A few hours later Deacon Latham came into the house with a milk-pan full
of pease. He set this down on one end of the kitchen table, with his
straw hat beside it, and then took a chair at the other end and fell
into the attitude of the day before, when he sat in the parlor with
Lydia and Miss Maria waiting for the stage; his mouth was puckered to
a whistle, and his fingers were held above the board in act to drub it.
Miss Maria turned the pease out on the table, and took the pan into
her lap. She shelled at the pease in silence, till the sound of their
pelting, as they were dropped on the tin, was lost in their multitude;
then she said, with a sharp, querulous, pathetic impatience, “Well,
father, I suppose you're thinkin' about Lyddy.”
“Yes, Maria, I be,” returned her father, with uncommon plumpness, as
if here now were something he had made up his mind to stand to. “I been
thinkin' that Lyddy's a woman grown, as you may say.”
“Yes,” admitted Miss Maria, “she's a woman, as far forth as that goes.
What put it into your head?”
“Well, I d'know as I know. But it's just like this: I got to thinkin'
whether she mightn't get to feelin' rather lonely on the voyage, without
any other woman to talk to.”
“I guess,” said Miss Maria, tranquilly, “she's goin' to feel lonely
enough at times, any way, poor thing! But I told her if she wanted
advice or help about anything just to go to the stewardess. That Mrs.
Bland that spent the summer at the Parkers' last year was always tellin'
how they went to the stewardess for most everything, and she give her
five dollars in gold when they got into Boston. I shouldn't want
Lyddy should give so much as that, but I should want she should give
something, as long's it's the custom.”
“They don't have 'em on sailin' vessels, Captain Jenness said; they only
have 'em on steamers,” said Deacon Latham.
“Have what?” asked Miss Maria, sharply.
“Stewardesses. They've got a cabin-boy.”
Miss Maria desisted a moment from her work; then she answered, with a
gruff shortness peculiar to her, “Well, then, she can go to the cook, I
suppose. It wouldn't matter which she went to, I presume.”
Deacon Latham looked up with the air of confessing to sin before the
whole congregation. “The cook's a man,--a black man,” he said.
Miss Maria dropped a handful of pods into the pan, and sent a handful of
peas rattling across the table on to the floor. “Well, who in Time”--the
expression was strong, but she used it without hesitation, and was never
known to repent it “_will_ she go to, then?”
“I declare for't,” said her father, “I don't know. I d'know as I ever
thought it out fairly before; but just now when I was pickin' the pease
for you, my mind got to dwellin' on Lyddy, and then it come to me all
at once: there she was, the only _one_ among a whole shipful, and I--I
didn't know but what she might think it rather of a strange position for
her.”
“_Oh_!” exclaimed Miss Maria, petulantly. “I guess Lyddy'd know how to
conduct herself wherever she was; she's a born lady, if ever there was
one. But what I think is--” Miss Maria paused, and did not say what she
thought; but it was evidently not the social aspect of the matter which
was uppermost in her mind. In fact, she had never been at all afraid of
men, whom she regarded as a more inefficient and feebler-minded kind of
women.
“The only thing't makes me feel easier is what the captain said about
the young men,” said Deacon Latham.
“What young men?” asked Miss Maria.
“Why, I told you about 'em!” retorted the old man, with some
exasperation.
“You told me about two young men that stopped on the wharf and pitied
Lyddy's worn-out looks.”
“Didn't I tell you the rest? I declare for't, I don't believe I did; I
be'n so put about. Well, as we was drivin' up to the depot, we met the
same two young men, and the captain asked 'em, 'Are you goin' or not
a-goin'?'--just that way; and they said, 'We're goin'.' And he said,
'When you comin' aboard?' and he told 'em he was goin' to haul out this
mornin' at three o'clock. And they asked what tug, and he told 'em, and
they fixed it up between 'em all then that they was to come aboard from
the tug, when she'd got the ship outside; and that's what I suppose they
did. The captain he said to me he hadn't mentioned it before, because he
wa'n't sure't they'd go till that minute. He give 'em a first-rate of a
character.”
Miss Maria said nothing for a long while. The subject seemed one with
which she did not feel herself able to grapple. She looked all about
the kitchen for inspiration, and even cast a searching glance into
the wood-shed. Suddenly she jumped from her chair, and ran to the open
window: “Mr. Goodlow! Mr. Goodlow! I wish you'd come in here a minute.”
She hurried to meet the minister at the front door, her father lagging
after her with the infantile walk of an old man.
Mr. Goodlow took off his straw hat as he mounted the stone step to the
threshold, and said good-morning; they did not shake hands. He wore a
black alpaca coat, and waistcoat of farmer's satin; his hat was dark
straw, like Deacon Latham's, but it was low-crowned, and a line of
ornamental openwork ran round it near the top.
“Come into the settin'-room,” said Miss Maria. “It's cooler, in there.”
She lost no time in laying the case before the minister. She ended by
saying, “Father, he don't feel just right about it, and I d'know as I'm
quite clear in my own mind.”
The minister considered a while in silence before he said, “I think
Lydia's influence upon those around her will be beneficial, whatever her
situation in life may be.”
“There, father!” cried Miss Maria, in reproachful relief.
“You're right, Maria, you're right!” assented the old man, and they both
waited for the minister to continue.
“I rejoiced with you,” he said, “when this opportunity for Lydia's
improvement offered, and I am not disposed to feel anxious as to the
ways and means. Lydia is no fool. I have observed in her a dignity, a
sort of authority, very remarkable in one of her years.”
“I guess the boys at the school down to the Mill Village found out she
had authority enough,” said Miss Maria, promptly materializing the idea.
“Precisely,” said Mr. Goodlow.
“That's what I told father, in the first place,” said Miss Maria. “I
guess Lyddy'd know how to conduct herself wherever she was,--just the
words I used.”
“I don't deny it, Maria, I don't deny it,” shrilly piped the old man.
“I ain't afraid of any harm comin' to Lyddy any more'n what you be. But
what I said was, Wouldn't she feel kind of strange, sort of lost, as you
may say, among so many, and she the only _one_?”
“She will know how to adapt herself to circumstances,” said Mr. Goodlow.
“I was conversing last summer with that Mrs. Bland who boarded at Mr.
Parker's, and she told me that girls in Europe are brought up with no
habits of self-reliance whatever, and that young ladies are never seen
on the streets alone in France and Italy.”
“Don't you think,” asked Miss Maria, hesitating to accept this
ridiculous statement, “that Mrs. Bland exaggerated some?”
“She _talked_ a great deal,” admitted Mr. Goodlow. “I should be sorry
if Lydia ever lost anything of that native confidence of hers in her
own judgment, and her ability to take care of herself under any
circumstances, and I do not think she will. She never seemed conceited
to me, but she _was_ the most self-reliant girl I ever saw.”
“You've hit it there, Mr. Goodlow. Such a spirit as she always had!”
sighed Miss Maria. “It was just so from the first. It used to go to my
heart to see that little thing lookin' after herself, every way, and not
askin' anybody's help, but just as quiet and proud about it! She's her
mother, all over. And yest'day, when she set here waitin' for the stage,
and it did seem as if I should have to give up, hearin' her sob,
sob, sob,--why, Mr. Goodlow, she hadn't any more idea of backin' out
than--than--” Miss Maria relinquished the search for a comparison, and
went into another room for a handkerchief. “I don't believe she cared
over and above about goin', from the start,” said Miss Maria, returning,
“but when once she'd made up her mind to it, there she was. I d'know
as she _took_ much of a fancy to her aunt, but you couldn't told from
anything that Lyddy said. Now, if I have anything on my mind, I have to
blat it right out, as you may say; I can't seem to bear it a minute;
but Lyddy's different. Well,” concluded Miss Maria, “I guess there ain't
goin' to any harm come to her. But it did give me a kind of start, first
off, when father up and got to feelin' sort of bad about it. I d'know
as I should thought much about it, if he hadn't seemed to. I d'know as
I should ever thought about anything except her not havin' any one to
advise with about her clothes. It's the only thing she ain't handy with:
she won't know what to wear. I'm afraid she'll spoil her silk. I d'know
but what father's _been_ hasty in not lookin' into things carefuller
first. He most always does repent afterwards.”
“Couldn't repent beforehand!” retorted Deacon Latham. “And I tell
you, Maria, I never saw a much finer man than Captain Jenness; and the
cabin's everything I said it was, and more. Lyddy reg'larly went off
over it; 'n' I guess, as Mr. Goodlow says, she'll influence 'em for
good. Don't you fret about her clothes any. You fitted her out in
apple-pie order, and she'll soon be there. 'T ain't but a little ways
to Try-East, any way, to what it is some of them India voyages, Captain
Jenness said. He had his own daughters out the last voyage; 'n' I guess
he can tell Lyddy when it's weather to wear her silk. I d'know as I'd
better said anything about what I was thinkin'. I don't want to be
noways rash, and yet I thought I couldn't be too partic'lar.”
For a silent moment Miss Maria looked sourly uncertain as to the
usefulness of scruples that came so long after the fact. Then she said
abruptly to Mr. Goodlow, “Was it you or Mr. Baldwin, preached Mirandy
Holcomb's fune'l sermon?”