When I went in again the little house had suddenly grown lonely, and my room looked empty as it had the day I came. I and all my belongings had died out of it, and I knew how it would seem when Mrs. Todd came back and found her lodger gone. So we die before our own eyes; so we see some chapters of our lives come to their natural end.
I found the little packages on the kitchen table. There was a quaint West Indian basket which I knew its owner had valued, and which I had once admired; there was an affecting provision laid beside it for my seafaring supper, with a neatly tied bunch of southernwood and a twig of bay, and a little old leather box which held the coral pin that Nathan Todd brought home to give to poor Joanna.
There was still an hour to wait, and I went up to the hill just above the schoolhouse and sat there thinking of things, and looking off to sea, and watching for the boat to come in sight. I could see Green Island, small and darkly wooded at that distance; below me were the houses of the village with their apple-trees and bits of garden ground. Presently, as I looked at the pastures beyond, I caught a last glimpse of Mrs. Todd herself, walking slowly in the footpath that led along, following the shore toward the Port. At such a distance one can feel the large, positive qualities that control a character. Close at hand, Mrs. Todd seemed able and warm-hearted and quite absorbed in her bustling industries, but her distant figure looked mateless and appealing, with something about it that was strangely self-possessed and mysterious. Now and then she stooped to pick something,—it might have been her favorite pennyroyal,—and at last I lost sight of her as she slowly crossed an open space on one of the higher points of land, and disappeared again behind a dark clump of juniper and the pointed firs.
As I came away on the little coastwise steamer, there was an old sea running which made the surf leap high on all the rocky shores. I stood on deck, looking back, and watched the busy gulls agree and turn, and sway together down the long slopes of air, then separate hastily and plunge into the waves. The tide was setting in, and plenty of small fish were coming with it, unconscious of the silver flashing of the great birds overhead and the quickness of their fierce beaks. The sea was full of life and spirit, the tops of the waves flew back as if they were winged like the gulls themselves, and like them had the freedom of the wind. Out in the main channel we passed a bent-shouldered old fisherman bound for the evening round among his lobster traps. He was toiling along with short oars, and the dory tossed and sank and tossed again with the steamer’s waves. I saw that it was old Elijah Tilley, and though we had so long been strangers we had come to be warm friends, and I wished that he had waited for one of his mates, it was such hard work to row along shore through rough seas and tend the traps alone. As we passed I waved my hand and tried to call to him, and he looked up and answered my farewells by a solemn nod. The little town, with the tall masts of its disabled schooners in the inner bay, stood high above the flat sea for a few minutes, then it sank back into the uniformity of the coast, and became indistinguishable from the other towns that looked as if they were crumbled on the furzy-green stoniness of the shore.
The small outer islands of the bay were covered among the ledges with turf that looked as fresh as the early grass; there had been some days of rain the week before, and the darker green of the sweet-fern was scattered on all the pasture heights. It looked like the beginning of summer ashore, though the sheep, round and warm in their winter wool, betrayed the season of the year as they went feeding along the slopes in the low afternoon sunshine. Presently the wind began to blow, and we struck out seaward to double the long sheltering headland of the cape, and when I looked back again, the islands and the headland had run together and Dunnet Landing and all its coasts were lost to sight.
FOUR DUNNET LANDING STORIES
THE QUEEN’S TWIN
I
THE COAST OF MAINE was in former years brought so near to foreign shores by its busy fleet of ships that among the older men and women one still finds a surprising proportion of travelers. Each seaward-stretching headland with its high-set houses, each island of a single farm, has sent its spies to view many a Land of Eshcol;h one may see plain, contented old faces at the windows, whose eyes have looked at far-away ports and known the splendors of the Eastern world. They shame the easy voyager of the North Atlantic and the Mediterranean; they have rounded the Cape of Good Hope and braved the angry seas of Cape Horn in small wooden ships; they have brought up their hardy boys and girls on narrow decks; they were among the last of the Northmen’s children4 to go adventuring to unknown shores. More than this one cannot give to a young State for its enlightenment; the sea captains and the captains’ wives of Maine knew something of the wide world, and never mistook their native parishes for the whole instead of a part thereof; they knew not only Thomaston and Castine and Portland, but London and Bristol and Bordeaux, and the strange-mannered harbors of the China Sea.
One September day, when I was nearly at the end of a summer spent in a village called Dunnet Landing, on the Maine coast, my friend Mrs. Todd, in whose house I lived, came home from a long, solitary stroll in the wild pastures, with an eager look as if she were just starting on a hopeful quest instead of returning. She brought a little basket with blackberries enough for supper, and held it towards me so that I could see that there were also some late and surprising raspberries sprinkled on top, but she made no comment upon her wayfaring. I could tell plainly that she had something very important to say.
“You haven’t brought home a leaf of anything,” I ventured to this practiced herb-gatherer. “You were saying yesterday that the witch hazel might be in bloom.”
“I dare say, dear,” she answered in a lofty manner; “I ain’t goin’ to say it wasn’t; I ain’t much concerned either way ’bout the facts o’ witch hazel. Truth is, I’ve been off visitin’; there’s an old Indian footpath leadin’ over towards the Back Shore through the great heron swamp that anybody can’t travel over all summer. You have to seize your time some day just now, while the low ground’s summer-dried as it is today, and before the fall rains set in. I never thought of it till I was out o’ sight o’ home, and I says to myself, ‘To-day’s the day, certain!’ and stepped along smart as I could. Yes, I’ve been visitin’. I did get into one spot that was wet underfoot before I noticed; you wait till I get me a pair o’ dry woolen stockings, in case of cold, and I’ll come an’ tell ye.”
Mrs. Todd disappeared. I could see that something had deeply interested her. She might have fallen in with either the sea-serpenti or the lost tribes of Israel, such was her air of mystery and satisfaction. She had been away since just before mid-morning, and as I sat waiting by my window I saw the last red glow of autumn sun-shine flare along the gray rocks of the shore and leave them cold again, and touch the far sails of some coast-wise schooners so that they stood like golden houses on the sea.
I was left to wonder longer than I liked. Mrs. Todd was making an evening fire and putting things in train for supper; presently she returned, still looking warm and cheerful after her long walk.
“There’s a beautiful view from a hill over where I’ve been,” she told me; “yes, there’s a beautiful prospect of land and sea. You wouldn’t discern the hill from any distance, but ’t is the pretty situation of it that counts. I sat there a long spell, and I did wish for you. No, I didn’t know a word about goin’ when I set out this morning” (as if I had openly reproached her!); “I only felt one o’ them travelin’ fits comin’ on, an’ I ketched up my little basket; I didn’t know but I might turn and come back time for dinner. I thought it wise to set out your luncheon for you in case I didn’t. Hope you had all you wanted; yes, I hope you had enough.”
“Oh, yes, indeed,” said I. My landlady was always peculiarly bountiful in her supplies when she left me to fare for myself, as if she made a sort of peace-offering or affectionate apology.
“You know that hill with the old house right over top, over beyond the heron swamp? You’ll excuse me for explainin’,” Mrs. Todd began, “but
you ain’t so apt to strike inland as you be to go right along shore. You know that hill; there’s a path leadin’ right over to it that you have to look sharp to find nowadays; it belonged to the up-country Indians when they had to make a carry to the landing here to get to the out’ islands. I’ve heard the old folks say that there used to be a place across a ledge where they’d worn a deep track with their moccasin feet, but I never could find it. ’T is so overgrown in some places that you keep losin’ the path in the bushes and findin’ it as you can; but it runs pretty straight considerin’ the lay o’ the land, and I keep my eye on the sun and the moss that grows one side o’ the tree trunks. Some brook’s been choked up and the swamp’s bigger than it used to be. Yes; I did get in deep enough, one place!”
I showed the solicitude that I felt. Mrs. Todd was no longer young, and in spite of her strong, great frame and spirited behavior, I knew that certain ills were apt to seize upon her, and would end some day by leaving her lame and ailing.
“Don’t you go to worryin’ about me,” she insisted, “settin’ still’s the only way the Evil One’ll ever get the upper hand o’ me. Keep me movin’ enough, an’ I’m twenty year old summer an’ winter both. I don’t know why ’t is, but I’ve never happened to mention the one I’ve been to see. I don’t know why I never happened to speak the name of Abby Martin, for I often give her a thought, but ’t is a dreadful out-o’-the-way place where she lives, and I haven’t seen her myself for three or four years. She’s a real good interesting woman, and we’re well acquainted; she’s nigher mother’s age than mine, but she’s very young feeling. She made me a nice cup o’ tea, and I don’t know but I should have stopped all night if I could have got word to you not to worry.”
Then there was a serious silence before Mrs. Todd spoke again to make a formal announcement.
“She is the Queen’s Twin,” and Mrs. Todd looked steadily to see how I might bear the great surprise.
“The Queen’s Twin?” I repeated.
“Yes, she’s come to feel a real interest in the Queen, and anybody can see how natural ’t is. They were born the very same day, and you would be astonished to see what a number o’ other things have corresponded. j She was speaking o’ some o’ the facts to me to-day, an’ you’d think she’d never done nothing but read history. I see how earnest she was about it as I never did before. I’ve often and often heard her allude to the facts, but now she’s got to be old and the hurry’s over with her work, she’s come to live a good deal in her thoughts, as folks often do, and I tell you ’t is a sight o’ company for her. If you want to hear about Queen Victoria, why Mis’ Abby Martin’ll tell you everything. And the prospect from that hill I spoke of is as beautiful as anything in this world; ’t is worth while your goin’ over to see her just for that.”
“When can you go again?” I demanded eagerly.
“I should say to-morrow,” answered Mrs. Todd; “yes, I should say to-morrow; but I expect ’t would be better to take one day to rest, in between. I considered that question as I was comin’ home, but I hurried so that there wa’n’t much time to think. It’s a dreadful long way to go with a horse; you have to go ’most as far as the old Bowden place an’ turn off to the left, a master long, rough road, and then you have to turn right round as soon as you get there if you mean to get home before nine o’clock at night. But to strike across country from here, there’s plenty o’ time in the shortest day, and you can have a good hour or two’s visit beside; ’t ain’t but a very few miles, and it’s pretty all the way along. There used to be a few good families over there, but they’ve died and scattered, so now she’s far from neighbors. There, she really cried, she was so glad to see anybody comin’. You’ll be amused to hear her talk about the Queen, but I thought twice or three times as I set there ’t was about all the company she’d got.”
“Could we go day after to-morrow?” I asked eagerly.
“ ’T would suit me exactly,” said Mrs. Todd.
II
ONE CAN NEVER BE so certain of good New England weather as in the days when a long easterly storm has blown away the warm late-summer mists, and cooled the air so that however bright the sun shine is by day, the nights come nearer and nearer to frostiness. There was a cold freshness in the morning air when Mrs. Todd and I locked the house-door behind us; we took the key of the fields into our own hands that day, and put out across country as one puts out to sea. When we reached the top of the ridge behind the town it seemed as if we had anxiously passed the harbor bar and were comfortably in open sea at last.
“There, now!” proclaimed Mrs. Todd, taking a long breath, “now I do feel safe. It’s just the weather, that’s liable to bring somebody to spend the day; I’ve had a feeling of Mis’ Elder Caplin from North Point bein’ close upon me ever since I waked up this morning’, an’ I didn’t want to be hampered with our present plans. She’s a great hand to visit; she’ll be spendin’ the day somewhere from now till Thanksgivin’, but there’s plenty o’ places at the Landin’ where she goes, an’ if I ain’t there she’ll just select another. I thought mother might be in, too, ’t is so pleasant; but I run up the road to look off this mornin’ before you was awake, and there was no sign o’ the boat. If they hadn’t started by that time they wouldn’t start, just as the tide is now; besides, I see a lot o’ mackerel-men headin’ Green Island way, and they’ll detain William. No, we’re safe now, an’ if mother should be comin’ in to-morrow we’ll have all this to tell her. She an’ Mis’ Abby Martin’s very old friends.”
We were walking down the long pasture slopes towards the dark woods and thickets of the low ground. They stretched away northward like an unbroken wilderness; the early mists still dulled much of the color and made the uplands beyond look like a very far-off country.
“It ain’t so far as it looks from here,” said my companion reassuringly, “but we’ve got no time to spare either,” and she hurried on, leading the way with a fine sort of spirit in her step; and presently we struck into the old Indian footpath, which could be plainly seen across the long-unploughed turf of the pastures, and followed it among the thick, low-growing spruces. There the ground was smooth and brown under foot, and the thin-stemmed trees held a dark and shadowy roof overhead. We walked a long way without speaking; sometimes we had to push aside the branches, and sometimes we walked in a broad aisle where the trees were larger. It was a solitary woods, birdless and beastless; there was not even a rabbit to be seen, or a crow high in air to break the silence.
“I don’t believe the Queen ever saw such a lonesome trail as this,” said Mrs. Todd, as if she followed the thoughts that were in my mind. Our visit to Mrs. Abby Martin seemed in some strange way to concern the high affairs of royalty. I had just been thinking of English landscapes, and of the solemn hills of Scotland with their lonely cottages and stone-walled sheepfolds, and the wandering flocks on high cloudy pastures. I had often been struck by the quick interest and familiar allusion to certain members of the royal house which one found in distant neighborhoods of New England; whether some old instincts of personal loyalty had survived all changes of time and national vicissitudes, or whether it is only that the Queen’s own character and disposition have won friends for her so far away, it is impossible to tell. But to hear of a twin sister was the most surprising proof of intimacy of all, and I must confess that there was something remarkably exciting to the imagination in my morning walk. To think of being presented at Court in the usual way was for the moment quite commonplace.
III
MRS. TODD WAS SWINGING her basket to and fro like a schoolgirl as she walked, and at this moment it slipped from her hand and rolled lightly along the ground as if there were nothing in it. I picked it up and gave it to her, whereupon she lifted the cover and looked in with anxiety.
“ ’T is only a few little things, but I don’t want to lose ’em,” she explained humbly. “ ’T was lucky you took the other basket if I was goin’ to roll it round. Mis’ Abby Martin complained o’ lacking so
me pretty pink silk to finish one o’ her little frames, an’ I thought I’d carry her some, and I had a bunch o’ gold thread that had been in a box o’ mine this twenty year. I never was one to do much fancy work, but we’re all liable to be swept away by fashion. And then there’s a small packet o’ very choice herbs that I gave a good deal of attention to; they’ll smarten her up and give her the best of appetites, come spring. She was tellin’ me that spring weather is very wiltin’ an’ tryin’ to her, and she was beginnin’ to dread it already. Mother’s just the same way; if I could prevail on mother to take some o’ these remedies in good season ’t would make a world o’ difference, but she gets all down hill before I have a chance to hear of it, and then William comes in to tell me, sighin’ and bewailin’, how feeble mother is. ‘Why can’t you remember ’bout them good herbs that I never let her be without?’ I say to him—he does provoke me so; and then off he goes, sulky enough, down to his boat. Next thing I know, she comes in to go to meetin’, wantin’ to speak to everybody and feelin’ like a girl. Mis’ Martin’s case is very much the same; but she’s nobody to watch her. William’s kind o’ slow-molded; but there, any William’s better than none when you get to be Mis’ Martin’s age.”
“Hadn’t she any children?” I asked.
“Quite a number,” replied Mrs. Todd grandly, “but some are gone and the rest are married and settled. She never was a great hand to go about visitin’. I don’t know but Mis’ Martin might be called a little peculiar. Even her own folks has to make company of her; she never slips in and lives right along with the rest as if ’t was at home, even in her own children’s houses. I heard one o’ her sons’ wives say once she’d much rather have the Queen to spend the day if she could choose between the two, but I never thought Abby was so difficult as that. I used to love to have her come; she may have been sort o’ ceremonious, but very pleasant and sprightly if you had sense enough to treat her her own way. I always think she’d know just how to live with great folks, and feel easier ’long of them an’ their ways. Her son’s wife’s a great driver with farm-work, boards a great tableful o’ men in hayin’ time, an’ feels right in her element. I don’t say but she’s a good woman an’ smart, but sort o’ rough. Anybody that’s gentle-mannered an’ precise like Mis’ Martin would be a sort o’ restraint.
The Country of the Pointed Firs and Selected Short Fiction Page 16