Complete Works of Harriet Beecher Stowe

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by Harriet Beecher Stowe


  The fact was that Dolly had those large, earnest, persuasive eyes that are very dangerous, and sometimes seem to say more than they mean; and she had quick, sudden smiles, and twinkling dimples, and artless, honest ways, and so much general good-will and kindliness, that one might pardonably be deceived by her. It is said that there are lakes whose waters are so perfectly transparent that they deceive the eye as to their depth. Dolly was like these crystal waters; with all her impulsive frankness there was a deep world within — penetralia that had been yet uninvaded — and there she kept her ideals. The man she might love was one of the immortals, not in the least like a blushing young theological student in a black coat, with a hymn-book under his arm. Precisely what he was she had never been near enough to see; but she knew in a minute what he was not. Therefore she had said “No” with a resolute energy that admitted of no hope, and yet with a distress and self-reproach that was quite genuine.

  This was Dolly’s first real trouble.

  CHAPTER XXXIII. THE DOCTOR MAKES A DISCOVERY.

  “WHY, wife,” said the Doctor, pushing up his spectacles on his forehead and looking up from his completed sermon, “our little Dolly is really a grown-up young lady.”

  “Well, of course, what should she be?” rejoined Mrs. Cushing, with the decisive air which becomes the feminine partner on strictly feminine ground; “she’s taller than I am, and she’s a handsome girl, too.”

  “I don’t think,” said the Doctor, assuming a confidential tone, “that there’s a girl in our meeting-house to be compared with her — there really is not.”

  “There is no great fault to be found with Dolly’s looks,” said Mrs. Cushing as she turned a stocking she had been darning. “Dolly always was pretty.”

  “Well, what do you think Higgins has been saying to me about her?” continued the Doctor.

  “Some nonsense I suppose,” said Mrs. Cushing, “something he might as well have left unsaid, for all the good it will do.”

  “Now, my dear, Higgins is going to make one of the leading ministers of the State. He has a bright, strong, clear mind; he is a thorough scholar and a fine speaker, and I have had a letter from the church in Northboro’ about settling him there.”

  “All very well. I’m sure I’m glad of it, with all my heart,” said Mrs. Cushing; “but if he has any thoughts of our Dolly the sooner he gets them out of his head the better for him. Dolly has felt very kindly to him, as she does to everybody; she has been interested in him simply and only as a friend; but any suggestion of particular interest on his part would exceedingly annoy her. You had better speak very decidedly to him to this effect. You can say that I understand my daughter’s mind, and that it will be very painful to her to have anything more said on the subject.”

  “Well, really, I’m sorry for Higgins,” said the Doctor, “he’s such a good-hearted worthy fellow, and I believe he’s very deep in love.”

  “Perhaps,” said Mrs. Cushing decidedly; “but our Dolly can’t marry every good-hearted worthy fellow that comes in her way, if he is in love; and I’m sure I’m in no hurry to give her away, — she is the light and music of the house.” “So she is,” said the Doctor; “I couldn’t do without her; but I pity poor Higgins.”

  “Oh, you may spare your pity; he won’t break his heart. Never fear. Men never die of that. There’ll be girls enough in his parish, and he’ll be married six months after he gets a place — ministers always are.”

  The doctor made some few corrections in the end of his sermon without contradicting this unceremonious statement of his wife’s.

  “But,” continued Mrs. Cushing, “the thing is a trial to Dolly; I think it would be quite as well if she shouldn’t see any more of him for the present, and I have just got a letter from Deborah urging me to let her go to Boston for a visit. Mother says she is getting old, now, and that she shall never see Dolly unless the child comes to her. Here’s the letter.”

  The Doctor took it, and we, looking over his shoulder, see the large, sharp, decided style of writing characteristic of Miss Debby Kittery:

  “DEAR SISTER:

  “Mother wants you to let us have Dolly to make a good, long visit. Mother is getting old now, and says she hasn’t seen Dolly since she has grown up, and thinks we old folks will be the better for a little young life about us. You remember Cousin Jane Davies, that married John Dunbar and went over to England? Well, brother Israel Kittery has taken a fancy to her youngest son during his late visit to England, and is going to bring him to Boston and turn over his business to him and make him his heir. We are expecting them now by every ship, and have invited them to spend the Christmas Holidays with us. I understand this young Alfred Dunbar is a bright, quick-witted young slip, just graduated from Oxford, and one that finds favor in all eyes. He will help make it lively for Dolly, and if anything should come of it why it will be all the better. So if you will have Dolly ready to leave I will be up to visit you in December and bring her home with me. Mother sends a great deal of love, — her rheumatism has gone to her right arm now, which is about all the variety she is treated to; but she is always serene, as usual, and sends no end of loving messages.

  “Your affectionate sister,

  “DEBBY.

  “P.S. — Don’t worry about Dolly’s dress. My pink brocade will cut over for her, and it is nearly as good as new. I’ll bring it when I come.”

  On reading this letter the Doctor fell into a deep muse.

  “Well, what do you think?” asked his wife.

  “What? Who? I?” said the Doctor, with difficulty collecting himself from his reverie.

  “Yes, you,” answered his wife incisively, with just the kind of a tone to wake one out of a nap.

  The fact was that the good Doctor had a little habit of departing unceremoniously into some celestial region of thought in the midst of conversation, and the notion of Dolly’s going to Boston had aroused quite a train of ideas connected with certain doctrinal discussions now going on there in relation to the Socinian controversy, so that his wife’s voice came to him from afar off, as one hears in a dream.

  To Mrs. Cushing, whose specific work lay here, and now, in the matters of this present world, this little peculiarity of her husband was at times a trifle annoying; so she added, “I do wish you would attend to what we were talking about. Don’t you think it would be just the best thing in the world for Dolly to make this visit to Boston?”

  “Oh, certainly I do — by all means,” he said eagerly, with the air of a man just waked up who wants to show he hasn’t been asleep. “Yes, Dolly had better go.”

  The Doctor mused for another moment, and then added, in a sort of soliloquy: “Boston is a city of sacred associations; it is consecrated ground; the graves of our fathers, of the saints and the martyrs are there. I shall like little Dolly to visit them.”

  This was not precisely the point of view in which the visit was contemplated in the mind of his wife; but the enthusiasm was a sincere one. Boston, to all New England, was the Jerusalem — the city of sacred and religious memories; they took pleasure in her stones, and favored the dust thereof.

  CHAPTER XXXIV. HIEL AND NABBY.

  “ONLY think, Hiel, Dolly’s going to Boston,” said Nabby, when they had seated themselves cosily with the in-fant Zeph between them at the supper-table.

  “Ye don’t say so, now!” said Hiel, with the proper expression of surprise.

  “Yes, Miss Kittery, her Boston aunt, ‘s comin’ next week, and I’m goin’ in to do up her muslins for her. Yes, Dolly’s goin’ to Boston.”

  “Good!” said Hiel. “I hope she’ll get a husband there.”

  “That’s jest all you men think of,” answered Nabby. “Dolly ain’t one o’ that kind; she ain’t lookin’ out for fellers — though there’s plenty would be glad to have her. She ain’t one o’ that sort.”

  “Wal,” said Hiel, “she’s too good-lookin’ to be let alone; she’ll hev to hev somebody.”

  “Oh, there’s enough after her,�
�� said Nabby. “There was that Virginny fellow in Judge Belcher’s office, waitin’ on her home from meetin’ and wanting to be her beau; she wouldn’t have nothin’ to say to him. Then there was that academy teacher used to walk home with her, and carry her books and go with her to singin’ school; but Dolly didn’t want him. And there’s Abner — he jest worships the ground she treads on; and she’s jest good friends with him. She’s good friends with ’em all round, but come to case in hand she don’t want any on ‘em.”

  “Wal, there ain’t nothin’ but the doctrine o’ ‘lection for such gals,” said Hiel. “When the one they’s decreed to marry comes along then their time comes, jest as yours and mine did, Nabby.”

  The conversation was here interrupted by the infant Zeph, who had improved the absorbed state of his parents’ minds to carry out a plan he had been some time meditating, of upsetting the molasses pitcher. This was done with such celerity that before they could make a move both his fat hands were triumphantly spatted into the brown river, and he gave a crow of victory.

  “There! clean table-cloth this very night! Did I ever see such a young un!” cried Nabby, as she caught him away from the table. “Father thinks he’s perfection. I should like to have him have the care of him once,” she added, bustling and brightening and laughing as she scolded; while Hiel, making perfectly sincere but ill-directed efforts to scrape up the molasses with a spoon, succeeded only in distributing it pretty equally over the table-cloth.

  “Well, now, if there ain’t a pair of you!” said Nabby, when she returned to the table. “If that ain’t jest like a man!”

  “Wal, what would ye hev me — like a girl, or a dog, or what?” asked Hiel, as he stood, with his hands in his pockets, surveying the scene. “I did my best; but I ain’t used to managing molasses and babies together; that’s a fact.”

  “It’s lucky Mother went out to tea,” said Nabby, as she whisked off the tablecloth, wiped the table, re-clothed it with a clean one, and laid the supper dishes back in a twinkling. “Now, Hiel, we’ll try again; and be sure and put things where he can’t get ‘em; he does beat all for mischief!”

  And the infant phenomenon, who had had his face washed and his apron changed in the interim, looked up confidingly in the face of each parent and crowed out a confident laugh.

  “Don’t let’s tell Mother,” said Nabby; “she’s always sayin’ we don’t govern him; and I’m sure she spoils him more than we do; but if she’d been here she wouldn’t get over it for a week.”

  In fact, the presence of Mother Jones in the family was the only drawback on Nabby’s domestic felicity, that good lady’s virtues, as we have seen, being much on the plaintive and elegiac order. There is indeed a class of elderly relatives who, their work in life being now over, have nothing to do but sit and pass criticisms on the manner in which younger pilgrims are bearing the heat and burden of the day.

  Although Nabby was confessedly one of the most capable and energetic of housekeepers, though everything in her domestic domains fairly shone and glittered with neatness, though her cake always rose even, though her bread was the whitest, her biscuits the lightest, and her doughnuts absolute perfection, yet Mother Jones generally sat mildly swaying in her rocking-chair and declaring herself consumed by care — and averring that she had “everything on her mind.” “I don’t do much, but I feel the care of everything,” the old lady would remark in a quavering voice. “Young folks is so thoughtless; they don’t feel care as I do.”

  At first Nabby was a little provoked at this state of things; but Hiel only laughed it off.

  “Oh, let her talk. Mother likes to feel care; she wants something to worry about; she’d be as forlorn as a hen without a nest-egg if she hadn’t that. Don’t you trouble your head, Nabby, so long as I don’t.”

  For all that, Nabby congratulated herself that Mother Jones was not at the tea-table, for the nurture and admonition of young Zeph was one of her most fruitful and weighty sources of care. She was always declaring that “children was sech an awful responsibility, that she wondered that folks dared to git married!” She laid down precepts, strict even to ferocity, as to the early necessity of prompt, energetic government, and of breaking children’s wills; and then gave master Zeph everything he cried for, and indulged all his whims with the most abject and prostrate submission.

  “I know I hadn’t orter,” she would say, when confronted with this patent inconsistency; “but then I ain’t his mother. I ain’t got the responsibility; and the fact is he will have things and I hev to let him. His parents orter break his will, but they don’t; it’s a great care to me;” and Mother Jones would end by giving him the sugar-bowl to play with, and except for the immutable laws of nature she would doubtless have given him the moon or any part of the solar system that he had cried for.

  Nevertheless, let it not be surmised that Mother Jones, notwithstanding the minor key in which she habitually indulged, was in the least unhappy. There are natures to whom the “unleavened bread and bitter herbs” of life are an agreeable and strengthening diet, and Mother Jones took real pleasure in everything that went to show that this earth was a vale of tears. A funeral was a most enlivening topic for her, and she never allowed an opportunity to pass within riding distance without giving it her presence, and dwelling on all the details of the state of the “corpse” and the minuti¾ of the laying-out for weeks after, so that her presence at table between her blooming son and daughter answered all the moral purposes of the skeleton which the ancient Egyptians kept at their feasts. Mother Jones also, in a literal sense, “enjoyed poor health” and petted her coughs and her rheumatisms, and was particularly discomposed with any attempt to show her that she was getting better. Yet when strictly questioned the good lady always admitted, though with a mournful shake of the head, that she had everything to be thankful for — that Hiel was a good son, and Nabby was a good daughter, and ‘since Hiel had jined the church and hed prayers in his family, she hoped he’d hold on to the end — though it really worried her to see how light and triflin’ he was.’

  In fact Hiel, though maintaining on the whole a fairly consistent walk and profession, was undoubtedly a very gleesome church member, and about as near Mother Jones’s idea of a saint as a bobolink on a clover-top. There was a worldly twinkle in his eye, and the lines of his cheery face grew rather broad than long, and his mother’s most lugubrious suggestions would often set him off in a story that would upset even the old lady’s gravity and bring upon her pangs of repentance. For the spiritual danger and besetting sin that Mother Jones more especially guarded against was an “undue levity;” but when she remembered that Dr. Cushing himself and all the neighboring clergymen, on an occasion of a “minister’s meeting” when she had been helping in the family, had vied with each other in telling good stories, and shaken their sides with roars of heartiest laughter, she was somewhat consoled about Hiel. She confessed it was a mystery to her, however, ‘how folks could hev the heart to be a-laughin’ and tellin’ stories in sich a dying world.’

  CHAPTER XXXV. MISS DEBBY ARRIVES.

  TO Dr. Cushing’s, Ma’am?”

  This question met the ear of Miss Debby Kittery just after she had deposited her umbrella, with a smart, decisive thump, by her side, and settled herself and her bandbox on the back seat of the creaking, teetering old stage on the way to Poganuc.

  Miss Debby opened her eyes, surveyed the questioner with a well-bred stare, and answered, with a definite air, “Yes, sir.”

  “Oh, yis; thought so,” said Hiel Jones. “Miss Kittery, I s’pose; the Doctor’s folks is expecting ye. Folks all well in Boston, I s’pose?”

  Miss Debby in her heart thought Hiel Jones very presuming and familiar, and endeavored to convey by her behavior and manner that such was her opinion; but the effort was quite a vain one, for the remotest conception of any such possibility in his case was so far from Hiel’s mind that there was not there even the material to make it of. The look of dignified astonishment with which the goo
d lady responded to his question as to the “folks in Boston” was wholly lost on him.

  The first sentence in the Declaration of Independence, that all men are “created equal,” had so far become incarnate in Hiel that he never yet had seen the human being whom he did not feel competent to address on equal terms, and, when exalted to his high seat on the stage-box, could not look down upon with a species of patronage. Even the haute noblesse of Poganuc allowed Hiel’s familiarities and laughed at his jokes; he was one of their institutions; and what was tolerance and acceptance on the part of the aristocracy became adulation on the part of those nearer his own rank of life. And so when Miss Debby Kittery made him short answers and turned away her head, Hiel merely commented to himself, “Don’t seem sociable. Poor old lady! Tired, I s’pose; roads is pretty rough,” and, gathering up his reins, dashed off cheerfully.

  At the first stage where he stopped to change horses he deemed it his duty to cheer the loneliness of the old lady by a little more conversation, and so, after offering to bring her a tumbler of water, he resumed:

  “Ye hain’t ben to Poganuc very often; — hain’t seen Dolly since she’s grow’d up?”

  “Are you speaking of Miss Cushing, sir?” asked Miss Debby, in tones of pointed rebuke. “Yis — wal, we allers call her ‘Dolly’ t’ our house,” said Hiel. “We’ve know’d her sence she was that high. My wife used to live to the Doctor’s — she thinks all the world of Dolly.”

  Miss Debby thought of the verse in the Church Catechism in which the catechumen defines it as his duty to ‘order himself lowly and reverently to all his betters.’ Evidently Hiel had never heard of this precept. Perhaps if he had, the inquiry as to who are betters, as presented to a shrewd and thoughtful mind, might lead to embarrassing results.

 

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