 | CHAPTER XLII.
SPRING VACATION AT OLDTOWN. Oldtown folks |  |
42. CHAPTER XLII.
SPRING VACATION AT OLDTOWN.
IT was the spring vacation, and Harry and I were coming
again to Oldtown; and ten miles back, where we changed
horses, we had left the crawling old Boston stage and took a footpath
through a patch of land known as the Spring Pasture. Our
road lay pleasantly along the brown, sparkling river, which was
now just waked up, after its winter nap, as fussy and busy and
chattering as a housekeeper that has overslept herself. There
were downy catkins on the willows, and the water-maples were
throwing out their crimson tassels. The sweet-flag was just
showing its green blades above the water, and here and there,
in nooks, there were yellow cowslips reflecting their bright gold
faces in the dark water.
Harry and I had walked this way that we might search under
the banks and among the dried leaves for the white waxen buds
and flowers of the trailing arbutus. We were down on our
knees, scraping the leaves away, when a well-known voice came
from behind the bushes.
“Wal, lordy massy, boys! Here ye be! Why, I ben up to
Siah's tahvern, an' looked inter the stage, an' did n't see yer. I
jest thought I 'd like to come an' kind o' meet yer. Lordy
massy, they 's all a lookin' out for yer 't all the winders; 'n' Aunt
Lois, she 's ben bilin' up no end o' doughnuts, an' tearin' round
'nough to drive the house out o' the winders, to git everything
ready for ye. Why, it beats the Prodigal Son all holler, the
way they 're killin' the fatted calves for yer; an' everybody in
Oldtown 's a wantin' to see Sir Harry.”
“O nonsense, Sam!” said Harry, coloring. “Hush about that!
We don't have titles over here in America.”
“Lordy massy, that 's just what I wus a tellin' on 'em up to
store. It 's a pity, ses I, this yere happened arter peace was
among us. An' I think Lady Lothrop, she kind o' thinks so too.”
“O nonsense!” said Harry. “Sam, are the folks all well?”
“O lordy massy, yes! Chirk and chipper as can be. An'
there 's Tiny, they say she 's a goin' to be an heiress nowadays,
an' there 's no end of her beaux. There 's Ellery Devenport ben
down here these two weeks, a puttin' up at the tahvern, with a
landau an' a span o' crack horses, a takin' on her out to ride every
day, and Miss Mehitable, she 's so sot up, she 's reelly got a brannew
bonnet, an' left off that 'ere old un o' hern that she 's had
trimmed over spring an' fall goin' on these 'ere ten years. I
thought that 'ere bonnet 's going to last out my time, but I see it
hain't. An' she 's got a new Injy shawl, that Mr. Devenport gin
her. Yeh see, he understan's courtin', all round.”
This intelligence, of course, was not the most agreeable to me.
I hope, my good friends, that you have never known one of those
quiet hours of life, when, while you are sitting talking and
smiling, and to all appearance quite unmoved, you hear a remark
or learn a fact that seems to operate on you as if somebody
had quietly turned a faucet that was letting out your very life.
Down, down, down, everything seems sinking, the strength passing
away from you as the blood passes when an artery is cut.
It was with somewhat this sensation that I listened to Sam's
chatter, while I still mechanically poked away the leaves and
drew out the long waxy garlands that I had been gathering
for her!
Sam seated himself on the bank, and, drawing his knees up to
his chin and clasping his hands upon them, began moralizing in
his usual strain.
“Lordy massy, lordy massy, what a changin' world this 'ere
is! It 's jest see-saw, teeter-tawter, up an' down. To-day it 's
I 'm up an' you 're down, an' to-morrow it 's you 're up and I 'm
down! An' then, by an' by, death comes an' takes us all. I 've
ben kind o' dwellin' on some varses to-day, —
Sweeps all away.
The young, the old, the middle-aged,
To him become a prey.'
up by Statiry's corpse. Yeh 'member Statiry Poganut? Well,
she 's dead at last. Yeh see, we all gits called in our turn. We
hain't here no continuin' city.”
“But, Sam,” said I, “how does business get along? Have n't
you anything to do but tramp the pastures and moralize?”
“Wal,” said Sam, “I 've hed some pretty consid'able spells of
blacksmithin' lately. There 's Mr. Devenport, he 's sech a pleasant-spoken
man, he told me he brought his team all the way up
from Bostin a purpose so that I might 'tend to their huffs. I 've
ben a shoein' on 'em fresh all round, an' the off horse, he 'd kind
o' got a crack in his huff, an' I 've been a doctorin' on 't; an' Mr.
Devenport, he said he had n't found nobody that knew how to
doctor a horse's huffs ekal to me. Very pleasant-spoken man
Mr. Devenport is; he 's got a good word for everybody. They
say there ain't no end to his fortin, an' he goes a flingin' on 't round,
right an' left, like a prince. Why, when I 'd done shoein' his hosses,
he jest put his hand inter his pocket an' handed me out ten dollars!
ripped it out, he did, jest as easy as water runs! But there was
Tiny a standin' by; I think she kind o' sot him on. O lordy massy,
it 's plain to be seen that she rules him. It 's all cap in hand to
her, an' `What you will, madam,' an' `Will ye have the end o'
the rainbow, or a slice out o' the moon, or what is it?' It 's
all ekal to him, so as Miss Tiny wants it. Lordy massy,” he
said, lowering his voice confidentially to Harry, “course these 'ere
things is all temporal, an' our hearts ought n't to be too much sot
on 'em; still he 's got about the most amazin' fortin there is round
Bostin. Why, if you b'lieve me, 'tween you an' me, it 's him as
owns the Dench Place, where you and Tiny put up when you
wus children! Don't ye 'member when I found ye? Ye little
guessed whose house ye wus a puttin' up at then; did yer?
Lordy massy, lordy massy, who 'd ha' thought it? The wonderful
ways of Providence! `He setteth the poor on high, an'
letteth the runagates continoo in scarceness.' Wal, wal, it 's a
kind o' instructive world.”
“Do you suppose,” said Harry to me, in a low voice, “that this
creature knows anything of what he is saying?”
“I 'm afraid he does,” said I. “Sam seems to have but one
talent, and that is picking up news; and generally his guesses
turn out to be about true.”
“Sam,” said I, by way of getting him to talk of something else,
rather than on what I dreaded to hear, “you have n't said a
word about Hepsy and the children. How are they all?”
“Wal, the young uns hes all got the whoopin' cough,” said
Sam, “an' I 'm e'en a'most beat out with 'em. For fust it 's one
barks, an' then another, an' then all together. An' then Hepsy,
she gets riled, an' she scolds; an', take it all together, a feller's
head gits kind o' turned. When ye hes a lot o' young uns,
there 's allus suthin' a goin' on among 'em; ef 't ain't whoopin'
cough, it 's measles; an' ef 't ain't measles, it 's chicken-pox, or
else it 's mumps, or scarlet-fever, or suthin'. They 's all got to
be gone through, fust an' last. It 's enough to wean a body
from this world. Lordy massy, yest'day arternoon I see yer
Aunt Keziah an' yer Aunt Lois out a cuttin' cowslip greens
t'other side o' th' river, an' the sun it shone so bright, an' the
turtles an' frogs they kind o' peeped so pleasant, an' yer aunts
they sot on the bank so kind o' easy an' free, an' I stood there
a lookin' on 'em, an' I could n't help a thinkin', `Lordy massy,
I wish t' I wus an old maid.' Folks 'scapes a great deal that
don't hev no young uns a hangin' onter 'em.”
“Well, Sam,” said Harry, “is n't there any news stirring
round in the neighborhood?”
“S'pose ye hain't heerd about the great church-quarrel over to
Needmore?” he said.
“Quarrel? Why, no,” said Harry. “What is it about?”
“Wal, ye see, there 's a kind o' quarrel ris 'tween Parson
Perry and Deacon Bangs. I can't jest git the right on 't, but
it 's got the hull town afire. I b'lieve it cum up in a kind o'
dispute how to spell Saviour. The Deacon he 's on the school-committee,
an' Parson Perry he 's on 't; an' the Deacon he spells
it iour, an' Parson Perry he spells it ior, an' they would n't
neither on 'em give up. Wal, ye know Deacon Bangs, — I
s'pose he 's a Christian, — but, lordy massy, he 's one o' yer
dreadful ugly kind o' Christians, that, when they gits their backs
kind o' take advantage o' their position, an' think, es they 're
goin' to be saved by grace, grace shell hev enough on 't. Now,
to my mind, ef either on 'em wus to give way, the Deacon
oughter give up to the Parson; but the Deacon he don't think
so. Between you and me,” said Sam, “it 's my opinion that ef
Ma'am Perry hed n't died jest when she did, this 'ere thing
would never ha' growed to where 't is. But ye see Ma'am Perry
she died, an' that left Parson Perry a widower, an' folks did talk
about him an' Mahaley Bangs, an' fact was, 'long about last
spring, Deacon Bangs an' Mis' Bangs an' Mahaley wus jest as
thick with the Parson as they could be. Why, Granny Watkins
told me about their havin' on him to tea two an' three times a
week, an' Mahaley 'd make two kinds o' cake, an' they 'd have
preserved watermelon rinds an' peaches an' cranberry saace, an'
then 't was all sugar an' all sweet, an' the Deacon he talked
'bout raisin' Parson Perry's salary. Wal, then, ye see, Parson
Perry he went over to Oldtown an' married Jerushy Peabody.
Now, Jerushy 's a nice, pious gal, an' it 's a free country, an' parsons
hes a right to suit 'emselves as well 's other men. But Jake
Marshall, he ses to me, when he heerd o' that, ses he, `They 'll be
findin' fault with Parson Perry's doctrines now afore two months
is up; ye see if they don't.' Wal, sure enuff, this 'ere quarrel
'bout spellin' Saviour come on fust, an' Deacon Bangs he fit
the Parson like a bulldog. An' next town-meetin' day he told
Parson Perry right out before everybody thet he was wuss then
'n Armenian, — thet he was a rank Pelagian; 'n' he said there
was folks thet hed taken notes o' his sermons for two years back,
'n' they could show thet he hed n't preached the real doctrine of
total depravity, nor 'riginal sin, an' thet he 'd got the plan o' salvation
out o' j'int intirely; he was all kind o' flattin' out onter
morality. An' Parson Perry he sed he 'd preached jest 's he
allers hed. 'Tween you 'n' me, we know he must ha' done that,
'cause these 'ere ministers thet hev to go preachin' round 'n'
round like a hoss in a cider-mill, — wal, course they must preach
the same sermons over. I s'pose they kind o' trim 'em up with
new collars 'n' wris'bands. But we used to say thet Parson
year he turned his bar'l t'other side up, and begun at t'other
end. Lordy massy, who 's to know it, when half on em 's asleep?
And I guess the preachin 's full as good as the pay anyhow!
Wal, the upshot on 't all is, they got a gret counsel there, an'
they 're a tryin' Mr. Perry for heresy an' what not. Wal, I don't
b'lieve there 's a yaller dog goes inter the Needmore meetin'-house
now that ain't got his mind made up one way or t'other
about it. Yer don't hear nothin' over there now 'xcept about Armenians
an' Pelagians an' Unitarians an' total depravity. Lordy
massy! wal, they lives up to that doctrine any way. What do ye
think of old Sphyxy Smith's bein' called in as one o' the witnesses
in council? She don' know no more 'bout religion than
an' old hetchel, but she 's ferce as can be on Deacon Bangs's side,
an' Old Crab Smith he hes to hev' his say 'bout it.”
“Do tell,” said Harry, wonderingly, “if that old creature
is alive yet!”
“'Live? Why, yis, ye may say so,” said Sam. “Much alive as
ever he was. Ye see he kind o' pickles himself in hard cider, an'
I dunno but he may live to hector his wife till he 's ninety. But
he 's gret on the trial now, an' very much interested 'bout the
doctrines. He ses thet he hain't heard a sermon on sovereignty,
or 'lection, or reprobation, sence he can remember. Wal, t'other
side, they say they don't see what business Old Crab an' Miss
Sphyxy hev to be meddlin' so much, when they ain't church-members.
Why, I was over to Needmore town-meetin' day jest
to hear 'em fight over it; they talked a darned sight more 'bout
that than 'bout the turnpikes or town business. Why, I heard
Deacon Brown (he 's on the parson's side) tellin' Old Crab he
did n't see what business he had to boss the doctrines, when he
warn't a church-member, and Old Crab said it was his bisness
about the doctrines, 'cause he paid to hev 'em. `Ef I pay for
good strong doctrine, why, I want to hev good strong doctrine,'
says Old Crab, says he. `Ef I pays for hell-fire, I want to hev
hell-fire, and hev it hot too. I don't want none o' your prophesyin'
smooth things. Why,' says he, `look at Dr. Stern. His
folks hes the very hair took off their heads 'most every Sunday,
yew,' says Old Crab, `he 's a lettin' on us all go to sleep, and
it 's no wonder I ain't in the church.' Ye see, Old Crab and
Sphyxy, they seem to be kind o' settin' it down to poor old
Parson Perry's door that he hain't converted 'em, an' made saints
on 'em long ago, when they 've paid up their part o' the salary
reg'lar, every year. Jes' so onreasonable folks will be; they
give a man two hunderd dollars a year an' his wood, an' spect
him to git all on em' inter the kingdom o' heaven, whether
they will or no, jest as the angels got Lot's wife and daughters
out o' Sodom.”
“That poor little old woman!” said Harry. “Do tell if she
is living yet!”
“O yis, she 's all right,” said Sam; “she 's one o' these 'ere
little thin, dry old women that keep a good while. But ain't ye
heerd? their son Obid 's come home an' bought a farm, an'
married a nice gal, and he insists on it his mother shall live with
him. An' so Old Crab and Miss Sphyxy, they fight it out together.
So the old woman is delivered from him most o' the
time. Sometimes he walks over there an' stays a week, an' takes
a spell o' aggravatin' on 'er, that kind o' sets him up, but he 's so
busy now 'bout the quarrel 't I b'lieve he lets her alone.”
By this time we had reached the last rail-fence which separated
us from the grassy street of Oldtown, and here Sam took
his leave of us.
“I promised Hepsy when I went out,” he said, “thet I 'd go
to the store and git her some corn meal, but I 'll be round agin in
th' evening. Look 'ere,” he added, “I wus out this mornin', an'
I dug some sweet-flag root for yer. I know ye used ter like
sweet-flag root. 'T ain't time for young wintergreen yit, but
here 's a bunch I picked yer, with the berries an' old leaves.
Do take 'em, boys, jest for sake o' old times!”
We thanked him, of course; there was a sort of aroma of boyhood
about these things, that spoke of spring days and melting
snows, and long Saturday afternoon rambles that we had had with
Sam years before. And we saw his lean form go striding off with
something of an affectionate complacency.
“Horace,” said Harry, the minute we were alone, “you
must n't mind too much about Sam's gossip.”
“It is just what I have been expecting,” said I; “but in a few
moments we shall know the truth.”
We went on until the square white front of the old Rossiter
house rose upon our view. We stopped before it, and down the
walk from the front door to the gate, amid the sweet budding
lilacs, came gleaming and glancing the airy form of Tina. So
airy she looked, so bright, so full of life and joy, and threw herself
into Harry's arms, laughing and crying.
“O Harry, Harry! God has been good to us! And you, dear
brother Horace,” she said, turning to me and giving me both her
hands, with one of those frank, loving looks that said as much as
another might say by throwing herself into your arms. “We are
all so happy!” she said.
I determined to have it over at once, and I said, “Am I then
to congratulate you, Tina, on your engagement?”
She laughed and blushed, and held up her hand, on which
glittered a great diamond, and hid her face for a moment on
Harry's shoulder.
“I could n't write to you about it, boys, — I could n't! But
I meant to tell you myself, and tell you the first thing too.
I wanted to tell you about him, because I think you none of you
know him, or half how noble and good he is! Come, come in,”
she said, taking us each by the hand and drawing us along with
her. “Come in and see Aunty; she 'll be so glad to see you!”
If there was any one thing for which I was glad at this
moment, it was that I had never really made love to Tina. It
was a comfort to me to think that she did not and could not possibly
know the pain she was giving me. All I know is that, at
the moment, I was seized with a wild, extravagant gayety, and
rattled and talked and laughed with a reckless abandon that
quite astonished Harry. It seemed to me as if every ludicrous
story and every droll remark that I had ever heard came thronging
into my head together. And I believe that Tina really
thought that I was sincere in rejoicing with her. Miss Mehitable
talked with us gravely about it while Tina was out of the room.
always had supposed that Ellery Davenport had admired Tina,
but never that he had thought of her in this way. In a worldly
point of view, the match was a more brilliant one than could
ever have been expected. He was of the best old families in
the country, — of the Edwards and the Davenport stock, — his
talents were splendid, and his wealth would furnish everything
that wealth could furnish. “There is only one thing,” she continued
gravely; “I am not satisfied about his religious principles.
But Tina is an enthusiast, and has perfect faith that he will come
all right in this respect. He seems to be completely dazzled and
under her influence now,” said Miss Mehitable, taking a leisurely
pinch of snuff, “but then, you see, that 's a common phenomenon,
about this time in a man's life. But,” she added, “where
there is such a strong attachment on both sides, all we can do
is to wish both sides well, and speed them on their way. Mr.
Davenport has interested himself in the very kindest manner
in regard to both Tina and Harry, and I suppose it is greatly
owing to this that affairs have turned out as prosperously as they
have. As you know, Sir Harry made a handsome provision for
Tina in his will. I confess I am glad of that,” she said, with a
sort of pride. “I would n't want my little Tina to have passed
into his arms altogether penniless. When first love is over, men
sometimes remember those things.”
“If my father had not done justice to Tina in his will,” said
Harry, “I should have done it. My sister should not have gone
to any man a beggar.”
“I know that, my dear,” said Miss Mehitable, “but still it is
a pleasure to think that your father did it. It was a justice to
your mother's memory that I am glad he rendered.”
“And when is this marriage to take place?” said I.
“Mr. Davenport wants to carry her away in June,” said Miss
Mehitable. “That leaves but little time; but he says he must
go to join the English Embassy, certainly by midsummer, and
as there seems to be a good reason for his haste, I suppose I
must not put my feelings in the way. It seems now as if I had
had her only a few days, and she has been so very sweet and
old sweetbrier-bushes feel lonesome when we cut their blossoms
and carry them off, but the old thorny things must n't have
blossoms if they don't expect to have them taken. That's all
we scraggly old people are good for.”
| CHAPTER XLII.
SPRING VACATION AT OLDTOWN. Oldtown folks | |