A Little Girl in Old Salem

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He finished his talk with Miss Winn. Cynthia was hopping over some coils
of cable, and he watched her agile, graceful movements, half smiling.

"Come and tell me good-bye," he said, holding out his hand. "I am going
in to Boston."

"In a vessel?"

"No; though I suppose that would be possible. I am late for the stage,
and must go on horseback."

"Where is Boston?"

"Oh, some eighteen miles--rather southerly. It is a big city, and the
capital."

"When are you coming back?" with a daintily anxious air.

"Oh, by supper-time."

"Well;" nodding.

"What shall I bring you?"

"Nothing at all. We have twice too much now, Rachel says. Only--be sure
to come back."

"If I did not, what then?"

"If you did not come back, I should go to India with Captain Corwin. I
like Miss Eunice a little, but your other lady doesn't want me," she
replied with a frankness that was amusing, it was so free from malice.

"Good-bye until to-night, then."

She put her hand in his. Then she reached up tiptoe. "Kiss me," she
said. "Father always did and he said, 'Be a good girl.'"

"Be a good girl." Chilian kissed the soft red lips and then went his
way. There was not much caressing in the restrained New England nature
of that day, especially among those who had grown up with few family
ties. His mother had died while he was yet quite a boy.

"Let us go back now," said Rachel presently. "I believe I have found all
our goods. Miss Leverett will be appalled."

The child repeated the word. "What does it mean?" she asked.

"Astonished, surprised."

"Why, _they_ have a houseful of things;" in protest.

"Then there is the less room for ours."

"But there is ever so much room in the garret."

"I almost wish we were going to live by ourselves in a little house,
like some we saw yesterday."

"Who would cook the dinner and wash the dishes?"

"Oh, I could;" laughing.

"Only us two? It would be lonesome."

"We are not likely to."

"Don't go straight home. Let us find the market again. I didn't half see
it last night."

"It wasn't night exactly. Yes--we must learn to find our way about, for
we cannot stay in all the time. This is Essex Street. Let us turn here."

The market was in its glory this morning. The stalls were ornamented
with branches of evergreens, the floors sifted over with sawdust. There
were vegetables and meats, but no great variety. There was no sunny
south, no swift train to send in delicious luxuries. The cold storage of
that day was being buried in pits and being brought out to light as
occasion required.

There were other stalls, with various household stores. Iron-holders,
tin kettles, whiskbrooms, pins (which were quite a luxury), crockery
ware even. Wagons had come in from country places and customers were
thronging about them.

The people interested Miss Winn, and the chaffering, the beating down in
prices, was quite amusing. Here a woman was measuring some cotton goods
from her chin to the ends of her fingers; here sat a cobbler doing odd
jobs while some one waited. Altogether it was very entertaining, and it
was dinner-time when they reached home.

"Mr. Leverett has gone to Boston," announced Miss Leverett. "We must
have our dinner without him."

"Yes, he was down on the ship," said Miss Winn. "Do you often go to
Boston?"

"I am much too busy to be gadding about," returned Elizabeth sharply;
"though we have connections there, and I once spent several years in the
city."

"I don't suppose it is at all like London. Eastern cities are so
different--and dirty," she added.

"Boston is very nice, quite a superior place, but we do not consider it
much above Salem," Miss Elizabeth said, with an air. "We have nearly all
of the East India trade. To be sure, there is Harvard at Cambridge, and
that calls students and professors. Cousin Chilian is a graduate. He
could have been an accepted professor if he had chosen."

Then the conversation languished. They were hardly through dinner when
the next relay of goods arrived.

"Cynthia's desk must go upstairs, I suppose. Her father had it made for
her birthday. Will Silas unpack again? There is a small cabinet of
teakwood that is beautifully carved. If you could find room in the
parlor for that. There were many other fine pieces that will no doubt be
sold, and it seems a great pity."

Elizabeth acquiesced rather frigidly, adding, "It is fortunate the house
is large, but one seems to accumulate a good deal through generations."

Cynthia went up in the garret with Miss Winn and was full of interest
over the old Leverett treasures. Here was the cradle in which Leverett
babies had been rocked, an old bit of mahogany nearly black with age.

"How funny!" cried Cynthia, springing into it, and making a clatter on
the floor.

"Don't, dear! Miss Elizabeth may not like it," said Miss Winn.

"As if I should hurt it!" indignantly.

"It is not ours."

"But we sit on their chairs, and sleep in their beds, and eat at their
table," returned the child. "Do you suppose they do not want us?"

"Our coming is Mr. Leverett's affair, and he is your guardian, so
whatever home he provides is right."

"Well, we can have a home of our own when father comes?"

"Oh, yes; when he comes."

"Well, then I shall not mind;" decisively.

Still she peered about among the old things. There were some iron
fire-dogs, a much-tarnished frame, with a cracked glass that cut her
face in a grotesque fashion, old dishes and kitchen furniture past
using, or that had been supplanted by a newer and better kind.

"Oh, dear! this is an undertaking!" declared Miss Winn, with a sigh. "I
do not believe you will ever use half these things; there are stuffs
enough to dress a queen."

It was beginning to grow dusky before she was through, though the sky
was overcast, and there would be no fine sunset. Indeed, the wind blew
up stormily. Cynthia had been viewing the place from the windows in the
four gables, though she had to stand on a box. There were South River
and the Neck and the shipping--the men, hurrying to and fro, looking so
much smaller that it puzzled Cynthia. And there was North River winding
about, and over beyond the great ocean she had crossed. There was old
St. Peter's Church, the new one was not built until long afterward, and
smaller places of worship. There was the small beginning of things to be
famous later on.

The wind began to whistle about and it grew cool, so they were glad to
go down to the cheerful sitting-room, where a fire was blazing on the
hearth.

"We shall have a storm to-night," said Miss Eunice, "our three days'
storm that usually makes its appearance about this time. Didn't you
'most perish upstairs? And what did you find to interest you?"

Cynthia had brought a stool and sat close to Miss Eunice, leaning one
arm on her knee.

"Oh, so many queer things. You don't mind if I call them queer, do you?"

"Oh, no; they _are_ queer. And when we are dead and gone some one will
call ours queer, no doubt. But we haven't many. When father died we were
on a farm just out of Marblehead. Things were mostly sold at a vendue,
for the two boys were going in the army. That was back in '78. Mother
and we two girls went to her mother's at Danvers. Elizabeth took up
sewing, but there were hard times, for the war stretched out so long,
and it did seem as if the Colonies would never gain their cause. But
they did. Brother Linus was killed, and later on I had a dear friend
lost at sea. Mother died, and we were sort of scattered about till we
came here. Cousin Chilian was very good to us. So you see we haven't
much to leave, but then we haven't any descendant;" and she gave a soft
little laugh. "Elizabeth has mother's gold comb, set with amethysts, and
a brooch, and I have the string of gold beads and some rings. A cousin
in London sent them to grandmother."

"Eunice, you might set the table," said Elizabeth, rather sharply. "I'm
making some fritters. They will taste good this cold night."

"Couldn't I help?" asked Rachel.

"Oh, you must be tired enough without doing any more. It's a good thing
you have all your belongings housed. The garret doesn't leak."

"Yes, I am thankful. I really did not think there was so much."

There was a savory fragrance in the sitting-room. Chilian came in,
looking weary with his long ride.

"It is almost wintry cold," he said, holding his hands to the fire.
"Have you had a nice day, little girl?"

"Yes;" glancing up with a smile.

They did justice to Bessy's nice supper. Chilian had seen Cousin Giles,
who sent remembrances to them all, and was coming up some day to see
Letty Orne's little girl. Chilian found there was a good deal of
business to do. For a while his days of leisure and ease would be over.

Then he brought out a Boston paper and read them some of the news. Miss
Eunice went on with her fringe. Elizabeth was knitting a sock for
Chilian out of fine linen yarn, spun by herself, and she put pretty
open-work stitches all up the instep. For imported articles were still
dear, and there was a pride in the women to do all for themselves that
they could. Cynthia leaned her head on Rachel's lap and went asleep.

"Do hear that rain! The storm has begun in good earnest."

It was rushing like a tramp of soldiers, flinging great sheets against
the closed shutters, and the wind roared in the chimney like some
prisoned spirit.

"Wake up, Cynthia, and say good-night."

Elizabeth watched the child. Her theory was that children should be put
to bed early and not allowed to lie around on any one's lap. There was
always a tussle of wills when you roused them. She drew herself up with
a kind of severe mental bracing and awaited the result, glad Chilian was
there.

Rachel toyed with the hair, patted the soft flushed cheek, and took the
hands in hers.

"Cynthia," she said gently, "Cynthia, dear, wake up."

The child roused, opened her eyes. "I'm so tired," she murmured. "Will
we never be done crossing the wide, wide ocean? And where is Salem?"

"We are there, dear, safe and housed from the storm. You have been
asleep on my knee. Come to bed now. Say good-night."

She stood the little girl up on her feet and put one arm around her.

It was against Elizabeth Leverett's theories that any child should go
off peaceably, with no snarling protest. Chilian raised his book a
little, hoping in the depths of his soul there would be no scene.

"Say good-night."

No child of Puritan training, with the fear of the rod before her eyes,
could have done better. She said good-night in a very sleepy tone, and
slipped her arm about Rachel's waist as they left the room together.

No one made any comment at first. Then Eunice said, in what she made a
casual tone:

"She seems a very tractable child."

"You can't tell by one instance. Children of that age are always
self-willed. And allowing a child to lie around one's lap, when she
should have said her prayers and gone to bed at the proper hour, is a
most reprehensible habit. And I don't suppose she ever says a prayer."

Eunice thought of the daily prayers for her father's safe journey. Would
that be set down as a sort of idolatry?

Chilian picked up his papers; he had grown fastidious, and rarely left
his belongings about to annoy Elizabeth. Eunice rolled up her work and
dropped it in the bag that hung on the post of her chair, straightened
up a few things, stood the logs in the corner and put up the wire
fender, so there should be no danger of fire; while Elizabeth set all
things straight in the kitchen.

Cynthia meanwhile was undressed and mounted the steps to the high bed.
Then she flung her arms about Rachel's neck.

"Oh, come and sleep in my bed to-night!" she cried pleadingly. "It's so
big and lonesome, that I am afraid. I wish it was like your little bed.
They were so cunning on the ship. I don't like this one, where you have
to go upstairs to get in it. Oh, do come!"

And Elizabeth Leverett would have been shocked if she could have seen
the child cuddled up in her attendant's arms. Theoretically, she
believed Holy Writ--"He hath made of one blood all nations." Practically
she made many exceptions.

CHAPTER V

MAKING FRIENDS WITH THE LITTLE GIRL

The northeast storm was terrific. The wind lashed the ocean until it
writhed and groaned and sent great billows up on the land. The trees
bent to the fierce blasts; many storms had toughened them and perhaps
taught them the wisdom of yielding, since it must be break or bend.
Silas sat in the barn mending tools and harness and clearing up
generally; Elizabeth spent most of the first day clearing up the garret
again, and looking with a grudging eye on the new accession of boxes,
and sniffing up the queer smell disdainfully.

"One can't have the windows open," she ruminated, "and the smell must go
through the house. I don't believe it will ever get out."

More than one family in Salem had stores from the Orient. Many of them
liked the fragrance of sandalwood and strange perfumes. "God's fresh air
was good enough for her," said Elizabeth.

Eunice had finished her fringe and brought out some patchwork in the
afternoon--a curious pattern, called basket-work. The basket was made of
green chintz, with a small yellow figure here and there. It had a handle
from side to side, neatly hemmed on a white half square. The upper edge
of the basket was cut in points and between each one was a bit of color
to represent or suggest a possible bud of some kind. One had pink,
different shades of red, and a bright yellow. She had seven blocks
finished and they were in the bottom of the box. Eunice took them out
for the little girl, who spread them on the floor.

No one was thinking at that day of the mills that would dot New England,
where cotton cloths, calicoes, and cambrics would be turned out by the
bale. These things had to be imported and were costly. One could dye
plain colors that were used for frocks and gowns, and some of the hand
looms wove ginghams that were dyed in the thread beforehand.

"It will take forty-two blocks," said Miss Eunice. "Six one way, seven
the other."

"Then what are you going to do with it?" asked the child eagerly.

"Why, quilt it. Put some cotton between this and the lining, and sew
them together with fine stitches."

"And then----"

"Why"--Eunice wondered herself. There were chests of them piled away in
the garret--Chilian's mother's, and those they had made to fill in the
moments when housework was finished. She had a quiet sense of humor, and
she smiled. What were they laying up these treasures for? Neither of
them would be married, most of their relatives were well provided for.

"Well, some one may like to have them;" after a pause. "You must learn
to sew."

"Patchwork?"

It was absurd to pile up any more.

"You see," said the child, "no one needed them over there;" inclining
her head to the East. "You have a little bed and a pallet, and it is
warm, so you do not need quilts. And the poor people and the servants
have a mat they spread down anywhere and a blanket, but you see, they
sleep with their clothes on."

Eunice looked rather horrified.

"But they change them! They would--why, there would be soil and vermin."

"They go to the river and bathe and wash them out. They sling them on
the stones in a queer way. But some of them are very dirty and ragged.
They are not like the English and us, and don't wear many clothes.
Sometimes they are wrapped up in a white sheet."

"It is a very queer country. They are not civilized, or Christianized. I
don't know what will become of them in the end."

"It's their country and no one knows how old it is. China is the oldest
country in the world."

"But, my dear, there was the garden of Eden when God first created the
world. Nothing could be older than that, you know. Two thousand years to
the flood, and two thousand years to the coming of Christ, and some
people think the world will end in another two thousand years."

"I don't see any sense in burning it up, when there are so many lovely
things in it;" and Cynthia's eyes took on a deep, inquiring expression.
"That was what the chaplain used to say. Father thought it would go on
and on, getting wiser and greater, and the people learning to be better
and making wonderful things."

"My dear, what the Bible says _must_ be true. And it will be burned up.
You have a Bible?"

"The chaplain gave me a pretty prayer-book. It is upstairs."

"We do not believe in prayer-books, dear." The tone was soft, yet
decided. "We came over here, at least our forefathers did, that we might
worship God according to the dictates of our conscience. We tried to
leave the prayer-books and the bishops behind, but we couldn't quite.
You must have a Bible and read a chapter every day. Why, I had read it
through once before I was as old as you."

Cynthia simply stared. Then, after a pause, she said:

"Did you sew patchwork, too?"

"When I was eight I had finished a quilt. And I learned to knit. I knit
my own stockings; I always have. And I braided rags for a mat. Mother
sewed it together."

"And your clothes--who made those?"

"Well--mother made some. But a woman used to come round fall and spring
and make for the girls and boys, though father bought his best suit. He
had one when he was married; it was his freedom suit as well----"

"Why, was he a prisoner?" the child interrupted.

"Oh, no;" smiling a little. "Boys had to be subject to their fathers
until they were twenty-one. Then they had a suit of clothes all the way
through and their time, which meant they were at liberty to work for any
one and ask wages. He had been courting mother and they were married
soon after, so it was his wedding suit. He had outgrown it before he
died, so he had to get a new one. Mother sold that to a neighbor that it
just fitted."

"Tell me some more about them." Cynthia was fond of stories. And this
was about real folks, not the fantastic legends she had heard so often.

"Well--he and mother worked, she had been living with a family. Girls
did in those days, and were like daughters of the house. Father went to
work there. They were married in the spring and in the fall he took a
place on shares; that is, he had half of everything, and they divided up
the house. A year or so afterward it was for sale, and he bought it, and
we were all born there, and there was no change until he died. That was
a sad thing for us. He'd been buying some more land, and the place
wasn't clear. Another man stood ready to buy it, and mother thought it
best to sell. You see there was a good deal of trouble between us and
England, who wanted to get all the money she could out of the Colonies,
and wasn't willing to send troops to protect us from the Indians, and we
had to sell our produce and things to her, and presently the Colonies
wouldn't stand it any longer, and there was war. Some people were
bitterly opposed to it, some favored it. Then we wouldn't take the tea
she insisted on our buying, and there was the Stamp Act. And Salem
really made the first armed resistance. You must go out some nice day to
North Bridge. The British troops marched up from Marblehead to seize
some arms they heard were stored here. General Gage sent them. But the
people had word, for a Major Pedrick rode up to give the alarm, and they
hid them in a secure place. Colonel Leslie headed the British troops to
make the search. But the people of Salem turned out strong and met the
colonel and declared that he was marching on private property, not on
the King's highway, that the lane and the bridge were private property,
where he had no right. You see, war had not been declared and the people
had a right to defend their own. So they would not allow them to cross
the river and make a search. But, finally, they agreed, if the draw over
the river could be lowered and they allowed to march a few rods, they
would withdraw. Of course, they saw nothing suspicious and came back,
keeping their word. Otherwise, I suppose, that would have been the first
battle of the war. We were not living here then, but Cousin Chilian's
father lived in this very house."

"And the arms were really there!" Cynthia drew a long breath.

"Oh, yes! They were ships' cannon going to be mounted for protection.
Some day Cousin Chilian may take you over to the bridge and tell you all
about it. There was a romance about a girl said to be in love with a
British officer, but you are too young for such stories."

If she had not been, the entrance of Elizabeth and Miss Winn would have
checked the garrulity of Eunice. Cynthia had been laying down the small
diamond-shaped pieces, making a block.

"Why do you let the child muddle over those pieces, Eunice? The carpet
may not be clean," said Elizabeth sharply.

"And it is getting dark, so we had better put them all up. Mercy! how it
still rains. Why, it seems as if there would be another flood."

"That can never happen. We have the promise."

"That the whole world will not be destroyed. But parts of it may suffer.
You and Cynthia are fortunate not to be in it;" and Eunice raised her
eyes to them, with a certain thankfulness.

It had not stopped yet in the morning, but the wind was veering to the
south, the air was not so cold and the rain much gentler. Cynthia
wandered about like an unquiet spirit. It was cold up in their room.
Chilian had proposed a fire, but Elizabeth had negatived it sharply.

"There ought to be room enough in the dining-room and keeping-room for
two extra people," she said decidedly.

He felt sorry for the little girl with her downcast face, as he met her
on the landing.

"Don't you want to come and visit me?" he asked, in an inviting tone.

"Oh, yes!" and the grave little face lightened.

The blaze was brighter here than downstairs, she felt quite sure. And
the room had a more cheerful look. The table was spread with books and
papers, and, oh, the books that were on the shelves! The curious things
above them suggested India. There really was the triple-faced god she
had seen so often, carved in ivory, and another carving of a temple. She
walked slowly round and inspected them. Then she paused at a window.

"How much it rains!" she began. "I don't see how so much rain can be
made. When is it going to stop?"

"I think it will hold up this afternoon and be clear to-morrow, clear
and sunny."

"I like sunshine best. And little rains. This has been so long."

"And we haven't much to amuse a child. When it clears up we must find
some little folks. Does it seem very strange to you?"

"I haven't lived with big women much, except Rachel. And the houses are
so different. You get things about, and the servants pick them up. There
are so many servants. Sometimes there are white children, but not many.
Their mothers take them back to England. Or they die."

She uttered the last sadly, and her long lashes drooped.

He wondered a little how she had stood the climate. She looked more like
a foreigner than a native of Salem town.

"What did you do there?" He hardly knew how to talk to a little girl.

"Oh, a great many things. I went to ride in a curious sort of cart--the
natives pulled it. Then the children came and played in the court. They
threw up balls and caught them, ever so many, and they played curious
games on the stones, and acrobatic feats, and sung, and danced, and
acted stories of funny things. Then father read to me, and told me about
Salem when he was a little boy. You can't really think the grown-up
people were little, like you."

"And that one day you will be big like them."

She pushed up her sleeve. They were large and made just big enough for
her hand at the wrist, not at all like the straight, small sleeves of
the Puritan children. After surveying it a moment, she said gravely:

"I can't understand _how_ you grow. You must be pushed out all the time
by something inside."

"You have just hit it;" and he smiled approvingly. "It is the forces
inside. There is a curious factory inside of us that keeps working, day
and night, that supplies the blood, the warmth, the strength, and is
always pushing out; it even enlarges the bones until one is grown and
finished, as one may say. And the food you eat, the air you breathe, are
the supplies."

"But you go on eating and breathing. Why don't you go on growing?"

There was a curious little knot in her forehead where the lines crossed,
and she raised her eyes questioningly to him. What wonderful eyes they
were!

"I suppose it is partly this: You employ your mind and your body and
they need more nourishment. Then--well, I think it is the restraining
law of nature, else we should all be giants. In very hot countries and
very cold countries they do not grow so large."

He could not go into the intricacies of physiology, as he did with some
of the students.

"You did not go to school?"

"Oh, no!" She laughed softly. "The native schools were funny. They sat
on mats and did not have any books, but repeated after the teacher. And,
sometimes, he beat them dreadfully. There were some English people had a
school, but it was to teach the language to the natives. And then Mr.
Cathcart came to stay with father. He had been the chaplain somewhere
and wasn't well, so they gave him a--a----"

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