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

if it meets with no mishap, from the middle to the last of April."

"But she doesn't come alone!" ejaculated Elizabeth in surprise.

"Yes. He wishes to be buried there beside his wife. And he does not want her to have the remembrance of his death. So he sends her with the woman who has been her nurse and maid the last three years, an Englishwoman."

"Of all things! I wonder what will come next! We seem in the line of surprises. And it's queer they should happen together. A little girl! Chilian, do _you_ like it? Why, it will fairly turn the house upside down!"

There was an accent of protest in Elizabeth's tone, showing plainly her unwillingness to accept the situation.

"One little girl can't move much furniture about;" with a sound of humor in his voice.

"Oh, you know what I mean--not actually dragging sofas and tables about, but she will chairs, as you'll see. And lots of other things. Look at the Rendall children. The house always looks as if it had been stirred up with the pudding-stick, and Sally Rendall spends good half her time looking for things they have carted off. Tom and Anstice were digging up the path the day we called, and what do you suppose they had! The tablespoons. And I'll venture to say they were left out of doors."

"There are so many of them," Chilian said, as if in apology.

"And I don't see how we can keep this child away from them. It isn't as if they were low-down people. Sally's father having been a major in the war, and the Rendalls are good stock. Let me see--what's her name? Her mother was called Letty."

"Cynthia. She was named for my mother." Chilian's voice had a reverent softness in it.

"I always thought it a pretty name," said Eunice.

"And I've heard people call it 'Cyn.' I do abominate nicknames."

Elizabeth uttered this with a good deal of vigor. Then she remembered she quite liked Bessy.

No one spoke for some moments. Chilian thought of the sister, whose brief married life had ended in her pretty home at Providence, and how she looked in her coffin with her baby sheltered by one arm. The picture came before him vividly.

Elizabeth liked cleanliness and order. It was natural after a long practice in it. Chilian's particular ways suited her. Year after year had settled them--perhaps she had settled him more definitely, as he liked the way. Eunice was thinking of the little girl who had neither father or mother. She had some unfulfilled dreams. In her youth there had been a lover, and a wedding planned when he came home from his voyage. She had begun to "lay by" for housekeeping. And there were some pretty garments in the trunk upstairs, packed away with other articles. The lover was lost at sea, as befell many another New England coast woman.

She had hoped against hope for several years--men were sometimes restored as by a miracle--but he never came. So she sometimes dreamed of what might have been, of home and children, and it kept her heart tender. Anthony's little girl would make a sight of trouble, she could see that, but a little girl about would be a great pleasure--to her at least. She glanced furtively at Elizabeth, then at Chilian. She could not comfort either of them with this sudden glow and warmth that thrilled through her veins.

"Well, we will be through with house-cleaning before she comes," said the practical and particular housewife. Chilian simply sighed. It was the usual spring ordeal, and did end. But who could predict the ending of the other?


CHAPTER II

THE LITTLE GIRL

Down at the wharf there was much bustle and stir. Vessels were lading for various home ports, fishing craft were going out on their ventures, even a whaler had just fitted up for a long cruise, and the young as well as middle-aged sailors were shouting out farewells. White and black men were running to and fro, laughing, chaffing, and swearing at each other.

There lay the East Indiaman, with her foreign flag as well as that of her country. She had come in about midnight and at early dawn preliminaries had begun. Captain Corwin had been ashore a time or two, looking up and down amid the motley throng, and now he touched his hat and nodded to Chilian Leverett, who picked his way over to him.

"We are somewhat late," he began apologetically. "A little due to rough weather, but one can never fix an exact date."

"All is well, I hope;" in an anxious tone.

"Yes; the child proved a good sailor and was much interested in everything. I was afraid she would take it hard. But she is counting on her father's coming. I don't know how you will ever console her when she learns the truth."

"And he----" Chilian looked intently into the captain's eyes.

"I suppose the end has come before this. They thought he might last a month when we left. It's sad enough. He should have lived to be ninety. But matters went well with him, and he has been an honest, kindly, upright man with a large heart. I've lost my best friend and adviser."

The captain drew his rough coat-sleeve across his face and looked past Chilian, winking hard.

"There's a sight of business when we come to that, Mr. Leverett, but now--will you go on board? The maid is a most excellent and sensible person. They are in the cabin."

"Yes," he answered and followed with a curious throb at his heart--pity for the orphaned child and a sense of responsibility he was conscious that he accepted unwillingly, yet he would do his duty to the uttermost.

Already some officials were on hand, for at this period Salem was really a notable port. Chilian passed them with a bow, followed the captain down the gangplank, stared a little at the foreign deck-hands in their odd habiliments, stepped over boxes and bales in canvas and matting full of Oriental fragrance that from the closeness was almost stifling, coming from the clear air. Then he was ushered into the cabin, that was replete with Orientalism as well.

A rather tall woman rose to meet him.

"This is Mistress Rachel Winn, who has mothered the little girl for several years, Mr. Leverett, her relative and guardian, and--Cynthia----"

The child threw herself down on the couch.

"I want to go back home. I want to see my father, and Aymeer, and Babo, and Nalla. I can't stay here."

"But perhaps your father will bring them when he comes. Don't you remember he told you he lived here when he was a little boy, and what nice times he had with the cousin he loved? And the cousin is here to bid you welcome. Come and speak to him. We cannot go back at once, the ship has to unload her cargo and take in ever so many other things. See, here is Cousin Leverett."

She sat up, made a forward movement as if she would rise, but simply stared.

"Yes, I am Cousin Leverett." He began advancing and held out his hand.

"And very glad to see such an excellent traveller as you have been," said the captain. "And such a nice little girl. You are an American girl; you know your father told you that. And this is your native town. Cousin Leverett remembers you when you were very little."

"But I don't remember you;" taking no notice of the proffered hand.

"Then you must get acquainted with me. And you must tell me about your life and your father, whom I have not seen in a long, long time. Let us shake hands."

She held out hers then and raised herself to her feet.

"Oh, how soft your hands are," she cried, "just like Nalla's. But they are very white. Nalla's were brown."

"And who was Nalla?"

"She used to come and play with me and make chains out of shells, and make bracelets and anklets, and dance. And she used to go to the Sahibs' house and dance with snakes. I'm afraid of them. Are you?"

"Indeed I am, of the large ones," he said at a venture.

He fancied that he felt a gentle pressure of sympathetic approval. She glanced up for an instant and her eyes transfixed him. They were a deep wonderful blue, almost black at the pupil, then raying off a little lighter. It made him think of a star in the winter midnight sky with a halo around it. The lashes were long and nearly black. Otherwise she had little claim to beauty just then. Her complexion had a tawny hue made by sun and wind, her hair was light, but it had a peculiar sunburned tint, though it was fine and abundant and hung in loose curls about her shoulders. Her nose was the only Leverett feature--it was straight, rather small, and had the flexibility that betrayed passing emotions. The Leverett lips were thin, hers were full in the middle, giving a certain roundness to the mouth.

"Are there any where you live?" hesitatingly.

"Any?" Then he recalled the subject they had touched upon. "Oh, no; you seldom see them, and they are mostly harmless."

"Have you any little girls in your house?"

"No, I am sorry to say."

"There were two little English girls on shipboard at first. They went on board another vessel after a while. I liked them very much. They knew a great many things about countries. I can read, but I don't a great deal. Sometimes father would tell me about America. There are a great many countries in it, and once they had a big war. They had wars, too, in India. Why must people kill each other?"

"There seem to be reasons. A little girl could not understand them all, I think;" and how could he explain them?

"Oh, there is Captain Corwin!" She flew across the cabin with outstretched arms, which she clasped about him.

"Well, have you been getting acquainted with--he will be your uncle, I suppose. What title are you going to take with the child, Mr. Leverett?"

Chilian Leverett colored, without a cause he thought, and it annoyed him.

"Are you going back to India to-day?" She was not interested in Chilian Leverett's answer.

Captain Corwin laughed heartily and patted her shoulder.

"Not to-day, nor even next week. The cargo will have to be taken off, little missy, and a new one stowed away. And I fancy there must be some repairs. I shall stay in town and run down to Marblehead. So you will see me quite often."

"And you are coming back again from India?"

"Oh, I hope so. More than once."

"You will bring father then. It is such a long while to wait;" and she sighed.

The men exchanged glances.

"I want to see him so much. Couldn't I go back with you?"

"Don't you remember I told you the other evening he might start before I reached India again? Don't you want to go ashore and see Salem? Ask Miss Rachel to get you ready."

Rachel was beckoning to her. "Let us go up on deck," she said. "It's a strange country to me as well as to you. And I fancy the men want to talk."

She crossed the cabin slowly, not quite certain what she did desire most, except to see her father.

"You will have a