winter with a neighbor, her house having become uninhabitable, and she
was, beside, too feeble to live alone. But her fondness for her old home
was too strong, and one day she stole away from the people who took care
of her, and crept in through the cellar, where she had to wade through
half-frozen water, and then went up stairs, where she seated herself at
a front window and called joyfully to the people who went by, asking
them to come in to see her, as she had got home again. After this she
was very ill, and one day, when she was half delirious, they missed her,
and found her at last sitting on her hall stairway, which she was too
feeble to climb. She lived but a short time afterwards, and in her last
days her mind seemed perfectly clear. She said over and over again how
good God had always been to her, and she was gentle, and unwilling to be
a trouble to those who had the care of her.
Mr. Lorimer spoke of her simple goodness, and told us that though she
had no other sense of time, and hardly knew if it were summer or winter,
she was always sure when Sunday came, and always came to church when he
preached at East Parish, her greatest pleasure seeming to be to give
money, if there was a contribution. "She may be a lesson to us," added
the old minister, reverently; "for, though bewildered in mind, bereft of
riches and friends and all that makes this world dear to many of us, she
was still steadfast in her simple faith, and was never heard to complain
of any of the burdens which God had given her."
_Last Days in Deephaven_
When the summer was ended it was no sorrow to us, for we were even more
fond of Deephaven in the glorious autumn weather than we had ever been
before. Mr. Lancaster was abroad longer than he had intended to be at
first, and it was late in the season before we left. We were both ready
to postpone going back to town as late as possible; but at last it was
time for my friend to re-establish the Boston housekeeping, and to take
up the city life again. I must admit we half dreaded it: we were
surprised to find how little we cared for it, and how well one can get
on without many things which are thought indispensable.
For the last fortnight we were in the house a good deal, because the
weather was wet and dreary. At one time there was a magnificent storm,
and we went every day along the shore in the wind and rain for a mile or
two to see the furious great breakers come plunging in against the
rocks. I never had seen such a wild, stormy sea as that; the rage of it
was awful, and the whole harbor was white with foam. The wind had blown
northeast steadily for days, and it seemed to me that the sea never
could be quiet and smooth and blue again, with soft white clouds sailing
over it in the sky. It was a treacherous sea; it was wicked; it had all
the trembling land in its power, if it only dared to send its great
waves far ashore. All night long the breakers roared, and the wind
howled in the chimneys, and in the morning we always looked fearfully
across the surf and the tossing gray water to see if the lighthouse were
standing firm on its rock. It was so slender a thing to hold its own in
such a wide and monstrous sea. But the sun came out at last, and not
many days afterward we went out with Danny and Skipper Scudder to say
good by to Mrs. Kew. I have been some voyages at sea, but I never was so
danced about in a little boat as I was that day. There was nothing to
fear with so careful a crew, and we only enjoyed the roughness as we
went out and in, though it took much manoeuvring to land us at the
island.
It was very sad work to us--saying good by to our friends, and we tried
to make believe that we should spend the next summer in Deephaven, and
we meant at any rate to go down for a visit. We were glad when the
people said they should miss us, and that they hoped we should not
forget them and the old place. It touched us to find that they cared so
much for us, and we said over and over again how happy we had been, and
that it was such a satisfactory summer. Kate laughingly proposed one
evening, as we sat talking by the fire and were particularly contented,
that we should copy the Ladies of Llangollen, and remove ourselves from
society and its distractions.
"I have thought often, lately," said my friend, "what a good time they
must have had, and I feel a sympathy and friendliness for them which I
never felt before. We could have guests when we chose, as we have had
this summer, and we could study and grow very wise, and what could be
pleasanter? But I wonder if we should grow very lazy if we stayed here
all the year round; village life is not stimulating, and there would not
be much to do in winter,--though I do not believe that need be true; one
may be busy and useful in any place."
"I suppose if we really belonged in Deephaven we should think it a hard
fate, and not enjoy it half so much as we have this summer," said I.
"Our idea of happiness would be making long visits in Boston; and we
should be heart-broken when we had to come away and leave our
lunch-parties, and symphony concerts, and calls, and fairs, the
reading-club and the childrens' hospital. We should think the people
uncongenial and behind the times, and that the Ridge road was stupid and
the long sands desolate; while we remembered what delightful walks we
had taken out Beacon Street to the three roads, and over the Cambridge
Bridge. Perhaps we should even be ashamed of the dear old church for
being so out of fashion. We should have the blues dreadfully, and think
there was no society here, and wonder why we had to live in such a
town."
"What a gloomy picture!" said Kate, laughing. "Do you know that I have
understood something lately better than I ever did before,--it is that
success and happiness are not things of chance with us, but of choice. I
can see how we might so easily have had a dull summer here. Of course
it is our own fault if the events of our lives are hindrances; it is we
who make them bad or good. Sometimes it is a conscious choice, but
oftener unconscious. I suppose we educate ourselves for taking the best
of life or the worst, do not you?"
"Dear old Deephaven!" said Kate, gently, after we had been silent a
little while. "It makes me think of one of its own old ladies, with its
clinging to the old fashions and its respect for what used to be
respectable when it was young. I cannot make fun of what was once dear
to somebody, and which realized somebody's ideas of beauty or fitness. I
don't dispute the usefulness of a new, bustling, manufacturing town with
its progressive ideas; but there is a simple dignity in a town like
Deephaven, as if it tried to be loyal to the traditions of its
ancestors. It quietly accepts its altered circumstances, if it has seen
better days, and has no harsh feelings toward the places which have
drawn away its business, but it lives on, making its old houses and
boats and clothes last as long as possible."
"I think one cannot help," said I, "having a different affection for an
old place like Deephaven from that which one may have for a newer town.
Here--though there are no exciting historical associations and none of
the veneration which one has for the very old cities and towns
abroad--it is impossible not to remember how many people have walked the
streets and lived in the houses. I was thinking to-day how many girls
might have grown up in this house, and that their places have been ours;
we have inherited their pleasures, and perhaps have carried on work
which they began. We sit in somebody's favorite chair and look out of
the windows at the sea, and have our wishes and our hopes and plans just
as they did before us. Something of them still lingers where their lives
were spent. We are often reminded of our friends who have died; why are
we not reminded as surely of strangers in such a house as this,--finding
some trace of the lives which were lived among the sights we see and the
things we handle, as the incense of many masses lingers in some old
cathedral, and one catches the spirit of longing and prayer where so
many heavy hearts have brought their burdens and have gone away
comforted?"
"When I first came here," said Kate, "it used to seem very sad to me to
find Aunt Katharine's little trinkets lying about the house. I have
often thought of what you have just said. I heard Mrs. Patton say the
other day that there is no pocket in a shroud, and of course it is
better that we should carry nothing out of this world. Yet I can't help
wishing that it were possible to keep some of my worldly goods always.
There are one or two books of mine and some little things which I have
had a long time, and of which I have grown very fond. It makes me so
sorry to think of their being neglected and lost. I cannot believe I
shall forget these earthly treasures when I am in heaven, and I wonder
if I shall not miss them. Isn't it strange to think of not reading one's
Bible any more? I suppose this is a very low view of heaven, don't you?"
And we both smiled.
"I think the next dwellers in this house ought to find a decided
atmosphere of contentment," said I. "Have you ever thought that it took
us some time to make it your house instead of Miss Brandon's? It used to
seem to me that it was still under her management, that she was its
mistress; but now it belongs to you, and if I were ever to come back
without you I should find you here."
* * * * *
It is bewildering to know that this is the last chapter, and that it
must not be long. I remember so many of our pleasures of which I have
hardly said a word. There were our guests, of whom I have told you
nothing, and of whom there was so much to say. Of course we asked my
Aunt Mary to visit us, and Miss Margaret Tennant, and many of our
girlfriends. All the people we know who have yachts made the port of
Deephaven if they were cruising in the neighboring waters. Once a most
cheerful party of Kate's cousins and some other young people whom we
knew very well came to visit us in this way, and the yacht was kept in
the harbor a week or more, while we were all as gay as bobolinks and
went frisking about the country, and kept late hours in the sober old
Brandon house. My Aunt Mary, who was with us, and Kate's aunt, Mrs.
Thorniford, who knew the Carews, and was commander of the yacht-party,
tried to keep us in order, and to make us ornaments to Deephaven society
instead of reproaches and stumbling-blocks. Kate's younger brothers were
with us, waiting until it was time for them to go back to college, and
I think there never had been such picnics in Deephaven before, and I
fear there never will be again.
We are fond of reading, and we meant to do a great deal of it, as every
one does who goes away for the summer; but I must confess that our grand
plans were not well carried out. Our German dictionaries were on the
table in the west parlor until the sight of them mortified us, and
finally, to avoid their silent reproach, I put them in the closet, with
the excuse that it would be as easy to get them there, and they would be
out of the way. We used to have the magazines sent us from town; you
would have smiled at the box of books which we carried to Deephaven, and
indeed we sent two or three times for others; but I do not remember that
we ever carried out that course of study which we had planned with so
much interest. We were out of doors so much that there was often little
time for anything else.
Kate said one day that she did not care, in reading, to be always making
new acquaintances, but to be seeing more of old ones; and I think it is
a very wise idea. We each have our pet books; Kate carries with her a
much-worn copy of "Mr. Rutherford's Children," which has been her
delight ever since she can remember. Sibyl and Chryssa are dear old
friends, though I suppose now it is not merely what Kate reads, but what
she associates with the story. I am not often separated from Jean
Ingelow's "Stories told to a Child," that charmingly wise and pleasant
little book. It is always new, like Kate's favorite. It is very hard to
make a list of the books one likes best, but I remember that we had "The
Village on the Cliff," and "Henry Esmond," and "Tom Brown at Rugby,"
with his more serious ancestor, "Sir Thomas Browne." I am sure we had
"Fenelon," for we always have that; and there was "Pet Marjorie," and
"Rab," and "Annals of a Parish," and "The Life of the Reverend Sydney
Smith"; beside Miss Tytler's "Days of Yore," and "The Holy and Profane
State," by Thomas Fuller, from which Kate gets so much entertainment and
profit. We read Mr. Emerson's essays together, out of doors, and some
stories which had been our dear friends at school, like "Leslie
Goldthwaite." There was a very good library in the house, and we both
like old books, so we enjoyed that. And we used to read the Spectator,
and many old-fashioned stories and essays and sermons, with much more
pleasure because they had such quaint old brown leather bindings. You
will not doubt that we had some cherished volumes of poetry, or that we
used to read them aloud to each other when we sat in our favorite corner
of the rocks at the shore, or were in the pine woods of an afternoon.
We used to go out to tea, and do a great deal of social visiting, which
was very pleasant. Dinner-parties were not in fashion, though it was a
great attention to be asked to spend the day, which courtesy we used to
delight in extending to our friends; and we entertained company in that
way often. When we first went out we were somewhat interesting on
account of our clothes, which were of later pattern than had been
adopted generally in Deephaven. We used to take great pleasure in
arraying ourselves on high days and holidays, since when we went
wandering on shore, or out sailing or rowing, we did not always dress as
befitted our position in the town. Fish-scales and blackberry-briers so
soon disfigure one's clothes.
We became in the course of time learned in all manner of 'longshore
lore, and even profitably employed ourselves one morning in going
clam-digging with old Ben Horn, a most fascinating ancient mariner. We
both grew so well and brown and strong, and Kate and I did not get tired
of each other at all, which I think was wonderful, for few friendships
would bear such a test. We were together always, and alone together a
great deal; and we became wonderfully well acquainted. We are such good
friends that we often were silent for a long time, when mere
acquaintances would have felt compelled to talk and try to entertain
each other.
Before we left the leaves had fallen off all the trees except the oaks,
which make in cold weather one of the dreariest sounds one ever hears: a
shivering rustle, which makes one pity the tree and imagine it
shelterless and forlorn. The sea had looked rough and cold for many
days, and the old house itself had grown chilly,--all the world seemed
waiting for the snow to come. There was nobody loitering on the wharves,
and when we went down the street we walked fast, arm in arm, to keep
warm. The houses were shut up as close as possible, and the old sailors
did not seem cheery any longer; they looked forlorn, and it was not a
pleasant prospect to be so long weather-bound in port. If they ventured
out, they put on ancient great-coats, with huge flaps to the pockets and
large horn buttons, and they looked contemptuously at the vane, which
always pointed to the north or east. It felt like winter, and the
captains rolled more than ever as they walked, as if they were on deck
in a heavy sea. The rheumatism claimed many victims, and there was one
day, it must be confessed, when a biting, icy fog was blown in-shore,
that Kate and I were willing to admit that we could be as comfortable in
town, and it was almost time for sealskin jackets.
In the front yards we saw the flower-beds black with frost, except a few
brave pansies which had kept green and had bloomed under the tall
china-aster stalks, and one day we picked some of these little flowers
to put between the leaves of a book and take away with us. I think we
loved Deephaven all the more in those last days, with a bit of
compassion in our tenderness for the dear old town which had so little
to amuse it. So long a winter was coming, but we thought with a sigh how
pleasant it would be in the spring.
You would have smiled at the treasures we brought away with us. We had
become so fond of even our fishing-lines; and this very day you may see
in Kate's room two great bunches of Deephaven cat-o'-nine-tails. They
were much in our way on the journey home, but we clung affectionately to
these last sheaves of our harvest.
The morning we came away our friends were all looking out from door or
window to see us go by, and after we had passed the last house and there
was no need to smile any longer, we were very dismal. The sun was
shining again bright and warm as if the Indian summer were beginning,
and we wished that it had been a rainy day.
The thought of Deephaven will always bring to us our long quiet summer
days, and reading aloud on the rocks by the sea, the fresh salt air, and
the glory of the sunsets; the wail of the Sunday psalm-singing at
church, the yellow lichen that grew over the trees, the houses, and the
stone-walls; our boating and wanderings ashore; our importance as
members of society, and how kind every one was to us both. By and by
the Deephaven warehouses will fall and be used for firewood by the
fisher-people, and the wharves will be worn away by the tides. The few
old gentlefolks who still linger will be dead then; and I wonder if some
day Kate Lancaster and I will go down to Deephaven for the sake of old
times, and read the epitaphs in the burying-ground, look out to sea, and
talk quietly about the girls who were so happy there one summer long
before. I should like to walk along the beach at sunset, and watch the
color of the marshes and the sea change as the light of the sky goes
out. It would make the old days come back vividly. We should see the
roofs and chimneys of the village, and the great Chantrey elms look
black against the sky. A little later the marsh fog would show faintly
white, and we should feel it deliciously cold and wet against our hands
and faces; when we looked up there would be a star; the crickets would
chirp loudly; perhaps some late sea-birds would fly inland. Turning, we
should see the lighthouse lamp shine out over the water, and the great
sea would move and speak to us lazily in its idle, high-tide sleep.
SELECTED STORIES AND SKETCHES
Contents
AN AUTUMN HOLIDAY
FROM A MOURNFUL VILLAGER
AN OCTOBER RIDE
TOM'S HUSBAND
MISS DEBBY'S NEIGHBORS
_An Autumn Holiday_
I had started early in the afternoon for a long walk; it was just the
weather for walking, and I went across the fields with a delighted
heart. The wind came straight in from the sea, and the sky was bright
blue; there was a little tinge of red still lingering on the maples, and
my dress brushed over the late golden-rods, while my old dog, who seemed
to have taken a new lease of youth, jumped about wildly and raced after
the little birds that flew up out of the long brown grass--the constant
little chickadees, that would soon sing before the coming of snow. But
this day brought no thought of winter; it was one of the October days
when to breathe the air is like drinking wine, and every touch of the
wind against one's face is a caress: like a quick, sweet kiss, that wind
is. You have a sense of companionship; it is a day that loves you.
I went strolling along, with this dear idle day for company; it was a
pleasure to be alive, and to go through the dry grass, and to spring
over the stone walls and the shaky pasture fences. I stopped by each of
the stray apple-trees that came in my way, to make friends with it, or
to ask after its health, if it were an old friend. These old apple-trees
make very charming bits of the world in October; the leaves cling to
them later than to the other trees, and the turf keeps short and green
underneath; and in this grass, which was frosty in the morning, and has
not quite dried yet, you can find some cold little cider apples, with
one side knurly, and one shiny bright red or yellow cheek. They are wet
with dew, these little apples, and a black ant runs anxiously over them
when you turn them round and round to see where the best place is to
bite. There will almost always be a bird's nest in the tree, and it is
most likely to be a robin's nest. The prehistoric robins must have been
cave dwellers, for they still make their nests as much like cellars as
they can, though they follow the new fashion and build them aloft. One
always has a thought of spring at the sight of a robin's nest. It is so
little while ago that it was spring, and we were so glad to have the
birds come back, and the life of the new year was just showing itself;
we were looking forward to so much growth and to the realization and
perfection of so many things. I think the sadness of autumn, or the
pathos of it, is like that of elderly people. We have seen how the
flowers looked when they bloomed and have eaten the fruit when it was
ripe; the questions have had their answer, the days we waited for have
come and gone. Everything has stopped growing. And so the children have
grown to be men and women, their lives have been lived, the autumn has
come. We have seen what our lives would be like when we were older;
success or disappointment, it is all over at any rate. Yet it only makes
one sad to think it is autumn with the flowers or with one's own life,
when one forgets that always and always there will be the spring again.
I am very fond of walking between the roads. One grows so familiar with
the highways themselves. But once leap the fence and there are a hundred
roads that you can take, each with its own scenery and entertainment.
Every walk of this kind proves itself a tour of exploration and
discovery, and the fields of my own town, which I think I know so well,
are always new fields. I find new ways to go, new sights to see, new
friends among the things that grow, and new treasures and pleasures
every summer; and later, when the frosts have come and the swamps have
frozen, I can go everywhere I like all over my world.
That afternoon I found something I had never seen before--a little grave
alone in a wide pasture which had once been a field. The nearest house
was at least two miles away, but by hunting for it I found a very old
cellar, where the child's home used to be, not very far off, along the
slope. It must have been a great many years ago that the house had stood
there; and the small slate head-stone was worn away by the rain and
wind, so there was nothing to be read, if indeed there had ever been any
letters on it. It had looked many a storm in the face, and many a red
sunset. I suppose the woods near by had grown and been cut, and grown
again, since it was put there. There was an old sweet-brier bush growing
on the short little grave, and in the grass underneath I found a
ground-sparrow's nest. It was like a little neighborhood, and I have
felt ever since as if I belonged to it; and I wondered then if one of
the young ground-sparrows was not always sent to take the nest when the
old ones were done with it, so they came back in the spring year after
year to live there, and there were always the stone and the sweet-brier
bush and the birds to remember the child. It was such a lonely place in
that wide field under the great sky, and yet it was so comfortable too;
but the sight of the little grave at first touched me strangely, and I
tried to picture to myself the procession that came out from the house
the day of the funeral, and I thought of the mother in the evening after
all the people had gone home, and how she missed the baby, and kept
seeing the new grave out here in the twilight as she went about her
work. I suppose the family moved away, and so all the rest were buried
elsewhere.
I often think of this place, and I link it in my thoughts with something
I saw once in the water when I was out at sea: a little boat that some
child had lost, that had drifted down the river and out to sea; too long
a voyage, for it was a sad little wreck, with even its white sail of a
hand-breadth half under water, and its twine rigging trailing astern. It
was a silly little boat, and no loss, except to its owner, to whom it
had seemed as brave and proud a thing as any ship of the line to you and
me. It was a shipwreck of his small hopes, I suppose, and I can see it
now, the toy of the great winds and waves, as it floated on its way,
while I sailed on mine, out of sight of land.
The little grave is forgotten by everybody but me, I think: the mother
must have found the child again in heaven a very long time ago: but in
the winter I shall wonder if the snow has covered it well, and next year
I shall go to see the sweet-brier bush when it is in bloom. God knows
what use that life was, the grave is such a short one, and nobody knows
whose little child it was; but perhaps a thousand people in the world
to-day are better because it brought a little love into the world that
was not there before.