 | CHAPTER XXX.
THE QUILTING. The minister's wooing |  |
30. CHAPTER XXX.
THE QUILTING.
By six o'clock in the morning, Miss Prissy
came out of the best room to the breakfast-table,
with the air of a general who has arranged a
campaign, — her face glowing with satisfaction.
All sat down together to their morning meal.
The outside door was open into the green, turfy
yard, and the apple-tree, now nursing stores of
fine yellow jeannetons, looked in at the window.
Every once in a while, as a breeze shook the
leaves, a fully ripe apple might be heard falling
to the ground, at which Miss Prissy would bustle
up from the table and rush to secure the treasure.
As the meal waned to its close, the rattling
of wheels was heard at the gate, and Candace
was discerned, seated aloft in the one-horse wagon,
with her usual complement of baskets and bags.
“Well, now, dear me! if there isn't Candace!”
said Miss Prissy; “I do believe Miss Marvyn has
sent her with something for the quilting!” and
out she flew as nimble as a humming-bird, while
admiration, as Candace, with stately dignity, disinterred
from the wagon one basket after another,
and exhibited to Miss Prissy's enraptured eyes sly
peeps under the white napkins with which they
were covered. And then, hanging a large basket
on either arm, she rolled majestically towards the
house, like a heavy-laden Indiaman, coming in
after a fast voyage.
“Good-mornin', Miss Scudder! good-mornin',
Doctor!” she said, dropping her curtsy on the
door-step; “good-mornin', Miss Mary! Ye see
our folks was stirrin' pootty early dis mornin', an'
Miss Marvyn sent me down wid two or tree little
tings.”
Setting down her baskets on the floor, and seating
herself between them, she proceeded to develop
their contents with ill-concealed triumph.
One basket was devoted to cakes of every species,
from the great Mont-Blanc loaf-cake, with its
snowy glaciers of frosting, to the twisted cruller
and puffy doughnut. In the other basket lay pots
of golden butter curiously stamped, reposing on a
bed of fresh, green leaves, — while currants, red
and white, and delicious cherries and raspberries,
gave a final finish to the picture. From a basket
which Miss Prissy brought in from the rear appeared
cold fowl and tongue delicately prepared,
and shaded with feathers of parsley. Candace,
life was conspicuous in every emotion, might have
furnished to a painter, as she sat in her brilliant
turban, an idea for an African Genius of Plenty.
“Why, really, Candace,” said Mrs. Scudder,
“you are overwhelming us!”
“Ho! ho! ho!” said Candace, “I's tellin' Miss
Marvyn folks don't git married but once in der
lives, (gin'ally speakin', dat is,) an' den dey oughter
hab plenty to do it wid.”
“Well, I must say,” said Miss Prissy, taking
out the loaf-cake with busy assiduity, — “I must
say, Candace, this does beat all!”
“I should rader tink it oughter,” said Candace,
bridling herself with proud consciousness; “ef it
don't, 'ta'n't 'cause ole Candace ha'n't put enough
into it. I tell ye, I didn't do nothin' all day yisterday
but jes' make dat ar cake. Cato, when he
got up, he begun to talk someh'n' 'bout his shirt-buttons,
an' I jes' shet him right up. Says I,
`Cato, when I's r'ally got cake to make for a
great 'casion, I wants my mind jest as quiet an'
jest as serene as ef I was a-goin' to de sacrament.
I don't want no 'arthly cares on't. Now,'
says I, `Cato, de ole Doctor's gwine to be married,
an' dis yer's his quiltin'-cake, — an' Miss
Mary, she's gwine to be married, an' dis yer's her
quiltin'-cake. An' dar'll be eberybody to dat ar
quiltin'; an' ef de cake a'n't right, why, 'twould
I, `Cato, your buttons mus' wait.' An' Cato, he
sees de 'priety ob it, 'cause, dough he can't make
cake like me, he's a 'mazin' good judge on't, an'
is dre'ful tickled when I slips out a little loaf for
his supper.”
“How is Mrs. Marvyn?” said Mrs. Scudder.
“Kinder thin and shimmery; but she's about,
— habin' her eyes eberywar 'n' lookin' into eberyting.
She jes' touches tings wid de tips ob her
fingers an' dey seem to go like. She'll be down
to de quiltin' dis arternoon. But she tole me to
take de tings an' come down an' spen' de day
here; for Miss Marvyn an' I both knows how
many steps mus' be taken sech times, an' we
agreed you oughter favor yourselves all you could.”
“Well, now,” said Miss Prissy, lifting up her
hands, “if that a'n't what 'tis to have friends!
Why, that was one of the things I was thinking
of, as I lay awake last night; because, you know,
at times like these, people run their feet off before
the time begins, and then they are all limpsey
and lop-sided when the time comes. Now, I say,
Candace, all Miss Scudder and Mary have to do
is to give everything up to us, and we'll put it
through straight.”
“Dat's what we will!” said Candace. “Jes'
show me what's to be done, an' I'll do it.”
Candace and Miss Prissy soon disappeared to
contents they began busily to arrange. Candace
shut the door, that no sound might escape, and
began a confidential outpouring to Miss Prissy.
“Ye see,” she said, “I's feelin's all de while for
Miss Marvyn; 'cause, ye see, she was expectin',
ef eber Mary was married, — well — dat 'twould
be to somebody else, ye know.”
Miss Prissy responded with a sympathetic groan.
“Well,” said Candace, “ef 't had ben anybody
but de Doctor, I wouldn't 'a' been resigned. But
arter all he has done for my color, dar a'n't nothin'
I could find it in my heart to grudge him.
But den I was tellin' Cato t'oder day, says I,
`Cato, I dunno 'bout de rest o' de world, but I
ha'n't neber felt it in my bones dat Mass'r James
is r'ally dead, for sartin.' Now I feels tings gin'ally,
but some tings I feels in my bones, and dem
allers comes true. And dat ar's a feelin' I ha'n't
had 'bout Mass'r Jim yit, an' dat ar's what I'm
waitin' for 'fore I clar make up my mind. Though
I know, 'cordin' to all white folks' way o' tinkin',
dar a'n't no hope, 'cause Squire Marvyn he had
dat ar Jeduth Pettibone up to his house, a-questionin'
on him, off an' on, nigh about tree hours.
An' r'ally I didn't see no hope no way, 'xcept
jes' dis yer, as I was tellin' Cato, — I can't feel it
in my bones.”
Candace was not versed enough in the wisdom
and respectable school of philosophers in this particular
mode of testing evidence, which, after all,
the reader will perceive has its conveniences.
“Anoder ting,” said Candace, “as much as a
dozen times, dis yer last year, when I's been
a-scourin' knives, a fork has fell an' stuck straight
up in de floor; an' de las' time I pinted it out to
Miss Marvyn, an' she on'y jes' said, `Why, what
o' dat, Candace?'”
“Well,” said Miss Prissy, “I don't believe in
signs, but then strange things do happen. Now
about dogs howling under windows, — why, I don't
believe in it a bit, but I never knew it fail that
there was a death in the house after.”
“Ah, I tell ye what,” said Candace, looking
mysterious, “dogs knows a heap more'n dey likes
to tell!”
“Jes' so,” said Miss Prissy. “Now I remember,
one night, when I was watching with Miss
Colonel Andrews, after Marthy Ann was born,
that we heard the mournfulest howling that ever
you did hear. It seemed to come from right under
the front stoop; and Miss Andrews she just
dropped the spoon in her gruel, and says she,
`Miss Prissy, do, for pity's sake, just go down
and see what that noise is.' And I went down
and lifted up one of the loose boards of the stoop,
and what should I see there but their Newfoundland
and was a-sitting by it, crying!”
Candace drew near to Miss Prissy, dark with
expressive interest, as her voice, in this awful narration,
sank to a whisper.
“Well,” said Candace, after Miss Prissy had
made something of a pause.
“Well, I told Miss Andrews I didn't think there
was anything in it,” said Miss Prissy; “but,” she
added, impressively, “she lost a very dear brother,
six months after, and I laid him out with my
own hands, — yes, laid him out in white flannel.”
“Some folks say,” said Candace, “dat dreamin'
'bout white horses is a sartin sign. Jinny Styles
is berry strong 'bout dat. Now she come down
one mornin' cryin', 'cause she'd been dreamin' 'bout
white horses, an' she was sure she should hear
some friend was dead. An' sure enough, a man
come in dat bery day an' tole her her son was
drownded out in de harbor. An' Jinny said, `Dar!
she was sure dat sign neber would fail.' But den,
ye see, dat night he come home. Jinny wa'n't
r'ally disappinted, but she allers insisted he was
as good as drownded, any way, 'cause he sunk tree
times.”
“Well, I tell you,” said Miss Prissy, “there are
a great many more things in this world than folks
know about.”
“So dey are,” said Candace. “Now, I ha'n't
dream I's had, tree mornin's runnin', lately. I
dreamed I see Jim Marvyn a-sinkin' in de water,
an' stretchin' up his hands. An' den I dreamed I
see de Lord Jesus come a-walkin' on de water an'
take hold ob his hand, an' says he, `O thou of
little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?' An' den
he lifted him right out. An' I ha'n't said nothin'
to nobody, 'cause, you know, de Doctor, he says
people mus'n't mind nothin' 'bout der dreams,
'cause dreams belongs to de ole 'spensation.”
“Well, well, well!” said Miss Prissy, “I am
sure I don't know what to think. What time in
the morning was it that you dreamed it?”
“Why,” said Candace, “it was jest arter birdpeep.
I kinder allers wakes myself den, an' turns
ober, an' what comes arter dat is apt to run
clar.”
“Well, well, well!” said Miss Prissy, “I don't
know what to think. You see, it may have reference
to the state of his soul.”
“I know dat,” said Candace; “but as nigh as
I could judge in my dream,” she added, sinking
her voice and looking mysterious, “as nigh as I
can judge, dat boy's soul was in his body!”
“Why, how do you know?” said Miss Prissy,
looking astonished at the confidence with which
Candace expressed her opinion.
“Well, ye see,” said Candace, rather mysteriously,
much 'bout dese yer tings, 'cause he tinks it's kind
o' heathenish. But den, folks as is used to seein'
sech tings knows de look ob a sperit out o' de
body from de look ob a sperit in de body, jest as
easy as you can tell Mary from de Doctor.”
At this moment Mrs. Scudder opened the pantry-door
and put an end to this mysterious conversation,
which had already so affected Miss Prissy,
that, in the eagerness of her interest, she had
rubbed up her cap border and ribbon into rather
an elfin and goblin style, as if they had been ruffled
up by a breeze from the land of spirits; and
she flew around for a few moments in a state of
great nervous agitation, upsetting dishes, knocking
down plates, and huddling up contrary suggestions
as to what ought to be done first, in such impossible
relations that Mrs. Katy Scudder stood in
dignified surprise at this strange freak of conduct
in the wise woman of the parish.
A dim consciousness of something not quite
canny in herself seemed to strike her, for she made
a vigorous effort to appear composed; and facing
Mrs. Scudder, with an air of dignified suavity, inquired
if it would not be best to put Jim Marvyn
in the oven now, while Candace was getting the
pies ready, — meaning, of course, a large turkey,
which was to be the first in an indefinite series to
be baked that morning; and discovering, by Mrs.
from Candace, that somehow she had not improved
matters, she rubbed her spectacles into a diagonal
position across her eyes, and stood glaring, half
through, half over them, with a helpless expression,
which in a less judicious person might have suggested
the idea of a state of slight intoxication.
But the exigencies of an immediate temporal
dispensation put an end to Miss Prissy's unwonted
vagaries, and she was soon to be seen
flying round like a meteor, dusting, shaking curtains,
counting napkins, wiping and sorting china,
all with such rapidity as to give rise to the notion
that she actually existed in forty places at
once.
Candace, whom the limits of her corporeal frame
restricted to an altogether different style of locomotion,
often rolled the whites of her eyes after
her and gave vent to her views of her proceedings
in sententious expressions.
“Do you know why dat ar neber was married?”
she said to Mary, as she stood looking after her.
Miss Prissy had made one of those rapid transits
through the apartment.
“No,” answered Mary, innocently. “Why wasn't
she?”
“'Cause neber was a man could run fast enough
to cotch her,” said Candace; and then her portly
person shook with the impulse of her own wit.
By two o'clock a goodly company began to
assemble. Mrs. Deacon Twitchel arrived, soft,
pillowy, and plaintive as ever, accompanied by
Cerinthy Ann, a comely damsel, tall and trim,
with a bright black eye, and a most vigorous and
determined style of movement. Good Mrs. Jones,
broad, expansive, and solid, having vegetated tranquilly
on in the cabbage-garden of the virtues
since three years ago, when she graced our tea-party,
was now as well preserved as ever, and
brought some fresh butter, a tin pail of cream,
and a loaf of cake made after a new Philadelphia
receipt. The tall, spare, angular figure of Mrs.
Simeon Brown alone was wanting; but she patronized
Mrs. Scudder no more, and tossed her
head with a becoming pride when her name was
mentioned.
The quilt-pattern was gloriously drawn in oak-leaves,
done in indigo; and soon all the company,
young and old, were passing busy fingers over it
and conversation went on briskly.
Madame de Frontignac, we must not forget to
say, had entered with hearty abandon into the
spirit of the day. She had dressed the tall china
vases on the mantel-pieces, and, departing from
the usual rule of an equal mixture of roses and
asparagus-bushes, had constructed two quaint and
graceful bouquets, where garden-flowers were mingled
with drooping grasses and trailing wild vines,
surprise of all who saw it.
“It's the very first time in my life that I ever
saw grass put into a flower-pot,” said Miss Prissy;
“but I must say it looks as handsome as a picture.
Mary, I must say,” she added, in an aside,
“I think that Madame de Frongenac is the sweetest
dressing and appearing creature I ever saw;
she don't dress up nor put on airs, but she seems
to see in a minute how things ought to go; and
if it's only a bit of grass, or leaf, or wild vine,
that she puts in her hair, why, it seems to come
just right. I should like to make her a dress, for
I know she would understand my fit; do speak
to her, Mary, in case she should want a dress fitted
here, to let me try it.”
At the quilting, Madame de Frontignac would
have her seat, and soon won the respect of the
party by the dexterity with which she used her
needle; though, when it was whispered that she
learned to quilt among the nuns, some of the
elderly ladies exhibited a slight uneasiness, as being
rather doubtful whether they might not be
encouraging Papistical opinions by allowing her
an equal share in the work of getting up their
minister's bed-quilt; but the younger part of the
company were quite captivated by her foreign air,
and the pretty manner in which she lisped her
English; and Cerinthy Ann even went so far as
she'd been educated in a convent herself, — a declaration
which arose less from native depravity than
from a certain vigorous disposition, which often
shows itself in young people, to shock the current
opinions of their elders and betters. Of course,
the conversation took a general turn, somewhat in
unison with the spirit of the occasion; and whenever
it flagged, some allusion to a forthcoming
wedding, or some sly hint at the future young
Madame of the parish, was sufficient to awaken
the dormant animation of the company.
Cerinthy Ann contrived to produce an agreeable
electric shock by declaring, that, for her part, she
never could see into it, how any girl could marry
a minister, — that she should as soon think of setting
up housekeeping in a meeting-house.
“Oh, Cerinthy Ann!” exclaimed her mother,
“how can you go on so?”
“It's a fact,” said the adventurous damsel;
“now other men let you have some peace, — but
a minister 's always round under your feet.”
“So you think, the less you see of a husband,
the better?” said one of the ladies.
“Just my views,” said Cerinthy, giving a decided
snip to her thread with her scissors; “I like the
Nantucketers, that go off on four-years' voyages,
and leave their wives a clear field. If ever I get
married, I'm going up to have one of those fellows.”
It is to be remarked, in passing, that Miss Cerinthy
Ann was at this very time receiving surreptitious
visits from a consumptive-looking, conscientious,
young theological candidate, who came
occasionally to preach in the vicinity, and put up
at the house of the Deacon, her father. This good
young man, being violently attacked on the doctrine
of Election by Miss Cerinthy, had been
drawn on to illustrate it in a most practical manner,
to her comprehension; and it was the consciousness
of the weak and tottering state of the
internal garrison that added vigor to the young
lady's tones. As Mary had been the chosen confidante
of the progress of this affair, she was
quietly amused at the demonstration.
“You'd better take care, Cerinthy Ann,” said
her mother; “they say that `those who sing before
breakfast will cry before supper.' Girls talk
about getting married,” she said, relapsing into a
gentle didactic melancholy, “without realizing its
awful responsibilities.”
“Oh, as to that,” said Cerinthy, “I've been practising
on my pudding now these six years, and I
shouldn't be afraid to throw one up chimney with
any girl.”
This speech was founded on a tradition, current
in those times, that no young lady was fit to be
married till she could construct a boiled Indian-pudding
of such consistency that it could be
ground, outside, without breaking; and the consequence
of Cerinthy Ann's sally was a general
laugh.
“Girls a'n't what they used to be in my day,”
sententiously remarked an elderly lady. “I remember
my mother told me when she was
thirteen she could knit a long cotton stocking
in a day.”
“I haven't much faith in these stories of old
times, — have you, girls?” said Cerinthy, appealing
to the younger members at the frame.
“At any rate,” said Mrs. Twitchel, “our minister's
wife will be a pattern; I don't know anybody
that goes beyond her either in spinning or
fine stitching.”
Mary sat as placid and disengaged as the new
moon, and listened to the chatter of old and
young with the easy quietness of a young heart
that has early outlived life, and looks on everything
in the world from some gentle, restful eminence
far on towards a better home. She smiled
at everybody's word, had a quick eye for everybody's
wants, and was ready with thimble, scissors,
or thread, whenever any one needed them;
but once, when there was a pause in the conversation,
she and Mrs. Marvyn were both discovered
to have stolen away. They were seated
on the bed in Mary's little room, with their arms
tones.
“Mary, my dear child,” said her friend, “this
event is very pleasant to me, because it places
you permanently near me. I did not know but
eventually this sweet face might lead to my losing
you, who are in some respects the dearest friend
I have.”
“You might be sure,” said Mary, “I never
would have married, except that my mother's happiness
and the happiness of so good a friend
seemed to depend on it. When we renounce self
in anything, we have reason to hope for God's
blessing; and so I feel assured of a peaceful life
in the course I have taken. You will always be
as a mother to me,” she added, laying her head
on her friend's shoulder.
“Yes,” said Mrs. Marvyn; “and I must not let
myself think a moment how dear it might have
been to have you more my own. If you feel really,
truly happy, — if you can enter on this life
without any misgivings —”
“I can,” said Mary, firmly.
At this instant, very strangely, the string which
confined a wreath of sea-shells around her glass,
having been long undermined by moths, suddenly
broke and fell down, scattering the shells upon the
floor.
Both women started, for the string of shells had
was superstitious, this was one of those odd coincidences
that make hearts throb.
“Dear boy!” said Mary, gathering the shells up
tenderly; “wherever he is, I shall never cease to
love him. It makes me feel sad to see this come
down; but it is only an accident; nothing of him
will ever fail out of my heart.”
Mrs. Marvyn clasped Mary closer to her, with
tears in her eyes.
“I'll tell you what, Mary; it must have been
the moths did that,” said Miss Prissy, who had
been standing, unobserved, at the door for a moment
back; “moths will eat away strings just so.
Last week Miss Vernon's great family-picture fell
down because the moths eat through the cord;
people ought to use twine or cotton string always.
But I came to tell you that the supper is all set,
and the Doctor out of his study, and all the people
are wondering where you are.”
Mary and Mrs. Marvyn gave a hasty glance at
themselves in the glass, to be assured of their good
keeping, and went into the great kitchen, where a
long table stood exhibiting all that plenitude of
provision which the immortal description of Washington
Irving has saved us the trouble of recapitulating
in detail.
The husbands, brothers, and lovers had come in,
and the scene was redolent of gayety. When
pause, till she was conducted to the side of the
Doctor; when, raising his hand, he invoked a grace
upon the loaded board.
Unrestrained gayeties followed. Groups of young
men and maidens chatted together, and all the
gallantries of the times were enacted. Serious
matrons commented on the cake, and told each
other high and particular secrets in the culinary
art, which they drew from remote family-archives.
One might have learned in that instructive assembly
how best to keep moths out of blankets, —
how to make fritters of Indian corn undistinguishable
from oysters, — how to bring up babies by
hand, — how to mend a cracked teapot, — how to
take out grease from a brocade, — how to reconcile
absolute decrees with free will, how to make
five yards of cloth answer the purpose of six, —
and how to put down the Democratic party. All
were busy, earnest, and certain, — just as a swarm
of men and women, old and young, are in 1859.
Miss Prissy was in her glory; every bow of her
best cap was alive with excitement, and she presented
to the eyes of the astonished Newport gentry
an animated receipt-book. Some of the information
she communicated, indeed, was so valuable
and important that she could not trust the air
with it, but whispered the most important portions
in a confidential tone. Among the crowd, Cerinthy
deeply reflective attitude; and that high-spirited
young lady added further to his convictions of the
total depravity of the species by vexing and discomposing
him in those thousand ways in which
a lively, ill-conditioned young woman will put to
rout a serious, well-disposed young man, — comforting
herself with the reflection, that by-and-by
she would repent of all her sins in a lump together.
Vain, transitory splendors! Even this evening,
so glorious, so heart-cheering, so fruitful in instruction
and amusement, could not last forever. Gradually
the company broke up; the matrons mounted
soberly on horseback behind their spouses; and
Cerinthy consoled her clerical friend by giving him
an opportunity to read her a lecture on the way
home, if he found the courage to do so.
Mr. and Mrs. Marvyn and Candace wound their
way soberly homeward; the Doctor returned to his
study for nightly devotions; and before long, sleep
settled down on the brown cottage.
“I'll tell you what, Cato,” said Candace, before
composing herself to sleep, “I can't feel it in my
bones dat dis yer weddin's gwine to come off yit.”
| CHAPTER XXX.
THE QUILTING. The minister's wooing | |