 | CHAPTER XVIII.
TINA'S ADOPTION. Oldtown folks |  |
18. CHAPTER XVIII.
TINA'S ADOPTION.
DURING the time of our journey to the enchanted ground,
my Aunt Lois, being a woman of business, who always
knew precisely what she was about, had contrived not only to
finish meritoriously her household tasks, and to supplement Uncle
Eliakim's forgetful benevolence, but also to make a call on Miss
Mehitable Rossiter, for the sake of unburdening to her her oppressed
heart. For Miss Mehitable bore in our family circle the
repute of being a woman of counsel and sound wisdom. The
savor of ministerial stock being yet strong about her, she was
much resorted to for advice in difficult cases.
“I don't object, of course, to doing for the poor and orphaned,
and all that,” said Aunt Lois, quite sensibly; “but I like to see
folks seem to know what they are doing, and where they are going,
and not pitch and tumble into things without asking what 's
to come of them. Now, we 'd just got Susy and the two boys
on our hands, and here will come along a couple more children
to-night; and I must say I don't see what's to be done with
them.”
“It 's a pity you don't take snuff,” said Miss Mehitable, with
a whimsical grimace. “Now, when I come to any of the cross-places
of life, where the road is n't very clear, I just take a pinch
of snuff and wait; but as you don't, just stay and get a cup of
tea with me, in a quiet, Christian way, and after it we will walk
round to your mother's and look at these children.”
Aunt Lois was soothed in her perturbed spirit by this proposition;
and it was owing to this that, when we arrived at home,
long after dark, we found Miss Mehitable in the circle around
the blazing kitchen fire. The table was still standing, with ample
preparations for an evening meal, — a hot smoking loaf of
rye-and-Indian bread, and a great platter of cold boiled beef and
which, to a party who had had no dinner all day, was most appetizing.
My grandmother's reception of the children was as motherly
as if they had been of her own blood. In fact, their beauty and
evident gentle breeding won for them immediate favor in all
eyes.
The whole party sat down to the table, and, after a long and
somewhat scattering grace, pronounced by Uncle Eliakim, fell
to with a most amazing appearance of enjoyment. Sam's face
waxed luminous as he buttered great blocks of smoking brown
bread with the fruits of my grandmother's morning churning, and
refreshed himself by long and hearty pulls at the cider-mug.
“I tell you,” he said, “when folks hes been a ridin' on an
empty stomach ever since breakfast, victuals is victuals; we
learn how to be thankful for 'em; so I 'll take another slice o'
that 'ere beef, and one or two more cold potatoes, and the vinegar,
Mr. Sheril. Wal, chillen, this ere's better than bein' alone
in that 'ere old house, ain't it?”
“Yes, indeed,” piped Tina; “I had begun to be quite discouraged.
We tried and tried to find our way to Oldtown, and always
got lost in the woods.” Seeing that this remark elicited
sympathy in the listeners, she added, “I was afraid we should
die there, and the robins would have to cover us up, like some
children papa used to tell about.”
“Poor babes! just hear 'em,” said my grandmother, who
seemed scarcely able to restrain herself from falling on the
necks of the children, in the ardor of her motherly kindness,
while she doubled up an imaginary fist at Miss Asphyxia Smith,
and longed to give her a piece of her mind touching her treatment
of them.
Harry remained modestly silent; but he and I sat together, and
our eyes met every now and then with that quiet amity to which
I had been accustomed in my spiritual friend. I felt a cleaving
of spirit to him that I had never felt towards any human being
before, — a certainty that something had come to me in him that
I had always been wanting, — and I was too glad for speech.
He was one of those children who retreat into themselves and
make a shield of quietness and silence in the presence of many
people, while Tina, on the other hand, was electrically excited,
waxed brilliant in color, and rattled and chattered with as fearless
confidence as a cat-bird.
“Come hither to me, little maiden,” said Miss Mehitable, with
a whimsical air of authority, when the child had done her supper.
Tina came to her knee, and looked up into the dusky, homely
face, in that still, earnest fashion in which children seem to study
older people.
“Well, how do you like me?” said Miss Mehitable, when this
silent survey had lasted an appreciable time.
The child still considered attentively, looking long into the
great, honest, open eyes, and then her face suddenly rippled and
dimpled all over like a brook when a sunbeam strikes it. “I do
like you. I think you are good,” she said, putting out her hands
impulsively.
“Then up you come,” said Miss Mehitable, lifting her into her
lap. “It 's well you like me, because, for aught you know, I may
be an old fairy; and if I did n't like you, I might turn you into a
mouse or a cricket. Now how would you like that?”
“You could n't do it,” said Tina, laughing.
“How do you know I could n't?”
“Well, if you did turn me into a mouse, I 'd gnaw your knitting-work,”
said Tina, laying hold of Miss Mehitable's knitting.
“You 'd be glad to turn me back again.”
“Heyday! I must take care how I make a mouse of you, I
see. Perhaps I 'll make you into a kitten.”
“Well, I 'd like to be a kitten, if you 'll keep a ball for me to
play with, and give me plenty of milk,” said Tina, to whom no
proposition seemed to be without possible advantages.
“Will you go home and live with me, and be my kitten?”
Tina had often heard her brother speak of finding a good woman
who should take care of her; and her face immediately became
grave at this proposal. She seemed to study Miss Mehitable
in a new way. “Where do you live?” she said.
“O, my house is only a little way from here.”
“And may Harry come to see me?”
“Certainly he may.”
“Do you want me to work for you all the time?” said Tina;
“because,” she added, in a low voice, “I like to play sometimes,
and Miss Asphyxia said that was wicked.”
“Did n't I tell you I wanted you for my little white kitten,”
said Miss Mehitable, with an odd twinkle. “What work do you
suppose kittens do?”
“Must I grow up and catch rats?” said the child.
“Certainly you will be likely to,” said Miss Mehitable, solemnly.
“I shall pity the poor rats when you are grown up.”
Tina looked in the humorous, twinkling old face with a gleam
of mischievous comprehension, and, throwing her arms around
Miss Mehitable, said, “Yes, I like you, and I will be your
kitten.”
There was a sudden, almost convulsive pressure of the little
one to the kind old breast, and Miss Mehitable's face wore a
strange expression, that looked like the smothered pang of some
great anguish blended with a peculiar tenderness. One versed
in the reading of spiritual histories might have seen that, at that
moment, some inner door of that old heart opened, not without a
grating of pain, to give a refuge to the little orphan; but opened
it was, and a silent inner act of adoption had gone forth. Miss
Mehitable beckoned my grandmother and Aunt Lois into a corner
of the fireplace by themselves, while Sam Lawson was entertaining
the rest of the circle by reciting the narrative of our
day's explorations.
“Now I suppose I 'm about as fit to undertake to bring up a
child as the old Dragon of Wantley,” said Miss Mehitable; “but
as you seem to have a surplus on your hands, I 'm willing to take
the girl and do what I can for her.”
“Dear Miss Mehitable, what a mercy it 'll be to her!” said my
grandmother and Aunt Lois, simultaneously; — “if you feel that
you can afford it,” added Aunt Lois, considerately.
“Well, the fowls of the air and the lilies of the field are taken
care of somehow, as we are informed,” said Miss Mehitable. “My
basket and store are not much to ask a blessing on, but I have a
likely to hold out.”
“There 'll always be a handful of meal in the barrel and a
little oil in the cruse for you, I 'm sure,” said my grandmother;
“the word of the Lord stands sure for that.”
A sad shadow fell over Miss Mehitable's face at these words,
and then the usual expression of quaint humor stole over it.
“It 's to be hoped that Polly will take the same view of the
subject that you appear to,” said she. “My authority over Polly
is, you know, of an extremely nominal kind.”
“Still,” said my grandmother, “you must be mistress in your
own house. Polly, I am sure, knows her duty to you.”
“Polly's idea of allegiance is very much like that of the old
Spanish nobles to their king; it used to run somewhat thus:
`We, who are every way as good as you are, promise obedience
to your government if you maintain our rights and liberties, but
if not, not.' Now Polly's ideas of `rights and liberties' are of a
very set and particular nature, and I have found her generally disposed
to make a good fight for them. Still, after all,” she added,
“the poor old thing loves me, and I think will be willing to indulge
me in having a doll, if I really am set upon it. The only way
I can carry my point with Polly is, to come down on her with
a perfect avalanche of certainty, and so I have passed my word
to you that I will be responsible for this child. Polly may scold
and fret for a fortnight; but she is too good a Puritan to question
whether people shall keep their promises. Polly abhors
covenant-breaking with all her soul, and so in the end she will
have to help me through.”
“It 's a pretty child,” said my grandmother, “and an engaging
one, and Polly may come to liking her.”
“There 's no saying,” said Miss Mehitable. “You never know
what you may find in the odd corners of an old maid's heart, when
you fairly look into them. There are often unused hoards of maternal
affection enough to set up an orphan-asylum; but it 's like
iron filings and a magnet, — you must try them with a live child,
and if there is anything in 'em you find it out. That little
object,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Tina, “made an
garret, and brought to light a deal that I thought had gone to the
moles and the bats long ago. She will do me good, I can feel,
with her little pertnesses and her airs and fancies. If you could
know how chilly and lonesome an old house gets sometimes, particularly
in autumn, when the equinoctial storm is brewing! A
lively child is a godsend, even if she turns the whole house
topsy-turvy.”
“Well, a child can't always be a plaything,” said Aunt Lois;
“it 's a solemn and awful responsibility.”
“And if I don't take it, who will?” said Miss Mehitable,
gravely. “If a better one would, I would n't. I 've no great
confidence in myself. I profess no skill in human cobbling. I
can only give house-room and shelter and love, and let come what
will come. `A man cannot escape what is written on his forehead,'
the Turkish proverb says, and this poor child's history is
all forewritten.”
“The Lord will bless you for your goodness to the orphan,”
said my grandmother.
“I don't know about its being goodness. I take a fancy to
her. I hunger for the child. There 's no merit in wanting your
bit of cake, and maybe taking it when it is n't good for you;
but let 's hope all 's well that ends well. Since I have fairly
claimed her for mine, I begin to feel a fierce right of property in
her, and you 'd see me fighting like an old hen with anybody that
should try to get her away from me. You 'll see me made an
old fool of by her smart little ways and speeches; and I already
am proud of her beauty. Did you ever see a brighter little
minx?”
We looked across to the other end of the fireplace, where Miss
Tina sat perched, with great contentment, on Sam Lawson's knee,
listening with wide-open eyes to the accounts he was giving of
the haunted house. The beautiful hair that Miss Asphyxia had
cut so close had grown with each day, till now it stood up in half
rings of reddish gold, through which the fire shone with a
dancing light; and her great eyes seemed to radiate brightness
from as many points as a diamond.
“Depend upon it, those children are of good blood,” said Miss
Mehitable, decisively. “You 'll never make me believe that
they will not be found to belong in some way to some reputable
stock.”
“Well, we know nothing about their parents,” said my grandmother,
“except what we heard second-hand through Sam Lawson.
It was a wandering woman, sick and a stranger, who was
taken down and died in Old Crab Smith's house, over in Needmore.”
“One can tell, by the child's manner of speaking, that she has
been brought up among educated people,” said Miss Mehitable.
“She is no little rustic. The boy, too, looks of the fine clay of
the earth. But it 's time for me to take little Miss Rattlebrain
home with me, and get her into bed. Sleep is a gracious state for
children, and the first step in my new duties is a plain one.” So
saying, Miss Mehitable rose, and, stepping over to the other side
of the fireplace, tapped Tina lightly on the shoulder. “Come,
Pussy,” she said, “get your bonnet, and we will go home.”
Harry, who had watched all the movements between Miss
Mehitable and his sister with intense interest, now stepped forward,
blushing very much, but still with a quaint little old-fashioned
air of manliness. “Is my sister going to live with
you?”
“So we have agreed, my little man,” said Miss Mehitable. “I
hope you have no objection?”
“Will you let me come and see her sometimes?”
“Certainly; you will always be quite welcome.”
“I want to see her sometimes, because my mother left her
under my care. I sha' n't have a great deal of time to come in
the daytime, because I must work for my living,” he said, “but
a little while sometimes at night, if you would let me.”
“And what do you work at?” said Miss Mehitable, surveying
the delicate boy with an air of some amusement.
“I used to pick up potatoes, and fodder the cattle, and do a
great many things; and I am growing stronger every day, and
by and by can do a great deal more.”
“Well said, sonny,” said my grandfather, laying his hand on
down to help tend sawmill.”
“I wonder how many more boys will be wanted to help tend
sawmill,” said Aunt Lois.
“Well, good night, all,” said Miss Mehitable, starting to go
home.
Tina, however, stopped and left her side, and threw her arms
round Harry's neck and kissed him. “Good night now. You 'll
come and see me to-morrow,” she said.
“May I come too?” I said, almost before I thought.
“O, certainly, do come,” said Tina, with that warm, earnest
light in her eyes which seemed the very soul of hospitality.
“She 'll like to have you, I know.”
“The child is taking possession of the situation at once,” said
Miss Mehitable. “Well, Brighteyes, you may come too,” she
added, to me. “A precious row there will be among the old
books when you all get together there”; — and Miss Mehitable,
with the gay, tripping figure by her side, left the room.
“Is this great, big, dark house yours?” said the child, as they
came under the shadow of a dense thicket of syringas and lilacs
that overhung the front of the house.
“Yes, this is Doubting Castle,” said Miss Mehitable.
“And does Giant Despair live here?” said Tina. “Mamma
showed me a picture of him once in a book.”
“Well, he has tried many times to take possession,” said Miss
Mehitable, “but I do what I can to keep him out, and you must
help me.”
Saying this she opened the door of a large, old-fashioned room,
that appeared to have served both the purposes of a study and
parlor. It was revealed to view by the dusky, uncertain glimmer
of a wood fire that had burned almost down on a pair of tall
brass andirons. The sides of the room were filled to the ceiling
with book-cases full of books. Some dark portraits of men and
women were duskily revealed by the flickering light, as well as a
wide, ample-bosomed chintz sofa and a great chintz-covered easy-chair.
A table draped with a green cloth stood in a corner by the
fire, strewn over with books and writing-materials, and sustaining
a large work-basket.
“How dark it is!” said the child.
Miss Mehitable took a burning splinter of the wood, and lighted
a candle in a tall, plated candlestick, that stood on the high, narrow
mantel-piece over the fireplace. At this moment a side door
opened, and a large-boned woman, dressed in a homespun stuff
petticoat, with a short, loose sack of the same material, appeared
at the door. Her face was freckled; her hair, of a carroty-yellow,
was plastered closely to her head and secured by a horn comb;
her eyes were so sharp and searching, that, as she fixed them on
Tina, she blinked involuntarily. Around her neck she wore a
large string of gold beads, the brilliant gleam of which, catching
the firelight, revealed itself at once to Tina's eye, and caused her
to regard the woman with curiosity.
She appeared to have opened the door with an intention of
asking a question; but stopped and surveyed the child with a
sharp expression of not very well-pleased astonishment. “I
thought you spoke to me,” she said, at last, to Miss Mehitable.
“You may warm my bed now, Polly,” said Miss Mehitable;
“I shall be ready to go up in a few moments.”
Polly stood a moment more, as if awaiting some communication
about the child; but as Miss Mehitable turned away, and appeared
to be busying herself about the fire, Polly gave a sudden
windy dart from the room, and closed the door with a bang that
made the window-casings rattle.
“Why, what did she do that for?” said Tina.
“O, it 's Polly's way; she does everything with all her might,”
said Miss Mehitable.
“Don't she like me?” said the child.
“Probably not. She knows nothing about you, and she does
not like new things.”
“But won't she ever like me?” persisted Tina.
“That, my dear, will depend in a great degree on yourself. If
she sees that you are good and behave well, she will probably
end by liking you; but old people like her are afraid that children
will meddle with their things, and get them out of place.”
“I mean to be good,” said Tina, resolutely. “When I lived
with Miss Asphyxia, I wanted to be bad, I tried to be bad; but
me,” and the child laid her head confidingly in Miss Mehitable's
lap.
The dearest of all flattery to the old and uncomely is this caressing,
confiding love of childhood, and Miss Mehitable felt a
glow of pleasure about her dusky old heart at which she really
wondered. “Can anything so fair really love me?” she asked
herself. Alas! how much of this cheap-bought happiness goes to
waste daily! While unclaimed children grow up loveless, men
and women wither in lonely, craving solitude.
Polly again appeared at the door. “Your bed 's all warm, and
you 'd better go right up, else what 's the use of warming it?”
“Yes, I 'll come immediately,” said Miss Mehitable, endeavoring
steadfastly to look as if she did not see Polly's looks, and to
act as if there had of course always been a little girl to sleep
with her.
“Come, my little one.” My little one! Miss Mehitable's
heart gave a great throb at this possessive pronoun. It all seemed
as strange to her as a dream. A few hours ago, and she sat in
the old windy, lonesome house, alone with the memories of dead
friends, and feeling herself walking to the grave in a dismal solitude.
Suddenly she awoke as from a dark dream, and found
herself sole possessor of beauty, youth, and love, in a glowing
little form, all her own, with no mortal to dispute it. She had
a mother's right in a child. She might have a daughter's love.
The whole house seemed changed. The dreary, lonesome great
hall, with its tall, solemn-ticking clock, the wide, echoing staircase,
up which Miss Mehitable had crept, shivering and alone, so
many sad nights, now gave back the chirpings of Tina's rattling
gayety and the silvery echoes of her laugh, as, happy in her new
lot, she danced up the stairway, stopping to ask eager questions
on this and that, as anything struck her fancy. For Miss Tina
had one of those buoyant, believing natures, born to ride always
on the very top crest of every wave, — one fully disposed to accept
of good fortune in all its length and breadth, and to make
the most of it at once.
“This is our home,” she said, “is n't it?'
“Yes, darling,” said Miss Mehitable, catching her in her
arms fondly; “it is our home; we will have good times here
together.”
Tina threw her arms around Miss Mehitable's neck and kissed
her. “I 'm so glad! Harry said that God would find us a
home as soon as it was best, and now here it comes.”
Miss Mehitable set the child down by the side of a great dark
wooden bedstead, with tall, carved posts, draped with curious curtains
of India linen, where strange Oriental plants and birds, and
quaint pagodas and figures in turbans, were all mingled together,
like the phantasms in a dream. Then going to a tall chest of
drawers, resplendent with many brass handles, which reached
almost to the ceiling, she took a bunch of keys from her pocket
and unlocked a drawer. A spasm as of pain passed over her
face as she opened it, and her hands trembled with some suppressed
emotion as she took up and laid down various articles,
searching for something. At last she found what she wanted,
and shook it out. It was a child's nightgown, of just the size
needed by Tina. It was yellow with age, but made with dainty
care. She sat down by the child and began a movement towards
undressing her.
“Shall I say my prayers to you,” said Tina, “before I go to
bed?”
“Certainly,” said Miss Mehitable; “by all means.”
“They are rather long,” said the child, apologetically, — “that
is, if I say all that Harry does. Harry said mamma wanted us
to say them all every night. It takes some time.”
“O, by all means say all,” said Miss Mehitable.
Tina kneeled down by her and put her hands in hers, and
said the Lord's Prayer, and the psalm. “The Lord is my shepherd.”
She had a natural turn for elocution, this little one, and
spoke her words with a grace and an apparent understanding
not ordinary in childhood.
“There 's a hymn, besides,” she said. “It belongs to the
prayer.”
“Well, let us have that,” said Miss Mehitable.
Tina repeated, —
Well deserves the name of Friend;
His is love beyond a brother's,
Costly, free, and knows no end.”
She had an earnest, half-heroic way of repeating, and as she
gazed into her listener's eyes she perceived, by a subtile instinct,
that what she was saying affected her deeply. She stopped,
wondering.
“Go on, my love,” said Miss Mehitable.
Tina continued, with enthusiasm, feeling that she was making
an impression on her auditor: —
Could or would have shed his blood?
But the Saviour died to have us
Reconciled in him to God.
“When he lived on earth abaséd,
Friend of sinners was his name;
Now, above all glory raiséd,
He rejoiceth in the same.”
“O my child, where did you learn that hymn?” said Miss
Mehitable, to whom the words were new. Simple and homely
as they were, they had struck on some inner nerve, which was
vibrating with intense feeling. Tears were standing in her eyes.
“It was mamma's hymn,” said Tina. “She always used to
say it. There is one more verse,” she added.
Teach us, Lord, at length to love;
We, alas! forget too often
What a Friend we have above.”
“Is that the secret of all earthly sorrow, then?” said Miss
Mehitable aloud, in involuntary soliloquy. The sound of her
own voice seemed to startle her. She sighed deeply, and kissed
the child. “Thank you, my darling. It does me good to hear
you,” she said.
The child had entered so earnestly, so passionately even, into
the spirit of the words she had been repeating, that she seemed
to Miss Mehitable to be transfigured into an angel messenger,
sent to inspire faith in God's love in a darkened, despairing soul
to an earthly nature by stretching herself exultingly in the warm
bed, with an exclamation of vivid pleasure.
“How different this seems from my cold old bed at Miss Asphyxia's!”
she said. “O, that horrid woman! how I hate her!”
she added, with a scowl and a frown, which made the angelhood
of the child more than questionable.
Miss Mehitable's vision melted. It was not a child of heaven,
but a little mortal sinner, that she was tucking up for the night;
and she felt constrained to essay her first effort at moral training.
“My dear,” she said, “did you not say, to-night, `Forgive us
our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us'?
Do you know what that means?”
“O yes,” said Tina, readily.
“Well, if your Heavenly Father should forgive your sins just
as you forgive Miss Asphyxia, how would you like that?”
There was a silence. The large bright eyes grew round and
reflective, as they peered out from between the sheets and the
pillow. At last she said, in a modified voice: “Well, I won't
hate her any more. But,” she added, with increased vivacity,
“I may think she 's hateful, may n't I?”
Is there ever a hard question in morals that children do not
drive straight at, in their wide-eyed questioning?
Miss Mehitable felt inclined to laugh, but said, gravely: “I
would n't advise you to think evil about her. Perhaps she is a
poor woman that never had any one to love her, or anything to
love, and it has made her hard.”
Tina looked at Miss Mehitable earnestly, as if she were pondering
the remark. “She told me that she was put to work
younger than I was,” she said, “and kept at it all the time.”
“And perhaps, if you had been kept at work all your life in
that hard way, you would have grown up to be just like her.”
“Well, then, I 'm sorry for her,” said Tina. “There 's nobody
loves her, that' s a fact. Nobody can love her, unless it 's
God. He loves every one, Harry says.”
“Well, good night, my darling,” said Miss Mehitable, kissing
her. “I shall come to bed pretty soon. I will leave you a candle,”
she added; “because this is a strange place.”
"How good you are!" said Tina. "I used to be so afraid in
the dark, at Miss Asphyxia's; and I was so wicked all day, that
I was afraid of God too, at night. I used sometimes to think I
heard something chewing under my bed; and I thought it was a
wolf, and would eat me up."
"Poor little darling!" said Miss Mehitable. "Would you
rather I sat by you till you went to sleep?"
"No, thank you; I don't like to trouble you," said the child.
If you leave a candle I sha' n't be afraid. And, besides, I've
said my prayers now. I did n't use to say them one bit at Miss
Asphyxia's. She would tell me to say my prayers, and then
bang the door so hard, and I would feel cross, and think I
would n't. But I am better now, because you love me."
Miss Mehitable returned to the parlor, and sat down to ponder
over her fire; and the result of her ponderings shall be
given in a letter which she immediately began writing at the
green-covered table.
| CHAPTER XVIII.
TINA'S ADOPTION. Oldtown folks | |