 | CHAPTER XVII.
POLEMICS IN THE KITCHEN. The minister's wooing |  |
17. CHAPTER XVII.
POLEMICS IN THE KITCHEN.
The next morning, before the early dews had
yet dried off the grass, Mary started to go and
see her friend Mrs. Marvyn. It was one of those
charming, invigorating days, familiar to those of
Newport experience, when the sea lies shimmering
and glittering in deep blue and gold, and the sky
above is firm and cloudless, and every breeze that
comes landward seems to bear health and energy
upon its wings.
As Mary approached the house, she heard loud
sounds of discussion from the open kitchen-door,
and, looking in, saw a rather original scene acting.
Candace, armed with a long oven-shovel, stood
before the open door of the oven, whence she had
just been removing an army of good things which
appeared ranged around on the dresser. Cato,
in the undress of a red flannel shirt and tow-cloth
trousers, was cuddled, in a consoled and protected
attitude, in the corner of the wooden settle, with
prepared, and, calling him in from his work, authoritatively
ordered him to drink, on the showing
that he had kept her awake the night before with
his cough, and she was sure he was going to be
sick. Of course, worse things may happen to a
man than to be vigorously taken care of by his
wife, and Cato had a salutary conviction of this
fact, so that he resigned himself to his comfortable
corner and his flip with edifying serenity.
Opposite to Candace stood a well-built, corpulent
negro man, dressed with considerable care,
and with the air of a person on excellent terms
with himself. This was no other than Digo, the
house-servant and factotum of Dr. Stiles, who
considered himself as the guardian of his master's
estate, his title, his honor, his literary character,
his professional position, and his religious creed.
Digo was ready to assert before all the world,
that one and all of these were under his special
protection, and that whoever had anything to say
to the contrary of any of these must expect to
take issue with him. Digo not only swallowed
all his master's opinions whole, but seemed to
have the stomach of an ostrich in their digestion.
He believed everything, no matter what, the moment
he understood that the Doctor held it. He
believed that Hebrew was the language of heaven,
— that the ten tribes of the Jews had reappeared
no such thing as disinterested benevolence, and
that the doings of the unregenerate had some
value, — that slavery was a divine ordinance, and
that Dr. Hopkins was a radical, who did more
harm than good, — and, finally, that there never
was so great a man as Dr. Stiles; and as Dr.
Stiles belonged to him in the capacity of master,
why, he, Digo, owned the greatest man in America.
Of course, as Candace held precisely similar
opinions in regard to Dr. Hopkins, the two never
could meet without a discharge of the opposite
electricities. Digo had, it is true, come ostensibly
on a mere worldly errand from his mistress to
Mrs. Marvyn, who had promised to send her some
turkeys' eggs, but he had inly resolved with himself
that he would give Candace his opinion, —
that is, what Dr. Stiles had said at dinner the day
before about Dr. Hopkins' Sunday's discourse. Dr.
Stiles had not heard it, but Digo had. He had
felt it due to the responsibilities of his position to
be present on so very important an occasion.
Therefore, after receiving his eggs, he opened
hostilities by remarking, in a general way, that he
had attended the Doctor's preaching on Sunday,
and that there was quite a crowded house. Candace
immediately began mentally to bristle her
feathers like a hen who sees a hawk in the distance,
and responded with decision: —
“Den you heard sometin', for once in your
life!”
“I must say,” said Digo, with suavity, “dat I
can't give my 'proval to such sentiments.”
“More shame for you,” said Candace, grimly.
“You a man, and not stan' by your color, and
flunk under to mean white ways! Ef you was
half a man, your heart would 'a' bounded like a
cannon-ball at dat ar' sermon.”
“Dr. Stiles and me we talked it over after
church,” said Digo, — “and de Doctor was of my
'pinion, dat Providence didn't intend” —
“Oh, you go 'long wid your Providence! Guess,
ef white folks had let us alone, Providence wouldn't
trouble us.”
“Well,” said Digo, “Dr. Stiles is clear dat dis
yer's a-fulfillin' de prophecies and bringin' in de
fulness of the Gentiles.”
“Fulness of de fiddlesticks!” said Candace, irreverently.
“Now what a way dat ar' is of talkin'!
Go look at one o' dem ships we come over
in, — sweatin' and groanin', — in the dark and dirt,
— cryin' and dyin', — howlin' for breath till de
sweat run off us, — livin' and dead chained together,
— prayin' like de rich man in hell for a
drop o' water to cool our tongues! Call dat ar'
a-bringin' de fulness of de Gentiles, do ye?
Ugh!”
And Candace ended with a guttural howl, and
long kitchen-shovel, like a black Bellona leaning
on her spear of battle.
Digo recoiled a little, but stood too well in his
own esteem to give up; so he shifted his attack.
“Well, for my part, I must say I never was 'clined
to your Doctor's 'pinions. Why, now, Dr. Stiles
says, notin' couldn't be more absurd dan what he
says 'bout disinterested benevolence. My Doctor
says, dere a'n't no such ting!”
“I should tink it's likely!” said Candace, drawing
herself up with superb disdain. “Our Doctor
knows dere is, — and why? 'cause he's got it IN
HERE,” said she, giving her ample chest a knock
which resounded like the boom from a barrel.
“Candace,” said Cato, gently, “you's gittin' too
hot.”
“Cato, you shut up!” said Candace, turning
sharp round. “What did I make you dat ar' flip
for, 'cept you was so hoarse you oughtn' for to
say a word? Pooty business, you go to agitatin'
yourself wid dese yer! Ef you wear out your
poor old throat talkin', you may get de 'sumption;
and den what 'd become o' me?”
Cato, thus lovingly pitched hors de combat, sipped
the sweetened cup in quietness of soul, while Candace
returned to the charge.
“Now, I tell ye what,” she said to Digo, — “jest
cause you wear your master's old coats and hats,
white 'pinions. A'n't ye 'shamed — you, a black
man — to have no more pluck and make cause wid
de Egyptians? Now, 'ta'n't what my Doctor gives
me, — he never giv' me the snip of a finger-nail, —
but it's what he does for mine; and when de poor
critturs lands dar, tumbled out like bales on de
wharves, ha'n't dey seen his great cocked hat, like
a lighthouse, and his big eyes lookin' sort o' pitiful
at 'em as ef he felt o' one blood wid 'em? Why,
de very looks of de man is worth everyting; and
who ever thought o' doing anyting for deir souls, or
cared ef dey had souls, till he begun it?”
“Well, at any rate,” said Digo, brightening up,
“I don't believe his doctrine about de doings of de
unregenerate, — it's quite clear he's wrong dar.”
“Who cares?” said Candace, — “generate or
unregenerate, it's all one to me. I believe a man
dat acts as he does. Him as stands up for the
poor, — him as pleads for de weak, — he's my man.
I'll believe straight through anyting he's a mind to
put at me.”
At this juncture, Mary's fair face appearing at the
door put a stop to the discussion.
“Bress you, Miss Mary! comin' here like a fresh
June rose! it makes a body's eyes dance in deir
head! Come right in! I got Cato up from de lot,
'cause he's rader poorly dis mornin'; his cough
makes me a sight o' concern; he's allers a-pullin'
him not to, — and it just keeps him hack, hack,
hackin', all de time.”
During this speech, Cato stood meekly bowing,
feeling that he was being apologized for in the best
possible manner; for long years of instruction had
fixed the idea in his mind, that he was an ignorant
sinner, who had not the smallest notion how to conduct
himself in this world, and that, if it were not
for his wife's distinguishing grace, he would long
since have been in the shades of oblivion.
“Missis is spinnin' up in de north chamber,” said
Candace; “but I'll run up and fetch her down.”
Candace, who was about the size of a puncheon,
was fond of this familiar manner of representing
her mode of ascending the stairs; but Mary, suppressing
a smile, said, “Oh, no, Candace! don't for
the world disturb her. I know just where she is.”
And before Candace could stop her, Mary's light
foot was on the top step of the staircase that led up
from the kitchen.
The north room was a large chamber, overlooking
a splendid reach of sea-prospect. A moving panorama
of blue water and gliding sails was unrolled
before its three windows, so that stepping into the
room gave one an instant and breezy sense of expansion
Mrs. Marvyn was standing at the large
wheel, spinning wool, — a reel and basket of spools
on her side. Her large brown eyes had an eager
to calm down again, and she received her only with
that placid, sincere air which was her habit. Everything
about this woman showed an ardent soul,
repressed by timidity and by a certain dumbness in
the faculties of outward expression; but her eyes
had, at times, that earnest, appealing language
which is so pathetic in the silence of inferior animals.
— One sometimes sees such eyes, and wonders
whether the story they intimate will ever be spoken
in mortal language.
Mary began eagerly detailing to her all that had
interested her since they last met: — the party, —
her acquaintance with Burr, — his visit to the cottage,
— his inquiries into her education and reading,
— and, finally, the proposal, that they should study
French together.
“My dear,” said Mrs. Marvyn, “let us begin at
once; — such an opportunity is not to be lost. I
studied a little with James, when he was last at
home.”
“With James?” said Mary, with an air of timid
surprise.
“Yes, — the dear boy has become, what I never
expected, quite a student. He employs all his spare
time now in reading and studying; — the second
mate is a Frenchman, and James has got so that
he can both speak and read. He is studying Spanish,
too.”
Ever since the last conversation with her mother
on the subject of James, Mary had felt a sort of
guilty constraint when any one spoke of him; —
instead of answering frankly, as she once did, when
anything brought his name up, she fell at once into
a grave, embarrassed silence.
Mrs. Marvyn was so constantly thinking of him,
that it was difficult to begin on any topic that did
not in some manner or other knit itself into the one
ever present in her thoughts. None of the peculiar
developments of the female nature have a more
exquisite vitality than the sentiment of a frail, delicate,
repressed, timid woman for a strong, manly,
generous son. There is her ideal expressed; there
is the out-speaking and out-acting of all she trembles
to think, yet burns to say or do; here is the hero
that shall speak for her, the heart into which she has
poured her's, and that shall give to her tremulous and
hidden aspirations a strong and victorious expression.
“I have gotten a man from the Lord,” she
says to herself; and each outburst of his manliness,
his vigor, his self-confidence, his superb vitality, fills
her with a strange, wondering pleasure, and she has
a secret tenderness and pride even in his wilfulness
and waywardness. “What a creature he is!” she
says, when he flouts at sober argument and pitches
all received opinions hither and thither in the wild
capriciousness of youthful paradox. She looks
grave and reproving; but he reads the concealed
she is full of admiration all the time. First love
of womanhood is something wonderful and mysterious,
— but in this second love it rises again,
idealized and refined; she loves the father and herself
united and made one in this young heir of life
and hope.
Such was Mrs. Marvyn's still intense, passionate
love for her son. Not a tone of his manly voice,
not a flash of his dark eyes, not one of the deep,
shadowy dimples that came and went as he laughed,
not a ring of his glossy black hair, that was not
studied, got by heart, and dwelt on in the inner
shrine of her thoughts; he was the romance of her
life. His strong, daring nature carried her with
it beyond those narrow, daily bounds where her
soul was weary of treading; and just as his voyages
had given to the trite prose of her ménage
a poetry of strange, foreign perfumes, of quaint
objects of interest, speaking of many a far-off
shore, so his mind and life were a constant channel
of outreach through which her soul held
converse with the active and stirring world. Mrs.
Marvyn had known all the story of her son's
love, and to no other woman would she have been
willing to resign him; but her love to Mary was
so deep, that she thought of his union with her
more as gaining a daughter than as losing a son.
She would not speak of the subject; she knew
James fell so often from her lips, simply because
it was so ever-present in her heart that it could
not be helped.
Before Mary left, it was arranged that they
should study together, and that the lessons should
be given alternately at each other's houses; and
with this understanding they parted.
| CHAPTER XVII.
POLEMICS IN THE KITCHEN. The minister's wooing | |