Part 1 (1/2)
A Little Girl in Old Salem.
by Amanda Minnie Douglas.
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 st.u.r.diness, 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 circ.u.mstances. 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 cla.s.ses. 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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 Sat.u.r.day, 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.”