The Country of the Pointed Firs and Selected Short Fiction

by Sarah Orne Jewett

  “Cake an’ wine I’m goin’ to set ’em out!” said Mrs. Todd. “They won’t stop to set down for an ordered meal, they’ll want to get right out home quick’s they can. Yes, I’ll give ’em some cake an’ wine—I’ve got a rare plum-cake from my best receipt, and a bottle o’ wine that the old Cap’n Denton of all give me, one of two, the day I was married, one we had and one we saved, and I’ve never touched it till now. He said there wa’n’t none like it in the State o’ Maine.”

  It was a day of waiting, that day of spring; the May weather was as expectant as our fond hearts, and one could see the grass grow green hour by hour. The warm air was full of birds, there was a glow of light on the sea instead of the cold shining of chilly weather which had lingered late. There was a look on Mrs. Todd’s face which I saw once and could not meet again. She was in her highest mood. Then I went out early for a walk, and when I came back we sat in different rooms for the most part. There was such a thrill in the air that our only conversation was in her most abrupt and incisive manner. She was knitting, I believe, and as for me I dallied with a book. I heard her walking to and fro, and the door being wide open now, she went out and paced the front walk to the gate as if she walked a quarter-deck.

  It is very solemn to sit waiting for the great events of life—most of us have done it again and again—to be expectant of life or expectant of death gives one the same feeling.

  But at the last Mrs. Todd came quickly back from the gate, and standing in the sunshine of the door, she beckoned me as if she were a sibyl.

  “I thought you comprehended everything the day you was up there,” she added with a little more patience in her tone, but I felt that she thought I had lost instead of gained since we parted the autumn before.

  “William’s made this pretext o’ goin’ fishin’ for the last time. ’T wouldn’t done to take notice, ’t would ’a scared him to death! but there never was nobody took less comfort out o’ forty years courtin’. No, he won’t have to make no further pretexts,” said Mrs. Todd, with an air of triumph.

  “Did you know where he was going that day?” I asked, with a sudden burst of admiration at such discernment.

  “I did!” replied Mrs. Todd grandly.

  “Oh! but that pennyroyal lotion,” I indignantly protested, remembering that under pretext of mosquitoes she had besmeared the poor lover in an awful way—why, it was outrageous! Medea could not have been more conscious of high ultimate purposes.6

  “Darlin’,” said Mrs. Todd, in the excitement of my arrival and the great concerns of marriage, “he’s got a beautiful shaped face and they pison him very unusual—you wouldn’t have had him present himself to his lady all lop-sided with a mosquito-bite? Once when he was young I rode up with him, and they set upon him in concert the minute we entered the woods.” She stood before me reproachfully, and I was conscious of deserved rebuke. “Yes, you’ve come just in the nick of time to advise me about a bunnit. They say large bows on top is liable to be worn.”

  IV

  THE PERIOD OF WAITING was one of direct contrast to these high moments of recognition. The very slowness of the morning hours wasted that sense of excitement with which we had begun the day. Mrs. Todd came down from the mount where her face had shone so bright,bd to the cares of common life, and some acquaintances from Black Island for whom she had little natural preference or liking came, bringing a poor, sickly child to get medical advice. They were noisy women, with harsh, clamorous voices, and they stayed a long time. I heard the clink of teacups, however, and could detect no impatience in the tones of Mrs. Todd’s voice; but when they were at last going away, she did not linger unduly over her leave-taking, and returned to me to explain that they were people she had never liked, and they had made an excuse of a friendly visit to save their doctor’s bill; but she pitied the poor little child, and knew beside that the doctor was away.

  “I had to give ’em the remedies right out,” she told me; “they wouldn’t have bought a cent’s worth o’ drugs down to the store for that dwindlin’ thing. She needed feedin’ up, and I don’t expect she gets milk enough; they’re great butter-makers down to Black Island, ’t is excellent pasturage, but they use no milk themselves, and their butter is heavy laden with salt to make weight, so that you’d think all their ideas come down from Sodom.”be

  She was very indignant and very wistful about the pale little girl. “I wish they’d let me kept her,” she said. “I kind of advised it, and her eyes was so wishful in that pinched face when she heard me, so that I could see what was the matter with her, but they said she wa’n’t prepared. Prepared!” And Mrs. Todd snuffed like an offended war-horse and departed; but I could hear her still grumbling and talking to herself in high dudgeon an hour afterward.

  At the end of that time her arch enemy, Mari’ Harris, appeared at the side-door with gingham handkerchief over her head. She was always on hand for the news, and made some formal excuse for her presence—she wished to borrow the weekly paper. Captain Littlepage, whose housekeeper she was, had taken it from the post-office in the morning, but had forgotten, being of failing memory, what he had done with it.

  “How is the poor old gentleman?” asked Mrs. Todd with solicitude, ignoring the present errand of Maria and all her concerns.

  I had spoken the evening before of intended visits to Captain Littlepage and Elijah Tilley, and I now heard Mrs. Todd repeating my inquiries and intentions, and fending off with unusual volubility of her own the curious questions that were sure to come. But at last Maria Harris secured an opportunity and boldly inquired if she had not seen William ashore early that morning.

  “I don’t say he wasn’t,” replied Mrs. Todd; “Thu’sday’s a very usual day with him to come ashore.”

  “He was all dressed up,” insisted Maria—she really had no sense of propriety. “I didn’t know but they was going to be married?”

  Mrs. Todd did not reply. I recognized from the sounds that reached me that she had retired to the fastnesses of the kitchen-closet and was clattering the tins.

  “I expect they’ll marry soon anyway,” continued the visitor.

  “I expect they will if they want to,” answered Mrs. Todd. “I don’t know nothin’ ’t all about it; that’s what folks say.” And presently the gingham handkerchief retreated past my window.

  “I routed her, horse and foot,”bf said Mrs. Todd proudly, coming at once to stand at my door. “Who’s comin’ now?” as two figures passed inward bound to the kitchen.

  They were Mrs. Begg and Johnny Bowden’s mother, who were favorites, and were received with Mrs. Todd’s usual civilities. Then one of the Mrs. Caplins came with a cup in hand to borrow yeast. On one pretext or another nearly all our acquaintances came to satisfy themselves of the facts, and see what Mrs. Todd would impart about the wedding. But she firmly avoided the subject through the length of every call and errand, and answered the final leading question of each curious guest with her noncommittal phrase, “I don’t know nothin’ ’t all about it; that’s what folks say!”

  She had just repeated this for the fourth or fifth time and shut the door upon the last comers, when we met in the little front entry. Mrs. Todd was not in a bad temper, but highly amused. “I’ve been havin’ all sorts o’ social privileges, you may have observed. They didn’t seem to consider that if they could only hold out till afternoon they’d know as much as I did. There wa’n’t but one o’ the whole sixteen that showed real interest, the rest demeaned themselves to ask out o’ cheap curiosity; no, there wa’n’t but one showed any real feelin’.”

  “Miss Maria Harris, you mean?” and Mrs. Todd laughed.

  “Certain, dear,” she agreed, “how you do understand poor human natur’!”

  A short distance down the hilly street stood a narrow house that was newly painted white. It blinded one’s eyes to catch the reflection of the sun. It was the house of the minister, and a wagon had just stopped before it; a man was helping a woman to alight, and they stood side by side for a moment, w
hile Johnny Bowden appeared as if by magic, and climbed to the wagon-seat. Then they went into the house and shut the door. Mrs. Todd and I stood close together and watched; the tears were running down her cheeks. I watched Johnny Bowden, who made light of so great a moment by so handling the whip that the old white Caplin horse started up from time to time and was inexorably stopped as if he had some idea of running away. There was something in the back of the wagon which now and then claimed the boy’s attention; he leaned over as if there were something very precious left in his charge; perhaps it was only Esther’s little trunk going to its new home.

  At last the door of the parsonage opened, and two figures came out. The minister followed them and stood in the doorway, delaying them with parting words; he could not have thought it was a time for admonition.

  “He’s all alone; his wife’s up to Portland to her sister’s,” said Mrs. Todd aloud, in a matter-of-fact voice. “She’s a nice woman, but she might ha’ talked too much. There! see, they’re comin’ here. I didn’t know how ’t would be. Yes, they’re comin’ up to see us before they go home. I declare, if William ain’t lookin’ just like a king!”

  Mrs. Todd took one step forward, and we stood and waited. The happy pair came walking up the street, Johnny Bowden driving ahead. I heard a plaintive little cry from time to time to which in the excitement of the moment I had not stopped to listen; but when William and Esther had come and shaken hands with Mrs. Todd and then with me, all in silence, Esther stepped quickly to the back of the wagon, and unfastening some cords returned to us carrying a little white lamb. She gave a shy glance at William as she fondled it and held it to her heart, and then, still silent, we went into the house together. The lamb had stopped bleating. It was lovely to see Esther carry it in her arms.

  When we got into the house, all the repression of Mrs. Todd’s usual manner was swept away by her flood of feeling. She took Esther’s thin figure, lamb and all, to her heart and held her there, kissing her as she might have kissed a child, and then held out her hand to William and they gave each other the kiss of peace.bg This was so moving, so tender, so free from their usual fetters of self-consciousness, that Esther and I could not help giving each other a happy glance of comprehension. I never saw a young bride half so touching in her happiness as Esther was that day of her wedding. We took the cake and wine of the marriage feast together, always in silence, like a true sacrament, and then to my astonishment I found that sympathy and public interest in so great an occasion were going to have their way. I shrank from the thought of William’s possible sufferings, but he welcomed both the first group of neighbors and the last with heartiness; and when at last they had gone, for there were thoughtless loiterers in Dunnet Landing, I made ready with eager zeal and walked with William and Esther to the water-side. It was only a little way, and kind faces nodded reassuringly from the windows, while kind voices spoke from the doors. Esther carried the lamb on one arm; she had found time to tell me that its mother had died that morning and she could not bring herself to the thought of leaving it behind. She kept the other hand on William’s arm until we reached the landing. Then he shook hands with me, and looked me full in the face to be sure I understood how happy he was, and stepping into the boat held out his arms to Esther—at last she was his own.

  I watched him make a nest for the lamb out of an old sea-cloak at Esther’s feet, and then he wrapped her own shawl round her shoulders, and finding a pin in the lapel of his Sunday coat he pinned it for her. She looked at him fondly while he did this, and then glanced up at us, a pretty, girlish color brightening her cheeks.

  We stood there together and watched them go far out into the bay. The sunshine of the May day was low now, but there was a steady breeze, and the boat moved well.

  “Mother’ll be watching for them,” said Mrs. Todd. “Yes, mother’ll be watching all day, and waiting. She’ll be so happy to have Esther come.”

  We went home together up the hill, and Mrs. Todd said nothing more; but we held each other’s hands all the way.

  SELECTED OTHER

  STORIES

  A WHITE HERON

  I

  THE WOODS WERE ALREADY filled with shadows one June evening, just before eight o’clock, though a bright sunset still glimmered faintly among the trunks of the trees. A little girl was driving home her cow, a plodding, dilatory, provoking creature in her behavior, but a valued companion for all that. They were going away from the western light, and striking deep into the dark woods, but their feet were familiar with the path, and it was no matter whether their eyes could see it or not.

  There was hardly a night the summer through when the old cow could be found waiting at the pasture bars; on the contrary, it was her greatest pleasure to hide herself away among the high huckleberry bushes, and though she wore a loud bell she had made the discovery that if one stood perfectly still it would not ring. So Sylvia had to hunt for her until she found her, and call Co’! Co’! with never an answering Moo, until her childish patience was quite spent. If the creature had not given good milk and plenty of it, the case would have seemed very different to her owners. Besides, Sylvia had all the time there was, and very little use to make of it. Sometimes in pleasant weather it was a consolation to look upon the cow’s pranks as an intelligent attempt to play hide and seek, and as the child had no playmates she lent herself to this amusement with a good deal of zest. Though this chase had been so long that the wary animal herself had given an unusual signal of her whereabouts, Sylvia had only laughed when she came upon Mistress Moolly at the swamp-side, and urged her affectionately homeward with a twig of birch leaves. The old cow was not inclined to wander farther, she even turned in the right direction for once as they left the pasture, and stepped along the road at a good pace. She was quite ready to be milked now, and seldom stopped to browse. Sylvia wondered what her grandmother would say because they were so late. It was a great while since she had left home at half past five o’clock, but everybody knew the difficulty of making this errand a short one. Mrs. Tilley had chased the horned torment too many summer evenings herself to blame any one else for lingering, and was only thankful as she waited that she had Sylvia, nowadays, to give such valuable assistance. The good woman suspected that Sylvia loitered occasionally on her own account; there never was such a child for straying about out-of-doors since the world was made! Everybody said that it was a good change for a little maid who had tried to grow for eight years in a crowded manufacturing town, but, as for Sylvia herself, it seemed as if she never had been alive at all before she came to live at the farm. She thought often with wistful compassion of a wretched dry geranium that belonged to a town neighbor.

  “ ‘Afraid of folks,’ ” old Mrs. Tilley said to herself, with a smile, after she had made the unlikely choice of Sylvia from her daughter’s houseful of children, and was returning to the farm. “ ‘Afraid of folks,’ they said! I guess she won’t be troubled no great with ’em up to the old place!” When they reached the door of the lonely house and stopped to unlock it, and the cat came to purr loudly, and rub against them, a deserted pussy, indeed, but fat with young robins, Sylvia whispered that this was a beautiful place to live in, and she never should wish to go home.

  The companions followed the shady wood-road, the cow taking slow steps, and the child very fast ones. The cow stopped long at the brook to drink, as if the pasture were not half a swamp, and Sylvia stood still and waited, letting her bare feet cool themselves in the shoal water, while the great twilight moths struck softly against her. She waded on through the brook as the cow moved away, and listened to the thrushes with a heart that beat fast with pleasure. There was a stirring in the great boughs overhead. They were full of little birds and beasts that seemed to be wide-awake, and going about their world, or else saying good-night to each other in sleepy twitters. Sylvia herself felt sleepy as she walked along. However, it was not much farther to the house, and the air was soft and sweet. She was not often in the woods so late as this, and it made her f
eel as if she were a part of the gray shadows and the moving leaves. She was just thinking how long it seemed since she first came to the farm a year ago, and wondering if everything went on in the noisy town just the same as when she was there; the thought of the great red-faced boy who used to chase and frighten her made her hurry along the path to escape from the shadow of the trees.

  Suddenly this little woods-girl is horror-stricken to hear a clear whistle not very far away. Not a bird’s whistle, which would have a sort of friendliness, but a boy’s whistle, determined, and somewhat aggressive. Sylvia left the cow to whatever sad fate might await her, and stepped discreetly aside into the bushes, but she was just too late. The enemy had discovered her, and called out in a very cheerful and persuasive tone, “Halloa, little girl, how far is it to the road?” and trembling Sylvia answered almost inaudibly, “A good ways.”

  She did not dare to look boldly at the tall young man, who carried a gun over his shoulder, but she came out of her bush and again followed the cow, while he walked alongside.

  “I have been hunting for some birds,” the stranger said kindly, “and I have lost my way, and need a friend very much. Don’t be afraid,” he added gallantly. “Speak up and tell me what your name is, and whether you think I can spend the night at your house, and go out gunning early in the morning.”

  Sylvia was more alarmed than before. Would not her grandmother consider her much to blame? But who could have foreseen such an accident as this? It did not appear to be her fault, and she hung her head as if the stem of it were broken, but managed to answer “Sylvy,” with much effort when her companion again asked her name.

  Mrs. Tilley was standing in the doorway when the trio came into view. The cow gave a loud moo by way of explanation.