University of Virginia Library

12. CHAPTER XII.

Mr. Sewell, as the reader may perhaps have inferred,
was of a nature profoundly secretive.

It was in most things quite as pleasant for him to keep
matters to himself, as it was to Miss Emily to tell them to
somebody else.

She resembled more than anything one of those trotting,
chattering little brooks that enliven the “back lot” of many
a New England home, while he was like one of those wells
you shall sometimes see by a deserted homestead, so long
unused that ferns and lichens feather every stone down to
the dark, cool water.

Dear to him was the stillness and coolness of inner
thoughts with which no stranger intermeddles; dear to him
every pendent fern-leaf of memory, every dripping moss of
old recollection; and though the waters of his soul came up
healthy and refreshing enough when one really must have
them, yet one had to go armed with bucket and line and
draw them up, — they never flowed.

One of his favorite maxims was, that the only way to
keep a secret was never to let any one suspect that you
have one. And as he had one now, he had, as you have
seen, done his best to baffle and put to sleep the feminine
curiosity of his sister.

He rather wanted to tell her, too, for he was a good-natured
brother, and would have liked to have given her the

amount of pleasure the confidence would have produced; but
then he reflected with dismay on the number of women in
his parish with whom Miss Emily was on tea-drinking terms,
— he thought of the wondrous solvent powers of that beverage
in whose amber depths so many resolutions, yea, and
solemn vows, of utter silence have been dissolved like Cleopatra's
pearls.

He knew that an infusion of his secret would steam up
from every cup of tea Emily should drink for six months to
come, till gradually every particle would be dissolved and
float in the air of common fame. No; it would not do.

You would have thought, however, that something was the
matter with Mr. Sewell, had you seen him after he retired
for the night after he had so very indifferently dismissed the
subject of Miss Emily's inquiries. For instead of retiring
quietly to bed, as had been his habit for years at that hour,
he locked his door, and then unlocked a desk of private
papers, and emptied certain pigeon-holes of their contents,
and for an hour or two sat unfolding and looking over old
letters and papers, — and when all this was done, he pushed
them from him and sat for a long time buried in thoughts
which went down very, very deep into that dark and mossy
well of which we have spoken.

Then he took a pen and wrote a letter, and addressed it
to a direction for which he had searched through many piles
of paper, and having done so, seemed to ponder, uncertainly,
whether to send it or not. The Harpswell post-office was
kept in Mr. Silas Perrit's store, and the letters were every
one of them carefully and curiously investigated by all the
gossips of the village, and as this was addressed to St. Augustine
in Florida, he foresaw that before Sunday the news
would be in every mouth in the parish that the minister

had written to so and so in Florida, “and what do you s'pose
it 's about?”

“No, no,” he said to himself, “that will never do; but at
all events there is no hurry,” and he put back the papers in
order, put the letter with them, and locking his desk, looked
at his watch and found it to be two o'clock, and so he went
to bed to think the matter over.

Now, there may be some reader so simple as to feel a portion
of Miss Emily's curiosity. But, my friend, restrain it,
for Mr. Sewell will certainly, as we foresee, become less
rather than more communicative on this subject, as he
thinks upon it.

Nevertheless, whatever it be that he knows or suspects, it
is something which leads him to contemplate with more than
usual interest this little mortal waif that has so strangely
come ashore in his parish.

He mentally resolves to study the child as minutely as
possible, without betraying that he has any particular reason
for being interested in him.

Therefore, in the latter part of this mild November afternoon,
which he has devoted to pastoral visiting, about two
months after the funeral, he steps into his little sail-boat, and
stretches away for the shores of Orr's Island. He knows
the sun will be down before he reaches there; but he sees
in the opposite horizon, the spectral, shadowy moon, only
waiting for daylight to be gone to come out, calm and radiant,
like a saintly friend neglected in the flush of prosperity,
who waits patiently to enliven our hours of darkness.

As his boat-keel grazed the sands on the other side, a
shout of laughter came upon his ear from behind a cedar-covered
rock, and soon emerged Captain Kittridge, as long
and lean and brown as the Ancient Mariner, carrying little

Mara on one shoulder, while Sally and little Moses Pennel
trotted on before.

It was difficult to say who in this whole group was in the
highest spirits. The fact was that Mrs. Kittridge had gone
to a tea-drinking over at Maquoit, and left the Captain as
house-keeper and general overseer; and little Mara and
Moses and Sally had been gloriously keeping holiday with
him down by the boat-cove, where, to say the truth, few
shavings were made, except those necessary to adorn the
children's heads with flowing suits of curls of a most extraordinary
effect. The aprons of all of them were full of
these most unsubstantial specimens of woody treasure, which
hung out in long festoons, looking of a yellow transparency
in the evening light. But the delight of the children in
their acquisitions was only equalled by that of grown-up
people in possessions equally fanciful in value.

The mirth of the little party, however, came to a sudden
pause as they met the minister. Mara clung tight to the
Captain's neck, and looked out slyly under her curls. But
the little Moses made a step forward, and fixed his bold, dark,
inquisitive eyes upon him. The fact was, that the minister
had been impressed upon the boy, in his few visits to the
“meeting,” as such a grand and mysterious reason for good
behavior, that he seemed resolved to embrace the first opportunity
to study him close at hand.

“Well, my little man,” said Mr. Sewell, with an affability
which he could readily assume with children, “you seem to
like to look at me.”

“I do like to look at you,” said the boy gravely, continuing
to fix his great black eyes upon him.

“I see you do, my little fellow.”

“Are you the Lord?” said the child, solemnly.

“Am I what?”

“The Lord,” said the boy.

“No, indeed, my lad,” said Mr. Sewell, smiling. “Why,
what put that into your little head?”

“I thought you were,” said the boy, still continuing to
study the pastor with attention. “Miss Roxy said so.”

“It 's curious what notions chil'en will get in their heads,”
said Captain Kittridge. “They put this and that together,
and think it over, and come out with such queer things.”

“But,” said the minister, “I have brought something for
you all;” saying which he drew from his pocket three little
bright-cheeked apples, and gave one to each child; and then
taking the hand of the little Moses in his own, he walked
with him toward the house-door.

Mrs. Pennel was sitting in her clean kitchen, busily spinning
at the little wheel, and rose flushed with pleasure at
the honor that was done her.

“Pray, walk in, Mr. Sewell,” she said, rising, and leading
the way toward the penetralia of the best room.

“Now, Mrs. Pennel, I am come here for a good sit-down
by your kitchen-fire this evening,” said Mr. Sewell. “Emily
has gone out to sit with old Mrs. Broad, who is laid up
with the rheumatism, and so I am turned loose to pick up
my living on the parish, and you must give me a seat for a
while in your kitchen corner. Best rooms are always cold.”

“The minister 's right,” said Captain Kittridge. “When
rooms a'n't much set in, folks never feel so kind o' natural
in 'em. So you jist let me put on a good back-log and forestick,
and build up a fire to tell stories by this evening. My
wife's gone out to tea, too,” he said, with an elastic skip.

And in a few moments the Captain had produced in the
great cavernous chimney a foundation for a fire that promised

breadth, solidity, and continuance. A great back-log,
embroidered here and there with tufts of green or grayish
moss, was first flung into the capacious arms of the fireplace,
and a smaller log placed above it.

“Now, all you young uns go out and bring in chips,” said
the Captain. “There 's capital ones out to the wood-pile.”

Mr. Sewell was pleased to see the flash that came from
the eyes of little Moses at this order — how energetically
he ran before the others, and came with glowing cheeks and
distended arms, throwing down great white chips with their
green mossy bark, scattering tufts on the floor.

“Good,” said he softly to himself, as he leaned on the top
of his gold-headed cane; “there's energy, ambition, muscle;”
and he nodded his head once or twice to some internal
decision.

“There!” said the Captain, rising out of a perfect whirlwind
of chips and pine kindlings with which in his zeal he
had bestrown the wide, black stone hearth, and pointing to
the tongues of flame that were leaping and blazing up
through the crevices of the dry pine wood which he had intermingled
plentifully with the more substantial fuel, —
“there, Mis' Pennel, a'n't I a master-hand at a fire? But
I 'm really sorry I 've dirtied your floor,” he said, as he
brushed down his pantaloons, which were covered with bits
of grizzly moss, and looked on the surrounding desolations;
“give me a broom, I can sweep up now as well as any
woman.”

“Oh, never mind,” said Mrs. Pennel, laughing, “I 'll
sweep up.”

“Well, now, Mis' Pennel, you 're one of the women that
don't get put out easy; a'n't ye?” said the Captain, still
contemplating his fire with a proud and watchful eye.

“Law me!” he exclaimed, glancing through the window,
“there 's the Cap'n a-comin'. I 'm jist goin' to give a look at
what he 's brought in. Come, chil'en,” and the Captain disappeared
with all three of the children at his heels, to go
down to examine the treasures of the fishing-smack.

Mr. Sewell seated himself coseyly in the chimney-corner,
and sank into a state of half-dreamy revery; his eyes fixed
on the fairest sight one can see of a frosty autumn twilight
— a crackling wood-fire.

Mrs. Pennel moved soft-footed to and fro, arraying her
tea-table in her own finest and pure damask, and bringing
from hidden stores her best china and newest silver, her
choicest sweetmeats and cake — whatever was fairest and
nicest in her house — to honor her unexpected guest.

Mr. Sewell's eyes followed her occasionally about the
room, with an expression of pleased and curious satisfaction.
He was taking it all in as an artistic picture — that simple,
kindly hearth, with its mossy logs, yet steaming with the
moisture of the wild woods — the table so neat, so cheery,
with its many little delicacies, and refinements of appointment,
and its ample varieties to tempt the appetite — and
then the Captain coming in, yet fresh and hungry from his
afternoon's toil, with the children trotting before him.

“And this is the inheritance he comes into,” he murmured;
“healthy — wholesome — cheerful — secure: how
much better than hot, stifling luxury!”

Here the minister's meditations were interrupted by the
entrance of all the children, joyful and loquacious. Little
Moses held up a string of mackerel, with their graceful
bodies and elegantly cut fins.

“Just a specimen of the best, Mary,” said Captain Pennel.
“I thought I 'd bring 'em for Miss Emily.”

“Miss Emily will be a thousand times obliged to you,”
said Mr. Sewell, rising up.

As to Mara and Sally, they were revelling in apronsful of
shells and sea-weed, which they bustled into the other room
to bestow in their spacious baby-house.

And now, after due time for Zephaniah to assume a land
toilet, all sat down to the evening meal.

After supper was over, the Captain was besieged by the
children. Little Mara mounted first into his lap, and nestled
herself quietly under his coat — Moses and Sally stood at
each knee.

“Come, now,” said Moses, “you said you would tell us
about the mermen to-night.”

“Yes, and the mermaids,” said Sally. “Tell them all you
told me the other night in the trundle-bed.”

Sally valued herself no little on the score of the Captain's
talent as a romancer.

“You see, Moses,” she said, volubly, “father saw mermen
and mermaids a plenty of them in the West Indies.”

“Oh, never mind about 'em now,” said Captain Kittridge,
looking at Mr. Sewell's corner.

“Why not, father? mother is n't here,” said Sally, innocently.

A smile passed round the faces of the company, and Mr.
Sewell said, “Come, Captain, no modesty; we all know
you have as good a faculty for telling a story as for making
a fire.”

“Do tell me what mermen are?” said Moses.

“Wal',” said the Captain, sinking his voice confidentially,
and hitching his chair a little around, “mermen and maids
is a kind o' people that have their world jist like our 'n,
only it 's down in the bottom of the sea, 'cause the bottom

of the sea has its mountains and its valleys, and its trees
and its bushes, and it stands to reason there should be people
there too.”

Moses opened his broad black eyes wider than usual, and
looked absorbed attention.

“Tell 'em about how you saw 'em,” said Sally.

“Wal', yes,” said Captain Kittridge, “once when I was
to the Bahamas, — it was one Sunday morning in June, the
first Sunday in the month, — we cast anchor pretty nigh a
reef of coral, and I was jist a-sittin' down to read my
Bible, when up comes a merman over the side of the ship,
all dressed as fine as any old beau that ever ye see, with
cocked-hat and silk stockings, and shoe-buckles, and his
clothes were sea-green, and his shoe-buckles shone like
diamonds.”

“Do you suppose they were diamonds, really?” said
Sally.

“Wal', child, I did n't ask him, but I should n't be surprised,
from all I know of their ways, if they was,” said the
Captain, who had now got so wholly into the spirit of his
fiction that he no longer felt embarrassed by the minister's
presence, nor saw the look of amusement with which he was
listening to him in his chimney-corner. “But, as I was
sayin', he came up to me, and made the politest bow that
ever ye see, and says he, `Cap'n Kittridge, I presume,' and
says I, `Yes, sir.' `I 'm sorry to interrupt your reading,'
says he; and says I, `Oh, no matter, sir.' `But,' says he,
`if you would only be so good as to move your anchor.
You 've cast anchor right before my front-door, and my
wife and family can't get out to go to meetin'.'”

“Why, do they go to meeting in the bottom of the sea?”
said Moses.

“Law, bless you sonny, yes. Why, Sunday morning,
when the sea was all still, I used to hear the bass-viol a-soundin'
down under the waters, jist as plain as could be,
— and psalms and preachin'. I 've reason to think there 's
as many hopefully pious mermaids as there be folks,” said
the Captain.

“But,” said Moses, “you said the anchor was before the
front-door, so the family could n't get out, — how did the
merman get out?”

“Oh! he got out of the scuttle on the roof,” said the
Captain, promptly.

“And did you move your anchor?” said Moses.

“Why, child, yes, to be sure I did; he was such a gentleman,
I wanted to oblige him, — it shows you how important
it is always to be polite,” said the Captain, by way of
giving a moral turn to his narrative.

Mr. Sewell, during the progress of this story, examined
the Captain with eyes of amused curiosity. His countenance
was as fixed and steady, and his whole manner of
reciting as matter-of-fact and collected, as if he were relating
some of the every-day affairs of his boat-building.

“Wal', Sally,” said the Captain, rising, after his yarn
had proceeded for an indefinite length in this manner, “you
and I must be goin'. I promised your ma you should n't
be up late, and we have a long walk home, — besides it 's
time these little folks was in bed.”

The children all clung round the Captain, and could
hardly be persuaded to let him go.

When he was gone, Mrs. Pennel took the little ones to
their nest in an adjoining room.

Mr. Sewell approached his chair to that of Captain Pennel,
and began talking to him in a tone of voice so low, that

we have never been able to make out exactly what he was
saying.

Whatever it might be, however, it seemed to give rise to
an anxious consultation.

“I did not think it advisable to tell any one this but
yourself, Captain Pennel. It is for you to decide, in view
of the probabilities I have told you, what you will do.”

“Well,” said Zephaniah, “since you leave it to me, I
say, let us keep him. It certainly seems a marked providence
that he has been thrown upon us as he has, and the
Lord seemed to prepare a way for him in our hearts. I
am well able to afford it, and Mis' Pennel, she agrees to it,
and on the whole I don't think we 'd best go back on our
steps; besides, our little Mara has thrived since he came
under our roof. He is, to be sure, kind o' masterful, and
I shall have to take him off Mis' Pennel's hands before
long, and put him into the sloop. But, after all, there seems
to be the makin' of a man in him, and when we are called
away, why he 'll be as a brother to poor little Mara. Yes,
I think it 's best as 't is.”

The minister, as he flitted across the bay by moonlight,
felt relieved of a burden. His secret was locked up as
safe in the breast of Zephaniah Pennel as it could be in
his own.