The Minister's Wooing

by Harriet Beecher Stowe

  “Well, certainly, Miss Prissy, if you think so,” said Mrs. Scudder, who was as pliant to the opinions of this wise woman of the parish as New England matrons generally are to a reigning dressmaker and factotum.

  Miss Prissy had the happy consciousness, always, that her early advent under any roof was considered a matter of especial grace; and therefore it was with rather a patronizing tone that she announced that she would stay and spend the night with them.

  “I knew,” she added, “that your spare chamber was full, with that Madame de—, what do you call her?—if I was to die, I could not remember the woman’s name. Well, I thought I could curl in with you, Mary, ’most anywhere.”

  “That’s right, Miss Prissy,” said Mary; “you shall be welcome to half my bed any time.”

  “Well, I knew you would say so, Mary; I never saw the thing you would not give away one half of, since you was that high,” said Miss Prissy,—illustrating her words by placing her hand about two feet from the floor.

  Just at this moment, Madame de Frontignac entered and asked Mary to come into her room and give her advice as to a piece of embroidery. When she was gone out, Miss Prissy looked after her and sunk her voice once more to the confidential whisper which we before described.

  “I have heard strange stories about that French woman,” she said; “but as she is here with you and Mary, I suppose there cannot be any truth in them. Dear me! the world is so censorious about women! But then, you know, we don’t expect much from French women. I suppose she is a Roman Catholic, and worships pictures and stone images; but then, after all, she has got an immortal soul, and I can’t help hoping Mary’s influence may be blest to her. They say, when she speaks French, she swears every few minutes; and if that is the way she was brought up, may-be she isn’t accountable. I think we can’t be too charitable for people that a’n’t privileged as we are. Miss Vernon’s Polly told me she had seen her sew Sundays, —sew Sabbath-day! She came into her room sudden, and she was working on her embroidery there; and she never winked nor blushed, nor offered to put it away, but sat there just as easy! Polly said she never was so beat in all her life; she felt kind o’ scared, every time she thought of it. But now she has come here, who knows but she may be converted?”

  “Mary has not said much about her state of mind,” said Mrs. Scudder; “but something of deep interest has passed between them. Mary is such an uncommon child, that I trust everything to her.”

  We will not dwell further on the particulars of this evening,—nor describe how Madame de Frontignac reconnoitred Miss Prissy with keen, amused eyes,—nor how Miss Prissy assured Mary, in the confidential solitude of her chamber, that her fingers just itched to get hold of that trimming on Madame de Frog—something’s dress, because she was pretty nigh sure she could make some just like it, for she never saw any trimming she could not make.

  The robin that lived in the apple-tree was fairly outgeneralled the next morning; for Miss Prissy was up before him, tripping about the chamber on the points of her toes, knocking down all the movable things in the room, in her efforts to be still, so as not to wake Mary; and it was not until she had finally upset the stand by the bed, with the candlestick, snuffers, and Bible on it, that Mary opened her eyes.

  “Miss Prissy! dear me! what is it you are doing?”

  “Why, I am trying to be still, Mary, so as not to wake you up; and it seems to me as if everything was possessed, to tumble down so. But it is only half past three,—so you turn over and go to sleep.”

  “But, Miss Prissy,” said Mary, sitting up in bed, “you are all dressed; where are you going?”

  “Well, to tell the truth, Mary, I am just one of those people that can’t sleep when they have got responsibility on their minds; and I have been lying awake more than an hour here, thinking about that quilt. There is a new way of getting it on to the frame that I want to try; ‘cause, you know, when we quilted Cerinthy Stebbins’s, it would trouble us in the rolling; and I have got a new way that I want to try, and I mean just to get it on to the frame before breakfast. I was in hopes I should get out without waking any of you. I am in hopes I shall get by your mother’s door without waking her,—’cause I know she works hard and needs her rest,—but that bedroom door squeaks like a cat, enough to raise the dead!

  “Mary,” she added, with sudden energy, “If I had the least drop of oil in a teacup, and a bit of quill, I’d stop that door making such a noise.” And Miss Prissy’s eyes glowed with resolution.

  “I don’t know where you could find any at this time,” said Mary.

  “Well, never mind; I’ll just go and open the door as slow and careful as I can,” said Miss Prissy, as she trotted out of the apartment.

  The result of her carefulness was very soon announced to Mary by a protracted sound resembling the mewing of a hoarse cat, accompanied by sundry audible grunts from Miss Prissy, terminating in a grand finale of clatter, occasioned by her knocking down all the pieces of the quilting-frame that stood in the corner of the room, with a concussion that roused everybody in the house.

  “What is that?” called out Mrs. Scudder, from her bedroom.

  She was answered by two streams of laughter,—one from Mary, sitting up in bed, and the other from Miss Prissy, holding her sides, as she sat dissolved in merriment on the sanded floor.

  CHAPTER XXX

  The Quilting

  BY six o’clock in the morning, Miss Prissy came out of the best room to the breakfast-table, with the air of a general who has arranged a campaign,—her face glowing with satisfaction. All sat down together to their morning meal. The outside door was open into the green, turfy yard, and the apple-tree, now nursing stores of fine yellow jeannetons, looked in at the window. Every once in a while, as a breeze shook the leaves, a fully ripe apple might be heard falling to the ground, at which Miss Prissy would bustle up from the table and rush to secure the treasure.

  As the meal waned to its close, the rattling of wheels was heard at the gate, and Candace was discerned, seated aloft in the one-horse wagon, with her usual complement of baskets and bags.

  “Well, now, dear me! if there isn’t Candace!” said Miss Prissy; “I do believe Miss Marvyn has sent her with something for the quilting!” and out she flew as nimble as a humming-bird, while those in the house heard various exclamations of admiration, as Candace, with stately dignity, disinterred from the wagon one basket after another, and exhibited to Miss Prissy’s enraptured eyes sly peeps under the white napkins with which they were covered. And then, hanging a large basket on either arm, she rolled majestically towards the house, like a heavy-laden Indiaman, coming in after a fast voyage.

  “Good-mornin‘, Miss Scudder! good-mornin’, Doctor!” she said, dropping her curtsy on the door-step; “good-mornin‘, Miss Mary! Ye see our folks was stirrin’ pootty early dis mornin’, an’ Miss Marvyn sent me down wid two or tree little tings.”

  Setting down her baskets on the floor, and seating herself between them, she proceeded to develop their contents with ill-concealed triumph. One basket was devoted to cakes of every species, from the great Mont-Blanc loaf-cake, with its snowy glaciers of frosting, to the twisted cruller and puffy doughnut. In the other basket lay pots of golden butter curiously stamped, reposing on a bed of fresh, green leaves,—while currants, red and white, and delicious cherries and raspberries, gave a final finish to the picture. From a basket which Miss Prissy brought in from the rear appeared cold fowl and tongue delicately prepared, and shaded with feathers of parsley. Candace, whose rollicking delight in the good things of this life was conspicuous in every emotion, might have furnished to a painter, as she sat in her brilliant turban, an idea for an African Genius of Plenty.

  “Why, really, Candace,” said Mrs. Scudder, “you are overwhelming us!”

  “Ho! ho! ho!” said Candace, “I’s tellin’ Miss Marvyn folks don’t git married but once in der lives, (gin‘ally speakin’, dat is,) an’ den dey oughter hab plenty to do it wid.”

  “Well, I mus
t say,” said Miss Prissy, taking out the loaf-cake with busy assiduity,—“I must say, Candace, this does beat all!”

  “I should rader tink it oughter,” said Candace, bridling herself with proud consciousness; “ef it don‘t, ’ta‘n’t ’cause ole Candace ha‘n’t put enough into it. I tell ye, I didn’t do nothin’ all day yisterday but jes’ make dat ar cake. Cato, when he got up, he begun to talk someh’n’ ‘bout his shirt-buttons, an’ I jes’ shet him right up. Says I, ‘Cato, when I’s r‘ally got cake to make for a great ’casion, I wants my mind jest as quiet an’ jest as serene as ef I was a-goin’ to de sacrament. I don’t want no ‘arthly cares on’t. Now,’ says I, ‘Cato, de ole Doctor’s gwine to be married, an’ dis yer’s his quiltin’-cake,—an’ Miss Mary, she’s gwine to be married, an’ dis yer’s her quiltin‘-cake. An’ dar’ll be eberybody to dat ar quiltin’; an’ ef de cake a‘n’t right, why, ’twould be puttin’ a candle under a bushel. An’ so,’ says I, ‘Cato, your buttons mus’ wait.’ An’ Cato, he sees de ’priety ob it, ‘cause, dough he can’t make cake like me, he’s a ’mazin’ good judge on‘t, an’ is dre’ful tickled when I slips out a little loaf for his supper.”

  “How is Mrs. Marvyn?” said Mrs. Scudder.

  “Kinder thin and shimmery; but she’s about,—habin’ her eyes eberywar ’n’ lookin’ into eberyting. She jes’ touches tings wid de tips ob her fingers an’ dey seem to go like. She’ll be down to de quiltin’ dis arternoon. But she tole me to take de tings an’ come down an’ spen’ de day here; for Miss Marvyn an’ I both knows how many steps mus’ be taken sech times, an’ we agreed you oughter favor yourselves all you could.”

  “Well, now,” said Miss Prissy, lifting up her hands, “if that a‘n’t what ’tis to have friends! Why, that was one of the things I was thinking of, as I lay awake last night; because, you know, at times like these, people run their feet off before the time begins, and then they are all limpsey and lop-sided when the time comes. Now, I say, Candace, all Miss Scudder and Mary have to do is to give everything up to us, and we’ll put it through straight.”

  “Dat’s what we will!” said Candace. “Jes’ show me what’s to be done, an’ I’ll do it.”

  Candace and Miss Prissy soon disappeared together into the pantry with the baskets, whose contents they began busily to arrange. Candace shut the door, that no sound might escape, and began a confidential outpouring to Miss Prissy.

  “Ye see,” she said, “I’s feelin’s all de while for Miss Marvyn; ’cause, ye see, she was expectin’, ef eber Mary was married,—well—dat ’twould be to somebody else, ye know.”

  Miss Prissy responded with a sympathetic groan.

  “Well,” said Candace, “ef ’t had ben anybody but de Doctor, I wouldn’t ‘a’ been resigned. But arter all he has done for my color, dar a’n’t nothin’ I could find it in my heart to grudge him. But den I was tellin’ Cato t‘oder day, says I, ‘Cato, I dunno ‘bout de rest o’ de world, but I ha’n’t neber felt it in my bones dat Mass‘r James is r’ally dead, for sartin.’ Now I feels tings gin’ally, but some tings I feels in my bones, and dem allers comes true. And dat ar’s a feelin’ I ha‘n’t had ’bout Mass‘r Jim yit, an’ dat ar’s what I’m waitin’ for ’fore I clar make up my mind. Though I know, ‘cordin’ to all white folks’ way o’ tinkin’, dar a‘n’t no hope, ’cause Squire Marvyn he had dat ar Jeduth Pettibone up to his house, a-questionin’ on him, off an’ on, nigh about tree hours. An’ r‘ally I didn’t see no hope no way, ’xcept jes’ dis yer, as I was tellin’ Cato,—I can’t feel it in my bones.”

  Candace was not versed enough in the wisdom of the world to know that she belonged to a large and respectable school of philosophers in this particular mode of testing evidence, which, after all, the reader will perceive has its conveniences.

  “Anoder ting,” said Candace, “as much as a dozen times, dis yer last year, when I’s been a-scourin’ knives, a fork has fell an’ stuck straight up in de floor; an’ de las’ time I pinted it out to Miss Marvyn, an’ she on‘y jes’ said, ‘Why, what o’ dat, Candace?’ ”

  “Well,” said Miss Prissy, “I don’t believe in signs, but then strange things do happen. Now about dogs howling under windows, —why, I don’t believe in it a bit, but I never knew it fail that there was a death in the house after.”

  “Ah, I tell ye what,” said Candace, looking mysterious, “dogs knows a heap more’n dey likes to tell!”

  “Jes’ so,” said Miss Prissy. “Now I remember, one night, when I was watching with Miss Colonel Andrews, after Marthy Ann was born, that we heard the mournfulest howling that ever you did hear. It seemed to come from right under the front stoop; and Miss Andrews she just dropped the spoon in her gruel, and says she, ‘Miss Prissy, do, for pity’s sake, just go down and see what that noise is.’ And I went down and lifted up one of the loose boards of the stoop, and what should I see there but their Newfoundland pup?—there that creature had dug a grave and was a-sitting by it, crying!”

  Candace drew near to Miss Prissy, dark with expressive interest, as her voice, in this awful narration, sank to a whisper.

  “Well,” said Candace, after Miss Prissy had made something of a pause.

  “Well, I told Miss Andrews I didn’t think there was anything in it,” said Miss Prissy; “but,” she added, impressively, “she lost a very dear brother, six months after, and I laid him out with my own hands,—yes, laid him out in white flannel.”

  “Some folks say,” said Candace, “dat dreamin’ ’bout white horses is a sartin sign. Jinny Styles is berry strong ’bout dat. Now she come down one mornin’ cryin’, ’cause she’d been dreamin’ ‘bout white horses, an’ she was sure she should hear some friend was dead. An’ sure enough, a man come in dat bery day an’ tole her her son was drownded out in de harbor. An’ Jinny said, ‘Dar! she was sure dat sign neber would fail.’ But den, ye see, dat night he come home. Jinny wa’n’t r‘ally disappinted, but she allers insisted he was as good as drownded, any way, ’cause he sunk tree times.”

  “Well, I tell you,” said Miss Prissy, “there are a great many more things in this world than folks know about.”

  “So dey are,” said Candace. “Now, I ha‘n’t neber opened my mind to nobody; but dar’s a dream I’s had, tree mornin’s runnin’, lately. I dreamed I see Jim Marvyn a-sinkin’ in de water, an’ stretchin’ up his hands. An’ den I dreamed I see de Lord Jesus come a-walkin’ on de water an’ take hold ob his hand, an’ says he, ‘O thou of little faith, wherefore didst thou doubt?’ An’ den he lifted him right out. An’ I ha‘n’t said nothin’ to nobody, ’cause, you know, de Doctor, he says people mus‘n’t mind nothin’ ’bout der dreams, ‘cause dreams belongs to de ole ’spensation.”

  “Well, well, well!” said Miss Prissy, “I am sure I don’t know what to think. What time in the morning was it that you dreamed it?”

  “Why,” said Candace, “it was jest arter bird-peep. I kinder allers wakes myself den, an’ turns ober, an’ what comes arter dat is apt to run clar.”

  “Well, well, well!” said Miss Prissy, “I don’t know what to think. You see, it may have reference to the state of his soul.”

  “I know dat,” said Candace; “but as nigh as I could judge in my dream,” she added, sinking her voice and looking mysterious, “as nigh as I can judge, dat boy’s soul was in his body!”

  “Why, how do you know?” said Miss Prissy, looking astonished at the confidence with which Candace expressed her opinion.

  “Well, ye see,” said Candace, rather mysteriously, “de Doctor, he don’t like to hab us talk much ‘bout dese yer tings, ’cause he tinks it’s kind o’ heathenish. But den, folks as is used to seein’ sech tings knows de look ob a sperit out o’ de body from de look ob a sperit in de body, jest as easy as you can tell Mary from de Doctor.”

  At this moment Mrs. Scudder opened the pantry-door and put an end to this mysterious conversation, which had already so affected Miss Prissy, that, in the eagerness of her interest, she had
rubbed up her cap border and ribbon into rather an elfin and goblin style, as if they had been ruffled up by a breeze from the land of spirits; and she flew around for a few moments in a state of great nervous agitation, upsetting dishes, knocking down plates, and huddling up contrary suggestions as to what ought to be done first, in such impossible relations that Mrs. Katy Scudder stood in dignified surprise at this strange freak of conduct in the wise woman of the parish.

  A dim consciousness of something not quite canny in herself seemed to strike her, for she made a vigorous effort to appear composed; and facing Mrs. Scudder, with an air of dignified suavity, inquired if it would not be best to put Jim Marvyn in the oven now, while Candace was getting the pies ready,—meaning, of course, a large turkey, which was to be the first in an indefinite series to be baked that morning; and discovering, by Mrs. Scudder’s dazed expression and a vigorous pinch from Candace, that somehow she had not improved matters, she rubbed her spectacles into a diagonal position across her eyes, and stood glaring, half through, half over them, with a helpless expression, which in a less judicious person might have suggested the idea of a state of slight intoxication.