UNWELCOME
Miss Winn and her charge went down to the ship the next morning with
Chilian Leverett. Elizabeth inspected the rooms. She was not meddlesome,
nor over-curious generally, but with a feeling of possessorship and
responsibility in the house, she wanted to know how far she could trust
the newcomers. The beds were well made, but closets and drawers were
rather awry. She did begrudge the best chamber, and wondered whether it
would not be possible to change them about presently. True, they seldom
had guests.
Then a new load of boxes came, with two trunks, and several more pieces
of furniture. The latter were left standing in the hall. The garret had
been a sort of fetich with Elizabeth. There were dried herbs hanging to
the rafters in their muslin bags, so as not to make a litter and mostly
for the fragrance. There was not a cobweb anywhere. On one side of the
sloping roof were ranged their own trunks and chests, two of cedar, in
which woollen clothes and blankets passed the summer, securely hidden
from moths. In one gable were miscellaneous household articles, a few
chairs good enough to be repaired, a more than century-old cherry table,
spinning-wheels, a bedstead piled high with a feather bed, and
numberless pillows, for Elizabeth thought it her duty to make a new pair
every year, as they kept a flock of geese that spent their days in a
small cove on South River.
The interloper boxes could make a row down the cleared side. That left
the centre, the highest part, clear for drying clothes, which probably
would not be needed until winter. But careful Elizabeth planned ahead
for every emergency. True, the emergency did not always fit the plans,
but it gave her tense spirit a rest.
The Salem air was fragrant, with all manner of sweet springtime
odors--the ship was not. Things that had been stored in the hold came up
with a certain old smell and a little mustiness. First, Cynthia held her
nose and made a wry face. But it was delightful to run about and
exchange greetings with the sailors, who seemed merry enough over their
work.
"Well, missy," said the captain, catching her in his arms as she ran,
"how do you like living on dry land? You haven't lost your sea legs yet,
that's plain."
"It's very queer. There are just tiny leaves coming out on the trees,
and a few curious white flowers, little bells, coming up in the garden,
and crocus in pretty colors. But I don't like it very much. Miss Eunice
is nice and has such a soft voice. And the houses are so funny and shut
up, and there are no servants about, nor any one praying on the corners
and holding out a basin for rice; and no piles of fruit for sale."
"No; this isn't the time of year for fruit;" and there was a funny
twinkle in the captain's eye. "Just wait until August and September."
Cynthia considered. "That is three and four months away. Father will be
here then;" with a child's confidence.
"And there are berries earlier, and cherries, and then some sugar pears.
Oh, you will be feasted. And you'll like Cousin Leverett, when you come
to get acquainted with him. You will go to school, too, and know lots of
little girls. You won't want to go back to India."
"Unless father shouldn't come. Oh, he surely will, because, you see, I'm
praying ever so many times a day."
"That's right;" with a cheerful nod.
"When are you going back?"
"In about a month, I calculate."
She sighed and looked out over the great stretch of waters. "What is
that long point down there?" she asked suddenly.
"That's Salem Neck, and there is Winter Island. They are always building
ships down there and turn out some mighty fine ones. And fishing;
there's a sight of cod, and haddock, and mackerel, and all the other
fish in season. They salt them and take them half over the world. And
there's a rope-walk you'd enjoy seeing, leastways you would if you were
a boy. And there are some stores. We have lots of goods consigned to the
Merrits. Salem's a big place, now I tell you!"
"Bigger than Calcutta?"
"Sho' now! Calcutta can't hold a candle to it."
The captain's cabin was being dismantled for repairs and cleaning. She
glanced in it. How many days she had spent here! Everything was in
disorder, yet there was a certain home remembrance that touched the
child's heart, and brought tears to her eyes.
"Oh, are you here?" It was Chilian Leverett's voice, and he held out his
hand. She looked so bright now and there was a little color in her
cheeks, an eager interest about her. He was afraid she was going to be a
rather dull child.
"Yes; it's almost like home, you know; only when we lived here it wasn't
so topsy-turvy."
"Did you feel queer when you woke up this morning?" thinking it his duty
to smile.
"Oh, I didn't know where I was. It seemed as if I was being smothered in
something. And it didn't toss and rock. Oh, there were some birds
singing." She laughed gleefully. "Then I saw Rachel, and it came to me
in little bits, but it seems such a long, long while since yesterday
morning."
"Where is Miss Winn? I want to see her a moment."
"She has been looking over some things as they came up from the hold,"
said the captain. "Oh, here she is!"
Chilian took her aside for a moment. It was necessary for him to go in
to Boston and he wanted to make a few suggestions, so that any of
Elizabeth's strictures might not offend. He began to perceive the child
and her attendant were not exactly welcome guests.
"How long do you suppose she will stay?" Elizabeth had asked of him
rather sharply. "For, when we are once settled, I do not think there
will be any real necessity for keeping Miss Winn."
She had been considering it at intervals through the night, and was
impatient for what she called an understanding.
Chilian had often given in to her on points that did not really affect
him. He hated to bicker with any one, especially women.
"My dear Elizabeth," he began, "the child has been consigned to my
charge until she comes of age. I should not have chosen the
guardianship, but it seems there is no other relative who can attend to
all matters as well. She is to be no dependent, only for whatever love
we choose to give her. Anthony has made an ample allowance for her,
indeed such a generous one that it irks me to accept it. If it makes too
much work for you and Eunice, we will have some help. Miss Winn is to
look after her, that was her father's wish; so there will be no change.
Of course, it alters our quiet mode of living, but perhaps we were
getting in too much of a rut and needed some shaking up;" smiling
gravely. "Try and make it as comfortable for them as you can. There is
plenty of room in the house for us all."
Then there was nothing before them but acceptance. In a way she had
known it, but there was a vague idea seething in her mind that if the
maid could be dismissed, she and her sister could train the child in a
better manner, and instil some Salem virtues in her that yet held a
little of the old Puritanic leaven; like industry, economy, forethought.
She still believed in the strait and narrow pathway.
That Chilian should take the matter so philosophically _did_ surprise
her. To him there seemed something so pitiful in the hope held out to
the little girl, yet after all could it have been managed any more
wisely? She would not know what the acute pang of death was. And her
longing would become less, there would be a vagueness in her sorrow that
would help to heal it. This would be her home. He had been living all
these years for himself, was it not time that he espoused some other
motive? That he began to be of real service?
He finished his talk with Miss Winn. Cynthia was hopping over some coils
of cable, and he watched her agile, graceful movements, half smiling.
"Come and tell me good-bye," he said, holding out his hand. "I am going
in to Boston."
"In a vessel?"
"No; though I suppose that would be possible. I am late for the stage,
and must go on horseback."
"Where is Boston?"
"Oh, some eighteen miles--rather southerly. It is a big city, and the
capital."
"When are you coming back?" with a daintily anxious air.
"Oh, by supper-time."
"Well;" nodding.
"What shall I bring you?"
"Nothing at all. We have twice too much now, Rachel says. Only--be sure
to come back."
"If I did not, what then?"
"If you did not come back, I should go to India with Captain Corwin. I
like Miss Eunice a little, but your other lady doesn't want me," she
replied with a frankness that was amusing, it was so free from malice.
"Good-bye until to-night, then."
She put her hand in his. Then she reached up tiptoe. "Kiss me," she
said. "Father always did and he said, 'Be a good girl.'"
"Be a good girl." Chilian kissed the soft red lips and then went his
way. There was not much caressing in the restrained New England nature
of that day, especially among those who had grown up with few family
ties. His mother had died while he was yet quite a boy.
"Let us go back now," said Rachel presently. "I believe I have found all
our goods. Miss Leverett will be appalled."
The child repeated the word. "What does it mean?" she asked.
"Astonished, surprised."
"Why, _they_ have a houseful of things;" in protest.
"Then there is the less room for ours."
"But there is ever so much room in the garret."
"I almost wish we were going to live by ourselves in a little house,
like some we saw yesterday."
"Who would cook the dinner and wash the dishes?"
"Oh, I could;" laughing.
"Only us two? It would be lonesome."
"We are not likely to."
"Don't go straight home. Let us find the market again. I didn't half see
it last night."
"It wasn't night exactly. Yes--we must learn to find our way about, for
we cannot stay in all the time. This is Essex Street. Let us turn here."
The market was in its glory this morning. The stalls were ornamented
with branches of evergreens, the floors sifted over with sawdust. There
were vegetables and meats, but no great variety. There was no sunny
south, no swift train to send in delicious luxuries. The cold storage of
that day was being buried in pits and being brought out to light as
occasion required.
There were other stalls, with various household stores. Iron-holders,
tin kettles, whiskbrooms, pins (which were quite a luxury), crockery
ware even. Wagons had come in from country places and customers were
thronging about them.
The people interested Miss Winn, and the chaffering, the beating down in
prices, was quite amusing. Here a woman was measuring some cotton goods
from her chin to the ends of her fingers; here sat a cobbler doing odd
jobs while some one waited. Altogether it was very entertaining, and it
was dinner-time when they reached home.
"Mr. Leverett has gone to Boston," announced Miss Leverett. "We must
have our dinner without him."
"Yes, he was down on the ship," said Miss Winn. "Do you often go to
Boston?"
"I am much too busy to be gadding about," returned Elizabeth sharply;
"though we have connections there, and I once spent several years in the
city."
"I don't suppose it is at all like London. Eastern cities are so
different--and dirty," she added.
"Boston is very nice, quite a superior place, but we do not consider it
much above Salem," Miss Elizabeth said, with an air. "We have nearly all
of the East India trade. To be sure, there is Harvard at Cambridge, and
that calls students and professors. Cousin Chilian is a graduate. He
could have been an accepted professor if he had chosen."
Then the conversation languished. They were hardly through dinner when
the next relay of goods arrived.
"Cynthia's desk must go upstairs, I suppose. Her father had it made for
her birthday. Will Silas unpack again? There is a small cabinet of
teakwood that is beautifully carved. If you could find room in the
parlor for that. There were many other fine pieces that will no doubt be
sold, and it seems a great pity."
Elizabeth acquiesced rather frigidly, adding, "It is fortunate the house
is large, but one seems to accumulate a good deal through generations."
Cynthia went up in the garret with Miss Winn and was full of interest
over the old Leverett treasures. Here was the cradle in which Leverett
babies had been rocked, an old bit of mahogany nearly black with age.
"How funny!" cried Cynthia, springing into it, and making a clatter on
the floor.
"Don't, dear! Miss Elizabeth may not like it," said Miss Winn.
"As if I should hurt it!" indignantly.
"It is not ours."
"But we sit on their chairs, and sleep in their beds, and eat at their
table," returned the child. "Do you suppose they do not want us?"
"Our coming is Mr. Leverett's affair, and he is your guardian, so
whatever home he provides is right."
"Well, we can have a home of our own when father comes?"
"Oh, yes; when he comes."
"Well, then I shall not mind;" decisively.
Still she peered about among the old things. There were some iron
fire-dogs, a much-tarnished frame, with a cracked glass that cut her
face in a grotesque fashion, old dishes and kitchen furniture past
using, or that had been supplanted by a newer and better kind.
"Oh, dear! this is an undertaking!" declared Miss Winn, with a sigh. "I
do not believe you will ever use half these things; there are stuffs
enough to dress a queen."
It was beginning to grow dusky before she was through, though the sky
was overcast, and there would be no fine sunset. Indeed, the wind blew
up stormily. Cynthia had been viewing the place from the windows in the
four gables, though she had to stand on a box. There were South River
and the Neck and the shipping--the men, hurrying to and fro, looking so
much smaller that it puzzled Cynthia. And there was North River winding
about, and over beyond the great ocean she had crossed. There was old
St. Peter's Church, the new one was not built until long afterward, and
smaller places of worship. There was the small beginning of things to be
famous later on.
The wind began to whistle about and it grew cool, so they were glad to
go down to the cheerful sitting-room, where a fire was blazing on the
hearth.
"We shall have a storm to-night," said Miss Eunice, "our three days'
storm that usually makes its appearance about this time. Didn't you
'most perish upstairs? And what did you find to interest you?"
Cynthia had brought a stool and sat close to Miss Eunice, leaning one
arm on her knee.
"Oh, so many queer things. You don't mind if I call them queer, do you?"
"Oh, no; they _are_ queer. And when we are dead and gone some one will
call ours queer, no doubt. But we haven't many. When father died we were
on a farm just out of Marblehead. Things were mostly sold at a vendue,
for the two boys were going in the army. That was back in '78. Mother
and we two girls went to her mother's at Danvers. Elizabeth took up
sewing, but there were hard times, for the war stretched out so long,
and it did seem as if the Colonies would never gain their cause. But
they did. Brother Linus was killed, and later on I had a dear friend
lost at sea. Mother died, and we were sort of scattered about till we
came here. Cousin Chilian was very good to us. So you see we haven't
much to leave, but then we haven't any descendant;" and she gave a soft
little laugh. "Elizabeth has mother's gold comb, set with amethysts, and
a brooch, and I have the string of gold beads and some rings. A cousin
in London sent them to grandmother."
"Eunice, you might set the table," said Elizabeth, rather sharply. "I'm
making some fritters. They will taste good this cold night."
"Couldn't I help?" asked Rachel.
"Oh, you must be tired enough without doing any more. It's a good thing
you have all your belongings housed. The garret doesn't leak."
"Yes, I am thankful. I really did not think there was so much."
There was a savory fragrance in the sitting-room. Chilian came in,
looking weary with his long ride.
"It is almost wintry cold," he said, holding his hands to the fire.
"Have you had a nice day, little girl?"
"Yes;" glancing up with a smile.
They did justice to Bessy's nice supper. Chilian had seen Cousin Giles,
who sent remembrances to them all, and was coming up some day to see
Letty Orne's little girl. Chilian found there was a good deal of
business to do. For a while his days of leisure and ease would be over.
Then he brought out a Boston paper and read them some of the news. Miss
Eunice went on with her fringe. Elizabeth was knitting a sock for
Chilian out of fine linen yarn, spun by herself, and she put pretty
open-work stitches all up the instep. For imported articles were still
dear, and there was a pride in the women to do all for themselves that
they could. Cynthia leaned her head on Rachel's lap and went asleep.
"Do hear that rain! The storm has begun in good earnest."
It was rushing like a tramp of soldiers, flinging great sheets against
the closed shutters, and the wind roared in the chimney like some
prisoned spirit.
"Wake up, Cynthia, and say good-night."
Elizabeth watched the child. Her theory was that children should be put
to bed early and not allowed to lie around on any one's lap. There was
always a tussle of wills when you roused them. She drew herself up with
a kind of severe mental bracing and awaited the result, glad Chilian was
there.
Rachel toyed with the hair, patted the soft flushed cheek, and took the
hands in hers.
"Cynthia," she said gently, "Cynthia, dear, wake up."
The child roused, opened her eyes. "I'm so tired," she murmured. "Will
we never be done crossing the wide, wide ocean? And where is Salem?"
"We are there, dear, safe and housed from the storm. You have been
asleep on my knee. Come to bed now. Say good-night."
She stood the little girl up on her feet and put one arm around her.
It was against Elizabeth Leverett's theories that any child should go
off peaceably, with no snarling protest. Chilian raised his book a
little, hoping in the depths of his soul there would be no scene.
"Say good-night."
No child of Puritan training, with the fear of the rod before her eyes,
could have done better. She said good-night in a very sleepy tone, and
slipped her arm about Rachel's waist as they left the room together.
No one made any comment at first. Then Eunice said, in what she made a
casual tone:
"She seems a very tractable child."
"You can't tell by one instance. Children of that age are always
self-willed. And allowing a child to lie around one's lap, when she
should have said her prayers and gone to bed at the proper hour, is a
most reprehensible habit. And I don't suppose she ever says a prayer."
Eunice thought of the daily prayers for her father's safe journey. Would
that be set down as a sort of idolatry?
Chilian picked up his papers; he had grown fastidious, and rarely left
his belongings about to annoy Elizabeth. Eunice rolled up her work and
dropped it in the bag that hung on the post of her chair, straightened
up a few things, stood the logs in the corner and put up the wire
fender, so there should be no danger of fire; while Elizabeth set all
things straight in the kitchen.
Cynthia meanwhile was undressed and mounted the steps to the high bed.
Then she flung her arms about Rachel's neck.
"Oh, come and sleep in my bed to-night!" she cried pleadingly. "It's so
big and lonesome, that I am afraid. I wish it was like your little bed.
They were so cunning on the ship. I don't like this one, where you have
to go upstairs to get in it. Oh, do come!"
And Elizabeth Leverett would have been shocked if she could have seen
the child cuddled up in her attendant's arms. Theoretically, she
believed Holy Writ--"He hath made of one blood all nations." Practically
she made many exceptions.