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Mrs. Todd indulged herself for a short time in a season of calm reflection.

“I always thought they’d have done better, and more reasonable, to give her some money to pay her passage home to France, or wherever she may have wanted to go,” she continued.

I nodded and looked for the rest of the story.

“Father told mother,” said Mrs. Todd confidentially, “that Cap’n Jonathan Bowden an’ Cap’n John Tolland had both taken a little more than usual; I wouldn’t have you think, either, that they both wasn’t the best o’ men, an’ they was solemn as owls, and argued the matter between ’em, an’ waved aside the other two when they tried to put their oars in. An’ spite o’ Cap’n Tolland’s bein’ a settled old bachelor they fixed it that he was to take the prize on his brig; she was a fast sailer, and there was a good spare cabin or two where he’d sometimes carried passengers, but he’d filled ’em with bags o’ sugar on his own account an’ was loaded very heavy beside. He said he’d shift the sugar an’ get along somehow, an’ the last the other three cap’ns saw of the party was Cap’n John handing the lady into his bo’t, guitar and all, an’ off they all set tow’ds their ships with their men rowin’ ’em in the bright moonlight down to Port Royal where the anchorage was, an’ where they all lay, goin’ out with the tide an’ mornin’ wind at break o’ day. An’ the others thought they heard music of the guitar, two o’ the bo’ts kept well together, but it may have come from another source.”

“Well; and then?” I asked eagerly after a pause. Mrs. Todd was almost laughing aloud over her knitting and nodding emphatically. We had forgotten all about the noise of the wind and sea.

“Lord bless you! he come sailing into Portland with his sugar, all in good time, an’ they stepped right afore a justice o’ the peace, and Cap’n John Tolland come paradin’ home to Dunnet Landin’ a married man. He owned one o’ them thin, narrow-lookin’ houses with one room each side o’ the f
ront door, and two slim black spruces spindlin’ up against the front windows to make it gloomy inside. There was no horse nor cattle of course, though he owned pasture land, an’ you could see rifts o’ light right through the barn as you drove by. And there was a good excellent kitchen, but his sister reigned over that; she had a right to two rooms, and took the kitchen an’ a bedroom that led out of it; an’ bein’ given no rights in the kitchen had angered the cap’n so they weren’t on no kind o’ speakin’ terms. He preferred his old brig for comfort, but now and then, between voyages he’d come home for a few days, just to show he was master over his part o’ the house, and show Eliza she couldn’t commit no trespass.

“They stayed a little while; ’twas pretty spring weather, an’ I used to see Cap’n John rollin’ by with his arms full o’ bundles from the store, lookin’ as pleased and important as a boy; an’ then they went right off to sea again, an’ was gone a good many months. Next time he left her to live there alone, after they’d stopped at home together some weeks, an’ they said she suffered from bein’ at sea, but some said that the owners wouldn’t have a woman aboard.’Twas before father was lost on that last voyage of his, an’ he said mother went up once or twice to see them. Father said there wa’n’t a mite o’ harm in her, but somehow or other a sight o’ prejudice arose; it may have been caused by the remarks of Eliza an’ her feelin’s tow’ds her brother. Even my mother had no regard for Eliza Tolland. But mother asked the cap’n’s wife to come with her one evenin’ to a social circle that was down to the meetin’-house vestry, so she’d get acquainted a little, an’ she appeared very pretty until they started to have some singin’ to the melodeon. Mari’ Harris an’ one o’ the younger Caplin girls undertook to sing a duet, an’ they sort o’ flatted, an’ she put her hands right up to her ears, and give a little squeal, an’ went quick as could be an’ give ’em the right notes, for she could read the music like plain print, an’ made ’em try it over again. She was real willin’ an’ pleasant, but that didn’t suit, an’ she made faces when they got it wrong. An’ then there fell a dead calm, an’ we was all settin’ round prim as dishes, an’ my mother, that never expects ill feelin’, asked her if she wouldn’t sing somethin’, an up she got, — poor creatur’, it all seems so different to me now, — an’ sung a lovely little song standin’ in the floor; it seemed to have something gay about it that kept a-repeatin’, an’ nobody could help keepin’ time, an’ all of a sudden she looked round at the tables and caught up a tin plate that somebody’d fetched a Washin’ton pie in, an’ she begun to drum on it with her fingers like one o’ them tambourines, an’ went right on singin’ faster an’ faster, and next minute she begun to dance a little pretty dance between the verses, just as light and pleasant as a child. You couldn’t help seein’ how pretty ’twas; we all got to trottin’ a foot, an’ some o’ the men clapped their hands quite loud, a-keepin’ time, ’twas so catchin’, an’ seemed so natural to her. There wa’n’t one of ’em but enjoyed it; she just tried to do her part, an’ some urged her on, till she stopped with a little twirl of her skirts an’ went to her place again by mother. And I can see mother now, reachin’ over an’ smilin’ an’ pattin’ her hand.