A Little Girl in Old Salem

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Chilian studied the honest young fellow, whose face was in a glow of
hope. So young to dream of love and plan for the future!

"You are both too young;" and his voice had a bit of sharpness in it.
"Cynthia is not thinking of such things."

"But one _can_ think of them. They begin somehow and go into your very
life. I believe I've loved her a long while."

"I think neither of you really know what love is. No, I cannot consent
to it. I want her to go on having a good free time without any anxiety.
I have some right to her, being her guardian."

"But--I will wait--I didn't mean to ask her immediately."

"We are going on a journey presently. I cannot have her disturbed with
this. No, your attention must be devoted to business for the next two
years."

He drew a long breath. "But you don't mean I must break
off--everything?" and there was an unsteadiness in his voice.

"Oh, no. Not if you can keep to the old friendliness."

Then Chilian Leverett dropped into his easy-chair and thought. The child
had grown very dear to him, she was a gift from her father. A
tumultuous, uncomprehended pain wrenched his very soul. To live without
her--to miss her everywhere! To have lonely days, longer lonely evenings
when the dreariness of winter set in. And yet she had a right to the
sweet, rich draught of love. But she did not need it amid all the
pleasures of youth. Let her have two or three years, even if it was
blissful thoughtlessness. But he must put her on her guard. A young
fellow soon changed his mind. The old couplet sang itself in his brain:

"If she be not fair for me,
What care I how fair she be?"

Did he get over his early love and forget? We all say, "But ours was
different."

How to find the right moment? Ben did not come over. She was very busy
with this friend and that, youth finds so _many_ interests. But one
evening, when they were sitting on the porch in the moonlight, the young
fellow walked slowly along, glanced at them, halted.

She flew down to the gate.

"Oh, Ben, what has happened?" she cried, the most bewitching anxiety in
her face. "Why, you have not been in--for weeks."

"Not quite two weeks." Had it seemed so long to her? To him it had been
months.

"Oh, come in. Cousin Chilian will be glad to see you."

The radiant cordiality in her face unnerved him.

"And you?" Yes, he must know.

"Do you have to ask that question?"

The sweet, dangerous eyes said too much, but the smile was that of
amusement.

So they walked up the path together. Mr. Leverett greeted him in a
friendly manner.

"I thought I ought to come in and say good-bye. I'm going off on some
business for father, and may not be back for several weeks."

"That sounds as if you needed an apology for coming at all," she
commented with half-resentful gayety.

He flushed and made no immediate reply.

"And we are going to take a journey as well. Up somewhere in Maine. Mr.
Giles Leverett insists we shall, for our health, but I think it is our
delightful company. He has to go to look after a large estate where some
people think of founding a town. Isn't it funny?" and she gave her
bewitching laugh that was like the notes of silver bells, soft, yet
clear. "They must go off and build up new places. And some people are
going West, as if there wasn't room here. Have you noticed that we are
overcrowded?"

"Well, sometimes along the docks it looks that way."

"I like a good many people. Often Merrits' is crowded, and it's funny to
catch bits of sentences. And at Plummer's as well. Did you ever read
right across the paper, one line in each column, and notice the odd and
twisted-up sense it made? That's about the way it sounds."

How bright and charming she was! Ben could not keep his eyes from her
radiant face. Was she really a coquette, Chilian wondered. Yet she was
so simple with it all, so seemingly careless of the effect. That was the
danger of it.

He lingered like one entranced. Poor young lad! Chilian began to feel
sorry for him.

She walked down to the gate with him, and hoped they would have a nice
time when autumn came, if he meant to stay in Salem.

A young man not in love would have called her a bright, merry, chatty
girl. He went away with the consciousness that she liked him very much.
Chilian asked her if she did.

She glanced up wonderingly.

"Why--he is nice, and being Polly's brother makes it--well, more
familiar. Then we can talk about Anthony. I believe he didn't like him
much at first, but he does now."

Oh, how could he put her on her guard! She was not dreaming of love.
Saltonstall's fancy had died out--no doubt this would, too. Lad's love.
Was it worth ruffling up the sunny artlessness? But he would watch the
young men closer now that he knew the danger line.

He said simply to himself that he could not give her up to any one else
so soon. There would be a long life of joy and satisfaction to her, and
he knew she would not grudge him these few years. Then, too, he was
quite certain she had not even had an imaginary fancy for these two
men--Ben was nothing but a boy.

Anthony Drayton was to join them. Miss Winn was to be Cynthia's
companion. Mrs. Stevens had refused to trust her precious self to any
wilds, and bear and wolf hunts, though Mr. Giles declared they were not
going to take guns along. He was not an enthusiastic hunter. As for
Chilian, such sport did not attract him.

The journey was partly by stage, partly on horseback, and one or two
days they left the ladies at the tavern where they stopped. Cynthia was
charmed and amused at the uncouthness of the people and their dialect in
some places, and positive good breeding in others. Anthony unearthed a
college chum who was tally man at a sawmill. The new town was really
making progress. A small chapel had been started, a schoolhouse built.
And twenty years later it was a pretty town; in fifty years an
enterprising city.

"Anthony's going to be a first-class fellow. I should like to have such
a son. Chilian, you and I should have married and have sons and
daughters growing up. But at my time of life I should want them grown
up. And smart, as well. I always feel sorry for the fathers of dull
lads, when they have plenty of means to educate them. Yes, I should want
mine to have a good supply of brains."

Chilian Leverett enjoyed the change very much and the breath of spruce
and pine was invigorating. But there was a little nervous feeling about
Cynthia. Cousin Giles was somewhat of a lady's man, and he was on the
continual lookout that Cynthia should not tire herself unduly, that she
be assisted over the rough places, that she should have the best of
everything. He was almost jealous at times.

But Cynthia moved about gayly, serenely, full of merry little quips,
seizing the small ridiculous events with such a sense of amusement that
she inspirited them all. And he could not notice that she paid any more
attention to Anthony than either of her seniors. There was such a
genuine frankness in all she said and did, a charm of manner that was
just herself, and had none of the arts of society, but came from a heart
that overflowed with spontaneous warmth, but was not directed to any
particular person.

Cousin Giles declared he was sorry to get back to Boston. He could not
remember when he had enjoyed such a good time. Then in a business way it
had been a success, which added to his satisfaction.

They really had to stay in Boston one night. They would fain have kept
Cynthia for a week, but she said she was tired of just changing from one
frock to another, and longed for more variety.

"And I'm so glad to get back home again," she cried delightedly. "I've
had a splendid time, and I like Anthony ever so much. Cousin Giles was
so nice and fatherly. He ought to adopt Anthony and give him his name,
and that would always make me think of father. But after all, home is
best. Oh, suppose I was a waif, just being handed from one to another!"

She looked frightened with the imaginary lot. She expressed emotions so
easily.

"You couldn't have been;" hoarsely.

"Cousin Chilian, if you had not been in the world, or if you hadn't been
willing to take me--I don't think father knew much about Cousin
Giles--why, I must have gone to strangers."

There were tears in her eyes, and a sweet melancholy in her voice.

She had so much to tell Cousin Eunice that it seemed really as if she
had taken the journey with them. She put on Jane's faded gingham
sunbonnet and gave her voice a queer nasal twang, and talked as some of
the women did up there in the wilderness, who thought a city "must be an
awfully crowdy place an' she jes' didn't see how people managed to live
in it. An' as fer the sea, give her dry land every time."

Then she talked the French-English patois of the emigrants from Canada,
and told of their funny attire, and their log huts, sometimes with only
one big room, with a stone chimney in the centre, and sawed logs for
seats.

"They did that in Salem nigh on to two hundred years ago," said Cousin
Eunice.

"How much people do learn by living," remarked the little girl sagely.

Then the olden round began. Being asked out to tea and inviting in
return, sewing bees, quilting parties when some girl was making an
outfit. And though the elders shook their heads at such a waste of time,
they went out to walk in the afternoon and stopped in the shops that
were making a show on Essex Street and Federal Street. There was Miss
Rust's pretty millinery parlor--it had a sofa in the front room and a
table with an embroidered cover that Cynthia had sent her. They talked
of new styles and colors, and were aghast at the thought that royalty
sometimes had as many as twenty hats and bonnets. She made pretty old
lady caps as well, and she did love to hear the young girls chatter. And
Molly Saunders was still baking gingerbread, that had delighted them as
school children, and no one made such good spruce and sassafras beer.

One evening at a dance she had a great surprise. Some one said, "Miss
Cynthia Leverett, Mr. Marsh."

A rather tall, ruddy, good-looking fellow, with laughing eyes and an
unmistakable sailor air, held her dainty hand and studied her face.

"Oh, you don't know me!" in the jolliest of tones. "And I should know
you if you had been cast ashore on a rocky island and I were looking at
you through a spyglass. You haven't changed in the main, only to grow
prettier. You were a poor pale little thing then."

"Oh, I can't think!" She flushed and smiled. Something in the hearty
voice won her.

"At Dame Wilby's school. And the bad boy who sat behind you--Tommy
Marsh."

"Oh! oh! And that day I sat on the floor!" She laughed gayly. She did
not mind it a bit now.

"Wasn't it funny? And the way you just sat still with the school in an
uproar. You standing up there and 'sassing' back the old dame! Such a
mite of a thing, too. My! but you were a plucky one!" in admiration.
"And you never came to school after that. I ought to get down on my
knees and beg your pardon for the sly pinches I gave you, and the times
I tweaked your curly hair. I've half a mind to do it."

"Oh, no!" and she made a funny gesture of alarm, and both laughed.

"And I've been over there to India, where you came from, and found some
people who knew your father. I've been to sea seven years, three on this
last cruise, and when the _Vixen_ is repaired and refitted I'm going out
again as first mate. One of these days I shall be a captain."

How proud and strong he looked. Why, one couldn't help liking him.

"I wonder if I might dance with you?"

"Oh, do you dance? I thought sailors--and there are no girls----" and
she blushed at her incoherence.

"I think we do a little. Where did you get the Sailor's Hornpipe from?
We're sorry about not having girls, but we make it answer. And when you
get in the doldrums, or becalmed, it stirs up your blood. Oh, they are
taking their places."

Ben was in the same quadrille. Every time he touched her hand he gave it
a pressure that made her cheeks rosier. Altogether it was a delightful
evening.

Cousin Chilian came for her. He had found she preferred it.

"Oh, Cousin Chilian, I've had such a funny adventure. Perhaps you can
recall the little boy I really hated that week I went to the dame's
school. Well, he is a nice big fellow now, and we had a talk, and he
has been to Calcutta and seen people who knew father. I want him to come
so we can have a good long talk, and won't you ask him? You'll like him,
I know. I'll find him and bring him to you, and you can ask him to come
while I'm putting on my things."

She hunted him up and he was very pleased to meet Mr. Leverett. She gave
them quite a while, for she was chatting with the girls about some
weddings on the tapis.

She gave Mr. Marsh her hand and a smile that would have set almost any
masculine heart beating. It must have been born with her, though it was
pitifully appealing in the childhood days. Now the true, sweet nature
shone through it, lending it a fascinating radiance.

Mr. Leverett said he should be glad to have him call while he was in
port, and the young man thanked him and said he should give himself the
pleasure.

"And when he does come," said the little lady in her half-coaxing,
half-imperious way, "can't we have him up in the study? You see, it does
very well for half a dozen of us to be down in the parlor, but it gets
kind of stiff and not cheerful with just one. And you'll like to talk to
him."

He assented readily. Ben always came up in the study, though now he
would rather have been alone with Cynthia. There were some things he
meant to say, if he ever had a chance, in spite of youth and
guardianship.

Mr. Marsh did not lose much time considering. The very next week he
called.

They found him a nice, agreeable, well-informed young man, a true sailor
lad, and like many a Yankee boy, he kept adding to his stock of
knowledge where-ever he went. He had drawn some useful charts of
seaports and islands he knew about, their products and climates, and
really his descriptions were as good as a geography.

"There's no doubt Salem has the lead in the foreign trade, but we're
going to be pushed hard the next few years. Other cities have found out
the profit in it. But we've some of the best captains, and that's what I
mean to be myself."

At Calcutta they still held a warm remembrance of Captain Anthony
Leverett. And Marsh thought it quite a wonderful thing that the little
girl had gone back and forth and braved all the perils. He told them of
a pirate ship they had once battled with and the rich stores they had
taken from her. The prisoners had been left on an island.

"But--how would they get to their homes?" she asked.

"Oh, that wasn't our lookout. They'd have done the same thing to us if
they could, maybe worse. Occasionally vessels are wrecked, and sometimes
it is months before a ship goes that way and sees their signal."

Yes, she was glad nothing of the kind had happened to her. And Chilian,
watching the little shiver, gave thanks also.

Thomas Marsh enjoyed these evenings wonderfully. He was always glancing
at Cynthia to see if what he said met with her approval. It seemed so
strangely sweet to be thrilled at the tones of her voice and the touch
of her hand. And when she looked up and smiled, the blood surged to his
brain. He was quite a favorite with the girls, but no other one had that
power over him.

Of course, they met here and there at the different companies--he never
went unless she was sure to be there, and if he asked she answered
frankly. Cousin Chilian took her down to see the _Vixen_, which was
nearly ready for her new cruise. He was very proud of her, so was
Captain Langfelt, and they had some tea in the cabin. But some sudden
knowledge came to Chilian Leverett, and he was sincerely glad the young
man was going away.

The evening Thomas Marsh came in to say good-bye, she was alone.

"You'll find Miss Cynthia up in the study," said Jane, and thither he
went two steps at a time. She had on a soft gown, and he thought she
looked like some lovely flower as she rose to greet him.

"I believe we are to sail to-morrow. Stores and cargo are all in, and
now the captain is in haste to be off. Come down about eleven in the
morning and wish me God-speed, a safe journey, and a happy return."

"Yes. We were talking of it to-day. Oh, I hope you will have all, though
a great many things happen in three years." Neither of them, indeed no
one, could have predicted what was to happen in those eventful three
years.

They discussed the pleasant times, the girls and boys who had grown up
and married during the whole seven years of his absence. Oh, how sweet
and pretty she was! He envied the boys like Bentley Upham and two or
three others who had business at home--but no, he never could have been
anything but a sailor.

Then he rose to go. He stood holding her hand and the red and white kept
flitting over her face, her eyes were so soft and dark. They would haunt
him many a night on the deck.

"It's best that I am going so soon," he began in a rather tremulous
voice. "Do you remember what your uncle was reading the other day about
the man who wanted to be lashed to the mast when they passed the Syrens?
It would be that way with me if I staid much longer. I--I wouldn't be
able to help loving you, and I doubt whether it would be a good thing
for either of us. I've tried all along to keep it to a plain, honest
like, but I know now it is more than that. I shall take away with me the
remembrance of the sweetest girl in all the world, and I have no right
to spoil her life. But sometimes maybe you'll think of a far-away lad,
who sends you his love and the best wishes for your happiness with the
man you will love best of all."

Then he pressed her hand to his lips and went slowly down the stairs.
She heard the door shut. And, foolish girl, she sat down and cried, and
there Cousin Chilian found her, and had to listen and absolve.

"No," he said, "it would not do for you to have a sailor lad. Your
tender heart would break with the anxiety. He's a nice, upright fellow,
and he will never shirk a duty. But you----" What should he say to her?

"I want to stay here. Oh, I wonder if you will like me when I get as old
as Cousin Eunice, and the world will change and improve and I shall be
queer and old-fashioned?"

He held her in his arms, but he was shocked to find what was in his own
heart.

CHAPTER XVI

PERILOUS PATHS

Avis Manning's "Company" was one of the events of the season. She was a
full-fledged young lady, and knowing she could have her choice of the
young men of Salem, was rather difficult to capture. She and her
brother-in-law were very good friends, but not lovers. And Laura, who
knew where his fancy lay, counselled him to go slowly, though she was
quite sure he would win in the end.

"You see, she is like a child to Mr. Chilian Leverett, and he is loath
to part with her. But all girls do marry sooner or later, and he isn't
selfish enough to want her to stay single. If he was not so much older
he might marry her--they are not own cousins, you know."

"He marry her! Why, he's getting to be quite an old man," and there was
a touch of disdain in his tone. "But there's half a dozen others----"

"It's queer, but she isn't a flirt. She's one of the sweetest of
girls--she was, at school. And with her fortune she might hold herself
high. They say the Boston trustee has doubled some of it that he
invested."

"I wish she hadn't a cent!" the young man flung out angrily.

"Well, money is not to be despised. She'll get a little tired by and by,
and long for a home and children of her own, as we all do. And if you
haven't found any one else----"

"I never shall find any one like her;" gloomily.

"Oh, there are a great many nice girls in the world."

Avis knew all the best people in Salem, it was not so large, after all.
And they came to the beautiful house and made merry, played "guessing
words"--what we call charades, quite a new thing then--and it made no
end of merriment. Of course, Cynthia was in them, was arch and piquant,
and delighted the audience. Then they had supper and more dancing. One
of the Turner boys, Archibald, hovered about Cynthia like a shadow.
There was Ben Upham, but Edward Saltonstall warded them off to her
satisfaction. But Bella Turner was shortly to be married, and Archie
would have her for that evening surely.

She and Mr. Saltonstall were very good friends. He was a little older
than the others, and grown wary by experience. But it was queer that
half a dozen girls were pulling straws for him and here was one who did
not care, would not raise a finger, but, oh, how sweet her smiles were.

"If you are a bridesmaid the third time, you will never be a bride,"
said some of the wiseacres.

Cynthia tossed her proud, dainty head and laughed over it to Cousin
Chilian. He looked a little grave.

"Would you mind if I were an old maid? I wouldn't really be _old_ in a
long while, you know. And you will always want some one. If anything
should happen to Cousin Eunice, how lonely you would be."

"Yes, if you went away."

"I don't care for any of them very much. I like Mr. Saltonstall the
best. He isn't quite so young, so--so sort of impetuous. And the boys
get jealous."

Then it was likely to be Mr. Saltonstall, after all! Was he going to be
narrow and mean enough to keep her out of what was best in a woman's
life? But he looked down the dreary years without her. He could not
attach himself to the world of business as Cousin Giles did. Some of
these young fellows might come into a sort of sonship with him--there
was Anthony Drayton.

Why was it his soul protested against them? He did not understand the
deep underlying dissent that made a cruel discordance in his desire for
her happiness.

Mr. Saltonstall walked home from church with her and Miss Winn. And he
came in one evening to ask some advice. He had cudgelled his brain for
days to find just the right subject. That ended, they had a talk about
chess--that was becoming quite an interest in some circles. There were
several moves that puzzled him.

"Come in some evening and talk them over," said Mr. Leverett.

Edward Saltonstall wondered at the favor of the gods and accepted. Not
as if he was in any vulgar hurry, but he dropped in, politely social,
and asked if he should disturb them. Chilian had been reading Southey's
"Thalaba."

"Oh, no. We often read in the evening," said Cynthia.

She was netting a bead bag, an industry all the rage then among the
women. They really were prettier than the samplers. But she rose and
brought the box of chessmen, while he rolled the table from its corner.

"Will I disturb you if I stay?" she asked.

"Not unless it interferes with Mr. Saltonstall's attention," said
Chilian, then bit his lip.

"Oh, I do not think it will;" smilingly.

"You are very good to bother with a tyro. I'd like to be able to play a
good game. Father is so fond of it, and Lynde seldom comes in
nowadays--family cares;" laughingly.

They led off very well. Saltonstall was wise enough to try his best,
though out of one eye he watched the dainty fingers threading in and out
among the colored beads, and could not help thinking he would rather be
holding them and pressing kisses on the soft white hand. Then he made a
wrong play.

"We may as well turn back," said Mr. Leverett, "since the question at
stake is not winning, but improving."

"You are very good," returned the young man meekly.

This time they went on a little further, but the result was the same. So
with the third game.

"Of course, I could let you win," Mr. Leverett began, "but that wouldn't
conduce to the real science of the game which a good player desires. But
you do very well for a young man. I should keep on, if I were you."

"And annoy you with my shortcomings?"

"Oh, it will not be annoyance, truly. Come in when you feel like it."

"Thank you." Then he said good-night in a friendly, gentlemanly manner,
and Cynthia rose and bowed.

After that she gathered up her work and said good-night. Chilian sat and
thought. Edward Saltonstall was a nice, steady young fellow; that is, he
neither gamed, nor drank, nor went roystering round in the taverns
jollying with the sailors, as some of the sons of really good families
did. He would not have all his fortune to make, and his father's
business was well established. The sons would take it. The two daughters
were well married. What more could he ask for Cynthia? She was not so
young now and would know her own mind.

Yet it gave his heart a sharp, mysterious wrench, a longing for what he
was putting away, the essence of the solemn ideals of love that run
through the intricate meshes of the human soul. He knew that he loved
her, that he wanted her for his very own, and his conscience told him it
was not right. Of all her admirers he liked this one the best. Under
other circumstances he would have considered him an admirable young man.

Saltonstall dropped in now and then, not too often. He did not mean to
startle any one with his purpose, but to let it grow gradually. Still,
at the last assembly of the season, his attentions were somewhat
pronounced. It was partly her doings, she was sheltering herself from
other rather warm indications.

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