Part 3
“Wal, Abner Ginger, Polly’s boy, he that was footman and waiter then at the Gineral’s, he told me, that, about eight o’clock that evening he went up with hot water and lemons and sperits and sich, and he see the gret green table in the library all strewed and covered with piles o’ papers; and there was tin boxes a standin’ round; and the Gineral a packin’ a trunk, and young Master Jeff, as lively and helpful as a rat that smells cheese. And then the Gineral he says, ‘Abner,’ says he, ‘can you write your name?’--‘I should hope so, Gineral.’ says Abner.--‘Wal, then, Abner,’ says he, ‘this is my last will; and I want you to witness it,’ and so Abner he put down his name opposite to a place with a wafer and a seal; and then the Gineral, he says, ‘Abner, you tell Ginger to come here.’ That, you see, was his housekeeper, my Aunt Polly’s sister, and a likely woman as ever was. And so they had her up, and she put down her name to the will; and then Aunt Polly she was had up (she was drinking tea there that night), and she put down her name. And all of ’em did it with good heart, ’cause it had got about among ’em that the will was to provide for Miss Ruth; for everybody loved Ruth, ye see, and there was consid’ble many stories kind o’ goin’ the rounds about Master Jeff and his doin’s. And they did say he sort o’ kep’ up the strife atween the Gineral and my lady, and so they didn’t think none too well o’ him; and, as he was next o’ kin, and Miss Ruth wa’n’t none o’ the Gineral’s blood (ye see, she was Mis’ Sullivan’s sister’s child), of course there wouldn’t nothin’ go to Miss Ruth in way o’ law, and so that was why the signin’ o’ that ’are will was so much talked about among ’em.”
“Wal, you see, the Gineral he sailed the next day; and Jeff he staid by to keep watch o’ things.
“Wal, the old Gineral he got over safe; for Miss Sullivan, she had a letter from him all right. When he got away, his conscience sort o’ nagged him, and he was minded to be a good husband. At any rate, he wrote a good loving letter to her, and sent his love to Ruth, and sent over lots o’ little keepsakes and things for her, and told her that he left her under good protection, and wanted her to try and make up her mind to marry Jeff, as that would keep the property together.
“Wal, now there couldn’t be no sort o’ sugar sweeter than Jeff was to them lone wimmen. Jeff was one o’ the sort that could be all things to all wimmen. He waited and he tended, and he was as humble as any snake in the grass that ever ye see and the old lady, she clean fell in with him, but Ruth, she seemed to have a regular spite agin him. And she that war as gentle as a lamb, that never had so much as a hard thought of a mortal critter, and wouldn’t tread on a worm, she was so set agin Jeff, that she wouldn’t so much as touch his hand when she got out o’ her kerridge.
“Wal, now comes the strange part o’ my story. Ruth was one o’ the kind that _hes the gift o’ seein’. She was born with a veil over her face!_”
This mysterious piece of physiological information about Ruth was given with a look and air that announced something very profound and awful; and we both took up the inquiry, “Born with a veil over her face? How should _that_ make her see?”
“Wal, boys; how should I know? But the fact _is so_. There’s those as is wal known as hes the gift o’ seein’ what others can’t see: they can see through walls and houses; they can see people’s hearts; they can see what’s to come. They don’t know nothin’ how ’tis, but this ’ere knowledge comes to ’em: it’s a gret gift; and that sort’s born with the veil over their faces. Ruth was o’ these ’ere. Old Granny Badger she was the knowingest old nuss in all these parts; and she was with Ruth’s mother when she was born, and she told Lady Lothrop all about it. Says she, ’You may depend upon it that child ’ll have the “second-sight”’ says she. Oh, that ’are fact was wal known! Wal, that was the reason why Jeff Sullivan couldn’t come it round Ruth tho’ he was silkier than a milkweed-pod, and jest about as patient as a spider in his hole a watchin’ to get his grip on a fly. Ruth wouldn’t argue with him, and she wouldn’t flout him; but she jest shut herself up in herself, and kept a lookout on him; but she told your Aunt Lois jest what she thought about him.
“Wal, in about six months, come the news that the Gineral was dead. He dropped right down in his tracks, dead with apoplexy, as if he had been shot; and Lady Maxwell she writ a long letter to my lady and Ruth. Ye see, he’d got to be Sir Thomas Sullivan over there; and he was a comin’ home to take ’em all over to England to live in grande’r. Wal, my Lady Sullivan (she was then, ye see) she took it drefful hard. Ef they’d a been the lovingest couple in the world, she couldn’t a took it harder. Aunt Polly, she said it was all ’cause she thought so much of him, that she fit him so. There’s women that thinks so much o’ their husbands, that they won’t let ’em hev no peace o’ their life; and I expect it war so with her, poor soul! Any way, she went right down smack, when she heard he was dead. She was abed, sick, when the news come; and she never spoke nor smiled, jest turned her back to everybody, and kinder wilted and wilted, and was dead in a week. And there was poor little Ruth left all alone in the world, with neither kith nor kin but Jeff.
“Wal, when the funeral was over, and the time app’inted to read the will and settle up matters, there wa’n’t no will to be found nowhere, high nor low.
“Lawyer Dean he flew round like a parched pea on a shovel. He said he thought he could a gone in the darkest night, and put his hand on that ’ere will; but when he went where he thought it was, he found it warn’t there, and he knowed he’d kep’ it under lock and key. What he thought was the will turned out to be an old mortgage. Wal, there was an awful row and a to-do about it, you may be sure. Ruth, she jist said nothin’ good or bad. And her not speakin’ made Jeff a sight more uncomfortable than ef she’d a hed it out with him. He told her it shouldn’t make no sort o’ difference; that he should allers stand ready to give her all he hed, if she’d only take him with it. And when it came to that she only gin him a look, and went out o’ the room.
“Jeff he flared and flounced and talked, and went round and round a rumpussin’ among the papers, but no will was forthcomin’, high or low. Wal, now here comes what’s remarkable. Ruth she told this ’ere, all the
## particulars, to yer Aunt Lois and Lady Lothrop. She said that the night
after the funeral she went up to her chamber. Ruth had the gret front chamber, opposite to Mis’ Sullivan’s. I’ve been in it; it was a monstrous big room, with outlandish furniture in it, that the Gineral brought over from an old palace out to Italy. And there was a great big lookin’-glass over the dressin’-table, that they said come from Venice, that swung so that you could see the whole room in it. Wal, she was a standin’ front o’ this, jist goin’ to undress herself, a hearin’ the rain drip on the leaves and the wind a whishin’ and whisperin’ in the old elm-trees, and jist a thinkin’ over her lot, and what should she do now, all alone in the world, when of a sudden she felt a kind o’ lightness in her head, and she thought she seemed to see somebody in the glass a movin’. And she looked behind, and there wa’n’t nobody there. Then she looked forward in the glass, and saw a strange big room, that she’d never seen before, with a long painted winder in it; and along side o’ this stood a tall cabinet with a good many drawers in it. And she saw herself, and knew that it was herself, in this room, along with another woman whose back was turned towards her. She saw herself speak to this woman, and p’int to the cabinet. She saw the woman nod her head. She saw herself go to the cabinet, and open the middle drawer, and take out a bundle o’ papers from the very back end on’t. She saw her take out a paper from the middle, and open it, and hold it up; and she knew that there was the missin’ will. Wal, it all overcome her so that she fainted clean away. And her maid found her a lyin’ front o’ the dressin’-table on the floor.
“She was sick of a fever’ for a week or fortnight a’ter; and your Aunt Lois she was down takin’ care of her; and, as soon as she got able to be moved, she was took out to Lady Lothrop’s. Jeff he was jist as attentive and good as he could be; but she wouldn’t bear him near her room. If he so much as set a foot on the stairs that led to it she’d know it, and got so wild that he hed to be kept from comin’ into the front o’ the house. But he was doin’ his best to buy up good words from everybody. He paid all the servants double; he kept every one in their places, and did so well by ’em all that the gen’l word among ’em was that Miss Ruth couldn’t do better than to marry such a nice, open-handed gentleman.
“Wal, Lady Lothrop she wrote to Lady Maxwell all that hed happened; and Lady Maxwell, she sent over for Ruth to come over and be a companion for her, and said she’d adopt her, and be as a mother to her.
“Wal, then Ruth she went over with some gentlefolks that was goin’ back to England, and offered to see her safe and sound; and so she was set down at Lady Maxwell’s manor. It was a grand place, she said, and such as she never see before,--like them old gentry places in England. And Lady Maxwell she made much of her, and cosseted her up for the sake of what the old Gineral had said about her. And Ruth she told her all her story, and how she believed that the will was to be found somewhere, and that she should be led to see it yet.
“She told her, too, that she felt it in her that Cap’n Oliver wasn’t dead, and that he’d come back yet. And Lady Maxwell she took up for her with might and main, and said she’d stand by her. But then, ye see, so long as there warn’t no will to be found, there warn’t nothin’ to be done. Jeff was the next heir; and he’d got every thing, stock, and lot, and the estate in England into the bargain. And folks was beginnin’ to think putty well of him, as folks allers does when a body is up in the world, and hes houses and lands. Lordy massy! riches allers covers a multitude o’ sins.
“Finally, when Ruth hed ben six months with her, one day Lady Maxwell got to tellin’ her all about her history, and what hed ben atween her and her cousin, when they was young, and how they hed a quarrel and he flung off to Ameriky, and all them things that it don’t do folks no good to remember when it’s all over and can’t be helped. But she was a lone body, and it seemed to do her good to talk about it.
“Finally, she says to Ruth, says she, ‘I’ll show you a room in this house you han’t seen before. It was the room where we hed that quarrel,’ says she; ‘and the last I saw of him was there, till he come back to die,’ says she.
“So she took a gret key out of her bunch; and she led Ruth along a long passage-way to the other end of the house, and opened on a great library. And the minute Ruth came in, she threw up her hands and gin a great cry. ’Oh!’ says she, ’this is the room! and there is the window! and there is the cabinet! and _there in that middle drawer at the back end in a bundle of papers is the will!_
“And Lady Maxwell she said, quite dazed, ‘Go look,’ says she. And Ruth went, jest as she seed herself do, and opened the drawer, and drew forth from the back part a yellow pile of old letters. And in the middle of those was the will, sure enough. Ruth drew it out, and opened it, and showed it to her.
“Wal, you see that will give Ruth the whole of the Gineral’s property in America, tho’ it did leave the English estate to Jeff.
“Wal, the end on’t was like a story-book.
“Jeff he made believe be mighty glad. And he said it must a ben that the Gineral hed got flustered with the sperit and water, and put that ’ere will in among his letters that he was a doin’ up to take back to England. For it was in among Lady Maxwell’s letters that she writ him when they was young, and that he’d a kep’ all these years and was a takin’ back to her.
“Wal, Lawyer Dean said he was sure that Jeff made himself quite busy and useful that night, a tyin’ up the papers with red tape, and a packin’ the Gineral’s trunk; and that, when Jeff gin him his bundle to lock up in his box, he never mistrusted but what he’d got it all right.
“Wal, you see it was jest one of them things that can’t be known to the jedgment-day. It might a ben an accident, and then agin it might not; and folks settled it one way or t’other, ’cordin’ to their ’pinion o’ Jeff; but ye see how ’mazin’ handy for him it happened! Why, ef it hadn’t ben for the providence I’ve ben a tellin’ about, there it might a lain in them old letters, that Lady Maxwell said she never hed the heart to look over! it never would a turned up in the world.”
“Well,” said I, “what became of Ruth?” “Oh! Cap’n Oliver he came back all alive, and escaped from the Algerines; and they was married in King’s Chapel, and lived in the old Sullivan House, in peace and prosperity. That’s jest how the story was; and now Aunt Lois can make what she’s a mind ter out on’t.”
“And what became of Jeff?” “Oh! he started to go over to England, and the ship was wrecked off the Irish coast, and that was the last of him. He never got to his property.”
“Good enough for him,” said both of us. “Wal, I don’t know: ’twas pretty hard on Jeff. Mebbe he did, and mebbe he didn’t. I’m glad I warn’t in his shoes, tho’. I’d rather never hed nothin’. This ’ere hastin’ to be rich is sich a drefful temptation.
“Wal, now, boys, ye’ve done a nice lot o’ flax, and I guess we’ll go up to yer grand’ther’s cellar and git a mug o’ cyder. Talkin’ always gits me dry.”
[Illustration: Tailpiece, Page 052]
[Illustration: The Minister’s Housekeeper, Page 053]
THE MINISTER’S HOUSEKEEPER.
Scene.--The shady side of a blueberry-pasture.--Sam Lawson with the boys, picking blueberries.--Sam, _loq_.
As, you see, boys, ’twas just here,--Parson Carryl’s wife, she died along in the forepart o’ March: my cousin Huldy, she undertook to keep house for him. The way on’t was, that Huldy, she went to take care o’ Mis’ Carryl in the fust on’t, when she fust took sick. Huldy was a tailoress by trade; but then she was one o’ these ’ere facultised persons that has a gift for most any thing, and that was how Mis’ Carryl come to set sech store by her, that, when she was sick, nothin’ would do for her but she must have Huldy round all the time: and the minister, he said he’d make it good to her all the same, and she shouldn’t lose nothin’ by it. And so Huldy, she staid with Mis’ Carryl full three months afore she died, and got to seein’ to every thing pretty much round the place.
“Wal, arter Mis’ Carryl died, Parson Carryl, he’d got so kind o’ used to hevin’ on her ’round, takin’ care o’ things, that he wanted her to stay along a spell; and so Huldy, she staid along a spell, and poured out his tea, and mended his close, and made pies and cakes, and cooked and washed and ironed, and kep’ every thing as neat as a pin. Huldy was a drefful chipper sort o’ gal; and work sort o’ rolled off from her like water off a duck’s back. There warn’t no gal in Sherburne that could put sich a sight o’ work through as Huldy; and yet, Sunday mornin’, she always come out in the singers’ seat like one o’ these ’ere June roses, lookin’ so fresh and smilin’, and her voice was jest as clear and sweet as a meadow lark’s--Lordy massy! I ’member how she used to sing some o’ them ’are places where the treble and counter used to go together: her voice kind o’ trembled a little, and it sort o’ went thro’ and thro’ a feller! tuck him right where he lived!”
Here Sam leaned contemplatively back with his head in a clump of sweet fern, and refreshed himself with a chew of young wintergreen. “This ’ere young wintergreen, boys, is jest like a feller’s thoughts o’ things that happened when he was young: it comes up jest so fresh and tender every year, the longest time you hev to live; and you can’t help chawin’ on’t tho’ ’tis sort o’ stingin’. I don’t never get over likin’ young wintergreen.”
“But about Huldah, Sam?”
“Oh, yes! about Huldy. Lordy massy! when a feller is Indianin’ round, these ’ere pleasant summer days, a feller’s thoughts gits like a flock o’ young partridges: they’s up and down and everywhere; ’cause one place is jest about as good as another, when they’s all so kind o’ comfortable and nice. Wal, about Huldy,--as I was a sayin’. She was jest as handsome a gal to look at as a feller could have; and I think a nice, well-behaved young gal in the singers’ seat of a Sunday is a means o’ grace: it’s sort o’ drawin’ to the unregenerate, you know. Why, boys, in them days, I’ve walked ten miles over to Sherburne of a Sunday mornin’, jest to play the bass-viol in the same singers’ seat with Huldy. She was very much respected, Huldy was; and, when she went out to tailorin’, she was allers bespoke six months ahead, and sent for in waggins up and down for ten miles round; for the young fellers was allers ’mazin’ anxious to be sent after Huldy, and was quite free to offer to go for her. Wal, after Mis’ Carryl died, Huldy got to be sort o’ housekeeper at the minister’s, and saw to every thing, and did every thing: so that there warn’t a pin out o’ the way.
“But you know how ’tis in parishes: there allers is women that thinks the minister’s affairs belongs to them, and they ought to have the rulin’ and guidin’ of ’em; and, if a minister’s wife dies, there’s folks that allers has their eyes open on providences,--lookin’ out who’s to be the next one.
“Now, there was Mis’ Amaziah Pipperidge, a widder with snappin’ black eyes, and a hook nose,--kind o’ like a hawk; and she was one o’ them up-and-down commandin’ sort o’ women, that feel that they have a call to be seein’ to every thing that goes on in the parish, and ’specially to the minister.
“Folks did say that Mis’ Pipperidge sort o’ sot her eye on the parson for herself: wal, now that ’are might a been, or it might not. Some folks thought it was a very suitable connection. You see she hed a good property of her own, right nigh to the minister’s lot, and was allers kind o’ active and busy; so takin’ one thing with another, I shouldn’t wonder if Mis’ Pipperidge should a thought that Providence p’inted that way. At any rate, she went up to Deakin Blodgett’s wife, and they two sort o’ put their heads together a mournin’ and condolin’ about the way things was likely to go on at the minister’s now Mis’ Carryl was dead. Ye see, the parson’s wife, she was one of them women who hed their eyes everywhere and on every thing. She was a little thin woman, but tough as Inger rubber, and smart as a steel trap; and there warn’t a hen laid an egg, or cackled, but Mis’ Carryl was right there to see about it; and she hed the garden made in the spring, and the medders mowed in summer, and the cider made, and the corn husked, and the apples got in the fall; and the doctor, he hedn’t nothin’ to do but jest sit stock still a meditatin’ on Jerusalem and Jericho and them things that ministers think about. But Lordy massy! he didn’t know nothin’ about where any thing he eat or drunk or wore come from or went to: his wife jest led him ’round in temporal things and took care on him like a baby.
“Wal, to be sure, Mis’ Carryl looked up to him in spirituals, and thought all the world on him; for there warn’t a smarter minister no where ’round. Why, when he preached on decrees and election, they used to come clear over from South Parish, and West Sherburne, and Old Town to hear him; and there was sich a row o’ waggins tied along by the meetin’-house that the stables was all full, and all the hitchin’-posts was full clean up to the tavern, so that folks said the doctor made the town look like a gineral trainin’-day a Sunday.