Everywhere the grass was of ethereal greenness, a greenness drenched5 with the pale yellow of spring sunshine. Looking from earth to sky and from blossom to blossom, the little world of the apple orchards6, shedding its falling petals like fair-weather snow, seemed made of alabaster7 and porcelain8, ivory and mother-of-pearl, all shimmering9 on a background of tender green.
After you pass Albion village, with its streets shaded by elms and maples10 and its outskirts11 embowered in blossoming orchards, you wind along a hilly country road that runs between grassy12 fields. Here the whiteweed is already budding, and there are pleasant pastures dotted with rocks and fringed with spruce and fir; stretches of woodland, too, where the road is lined with giant pines and you lift your face gratefully to catch the cool balsam breath of the forest. Coming from out this splendid shade, this silence too deep to be disturbed by light breezes or vagrant13 winds, you find yourself on the brow of a descending14 hill. The first thing that strikes the eye is a lake that might be a great blue sapphire15 dropped into the verdant16 hollow where it lies. When the eye reluctantly leaves the lake on the left, it turns to rest upon the little Shaker Settlement on the right—a dozen or so large comfortable white barns, sheds, and houses, standing17 in the wide orderly spaces of their own spreading acres of farm and timber land. There again the spring goeth all in white, for there is no spot to fleck18 the dazzling quality of Shaker paint, and their apple, plum, and pear trees are so well cared for that the snowy blossoms are fairly hiding the branches.
The place is very still, although there are signs of labor19 in all directions. From a window of the girls' building a quaint20 little gray-clad figure is beating a braided rug; a boy in homespun, with his hair slightly long in the back and cut in a straight line across the forehead, is carrying milk-cans from the dairy to one of the Sisters' Houses. Men in broad-brimmed hats, with clean-shaven, ascetic22 faces, are ploughing or harrowing here and there in the fields, while a group of Sisters is busy setting out plants and vines in some beds near a cluster of noble trees. That cluster of trees, did the eye of the stranger realize it, was the very starting-point of this Shaker Community, for in the year 1785, the valiant23 Father James Whittaker, one of Mother Ann Lee's earliest English converts, stopped near the village of Albion on his first visit to Maine. As he and his Elders alighted from their horses, they stuck into the ground the willow24 withes they had used as whips, and now, a hundred years later, the trees that had grown from these slender branches were nearly three feet in diameter.
From whatever angle you look upon the Settlement, the first and strongest impression is of quiet order, harmony, and a kind of austere25 plenty. Nowhere is the purity of the spring so apparent. Nothing is out of place; nowhere is any confusion, or appearance of loose ends, or neglected tasks. As you come nearer, you feel the more surely that here there has never been undue26 haste nor waste; no shirking, no putting off till the morrow what should have been done today. Whenever a shingle27 or a clapboard was needed it was put on, where paint was required it was used,—that is evident; and a look at the great barns stored with hay shows how the fields have been conscientiously28 educated into giving a full crop.
To such a spot as this might any tired or sinful heart come for rest; hoping somehow, in the midst of such frugality29 and thrift30, such self-denying labor, such temperate31 use of God's good gifts, such shining cleanliness of outward things, to regain32 and wear “the white flower of a blameless life.” The very air of the place breathed peace, so thought Susanna Hathaway; and little Sue, who skipped by her side, thought nothing at all save that she was with mother in the country; that it had been rather a sad journey, with mother so quiet and pale, and that she would be very glad to see supper, should it rise like a fairy banquet in the midst of these strange surroundings.
It was only a mile and a half from the railway station to the Shaker Settlement, and Susanna knew the road well, for she had driven over it more than once as child and girl. A boy would bring the little trunk that contained their simple necessities later on in the evening, so she and Sue would knock at the door of the house where visitors were admitted, and be undisturbed by any gossiping company while they were pleading their case.
“Are we most there, Mardie?” asked Sue for the twentieth time. “Look at me! I'm being a butterfly, or perhaps a white pigeon. No, I'd rather be a butterfly, and then I can skim along faster and move my wings!”
The airy little figure, all lightness and brightness, danced along the road, the white cotton dress rising and falling, the white-stockinged legs much in evidence, the arms outstretched as if in flight, straw hat falling off yellow hair, and a little wisp of swansdown scarf floating out behind like the drapery of a baby Mercury.
“We are almost there,” her mother answered. “You can see the buildings now, if you will stop being a butterfly. Don't you like them?”
“It is a village, but not quite like other villages. I have told you often about the Shaker Settlement, where your grandmother brought me once when I was just your age. There was a thunder-storm; they kept us all night, and were so kind that I never forgot them. Then your grandmother and I stopped off once when we were going to Boston. I was ten then, and I remember more about it. The same sweet Eldress was there both times.”
“What is an El-der-ess, Mardie?”
“A kind of everybody's mother, she seemed to be,” Susanna responded, with a catch in her breath.
“I'd 'specially like her; will she be there now, Mardie?”
“I'm hoping so, but it is eighteen years ago. I was ten and she was about forty, I should think.”
“Then o' course she'll be dead,” said Sue, cheerfully, “or either she'll have no teeth or hair.”
“People don't always die before they are sixty, Sue.”
“Do they die when they want to, or when they must?”
“Always when they must; never, never when they want to,” answered Sue's mother.
“But o' course they would n't ever want to if they had any little girls to be togedder with, like you and me, Mardie?” And Sue looked up with eyes that were always like two interrogation points, eager by turns and by turns wistful, but never satisfied.
“No,” Susanna replied brokenly, “of course they would n't, unless sometimes they were wicked for a minute or two and forgot.”
“Do the Shakers shake all the time, Mardie, or just once in a while? And shall I see them do it?”
“Sue, dear, I can't explain everything in the world to you while you are so little; you really must wait until you're more grown up. The Shakers don't shake and the Quakers don't quake, and when you're older, I'll try to make you understand why they were called so and why they kept the name.”
“Maybe the El-der-ess can make me understand right off now; I'd 'specially like it.” And Sue ran breathlessly along to the gate where the North Family House stood in its stately, white-and-green austerity.
Susanna followed, and as she caught up with the impetuous Sue, the front door of the house opened and a figure appeared on the threshold. Mother and child quickened their pace and went up the steps, Susanna with a hopeless burden of fear and embarrassment34 clogging35 her tongue and dragging at her feet; Sue so expectant of new disclosures and fresh experiences that her face beamed like a full moon.
Eldress Abby (for it was Eldress Abby) had indeed survived the heavy weight of her fifty-five or sixty summers, and looked as if she might reach a yet greater age. She wore the simple Shaker afternoon dress of drab alpaca; an irreproachable36 muslin surplice encircled her straight, spare shoulders, while her hair was almost entirely37 concealed38 by the stiffly wired, transparent39 white-net cap that served as a frame to the tranquil40 face. The face itself was a network of delicate, fine wrinkles; but every wrinkle must have been as lovely in God's sight as it was in poor unhappy Susanna Hathaway's. Some of them were graven by self-denial and hard work; others perhaps meant the giving up of home, of parents and brothers or sisters; perhaps some worldly love, the love that Father Adam bequeathed to the human family, had been slain41 in Abby's youth, and the scars still remained to show the body's suffering and the spirit's triumph. At all events, whatever foes42 had menaced her purity or her tranquillity43 had been conquered, and she exhaled44 serenity45 as the rose sheds fragrance46.
“Do you remember the little Nelson girl and her mother that stayed here all night, years ago?” asked Susanna, putting out her hand timidly.
“Why, seems to me I do,” assented47 Eldress Abby, genially48. “So many comes and goes it's hard to remember all. Did n't you come once in a thunder-storm?”
“Yes, one of your barns was struck by lightning and we sat up all night.” “Yee, yee.(1) I remember well! Your mother was a beautiful spirit. I could n't forget her.”
(1) “Yea” is always thus pronounced by the Shakers.
“And we came once again, mother and I, and spent the afternoon with you, and went strawberrying in the pasture.”
“Yee, yee, so we did; I hope your mother continues in health.”
“She died the very next year,” Susanna answered in a trembling voice, for the time of explanation was near at hand and her heart failed her.
“Won't you come into the sittingroom and rest a while? You must be tired walking from the deepot.”
“No, thank you, not just yet. I'll step into the front entry a minute.—Sue, run and sit in that rocking-chair on the porch and watch the cows going into the big barn.—Do you remember, Eldress Abby, the second time I came, how you sat me down in the kitchen with a bowl of wild strawberries to hull49 for supper? They were very small and ripe; I did my best, for I never meant to be careless, but the bowl slipped and fell, my legs were too short to reach the floor, and I could n't make a lap, so in trying to pick up the berries I spilled juice on nay50 dress, and on the white apron51 you had tied on for me. Then my fingers were stained and wet and the hulls52 kept falling in with the soft berries, and when you came in and saw me you held up your hands and said, 'Dear, dear! you have made a mess of your work!' Oh, Eldress Abby, they've come back to me all day, those words. I've tried hard to be good, but somehow I've made just such a mess of my life as I made of hulling53 the berries. The bowl is broken, I have n't much fruit to show, and I am all stained and draggled. I should n't have come to Albion on the five o'clock train—that was an accident; I meant to come at noon, when you could turn me away if you wanted to.”
“Nay, that is not the Shaker habit,” remonstrated54 Abby. “You and the child can sleep in one of the spare chambers56 at the Office Building and be welcome.”
“But I want much more than that,” said Susanna, tearfully. “I want to come and live here, where there is no marrying nor giving in marriage. I am so tired with my disappointments and discouragements and failures that it is no use to try any longer. I am Mrs. Hathaway, and Sue is my child, but I have left my husband for good and all, and I only want to spend the rest of my days here in peace and bring up Sue to a more tranquil life than I have ever had. I have a little money, so that I shall not be a burden to you, and I will work from morning to night at any task you set me.”
“I will talk to the Family,” said Eldress Abby gravely; “but there are a good many things to settle before we can say yee to all you ask.”
“Let me confess everything freely and fully,” pleaded Susanna, “and if you think I'm to blame, I will go away at once.”
“Nay, this is no time for that. It is our duty to receive all and try all; then if you should be gathered in, you would unburden your heart to God through the Sister appointed to receive your confession57.”
“Will Sue have to sleep in the children's building away from me?”
“Nay, not now; you are company, not a Shaker, and anyway you could keep the child with you till she is a little older; that's not forbidden at first, though there comes a time when the ties of the flesh must be broken! All you've got to do now's to be 'pure and peaceable, gentle, easy to be entreated58, and without hypocrisy59.' That's about all there is to the Shaker creed60, and that's enough to keep us all busy.”
Sue ran in from the porch excitedly and caught her mother's hand.
“The cows have all gone into the barn,” she chattered61; “and the Shaker gentlemen are milking them, and not one of them is shaking the least bit, for I 'specially noticed; and I looked in through the porch window, and there is nice supper on a table—bread and butter and milk and dried apple sauce and gingerbread and cottage cheese. Is it for us, Mardie?”
Susanna's lip was trembling and her face was pale. She lifted her swimming eyes to the Sister's and asked, “Is it for us, Eldress Abby?”
“Yee, it's for you,” she answered; “there's always a Shaker supper on the table for all who want to leave the husks and share the feast. Come right in and help yourselves. I will sit down with you.”
Supper was over, and Susanna and Sue were lying in a little upper chamber55 under the stars. It was the very one that Susanna had slept in as a child, or that she had been put to bed in, for there was little sleep that night for any one. She had leaned on the windowsill with her mother and watched the pillar of flame and smoke ascend62 from the burning barn; and once in the early morning she had stolen out of bed, and, kneeling by the open window, had watched the two silent Shaker brothers who were guarding the smouldering ruins, fearful lest the wind should rise and bear any spark to the roofs of the precious buildings they had labored63 so hard to save.
The chamber was spotless and devoid64 of ornament65. The paint was robin's egg blue and of a satin gloss66. The shining floor was of the same color, and neat braided rugs covered exposed places near the bureau, washstand, and bed. Various useful articles of Shaker manufacture interested Sue greatly: the exquisite67 straw-work that covered the whisk-broom; the mending-basket, pincushion, needle-book, spool- and watch-cases, hair-receivers, pin-trays, might all have been put together by fairy fingers.
Sue's prayers had been fervent68, but a trifle disjointed, covering all subjects from Jack69 and Fardie, to Grandma in heaven and Aunt Louisa at the farm, with special references to El-der-ess Abby and the Shaker cows, and petitions that the next day be fair so that she could see them milked. Excitement at her strange, unaccustomed surroundings had put the child's mind in a very whirl, and she had astonished her mother with a very new and disturbing version of the Lord's Prayer, ending: “God give us our debts and help us to forget our debtors70 and theirs shall be the glory, Amen.” Now she lay quietly on the wall side of the clean, narrow bed, while her mother listened to hear the regular breathing that would mean that she was off for the land of dreams. The child's sleep would leave the mother free to slip out of bed and look at the stars; free to pray and long and wonder and suffer and repent71, not wholly, but in part, for she was really at peace in all but the innermost citadel72 of her conscience. She had left her husband, and for the moment, at all events, she was fiercely glad; but she had left her boy, and Jack was only ten. Jack was not the helpless, clinging sort; he was a little piece of his father, and his favorite. Aunt Louisa would surely take him, and Jack would scarcely feel the difference, for he had never shown any special affection for anybody. Still he was her child, nobody could possibly get around that fact, and it was a stumbling-block in the way of forgetfulness or ease of mind. Oh, but for that, what unspeakable content she could feel in this quiet haven21, this self-respecting solitude73! To have her thoughts, her emotions, her words, her self, to herself once more, as she had had them before she was married at seventeen. To go to sleep in peace, without listening for a step she had once heard with gladness, but that now sometimes stumbled unsteadily on the stair; or to dream as happy women dreamed, without being roused by the voice of the present John, a voice so different from that of the past John that it made the heart ache to listen to it.
Sue's voice broke the stillness: “How long are we going to stay here, Mardie?”
“I don't know, Sue; I think perhaps as long as they'll let us.”
“Will Fardie come and see us?”
“I don't expect him.”
“Who'll take care of Jack, Mardie?”
“Your Aunt Louisa.”
“She'll scold him awfully74, but he never cries; he just says, 'Pooh! what do I care?' Oh, I forgot to pray for that very nicest Shaker gentleman that said he'd let me help him feed the calves75! Had n't I better get out of bed and do it? I'd 'specially like to.”
“Very well, Sue; and then go to sleep.”
Safely in bed again, there was a long pause, and then the eager little voice began, “Who'll take care of Fardie now?”
“He's a big man; he does n't need anybody.”
“What if he's sick?”
“We must go back to him, I suppose.”
“Tomorrow 's Sunday; what if he needs us tomorrow, Mardie?”
“I don't know, I don't know! Oh, Sue, Sue, don't ask your wretched mother any more questions, for she cannot bear them tonight. Cuddle up close to her; love her and forgive her and help her to know what's right.”
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1
scattering
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| n.[物]散射；散乱，分散；在媒介质中的散播adj.散乱的；分散在不同范围的；广泛扩散的；（选票）数量分散的v.散射(scatter的ing形式)；散布；驱散 | |
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petals
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| n.花瓣( petal的名词复数 ) | |
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innocence
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| n.无罪；天真；无害 | |
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tinged
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| v.（使）发丁丁声( ting的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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5
drenched
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| adj.湿透的；充满的v.使湿透( drench的过去式和过去分词 )；在某人（某物）上大量使用（某液体） | |
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orchards
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| （通常指围起来的）果园( orchard的名词复数 ) | |
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7
alabaster
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| adj.雪白的；n.雪花石膏；条纹大理石 | |
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porcelain
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| n.瓷；adj.瓷的，瓷制的 | |
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shimmering
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| v.闪闪发光，发微光( shimmer的现在分词 ) | |
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maples
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| 槭树，枫树( maple的名词复数 )； 槭木 | |
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outskirts
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| n.郊外，郊区 | |
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12
grassy
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| adj.盖满草的；长满草的 | |
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13
vagrant
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| n.流浪者，游民；adj.流浪的，漂泊不定的 | |
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14
descending
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| n. 下行 adj. 下降的 | |
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15
sapphire
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| n.青玉，蓝宝石；adj.天蓝色的 | |
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verdant
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| adj.翠绿的，青翠的，生疏的，不老练的 | |
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standing
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| n.持续，地位；adj.永久的，不动的，直立的，不流动的 | |
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fleck
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| n.斑点，微粒 vt.使有斑点，使成斑驳 | |
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labor
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| n.劳动，努力，工作，劳工；分娩；vi.劳动，努力，苦干；vt.详细分析；麻烦 | |
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quaint
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| adj.古雅的，离奇有趣的，奇怪的 | |
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haven
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| n.安全的地方，避难所，庇护所 | |
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ascetic
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| adj.禁欲的；严肃的 | |
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valiant
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| adj.勇敢的，英勇的；n.勇士，勇敢的人 | |
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willow
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| n.柳树 | |
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austere
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| adj.艰苦的；朴素的，朴实无华的；严峻的 | |
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26
undue
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| adj.过分的；不适当的；未到期的 | |
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27
shingle
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| n.木瓦板；小招牌(尤指医生或律师挂的营业招牌)；v.用木瓦板盖（屋顶）；把（女子头发）剪短 | |
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28
conscientiously
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| adv.凭良心地；认真地，负责尽职地；老老实实 | |
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frugality
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| n.节约，节俭 | |
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thrift
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| adj.节约，节俭；n.节俭，节约 | |
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temperate
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| adj.温和的，温带的，自我克制的，不过分的 | |
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regain
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| vt.重新获得，收复，恢复 | |
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specially
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| adv.特定地；特殊地；明确地 | |
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embarrassment
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| n.尴尬；使人为难的人(事物)；障碍；窘迫 | |
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clogging
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| 堵塞，闭合 | |
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irreproachable
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| adj.不可指责的，无过失的 | |
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entirely
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| ad.全部地，完整地；完全地，彻底地 | |
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38
concealed
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| a.隐藏的，隐蔽的 | |
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39
transparent
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| adj.明显的，无疑的；透明的 | |
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40
tranquil
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| adj. 安静的, 宁静的, 稳定的, 不变的 | |
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41
slain
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| 杀死，宰杀，杀戮( slay的过去分词 )； (slay的过去分词) | |
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42
foes
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| 敌人，仇敌( foe的名词复数 ) | |
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43
tranquillity
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| n. 平静, 安静 | |
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44
exhaled
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| v.呼出，发散出( exhale的过去式和过去分词 )；吐出（肺中的空气、烟等），呼气 | |
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45
serenity
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| n.宁静，沉着，晴朗 | |
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46
fragrance
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| n.芬芳，香味，香气 | |
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47
assented
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| 同意，赞成( assent的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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48
genially
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| adv.亲切地，和蔼地；快活地 | |
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49
hull
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| n.船身；(果、实等的)外壳；vt.去(谷物等)壳 | |
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50
nay
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| adv.不；n.反对票，投反对票者 | |
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51
apron
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| n.围裙；工作裙 | |
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52
hulls
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| 船体( hull的名词复数 )； 船身； 外壳； 豆荚 | |
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53
hulling
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| 造船身的材料 | |
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54
remonstrated
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| v.抗议( remonstrate的过去式和过去分词 )；告诫 | |
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55
chamber
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| n.房间，寝室；会议厅；议院；会所 | |
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56
chambers
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| n.房间( chamber的名词复数 )；（议会的）议院；卧室；会议厅 | |
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57
confession
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| n.自白，供认，承认 | |
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58
entreated
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| 恳求，乞求( entreat的过去式和过去分词 ) | |
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hypocrisy
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| n.伪善，虚伪 | |
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creed
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| n.信条；信念，纲领 | |
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61
chattered
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| （人）喋喋不休( chatter的过去式 )； 唠叨； （牙齿）打战； （机器）震颤 | |
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ascend
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| vi.渐渐上升，升高；vt.攀登，登上 | |
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labored
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| adj.吃力的，谨慎的v.努力争取(for)( labor的过去式和过去分词 )；苦干；详细分析；（指引擎）缓慢而困难地运转 | |
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devoid
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| adj.全无的，缺乏的 | |
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ornament
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| v.装饰，美化；n.装饰，装饰物 | |
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gloss
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| n.光泽，光滑；虚饰；注释；vt.加光泽于；掩饰 | |
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exquisite
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| adj.精美的；敏锐的；剧烈的，感觉强烈的 | |
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fervent
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| adj.热的，热烈的，热情的 | |
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jack
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| n.插座，千斤顶，男人；v.抬起，提醒，扛举；n.（Jake）杰克 | |
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debtors
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| n.债务人，借方( debtor的名词复数 ) | |
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repent
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| v.悔悟，悔改，忏悔，后悔 | |
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citadel
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| n.城堡；堡垒；避难所 | |
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solitude
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| n. 孤独; 独居,荒僻之地,幽静的地方 | |
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awfully
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| adv.可怕地，非常地，极端地 | |
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75
calves
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| n.(calf的复数)笨拙的男子，腓；腿肚子( calf的名词复数 )；牛犊；腓；小腿肚v.生小牛( calve的第三人称单数 )；（冰川）崩解；生（小牛等），产（犊）；使（冰川）崩解 | |
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