liked to "play" that it was a face,--the face of a girl who used to
crawl out of that window in the early days of the house, but had long
since grown up and passed away. It was rather a ghostly playmate, but
Cynthia enjoyed her.
This same imaginative little Cynthia was sitting with her brother and
sister in the "new kitchen," which yet was a pretty old one, and had
rafters overhead, and bunches of herbs and strings of dried apples tied
to them. It was still the days of pot-hooks and trammels, and a kettle
of bubbling mush hung on the crane over the fire, which smelt very good.
Every now and then Hepzibah, the old servant, would come and give it a
stir, plunging her long spoon to the very bottom of the pot. It was the
"Children's Hour," though no Longfellow had as yet given the pretty name
to that delightful time between daylight and dark, when the toils of the
day are over, and even grown people can fold their busy hands and rest
and talk and love each other, with no sense of wasted time to spoil
their pleasure.
"I say," began Reuben, who, if he had lived to-day, would have put on
his cards "Reuben Marsh, 4th," "what do you think? We're going to have
our little candles to-night. Aunt Doris said that mother said so. Isn't
that famous!"
"Are we really?" cried Cynthia, clasping her hands. "How glad I am! It's
more than a year since we had any little candles, and though I've tried
to be good, I was so afraid when you broke the oil-lamp, the other day,
that it would put them off. I do love them so!"
"How many candles may we have?" asked little Eunice.
"Oh, there are only three,--one for each of us. Mother gave the rest
away, you know. Have you made up any story yet, Eunice?"
"I did make one, but I've forgotten part of it. It was a great while
ago, when I thought we were surely going to get the candles, and then
Reuben had that quarrel with Friend Amos's son, and mother would not let
us have them. She said a boy who gave place to wrath did not deserve a
little candle."
"I know," said Reuben, penitently. "But that was a great while ago, and
I've not given place to wrath since. You must begin and think of your
story very hard, Eunice, or the candle will burn out while you are
remembering it."
These "little candles," for the amusement of children, were an ancient
custom in New England, long practised in the Marsh family. When the
great annual candle-dipping took place, and the carefully saved tallow,
with its due admixture of water and bayberry wax for hardness, was made
hot in the kettle, and the wicks, previously steeped in alum, were tied
in bunches so that no two should touch each other, and dipped and dried,
and dipped again, at the end of each bundle was hung two or three tiny
candles, much smaller than the rest. These were rewards for the children
when they should earn them by being unusually good. They were lit at
bedtime, and, by immemorial law, so long as the candles burned, the
children might tell each other ghost or fairy stories, which at other
times were discouraged, as having a bad effect on the mind. This
privilege was greatly valued, and the advent of the little candles made
a sort of holiday, when holidays were few and far between.
"I suppose Reuben will have his candle first, as he is the oldest," said
Eunice.
"Mother said last year that we should have them all three on the same
night," replied Cynthia. "She said she would rather that we lay awake
till half-past nine for once, than till half-past eight for three times.
It's much nicer, I think. It's like having plenty to eat at one dinner,
instead of half-enough several days running. Eunice, you'd better burn
your candle first, I think, because you get sleepy a great deal sooner
than Reuby or I do. You needn't light it till after you're in bed, you
know, and that will make it last longer. When it's done, I'll hurry and
go to bed too, and then we'll light mine; and Reuben can do the same,
and if he leaves his door open, we shall hear his story perfectly well.
Oh, what fun it will be! I wish there were ever and ever so many little
candles,--a hundred, at the very least!"
"Hepsy, ain't supper nearly ready? We're in such a hurry to-night!" said
Eunice.
"Why, what are you in a hurry about?" demanded Hepsy, giving a last stir
to the mush, which had grown deliciously thick.
"We want to go to bed early."
"That's a queer reason! You're not so sharp set after bed, as a general
thing. Well, the mush is done. Reuby, ring the bell at the shed door,
and as soon as the men come in, we'll be ready."
It was a good supper. The generous heat of the great fireplace in the
Marsh kitchen seemed to communicate a special savor of its own to
everything that was cooked before it, as if the noble hickory logs lent
a forest flavor to the food. The brown bread and beans and the squash
pies from the deep brick oven were excellent; and the "pumpkin sweets,"
from the same charmed receptacle, had come out a deep rich red color,
jellied with juice to their cores. Nothing could have improved them,
unless it were the thick yellow cream which Mrs. Marsh poured over each
as she passed it. The children ate as only hearty children can eat, but
the recollection of the little candles was all the time in their minds,
and the moment that Reuben had finished his third apple he began to
fidget.
"Mayn't we go to bed now?" he asked.
"Not till father has returned thanks," said his mother, rebukingly. "You
are glad enough to take the gifts of the Lord, Reuben. You should be
equally ready to pay back the poor tribute of a decent gratitude."
Reuben sat abashed while Mr. Marsh uttered the customary words, which
was rather a short prayer than a long grace. The boy did not dare to
again allude to the candles, but stood looking sorry and shamefaced,
till his mother, laying her hand indulgently on his shoulder, slipped
the little candle in his fingers.
"Thee didn't mean it, dear, I know," she whispered. "It's natural enough
that thee shouldst be impatient. Now take thy candle, and be off.
Cynthia, Eunice, here are the other two, and remember, all of you, that
not a word must be told of the stories when once the candles burn out.
This is the test of obedience. Be good children, and I'll come up later
to see that all is safe."
Mrs. Marsh was of Quaker stock, but she only reverted to the once
familiar _thee_ and _thou_ at times when she felt particularly kind and
tender. The children liked to have her do so. It meant that mother loved
them more than usual.
The bedrooms over the kitchen, in which the children slept, were very
plain, with painted floors and scant furniture; but they were used to
them, and missed nothing. The moon was shining, so that little Eunice
found no difficulty in undressing without a light. As soon as she was in
bed, she called to the others, who were waiting in Reuben's room, "I'm
all ready!"
A queer clicking noise followed. It was made by Reuben's striking the
flint of the tinder-box. In another moment the first of the little
candles was lighted. They fetched it in; and the others sat on the foot
of the bed while Eunice, raised on her pillow, with red, excited cheeks,
began:--
"I've remembered all about my story, and this is it: Once there was a
Fairy. He was not a bad fairy, but a very good one. One day he broke his
wing, and the Fairy King said he mustn't come to court any more till he
got it mended. This was very hard, because glue and things like that
don't stick to Fairies' wings, you know."
"Couldn't he have tied it up and boiled it in milk?" asked Cynthia, who
had once seen a saucer so treated, with good effect.
"Why, Cynthia Marsh! Do you suppose Fairies like to have their wings
boiled? I never! Of course they don't! Well, the poor Fairy did not
know what to do. He hopped away, for he could not fly, and pretty soon
he met an old woman.
"'Goody,' said he, 'can you tell me what will mend a Fairy's broken
wing?'
"'Is it your wing that is broken?' asked the old woman.
"'Yes,' said the Fairy, speaking very sadly.
"'There is only one thing,' said the old woman. 'If you can find a girl
who has never said a cross word in her life, and she will put the pieces
together, and hold them tight, and say, "_Ram shackla alla balla ba_,"
three times, it will mend in a minute.'
"So the Fairy thanked her, and went his way, dragging the poor wing
behind him. By and by he came to a wood, and there in front of a little
house was the prettiest girl he had ever seen. Her eyes were as blue as,
as blue as--as the edges of mother's company saucers! And her hair,
which was the color of gold, curled down to her feet.
"'A girl with hair and eyes like that couldn't say a cross word to save
her life,' thought the Fairy. He was just going to speak to her. She
couldn't see him, you know, because he was indivisible--"
"'Invisible,' you mean," interrupted Reuben.
"Oh, Reuben, don't stop her! See how the tallow is running down the side
of the candle! She'll never have time to finish," put in Cynthia,
anxiously.
"I meant 'invisible,' of course," went on Eunice, speaking fast. "Well,
just then a woman came out of the house. It was the pretty girl's
mother.
"'Estella,' she said, 'I want you to go for the cows, because your
father is sick.'
"'Oh, bother!' said the pretty girl. 'I don't want to! I hate going for
cows. I wish father wouldn't go and get sick!' Just think of a girl's
speaking like that to her mother! And the Fairy sighed, for he thought,
'My wing won't get mended here,' and he hopped away.
"By and by he came to a house in another wood, and there was another
girl. She wasn't pretty at all. She had short stubby brown hair like
Cynthia's, and a turn-up nose like me, and her freckles were as big as
Reuben's, but she looked nice and kind.
"The Fairy didn't have much hope that a girl who was as homely as that
could mend wings. But while he was waiting, another woman came out. It
was the turned-up-nose girl's mother, and she said, 'I want you to go
for the cows to-night, because your father has broken his leg.'
"And the girl smiled just as sweet, and she said, 'Yes, mother, I'll be
glad to go.'
"Then the Fairy rejoiced, and he came forward and said--Oh, dear!"
This was not what the Fairy said, but what Eunice said; for at that
moment the little candle went out.
"Well, I am glad you got as far as you did," whispered Cynthia, "for I
guess the turned-up-nose girl could mend the wing. Now, Reuby, if you'll
go into your room I'll not be two minutes. And then you can light my
candle."
In less than two minutes all was ready. This time there were two little
girls in bed, and Reuben sat alone at the foot, ready to listen.
"My story," began Cynthia, "is about that girl in the window-pane in the
ell. Her name was Mercy Marsh, and she lived in this house."
"Is it true?" asked Eunice.
"No, it's made up, but I'm going to make believe that it's true. She
slept in the corn chamber,--it was a bedroom then,--and she had that
yellow painted bedstead of Hepzibah's.
"There was a hiding-place under the floor of the room. It was made to
put things in when Indians came, or the English,--money and spoons, and
things like that.
"One day when Mercy was spinning under the big elm, a man came running
down the road. He was a young man, and very handsome, and he had on a
sort of uniform.
"'Hide me!' he cried. 'They will kill me if they catch me. Hide me,
quick!'
"'Who will kill you?' asked Mercy.
"Then the young man told her that he had accidentally shot a man who was
out hunting with him, and that the man's brothers, who were very bad
people, had sworn to have his blood.
"Then Mercy took his hand, and led him quickly up to her room, and
lifted the cover of the hiding-place, and told him to get in. And he got
in, but first he said, 'Fair maiden, if I come out alive, I shall have
somewhat to say to thee.' And Mercy blushed."
"What did he mean?" asked Eunice, innocently.
"Oh, just love-making and nonsense!" put in Reuben. "Hurry up, Cynthia!
Come to the fighting. The candle's all but burned out."
"There isn't going to be any fighting," returned Cynthia. "Well, Mercy
pulled the bedside carpet over the cover, and she set that red
candle-stand on one corner of it and a chair on the other corner, and
went back to her spinning. She had hardly begun before there was a
rustling in the bushes, and two men with guns in their hands came out.
"'Which way did he go?' they shouted.
"'Who?' she said, and she looked up so quietly that they never suspected
her.
"'Has no one gone by?' they asked her.
"'No one,' she said; and you know this wasn't a lie, for the young man
did not go by. He stopped!
"'There is the back door open,' she went on, 'and you are welcome to
search, if you desire it. My father is away, but he will be here soon.'
She said this because she feared the men.
"So the men searched, but they found nothing, and Mercy's room looked so
neat and peaceful that they did not like to disturb it, and just looked
in at the door. And when they were gone, Mercy went up and raised the
cover, and the youth said that he loved her, and that if the Lord
willed, he--"
Pop! The second candle went suddenly out.
"It's a shame!" cried Reuben, dancing with vexation. "It seems as if the
blamed things knew when we most wanted them to last!"
"Oh, Reuben! don't say 'blamed.'"
"I forgot. Well, blame-worthy, then. There's no harm in that."
"We shall never know if the young man married Mercy," said little
Eunice, lamentably.
"Oh, of course he did! That's the way stories always end."
"Now, Reuben, hurry to bed, and when you are all ready, light your
candle, and if you speak loud we shall hear every word."
This was Reuben's story: "Once there was a Ghost. He had committed a
murder, and that was the reason he had to go alone and fly about on cold
nights in a white shirt.
"He used to look in at windows and see people sitting by fires, and envy
them. And he would moan and chatter his teeth, and then they would say
that he was the wind."
"Oh, Reuben! is it going to be very awful?" demanded Cynthia,
apprehensively.
"Not very. Only just enough to half-scare you to death! He would put
his hand out when girls stood by the door, and they would feel as if a
whole pitcher of cold water had been poured down their backs.
"Once a boy came to the door. He was the son of the murdered man. The
Ghost was afraid of him. 'Thomas!' said the Ghost.
"'Who speaks?' said the boy. He couldn't have heard if he hadn't been
the son of the murdered man.
"'I'm the Ghost of your father's slayer,' said the Ghost. 'Tell me what
I can do to be forgiven.'
"'I don't think you can be forgiven,' said the boy. Then the Ghost gave
such a dreadful groan that the boy felt sorry for him.
"'I'll tell you, then,' he said. 'Go to my father's grave, and lay upon
it a perfectly white blackberry, and a perfectly black snowdrop, and a
valuable secret, and a hair from the head of a really happy person, and
you shall be forgiven!'
"So the Ghost set out to find these four things. He had to bleach the
blackberry and dye the snowdrop, and he got the hair from the head of a
little baby who happened to be born with hair and hadn't had time to be
unhappy, and the secret was about a goldmine that only the Ghost knew
about. But just as he was laying them on the grave, a cold hand
clutched--" The sentence ended in a three-fold shriek, for just at this
exciting juncture the last candle went out.
"Children," said Mrs. Marsh, opening the door, "I'm afraid you've been
frightening yourselves with your stories. That was foolish. I am glad
there are no more little candles. Now, not another word to-night."
She straightened the tossed coverlids, heard their prayers, and went
away. In a few minutes all that remained of the long-anticipated treat
were three little drops of tallow where three little candles had quite
burned out, three stories not quite told, and three children fast
asleep.
UNCLE AND AUNT.
Uncle and Aunt were a very dear and rather queer old couple, who lived
in one of the small villages which dot the long indented coast of Long
Island Sound. It was four miles to the railway, so the village had not
waked up from its colonial sleep on the building of the line, as had
other villages nearer to its course, but remained the same shady, quiet
place, with never a steam-whistle nor a manufactory bell to break its
repose.
Sparlings-Neck was the name of the place. No hotel had ever been built
there, so no summer visitors came to give it a fictitious air of life
for a few weeks of the year. The century-old elms waved above the
gambrel roofs of the white, green-blinded houses, and saw the same names
on doorplates and knockers that had been there when the century began:
"Benjamin," "Wilson," "Kirkland," "Benson," "Reinike,"--there they all
were, with here and there the prefix of a distinguishing initial, as "J.
L. Benson," "Eleazar Wilson," or "Paul Reinike." Paul Reinike, fourth of
the name who had dwelt in that house, was the "Uncle" of this story.
Uncle was tall and gaunt and gray, of the traditional New England type.
He had a shrewd, dry face, with wise little wrinkles about the corners
of the eyes, and just a twinkle of fun and a quiet kindliness in the
lines of the mouth. People said the squire was a master-hand at a
bargain. And so he was; but if he got the uttermost penny out of all
legitimate business transactions, he was always ready to give that
penny, and many more, whenever deserving want knocked at his door, or a
good work to be done showed itself distinctly as needing help.
Aunt, too, was a New Englander, but of a slightly different type. She
was the squire's cousin before she became his wife; and she had the
family traits, but with a difference. She was spare, but she was also
very small, and had a distinct air of authority which made her like a
fairy godmother. She was very quiet and comfortable in her ways, but she
was full of "faculty,"--that invaluable endowment which covers such a
multitude of capacities. Nobody's bread or pies were equal to Aunt's.
Her preserves never fermented; her cranberry always jellied; her
sponge-cake rose to heights unattained by her neighbors', and stayed
there, instead of ignominiously "flopping" when removed from the oven,
like the sponge-cake of inferior housekeepers. Everything in the old
home moved like clock-work. Meals were ready to a minute; the mahogany
furniture glittered like dark-red glass; the tall clock in the entry
was never a tick out of the way; and yet Aunt never appeared to be
particularly busy. To one not conversant with her methods, she gave the
impression of being generally at leisure, sitting in her rocking-chair
in the "keeping-room," hemming cap-strings, and reading Emerson, for
Aunt liked to keep up with the thought of the day.
Hesse declared that either she sat up and did things after the rest of
the family had gone to bed, or else that she kept a Brownie to work for
her; but Hesse was a saucy child, and Aunt only smiled indulgently at
these sarcasms.
Hesse was the only young thing in the shabby old home; for, though it
held many handsome things, it was shabby. Even the cat was a sober
matron. The old white mare had seen almost half as many years as her
master. The very rats and mice looked gray and bearded when you caught a
glimpse of them. But Hesse was youth incarnate, and as refreshing in
the midst of the elderly stillness which surrounded her as a frolicsome
puff of wind, or a dancing ray of sunshine. She had come to live with
Uncle and Aunt when she was ten years old; she was now nearly eighteen,
and she loved the quaint house and its quainter occupants with her whole
heart.
Hesse's odd name, which had been her mother's, her grandmother's, and
her great-grandmother's before her, was originally borrowed from that of
the old German town whence the first Reinike had emigrated to America.
She had not spent quite all of the time at Sparlings-Neck since her
mother died. There had been two years at boarding-school, broken by long
vacations, and once she had made a visit in New York to her mother's
cousin, Mrs. De Lancey, who considered herself a sort of joint guardian
over Hesse, and was apt to send a frock or a hat, now and then, as the
fashions changed; that "the child might not look exactly like Noah, and
Mrs. Noah, and the rest of the people in the ark," she told her
daughter. This visit to New York had taken place when Hesse was about
fifteen; now she was to make another. And, just as this story opens, she
and Aunt were talking over her wardrobe for the occasion.
"I shall give you this China-crape shawl," said Aunt, decisively.
Hesse looked admiringly, but a little doubtfully, at the soft, clinging
fabric, rich with masses of yellow-white embroidery.
"I am afraid girls don't wear shawls now," she ventured to say.
"My dear," said Aunt, "a handsome thing is always handsome; never mind
if it is not the last novelty, put it on, all the same. The Reinikes can
wear what they like, I hope! They certainly know better what is proper
than these oil-and-shoddy people in New York that we read about in the
newspapers. Now, here is my India shawl,"--unpinning a towel, and
shaking out a quantity of dried rose-leaves. "I _lend_ you this; not
give it, you understand."
[Illustration: "I shall give you this China-crape shawl," said aunt,
decisively.--PAGE 88.]
"Thank you, Aunt, dear." Hesse was secretly wondering what Cousin Julia
and the girls would say to the India shawl.
"You must have a pelisse, of some sort," continued her aunt; "but
perhaps your Cousin De Lancey can see to that. Though I _might_ have
Miss Lewis for a day, and cut over that handsome camlet of mine. It's
been lying there in camphor for fifteen years, of no use to anybody."
"Oh, but that would be a pity!" cried Hesse, with innocent wiliness.
"The girls are all wearing little short jackets now, trimmed with fur,
or something like that; it would be a pity to cut up that great cloak to
make a little bit of a wrap for me."
"Fur?" said her aunt, catching at the word; "the very thing! How will
this do?" dragging out of the camphor-chest an enormous cape, which
seemed made of tortoise-shell cats, so yellow and brown and mottled was
it. "Won't this do for a trimming, or would you rather have it as it
is?"
"I shall have to ask Cousin Julia," replied Hesse. "Oh, Aunt, dear,
don't give me any more! You really mustn't! You are robbing yourself of
everything!" For Aunt was pulling out yards of yellow lace, lengths of
sash ribbon of faded colors and wonderful thickness, strange,
old-fashioned trinkets.
"And here's your grandmother's wedding-gown--and mine!" she said; "you
had better take them both. I have little occasion for dress here, and I
like you to have them, Hesse. Say no more about it, my dear."
There was never any gainsaying Aunt, so Hesse departed for New York with
her trunk full of antiquated finery, sage-green and "pale-colored" silks
that would almost stand alone; Mechlin lace, the color of a spring
buttercup; hair rings set with pearls, and brooches such as no one sees,
nowadays, outside of a curiosity shop. Great was the amusement which the
unpacking caused in Madison Avenue.
"Yet the things are really handsome," said Mrs. De Lancey, surveying the
fur cape critically. "This fur is queer and old-timey, but it will make
quite an effective trimming. As for this crape shawl, I have an idea:
you shall have an overdress made of it, Hesse. It will be lovely with a
silk slip. You may laugh, Pauline, but you will wish you had one like it
when you see Hesse in hers. It only needs a little taste in adapting,
and fortunately these quaint old things are just coming into fashion."
Pauline, a pretty girl,--modern to her fingertips--held up a square
brooch, on which, under pink glass, shone a complication of initials in
gold, the whole set in a narrow twisted rim of pearls and garnets, and
asked:
"How do you propose to 'adapt' this, Mamma?"
"Oh," cried Hesse, "I wouldn't have that 'adapted' for the world! It
must stay just as it is. It belonged to my grandmother, and it has a
love-story connected with it."
"A love-story! Oh, tell it to us!" said Grace, the second of the De
Lancey girls.
"Why," explained Hesse; "you see, my grandmother was once engaged to a
man named John Sherwood. He was a 'beautiful young man,' Aunt says; but
very soon after they were engaged, he fell ill with consumption, and had
to go to Madeira. He gave Grandmamma that pin before he sailed. See,
there are his initials, 'J. S.,' and hers, 'H. L. R.,' for Hesse Lee
Reinike, you know. He gave her a copy of 'Thomas a Kempis' besides, with
'The Lord do so to me, and more also, if aught but death part thee and
me,' written on the title-page. I have the book, too; Uncle gave it to
me for my own."