E-text prepared by Marilynda Fraser-Cunliffe, J. P. W. Fraser, Emmy, and
the Project Gutenberg Online Distributed Proofreading Team
(http://www.pgdp.net/c/)
A Little Girl in Old Salem
* * * * *
THE "LITTLE GIRL" SERIES
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW YORK.
HANNAH ANN; A SEQUEL.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD BOSTON.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD PHILADELPHIA.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD WASHINGTON.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD NEW ORLEANS.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD DETROIT.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD ST. LOUIS.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD CHICAGO.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD SAN FRANCISCO.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD QUEBEC.
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD BALTIMORE.
* * * * *
A LITTLE GIRL IN OLD SALEM
by
AMANDA M. DOUGLAS
[Illustration]
New York
Dodd, Mead and Company
1908
Copyright, 1908
by Dodd, Mead and Company
Published, September, 1908
CONTENTS
CHAPTER PAGE
I TWO LETTERS 1
II THE LITTLE GIRL 19
III A STRANGER, YET AT HOME 36
IV UNWELCOME 52
V MAKING FRIENDS WITH THE LITTLE GIRL 68
VI GOING TO SCHOOL 91
VII CHANGEFUL LIGHTS OF CHILDHOOD 108
VIII SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW 128
IX LESSONS OF LIFE 143
X A NEW DEPARTURE 161
XI THE VOICE OF A ROSE 180
XII CHANGES IN THE OLD HOUSE 194
XIII A TASTE OF PLEASURE 213
XIV IN GAY OLD SALEM 231
XV LOVERS AND LOVERS 248
XVI PERILOUS PATHS 270
XVII THE FLOWERING OF THE SOUL 288
XVIII THE PASSING OF OLD SALEM 296
CHAPTER I
TWO LETTERS
The Leveretts were at their breakfast in the large sunny room in Derby
Street. It had an outlook on the garden, and beyond the garden was a
lane, well used and to be a street itself in the future. Then, at quite
a distance, a strip of woods on a rise of ground, that still further
enhanced the prospect. The sun slanted in at the windows on one side,
there was nothing to shut it out. It would go all round the house now,
and seem to end where it began, in the garden.
Chilian was very fond of it. He always brought his book to the table; he
liked to eat slowly, to gaze out and digest one or two thoughts at his
leisure, as well as the delightful breakfast set before him. He was a
man of delicate tastes and much refinement, for with all the New England
sturdiness, hardness one might say, there was in many families a strain
of what we might term high breeding. His face, with its clear-cut
features, indicated this. His hair was rather light, fine, with a few
waves in it that gave it a slightly tumbled look--far from any touch of
disorder. His eyes were a deep, clear blue, his complexion fair enough
for a woman.
His father and grandfather had lived and died in this house. He had
bought out his sister's share when she married, and she had gone to
Providence. He had asked the two relatives of his father--termed cousins
by courtesy--to continue housekeeping. They were the last of their
family and in rather straitened circumstances. Miss Elizabeth was
nearing sixty, tall, straight, fair, and rather austere-looking. Eunice
was two years younger, shorter, a trifle stouter, with a rounder face,
and a mouth that wore a certain sweetness when it did not actually
smile.
Chilian was past thirty. He was a Harvard graduate, and now went in two
days each week for teaching classes. His father had left some business
interests in Salem, rather distasteful to him, but he was a strictly
conscientious person and attended to them, if with a sort of mental
protest. For the rest, he was a bookworm and revelled in intellectual
pursuits.
The day previous had been desperately stormy, this late March morning
was simply glorious. The mail, which came late in the afternoon, had not
been delivered, causing no uneasiness, as letters were not daily
visitors. But now the serving-man, with a gentle rap, opened the door
and said briefly:
"Letters."
Eunice rose and took them.
"An East Indian one for you, Chilian, and why--one from Boston--for you,
Elizabeth. It is Cousin Giles' hand."
Elizabeth reached for it. They were both so interested that they took
no note of Chilian's missive. She cut carefully around the big wafer he
had used. It was a large letter sheet, quite blue and not of over-fine
quality. Envelopes had not come in and there was quite an art in folding
a letter--unfolding it as well.
"Really what has started Cousin Giles? I hope no one is dead----"
"There would have been a black seal."
"Oh, yes, m'm;" making a curious sound with closed lips. "They are well.
Oh, the Thatchers have been visiting them and are coming out here for a
week--why, on Saturday, and to-day is Thursday. Chilian, do you hear
that?"
"What?" he asked, closing his book over his own letter.
"Why, the Thatchers are coming--on Saturday, not a long notice, and I
don't know how many. They have had a nice time in Boston--and Cousin
Giles has been beauing them round and seems to like it. He might have
sent you word on Tuesday, when you were in;" and Elizabeth's tone
expressed a grievance.
"And the house not cleaned! It's been so cold."
"The house is always clean. Don't, I beg of you, Cousin Bessy, turn it
upside down and scrub and scour, and wear yourself out and take a bad
cold. There are two guest chambers, and I suppose half a dozen more
might be made ready."
"That's the man of it. I don't believe a man would ever see dirt until
some day when he had to dig himself out, or call upon the women folks to
do it."
Elizabeth always softened, in spite of her austerity, when he called her
Bessy. The newer generation indulged in household diminutives
occasionally.
"Well, there is to be no regular house-cleaning. We shall want fires a
good six weeks yet."
"I don't see why Cousin Giles couldn't have said how many there were.
Let me see, Rachel Leverett, who married the Thatcher, was your father's
cousin. They went up in Vermont. Then they came to Concord. He"--which
meant the head of the house--"went to the State Legislature after the
war. He had some sons married. Why, I haven't seen them in years."
"It will be just like meeting strangers," declared Eunice. "It's almost
as if we kept an inn."
Chilian turned. "When I am in Boston to-morrow I will hunt up Cousin
Giles."
"Oh, that will be good of you."
He slipped his letter into the Latin book he had been going over, and
with a slight inclination of the head left the room. The hall was wide,
though it ended just beyond this door, where it led to the kitchen. The
woodwork was of oak, darkened much by the years that had passed over it.
The broad staircase showed signs of the many feet that had trodden up
and down.
Chilian's study was directly over the living-room, and next to the
sleeping-chamber. This part had been added to the main house, but that
was years ago. Bookshelves were ranged on two sides, but the windows
interfered with their course around, two on each of the other sides.
There was a wide fireplace between those at the west, and under them low
closets, with cushions--ancestors of useful window-seats. A large
easy-chair, covered with Cordovan leather, another curiously carved with
a straight narrow strip up the back, set off by the side carving. The
seat was broad and cushioned. Then one from France, as you could tell by
the air and style, that had been in a palace. A low splint rocker, and
one with a high back and comfortable cushions, inviting one to take a
nap.
The bookcases went about two-thirds of the way up and were ornamented by
articles beautiful and grotesque from almost every land, for there had
been seafaring men in the Leverett family, and more than one home in
Salem could boast of treasures of this sort.
Chilian stirred the fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and
put on a fresh log. Then he settled himself in his chair and fingered
his letter in an absent way. The last time Anthony wrote he vaguely
suggested changes and chances and the uncertainty of life, rather
despondent for a brisk business man who was always seeing opportunities
at money-making. Had he been unfortunate in some of his ventures? And it
was odd in him to write so soon again. Not that they were ever frequent
correspondents.
He opened the letter slowly. It was tied about with a thread of waxed
silk and sealed, so he cut about the seal deliberately; he had a
delicate carefulness in all his ways that was rather womanly. Then
unfolding it, he began to read.
Was this what the previous letter had meant? Was Anthony Leverett
nearing the end, counting his days, finishing up his earthly work, and
delegating it to other hands? There was something pathetic in it, and
the trust in the uprightness and honor that Anthony Leverett reposed in
him touched him keenly. But this part surprised and, at first, annoyed
him. He drew his fine brows in a repellent sort of frown.
"Do you remember, Chilian, when you were a lad of
eighteen, in your second year at Harvard, you came
to Salem to recruit after a period of rather
severe study? And you met Alletta Orne, who was
four-and-twenty and engaged to me. In some sort of
fashion we were all related. Your father had been
like a father to me in my later boyhood. And, with
a young man's fervor, you fell in love with her. I
was sorry then for any pain you suffered, I am
glad now; for there is no one else in the wide
world I would as soon trust her child and mine to.
"We had been away nearly three years, when we came
back, and the baby was born in the house endeared
to me by many tender recollections. You were away
then, but on our second visit we were the most
congenial friends again. I did not think then it
would be our last meeting. I had meant, after
making my fortune, to return and end my days in my
birthplace. My greatest interest was in the
commercial house I had established. My first mate,
John Corwin, took my place and sailed the vessel.
Then my dear wife died, and I had only my little
girl left.
"I could hardly believe six months ago that I must
die. Should I return, or remain here and sleep
beside the one who had filled my soul with her
serene and lovely life and her blessed memory? I
could not endure the thought of leaving her
precious body here alone. So I chose to remain.
And now I send my little girl to your care and
guardianship without even consulting you. She is
amply provided for, though the business this side
of the world cannot be settled in some time. I
send her with a trusty maid and Captain Corwin,
because I do not want her to remember the end.
Some day you can tell her I am sleeping beside her
dear mother and that we are together in the Better
Land. She has been separated considerably from me
of late,--I have had to be journeying about on
business,--therefore it will not come so hard to
her, and though children do not forget, the sorrow
softens and has a tender vagueness from the hand
of time.
"So I give my little girl to you. If so be you
should marry and have children of your own, she
will not be crowded out, I know. In the course of
years,--for girls grow rapidly up to
womanhood,--she may love and marry. Direct her a
little here and see that no one takes her for the
mere money. I want her to know the sweetness and
richness of a true satisfying love."
All important papers, and a sort of diary Anthony Leverett had kept,
were to come in the vessel that would bring the little girl in the
charge of Captain Corwin.
Chilian Leverett sat for a long while with the letter in his hand, until
the log broke in the middle and one end fell over the andiron. Then he
started suddenly.
Had he been dreaming of the sweetness of the woman who had so captivated
his youthful fancy, almost a dozen years agone? He never thought she had
led him astray, and had no blame for her. Perhaps the love for her
betrothed had so permeated her whole being that she shed an exquisitely
fascinating sweetness all about. He was to her as if he had been her
betrothed's younger brother. And when the engagement was confessed he
allowed himself no reprehensible longing for the woman so soon to be
another's. All his instincts were pure and high, perhaps rather too
idealized, though there was much strength and heroism in the old Puritan
blood. Right was right in those days. Lines were sharply drawn among
those of the old stock.
But there had been years of what one might call living for self,
indulgence in studious habits and tastes and the higher intellectual
life, much solitary dreaming, although he was by no means a recluse. And
to have a little girl come into his life! He would have liked a boy
better, he thought. The boy would be out of doors, playing with mates.
And now he bethought himself how few small children there were in his
branch of the Leverett line. Some of the men and women had not married.
His brother and one sister had died in childhood. The first cousins were
nearly all older than he, many of them had dropped out of life. A little
girl! No chance to decline the trust--well, he would hardly have done
that. He knew Anthony Leverett had counted on a serene old age in his
native town. And he was not much past middle life. What had befallen
him?
Well, there was nothing to be done. He read the letter over again. Then
he turned to some papers to compose his mind. There was a stir in the
next room, his sleeping-chamber. He always opened the windows and closed
the door between. After the dishes were washed and the dining-room and
hall brushed up, Elizabeth came upstairs and made the two beds. When he
had gone to Cambridge she opened the door between. So she did not
disturb him now, but crossed the hall and inspected the two
guest-chambers. She had swept them a week or so ago and had settled in
her mind that they would do until house-cleaning time. To be sure, if
she cleaned them now they would need it when the guests were gone. And
Chilian had a man's objection to house-cleaning. It was hardly time to
put away blankets. She wished she knew how many guests there would be.
The rooms were full of old Colonial furniture that had been in the
family for generations. Every spring Elizabeth polished the mahogany
until it shone. She dusted now, though there was hardly a speck visible.
The snow through the winter had laid it, and the spring rains had not
allowed it to rear its head.
Chilian put on his coat presently and sallied out for his morning
exercise. The family had been connected with shipbuilding to a certain
extent, and there was the old warehouse where vessels came in with their
precious cargoes from civilized and barbaric lands. For at the close of
the Revolutionary War the men of note, many of whom had not disdained
privateering, found themselves in possession of idle fleets, that with
their able seamen could outsail almost anything afloat. So they struck
out for new ventures in unknown seas and new channels of trade.
Calcutta, Bombay, Zanzibar, Madagascar, Batavia, and other ports came to
know the American flag and the busy enterprising traders.
But the old Salem that was once the capital of the state, the Salem of
John Endicott and Roger Williams, of stern Puritanism, of terrible
witchcraft horrors, and then of the sturdy and vigorous stand in her
differences with the mother country, her patriotism through the darkest
days, was fast fading away, just as this grand commercial epoch was
destined to merge into science and educational fame later on, and give
to the world some master spirits. But as he wended his way hither and
thither in a desultory fashion, one thought almost like spoken words
kept running through his mind--"A little girl--a little girl in Old
Salem"--for the almost two hundred years gave her the right to that
eminence, and a little girl from a foreign land seemed incongruous. Not
but that there were little girls in Salem, but their life-lines did not
touch his. And this one came so near, for the sake of both parents he
had loved.
When he came in to dinner, he had made up his mind to say nothing of his
letter until the guests had come and gone. He did not wish to be deluged
with questions.
He hunted up Cousin Giles the next day, who was quite a real-estate
dealer, investing his own and other people's money in sound mortgages,
who had been a widower so long that he had quite gone back to
bachelorhood.
And he found three Thatcher cousins--a widow, a married one, and a
single one, the youngest of the family, but past girlhood. He was asked
to take luncheon with them and they proved quite agreeable and
intelligent, and much pleased at the prospect of seeing Elizabeth and
Eunice Leverett.
"We have been hunting up several of the Boston relatives," said Miss
Thatcher, with a kind of winsome smile. "Cousin Giles has been a good
directory. We've kept in with so few of them. Father hunted up some of
them while he was in the Legislature, but they are so scattered about
and many of them dead. Mother was your father's cousin, I believe."
Chilian gave a graceful inclination of the head.
"Elizabeth and Eunice visited us years ago, along after the war when I
was first left a widow," explained Mrs. Brent. "Henry went all through
it, but was worn out, and died in '88. But I've two nice sons, who are a
great comfort. Father was very good to them and me. And they're both
promising farmers."
"I tell her that's a good deal to be thankful for," remarked Cousin
Giles.
"It is indeed," commented Chilian.
"And I have a lad who is all for study and wants to come in to Harvard.
He has been teaching school this winter. His father's quite set against
it, and I don't know how it will end. He will be only nineteen in
August, and his father thinks he has a hold on him two years longer."
Mrs. Drayton looked up rather appealingly.
"If his mind is made up to that, he will work his way through," said
Chilian, and he thought he should like to know the boy.
"You see the next two are girls and they can't help much about a farm.
Father really needs him. And I seem to stand between two fires. His
teaching term will end in May, but he has planned to take the school
next winter. He has made quite a bit of money."
Chilian thought he would be a lad fully worth helping, and made a mental
note of it. He liked the mother.
It was settled that they would reach Salem about noon in the stage, the
only mode of conveyance, and they parted with a pleased friendliness.
Chilian rehearsed the interview at home to the great delight of the
household. Indeed, he had been very well pleased with the prospective
visitors and he felt rather thankful for the respite from the shadow the
coming event was casting. A little girl! It did annoy him.
He did not allow it to interfere with his duties as host, however. The
three ladies had a most delightful visit at Salem, looking up points of
interest and hearing old history concerning the Leveretts. Chilian's
father had jotted down many facts. There were seafaring uncles, who had
brought home trophies; there were men in the family, who had died for
their country if they had not filled eminent positions; others who had.
How this branch of the family seemed to have dwindled away!
Serena Thatcher was more than pleased with her cousin, though she felt
somewhat awed by his attainments and his rather punctilious ways. Mrs.
Brent set him down as a good deal of a Miss Nancy. But the ladies had a
delightful time going over family histories and getting relationships
disentangled.
When the eventful day of parting came it brought a very real sorrow.
They made promises that they would renew their meetings and keep each
other in mind.
It was Saturday evening when the Leverett household sat around the
cheerful fire in the cozy room where the small family gathered on this
evening of the week with their work all done, after the fashion of the
past, still strictly observed by many of the older Puritan families. The
industrious ladies sat with folded hands. Sometimes Chilian read aloud
from a volume of the divines who had finished their good fight.
This night he was gazing idly in the fire, the lines in his face
deepening now and then.
"I suppose he _is_ tired with all the talk, and rambles, and confusion
of the week," Elizabeth thought, stealing furtive glances at him.
He straightened himself presently and made a pretence of clearing his
throat, as an embarrassed person often does.
"I have something to tell you," he began. "I thought I would not disturb
you while our relatives were here. We found enough to talk about;" with
a short half-laugh.
"And it tired you out, I know. We live so quietly that such an event
quite upsets us," Eunice said in a gentle, deprecating tone.
"It was very pleasant," he added. "I was a good deal interested in
Anthony Drayton. But this is something quite different. Can you recall
that I had a letter from the East Indies the morning the word came from
Cousin Giles?"
"Why, yes!" Elizabeth started in surprise. "I had really forgotten about
it. Business, I suppose, with Anthony Leverett. Why, I think it is high
time he came home."
Chilian sighed. "I am afraid--though I cannot see why we should fear so
much to enter the other portal, since it is the destiny of all, and we
believe in a better world. He was hopelessly ill when he wrote and was
winding up some business matters. He is a brave man to meet death so
composedly. The only pang is parting from his child."
"Oh, his little girl! Let me see--she must be eight or nine years old.
What will become of her?"
"He makes me executor and guardian of the child. She was to start three
weeks after his letter with Captain Corwin in the _Flying Star_. That
will be due, if it meets with no mishap, from the middle to the last of
April."
"But she doesn't come alone!" ejaculated Elizabeth in surprise.
"Yes. He wishes to be buried there beside his wife. And he does not
want her to have the remembrance of his death. So he sends her with the
woman who has been her nurse and maid the last three years, an
Englishwoman."
"Of all things! I wonder what will come next! We seem in the line of
surprises. And it's queer they should happen together. A little girl!
Chilian, do _you_ like it? Why, it will fairly turn the house upside
down!"
There was an accent of protest in Elizabeth's tone, showing plainly her
unwillingness to accept the situation.
"One little girl can't move much furniture about;" with a sound of humor
in his voice.
"Oh, you know what I mean--not actually dragging sofas and tables about,
but she will chairs, as you'll see. And lots of other things. Look at
the Rendall children. The house always looks as if it had been stirred
up with the pudding-stick, and Sally Rendall spends good half her time
looking for things they have carted off. Tom and Anstice were digging up
the path the day we called, and what do you suppose they had! The
tablespoons. And I'll venture to say they were left out of doors."
"There are so many of them," Chilian said, as if in apology.
"And I don't see how we can keep this child away from them. It isn't as
if they were low-down people. Sally's father having been a major in the
war, and the Rendalls are good stock. Let me see--what's her name? Her
mother was called Letty."
"Cynthia. She was named for my mother." Chilian's voice had a reverent
softness in it.
"I always thought it a pretty name," said Eunice.
"And I've heard people call it 'Cyn.' I do abominate nicknames."
Elizabeth uttered this with a good deal of vigor. Then she remembered
she quite liked Bessy.
No one spoke for some moments. Chilian thought of the sister, whose
brief married life had ended in her pretty home at Providence, and how
she looked in her coffin with her baby sheltered by one arm. The picture
came before him vividly.
Elizabeth liked cleanliness and order. It was natural after a long
practice in it. Chilian's particular ways suited her. Year after year
had settled them--perhaps she had settled him more definitely, as he
liked the way. Eunice was thinking of the little girl who had neither
father or mother. She had some unfulfilled dreams. In her youth there
had been a lover, and a wedding planned when he came home from his
voyage. She had begun to "lay by" for housekeeping. And there were some
pretty garments in the trunk upstairs, packed away with other articles.
The lover was lost at sea, as befell many another New England coast
woman.
She had hoped against hope for several years--men were sometimes
restored as by a miracle--but he never came. So she sometimes dreamed
of what might have been, of home and children, and it kept her heart
tender. Anthony's little girl would make a sight of trouble, she could
see that, but a little girl about would be a great pleasure--to her at
least. She glanced furtively at Elizabeth, then at Chilian. She could
not comfort either of them with this sudden glow and warmth that
thrilled through her veins.
"Well, we will be through with house-cleaning before she comes," said
the practical and particular housewife. Chilian simply sighed. It was
the usual spring ordeal, and did end. But who could predict the ending
of the other?