Chapter II: The “old Maids.”

Bradley, being what his late “Uncle Solon” had called a “noticin’ boy,” remembered Captain Titcomb’s hint concerning the foot wiping, and his first move, after crossing the Allen threshold, was to rub his worn brogans thoroughly on the home-made rope mat. After one glance about the big dining-room, however, he scoured them again, this time with even more pains and attention to detail.

The plump woman, whom Mr. Small had addressed as “Miss Prissy,” was counting into the stage-driver’s palm a sum in small change from a portentous black wallet that fastened with a strap.

“Forty-five and ten is fifty-five and five is sixty,” she said, “and ten is seventy and five in pennies is seventy-five. There! I b’lieve that’s right, Mr. Small. Would you mind shutting the gate when you drive out? Mr. Crosby brought us a load of wood this afternoon, and I told him he needn’t shut it, because you would want to come in by and by. But I shouldn’t feel easy if I knew it was open all night. Thank you. Good night.”

“Good night,” said the driver, pocketing the money with a grunt and a jingle. Like the boy, he had been very careful not to step off the mat. “Good night, Miss Tempy. Snow’s lettin’ up a little mite; guess ’twill be clear by mornin’. Good night, Brad.”

The plump lady closed the door behind him, just in time to shut out the opening notes of the “Sweet By and By.” Then she dropped the hook into the staple, wound the leather strap carefully about the wallet, placed the latter in a compartment of a tall chest of drawers in the corner, turned the key upon it and put the key under the alabaster candlestick on the mantel. Then she turned to the boy, who, holding his carpet-bag with both hands, still stood uneasily on the mat, while the slim lady fidgeted in front of him.

“Bradley,” said the plump lady--she was dressed in some sort of black material that rustled, and wore a lace collar, jet earrings and a breastpin with a braided lock of hair in the center of it--“Bradley, we’re real glad to see you. I’m Miss Priscilla; this is my sister, Miss Temperance.”

“Yes, Bradley,” coincided “Miss Tempy,” “we’re real glad to see you.” She was the younger of the two, and was gowned in what the boy learned later was her “brown poplin.” Her hair was not worn plain, like her sister’s, but had a little bunch of curls over each ear. She also wore a hair breastpin, but her earrings were gold.

Bradley shook the extended hands, Miss Prissy’s red and dimpled, and Miss Tempy’s thin and white with two old-fashioned rings on the fingers.

“Won’t you--won’t you set down?” ventured Miss Tempy, after a rather awkward pause.

“Why, yes, of course,” said Miss Prissy, “and take your things right off--do.”

Bradley placed the carpet-bag on the corner of the mat, and pulled off the shabby overcoat. The jacket and trousers beneath were also shabby, but it was at his shoes that Miss Prissy glanced and, oddly enough, their condition served to break the formality.

“My goodness me!” she ejaculated; “jest look at his poor feet, Tempy Allen! Come right over to the stove this minute and take off those shoes; they’re soppin’ wet through.”

“No, ma’am,” protested the boy. “They ain’t, honest. They only look so.”

“Don’t tell _me_!” commanded Miss Prissy. “Go right over to the stove this minute.”

Bradley reluctantly obeyed, stepping gingerly across the spotless oilcloth, and taking as long strides as possible. It did not add to his comfort to see Miss Tempy shake the melting snow into the center of the rope mat, fold the latter carefully together, and disappear with it into the kitchen.

Miss Prissy piloted him to the chintz-covered rocker by the big “air-tight” stove. Then she proceeded to unlace the patched brogans, commenting in an undertone upon the condition of the stockings beneath.

“I’m ’fraid,” said Bradley, fearfully, “that I’ve got some snow water on your floor, ma’am.”

“Don’t say a word! Thank goodness, your feet ain’t so wet as I thought they was. Put ’em right on the rail of the stove there, while I go up to the garret and get those slippers of father’s. I’ll be right back.”

She hurried out of the room, just as her sister entered it by the other door.

“Now set right still,” said Miss Tempy, bustling about with the steaming teakettle in her hand. “I’m goin’ to make you some pepper tea. There’s nothin’ in the world like pepper tea when you’re likely to catch cold.”

“Pepper tea” was a new prescription for the boy, and he watched with interest while Miss Tempy turned some milk into a bowl, flooded it with boiling water, added a spoonful of sugar, and vigorously shook the pepper box over the mess.

“There!” she said. “Now drink that, every drop. Ain’t you hungry?”

Bradley, with tears in his eyes--the result of the first swallow of pepper tea--gaspingly protested that he wasn’t hungry--not very. The sight and smell of the loaded supper table were so tempting that the denial was rather half-hearted.

“Not _very_! When did you have anything to eat last?”

“Mr. Bartlett--he’s the s’lectman at Wellmouth--gave me a sandwich at the depot ’fore I started, ma’am, and I bought a turnover at Harniss.”

“My sakes! Prissy”--to her sister, who came rustling in--“he hasn’t et a thing but a sandwich and a turnover since mornin’.”

“Land!” was Miss Prissy’s comment. She proceeded to engulf the youngster’s feet in a pair of enormous carpet slippers, the knobs and hollows under their faded roses showing where the toes of the late Captain Darius had found lodging. A smell of camphor pervaded the room.

“Oh, _don’t_ those look like father!” sighed Miss Tempy. “How many times I’ve seen him in that very rocker with those slippers on, readin’ his _Item_, and----”

“I’m ’fraid they ain’t a very good fit,” interrupted the practical Miss Prissy. “S’pose they’ll stay on?”

“Yes, ma’am,” said Bradley, trying to be agreeable; “they’re real pretty, with flowers on ’em so.”

“Prissy and me gave those to father the second Christmas before he died,” observed Miss Tempy, reminiscently. “He used to say he got _so_ much comfort out of ’em. Yes, Prissy, I know. Now come right over to the table, Bradley, and set down.”

“What’s in that bowl?” asked her sister, sharply. “Tempy Allen, have you been roastin’ that poor child’s stomach out with your everlastin’ pepper tea?”

Miss Tempy drew herself up indignantly. “I should think you’d be ashamed to talk so, Prissy,” she said, “after you’ve seen what pepper tea’s done for me!”

“Oh, well! ’tain’t worth makin’ a fuss about. Now Bradley, speak right out if there’s anything you want that ain’t here, won’t you? We’ve had our supper.”

Bradley said “Yes, ma’am,” obediently. Privately his firm belief was that every eatable in Orham was on that supper table. There was “marble cake”--it was misnamed so far as its texture was concerned--“two egg” cake and fruit cake from the tin box in the parlor closet. There was “beach-plum” preserve and crab-apple jelly, and barberries preserved with slices of sweet apple. For substantials, milk toast and potted spiced mackerel were in evidence. As a crowning delicacy there was a wicker-covered Canton china jar of preserved ginger.

As the boy ate he looked about the room. It was a big room with a low ceiling, spotlessly whitewashed. The oilcloth on the floor was partially covered with braided rag mats with carpet centres. On the window shades were wonderful tinted pictures of castles and mountains. The table was black walnut, and there were five rush-seated chairs, each in its place against the wall, and looking as if it were glued there--the sixth of the set he occupied. Then there was the chintz-covered rocker and another rocker, painted black with a worn picture of a ship at sea on the back. There was another ship over the face of the tall wooden clock in the corner. This craft was evidently the “Flying Dutchman,” for every time the clock ticked it rolled heavily behind a fence of tin waves, but didn’t advance an inch. On the walls were several works of art, including a spatter-work motto, a wreath made of sea shells under a glass, and an engraving showing a boat filled with men, women and children and rowed by a solemn individual in his shirtsleeves, moving over a placid sheet of water toward an unseen port.

“The name of that picture is ‘From Shore to Shore,’” said the observant Miss Tempy. “You see there’s the children in the bow, and the young man and his lady-love next, and the father and mother next to them, and the old folks in the stern. It’s a beautiful picture--so much deep meanin’ in it. There’s some lovely poetry under it that you must read; all about the voyage of life. Help yourself to the preserved ginger,” she added. “It came all the way from Calcutta. Father used to bring us so much of it. That ginger-jar looks _so_ like him.”

Bradley began to think that the parental Allen must have been a queer-looking old gentleman. Miss Tempy continued:

“Of course, father didn’t bring that jar,” she said. “That was one of Cap’n Titcomb’s presents. He got it in New York.”

“Cap’n Titcomb?” repeated the boy, whose bashfulness was wearing off. “He came over in the coach with me to-night.”

The effect of this announcement was remarkable. Miss Prissy looked at Miss Tempy, and the latter returned the look. Strange to say, both colored.

“Cap’n Titcomb?” faltered Miss Prissy. “Cap’n _Ezra_ Titcomb?”

“Yes, ma’am. He talked to me ’most all the way. I liked him first rate.”

“Why--why, I do declare! I didn’t know the Cap’n was expected, did you, Tempy?”

“No, I’m sure I didn’t!” exclaimed the flustered younger sister. “Did he--did he tell you why he was comin’, Bradley?”

“No, ma’am, but I heard him tell the man that drove the coach that he had shore leave for a week, ’cause his schooner was laid up for repairs. He said he knew you, though, and that he was comin’ ’round to see me to-morrer.”

This remark caused quite as much embarrassment and agitation as that concerning the Captain’s presence in the coach. The two ladies again glanced hurriedly at each other.

“Goodness gracious!” exclaimed Miss Prissy, “and the settin’-room not swept and the windows not washed. I’ll have to get up early to-morrer mornin’. I’m so glad I fixed that ruffle on my alpaca,” she added, in an absent-minded soliloquy.

“And I must finish that tidy for the sofy,” said Miss Tempy, nervously. “I’ve only got a little more to do on it, thank goodness! Prissy, I’m going to put an iron on; I want to press my other collar. Did--did the Cap’n say anything more about me--us, I mean?” she added, looking at the stove.

“No, ma’am, he didn’t,” replied the boy. “He jest asked about me, and told stories and talked.”

Miss Tempy seemed a little disappointed and made no comment. Her sister, too, was silent. Presently Bradley yawned. He tried to hide it, but Miss Prissy, coming out of her trance, saw him.

“My sakes!” she exclaimed, “what are we thinkin’ of, keepin’ you up this way? It’s after nine o’clock. Let me get the lamp. Tempy, you do up that soapstone for his feet.”

She rose and went into the kitchen, returning with a brass hand lamp, while her sister removed the ornamental top of the “air-tight” and, with a holder, took out a hot slab of soapstone, which she proceeded to wrap in several thicknesses of flannel.

When this operation was completed, Miss Prissy led the way with the lamp, and the boy, doubling up his toes to keep “father’s” slippers on his feet, scufflingly followed her through a dark hall, up a steep staircase, in the niche by the first landing of which the model of a full-rigged ship, sailing under a glass case through a sea of painted putty, caught his eye; then through another hall, cold and dark, and into a large, square sleeping room, with a high corded bedstead in the centre.

“This is your room, Bradley,” she said, placing the lamp on the glass-knobbed bureau. “It’s pretty cold, but we’ve aired the bed so there won’t be any dampness and the soapstone’ll help warm up.”

She turned back the several layers of patchwork comforters, blankets and counterpane, and put the hot stone in the centre of the billowy feather bed. Then she fidgeted about in an embarrassed sort of way, and finally asked:

“I--I s’pose you brought your nightgown with you?”

“Yes, ma’am,” and Bradley produced the ragged relic from his carpet bag.

Miss Prissy took the nightgear between her finger and thumb. “My soul!” was her only comment, but its tone was all-sufficient. She disappeared, to return in a moment or two with a folded flannel garment in her hand.

“Here’s one of father’s,” she said. “It’ll be too big for you, but you can wear it for two or three nights, and me and Tempy’ll make you some new ones. Good night.”

The lamp made a little oasis of light in the dusky desert of “spare room.” There were two or three straight-backed chairs set squarely in their places on the ingrain carpet; some wax flowers under a glass on the shelf, and a vase of dried “feather grass” on a bracket in the corner. And everything, from the blue bottles--intended to contain toilet waters--in the centre of the knitted mats on the bureau, to the gilt candlesticks with the dangling glass prisms, looked as if they had been just where they now were for years and years, and would resent any intrusion on their privacy.

Bradley undressed in a hurry, for the temperature of the room was like that of the Arctic region. The framed daguerreotypes on the walls--portraits of wooden-faced seafaring gentlemen in black stocks with their hair curled behind their ears, and of ladies in flowered scoop bonnets, their finger rings realistically put in with gilt paint, gazed down upon him with rigid disapproval. Even after he had lost his small self in Captain Darius’ camphor-scented legacy--the flannel nightgown--and was floundering in the depths of the feather bed, he felt that the pictured eyes were looking at him through the dark as if their owners said, indignantly, “What is a _boy_ doing here?”

The joists creaked overhead, the mice scuffled behind the plaster, the surf boomed in the distance, and the winter wind whined about the windows as if it, too, were asking “What is a _boy_ doing here?”

He was up early the next morning, and his dressing was a sort of jig, for it was freezing cold. From his window he could see the Orham roofs and spires, white and sparkling in the sunrise light. The long hill behind the house, sloped, a snowy stretch, to the inner inlet, which was filled with floating ice cakes. The ocean side of the outer beach was white with a dancing line of breakers, and the sea itself was a deep blue, spangled with whitecaps.

When he went downstairs it was evident that things had been going on. Miss Prissy came out of the sitting-room, bearing a broom, and with her “alpaca” gown covered with an apron. Miss Tempy, her curls done up in papers, was busy with the “tidy” for the sofa. Each of the sisters was nervous and excited.

Miss Prissy said a stiff little grace at the breakfast table. Miss Tempy had a large cup of “pepper tea” for herself, and urged Bradley to partake, but the elder sister came to the rescue and gave him hot milk and water instead. After the meal was over and the dishes washed, Miss Prissy went out to feed the hens and Bradley went with her. The house, seen by day, was a big, square building, badly in need of paint. The roof was four-sided and sloped upward to a cupola in the centre. From its closely shut front door snow-covered box hedges in parallel lines defined the path to the front gate, also locked and fastened, and, like the front door, only used on occasions. There was a large tumble-down barn, with an empty pig-pen back of the house, and a hen-house and yard in the rear of the barn.

Next door, to the left--on the right was a vacant field--was a small story and a half cottage, separated from the Allen household by a board fence. One of the boards in this fence had fallen down, and as Bradley, wading in Miss Prissy’s wake, passed this opening, he saw a girl, apparently about his own age, open the back door of the house next door and look out at him. He wanted to ask who she was, but didn’t feel well enough acquainted with his guide to do so just yet.

Just as the dozen hens and lonesome-looking rooster were fed--Miss Prissy informed him that, by and by, looking after the poultry would be one of his duties--Miss Tempy’s voice was heard calling excitedly from the kitchen door.

“Prissy!” she screamed, “Prissy! come in the house quick! He’s comin’; the Cap’n’s comin’!”

“My land!” exclaimed the elder sister, wildly, and, her dignity forgotten, she almost ran to the house, followed by Bradley, who didn’t understand the cause of the excitement.

“Oh, my sakes!” ejaculated Miss Tempy, as they entered the kitchen. “What _made_ him come so early! You’ll have to see him first, Prissy. I’ve got to fix my hair.”

Miss Prissy rushed into the sitting-room, wheeled a chair into place, set a tidy straight, laid the photograph album exactly in the center of the table instead of two inches from the edge, and patted her own hair with her hands, dodging in front of the big gilt-framed mirror as she did so. Then, as a smart knock sounded on the dining-room door, she assumed her “company” smile and marched sedately to receive the visitor.

It was Captain Titcomb who had knocked, and, after cleaning the snow from his boots on the “scraper,” he entered the house, bearing two packages wrapped in brown paper.

“Well, Prissy,” said the Captain, laying down the packages to shake hands, “how d’you do? Didn’t expect to see me in this port jest now, did you?”

“No, _indeed_, Cap’n Titcomb,” was the reply. “But we’re real glad to see you all the same. Come right in. Take your things off. Bradley said he rode down with you in the coach last night. Dreadful storm we had, wasn’t it? How’s your health nowadays? Walk right into the sittin’-room. You must excuse the looks of things; I’ve been sweepin’.”

There was a good deal more, but when Miss Prissy stopped for breath, the Captain, who had thrown his cap and overcoat on a chair, replied that the storm was bad, that his health was good and that the room looked “first rate,” so far as he could see. Then he held out his hand to the boy, who had seated himself on a chair close to the door, and said, cheerily:

“Mornin’, Brad. Well, how are you after your shake up last night? Wan’t seasick after I got out, was you?”

Bradley grinned bashfully and stammered that he was “all right.”

“Good! We had a rugged trip comin’ over, Prissy. The old coach rolled so I felt like goin’ on deck and shortenin’ sail. Your new boy here’s goin’ to make a good sailor--I can see that. Where’s Tempy?”

“Oh, she’s upstairs for a minute. She’ll be right down,” answered Miss Prissy, carelessly. “Tell me what brought you home so unexpected.”

“Sprung a leak and had to lay the old hooker up for repairs. That’s a specialty of my owners--repairs. They’d rather patch up for a hundred years than build new vessels. I--I--Brad, fetch me them bundles out of the dinin’-room.”

Bradley obediently brought the brown-paper parcels, and the Captain handed one of them to Miss Prissy, saying: “Here’s a little somethin’ I picked up over to New York, Prissy. I thought you might like it. I ain’t got much use for such things, myself.”

The lady took the package and began to untie the string in a nervous manner, blushing a little as she did so.

“I know it’s somethin’ nice, Cap’n Ezra. You do buy the nicest things. It’s real kind of you to remember me this way. Oh! _ain’t_ that pretty!”

The package contained a Japanese silk fan, with ivory sticks and a red tassel. Miss Prissy opened it and spread it out in her lap, exclaiming over its beauty, her face the color of the tassel.

“Oh! it ain’t nothin’,” said the Captain. “I did a favor for a friend of mine that’s skipper of a barkentine jest home from Hong Kong, and he gave it to me. He had some stuff he’d brought for his daughter, and the duty on it would have been pretty expensive, so I fixed--but never mind that. I thought maybe you’d like it to carry to church in the summer time, or somethin’. Why, hello, Tempy! How d’you do?”

The younger sister entered the room, her “poplin” rustling and every curl in place. She gushingly shook the Captain’s hand, and said she was _so_ glad to see him.

“Oh, Tempy!” cried Miss Prissy, “jest look at this lovely fan Cap’n Titcomb brought me. Did you ever see anything so pretty?”

Miss Tempy exclaimed over the fan, but somehow her enthusiasm seemed a little forced. It may be the Captain noticed this; at any rate, he picked up the second parcel and handed it to her, saying:

“Here’s a little somethin’ I brought for you, Tempy. I don’t know’s you’ll like it, but----”

Miss Tempy’s present also was a fan, precisely like the other except that the tassel was pink. Miss Prissy’s interest in her sister’s gift was intense, but when it was discovered that in no important point were the fans dissimilar and that neither was better than its mate, both of the ladies appeared to be a trifle disappointed, although they tried not to show it.

“We’re so glad you’ve come, Cap’n,” said Miss Prissy, after the fans were laid on the table. “We’ve got so many things to talk to you about, and we want to ask your advice. Bradley, don’t you think you’d like to go out into the dinin’-room a little while?”

The boy, acting upon this decided hint, went into the dining-room, and Miss Prissy shut the door after him.

“Now, Cap’n Titcomb,” she began, “I s’pose you were awfully surprised to hear we’d took a boy to bring up? Well, you ain’t any more surprised than we are to think we should do such a thing. But it seemed as if we jest had to, or else give up bein’ Christians altogether. I’ll tell you how it was.”

And she did tell him, beginning with the exact relationship between Bradley’s mother and the Allens, expatiating upon the shiftlessness of the boy’s father and how he “never saved a cent,” nor even took out an insurance policy to provide for his son, in case of his own death.

“Father,” she continued, “lost all patience with Ben years before he died and we didn’t write nor anything. Fact is, we didn’t know about the boy at all, until we read in the papers about Sophia and Ben’s bein’ lost when his vessel was wrecked. Leavin’ the poor little chap in Solon Nickerson’s care was another proof of Ben’s carelessness. It’s wrong to speak ill of the dead, but Solon was the _worst_ good-for-nothin’! It’s a mercy that the Lord took him before he’d had a chance to ruin the boy entirely. Well, Tempy and me have set up nights and talked and talked and talked, but we couldn’t see but one right thing to do, so we did it. But, mercy me!” she exclaimed, lifting her hands, “what on earth we’ll do with a boy is more’n _I_ know. What _shall_ we do?”

“Bring him up in the way he ought to go, I guess,” replied the Captain, calmly. “Send him to school, first thing.”

“There, Prissy!” exclaimed Miss Tempy, “that’s what _I_ said. Send him to school, and then to high school, and then to college. Wesleyan College is a nice quiet place, and so many ministers come from there that they’ll probably teach him to be a minister. Then, by that time, Mr. Langworthy’ll be pretty old and he’ll be givin’ up the church here and Bradley can take it. I always wished we had a minister in the family.”

“Sakes alive!” snapped her sister, impatiently, “seems to me you’re countin’ your chickens a good ways ahead. Mr. Langworthy might die to-morrer for all you know, or the society might bust up or ’most anything. Besides, it’ll cost somethin’ for all that education.”

“Of course it will,” said Miss Tempy, “but there’s father’s insurance money.”

“How long do you think----” began Miss Prissy, but stopped in the middle of the sentence.

“Well,” said Captain Titcomb, diplomatically, “he’ll go to school for a while, at any rate, and he might as well begin right away. How is he off for clothes?” he added.

“Hasn’t got any that are fit for anything but the rag-bag,” replied Miss Prissy, with decision. “And that’s another thing. Who’s goin’ to buy ’em for him? I’m sure _I_ don’t know what a boy needs to wear any more than a cat. And he’s got to have _everything_. I jest wish you’d have seen that--that thing he was goin’ to sleep in,” she added.

“I’ll buy his fit-out, if you want me to,” said the Captain. “Take him down to Weeks’ store right now, if you say the word.”

“Oh! I wish you would. You pay Mr. Weeks and I’ll pay you.”

“Get him nice clothes, Cap’n Ezra,” said Miss Tempy. “The men in our family have always been good dressers.”

“Get sensible ones that’ll wear,” said the practical Miss Prissy. “Not any more expensive than is necessary, but good.”

They pressed the Captain to stay to dinner, or, at least, to return for that meal, but he declined, promising, however, to dine with them before he went back to his vessel.

“Come on, Brad,” he said, entering the dining-room, “you and me’s goin’ on a cruise down town. Want to go?”

Of course the boy wanted to go. He had been spending his time in the dining-room reading the poetry beneath the “Shore to Shore” picture and in spelling out the framed certificate over the mantel, which testified that “Darius Allen, Master,” was a member of the Boston Marine Society.

Bradley put on the shabby overcoat and cap for the last time, and walked down to the back gate and along the sidewalk with the Captain.

“Well, Brad,” said the latter, “how do you like your new folks?”

“First rate, sir,” said the boy.

“Pretty old-fashioned craft, but seaworthy, both of ’em. Did you remember to wipe your feet?” he added, with a twinkle in his eye.

“Yes, sir.”

They walked on without speaking for a while, then Bradley, wishing to please his companion, said:

“Those fans were awful pretty. I s’pose you brought ’em both alike so Miss Prissy nor Miss Tempy wouldn’t think you liked one more than the other, didn’t you?”

Captain Titcomb stopped short, and looked down at the lad with wonder in his face.

“Say, Brad!” he exclaimed, “how old are you?”

“Goin’ on thirteen, sir.”

“Goin’ on thirteen,” repeated the Captain, slowly. “Goin’ on thir---- Well, by crimustee! you’ve got a head on you. If you’re goin’ to turn so sharp as---- Say, son, I cal’late you and me was cut out to sail together.”

He continued to mutter to himself and to chuckle all the way to the store, greatly to Bradley’s astonishment, for, for the life of him, the boy couldn’t see that he had said anything so wonderfully brilliant.

And, meanwhile, Miss Tempy seated in the rocker by the window and holding a fan in each hand, was examining them with the greatest care.

“Prissy,” she said, at last, in a solemn tone, “they’re jest exactly alike.”

“Yes,” said her sister, with a stifled sigh, “they’re jest alike.”