Chapter Five--The Nutter House and the Nutter Family
The Nutter House--all the more prominent dwellings in Rivermouth arenamed after somebody; for instance, there is the Walford House, theVenner House, the Trefethen House, etc., though it by no means followsthat they are inhabited by the people whose names they bear--the NutterHouse, to resume, has been in our family nearly a hundred years, andis an honor to the builder (an ancestor of ours, I believe), supposingdurability to be a merit. If our ancestor was a carpenter, he knew histrade. I wish I knew mine as well. Such timber and such workmanshipdon't often come together in houses built nowadays.
Imagine a low-studded structure, with a wide hall running through themiddle. At your right band, as you enter, stands a tall black mahoganyclock, looking like an Egyptian mummy set up on end. On each side ofthe hall are doors (whose knobs, it must be confessed, do not turn veryeasily), opening into large rooms wainscoted and rich in wood-carvingsabout the mantel-pieces and cornices. The walls are covered withpictured paper, representing landscapes and sea-views. In the parlor,for example, this enlivening figure is repeated all over the room. Agroup of English peasants, wearing Italian hats, are dancing on a lawnthat abruptly resolves itself into a sea-beach, upon which stands aflabby fisherman (nationality unknown), quietly hauling in what appearsto be a small whale, and totally regardless of the dreadful naval combatgoing on just beyond the end of his fishing-rod. On the other side ofthe ships is the main-land again, with the same peasants dancing.Our ancestors were very worthy people, but their wall-papers wereabominable.
There are neither grates nor stoves in these quaint chambers, butsplendid open chimney-places, with room enough for the corpulentback-log to turn over comfortably on the polished andirons. A widestaircase leads from the hall to the second story, which is arrangedmuch like the first. Over this is the garret. I needn't tell aNew England boy what--a museum of curiosities is the garret of awell-regulated New England house of fifty or sixty years' standing.Here meet together, as if by some preconcerted arrangement, all thebroken-down chairs of the household, all the spavined tables, allthe seedy hats, all the intoxicated-looking boots, all the splitwalking-sticks that have retired from business, "weary with the march oflife." The pots, the pans, the trunks, the bottles--who may hope tomake an inventory of the numberless odds and ends collected in thisbewildering lumber-room? But what a place it is to sit of an afternoonwith the rain pattering on the roof! What a place in which to readGulliver's Travels, or the famous adventures of Rinaldo Rinaldini!
My grandfather's house stood a little back from the main street, inthe shadow of two handsome elms, whose overgrown boughs would dashthemselves against the gables whenever the wind blew hard. In the rearwas a pleasant garden, covering perhaps a quarter of an acre, full ofplum-trees and gooseberry bushes. These trees were old settlers, and areall dead now, excepting one, which bears a purple plum as big as an egg.This tree, as I remark, is still standing, and a more beautiful treeto tumble out of never grew anywhere. In the northwestern corner of thegarden were the stables and carriage-house opening upon a narrow lane.You may imagine that I made an early visit to that locality to inspectGypsy. Indeed, I paid her a visit every half-hour during the first dayof my arrival. At the twenty-fourth visit she trod on my foot ratherheavily, as a reminder, probably, that I was wearing out my welcome. Shewas a knowing little pony, that Gypsy, and I shall have much to say ofher in the course of these pages.
Gypsy's quarters were all that could be wished, but nothing among my newsurroundings gave me more satisfaction than the cosey sleeping apartmentthat had been prepared for myself. It was the hall room over the frontdoor.
I had never had a chamber all to myself before, and this one, abouttwice the size of our state-room on board the Typhoon, was a marvel ofneatness and comfort. Pretty chintz curtains hung at the window, and apatch quilt of more colors than were in Joseph's coat covered the littletruckle-bed. The pattern of the wall-paper left nothing to be desired inthat line. On a gray background were small bunches of leaves, unlikeany that ever grew in this world; and on every other bunch perched ayellow-bird, pitted with crimson spots, as if it had just recovered froma severe attack of the small-pox. That no such bird ever existed didnot detract from my admiration of each one. There were two hundred andsixty-eight of these birds in all, not counting those split in two wherethe paper was badly joined. I counted them once when I was laid up witha fine black eye, and falling asleep immediately dreamed that the wholeflock suddenly took wing and flew out of the window. From that time Iwas never able to regard them as merely inanimate objects.
A wash-stand in the corner, a chest of carved mahogany drawers, alooking-glass in a filigreed frame, and a high-backed chair studded withbrass nails like a coffin, constituted the furniture. Over the head ofthe bed were two oak shelves, holding perhaps a dozen books--among whichwere Theodore, or The Peruvians; Robinson Crusoe; an odd volume ofTristram Shandy; Baxter's Saints' Rest, and a fine English edition ofthe Arabian Nights, with six hundred wood-cuts by Harvey.
Shall I ever forget the hour when I first overhauled these books? I donot allude especially to Baxter's Saints' Rest, which is far from beinga lively work for the young, but to the Arabian Nights, and particularlyRobinson Crusoe. The thrill that ran into my fingers' ends then has notrun out yet. Many a time did I steal up to this nest of a room,and, taking the dog's-eared volume from its shelf, glide off into anenchanted realm, where there were no lessons to get and no boys tosmash my kite. In a lidless trunk in the garret I subsequently unearthedanother motley collection of novels and romances, embracing theadventures of Baron Trenck, Jack Sheppard, Don Quixote, Gil Blas, andCharlotte Temple--all of which I fed upon like a bookworm.
I never come across a copy of any of those works without feeling acertain tenderness for the yellow-haired little rascal who used to leanabove the magic pages hour after hour, religiously believing every wordhe read, and no more doubting the reality of Sindbad the Sailor, or theKnight of the Sorrowful Countenance, than he did the existence of hisown grandfather.
Against the wall at the foot of the bed hung a single-barrelshot-gun--placed there by Grandfather Nutter, who knew what a boyloved, if ever a grandfather did. As the trigger of the gun had beenaccidentally twisted off, it was not, perhaps, the most dangerous weaponthat could be placed in the hands of youth. In this maimed conditionits "bump of destructiveness" was much less than that of my small brasspocket-pistol, which I at once proceeded to suspend from one of thenails supporting the fowling-piece, for my vagaries concerning the redman had been entirely dispelled.
Having introduced the reader to the Nutter House, a presentation to theNutter family naturally follows. The family consisted of mygrandfather; his sister, Miss Abigail Nutter; and Kitty Collins, themaid-of-all-work.
Grandfather Nutter was a hale, cheery old gentleman, as straight and asbald as an arrow. He had been a sailor in early life; that is to say, atthe age of ten years he fled from the multiplication-table, and ran awayto sea. A single voyage satisfied him. There never was but one of ourfamily who didn't run away to sea, and this one died at his birth. Mygrandfather had also been a soldier--a captain of militia in 1812. If Iowe the British nation anything, I owe thanks to that particular Britishsoldier who put a musket-ball into the fleshy part of Captain Nutter'sleg, causing that noble warrior a slight permanent limp, but offsettingthe injury by furnishing him with the material for a story which the oldgentleman was never weary of telling and I never weary of listening to.The story, in brief, was as follows.
At the breaking out of the war, an English frigate lay for several daysoff the coast near Rivermouth. A strong fort defended the harbor, and aregiment of minute-men, scattered at various points along-shore, stoodready to repel the boats, should the enemy try to effect a landing.Captain Nutter had charge of a slight earthwork just outside the mouthof the river. Late one thick night the sound of oars was heard; thesentinel tried to fire off his gun at half-cock, and couldn't, whenCaptain Nutter sprung upon the parape
t in the pitch darkness, andshouted, "Boat ahoyl" A musket-shot immediately embedded itself in thecalf of his leg. The Captain tumbled into the fort and the boat, whichhad probably come in search of water, pulled back to the frigate.
This was my grandfather's only exploit during the war. That his promptand bold conduct was instrumental in teaching the enemy the hopelessnessof attempting to conquer such a people was among the firm beliefs of myboyhood.
At the time I came to Rivermouth my grandfather had retired from activepursuits, and was living at ease on his money, invested principallyin shipping. He had been a widower many years; a maiden sister, theaforesaid Miss Abigail, managing his household. Miss Abigail alsomanaged her brother, and her brother's servant, and the visitor at herbrother's gate--not in a tyrannical spirit, but from a philanthropicdesire to be useful to everybody. In person she was tall and angular;she had a gray complexion, gray eyes, gray eyebrows, and generally worea gray dress. Her strongest weak point was a belief in the efficacy of"hot-drops" as a cure for all known diseases.
If there were ever two people who seemed to dislike each other, MissAbigail and Kitty Collins were those people. If ever two people reallyloved each other, Miss Abigail and Kitty Collins were those people also.They were always either skirmishing or having a cup of tea lovinglytogether.
Miss Abigail was very fond of me, and so was Kitty; and in the course oftheir disagreements each let me into the private history of the other.
According to Kitty, it was not originally my grandfather's intentionto have Miss Abigail at the head of his domestic establishment. She hadswooped down on him (Kitty's own words), with a band-box in one hand anda faded blue cotton umbrella, still in existence, in the other. Cladin this singular garb--I do not remember that Kitty alluded to--anyadditional peculiarity of dress--Miss Abigail had made her appearance atthe door of the Nutter House on the morning of my grandmother's funeral.The small amount of baggage which the lady brought with her would haveled the superficial observer to infer that Miss Abigail's visit waslimited to a few days. I run ahead of my story in saying she remainedseventeen years! How much longer she would have remained can never bedefinitely known now, as she died at the expiration of that period.
Whether or not my grandfather was quite pleased by this unlooked-foraddition to his family is a problem. He was very kind always to MissAbigail, and seldom opposed her; though I think she must have tried hispatience sometimes, especially when she interfered with Kitty.
Kitty Collins, or Mrs. Catherine, as she preferred to be called,was descended in a direct line from an extensive family of kings whoformerly ruled over Ireland. In consequence of various calamities,among which the failure of the potato-crop may be mentioned, MissKitty Collins, in company with several hundred of her countrymen andcountrywomen--also descended from kings--came over to America in anemigrant ship, in the year eighteen hundred and something.
I don't know what freak of fortune caused the royal exile to turn upat Rivermouth; but turn up she did, a few months after arriving in thiscountry, and was hired by my grandmother to do "general housework" forthe sum of four shillings and six-pence a week.
Kitty had been living about seven years in my grandfather's family whenshe unburdened her heart of a secret which had been weighing upon it allthat time. It may be said of people, as it is said of nations, "Happyare they that have no history." Kitty had a history, and a pathetic one,I think.
On board the emigrant ship that brought her to America, she becameacquainted with a sailor, who, being touched by Kitty's forlorncondition, was very good to her. Long before the end of the voyage,which had been tedious and perilous, she was heartbroken at the thoughtof separating from her kindly protector; but they were not to part justyet, for the sailor returned Kitty's affection, and the two were marriedon their arrival at port. Kitty's husband--she would never mention hisname, but kept it locked in her bosom like some precious relic--had aconsiderable sum of money when the crew were paid off; and the youngcouple--for Kitty was young then--lived very happily in a lodging-house onSouth Street, near the docks. This was in New York.
The days flew by like hours, and the stocking in which the little bridekept the funds shrunk and shrunk, until at last there were only threeor four dollars left in the toe of it. Then Kitty was troubled; forshe knew her sailor would have to go to sea again unless he couldget employment on shore. This he endeavored to do, but not with muchsuccess. One morning as usual he kissed her good day, and set out insearch of work.
"Kissed me goodby, and called me his little Irish lass," sobbed Kitty,telling the story, "kissed me goodby, and, Heaven help me, I niver setoi on him nor on the likes of him again!"
He never came back. Day after day dragged on, night after night, andthen the weary weeks. What had become of him? Had he been murdered? Hadhe fallen into the docks? Had he--deserted her? No! She could not believethat; he was too brave and tender and true. She couldn't believe that.He was dead, dead, or he'd come back to her.
Meanwhile the landlord of the lodging-house turned Kitty into thestreets, now that "her man" was gone, and the payment of the rentdoubtful. She got a place as a servant. The family she lived withshortly moved to Boston, and she accompanied them; then they wentabroad, but Kitty would not leave America. Somehow she drifted toRivermouth, and for seven long years never gave speech to her sorrow,until the kindness of strangers, who had become friends to her, unsealedthe heroic lips.
Kitty's story, you may be sure, made my grandparents treat her morekindly than ever. In time she grew to be regarded less as a servant thanas a friend in the home circle, sharing its joys and sorrows--a faithfulnurse, a willing slave, a happy spirit in spite of all. I fancy I hearher singing over her work in the kitchen, pausing from time to time tomake some witty reply to Miss Abigail--for Kitty, like all her race, hada vein of unconscious humor. Her bright honest face comes to me out fromthe past, the light and life of the Nutter House when I was a boy atRivermouth.