IN THE SPRING
The matter had settled itself so easily that Doris could not find much
opportunity for sorrow, nor misgivings for her joy. She could not see
the struggle there had been in Uncle Leverett's mind, and the sturdy
common sense that had come to his assistance. He could recall habits of
second-cousin Charles that were like a woman's for daintiness, and
Winthrop Adams had the same touch of refinement and delicacy. It was in
the Adams blood, doubtless. Aunt Priscilla had not a large share, but he
had noted some of it in Elizabeth. It pervaded every atom of Doris'
slender body and every cell of her brain. She never would take to the
rougher, coarser things of life; indeed, why should she when there was
no need? He had wandered so far from the orthodox faith that he began to
question useless discipline.
Winthrop could understand and care for her better. She would grow up in
his house to the kind of girl nature had meant her to be. Here the
useful, that might never come in use, would be mingled and confused with
what was necessary. He had watched her trying to achieve the stocking
that all little girls could knit at her age. It was as bad as Penelope's
web. Aunt Elizabeth pulled it out after she had gone to bed, and knit
two or three "rounds," so as not to utterly discourage her inapt pupil.
But Doris had set up some lace on a "cushion," after Madam Sheafe's
direction, and it grew a web of beauty under her dainty fingers.
It was not as if Doris would be quite lost to them. They would see her
every day or two. And when it was decided that Aunt Priscilla would
come he was really glad. Aunt Priscilla's captious talk did not always
proceed from an unkindly heart.
Betty made a violent protest at first.
"After all, it will not be quite so bad as I thought," she admitted
presently. "I shall go to Uncle Win's twice as often, and I have always
been so fond of him. And things _are_ prettier there, somehow. There is
a great difference in the way people live, and I mean to change some
things. It isn't because one is ashamed to be old-fashioned; some of the
old ways are lovely. It is only when you tack hardness and commonness on
them and think ugliness has a real virtue in it. We will have both sides
to talk about. But if you were going back to England, it would break my
heart, Doris."
Doris winked some tears out of her eyes.
She thought her room at Uncle Win's was like a picture. The wall was
whitewashed: people thought then it was much healthier for sleeping
chambers. The floor was painted a rather palish yellow. There was only
one window, but the door was opposite, and a door that opened into the
room of Miss Recompense. The window had white curtains with ruffled
edges, made of rather coarse muslin, but it was clear, and looked very
tidy. Miss Recompense had found a small bedstead among the stored-away
articles. It had high posts and curtains and valance of pale-blue
flowered chintz. There was a big bureau, a dressing table covered with
white, and a looking glass prettily draped. At the top of this,
surmounted by a gilt eagle, was a marvelous picture of a man with a blue
coat and yellow smallclothes handing into a boat a lady who wore a skirt
of purple and an overdress of scarlet, very much betrimmed, holding a
green parasol over her head with one hand and placing a slippered foot
on the edge of the boat. After a long while Doris thought she should be
much relieved to have them sail off somewhere.
There were two quaint rush-bottomed chairs and a yellow stool, such as
we tie with ribbons and call a milking stool. A nice warm rug lay at the
side of the bed, and a smaller one at the washing stand. These were
woven like rag carpet, but made of woolen rags with plenty of ends
standing up all over, like the surface of a Moquette carpet. They were
considered quite handsome then, as they were more trouble than braided
rugs, and so soft to the foot. Some strenuous housekeepers declared them
terrible dust catchers.
Doris' delight in the room amply repaid Miss Recompense. She had learned
her way about, and could come down alone, now that the weather had grown
pleasanter, and she was full of joy over everything. Occasionally Uncle
Winthrop would be out, then she and Miss Recompense would have what they
called a "nice talk."
Miss Recompense Gardiner was quite sure she had never seen just such a
child. Indeed at five-and-forty she was rather set in her ways, disliked
noise and bustle, and could not bear to have a house "torn up," as she
phrased it. Twelve years before she had come here to "housekeep," as the
old phrase went. She had not lacked admirers, but she had been very
particular. Her sisters said she was a born old maid. There was in her
soul a great love of refinement and order.
Mr. Winthrop Adams just suited her. He was quiet, neat, made no trouble,
and did not smoke. That was a wretched habit in her estimation. Cousin
Charles used to come over, and different branches of the family were
invited in now and then to tea. Cary was a rather proper, well-ordered
boy, trained by his mother's sister, who had married and gone away just
before the advent of Miss Gardiner. There had been some talk that Mr.
Winthrop might espouse Miss Harriet Cary in the course of time, but as
there were no signs, and Miss Cary had an excellent offer of marriage,
she accepted it.
Cary went to the Latin School and then to Harvard. He was a fair average
boy, a good student, and ready for his share of fun at any time. His
father had marked out his course, which was to be law, and Cary was
indifferent as to what he took up.
So they had gone on year after year. It promised a pleasant break to
have the little girl.
The greatest trouble, Miss Recompense thought, would be making Solomon
feel at home. Doris brought his cushion, and the box he slept in at
night was sent. Warren brought him over in a bag and they put him in the
closet for the night. He uttered some pathetic wails, and Doris talked
to him until he quieted down. He was a good deal frightened the next
morning, but he clung to Doris, who carried him about in her arms and
introduced him to every place. He was afraid of Mr. Adams and Cato, his
acquaintance with men having been rather limited. After several days he
began to feel quite at home, and took cordially to his cushion in the
corner.
"He doesn't offer to run away," announced Doris to Aunt Priscilla. "He
likes Miss Recompense. Uncle Winthrop thinks him the handsomest cat he
has ever seen."
"Poor old Polly! She set a great deal of store by Solomon. I never did
care much for a cat, but I do think Solomon was most as wise as folks. I
don't know what I should have done last winter when I was so miserable
if it had not been for him. He seemed to take such comfort that it was
almost as good as a sermon. And sometimes when he purred it was like the
sound of a hymn with the up and down and the long notes. I don't believe
he would have stayed with anyone else though. Child, what is there
about you that just goes to the heart of even a dumb beast?"
Doris looked amazed, then thoughtful. "I suppose it is because I love
them," she said simply.
There was a great stir everywhere, it seemed. The slow spring had really
come at last. The streets were being cleared up, the gardens put in
order, some of the houses had a fresh coat of paint; the stores put out
their best array, the trees were misty-looking with tiny green shoots,
and the maples Doris thought wonderful. There were four in the row on
Common Street; one was full of soft dull-red blooms, one had little
pale-green hoods on the end of every twig, another looked as if it held
a tiny scarlet parasol over each baby bud, and the fourth dropped
clusters of brownish-green fringe.
"Oh, how beautiful they are!" cried Doris, her eyes alight with
enthusiasm.
And then all the great Common began to put on spring attire. The marsh
grass over beyond sent up stiff green spikes and tussocks that looked
like little islands, and there were water plants with large leaves that
seemed continually nodding to their neighbors. The frog concerts at the
pond were simply bewildering with the variety of voices, each one
proclaiming that the reign of ice and snow was at an end and they were
giving thanks.
"They are so glad," declared Doris. "I shouldn't like to be frozen up
all winter in a little hole."
Miss Recompense smiled. Perhaps they _were_ grateful. She had never
thought of it before.
Doris did not go back to Mrs. Webb's school, though that lady said she
was sorry to give her up. Uncle Win gave her some lessons, and she went
to writing school for an hour every day. Miss Recompense instructed her
how to keep her room tidy, but Uncle Win said there would be time enough
for her to learn housekeeping.
Then there were hunts for flowers. Betty came over; she knew some nooks
where the trailing arbutus grew and bloomed. The swamp pinks and the
violets of every shade and almost every size--from the wee little fellow
who sheltered his head under his mother's leaf-green umbrella to the
tall, sentinel-like fellow who seemed to fling out defiance. Doris used
to come home with her hands full of blooms.
The rides too were delightful. They went over the bridges to West Boston
and South Boston and to Cambridge, going through the college
buildings--small, indeed, compared with the magnificent pile of to-day.
But Boston did seem almost like a collection of islands. The bays and
rivers, the winding creeks that crept through the green marsh grass, the
long low shores held no presentiment of the great city that was to be.
Although people groaned over hard times and talked of war, still the
town kept a thriving aspect. Men were at work leveling Beacon Hill.
Boylston Street was being made something better than a lane, and Common
Street was improved. Uncle Winthrop said next thing he supposed they
would begin to improve him and order him to take up his house and walk.
For houses were moved even then, when they stood in the way of a street.
The earth from the hill, or rather hills, went to fill in the Mill Pond.
Lord Lyndhurst had once owned a large part, but he had gone to England
to live. Charles Street was partly laid out--as far as the flats were
filled in. It was quite entertaining to watch the great patient oxen,
which, when they were standing still, chewed their cud in solemn content
and gazed around as though they could predict unutterable things.
From the house down to Common Street was a kind of garden where Cato
raised vegetables and Miss Recompense had her beds of sweet and
medicinal herbs. For then the housekeeper concocted various household
remedies, and made extracts by the use of a little still for flavoring
and perfumery. She gathered all the rose leaves and lavender blossoms
and sewed them up in thin muslin bags and laid them in the drawers and
closets.
And, oh, what roses she had then! Great sweet damask roses, pink and the
loveliest deep red, twice as large as the Jack roses of to-day. And
trailing pink and white roses climbing over everything. Aunt Elizabeth
said Miss Recompense could make a dry stick grow and bloom.
Uncle Winthrop found a new and charming interest in the little girl. She
was so fond of taking walks and hearing the legends about the old
places. She could see where the old beacon had stood when the place was
called Sentry Hill, and she knew it had been blown down in a gale, and
that on the spot had been erected a beautiful Doric column surmounted by
an eagle, to commemorate "the train of events that led to the American
Revolution and finally secured liberty and Independence."
But the State House had made one great excavation, and the Mill Pond
Corporation was making others, and they were planning to remove the
monument.
"We ought to have more regard for these old places," Uncle Win used to
say with a sigh.
Cary had not been a companionable child. He was a regular boy, and the
great point of interest in Sentry Hill for him was batting a ball up the
hill. It was a proud day for him when he carried it farther than any
other boy. He was fond of games of all kinds, and was one of the
fleetest runners and a fine oarsman, and could sail a boat equal to any
old salt, he thought. He was a boy, of course, and Uncle Win did not
want him to be a "Molly coddle," so he gave in, for he did not quite
know what to do with a lad who could tumble more books around in five
minutes than he could put in order in half an hour, and knew more about
every corner in Old Boston than anyone else, and was much more confident
of his knowledge.
But this little girl, who soon learned the peculiarity of every tree,
the song of the different birds, and the season of bloom for wild
flowers, and could listen for hours to the incidents of the past, that
seem of more vital importance to middle-aged people than the matters of
every day, was a veritable treasure to Mr. Winthrop Adams. He did not
mind if she could not knit a stocking, and he sometimes excused her
deficiencies in arithmetic because she was so fond of hearing him read
poetry. For Doris thought, of all the things in the world, being able to
write verses was the most delightful, and that was her aim when she was
a grown-up young lady. She did pick up a good deal of general knowledge
that she would not have acquired at school, but Uncle Win wasn't quite
sure how much a girl ought to be educated.
She began to see considerable of the Chapman girls, and Madam Royall
grew very fond of her. But she did not forget her dear friends in
Sudbury Street. Sometimes when Uncle Win was going out to a supper or to
stay away all the evening she would go up and spend the night with
Betty, and sit in the old corner, for it was Uncle Leverett's favorite
place whether there was fire or not. He was as fond as ever of listening
to her chatter.
She always brought a message to Aunt Priscilla about Solomon. Uncle
Winthrop thought him the handsomest cat he had ever seen, and now
Solomon was not even afraid of Cato, but would walk about the garden
with him, and Miss Recompense said he was so much company when she,
Doris, was out of the house.
Indeed, he would look at her with inquiring eyes and a soft, questioning
sound in his voice that was not quite a mew.
"Yes," Miss Recompense would say, "Doris has gone up to Sudbury Street.
We miss her, don't we, Solomon? It's a different house without her."
Solomon would assent in a wise fashion.
"I never did think to take comfort in talking to a cat," Miss Recompense
would say to herself with a touch of sarcasm.
About the middle of June, when roses and spice pinks and ten-weeks'
stocks, and sweet-williams were at their best, Mr. Adams always gave a
family gathering at which cousins to the third and fourth generation
were invited. Everything was at its loveliest, and the Mall just across
the street was resplendent in beauty. Even then it had magnificent trees
and great stretches of grass, green and velvety. Already it was a
favorite strolling place.
Miss Recompense had sent a special request for Betty on that particular
afternoon and evening. There was to be a high tea at five o'clock.
"I shall have my new white frock all done," said Betty delightedly.
"There is just a little needlework around the neck and the skirt to sew
on."
"But I wouldn't wear it," rejoined her mother. "You may get a fruit
stain on it, or meet with some accident. Miss Recompense will expect you
to work a little."
"Have you anything new, Doris?"
"Oh, yes," replied Doris. "A white India muslin, and a cambric with a
tiny rosebud in it. Madam Royall chose them and ordered them made. And
Betty, I have almost outgrown the silk already. Madam Royall is going
to see about getting it altered. And in the autumn Helen Chapman will
have a birthday company, and I am invited already, or my frock is," and
Doris laughed. "She has made me promise to wear it then."
"You go to the Royalls' a good deal," exclaimed Aunt Priscilla
jealously. She was sitting in a high-backed chair, very straight and
prim. She was not quite at home yet, and kept wondering if she wouldn't
rather have her own house if she could get a reasonable sort of servant.
Still, she did enjoy the sociable side of life, and it was pleasant here
at Cousin Leverett's. They all tried to make her feel at home, and
though Betty tormented her sometimes by a certain argumentativeness, she
was very ready to wait on her. Aunt Priscilla did like to hear of the
delightful entertainments her silk gown had gone to after being hidden
away so many years. As for the hat, a young Englishman had said "She
looked like a princess in it."
"You are just eaten up with vanity, Betty Leverett," Aunt Priscilla
tried to rejoin in her severest tone.
Doris glanced over to her now.
"Yes," she answered. "Uncle Winthrop thinks I ought to know something
about little girls. Eudora is six months older than I am. They have such
a magnificent swing, four girls can sit in it. Helen is studying French
and the young ladies can talk a little. They do not see how I can talk
so fast."
Doris laughed gleefully. Aunt Priscilla sniffed. Winthrop Adams would
make a flighty, useless girl out of her. And companying so much with
rich people would fill her mind with vanity. Yes, the child would be
ruined!
"And we tell each other stories about _our_ Boston. This Boston," making
a pretty gesture with her hand, "has the most splendid ones about the
war and all, and the ships coming over here almost two hundred years
ago. It is a long while to live one hundred years, even. But I knew
about Mr. Cotton and the lady Arabella Johnston. They had not heard
about the saint and how his body was carried around to make it rain."
"To make it rain! Whose body was it, pray?" asked Aunt Priscilla
sharply, scenting heresy. She was not quite sure but so much French
would shut one out from final salvation. "Did you have saints in Old
Boston?"
"Oh, it was the old Saint of the Church--St. Botolph." Doris hesitated
and glanced up at Uncle Leverett, who nodded. "He was a very, very good
man," she resumed seriously. "And one summer there was a very long
drought. The grass all dried up, the fruit began to fall off, and they
were afraid there would be nothing for the cattle to feed upon. So they
took up St. Botolph in his coffin and carried him all around the town,
praying as they went. And it began to rain."
"Stuff and nonsense! The idea of reasonable human beings believing
that!"
"But you know the prophet prayed for rain in the Bible."
"But to take up his body! Are they doing it now in a dry time?" Aunt
Priscilla asked sarcastically.
"They don't now, but it was said they did it several times, and it
always rained."
"They wan't good orthodox Christians. No one ever heard of such a
thing."
"But our orthodox Christians believed in witches--even the descendants
of this very John Cotton who came over to escape the Lords Bishops,"
said Warren.
"And, unlike Mr. Blacksone, stayed and had a hard time with the Lords
Brethren," said Mr. Leverett. "I hardly know which was the
worst"--smiling with a glint of humor. "And you more than half believe
in witches yourself, Aunt Priscilla."
"I am sure I have reason to. Grandmother Parker was a good woman if ever
there was one, and she _was_ bewitched. And would it have said in the
Bible--'Thou shalt not suffer a witch to live,' if there had not been
any?"
"They were telling stories at Madam Royall's one day. And sometime Uncle
Winthrop is going to take us all to Marblehead, where Mammy Redd lived.
Eudora said this:
"'Old Mammy Redd
Of Marblehead
Sweet milk could turn
To mold in churn.'
And Uncle Winthrop has a big book about them."
"He had better take you to Salem. That was the very hot-bed of it all,"
said Warren.
Doris came around to Aunt Priscilla. "Did your grandmother really see a
witch?" she asked in a serious tone.
"Well, perhaps she didn't exactly _see_ it. But she was living at Salem
and had a queer neighbor. One day they had some words, and when
grandmother went to churn her milk turned all moldy and spoiled the
butter. Grandmother didn't even dare feed it to the pigs. So it went on
several times. Then another neighbor said to her, 'The next time it
happens you just throw a dipper-full over the back log.' And so
grandmother did. It made an awful smell and smoke. Then she washed out
her churn and put it away. She was barely through when someone came
running in, and said, 'Have you any sweet oil, Mrs. Parker? Hetty Lane
set herself afire cleaning the cinders out of her oven, and she's
dreadfully burned. Come right over.' Grandmother was a little afraid,
but she went, and, sure enough, it had happened just the moment she
threw the milk in the fire. One side of her was burned, and one hand.
And although the neighbors suspected her, they were all very kind to her
while she was ill. But grandmother had no more trouble after that, and
it was said Hetty Lane never bewitched anybody again."
"It's something like the kelpies and brownies Barby used to tell about
that were in England long time ago," said Doris, big-eyed. "They hid
tools and ate up the food and spoiled the milk and the bread, turning it
to stone. They went away--perhaps someone burned them up."
Aunt Priscilla gave her sniff. To be compared with such childish stuff!
"It was very curious," said Mrs. Leverett. "I have always been glad I
was not alive at that time. Sometimes unaccountable things happen."
"Did you ever see a truly witch yourself, Aunt Priscilla?" asked the
child.
"No, I never did," she answered honestly.
"Then I guess they did go with the fairies and kelpies. Could I tell
your story over sometime?" she inquired eagerly.
Telling ghost stories and witch stories was quite an amusement at that
period.
"Why, yes--if you want to." She was rather pleased to have it go to the
Royalls'.
"The last stitch," and Betty folded up her work. "Come, Doris, say
good-night, and let us go to bed."
Doris put a little kiss on Aunt Priscilla's wrinkled hand.