“‘Member one night last winter, after the Deacon got warm in bed, there come a rap at the door; and who should it be but old Beulah Ward, wantin’ to see the Deacon?—’twas her boy she sent, and he said Beulah was sick and hadn’t no more wood nor candles. Now I know’d the Deacon had carried that crittur half a cord of wood, if he had one stick, since Thanksgivin‘, and I’d sent her two o’ my best moulds of candles,—nice ones that Cerinthy Ann run when we killed a crittur; but nothin’ would do but the Deacon must get right out his warm bed and dress himself, and hitch up his team to carry over some wood to Beulah. Says I, ‘Father, you know you’ll be down with the rheumatis for this; besides, Beulah is real aggravatin’. I know she trades off what we send her to the store for rum, and you never get no thanks. She expects, ’cause we has done for her, we always must; and more we do more we may do.’ And says he to me, says he, ‘That’s jest the way we sarves the Lord, Polly; and what if He shouldn’t hear us when we call on Him in our troubles?’ So I shet up; and the next day he was down with the rheumatis. And Cerinthy Ann, says she, ‘Well, father, now I hope you’ll own you have got some disinterested benevolence,’ says she; and the Deacon he thought it over a spell, and then he says, ‘I’m ‘fraid it’s all selfish. I’m jest a-makin’ a righteousness of it.’ And Cerinthy Ann she come out, declarin’ that the best folks never had no comfort in religion; and for her part she didn’t mean to trouble her head about it, but have jest as good a time as she could while she’s young, ‘cause if she was ’lected to be saved she should be, and if she wa’n’t she couldn’t help it, any how.”
“Mr. Brown says he came on to Dr. Hopkins’s ground years ago,” said Mrs. Brown, giving a nervous twitch to her yarn, and speaking in a sharp, hard, didatic voice, which made little Mrs. Twitchel give a gentle quiver, and look humble and apologetic. “Mr. Brown’s a master thinker; there’s nothing pleases that man better than a hard doctrine; he says you can’t get ‘em too hard for him. He don’t find any difficulty in bringing his mind up; he just reasons it out all plain; and he says, people have no need to be in the dark; and that’s my opinion. ‘If folks know they ought to come up to anything, why don’t they?’ he says; and I say so too.”
“Mr. Scudder used to say that it took great afflictions to bring his mind to that place,” said Mrs. Katy. “He used to say that an old papermaker told him once, that paper that was shaken only one way in the making would tear across the other, and the best paper had to be shaken every way; and so he said we couldn’t tell, till we had been turned and shaken and tried every way, where we should tear.”
Mrs. Twitchel responded to this sentiment with a gentle series of groans, such as were her general expression of approbation, swaying herself backward and forward; while Mrs. Brown gave a sort of toss and snort, and said that for her part she always thought people knew what they did know,—but she guessed she was mistaken.
The conversation was here interrupted by the civilities attendant on the reception of Mrs. Jones,—a broad, buxom, hearty soul, who had come on horseback from a farm about three miles distant.
Smiling with rosy content, she presented Mrs. Katy a small pot of golden butter,—the result of her forenoon’s churning.
There are some people so evidently broadly and heartily of this world, that their coming into a room always materializes the conversation. We wish to be understood that we mean no disparaging reflection on such persons;—they are as necessary to make up a world as cabbages to make up a garden; the great healthy principles of cheerfulness and animal life seem to exist in them in the gross; they are wedges and ingots of solid, contended vitality. Certain kinds of virtues and Christian graces thrive in such people as the first crop of corn does in the bottom-lands of the Ohio. Mrs. Jones was a church-member, a regular church-goer, and planted her comely person plump in front of Dr. Hopkins every Sunday, and listened to his searching and discriminating sermons with broad, honest smiles of satisfaction. Those keen distinctions as to motives, those awful warnings and urgent expostulations, which made poor Deacon Twitchel weep, she listened to with great, round, satisfied eyes, making to all, and after all, the same remark,—that it was good, and she liked it, and the Doctor was a good man; and on the present occasion, she announced her pot of butter as one fruit of her reflections after the last discourse.
“You see,” she said, “as I was a-settin’ in the spring-house, this mornin‘, a-workin’ my butter, I says to Dinah,—‘I’m goin’ to carry a pot of this down to Miss Scudder for the Doctor,—I got so much good out of his Sunday’s sermon.’ And Dinah she says to me, says she,—‘Laws, Miss Jones, I thought you was asleep, for sartin!’ But I wasn’t; only I forgot to take any caraway-seed in the mornin’, and so I kinder missed it; you know it ’livens one up. But I never lost myself so but what I kinder heerd him goin’ on, on, sort o’ like,—and it sounded all sort o’ good; and so I thought of the Doctor to-day.”
“Well, I’m sure,” said Aunt Katy, “this will be a treat; we all know about your butter, Mrs. Jones. I sha’n’t think of putting any of mine on table to-night, I’m sure.”
“Law, now don‘t!” said Mrs. Jones. “Why, you re’lly make me ashamed, Miss Scudder. To be sure, folks does like our butter, and it always fetches a pretty good price,—he’s very proud on’t. I tell him he oughtn’t to be,—we oughtn’t to be proud of anything.”
And now Mrs. Katy, giving a look at the old clock, told Mary it was time to set the tea-table; and forthwith there was a gentle movement of expectancy. The little mahogany tea-table opened its brown wings, and from a drawer came forth the snowy damask covering. It was etiquette, on such occasions, to compliment every article of the establishment successively, as it appeared; so the Deacon’s wife began at the table-cloth.
“Well, I do declare, Miss Scudder beats us all in her table-cloths,” she said, taking up a corner of the damask, admiringly; and Mrs. Jones forthwith jumped up and seized the other corner.
“Why, this ‘ere must have come from the Old-Country. It’s ’most the beautiflest thing I ever did see.”
“It’s my own spinning,” replied Mrs. Katy, with conscious dignity. “There was an Irish weaver came to Newport the year before I was married, who wove beautifully,—just the Old-Country patterns, —and I’d been spinning some uncommonly fine flax then. I remember Mr. Scudder used to read to me while I was spinning,”—and Aunt Katy looked afar, as one whose thoughts are in the past, and dropped out the last words with a little sigh, unconsciously, as if speaking to herself.
“Well, now, I must say,” said Mrs. Jones, “this goes quite beyond me. I thought I could spin some; but I shan’n’t never dare to show mine.”
“I’m sure, Mrs. Jones, your towels that you had out bleaching, this spring, were wonderful,” said Aunt Katy. “But I don’t pretend to do much now,” she continued, straightening her trim figure. “I’m getting old, you know; we must let the young folks take up these things. Mary spins better now than I ever did. Mary, hand out those napkins.”
And so Mary’s napkins passed from hand to hand.
“Well, well,” said Mrs. Twitchel to Mary, “it’s easy to see that your linen-chest will be pretty full by the time he comes along; won’t it, Miss Jones?”—and Mrs. Twitchel looked pleasantly facetious, as elderly ladies generally do, when suggesting such possibilities to younger ones.
Mary was vexed to feel the blood boil up in her cheeks in a most unexpected and provoking way at the suggestion; whereat Mrs. Twitchel nodded knowingly at Mrs. Jones, and whispered something in a mysterious aside, to which plump Mrs. Jones answered,—“Why, do tell! now I never!”
“It’s strange,” said Mrs. Twitchel, taking up her parable again, in such a plaintive tone that all knew something pathetic was coming, “what mistakes some folks will make, a-fetchin’ up girls. Now there’s your Mary, Miss Scudder,—why, there a‘n’t nothin’ she can’t do; but law, I was down to Miss Skinner’s, last week, a-watchin’ with her, and re‘lly it ’most broke my heart to see
her. Her mother was a most amazin’ smart woman; but she brought Suky up, for all the world, as if she’d been a wax doll, to be kept in the drawer,—and sure enough, she was a pretty creetur,—and now she’s married, what is she? She ha‘n’t no more idee how to take hold than nothin’. The poor child means well enough, and she works so hard she most kills herself; but then she is in the suds from mornin’ till night,—she’s one the sort whose work’s never done,—and poor George Skinner’s clean discouraged.”
“There’s everything in knowing how,” said Mrs. Katy. “Nobody ought to be always working; it’s a bad sign. I tell Mary,—‘Always do up your work in the forenoon.’ Girls must learn that. I never work afternoons, after my dinner-dishes are got away; I never did and never would.”
“Nor I, neither,” chimed in Mrs. Jones and Mrs. Twitchel,—both anxious to show themselves clear on this leading point of New England housekeeping.
“There’s another thing I always tell Mary,” said Mrs. Katy, impressively. “‘Never say there isn’t time for a thing that ought to be done. If a thing is necessary, why, life is long enough to find a place for it. That’s my doctrine. When anybody tells me they can’t find time for this or that, I don’t think much of ’em. I think they don’t know how to work,—that’s all.’ ”
Here Mrs. Twitchel looked up from her knitting, with an apologetic giggle, at Mrs. Brown.
“Law, now, there’s Miss Brown, she don’t know nothin’ about it, ‘cause she’s got her servants to every turn. I s’pose she thinks it queer to hear us talkin’ about our work. Miss Brown must have her time all to herself. I was tellin’ the Deacon the other day that she was a privileged woman.”
“I’m sure, those that have servants find work enough following ‘em ’round,” said Mrs. Brown,—who, like all other human beings, resented the implication of not having as many trials in life as her neighbors. “As to getting the work done up in the forenoon, that’s a thing I never can teach ‘em; they’d rather not. Chloe likes to keep her work ’round, and do it by snacks, any time, day or night, when the notion takes her.”
“And it was just for that reason I never would have one of those creatures ’round,” said Mrs. Katy. “Mr. Scudder was principled against buying negroes,—but if he had not been, I should not have wanted any of their work. I know what’s to be done, and most help is no help to me. I want people to stand out of my way and let me get done. I’ve tried keeping a girl once or twice, and I never worked so hard in my life. When Mary and I do all ourselves, we can calculate everything to a minute; and we get our time to sew and read and spin and visit, and live just as we want to.”
Here, again, Mrs. Brown looked uneasy. To what use was it that she was rich and owned servants, when this Mordecai6 in her gate utterly despised her prosperity? In her secret heart she thought Mrs. Katy must be envious, and rather comforted herself on this view of the subject,—sweetly unconscious of any inconsistency in the feeling with her views of utter self-abnegation just announced.
Meanwhile the tea-table had been silently gathering on its snowy plateau the delicate china, the golden butter, the loaf of faultless cake, a plate of crullers or wonders, as a sort of sweet fried cake was commonly called,—tea-rusks, light as a puff, and shining on top with a varnish of egg,—jellies of apple and quince quivering in amber clearness,—whitest and purest honey in the comb,—in short, everything that could go to the getting-up of a most faultless tea.
“I don’t see,” said Mrs. Jones, resuming the gentle pæans of the occasion, “how Miss Scudder’s loaf-cake always comes out jest so. It don’t rise neither to one side nor t‘other, but jest even all ’round; and it a’n’t white one side and burnt the other, but jest a good brown all over; and it don’t have no heavy streak in it.”
“Jest what Cerinthy Ann was sayin’, the other day,” said Mrs. Twitchel. “She says she can’t never be sure how hers is a-comin’ out. Do what she can, it will be either too much or too little; but Miss Scudder’s is always jest so. ‘Law,’ says I, ‘Cerinthy Ann, it’s faculty,—that’s it;—them that has it has it, and them that hasn’t—why, they’ve got to work hard, and not do half so well, neither.’”
Mrs. Katy took all these praises as matter of course. Since she was thirteen years old, she had never put her hand to anything that she had not been held to do better than other folks, and therefore she accepted her praises with the quiet repose and serenity of assured reputation; though, of course, she used the usual polite disclaimers of “Oh, it’s nothing, nothing at all; I’m sure I don’t know how I do it, and was not aware it was so good,”—and so on. All which things are proper for gentle-women to observe in like cases, in every walk of life.
“Do you think the Deacon will be along soon?” said Mrs. Katy, when Mary, returning from the kitchen, announced the important fact, that the tea-kettle was boiling.
“Why, yes,” said Mrs. Twitchel. “I’m a-lookin’ for him every minute. He told me, that he and the men should be plantin’ up to the eight-acre lot, but he’d keep the colt up there to come down on; and so I laid him out a clean shirt, and says I, ‘Now, Father, you be sure and be there by five, so that Miss Scudder may know when to put her tea a-drawin’.’—There he is, I believe,” she added, as a horse’s tramp was heard without, and, after a few moments, the desired Deacon entered.
He was a gentle, soft-spoken man, low, sinewy, thin, with black hair showing lines and patches of silver. His keen, thoughtful, dark eye marked the nervous and melancholic temperament. A mild and pensive humility of manner seemed to brood over him, like the shadow of a cloud. Everything in his dress, air, and motions indicated punctilious exactness and accuracy, at times rising to the point of nervous anxiety.
Immediately after the bustle of his entrance had subsided, Mr. Simeon Brown followed. He was a tall, lank individual, with high cheek-bones, thin, sharp features, small, keen, hard eyes, and large hands and feet.
Simeon was, as we have before remarked, a keen theologian, and had the scent of a hound for a metaphysical distinction. True, he was a man of business, being a thriving trader to the coast of Africa, whence he imported negroes for the American market; and no man was held to understand that branch of traffic better,—he having, in his earlier days, commanded ships in the business, and thus learned it from the root. In his private life, Simeon was severe and dictatorial. He was one of that class of people who, of a freezing day, will plant themselves directly between you and the fire, and there stand and argue to prove that selfishness is the root of all moral evil. Simeon said he always had thought so; and his neighbors sometimes supposed that nobody could enjoy better experimental advantages for understanding the subject. He was one of those men who suppose themselves submissive to the Divine will, to the uttermost extent demanded by the extreme theology of that day, simply because they have no nerves to feel, no imagination to conceive what endless happiness or suffering is, and who deal therefore with the great question of the salvation or damnation of myriads as a problem of theological algebra, to be worked out by their inevitable x, y, z.
But we must not spend too much time with our analysis of character, for matters at the tea-table are drawing to a crisis. Mrs. Jones has announced that she does not think “he” can come this afternoon, by which significant mode of expression she conveyed the dutiful idea that there was for her but one male person in the world. And now Mrs. Katy says, “Mary, dear, knock at the Doctor’s door and tell him that tea is ready.”
The Doctor was sitting in his shady study, in the room on the other side of the little entry. The windows were dark and fragrant with the shade and perfume of blossoming lilacs, whose tremulous shadow, mingled with spots of afternoon sunlight, danced on the scattered papers of a great writing-table covered with pamphlets and heavily-bound volumes of theology, where the Doctor was sitting.
A man of gigantic proportions, over six feet in height, and built every way with an amplitude corresponding to his height, he bent over his writing, so absorbed that he did not hear
the gentle sound of Mary’s entrance.
“Doctor,” said the maiden, gently, “tea is ready.”
No motion, no sound, except the quick racing of the pen over the paper.
“Doctor! Doctor!”—a little louder, and with another step into the apartment,—“tea is ready.”
The Doctor stretched his head forward to a paper which lay before him, and responded in a low, murmuring voice, as reading something.
“Firstly,—if underived virtue be peculiar to the Deity, can it be the duty of a creature to have it?”
Here a little waxen hand came with a very gentle tap on his huge shoulder, and “Doctor, tea is ready,” penetrated drowsily to the nerve of his ear, as a sound heard in sleep. He rose suddenly with a start, opened a pair of great blue eyes, which shone abstractedly under the dome of a capacious and lofty forehead, and fixed them on the maiden, who by this time was looking up rather archly, and yet with an attitude of the most profound respect, while her venerated friend was assembling together his earthly faculties.
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