University of Virginia Library

13. CHAPTER XIII.
THE QUAKER SETTLEMENT.

A quiet scene now rises before us. A large, roomy, neatly-painted
kitchen, its yellow floor glossy and smooth, and without
a particle of dust; a neat, well-blacked cooking-stove;
rows of shining tin, suggestive of unmentionable good things
to the appetite; glossy green wood chairs, old and firm;
a small flag-bottomed rocking-chair, with a patch-work cushion
in it, neatly contrived out of small pieces of different colored
woollen goods, and a larger sized one, motherly and old,
whose wide arms breathed hospitable invitation, seconded by
the solicitation of its feather cushions, — a real comfortable,
persuasive old chair, and worth, in the way of honest, homely
enjoyment, a dozen of your plush or brochetelle drawing-room
gentry; and in the chair, gently swaying back and forward,
her eyes bent on some fine sewing, sat our old friend Eliza.
Yes, there she is, paler and thinner than in her Kentucky
home, with a world of quiet sorrow lying under the shadow
of her long eyelashes, and marking the outline of her gentle
mouth! It was plain to see how old and firm the girlish
heart was grown under the discipline of heavy sorrow; and
when, anon, her large dark eye was raised to follow the gambols
of her little Harry, who was sporting, like some tropical
butterfly, hither and thither over the floor, she showed a depth
of firmness and steady resolve that was never there in her
earlier and happier days.

By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap,
into which she was carefully sorting some dried peaches. She
might be fifty-five or sixty; but hers was one of those faces
that time seems to touch only to brighten and adorn. The
snowy lisse crape cap, made after the strait Quaker pattern,
— the plain white muslin handkerchief, lying in placid folds
across her bosom, — the drab shawl and dress, — showed at once
the community to which she belonged. Her face was round
and rosy, with a healthful downy softness, suggestive of a
ripe peach. Her hair, partially silvered by age, was parted
smoothly back from a high placid forehead, on which time
had written no inscription, except peace on earth, good will to
men, and beneath shone a large pair of clear, honest, loving
brown eyes; you only needed to look straight into them, to
feel that you saw to the bottom of a heart as good and true
as ever throbbed in woman's bosom. So much has been
said and sung of beautiful young girls, why don't somebody
wake up to the beauty of old women? If any want to get
up an inspiration under this head, we refer them to our good
friend Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in her little
rocking-chair. It had a turn for quacking and squeaking,—
that chair had, — either from having taken cold in early life,
or from some asthmatic affection, or perhaps from nervous
derangement; but, as she gently swung backward and forward,
the chair kept up a kind of subdued “creechy crawchy,”
that would have been intolerable in any other chair. But old
Simeon Halliday often declared it was as good as any music
to him, and the children all avowed that they would n't miss
of hearing mother's chair for anything in the world. For
why? for twenty years or more, nothing but loving words,
and gentle moralities, and motherly loving kindness, had come
from that chair; — head-aches and heart-aches innumerable

had been cured there, — difficulties spiritual and temporal
solved there, — all by one good, loving woman, God bless
her!

“And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza?” she
said, as she was quietly looking over her peaches.

“Yes, ma'am,” said Eliza, firmly. “I must go onward.
I dare not stop.”

“And what 'll thee do, when thee gets there? Thee must
think about that, my daughter.”

“My daughter” came naturally from the lips of Rachel
Halliday; for hers was just the face and form that made
“mother” seem the most natural word in the world.

Eliza's hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work;
but she answered, firmly,

“I shall do — anything I can find. I hope I can find
something.”

“Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases,”
said Rachel.

“O, thank you,” said Eliza, “but” — she pointed to
Harry — “I can't sleep nights; I can't rest. Last night I
dreamed I saw that man coming into the yard,” she said,
shuddering.

“Poor child!” said Rachel, wiping her eyes; “but thee
must n't feel so. The Lord hath ordered it so that never
hath a fugitive been stolen from our village. I trust thine
will not be the first.”

The door here opened, and a little short, round, pincushiony
woman stood at the door, with a cheery, blooming face, like a
ripe apple. She was dressed, like Rachel, in sober gray,
with the muslin folded neatly across her round, plump little
chest.

“Ruth Stedman,” said Rachel, coming joyfully forward;

“how is thee, Ruth?” she said, heartily taking both her
hands.

“Nicely,” said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, and
dusting it with her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so, a
round little head, on which the Quaker cap sat with a sort of
jaunty air, despite all the stroking and patting of the small
fat hands, which were busily applied to arranging it. Certain
stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had escaped here and
there, and had to be coaxed and cajoled into their place again;
and then the new comer, who might have been five-and-twenty,
turned from the small looking-glass, before which
she had been making these arrangements, and looked well
pleased, — as most people who looked at her might have been,
— for she was decidedly a wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping
little woman, as ever gladdened man's heart withal.

“Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the little
boy I told thee of.”

“I am glad to see thee, Eliza, — very,” said Ruth, shaking
hands, as if Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting;
“and this is thy dear boy, — I brought a cake for him,”
she said, holding out a little heart to the boy, who came up,
gazing through his curls, and accepted it shyly.

“Where 's thy baby, Ruth?” said Rachel.

“O, he 's coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came
in, and ran off with him to the barn, to show him to the
children.”

At this moment, the door opened, and Mary, an honest,
rosy-looking girl, with large brown eyes, like her mother's,
came in with the baby.

“Ah! ha!” said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great,
white, fat fellow in her arms; “how good he looks, and how
he does grow!”

“To be sure, he does,” said little bustling Ruth, as she
took the child, and began taking off a little blue silk hood,
and various layers and wrappers of outer garments; and
having given a twitch here, and a pull there, and variously
adjusted and arranged him, and kissed him heartily, she set
him on the floor to collect his thoughts. Baby seemed quite
used to this mode of proceeding, for he put his thumb in his
mouth (as if it were quite a thing of course), and seemed
soon absorbed in his own reflections, while the mother seated
herself, and taking out a long stocking of mixed blue and
white yarn, began to knit with briskness.

“Mary, thee 'd better fill the kettle, had n't thee?” gently
suggested the mother.

Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon reäppearing,
placed it over the stove, where it was soon purring and steaming,
a sort of censer of hospitality and good cheer. The
peaches, moreover, in obedience to a few gentle whispers from
Rachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand, in a stew-pan
over the fire.

Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying
on an apron, proceeded quietly to making up some biscuits,
first saying to Mary, — “Mary, had n't thee better tell John
to get a chicken ready?” and Mary disappeared accordingly.

“And how is Abigail Peters?” said Rachel, as she went
on with her biscuits.

“O, she 's better,” said Ruth; “I was in, this morning;
made the bed, tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in, this
afternoon, and baked bread and pies enough to last some days;
and I engaged to go back to get her up, this evening.”

“I will go in to-morrow, and do any cleaning there may
be, and look over the mending,” said Rachel.

“Ah! that is well,” said Ruth. “I 've heard,” she added,

“that Hannah Stanwood is sick. John was up there, last
night, — I must go there to-morrow.”

“John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay
all day,” suggested Rachel.

“Thank thee, Rachel; will see, to-morrow; but, here comes
Simeon.”

Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab
coat and pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered.

“How is thee, Ruth?” he said, warmly, as he spread
his broad open hand for her little fat palm; “and how is
John?”

“O! John is well, and all the rest of our folks,” said
Ruth, cheerily.

“Any news, father?” said Rachel, as she was putting her
biscuits into the oven.

“Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along to-night,
with friends,” said Simeon, significantly, as he was washing
his hands at a neat sink, in a little back porch.

“Indeed!” said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing
at Eliza.

“Did thee say thy name was Harris?” said Simeon to
Eliza, as he reëntered.

Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously
answered “yes;” her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting
that possibly there might be advertisements out for her.

“Mother!” said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling
Rachel out.

“What does thee want, father?” said Rachel, rubbing her
floury hands, as she went into the porch.

“This child's husband is in the settlement, and will be here
to-night,” said Simeon.

“Now, thee does n't say that, father?” said Rachel, all
her face radiant with joy.

“It 's really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the
wagon, to the other stand, and there he found an old woman
and two men; and one said his name was George Harris;
and, from what he told of his history, I am certain who he is.
He is a bright, likely fellow, too.”

“Shall we tell her now?” said Simeon.

“Let 's tell Ruth,” said Rachel. “Here, Ruth, — come
here.”

Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back
porch in a moment.

“Ruth, what does thee think?” said Rachel. “Father
says Eliza's husband is in the last company, and will be here
to-night.”

A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the
speech. She gave such a bound from the floor, as she
clapped her little hands, that two stray curls fell from under
her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her white neckerchief.

“Hush thee, dear!” said Rachel, gently; “hush, Ruth!
Tell us, shall we tell her now?”

“Now! to be sure, — this very minute. Why, now,
suppose 't was my John, how should I feel? Do tell her,
right off.”

“Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbor,
Ruth,” said Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Ruth.

“To be sure. Is n't it what we are made for? If I
did n't love John and the baby, I should not know how to feel
for her. Come, now, do tell her, — do!” and she laid her
hands persuasively on Rachel's arm. “Take her into thy
bed-room, there, and let me fry the chicken while thee does
it.”

Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing,
and opening the door of a small bed-room, said, gently,
“Come in here with me, my daughter; I have news to tell
thee.”

The blood flushed in Eliza's pale face; she rose, trembling
with nervous anxiety, and looked towards her boy.

“No, no,” said little Ruth, darting up, and seizing her
hands. “Never thee fear; it 's good news, Eliza, — go in, go
in!” And she gently pushed her to the door, which closed
after her; and then, turning round, she caught little Harry
in her arms, and began kissing him.

“Thee 'll see thy father, little one. Does thee know it?
Thy father is coming,” she said, over and over again, as the
boy looked wonderingly at her.

Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on.
Rachel Halliday drew Eliza toward her, and said, “The Lord
hath had mercy on thee, daughter; thy husband hath escaped
from the house of bondage.”

The blood flushed to Eliza's cheek in a sudden glow, and
went back to her heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down,
pale and faint.

“Have courage, child,” said Rachel, laying her hand on
her head. “He is among friends, who will bring him here
to-night.”

“To-night!” Eliza repeated, “to-night!” The words
lost all meaning to her; her head was dreamy and confused;
all was mist for a moment.

When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on
the bed, with a blanket over her, and little Ruth rubbing her
hands with camphor. She opened her eyes in a state of

dreamy, delicious languor, such as one has who has long been
bearing a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and would rest.
The tension of the nerves, which had never ceased a moment
since the first hour of her flight, had given way, and a strange
feeling of security and rest came over her; and, as she lay,
with her large, dark eyes open, she followed, as in a quiet
dream, the motions of those about her. She saw the door
open into the other room; saw the supper-table, with its snowy
cloth; heard the dreamy murmur of the singing tea-kettle;
saw Ruth tripping backward and forward, with plates of cake
and saucers of preserves, and ever and anon stopping to put a
cake into Harry's hand, or pat his head, or twine his long
curls round her snowy fingers. She saw the ample, motherly
form of Rachel, as she ever and anon came to the bed-side,
and smoothed and arranged something about the bed-clothes,
and gave a tuck here and there, by way of expressing her
good-will; and was conscious of a kind of sunshine beaming
down upon her from her large, clear, brown eyes. She saw
Ruth's husband come in, — saw her fly up to him, and
commence whispering very earnestly, ever and anon, with
impressive gesture, pointing her little finger toward the
room. She saw her, with the baby in her arms, sitting down
to tea; she saw them all at table, and little Harry in a high
chair, under the shadow of Rachel's ample wing; there were
low murmurs of talk, gentle tinkling of tea-spoons, and
musical clatter of cups and saucers, and all mingled in a
delightful dream of rest; and Eliza slept, as she had not slept
before, since the fearful midnight hour when she had taken
her child and fled through the frosty star-light.

She dreamed of a beautiful country, — a land, it seemed to
her, of rest, — green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully
glittering water; and there, in a house which kind voices told

her was a home, she saw her boy playing, a free and happy
child. She heard her husband's footsteps; she felt him
coming nearer; his arms were around her, his tears falling on
her face, and she awoke! It was no dream. The daylight
had long faded; her child lay calmly sleeping by her side; a
candle was burning dimly on the stand, and her husband was
sobbing by her pillow.

The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house.
“Mother” was up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls
and boys, whom we had scarce time to introduce to our
readers yesterday, and who all moved obediently to Rachel's
gentle “Thee had better,” or more gentle “Had n't thee
better?” in the work of getting breakfast; for a breakfast in
the luxurious valleys of Indiana is a thing complicated and
multiform, and, like picking up the rose-leaves and trimming
the bushes in Paradise, asking other hands than those of the
original mother. While, therefore, John ran to the spring for
fresh water, and Simeon the second sifted meal for corn-cakes,
and Mary ground coffee, Rachel moved gently and
quietly about, making biscuits, cutting up chicken, and
diffusing a sort of sunny radiance over the whole proceeding
generally. If there was any danger of friction or collision
from the ill-regulated zeal of so many young operators, her
gentle “Come! come!” or “I would n't, now,” was quite
sufficient to allay the difficulty. Bards have written of the
cestus of Venus, that turned the heads of all the world in
successive generations. We had rather, for our part, have
the cestus of Rachel Halliday, that kept heads from being
turned, and made everything go on harmoniously. We think
it is more suited to our modern days, decidedly.

While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the
elder stood in his shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass in
the corner, engaged in the anti-patriarchal operation of
shaving. Everything went on so sociably, so quietly, so
harmoniously, in the great kitchen, — it seemed so pleasant to
every one to do just what they were doing, there was such an
atmosphere of mutual confidence and good fellowship everywhere,
— even the knives and forks had a social clatter as they
went on to the table; and the chicken and ham had a cheerful
and joyous fizzle in the pan, as if they rather enjoyed being
cooked than otherwise; — and when George and Eliza and little
Harry came out, they met such a hearty, rejoicing welcome,
no wonder it seemed to them like a dream.

At last, they were all seated at breakfast, while Mary stood
at the sove, baking griddle-cakes, which, as they gained the
true exact golden-brown tint of perfection, were transferred
quite handily to the table.

Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the
head of her table. There was so much motherliness and
full-heartedness even in the way she passed a plate of cakes
or poured a cup of coffee, that it seemed to put a spirit into
the food and drink she offered.

It was the first time that ever George had sat down on
equal terms at any white man's table; and he sat down, at
first, with some constraint and awkwardness; but they all
exhaled and went off like fog, in the genial morning rays of
this simple, overflowing kindness.

This, indeed, was a home, — home, — a word that George
had never yet known a meaning for; and a belief in God, and
trust in his providence, began to encircle his heart, as, with a
golden cloud of protection and confidence, dark, misanthropic,
pining, atheistic doubts, and fierce despair, melted away before

the light of a living Gospel, breathed in living faces, preached
by a thousand unconscious acts of love and good will, which,
like the cup of cold water given in the name of a disciple,
shall never lose their reward.

“Father, what if thee should get found out again?” said
Simeon second, as he buttered his cake.

“I should pay my fine,” said Simeon, quietly.

“But what if they put thee in prison?”

“Could n't thee and mother manage the farm?” said
Simeon, smiling.

“Mother can do almost everything,” said the boy. “But
is n't it a shame to make such laws?”

“Thee must n't speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon,” said his
father, gravely. “The Lord only gives us our worldly goods
that we may do justice and mercy; if our rulers require a
price of us for it, we must deliver it up.”

“Well, I hate those old slaveholders!” said the boy, who
felt as unchristian as became any modern reformer.

“I am surprised at thee, son,” said Simeon; “thy mother
never taught thee so. I would do even the same for the
slaveholder as for the slave, if the Lord brought him to my
door in affliction.”

Simeon second blushed scarlet; but his mother only
smiled, and said, “Simeon is my good boy; he will grow
older, by and by, and then he will be like his father.”

“I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any
difficulty on our account,” said George, anxiously.

“Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into the
world. If we would not meet trouble for a good cause, we
were not worthy of our name.”

“But, for me,” said George, “I could not bear it.”

“Fear not, then, friend George; it is not for thee, but for

God and man, we do it,” said Simeon. “And now thou
must lie by quietly this day, and to-night, at ten o'clock,
Phineas Fletcher will carry thee onward to the next stand,—
thee and the rest of thy company. The pursuers are hard
after thee; we must not delay.”

“If that is the case, why wait till evening?” said George.

“Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settlement
is a Friend, and all are watching. It has been found
safer to travel by night.”