University of Virginia Library

4. IV.
THE SUPPER-TABLE.

The pleasant fire-light! I must still keep harping
on it.

The kitchen-hearth had an old-fashioned breadth,
depth and spaciousness, far within which lay what
seemed the butt of a good-sized oak-tree, with the moisture
bubbling merrily out of both ends. It was now
half an hour beyond dusk. The blaze from an armful
of substantial sticks, rendered more combustible by
brush-wood and pine, flickered powerfully on the smoke-blackened
walls, and so cheered our spirits that we
cared not what inclemency might rage and roar on the
other side of our illuminated windows. A yet sultrier
warmth was bestowed by a goodly quantity of peat,
which was crumbling to white ashes among the burning
brands, and incensed the kitchen with its not ungrateful
fragrance. The exuberance of this household fire
would alone have sufficed to bespeak us no true farmers;
for the New England yeoman, if he have the misfortune
to dwell within practicable distance of a wood-market,
is as niggardly of each stick as if it were a bar
of California gold.

But it was fortunate for us, on that wintry eve of our
untried life, to enjoy the warm and radiant luxury of a
somewhat too abundant fire. If it served no other purpose,
it made the men look so full of youth, warm blood,

and hope, and the women — such of them, at least, as were
anywise convertible by its magic — so very beautiful, that
I would cheerfully have spent my last dollar to prolong
the blaze. As for Zenobia, there was a glow in her
cheeks that made me think of Pandora, fresh from Vulcan's
workshop, and full of the celestial warmth by dint
of which he had tempered and moulded her.

“Take your places, my dear friends all,” cried she;
“seat yourselves without ceremony, and you shall be
made happy with such tea as not many of the world's
working-people, except yourselves, will find in their cups
to-night. After this one supper, you may drink butter-milk,
if you please. To-night we will quaff this nectar,
which, I assure you, could not be bought with gold.”

We all sat down, — grisly Silas Foster, his rotund
helpmate, and the two bouncing handmaidens, included,
— and looked at one another in a friendly but rather
awkward way. It was the first practical trial of our
theories of equal brotherhood and sisterhood; and we
people of superior cultivation and refinement (for as such,
I presume, we unhesitatingly reckoned ourselves) felt as
if something were already accomplished towards the millennium
of love. The truth is, however, that the laboring-oar
was with our unpolished companions; it being
far easier to condescend than to accept of condescension.
Neither did I refrain from questioning, in secret,
whether some of us — and Zenobia among the rest —
would so quietly have taken our places among these
good people, save for the cherished consciousness that it
was not by necessity, but choice. Though we saw fit to
drink our tea out of earthen cups to-night, and in
earthen company, it was at our own option to use pictured

porcelain and handle silver forks again to-morrow.
This same salvo, as to the power of regaining our former
position, contributed much, I fear, to the equanimity
with which we subsequently bore many of the hardships
and humiliations of a life of toil. If ever I have
deserved (which has not often been the case, and, I think,
never), but if ever I did deserve to be soundly cuffed by
a fellow-mortal, for secretly putting weight upon some
imaginary social advantage, it must have been while I
was striving to prove myself ostentatiously his equal,
and no more. It was while I sat beside him on his cobbler's
bench, or clinked my hoe against his own in the
corn-field, or broke the same crust of bread, my earth-grimed
hand to his, at our noon-tide lunch. The
poor, proud man should look at both sides of sympathy
like this.

The silence which followed upon our sitting down to
table grew rather oppressive; indeed, it was hardly
broken by a word, during the first round of Zenobia's
fragrant tea.

“I hope,” said I, at last, “that our blazing windows
will be visible a great way off. There is nothing so
pleasant and encouraging to a solitary traveller, on a
stormy night, as a flood of fire-light seen amid the
gloom. These ruddy window-panes cannot fail to cheer
the hearts of all that look at them. Are they not warm
and bright with the beacon-fire which we have kindled
for humanity?”

“The blaze of that brush-wood will only last a
minute or two longer,” observed Silas Foster; but
whether he meant to insinuate that our moral illumination
would have as brief a term, I cannot say.

“Meantime,” said Zenobia, “it may serve to guide
some wayfarer to a shelter.”

And, just as she said this, there came a knock at the
house-door.

“There is one of the world's wayfarers,” said I.

“Ay, ay, just so!” quoth Silas Foster. “Our fire-light
will draw stragglers, just as a candle draws dorbugs,
on a summer night.”

Whether to enjoy a dramatic suspense, or that we
were selfishly contrasting our own comfort with the
chill and dreary situation of the unknown person at the
threshold, or that some of us city-folk felt a little
startled at the knock which came so unseasonably,
through night and storm, to the door of the lonely farm-house,
— so it happened, that nobody, for an instant or
two, arose to answer the summons. Pretty soon, there
came another knock. The first had been moderately
loud; the second was smitten so forcibly that the
knuckles of the applicant must have left their mark in
the door-panel.

“He knocks as if he had a right to come in,” said
Zenobia, laughing. “And what are we thinking of? It
must be Mr. Hollingsworth!”

Hereupon, I went to the door, unbolted, and flung it
wide open. There, sure enough, stood Hollingsworth,
his shaggy great-coat all covered with snow, so that he
looked quite as much like a polar bear as a modern
philanthropist.

“Sluggish hospitality this!” said he, in those deep
tones of his, which seemed to come out of a chest as
capacious as a barrel. “It would have served you
right if I had lain down and spent the night on the door-step,

just for the sake of putting you to shame. But
here is a guest who will need a warmer and softer bed.”

And, stepping back to the wagon in which he had journeyed
hither, Hollingsworth received into his arms and
deposited on the door-step a figure enveloped in a cloak.
It was evidently a woman; or, rather, — judging from
the ease with which he lifted her, and the little space
which she seemed to fill in his arms, — a slim and
unsubstantial girl. As she showed some hesitation
about entering the door, Hollingsworth, with his usual
directness and lack of ceremony, urged her forward, not
merely within the entry, but into the warm and strongly-lighted
kitchen.

“Who is this?” whispered I, remaining behind with
him while he was taking off his great-coat.

“Who? Really, I don't know,” answered Hollingsworth,
looking at me with some surprise. “It is a young
person who belongs here, however; and, no doubt, she
has been expected. Zenobia, or some of the women-folks,
can tell you all about it.”

“I think not,” said I, glancing towards the new comer
and the other occupants of the kitchen. “Nobody
seems to welcome her. I should hardly judge that she
was an expected guest.”

“Well, well,” said Hollingsworth, quietly. “We 'll
make it right.”

The stranger, or whatever she were, remained standing
precisely on that spot of the kitchen floor to which
Hollingsworth's kindly hand had impelled her. The
cloak falling partly off, she was seen to be a very young
woman, dressed in a poor but decent gown, made high
in the neck, and without any regard to fashion or smartness.

Her brown hair fell down from beneath a hood,
not in curls, but with only a slight wave; her face was
of a wan, almost sickly hue, betokening habitual seclusion
from the sun and free atmosphere, like a flower-shrub
that had done its best to blossom in too scanty
light. To complete the pitiableness of her aspect, she
shivered, either with cold, or fear, or nervous excitement,
so that you might have beheld her shadow vibrating on
the fire-lighted wall. In short, there has seldom been
seen so depressed and sad a figure as this young girl's;
and it was hardly possible to help being angry with her,
from mere despair of doing anything for her comfort.
The fantasy occurred to me that she was some desolate
kind of a creature, doomed to wander about in snow-storms;
and that, though the ruddiness of our window-panes
had tempted her into a human dwelling, she
would not remain long enough to melt the icicles out of
her hair.

Another conjecture likewise came into my mind.
Recollecting Hollingsworth's sphere of philanthropic
action, I deemed it possible that he might have brought
one of his guilty patients, to be wrought upon, and
restored to spiritual health, by the pure influences which
our mode of life would create.

As yet, the girl had not stirred. She stood near the
door, fixing a pair of large, brown, melancholy eyes upon
Zenobia, — only upon Zenobia! — she evidently saw
nothing else in the room, save that bright, fair, rosy,
beautiful woman. It was the strangest look I ever witnessed;
long a mystery to me, and forever a memory.
Once she seemed about to move forward and greet her,
— I know not with what warmth, or with what words;

— but, finally, instead of doing so, she drooped down
upon her knees, clasped her hands, and gazed piteously
into Zenobia's face. Meeting no kindly reception, her
head fell on her bosom.

I never thoroughly forgave Zenobia for her conduct
on this occasion. But women are always more cautious
in their casual hospitalities than men.

“What does the girl mean?” cried she, in rather a
sharp tone. “Is she crazy? Has she no tongue?”

And here Hollingsworth stepped forward.

“No wonder if the poor child's tongue is frozen in her
mouth,” said he, — and I think he positively frowned at
Zenobia. “The very heart will be frozen in her bosom,
unless you women can warm it, among you, with the
warmth that ought to be in your own!”

Hollingsworth's appearance was very striking at this
moment. He was then about thirty years old, but looked
several years older, with his great shaggy head, his
heavy brow, his dark complexion, his abundant beard,
and the rude strength with which his features seemed to
have been hammered out of iron, rather than chiselled
or moulded from any finer or softer material. His
figure was not tall, but massive and brawny, and well
befitting his original occupation, which — as the reader
probably knows — was that of a blacksmith. As for
external polish, or mere courtesy of manner, he never
possessed more than a tolerably educated bear; although,
in his gentler moods, there was a tenderness in his voice,
eyes, mouth, in his gesture, and in every indescribable
manifestation, which few men could resist, and no
woman. But he now looked stern and reproachful; and
it was with that inauspicious meaning in his glance

that Hollingsworth first met Zenobia's eyes, and began
his influence upon her life.

To my surprise, Zenobia — of whose haughty spirit I
had been told so many examples — absolutely changed
color, and seemed mortified and confused.

“You do not quite do me justice, Mr. Hollingsworth,”
said she, almost humbly. “I am willing to be kind to
the poor girl. Is she a protegée of yours? What can I
do for her?”

“Have you anything to ask of this lady?” said Hollingsworth,
kindly, to the girl. “I remember you
mentioned her name before we left town.”

“Only that she will shelter me,” replied the girl,
tremulously. “Only that she will let me be always
near her.”

“Well, indeed,” exclaimed Zenobia, recovering herself,
and laughing, “this is an adventure, and well
worthy to be the first incident in our life of love and
free-heartedness! But I accept it, for the present, without
further question, — only,” added she, “it would be a
convenience if we knew your name.”

“Priscilla,” said the girl; and it appeared to me that
she hesitated whether to add anything more, and decided
in the negative. “Pray do not ask me my other name,
— at least, not yet, — if you will be so kind to a forlorn
creature.”

Priscilla! — Priscilla! I repeated the name to myself,
three or four times; and, in that little space, this quaint
and prim cognomen had so amalgamated itself with my
idea of the girl, that it seemed as if no other name could
have adhered to her for a moment. Heretofore, the poor
thing had not shed any tears; but now that she found

herself received, and at least temporarily established, the
big drops began to ooze out from beneath her eyelids, as
if she were full of them. Perhaps it showed the iron
substance of my heart, that I could not help smiling at
this odd scene of unknown and unaccountable calamity,
into which our cheerful party had been entrapped, without
the liberty of choosing whether to sympathize or no.
Hollingsworth's behavior was certainly a great deal
more creditable than mine.

“Let us not pry further into her secrets,” he said to
Zenobia and the rest of us, apart, — and his dark, shaggy
face looked really beautiful with its expression of
thoughtful benevolence. “Let us conclude that Providence
has sent her to us, as the first fruits of the world,
which we have undertaken to make happier than we find
it. Let us warm her poor, shivering body with this
good fire, and her poor, shivering heart with our best
kindness. Let us feed her, and make her one of us.
As we do by this friendless girl, so shall we prosper.
And, in good time, whatever is desirable for us to know
will be melted out of her, as inevitably as those tears
which we see now.”

“At least,” remarked I, “you may tell us how and
where you met with her.”

“An old man brought her to my lodgings,” answered
Hollingsworth, “and begged me to convey her to Blithedale,
where — so I understood him — she had friends;
and this is positively all I know about the matter.”

Grim Silas Foster, all this while, had been busy at the
supper-table, pouring out his own tea, and gulping it
down with no more sense of its exquisiteness than if it
were a decoction of catnip; helping himself to pieces of

dipt toast on the flat of his knife-blade, and dropping
half of it on the table-cloth; using the same serviceable
implement to cut slice after slice of ham; perpetrating
terrible enormities with the butter-plate; and, in all
other respects, behaving less like a civilized Christian
than the worst kind of an ogre. Being by this time
fully gorged, he crowned his amiable exploits with a
draught from the water pitcher, and then favored us
with his opinion about the business in hand. And, certainly,
though they proceeded out of an unwiped mouth,
his expressions did him honor.

“Give the girl a hot cup of tea, and a thick slice of
this first-rate bacon,” said Silas, like a sensible man as
he was. “That 's what she wants. Let her stay with
us as long as she likes, and help in the kitchen, and
take the cow-breath at milking-time; and, in a week or
two, she 'll begin to look like a creature of this world.”

So we sat down again to supper, and Priscilla along
with us.