So, as he seemed an utterly hopeless case, and as after all he appeared so bright, and anxious to oblige, Miss Debby surrendered at discretion, and during the last half of the way found herself laughing heartily at some of Hiel’s stories and feeling some interest in the general summary of Poganuc news which he threw in gratis.
“Yis, the Doctor’s folks is all well. Doctor’s had lots o’ things sent in this year, Thanksgiving time — turkeys and chickens and eggs and lard — every kind o’ thing you can think of. Everybody sent — Town Hill folks, and folks out seven miles round. Everybody likes the Doctor; they’d orter, too! There ain’t sech a minister nowhere. The way he explains the doctrines and sets ’em home — I tell ye, there ain’t no mistake about him; he’s a hull team, now, and our folks knows it. Orter ‘a’ ben here a week ago, when the Doctor had his wood-spell. Tell ye, if the sleds didn’t come in! Why, his back-yard’s a perfect mountain o’ wood — best sort too, good oak and hickory, makes good solid coals — enough to keep him a year round. Wal, folks orter do it. He’s faithful to them, they’d orter do wal by him.”
“Isn’t there an Episcopal church in your town?” asked Miss Debby.
“Oh, yes, there is a little church. Squire Lewis he started it ‘bout six years ago, and there was consid’able many signed off to it. But our Poganuc folks somehow ain’t made for ‘Piscopals. A ‘Piscopal church in our town is jest like a hill o’ potatoes planted under a big apple-tree; the tree got a-growin’ afore they did, and don’t give ’em no chance. There was my wife’s father, he signed off, ‘cause of a quarrel he hed with his own church; but he’s come back agin, and so have all his boys, and Nabby, and jined the Doctor’s church. Fact is, our folks sort o’ hanker arter the old meetin’-house.”
“Who is the rector of the Episcopal church?”
“Oh, that’s Sim Coan; nice, lively young feller, Sim is; but can’t hold a candle to the Doctor. Sim he ain’t ‘fraid of nobody — preaches up the ‘Piscopal doctrine sharp, and stands up for his side; and he’s all the feasts and fasts and anthems and things at his tongue’s end; and his folks likes him fust rate. But the church don’t grow much; jest holds its own, that’s all.”
These varied items of intelligence, temporal and spiritual, were poured into Miss Debby’s ear at sundry periods when horses were to be changed, or in the interval of waiting for dinner at the sleepy old country tavern; and by the time she reached Poganuc she had conceived quite a friendly feeling towards Hiel and unbent her frigid demeanor to that degree that Hiel told Nabby “the old lady reely got quite sociable and warmed up afore she got there.”
Dolly was somewhat puzzled and almost alarmed on her first introduction to her aunt, who took possession of her in a summary manner, turning her round and surveying her, and giving her opinion of her with a distinct and decisive air, as if the damsel had been an article of purchase sent home to be looked over.
“So this is my niece Dolly, is it?” she said. “Well, come kiss your old aunty; upon my word, you are taller than your mother.” Then holding her at arm’s length and surveying her, with her head on one side, she added, “There’s a good deal of Pierrepont blood in her, sister; that is the Pierrepont nose — I should know it anywhere. Her way of carrying herself is Pierrepont. Blushing!” she added, as Dolly grew crimson under this survey; “that’s a family trick. I remember when I went to dancing school the first time, my face was crimson as my sash. She’ll get the better of that as she gets older, as I have. Sit down by your aunty, child. I think I shall like you. That’s right, sit up straight and hold your shoulders back — the girls of this generation are getting round-shouldered.”
Though Dolly was somewhat confused and confounded by this abrupt mode of procedure, yet there was after all something quaint and original about her aunt’s manner that amused her, and an honest sincerity in her face that won her regard. Miss Debby was one of those human beings who carry with them the apology for their own existence. It took but a glance to see that she was one of those forces of nature which move always in straight lines and which must be turned out for if one wishes to avoid a collision. All Miss Debby’s opinions had been made up, catalogued, and arranged, at a very early period of life, and she had no thought of change. She moved in a region of certainties, and always took her own opinions for granted with a calm supremacy altogether above reason. Yet there was all the while about her a twinkle of humorous consciousness, a vein of original drollery, which gave piquancy to the brusqueness of her manner and prevented people from taking offence.
So this first evening Dolly stared, laughed, blushed, wondered, had half a mind to be provoked, but ended in a hearty liking of her new relative and most agreeable anticipations of her Boston visit.
CHAPTER XXXVI. PREPARATIONS FOR SEEING LIFE.
THE getting ready for Dolly’s journey began to be the engrossing topic of the little household.
Miss Simpkins, the Poganuc dress-maker, had a permanent corner in the sitting-room, and discoursed ex cathedra on “piping-cord” and “ruffling cut on the bias,” and Dolly and Mrs. Cushing and Miss Deborah obediently ran up breadths, hemmed, stitched and gathered at her word of command.
The general course of society in those days as to dress and outward adornment did not run with the unchecked and impetuous current that it now does. The matter of dress has become in our day a yoke and a burden, and many a good house-mother is having the springs of her existence sapped by responsibilities connected with pinking and frilling and quilling, and an army of devouring cares as to hemming, stitching and embroidery, for which even the “consolations of religion” provide no panacea.
In the simple Puritan days, while they had before their eyes the query of Sacred Writ, “Can a maid forget her ornaments?” — they felt that there was no call to assist the maid in her meditations on this subject. Little girls were assiduously taught that to be neat and clean was the main beauty. Good mothers who had pretty daughters were very reticent of any remarks that might lead in the direction of personal vanity; any extra amount of time spent at the toilet, any apparent anxiety about individual adornment, met a persistent discouragement.
Never in all her life before had Dolly heard so much discourse on subjects connected with personal appearance, and, to say the truth, she did not at all enter into it with the abandon and zeal of a girl of our modern days, and found the fitting and trying on and altering rather a tribulation to be conscientiously endured. She gathered, hemmed, stitched and sewed, however, and submitted herself to the trying-on process with resignation.
“The child don’t seem to think much of dress,” said Miss Debby, when alone with her sister. “What is she thinking of, with those great eyes of hers?”
“Oh, of things she is planning,” said her mother; “of books she is reading, of things her father reads to her, of ways she can help me — in short, of anything but herself.” “She is very pretty,” said Miss Debby, “and is sure to be very attractive.”
“Yes,” answered her mother, “but Dolly hasn’t the smallest notion of anything like coquetry. Now, she has been a good deal admired here, and there have been one or two that would evidently have been glad to go farther; but Dolly cuts everything of that kind short at once. She is very pleasant, very kind, very friendly, up to a certain point, but the moment she is made love to — everything is changed.”
“Well,” said Miss Deborah, “I am glad I came after her. There’s everything, with a girl like Dolly, in putting her into proper society. When a girl comes to her years one should put her in the way of a suitable connection at once.”
“As to that,” said Mrs. Cushing, “I always felt that things of that kind must be left to Providence.”
“I believe, however, your husband preaches that we must ‘use the means,’ doesn’t he? One must put children in proper society, to give Providence a chance.”
“Well, Debby, you have your schemes, but I forewarn you Dolly is one who goes her own path. She seems very sweet, very gentle, very yieldi
ng, but she has a little quiet way of her own of looking at things and deciding for herself; she always knows her own mind very definitely, too.”
“Good!” said Miss Debby, taking a long and considerate pinch of snuff. “We shall see.”
Miss Debby had unbounded confidence in her own powers of management. She looked upon Dolly as a very creditably educated young person so far, but did not in the least doubt her own ability to add a few finishing touches here and there, which should turn her out a perfected specimen.
On Sunday morning Miss Debby arose with the spirit of a confessor. For her brother-in-law the good lady had the sincerest respect and friendship, but on this particular day she felt bound to give her patronage and support to the little church where, in her view, the truly appointed minister dispensed the teaching of the true church.
The Doctor lifted his glasses and soberly smiled as he saw her compact energetic figure walking across the green to the little church. Dolly’s cheeks flamed up; she was indignant; to her it looked like a slight upon her father, and Dolly, as we have seen, had a very active spirit of partisanship.
“Well, I must say I wonder at her doing so,” she commented. “Does she not think we are Christians?” “She has a right to her own faith, my child,” said the Doctor.
“Yes, but what would she think of me, when I am in Boston, if I should go off to some other church than hers?”
“My dear, I hope you will give her no such occasion,” said Mrs. Cushing. “Your conscience requires no such course of you; hers does.”
“Well, it seems to me that Aunty has a very narrow and bigoted way of looking at things,” said Dolly.
“Your aunt is an old lady — very decided in all her opinions — not in the least likely to be changed by anything you or I or anybody can say to her. It is best to take her as she is.”
“Besides,” said the Doctor, “she has as much right to think I am in the wrong as I have to think she is. Let every one be fully persuaded in his own mind.”
. . . . . . .
“I was very glad, my dear, you answered Dolly as you did,” said Mrs. Cushing to her husband that night when they were alone. “She has such an intense feeling about all that relates to you, and the Episcopal party have been so often opposed to you, that she will need some care and caution now she is going where everything is to be changed. She will have to see that there can be truth and goodness in both forms of worship.”
“Oh, certainly; I will indoctrinate Dolly,” said the Doctor. “Yes, I will set the whole thing before her. She has a good clear mind. I can make her understand.”
CHAPTER XXXVII. LAST WORDS.
AT last all the preparations were made, and Dolly’s modest wardrobe packed to the very last article, so that her bureau drawers looked mournfully empty.
It was a little hair trunk, with “D. C.” embossed in brass nails upon one end, that contained all this young lady’s armor — a very different affair from the Saratoga trunks of our modern belles. The pink brocade with its bunches of rose-buds; some tuckers of choice old lace that had figured in her mother’s bridal toilet; a few bits of ribbon; a white India muslin dress, embroidered by her own hands; — these were the stock in trade of a young damsel of her times, and, strange as it may appear, young ladies then were stated by good authority to have been just as pretty and bewitching as now, when their trunks are several times as large.
Dolly’s place and Aunt Debby’s had been properly set down on Hiel’s stage-book for the next morning at six o’clock; and now remained only an evening of last words. So Dolly sits by her father in his study, where from infancy she has retreated for pleasant quiet hours, where even the books she never read seem to her like familiar friends from the number of times she has pondered the titles upon their backs. And now, though she wants to go, and feels the fluttering eagerness of the young bird, who has wings to use and would like to try the free air, yet the first flight from the nest is a little fearful. Boston is a long way off — three long days — and Dolly has never been farther from Poganuc than she has ridden by her father’s side in the old chaise; so that the very journey has as much importance in her eyes as fifty years later a modern young lady will attach to a voyage to England.
“My daughter,” said the Doctor, “I know you will have a pleasant time; I hope, a profitable one. Your aunt is a good woman. I have great confidence in her affection for you; your own mother could not feel more sincere desire for your happiness. And your grandmother is an eminently godly woman. Of course, while with them you will attend the services of the Episcopal Church; for that you have my cordial consent and willingness. The liturgy of the church is full of devout feelings, and the Thirty-nine Articles (with some few slight exceptions) are a very excellent statement of truth. In adopting the spirit and language of the prayers in the service you cannot go amiss; very excellent Christians have been nourished and brought up upon them. So have no hesitation about uniting in all Christian exercises with your relatives in Boston.”
“Oh, Papa, I am almost sorry I am going,” said Dolly, impulsively. “My home has been always so happy, I feel almost afraid to leave it. It seems as if I ought not to leave you and Mother alone.”
The Doctor smiled and stroked her hair gently in an absent way. “We shall miss you, dear child, of course; you are the last bird in the nest, but your mother and I are quite sure it is for the best.”
And then the conversation wandered back over many a pleasant field of the past — over walks and talks and happy hours long gone; over the plans and hopes and wishes for her brothers that Dolly had felt proud to be old enough to share; until the good man’s voice sometimes would grow husky as he spoke and Dolly’s long eye-lashes were wet and tearful. It was the kind of pleasant little summer rain of tears that comes so easily to young eyes that have never known what real sorrow is.
And when Dolly after her conference came to bid her mother good-night, she fell upon her neck and wept for reasons she could scarce explain herself.
“I should like to know what you’ve been saying to Dolly,” said Mrs. Cushing to the Doctor, suddenly appearing at the study-door.
“Saying to Dolly?” exclaimed the Doctor, looking up dreamily, “why, nothing particular.”
“Well, you’ve made her cry. I declare! you men have no idea how to talk to a girl.”
The Doctor at first looked amazed, and then an amused expression passed slowly over his face. He drew his wife down beside him and passing his arm around her said significantly,
“There was a girl, once, who thought I knew how to talk to her — but that is a good many years ago.”
Mrs. Cushing laughed, and blushed, and said, “Oh, nonsense!”
But the Doctor looked triumphant.
“As to Dolly,” he said, “never fear. She’s a tender-hearted little thing, and made herself cry thinking that we should be lonesome, and a dozen other little pretty kindly things that set her tears going. She’s a precious child, and we shall miss her. I have settled her mind as to the church question.”
CHAPTER XXXVIII. DOLLY’S FIRST LETTER FROM BOSTON.
MY DEAR PARENTS: Here I am in Boston at last, and take the very first quiet opportunity to write to you. Hiel Jones said he would call and tell you immediately about how we got through the first day. He was very kind and attentive to us all day, taking care at every stopping-place to get the bricks heated, so that our feet were kept quite warm, and in everything he was so thoughtful and obliging that Aunt Deborah in time quite forgave him for presuming on his rights as a human being to keep up a free conversation with us at intervals, which he did with his usual cheerful goodwill.
It amuses me all the time to talk with Aunty. All her thoughts are of a century back, and she is so unconscious and positive about them that it is really entertaining. All this talk about the “lower classes,” and the dangers to be apprehended from them; of “first families” and their ways and laws and opinions; and of the impropriety of being too familiar with common people, amuses
me. She seems to me like a woman in a book — one of the old-world people one reads of in Scott’s novels. She is very kind to me; no mother could be kinder — but all in a sort of taking-possession way. She tells me where to sit, and what to do, and what to wear, and seems to feel a comfortable sense that she has me now all to herself. It amuses me to think how little she knows of what I really am inside.
We stopped the first night at a gloomy little tavern, and our room was so cold that Aunty and I puffed at each other like two goblins, a cloud coming out of our mouths every time we opened them. They made a fire in the chimney, but the chimney had swallows’ nests in it and smoked; so we had to open our windows to let out the smoke, which did not improve matters.
The next night we slept at Worcester, and thought we would try not having a fire in our room; so it grew colder and colder all night, and in the morning we had to break the ice in our pitchers. My fingers felt like so many icicles, and my hair snapped with the electricity. But Aunty kept up good cheer and made me laugh through it all with her odd sayings. She is very droll and has most original ways of taking things, and is so active and courageous nothing comes amiss to her.
Our third and last day was in a driving snow-storm, and the stage was upon runners. I could see nothing all day but white drifts and eddies of snow-feathers filling the air; but at sunset all cleared away and the sun came out just as we were coming into Boston. My heart beat quite fast when I saw the dome of the State House and thought of all the noble, good men that had lived and died for our country in that brave old city. My eyes were full of tears, but I didn’t say a word to Aunty, for she doesn’t feel about any of these things as I do. I daresay she thinks it a great pity that the old Church and King times cannot come round again.
Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe Page 453
