"Meadow Brook Station! Stop five minutes for refreshments!" shouted the conductor, and alighting from the noisy, crowded cars, I stood once more in my own native town, gazing with a feeling of delight upon the sunny hills, dotted over with the old-fashioned gable-roofed houses, and upon the green, grassy meadow, through which rolled the blue waters of the Chicopee. I had not stood thus long, when a broad hand was laid upon my shoulder, and the next instant my arms were around the neck of my father, who, I thought, had changed much since last I saw him; for his face was thin and pale, while threads of silver were scattered through his soft brown hair.
It was the loss of Anna, I fancied; and when we at last were seated in the buggy, and on our way home, I hastened to speak of her, and to tell him of the favorable report we heard of Herbert. But naught which I said seemed to rouse him; and at last I, too, fell into the same thoughtful mood, in which even old Sorrel shared, for he moved with his head down, scarcely once leaving the slow, measured walk he had first assumed. When, at last, we reached the hill-top, from which could be seen the Homestead, with its maple trees in front, and long row of apple trees, now in full bloom, in the rear, I started up, exclaiming, "Home, sweet home! It never looked half so beautiful to me before."
In a moment, however, I checked myself; for my father groaned aloud, while his face grew whiter than before.
"What is it, father," I asked; "are they sick or dead?"
"Neither, neither," he replied, at the same time chirruping to old Sorrel, who pricked up his ears and soon carried us to the door of our house, where I was warmly greeted by all.
And still there was in what they said and did an air of melancholy which puzzled me; and when I was alone with Lizzie, I asked her the cause why they looked so sad? Bursting into tears, she replied, "This is not our home any longer. We must leave it, and go, we don't know where—to the poor-house, pa sometimes says, when he feels the worst, and then grandma cries so hard—oh, it's dreadful!"
"And why must we leave it?" I asked; and Lizzie answered, "Pa has signed notes for Uncle Thomas, who has failed, and now the homestead must be sold to pay his debts—and they so proud, too!"
It was as Lizzie had said. Uncle Thomas Harding was my mother's brother, who lived in Providence, in far greater style, it was said, than he was able to support. Several times had Aunt Harding visited us, together with her two daughters, Ellen and Theodosia. They were proud, haughty girls, and evidently looked upon us, their country cousins, with contempt; only tolerating us, because it was pleasant to have some place in the country where to while away a few weeks, which, in the heated, dusty city, would otherwise hang heavily upon their hands. On such occasions, they made themselves perfectly at home, and somehow or other managed to have my mother feel that she was really indebted to them for the honor they conferred upon her, by calling her Aunty, by appropriating to themselves the greater portion of the house, by skimming the cream from the pans of milk, by eating up the pie she had saved for us children when we came hungry and cross from school, and by keeping old Sorrel constantly in the harness, or under the saddle.
In return for all this, they sometimes gave us an old collar, a silk apron, a soiled ribbon, or broken parasol—and once, when my parents visited them, they sent us a trunk full of rubbish, among which was Fielding's "Tom Jones!" This my grandmother cautiously took from the trunk with the tongs and threw into the fire, thereby creating in me so great a desire for a knowledge of its contents, that, on the first occasion which presented itself, I gratified my curiosity, feeling when I had done so, that my grandmother was right in disposing of the volume as she did. Dear old lady! her aversion to everything savoring of fiction was remarkable, and when not long since a certain medium informed me that she, my grandmother, was greatly distressed to learn that I had so far degenerated as to be writing a book, I thought seriously of giving up my project at once, and should probably have done so, had not another medium of still greater power than the first received a communication, stating that, after due reflection, my grandmother had concluded that "I might continue the story called Meadow Brook, provided I showed off my Aunt Harding and her two daughters in their true character." So, as a dutiful child, it becomes me to tell how my father, who was warmly attached to my Uncle Thomas, lent him money from time to time, and signed notes to the amount of several thousand dollars, never once dreaming that in the end he would be ruined, while my uncle, influenced by his more crafty wife, managed in some unaccountable way to maintain nearly the same style of living as formerly; and if his proud daughters ever felt the ills of poverty, it was certainly not apparent in the rich silks and costly furs which they continued to sport.
It was a terrible blow to us all, but upon no one did it fall so heavily as upon my father, crushing him to the earth, and rendering him nearly as powerless as is the giant oak when torn from its parent bed by the wrathful storm. The old homestead was endeared to him by a thousand hallowed associations. It was the home of his boyhood, and around the cheerful fires, which years ago were kindled on its spacious hearthstone, he had played with those who long since had passed from his side, some to mingle in the great drama of life, and others to that world where they number not by years. There, too, in his early manhood had he brought his bride, my gentle mother, and on the rough bark of the towering maples, by the side of his own and his brother's names, were carved those of his children, all save little Jamie, who died ere his tiny fingers had learned the use of knife or hammer. No wonder, then, that his head grew dizzy and his heart sick as he thought of leaving it forever; and when at last the trying moment came, when with trembling hand he signed the deed which made him homeless, who shall deem him weak, if he laid his weary head upon the lap of his aged mother and wept like a little child?
A small house in the village was hired, and after a few weeks' preparation, one bright June morning, when the flowers we had watched over and tended with care were in bloom, when the robins which, year after year had returned to their nests in the maple tree, were singing their sweetest songs, and when the blue sky bent gently over us, we bade adieu to the spot, looking back with wistful eye until every trace of our home had disappeared. Farewell forever to thee, dear old homestead, where now other footsteps tread and other children play than those of "auld lang syne." The lights and shadows of years have fallen upon thee since that summer morn, and with them have come changes to thee as well as to us. The maple, whose branches swept the roof above my window, making oft sad music when tuned by the autumn wind, has been cut away, and the robins, who brought to us the first tidings of spring, have died or flown to other haunts. "The moss-covered bucket which hung in the well" has been removed; the curb, whose edges were worn by childish hands, is gone; while in place of the violets and daisies which once blossomed on the grassy lawn, the thistle and the burdock now are growing, and the white rose-bush by the door, from whence they plucked the buds which strewed the coffin-bed of our baby brother, is dead. Weeds choke the garden walks, and the moss grows green and damp on the old stone wall. Even the brook which ran so merrily past our door has been stopped in its course, and its sparkling waters, bereft of freedom, now turn the wheel of a huge saw-mill, with a low and sullen roar. All is changed, and though memory still turns fondly to the spot which gave me birth, I have learned to love another home, for where my blessed mother dwells, 'tis surely home to me. By her side there is, I know, a vacant chair, and in her heart a lonely void, which naught on earth can fill; but while she lives, and I know that there is in the world for me a mother and a mother's love, can I not feel that I have indeed a home, though it be not the spot where first she blessed me as her child?
What a train of conflicting ideas do those two words oftentimes awaken, bringing up visions of log-cabins, ladder stairs, wooden latches, fried hominy and maple sugar, to say nothing of the hobgoblins in the shape of bears, rattlesnakes, wolves, and "folks who don't know anything;" the latter being universally considered the "staple production" of every place bearing the name of "out West." Even western New York, with her hundreds of large and flourishing villages, her well cultivated farms, her numerous schools, her educated, intelligent people, and her vast wealth, is looked upon with distrust by some of her eastern neighbors, because, forsooth, her boundaries lie farther towards the setting sun, and because she once bore the title of "way out west in the Genesees."
Of course I speak only from observation and personal experience; for at Meadow Brook, ten years ago, many fears were expressed lest Anna should miss the society to which she had been accustomed; and when after the sale of the homestead, she wrote, asking me to come and live with her, I hesitated, for to me it seemed much like burying myself from the world, particularly as she chanced to mention that the schoolhouse was a log one, and that there were in the neighborhood several buildings of the same material. Never having seen anything of the kind, I could not then understand that there is often in a log house far more comfort and genuine happiness than in the stateliest mansion which graces Fifth Avenue or Beacon Street; and that the owners of said dwellings are frequently worth their thousands, and only wait for a convenient opportunity to build a more commodious and imposing residence.
At last, after many consultations with my parents, I concluded to go, and about the middle of November I again bade adieu to Meadow Brook; and in company with a friend of my father, who was going West, I started for Rockland, N.Y., which is in the western part of Ontario County, and about fourteen miles from Canandaigua, at which place Herbert was to meet me. I had never before been west of Springfield, and when about sunset I looked out upon the delightful prospect around Albany, I felt a thrill of delight mingled with a feeling of pain, for I began to have a vague impression that possibly Massachusetts, with all her boasted privileges, could not outrival the Empire State. It was dark, and the night lamps were already lighted when we entered the cars at Albany; for we were to ride all night. In front of us was an unoccupied seat, which I turned towards me for the better accommodation of my band-box, which contained my new bonnet; and I was about settling myself for a nap, when a gentleman and lady came in, the latter of whom stopping near us, said, "Here, Richard, is a vacant seat. These folks can't of course expect to monopolize two;" at the same time she commenced turning the seat back, to the great peril of my bonnet, which, as it was made in Boston, I confidently expected would be the envy and fashion of all Rockland!
I was sitting with my hand over my eyes, but at the sound of that voice I started, and, looking up, saw before me Ada Montrose, and with her the "dark gentleman" who had so much interested me at the theater. Instantly throwing my veil over my face, for I had no wish to be recognized, I watched him with a feeling akin to jealousy, while he attended to the comfort of his companion, who demeaned herself towards him much as she had done towards Herbert Langley. All thoughts of sleep had left me, and throughout the entire night I was awake, speculating upon the probable relation in which he stood to her: and once when it suddenly occurred to me that possibly they were married, the tears actually started to my eyes.
As the hours sped on, he said to her a few low spoken, words, whereupon she laid her head upon his shoulder, as if that were its natural resting-place, while he threw his arm around her, bidding her "sleep if she could." Of course she was his wife, I said, and with much of bitterness at my heart, I turned away and watched the slowly-moving lights of the canal-boats, discernible on the opposite side of the Mohawk, along whose banks we were passing. Whether Ada liked her pillow or not, she clung to it pertinaciously until it seemed to me that her neck must snap asunder, while with a martyr's patience he supported her, dozing occasionally himself, and bending his head so low that his glossy black hair occasionally touched the white brow of the sleeping girl.
"Bride and groom," I heard a rough-looking man mutter, as he passed them in quest of a seat, and as this confirmed my fears, I again turned towards the window, which I opened, so that the night-air might cool my burning cheeks.
That night I made up my mind to be an "old maid." Nobody would ever want me I knew, I was so homely; and with calm resignation I thought how much good I would do in the world, and how I would honor the sisterhood! Very slowly the morning light came struggling in through the dirty windows, rousing the weary passengers, who, rubbing their red-rimmed eyes, looked around to sea who their companions were. It was nearly noon when we reached Canandaigua, and so carefully had I kept my face hidden from view that Ada had no suspicion whatever of my presence. At Canandaigua I took leave of my companion, and stepping out upon the platform in front of the dépôt, looked anxiously around for Herbert, but he was not there. Thinking he would soon be there, I found my way to the public parlor, which for a few moments I occupied alone. I had just removed my dusty bonnet, and was brushing my tangled hair, when the door opened, and I stood face to face with Ada Montrose, who started back, and for a moment evidently debated the propriety of recognizing me. Thinking she might do just as she pleased, I simply nodded, as I would to any stranger, and went on with my toilet, while throwing herself upon the sofa, she exclaimed, "Dear me, how tired I am! Do you live here?"
"Of course not," I answered; "I am on my way to visit my sister Anna, whom you perhaps remember."
She turned very red, and replied by asking if I were in the train which had just passed.
"Yes," I answered; "I occupied the seat directly behind you and——your husband—is it not?"
I felt that I must know the truth, and hence the rather impertinent question, which, however, did not seem to displease her in the least. Affecting to be a little embarrassed, she said, "Not my husband—yet. He came on to Boston to accompany me home, and wishing to see a friend of his, who lives here, we have stopped over one train."
I know not why it was, but her words gave me comfort; while at the same time the state of single-blessedness appeared to me far less attractive than it had a few hours before! I was on the point of asking her about my aunt, when the door again opened and there stood before us a slovenly-looking man, attired in a slouched hat, muddy pantaloons, gray coat, and huge cow-hide boots. So complete was the metamorphosis that neither of us recognized him, until he had exclaimed, as his eye fell upon Ada, "Good Heavens, Ade! How came you here?"
Then we knew it was Herbert Langley!
So astonished was I that it was some time ere I found voice to return his rather noisy greeting. Try as he would, he could not conceal the fact that he was rather disconcerted at being seen by Ada in such a plight, and after a little he stammered out an apology, saying he was a farmer now, and lived in the country, and of course could not be expected to dress as he used in the city. This, I knew, was no excuse, and I trembled lest he might be changed in more points than one.
"How is your wife, Mrs. Langley?" asked Ada, in a mocking, deferential tone.
Instantly the whole expression of Herbert's face was changed, and there was a look of tenderness and pride in his eyes as he advanced towards Ada, and whispered in her ear something which I did not understand. Whatever it was, it made her blush, as she replied rather sneeringly, "Of course I congratulate you."
It has always been my misfortune to be rather stupid in some matters, and I had not the least idea what either of them meant, or why Herbert was to be congratulated. Possibly I might have asked an explanation, but just then the town clock struck the hour of one, and turning towards me, he said it was time we were on our way, for the fall rains had made the roads almost impassable, and he was afraid we should not reach home before dark. "So put on your things quick," he added. "The carriage is all ready."
This last he said laughingly, for the carriage proved to be a long lumber wagon, such as is seldom found in Massachusetts, or at least, I had never seen one like it before, and it became a serious question in my mind as to how I was expected to enter it, there being no possible way of doing so, save by climbing over the wheels which were reeking with mud. Herbert seemed to enjoy my embarrassment, for he asked me if "I didn't think I could step from the ground into the box," a distance of several feet? I was soon relieved from my difficulty by the porter, who placed before me some wooden steps, on which I mounted safely, and seated myself in the large armchair, which, with its warm buffalo-robes, was really more comfortable than the old-fashioned one-horse wagons of New England, though I did not think so then; and when the spirited horses, at a crack from Herbert's whip, sprang forward, while I, losing my balance, pitched over backward, I began to cry, wishing in my heart that I was back in Meadow Brook.
It was a cold, raw, autumnal day. The roads, as Herbert had said, were horrible; and as we plowed through the thick mud, which, in some places was up to the wheel hubs, I took, I believe, my first lesson in genuine homesickness, which, in my opinion, is about as hard to bear as love-sickness! Indeed, I think they feel much alike—the latter being, perhaps, a very little the worse of the two! It was in vain that Herbert pointed out to me the many handsome farmhouses which we passed, expatiating upon the richness and fertility of the soil, and telling me how greatly superior in everything New York was to New England. I scarcely heard him, for even though in all Massachusetts there was naught save the rocky hills, and sterile plains, it was my home, and from that spot the heart cannot easily be weaned.
Rockland is a large, wealthy town, embracing within its limits more than the prescribed rule of six miles square, while scattered through it are two or three little villages; each bearing a distinct name, by which they are known abroad. First, there was Laurel Hill, famed as the residence of certain families who were styled proud and aristocratic—to say nothing of their being Episcopalians, which last fact was by some regarded as the main cause of their haughtiness. Next came the "Center," with its group of red houses, and its single spire, so tall, so straight, and so square, that it scarce needed the lettering over the entrance to tell to the stranger that Presbyterians worshiped there. Lastly came Flattville, by far the largest village in Rockland, and the home of all the isms in the known world. To the south of Flattville is a small lake, renowned for its quiet beauty, and the picturesque wildness of its shores. Bounded on three sides by high hills, its waters sleep calmly in the sunlight of summer, or dash angrily upon the sandy beach, when moved by the chill breath of winter.
On the brow of one of the high hills which overlook the Honeoye, and so near to it that the sweep of the waves can be distinctly heard in a clear, still night, stood the home of my sister. It was a huge, wooden building, containing rooms innumerable, while even the basement was large enough to accommodate one or more families. Being the first frame house erected in the town, it was of course looked upon with considerable interest, and as if to make it still more notorious, it bore the reputation of being haunted, and by some of the neighbors was called the "Haunted Castle."
Years before, when the country was new, it was a sort of public-house, and a young girl was said to have been murdered there, and buried in the cellar, from whence she was afterwards removed and thrown into the lake. For the truth of this story there was no proof, save the fact, that in the dark cellar there was a slight excavation, supposed to have been the grave of the ill-fated lady. All this Herbert very kindly told me, as we rode leisurely along, saying, when I asked if he believed it, "Believe it! No! Of course not. To be sure, it's the squeakiest old rattle-trap of a house that I ever saw; and were I at all superstitious, I could readily believe it haunted. But you are not frightened; are you?" he asked, looking in my face, which was very pale.
I hold that there is in every human breast a dread of the supernatural, and though I do not by any means believe in ghosts, I would certainly prefer not to live in a house where they are supposed to dwell. Still, I dared not tell Herbert so, and, consequently, I only laughed at the idea of a haunted house, saying it was very romantic. It was after sunset when we at last turned into the long avenue, shaded on either side by forest maples, which the first proprietor of the place had suffered to remain; and as my eyes fell upon the large, dark building, which Herbert said was his house, I involuntarily shuddered, for to me it seemed the very spot of all others which goblins would choose for their nightly revels. The wind was blowing from the west, and as I followed Herbert up to the door, my ear caught a dull, moaning sound, which caused me to quicken my footsteps, while I asked, in some trepidation, what it was.
"That? Oh, that's the roar of the lake. Don't you see how near it is to us, directly at the foot of the hill?" and he pointed out to me the broad sheet of water, just discernible in the gathering darkness.
A sudden gust of wind swept past me, and again I caught the low murmur. There was something human in the tone, and though for three years I almost daily heard that sound, I could never fully rid myself of the impression that it was the spirit of the murdered maiden which thus, to the swelling waves, complained of the crime long unpunished.
"Come this way, Rose," said Herbert, as I entered the narrow "entry" so common in old-fashioned houses; and following him, I was soon ushered into a large square room, where a bright wood fire was blazing, casting a somewhat cheerful aspect over the somber, wainscoted walls of ancient make.
In one corner of the room was a bed, and on it lay Anna, who, the moment she saw me, uttered a cry of joy.
"Have you told her?" she asked of Herbert, when the first pleasure of our meeting was over.
He replied in the negative, whereupon she brought up from under a pile of pillows, coverlets, blankets and sheets, a little tiny, red-faced, wrinkled thing, to which she said I was Aunt! I knew, then, why Ada congratulated Herbert, and mentally chiding myself for my stupidity, I took the bundle of cambric and flannel in my arms, while Anna said, "We call him Jamie Lee, and we think he looks like you. Isn't he a beauty?"
He did look like me, and knowing that, I wondered at Anna's question; but where is the young mother who thinks her first born baby homely?—though his nose be flat—his forehead low—and his mouth extend from ear to ear! Not Anna, most certainly. He was her baby and Herbert's, and to her partial eyes he was beautiful, even though he did resemble me, whom but one person had ever called pretty. As for myself, I hardly knew whether to be pleased with my new relative or not. Babies, particularly little tiny ones, had never been my special delight, but on this occasion, feeling that some demonstration was expected from me, I kissed my little nephew, who returning my greeting with a wry face, and an outcry so loud that Anna, in great alarm lest he was "going into a fit," summoned from the kitchen, where she was enjoying a quiet smoke, Aunty Matson, who boasted of having washed and dressed two hundred and fifty babies, and who confidently expected to do the same service for two hundred and fifty more ere her life's sun was set.
Wearied with my ride, I asked permission to retire early; whereupon Dame Matson volunteered to show me the way to my room. Up the narrow stairs, which creaked at every step, and on through one gloomy room after another, she led me until, at last, we came to a chamber, lighter and more airy, which, she said, my sister had papered, painted, and fitted up for me; adding, as she set the candle upon the table and closed the window. "You ain't afraid of spooks nor nothin'?"
"Spooks" was to me a new word, and in some surprise I asked what she meant.
"Now, du tell," she replied, seating herself upon the foot of the bed. "Now, du tell a body where you was brought up, that you don't know what a spook is! Why, it's a sperrit—a ghost—and this house, they say, is full on 'em. But I don't b'lieve a word on't. S'posin' a gal was murdered near forty years ago, 'tain't likely she haunts the place yet, and then, too, she warn't none of the best of girls, I guess, from what I've heard my mother say."
The wind was blowing hard, and as Dame Matson uttered these last words, the door, which she had left ajar, came together with a bang, while from the lake I heard again the wailing cry, which, this time, had in it an angry tone, as if the maiden were indignant at the wrong done her by the old dame, whose eyes seemed to expand and grow blacker at the sound. Overcome as I was with fatigue, I could not sleep; and for hours I lay awake, listening to the rain as it fell upon the roof, and to the howling wind, which, indeed, produced the most unearthly noises I had ever heard. At last, however, nature could no longer endure, and I fell into a deep slumber, from which I did not awake until the sun was high up in the heavens, and preparations were going forward in the kitchen for dinner, which was served exactly at twelve. Greatly refreshed, I was ready to laugh at my fears of the night previous; and with childish joy, I explored every nook and corner of the old castle; finding many a rat-hole, which threw some light on the sounds over my head, which I had likened to the trampling of horses.
It took but a few days for me to discover that Herbert was exceedingly popular at Breeze Hill, as the neighborhood in which he lived was called. His free, social manners had won for him many friends, and made him almost too much of a favorite. At least, I used to think so, during the long winter evenings, when Anna sat with her baby upon her lap, listening for the footsteps of her husband, who, at some neighbor's fireside, was cracking the merry joke, and quaffing the sparkling cider; which, at Breeze Hill, was considered essential to hospitality. Gradually, too, as the winter wore on, my sister's eye took the anxious expression I had so often seen in my Aunt Charlotte; and sometimes, when he stayed from her longer than usual, she would steal down to the foot of the long Avenue, and there, alone, would wait and listen for her husband's coming; while the spirit from the lake would whisper sadly in her ear of the darkness and desolation hovering near. And all this time Herbert professed to be strictly temperate; and when, about the middle of March, a traveling lecturer held forth in the old log schoolhouse, thundering his anathemas against the use of all spirituous liquors, Herbert was the most zealous of all his listeners, and at the close of the lecture, arose himself and addressed the assembly, pouring out such a tide of eloquence as astonished the audience, who rent the air with shouts of "Langley forever!"
Knowing this, I was greatly surprised, after our return home, to see the young orator go up to the sideboard and drink off, at one draught, a goblet of the porter which had been ordered for Anna! She saw it, too, and for an instant her face was pressed against that of her sleeping boy; and when next the lamplight fell upon it, I saw there traces of tears, while a faint smile played around her mouth, as she said, "I am afraid, Herbert, your audience would hardly think your theory and practise agree, could they see you now."
The words were ill-timed; for they awoke the young man's resentment, and with a flushed brow he retorted angrily, that "if porter were good for her, it was for him; he saw no difference between a drinking woman and a drinking man; except, indeed, that the former was the most despicable."
The next morning, the bottles of porter were gone from the sideboard; but out in the orchard, where the grass of an early spring was just starting into life, they lay shattered in a hundred pieces. Would, oh, would that she, the wife of little more than a year, could thus easily have broken the habits of him she loved better than her life. But it could not be; and all through the bright spring days she drooped, and faded, and struggled hard to keep from me the fatal truth; and when the warm breath of summer was over all the land; when the robins' song was heard in the maple trees; and the roses blossomed by the open door, they brought no gladness to her heart; no love-light to her eye, save when she looked upon her baby; now a playful, handsome child, the pet and idol of the house.
At last, Aunt Charlotte wrote to me, asking to be assured of her son's safety; and then poor Anna begged me not to tell that the wine-cup was his companion at morn; his solace at noon, and his comfort at night. Yielding to her entreaties, I answered evasively; and thus the shock, when it came to that mother's heart, was harder far to bear, from the perfect security she had felt. At Meadow Brook, too, they little dreamed how their absent daughter wept and prayed over her fallen husband, who, day after day, made rapid strides down the road to death; for, on her bended knees, Anna implored me to keep her shame a secret yet a little longer; and with this request I also complied, doing whatever I could to smooth the thorny pathway she was treading.
The long summer days had merged into autumn, whose hazy breath floated like a misty veil over the distant hills. Slowly and noiselessly the leaves were dropping one by one from the maple trees, strewing the withered grass with a carpet of gorgeous hue. The birds had sung their farewell song to their summer nests, and were off for a warmer clime; while here and there busy hands and feet were seen gathering in the autumnal stores.
On Herbert's farm, however, there was a look of decay. The yellow corn and golden pumpkins were yet in the field; the apples lay in heaps upon the ground; the gates swung loosely in the wind; while the horses, uncared for and unfed, neighed piteously in their stalls as if asking why they were thus neglected. Alas! their master was a drunkard. Anna was a drunkard's wife; and mine a drunkard's home! It was no longer a secret there, and the old men shook their heads, while the young men sighed to think how he had fallen. Night after night we sat up for him, my sister and I lifting him from the threshold across which he would fall, and bearing him to his bed, where we would lay him beside his innocent son, whose blue eyes often opened with wonder at being thus disturbed. A night's debauch was always followed by a day of weakness and debility, in which he was incapable of exertion, and so everything seemed on the verge of ruin, when he suddenly conceived the idea of advertising for an efficient man, who would take the entire charge of affairs and relieve him from all care.
About this time I went back to Meadow Brook for a few weeks to be present at the bridal of my oldest sister. Anna, too, was urged to accompany me, but she declined, extorting from me a promise that if it were possible I would not divulge the real state of things. "Tell them I am happy and do not regret what I have done," said she, as she followed me down to the gate.
"And would that be true?" I asked, looking her in the face.
For an instant she hesitated, while her pale cheeks flushed and the tears started to her eyes; then glancing at little Jamie, whom she held in her arms, she answered, "Yes, it would be true. I do not regret it. I had rather be Herbert's wife as he is, than not to have been his wife at all."
Ah, who can fathom the depths of woman's love, and what punishment shall be sufficient for him who wantonly tramples upon it. Thus I thought as I turned away from my sister, pondering upon her words long after I reached the cars, and wondering if I should ever love as she did. Involuntarily the doctor rose up before me—a drunkard, and I his wife, and from my inmost soul I answered, "rather death than that!" Then, though I blushed as I did so, I fancied myself the wife of "the dark man," and he a drunkard. "Yes, I could bear that," I said, and as if to make the old adage true, that a certain individual is always near when we are talking about him, the car door opened and the subject of my meditations stood before me! There was no mistaking him. The same tall, manly form, the piercing eyes, the coal black hair and the same deep cut between the eyebrows. I knew him in a moment, and an exclamation of surprise escaped my lips, which, however, was lost by the rush of the cars. The seats were nearly occupied, and as he passed down the aisle, my readers, I trust, will pardon me, if I did gather up the skirt of my dress and take my traveling bag upon my lap, while I myself sat nearer to the window, looking out in order to hide my face, which I thought possibly might not attract him!
"Is this seat occupied, miss?" said a heavy voice, which seemed to come from some far-off region.
"No, sir," I answered, timidly, without venturing to turn my head, until I felt myself uncomfortably crowded; then I looked around, and behold! the dark stranger was sitting behind me near the door, while at my side was a man of mammoth dimensions, with immense mustaches, watery eyes, and a brandy breath flavored with tobacco!
I wanted to cry, and should probably have done so, had not my companion immediately commenced a conversation by asking "if I had come very far, and where I was going?"
He was exceedingly loquacious, and for several hours plied me with questions as to my own name—my parents—my grandparents—my brothers—my sisters—our standing in the world—our religion—our politics, and our opinion of spiritualism, of which last he was a zealous advocate. At length just as it was growing dark, he gathered up his huge proportions, and to my great joy bade me adieu, expressing his regret at leaving me, and also assuring me that I would one day be a medium, which assumption he based upon the fact of my having admitted that sometimes when falling away to sleep I started suddenly and awoke. This, he said, was a spirit shock, and would in the end lead to great results.
About nine o'clock we stopped for refreshments, and on reentering the cars, I found to my joy that the dark stranger's seat was appropriated by a son of Erin, who seemed nowise inclined to surrender it, inasmuch as he had with him his wife, baby, and bundle. This time the fates were propitious, for after looking around him awhile, the stranger asked permission to sit by me, saying ha should not discommode me more than two or three hours, as by that time he hoped to reach his journey's end, a remark which gave me more pain than pleasure, for every nerve thrilled with joy at being thus near to one who, though an entire stranger, possessed for me a particular attraction. It was quite dark where we sat, and the night lamp burned but dimly, so he did not once obtain a full view of my face. He proved a most agreeable and attentive companion, opening and shutting the window just as often as I evinced an inclination to have him, holding my satchel in his lap; placing his own traveling trunk at my feet for a footstool, and offering me his fur-lined overcoat for a pillow; besides expressing many fears that I would take cold whenever the window was open. At almost every station, too, he asked "if I wished for anything," but I did not, expect indeed to know whether he was yet the husband of Ada Montrose, and to obtain that information I would have given almost anything. At last I hit upon the following expedient. He made some remark about the country through which we were passing, and I replied by saying that "I believed it was not the first time he had been over that road, as, if I mistook not, I saw him in the cars with his wife the year before."
The wrinkle in his forehead grew deeper, and his face flushed as he said quickly, "I do not remember of meeting you before, though I was here last fall, but not with my wife, for I have none. It was my ward, Miss Montrose."
Nothing could have given me more satisfaction than, this announcement, for if Ada were his ward, it explained, in a measure, his attentions to her; and as I cast stolen glances at him, I felt more and more convinced that there could be no affinity between him and the haughty, imperious girl to whom he was guardian. It seemed to me a very short time ere he arose, and offering me his hand, said he must go, adding, "We shall undoubtedly meet again, as I occasionally travel this way."
Yes, we should meet again. I felt sure of that, though how and where I could not tell.
It was nearly noon of the next day when I reached Meadow Brook, where I found my father at the dépôt, waiting to receive me. Very kindly he greeted me, inquiring eagerly after Anna and her boy, his grandson, whom he expressed a strong desire to see. "But I never shall," he said sadly, as he walked slowly beside me up the long hill which led to the village. Of Herbert he spoke not a word, though my mother and my sisters did, asking me numberless questions, some of which I answered, while the others I managed to evade, keeping them ignorant of the existing state of things.
I found them all busied with the preparations for Juliet's wedding, which took place within a week after my return, I officiating as bridesmaid, while the groomsman was none other than my old enemy, JOHN THOMPSON, now a tall young man of eighteen, and cousin to Juliet's husband. When first the plan was suggested to me I refused, for I bore him no good will; but my objections were overruled by Juliet, who told me how much he had improved, and that I would find him very agreeable, which was indeed true. He was very polite and attentive, referring laughingly to the "freaks of his boyhood," as he termed them, while at the same time he laid his hand upon his chin, caressing the beard which was there only in imagination, and even apologizing to me in a kind of off-hand way for his conduct of three years before. Of course I forgave him, and we are now the best of friends. So much for childish prejudices.
In the course of the evening I asked him about the doctor, and was told that he was still in Boston, and doing remarkably well. "And do you know," said John, "he imputes his success to you! I verily believe he thinks you a perfect angel! Any way, I know he likes you better than he does Dell, for he told me so in plain English, and I don't blame him either; the way she cuts up is enough to kill any man. Why, if I were in his place, I'd get a divorce from her at once, and offer myself to you!"
"I wouldn't have him," said I, quickly.
"Nor me either? Wouldn't you have me?" asked John, playfully.
"No, I wouldn't," was my reply; whereupon he laughed heartily, saying "he was glad he knew my sentiments before he committed himself;" and there the conversation ended.
After Juliet had left us for her new home, in an adjoining town, there ensued at our house a season of lonely quiet, in which we scarcely knew whether to laugh or to cry. There is always something sad in the giving up of a daughter to the care of another, and so my parents found it, particularly my father, who, broken in spirit and feeble in health, was unusually cast down. He could hardly suffer me to leave his sight for a moment, and still he seemed to take special pleasure in finding fault with whatever I did. Nothing pleased him, and gradually there returned upon me with its full force the olden fancy of my childhood, that I was not loved like the rest. It was a most bitter thought, wringing my heart with a keener anguish than it had ever done before; and once, the very day before the one set for my return to Rockland, my pent up feelings burst forth, and in angry tones I told him "it was useless for me to try to please him—he didn't love me and never had—and I was glad that the morrow would find me away, where he would no longer be troubled with my presence, which was evidently so disagreeable to him."
He made me no answer, but a fearful look of sorrow, which will haunt me to my dying day, passed over his thin, white face, and his hand, which was hard and brown with toil for me, was raised beseechingly as if to stay the angry torrent. Oh, how I repented of my harshness then, but I did not tell him so; I would wait till morning, and then, ere I left, I would seek the forgiveness, without which I well knew I should be wretched, for something told me that never in this world should wo meet again.
Next, morning when I awoke, the sun was shining brightly in at my window, and hurrying on my clothes, I descended to the dining-room. In silence we gathered around the breakfast table, and then I saw that my father was absent. "Where was he?" I asked, and was told that having business in Southbridge, a town several miles distant, he had left early, telling my mother to bid me good-by for him. All my good resolutions were forgotten, and again I said hastily, "I think he might at least have bidden me good-by himself, and you may tell him so."
"Hush, Rose, hush," said my mother. "Your father isn't the man he was before we left our old home. He is broken down, and it may be you have seen him for the last time."
"It is hardly probable," I answered, and with a swelling heart I bade my mother adieu; but I left no message which would tell my father how much I repented of my rashness.
Upon his grave the tall grass is growing—howling storms have swept across it—wintry snows have been piled upon it—the summer's mellow sunlight has fallen around it—flowers have blossomed and faded—changes have come to us all—and still I have never ceased to regret that last interview with my father, or to mourn over my distrust of his love for me.
During my journey back to Rockland, I did not again meet with the stranger, although I looked for him at every station, and when at last I stepped from the cars at Canandaigua, I must confess to a feeling of disappointment. I had expected Herbert to meet me, but he was not there. I was just wondering what I should do in case he failed to come, when my attention was attracted towards a tall, athletic-looking young man, who was inspecting my trunk, which stood upon the platform. Fearful lest my best clothes should be carried off before my very face, I started quickly forward, demanding what he was doing with my baggage.
The stranger stood up, and fixed upon me a pair of singularly handsome, hazel eyes, which had in them an expression so penetrating that I quailed beneath them; while at the same time there swept over me a strange, undefined feeling as if somewhere in a dream, perchance, I had met that glance before.
"Are you Miss Lee?" he asked, and the tones of his voice thrilled me like an echo of the past.
I replied in the affirmative; and without once taking his eyes from my face, he said, "I am Henry Watson, Mr. Langley's hired man. He sent me for you, and the wagon is at the other door."
Mechanically I followed him to the place designated, and then, as if I had been a feather, he took me in his arms and placed me in the wide chair, wrapping the buffalo-robes around me, and in various ways seeing that I was comfortable. He did not seem to me like a hireling, for his language was good, his manner gentlemanly, and ere we were half-way to Breeze Hill I was very much prepossessed in his favor, except, indeed, that he would look at me so much. He was quite talkative, asking me of my parents, of my brothers, and appearing much gratified when I told him how well Charlie was doing as clerk in a dry goods store in Worcester.
"And Mr. Langley is only your cousin by marriage?" he said at last. "Have you any other male cousins?" he asked.
"I had a boy cousin once," I said, "but he is probably dead, for we have not heard from him in six long years."
Forgetful that Mr. Watson was to me an entire stranger, I very briefly told him the story of "Cousin Will," who returned not with the vessel which bore him away, and who had deserted the ship at Calcutta. For many days they searched for him in vain, and at last left him alone in that far-off land, where he had probably met an early death.
"He must have been a wild boy, and I dare say you felt relieved to be rid of him," said Mr. Watson, who had appeared deeply interested in my story.
"Yes, he was wild," I replied, "but I liked him very, very much, and cried myself sick when he went away."
Again the stranger's eyes fell upon me with a look I could not fathom. I grew uneasy, and was not sorry when about sunset we turned into the long, shady avenue which led up to the house. As if by magic, a wondrous change had been wrought in my absence; for everything around the building wore an air of neatness and thrift, which betokened that there was now a head to manage and direct. Herbert, too, was perfectly sober, while Anna's face was far happier than when I last saw her. The cause of this she explained to me the first moment we were alone. Herbert had signed the pledge! Had become a sober man, and all through the exertions of Mr. Watson, whom she pronounced an angel in disguise. And, truly, his influence over Herbert was wonderful; for never did an anxious mother watch over her sickly child more carefully than Mr. Watson watched over his employer, shielding him from temptation, and gently leading him in the path of rectitude; until the wine-flush on his cheek gave way to a hue of health; the redness of his eyes was gone, and conscious of the victory he had achieved, he stood forth again in all the pride of his manhood, sober, virtuous, and happy.
Such was the state of things when, early in April, we received invitations to attend a wedding party at the house of Judge Perkins, whose broad acres and heavy purse of gold had purchased for him a fair young girl, just his eldest daughter's age! It was to be a splendid affair, for all the élite of Rockland were bidden, and, as a matter of course, I forthwith commenced looking over my wardrobe, and declaring I had nothing to wear! Anna, on the contrary, did not seem at all interested, and when I questioned her for her indifference, she replied, "What if they have wine, and Herbert should drink?"
"They wouldn't have wine," I told her, for Judge Perkins was a staunch temperance man, and it was not probable that he would do anything so inconsistent with his profession.
After a time she became convinced that her fears were groundless, and began with me to anticipate the expected pleasure. Henry Watson was not invited, but he carried us to the door, going himself to the hotel to wait until we were ready to return. Just as he was leaving us he whispered a few words to Herbert, who replied, gaily, "Never fear for me. Judge Perkins isn't the man to throw temptation in my way."
Ah, would it had been so! Would that the sparkling champagne, the ruby wine, and the foaming ale had not graced that marriage feast, for then, perchance, one grave at least would not have been made so soon, nor the widow's weeds worn by my sister ere the bloom of youth had faded from her brow.
I saw her cheek pale as we entered the supper-room, but when amid the din and uproar which succeeded the drawing of the corks, Herbert stood firm to his pledge, refusing to drink, though urged to do so, the color came back to her face, and her eye proudly followed her husband, whose easy manners made him a favorite, and who, with ready tact, moved among the guests, doing far more towards their entertainment than the master of the house himself. He was standing near the bride, a beautiful young creature, with a sunny face and radiant smile. Diamonds were wreathed in her shining curls, and shone upon her snowy arms, while the costly veil almost swept the floor, and enveloped her slight form like a misty cloud. Very affable and polite had she been to Herbert, and now as he approached her, she took from the table two goblets of wine, and passing one to him, said, "Mr. Langley, I am sure, will not refuse to drink with me, the bride?"
To refuse would have seemed uncourteous; and so, with a hasty glance at his wife, he drank the health of the lovely woman, who, in an angel's guise, unconsciously tempted him to ruin. Involuntarily, Anna gasped as if for breath, while she started quickly forward to stay the rash act; but she was too late, and with a faint moan of anguish, she turned away to hide her tears. One taste awoke the slumbering demon, and set his veins on fire; and when at midnight Mr. Watson came for us, he took the insensible man in his arms and placed him in the wagon, beside the weeping wife, whose fond hopes were now wrecked forever.
From that time Herbert made no further attempt at reform, but night after night, came reeling home, sometimes singing a bacchanalian song, and again rending the air with curses, until at last poor Anna learned to tremble at the sound of his footsteps; for he daily grew more and more violent and unmanageable, defying every one save Mr. Watson, who possessed over him a singular power. Thus the spring and summer passed away, and when the autumn came few would have recognized the once handsome Herbert Langley in the bloated creature, who, weak and feeble, lay all day long in bed, begging for "brandy—more brandy" to fan the flame which was feeding upon his vitals. Sometimes in his fits of frenzy he would spring upon the floor, and shriek for us to save him from the crawling serpents, which, with forked tongues and little green eyes, hissed at him from all parts of the room. Again he would say that the spirit of the murdered maiden was before him, whispering to him unutterable things concerning the drunkard's home beyond the grave, while goblins of every conceivable form beckoned him to come and join their hideous dance.
Once, when he was more quiet than usual, he said to me, "Rose, do you remember what I once told you about my mother's joining the church and reading her prayers?"
I replied in the affirmative, and he continued—"Do you know I'd give the world, were it mine, if I could hear her pray for me once more. It would cool my scorching brain, and if I dared pray for myself, I know I should be healed; but I cannot, for the moment I attempt it, there are legions of imps who flit and grin before my face, while one, larger and more unseemly than the rest, shouts in my ears, 'LOST, LOST, TO ALL ETERNITY!' there—look, don't you hear it?" and shivering with fright, he covered his head with the bedclothes.
But I heard nothing save the heaving swell of the waves, and the sullen roar of the lake, which came in through the open window, seeming to his disordered imagination an accusing spirit from another world. At last looking up timidly and speaking low, as if fearful of being over, heard, he said, "Is there a Prayer Book in the house?"
I answered in the affirmative. Raising himself upon his elbow, and glancing fearfully around, he continued, "Bring it quick, while they are away, and put it under my pillow. Who knows but it may operate like a spell!"
I complied with his request, and brought the book, which he placed under his head, saying, "There—now I can pray, and God won't let them mock me, will he, think?"
I could only weep as he folded his long white hands one over the other, and said reverently the prayer taught him years and years before, commencing with—
"Now I lay me down to sleep," etc.
As if the words, indeed, had a soothing power, he almost instantly fell into a deep sleep, from which he awoke refreshed, and better than he had been for several days. They said he could not live; and though it was a painful task, Anna wrote to his mother apprising her of his danger, and bidding her hasten, if she would see him again.
During the few remaining weeks of his life he was subject to strange fancies. For a time the Prayer Book beneath his pillow had the effect of keeping him comparatively quiet; but, anon, it lost its power, and one day he awoke with a fearful shriek. The imps, as he called them, had again returned, and were mockingly taunting him with the victory he vainly imagined he had obtained.
"Keep off, ye devils!" he shouted, drawing the volume from beneath his pillow, and holding it to view. "Keep off; for, see, this book is full of prayers, which my mother has said. My mother! Do you hear? Ha! They laugh at the idea, and well they may. Had she learned to pray sooner, I might not have been the vile thing that I am. But she taught me to drink. She set the example; so go to her with those horrid faces, besmeared with the smoke of the pit."
There was a bitter groan, and then the wretched woman, his mother, fell half fainting upon a chair. She had just arrived, and eager to see her boy, had entered the room in time to hear what he said. He knew her in a moment, and starting upright in bed, exclaimed, "Woman, look—this is your work—the result of your example. There was a time, long ago—how long ago it seems—but there was a time, I say, when I loathed the very smell of the liquors, which daily graced our table. By little and by little that loathing was overcome. You drank and called it good; and what one's mother says is true. So I, too, tasted and tasted again until here I am, Herbert Langley, husband of Anna Lee, ruined body and soul—body and soul! What do you say to that, mother?"
He sank back upon the bed exhausted; while Aunt Charlotte, who had swooned entirely away, was taken from the room. The shock was too great for her, and for two days she did not again venture into his presence. The next time, however, that she saw him, his mood had changed, and winding his feeble arms around her neck, he wept like a child, asking her to take from his heart the worm which was gnawing there. Oh, how I pitied the heart-broken woman! for I well knew she would gladly have lain down her life could that have saved her son. For three days longer he lingered, and then there came the closing scene, which haunted me for months.
He had been restless during the night, muttering incoherently, and occasionally striking at the fancied shapes which surrounded him; but towards morning he grew more violent, and at last with a shriek which chilled my blood, he sprang from the bed, and pointing towards the window, whispered, "Hark! Don't you hear it?—music from the infernal regions! They are come, every demon of them, for me. It's a grand turnout. There! Don't you see them with their flaming eyes looking through the windows, and that shriveled hag, whose hair is curling snakes! See! She beckons me with her bony claws, and says I am to be her son. Do you hear that, mother? Her son! Go back!" he shouted, leaping towards the window. "You don't get me this time. I won't die yet. Give me the Prayer Book, and let me hurl it at her head—that'll settle her, I reckon."
He would have gone through the window, had not Mr. Watson taken him in his arms and borne him back to the bed, where he held him fast, soothing him as best he could by assuring him there were no such unearthly objects in the room as he supposed.
"I know it," said Herbert, for a moment comparatively rational. "I know what it is. It is DELIRIUM TREMENS, and I know what causes it, too; shall I tell you?"
Mr. Watson nodded, and Herbert continued: "Cider, beer, wine, brandy—DEATH: that's the program which keeps the fire of hell eternally burning. Where is my boy—Anna's boy and mine?" he asked after a pause.
"Do you wish to see him?" asked Mr. Watson.
"See him? Yes. I want to do one good deed before I die. I would kill him—murder my only child, and send him to Heaven, where rumsellers never go—where women, with witching eyes and luring words, never tempt men to drink. Bring him in: why do you loiter?" turning to Anna. "Is it that you would have him live to be the wreck I am—to curse the mother who bore him and the day he was born! Bring him quick, I tell you, for time hastens, and in the distance I hear the clank of the hag's footsteps."
"Oh, Herbert, Herbert, my poor husband," was all Anna could say, as she wound her arms around his neck and laid her colorless cheek against his fevered brow.
In a moment he grew calm, and drawing her to his bosom, his tears fell like rain upon her face, while he called her his "wounded dove," and asked her forgiveness for all he had made her suffer. "You will live with mother when I am gone," he said. "You and Jamie. God forbid that I should harm our beautiful boy; but I would see him once more. Don't be afraid," he added, as he saw her hesitate. "I will not hurt him."
Disengaging herself from her husband's embrace, Anna glided from the room, to which she soon returned, leading little Jamie, now two years of age. Very lovingly the dying man looked upon his son, and then laying Lis shaking hand upon the golden curls, he said, "God keep you, my boy, from being what I am; and if a drunkard's blessing can be of any avail, you have mine, my precious, precious child."
"Would you like to kiss him?" asked Aunt Charlotte; to which he replied, "No, no; I am too polluted to touch aught so pure. But take him away," he continued, growing excited. "Take him away, for the demon on my pillow is again whispering of murder."
Hastily the wondering child was taken from the room, and then Herbert fell into a disturbed slumber, in which he seemed to be holding converse with beings of another world, inquiring of them if they had enough to drink, and chiding the rich man for asking water, when he might as well call for brandy!
About noon he awoke and inquired for me. With some trepidation I approached him, for his eyes were those of a madman; but he meditated no harm, and only asked if I supposed that the Prayer Book laid upon the outside of his pillow, where the hag could see it, would have the effect of keeping her away.
"Perhaps so," I said, at the same time placing it so that his heavy brown hair fell partially on it.
"Now, will some one pray—mother, you?" and his eyes turned imploringly towards the half crazed woman, who essayed to pray for the departing spirit.
"That'll do—that'll do," he exclaimed, interrupting her. "It's of no use spending your breath for me. It's too late—too late—so the hag says, and she's coming again, with myriads on myriads of fiends; but they can't hurt me as long as this is here," and his hand clutched convulsively for the book which lay beside him.
"The hymn book—the hymn book—bring that too," he gasped, while a cold perspiration stood thickly upon his forehead.
It was brought and placed on the opposite side of his head.
"'Twon't do—'twon't do," he sobbed. "All the hymns Dr. Watts ever wrote can't help me, for they come nearer and nearer, as wolves hover round their prey. Is there no help, no escape?" he cried, with the energy of despair; adding, as a sudden look of joy lit up his ghastly features, "Yes—the BIBLE! Strange I have not thought of that before. The Bible will keep them at bay. Bring it, Anna, quick, for they are almost here."
She obeyed; and grasping the word of God eagerly in his hands, he laughed aloud, saying, "Now, do your worst, ye fiends incarnate. The Bible will save me."
There was a moment of perfect silence; and then, with a groan so full of anguish that I involuntarily stopped my ears to shut out the fearful sound, the Bible was loosed from the clammy hands, which for a brief instant fought fiercely in the empty air, and then dropped lifeless at his side.
HERBERT WAS DEAD!
* * * * * *
At the foot of the garden, near the long avenue where the shadow of the maple trees would fall upon his grave, and the moan of the lake be always heard, we buried him; and then, the broken-hearted Anna, widowed thus early, went back to her accustomed duties, performing each one quietly, and gently, but without a smile upon her white, stony face, or a tear in her large mournful blue eyes. Aunt Charlotte, too, utterly crushed and wretched, went back to her city home, having first won a promise from Anna that in the autumn she would follow her. And then we were left alone with our great sorrow, wholly dependent, as it were, upon Mr. Watson, for support and counsel.
There had always been about him a mystery I could not fathom, and greatly was I surprised when one evening, a week after Herbert's death, he asked me to go with him to his room, as there was something he wished to tell me. I complied with his request, and was soon seated in the large willow chair near the table on which lay many works of our best authors, for he possessed a taste for literature, and devoted all his leisure moments to study. Drawing a seat to my side, he said, taking my hand in his, "Rosa, what do you think I am going to tell you?"
I tried to wrest my hand from his grasp, for the unwonted liberty angered me. But he held it fast, smiling at my fruitless endeavors, and after a moment continued: "Why do you try to remove your hand from mine? I have held it many a time, and I have a right so to do—a cousin's right. Look at me, Rosa, don't you know me?"
Involuntarily I started to my feet, gazing earnestly upon him, then with a cry of joy I threw my arms around his neck, exclaiming, "Cousin Will! Cousin Will!"
It was indeed he, come back to us when we had thought of him as dead. A few words will suffice to tell his story. Perfectly disgusted with sea life, he had deserted at Calcutta, where he kept himself secreted until the vessel sailed. But it was not his wish to remain there long, and the first time an English ship was in port he offered to work his passage to Liverpool. The offer was accepted, and while we were mourning over his supposed death he was threading the smoky streets of London, doing sometimes one thing and sometimes another, but always earning an honest livelihood.
"Never, for a moment," said he, "did I forget your family, but I have fancied they were glad to be rid of me, and hence my silence. When at last I returned again to New York, I went one day to a reading-room, where I accidentally came across Mr. Langley's advertisement, and something prompted me to answer it in person. If I had ever heard of him before, I had forgotten it; consequently I neither recognized him nor his wife, who has changed much since I saw her; but when I accidentally heard them speak of 'Rosa,' and 'Meadow Brook,' my curiosity was roused, and I became aware of the relationship existing between us. Why I have kept it a secret so long I can hardly tell, except that there was about it, to me, a kind of pleasing excitement, and then, too, I fancied that Mr. Langley would not so well hear restraint and direction from me if he supposed me an interested party; but he has gone, and concealment on that score is no longer necessary. I have told you my story, Rosa, and now it is for you to say whether I am again received and loved as the 'Cousin Will' of olden time."
He was a big, tall man, six feet two inches high, while I was a young girl scarcely yet seventeen; but notwithstanding all this, I threw my arms around his sunburnt neck and kissed his sunburnt cheek as I had often done before. This was my answer, and with it he was satisfied.
After leaving his room I went directly to my sister, to whom I repeated the strange story I had heard. She was pleased and gratified, but her faculties were too much benumbed for her to manifest any particular emotion, though as time wore on I could see how much she leaned upon him and confided in his judgment. It seemed necessary for her to remain in Rockland through the summer, and as she would not consent to my leaving her, I was rather compelled to stay; although almost weekly there came to us letters from home urging our return, and at last, near the middle of September, we one day received a letter from Charlie, which, owing to some delay, had been on the road two whole weeks. In it he wrote that our father had failed rapidly within a few days and we must come quickly if we would again see him alive, adding that he talked almost constantly of Rose, asking if they thought she would come.
Oh, how vividly I recalled the past, remembering with anguish the harsh words I had uttered when last I saw him. It was true I had once written, imploring pardon for my fault, and Lizzie, who answered my letter, had said, "Father bade me say that you were freely forgiven;" but still I felt that I could not let him die until I had heard my forgiveness from his own lips. It was impossible for Anna to accompany me, and, as William would not leave her, I started alone, my heart filled with many dark forebodings, lest I should be too late.