Hannah Tupper Character Analysis

“[…] She’s been there as long as I can remember.”

“All alone?”

“With her cats. There’s always a cat or so around. People say she’s a witch.”

“Do you believe in witches, Judith?”

“Maybe not,” said Judith doubtfully. “All the same, it gives me a creepy feeling to look at her. She’s queer, that’s certain, and she never comes to Meeting. I’d just rather not get any closer.”

Kit looked back at the gray figure bent over a kettle, stirring something with a long stick. Her spine prickled. It might be only soap, of course […] But that lonely figure in the ragged flapping shawl—it was easy enough to imagine any sort of mysterious brew in that pot!

[Kit] looked about her. “‘Tis a pretty room,” she said without thinking, and then wondered how that could be, when it was so plain and bare. Perhaps it was only the sunlight on boards that were scrubbed smooth and white, or perhaps it was the feeling of peace that lay across the room as tangibly as the bar of sunshine.

“[…] But no one in Wethersfield has anything to do with Hannah Tupper.”

“Why on earth not?”

“She’s a Quaker.”

“Why is that so dreadful?”

Rachel hesitated. “I can’t tell you exactly. The Quakers are queer stubborn people. They don’t believe in the Sacraments.”

“What difference does that make? She is as kind and good as—as you are, Aunt Rachel. I could swear to it.”

“The river is so blue today,” [Kit] said sleepily. “It could almost be the water in Carlisle Bay.”

“Homesick?” asked Nat casually, his eyes on the blue strip of water.

“Not here,” she answered. “Not when I’m in the meadow, or with Hannah.”

“Why should you take it upon yourself to mend a roof for the Quaker woman?” demanded [Matthew].

“She lives all alone—” began Kit.

“She is a heretic, and she refuses to attend Meeting. She has no claim on your charity.”

For Prudence was an entirely different child from the woebegone shrinking creature who had stood in the roadway outside the school. The tight little bud that was the real Prudence had steadily opened its petals in the sunshine of Kit’s friendship and Hannah’s gentle affection. Her mind was quick and eager.

“Or you can go on to the West Indies with us.”

Barbados! The tears sprang to her eyes. “I can’t, Nat. I have to stay here […] ‘Tis Mercy,” she stammered. “She’s terribly ill. I couldn’t go, I just couldn’t, not knowing—”

“‘Tis true I did not welcome you into my house,” [Matthew] said at last. “But this last week you have proved me wrong. You haven’t spared yourself, Katherine. Our own daughter couldn’t have done more.”

Suddenly Kit wished, with all her heart, that she had never deceived this man. She would like to stand here before him with a clear conscience. She was ashamed of the many times—more times than she could count—when she had skipped off and left her work undone.

I shall tell him some day, she vowed to herself, when I am sure that Hannah is safe. And I will do my full share, beginning this very moment. I don’t even feel tired any more.

William could help her. Why hadn’t she thought of him at once? Anything William said would carry weight in the town. His position, his character, were unquestioned […] The thought steadied her. She thought of him coming to champion her […] Dear dependable William! Perhaps he would come tonight […]

It was Rachel who finally came instead.

“Is it true that you were also acquainted with a certain cat which the widow entertained as a familiar spirit?”

“It—it was just an ordinary cat, sir, like any cat.”

“[…] She’s been there as long as I can remember.”

“All alone?”

“With her cats. There’s always a cat or so around. People say she’s a witch.”

“Do you believe in witches, Judith?”

“Maybe not,” said Judith doubtfully. “All the same, it gives me a creepy feeling to look at her. She’s queer, that’s certain, and she never comes to Meeting. I’d just rather not get any closer.”

Kit looked back at the gray figure bent over a kettle, stirring something with a long stick. Her spine prickled. It might be only soap, of course […] But that lonely figure in the ragged flapping shawl—it was easy enough to imagine any sort of mysterious brew in that pot!

[Kit] looked about her. “‘Tis a pretty room,” she said without thinking, and then wondered how that could be, when it was so plain and bare. Perhaps it was only the sunlight on boards that were scrubbed smooth and white, or perhaps it was the feeling of peace that lay across the room as tangibly as the bar of sunshine.

“[…] But no one in Wethersfield has anything to do with Hannah Tupper.”

“Why on earth not?”

“She’s a Quaker.”

“Why is that so dreadful?”

Rachel hesitated. “I can’t tell you exactly. The Quakers are queer stubborn people. They don’t believe in the Sacraments.”

“What difference does that make? She is as kind and good as—as you are, Aunt Rachel. I could swear to it.”

“The river is so blue today,” [Kit] said sleepily. “It could almost be the water in Carlisle Bay.”

“Homesick?” asked Nat casually, his eyes on the blue strip of water.

“Not here,” she answered. “Not when I’m in the meadow, or with Hannah.”

“Why should you take it upon yourself to mend a roof for the Quaker woman?” demanded [Matthew].

“She lives all alone—” began Kit.

“She is a heretic, and she refuses to attend Meeting. She has no claim on your charity.”

For Prudence was an entirely different child from the woebegone shrinking creature who had stood in the roadway outside the school. The tight little bud that was the real Prudence had steadily opened its petals in the sunshine of Kit’s friendship and Hannah’s gentle affection. Her mind was quick and eager.

“Or you can go on to the West Indies with us.”

Barbados! The tears sprang to her eyes. “I can’t, Nat. I have to stay here […] ‘Tis Mercy,” she stammered. “She’s terribly ill. I couldn’t go, I just couldn’t, not knowing—”

“‘Tis true I did not welcome you into my house,” [Matthew] said at last. “But this last week you have proved me wrong. You haven’t spared yourself, Katherine. Our own daughter couldn’t have done more.”

Suddenly Kit wished, with all her heart, that she had never deceived this man. She would like to stand here before him with a clear conscience. She was ashamed of the many times—more times than she could count—when she had skipped off and left her work undone.

I shall tell him some day, she vowed to herself, when I am sure that Hannah is safe. And I will do my full share, beginning this very moment. I don’t even feel tired any more.

William could help her. Why hadn’t she thought of him at once? Anything William said would carry weight in the town. His position, his character, were unquestioned […] The thought steadied her. She thought of him coming to champion her […] Dear dependable William! Perhaps he would come tonight […]

It was Rachel who finally came instead.

“Is it true that you were also acquainted with a certain cat which the widow entertained as a familiar spirit?”

“It—it was just an ordinary cat, sir, like any cat.”