CHAPTER XXIX. Bustle in the Parish
THE announcement of the definite engagement of two such bright particular stars in the hemisphere of the Doctor’s small parish excited the interest that such events usually create among the faithful of the flock. There was a general rustle and flutter, as when a covey of wild pigeons has been started; and all the little elves who rejoice in the name of “says he” and “says I” and “do tell” and “have you heard” were speedily flying through the consecrated air of the parish. The fact was discussed by matrons and maidens, at the spinning-wheel, in the green clothes-yard, and at the foamy wash-tub, out of which rose weekly a new birth of freshness and beauty. Many a rustic Venus of the foam, as she splashed her dimpled elbows in the rainbow-tinted froth, talked of what should be done for the forthcoming solemnities, and wondered what Mary would have on when she was married, and whether she (the Venus) should get an invitation to the wedding, and whether Ethan would go, — not, of course, that she cared in the least whether he did or not. Grave, elderly matrons talked about the prosperity of Zion, which they imagined intimately connected with the event of their minister’s marriage; and descending from Zion, speculated on bed-quilts and table-cloths, and rummaged their own clean, sweet-smelling stores, fragrant with balm and rose-leaves, to lay out a bureau-cover, or a pair of sheets, or a dozen napkins for the wedding outfit. The solemnest of solemn quiltings was resolved upon. Miss Prissy declared that she fairly couldn’t sleep nights with the responsibility of the wedding-dresses on her mind, but yet she must give one day to getting on that quilt. The grand monde also was in motion. Mrs. General Wilcox called in her own particular carriage, bearing present of a Cashmere shawl for the bride, with the General’s best compliments, — also an oak-leaf pattern for quilting, which had been sent her from England, and which was authentically established to be that used on a petticoat belonging to the Princess Royal. And Mrs. Major Seaforth came also, bearing a scarf of wrought India muslin; and Mrs. Vernon sent a splendid China punch-bowl. Indeed, to say the truth, the notables high and mighty of Newport, whom the Doctor had so unceremoniously accused of building their houses with blood and establishing their city with iniquity, considering that nobody seemed to take his words to heart, and that they were making money as fast as old Tyre, rather assumed the magnanimous, and patted themselves on the shoulder for this opportunity to show the Doctor that after all they were good fellows, though they did make money at the expense of thirty per cent. on human life. Simeon Brown was the only exception. He stood aloof, grim and sarcastic, and informed some good middle-aged ladies who came to see if he would, as they phrased it, “esteem it a privilege to add his mite” to the Doctor’s outfit, that he would give him a likely negro boy, if he wanted him, and, if he was too conscientious to keep him, he might sell him at a fair profit, — a happy stroke of humor which he was fond of relating many years after. The quilting was in those days considered the most solemn and important recognition of a betrothal. And for the benefit of those not to the manner born, a little preliminary instruction may be necessary. The good wives of New England, impressed with that thrifty orthodoxy of economy which forbids to waste the merest trifle, had a habit of saving every scrap clipped out in the fashioning of household garments, and these they cut into fanciful patterns and constructed of them rainbow shapes and quaint traceries, the arrangement of which became one of their few fine arts. Many a maiden, as she sorted and arranged fluttering bits of green, yellow, red, and blue, felt rising in her breast a passion for somewhat vague and unknown, which came out at length in a new pattern of patchwork. Collections of these tiny fragments were always ready to fill an hour when there was nothing else to do; and as the maiden chattered with her beau, her busy flying needle stitched together those pretty bits, which, little in themselves, were destined, by gradual unions and accretions, to bring about at last substantial beauty, warmth, and comfort, — emblems thus of that household life which is to be brought to stability and beauty by reverent economy in husbanding and tact in arranging the little useful and agreeable morsels of daily existence. When a wedding was forthcoming, there was a solemn review of the stores of beauty and utility thus provided, and the patchwork-spread best worthy of such distinction was chosen for the quilting. Thereto, duly summoned, trooped all intimate female friends of the bride, old and young; and the quilt being spread on a frame, and wadded with cotton, each vied with the others in the delicacy of the quilting she could put upon it. For the quilting also was a fine art, and had its delicacies and nice points, — which grave elderly matrons discussed with judicious care. The quilting generally began at an early hour in the afternoon, and ended at dark with a great supper and general jubilee, at which that ignorant and incapable sex which could not quilt was allowed to appear and put in claims for consideration of another nature. It may, perhaps, be surmised that this expected reinforcement was often alluded to by the younger maidens, whose wickedly coquettish toilettes exhibited suspicious marks of that willingness to get a chance to say “No” which has been slanderously attributed to mischievous maidens. In consideration of the tremendous responsibilities involved in this quilting, the reader will not be surprised to learn, that, the evening before, Miss Prissy made her appearance at the brown cottage, armed with thimble, scissors, and pincushion, in order to relieve her mind by a little preliminary confabulation. “You see me, Miss Scudder, run ‘most to death,” she said; “but I thought I would just run up to Miss Major Seaforth’s and see her best bedroom quilt, ‘cause I wanted to have all the ideas we possibly could, before I decided on the pattern. Her’s is in shells, — just common shells, — nothing to be compared with Miss Wilcox’s oak-leaves; and I suppose there isn’t the least doubt that Miss Wilcox’s sister, in London, did get that from a lady who had a cousin who was governess in the royal family; and I just quilted a little bit today on an old piece of silk, and it comes out beautiful; and so I thought I would just come and ask you if you did not think it was best for us to have the oak-leaves.” “Well, certainly, Miss Prissy, if you think so,” said Mrs. Scudder, who was as pliant to the opinions of this wise woman of the parish as New England matrons generally are to a reigning dressmaker and factotum. Miss Prissy had the happy consciousness, always, that her early advent under any roof was considered a matter of especial grace; and therefore it was with rather a patronizing tone that she announced that she would stay and spend the night with them. “I knew,” she added, “that your spare chamber was full, with that Madame de — , what do you call her? — if I was to die, I could not remember the woman’s name. Well, I thought I could curl in with you, Mary, ‘most anywhere.” “That’s right, Miss Prissy,” said Mary; “you shall be welcome to half my bed any time.” “Well, I knew you would say so, Mary; I never saw the thing you would not give away one half of, since you was that high,” said Miss Prissy, — illustrating her words by placing her hand about two feet from the floor. Just at this moment, Madame de Frontignac entered and asked Mary to come into her room and give her advice as to a piece of embroidery. When she was gone out, Miss Prissy looked after her and sunk her voice once more to the confidential whisper which we before described. “I have heard strange stories about that French woman,” she said; “but as she is here with you and Mary, I suppose there cannot be any truth in them. Dear me! the world is so censorious about women! But then, you know, we don’t expect much from French women. I suppose she is a Roman Catholic, and worships pictures and stone images; but then, after all, she has got an immortal soul, and I can’t help hoping Mary’s influence may be blest to her. They say, when she speaks French, she swears every few minutes; and if that is the way she was brought up, may-be she isn’t accountable. I think we can’t be too charitable for people that a’n’t privileged as we are. Miss Vernon’s Polly told me she had seen her sew Sundays, — sew Sabbath-day! She came into her room sudden, and she was working on her embroidery there; and she never winked nor blushed, nor offered to put it away, but sat there just as easy! Polly said she n
ever was so beat in all her life; she felt kind o’ scared, every time she thought of it. But now she has come here, who knows but she may be converted?” “Mary has not said much about her state of mind,” said Mrs. Scudder; “but something of deep interest has passed between them. Mary is such an uncommon child, that I trust everything to her.” We will not dwell further on the particulars of this evening, — nor describe how Madame de Frontignac reconnoitred Miss Prissy with keen, amused eyes, — nor how Miss Prissy assured Mary, in the confidential solitude of her chamber, that her fingers just itched to get hold of that trimming on Madame de Frog — something’s dress, because she was pretty nigh sure she could make some just like it, for she never saw any trimming she could not make. The robin that lived in the apple-tree was fairly outgeneralled the next morning; for Miss Prissy was up before him, tripping about the chamber on the points of her toes, knocking down all the movable things in the room, in her efforts to be still, so as not to wake Mary; and it was not until she had finally upset the stand by the bed, with the candlestick, snuffers, and Bible on it, that Mary opened her eyes. “Miss Prissy! dear me! what is it you are doing?” “Why, I am trying to be still, Mary, so as not to wake you up; and it seems to me as if everything was possessed, to tumble down so. But it is only half past three, — so you turn over and go to sleep.” “But, Miss Prissy,” said Mary, sitting up in bed, “you are all dressed; where are you going?” “Well, to tell the truth, Mary, I am just one of those people that can’t sleep when they have got responsibility on their minds; and I have been lying awake more than an hour here, thinking about that quilt. There is a new way of getting it on to the frame that I want to try; ‘cause, you know, when we quilted Cerinthy Stebbins’s, it would trouble us in the rolling; and I have got a new way that I want to try, and I mean just to get it on to the frame before breakfast. I was in hopes I should get out without waking any of you. I am in hopes I shall get by your mother’s door without waking her,—’cause I know she works hard and needs her rest, — but that bedroom door squeaks like a cat, enough to raise the dead! “Mary,” she added, with sudden energy, “If I had the least drop of oil in a teacup, and a bit of quill, I’d stop that door making such a noise.” And Miss Prissy’s eyes glowed with resolution. “I don’t know where you could find any at this time,” said Mary. “Well, never mind; I’ll just go and open the door as slow and careful as I can,” said Miss Prissy, as she trotted out of the apartment. The result of her carefulness was very soon announced to Mary by a protracted sound resembling the mewing of a hoarse cat, accompanied by sundry audible grunts from Miss Prissy, terminating in a grand finale of clatter, occasioned by her knocking down all the pieces of the quilting-frame that stood in the corner of the room, with a concussion that roused everybody in the house. “What is that?” called out Mrs. Scudder, from her bedroom. She was answered by two streams of laughter, — one from Mary, sitting up in bed, and the other from Miss Prissy, holding her sides, as she sat dissolved in merriment on the sanded floor.
CHAPTER XXX. The Quilting
BY six o’clock in the morning, Miss Prissy came out of the best room to the breakfast-table, with the air of a general who has arranged a campaign, — her face glowing with satisfaction. All sat down together to their morning meal. The outside door was open into the green, turfy yard, and the apple-tree, now nursing stores of fine yellow jeannetons, looked in at the window. Every once in a while, as a breeze shook the leaves, a fully ripe apple might be heard falling to the ground, at which Miss Prissy would bustle up from the table and rush to secure the treasure. As the meal waned to its close, the rattling of wheels was heard at the gate, and Candace was discerned, seated aloft in the one-horse wagon, with her usual complement of baskets and bags. “Well, now, dear me! if there isn’t Candace!” said Miss Prissy; “I do believe Miss Marvyn has sent her with something for the quilting!” and out she flew as nimble as a humming-bird, while those in the house heard various exclamations of admiration, as Candace, with stately dignity, disinterred from the wagon one basket after another, and exhibited to Miss Prissy’s enraptured eyes sly peeps under the white napkins with which they were covered. And then, hanging a large basket on either arm, she rolled majestically towards the house, like a heavy-laden Indiaman, coming in after a fast voyage. “Good-mornin’, Miss Scudder! good-mornin’, Doctor!” she said, dropping her curtsy on the door-step; “good-mornin’, Miss Mary! Ye see our folks was stirrin’ pootty early dis mornin’, an’ Miss Marvyn sent me down wid two or tree little tings.” Setting down her baskets on the floor, and seating herself between them, she proceeded to develop their contents with ill-concealed triumph. One basket was devoted to cakes of every species, from the great Mont-Blanc loaf-cake, with its snowy glaciers of frosting, to the twisted cruller and puffy doughnut. In the other basket lay pots of golden butter curiously stamped, reposing on a bed of fresh, green leaves, — while currants, red and white, and delicious cherries and raspberries, gave a final finish to the picture. From a basket which Miss Prissy brought in from the rear appeared cold fowl and tongue delicately prepared, and shaded with feathers of parsley. Candace, whose rollicking delight in the good things of this life was conspicuous in every emotion, might have furnished to a painter, as she sat in her brilliant turban, an idea for an African Genius of Plenty. “Why, really, Candace,” said Mrs. Scudder, “you are overwhelming us!” “Ho! ho! ho!” said Candace, “I’s tellin’ Miss Marvyn folks don’t git married but once in der lives, (gin’ally speakin’, dat is,) an’ den dey oughter hab plenty to do it wid.” “Well, I must say,” said Miss Prissy, taking out the loaf-cake with busy assiduity,—”I must say, Candace, this does beat all!” “I should rader tink it oughter,” said Candace, bridling herself with proud consciousness; “ef it don’t, ‘ta’n’t ‘cause ole Candace ha’n’t put enough into it. I tell ye, I didn’t do nothin’ all day yisterday but jes’ make dat ar cake. Cato, when he got up, he begun to talk someh’n’ ‘bout his shirt-buttons, an’ I jes’ shet him right up. Says I, ‘Cato, when I’s r’ally got cake to make for a great ‘casion, I wants my mind jest as quiet an’ jest as serene as ef I was a-goin’ to de sacrament. I don’t want no ‘arthly cares on’t. Now,’ says I, ‘Cato, de ole Doctor’s gwine to be married, an’ dis yer’s his quiltin’-cake, — an’ Miss Mary, she’s gwine to be married, an’ dis yer’s her quiltin’-cake. An’ dar’ll be eberybody to dat ar quiltin’; an’ ef de cake a’n’t right, why, ’twould be puttin’ a candle under a bushel. An’ so,’ says I, ‘Cato, your buttons mus’ wait.’ An’ Cato, he sees de ‘priety ob it, ‘cause, dough he can’t make cake like me, he’s a ‘mazin’ good judge on’t, an’ is dre’ful tickled when I slips out a little loaf for his supper.” “How is Mrs. Marvyn?” said Mrs. Scudder. “Kinder thin and shimmery; but she’s about, — habin’ her eyes eberywar ‘n’ lookin’ into eberyting. She jes’ touches tings wid de tips ob her fingers an’ dey seem to go like. She’ll be down to de quiltin’ dis arternoon. But she tole me to take de tings an’ come down an’ spen’ de day here; for Miss Marvyn an’ I both knows how many steps mus’ be taken sech times, an’ we agreed you oughter favor yourselves all you could.” “Well, now,” said Miss Prissy, lifting up her hands, “if that a’n’t what ’tis to have friends! Why, that was one of the things I was thinking of, as I lay awake last night; because, you know, at times like these, people run their feet off before the time begins, and then they are all limpsey and lop-sided when the time comes. Now, I say, Candace, all Miss Scudder and Mary have to do is to give everything up to us, and we’ll put it through straight.” “Dat’s what we will!” said Candace. “Jes’ show me what’s to be done, an’ I’ll do it.” Candace and Miss Prissy soon disappeared together into the pantry with the baskets, whose contents they began busily to arrange. Candace shut the door, that no sound might escape, and began a confidential outpouring to Miss Prissy. “Ye see,” she said, “I’s feelin’s all de while for Miss Marvyn; ‘cause, ye see, she was expectin’, ef eber Mary was married, — well �
�� dat ’twould be to somebody else, ye know.” Miss Prissy responded with a sympathetic groan. “Well,” said Candace, “ef ‘t had ben anybody but de Doctor, I wouldn’t ‘a’ been resigned. But arter all he has done for my color, dar a’n’t nothin’ I could find it in my heart to grudge him. But den I was tellin’ Cato t’oder day, says I, ‘Cato, I dunno ‘bout de rest o’ de world, but I ha’n’t neber felt it in my bones dat Mass’r James is r’ally dead, for sartin.’ Now I feels tings gin’ally, but some tings I feels in my bones, and dem allers comes true. And dat ar’s a feelin’ I ha’n’t had ‘bout Mass’r Jim yit, an’ dat ar’s what I’m waitin’ for ‘fore I clar make up my mind. Though I know, ‘cordin’ to all white folks’ way o’ tinkin’, dar a’n’t no hope, ‘cause Squire Marvyn he had dat ar Jeduth Pettibone up to his house, a-questionin’ on him, off an’ on, nigh about tree hours. An’ r’ally I didn’t see no hope no way, ‘xcept jes’ dis yer, as I was tellin’ Cato, — I can’t feel it in my bones.” Candace was not versed enough in the wisdom of the world to know that she belonged to a large and respectable school of philosophers in this particular mode of testing evidence, which, after all, the reader will perceive has its conveniences. “Anoder ting,” said Candace, “as much as a dozen times, dis yer last year, when I’s been a-scourin’ knives, a fork has fell an’ stuck straight up in de floor; an’ de las’ time I pinted it out to Miss Marvyn, an’ she on’y jes’ said, ‘Why, what o’ dat, Candace?’ “ “Well,” said Miss Prissy, “I don’t believe in signs, but then strange things do happen. Now about dogs howling under windows, — why, I don’t believe in it a bit, but I never knew it fail that there was a death in the house after.” “Ah, I tell ye what,” said Candace, looking mysterious, “dogs knows a heap more’n dey likes to tell!” “Jes’ so,” said Miss Prissy. “Now I remember, one night, when I was watching with Miss Colonel Andrews, after Marthy Ann was born, that we heard the mournfulest howling that ever you did hear. It seemed to come from right under the front stoop; and Miss Andrews she just dropped the spoon in her gruel, and says she, ‘Miss Prissy, do, for pity’s sake, just go down and see what that noise is.’ And I went down and lifted up one of the loose boards of the stoop, and what should I see there but their Newfoundland pup? — there that creature had dug a grave and was a-sitting by it, crying!” Candace drew near to Miss Prissy, dark with expressive interest, as her voice, in this awful narration, sank to a whisper. “Well,” said Candace, after Miss Prissy had made something of a pause. “Well, I told Miss Andrews I didn’t think there was anything in it,” said Miss Prissy; “but,” she added, impressively, “she lost a very dear brother, six months after, and I laid him out with my own hands, — yes, laid him out in white flannel.” “Some folks say,” said Candace, “dat dreamin’ ‘bout white horses is a sartin sign. Jinny Styles is berry strong ‘bout dat. Now she come down one mornin’ cryin’, ‘cause she’d been dreamin’ ‘bout white horses, an’ she was sure she should hear some friend was dead. An’ sure enough, a man come in dat bery day an’ tole her her son was drownded out in de harbor. An’ Jinny said, ‘Dar! she was sure dat sign neber would fail.’ But den, ye see, dat night he come home. Jinny wa’n’t r’ally disappinted, but she allers insisted he was as good as drownded, any way, ‘cause he sunk tree times.” “Well, I tell you,” said Miss Prissy, “there are a great many more things in this world than folks know about.” “So dey are,” said Candace. “Now, I ha’n’t neber opened my mind to nobody; but dar’s a dream I’s had, tree mornin’s runnin’, lately. I dreamed I see Jim Marvyn a-sinkin’ in de water, an’ stretchin’ up his hands. An’ den I dreamed I see de Lord Jesus come a-walkin’ on de water an’ take hold ob his hand, an’ says he, ‘O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?’ An’ den he lifted him right out. An’ I ha’n’t said nothin’ to nobody, ‘cause, you know, de Doctor, he says people mus’n’t mind nothin’ ‘bout der dreams, ‘cause dreams belongs to de ole ‘spensation.” “Well, well, well!” said Miss Prissy, “I am sure I don’t know what to think. What time in the morning was it that you dreamed it?” “Why,” said Candace, “it was jest arter bird-peep. I kinder allers wakes myself den, an’ turns ober, an’ what comes arter dat is apt to run clar.” “Well, well, well!” said Miss Prissy, “I don’t know what to think. You see, it may have reference to the state of his soul.” “I know dat,” said Candace; “but as nigh as I could judge in my dream,” she added, sinking her voice and looking mysterious, “as nigh as I can judge, dat boy’s soul was in his body!” “Why, how do you know?” said Miss Prissy, looking astonished at the confidence with which Candace expressed her opinion. “Well, ye see,” said Candace, rather mysteriously, “de Doctor, he don’t like to hab us talk much ‘bout dese yer tings, ‘cause he tinks it’s kind o’ heathenish. But den, folks as is used to seein’ sech tings knows de look ob a sperit out o’ de body from de look ob a sperit in de body, jest as easy as you can tell Mary from de Doctor.” At this moment Mrs. Scudder opened the pantry-door and put an end to this mysterious conversation, which had already so affected Miss Prissy, that, in the eagerness of her interest, she had rubbed up her cap border and ribbon into rather an elfin and goblin style, as if they had been ruffled up by a breeze from the land of spirits; and she flew around for a few moments in a state of great nervous agitation, upsetting dishes, knocking down plates, and huddling up contrary suggestions as to what ought to be done first, in such impossible relations that Mrs. Katy Scudder stood in dignified surprise at this strange freak of conduct in the wise woman of the parish. A dim consciousness of something not quite canny in herself seemed to strike her, for she made a vigorous effort to appear composed; and facing Mrs. Scudder, with an air of dignified suavity, inquired if it would not be best to put Jim Marvyn in the oven now, while Candace was getting the pies ready, — meaning, of course, a large turkey, which was to be the first in an indefinite series to be baked that morning; and discovering, by Mrs. Scudder’s dazed expression and a vigorous pinch from Candace, that somehow she had not improved matters, she rubbed her spectacles into a diagonal position across her eyes, and stood glaring, half through, half over them, with a helpless expression, which in a less judicious person might have suggested the idea of a state of slight intoxication. Put the exigencies of an immediate temporal dispensation put an end to Miss Prissy’s unwonted vagaries, and she was soon to be seen flying round like a meteor, dusting, shaking curtains, counting napkins, wiping and sorting china, all with such rapidity as to give rise to the notion that she actually existed in forty places at once. Candace, whom the limits of her corporeal frame restricted to an altogether different style of locomotion, often rolled the whites of her eyes after her and gave vent to her views of her proceedings in sententious expressions. “Do you know why dat ar neber was married?” she said to Mary, as she stood looking after her. Miss Prissy had made one of those rapid transits through the apartment. “No,” answered Mary, innocently. “Why wasn’t she?” “‘Cause never was a man could run fast enough to cotch her,” said Candace; and then her portly person shook with the impulse of her own wit. By two o’clock a goodly company began to assemble. Mrs. Deacon Twitchel arrived, soft, pillowy, and plaintive as ever, accompanied by Cerinthy Ann, a comedy damsel, tall and trim, with a bright black eye, and a most vigorous and determined style of movement. Good Mrs. Jones, broad, expansive, and solid, having vegetated tranquilly on in the cabbage-garden of the virtues since three years ago, when she graced our tea-party, was now as well preserved as ever, and brought some fresh butter, a tin pail of cream, and a loaf of cake made after a new Philadelphia receipt. The tall, spare, angular figure of Mrs. Simeon Brown alone was wanting; but she patronized Mrs. Scudder no more, and tossed her head with a becoming pride when her name was mentioned. The quilt-pattern was gloriously drawn in oak-leaves, done in indigo; and soon all the company, young and old, were passing busy fingers over it and conversation went on briskly. Madame de Frontignac, we must not forget to say, had entered with hearty abandon into the spirit of th
e day. She had dressed the tall china vases on the mantel-pieces, and, departing from the usual rule of an equal mixture of roses and asparagus-bushes, had constructed two quaint and graceful bouquets, where garden-flowers were mingled with drooping grasses and trailing wild vines, forming a graceful combination which excited the surprise of all who saw it. “It’s the very first time in my life that I ever saw grass put into a flower-pot,” said Miss Prissy; “but I must say it looks as handsome as a picture. Mary, I must say,” she added, in an aside, “I think that Madame de Frongenac is the sweetest dressing and appearing creature I ever saw; she don’t dress up nor put on airs, but she seems to see in a minute how things ought to go; and if it’s only a bit of grass, or leaf, or wild vine, that she puts in her hair, why, it seems to come just right. I should like to make her a dress, for I know she would understand my fit; do speak to her, Mary, in case she should want a dress fitted here, to let me try it.” At the quilting, Madame de Frontignac would have her seat, and soon won the respect of the party by the dexterity with which she used her needle; though, when it was whispered that she learned to quilt among the nuns, some of the elderly ladies exhibited a slight uneasiness, as being rather doubtful whether they might not be encouraging Papistical opinions by allowing her an equal share in the work of getting up their minister’s bed-quilt; but the younger part of the company were quite captivated by her foreign air, and the pretty manner in which she lisped her English; and Cerinthy Ann even went so far as to horrify her mother by saying that she wished she’d been educated in a convent herself, — a declaration which arose less from native depravity than from a certain vigorous disposition, which often shows itself in young people, to shock the current opinions of their elders and betters. Of course, the conversation took a general turn, somewhat in unison with the spirit of the occasion; and whenever it flagged, some allusion to a forthcoming wedding, or some sly hint at the future young Madame of the parish, was sufficient to awaken the dormant animation of the company. Cerinthy Ann contrived to produce an agreeable electric shock by declaring, that, for her part, she never could see into it, how any girl could marry a minister, — that she should as soon think of setting up housekeeping in a meeting-house. “Oh, Cerinthy Ann!” exclaimed her mother, “how can you go on so?” “It’s a fact,” said the adventurous damsel; “now other men let you have some peace, — but a minister’s always round under your feet.” “So you think, the less you see of a husband, the better?” said one of the ladies. “Just my views,” said Cerinthy, giving a decided snip to her thread with her scissors; “I like the Nantucketers, that go off on four-years’ voyages, and leave their wives a clear field. If ever I get married, I’m going up to have one of those fellows.” It is to be remarked, in passing, that Miss Cerinthy Ann was at this very time receiving surreptitious visits from a consumptive-looking, conscientious, young theological candidate, who came occasionally to preach in the vicinity, and put up at the house of the Deacon, her father. This good young man, being violently attacked on the doctrine of Election by Miss Cerinthy, had been drawn on to illustrate it in a most practical manner, to her comprehension; and it was the consciousness of the weak and tottering state of the internal garrison that added vigor to the young lady’s tones. As Mary had been the chosen confidante of the progress of this affair, she was quietly amused at the demonstration. “You’d better take care, Cerinthy Ann,” said her mother; “they say that ‘those who sing before breakfast will cry before supper.’ Girls talk about getting married,” she said, relapsing into a gentle didactic melancholy, “without realizing its awful responsibilities.” “Oh, as to that,” said Cerinthy, “I’ve been practising on my pudding now these six years, and I shouldn’t be afraid to throw one up chimney with any girl.” This speech was founded on a tradition, current in those times, that no young lady was fit to be married till she could construct a boiled Indian-pudding of such consistency that it could be thrown up chimney and come down on the ground, outside, without breaking; and the consequence of Cerinthy Ann’s sally was a general laugh. “Girls a’n’t what they used to be in my day,” sententiously remarked an elderly lady. “I remember my mother told me when she was thirteen she could knit a long cotton stocking in a day.” “I haven’t much faith in these stories of old times, — have you, girls?” said Cerinthy, appealing to the younger members at the frame. “At any rate,” said Mrs. Twitchel, “our minister’s wife will be a pattern; I don’t know anybody that goes beyond her either in spinning or fine stitching.” Mary sat as placid and disengaged as the new moon, and listened to the chatter of old and young with the easy quietness of a young heart that has early outlived life, and looks on everything in the world from some gentle, restful eminence far on towards a better home. She smiled at everybody’s word, had a quick eye for everybody’s wants, and was ready with thimble, scissors, or thread, whenever any one needed them; but once, when there was a pause in the conversation, she and Mrs. Marvyn were both discovered to have stolen away. They were seated on the bed in Mary’s little room, with their arms around each other, communing in low and gentle tones. “Mary, my dear child,” said her friend, “this event is very pleasant to me, because it places you permanently near me. I did not know but eventually this sweet face might lead to my losing you, who are in some respects the dearest friend I have.” “You might be sure,” said Mary, “I never would have married, except that my mother’s happiness and the happiness of so good a friend seemed to depend on it. When we renounce self in anything, we have reason to hope for God’s blessing; and so I feel assured of a peaceful life in the course I have taken. You will always be as a mother to me,” she added, laying her head on her friend’s shoulder. “Yes,” said Mrs. Marvyn; “and I must not let myself think a moment how dear it might have been to have you more my own. If you feel really, truly happy, — if you can enter on this life without any misgivings—” “I can,” said Mary, firmly. At this instant, very strangely, the string which confined a wreath of sea-shells around her glass, having been long undermined by moths, suddenly broke and fell down, scattering the shells upon the floor. Both women started, for the string of shells had been placed there by James; and though neither was superstitious, this was one of those odd coincidences that make hearts throb. “Dear boy!” said Mary, gathering the shells up tenderly; “wherever he is, I shall never cease to love him. It makes me feel sad to see this come down; but it is only an accident; nothing of him will ever fail out of my heart.” Mrs. Marvyn clasped Mary closer to her, with tears in her eyes. “I’ll tell you what, Mary; it must have been the moths did that,” said Miss Prissy, who had been standing, unobserved, at the door for moment back; “moths will eat away strings just so. Last week Miss Vernon’s great family-picture fell down because the moths eat through the cord; people ought to use twine or cotton string always. But I came to tell you that the supper is all set, and the Doctor out of his study, and all the people are wondering where you are.” Mary and Mrs. Marvyn gave a hasty glance at themselves in the glass, to be assured of their good keeping, and went into the great kitchen, where a long table stood exhibiting all that plenitude of provision which the immortal description of Washington Irving has saved us the trouble of recapitulating in detail. The husbands, brothers, and lovers had come in, and the scene was redolent of gayety. When Mary made her appearance, there was a moment’s pause, till she was conducted to the side of the Doctor; when, raising his hand, he invoked a grace upon the loaded board. Unrestrained gayeties followed. Groups of young men and maidens chatted together, and all the gallantries of the times were enacted. Serious matrons commented on the cake, and told each other high and particular secrets in the culinary art, which they drew from remote family-archives. One might have learned in that instructive assembly how best to keep moths out of blankets, — how to make fritters of Indian corn undistinguishable from oysters, — how to bring up babies by hand, — how to mend a cracked teapot, — how to take out grease from a brocade, — how to reconcile absolute decrees with free will, how to make
five yards of cloth answer the purpose of six, — and how to put down the Democratic party. All were busy, earnest, and certain, — just as a swarm of men and women, old and young, are in 1859. Miss Prissy was in her glory; every bow of her best cap was alive with excitement, and she presented to the eyes of the astonished Newport gentry an animated receipt-book. Some of the information she communicated, indeed, was so valuable and important that she could not trust the air with it, but whispered the most important portions in a confidential tone. Among the crowd, Cerinthy Ann’s theological admirer was observed in deeply reflective attitude; and that high-spirited young lady added further to his convictions of the total depravity of the species by vexing and discomposing him in those thousand ways in which a lively, ill-conditioned young woman will put to rout a serious, well-disposed young man, — comforting herself with the reflection, that by-and-by she would repent of all her sins in a lump together. Vain, transitory splendors! Even this evening, so glorious, so heart-cheering, so fruitful in instruction and amusement, could not last forever. Gradually the company broke up; the matrons mounted soberly on horseback behind their spouses; and Cerinthy consoled her clerical friend by giving him an opportunity to read her a lecture on the way home, if he found the courage to do so. Mr. and Mrs. Marvyn and Candace wound their way soberly homeward; the Doctor returned to his study for nightly devotions; and before long, sleep settled down on the brown cottage. “I’ll tell you what, Cato,” said Candace, before composing herself to sleep, “I can’t feel it in my bones dat dis yer weddin’s gwine to come off yit.”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 156
