 | The amber gods, and other stories |  |
Knitting Sale-Socks.
HE 'S took 'ith all the sym't'ms, — thet 's one
thing sure! Dretful pain in hez back an'
l'ins, legs feel 's ef they hed telegraph-wires
inside 'em workin' fur dear life, head aches,
face fevered, pulse at 2.40, awful stetch in the side, an'
pressed fur breath. You guess it 's neuralogy, Lurindy?
I do'no' nothing abeout yer high-flyin' names fur rheumatiz.
I don't guess so!”
“But, Aunt Mimy, what do you guess?” asked mother.
“I don' guess nothin' at all, — I nigh abeout know!”
“Well, — you don't think it 's —”
“I on'y wish it mebbe the veryaloud, — I on'y wish it
mebbe. But that 's tew good luck ter happen ter one o'
the name. No, Miss Ruggles, I — think — it 's — the raal
article at first hand.”
“Goodness, Aunt Mimy! what —”
“Yes, I du; an' you 'll all hev it stret through the
femily, every one; you need n't expect ter go scot-free,
Emerline, 'ith all your rosy cheeks; an' you 'll all hev ter
stay in canteen a month ter the least; an' ef you 're none
o' yer pertected by vaticination, I reckon I —”
“Well, Aunt Mimy, if that 's your opinion, I 'll harness
the filly and drive over for Dr. Sprague.”
“Lor'! yer no need ter du thet, Miss Ruggles, — I kin
kerry yer all through jest uz well uz Dr. Sprague, an' a
sight better, ef the truth wuz knowed. I tuk Miss Deacon
Smiler an' her hull femily through the measles an'
hoopin'-cough, like a parcel o' pigs, this fall. — They do
say Jane 's in a poor way an' Nathan'l 's kind o' declinin';
but, uz I know they say it jest ter spite me, I don' so much
mind. You a'n't gwine now, be ye?”
“There's safety in a multitude of counsellors, you
know, Aunt Mimy, and I think on the whole I had best.”
“Wal! ef that 's yer delib'rate ch'ice betwixt Dr.
Sprague an' me, ye kin du ez ye like. I never force my
advice on no one, 'xcept this, — I 'd advise Emerline there
ter throw them socks inter the fire; there 'll never none
o' them be fit ter sell, 'nless she wants ter spread the disease.
Wal, I 'm sorry yer 've concluded ter hev thet old
quack Sprague; never hed no more diplomy 'n me; don'
b'lieve he knows cow-pox from kine, when he sees it.
The poor young man 's hed his last well day, I 'm afeard.
Good-day ter ye; say good-by fur me ter Stephen. I 'll
call ag'in, ef ye happen ter want any one to lay him
eout.”
And, staying to light her little black pipe, she jerked
together the strings of her great scarlet hood, wrapped
her cloak round her like a sentinel at muster, and went
puffing down the hill like a steamboat.
Aunt Mimy Ruggles was n't any relation to us, I
would n't have you think, though our name was Ruggles,
too. Aunt Mimy used to sell herbs, and she rose from
that to taking care of the sick, and so on, till once Dr.
Sprague having proved that death came through her ignorance,
she had to abandon some branches of her art; and
she was generally roaming round the neighborhood, seeking
came into our house just at dinner-time, and mother
asked her to sit by, and then mentioned Cousin Stephen,
and she went up to see him, and so it was.
Now it can't be pleasant for any family to have such a
thing turn up, especially if there 's a pretty girl in it; and
I suppose I was as pretty as the general run, at that time,
— perhaps Cousin Stephen thought a trifle prettier; pink
cheeks, blue eyes, and hair the color and shine of a chestnut
when it bursts the burr, can't be had without one 's
rather pleasant-looking; and then I 'm very good-natured
and quick-tempered, and I 've got a voice for singing, and
I sing in the choir, and a'n't afraid to open my mouth.
I don't look much like Lurindy, to be sure; but then
Lurindy 's an old maid, — as much as twenty-five, — and
don't go to singing-school. — At least, these thoughts ran
through my head as I watched Aunt Mimy down the hill.
— Lurindy a'n't so very pretty, I continued to think, — but
she 's so very good, it makes up. At sewing-circle and
quilting and frolics, I 'm as good as any; but somehow
I 'm never any 'count at home; that 's because Lurindy is
by, at home. Well, Lurindy has a little box in her
drawer, and there 's a letter in it, and an old geranium-leaf,
and a piece of black silk ribbon that looks too broad
for anything but a sailor's necktie, and a shell. I don't
know what she wants to keep such old stuff for, I 'm sure.
We were none so rich, — I suppose I may as well tell
the truth, that we were nearly as poor as poor can be.
We 'd the farm, but it 's such a small one that mother and
I could carry it on ourselves, with now and then a day's
help or a bee, — but a bee 's about as broad as it is long,
— and we raised just enough to help the year out, but
did n't sell. We had a cow and the filly and some sheep;
can't spin, it makes my head swim, — and I knit, knit
socks and sold them. Sometimes I had needles almost
as big as a pipe-stem, and chose the coarse, uneven yarn
of the tags, and then the work went off like machinery.
Why, I can knit two pair, and sometimes three, a day,
and get just as much for them as I do for the nice ones, —
they 're warm. But when I want to knit well, as I did
the day Aunt Mimy was in, I take my best blue needles
and my fine white yarn from the long wool, and it keeps
me from daybreak till sundown to knit one pair. I don't
know why Aunt Jemimy should have said what she did
about my socks; I 'm sure Stephen had n't been any
nearer them than he had to the cabbage-bag Lurindy was
netting, and there was n't such a nice knitter in town as
I, everybody will tell you. She always did seem to take
particular pleasure in hectoring and badgering me to
death.
Well, I was n't going to be put down by Aunt Mimy,
so I made the needles fly while mother was gone for the
doctor. By and by I heard a knock up in Stephen's
room, — I suppose he wanted something, — but Lurindy
did n't hear it, and I did n't so much want to go, so I sat
still and began to count out loud the stitches to my narrowings.
By and by he knocked again.
“Lurindy,” says I, “a'n't that Steve a-knocking?”
“Yes,” says she, — “why don't you go?” — for I had
been tending him a good deal that day.
“Well,” says I, “there 's a number of reasons; one is,
I 'm just binding off my heel.”
Lurindy looked at me a minute, then all at once she
smiled.
“Well, Emmy,” says she, “if you like a smooth skin
went up-stairs herself.
I suppose I had ought to 'a' gone, and I suppose I 'd
ought to wanted to have gone, but somehow it was n't so
much fear as that I did n't want to see Stephen himself
now. So Lurindy stayed up chamber, and was there
when mother and the doctor come. And the doctor said
he feared Aunt Mimy was right, and nobody but mother
and Lurindy must go near Stephen, (you see, he found
Lurindy there,) and they must have as little communication
with me as possible. And his boots creaked down
the back-stairs, and then he went.
Mother came down a little while after, for some water
to put on Stephen's head, which was a good deal worse,
she said; and about the middle of the evening I heard
her crying for me to come and help them hold him, — he
was raving. I did n't go very quick; I said, “Yes, —
just as soon as I 've narrowed off my toe.” And when at
last I pushed back my chair to go, mother called in a disapproving
voice, and said that they 'd got along without
me and I 'd better go to bed.
Well, after I was in bed I began to remember all that
had happened lately. Somehow my thoughts went back
to the first time Cousin Stephen came to our place, when
I was a real little girl, and mother 'd sent me to the well
and I had dropped the bucket in, and he ran straight
down the green slippery stones and brought it up, laughing.
Then I remembered how we 'd birds-nested together,
and nutted, and come home on the hay-carts, and how
we 'd been in every kind of fun and danger together; and
how, when my new Portsmouth lawn took fire, at Martha
Smith's apple-paring, he caught me right in his arms and
squeezed out the fire with his own hands; and how, when
son James, he stepped aside till I saw what a nincom Jim
Hooper was, and then he appeared as if nothing had happened,
and was just as good as ever; and how, when the
ice broke on Deacon Smith's pond, and I fell in, and the
other boys were all afraid, Steve came and saved my life
again at risk of his own; and how he always seemed to
think the earth was n't good enough for me to walk on;
and how I 'd wished, time and again, I might have some
way to pay him back; and here it was, and I 'd failed
him. Then I remembered how I 'd been to his place in
Berkshire, — a rich old farm, with an orchard that smelled
like the Spice Islands in the geography, with apples and
pears and quinces and peaches and cherries and plums, —
and how Stephen's mother, Aunt Emeline, had been as
kind to me as one's own mother could be. But now Aunt
Emeline and Uncle 'Siah were dead, and Stephen came a
good deal oftener over the border than he 'd any right to.
To-day, he brought some of those new red-streaks, and
wanted mother to try them; next time, they 'd made a
lot more maple-sugar on his place than he wanted; and
next time, he thought mother's corn might need hoeing,
or it was fine weather to get the grass in: I don't know
what we should have done without him. Then I thought
how Stephen looked, the day he was pall-bearer to Charles
Payson, who was killed sudden by a fall, — so solemn
and pale, nowise craven, but just up to the occasion, so
that, when the other girls burst out crying at sight of the
coffin and at thought of Charlie, I cried, too, — but it was
only because Stephen looked so beautiful. Then I remembered
how he looked the other day when he came,
his cheeks were so red with the wind, and his hair, those
bright curls, was all blown about, and he laughed with
teeth; — and now his beauty would be spoiled, and
he 'd never care for me again, seeing I had n't cared
for him. And the wind began to come up; and it was
so lonesome and desolate in that little bed-room down
stairs, I felt as if we were all buried alive; and I
could n't get to sleep; and when the sleet and snow
began to rattle on the pane, I thought there was n't
any one to see me and I 'd better cry to keep it company;
and so I sobbed off to dreaming at last, and woke
at sunrise and found it still snowing.
Next morning, I heard mother stepping across the
kitchen, and when I came out, she said Lurindy 'd just
gone to sleep; they 'd had a shocking night. So I went
and watered the creatures and milked Brindle, and got
mother a nice little breakfast, and made Stephen some
gruel. And then I was going to ask mother if I 'd done
so very wrong in letting Lurindy nurse Stephen, instead
of me; and then I saw she was n't thinking about that;
and besides, there did n't really seem to be any reason
why she should n't; — she was a great deal older than I,
and so it was more proper; and then Stephen had n't
ever said anything to me that should give me a peculiar
right to nurse him more than other folks. So I just
cleared away the things, made everything shine like a
pin, and took my knitting. I 'd no sooner got the seam
set than I was called to send something up on a contrivance
mother 'd rigged in the back-entry over a pulley.
And then I had to make a red flag, and find a stick, and
hang it out of the window by which there were the most
passers. Well, I did it; but I did n't hurry, — I did n't
get the flag out till afternoon; somehow I hated to, it always
seemed such a low-lived disease, and I was mortified
so long, — though goodness knows I did n't want to see
anybody. Well, when that was done, Lurindy came
down, and I had to get her something to eat, and then
she went up-stairs, and mother took her turn for some
sleep; and there were the creatures to feed again, and
what with putting on, and taking off, and tending fires,
and doing errands, and the night's milking, and clearing
the paths, I did n't knit another stitch that day, and was
glad enough, when night came, to go to bed myself.
Well, so we went on for two or three days. I 'd got
my second sock pretty well along in that time, — just
think! half a week knitting half a sock! — and was setting
the heel, when in came Aunt Mimy.
“I ain't afeard on it,” says she; “don't you be skeert.
I jest stepped in ter see ef the young man wuz approachin'
his eend.”
“No,” said I, “he is n't, any more than you are, Aunt
Mimy.”
“Any more 'n I be?” she answered. “Don't you lose
yer temper, Emerline. We 're all approachin' it, but some
gits a leetle ahead; it ain't no disgrace, ez I knows on.
What yer doin' of? Knittin' sale-socks yet? and, my
gracious! still ter work on the same pair! You 'll make
yer fortin', Emerline!”
I did n't say anything, I was so provoked.
“I don' b'lieve you know heow ter take the turns w'en
yer mother a'n't by to help,” she continued. “Can't ye
take up the heel? Widden ev'ry fourth. Here, let me!
You won't? Wal, I alluz knowed you wuz mighty techy,
Emerline Ruggles, but ye no need to fling away in thet
style. Neow I 'll advise ye ter let socks alone; they 're
tew intricate fur sech ez you. Mitt'ns is jest abeout
mitt'ns, put up on needles larger 'n them o' yourn be, an'
by this rule. Seventeen reounds in the wrist, — tew an'
one 's the best seam —”
“Now, Miss Jemimy, just as if I did n't know how to
knit mittens!”
“Wal, it seems you don't,” said she, “though I don'
deny but you may know heow ter give 'em; an' ez I alluz
like ter du w'at good I kin, I 'm gwine ter show ye.”
“Show away,” says I; “but I 'll be bound, I 've knit
and sold and eaten up more mittens than ever you put
your hands in!”
“Du tell! I 'm glad to ha' heern you 've got such a
good digestion,” says she, hunting up a piece of paper to
light her pipe. “Wal, ez I wuz sayin',” says she, “tew
an' one 's the best seam, handiest an' 'lastickest; twenty
stetches to a needle, cast up so loose thet the fust one 's
ter one eend uv the needle an' the last ter t' other eend, —
thet gives a good pull.”
“I guess your smoke will hurt Stephen's head,” said I,
thinking to change her ideas.
“Oh, don't you bother abeout Stephen's head; ef it
can 't stan' thet, 't ain't good for much. Wal, an' then
you set yer thumb an' knit plain, 'xcept a seam-stetch
each side uv yer thumb; an' you widden tew stetches,
one each side, — s'pose ye know heow ter widden? an'
narry? — ev'ry third reound, tell yer 've got nineteen
stetches across yer thumb; then ye knit, 'ithout widdenin',
a matter uv seven or eight reounds more, — you listenin',
Emerline?”
“Lor', Miss Jemimy, don't you know better than to
ask questions when I 'm counting? Now I 've got to go
and begin all over again.”
“Highty-tighty, Miss! You 're a weak sister, ef ye
can't ceount an' chat, tew. Wal, ter make a long matter
short, then ye drop yer thumb onter some thread an'
cast up seven stetches an' knit reound fur yer hand, an'
every other time you narry them seven stetches away ter
one, fur the gore.”
“Dear me, Aunt Mimy! do be quiet a minute! I believe
mother 's a-calling.”
“I 'll see,” said Aunt Mimy, — and she stepped to the
door and listened.
“No,” says she, coming back on tiptoe, — “an' you
did n't think you heern any one neither. It 's ruther
small work fur to be foolin' an old woman. Hows 'ever,
I don' cherish grudges; so, ez I wuz gwine ter say, ye
knit thirty-six reounds above wheer ye dropped yer
thumb, an' then ye toe off in ev'ry fifth stetch, an' du it
reg'lar, Emerline; an' then take up yer thumb on tew
needles, an' on t' other you pick up the stetches I told yer
ter cast up, an' knit twelve reounds, an' thumb off 'ith
narryin' ev'ry third —”
“Well, Miss Jemimy, I guess I shall know how to
knit mittens, now!”
“Ef ye don't, 't ain't my fault. When you 've fastened
off the eends, you roll 'em up in a damp towel, an'
press 'em 'ith a middlin' warm iron on the wrong side.
There!”
After this, Miss Mimy smoked awhile in silence, satisfied
and gratified. At last she knocked the ashes out
of her pipe.
“Wal,” says she, “I must be onter my feet. I 'd liked
ter seen yer ma, but I won't disturb her, an' you can du
ez well. Yer ma promised me a mess o' tea, an' I guess
I may ez well take it neow ez any day.”
“Why, Miss Mimy,” said I, “there a'n't above four or
five messes left, and we can't get any more till I sell my
socks.”
“Wal, never mind, then, you can le' me take one, an'
mebbe I kin make up the rest at Miss Smilers's.”
So I went into the pantry to get it, and Aunt Mimy
followed me, of course.
“Them 's nice-lookin' apples,” said she. “Come from
Stephen's place? Poor young man, he won't never want
'em! S'pose he won't hev no objection ter my tryin' a
dozen,” — and she dropped that number into her great
pocket.
“Nice-lookin' butter, tew,” said she. “Own churnin'?
Wal, you kin du sunthin', Emerline. W'en I wuz a
heousekeeper, I used ter keep the femily in butter an' sell
enough to Miss Smith, — she thet wuz Mary Breown —
ter buy our shoes, all off uv one ceow. S'pose I take
this pat?”
I was kind of dumfoundered at first; I forgot Aunt
Mimy was the biggest beggar in Rockingham County.
“No,” says I, as soon as I got my breath, “I sha'n't
suppose any such thing. You 're as well able to make
your butter as I am to make it for you.”
“Wal, Emerline Ruggles! I alluz knowed you wus
close ez the bark uv a tree; it 's jest yer father's narrercontracted
sperrit; you don' favor yer ma a speck. She 's
ez free ez water.”
“If mother 's a mind to give away her eye-teeth, it
don't follow that I should,” said I; “and I won't give you
another atom; and you just clear out!”
“Wal, you kin keep yer butter, sence you 're so sot on
it, an' I 'll take a leetle dust o' pork instead.”
“Let 's see you take it!” said I.
“I guess I 'll speak 'ith yer ma. I shall git a consider'ble
bigger piece, though I don't like ter add t' 'er
steps.”
“Now look here, Miss Mimy,” says I, — “if you 'll
promise not to ask for another thing, and to go right
away, I 'll get you a piece of pork.”
So I went down cellar, and fished round in the pork-barrel
and found quite a respectable piece. Coming up,
just as my head got level with the floor, what should I
see but Miss Jemimy pour all the sugar into her bag and
whip the bowl back on the shelf, and turn round and face
me as innocent as Moses in the bulrushes. After she had
taken the pork, she looked round a minute and said, —
“Wal, arter all, I nigh upon forgot my arrant. Here 's
a letter they giv' me for Lurindy, at the post-office;
ev'rybody else 's afeard ter come up here.” And by
and by she brought it up from under all she 'd stowed
away there. “Thet jest leaves room,” says she.
“For what?” says I.
“Fur tew or three uv them eggs.”
I put them into her bag and said, “Now you remember
your promise, Aunt Mimy!”
“Lor' sakes!” says she, “you 're in a mighty herry ter
git me off. Neow you 've got all you kin out uv me, the
letter, 'n' the mitt'ns, I may go, may I? I niver see a
young gal so furrard 'ith her elders in all my born days!
I think Stephen Lee 's well quit uv ye, fur my part, ef he
hed to die ter du it. I don't 'xpect ye ter thank me fur
w'at instruction I gi'n ye; — there 's some folks I niver
du 'xpect nothin' from; you can't make a silk pus out uv
a sow's ear. W'at ye got thet red flag out the keepin'room
winder fur? 'Cause Lurindy 's nussin' Stephen?
Wal, good-day!”
And so Aunt Mimy disappeared, and the pat of butter
with her.
I called Lurindy and gave her the letter, and after a
little while I heard my name, and Lurindy was sitting on
the top of the stairs with her head on her knees, and
mother was leaning over the banisters. Pretty soon
Lurindy lifted up her head, and I saw she had been crying,
and between the two I made out that Lurindy 'd
been engaged a good while to John Talbot, who sailed
out of Salem on long voyages to India and China; and
that now he 'd come home, sick with a fever, and was
lying at the house of his aunt, who was n't well herself;
and as he 'd given all his money to help a shipmate in
trouble, she could n't hire him a nurse, and there he was;
and, finally, she 'd consider it a great favor, if Lurindy
would come down and help her.
Now Lurindy 'd have gone at once, only she 'd been
about Stephen, so that she 'd certainly carry the contagion,
and might be taken sick herself, as soon as she arrived;
and mother could n't go and take care of John, for
the same reason; and there was nobody but me. Lurindy
had a half-eagle that John had given her once to
keep; and I got a little bundle together and took all the
precautions Dr. Sprague advised; and he drove me off in
his sleigh, and said, as he was going about sixteen miles
to see a patient, he 'd put me on the cars at the nearest
station. Well, he stopped a minute at the post-office, and
when he came out he had another letter for Lurindy. I
took it, and, after a moment, concluded I' d better read it.
“What are you about?” says the doctor; “your name
is n't Lurindy, is it?”
“I wish it was,” says I, “and then I should n't be
here.”
“Oh! you 're sorry to leave Stephen?” says he.
“Well, you can comfort yourself with reflecting that
Lurindy 's a great deal the best nurse.”
As if that was any comfort! If Lurinda was the best
nurse, she 'd ought to have had the privilege of taking
care of her own lover, and not of other folks's. Besides,
for all I knew, Stephen would be dead before ever I
came back, and here I was going away and leaving him!
Well, I did n't feel so very bright; so I read the letter.
The doctor asked me what ailed John Talbot. I thought,
if I told him that Miss Jane Talbot wrote now so that
Lurindy should n't come, and that he was sick just as
Stephen was, he would n't let me go. So I said I supposed
he 'd burnt his mouth, like the man in the South,
eating cold pudding and porridge; men always cried out
at a scratch. And he said, “Oh, do they?” and laughed.
After about two hours' driving, there came a scream as
if all the panthers in Coos County were let loose to yell,
and directly we stopped at a little place where a red flag
was hung out. I asked the doctor if they 'd got the
small-pox here, too; but before he could answer, the
thunder running along the ground deafened me, and in a
minute he had put me inside the cars and was off.
I was determined I would n't appear green before so
many folks, though I 'd never seen the cars before; so I
took my seat, and paid my fare to Old Salem, and looked
about me. Pretty soon a woman came bustling in from
somewhere, and took the seat beside me. There she
fidgeted round so that I thought I should have flown.
“Miss,” says she, at length, “will you close your window?
I never travel with a window open; my health 's
delicate.”
I tried to shut it, but it would n't go up or down, till a
slid, like Signor Blitz. It did seem as if everything
about the cars went by miracle. I thanked him, but I
found afterward it would have been more polite not to
have spoken. After that woman had done everything
she could think of to plague and annoy the whole neighborhood,
she got out at Ipswich, and somebody met her
that looked just like our sheriff; and I should n't be a bit
surprised to hear that she 'd gone to jail. When she got
out, somebody else got in, and took the same seat.
“Miss,” says she, “will you have the goodness to open
your window? this air is stifling.”
And she did everything that the other woman did n't
do. When she found I would n't talk, she turned to the
young gentleman and lady that sat opposite, and that
looked as if there was a great deal too much company in
the cars, and found they would n't talk either, and at last
she caught the conductor and made him talk.
All this while we were swooping over the country in
the most terrific manner. I thought how frightened
mother and Lurindy 'd be, if they should see me. It
was no use trying to count the cattle or watch the fences,
and the birch-trees danced rigadoons enough to make one
dizzy, and we dashed through everybody's back-yard, and
ran so close up to the kitchens that we could have seen
what they had for dinner, if we had stayed long enough;
and finally I made up my mind that the engine had run
away with the driver, and John Talbot would never have
me to tend him; and I began to wonder, as I saw the
sparks and cinders and great clouds of steam and smoke,
if those tornadoes that smash round so out West in the
newspapers were n't just passenger-trains, like us, off the
track, when all at once it grew as dark as midnight.
“Now,” says I to myself, “it 's certain. They 've run
the thing into the ground. However, we can 't go long
now.”
And just as I was thinking about Korah and his troop,
I remembered what the Doctor had told me about Salem
Tunnel, and it began to grow lighter, and we began to go
slower, and I picked up my wits and looked about me
again. I had only time to notice that the young gentleman
and lady looked very much relieved, and to shake
my shawl from the clutch of the woman beside me, when
we stopped at Salem, safe and sound.
I had a good deal of trouble to find Miss Talbot's house,
but find it I did; and the first thing she gave me was a
scolding for coming, thinking I was Lurindy, and her
tongue was n't much cooler when she found I was n't;
and then finally she said, as long as I was there, I might
stay; and I went right up to see John, and a sight he
was!
It was about three months I stayed and took the greater
part of the care of him. Sometimes in the midnight, when
he was quite beside himself, and dreaming out loud, it was
about as good as a story-book to hear him. He told me
of some great Indian cities where there were men in
white, with skins swarthier than old red Guinea gold,
and with great shawls all wrought in palm-leaves of gold
and crimson bound on their heads, who could sink a ship
with their lacs of rupees; and of islands where the shores
came down to the water's edge and unrolled like a green
ribbon, and brooks came sparkling down behind them, and
great trees hung above like banners, and beautiful women
came off on rafts and skiffs loaded with fruit, — the islands
set like jewels on the back of the sea, and the sky covered
them with light and hung above them bluer than the hangings
out on the air to entice the sailor back, — islands where
night never came. Sometimes, when he talked on so, I
remembered that I 'd felt rather touched up when I found
that Lurindy 'd had a sweetheart all this time, and mother
knew it, and they 'd never told me, and I wondered how
it happened. Now it came across me, that, quite a number
of years before, Lurindy had gone to Salem and
worked in the mills. She did n't stay long, because it
did n't agree with her, — the neighbors said, because she
was lazy. Lurindy lazy, indeed! There a'n't one of us
knows how to spell the first syllable of that word. But
that 's where she must have got acquainted with John
Talbot. He 'd been up at our place, too; but I was over
to Aunt Emeline's, it seems. But one night, about this
time, I thought he was dying, he 'd got so very low; and
I thought how dreadful it was for Lurindy never to see
him again, and how it was all my selfish fault, and how
maybe he would n't 'a' died, if he 'd had her to have taken
care of him; and I suppose no convicted felon ever endured
more remorse than I did, sitting and watching that
dying man all that long and lonely night. But with the
morning he was better, — they always are a great deal
worse when they are getting well from it; he laughed
when the doctor came, and said he guessed he 'd weathered
that gale; and by and by he got well.
He meant to have gone up and seen Lurindy, after all,
but his ship was ready for sea just as he was; and I
thought it was about as well, for he was n't looking his
prettiest. And so he declared I was the neatest little
trimmer that ever trod water, and he believed he should
know a Ruggles by the cut of her jib, (I wonder if he 'd
have known Aunt Mimy,) and if ever he went master,
And he kissed me on both cheeks, and looked serious
enough when he sent his love to Lurindy, and went
away; and no sooner was he gone than Miss Talbot said
I 'd better have the doctor myself; and I did n't sit up
again for about three weeks.
All this time I had n't heard a word from home, and,
for all I knew, Stephen might be dead and buried. I
did n't feel so very light-hearted, you may be sure, when
one day Miss Talbot brought me a letter. It was from
mother, and it seemed Stephen 'd only had a bad fever,
and had been up and gone home for more than a week.
So I wrote back, as soon as I could, all about John, and
how he 'd gone to sea again, and how Miss Talbot, who
set sights by John, was rather lonely, and I thought I 'd
keep her company a little longer, and try a spell in the
mills, seeing that our neighbors did n't think a girl had
been properly accomplished till she 'd had a term or two in
the factory. The fact was, I did n't want to go home just
then; I thought, maybe, if I waited a bit, my face would
get back to looking as it used to. So I worked in the
piece-room, light work and good pay, sent mother and
Lurindy part of my wages, and paid my board to Miss
Talbot. She 'd become quite attached to me, and I to
her, for all she was such an old-maidish thing; but I 'd
got to thinking an old maid was n't such a very bad thing,
after all. Fourth of July came at last, and the mills were
closed, and I went with some of the other girls on an excursion
down the harbor; and when I got home, Miss
Talbot told me my Cousin Stephen had been down to see
me, and had been obliged to go home in the last train.
I wondered why Stephen did n't stay, and then it flashed
upon me that she 'd told him all about it, and he did n't
suspected why I did n't come home, and now, thinks I,
they know; but I asked no questions.
When September came, I saw it was n't any use delaying,
and I might as well go back to knitting sale-socks
then as any time. However, I did n't go till October.
You need n't think I 'd stayed away from the farm all
that time, while the tender things were opening, the tiny
top-heavy beans pushing up, the garden-sarse greening,
the little grass-blades two and two, — while all the young
creatures were coming forward, the chickens breaking the
shell, and the gosling-storm brewing and dealing destruction,
— while the strawberries were growing ripe and red
up in the high field, and the hay and clover were getting
in, — you need n't think I 'd stayed from all that had been
pleasant in my life, without many a good heart-ache; and
when at last I saw the dear old gray house again, all
weather-beaten and homely, standing there with its well-sweep
among the elms, I fairly cried. Mother and Lurindy
ran out to meet me, when they saw the stage stop,
and after we got into the house it seemed as if they would
never get done kissing me. And mother stirred round
and made hot cream-biscuits for tea, and got the best
china, and we sat up till nigh midnight, talking, and I had
to tell everything John did and said and thought and
looked, over and over again.
By and by I unpacked my trunk, and there was a little
parcel in the bottom of it, and I pulled it up.
“There, Lurindy,” says I, “John told me to tell you to
have your wedding-dress ready against he came home, —
he 's gone mate, — and here it is.” And I unrolled the
neatest brown silk you ever saw, just fit for Lurindy,
she 's so pale and genteel, and threw it into her lap. I 'd
stayed the other month to get enough to buy it.
The first thing Lurindy did, by way of thanks, was to
burst into tears and declare she never could take it, that
she never should marry now; and the more I urged her,
the more she cried. But at last she said she 'd accept it
conditionally, — and the condition was, I should be married
when she was.
“Well,” says I, “agreed, — if you 'll provide the necessary
article; because I can't very well marry my shadow,
and I don't know any one else that would be fool enough
to have such a little fright.”
At that Lurindy felt all the worse, and it took all the
spirits I had to build up hers and mother's. I suppose I
was sorry to see they felt so bad, (and they had n't meant
that I should,) because it gave the finishing stroke to my
conviction; and after I was in bed, I grew sorrier still;
and if I cried, 't was n't on account of myself, but I
saw how Lurindy 'd always feel self-accused, though she
had n't ought to, whenever she looked at me, and how all
her life she 'd feel my scarred face like a weight on her
happiness, and think I owed it to John, and how intolerable
such an obligation, though it was only a fancied one,
would be; and I saw, too, that it all came from my not
going up-stairs that first time when Stephen knocked, —
because if I had, I should have been there when the
doctor came, and Lurindy 'd have gone to have taken care
of John herself, and it would have been her face that was
ruined instead of mine; and though it was a great deal
better that it should be mine, still she 'd have been easier
in her mind; — and so thinking and worrying, I fell
asleep.
Next day was baking-day, and Stephen was coming in
the afternoon, and it was almost five o'clock when we got
cleared away, and I went up-stairs to change my dress.
and ruffles now, so I just put on my brown gingham and
a white linen collar; but Lurindy came and tied a pink
ribbon at my throat, and fixed my hair herself, and looked
down and said, —
“Well, I don't see but you 're about as pretty as ever
you was.”
That almost finished me; but I contrived to laugh, and
got down-stairs. Mother 'd run over to the village to get
some yarn to knit up, for she 'd used all our own wool.
It was getting dark, and I had just brought in another
log, and hung the kettle on the crane. The log had n't
taken fire yet, and there was only a light glimmer, from
the coals, on the ceiling. I heard the back-door latch
click, and thought it was mother, and commenced humming
in the middle of a tune, as if I 'd been humming the
rest and had just reached that part; but the figure standing
there was a sight too tall for mother.
“Oh, Stephen,” says I, — and my heart jumped in my
throat, but I just swallowed it down, and thanked Heaven
that the evening was so dark, — “is that you?”
“Yes,” says he, stepping forward, and putting out his
hands, and making as if he would kiss me. Just for a
minute I hung back, then I went and gave him my hand
in a careless way.
“Yes,” says he; “and I can't say that you seem so
very glad to see me.”
“Oh, yes,” I answered, “I am glad. Did you drive
over?”
“Well,” says he, “maybe you are; but I should call it
a mighty cool reception, after almost a year's absence.
However, I suppose it 's the best manners not to show
any cordiality; you 've had a chance to learn more
country.”
I was a little struck up by Stephen's running on so, —
he was generally so quiet, and said so little, and then in
such short sentences. But in a minute I reckoned he
thought I was nervous, and was trying to put me at my
ease, — and he knew of old that the best way to do that
was to rouse my temper.
“I ha'n't seen anybody at Salem better mannered 'n
mother and Lurindy,” said I.
“Come home for Thanksgiving?” asked Stephen,
hanging up his coat.
I kept still a minute, for I could n't for the life of me
see what I had to give thanks for. Then it came over
me what a cheery, comfortable home this was, and how
Stephen would always be my kind, warm-hearted friend,
and how thanksful I ought to be that my life had been
spared, and that I was useful, that I 'd made such good
friends as I had down to Salem, and that I was n't soured
against all mankind on account of my misfortune.
“Yes, Stephen,” says I, “I 've come home for Thanksgiving;
and I have a great deal to give thanks for.”
“So have I,” said he.
“Stephen,” says I, “I don't exactly know, but I
should n't wonder if I 'd had a change of heart.”
“Don't know of anybody that needed it less,” says
Stephen, warming his hands. “However, if it makes
you any more comfortable, I sha'n't object; except
the part of it that belongs to me, — I sha'n't have that
changed.”
The fire 'd begun to brighten now, and the room was
red and pleasant-looking; still I knew he could n't see
me plainly, and I waited a minute, and lingered round,
I hated to break the old way of things; and then I took
the tongs and blew a coal and lighted the dip and held it
up, as if I was looking for something. Pretty soon I
found it; it was a skein of linen thread I was going to
wind for Lurindy. Then I got the swifts and came and
sat down in front of the candle.
“There,” says I, “the swifts is broken. What shall
I do?”
“I 'll hold the thread, if that 's your trouble,” says
Stephen, and came and sat opposite to me while I
wound.
I wondered whether he was looking at me, but I did n't
durst look up, — and then I could n't, if my life had depended
upon it. At last we came to the end; then I
managed to get a glance edgeways. He had n't been
looking at all, I don't believe, till that very moment,
when he raised his eyes.
“Are folks always so sober, when they 've had a change
of heart?” he asked, with his pleasant smile.
“They are, when they 've had a change of face,” I was
going to say; but just then mother came in with her
bundle of yarn, and Lurindy came down, and there was
such a deal of welcoming and talking, that I slipped
round and laid the table, and had the tea made before
they thought of it. I 'd about made up my mind now
that Stephen would act as if nothing had happened, and
pretend to like me just the same, because he was so tender-hearted
and could n't bear to hurt my feelings nor
anybody's; and I 'd made up my mind, too, that, as soon
as he gave me a chance, I 'd tell him I was set against
marriage: leastwise, I would n't have him, because I
would n't have any man marry me out of pity; and the
ugly face on him forever. So, you see, I had quite resolved,
that, cost me what it would, I 'd say “No,” if
Stephen asked me. Well, it 's a very good thing to make
resolutions; but it 's a great deal better to break them,
sometimes.
Having come to my conclusions, I grew as merry as
any of them. And when mother put two spoons into
Stephen's cup, I told him he was going to have a present.
And he said he guessed he knew what it was; and I said
it must be a mitten, I 'd heard that Martha Smith had
taken to knitting lately; and he confounded Martha
Smith. Mother and Lurindy were very busy talking
about the yarn, and how Mr. Fisher wanted the next
socks knit; and Stephen asked me what that dish was
beside me. I said, it was lemon-tart, and the top-crust
was made of kisses, and would he have some? And he
said, he did n't care for anybody's kisses but mine, and he
believed he would n't. And I told him the receipt of this
came from the Queen's own kitchen. And he said, he
did n't know that the Queen of England was any better
than the Queen of Hearts. Then I said, I supposed he
remembered how the latter lady was served by the Knave
of Hearts in “Mother Goose”? And he replied that he
was n't going to be Jack-at-a-pinch for anybody. And so
on, till mother finished tea.
After tea, I sat up to the table and ended some barley-trimming
that I 'd just learned how to make; and as the
little kernels came tumbling out from under my fingers,
Stephen sat beside and watched them as if it was a field
of barley, growing, reaped, and threshed under his eyes.
By and by I finished it; and then, rummaging round in
the table-drawer, I found the sock that I was knitting,
ago.
“Well, if that is n't lucky!” said I. And I sat down
on a stool by the fireside, determined to finish that sock
that night; and no sooner had I set the needles to dancing,
like those in the fairy-story, than open came the
kitchen-door again, and in, out of the dark, stepped Aunt
Mimy.
“Good-evenin', Miss Ruggles!” says she. “Heow d' ye
du, Emerline? hope yer gwine ter stay ter hum a spell.
Why, Stephen, 's this you? Quite a femily-party, I declare
fur 't! Wal, Miss Ruggles, I got kind o' tired settin'
in the dark, an', ez I looked out an' see the dips blazin'
in yer winder, thinks, I, I 'll jest run up an' see w'at's
ter pay.”
“Why, there 's only one dip,” says Lurindy.
“Wal, that 's better 'n none,” answered Miss Mimy.
I had enough of the old Adam left in me to be riled at
her way of begging as much as ever I was; but I saw
that Stephen was amused; he had n't ever happened to
be round, when Aunt Mimy was at her tricks.
“No, Miss Ruggles,” continued she, “I thank the Lord
I ha'n't got a complainin' sperrit, an' hed jest ez lieves
see by my neighbor's dip ez my own, an', mebbe ye 'll
say, a sight lieveser.”
And then Miss Mimy pulled out a stocking without beginning
or end, and began to knit as fast as she could rattle,
after she 'd fixed one needle in a chicken-bone, and
pinned the chicken-bone to her side.
“Wal, Emerline,” says she, “I s'pose ye 've got so
grand down ter the mills, thet, w'at 'ith yer looms an'
machines an' tic-doloreux, ye won't hev nothin' ter say ter
the old way uv knittin' socks.”
“Does this look like it, Aunt Mimy?” says I, shaking
my needles by way of answer. “I 'm going to finish this
pair to-night.”
“Oh,” says she, “you be, be you? Wal, ef I don't
e'en-a'most vum it 's the same one! ef ye ha'n't been
nigh abeout a hull year a-knittin' one pair uv socks!”
“How do you know they 're the same pair?” asked I.
“By a mark I see you sot in 'em ter the top, ef ye want
ter know, afore I thought it would be hangin' by the eyelids
the rest uv yer days. Wal, I never 'xpected ye 'd
be much help ter yer mother; ye 're tew fond uv hikin'
reound the village.”
“Indeed, Miss Mimy,” said Lurindy, kind of indignant,
“she 's always been the greatest help to mother.”
“I don't know how I should have made both ends meet
this year, if it had n't been for her wages,” said mother.
Stephen was whittling Miss Mimy's portrait on the end
of a stick, and laughing. I was provoked with mother
and Lurindy for answering the thing, and was just going
to speak up, when I caught Stephen's eye, and thought
better of it. Pretty soon Aunt Mimy produced a bundle
of herbs from her pocket, and laid them on the table.
“Oh, thank you, Aunt Jemimy,” says mother. “Pennyroyal
and catnip 's always acceptable.”
“Yes,” said Aunt Mimy. “An' I 'll take my pay in
some uv yer dried apples. Heow much does Fisher give
fur socks, Miss Ruggles?” she asked, directly.
“Fifty cents and I find, — fifteen and he finds.”
“An' ye take it out uv the store? Varry reasonable.
I wuz thinkin' uv tyrin' my han' myself; — business 's
ruther dull, folks onkimmon well this fall. Heow many
strings yer gwine ter give me fur the yarbs?”
Then mother went up garret to get the apples and
needles, and went after her. Stephen 'd just
heaped the fire, and the big blaze was tumbling up
the chimney, and Miss Mimy lowered her head and
looked over her great horn-bowed spectacles at me.
“Wal, Emerline Ruggles,” says she, after a while, going
back to her work, “you 've lost all your pink cheeks!”
I suppose it took me rather sudden, for all at once a
tear sprung and fell right down my work. I saw it glistening
on the bright needles a minute, and then my eyes
filmed so that I felt there was more coming, and I bent
down to the fire and made believe count my narrowings.
After all, Aunt Mimy was kind of privileged by everybody
to say what she pleased. But Stephen did n't do as
every one did, always.
“Emmie's beauty was n't all in her pink cheeks, Miss
Mimy,” I heard him say, as I went into the back-entry to
ask mother to bring down the mate of my sock.
“Wal, wherever it was, there 's precious little of it
left!” said she, angry at being took up, which maybe
she never was before in her life.
“You don't agree with her friends,” said he, cutting in
the stick the great mole on the side of her nose; “they
all think she 's got more than ever she had.”
Mother tossed me down the mate, and I went back.
“Young folks,” says Aunt Mimy, after two or three
minutes' silence, “did ye ever hear tell o' 'Miah Kemp?”
“Any connection of old Parson Kemp in the other
parish?” asked Stephen.
“Yes,” said Aunt Mimy, — “his brother. Wal, w'en
I wuz a young gal, livin' ter hum, — my father wuz ez
wealthy ez any farmer thereabouts, ye know, — I used
to keep company 'ith 'Miah Kemp. 'Miah was a stun-mason,
boy there tew, — though I say it thet should n't
say it, — he hed close-curlin' black hair, an' an arm it
done ye good to lean on. Wal, one spring night, — I
mind it well, — we wuz walkin' deown the lane together,
an' the wind wuz blowin', the laylocks wuz in bloom, an'
all over-head the lane wuz rustlin' 'ith the great purple
plumes in the moonlight, an' the air wuz sweeter 'ith their
breath than any air I 've ever taken sence, an' ez we wuz
walkin', 'Miah wuz askin' me fur ter fix eour weddin'-day.
Wal, w'en he left me at the bars, I agreed we 'd be merried
the fifteenth day uv July comin', an' I walked hum;
an' I mind heow I wondered ef Eve wuz so happy in
Paradise, or ef Paradise wuz half so beautiful ez thet
scented lane. The nex' mornin', ez I wuz milkin', the
ceow tuk fright an' begun ter cut up, an' she cut up so
thet I run an' she arter me, — an' the long an' the short
uv it wuz thet she tossed me, an' w'en they got me up
they foun' I hed n't but one eye. Wal, uv course, my
looks wuz sp'iled, — fur I 'd been ez pretty 'z Emerline
wuz, — you wuz pretty once, Emerline, — an' I sent
'Miah Kemp word I 'd hev no more ter du 'ith him nor
any one else neow. 'Miah he come ter see me; but I
wuz detarmined, an' I stuck ter my word. He did an'
said everything thet mortal man could, — that he loved
me better 'n ever, an' thet 't would be the death uv him,
an' tuk on drefful. But w'en he 'd got through, I giv'
him the same answer, though betwixt ourselves it ormost
broke my heart ter say it. I kep' a stiff upper-lip, an' he
grew desp'rate, an' tuk all sorts uv dangerous jobs, blastin'
rocks an' haulin' stuns. One night, — 't wuz jest a year
from the night I 'd walked 'ith him in thet lane, — I wuz
stan'in' by the door, an' all ter once I heerd a noise an'
hed fallen together, an' I run deown the lane an' met the
men bringin' up sunthin' on an old door. They hed been
blastin' Elder Payson's rock, half-way deown the new
well, an' the mine hed n't worked, an' 'Miah 'd gone
deown ter see w'at wuz in it; an' jest ez he got up
ag'in, off it went, an' here he wuz 'ith a great splinter
in his chist, — ef the rest uv it wuz him. They could n't
kerry him no furder, an' sot him deown; an' there wuz
all the trees a-wavin' overhead ag'in, an' all the sweet
scents a-beatin' abeout the air, jest uz it wuz a year ago
w'en he parted from me so strong an' whole an' harnsome;
all the fleowers wuz a-blossomin', all the winds wuz blowin',
an' this lump uv torn flesh an' broken bones wuz 'Miah.
I laid deown on the grass beside him, an' put my lips close
to hisn, an' I could feel the breath jest stirrin' between;
an' the doctor came an' said 't warn't no use; an' they
threw a blanket over us, an' there I laid tell the sun rose
an' sparkled in the dew an' the green leaves an' the purple
bunches, an' the air came frolickin' fresh an' sweet
abeout us; an' though I 'd knowed it long, layin' there in
the dark, neow I see fur sartain thet there warn't no
breath on them stiff lips, an' the forehead was cold uz the
stuns beneath us, an' the eyes wuz fixed an' glazed in
thet las' look uv love an' tortur' an' reproach thet he giv'
me. They say I went distracted; an' I du b'lieve I 've
be'n cracked ever sence.”
Here Aunt Mimy, who had told her whole story without
moving a muscle, commenced rocking violently back
and forth.
“I don't often remember all this,” says she, after a
little, “but las' spring it flushed over me; an' w'en I
heerd heow Emerline 'd be'n sick, — I hear a gre't
thought I 'd tell her, fust time I see her.”
“What made you think of it last spring?” asked Stephen.
“The laylocks wuz in bloom,” said Miss Mimy, — “the
laylocks wuz in bloom.”
Just then mother came down with the apples, and some
dip-candles, and a basket of broken victuals; and Miss
Mimy tied her cloak and said she believed she must be
going. And Stephen went and got his hat and coat, and
said, —
“Miss Mimy, would n't you like a little company to
help you carry your bundles? Come, Emmie, get your
shawl.”
So I ran and put on my things, and Stephen and I
went home with Aunt Mimy.
“Emmie,” says Stephen, as we were coming back, and
he 'd got hold of my hand in his, where I 'd taken his
arm. “what do you think of Aunt Mimy now?”
“Oh,” says I, “I 'm sorry I 've ever been sharp with
her.”
“I don't know,” said Stephen. “'T a'n't in human nature
not to pity her; but then she brought her own trouble
on herself, you see.”
“Yes,” said I.
“I don't know how to blast rocks,” says Stephen, when
we 'd walked a little while without saying anything, —
“but I suppose there is something as desperate that I
can do.”
“Oh, you need n't go to threatening me!” thinks I;
and, true enough, he had n't any need to.
“Emmie,” says he, “if you say `No,' when I ask you
to have me, I sha'n't ask you again.”
“Well?” says I, after a step or two, seeing he did n't
speak.
“Well?” says he.
“I can't say `Yes' or `No' either, till you ask me,”
said I.
He stopped under the starlight and looked in my eyes.
“Emmie,” says he, “did you ever doubt that I loved
you?”
“Once I thought you did,” said I; “but it 's different
now.”
“I do love you,” said he, “and you know it.”
“Me, Stephen?” said I, — “with my face like a speckled
sparrow's-egg?”
“Yes, you,” said he; and he bent down and kissed me,
and then we walked on.
By and by Stephen said, When would I come and be
the life of his house and the light of his eyes? That was
rather a speech for Stephen; and I said, I would go whenever
he wanted me. And then we went home very comfortably,
and Stephen told mother it was all right, and
mother and Lurindy did what they 'd got very much in
the habit of doing, — cried; and I said I should think I
was going to be buried, instead of married; and Stephen
took my knitting-work away, and said, as I had knit all
our trouble and all our joy into that thing, he meant to
keep it just as it was; and that was the end of my knitting
sale-socks.
I suppose, now I 've told you so far, you 'd maybe like
to know the rest. Well, Lurindy and John were married
Thanksgiving morning; and just as they moved aside,
Stephen and I stepped up and took John and Aunt
Mimy rather by surprise by being married too.
“Wal,” says Aunt Mimy, “ef ever you hang eout another
I don't suppose there 's a happier little woman in the
State than me. I should like to see her, if there is. I
go over home pretty often, and Aunt Mimy makes just
as much of my baby — I 've named him John — as
mother does; and that 's enough to ruin any child that
was n't a cherub born. And Miss Mimy always has a
bottle of some new nostrum of her own stilling every time
she sees any of us; we 've got enough to swim a ship, on
the top-shelf of the pantry to-day, if it was all put together.
As for Stephen, there he comes now through the huckle-berry-pasture,
with the baby on his arm; he seems to
think there never was a baby before; and sometimes —
Stephen 's such a home-body — I 'm tempted to think
that maybe I have married my own shadow, after all.
However, I would n't have it other than it is. Lurindy,
she lives at home the most of the time; and once in a
while, when Stephen and mother and I and she are all
together, and as gay as larks, and the baby is creeping
round, swallowing pins and hooks and eyes as if they
were blueberries, and the fire is burning, and the kettle
singing, and the hearth swept clean, it seems as if heaven
had actually come down, or we 'd all gone up without
waiting for our robes; it seems as if it was altogether too
much happiness for one family. And I 've made Stephen
take a paper on purpose to watch the ship-news; for John
sails captain of a fruiter to the Mediterranean, and, sure
enough, its little gilt figure-head that goes dipping in the
foam is nothing else than the Sister of Charity.
| The amber gods, and other stories | |