University of Virginia Library

8. CHAPTER VIII.

Life on any shore is a dull affair, — ever degenerating
into commonplace; and this may account for the eagerness
with which even a great calamity is sometimes accepted in a
neighborhood, as affording wherewithal to stir the deeper
feelings of our nature.

Thus, though Mrs. Kittridge was by no means a hard-hearted
woman, and would not for the world have had a
ship wrecked on her particular account, yet since a ship had
been wrecked and a body floated ashore at her very door,
as it were, it afforded her no inconsiderable satisfaction to
dwell on the details and to arrange for the funeral.

It was something to talk about and to think of, and likely
to furnish subject-matter for talk for years to come when
she should go out to tea with any of her acquaintances who
lived at Middle Bay, or Maquoit, or Harpswell Neck. For
although in those days, — the number of light-houses being
much smaller than it is now, — it was no uncommon thing
for ships to be driven on shore in storms, yet this incident
had undeniably more that was stirring and romantic in it
than any within the memory of any tea-table gossip in the
vicinity. Mrs. Kittridge, therefore, looked forward to the
funeral services on Sunday afternoon as to a species of
solemn fête, which imparted a sort of consequence to her
dwelling and herself. Notice of it was to be given out in
“meeting” after service, and she might expect both keeping-room

and kitchen to be full. Mrs. Pennel had offered
to do her share of Christian and neighborly kindness, in
taking home to her own dwelling the little boy. In fact, it
became necessary to do so in order to appease the feelings
of the little Mara, who clung to the new acquisition with
most devoted fondness, and wept bitterly when he was separated
from her even for a few moments. Therefore, in the
afternoon of the day when the body was found, Mrs. Pennel,
who had come down to assist, went back in company with
Aunt Ruey and the two children.

The September evening set in brisk and chill, and the
cheerful fire that snapped and roared up the ample chimney
of Captain Kittridge's kitchen was a pleasing feature. The
days of our story were before the advent of those sullen
gnomes, the “air-tights,” or even those more sociable and
cheery domestic genii, the cooking-stoves. They were the
days of the genial open kitchen-fire, with the crane, the
pot-hooks, and trammels, — where hissed and boiled the
social tea-kettle, where steamed the huge dinner-pot, in
whose ample depths beets, carrots, potatoes, and turnips
boiled in jolly sociability with the pork or corned beef
which they were destined to flank at the coming meal.

On the present evening, Miss Roxy sat bolt upright, as
was her wont, in one corner of the fireplace, with her spectacles
on her nose, and an unwonted show of candles on the
little stand beside her, having resumed the task of the silk
dress which had been for a season interrupted. Mrs. Kittridge,
with her spectacles also mounted, was carefully and
warily “running-up breadths,” stopping every few minutes
to examine her work, and to inquire submissively of Miss
Roxy if “it will do?”

Captain Kittridge sat in the other corner busily whittling

on a little boat which he was shaping to please Sally, who sat
on a low stool by his side with her knitting, evidently more
intent on what her father was producing than on the evening
task of “ten bouts,” which her mother exacted before she
could freely give her mind to anything on her own account.
As Sally was rigorously sent to bed exactly at eight o'clock,
it became her to be diligent if she wished to do anything for
her own amusement before that hour.

And in the next room, cold and still, was lying that faded
image of youth and beauty which the sea had so strangely
given up. Without a name, without a history, without a
single accompaniment from which her past could even be
surmised, — there she lay, sealed in eternal silence.

“It 's strange,” said Captain Kittridge, as he whittled
away, — “it 's very strange we don't find anything more of
that ar ship. I 've been all up and down the beach a-lookin'.
There was a spar and some broken bits of boards and timbers
come ashore down on the beach, but nothin' to speak of.”

“It won't be known till the sea gives up its dead,” said
Miss Roxy, shaking her head solemnly, “and there 'll be a
great givin' up then, I 'm a-thinkin'.”

“Yes, indeed,” said Mrs. Kittridge, with an emphatic nod.

“Father,” said Sally, “how many, many things there
must be at the bottom of the sea, — so many ships are
sunk with all their fine things on board. Why don't people
contrive some way to go down and get them?”

“They do, child,” said Captain Kittridge; “they have
diving-bells, and men go down in 'em with caps over their
faces, and long tubes to get the air through, and they walk
about on the bottom of the ocean.”

“Did you ever go down in one, father?”

“Why, yes, child, to be sure; and strange enough it was,

to be sure. There you could see great big sea critters, with
ever so many eyes and long arms, swimming right up to
catch you, and all you could do would be to muddy the
water on the bottom, so they could n't see you.”

“I never heard of that, Cap'n Kittridge,” said his wife,
drawing herself up with a reproving coolness.

“Wal', Mis' Kittridge, you ha' n't heard of everything
that ever happened,” said the Captain, imperturbably,
“though you do know a sight.”

“And how does the bottom of the ocean look, father?”
said Sally.

“Laws, child, why trees and bushes grow there, just as
they do on land; and great plants, — blue and purple and
green and yellow, and lots of great pearls lie round. I 've
seen 'em big as chippin'-birds' eggs.”

“Cap'n Kittridge!” said his wife.

“I have, and big as robins' eggs, too, but them was off
the coast of Ceylon and Malabar, and way round the Equator,”
said the Captain, prudently resolved to throw his romance
to a sufficient distance.

“It 's a pity you did n't get a few of them pearls,” said
his wife, with an indignant appearance of scorn.

“I did get lots on 'em, and traded 'em off to the Nabobs
in the interior for Cashmere shawls and India silks and
sich,” said the Captain, composedly; “and brought 'em
home and sold 'em at a good figure, too.”

“Oh, father!” said Sally, earnestly, “I wish you had
saved just one or two for us.”

“Laws, child, I wish now I had,” said the Captain, good-naturedly.
“Why, when I was in India, I went up to
Lucknow, and Benares, and round, and saw all the Nabobs
and Biggums, — why, they don't make no more of gold and

silver and precious stones than we do of the shells we find
on the beach. Why, I 've seen one of them fellers with a
diamond in his turban as big as my fist.”

“Cap'n Kittridge, what are you telling?” said his wife
once more.

“Fact, — as big as my fist,” said the Captain, obdurately;
“and all the clothes he wore was jist a stiff crust of pearls
and precious stones. I tell you, he looked like something in
the Revelations, — a real New Jerusalem look he had.”

“I call that ar talk wicked, Cap'n Kittridge, usin' Scriptur'
that ar way,” said his wife.

“Why, don't it tell about all sorts of gold and precious
stones in the Revelations?” said the Captain; “that 's all I
meant. Them ar countries off in Asia a'n't like our 'n, —
stands to reason they should n't be; them 's Scripture countries,
and everything is different there.”

“Father, did n't you ever get any of those splendid
things?” said Sally.

“Laws, yes, child. Why, I had a great green ring, an
emerald, that one of the princes giv' me, and ever so many
pearls and diamonds. I used to go with 'em rattlin' loose in
my vest pocket. I was young and gay in them days, and
thought of bringin' of 'em home for the gals, but somehow I
always got opportunities for swappin' of 'em off for goods and
sich. That ar shawl your mother keeps in her camfire chist
was what I got for one on 'em.”

“Well, well,” said Mrs. Kittridge, “there 's never any
catchin' you, 'cause you 've been where we have n't.”

“You 've caught me once, and that ought 'r do,” said the
Captain, with unruffled good-nature. “I tell you, Sally, your
mother was the handsomest gal in Harpswell in them days.”

“I should think you was too old for such nonsense,

Cap'n,” said Mrs. Kittridge, with a toss of her head, and
a voice that sounded far less inexorable than her former
admonition.

In fact, though the old Captain was as unmanageable under
his wife's fireside régime as any brisk old cricket that
skipped and sang around the hearth, and though he hopped
over all moral boundaries with a cheerful alertness of conscience
that was quite discouraging, still there was no resisting
the spell of his inexhaustible good-nature.

By this time he had finished the little boat, and to Sally's
great delight, began sailing it for her in a pail of water.

“I wonder,” said Mrs. Kittridge, “what 's to be done
with that ar child. I suppose the selectmen will take
care on 't; it 'll be brought up by the town.”

“I should n't wonder,” said Miss Roxy, “if Cap'n Pennel
should adopt it.”

“You don't think so,” said Mrs. Kittridge. “'T would
be taking a great care and expense on their hands at their
time of life.”

“I would n't want no better fun than to bring up that
little shaver,” said Captain Kittridge; “he 's a bright un, I
promise you.”

“You, Cap'n Kittridge! I wonder you can talk so,” said
his wife. “It 's an awful responsibility, and I wonder you
don't think whether or no you 're fit for it.”

“Why, down here on the shore, I 'd as lives undertake a
boy as a Newfoundland pup,” said the Captain. “Plenty in
the sea to eat, drink, and wear. That ar young un may be
the staff of their old age yet.”

“You see,” said Miss Roxy, “I think they 'll adopt it to
be company for little Mara; they 'r' bound up in her, and
the little thing pines bein' alone.”

“Well, they make a real graven image of that ar child,”
said Mrs. Kittridge, “and fairly bow down to her and worship
her.”

“Well, it 's natural,” said Miss Roxy. “Besides, the
little thing is cunnin'; she 's about the cunnin'est little
crittur that I ever saw, and has such enticin' ways.”

The fact was, as the reader may perceive, that Miss Roxy
had been thawed into an unusual attachment for the little
Mara, and this affection was beginning to spread a warming
element through her whole being. It was as if a rough
granite rock had suddenly awakened to a passionate consciousness
of the beauty of some fluttering white anemone
that nestled in its cleft, and felt warm thrills running through
all its veins at every tender motion and shadow. A word
spoken against the little one seemed to rouse her combativeness.
Nor did Dame Kittridge bear the child the slightest
ill-will, but she was one of those naturally care-taking people
whom Providence seems to design to perform the picket
duties for the rest of society, and who, therefore, challenge
everybody and everything to stand and give an account of
themselves.

Miss Roxy herself belonged to this class, but sometimes
found herself so stoutly overhauled by the guns of Mrs.
Kittridge's battery, that she could only stand modestly on
the defensive.

One of Mrs. Kittridge's favorite hobbies was education,
or, as she phrased it, the “fetchin' up” of children, which
she held should be performed to the letter of the old stiff
rule. In this manner she had already trained up six sons,
who were all following their fortunes upon the seas, and,
on this account, she had no small conceit of her abilities;
and when she thought she discerned a lamb being left to

frisk heedlessly out of bounds, her zeal was stirred to bring
it under proper sheepfold regulations.

“Come, Sally, it 's eight o'clock,” said the good woman.

Sally's dark brows lowered over her large, black eyes,
and she gave an appealing look to her father.

“Law, mother, let the child sit up a quarter of an hour
later, jist for once.”

“Cap'n Kittridge, if I was to hear to you, there 'd never be
no rule in this house. Sally, you go 'long this minute, and
be sure you put your knittin' away in its place.”

The Captain gave a humorous nod of submissive good-nature
to his daughter as she went out. In fact, putting
Sally to bed was taking away his plaything, and leaving
him nothing to do but study faces in the coals, or watch
the fleeting sparks which chased each other in flocks up
the sooty back of the chimney.

It was Saturday night, and the morrow was Sunday, —
never a very pleasant prospect to the poor Captain, who,
having, unfortunately, no spiritual tastes, found it very
difficult to get through the day in compliance with his
wife's views of propriety, for he, alas! soared no higher
in his aims.

“I b'lieve, on the hull, Polly, I 'll go to bed, too,” said he,
suddenly starting up.

“Well, father, your clean shirt is in the right-hand corner
of the upper drawer, and your Sunday clothes on the back
of the chair by the bed.”

The fact was that the Captain promised himself the
pleasure of a long conversation with Sally, who nestled in
the trundle-bed under the paternal couch, to whom he could
relate long, many-colored yarns, without the danger of interruption
from her mother's sharp, truth-seeking voice.

A moralist might, perhaps, be puzzled exactly what account
to make of the Captain's disposition to romancing
and embroidery. In all real, matter-of-fact transactions,
as between man and man, his word was as good as
another's, and he was held to be honest and just in his
dealings. It was only when he mounted the stilts of foreign
travel that his paces became so enormous. Perhaps, after
all, a rude poetic and artistic faculty possessed the man.
He might have been a humbler phase of the “mute, inglorious
Milton.” Perhaps his narrations required the privileges
and allowances due to the inventive arts generally.
Certain it was that, in common with other artists, he required
an atmosphere of sympathy and confidence in which
to develop himself fully; and, when left alone with children,
his mind ran such riot, that the bounds between the real and
unreal became foggier than the banks of Newfoundland.

The two women sat up, and the night wore on apace,
while they kept together that customary vigil which it was
thought necessary to hold over the lifeless casket from which
an immortal jewel had recently been withdrawn.

“I re'lly did hope,” said Mrs. Kittridge, mournfully, “that
this 'ere solemn Providence would have been sent home to
the Cap'n's mind; but he seems jist as light and triflin' as
ever.”

“There don't nobody see these 'ere things unless they 's
effectually called,” said Miss Roxy, “and the Cap'n's time
a'n't come.”

“It 's gettin' to be t'ward the eleventh hour,” said Mrs.
Kittridge, “as I was a-tellin' him this afternoon.”

“Well,” said Miss Roxy, “you know

“Yes, I know that,” said Mrs. Kittridge, rising and taking
up the candle. “Don't you think, Aunt Roxy, we may as
well give a look in there at the corpse?”

It was past midnight as they went together into the
keeping-room. All was so still that the clash of the rising
tide and the ticking of the clock assumed that solemn and
mournful distinctness which even tones less impressive take
on in the night-watches.

Miss Roxy went mechanically through with certain arrangements
of the white drapery around the cold sleeper,
and uncovering the face and bust for a moment, looked
critically at the still unconscious countenance.

“Not one thing to let us know who or what she is,” she
said; “that boy, if he lives, would give a good deal to know
some day.”

“What is it one's duty to do about this bracelet?” said
Mrs. Kittridge, taking from a drawer the article in question,
which had been found on the beach in the morning.

“Well, I s'pose it belongs to the child, whatever it 's
worth,” said Miss Roxy.

“Then if the Pennels conclude to take him, I may as
well give it to them,” said Mrs. Kittridge, laying it back in
the drawer.

Miss Roxy folded the cloth back over the face, and the
two went out into the kitchen. The fire had sunk low —
the crickets were chirruping gleefully. Mrs. Kittridge
added more wood, and put on the tea-kettle that their
watching might be refreshed by the aid of its talkative
and inspiring beverage. The two solemn, hard-visaged
women drew up to each other by the fire, and insensibly
their very voices assumed a tone of drowsy and confidential
mystery.

“If this 'ere poor woman was hopefully pious, and could
see what was goin' on here,” said Mrs. Kittridge, “it would
seem to be a comfort to her that her child has fallen into
such good hands. It seems a'most a pity she could n't
know it.”

“How do you know she don't?” said Miss Roxy, bruskly.

“Why, you know the hymn,” said Mrs. Kittridge, quoting
those somewhat saddusaical lines from the popular psalm-book:
—

“Well, I don't know 'bout that,” said Miss Roxy, flavoring
her cup of tea; “hymn-book a'n't Scriptur', and I 'm
pretty sure that ar a'n't true always;” and she nodded her
head as if she could say more if she chose.

Now Miss Roxy's reputation of vast experience in all the
facts relating to those last fateful hours which are the only
certain event in every human existence, caused her to be
regarded as a sort of Delphic oracle in such matters, and
therefore Mrs. Kittridge, not without a share of the latent
superstition to which each human heart must confess at some
hours, drew confidentially near to Miss Roxy, and asked if
she had anything particular on her mind.

“Well, Mis' Kittridge,” said Miss Roxy, “I a'n't one of
the sort as likes to make a talk of what I 've seen, but mebbe
if I was, I 've seen some things as remarkable as anybody.
I tell you Mis' Kittridge, folks don't tend the sick
and dyin' bed year in and out, at all hours, day and night,
and not see some remarkable things; that 's my opinion.”

“Well, Miss Roxy, did you ever see a sperit?”

“I won't say as I have, and I won't say as I hav' n't,”
said Miss Roxy; “only as I have seen some remarkable
things.” There was a pause, in which Mrs. Kittridge stirred
her tea, looking intensely curious, while the old kitchen-clock
seemed to tick with one of those fits of loud insistance
which seem to take clocks at times when all is still, as
if they had something that they were getting ready to say
pretty soon, if nobody else spoke.

But Miss Roxy evidently had something to say, and so
she began: —

“Mis' Kittridge, this 'ere 's a very particular subject to
be talkin' of. I 've had opportunities to observe that most
hav' n't, and I don't care if I jist say to you, that I 'm pretty
sure spirits that has left the body do come to their friends
sometimes.”

The clock ticked with still more empressement, and Mrs.
Kittridge glared through the horn bows of her glasses with
eyes of eager curiosity.

“Now, you remember Cap'n Titcomb's wife that died fifteen
years ago when her husband had gone to Archangel,
and you remember that he took her son John out with him
— and of all her boys, John was the one she was particular
sot on.”

“Yes, and John died at Archangel; I remember that.”

“Jes' so,” said Miss Roxy, laying her hand on Mrs. Kittridge's;
“he died at Archangel the very day his mother died,
and jist the hour, for the Cap'n had it down in his log-book.”

“You don't say so!”

“Yes I do. Well, now,” said Miss Roxy, sinking her
voice, “this 'ere was remarkable. Mis' Titcomb was one of
the fearful sort, tho' one of the best women that ever lived.
Our minister used to call her `Mis' Muchafraid' — you

know, in the `Pilgrim's Progress' — but he was satisfied
with her evidences, and told her so; she used to say she was
`afraid of the dark valley,' and she told our minister so
when he went out, that ar last day he called; and his
last words, as he stood with his hand on the knob of the
door, was `Mis' Titcomb, the Lord will find ways to bring
you thro' the dark valley.' Well, she sunk away about
three o'clock in the morning. I remember the time, 'cause
the Cap'n's chronometer watch that he left with her lay on
the stand for her to take her drops by. I heard her kind o'
restless, and I went up, and I saw she was struck with death,
and she looked sort o' anxious and distressed.

“`Oh, Aunt Roxy,' says she, `it 's so dark, who will go
with me?' and in a minute her whole face brightened up,
and says she, `John is going with me,' and she jist gave the
least little sigh and never breathed no more — she jist died
as easy as a bird.

“I told our minister of it next morning, and he asked if
I 'd made a note of the hour, and I told him I had, and says
he, `You did right, Aunt Roxy.'”

“What did he seem to think of it?”

“Well, he did n't seem inclined to speak freely. `Miss
Roxy,' says he, `all natur 's in the Lord's hands, and there 's
no saying why he uses this or that; them that 's strong
enough to go by faith, he lets 'em, but there 's no saying
what he won't do for the weak ones.'”

“Wa'n't the Cap'n overcome when you told him?” said
Mrs. Kittridge.

“Indeed he was; he was jist as white as a sheet.”

Miss Roxy now proceeded to pour out another cup of tea,
and having mixed and flavored it, she looked in a weird and
sibylline manner across it, and inquired, —

“Mis' Kittridge, do you remember that ar Mr. Wadkins
that come to Brunswick twenty years ago, in President
Averill's days?”

“Yes, I remember the pale, thin, long-nosed gentleman
that used to sit in President Averill's pew at church. Nobody
knew who he was or where he came from. The college
students used to call him Thaddeus of Warsaw. Nobody
knew who he was but the President, 'cause he could
speak all the foreign tongues — one about as well as another;
but the President he knew his story, and said he was
a good man, and he used to stay to the sacrament regular, I
remember.”

“Yes,” said Miss Roxy, “he used to live in a room all
alone, and keep himself. Folks said he was quite a gentleman,
too, and fond of reading.”

“I heard Cap'n Atkins tell,” said Mrs. Kittridge, “how
they came to take him up on the shores of Holland. You
see, when he was somewhere in a port in Denmark, some
men come to him and offered him a pretty good sum of
money if he 'd be at such a place on the coast of Holland
on such a day, and take whoever should come. So the
Cap'n he went, and sure enough on that day there come a
troop of men on horseback down to the beach with this man,
and they all bid him good-by, and seemed to make much of
him, but he never told 'em nothin' on board ship, only he
seemed kind o' sad and pinin'.”

“Well,” said Miss Roxy; “Ruey and I we took care o'
that man in his last sickness, and we watched with him the
night he died, and there was something quite remarkable.”

“Do tell now,” said Mrs. Kittridge.

“Well, you see,” said Miss Roxy, “he 'd been low and
poorly all day, kind o' tossin' and restless, and a little light-headed,

and the Doctor said he thought he wouldn't last till
morning, and so Ruey and I we set up with him, and between
twelve and one Ruey said she thought she 'd jist lop
down a few minutes on the old sofa at the foot of the bed,
and I made me a cup of tea like as I 'm a-doin' now, and
set with my back to him.”

“Well?” said Mrs. Kittridge, eagerly.

“Well, you see he kept a-tossin' and throwin' off the
clothes, and I kept a-gettin' up to straighten 'em; and once
he threw out his arms, and something bright fell out on to
the pillow, and I went and looked, and it was a likeness that
he wore by a ribbon round his neck. It was a woman — a
real handsome one — and she had on a low-necked black
dress, of the cut they used to call Marie Louise, and she had
a string of pearls round her neck, and her hair curled with
pearls in it, and very wide blue eyes. Well, you see, I
did n't look but a minute before he seemed to wake up, and
he caught at it and hid it in his clothes. Well, I went and
sat down, and I grew kind o' sleepy over the fire; but pretty
soon I heard him speak out very clear, and kind o' surprised,
in a tongue I did n't understand, and I looked
round.”

Miss Roxy here made a pause, and put another lump of
sugar into her tea.

“Well?” said Mrs. Kittridge, ready to burst with curiosity.

“Well, now, I don't like to tell about these 'ere things,
and you must n't never speak about it; but as sure as you
live, Polly Kittridge, I see that ar very woman standin' at
the back of the bed, right in the partin' of the curtains, jist
as she looked in the pictur' — blue eyes and curly hair, and
pearls on her neck, and black dress.”

“What did you do?” said Mrs. Kittridge.

“Do? Why, I jist held my breath and looked, and in a
minute it kind o' faded away, and I got up and went to the
bed, but the man was gone. He lay there with the pleasantest
smile on his face that ever you see; and I woke up
Ruey, and told her about it.”

Mrs. Kittridge drew a long breath. “What do you think
it was?”

“Well,” said Miss Roxy, “I know what I think, but I
don't think best to tell. I told Doctor Meritts, and he said
there were more things in heaven and earth than folks knew
about — and so I think.”

Meanwhile, on this same evening, the little Mara frisked
like a household fairy round the hearth of Zephaniah
Pennel.

The boy was a strong-limbed, merry-hearted little urchin,
and did full justice to the abundant hospitalities of Mrs.
Pennel's tea-table; and after supper little Mara employed
herself in bringing apronful after apronful of her choicest
treasures, and laying them down at his feet. His great
black eyes flashed with pleasure, and he gambolled about
the hearth with his new playmate in perfect forgetfulness,
apparently, of all the past night of fear and anguish.

When the great family Bible was brought out for prayers,
and little Mara composed herself on a low stool by her
grandmother's side, he, however, did not conduct himself
as a babe of grace.

He resisted all Miss Ruey's efforts to make him sit down
beside her, and stood staring with his great, black, irreverent
eyes during the Bible-reading, and laughed out in the most
inappropriate manner when the psalm-singing began, and

seemed disposed to mingle incoherent remarks of his own
even in the prayers.

“This is a pretty self-willed youngster,” said Miss Ruey,
as they rose from the exercises, “and I should n't think
he 'd been used to religious privileges.”

“Perhaps not,” said Zephaniah Pennel; “but who can
say but what this providence is a message of the Lord to us
— such as Pharaoh's daughter sent about Moses — `Take
this child, and bring him up for me'?”

“I 'd like to take him, if I thought I was capable,” said
Mrs. Pennel, timidly. “It seems a real providence to give
Mara some company — the poor child pines so for want
of it.”

“Well, then, Mary, if you say so, we will bring him up
with our little Mara,” said Zephaniah, drawing the child
toward him.

“May the Lord bless him!” he added, laying his great
brown hands on the shining black curls of the child.