A Little Girl in Old Salem, Amanda Minnie Douglas [the snowy day read aloud .TXT] 📗

CONTENTS

CHAPTER

I TWO LETTERS

II THE LITTLE GIRL

III A STRANGER, YET AT HOME

IV UNWELCOME

V MAKING FRIENDS WITH THE LITTLE GIRL

VI GOING TO SCHOOL

VII CHANGEFUL LIGHTS OF CHILDHOOD

VIII SORROW'S CROWN OF SORROW

IX LESSONS OF LIFE

X A NEW DEPARTURE

XI THE VOICE OF A ROSE

XII CHANGES IN THE OLD HOUSE

XIII A TASTE OF PLEASURE

XIV IN GAY OLD SALEM

XV LOVERS AND LOVERS

XVI PERILOUS PATHS

XVII THE FLOWERING OF THE SOUL

XVIII THE PASSING OF OLD SALEM


CHAPTER I

TWO LETTERS

The Leveretts were at their breakfast in the large sunny room in Derby Street. It had an outlook on the garden, and beyond the garden was a lane, well used and to be a street itself in the future. Then, at quite a distance, a strip of woods on a rise of ground, that still further enhanced the prospect. The sun slanted in at the windows on one side, there was nothing to shut it out. It would go all round the house now, and seem to end where it began, in the garden.

Chilian was very fond of it. He always brought his book to the table; he liked to eat slowly, to gaze out and digest one or two thoughts at his leisure, as well as the delightful breakfast set before him. He was a man of delicate tastes and much refinement, for with all the New England sturdiness, hardness one might say, there was in many families a strain of what we might term high breeding. His face, with its clear-cut features, indicated this. His hair was rather light, fine, with a few waves in it that gave it a slightly tumbled look--far from any touch of disorder. His eyes were a deep, clear blue, his complexion fair enough for a woman.

His father and grandfather had lived and died in this house. He had bought out his sister's share when she married, and she had gone to Providence. He had asked the two relatives of his father--termed cousins by courtesy--to continue housekeeping. They were the last of their family and in rather straitened circumstances. Miss Elizabeth was nearing sixty, tall, straight, fair, and rather austere-looking. Eunice was two years younger, shorter, a trifle stouter, with a rounder face, and a mouth that wore a certain sweetness when it did not actually smile.

Chilian was past thirty. He was a Harvard graduate, and now went in two days each week for teaching classes. His father had left some business interests in Salem, rather distasteful to him, but he was a strictly conscientious person and attended to them, if with a sort of mental protest. For the rest, he was a bookworm and revelled in intellectual pursuits.

The day previous had been desperately stormy, this late March morning was simply glorious. The mail, which came late in the afternoon, had not been delivered, causing no uneasiness, as letters were not daily visitors. But now the serving-man, with a gentle rap, opened the door and said briefly:

"Letters."

Eunice rose and took them.

"An East Indian one for you, Chilian, and why--one from Boston--for you, Elizabeth. It is Cousin Giles' hand."

Elizabeth reached for it. They were both so interested that they took no note of Chilian's missive. She cut carefully around the big wafer he had used. It was a large letter sheet, quite blue and not of over-fine quality. Envelopes had not come in and there was quite an art in folding a letter--unfolding it as well.

"Really what has started Cousin Giles? I hope no one is dead----"

"There would have been a black seal."

"Oh, yes, m'm;" making a curious sound with closed lips. "They are well. Oh, the Thatchers have been visiting them and are coming out here for a week--why, on Saturday, and to-day is Thursday. Chilian, do you hear that?"

"What?" he asked, closing his book over his own letter.

"Why, the Thatchers are coming--on Saturday, not a long notice, and I don't know how many. They have had a nice time in Boston--and Cousin Giles has been beauing them round and seems to like it. He might have sent you word on Tuesday, when you were in;" and Elizabeth's tone expressed a grievance.

"And the house not cleaned! It's been so cold."

"The house is always clean. Don't, I beg of you, Cousin Bessy, turn it upside down and scrub and scour, and wear yourself out and take a bad cold. There are two guest chambers, and I suppose half a dozen more might be made ready."

"That's the man of it. I don't believe a man would ever see dirt until some day when he had to dig himself out, or call upon the women folks to do it."

Elizabeth always softened, in spite of her austerity, when he called her Bessy. The newer generation indulged in household diminutives occasionally.

"Well, there is to be no regular house-cleaning. We shall want fires a good six weeks yet."

"I don't see why Cousin Giles couldn't have said how many there were. Let me see, Rachel Leverett, who married the Thatcher, was your father's cousin. They went up in Vermont. Then they came to Concord. He"--which meant the head of the house--"went to the State Legislature after the war. He had some sons married. Why, I haven't seen them in years."

"It will be just like meeting strangers," declared Eunice. "It's almost as if we kept an inn."

Chilian turned. "When I am in Boston to-morrow I will hunt up Cousin Giles."

"Oh, that will be good of you."

He slipped his letter into the Latin book he had been going over, and with a slight inclination of the head left the room. The hall was wide, though it ended just beyond this door, where it led to the kitchen. The woodwork was of oak, darkened much by the years that had passed over it. The broad staircase showed signs of the many feet that had trodden up and down.

Chilian's study was directly over the living-room, and next to the sleeping-chamber. This part had been added to the main house, but that was years ago. Bookshelves were ranged on two sides, but the windows interfered with their course around, two on each of the other sides. There was a wide fireplace between those at the west, and under them low closets, with cushions--ancestors of useful window-seats. A large easy-chair, covered with Cordovan leather, another curiously carved with a straight narrow strip up the back, set off by the side carving. The seat was broad and cushioned. Then one from France, as you could tell by the air and style, that had been in a palace. A low splint rocker, and one with a high back and comfortable cushions, inviting one to take a nap.

The bookcases went about two-thirds of the way up and were ornamented by articles beautiful and grotesque from almost every land, for there had been seafaring men in the Leverett family, and more than one home in Salem could boast of treasures of this sort.

Chilian stirred the fire, sending a shower of sparks up the chimney, and put on a fresh log. Then he settled himself in his chair and fingered his letter in an absent way. The last time Anthony wrote he vaguely suggested changes and chances and the uncertainty of life, rather despondent for a brisk business man who was always seeing opportunities at money-making. Had he been unfortunate in some of his ventures? And it was odd in him to write so soon again. Not that they were ever frequent correspondents.

He opened the letter slowly. It was tied about with a thread of waxed silk and sealed, so he cut about the seal deliberately; he had a delicate carefulness in all his ways that was rather womanly. Then unfolding it, he began to read.

Was this what the previous letter had meant? Was Anthony Leverett nearing the end, counting his days, finishing up his earthly work, and delegating it to other hands? There was something pathetic in it, and the trust in the uprightness and honor that Anthony Leverett reposed in him touched him keenly. But this part surprised and, at first, annoyed him. He drew his fine brows in a repellent sort of frown.


"Do you remember, Chilian, when you were a lad of
eighteen, in your second year at Harvard, you came
to Salem to recruit after a period of rather
severe study? And you met Alletta Orne, who was
four-and-twenty and engaged to me. In some sort of
fashion we were all related. Your father had been
like a father to me in my later boyhood. And, with
a young man's fervor, you fell in love with her. I
was sorry then for any pain you suffered, I am
glad now; for there is no one else in the wide
world I would as soon trust her child and mine to.

"We had been away nearly three years, when we came
back, and the baby was born in the house endeared
to me by many tender recollections. You were away
then, but on our second visit we were the most
congenial friends again. I did not think then it
would be our last meeting. I had meant, after
making my fortune, to return and end my days in my
birthplace. My greatest interest was in the
commercial house I had established. My first mate,
John Corwin, took my place and sailed the vessel.
Then my dear wife died, and I had only my little
girl left.

"I could hardly believe six months ago that I must
die. Should I return, or remain here and sleep
beside the one who had filled my soul with her
serene and lovely life and her blessed memory? I
could not endure the thought of leaving her
precious body here alone. So I chose to remain.
And now I send my little girl to your care and
guardianship without even consulting you. She is
amply provided for, though the business this side
of the world cannot be settled in some time. I
send her with a trusty maid and Captain Corwin,
because I do not want her to remember the end.
Some day you can tell her I am sleeping beside her
dear mother and that we are together in the Better
Land. She has been separated considerably from me
of late,--I have had to be journeying about on
business,--therefore it will not come so hard to
her, and though children do not forget, the sorrow
softens and has a tender vagueness from the hand
of time.