Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  Sam then seated himself composedly on a sort of bench which was placed under the shadow of the porch, and awaited the result with the contentment of a man of infinite leisure. Uncle Eliakim, however, felt pressed for time, and therefore gave another long and vehement rap. Very soon a chirping of childish voices was heard behind the door, and a pattering of feet; there appeared to be a sort of consultation.

  “There they be now,” said Sam Lawson, “jest as I told you.”

  “Please go round to the back door,” said a childish voice; “this is locked, and I can’t open it.”

  We all immediately followed Sam Lawson, who took enormous strides over the shrubbery, and soon I saw the vision of a curly-headed, blue-eyed boy holding open the side door of the house.

  I ran up to him. “Are you Harvey?” I said.

  “No,” he answered; “my name is n’t Harvey, it ‘s Harry; and this is my sister Tina,” – and immediately a pair of dark eyes looked out over his shoulder.

  “Well, we ‘ve come to take you to my grandmother’s house,” said I.

  I don’t know how it was, but I always spoke of our domestic establishment under the style and title of the female ruler. It was grandmother’s house.

  “I am glad of it,” said the boy, “for we have tried two or three times to find our way to Oldtown, and got lost in the woods and had to come back here again.”

  Here the female partner in the concern stepped a little forward, eager for her share in the conversation. “Do you know old Sol?” she said.

  “Lordy massy, I do,” said Sam Lawson, quite delighted at this verification of the identity of the children. “Yes, I see him only day afore yesterday, and he was ‘quirin arter you, and we thought we ‘d find you over in this ‘ere house, ‘cause I ‘d seen smoke a comin’ out o’ the chimblies. Had a putty good time in the old house, I reckon. Ben all over it pretty much, hain’t ye?”

  “O yes,” said Tina; “and it ‘s such a strange old place, – a great big house with ever so many rooms in it!”

  “Wal, we ‘ll jest go over it, being as we ‘re here,” said Sam; and into it we all went.

  Now there was nothing in the world that little Miss Tina took more native delight in than in playing the hostess. To entertain was her dearest instinct, and she hastened with all speed to open before us all in the old mansion that her own rummaging and investigating talents had brought to light, chattering meanwhile with the spirit of a bobolink.

  “You don’t know,” she said to Sam Lawson, “what a curious little closet there is in here, with book-cases and drawers, and a looking-glass in the door, with a curtain over it.”

  “Want to know?” said Sam. “Wal, that ‘ere does beat all. It ‘s some of them old English folks’s grander, I s’pose.”

  “And here ‘s a picture of such a beautiful lady, that always looks at you, whichever way you go, – just see.”

  “Lordy massy, so ‘t does. Wal, now, them drawers, mebbe, have got curous things in ‘em,” suggested Sam.

  “O yes, but Harry never would let me look in them. I tried, though, once, when Harry was gone; but, if you ‘ll believe me, they ‘re all locked.”

  “Want to know?” said Sam. “That ‘ere ‘s a kind o’ pity now.”

  “Would you open them? You would n’t, would you?” said the little one, turning suddenly round and opening her great wide eyes full on him. “Harry said the place was n’t ours, and it would n’t be proper.”

  “Wal, he ‘s a nice boy; quite right in him. Little folks must n’t touch things that ain’t theirn,” said Sam, who was strong on the moralities; though, after all, when all the rest had left the apartment, I looked back and saw him giving a sly tweak to the drawers of the cabinet on his own individual account.

  “I was just a makin’ sure, you know, that ‘t was all safe,” he said, as he caught my eye, and saw that he was discovered.

  Sam revelled and expatiated, however, in the information that lay before him in the exploration of the house. No tourist with Murray’s guide-book in band, and with travels to prepare for publication, ever went more patiently through the doing of a place. Not a door was left closed that could be opened; not a passage unexplored. Sam’s head came out dusty and cobwebby between the beams of the ghostly old garret, where mouldy relics of antique furniture were reposing, and disappeared into the gloom of the spacious cellars, where the light was as darkness. He found none of the marks of the traditional haunted room but he prolonged the search till there seemed a prospect that poor Uncle Eliakim would have to get him away by physical force, if we meant to get home in time for supper.

  “Mr. Lawson, you don’t seem to remember we have n’t any of us had a morsel of dinner, and the sun is actually going down. The folks ‘ll be concerned about us. Come, let ‘s take the children and be off.”

  And so we mounted briskly into the wagon, and the old horse, vividly impressed with the idea of barn and hay at the end of his toils, seconded the vigorous exertions of Uncle Fly, and so we rattled and spun on our homeward career, and arrived at the farmhouse a little after moonrise.

  CHAPTER XVIII.

  TINA’S ADOPTION.

  DURING the time of our journey to the enchanted ground, my Aunt Lois, being a woman of business, who always knew precisely what she was about, had contrived not only to finish meritoriously her household tasks, and to supplement Uncle Eliakim’s forgetful benevolence, but also to make a call on Miss Mehitable Rossiter, for the sake of unburdening to her her oppressed heart. For Miss Mehitable bore in our family circle the repute of being a woman of counsel and sound wisdom. The savor of ministerial stock being yet strong about her, she was much resorted to for advice in difficult cases.

  “I don’t object, of course, to doing for the poor and orphaned, and all that,” said Aunt Lois, quite sensibly; “but I like to see folks seem to know what they are doing, and where they are going, and not pitch and tumble into things without asking what ‘s to come of them. Now, we ‘d just got Susy and the two boys on our hands, and here will come along a couple more children to-night; and I must say I don’t see what ‘s to be done with them.”

  “It ‘s a pity you don’t take snuff,” said Miss Mehitable, with a whimsical grimace. “Now, when I come to any of the crossplaces of life, where the road is n’t very clear, I just take a pinch of snuff and wait; but as you don’t, just stay and get a cup of tea with me, in a quiet, Christian way, and after it we will walk round to your mother’s and look at these children.”

  Aunt Lois was soothed in her perturbed spirit by this proposition; and it was owing to this that, when we arrived at home, long after dark, we found Miss Mehitable in the circle around the blazing kitchen fire. The table was still standing, with ample preparations for an evening meal, – a hot smoking loaf of rye-and-Indian bread, and a great platter of cold boiled beef and pork, garnished with cold potatoes and turnips, the sight of which, to a party who had had no dinner all day, was most appetizing.

  My grandmother’s reception of the children was as motherly as if they had been of her own blood. In fact, their beauty and evident gentle breeding won for them immediate favor in all eyes.

  The whole party sat down to the table, and, after a long and somewhat scattering grace, pronounced by Uncle Eliakim, fell to with a most amazing appearance of enjoyment. Sam’s face waxed luminous as he buttered great blocks of smoking brown bread with the fruits of my grandmother’s morning churning, and refreshed himself by long and hearty pulls at the cider-mug.

  “I tell you,” he said, “when folks hes been a ridin’ on an empty stomach ever since breakfast, victuals is victuals; we learn how to be thankful for ‘em; so I ‘ll take another slice o’ that ‘ere beef, and one or two more cold potatoes, and the vinegar, Mr. Sheril. Wal, chillen, this ere’s better than bein’ alone in that there old house, ain’t it?”

  “Yes, indeed,” piped Tina; “I had begun to be quite discouraged. We tried and tried to find our way to Oldtown, and always got lost in the woods.” Se
eing that this remark elicited sympathy in the listeners, she added, “I was afraid we should die there, and the robins would have to cover us up, like some children papa used to tell about.”

  “Poor babes! just hear ‘em,” said my grandmother, who seemed scarcely able to restrain herself from falling on the necks of the children, in the ardor of her motherly kindness, while she doubled up an imaginary fist at Miss Asphyxia Smith, and longed to give her a piece of her mind touching her treatment of them.

  Harry remained modestly silent; but he and I sat together, and our eyes met every now and then with that quiet amity to which I had been accustomed in my spiritual friend. I felt a cleaving of spirit to him that I had never felt towards any human being before, – a certainty that something had come to me in him that I had always been wanting, – and I was too glad for speech.

  He was one of those children who retreat into themselves and make a shield of quietness and silence in the presence of many people, while Tina, on the other hand, was electrically excited, waxed brilliant in color, and rattled and chattered with as fearless confidence as a cat-bird.

  “Come hither to me, little maiden,” said Miss Mehitable, with a whimsical air of authority, when the child had done her supper. Tina came to her knee, and looked up into the dusky, homely face, in that still, earnest fashion in which children seem to study older people.

  “Well, how do you like me?” said Miss Mehitable, when this silent survey had lasted an appreciable time.

  The child still considered attentively, looking long into the great, honest, open eyes, and then her face suddenly rippled and dimpled all over like a brook when a sunbeam strikes it. “I do like you. I think you are good,” she said, putting out her hands impulsively.

  “Then up you come,” said Miss Mehitable, lifting her into her lap. “It ‘s well you like me, because, for aught you know, I may be an old fairy; and if I did n’t like you, I might turn you into a mouse or a cricket. Now how would you like that?”

  “You could n’t do it,” said Tina, laughing.

  “How do you know I could n’t?”

  “Well, if you did turn me into a mouse, I ‘d gnaw your knitting-work,” said Tina, laying hold of Miss Mehitable’s knitting. “You ‘d be glad to turn me back again.”

  “Heyday! I must take care how I make a mouse of you, I see. Perhaps I ‘ll make you into a kitten.”

  “Well, I ‘d like to be a kitten, if you ‘ll keep a ball for me to play with, and give me plenty of milk,” said Tina, to whom no proposition seemed to be without possible advantages.

  “Will you go home and live with me, and be my kitten?”

  Tina had often heard her brother speak of finding a good woman who should take care of her; and her face immediately became grave at this proposal. She seemed to study Miss Mehitable in a new way. “Where do you live?” she said.

  “O, my house is only a little way from here.”

  “And may Harry come to see me?”

  “Certainly he may.”

  “Do you want me to work for you all the time?” said Tina; “because,” she added, in a low voice, “I like to play sometimes, and Miss Asphyxia said that was wicked.”

  “Did n’t I tell you I wanted you for my little white kitten,” said Miss Mehitable, with an odd twinkle. “What work do you suppose kittens do?”

  “Must I grow up and catch rats?” said the child.

  “Certainly you will be likely to,” said Miss Mehitable, solemnly. “I shall pity the poor rats when you are grown up.”

  Tina looked in the humorous, twinkling old face with a gleam of mischievous comprehension, and, throwing her arms around Miss Mehitable, said, “Yes, I like you, and I will be your kitten.”

  There was a sudden, almost convulsive pressure of the little one to the kind old breast, and Miss Mehitable’s face wore a strange expression, that looked like the smothered pang of some great anguish blended with a peculiar tenderness. One versed in the reading of spiritual histories might have seen that, at that moment, some inner door of that old heart opened, not without a grating of pain, to give a refuge to the little orphan; but opened it was, and a silent inner act of adoption had gone forth. Miss Mehitable beckoned my grandmother and Aunt Lois into a corner of the fireplace by themselves, while Sam Lawson was entertaining the rest of the circle by reciting the narrative of day’s explorations.

  “Now I suppose I ‘m about as fit to undertake to bring up a child as the old Dragon of Wantley,” said Miss Mehitable; “as you seem to have a surplus on your hands, I ‘m willing to take the girl and do what I can for her.”

  “Dear Miss Mehitable, what a mercy it ‘ll be to her!” said grandmother and Aunt Lois, simultaneously; – “if you feel you can afford it,” added Aunt Lois, considerately.

  “Well, the fowls of the air and the lilies of the field are taken care of somehow, as we are informed,” said Miss Mehitable. “My basket and store are not much to ask a blessing on, but I have a sort of impression that an orphan child will make it none the less likely to hold out.”

  “There ‘ll always be a handful of meal in the barrel and a little oil in the cruse for you, I ‘m sure,” said my grandmother; “the word of the Lord stands sure for that.”

  A sad shadow fell over Miss Mehitable’s face at these words, and then the usual expression of quaint humor stole over it. “It ‘s to be hoped that Polly will take the same view of the subject that you appear to,” said she. “My authority over Polly is, you know, of an extremely nominal kind.”

  “Still,” said my grandmother, “you must be mistress in your own house. Polly, I am sure, knows her duty to you.”

  “Polly’s idea of allegiance is very much like that of the old Spanish nobles to their king; it used to run somewhat thus: ‘We, who are every way as good as you are, promise obedience to your government if you maintain our rights and liberties, but if not, not.’ Now Polly’s ideas of ‘rights and liberties’ are of a very set and particular nature, and I have found her generally disposed to make a good fight for them. Still, after all,” she added, “the poor old thing loves me, and I think will be willing to indulge me in having a doll, if I really am set upon it. The only way I can carry my point with Polly is, to come down on her with a perfect avalanche of certainty, and so I have passed my word to you that I will be responsible for this child. Polly may scold and fret for a fortnight; but she is too good a Puritan to question whether people shall keep their promises. Polly abhors covenant-breaking with all her soul, and so in the end she will have to help me through.”

  “It ‘s a pretty child,” said my grandmother, “and an engaging one, and Polly may come to liking her.”

  “There ‘s no saying.,” said Miss Mehitable. “You never know what you may find in the odd corners of an old maid’s heart, when you fairly look into them. There are often unused hoards of maternal affection enough to set up an orphan-asylum; but it ‘s like iron filings and a magnet, – you must try them with a live child and if there is anything in ’em you find it out. That little object,” she said, looking over her shoulder at Tina, “made an instant commotion in the dust and rubbish of my forlorn old garret, and brought to light a deal that I thought had gone to the moles and the bats long ago. She will do me good, I can feel, with her little pertnesses and her airs and fancies. If you could know how chilly and lonesome an old house gets sometimes, particularly in autumn, when the equinoctial storm is brewing! A lively child is a godsend, even if she turns the whole house topsy-turvy.”

  “Well, a child can’t always be a plaything,” said Aunt Lois; “it ‘s a solemn and awful responsibility.”

  “And if I don’t take it, who will?” said Miss Mehitable gravely. “If a better one would, I would n’t. I ‘ve no great confidence in myself. I profess no skill in human cobbling. I can only give house-room and shelter and love, and let come what will come. ‘A man cannot escape what is written on his forehead,’ the Turkish proverb says, and this poor child’s history is all forewritten.”

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p; “The Lord will bless you for your goodness to the orphan,” said my grandmother.

  “I don’t know about its being goodness. I take a fancy to her. I hunger for the child. There ‘s no merit in wanting your bit of cake, and maybe taking it when it is n’t good for you but let ‘s hope all ‘s well that ends well. Since I have fairly claimed her for mine, I begin to feel a fierce right of property in her, and you ‘d see me fighting like an old hen with anybody that should try to get her away from me. You ‘ll see me made an old fool of by her smart little ways and speeches; and I already am proud of her beauty. Did you ever see a brighter little minx?”

  We looked across to the other end of the fireplace, where Miss Tina sat perched, with great contentment, on Sam Lawson’s knee listening with wide-open eyes to the accounts he was giving of the haunted house. The beautiful hair that Miss Asphyxia had cut so close had grown with each day, till now it stood up in rings of reddish gold, through which the fire shone with a dancing light: and her great eyes seemed to radiate brightness from as many points as a diamond.

  “Depend upon it, those children are of good blood,” said Miss Mehitable, decisively. “You ‘ll never make me believe that they will not be found to belong in some way to some reputable stock.”

  “Well, we know nothing about their parents,” said my grandmother “except what we heard second-hand through Sam Lawson. It was a wandering woman, sick and a stranger, who was taken down and died in Old Crab Smith’s house, over in Needmore.”

  “One can tell, by the child’s manner of speaking, that she has been brought up among educated people,” said Miss Mehitable. “She is no little rustic. The boy, too, looks of the fine clay of the earth. But it ‘s time for me to take little Miss Rattlebrain home with me, and get her into bed. Sleep is a gracious state for children, and the first step in my new duties is a plain one.” So saying, Miss Mehitable rose, and, stepping over to the other side of the fireplace, tapped Tina lightly on the shoulder. “Come, Pussy,” she said, “get your bonnet, and we will go home.”