Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “Do tell,” said Harry, wonderingly, “if that old creature is alive yet!”

  “‘Live? Why, yis, ye may say so,” said Sam. “Much alive as ever he was. Ye see he kind o’ pickles himself in hard cider, an’ I dunno but he may live to hector his wife till he ‘s ninety. But he ‘s gret on the trial now, an’ very much interested ‘bout the doctrines. He ses thet he had n’t heard a sermon on sovereignty or ‘lection, or reprobation, sence he can remember. Wal, t’other side, they say they don’t see what business Old Crab an’ Miss Sphxyx hev to be meddlin’ so much, when they ain’t church-members. Why, I was over to Needmore town-meetin’ day jest to hear ’em fight over it; they talked a darned sight more ‘bout that than ‘bout the turnpikes or town business. Why, I heard Deacon Brown (he ‘s on the parson’s side) tellin’ Old Crab he did n’t see what business he had to boss the doctrines, when he warn’t a church-member, and Old Crab said it was his bisness about the doctrines, ‘cause he paid to hev ‘em. ‘Ef I pay for good strong doctrine, why, I want to hev good strong doctrine, says Old Crab, says he. ‘Ef I pays for hell-fire, I want to hev hell-fire, and hev it hot too. I don’t want none o’ your prophesyin’ smooth things. Why,’ says he, ‘look at Dr. Stern. His folks hes the very hair took off their heads ‘most every Sunday, and he don’t get no more ‘n we pay Parson Perry. I tell yew,’ says Old Crab, ‘he ‘s a lettin’ on us all go to sleep, and it ‘s no wonder I ain’t in the church.’ Ye see, Old Crab and Sphyxy, they seem to be kind o’ settin’ it down to poor old Parson Perry’s door that he hain’t converted ‘em, an’ made saints on ’em long ago, when they ‘ve paid up their part o’ the salary reg’lar, every year. Jes’ so onreasonable folks will be; they give a man two hunderd dollars a year an’ his wood, an’ spect him to git all on em’ inter the kingdom o’ heaven, whether they will or no, jest as the angels got Lot’s wife and daughters out o’ Sodom.”

  “That poor little old woman!” said Harry. “Do tell if she is living yet!”

  “O yis, she ‘s all right,” said Sam; “she ‘s one o’ these ‘ere little thin, dry old women that keep a good while. But ain’t ye heerd? their son Obid’s come home an’ bought a farm, an’ married a nice gal, and he insists on it his mother shall live with him. An’ so Old Crab and Miss Sphyxy, they fight it out together. So the old woman is delivered from him most o’ the time. Sometimes he walks over there an’ stays a week, an’ takes a spell o’ aggravatin’ on ‘er, that kind o’ sets him up, but he ‘s so busy now ‘bout the quarrel ‘t I b’lieve he lets her alone.”

  By this time we had reached the last rail-fence which separated us from the grassy street of Oldtown, and here Sam took his leave of us.

  “I promised Hepsy when I went out,” he said, “thet I ‘d go to the store and git her some corn meal, but I ‘ll be round agin in th’ evening. Look ‘ere,” he added, “I wus out this mornin’, an’ I dug some sweet-flag root for yer. I know ye used ter like sweet-flag root. ‘T ain’t time for young wintergreen yit, but here ‘s a bunch I picked yer, with the berries an’ old leaves. Do take ‘em, boys, jest for sake o’ old times!”

  We thanked him, of course; there was a sort of aroma of boyhood about these things, that spoke of spring days and melting snows, and long Saturday afternoon rambles that we had had with Sam years before. And we saw his lean form go striding off with something of an affectionate complacency.

  “Horace,” said Harry, the minute we were alone, “you must n’t mind too much about Sam’s gossip.”

  “It is just what I have been expecting,” said I;” but in a few moments we shall know the truth.”

  We went on until the square white front of the old Rossiter house rose upon our view. We stopped before it, and down the walk from the front door to the gate, amid the sweet budding lilacs came gleaming and glancing the airy form of Tina. So airy she looked, so bright, so full of life and joy, and threw herself into Harry’s arms, laughing and crying.

  “O Harry, Harry! God has been good to us! And you, dear brother Horace,” she said, turning to me and giving me both her hands, with one of those frank, loving looks that said as much as another might say by throwing herself into your arms. “We are all so happy!” she said.

  I determined to have it over at once, and I said, “Am I then to congratulate you, Tina, on your engagement?”

  She laughed and blushed, and held up her hand, on which glittered a great diamond, and hid her face for a moment on Harry’s shoulder.

  “I could n’t write to you about it, boys, – I could n’t! But I meant to tell you myself and tell you the first thing too. I wanted to tell you about him, because I think you none of you know him, or half how noble and good he is! Come, come in,” she said, taking us each by the hand and drawing us along with her. “Come in and see Aunty; she ‘ll be so glad to see you!”

  If there was any one thing for which I was glad at this moment, it was that I had never really made love to Tina. It was a comfort to me to think that she did not and could not possibly know the pain she was giving me. All I know is that, at the moment, I was seized with a wild, extravagant gayety, and rattled and talked and laughed with a reckless abandon that quite astonished Harry. It seemed to me as if every ludicrous story and every droll remark that I had ever heard came thronging into my head together. And I believe that Tina really thought that I was sincere in rejoicing with her. Miss Mehitable talked with us gravely about it while Tina was out of the room. It was most sudden and unexpected, she said, to her; she always had supposed that Ellery Davenport had admired Tina, but never that he had thought of her in this way. In a worldly point of view, the match was a more brilliant one than could ever have been expected. He was of the best old families in the country, – of the Edwards and the Davenport stock, – his talents were splendid, and his wealth would furnish everything that wealth could furnish. “There is only one thing,” she continued gravely; “I am not satisfied about his religious principles. But Tina is an enthusiast, and has perfect faith that he will come all right in this respect. He seems to be completely dazzled and under her influence now,” said Miss Mehitable, taking a leisurely pinch of snuff, “but then, you see, that ‘s a common phenomenon, about this time in a man’s life. But,” she added, “where there is such a strong attachment on both sides, all we can do is to wish both sides well, and speed them on their way. Mr. Davenport has interested himself in the very kindest manner in regard to both Tina and Harry, and I suppose it is greatly owing to this that affairs have turned out as prosperously as they have. As you know, Sir Harry made a handsome provision for Tina in his will. I confess I am glad of that,” she said, with a sort of pride. “I would n’t want my little Tina to have passed into his arms altogether penniless. When first love is over, men sometimes remember those things.”

  “If my father had not done justice to Tina in his will,” said Harry, “I should have done it. My sister should not have gone to any man a beggar.”

  “I know that, my dear,” said Miss Mehitable, “but still it is a pleasure to think that your father did it. It was a justice to your mother’s memory that I am glad he rendered.”

  And when is this marriage to take place?” said I.

  “Mr. Davenport wants to carry her away in June,” said Miss Mehitable. “That leaves but little time; but he says he must go to join the English Embassy, certainly by midsummer, and as there seems to be a good reason for his haste, I suppose I must not put my feelings in the way. It seems now as if I had had her only a few days, and she has been so very sweet and lovely to me. Well,” said she, after a moment, “I suppose the old sweetbrier-bushes feel lonesome when we cut their blossoms and carry them off; but the old thorny things must n’t have blossoms if they don’t expect to have them taken. That ‘s all we scraggly old people are good for.”

  CHAPTER XLIII.

  WHAT OUR FOLKS THOUGHT ABOUT IT.

  AT home, that evening, before the great open fire, still the same subject was discussed. Tina’s engagement to Ellery Davenport was
spoken of as the next most brilliant stroke of luck to Harry’s accession to the English property. Aunt Lois was all smiles and suavity, poor dear old soul! How all the wrinkles and crinkles of her face smoothed out under the influence of prosperity! and how providential everything appeared to her!

  “Providence gets some pay-days,” said an old divine. Generally speaking, his account is suffered to run on with very lax attention. But when a young couple make a fortunate engagement, or our worldly prospects take a sudden turn to go as we would, the account of Providence is gladly balanced; praise and thanksgiving come in over-measure.

  For my part, I could n’t see the Providence at all in it, and found this looking into happiness through other people’s eyes a very fatiguing operation.

  My grandfather and grandmother, as they sat pictured out by the light of a magnificent hickory fire, seemed scarcely a year older; but their faces this evening were beaming complacently; and my mother, in her very quiet way, could scarcely help triumphing over Aunt Lois. I was a sophomore in Cambridge, and Harry a landed proprietor, and Tina an heiress to property in her own right, instead of our being three poor orphan children without any money, and with the up-hill of life to climb.

  In the course of the evening, Miss Mehitable came in with Ellery Davenport and Tina. Now, much as a man will dislike the person who steps between him and the lady of his love, I could not help, this evening, myself feeling the power of that fascination by which Ellery Davenport won the suffrages of all hearts.

  Aunt Lois, as usual, was nervous and fidgety with the thought that the call of the splendid Mr. Davenport had surprised them all at the great kitchen-fire, when there was the best room cold as Nova Zembla. She looked almost reproachfully at Tina, and said apologetically to Mr. Davenport, “We are rough working folks, and you catch us just as we are. If we ‘d known you were coming, we ‘d have had a fire in the parlor.”

  “Then, Miss Badger, you would have been very cruel, and deprived us of a rare enjoyment,” said he. “What other land but our own America can give this great, joyous, abundant home-fire? The great kitchen-fire of New England,” he added, seating himself admiringly in front of it, “gives you all the freshness and simplicity of forest life, with a sense of shelter and protection. It ‘s like a camp-fire in the woods, only that you have a house over you, and a good bed to sleep in at hand; and there is nothing that draws out the heart like it. People never can talk to each other as they do by these great open fires. For my part,” he said, “I am almost a Fire-worshipper. I believe in the divine properties of flame. It purifies the heart and warms the affections, and when people sit and look into the coals together, they feel a sort of glow of charity coming over them that they never feel anywhere else.”

  “Now, I should think,” said Aunt Lois, “Mr. Davenport, that you must have seen so much pomp and splendor and luxury abroad, that our rough life here would seem really disagreeable to you.”

  “Quite the contrary,” said Ellery Davenport. “We go abroad to appreciate our home. Nature is our mother, and the life that is lived nearest to nature is, after all, the one that is the pleasantest. I met Brant at court last winter. You know he was a wild Indian to begin with, and he has seen both extremes, for now he is Colonel Brant, and has been moving in fashionable society in London. So I thought he must be a competent person to decide on the great question between savage and civilized life and he gave his vote for the savage.”

  “I wonder at him,” said my grandmother.

  “Well, I remember,” said Tina, “we had one day and night of savage life – don’t you remember, Harry? – that was very pleasant. It was when we stayed with the old Indian woman, – do you remember? It was all very well, so long as the son shone; but then when the rain fell, and the wind blew, and the drunken Indian came home, it was not so pleasant.”

  “That was the time, young lady,” said Ellery Davenport, looking at her with a flash in his blue eyes, “that you established yourself as housekeeper on my premises! If I had only known it, I might have picked you up then, as a waif on my grounds.”

  “It ‘s well you did not,” said Tina, laughing; “you would have found me troublesome to keep. I don’t believe you would have been as patient as dear old Aunty, here,” she added, laying her head on Miss Mehitable’s shoulder. “I was a perfect brier-rose, – small leaves and a great many prickles.”

  “By the by,” said Harry, “Sam Lawson has been telling us, this morning, about our old friends Miss Asphyxia Smith and Old Crab.”

  “Is it possible,” said Tina, laughing, “that those creatures are living yet? Why, I look back on them as some awful pre-Adamite monsters.”

  “Who was Miss Asphyxia?” said Ellery Davenport. “I have n’t heard of her.”

  “O, ‘t was a great threshing-machine of a woman that caught me between its teeth some years ago,” said Tina. “What do you suppose would ever have become of me, Aunty, if she had kept me? Do you think she ever could have made me a great stramming, threshing, scrubbing, floor-cleaning machine, like herself? She warned Miss Mehitable,” continued Tina, looking at Ellery and laughing shyly, “that I never should grow up to be good for anything; and she spoke a fatal truth, for, since she gave me up, every mortal creature has tried to pet and spoil me. Dear old Aunty and Mr. Rossiter have made some feeble attempts to make me good for something, but they have n’t done much at it.”

  “Thank Heaven!” said Ellery Davenport. “Who would think of training a wild rose? I sometimes look at the way a sweet-brier grows over one of our rough stone walls, and think what a beautiful defiance it is to gardeners.”

  “That is all very pretty to say,” said Tina, “when you happen to be where there are none but wild roses; but when you were among marchionesses and duchesses, how was it then?”

  For answer, Ellery Davenport bent over her, and said something which I could not hear. He had the art, without seeming to whisper, of throwing a sentence from him so that it should reach but one ear; and Tina laughed and blushed and dimpled, and looked as if a thousand little graces were shaking their wings around her.

  It was one of Tina’s great charms that she was never for a moment at rest. In this she was like a bird, or a brook, or a young tree, in which there is always a little glancing shimmer of movement. And when anything pleased her, her face sparkled as a river does when something falls into it. I noticed Ellery Davenport’s eyes followed all these little motions as if he had been enchanted. O, there was no doubt that the great illusion, the delicious magic, was in full development between them. And Tina looked so gladly satisfied, and glanced about the circle and at him with such a quiet triumph of possession, and such satisfaction in her power over him, that it really half reconciled me to see that she was so happy. And, after all, I thought to myself as I looked at the airy and spirituel style of her beauty, – a beauty that conveyed the impression of fragility and brilliancy united to the highest point, – such a creature as that is made for luxury, made for perfume and flowers and jewelry and pomp of living and obsequious tending, for old aristocratic lands and court circles, where she would glitter as a star. And what had I to offer, – I, a poor sophomore in Harvard, owing that position to the loving charity of my dear old friend? My love to her seemed a madness and a selfishness, – as if I had wished to take the evening star out of the heavens and burn it for a household lamp. “How fortunate, how fortunate,” I thought to myself,” that I have never told her! For now I shall keep the love of her heart. We are friends, and she shall be the lady of my heart forever, – the lady of my dreams.”