Allusion was made in "The Schoolmaster's Story," told in these pages
last month, to two old bachelors. I am one of them. Early this morning,
while taking my walk, I saw, growing about a rock, some little blue
flowers, such as I used to pick when a child. I had broken off a few,
and was stooping for more, when some one near said, "Good morning,
Captain Joseph!"
It was Mrs. Maylie, the minister's wife, going home from watching. After
a little talk, she told me, in her pleasant way, that I had two things
to do, of which, by the doing, I should make but one: I was to write a
story, and to show good reason for keeping myself all to myself.
"Mrs. Maylie," said I, "do I look like a person who has had a story? I
am a lonely old man,--a hard old man. A story should have warmth. Don't
you see I'm an icicle?"
"Not quite," said she. "I know of two warm spots. I see you every day
watching the children go past; and then, what have you there? Icicles
never cling to flowers!"
After she had gone, I began thinking what a beautiful story mine might
have been, if things had been different,--if I had been different. And
at last it occurred to me that a relation of some parts of it might be
useful reading for young men; also, that it might cause our whole class
to be more kindly looked upon.
Suppose it is not a pleasant story. Life is not all brightness. See how
the shadows chase each other across our path! To-day our friend weeps
with us; to-morrow we weep with our friend. The hearse is a carriage
which stops at every door.
No picture is without its shading. We have before us the happy
experiences of my two friends. By those smiling groups let there stand
one dark, solitary figure, pointing out the moral of the whole.
There is one thing, however, in the story of my neighbor Browne,
pleasant as it is, which reminds me of a habit of my own. I mean, his
liking to watch pretty faces. I do, when they belong to children.
This practice of mine, which I find has been noticed by my valued
friend, Mrs. Maylie, is partly owing to the memories of my own
childhood.
When the past was so suddenly recalled, on that stormy day,--as
mentioned by my friend Allen,--I felt as I have often felt upon the sea,
when, after hours of dull sailing, through mist and darkness, I have
looked back upon the lights of the town we were leaving.
My life began in brightness. And now, amid that brightness, appear
fresh, happy little faces, which haunt me more and more, as I become
isolated from the humanity about me, until at times it is those only
which are real, while living forms seem but shadows.
I see whole rows of these young faces in an old school-house, far from
here, close by the sea,--can see the little girls running in, when the
schoolma'am knocked, and settling down in their forms, panting for
breath.
One of these the boys called my girl. I liked her, because she had curls
and two rows of cunning teeth, and because she never laughed when the
boys called me "Spunky Joe." For I was wilful, and of a hasty temper.
Her name was Margaret. My father took me a long voyage with him, and
while I was gone she moved down East. I never saw her afterwards. If
living, it must have been a score of years since she bought her first
glasses.
No doubt I should have been of a pleasanter disposition, had I not been
the only boy and the youngest child. I was made too much of. Aunt Chloë,
who was aunt to the neighborhood, and did its washing, said I was
"humored to death."
We had a great family of girls, but Mary was the one I loved best. She
was a saint. Her face made you think of "Peace on earth, and good-will
to men." Aunt Chloë used to say that "Mary Bond was pretty to look at,
and facultied; pity she hadn't the 'one thing needful.'" For Mary was
not a professor.
I went pretty steadily to school until about sixteen. At that time I had
a misunderstanding with father. I got the idea that he looked upon me as
an incumbrance, and declared I would go to sea.
Mother and the girls were full of trouble, but I wasn't used to being
crossed, and to sea I went. I knew afterwards that father had set his
heart upon my getting learning.
He said going to sea was a dog's life. But I liked it, and followed it
up. I think it was in my twentieth year that I shipped on board the
Eliza Ann, Captain. Saunders, bound from Boston to Calcutta. This was my
first long voyage as a sailor. Among the crew was one they called Jamie,
as smart as a steel-trap, and handsome as a picture. He was not our
countryman. I think he was part Scotch. The passengers were always
noticing him. One day, when he stood leaning against the foremast, with
his black hair blowing out in the wind, a young man with a portfolio got
me to keep him there, still, for a while: he was an artist, and wanted
to make a drawing of him. The sailors all liked him because he was so
clever, and so lively, and knew so many songs, and could hop about the
rigging, light as a bird. Only a few knew him. They said he had no home
but the sea.
He afterwards told me this himself, one dark night, when we were leaning
together over the rail, as if listening to the splash of the water. He
began his sea-life by running away. He said but little, and that in a
mournful way that made me pity him, and wonder he could be so lively. I
didn't know then that sometimes people have to laugh to keep from
crying. "I was all she had," said he; "and I left her. I never thought
how much she cared for me until I got among all strangers; then I wanted
my mother." At another time he told me about his return home and finding
no mother. And I told him of my own home and my great flock of sisters.
After this he rather clung to me. And thus it happened, from my liking
Jamie's handsome face, and from Jamie's telling me his trouble, that we
became fast friends.
When the ship arrived in Boston, I took him home with me. Father had
left off going to sea; but some of the girls were married, and mother
called her family small. I knew she would take the homeless boy into her
great motherly heart, along with the rest of us.
We couldn't have arrived at a better time. Thanksgiving was just at
hand, work was plenty, and Jamie soon in the thickest of it. 'Twas so
good to him, being in a home, though none of his. The girls were glad
enough of his help and his company; for he was full of his fun, and
never at a loss for a word. We never had so much light talk in the house
before. Mother was rather serious, and father did his laughing at the
stores.
When Thanksgiving-Day came, however, and the married ones began to flock
in with their families, he spoke of going,--of not belonging. But we
persuaded him, and the girls did all they could to take up his mind,
knowing what his feelings must be.
The Thanksgiving dinner was a beautiful sight to see. I mean, of course,
the people round it. Father talked away, and could eat. But mother sat
in her frilled cap, looking mildly about, with the tears in her eyes,
making believe eat, helping everybody, giving the children two pieces of
pie, and letting them talk at table. This last, when we were little, was
forbidden. Mother never scolded. She had a placid, saintly face,
something like Mary's. But if we ever giggled at table, she used to say,
"Sho! girls! Don't laugh over your victuals."
At sunset we missed Jamie. I found him in the hay-mow, crying as if his
heart would break. "Oh, Joseph," said he, "she was just as pleasant as
your mother!" It was sunset when he first ran away, and sunset when he
returned to find his mother dead. He told me that "God brought him home
at that hour to make him _feel_."
Our ship was a long while repairing. Then freights were dull, and so it
lingered along, week after week. Jamie often spoke of going, but nobody
would let him. Father said he had always wanted another boy. Mother told
him I should be lonesome without him. The girls said as much as they
thought it would do for girls to say, and he stayed on. I knew he wanted
to badly enough, for I saw he liked Mary. I thought, too, that she liked
him, because she said so little about his staying. To be sure, they were
in nothing alike; but then, as Aunt Chloë said, "Opposites are more
harmonious."
My sister Cynthia was going to be published soon, and all the rest were
helping her "make her fix." Coverlets were being got into the loom, and
the great wheel and little wheel going all day Jamie liked to help them
"quill." But the best of all, both for him and me, were the quiltings;
for these brought all the young folks together.
Our nearest neighbor was a large, stout-looking man, by the name of
Wilbur. He was called Mr. Nathaniel, to distinguish him from his
brother. His house was next ours, with a hill between. He was a good,
jolly soul, had no children of his own, and was always begging mother
for a few of her girls. Nothing suited him better than a good time. If
there was anything going on at our house, he was always on the spot.
One December evening, our kitchen was full of young people. The best
bed-quilt had been quilted, and Jamie and I had been helping "roll
over," all the afternoon. In the evening, as soon as the young men came,
we hung over the molasses, and set Mr. Nathaniel stirring it. We all sat
around, naming apples. All at once he called out, "Which of you chaps
has got pluck enough to ride over to Swampsey Village to-morrow, after a
young woman he never saw?"
They all looked up, especially the girls who had beaux present. Then
came questions,--"Who is she?" "Give her name"; "Good-looking?" and many
others.
"Be thinking it over awhile," said he, and kept on stirring. But when he
was pulling the candy, he explained, dropping a few words at every pull.
"The girl," said he, "is a nice girl, and I'll be bound she's handsome.
I used to have dealings with her father, while he kept store in Boston.
We've never let the acquaintance die out. When he wrote me that he was
going to take his wife a journey South, and inquired if I knew of a
safe, quiet family where he could leave his daughter, wifey and I
concluded to take her ourselves. We couldn't think of a quieter family,
or one where daughters were more needed. I promised to meet her at
Swampsey Village; but if any of you young men want the chance, you can
have it."
There was one fellow in the company who hardly ever spoke. He was looked
upon as a sort of crooked stick. As he sat in the corner, paring his
apple, he said in a drawling voice, without looking up,--
"Better send Joe."
"Oh, he won't go, I'll bet anything," said two or three at once.
"What'll you bet?" said I.
"Bet a kiss from the prettiest girl in the room!"
"Done!" said I, and jumped up as if to pick out the girl. But they all
cried out, "Wait till you've done it."
They thought I wouldn't go, because I'd never been particular to any
girl.
After we went to bed that night, Jamie offered to go in my stead. But I
had made up my mind, and was not so easily turned.
Early next morning, Mr. Nathaniel drove up to the door in his
yellow-bottomed chaise. The wheeling was better than the sleighing,
except in the woods.
"Here," he said, "I've ballasted your craft, and made out your papers.
You go in ballast, but'll have good freight back. When you get to
Swampsey-Village meeting-house, turn off to the left, and it's the
second house. The roof behind slants almost to the ground."
The "ballast" was heated stones. The "papers" consisted of a letter,
addressed to "Miss Margaret Holden, at the house of Mr. Oliver Barrows."
The road to Swampsey Village, after running a few miles along by the
sea, branched off to the southwest, over a range of high, wooded hills,
called "The Mountains." 'Twas a long ride, and I couldn't help
_guessing_ what manner of girl would in a few hours be sitting by my
side. Would she be sober, or sociable? pretty, or homely? I hoped she
wouldn't be citified, all pride and politeness. And of all things, I
hoped she would not be bashful. Two dummies, one in each corner, riding
along in the cold!
"Any way," I thought at last, "it's no affair of mine. I'm only sent of
an errand. It's all the same as going for a sheep or a bag of corn." And
with this idea, I whipped up. But the sight of the slanting roof made
me slacken the reins; and when I found myself really hitching my horse,
I was sorry I came.
Before I reached the door, it opened, and there stood a white-haired old
man, leaning upon two canes. He wanted to see who had come. I told my
errand. He asked me into the kitchen. As I entered, I looked slyly
about, to see what I could see. But there was only a short old woman.
She was running candles. She looked straight in my face. The old man
stooped down and shouted in her ear,--
"He's come arter Peggy! where is she?"
"Denno," said she, toddling along to the window, and looking up and down
the road. "Denno. Mile off, mebbe. Master critter to be on the go!"
"There she is!" cried Mr. Barrows, from a back-window,--"in the parster,
slidin' down-hill on her jumper. Guess you'll have to go look her, young
man; the old woman's poorly, an' so be I."
But the old woman told me to sit up to the fire and warm my feet; said
she would hang out a cloth, and Peggy would be in directly. I would have
gone very willingly; for, after expecting to be introduced to Miss
Margaret Holden, being sent out after Peggy was just nothing.
'Twas but a little while before we heard the jumper rattling along, and
then a stamping in the porch. Then we heard her hand upon the latch.
"She's a little young thing," said the old man, almost in a whisper;
"but she's knowin'.--Peggy," he continued, as she entered, "you'm sent
for."
That was the first time I ever saw Margaret. She had on some little
child's hood, and an old josey-coat, which covered her all over. The
hood was red, and ruffled about the border, which made her face look
like a little girl's.
"To go to Mr. Wilbur's?" she asked, looking towards me.