CHAPTER I.
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On the road to the Kennebec, below the town of Bath,
in the State of Maine, might have been seen, on a certain
autumnal afternoon, a one-horse wagon, in which two
persons were sitting. One is an old man, with the peculiarly
hard but expressive physiognomy which characterizes
the seafaring population of the New England shores.
A clear blue eye, evidently practised in habits of keen
observation, white hair, bronzed, weather-beaten cheeks,
and a face deeply lined with the furrows of shrewd
thought and anxious care, were points of the portrait
that made themselves felt at a glance.
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 pencilled 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, with 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
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New England, was, in refinement and even elegance, a
marked contrast to that of her male companion and to
the humble vehicle in which she rode. There was not
only the most fastidious neatness, but a delicacy in the
choice of colors, an indication of elegant tastes in the
whole arrangement, and the quietest suggestion in the
world of an acquaintance with the usages of fashion,
which struck one oddly in those wild and dreary surroundings.
On the whole, she impressed one like those
fragile wild-flowers which in April cast their fluttering
shadows from the mossy crevices of the old New England
granite, — an existence in which colorless delicacy
is united to a sort of elastic hardihood of life, fit for the
rocky soil and harsh winds it is born to encounter.
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,
diversified the sandy way-side; 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 foam in
the bright sunshine. For two or three days a north-east
storm had been raging, and the sea was in all the commotion
which such a general upturning creates.
The two travellers reached a point of elevated land,
where they paused a moment, and the man drew up the
jogging, stiff-jointed old farm-horse, and raised himself
upon his feet to look out at the prospect.
There might be seen in the distance the blue Kennebec
sweeping out toward the ocean through its picturesque
rocky shores, decked with cedars and other dusky
evergreens, which were illuminated by the orange and
flame-colored trees of Indian summer. Here and there
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scarlet creepers swung long trailing garlands over the
faces of the dark rock, and fringes of golden rod above
swayed with the brisk blowing wind that was driving the
blue waters seaward, in face of the up-coming ocean tide, —
a conflict which caused them to rise in great foam-crested
waves. There were two channels into this river from
the open sea, navigable for ships which are coming in
to the city of Bath; one is broad and shallow, the other
narrow and deep, and these are divided by a steep ledge
of rocks.
Where the spectators 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 north-west wind which had succeeded the
gale, as northwest winds often do on this coast. The
ship, from what might be observed in the distance, seemed
struggling to make the wider channel, but was constantly
driven off by the baffling force of the wind.
“There she is, Naomi,” said the old fisherman, eagerly,
to his companion, “coming right in.” The young woman
was one of the sort that never start, and never 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, practised eye discovered a change in her
movements, for he cried out involuntarily, —
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“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 seemed to leap with a
desperate plunge into the narrow passage; for a moment
there was a shivering of the masts and the rigging, and
she went down and was gone.
“They 're split 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 fainted.
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 that morning to go to their
sisters, wives, and mothers.
This is the first scene in our story.
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CHAPTER II.
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Down near the end of Orr's Island, facing the open ocean,
stands a brown house of the kind that the natives call “leanto,”
or “linter,” — one of those large, comfortable structures,
barren in the ideal, but rich in the practical, which the
working-man 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 comes 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 solitary tallow candle,
which seems in the gloom to make only a feeble circle of
light around itself, leaving all the rest of the apartment in
shadow.
In the centre of the room, stretched upon a table, and
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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 forsake that lifeless form,
leaving it, like a deserted palace, beautiful in its desolation.
The hair, dripping with the salt wave, curled in glossy
abundance on the finely-formed head; the flat, broad brow;
the closed eye, with its long black lashes; the firm, manly
mouth; the strongly-moulded chin, — all, all were sealed
with that seal which is never to be broken till the great
resurrection 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 clothing, 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
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conversation over a small bundle done up in an old flannel petticoat.
To them the doctor is about to address himself cheerily, 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 its contents; while a low, eager,
whispered conversation, attended with much head-shaking,
warns him that his first duty is with somebody behind the
checked 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 illfated
ship went down.
This woman was wife 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 untimely
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 dejection, and the old man we
saw with her in the morning is standing with an anxious,
awe-struck 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 mournfully.
The touch of his hand rouses her, — her large, wild,
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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 little 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.”
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 pretty 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!”
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“A pity the poor baby did n't go with her,” said Aunt
Roxy; “seven-months' children are so hard to raise.”
“'T is a pity,” said the other.
But babies will live, and all the more when everybody
says that it is a pity they should. Life goes on as inexorably
in this world as death.
It was ordered by the Will above that out of these two
graves should spring one frail, trembling autumn flower, —
the “Mara” whose poor little roots first struck deep in the
salt, bitter waters of our mortal life.
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CHAPTER III.
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Now, I cannot think of anything more 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 people, walking in
all the commandments and ordinances of the Lord blameless;
but that 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, — never went anywhere
except in the round of daily business. He owned a fishing-smack,
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 out. The only recreation
they ever enjoyed was the going once a week, in good
weather, to a prayer-meeting in a little old brown schoolhouse,
about a mile from their dwelling; and making a
weekly excursion every Sunday, in their fishing craft, to
the church opposite, on Harpswell Neck.
To be sure, Zephaniah had read many wide leaves
of God's great book of Nature, for, like most Maine
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 the railings of his brig
in the port of Genoa, swept round by its splendid crescent of
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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 dream-land. 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 Sunday vest, backed with black glazed cambric,
which six months before came from the hands of Miss Roxy,
and was pronounced by her to be as good as any tailor
could 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 for pleasantness. I
never knew as children was so engagin'!”
It was to be remarked 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 a'n't a-pervertin' Scriptur' nor nuthin', but I
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can't help thinkin' of one passage, `The kingdom of heaven
is like a merchantman seeking goodly pearls, and when he
hath found one pearl of great price, for joy thereof he goeth
and selleth all 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 bright and beautiful for their
child.
When the fishing-smack went to Portland to sell mackerel,
there came home in Zephaniah'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 down to explore
the romantic scenery of the solitary island, they would be
startled by the apparition of this still, graceful, dark-eyed
child, exquisitely dressed 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
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up into the edges of arbor vitæ, or tripping along the wet
sands for shells and sea-weed.
Many children would have been spoiled by such unlimited
indulgence; but there are natures sent down into this harsh
world so timorous, and sensitive, and helpless in themselves,
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 child, 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-spirited,
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, that have come
to pay the last tribute of sympathy to the living and the
dead.
The house looked so utterly alone and solitary in that
wild, sea-girt island, that one would have as soon expected
the sea-waves to rise and walk in, as so many neighbors; but
they had come from neighboring points, crossing the glassy
sea in their little crafts, whose white sails looked like millers'
wings, or walking 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 life'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
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Roxy and Aunt Ruey, who by a prescriptive right presided
over all the births, deaths, and marriages of the neighborhood,
but there was Captain Kittridge, a long, dry, weather-beaten
old sea-captain, who sat as if tied in a double bow-knot,
with his little fussy old wife, with a great Leghorn
bonnet, and eyes like black glass beads shining through
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
tenderly, as those to whom rest is good. All was still as
death, except a chance whisper 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 deepdrawn
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
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the little stranger was drawn, and which describes the return
of the bereaved Naomi to her native land. His voice trembled,
and there were tears in many eyes as 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 not Naomi; call me Mara; for
the Almighty hath dealt very bitterly with me. I went out
full, and the Lord hath brought me home again empty: why
then call ye me Naomi, 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 shake at Death's alarms?
'Tis but the voice that Jesus sends
To call them to his arms.
Are we not tending upward too,
As fast as time can move?
And should we wish the hours more slow
That bear us to our love?”
The words rose in old “China,” — that strange, wild
warble, whose quaintly blended harmonies might have been
learned of moaning seas or wailing winds, so strange and
grand they rose, full of that intense pathos which rises over
every defect of execution; 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 rose over all the others
as he sung, —
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“Then let the last loud trumpet sound,
And bid the dead arise!
Awake, ye nations under ground!
Ye saints, ascend the skies!”
The sunbeam through 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 whose foundation
is jasper, and whose every gate is a separate pearl.
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CHAPTER IV.
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The sea lay like an unbroken mirror all around the pine-girt,
lonely shores of Orr's Island. Tall, kingly spruces
wore 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 forest 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 summer, 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, clearcut
outlines of the northern landscape all those mysteries
of light and shade which impart such tenderness to Italian
scenery.
The funeral was over, — the tread of many feet, bearing
the heavy burden of two broken lives, had been 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 Death to the common cheerful walks of
Life.
The solemn black clock stood swaying with its eternal
“tick-tock, tick-tock,” in the kitchen of the brown house on
Orr's Island. There was there that sense of a stillness that
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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 weddings,
or funerals, that room formed no part of the daily
family scenery.
The kitchen was clean and ample, with a great open fireplace
and wide stone hearth, and oven on one 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 battered, 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, indeed, it proved
often when a deed of grace was to be done, — when a woman
was suddenly made a widow in a coast gale, or a fishing-smack
was run down in the fogs off 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 covenant 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 dreamily disposed might
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look far out to sea, and behold ships coming and going in
every 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 kept 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 was 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 something Aunt
Roxy, when not otherwise engaged, constantly patted with a
gentle tattoo, 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 other 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 distance sat Aunt Ruey, with a quantity of
black crape strewed on two chairs about her, very busily
employed in getting up a mourning-bonnet, at which she
snipped, and clipped, aud worked, zealously singing, in a
high cracked voice, from time to time, certain verses of a
funeral psalm.
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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 miles 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 every 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 and 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 supposed to be infallible medical oracles.
Many a human being had been ushered into life under
their auspices, — trotted, chirruped in babyhood on their
knees, clothed 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 human nature generally. The idea of restricting
their usefulness to any one family, would strike dismay
through a whole community.
Nobody would be so unprincipled as to think of such a
thing as having their services more than a week or two at
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most. Your country factotum knows better than anybody
else how absurd it would be
“To give to a part 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, dry, and seedy, warranted to
last for any length of time.
Miss Roxy Toothacre, 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 blackness woven on each side into a heap of stiff
little curls, which pushed up her cap 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 gone under her jurisdiction? And amid weeping
or rejoicing, was not Miss Roxy still the master-spirit, —
consulted, referred to by all? — was not her word law and
precedent? Her younger sister, Miss Ruey, a pliant, cosey,
easy-to-be-entreated personage, plump and cushiony, revolved
around her as a humble satellite. Miss Roxy looked on
Miss Ruey as quite a frisky young thing, though under her
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ample frisette of carroty hair her head might be seen white
with the same snow that had powdered that of her sister.
Aunt Ruey had a face much resembling the kind 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 always went together, for the variety of
talent comprised in their stock could always 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 and chatting to each other, like a
pair of antiquated house-sparrows, retailing over harmless
gossips, and moralizing in that gentle jog-trot 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
happens in cases of the sort, this was not because the two
were in all respects exactly 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, came down with her own
sharp, heavy stamp on every opinion her sister put out.
She was matter-of-fact, positive, and declarative to the highest
degree, while her sister was naturally inclined to the
elegiac and the pathetic, indulging herself 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
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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 times, 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 buried it yet deeper in the embers, “a'n't
it all a strange kind o' providence that this 'ere little thing
is left behind so; and then their callin' on her 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 kind 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 enough for us.”
“Well, I don't know,” said Aunt Roxy. “Now there
was Miss Jones down on Mure P'int called her twins
Tiglath-Pileser and Shalmaneser, — Scriptur' names both,
but 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,
“'t a'n't much matter, after all, what they call the little
thing, for 't a'n't 't all likely it 's goin' to live, — cried and
worried all night, and kep' a-suckin' my cheek and my
night-gown, poor little 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
comes 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 did n't
go with its mother” —
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“And save the expense of another funeral,” said Aunt
Roxy. “Now when Mis' Pennel's sister asked her what
she was going to do with Naomi's clothes, I could n't help
wonderin' when she said she should keep 'em for the
child.”
“She had a sight 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 shake of the head. “Naomi
was a still girl, but her faculty was uncommon; and I tell
you, Ruey, 't a'n't everybody hes faculty as hes things.”
“The poor Cap'n,” said Miss Ruey, “he seemed greatly
supported at the funeral, 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 'm
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 grudged the money when 't was for Naomi.
And so she 's got all her husband's keepsakes and things,
just as nice as when he giv' 'em to her.”
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“It 's real affectin',” said Miss Ruey, “I can't all the
while help a-thinkin' of the Psalm, —
`So fades the lovely blooming flower, —
Frail, smiling solace 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 had n't fixed no baby drawers, and we seem
to want some.”
“I was kind o' hintin' that to Mis' Pennel this morning,”
said Ruey, “but she can'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 with it, that they are gone, and we 'v' got to do
without 'em, and not to be hangin' 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 pretty tough.”
“I 'm a-thinkin', sister,” said Miss Ruey, taking off her
spectacles and rubbing her nose thoughtfully, “whether or
no cow's milk a'n't goin' to be too hearty for 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'
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but these 'ere little seed cookies, wet in water, and it throve
nicely, — and the seed is good for wind.”
“Oh, don't tell me none of Mis' Badger's stories,” said
Miss Roxy, “I don't believe in 'em. Cows is the Lord's
ordinances for bringing up babies that 's lost their mothers;
it stands to reason they should be, — and babies that can't
eat milk, 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 away on the little
back of the party in question, authoritatively, as if to pound
in a wholesome conviction at the outset.
“I hope,” said Miss Ruey, holding up a strip of black
crape, and looking through it from 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 right 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 did n't seem to feel it.”
“Them 's common 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 exercises. 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 kind 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',
and in about six months they send for you to nuss 'em in
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consumption or somethin'. 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 little hand was holding tightly
a morsel of the flannel blanket. He stood swallowing 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.”
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CHAPTER V.
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It did live. The little life, so frail, so unprofitable in
every mere material view, so precious in the eyes of love,
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 little thing in his
arms, talking to it that jargon of tender nonsense which
fairies bring as love-gifts to all who tend a cradle. Many
a day the good little old 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 three 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 house was
a slender child, with ways and manners so still and singular
as often to remind 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.
She was small of stature, beyond the wont of children of
her age, and moulded with a fine waxen 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
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drooped over them in that manner which gives a peculiar
expression of dreamy wistfulness.
Every one of 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 would 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 child always would long and never would
know exactly what she was after.
That dignitary sits at this minute enthroned in the kitchen
corner, looking majestically over the 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 sea-weed.
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 blue sea dissolves in
the blue sky.
“See that child now, Roxy,” said Miss Ruey, who sat
stitching beside her; “do look at her eyes. She 's as handsome
as a pictur', but 't a'n'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 did n't her heart break afore she was born?
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Babies like that is marked always. They don't know what
ails 'em, nor nobody.”
“It 's her mother she 's after?” said Miss Ruey.
“The Lord only 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-fashioned
like this 'un. If they gets past seven years, why they live;
but it 's always 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 some say it 's them longin' after their mothers; but
dear knows, Ruey, what anything is or what makes anything.
Children 's mysterious, that 's my mind.”
“Mara, dear,” said Miss Ruey, interrupting the child's
steady look-out, “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 somebody 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 a'n't any
children. But I never saw such a quiet little thing —
always still and always busy.”
“I 'll take her 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 a'n'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,
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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, which stood out like a balloon,
made by Miss Roxy in first-rate style, from a French 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 dwelling.
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 the child's golden curls a
little flat hat, and saw her go dancing off along the seasands,
holding to Miss Roxy's bony finger, she felt she had
in her what galleries of pictures could not buy.
It was a good mile to the one story, gambrel-roofed cottage
where lived Captain Kittridge, — the long, lean, brown
man, with his good wife of the great Leghorn bonnet, round,
black 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 cottage on the sea-shore,
and devoted himself to boat-building, which he found sufficiently
lucrative to furnish his brown cottage with all that
his wife's heart desired, besides extra money for knick-knacks
when she chose to go up to Brunswick or over to Portland
to shop.
The Captain himself 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 traveller. In fact, it was said, whether
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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 you like to hear?”
it was thought that he fabricated his article to suit his 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 neighbor'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 auditor, she,
better than any one else, could perceive the variations and
discrepancies 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 went 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 fiction, 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 yarns
were marketable fireside commodities still, despite the scepticisms
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 atmosphere.
The brown house stands on a little knoll, about a hundred
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yards from the open ocean. Behind it rises a ledge of rocks,
where cedars and hemlocks make deep shadows into which
the sun shoots golden shafts of light, illuminating the scarlet
feathers of the sumach, which threw themselves jauntily
forth from the crevices; while down below, in deep, damp,
mossy recesses, rose ferns which autumn had just begun 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 rocks — 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
Maine, 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 white pines with their swaying
plumage of needle-like leaves, strewing the ground beneath
with a golden, fragrant matting; and there were the gigantic,
wide-winged hemlocks, hundreds of years old, and with
long, swaying, gray beards of moss, looking white and
ghostly under the deep shadows of their boughs. And
beneath, creeping round trunk and matting over stones,
were many and many of those wild, beautiful things which
embellish the shadows of these northern forests. Long,
feathery wreaths of what are called ground-pines, ran here
and there in little 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. Whole patches
of partridge-berry wove their evergreen matting, dotted
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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 the 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 great 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 clock, whose solemn
tick-tock was the only sound that could be heard in the
kitchen.
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 turning a sheet! Perhaps,
happy young female reader, you don't know what that is, —
most likely not; for in these degenerate days the strait and
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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 especial and wholesome discipline for young
girls; in the first place, because it took off 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 travellers, 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
proportion to their amount of life, and their ingenuity and
love of variety. A dull child 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 said Sally, breaking the monotonous
tick-tock of the clock by an observation which
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 black 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 herself 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 door-way, illuminated by the
afternoon sunbeams, the vision of Miss Roxy's tall, lank
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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 silk ripped up, and
did n'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 must come
to you, if 't was 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 play 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 then, stooping
and catching the little one in her arms, disappeared through
the door, 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 keenness of happiness that
children who have never been made to turn sheets of a bright
afternoon can never realize.
The sun was yet an hour high, as she saw, by the flash of
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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 star-fish, and salad-dish shells,
and white pebbles for her, besides quantities of well-turned
shavings, brown and white, from the pile which constantly
was 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 those 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 time 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, bony arm, with the greatest ease, to
the farther part of his bench, and bringing up a board, from
which he proceeded to roll of shavings in fine satin rings,
which perfectly delighted the hearts of the children, and
made them dance with glee; and, truth to say, reader,
there are coarser and homelier things in the 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 sands,
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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 had one of those sensitive, excitable natures,
on which every external influence acts with immediate
power. Stimulated by the society of her energetic, buoyant
little neighbor, she no longer seemed wishful or pensive, but
kindled into a perfect flame of wild delight, and gambolled
about the shore like a blue and gold-winged fly; while her
bursts of laughter made the squirrels and blue jays look
out inquisitively from their fastnesses in the old evergreens.
Gradually 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 bringin' 'em along,” said Mrs. Kittridge, as she
looked out of the window and saw the tall, lank form of the
Captain, with one child seated on either shoulder, 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 and 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,
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stimulating skies of America, 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 laughed and clapped her hands
incessantly, and when set down on the kitchen-floor spun
round like a little elf; and that night it was late and long
before her wide, 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 had n't another child to keep company along with
her.”
“Mis' Pennel oughter be trainin' of her up to work,” said
Mrs. Kittridge. “Sally could oversew and hem when she
wa' n't more 'n three years old; nothin' straightens out children
like work. Mis' Pennel she jist keeps that ar child to
look at.”
“All children a'n't alike, Mis' Kittridge,” said Miss
Roxy, sententiously. “This 'un a'n't like your Sally. `A
hen and a bumble-bee can't be fetched up alike, fix it how
you will!'”
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CHAPTER VI.
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Zephaniah Pennel came back to his house in the evening,
after Miss Roxy had taken the little Mara away. He
looked for the flowery face and golden hair as he came
towards the door, and put his hand in his vest-pocket, where
he had deposited a small store of very choice shells 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, 'cause I thought the spot was overshot, and would n'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 Miss 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 asked,
meekly, —
“Where 's Mary?”
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“Mis' Pennel? Why, she 's up chamber. She 'll be down
in a minute, she said; she thought she 'd have time afore
supper to get to the bottom of the big chist, and see if that
'ere vest pattern a'n't there, and them sticks o' twist for the
button-holes, 'cause Roxy she says she never see nothin' so
rotten as that 'ere twist we 'v' been a-workin' with, that Mis'
Pennel got over to Portland; it 's a clear cheat, and Mis'
Pennel she give more 'n half a cent a stick more for 't than
what Roxy got for her up to Brunswick; so you see these
'ere Portland stores charge up, and their things want lookin'
after.”
Here Mrs. Pennel entered the room, “the Captain”
addressing her eagerly, —
“How came you 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 must
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 back 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 Pennel, you 'r' 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 strong it strikes the sense, —
Thither the warm affections move,
Nor can we call them thence.'”
Miss Ruey's mode of getting off poetry, in a sort of
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highpitched 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 kind o' trembled at the
prayer-meetin' when we was a-singin' —
`The dearest idol I have known,
Whate'er that idol be,
Help me to tear it from Thy throne,
And worship only Thee.'”
“Yes,” said Miss Ruey, “Roxy says if the Lord should
take us up short on our prayers, it would make sad work
with us sometimes.”
“Somehow,” 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 one 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 childlike
ignorance, and who know not the deeper needs of deeper
natures; such see only 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
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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 noticed 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 never can seem to remember
that houses don't run aground or strike on rocks in storms.”
“The Cap'n puts me in mind of old Cap'n Jeduth Scranton,”
said Miss Ruey, “that built 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 dishes, and he had all his tables and chairs battened
down, and so when it came a gale, 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 Pennel, “those that has
followed the seas hears the wind with different ears from
lands-people. When you lie with only a plank between you
and eternity, and hear the voice of the Lord on the waters,
it don't sound 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 to 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,
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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 worship
as if they had been an extensive congregation. They raised
the old psalm-tune 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 let our sun go down at noon:
Thy years are an eternal day,
And must thy children die so soon?”
Miss Ruey valued herself on singing a certain weird and
exalted part which in ancient days used 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-top; 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,
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to the accompaniment of wind and sea, the words of poetry
made on old Hebrew shores, in the dim, gray 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 sitteth 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 three! 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 long
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 shores 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 ineffaceable ideas
of the popular mind.
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It will be a long while before a translation from Homer,
or a chapter in the Koran, or any of the beauties of Shakspeare,
will be read in a stormy night on Orr's Island with
the same sense of a Divine presence 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 prayer. “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 a'n't a-goin' out?” said his wife.
“I must go out 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 think I 've stood wind before in my day,” said
Zephaniah, a grim smile stealing 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 comradeship.
“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 blew 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
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light go twinkling far down into the gloom, and ever and
anon came the mournful boom of distant guns.
“Certainly there is a ship in trouble somewhere,” she
said.
“He never can 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?”
“I should n't wonder if Cap'n Kittridge should be out on
the beach, too,” said Miss Ruey; “but laws, he a'n't much
more than one of these 'ere old grasshoppers you see after
frost comes. Well, any way, there a'n'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 sea-weed way up 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 wanted to make a chowder down on the
beach.”
“My aunt, Lois Toothacre, that lives down by Middle
Bay,” said Miss Ruey, “used to tell about a dreadful blow
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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-mercy,” 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 just like
babes.”
“So they told her, — but no; she insisted she knew the
difference, — it was a baby. Well, what do you think, when
the storm cleared off, they found a baby's cradle washed
ashore sure enough!”
“But they did n't find any baby,” said Mrs. Pennel,
nervously.
“No, they searched the beach far and near, and that
cradle was all they found. Aunt Lois took it in — it was
a very good cradle, and she took it to use, but every time
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 see they kind o' got used to it — they found
there wa' n't no harm come of its rockin', and so they did n'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, and Cerinthy
comes out of the keepin'-room, where the cradle was
a-standin', and says, `Sister,' says she, `who 's that woman
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sittin' rockin' the cradle?' and Aunt Lois says she, `Why,
there a'n't nobody. That ar cradle always will rock in a
gale, but I 've got used to it, and don't mind it.' `Well,'
says Cerinthy, `jist as true as you live, I jist 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,' says Lois, `I a'n't goin' to have no such
doin's in my house,' and she went right 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' round 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
half 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 reflection of her own
anxious, excited face, the pitchy blackness without having
converted the window into a sort of dark mirror.
Miss Ruey meanwhile began solacing herself by singing,
in her chimney-corner, a very favorite sacred melody,
which contrasted oddly enough with the driving storm and
howling sea: —
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“Haste, my beloved, haste away,
Cut short the hours of thy delay;
Fly like the bounding hart or roe,
Over the hills where spices grow.”
The tune was called “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 and 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 hills 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
home, it was her.”
At this moment Mrs. Pennel caught sight through the
window of the gleam of the returning lantern, 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 have 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
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Kittridge out on the beach. We heard the guns plain
enough, but could n'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, well 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 could n't help thinking,
`So he giveth his beloved sleep!'”
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CHAPTER VII.
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During the night and storm, the little 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 saw before her the little cove where she
and Sally had been playing the day before, with its broad
sparkling white beach of sand curving round its blue seamirror,
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 stood before them a woman, dressed in a
long white garment. She was very pale, with sweet, serious
dark eyes, and she led by the hand a black-eyed boy, who
seemed 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
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child seemed to feel them in every fibre of her frame. The
woman 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 with 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
and pebbles of a wonderful brightness. So vivid was this
vision, that the little one awoke 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 speaking in the patronizing motherly
tone she commonly used to her little playmate.
“All gone, pitty boy — all gone!” said the child, looking
round regretfully, and shaking her golden head; “pitty lady
all gone!”
“How queer she talks!” said Sally, who had awakened
with the project of building a sheet-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 out 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 must n'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
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dress, somewhat faded and patched, which she herself had
outgrown when of Mara's age; with shoes, which had been
coarsely made to begin with, and very much battered 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 her 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 ever 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 more,
and with them pearl buttons and thread and all, that ar dress
never cost less 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-folks' 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 must n't cross her.” Saying
which, she proceeded to dress the child in her own clothes.
“If you had a good large checked apron, I would n't mind
putting that on her!” added Miss Roxy, after she had arrayed
the child.
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“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 Mara 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 wear che't apon.”
“Well! well!” said Mrs. Kittridge, rolling up her eyes,
“did I ever! no, I never did. If there a'n'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 learn 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
aprons, 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 a'n't much like Sally, then!” said Mrs. Kittridge.
“That girl 'll run through more clothes! Only last week
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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 vestiges 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 brilliant silver. All round the island the
waves were constantly leaping and springing into jets 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 with the shells and
sea-weed which the upturnings of the night had brought in.
There lay what might have been fringes and fragments of
sea-gods' vestures, — blue, crimson, purple, and orange sea-weeds,
wreathed in tangled ropes of kelp and sea-grass, or
lying separately scattered on the sands. The children ran
wildly, shouting as they began gathering sea-treasures; and
Sally, with the air of an experienced hand in the business,
untwisted the coils of ropy sea-weed, from which every
moment she disengaged some new treasure, in some rarer
shell or smoother pebble.
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Suddenly, the child shook out something from a knotted
mass of sea-grass, which she held up with a perfect shriek
of delight.
It was a bracelet of hair, fastened by a brilliant clasp
of green, sparkling stones, such as she had never seen before.
She redoubled her cries of delight, as she saw it sparkle
between her and the sun, calling upon her father.
“Father! father! 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 over her head, he
caught sight of an object partially concealed behind a projecting
rock. He took a step forward, and uttered an
exclamation, —
“Well, well! sure enough! poor things!”
There lay, bedded in sand and sea-weed, a woman with a
little boy clasped in her arms! Both had been carefully
lashed to a spar, but the child was held to the bosom of the
woman, 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 sculptured marble, —
the eyebrows dark and decided in their outline; but the
long, heavy, 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 gleamed on the
marble hand; but the sea had divorced all human ties, and
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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 sea-weeds, and a great,
weird-looking leaf of kelp, some yards in length, lay twined
around her like a shroud.
The child that lay in her bosom had hair, and face, and
eyelashes like her own, and his little hands were holding
tightly a portion of the black dress which she wore.
“Cold, — cold, — stone dead!” was the muttered exclamation
of the old seaman, as he bent over the woman.
“She must have struck her head there,” he mused, as he
laid his finger on a dark, bruised spot on her temple. He
laid his hand on the child's heart, and put one finger 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 don't! Well, well! did n'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
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matters, and who was, in her own person, a personified humane
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 out 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 into 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 dropped again in heavy languor.
The little Mara had, with the quiet persistence which
formed a trait in her baby character, dragged 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 her hands
with a sigh of disappointment. Yet, before night, the
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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 often 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, and
seemed to watch with an ecstatic devotion his every movement, —
often repeating, 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 that the spiritual
is seen through them as through a glass darkly. It may be,
too, that the love which is stronger than death has a power
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sometimes to make itself heard and felt through the walls of
our mortality, when it would plead for the defenceless 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 would n'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, Mis' Kittridge, you 'll have the funeral to-morrow, —
it 's Sunday.”
“Why, yes, Aunt Roxy, — I think everybody must want
to improve such a dispensation. Have you took little Mara
in to look at the corpse?”
“Well, no,” 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 Sally and the little Mara entered the
room.
“Come here, children,” said Mrs. Kittridge, taking a hand
of either one, and leading them to the closed door of the
keeping-room; “I 've got somethin' to show 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 face expressed only the vague curiosity of a
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child to see something new; but the little Mara resisted and
hung back with all her force, so that Mrs. Kittridge was
obliged to take her up and hold her.
She folded back the 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 had 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 different
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
a'n't rugged like our Sally,” 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, — 't was jist so with Naomi, — the girl
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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 't a'n't no use
bringin' on 'em up too tender. Teach 'em to begin as
they 've got to go on, — that 's my maxim.”
“Mis' Kittridge,” 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 could n't fetch up Mis' Pennel's
children, and she could n't fetch up yourn, — 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. “When 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
ha' n't come into the Lord's vineyard yet.”
“Oh! come, come, Mis' Kittridge, don't twit a feller
afore folks,” said the Captain. “I 'm goin' over to Harpswell
Neck this blessed minute after the minister to 'tend the
funeral, — so we 'll let him preach.”
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CHAPTER VIII.
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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, though 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 had
been wrecked and a body floated ashore at her very door,
as it were, it afforded her no inconsiderable satisfaction to
dwell on the details and to arrange for the funeral.
It was something to talk about and to think of, and likely
to furnish subject-matter for talk for years to come when
she should go out to tea with any of her acquaintances who
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 was 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 memory 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 herself. Notice of it was to be given out in
“meeting” after service, and she might expect both
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keeping-room and kitchen to be full. Mrs. Pennel had offered
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 with
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 evening 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
days of our story were before the advent of those sullen
gnomes, the “air-tights,” or even those more sociable and
cheery domestic genii, 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
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on a little boat which he was shaping to please Sally, who sat
on a low stool by his side with her knitting, evidently 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 room, 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
single 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 very 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'.”
“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Kittridge, with an emphatic nod.
“Father,” 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 through, and they walk
about on the bottom of the ocean.”
“Did you ever go down in one, father?”
“Why, yes, child, to be sure; and strange enough it was,
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to be sure. There you could see great big sea critters, with
ever so many eyes and long arms, swimming right up to
catch you, and all you could do would be to muddy the
water on the bottom, so they could n't see you.”
“I never heard of that, Cap'n Kittridge,” said his wife,
drawing herself up with a reproving coolness.
“Wal', Mis' Kittridge, you ha' n'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 did n't get a few of them pearls,” said
his wife, with an indignant appearance of scorn.
“I did get lots 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 brought '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 was in India, I went up to
Lucknow, and Benares, and round, and saw all the Nabobs
and Biggums, — why, they don't make no more of gold and
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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 big 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 wife.
“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 a'n't like our 'n, —
stands to reason they should n'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 giv' me, and ever so many
pearls and diamonds. I used to go with 'em rattlin' loose 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, 'cause you 've been where we have n't.”
“You 've caught 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 think you was too old for such nonsense,
-- 069 --
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Cap'n,” said Mrs. Kittridge, with a toss of her head, and
a voice that sounded far less inexorable than her former
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 was no resisting
the spell of his inexhaustible good-nature.
By this time he had finished the little boat, and to Sally's
great delight, began sailing it for her in a pail of water.
“I wonder,” 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 should n't wonder,” said Miss Roxy, “if Cap'n Pennel
should adopt it.”
“You don't think so,” said Mrs. Kittridge. “'T would
be taking a great care and expense on their hands at their
time of life.”
“I would n'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 awful responsibility, and I wonder you
don't think whether or no you 're fit for it.”
“Why, down here 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,” said Miss Roxy, “I think they 'll adopt it to
be company for little Mara; they 'r' bound up in her, and
the little thing pines bein' alone.”
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“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 attachment for the little
Mara, and this affection was beginning to spread a warming
element through her whole being. It was as if a rough
granite rock had suddenly awakened to a passionate consciousness
of the beauty of some fluttering white 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 little 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 people
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 account, she had no small conceit of her abilities;
and when she thought she discerned a lamb being left to
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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 which 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 poor 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.
“Well, father, 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 mother's sharp, truth-seeking voice.
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A moralist might, perhaps, be puzzled exactly what account
to make of the Captain's disposition 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 atmosphere of sympathy and confidence in which
to develop himself fully; and, when left alone 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 Miss Roxy, “and the Cap'n's time
a'n'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.'”
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“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?”
It was past midnight as they went together into the
keeping-room. All was so still that the clash of the rising
tide and the ticking of the clock assumed that solemn and
mournful 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 moment, looked
critically at the still unconscious countenance.
“Not one thing to let us know who or what she is,” she
said; “that boy, if he lives, would give a good deal to know
some day.”
“What is it one's duty to do about this bracelet?” said
Mrs. Kittridge, taking from a drawer the article in question,
which had been found on the beach in the morning.
“Well, I s'pose 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 had 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 the aid of its talkative
and inspiring beverage. The two solemn, hard-visaged
women drew up to each other by the fire, and insensibly
their very voices assumed a tone of drowsy and confidential
mystery.
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“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 child has fallen into
such good hands. It seems a'most a pity she could n't
know it.”
“How do you know she don't?” said Miss Roxy, bruskly.
“Why, you know the hymn,” said Mrs. Kittridge, quoting
those somewhat saddusaical lines 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 and unknown.'”
“Well, I don't know 'bout that,” said Miss Roxy, flavoring
her cup of tea; “hymn-book a'n't Scriptur', and I 'm
pretty sure that ar a'n't true always;” and she 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 fateful hours which are the only
certain event in every human existence, caused her 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 human 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 a'n'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?”
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“I won't say as I have, and I won't say as I hav' n'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 insistance
which seem to take clocks at times when all is still, as
if they had something that they were getting ready to say
pretty soon, if nobody else spoke.
But Miss Roxy evidently had something to say, and so
she began: —
“Mis' Kittridge, this 'ere 's a very particular subject to
be talkin' of. I 've had opportunities to observe that most
hav' n'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 John died at Archangel; I remember that.”
“Jes' so,” said Miss Roxy, laying her hand on Mrs. Kittridge's;
“he died at Archangel the very day his mother died,
and jist the hour, for the Cap'n had it down in his log-book.”
“You don't say 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
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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 told 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 she 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 whole 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 note 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 did n't seem inclined to speak freely. `Miss
Roxy,' says he, `all natur 's in the Lord'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 was; 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, —
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“Mis' Kittridge, do you remember that ar Mr. Wadkins
that come to Brunswick twenty years ago, in President
Averill's days?”
“Yes, I remember 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, and 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. Folks 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 sickness, 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
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light-headed, and the Doctor said he thought 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 minutes 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 see 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 out 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 on 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, and very wide blue eyes. Well, you see, I
did n't look but a minute before he seemed 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 did n't understand, and I looked
round.”
Miss Roxy here made 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 must n't never speak about it; but as sure as you
live, Polly Kittridge, I see that ar very woman standin' 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.”
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“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 drew 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 hearth 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
treasures, and laying them down at his feet. His great
black eyes flashed with pleasure, and he gambolled about
the hearth with his new playmate in perfect forgetfulness,
apparently, of all the past night of fear and anguish.
When the great family 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 her, 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
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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 should n't think
he 'd been used to religious privileges.”
“Perhaps not,” said Zephaniah Pennel; “but who can
say but what this providence 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. “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.
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CHAPTER IX.
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Sunday morning rose clear and bright on Harpswell
Bay. The whole sea was a waveless, blue looking-glass,
streaked with 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 larches, 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 stillness
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.”
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 cedar 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
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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 nature was not yet enough
developed to fill the blank with visions of heaven, was yet
wholesomely instructed by his weariness into the secret of
his own spiritual poverty.
Zephaniah Pennel, in his best Sunday clothes, with his
hard visage glowing with a sort of interior tenderness, ministered
this morning at his family-altar — one of those thousand
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 trancelike calm of earth and 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 the birds make their nests; as for the stork, the firtrees
are her house. O Lord, how manifold are thy works!
in wisdom hast thou made them all.”
Ages ago the cedars 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 have
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been wafted like seed to our days, and sprung up in flowers
of trust and faith in a thousand households.
“Well, now,” said Miss Ruey, when the morning rite was
over, “Mis' Pennel, 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 did n't seem to be quite well.”
“No wonder, poor dear,” said Mrs. Pennel; “it 's a wonder
children can forget as they 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 as soon as shed,
The sunshine of the breast.'
Them lines all'ys seemed to me affectin'.”
Miss Ruey's sentiment 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 young Master Hopeful of our story, with
streaming eyes and much-bedaubed face, having 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 cannot
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 being that was rather
appalling.
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“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 hope he will; he 's welcome, I 'm
sure.”
“Not to my snuff-box,” said Miss Ruey, who had felt
herself attacked in a very tender 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.”
“Oh! never mind me,” said Miss Ruey, briskly. “I 've
got the big Bible, and I can sing a hymn or two by myself.
My voice a'n'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, had 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 retired prima
donna might, whose past successes were yet in the minds
of her generation.
After giving a look out of the window, to see that the
children were within sight, she opened the 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, about a worldly matter, if 't is Sunday;
but I 've been thinkin', Mis' Pennel, that there 'll
have to be clothes made up for this 'ere child next week,
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and so perhaps Roxy and I had better stop here a day or
two longer, and you tell Mis' 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 Ruey; “but I couldn't help
a-thinkin' I could get such a nice pair o' trousers 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 't was
you had n't nobody to cut down for; but this 'ere young un 's
going to be such a tearer, he 'll want somethin' 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 minute 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 eyetooth
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,” 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 people 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 enough, — don't you think so?”
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“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,” 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.
“Would n't think of giv'n him the Cap'n's name?” said
Aunt Ruey.
“He must have 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 has n'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 child's head; “our tongue is all
strange to him. Kittridge says he 's a Spanish child;
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maybe 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 now 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.”
“Now, did I ever!” said Miss Ruey; “there 's something
in the Bible to fit everything, a'n't there?”
“I like Moses, 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 gravely 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,
never orphan stranded on a foreign shore found home with
hearts more true and loving.
“Well, wife, I suppose we must be goin',” said Zephaniah.
About a stone's throw 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 came the sound
of Zephaniah's Sunday-morning psalm: —
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“Lord, in the morning thou shalt hear
My voice ascending high —
To thee will I direct my prayer,
To thee lift up mine eye;
Unto thy house will I resort,
To taste thy mercies there;
I will frequent thy holy court,
And worship in thy fear.”
The surface of the glassy bay was dotted here and there
with the white sails of other little craft bound for the same
point and for the same purpose. It was as pleasant a sight
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 “Bridge-water”
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 loud 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 poor 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 princess, whose nicety as to her dress and sensitiveness
as to anything unpleasant about her pretty person
we have seen, was lifted up streaming with tears and broken
eggs, but otherwise not seriously injured, having fallen on
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the very substantial substratum of hay which Dame Poulet
had selected as the foundation 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 is n'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 thing never got into no such
scrapes before.”
Far from seeming impressed with any wholesome remorse
of conscience, the little culprit frowned fierce defiance at
Miss Ruey, when, after having repaired the damages of
little Mara's toilet, she essayed the good old plan of shutting
him into the closet. 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 aspect 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 one
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
Ruey, 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
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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 boy, and offering her
little rose-bud of a mouth to kiss him, as she stood on tiptoe.
“Poor boy, — no kie, — Mara's boy,” she said, — “Mara
love boy;” and then giving an angry glance at Aunt Ruey,
who sat much disheartened and confused, she struck 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 being 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
much chippering and many little feminine manœuvres, 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 disturbance. If
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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 family Bible.
The evening of that day witnessed a crowded funeral in
the small rooms of Captain Kittridge. Mrs. 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 from 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, as if they
annoyed him; and shrinking back, seized hold of the gown
of Mrs. Pennel. 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
comments.
“Pennel 'll have his hands full with that ar chap,” said
Captain Kittridge to Miss Roxy.
Mrs. Kittridge darted an admonitory glance at her husband,
to remind him that she was looking at him, and immediately
he collapsed into solemnity.
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The evening sunbeams 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
till 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 traveller no trace remained, not
even in that infant soul that was to her so passionately
dear.
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CHAPTER X.
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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 the neighborhood fallen out at her door, — not
only had the most interesting funeral 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 the performances were all over. To this end she had
risen early, and taken down her best china 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.
It was a fine golden 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 rites 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.
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The Rev. Theophilus Sewell was one of the few ministers
who preserved the costume of a former generation, 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-skirted
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 certain 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 man, he had proposed to himself no
higher ambition than to succeed to the pulpit of his father
in Harpswell.
His parish included not only a somewhat scattered sea-faring
population on the main-land, but also the care of
several islands. Like many other of the New England
clergy of those times, he united in himself numerous different
offices for the benefit of the people whom he served.
As there was neither lawyer nor physician in the town,
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 ordinary 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, and in the medical
line his authority was only rivalled 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
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man had retained steadfastly his bachelor estate; “so, of
course,” Miss Roxy used to say, “poor man! what could 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 which 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, yet very shrewd-minded people.
There are those people who possess a peculiar faculty of
mingling in the affairs of this life as spectators as well as
actors. It does not, of course, suppose any coldness 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 be a kind of distinct faculty working
harmoniously with all the others; but he who 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
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life a humor and a pathos beyond anything he can find
shadowed in books.
Mr. Sewell sometimes, in his pastoral visitations, took a
quiet pleasure in playing upon these simple 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 something in addition to his limited salary,
and this innocent, unsuspected entertainment helped to
make up the balance for his many labors.
His sister was one of the best-hearted and most unsuspicious
of the class of female idolaters, and worshipped her
brother with the most undoubting faith and devotion —
wholly ignorant of the constant amusement she gave him
by a thousand little feminine 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 shirts and
stockings, and Sunday clothes, and to listen to the subtile
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 the wearing
of each one; for Miss Emily Sewell was a gentlewoman,
and held rigidly 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 quite
pretty in her days; and her neat figure, her brisk little
vivacious ways, her unceasing good-nature and kindness of
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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 with 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 might gratify
their ever new curiosity.
Instructed by her, all the good wives knew the difference
between his very best long silk stockings and his second
best, and how carefully the first had to be kept under lock
and key, where he could 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, ready 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 about by her
with an air of half whimsical consciousness.
Mrs. Kittridge that 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 out 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 skilful darn which Miss Emily had once
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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 the tea-table, “told me that she wished
when you were going home that you would call in to see
Mary Jane — she could n't come out to the funeral on account
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?”
“Yes, I think it a very good gargle,” replied the minister,
gravely.
“Ma'sh rosemary is the gargle that I always use,” said
Miss Roxy; “it cleans out your throat so.”
“Marsh rosemary is a very excellent gargle,” said Mr.
Sewell.
“Why, brother, 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,” said the imperturbable Mr. Sewell, drinking
his tea with the air of a sphinx.
“Well, now, you 'll have to tell which on 'em will be most
likely to cure Mary Jane,” 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!” burst in different tones from each of the women.
“I thought you said that blackberry-root tea was good,”
said Mrs. Kittridge.
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“I understood that you 'proved of ma'sh rosemary,” said
Miss Roxy, touched in her professional pride.
“And I am sure, brother, that I have heard you say,
often and often, that there was n't a better gargle than
rose leaves and vitriol,” said Miss Emily.
“You are quite right, ladies, all of you. I think these
are all good gargles — excellent ones.”
“But I thought you said that they did n't do any good?”
said all the ladies in a breath.
“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, you 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 there was five died
in one house; and if ma'sh rosemary did n't do good then,
I should like to know what did.”
“So would a good many others,” said the minister.
“Law, now, Miss 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 would n't think of puttin' his experience
against yours.”
“But, Mis' Kittridge,” said Miss Emily, with a view of
summoning a less controverted 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 a'n't
got no more government than a twisted tow-string.”
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“Oh, the Cap'n, he 'll lend a hand,” said Miss Roxy;
“it won't be easy gettin' roun' 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 awful responsibility, and I always wonder
when I hear that any one dares to undertake it.”
“It requires a great deal of resolution, certainly,” said
Mrs. Kittridge; “I 'm sure 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 countenance of Mr. Sewell was all aglow with
merriment, which did not break into a smile.
“Wal', Mis' Kittridge,” said the Captain, “strikes me
that you 're gettin' pussonal.”
“No, I a'n'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 have n't much experience in these matters,” said Mr.
Sewell, politely.
“No, indeed, that 's what he has n'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 going to remark,” said Mr. Sewell, “that a
friend of mine said once, that the woman that had brought
up six boys deserved a seat among the martyrs — and that
is rather my opinion.”
“Wal', Polly, if you git up there, I hope you 'll keep a
seat for me.”
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“Cap'n Kittridge, what levity!” said his wife.
“I did n't begin 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 anything 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,” 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 away 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 never thought of that,” said Miss Roxy.
Miss Emily, looking 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 't is real gold
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and precious stones, or only glass and pinchbeck. Cap'n
Kittridge he thinks it 's real; and if 't is, why then the question
is, whether or no to try to sell it, or to keep it for the
boy agin he grows up. It may help find out who and what
he is.”
“And why should 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 boy be
born to?”
“That may be, brother, but it can't be kept from him.
Everybody knows how he was found, and you may be sure
every bird of the air will tell him, and he 'll grow up restless
and wanting to know. Mis' Kittridge, have you got the
bracelet handy?”
The fact was, little 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 enamelled 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 put into his hand.
Miss Emily had risen from table and brought it to him,
leaning over him as she did so, and he turned his head a
little to hold it in the light from the window, so that only
she remarked the sudden expression of blank surprise and
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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 composed 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 commit 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
where it is herself.”
“Brother!”
“Come, Emily,” said Mr. Sewell, “your hens will all go
to roost on the wrong 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 should n't
wonder if some of Emily's admirers should call on her this
evening, — never any saying when Captain Broad may
come in.”
“Now, brother, 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 called last week
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a Monday, to talk to you about the pews, and hardly spoke
a word to me. You ought n't to say such things, 'cause it
raises reports.”
“Ah, well, then, I won't again,” said her brother. “I
believe, after all, it was Captain Badger that called twice.'
“Brother!”
“And left you 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. Sewell and Captain Kittridge stood patiently
waiting with the resigned air which the 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 door-step, where they were at it harder than ever, and
a third occasion of the same sort took place at the bottom
of the steps, Mr. Sewell was at last obliged by main 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 feeling had passed
away, — and yet, with the restlessness of female curiosity,
she felt quite sure that she had laid hold of the end of
some skein of mystery, could she only find skill enough
to unwind it.
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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 Anna Maria, which was
going to be launched from Pennel's wharf next Wednesday.
But 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 seducing 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 chamber 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 proceeded 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 cap,
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 boast; 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 amber contents, down by the fire, and then
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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 secure an uninterrupted night's repose.
Having done all this, she took her knitting-work, 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, have 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 where
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 trying every indirect form, Miss Emily approached
the subject more pointedly.
“I thought that you looked very much interested in that
poor woman to-day.”
“She had an interesting face,” said her brother, dryly.
“Was it like anybody that you ever saw?” said Miss
Emily.
Her brother did not 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 did n't know but she did; there were a
good many women with black eyes and black hair, — Mrs.
Kittridge, for instance.”
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“Why, I don't think that she looked like Mrs. Kittridge
in the least,” said Miss Emily, warmly.
“Oh, well! I did n't say she did,” said her brother, looking
drowsily at his watch; “why, Emily, it 's getting rather
late.”
“What made you 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?” 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 child, what an active imagination you
have. Did you ever look through a prism, Emily?”
“Why, no, Theophilus; 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 is n't on the things, but in the
prism.”
“Well, what 's that to the purpose?” said Miss Emily,
rather bewildered.
“Why, just this: 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 sorry
for you, childie, but really I can't help you to get up a romance
out of this 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.
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CHAPTER XI.
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The little boy who had been added to 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 have seen, he was a resolute, self-willed
little elf, and whatever his former life 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 timid daughter, who
needed for her development only an extreme of tenderness,
and whose conscientiousness was a law unto herself, stood
utterly confounded before the turbulent little spirit to which
her loving-kindness had opened so ready 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 were 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 treaties, with
divers articles of capitulation, ending, as treaties are apt to
do, in open rupture on the first convenient opportunity.
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Mrs. Pennel sometimes reflected with herself mournfully,
and with many self-disparaging sighs, what 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 and stronger than he, able to hold his
rebellious little hands, to lift and carry 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 and forcibly recommended as the great secret of her
family prosperity? Was it not her duty, as everybody told
her, to break his will while he was young? — a duty 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 nature, that self-denial
for her must have consisted in standing up for her own
rights, or having her own way when it crossed the will
and pleasure of any one around her. All she wanted of
a child, or in fact of any human creature, was something to
love and serve. We leave it entirely to theologians to reconcile
such facts with the theory of total depravity; but it
is a fact that there are a considerable 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 such 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
idolatry but worship.
Mrs. Pennel would gladly have placed herself and all she
possessed at the disposition of the children; they might have
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broken her china, dug in the garden with her silver spoons,
made turf alleys in her best room, drummed on her mahogany
tea-table, filled her muslin drawer with their choicest
shells and sea-weed; only Mrs. Pennel knew that such kindness
was no kindness, and that in the dreadful word responsibility,
familiar to every New England mother's ear, there
lay an awful summons to deny and to conflict where she
could so much easier have conceded.
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
task to which she felt about as competent as to make a new
ring for Saturn. Then, too, there was a secret feeling, if
the truth must be told, of what Mrs. Kittridge 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 uneasiness to
poor Mrs. Pennel, who was one of those sensitive souls who
can feel for a mile or more the sphere of a stronger neighbor.
During all the years that they had 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 sharp eyes of a neighbor
who is strong precisely where we are weak? The
trouble that 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 always been able
to comfort herself with the idea that the child under her
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particular training was as well-behaved as any of those of
her more demonstrative friend. But now, all this consolation
had been put to flight; she could not meet Mrs. 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; therefore,
poor Mrs. Pennel was thankful every Sunday when she
got her little charge home without any distinct scandal and
breach of the peace.
But, after all, he was such a handsome and engaging little
wretch, attracting all eyes wherever 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 classes of human beings in this world: one
class seem made to give love, and the other 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
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delicate, shrinking, highly nervous 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 might
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 warmth to her
being. She seemed to incline toward him as naturally as a
needle to a magnet.
The child's quickness of ear and the facility with which he
picked up English were marvellous to observe. Evidently,
he had been somewhat accustomed to the sound of it before,
for there dropped out of his vocabulary, after he began to
speak, phrases which would seem to betoken a longer
familiarity with its idioms than could be equally accounted
for by his present experience. Though the English evidently
was not his native language, there had yet apparently
been some effort to teach it to him — although the
terror and confusion of the shipwreck seemed at first 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 where 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 call it putting up
his dead-lights.
Perhaps it was the dreadful association of agony and terror
connected with the shipwreck, that thus confused and
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darkened the mirror of his mind the moment it was turned
backward; but it was thought wisest by his new friends to
avoid that class of subjects altogether — indeed, it was 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 make him understand he must n't do one
thing, he was right at another.”
One of his exploits, however, had very nearly been the
means of cutting short the materials of our story in the
outset.
It was a warm, sunny afternoon, and the three women,
being busy together with their stitching, had 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
danger could be apprehended. So up and down they
trotted, till the spirit of adventure which ever burned in
the breast of little Moses caught sight of a small canoe
which had been moored just under the shadow of a cedar-covered
rock.
Forthwith he persuaded his little neighbor to go into it,
and for a while they made themselves 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
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how beautiful it would be to sail out as he had seen men do,—
and so, with much puffing and earnest tugging of his little
brown hands, the boat at last was loosed from her moorings
and pushed out on the tide, when 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 with a fairy-princess
in his boat, he was going to stretch away to some
of the islands of dream-land. 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 vehement
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 farther 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
would n'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 stretched 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, and careering in circles round the children.
A brisk little breeze, that came hurrying down from the
land, seemed disposed to favor their unsubstantial enterprise,—
for your winds, being a fanciful, uncertain tribe of people,
are always for falling in with anything that is contrary to
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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 with which their little bark danced and rocked, as
it floated outward to the broad, 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 somewhere, to something more beautiful still. And
what is the happiness of the brightest hours of grown people
more than this?
“Roxy,” said Aunt Ruey innocently, “seems to me I
have n't heard nothin' o' them children lately. They 're so
still, I 'm 'fraid there 's some mischief.”
“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 did n'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 Roxy, the children are at this moment
tilting up and down on the waves, half a mile 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 'r' alive, them chil'en are off in the boat,—
they 'r' out to sea, sure as I 'm alive! What shall we
do? The boat 'll upset, and the sharks 'll get 'em.”
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Miss Roxy ran to the window, and saw dancing and
courtesying on the blue waves the little pinnace, with its
fanciful pink pennon fluttered gayly by the indiscreet and
flattering 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, Mara! oh, my poor little girl! oh, poor
children!”
“Well, if ever I see such a young un as that,” soliloquized
Miss Roxy from the chamber-window; “there they be,
dancin' and giggitin' about; — they 'll have 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 little
boat, and the children derived no small amusement from
watching their motions in the pellucid water, — the boy occasionally
almost upsetting the boat by valorous 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 chorus at every lunge that he made.
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What would have been the end of it all it is difficult to
say, had not some mortal power interfered 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
rnbbed his eyes at the apparition which presented itself.
A tiny little shell of a boat came drifting toward him, in
which was a black-eyed boy, with cheeks like a pomegranate,
and lustrous tendrils of silky dark hair, and a little
golden-haired girl, white 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. Sewell, 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 had 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 two classes to make the little ones
comprehend the risk they had run.
Perhaps so 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
dangerous.
Duty herself could not have worn a more rigid aspect
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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 defiance 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 fact, nothing is more ludicrous about the escapades of
children than the utter insensibility 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 Roxy was much scandalized by seeing the young cause
of all the disturbance sitting upon his heels, regarding the
emotion of the kneeling party with his wide bright eyes,
without a wink of compunction.
“Well, for her part,” she said, “she hoped Cap'n Pennel
would be blessed in takin' that ar boy; but she was sure she
did n't see much that looked like it now.”
The Rev. Mr. Sewell 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 ways of God,” he thought, “that should send to
my door this child, and should 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?”
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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 because
of the impression made upon him by the sudden apparition
of those great dark eyes 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 out 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 radiantly 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 cannot 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 catching cold out on
the bay.”
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CHAPTER XII.
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Mr. Sewell, as the reader may perhaps 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 Emily 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 lichens feather every stone down to
the dark, cool water.
Dear to him was the stillness and coolness of inner
thoughts with which no stranger intermeddles; 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 refreshing 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 baffle 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 have given her the
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amount of pleasure the confidence would have produced; but
then 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 vows, 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 six 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 seen 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 searched through many piles
of paper, and having done so, seemed to ponder, uncertainly,
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 curiously 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 in every mouth in the parish that the minister
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had written to so and so in Florida, “and what do you s'pose
it 's about?”
“No, no,” 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 so 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 less
rather than more communicative on this subject, as he
thinks upon it.
Nevertheless, whatever it be that he knows or suspects, it
is something which leads him to contemplate with more than
usual interest this little mortal waif that has so strangely
come ashore in his parish.
He mentally resolves to study the child as minutely as
possible, without betraying that he has any particular reason
for being interested in him.
Therefore, in the latter part of this mild November afternoon,
which he has devoted to pastoral 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, calm 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 ear from behind a cedar-covered
rock, and soon emerged Captain Kittridge, as long
and lean and brown as the Ancient Mariner, carrying little
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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
house-keeper and general overseer; and little Mara and
Moses and Sally had been 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 all 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 only equalled 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 little 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 do, my little fellow.”
“Are you the Lord?” said the child, solemnly.
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“Am I what?”
“The Lord,” said the boy.
“No, indeed, my lad,” said Mr. Sewell, smiling. “Why,
what put that into your little head?”
“I thought you were,” said the boy, still continuing to
study the pastor with attention. “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 which he drew from his pocket three little
bright-cheeked apples, and gave one to each child; and then
taking the hand of the little Moses in his own, he walked
with 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 penetralia of the best room.
“Now, Mrs. Pennel, 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 minister 's right,” said Captain Kittridge. “When
rooms a'n't much set in, folks 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 moments the Captain had produced in the
great cavernous chimney a foundation for a fire that
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promised breadth, solidity, and continuance. A great back-log,
embroidered 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.
“Now, 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 order — 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, ambition, muscle;”
and he nodded his head once or twice to some internal
decision.
“There!” said the Captain, rising out of a perfect whirlwind
of chips and pine kindlings 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 the crevices of the dry pine wood which he had intermingled
plentifully with the more substantial fuel, —
“there, Mis' Pennel, a'n'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; a'n't ye?” said the Captain, still
contemplating his fire with a proud and watchful eye.
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“Law me!” 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 coseyly in the chimney-corner,
and sank into a state of half-dreamy revery; 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, her
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 delicacies, and refinements of appointment,
and its ample varieties to tempt the appetite — and
then the Captain coming in, yet fresh and hungry from his
afternoon's toil, with the children trotting before him.
“And this is the inheritance he comes into,” he murmured;
“healthy — wholesome — cheerful — 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 specimen of the best, Mary,” said Captain Pennel.
“I thought I 'd bring 'em for Miss Emily.”
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“Miss Emily will be a thousand times obliged to you,”
said Mr. Sewell, rising up.
As to Mara and Sally, they were revelling in apronsful of
shells and sea-weed, which they bustled into 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 meal.
After supper was over, the Captain was besieged by the
children. Little Mara mounted first into 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 herself 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 plenty of them in the West Indies.”
“Oh, never mind about 'em now,” said Captain Kittridge,
looking at Mr. Sewell's corner.
“Why not, father? mother is n't here,” said Sally, innocently.
A smile passed round the faces of the company, and Mr.
Sewell said, “Come, Captain, no modesty; 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 world jist like our 'n,
only it 's down in the bottom of the sea, 'cause the bottom
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of the sea has its mountains and its valleys, and its trees
and its bushes, and 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 about 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 anchor 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 like
diamonds.”
“Do you suppose they were diamonds, really?” said
Sally.
“Wal', child, I did n't ask him, but I should n'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,' and
says I, `Yes, sir.' `I 'm sorry to interrupt your reading,'
says he; and says I, `Oh, no matter, sir.' `But,' says he,
`if you would only be so good as to move 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 they go to meeting in the bottom of the sea?”
said Moses.
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“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 could n'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 curiosity. 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 should n'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 approached his chair to that of Captain Pennel,
and began talking to him in a tone of voice so low, that
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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 probabilities 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 has, 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 think we 'd best go back on our
steps; besides, our little Mara has thrived since he came
under our roof. He is, to be sure, kind o' masterful, and
I shall have to take him off Mis' Pennel's hands before
long, and put him into the sloop. But, after all, there seems
to be the makin' of a man in him, and when we are called
away, 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 own.
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CHAPTER XIII.
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Zephaniah Pennel was what might be called a Hebrew
of the Hebrews.
New England, in her earlier days, founding her institutions
on the Hebrew Scriptures, bred better Jews than
Moses could, because she read Moses with the amendments
of Christ.
The state of society in some of the districts of Maine, in
these days, much resembled in its spirit that which Moses
labored to produce in ruder ages. It was entirely democratic,
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 desirable
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 factitious 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 farm, 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,
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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 for 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 person can well afford to wear homespun stuff to meeting,
who is buoyed up by a secret consciousness of an abundance
of fine things that could be worn, if one were so
disposed, and everybody respected Mrs. Pennel's homespun
the more, because they thought of the things she did n'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,
write, 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 acquisitions 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 bored 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
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many 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
well 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 has lent him, — and he often brings shrewd criticisms
on the character and course of Romulus or Alexander
into the common current of every-day life, in a way that
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 has
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
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to read too, and though three years younger, 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 health, 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
the ground that it would make the woman unfeminine — as
if Nature had done her work so slightly that it could be so
easily ravelled and knit over. In fact, there is a masculine
and a feminine element in all knowledge, and a man and a
woman put 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 full 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 boundless. He was a constant hero
in her eyes, and in her he found a steadfast believer 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 firs exuded from their tender shoots the fragrance
of ripe pine-apple; the white pines shot forth long weird
fingers at the end of their fringy boughs; and even every
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little mimic evergreen in the shadows at their feet was made
beautiful 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 pendent twin bells round every mossy stump and old
rock damp with green forest mould. The green and vermilion
matting of the partridge-berry was impearled with
white velvet blossoms, the checkerberry hung forth a translucent
bell under its varnished green leaf, and a thousand
more fairy bells, white or red, hung on 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 flowers seemed to be one of her earliest characteristics,
and the young spring flowers of New England, in
their airy delicacy and fragility, were much like herself —
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 stood a tumbler of scarlet
rock columbine, and there a bowl of blue and white violets,
and in another place a saucer of shell-tinted crow-foot, blue
liverwort, and white anemone, so that Zephaniah Pennel
was wont to say there was n't a drink of water 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
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on the strange silvery mystery of beauty that was growing
in the silence of his heart.
But May has passed; 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
Banks.
Glorious knight he! the world all before him, and the
blood of ten years racing 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
just finished for him.
“How I do wish I were going with you!” she says. “I
could do something, could n't I — take care of your hooks,
or something?”
“Pooh!” said Moses, sublimely regarding her while he
settled the collar of his shirt, “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, poor 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; “I can't help
feeling sorry when they gasp so.”
“Well, and what do you suppose you would do when the
men are pulling up twenty and forty pounder?” said Moses,
striding sublimely. “Why, they flop so, they 'd knock you
over in a minute.”
“Do they? Oh, Moses, do be careful. What if they
should hurt you?”
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“Hurt me!” 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,” 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 little coquettish craft.
A fairer June morning had not risen on the shores that
week; 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 crisping 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 slowly and gracefully
to retreat from the shore.
Little Moses stood on the deck, his 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, till
the vessel grew smaller, and finally seemed to melt away
into the eternal blue.
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 bubble in the mighty waters. Yet Mrs.
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Pennel did not turn back to her house in apprehension 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 the 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 missing, 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 Mrs. 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-evening, Mis' Pennel,” said the Captain; “I 's
a-tellin' my good woman we must 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'n't ye? Took little Moses, too, I see.
Was n't at meetin' to-day, so I says, Mis' Kittridge, we 'll
just step down and chirk 'em up a little.”
“I did n't really 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, a'n't
he, for that?”
“Not a bit of it,” said Captain Kittridge. “Why, I was
off to the Banks long afore I was his age, and a capital time
we had of it, too. Golly! how them fish did bite! We
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stood up to our knees in fish before we 'd fished half an
hour.”
Mara, who had always a shy affinity for the Captain, now
drew towards him and climbed on his knee.
“Did the wind blow very hard?” she said.
“What, my little maid?”
“Does the wind blow at the Banks?”
“Why, yes, my little girl, that it does, sometimes; but
then there a'n't the least danger. Our craft ride out storms
like live creatures. I 've stood it out in gales that was tight
enough, I 'm sure. 'Member once I turned in 'tween twelve
and one, and had n't more 'n got asleep, afore I came clump
out of my berth, and found everything upside down. And
'stead of goin' up-stairs to get on deck, I had to go right
down. Fact was, that 'ere vessel jist turned clean over in
the water, and come right side up like a duck.”
“Well, now, Cap'n, I would n't be tellin' such a story as
that,” said his help-meet.
“Why, Polly, what do you know about it? you never
was to sea. We did turn clear over, for I 'member I saw a
bunch of sea-weed 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 ha' n't been
heard of since. Mary Jane don't really know whether to
put on mourning or not.”
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“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.
Did n'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.”
“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 'fraid 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 Betsy had n't
been made of whalebone and injer-rubber, she 'd a-been
stove all to pieces. Them white bears, 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 they 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 thick 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, never you mind, Mara,” he said, “there won't
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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 before 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, ropy 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 was 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 't was true enough, too, till
we got off the ice on to the shore up in the Esquimaux
territory, as I was a-tellin'. So you tell Mary Jane she
need n'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 help-meet, drawing herself
up, and giving him an austere glance over her spectacles;
“how often must I tell you that there is subjects which
should n't be treated with levity?”
“Who 's been a-treatin' of 'em with levity?” said the
Captain. “I 'm sure I a'n'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
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ris up in the singers' seats to-day. Put me in mind of you,
Polly, when I first come home from the Injies.”
“Oh, come now, Cap'n Kittridge! we 'r' gettin' too old
for that sort o' talk.”
“We a'n't too old, be we, Mara?” said the Captain, trotting
the little girl gayly on his knee; “and we a'n'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 white
and glistering, like the New Jerusalem, and the white bears
have capital times trampin' round on 'em. Would n'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 hav' n't seen any little girls ride so,” said Mara,
doubtfully.
“I should n't wonder if I had; but you see, Mis' Kittridge
there, she won't let me tell all 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 Remus once, and nursed them
when they were cast out to die. I read that in the Roman
history.”
“Jist so,” said the Captain, enchanted at this historic confirmation
of his apocrypha.
“And so,” said Mara, “if Moses should happen to get on
an iceberg, a bear might take care of him, you know.”
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“Jist so, jist 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 white bears, jist like Romulus and what 's his name
there?”
“Come, Mis' Kittridge,” added the cheery Captain; “you
and I must n't be keepin' the folks up till nine o'clock.”
“Well now,” 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 thinking what if I should be left a lone
widow.”
“There 'd a-been 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-night, 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 yet 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, with warm, soft fur and pearl and gold saddles,
walked through her dreams, and the victorious curls of
Moses appeared, with his bright eyes and cheeks, over
glittering pinnacles of frost in the ice-land.
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CHAPTER XIV.
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June and July passed, and the lonely 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-trees, 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 through 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 texts in a very old edition of Æsop's Fables,
and as she wandered in the woods, picking fragrant bayberries
and gathering hemlock, checkerberry, and sassafras
to put in the beer which her grandmother brewed, she
mused on the things that 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 was 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.
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It was the play of the “Tempest,” torn from an old edition
of Shakespeare, and was in that 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 common 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 those 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, and therefore the
wonder that this new treasure excited, the host of surmises
and 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 consult Captain
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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 wandered up and down the
beach.
“Come unto these yellow sands
And then take hands,
Courtesied when you have and kissed
(The wild waves wist),
Foot it featly here and there,
And sweet sprites the burden 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;
Nothing of him that can fade
But doth suffer a sea change
Into something rich and strange;
Sea-nymphs hourly ring his knell —
Hark, I hear them — ding, dong, bell.”
These words she pondered very long, gravely revolving
in her little head whether they described the usual course of
things in the mysterious under-world that lay beneath that
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 spoken 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 waters?
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 been lost on her quiet, listening little ears.
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These pale, still children that play without making any
noise, are deep wells into which drop many things which lie
long and quietly on the bottom, and come up in after years
whole and new, when 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 afternoon, when the sea lay all dead asleep, and
the long, steady respiration of its tides scarcely disturbed
the glassy tranquillity of its bosom, Mrs. Pennel sat at her
kitchen-door spinning, when Captain Kittridge appeared.
“Good-afternoon, 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 hastened 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 door-way and discussed it in leisurely
sips.
“Wal', s'pose it 's most time to be lookin' for 'em home,
a'n't it?” he said.
“I am lookin' every day,” said Mrs. Pennel, involuntarily
glancing upward at the sea.
At the word appeared the vision of little Mara, who rose
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up like a spirit from a dusky corner, where 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 promised
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 brightened, 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 went 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, does 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 'r' 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 you, 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 hands 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
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way, his wife 's manner, “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 think of.”
“'Cause you know your ma 'll be arter ye, if you don't
leave everything straight.”
“Oh, never you fear, father, I 've done it all half an hour
ago, and I 've found the most capital 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 shoes, or spoil her frock, or something.”
“Wal', she likes no better fun now,” said the Captain,
watching Sally, as she disappeared round the rock with a
bright tin pan.
He then proceeded to construct an extemporary fireplace
of loose stones, and to put together chips 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 on a stone feeding the fire
leisurely from time to time with crackling boughs. Now
was the time for Mara to make her inquiries; her heart
beat, she knew not why, for she was full of those little timidities
and shames that so often embarrass 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?”
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Now the Captain had 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-like, answered one question by asking
another, — “What put that into your curly pate?” he said.
“A book I 've been reading says they do, — that is sea-nymphs
do. A'n't sea-nymphs and mermaids the same
thing?”
“Wal', I guess they be, pretty much,” said the Captain,
rubbing down his pantaloons; “yes, they be,” he added, after
reflection.
“And when people 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 was n'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 there 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 rode in the curled clouds and hung
in flowers, — because he could make himself big 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,
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speaking very fast, “this enchanter had been a prince, and
a wicked brother had contrived to send him to sea with his
poor little daughter, 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 lived 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,” said the Captain; “that 's been often done, to
my sartin knowledge.”
“And he made the ship be wrecked and all the people
thrown ashore, but there was n'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 clams 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 theatre, 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,” said Captain Kittridge, “not exactly; but
things jist like it, you know. Mermaids and sich is common
in foreign parts, and they has funerals for drowned
sailors. 'Member once when we was sailing near the
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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-growin',
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 sea-weed.”
“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' the 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 mast-head,
and he had a pitchfork in one hand, and a lantern in the
other, and there was great balls of fire as big as my fist
came out all round in the rigging. And I 'll tell you if we
did n'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 't was 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 leisurely 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 had 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 soon was busy with her work.
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“Yes,” said the Captain, going on with his part of the
arrangement, “there was old Polly Twichell, 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
would n't swim!”
“No more it would n't, in any Christian way,” said the
Captain; “but that was to show what a great witch she
was.”
“But this was a good enchanter,” said Mara, “and he did
it all by a book and a rod.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Captain; “that ar 's the gen'l way
magicians do, ever since Moses' time in Egypt. 'Member
once I was to Alexandria, in Egypt, and I saw 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 pretty 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, you know, we all on us does what a'n't quite
right sometimes, when we gets pushed up,” said the Captain,
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who now began arranging the clams and sliced potatoes 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 steam 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 conversation. At last she
said, “What did you mean by saying you 'd seen 'em act
that at a theatre?”
“Why, they make 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 is by magic, a'n't it?” said Mara.
“No; they hes ways to jist make it up; but,” — added
the Captain, “Sally, you need n't say nothin' to your ma
'bout the theatre, 'cause she would n't think I 's fit to go to
meetin' for six months arter, if she heard on 't.”
“Why, a'n't theatres good?” said Sally.
“Wal, there 's a middlin' sight o' bad things in 'em,” said
the Captain, “that I must 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
raal things a good deal more wonderful than all their shows,
and they ha'n't no make-b'lieve to 'em — but theatres is
takin' arter all. But, Sally, mind you don't say nothin' to
Mis' Kittridge.”
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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 went 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 will they be here?”
“Afore long,” said the Captain; “so, Mara, I guess you 'll
want to be getting hum.”
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CHAPTER XV.
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Mrs. Pennel, too, had seen the white, dove-like cloud
on the horizon, and had hurried to make biscuits, and conduct
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 moored
at the beach, and the minister sprang out, — not in his suit
of ceremony, but attired in fisherman's garb.
“Good-afternoon, Mrs. Pennel,” he said. “I was out
fishing, and I thought I saw your husband's schooner in the
distance. I thought I 'd come and tell you.”
“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 nothing like going to Mount Zion.”
“And little Moses has gone on his first voyage?” said
the minister.
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“Yes, indeed; the child has been teasing to go for more
than a year. Finally the Cap'n told him if he 'd be faithful
in the ploughing and planting he should go. You see, 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, where 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 is a good-hearted, obliging creature,” said
Mrs. Pennel, “and a master-hand for telling stories to the
children.”
“Yes, a perfect `Arabian Nights' Entertainment,'” said
Mr. Sewell.
“Well, I really 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 could n't
be. He has been in and out almost every day since I 've
been alone, to see if I wanted anything. He would insist
on chopping wood and splitting kindlings for me, though I
told him the Cap'n and Moses had left a plenty to last till
they came home.”
At this moment the subject of their conversation appeared
striding along the beach, with a large, red lobster in one
hand, while with the other he held little Mara upon his
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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 purple in the evening light,
careering gayly homeward.
“There is Captain Kittridge this very minute,” said Mrs.
Pennel, setting down a teacup she had been wiping, and
going to the door.
“Good-evening, 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 ha'n'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 the 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, and she could see her grandfather's gray head,
and alert, active form, and could see, by the signs he made,
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that he had perceived the little blowy figure that 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
more, and all are landed safe and sound, and little Mara
is carried up to the house in her grandfather's arms, while
Captain Kittridge stops to have a few moments' gossip with
Ben Halliday and Tom Scranton before they go to their own
resting-places.
Meanwhile Moses loses 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, — throw and bite; and
my hands got blistered pulling in, but I did n't mind it, — I
was determined no one should beat me.”
“Oh! did you blister your hands?” said Mara, pitifully.
“Oh, to be sure! 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! — oh, how dreadful! Is n'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 is n't his fault that he eats people.
He was made so,” said Mara, unconsciously touching a deep
theological mystery.
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“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! yes; we passed right by one, — a real grand
one.”
“Were there any bears on it?”
“Bears! No; we did n'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 anything, and particularly in
her good old friend, the Captain; and next, she felt, with
more force than ever she did before, the continual disparaging
tone in which Moses spoke of her girlhood.
“I 'm sure,” she said to herself, “he ought n't to feel so
about girls and women. There 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
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in all this meeting with Moses. She had dwelt 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 need 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 to do from infancy;
“grandpa thought a great deal about his little Mara.”
The small heart swelled against his. Kind, faithful old
grandpa! how much more he thought about 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 had 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 was, the small pearl with the golden
hair, with her frail and high-strung organization, her sensitive
nerves, her half-spiritual fibres, her ponderings, 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 people, thus organized, are
thrown into intimate relations, it follows, from the very laws
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of their being, that one must hurt the other, simply by being
itself; one must always hunger for what the other has not
to give.
It was a merry meal, 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 been 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 experienced eyes, who know how much it all
amounts to.
Gradually, little Mara quieted herself with listening to
and admiring him.
It is not comfortable 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 could n'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 come back. This was
about the resumé of life as it appeared to the little one, who
went on from the moment worshipping her image with more
undivided idolatry than ever, hoping that by and by he
would think more of her.
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Mr. Sewell appeared to study Moses carefully and thoughtfully,
and encouraged the wild, gleeful frankness which he
had brought home from his first voyage, as a knowing jockey
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,” said Moses; “at least,” he added, blushing
very deeply, “I did n't feel like reading. I had so much to
do, and there was so much to see.”
“It 's all new 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 a'n'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!” said Mr. Sewell, turning with an amused look
towards the tiny little champion; “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
intimacy.
“Come, sit by me, little Mara,” said the minister, putting
out his hand; “you and I must be friends, I see.”
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Mr. Sewell had a certain something of mesmeric power
in his eyes which children seldom resisted; 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 her, while a brisk conversation
was going on between Captain Kittridge and Captain Pennel
on the fishing bounty for the year.
“Yes, sir,” said Mara, blushing in a very guilty way.
“And which do you like the best?”
“I don't know, 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 you remember him? why, there was a great
gulf opened in the Forum, and the Augurs said that the
country would not be saved unless some one would offer
himself up for it, and so he jumped right in, all on horseback.
I think that was grand. I should 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 would 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 think it would be very grand of him?”
“Oh, yes, sir.”
“And should n't we wish our friends to do what is brave
and grand?”
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“Yes, sir; but 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,” 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 think he was
splendid.”
“True boy,” 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 did n't.”
Mara's eyes looked eagerly attentive. Mr. Sewell noticed
their hungry look when a book was spoken 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.”
“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 any 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
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many of them were much better worth writing than the
men's.”
“I should like 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 to do anything, you
must read and study.”
“Do you think 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 seems 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 you 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 catch cod I don't
begin with flingin' over a barrel o' bait. So with the boys,
jist 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,
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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.”
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CHAPTER XVI.
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“Emily,” said Mr. Sewell, “did you ever take much
notice of that little Mara Lincoln?”
“No, brother; why?”
“Because I think her a very uncommon child.”
“She is a pretty 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 grow so large and so bright, it seems almost
unnatural.”
“Dear me! has she?” said Miss Emily, in the 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 thinking 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 the way, when Mr. Sewell began to talk
with Miss Emily, that she constantly answered him with the
manner of one who expects some immediate, practical proposition
to flow from every train of thought. Now Mr.
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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!”
and “Indeed's!” were sometimes the least bit in the world
annoying.
“What is to be done?” said Miss Emily; “shall we
speak to Mrs. Pennel?”
“Mrs. Pennel would know nothing about her.”
“How strangely you talk! — who should, if she does n't?”
“I mean, she would n'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 way you always do. You begin to talk with me,
and just as I get interested in the 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, brother, you need n't tell me; there is some mystery
about the interest you take in that child, you know there
is.”
“I am fond of children,” said Mr. Sewell, dryly.
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“Well, but you don't take as much interest in other boys.
I never heard of your teaching any 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 thrust brought a vivid color into Mr. Sewell's
cheeks. To be interrupted so unceremoniously, in the
midst of so very proper and ministerial a remark, was
rather provoking, 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
speak on what I do not wish to talk of.”
Mr. Sewell was one 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 knows 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
trodden on a kitten's toe, or brushed down a china cup, feeling
as if he were a great, 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 did n't “come,” but went at it with a fresh
burst.
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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 tendings,
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 did n't.
“What I was going to say, Emily,” said her brother,
“was, that I thought it would be a good plan for little
Mara to come sometimes with Moses; and then, by observing
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 with which she usually seconded
any schemes of his proposing.
“I might teach her painting and embroidery,” said Miss
Emily, glancing, with a satisfied air, at a framed piece of
her own work which hung over the mantel-piece, 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
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celebrated teacher of female accomplishments. It represented a
white marble obelisk, which an inscription, in legible India-ink
letters, stated to be “Sacred to the memory of Theophilus
Sewell,” &c. This obelisk stood in the midst of a
ground made very green by an embroidery of different
shades of chenille and silk, and was 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 one end of a wreath of roses, which the girl was
presenting, as an appropriate decoration 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 faces 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 time that Miss Emily came to this resolution,
had she been clairvoyant, she might have seen Mara
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sitting very quietly, busy in the solitude of her own room
with 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 appeared from the scattered
sketches and fragments around her. In fact, before Zephaniah
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 wild 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 bought for her in Portland on
his way home.
Hour after hour the child works, so still, so fervent,
so earnest, — going over and over, time after 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 done! 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 pretty, 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 the boat.
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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
was n't a man there could manage a boat better than I
could.”
“Yes, grandmother,” said Mara, “you ought to see how
strong his arms are; 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, without even a softening haze, defining
every outline, revealing every minute point, cutting
with sharp decision the form of every promontory and rock,
and distant island.
The blue of the sea and the blue of the sky were so much
the same, that when the children had rowed 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 faces, with brown eyes and golden hair, gleaming up
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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. Moses 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 it, 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 all to themselves. Childhood
is itself such an enchanted island, separated by mysterious
depths from the main-land of nature, life, and reality.
Moses had subsided a little from the glorious heights on
which he seemed to be in the first flush 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,” said Moses, looking up into a thick-branched,
rugged old hemlock, which stood 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
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moss, rising higher and higher, every once in 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 screaming 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 the
branches, the scream of the birds, and the swooping of their
wings, and Moses' valorous exclamations, as he seemed to
be laying about him with a branch which he had broken
off.
At last he descended 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? Pooh! Who 's afraid? Why, you might
know the old eagles could n't beat me.”
“Ah, well, I know how strong you are; but, you know,
I could n'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 could n't beat me.
I beat them just as the Romans used to beat folks, — I
played their nest was a city, and I spoiled it.”
“I should n't want to spoil cities!” said Mara.
“That 's 'cause you are a girl, — I 'm a man, — and men
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always like war; I 've taken one city this 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 a'n'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 gun now, I 'd
stop those old eagles' screeching.”
“But, Moses, we should n't want any one to come and
steal all our things, and then shoot us.”
“How long you 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 it. Besides,
don't you take hens' eggs every day, in the barn? How do
you suppose the hens 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 little notions
and opinions stood up crisp and fresh, like flowers that grow
in cool, 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 unformed 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 which measured the New Jerusalem. Infant
though she was, she had ever in her hands that invisible
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measuring rod, which she was laying to the foundations of
all actions and thoughts. There may, perhaps, come a time
when the saucy boy, who 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,
held in the hand of a woman.
“Howbeit, that 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 physical development.
Your true healthy boy has the breezy, hearty virtues of
a Newfoundland dog, — the wild fulness of life of the young
race-colt. Sentiment, sensibility, delicate perceptions, spiritual
aspirations, are plants of later growth.
But there are, both 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 whom the purer truths
of spiritual instruction are open. Surveying man merely
as an animal, these sensitively-organized beings, with their
feebler physical powers, 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
more 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,
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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.
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CHAPTER XVII.
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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 felt 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 a'n't
just what you think 't is, 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 that putteth on the harness boast as him that
putteth it off.'”
“Good for you, 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 all the intense, unreasoning antipathy of
childhood.
“I hate that old woman,” he said to Mara, as he flung
out of the door.
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“Why, Moses, what for?” said Mara, who never could
comprehend hating anybody.
“I do hate her, and Aunt Ruey, too. They are two old
scratching cats; they hate me, and I hate them; they 're
always trying to bring me down, and I won't be brought
down.”
Mara had sufficient instinctive insight into the feminine
rôle in the domestic concert not to adventure 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,” 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 learn them
for the first lesson, and then I shall take the adjectives
next, and next the verbs, and so in a fortnight get into
reading.”
Mara heaved a sort 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,” &c.
“There now, I believe I 've got it,” he said, handing
Mara the book; and he was perfectly astonished to find
that, with the book withdrawn, he boggled, and blundered,
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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, and
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 the book the sounds glided away; and
“penna” and “pennam” and “pennis” and “pennæ” were
confusedly and indiscriminately mingled.
He thought it must be Mara's fault; she did n't read
right, or she told him just as he was going to say it, or she
did n't tell him right; or was he a fool? or had he lost his
senses?
That first declension 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 is it 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
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of a more quiet 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
retrench his expectations as to the time it might take to
master the grammar; but still, his pride and will were both
committed, and he worked away in this new sort of labor
with energy.
It was a fine frosty, November morning, when he rowed
Mara across the bay in a little boat to recite 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 began
questioning the little girl, in a low tone, as to her proficiency
in that useful accomplishment.
Presently, however, 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,
with 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 them. In a moment she blushed deeply, seeing
Mr. Sewell and Miss Emily both looking at her with surprise.
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“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 Moses say them so often,” said Mara, in an
apologetic manner, “I could n't help learning them.”
“Would you like to recite with Moses every day?”
“Oh, yes, sir, 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,” she 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 stitches,
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 age ought to have; and I have
done just as people always will with such children; 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 see of what use Latin can be to a woman.”
“Of what use is embroidery?”
“Why, that is an accomplishment.”
“Ah, indeed!” said Mr. Sewell, contemplating the weeping
willow and tombstone trophy with a singular expression,
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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'œuvre 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 accomplished than learned.”
“You are quite 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 brought, 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 mutual studies began to assume a value in
his eyes that her opinions on other subjects 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 perseverance necessary for this species
of acquisition. His active, daring temperament little inclined
him to patient, quiet study. For anything that could be
done by two hands, he was always ready; but to hold hands
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still and work silently in the inner forces, 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 let a girl younger than himself
outdo him.
But the thing, after all, that absorbed more of Moses'
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
these things readily, and was too happy to make herself
useful in hemming the sails.
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 floated 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 Sally 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
blow 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
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in that sort of shadowy pantomime which so delights little
people.
Happy, happy days — when ships can be made with a
jack-knife and anchors run in pine blocks, and three children
together can launch a schooner, and the voyage of the
world can all 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 you call her?” said Sally.
“I have n'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 spirit 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 this, he was following the motions of his
little schooner on the waters with the briskest and most unconcerned
air in the world.
“Why did n't you ever show me that story, Mara?” said
Moses.
Mara colored and hesitated; the real reason she dared
not say.
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“Why, she read 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 you 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 produced 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 liked 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
astonished.
She lay and thought about him hours, that night, after she
had gone to bed; and he lay and thought about a new way
of disposing a pulley for raising a sail, which he determined
to try the effect of early in the morning.
What was the absolute 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
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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 sea-shore.
The child that broods, day after day, over some fixed 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.
There will come a time, by and by in the history of the
boy, when the haze of dreamy curiosity will steam up likewise
from his mind, and vague yearnings, and questionings,
and longings possess and trouble him, but it must be some
years 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 again
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 works a shepherdess with
Miss Emily, which astonishes the neighborhood, — but how
by herself she learns, after divers trials, to paint partridge,
and checkerberry, and trailing arbutus, — how Moses makes
better and better ships, and Sally grows up a handsome girl,
and goes up to Brunswick to the high school, — how Captain
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 Mary 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.
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CHAPTER XVIII.
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“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 ago, 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 she '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 a'n't a
puttier creature breathin'. 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 you would n't talk so. You ought to be
ashamed to be triflin' round as you do. Come, now, can't
you jest tramp over to Pennel's and tell Sally I want
her?”
“Not I, mother. There a'n't but two gals in two miles
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square here, and I a'n'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 you would n'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 she don't know the price of
nothin',” continued Mrs. Kittridge, with wasteful profusion
of negatives.
“Well,” said the Captain, “the Lord makes some things
jist to be looked at. Their 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 everybody, and it 's as good as a psalm to look at her.”
“And what sort of a wife 'll she make, Captain Kittridge?”
“A real sweet, 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
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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 has n'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 were n'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,” said 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 kind 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
told 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 a'n't
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the woman as would 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.
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CHAPTER XIX.
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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 with 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-bottomed 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.
Through 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 which 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 many of those touches of
taste and fancy which the indwelling of a person of sensibility
and imagination will shed off upon the physical surroundings.
The bed was draped with a white spread, embroidered
with a kind of knotted tracery, the working of
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which was considered among the female accomplishments of
those 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 mantel-piece hung a painting of the Bay of Genoa,
which had accidentally found a voyage home in Zephaniah
Pennel's sea-chest, and which skilful 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 the 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 which hangs
in such graceful wreaths from the boughs of the pines in the
deep forest shadows of Orr's Island. On the table below
was a collection of books: a whole set of Shakspeare 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 Virgil, 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-shell,
with pens and paper in that phase of arrangement
which betokened frequency of use; 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 was in progress.
By a table at the sea-looking window sits our little Mara,
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now grown to the maturity of eighteen summers, but retaining
still unmistakable signs of identity with the little golden-haired,
dreamy, excitable, fanciful “Pearl” of Orr's Island.
She is not quite of a middle height, with something beautiful
and childlike 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 on 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 moments 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 old
friend, Sally Kittridge, whom common fame calls the handsomest
girl of all the region round Harpswell, Macquoit, and
Orr's Island. In truth, a wholesome, ruddy, 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
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this moment, though twice as large 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 look 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 feel 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 that 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.”
“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 never will mind me. And then
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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 twice they have made me buy things that I knew I did n't
want, just because they will 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 send 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 common 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 you 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 made of it. The imperfections
did n'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 come 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 with 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.
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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 gives me a quince, or a big apple; but, then,
Mara, there a'n'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 what 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 reason, 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 know 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 did n'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.”
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“You must want 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 was gone into the
lumbering country when I came back. He seems almost a
stranger 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,” said Mara; “in fact, almost never; and
when he does there is so little 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 reply to this, but went on very intently
with her painting. A close observer might have noticed a
suppressed sigh that seemed to retreat far down into her
heart. Sally 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.
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CHAPTER XX.
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We have introduced Mara to our readers 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 of him.
It is common for people who write treatises on education
to give forth their rules and theories 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 infallible recipe.
Take your child, and do thus and so for a given number
of years, and 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 Newfoundland pup, is good for those
whose idea of what is to be done for a human being are
only what would be done for a dog, namely, give food,
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shelter, and world-room, and leave each to act out his own
nature without let or hindrance.
But everybody takes an embryo human being with some
plan of one's own what it shall do or be. The child's future
shall shape out some darling purpose or plan, and fulfil some
long unfulfilled expectation of the parent. And thus, though
the wind of every 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 guns, for bowie-knives and revolvers,
and for every form and expression of physical 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 disciplines for sins which are only the blind
effort of the creature to express a nature which his parent
does not and cannot understand. So again, the son that was
to have 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 regular college-training; and so
for years he battles with a boy abhorring study, and fitted
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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-flakes 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 their 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 of an immortal destiny, is in
their hands.
On the whole, those who succeed best in the rearing of
children, are the tolerant and easy persons 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 train 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 waif 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
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and of the most stubborn and unfathomable secretiveness.
He was a creature of unreasoning antipathies and attractions.
As Zephaniah Pennel said of him, he was as full of
hitches as an old bureau drawer.
His peculiar beauty, and a certain electrical power of attraction,
seemed to form a constant circle 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 never 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 just 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 neither the boy himself nor often
surrounding friends understand.
A shrewd observer has significantly characterized the
period as the time when the boy wishes he were 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, —
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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 the deacon, thinks the school-master an ass, and
does n't believe in the Bible, and seems to be rather pleased
than otherwise with the shock and flutter that all these announcements
create among peaceably disposed grown people.
No respectable hen that ever hatched out a brood of ducks,
was more puzzled what 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 this critical period of life that Moses Pennel
was drawn into associations which awoke the alarm of
all his friends, and from which the characteristic wilfulness
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 Maine, as we have elsewhere said, is remarkable
for a singular interpenetration of the sea with the land,
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forming amid its dense primeval forests secluded bays, narrow
and deep, into which vessels might float with the tide,
and where they might nestle unseen and unsuspected amid
the dense shadows of the overhanging 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 strange 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 the 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, expressly designed to cripple
New England commerce, and evasions of this unjust law
found everywhere a degree of sympathy, even in the breasts
of well-disposed and conscientious people. In resistance to
the law, vessels were constantly fitted 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
embargo it still continued to be extensively practised. Secret
depositories of contraband goods still existed in many
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of the lonely haunts of islands off the coast of Mame. 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 abroad 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 and 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. This 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 of a scheme of this kind,—
and for this purpose we must try to give our readers a
more definite idea of it.
The traveller who wants a ride through scenery of more
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varied and singular beauty than can ordinarily be found on
the shores of any land whatever, should start some fine 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 picturesque
lakes seems to be lying softly cradled in the arms of wild,
rocky forest shores, 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 comes upon the first of
the interlacing group of islands which beautifies the shore.
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 intermingling
ever and anon of groves of birch, beech, and oak,
in picturesque knots and tufts, as if set for effect by some
skilful landscape-gardener, — produce a sort of strange
dreamy wonder; while the sea, breaking forth both on the
right hand and the left of the road into the most romantic
glimpses, seems to flash and glitter like some strange gem
which every moment shows itself through the framework
of a new setting. Here and there little secluded coves push
in from 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 neat white
houses, nestling like sheltered doves in the beautiful solitude.
When one has ridden 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
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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 this 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 shadows
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 branches 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 allowed to grow in this spot to a height and
size seldom attained elsewhere.
It was this narrow, rocky cove that had been chosen by
the smuggler Atkinson and his accomplices as a safe and
secluded resort for their operations. He was a sea-faring
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
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abundance of ready anecdote which made his society fascinating;
but he concealed beneath all these attractions 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 care of the minister, was
left free to come and go at his own pleasure, unwatched 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 would 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, often 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
Sewell, whom he declared an old granny in a white wig,
who knew nothing of the world. He was n't going to college—
it was altogether too slow for him — he was going to
see life and push ahead for himself.
Mara's life during this time was intensely wearing. A
frail, slender, delicate girl of thirteen, she carried a heart
prematurely old with the most distressing responsibility of
mature life. Her love for Moses had always had in it a
large admixture of that maternal and care-taking element
which, in some shape or other, qualifies the affection of
woman to man. Ever since that dream of babyhood, when
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the vision of a pale mother had led the beautiful boy to her
arms, Mara had accepted him 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 enjoyed, 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 them 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 with
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 dared 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 shows 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 of protecting generosity in them,
and then receding to the icy pole of surly petulance. For
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 not very wholesome companions for those
who are sensitively organized and predisposed to self sacrificing
love. They keep the heart in a perpetual freeze and
thaw, which, like the American northern climate, is so
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particularly fatal to plants of a delicate habit. They could live
through the hot summer and the 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' 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 inquiries
in the world, would flash out with a sudden temper,
as if she had touched some 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 before 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 she told her kind old
grandfather, she feared that any inquiry from him would
only light as a spark on that inflammable spirit of pride and
insubordination that 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
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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 night, as she lay thus praying, her senses,
sharpened by watching, discerned a sound of steps treading
under her window, and then a low whistle. Her heart beat
violently, and she soon heard the door of Moses' room
open, and then the old chamber-stairs gave forth those inconsiderate
creaks and snaps that garrulous 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 hood, 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
shrouds 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 crackling and plunging
through the dense underbrush.
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CHAPTER XXI.
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It was well for Mara that so much of 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 expression
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 island.
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
of the pine-tops, the dash of the ever restless tide which
pushed up the long cove. It was at the full, as she could
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discern with a rapid glance of her practised eye, expertly
versed in the knowledge of every change of the solitary
nature around.
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 crevices furnished anchoring-places for
grand old hemlocks or silver-birches, and whose rough sides,
leathery with black flaps of lichen, were all tangled and interlaced
with thick netted bushes.
The men plunged down laughing, shouting, and swearing
at their occasional missteps, and silently as moon-beam or
thistle-down the light-footed shadow went down after them.
She suddenly paused 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-tongued 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 high; 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 let 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 froze her blood with horror. And
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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, which was all threaded
through and through with the green vines and pale pink
blossoms of the mayflower, and she felt its fragrant breath
steaming 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 clump of silvery
birches, kept calling to each other in melancholy iteration,
while she staid 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
leaves, quite near to the rock where she was concealed, and
kindled a fire, which they kept snapping and crackling by a
constant supply of green resinous hemlock branches.
The red flame danced 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 waving
with beards 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
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how she had 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 evil spirit, walking,
as the Scriptures say, through dry places, had lighted
on a comely man's body, in which he had set up house-keeping,
making it look like a fair house abused by an unclean
owner.
As Mara watched his demeanor with Moses, she could
think only of a loathsome black snake that she 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 with 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 female society,
might well convey to the horror-struck child a feeling as if
she were listening at the mouth of hell. Almost every word
was preceded or emphasized by an oath; and what struck
with a death chill to her heart was, that Moses swore too,
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and seemed to show that desperate anxiety to seem au fait
in the language 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 bent
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, horrified and shocked as
she was, did not, however, lose that intense and alert presence
of mind, natural to persons in whom there is moral
strength, however delicate 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
cajoling him, and leading him to drink, that they might work
out some fiendish purpose of their own. The man called
Atkinson related story after story of wild adventure, 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 all 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 “just for a spree,” and try a cruise
in the West Indies, to see what they could 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,” said one of them, “Moses, they say old
Pennel has lots of dollars in that old sea-chest of his'n. It
would be a kindness to him to invest them for him in an
adventure.”
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Moses answered with 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 know 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 back, said, —
“By —, Mo! you are the jolliest green dog! I shall
die a-laughing of your innocence some day. Why, my boy,
can't you see? Pennel's money can be invested without
asking him.”
“Why, he keeps it locked,” said Moses.
“And supposing you pick the lock?”
“Not I, indeed,” said Moses, making a sudden movement
to rise.
Mara almost screamed 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 laughed, 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.”
“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 stand 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 comforted to see that he declined drinking, —
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that he looked gloomy and thoughtful, in spite of the jokes
of his companions; but she trembled to see, by the following
conversation, how Atkinson was skilfully and prudently
making apparent to Moses the extent to which he had him
in his power. He seemed to Mara like an ugly spider skilfully
weaving his web around a fly. She felt cold and faint;
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 laughed at this joke as they turned to go on
board the schooner.
When they were gone, 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 and 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 greater 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
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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 under him, and the
next plunge might be down a precipice from which there
would be 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 only as “sowing
wild oats,” “having steep times,” “seeing 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 meet 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 wrought 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 upon 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 unconscious little
one on the verge of a precipice.
When Moses rose and moodily began walking homeward,
she followed at a distance. She could now keep farther off,
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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 between 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 she could steal in after him. So she sat there quite
in the shadows.
The grand full moon was riding high and calm in the purple
sky, and Harpswell Bay on the one hand, 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
church 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, one love, one prayer, for
this being so strangely given to her out of that silent 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 watch 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.
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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, with a half-angle of moonlight
and shadow lying within its dusky depths. Mara
listened a moment, — no sound: he had gone to bed then.
“Poor boy,” she said, “I hope he is asleep; how he must
feel! poor fellow. It 's all the fault of those dreadful men!”
said the little dark shadow to herself, as she stole 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 thanked
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 soft brown eyes wide open, intently thinking
what she should do.
Should she tell her 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
wicked men. “He would never, never bear to have this
known,” she said. Mr. 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 does n't
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know how much Moses has been tempted by these dreadful
men; and then perhaps he would tell Miss Emily, and they
never would 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 would n't
know what to do any more than I. Ah, I know what I will
do, — I 'll tell Captain 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. Yes, 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.
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CHAPTER XXII.
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Mara was so wearied with her night walk and the agitation
she had been through, that once asleep she slept long
after the early breakfast hour of the family. She was surprised
on awaking to hear the slow old clock down-stairs
striking eight.
She hastily jumped up and looked 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 been down, grandma?” said Mara, intent on
the sole thought in her heart.
“Why, yes, dear, long ago, — and cross enough he was;
that boy does get to be a trial, — but come, 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, and then rising up
she put on her sun-bonnet and started down toward the cove
to find her old friend.
The queer, dry, lean old Captain had been to her all her
life like a faithful kobold or brownie, an unquestioning
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servant of all her gentle biddings. She dared tell him anything
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 Sally should
see and fly out and seize her. She took a narrow path
through the cedars down to the little boat cove where the
old Captain worked so merrily ten years ago, in the beginning
of our story, and where she found him now with his
coat off busily planing a board.
“Wal', now, — if this 'ere don't beat all!” he said, looking
up and seeing her; “why, 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?” said the Captain, “I swow! if I a'n't a lucky
feller. But what 's the matter?” he said, suddenly observing
her pale face, and the tears in her eyes. “Ha' n't
nothin' bad happened, — hes there?”
“Oh! Captain Kittridge, something dreadful; and nobody
but you can help me.”
“Want to know 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 story, and went through with it in a
rapid and agitated manner; and the good Captain listened
in a fidgety state of interest, occasionally relieving his mind
by interjecting “Do tell now!” “I swan, — if that ar
a'n'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 his mouth, which he
chewed reflectively.
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“Don't you be a mite worried, Mara,” he said. “You
did a great deal better to come 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 would n't from
a church-member or a minister. Folks must n'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 shall shake over his head if he don't behave.
Now I don't think so much of smugglin' 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 a'n't no kind o' sense in that. It 's
p'ison mean of Atkinson. I shall tell him so, and I shall
talk to Moses.”
“Oh! I 'm afraid to have you,” said Mara, apprehensively.
“Why, chickabiddy,” said the old Captain, “you don't
understand me. I a'n'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 the profits. I shall
talk like that, you know. Mebbe I sha' n't let him know
what I know, and mebbe I shall; jest tip him a wink, you
know; it depends on circumstances. But bless you, child,
these 'ere fellers a'n'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
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things I know, he 'd be for bein' scase in our parts. Now,
you see, I ha' n'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; keeps her sort o' in spirits, you
see. But Lord bless ye, child, there 's been times with
Job, and Sam, and Pass, and Dass, and Dile, and all on 'em
finally, when, if I had n't jest pulled a rope here and turned
a screw there, and said nothin' to nobody, they 'd a-been all
gone to smash. I never told Mis' Kittridge none o' their
didos; bless you, 't would n't been o' no use. I never told
them, neither; 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, Captain Kittridge, did any of them use to
swear?” said Mara, in a faltering voice.
“Wal', they did consid'able,” said the Captain; — then
seeing the trembling of Mara's lip, he added, —
“Ef you could a-found this 'ere out any other way, it 's
most a pity you 'd a-heard him; 'cause he would n'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 will be fellers, partic'larly when they 'r' young.
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Some on 'em, they never gits over it all their lives
finally.”
“But oh! Captain 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 church 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 sometimes I wish
you 'd jest say a good word to Him for me; I should like
to get the hang 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 never 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 come all right. Now you
jest see ef he don't!”
This miscellaneous budget of personal experiences and
friendly consolation which the good Captain 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 looked 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 nature a good endowment of that kind of
innocent hypocrisy which is needed as a staple in the lives
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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; she 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 dirt 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 evil 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,
inward guilt.
Mara was relieved, as he flung out of the house after dinner,
to see the long, dry figure of Captain 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 was more than was proper, considering he
was going away.
For Moses, like many others of his sex, boy or man, had
quietly settled in his own mind that the whole love of
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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 therefore he felt abused at
what he supposed was a disclosure of some deficiency on her
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 too;
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, and 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,” without 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
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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 spirit 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 awake nights,
how he could have said and done the things he had, and felt
miserably 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 possessed by a
dumb spirit — then he would get up and fling stormily
out of the house.
Poor Mara wondered 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 become 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
best 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 woman knows how to improvise. Mara thought certainly
she should get a few kind words as Moses looked it
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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 told 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
letter to her, he did n't, and the good mood passed away.
Boys do not acquire an ease 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, through 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 her 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
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diversions are few, and whose mind, therefore, acts by a continual
introversion upon itself. They know 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 has 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 practises toward
her.
Mara found one or two opportunities of writing to Moses;
but her letters were timid and constrained 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 feel as an abused individual, whom nobody
loved — whose way in the world was destined 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 with impatience to the home at Orr's Island, and
found that Mara had gone to Boston on a visit, he resented
it as a personal slight.
He might have inquired why she should expect him, and
whether her whole life was to be spent in looking out of the
window to watch for him. He might have remembered that
he had warned her of his approach by no letter. But no.
“Mara did n'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 have confessed
all the sins of his life to her, and asked her pardon — and
she was n't there!
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Mrs. Pennel suggested that he might go to Boston after
her.
No, he was not going to do that. He would not intrude
on her pleasures with the memory of a rough, 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 a
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 much to do
and think of, no wonder.”
In fact, during the 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 the history of that sigh — so very quiet
that Sally Kittridge never checked the rattling flow of her
conversation to observe it.
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CHAPTER XXIII.
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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 without much fear of what her mother
would say when she returned; for though Mrs. Kittridge
still made bustling demonstrations of authority, it was quite
evident to every one that the handsome grown-up girl had
got the sceptre into her own hands, and was reigning in the
full confidence of being, in one way or another, 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 did n't know 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.”
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“I 'm not in the least surprised,” said Mara; “you 're
grown so and altered.”
“Well, now, you 'd hardly know him, Mara,” said Sally.
“He is a man — a real man; 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 think 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 before 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,” said Sally. “I 'd plague
him and tease him. I 'd lead him such a life that he could
n't forget me, — that 's what I would.”
“I don't doubt you would, Sally; and he might like you
all the better for it. But you know that sort of thing is n'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! Would n't I serve him out, though!”
With which threat of vengeance on her mind Sally Kittridge
fell asleep, while Mara lay awake pondering, —
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wondering if Moses would come to-morrow, and what he would
be like 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, but it seemed strange as a
dream, for all she had tried to imagine it beforehand.
Her 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 with his arm around Mara, and her
hand in his.
And in truth he was 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 great black eyes were clear and confident:
his dark hair clustering in short curls round his wellshaped
head; his black lashes, and fine form, and a certain
confident ease of manner, set him off to the greatest advantage.
Mara felt a peculiar dreamy sense of strangeness at this
brother who was not a brother, — this Moses so different
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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, were 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!” he said, naively.
“And what did you expect she would grow?” said Sally.
“You did n'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 somebody never spoke a word to one the Sunday
he was at meeting.”
“Oh, you remember that, do you? On my word, Sally” —
“Miss Kittridge, if you please, sir,” said Sally, turning
round with the air of an empress.
“Well, then, Miss Kittridge,” said Moses, making a bow;
“now let me finish my sentence. I never dreamed who you
were.”
“Complimentary,” 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.”
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“I don't like flattery,” said Sally.
“I never flatter, Miss Kittridge,” said Moses.
Our young gentleman 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 practising in the
court of Versailles, — she looking out from the corner of
her eye to watch the effect of her words, and he laying his
hand on his heart in the most edifying gravity. They perfectly
understood one another.
But, says the reader, seems to me Sally Kittridge does
all the talking! So she does, — so she always will, — for it
is her nature to be bright, noisy, and restless; and one of
these girls always overcrows a timid and thoughtful one,
and makes her, for the time, 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 pats, and races round and round after? No; it 's
nothing but kittenhood; every hair 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 resolved 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' inattention
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 Mara, 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
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contradicting, and jest and earnest, at some moments almost
to forget that Mara was in the room.
She took her sewing 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 upon 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 came in her cheek as she answered, “I
did n't know I was looking. It all seems so strange to me.
I am trying to make out who and what you are.”
“It 's not best 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 could n'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 asked you to,” said Sally.
“I 'm accustomed to asking myself,” said Moses.
“Well, I suppose I must have you along,” said Sally.
“Father will be glad to see you, of course.”
“You 'll be back to tea, Moses,” said Mara, “will
you not? Grandfather will be home, and want to see
you.”
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“Oh, I shall be right back,” said Moses, “I have a little
business to settle with Captain Kittridge.”
But Moses, however, did stay at tea with Mrs. Kittridge,
who looked graciously at him through the 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 stay? Sally told him every other minute
to go; and then when he had got fairly out 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 could n'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 last tea being ready, there was no reason why
he should n'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, though?”
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 she had made him come back.
“Now, confound it all,” said Moses, “I care more for our
little Mara than a dozen 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.
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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 possessor 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 mean while between them, — and that was the power of
womanhood. He did not know the intensity of that kind
of pride, which is the very life of the female nature, and
which is most vivid and vigorous in the most timid and
retiring.
Our little Mara was 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 swelled 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 feeling of defiance and resistance in her which she
could scarcely explain to herself. 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
wondered, 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 came 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
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which a masculine and feminine voice were intermingled in
a lively duet.
Coming a little nearer, he saw Mara sitting knitting in
the door-way, and a very good-looking young man seated on
a stone at her feet, with his straw hat flung 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 his 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 visit to Boston.
“I was staying a day or two at Mr. Sewell's,” he said,
carelessly, “and the night was so fine I could n't resist the
temptation to row over.”
It was now Moses' turn to listen to a conversation in
which he could bear little part, it being 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, Mara 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 effort 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 expected you, and they have gone to bed,
as you know they always do after tea.”
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“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 experiences in foreign parts,
in a manner which showed a man of sense and breeding.
Moses 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 vigor 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 remain long in Harpswell?” she asked.
“That depends 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.”
“No more?”
“No more,” replied Mara.
“I had hoped,” he said, “that you would reconsider.”
“It is impossible,” said she; and soft voices can pronounce
that word, impossible, in a very fateful and decisive
manner.
“Well, God bless you, then, Miss Lincoln,” he said, and
was gone.
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Mara stood in the door-way 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 Moses 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 Sewells'. 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,” 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 did n't interrupt us; he had been here almost two
hours.”
Now Mara saw plainly enough that Moses was displeased
and hurt, and had it been in the days of her 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
seventeen 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 therefore may be excused
for a little gentle vindictiveness. She was, in a merciful
way, 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
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present. Was he to know that she liked nobody so much as
him? Not he, 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 — come back as late as he
pleased — never would she, by word or look, give him reason
to think she cared.
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CHAPTER XXIV.
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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 wilful.
These words, generally supposed to describe positive vices
of the mind, in fact are only the overaction of certain very
valuable portions of our nature, since one can conceive all
three to raise a man immensely in the scale of moral being,
simply by being applied to right 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 neither 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
success; whose wilfulness 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 bottom 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.
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He did not wish to put himself under its rules, lest he
might find them in some future 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 sceptic, and seemed to value himself not a little on
the distinction.
Pride in scepticism is a peculiar distinction of young men.
It takes years and maturity 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
sceptics generally regard their unbelief as a misfortune.
Not that Moses was, 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 heed.
Practically, he was determined with all his might, to have
a good time in this life, whatever another might be, — if
there were one; and that he would do it by the strength of
his right arm. Wealth he saw to be the lamp of Aladdin,
which commanded all other things. And the pursuit of
wealth was therefore the first step in his programme.
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As for plans of the heart and domestic life, Moses was
one of that very common class who had more desire to be
loved than power of loving. His cravings and dreams were
not for somebody to be devoted to, but for somebody who
should be devoted to him. And, like most people who
possess this characteristic, he mistook it for an affectionate
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 wants, would
always be in the future, as they always had been, her sole
thought.
These 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 which all one's deposits are laid.
It had never occurred 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 singular poetic charm of appearance,
which, more than beauty, has the power of awakening feeling
in the other sex.
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He felt in himself — in the experience of that one day —
that there was something subtle and veiled about her, which
set the imagination at work; that the wistful, plaintive expression
of her dark eyes, and a thousand little shy and
tremulous movements 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 oyster-shell. It seems means were found to come after
her, and then all the love of her heart — 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? There 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 little 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
angry, except when she had taken up some childish quarrel
of his, and fought for him like a little Spartan? Then she
was pious, too. She was born religious, thought our hero,
who, in common with many men professing scepticism for
their own particular part, set a great value on religion in
that unknown future person whom they are fond of
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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 would n't have such a girl for a wife. Nothing
to her but foam and frisk, — no heart more than a bobolink!
But is n't she amusing? By George! is n'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 is n'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 mystery that he had the key of; but I never
could get anything from him. He always put me off in
such a smooth way that I could n't tell whether he did or
he did n'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 turned 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 been floated ashore there, like a
fragment of tropical sea-weed borne landward by a great
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gale. He positively wondered at himself that he had never
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 his 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 state 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 formed 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 plaintive eyes and little
white hands, reigning as a fairy queen in the captain's cabin,
with a sort of wish to carry her off and make sure that no
one else ever should get her from him.
But these midnight dreams were all sobered down by the
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plain matter-of-fact beams of the morning sun, and nothing
remained of immediate definite purpose except the resolve
which came strongly upon Moses as he looked across the
blue band of Harpswell Bay, that he would go that morning
and have a talk with Mr. Sewell.
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CHAPTER XXV.
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Miss Roxy Toothacre was seated by the 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 tailor'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 broken
needles thriftily made into pins by heads of red sealing-wax,
and with needles 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 minister a new Sunday vest!
The good soul looks 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 the 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 as
of yore, — and just as of yore she was thinking of her
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brother, and filling her little head with endless calculations
to keep him looking fresh and respectable, and his house-keeping
comfortable and easy, on very limited means. 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 twist work well?” she said, nervously; “because
I believe I 've got some other up-stairs in my India
box.”
Miss Roxy surveyed the article; bit a fragment off, as if
she meant to taste it; threaded a needle 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 does n't call over to see us.”
“Your brother took a sight of interest in that boy,” said
Miss Roxy. “I was saying to Ruey, this morning, that if
Moses Pennel ever did turn out well, he ought to have a
large share of the credit.”
“Brother always 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,” said Miss Emily, “and here I have on this
old faded chintz. Just so sure as one puts on any old rag,
and thinks nobody will come, company is sure to call.”
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“Law, I 'm sure I should n'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 into the little
sitting-room, in the midst of a perfect stream of apologies
relating to her old dress and the littered condition of the
sitting-room, for Miss Emily 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 time 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 morninggown
and slippers, and seemed heartily responsive to the
proposition which Moses soon made to him to have some
private conversation with him in his study.
“I declare,” said Miss Emily, as soon as the study-door
had closed upon her brother and Moses, “what a handsome
young man he is! and what a beautiful 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 is n'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?”
“I hope not,” said Miss Roxy, with her grimmest expression.
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“You don't! Why not?”
“I never liked him,” said Miss Roxy, who had possessed
herself of her great heavy goose, and was now thumping and
squeaking it emphatically on the press-board. “She 's a
thousand times too good for Moses Pennel,” — thump. “I
never had no faith in him,” — thump. “He 's dreffle unstiddy,” —
thump. “He 's handsome, but he knows it,” —
thump. “He won't never love nobody so much as he does
himself,” — thump, fortissimo con spirito.
“Well, really now, Miss Roxy, you must n'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 Mara 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 might tell something, — but there has
been a young man, — but I promised not to speak of it, and
I sha' n't.”
“If you mean Mr. Adams,” said Miss Roxy, “you need n't
worry about keepin' that secret, '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
Peters, and Mis' Captain Badger she says that he has a very
good property, and is a professor in the Old South church in
Boston.”
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“Dear me,” said Miss Emily, “how things do get about!”
“People will talk, there a'n't no use trying to help it,”
said Miss Roxy; “but it 's strongly borne in on my mind
that it a'n't Adams, nor 't a'n'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 aircastles,
which she furnished regardless of expense, and in
which she set up at house-keeping her various friends and
acquaintances, and she had always been bent on weaving
a romance on the history 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 Plucher's
school in Portland. There her artistic faculties were trained
into creating funereal 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 unvarying
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 landscapes as near as possible like nature, as
a recreation from these more dignified toils.
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Miss Emily also had 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 life
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 into a romance in real life,
of which a handsome young man, who had been washed
ashore in a shipwreck, should be the hero.
What would she have 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 tiptoe, will make our observations.
When Moses was first ushered into Mr. Sewell's study,
and found himself quite alone, with the door 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 question.
“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 this, 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 beautiful.
Mr. Sewell looked at him with an expression of peculiar
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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 remains that you add to all
this that fear of the Lord which is the beginning of wisdom.”
Moses bowed his head respectfully, and then sat silent a
moment, as if he were looking through some cloud where he
vainly tried to discover objects.
Mr. Sewell continued, gravely, —
“You have the greatest reason to bless the kind Providence
which has cast your lot in such 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 straight 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 had been asked.
“My son,” replied Mr. Sewell, “it has always been my
intention, when you had arrived at years of discretion, to
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make you acquainted with all that I know or suspect 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 rose, 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 miniature 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, clear oval,
with that warm brunette tint in which the Italian painters
delight. The 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 fixes itself in faces for which we involuntarily
make a history.
She was represented 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 which affected him deeply.
“My young friend,” said Mr. Sewell, “I have written all
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that I know of the original of this picture, and the reasons
I have for thinking her your mother.
“You will find it all in this paper, which, if I had been
providentially removed, was to have been given you in your
twenty-first year. You will see in the delicate nature 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 will be satisfied with the course
I have pursued. You will read it at your leisure, 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 suddenly come into possession of a letter
or paper in which is known to be hidden the solution of
some long-pondered secret, or 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 with the
smooth blue sea quite up to the precipitous shore. There
was a place, however, where the rocky shore shelved over,
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forming between two ledges a sort 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 here 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 the open ocean
that stretched before him. Many an hour he had sat there
and dreamed of all the possible fortunes that might be found
for him when he should launch 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 sea-weeds,
with here and there among them wide crystal pools, where
purple and lilac and green mosses unfolded their delicate
threads, and thousands of curious little 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.
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CHAPTER XXVI.
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Mr. Sewell's letter ran as follows: —
My Dear Young Friend, — It has always been my
intention when you arrived at years of maturity 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 give you the history of
some incidents which are known to none of my most intimate
friends. I trust I may rely on your honor that they will
ever remain as secrets 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 gentleman
at St. Augustine, in Florida.
I cannot do justice 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 Jose Mendoza was a Spanish gentleman of large
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property, who had emigrated from the 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 brought 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 other children.
And thus it will appear that the family was made up
of such a variety of elements as only the most judicious care
could harmonize.
But the character of the father and mother was such that
judicious care was a thing not to be expected of either.
Don Jose was extremely ignorant and proud, and had lived
a life of the grossest dissipation. 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 ungoverned
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 slaves, and alternately petted or stormed
at, now by this parent and now by that, and 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 position, instead of exciting
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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. When I arrived, I found that two or three tutors,
who had endeavored to bear well 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 making 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 deference 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 treated among the servants as a person of consideration
and distinction.
Don Jose and 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 their discordant
and turbulent children to some extent obedient and
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studious during certain portions of the day; and in fact I soon
acquired in the whole family that ascendency which a wellbred
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 Jose 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
done without trying to do it, and it was impossible to work
at all without becoming so interested in my work as to do
far more than I had agreed to do. I assisted Don Jose
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 Jose by his present wife had been
systematically stimulated by the negroes into a chronic habit
of dislike and jealousy toward her children by a former husband.
On the slightest pretext, they were constantly running
to their father with complaints; and as the mother warmly
espoused the cause of her first children, 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
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constantly with 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 sometimes led to expressions
and actions which would seem incredible in civilized
society.
The three children 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 capacity 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
except 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 with 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 stormy natures.
But there was one member of the family of whom I have
not yet spoken, — and yet all this letter is about her, — the
daughter of Don Jose by his first marriage. Poor Dolores!
poor child! God grant she may have entered into his rest!
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I need not describe her. You have seen her picture.
And in the wild, rude, discordant family, she 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 marked 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 beauty and the gentle
softness of her manners, made her such a contrast to her
sisters as constantly excited their ill-will. Unlike them all,
she was fastidiously neat 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 rude, 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 life to study peaceable
methods of averting or avoiding the various inconveniences
and annoyances of her lot, and secure to herself a
little quiet.
It not unfrequently 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 appear,
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
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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
side of an inhospitable wall, and throwing its neglected tendrils
around every weed 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 years 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 through fire and water to
serve her; and this faithful, devoted heart, blind and ignorant
though it were, was the only unfailing refuge and solace
of the poor hunted child.
Dolores, of course, 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 treated her with
unvarying consideration and delicacy.
The poor thing had been so accustomed to barbarous
words and manners that simple politeness and the usages
of good society seemed to her cause for the most boundless
gratitude.
It is due to myself, 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,
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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 kind of affection which
might interfere with her happiness in such future relations
as her father might arrange for her. According to the
European fashion, I knew that Dolores was in her father's
hands, to be disposed of for life according to his pleasure, as
absolutely as if she had been one of his slaves. I had every
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 development in womanhood, to be
announced to her.
In looking back over 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 of 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 farther than anything else. If I approved Dolores
oftener than the rest, it was seen to be because she never
failed in a duty; if I spent more time with her lessons, it
was because her enthusiasm for study led her to learn longer
ones and study 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 not 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
and 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, —
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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 with 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 was 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
frail 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 formerly 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,
fasten itself on me unsolicited, from the mere necessity
of loving. She seemed to me so much too beautiful, too
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perfect, to belong to a lot in life like mine, that I could not
suppose it possible this could occur without the most blameworthy
solicitation on my part; and it is the saddest and
most affecting proof to me how this poor child had been
starved for sympathy and love, that she should have repaid
such cold services as mine with such an entire devotion. At
first her feelings were 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 sacredly
in my own room. To tell the truth, I have some of the
poor little things now.
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
leave 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 together. 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 Jose, 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
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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 that my intercourse with
Dolores was as free and unwatched, and gave me as many
opportunities of enjoying her undisturbed society, as heart
could desire.
At last came the crisis, however. After breakfast one
morning, Don Jose called Dolores into his library and announced
to her that he had concluded for her a treaty 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 hears of a new dress or
of a ball-ticket, and was quite confounded at the grave and
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 Jose, who had rather a greater regard for Dolores
than for any creature living, and who 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 either expostulation or argument, he
would have blazed and stormed in a fury of passion; but
as it was, this broken-hearted submission, though vexatious,
was 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 inquire whether his person and manners
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were such as would be pleasing to a young girl, 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 would place a handsome and
tractable woman, and do well by her.
I represented that 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 take 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
which wealth and splendor could not satisfy, and whose life
would lie entirely in her affections. Sometimes I violently
debated with myself whether honor required 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 would be the betrayal of
a trust; and I determined at least to command myself till I
should see the character of the man who was destined to be
her husband.
Meanwhile the whole manner of Dolores was changed.
She maintained a stony, gloomy silence, performed all her
duties in a listless way, and occasionally, when I commented
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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 she 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 found 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, whether 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,” 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 very words I never meant to say, but
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somehow they seemed to utter themselves against my will.
She looked at me for a moment as if she could not believe
her hearing, and then the blood flushed her face, and she
laid her head down on her arms.
At this moment Madame Mendoza and the other girls
came into the room in a clamor of admiration about a diamond
bracelet which had just arrived as a present from her
future husband.
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 for the beauty,” said one of the girls, “so
long as it is set with such 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 always was odd,” said another of the girls;
“nobody ever could tell what she would like.”
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CHAPTER XXVII.
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The next day Senor Don Guzman 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 time 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 child.
Dolores this day seemed perfectly passive in the hands of
her mother and sisters, who appeared 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 bracelet from her arm. “Nobody's gifts
should take the place of her mother's,” she said, and they
were obliged to be content with her wearing of the diamond
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 saw 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
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played, sang, exhibited her embroidery and painting, at the
command of Madame Mendoza, with the air of an automaton;
and Don Guzman remarked to her father 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 observe 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 the 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 such
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,
when 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 and person were distinctly shown. How well I remember
her as she looked then! She 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
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dark eyes had an unnatural brightness. She 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, Dolores, you did. I did say what I had no right
to say, like a dishonorable man.”
“But is it true? Are you sure it is true?” she said,
scarcely seeming to hear my words.
“God knows it is,” said I despairingly.
“Then why don'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 think 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,” 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.”
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While I was speaking, 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?” 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 did n't know, but perhaps you
might not want me. All the rest are so glad to sell me 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 made I cannot say. I only know that
every vestige of what is called reason and common 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 seemed to suspect
us. Everything went on quietly up to the day before that
appointed 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 all 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 sake. I shall
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let them do what they please with me, if God will only save
you. I will try to be good. Perhaps if I bear my trials
well, he will let me die soon. That is all I ask. I love
you, and always shall, to death and after.
Dolores.”
There was the end of it all. I escaped on the ship. I
read the marriage in the paper. Incidentally 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 the sight of her awakened only a
vague, painful remembrance. The sight of the hair 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 St.
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 Jose 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 estates in Cuba. He was
living in great splendor, but bore the character of a hard,
cruel, tyrannical master, and an overbearing man. His
wife was spoken of as being in very delicate health, — avoiding
society and devoting herself to religion.
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I would here take occasion to say that it was understood
when I went into the family of Don Jose, that I should not
in any way interfere with the religious faith 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 the 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
nature would always have made any religious form a reality
to her. In her case I was glad to remember that the Romish
Church, amid many corruptions, preserves all 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 dwell on the
great themes which all Christian people hold in common.
Many of my persuasion 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 soul
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 earnestly 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 could a soul like hers find peace.
I have never rested 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
returned from Cuba. He stated that there had been an
attempt at insurrection among the slaves of Don Guzman,
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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
family, 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 which have cast your lot on
our shores. I do not expect that 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 your value as a human being
would have been immeasurably less. I think I have seen
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, intelligent,
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 you 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 thing 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
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never even intimated to a living being that such a passage
in my history ever occurred, — no, not even to my sister,
who is nearer to me than any other earthly creature.
In some respects I am a singular person in my habits,
and having once written this, you will pardon me if I observe
that it will never be agreeable to me to have the
subject named 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, trusting to your good sense not
to give it any undue weight.
I have never ceased 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 left a
considerable sum of money in the hands of a notary, whose
address I have, which, 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 form.
This, together with 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
sum may be which will result from this, I cannot say, but as
Don Guzman's fortune was very large, I am in hopes it may
prove something worth attention.
At any time you may wish to call, I will have all these
things ready for you.
I am, with warm regard,
Your sincere friend,
Theophilus Sewell.
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When Moses had finished reading this letter, he laid it
down on the pebbles beside him, and, 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 had
stirred all within him that was dreamy and poetic: he felt
somehow like a leaf 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 have 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 reason told him it
was uncertain, and he lay there dreamily piling one aircastle
on another, — unsubstantial as the great islands of
white cloud that sailed though 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 rock to rock he
swung himself upward on to the island, and sought the
brown cottage.
As he passed by the open window he caught a glimpse of
Mara sewing. He walked softly up to look in without her
seeing him. She was sitting with the various articles of his
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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 pretty 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
handling his things; it was as if a good fairy were touching
them, whose touch brought back peace. But then, he thought,
by and by she will do all this for some one else. The
thought made him angry. He really felt abused in anticipation.
She was doing all this for him just in sisterly kindness,
and likely as not thinking 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.”
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“Why, then you 've had no dinner, poor boy,” said Mara,
rising suddenly. “Come 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 please, 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 unconsciousness,
he began kneading in his hands, while he was dreaming
over the strange contents of the morning's letter.
“I hope Mr. Sewell did n't say anything to make you
look so very gloomy,” said Mara.
“Mr. Sewell?” said Moses, starting; “no, he did n't;
in fact, I had a pleasant 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 thought to ask her why she did n'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 lives 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 just what I wanted, and
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do just as I please exactly, I might make a pretty good
thing of it.”
“And pray what 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, supposing 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 would n'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 the way with all you girls,” said Moses; “it 's
the way you 'll marry when you do.”
“Don't be so fierce about it. I have n't done it yet,”
said Mara; “but now, really, I must go and set the suppertable
when I have put these things away,” — and Mara
gathered an armful of things together, and tripped singing
up-stairs, and arranged them in the drawer of Moses' room.
“Will his wife like to do all these little things for him as I
do?” she thought. “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.”
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“She don't care a pin about me,” thought Moses; “it 's
only a habit she has got, and 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.
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CHAPTER XXVIII.
[figure description] Page 292.[end figure description]
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 glassy surface like soft clouds of green
foliage pierced through by the steel-blue tops of arrowy
pine-trees.
There were a goodly number of shareholders in the projected
vessel; some among the most substantial 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 proceeds 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 might 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 used 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
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men till evening. No matter how early he rose, however,
he always found that a good fairy had been before him and
prepared his dinner, daintily sometimes adding thereto a fragrant
little bunch of flowers. But when his boat returned
home at evening, he no longer saw her as in the days of
girlhood waiting far out on the farthest 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 for
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
other he could not break over. It vexed and perplexed
him, and day after day he determined to whistle it down, —
ride over it rough-shod, — and be as free as he chose with
this apparently soft, unresistant, airy being, who seemed so
accessible. Why should n't he kiss her when he chose, and
sit with his arm around her waist, and draw her familiarly
upon his keee, — 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. If he
kissed her, she took it with the most matter-of-fact composure;
if he passed 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
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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 before 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 with 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 instead of asking her, which anybody might
consider the most feasible step in the case, 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 did n't he ask Mara? — Did he
expect her to reveal her friend's secrets? Well, she
should n't, — report said Mr. Adams was well to do in the
world, and had expectations from an uncle, — and did n'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 cheek,
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
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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-hearted in the
world, and who would not give pain in any serious matter,
seem to have an insatiable appetite for those small annoyances
we commonly denominate teasing, — and Sally was
one of this number.
She diverted herself 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 probability, 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 shed 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, that 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.
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Whatever may have been the result of this state of
things in regard to Mara, it is certain that 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 operated 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,
and analyzed their neighbors' affairs, and she seemed to
smile at them all. Sally 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 the 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
this 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 intimate
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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 house-keeper, 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 sure 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; and 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 repeated 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 look closer. True, it was rather lonely,
she said, but that she was used to, — she always had been
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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 somebody whose name
never appears in the record.
Nobody could have conjectured from Mara's calm, gentle
cheerfulness of demeanor, that any sorrow 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 down 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 other,
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 life, 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
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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 ever 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 for 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 the 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 dramatic element
in him, and put on sundry appearances in the way of experiment.
He would feign to have quarrelled with Sally, that he
might detect whether Mara would betray some gladness;
but she only evinced concern and a desire to make up the
difficulty. He would discuss her character and her fitness
to make a man happy in matrimony 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 sensible, 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 side, to rally her on some future
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husband, and predict the days when all the attentions which
she was daily bestowing on him would be for another; and
here, as everywhere else, he found his little Sphinx perfectly
inscrutable. Instinct 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 other 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 the least touched by the black eyes
and long lashes? Who can say? Had she a heart? 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 and rebuke, as in her
view an honest mother should who means to keep a flourishing
sprig 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 her 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
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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 bright as Harpswell Bay after a thunder-storm—
for effect also. Moses could play jealous, 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 and 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 every 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 sad and earnest woman —
a creature of loves and self-denials and faithfulness unto
death — in short, something altogether too good, too sacred
to be trifled with; and when a man enters the game protected
by a previous attachment which absorbs 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 stronger 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.
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CHAPTER XXIX.
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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
splendor. 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 Sally, for Mara has
sent him to bring her to tea with them. Moses is in high
spirits; 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 palace, and
going from land to land.
“There has n'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 geese are all swans. I wish you could
have seen the Typhoon, that Ben Drummond sailed in — a
real handsome fellow he was. What a pity there ar' n't
more like him!”
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“I don't enter 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?”
“After Mara?” said Moses. “I don't want to — it
would n't be appropriate — one wants a different kind of
girl to name a ship after — something bold and bright
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 would n't run me on a
rock the very first thing? When I give my name to a ship,
it must have an experienced commander,” she added, maliciously,
for she knew that Moses was specially vulnerable
on this point.
“As you please,” said Moses, with heightened color.
“Allow me to remark that 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 gone, and then won't
your conscience trouble you?”
“My conscience 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
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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 bounded 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 spirits about Moses' 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, indeed. 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 if I make a prosperous voyage, the
disappointment would injure her health.”
“She does n't mean what she says,” said Mara; “but I
think there are some objections in a young lady's name
being given to a ship.”
“Then I suppose, 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, suggest 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 home from your first
voyage at the Banks.”
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“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' eyes fell upon Mara as Sally said these words
with a sort of sudden earnestness of expression 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 that 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 her.
Mara was conscious herself of a deep undercurrent of
sadness as the time approached for the ship 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 there was nobody at the casement but a
slippery elf peering out in tricksy defiance.
When the three arrived at the house, tea was waiting on
the table for them. Mara fancied that Moses looked sad
and preoccupied as they sat down to the tea-table, which
Mrs. Pennel had set forth festively, with the best china and
the finest table-cloth and the choicest sweetmeats. In fact,
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Moses did feel that sort of tumult and upheaving of the soul
which a young man experiences when the great crisis comes
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 therefore 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 for 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 self-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
Moses 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 Sally with the old-times request to stay
and sleep with her; for these two, the only 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 alone together in their chamber, Sally
let down her long black hair, and stood with her back
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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 quiet that the restless
dash of the tide could be plainly heard. Sally was rattling
away with her usual gayety.
“And so the launching is to come off next Thursday.
What shall you wear?”
“I 'm sure I have n't thought,” said Mara.
“Well, I shall 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 perfectly
splendid!”
“But does n't it sometimes seem sad to think that after all
this Moses will leave us to be gone so long?”
“What do I care?” said Sally, tossing back her long
hair as she brushed it, and then stopping to examine one
of her eyelashes.
“Sally dear, you often speak in that way,” said Mara,
“but really and seriously, you 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 hour, 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.”
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The most practised 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 waist, and looked up into
her face with an air of more gravity than she commonly
used.
“Now, Mara, what a wicked, inconsistent fool I have
been! Did you feel lonesome? — did you care? 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 and on in this silly way. But I
did n't know you cared — indeed, I did n't — you are such
a deep little thing. Nobody can ever tell what you feel. I
never shall forgive 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 him as a dear brother,” said Mara.
“Dear fiddlestick,” said Sally. “Love is love; and when
a person loves all she can, it is n't much use to talk so. I 've
been a wicked sinner, that I have. Love? Do you suppose
I would bear with Moses Pennel all his ins and outs
and up and downs, and be always putting him before myself
in everything, as you do? No, I could n't; I have n't it in
me; but you have. He 's a sinner, too, and deserves to get
me for a wife. But, Mara, I have tormented him well —
there 's some comfort in that.”
“It 's no comfort 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 only cold,
trifling words when he needs real true love. It is a serious
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thing, dear, to have a strong man set his whole heart on you.
It will do him a great good 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 is n't
going to be caught. I can see plain enough that Moses
Pennel has been trying to get me in love with him, but
he does n't love me. No, he does n'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!”
“I can't help my eyes; they will look so,” said Sally,
hiding her face in Mara's lap with a sort of coquettish
consciousness. “I tell you I 've been silly and wicked;
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 is n't with me: that I know.”
“But if you found it were, Sally? Suppose you found
that, after all, you were the one love 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
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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,” said 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
is n'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 with me as he has. He has had his own reasons,
doubtless, as I have had mine.”
“He has admired you very much, Sally,” said Mara,
“and praised you to me very warmly. 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 sort of body than I am, too.
Everybody thinks you are engaged. I have heard it spoken
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 has always been prejudiced and unjust to
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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 that 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 the 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 violently.
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 breath
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 their actions. Come now,” she added,
turning to Mara, “don't look so grave 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 the drollest thing to me. I
have n't the least idea how it feels. I wonder if I ever
shall be in love!”
“It will come 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.”
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“Well, come,” said Mara, “we must not sit up all night.”
After the two girls 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
more 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-open eyes gleaming out in the
shadow like mystical gems. Each was breathing softly, as
if afraid of disturbing the other. At last Sally gave an impatient
movement.
“How lonesome the sea sounds in the night,” she said.
“I wish it would ever be still.”
“I like to hear it,” said Mara. “When I was in Boston,
for a while I thought I could 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 thought you were.”
“I wanted to ask you,” said Mara, “did Moses ever say
anything to you about me? — you know I told you how
much he said about you.”
“Yes; he asked 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 were not; and then again,
that there was a deep mystery in hand. But I praised
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and glorified Mr. Adams, and told him what a splendid
match it would be, and put on any little bits of embroidery
here and there that I could lay hands on. I used 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 know the hymn says, —
`Let dogs delight to bark and bite,
For God hath made them so;
Let bears and lions growl and fight,
For 't is 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
them so.”
“Take care, Sally, it 's playing with edge tools; you may
lose your heart some day in this kind of game.”
“Never you fear,” said Sally; “but ar' n't you sleepy? —
let 's go to sleep.”
Both girls turned their faces resolutely in opposite directions,
and remained for an hour with their large eyes looking
out into the moonlit chamber, liked the fixed stars over
Harpswell Bay. At last sleep drew softly down the fringy
curtains.
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CHAPTER XXX.
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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 work-a-day
world of ours that has such a never-failing fund of
poetry and grace as a ship? A ship is a beauty and a mystery
wherever we see it: its white wings 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 impulse 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 never 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
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heavy 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 wonder! 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 loved 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 her in the
last throes of her death-agony.
A ship-building, a ship-sailing community has an unconscious
poetry ever underlying its existence. 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 fall into the petty commonplaces that infest the
routine of inland life.
Never arose a clearer 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 right; 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 Mara were also up by starlight, busy
over the provisions for the ample cold collation that was to
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be spread in a barn adjoining the scene, — the materials
for which they were packing into baskets covered with nice
clean linen cloths, 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.
It had been agreed that the Pennels and the Kittridges
should cross together in this boat with their contributions of
good cheer.
The Kittridges, too, 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 her mind, her efforts in this line had been all
but superhuman.
The Captain skipped in and out in high feather, — occasionally
pinching Sally's cheek, and asking 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 other 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.”
“Lawful sakes, 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
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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 gals to talk to 'em 'bout the fellers, when
they a'n'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 and determined.
“Yes, yes,” 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 minute, 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 care for him really, and I 've told him so. I keep
telling him so, and he will run after me.”
“Haw! haw!” 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 that 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' agin 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
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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
alter that arrangement of her hair which is one that he himself
particularly dictated as most becoming to the character
of her face. She opens a little drawer, which looks like a
flower-garden, all full of little knots of pink and blue and
red, and various fancies of the toilet, and looks into it reflectively.
She looses 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
been thinking of him.” Sally is Sally yet — as full of sly
dashes of coquetry 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,” 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 pomegranate hue of
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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 shining white straw hat trimmed
with blue ribbons set off her golden hair and pink shell
complexion. The dark, even pencilling 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 which 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 that 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 your 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 very
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.”
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Mrs. Kittridge and Sally were soon accommodated with
seats, and Zephaniah Pennel and the Captain began trimming
sail. The day was one of those perfect gems of days
which are to be found only in the jewel-casket of October;
a day neither hot nor cold, with 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 and 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 ship 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 and fashioned
with many a weary hammer-stroke in this life, but
finding its true 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 use
to try to utter it to anybody? — to Sally Kittridge, for example,
who sat all in 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 souls 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
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spirit once affiliated to some higher 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 wavering 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 take 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 being interchanged in
the little world assembling there.
“I ha' n't seen the Pennels nor the Kittridges yet,” said
Aunt Ruey, whose little roly-poly figure was made illustrious
in her best cinnamon-colored dyed silk. “There 's
Moses Pennel a-goin' up that ar ladder. Dear me, what
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a beautiful feller he is! it 's a pity he a'n't a-goin' to marry
Mara Lincoln, after all.”
“Ruey, do hush up,” said Miss Roxy, frowning sternly
down from under the shadow of a preternatural black straw
bonnet, trimmed with huge bows of black ribbon, which headpiece
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 does. As to that ar Moses
Pennel, folks a'n'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 with 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.”
“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 full 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 she 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
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scarfs, and the furbelows, and the way that ar Sally Kittridge
handles her eyes. She 's one that one feller a'n'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 took 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 Hiers had already walked on toward the
vessel, she ostentatiously chatting and laughing with him.
Moses' 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 Sally walk off triumphantly
with another. It was the dog-in-the-manger feeling
which possesses coquettes of both sexes.
Sally, on all former occasions, had shown a marked preference
for him, and professed supreme indifference to Tom
Hiers.
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“It 's all well 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 down on the deck. “Look over there, do you see Eagle
Island? Did you dream when 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?”
“I am too much 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 hailstones
under her.
“I hope the ways are well greased,” said old Captain
Eldritch. “'Member how the John 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 was n't nobody hurt,” said Captain Kittridge.
“If Mis' Kittridge would 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.
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“I suppose, Cap'n Pennel, you 've seen that the ways is
all right,” said Captain Broad, 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 Miss Emily were sitting under a cedartree,
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 Moses standing with his hat off, the wind
blowing his curls back, talking earnestly to the golden-haired
little woman on his arm.
“It is a launch 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 good
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 think Moses looks handsome?” said Miss
Emily. “I declare there is something 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 most matter-of-fact of persons;
but deep within him a voice sighed, “Poor Dolores, be comforted,
your boy is beautiful and prosperous!”
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“There, there!” said Miss Emily, “I believe she is starting.”
All eyes of the crowd 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 insensible.
First came a slight, 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' 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!” 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 looked 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-captain,
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 what
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was in her eyes at the moment, — an expression that made
his heart give a great 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.
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CHAPTER XXXI.
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Moses was now within a day or two of the time of his
sailing, and yet the distance between him and Mara seemed
greater 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 yet there lies a gulf between
them that neither crosses, — a reserve that neither explores.
Like most shy girls, 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 that 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 practised upon herself the whole summer long,
to prove to herself that she was glad that the choice had
fallen upon Sally. She 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.
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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 strength 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 could be no depth to her feelings, or that the
deeper ones were all absorbed by some 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 well practised. 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 that, 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' — no tremor, not even of an eyelid.
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“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!”
There was a dash of bitterness in this, which was a rare
ingredient in Mara's conversation.
Moses took the word. “And you women sit easy at
home, sewing and singing, and forming romantic 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 means 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 three.”
“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 that
morning.
Now Mara knew that this letter was nothing in particular,
but she was taken by surprise, and her skin was delicate as
peach-blossom, and so she could not help a sudden blush,
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 self, is a good maxim. One
does not expect young girls to learn it so early, but it seems
they do.”
“And why should n't they as well as young men?” said
Mara. “Confidence begets confidence, they say.”
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“I have no ambition to play confidant,” said Moses; “although
as one who stands 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 sister, I might be supposed
perhaps to feel some interest to be in your confidence.”
The words “older 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 passage,
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 think if he knew
the truth? — and Moses thought the words only sister unequivocal
declaration of how the matter stood in her view,
and so he rose, and saying, “I won't detain you longer from
your letter,” took his hat and went out.
“Are you going down to Sally's?” said Mara, coming to
the door and looking out after him.
“Yes.”
“Well, ask her to come home with you and spend the
evening. I have ever so many things to tell her.”
“I will,” 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 precisely on what
is n't to be had? There 's Sally Kittridge likes me; I can
see that plainly enough, for all her mincing; and why
could n't I have had the sense to fall in love with her? She
will make a splendid, showy woman. She has talent and
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tact 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,
then, do I cling to this fancy? I feel that this little flossy
cloud, this delicate, quiet little puff of thistle-down, 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 that love gone to? Gone to this
fellow; that 's plain enough. When a girl like her 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 leaving in a few days, all conspired to foster
the restless excitement in our hero's mind 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 sheer,
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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 her, was a girl of generous impulses, she was yet
in no danger of immediate translation 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 should 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 braidings
and adornings of the lustrous black hair, and coquettish earrings
were mounted 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
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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 work 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, where 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 the 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 witcheries make
every man that comes near her talk like a fool? Like a
sovereign princess, she never hears the truth, unless it be
from the one manly man in a thousand, 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 that no matter what she
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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 much it will do for him
to take of the stimulus without interfering with his serious
and settled plans of life, which, of course, he does n't mean
to give up for her. The one-thousand-and-first man in
creation is he that can feel the fascination 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.
Well, as Sally sat with her great dark eyes
dreamily following the ship, she mentally thought over all the
compliments Moses had paid her, expressed or understood,
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. Sally 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
counted 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 power 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 roulade of imitations of all that was going on in the
late bird-operas of the season.
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Sally was roused from her revery by a spray of golden-rod
that was thrown into her lap by an invisible hand, and
Moses soon appeared at the window.
“There 's a plume that would be becoming to your hair,”
he said; “stay, let me arrange it.”
“No, no; you 'll tumble my hair, — what can you know
of such things?”
Moses held the spray aloft, and leaned toward her with a
sort of quiet, determined insistance.
“By your leave, 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 blush.
“Come, now, I dare say you 've made a fright of me,”
she said, rising and instinctively 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 evening; let 's walk along the sea-shore, and
get there by degrees.”
And so they set out; but the path was circuitous, for
Moses was always stopping, now at this point 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 playthings of them for centuries, and
with every pebble given and taken were things said which
should have meant more and more, had the play been
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earnest. Had Moses any idea of offering himself to Sally?
No; but he was in one of those fluctuating, 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 liked; 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 slippery projecting rocks, all
covered with yellow tresses of sea-weed. 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
mesmeric 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 her being. When
they had stepped round the last point of rock they found
themselves driven by the advancing tide up into the little
lonely grotto, — and there they were with no look-out 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 hands 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
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hand. She raised her head angrily, and again repulsed
him.
“Go!” she 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 truth 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 know it either,” said Sally; “I know it is n't so.”
“But you gave me to understand so.”
“Well, sir, you put prying questions about what you
ought to have asked her, and so what was I to do? Besides,
I did want to show you how much better Mara
could do than to take you; besides, I did n't know till lately.
I never thought she could care much for any man
more than I could.”
“And you think she loves me?” said Moses, eagerly, a
flash of joy illuminating his face; “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.”
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Moses sat down on a point of rock, and looked on the
ground discountenanced. Sally stood up glowing and triumphant,
as if she had her foot on the neck of her oppressor
and meant 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 did n'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 own I have been acting like a fool,” said Moses,
humbly.
“You have done 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, Sally, 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 strong arms drooping,
and his long eyelashes cast down.
“I 'll be friends with you,” she said, “because, after all,
I 'm not so very much better than you. We have both done
wrong, and made dear Mara very unhappy. But after all, I
was not so much to blame as you; because, if there had
been any reality in your love, I could have paid it honestly.
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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 first time for all these six months that we have
either of us spoken a word of truth or sense to each other.
I never did anything but trifle with you, and you the 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 not. I think you may now go home and have
one talk with Mara without witnesses.”
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CHAPTER XXXII.
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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 real 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 element 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 neighbor, 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 away 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 himself, 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 moment 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.
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Was he to go to her 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
had practised and experimented upon her nature? A suspicion
rather stole upon him 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 cheerful willingness to see him happy
with another; for the absence of all signs of jealousy, — all
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 the 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 library 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 beat quick.
Mara was in his room, busy, as she always had been before
his departures, in cares for him. How many things had
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she made for him, and done and arranged for him all his life
long! — things which he had taken as much as a matter of
course as the shining of that moon. His thoughts 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 angel of a little girl, whose loving-kindness he had felt
free to use and to abuse. He remembered that he made her
cry there when he should have spoken lovingly and 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
shadowy 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 book,
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 that 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 sort of vague remorse filled him; he felt as if she were
too good for him. He turned away, and entering the front-door
of the house, stepped noiselessly along and 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 when she stood there before him,
with her surprised, inquiring eyes, he felt confused.
“What, home so soon?” she said.
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“You did not expect me, then?”
“Of course not, — not for these two hours; so,” she said,
looking about, “I found some mischief to do among your
things. If you had waited as long as I expected, 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 about my things!”
“Mara,” said Moses, “people have asked you to marry
them, have there not?”
“People asked me to marry them!” said Mara. “I hope
not. What an odd question!”
“You know what I mean,” said Moses; “you have had
offers of marriage — from Mr. Adams, 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 intellectually 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.”
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“Is there anybody you prefer to him, Mara?” said Moses.
She started up with glowing cheeks and sparkling eyes.
“You have no right to ask me that, though you are my
brother.”
“I am not your brother, Mara,” said Moses, rising and
going toward her, “and that 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 dark 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 believe this, Moses? If it is true, why have you
done as you have this summer?”
“Because I was 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 love, 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, and I have been unmanly.”
It is not to be supposed that all this was spoken without
accompaniments of looks, movements, and expressions of
face such as we cannot give, but such as doubled their power
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[figure description] Page 346.[end figure description]
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 after, 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 those wonderfully clear moonlight evenings,
when the ocean, like a great reflecting 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 woods 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 the mysterious
stillness. They were talking together now with that outflowing
fulness which 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, Mara, that it was intended that you should be
my fate,” he ended; “so the winds and waves took me up
and carried me to the lonely island where the magic princess
dwelt.”
“You are Prince Ferdinand,” said Mara.
“And you are Miranda,” said he.
“Ah!” she said with fervor, “how plainly we can see
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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' brow. He looked
embarrassed, and there was a pause between 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
then spoke, without uttering them; and her finely organized
nature felt a sort of electric consciousness of repulsion and
dissent.
She grew abstracted, and they 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 results.
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 say 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?” said Mara, in surprise.
“Because I need 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 have
loved me in spite of all my faults, as you did, and do, and
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will, as I know you will,” he said, folding her in his arms;
and in his secret heart he said, “Some of this intensity, this
devotion, which went upward to heaven, will 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 with 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 disguised it; but I love your religion because
it makes you love me. It is an incident 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 second 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 breathed 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 mother. Perhaps it
was because I was a poor orphan, and my father and mother
died at my birth, that He has been so loving to me. I never
remember the time when I did not feel his presence in my
joys and my sorrows. I never had a thought of joy 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
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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. His 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 could ever make you love me?”
“He sent you and gave you to me,” she answered, “to be
mine in time and eternity.”
The words were spoken in a kind of enthusiasm so different
from the usual reserve of Mara, that they 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.
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CHAPTER XXXIII.
[figure description] Page 350.[end figure description]
“And so,” said Mrs. Captain Badger to Miss Roxy Toothacre,
“it seems that Moses Pennel a'n'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 really tremendous.
Miss Roxy and Mrs. Badger were the advance party at
a quilting, to be holden at the house of Mr. 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 quilt 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 young
people.
“What business 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 Lincoln 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; and any
one contemplating her at the moment would have thought
that for Moses Pennel or any other young man to come with
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tender propositions in that direction, would have been indeed
a venturesome enterprise.
“I tell you what 't is, Mis' Badger,” she said, “I 've
known Mara since she was born, — I may say I fetched
her up myself, for if I had n'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 when it
comes to marryin', — never!”
“But he 's a real stirrin', likely young man, and captain
of a fine ship,” said Mrs. Badger.
“Don't care if he 's captain of twenty ships,” said Miss
Roxy, obdurately; “he a'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 sanctified 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 got her, he 'll be
tired of her, as he always was with anything he got ever
since. 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.”
“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
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from the room to hold private consultations with Miss Emily
concerning the biscuits and sponge-cake for tea, 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 a'n't one of the sort that wants to be a-usin' up girls
for the salvation of fellers,” said Miss Roxy, severely.
“Ever since he nearly like to have got her eat 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 left with a tidy little
fortune which commanded the respect of the neighborhood.
Mrs. Eaton had entered silently during the discussion, but
of course had come, 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-shell pattern, “I a'n't so sure that all
the advantage in this match is on Moses Pennel's part.
Mara Lincoln is a good little thing, but she a'n'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 was n'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
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sea and took care of him. I used to work the longitude 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 weeks, 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
had n'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. That '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 a'n't every one can do like you, Mrs.
Eaton.”
“Oh no, oh no,” was murmured from mouth to mouth;
“Mrs. Eaton must n't think she 's any rule for others, —
everybody knows she can do more than most people;”—
whereat the pacified Mrs. Eaton said “she did n't know
as it was anything remarkable, — it showed what anybody
might do, if they 'd only try and have resolution; but that
Mara never had been brought up to have resolution, — and
her mother never had resolution before her, it wa' n't in
any of Mary Pennel's family, — she knew their grandmother
and all their aunts, and they were all a weakly set,
and not fitted to get along in life, — they were a kind of
people that somehow did n'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 demonstrative
and affectionate, — they would sit together and use
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each other's needles, scissors, thread, and thimbles interchangeably,
as if anxious to express every 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 covertly directed toward
her, as a matron whose views in life must have been considerably
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 uneasy
all summer for fear of what might come. Sally was so
thoughtless and worldly, she felt afraid that he would lead
her astray. She did n'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 Ruey 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 turned out a “poor drunken creetur.” But then it was
only natural that Mara should be interested in Moses; and
the good soul went off into her favorite verse: —
“The fondness of a creature's love,
How strong it strikes the sense!
Thither the warm affections move,
Nor can we drive them thence.”
In fact, Miss Ruey's sentimental vein was in quite a gushing
state, for she more than once extracted from the dark corners
of the limp calico thread-case we have spoken of
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certain long-treasured morceaux of newspaper poetry, of a
tender and sentimental cast, 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 kindred hearts, and the joys of reciprocated feeling,
and the pains of absence. Good Miss Ruey occasionally
passed these to Mara, with glances full of meaning,
which caused the poor old thing to resemble a sentimental
goblin, keeping Sally Kittridge 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 soul 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 them 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 could 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 after 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 the minister was serenely approbative
of the event; that Captain Kittridge was at length
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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.
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CHAPTER XXXIV.
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The quilting broke up at the primitive 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 stay with me to-night, Sally,” said Mara.
“I think Sally had best be at home,” said Mrs. Kittridge.
“There 's no sense in girls talking all night.”
“There a'n't sense in nothin' else, mother,” said the Captain.
“Next to sparkin', 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.”
“We 've all been foolish once,” said Mrs. Kittridge.
“Well, mother, we want to be foolish too,” said Sally.
“Well, you and your father are too much for me,” said
Mrs. Kittridge, plaintively; “you always get your own
way.”
“How lucky that my way is always a good one!” said
Sally.
“Well, you know, Sally, you are going to make the beer
to-morrow,” still objected her mother.
“Oh, yes; that 's another reason,” said Sally. “Mara
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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, won'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.”
“We can make better yet now,” said Mara. “The
wintergreen is young, and the green tips on the spruce
boughs are so full of strength. Everything is lively and
sunny now.”
“Yes, yes,” said the Captain, “and I 'spect I know why
things do look pretty lively to some folks, don't they?”
“I don't know what sort of work you 'll make of the
beer among you,” said Mrs. Kittridge; “but you must
have it your own way.”
Mrs. Kittridge, who never did anything else among her
tea-drinking acquaintances but laud and magnify Sally's
good traits and domestic acquirements, felt constantly bound
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 to
do as she pleased; and so, when the boat came to shore,
she took the arm of Mara 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
stars were lying in twinkling brightness, reflected from the
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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 that 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 has n't come to waken
her.”
“Maybe so,” said Sally, with her old light laugh. “If
I only were sure he would make 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 lordly flies, and I like to
hear them buzz.”
“Take care, Sally; never do it again, or the spider-web
may get round you,” said Mara.
“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 thought seriously about it,” said Mara; “but
I know he needs me; that I can 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.”
“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.”
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Mara felt that there was in these chance words of Sally
more than she perceived. No one could feel 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 her the spiritual world was a reality;
God an ever-present consciousness; and the line of this
present life seemed so to melt and lose itself in the anticipation
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 future
life he shrank with a shuddering aversion, as from something
ghastly and unnatural. 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 abandon and unreserve which made the
acquaintance more vitally intimate 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 forever
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 lovely 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, could 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
world was to him only a land of pale shades and doubtful
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glooms, from which he shrank 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 revery 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 Sally 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 connect us with the great world;
and he was so full of life, and so certain and confident, 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 sweetest thing
you can imagine, — it is called the morning star. There is
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a great star 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 have 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, is n't it?”
And so, the conversation falling from the region of the
sentimental to the practical, the 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
investing all her energies in the preparation of the wedding
outfit of her friend, about which she talked with a constant
and restless activity, and for which she formed a thousand
plans, and projected shopping tours to Portland, Brunswick,
and even to Boston, — this last being about as far off a venture
at that time as Paris now seems to a Boston belle.
“When you are married,” said Sally, “you 'll have to
take me to live with you; that 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 don't know him. I shall be an old maid,”
said Sally; “and really there is n't much harm in that if
one could have company, — if somebody or other would n'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 shoot 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
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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 struck one; let 's try to go to sleep.”
Sally put her face to Mara's and kissed her, and Mara
felt a moist spot on her cheek, — could it be a tear?
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CHAPTER XXXV.
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Aunt Roxy and Aunt Ruey Toothacre lived 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 windows on two sides commanded
the beautiful bay and the opposite shores, and on the 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 worshippers of soap and sand, and
these two tutelary deities had kept every board of the housefloor
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 from the fir-shoots,
and cause the spruce and hemlocks to exude a warm, resinous
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perfume. The two sisters, for a wonder, were having a day
to themselves, free 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 turned,
for the second or third time, and made over with every
breadth in a different situation. Probably after a week of
efficient labor, busily expended in bleaching, dyeing, pressing,
sewing, and ripping, an unenlightened spectator, 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 fifty years.” Happily the weird sisters
were contentedly ignorant of any such remarks, for no duchesses
could have enjoyed a more quiet belief in their own
social position, and their semiannual spring and fall rehabilitation
was therefore entered into with the most simple-hearted
satisfaction.
“I 'm a-thinkin', 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 trimming in
lighter lines, which revealed too clearly the effects of wind
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and weather, — “I 'm a-thinkin' whether or no this 'ere
might n't as well be dyed and done with it as try to bleach
it out. I 've had it ten years last May, and it 's kind o'
losin' its freshness, you know. I don't believe these 'ere
streaks 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 along with it, — the
same smoke 'll do 'em both. Mis' Badger she finds the
brimstone, and next fall you can put it in the dye when we
do the yarn.”
“That ar straw is a beautiful straw!” said Miss Ruey, in
a plaintive tone, tenderly examining the battered old headpiece, —
“I braided every stroke on 't myself, and I don't
know as I could do it ag'in. My fingers a'n't quite so limber
as they was! I don't think I shall put green ribbon on
it ag'in; 'cause 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 rained cats and
dogs, and streaked my bonnet all up; and them ar streaks
won't bleach out, I 'm feared.”
“How long is it Mis' Badger has had that ar leg'orn?”
“Why, you know, 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 money as fast as
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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 should n't a-put away what I
have in the bank.
“Have you seen the straw Sally Kittridge is braidin' for
Mara Lincoln's weddin' bonnet?” 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 dissip'inted gal. She is as chipper as she can be
about Mara's weddin', and seems like she could n't do too
much. But laws, everybody seems to want to be a-doin' for
her. Miss Emily was a-showin' me a fine double damask
table-cloth that she was goin' to give her; and Mis' Pennel,
she 's been a-spinnin' and layin' up sheets and towels and
table-cloths 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 't was unlucky to be a-fittin' out a bride with her
dead mother's things, but I did n't like to say nothin'.”
“Ruey,” said Miss Roxy impressively, “I ha' n't never
had but jist one mind about Mara Lincoln's weddin', — it 's
to be, — but it won't be the way people think. I ha' n'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, and she 'll wear
'em, but she won't be Moses Pennel's wife, — now you see.”
“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.”
Miss Roxy shut her lips with oracular sternness and
went on with her sewing.
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“Who 's that comin' in the back-door?” said Miss Ruey,
as the sound of a footstep fell upon her ear. “Bless me,”
she added, as she started up to look, “if folks a'n't always
nearest when you 're talkin' about 'em. Why, Mara; 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.
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CHAPTER XXXVI.
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It was in truth Mara herself who came and stood in the
door-way. 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 life was slowly
burning away.
“Sit down, sit down, little Mara,” said Aunt Ruey.
“Why, how like a picture you look this mornin', — one
need n'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-day, 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 't is; 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 talkin' about your
weddin'. I s'pose you 're gettin' things well along down to
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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' Twitchel 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 man now; and
Mara, you 'll come to grandeur, won't you? Well, I don't
know anybody 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 tell what may happen, Aunt Ruey,” said Mara,
and there was a slight tremor in her voice as she spoke.
Miss Roxy, who beyond 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 taken the dock and dandelion tea I told you
about?” said the wise woman, rather abruptly.
“Yes, Aunt Roxy, 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 aside the straw bonnet which she was
ripping, and motioned Mara into the outer room, — the
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sinkroom, 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 the 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 ruffling 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
fulness 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 up-springing 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 the 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
little rings about her forehead; her eyes, — those longing,
wistful eyes, — had a deeper pathos of sadness than ever
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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 and 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.
Mara was confounded. 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 did n't think you would
feel bad, or I would n't have told you; but oh, you don't
know how hard it is to keep such a secret all to one's self.
I have to make believe all the time that I am feeling well
and getting better. I really say what is n't true every day,
because, poor grandmamma, how could I bear to see her
distress? and grandpapa, — oh, I wish people did n'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
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gray woman holding the soft golden head against her breast
with a convulsive grasp. “Oh, Aunt Roxy, do you love me,
too?” said Mara. “I did n't know you did.”
“Love ye, child?” said Miss Roxy; “yes, I love ye like
my life. I a'n't one that makes talk about things, but I do;
you come into my arms fust of anybody'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 soothing, caressing tone, and putting
her little thin hand against the grim, wasted cheek,
which was now moist with tears.
“Jes' so, child, 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; and we had doctors for her far
and near; but 't was n'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 force myself to eat, and I force myself to
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talk and laugh, and it 's all pretence; and it wears me out,—
it would be better if I stopped trying, — it would be
better 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 give 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
forty years with sick rooms and dyin' beds, and I never
knew it fail that those that trusted in the Lord was brought
through.”
“Oh, Aunt Roxy, it is so hard for me to give up, — to
give up hoping to live. There were a good 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
try 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 is n'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 should n't be a-tellin' you the truth. I has n'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
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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 need n'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 ha' n't said nothin' more than that you
was a little weakly now and then.”
“I have such a color every afternoon,” said Mara.
“Grandpapa talks about my roses, 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 tried to shake it off, and to feel that nothing
was the matter, — really there is nothing 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, but 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 hold 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
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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 moment 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 seen 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 many years
before. But the grave was overgrown with blackberry-vines,
and gray moss had grown into the crevices of the slab which
served for a tombstone, and never before that day had she
heard Miss Roxy speak of her. Miss Roxy took down the
little black object and handed it to Mara. “You can't tell
much by that, 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 affected 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 block. “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 feelings which had come
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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 Mara wanted to get some advice about makin'
up her weddin' things,” said Miss 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 did n't, neither,” said Miss Roxy fiercely. “I
declare, Ruey, you are silly; 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 would 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
words, Ruey, there is no marryin' and givin' in marriage for
her in this world.”
“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' weakly 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
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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. Ha' n'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
that 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 and table-cloths 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 particular 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 sends 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 a'n't to go as they please in the
Lord's world. Sech always has to come to spots that they
can't get over nor under nor round, to have their own way,
but jest has to give right up square.”
“Well, Roxy,” said Miss Ruey, “how does the poor
little thing take it? Has 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
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and shiny, to be took short up? I guess you would n't be
reconciled. That 's what I guess.”
“Dear me, Roxy, who said I should?” said Miss Ruey.
“I wa' n't blamin' the poor child, not a grain.”
“Well, who said you was, Ruey?” answered Miss Roxy
in the same high key.
“You need n'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 you came in from the
sink-room, as if I was to blame; and snappin' at me as if I
had n'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 back 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 carefully 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 which 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 expression 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.
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Now if poor Miss Roxy had been like you, my dear
young lady — if her soul had been encased in a round, 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; but this same
soul, imprisoned in a dry, angular body, stiff and old, and
looking out under beetling eyebrows, over withered high
cheek-bones, could only utter 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 frequent guests in the homely room
of the two sisters, and that passing by all accidents 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 boudoir 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 ha' n'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
Hitty in the grave, that I should n'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
affliction to me, Ruey, but I must jest shoulder my cross and
go through with it. I 'm goin' down to-night to tell the
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old folks, and to make arrangements so that the poor 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 right in the face, and I hope there 'll be
grace given to do it.”
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CHAPTER XXXVII.
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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. Gradually 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
their repose. In such hours a spiritual clairvoyance often
seems to lift for a while 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 beyond.
Then the narrow straits that look so full of rocks and quicksands,
widen into 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 ocean 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 personal 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
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of earth 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 their noon meal was prepared.
A plate and knife had been laid for her, and they had
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 her 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 and festive occasions.
“Had n'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 for a cup of hot tea.
If not the very elixir of life, it was indeed the next thing
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 need n't
say Mara ha' n't got resolution. I never see a little thing
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have more. She always did have, when she was the leastest
little thing. She was always quiet 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 struck 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 Miss Ruey.
“I am rested,” said Mara; “oh how much! And happy,”
she added, laying 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 must n't
feel so any more, for all is well — yes, all is well. I see
now that it is so. I have passed beyond sorrow — yes,
forever.”
Soft-hearted Miss Ruey here broke into audible sobbing,
hiding her face in her hands, and looking like a tumbled
heap of old faded calico in a state of convulsion.
“Dear Aunt Ruey, you must n't,” said Mara, with a voice
of gentle authority. “We must n'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 this 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 before you all
come to me! Oh, how little, little while!”
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“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
Lord 's give you the victory early.”
“Victory!” 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 expresses 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, though, you mus' n't think of goin' till you 've had
a cup of tea,” said Aunt Ruey, wiping her eyes. “I 've
kep' the teapot 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 feel 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 their limited house-keeping
commanded.
It was toward sunset 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 side, through the pines, they looked out into the boundless
blue of the ocean, and on the other caught glimpses of
Harpswell Bay as it lay glorified in the evening light. The
fresh cool breeze blowing landward brought with it an invigorating
influence, which Mara felt through all her feverish
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frame. She walked with an energy to which she had long
been a stranger. She said little, but there was a sweetness,
a repose in her manner contrasting singularly with the passionate
melancholy 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 about its approach. Yet the
soul of the gray, dry woman was hot within her, for the 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 one 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 mistress of the poor black slave — the pretty
sister of the homely old spinster — or the 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 fair virgin
orb she had marked the growing shadow of a fatal eclipse;
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and as she saw her glowing and serene, with that peculiar
brightness that she felt came from 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 the 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 she '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.”
Mara turned to Miss Roxy, and gave her a look of peculiar
meaning. “Aunt Roxy,” she said, “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 that 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
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done in the old days of childhood, and laid her hand upon
his shoulder. There was no sound 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 words spoken in that strange communing;
and before Miss Roxy went away, a calmness 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 eyes; and there shall be no more death, neither
sorrow nor crying, for the former things are passed away.'”
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CHAPTER XXXVIII.
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As Miss Roxy was leaving the dwelling 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 gesture 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 enough. 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 before the
year 's out.”
“Pshaw, Aunt Roxy! how lugubriously you old nurses
always talk! I hope now you hav' n't been 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 stands 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 the wind many a day, and I was
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pretty experienced then, and it a'n't likely that I 'm a-goin'
to take sa'ce from you. Mara Pennel is a gal as has every
bit and grain as much resolution and ambition as you have,
for all you flap your wings 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 ha' n't nothin' done her
no good. She told me to-day she could n't keep up no
longer, and I 've been a-tellin' Mis' Pennel and her gran'ther.
I tell you it has been a solemn 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 heart,' the Scriptur' says.”
“Oh, Miss Roxy, 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 Portland 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? Yet 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 has n't — well, you 're mistaken, that 's all. I
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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' a'n't no great shakes neither. 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 up-stairs to Mara's
room; the door was ajar. Mara was sitting at the open window
that looked forth toward the ocean, busily engaged in
writing. The glow of evening shone on the golden 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 tender 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
over 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, then 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.
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“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 dreading 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 Brunswick, 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 every day
as if I could not keep up, and yet afraid to lie down for fear
grandmamma 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 hysterical 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
should have as soon expected roses to bloom in a juniper
clump as love from Aunt Roxy.”
“Well, she does 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
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had been lying 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 while
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 tell me, Mara,” said Sally, “for I need comfort
too, if there is any to 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
walking 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 that something was coming — some great
trial or affliction — and I groaned and clung to Moses, and
asked him to put his arm around me and hold me.
“Then it seemed to be not by our sea-shore that this was
happening, but by the Sea of Galilee, just as it tells about it
in the Bible, and there were fishermen mending their nets,
and men sitting counting their money, and I saw Jesus come
walking along, 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
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I had not; and then something shone out warm like the
sun, and I looked up, and he stood there looking pitifully,
and he said again just as he did before, `Wilt thou leave all
and follow me?' Every word was so gentle and full of
pity, and I looked into his eyes and could not look away;
they drew me, they warmed me, and I felt a strange, wonderful
sense 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 cares 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,” 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 cannot feel so.”
“God will care 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 one needless tear. Yes, if God loved us so that He
spared not his own Son, he will surely give us all the good
here that we possibly can have without risking our eternal
happiness.”
“You are writing to Moses, now?” said Sally.
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“Yes, I am answering his letter; it is so full of spirit
and life and hope — but all hope in this world — all, all
earthly — as much as if there was no God and no world 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 that 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 think 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, and so
the storm goes over you; but he will stand up against it,
and it will wrench and shatter him. I am afraid, instead of
making him better, it will only make him bitter and rebellious.”
“He has a Father 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 that he was mine ever since he came a little shipwrecked
boy to me — a little girl. 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,
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“I shall come to-morrow 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, had it
closed with ringing of marriage-bells, who turn from it indignantly,
when they 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 end 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 dearest 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 angel 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 than 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 witness 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 made 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
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develop in the maturities of middle life, gradually wear into
a sunny autumn, and so be gathered in fulness 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.
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 declaring, “Blessed
are they that mourn.” It has been well said that prosperity
was the blessing of the Old Testament, and adversity of the
New. Christ came to show us a nobler style of living and
bearing; and so far as he had a personal 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 his love and the unwearied devotion of his life
could not save from an awful doom. He was betrayed by
weak friends, prevailed against by slanderers, overwhelmed
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 world.
This, then, is the great and perfect ideal of what God
honors. Christ speaks of himself as bread to be eaten, —
bread, simple, humble, unpretending, vitally necessary to
human life, made by the bruising and grinding of the
grain, unostentatiously having no life or worth of its own
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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 preciousness 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 some 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 lives 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 son who had no career of ambition
or manly duty except among the angels, — the patient sufferers,
whose only lot on earth seemed to be to endure,
whose life 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, but to
become bread to us.
It is expedient for us that they go away. Like their
Lord, they come to suffer, and to die; they take part in his
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sacrifice; their life is incomplete without their death, and
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 which 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 places 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 remembered 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?
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CHAPTER XXXIX.
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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 cheerful 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 their view as the angel who of old
rolled back the stone from the sepulchre and sat upon it.
They saw in her eyes, not death, but the solemn victory
which Christ 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
shining messengers, constantly passing and repassing, bear
tidings from the celestial 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
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those bright mysteries of eternal joy which were reflected
on her face.
Sally Kittridge was 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 that 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 melting 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 and 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 character, as she ministered
in the daily wants which sickness brings in a simple household.
For the rest of the 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 jelly
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 house-keeping talent of the neighbors
delighted, and which were sent in under the old
superstition that sick people must be kept eating at all
hazards.
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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 what 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
other, 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 for 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 Sunday noons, as the people ate their dinners together
in a room adjoining the church, all that she said and did
was talked over and over, — how quickly she had gained
the victory of submission, the peace of a will united with
God's, mixed with 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 seemed 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.
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Yet through all the gossip, and through much that might
have been called at other times commonplace 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 spoke more gently, more lovingly to each,
for the thought of her.
It was now a bright 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. “Aunt Roxy was a-tellin' me yesterday
that she was a-goin' down to stay at the house 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 band-box 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.”
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“Thank you,” said Aunt Roxy, “but Ruey gave me a
humming cup before I came away.”
“Aunt Roxy, have they heard anything from Moses?”
said the Captain.
“No, father, I know they have n'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 time to be a-lookin' for him home,” said
the Captain. “I should n't be surprised to see him any
day.”
At this moment Sally, 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
the 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 Roxy, 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 emotion
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 dreadful exaggerations, —
they frighten a sick person into the grave; but
you have good 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
with a burning eagerness. “Say, what do you think of
her?”
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“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 than 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 make her up out of this dream. She
is not to die. She shall not die, — I come to save her.”
“Oh, if you could!” said Sally mournfully.
“It cannot be; it is not to be,” he said again, as if to
convince himself. “No such 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 cannot 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 your 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
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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 Miss Roxy, who stood on the
steps after them.
“What, Aunt Roxy?” said Sally; “why, she 's going up
to nurse Mara, and take care of her. Mrs. Pennel is so old
and infirm she needs somebody to depend on.”
“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 is n't mere love and good-will that is
needed in a sick-room; it needs knowledge and 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 came 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 their coming, and with that suppression of
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all external signs of feeling for which the New Englander is
remarkable, simply shook the hand of Moses, saying, —
“Well, my boy, we are glad you have come.”
Mrs. Pennel, who was busied in some domestic work in
the back part of the kitchen, turned away and 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 where, in their childish days,
they had sat together winter nights, — her fair, spiritual face
enlivened by the blaze, while she knit and looked thoughtfully
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 toy-ship 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 hoped to possess this angel as a mortal
wife! God forgive my presumption.”
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CHAPTER XL.
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Sally found Mara sitting in an easy-chair that had been
sent to her by the provident love of Miss Emily. It was
wheeled 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 water lay clear and
still, with scarce a ripple, to the far distant pearly horizon.
She seemed to be looking at it in a kind of calm ecstasy,
and murmuring the words of a hymn: —
“Nor wreck nor ruin there is seen,
There not a wave of trouble rolls,
But the bright rainbow 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 sunrise, and she looked up eagerly.
“Come!”
“Yes, he is below-stairs wanting to see you.”
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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 looked 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 against 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 think so at first, but not always,” she said,
soothingly. “You will live 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 love as I do, or you could
not” —
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“Moses, I have 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
Christ 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 cannot, I cannot,” said Moses; but as he looked at
the bright, pale face, and felt 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 prayed 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 Sally came softly into the room. A gentle
air of womanly authority seemed to express itself in that
once gay and giddy face, at which Moses, in the midst of his
misery, marvelled.
“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.”
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“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 all 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.”
“You must not talk another word about it,” said Sally,
peremptorily. “Do you know Aunt Roxy is coming to see
you? I see her out of the window this very moment.”
And Sally assisted to lay her friend on the bed, and then,
administering a stimulant, she drew down the curtains, and,
sitting beside her, began repeating, in a soft, monotonous
tone, the words of a favorite hymn: —
“The Lord my shepherd is,
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.
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CHAPTER XLI.
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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 strong and well-endowed physical natures,
and he had all that instinctive resistance 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 close 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, despise not thou the chastening of the Lord,'”
said Mr. Sewell.
“I cannot bear 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. Sewell.
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“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 influence
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 gave
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 have 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 moment 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 thickets,
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, where, shut in by the
high tide, he felt himself alone. There he had read Mr.
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Sewell's letter, and dreamed vain dreams of wealth and
worldly success, now all to him so void. He felt to-day,
as he sat there and watched the ships go by, how utterly
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 within 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 there 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 words,
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, and the deed that
should have been done, was forever wanting. He had all his
life 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 which 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 saying 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
carefully 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 words once said,
which no tears could unsay, — the kind ones suppressed, to
which no agony of wishfulness could give a past reality.
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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 wilful
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 the 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 and ready
to pass away, comes the judgment-day of love, and all the
dead moments of the past arise and live again.
He lay there musing 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 low reefs
of sunken rocks, all matted and tangled with the yellow
hair of the sea-weed, with little crystal pools of salt water
between. He heard the sound of approaching footsteps,
and Captain Kittridge came slowly picking his way round
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 half 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 high. 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
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this 'ere — Why to look on her there couldn't nobody
doubt but what there was somethin' in religion. You never
knew half what she did for you, Moses Pennel, you did n'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.” Moses
hid his head 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 that was jest made to
go to heaven. She only stopped a few days in our world,
like the robins when they 's goin' South; but there 'll be a
good many fust and last 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 ought n'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.”
“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
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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 yield 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 softer 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 ministry 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.”
“Wal', I be, that 's a fact, Moses — Lord bless me, I a'n't
no great — I a'n't nobody — I 'm jest an old last-year's mullein-stalk
in the Lord's vineyard — but that 'ere blessed little
thing allers had a good word for me. She gave me a
hymn-book and marked some hymns in it, and read 'em to
me herself, and her voice was jest as sweet 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; “you get
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her to say it to you,” he added, pointing to the well-known
sacred idyl which has refreshed so many hearts: —
“There is a land of pure delight
Where saints immortal reign;
Eternal day excludes the night,
And pleasures banish pain.
There everlasting spring abides,
And never-fading flowers;
Death like a narrow sea divides
This happy land from ours.”
“Now that ar beats everything,” said the Captain,
“and we must kind o' think of 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,” said Moses; “our grief is selfish.”
“Jest so. Wal', we 're selfish critters, we be,” said the
Captain; “but arter all 't a'n't as ef we was heathen and
did n't know where they was a-goin' to. We jest 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, man, 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 't is, Moses, fellers think it a mighty
pretty thing to be a-steppin' high, and a-sayin' they don't
believe the Bible, and all that ar, so long as the world goes
well. This 'ere old Bible — why it 's jest like yer mother,—
ye rove and ramble, and cut up round the world without
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her a spell, and mebbe think the old woman a'n't so fashionable
as some; but when sickness and sorrow comes, why,
there a'n't nothin' else to go back to. Is there, now?”
Moses did not answer, but he shook the hand of the Captain
and turned away.
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CHAPTER XLII.
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The setting sun gleamed in at the window of Mara's
chamber, tinted with rose and violet hues from a great cloud-castle
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 that 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, Mara, I don't see how ye can; I a'n't nothin'
but an old burdock-bush; — love a'n'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
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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 up my mind pretty early that my
part in the vineyard was to have hard work and no posies.”
“Well, you will 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 come in yet?” said Mara.
“No, there 'a'n't nobody seen a thing of him since he
went out this morning.”
“Poor boy!” 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 cross 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
victory, 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 did n't hear it,” said Miss Roxy, surprised at the acute
senses which sickness had etherealized to an almost spiritlike
intensity. “Shall I call him?”
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“Yes, do,” 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 from 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 where the sun
had sunk into the sea. Moses saw the little thin hand
stretched out to him.
“Sit down,” she said; “it has been such a beautiful sunset.
Did you notice it?”
He sat down by the bed, leaning his forehead on his hand,
but saying nothing.
She drew her fingers 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. You know I
shall be better to-morrow than I am to-night, and I hope we
shall have some pleasant days together yet. We must n't
reject what little we may have, because it cannot be more.”
“Oh, Mara,” said Moses, “I would give my life, if I could
take back the past. I have 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 lose. Why must you? I cannot think of
losing you. I know I shall not. God has given you to me.
You will come to me and be mine at last. I feel sure of it.”
“You don't know 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
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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 yours. I
have seen how true and loving in thought and word and deed
you have been, and I have been doing nothing but take —
take. You have given love as the skies give rain, 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.
She 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 — not 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 all 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 come 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 dashed — 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
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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 that in all that was deepest and dearest
to me, I was alone. You did not come near to me, nor
touch me where I feel most deeply. If I had lived to be
your wife, 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 not be. There
is something sacred and beautiful in death; and I may have
more power over you, when I seem to be gone, than I should
have had living.”
“Oh, Mara, Mara, don't say that.”
“Dear Moses, it is so. Think how many lovers marry,
and how few lovers are left in middle life; 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 approaching spiritual world, a new and
stronger power of loving. It may be that it is not merely a
perception of love that we were not aware of before, that
-- 425 --
[figure description] Page 425.[end figure description]
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 tell you what 't is,” said Aunt Roxy, opening
the door, “all the strength 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,” 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 and 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 influences 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 strange power of imparting calm
to others.
It was in the very crisis of the battle that Christ said to
his disciples, “My peace I give unto you,” and they that are
-- 426 --
[figure description] Page 426.[end figure description]
made one with him acquire like precious power 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.
-- 427 --
CHAPTER XLIII.
[figure description] Page 427.[end figure description]
The next morning rose calm and bright with that wonderful
and mystical stillness and serenity which glorify autumn
days. It was impossible that such skies could smile
and such gentle airs blow the sea into one great waving
floor of sparkling sapphires without bringing cheerfulness to
human hearts. You must be very despairing indeed when
Nature is doing her best, to look her in the face sullen and
defiant. So long as there is a drop of good in your cup, a
penny in your exchequer of happiness, a bright day reminds
you to look at it, and feel that all is not gone yet.
So felt Moses when 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 down-stairs in a business-like fashion bringing sundry
bowls, plates, dishes, and mysterious pitchers from the sick-room.
“Well, Aunt Roxy, you a'n't one that lets the grass grow
under your feet,” said Mrs. Pennel. “How is the dear child
this morning?”
“Well, she had 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 encouragingly
at Moses whom she began to pity and patronize, now
she saw how real was his affliction.
-- 428 --
[figure description] Page 428.[end figure description]
After breakfast Moses 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 short. 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 quite 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 her down, and arranged her pillows so
that she could look out on the sea, and sat and read to her
till it was time for her afternoon nap; and when the evening
shadows drew on, he marvelled with himself how the day
had gone.
Many such there were 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 made 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 of kindness, and sometimes they two together
would keep guard over the invalid while Miss Roxy went
-- 429 --
[figure description] Page 429.[end figure description]
home to attend to some of her own more peculiar concerns.
Mara seemed to rule all around her with calm sweetness and
wisdom, speaking unconsciously 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 Testament, so lovingly companionable, walking and
talking, eating and drinking, with mortals, yet ready at any
unknown moment to ascend with the flame of some sacrifice
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 mystery of joy.
Yet it must come at last, the moment when heaven
claims its own, and it came at last in the cottage on Orr's
Island. There came a day when the room so sacredly cheerful
was hushed 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 repose
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 blindly at the great mystery of death, — for all that
came out of that chamber smote upon their breasts and
went away in silence, revolving strangely whence might
come that unearthly beauty, that celestial joy.
Once more, in that very room where James and Naomi
Lincoln had lain side by side in their coffins, sleeping
-- 430 --
[figure description] Page 430.[end figure description]
restfully, there was laid another form, shrouded and coffined,
but with such a fairness and tender purity, such a mysterious
fulness 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 Kittridge 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 swallow up death in victory; and the Lord God
will wipe away tears from off all faces; 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 mournful
triumph: —
“Why should we mourn departed friends
Or shake at death's alarms,
'T is but the voice that Jesus sends
To call them to his arms.”
-- 431 --
[figure description] Page 431.[end figure description]
Then in a few words Mr. Sewell reminded them how
that hymn had been sung in this room so many years 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 be so
holy and beautiful a close, and when, pointing to the calm
sleeping face he asked, “Would we call her back?” 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 after the funeral, as he opened his
Bible to conduct family worship.
“What was it?” said Miss Roxy.
“Well ye see, I thought I was out a-walkin' up and down
and lookin' and lookin' for something that I 'd lost. What it
was I could n't quite make out, but my heart felt heavy as
if it would break, and I was lookin' all up and down the
sands by the sea-shore, and somebody said I was like the
merchantman, seeking goodly pearls. 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 thought 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-coming—
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 the long
hair was hanging down on his shoulders. He came and took
-- 432 --
[figure description] Page 432.[end figure description]
up my pearl and put it on his forehead, and it shone out
like a star, and shone into my heart, and I felt happy; —
and he looked at me steadily, and rose and rose in the air,
and, melted in the clouds, and I awoke so happy, and so
calm!”
-- 433 --
CHAPTER XLIV.
[figure description] Page 433.[end figure description]
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 passed 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 golden rod 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 concerned the
body, lest it should claim what belonged to the immortal
alone, had frowned on all watching of graves, as an earthward
tendency, and enjoined the flight of faith with the
spirit, rather than the yearning for its cast-off garments.
But Sally Kittridge 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, and
tended and watered them; a proceeding which was much
commented on Sunday noons, when people were eating
their dinners and discussing their neighbors.
It is possible good Mrs. Kittridge might have been much
scandalized by it, had she been in a condition to think on
-- 434 --
[figure description] Page 434.[end figure description]
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 she 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 worshipped her memory, in simple-hearted
love. Her paintings, framed in quaint 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 for 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 the communion
of one who could no longer be manifest to the senses.
And each spoke to the other of a world of hopes and memories
buried with her, “Which,” each so constantly said, “no
one could understand but you.” Each, too, was firm in the
faith that buried love must have no earthly resurrection.
Every letter strenuously insisted that they should call each
other brother and sister, and under cover of those names
the letters grew longer and more frequent, and with every
chance opportunity came presents from the absent brother,
which made the little old cottage quaintly suggestive with
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
-- 435 --
[figure description] Page 435.[end figure description]
low sunken rocks, yellowed with sea-weed, 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 home 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 first
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 wilfulness,
while the old Captain, warmed up like a rheumatic grasshopper
in a fine autumn day, chirrupted feebly, and told
some of his old stories, which now he told every day, forgetting
that they had ever been heard 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 together again, and which, stealing soft-footed and
noiseless everywhere, touched and lighted up every old familiar
object with sweet memories.
And so they had gone out together to walk; to walk towards
the grotto where Sally had caused a seat 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 lonely that ship
looks, just coming in there.”
“Yes, they are beautiful,” said Moses abstractedly; and
Sally rattled on about the difference between sloops and
-- 436 --
[figure description] Page 436.[end figure description]
brigs; seeming determined that there should be no silence,
such as often comes in ominous gaps between two friends
who have long 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?”
Sally did not answer, and there was a dead silence in which
they could hear the tide gently dashing on the weedy rocks.
“You and I are 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 should we two, who have a world of thoughts
and memories which no one can understand but the other, —
why should we, each of us, go on alone? If we must, why
then, 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 other 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 moon
rose up in full glory out of the water, and still they sat and
talked, leaning on each other, till a cracked, feeble voice
called down through the pine-trees 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.”
-- 437 --
[figure description] Page 437.[end figure description]
“Wal', — wal'; I was gettin' consarned; but I see I don't
need to. I hope you won't get no colds nor nothin'.”
They did not; but in the course of a month there was a
wedding at the brown house of the old Captain, 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
wedding less joyful, that all felt the presence of a heavenly
guest, silent and loving, seeing and blessing all, whose voice
seemed to say in every heart, —
“He turneth the shadow of death into morning.”
THE END.
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Stowe, Harriet Beecher, 1811-1896 [1862], The pearl of Orr's Island: a story of the coast of Maine (Ticknor and Fields, Boston) [word count] [eaf705T].
