CHANGES IN THE OLD HOUSE
There was not as much change in household affairs as Cynthia supposed
there would be. Elizabeth had been laid by so long that her place at the
table had been filled by Eunice. Indeed, the former had an unfortunate
habit of running out in the kitchen to see to something, then returning,
pouring a cup of tea, passing some article of food, then disappearing
again. It had grown on her, the belief that she must be everywhere or
something would go wrong. It did annoy Chilian. And no one hustled up
the dishes when you had eaten the last crumb of cake. He liked to linger
over the table.
Eunice was very glad to see her. Rachel took her wrap and her parcel
upstairs, for supper had been waiting. Eunice poured the tea, Rachel
passed the eatables, and they were both eager to hear how it had fared
with the little girl.
"It's been just splendid! Mrs. Stevens is--well, she is grand, and, oh,
you ought to see the beautiful gowns she wears; but she doesn't hold you
way off. You can come up close and lean on her shoulder or her lap. They
were both so good. And, look! Cousin Giles would buy me these two
rings;" and she held up her hand laughingly. "And an elegant necklace. I
told him there were so many things here that were my mother's, but he
wouldn't mind. And slippers! There's white, and a kind of gray, and a
bronze, and a red pair. The little girls wear them when they come from
school and go out to companies. Oh, Cousin Chilian, doesn't any one play
on the spinet? I'd like to learn."
"It's very old. It was mother's. I think we must have a new one. And you
can learn."
"Oh, I shall be so glad."
Mrs. Taft was out in the kitchen. "Now you all go your ways," she began.
"'Taint nothing to clear off the supper table."
They sat out on the front porch. But through the talk Cynthia kept
thinking of poor Cousin Elizabeth and feeling sorry she had not enjoyed
more of the pleasures of life. Was there so much real virtue in making
life hard and cold? But there were some girls in school who were very
much afraid of dancing and reading story-books.
Truth to tell, as Chilian listened, he came to experience a queer
feeling--he would have scouted the idea of jealousy about Cousin Giles,
but that he should have devoted himself so much to her and taken her
about, wanted to buy trinkets for her and all that! There was still a
week of vacation left. They would go somewhere to-morrow.
He had asked Mrs. Taft to stay with them.
"Well, I can't exactly promise. You see, I like to 'wrastle' with things
and fight off the worst. Though I hadn't much hope of 'Lisbeth when the
doctor said her spine was hurt. That's a kind of queer hidden thing that
even doctors can't see into. And the poor creature suffered a good deal.
My, but she was spunky and was bound not to die, and I fought for her
all I could. But the last few weeks there was a change. She liked Cynthy
to come in with the posies and say something bright. And now it's all
done and over, and she was a good upright woman in the old-fashioned
way. So I'll stay a spell till Miss Eunice gets used to the change, and
when I see another good fight somewhere, you mustn't have hard feelings
if I go."
They went out the next morning and found a boat going up to Plum Island.
It was like going to sea to go around Rockport Point. Captain Green
declared "he wan't much on passengers, but he had a nice cabin and an
awning on the for'ard deck, and there was a woman and some children
whose husband living up there had bespoke passage."
It was a fine day with the right sort of wind. Oh, how splendid it was
as they went out oceanward. She had been on the water such a very little
since her long voyage.
Mrs. Halcom had three children and a baby. She was a plain, commonplace
body, who had been living up to North Salem, but her folks were
Newburyport people and she should be glad to get in sight and sound of
them once again. Chilian had brought a book along, Ben Johnson's Plays,
and now and then he met with such a charming line or two he must read it
to her. There were some new poets coming to the fore as well, but he
knew most of the older ones. Oh, he must get back his youth for her
sake. Cousin Giles was ever so much older.
She was interested in the ship as well and talked to Captain Green. He
had so many funny nautical terms, provincialisms, that she had to
inquire what some of the words meant. For most of the early people of
New England had not dropped into the careless modes of speech that were
to come later on and be adopted as a sort of patois. They read their
Bibles a good deal and the older divines, and if their speech was a
little stilted it had a certain correctness. Then Chilian Leverett was
rather fastidious in this respect.
The wind filled the sails and they skimmed along merrily. Now the sea
was green and so clear you could see the fish disporting themselves.
Then the sun tinted it with gold and threw up diamond, amethyst, and
emeralds, taunting one with treasures.
There are new names along the coast, though a few of the old ones
remain. They passed Gloucester, Thatcher's Island, rounded Rockport,
where in the inside harbor they had to unload part of their cargo. Then
on to Plum Island, where the rest were set ashore and the woman and her
children. Some few things were taken on board, but they were to stop at
Gloucester, going down for the return cargo.
They walked about a little and bought some ripe, luscious dewberries and
fruit.
"How queer it would be to live on an island and have to take your boat
when you went anywhere," and Cynthia laughed gayly.
"People do, farther up. There are a great many islands on the coast of
Maine, and fishermen are living on them."
"And in Boston Harbor Cousin Giles took us out. It's funny that they
don't float off. Do they go 'way down to the bottom of the sea?"
"I think they must. Sometimes one does disappear."
"Suppose you were living on it. And you saw the water coming up all
around you and you couldn't get away----"
Her eyes filled with a kind of terror.
"Oh, you would have some boats."
"But if it happened in the night?"
"We won't go and live on an island," he said with a smile.
It was rougher going back, but not bad enough to cause any alarm. The
wind had died down, but the swells were coming in. They stopped at
Gloucester and took on some boxes and great planks, and several pieces
of furniture.
"There's enough old truck in Salem now," declared Captain Green
ungraciously. "'F I had my way I'd turn it out on the Common and put a
match to it. Now there's the Hibbins--came over in 1680 and brought
their housen goods. There wan't any way of makin' 'em then but just
outen rough logs. An' now the old granma'am's died and 'twas her
mother's, I b'lieve, and Mis' Hibbins she's just gone crazy over it. And
they're buildin' a fine new house. Strange how Salem's buildin' up!
Those East Ingy traders do make lots of money. But before I'd have that
old truck in my nice new house!" And the captain gave a snort of
disdain.
He did not dream that before another hundred years had passed there
would be comparative fortunes made in the old truck.
"We'll be a little late gettin' in, but there'll be a moon. Lucky wind
ain't dead agin us."
How good the supper tasted, for Cynthia was very hungry. And then they
went on and on, hugging the shore, the captain said, until it was a kind
of shadowy waving blur, but on the other side most beautiful. It made
her think of coming from India, but she was glad to see the vague
outline of the shore.
The captain was much surprised that she had been such a traveller. He
had been to New York and all around Long Island, and up as far as Nova
Scotia. The Bay of Fundy was wonderful, with its strange dangerous
tides.
"We will go there another summer," Chilian said, holding her hand, and
she returned the soft pressure.
"I was 'most afraid something had happened." Eunice had gone down the
street to meet them. "But it's clear as a bell and no wind to speak of,
and the captains of the coasting vessels know every inch of the way."
"Only just lovely things happened. It's been splendid. But I'm hungry
again. Can't I have a second supper?"
How different she looked from the little girl who had come to him for
care and friendship. And he had been rather unwilling to accept her. She
was growing tall, and--yes, really pretty.
They had one more excursion to Winter Island. Why, it seemed as if they
were building ships enough for the whole world. And there were the
fisheries, and the curious musical singing, not really words, but sort
of detached sounds that floated off in a weird kind of way.
After that school again. She was glad to see the girls, and Madam Torrey
gave her a warm welcome, saying, "Why, Miss Cynthia, how tall you have
grown!"
"I'm very glad," she said smilingly. "All the Leveretts are tall, but I
don't ever want to be very large."
"And she had really been to Boston! Was it so much handsomer than Salem?
They had a real theatre, and parties, and balls. Sadie Adams' big
sister was going to spend the whole winter there."
Chilian Leverett decided to alter his house a little. The two rooms at
the back had always seemed crowded up, though Elizabeth preferred a
separate one so long as they connected. But he had the memory of the
poor drawn face, as he had seen it the morning of her seizure. Wouldn't
Eunice recall it as well?
"I think I will make some alterations," he announced to her. "I'll push
that upstairs room out over the summer kitchen and make it a good deal
larger. While they are doing it, Eunice, you had better go over the
other side and let Mrs. Taft take your room."
She assented, though she thought the house and the rooms were large
enough for the few people in it. Cynthia was interested in her studies,
and the girls, and the new books coming in. For now Sir Walter Scott was
having a great hearing, and there were some new poets.
It was not expected that people would be at all gay when there had been
a death in the family, so Cynthia felt compelled to decline her few
invitations. The new room was finished and made much brighter with the
two added windows. The walls were painted a soft gray, with a warm tint.
There were yards and yards of new rag carpet up in the garret, sewed in
bagging to keep out moths. Of course, it might as well be used. The old
bedstead was taken out and though the one substituted was quite as old,
it was very much prettier, with its carved posts and the tester frame
from which depended white curtains. Some of the other furniture was
changed and it made a very pretty room, so Eunice came back to it very
much pleased, though not quite sure so much comeliness was best for the
soul.
At Christmas Chilian took the little girl down to Boston on a special
invitation. There were two visitors a little older than herself, one
whose father was a representative from the State, the other from New
York.
Washington was not much thought of in those days. Other cities had
yielded their claims unwillingly, and there had been much talk of its
being set in a morass. Mrs. President Adams had described her
infelicities very graphically. The rooms were not finished, and she took
one of the parlors for an adjunct to the laundry to dry the wash in. New
York considered itself the great head for fashion and gayety, Boston for
education and refinement, and she too, had quite an extensive port
trade.
But Giles Leverett thought the little girl from Salem was quite as
pretty and well bred as Boston girls, and really she never seemed at
loss now, and was seldom overtaken with a fit of shyness. They had a
gay, happy time, with a regular dancing party, which filled Cynthia with
the utmost delight.
And though the winter seemed cold and bleak spring came again, as it
always does. Mrs. Taft had gone away to another bad case. Eunice and
Miss Winn kept the house. There had been quite an entertaining episode
with Miss Winn. A very prosperous man, who lived up on the North side,
and had a fine house and five children, asked her to be his wife,
thinking she would make such an excellent mother for girls. It was
supposed at that time that no woman could refuse a good offer of
marriage.
"Consider it well," said Mr. Leverett. "I don't know how we could give
you up, and, of course, you could not take Cynthia. Her father made a
generous provision for you, and I think he chose wisely for his child.
But----"
"I don't know that I want to begin over again," and she gave a peculiar
smile. "Five seems quite an undertaking when you have had only one. And
you have taken so much the charge of her."
"But you see, now she will need a woman's guidance more than ever. She
has outgrown childhood. I see the change in her every day. Eunice could
not supervise her clothes and her pleasures, times have changed so much.
I want her to be very happy and have a life like other girls----"
She thought she could give up the prospect good as it was, won by that
persuasive voice. And she had come to really love Miss Eunice, who was
blossoming in a new phase now that there was nothing to restrain her
natural sweetness.
"I promised her father to do the best I could for her. I love her very
much. I enjoy the home here. I do not think I could be any happier. And
I am so used to owning myself that I do not feel disposed to give up my
liberty. If I had no prospect, I might consider it. And Cynthia will
need some one as she grows older to see that she makes the right sort of
acquaintances and guide her a little."
"Then since all is agreeable we can count on your staying. You cannot
imagine my own thankfulness;" and he pressed her hand cordially.
"Isn't it funny!" cried Cynthia. "Why, Margaret Plummer goes to Madam
Torrey's, but she is very--well, I don't know just how to describe it,
only she said once that they would all make the house too hot to hold a
step-mother. And, oh, dear Rachel, I couldn't bear to have anybody ugly
to you. And then you know we couldn't give you up. Cousin Chilian said
so, and Miss Eunice cried."
Miss Winn winked some tears out of her eyes, though she tried to smile.
It was very comforting to a woman without kith or kin to feel so welcome
in a household.
Cynthia was sitting on the step of the porch one May night when the moon
was making shifting shadows through the trees and silvering the paths.
Chilian was studying the face, and wondering a little what was flitting
through the brain that now and then gave it such intentness.
"What are you thinking about?" he asked.
"Oh, Cousin Chilian!" She flushed a lovely, rosy glow. "Building an air
castle."
"Is it very airy? So far that it would be a journey for another person
to reach it?"
"Oh, part of it is near by. The other is what could be, maybe;"
wistfully.
"Can't I hear about it?"
"Cousin Chilian, why are the parlors always shut up, and why don't you
have people coming and going, and saying bright things, and talking
about the improvements and--and Napoleon and the wars in Europe, and the
new streets and houses, and, oh, ever so many things?"
He looked at the tightly closed shutters. In his father's time there
were visitors, discussions, playing at whist and loo, and little
suppers. She wouldn't care for that, of course. Yet he remembered that
she had been interested in the talks at Boston.
"Why, yes; the rooms could be opened. Only we have grown so at home in
the sitting-room, and you and I in the study."
"At the Dearborns' they keep the house all open and lighted up, as they
do in Boston. And they ask in young people and have plays, and charades,
and funny conundrums----"
Oh, she was young and should have this kind of life. How should he set
about it? He must ask Miss Winn. But he ventured rather timidly, for a
man.
"Would you like--well, some girls in to tea? They ask you so often. And
there is no reason why we should all be hermits."
She sprang up and clasped her arms about his neck.
"Oh, I just should. At first when Cousin Elizabeth went away, and the
lessons were difficult, and it was winter, but now everything seems so
joyous----"
"Why, yes; we must talk to Miss Winn about it, Cynthia," and his voice
dropped to a tender inflection. "I want you to feel this is your home
and you must have all the joy and pleasures of youth. You need never be
afraid. I've been a rather dull old fellow----"
"Oh, you're not old. You're not as old as Cousin Giles, and ever so much
handsomer. The girls at school think," she flushed and paused, "that you
were so good to get me the pony and the pretty wagon." She was going to
say something much more flattering, but delicacy stopped her.
"My dear," he said gravely, "I was glad to make you the gift, but I want
you to know that there is a considerable sum of money of your own, and
your father wished you to enjoy it. Whatever you want and is proper for
you to have, I shall be glad to get, and to do. For I have no little
girl but you."
"Would it be wicked and selfish if I said I was glad?"
The arms tightened a little. How soft they were! And her hair brushed
his cheek. It always seemed to have a delicate subtle perfume.
"No, dear. You and I are curiously alone in the world. I haven't a first
cousin, neither have you."
"And a whole houseful of folks is so nice," she said wistfully.
He had been very well content with his books and his college friends.
But women were different, at least--those who shut out everybody
narrowed their lives fearfully.
"We will try and have some."
"And you must like it. If you do not, the greatest pleasure will be
taken out of it for me."
"I shall like it;" encouragingly.
"How good you are to me. Father said I must love you and obey you, for
you would know what would be best for me."
Then they sat in silence, the contentment of affection.
He spoke to Miss Winn the next day. Afterward they went into the parlor
and opened the shutters. It was stately, grand, and gloomy.
Before Anthony Leverett had thought of sending his little girl to his
care he had forwarded to Chilian a gift "for old remembrance' sake," he
said, of a very handsome Oriental rug. Floors of the "best rooms" had
been polished until you could see your shadow in them. Chilian did not
like the noise or the continual trouble. So he laid down the rug and
bought one for the other room. But the heavy curtains, with their silken
linings, staid up year after year. He noticed those at Giles' house were
much lighter and in soft colors. And his furniture was not so massive.
"I wish we could change things a little. That old sofa might go up in
the new room. It was grand enough in my father's time, with its borders
of brass-headed tacks, and its flat, hard seat. Two of these chairs
might come up in my room."
"I wish we could find a place for the lovely sort of cabinet that
Cynthia's father sent over. I keep it covered from dust and scratches.
She will be glad to have it when she has a house of her own."
"One of the rooms ought to be hers--well, both," he added reflectively.
"The rugs are elegant. Yes, lighter curtains would change it a good
deal. How very handsome the mantels are with all their carving."
They would have adorned a modern house. They went nearly up to the
ceiling with small shelves and nooks, on which were vases and ornaments
such as bring fortunes now.
"And--about the party?"
"Oh, that will be only a girls' tea--her schoolmates where she has been.
Next year will be time enough for the party;" with a little laugh.
So the two spacious rooms were quite remodelled and modernized, and the
gloomy appearance was a thing of the past. Why shouldn't he spend his
money on her? There was no one else.
He had not lost sight of Anthony Drayton. The father had been exigent.
Anthony, being the eldest, must take the farm when he was done with it.
The lad had worked his time out. Cousin Chilian had offered him enough
to take him to a preparatory school where he would be fitted for
college. He had come in to Boston and Chilian had been attracted to the
manly young fellow.
Cynthia was more than delighted with the privilege of the tea party.
"Some of the girls have brothers, but I don't know them very well. I
like Bentley, but he is away at school. And I'd rather have just girls."
Her admiration of the parlor knew no bounds, and it gratified him.
She had been taking lessons on the spinet, but the painting was a great
rival. And this was old, thin, and creaky.
"I have found a much better one in Boston, and the dealer wants this
because it was made in London in 1680. How strenuous some people are
over old things. It has no special interest that I know of, and is
comparatively useless."
The new ones were really the beginning of pianofortes and this one was
very sweet in tone.
Chilian had been very greatly interested in the changes. He began to
cultivate his neighbors a little more. Indeed improvements were taking
place in the town. New streets were laid out, old ones straightened,
fine new houses built. There seemed a sudden outburst of commercial
grandeur. Furnishings of the richest sort were eagerly caught up by the
shoppers, who did not think it necessary to go to Boston and buy goods
that had come in port here. Many of the old wooden houses were replaced
with brick, and the beautiful doorways, windows, roofs, and porches
still attract craftsmen and architects from different sections of the
country, while illustrators find rich material in old Colonial doorways.
Miss Winn consulted Mrs. Upham as to what was proper for a girls' tea.
"Miss Cynthia is old enough now to begin with friends in a simple
manner. The family have lived so quietly that I have not gained much
experience in such matters, and Miss Eunice doesn't feel equal to
managing it. Of course, Miss Cynthia is quite an heiress and will go in
with the best people."
"As the Leveretts always have. There's been many a cap set for Chilian
Leverett and it's been a wonder to every one that he hasn't married. But
there's time enough yet."
She came over and admired the parlors without stint.
"You see," she said confidentially, "Miss Elizabeth was no hand for
company. Some of the older people did the same, shut up the best rooms
lest they should get faded, or something scratched, or worn. And I
suppose he kept giving in; then there was his going in to college, and
that's a sort of man's life. I'm glad he has had something to stir him
up. He has been to several town-meetings. They are talking up
improvements. It's a fine thing to have so many vessels flying Salem
flags in different ports; nigh on to two hundred registered, husband
said. But I told him there ought to be some home interest as well. We
must not let Boston get so far ahead of us, nor forget the young people
are to be the next generation."
"And young people want some pleasure. I do not see how they stood so
much of the gloomy side twenty years ago. I was that surprised when I
first came here."
"Well, there had been a good many things, and all that witchcraft
business. Puritan ways grew sterner and sterner. I can't say that people
were really the better for it, in my way of thinking, and the Saviour
talked a good deal about loving and helping people. He didn't stop to
make them subscribe to all sorts of hard things before he worked a
miracle. But we were going to talk about the tea."
"Yes; about what time now? I want Cynthia to have it just right and
proper;" laughing.
"They come--we'll say about four. They will want to run around and see
things, and I'd have supper about five and they'll sit over it, and
talk, and laugh. Suppose I send my 'Mimy over to pass things and wait.
You would not want Miss Eunice to do it, and you will have other things
on your hands."
"Oh, thank you. You are very kind about it."
"Well, I've had a girl to grow up and be married, and Polly's to leave
school this summer, and next winter she will be setting up for a young
lady. Little cookies and spicenuts are nice and two kinds of cake. You
never give them real tea, you know, though it's called a tea party. And
some cold chicken, or sliced ham. I'd spread the plates of bread, it's
so much less trouble. They'll be sure to enjoy everything. A lot of
girls always do have a good time."