Miss Tempy’s Watchers Page #2

"Miss Tempy’s Watchers" is a charming short story by Sarah Orne Jewett that revolves around the character of Miss Tempy, an elderly woman living in a quiet New England town. The narrative unfolds as she grapples with the passage of time and the changes in her community, particularly through the lens of her relationships with her neighbors and the younger generation. The story explores themes of aging, memory, and the importance of community connections, all rendered with Jewett's signature attention to the nuances of rural life. Through a blend of warmth and insight, Jewett captures the essence of human experiences and the bonds that tie individuals together.

• Short story

								

was going to fling some of the clutter into the stove. I was kind of
tired out, starting ’em off in season. ‘Oh, give me them!’ says she,
real pleading; and she wropped ’em up and took ’em home with her when
she went, and she mended ’em up and stuck ’em together, and made some
young one or other happy with every blessed one. You’d thought I’d done
her the biggest favor. ‘No thanks to me. I should ha’ burnt ’em, Tempy,’
says I.”

“Some of ’em came to our house, I know,” said Miss Binson. “She’d take a
lot o’ trouble to please a child, ’stead o’ shoving of it out o’ the
way, like the rest of us when we’re drove.”

“I can tell you the biggest thing she ever done, and I don’t know ’s
there’s anybody left but me to tell it. I don’t want it forgot,” Sarah
Binson went on, looking up at the clock to see how the night was going.
“It was that pretty-looking Trevor girl, who taught the Corners school,
and married so well afterwards, out in New York State. You remember her,
I dare say?”

“Certain,” said Mrs. Crowe, with an air of interest.

“She was a splendid scholar, folks said, and give the school a great
start; but she’d overdone herself getting her education, and working to
pay for it, and she all broke down one spring, and Tempy made her come
and stop with her a while,—you remember that? Well, she had an uncle,
her mother’s brother, out in Chicago, who was well off and friendly, and
used to write to Lizzie Trevor, and I dare say make her some presents;
but he was a lively, driving man, and didn’t take time to stop and think
about his folks. He hadn’t seen her since she was a little girl. Poor
Lizzie was so pale and weakly that she just got through the term o’
school. She looked as if she was just going straight off in a decline.
Tempy, she cosseted her up a while, and then, next thing folks knew, she
was tellin’ round how Miss Trevor had gone to see her uncle, and meant
to visit Niagary Falls on the way, and stop over night. Now I happened
to know, in ways I won’t dwell on to explain, that the poor girl was in
debt for her schoolin’ when she come here, and her last quarter’s pay
had just squared it off at last, and left her without a cent ahead,
hardly; but it had fretted her thinking of it, so she paid it all; those
might have dunned her that she owed it to. An’ I taxed Tempy about the
girl’s goin’ off on such a journey till she owned up, rather’n have
Lizzie blamed, that she’d given her sixty dollars, same’s if she was
rolling in riches, and sent her off to have a good rest and vacation.”

“Sixty dollars!” exclaimed Mrs. Crowe. “Tempy only had ninety dollars a
year that came in to her; rest of her livin’ she got by helpin’ about,
with what she raised off this little piece o’ ground, sand one side an’
clay the other. An’ how often I’ve heard her tell, years ago, that she’d
rather see Niagary than any other sight in the world!”

The women looked at each other in silence; the magnitude of the generous
sacrifice was almost too great for their comprehension.

“She was just poor enough to do that!” declared Mrs. Crowe at last, in
an abandonment of feeling. “Say what you may, I feel humbled to the
dust,” and her companion ventured to say nothing. She never had given
away sixty dollars at once, but it was simply because she never had it
to give. It came to her very lips to say in explanation, “Tempy was so
situated;” but she checked herself in time, for she would not betray her
own loyal guarding of a dependent household.

“Folks say a great deal of generosity, and this one’s being
public-sperited, and that one free-handed about giving,” said Mrs.
Crowe, who was a little nervous in the silence. “I suppose we can’t tell
the sorrow it would be to some folks not to give, same’s ’twould be to
me not to save. I seem kind of made for that, as if ’twas what I’d got
to do. I should feel sights better about it if I could make it evident
what I was savin’ for. If I had a child, now, Sarah Ann,” and her voice
was a little husky,—“if I had a child, I should think I was heapin’ of
it up because he was the one trained by the Lord to scatter it again for
good. But here’s Mr. Crowe and me, we can’t do anything with money, and
both of us like to keep things same ’s they’ve always been. Now
Priscilla Dance was talking away like a mill-clapper, week before last.
She’d think I would go right off and get one o’ them new-fashioned
gilt-and-white papers for the best room, and some new furniture, an’ a
marble-top table. And I looked at her, all struck up. ‘Why,’ says I,
‘Priscilla, that nice old velvet paper ain’t hurt a mite. I shouldn’t
feel ’twas my best room without it. Dan’el says ’tis the first thing he
can remember rubbin’ his little baby fingers on to it, and how splendid
he thought them red roses was.’ I maintain,” continued Mrs. Crowe
stoutly, “that folks wastes sights o’ good money doin’ just such foolish
things. Tearin’ out the insides o’ meetin’-houses, and fixin’ the pews
different; ’twas good enough as ’twas with mendin’; then times come, an’
they want to put it all back same ’s ’twas before.”

This touched upon an exciting subject to active members of that parish.
Miss Binson and Mrs. Crowe belonged to opposite parties, and had at one
time come as near hard feelings as they could, and yet escape them. Each
hastened to speak of other things and to show her untouched
friendliness.

“I do agree with you,” said Sister Binson, “that few of us know what use
to make of money, beyond every-day necessities. You’ve seen more o’ the
world than I have, and know what’s expected. When it comes to taste and
judgment about such things, I ought to defer to others;” and with this
modest avowal the critical moment passed when there might have been an
improper discussion.

In the silence that followed, the fact of their presence in a house of
death grew more clear than before. There was something disturbing in the
noise of a mouse gnawing at the dry boards of a closet wall near by.
Both the watchers looked up anxiously at the clock; it was almost the
middle of the night, and the whole world seemed to have left them alone
with their solemn duty. Only the brook was awake.

“Perhaps we might give a look upstairs now,” whispered Mrs. Crowe, as if
she hoped to hear some reason against their going just then to the
chamber of death; but Sister Binson rose, with a serious and yet
satisfied countenance, and lifted the small lamp from the table. She was
much more used to watching than Mrs. Crowe, and much less affected by
it. They opened the door into a small entry with a steep stairway; they
climbed the creaking stairs, and entered the cold upper room on tiptoe.
Mrs. Crowe’s heart began to beat very fast as the lamp was put on a high
bureau, and made long, fixed shadows about the walls. She went
hesitatingly toward the solemn shape under its white drapery, and felt a
sense of remonstrance as Sarah Ann gently, but in a business-like way,
turned back the thin sheet.
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