Miss Mehitable Rossiter has always been to me a curious study. Singularly plain as she was in person, old, withered, and poor, she yet commanded respect, and even reverence, through the whole of a wide circle of acquaintance; for she was well known to some of the most considerable families in Boston, with whom, by her mother’s side, she was connected. The interest in her was somewhat like that in old lace, old china, and old cashmere shawls; which, though often excessively uncomely, and looking in the eyes of uninterested people like mere rubbish, are held by connoisseurs to be beyond all price.
Miss Mehitable herself had great pride of character, in the sense in which pride is an innocent weakness, if not a species of virtue. She had an innate sense that she belonged to a good family, – a perfectly quiet conviction that she was a Bradford by her mother’s side, and a Rossiter by her father’s side, come what might in this world. She was too well versed in the duties of good blood not to be always polite and considerate to the last degree to all well-meaning common people, for she felt the noblesse oblige as much as if she had been a duchess. And, for that matter, in the circles of Oldtown everything that Miss Mehitable did and said had a certain weight, quite apart from that of her really fine mental powers. It was the weight of past generations, of the whole Colony of Massachusetts; all the sermons of five generations of ministers were in it, which to a God-fearing community is a great deal.
But in her quaint, uncomely body was lodged, not only a most active and even masculine mind, but a heart capable of those passionate extremes of devotion which belong to the purely feminine side of woman. She was capable of a romantic excess of affection, of an extravagance of hero-worship, which, had she been personally beautiful, might perhaps have made her the heroine of some poem of the heart. It was among the quietly accepted sorrows of her life, that for her no such romance was possible.
Men always admired her as they admired other men, and talked to her as they talked with each other. Many, during the course of her life, had formed friendships with her, which were mere relations of comradeship, but which never touched the inner sphere of the heart. That heart, so warm, so tender, and so true, she kept, with a sort of conscious shame, hidden far behind the intrenchments of her intellect. With an instinctive fear of ridicule, she scarcely ever spoke a tender word, and generally veiled a soft emotion under some quaint phrase of drollery. She seemed forever to feel the strange contrast between the burning, romantic heart and the dry and withered exterior.
Like many other women who have borne the curse of marked plainness, Miss Mehitable put an extravagant valuation on personal beauty. Her younger sister, whose loveliness was uncommon, was a sort of petted idol to her, during all her childish years. At the time of her father’s death, she would gladly have retained her with her, but, like many other women who are strong on the intellectual side of their nature, Miss Mehitable had a sort of weakness and helplessness in relation to mere material matters, which rendered her, in the eyes of the family, unfit to be trusted with the bringing up of a bright and willful child. In fact, as regarded all the details of daily life, Miss Mehitable was the servant of Polly, who had united the offices of servant-of-all-work, housekeeper, nurse, and general factotum in old Parson Rossiter’s family, and between whom and the little willful Emily grievous quarrels had often arisen. For all these reasons, and because Mrs. Farnsworth of the neighboring town of Adams was the only sister of the child’s mother, was herself childless, and in prosperous worldly circumstances, it would have been deemed a flying in the face of Providence to refuse her, when she declared her intention of adopting her sister’s child as her own.
Of what came of this adoption I shall have occasion to speak hereafter.
CHAPTER XX.
MISS ASPHYXIA GOES IN PURSUIT, AND MY GRANDMOTHER GIVES HER VIEWS ON EDUCATION
WHEN Miss Asphyxia Smith found that both children really had disappeared from Needmore so completely that no trace of them remained, to do her justice, she felt some solicitude to know what had become of them. There had not been wanting instances in those early days, when so large a part of Massachusetts was unbroken forest, of children who had wandered away into the woods and starved to death; and Miss Asphyxia was by no means an ill-wisher to any child, nor so utterly without bowels as to contemplate such a possibility without some anxiety.
Not that she in the least doubted the wisdom and perfect propriety of her own mode of administration, which she had full faith would in the end have made a “smart girl” of her little charge. “That ‘ere little limb did n’t know what was good for herself,” she said to Sol, over their evening meal of cold potatoes and boiled beef.
Sol looked round-eyed and stupid, and squared his shoulders, as he always did when this topic was introduced. He suggested, “You don’t s’pose they could ‘a’ wandered off to the mountains where Bijah Peters’ boy got lost?”
There was a sly satisfaction in observing the anxious, brooding expression which settled down over Miss Asphyxia’s dusky features at the suggestion.
“When they found that ‘ere boy,” continued Sol, “he was all worn to skin and bone; he ‘d kep’ himself a week on berries and ches’nuts and sich, but a boy can’t be kep’ on what a squirrel can.”
“Well,” said Miss Asphyxia, “I know one thing; it ain’t my fault if they do starve to death. Silly critters, they was; well-provided for, good home, good clothes, plenty and plenty to eat. I ‘m sure you can bear witness ef I ever stinted that ‘ere child in her victuals.”
“I ‘ll bear you out on that ‘ere,” said Sol.
“And well you may; I ‘d scorn not to give any one in my house a good bellyful,” quoth Miss Asphyxia.
“That ‘s true enough,” said Sol; “everybody ‘ll know that.”
“Well, it ‘s jest total depravity,” said Miss Asphyxia. “How can any one help bein’ convinced o’ that, that has anything to do with young uns?”
But the subject preyed upon the severe virgin’s mind; and she so often mentioned it, with that roughening of her scrubby eyebrows which betokened care, that Sol’s unctuous good-nature was somewhat moved, and he dropped at last a hint of having fallen on a trace of the children. He might as well have put the tips of his finger into a rolling-mill. Miss Asphyxia was so wide-awake and resolute about anything that she wanted to know, that Sol at last was obliged to finish with informing her that he had heard of the children as having been taken in at Deacon Badger’s, over in Oldtown. Sol internally chuckled, as he gave the information, when he saw how immediately Miss Asphyxia bristled with wrath. Even the best of human beings have felt the transient flash when anxiety for the fate of a child supposed to be in fatal danger gives place to unrestrained vexation at the little culprit who has given such a fright.
“Well, I shall jest tackle up and go over and bring them children home agin, at least the girl. Brother, he says he don’t want the boy; he wa’n’t nothin’ but a plague; but I ‘m one o’ them persons that when I undertake a thing I mean to go through with it. Now I undertook to raise that ‘ere girl, and I mean to. She need n’t think she ‘s goin’ to come round me with any o’ her shines, going over to Deacon Badger’s with lying stories about me. Mis’ Deacon Badger need n’t think she ‘s goin’ to hold up her head over me, if she is a deacon’s wife and I ain’t a perfessor of religion. I guess I could be a perfessor if I chose to do as some folks do. That ‘s what I told Mis’ Deacon Badger once when she asked me why I did n’t jine the church. ‘mis’ Badger,’ says I, ‘perfessin ain’t possessin, and I ‘d ruther stand outside the church than go on as some people do inside on ‘t.’”
Therefore it was that a day or two after, when Miss Mehitable was making a quiet call at my grandmother’s, and the party, consisting of my grandmother, Aunt Lois, and Aunt Keziah, were peacefully rattling their knitting-needles, while Tina was playing by the river-side, the child’s senses were suddenly paralyzed by the sight of Miss Asphyxia driving with a strong arm over the bridge near my grandmother’s.
In a moment the little one’s heart was in her throat. She had such an awful faith in Miss Asphyxia’s power to carry through anything she undertook, that all her courage withered at once at sight of her. She ran in at the back door, perfectly pale with fright, and seized hold imploringly of Miss Mehitable’s gown.
“O she ‘s coming! she ‘s coming after me. Don’t let her get me!” she exclaimed.
“What ‘s the matter now?” said my grandmother. “What ails the child?”
Miss Mehitable lifted her in her lap, and began a soothing course of inquiry; but the child clung to her, only reiterating, “Don’t let her have me! she is dreadful! Don’t!”
“As true as you live, mother,” said Aunt Lois, who had tripped to the window, “there ‘s Miss Asphyxia Smith hitching her horse at our picket fence.”
“She is?” said my grandmother, squaring her shoulders, and setting herself in fine martial order. “Well, let her come in; she ‘s welcome, I ‘m sure. I ‘d like to talk to that woman! It ‘s a free country, and everybody’s got to speak their minds,” – and my grandmother rattled her needles with great energy.
In a moment more Miss Asphyxia entered. She was arrayed in her best Sunday clothes, and made the neighborly salutations with an air of grim composure. There was silence, and a sense of something brooding in the air, as there often is before the outburst of a storm.
Finally, Miss Asphyxia opened the trenches. “I come over Mis’ Badger, to see about a gal o’ mine that has run away.” Here her eyes rested severely on Tina.
“Run away!” quoth my grandmother, briskly; “and good reason she should run away; all I wonder at is that you have the face to come to a Christian family after her, – that ‘s all. Well, she is provided for, and you ‘ve no call to be inquiring anything about her. So I advise you to go home, and attend to your own affairs, and leave children to folks that know how to manage them better than you do.”
“I expected this, Mis’ Badger,” said Miss Asphyxia, in a towering wrath, “but I ‘d have you to know that I ain’t a person that ‘s going to take sa’ace from no one. No deacon nor deacon’s wife, nor perfesser of religion, ‘s a goin’ to turn up their noses at me! I can hold up my head with any on ‘em, and I think your religion might teach you better than takin’ up stories agin your neighbors, as a little lyin’, artful hussy ‘ll tell.” Here there was a severe glance at Miss Tina, who quailed before it, and clung to Miss Mehitable’s gown. “Yes, indeed, you may hide your head,” she continued, “but you can’t git away from the truth; not when I ‘m around to bring you out. Yes, Mis’ Badger, I defy her to say I hain’t done well by her, if she says the truth; for I say it now, this blessed minute, and would say it on my dyin’ bed, and you can ask Sol ef that ‘ere child hain’t had everything pervided for her that a child could want, – a good clean bed and plenty o’ bedclothes, and good whole clothes to wear, and her belly full o’ good victuals every day; an’ me a teachin’ and a trainin’ on her, enough to wear the very life out o’ me, – for I always hated young uns, and this ere’s a perfect little limb as I ever did see. Why, what did she think I was a goin’ to do for her? I did n’t make a lady on her; to be sure I did n’t: I was a fetchin’ on her up to work for her livin’ as I was fetched up. I had n’t nothin’ more ‘n she; an’ just look at me now; there ain’t many folks that can turn off as much work in a day as I can, though I say it that should n’t. And I ‘ve got as pretty a piece of property, and as well seen to, as most any round; and all I ‘ve got – house and lands – is my own arnin’s, honest, so there! There ‘s folks, I s’pose, that thinks they can afford to keep tavern for all sorts of stragglers and runaways, Injun and white. I never was one o’ them sort of folks, an’ I should jest like to know ef those folks is able, – that ‘s all. I guess if ‘counts was added up, my ‘counts would square up better ‘n theirn.”
Here Mis Asphyxia elevated her nose and sniffed over my grandmother’s cap-border in a very contemptuous manner, and the cap-border bristled defiantly, but undismayed, back again.
“Come now, Mis’ Badger, have it out; I ain’t afraid of you! I ‘d just like to have you tell me what I could ha’ done more nor better for this child.”
“Done!” quoth my grandmother, with a pop like a roasted chestnut bursting out of the fire. “Why, you ‘ve done what you ‘d no business to. You ‘d no business to take a child at all; you have n’t got a grain of motherliness in you. Why, look at natur’, that might teach you that more than meat and drink and clothes is wanted for a child. Hens brood their chickens, and keep ‘m warm under their wings; and cows lick their calves and cosset ‘em, and it ‘s a mean shame that folks will take ’em away from them. There ‘s our old cat will lie an hour on the kitchen floor and let her kittens lug and pull at her, atween sleeping and waking, just to keep ’em warm and comfortable, you know. ‘T ain’t just feedin’ and clothin’ back and belly that ‘s all; it ‘s broodin’ that young creeturs wants; and you hain’t got a bit of broodin’ in you; your heart ‘s as hard as the nether mill-stone. Sovereign grace may soften it some day, but nothin’ else can; you ‘re a poor, old, hard, worldly woman, Miss Asphyxia Smith: that’ what you are! If Divine grace could have broken in upon you, and given you a heart to love the child, you might have brought her up, ‘cause you are a smart woman, and an honest one; that nobody denies.”
Here Miss Mehitable took up the conversation, surveying Miss Asphyxia with that air of curious attention with which one studies a human being entirely out of the line of one’s personal experience. Miss Mehitable was, as we have shown, in every thread of her being and education an aristocrat, and had for Miss Asphyxia that polite, easy tolerance which a sense of undoubted superiority gives, united with a shrewd pleasure in the study of a new and peculiar variety of the human species.
“My good Miss Smith,” she observed, in conciliatory tones, “by your own account you must have had a great deal of trouble with this child. Now I propose for the future to relieve you of it altogether. I do not think you would ever succeed in making as efficient a person as yourself of her. It strikes me,” she added, with a humorous twinkle of her eye, “that there are radical differences of nature, which would prevent her growing up like yourself. I don’t doubt you conscientiously intended to do your duty by her, and I beg you to believe that you need have no further trouble with her.”
“Goodness gracious knows,” said Miss Asphyxia, “the child ain’t much to fight over, – she was nothin’ but a plague; and I ‘d rather have done all she did any day, than to ‘a’ had her round under my feet. I hate young uns, anyway.”
“Then why, my good woman, do you object to parting with her?”
“Who said I did object? I don’t care nothin’ about parting with her; all is, when I begin a thing I like to go through with it.”
“But if it is n’t worth going through with,” said Miss Mehitable, “it ‘s as well to leave it, is it not?”
“And I ‘d got her clothes made, – not that they ‘re worth so very much, but then they ‘re worth just what they are worth, anyway,” said Miss Asphyxia.
Here Tina made a sudden impulsive dart from Miss Mehitable’s lap, and ran out of the back door, and over to her new home, and up into the closet of the chamber where was hanging the new suit of homespun in which Miss Asphyxia had arrayed her. She took it down and rolled the articles all together in a tight bundle, which she secured with a string, and, before the party in the kitchen had ceased wondering at her flight, suddenly reappeared, with flushed cheeks and dilated eyes, and tossed the bundle into Miss Asphyxia’s lap. “There ‘s every bit you ever gave me,” she said; “I don’t want to keep a single thing.”
“My dear, is that the proper way to speak?” said Miss Mehitable, reprovingly; but Tina saw my grandmother’s broad shoulders joggling with a secret laugh, and discerned twinkling lines in the reproving gravity which Miss Mehitable tried to assume. She felt pretty sure of her ground by this time.
“Well, it ‘s no use t
alkin’,” said Miss Asphyxia, rising. “If folks think they ‘re able to bring up a beggar child like a lady it ‘s their lookout and not mine. I was n’t aware,” she added, with severe irony, “that Parson Rossiter left so much of an estate that you could afford to bring up other folks’ children in silks and satins.”
“Our estate is n’t much,” said Miss Mehitable, good-naturedly “but we shall make the best of it.”
“Well, now, you just mark my words, Miss Rossiter,” said Miss Asphyxia, “that ‘ere child will never grow up a smart woman with your bringin’ up; she ‘ll jest run right over you, and you ‘ll let her have her head in everything. I see jest how ‘t ‘ll be; I don’t want nobody to tell me.”
“I dare say you are quite right, Miss Smith,” said Miss Mehitable; “I have n’t the slightest opinion of my own powers in that line; but she may be happy with me, for all that.”
“Happy?” repeated Miss Asphyxia, with an odd intonation, as if she were repeating a sound of something imperfectly comprehended, and altogether out of her line. “O, well, if folks is goin’ to begin to talk about that, I hain’t got time; it don’t seem to me that that ‘s what this ‘ere world’s for.”
“What is it for, then?” said Miss Mehitable, who felt an odd sort of interest in the human specimen before her.
“Meant for? Why, for hard work, I s’pose; that ‘s all I ever found it for. Talk about coddling! it ‘s little we get o’ that, the way the Lord fixes things in this world, dear knows. He ‘s pretty up and down with us, by all they tell us. You must take things right off, when they ‘re goin’. Ef you don’t, so much the worse for you; they won’t wait for you. Lose an hour in the morning, and you may chase it till ye drop down, you ‘ll never catch it! That ‘s the way things goes, and I should like to know who’s a going to stop to quiddle with young uns? ‘T ain’t me, that ‘s certain; so, as there ‘s no more to be made by this ‘ere talk, I may’s well be goin’. You ‘re welcome to the young un, ef you say so; I jest wanted you to know that what I begun I ‘d ‘a’ gone through with, ef you had n’t stepped in; and I did n’t want no reflections on my good name, neither, for I had my ideas of what ‘s right, and can have ’em yet, I s’pose, if Mis’ Badger does think I ‘ve got a heart of stone. I should like to know how I ‘m to have any other when I ain’t elected, and I don’t see as I am, or likely to be, and I don’t see neither why I ain’t full as good as a good many that be.”
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 262
