Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  And so that evening, when the night shadows came down darkly on the house, though the storm without thundered and beat and groaned amid the branches of the old trees, and rumbled and shook the chimneys of the solitary manor-house, there was one nook that presented as bright and warm a picture as two fair child-faces, with a background of strange antique furniture and surroundings, could furnish. The fire had burned down into great splendid glowing coals, in which the children, seated before it on the tapestried hearth-rug, saw all sorts of strange faces. Tina had insisted on keeping open the door of the cabinet where the beautiful lady was, because, she said, she must be lonesome in that dark closet by herself.

  “I wish she would only smile,” she said, as the sharp spires of flame from a new stick of wood which she had just laid on, dancing up, made the face seem to become living and tremulous as if with emotion. “See, Hensel, she looks as if she were going to speak to us.”

  And hours later the fire still burned in the little boudoir; but the two pretty child-faces lay cheek to cheek in the wide, motherly arms of the sofa, and the shadowy lady seemed to watch over them silently from her lovely recess.

  CHAPTER XVI.

  SAM LAWSON’S DISCOVERIES.

  THE evening was closing in sharp and frosty, with a lowering of wind and cloud that rendered fire-light doubly dear and welcome, as we all drew our chairs round the great, glowing fire in my grandmother’s kitchen. I had my little block of wood, which served as a footstool, far in the cavernous depths of one end of the fireplace, close by Black Cæsar, who was busy making me a popgun, while my grandmother sat at the other end in her rocking-chair, rattling her knitting-needles. Uncle Fly had just frisked in, and was perched, as was his wont, on the very tip of his chair, where he sat fussily warming and rubbing his hands, much as a meditative blue-bottle performs the same operations with his fore feet.

  “So,” said my grandmother to my grandfather, in reproachful tones, “you ‘ve gone and shut the calf up from its mother.”

  “To be sure,” said my grandfather; “that was foreordained and freely predetermined.”

  “Well, I say it ‘s a shame,” sputtered my grandmother, – “poor creturs!”

  It was a part of the farming ordinance, when the calf was fated to be killed, to separate it for a day from its mother, a proceeding which never failed to excite the indignation of my grandmother, which she expressed always with as much life and freshness as if she had never heard of such a matter before in her life. She was not, to be sure, precisely aware what was to be done about it; but in a general way she considered calf-killing as an abominable cruelty, and the parting of calf and cow for a day beforehand as an aggravation. My grandfather was fond of meeting her with a sly use of some of the Calvinistic theological terms which abounded in her favorite writers. The most considerate of husbands often enjoy any quiet method of giving a sly tweak to some cherished peculiarity of their yokefellows; and there was the least suggestion of a smile hovering over my grandfather’s face, – which smile, in your quiet man, means two things, – first, that he is going to have his own way in spite of all you can say, and, secondly, that he is quietly amused by your opposition.

  “I say it ‘s a shame,” quoth my grandmother, “and I always shall. Hear that poor cow low! She feels as bad as I should.”

  “Mother,” said Aunt Lois, in an impatient tone, “I wonder that you can’t learn to let things go on as they must. What would you have? We must have fresh meat sometimes, and you eat as much as any of us.”

  “I don’t care, it ‘s too bad,” said my grandmother, “and I always shall think so. If I had things my way, folks should n’t eat creatures at all.”

  “You ‘d be a Brahmin,” said my grandfather.

  “No, I should n’t be a Brahmin, either; but I know an old cow’s feelings, and I would n’t torment her just to save myself a little trouble.”

  The conversation was here interrupted by the entrance of Sam Lawson, who came in with a long, lugubrious face, and an air of solemn, mysterious importance, which usually was the herald of some communication.

  “Well, Sam,” said my grandfather, “how are you?”

  “Middlin’, Deacon,” said Sam, mournfully, – “only middlin’.”

  “Sit down, sit down,” said my grandfather, “and tell us the news.”

  “Wal, I guess I will. How kind o’ revivin’ and cheerful it does look here,” said Sam, seating himself in his usual attitude, with his hands over the fire. “Lordy massy, it ‘s so different to our house! Hepsy hain’t spoke a railly decent word to me since the gineral trainin’. You know, Deacon, Monday, a week ago, was gineral trainin’ day over to Hopkinton, and Hepsy, she was set in the idee that I should take her and the young uns to muster. ‘All right, Hepsy,’ says I, ‘ef I can borrow a hoss.’ Wal, I walked and walked clean up to Captain Brown’s to borrow a hoss, and I could n’t get none, and I walked clean down to Bill Peter’s, and I could n’t get none. Finally, Ned Parker, he lent me his’n. Wal, to be sure, his hoss has got the spring-halt, that kind o’ twitches up the waggin, and don’t look so genteel as some; but, lordy massy, ‘t was all I could get. But Hepsy, she blamed me all the same. And then she was at me cause she had n’t got no gloves. Wal, I had n’t no gret o’ change in my pocket, and I wanted to keep it for gingerbread and sich for the young uns, so I thought I ‘d jest borrow a pair for her, and say nothin’; and I went over and asked Mis’ Captain Brown, and over to Mis’ Dana’s, and round to two or three places; and finally Lady Lothrop, she said she ‘d give me a old pair o’ hern. And I brought ’em to Hepsy; and do you believe, she throwed ’em right smack in my face. ‘S’pose I ‘m going to wear such an old dirty pair as that?’ says she. Wal, arter all, we sot out, and Hepsy, she got clear beat out; and when Hepsy does get beat out she has spells, and she goes on awful, and they last day arter day. Hepsy’s spells is jest like these ‘ere northeast storms, – they never do railly clear off, but kind o’ wear out, as ‘t were, – and this ‘ere seems to be about one of her longest. She was at me this mornin’ fust thing ‘fore I was out o’ bed, cryin’ and goin’ on, and castin’ on it up at me the men she might ‘a hed if she had n’t ‘a’ hed me, and the things they ‘d ‘a’ done for her, jest as if ‘t was my fault. ‘Lordy massy, Hepsy,’ says I, ‘I ain’t to blame. I wish with all my heart you hed ‘a’ hed any on ’em you ‘d ruther.’ You see I wa’ n’t meanin’ no ‘fence, you know, but just a bein’ kind o’ sympathizin’ like, and she flew at me ‘t oncet. Massy to us! Why, you ‘d ‘a’ thought all them old Sodom and Gomorrah sinners biled down wa’ n’t nothin’ to me. She did talk ridiculous. I tried to reason with her. Says I, ‘Hepsy, see here now. Here you be in a good bed, in your own house, and your kindlin’s all split to make your fire, – and I split every one on ’em after twelve o’clock last night, – and you a goin’ on at this ‘ere rate. Hepsy,’ says I, ‘it ‘s awful.’ But lordy massy, how that ‘ere woman can talk! She begun agin, and I could n’t get in a word edgeways nor crossways nor noways; and so I jest got up and went round to the tavern, and there I met Bill Moss and Jake Marshall, and we had some crackers and cheese and a little suthin hot with it, and it kind o’ ‘curred to me, as Hepsy was in one o’ her spells, it would be a good time to go kind o’ Indianing round the country a spell till she kind o’ come to, ye know. And so I thought I ‘d jest go t’ other side o’ Hopkinton and see Granny Walkers, – her that was housekeeper to Lady Frankland, ye know, – and see if I could n’t rake out the pertickelars of that ‘ere Dench house. That ‘ere house has been a lyin’ on my mind considerable, along back.”

  My ears began to prick up with great liveliness and animation at this sound; and, deserting Cæsar, I went over and stood by Sam, and surveyed him with fixed attention, wondering in the mean time how a house could lie on his mind.

  “Well,” said my grandfather, “what did you hear?”

  “Wal, I did n’t get over to her house; but when I ‘d walked a pretty good piece I came acr
oss Widdah Peter’s son, Sol Peters, – you know him, Mis’ Badger, he lives over in Needmore with a great, spankin’ old gal they call Miss Asphyxy Smith. You ‘ve heard of Miss Sphyxy, hain’t you, Mis’ Badger?”

  “Certainly I have,” said my grandmother.

  “Miss Asphyxia Smith is a smart, industrious woman,” said Aunt Lois; “it is n’t worth while to talk so about her. The world would be better off,” she continued, eyeing Sam with an air of didactic severity, “if there were more people in it that keep to their own business, like Miss Sphyxy.”

  “Wal, spuz so,” said Sam Lawson, with an innocent and virtuous droop, not in the slightest degree recognizing the hint; “but now, you see, I ‘m coming to a pint. Sol, he asked me if anybody over to Oldtown had seen or heard anything of a couple of children that had run away from Needmore. There was a boy and a gal about nine or ten or under, that had been put out by the parish. The boy was livin’ with Old Crab Smith, and the gal with Miss Sphyxy.”

  “Well, I pity the child that Miss Sphyxy Smith has taken to bring up, I must say,” said my grandmother. “What business have old maids a taking children to bring up, I want to know. Why, it is n’t every hen that ‘s fit to bring up chickens. How came the children there, anyway?”

  “Wal, you see, there come a woman along to Crab Smith with these ‘ere children. Sol says they ‘re really putty children, – putty-behaved as ever he see. The woman, she was took down and died there. And so Old Crab, he took the boy; and Miss Sphyxy, she took the gal.”

  “Too bad,” said my grandmother; “poor motherless babes, and nobody but Crab and Sphyxy Smith to do for ‘em! Somebody ought to see about it.”

  “Wal, ye see, Sol, he said that Miss Sphyxy was as hard as a grindstone on this gal, and they kep’ the boy and gal apart, and would n’t let ’em see nor speak to each other; and Sol says he never did pity any poor, lonesome little critter as he did that ‘ere little gal. She used to lie abed nights, and sob and cry fit to break her little heart.”

  “I should like to go and talk to that woman!” said my grandmother, vengefully. “I wonder folks can be so mean! I wonder what such folks think of themselves, and where they expect to go to!”

  “Wal, you see,” continued Sam, “the young un was spicy; and when Miss Sphyxy was down on her too hard, the child, she fit her, – you know a rat ‘ll bite, a hen will peck, and a worm will turn, – and finally it come to a fight between ‘em; and Miss Sphyxy, she gin her an awful whippin’. ‘Lordy massy, Sol,’ says I, when Sol was a tellin’ me, ‘you need n’t say nothin’ about it. That ‘ere gal’s got arms like a windmill; she ‘s a regular brown thrasher, she is, only she ain’t got no music in her; and ef she undertook to thrash me, she ‘d make out.’”

  “Well, what became of the children?” said my grandmother.

  “Wal, you see, they run off together; fact is, Sol says he helped ’em off, and told ’em to come over to Oldtown. He says he told ’em to inquire for Deacon Badger’s.”

  “I believe so,” said Aunt Lois severely. “Every man, woman, and child that wants taking care of is sent straight to our house.”

  “And good reason they should, Lois,” said my grandmother, who was wide awake. “I declare people ought to be out looking for them. ‘Liakim, you are always flying about; why don’t you look ’em up?”

  Uncle Fly jumped up with alacrity. “To be sure, they ought to be looked after,” he said, running to the window. “They ought to be looked after right off; they must be attended to.” And Uncle Fly seemed to have an indefinite intention of pitching straight through the window in pursuit.

  Sam Lawson eyed him with a serene gravity. He felt the importance of being possessed of all the information the subject in question admitted of, which he was determined to develop in an easy and leisurely manner, without any undue hurry or heat. “Mr. Sheril,” he said, “the fust thing you ‘ll hev to find out is where they be. It ‘s no use tearin’ round gen ‘lly. Where be they? – that ‘s the question.”

  “To be sure, to be sure,” said Uncle Fly. “Well, what you got to say about that?”

  “Wal, you jest set down now, and be kind o’ composed. I ‘m a comin’ to that ‘ere pint in time,” said Sam. “That ‘ere ‘s jest what I says to Sol. ‘Sol,’ says I, ‘where be they?’ And Sol, he says to me, ‘I dunno. They might ‘a’ gone with the Indians,’ says Sol, ‘or they might ‘a’ got lost in the Oldtown woods’; – and jest as we was a talkin’, we see old Obscue a comin’ along. He was out on a tramp over to Hopkinton, Obscue was, and we asked him about ‘em. Wal, Obscue, he says that a gal and boy like what we talked of had slep’ in his wife’s hut not long sence. You know Obscue’s wife; she makes baskets, and goes round sellin’ on ‘em. I could n’t fairly get out o’ Obscue what day ‘t was, nor which way they went arter; but it was clear that them was the ones.”

  “Then,” said Uncle Fly, “they must be somewhere. They may have lost their way in the Oldtown woods, and wandered up an down. There ought to be a party started out to look for ’em to-morrow morning.”

  “Now look here, Mr. Sheril,” said Sam, “I think we ‘d better kind o’ concentrate our idees on some one pint afore we start out, and I ‘ll tell you what I ‘m a thinkin’ of. You know I was a tellin’ you that I ‘d seen smoke coming out o’ the chimbly of the Dench house. Now I jest thought them poor little robins might have jest got in there. You know it stormed like vengeance last week, and the little critters might have took shelter in that ‘ere lonesome old house.”

  “Poor babes!” said my grandmother “‘Liakim, you go up there and see.”

  “Well, I tell you,” said Uncle Eliakim, “I ‘ll be up bright and early with my old horse and wagon, and go over to the Dench house and see about it.”

  “Wal, now,” said Sam, “if you would n’t mind, I ‘ll just ride over with you. I wanted to kind o’ go over that ‘ere house. I ‘ve had it on my mind a good while.”

  “Is that the haunted house?’ said I, in a whisper.

  “Wal, it ‘s the one they call haunted, but ‘t ain’t best to be ‘fraid of nothin’,” said Sam, surveying me paternally, and winking very obviously with one eye at Uncle Eliakim; quite forgetting the long roll of terrible suggestions he had made on the same subject a few evenings before.

  “But you told about the man in a long red cloak, and the boy they threw in a well, and a woman in white.”

  “Lordy, massy, what ears young ones has!” said Sam, throwing up his hands pathetically. “I never thought as you was round, Horace; but you must n’t never mind nothin’ about it. There ain’t really no such thing as ghosts.”

  “I want to go over and see the house,” said I.

  “Well, well, you shall,” said Uncle Fly; “but you must wake up bright and early. I shall be off by six o’clock.”

  “Well, now, mother,” said Aunt Lois, “I just want to know if you are going to make our house an asylum for all the trampers and all the stray children in the neighboring parishes? Have we got to keep these children, or are we going to send ’em back where they belong?”

  “Send ’em back to Old Crab Smith and Miss Sphyxy?” said my grandmother. “I ‘d like to see myself doing that.”

  “Well, then, are we going to maintain ‘em?” said Aunt Lois; “because I want to know definitely what this is coming to.”

  “We ‘ll see,” said my grandmother. “It ‘s our business to do good as we have opportunity. We must n’t reap the corners of our fields, nor beat off all our olive-berries, but leave ’em for the poor, the fatherless, and the widow, Scripture says.”

  “Well, I guess our olive-berries are pretty well beaten off now, and our fields reaped, corners and all,” said Lois; “and I don’t see why we needs must intermeddle with children that the selectmen in Needmore have put out.”

  Now Aunt Lois was a first-rate belligerent power in our family circle, and in many cases carried all before her; but my grandmother always bore her down on questions like these, and it was agreed
, nem. con., that the expedition to look up the wanderers should take place the next morning.

  The matter being thus arranged, Sam settled back with a jocular freedom of manner, surveying the fire, and flopping his hands over it, smiling to himself in a manner that made it evident that he had a further reserve of something on his mind to communicate. “This ‘ere Miss Sphyxy Smith’s a rich old gal, and ‘mazin’ smart to work,” he began. “Tell you, she holds all she gets. Old Sol, he told me a story ‘bout her that was a pretty good un.”

  “What was it?” said my grandmother.

  “Wal, ye see, you ‘member old Parson Jeduthen Kendall, that lives up in Stonytown: he lost his wife a year ago last Thanksgiving, and he thought ‘t was about time he hed another; so he comes down and consults our Parson Lothrop. Says he, ‘I want a good, smart, neat, economical woman, with a good property. I don’t care nothin’ about her bein’ handsome. In fact, I ain’t particular about anything else,’ says he. Wal, Parson Lothrop, says he, ‘I think, if that ‘s the case, I know jest the woman to suit ye. She owns a clear, handsome property, and she ‘s neat and economical; but she ‘s no beauty.’ ‘O, beauty is nothin’ to me,’ says Parson Kendall; and so he took the direction. Wal, one day he hitched up his old one-hoss shay, and kind o’ brushed up, and started off a courtin’. Wal, the parson he come to the house, and he was tickled to pieces with the looks o’ things outside, ‘cause the house is all well shingled and painted, and there ain’t a picket loose nor a nail wantin’ nowhere. ‘This ‘ere ‘s the woman for me,’ says Parson Kendall. So he goes up and raps hard on the front door with his whip-handle. Wal, you see, Miss Sphyxy, she was jest goin’ out to help get in her hay. She had on a pair o’ clompin’ cowhide boots, and a pitchfork in her hand, just goin’ out when she heard the rap. So she come jest as she was to the front door. Now you know Parson Kendall’s a little midget of a man; but he stood there on the step kind o’ smilin’ and genteel, lickin’ his lips and lookin’ so agreeable! Wal, the front door kind o’ stuck, – front doors gen’ally do, ye know, ‘cause they ain’t opened very often, – and Miss Sphyxy, she had to pull and haul and put to all her strength, and finally it come open with a bang, and she ‘peared to the parson, pitchfork and all, sort o’ frownin’ like.