A STRANGER, YET AT HOME
Rachel Winn settled herself to the new order of things more readily than
the Leveretts. Or rather she seemed to take the lead in arrangements for
herself and her charge. She was after all a sort of nurse and
waiting-maid, though she had a fine dignity about it that even Elizabeth
could not gainsay. She was to be one of the family, there could be no
objection to that in the simple New England living. Though it was true,
times were changing greatly since the days of war and privation, and
perhaps the mingling of people from other states, the growing
responsibility of being part of a great commonwealth. Servants were
being relegated to a different position. Boston in a certain fashion set
the pace, though Salem held up her head proudly. Were not her seaports
the busy mart of the Eastern shore? Stores of finery, silks and laces,
and marvellous Indian embroidery went down to Boston and the houses were
enriched with choice china that in the next hundred years was to be
handed down as heirlooms. Fine houses were being built, choice woods
came from southern ports by vessels that believed they could find
fortunes nearer home than China or India. But they could grow no
spices, or coffees, or teas, and they must come from the Orient. No
looms could turn out such exquisite fabrics as yet, though housewives
were to be proud of their home-made drapery for a generation or two.
Chilian spent a large part of that first night inspecting his box of
papers. There was a journal-like letter in which Anthony Leverett had
jotted down many things he hardly dared say in his letter; indeed, there
was not sufficient space. As soon as he had learned the serious nature
of his disease, he had begun to put his house in order and consider the
future welfare of his child. Some lines touched Chilian deeply, the
trust and dependence he was not at all sure he could fulfil, but he felt
he _must_ rouse himself to the earnest endeavor. The father had a
passionate love for his child, he was making a fortune for her, counting
the years when he should return and have a home of his own, when Cynthia
would grow up and marry and there would be grandchildren to climb his
knees. India was no place for a woman child to grow up in, there were no
chances for education or accomplishment, and next to no society. After
all there was not, and never would be, such a country as the new world
that had struggled so long and bravely for her independence, and now had
only to go on developing her grand theories. Crowned heads might look on
doubtingly, but the foundation had been laid in justice and truth and
equality of right. It quite thrilled him that this man, amassing money
in a far-away land, could see so clearly and have no doubts about its
future greatness.
To Captain Corwin, his good, trusty friend, he had willed half the value
of the _Flying Star_. The money from his part was to be invested, as the
payments came in, in real estate in Salem, which was to be the shipping
mart of the New England coast, at least, and run a race with New York,
he thought. So with the stations at Calcutta and Hong Kong in the hands
of the Bannings. And there were treasures that would answer for a
wedding dowry when the time came. If possible, he would like Rachel Winn
retained; he had the highest confidence in her, and she had no relatives
to call her back to England. He had given her much of the family
history, and described the town and the people, so that it would not
seem so new and strange to her.
He was not asking all this as a favor. Chilian was touched by the
provision made for himself, which it would be quite impossible to
decline, he saw. True it would break in upon his leisurely, student
life, yet he felt he could not in honor refuse to accept the trust.
Rachel Winn studied the arrangements of the rooms at their disposal. Her
young mistress was not a child taken out of benevolence or relationship.
She must have her standing from the very beginning, and she fancied
Elizabeth was inclined to consider her a sort of interloper.
"If it makes no difference, I will take the small room," she announced
to her. "There are some pieces of furniture on the vessel that Captain
Leverett particularly wished her to keep, and as she grows older she
will cherish them----"
"That great room for such a child!" In her amazement, Elizabeth spoke
without thought. She was not used to seeing children set in the very
forefront. In her day, indeed, yet in some families the large open
garret was considered the place for children.
"You see, she was used to it at home--over there, I mean;" with a nod of
the head. "Her father's room was one side, mine on the other. Of course,
in a way I shall share it with her. I will keep it in order and look
after her clothes, and sew for her. But I prefer the smaller one."
Elizabeth was aghast. One of the best spare chambers, with the
furnishings that had come from England a hundred years before. On the
other side she and Eunice shared a plainly appointed room with some of
their very own belongings. There was still another, but the closet was
small. She had asked Chilian where they should be placed and he had
chosen this. It was his house, of course----
Whether it would have ended in a discussion could not to be told, for at
that moment a dray drove up with some boxes and a piece of furniture so
wrapped and protected that it was quite impossible to guess at its
name.
Chilian came out and ran lightly down the stairs; and then called
Elizabeth.
"Where had the boxes better go? They will have to be unpacked, I
suppose;" helplessly.
"There are more to come," announced the man. "Enough to set up
housekeeping, if the right sort of things are in them;" and he gave a
short laugh.
Miss Winn came downstairs. "Isn't there a garret to the house?" she
asked, looking from one to the other. "I packed them up, but I can
hardly tell----"
"Yes; we could store half the vessel's contents in it. Well, not exactly
that. A ship's hold is a capacious place. Yes, the boxes might go there.
Have you any idea what this is?"
"A sort of desk and bookcase. A very handsome thing the captain set
great store by."
The men shouldered the boxes and Elizabeth convoyed them. Silas was
spading up the garden and came at the call.
It was a work of some labor to get the article out of its secure
casings. It disclosed a very handsome piece of furniture in the
escritoire style, carved and inlaid not only with beautiful woods, but
much silver. Chilian surveyed it with admiration.
"That must stand in the parlor," he decided. "But some one must come and
help. I'm afraid I am not sufficiently robust. Silas, see if you can't
find the Uphams' man. He was working there a short time ago."
"If there's more to come, it is hardly worth while to clear up," began
Elizabeth. "I hope it will soon follow."
Chilian directed the two men, who found it still quite a burthen.
Elizabeth opened the parlor shutter unwillingly, and the men set it in
the middle of the floor.
There were two large rooms held almost sacred by both sisters. They were
separated by an archway, apparently upheld on each end by a fluted
column. Both rooms had a wide chimney-piece, the mantel and its supports
elaborately carved and painted white. Two windows were in each end,
draped with soft crimson curtains. The floor was polished, with a rug
laid down in the centre. It was furnished in a manner that would have
delighted a connoisseur, but Elizabeth did not admire the
conglomeration. They were family relics and seemed to have little
relation with one another, yet they were harmonious. There was a
thin-legged spinet, with a Latin legend running across the front of the
cover, which was always down. The chairs were not made for lounging,
that was plain; and the sofa, with its rolling ends and claw feet, had
been polished until the haircloth looked like satin. A dead and gone
Leverett bride had imported that from London.
When the East Indian article had been consigned to an appropriate space,
it looked as much at home as if it had lived there half a century. Then
the parlor was shut up again, the mat in the hall shaken out, the front
door bolted. Miss Winn had asked for a hammer and chisel that she might
open one of the boxes.
"Take Silas. That is a man's work," said Chilian.
Cynthia was in the sitting-room, where it was still chilly enough to
have a fire. Eunice was knotting fringe for a bedspread, and it
interested the child wonderfully. She was not a little shocked to find a
child of nine knew nothing about sewing, had never hemmed ruffles, nor
done overseam, or knit, or it seemed anything useful.
"Why, when I was a little girl of your age I could spin in the little
wheel."
"What did you spin?"
"Why, thread, of course, linen thread made from flax."
"Were you a truly little girl?" in surprise.
"Why, child, don't you know anything?" Then Miss Eunice laughed softly
and patted the small shoulder, looking kindly into the wondering eyes.
There was no hurt in her tone and the words rather amused.
"I know a great many things. I can read some Latin, and I know about
Greece and its splendid heroes who conquered a good deal of the world.
There was Alexander the Great and Philip of Macedon. And Tamerlane, who
conquered nearly all Asia. And--and Confucius, the great man of China,
who was a wise philosopher, and wrote a bible----"
"Oh, no; not a bible!" interrupted Miss Eunice, horrified. "There is
only one Bible, my dear, and that is the Word of God."
"But the other is the bible of the Chinese, and some of them believe
Confucius was a god."
"That is quite impossible, my dear;" in a rather decisive, but still
gentle tone.
"And there is Brahma, and Vishnu, and there are ever so many gods in
India. The people pray to them. And temples. When they want anything
very much, they go and pray for it. There was a woman whose little son
was very ill, and if he lived he was going to be a great prince, or
something, and she gathered up her precious stones and her necklace and
took them to the temple for the god. Father sent an English doctor, but
they wouldn't let him see the little boy. He was so pretty, too. I used
to see him in the court."
"And did he live?" Miss Eunice asked, much interested.
"No; he didn't. And the father beat her for losing the jewels."
"You see, those gods have no power."
"Did you ever pray for anything you wanted very much?"
Cynthia's bright eyes studied the placid face before her.
"Yes," the lips murmured faintly.
"And did you get it?"
A flush stole over the puzzled countenance.
"My dear, God doesn't see as we do. And He knows what is best for us,
and gives us that. Maybe our prayer wasn't right."
"How can you tell when a prayer is right or wrong?" inquired the young
theologian.
"Why, you have to leave that to God;" in a low, resigned tone.
"I didn't want to come here. I wanted to stay with father. I didn't know
there was any one beside, and I do not believe any one will ever love me
so well. But he promised to come when the business was all done. So I
prayed to the God of father's Bible, and I went to the temple with Nalla
and put down a half-crown--it was all the money I had. But"--her eyes
filled with tears and her voice had a break in it--"father begged so,
and I came. But if Captain Corwin does not bring him next time I shall
go back. I can't live without him."
The mild blue eyes of Miss Eunice filled with tears as well. She was not
sure this had been the wisest course. The absolute truth was always
best. But she temporized also in a vague fashion.
"Yes; you can tell then. And you may come to like us so well you may
stay content."
"Oh, if he comes! Then it will be all right. And you think I ought to
pray for that?"
It was a cruel strait for Miss Eunice and staggered her faith. She was
not to lead astray or harm "one of the least of these." But the child
_was_ a heathen with no real knowledge of the true God. Like a vision
almost, Miss Eunice looked back at her own childhood, and the awful,
overshadowing power she believed was God, who wrote down every wicked
thought and wrong deed, and would confront her with them at the Judgment
Day. She prayed nightly, often in the night, when she woke up, and she
was no surer of God's love than this little heathen child.
"It is right to pray for the things we want, but to be resigned if God
doesn't see fit to give them to us."
"Then the prayers are thrown away. And do you know just what God is?"
"My dear!" in a shocked tone, "no one can tell. It is one of the
mysteries to be revealed when we see Him as He truly is at the last day.
A little girl cannot understand it. I do not, and I have sought the
truth many years. Now I am trusting, because I feel assured He will do
what is right. Tell me something about your life with your father."
"Oh, things were so different there. Houses, and there were always
servants, so you didn't ever need to fan yourself. Babo and Nalla were
always about. Babo used to take me out in a chair that had curtains
around and a big umbrella overhead. Sometimes Chandra went with him. And
the streets were funny and crooked, and houses set anywhere in them. I
liked going up in the mountains best, it wasn't so hot. And the trees
were splendid, and beautiful vines and flowers of all sorts. Mrs. Dallas
went the last time. She had two girls and a big boy. I did not like
him. He would pinch my arms and then say he didn't. I liked the girls,
one was larger than I. And we swung in the hammocks the vines made. Only
I was afraid of the snakes, and there are so many everywhere. Alfred
liked to kill them."
She shuddered a little and glanced about the room with dilated eyes.
"They come into your houses sometimes. Nalla used to catch them and
sling them hard on the ground, and that stunned them. And we used to
make wreaths of the beautiful flowers. Agnes Dallas knew so many stories
about fairies, little people who come out at night, when the moon
shines, and dance round in rings. They slip in houses, and the nice ones
do some work, but the wicked ones sour the milk, and spoil the bread,
and hide things. And, sometimes, they change children into a cat, or a
rabbit, or something, and it is seven years before you can get your own
shape again. Do you have them here?"
"There is no such thing. That is all falsehood," was the decisive
comment.
"But--Agnes knew of their coming. And she had seen them dancing on the
grass. But if you speak or go near them, they disappear."
Miss Winn came out to the sitting-room.
"Oh, you are here," she said. "I thought you were out of doors. You
ought to take a run. What a wonderful garret you have upstairs, Miss
Eunice. But I am afraid we shall fill it up sadly. There were so many
things to bring. I do not believe we shall find use for half of them. I
want a few mouthfuls of fresh air. I suppose I can walk up the street
without danger of getting lost if I turn square around when I return?
Don't you want to come, Cynthia?"
Cynthia was ready.
"You had better wrap up warm. It gets chilly towards night."
"It was a long stretch on shipboard. We stopped at several ports,
however. But I am glad to be on solid ground. Come, child."
She had brought down a wrap and hood. Cynthia was glad of something new,
though she liked Miss Eunice.
They turned a rather rounding corner and went on to a sort of
market-place, where sweepers were gathering up the débris after the
day's sales. They glanced about the city. Salem had made rapid strides
since the grand declaration of peace, but at the end of the century it
was far from the grandeur the next twenty years would give it.
"There are no palaces and no temples," said Cynthia, rather
complainingly. "And how white all the people are. Do you suppose they
have been ill?"
"Oh, no; they have been housed up during the winter, and the climate is
cold. And, you know, they are of a different race. This part, New
England, was settled mostly from old England."
"Are you going to like it, Rachel?"
"Why--I don't quite know. You can't tell at once about a strange place."
"Miss Eunice is nice. But she has some queer ideas."
"Or is it a little girl, named Cynthia Leverett, who has queer ideas
that she has brought largely from a far-off country?"
The child laughed. Then she saw some girls and boys playing tag in the
street, laughing and squealing when they were caught, or when they
narrowly missed. And some empty carts went rattling by, with now and
then a stately coach, or a man on horseback, attired in the fashion of
the times. The sun suddenly dropped down.
"We had better turn about," declared Miss Winn. "It will not do to be
late for supper."
The walk had not been straight, but her gift of locality was good. They
passed the market-place again, made the winding turn, and found the
lighted lamps gave the house a cheerful aspect.
Miss Eunice had put away her knotting and begun to lay the cloth when
Elizabeth entered, her face clouded over.
"I'm sure I don't see why Providence should send this avalanche upon us
to destroy our peace and comfort," she began almost angrily. "The
Thatchers' visit was pleasant, though that made a sight of clearing up
afterward. And we had hardly gotten over that when this must happen. I
was going to put that white quilt in the frame, but the garret will be
turned upside down for no one knows how long! Such a mess of stuff, and
more coming. There's enough in this house without any more being added
to it."
"But it was natural Captain Anthony should want his child to have
something belonging to him, maybe her mother, too. And goodness knows
there's room enough in the garret. It isn't half full with his traps,
and there's some of ours. And there's the loft over the kitchen."
"Well, we want some place to dry clothes in rainy weather. And when I
sweep I want to move things about, not sweep just in front of them, and
have the dust settle in rows behind. Chilian didn't know what a lot
there would be, though he might have looked it over on the ship. When it
is all through, the house will need a thorough cleaning again. And what
_do_ you think, Eunice! She's going to put the child in that big bed and
she sleep in the little one! The best room in the house! I'm sorry they
have it."
Eunice was roused a little.
"That doesn't seem the proper thing. But maybe she thought--I do suppose
the child has had the best of everything."
"I don't believe in pampering children. And I don't altogether like the
woman. I do wonder if we will have to keep her. A girl of nine is old
enough to look after herself, and begin to keep her own clothes and her
room in order."
"It's been very different out in India. And I do suppose Anthony was
over-indulgent, she having no mother to train her."
"We'll have our hands full, Eunice, when the tussle really begins."
"Oh, I do not think she will be hard to manage. She seems rather
shy----"
"Those eyes of hers ain't so deep for nothing. She hasn't the Leverett
mouth, and those full lips are wilful and saucy, generally speaking.
Letty Orne was a pretty girl, as I remember. Strange, now, when you come
to think of it, that the child should have been born in this house. But
she'll never have any beauty to spare, that's certain. For the land
sakes, Eunice, look at the time and you dawdling over the table. I'm
tired as a dog after a long race."
Elizabeth dropped into a chair. In her secret heart Eunice knew that
when her sister was tired out she was fractious; she loved her too well
to say cross words.
"Shall we have fish or cold meat?" she asked mildly.
"Oh, I don't care! Well, fish. There will be meat enough for to-morrow's
dinner if it isn't meddled with."
The fish was salted down in the season, soaked a little, laid in spiced
vinegar for a few hours, cut in thin slices, and was very appetizing.
Eunice went about with no useless flutter, she stepped lightly and
never made any clatter with dishes. The tea china, thin and lovely, the
piles of white bread and brown, molasses gingerbread and frosted sugar
cake, stewed dried fruit and rich preserves, made an inviting-looking
table. Chilian came in and made himself neat, as usual, then the guests.
Cynthia was very quiet. Twice Miss Winn answered a question for her. She
scarcely ate anything. Then she said wearily:
"I am so tired and sleepy. Can't I go to bed?"