was awful, as if one of the Fates had laid
down her fatal distaff to weep.
Mara sprung up
impulsively and threw her arms round her neck.
"Now don't, =
Aunt
Roxy, don't. I didn't think you would feel bad, or I wouldn't have told you;
but oh, you don't know how hard it is to keep such a secret all to one's se=
lf.
I have to make believe all the time that I am feeling well and getting bett=
er.
I really say what isn't true every day, because, poor grandmamma, how could=
I
bear to see her distress? and grandpapa,--oh, I wish people didn't love me =
so!
Why cannot they let me go? And oh, Aunt Roxy, I had a letter only yesterday=
, and
he is so sure we shall be married this fall,--and I know it cannot be."
Mara's voice gave way in sobs, and the two wept together,--the old grim, gr=
ay
woman holding the soft golden head against her breast with a convulsive gra=
sp.
"Oh, Aunt Roxy, do you love me, too?" said Mara. "I didn't k=
now
you did."
"Love ye,
child?" said Miss Roxy; "yes, I love ye like my life. I ain't one
that makes talk about things, but I do; you come into my arms fust of anybo=
dy's
in this world,--and except poor little Hitty, I never loved nobody as I have
you."
"Ah! that was
your sister, whose grave I have seen," said Mara, speaking in a soothi=
ng,
caressing tone, and putting her little thin hand against the grim, wasted
cheek, which was now moist with tears.
"Jes' so, ch=
ild,
she died when she was a year younger than you be; she was not lost, for God
took her. Poor Hitty! her life jest dried up like a brook in August,--jest =
so.
Well, she was hopefully pious, and it was better for her."
"Did she go =
like
me, Aunt Roxy?" said Mara.
"Well, yes,
dear; she did begin jest so, and I gave her everything I could think of; an=
d we
had doctors for her far and near; but 'twasn't to be,--that's all we could =
say;
she was called, and her time was come."
"Well, now, =
Aunt
Roxy," said Mara, "at any rate, it's a relief to speak out to some
one. It's more than two months that I have felt every day more and more that
there was no hope,--life has hung on me like a weight. I have had to make
myself keep up, and make myself do everything, and no one knows how it has
tried me. I am so tired all the time, I could cry; and yet when I go to bed
nights I can't sleep, I lie in such a hot, restless way; and then before
morning I am drenched with cold sweat, and feel so weak and wretched. I for=
ce
myself to eat, and I force myself to talk and laugh, and it's all pretense;=
and
it wears me out,--it would be better if I stopped trying,--it would be bett=
er
to give up and act as weak as I feel; but how can I let them know?"
"My dear
child," said Aunt Roxy, "the truth is the kindest thing we can gi=
ve
folks in the end. When folks know jest where they are, why they can walk;
you'll all be supported; you must trust in the Lord. I have been more'n for=
ty
years with sick rooms and dyin' beds, and I never knew it fail that those t=
hat
trusted in the Lord was brought through."
"Oh, Aunt Ro=
xy,
it is so hard for me to give up,--to give up hoping to live. There were a g=
ood
many years when I thought I should love to depart,--not that I was really
unhappy, but I longed to go to heaven, though I knew it was selfish, when I
knew how lonesome I should leave my friends. But now, oh, life has looked so
bright; I have clung to it so; I do now. I lie awake nights and pray, and t=
ry
to give it up and be resigned, and I can't. Is it wicked?"
"Well, it's
natur' to want to live," said Miss Roxy. "Life is sweet, and in a
gen'l way we was made to live. Don't worry; the Lord'll bring you right when
His time comes. Folks isn't always supported jest when they want to be, nor=
as
they want to be; but yet they're supported fust and last. Ef I was to tell =
you
how as I has hope in your case, I shouldn't be a-tellin' you the truth. I
hasn't much of any; only all things is possible with God. If you could kind=
o'
give it all up and rest easy in His hands, and keep a-doin' what you can,--=
why,
while there's life there's hope, you know; and if you are to be made well, =
you
will be all the sooner."
"Aunt Roxy, =
it's
all right; I know it's all right. God knows best; He will do what is best; I
know that; but my heart bleeds, and is sore. And when I get his letters,--I=
got
one yesterday,--it brings it all back again. Everything is going on so well=
; he
says he has done more than all he ever hoped; his letters are full of jokes,
full of spirit. Ah, he little knows,--and how can I tell him?"
"Child, you
needn't yet. You can jest kind o' prepare his mind a little."
"Aunt Roxy, =
have
you spoken of my case to any one,--have you told what you know of me?"=
"No, child, I
hain't said nothin' more than that you was a little weakly now and then.&qu=
ot;
"I have such=
a
color every afternoon," said Mara. "Grandpapa talks about my rose=
s,
and Captain Kittridge jokes me about growing so handsome; nobody seems to
realize how I feel. I have kept up with all the strength I had. I have trie=
d to
shake it off, and to feel that nothing was the matter,--really there is not=
hing
much, only this weakness. This morning I thought it would do me good to walk
down here. I remember times when I could ramble whole days in the woods, bu=
t I
was so tired before I got half way here that I had to stop a long while and
rest. Aunt Roxy, if you would only tell grandpapa and grandmamma just how
things are, and what the danger is, and let them stop talking to me about
wedding things,--for really and truly I am too unwell to keep up any
longer."
"Well, child=
, I
will," said Miss Roxy. "Your grandfather will be supported, and h=
old
you up, for he's one of the sort as has the secret of the Lord,--I remember=
him
of old. Why, the day your father and mother was buried he stood up and sung=
old
China, and his face was wonderful to see. He seemed to be standin' with the
world under his feet and heaven opening. He's a master Christian, your
grandfather is; and now you jest go and lie down in the little bedroom, and
rest you a bit, and by and by, in the cool of the afternoon, I'll walk along
home with you."
Miss Roxy opened =
the
door of a little room, whose white fringy window-curtains were blown inward=
by
breezes from the blue sea, and laid the child down to rest on a clean
sweet-smelling bed with as deft and tender care as if she were not a bony,
hard-visaged, angular female, in a black mohair frisette.
She stopped a mom=
ent
wistfully before a little profile head, of a kind which resembles a black
shadow on a white ground. "That was Hitty!" she said.
Mara had often se=
en
in the graveyard a mound inscribed to this young person, and heard
traditionally of a young and pretty sister of Miss Roxy who had died very m=
any
years before. But the grave was overgrown with blackberry-vines, and gray m=
oss
had grown into the crevices of the slab which served for a tombstone, and n=
ever
before that day had she heard Miss Roxy speak of her. Miss Roxy took down t=
he
little black object and handed it to Mara. "You can't tell much by tha=
t,
but she was a most beautiful creatur'. Well, it's all best as it is." =
Mara
saw nothing but a little black shadow cast on white paper, yet she was affe=
cted
by the perception how bright, how beautiful, was the image in the memory of
that seemingly stern, commonplace woman, and how of all that in her mind's =
eye
she saw and remembered, she could find no outward witness but this black bl=
ock.
"So some day my friends will speak of me as a distant shadow," she
said, as with a sigh she turned her head on the pillow.
Miss Roxy shut the
door gently as she went out, and betrayed the unwonted rush of softer feeli=
ngs
which had come over her only by being more dictatorial and commanding than
usual in her treatment of her sister, who was sitting in fidgety curiosity =
to
know what could have been the subject of the private conference.
"I s'pose Ma=
ra
wanted to get some advice about makin' up her weddin' things," said Mi=
ss
Ruey, with a sort of humble quiver, as Miss Roxy began ripping and tearing
fiercely at her old straw bonnet, as if she really purposed its utter and
immediate demolition.
"No she didn=
't,
neither," said Miss Roxy, fiercely. "I declare, Ruey, you are sil=
ly;
your head is always full of weddin's, weddin's, weddin's--nothin' else--from
mornin' till night, and night till mornin'. I tell you there's other things
have got to be thought of in this world besides weddin' clothes, and it wou=
ld
be well, if people would think more o' gettin' their weddin' garments ready=
for
the kingdom of heaven. That's what Mara's got to think of; for, mark my wor=
ds,
Ruey, there is no marryin' and givin' in marriage for her in this world.&qu=
ot;
"Why, bless =
me,
Roxy, now you don't say so!" said Miss Ruey; "why I knew she was =
kind
o' weakly and ailin', but"--
"Kind o' wea=
kly
and ailin'!" said Miss Roxy, taking up Miss Ruey's words in a tone of =
high
disgust, "I should rather think she was; and more'n that, too: she's
marked for death, and that before long, too. It may be that Moses Pennel'll
never see her again--he never half knew what she was worth--maybe he'll know
when he's lost her, that's one comfort!"
"But," =
said
Miss Ruey, "everybody has been a-sayin' what a beautiful color she was
a-gettin' in her cheeks."
"Color in her
cheeks!" snorted Miss Roxy; "so does a rock-maple get color in
September and turn all scarlet, and what for? why, the frost has been at it,
and its time is out. That's what your bright colors stand for. Hain't you
noticed that little gravestone cough, jest the faintest in the world, and it
don't come from a cold, and it hangs on. I tell you you can't cheat me, she=
's
goin' jest as Mehitabel went, jest as Sally Ann Smith went, jest as Louisa
Pearson went. I could count now on my fingers twenty girls that have gone t=
hat
way. Nobody saw 'em goin' till they was gone."
"Well, now, I
don't think the old folks have the least idea on't," said Miss Ruey.
"Only last Saturday Mis' Pennel was a-talkin' to me about the sheets a=
nd
tablecloths she's got out a-bleachin'; and she said that the weddin' dress =
was
to be made over to Mis' Mosely's in Portland, 'cause Moses he's so particul=
ar
about havin' things genteel."
"Well, Master
Moses'll jest have to give up his particular notions," said Miss Roxy,
"and come down in the dust, like all the rest on us, when the Lord sen=
ds
an east wind and withers our gourds. Moses Pennel's one of the sort that
expects to drive all before him with the strong arm, and sech has to learn =
that
things ain't to go as they please in the Lord's world. Sech always has to c=
ome
to spots that they can't get over nor under nor round, to have their own wa=
y,
but jest has to give right up square."
"Well,
Roxy," said Miss Ruey, "how does the poor little thing take it? H=
as
she got reconciled?"
"Reconciled!
Ruey, how you do ask questions!" said Miss Roxy, fiercely pulling a
bandanna silk handkerchief out of her pocket, with which she wiped her eyes=
in
a defiant manner. "Reconciled! It's easy enough to talk, Ruey, but how
would you like it, when everything was goin' smooth and playin' into your
hands, and all the world smooth and shiny, to be took short up? I guess you
wouldn't be reconciled. That's what I guess."
"Dear me, Ro=
xy,
who said I should?" said Miss Ruey. "I wa'n't blamin' the poor ch=
ild,
not a grain."
"Well, who s=
aid
you was, Ruey?" answered Miss Roxy, in the same high key.
"You needn't
take my head off," said Aunt Ruey, roused as much as her adipose,
comfortable nature could be. "You've been a-talkin' at me ever since y=
ou
came in from the sink-room, as if I was to blame; and snappin' at me as if I
hadn't a right to ask civil questions; and I won't stan' it," said Miss
Ruey. "And while I'm about it, I'll say that you always have snubbed me
and contradicted and ordered me round. I won't bear it no longer."
"Come, Ruey,=
don't
make a fool of yourself at your time of life," said Miss Roxy.
"Things is bad enough in this world without two lone sisters and
church-members turnin' agin each other. You must take me as I am, Ruey; my
bark's worse than my bite, as you know."
Miss Ruey sank ba=
ck
pacified into her usual state of pillowy dependence; it was so much easier =
to
be good-natured than to contend. As for Miss Roxy, if you have ever careful=
ly
examined a chestnut-burr, you will remember that, hard as it is to handle, =
no
plush of downiest texture can exceed the satin smoothness of the fibres whi=
ch
line its heart. There are a class of people in New England who betray the
uprising of the softer feelings of our nature only by an increase of outward
asperity--a sort of bashfulness and shyness leaves them no power of express=
ion
for these unwonted guests of the heart--they hurry them into inner chambers=
and
slam the doors upon them, as if they were vexed at their appearance.
Now if poor Miss =
Roxy
had been like you, my dear young lady--if her soul had been encased in a ro=
und,
rosy, and comely body, and looked out of tender blue eyes shaded by golden
hair, probably the grief and love she felt would have shown themselves only=
in
bursts of feeling most graceful to see, and engaging the sympathy of all; b=
ut
this same soul, imprisoned in a dry, angular body, stiff and old, and looki=
ng
out under beetling eyebrows, over withered high cheek-bones, could only utt=
er
itself by a passionate tempest--unlovely utterance of a lovely impulse--dear
only to Him who sees with a Father's heart the real beauty of spirits. It is
our firm faith that bright solemn angels in celestial watchings were freque=
nt
guests in the homely room of the two sisters, and that passing by all accid=
ents
of age and poverty, withered skins, bony features, and grotesque movements =
and
shabby clothing, they saw more real beauty there than in many a scented bou=
doir
where seeming angels smile in lace and satin.
"Ruey,"
said Miss Roxy, in a more composed voice, while her hard, bony hands still
trembled with excitement, "this 'ere's been on my mind a good while. I
hain't said nothin' to nobody, but I've seen it a-comin'. I always thought =
that
child wa'n't for a long life. Lives is run in different lengths, and nobody=
can
say what's the matter with some folks, only that their thread's run out;
there's more on one spool and less on another. I thought, when we laid Hitt=
y in
the grave, that I shouldn't never set my heart on nothin' else--but we can't
jest say we will or we won't. Ef we are to be sorely afflicted at any time,=
the
Lord lets us set our hearts before we know it. This 'ere's a great afflicti=
on
to me, Ruey, but I must jest shoulder my cross and go through with it. I'm =
goin'
down to-night to tell the old folks, and to make arrangements so that the p=
oor
little lamb may have the care she needs. She's been a-keepin' up so long,
'cause she dreaded to let 'em know, but this 'ere has got to be looked righ=
t in
the face, and I hope there'll be grace given to do it."
CHAPTER XXXVII - THE VICT=
ORY
Meanwhile Mara had been lying in the
passive calm of fatigue and exhaustion, her eyes fixed on the window, where=
, as
the white curtain drew inward, she could catch glimpses of the bay. Gradual=
ly
her eyelids fell, and she dropped into that kind of half-waking doze, when =
the
outer senses are at rest, and the mind is all the more calm and clear for t=
heir
repose. In such hours a spiritual clairvoyance often seems to lift for a wh=
ile
the whole stifling cloud that lies like a confusing mist over the problem of
life, and the soul has sudden glimpses of things unutterable which lie beyo=
nd.
Then the narrow straits, that look so full of rocks and quicksands, widen i=
nto
a broad, clear passage, and one after another, rosy with a celestial dawn, =
and
ringing silver bells of gladness, the isles of the blessed lift themselves =
up
on the horizon, and the soul is flooded with an atmosphere of light and joy=
. As
the burden of Christian fell off at the cross and was lost in the sepulchre=
, so
in these hours of celestial vision the whole weight of life's anguish is
lifted, and passes away like a dream; and the soul, seeing the boundless oc=
ean
of Divine love, wherein all human hopes and joys and sorrows lie so tenderly
upholden, comes and casts the one little drop of its personal will and pers=
onal
existence with gladness into that Fatherly depth. Henceforth, with it, God =
and
Saviour is no more word of mine and thine, for in that hour the child of ea=
rth
feels himself heir of all things: "All things are yours, and ye are
Christ's, and Christ is God's."
*
"The child is
asleep," said Miss Roxy, as she stole on tiptoe into the room when the=
ir
noon meal was prepared. A plate and knife had been laid for her, and they h=
ad
placed for her a tumbler of quaint old engraved glass, reputed to have been
brought over from foreign parts, and which had been given to Miss Roxy as h=
er
share in the effects of the mysterious Mr. Swadkins. Tea also was served in
some egg-like India china cups, which saw the light only on the most high a=
nd
festive occasions.
"Hadn't you
better wake her?" said Miss Ruey; "a cup of hot tea would do her =
so
much good."
Miss Ruey could
conceive of few sorrows or ailments which would not be materially better fo=
r a
cup of hot tea. If not the very elixir of life, it was indeed the next thin=
g to
it.
"Well,"
said Miss Roxy, after laying her hand for a moment with great gentleness on
that of the sleeping girl, "she don't wake easy, and she's tired; and =
she
seems to be enjoying it so. The Bible says, 'He giveth his beloved sleep,' =
and
I won't interfere. I've seen more good come of sleep than most things in my
nursin' experience," said Miss Roxy, and she shut the door gently, and=
the
two sisters sat down to their noontide meal.
"How long the
child does sleep!" said Miss Ruey as the old clock struck four.
"It was too =
much
for her, this walk down here," said Aunt Roxy. "She's been doin' =
too
much for a long time. I'm a-goin' to put an end to that. Well, nobody needn=
't
say Mara hain't got resolution. I never see a little thing have more. She
always did have, when she was the leastest little thing. She was always qui=
et
and white and still, but she did whatever she sot out to."
At this moment, to
their surprise, the door opened, and Mara came in, and both sisters were st=
ruck
with a change that had passed over her. It was more than the result of mere
physical repose. Not only had every sign of weariness and bodily languor
vanished, but there was about her an air of solemn serenity and high repose
that made her seem, as Miss Ruey afterwards said, "like an angel jest
walked out of the big Bible."
"Why, dear
child, how you have slept, and how bright and rested you look," said M=
iss
Ruey.
"I am
rested," said Mara; "oh how much! And happy," she added, lay=
ing her
little hand on Miss Roxy's shoulder. "I thank you, dear friend, for all
your kindness to me. I am sorry I made you feel so sadly; but now you mustn=
't
feel so any more, for all is well--yes, all is well. I see now that it is s=
o. I
have passed beyond sorrow--yes, forever."
Soft-hearted Miss
Ruey here broke into audible sobbing, hiding her face in her hands, and loo=
king
like a tumbled heap of old faded calico in a state of convulsion.
"Dear Aunt R=
uey,
you mustn't," said Mara, with a voice of gentle authority. "We
mustn't any of us feel so any more. There is no harm done, no real evil is
coming, only a good which we do not understand. I am perfectly
satisfied--perfectly at rest now. I was foolish and weak to feel as I did t=
his
morning, but I shall not feel so any more. I shall comfort you all. Is it
anything so dreadful for me to go to heaven? How little while it will be be=
fore
you all come to me! Oh, how little--little while!"
"I told you,
Mara, that you'd be supported in the Lord's time," said Miss Roxy, who
watched her with an air of grave and solemn attention. "First and last,
folks allers is supported; but sometimes there is a long wrestlin'. The Lor=
d's
give you the victory early."
"Victory!&qu=
ot;
said the girl, speaking as in a deep muse, and with a mysterious brightness=
in
her eyes; "yes, that is the word--it is a victory--no other word expre=
sses
it. Come, Aunt Roxy, we will go home. I am not afraid now to tell grandpapa=
and
grandmamma. God will care for them; He will wipe away all tears."
"Well, thoug=
h,
you mus'n't think of goin' till you've had a cup of tea," said Aunt Ru=
ey,
wiping her eyes. "I've kep' the tea-pot hot by the fire, and you must =
eat
a little somethin', for it's long past dinner-time."
"Is it?"
said Mara. "I had no idea I had slept so long--how thoughtful and kind=
you
are!"
"I do wish I
could only do more for you," said Miss Ruey. "I don't seem to get
reconciled no ways; it seems dreffle hard--dreffle; but I'm glad you can fe=
el
so;" and the good old soul proceeded to press upon the child not only =
the
tea, which she drank with feverish relish, but every hoarded dainty which t=
heir
limited housekeeping commanded.
It was toward sun=
set
before Miss Roxy and Mara started on their walk homeward. Their way lay over
the high stony ridge which forms the central part of the island. On one sid=
e,
through the pines, they looked out into the boundless blue of the ocean, an=
d on
the other caught glimpses of Harpswell Bay as it lay glorified in the eveni=
ng
light. The fresh cool breeze blowing landward brought with it an invigorati=
ng influence,
which Mara felt through all her feverish frame. She walked with an energy to
which she had long been a stranger. She said little, but there was a sweetn=
ess,
a repose, in her manner contrasting singularly with the passionate melancho=
ly
which she had that morning expressed.
Miss Roxy did not
interrupt her meditations. The nature of her profession had rendered her
familiar with all the changing mental and physical phenomena that attend the
development of disease and the gradual loosening of the silver cords of a
present life. Certain well-understood phrases everywhere current among the =
mass
of the people in New England, strikingly tell of the deep foundations of
religious earnestness on which its daily life is built. "A triumphant
death" was a matter often casually spoken of among the records of the
neighborhood; and Miss Roxy felt that there was a vague and solemn charm ab=
out
its approach. Yet the soul of the gray, dry woman was hot within her, for t=
he
conversation of the morning had probed depths in her own nature of whose
existence she had never before been so conscious. The roughest and most
matter-of-fact minds have a craving for the ideal somewhere; and often this
craving, forbidden by uncomeliness and ungenial surroundings from having any
personal history of its own, attaches itself to the fortune of some other o=
ne
in a kind of strange disinterestedness. Some one young and beautiful is to =
live
the life denied to them--to be the poem and the romance; it is the young mi=
stress
of the poor black slave--the pretty sister of the homely old spinster--or t=
he
clever son of the consciously ill-educated father. Something of this
unconscious personal investment had there been on the part of Miss Roxy in =
the nursling
whose singular loveliness she had watched for so many years, and on whose f=
air
virgin orb she had marked the growing shadow of a fatal eclipse, and as she=
saw
her glowing and serene, with that peculiar brightness that she felt came fr=
om
no earthly presence or influence, she could scarcely keep the tears from her
honest gray eyes.
When they arrived=
at
the door of the house, Zephaniah Pennel was sitting in it, looking toward t=
he
sunset.
"Why,
reely," he said, "Miss Roxy, we thought you must a-run away with =
Mara;
she's been gone a'most all day."
"I expect sh=
e's
had enough to talk with Aunt Roxy about," said Mrs. Pennel. "Girls
goin' to get married have a deal to talk about, what with patterns and
contrivin' and makin' up. But come in, Miss Roxy; we're glad to see you.&qu=
ot;
Mara turned to Mi=
ss
Roxy, and gave her a look of peculiar meaning. "Aunt Roxy," she s=
aid,
"you must tell them what we have been talking about to-day;" and =
then
she went up to her room and shut the door.
Miss Roxy
accomplished her task with a matter-of-fact distinctness to which her
business-like habits of dealing with sickness and death had accustomed her,=
yet
with a sympathetic tremor in her voice which softened the hard directness of
her words. "You can take her over to Portland, if you say so, and get =
Dr. Wilson's
opinion," she said, in conclusion. "It's best to have all done th=
at
can be, though in my mind the case is decided."
The silence that =
fell
between the three was broken at last by the sound of a light footstep
descending the stairs, and Mara entered among them.
She came forward =
and
threw her arms round Mrs. Pennel's neck, and kissed her; and then turning, =
she
nestled down in the arms of her old grandfather, as she had often done in t=
he
old days of childhood, and laid her hand upon his shoulder. There was no so=
und
for a few moments but one of suppressed weeping; but she did not weep--she =
lay
with bright calm eyes, as if looking upon some celestial vision.
"It is not so
very sad," she said at last, in a gentle voice, "that I should go
there; you are going, too, and grandmamma; we are all going; and we shall be
forever with the Lord. Think of it! think of it!"
Many were the wor=
ds
spoken in that strange communing; and before Miss Roxy went away, a calmnes=
s of
solemn rest had settled down on all. The old family Bible was brought forth,
and Zephaniah Pennel read from it those strange words of strong consolation,
which take the sting from death and the victory from the grave:--
"And I heard=
a
great voice out of heaven. Behold the tabernacle of God is with men, and he
will dwell with them, and they shall be his people; and God himself shall be
with them and be their God. And God shall wipe away all tears from their ey=
es;
and there shall be no more death, neither sorrow nor crying, for the former
things are passed away."
CHAPTER XXXVIII - OPEN VI=
SION
As Miss Roxy was leaving the dwelli=
ng of
the Pennels, she met Sally Kittridge coming toward the house, laughing and
singing, as was her wont. She raised her long, lean forefinger with a gestu=
re
of warning.
"What's the
matter now, Aunt Roxy? You look as solemn as a hearse."
"None o' your
jokin' now, Miss Sally; there is such a thing as serious things in this 'ere
world of our'n, for all you girls never seems to know it."
"What is the
matter, Aunt Roxy?--has anything happened?--is anything the matter with
Mara?"
"Matter enou=
gh.
I've known it a long time," said Miss Roxy. "She's been goin' down
for three months now; and she's got that on her that will carry her off bef=
ore
the year's out."
"Pshaw, Aunt
Roxy! how lugubriously you old nurses always talk! I hope now you haven't b=
een
filling Mara's head with any such notions--people can be frightened into
anything."
"Sally
Kittridge, don't be a-talkin' of what you don't know nothin' about! It stan=
ds
to reason that a body that was bearin' the heat and burden of the day long
before you was born or thought on in this world should know a thing or two
more'n you. Why, I've laid you on your stomach and trotted you to trot up t=
he
wind many a day, and I was pretty experienced then, and it ain't likely that
I'm a-goin' to take sa'ce from you. Mara Pennel is a gal as has every bit a=
nd
grain as much resolution and ambition as you have, for all you flap your wi=
ngs
and crow so much louder, and she's one of the close-mouthed sort, that don'=
t make
no talk, and she's been a-bearin' up and bearin' up, and comin' to me on the
sly for strengthenin' things. She's took camomile and orange-peel, and
snake-root and boneset, and dash-root and dandelion--and there hain't nothi=
n'
done her no good. She told me to-day she couldn't keep up no longer, and I'=
ve
been a-tellin' Mis' Pennel and her grand'ther. I tell you it has been a sol=
emn
time; and if you're goin' in, don't go in with none o' your light triflin'
ways, 'cause 'as vinegar upon nitre is he that singeth songs on a heavy hea=
rt,'
the Scriptur' says."
"Oh, Miss Ro=
xy,
do tell me truly," said Sally, much moved. "What do you think is =
the
matter with Mara? I've noticed myself that she got tired easy, and that she=
was
short-breathed--but she seemed so cheerful. Can anything really be the
matter?"
"It's
consumption, Sally Kittridge," said Miss Roxy, "neither more nor =
less;
that ar is the long and the short. They're going to take her over to Portla=
nd
to see Dr. Wilson--it won't do no harm, and it won't do no good."
"You seem to=
be
determined she shall die," said Sally in a tone of pique.
"Determined,=
am
I? Is it I that determines that the maple leaves shall fall next October? Y=
et I
know they will--folks can't help knowin' what they know, and shuttin' one's
eyes won't alter one's road. I s'pose you think 'cause you're young and
middlin' good-lookin' that you have feelin's and I hasn't; well, you're
mistaken, that's all. I don't believe there's one person in the world that
would go farther or do more to save Mara Pennel than I would,--and yet I've
been in the world long enough to see that livin' ain't no great shakes neit=
her.
Ef one is hopefully prepared in the days of their youth, why they escape a =
good
deal, ef they get took cross-lots into heaven."
Sally turned away
thoughtfully into the house; there was no one in the kitchen, and the tick =
of
the old clock sounded lonely and sepulchral. She went upstairs to Mara's ro=
om;
the door was ajar. Mara was sitting at the open window that looked forth to=
ward
the ocean, busily engaged in writing. The glow of evening shone on the gold=
en
waves of her hair, and tinged the pearly outline of her cheek. Sally noticed
the translucent clearness of her complexion, and the deep burning color and=
the
transparency of the little hands, which seemed as if they might transmit the
light like Sèvres porcelain. She was writing with an expression of t=
ender
calm, and sometimes stopping to consult an open letter that Sally knew came
from Moses.
So fair and sweet=
and
serene she looked that a painter might have chosen her for an embodiment of
twilight, and one might not be surprised to see a clear star shining out ov=
er
her forehead. Yet in the tender serenity of the face there dwelt a pathos of
expression that spoke of struggles and sufferings past, like the traces of
tears on the face of a restful infant that has grieved itself to sleep.
Sally came softly=
in
on tiptoe, threw her arms around her, and kissed her, with a half laugh, th=
en
bursting into tears, sobbed upon her shoulder.
"Dear Sally,
what is the matter?" said Mara, looking up.
"Oh, Mara, I
just met Miss Roxy, and she told me"--
Sally only sobbed
passionately.
"It is very =
sad
to make all one's friends so unhappy," said Mara, in a soothing voice,
stroking Sally's hair. "You don't know how much I have suffered dreadi=
ng
it. Sally, it is a long time since I began to expect and dread and fear. My
time of anguish was then--then when I first felt that it could be possible =
that
I should not live after all. There was a long time I dared not even think of
it; I could not even tell such a fear to myself; and I did far more than I =
felt
able to do to convince myself that I was not weak and failing. I have been
often to Miss Roxy, and once, when nobody knew it, I went to a doctor in Br=
unswick,
but then I was afraid to tell him half, lest he should say something about =
me, and
it should get out; and so I went on getting worse and worse, and feeling ev=
ery
day as if I could not keep up, and yet afraid to lie down for fear grandmam=
ma
would suspect me. But this morning it was pleasant and bright, and something
came over me that said I must tell somebody, and so, as it was cool and
pleasant, I walked up to Aunt Roxy's and told her. I thought, you know, that
she knew the most, and would feel it the least; but oh, Sally, she has such=
a
feeling heart, and loves me so; it is strange she should."
"Is it?"
said Sally, tightening her clasp around Mara's neck; and then with a hyster=
ical
shadow of gayety she said, "I suppose you think that you are such a
hobgoblin that nobody could be expected to do that. After all, though, I sh=
ould
have as soon expected roses to bloom in a juniper clump as love from Aunt
Roxy."
"Well, she d=
oes
love me," said Mara. "No mother could be kinder. Poor thing, she
really sobbed and cried when I told her. I was very tired, and she told me =
she
would take care of me, and tell grandpapa and grandmamma,--that had been ly=
ing
on my heart as such a dreadful thing to do,--and she laid me down to rest on
her bed, and spoke so lovingly to me! I wish you could have seen her. And w=
hile
I lay there, I fell into a strange, sweet sort of rest. I can't describe it;
but since then everything has been changed. I wish I could tell any one how=
I
saw things then."
"Do try to t=
ell
me, Mara," said Sally, "for I need comfort too, if there is any t=
o be
had."
"Well, then,=
I
lay on the bed, and the wind drew in from the sea and just lifted the
window-curtain, and I could see the sea shining and hear the waves making a
pleasant little dash, and then my head seemed to swim. I thought I was walk=
ing
out by the pleasant shore, and everything seemed so strangely beautiful, and
grandpapa and grandmamma were there, and Moses had come home, and you were
there, and we were all so happy. And then I felt a sort of strange sense th=
at
something was coming--some great trial or affliction--and I groaned and clu=
ng
to Moses, and asked him to put his arm around me and hold me.
"Then it see=
med
to be not by our seashore that this was happening, but by the Sea of Galile=
e,
just as it tells about it in the Bible, and there were fishermen mending th=
eir
nets, and men sitting counting their money, and I saw Jesus come walking al=
ong,
and heard him say to this one and that one, 'Leave all and follow me,' and =
it
seemed that the moment he spoke they did it, and then he came to me, and I =
felt
his eyes in my very soul, and he said, 'Wilt thou leave all and follow me?'=
I cannot
tell now what a pain I felt--what an anguish. I wanted to leave all, but my
heart felt as if it were tied and woven with a thousand threads, and while I
waited he seemed to fade away, and I found myself then alone and unhappy,
wishing that I could, and mourning that I had not; and then something shone=
out
warm like the sun, and I looked up, and he stood there looking pitifully, a=
nd
he said again just as he did before, 'Wilt thou leave all and follow me?' E=
very
word was so gentle and full of pity, and I looked into his eyes and could n=
ot
look away; they drew me, they warmed me, and I felt a strange, wonderful se=
nse
of his greatness and sweetness. It seemed as if I felt within me cord after=
cord
breaking, I felt so free, so happy; and I said, 'I will, I will, with all my
heart;' and I woke then, so happy, so sure of God's love.
"I saw so
clearly how his love is in everything, and these words came into my mind as=
if
an angel had spoken them, 'God shall wipe away all tears from their eyes.'
Since then I cannot be unhappy. I was so myself only this morning, and now I
wonder that any one can have a grief when God is so loving and good, and ca=
res
so sweetly for us all. Why, Sally, if I could see Christ and hear him speak=
, I
could not be more certain that he will make this sorrow such a blessing to =
us
all that we shall never be able to thank him enough for it."
"Oh Mara,&qu=
ot;
said Sally, sighing deeply, while her cheek was wet with tears, "it is
beautiful to hear you talk; but there is one that I am sure will not and ca=
nnot
feel so."
"God will ca=
re
for him," said Mara; "oh, I am sure of it; He is love itself, and=
He
values his love in us, and He never, never would have brought such a trial,=
if
it had not been the true and only way to our best good. We shall not shed o=
ne
needless tear. Yes, if God loved us so that he spared not his own Son, he w=
ill
surely give us all the good here that we possibly can have without risking =
our
eternal happiness."
"You are wri=
ting
to Moses, now?" said Sally.
"Yes, I am
answering his letter; it is so full of spirit and life and hope--but all ho=
pe
in this world--all, all earthly, as much as if there was no God and no worl=
d to
come. Sally, perhaps our Father saw that I could not have strength to live =
with
him and keep my faith. I should be drawn by him earthward instead of drawing
him heavenward; and so this is in mercy to us both."
"And are you
telling him the whole truth, Mara?"
"Not all,
no," said Mara; "he could not bear it at once. I only tell him th=
at
my health is failing, and that my friends are seriously alarmed, and then I
speak as if it were doubtful, in my mind, what the result might be."
"I don't thi=
nk
you can make him feel as you do. Moses Pennel has a tremendous will, and he
never yielded to any one. You bend, Mara, like the little blue harebells, a=
nd
so the storm goes over you; but he will stand up against it, and it will wr=
ench
and shatter him. I am afraid, instead of making him better, it will only ma=
ke
him bitter and rebellious."
"He has a Fa=
ther
in heaven who knows how to care for him," said Mara. "I am
persuaded--I feel certain that he will be blessed in the end; not perhaps in
the time and way I should have chosen, but in the end. I have always felt t=
hat
he was mine, ever since he came a little shipwrecked boy to me--a little gi=
rl.
And now I have given him up to his Saviour and my Saviour--to his God and my
God--and I am perfectly at peace. All will be well."
Mara spoke with a
look of such solemn, bright assurance as made her, in the dusky, golden
twilight, seem like some serene angel sent down to comfort, rather than a
hapless mortal just wrenched from life and hope.
Sally rose up and
kissed her silently. "Mara," she said, "I shall come to-morr=
ow
to see what I can do for you. I will not interrupt you now. Good-by,
dear."
*
There are no doubt
many, who have followed this history so long as it danced like a gay little
boat over sunny waters, and who would have followed it gayly to the end, ha=
d it
closed with ringing of marriage-bells, who turn from it indignantly, when t=
hey
see that its course runs through the dark valley. This, they say, is an
imposition, a trick upon our feelings. We want to read only stories which e=
nd
in joy and prosperity.
But have we then
settled it in our own mind that there is no such thing as a fortunate issue=
in
a history which does not terminate in the way of earthly success and good
fortune? Are we Christians or heathen? It is now eighteen centuries since, =
as
we hold, the "highly favored among women" was pronounced to be one
whose earthly hopes were all cut off in the blossom,--whose noblest and dea=
rest
in the morning of his days went down into the shadows of death.
Was Mary the highly-favored among women, and was Jesus indeed the blessed,--or was the a= ngel mistaken? If they were these, if we are Christians, it ought to be a settled and established habit of our souls to regard something else as prosperity t= han worldly success and happy marriages. That life is a success which, like the life of Jesus, in its beginning, middle, and close, has borne a perfect wit= ness to the truth and the highest form of truth. It is true that God has given to us, and inwoven in our nature a desire for a perfection and completeness ma= de manifest to our senses in this mortal life. To see the daughter bloom into youth and womanhood, the son into manhood, to see them marry and become themselves parents, and gradually ripen and develop in the maturities of middle life, gradually wear into a sunny autumn, and so be gathered in fullness of time = to their fathers,--such, one says, is the programme which God has made us to desire; such the ideal of happiness which he has interwoven with our nerves, and for which our heart and our flesh crieth out; to which every stroke of a knell is a violence, and every thought of an early death is an abhorrence.<= o:p>
But the life of
Christ and his mother sets the foot on this lower ideal of happiness, and
teaches us that there is something higher. His ministry began with declarin=
g,
"Blessed are they that mourn." It has been well said that prosper=
ity
was the blessing of the Old Testament, and adversity of the New. Christ cam=
e to
show us a nobler style of living and bearing; and so far as he had a person=
al
and earthly life, he buried it as a corner-stone on which to erect a new
immortal style of architecture.
Of his own, he had
nothing, neither houses, nor lands, nor family ties, nor human hopes, nor
earthly sphere of success; and as a human life, it was all a sacrifice and a
defeat. He was rejected by his countrymen, whom the passionate anguish of h=
is
love and the unwearied devotion of his life could not save from an awful do=
om.
He was betrayed by weak friends, prevailed against by slanderers, overwhelm=
ed
with an ignominious death in the morning of youth, and his mother stood by =
his cross,
and she was the only woman whom God ever called highly favored in this worl=
d.
This, then, is the
great and perfect ideal of what God honors. Christ speaks of himself as bre=
ad
to be eaten,--bread, simple, humble, unpretending, vitally necessary to hum=
an
life, made by the bruising and grinding of the grain, unostentatiously havi=
ng
no life or worth of its own except as it is absorbed into the life of others
and lives in them. We wished in this history to speak of a class of lives
formed on the model of Christ, and like his, obscure and unpretending, like
his, seeming to end in darkness and defeat, but which yet have this preciou=
sness
and value that the dear saints who live them come nearest in their mission =
to
the mission of Jesus. They are made, not for a career and history of their =
own,
but to be bread of life to others. In every household or house have been so=
me
of these, and if we look on their lives and deaths with the unbaptized eyes=
of
nature, we shall see only most mournful and unaccountable failure, when, if=
we
could look with the eye of faith, we should see that their living and dying=
has
been bread of life to those they left behind. Fairest of these, and least
developed, are the holy innocents who come into our households to smile with
the smile of angels, who sleep in our bosoms, and win us with the softness =
of
tender little hands, and pass away like the lamb that was slain before they
have ever learned the speech of mortals. Not vain are even these silent liv=
es
of Christ's lambs, whom many an earth-bound heart has been roused to follow
when the Shepherd bore them to the higher pastures. And so the daughter who
died so early, whose wedding-bells were never rung except in heaven,--the s=
on
who had no career of ambition or a manly duty except among the angels,--the
patient sufferers, whose only lot on earth seemed to be to endure, whose li=
fe bled
away drop by drop in the shadows of the sick-room--all these are among those
whose life was like Christ's in that they were made, not for themselves, bu=
t to
become bread to us.
It is expedient f=
or
us that they go away. Like their Lord, they come to suffer, and to die; they
take part in his sacrifice; their life is incomplete without their death, a=
nd
not till they are gone away does the Comforter fully come to us.
It is a beautiful
legend which one sees often represented in the churches of Europe, that when
the grave of the mother of Jesus was opened, it was found full of blossoming
lilies,--fit emblem of the thousand flowers of holy thought and purpose whi=
ch
spring up in our hearts from the memory of our sainted dead.
Cannot many, who =
read
these lines, bethink them of such rooms that have been the most cheerful pl=
aces
in the family,--when the heart of the smitten one seemed the band that bound
all the rest together,--and have there not been dying hours which shed such=
a
joy and radiance on all around, that it was long before the mourners rememb=
ered
to mourn? Is it not a misuse of words to call such a heavenly translation
death? and to call most things that are lived out on this earth life?
CHAPTER XXXIX - THE LAND =
OF
BEULAH
It is now about a month after the
conversation which we have recorded, and during that time the process which=
was
to loose from this present life had been going on in Mara with a soft,
insensible, but steady power. When she ceased to make efforts beyond her
strength, and allowed herself that languor and repose which nature claimed,=
all
around her soon became aware how her strength was failing; and yet a cheerf=
ul repose
seemed to hallow the atmosphere around her. The sight of her every day in
family worship, sitting by in such tender tranquillity, with such a smile on
her face, seemed like a present inspiration. And though the aged pair knew =
that
she was no more for this world, yet she was comforting and inspiring to the=
ir
view as the angel who of old rolled back the stone from the sepulchre and s=
at
upon it. They saw in her eyes, not death, but the solemn victory which Chri=
st
gives over death.
Bunyan has no more
lovely poem than the image he gives of that land of pleasant waiting which
borders the river of death, where the chosen of the Lord repose, while shin=
ing
messengers, constantly passing and repassing, bear tidings from the celesti=
al
shore, opening a way between earth and heaven. It was so, that through the =
very
thought of Mara an influence of tenderness and tranquillity passed through =
the
whole neighborhood, keeping hearts fresh with sympathy, and causing thought=
and
conversation to rest on those bright mysteries of eternal joy which were
reflected on her face.
Sally Kittridge w=
as
almost a constant inmate of the brown house, ever ready in watching and
waiting; and one only needed to mark the expression of her face to feel tha=
t a
holy charm was silently working upon her higher and spiritual nature. Those
great, dark, sparkling eyes that once seemed to express only the brightness=
of
animal vivacity, and glittered like a brook in unsympathetic gayety, had in
them now mysterious depths, and tender, fleeting shadows, and the very tone=
of her
voice had a subdued tremor. The capricious elf, the tricksy sprite, was mel=
ting
away in the immortal soul, and the deep pathetic power of a noble heart was
being born. Some influence sprung of sorrow is necessary always to perfect
beauty in womanly nature. We feel its absence in many whose sparkling wit a=
nd
high spirits give grace and vivacity to life, but in whom we vainly seek for
some spot of quiet tenderness and sympathetic repose. Sally was, ignorantly=
to
herself, changing in the expression of her face and the tone of her charact=
er,
as she ministered in the daily wants which sickness brings in a simple
household.
For the rest of t=
he
neighborhood, the shelves and larder of Mrs. Pennel were constantly crowded
with the tributes which one or another sent in for the invalid. There was j=
elly
of Iceland moss sent across by Miss Emily, and brought by Mr. Sewell, whose
calls were almost daily. There were custards and preserves, and every form =
of
cake and other confections in which the housekeeping talent of the neighbors
delighted, and which were sent in under the old superstition that sick peop=
le
must be kept eating at all hazards.
At church, Sunday
after Sunday, the simple note requested the prayers of the church and
congregation for Mara Lincoln, who was, as the note phrased it, drawing near
her end, that she and all concerned might be prepared for the great and last
change. One familiar with New England customs must have remembered with wha=
t a
plaintive power the reading of such a note, from Sunday to Sunday, has drawn
the thoughts and sympathies of a congregation to some chamber of sickness; =
and in
a village church, where every individual is known from childhood to every o=
ther,
the power of this simple custom is still greater.
Then the prayers =
of
the minister would dwell on the case, and thanks would be rendered to God f=
or
the great light and peace with which he had deigned to visit his young
handmaid; and then would follow a prayer that when these sad tidings should
reach a distant friend who had gone down to do business on the great waters,
they might be sanctified to his spiritual and everlasting good. Then on Sun=
day
noons, as the people ate their dinners together in a room adjoining the chu=
rch,
all that she said and did was talked over and over,--how quickly she had ga=
ined
the victory of submission, the peace of a will united with God's, mixed wit=
h harmless
gossip of the sick chamber,--as to what she ate and how she slept, and who =
had
sent her gruel with raisins in it, and who jelly with wine, and how she had
praised this and eaten that twice with a relish, but how the other had seem=
ed
to disagree with her. Thereafter would come scraps of nursing information,
recipes against coughing, specifics against short breath, speculations about
watchers, how soon she would need them, and long legends of other death-beds
where the fear of death had been slain by the power of an endless life.
Yet through all t=
he
gossip, and through much that might have been called at other times commonp=
lace
cant of religion, there was spread a tender earnestness, and the whole air
seemed to be enchanted with the fragrance of that fading rose. Each one spo=
ke
more gently, more lovingly to each, for the thought of her.
It was now a brig=
ht
September morning, and the early frosts had changed the maples in the
pine-woods to scarlet, and touched the white birches with gold, when one
morning Miss Roxy presented herself at an early hour at Captain Kittridge's=
.
They were at
breakfast, and Sally was dispensing the tea at the head of the table, Mrs.
Kittridge having been prevailed on to abdicate in her favor.
"It is such a
fine morning," she said, looking out at the window, which showed a
waveless expanse of ocean. "I do hope Mara has had a good night."=
"I'm a-goin'=
to
make her some jelly this very forenoon," said Mrs. Kittridge. "Au=
nt
Roxy was a-tellin' me yesterday that she was a-goin' down to stay at the ho=
use
regular, for she needed so much done now."
"It's 'most =
an
amazin' thing we don't hear from Moses Pennel," said Captain Kittridge.
"If he don't make haste, he may never see her."
"There's Aunt
Roxy at this minute," said Sally.
In truth, the door
opened at this moment, and Aunt Roxy entered with a little blue bandbox and=
a
bundle tied up in a checked handkerchief.
"Oh, Aunt
Roxy," said Mrs. Kittridge, "you are on your way, are you? Do sit
down, right here, and get a cup of strong tea."
"Thank
you," said Aunt Roxy, "but Ruey gave me a humming cup before I ca=
me
away."
"Aunt Roxy, =
have
they heard anything from Moses?" said the Captain.
"No, father,=
I
know they haven't," said Sally. "Mara has written to him, and so =
has
Mr. Sewell, but it is very uncertain whether he ever got the letters."=
"It's most t=
ime
to be a-lookin' for him home," said the Captain. "I shouldn't be
surprised to see him any day."
At this moment Sa=
lly,
who sat where she could see from the window, gave a sudden start and a half
scream, and rising from the table, darted first to the window and then to t=
he
door, whence she rushed out eagerly.
"Well, what
now?" said the Captain.
"I am sure I
don't know what's come over her," said Mrs. Kittridge, rising to look =
out.
"Why, Aunt R=
oxy,
do look; I believe to my soul that ar's Moses Pennel!"
And so it was. He=
met
Sally, as she ran out, with a gloomy brow and scarcely a look even of
recognition; but he seized her hand and wrung it in the stress of his emoti=
on
so that she almost screamed with the pain.
"Tell me,
Sally," he said, "tell me the truth. I dared not go home without I
knew. Those gossiping, lying reports are always exaggerated. They are dread=
ful
exaggerations,--they frighten a sick person into the grave; but you have go=
od
sense and a hopeful, cheerful temper,--you must see and know how things are.
Mara is not so very--very"--He held Sally's hand and looked at her wit=
h a
burning eagerness. "Say, what do you think of her?"
"We all think
that we cannot long keep her with us," said Sally. "And oh, Moses=
, I
am so glad you have come."
"It's false,=
--it
must be false," he said, violently; "nothing is more deceptive th=
an
these ideas that doctors and nurses pile on when a sensitive person is going
down a little. I know Mara; everything depends on the mind with her. I shall
wake her up out of this dream. She is not to die. She shall not die,--I com=
e to
save her."
"Oh, if you
could!" said Sally, mournfully.
"It cannot b=
e;
it is not to be," he said again, as if to convince himself. "No s=
uch
thing is to be thought of. Tell me, Sally, have you tried to keep up the
cheerful side of things to her,--have you?"
"Oh, you can=
not
tell, Moses, how it is, unless you see her. She is cheerful, happy; the only
really joyous one among us."
"Cheerful!
joyous! happy! She does not believe, then, these frightful things? I thought
she would keep up; she is a brave little thing."
"No, Moses, =
she
does believe. She has given up all hope of life,--all wish to live; and oh,=
she
is so lovely,--so sweet,--so dear."
Sally covered her
face with her hands and sobbed. Moses stood still, looking at her a moment =
in a
confused way, and then he answered,--
"Come, get y=
our
bonnet, Sally, and go with me. You must go in and tell them; tell her that =
I am
come, you know."
"Yes, I
will," said Sally, as she ran quickly back to the house.
Moses stood
listlessly looking after her. A moment after she came out of the door again,
and Miss Roxy behind. Sally hurried up to Moses.
"Where's that
black old raven going?" said Moses, in a low voice, looking back on Mi=
ss
Roxy, who stood on the steps.
"What, Aunt
Roxy?" said Sally; "why, she's going up to nurse Mara, and take c=
are
of her. Mrs. Pennel is so old and infirm she needs somebody to depend on.&q=
uot;
"I can't bear
her," said Moses. "I always think of sick-rooms and coffins and a
stifling smell of camphor when I see her. I never could endure her. She's an
old harpy going to carry off my dove."
"Now, Moses,=
you
must not talk so. She loves Mara dearly, the poor old soul, and Mara loves =
her,
and there is no earthly thing she would not do for her. And she knows what =
to
do for sickness better than you or I. I have found out one thing, that it i=
sn't
mere love and good-will that is needed in a sick-room; it needs knowledge a=
nd
experience."
Moses assented in
gloomy silence, and they walked on together the way that they had so often
taken laughing and chatting. When they came within sight of the house, Moses
said,--
"Here she ca=
me
running to meet us; do you remember?"
"Yes," =
said
Sally.
"I was never
half worthy of her. I never said half what I ought to," he added.
"She must live! I must have one more chance."
When they came up=
to
the house, Zephaniah Pennel was sitting in the door, with his gray head bent
over the leaves of the great family Bible.
He rose up at the= ir coming, and with that suppression of all external signs of feeling for which the New Englander is remarkable, simply shook the hand of Moses, saying,--<= o:p>
"Well, my bo=
y,
we are glad you have come."
Mrs. Pennel, who =
was
busied in some domestic work in the back part of the kitchen, turned away a=
nd
hid her face in her apron when she saw him. There fell a great silence among
them, in the midst of which the old clock ticked loudly and importunately, =
like
the inevitable approach of fate.
"I will go up
and see her, and get her ready," said Sally, in a whisper to Moses.
"I'll come and call you."
Moses sat down and
looked around on the old familiar scene; there was the great fireplace wher=
e,
in their childish days, they had sat together winter nights,--her fair,
spiritual face enlivened by the blaze, while she knit and looked thoughtful=
ly
into the coals; there she had played checkers, or fox and geese, with him; =
or
studied with him the Latin lessons; or sat by, grave and thoughtful, hemming
his toyship sails, while he cut the moulds for his anchors, or tried
experiments on pulleys; and in all these years he could not remember one
selfish action,--one unlovely word,--and he thought to himself, "I hop=
ed
to possess this angel as a mortal wife! God forgive my presumption."
CHAPTER XL - THE MEETING<=
/span>
Sally found Mara sitting in an easy=
-chair
that had been sent to her by the provident love of Miss Emily. It was wheel=
ed
in front of her room window, from whence she could look out upon the wide
expanse of the ocean. It was a gloriously bright, calm morning, and the wat=
er
lay clear and still, with scarce a ripple, to the far distant pearly horizo=
n.
She seemed to be looking at it in a kind of calm ecstasy, and murmuring the=
words
of a hymn:--
"Nor wreck nor ru=
in
there is seen, There=
not a
wave of trouble rolls, But the bright ra=
inbow
round the throne Peals
endless peace to all their souls."
Sally came softly
behind her on tiptoe to kiss her. "Good-morning, dear, how do you find
yourself?"
"Quite
well," was the answer.
"Mara, is not
there anything you want?"
"There might=
be
many things; but His will is mine."
"You want to=
see
Moses?"
"Very much; =
but
I shall see him as soon as it is best for us both."
"Mara,--he is
come."
The quick blood
flushed over the pale, transparent face as a virgin glacier flushes at sunr=
ise,
and she looked up eagerly. "Come!"
"Yes, he is
below-stairs wanting to see you."
She seemed about =
to
speak eagerly, and then checked herself and mused a moment. "Poor, poor
boy!" she said. "Yes, Sally, let him come at once."
There were a few
dazzling, dreamy minutes when Moses first held that frail form in his arms,
which but for its tender, mortal warmth, might have seemed to him a spirit.=
It
was no spirit, but a woman whose heart he could feel thrilling against his =
own;
who seemed to him like some frail, fluttering bird; but somehow, as he look=
ed
into her clear, transparent face, and pressed her thin little hands in his,=
the
conviction stole over him overpoweringly that she was indeed fading away and
going from him,--drawn from him by that mysterious, irresistible power agai=
nst
which human strength, even in the strongest, has no chance.
It is dreadful to=
a
strong man who has felt the influence of his strength,--who has always been
ready with a resource for every emergency, and a weapon for every battle,--=
when
first he meets that mighty invisible power by which a beloved life--a life =
he
would give his own blood to save--melts and dissolves like smoke before his
eyes.
"Oh, Mara,
Mara," he groaned, "this is too dreadful, too cruel; it is cruel.=
"
"You will th=
ink
so at first, but not always," she said, soothingly. "You will liv=
e to
see a joy come out of this sorrow."
"Never, Mara,
never. I cannot believe that kind of talk. I see no love, no mercy in it. Of
course, if there is any life after death you will be happy; if there is a
heaven you will be there; but can this dim, unsubstantial, cloudy prospect =
make
you happy in leaving me and giving up one's lover? Oh, Mara, you cannot lov=
e as
I do, or you could not"--
"Moses, I ha=
ve
suffered,--oh, very, very much. It was many months ago when I first thought
that I must give everything up,--when I thought that we must part; but Chri=
st
helped me; he showed me his wonderful love,--the love that surrounds us all=
our
life, that follows us in all our wanderings, and sustains us in all our
weaknesses,--and then I felt that whatever He wills for us is in love; oh,
believe it,--believe it for my sake, for your own."
"Oh, I canno=
t, I
cannot," said Moses; but as he looked at the bright, pale face, and fe=
lt
how the tempest of his feelings shook the frail form, he checked himself.
"I do wrong to agitate you so, Mara. I will try to be calm."
"And to
pray?" she said, beseechingly.
He shut his lips =
in
gloomy silence.
"Promise
me," she said.
"I have pray=
ed
ever since I got your first letter, and I see it does no good," he
answered. "Our prayers cannot alter fate."
"Fate! there=
is
no fate," she answered; "there is a strong and loving Father who
guides the way, though we know it not. We cannot resist His will; but it is=
all
love,--pure, pure love."
At this moment Sa=
lly
came softly into the room. A gentle air of womanly authority seemed to expr=
ess
itself in that once gay and giddy face, at which Moses, in the midst of his
misery, marveled.
"You must not
stay any longer now," she said; "it would be too much for her
strength; this is enough for this morning."
Moses turned away,
and silently left the room, and Sally said to Mara,--
"You must lie
down now, and rest."
"Sally,"
said Mara, "promise me one thing."
"Well, Mara;=
of
course I will."
"Promise to =
love
him and care for him when I am gone; he will be so lonely."
"I will do a=
ll I
can, Mara," said Sally, soothingly; "so now you must take a little
wine and lie down. You know what you have so often said, that all will yet =
be
well with him."
"Oh, I know =
it,
I am sure," said Mara, "but oh, his sorrow shook my very heart.&q=
uot;
"You must not
talk another word about it," said Sally, peremptorily, "Do you kn=
ow
Aunt Roxy is coming to see you? I see her out of the window this very
moment."
And Sally assiste=
d to
lay her friend on the bed, and then, administering a stimulant, she drew do=
wn
the curtains, and, sitting beside her, began repeating, in a soft monotonous
tone, the words of a favorite hymn:--
"The Lord my shep=
herd
is, =
span>I
shall be well supplied; Since He is mine,=
and I
am His, What =
can I
want beside?"
Before she had
finished, Mara was asleep.
Moses came down from the chamber of=
Mara
in a tempest of contending emotions. He had all that constitutional horror =
of
death and the spiritual world which is an attribute of some particularly st=
rong
and well-endowed physical natures, and he had all that instinctive resistan=
ce
of the will which such natures offer to anything which strikes athwart their
cherished hopes and plans. To be wrenched suddenly from the sphere of an
earthly life and made to confront the unclosed doors of a spiritual world on
the behalf of the one dearest to him, was to him a dreary horror uncheered =
by
one filial belief in God. He felt, furthermore, that blind animal irritation
which assails one under a sudden blow, whether of the body or of the soul,-=
-an
anguish of resistance, a vague blind anger.
Mr. Sewell was
sitting in the kitchen,--he had called to see Mara, and waited for the clos=
e of
the interview above. He rose and offered his hand to Moses, who took it in
gloomy silence, without a smile or word.
"'My son, de=
spise
not thou the chastening of the Lord,'" said Mr. Sewell.
"I cannot be=
ar
that sort of thing," said Moses abruptly, and almost fiercely. "I=
beg
your pardon, sir, but it irritates me."
"Do you not
believe that afflictions are sent for our improvement?" said Mr. Sewel=
l.
"No! how can=
I?
What improvement will there be to me in taking from me the angel who guided=
me
to all good, and kept me from all evil; the one pure motive and holy influe=
nce
of my life? If you call this the chastening of a loving father, I must say =
it
looks more to me like the caprice of an evil spirit."
"Had you ever
thanked the God of your life for this gift, or felt your dependence on him =
to
keep it? Have you not blindly idolized the creature and forgotten Him who g=
ave
it?" said Mr. Sewell.
Moses was silent a
moment.
"I cannot
believe there is a God," he said. "Since this fear came on me I h=
ave
prayed,--yes, and humbled myself; for I know I have not always been what I
ought. I promised if he would grant me this one thing, I would seek him in
future; but it did no good,--it's of no use to pray. I would have been good=
in
this way, if she might be spared, and I cannot in any other."
"My son, our
Lord and Master will have no such conditions from us," said Mr. Sewell.
"We must submit unconditionally. She has done it, and her peace is as =
firm
as the everlasting hills. God's will is a great current that flows in spite=
of
us; if we go with it, it carries us to endless rest,--if we resist, we only
wear our lives out in useless struggles."
Moses stood a mom=
ent
in silence, and then, turning away without a word, hurried from the house. =
He
strode along the high rocky bluff, through tangled junipers and pine thicke=
ts,
till he came above the rocky cove which had been his favorite retreat on so
many occasions. He swung himself down over the cliffs into the grotto, wher=
e,
shut in by the high tide, he felt himself alone. There he had read Mr. Sewe=
ll's
letter, and dreamed vain dreams of wealth and worldly success, now all to h=
im
so void. He felt to-day, as he sat there and watched the ships go by, how u=
tterly
nothing all the wealth in the world was, in the loss of that one heart.
Unconsciously, even to himself, sorrow was doing her ennobling ministry wit=
hin
him, melting off in her fierce fires trivial ambitions and low desires, and
making him feel the sole worth and value of love. That which in other days =
had
seemed only as one good thing among many now seemed the only thing in life.=
And
he who has learned the paramount value of love has taken one step from an
earthly to a spiritual existence.
But as he lay the=
re
on the pebbly shore, hour after hour glided by, his whole past life lived
itself over to his eye; he saw a thousand actions, he heard a thousand word=
s,
whose beauty and significance never came to him till now. And alas! he saw =
so
many when, on his part, the responsive word that should have been spoken, a=
nd
the deed that should have been done, was forever wanting. He had all his li=
fe
carried within him a vague consciousness that he had not been to Mara what =
he
should have been, but he had hoped to make amends for all in that future wh=
ich
lay before him,--that future now, alas! dissolving and fading away like the=
white
cloud-islands which the wind was drifting from the sky. A voice seemed sayi=
ng
in his ears, "Ye know that when he would have inherited a blessing he =
was
rejected; for he found no place for repentance, though he sought it careful=
ly
with tears." Something that he had never felt before struck him as
appalling in the awful fixedness of all past deeds and words,--the unkind w=
ords
once said, which no tears could unsay,--the kind ones suppressed, to which =
no
agony of wishfulness could give a past reality. There were particular times=
in
their past history that he remembered so vividly, when he saw her so
clearly,--doing some little thing for him, and shyly watching for the word =
of
acknowledgment, which he did not give. Some willful wayward demon withheld =
him
at the moment, and the light on the little wishful face slowly faded. True,=
all
had been a thousand times forgiven and forgotten between them, but it is th=
e ministry
of these great vital hours of sorrow to teach us that nothing in the soul's
history ever dies or is forgotten, and when the beloved one lies stricken a=
nd
ready to pass away, comes the judgment-day of love, and all the dead moment=
s of
the past arise and live again.
He lay there musi=
ng
and dreaming till the sun grew low in the afternoon sky, and the tide that
isolated the little grotto had gone far out into the ocean, leaving long, l=
ow
reefs of sunken rocks, all matted and tangled with the yellow hair of the
seaweed, with little crystal pools of salt water between. He heard the soun=
d of
approaching footsteps, and Captain Kittridge came slowly picking his way ro=
und
among the shingle and pebbles.
"Wal', now, I
thought I'd find ye here!" he said: "I kind o' thought I wanted to
see ye,--ye see."
Moses looked up h=
alf
moody, half astonished, while the Captain seated himself upon a fragment of
rock and began brushing the knees of his trousers industriously, until soon=
the
tears rained down from his eyes upon his dry withered hands.
"Wal', now ye see, I can't help it, darned if I can; knowed her ever since she's that hig= h. She's done me good, she has. Mis' Kittridge has been pretty faithful. I've = had folks here and there talk to me consid'able, but Lord bless you, I never had nothin' go to my heart like this 'ere--Why to look on her there couldn't no= body doubt but what there was somethin' in religion. You never knew half what she did for you, Moses Pennel, you didn't know that the night you was off down = to the long cove with Skipper Atkinson, that 'ere blessed child was a-follerin= ' you, but she was, and she come to me next day to get me to do somethin' for you. That was how your grand'ther and I got ye off to sea so quick, and she such= a little thing then; that ar child was the savin' of ye, Moses Pennel."<= o:p>
Moses hid his hea=
d in
his hands with a sort of groan.
"Wal',
wal'," said the Captain, "I don't wonder now ye feel so,--I don't=
see
how ye can stan' it no ways--only by thinkin' o' where she's goin' to--Them=
ar
bells in the Celestial City must all be a-ringin' for her,--there'll be joy
that side o' the river I reckon, when she gets acrost. If she'd jest leave =
me a
hem o' her garment to get in by, I'd be glad; but she was one o' the sort t=
hat
was jest made to go to heaven. She only stopped a few days in our world, li=
ke
the robins when they's goin' south; but there'll be a good many fust and la=
st
that'll get into the kingdom for love of her. She never said much to me, but
she kind o' drew me. Ef ever I should get in there, it'll be she led me. But
come, now, Moses, ye oughtn't fur to be a-settin' here catchin' cold--jest =
come
round to our house and let Sally gin you a warm cup o' tea--do come, now.&q=
uot;
"Thank you,
Captain," said Moses, "but I will go home; I must see her again
to-night."
"Wal', don't=
let
her see you grieve too much, ye know; we must be a little sort o' manly, ye
know, 'cause her body's weak, if her heart is strong."
Now Moses was in a mood of dry, proud, fierce, self-consuming sorrow, least likely to open his heart or seek sympathy from any one; and no friend or acquaintance would probably have dared to intrude on his grief. But there are moods of the mind which cannot be touched or handled by one on an equal level with us that yi= eld at once to the sympathy of something below. A dog who comes with his great honest, sorrowful face and lays his mute paw of inquiry on your knee, will = sometimes open floodgates of sober feeling, that have remained closed to every human touch;--the dumb simplicity and ignorance of his sympathy makes it irresistible. In like manner the downright grief of the good-natured old Captain, and the child-like ignorance with which he ventured upon a ministr= y of consolation from which a more cultivated person would have shrunk away, were irresistibly touching. Moses grasped the dry, withered hand and said, "Thank you, thank you, Captain Kittridge; you're a true friend."<= o:p>
"Wal', I be,
that's a fact, Moses. Lord bless me, I ain't no great--I ain't nobody--I'm =
jest
an old last-year's mullein-stalk in the Lord's vineyard; but that 'ere bles=
sed
little thing allers had a good word for me. She gave me a hymn-book and mar=
ked
some hymns in it, and read 'em to me herself, and her voice was jest as swe=
et
as the sea of a warm evening. Them hymns come to me kind o' powerful when I=
'm
at my work planin' and sawin'. Mis' Kittridge, she allers talks to me as ef=
I
was a terrible sinner; and I suppose I be, but this 'ere blessed child, she=
's so
kind o' good and innocent, she thinks I'm good; kind o' takes it for granted
I'm one o' the Lord's people, ye know. It kind o' makes me want to be, ye
know."
The Captain here
produced from his coat-pocket a much worn hymn-book, and showed Moses where
leaves were folded down. "Now here's this 'ere," he said; "y=
ou
get her to say it to you," he added, pointing to the well-known sacred
idly which has refreshed so many hearts:--
"There is a land =
of
pure delight Where
saints immortal reign; Eternal day exclu=
des
the night, And
pleasures banish pain.
"There everlasting
spring abides, And
never-fading flowers; Death like a narr=
ow sea
divides This =
happy
land from ours."
"Now that ar
beats everything," said the Captain, "and we must kind o' think o=
f it
for her, 'cause she's goin' to see all that, and ef it's our loss it's her
gain, ye know."
"I know,&quo=
t;
said Moses; "our grief is selfish."
"Jest so. Wa=
l',
we're selfish critters, we be," said the Captain; "but arter all,=
't
ain't as ef we was heathen and didn't know where they was a-goin' to. We je=
st
ought to be a-lookin' about and tryin' to foller 'em, ye know."
"Yes, yes, I=
do
know," said Moses; "it's easy to say, but hard to do."
"But law, ma=
n,
she prays for you; she did years and years ago, when you was a boy and she a
girl. You know it tells in the Revelations how the angels has golden vials =
full
of odors which are the prayers of saints. I tell ye Moses, you ought to get
into heaven, if no one else does. I expect you are pretty well known among =
the
angels by this time. I tell ye what 'tis, Moses, fellers think it a mighty
pretty thing to be a-steppin' high, and a-sayin' they don't believe the Bib=
le,
and all that ar, so long as the world goes well. This 'ere old Bible--why i=
t's
jest like yer mother,--ye rove and ramble, and cut up round the world witho=
ut her
a spell, and mebbe think the old woman ain't so fashionable as some; but wh=
en
sickness and sorrow comes, why, there ain't nothin' else to go back to. Is
there, now?"
Moses did not ans=
wer,
but he shook the hand of the Captain and turned away.
The setting sun gleamed in at the w=
indow
of Mara's chamber, tinted with rose and violet hues from a great cloud-cast=
le
that lay upon the smooth ocean over against the window. Mara was lying upon=
the
bed, but she raised herself upon her elbow to look out.
"Dear Aunt
Roxy," she said, "raise me up and put the pillows behind me, so t=
hat
I can see out--it is splendid."
Aunt Roxy came and
arranged the pillows, and lifted the girl with her long, strong arms, then
stooping over her a moment she finished her arrangements by softly smoothing
the hair from her forehead with a caressing movement most unlike her usual
precise business-like proceedings.
"I love you,
Aunt Roxy," said Mara, looking up with a smile.
Aunt Roxy made a
strange wry face, which caused her to look harder than usual. She was choked
with tenderness, and had only this uncomely way of showing it.
"Law now, Ma=
ra,
I don't see how ye can; I ain't nothin' but an old burdock-bush; love ain't=
for
me."
"Yes it is
too," said Mara, drawing her down and kissing her withered cheek,
"and you sha'n't call yourself an old burdock. God sees that you are
beautiful, and in the resurrection everybody will see it."
"I was always
homely as an owl," said Miss Roxy, unconsciously speaking out what had
lain like a stone at the bottom of even her sensible heart. "I always =
had
sense to know it, and knew my sphere. Homely folks would like to say pretty
things, and to have pretty things said to them, but they never do. I made u=
p my
mind pretty early that my part in the vineyard was to have hard work and no
posies."
"Well, you w=
ill
have all the more in heaven; I love you dearly, and I like your looks, too.=
You
look kind and true and good, and that's beauty in the country where we are
going."
Miss Roxy sprang =
up
quickly from the bed, and turning her back began to arrange the bottles on =
the
table with great zeal.
"Has Moses c=
ome
in yet?" said Mara.
"No, there a=
in't
nobody seen a thing of him since he went out this morning."
"Poor boy!&q=
uot;
said Mara, "it is too hard upon him. Aunt Roxy, please pick some roses=
off
the bush from under the window and put in the vases; let's have the room as
sweet and cheerful as we can. I hope God will let me live long enough to
comfort him. It is not so very terrible, if one would only think so, to cro=
ss
that river. All looks so bright to me now that I have forgotten how sorrow
seemed. Poor Moses! he will have a hard struggle, but he will get the victo=
ry,
too. I am very weak to-night, but to-morrow I shall feel better, and I shall
sit up, and perhaps I can paint a little on that flower I was doing for him=
. We
will not have things look sickly or deathly. There, Aunt Roxy, he has come =
in;
I hear his step."
"I didn't he=
ar
it," said Miss Roxy, surprised at the acute senses which sickness had
etherealized to an almost spirit-like intensity. "Shall I call him?&qu=
ot;
"Yes, do,&qu=
ot;
said Mara. "He can sit with me a little while to-night."
The light in the =
room
was a strange dusky mingling of gold and gloom, when Moses stole softly in.=
The
great cloud-castle that a little while since had glowed like living gold fr=
om
turret and battlement, now dim, changed for the most part to a sombre gray,
enlivened with a dull glow of crimson; but there was still a golden light w=
here
the sun had sunk into the sea. Moses saw the little thin hand stretched out=
to
him.
"Sit down,&q=
uot;
she said; "it has been such a beautiful sunset. Did you notice it?&quo=
t;
He sat down by the
bed, leaning his forehead on his hand, but saying nothing.
She drew her fing=
ers
through his dark hair. "I am so glad to see you," she said. "=
;It
is such a comfort to me that you have come; and I hope it will be to you. Y=
ou
know I shall be better to-morrow than I am to-night, and I hope we shall ha=
ve
some pleasant days together yet. We mustn't reject what little we may have,
because it cannot be more."
"Oh, Mara,&q=
uot;
said Moses, "I would give my life, if I could take back the past. I ha=
ve
never been worthy of you; never knew your worth; never made you happy. You
always lived for me, and I lived for myself. I deserve to lose you, but it =
is
none the less bitter."
"Don't say l=
ose.
Why must you? I cannot think of losing you. I know I shall not. God has giv=
en
you to me. You will come to me and be mine at last. I feel sure of it."=
;
"You don't k=
now
me," said Moses.
"Christ does,
though," she said; "and He has promised to care for you. Yes, you
will live to see many flowers grow out of my grave. You cannot think so now;
but it will be so--believe me."
"Mara,"
said Moses, "I never lived through such a day as this. It seems as if
every moment of my life had been passing before me, and every moment of you=
rs.
I have seen how true and loving in thought and word and deed you have been,=
and
I have been doing nothing but take. You have given love as the skies give r=
ain,
and I have drunk it up like the hot dusty earth."
Mara knew in her =
own
heart that this was all true, and she was too real to use any of the terms =
of
affected humiliation which many think a kind of spiritual court language. S=
he
looked at him and answered, "Moses, I always knew I loved most. It was=
my
nature; God gave it to me, and it was a gift for which I give him thanks--n=
ot a
merit. I knew you had a larger, wider nature than mine,--a wider sphere to =
live
in, and that you could not live in your heart as I did. Mine was all thought
and feeling, and the narrow little duties of this little home. Yours went a=
ll
round the world."
"But, oh
Mara--oh, my angel! to think I should lose you when I am just beginning to =
know
your worth. I always had a sort of superstitious feeling,--a sacred
presentiment about you,--that my spiritual life, if ever I had any, would c=
ome
through you. It seemed if there ever was such a thing as God's providence,
which some folks believe in, it was in leading me to you, and giving you to=
me.
And now, to have all lashed--all destroyed--It makes me feel as if all was
blind chance; no guiding God; for if he wanted me to be good, he would spare
you."
Mara lay with her
large eyes fixed on the now faded sky. The dusky shadows had dropped like a
black crape veil around her pale face. In a few moments she repeated to
herself, as if she were musing upon them, those mysterious words of Him who
liveth and was dead, "Except a corn of wheat fall into the ground and =
die,
it abideth alone; if it die, it bringeth forth much fruit."
"Moses,"
she said, "for all I know you have loved me dearly, yet I have felt th=
at
in all that was deepest and dearest to me, I was alone. You did not come ne=
ar
to me, nor touch me where I feel most deeply. If I had lived to be your wif=
e, I
cannot say but this distance in our spiritual nature might have widened. You
know, what we live with we get used to; it grows an old story. Your love to=
me
might have grown old and worn out. If we lived together in the commonplace
toils of life, you would see only a poor threadbare wife. I might have lost
what little charm I ever had for you; but I feel that if I die, this will n=
ot
be. There is something sacred and beautiful in death; and I may have more p=
ower
over you, when I seem to be gone, than I should have had living."
"Oh, Mara, M=
ara,
don't say that."
"Dear Moses,=
it
is so. Think how many lovers marry, and how few lovers are left in middle l=
ife;
and how few love and reverence living friends as they do the dead. There are
only a very few to whom it is given to do that."
Something in the
heart of Moses told him that this was true. In this one day--the sacred
revealing light of approaching death--he had seen more of the real spiritual
beauty and significance of Mara's life than in years before, and felt
upspringing in his heart, from the deep pathetic influence of the approachi=
ng
spiritual world a new and stronger power of loving. It may be that it is no=
t merely
a perception of love that we were not aware of before, that wakes up when we
approach the solemn shadows with a friend. It may be that the soul has
compressed and unconscious powers which are stirred and wrought upon as it
looks over the borders into its future home,--its loves and its longings so
swell and beat, that they astonish itself. We are greater than we know, and=
dimly
feel it with every approach to the great hereafter. "It doth not yet
appear what we shall be."
*
"Now, I'll t=
ell
you what 'tis," said Aunt Roxy, opening the door, "all the streng=
th
this 'ere girl spends a-talkin' to-night, will be so much taken out o' the
whole cloth to-morrow."
Moses started up.
"I ought to have thought of that, Mara."
"Ye see,&quo=
t;
said Miss Roxy, "she's been through a good deal to-day, and she must be
got to sleep at some rate or other to-night. 'Lord, if he sleep he shall do
well,' the Bible says, and it's one of my best nussin' maxims."
"And a good =
one,
too, Aunt Roxy," said Mara. "Good-night, dear boy; you see we must
all mind Aunt Roxy."
Moses bent down a=
nd
kissed her, and felt her arms around his neck.
"Let not your
heart be troubled," she whispered. In spite of himself Moses felt the
storm that had risen in his bosom that morning soothed by the gentle influe=
nces
which Mara breathed upon it. There is a sympathetic power in all states of
mind, and they who have reached the deep secret of eternal rest have a stra=
nge
power of imparting calm to others.
It was in the very
crisis of the battle that Christ said to his disciples, "My peace I gi=
ve
unto you," and they that are made one with him acquire like precious p=
ower
of shedding round them repose, as evening flowers shed odors. Moses went to=
his
pillow sorrowful and heart-stricken, but bitter or despairing he could not =
be
with the consciousness of that present angel in the house.
The next morning rose calm and brig=
ht
with that wonderful and mystical stillness and serenity which glorify autumn
days. It was impossible that such skies could smile and such gentle airs bl=
ow
the sea into one great waving floor of sparkling sapphires without bringing
cheerfulness to human hearts. You must be very despairing indeed, when Natu=
re
is doing her best, to look her in the face sullen and defiant. So long as t=
here
is a drop of good in your cup, a penny in your exchequer of happiness, a br=
ight
day reminds you to look at it, and feel that all is not gone yet.
So felt Moses whe=
n he
stood in the door of the brown house, while Mrs. Pennel was clinking plates=
and
spoons as she set the breakfast-table, and Zephaniah Pennel in his
shirt-sleeves was washing in the back-room, while Miss Roxy came downstairs=
in
a business-like fashion, bringing sundry bowls, plates, dishes, and mysteri=
ous
pitchers from the sick-room.
"Well, Aunt
Roxy, you ain't one that lets the grass grow under your feet," said Mr=
s.
Pennel. "How is the dear child, this morning?"
"Well, she h=
ad a
better night than one could have expected," said Miss Roxy, "and =
by
the time she's had her breakfast, she expects to sit up a little and see her
friends." Miss Roxy said this in a cheerful tone, looking encouragingl=
y at
Moses, whom she began to pity and patronize, now she saw how real was his
affliction.
After breakfast M=
oses
went to see her; she was sitting up in her white dressing-gown, looking so =
thin
and poorly, and everything in the room was fragrant with the spicy smell of=
the
monthly roses, whose late buds and blossoms Miss Roxy had gathered for the =
vases.
She seemed so natural, so calm and cheerful, so interested in all that went=
on
around her, that one almost forgot that the time of her stay must be so sho=
rt. She
called Moses to come and look at her drawings, and paintings of flowers and
birds,--full of reminders they were of old times,--and then she would have =
her
pencils and colors, and work a little on a bunch of red rock-columbine, that
she had begun to do for him; and she chatted of all the old familiar places
where flowers grew, and of the old talks they had had there, till Moses qui=
te
forgot himself; forgot that he was in a sick room, till Aunt Roxy, warned by
the deepening color on Mara's cheeks, interposed her "nussing"
authority, that she must do no more that day.
Then Moses laid h=
er
down, and arranged her pillows so that she could look out on the sea, and s=
at
and read to her till it was time for her afternoon nap; and when the evening
shadows drew on, he marveled with himself how the day had gone.
Many such there w=
ere,
all that pleasant month of September, and he was with her all the time,
watching her wants and doing her bidding,--reading over and over with a
softened modulation her favorite hymns and chapters, arranging her flowers,=
and
bringing her home wild bouquets from all her favorite wood-haunts, which ma=
de
her sick-room seem like some sylvan bower. Sally Kittridge was there too,
almost every day, with always some friendly offering or some helpful deed o=
f kindness,
and sometimes they two together would keep guard over the invalid while Miss
Roxy went home to attend to some of her own more peculiar concerns. Mara se=
emed
to rule all around her with calm sweetness and wisdom, speaking unconscious=
ly
only the speech of heaven, talking of spiritual things, not in an excited
rapture or wild ecstasy, but with the sober certainty of waking bliss. She
seemed like one of the sweet friendly angels one reads of in the Old Testam=
ent,
so lovingly companionable, walking and talking, eating and drinking, with
mortals, yet ready at any unknown moment to ascend with the flame of some s=
acrifice
and be gone. There are those (a few at least) whose blessing it has been to
have kept for many days, in bonds of earthly fellowship, a perfected spirit=
in
whom the work of purifying love was wholly done, who lived in calm victory =
over
sin and sorrow and death, ready at any moment to be called to the final mys=
tery
of joy.
Yet it must come =
at
last, the moment when heaven claims its own, and it came at last in the cot=
tage
on Orr's Island. There came a day when the room so sacredly cheerful was hu=
shed
to a breathless stillness; the bed was then all snowy white, and that soft
still sealed face, the parted waves of golden hair, the little hands folded
over the white robe, all had a sacred and wonderful calm, a rapture of repo=
se
that seemed to say "it is done."
They who looked on
her wondered; it was a look that sunk deep into every heart; it hushed down=
the
common cant of those who, according to country custom, went to stare blindl=
y at
the great mystery of death,--for all that came out of that chamber smote up=
on
their breasts and went away in silence, revolving strangely whence might co=
me
that unearthly beauty, that celestial joy.
Once more, in that
very room where James and Naomi Lincoln had lain side by side in their coff=
ins,
sleeping restfully, there was laid another form, shrouded and coffined, but
with such a fairness and tender purity, such a mysterious fullness of joy in
its expression, that it seemed more natural to speak of that rest as some
higher form of life than of death.
Once more were
gathered the neighborhood; all the faces known in this history shone out in=
one
solemn picture, of which that sweet restful form was the centre. Zephaniah
Pennel and Mary his wife, Moses and Sally, the dry form of Captain Kittridg=
e and
the solemn face of his wife, Aunt Roxy and Aunt Ruey, Miss Emily and Mr.
Sewell; but their faces all wore a tender brightness, such as we see falling
like a thin celestial veil over all the faces in an old Florentine painting.
The room was full of sweet memories, of words of cheer, words of assurance,=
words
of triumph, and the mysterious brightness of that young face forbade them to
weep. Solemnly Mr. Sewell read,--
"He will swa=
llow
up death in victory; and the Lord God will wipe away tears from off all fac=
es;
and the rebuke of his people shall he take away from off all the earth; for=
the
Lord hath spoken it. And it shall be said in that day, Lo this is our God; =
we
have waited for him, and he will save us; this is the Lord; we have waited =
for
him, we will be glad and rejoice in his salvation."
Then the prayer
trembled up to heaven with thanksgiving, for the early entrance of that fair
young saint into glory, and then the same old funeral hymn, with its mournf=
ul
triumph:--
"Why should we mo=
urn
departed friends, Or sh=
ake at
death's alarms, 'Tis but the voic=
e that
Jesus sends To ca=
ll
them to his arms."
Then in a few wor=
ds
Mr. Sewell reminded them how that hymn had been sung in this room so many y=
ears
ago, when that frail, fluttering orphan soul had been baptized into the love
and care of Jesus, and how her whole life, passing before them in its
simplicity and beauty, had come to so holy and beautiful a close; and when,
pointing to the calm sleeping face he asked, "Would we call her back?&=
quot;
there was not a heart at that moment that dared answer, Yes. Even he that
should have been her bridegroom could not at that moment have unsealed the =
holy
charm, and so they bore her away, and laid the calm smiling face beneath the
soil, by the side of poor Dolores.
*
"I had a
beautiful dream last night," said Zephaniah Pennel, the next morning a=
fter
the funeral, as he opened his Bible to conduct family worship.
"What was
it?" said Miss Roxy.
"Well, ye se=
e, I
thought I was out a-walkin' up and down, and lookin' and lookin' for someth=
ing
that I'd lost. What it was I couldn't quite make out, but my heart felt hea=
vy
as if it would break, and I was lookin' all up and down the sands by the
seashore, and somebody said I was like the merchantman, seeking goodly pear=
ls.
I said I had lost my pearl--my pearl of great price--and then I looked up, =
and
far off on the beach, shining softly on the wet sands, lay my pearl. I thou=
ght
it was Mara, but it seemed a great pearl with a soft moonlight on it; and I=
was
running for it when some one said 'hush,' and I looked and I saw Him a-comi=
ng--Jesus
of Nazareth, jist as he walked by the sea of Galilee. It was all dark night
around Him, but I could see Him by the light that came from his face, and t=
he
long hair was hanging down on his shoulders. He came and took up my pearl a=
nd
put it on his forehead, and it shone out like a star, and shone into my hea=
rt,
and I felt happy; and he looked at me steadily, and rose and rose in the ai=
r,
and melted in the clouds, and I awoke so happy, and so calm!"
CHAPTER XLIV - FOUR YEARS
AFTER
It was a splendid evening in July, =
and
the sky was filled high with gorgeous tabernacles of purple and gold, the
remains of a grand thunder-shower which had freshened the air and set a
separate jewel on every needle leaf of the old pines.
Four years had pa= ssed since the fair Pearl of Orr's Island had been laid beneath the gentle soil, which every year sent monthly tributes of flowers to adorn her rest, great = blue violets, and starry flocks of ethereal eye-brights in spring, and fringy asters, and goldenrod in autumn. In those days, the tender sentiment which = now makes the burial-place a cultivated garden was excluded by the rigid spiritualism of the Puritan life, which, ever jealous of that which concern= ed the body, lest it should claim what belonged to the immortal alone, had fro= wned on all watching of graves, as an earthward tendency, and enjoined the fligh= t of faith with the spirit, rather than the yearning for its cast-off garments.<= o:p>
But Sally Kittrid=
ge,
being lonely, found something in her heart which could only be comforted by
visits to that grave. So she had planted there roses and trailing myrtle, a=
nd
tended and watered them; a proceeding which was much commented on Sunday no=
ons,
when people were eating their dinners and discussing their neighbors.
It is possible go=
od
Mrs. Kittridge might have been much scandalized by it, had she been in a
condition to think on the matter at all; but a very short time after the
funeral she was seized with a paralytic shock, which left her for a while as
helpless as an infant; and then she sank away into the grave, leaving Sally=
the
sole care of the old Captain.
A cheerful home s=
he
made, too, for his old age, adorning the house with many little tasteful
fancies unknown in her mother's days; reading the Bible to him and singing
Mara's favorite hymns, with a voice as sweet as the spring blue-bird. The
spirit of the departed friend seemed to hallow the dwelling where these two
worshiped her memory, in simple-hearted love. Her paintings, framed in quai=
nt
woodland frames of moss and pine-cones by Sally's own ingenuity, adorned the
walls. Her books were on the table, and among them many that she had given =
to
Moses.
"I am going =
to
be a wanderer for many years," he said in parting, "keep these fo=
r me
until I come back."
And so from time =
to
time passed long letters between the two friends,--each telling to the other
the same story,--that they were lonely, and that their hearts yearned for t=
he
communion of one who could no longer be manifest to the senses. And each sp=
oke
to the other of a world of hopes and memories buried with her,
"Which," each so constantly said, "no one could understand b=
ut
you." Each, too, was firm in the faith that buried love must have no
earthly resurrection. Every letter strenuously insisted that they should ca=
ll
each other brother and sister, and under cover of those names the letters g=
rew
longer and more frequent, and with every chance opportunity came presents f=
rom
the absent brother, which made the little old cottage quaintly suggestive w=
ith
smell of spice and sandal-wood.
But, as we said, =
this
is a glorious July evening,--and you may discern two figures picking their =
way
over those low sunken rocks, yellowed with seaweed, of which we have often
spoken. They are Moses and Sally going on an evening walk to that favorite
grotto retreat, which has so often been spoken of in the course of this
history.
Moses has come ho=
me
from long wanderings. It is four years since they parted, and now they meet=
and
have looked into each other's eyes, not as of old, when they met in the fir=
st
giddy flush of youth, but as fully developed man and woman. Moses and Sally=
had
just risen from the tea-table, where she had presided with a thoughtful
housewifery gravity, just pleasantly dashed with quaint streaks of her old
merry willfulness, while the old Captain, warmed up like a rheumatic
grasshopper in a fine autumn day, chirruped feebly, and told some of his old
stories, which now he told every day, forgetting that they had ever been he=
ard
before. Somehow all three had been very happy; the more so, from a shadowy
sense of some sympathizing presence which was rejoicing to see them togethe=
r again,
and which, stealing soft-footed and noiseless everywhere, touched and light=
ed
up every old familiar object with sweet memories.
And so they had g=
one
out together to walk; to walk towards the grotto where Sally had caused a s=
eat
to be made, and where she declared she had passed hours and hours, knitting,
sewing, or reading.
"Sally,"
said Moses, "do you know I am tired of wandering? I am coming home now=
. I
begin to want a home of my own." This he said as they sat together on =
the
rustic seat and looked off on the blue sea.
"Yes, you
must," said Sally. "How lovely that ship looks, just coming in th=
ere."
"Yes, they a=
re
beautiful," said Moses abstractedly; and Sally rattled on about the
difference between sloops and brigs; seeming determined that there should b=
e no
silence, such as often comes in ominous gaps between two friends who have l=
ong
been separated, and have each many things to say with which the other is not
familiar.
"Sally!"
said Moses, breaking in with a deep voice on one of these monologues. "=
;Do
you remember some presumptuous things I once said to you, in this place?&qu=
ot;
Sally did not ans=
wer,
and there was a dead silence in which they could hear the tide gently dashi=
ng
on the weedy rocks.
"You and I a=
re
neither of us what we were then, Sally," said Moses. "We are as
different as if we were each another person. We have been trained in another
life,--educated by a great sorrow,--is it not so?"
"I know
it," said Sally.
"And why sho=
uld
we two, who have a world of thoughts and memories which no one can understa=
nd
but the other,--why should we, each of us, go on alone? If we must, why the=
n,
Sally, I must leave you, and I must write and receive no more letters, for I
have found that you are becoming so wholly necessary to me, that if any oth=
er
should claim you, I could not feel as I ought. Must I go?"
Sally's answer is=
not
on record; but one infers what it was from the fact that they sat there very
late, and before they knew it, the tide rose up and shut them in, and the m=
oon
rose up in full glory out of the water, and still they sat and talked, lean=
ing
on each other, till a cracked, feeble voice called down through the pine-tr=
ees
above, like a hoarse old cricket,--
"Children, be
you there?"
"Yes,
father," said Sally, blushing and conscious.
"Yes, all
right," said the deep bass of Moses. "I'll bring her back when I'=
ve
done with her, Captain."
"Wal',--wal'=
; I
was gettin' consarned; but I see I don't need to. I hope you won't get no c=
olds
nor nothin'."
They did not; but=
in
the course of a month there was a wedding at the brown house of the old Cap=
tain,
which everybody in the parish was glad of, and was voted without dissent to=
be
just the thing.
Miss Roxy, grimly
approbative, presided over the preparations, and all the characters of our
story appeared, and more, having on their wedding-garments. Nor was the wed=
ding
less joyful, that all felt the presence of a heavenly guest, silent and lov=
ing,
seeing and blessing all, whose voice seemed to say in every heart,--
"He turneth =
the
shadow of death into morning."