OUT TO TEA
"There! Does it look like Old Boston?"
They were winding around Copp's Hill. Warren had been given part of a
day off, and the use of the chaise and Jack, to show the little cousin
something of Boston before they went to Uncle Winthrop's to tea.
Doris had her new coat, which was a sort of fawn color, and the close
Puritan cap to keep her neck and ears warm. For earache was quite a
common complaint among children, and people were careful through the
long cold winter. A strip of beaver fur edged the front, and went around
the little cape at the back. Its soft grayish-brown framed in her fair
face like a picture, and her eyes were almost the tint of the deep,
unclouded blue sky.
They had a fine view of Old Boston, but they could hardly dream of the
Boston that was to be. There were still the three elevations of Beacon
Hill, lowered somewhat, to be sure, but not taken away entirely. And
there was Fort Hill in the distance.
"Why, it looks like a chain of islands, and instead of a great sea the
water runs round and round. At home the Witham comes down to the winding
cove called The Wash. Boston is sort of set between two rivers, but it
is fast of the mainland, and doesn't look so much like floating off. You
can go over to the Norfolk shore, and you look out on the great North
Sea. But it isn't as big as the Atlantic Ocean."
"Well, I should say not!" with disdain. "Why, you can look over to
Holland!"
"You can't see Holland, but it's there, and Denmark."
"And we shall have to be something like the Dutch, if ever we mean to
have a grand city. We shall have to dike and fill in and bridge. I have
a great regard for those sturdy old Dutchmen and the way they fought the
Spanish as well as the sea."
Doris didn't know much about Holland, even if she could make pillow lace
and read French verses with a charming accent.
"That's the Mill Pond. And all that is the back part of the bay. And
over there a grand battle was fought--but you were not born before the
Revolutionary War."
"I guess you were not born yourself, Warren Leverett," said Betty, with
unnecessary vigor.
"Well, I am rather glad I wasn't; I shall have the longer to live. But
grandfather and ever so many relatives were, and father knows all about
it. I am proud, too, of having been named for General Warren."
"And down there near the bay is Fort Hill. Boston wasn't built on seven
hills like Rome, and though there are acres and acres of low ground, we
are not likely to be overflowed, unless the Atlantic Ocean should rise
and sweep us out of existence. And there is the old burying ground, full
of queer names and curious epitaphs."
The long peninsula stretched out in a sort of irregular pear-shape, and
then was connected to another portion by a narrow neck. The little
villages about had a rural aspect, and some of them were joined to the
mainland by bridges. And cows were still pastured on the commons and in
several tracts of meadow land in the city. Many people had their own
milk and made butter. There were large gardens at the sides of the
houses, many of them standing with the gable end to the street, and
built mostly of wood. But nearly all the leaves had fallen now, and
though the sun shone with a mellow softness, it was quite evident the
reign of summer was ended.
They drove slowly about, Warren rehearsing stories of this and that
place, and wishing there was more time so they might go over to
Charlestown.
"But Doris is to stay, and there will be time enough next summer. It is
confusing to see so many places at once. And mother said we must be at
Uncle Win's about four," declared Betty.
It _was_ rather confusing to Doris, who had heard so little of American
history in her quiet home. War seemed a dreadful thing to her, and she
could not take Warren's pride in battle and conquest.
So they turned and went down through the winding streets.
"Do you know why they are so crooked?" Warren asked.
"No; why?" asked Doris innocently.
"Well, William Blackstone's cows made the paths. He came here first of
all and had an allotment. Then when people began to come over from
Charlestown he sold out for thirty pounds English money. Grandfather
used to go over to the old orchard for apples. But think of Boston being
bought for thirty pounds!"
"It wasn't _this_ Boston with the houses and churches and everything.
Come, do get along, or else let me drive," said Betty.
There was quite a descent as they came down. Streets seemed to stop
suddenly, and you had to make a curve to get into the next one. From
Main they turned into Fish Street, and here the wind from the harbor
swept across to the Mill Pond.
"That's Long Wharf, and it has lots of famous stories connected with it.
And just down there is father's. And now we could cut across and go over
home."
"As if we meant to do any such foolish thing?" ejaculated Betty.
"I said we _could_. There are a great many things possible that are not
advisable," returned the oracular young man. "And I have heard the
longest way round was the surest way home. We shall reach there about
nine o'clock to-night."
"Like the old woman and her pig. I should laugh if we found mother
already at Uncle Win's."
"She's going to wait for father, and something always happens to him."
They crossed Market Square, and passed Faneuil Hall, that was to grow
more famous as the years went on; then they took Cornhill and went over
to Marlborough Street.
"That's Fort Hill. It's lovely in summer, when the wind doesn't blow you
to shreds. Now we will take Marlborough, and to-night you will be
surprised to see how straight it is to Sudbury Street."
They drove rapidly down, and made one turn. It was like a beautiful
country road, over to Common Street, and there was the great tract of
ground that would grow more beautiful with every decade. Tall,
overarching trees; ways that were grassy a month ago, but now turning
brown.
"Here we are," and they turned up a driveway at the side of the long
porch upheld with round columns. Betty sprang out on the stepping block
and half-lifted Doris, while Warren drove up to the barn.
Uncle Winthrop came out to welcome them, and smiled down into the little
girl's face.
"But where is your mother?" he asked.
"Oh, she had some shopping to do and then she was to meet father. We
have been driving up around Copp's Hill and giving Doris a peep at the
country."
"The wind begins to blow up sharply, though it was very pleasant. I am
glad to see you, little Doris, and I hope you have not grown homesick
sighing for Old Boston. For if you should reach the threescore-and-ten,
things will have changed so much that this will be old Boston; and,
Betty, you will be telling-your grandchildren what it was like."
Betty laughed gayly.
There was the same wide hall as at home, but it wasn't the keeping-room
here. It had a great fireplace, and at one side a big square sofa. The
floor was inlaid with different-colored woods, following geometric
designs, much like those of to-day. Before the fire was a rug of
generous dimensions, and a high-backed chair stood on each of the
nearest corners. There was a bookcase with some busts ranged on the top;
there were some portraits of ancestors in military attire, and women
with enormous head-dresses; there was one in a Puritan cap, wide collar,
and a long-sleeved gown, that quite spoiled the effect of her pretty
hands. Over the mantel was a pair of very large deer's antlers. Down at
one corner there were two swords crossed and some other firearms. Just
under them was a cabinet with glass doors that contained many
curiosities.
A tall, thin woman entered from a door at the lower end of the hall and
greeted Betty with a quiet dignity that would have seemed cold, if it
had not been the usual manner of Recompense Gardiner, who could never
have been effusive, and who took it for granted that anyone Mr. Winthrop
Adams invited to the house was welcome. Her forehead was high and rather
narrow, her brown hair was combed straight back and twisted in a little
knot high on her head, in which in the afternoon, or on company
occasions, she wore a large shell comb. Her features were rather long
and spare, and she wore plain little gold hoops in her ears because her
eyes had been weak in youth and it was believed this strengthened them.
Anyhow, she could see well enough at five-and-forty to detect a bit of
dust or dirt, or lint left on a plate from the towel, or a chair that
was a trifle out of its rightful place. She was an excellent
housekeeper, and suited her master exactly.
"This is the little English girl I was telling you about,
Recompense--Cousin Charles' grandniece, and my ward," announced Mr.
Adams.
"How do you do, child! Let me take off your hood and cloak. Why, she
isn't very stout or rosy. She might have been born here in the east
wind. And she is an Adams through and through."
"Do you think so?" with an expression of pleasure, as Recompense held
her off and looked her over.
"Are her eyes black?" rather disapprovingly.
"No, the very darkest blue you can imagine," said Mr. Adams.
"Betty, run upstairs with these things. Your feet are younger than mine,
and haven't done so much trotting round. Lay them on my bed. Why,
where's your mother?" in a tone of surprise.
Betty made the proper explanation and skipped lightly upstairs.
Mr. Adams took one of the large chairs, drawing it closer to the fire.
Recompense brought out a stool for the little girl. It was covered with
thick crimson brocade, a good deal faded, but it had a warm, inviting
aspect. Children were not expected to sit in chairs then, or to run
about and ask what everything was for.
There had been children, little girls of different relatives, sitting at
the fireside before. His own small boy had dozed in the fascinating
warmth of the fire and hated to go to bed, and he had weakly indulged
him, as there had been no mother to exercise authority. But Doris was
different. She was alone in the world, and had been sent to him by a
mysterious providence. He knew the responsibility of a girl must be
greater. He couldn't send her to the Latin school and then to Harvard,
and he really wondered how much education a girl ought to have to fit
her for the position Doris would be able to take.
She was like a quaint picture sitting there. Betty had tied a cluster of
curls high on her head with a blue ribbon, and just a few were left to
cling about her neck over the lace tucker. Her slim hands lay in her
lap. He glanced at his own--yes, they were Adams hands, and looked
little like hard work. He was rather proud that Recompense should
discern a family likeness.
Betty came flying down the oaken staircase, and Warren entered from the
back door. For a few moments there was quite a confusion of tongues, and
Recompense wondered how mothers stood it all the time.
"How queer not to have anyone know about Boston," began Warren with a
teasing glance over at Doris. "We have been looking at it from Copp's
Hill, and going through the odd places."
"And I wondered if people came to be fed in White Bread Alley,"
exclaimed Doris quickly.
"And I dare say Warren didn't know."
"Why, yes--a woman baked bread there."
"Women have baked bread in a great many places," returned Uncle Win,
with a quizzical smile.
"Oh, I didn't mean just that."
"It was John Tudor's mother," appended Betty.
"Mrs. Tudor made the first penny rolls offered for sale in Boston, and
little John, as he was then, took them around for sale."
"And Mr. Benjamin Franklin didn't make them famous either," laughed
Warren.
"And Salutation Alley with its queer sign--its two old men with cocked
hats and small clothes, bowing to each other," said Betty. "It always
suggests a couplet I found in an old book:
"'O mortal man who lives by bread,
What is it makes your nose so red?
O mortal man with cheeks so pale,
'Tis drinking Levi Puncheon's ale!'"
"It is said the resolutions for the destruction of the tea were drawn up
in the old tavern. It was famous for being the rendezvous of the
patriots."
"It would be nice to drive all around Boston shore."
"Let it be summer time, then," rejoined Betty. "Or, like the Hollanders,
we might do it on skates. Of course you do not know how to skate,
Doris?"
Doris admitted with winsome frankness that she did not. But she could
ride a pony, and she could row a little.
"There are some delightful summer parties when we do go out rowing. At
least, the boys row mostly, because
"'Satan finds some mischief still
For idle hands to do!'"
and Betty laughed.
"And the girls always take their knitting," appended Warren. "There's
never any mischief for them to get into."
"I suppose it doesn't look much like Old Boston," inquired Miss
Recompense. "And what do the little girls do there, my dear?"
Warren opened his eyes wide. The idea of Miss Recompense saying "my
dear" to a child.
It had slipped out in a curiously unpremeditated fashion. There was
something about the little girl--perhaps it was the fact of her having
come so far, and being an orphan--that moved Recompense Gardiner.
"I didn't know any real little girls," answered Doris modestly, "except
the farmer's children. They worked out of doors in the summer in the
fields."
"And I was the youngest of five sisters," said Miss Recompense. "There
were three boys."
"It would be so nice to have a sister of one's very own. There were
Sallie and Helen Jewett on the vessel."
"I think I like the sisters to be older," said Betty archly. "There are
the weddings and the nieces and nephews. And they are always begging you
to visit them."
"And I had no sisters," said Uncle Win, as if he would fain console
Doris for her loneliness.
She glanced up with sympathetic sweetness. He was a little puzzled at
the intuitive process.
"Fix up the fire, Warren. Your mother and father will be cold when they
get in."
Warren gave the burned log a poke, and it fell in two ends, neither
dropping over the andirons. Then he pushed them a little nearer and a
shower of sparks flew about.
"Oh, how beautiful!" and Doris leaned over intently.
Warren placed a large log back of them, then he piled on some smaller
split pieces. They began to blaze shortly. He picked up the turkey's
wing and brushed around the stone hearth.
"That was very well done," remarked Miss Recompense approvingly.
"Warren knows how to make a fire," said his uncle, "and it is quite an
art."
"That is a sign he will make a good husband," commented Betty. "And I
shall get a bad one, for my fires go out half the time."
"You are too heedless," said Miss Recompense.
"Now, we ought to tell some ghost stories," suggested Warren. "Or we
could wait until it gets a little darker. The sun is going down, and the
fire is coming up, and just see how they are fighting at the Spanish
Armada. Uncle Win, when you break up housekeeping you can leave me that
picture."
They all turned to look at the picture in the cross light, with one of
the wonderful fleet ablaze from the broadside of her enemy. It was a
vigorous if somewhat crude painting by a Dutch artist.
"Oh, Uncle Win," cried Betty; "do you really think there will be war
when we have a new President?"
"I sincerely hope not."
"We ought to have an Armada. Well, I don't know either," continued
Warren dubiously. "If it should go to pieces like that one," nodding his
head over to the scene, growing more vivid by the reflection of the red
light in the west. "Doris, do you know what happened to the Spanish
Armada?"
"Indeed I do," returned Doris spiritedly. "I may not know so much about
America, except that you fought England, and were called rebels
and--and----"
"That we were the upper dog in the fight, and now we are citizens of a
great and free Republic and rebels no longer."
"But the Spanish did not conquer England. Some of the ships were
destroyed by English men-of-war, and then a terrific storm wrecked them,
and there were only a few to return to Spain."
"Pretty good," said Uncle Win smilingly. "And now, Warren, maybe you can
tell about the French Armada that was going to destroy Boston."
"Why, the French--came and helped us. Oh, there was the French and
English war, but did they have a real Armada?"
"Why, after Louisburg was taken by the colonists--we were only Colonies
in 1745. The French resolved to destroy all the towns the colonists had
planted on the coast. You surely can't have forgotten?"
"The Revolution seems so much greater to this generation," said Miss
Recompense. "That is almost seventy years ago. My father was called out
for the defense of Boston. Governor Shirley knew it would be the first
town attacked."
"And a real Armada!" said Warren, big-eyed.
"They didn't call it that exactly. Perhaps they thought the name
unlucky. But there were twenty transports and thirty-four frigates and
eleven ships of the line. Quite a formidable array, you must admit. The
Duc d'Anville left Brest with five battalions of veterans."
"And then what happened? Warren, we do not know the history of our own
city, after all. But surely they did not take it?"
"No, it is safely anchored to a bit of mainland yet," said Uncle Win
dryly. "Off Cape Sable they encountered a violent storm. The Duc
succeeded in reaching the rendezvous, but in such a damaged condition
that he felt a victory would be impossible. Conflans with several
partly disabled ships returned to France, and some steered for friendly
ports in the West Indies. The Duc died in less than a week, of poison it
was said, unwilling to endure the misfortune. The Governor General of
Canada ordered the Vice Admiral to proceed and strike one blow at least.
But he saw so many difficulties in the way, that he worried himself ill
with a fever and put himself to death with his own sword. Boston was so
well prepared for them by this time, the fleet decided to attack
Annapolis, but encountering another furious storm they returned to
France with the remnant. So Armadas do not seem to meet with brilliant
success."
"Why, that is quite a romance, Uncle Win, and I must hunt it up. Curious
that both should have shared so nearly the same fate."
"That was a special interposition of Providence," said Miss Recompense.
People believed quite strongly in such things then, and it certainly
looked like it, since the storm was of no human agency.
Miss Recompense began to light the candles, and the steps of the tardy
ones were heard on the porch. Betty sprang up and opened the door.
"I began to think I never should get here," exclaimed Mrs. Leverett. "I
waited and waited for your father, and I thought something had surely
happened."
"And so it had. Captain Conklin is going to start for China in a few
days, and there was so much to talk about I couldn't get away."
"If I had been real sure he would have come on I would have started. It
has blown off cold. Didn't you have a breezy ride? Were you warm enough,
Doris?"
"It was splendid," replied Doris, her eyes shining. "And I have seen so
many things."
"Now get good and warm and come out to supper."
"If you call this cold I don't know what you will do at midwinter."
"Well, it is chilly, and we are not used to it. But we must have our
Indian summer yet."
Betty had been carrying away her mother's hat and shawl, and now Uncle
Win led the way to the dining room. The table was bountifully spread; it
was a sort of high tea, and in those days people ate with a hearty
relish and had not yet discovered the thousand dangers lurking in food.
If it was good and well cooked no one asked any farther questions. At
least, men did not. Women took recipes of this and that, and invented
new ways of preparing some dish with as much elation as some of the
greater discoveries have given.
The men talked politics and the possibilities of war. There was an
uneasy feeling all along the border, where Indian troubles were being
fomented. There were some unsettled questions between us and England.
Abroad, Napoleon was making such strides that it seemed as if he might
conquer all Europe.
Mrs. Leverett and Miss Recompense compared their successes in pickling
and preserving, and discussed the high prices of dry goods and the newer
scant skirts that would take so much less cloth and the improvement in
home-made goods. Carpets of the higher grades were beginning to be
manufactured in Philadelphia.
Warren, with the appetite of a healthy young fellow, thought everything
tasted uncommonly good, and really had nothing to say. Doris watched one
and another, with soft dark eyes, and wondered if it would be right to
like Uncle Win any better than she did Uncle Leverett, and why she had
any desire to do so, which troubled her a little. Uncle Win _was_ the
handsomest. She liked the something about him that she came to know
afterward was culture and refinement. But she was a very loyal little
girl, and Uncle Leverett had welcomed her so warmly, even on board the
vessel.
After supper they went into Uncle Winthrop's study a while. There were
more bookcases, and such a quantity of books and pamphlets and papers.
There were busts of some of the old Roman orators and emperors, and more
paintings. There was a beautiful young woman with a head full of soft
curls and two bands passed through them in Greek fashion. A scarf was
loosely wound around her shoulders, showing her white, shapely throat,
and her short sleeves displayed almost perfect arms that looked like
sculpture. Later Doris came to know this was Uncle Winthrop's sweet
young wife, who died when her little boy was scarcely a year old.
There were many curiosities. The walls were wainscoted in panels, with
moldings about them that looked like another frame for the pictures. The
chimney piece was of wood, and exquisitely carved. There was an old
escritoire that was both carved and gilded, and in the center of the
room a large round table strewn with books and writing materials. At the
windows were heavy red damask curtains, lined with yellow brocade. They
were always put up the first of October and taken down punctually the
first day of April. Uncle Win had a luxurious side to his nature, and
there was a soft imported rug in the room as well.
Carpets were not in general use. Many floors were polished, some in the
finer houses inlaid. Rag carpets were used for warmth in winter, and
some were beautifully made. Weaving them was quite a business, and
numbers of women were experts at it. Sometimes it was in a hit-or-miss
style, the rags sewed just as one happened to pick them up. Then they
were made of the ribbon pattern, a broad stripe of black or dark, with
narrower and wider colors alternating. The rags were often colored to
get pretty effects.
It was a long walk home, but in those days, when there were neither cars
nor cabs, people were used to walking, and the two men would not mind
it. Betty could drive Jack by night or day, as he was a sure-footed,
steady-going animal, and for a distance the road was straight up Beacon
Street.
"Some day I will come up and take you out to see a little more of your
new home," said Uncle Winthrop to Doris. "When does she go to school,
Elizabeth?"
"Why, I thought it would be as well for her to begin next week. From
eight to twelve. And she is so young there is no real need of her
beginning other things. Betty can teach her to sew and do embroidery."
"There is her French. It would be a pity to drop that."
"She might teach me French for the sake of the exercise," returned Betty
laughingly when Uncle Win looked so perplexed.
"To be sure. We will get it all settled presently." He felt rather
helpless where a girl was concerned, yet when he glanced down into her
soft, wistful eyes he wished somehow that she was living here. But it
would be lonely for a child.
Warren brought Jack around and helped in the womenkind when they had
said all their good-nights, and Uncle Wrin added that he would be over
some evening next week to supper.
It was a clear night, but there was no moon. Jack tossed up his head and
trotted along, with the common on one side of him.
Boston had been improving very much in the last decade, and stretching
herself out a little. But it was quite country-like where Uncle Win
lived. He liked the quiet and the old house, the great trees and his
garden that gave him all kinds of vegetables and some choice fruit,
though he never did anything more arduous than to superintend it and
enjoy the fruits of Jonas Starr's labor.