A GUIDE TO THE FARM-HOUSE.
The next day after her spectral shrouds were first seen in the harbor,
the good ship came up to her wharf. Among the first passengers that
landed was a dark, foreign-looking man, apparently somewhat under thirty
years of age. He stood upon the wharf with a small leathern bag in his
hand, as if uncertain where to go; but his eyes, black as midnight and
splendid as diamonds, turned excitedly from object to object, as if he
took a vivid interest in every thing that surrounded him. At last they
fell on one of the sailors who had helped Barbara Stafford down the side
of the ship that stormy afternoon. With an eager step he approached the
man.
"Have you heard? did the boatmen bring her safe through the storm?" he
questioned. "The lady--the lady I am speaking of. Did she suffer?--is
she safe and well?"
The man laughed. "She is safe enough in Goody Brown's farm-house," he
said, "and well, too, if the souse she got in the water didn't give her
a cold. But it was an awful tough piece of work, I tell you. If it
hadn't been for that old man, who didn't seem to have so much in him,
for he was thin as a shad, they would all have gone to Davie's locker,
sure as a gun. You never in your born days saw such a tussel as they had
with the breakers the boatmen say."
"Then she is safe and well; for that God be thanked," said the stranger,
turning away. "What more have I to ask or do?"
He spoke sadly, and his fine eyes filled with mist. Then he turned, and
giving the man a piece of money, asked him to show the way to Goody
Brown's farm-house.
After dropping the crown piece into his pocket, the man turned up the
wharf, and walked on side by side with the stranger.
"Seems to me you're a stranger in these parts; never was to Boston
afore, I reckon?" he said, dropping into an old habit of asking questions
with unconscious impertinence.
"You are mistaken. I have been here before," answered the stranger, and
a wild fire lighted up his face. "Years ago I left that wharf a--a--but
I have come back. The world shall know that I have come back."
The sailor looked at him with open astonishment.
"Why what on earth are you so mad about I should like to know?" he said.
"I hain't done nothing to set you off in a tantrum, have I now?"
The stranger smiled.
"You have done nothing," he said, in a voice so gentle that the man
stared again, bewildered by the sudden change. "I was talking to myself
rather than you."
"That's a queer idea, but I've hearn people do sich things afore; it was
in foreign parts, though. We talk like folks in Boston now I tell you,
straight out and up to the mark. But forriners will be forriners,
there's no helping it. Now what is it you want up to Goody Brown's, if I
may be so bold? Is the lady up there any relation of yourn?"
Again the stranger smiled.
"My friend, you are rather bold."
"Ain't I," answered the man with great self-complacency. "That's the way
we Bosting folks come to know more than other people. Ain't afeared to
ask questions. Every man comes right up to his duty on that pint without
flinching. But you hain't told me yet if the lady is a relation or not?"
"No, she is not related to me."
"Only come over in the same ship? I reckoned so, seeing as she was a
cabin passenger and you al'es kept so snug in the steerage. Never saw
you on deck in my life till long after dark. Don't think she ever sot
eyes on you the hull vi'age?"
"No, she never did."
"Now that's something like; can answer a fair question when you want to,
can't you? But what do you go and see her now for? Couldn't you a got
acquainted on ship board if you had wanted ter?"
"Who told you that I did wish to see her?" answered the stranger, a
little impatiently. "Not I, that is certain."
"Then it ain't her you're going to see?" answered the man, in an injured
tone, as if his time had been cruelly trifled with. "Well, maybe it's
Goody Brown you're related to, arter all. Don't look like it, though,
but stranger things than that has happened. She has a sight of cousins
in the old country."
The stranger grew impatient. He turned upon the man almost fiercely, his
eyes flashing fire, his teeth gleaming through the lips lifted from them
in a haughty curve.
"Be quiet, man, you offend me."
"Wheu!" ejaculated the sailor, picking up a bit of shingle from the
ground, and searching for a jackknife which jingled against the silver
crown in his pocket, "getting riley, now, ain't you?"
The fellow's imperturbability was so comical that no resentment could
withstand it. The stranger's face cleared up, and he watched his
companion with disdainful curiosity, who began whittling his shingle as
he walked along.
"Goody Brown isn't your nigh relation, then," he persisted, whittling on
with infinite composure; "cousin to your par or mar, mebby?"
"Goody Brown is nothing to me, understand that!" cried the stranger, at
last harrassed into submission; "but I am weary of salt food, and want a
draught of fresh milk. This is the nearest farm-house, you tell me; so I
ask you to lead me there."
"And you don't want to see the lady?"
"No!"
"And she ain't nothing particular to you?"
"Nothing in any way."
"Well, now, I never did! Why couldn't you say so, to once?" cried the
man, in a tone of plaintive reproach. "What is the use of taking so many
bites of a cherry I want ter know?"
"Is that the farm-house?" inquired the stranger, pointing to the low
stone dwelling sheltered in noble trees that overlooked the harbor.
"Yes, that's Goody Brown's, I reckon."
The stranger stopped short.
"You may return now. I can make my way alone."
The sailor seemed a little disappointed, but he kept on whittling, and
only answered:
"Wal, jest as you're a mind ter; but I kinder reckon you'll miss it in
the long run."
"Miss it, how?"
"Oh, I don't mean nothing particular, only the streets of Boston are
rather sarpentine for strangers, and I kinder feel as if I hadn't more
'en half arned my money yet."
The stranger fell into thought a moment and then answered cheerfully:
"You are right, my good fellow, I shall want a guide. Stay here and take
charge of my bag till I come back; then we will return to the town
together."
The sailor sat down on a rock, and placing the leathern bag at his feet
kept on whittling with an energy that would have seemed spiteful but for
his unmoved features. The traveller left him and walked forward toward
the farm-house. Goody Brown was in her hand-loom weaving a piece of
linen from the yarn she had spun a year before. Her rather trim feet,
cased in calf-skin shoes and yarn stockings, even as her daily toil
could make them, were rising and falling on the treadles with monotonous
jerks. She leaned over from her seat in front of the huge loom, throwing
her shuttle through the web with such earnest industry that every ten
minutes the sharp click of the turning cloth-beam proclaimed her
progress. Directly the headles--or harness, as she called it--would
groan and struggle from the renewed tread of her feet, while the flight
of the shuttle, the bang of the laith, and the thud of the treadles made
such household music as the women of New England gloried in. She was
busy fitting a quill into her shuttle when a strange form darkened the
open door. But her heart was in her work, and she drew the thread
through the eye of her shuttle with a quick breath and a motion of the
tongue before she looked directly that way. Then she saw a remarkably
handsome young man standing upon the threshold, holding his cap in one
hand as if she had been an empress on her throne.
"Madam."
"Did you mean me?" said Dame Brown, laying down her shuttles, and
tightening the strings of her linsey-woolsey apron. "Did you mean me,
sir?"
"Yes, if you are the mistress of this house."
"For want of a better," answered the dame, drawing herself up primly.
"I--I am a stranger. Have just come over in the ship which landed
to-day."
"What, another!" said Goody Brown, coming slowly out of her loom. "I had
the hull house full last night."
"I do not wish to incommode you, my good lady, only to inquire about
those who set out so rashly in the boat before we came up to the wharf.
They were all brought here, I am told."
"Well, yes, I had a houseful of 'em overnight, but this morning they
were well enough to go away."
"What, all?"
"All but the lady; she's completely tuckered out, and won't get out of
her bed to-day, I reckon."
"But she is not seriously hurt?" cried the man, almost gasping for
breath.
"No, I guess not; only kinder worn out. The yarb tea has done her a
sight of good."
The stranger looked at her eagerly as she spoke. A dozen questions
seemed trembling on his lips; but he restrained them, only saying, in a
voice that would tremble in spite of his efforts,
"Then you are certain that she is out of danger?"
"Sartin, of course. She'll be chirk as a bird to-morrow."
The stranger sat down in the chair which the dame offered while she was
speaking. A bowl of warm bread and milk stood on the kitchen hearth,
close by the fire. Goody Brown took it up.
"I've got to take this in, for she's getting hungry, but I won't be gone
more'n a minute."
With this half apology, the good woman opened a side door and went into
Barbara Stafford's room. The man looked after her with eyes full of
impatient yearning. He rose from his chair and stole softly toward the
door, listening; but no sound answered his expectations, and he had
scarcely returned to his seat when Goody Brown came back with the bowl
of bread and milk in her hand. She sat it down in the hearth, and
turning to her visitor, said, in a half whisper,
"She's sound asleep."
"Madam," said the traveller, "will you give me a cup of milk? I have
been so long at sea--"
"Well, now, I shouldn't wonder!" cried the dame, interrupting him. "I'll
go right down to the spring-house and get it."
She took a pitcher from the table and went out. The moment her shadow
left the threshold stone the young man started up and softly opened the
door of Barbara Stafford's room. He paused a moment, with the latch in
his hand, hesitating and breathless, for the lady lay before him in a
profound sleep. The face was turned toward him; one hand rested under
her cheek, the other fell upon the blue and white counterpane. Her thick
golden hair rolled in coils and waves over the pillow.
The young man's eyes grew misty, the breath broke almost in a sob on his
lips. He crept softly toward the bed, fell upon his knees, and gazed
upon the lady with passionate sorrow that might have disturbed an angel
in its first heavenly rest. But she did not move. The deep slumber of
exhaustion held her faculties locked. A coil of hair, loosened by its
own weight, rolled downward and swept across her arm. Still she did not
move. He gathered the tresses gently between his hands, laid them
against his cheek, and pressed wild kisses upon them. Then he heard a
sound. It was Goody Brown's footsteps coming up from the spring-house.
With rash desperation he took that white hand in his, covered it with
kisses soft as the fall of thistledown, dropped it and glided from the
room.
Goody Brown found her guest sitting in his old place near the fire,
looking grieved and sad, but with a warm flush on his cheeks. He took
the milk that she offered; drank a little, it seemed with difficulty,
and, laying a piece of money on the table, turned to go.
"If you'd jest as lieves wait a minit," said the housewife, blushing
like a girl. "I hain't had a chance to ask a single question. They all
went off so sudden; but my old man was aboard the vessel."
"What, your husband?"
"Jes so, Jason Brown; mebby you know something about him?"
The stranger gave a glance at the person he had left whittling in the
far distance and smiled uneasily.
"Yes, I know him," he said. "He came safely ashore with the ship."
"Then she's got to the wharf?" questioned the woman.
"Yes."
"Then he'll be along by-and-by," said the wife, ashamed of taking so
much interest in the subject. "Much obleeged to you for telling me."
Thus dismissed the stranger left the house and went back to the place
where he had left Jason Brown.
"Wal," said that composed personage, "I hope you got a drink of milk
worth having."
"Yes; but why did you not tell me that the woman was your wife?"
answered the stranger.
"Cause you didn't ask me. But how is the old woman?"
"She seems well and was very kind."
"Wimmen are kind by natur," said the sailor, shutting his jackknife with
a jerk, the only sign of impatience yet visible. "But I reckon I'll jest
step in and see how she gets along, if you don't want me tu go about
Boston streets with you right away."
"No, no. I shall not remain in Boston, and can find plenty of guides
where I am going."
"Don't want me to carry this ere bag for you, nor nothin'?" asked the
man a little anxiously, as he gave up the traveller's bag.
"No, no; I prefer to carry it myself. But you are master of that house?"
"Yes, generally; when my wife ain't to home."
"In that case I have some boxes on board the ship, and should like to
place them under your care for a few weeks, could they be moved to your
house."
"Jes so," answered Brown.
"Then take charge of them. I will leave an order on board the ship."
"Jes so."
"And pay you well for the trouble now in advance."
"Jes so," answered Brown, holding out his hand for the money. "Now, if
you've no objections, I'll go up to the house, for I'm afeared the old
woman will be kinder expecting me."
The stranger took his leathern bag from the ground and walked one way,
while Jason Brown went to the farm-house; not rapidly, for he, too, was
ashamed of being in a hurry to see his wife; but with a step that would
grow quick and impatient spite of his philosophy.
"Jason, is that you?" cried Goody Brown, getting out of her loom and
meeting her husband half way to the door. "How have you been?"
"Tough and hearty; but where's the children? I don't see no cradle nor
trundle bed."
The wife did not speak, but began twisting the strings of her apron over
her finger. Jason looked at her earnestly. He saw a single tear drop to
her bosom and sink into the cotton kerchief folded over it.
"Jason, they're both gone. The trundle bed is took down and the cradle
is up in the garret."
"Gone, Prudence, gone! Where?"
"Dead, Jason. They both died of fever in one week."
Another tear came rolling down that still face and fell upon a great
horny hand which was held out to take that of the woman. Those two
hard-working hands shook in each other's clasp a moment, then Jason
Brown drew his gently away and left the house. He wandered down to the
shore, seated himself upon the turf of a broken bank, and took from his
pocket the jackknife and piece of wood that he had stowed away there. He
opened his knife with dismal slowness and gave a whistle which at once
resolved itself into a low wail inexpressibly sad. Then the knife and
the wood dropped from his hands, and he sat still, looking at them
helplessly, while great tears rolled down his cheeks.