seemed to be coming in off the sea, and we unwillingly decided that we
must go home. We supposed that the funeral would be all over with, but
found we had been mistaken when we reached the cove. We seated ourselves
on a rock near the water; just beside us was the old boat, with its
killick and painter stretched ashore, where its owner had left it.
There were several men standing around the door of the house, looking
solemn and important, and by and by one of them came over to us, and we
found out a little more of the sad story. We liked this man, there was
so much pity in his face and voice. "He was a real willin', honest man,
Andrew was," said our new friend, "but he used to be sickly, and seemed
to have no luck, though for a year or two he got along some better. When
his wife died he was sore afflicted, and couldn't get over it, and he
didn't know what to do or what was going to become of 'em with winter
comin' on, and--well--I may's well tell ye; he took to drink and it
killed him right off. I come over two or three times and made some
gruel and fixed him up's well's I could, and the little gals done the
best they could, but he faded right out, and didn't know anything the
last time I see him, and he died Sunday mornin', when the tide begun to
ebb. I always set a good deal by Andrew; we used to play together down
to the great cove; that's where he was raised, and my folks lived there
too. I've got one o' the little gals. I always knowed him and his wife."
Just now we heard the people in the house singing "China," the Deephaven
funeral hymn, and the tune suited well that day, with its wailing rise
and fall; it was strangely plaintive. Then the funeral exercises were
over, and the man with whom we had just been speaking led to the door a
horse and rickety wagon, from which the seat had been taken, and when
the coffin had been put in he led the horse down the road a little way,
and we watched the mourners come out of the house two by two. We heard
some one scold in a whisper because the wagon was twice as far off as it
need have been. They evidently had a rigid funeral etiquette, and felt
it important that everything should be carried out according to rule. We
saw a forlorn-looking kitten, with a bit of faded braid round its neck,
run across the road in terror and presently appear again on the
stone-wall, where she sat looking at the people. We saw the dead man's
eldest son, of whom he had told us in the summer with such pride. He had
shown his respect for his father as best he could, by a black band on
his hat and a pair of black cotton gloves a world too large for him. He
looked so sad, and cried bitterly as he stood alone at the head of the
people. His aunt was next, with a handkerchief at her eyes, fully equal
to the proprieties of the occasion, though I fear her grief was not so
heartfelt as her husband's, who dried his eyes on his coat-sleeve again
and again. There were perhaps twenty of the mourners, and there was much
whispering among those who walked last. The minister and some others
fell into line, and the procession went slowly down the slope; a strange
shadow had fallen over everything. It was like a November day, for the
air felt cold and bleak. There were some great sea-fowl high in the air,
fighting their way toward the sea against the wind, and giving now and
then a wild, far-off ringing cry. We could hear the dull sound of the
sea, and at a little distance from the land the waves were leaping high,
and breaking in white foam over the isolated ledges.
The rest of the people began to walk or drive away, but Kate and I stood
watching the funeral as it crept along the narrow, crooked road. We had
never seen what the people called "walking funerals" until we came to
Deephaven, and there was something piteous about this; the mourners
looked so few, and we could hear the rattle of the wagon-wheels. "He's
gone, ain't he?" said some one near us. That was it,--_gone_.
Before the people had entered the house, there had been, I am sure, an
indifferent, business-like look, but when they came out, all that was
changed; their faces were awed by the presence of death, and the
indifference had given place to uncertainty. Their neighbor was
immeasurably their superior now. Living, he had been a failure by their
own low standards; but now, if he could come back, he would know
secrets, and be wise beyond anything they could imagine, and who could
know the riches of which he might have come into possession?
To Kate and me there came a sudden consciousness of the mystery and
inevitableness of death; it was not fear, thank God! but a thought of
how certain it was that some day it would be a mystery to us no longer.
And there was a thought, too, of the limitation of this present life; we
were waiting there, in company with the people, the great sea, and the
rocks and fields themselves, on this side the boundary. We knew just
then how close to this familiar, every-day world might be the other,
which at times before had seemed so far away, out of reach of even our
thoughts, beyond the distant stars.
We stayed awhile longer, until the little black funeral had crawled out
of sight; until we had seen the last funeral guest go away and the door
had been shut and fastened with a queer old padlock and some links of
rusty chain. The door fitted loosely, and the man gave it a vindictive
shake, as if he thought that the poor house had somehow been to blame,
and that after a long desperate struggle for life under its roof and
among the stony fields the family must go away defeated. It is not
likely that any one else will ever go to live there. The man to whom the
farm was mortgaged will add the few forlorn acres to his pasture-land,
and the thistles which the man who is dead had fought so many years will
march in next summer and take unmolested possession.
I think to-day of that fireless, empty, forsaken house, where the winter
sun shines in and creeps slowly along the floor; the bitter cold is in
and around the house, and the snow has sifted in at every crack; outside
it is untrodden by any living creature's footstep. The wind blows and
rushes and shakes the loose window-sashes in their frames, while the
padlock knocks--knocks against the door.
_Miss Chauncey_
The Deephaven people used to say sometimes complacently, that certain
things or certain people were "as dull as East Parish." Kate and I grew
curious to see that part of the world which was considered duller than
Deephaven itself; and as upon inquiry we found that it was not out of
reach, one day we went there.
It was like Deephaven, only on a smaller scale. The village--though it
is a question whether that is not an exaggerated term to apply--had
evidently seen better days. It was on the bank of a river, and perhaps
half a mile from the sea. There were a few old buildings there, some
with mossy roofs and a great deal of yellow lichen on the sides of the
walls next the sea; a few newer houses, belonging to fishermen; some
dilapidated fish-houses; and a row of fish-flakes. Every house seemed to
have a lane of its own, and all faced different ways except two
fish-houses, which stood amiably side by side. There was a church, which
we had been told was the oldest in the region. Through the windows we
saw the high pulpit and sounding-board, and finally found the keys at a
house near by; so we went in and looked around at our leisure. A rusty
foot-stove stood in one of the old square pews, and in the gallery there
was a majestic bass-viol with all its strings snapped but the largest,
which gave out a doleful sound when we touched it.
After we left the church we walked along the road a little way, and came
in sight of a fine old house which had apparently fallen into ruin years
before. The front entrance was a fine specimen of old-fashioned
workmanship, with its columns and carvings, and the fence had been a
grand affair in its day, though now it could scarcely stand alone. The
long range of out-buildings were falling piece by piece; one shed had
been blown down entirely by a late high wind. The large windows had many
panes of glass, and the great chimneys were built of the bright red
bricks which used to be brought from over-seas in the days of the
colonies. We noticed the gnarled lilacs in the yard, the wrinkled
cinnamon-roses, and a flourishing company of French pinks, or "bouncing
Bets," as Kate called them.
"Suppose we go in," said I; "the door is open a little way. There surely
must be some stories about its being haunted. We will ask Miss Honora."
And we climbed over the boards which were put up like pasture-bars
across the wide front gateway.
"We shall certainly meet a ghost," said Kate.
Just as we stood on the steps the door was pulled wide open; we started
back, and, well-grown young women as we are, we have confessed since
that our first impulse was to run away. On the threshold there stood a
stately old woman who looked surprised at first sight of us, then
quickly recovered herself and stood waiting for us to speak. She was
dressed in a rusty black satin gown, with scant, short skirt and huge
sleeves; on her head was a great black bonnet with a high crown and a
close brim, which came far out over her face. "What is your pleasure?"
said she; and we felt like two awkward children. Kate partially
recovered her wits, and asked which was the nearer way to Deephaven.
"There is but one road, past the church and over the hill. It cannot be
missed." And she bowed gravely, when we thanked her and begged her
pardon, we hardly knew why, and came away.
We looked back to see her still standing in the doorway. "Who in the
world can she be?" said Kate. And we wondered and puzzled and talked
over "the ghost" until we saw Miss Honora Carew, who told us that it was
Miss Sally Chauncey.
"Indeed, I know her, poor old soul!" said Miss Honora; "she has such a
sad history. She is the last survivor of one of the most aristocratic
old colonial families. The Chaunceys were of great renown until early in
the present century, and then their fortunes changed. They had always
been rich and well-educated, and I suppose nobody ever had a gayer,
happier time than Miss Sally did in her girlhood, for they entertained a
great deal of company and lived in fine style; but her father was
unfortunate in business, and at last was utterly ruined at the time of
the embargo; then he became partially insane, and died after many years
of poverty. I have often heard a tradition that a sailor to whom he had
broken a promise had cursed him, and that none of the family had died
in their beds or had any good luck since. The East Parish people seem to
believe in it, and it is certainly strange what terrible sorrow has come
to the Chaunceys. One of Miss Sally's brothers, a fine young officer in
the navy who was at home on leave, asked her one day if she could get on
without him, and she said yes, thinking he meant to go back to sea; but
in a few minutes she heard the noise of a pistol in his room, and
hurried in to find him lying dead on the floor. Then there was another
brother who was insane, and who became so violent that he was chained
for years in one of the upper chambers, a dangerous prisoner. I have
heard his horrid cries myself, when I was a young girl," said Miss
Honora, with a shiver.
"Miss Sally is insane, and has been for many years, and this seems to me
the saddest part of the story. When she first lost her reason she was
sent to a hospital, for there was no one who could take care of her. The
mania was so acute that no one had the slightest thought that she would
recover or even live long. Her guardian sold the furniture and pictures
and china, almost everything but clothing, to pay the bills at the
hospital, until the house was fairly empty; and then one spring day, I
remember it well, she came home in her right mind, and, without a
thought of what was awaiting her, ran eagerly into her home. It was a
terrible shock, and she never has recovered from it, though after a long
illness her insanity took a mild form, and she has always been perfectly
harmless. She has been alone many years, and no one can persuade her to
leave the old house, where she seems to be contented, and does not
realize her troubles; though she lives mostly in the past, and has
little idea of the present, except in her house affairs, which seem
pitiful to me, for I remember the housekeeping of the Chaunceys when I
was a child. I have always been to see her, and she usually knows me,
though I have been but seldom of late years. She is several years older
than I. The town makes her an allowance every year, and she has some
friends who take care that she does not suffer, though her wants are
few. She is an elegant woman still, and some day, if you like, I will
give you something to carry to her, and a message, if I can think of
one, and you must go to make her a call. I hope she will happen to be
talkative, for I am sure you would enjoy her. For many years she did not
like to see strangers, but some one has told me lately that she seems to
be pleased if people go to see her."
You may be sure it was not many days before Kate and I claimed the
basket and the message, and went again to East Parish. We boldly lifted
the great brass knocker, and were dismayed because nobody answered.
While we waited, a girl came up the walk and said that Miss Sally lived
up stairs, and she would speak to her if we liked. "Sometimes she don't
have sense enough to know what the knocker means," we were told. There
was evidently no romance about Miss Sally to our new acquaintance.
"Do you think," said I, "that we might go in and look around the lower
rooms? Perhaps she will refuse to see us."
"Yes, indeed," said the girl; "only run the minute I speak; you'll have
time enough, for she walks slow and is a little deaf."
So we went into the great hall with its wide staircase and handsome
cornices and panelling, and then into the large parlor on the right, and
through it to a smaller room looking out on the garden, which sloped
down to the river. Both rooms had fine carved mantels, with Dutch-tiled
fireplaces, and in the cornices we saw the fastenings where pictures had
hung,--old portraits, perhaps. And what had become of them? The girl did
not know: the house had been the same ever since she could remember,
only it would all fall through into the cellar soon. But the old lady
was proud as Lucifer, and wouldn't hear of moving out.
The floor in the room toward the river was so broken that it was not
safe, and we came back through the hall and opened the door at the foot
of the stairs. "Guess you won't want to stop long there," said the girl.
Three old hens and a rooster marched toward us with great solemnity when
we looked in. The cobwebs hung in the room, as they often do in old
barns, in long, gray festoons; the lilacs outside grew close against the
two windows where the shutters were not drawn, and the light in the room
was greenish and dim.
Then we took our places on the threshold, and the girl went up stairs
and announced us to Miss Sally, and in a few minutes we heard her come
along the hall.
"Sophia," said she, "where are the gentry waiting?" And just then she
came in sight round the turn of the staircase. She wore the same great
black bonnet and satin gown, and looked more old-fashioned and ghostly
than before. She was not tall, but very erect, in spite of her great
age, and her eyes seemed to "look through you" in an uncanny way. She
slowly descended the stairs and came toward us with a courteous
greeting, and when we had introduced ourselves as Miss Carew's friends
she gave us each her hand in a most cordial way and said she was pleased
to see us. She bowed us into the parlor and brought us two rickety,
straight-backed chairs, which, with an old table, were all the furniture
there was in the room. "Sit ye down," said she, herself taking a place
in the window-seat. I have seen few more elegant women than Miss
Chauncey. Thoroughly at her ease, she had the manner of a lady of the
olden times, using the quaint fashion of speech which she had been
taught in her girlhood. The long words and ceremonious phrases suited
her extremely well. Her hands were delicately shaped, and she folded
them in her lap, as no doubt she had learned to do at boarding-school so
many years before. She asked Kate and me if we knew any young ladies at
that school in Boston, saying that most of her intimate friends had left
when she did, but some of the younger ones were there still.
She asked for the Carews and Mr. Lorimer, and when Kate told her that
she was Miss Brandon's niece, and asked if she had not known her, she
said, "Certainly, my dear; we were intimate friends at one time, but I
have seen her little of late."
"Do you not know that she is dead?" asked Kate.
"Ah, they say every one is 'dead,' nowadays. I do not comprehend the
silly idea!" said the old lady, impatiently. "It is an excuse, I
suppose. She could come to see me if she chose, but she was always a
ceremonious body, and I go abroad but seldom now; so perhaps she waits
my visit. I will not speak uncourteously, and you must remember me to
her kindly."
Then she asked us about other old people in Deephaven, and about
families in Boston whom she had known in her early days. I think every
one of whom she spoke was dead, but we assured her that they were all
well and prosperous, and we hoped we told the truth. She asked about the
love-affairs of men and women who had died old and gray-headed within
our remembrance; and finally she said we must pardon her for these
tiresome questions, but it was so rarely she saw any one direct from
Boston, of whom she could inquire concerning these old friends and
relatives of her family.
Something happened after this which touched us both inexpressibly: she
sat for some time watching Kate with a bewildered look, which at last
faded away, a smile coming in its place. "I think you are like my
mother," she said; "did any one ever say to you that you are like my
mother? Will you let me see your forehead? Yes; and your hair is only a
little darker." Kate had risen when Miss Chauncey did, and they stood
side by side. There was a tone in the old lady's voice which brought the
tears to my eyes. She stood there some minutes looking at Kate. I wonder
what her thoughts were. There was a kinship, it seemed to me, not of
blood, only that they both were of the same stamp and rank: Miss
Chauncey of the old generation and Kate Lancaster of the new. Miss
Chauncey turned to me, saying, "Look up at the portrait and you will see
the likeness too, I think." But when she turned and saw the bare
wainscoting of the room, she looked puzzled, and the bright flash which
had lighted up her face was gone in an instant, and she sat down again
in the window-seat; but we were glad that she had forgotten. Presently
she said, "Pardon me, but I forget your question."
Miss Carew had told us to ask her about her school-days, as she nearly
always spoke of that time to her; and, to our delight, Miss Sally told
us a long story about her friends and about her "coming-out party," when
boat-loads of gay young guests came down from Riverport, and all the
gentry from Deephaven. The band from the fort played for the dancing,
the garden was lighted, the card-tables were in this room, and a grand
supper was served. She also remembered what some of her friends wore,
and her own dress was a silver-gray brocade with rosebuds of three
colors. She told us how she watched the boats go off up river in the
middle of the summer night; how sweet the music sounded; how bright the
moonlight was; how she wished we had been there at her party.
"I can't believe I am an old woman. It seems only yesterday," said she,
thoughtfully. And then she lost the idea, and talked about Kate's
great-grandmother, whom she had known, and asked us how she had been
this summer.
She asked us if we would like to go up stairs where she had a fire, and
we eagerly accepted, though we were not in the least cold. Ah, what a
sorry place it was! She had gathered together some few pieces of her old
furniture, which half filled one fine room, and here she lived. There
was a tall, handsome chest of drawers, which I should have liked much to
ransack. Miss Carew had told us that Miss Chauncey had large claims
against the government, dating back sixty or seventy years, but nobody
could ever find the papers; and I felt sure that they must be hidden
away in some secret drawer. The brass handles and trimmings were
blackened, and the wood looked like ebony. I wanted to climb up and look
into the upper part of this antique piece of furniture, and it seemed to
me I could at once put my hand on a package of "papers relating to the
embargo."
On a stand near the window was an old Bible, fairly worn out with
constant use. Miss Chauncey was religious; in fact, it was the only
subject about which she was perfectly sane. We saw almost nothing of her
insanity that day, though afterward she was different. There were days
when her mind seemed clear; but sometimes she was silent, and often she
would confuse Kate with Miss Brandon, and talk to her of long-forgotten
plans and people. She would rarely speak of anything more than a minute
or two, and then would drift into an entirely foreign subject.
She urged us that afternoon to stay to luncheon with her; she said she
could not offer us dinner, but she would give us tea and biscuit, and no
doubt we should find something in Miss Carew's basket, as she was always
kind in remembering her fancies. Miss Honora had told us to decline, if
she asked us to stay; but I should have liked to see her sit at the head
of her table, and to be a guest at such a lunch-party.
Poor creature! it was a blessed thing that her shattered reason made her
unconscious of the change in her fortunes, and incapable of comparing
the end of her life with its beginning. To herself she was still Miss
Chauncey, a gentlewoman of high family, possessed of unusual worldly
advantages. The remembrance of her cruel trials and sorrows had faded
from her mind. She had no idea of the poverty of her surroundings when
she paced back and forth, with stately steps, on the ruined terraces of
her garden; the ranks of lilies and the conserve-roses were still in
bloom for her, and the box-borders were as trimly kept as ever; and when
she pointed out to us the distant steeples of Riverport, it was plain to
see that it was still the Riverport of her girlhood. If the boat-landing
at the foot of the garden had long ago dropped into the river and gone
out with the tide; if the maids and men who used to do her bidding were
all out of hearing; if there had been no dinner company that day and no
guests were expected for the evening,--what did it matter? The twilight
had closed around her gradually, and she was alone in her house, but she
did not heed the ruin of it or the absence of her friends. On the
morrow, life would again go on.
We always used to ask her to read the Bible to us, after Mr. Lorimer had
told us how grand and beautiful it was to listen to her. I shall never
hear some of the Psalms or some chapters of Isaiah again without being
reminded of her; and I remember just now, as I write, one summer
afternoon when Kate and I had lingered later than usual, and we sat in
the upper room looking out on the river and the shore beyond, where the
light had begun to grow golden as the day drew near sunset. Miss Sally
had opened the great book at random and read slowly, "In my Father's
house are many mansions"; and then, looking off for a moment at a leaf
which had drifted into the window-recess, she repeated it: "In my
Father's house are many mansions; if it were not so, I would have told
you." Then she went on slowly to the end of the chapter, and with her
hands clasped together on the Bible she fell into a reverie, and the
tears came into our eyes as we watched her look of perfect content.
Through all her clouded years the promises of God had been her only
certainty.
Miss Chauncey died early in the winter after we left Deephaven, and one
day when I was visiting Kate in Boston Mr. Lorimer came to see us, and
told us about her.