Chapter Chapter 13 · The Quaker Settlement

. The Quaker Settlement

A quiet scene now rises before us. A large, roomy, neatly-painted

kitchen, its yellow floor glossy and smooth, and without a particle of

dust; a neat, well-blacked cooking-stove; rows of shining tin,

suggestive of unmentionable good things to the appetite; glossy green

wood chairs, old and firm; a small flag-bottomed rocking-chair, with a

patch-work cushion in it, neatly contrived out of small pieces of

different colored woollen goods, and a larger sized one, motherly and

old, whose wide arms breathed hospitable invitation, seconded by the

solicitation of its feather cushions,—a real comfortable, persuasive

old chair, and worth, in the way of honest, homely enjoyment, a dozen

of your plush or _brochetelle_ drawing-room gentry; and in the chair,

gently swaying back and forward, her eyes bent on some fine sewing, sat

our fine old friend Eliza. Yes, there she is, paler and thinner than in

her Kentucky home, with a world of quiet sorrow lying under the shadow

of her long eyelashes, and marking the outline of her gentle mouth! It

was plain to see how old and firm the girlish heart was grown under the

discipline of heavy sorrow; and when, anon, her large dark eye was

raised to follow the gambols of her little Harry, who was sporting,

like some tropical butterfly, hither and thither over the floor, she

showed a depth of firmness and steady resolve that was never there in

her earlier and happier days.

By her side sat a woman with a bright tin pan in her lap, into which

she was carefully sorting some dried peaches. She might be fifty-five

or sixty; but hers was one of those faces that time seems to touch only

to brighten and adorn. The snowy lisse crape cap, made after the strait

Quaker pattern,—the plain white muslin handkerchief, lying in placid

folds across her bosom,—the drab shawl and dress,—showed at once the

community to which she belonged. Her face was round and rosy, with a

healthful downy softness, suggestive of a ripe peach. Her hair,

partially silvered by age, was parted smoothly back from a high placid

forehead, on which time had written no inscription, except peace on

earth, good will to men, and beneath shone a large pair of clear,

honest, loving brown eyes; you only needed to look straight into them,

to feel that you saw to the bottom of a heart as good and true as ever

throbbed in woman’s bosom. So much has been said and sung of beautiful

young girls, why don’t somebody wake up to the beauty of old women? If

any want to get up an inspiration under this head, we refer them to our

good friend Rachel Halliday, just as she sits there in her little

rocking-chair. It had a turn for quacking and squeaking,—that chair

had,—either from having taken cold in early life, or from some

asthmatic affection, or perhaps from nervous derangement; but, as she

gently swung backward and forward, the chair kept up a kind of subdued

“creechy crawchy,” that would have been intolerable in any other chair.

But old Simeon Halliday often declared it was as good as any music to

him, and the children all avowed that they wouldn’t miss of hearing

mother’s chair for anything in the world. For why? for twenty years or

more, nothing but loving words, and gentle moralities, and motherly

loving kindness, had come from that chair;—head-aches and heart-aches

innumerable had been cured there,—difficulties spiritual and temporal

solved there,—all by one good, loving woman, God bless her!

“And so thee still thinks of going to Canada, Eliza?” she said, as she

was quietly looking over her peaches.

“Yes, ma’am,” said Eliza, firmly. “I must go onward. I dare not stop.”

“And what’ll thee do, when thee gets there? Thee must think about that,

my daughter.”

“My daughter” came naturally from the lips of Rachel Halliday; for hers

was just the face and form that made “mother” seem the most natural

word in the world.

Eliza’s hands trembled, and some tears fell on her fine work; but she

answered, firmly,

“I shall do—anything I can find. I hope I can find something.”

“Thee knows thee can stay here, as long as thee pleases,” said Rachel.

“O, thank you,” said Eliza, “but”—she pointed to Harry—“I can’t sleep

nights; I can’t rest. Last night I dreamed I saw that man coming into

the yard,” she said, shuddering.

“Poor child!” said Rachel, wiping her eyes; “but thee mustn’t feel so.

The Lord hath ordered it so that never hath a fugitive been stolen from

our village. I trust thine will not be the first.”

The door here opened, and a little short, round, pin-cushiony woman

stood at the door, with a cheery, blooming face, like a ripe apple. She

was dressed, like Rachel, in sober gray, with the muslin folded neatly

across her round, plump little chest.

“Ruth Stedman,” said Rachel, coming joyfully forward; “how is thee,

Ruth? she said, heartily taking both her hands.

“Nicely,” said Ruth, taking off her little drab bonnet, and dusting it

with her handkerchief, displaying, as she did so, a round little head,

on which the Quaker cap sat with a sort of jaunty air, despite all the

stroking and patting of the small fat hands, which were busily applied

to arranging it. Certain stray locks of decidedly curly hair, too, had

escaped here and there, and had to be coaxed and cajoled into their

place again; and then the new comer, who might have been

five-and-twenty, turned from the small looking-glass, before which she

had been making these arrangements, and looked well pleased,—as most

people who looked at her might have been,—for she was decidedly a

wholesome, whole-hearted, chirruping little woman, as ever gladdened

man’s heart withal.

“Ruth, this friend is Eliza Harris; and this is the little boy I told

thee of.”

“I am glad to see thee, Eliza,—very,” said Ruth, shaking hands, as if

Eliza were an old friend she had long been expecting; “and this is thy

dear boy,—I brought a cake for him,” she said, holding out a little

heart to the boy, who came up, gazing through his curls, and accepted

it shyly.

“Where’s thy baby, Ruth?” said Rachel.

“O, he’s coming; but thy Mary caught him as I came in, and ran off with

him to the barn, to show him to the children.”

At this moment, the door opened, and Mary, an honest, rosy-looking

girl, with large brown eyes, like her mother’s, came in with the baby.

“Ah! ha!” said Rachel, coming up, and taking the great, white, fat

fellow in her arms, “how good he looks, and how he does grow!”

“To be sure, he does,” said little bustling Ruth, as she took the

child, and began taking off a little blue silk hood, and various layers

and wrappers of outer garments; and having given a twitch here, and a

pull there, and variously adjusted and arranged him, and kissed him

heartily, she set him on the floor to collect his thoughts. Baby seemed

quite used to this mode of proceeding, for he put his thumb in his

mouth (as if it were quite a thing of course), and seemed soon absorbed

in his own reflections, while the mother seated herself, and taking out

a long stocking of mixed blue and white yarn, began to knit with

briskness.

“Mary, thee’d better fill the kettle, hadn’t thee?” gently suggested

the mother.

Mary took the kettle to the well, and soon reappearing, placed it over

the stove, where it was soon purring and steaming, a sort of censer of

hospitality and good cheer. The peaches, moreover, in obedience to a

few gentle whispers from Rachel, were soon deposited, by the same hand,

in a stew-pan over the fire.

Rachel now took down a snowy moulding-board, and, tying on an apron,

proceeded quietly to making up some biscuits, first saying to

Mary,—“Mary, hadn’t thee better tell John to get a chicken ready?” and

Mary disappeared accordingly.

“And how is Abigail Peters?” said Rachel, as she went on with her

biscuits.

“O, she’s better,” said Ruth; “I was in, this morning; made the bed,

tidied up the house. Leah Hills went in, this afternoon, and baked

bread and pies enough to last some days; and I engaged to go back to

get her up, this evening.”

“I will go in tomorrow, and do any cleaning there may be, and look over

the mending,” said Rachel.

“Ah! that is well,” said Ruth. “I’ve heard,” she added, “that Hannah

Stanwood is sick. John was up there, last night,—I must go there

tomorrow.”

“John can come in here to his meals, if thee needs to stay all day,”

suggested Rachel.

“Thank thee, Rachel; will see, tomorrow; but, here comes Simeon.”

Simeon Halliday, a tall, straight, muscular man, in drab coat and

pantaloons, and broad-brimmed hat, now entered.

“How is thee, Ruth?” he said, warmly, as he spread his broad open hand

for her little fat palm; “and how is John?”

“O! John is well, and all the rest of our folks,” said Ruth, cheerily.

“Any news, father?” said Rachel, as she was putting her biscuits into

the oven.

“Peter Stebbins told me that they should be along tonight, with

_friends_,” said Simeon, significantly, as he was washing his hands at

a neat sink, in a little back porch.

“Indeed!” said Rachel, looking thoughtfully, and glancing at Eliza.

“Did thee say thy name was Harris?” said Simeon to Eliza, as he

reentered.

Rachel glanced quickly at her husband, as Eliza tremulously answered

“yes;” her fears, ever uppermost, suggesting that possibly there might

be advertisements out for her.

“Mother!” said Simeon, standing in the porch, and calling Rachel out.

“What does thee want, father?” said Rachel, rubbing her floury hands,

as she went into the porch.

“This child’s husband is in the settlement, and will be here tonight,”

said Simeon.

“Now, thee doesn’t say that, father?” said Rachel, all her face radiant

with joy.

“It’s really true. Peter was down yesterday, with the wagon, to the

other stand, and there he found an old woman and two men; and one said

his name was George Harris; and from what he told of his history, I am

certain who he is. He is a bright, likely fellow, too.”

“Shall we tell her now?” said Simeon.

“Let’s tell Ruth,” said Rachel. “Here, Ruth,—come here.”

Ruth laid down her knitting-work, and was in the back porch in a

moment.

“Ruth, what does thee think?” said Rachel. “Father says Eliza’s husband

is in the last company, and will be here tonight.”

A burst of joy from the little Quakeress interrupted the speech. She

gave such a bound from the floor, as she clapped her little hands, that

two stray curls fell from under her Quaker cap, and lay brightly on her

white neckerchief.

“Hush thee, dear!” said Rachel, gently; “hush, Ruth! Tell us, shall we

tell her now?”

“Now! to be sure,—this very minute. Why, now, suppose ’t was my John,

how should I feel? Do tell her, right off.”

“Thee uses thyself only to learn how to love thy neighbor, Ruth,” said

Simeon, looking, with a beaming face, on Ruth.

“To be sure. Isn’t it what we are made for? If I didn’t love John and

the baby, I should not know how to feel for her. Come, now do tell

her,—do!” and she laid her hands persuasively on Rachel’s arm. “Take

her into thy bed-room, there, and let me fry the chicken while thee

does it.”

Rachel came out into the kitchen, where Eliza was sewing, and opening

the door of a small bed-room, said, gently, “Come in here with me, my

daughter; I have news to tell thee.”

The blood flushed in Eliza’s pale face; she rose, trembling with

nervous anxiety, and looked towards her boy.

“No, no,” said little Ruth, darting up, and seizing her hands. “Never

thee fear; it’s good news, Eliza,—go in, go in!” And she gently pushed

her to the door which closed after her; and then, turning round, she

caught little Harry in her arms, and began kissing him.

“Thee’ll see thy father, little one. Does thee know it? Thy father is

coming,” she said, over and over again, as the boy looked wonderingly

at her.

Meanwhile, within the door, another scene was going on. Rachel Halliday

drew Eliza toward her, and said, “The Lord hath had mercy on thee,

daughter; thy husband hath escaped from the house of bondage.”

The blood flushed to Eliza’s cheek in a sudden glow, and went back to

her heart with as sudden a rush. She sat down, pale and faint.

“Have courage, child,” said Rachel, laying her hand on her head. “He is

among friends, who will bring him here tonight.”

“Tonight!” Eliza repeated, “tonight!” The words lost all meaning to

her; her head was dreamy and confused; all was mist for a moment.

When she awoke, she found herself snugly tucked up on the bed, with a

blanket over her, and little Ruth rubbing her hands with camphor. She

opened her eyes in a state of dreamy, delicious languor, such as one

who has long been bearing a heavy load, and now feels it gone, and

would rest. The tension of the nerves, which had never ceased a moment

since the first hour of her flight, had given way, and a strange

feeling of security and rest came over her; and as she lay, with her

large, dark eyes open, she followed, as in a quiet dream, the motions

of those about her. She saw the door open into the other room; saw the

supper-table, with its snowy cloth; heard the dreamy murmur of the

singing tea-kettle; saw Ruth tripping backward and forward, with plates

of cake and saucers of preserves, and ever and anon stopping to put a

cake into Harry’s hand, or pat his head, or twine his long curls round

her snowy fingers. She saw the ample, motherly form of Rachel, as she

ever and anon came to the bedside, and smoothed and arranged something

about the bedclothes, and gave a tuck here and there, by way of

expressing her good-will; and was conscious of a kind of sunshine

beaming down upon her from her large, clear, brown eyes. She saw Ruth’s

husband come in,—saw her fly up to him, and commence whispering very

earnestly, ever and anon, with impressive gesture, pointing her little

finger toward the room. She saw her, with the baby in her arms, sitting

down to tea; she saw them all at table, and little Harry in a high

chair, under the shadow of Rachel’s ample wing; there were low murmurs

of talk, gentle tinkling of tea-spoons, and musical clatter of cups and

saucers, and all mingled in a delightful dream of rest; and Eliza

slept, as she had not slept before, since the fearful midnight hour

when she had taken her child and fled through the frosty starlight.

She dreamed of a beautiful country,—a land, it seemed to her, of

rest,—green shores, pleasant islands, and beautifully glittering water;

and there, in a house which kind voices told her was a home, she saw

her boy playing, free and happy child. She heard her husband’s

footsteps; she felt him coming nearer; his arms were around her, his

tears falling on her face, and she awoke! It was no dream. The daylight

had long faded; her child lay calmly sleeping by her side; a candle was

burning dimly on the stand, and her husband was sobbing by her pillow.

The next morning was a cheerful one at the Quaker house. “Mother” was

up betimes, and surrounded by busy girls and boys, whom we had scarce

time to introduce to our readers yesterday, and who all moved

obediently to Rachel’s gentle “Thee had better,” or more gentle “Hadn’t

thee better?” in the work of getting breakfast; for a breakfast in the

luxurious valleys of Indiana is a thing complicated and multiform, and,

like picking up the rose-leaves and trimming the bushes in Paradise,

asking other hands than those of the original mother. While, therefore,

John ran to the spring for fresh water, and Simeon the second sifted

meal for corn-cakes, and Mary ground coffee, Rachel moved gently, and

quietly about, making biscuits, cutting up chicken, and diffusing a

sort of sunny radiance over the whole proceeding generally. If there

was any danger of friction or collision from the ill-regulated zeal of

so many young operators, her gentle “Come! come!” or “I wouldn’t, now,”

was quite sufficient to allay the difficulty. Bards have written of the

cestus of Venus, that turned the heads of all the world in successive

generations. We had rather, for our part, have the cestus of Rachel

Halliday, that kept heads from being turned, and made everything go on

harmoniously. We think it is more suited to our modern days, decidedly.

While all other preparations were going on, Simeon the elder stood in

his shirt-sleeves before a little looking-glass in the corner, engaged

in the anti-patriarchal operation of shaving. Everything went on so

sociably, so quietly, so harmoniously, in the great kitchen,—it seemed

so pleasant to every one to do just what they were doing, there was

such an atmosphere of mutual confidence and good fellowship

everywhere,—even the knives and forks had a social clatter as they went

on to the table; and the chicken and ham had a cheerful and joyous

fizzle in the pan, as if they rather enjoyed being cooked than

otherwise;—and when George and Eliza and little Harry came out, they

met such a hearty, rejoicing welcome, no wonder it seemed to them like

a dream.

At last, they were all seated at breakfast, while Mary stood at the

stove, baking griddle-cakes, which, as they gained the true exact

golden-brown tint of perfection, were transferred quite handily to the

table.

Rachel never looked so truly and benignly happy as at the head of her

table. There was so much motherliness and full-heartedness even in the

way she passed a plate of cakes or poured a cup of coffee, that it

seemed to put a spirit into the food and drink she offered.

It was the first time that ever George had sat down on equal terms at

any white man’s table; and he sat down, at first, with some constraint

and awkwardness; but they all exhaled and went off like fog, in the

genial morning rays of this simple, overflowing kindness.

This, indeed, was a home,—_home_,—a word that George had never yet

known a meaning for; and a belief in God, and trust in his providence,

began to encircle his heart, as, with a golden cloud of protection and

confidence, dark, misanthropic, pining atheistic doubts, and fierce

despair, melted away before the light of a living Gospel, breathed in

living faces, preached by a thousand unconscious acts of love and good

will, which, like the cup of cold water given in the name of a

disciple, shall never lose their reward.

“Father, what if thee should get found out again?” said Simeon second,

as he buttered his cake.

“I should pay my fine,” said Simeon, quietly.

“But what if they put thee in prison?”

“Couldn’t thee and mother manage the farm?” said Simeon, smiling.

“Mother can do almost everything,” said the boy. “But isn’t it a shame

to make such laws?”

“Thee mustn’t speak evil of thy rulers, Simeon,” said his father,

gravely. “The Lord only gives us our worldly goods that we may do

justice and mercy; if our rulers require a price of us for it, we must

deliver it up.

“Well, I hate those old slaveholders!” said the boy, who felt as

unchristian as became any modern reformer.

“I am surprised at thee, son,” said Simeon; “thy mother never taught

thee so. I would do even the same for the slaveholder as for the slave,

if the Lord brought him to my door in affliction.”

Simeon second blushed scarlet; but his mother only smiled, and said,

“Simeon is my good boy; he will grow older, by and by, and then he will

be like his father.”

“I hope, my good sir, that you are not exposed to any difficulty on our

account,” said George, anxiously.

“Fear nothing, George, for therefore are we sent into the world. If we

would not meet trouble for a good cause, we were not worthy of our

name.”

“But, for _me_,” said George, “I could not bear it.”

“Fear not, then, friend George; it is not for thee, but for God and

man, we do it,” said Simeon. “And now thou must lie by quietly this

day, and tonight, at ten o’clock, Phineas Fletcher will carry thee

onward to the next stand,—thee and the rest of thy company. The

pursuers are hard after thee; we must not delay.”

“If that is the case, why wait till evening?” said George.

“Thou art safe here by daylight, for every one in the settlement is a

Friend, and all are watching. It has been found safer to travel by

night.”