Oldtown Folks Chapter XLII: Spring Vacation at Oldtown.
by Harriet Beecher Stowe
It was the spring vacation, and Harry and I were coming again to Oldtown; and ten miles back, where we changed horses, we had left the crawling old Boston stage and took a footpath through a patch of land known as the Spring Pasture. Our road lay pleasantly along the brown, sparkling river, which was now just waked up, after its winter nap, as fussy and busy and chattering as a housekeeper that has overslept herself. There were downy catkins on the willows, and the water-maples were throwing out their crimson tassels. The sweet-flag was just showing its green blades above the water, and here and there, in nooks, there were yellow cowslips reflecting their bright gold faces in the dark water.
Harry and I had walked this way that we might search under the banks and among the dried leaves for the white waxen buds and flowers of the trailing arbutus. We were down on our knees, scraping the leaves away, when a well-known voice came from behind the bushes.
"Wal, lordy massy, boys! Here ye be! Why, I ben up to Siah's tahvern, an' looked inter the stage, an' didn't see yer. I jest thought I'd like to come an' kind o' meet yer. Lordy massy, they's all a lookin' out for yer 't all the winders; 'n' Aunt Lois, she's ben bilin' up no end o' doughnuts, an' tearin' round 'nough to drive the house out o' the winders, to git everything ready for ye. Why, it beats the Prodigal Son all holler, the way they're killin' the fatted calves for yer; an' everybody in Oldtown's a wantin' to see Sir Harry."
"O nonsense, Sam!" said Harry, coloring. "Hush about that! We don't have titles over here in America."
"Lordy massy, that's just what I wus a tellin' on 'em up to store. It's a pity, ses I, this yere happened arter peace was signed, 'cause we might ha' had a real live Sir Harry round among us. An' I think Lady Lothrop, she kind o' thinks so too."
"O nonsense!" said Harry. "Sam, are the folks all well?"
"O lordy massy, yes! Chirk and chipper as can be. An there's Tiny, they say she's a goin' to be an heiress nowadays, an' there's no end of her beaux. There's Ellery Devenport ben down here these two weeks, a puttin' up at the tahvern, with a landau an' a span o' crack horses, a takin' on her out to ride every day, and Miss Mehitable, she's so sot up, she's reelly got a bran-new bonnet, an' left off that 'ere old un o' hern that she's had trimmed over spring an' fall goin' on these 'ere ten years. I thought that 'ere bonnet's going to last out my time, but I see it hain't. An' she's got a new Injy shawl, that Mr. Devenport gin her. Yeh see, he understan's courtin', all round."
This intelligence, of course, was not the most agreeable to me. I hope, my good friends, that you have never known one of those quiet hours of life, when, while you are sitting talking and smiling, and to all appearance quite unmoved, you hear a remark or learn a fact that seems to operate on you as if somebody had quietly turned a faucet that was letting out your very life. Down, down, down, everything seems sinking, the strength passing away from you as the blood passes when an artery is cut. It was with somewhat this sensation that I listened to Sam's chatter, while I still mechanically poked away the leaves and drew out the long waxy garlands that I had been gathering for her!
Sam seated himself on the bank, and, drawing his knees up to his chin and clasping his hands upon them, began moralizing in his usual strain.
"Lordy massy, lordy massy, what a changin' world this 'ere is! It's jest see-saw, teeter-tawter, up an' down. To-day it's I'm up an' you're down, an' to-morrow it's you're up and I'm down! An' then, by an' by, death comes an' takes us all. I've been kind o' dwellin' on some varses to-day.
'death, like a devourin' deluge,
Sweeps all away.
The young, the old, the middle-aged,
To him become a prey.'
That 'ere is what Betty Poganut repeated to me the night we sot up by Statiry's corpse. Yeh'member Statiry Poganut? Well, she's dead at last. Yeh see, we all gits called in our turn. We hain't here no continuin' city."
"But, Sam," said I, "how does business get along? Haven't you anything to do but tramp the pastures and moralize? "
"Wal," said Sam, "I've hed some pretty consid'able spells of blacksmithin' lately. There's Mr. Devenport, he's sech a pleasant-spoken man, he told me he brought his team all the way up from Bostin a purpose so that I might 'tend to their huffs. I've been a shoein' on 'em fresh all round, an' the off horse, he'd kind o' got a crack in his huff, an' I've been a doctorin' on 't; an' Mr Devenport, he said he hadn't found nobody that knew how to doctor a horse's huffs ekal to me. Very pleasant-spoken man Mr. Devenport is; he's got a good word for everybody. They say there ain't no end to his fortin, an' he goes a flingin' on 't round, right en' left, like a prince. Why, when I'd done shoein' his hosses, he jest put his hand inter his pocket en' handed me out ten dollars! ripped it out, he did, jest as easy as water runs! But there was Tiny a standin' by; I think she kind o' sot him on. O lordy massy, it's plain to be seen that she rules him. It's all cap in hand to her, an' 'What you will, madam,' an' 'Will ye have the end o' the rainbow, or a slice out o' the moon, or what is it?' It's all ekal to him, so as Miss Tiny wants it. Lordy massy," he said lowering his voice confidentially to Harry, "course these 'ere things is all temporal, an' our hearts oughtn't to be too much sot on 'em; still he's got about the most amazin' fortin there is round Bostin. Why, if you b'lieve me, 'tween you an' me, it's him as owns the Dench Place, where you and Tiny put up when you wus children! Don't ye'member when I found ye? Ye little guessed whose house ye wus a puttin' up at then; did yer? Lordy massy, lordy massy, who'd ha' thought it? The wonderful ways of Providence! 'He setteth the poor on high, an letteth the runagates continoo in scarceness.' Wal, wal, it's a kind o' instructive world."
"Do you suppose," said Harry to me, in a low voice, "that this creature knows anything of what he is saying? "
"I'm afraid he does," said I. "Sam seems to have but one talent, and that is picking up news; and generally his guesses turn out to be about true."
"Sam," said I, by way of getting him to talk of something else, rather than on what I dreaded to hear, "you haven't said a word about Hepsy and the children. How are they all?"
"Wal, the young uns hes all got the whoopin' cough," said Sam, "an' I'm e'en a'most beat out with 'em. For fust it's one barks, an then another, an' then all together. An' then Hepsy, she gets riled an' she scolds; an', take it all together, a feller's head gits kind o' turned. When ye hes a lot o' young uns, there's allus suthin' a goin' on among 'em; ef 't ain't whoopin' cough, it's measles; an' ef 't ain't measles, it's chicken-pox, or else it's mumps, or scarlet-fever, or suthin'. They's all got to be gone through, fust an' last. It's enough to wean a body from this world. Lordy massy, yest'day arternoon I see yer Aunt Keziah an' yer Aunt Lois out a cuttin' cowslip greens t'other side o' th' river, an' the sun it shone so bright, an' the turtles an' frogs they kind o' peeped so pleasant, an' yer aunts they sot on the bank so kind o' easy an' free, an' I stood there a lookin' on 'em, an' I couldn't help a thinkin', 'Lordy messy, I wish t' I wus an old maid.' Folks'scapes a great deal that don't hev no young uns a hangin' onter 'em."
"Well, Sam," said Harry, "isn't there any news stirring round in the neighborhood?"
"S'pose ye hadn't heerd about the great church-quarrel over to Needmore?" he said.
"Quarrel? Why, no," said Harry. "What is it about?"
"Wal, ye see, there's a kind o' quarrel ris 'tween Parson Perry and Deacon Bangs. I can't jest git the right on 't, but it's got the hull town afire. I b'lieve it cum up in a kind o' dispute how to spell Saviour. The Deacon he's on the school committee, en' Person Perry he's on 't; an' the Deacon he spells it iour, an' Parson Perry he spells it ior, an' they wouldn't neither on 'em give up. Wal, ye know Deacon Bangs, I s'pose he's a Christian, but, lordy massy, he's one o' yer dreadful ugly kind o' Christians, that, when they gits their backs up, will do worse things than sinners will. I reelly think they kind o' take advantage o' their position, an' think, es they're goin' to be saved by grace, grace shell hev enough on 't. Now, to my mind, ef either on 'em wus to give way, the Deacon oughter give up to the Parson; but the Deacon he don't think so. Between you and me," said Sam, "it's my opinion that ef Ma'am Perry hedn't died jest when she did, this 'ere thing would never ha' growed to where 't is. But ye see Ma'am Perry she died, an' that left Parson Perry a widower, an' folks did talk about him an' Mahaley Bangs, an' fact was, 'long about last spring, Deacon Bangs an' Mis' Bangs an' Mahaley wus jest as thick with the Parson as they could be. Why, Granny Watkins told me about their havin' on him to tea two an' three times a week, an' Mahaley'd make two kinds o' cake, an' they'd have preserved watermelon rinds an' peaches an' cranberry saace, an' then 't was all sugar an' all sweet, an' the Deacon he talked bout raisin' Parson Perry's salary. Wal, then, ye see, Parson Perry he went over to Oldtown an' married Jerushy Peabody. Now, Jerushy's a nice, pious gal, an' it's a free country, an' parsons hes a right to suit 'emselves as well's other men. But Jake Marshall, he ses to me, when he heerd o' that, ses he, 'They'll be findin' fault with Parson Perry's doctrines now afore two months is up; ye see if they don't.' Wal, sure enuff, this 'ere quarrel 'bout spellin' Saviour come on fuss, an' Deacon Bangs he fit the Parson like a bulldog. An' next town-meetin' day he told Parson Perry right out before everybody thet he was wuss then 'n Armenian, thet he was a rank Pelagian; 'n' he said there was folks thet hed taken notes o' his sermons for two years back, when he got through the year he turned his bar'l t'other side up, and begun at t'other end. Lordy massy, who's to know it, when half on em's asleep? And I guess the preachin's full as good as the pay anyhow. Wal, the upshot on 't all is, they got a gret counsel there, an they're a tryin' Mr. Perry for heresy an' what not. Wal, I don't b'lieve there's a yeller dog goes inter the Needmore meetin'-house now that ain't got his mind made up one way or t'other about it. Yer don't hear nothin' over there now 'xcept about Armenians an' Pelagians an' Unitarians an' total depravity. Lordy massy! wal, they lives up to that doctrine any way. What do ye think of old Sphyxy Smith's bein' called in as one o' the witnesses in council? She don' know no more 'bout religion than an' old hetchel, but she's ferce as can be on Deacon Bangs's side, an' Old Crab Smith he hes to hev' his say 'bout it."
"Do tell," said Harry, wonderingly, "if that old creature is alive yet!"
"'Live? Why, yis, ye may say so," said Sam. "Much alive as ever he was. Ye see he kind o' pickles himself in hard cider, an' I dunno but he may live to hector his wife till he's ninety. But he's gret on the trial now, an' very much interested 'bout the doctrines. He ses thet he hadn't heard a sermon on sovereignty or 'lection, or reprobation, sence he can remember. Wal, t'other side, they say they don't see what business Old Crab an' Miss Sphxyx hev to be meddlin' so much, when they ain't church-members. Why, I was over to Needmore town-meetin' day jest to hear 'em fight over it; they talked a darned sight more 'bout that than 'bout the turnpikes or town business. Why, I heard Deacon Brown (he's on the parson's side) tellin' Old Crab he didn't see what business he had to boss the doctrines, when he warn't a church-member, and Old Crab said it was his bisness about the doctrines, 'cause he paid to hev 'em. 'Ef I pay for good strong doctrine, why, I want to hev good strong doctrine, says Old Crab, says he. 'Ef I pays for hell-fire, I want to hev hell-fire, and hev it hot too. I don't want none o' your prophesyin' smooth things. Why,' says he, 'look at Dr. Stern. His folks hes the very hair took off their heads'most every Sunday, and he don't get no more 'n we pay Parson Perry. I tell yew,' says Old Crab, 'he's a lettin' on us all go to sleep, and it's no wonder I ain't in the church.' Ye see, Old Crab and Sphyxy, they seem to be kind o' settin' it down to poor old Parson Perry's door that he hain't converted 'em, an' made saints on 'em long ago, when they've paid up their part o' the salary reg'lar, every year. Jes' so onreasonable folks will be; they give a man two hunderd dollars a year an' his wood, an' spect him to git all on em' inter the kingdom o' heaven, whether they will or no, jest as the angels got Lot's wife and daughters out o' Sodom."
"That poor little old woman!" said Harry. "Do tell if she is living yet!"
"O yis, she's all right," said Sam; "she's one o' these 'ere little thin, dry old women that keep a good while. But ain't ye heerd? their son Obid's come home an' bought a farm, an' married a nice gal, and he insists on it his mother shall live with him. An' so Old Crab and Miss Sphyxy, they fight it out together. So the old woman is delivered from him most o' the time. Sometimes he walks over there an' stays a week, an' takes a spell o' aggravatin' on 'er, that kind o' sets him up, but he's so busy now 'bout the quarrel 't I b'lieve he lets her alone."
By this time we had reached the last rail-fence which separated us from the grassy street of Oldtown, and here Sam took his leave of us.
"I promised Hepsy when I went out," he said, "thet I'd go to the store and git her some corn meal, but I'll be round agin in th' evening. Look 'ere," he added, "I wus out this mornin', an' I dug some sweet-flag root for yer. I know ye used ter like sweet-flag root. 'T ain't time for young wintergreen yit, but here's a bunch I picked yer, with the berries an' old leaves. Do take 'em, boys, jest for sake o' old times!"
We thanked him, of course; there was a sort of aroma of boyhood about these things, that spoke of spring days and melting snows, and long Saturday afternoon rambles that we had had with Sam years before. And we saw his lean form go striding off with something of an affectionate complacency.
"Horace," said Harry, the minute we were alone, "you mustn't mind too much about Sam's gossip."
"It is just what I have been expecting," said I;" but in a few moments we shall know the truth."
We went on until the square white front of the old Rossiter house rose upon our view. We stopped before it, and down the walk from the front door to the gate, amid the sweet budding lilacs came gleaming and glancing the airy form of Tina. So airy she looked, so bright, so full of life and joy, and threw herself into Harry's arms, laughing and crying.
"O Harry, Harry! God has been good to us! And you, dear brother Horace," she said, turning to me and giving me both her hands, with one of those frank, loving looks that said as much as another might say by throwing herself into your arms. "We are all so happy!" she said.
I determined to have it over at once, and I said, "Am I then to congratulate you, Tina, on your engagement?"
She laughed and blushed, and held up her hand, on which glittered a great diamond, and hid her face for a moment on Harry's shoulder.
"I couldn't write to you about it, boys, I couldn't! But I meant to tell you myself and tell you the first thing too. I wanted to tell you about him, because I think you none of you know him, or half how noble and good he is! Come, come in," she said, taking us each by the hand and drawing us along with her. "Come in and see Aunty; she'll be so glad to see you!"
If there was any one thing for which I was glad at this moment, it was that I had never really made love to Tina. It was a comfort to me to think that she did not and could not possibly know the pain she was giving me. All I know is that, at the moment, I was seized with a wild, extravagant gayety, and rattled and talked and laughed with a reckless abandon that quite astonished Harry. It seemed to me as if every ludicrous story and every droll remark that I had ever heard came thronging into my head together. And I believe that Tina really thought that I was sincere in rejoicing with her. Miss Mehitable talked with us gravely about it while Tina was out of the room. It was most sudden and unexpected, she said, to her; she always had supposed that Ellery Davenport had admired Tina, but never that he had thought of her in this way. In a worldly point of view, the match was a more brilliant one than could ever have been expected. He was of the best old families in the country, of the Edwards and the Davenport stock, his talents were splendid, and his wealth would furnish everything that wealth could furnish. "There is only one thing," she continued gravely; "I am not satisfied about his religious principles. But Tina is an enthusiast, and has perfect faith that he will come all right in this respect. He seems to be completely dazzled and under her influence now," said Miss Mehitable, taking a leisurely pinch of snuff, "but then, you see, that's a common phenomenon, about this time in a man's life. But," she added, "where there is such a strong attachment on both sides, all we can do is to wish both sides well, and speed them on their way. Mr. Davenport has interested himself in the very kindest manner in regard to both Tina and Harry, and I suppose it is greatly owing to this that affairs have turned out as prosperously as they have. As you know, Sir Harry made a handsome provision for Tina in his will. I confess I am glad of that," she said, with a sort of pride. "I wouldn't want my little Tina to have passed into his arms altogether penniless. When first love is over, men sometimes remember those things."
"If my father had not done justice to Tina in his will," said Harry, "I should have done it. My sister should not have gone to any man a beggar."
"I know that, my dear," said Miss Mehitable, "but still it is a pleasure to think that your father did it. It was a justice to your mother's memory that I am glad he rendered."
And when is this marriage to take place?" said I.
"Mr. Davenport wants to carry her away in June," said Miss Mehitable. "That leaves but little time; but he says he must go to join the English Embassy, certainly by midsummer, and as there seems to be a good reason for his haste, I suppose I must not put my feelings in the way. It seems now as if I had had her only a few days, and she has been so very sweet and lovely to me. Well," said she, after a moment, "I suppose the old sweetbrier-bushes feel lonesome when we cut their blossoms and carry them off; but the old thorny things mustn't have blossoms if they don't expect to have them taken. That's all we scraggly old people are good for."
