Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “I s’pose, Mis’ Kittridge, you’ll have the funeral to-morrow, — it’s Sunday.”

  “Why, yes, Aunt Roxy, — I think everybody must want to improve such a dispensation. Have you took little Mara in to look at the corpse?”

  “Well, no,” said Miss Roxy; “Mis’ Pennel’s gettin’ ready to take her home.”

  “I think it’s an opportunity we ought to improve,” said Mrs. Kittridge, “to learn children what death is. I think we can’t begin to solemnize their minds too young.”

  At this moment Sally and the little Mara entered the room.

  “Come here, children,” said Mrs. Kittridge, taking a hand of either one, and leading them to the closed door of the keeping-room; “I’ve got somethin’ to show you.”

  The room looked ghostly and dim, — the rays of light fell through the closed shutter on an object mysteriously muffled in a white sheet.

  Sally’s bright face expressed only the vague curiosity of a child to see something new; but the little Mara resisted and hung back with all her force, so that Mrs. Kittridge was obliged to take her up and hold her.

  She folded back the sheet from the chill and wintry form which lay so icily, lonely, and cold. Sally walked around it, and gratified her curiosity by seeing it from every point of view, and laying her warm, busy hand on the lifeless and cold one; but Mara clung to Mrs. Kittridge, with eyes that expressed a distressed astonishment. The good woman stooped over and placed the child’s little hand for a moment on the icy forehead. The little one gave a piercing scream, and struggled to get away; and as soon as she was put down, she ran and hid her face in Aunt Roxy’s dress, sobbing bitterly.

  “That child’ll grow up to follow vanity,” said Mrs. Kittridge; “her little head is full of dress now, and she hates anything serious, — it’s easy to see that.”

  The little Mara had no words to tell what a strange, distressful chill had passed up her arm and through her brain, as she felt that icy cold of death, — that cold so different from all others. It was an impression of fear and pain that lasted weeks and months, so that she would start out of sleep and cry with a terror which she had not yet a sufficiency of language to describe.

  “You seem to forget, Mis’ Kittridge, that this ‘ere child ain’t rugged like our Sally,” said Aunt Roxy, as she raised the little Mara in her arms. “She was a seven-months’ baby, and hard to raise at all, and a shivery, scary little creature.”

  “Well, then, she ought to be hardened,” said Dame Kittridge. “But Mary Pennel never had no sort of idea of bringin’ up children; ’twas jist so with Naomi, — the girl never had no sort o’ resolution, and she just died for want o’ resolution, — that’s what came of it. I tell ye, children’s got to learn to take the world as it is; and ‘tain’t no use bringin’ on ’em up too tender. Teach ’em to begin as they’ve got to go out, — that’s my maxim.”

  “Mis’ Kittridge,” said Aunt Roxy, “there’s reason in all things, and there’s difference in children. ‘What’s one’s meat’s another’s pison.’ You couldn’t fetch up Mis’ Pennel’s children, and she couldn’t fetch up your’n, — so let’s say no more ‘bout it.”

  “I’m always a-tellin’ my wife that ar,” said Captain Kittridge; “she’s always wantin’ to make everybody over after her pattern.”

  “Cap’n Kittridge, I don’t think you need to speak,” resumed his wife. “When such a loud providence is a-knockin’ at your door, I think you’d better be a-searchin’ your own heart, — here it is the eleventh hour, and you hain’t come into the Lord’s vineyard yet.”

  “Oh! come, come, Mis’ Kittridge, don’t twit a feller afore folks,” said the Captain. “I’m goin’ over to Harpswell Neck this blessed minute after the minister to ‘tend the funeral, — so we’ll let him preach.”

  CHAPTER VIII

  THE SEEN AND THE UNSEEN

  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 couldn’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 hain’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 didn’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 ain’t like our’n, — stands to reason they shouldn’t be; them’s Scripture countries, and everything is different there.”

  “Father, didn’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 haven’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 shouldn’t wonder,” said Miss Roxy, “if Cap’n Pennel should adopt it.”

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

  “I wouldn’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’re 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 though 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.”