Poganuc People

CHAPTER XXXII.

SIX YEARS LATER

Six years step softly, with invisible footsteps, over the plain of life, bearing us on with an insensible progress. Six years of winter snows and spring thaws, of early blue-birds and pink May-flower buds under leafy banks, of anemone, crowfoot and violet in the fields, of apple-blossoms in the orchards, and new green leaves in the forest; six years of dark-green summers in the rustling woods, of fire-lilies in the meadow-lots and scarlet lobelias by the water-brooks, of roses and lilies and tall phloxes in the gardens; six years of autumnal golden rod and aster, of dropping nuts and rainbow-tinted forests, of ripened grain and gathered corn, of harvest home and thanksgiving proclamation and gathering of families about the home table to consider the loving-kindness of the Lord: – by such easy stages, such comings and goings, is our mortal pilgrimage marked off. When the golden rod and aster have bloomed for us sixty or seventy seasons, then we are near the banks of the final river, we are coming to the time of leaving the flowers of earth for the flowers of Paradise.

The six years in Poganuc had brought their changes, not in external nature, for that remained quiet and beautiful as ever; the same wooded hills, with their sylvan shades and hidden treasures of fruits and flowers, the same brown, sparkling river, where pickerel and perch darted to and fro, and trout lurked in cool, shadowy hollows: but the old graveyard bore an added stone or two; mounds wet with bitter tears had grown green and flowery, and peaceable fruits of righteousness had sprung up from harvests sown there in weeping.

As to the Parsonage and its inmates, six years had added a little sprinkle of silver to the Doctor's head, and a little new learning of the loving-kindness of the Lord to his heart. The fruits of the revival gathered into his church were as satisfactory as ordinary human weakness allows. The Doctor was even more firmly seated in the respect and affection of his parish than in old days, when the ministry was encompassed by the dignities and protections of law. Poganuc was a town where an almshouse was almost a superfluous institution, and almsgiving made difficult by the fact that there were no poor people; for since the shutting of Glazier's bar-room, and the reformation of a few noted drunkards, there was scarce anybody not in the way of earning a decent and comfortable living. Such were our New England villages in the days when its people were of our own blood and race, and the pauper population of Europe had not as yet been landed upon our shores.

As to the characters of our little story, they, also, had moved on a stage in the journey of life.

Hiel Jones had become a thriving man; had bought a share in the stage-line that ran through the town, and owned the finest team of horses in the region. He and our friend Nabby were an edifying matrimonial firm, comfortably established at housekeeping in a trim, well-kept dwelling not far from the Parsonage, with lilac bushes over the front windows, and red peonies and yellow lilies in the door-yard.

A sturdy youngster of three years, who toddled about, upsetting matters generally, formed a large part of the end and aim of Nabby's existence. To say the truth, this young, bright-eyed, curly-pated slip of humanity was enough to furnish work for a dozen women, for he did mischief with a rapidity, ingenuity and energy that was perfectly astonishing. What small efforts the parents made in the direction of family government were utterly frustrated by the fond and idolatrous devotion of old Zeph, who evidently considered it the special privilege of a grandfather to spoil the rising generation.

Scarce a day passed that Zeph was not at the house, his pockets stuffed with apples, cakes or nuts for the boy. The old man bowed his grey head to the yoke of youth; he meekly did the infant's will; he was the boy's horse and cantered for him, he was a cock and crowed for him, he was a hen and cackled for him; he sacrificed dignity and consistency at those baby feet as the wise men of old laid down their gold, frankincense and myrrh.

Zeph had ripened like a winter apple. The hard, snarly astringency of his character had grown sweet and mild. His was a nature capable of a great and lasting change. When he surrendered his will to his God he surrendered once for all, and so the peace of God fell upon him and kept him. He was a consistent and most useful member of the church, and began to be known in the neighborhood by the semi-affectionate title of "Uncle Zeph," a sort of brevet rank which indicated a certain general confidence in his disposition to neighborly good offices.

The darling wish of his wife's heart had been accomplished in his eldest son Abner. He had sent him through college, sparing no labor and no hardship in himself to give the youth every advantage. And Abner had proved an able scholar; his college career had been even brilliant, and he had now returned to his native place to pursue his theological studies under Dr. Cushing.

It will be well remembered that in the former days of New England there were no specific theological institutions, but the young candidate for the ministry took his studies under the care of some pastor, who directed his preparatory course and initiated him into his labors, and this course of things once established was often continued from choice even after institutions of learning were founded.

The Doctor had an almost paternal pride in this offshoot that had grown up in his parish; he taught him with enthusiasm; he took him in his old chaise to the associations and ministerial meetings about the State, and gave him every opportunity to exercise his gifts in speaking.

It was a proud Sunday for old Zeph when his boy preached his first sermon in the Doctor's pulpit. The audience in the Poganuc meeting-house, as we have indicated, was no mean one in point of education, ability and culture, but every one saw and commended the dignity and self-possession with which the young candidate filled the situation, and there was a universal approval of his discourse from even the most critical of his audience. But the face and figure of old Zeph as he leaned forward in his seat, following with breathless eagerness every word; his blue eyes kindling, the hard lines of his face relaxing into an expression of absorbed and breathless interest, would have made a study for a painter. Every point in the argument, the flash of every illustration, the response to every emotion, could have been read in his face as in an open book; and when after service the young candidate received the commendations of Colonel Davenport, Judge Belcher and Judge Gridley, Zeph's cup of happiness was full. Abner was an exception to the saying that a prophet hath no honor in his own country, for both classes in society vied with each other to do him honor. The farming population liked him for being one of themselves, the expression of what they felt themselves capable of being and becoming under similar advantages; while the more cultivated class really appreciated the talent and energy of the young man, and were the better pleased with it as having arisen in their own town.

So his course was all fair, until, as Fate would have it, he asked one thing too much of her – and thereof came a heart-ache.

Our little friend Dolly had shot up into a blooming and beautiful maiden – warm-hearted, enthusiastic, and whole-souled as we have seen her in her childhood. She was in everything the sympathetic response that parents love to find in a child. She entered with her whole soul into all her father's feelings and plans, and had felt and expressed such an honest, frank, and hearty friendliness to the young man, such an interest in his success, that the poor youth was beguiled into asking more than Dolly could give.

Modern young ladies, who count and catalogue their victims, would doubtless be amused to have seen Dolly's dismay at her unexpected and undesired conquest. The recoil was so positive and decided as to be beyond question, but Dolly's conscience was sorely distressed. She had meant nothing but the ordinary loving-kindness of a good and generous heart. She had wanted to make him happy, and had ended in making him apparently quite miserable; and Dolly was sincerely afflicted about it. What had she done? Had she done wrong? She never thought – never dreamed – of such a thing.

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.

"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 infant 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.